The next day, Sybil was hard at work in the healers' workshop. Ever since she'd been accepted – to use the word lightly – for this task, her mind had begun to spin with what sort of blends she could put together for the journey ahead. Winter was fast approaching and with no plans to set out afoot, she knew that they had weeks before that day came, if not months, and so it would only be colder when they found themselves on the road. Warming salves and teas, then, were one thing that she put together in abundance.

Poultices, too, to help with aches and pains. She did not doubt that Aragorn's skill was greater than hers – she'd since discovered why there'd been no Athelas for her own use on the Road – but she could at least supply poultices that might help ease blisters and keep them clean, or keep headaches or other more minor, natural grievances at bay.

She'd been stationed here all afternoon, and already she had a neat little stack at her side, each mixture carefully wrapped in fabric that had been steeped in beeswax and then dried so that the contents inside wouldn't be at the mercy of the elements. Each one was tied carefully with string colour-coded in such a way that she'd know what was inside without having to open it up.

Occasionally an elf would pause in their own comings and goings to ask what she was doing, and sometimes they would even offer some incredibly welcome advice from their own way of approaching the craft. Although she'd started the day in a foul mood, it soon cleared up, and by the time midday had long given way to a glorious golden late afternoon, she'd achieved a level of peaceful contentment that her work tended to pry from her.

Her newly found workspace was, like the rest of Rivendell, a curious mix of indoor and outdoor. While it was covered and sheltered from the worst of the elements, feeling to her like more of a gazebo than a conventional room. The unique nature of it was welcome though, for everywhere she looked there was beauty to take in, and an ever-present breeze soothing and refreshing her even as she worked. There was something calming about this land. It would be foolish not to make the most of it, for she knew she'd miss it sorely when it came time to leave.

Although not as much as she found herself missing it when Boromir entered.

"My lord," she greeted quietly.

He made a sound somewhere between a sharp exhale, and a scoff. Sybil returned to the table before her, using a pair of fine-pointed scissors and a tiny container the size of an egg cup to finely chop the dried herbs she was working with. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he approached – still keeping over an arm's length of space between them.

It took real, concerted effort for her to continue working without her movements becoming awkward or nervous, suddenly aware all over again of just how tall he was.

"You weren't at training this morning," he spoke only when it became clear she had no intention of filling the awkward silence with idle chit-chat.

"I did not know of it until I happened across it."

"But you did not join when you did."

Sybil suppressed a tired, humourless laugh.

"Tell me, were the hobbits notified ahead of time? After dinner, when I left with Gandalf, I expect?"

"Yes, but…"

"So you told them, and made explicit arrangements with them, but you expected me to…what? Divine what would happen and appear at the appropriate time?"

"Is that not the gift that earned you your place in this Fellowship?"

Her hands threatened to shake thanks to her ire as she carefully put together another pouch of herbs.

"I did not join, because I did not think I would be welcome, my lord."

"If only you'd come to the same conclusion at the Council of Elrond!"

Her eyes flew to him and she knew that her hurt shone there, for regret immediately clouded his features and he sighed, his shoulders slumping.

"Sybil…you cannot neglect to train for what lies ahead out of a wish to avoid my presence."

Sybil breathed a disbelieving, furious laugh. Was it not his desire to avoid her that had him, a man a number of years her senior, almost twice her size, and a thousand times her rank, unable to invite her to said training? What had he wished? That she should see it and be forced to throw herself at his feet and beg for his tutelage?

No, he had ensured that she would see that she was not wanted there – not wanted in his presence at all, for that matter – and now he scorned her for abiding by his wishes? Now he tried to use it as a way of denouncing her as an idiot? The nerve. The audacity.

All but throwing the mixture she'd been working on down, she rounded on him, arms folded so he would not see how her hands shook.

"There is an elleth here, Ilaria, who is happy to train me. We begin on the morrow. Women-folk differ physically from men, and so it makes more sense to have a teacher familiar with these details so I can learn to fight according to those differences. One who may be aware of fighting styles that work to our own strengths."

And one who wasn't so bloody cruel whenever they wished to be.

"Is that so?"

"Yes. Aragorn introduced us, at my request this morning," immediately after she'd witnessed the training session she hadn't been invited to, for that matter. "He does not wish for me to join the Fellowship any more than you do, but he manages to keep his emotions under control. Perhaps you might use him as a model of gentlemanly behaviour."

Her words were spiteful, designed to insert a knife into a spot she already knew to be sore. Judging by the look in his eye as he stared at her, whatever he'd been about to say dying on his parted lips, she succeeded – but could she be blamed? Truly? How many times had she sat back while he said nasty things to her, and let it roll off of her like water off of a duck's feathers? How many times might she be expected to do so? Conflict might've been something she struggled with, her hands now rebelling against her efforts to stop them from trembling, but she would not be a practise dummy for his foul temper. The- the designated one to go to when one wished to say hurtful things without receiving a retort.

Too many had mistaken her quiet for an inability to stand up for herself. Too long had she been unwilling to do so. She would not allow it to be the case again here, nor now. Defending herself with a voice that shook was better than accepting blow after blow without recompense.

