To be a healer was to know the stench of death – of rot, of decay, it was one in the same. Not so often from corpses themselves as from wounds that had been ignored and neglected until they turned foul, of limbs that were beyond saving, of lost causes in general. Anybody who had been forced to work under such an odour just once would be hard-pressed to ever forget it again, and for Sybil it was the norm, having laboured under it ever since her memories began. It was familiar, even if it was impossible to grow entirely numb to.
And it permeated Moria.
She reached a hand out blindly, grasping at whatever she could. Her hand found the soft leather of Legolas' vambrace, and only then did she turn to look at him – his eyes meeting hers in the meagre light, a heavy sort of knowing there. Of course he already knew. His senses far outstripped hers. He kept his bow half-raised, and Sybil uttered a soft wait, but Gimli noticed none of it, too eager to be reunited with his kin, his voice drowning out her own.
"Soon, Master Elf, you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves! Roaring fires, malt beer, ripe meat off the bone! This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin. And they call it a mine! A mine!"
At the forefront of the group, Gandalf was coaxing his staff into offering them a little light – for while it was night outside, the moon at least aided them. Here, the darkness seemed impossibly deep, and her boots kept catching on debris strewn across the floor. But then cool, magical light bathed the entranceway, and she saw that it wasn't debris at all – rather the source of what she could smell. Corpses.
Long-dead, they were now mostly skeletons, hair, cobwebs…and goo. To use the technical terminology for it.
"This is no mine…it's a tomb," Boromir said grimly.
Stopping where she was to avoid disturbing more of the dead – along with, hopefully, whatever they'd run afoul of – she watched as Legolas inspected one of the arrows jutting from one of the corpses.
"Goblins," he announced to the rest of them.
All drew their blades in unison as Boromir continued, his voice more that of the Captain of the White Tower than the man who'd kissed her in the snow.
"We make for the Gap of Rohan," he announced, his voice gaining urgency as he spoke. "We should never have come here. Now get out of here – get out!"
The vice that had seized her chest ever since she'd caught that smell, and only tightened with all that followed, now squeezed so hard that it would certainly reduce her insides to dust. They backed up, far too entrenched in their collective heightened state to outright turn their backs upon the darkness where enemies might be lying in wait, but Sybil barely even reached the doorway before there was a splash from the water behind them, and then Frodo cried out.
At first, when she turned to find him on the floor amongst the hobbits, she thought he'd collapsed – that the Ring was playing some terrible trick, or that an arrow truly had flown from the darkness and found its mark in his chest. The truth was hardly less terrible, realised when the monster that had seized him with one great tentacle tired of dragging him down, and instead drew him up into the air, right above its gaping maw.
Aragorn and Boromir burst forth side-by-side, their blades far better suited to cleaving and dismembering - which they quickly proved - than that of her own and the hobbits', which could only stab and slice at the limbs that strayed dangerously near them. Knowing that she could draw no nearer without getting in the way, Sybil instead tried to protect the hobbits. Not that they'd let her.
Every time she tried to edge forwards, Merry – who fought to her right – would do the same, covering her as she'd sought to cover him. Their ridiculous little dance didn't last long, though, before it became more a tactic than a battle of wills, the positioning allowing her to swing as the tail-end of one of his jabs left him open to attack. They gained what rhythm they could, day after days of training under the same teacher kicking in, but the setting made it a trial – water splashing furiously and constantly, burning her nostrils, choking her, and getting in her eyes. Soon her awareness was shrunken and narrowed to the next swing, and whether she felt it make contact or not.
An inhuman rumbling grate of a cry was the only hint that the beast had truly been harmed, and she barely even realised that they'd managed to seize Frodo from its clutches until Aragorn and Boromir were turning, urging them to run, Frodo in Boromir's arms. The only way to go was into Moria.
"Into the mines!" Gandalf boomed at the same time that sorry realisation hit her.
Ahead of her, Merry and Pippin occasionally turned to see if the creature followed as they ran, but Sybil did not – it was enough for her to not feel the cold, slimy touch of its appendages wrapping around her arms or legs, robbing the ground from beneath her feet. But while the ground stayed beneath her feet, it did start to tremble and shake.
