The calamity that was the Pass of Caradhras was good for one thing, in that it wiped their memories of Boromir's brush with the Ring, ridding them of any awkward silences or wary looks. If Sybil was to search for a silver lining, it would be that. But she had to dig deep to find it, and it was poor consolation in the face of the cold.

There was no mistaking the blizzard that hit them as anything natural. She'd seen storms come on quickly in her time, but there had been no sign of it here. No darkening clouds on the horizon, moving swiftly before them, no gradual drifting snow that soon turned foul. One moment all was well, and the next they were struggling.

Of course, the warriors in their number were used to how quickly the tide could turn. Without even having to consult one another, Boromir and Aragorn quickly took up two hobbits each, their earlier encounter all but forgotten in the face of impending, much more tangible, danger. Any denial she might've harboured as to whether things were about to get bad was squandered when Boromir paused to turn back to her, and firmly instruct that she should keep close behind him. Her smaller frame would have no difficulty in slipping through the path he cleared in the snow – and not only would that make walking through it easier, but it should stave off the worst of the cold.

Hopefully.

But the longer they walked, the more any hope waned. Soon, she could not feel her legs beneath her, and though time narrowed down to the mere motion of dragging one foot before the other, that motion became only more difficult with each passing step. Her nose and ears stung from the constant assault of the wind, and every time she sucked in a breath through her mouth, the cold made her teeth ache.

Only Legolas did not struggle, walking atop the snow alongside them, squinting off into the distance, looking and listening intently, caring little for the sharp and deadly drop to their right.

"There is a fell voice on the air," he announced to the group.

None appeared surprised. Even had some among them not suspected that this was not the work of foul wizardry, the source of their current woes mattered little while they still battled with the symptoms.

Only Gandalf reacted, calling out.

"It's Saruman!"

That exclamation did jolt her out of her numbness, and Sybil started as if expecting to find him ready to leap out beyond the next corner. It was a good thing, too, that she'd been dragged back towards her senses, for moments after the shout, a sheet of rock, ice, and snow came tumbling down upon them, forcing all to throw themselves leftwards towards the mountainside to avoid being crushed, or sent over the ledge.

The move sent them into yet more piles of snow that had been shoved aside as they walked, and soon her arms were as numb as her legs. All stilled then, turning to Gandalf as he stepped forth, brandishing his staff and offering his own voice in an attempt to combat the one that brought the blizzard down upon them.

Wedging her hands beneath her arms, she watched, teeth chattering. Not moving, she realised, was worse than moving. The cold was all the sharper, and their current lot appeared all the more hopeless. It was so tempting, too tempting, to simply curl up and close her eyes. But she knew where that would lead.

Gandalf would win, though. Surely he would win. That thought flickered through her mind, even as the wind made it difficult to keep her eyes open, and she clung to it. The things she had seen – Aragorn crowned, Gandalf garbed in white, Frodo wounded, and Boromir…Boromir, also wounded – none of that had happened yet. There'd been no opportunity for any of it to happen. They'd run into no archers, had encountered none but their own company. Unless they were to find a crown hiding in some bushes and perform a coronation themselves and had simply missed the opportunity, there was no conceivable way that their path would end here.

Any fear that it might was just that. Fear, brought on by discomfort. Hope always waned in the face of difficulty, but that did not mean it was no longer there. Straightening her back, she began to take in a deep, steeling breath. Just as lightning struck the mountain above them, and snow came raining down.

And then all was black.

That one, deep breath proved useful now. As did the fact that her feet were planted firmly on the ground, even after they were buried – for if they hadn't been, she'd have no idea of which way was up or down. Fear pierced the cold-ridden haze, but even that worked in her favour, for it woke her up, and she began clawing at the snow about her head.

One of the last to emerge – unhelped by the fact that her height left her buried all the more – she immediately turned to make sure Frodo and Sam were well behind her. They had emerged from the avalanche, but their faces appeared even more hopeless than she felt. When Frodo met her gaze, he watched her intently, like he was hoping for something. A sudden vision. A stroke of wisdom. Anything.

