A/N: I've said it in comments but I want to say it here for my own peace of mind – Boromir has been a perfect unflawed hero so far. I have every intention of ruining that. My love for him goes bone-deep but he's definitely flawed, so far he's just had little reason to display those flaws to Sybil…but this is going to be a tenth walker fic, and I really really can't imagine him ever being okay with the concept of a woman (especially one he feels protective towards) joining the Fellowship, especially with his history as a soldier. I also think he'd be a lot less willing than almost all of the others to accept the logic behind her doing so.

So for now I'm just basking in the fluff before I plunge us all into the angst. Truly the best part of fic writing.

There was much to think of all at once as Boromir rode through the gates of Rivendell. The beauty of the Last Homely House was fabled – and rightfully so, as it turned out – nestled on a valley of such ethereal splendour that it was a wonder they went about their days without becoming distracted by it at every turn. A benefit of immortality, he supposed. Either they had longer to grow used to the beauty surrounding them, or they had little to fear in regards to wasting time.

That fear was one that Boromir felt keenly now.

Glorfindel, in his kindness, sent a rider ahead of the group so that a healer may be ready and waiting upon their arrival. Indeed, an elf-maid stood waiting beside another to with a canvas stretcher, all garbed in cottons and linens far simpler than the finery of the others milling around. As the horse drew to a stop without Boromir's prompting, though, a man – something Boromir noted with surprise – stepped forward, moving swiftly down the steps he'd been milling near the top of with a beautiful dark-haired elf. He was as finely clothed as any elf here, in velvet of dark blue, so his rush to meet them caught Boromir by surprise for there was little chance he'd been part of the healers' squadron.

"Sybil?" he frowned up at her, and then regarded Boromir with a frown. "She is Sybil – Bera's assistant, is she not? What happened?"

Boromir hesitated – for she'd never made any mention of having friends in Rivendell. But if she heard him, she gave no indication of it, her head lolling back against his shoulder as he waited for help to bring her down from the horse.

"A fire," he replied. "She's badly burned."

"And Bera?"

Boromir hesitated. He knew not how this man knew them, but he hardly felt like it was his place to break such solemn news. And yet it fell to him, regardless.

"Her mother perished – not in the fire, but before it. Sickness, I believe."

The man's brow furrowed at that, regarding him strangely before turning his attention to Sybil as several elves took up the task of bringing her down as gently as possible from the horse. Boromir aided them from where he was seated, trying to smooth the journey as best he could, before hopping down after her.

"We met in the aftermath and resolved to travel here together before she weakened too much to walk."

"Sybil would know how to treat a burn," the man said doubtfully.

"She had not the supplies she needed. We found feverfew on the road, but it was too little, and too late."

Already they began leading her away on the stretcher, and while Boromir was relieved to see the extent of the elves' care, he faltered where he stood. Had he known her more, he might've followed without hesitation. Less, and he may have felt little urge to do so, content simply to see her in the care of those who knew what they were doing. But as things stood, his desire to stay by her side until she was truly well warred with propriety, and his desire to at least afford her some modesty.

So instead he had to content himself with informing them quickly of where the burn was, watching with unhidden curiosity as the man who had not seen fit to introduce himself followed after the healers, speaking swiftly in Sindarin.

He would check on her after he spoke with Lord Elrond.

Sybil awoke to the bright light of day trying its best to fight through her eyelids, having had what was quite possibly the best sleep of her life. Sighing contentedly, she stretched out like a cat, relishing how it felt in each of her limbs. Bera never let her sleep this late; not unless it was a special day. Or perhaps she simply needed the rest herself today. It was that faint note of confusion that opened the gates for everything else to follow – the stretch bringing a keen awareness to something wrapped tightly around her leg, the fact that it didn't hurt, and why she'd expected it to hurt in the first place. Then, finally, that no bed she ever recalled being in had been as comfortable as this one.

She stirred more, a hair's breadth from true wakefulness now, when the deep voice of a woman spoke by her bedside.

"She's waking."

The presence of strangers was enough to have her shaking off the last of the fog she'd been trapped in, eyes opening as she began to scramble up on her elbows. A woman sat beside her bed – an elleth, she corrected herself, having read the phrase in a book – and, whether it was wise or not, Sybil quickly forgot her fear in the face of the most beautiful being she'd ever seen.

With long dark silken hair, ethereal silver-grey eyes, and a complexion so bright she might as well have swallowed a star, Sybil was capable of little other than gawking like a fool as the she smiled at her.

"Sybil," she hadn't even noticed the man standing at the end of the bed – despite how the elf had just addressed him – until he spoke.

And then it took her another moment to realise she recognised him.

"Strider?"

