Feä Bond (Legolas x OC)

Trapped

A few hours later – it could have been days ! – the fellowship halted to munch on a few dried fruits and various other goods. Legolas was whisked away by Estel and Frances regretted the loss of his light, leaving her face to face with Boromir. She sent the steward's son a shy smile, seeing that Merry and Pippin flanked him. His jaw was tense; he was wary of the surroundings, as if he expected an attack at any moment. She had not forgotten how he had opposed the idea of treading the paths of Khazad Dum. Perhaps ... perhaps he had been right.

For the moment however there had been no sign of the enemy, but the caves were endless. Many a time, Frances had spotted the levels lying below them, meaning that there were thousands of yards of galleries and rooms where the orcs could be staying. Their only chance was to be quiet enough.

When the company started again, Frances found herself at the rear in Boromir's company. She didn't mind so much; his contempt had eased up, especially since the warg attack. The warrior had reluctantly admitted that she could stand her ground for a woman, not that he would ever admit it. If Boromir did not deny her skills anymore, he still had some macho attitudes that pissed her off. The guy had been raised old school, and sometimes she had to lecture herself not to rip his throat off. At other times, she wondered what his life looked like, in Gondor, before he appeared in Rivendell chasing a dream. Would she unravel the puzzle that was Boromir ? Understand his motives, his strong drive to protect his people ? The same thirst for power that made him vulnerable to the whispers of that blasted jewel !

Yes. Sometimes, his gaze would turn distant, and this strange gleam would shine in his eyes. The ring was calling.

It called to her too. At first, Frances just felt insulted that this evil thingy would try to break into her head. Then she realized that the ring fed upon her wrath, and she changed tactics. Her rational mind knew how treacherous the One could be. She needed to stay level-headed. Now, when she felt the ring pull on her mind, she focused on recalling the fifty-three numbers of the number PI until it relented. Perhaps a stupid trick, but it kept her focus on something rational. The whispers were receding; apparently, she wasn't such a good choice for the ring.

Boromir however was another case. As the Steward's son, and a powerful warrior adulated by Gondor's army, he had a much bigger influence. If anybody that could turn the tide of war by being corrupted, this was him. The ring was definitely putting a lot of efforts into this. Whenever the evil entity was trying to get a hold on him, Boromir would become more distant and avert his gaze to someplace only he knew.

Frances held no illusion; Estel, Legolas and Gandalf, at least, were aware of it. But what could they do ? Somehow they had decided that the fellowship had better chances with the Steward's son than without him, even if his plans were to return to Minas Tirith. She, on the other hand, was ashamed of thinking this way, but did not agree. To her, Boromir represented a hazard, and even if she started to like him she was afraid of the moment when he would surrender his will to the ring. However, she had to admit that he seemed quite more resilient than she expected. Was there a chance she had misjudged him?

As the situation was now, she was walking beside him in the gloom, and he did not seem in a very talkative mood so she followed the hobbits in silence.

For hours and hours they walked, tip toeing shadows amongst shadows, following paths that never seemed to end. It was difficult to grasp the immensity of the mines as generations had dug and created more paths, more halls and more dwellings that the previous ones. At night they would establish a camp, eat on a few dried fruits and a piece of salted meat, and try to sleep. Greys and blacks, darkness and so little light. Frances felt like a ghost, treading in silence in this deadened place.

On the fourth day they came upon three tunnels. Gandalf stopped, and the hobbits decided to stop for a while. From an outside onlooker the company would have seemed petrified, their gestures measured in the greyish light. Frances could not breathe anymore in this dusty atmosphere. The absence of light, of life and colours was killing her, and the hobbits were getting less and less cheerful. She could feel it all around her, this terrible tension, like a damn rock on her ribcage.