A/N: God, so the trick here was a) choosing what bits were important enough to stay verbatim, and what bits could be glossed over because nobody needs to read the entire scene written down with Sybil's thoughts interjected here and there – and b) choosing what to pick from the movie, and what to take from the book. When I deal with scenes from the canon in fic, I try to really minimise what I take word for word, and when I do it, I do it for a reason. Here, some of Elrond's speech from the book are transferred directly over for the folk who haven't read it (and even for those who have, because it's so much easier to rewatch the movies to a Very Normal extent than it is to read the books, so a good wee refresher never hurts) and because I just think it's very apt in this particular story.

The thing about this scene is that a lot of the lines from the movie did actually need to be included, which was a bit annoying because I know you guys already know it, but there was no getting around it. But rest assured that I do not intend to just write whole ass movie scenes in the future – this one is the worst for it, but I can't think of any in the future that will need to lend so heavily from the canon.

As I've said before, I am leaning heavily in the direction of the movie, but I really like Elrond's speech in the book about how they all think they've come by chance, but really it's more fate that brought them there – in part because it adds a bit of extra backing to Sybil being there, too.

It was tricky to gauge how much would be enough, and how much would be overdoing it. Considering how she steadfastly avoided exposure to the scent of either plant, her old mode of judgement would call even the slightest whiff of it too much. Now, however, that warred with the fact that she could not risk failure. Whatever the consequences.

Nothing was helped by the fact that she barely slept the night before, too, her mind reeling from Boromir's offer and all that had to be considered concerning it. And there was much to consider. On the surface it seemed an offer straight from a dream; there was no denying that it solved all of the problems she'd been grappling with before he made his suggestion, and even she would have managed to think up the idea herself, she never would have imposed upon him by broaching the topic. No, the notion – and the way it had been brought up – couldn't have worked out better.

But it was still laden with risk. For there was…a spark. Between herself and Boromir. She was not so sheltered that she did not see it, and there was certainly no escaping feeling it. Nor was she so steeped in denial or poor opinions of herself to pretend that it did not seem reciprocated. Somewhere during the course of the feast, she'd realised what exactly that strange look on his face was, the one she'd first seen on his features after she'd awoken here.

It couldn't be surprise at her recovery – not anymore. She'd recovered from an injury, not risen from the dead. And it couldn't just be ongoing concern for her safety, either, for she was in no danger here. Not unless he'd really thought Lord Glorfindel would have a mind to cleave her head from her shoulders as they danced. With no other pressing explanation as to why his eyes followed her around the room – why whenever she looked to him, she found him looking back – Sybil's answer came when she considered why she looked to him often enough to catch him staring in the first place.

The curious and borderline concerned looks she saw Aragorn cast over them here and there only sealed her suspicion. It made sense, too, as for why that energy between them was so inescapable – because they could both feel it, and so that mere fact alone stoked it.

And that was dangerous. He was not some fiend who simply wished for, ahem, entertainment on his long journey back to his home – of that Sybil was more than certain. The offer had been made in good faith, out of a wish to offer help, and to see her safe. From how he spoke of his own people, she could tell that such was his habit. His character.

A hundred days or so of travelling was a long time – time in which that spark could become more, and time in which they may grow less able to ignore it for the good of all involved. For nothing could ever come of it, the difference in their stations far too great, their time together too temporary. It was a harmless flirtation and little more, and that was fine. Sybil had long since given up any foolish girlish ideas of whirlwind romances, warriors in shining armour, and swoon-worthy happy endings more fit for legend than real life. But all it would take was one lapse of judgement, one moment of weakness, for things to escalate, and where would that leave them? Steeped in awkwardness (or worse – regret) and stuck travelling with one another for another month. Longer, even, if indeed she did not find a place to her liking between here and Gondor, and saw fit to settle down in the land that he would one day be in charge of.

Beyond cold, hard logistics, it also seemed a shame to her that one moment of folly might ruin something that, thus far, was a little beacon of positivity in the wake of hardship. At the moment, she could look on with a silly little smile, blushing at the fact that someone like him could look at her and find her beautiful. Find her interesting. Was it so wrong that she had no wish to find herself one day looking back on this moment as the beginning of a mortifying mistake? She wasn't a girl of fifteen, smitten for the first time (although she could not remember if she ever had been, at that age) – she could enjoy it for what it was while being perfectly aware that it could never lead anywhere. But a long, long period of hard travel could lead to certain delusions regarding that fact.

