"You should be sleeping, Sybil," Aragorn said. "Your watch is a long while away yet, and the Mines will be daunting."

Sybil sighed. With a hard march to Moria beckoning – and one that they could not even guarantee would bear fruit – finding sleep felt impossible. Long had she glared at her bedroll before she rose, choosing instead to read by Boromir as he kept watch, waiting for the moment her eyes grew too heavy to continue.

And it had been a good plan…right up until Aragorn stirred and began to ready himself for his own watch.

"I ca-" she began, only for Boromir to speak.

"She cannot. Sometimes it causes more harm than good to force the matter."

"She-" Aragorn made to reply, but she cut in as sharply as she could without stirring the camp.

"She has been finishing her own sentences for a good few years now. She's quite good at it."

In response, Aragorn's lips thinned – not out of annoyance, but to hide a laugh – and then his eyes flew to Boromir, keenly seeking his reaction. And while there was a sort of tired annoyance dwelling within his eyes, that had been there since they had decided against the Gap of Rohan, and had little to do with her words. Instead, he huffed a laugh and bowed his head in concession.

"My apologies, I did not mean to speak for you," he said, his tone warm.

A new sort of curiosity rose in Aragorn's gaze, as well as…surprise? He hadn't expected the apology, then.

Sybil shoved down her irritation at that. Yes, it was a pleasant sort of surprise, but really – what had he expected? For Boromir to snap that she should speak when spoken to, and allow her betters to answer for her? How little he knew him. How little he knew her, if he thought she'd stand for such a thing.

She placed a placating hand atop Boromir's forearm, both to show her words held no real bite, and that she was willing to offer such a gesture before the eyes of others.

The silence that fell then was natural and fairly comfortable, and all seemed content to let it lie. Until it began to bare teeth – unnatural, inhuman, jagged teeth.

It started slowly, the quiet gaining an edge that had the warriors in their number bristling, suddenly perking up as they listened intently to the wind that hissed about them, Boromir's arm tensing to steel beneath her hand. Then the howls began. Terrible, heart-rending, wailing howls. Aragorn leapt to his feet, the few who had been sleeping about the camp rising quickly.

"The Wargs have come west of the mountains!"

"How far is Moria?" asked Boromir, looking to Gandalf.

Already Sybil was up, packing up the camp in an effort that was just as much about keeping her nerves calm through activity as it was a desire to be useful.

"There was a door south-west of Caradhras, some fifteen miles as the crow flies…and maybe twenty as the wolf runs," Gandalf answered grimly.

"Then let us start as soon as it is light tomorrow, if we can," said Boromir. "The wolf that one hears is worse than the orc that one fears."

"True," Aragorn replied, hand already resting at his sword. "But where the warg howls, there also the orc prowls."

There was muttering, then, among the hobbits, but Sybil barely caught a word after the ones Aragorn spoke. Or rather, one word in particular. Orc. Prowling orcs, at that. That she should encounter them became an inevitability the moment she joined this quest, but that fact was easy to forget as of late – wilfully so, if she was being honest – when she convinced herself that the worst of her worries concerned how to make Aragorn stop looking at her and Boromir like they were a couple of randy youths who must be supervised at all times.

With little distance to cover, for they were only moving to the top of the hill they'd previously camped at the base of to seek shelter from the wind, they didn't need to pack up the same way they would before a day of walking. Something in Sybil longed to suggest that they just begin making for Moria now. Already the howls drew nearer, and she kept expecting fangs, claws, and fur to descend upon her from the darkness. But her words held weight these days, and the suggestion was born of panic rather than sight – as well as foolishness, for they'd need luck to outrun these beasts in daylight, much less the dead of night.

Still, the Fellowship moved with such speed and determination as they progressed swiftly up the hill, their greatest warriors at the flanks of their party, that none noticed when Boromir clasped her arm with his free hand. His strides easily matched her half-jog.

"When the fighting begins, stay by me."

The words had the sound of an order – but she appreciated, at least, that he said when, rather than if. It would help little to shield her from the obvious now.

