"What are you going to do, then?"
Gandalf had barely begun to answer Pippin's question by the time Sybil was already wincing, her lips pressed tightly together and her gaze averted as the halfling felt the weight of the wizard's annoyance. Thus far, their attempted entry to Moria had proven a disappointment.
"Knock your head against these doors, Peregrin Took!" Gandalf thundered. "And if that does not shatter them, then I am allowed a little peace from foolish questions! I am trying to find the opening words."
His voice softened but a little at the end, though it made no difference. The frustration was understandable – their nerves were all frayed – but how he chose to express it only worsened that fray…for Sybil, at least. Most of the others just looked tired or generally uncomfortable, drifting away from the door to leave Gandalf to his work in peace.
Unthinking, Sybil's hand drifted to Pippin's shoulder.
"Come. Help me. We may find answers together," she murmured.
He appeared heartened by that, at least, following her a little ways away so she could set her pack down out in a spot that wouldn't hinder the others.
Though the drifting of the clouds had allowed the moonlight to hit the stony face of the doors, it also meant whatever small amount of warmth had been afforded to them throughout the day was swiftly escaping, the night swiftly gaining a chill – one with teeth, thanks to the breeze.
"Repeat what Gandalf just said," she murmured to Pippin, her voice hushed, sinking to a crouch – both to put herself at eye level with the hobbit, and so she could consider her pack.
There was something about the phrase…something familiar…
She tried to tune out the rattling of pots and luggage as Aragorn and Sam unburdened Bill of his load, preparing to send him back to Rivendell. Pity was another thing she had to tune out. At least here, they had each other. Out there, the poor beast would have nobody. But neither distraction nor pity would help her solve the nagging feeling she had at Gandalf's words.
"About knocking my head against the doors? I don't much want to encourage you to do that."
"No," she huffed a laugh, "Worry not, I've no intention of using you as a battering ram. Before it – the writing on the doors."
"What? Speak, friend, and enter?" he blinked at her.
That was…that was familiar. She was on the cusp of something. Was it worth retrieving the phials? A look around her confirmed that it didn't look like they'd be rushing off anytime soon, so she unlaced her pack and began to root around inside it, motioning with her free hand in a roundabout way for Pippin to repeat it again.
It…it wasn't quite a vision. More like when she struggled to recall a certain word – with it being right there on the tip of her tongue, refusing to spring forth.
"Speak, friend, and enter," he repeated.
If he hadn't caught on to her thinking, he at least embraced the chance for a distraction.
"Speak, friend, and enter," he said again – the words finding a rhythm now that threatened to have them turning into some strange, ridiculous little chant. "Speak, friend, and enter."
Sybil met his gaze and then, unable to help it, dissolved into giggles with the hobbit. She covered her mouth to try and stifle them, but when he tried to repeat it again, he couldn't even get the first two words out for his own laughter.
Across the way, Gandalf fixed them with a withering stare. They stopped then, like a pair of naughty children. At least they were able to take a hint, she supposed, without getting another telling off. But the moment Frodo next murmured the phrase, staring thoughtfully up at the gates, she had to studiously to her best avoid Pippin's eye – and then stifled yet more laughter behind her hand when she met it anyway.
It was with a sigh that she withdrew her attention from her pack, lacing it up again. The moment was gone, whatever had been trying to come forth had given up.
"You must hope that you were not on the verge of a breakthrough, or you shall never be forgiven," Boromir commented, lowering himself to sit on the nearest boulder.
"If it slipped away so easily, it can't have been that important," she said – and hoped that she was right – as Pippin withdrew to join the other hobbits.
Likely because Merry seemed to have a mind to produce his pipe. Whether the moment of doubt showed on her face, or he simply knew her well enough by now to suspect that it was there, he nodded his agreement and spoke softly. Warmly.
"It's good to see you laugh."
"It's good to have a reason to laugh, all things considered. Or even just to smile."
"I must endeavour to provide cause more often, then. A worthier challenge there never was."
She flushed and huffed a laugh, but was saved from having to respond with anything clever by Merry's interjection.
"Flowers," he provided cheerfully. "That works, with womenfolk."
Realising that they had very much been overheard, Boromir cleared his throat – or maybe he was trying not to laugh, it was difficult to tell, but the bashfulness that threatened to overtake his features was adorable. Uplifting, too, for she knew then that she wasn't the only one feeling shy.
"But," Merry continued, "you have to be careful about the choice of flowers. They mean different things – don't they, Sam? What would fit the bill here?"
"Pansies are messengers of love."
Sam's response was distracted, his eyes on fixed on the darkness in the direction that Bill had disappeared off to, answering from a purely technical standpoint rather than trying to tease, but they had Sybil burying her face in her hands all the same. Love. That was a very bold word, very early on.
"Cake's simpler," Pippin offered. "Can't go wrong with that, and any kind will do. Unless they have cake language, in settlements of Men."
"Is that so?" Boromir replied.
"Jewels, lad," it was Gimli who cut in now, before Pippin could reply. "Jewels. That's the route you take. You're in the best place for it, too!"
"What would you have of me, then, Sybil?" Boromir asked. "Flowers, cakes, jewels? Or all three?"