"Yes," he bowed his head in greeting. "I wasn't sure you'd remember me. Nor recognise me, for that matter. This is the Lady Arwen, Lord Elrond's daughter. We had thought it might comfort you to have an elleth present when you awoke."

She'd just travelled with a man for…well, she didn't know how many days, and they thought she'd swoon at the concept of waking to find one in her bedchamber? But the decision had been a thoughtful one – and it had brought a highborn elf-maiden to watch over her like a nurse, no less, so she could only blush and murmur her thanks.

"Where is Boromir?"

"Resting," it was Lady Arwen that answered. "You arrived late on yesterday afternoon. He met with my father shortly thereafter, and then came to your bedside after our healers tended to you. It was at our urging that he left and took some rest for himself."

Of course. He'd had to haul her for lots of it like a sack of particularly useless potatoes. More than embarrassment, though, she felt gratitude – piercing, all-encompassing gratitude. She remembered little after seeing those shadows that had perturbed him so much, but the fact that she lay here now, healed and in Rivendell, showed just how much he'd fought to get her here. It had never occurred to her that people could be so…so good.

As she spoke, the elf-maiden had a soft look in her eye that verged almost dangerously on knowing. What it was that she knew, Sybil had little idea. But she also didn't want to know.

"Thank you," she said instead. "For your hospitality – and your kindness."

She's owe Boromir greater thanks still, but she couldn't think on that too much as Strider spoke.

"He said that Bera is dead," Strider said, "and that your cabin burned down."

Sybil nodded, and Lady Arwen bowed her head solemnly. Strider was not unaffected, either, sighing softly.

"I had hoped he'd misunderstood. How did it come to pass?"

Telling the tale for a second time was easier than the first. Perhaps because she'd told it that first time, or maybe because Strider had actually known Bera – and the cabin, and their business. There was less to explain, in that aspect. Less fear of turning the listener away. If Bera herself couldn't do that, little Sybil said here and now might.

Rangers as a rule were incredibly self-sufficient – they wouldn't survive long if they were not – but Strider adopted that trait even more-so than most, and their dealings with him had never (to Sybil's knowledge) entailed treating him. He would come seeking to barter for herbs or other supplies, or even simply word of any recent comings and goings, supplying them in turn with flora they couldn't stray far enough to get – as well as Sybil's beloved venison, on occasion.

The venison, however, was not the reason he had always just sort of…stood out to Sybil. All Rangers stood out from normal folk, but Strider stood out to her even among the Rangers, and she'd never had any idea of why. The names of the others she often forgot over the years, their appearances too sporadic and her mental load too great – between learning a craft that would earn her keep, working at a lifestyle that felt laughably unnatural to her in the beginning, and contending with the frustration at her utter lack of any memory to speak of – but something about Strider had snagged on her brain ever since their first meeting, and continued to do so every time thereafter.

She'd never mentioned it to Bera. And she'd done her utmost to make sure it hadn't shown, either. The last thing she needed to add to that mental load was her employer deciding she had some sort of youthful crush on the Ranger – because she'd only go and comment on it as much as possible in his presence. It would've been mortifying. And while he was handsome, it wasn't true. She just didn't know what it was. Or perhaps something in her subconscious had pegged him as the sort who went from traversing the wilderness in filthy garb that was more repairs than fabric at this point, to strolling around Elven settlements with quite possibly the most beautiful maiden known to man, elf, dwarf, or whatever else.

The two shared a sorrowful sigh as she reached the end of her explanation – ending with Boromir finding her at the banks of the Hoarwell.

"I warned Bera," he said quietly. "Harm befalling you in such a place was a matter of when, not if."

"I think she would argue that the harm befell only me, and not her. So she was right, in a way."

"You were under her charge, and should have fallen into her consideration by extension."

Sybil faltered – torn between standing up for her mentor, and conceding Strider's point, given with a level of sternness she had not expected. In the end, she did neither.

"What's done is done."

"That it is," he agreed readily enough. "I do not mean to trouble you with lectures."

"My leg," she said, unused to being on the other side of this sort of interaction. "It no longer pains me at all."

"It was badly inflamed. The sickness had worked its way into your blood. Were it not for your companion's swift actions, it would have reached your heart before we could help."

"I must thank him," she said quietly, "as well as the healers, if I might?"

Lady Arwen offered yet another soft, brilliant smile. "Once you've rested."

Strider continued.

"Lord Elrond…has another guest. One who presently recovers from an unexpected illness. Once he is well enough, a council will be held. Given the timing of your arrival, and what has been passed relayed to him as you slept, you have been invited. As has Lord Boromir. But you must not speak of it."

The last part was spoken with great weight, but not sternly. Strider knew her well enough at least to know that she was hardly the chatty sort, and that she wouldn't need to be told twice. Her attention, however, was snagged by another piece of information that had slipped through.