"I'll be fine. I had a good teacher," she pointed out.

"You will be," he agreed firmly. "But stay by me, Sybil. I will only be distracted if I have to look for you."

"Being distracted doesn't sound like a good mode of fighting."

"See? I did teach you well," the teasing was half-hearted, and fleeting, especially as he caught sight of the trepidation on her face. "Keep your head clear. That's the key."

"In healing, the easiest way to gamble with a patient's life is to give into panic," she replied. "It was good practise for this – only it's my life on the line now, rather than someone else's."

"Is that better or worse than what you're used to?"

"I'll let you know once I find out."

At least if she messed up with her own life on the line, there'd be no pesky guilt to deal with after the fact.

The peak of the small hill was encircled by trees and boulders both, and they made their camp in the middle of it. From a tactical standpoint, it was good – not just the higher ground, but the trees and stones too, she knew that. It would filter their foes as they came at them, controlling how many could get to them, and how quickly. But it still wreaked havoc on her nerves, having no clear line of sight of what was around them, dark or no. The fire they lit, for they had no hope of finding safety in stealth…or maintaining any sort of stealth at all, for that matter…only emphasised the feeling of having a bright red bullseye painted on her forehead.

And not only hers.

Images of Boromir, his body littered with arrows, flitted through her mind for the billionth time since they'd embarked upon this quest, but she pushed it down. That was going to happen in- no. It was not going to happen. That vision took place in broad daylight. Not tonight. Not now. Not ever.

Some of the others dozed fitfully as they waited, but Sybil didn't even try. Even Bill was trembling where he stood, shifting uneasily every few moments, his eyes rolling in response to the howls that drew ever nearer…and the eyes that soon gleamed at them in the spaces between the rocks.

One set of eyes grew larger and larger until the great, hulking figure it belonged to grew visible in silhouette only, a shadow blacker than the darkness that surrounded it. It let loose a low, rumbling howl, and all who had previously tried to sleep were up and on their feet, then, blades drawn, ready for whatever was to come.

As promised, Sybil stayed near to Boromir – although not so close that she was in danger of being struck by his blade. He seemed too experienced a warrior for that, but still. Seeking to confirm she was, in fact, a woman of her word, one broad hand reached blindly behind him as he kept his eyes on the wolf, landing at her abdomen. It remained there a moment, not pushing, but merely confirming to himself that she was there.

It was Gandalf who made the first move, striding forth, his staff aloft.

"Listen, Hound of Sauron! Fly if you value your foul skin!"

His voice rolled and boomed like thunder, a far cry from the curmudgeonly old man who offered encouragement when she struggled to voice her visions, or even the one who berated Pippin for his missteps. But the beast didn't heed his warning.

With a snarl, the wolf sprang towards them – Sybil's hand tested its grip on her sword as it came up on instinct, but a sharp twang sounded behind her and, with a ear-splitting yelp, the wolf crumpled to a heap on the floor, one of Legolas' arrows protruding from its throat. It twitched a few times, and then stilled. Dead. Sybil stared for a few long moments. She kept waiting for panic to overtake her, as it had threatened to in the build-up to this confrontation. But it did not. Indeed, since the beast made its move, it had vanished entirely – replaced by that eerie sense of calm previously only known to her in her medicinal work.

The one that detached emotion from observation, and subsequent action. She'd been praying that it would translate here, but few ever waited on the sidelines, ready to kill her if her healing work went awry.

Well, not up until the end at least – with the fire. But that was different from this.

When she finally managed to tear her eyes off of the beast's corpse, she found that the rest had disappeared. No longer did the sound of heavy breathing drift from between the trees and the rocks, and nor did eyes glint at them, catching the light of their fire.

Aragorn and Gandalf pressed forth, investigating further lest it be some trick or strategy, but it was not. They were gone. When Aragorn announced that fact, the others sheathed their blades, relaxing a little, but Sybil remained where she was, her grip on her own sword white-knuckled.