"The Enemy will show you no gentlemanly behaviour," he countered angrily, gesturing wildly as if to point out Mordor itself to her.

"We are better than the Enemy," she snapped.

A beat of silence followed, during which he bowed his head before he shook it, sighing as though she was the one being impossible.

"Yes. Well. You had better hope that your new tutor teaches you to fight with more skill than the Enemy, for if not you will meet your doom on our journey, and none shall be able to help you."

"Worry not, my lord," she said flatly. "I shall never ask you to help me again."

His nostrils flared but she turned back to her work rather than awaiting a retort…and only stopped pretending to fiddle with herbs once he'd taken his leave. Her former serenity was not something she managed to recapture.

Boromir was finding himself at the mercy of a very unpleasant phenomenon. One that struck whenever he interacted with Sybil in a one-on-one manner, no less. He would approach and engage with every intention of being civil, and reasonable, and well-mannered so that they might at least not fracture their association further – even if he was not quite so deluded as to think they might repair things, nor go back to how they had been – only for that plan to slip from his mind the moment he encountered friction.

His temper would spike, so would hers, and he'd leave having been unable to do a worse job than if he'd gone in seeking conflict.

A handful of days had gone by since their encounter in the healing houses, and while Boromir's temper had faded down to a tired sort of exasperated regret, they had not made things right. If there could be any making things right. There had been no more enforced group dinners by the Fellowship, and he doubted there would be again until the day of their departure both made itself known and drew near, but that didn't mean that the members did not naturally gravitate towards one another. Well, those still here. He could not pretend he wasn't relieved when Aragorn took his leave in order to lead scouting parties. Judging by how the Prince of Mirkwood failed to feign pleasure at Gimli's continued presence, the elf must have wished he could join them.

Still, he seemed to get along well enough with Sybil – and some petty, unreasonable part of Boromir wondered if it wasn't because of his disastrous introduction to the elf-prince. He observed quietly as she sat between Legolas and Pippin, and noted from a distance how quickly her reserved and timid demeanour melted away when she was among friends. Bruises, he noted with some sourness, littered her arms from her training sessions. That sourness wasn't there because she was training, in fact he was rather relieved that she had found a teacher in the end, but because he knew full well of the bruises that would follow out there. Or worse.

Oh, but she was infuriating.

How could she expect him to inform her of his plans for training when she had outright refused to look at him throughout all of dinner? When everything in her manner towards him suggested that, had he tried to speak with her, she'd have readily ignored him and pretended he had not spoken at all? Perhaps he should have put that belief to the test, for she'd have been the one who appeared foolish and immature under such circumstances, but every time he'd turned his eyes to her only to discover her studiously avoiding his gaze, he'd been unable to find the heart to attempt it.

Had she joined upon finding them, he would not have commented upon it. If anything, he would have been pleased at not having to endure an entire conversation on the topic beforehand. Surely she knew that. Surely she…

He had to abandon that line of thinking before he'd even fully committed to it. For of course she hadn't. His logic had been so skewed, so unreasonable even to his own ear, that hoping another would follow his line of thinking was folly. Even to himself, he had to concede that she'd have every right to fear that, should she try to join, she would have been shunned and denied a place in the proceedings. Especially given how she'd made no secret of the fact that experience had taught her to expect such treatment…and he'd hardly helped matters.

Some dropped cutlery at dinner would not undo that.

Were Faramir here, he'd be laughing at him. Openly. And he'd deserve it. He knew that. But it still did nothing to remedy his inability to just keep his damned mouth shut when the woman in question spiked his ire. Were it not so enraging, it might almost be impressive.

If only you'd come to the same conclusion at the Council of Elrond!

His memory of his own words stopped him from growing too self-righteous. Why had he said it? The words captured the truth of his feelings, yes, but there'd been no need to say them. His sentiments had been made more than clear on that point, and to continue driving the matter home had the sound of a general stamping his feet because his battle plans were not the ones that were undertaken in the end. It was not a flattering image. Furthermore, the look on her face in response to his words would have had him regretting them immediately thereafter, had good sense not already done so.

And she'd known exactly how to repay his words – throwing the name of Aragorn in his face with steel in her eyes and venom on her tongue. The part of him that did not puff up with anger that he didn't have much right to was almost relieved that she had, for there was an empty sort of comfort in the fact that she hadn't just quietly absorbed whatever it was he chose to say…as she had at the Council.

They would have to make things right eventually. Not for their own personal comfort, but because they simply could not press ahead in this quest of theirs if a fifth of their Fellowship could not behave cordially with one another. Boromir just had no idea how they would do so. Especially if he didn't stop managing to lodge his foot into his mouth.

Ilaria was a tall elleth, beautiful and dark-featured, but stern in her training. She gave Sybil no quarter, and Sybil was happy for that fact. Boromir had been right about one thing – the Enemy would not be gentlemanly. Over and over she was knocked down onto her backside…and over and over she pushed herself right back to her feet again, ready for more. Every bruise, graze, and ache that she obtained now would hopefully stave off any slashes, stabs, or mortal wounds that would no doubt fly in her direction when they set out.

