Musings

The night was settling in, little clouds of smoke slowly ascending the evening sky from Aragorn's pipe. His grey eyes were strained on a particular spot in the gardens, his brain frying dead from all the information he had had to process this few last days. A crystalline voice made his heart leap with joy; Arwen's laugh had always been so refreshing to him. Another hearty chuckle climbed to his ears, this one belonged to a human. The timbre was lower and much less elegant, but its expression was filled with colors and emotions he couldn't grasp. Thinking hard for the hundredth time about the woman who recklessly attacked five Ringwraith without backing down, Estel could find nothing but emptiness. Who she was and where she came from was a total mystery and her straight forwardness had changed nothing to the puzzle. Elrond, all mighty and visionary, had said he could be of no help. His foster son knew there probably was some knowledge in his father's visions, but for an unknown reason he was not eager to share. At loss, Etel was once again in the dark, left to forge an opinion by himself on the unusual woman that had landed in his lap a few days ago.

Another form appeared at his side and started puffing smoke. As Gandalf settled himself alongside, he just had to get a glimpse of his eyes to know what he was thinking. Aragorn would not ask for information, he knew that anything he was willing to share would come to him unasked, and that the rest would be buried with him. However, Gandalf had no idea about who the woman was, other that she came from another world, and he felt at loss regarding the future. Of course, he had probably known before taking this form, but his once of humanity had hidden many things from him. Knowledge would flow whenever needed, but as for now it was best to accept to stay in the dark. Despite this evident lack of guidelines, the wizard knew that she was going to play a part in middle earth's war, and if it was the best he could fathom for now, it was still better than his smoking mate. The Valar's will was never shared lightly.

- "Some things are just not made to be heard", said Gandalf slowly.

- "Arwen has always been a god judge of characters"

Deep blue eyes met grey, and they understood each other without any more words. The night closed. The ladies walked slowly past the trees after their evening stroll in the marvelous gardens of Imladris. Up there on the balconies were watching two imposing figures, smoking quietly.

Glorfindel was a puzzle to her. His long flowing hair had nothing different from most of the elves, but somehow it had been his doom against a Balrog of the first order, and still he refused to tie it up when fighting. The twins had fed her up with this horrific story of course, and from the day she heard the tale Frances had decided that tying her hair was the key to safety. The stoic elf that towered in front of her was nonetheless impressive, and the young woman tried to curb the lump in her throat as he greeted her formally. She knew he wasn't pleased with Elrond's decision to have him forge a sword for her; his secrets were sacred and so was his art. Creating an elvish weapon for a member of the second born was not honorable, and she had had echoes of the row that had opposed the two powers of nature on her behalf. Feeling guilty, the young woman had insisted that she did not need a sword done by the Balrog slayer himself, but the master of Imladris would have nothing of it. Yet, his decision didn't look like it was driven by a stubborn desire, and Glorfindel had eventually relented. He trusted Elrond's judgment above all, and would overcome his dislike; those were troubled times.

After being instructed that the sword smith would be waiting for her in the morning, Frances had denied her guilt any seat in her brain, and decided to feel honored by the present that would be given to her. She had no idea where her steps would lead her in the future, and knowing that Elrond might have a clue about it did not make her feel better. So there she was, standing in front of the renowned sword smith lair, being greeted by one of the most famous icon of the history of middle earth. She was intimidated to the core, but she refused to let the Balrog Slayer see it. He wasn't the first charismatic being she had met, even if his glow was so intense that it stole her breath away.

Glorfindel has felt her the moment her feet had touched the stairs of his den, high above the hill. At first, he had not been pleased to be ordered around like a child by the master of Imladris. Not that Elrond could demand anything from him of course, but his plea had left him in an awkward position. He had, after all, sworn himself to the protection of the house of Eärendil.

As a legend, Glorfindel was used to being stared at oddly, even by the people of his own race. As a result, the warrior was quite solitary, only hanging out with people of great influence. Even so, he missed his friends and companions from the first age, Echtelion the most; no elf could wield such power as the elfs of old. The passing of his own people had filled him with melancholy, and the sword smith did not offer his services lightly.

