A/N: This was originally going to be two chapters, but I made a judgement call.

Any worries Sybil harboured of her potential impending doom – of the personal kind, and not that which their little motley crew faced as a whole – were broken up when she woke up, upon their first morning of turning towards the Pass of Caradhras, and found that she was warm. At first, she half-expected to open her eyes and find herself back in Rivendell, but the bedroll beneath her was much too hard for that – and then Sam sneezed, somewhere across the fire.

"I hope you're not getting sick, Sam," Frodo said.

"Don't worry about me, Mr Frodo, it was a bit of ash from the fire, is all."

"I have an uncle who sneezes every time he looks at the sky," Merry chimed in. "Every time – without fail."

"Must've made sleeping outdoors difficult," Frodo replied.

"Not if he closed his eyes before he started lying down," Pippin pointed out.

Sybil smiled – before she even opened her eyes. Rather a new habit of hers, and probably a silly one under the circumstances. When they first set out, she wasn't sure how she'd ever grow comfortable enough to even fall asleep around so many unfamiliar people, and now she was left pleasantly surprised by how hearing such casual exchanges warmed her heart immediately upon waking.

But that didn't explain the rest of the warmth. Opening her eyes, she turned her head and groped blindly around her, blinking in surprise when she found not her bedroll – which was wedged between her knees – but instead lengths upon lengths of fine, dark fabric. A cloak. Boromir's cloak. She knew it on sight. How could she not?

Some of her curls had engaged in their nightly routine of rebelling against the plait during the night, so she smoothed them back with one hand as she shifted up onto one elbow, blinking blearily around the camp in search of the man in question. He was sprawled out across his own bedroll some feet away, head tilted skywards with a forearm draped across his eyes, but not snoring. No doubt the noise around the camp had begun to stir him.

Then he moved, chest rising as he inhaled deeply, and she realised he wasn't sleeping at all, but instead going through the same waking process she was. Albeit not quite as warmly, she realised, with a pang of guilt.

But he must have sensed her eyes on him, for he brought his arm down and then turned his head in her direction. Green eyes met her blue ones, and his face fell. Sybil was struck then by the fact that he wore the same expression she imagined often occupied her own face back in the early days, whenever she botched a poultice under Bera's gaze.

She remembered herself, only after a period of staring that dragged on for a touch too long, and then mouthed two words. Thank you. And then? Then he smiled. The sort that lit up his face and made him look ten years younger, all in one, before he furtively glanced around the camp as if worried about being caught doing something wrong.

Given Aragorn's presence, perhaps that wasn't unfounded. And…given how she now blushed, perhaps Aragorn's own concerns didn't lack a basis in reality. Not entirely. But he was wrong about something, at least. She wasn't a simpleton, and she was hardly one to get carried away by her own whims. A handsome smile wasn't enough to have her dreaming that anything might come of it. But kindness was kindness, and it was also progress. She'd be just as foolish not to celebrate that.

Rising to her feet, and marvelling yet again at how she did so without any of the stiffness that plagued her those first few mornings out of Rivendell, she took the cloak with her as she rose. Boromir's attention rested heavily upon her as she brushed it off, and then carefully folded it over one arm. The hem still threatened to drag along the ground as she did so. No wonder it made for a fantastic blanket.

The shock had dissipated from Boromir's face by now, and his expression was utterly unreadable as she approached – although he did rise to his feet once she got near, and she went from looking down upon him to almost craning her head up to look him in the eye.

"Thank you, Boromir," she said, pushing through the veil of shyness she usually operated behind – although it took a bit of force.

It wasn't lost on him, she saw, that she used his name rather than his title. She extended the cloak, still draped over her arms – and, because he did not wear his gloves when he slept, his hands brushed hers as he accepted the cloak, his knuckles brushing over her skin as she was relieved of the endless lengths of dark fabric.

"It was no trouble," he said, tone riddled with sincerity.

