Sybil wallowed in bath water that had long lost its heat, and was now at real risk of growing truly cold. When she'd returned to her rooms, she promptly vomited – ruining whatever sense of loftiness she'd gained in her final words with Boromir – and then spent the better part of an hour scrubbing her skin raw, trying to rid herself of her genius little potion. Afterwards, she'd realised that it had seeped into her hair from where it had been dabbed behind her ears, and so she had to scrub that too.
Then, only once everything else had been attended to, there was nothing left to do but have a good old-fashioned cry. In the bath, so she could kid herself that the tears were water from the scrubbing, and not that she was so pathetic as to cry over the words of a man she'd known for all of a week. Once that was out of the way, she could begin to work on getting over it. Stepping out of the bath and into a length of dry linen set out for her, she wrung out her hair and bundled that up too, all the while repeating his words to herself in her head – in his voice, no less.
A hindrance, a detriment, a hindrance, a detriment.
It was not so much an exercise in self-flagellation, but a method of speeding up the healing process. Or the numbing one, she supposed. The more she heard the words, the more she would grow used to them. They would cut more deeply into still-open wounds at first, that was true, but eventually – if repeated enough – they would lose their edge as she grew used to them. It had worked a treat with some of Bera's more cutting remarks, and she had a tongue like a razor.
The difference being that she expected it from Bera, and not from Boromir. But that had been her own mistake. It wasn't even the words themselves that had her so upset, but the embarrassment they caused. How much she really hadn't expected them. She felt like she'd spent this last week climbing up to the peak of a great mountain where the view was spectacular, only to be shoved sprawling down the side after a brief glimpse from the top.
It was pitiful, really. She'd just agreed to join a quest to save the world from great evil – a goal that would likely rob her of her life – and here she was, sniffling because the handsome man said some nasty things about her. Things that were not entirely unfounded, perhaps. It wasn't even as surprising as it first seemed, either. Not once she'd had a chance to think about it. She was not so ignorant, nor naïve, to the ways of the world to think that he could not think her face becoming while also harbouring all of the other opinions he'd owned to quite easily.
After she'd dried off, she changed into a different gown. The one from the Council having been kicked out of her door, a problem for her future self – the Sybil whose skull didn't feel like it was simultaneously made of glass and lead both. Then, she took her hair down to dry and wondered if she should risk the journey to the healing houses to make something to ease the headache. Already it was no longer as bad as it had been, the ache that had set up permanent shop behind her eyes more of an ongoing aftermath than an ever-renewing assault.
A knock at the door interrupted her deliberations, and she stared at it with dread long enough that whoever was on the other side knocked a second time thereafter. Surely it would not be Boromir. Unless he'd thought up another set of choice words for her and wanted to get them out while he still had his window of opportunity.
Steeling herself, she rose from where she'd been perched on the edge of the bed and padded to the door…only to breathe a sigh of relief when she found Aragorn there. He had a tankard in hand – one from which steam steadily rose, along with a faint smell of lemongrass. Something to aid her head, then. The kindness threatened to bring the tears back to her eyes. Thankfully, though, he was distracted by eyeing the dress pooled by his boots and by the time he looked at her, she'd rid herself of the mist from her eyes.
"I was going to deal with that afterwards," she said quietly, cheeks flushing.
The last thing she needed was for him to think she was treating the good people of Rivendell like her own personal maids. Even as they stood there, though, the smell of lavender and rosemary wafted up towards her and she shut her eyes against another wave of aches.
Aragorn seized upon that moment to step inside, shutting the door behind them and leading her to the ottoman at the end of her bed. Guiding her to sit, he followed suit at her side and pressed the tankard into her hand. Sybil drank deeply – not even stopping to wince at the sour taste that the lemongrass was supposed to mask – and half of the concoction was gone before she paused for breath.
"Thank you," she breathed.
Having been unable to manage breakfast, she was painfully aware of the feeling of the mixture hitting the bottom of her stomach, warming her from within. It had a similar but opposite effect on her head, her brain feeling like it had been rinsed in ice water almost immediately, leaving very little pain in its wake. Sighing her relief, her shoulders loosened, and she opened her eyes.
It was tempting to be embarrassed that she'd only just been recommending her skills as a healer to Frodo, when Aragorn's work was capable of such feats.
"Thank you," she repeated quietly.
"I believe we're already witnessing the benefit of having two healers among us," he said kindly. "There's little joy to be found in healing yourself."
"It makes you clumsy," she said knowingly, mostly just for something to say. "It's difficult to get the measurements right if you're being blinded by a migraine."
