The night was cold, dark, and growing only harsher. All of which stood in stark contrast to Sybil's kiss – which was warm, soft, and heart-achingly tentative. And Boromir was stunned into inaction by it. Something he was not used to. Nor was he used to being unsure – not in general, and not in matters such as these, either. For while he was not an insatiable rake who seduced unwitting women left right and centre, he had lived a life.

It was far from uncommon for a soldier to fall into the arms of a fair woman when their blood was up following a hard-won battle, and he was not a stranger to such things. Although some were less…chivalrous about such matters than he made sure to be. Less selective. As a rule, even when he was young and foolish, he made sure the women he fell into bed with understood precisely the terms of such an encounter and, perhaps more importantly, only wanted as much from it as he did. If he suspected they hoped for more, he would end things before they began, as kindly as he could.

But this was not that. Not on Sybil's part, or so he found himself hoping, and certainly not on his. And so, he found himself stunned into stillness. At least, until that stillness spooked her, and she made to withdraw. That, he could not abide.

Her lips did not even have a chance to part from his before he was chasing them, caught between wonder at being able to do what he'd wanted to for so long, and having no wish to overwhelm her.

Lessening what little gap that yet remained between them, he stepped forth. His left hand brushed one of hers, while his right came up to trace a finger across the side of her face. Oh, how he wished he had not worn his gloves. It might've been tempting to stop and remove one, even, had he not worried it would put a swift and permanent end to…to this.

Only once he was closer – only once he could not possibly be any closer – did he kiss her back in earnest. Even with her on her perch, he still had to tilt his head down a little to do so, a fact which had him biting back a smile just so it would not hinder him. Sighing against his lips, Sybil's hands faltered between them until Boromir's touches became surer. Oh, they remained gentlemanly, but now he moved without fear of being batted away, one hand cupping her face outright while the other rested at her hip, keeping her close.

Her own movements gained confidence and surety both in response, her palms trailing up his chest, and further up still until one rested at his shoulder, and the other continued on so she could trace her fingertips across the stubble at his neck. Boromir groaned deeply – but they only parted when air became a truly pressing issue, their breath intermingling and fogging the air around them as they drew back, but otherwise remained close, their grip on the other not loosening.

Sybil's face was flushed, her eyes hooded, and her lips swollen. Boromir sucked in a breath and looked out over the landscape that had just captivated her so, urging his mind to less dangerous waters. She would be the death of him.

"I shouldn't have done that," he broke the silence in the most foolish way possible.

Had he struck her, she might've flinched less. Her touch disappeared, and she shook his from her person, too.

"I see."

Already, she sized up the step down, no doubt sizing up her escape route, but he lifted his hand back to her face, encouraging her to look at him.

"I misspoke," he said quickly, "I have…I have wanted to do that since Rivendell. Not one full minute has passed, and I already wish to do so again. And judging by your expression, I can only gather that it's not some purposeful design on your part which is very worrying."

That, at least, put her at ease – enough for her to still, and to listen. Even if she still refused to heed his attempts to meet her gaze.

"This isn't my malevolent seductress garb, no," she teased softly.

Boromir smirked.

"I cannot decide whether I should like or hate to see that. You drive me mad enough as you are."

"I do?" the question was more sceptical than outright disbelieving.

"How can you not know it?"

"I…I've never done anything like…like this before. Or if I have, I was stupidly young, and I've no memory of it. I don't know what I'm doing. All I know is this…this pull…I…" she paused, before losing steam and frustration both, instead breathing a tired laugh. "I don't suppose you feel it, too. If not, I sound a fool now."

"Of course I do," he admitted without difficulty. "If I did not, if neither of us did, this would be far simpler. The time…the setting…had we met in Gondor…"

"You'd have courted the strange little herbalist?" she asked drily.

It ailed him, to hear her describe herself as that – and only that. Strange. Yes, she had her peculiarities, but he found them interesting. Charming, even. And was it any wonder that she had them? Herbalist. Well, that was factual. So was little, but not in the demeaning way her tone hinted at. She was small in stature, but not in spirit. Nor in importance.

