Sybil, Boromir had been surprised to note, was beautiful.

Not, of course, that he'd been spending their journey to Rivendell mentally sneering at her lack of any alluring qualities, but he simply…had not noticed. She'd been a woman, yes, but one who was injured, and distressed, and in need of his help. What sort of lecherous lout might he have been if he'd witnessed her plight, and only been able to think about how pleasing her features were? No, he did not blame himself for that. Now, however, he could not stop noticing it, and he was left wondering how he had ever failed to notice it in the first place.

Were soot, sweat, and suffering so great a mask? To hide such a beauty? Worse still, his shock had reduced him to behaving as a lad of fifteen, and not the man of one-and-forty that he was. Her awe at the surrounding land was likely the only thing stopping her from noticing how he stared, and it could not last forever. No, he had to get a handle on himself. It was laughable.

But how it warmed him to see her well. So sorry a state she was in as they rode through the gates to Rivendell that he'd begun to fear that he was too late in finding help, which only made the miracles that elvish healing had performed all the more impressive. Colour had returned to her face, a healthy flush dusting her cheeks and full lips that had once been a dangerous shade of blue were now rose red, working with thick dark lashes to contrast her porcelain skin, making her features all the more striking.

He did not offer her his arm as they walked to lunch. The temptation had been there, certainly, but though he could not help but view her somewhat differently now, she was still Sybil. And Sybil was…skittish. Perhaps that was the wrong word, for she wasn't like some of the new servants, or even the first-time guests at Minas Tirith who would stutter and fall over themselves as they tried to find the right words to please their hosts. There was none of that in her.

Tentative, then. That was more on the mark. She might not have been ready to flee at the first sign of trouble, but she certainly expected trouble. And who could blame her, after what had just happened? Although he did find himself dearly hoping that she thought – that she knew – it was not needed around him. But he suspected it was habit, and he had to remind himself they had only known one another but a week. Some wariness was likely justified, from her viewpoint. That didn't stop him from hoping it would fade.

Although, when they reached a set of stairs they'd have to scale to get to the terrace where lunch was held, she paused and eyed it as though it were a mountain. Boromir was reminded, then, that however impressive the healers here were, they were not miracle fix-all cures. Healed she doubtless was, but weakened still.

"I'm not yet out of the habit of carrying you," he teased, bumping her gently with his arm.

She flushed and cleared her throat.

"Yes. Well. I shouldn't like to grow spoiled."

But he did offer his arm then, and she accepted it.

Lunch in Rivendell was a casual affair…or at least this one was. As far as she suspected the Elves ever really did casual. No doubt they'd manage to make vomiting look graceful and sophisticated, though, so it was difficult to judge, ultimately. The long tables were set with all manner of food, all of it cold and most of it light, and those gathered drifted in and out at will, picking at plates of fruit before returning to their duties.

There was none of the merriment of a feast, or even a dinner, but Sybil found she wasn't quite up to the notion of merriment just yet, anyway. Boromir was happy to let her lead the way, trailing towards the empty end of a table – although he did drop her hand from his arm (she'd scarcely noticed she'd left it there as they walked, too distracted by their surroundings) so he could move forth and pull out her chair for her. After that, he poured her wine before his own, and she idly wondered if she still looked so worn that he thought it all necessary.

Her choice in choosing this quieter place hadn't been because of that, though. Well, not entirely – nor even mostly. For she had an explanation she felt that she owed him. Boromir had done much for her, he'd proven himself to be a good man. An unbelievably good man, really. And with Strider here, she knew she couldn't dither in offering that explanation, lest he feel he'd been lied to. Perhaps he'd feel that way all the same, but she hoped not.

But she was sure she'd still feel compelled to tell Boromir the truth, even had Strider not been here.

"I…I must admit that I haven't been entirely honest with you," she said, picking at a cake packed with fruit and honey before she realised it was probably a display of poor manners and wiped her hands on a napkin.

"Ominous words."