Once she'd begun speaking, keeping her voice was not so difficult – but it was still not easy. Which was absurd, really, for she'd found it often enough to tell him off. Speaking kinder words should not have been more difficult. Not for someone of her usual temperament. Although she supposed now she didn't have the fury to drive her forward; all she had here were emotions she was far less naturally comfortable with. Still, the addition she wanted to make was an important one.

"I'm…I'm glad we can be friends again," she said finally.

Oh, but it sounded so ridiculous when spoken aloud. Like a child, minutes after a petty spat with a playmate. Didn't it? But her worries proved for naught, because then he smiled – a bright, boyish grin that his face hardly seemed capable of in its sterner moments, and Sybil had no choice but to smile in return. Her face made the decision for her, before thought or shyness could intercept.

"As am I," he said warmly.

Sybil expected her interactions with Boromir to resume in the limited way they had gone on so far on this journey. That they would skirt around the other, while more or less being at least content that there was no longer any malice between them. Which was probably why she was left blinking like a fool when she found that he instead deliberately hung back when they set off until he walked in step with her, behind the rest of the party.

"May I ask you a question? In your capacity as the Fellowship's seer?"

"Of course," she said after a moment's pause, "but there are some things I cannot answer."

None of their companions had gone so far as to outright ask her what their own futures foretold, on an individual and personal level. Either because they understood that she couldn't answer, or they knew fine well that knowing was not always a good thing. She wasn't sure she'd want to know, were she in their shoes.

"I know," Boromir said readily enough.

The question didn't come swiftly. Instead, he turned his eye to those walking far ahead, his brow furrowed only slightly in consideration.

"You seem so certain that the…that it is evil. Inherently evil – that it cannot be turned to better purpose, under any circumstances. Have you seen something that tells you so, or do you defer to the wisdom of Gandalf and the Elves?"

"I have never been one to believe something just because others suggested I should," she replied carefully.

"So you have seen something, then?"

Sybil hesitated. Because she hadn't specifically seen the Ring do something terrible. It could not loose the arrows that might pierce the man walking in step beside her, nor wield a blade to separate Frodo from his finger. But only something evil could wreak what she had seen – and she would likely see more yet. However, she doubted such reasoning would sway Boromir; not because he was stubborn, but because he had so much at stake here. What did she have? Her life. He had the lives of all of his people to think of.

At least her reasoning wasn't limited to that.

"I didn't need to see anything to know it," she answered finally. "I know it the same way I know that fire is hot, or that the snow that awaits us will be cold, or that it will grow dark tonight."

"But experience has taught you those things. You did not know so until you learned it."

"I was never the kind to have to stick my hand in a fire to discover why one should not do that, either," she teased gently.

He huffed a laugh. "I can believe that."

"It is evil," she said, when she saw the dissatisfaction on his face. "There is no doubt in my mind as to that fact. It…"

She hesitated then, but Boromir was not content to let her get away with her hesitation.

"It?" he prompted, keen interest shining in his eyes.

"It whispers lies. In our heads. It cloaks itself in our voices, but that's all it is. A cloak. Forgive me if I'm over-stepping – truly – but I think it has more cause to whisper in your head than it would the others."

"Because I am the weakest here?" he seemed tempted to take offense.

"Hardly," she scoffed. "That title falls to me. No, you're not weak. But you do have a lot to lose."

"We all have much to lose. Everything to lose."

"And I don't mean that the rest here do not feel that," she insisted, then sighed her annoyance and tried to search for her words. "You…you have a responsibility. To your people. And a level of care for them which is…is…admirable. Oh, that's not the word…sincere? Impressive, perhaps."

"Which is my duty."

"Your duty is to protect them. But I…while I might not have seen much, I have read much. From what I gather, many in your position do their duty because they must. Not because they care. You care deeply. Isn't that the first thing that any enemy preys upon? From a strategic standpoint?"

"The others have much they care about, too."

"Perhaps, and it likely tries the same with them. But they do not speak of it."

"You do. You did, just now, when you admitted it."

"It's not something I intend to share beyond this conversation. I'd appreciate it if you didn't repeat it, either."

"You have my word."

A silence threatened to grow then, and she feared he'd ask what exactly it was the Ring murmured to her. So, instead, she asked a question of her own.