All at once they whirled around, still stumbling backwards as they did, just in time to watch the monster bring the very walls and ceiling of the stone entranceway down upon them. Dust burned her eyes and lungs, but by the time she had to give in and bring an arm in front of her face, it was too dark to see much anyway. Opening her mouth to swear, she was cut off and instead choked on the dirt and dust that had been kicked up into the air by the upheaval.
After a delayed moment, though, she was grateful for that. Whatever words she'd been about to mutter – most of them learned from Bera – would only drag them down further still towards despair. Still, that terrible and disbelieving beat of silence that followed their entrapment made the question in her mind ring out all the louder. The one that she feared would soon be levelled her way by a source that was not herself.
Why hadn't she seen any of this? Worse, had there been any hints that she may have missed? Dreams that dispelled like smoke in the breeze once she awoke? And…worst of all…how long would it be before the others resented her for not providing warning? Few, if any, had been pleased at the prospect of a woman joining them, ultimately deeming it a necessary evil for the good of the quest. How many more slips before that "evil" became unnecessary, in their eyes? How long before they blamed her? How long before they looked at her like those in Bree had? Boromir included?
Oh, but she was being…well, she wouldn't go as far as to say ridiculous, but certainly defeatist. Who knew that little sleep and three consecutive brushes with death did little for the spirit? Maybe a fourth plunge into danger would help.
She could kid herself.
Their first day of skulking through Moria was mostly silent, and entirely uneventful – in part because it was so short, Gandalf decreeing that they must stop and rest only a few hours into their walk. Whether it was because he needed a moment to gain his bearings as he continued leading them, or because he feared what might happen should they run into goblins unrested, Boromir was not sure…but he was glad for the rest all the same. Mostly. For it could not be denied that inaction made it easier to dwell on the fact that they never should have come here at all.
No amount of wishing that they were not here could get them out of this mess – wishing would not remove the fallen stone that caged them in – but awareness of that fact did nothing to vanish his frustration. Would that the others would just listen, they could have made considerable progress towards the Gap of Rohan by now. They could be making progress with their true aim, rather than muddling through in the dark and hoping that the next turn would not lead them to a hive of goblins. If their path just happened to allow him to use this weapon, this Ring, to help his people in the interim, then all the better.
The Ring is evil, and it lies.
His eyes drifted towards Sybil as her voice rang in his ears. She sat huddled amongst the Hobbits, but she'd spoken little since entering Moria, and met the eyes of those around her even less – as though waiting for reproach that she had not seen this. And while his frustrations grew when he looked at her, it was not for the reason she likely feared. For however little he wished to be stuck in these mines, in this tomb, that paled in comparison to how little he wished to see her here, too.
Lord Elrond could have equipped them with the finest armies all the Elves had to offer, and their combined power could have done nothing to spare them entirely from misfortune on this quest, so he could hardly rest those same expectations upon Sybil's shoulders. Their hopes would have to lie in her powers sparing them from unnecessary hardship, rather than from any hardship at all, and so all they could do now was pray that Moria's danger would prove to be of the necessary sort. And while she'd held her own as much as he could possibly wish in all the danger they'd just faced, none of that changed the fact that he saw her here, amidst the darkness and the ruins and the skeletons, and knew she did not belong in such a place as this.
In Gondor, perhaps, with time, but not here. And if the Ring could offer the power needed to protect his people, it could surely allow him to protect her, too.
The Ring is evil, and it lies.
He…he believed that she believed it so. He even believed that it could be true. But if a piece of jewellery was capable of such falsehood, capable of influence and trickery, could she not be the one who might be tricked? Could it not prey on her fears, and cause her to doubt in its power, so that it might not be turned to a higher purpose?
Sighing, he cast his gaze downwards, if only so that it would not stray towards Frodo and give away his thoughts. Aragorn sat beside him, one of the few still awake, and he saw much. Too much. And he hardly needed more of an excuse to disapprove of him.
"What troubles you?" the other man murmured.
