A/N: I finished this at 4am because I couldn't stop thinking about it long enough to go to bed. I'm very sorry if any errors slipped through my proofreading because of that - I did my best to make sure I caught everything, but the sun do be rising and the eyes do be burning.
The fourth hobbit – Frodo, as she'd heard his friends call him – awoke the next morning, and the feast celebrating his return to health was announced for that very same evening. Aragorn visited Sybil to tell her that the Council would be held the following morning, and so she spent her day rather occupied – in the herbalists' workroom, with a scarf wrapped over her mouth and nose, cobbling together a potent oil of lavender and rosemary.
What exactly the logistics of this little experiment of theirs should be was something they'd discussed at length before she'd been dismissed from Lord Elrond's library. It had been decided rather unanimously (albeit with some apprehension) that it would be best for them to attempt this during the Council itself. They had no way of knowing if the effects would render her too exhausted for a second run afterwards, and it would be during the Council when the most pressing business would be discussed by all – and therefore where they might need her abilities most. So she'd doused a scarf in jasmine-scented perfume to protect her nose from the smell, and worked as quickly as possible…ignoring the bemused, but good-humoured looks from the elves, who thought she'd come seeking their supplies and their tools in order to make a bottle of scent.
And it felt good to find herself occupied once more. It was a funny twist of fate that the quality of the elven tools here took a bit of getting used to. Adapting to Bera's ramshackle, oft-improvised pieces of equipment had long since become second nature to her – and so now using scissors that were not blunt or chipped in certain areas, or a fine sieve that didn't need to be held a certain way lest the mesh fall out, was of great novelty to her.
She left the healers with a small clear phial scarcely the size of her thumb, and she didn't unwrap the scarf from her face until she was well clear of where she'd just been working. This would work. This would have to work. When she returned to her room to ready herself for the coming feast, she did so with a renewed sense of determination, with a sense of purpose, that she hadn't felt since before Bera grew sick. The other concoction she'd mixed together, hidden safely in her sleeve, only added to the spring in her step.
It would not be fair to say that she avoided Boromir at the feast. Truth be told, she wasn't sure she could bring herself to avoid him if she tried – not when he offered her his warm grins and followed her with those green eyes of his that seemed to behold her as if she was something…well, something. She couldn't make sense of it, but she knew that he would soon depart for home, and she didn't wish to squander what time she did have with him by allowing her nerves over those smiles and those looks to get the better of her.
But nor would she cling.
A more social animal than she (hardly a great feat), he mightn't want to spend all of his time here with her clinging to his shirt sleeves like a lost pup, and so she made sure that if he wished for the option to be free of her company, he would receive it.
And she did a halfway decent job at pretending not to be thrilled when that was not the case.
"There you are," he greeted warmly, gesturing to the seat at the table next to her. "May I?"
"Of course."
Sybil noted, without surprise, that she wasn't the only one who had been offered finery by the Elves for this feast. The garments were hardly so fine as those worn by Lady Arwen and her father at the head table, but they were still so beautiful that Sybil could hardly believed they'd been offered so freely to near-strangers.
Despite how out in the open everything here was – even that which was technically indoors felt no more sheltered than a gazebo, and this feast was taking place on Lord Elrond's expansive outdoor dining terrace - the revelry and the number of guests who had been invited soon saw to it that none of them were remotely cold, regardless of the cloudless night's sky above them. Apparently anticipating this, almost of the male-folk were garbed in silk shirts rather than the heavy embroidered tunics of velvet that she'd grown used to seeing around here.
She wasn't ignorant, however, to the way the fabric seemed to emphasise Boromir's broadness – the wide, strong set of his shoulders and his upper arms. He did not wear this garb with the ease of a second skin as he seemed to with his own clothing, but it certainly fit in such a manner. And the deep blue offset his eyes.
Reaching into a hidden pocket that her gown boasted, something that only added to her love for the Elves, she grasped for the small metal container she'd stored therein when she'd changed for dinner. If she didn't do this quickly, she'd only be thinking of it constantly until she did, and it would hinder her enjoyment of the evening.
"I have a gift for you," she admitted.
The lavender and rosemary oil wasn't the only thing she'd made that morning – she hadn't been able to resist, what with her thanks not yet properly offered, and the tools of the Elves at her disposal. To Boromir's credit, the container did look akin to a flask, and the contents within did smell warm and somewhat spiced, but when he made to move it from his nose to his lips, Sybil caught his hand quickly.
"It's not for drinking," she said.
It took her hand a moment to slip away from his…and she covered that fact with words.
"I chose a metal container so that it won't break in your pack – nor crack on a cold night. A screw-top, too, so it cannot become uncorked and ruin your belongings. It's a salve, of sorts. It eases muscle fatigue."
"Fatigue?"