"May I ask you a question?"

"In my capacity as…?"

"Cloak-giver."

"Ah," he cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders as he walked before turning his gaze straight ahead. "I hope I did not make you uncomfortable. Ordinarily, I move it before you wake in hopes of avoiding any discomfort on your part."

"Ordinarily? How long have you been doing it?"

"…A while."

The mystery of her newfound ability to sleep was solved, then.

"Would you have me stop?" he asked when she said nothing.

"I would not have you go cold," she answered. "I'm grateful, but I don't want to impose."

"And if I give you my word that you are not imposing?"

"Then…I'll accept that."

Although doing so was about as easy as she imagined wrenching off one of her limbs would be.

"If it makes you uncomfortable-"

"It doesn't," she interrupted quickly – and honestly.

"Good," he nodded, and then repeated quietly. "Good."

Their trudging was leading them steadily uphill, and this seemed just the very thing that all of his training had prepared her for – especially as the sun beat down on them, reflected by the snow on the terrain above, until she was sweating beneath her clothes. The breeze was cold and bracing, though, threading through her hair and worming its way beneath her cloak, offering relief when it came along. For a while then, they simply focused on walking, both drawn in by their own thoughts, in a silence that was not uncomfortable.

"I've something else I wish to ask you, if I may," he said.

Sybil shook away her thoughts, taking a moment to register what he'd even said. Then she breathed a tired laugh.

"I think if we're to have any hope of having normal conversations going forward, we need to stop requesting permission to ask questions."

"Well…may I ask your permission to ask your forgiveness for asking permission to ask so many questions?"

Sybil blinked, squinting ahead at the Bill the Pony, who trotted along dutifully before them, trying to unpuzzle the sentence. "You're going to give me a headache."

The ability to be fondly annoying, she suspected, came from his having a sibling. He laughed warmly, bowing his head as he purposely slowed his stride so she didn't have to jog to keep up with his longer legs.

"What did you want to ask?" she prompted.

"That…discussion we had. The last one, before we departed Rivendell…" she'd barely begun to tense up before he was continuing, and her worries eased, "…you said there was much you wished to see. Was there anything in particular?"

"Everything."

"That's not particular," he chuckled.

"Most of it?"

"Now you're trying to give me a headache."

"Misery loves company," she joked quietly, and then sighed, searching for a real answer – only to find it was right beneath her nose. "Snow?"

"Snow?" he echoed doubtfully. "Surely you've seen snow before."

"Of course. Most winters. It made even the Weather Hills appear beautiful. The land there was so lacking in life that little disturbed it. I'd step out first thing in the morning, and feel like I was the only person in Middle-earth."

"And that was a comfort?"

She smiled a little. "Sometimes. I always thought that if it could make a land such as that appear beautiful, what could it do to one that was already so?"

"I suspect we'll soon find out," he nodded in the direction of the high peaks that awaited them.

"Does it snow much in your home?"

Even the mention of Gondor was enough to have the shadow in his eyes, the one that had lingered since their discussion of the Ring, lightening, and the traces of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Generally, we get mild winters and warm summers," he said, "and the snow that is ever-present atop the peaks of the White Mountains seldom shifts down to greet us. But occasionally, yes. It does."

"Snow only seems fitting for the White City," she mused.

"Then it becomes the Blindingly White City. Unofficially, of course," he teased.

"For paperwork reasons?"

He chuckled then, nodding. "It's beautiful. Perhaps you will see it one day."

"Maybe I will."

She would certainly like to. But how realistic was it to really hope for it? Even if her core instinct was wrong and she survived this, and even with her newly repaired friendship with Boromir, her earlier idea of travelling to Gondor with him still had the sound of a farce to her now.

Despite that, though, the longing to see it was still there.

If it didn't cheer her so, it would have troubled her. How quickly she slipped back into how she'd been with Boromir before the Council. At first she did not trust it – not because of him, but because she scarcely trusted the ground beneath her feet not to give way under her boots most days, but that vanished in less than twenty-four hours, and then she marvelled at it. How their argument following the council could go from something that utterly plagued her to something that she viewed as a blip (even if it was a substantial one) in such little time. The awkwardness faded with each passing interaction, both of them slowly becoming more sure that the other wouldn't snap back into resentment with each passing sentence, and it was…it was nice.