For a moment, Boromir hesitated. But the question was asked in earnest, and it seemed an extension of the sliver of acceptance that he'd shown on the shore of that blasted lake.
And while he had no wish to tell him the truth, he knew he could not lie. So he merely selected a different truth – something he truly did wish to discuss, if only he could find a way to stray onto the matter naturally.
"You looked into the matter of Sybil's origins, all those years ago," he hedged.
"When and where I could," he allowed quietly. "My efforts bore no fruit."
He already knew that. The Ranger had admitted as much when she'd, in a somewhat detached and matter-of-fact manner, regaled the astonished camp a number of nights ago of how she'd been found at the door of Bera's cabin – and what she'd been found with.
"Still. It must be a family of considerable means that can employ a silversmith to adorn their daughter in jewellery that bears her name."
Saying things without saying things had never been his preferred means of communication, but some part of him was certain that if others reached the same conclusion as he had without his explicitly explaining it to them first, it only made that conclusion all the more sound.
And Aragorn seemed utterly unsurprised by his words, inclining his head in something that suggested if not agreement, then at least a willingness to entertain the notion. Although his next words did dampen the hope that it gave rise to.
"I would caution you against believing what you hope to be true, merely because it may prove convenient at a later date," he warned.
It was tempting to bristle, but Boromir did not – in part because there was no malice in the other man's tone, merely a well-meaning warning, but mostly because he could not blame him for this particular warning. For he knew well enough how his words sounded.
"I cannot see it as mere hope," he disagreed firmly, but without anger. "Surely you see what I speak of – you have known her longer than I. There…there is something in her manner that is not lowborn."
Admittedly, it was…muddled, perhaps, at times. She would not blend in seamlessly with the highborn ladies of Minas Tirith – but nor, at her own admission, did she blend in with the everyday folk she'd spent the last decade dealing with. It made sense, did it not? For her mannerisms and behaviours to be altered by life with her mentor, leaving her in the end unable to blend in with folk from either class?
The way she speaks, and the words she chooses. She could hold her own against my brother's learned nature, and he had the finest education in Gondor at his disposal. And to hear you tell it, she did not learn any of it in that cabin. The fact alone that she has been able to read and write since before her memories, as they are now, begin. She is educated. She has been educated – by others, not merely herself. Nor, it seems, by her mentor."
Aragorn sighed, bowing his head. In concession to his point, or in an attempt to search for patience, Boromir knew not, but he continued anyway.
"And her abilities, Aragorn. Her sight. Such things typically manifest in blood that is more…notable than most."
He had to choose his words carefully, in a way that would emphasise that he still would not think less of her if he was wrong. But he was not wrong. And though he would never voice it, there was also the matter of her skin. Smooth, unblemished, and bearing no signs of sickness, nor injury. Certainly not that of one who had been raised all her life on a form, or in the wilderness. Especially her legs. While he hadn't been lying when he told her he'd been too distracted, and far from lecherous enough, to leer at them as he tended to her burns, to his memory the undamaged skin had been, well, just that. Undamaged.
Most raised in hardship could scarcely even begin to count their scars by the time they were adults.
Every question, every oddity, every quirk, seemed to point in the same direction.
"Highborn daughters do not just disappear without word of it spreading," Aragorn pointed out softly. "I understand why you think as you do, I held similar suspicions when we were first introduced years ago, but I've found no trace that might support the theory."
"That doesn't mean it isn't true," Boromir replied. "What does Sybil say of it?"
Even were she not out of earshot of their murmuring tones, he doubted she would have heard. Those in their group who were unused to nights of missed sleep were beginning to show the signs of it now, and she sat dozing amongst the hobbits, her back pressed against the dark craggy rock that made up these caverns. At her side was Merry, also asleep, his head resting against her shoulder, and her head atop his.
Even in a place like this, she looked beautiful, sleep easing the worry and strain from her features.
But Aragorn had not yet answered, and noting his hesitation, Boromir sighed and spoke softly.
"I would not have you tell me anything that she would not wish me to know herself," he said. "But I've also no wish to reopen old wounds by speaking without knowing what wounds may be there."