"Lord Boromir?"

Strider's brow furrowed. "Yes."

"But…he's a soldier."

A high-ranking soldier, yes, and she'd always assumed from a family of high standing, but not…

"And heir to the Steward of Gondor."

Lady Arwen's head bowed, and then she stood and began to not so much walk as glide towards the door, but Sybil was too wrapped up in her horror to notice much. Oh. Oh, no.

"You are most welcome here, in Imladris," she said softly, pausing by the door. "Rest. Regain your strength. No doubt my father will wish to speak to you himself, ere long."

Bowing her head, Sybil murmured her thanks, and Strider's words of farewell were a solemn promise that they would drink to Bera later. When they took their leave, Sybil dressed. She left the bandage at her leg undisturbed – but based on how little she felt as she moved it, she suspected that she'd find little if she got it in her mind to unravel it. Whatever magic her healers had worked, though, would be a shame to undo thanks to mere curiosity.

She'd been cleaned as she slept, thankfully. Better still, whoever had tended to her knew how to handle her curls – more than she did, even, for they now tumbled down her back in smooth, frizzles ringlets more sleek and neat than she'd ever been able to render them. Revelling in that little moment of vanity, as well as the fact that she didn't feel itchy and uncomfortable thanks to an excess of grime and sweat caking her skin, she slipped out of the nightdress she'd been changed into – hiding behind one of the wardrobe doors from the great windows at every corner as she did so.

A dress had already been set out for her – a deep, wine-red shade of velvet, with long sleeves and a wide neckline dotted adorned with needlework finer than any spider's web, depicting fine golden stars, moons, and suns, swooping just below her collarbones. It was the finest thing she'd ever worn. The girdle belt comprising of bronze and pearl-encrusted flowers alone was finer than any dress she'd ever garbed herself in, at least as far as she could recall. Not only that, but it fit perfectly too. She was not so tall and lithe as the elves, and so she'd been prepared for it to be much too long and uncomfortably tight at her chest and hips, but it was not so, fitting instead like a glove. It was probably silly that this caught her off-guard more even than their swift feat of healing had. By the time she slipped her feet into the soft satin slippers left for her, she felt like she'd strayed into a dream – and the landscape all about her, now that she was decent enough to approach the windows, only added to that.

It was…beautiful. So beautiful that 'beautiful' scarcely did it justice. No advective did. Breathtaking, perhaps, but that still didn't capture it. She could never capture a place like this in words. Not to one who had not seen it. They could never know. Every window offered yet more stunning views of the valley – of the waterfalls, of the snow-peaked mountaintops, of the streams, of the forests, all cast in a warm sunny glow that made it all feel so very welcoming. So very safe. She felt like she could sit at every window for days each and not grow bored of the view, nor feel troubled by much of anything at all.

All of it, the splendour, the indescribability, the sheer awe-inspiring beauty only left her all the more shaken that it was all exactly how she'd imagined it. For how was such a thing possible? Time had not dulled the unsettling nature of these…these premonitions of hers, and this struck her most of all for it was the most fantastical so far. This went further than merely knowing the name of Barliman Butterbur before it was given to her, knowing the words to drinking songs she could not have heard in the past, or finding something oddly familiar about folk she'd never met before. Curling her fingers around the smooth window ledge, she pondered what it could mean. Relief did wash over her at the revelation, she had to admit, for she could be sure now that some strange flight of fancy had not led her astray, but the meaning still escaped her. Lady Arwen had said that Lord Elrond would wish to speak with her at some point or another, and while the prospect of such a meeting was an intimidating one, she couldn't help but hope that he may have answers for her. If race might, it would be the Elves, surely.

A knock sounded at her door, interrupting the pondering before it could morph into something much less useful; brooding. Then, the knocker perhaps assuming she wouldn't be well enough to rise from her bed to answer it herself, it clicked open just enough for a familiar voice to call into the room.

"Sybil?"

The voice was one she recognised.

"Come in," she said quickly.

Boromir stepped into the room, looking first to the bed, and then when he found it empty he turned and finally saw her, standing by one of the great pale archways. His eyes widened, and whatever he'd been about to say died on his lips before he managed to do so, a few half-baked stammering sounds rising from the back of his throat as he regarded her with open shock. For that, he couldn't be blamed. How long had he dragged her through the wilderness? Now, a mere day later, she stood before him as though none of it had happened. Clean, healthy, and well.

And, for her part, Sybil couldn't pretend she wasn't overcome. If anything, just how overcome she was caught her hopelessly off-guard as she was reunited with the man who had done all he could to save her life several times over, carrying her when she could not walk, pouring tea and water down her throat when she could not drink, and protecting her when she could not remain conscious.