But that was the nature of these times. Holding a grudge over something that was said in anger – and when she'd received not only an apology, but his support after the incident with the Crebain, no less – would be ridiculous, not only with what they faced, but what they faced together.

It was a turn of events she never could have imagined – but only because her imaginings scarcely skewed positive, anyway. Optimism and delusion were twins, according to Bera. It was one shred of her wisdom that Sybil could not fault, because until now she hadn't had much cause to do so. Strange that she should find evidence to the contrary on a quest such as this.

The night before they would push on ahead to the pass found Sybil by the fire, a glass phial wedged beneath her nose. She'd packed rather a few, fearful that they might begin to lose their potency upon being opened and exposed to fresh air a handful of times. If they would, they had not yet begun to do so. This one still felt like she was jamming needles up her nostrils.

If they truly would reach the pass the next day was difficult to discern. They were certainly getting there, but the snowy terrain made each league a hard-won one. Gimli's protests had quietened, but not altogether dissipated. He did not gripe, nor was he disrespectful in how he asserted what he thought the best path would be, but he made his opinion known all the same. Sybil envied that quality, in a way – and she couldn't fault him for it. He spoke not out of self-interest, but because he truly thought it was the best course of action. Much as Boromir did, with his opinions on how he thought the Ring should be used.

A company of shrinking violets could hardly achieve what they aimed to. They needed folk like them in their number. Were all gathered as quiet as she, this mission truly would be doomed.

Whether he sought to bring Gimli's protests to an end, or because he was truly worried about what might occur at the pass itself, Gandalf had bid her do this in order to discern what they might face on the road head – or, more specifically, whether they should defer to Moria.

And she was on the edge of seeing just that. Until Sam began to rattle frying pans by the fire.

"Stop," she snapped, and then winced at the sharpness of her own voice.

Opening her eyes, she gave him an apologetic look, as he seemed to be caught between contrition and shock.

"I'm sorry, Sam," she said, "but please. A moment's quiet."

She was on the verge of something – she could feel it, just out of reach. When she closed her eyes there was darkness, of course, but there was something else there, funnelled to her by this damned scent. It was…a different sort of darkness, unlike the one that greeted her when she closed her eyes to sleep. That one was empty, but this one was deeper – darker, and full of something. And not a good sort of something.

"I see…darkness," she said slowly.

"See? Nothing. Forgive me, lass, but from my gathering when you see things, you see bad things. Surely nothing means that nothing bad awaits."

"I didn't say I saw nothing," she said softly, finding no need to raise her voice this time for the camp was quite silent around her. "I said I saw darkness. And…and flames…"

"Of Balin's halls?"

"I don't think so. I don't know what it's from, but it's…"

Her words carried weight here. It was something she was still growing used to, and wondered if she ever would even do so. Others here – Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, and Boromir in particular – might've been used to it. But she was having to learn as she went, and often saw much of her own discomfort in this sudden onslaught in authority reflected in Frodo's own face when decisions of great weight were put to him. She didn't want to speak when she was not sure, and when she could not explain her feelings beyond them being mere feelings.

There was something else, too. Singing? But it was…deep. Dark. Lower even than a baritone, and not the sort she'd heard from Merry and Pippin, nor even the Elves of Rivendell. It didn't seem to have a source. Unbelievable and impossible as that sounded. It was just there, enveloping whatever glimpses she could catch, low and foreboding.

Opening her eyes, she saw every single set of eyes belonging to those gathered were fixed on her. Instinctively, she froze up.

Aragorn was quickly before her.

"Give us a moment," he all but ordered the others.

Returning the stopper to the phial, she allowed him to lead her by the arm to the edge of camp. Frodo and Gandalf followed – the former only doing so at the behest of the latter.

