The biggest delay in their returning to camp did not come from pausing to actually collect the snow, as they'd promised they'd do, but from the way Sybil had to pause and turn her face to the biting, frigid wind so that it might turn the rest of her face as red as Boromir's beard had to the area surrounding her lips. If he managed to hide the smugness he felt at that – primarily by bowing his head until he could straighten his face – he failed entirely when she had to grab a handful of snow and press it to her lips to reduce any lingering swelling.

It was rather difficult to mutter a fond sort of insult towards him through a mouthful of said snow, but she did her best.

"The plan is to act naturally, then?" he murmured once she dropped the handful of snow.

Soon they'd be within sight of the camp, and discussion would no longer be an option.

"That's a bit of an oxymoron, isn't it?" she replied ruefully.

"…What did you just call me?"

At that, she huffed a laugh, but when she next looked at him, he was regarding her curiously, a sort of good-humoured bemusement furrowing his brow.

"I didn't- I mean…to act naturally. It's an oxymoron. Two words that mean the opposite of one another. Like old news or deafening silence. Once you begin acting, it ceases to be natural."

"Another lesson from your mentor?"

"No – just a relic of wherever I came from, I'm afraid."

Any further discussion on that point was swiftly ended when they rejoined the others. Casual nods of greeting were exchanged, but otherwise the rest of the Fellowship barely seemed to realise they'd returned – which made the nerves buzzing around in her chest feel all the more ill-needed.

"Sorry for the delay," Sybil said, surprising herself with how casual she sounded.

"It's no matter, I heard and explained," Legolas said - just a touch too sunnily.

Where she panicked, albeit silently, Boromir swiftly took over.

"You did?" his tone was unreadadable.

"Mm. I did. A shame that the flowers you found were not yet ready to be harvested."

"Yes. A shame. But it would've been a waste to try to pluck them anyway," Sybil replied.

"I'm sure that they were worth pausing and admiring, all the same," Legolas answered, just a hint too knowingly.

"I would say so," Boromir said.

Sybil willed her cheeks not to blaze. Especially when Gandalf chimed in, his voice far too riddled with humour for her to wonder if she was being paranoid when she suspected he knew, too.

"I did not realise you were such an expert in flora, Boromir," he rumbled.

"You need not be an expert to know beauty when you see it."

And now she wanted to throttle all of them.

"I don't care for their beauty – only for how useful they'll be once I chop them up," she said brightly.

"How very unpoetic," Legolas replied, his voice mild, as Boromir hid a laugh behind a cough.

"Can't say I agree, either," Sam chimed in.

"If any of you had met Bera, you'd understand," Aragorn said.

Sybil laughed in agreement, turning to him. "Could you imagine her in Rivendell?"

"I'm doing my best not to," he returned drily.

For that, she couldn't blame him. It wasn't her habit to speak ill of the dead, but she knew fine well that she'd have died herself – of mortification – several times over, had Bera lived to accompany her to Rivendell. Likely beforehand, too, on the journey there.

"She wouldn't have liked it?" Legolas appeared confused by the notion, rather than offended on behalf of Elven-folk in general.

"She…had little time for that which she did not deem practical, nor immediately useful," she took care in finding the words, and even more in voicing them.

The matter of Bera, and what she'd have to say about recent events, was one that continued to weigh on her long after most of their number had retired. Her bedroll quickly felt as inhospitable as the thoughts inside her mind.

If she could see her now, she'd be loudly and doggedly insisting that Sybil was well on her way to becoming one of the unfortunate women they'd encounter here and there in the villages they visited – the ones toting hungry babes, begging for charity, with stories of dead husbands and insistences of widowhood that didn't quite ring true. It was just the most acceptable answer as to why the father of said infant wasn't around.

But this wasn't like that. Truly, it wasn't. The fact that all of those same girls likely thought the same about their own circumstances at some time or another didn't matter. Even if she could hear Bera's raspy chuckle in response to that thought, followed by a 'all girls think they're the special exception – until they discover they're not'.

She hadn't even realised her leg jostling restlessly atop her bedroll until she had to still it in order to sit up. Legolas was first on watch, and Boromir second – the latter having decided to simply stay awake, rather than sleep for all of an hour before being roused. All of the others were asleep, through a combination of their days' endless exertion, and the skill they'd all been forced to learn of grabbing rest whenever and however they could.

Digging a hand into her pack, Sybil withdrew a small sachet of herbal tea. She'd stowed them all like this before leaving Rivendell, for the sake of ease and time – each little packet measured out into precisely one cup's worth. After a bit more digging, she withdrew a cloth wallet, too. Rising to her feet, she side-stepped several sleeping bodies, approached Legolas, and slipped it into his hand.

"What's this?" he blinked.

"Tea."