She strode towards him, unsure of what she meant to do, until she remembered what she'd learned since they'd last seen one another. Faltering, she dropped into what was probably a very clumsy curtsey. The look that flickered over his face was dangerously close to disappointment.

"I…I have learned of who you are. I know you did not hide it, but I didn't…it never occurred to me that you were so highly born. Forgive me. I meant no offense by not…er…I don't even know how to address you."

"You will address me by my name," he said without hesitation, "and the only forgiveness you must seek will be if you make something of a matter so inconsequential – especially after the journey we've just endured."

It was a relief – in hindsight, she couldn't believe she'd expected anything else of him, but something about learning of his station (as well as her inexperience with those of his station) had a ridiculous fear forming in her mind that when they next spoke, he'd be as lofty and as sneering as she'd always expected his folk to be. Perhaps even begrudging of the task she's unwittingly set before him these last few days. But thankfully not.

He looked well, too. His hair a shade or two lighter now that it was clean, the stubble that had grown around his goatee shaven away and the beard itself neatly trimmed. Garbed in a fine tunic of a shade similar to her borrowed gown, but with a few blue more blue undertones, he certainly looked every bit the highborn handsome lord she'd just been informed that he was. But not lofty, nor sneering.

No, as he regarded her now, he was kind and warm as ever. Perhaps more so, now that the weariness of the road no longer lined his face. Although there was still that strange surprise lurking in his eyes that she couldn't quite place. It mattered not – for his demeanour gave her the courage to do what she'd first intended when she approached him. Not allowing herself to overthink it, refusing to allow herself to overthink it, damnit, she hugged him. Tightly.

She surprised herself with the move, spurred on by the fact that she could find no words to describe just how painstakingly aware she was of all she owed to him, paired with endless hazy memories of his murmuring inaudible words of comfort or instruction as she'd drifted in and out of consciousness over the course of their travels. What fear she'd been able to feel in her daze had been quelled by that – the constancy, the knowing that every time she stirred, he was there. That he'd been so unerringly trustworthy.

Had someone recounted all of these recent events to her but a month ago, she'd have laughed until she cried and then wondered what sort of ailment they had that could cloud their senses so.

Any doubt she had over whether she was overstepping the mark was gone when Boromir hugged her back, one large hand splayed flat between her shoulder blades. He was so tall that her face was at his chest, but she minded not…especially since he'd also been given the opportunity to wash and change. She stepped back rather quickly, intending only to skirt propriety rather than stamping all over it, and when she did so, she even managed to pretend she wasn't blushing.

"Thank you. So much. Truly. I have no idea how I can ever…"

He waved off her thanks very gracefully – but she wasn't blind to how his chest puffed up just a little, and his smile gained a note of pride. It warmed and amused her to see all at once. What soldier didn't like to be thanked by those that he had just saved? It was probably one of the very few perks of the occupation.

"Seeing you recovered is thanks enough – and looking so very…" again, he seemed to fumble now, but he recovered quickly, "…so very well. I'm glad for it. Truly. There were moments on the Road when…well. When the Elves found us…"

Something else crossed his face then – something she did recognise. Curiosity. He searched her face for any hint of a reaction to what he'd said.

"I've no memory of it."

"Have you met any Elven folk before?"

Did he hope to prepare her for how disarming the experience could be?

"Only Lady Arwen, when I awoke. She was…"

Just as there were no words for Rivendell, the same could be said for the daughter of Lord Elrond.

"…she was very kind. She bid me welcome, and encouraged me to regain my strength."

Boromir nodded, but she could see whatever answers he'd sought in her response, he had not found. Before she could question it – or even decide whether she should – he spoke.

"Well, it's on the matter of regaining strength that I have come. I had thought that I'd have to arrange for a tray to be brought to you, but seeing you so…so recovered, perhaps I might escort you to lunch?"

Even if her stomach hadn't taken that moment to remind her that she couldn't even recall the last proper meal she'd eaten, it was an offer she could never have refused. Not from her rescuer.

A/N: Sybil is a clueless queen. If Rivendell had clothing that would fit Frodo and co. available so quickly, I think it's definitely not a stretch to say they'd procure clothing for Sybil, too. Aaaaand I am not immune to the 'oh no, you've had a bath and now I can see that you're hot' historical/fantasy trope. It's good for morale, it's a cliché for a reason, it's good to indulge in the cheese. Healthy, even. We're getting our protein.

Also any time I look at those shots that were taken of Sean Bean in the wardrobe tests (?) for Boromir, I'm always struck by the absolute wingspan on the man. He'd give the best hugs. Arms could wrap around you three times. Squeeze the life out of you. Perfect.

Tumblr – esta-elavaris

IG - miotasach