As Sybil had hoped, once she resumed walking again, it became more doable. Not more enjoyable – just barely tolerable, if she was being honest – but doable, certainly. So long as she kept her momentum, and kept a certain kind of rhythm, she could push forth. It was decided that for today's task, they would travel south, getting as close to the road as they could, and then begin travelling eastwards as early as possible the following morning so as not to be venturing into unfamiliar land (potentially laden with trolls, at that) in the dead of night. After crossing the Last Bridge, when and where they did or did not stop would be a matter of judgement calls depending on the terrain, the weather, and what they encountered. Sybil could only hope her injuries would not end up playing a factoring role, too.
"I hope you will forgive my saying it – but this seems an inhospitable land in which to make a home," Boromir commented.
"There's not much to forgive if it's true," she replied, dragged from her thoughts by his words. "Few things dwell here…and even fewer of those things are any good."
It took her a belated moment to realise that she'd only confirmed his point without offering any actual response to it – the constant pain in her leg every time she moved it consuming much of her focus and not leaving room for anything as frivolous as sociability. Oh dear – now she was starting to sound like Bera. In any case, her speech was stilted for reasons beyond the fact that she wasn't much in the habit of making conversation, but because she had to keep pausing to breathe through the fact that her leg felt like it was still ablaze.
"Bera preferred it that way," she added.
"Your mother?"
"Mm. She wasn't much fond of people in prolonged doses – and she…she thought it best to force a level of selectiveness, I suppose."
"In guests?" he blinked.
"Customers," she corrected "We're…that is, we were herbalists…but she did not…she did not wish for people to come calling every time they developed a cough…or a chill, you understand? It was difficult to reach us, and so the only ones who did were those who really needed us."
Or, as it had turned out, those with nefarious purposes. But telling him that story – in full and so quickly – seemed a surefire way (for lack of better phrasing) to alienate the only thing she had resembling an ally for leagues in any direction. Perhaps at all. They were but strangers, and it would be easy for him to hear the tale and suspect the worst. Then where would that leave her? Stranded, and with only one good leg.
"Selective custom seems like a way to ensure selective income, surely," he pointed out.
"Oh, it did…mostly we treated Rangers…and they don't often carry a lot in the way of gold…they'd give us herbs from lands beyond our reach…trinkets that we could sell when we were next in Bree…venison…"
"Venison?"
"We weren't such proficient hunters that we could manage that ourselves…and it always seemed a waste to do so for the sake of two people. But sometimes, yes. It was…it was like yuletide come early when that happened…"
"I'm suddenly sorely reminded of how long it has been since I last had a good meal," he chuckled.
"Oh…my apologies."
"No; do not apologise. And don't stop, please. This is precisely the sort of talk that will hasten our feet to Elrond's table. I'm sure venison will await us there."
She breathed a laugh – and cringed inwardly to hear how girlish and bashful it sounded. When was the last time she'd spoken to anybody, much less a man, without Bera to mediate? Although mediation was a very diplomatic word for her habit of cutting in and making the whole situation uncomfortable for everybody involved. The people who understood her, however, knew how to laugh at it. Although only inwardly, if they knew what was good for them.
"The Elves…might not take too well to our barging straight by them in…in search for the dinner table."
"We shall play it with a level of cunning – sit through the niceties so that they might guide us to the dinner-table and thus save time overall."
Sybil breathed a laugh, although it came out as a ragged sort of exhale instead, and she wasn't blind to the worried glance he shot in the direction of her leg.
It had begun to steadily drizzle as they followed the river southwards, keeping it always on their left as they ambled over the mostly-smooth terrain. Though she refused to turn back and look back in the direction of her home, she took Boromir's word for it when he said the rain must've quashed the last of the embers and that the smoke was mostly gone. It was turning out to be a mixed blessing for Sybil herself, too, for while she welcomed the cool drops that fell against her face (and disguised the pained sweat she was steadily building up), it was seeping through her clothing and leaving her feeling overall warm and uncomfortably damp. The days before they reached Rivendell would be filled with much of this, she feared, and her leg would not improve unless they happened to come across the healing herbs she needed. Even her arm, beneath the thick woollen sleeve of her dress, was beginning to prickle and protest once again.
