On their second day of walking south, Sybil had much to think about. These days she always had a lot to think about, but that morning alone had added to the load until she felt like it had doubled. Not just because of Boromir's confession, but also due to the barest hints of the visions she'd been offered. It was laughable that back in Rivendell, her rift with the man had seemed like the most pressing of her problems. Not just laughable – foolish.

Of course, back then she'd been able to push other matters, the ones involving the small matter of complete and utter mortal peril for every good person dwelling in Middle-earth, to the back of her mind as best she could. There would be time enough to consider it when they ventured forth, she'd reasoned. It would do no good to work herself into fearful paralysis before they'd even left. No, the best method would be to focus on what was directly in front of her, when it was directly in front of her.

And that had been rosy. Up until it was here, staring her in the face.

In the span of a handful of short months, her main concerns had been transformed – from how to best let her herbs thrive, whether a cold snap would hit and kill off their budding supplies, or if they had enough firewood to last them until she next planned to venture out, to…to all of this. Had the whiplash been a touch more severe, she'd have broken her neck.

The mountains shielded them from a great deal of the sunlight as they moved southwards in shadow, keeping them chilled and in gloom that mirrored her thoughts as she walked. When midday beckoned, though, and the pale, wintry sunlight finally crested the mountain peaks, their surroundings brightened a little, and so did her mood – as if she'd been sleepwalking all morning, and the sun's light woke her up.

Perhaps the change showed on her face more than she anticipated, too, for once her shoulders slackened a little, she found herself walking in step with Pippin, who slowed his pace until she neared.

"Are there any other songs you know?" he asked cheerfully.

She'd been so deeply mired in her worries that it took a bit of confused blinking before she caught up to his line of thought.

"I didn't even know I knew that one, until I heard you and your kin sing it in Rivendell," she confessed. "Perhaps there are others, but I will not know it until I hear it."

"Oh, I wasn't trying to test you," he reassured. "I was only asking if you sing. You had a fair voice, you know."

"You could tell that from what you heard?"

"I have a good ear," there was a note of cheeky pride so his words.

Sybil breathed a laugh, largely unable to help it. "Thank you. But I'm afraid I don't tend to sing around others if I can help it."

"Why not?" he frowned.

"It's just a force of habit."

Her voice was not bad, she knew that, but when she tried to sing in front of others (on the very, very few occasions she had), her nerves dove into the fray and her voice became unlike anything that it could be when she was alone. And that suited her just fine. An audience, in any sense of the word, had never been a thing she'd desired.

"A silly habit then, if you don't mind my saying so," Pippin replied frankly. "Singing is meant to be heard. Not doing so would be like…like baking a cake and then leaving it to grow mouldy."

"Mould can be quite useful, medicinally speaking."

"Not half so useful as cake."

"Medicinally speaking?"

"Well, it's good for morale, isn't it? That plays a big role in healing, or so I've heard. And it keeps the strength up."

Sybil laughed softly. If she'd simply sang at the folk who came to Bera's cabin, she never would have made a single coin across the last decade. Talk-singing a few lines, especially in the wake of her surprise at knowing the Shire-folk songs, was very different from sitting down and performing for the whole Fellowship.

"You have me there."

"It's settled, then. I'll get a song out of you before this is all done."

"I wish you luck on your endeavour," she teased in response to his resolve, "for you shall sorely need it."

"What about tonight? After dinner?"

"Did you really think I'd be swayed so easily as that?"

She'd need to work on really letting her stubbornness shine, if he had judged her so poorly thus far.

"Well, consider it," he insisted. "This might be your only chance."

"Oh, how I hope it is," she replied. "When the window of opportunity passes, I may rest easy."

"Weeks from now, when we're out in the wild and silence is the number one rule, you might look back on this moment and be sad that you passed up the chance when you did."

"I'm more than willing to take on that risk. I'm adventurous that way."

"That's all right, then."

"It is?" she smiled.

"I'll just have to resort to bribery."

"And then threats?"

"Oh no – you're far too fair to threaten, Miss Sybil."

"Flattery won't help your cause, either."

Pippin grinned. "It was worth trying."

Her mood lifted from there, and by the time their day's walking had come to an end, the sunset giving way to a rich dark sky filled with stars, Sybil had even worked up her nerve to seek advice on her worries. There was only one person for that job. At least as far as her comfort was concerned.

"Might I have a word, Aragorn?" she asked quietly.