But she had little to offer. Instead, all she could do was hunch down, inspecting his hands, nose, and cheeks, for signs of frostbite. There were none, but it gave her something to do.

"Can you feel your hands?" she asked. "And your feet?"

"Yes," he nodded.

"And you don't feel hot?"

"I'm not sure I'll ever feel hot again," it was said with as much good humour as any here could muster, but it still lacked any cheer.

"We must get off the mountain!" Boromir called ahead to Gandalf, his voice rough. "Make for the Gap of Rohan, and take the West Road to my city!"

"The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!" Aragorn countered immediately.

The fact that he had to do so through a mouthful of snow took none of the ferocity from his disagreement.

"If we cannot pass over the mountain, let us go under it," Gimli declared, low voice booming over them and the wind. "Let us go through the Mines of Moria!"

Sybil looked ahead to Gandalf, only to see dread clear on his face, Gimli's suggestion obviously the very last thing he wanted to hear. Especially because of how much more tempting it sounded now, under these conditions, than it had been on so many easier evenings, around a warm campfire under the glow of the setting sun.

Then his eyes landed on her. Seeking her input. There was none she had to offer. While she was doing her best to accept that her days as a bystander to, well, life had passed by, she could not offer information that she did not have.

Seeing this on her face, he sighed.

"Let the Ring-bearer decide."

She turned to Frodo, and who continued to stare at her with that hopeful expression – now terribly mingled with disappointment – before he turned his eye to Sam, and in the direction of the rest of his kin, though the sight of them was blocked by she and Boromir both.

"We cannot stay here!" it was Boromir who called over the wind next. "This will be the death of the hobbits!"

"Frodo?" Gandalf prompted.

"You see nothing?" Frodo urged her, rather than answering Gandalf directly.

"Nothing I haven't shared," she answered.

Not regarding this, at least.

"Do you think you could see more?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "It's possible, but not here."

Frodo nodded, considering her words before he spoke up and addressed the others. His comfort with taking the authority owed to him here was growing a little – or he was at least growing used to hiding the surprise and discomfort – but it was clear he still did not relish it. That much, Sybil could relate to. Even if her burden was not so great as his.

"The way ahead is closed to us. There's no use pressing on. We will go back, and reconvene on safer ground," he announced.

All accepted his words readily enough. Boromir and Gimli both, she suspected, because neither of the routes they were pushing for had yet been rejected. Whether they were to make for the gap or the mines, they would need to double back either way. And, of course, all of them were thrilled to abandon this path.

Even the weight of the hopes now upon her shoulders couldn't stop Sybil's spirits from slowly rising when they all began to turn. Never before had a retreat felt like such a victory.

The moment the terrain allowed, they paused to set up a camp on a sloping stretch of the mountainside that they'd ascended far earlier on in the day. Whatever footprints they'd left on the ascent had already long since been buried. By that point the sun was setting, and while she could once again more or less feel her limbs, that was not a pleasant experience – for they ached and burned in equal measure, and her face stung where the harsh winds above had grazed her skin. But a sense of industry occupied her, and while Sam set a pot about the fire for tea, soup, or even just hot water – anything at all to warm them – she set another among the embers, filled with warming herbs and spices. Ginger, cinnamon, and some healing herbs, weak enough that it would not irritate the skin she intended to apply it to, but strong enough to offer warmth.

Once it was simmering, she took up the pot, and moved here and there through the camp, stopping before each hobbit so that she could apply the concoction carefully to their foreheads, cheeks, and hands, trying to work some warmth back into their small frames.

Sam flushed all the while, not quite able to meet her gaze as she worked, Frodo was grateful, Merry did his best to make her laugh – while pausing to comment on how cold her own hands were, and how she should tend to herself next. Last was Pippin, who insisted on taking a sip of the concoction despite her warnings, and wrinkled his nose for her efforts.

