The day passed as all of their days did, as of late. Walking. Although the further into the woods they strayed, the more unhurried they could allow their pace to become, knowing that no foe would be able to follow them this deeply in and live to tell the tale. But while their pace became more relaxed, they did not fall back into the easy conversation that once might've overtaken them before Moria.

And Sybil could still not bring herself to look at any of them. Bar Boromir, of course. The trick there was often to stop herself from staring at him, especially after his proclamation that morning. But the others, she could still not meet the eyes of. For while her guilt was lessened by Boromir's words, her heart was not eased, and she still feared what she might find in the looks of the others, should she meet them.

It was only when they made their camp for the night – on the ground, now that they were far enough away from the forest's edges – that Aragorn stopped her with a hand at her shoulder, holding his satchel of healing supplies and gesturing to her arm.

Yes. That was well overdue being tended to. As they'd walked, a tight sort of itchiness set in and reminded her all day that she'd been foolish to reject the ellon's offer of help the night before.

Their spot to camp had been chosen because it laid beside a stream – an offshoot of the Silverlode, perhaps – and she sat in tense silence, eyes straight ahead, as he used the frigid water he gathered to wash the blood and the foulness out of the wound. The goblin's teeth had shredded her clothing as well as her skin. The overcoat would have to be mended, it was too find to discard, but the shirt, at least, they felt no guilty over cutting the sleeve away from so that Aragorn could tend to her while sparing her the embarrassment of seeing her undress for it. It hurt, but she'd endured worse. And none of the admonishments she'd expected came, even when she glanced down and saw how red and angry the wound was.

Were she her own patient, she'd be fighting back a verbal thrashing. After a moment of plucking up courage, she did look at Aragorn, telling herself it was just to see how sorely he disapproved. Instead, however, she saw he'd been waiting for her to look at him, his features betraying nothing other than weariness and patience.

Sybil's mouth opened, then it shut again. But he spoke first.

"You didn't know – about Gandalf."

"No," she answered quietly. "I didn't."

The sigh he responded with was a heavy one.

"It wasn't a question, Sybil. And I'm sorry if I made you think it ever might be."

Encouraging her to keep her arm at an awkward angle, he began to ply the wound with herbs, packing them in amongst the torn skin firmly but not ungently.

"You were right, though," she said. "It wasn't the time or the place for it. We had to move."

"And yet Boromir managed to defend you swiftly and concisely in mere moments."

A smile tugged at her lips, though she knew she looked just as tired as Aragorn did in that moment.

"Yes. Well. If we're to go about life comparing ourselves to Boromir, we'll all end up very unhappy."

While the wound still stung, it was a keener and sharper sort of sting than that which had bothered her today. One she was familiar with. The healing kind. Sybil leaned into it. Took comfort in it.

"You speak highly of him," Aragorn murmured.

"I do," her voice gained a sort of caginess, even to her own ears – and he wasn't long in detecting it.

"I only mean that I'm happy – to see you find someone you do regard so highly, and who supports you thus. Truly."

"Do you need me to check you over next?" she smiled again.

"Why?"

"Because that must have really hurt to say."

Aragorn, thankfully, took her words with the good humour in which she'd meant them, offering a rueful snort. "Over these last few days, when I think of all we have faced…I am glad that you found him. And I'm sorry if my concern has been overbearing."

"What did he say to you? Yesterday?"

She recalled the heated exchange that had passed between them when Boromir made to follow her to the separate flet, but she hadn't been in much of a mind to care about it then. But it seemed to have brought about rather a change. Aragorn flushed, dropping his eyes from her and clearing his throat.

"Aragorn?" she pressed – unused to seeing such a reaction from him.

For a moment he stalled, returning to his satchel so he could produced bandages, with which he could wrap her arm and the healing herbs both, so that they could do their work until they reached their destination the next day.

"He asked," he began slowly, caught oddly between amusement and embarrassment, "if I really believed he intended to give chase so that he might rob you of your virtue, in a tree, with elves as an audience."

The snort that ripped through her would've been embarrassing, in different company.