His tone was light, but his gaze gained a sharpness, inspecting her face for any hint of what she was about to say. Warm he most certainly was, but not foolish. It did nothing to help Sybil organise her thoughts – but he did not rush her as she considered her words.

"I told you that Bera was my mother – that she adopted me, yes, but that she was my mother all the same. It…wasn't entirely true."

"I had wondered why your friend the Ranger seemed so puzzled by my wording."

"It wasn't far off the mark – it wasn't an entire fabrication, but it was merely the spirit of the matter rather than the full truth. She did take me in, but not when I was a child. She…she found me. Ten years ago, half-frozen on her doorstep, with no memory of who I was. She took me in, but as an apprentice, not a family member. Had I outlived my usefulness at any time, she'd have sent me on my way."

She couldn't help but smile fondly as she said it.

"She never made any secret of it. Nor did she ever fail to remind me that she was not my mother. That's why, should you express differently to Strider, he would find it surprising. Bera was…a very singular sort of woman."

"She sounds rather harsh."

"Mm."

"Cruel?"

"No," she breathed a laugh. "Never cruel."

Folk more prone to sensitivity would likely deem her so, but the temptation to hold sensitivity in excess was always something Sybil did what she could to beat back. A necessity, really, given how people often responded to her…oddities.

"When did you regain your memories?"

"I did not."

On the occasions she'd had to tell this tale in the past (although they were hardly numerous), she'd learned that it was best to say that part casually. Lightly. Otherwise, the listener would think she was on the verge of crying and wailing over that fact, and things would grow very awkward indeed. Boromir's interested stare was renewed then, and he shifted as though those memories were something he could personally hunt down and restore. Sybil smiled – in part because of his reaction, but also in an effort to reassure him.

"I only know my name because it was written on the necklace I wore when I was found," she added with a quiet laugh. "Perhaps it's not even mine."

They lapsed into silence, then, and Sybil let it settle. Whittering on nervously would be little help, and it was quite the story. Explanations like this needed a little time to sink in. As he mulled, she continued to pick at the cake on her plate, but made no attempt to eat more of it.

"It would have been a long tale to wedge into what we already faced on the Road," he said finally.

He had the grace, Sybil was thankful to see, not to point out that she'd just summarised it very concisely in only a handful of minutes. But where it was a short tale, it was a weighty one, and they'd had enough on their minds back then.

"I feared it would make you less likely to help me, had you known the whole truth. I could not risk that."

"Less likely to help you? Because you have known trouble?"

"Plenty believe trouble only finds the troubled," she shrugged her shoulders a little. "And that the troubled are only that way because of some…some defect. Some deficiency."

Something in Boromir's face darkened.

"Those who believe such folly are those who have never been subjected to hardship themselves."

"You underestimate my ability to be very, very off-putting," she joked mildly, smiling a little.

He'd grown used to her humour by now, it seemed, for he smiled back and then chuckled softly.

"I cannot believe that."

"Oh?"

"I would never have troubled myself with carrying you for so great a distance, were you the off-putting sort."

There was a twinkle in his eye as he teased her, and Sybil couldn't help but laugh.

"I had no idea your heroism was so fickle, my lord."

"You used the word heroism, not I," he pointed out, his smile widening into an all-out grin.

And Sybil? Sybil was resisting the urge to pinch herself. When her cabin had first burned down, she knew not how long she'd survive. If she would at all. So much was uncertain, but all of the possibilities seemed dire. From wandering alone without equipment, to the likelihood of running into the men who had razed her home to the ground, or men who had not but still meant harm regardless, to trolls, to wolves, to exposure, to starvation.

Instead, but a week later, she found herself in Rivendell, dressed in a gown so fine she could scarcely have imagined it, laughing and joking and feasting with the handsome highborn man who had saved her life. She kept expecting to wake up, cold and damp and back in that copse she'd first slept in after the fire. The dreamlike quality of it all was only aided by how she'd arrived here – or rather, how she couldn't remember that arrival. One moment she'd been suffering, delirious in the wilderness, and the next she was here. None of it felt real at all. And yet, she was glad for all of it.