"I hate to say it, but you're a better seer than you're a cook," he mused.

"That's why I leave it to Sam. The Enemy wouldn't need his armies if we had me at the cooking pot," she teased, ignoring the chattering of her teeth as she worked.

The snow that had caked her hair and clothing had long since melted, leaving her chilled to the bone, a cold that was renewed every time even the slightest breeze worked its way through her curls or beneath the gaps at the collar of her cloak, and the cuffs of her sleeves.

"It is working, though. Thank you. We could've used this up there," Pippin commented, burrowing his chin down into his scarf.

Sybil offered a smile that was more of a grimace. "These herbs are no match for what we faced up there. The blend offers comfort, not true warmth. You could bathe in this and freeze to death, all while thinking you're perfectly warm."

As she spoke, she did her best to bottle up the remnants of the concoction in case they needed it later, but half of it ended up spilling down the edges of the empty phial and across her hands instead.

"Your bedside manner could use some work, Sybil," Gandalf commented wryly.

At first she laughed, but the action seemed too close to shivering and before long she was wracked with tremors, struggling to even still long enough to recork the bottle. After a few near-misses, larger, gloved hands enveloped hers and pried the phial from her grip, stoppering it in mere moments.

"Show-off," she mumbled at Boromir.

"You are freezing," he said, concern clear in his tone.

"I'm fine, now that we've descended a bit," she shook her head.

"Sybil, your small stature is only barely outweighed by that of the halflings-"

"Gimli-" she made to argue.

"His people are hardier than our own race. The hobbits are the only ones here who will feel the cold more keenly than you, and they have now been tended to. You are next on the list of priority."

"I'll be fine in a bit."

"You're shivering badly. Come here."

Sybil blinked wide-eyed at him, and he forced a tired laugh – banishing any doubts as to whether, despite his great shows of strength and stamina both in clearing their retreat through the snow with Aragorn, he'd felt the strain of the day.

"I have no plans to set you ablaze, worry not."

She moved towards him clumsily, in part because her limbs were numb and uncooperative, but also because she had no idea how he intended to manoeuvre her. Removing a glove with his teeth, he felt her hands and cursed, muttering about how they were like ice.

When his hands began to fuss with his coat, she interrupted firmly.

"I will not take your cloak from you – I mean it. It's far too cold."

"You're correct, you won't take it from me. You will, however, share it."

Sybil hesitated, looking about them at their travelling companions, none of whom were paying attention to the exchange, concerned with their own attempts to heat up and dry what was now doused in melted now. Not only did he see her wary looks, though, he misunderstood them.

"I do not seek to make you uncomfortable," he said.

"You're not," she said quickly. "It's just…"

When she looked about them again, he understood then.

"What crime are we committing, Sybil?" he asked quietly.

He had a point. Truly, they were doing nothing wrong – and she was so cold. Too cold to think further, even. Seeing her assent, he carefully began to unclasp her cloak and Sybil's eyebrows twitched upwards.

"I think undressing me in the middle of camp is more than we can get away with," she mumbled.

A dangerous glimmer shone in his gaze as he replied conspiratorially. "Something to aspire to, then."

Once her cloak was off, she was bowed by the true bite of the wind, hunching and wrapping her arms around herself. They'd already cleared much of the snow from the ground of their temporary camp – only intending to be here long enough to warm up, regain their wits and discuss a new course of action – and that which they'd scraped away had ended up piling so high that it created a little wall around them, their camp more of a pit than anything else.

Boromir slowly lowered himself to the ground, pulling her with him, and then encouraging her to sit with her back pressed against his chest, his long legs bracketing hers. After that, he pulled his cloak forward and draped it about her, before covering what little gaps were left by pulling her own cloak over the front of her like it was a blanket. The end result probably looked ridiculous. They were, essentially, a bundle of fabric with two heads poking out. When one strong arm wrapped around her middle, pulling her tightly to him, she couldn't find it in her to care if she looked stupid.