Unable to recall a day in her life that she'd ever been truly idle, she had a good basis of stamina to work from, and a reasonably high pain tolerance which, when combined with her stubborn desire to prove a point, was nothing to sniff at. What she lacked was muscle density, along with the time needed to build that muscle density, and so she would have to – quite happily – leave hefting around greataxes, longswords, and cumbersome shields to the warriors in the party. Archery, too, would take too long to master if she ever hoped to hit a moving target in the midst of battle – and what would she possibly be able to hit that Legolas could not?

In the end, it was decided that her best hope lay in being able to slash at whatever grew close enough to harm her. A rapier, long but slender and light, was procured from the armoury for her, with a beautiful intricate guard of pale gold, and a wicked blade that gleamed whichever way she moved it. More important than its look, though, was the fact that she could swing it for a long while and only grow tired in the latter half of her training, when fatigue really began to set in. With enough time and practise, she hoped to push that timeframe back even further.

In addition to that, she'd been fitted with gear suited to what lay ahead, and took these sessions as a chance to really wear it in so that it would bring about no discomfort as she travelled. The boots she'd worn here, along with her cloak, were the only articles of clothing that actually survived the journey – but both were in such poor shape that she'd been relieved when they were replaced without her having to ask. A simple shirt the colour of red wine followed, along with dark mahogany brown breeches that were sturdy yet soft as silk, and those were so comfortable that she wanted to live the rest of her life in them. She'd been assured that more articles, along with a change of clothes, would follow – but she had more than what she needed for training sessions, and was exceedingly grateful for all of it.

With no time to lose, they practised daily – Sybil rolling with whenever Ilaria was available, and cobbling together any and all potions, powders, and poultices that she thought might one day be useful in the time that was left over. She was accruing a fine little collection, and her mind was already turned towards how she'd ever store all that she'd have by the time they left. But none need fear headaches or stuffy noses with her around.

It had taken her a moment to get over her shyness around Ilaria. Not only because the fiasco after the Council had some small, pathetic part of herself fearing that any and all she grew comfortable with would undoubtedly later admit that they thought her a nuisance – something that she recognised was a ridiculous show of paranoia and hurt feelings rather than logic – but because, well, she was an elf. There was something about growing sweaty and breathless and fumbling a move before such a being that had her tempted to apologise for daring to be a grubby little mortal.

But Ilaria's stern teachings were not devoid of kindness.

"You're a devoted learner," she commented one day, a fortnight into their training. "A reasonably fast one, too."

Sybil stifled a smile, but Ilaria caught it.

"You disagree?"

"I think Elves measure time differently," she said. "It could take me a month to master something painfully simple, and it would seem quick to your kin."

Ilaria chuckled. "Perhaps, but we pick up skills swiftly compared to mortals, and so if you consider my basis for comparison, my praise balances out truly in the end."

"I'll stop nitpicking and simply thank you, then."

The elleth bowed her head in gratitude, likely relieved that she'd finally learned how to take a compliment.

"Your blade was mine, when I first began training – before I began to favour heavier blades."

The evidence of that preference was clear, her arms visibly tones and strong even through the white shirt she wore, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

"I'm pleased to think it may have a role in what is to come, and that it has found capable hands," she added. "You have much to learn, you've said so yourself, but if things continue on as they have been, I've no doubt you will learn it."

For a moment, Sybil was loss for words. "Thank you."

"You may not thank me for what I have to say next," Ilaria said.

Sybil watched, quietly worried but refusing to show it. What did she have to say next? The first, admittedly belligerent, fear that came to mind was that the elleth would not be able to sanction her pressing on ahead into the wild. And, given what danger waited, it was laughable that not being able to go was her big fear. But no, that would be nonsensical, and it would directly contract everything she'd just explicitly said. So what was the problem?

"Another round of scouting missions is to press ahead in the coming weeks," she explained, gazing out across the valley as though a pack of orcs was like to be hiding behind the trees there. "I have been called to join them."

Oh.

"I may be able to find one among my kin who could take over for me here, but I expect you would only encounter the same problem again thereafter, and again, and so on, until your departure is upon us. No resources can be spared in what lies ahead, you understand."

"Of course I do," she nodded.

"If you wish for me to find another, I shall. Gladly. But…it does occur to me that there is one within your number who will be here constantly…and may therefore be a better option."

Sybil's eyes fluttered shut, and she swore quietly. Ilaria laughed in response, but not unkindly.

"You know of my predicament, then?" she sighed in response to her teacher's lack of confusion.

"We elves have keen ears," she said. "And your dealings with the son of the Steward have not been quiet."

Which meant that if she refused and sought another elven instructor instead, she would be outing herself as a great big crack in the Fellowship before they'd even set out. The scorned woman who refused to take the best opportunity available because she prioritised spite. All while she'd been doing whatever she could to prove the opposite since first signing up for this quest.

Her own words from two weeks ago drifting back to her unbidden.

Worry not, my lord. I shall never ask you to help me again.

Even as she'd said it, some warning had flashed through her heart that she may well be forced to eat those words amidst the peril ahead. She had never expected that such a time would come so swiftly.

Well. This was going to be humiliating.