Ten Years Later

Sybil's cabin was ablaze. The thatched roof was falling down upon her in a shower of sparks, the bigger pieces either singeing or igniting whatever it was they happened to land upon - the window coverings, the rack of drying herbs, and the bundles of muslin in the corner all catching especially quickly. As well as the bedding. Sybil's bedroll was faring best so far, likely because it was on the ground, but Bera's bed was almost fully ignited already. She'd drawn her last breath only just that morning, and Sybil had to note with a twist of bitter humour that this twist of fate had at least saved her the trouble of building a pyre.

It was the only home she'd known since the morning she awoke practically at its doorstep to find her memories gone. It was the only home she could recall at all, and by daybreak it would be little more than char and ash. But she couldn't allow that sentimentality to slow her.

Bera had long driven any tendency for that out of her - kindly, yes, but effectively still. When she'd found her, blue-lipped and half-frozen to death, the one reason either one of them had known her name was because it was strung across her neck on a delicate chain that Bera had never seen the likes of in her life. For all Sybil knew, it wasn't even her name, but one of a dear friend or family member, but she'd adopted it all the same - and held onto it for far longer than she'd been able to keep the necklace. It had been sold but one winter later, so that she and the older woman might be able to eat throughout the cold months when none came to the door seeking her services, and there was little to hunt or forage. It would be another two winters before Sybil was suitably proficient in either, anyway, and at the time she was pleased to at least be able to repay something for all of her guardian's kindness.

Even the clothes she'd been discovered in - underthings more than clothes, really - had long been cut into rags to be used for mending. If excessive sentimentality had been in her nature before coming here she knew not, but it certainly wasn't now. No, what had her lingering was her travel pack, which remained wedged under the bed that was very much on fire. But it wouldn't exactly be any less on fire for all the time that she spent hesitating, would it?

She'd already been crouching low in an attempt to save her lungs from the smoke (with questionable levels of success, for every inhale burned and stung almost as fiercely as her eyes did), but she moved lower still, sprawled on her stomach as she tried to ease her arm beneath the bed to retrieve her pack. Lying like this, she could feel her heart hammering away in her chest all the more strongly. All the while as she moved, she furiously kept her eyes off of Bera where she lay atop it - even keeping her eyes cast downward just a touch more than necessary so as to keep her once-saviour out of her peripheral vision.

An aborted attempt at reaching under had her stopping and pulling her sleeve up over her hand and her knuckles. Here and there embers fell from the bed and down onto her arm - burning the sleeve and melting the fabric down into her skin. She only hoped it was better than it would be if she just let it burn her skin directly. In any case, she could worry about it once she was out of here. Gritting her teeth against a sob that threatened to choke her just as much as the heat, she thrust her arm beneath it again. Her fingers barely brushed the coarse fabric of the pack when a piece of the smouldering bed frame broke and clattered down upon her arm. Crying out, she drew her arm back and smacked out the embers on ehr dress that threatened to burst into life.

Burning debris now lay between her and her pack - and the rest of the bed would soon follow. Did she really want to be beneath it when Bera's half-burned body came clattering down? She could practically hear the old woman cackling that rough laugh of hers, denouncing her fondly as a fool. If it wasn't the bed, it would be the roof - or one of the beams, or one of the walls. There was simply no time to keep trying. Bugger.

Scrambling back, Sybil forced herself to her feet and thanked the Valar that at least she'd already been wearing her cloak when this all began - and for the cold, drizzly autumn that had brought that about. For it had also brought the drizzle, which had likely bought her the time she'd been granted in here. But there wouldn't be much more of it. The door wasn't an option - she'd burn her hands beyond repair trying to handle the latch, and she was almost certain that those who had caused this with their burning arrows lay in that direction, anyway. The window on the other side of the cabin offered some promise, and the heat had long since shattered the glass.

Drawing up her hood, she choked on another cough as sweat dripped a trail through the soot on her face. There was nothing for it. She barrelled for the window. One leg cleared it beautifully but the other - her left - was not quite so lucky, and by the time she tumbled into the night.

She landed hard onto the ground, and quickly shook herself back into her senses so that she could roll away from the cabin before she paused and tried to gain her bearings. The dark all around her was even more difficult to discern when framed against the roaring fire at her back. But it seemed she'd been right - they were at the other side of the cabin, and either had no wits or no will to encircle it properly. All she could do was hope that the night and the smoke would come together to hide her escape.

