A/N: Alexa, play I'll Make a Man Out of You.

Boromir led Sybil to a set of steps out in the valley's forest – a slight walk from Elrond's house, but still within Rivendell's borders. The twenty-or-so steps had been built into a natural incline, and calling them stairs at all would be a generous thing, more slabs of wood placed to help travellers find their footing at an awkward incline. Non-Elven travellers, of course. Thanks to this, they were irregular, some so far as half the height as others, others requiring those shorter than he to stretch in order to reach them. This made them a great stumbling risk, those undertaking them having to force themselves to mind where they were putting their feet rather than relying on ingrained subconscious motions the way one mind at the steps of Minas Tirith.

Which made them perfect.

Wearing the travelling clothes gifted to her by the Elves, and with her long curls bound back from her face in a thick plait, she looked different. Determined. They came to a stop at the bottom of the steps and she fixed him with a look so devoid of anything that one might think they'd never exchanged words beyond polite greetings.

"Your previous instructor had you train with your pack on?" he noted with approval.

"Here and there, where it wouldn't over-complicate my learnings the basics," she nodded. "I weighed it down with stones, to get a feel for what it'll be like out there."

"Set it aside for now," he nodded.

But it would come in useful later. Obeying readily enough, she regarded him afterwards and awaited further instruction. Now would come the test – for she would either understand his aim without his having to first explain it, or she would not. If she did not, she would think him toying with her…and it would end badly. However, he was curious to see if she would, as well as how readily she would accept that he knew what he was doing in these matters. There would be no time to explain every little thing out there, and they could not work together if they were to ascribe malice to every minor disagreement.

"Run up and down the steps ten times," he motioned to them.

And she obeyed without so much as a twitch. Boromir counted out of habit more than out of distrust. Whatever discord lay between them, he knew she was not so petty as to shave steps off out of spite, and as he counted he was pleased to see that she didn't take it at an immediate sprint to prove some manner of point. It would only waste energy.

She finished, looked to him expectantly, and he said one word.

"Again."

The instruction was given with the same matter-of-factness that he'd give orders to his men, taking great care that he did not appear smug or amused in any way. One dark eyebrow threatened to twitch upwards, but she obeyed. When she was done, she looked to him for further instruction again.

Based on how her hand did not so much as reach for the fine new rapier that hung at her hip, she knew what was coming.

"If I give you a number less than ten, you must go as quickly as you can. Above, and you may go at whichever speed you wish."

Sybil nodded. "How many this time?"

There was a shadow of a note of disapproval in her voice, but that was all.

"Five."

And she was off again.

Boromir made sure to carefully monitor not only what she did – her form, the way she conserved energy and minded her breathing – but also what he did, too. It would do no good if he made some show of lounging back, over-playing some attempt at appearing blasé while she toiled. She'd think he was trying to irk her, and that was the last thing they needed now.

Although he had to make sure he only gave the appearance of observing and not ogling, too. Not only because whomever crafted those breeches for her had a very sick sense of humour, but because the look of resolute, fiery determination that burned within her eyes even as she kept the rest of her face expressionless was nothing short of captivating. He had to admit, after she'd left him the previous evening, he'd been rather impressed at her seeking him out. At her decision to endure what she so matter-of-factly determined as his distaste for her in order to do the best thing – especially after the heated words they'd shared before that. Did she truly believe he found her distasteful? There was no more of the former openness between them that might allow him to correct that notion, but he found that far more distasteful than the woman before him now.

And then he'd nearly spoiled everything thanks to a poor choice of words. He rather hoped he wasn't spoiling things now, if she misunderstood his logic behind this first session together, logic that went beyond his merely assessing her stamina and ability to push herself. There was a lesson he was trying to teach her here, one he hoped she understood, but it was also an opportunity for him to take the measure of her – and he managed that far more quickly than he'd imagined.

This woman would be the death of him.

Boromir thought he could break her. Not once – not once – did he ask her to take up her sword so that they might begin sparring, instead apparently deciding that teaching her how to climb bloody stairs was a far better use of their limited time. But she would not complain. Not only because she'd spoken truthfully when she swore it was something she refused to do, but also because she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

If he thought stair-climbing was the best use of their time training together, he could be the one to explain that to the others when it came time to depart. This was only the first lesson, so she would force herself to reserve any judgement until later.

And there was something in the way he held himself as she ran that had her second-guessing any temptation within her to hand-wave this off as some new method of being an ass. There was too much at stake here for him to toy with her, and whatever had become of their…their association, she knew Boromir was too good for that. No, rather than lounging and watching her as she ran, smug and amused, he stood to attention and watched her progress – how she never went so slow as to be lazy, but did not push herself more than was necessary in an effort to show off or prove something.

She'd lost count of how many ascents she'd made before she realised this was no mere warm-up, and was instead their entire reason for coming here.

And that was just fine. After all, it wasn't like the terrors she would no doubt face out there would take any need she might have to stop for a breather as anything other than a chance to lop her head from her shoulders. If anything, this was a taste of- oh.

Sybil understood then exactly what he was doing, and she was almost ashamed of herself for thinking he was just being a petty ass. Almost. Because he had shown a precedent for such behaviour, had he not? But this was not an instance of it. This was a taste of what she would face out there. Her suspicion was confirmed when she reached the bottom for the umpteenth time that morning, and he nodded slowly.

"You may rest. Five minutes. Catch your breath, drink some water."

Obeying, she leaned against the nearest tree – not wanting to sit for the struggle she knew it would take to stand again – but she'd not managed more than two gulps of water before he was speaking again.