"I gathered that," he said with some humour, lowering his voice before he replied gently. "I only meant that if it is a bribe, it is not needed."

"A friendly gesture, then?"

At that, he smiled warmly and squeezed her arm in thanks. Sybil flushed – not for the same reason she would have had Boromir smiled at her like that, but because the idea of being on the receiving end of such a gesture from a literal Elven prince was still a lot to wrap her mind around.

Next, she turned and made her way towards where Boromir sat, sinking down onto the ground beside him.

"You should be resting," he murmured, "we push to the pass tomorrow."

As he spoke, though, he splayed one long leg out until his thigh pressed against hers.

"Is that an order from my fighting instructor?"

"A suggestion from a friend," he corrected.

But even as the word friend left his lips, his green eyes flickered downwards and lingered on her lips for just a moment.

"If I try to force it, I'll only grow frustrated and not sleep at all," she explained. "If I seek distraction, and then try again soon, I'll fall asleep more easily."

At that, he seemed intrigued, his brow furrowing as he regarded her with guarded interest.

"And what distraction have you come here to seek?"

Truth be told, she did almost lose her nerve and abort her daft little plan then, but she reminded herself of two things. The first, his teasing of her when they'd returned to camp. And the second, less cheerful, was that there'd be fewer and fewer chances for levity going forward. Should she not seize it where she could?

The hand of his that she sought dangled lazily atop the knee that was still pressed against hers. With one last glance around the camp to make sure the others were truly sleeping…and that Legolas remained disinterested in her antics…she lifted her hand and eased it beneath his, palm-up. Eyeing her with a (justified) mix of surprise and suspicion, his fingers twitched around hers as though wondering if she was attempting to hold his hand. They loosened, though, when he realised she was not. Sliding her fingertips across the dip of his palm, she moved them slowly downwards still, to his wrist, until she reached the cuff of the glove.

Hooking two fingertips beneath it, she peeled the glove off of his hand, and then took up her mending kit. Boromir breathed a soft laugh.

"It'll be cold at the pass," she spoke around the needle she wedged her lips as she fished out a spool of thread.

"Did your sight tell you that?"

"Har-har."

He chuckled then, his leg nudging hers. Sybil made quick work of threading the needle, and then carefully turned the glove inside out. It was still warm, and almost absurdly large compared to her own hand. The needle was little more than a gleam in the firelight as she wove it, quickly and seamlessly, in and out of the fine leather.

"You're like a spider," he commented, upon witnessing her quick work.

"I've had better compliments," she returned drily.

"Fine talk from the woman who called me a moron this very eve."

"I did not-" her hushed argument was cut short when she looked at him and found him grinning, taking great delight in needling her.

Rolling her eyes fondly, she returned to her work.

"Why do you find yourself restless?" his voice gained a touch of sincerity then. "Are you troubled by tomorrow?"

"No more than anybody else here."

"…By today, then?" he asked slowly. "Do you…harbour regrets?"

Sybil considered the question for only a moment before she answered sincerely. "No."

"Good," he nodded, and then repeated quietly as if to himself, "…good."

She spoke truthfully, too, for the fears that had gnawed at her – those that whispered in Bera's voice more than her own – faded to all but nothing the moment she rose and sat beside him. How could something that made her this happy, this giddy, in so small a time, through something as simple as a look, a touch, or a laugh, be wrong? Be bad? Be something best avoided? Plenty of foul things slunk in wearing fair facades, she was not so naïve as to be ignorant to that, but this was not one of those things. After all, those foul things would not masquerade as fair if it was uncommon that some things that appeared fair truly were fair.

Already, her fears were settled. More than that, she felt foolish for allowing them to bubble up in the first place. But it opened up the gates for the blushes and the smiles to return, and that was a win. Especially when there were no suspicious eyes to catch them. They were pushing their luck here, like this, enough as it was.

Tying the thread off, she snapped the end and returned the glove to him. When he tried it on, it was impossible to see where the hole had been.

"Good as new," he smiled warmly. "Thank you. I may even forgive you for insinuating you desire to chop me up, back when we returned to camp."

"I think I was the one being butchered in that analogy," she pointed out.

"Now that would be a shame."

Sybil paused and made a face, before smiling tiredly. "I've had worse compliments."

His glove back on his hand, Boromir lifted that same hand to undo the silver clasps keeping his cloak fastened about his neck.

"No," she protested, already half-rising as if to flee him and his cloak. "It's too cold for that."

Catching her arm with one hand, he continued to remove his cloak with the other.

"I want you to take it," he insisted. "I won't hear any arguments on the matter."