"Weariness – and soreness. If you apply it to the skin once the aches start setting in, it should ease it considerably."
"How much does it take to be effective?"
"A little goes a long way. Here, it'll be easier if I just– may I?"
He nodded, curiosity clear on his face as she took the container from him and tipped it towards the tip of her index finger. A small portion of the contents slowly began to ooze out – looking very much like honey in both colour and consistency.
"It reacts to the heat of your skin," she explained, rubbing it between her finger and her thumb to illustrate her point before gesturing to his hand as if in question.
Boromir supplied it, palm down, and watched quietly as she rubbed the mixture into the back of his hand – the small amount she'd poured being more than enough to cover it from wrist to knuckle. It took no time at all for the small measure she'd poured out to become little more than a thin sheen atop the back of his hand. His hands, the rough hands of a warrior, dwarfed hers – a fact that sent a small thrill through her that she furiously pushed down.
"Do you feel that?" she asked quietly.
The question prompted his eyes to snap up to meet hers, and she found herself clarifying without entirely admitting why to herself. "It- it should feel warming."
Either it was the most potent salve of its kind that she'd ever managed to put together – not unbelievable, considering the herbal stocks the Elves boasted of here – or the sparks flying up her fingertips were to do with something other than the herbs. It was difficult to say whether she should read anything into it when it took him a half a moment to find his voice, his hand flexing beneath hers.
"I feel it."
Her hand slipped away, wiping what little residue remained on the napkin atop the table before she returned the lid to the bottle, and then the bottle to him.
"Thank you," he said. "It will serve me well, I'm sure of it."
Were Boromir more prone to suspicion, he'd had believed the Elves were trying to kill him. Or that Sybil herself was. Or perhaps that the two were involved in some secret scheme to stop his heart. Each theory was more ridiculous than the last, but it was the only suitable explanation for her appearance that night.
The sleeves were split at the front, more a sheer veil of wine-red than anything else, and the fabric of the dress proper was the same colour…albeit far more substantial, and entirely opaque. Thank the stars. It was the neckline, though, that threatened constantly to drive him to distraction. Lined with countless small golden-hued jewels, it sloped gently beneath her collar bones, and then up to her shoulders. Not scandalous, not at all, but the way in which the arms just barely hugged the fair curves of her shoulders gave the impression that one errant shrug would send the gown slipping down from them.
It would not. He knew that. Elven craftsmanship was meticulous in all things. But the mere suggestion was enough. Her hair was littered dotted at the crown with the same amber gems adorning the dress, but otherwise left loose. When the light from the candles and braziers littered about the terrace caught her dark curls just so, they appeared to glow red rather than the very dark brown they oft appeared to be. And her smile lit up her face in an even more striking glow.
He could not even take too much glee in how she blushed so prettily as they joked with one another thanks to the fact that he had not yet ceased flexing his hand beneath the table, still feeling her attentions though they had long since ceased. It was a good thing none of his men were here to see this, for the teasing would follow him for the rest of his life. Even Faramir, who had a tendency to end good-natured mocking long before it might cease to grow tiresome, would find no small amount of humour in this.
The food was brought to the table - all manner of glazed meats, fruit, cakes, roasted vegetables, brought out in its entirety at once, so everybody might help themselves at they wish. Boromir smiled to himself when he saw venison among the selection, and brought the choicest cut to his plate, only to then swap it for Sybil's, on which she'd taken the smallest portion on offer.
"You cannot do that!" she scolded with little bite. "It may be reserved for one of the warriors – or one of the great Elven lords or ladies here."
"They have their own table," Boromir dismissed, adding another portion to the plate he'd taken for himself.
He spoke truly, for Lord Elrond sat with Gandalf, Sybil's Ranger-friend, the Lady Arwen, and another one of those hobbits who he had not yet seen. Pale and weary, the stranger looked, but glad to be here, and with the same wide-eyed curiosity that Boromir himself had probably worn when he first rode through the gates.
"And you could not think I would let you get away with taking so little after this past week," he added. "Not to mention your impassioned pleas for this very meal while we were on the Road."
"You make me sound like some sort of carnivorous lunatic," she laughed quietly.
"I feared for my life on more than one occasion," he said with the tone of a conspirator – and grinned when she had to think twice about sipping her wine in order to laugh.
"Yes," she teased in turn. "The snoring proved that."
"A cunning ploy on my part," he said with a great deal of feigned solemnity. "In the hopes that if I had to defend myself, I might catch you unawares."
He was swiftly growing quite sure that he would happily spend hours talking nonsense if only it would keep her smiling and laughing like that. It was captivating to witness – for he supposed that just as she did not know her name, she also would not know her age, and yet she seemed older than her years (whatever those years were) when quiet and shirking notice, but younger than them now, engaging wholeheartedly in such revelry.