The others resumed their usual duties about the camp, taking stock of their firewood, cleaning pots and pans, melting snow and boiling it so that it might be safe to drink. As they did so, they started up low, halting conversations of their own, purely to prove they were not trying to eavesdrop more than because they had anything they truly wished to say.

"I heard singing," she murmured to the three. "But it was unnatural. Strange."

"The revelry of the Dwarves?" Frodo hazarded a guess. "I don't know if you've spent much time among them, but to those unused to their company, their ways may seem strange."

Even as he suggested it, he didn't seem to believe it.

"No, I don't think so," she shook her head. "This wasn't songs of…of times gone by, or battles won, or of the Misty Mountains…"

Gandalf's gaze became all the keener then, but she barely noticed it because of how her final words sent yet more sharp pain through her temples. Where had that come from? The words, not the pain. She had no idea. It just seemed suitable, somehow.

"I don't know what it meant. Servants of the Enemy do not sing, do they?"

"They do, on occasion. But you would know it if you heard it, even without prior experience," Aragorn murmured. "The din they make is a terrible one."

"This wasn't terrible. Nor was it a din. It didn't sound bad, just…like it heralded something unwelcome."

"Along with darkness and fire, I cannot say these visions speak well for the route through Moria," Frodo said.

"Shadow and flame…" Gandalf said, his voice skimming below a whisper.

Frodo appeared just as confused as Sybil was by that, his eyebrows knitting together in perfect unison with her own, as they both turned their heads to look up at him. Aragorn, however, appeared to understand his meaning entirely – and it was so grim that he barely allowed a trace of his reaction to slip through. Instead, a great heaviness came over his eyes. Whatever great and terrible meaning those words held, Gandalf himself was less affected by it than Aragorn. No, if anything he seemed merely thoughtful, like it had provided a missing puzzle piece that he'd long been searching for.

"We make for the Pass of Caradhras, as planned," he said finally, both hands gripping his staff as he leaned heavily upon it, "until we are given reason to abandon that course of action."

Until. Not unless.

As if he knew the question was on her tongue – and judging by Frodo's expression, the same one was on his lips, too – Gandalf spoke again.

"Go, rest. Both of you. You've given me a great deal to mull over, my dear, and I must have solitude for it."

Sybil obeyed. Gladly, in a way, for the more she had to speak of this, the heavier and hollower she felt. Whatever lay ahead, it was not good. And it was almost enough to make her forget her pre-existing worries, of how she still had not seen herself, and they were reaching the leg of the journey she certainly had not been present for.

When she returned to her pack, she made no move to take up her book, despite the fact that Boromir had his shield within arm's reach as though ready for that. The fire was too small here for any reflection to make a difference, anyway.

She ate in silence, and found it difficult to sit still once her bowl had been washed and there was little else left to do. So, she rose and moved to take up the space beside Boromir.

"May I have your glove?"

He blinked at her. "Are you cold?"

At that, she made a sound caught between a laugh and a groan, realising quickly how her words had sounded to someone not in the know as to the route her thoughts had taken.

"No – I'm not trying to shake you down for the rest of your clothing, the cloak is quite enough," she snickered, shaking her head and smoothing some stray curls back from her face.

Now that it was all out in the open, he'd begun simply giving her the cloak before she retired. The first time, her cheeks had blazed in response to the gesture – something he either found funny or charming, judging by the smile it drew from him. While she hadn't quite stopped blushing in response to the new routine, she no longer resembled a tomato when they observed it, either.

"Your glove. It still has that hole in it, and the way ahead will only grow colder. I'll mend it for you."

Snow was already beginning to fall in small, fine flakes that were at first difficult to discern from rain.

Was she imagining it, or was he now flushing in response to the misunderstanding? If he was, it was only slight, and it could've been a trick of the dim light. But it was nice to see she wasn't the only one flustered by…by this.

"You needn't trouble yourself with it, Sybil."

"I need an occupation," she shook her head. "And I want to."

At that, he turned a considering eye towards her.

"I will give you the glove, if you first assist me in something."

"You'll allow me to assist you if only I first agree assist you?" she asked drily.

Boromir smirked. "Careful, or you'll give me a headache. Follow my lead."