"Looks like you'll need to wait a bit longer for your first taste of a real fight, lass," Gimli said to her.

There was a reassurance masked within his warm teasing – that she could relax, and put away her blade.

"It felt…too easy," she disagreed quietly, eyes still fixed on the dark spaces betwixt the trees.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but if that's easy, I'd hate to see what you'd call difficult," Sam replied.

She barely heard the words of the halfling, though, still stuck in place by her own sense of foreboding.

"Sybil, have you seen something?" Frodo asked, the first of any to notice there was more to her stillness than mere fright.

"No," she said – and then hesitated. "I don't think so. Perhaps. It's – it's not as vivid as…I don't know. But this isn't over."

"I'm inclined to agree," Gandalf admitted. "Rest, all of you. But be on your guard."

She had to resist the very strong temptation to point out the oxymoron there – not least because that phrase seemed to be yet another of her strange little words that few here knew, and she worried the wizard mightn't be as good a sport about the potential misunderstanding as Boromir had been.

The others began to settle down – on top of their bedrolls, rather than in them – but while Sybil could just about force herself to sheathe her blade, the act of sitting and being still felt much beyond her. On her tenth or twelfth lap around the inner circle laid out by the trees that crowned the hill, however, Aragorn stood from where he'd been sitting guard, catching her by the inside of her elbow.

"Sybil, you must rest," he urged.

"I can't," she shook her head. "I'll go mad if I have to sit still."

"Keep this up, and you will frighten the halflings," the words were below even a whisper, mouthed more than spoken, so that their keen ears wouldn't pick it up.

She faltered. And then her eyes filled with tears, and she hated herself for it. It was the tiredness, yes, and in part it was also the fear, but she was just so overwhelmed. Unable to voice an opinion, lest it be taken as prophecy. Unable to show an emotion, for fear that it would induce mass-hysteria. Oh, the stars knew she had raised the art of bottling things up into an artform, but this? This was a lot.

What was she to be, then? A statue? One that felt nothing and voiced nothing, as she had been for the last ten years, with Bera? Only to then be admonished as unfeeling at worst, or mousy at best, for it? She thought she'd escaped that when the cabin burned down.

Oh, but she was being ridiculous. All he'd asked was that she sit and rest. It was reasonable. But she was tired, and she was frightened, and she feared that this strange feeling – this vision that was not a vision – could herald the beginning of her inability to discern sight from fear.

Aragorn spotted the tears, because of course he did, and a flash of shock mingled with concern struck his face, which did not help matters. Shaking off his grip, she took a deep, shuddering breath in, doing what she could to collect herself.

"Rest by me, if you'd like," Boromir spoke up softly. "I do not intend to sleep. I will wake you, should anything happen."

With Aragorn's back to him, he could not see the exasperation that washed over the Ranger's face, but Sybil did.

"If you can be trusted to finish your own sentences, surely you can be trusted to sleep on your own," he murmured to her. "This moves too swiftly, Sybil. Surely you see that."

Any insistence she might have given – any lie she might've offered – that there was nothing to move too swiftly was utterly scuppered by her pause, and her surprise, at how bluntly he called out what he saw. Not only then, but in their endeavour to share warmth earlier in the day.

Oh, but this wasn't helping, either. Scoffing, she wiped at her eyes with the back of her sleeves, when a new voice joined the fray.

"Sybil," Legolas called. "Come and see the lichen on these trees – I do not recognise it. Might it be of use?"

She could kiss him. Although that would set a dangerous precedent for what would be the beginnings of her working her way through the whole Fellowship, and she doubted it would be well-received.

Refusing to look at Aragorn, she instead answered Legolas' summons, and gratefully accepted his multitude of questions as to the very common, very ordinary lichen on the trees…and his steadfast commitment to ignoring the way she endeavoured to pull herself together.

He limited his opinions on the entire topic to one comment.

"There is a reason, I think, why men are not known for their wisdom among my people."

"I think that belief paints me as stupid, too," she pointed out. "I'm from their race, am I not?"