The man regarded her for a moment, concern shining in his grey eyes – but no surprise joined it. Had she truly seemed so out of sorts all day that he'd anticipated this? She did not like the notion. Nodding, he gestured for her to lead the way and she did so, leading him northwards back up the path they'd just travelled down, so there would at least be no difficulty in returning to their group.

"What troubles you?" his voice was gentle, but wary.

"You…you know a thing or two about foresight, yes?"

"I cannot boast of great experience in the matter, but I have kept the company of those who can," Aragorn allowed. "If I am able to offer you counsel, you can be sure that I will."

"And that whatever we discuss will not stray beyond the two of us?"

He hesitated, and that was more than enough to spook her. Because if Boromir caught wind of this, he'd only take it as further evidence towards her foolish ramblings a few nights ago, bundle her up in every bedroll they possessed and send her straight back to Rivendell on Bill the Pony.

"Put it out of your mind," she said. "I should not have troubled you."

"No," he caught her arm. "You'll only trouble me if you refuse to elaborate. But I must ask before I agree to your terms…whom does it concern?"

"Myself."

"…Only yourself?"

There was something in his manner that suggested he already had an idea of what she was about to say. But how could he possibly know?

"Yes, only myself," she nodded.

Whatever his suspicions had been, they appeared not to match her words – for his brow furrowed, and he watched her carefully for a few moments, trying to seek out any hint of deception.

Who else could he think that she might want to discuss. Surely…surely not Boromir? She wasn't an idiot, she knew fine well that the exchange he'd interrupted that very morning probably raised an eyebrow (but only internally, for Aragorn gave little away when he did not wish to), and she hadn't forgotten her conversation with him in Rivendell on this very matter, following on from the Council.

But, whatever her feelings on Boromir's profession, it hadn't been inappropriate. Confusing, and more than enough to leave her feeling torn, but not inappropriate. From where Aragorn stood, she should have thought he'd be relieved to hear it. It wasn't like he'd happened across them pawing at one another behind a tree. Although even the vague thought of such a thing had her threatening to blush scarlet, and that would hardly help her case if she had to furiously insist there was nothing amiss.

"Then it will stay between us," he said finally, when whatever he saw in her face satisfied him.

It remained tempting to make some excuse and run from this conversation. Despite the fact that she'd initiated it, and even despite the fact that she'd look utterly bloody ridiculous if she did so. But there was something in Aragorn's eyes that made her trust him. Although it helped that experience had shown him to be trustworthy, too. So, she sighed, folded her arms, and stared somewhere off over his left shoulder.

"Is it…is it perhaps normal, for one with the gift of foresight to be unable to see themselves?"

He frowned, and thought the matter over. Really, visibly thought the matter over, rather than rushing to reassure her, or plummeting into crisis control. Sybil couldn't decide if she was warmed to see it, or frustrated that she wouldn't be granted an instant response – however unreasonable her hopes for the latter might've been. When he saw the worry on her face, he answered.

"Your gift has proven to be rather non-specific."

It was admirable, how diplomatically he chose his words. For she'd have used the phrase absolutely bloody useless, but she wouldn't have been cheered to hear that opinion voiced by another.

He continued. "I should think that if you have not yet seen anything regarding yourself, it is because there is little to see. That is, there is nothing pressing that you need to know as of yet. It could be a good sign."

"Yes but…" well, she'd come too far not to tell him the whole story. "I saw the entirety of the Fellowship – almost as if I was a bird, flying high above the whole group. And while I cannot be entirely sure…I do not believe that I was there."

"Perhaps you grew wings and were truly viewing the scene from above."

The words were said so drily that at first, in her panic, she had to forgive herself for not realising they were a joke. But the joke did expertly jolt her out of her panic, and brought her back down to the real world – so she had no choice but to laugh. Just a little.

"What did our surroundings contain?" he asked, turning serious but not solemn.

"Mountains," she said. "I…I believe them to be the Misty Mountains, at that."

The ones currently towering over them, no less. What others could they be? She'd studied maps in Rivendell to gather a vague idea of the direction they would be taking, even if their precise path all the way to Mordor had not yet been agreed upon, and she could think of no other mountain range that might contend with what she'd seen. Which meant the vision was in the near-future, and if something was to happen to her, it would happen soon.

Boromir had been there. In the vision. He was hard to miss, given his height, but she also distinctly remembered the sunlight glinting off of the boss of his shield amidst all of the blindingly white snow. Did that mean she succeeded in her plan, the one she did not yet even know the details of herself, but did not live to revel in that victory? It seemed too soon for that. Surely it was too soon for that.