It was unlikely. Athelas was hard to find at the best of times, and these were not proving to be the best of times. Anything else might take the edge off of the pain, but it wouldn't heal in quite the same way. The time it would take her to root around for Athelas would add hours, perhaps even days (once the time it would take to prepare and apply it was considered) to their journey. No, the best thing to do would be to press through it and get to Rivendell as quickly as possible.
Still, every time the cool drops hit her face, she had to grapple with the temptation to lie on her front in the grass, her skirt hitched up to her upper thigh, hoping dearly that the cool water might soothe the burns on the back of her leg. The goal was to not have Boromir thinking that she was mad – and doing that would be the best way to make said goal an unreachable one.
Despite her resolve, her pain must've been showing more than she would have liked, for when she looked at Boromir again, she found him watching her with a worried furrow in his brown.
"Do you need a moment to stop and rest?" he asked.
If she took one every time she needed it, it would be months before they reached Rivendell.
"No. No, I'm well."
The relief that flitted across his face at that told her he was as aware of that fact as she was. Still, she found herself searching for a change in subject before his attention could turn to her injuries.
"Do you…do you eat in Gondor?"
Great. Now she sounded like a real imbecile. Boromir smiled and laughed a little, but not unkindly – if anything, she got the sense that he was laughing with her, rather than at her.
"I meant-"
"We do. Only on very special occasions."
She breathed another laugh. Either his station had taught him how to deal with bumbling idiots, or he just had a natural warmth about him that set others at ease. Perhaps from a lifetime of dealing with young green recruits who, as Bera would put it, wouldn't know their arses from their elbows. Still, even through her pain Sybil felt her embarrassment set her cheeks ablaze.
"The best comes when we return home from military campaigns. Admittedly, gruel would taste like liquid gold so long as it was followed by a night of uninterrupted sleep in our own beds, but that only means that the likes of the roasted goose and pork served at the feasts would always be godly."
They tortured themselves and each other with wistful talks of meals gone by for most of the day – Sybil veering into descriptions of the jams she used to make when their stores allowed, and of Bera's penchant for brewing moonshine. Boromir hadn't heard the word before (Bera hadn't either, when Sybil had first used it) but once she explained, they came to a sort of rueful consensus that it probably aided how spectacularly the cabin had gone up in flames. Even the smallest sip of the stuff had always made Sybil wretch, but she had to admit now that it would certainly ease the pain of walking.
From his own tales of the best Gondor's kitchens had to offer, Boromir segued into tales of the feasts themselves. Men who drank their fill, and then some, before climbing up onto tall guard towers on a dare and promptly realising they had no idea as to how they'd get back down – or one unfortunate who had his sweetheart ask him for a dance mid-sip, and responded by choking on his wine, ruining the lady's dress for good.
The stories were a welcome distraction from the wearisome task of putting one foot before the other, and his whole manner seemed to brighten as he told them. He may have started telling them for her benefit, but the memories of home were clearly doing him some good, too. Or perhaps that was just having somebody to speak to. How long had he been travelling alone, she wondered? Sybil found she could be silent for long stretches of time and hardly notice it, mostly on the days she left the cabin for a break from Bera. The old woman never meant much harm, but she was…a lot. And often. With Sybil's tendency to take things to heart, the combination wasn't a particularly good one, and when she found herself too sensitive or too weary, she'd seek silence and solitude with whatever excuse she could find. But she wasn't daft enough to be clueless to the fact that many would struggle with it.