It wasn't that she didn't trust Boromir, and it wasn't even that she didn't trust herself. She simply knew that people were people, and a long journey compounded by tiredness and only each other for company would foster a closeness that might act as a catalyst to what she could currently hand-wave away as a novelty only.

Were she quite certain that she was the only one who felt it – that it was some silly one-sided attraction – it would be fine. She was good at hiding her feelings from her face, from her body language, from her speech…and often even from her mind, for that matter. It would be no small thing to shove it down, and to get on with things. But she was not alone in it, and that complicated things – not least because it added a certain level of temptation to feelings that would otherwise be futile and pointless to dwell upon.

All those thoughts and more kept her awake all night, which was almost funny because ultimately they changed nothing. Yes, it would be stupid to ruin a chance at a fresh start – a true fresh start – because of a moment of weakness. It would be utterly brainless, however, to entirely turn down that chance out of fear over such a moment. If she did so, she'd fling herself from Rivendell's tallest tower the moment Boromir departed, out of fury at her own sheer idiocy.

No, the conclusion was a foregone one. She would have to go with him. She would also have to be very, very careful.

And dabbing lavender and rosemary oil on all of her pulse points felt like the very opposite of that, the morning of the Council. Waiting until after she'd dressed – in the plainest and most practical dress available from the small selection in her wardrobe, one of forest green with a relative lack of excessive sleeves and skirts, to minimise the chances of her getting tangled up in it should a migraine hit and she needed to retire quickly. The wardrobe had been modestly stocked while she was out at the feast the previous night, and she hadn't the space in her mind to wonder if they'd measured her for such an outcome while she'd recovered from her ordeal.

A rather solemn looking ellon who she had not met before came to her rooms to lead her to Lord Elrond's private terrace, and when she arrived there she found a circle of chairs, roughly half occupied, and half empty. One of the occupied chairs contained the very man she'd just spent a very sleepless night considering, and so she moved quickly to take the one by his side. Although, depending on how well this little plan worked, she wondered if she wouldn't soon regret that.

"I wondered whether you had received an invitation," Boromir admitted in greeting, rising and then sitting down again once she'd sat. "But I could not ask."

Sybil was too anxious to stop and find the gesture charming. Already, a faint ache was beginning to pull at her temples, the smell of the rosemary and lavender altogether inescapable – and growing only worse as she fidgeted, not to mention whenever a stray breeze caught her. Perfume was oft funny in that the wearer grew blind to its presence as they grew used to it, but this was not the case here. In fact, the longer she sat here, the more aware Sybil became of it, until she half expected those around her to look and wrinkle their noses as though accusing her of overdoing it.

But Boromir sat right beside her, and gave no indication of noticing the scent at all. There was not so much as a furrow in his brow.

As she looked at him, though, to try and gauge any sort of reaction at all, she was struck by the same feeling she'd had when they first met – one of overwhelming familiarity. One that seemed to have nothing to do with the fact that out of all here, she knew him best of all – for yes, she'd known Aragorn longer, but she'd spoken with Boromir more over this last week than she had with the Ranger over the course of their entire association. But this wasn't that. She felt…a sense of urgency, almost – deeply, and heavily, within the centre of her chest. As if there was something she ought to do, or ought to say, regarding him, and that she had to do so quickly.

Although she had little idea of what it was.

"I thought about your offer for much of the night," she admitted quietly.

She spoke both as a way to distract herself from what was going on between her ears, but also as a sort of experiment – as though saying this might banish that feeling of urgency. It was doubtful, but it would be good to at least eliminate the possibility when it did not work.

"That was quick," he commented.

His voice was light as he shifted in his chair, but he watched her keenly for any hint of what her answer might be.

"It…took less thought than I should admit," she replied. "If I'm being perfectly honest, I knew my answer within moments of your asking – but I didn't want to give it in haste."

Were anybody listening, their minds would no doubt be racing as to what it was they were talking about.

"Nor would I wish you to."

"It does feel strange, though – that I should be the one thinking it over and accepting, when you would be the one doing me a great service," she added.