"Perhaps," he smiled slightly. "But I'm not inclined to hold it against you."

When she did force herself to rest, it was on her own bedroll – far away from Aragorn and Boromir, just to avoid the ear-beating. But she at least felt a little better.

She was started from her fitful sleep when dawn had only just begun to lighten the sky – the hue above lessened from a deep, inky black to a dark navy, the moon low on the horizon. Howls. Ear-splitting, ominous howls, all about them.

On her feet before she was even fully awake, she looked about the camp and saw most of the others in much the same state, proving that the howling had not resumed as some initially faraway thing. They'd mounted a sneak-attack – a big group of them, based on the din.

"Fling fuel on the fire!" Gandalf ordered the hobbits. "Draw your blades, and stand back-to-back!"

As they obeyed, Sybil considered staying near them – but then she remembered her promise to Boromir, and knew she'd never damn well forgive herself if he ended up injured because he was too busy keeping an eye on her across the fire to fight well.

The fire was roaring by the time she reached his side, just in time to highlight the gargantuan grey shapes leaping over the stones and weaving between the trees. Not just ordinary wolves, but Wargs. Panic flashed through her, fierce and sharp, but then it disappeared – for it would not serve her here. Fear was for avoiding circumstances such as these. There was no avoiding it now. And now, fear would get her killed.

The involuntary choking noise died in her throat, coming out as more of a squeak than anything else, and then the beasts were upon them. Aragorn dispatched the first with a jab of his sword through its throat, and Boromir beheaded the second with but one stroke of his sword.

From there – the third, the fourth, the fifth – it was impossible to count them. One lunged for Sybil and her blade was thrust through its throat, the easiest target without worrying about bone getting in the way, before she even fully knew what she was doing. She managed to bestow the next with a deep, nasty slice across its face before its head was rid from its body by Boromir, just in time for him to whirl and cleave another – which tried to pounce on him from behind – almost entirely in two from the shoulders up.

The next was slain by Legolas with an arrow through the eye, but the one that pounced over its still-dying body was hers alone to deal with, ducking down below gnashing fangs and slitting its throat with a move that was sheer muscle-memory than tactical. Blood sprayed across her face, threatening to choke her on her next inhale as it went up her nose and into her mouth, but it wasn't without its benefits. With two hulking, furry bodies piled up before her now, it was more difficult for those that followed to spring upon her.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Gandalf tear a burning branch from the fire, lashing out with it towards the wolves. They faltered, cowering back, teeth bared, but he did not hit them with it – instead, he threw it upwards, voice booming in some strange and great spell.

Responding to his words, the branches of the tree above him burst into blinding flames – flames that whooshed around above their heads until the entirety of their hill was crowned in flame, sparks raining down upon them like shooting stars. It might've been beautiful, had it not felt quite so apocalyptic. Unable to care about getting burnt, she drove her sword through the paw of the next beast that tried to lash out at Boromir, at the same time he rid it of its head with his own, heftier sword.

But the fight was already dying down, and the next one to be dispatched – a giant one, struck directly in the heart by another of Legolas' arrows – marked the end of the fight. The ones that remained fled.

Turning to her, Boromir's eyes widened at the sight of blood, but a wave of her hand (for she was too breathless to speak) explained that it was not hers. He understood easily enough, though, nodding as he caught his own breath, a hand falling heavily upon her shoulder. She pressed one of her own atop it, squeezing, and he caught it then, lifting the back of her hand to his lips. While she was too filled with adrenaline to grow flustered, she was powerless to stop the warmth that blossomed throughout her chest in response to the gesture. The bold gesture, at that. Mostly, she just wished she could kiss him properly.

The growls of their foes, and the grunts of the Fellowship, gave way swiftly to silence, accompanied only by the crackling of the flames all about them, the smoke blowing this way and that until it burned her eyes and lungs both. By the time it cleared, it did so to give way to a true dawn now.

When Gandalf spoke, though, it was difficult to find cheer in the rising sun.

"We must reach the doors before sunset," he said. "Or I fear we shall not reach them at all."