Maybe it was that giddiness that had her feeling so comfortable with him. Or, more likely, the comfort she felt was the sort of thing produced by what they'd just been through together. Perhaps the way he smiled at her had something to do with it, too.

"Reject it as you might, I shall continue to do so," she said.

Looking out across the dining terrace, she found Strider watching the two of them with unhidden curiosity, and a shade of her old self-consciousness threatened to return. But Boromir was speaking before she could grow too concerned with it.

"Well, if you're that dedicated, I shan't argue with you. However, I confess myself curious. You said when we first met that you believed yourself to know what Rivendell looked like without having seen it. Has seeing it proven your dream true?"

Sybil hesitated.

"It has. Although I can hardly believe it."

Despite her earlier teasing, she was relieved to find her response didn't have that off-putting impact on him that she'd feared. Instead, he weighed her words, nodding slowly as he looked around.

"Could it not be that you've been here before? Before you were robbed of your memory?"

"If I have been, none here remember me," she said, "which isn't an outlandish turn of events, for I have a knack for escaping notice…well, when I'm not staggering around burnt and delirious, at least. But the Elves seem the sort to remember much, so surely one would…and if Strider knows this place, surely he would have…oh, I don't know."

"I did not mean to add to your troubles."

"You did not," she forced a smile. "I'm used to being without answers. At this rate, I would hardly know what to do if I had all of them at once. But what of you? Do you have the answers you sought in coming here?"

"Not yet," he said carefully. "Although I have cause to believe I may find them soon."

Ah. The secret council they'd been barred from speaking of. Tactfully, Boromir moved swiftly on before she could wonder what to steer the conversation towards instead.

"A toast," he said, lifting his glass of wine and sliding her own towards her.

"To what?"

"To your recovery," he said as if it were obvious.

Sybil smiled. "And to your upper body strength."

He laughed at that, and the laugh settled into a wide and lovely grin that could easily warm all around them the same way that a bonfire might. Sybil blushed and looked away as she drank. And when she did, she found several elves glancing her way, unhidden curiosity on their faces. The curiosity ran too deep, and was too obvious, for her to be content in telling herself it was only thanks to how she'd arrived here. They, all of them, must've lived lives that would be impossibly long in her view. To think they'd never seen someone burned and unconscious beggared belief.

But there was no scorn to their curiosity – and when she met the eyes of those who watched, they smiled or offered a nod of greeting, both of which Sybil shyly returned. It was, however, enough for reality to begin trickling back in. Not so much a memory, but an echo of a memory. Of the whispers that followed her in the villages of men. Of the stares. How those distrustful looks even found the way onto the faces of the folk who sought out Bera at the cabin.

Perhaps the Elves would be kinder to her in that regard. What they considered strange and what the rest of the world did likely differed greatly, and they'd been nothing but warm to her so far. But the discomfort opened the way for reality to sink in, even in this surreal land, and the reality of her current position was difficult to ignore.

Her mind, before, had been only on getting to Rivendell. Surviving to see Rivendell. Now she was here, yes, and she still awaited her answers – if indeed any were to be found – from Lord Elrond. But what then? What would follow once the Lord of Rivendell informed her, kindly perhaps but all the same, that he had little idea of why she could picture his hold so clearly without having seen it, but that it was a novelty and little more. And then what would she do?

She set the cake she'd just been enjoying back on her plate, barely half-eaten, as it now seemed cloying and sickeningly sweet.

The home she'd had this past decade was gone, and all of her belongings, as well as any hope of earning a living, with it. Boromir would return to his life of a lord-slash-soldier in Gondor, Strider would go on doing…well, whatever it was that Strider did, for she was quickly realising she had little idea of what that pertained, and Sybil? How long could she rely on the kindness of those here before she was recovered enough to take her leave? There was no chance she might remain, she had nothing to offer them, no way to be of use. They certainly didn't need her healing skills. And what then? Where could she possibly go? To the villages of men, westwards? Where she was distrusted and, now, painted as a murderer? The only alternative were the lands of men to the east, and they seemed as out of reach as the moon. She had nothing. Nowhere. No one.