"Oh yes, I'm sure the element of surprise would be your only hope of triumph, should we come to blows."
"I vow to be humble not only in defeat, but also in victory – come now, Sybil, you cannot laugh at that, I speak the truth!"
Even as he pretended to scold her, he hoped she would not stop. And when she did, it was only to take a bite of the venison, once her plate was full. When she did, her eyes fluttered shut and she sighed in such blissful contentment that Boromir found himself turning his gaze outward just to ward off his own unruly thoughts. When he did, he found Strider watching the two of them…and he found he liked that little.
And perhaps there was something to the accusations the men of the west had made in regards to Sybil, for when she next spoke it was as though she'd sensed the turn of his thoughts.
"What happened to your hand?"
"Pardon?"
"Your finger – it's cut, and it's too fresh to be from the Road. What happened?"
"Oh. I know not. I hardly noticed it at all until I saw the blood, truth be told," he lied, turning his gaze away from Strider, and back to his food – and to Sybil.
As they ate, they shared their findings of their individual morning explorations – each vowing to show the other the way when something of particular interest cropped up. From there, the conversation veered naturally into the topic of home; or at least, of their favourite places before their coming here.
It became clear when most had eaten their fill, for the bards were no longer alone on the other side of the terrace, with all manner of folk drifting in the direction of the space that had been cleared to dance and make merry. They themselves had long since finished eating, directing their energy entirely towards talking and drinking instead, when one of the few somewhat familiar faces in this land approached.
Whether Lord Glorfindel had heard of Sybil's embarrassment over their first meeting and sought to ease it, or was simply curious about the woman who had known his name without being told it, Boromir did not know, but when he greeted Sybil warmly and asked that she dance with him, she appeared for a moment too stunned to speak. When she finally did, it was a faint murmur of not knowing the steps.
"We entertain many here – and are used to teaching all the steps of such dances. The beauty of this one is that it can hardly be misdone."
After that, she had not argued. The dance did prove to be simple from Boromir's own observations, the way here being more stepping around one another, occasionally clasping one hand, or brushing shoulders. Were it not for the dwarves and the hobbits who had joined them, it might've been funny to see them dancing together given their great height disparity – but given their surroundings, they were just one odd pair in a queerer crowd.
One of the hobbits from the previous day, Pippin, approached Sybil next for a dance that was much livelier, and far more unlike that of which any other gathered participated in. The hobbit parted ways from her afterwards with a very dramatic bow, and she found her way back to her seat after that. By then, Boromir had found himself engaged in conversation with a nearby dwarf. While dancing was not something he despised, nor was it something he particularly relished – but regardless of that, even were it his very favourite thing to do in this world, he would have still quashed the temptation to seek out a place as her next partner.
It would not be suitable; not with the discussion he intended to have with her before the night was through. The matter was an important one – too important to have his intentions misread. Especially if that misreading would change her answer.
When the feasting and the dancing had been wrung dry, Lord Elrond announced that all were welcome to remove themselves to the Hall of Fire, for the singing of songs and the telling of tales.
Once again reminded of her very recent recovery, Sybil was certain that if she moved indoors and sat down, she would be asleep before the first song was finished…and given her habit of talking in her sleep, she didn't much want to risk that.
"I think I might retire," she said as Boromir shifted in his chair, evidently making his own mind up on his next course of action.
"I shall walk you to your room, then," he said.
A warning look followed when she considered arguing, having no wish to end the festivities early for him. But she suspected he was pleased for an excuse to leave. Whatever his excuses were as to the cut on his finger, it was clear that something here had unsettled him – and she had one of her feelings that the two matters were linked. Especially with how his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly every time he'd turned his gaze to the head table.
The cooler, less-shared air that greeted them as they broke away from the crowd and strayed towards quieter ground was welcome, and only when they were truly alone in their meandering did Boromir break the silence.
"I hesitate to broach the matter, but I feel I must. Have you considered where you might go? After this?"
Sybil's lips twisted into a tired imitation of a smile – but the topic no longer brought about the same jagged panic as it had the previous day.
"I try not to," she admitted quietly. "For I've no answer. Westward seems the only option, and yet for me it is no option at all."
He slowed to a stop by a rail that offered a view of the valley uninterrupted by anything made by man nor elf. In the bright moonlight, the many streams and waterfalls seemed to glow silver against the lush deep hues of the forests. Sybil took his cue and stood by his side.
The Elves left frequently for the west, and she knew they'd likely be kind enough to let her join them in their travels if she so chose, at least for a while – tackling the danger of returning to the Road on her own. But there was nothing for her in the west. She'd been unpopular there before, and now was likely more-so still. What was she to do? The best-case scenario in that case involved finding some other miserable and empty wilderness, somehow building herself a new cabin thither, and resuming her old way of life.
