"Who, do you think, is the handsomest man tonight?"
Amused, Lothíriel cast her eyes over the huge crowd in Merethrond—silly as her friend was being about the hundreds of soldiers in the city, it seemed all the more ridiculous to try to pick any out from the swarming mass of people. It was a positive crush—they could not move anywhere without difficulty, let alone pick out a single face. She was tempted to declare her brothers for the sake of her own pride, but she guessed that Milith would not appreciate a joke. Her friend was deadly serious.
"King Elessar," Lothíriel decided. "I have not seen his match."
"Oh, yes! Indeed, I think you are quite correct." Milith's voice was breathless, and Lothíriel bit back a smile. She had never met someone so interested in young men before. Though she had to be patient with her friend; Milith had, after all, lost both of her parents in the last few months… Any joy, however silly, must be had.
"We ought to move to the center of the room, if you are wishing to dance," Lothíriel suggested with a grin. "No one will see us here."
Without a word Milith wove her arm through Lothíriel's and fair began to drag her deeper into the crowd. Lothíriel murmured 'excuse us's to all they shouldered past, keeping her chin level so as not to betray being cowed by so much nobility and heroics in one hall. That she was shorter than nearly all of them did make it more difficult.
The music for dancing was only audible once they were standing near it; so many overlapping voices and laughter were beginning to ring in her ears. Perhaps fifty couples were attempting to dance, but the lack of space made it tricky.
"It is rather clumsy dancing," Lothíriel said. "I shouldn't wish to bother. My elbows and toes would be bruised by the end of the night!"
"Oh, you are ridiculous!" Milith cried. "Why, to dance with a soldier would be the greatest honor!"
"Of course."
They stood for a few moments content with observing. Then without warning, Milith dug her fingernails into Lothíriel's arm, gasping aloud. "There!" she hissed. "That is the handsomest man I have ever seen!"
Lothíriel followed her gaze to some twenty feet away, where a group of Rohirric soldiers were standing and talking amongst themselves. The tallest wore an embroidered emblem of a blazing sun on his breast, and Lothíriel guessed that Milith had just fallen in love with the King of Rohan. She suppressed a groan—from how her brothers spoke of the King, she guessed that Milith would be experiencing a great deal of heartache. The King did not favor any woman above others. He was kind, certainly—but it was likely he had a woman in Rohan. How could he not? For he was attractive; more attractive than she would have expected.
"He is very handsome," Lothíriel allowed. "Despite the beard."
"Beard? Oh—he does not have a beard! Whomever are you looking at?"
Lothíriel flushed, glancing again at the other men in the King's circle until she found the single man who wore his chin bare. He was considerably younger and his hair a sandy brown rather than the glinting gold of his King. And he was looking back at Milith with light in his eyes. She saw one of his companions elbow him in the ribs, and the poor young man winced. Other eyes now turned to them, and Lothíriel kept her chin high.
"Well," she said lightly. "Perhaps he will ask you to dance. From the way he is gazing at you, I rather suspect he shall."
"Oh! Oh! My heart is fluttering—I do not know if I can—"
The young man was now speaking to his King beside him, and the King looked their way. Lothíriel inclined her head, and to her surprise, he grinned back. Her cheeks pinked. He turned and said something to his friends.
There was a final note of music, and many people began to clap as the couples on the floor began to break up. Milith's hand on her arm was clammy, and Lothíriel pried away her friend's fingers gently. "Do try not to appear unapproachable," Lothíriel whispered. "He is coming."
Milith's response was strangled in her throat.
The young man walked towards him, and to Lothíriel's astonishment, his King was with him. The rest of the Rohirrim remained behind, and she thought she saw some chuckling amongst them. Was that the clink of exchanged coins? Oh, for Ulmo's sake…
The two men stopped before them. The King bowed to Lothíriel, taking her hand. "My lady," he said in a rich, deep voice. She blinked stupidly as he continued, "I have heard a great deal of you from your brothers—please do not consider it impertinent that I introduce myself."
"Oh, not at all," Lothíriel said, recovering as soon as he released her hand. "I only wonder why we have not met before."
He smiled at her broadly, his teeth flashing. "My companion, Déor." The young man now turned to Lothíriel, taking her hand nervously and only sparing her a passing glance. Lothíriel bit her lip to keep from laughing.
"This is my friend, Lady Milith of Pelargir," she said smoothly.
Déor swallowed, his eyes fastened on a blushing Milith. "Will you dance with me, lady?"
"Oh—oh, certainly!"
Lothíriel suppressed her smile as they strode towards the dancing, worried that the two would bump into something, being so absorbed in each other. She glanced quickly at the King and saw his own withheld laughter. Their eyes met, and he chuckled. She hoped dearly the noise covered her own, unladylike snort.
"You are too kind, my lord," she said. "To introduce them, I mean to say—have you ever considered matchmaking as a hobby?"
"Never!" the king laughed. "And I do not think I wish to. There is only luck to thank, in this instance."
Lothíriel could not help noticing the crowd pushing them back slightly, and they were drawn closer together. "Do not underestimate the power of your goodwill. For if you had not brought your man over, I would have been subject to Milith's sighing and lamenting for the remainder of the night. You have saved me a great deal of trouble!"
"I am happy to have done the service for you." The king bowed again. "But let us also not underestimate the power of my own selfish motives."
She lifted her brows, awaiting an explanation.
"My friends and I were just discussing who might be the most beautiful lady in the hall this night," he said, a grin spreading across his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was a very nice smile, if a bit smug. "They wonder if even I could convince such a woman to dance with me."
Lothíriel was even more confused by this, but she did not let it show. How could their respective conversations been so similar? It seemed very odd. "Your friends think either very highly or very badly of you," she teased.
"I think that will depend on whether or not I succeed."
"And shall you, do you think?"
"That depends on you. Now that I have gained your sympathy, dare I hope you will take pity and dance with me?"
Her heart thumped in her breast, dazed at the intense expression on his face. Then she smiled in belated understanding of his insinuation, feeling a hot flush spread across her neck and face. But Lothíriel ignored this. "What is the reward?" she asked.
"Er—a few coins."
"Well, if we divide the profit, I think you will find me a most willing partner."
The King laughed then. "A truly conniving mind! Very well. I am willing to sacrifice gold for my pride." His eyes were warm—his blue eyes, Lothíriel noticed as he took her hand. Even though he did tower over her, she did not feel quite as overwhelmed as she normally did. At least, not in the same way.
"Then we are in agreement," she said, smiling.
"I thank you, my lady," he said with his broad grin. "I look forward to a prosperous partnership."