And once her business here was concluded, she would feel the full force of that fact.

Any doubt over whether she'd gone pale (for her cheeks, lips, and nose were suddenly very cold) was gone when she looked to Boromir once more, and found him watching her intently. But then she wondered if she wasn't just paranoid when he shifted, looked about them, and then spoke.

"A walk, I think," he said, "to clear the cobwebs. Between resting and ridding myself of the Road's dust, I've not yet had the time to explore the land of our hosts. Join me?"

Sybil hesitated. She wanted to make some excuse to return to her rooms, but she also feared she'd dissolve into a fit of hysteria if she did so, thus sentencing herself to meeting Lord Elrond with swollen eyes and a stuffy nose when he did eventually summon her.

Hadn't she only been marvelling at how lovely everything was mere moments ago? And now she was tumbling into this. It was ridiculous – it was the exhaustion. It had to be. She refused to believe she'd be so temperamental otherwise.

Boromir led her to a quiet walkway that they'd strayed through to get to the terrace in the first place. On one side it was secluded from sight by lush green foliage, and on the other was a rail which looked out into the golden valley. None would see them here, save for if they happened to walk through. Sybil numbly lowered herself to the ledge of the planter behind her, taking in a deep breath and staring down at her hands.

"You must breathe," Boromir said.

"I'm well," she replied quietly.

"You are not. Nor should you be. You have lost much, as of late."

"Days and days ago."

"Yes. Mere days ago. Days are not weeks," he gave a tired chuckle, moving to sit beside her, uncaring of how the leaves of the shrubs behind them plucked at his hair. "And you had much yet to face thereafter. Until now. It's…hardly uncommon for a lull to bring about a response previously buried."

Sybil had been a hair's breadth away from breathing a laugh and asking, distractedly, how he was so well-versed in these matters. Luck, and a lick of good sense, stopped her. For of course he was. He was a soldier. But she was not. When she murmured as much, he gave a soft, somewhat sad smile.

"Of course you aren't. But I stand by what I said, out there in the wild. Do you recall?"

"I…yes."

"According to the healers here, you should not have been able to bear standing on such an injury, much less walking. It appears I did not know how right I was. Had I not been there, I dare say you would have dragged yourself here by your arms before the end."

Sybil hardly believed that. She knew her own stubbornness and determination well enough, but she was also aware of the limitations as far as where that could take her. Or anyone. But she also doubted Boromir truly believed it, either, and knew he was simply trying to cheer her…and the fact that he even wished to do so meant much.

However, it was hardly enough to erase ten years (and perhaps more still) of excusing herself and seeking out solitude so she could feel whatever it was she had to feel in private, before pretending everything was fine again thereafter.

"I think if I returned to my room…"

"I can hardly stop you," he said readily. "But I doubt it would help. If I might be bold enough to offer my opinion."

She noticed then that he'd brought their wine glasses with them – holding one in each hand, he offered hers to her.

"Will drinking help?" she asked drily.

"I'm not sure – but it may be entertaining to find out."

The laugh that pried out of her was almost sincere.

"I'm fine now," she said, accepting the glass and taking a sip. "Truly, my lo- Boromir. I don't know what came over me."

As though coming to terms with losing everything could be done in the span of a fit of almost-tears. It was all still there, brewing beneath the surface, but that was what mattered. It was beneath the surface. She knew Boromir didn't believe her. Whether he intended to argue, or to play along with the pretence, she was blessed to never find out – for new voices came along the walkway, and Sybil was struck by that same overwhelming sense of déjà vu that she'd grappled with strongly ever since she'd ran into her new friend. If it wasn't too soon to use that word.

"I told you it was along here! The way you wanted to take would've led us right to the library, Pip. I haven't eaten since breakfast, and I don't much fancy books for luncheon."