Boromir chuckled – but it was subdued, a hint that he felt the solemn mood that had already taken over those gathered here, before all the seats had even be filled. "Spend a hundred days in the wilderness with none but your own thoughts for company, and you will see that my offer is not so selfless as you might think. I shall be indebted to you for life after this – there is only so much that a man can talk to himself without feeling quite mad."

Bless him and his way of spinning things that didn't have her feeling burdensome.

Gandalf arrived then, flanked by Frodo Baggins. The former greeted her with a nod, and then followed it with a questioning look – seeking to know whether she'd gone through with their plan, no doubt. Sybil nodded, and he returned the nod with a satisfied one of his own.

"You know Gandalf?" Boromir questioned.

"We met yesterday – when I spoke with…"

As she was replying, she glanced back to Gandalf again and trailed off. For as she looked at him then, he was no longer garbed in grey robes – not to her eye, anyway. Instead, he was decked from head to toe in white. Quite literally head to toe, too, for even his hair itself had lightened. The colour wasn't the only difference, either, for no longer was he shabby or charmingly bedraggled, instead seeming grand and stately, his robes well-kempt and his hair combed neatly, his hat gone. Even his staff gleamed white – more ornate and less rough-hewn than the grey one.

Sybil's eyes widened. She blinked, and the image remained – more tangible and real than any brief flashing mental image that had been stirred by circumstance before. Turning her head fully away, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply as if trying to wake herself in the midst of a nightmare. When she opened them again, Gandalf was grey once more. And her episode had not gone unnoticed.

Upon opening her eyes, she found Gandalf watching her with unhidden curiosity, his hand curled around his staff as he leaned forward – as if doing so would tell him what she'd just seen. Given what he was, Sybil wouldn't have been surprised if it could. Frodo also watched her, although his curiosity may have been due to the fact that she was the only woman present. The same could not be said for Boromir's.

"Sybil?" he leaned closer. "Are you well? I'm not sure how wise it is for you to be here. If you are still recovering…"

Would he say the same thing were she not a woman, she wondered? But she pushed down her irritation quickly - knowing it was a product of her headache and her shot nerves. It didn't help either, she suspected, that she was so unused to being the focus of concern that any measure of it in a situation that was not life or death was bound to feel stifling.

"I'm well," she shook her head.

And she thanked the stars that she was saved from having to remember what she'd just been talking about when the rest of the guests – primarily a group of Elves, dressed a little differently to those here – arrived, followed by Lord Elrond and his retinue. With that, the little subdued chatter that there had been died down, and he wasted little time with preamble.

"Strangers from distant lands, friends of old, you have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite, or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom."

Even the leaves in the trees around them seemed to fall silent at those solemn words, and he pressed on with no need to ensure that the gravity of his words were felt.

"This is the purpose for which you are called hither. Called, I say, though I have not called you to me. You have come from far afield and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world."

If she'd been searching for some sign that her instinct to come here had a touch of fate to it, Lord Elrond's words would have provided that in spades. But it was difficult to feel pleased by such an outcome – not in the face of such heavy words. None breathed a word, and Lord Elrond turned to the only hobbit present.

"Bring forth the Ring, Frodo."

Standing, Frodo was visibly discomfited by being under the weight of so many eyes. Something Sybil could certainly sympathise with. That sympathy was washed away by sheer dread, though, when he reached into his pocket and produced a heavy gold ring – setting it reluctantly down upon the stone pedestal in the middle of the circle where all were seated.

The strange dread such an innocuous item produced in her could not have been overstated. Sybil was sure her chest couldn't have tightened further had the hobbit produced the men who'd burned her home down from the inside of his coat. And once again, she was met with the sense – unwelcome this time – of everything falling into place.

"So it is true…" Boromir murmured at her side.

On the other side of him, a few seats down and entirely visible thanks to the way the chairs curved, Aragorn turned his head to look to Boromir. The action caught Sybil's attention from the corner of her eye, and as she turned to look to the Ranger she stilled – for she found him changed before her eyes just as Gandalf had been…although not in the same way.

