Feä Bond (Legolas x OC)

The choice

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They were arguing again. Very subtly, of course, but Frances had a keen hearing, and was supposedly fetching her arrows from the tree trunk she'd been practising on. The elf wasn't far away either; Strider had asked him to keep an eye on the young woman ... to be able to argue about the road with Gandalf. Words like "Caradhras", "Redhorn pass", "Gap of Rohan" and "Moria" were flying in the wind, coming her way as she gathered her projectiles. Had she not studied those maps in detail, the young woman wouldn't even be able to identify them. Frances shuddered, remembering how "Moria" was the second name of Khazad-dûm. Darkness, in Sindarin, the empty and pitch black caves of the song of Durin.

Strider and Gandalf seemed to avoid each other when dinner was served; not out of spite, for both men – if the old wizard could ever be considered such – were too wise to indulge in petty behaviour. No. It just seemed that the argument had waned, and no more needed to be said. Frances awaited for the others to settle, pretending to sleep while the hobbit's snores started to grace the fellowship's campsite. Despite the exertion of long walking days, she still found difficulty in slumbering during the daytime. Still, more often than not, exhaustion won the struggle and pulled her into oblivion. Sometimes, Aragorn's voice graced her ears as he hummed under his breath. The lay of Lúthien – his favourite – or any other lore of the Eldar mingled with Dunedain's poetry. She had lost count, as weeks advanced and her muscles became accustomed to the long walking days, of the times she had been lulled to sleep by his voice. Did he do it on purpose? She wondered ... perhaps it was only for himself, and perhaps he sook to bring reassurance over his companions. Either way, Strider was a born leader that managed to soothe her in the most undetermined situation.

She admired him; his strength, his drive, and the heavy weight upon his shoulders when he was, in truth, just a man. Not any man, but a second born still. If Gandalf was their natural leader; he decided on the path and most actions, he was too far away from a human mind for any of them to relate. Two thousand years he had roamed middle earth ... and countless before that in Aman. Or so Lord Elrond had told her. This even beat the ageless elves. Gandalf may look like an old man, but devoid of the trials of the human psyche; he was a Maiar, a servant of the Gods. Doubts, fears, subconscious feelings held no sway over him. A wizard he was, powerful and helpless to strike Sauron, yet no human. He offered little comfort, and even less conversation, always speaking in riddles and careful not to share things that couldn't be grasped by the human mind.

Frances lifted her sore neck from the bedroll; the wizard was nowhere in sight. Neither the elf, who often paired up with Strider when it came to watches. There was a long-lasting friendship there; she would have to ask how long they had known each other. Seeing that the coast was clear, Frances dragged her woollen cape – courtesy or the house of Elrond – around her shoulders and stood. At once, Strider's eyes met hers – nothing went past him – and she gave him a tired smile, tip toeing around the hobbits to reach the boulder he had settled upon. For an awkward moment, she wondered if he would scold her like a misbehaving child; his face gave nothing away as she sat beside him. Bright grey eyes loomed over the camp, taking a sweep at the sleeping forms and way beyond. The sky was gloomy, the day one of those annoying neither raining nor sunny, the light giving very little contrast and mingling everything into shades of grey.

- "Can you not sleep?" he asked.

Frances was glad he was shedding the "my lady" part more often than not now. It was bad enough that Boromir and the prince of Greenwood still couldn't call her by her given name.

- "There is something weighing heavily on my mind. I was hoping you could help."

She kept her voice low, words separated by silences to allow him to keep watch at the same time. Strider's long, dirty strands swayed when he cocked his head aside before nodding his assent. He was a man of few words even not on watch, so she was becoming rather adept at reading his expressions.