She couldn't help but smile at having her earlier words thrown back at her so warmly – and anyway, her curiosity was piqued. He rose and she followed suit, blinking in surprise when he spoke to the others.

"We're going to collect more snow," he said, taking up one of the pots for the purpose.

"There's plenty around us," Pippin blinked in surprise.

"This is true, Master Took, but I would rather not spend tomorrow drinking water that originated from beneath our boots," Boromir said simply.

Few around the fire seemed to believe the story, even if she knew that neither of them looked guilty at all, but even Aragorn remained silent – and his reservations as to the time they spent together were hardly secret. While she appreciated his concern (her biggest struggle with it being growing used to others being concerned as to how she spent her time to begin with), she appreciated his ability to step back once it was voiced all the more. Even if she wasn't so naïve as to think she'd heard the last of it.

She followed Boromir away from the camp. Leading the way in silence, he chose a route that doubled back on the way they'd walked to get here – which made sense, given that it didn't lead them pressing ahead on a path they did not know. Then, however, he veered right. They moved downhill for a little, before coming to a steep uphill slope that was thick with untouched snow and led up to a rocky shelf that had the effect of being a naturally occurring balcony, hewn into the side of the mountain that overlooked the entire landscape down below.

"How did you know this was here?" she asked in wonder.

The snow was thickening up now, but there was a gap in the clouds just big enough to let the moon shine through, casting the land before them in its pale light. That same light caught the snowflakes as they fluttered down upon them, brightening them until they almost gave the appearance of tiny stars falling down from the heavens rather than mere snow.

"I did not," he admitted. "But I hoped the view might be worth seeing."

"Your hopes were answered."

She spoke softly, as if she feared speaking too loudly would dispel the view before her very eyes. From up here, rivers were reduced to threads, and the farthest trees down below were hardly any bigger than the stray residue that was often scattered across her desk after she worked with dried herbs.

There was a boulder a little ways to her right, and she wove past him to approach it, Boromir following behind her.

"Help me up?" she asked without thinking.

Only after she'd said it did she remember the oath she'd once sworn to him. He faltered, likely remembering it himself, and then he bowed his head and offered his hand, tightly gripping her own so she could keep her balance as she stepped up onto the rock. The surface was flat, and it was just high enough to put her on par with his height.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to see the world from your perspective."

The view here, the fact that he'd sought it out to offer the very thing she'd said she longed to see, just how much their standing with one another had changed, and the sheer relief at leaving behind the heavy expectations of the camp – even if only for a little while – had her feeling lighter than she had in a long time. Giddy, even. The grin pulled at her lips until her lips felt like they were about to split. Through this entire journey, the wind had been a relief and a hindrance both – for while it cooled her, in her sourer moments it almost felt like it was trying to beat her back to Rivendell, where she could hide and shy away from the danger, as she had so often done. Now it continued to whip at her, yes, but all about her, like it was embracing her and trying to force her higher still. It was thrilling.

Whatever response he gave to her teasing was lost to the wind as it picked up, but she was so enthralled by the view and how it catapulted her spirits that it took her a few long moments to realise. Or to even remember he was there.

"What did you say?"

She hardly had to raise her voice from a normal speaking tone in order to be heard over the wind – for he was close. He was…very close. They were at eye-level like this. And he was watching her rather than the view.

When she turned her attention to him, his eyes did flit out across the vast landscape before them, but then they flickered down and he cleared his throat – something she saw in the bobbing of his throat more than she heard. Finally, he looked back to her again and met her eye squarely, having found some of the resolve he must've been looking for.

"Would that you could," he repeated.

The wind died down as quickly as it had picked up. Sybil's eyes flickered down to his lips of their own volition, the view forgotten as she registered his words – and he was so very close, watching her intently, with an expression that was far softer than it had any right to be. Than she ever could have dreamed it would be, and matching the tender way he'd just spoken.

All she had to do was lean in. He wouldn't go first, she knew that, not with how things had been between them. It had to be her – and she wanted to do it. Badly.

So she did.

A/N: First update of 2024 certainly was a chapter huh.

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