"Halt," her voice carried over the small landing.
The robed figure continued his ministrations in the stove, and a calm voice floated over to her, "as a healer yourself, my lady, surely you will allow me time to finish this salve before having me halt?"
The lilt was distinctively foreign yet commanding, and gave her pause. Furthermore, there was little she could do to contest that statement, so she held her tongue and watched the obviously practiced stranger move around the small room as if it were his own.
Ten minutes of watching him and still being unable to figure out his identity later, he finally turned to her and lowered the hood.
"Well met, my lady," he inclined his head. In his eyes she saw the wisdom of ages past, and in his forehead the cares of scores of years, but yet somehow she could not place this person that stood before her in the calm darkness of three in the morning.
"My apologies, my lord," she began, "but we do not usually admit strangers to the Houses of Healing, and even more rarely do we allow them free reign of our herbs and poultices."
"I will confess then, that I might perhaps not actually have been admitted," a quirk of his lips, perhaps to put her at ease, perhaps to disarm her, but whatever that was for, it worked.
She smiled, but stood her ground, "I appreciate your presence, my lord, but I am afraid that we are not currently in any need of assistance. This shift is a quiet one."
No sooner had she spoken those words did the doors burst open to admit several harried members of the Tower Guard bearing a member of their own.
She turned to the stranger incredulously, and he laughed but shook his head.
"Allow me," he stepped forward, and wordlessly she stepped back, before catching herself. What was she even thinking letting him…
But it was too late, for he had already directed the injured over to one of the empty cots, and was busy dealing with his injury.
She made her way over, less concerned about his skill and more curious to witness it in action, and was amazed not by any form of magic that he seemed to be performing, but instead by the sheer fluency and swiftness of his every movement.
The broken ankle, for that was what it was, probably obtained after an exceedingly rowdy night of drinking - the royal wedding had just occurred, and was most definitely a source of merriment for the city, was quickly set, and poultices artfully dispensed that she had not even known he knew the locations of.
When the member of the Guard finally hobbled out of the Houses, the stranger turned to her with a look in his eyes that could only be described as approval. "These are very well stocked and organized, my lady."
She nodded warily, almost affronted even though nothing in his tone spoke of negativity, "You sound as if you were not expecting that."
He almost guiltily cast his glance out the window, "You must forgive me, my lady, for it has been a while since I was last in these parts."
A slight frown came to her face as she considered his last statement. He hardly looked as if he were one of the Rohirrim, and though she knew them not, the impression she garnered of the knowledge of their healers was not necessarily that of a state more advanced than that of Minas Tirith.
That, and she was still, thus far, unable to place this stranger, and the not-knowing irked her.
Noticing his almost unwavering gaze, she finally plucked up the courage.
"Who are you, my lord?" she put forth, curiosity having gotten the better of her, and decorum having flown rather ungraciously out of the window at this point.
"Ah," he looked rather pleased, eyes twinkling almost merrily, "I hold many titles, but the one that is perhaps most useful, and most recently acquired, I believe, would be that I am the father of your Queen, Princess Lothiriel."
Lothiriel blinked.
Elrond laughed.