"You think he'd prefer dwarves, then?"

"I have known you far too long, since you were far too young, to hear such jokes from your lips," he said drily.

"He says while trying not to laugh," she grinned.

"Only from abject horror, I assure you."

A comfortable quiet settled over them as Aragorn continued to studiously bind her arm, Sybil only wincing a little here and there when he smoothed the cloth over a particularly aggravated patch.

"Do you…" she paused, debating on whether she wanted to voice her next thoughts at all.

It was too late, though, for he was aiming that solemn gaze of his at her, and she knew she had to finish the thought.

"Do you think he's being serious?"

The look Aragorn gave her then was aghast.

"Sybil. If I thought Boromir was playing games with you, I would make it known as soon as I had the suspicion."

"No," she said quickly. "Not like that. I misspoke. Realistic, maybe? Do you think we're being realistic? He speaks of a future. With me. But his station, and my lack thereof…how could we have one? His family, his people…how could they ever…could they ever…? Accept the likes of me?"

Aragorn, thank the stars, did not feign stupidity or outrage as to her meaning.

"With the combined determination of the two of you, I cannot think that you would not somehow manage it."

"Somehow," she echoed. "Eventually. When we get to it. We'll find a way. That's all well and good now, but when the time is upon us and we've not given it any thought? Deigning it a problem for the future works beautifully right up until the point where the future becomes the present, at which point we'll curse ourselves for not putting more thought into it."

"You're exhausted. We all are. It's seldom wise to consider such heavy matters in this state. And none could ever accuse you of not putting thought into any and every single thing that you do," Aragorn replied mildly, and when Sybil sighed her dissatisfaction he added. "I can assure you…it has not escaped his considerations."

"It hasn't?" she turned her head to stare at him.

"No. Although I can speak no further on the matter without overstepping."

He secured the bindings carefully, and she had to sit and pretend he hadn't just said one of the most intriguing things she'd ever been told. But she was saved from any further despair when he turned his head, his eyes fixed somewhere behind her.

"I believe he waits to speak to you."

A mark of just how much she and Boromir could now be trusted to be alone with one another without a fair bit of bone-jumping going on came in how they now had to devise no excuses or little lies in order to steal a few moments alone, just the two of them. Or perhaps the others had merely concluded that if any bone-jumping was to occur, it would be their own business.

Taking up her cloak, he set it about her shoulders and then sat by her side, speaking softly. "It's a little cold for such new and striking choices of fashion."

She laughed – but more because she realised she could get used to this. Being looked after. Foreign as the notion still was. But there was no keeping back what was on her mind, especially after Aragorn's words. But how to raise it without giving away that Aragorn had said anything? Boromir would not thank him for that, and they'd reached something of a tentative truce as of late. She would not be the one to spoil it.

"Boromir…can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"What did you mean? On the borders? When you said I don't need it to find a home?"

He stilled, his gaze lowered and then cast outwards rather than at her, a debate visibly waging behind those eyes of his.

"I have no wish to raise your hopes," he said finally.

And Sybil…had no idea how to take that. What hopes did he not wish to raise? To some extent, she understood. This courtship of theirs had been a sudden thing, and while the circumstances of their living made it feel longer and far more intense than it might've been were they playing the game of visiting one another a couple of times a week, limiting their conversations to walks through marketplaces, it would not do to forget that it had only been a short time. If this warning was an attempt to stop her from racing out to find a dress in which she might marry him, should he suggest that home just might be with him, she understood that.

Although it hurt to think that he might decide she'd need that warning. In all things, she endeavoured not to be clingy. Not to be too much. But perhaps she'd leaned on him a little too strongly as of late.

"Aragorn was never able to find any proof that your origins may lie within the nobility – even though several clues point to that being the case."

She blinked dumbly at him, so surprised by the turn his words took that comprehending them at all took more effort than it should have.

Oh. This was what he'd meant. Not that she would find a home with him, but that he would discover where she'd come from. Sweet. Hopelessly sweet, really. Just not the heart-clenching sentiment she'd originally mistaken it to be.

