Feä Bond (Legolas x OC)

The houses of healing

Aragorn had refused to enter the gates of the white city. He did not want to offend the line of the stewards by doing so. The Prince Imharil of Dol Amroth, uncle to Boromir and Faramir, had bowed to his wisdom. Now was not the time to claim any kingship over the butchered people of Gondor; if middle earth stood a chance to win this battle, unity was mandatory.

Late in the evening, Prince Imrahil, his remaining swan knights and King Eomer had eventually left the company of the rangers. As night settled in camp, Aragorn had summarily bathed and sat down on a boulder on the outskirts of the city, exhausted but unwilling to close his eyes for fear of the nightmare that might plague him. It was then, in this moment of loneliness, that Frances came to seek him. She had seen Legolas on the field now and again. Still working, still digging graves, still roaming the desolation to find a poor soul to be saved. And Gimli, his ever-truthful companion, would not leave him to it. Bless the dwarf for being so stubbornly faithful.

As she approached him, her boots crunching on the gravels, Aragorn turned to her. His voice was weary, his eyes distant in the darkness of the night.

"I fought for twenty-three years under Echtelion's rule, the steward's father. They knew me as Thorongil, captain of Gondor. I loved the steward, a wise man, and with my help, we fought the corsairs of Umbar that threatened the bay of Belfalas. But Denethor had nothing but scorn for me, and I was needed elsewhere. Echtelion died four years after my leaving Gondor. Hence came the rule of Denethor,"

Frances nodded. She understood now, the distrust of Boromir towards the rightful heir of Gondor. And what more could she say? Echtelion was Boromir's grandfather, and Aragorn in his twenties at the time. The gap of generations was quite disturbing from her point of view. Understanding the lifespan of a descendant of Númenor was, by all means, out of her reach.

There was no doubt that Aragorn knew this city well, and his wary grey eyes told her of how much he would have loved to be inside and claim his birthright. After all, it was his realm, and he longed for a peaceful life in the white halls. What she didn't know though was that the contemplation of the white tower brought him a little hope, the hope than one day he would be able to rule, and that his queen would be by his side.

Frances' thoughts couldn't be further away than his. The dying ranger's face kept flashing before her eyes, begging her to save him from his fate. Shuddering, she angled closer to Aragorn, seeking his soothing presence.

"Would you tell me his name?" she blurted out.

Aragorn's eyes turned to her, eyebrows lifted in surprise. Frances released a shaky breath before adding:

"Halbarad's son. I did not even know his name, yet held his hand as he bled to death."

A lone tear escaped Frances' eyes, running over her cheek and losing itself in the folds of her cloak. Some of the ranger's blood was still here, embedded in the fabric. Aragorn nodded, deep in thought as he recalled older memories.

"Erbaran was his name, for he was born with a crown of brown hair. I witnessed his first breath in Rivendell, not fifty years ago. A strong lad, with a stout voice."

Aragorn's lips quirked upwards at the memory of the wailing child. Halbarad had begged him to share his rooms after the birth of his son, attempting to escape the loud cries of his firstborn. A gasp called him back to reality.

"Do you mean that he was nearly fifty of age?"

"Forty-eight, if I recall properly."

"Wow. I never would have guessed. He seemed so young..."

Now she sounded like Eowyn, gaping in awe at Aragorn's age. Frances made a face; she hated herself for it! The Grey Company was Dunedain. By all means, she should have realised that the men were much older than they looked.