Her grand, stoic, stupid words about being ready to meet her fate now seemed utterly laughable, especially when contrasted with the dread that gripped her.

"I'm glad you told me," he said finally.

Leave it to him to know she'd need to hear that. Otherwise she'd spend the rest of the day torturing herself over whether this conversation went against Gandalf's warning not to discuss what she saw. And why drive herself mad with that matter, when she could do the same – but worse – over her little chat with Boromir, instead?

Life's all about choosing which problems you would rather deal with, rather than seeking to have none at all. Like many of her little snippets of wisdom, she had no notion of where she'd heard it. But it was proving especially true lately.

"And," he continued, "I do not believe the cause must be something to worry about. Oftentimes, those even without your gift cannot see situations that concern themselves objectively, in mundane matters. Too much dwells between them and the truth, and they find their senses fogged. I…do not believe it unlikely that such a phenomenon may be at play here."

Sybil considered his words – and Aragorn himself – carefully. It was tempting to wonder, although she'd never ask outright, whether he wasn't just saying this to put her mind at ease. But she thought not. The situation at hand was too grim, too consequential, for empty placations. Even had Aragorn been the type to bestow those upon people, surely he would not seek to coddle her and do so now. And while he never gave away much in his face, something she strove to have in common with him, but even so she could see no trace of anything other than sincerity on his face.

He caught her scrutiny, of course, and spoke again.

"Had this vision appeared to be founded in a much later stage of this venture, I might think there was cause to worry. But you said it yourself – you cannot be certain you were not there. If it is my advice you seek…"

It was then that he trailed off, eyeing her expectantly. Sybil nodded quickly. Bowing his head, as though relieved from the burden of giving unsolicited advice, he pressed on.

"Keep this in mind, but do not dwell on it. The next time you are presented with a vision, you may see yourself and this worry will have been for nothing. Just as you will be when you see in reality what you saw today."

She had to admit, she appreciated his use of when and not if.

And while he had not told her anything she couldn't have thought of herself, there was something incredibly reassuring about hearing it from the lips of another.

"Thank you, Aragorn – truly. You've set my mind at ease."

He inclined his head as though waving off her thanks, but judging by how his grey eyes remained fixed keenly upon her face, he was not finished.

"Is that all that weighs upon you?"

It was then that her earlier suspicions were well and truly stoked. Could it be that Boromir's harsh words at the Council – to Aragorn, not to herself – had left the man before her bearing more of a grudge than she'd first thought? For why else would he be so suspicious?

"Is the prospect of my impending doom not enough?" she quipped.

A smile rose to his face then, but it was slight and begrudging. And he was happy to accept her non-answer – one that, if she was being honest, was a thinly cloaked challenge for him to express whatever concerns he held.

"That was not what I meant," he said. "Come, we must return to the others."

The greenery was already lessening as they ventured south, and before long it would be gone entirely, giving way (to hear the more well-travelled members of their party tell it) to lands much rockier and barren. For now, though, they could take advantage of what shelter the trees still offered. They made their camp in a small clearing amidst a dense patch of trees, a roof of leaves high above them offering the perfect cover under which they could build a small campfire.

Boromir was already at work, making a great display of cleaving apart the various bits of old, dried and dead branches and wood they'd collected as they progressed over the day. All right, he wasn't really making a display of it. But Sybil's eyes were drawn to him, all the same.

He'd shirked his cloak and surcoat so that neither would hinder him, and while he remained otherwise fully dressed and by no means indecent, it still emphasised the sheer strength in his limbs and his broad shoulders as he repeatedly lifted the axe and brought it down upon the wood before him - all with utter ease. Admittedly, the setting sun had brought a bitter cold down upon them, so perhaps that could be blamed for his not breaking a sweat…but it was still impressive.

It took more willpower than she'd ever own up to in order for her to tear her eyes away from him, walking instead to where her pack was set. Although it took woefully little time for her to set up her bedroll, less than a minute in fact, and once she was done he was still going. So her eyes may have drifted back to him. And when they did, they may have found him watching her.

Not while he was chopping, of course, for that would have been dangerous and frankly rather threatening. Whatever her inner conflict, they'd moved beyond that, at least. Although what they'd moved into appeared to be a ridiculous little glancing contest that she couldn't bring herself to put an end to. Of their own volition – or so she furiously told herself – her eyes just kept on wandering back to Boromir. And she always found him watching her in return. It was difficult to even convince herself that it was merely because he felt the weight of her gaze upon him, for she often looked to find him already watching her.