"…Yes," she said finally.

"I do not doubt he did all he good – and that he had a great many resources available to him," Boromir reasoned evenly, "but from what I gather, circumstance has hardly brought him far eastwards for some time. Nor would he have the same pull among the nobility as I. Particularly with how he errs on the side of concealing his true heritage – on the side of discretion. He could not make the same enquiries that I might, or that my brother might. Or any among the household of the Steward. We may be able to find something that Strider could not."

Pressing her lips together, she bowed her head, her hands bundling themselves in her cloak.

He knew her tells by now, though. "You disagree."

"Boromir…" she sighed. "I've no wish to argue with you."

"We won't argue," he insisted. "We'll discuss."

They hadn't always been so good at that. Historically. Especially once he sank his teeth into something he wished to be true. But saying so would be unfair.

"You really think I'm nobility?" she raised her eyebrows at him. "Me?"

"I think that you're unlike any woman…any person I've ever met," he replied readily enough. "And this may explain that. Up to a point."

"Up to a point?"

"Do you wish for me to begin showering you in compliments?" a smile played at his lips. "I would enjoy it, but I know you would not."

Her cheeks blazed and she moved swiftly on. "I just don't know how likely it is."

"It's the most likely in a litany of unlikely happenstances," he reasoned gently, the ire she feared finding in response to her scepticism nowhere to be seen. "All of the explanations for your origins, for your being the sole survivor in whatever happened, are unlikely. This one, however, explains what the others cannot."

"And an entire family of reasonably high standing being wiped entirely from the map, with none speaking of it or searching for survivors?" she pressed. "Aragorn may not have had access to Gondor's records of nobility, but he's certainly good with word of mouth, and he found none of it."

A certain sort of darkness, a grimness, flitted across his face for a moment, his shoulders dropping just slightly as though a weight had been settled down upon them.

"With how the world is as of late…it could happen," he said finally. "I could imagine it happening."

That was the problem, though, wasn't it? He could imagine it. She could imagine herself sprouting wings and flying back to Rivendell, that didn't make it particularly feasible. Boromir, painfully fond of him as she was, did have a remarkable ability to merge what he wished to be true with what was most likely to be true. And it wasn't even a bad thing – she envied it, and knew she was too much the opposite. But still.

"Should we find ourselves in the realms of men, I mean to seek proof of what I believe," he said, his voice both insistent and gentle all at once. "With your permission."

"Even if you do, even if you're right, my kin have either been wiped out entirely, or have now lived over a decade without me. I mightn't be a welcome addition to the lives they've built since."

"What?" it was his turn to be confused, but he recovered more quickly than she had, laughing a little and taking her hands in his. "Sybil, no. That is not the home of which I speak. My point is that should I find proof of such origins, we shall present a much stronger case to my father, when we bring our courtship to Minas Tirith."

"…Oh."

So her first assumption had not been so wrong after all. Joy flooded her – warm and lifting, until her head threatened to spin and her heart pounded in her ears, the sting of her arm a distant memory even as Boromir jumped into discussing practicalities.

"My father can be…tasking. We shall have an easier time managing him if we have this in our arsenal beforehand. But do not misunderstand me, Sybil, even if I am wrong, even if you are the daughter of the most downtrodden beggar, it changes nothing. My father is a noble man, but…but oft a difficult one. The two frequently go hand-in-hand, I suppose. I honour him where my duty is to my people is concerned, but I am a man grown and he will not dictate whom I-" he stopped short, faltered, and then sighed quietly. "He will not spoil this. I suppose if there's to be any boon when it comes to Aragorn being who he is, it's that he is firmly in your corner in most things."

Oh, but it was definitely wisest to remain silent on that point.

"My brother, however…Faramir? He will adore you, Sybil," he said with such genuine warmth and cheer that she was powerless but to smile back at him. "If anything, he'll be astonished that I managed to ensnare you."

"Ensnare me?" she echoed with a soft, silly girlish giggle. "Is that what happened?"

