"No one loses their innocence. It is either taken or given away willingly."
-Tiffany Madison

Amelia twitched, her facial muscles contracting involuntarily, and the distant sound of murmuring ceased immediately. Something cold was laid on her forehead and for a moment, she enjoyed the brief respite from the fire, but it was quickly taken away again.

Amelia was at once aware of her circumstances and oddly calm about them.

She could not move. Not out of an inability to do so, but out of an overwhelming unwillingness. Her body felt heavy and thin, her skin stretched out over bones that were too large for it and her throat and lips were parched and dry. Her eyes were closed and her head hurt, as if it had been cracked open like an egg and sewn back together again. Sometimes, she was unable to control certain muscles in her body and they spasmed, or an unintelligible mumble of gibberish or a low plea for help from some unseen force escaped her. All this she knew and was aware of rather keenly, but was content to do nothing about it, for she had glommed onto the naïve hope that if she remained in darkness, the nightmare that she had seen, smelled and played part in would be just that- a cruel nightmare, a flimsy, horrible dream conjured of by her own twisted mind, a manifestation of her stress and the weariness that had settled deeply in her bones by then.

She felt as if she was burning.

Her blood coursed through her veins, her palms were clammy and her pale skin glistened with a sheen of sweat. Waves of heat wracked her frail body. She was sluggish, heavy and utterly unwilling to go a single step further in Middle-Earth.

Something cool on her forehead once again gave her brief relief from the fever, but it was removed again all too soon and she shivered.

In the distance, as if the sound was muffled through water, someone asked, impatience evident in their voice, how soon she would wake.

"She will wake when she wills it and not a moment before." Gandalf sounded weary, worried and exasperated with her in particular, but Amelia felt that, for once, she was permitted to save that one worry for another time.

Satisfied with the few answers that she had gotten from listening in to those around her, no matter hteir actual identities, Amelia tumbled back into the confusing mix of dreams and nightmares that made no sense.

Painfully, dryly, Amelia drew in a deep breath through her nose and released it through open lips, wincing at the feel of her lungs expanding beneath her ribs.

"Miss Amelia?" A small voice said closely to her ear, its tone worried and far too close for her liking.

"Gandalf…" She breathed, her voice cracking several times on that word alone. "Get… Gandalf." A brief moment of hesitation followed, but then came the sound of a hobbit's feet on the floor, hurried and rushing out of the room, and Amelia felt that she had enough privacy to stir a bit. Her eyelids twitched and lifted, slightly, the slit of light making its way into her eye making them snap shut again automatically. Once more, she tried and forced them to remain open, even as her eyes reddened and became wet from the onslaught of light. For a second, she was blinded, but then the powerful light receded and she blinked. Normally, she would have scoffed at the funeral-like position that she lay in, declaring it dramatic, with her hands folded on her stomach beneath the sheet and her head on a white pillow, but instead, she just looked around the room, a terrible feeling of hollow emptiness filling her chest. Not even the dim glow of Cilya was a comfort, as it had been whenever she made a fist and felt its band on her hand.

The room was sparse, its walls made of stone and containing a simple bed, with white sheets, that she lay in. A small table with dripping candles stood beside her and when she looked out the doors leading out onto a small balcony, she saw that it was nearing evening.

"So, you have rejoined us at last, my dear." Gandalf strode into the room with his white robes fluttering, his staff plonking down on the floor with each long step he took. He stopped at her bedside, glowering down at her. "And it was high time you did."

"How… how long…" Amelia's voice was so hoarse that a strange whistling sound came from the back of her throat when she spoke and she fell silent again, trying and failing to keep eye-contact with Gandalf. Shame rose in her chest, partly from anyone seeing her in such a vulnerable state, and partly for some reason even she couldn't decipher.

"A few hours. Night is nearly upon us." Pippin hurried into the room, breathing heavily, as though he had been running. Amelia gave him a wan smile that quickly disappeared. He shuffled on his feet.

"What… happened…" She tried to limit herself to as few words as possible.

"Much." Gandalf's answer was nowhere near satisfactory. "Still, you seem to have made it through."

"You touched the palantír!" Pippin's impassioned exclamation made Amelia wince ever so slightly, but the hobbit thankfully didn't seem to notice.

"How… what…" Amelia felt exhausted and her confused mind wasn't helping matters at all.

"Easy now." Gandalf sighed to himself. "You must wonder about a great many things. Peregrin, fetch us some chairs and let us see if we can't figure out what transpired."

"Right." Pippin nodded and took off, his curls bouncing on his head.

"Now then," Gandalf gave her a look. "Ask your questions, before he returns." Amelia almost smiled, but felt as if something was stopping her from doing so. Her muscles refused to cooperate.