"I'm not sure I shall ever get used to how slight you are," he chuckled.

His lips were mere inches from her ear as he spoke, and she felt his voice rumble in his chest where it pressed against her back.

"More short than slight, I think," she pointed out ruefully.

Slight was for the Elves – willowy and fragile. While she was small in stature, she was too rounded at the hips and chest to ever be confused for an elf.

"Mm. Thankfully."

It took a beat for the word to sink in.

"Thankfully?" she echoed with a puff of laughter.

"Thankfully," he repeated, firmly.

"Are you admiring the shapeliness of my figure, Lord Boromir?" she teased – as if she wasn't thankful her face was already flushed with the cold.

His hesitation lasted for the span of a blink of an eye, and then he smirked a little and mused quietly.

"Not for the first time."

The bold words stunned and thrilled her all at once – two things she had to push through in order to speak as if she wasn't affected at all. It wasn't convincing, but she didn't much care about that.

"When was the first time? When you caught me in the river, looking like a madwoman with my dress pulled up?" she snorted.

"No, alas, I was too concerned to be lecherous then," he replied. "But if you ever wish for a second opinion as to whether your burns have fully healed, I'd be more than happy to lend an expert eye."

"So you are, in your own words, a lecher, then?"

"If I am, so are you. I recall you watching me rather intently when I was chopping firewood."

"The time when you so appreciated your audience that, if Gandalf hadn't stopped you, you'd have cut down the entire forest?"

"And you would have watched all the while," he said, unabashed.

"Probably," she snorted – and found it strangely freeing to be able to admit it. "I wanted to see when you'd tire."

"You haven't heard, then? My stamina is a thing of legend."

A beat passed, and then she dissolved into a fit of quiet laughter as he spluttered and immediately tried to remedy his words.

"I did not mean – I was not implying that- that is, I did not…"

Oh, how she wanted to kiss him. Sorely. Maybe the fact that she couldn't only added to that desire, too. For his teasing riled and warmed her both, the fact that it was just that – teasing – and tempered with a true gentlemanliness, a true goodness, was more endearing than she ever could have anticipated.

If there was any assurance needed that his prior teasing had been just teasing, rather than true sleazy behaviour, or a desire to see her uncomfortable (not that she'd suspect either in the first place), it would've been granted in how he flushed and immediately tried to amend his words. Although he eased up and smiled when he saw how she laughed.

The laughter faded, but she continued to tremble as if she still laughed. If this was working, and if she was warming up, she'd yet to feel it. Boromir felt it, pulling her more tightly to him, his other hand trying to rub some warmth into her arms, hands, and even her shins, as she bundled her legs up until they were tucked beneath her chin. Despite all of the teasing he'd just done, there was nothing suggestive or inappropriate in those particular touches, to the extent where any healer would applaud the professionalism of it.

In response to her huddling, he bent his own legs at the knee and pressed them tightly about her, cocooning her further. Turning her face, she tucked her head beneath his chin, huddling closer and closing her eyes. If it was working, she couldn't feel it. She couldn't feel much of anything, even her breath stuttering in time with her shivers. Boromir was a great big furnace of a man, had they done this on any other day, she'd have been sweating by now. But instead, she still felt the bite of the cold.

Despite that, though, it…it wasn't wholly unpleasant. Or really unpleasant at all. Being held. When was the last time she'd experienced this? If she ever had at all, she could not recall it. And seeking such comfort – albeit in a more platonic manner – from Bera would have been so utterly out of the question that it had never even occurred to her, not once. Even in her first weeks and months since losing her memory, if it all became too overwhelming, she would excuse herself from the cabin, take a walk to pull herself together, and when she returned they would both dutifully pretend her eyes were not red and raw.

Had desperation not driven her into this embrace, she likely would've hesitated far more at stepping into it…but only out of habit. And now that she was here, she already dreaded the moment she would have to move. When the others would grow comfortable enough to take notice of this strange embrace, or when they had to move forth yet again.