"It's the tale I shall stick with," he teased. "Better than owning to how you have so thoroughly bewitched me."

"Bewitched you?" she echoed again, even more incredulous then. "Does my inability to flirt with without turning crimson raise your blood terribly, then?"

"More than I might ever own to while still remaining a gentleman," he paused and cleared his throat, is tone lightening. "Which is why you must swear not to decide you prefer my brother, when you meet him."

"Whyever would I do that?" she frowned, finding too much worry in his tone for her liking.

"He is younger than I am."

"I don't want you younger," she flushed a little.

And it was true. While she did not like him in spite of his age, nor did she like him because of it. It was just a…feature. And not an unattractive one. Just another thing that set him miles apart from the rowdy groups of lads she'd seen clustered about tables in Bree, who snickered when she had to walk by.

Boromir continued. "He's as fond of books as you are."

"I can read enough for the both of us. I can read to you, if you'd like."

"I might just take you up on that," he chuckled quietly. "He can also hold his tongue far better than I."

"I like your tongue," she said without thinking, and then her cheeks became scorching.

Boromir choked on a laugh, teasing her quietly. "What was that?"

The only thing left to do was double down. And it wasn't exactly a lie, was it? Not with her experience of it thus far. That line of thinking was not one she intended to venture down, though, lest she burst into flames on the spot.

"You heard me," she sniffed. "It brings forth the most heartfelt motivational speeches I've ever heard. Why? What did you think I meant?"

The gleam in his eye suggested he was almost tempted to take the bait.

"I think…that we should tend to your back. Now that your arm is no longer a pressing concern. May I?" he gestured vaguely about her person and she nodded.

It was ridiculous that she blushed, too. Proximity was not entirely new to them, and she was a healer, so she knew well enough that touch didn't always have to be intimate. It just so happened that Boromir's always felt that way.

At her nod, his thumbs found the soft patches at each side of her lower back, just above her hips and pressed. Sybil gasped, but then snapped her mouth shut, gritting her teeth.

"That bad?" his voice held a frown.

"It's not unbearable," she sighed.

"My, this will not do. Is there room for two such stubborn people in one courtship?" he remarked drily.

"Well, I suggest that you change your ways, then, for I will not," she remarked drily – stubbornly.

Boromir caught her joke, his chuckle low and warm, his grip on her lingering a moment before finally relenting as he slipped away from his spot at her back.

"The problem, I think, is your legs."

"My legs are a problem?"

"A very fetching problem."

Her responding laugh was hopelessly girlish – to the extent where, had he not been watching, she would have buried her face in her hands and urged herself to get a bloody grip.

"I stretch them too, you know," she cleared her throat, doing her best to move on from the way she'd just giggled. "It helps somewhat, but not a whole lot."

For he was right. The muscles at the back of the legs connected to those at the lower back – so if they tightened and seize up, it had a knock-on effect rather swiftly. But she'd done what she could to remedy that, and it had done precious little, especially with days piled upon days of hard pushing forward.

"Show me?" he asked.

Conceding to that request revolved yet more shoving down her embarrassment. Rising in order to step away and give her space, he returned to the ground to kneel, watching as she used that newfound space to lie down on her back. Once she was flat on her back, she lifted one leg straight into the air until it was close enough that she could grasp at her thigh with one hand, and the back of her knee with the other. From there, she began pulling her leg towards her, always keeping it straight, and gritting her teeth against how her thigh muscles burned in protest the entire time.

"Is that as far as you can get?" he asked, her knee still a good distance from her chest.

"Without crying, yes."

Chuckling softly, he shuffled a little closer and observed for a moment or two, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I can help you achieve a deepe- ahem, a better stretch. But it's rather hands-on, and it may be uncomfortable."

"But it'll help?"

"I wouldn't suggest it otherwise."

"Then I can bear it," she nodded.

"You can bear my hands? The words spoken by sweethearts everywhere, I'm sure," he teased mildly.

"Har-har," her eyeroll lacked any bite, given how it accompanied yet another blush.