He'd done enough of that already, back in Rivendell.
"She doesn't much care to speculate on the matter," Aragorn murmured. "Not anymore. Once it became apparent that no trace of her past would be found, a year or so into her time with Bera. For that, I cannot blame her. The easy conclusion is that either her family is entirely dead, or they did not attempt to seek her out. To dwell on either eventuality would achieve little other than upset."
Except now it could mean something. It could make their path in Minas Tirith, should their road lead them to Minas Tirith, so much easier – and he wanted that. For her. He was content to weather whatever storm rolled over their heads, for while he was a man grown and his father could not forbid him from courting whomever he wished, he could certainly express his disapproval. And if Boromir knew his father, he knew he would do so loudly.
While he knew he could easily argue that her abilities, her sight, put Gondor at a far greater advantage than any political match might, if his father was committed to finding fault, he would find fault. But if he could prove she was of some notable birth? Then he would not wish to find that fault. And it would save some very awkward conversations. Ones that not only risked being hurtful, or ruining whatever tenuous faith Sybil had mustered to give this a chance, but ones that involved words that were far too grand to be thrown around so alarmingly soon – like marriage, and heirs.
Therein lay the difficulty, he supposed. It was less, now, about choosing which avenue would bring them no problems, and simply a matter of choosing which problems he would rather face. Which problems they would rather face. Would he rather keep a level of secrecy about their relationship, and risk having not only Sybil, but all of his people, think that secrecy was down to some fault within her? Or would he rather have no secrecy, but face the scrutiny, the awkward questions, and the pressure that would follow?
The only saving grace was that, if their path did point towards home, it would take months to reach it. Perhaps over the course of those months, they'd find the answers to the questions that may be levelled their way upon reaching their destination.
When he next looked to Aragorn, he found him watching him with something akin to wariness.
"Perhaps I am wrong," he allowed, shoving down his other worries until his head cleared. "I doubt it, I confess, but it's certainly possible. And if I am – if she is the daughter of a blacksmith, or a stable-hand, or a beggar, it makes no difference to me. My…"
Feelings? Affection? No, whatever tentative truce there was between he and Aragorn now was not so hardy that he could use such words.
"…decision is not beholden to that. It would change nothing."
Nothing for him, at least. Nothing that mattered. Whether the path before them would be easy or trying, he would forge his way down it, but with all the difficulty they already faced, it would be foolish to hope for more still.
"I did not suspect otherwise," Aragorn replied gently.
Boromir nodded, and said nothing more on the matter.
But it at least, momentarily, had distracted him from rather fouler woes.
A/N: Thinking about social hierarchies of Middle-earth and where Sybil would "present" on that hierarchy has been super interesting to me. I think the only stark class differences we see in-depth is that between the likes of the Gamgees and the Bagginses, which is uhhhh pretty removed from the Gondorian way of life. I do picture Sybil as being pretty firmly middle class as far as her home in the modern-day UK is concerned, but even if she wasn't, the Middle-earth/historical parameters for judging class would be so wildly skewed that I think even if she was working class, Boromir would harbour the same suspicions.
For example, I am as working class as you can possibly get. I also have a degree. Even taking the fact that I'm a woman out of it, that alone would've been inconceivable in many areas of history. I think even the most ridiculous, offensive walking stereotypes of class as it stands nowadays would be difficult for historical folk to gauge based on the indicators they would be used to. Even under a cost of living crisis right now, for a lot of historical people, those of us who are lucky enough to have somewhere safe to sleep tonight, and aren't at risk of starvation in the immediate future are living the high life.
All right, it'd be near enough impossible for anybody to seamlessly blend in with Middle-earths nobility just because there'd be so many unspoken social rules and ways of behaving, to the point where even filthy rich folk in our time would be caught out, but that's not what we're going for here. I think, in Sybil's case, there'd be just enough there for Boromir to latch onto – her relative lack of scars, her ability to read and write, the fact that she's educated in general, and even how she consistently failed to fit in among the 'common' people of Bree - explaining inconsistencies away as an impact of her time with Bera. Especially because it's what he wants to believe.
Shame we know the truth huh.