Having done all he could to work warmth back into her limbs, the hand at her middle squeezed tighter, as if holding her firmly enough might still the shivers by force, while the other sought out hers beneath the cover of their cloaks, holding it with surprising tenderness out of the sight of the others. His thumb ran over her knuckles, his fingers toyed with hers, and Sybil's eyes fluttered shut as she lay against him, holding his hand.

"Do not fall asleep," he warned.

"I won't," she lied.

He was right. He had been right. When he'd argued, after their kiss, that this little shred of good was priceless amongst all else. As she huddled closer, she knew it then for a fact, rather than a hope.

The next thing that floated into her awareness was a voice. Boromir's. Rumbling up through his chest, where her cheek was pressed against it.

"She has only just begun to warm up – give her more time to rest before you seek to pry more visions from her."

Her first thought was that she was grateful, at least, to have slept through any chance she might've had at witnessing the others' first response to seeing them like this. To have it spoiled, or tainted somehow, by their misplaced judgement was not something she could abide. Not after the comfort it just brought her.

And she was warm, finally. More snug and cosy than she'd ever been on her little makeshift bed in Bera's cabin, even, with Boromir's hands still at her middle, and in hers.

"I would like nothing more, but we do not have the luxury of time," Aragorn's voice replied, hushed but intent.

"What's the matter?" she mumbled.

Even as she first spoke, and before she'd properly opened her eyes, she already began moving. If she paused, and if she gave herself time to think about how she did not wish to, it would only grow more difficult. But her mind was not clear, and the cloaks fell away before she could disentangle herself properly from the man who had kept her warm. Hers fell to into a heap before her, revealing the strong arm wrapped securely about her waist, and then his were disturbed by the motion, too, putting their entwined hands on display.

Aragorn regarded both facts with an entirely unreadable expression. Well. Any hope they had for secrecy was firmly dashed then and there – for even though she knew Aragorn would say nothing of it to the others, he'd been the one she was most concerned about finding this. What had they made it? Not twenty-four full hours? Perhaps just that?

But she shoved any temptation to appear guilty away. Boromir was right. What crime were they committing?

"We must discuss our next course of action," Aragorn said evenly, eyes drifting up from their hands to instead meet her gaze. "We need your input, Sybil."

"Very well," she nodded.

And she did so as if she often had to disentangle herself from handsome men in order to discuss the fate of the world, and quests of life-and-death. Eru, what had her life become? But as Boromir rose to stand after her, picking up her cloak for her as he did so, she could not find much regret over the change.

In fact, she found none at all. Even as the wind bit sharply at her once again, all the more piercing for the prior warmth that it now cut through. Bundling her cloak tightly about herself, she approached the others, slowing to a halt before Gandalf and Frodo.

"I cannot help but feel we should have seen this coming," Gandalf mused unhappily in the way of greeting.

"We had no way of knowing Saruman would know our heading," Sybil pointed out – more out of confusion than a fierce need to disagree with him, of all people.

"Perhaps not, however…" he paused and looked to Aragorn as if silently debating something.

"You've been talking in your sleep, these last few nights past," Aragorn admitting softly.

"I have?" she stared.

Only a few other members of the Fellowship – Gandalf, Legolas, and Frodo, namely – looked as thoughtful and knowing as Aragorn did. All of the others just appeared confused, too, or at least curious. The talking must have been sporadic rather than a constant thing that they'd all deigned to keep from her.

"Mutterings, here and there," Legolas provided the explanation. "Quietly. You shall not pass, you shall not pass, over and over. We thought that…"

"I thought that perhaps they were nightmares," Aragorn interrupted to take responsibility, a contrite furrow in his brow as he explained candidly enough. "Fear of what was to come – or memories of what occurred at Bera's cabin. It seemed best not to dredge it up. Although it now appears that you were discussing the pass."