After forcing down a breakfast that, for her part, Sybil could barely taste, they were on the march once more. What shocked her, however, was how much better she felt. All right, the soot and the blood having been washed from her face probably helped, but it turned out that waiting for her first fight was leagues worse than actually going through it. And now? Now she'd survived it. Which meant there was hope for the second, third, fourth, and however many countless more would surely come.

That was something.

While she could not say that her spirits were high, she was no longer on the verge of mortifying tears as she had been the night before. But it was the recollection of those tears that had her seeking out Aragorn, hoping to at least set things right, or explain herself.

Having never been to Moria, he could no longer guide them – that role falling now entirely to Gandalf as they traversed the flatter, lower ground at the base of the mountains under a clear and sunny sky that just felt downright mocking – but she hoped that would leave him more open to conversation.

"Last night was certainly eventful," she hedged, falling into pace beside him.

Rather than match her stride, though, he seemed to speed up a little, until she was almost having to jog pathetically alongside him to try and speak.

"Indeed," he replied, not looking at her.

"It could have been worse."

"It may still be. We are not yet at Moria's gates."

"We don't have much other choice, though."

"Indeed," he repeated flatly.

And still, he did not so much as glance her way.

"Aragorn…" she said, "forgive me, but I don't see that I've done anything to make you angry with me."

"I am not angry," he said, and seemed sincere enough in that.

In fact, at his reassurance, his manner softened markedly – and he lifted a hand to pat her shoulder as if to prove his words before he continued.

"It is clear that there is, indeed, something beyond friendship that you are fostering on this quest. My concern over that fact is unwelcome, and so I will keep it to myself. However, while I am able to do that, I will not lie and pretend I am not concerned. Remaining silent on the matter is, therefore, a suitable compromise."

Sybil paused, taken aback by the sudden flurry of words after his previous best impression of a moody youth, but he at least slowed his stride so that they might speak properly.

"Your concern is not unwelcome," she argued softly.

"Is it not?" he challenged, voice equally subdued.

"Of course not. I- I am hardly used to others noticing what I do, much less caring about my actions, or my affairs. If I have managed to find that now, here, with you, I…I would not wish to discourage it."

He seemed surprised at that, and his demeanour softened as she continued.

"But just because I accept your concern, I don't have to agree with it. Not least because I believe it to be rooted in misunderstanding."

"Of Lord Boromir?" he guessed, visibly unconvinced.

"No. Well, yes, that too, but…mostly of me. You underestimate me."

It felt strangely lofty to say. And she feared it sounded daft and self-important, but she stood by the words once they had been spoken, for there was no taking them back then…and she didn't really regret them.

"I do?"

"Most do. It's all right, I'm used to it by now," she snorted. "But you must know I don't go into this with expectations that it will end well – nor with any intention of falling apart if it does not. And you must understand that…that after ten years in that cabin, to even find myself in a position where I could end up heartbroken feels like a great opportunity in and of itself."

She paused, eyeing the others where they walked ahead, making sure they were well out of earshot before she continued.

"Especially when it could be over one who I find myself feeling so strongly for. I don't take to others quickly, you've seen that in me well enough, but with him…it's different."

"Sybil, I do not doubt that you…" he paused and then sighed, stopping himself.

"Speak freely, please."

"In Rivendell, we discussed the bonds that might form under circumstance such as those that had the two of you meeting, but it's more than that. I suspect that – no, I know that you have known little kindness, these last few years. I only hope that you are not responding to that, rather than to any true attachment you may have formed."

Sybil watched him for a few long moments, but he didn't cow beneath the force of her stare.

"Do you think me an imbecile, Aragorn?" she asked finally.

"You know I do not," he replied, unimpressed by the question.

They'd caught up a little to the others by then, but he seemed happy enough to continue their conversation, and so she pressed on…although she did lower her voice a little.