Her leg was not happy. All the back of it, from calf to thigh, screamed bloody murder as she forced herself into a sprint - aiming for the small copse of trees directly northwards. They would have to hide her 'til morning, and after that…well, after that she would worry about after that. So long as no arrows zipped through the night to make themselves at home in her back.

None did, and when she finally dove under the cover of the trees and allowed herself to collapse, Sybil only hoped that this small mercy hadn't used up her last shred of luck. Ten years ago she'd stumbled across these plains seeking refuge, and against all odds she had found it. It was difficult to believe that she might be so lucky again.

Sybil slept fitfully if at all, her body's protest against what it had just endured rather than a true rest. Every now and then she awoke to press her burns against a fresh, cool patch of grass, only for the relief to last but a moment before the pain grew difficult to bear once again. It was only when the night gave way to a grey, glum dawn that she forced herself to move. Three things became clear then. She was alone. If she did not move soon, she likely would never find the courage to do so. And moving hurt so very much.

It took several cries and double the amount of curses before she was standing, and she turned her gaze to the blackened husk of her former home only long enough to satisfy herself with the fact that nothing inside could be salvageable before she considered where she might go.

The East-West Road lay to the south - she and Bera had taken it many times for the long journey to Bree, before Bera's health no longer allowed for it. Could she manage that journey now, on her own? It was easily over thirty leagues, but perhaps someone between here and there might be able to help her. Perhaps they'd even be willing to do so for free. And after that? What was she to do? Beg on the streets of Bree? Try to establish herself there?

What were her other options? The road east led to Rivendell. As she considered that, an image of the city flashed before her eyes and she quickly squeezed them shut in a fervent, but unsuccessful, attempt to ward the image away. She'd never seen it. She should not know what it looked like, and yet she did. Was it a sign? A sign of what? That she'd been there before, or that she should go there now? To what end would she even do such a thing?

Sybil breathed a ragged sigh, leaning hard against the nearest tree. One matter was pressing above all - even above her injuries. Water. To wash the smoke from her throat, the soot from her face, and hopefully to ease the burns winding up her limbs. After that, she could mull over her heading to her heart's content.

The River Hoarwell lay not too far eastwards from her home, but the walk to it was enough to make her doubt her ability to get to either Bree or Rivendell, regardless of if she could finally settle on which one she should choose as her heading in the first place.

It proved worth it, though. The water she cupped in her hands as she knelt before the river was grey and cloudy almost the moment she dipped her face into it, and the moment she was sure she could drink from her hands without polluting the water with any ash from her skin, she was gulping down great mouthfuls of the cool, sweet water until her stomach could take no more.

Her arm she attended to less eagerly, knowing only that it would be better than the leg which she was warily saving for last. Kneeling forward so precariously that she half-feared she'd go tumbling in, she eased her whole arm into the water until it came up past her elbow. The relief was immediate - but the pinpricks it drove into the skin followed swiftly afterwards. Sybil would later tell herself it was that which had her so preoccupied that she didn't notice she was not alone until the man was little more than ten paces away from her.

At first she sat him in her peripheral vision, keeping her arm buried in the water as a last moment decision so he wouldn't see the burns that littered it. Although she must've made quite the sight, leaning awkwardly so she could regard him fully while still keeping her arm submerged.

While he was tall as any elf, he was unmistakably a man. His light brown hair was shorn about his shoulders, and while his clothing was clearly very fine, it was worn and battered from what must have been weeks on the road. Or perhaps just a very tumultuous life. These were all of the things Bera would have expected her to notice - because the more she noticed, the more she could preempt what it was they required in coming to the cabin. All Sybil was concerned with now, though, were his weapons - a sword and dagger at his hip, a shield at his back, and some manner of strange horn on his belt - along with the fact that his eyes were pinned upon her, scrutinising her openly if not guardedly.

When she met his gaze, he offered her a wary sort of smile. He was handsome. It tempted her to trust him even less. For brigands could still wear fine clothing, and they could certainly smile.

"Good morning," he greeted.

She offered little other than a nod in response, worried her voice would be rough from the smoke and betray her weakness. When it became clear she wouldn't speak, he pressed on.

"I sought the East-West Road when I saw smoke on the horizon. Are you injured, my lady?"

"I am well," she had to pause and clear her throat before she continued, "You needn't concern yourself. The Road lies behind you - travel directly southwards and you'll find it before long."

The man didn't move, eyeing her and her submerged arm with unhidden scepticism.

"You are well?" he repeated.

"I am. Thank you."

It was a clear lie to anybody with at least one working eye. Where she wasn't burned or singed, she was riddled with soot and ash, and there was little about her that wasn't in disarray - her hair wild and her clothing in as poor shape as the rest of her.