He would know this, of course, but the action of saying it felt like she was somehow proving herself. Aragorn, after all, had hardly taken more joy in her joining the Fellowship than Boromir had…although he'd certainly been kinder about it.
"Just so," he nodded readily enough. "I also came to inform you that we – the Fellowship – shall all be dining together tonight. It will be some weeks before we leave here, but there is little time to be lost. We must grow accustomed to being around one another, to working together, as much as is possible before we set out."
Sybil shifted, drinking the rest of the tea just to afford herself a bit of time to rein in her emotions. Primarily, her discomfort.
"Elves and Dwarves seldom work together in anything resembling peaceful unity," he added with a note of rueful mirth. "Prince Legolas and Gimli have quite an undertaking before them."
It was nice, at least, to know their names before she'd been forced to admit that she was too out of sorts during the introductions the Council contained to have heard them. It was nicer still that Aragorn had the kindness to pretend that was the main source of discord in the Fellowship, reminding her that she and Boromir were not the only source of strife.
"Will you join us?" he asked, when she offered no comment.
"Of course," she said.
Although she wouldn't insult his intelligence by asking why he thought she might not. Staying away, however much she secretly longed to, would only prove whatever point Boromir was trying to make about her not being fit to join them. The hysterical woman heard a nasty word or two and immediately ran off to hide and cry. That eventuality was the only thing that made her more uncomfortable than the prospect of actually going.
"I…" she hesitated, and then decided that she must speak her mind despite the unease growing within her. "I know you did not like the prospect of my joining you – but I am grateful for how you chose to take it, despite that fact."
Aragorn's lips thinned and he shifted, eyes downcast as he appeared to formulate how to best voice his thoughts before he even considered actually speaking them.
"No man wishes to see a woman walk towards such danger," he said finally.
"But they're fine with watching their fellow men, or male-folk, do so?" she asked flatly.
Her words earned her a distinctly unimpressed look – although not an unkind one – that might've had her growing embarrassed, if not for how it clashed directly with her ire towards the man they were speaking of…albeit in a thinly veiled manner.
"It is different," he commented finally, his tone firm but yet mild. "We may argue whether that fact is fair 'til the moon grows full and then new again, but a fact it remains. And it is no greater fact than to the likes of Lord Boromir – a soldier of men."
Sybil almost snorted, but a fight with Aragorn was not something she wished to pursue. Although if she did, she knew she'd have a hard time getting one, anyway. Instead, she suppressed any hint of her ire with a sigh instead, and looked down into the empty tankard in her hand, fidgeting with it.
She was a healer. How many times had she been bled upon? Or vomited upon? Or worse? Bera took on the more grizzly ailments, that much was true, but she hadn't been bundled in blankets and locked away with the fine porcelain. Not only because they had no fine porcelain to speak of. There was hardly much risk of her fainting at the realities of travelling with a group of men.
"I will not pretend that he did not fail to air his views kindly," Aragorn added. "But, whatever his other notions of where women should or should not be…he has seen the forces of Mordor firsthand. More than most. I'm sure that drove his opinions more than whatever else may have."
That side of his argument, at least, she could understand. Almost respect. While she could roll her eyes at any qualms he might have over her sharing life on the road with them, she could not so easily wave away any lack of desire he might have to see her face orcs and who only knew what else. But she still didn't like to be happy with how he voiced it.
"You don't like him."
The unasked question was there – why are you fighting his battle? But he chose not to answer it. Sybil was glad for that fact, deep down. His giving rise to the hidden accusation would only make her feel petty.
Aragorn shook his head. "I do not know him, Sybil."
Neither did she, so it turned out.
"I am not here to champion his cause – nor would I wish to, for I have my qualms with how he spoke today. I only wish for the Fellowship to work together peacefully. Cordially."
As opposed to the belligerent and confrontational manner in which she usually went about things? That thought must've shown on her face more than she intended, for he laughed a little and sighed, nodded as though conceding her point.
Sybil expected him to take his leave then – planning to actually rest once he had, now that her nerves had been eased by a kind conversation, and not the disastrous one she'd had before that. Instead, he lingered, looking like he was judging her mood before he resolved to speak.
"What is it?"
He sighed readily enough, shaking his head and taking the tankard from her hands.
"It may not be my place. Indeed, I know it is not, but I fear I would be remiss if I did not say it. Were we not faced with what lies ahead, I would not – but we are."
"And you've already begun."
He offered a wry smile.
"I cannot pretend it did not concern me. When I saw how close you and he had grown in so short a time. Last night, you almost appeared as…well. I had never seen you thus. Hardships such as the one you have just faced have a way of throwing folk together incredibly closely, incredibly quickly, in a way that is not always wise, nor rational. It fosters a sense of knowing that has little to no foundation, you understand?"