"Do you think that no man has ever shown an interest in me before? To the extent where I cannot discern if it is well-meaning or not? That I am so naïve, or so desperate, that I would fling myself at any man at the first sign of interest, regardless of their intent? Were that the case, were I so desperate for any sort of male attention, I would have flung myself at one of them. Or at…at Halbarad or another of your kin who sought help at the cabin."

"Not at me, though?"

The question was far too teasing to be genuine, but she would never mistake it as such. There was none of that between herself and Aragorn – and if he acted now in a brotherly manner, she had to contend with the fact that he may view her in that way. As a sibling. To hold such importance to one so lofty, whether his manner reflected that loftiness or not, was unthinkable to her.

"Oh, you scared me far too much back then," she admitted with a laugh.

"No longer, I hope?" he frowned a little.

"No longer."

"…I thought those in Bree shunned you," he said in answer to her series of earlier questions.

"Most did. And even those who showed an interest didn't do it with wholesome intentions. They sought to…to stride forth into new territory…and return with a tale or two to tell their friends over drinks the next night. They offered to do me the great honour of putting their distaste aside for one night, for the sake of my passable fairness."

"I am sorry."

Sybil shrugged, unbothered.

"I saw them for what they were. And I'm telling you now that Boromir is not one of them. He's not anything like them at all - he's good, Aragorn. Whether you wish to see it or not."

"I would never dream of telling you otherwise," he replied mildly, "not least because I fear what the repercussions might be."

"And if I can forgive the things he said at Lord Elrond's Council, I find it hard to believe that any others mightn't."

While it was impossible to know whether or not he'd been convinced by her words, she watched as he at least considered them with a level of sincerity she deeply appreciated. Then, finally, he asked her a question.

"Does he know he has such a stout champion in you?"

She rolled her eyes.

"If he had any knowledge of this conversation at all, I'm not sure he would thank me for it."

That particular theory of Sybil's was to be tested far sooner than she had anticipated. The Fellowship walked mostly in silence across the course of the day, weather – which had been rapidly growing ever-fairer since they'd abandoned the Pass of Caradhras – did little to brighten their moods, and she knew she was far from the only one for whom the reality of their circumstances had been reinforced with last night's attacks.

So used had she grown to the quiet that when Boromir fell into step beside her, she almost started when he spoke.

"I'm unsure if any has ever defended my honour so fiercely," he said – but only after pausing to see if the others were within hearing distance.

Sybil winced. "You heard that, then?"

"Indeed, I did."

"I'm sorry," she sighed, "but I just couldn't bear proceeding with Aragorn looking at us like we're disobedient children throughout the entirety of this-"

"Calm yourself. You need not apologise, I only took issue with one thing that you said."

When she looked at him in question, he smiled a little.

"Passable fairness does not even begin to do you justice."

Sybil faltered – whatever apologies she'd been ready to give dying, and her mind falling entirely blank as to how she might response. And then her cheeks blazed. Boromir grinned.

"Especially when you blush so prettily."

"Is it quite right to flirt under such perilous circumstances?" she asked drily.

Despite her answer, though, she was still actively contending with how badly she wanted to kiss him – an urge that had not dulled since the aftermath of their battle the previous night. If anything, it was stoked when she noted how one corner of his lips upturned as he smirked in response to her question, his short beard bristling a little with the motion, reminding her of how it had felt against her face.

He caught her gaze, and she knew some of her thoughts must've been reflected in her expression, for something in his eyes darkened in a way that was far too promising, his eyes flickering down to her own lips before he cleared his throat, directing his gaze forward.

To think, she'd once declared that the distance enforced between them by their circumstances was a good thing. She was an idiot, at times.

"If we must wait for all danger to pass, I fear we shall never be able to flirt again," he snorted.

That, she supposed, would be more regrettable.

"You're not what he fears you are," she replied. "Aragorn, I mean. And he's not what you think he is. If you could both put it all aside…"

"Put it all aside? These are not minor, petty grievances, Sybil," there was an edge to his voice now.

"I chose my words poorly," she allowed. "All I mean is that if you would only give one another a chance, I believe you could even be friends. You're more similar than you think, in some ways."