"Out of the two of us standing here now, you are the only one who views yourself as such," he replied. "Out of the ten of us on this mountain, even."

"And out of all in Middle-earth, you're the only nine who don't," she retorted.

"Even if that were true, which it is not, it makes no difference to me."

"This is not about how I view myself, I do not say this because I long to be bundled in compliments in order to hold myself in any sort of regard, I'm not that pathetic," she explained quickly.

"You're not any kind of pathetic," he interrupted, but she would not be swayed from the topic at hand.

"But it is about how others view me. About the difference in our stations. If this was…if this was mere attraction and nothing more, it would matter not. It would be simpler. But there is more here, we both acknowledge that, and so it will inevitably lead to pain when that difference is once again important."

"You've thought about this a lot."

However grim and doom-laden her words were, just how much thought and concern she'd driven into this matter was...uplifting. Reassuring.

"Hence the strange part in strange little herbalist," she replied flatly. "Don't mistake me, I don't say this because I expect a proposal to follow one kiss, nothing of the sort, but…would it not be unwise to…to set ourselves down a path that could only lead to upset," she finished finally.

"Do you always think twenty steps ahead of everything you do?"

"Haven't you heard? I'm a seer," she said. "I…these are not fresh worries. When we contemplated travelling together, back in Rivendell, I had similar concerns. Although not quite as concrete, nor as far-reaching. There was…something. Even back then."

It wasn't as though Boromir hadn't been aware of that fact. There had been a spark, even then, he was not so young and unsure of himself as to doubt that, especially when he saw how she interacted with others – even Aragorn, the one in their number whom she knew the most – as comparison. Still, hearing it stated as fact grieved him and warmed him all at once. The latter, because he knew how difficult it was for her to speak of this. Even as she'd done so, she'd bundled her hands in the fabric of her cloak just to stop herself from fidgeting and betraying her nerves, but she still viewed it important enough to force herself to do so all the same. She trusted him enough to voice it. The grief, however, came because it only confirmed just how grave a mistake he'd made in speaking to her how he had that terrible day all those many weeks ago.

But she mistook his silence for something worse, a rejection perhaps, and flushed even brighter.

"I shouldn't have said anything, I'm being ridiculous."

Once again, she began to discern how she might navigate stepping down from her perch, but Boromir stopped her.

"If…if thinking about this more than you think you should have makes you strange, then we are a strange pair."

"You agree, then."

"I'm afraid I'm more of an optimist than you are, Sybil. In this matter, at least."

She waited patiently for him to elaborate, Boromir taking his time to think of how to best word his thoughts. To mull over what he would say, before he said it. Failing to do so had hardly served him well here, in the past. And while his thoughts on this matter had been mere speculation – intriguing speculation, but speculation all the same – they could sound…intense. When voiced. In a way that he did not intend. Had she not forced herself to speak so bluntly just now, to make it clear that whatever this was, it was not as simple as a warrior and a pretty healer seeking only passing solace with one another in a difficult time, he would not have shared his thoughts at all. Not now, moments after their first kiss. A kiss he was already hoping would be repeated ere long.

"Lord Elrond said, that day, that it appeared chance brought us all to Rivendell at that precise time, but that it was not chance at all. If fate brought us to the Elves, it would also be fate that we met. Should we not heed that? Should we not trust it?"

Sybil hesitated, looking anywhere except at him, but he could see that his words had an impact – more still, she didn't appear to find them to be some great revelation. Clearly, she'd wondered the same. It bolstered his courage.

"Had those…those brigands burned down your home a different night, or not done so at tall…had I not grown so hopelessly lost and seen the smoke – leagues away from where I should have been…"

Once more, he paused, carefully eyeing her reaction for any sign that he should simply stop talking and lead the way back to camp. He found no trace of distaste, nor discomfort.

"If fate can bring us that…that thing, the weapon you insist is evil, then can fate not also bring us something good? As recompense, at least? This entire quest is one of hope. Should it not apply here? Should we not have faith that it might lead somewhere good? That we will take the impediments as they come, and that we are not being led down towards a dead-end?"