Sybil breathed a laugh. "I'm not a girl of sixteen, swooning over the charming warrior who saved my life. You need not worry. I'm quite in control of myself – and I see the folly of putting such…such energy into something that could never lead anywhere."
Not anywhere beyond ruin, anyway. Even the door to that was now firmly shut, though, much to her relief. She almost wanted to laugh at the version of herself from last night – the one who had been kept awake by foolish imaginings of nights that might lie ahead, filled with ill-advised flirting and a dangerous sort of closeness. It would have been easier to laugh, however, if she didn't feel like such a pathetic fool.
Those sharp eyes of his that seemed to miss nothing remained fixed upon her face as though searching for any hint of falsehood. And had he tried to say this to her the previous night, she might've taken offense. But the Council this morning had proven his words more true than she ever could have possibly liked, and it was difficult to fill herself with bluster after that.
"I only say, because something he said at the Council…"
Ah. That.
"I knew not where I would go from here, before today. You know better than most that I have little chance at a pleasant future, should I stray westwards. I expressed as much to Lord Boromir, and he offered to escort me eastwards instead, seeing as I could not hope to make such a journey alone, until we happened across a settlement that might suit me more. That was all."
She carefully kept back the fact that Gondor had been bandied about as that fabled settlement, which would only give rise to more suspicion. Still, she was relieved when Aragorn sighed his satisfaction.
"I see. Forgive me, I misunderstood."
"It sounded unsavoury," she allowed. "I can see how it would set the mind racing. "
"On the subject of racing minds…you seemed out of sorts at the Council. I can only surmise that you saw much."
"Too much," she said quietly – for that was another world of problems that she could not yet allow herself to think about, stowing it carefully away in a locked chest in her mind, lest she lost her grip on her composure. "Gandalf has forbidden me from speaking of it, at least for now."
"Then you should not," he said readily enough.
She hadn't expected him to press her for details, but she was still relieved all the same.
"I won't," she replied, offering a tired smile. "I'm very good at keeping quiet."
Aragorn's responding chuckle assured her he took that in the wry way that it was intended – and she resisted the urge to thank him again, although not for just the tea, this time.
Boromir slammed the door to his quarters shut behind him, and fought a petty surge of regret when the wood did not splinter on impact. Knowing the sharp hearing of the Elves, all in Imladris heard the resounding bang, but he could not bring himself to care overmuch. Indeed, the only thing saving him from doing any damage to the furniture within his quarters was the knowledge that he was two decades too old for such behaviour. Adding humiliation to defeat would be unbecoming. And it would do nothing to remedy his temper.
But nothing could be worse than this. Than knowing that Sybil would be in the Fellowship, striding forth to Mordor to meet her fate at the hands of…No. No, he could not follow that line of thinking. If he did, he would bind her hands and feet together and drag her to Bree on this very day, consequences be damned. She had sentenced herself to death, and he to witnessing it – and then she'd been upset with him for failing to revel in that fact. Impossible woman. Foolish woman. Infuriating woman.
None of that changed the way the look on her face throughout the entirety of their argument stuck stubbornly to the forefront of his mind. It changed nothing – he would say it all again, and worse, if only it would mean that she would stay here and remain safe – but that, in turn, did not ease the guilt. Nor the sinking feeling in his chest when she would not meet his gaze and referred to him as my lord.
That a woman who was easily over ten years his junior could make him feel such a way solely by referring to him as his title was an absurdity. Most of all, though, it had been her face. The way he'd watched as slowly, and methodically, the shutters had been rattled shut over her face until he was no longer granted access to the true her, but the quiet and impassive representative with which she dealt with others. Those she did not trust.
What was it that Faramir was often so fond of saying? Trust is gained by the drop, and lost by the bucket. Events had conspired so that he'd gained Sybil's trust by the bucket, and now he'd lost it by the oceanful. He doubted he should ever earn it back, for it seemed an unlikely thing to gain once, never mind twice. If indeed, he'd ever actually had it at all - for he still had no notion of what this gift of foresight nonsense was about. Worse still, he had nothing to show for his actions, either. He'd sneered and spat everything he could possibly think to say that might keep her here, and not only had it gained him nothing, it had lost him much. If he'd succeeded, he would not be stuck now regretting his words, for they would have achieved something worthwhile.
Between her and this Aragorn, he would grind his teeth down to bloodied nubs before they even set forth on their journey. At that thought, he scoffed a tired and humourless laugh – for perhaps that outcome would stop him from digging himself in deeper, if only because it would mean that he could not speak.