No, he was not garbed entirely in white, but that made the change no less jarring. For in his place sat a king wearing Aragorn's face – a full beard where scruffy stubble had once sat, his hair neater than she'd ever seen it…and topped with a crown. A grand crown, noble but not garish, mostly silver but accented at the front and at the sides with gold. This time, Sybil was too busy staring in disbelief to try and blink the vision away, even when Aragorn felt the weight of her stare and turned to look at her, his brow furrowed in concern at the disbelief he saw there. Sybil turned her head quickly, not to avoid his gaze but to look to Gandalf. What she expected to receive from him, she did not know. Confirmation, perhaps, that he saw what she did.

If he did, he gave no indication of it. In fact, he seemed more interested in Sybil than in Aragorn. A bolt of pain worse than the others shot across the forefront of her skull and her eyes snapped shut. When she opened her eyes, Aragorn was no longer bedecked like a king. There was no time to celebrate that fact, though, for Boromir rose to his feet from his chair beside her.

"In a dream, I saw the eastern sky grow dark, but in the West a pale light lingered. A voice was crying – 'your doom is near at hand. Isildur's Bane is found…" as he spoke of it, he reached one hand out towards the Ring where it sat on the stone pedestal – and Sybil was half tempted to leap to her feet and drag him back from it, though she could not explain why. "Isildur's Bane…"

Lord Elrond saved her the trouble – for he did leap to his feet, harshly calling out Boromir's name. Boromir started, as though he hadn't even realised what he was doing, but before his reaction was even through, Gandalf was rising to his feet too – chanting a dark and terrible speech as he did. The Elves were just as affected as their land was, closing their eyes and shuddering at the sound, more disturbed by Gandalf's deep and dark words than they were by the darkening of the skies and the shuddering of the very ground beneath their feet. Boromir quickly returned to his chair, but Sybil could not see the rest of his reaction, for she clamped her eyes shut and had curled her fingers around the arms of her chair in a white-knuckle grip.

Every time she was inhaled she was once again assaulted by the scent of the oils, and combined with the noise and the rumbling and the dread, she was certain that if Gandalf did not soon stop, she would vomit.

He finally did just before she was about to beg him to stop.

"Never before has any voice uttered the words of that tongue here in Imladris," Lord Elrond said sharply.

Sybil opened her eyes – slowly – and found that the way the day had lightened swiftly once again offered little relief for how it assaulted her senses, overly sensitive thanks to her gambit.

"I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond, for the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West. The Ring is altogether evil," Gandalf replied.

Sybil knew little of this Ring, but the agreement within her at Gandalf's words could not be denied. Which played a significant role in her dismay as Boromir immediately – and vehemently disagreed.

"It is a gift! A gift to the foes of Mordor – why not use this Ring?" he rose to his feet and looked about them entreatingly, as if hoping to win others to his side. "Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at Bay. By the blood of our people, are your lands kept safe. Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy – let us use it against him!"

Sybil could not return his gaze as he looked at all those gathered, seeking to find support.

"You cannot wield it," Aragorn was quick to firmly disagree – but he did so gently, and with clear patience. "None of us can. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

"And what would a Ranger know of this matter?" Boromir challenged with a sneer.

Aragorn appeared to have little intention of answering that challenge – but an ellon across the way did not give him to a chance, rising swiftly to his feet and responding strongly.

"This is no mere Ranger. He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."

Sybil stared in dismay – not at the turn of events, and not because Boromir appeared to have little intention of taking this development well…but because it aligned perfectly with what she'd just seen.

"Aragorn," Boromir echoed disbelievingly, gaze flickering around the council for a moment as if one of those gathered would admit to the practical joke. "This is Isildur's heir?"

"And heir to the throne of Gondor," the ellon replied firmly.

Sybil closed her eyes, and then she covered them with one hand for good measure. As she did so her hand found a sweat upon her brow – and she was glad for the spectacle before them, for it distracted those gathered from what she was dealing with presently. She was not fit to answer questions on the matter. Aragorn spoke softly in Sindarin, and his words were revealed a moment later when the ellon faltered, and then lowered himself back down into his chair.

Taking in a slow, deep breath, she finally tore her hand away from her face and looked up. As she did, she found Boromir watching the ellon with clear distaste.

"Gondor has no king," he said to the blond – and then turned his attention to Aragorn, turning to face him as he returned to his seat. "Gondor needs no king."

But Gondor would have a king, if Sybil's vision proved true. Boromir returned to his seat, everything within him wound tight – so tightly that she feared something in him might bodily snap if he did not relax soon.