"You should know that I loathe people speaking sense when I have my heart set on pessimism."

"I shall make note of that," he said – and was only half-teasing. "Sybil, I do not seek to rush this, whatever this is, nor to add pressure where there need not be any. I am not saying I intend to get down on one knee and beg for your hand the moment we return to camp. Not least because I suspect that would be the easiest way to never see you again."

As if to confirm his suspicion, she smiled a little at that, something he was powerless but to return.

"…And, knowing myself, perhaps I'll ruin things all on my own by saying something especially stupid very soon…"

That pried a laugh from her. A fond one.

"But this is one of the few things – if not the only thing – that feels right about our current set of circumstances. That feels good."

"There's no guarantee that we even have the time that would be needed for any real impediments to arise," she murmured. "We owe ourselves some good, between now and then. If it arises."

"I wish you would not speak that way," he sighed. "You cannot counsel hope with one breath while portending your own demise with the next."

Even at that, she smiled – but it was small, tired, and mirthless.

"So predictions of painful death don't typically go into this sort of thing?" she asked drily.

"Not often, no."

"And you're an expert in dealings such as this?"

"There is no possible way for me to answer that question and come out of it well," he replied with a rueful chuckle.

But he was relieved that they were at least inching towards easier, lighter ground.

Sybil laughed in return, her cloak bunching up about her shoulders as she shrugged them. "Very well, forget I asked."

"I shall simply say that I am not some sort of…roving philanderer."

"How disappointing. That would have really livened things up on this journey."

Boromir knew not what he found more charming – the teasing, or the flush on her face as she did so.

"Only if you wish to see Aragorn drag me back to Rivendell by my throat."

"I think the Elves would appreciate a bit of intrigue."

"Alas, my neck would not."

They would have to go back to camp soon. It was a wonder none had yet come, fearing foul play, and he suspected they had Legolas' ears to thank for that. The notion of the Prince of Mirkwood hearing all of this was something he tried to banish from his mind. There would be time enough to think of that. Just as there would be time enough to pretend this conversation, that this kiss had not happened. For what else could they do? Return to the others, announce the details of the conversation they'd just had, wedge their bedrolls together and wait for the happy applause of the others? Begin tomorrow's walking arm-in-arm? Exchange courtship gifts at the gates of Mordor?

No. They would return to camp, and they would pretend that none of this had ever happened. All while studiously avoiding the gaze of Legolas, he suspected. But this was something – assurance that they were on the same page in this matter. An end to constantly wondering what the other was thinking, whether this strange spark was only one-sided, or whether they could even be comfortable around one another again.

Sneaking away again like this would not be feasible. Not often, at least, but that in itself could even be a good thing. There could be no rushing anything under circumstances such as these. That would keep them acting wisely. And they had much ground to regain, as it was. This way, they could do so under the eyes of the others, pretending there was nothing more occurring. Before long, with enough time and no more incidents, time itself would prove as evidence enough to any who were tempted to doubt – or poke their noses in. Actions proved more than words ever could, after all.

The wind that blew around them next seemed markedly colder than all that had preceded it, marking the point where they really would have to move. And collect the damned snow, as they'd promised.

"We should go," she murmured, although she showed no sign of actually moving.

"Yes, we should," he replied – and was also still.

Their hands still brushed here and there as they stood, and out of impulse he took one of hers in his own, and brought her knuckles to his lips. They were ice cold. Wincing, he took the other one up, too, clasped them in his own and tried to breathe some warmth into them – only belatedly looking to her face to check that she was comfortable with such a move.

Then he stilled. For in her face, he found such unguarded fondness that it caught him off-guard. It was a tenuous thing, like she was prepared to hide it the moment she found it was unwelcome, but it was leagues more candid than any expression she'd usually allow to be witnessed by others. Boromir could not help but kiss her again.

Not that it was an impulse he tried much to resist.

A/N: Tumblr - esta-elavaris

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