"Pippin… touched… why…"

"Ah." Gandalf looked troubled. "Why did you have such a stronger reaction?" She nodded. "I fear that there is no easy way to say this; when you came into contact with the seeing stone of old, Sauron immediately sensed your presence." Amelia felt goosebumps rising at the memory and her face twitched. "It would only take him the fracture of a second to detect you and even less time to feel the immense weight of the knowledge you held. He would have turned his full attention unto you, since you would be of far more use than an elderly Steward." Amelia sneered weakly at the memory if Denethor's foolishness. "He would cast him aside, turn his gaze and his power on you. He would not be patient, for I suspect he has endured Denethor and his whims for long by now." Amelia gave a single nod. "You stood against the tide and you may not even have realized this. His will pitted against yours. It would only have lasted for a second, for I fear your mind would have snapped under the weight of it otherwise. Sauron the vile would have been unprepared for Peregrin's presence. Since he was already in communion with Denethor, he was ready. You suffered the consequences." Amelia's eyes felt watery and in that moment, she hated herself for her frailty and weakness.

"I saw… so much…" Her hands were shaking and she let her nails dig into her palms.

"Now, I hate to ask you this, truly, but… what did you see? What did you tell him?" Amelia turned dead, blue eyes towards the wizard.

"Death. Pain. Blood. Fire. So much… death. Suffering. I… I told him… nothing, but… he… told me… things." With some difficulty, she relayed the phrase that the dark lord had told her, the guttural proclamation harsh in her softened, hoarse voice. Gandalf frowned.

"A form of mockery. A greeting, holding an imitation of joy. I will not utter its translation here, but know that it is nothing good."

"Mmhm…" Amelia attempted to sit up, but pain lanced through her and she gave up immediately. "Water…" Wordlessly, Gandalf retrieved a pitcher from a small cabinet, dipped it in the basinet beside it and brought to the small table, where several clay cups stood already. Attempting to reach out for one was no simple task and her hand was shaking too much for the liquid to stay in the cup. "Damn it…" Without speaking, Gandalf assisted her and a warm bubble of hatred with herself, as well as further shame, filled Amelia's chest. "Thank you." Just speaking the word was enough to make her cheeks heat in embarrassment.

"You're awake." She turned her bleary eyes towards the doorway and saw that Boromir stood in it, a hand resting casually on the hilt of his blade. His relaxed posture didn't reflect what he felt. Amelia knew him well enough to tell that he was worried in the extreme, and cautious, from the small crinkles around his eyes and the way his mouth was slightly twisted.

"Just barely." She rasped at him, and though she was happy at seeing him in general, she was still annoyed with him for seeing her in such a state. Her face was pale, her lips were dry, she was shaking like a leaf and her brown hair was loose around her shoulders. It was far longer than it had been when she had started on her journey.

"And… how do you feel?" Hesitantly, Boromir came to sit on the edge of her bed. Amelia groaned at him. She didn't reply and averted her eyes, somehow fearful of looking him in the eyes. Then, a gentle hand lifted her chin and blue eyes met grey ones. He seemingly studied her eyes intently for a long moment, but then, he sighed and dropped his hand.

"What?" He gave her an odd look, one of regret and slight anger.

"Your eyes," He finally explained. "They have witnessed such things that can't be unseen or forgotten. It shows." Amelia frowned at him, but looked away again. "What happened to you?"

"Sauron… happened." Amelia's lip twisted in a silent snarl, a glimpse of her teeth showing through it. "Denethor… happened."

"It appears your father has been using the palantír for some time." Gandalf told Boromir gravely.

"That's why he… thought… you were dead." Amelia's slow formulating of her thoughts was as much of a bother to her as it was to the others. "Sauron… showed him." Her wheezing breaths turned into dry coughs, but she swallowed them after a few gasping breaths and continued forcefully. "Should've… told you." She gave him an awkward, pained half-shrug. "Sorry." Boromir clenched his teeth and looked away from her. There was a long, heavy moment of silence. "Where's…" Amelia's eyes widened and her breathing quickened. "Faramir…"

"His father has sent him to reclaim Osgiliath." Gandalf sounded truly angry at last. "A fool's order and a fool's obeying of it." Amelia looked horrified.

"No, no, no… I was supposed to… to stop that!" Boromir paled, but she paid him no mind, too caught up in her own chaotic thoughts to pay any heed to his. "He'll survive, barely, but… he's going to be… injured." Boromir looked greatly troubled, but it seemed to have lessened a bit after Amelia had revealed that he needn't fear for his brother's life in the longer run. "Denethor… he's going to…" Then, Pippin burst in through the door, dragging several chairs of varying shapes and sizes with him.

"I found the chairs!" He exclaimed excitedly, oblivious to the long faces in the room.