What did surprise her was how welcome she was finding his company – and not just because it meant she wasn't entirely without any means of defence. However…she was painfully aware of how few stories she had to offer in return to his. And of how long she'd spent holed up in a cabin, foraging and working and speaking to no more than a handful of people for the better part of a decade. In most cases, she was hardly sure it could even count as speaking. Hold this poultice there, give me five minutes to brew this curative, does it still hurt? How long have you had this symptom? What stories could she offer? One time, years ago, we went to Bree and Bera saw fit to tell everybody how it was I came to her. Almost every soul in the inn spent the rest of the night expecting me to reveal myself as some manner of evil changeling, it was hysterical!
All she could do was listen readily to his tales, ask questions, and be thankful for the fact that he seemed to mind little that she offered up few of her own. Had she found herself stuck with someone who expected her to be able to make constant small-talk after the last twenty-four hours, she'd have been tempted to take her chances on her own – and considered being eaten by trolls a blessing thereafter.
They stopped for the night once they were little more than a mile away (by Sybil's reckoning) from the road. Daylight was only just beginning to show the first signs of fading – although given the grey overcast nature day, it was more of a gradual glooming instead of a proper sunset. They could have pushed on and kept walking if they had to, but it would be safer to camp away from the road, and the prospect of setting up a camp in the dark was not a tempting one. Although "camp" was a generous word for it.
With little other than plains and the river around them, a fire here would be visible even as far as the Weather Hills, so they had to forgo one. Setting up an encampment a process as short-lived as finding a patch of terrain somewhat sheltered by a great boulder, Boromir setting out his bedroll from his pack, and venturing a few dozen yards to the river's edge to fill his waterskin. Once that was done, and Sybil had managed to slowly lower herself to the grass with the help of the boulder, he handed her a portion of dried meat and sat beside her, chewing his own ration.
"How is it?"
"The food?"
He chuckled. "I've subsisted on this long enough to know better than beginning a discussion as to its quality. I was referring to your leg."
Sybil hesitated. "I'll know better come morning. Either it will be much improved…or it won't be."
It seemed an obvious statement to make – and she could have worded it better, certainly. A night of rest would reveal whether it was going to heal on its own or not. If she woke up and found it still stiff and painful, but no worse than it had been today, it would be a good omen. Even if it showed no improvement at worst, she could chalk that up to her inability to rest and treat it properly. But if she woke up and it was worse? Then they may find themselves in for a spot of bother.
All in all, though, it was a possibility that was pointless to dwell on. She wouldn't know until morning – and worrying herself sick about it would only rob her of a night of sleep. As if sensing her line of thinking, it was then that Boromir interrupted the quiet that had fallen over them as they ate.
"You must take first rest – and the bedroll. It's seen better days, I'm afraid, but it will serve you better than the ground."
"What of you?"
"I will keep watch, and wake you a few hours before dawn so that I might sleep, too."
"Are you sure? I don't mind taking first watch – or sleeping on the grass so that we may both rest the full night. I've had less forgiving beds. I don't mind."
"No, I'm sure you do not," he said, regarding her curiously. "However, I do. You've been through much; I'm not going to cast you into the dirt so I can sleep an extra couple of hours. Rest, and I shall find my bedroll warmed for me when my turn comes."
As soon as he finished speaking, he seemed to realise the implication of his words and flushed, clearing his throat and visibly debating whether or not trying to clarify what he'd meant would improve matters or make them worse, eyes searching her face for a hint of offense. Sybil only laughed tiredly – and the relief that washed over his features was obvious, even in the dark, moonless night that was settling over them.
"Well, in that case, you are most welcome for the great favour I'm doing for you," she said drily, earning a smile for her troubles. "And…thank you. Truly. For all of this."
"We've already settled on this being the work of fate, have we not?" he said easily. "I'm not sure I can take credit."
"Fate didn't feed me and give me somewhere warm to sleep."
"I'm glad to do it."
She believed him when he said it, too, rather than suspecting his words to be mere pleasantries spoken out of obligations or honour. More surprisingly still, given how she was unfamiliar company, she slept like the dead from the moment her head hit the makeshift pillow.
A/N: Tumblr - esta-elavaris