Faltering, Sybil debated on whether it was even worth arguing over, but that slight hesitation was all Boromir needed. Kneeling, he released her arm and pulled the cloak about her shoulders – the action doubling as a foolproof cover for his lips to softly brush against her cheek as he did so. Whatever subtlety his actions were cloaked in, however, was rumbled by the fact that she flushed scarlet in response. But he didn't seem to mind, grinning in a way that seemed to be proud and dangerous all in one.

Sighing her defeat, she eyed him and then nodded her thanks, accepting his hand so she could rise to return to her bedroll. His thumb ran across her knuckles as he helped her – and she felt his eyes on her back as she skirted the fire, bundling the cloak in her hands the whole time so she didn't trip over it.

As she settled back into her bedroll, feeling far lighter than she had upon first leaving it, she could only just make out Legolas' murmurings above the crackle of their meagre fire.

"You know, of all I'd heard of Men before embarking on this quest, there is one thing I did not expect."

"Oh?" Boromir replied.

"How adorable you are."

Boromir made a huffing sound, and Sybil buried her face into her bedroll.

It had been very easy – perilously easy – that night, to forget everything they yet faced. Perhaps that was the point. And while it was hardly the full draw, it was still a…a perk. But it could not be permanent, and it could not rest over this quest uninterrupted.

Morning came, and the mood of the Fellowship was sombre, the push onto the pass front and foremost in the minds of all. Sybil shared that trepidation as she rebraided her hair, washed her hands, neck, and face, in a pot of warmed water, and choked down a breakfast that she largely could not taste.

The worst part about being resident seer, too, was that she couldn't show her emotions as freely as the others. It would be all too easy for some here to look at her and think not 'of course she looks wary, we all do' but rather 'she must have seen something and refuses to tell us – that is why she fears'.

And that need to appear unfazed rested even more heavily on her shoulders when they began their walking, and she realised that she recognised snow-blanketed mountains around them. The more they moved, the more she was certain they were entering the territory in which her vision had taken place. The one she did not feature in.

"You've been silent all morning," Aragorn pointed out.

"I often am. It's habit."

"Yes, but this seems different. What troubles you?"

At first she did not answer – mostly because she wasn't sure if she was going to answer at all. But her friend's resolve not to push the matter had the reverse effect (maybe as he expected), and she found herself wanting to answer, after all. That was a decidedly new sensation for Sybil. Sharing her worries was something she'd have to grow used to. Selectively.

Mostly her desire to remain silent was rooted in a wish to avoid any panic, but she knew telling the man who walked alongside her would not risk that. Aragorn was not the hysterical type. And she'd yet to regret sharing anything with him.

"Do you remember what I told you? Of my visions?"

"You saw us all, but without you," he nodded.

"I think it was of this day," she said, then her lips thinned and she added. "In fact, I'm certain of it."

As she spoke, some small, irrational part of her still feared his response. Like she expected him to suddenly shout out to the group, call an impromptu meeting, and announce to all that her death was imminent. Just how ridiculous that fear was came to light when instead, he nodded slowly and did little more than lift a hand to rest at the shoulder that was closest to him. Sybil tensed on instinct, still not completely used to such casual touches from those around her, but quickly relaxed again thereafter.

Failing to respond immediately, Aragorn instead slowly took stock of their surroundings as they continued the arduous climb up towards the pass – even going so far as to pause a moment in order to turn fully and look back upon the path they had taken to get here. Then, her spun forward again and narrowed his eyes in the direction of Legolas, seeking any sign that the elf had spotted something that could spell trouble. There was nothing.

"If there is danger, could it not be posed by the pass itself?" he asked carefully.

Sybil appreciated that he was not eager to merely wave away her fears and insist they were unfounded.

"No, it happened here. We – you – were still ascending."

"Well, I detect no danger here," he said, bemusement laced throughout his tone. "I confess, however, that I have given this matter some thought since last we spoke of it."

"You have?"

"Of course I have. It could very well be the case that-"

Whatever he was saying was doomed to go unfinished. Frodo had been struggling before them as they walked. All of the hobbits had, truth be told, for whatever incline they were forced to walk at was doubled as far as their stature was concerned. It was something Sybil herself felt, this terrain more treacherous for her than it would be for the likes of the Ranger walking by her side – the one who had been forced to slow his stride, no less, to keep pace with her.

The Ring-bearer stumbled before them, and any attempt to regain his footing proved false, slipping entirely in the next moment before he was tumbling down the mountain towards them.

Sybil started, immediately side-stepping to block the path that would lead towards the drop-off, but Aragorn moved more swiftly.

"Frodo!" he stepped forth as the halfling tumbled to a halt.

His face was flushed, either burned by the sunlight the snow reflected endlessly up at them, piercing their eyes, or bitten by the constant chilled wind that tried to beat them back down the mountain. Squinting, he rose to his feet with Aragorn's help, his hand immediately groping at his throat, feeling for the chain where the Ring sat. Or where it was supposed to sit. For he grasped once, and then twice, his eyes widening in dismay.