Gandalf was the one to break the silence, although it took Sybil a moment to work up the courage to look at him when he did so.

"Aragorn is right. We cannot use it."

"You have only one choice," Lord Elrond said. "The Ring must be destroyed."

Boromir shook his head at that, visibly unhappy – but he did not argue. What surprised Sybil more to find, though, was that he did not seem the only one perturbed by the concept. Across the way, Frodo Baggins' brow was furrowed, his gaze downcast save for when it occasionally flickered to the Ring, and then back to his lap.

"Then what are we waiting for?" a redheaded Dwarf from the group Boromir had been talking to the previous night leapt to his feet, greataxe in hand.

He rose it high above his head and brought it down upon the ring. As he did, Boromir leaned forward in his chair, gripping the armrests much as Sybil did, but in his case it appeared to be to hold himself back from stopping the dwarf. There was no need, for the move sent him flying back, his axe in pieces, but while several rose to their feet, Sybil instead found her eyes snapping back to Frodo to seek out his reaction.

She wished she had not.

Not because of anything to do with what the hobbit did, but because she saw then that her visions were far from over – and this proved to be the worst one yet.

There had always been a certain weariness about the hobbit, even at the feast last night. Whatever evil had chased he and the Ring here, it left him looking far more haunted than any of his kin appeared. What she saw now, though, was less weariness and more wreckage. Coated head to toe in ash and soot, his lips were cracked and his wide blue eyes looked devoid of all things good – empty save for toil and trouble. And his hand – the one that he lifted to his brow as though battling with the same terrible head-splitting ache that Sybil did – was bloodied and gored.

Sybil cried out in shock. None appeared to hear it in the fray save for Boromir, who turned and noted her troubles for the first time since the matter at hand occupied his mind. But as he spun and questioned here, she realised it hadn't entirely escaped the notice of all others. Frodo's wide blue eyes were now pinned on her, gazing out in alarm from behind ash, sweat, and blood.

Looking away, she clasped both hands over her forehead and breathed in deeply, ignoring Boromir's questions – ones she could scarcely make out. Indeed, the first words she did manage to discern, beyond the hammering of her own heart and the high-pitched buzzing setting up shop between her ears, were that of Lord Elrond.

"…the Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back in the fiery chasm from whence it came."

Boromir's hand, which had been at her back, slid away as Lord Elrond spoke, distracted by more pressing matters. As it did, Sybil clenched her jaw and forced herself to look up again. Frodo had also worked himself up into a cold sweat, although she suspected for different reasons.

Lord Elrond continued. "One of you must do this."

A silence followed – a brief one. But then Boromir broke it.

"One does not simply walk into Mordor. Its Black Gates are guarded by more than just Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the Great Eye is ever-watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust."

Sybil sucked in another deep breath, as subtly and quietly as she could. She had no way of knowing what Mordor looked like – how could she? But Boromir's description certainly lined up with what she'd just seen when she looked to Frodo. But could that mean he would be the one to take the Ring? Him? Amidst the squad of warriors gathered here?

Boromir continued, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly."

His unease did nothing to quell the dread squeezing Sybil's chest like a vice. Boromir was no coward, she knew this well enough. For a prospect to fill him with such open and unabashed fear did not bode well.

"Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said?" the same ellon from before leapt to his feet, evidently having not forgiven Boromir for their earlier exchange. "The Ring must be destroyed."

"And I suppose you think you're the one to do it?" the dwarf who'd attempted to destroy the Ring himself demanded.

"And if we fail, what then?" Boromir snapped. "What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?"

The discord that had tenuously threatened to rear its head throughout the entirety of the meeting finally did so then, the tension snapping as most of those gathered jumped to their feet and began to argue furiously with one another. Even those who joined the fray in hopes of keeping the peace, or bringing it back for that matter, were soon dragged into squabbles of their own. Sybil remained seated - not just because she had no battle to fight here, but because she did not trust her legs to hold her should she try them.

She was not the only one who remained in her chair, however, for Frodo was also still seated – thankfully looking much more like his real self (she refused to consider what she'd seen as anything but fictitious, even if she knew she was grasping at straws in that respect) staring at the ring, with beads of sweat dripping freely down his face. Sybil fared no better – the back of her gown clinging uncomfortably to her skin.