"Change of plan, the rest must wait. Seven times."

Which meant running. Breathing a ragged laugh, she took off at a sprint. Because that was how it would be out there, wasn't it? Thinking they'd found respite for a moment only to discover that their foes were closer than they thought, and their chance at rest was snatched from them. What good was crying over it? On her first ascent, she gulped down another mouthful of water, stoppering the flask on her way down and tossing it towards the root of the tree she'd just been resting against.

She wasn't certain, but she thought she heard Boromir chuckle, and on her next return journey she spotted him making sure the flask was stoppered correctly before setting the flask back down where she'd left it. Maybe she'd thank him for that later. Depending on how much she wished to kill him.

It only got more difficult as it went on, but the knowledge that he wasn't just putting her through some tedious soldier's hazing helped a little. What helped most, however, was that she had a point to prove. As the morning wore on, she knew damn well that every time he gave her a new number, he expected that to be the time she begged for a rest – that she tapped out. Her legs were begging her to, and her lungs were demanding that she should, but she would not. Not even when he ordered that she run up the steps twenty-five times and she had to keep count on her fingers, putting one up on each ascent, then down again after ten, and then up a final time on one hand the final time.

When she could control her own pace, there were times she took it at what could barely even be called a lazy meander. It allowed the cool autumn breeze to catch the sweat that soaked her, teasing stray curls away from her brow, but it was also more difficult on her legs – her muscles keenly feeling every single bit of effort it took to get her up. There was one particular step that was at a stupidly wide gap compared to the previous one, and if she did not take it at a leap, her right hip joint complained of the effort it took to step up. Loudly.

As her fatigue grew, there were also times when she stumbled – and a few when she fell, her boots skidding against the damp terrain where the morning frost had melted under the temperate day, or the awkward spacing between two steps catching her unawares. It wasn't so bad when she was running up. She would catch herself, right herself, and continue. There were a number of times, however, on the descent that sent her tumbling down almost all of the stairs. She would roll into it, right herself, and refuse to allow even a glance in Boromir's direction as he straightened and seemed almost tempted to rush forth and help her up. Not so much even out of anger, but because she had something to prove, and he would distract her from it if she strayed beyond the confines of her mind, her stubbornness, and the burning sensation slowly taking over her entire body. It hurt, but that was all it did.

And she'd walked on worse. Pain or no, if can move, I will move – those were the words she'd spoken to him once, were they not? They were no less true now.

They went for hours. She had no idea how many, her focus narrowing down to the increasingly difficult motions of putting one foot before the other, along with whatever number he'd last given her. Along with the fact that his expression when she did allow herself to look at him, usually when seeking the next number, had long changed from interest, to surprise, to…to something else. Something keener. A look with a spark of heat to it, that dangerously resembled those looks he had once given her before the Council.

While it wasn't a complete lie for her to say part of why she struggled to look at him in recent days was that she feared seeing those terrible arrows again, she could not pretend – at least not to herself, in her own mind – that her reasoning was limited to that. Because arrows were not the only thing she feared seeing. Disdain, perhaps, would be no fun…but she was used to that. First from others, and then from him – in the aftermath of the Council. But this? This was arguably worse.

Events had conspired to throw them together and have them building a rapport that was incredibly uncommon. In Sybil's experience, at least. But the Council had undone it, and there would be no going back to it now. She was keenly aware of her tendency to lock up the moment she perceived a reason to do so, and he'd handed her a hefty reason. She was also aware that it was perhaps a touch less voluntary than she'd have those around her believe. There'd be no bringing herself to undo it now, not even if she so wished. Looks like that were laughably futile now. Even more so than they'd been when they'd first arose.

Only once she was entirely certain that it wasn't a false stop did she allow herself to sit, lowering herself down to one of the bottom-most steps that she'd been running up and down, breathing hard as black spots threatened to float across her vision.

Worse still, she wasn't certain there was no such look in her eye. For he remained very handsome, and there was still something thrilling about the sheer scale of him as he moved to sit beside her, long legs stretched out before him while hers were short enough to tuck onto the lowest step instead.

Every inch of her glistened with sweat, her hair sticking to whatever part of her it brushed and her shirt now clinging to her like a second skin, and her thighs twitched and spasmed beneath the tight confines of her breeches here and there, unable to register that she was done pushing them. A flush had worked its way onto her arms, she could see where she'd rolled her sleeves up to her elbow, and so she knew it would have crawled up her chest, neck, and cheeks too. Dishevelled wasn't even the half of it.

Leaning back on her elbows, she closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing. When she opened her eyes, she only just caught Boromir quickly looking away from her, a faint tinge of pink on his cheeks.

"That-" his voice had a note of roughness to it and he had to stop and clear his throat before beginning again. "That was good. Very good."

"If it was just the warm-up, I may need a moment before continuing," she breathed.

The joke was mostly a way of side-stepping his praise, but she winced internally thereafter for it also harkened back to that time that they couldn't go back to, just as much as any heated looks might. He offered a little surprised huff of laughter in response, but she pretended to be too concerned with calming herself to look at him.

A/N: I know we want to see them spar and it's coming, but he had to give her a good ol' beasting first. (Not with his nether regions. Not yet. Slow burn. Sadly.) I'm very behind with a lot of messages and comments between this, flufftober, and novel work (as well as, y'know, life) but I will catch up and they always make my day when they turn up in my inbox, I'm very grateful even if responses are slow at times! x

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