And even if she could do that – if she could build it, and scavenge the supplies she needed, and find a customer base who trusted her enough to come seeking help…it would still be no victory. Not truly. Not now that she'd seen what lay beyond that life.
"The lands west of here are barred from me now," she said. "They already think me some foul and wicked sorceress – can you imagine how that would progress if I gave the appearance of rising from the dead, well and unburnt? In times of paranoia-"
She swiftly corrected that word, for Bera had not known it and it produced a confused furrow in Boromir's brow.
"- in times of…of fear and anger, like these. They'd do it again – and make sure the job was done properly this time."
Boromir's left hand curled into a fist at his side, the other grasping blindly for a sword that was not at his hip.
"I would not allow such events to come to pass," he said, in lieu of any phantom attackers to hit.
Sybil smiled a little, teasing to lift the mood. "Is your name so mighty that you could prevent it all the way across Middle-earth?"
Thankfully, he gave in to her enforced lightening of the tone, chuckling and offering softly.
"Evidently not – for you had never heard of it before we met."
It took some effort for her not to apologise again – her mood too light, and the knowledge lingering in the back of her mind that he would not thank her for it if he did. Instead, she laughed sheepishly and lifted a hand to smooth over her curls.
"Lord Elrond is kind, and will let me linger in his home for a time, I think. But I would not ask that he did so forever. As beautiful as this place is, it doesn't feel a land for mortals to permanently call home."
Straightening, Boromir turned so that his back was to the rail, leaning against it as he regarded her.
"The answer is obvious, is it not?" he said. "If you cannot remain here indefinitely, nor go west, that only leaves one option."
"The moon?" she asked drily.
"East. Of the Misty Mountains, at least. There's a whole world on the other side of the range, you know. One in which a woman such as yourself might thrive."
"It might as well be the moon, for all the chance I have of reaching it."
Boromir considered her words slowly – long enough that she began to suspect her words were not all that he considered, in fact, and then he replied softly, and with a lightness that didn't seem altogether genuine, his gaze fixed outward rather than on her.
"We've shown a marked ability to overcome hardship as we travel, you and I. Perhaps we might continue as we started."
Unable to do much else, Sybil stared at him with something akin to amazement. Disbelief, too, for she needed him to explicitly say what it was that he was suggesting before she replied.
"There are all manner of strange guests here as of late," he added quickly when he finally looked at her and saw her astonishment. "I'm sure a number of them will leave by the same road I intend to, and would not object to travelling together insofar as is possible – so it would all be quite proper, I assure you. And where the stretches where we must journey alone are concerned, if any call your honour into question-"
"That's not my concern," she said quickly, not wanting her shock to be misconstrued as distrust towards his intentions. "I only…are you sure? That seems too much for me to ask of you."
Her marriage prospects could not be harmed by rumour if she had no prospects to speak of at all – nor much of a burning need for any prospects, for that matter. Experience thus far had proven she was quite better off on her own.
"You do not ask – I offer freely," he countered. "And I am quite sure. I do not believe in half-measures, and if I left you here when my business was concluded to find your own way forward, I should only worry."
Sybil's face softened of its own volition, but he pressed on before they could dwell overmuch on the prospect of his worrying about her.
"There are many settlements between here and my home. Rohan, yes, but also smaller villages. You shall have your choice of them all, and if none take your liking between here and there, my people would be only too happy to welcome you, I'm sure of it."
"Would they?" doubt crept into her tone.
"They would," he replied firmly. "They have seen much, and little of it good as of late, but they are good – nothing like the ilk of those who robbed you of your home."
As he spoke of his home – of his people – it seemed to lift his whole demeanour, his face lighting up even beyond the cheer that had lit it all evening, passion filling his voice. Sybil wondered to herself if she'd ever been so ardent about anything as he was about his people. Somehow, she didn't think it possible. Not just for her, but for anybody.
"I…I hardly know what to say," she admitted quietly.
It certainly seemed the answer to all of her problems. It seemed a dream. But there was much to consider, and this did not seem a night for heavy dilemmas. She would only throw caution to the wind in her cheer, and that would not be wise…however tempting it was. Happily, Boromir's mind seemed to stray along the same lines, replying readily enough with another of those handsome smiles of his.
"Say nothing. Not yet. My business here is not yet concluded, but I should not hasten to leave the very moment that it is, I must confess. After the months I spent on the road, a respite will be needed if I'm to brave the return journey. Think it over in your own time."
The difficulty, Sybil suspected, would come from putting it out of her mind for even a shred of a second. Or from any attempt to stop smiling before her face began to ache.
A/N: They're being so cute, and the Council of Elrond is approaching with the Jaws theme blaring over the top of it.
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