Gandalf was the one who interrupted things in the end, and while on a logical level she was relieved that she no longer had an avenue to continue making a fool of herself, there was a distinct note of disappointment that panged deep within her, refusing to be ignored.

"Unless you aim to supply us with firewood for the next ten months, Boromir, I think that's quite enough."

Was it just her, or did she detect amusement within the wizard's voice? Sybil could at least be excused for once again looking to Boromir that time, for all of the Fellowship now did – as the man flushed faintly and cleared his throat.

"My arms sought occupation more than I realised."

"None of our legs can complain of the same problem," Gimli snorted from where he sat.

They were well and truly in the little stretch of time where even the most active among them were at risk of growing footsore, thanks to the unceasing and demanding journeying they'd been doing. It would lessen soon – the stiff muscles and pained feet, anyway – but in the interim, their energy levels and their muscles had to catch up to these new requirements, after living in comfort and (by Sybil's standards) luxury amongst the Elves.

Boromir then returned to his own belongings on the other side of the fire, and Sybil felt lightened with relief when she realised he was not going to come over to speak to her again. Of course, then she felt guilty for that relief, so the load wasn't entirely removed from her shoulders – but she'd take what she could. The book was something she sought to ration, so she made no move to retrieve it. Instead, she was content to lie back against her pack, flexing her muscles in her legs every so often just to feel the satisfying burn within them. Soon it would become strength.

While life with Bera never afforded much opportunity for her to grow soft, over these last few months she'd been distinctly aware of how much more solid her muscles felt to the touch. Proof, visible and inarguable proof, of her hard work. It reassured her.

As did Boromir's apparent decision to give her space – for a small part of her had worried that he'd seek her out as soon as he could, hoping to resolve the conversation that Aragorn had interrupted. And she was very worried that her answer would disappoint him. Not because she intended to ask that he leave her alone and only speak to her where it was entirely necessary, although how little desire she had to ask that of him also worried her. If he was anybody else, she would have asked that. Not directly, but instead by making any attempts at conversation so much of a trial that he would surely eventually give up.

No, instead, she found herself staring. It was new territory for her. But she also didn't know how much she could promise. While she didn't class herself as harsh or unforgiving, forgetting was not in her nature. Well, not where she could help it. Nor was making empty promises. The last thing, the very last thing, she wished to do was promise a fresh start without truly meaning it – and she truly didn't know if she could go back to how she'd been with him at all, and neither could she pretend she would not spend all of their interactions going forth waiting for the next harsh words to be slung towards her from his lips because something she said or did displeased him.

Did that mean she mightn't be willing to try? No. She couldn't say that. And though she'd never admit it aloud, she did miss how they'd been when they first arrived in Rivendell – often foolishly finding her mind filled with daydreams of how much easier this all might be now if she still had the friend in him she thought she'd had back then. Before. But she was also feared that anything less than a full promise to entirely forgive and forget would be met with derision. While a stubborn voice in her head insisted that Boromir was not of that sort, not at heart, she also knew well enough that most men who were of that sort did not appear to be until it was too late. And she had no stomach for further strife.

That he cared enough to speak to her as he had that morning meant much. More than he likely knew, and more even than she'd expected. And she almost dared to hope it boded well. But if it did not - if she was wrong, and if she was just setting herself up to make the same mistakes over again, her anger and upset would be less directed at him than it would be at she herself. For allowing her hope to get the better of her, for having to learn the same lesson twice. For being an idiot. But, though that sat heavily on her shoulders, one question rose above it all. What if it did not go badly?

Words had never been her strong suit, and frank conversations regarding feelings were so far beyond her realm of comfort that they might as well have resided in Mordor. So how could she even begin to explain any of this to him?

And though she could never voice it to him, one thought would not budge from her mind as she brooded. Her most pressing vision thus far had been of Boromir. Would it not make sense that she was fated to be close to him in more than just mere proximity? In friendship? Could that not play a role in this draw she felt to him?

Sighing heavily, she rested her head back and stared balefully up at the stars. They offered no advice.

A/N: Sorry for the long break! Depression struck me down throughout November, and when it eased up I had Life to deal with (including turning 27, but I got through that without any existential crises so it's all good) – but here you go! Thank you for your patience 3