Feä Bond (Legolas x OC)

Despair

As it was, it was the last evening where the hearty mood could be sustained, for the very next evening, the Nazgûls came. Out of sight, except for the elves, but not out of influence. The ringwraiths faithfully followed them, seeping despair into their hearts. Seeking to sap their strengh.

It worked too efficiency, for every leader choose to stay with their men to keep the morale; no more campfire gathering.

The army of the west repelled an ambush with swift efficiency, horsemen cutting orcs before they could even start harming the main troops. It wasn't enough to lift their spirits for the Nazgûls didn't give them a moment of peace; the shrills cries of those ghastly beast put everyone on edge.

And when they penetrated the harsh, dry lands of Cirith Gorgor, some of the men froze in their tracks. Young men from Rohan, husbands from Lossarnach, men from the Westfold. Who could blame them, for the land itself seemed intent on repelling them ?

Frances shuddered, wide chocolate eyes taking in the dry expanse of land. Away in the north were the dead marshes... Gimli had spoken of those. Malevolent volutes danced above it, compelling the lone traveller to approach and get lost within its hungry belly. Far above on the east loomed the volcanic peaks of Ephel Duah; more dead land, fashioned like saw claws, so dark that its volumes were too difficult to distinguish.

When a warm hand slid around her waist, Frances almost jumped. Blinking, she slid a glance to the elf that sat behind her on Arod. His presence hummed like a benevolent beacon, and she slightly shifted to align her back to his chest. His long fingers squeezed hers, and she sighed.

"My father refuses to speak of it", he murmured in her ear, his ocean gaze fixated upon the dead marshes. "My grandfather, Oropher, died in the seven-year siege of Barad-dur."

She nodded, her eyes set upon Estel. His grey eyes were conflicted. They couldn't very well afford to slaughter their own men for refusing to march to death, right ? But what could he do ? Once more, the burden of leading was heavy upon his shoulders. How could they sustain the despair, all alone in their boots ? She had Legolas, his very presence infusing her with hope. But those soldiers did not. Would Aragorn inspire them enough to go on ?

Eventually, the newly appointed King straightened in the saddle, and faced the men who refused to march any further. A great hush fell upon the troops as he looked at them, proud and strong. Behind him lay a land of devastation, cracked earth without an ounce of vegetation. Sick ground, dead to the world, bloated with seeping water.

But the cape, embroidered of the white tree, billowed behind him like a beacon of hope. One piece that was still alive in this deserted land; the King's heart.

Frances felt Legolas' hand splay across her stomach, his warmth seeping though her clothes. Slowly, her shoulders relaxed, the memory of their bath clear in her mind. She was the lucky one; who could claim keeping such amazing company ? An elvish prince as her bethrothed, two elven lords for brothers, a dwarf and a hobbit as close friends, and a benevolent King for companion.

Yes. Frances knew her luck, and thanked the Valar for allowing them by her side. Finding Aragorn's grey eyes, she watched his face tighten when he addressed the men.

"Go!", he said, his voice strong.

The young woman gasped, breath caught in her throat. Was he sending them back in defeat ? This didn't bode well for their current quest, but she had not expected less of his compassionate nature. Many eyes fell to the ground; those very same soldiers who had been ready to make a run for the hills now hesitated in the face of their King's acceptance. Aragorn smiled at them, grey eyes blazing with renewed fire.

"But keep your honour, and do not run !", he yelled. "Take your way south-west till you come to Cair Andros. Then re-take it, if you can, and hold it to the last in defence of Gondor and Rohan!"

Some of the men squared their shoulders and decided that the King's mercy was enough for them to follow to the black gate. Others took the offer; Frances watched them with both compassion and benevolence.

Thus, their army was cut short of a few hundred men. To her surprise, Gimli didn't even grumble about cowardice. The heaviness of the land affected him just as much; out of their little group, the dwarf was the most sensitive to the language of rocks. The Ephel duah loomed over his heart just as much.

Some of the soldiers marched away with slumped shoulders, shame shadowing their steps. But, in their midst, she saw hope. Aragorn had managed the impossible feat of instilling pride and a sense of purpose to those who couldn't sustain the darkness of Mordor.

The last night was morose. Frances fitfully slept in Legolas's arms, using his presence as an anchor. None of the twins attempted to steal her away from her betrothed; propriety died when they had set foot in Mordor's clutches. Fumes rose from the very ground, masking the faint light of the waxing crescent moon.

The wind died in the night. Then, all fell silent in camp, except for the long, nearly inaudible screeches of the ringwraiths high above.

The next day

The massive gates, thousands of pounds of iron and blackened spikes, had spewn a messenger so horrid that Frances gasped in Legolas' tunic. A deformed face now bandied words with both Gandalf and Aragorn, insulting them at great length. But it wasn't the words of hate and sarcasm that created the deep void in her belly.

No.

Despite its monstrous nature, the fellowship of the ring could have overlooked the Mouth of Sauron's insults. But not the mithril shirt that he shoved in Gandalf's face. Neither Sam's elvish blade.

Mouth open, Frances watched the veiled sun reflect upon the finely chiselled shirt, so fine that it flowed like water. A mail that used to protect Frodo, and now rested in Gandalf's palms; a reminder of their failure. Elladan swore when the wizard's features fell. Frances' stomach plummeted, and she watched the agony etched upon the old wizard with grief.

Thus, the quest had ended.

The young woman buried her face into Legolas' shoulder, tears running down her face. She kept her sobbing quiet, ashamed at her own weakness. For, by her side, neither Gimli not Pippin cried in despair. They held fast, tears in their eyes, channeling their anger for the battle to come.

Did it really matter anymore ?

Aragorn prowled forward, his shoulders tense under the shiny armour that reflected the seven stars of Minas Tirith and Numeror. A panther, containing his energy until... The strike came swiftly, and flawlessly, accompanied by a cry of anger that echoed all around them. One second, the mouth of Sauron was insulting the heir of Elendil. The next, his head rolled I the dirt.

The hills, fallen boulders and scorched earth, couldn't ignore the mighty roar of King Elessar.

One last moment of glory before they were wiped out entirely, Middle Earth swallowed by despair and ruin. Frances stiffened in the saddle, her hand finding that of the elven prince.

"I love you, Legolas."

"Do not despair, meleth", he answered. "I shall always find you." Then, he proceeded to turn to Gimli, and graced him with a smile.

"Would dying amongst friends satisfy you, master dwarf ?"

The awe painted upon Gimli's features was so raw that the young woman laughed. Those two had fought, bickered and scorned to their hearts's content, only to become tighter than a set of brothers. The whole fellowship gathered instinctively to face the wrath of Mordor. One last stand, together, before the wrath of evil.

The fellowship was ready to honour their oath. For those already dead – Boromir, Frodo and Sam. For those about to die, and for everything they stood for. If this was the end of the road, they would meet their end together.