Lifting a hand to her brow, she tried to wipe it with the sleeve of her dress, too far gone to worry about the move appearing graceless or crude. It would prove to be a mistake. For as she did, she took a deep breath in, determined to collect herself and breathe, but only getting another noseful of lavender and rosemary for her troubles. Then, when she lifted her head and dropped her arm, she looked to Boromir where he stood arguing with a group of those gathered. And she regretted it immediately.

When she had looked to Frodo and saw what she did, she'd been certain that nothing could be worse – and now she was being punished for that folly. For that sheer naivety. For as she looked to Boromir, she found him not too different to how he was now. He was dressed in the same garb, he wore no crown, nor was he covered in soot. No, he looked much the same. Save for the three terrible black arrows piercing his body, and the blood that trickled out from his mouth, even as he offered stern words to the elf with whom he argued.

Sybil was on her feet before she even realised it, the lurch sending her head spinning, an involuntary cry caught in her throat. None noticed it. But as she stumbled back, she knocked her chair over in her haste to get away, and some did turn as it clattered to the ground – Boromir, namely. The arrows still protruded from his chest.

"Sybil?"

She read his lips more than she actually heard him say her name, but as he turned to step towards her, she flung a hand out in her distress, motioning for him to stop. As she did, her hand shifted through one of the arrows despite how clearly she could see them, how real they looked. He did stop, a hand outstretched, and she doubled over as another blinding streak of pain worked its way through her skull.

As it ebbed and faded only to the sound of her heartbeat, she realised the arguing had stopped. Her eyes opened slowly, and she found that the arrows were gone, and all but Boromir had turned their backs to her, distracted. She straightened slowly, her head throbbing as her brain felt too big its confines – like it was straining against the bone around it, and that the skin of her scalp would soon split.

"I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though…I do not know the way," the voice of Frodo Baggins cut through the silence from the other side of the crowd.

Murmurs rippled through them, during which Sybil straightened, finally leaning on the arm Boromir offered – despite how she was quite unable to look at him. Thankfully, he was soon distracted by what was taking place, for Gandalf then spoke.

"I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins. As long as it is yours to bear."

One by one, others elected to join him. Aragorn, then the elf who had argued with Boromir, and dwarf who had tried to destroy the ring…and finally Boromir slid his arm from her grasp – although he pressed a hand over hers as he did so, as though in apology. Sybil knew he would find it, her hand, cold to the touch.

Then, he was gone from her side, moving to join the company before them, his resolution firm in his voice.

"You carry the fates of us all, little one. If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done."

He joined the company then, all six of them standing and making a grand sight – looks of fierce determination on their faces, save for that of Frodo who, while brave, still had the look of one who feared he had bitten off more than he could chew. Based on what she had seen, Sybil could not fault that. Even now as she regarded them, flashes of all that she had seen flickered before her eyes – one moment there, and then gone the next, back and forth back and forth until she was certain the ground was tilting and swirling beneath her feet.

It was something she grappled with as the hobbits she'd already met revealed themselves to be eavesdropping – Samwise darting out from the bushes first, followed quickly by Merry and Pippin, who asserted that they would be joining.

Even as she tried to avoid looking at Boromir, the dreadful black arrows protruded into her line of sight and would not be ignored. She had to do something. She had to do...something.

"Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this sort mission…quest…thing."

Lord Elrond had a note of amusement in his voice as he replied to Pippin's assertion. "Nine companions…"

Sybil's gaze lifted, ridden as it was with black spots, and she found Gandalf staring at her – grey, then white, then grey, then white again – his gaze laden with meaning whichever colour he was at any given moment. It gave her the courage she needed to interrupt, her voice thin and her limbs weak.

"Ten."

All eyes darted to her. Those of the Fellowship, and all those who had gathered for the Council too, and then there was no going back. Somehow, that fact offered strength to her voice.

"Ten," she repeated – more strongly this time. "I must go with them."

Silence. Gandalf shifted – almost imperceptibly. It may have been an approving nod, or it may have simply been an exhale. But he was no longer fixing her with one of those pointed looks of his, so she took that as a sign that she'd done the right thing…by his reckoning, at least.

And then the real pandemonium ensued.

A/N: God, so this chapter was originally going to contain the fallout, but then it ended up being six thousand words so uhhhh. Next time! Something to look forward to.

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