"It's not my fault – all these hallways and balconies look the same to me," Pip argued with the first voice.

"I don't know how either of you two have any appetite, what with poor Mr Frodo laid up as he is," a third voice murmured, low and forlorn.

"Strider said he'll be fine, Sam. He's just restin' now, is all. Can't say he doesn't deserve it, after everything," the first voice placated.

"Books aren't really too distant a relation to food, if you think about it. Technically speaking. The pages come from plants, the covers from meat. All that's missing is a cake element and that's a three-course meal. Again, technically speaking," the one they'd referred to as 'Pip' spoke up again.

"Well go and chew on Lord Elrond's collection and see if he speaks to you technically afterwards," the sadder of the three, Sam, grumbled.

The owners of the voices finally walked – or bounced, in the case of two of them - into view, and Sybil watched with wide eyes as she took in their appearances. They were all of them so short that the tops of their curly heads did not even come level with her shoulder, more or less waist height in comparison to Boromir's great stature, and none of them wore any shoes – their great hairy feet bare at the end of their legs as they hurried along.

When she looked to Boromir, she found him watching them with open wonder, either unthinking or uncaring when it came to hiding his reaction. Sybil could hardly blame him, she was just as surprised…but not, perhaps, for the same reason she was. Unless he secretly grappled with the same oddities she did. No, as Sybil watched them, she was struck once again by that overwhelming sense of recognition. Despite the fact that she'd never seen them before. Not these specific ones, at least. She knew of them, Bree boasted rooms small enough for their kind, but she wasn't as stunned to find them here as she should have been, having a sense that another puzzle piece was clicking into place…even if she had no idea of the wider picture it made.

Usually this sense perturbed her, but for now she was glad for it – as it jolted her out of the panic she'd been on the edge of, and gave her something else to focus on. There was also a part of her, and not a small part either, which wondered if it wasn't a sign. These feelings, these senses, they'd never rushed at her so quickly over and over before. Could it be an indication that this was truly where she was meant to be, when she was meant to be here?

"Oh," 'Pip' stopped in his tracks when he saw them, smiling merrily. "Hello. You're not elves."

"Indeed, we are not. And you are…?" Boromir asked.

"Hobbits," Sybil answered softly. "They dwell far to the west from here."

"You're the woman who arrived yesterday. The injured one," Pip's friend said – the one who was not resolved to stand in sullen silence.

For that, Sybil could hardly blame the quietest of the three hobbits. Usually being the moody silent one was her role, after all.

"I was," she said, "but no longer, thanks to the healers here. I'm Sybil – this is Lord Boromir, my rescuer."

Whatever his insistence that she should refer to him simply as Boromir, she suspected that her final addition made up for it, gleaning another one of those handsome grins from him. That, she noted to herself, was running a real risk of becoming addictive. A dangerous risk, at that.

"Peregrin Took," introduced the first with a little bow, "But you can call me Pippin. This is Merry, and that's Sam."

His two friends introduced themselves with their full names, but it was clear that in his worry, Sam wasn't much in the mood to make new friends.

"Begging your pardon, I'm pleased to meet you and all, but I need to eat quickly so I can get back to Mr Frodo."

They watched as the three hobbits took their leave, and only when they were definitely out of earshot did Boromir speak.

"Their kinsman must be gravely wounded."

A wound that will never fully heal. The words sprang unbidden to Sybil's mind, but she at least had the wisdom not to voice them.

A/N: You know what I really appreciate about the movies? Other than Sean Bean's face? I've probably said this in my notes before (and I'll say it another thousand times, we love a Dory moment). The emotional intelligence. They could've really easily leaned into the whole meathead soldier stereotype, but they didn't. He argues with Aragorn to give everybody a minute after Gandalf dies, he's the one who urges Frodo not to "carry the weight of the dead" because he already has so much on his shoulders when they reach Lothlorien. He could've so easily been shoe-horned into a "shove it down, don't feel it, do some violence babe" caricature and he wasn't, and I love that.

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