"We are not similar. In any way."

At that, she chose not to argue. His tone left no room for it, and she was too busy wondering how they'd managed to get from flirting to this at breakneck speed. And she couldn't even really blame him for it, either. In his mind, he had fought for his people, and watched them die, all while Aragorn lived it up in the wilderness, sipping Elvish wine around a fire with Lord Elrond and his kin. While that image was far from accurate, no words on her part could erase it – nor could it bring back the people Boromir had watched die.

No, words could not fix that. But whether they could rescue this now-awkward atmosphere remained to be seen, and she was not well-versed in such things. Who did she have as a teacher? Bera? Who delighted in saying whatever she wished, and if they caused a stink then it was all the better?

She barely had time to fret, though, before he sighed, his shoulders slackening a little.

"Last night's lack of sleep is showing, I fear," he said.

"It's no matter."

It had been a long night, and a longer day was guaranteed. After that? Who knew. Their days of camping and trundling along in relative peace had, in the span of one night, become a thing of the past. Boromir sighed again.

"I do not know which to hope, that Gandalf will find what he seeks, or that coming to the cliff we shall find the fates lost forever. All choices seem ill, and to be caught between wolves and the wall the likeliest chance."

"My sight suggests otherwise."

"You saw darkness, flame and heard foul song," he pointed out. "Could that not have encapsulated this last night past?"

"It wasn't that kind of singing."

Nor that kind of darkness. Given that, she was hardly raring to delve into Moria, either, but what choice did they have? She'd agreed to go where the Fellowship went. Her own opinion mattered little, beyond sharing what she could see.

Unlike Boromir, though, she hardly thought the Gap of Rohan a phenomenal alternative, either. That made things easier – for in her mind, the choice was between being eaten by wolves, and this. In his view, however, they were ignoring the logical choice in favour of needless danger.

"The Fellowship has voted and I will abide by that vote," he muttered. "But I cannot pretend to blindly approve of it."

It was best, she thought, not to point out just how much his words then sounded like the ones Aragorn had spoken to her regarding their relationship. Whatever Boromir thought, they did share some similarities.

"None here would want you to pretend that," she replied.

"I believe that you would not, at least," he allowed, the back of his hand brushing hers. "You fought well last night."

"So did you," she said without thinking – and then cleared her throat, realising how silly it sounded. "I mean, er…you're very strong."

And that only sounded more stupid, didn't it? But it drew a tired laugh from him, at least, along with the remnants of a handsome smile that lingered on his face, tired or no.

"Although I suppose I should already know that, given how I arrived at Rivendell," she pointed out drily.

"That was not such a great feat," he chuckled. "And between last night, and that journey, one was far more enjoyable than the other."

"Beheading beasts was more fun than carrying me through the wilderness, then?"

She refused to stop and analyse whether she should have found it so painfully attractive that he'd been able to perform such beheadings with apparent ease.

"I'm afraid so," he teased. "Although it has been some time since I tried the latter. I should have to give it another go before I came to a final opinion."

"You do know that now if harm befalls me and you're forced to do just that, I'll be blaming you for willing it into existence."

"I hope it does not come to that – only that you might know who to come to, should your legs grow tired."

Yes. That would really undo all she'd just achieved in her conversation with Aragorn.

A/N: I've been thinking quite a bit on how Sybil's knowledge would differ depending on if it comes from the books or the movies, and how it would present itself. She already recognised Glorfindel because of the bells, and the attacks in this chapter don't happen in the movies, which I thiiiink has been the first major event she's been involved in that wasn't shown on screen?

I think it makes sense, overall, for it to present itself more as a feeling/gut instinct than a concrete vision. I know a lot of us, myself included, see books as little movies in our heads as we read, but it's still not as vivid as a movie, and because movies are quicker to rewatch over and over, I think images from it would have stuck more than mental images from the books. It's been a fun thing to sit and consider, though, and how she'd probably be more willing to trust what comes from the movies because it feels more like a proper "vision" than what comes from the books!

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