When he had caught up with Estel's company many days ago, Frances had shied away and stayed with the hobbits, not catching his attention. Like any human, her wide eyes had informed him that it was her first encounter with elves. Her clothes, covered with grime, had been hiding her feminine forms and Glorfindel had not even realised she was a woman. It did not matter, for to him she would be a child forever. However, learning that this particular being, so insignificant at first, could be the subject of such an old prophecy, was somehow unnerving. Now he was watching her, his piercing eyes trying to come to terms with such a fact. The girl was trying her best not to fidget under his assessing gaze, and he felt such a struggle to keep control that it made him smile.

For sure, her mind was strong, for a human, but her demeanor showed that sword fighting wasn't part of her skills. As Glorfindel's intense gaze studied her, Frances held her head high. She was no hero, but she still had some pride. Little by little, she regained her composure. The little she had to offer was worth being respected.

The waves of feelings she was sending were easily picked up by her protagonist, and Glorfindel finally talked, fearing that the girl might explode.

- "Have you ever fought with a sword?"

His voice, so musical and beautiful, startled her. A lesson she had yet to learn about the firstborn, is that their etheral beauty could hide fierceness and unrestrained power.

- "I have", she answered, trying to suppress the tremors of her voice. "Not much though, and the gladius was very different than your elven swords."

- "Really?, how so?"

Frances blinked, trying to get free of his hypnotic gaze. Last time she had touched a sword was in antic Rome, with Maximus, and the weight had totally killed her arms.

- "I used a weapon with a short flattened blade, this wide"

Opening her fingers to show him, Glordfindel's eyes went darker.

- "This is in no way suited for your morphology, young one" he stated cooly. "It probably wasn't so much of a success."

Insulted by his rebuke, Frances could not help but note that he was right. It had been very difficult for her to learn this fighting style, and the weight and dynamics of the gladius had not been adapted to her. However, the choice had been very simple: fight or die.

- Well, I'm alive. Sometimes, my Lord, one does not have a choice."

It was the wittiest retort she could dare, but the tone of her voice struck the swordsmith. If the answer was polite, there was a clear edge in her tone and posture. Arching one eyebrow in a kingly manner, Glorfindel wondered what the girl had been through at such a young age when he heard some rustling leaves. Of course, the young human had not remarked anything, but she was kind enough to stay quiet while he swept the surroundings. At least, she could read people's demeanor. As his eyes scanned the hill, Glorfindel hear a muffled whisper.

- "Sons of Elrond", he shouted suddenly, "be gone, or I shall have to make sure you learn your lesson"

Frances stated, impressed by the commanding tone of his voice. Yet, it seemed laced with some kind of humor, something she noted for future reference. Her eyes roamed the hills, vexed for she had not heard nor seen anything. Far away, on the top of the hill, she caught a glimpse of a dark woolen cape. It was the only clue she would ever have of their stalkers being the twins. The intrusion though, made her smile. After three thousand years, those two never stopped annoying people. They probably tried to counterbalance their father's stiffness. At least, and it was reassuring, it showed that psychology worked on elves.

When Glorfindel came back to her, the tension was gone. She made a mental note to thank Elladan and Elrohir for this.

- "You shall have some training", stated Glorfindel. "No elven sword can be wielded by someone that does not know how to properly use it. Tomorrow, the swordsmaster will find you, and when he deems you ready I will forge your weapon."

And then he was gone, leaving her on the doorstep without any more explanations. The next morning, another elf came to fetch her. He presented himself as his new mentor. Lips tight, head high and stiff posture, her new teacher was so intimidating that she considered throwing herself down the waterfall. Trembling, the young lady followed him to the training ground. Day after day, Frances learned to master her reflexes with a blade. Elven swords were so much different, so light and flexible at the same time. As she nearly started from scratch, her swords master went a bit desperate. Always polite, he forestalled every tentative of humor or wariness. He was the typical elf, perfect, smart, elegant, graceful, and deadly. Frances felt every bit of her humanity as she trained with him, his eyebrows shooting to the sky every time she fell or made a stupid mistake. The human race definitely was an inferior breed.