"Gandalf, Pippin… would you give us a moment?" Boromir requested and the wizard relented, shooing a bewildered hobbit back out of the room and shutting the door behind him. Amelia blinked expectantly at him, wondering what he would have to say that would require privacy. "Amelia… I think that you have worried enough for now about my family and I. I insisted for so long on our coming here and I cannot bring myself to regret it, but the actions of my father, and through him, my own, are nigh unforgivable." Amelia's eyebrows jerked upwards at his candor. "And for that, you have my…" He stopped abruptly as Amelia, mindless of her personal discomfort, reached out and wrapped her arms around him, her grip surprisingly strong in her ailing state.

"Your father… is an ass. You… not so much." Her pale lips, still with an unhealthy pallor despite the hints of color that were returning to her complexion, quirked upwards a tiny bit. "Don't apologize." Slowly, he raised his arms and held her, carefully, as if she were made of the finest spun glass, as if he feared being too rough with her would cause her to shatter. "You are… amazing." Slowly, but surely, Amelia gained more and more control over her voice, despite it still being terribly hoarse in its sound. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Not even… Denethor. Not even you." She cleared her throat loudly and cursed the blood rushing to her cheeks, even though it brought a bit of color back into her face.

"And here I thought it was still up for debate whether I was a good man or not." Boromir's jest was welcome in their serious talk and Amelia almost laughed, despite her heavy eyelids and exhaustion from their simple interactions alone.

"No… no, it isn't." She said with a sigh as she was eased back into her pillow. "It simply… is." Finally, she could let proper sleep take her, with the glint of Cilya being the last thing she saw, from where it still rested securely on her finger.

When Amelia woke up again, she was alone, and felt much better than she had when she had visitors. It was nighttime outside, with stars shining in the sky, but despite their beauty, Amelia was uneasy. She remembered that Denethor had attempted to burn himself in the time of night, but she had never been good with dates and a full other day could very well pass before Faramir returned to the city, dragged by his spooked horse. Just the thought alone brought her an unpleasant feeling in her stomach.
At the foot of her bed had been placed her belongings, her old clothes and Aeglos in its sheath, with her gloves placed innocently atop the pile. Dressing herself was a painstakingly slow process, but the little sleep she had gotten seemed to have done her a world of good and she donned her undershirt and pants with little discomfort, despite her aching joints.

As she fastened the clasp of the cloak she had been gifted with by the elves of Lothlórien, she glanced at her gloves, lying innocently atop her bag and narrowed her eyes at them. Then, she shook her head and focused on fastening Aeglos to her hip.

Above the basinet that Gandalf had filled a pitcher in hung a mirror framed in wood. Hesitantly, Amelia approached it, weary of what she might see in the glass.
At first glance, all that seemed changed was that she was still a bit pale beneath the faint freckles she had gotten from being outside, wandering in the sunlight for so long, but that could be dismissed as nervousness for the coming battles. It was her eyes that held her attention, as she realized what Boromir had meant.
Throughout their journey, her eyes had held some nameless spark of youth, making her eyes the eyes of one who had been raised in a world without death and despair. Her eyes had been those of a child, she realized. No longer. An inner glow, a nameless belief, had died when it had faced Sauron. Somehow, her eyes seemed a little deader, but not completely devoid of spirit.

It was then that Amelia changed the when of her going back to an if.

She was certainly capable of and looking forward to coming home, but somehow, the idea of it seemed strangely distant, more like a dream or a wish than an actual possibility. Much as if her life and everything that she knew about it had been a grand puzzle and her piece had changed, molded into something older, more hardened, but also with new perspectives and sympathies.

She couldn't contribute it all to her infatuation with Boromir either. There were other things in her life than him. There was blood, battle and something broken, but there was light too, light in the friendships that she had formed with the Fellowship, in what had changed in herself, in the beauty in the world that others took for granted, but that she was able to appreciate, for she had never seen it with her own eyes before. Occasionally in her travels, she would have pointed out something utterly mundane, like flowers, peculiar architecture or the natural habits of others, only highlighting the minimal, but astronomical differences that served to make each and every world its own, a unique combination of its people, its lands and the very lifeblood of it.

Though it had been a wondrous journey, it had also been a taxing one and at the end waited a choice that Amelia was no longer certain that she could make. Her exhaustion had become a constant companion as of late, the exhaustion that came from fighting and running and the uncertainty that came from living in times of war. She was most tired of trying though, and she thought so to herself as she looked into her own blue eyes in the mirror, tired of trying to be better than her best and tired of bearing the weight of a burden she had never asked for in the first place.

Amelia glanced back at her bag, wondering whether she ought to don her coat, her gloves or bring any of her belongings with her out of the room, but then turned away again and rested her hand on the doorhandle of the door, hesitating for a scant few, fragile moments. In a flurry of jerky movements, she hurried over to the backpack, pulled a single item from its depths and then turned. She scoffed at herself, wondering when she had become so melodramatic in her actions, her words and her thoughts in particular. She was running out of time, but she still had a good amount left. She turned the knob on the door and left the room, a hand resting on her sword and Cilya positively beaming in the dim lighting on the other.