His chuckle was muffled by his glove, which he removed with his teeth, followed by the other, both of which he tucked into his belt before he paused then, hesitating a little. And Sybil…she understood it. For there was teasing, and then there was this – and this suddenly felt very real. Especially after how heated things between them had grown that morning.

"I should just stay like this?" Sybil asked, keeping her tone light and matter-of-fact.

It was the signal he needed, the one she suspected he was waiting for, to continue.

"Yes," he nodded, his hands taking the place of her own.

At first her hands faltered by his, and then she haltingly placed them down by her sides.

"It will be uncomfortable…that's the nature of these sorts of stretches, I'm afraid, but if it grows unbearable, tell me."

"I will," she replied.

The rueful look he offered suggested he didn't much believe her…and that was fair enough, really.

With one hand, far greater in size than her own, he grasped the back of her thigh just above the the dip of her knee, while the other snaked around to her shin, resting below her kneecap and keeping her leg straight. Kneeling before her, he pushed a little – only a little – and monitored her face as her muscles protested. It burned a little, but no worse than it had when she'd done it. Sybil nodded.

For a moment, he eased up, letting her leg come down a little to where she felt no strain at all, and then he pushed again – more, this time, closing a some of the gap that yet remained between her knee and chest. Sybil inhaled sharply through her nose, tilting her head back and gritting her teeth against the discomfort. Then he let up again. It continued like that – pushing incrementally further until he was all but folding her in half, her knee pressed to her chest. And it was intense, unbearable at first but then less so as the muscle did stretch, and then she grew accustomed to it, forcing herself to lean into the discomfort and knowing all the while that it would serve a purpose.

Not that it was easy. She had to breathe heavily and deliberately, her eyes shut and her fists clenched, ridiculous little whimpers sneaking out from between her lips every now and then, her thigh constantly twitching and trembling beneath Boromir's steady grasp. There wasn't much she could do about that. All the while, he held firm, only asking every now and then if she was well while she breathed the affirmative and steeled herself.

Oh, how she wished she knew what Legolas thought he was hearing right now. Or Haldir, for that matter. Happily, at least, his kin didn't seem to have a great grasp of the Common Speech.

When that thought struck her, though, there was no ridding herself of it – nor of how so much of this appeared…well, more than a little suggestive. Heat flooded her face, and she opened her eyes solely with a mind of seeing Boromir's face, knowing that once she bore witness to his unaffected and businesslike demeanour, she'd be able to get a grip.

But instead she found him pink-cheeked, his eyes hooded and expression utterly distracted, and it was devastating. Her eyes met his, and there was no looking away. Not if she tried…and not if she wanted to. Which she didn't. Once again, her thigh seized a little and twitched in his grasp – but not from discomfort. Not this time. Her lips parted, and he groaned quietly, as if wounded.

His grip loosened and her leg slid from his grasp, falling back down to the ground and clearing any obstruction that would stop him from doing what he clearly wanted to do – what she wished he would – his gaze fixed on her lips. His forearm came down to rest beside her head on the ground, helping him balance as he bowed his head and moved to kiss her, her chin tilting up to do what little she could to close the gap.

Then, from the direction of their camp, a clatter and a laugh.

In unison their eyes closed, and Boromir dropped his brow to hers. She sighed softly, her breath ghosting over his lips, and he responded in kind with a chuckle that morphed into a groan.

"You're going to kill me," she mused quietly, like her heart wasn't pounding in her chest.

As she spoke, she slowly lifted a hand and carded her fingers through his hair. Leaning into the touch, he did kiss her then. Just a peck. It fuelled the fire within her all the same.

"I'm not the only one to blame for this," he murmured, staying close.

"Blame?" she echoed.

"…I'm not the only one who can take credit for this," he amended. "And we still have the other leg to handle."

The notion excited her more than it should have. Worse still, it showed on her face, judging by how he smirked at her and chuckled again.

"Look at your current expression in a mirror and then tell me, my darling, who will be the death of whom."

A/N: tumblr - esta-elavaris

IG - miotasach