"I see," he nodded, and then stifled a small smile before he asked with a seriousness that was very clearly affected as his gaze trailed down her arm "And does the riverbed meet the standards of your careful inspection?"

Sybil laughed. Despite herself, and against her wishes. She just hadn't expected the teasing - and she feared that that was his intention when he smiled warmly in turn, apparently pleased that he'd disarmed her. And there was a trick lying in his words, too. She could either admit she was injured, to this stranger, and keep her arm in the icy water that still soothed her red raw skin…or she could play it off, and accept the pain that came with doing so. The latter was the only option - injured and alone as she was. Showing weakness would be to show foolishness, too.

"I stopped for water, that's all," she tried to keep sounding calm as she shook her hand free of any mud from the riverbed and then cupped her palm to bring some of the water to her lips.

But in doing so she had to look away from him so she could dip her head to drink. She could only hope that he'd mistake the angry redness of her arm as being due to the cold of the water and nothing else. The rushing of the water drowned out any sound she might have heard from him, and when she quickly lifted her head afterwards, the icy water still dripping down her chin, she found he had moved closer and she was up like a shot.

Her leg didn't appreciate it.

The skin at the back of her knee, calf, and lower thigh felt like it was being pulled so taut that it risked splitting as her legs straightened when she shot to her feet, and she managed but one stumbling step backwards before the sharp, stinging burn overpowered whatever willpower she had and knocked her clean onto her backside in the damp grass.

Any humour on the man's face vanished, but it was replaced by concern rather than malice. That, at least, had Sybil's heart slowing. Had he meant ill, he'd have no need to pretend otherwise now that he saw she was indeed injured. The fact that he didn't could only mean that the concern was real. Perhaps her good fortune still held on, then.

"I am Boromir, Captain of the White Tower," his station explained why he was so intent on helping, she supposed, "I give you my word that I mean you no harm - have you a home that I might escort you to? A family?"

Sybil breathed a pained laugh, and nodded to the black smoke still drifting up lazily on the horizon.

"You see what remains of both there," she breathed, and then coughed before she frowned up at him. "Boromir, you said your name was?"

There was something…there was something familiar about that. And not in the mundane way that these plains had become familiar to her. It was a sensation that cropped up every now and then for Sybil - the same one that was beginning to steadily urge her to turn east when she reached the East-West Road rather than west, towards Bree. But this was that tenfold.

His face had turned grim as he regarded the smoke once more, the gravity of what it signified no doubt compounded by her words. But then he turned back to her, and the frown smoothed just slightly from his brow as his eyes lit with renewed interest. Perhaps because she no longer showed any great signs of fearing him.

"Have we met, my lady? I thought perhaps your colouring favoured Gondor."

"I…I don't recall ever straying east of the Hoarwell," a cold sweat was beginning to break out on her freshly cleaned brow, the aftermath of her adrenaline burst leaving her feeling weak and nauseous.

Of course, the fact that she didn't recall it didn't necessarily mean she never had strayed further eastwards. Could she hail from Gondor? It was unlikely to her, but not impossible. Although she didn't know how she could have found her way all the way here in her underthings if so - not without it raising some questions among their folk. But he'd learned enough of her these last three minutes for her to divulge more. Well, save for one thing.

"My name is Sybil. Would you mind helping me stand?"

A/N: Quick note – I'm leaning more towards the movies when I write this (mostly because they're far easier to adapt and emulate the spirit of than the books) but with a healthy respect for the books throughout, picking up bits and pieces from those where I feel it works best for this story (e.g. Boromir losing his horse on the journey to Rivendell and taking most of it on foot). I do picture the movie characters when I write them - and therefore Sean Bean as far as Boromir is concerned - but I'm also picking bits of information from the books as far as his great height etc. are concerned. If anything important crops up as far as all of that is concerned, I'll say it in the notes.

Details of what Sybil spent the last ten years doing and why it came to a fiery end will, of course, be answered in good time.

Thank you guys so much for the loveliness you've sent me across all platforms in response to my finally getting around to writing this! I'm so stoked that so many folk from my POTC story have come along for this ride. I've been very excited to post this chapter, I wanted to get it up quickly, I hope you enjoy! Updates from here onwards might not be the fastest – I'm going to do what I can, but I write fic in my downtime while I'm also writing an original novel, so that has to take priority, but updates shouldn't be wildly unreasonably slow either :) I told myself I wouldn't even start this before I finished this current novel draft, but the Boromir brain-rot set in too much and took over. Whoops.

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