"If you were really set upon wooing the lady, you'd just do all three without having to ask," Merry pointed out.
"Thankfully he has you as a teacher," Frodo remarked drily.
How they'd gone from receiving little more than knowing looks to this in a matter of seconds was dizzying.
But Boromir still waited for an answer – and he was far too pleased with herself. For while the Fellowship's simultaneous, unspoken decision that they no longer needed to pretend they knew nothing of what was occurring between them – something she had Merry to thank for, she suspected, since he was the one who got the ball rolling – had him flushing a little, it appeared that her own embarrassment outweighing his acted as a balm for him. And that felt far too much like a challenge for Sybil to tolerate.
So, she forced her hands into her lap, breathed deeply, and pretended to think. Then, she levelled her gaze squarely upon him and answered.
"Snow," she said softly, "and your cloak, from time to time."
The smile he offered at that was brilliant and boyish, his head lowering a little so his hair would obscure it – at least while it was still so wide and uncontrolled.
"Snow?" Pippin muttered to his kin.
"In a bucket, maybe?" Merry returned, equally bemused. "A tradition of the big folk?"
Sybil giggled and Boromir looked up, his eyes honing keenly in on her mirth, his smile widening once more as he absent-mindedly skimmed a stone from the shore out towards the water before them.
Inspired by the action, Pippin picked up another and did the same – grinning when his stone travelled further. When he picked up the next, though, Aragorn grabbed his arm.
"Enough of that."
Half turning her head in his direction, she expected to find his disapproval aimed in no small part at them, too, but his features softened and he sighed.
"We can exchange tips on wooing once inside."
Sybil waited until attention had shifted to speak again, shuffling closer to Boromir and lowering her voice.
"You don't mind that everybody knows now, do you?"
"Why should I? There is much to bemoan as of late, this is hardly amongst that lot."
"It just wasn't what we planned."
"Plans change more often than they unfold as we expect...and we cannot pretend we have been good secret-keepers," he hummed. "I suppose they should all have to know, if we cannot open these doors and our path takes us to my home, instead. Word spreads quickly in Minas Tirith, and it's better for our newfound friends and travelling companions that it comes from us directly, and not via word of mouth."
It was almost tempting to ask who was a friend and who was merely a travelling companion, had the implications behind his words not threatened to bowl her over. It…it sounded like he meant to court her openly, should such they find themselves in Gondor. Her lips parted as she made to seek clarification, but she stopped herself before she could speak. If she was right, and she asked, all shocked and disbelieving, that was just hopelessly pathetic. And if she was wrong? Well, the awkward silence that would ensue there after would be leagues more lethal than any wolves hounding their trail.
"That's true," she murmured instead – and applauded herself, internally, for sounding so calm.
In response, he shifted his leg a little so that his knee pressed against hers.
Whatever moment had grown between them was gone in the next, though, when something shifted in Sybil's peripheral vision – in the water. Whipping her head around so sharply that her neck complained of it, she watched as a series of ripples drifted across the water's dark and glassy surface, catching the pale blue glow of Moria's gates. They were only minor. While they couldn't be chalked up to the earlier stone-throwing, they could've easily been caused by a stray breeze. If there had been one that moved in that direction, she hadn't felt it, but she'd been…distracted.
Still, she liked it not.
On their journey, finding any water was often a boon – a chance to rinse away the sweat and grime of the wilderness, even if it was not running water and therefore no good for their waterskins - but the very last thing she wanted was to wade into this pool. Despite the fact that she still could find little reassurance in Gimli's claims that hot baths and giant tankards of mead were mere minutes away. No matter how much she wished she could believe it, she had the feeling that last night's troubles were a mere overture, with far worse yet to come.
But they hadn't been eaten by wargs yet. That was always something to smile about.
A fresh set of ripples had her rising to her feet – too quickly, if the twinge in her back was anything to go by – and she was not blind to the look that Boromir and Aragorn exchanged, any hope that her concerns were mere paranoia quickly vanishing.
She followed their lead in staying alert yet silent, though. There was enough cause for panic in their lives without screaming at every stray leaf that fluttered before them.
"It's a riddle," Frodo's voice rose above Gandalf's murmurings.
All thoughts of the water forgotten, Sybil turned her head and stared. Of course. Of course – that was it. It was a riddle. Speak, friend, and enter. All of this she kept to herself, though, because boasting of discovering an answer moments after those without any gift of sight arrived there through their own means didn't really seem like a good use of her breath.
"What's the Elvish word for friend?" Frodo asked.
"Mellon," Gandalf answered, his voice loud and weighty.
And the doors betwixt the trees ground open.
A/N: I'm dithering a bit over how I'm going to handle the fight with the Watcher, so I thought we could have a cute little interlude in the meantime. Y'know, before we return to death and violence.
I do have to say I'm kinda glad that, to my memory, though Boromir throws the stones at the water the book, he doesn't do it in the movies. Lad gets enough hate from the movies as it is, I think the direction they took in the film makes sense. I just had to include them both doing it here because Pippin deserves to catch a break.
Tumblr – esta-elavaris
IG - miotasach