In unison, all three of their gazes trailed up the path Frodo had just tumbled down, honing in on the gold that gleamed amongst the otherwise unbroken blinding blanket of snow…just in time to see Boromir take up its chain.

Something deep within Sybil's chest seized painfully. Instinctively.

"Boromir," Aragorn said.

While he did not shout, there was an urgency to his tone – the sort that one adopted when they suspected blatant urgency would only hurt their cause. Sybil took half a step forward without fully meaning to, but Aragorn's hand seized her shoulder. When she made no further move, it slipped away.

Boromir, however, was aware of none of this, instead he peered down at the Ring as though it were some sort of riddle that he had yet to unpuzzle.

"It is a strange fate, that we should suffer so much fear and doubt…over so small a thing…" he paused, stared at it more intently still, and then – to her horror - lifted his other hand to where the Ring dangled before him on its chain. "Such a little thing…"

"Boromir!" Aragorn did shout then.

It worked.

Boromir snapped out of it – physically so, starting as though he had been awoken from a sleepwalk, the hand that had made to grasp for the Ring faltering in mid-air. When he looked to Aragorn, there was something in his eye. Something Sybil did not like. Not malice, nor any foul scheme, but a…a dazed quality. Once again, she made to step towards him, but this time she stopped herself. He was no thief, she knew that, but behaving as though she sought to tackle him and wrestle the Ring away from him would not lend credence to that assertion – especially if she had to argue it in the face of Aragorn's blatant mistrust.

No, her desire for proximity was for Boromir's sake. Not that of the Ring's. The concern was so great, so intrinsic, that it took her a moment to notice the ache that began to unfurl across her temples.

"Give the Ring to Frodo," Aragorn ordered – for it was an order – when Boromir blinked at him.

For a moment, one terrible moment, it looked as if he would not obey. But then he offered a strained grimace of a smile, adopting a façade of one without any care at all. It was not convincing.

"As you wish," he said with lightness that even Sybil did not believe.

The moment he was close enough, Frodo snatched the Ring from his hand – but Sybil did not allow herself to look at it. Not when it was so close. It could send her home.

"I care not," Boromir added.

His eyes flickered to hers, and though she often sought to keep her emotions from her face, she truly had no idea what he saw in her expression when he looked to her. Then, his eyes moved to Aragorn, who stared stonily back. She could at least, she thought, take comfort in the fact that her own expression would at least appear softer than that. The tightness in her chest threatened to give way to all-out nausea, waiting for Aragorn's admonishment, or perhaps an abrupt end to Boromir's attempt to appear unbothered. Instead, he laughed awkwardly, and then he ruffled Frodo's hair.

Sybil winced and looked away – to the others, who had all paused to witness the spectacle, and then to Aragorn, who kept staring at Boromir as he turned and began to resume marching up the mountain. It was only then that she realised Aragorn's fingers had, at some point, curled around the hilt of his sword.

Now she did know what shone across her features. Dismay. Disbelief. Even as Frodo continued to stare distrustfully at Boromir's back, and Aragorn returned her own stare with a look that refused to be cowed…even if it was more coloured with concern than it previously had been. Like he was grieved to have grieved her, but did not harbour true regret.

How could he distrust Boromir so?

Saying nothing, and moving before she could worry about being questioned on it, Sybil broke into what – to an outside observer – likely looked like a ridiculous little jog so that she could catch up to Boromir. The Ring was playing tricks on his mind. It was- it was whispering to him, as it did to her. But he was strong enough to ignore it, she knew he was. If she was capable of doing so, then he certainly was. There was no time or place in the whole of Middle-earth where her will outweighed that of Gondor's Captain.

She would not be another face among nine that all stared at him distrustfully.

The only indication he gave that he noticed her presence was a slight slowing of his stride. When Sybil turned her head, she noted Aragorn and Frodo, still far behind them. Expecting to walk in silence, bar her heavy breathing from catching up to him, she wedged her hands beneath her arms, faced forward, and forced herself to walk. The burn in her legs was a welcome distraction.

After a moment, Boromir did speak. So softly that she almost missed it.

"Tell me again."

As Aragorn's had previously, his words had the sound of an order rather than a request. And she knew immediately what he was speaking of.

"The Ring is evil," she said lowly. "And it lies."

And it could send her home.

Wherever that supposedly was.

A/N: Just want to make it clear that I'm totally on Aragorn's side with the sword thing. I think he absolutely wouldn't want it to come to violence if Boromir wouldn't give back the Ring, but that he'd do what he'd have to do if it did come to that – and that's fair and valid. Sybil's response is just coloured by denial, bias, wishful thinking, and the fact that she doesn't quite remember how the rest of the movie goes.

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