Sybil's lips thinned, unsettled more than annoyed. She had no memory of any visions coming to her in her sleep. Nor even of anything that seemed a simple dream. But she hoped that they knew her well enough to realise that, by now. That she wouldn't have to assure them that had she known anything, she would have said it. Sure enough, there was no trace of accusation to be found in any of their expressions. Only weariness at so much wasted effort, and the knowledge that the road ahead grew only more perilous still.

"Even had we realised what Sybil was saying, we would have found ourselves in this very same position, still," Gandalf sighed, adjusting his hat. "We had to try. And now that we have, we must seek an alternative route, as there may now be no doubt that the Pass of Caradhras is impassable."

"It comes to this," Aragorn supplied grimly. "Moria, or the Gap of Rohan."

At the second 'option', his eyes flickered to Boromir – for barely even a shred of a second, but she caught it.

"You said that the Gap of Rohan would stray too near to Isengard," Sybil pointed out. "After the events of today, it seems foolish to go towards Saruman. Wouldn't that be what he wants? To force some kind of proximity? If he doesn't know we're considering Moria, he'll assume we have little choice but to wander straight into his grasp."

Nothing in her words supplied much of a revelation. Mostly, she sought to make sure she was on the same page as they were before she…what? Offered guidance? Was that what they expected here? Aragorn's words to Boromir suggested so, but there was always an air about the situation when they were waiting for her to produce one of the phials to induce a vision. A sort of patient expectance. None of that hung in the air here.

Stranger still was Aragorn's reaction to her words – a sort of surprise that had his eyebrows creeping upwards as he nodded, as though he was pleased by her words. Sybil understood the root of his reaction immediately, and it had her bristling. What did he think? That because of her- her attachment to Boromir that she'd mindlessly agree with his every stance on this quest? No. She was not so simple, nor so weak. When asked, she would speak her mind, and speak it truly. If Boromir took issue with that, then he was hardly a man she wished to continue kissing. No matter how good those kisses were.

But she bit her tongue and kept her ire back. She was tired, and she was cold. They all were. This was the worst possible place, and the worst possible time, for them to begin snapping at one another now.

In any case, she had more to say.

"I…have had another thought," she hedged.

Difficult as it was to remain intimidated by those whom she'd shared so much time, air, food, and even sleeping arrangements with for what already felt like so long, she was not yet in the habit of offering all of her thoughts unbidden. Not when they were rooted in opinion and speculation, rather than fact.

Aragorn motioned for her to continue, and Frodo eyed her with weary interest.

"What I glimpsed of Moria, if it was indeed Moria, was not promising," she allowed, curling her arms around herself.

For a moment, she gazed into the distance – as though to Moria, though in reality she had little notion of the route there, nor even its direction.

"But…" she sighed softly, "could the fact that I did glimpse it not be a sign in and of itself? I never saw anything of what lay over the other side of the pass. Nor of what may dwell within the Gap of Rohan. What little I have seen, I have seen of Moria. It offers little indication, but it's more than we've been shown of anything elsewhere."

"You saw Imladris, and that led you here," Legolas pointed out in agreement. "It does tend to act as a compass, does it not?"

"A compass that has led her to the most dangerous quest any in Middle-earth can conceive of," Boromir pointed out.

"It has its redeeming moments," she said softly.

That almost drew a smile from him. Better still, it pried most of the vexation from his face, too. And the fact that he offered no further argument proved to Aragorn, she hoped, that they could disagree without raining fire down upon the other.

"I suppose we're beyond the point, now, of hoping that any course of action might lead to fair places," Frodo pointed out, his tone resigned.

"We're looking for what works, rather than what's fun," Sybil agreed.

"Unless you have a very strange notion of what fun is," Aragorn added drily.

Their Ring-bearer smiled a little at that, although it was a tired, strained imitation of one.

"The mines, then," he said. "We will go through the Mines."

A/N: I could've sworn I just heard wargs howling…

And, maybe even more dangerously, Sybil and Aragorn have A Conversation on the horizon! Very excited for that.

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