There were voices far away; so many overlapping that Lothíriel could not discern any words. She ignored them as best she could. Somehow in her hazy mind, she knew that pain came with the voices, and she would really rather stay in the blessed darkness, thank you very much.
But they were insistent, and a sharp slap across her face made her wince with discomfort and annoyance. Someone was shaking her shoulders—Amrothos, most likely. Why would he not mind his own business for once? She was perfectly fine…
Her body rebelled. She had a split second warning before her belly heaved, and she automatically rolled to her side, spewing out salty water. This brought her much closer to reality; she hated to vomit, the salt was burning her skin, and she could feel gritty sand in her mouth as she tried to breath in.
A thump on her back nearly made her screech in pain. Then another, and another. "Stop it!" Lothíriel tried to shout, though only a hoarse moan came from her mouth. Her throat burned from the vomit and the salt. A large hand lifted her face from where it rested on the sand, and she blinked away sand from her eyes as she at last opened them.
The King of Rohan's earnest face was peering down at her, worry etched between his brows. His hair was wet and matted with salt, and oddly enough his blue eyes seemed to match the cloudless sky behind him. Lothíriel blinked painfully.
"Are you well?" he asked.
Trying to swallow but unable to, she whispered, "Er—no, not really."
"Ah—oh. What can I do, then?"
"Water." Unfortunately this only seemed to baffle the King further, for he only glanced around quickly before replying.
"I see none but the sea," he said. "I do not—"
Lothíriel struggled to sit forward, and were it not for the assistance of the King she might not have managed it. Taking measured breaths, she blinked in the painful sunlight around them.
They were on an island, that much must be true. It was not a large island, as she could see the ends of the sandbank disappear into the crystal-blue sea some fifty-feet away on either side of them. There was a dense clump of trees behind them, and if her knowledge of the geography of the Bay of Belfalas was accurate (which it was), there was unlikely to be anything else on the opposite side of the trees but more beach. Looking at the bright sky sent a sharp pain through her eyes and into her head, and Lothíriel rubbed her temples, grimacing. Their exact location would have to wait.
"There should be something in the region of the trees," she said quickly. "Trees or a stream—anything. Plants do not grow from seawater, after all."
"I will go and search—do not move." The King's order was unnecessary, Lothíriel thought. She could not move even had she been inclined to. Every muscle in her body ached, and she saw the surface of her arms and feet covered in shallow scratches. That would be why the entirety of her skin was stinging, then. Hopefully there would be enough fresh water for her to clean herself; that would help greatly.
She waited on the beach, her eyes closed and her concentration on anything other than the torment of her injuries, for much longer than she expected. The forest was not that large, after all, and the King was supposed to be a capable man. What could he be doing?
A series of thunks at her feet brought Lothíriel back to the present, and she opened her eyes in surprise to see a pile of fruits and nuts. Truthfully, it was more than she expected, and when she looked up at the King's smug face she knew she was expected to compliment his haul. But she had spent far too much time with Amrothos to do so willingly.
"No water?" she asked, brows lifting as he sat down beside her.
"Er—"
"It does not matter," Lothíriel muttered, and picked up a lopsided green ball. "There in water in the ferna; have you a knife?"
"Always." The King flipped the knife he already held in his hand until the leather-bound hilt was held out towards her. Lothíriel glanced skeptically up at him, and then took the warm handle. She had experience enough with the ferna that breaking the shell was no issue. As soon as there was an opening big enough, she tilted it into her mouth and swallowed the warm milk of the fruit greedily.
"That is much better," she said, licking the last of the precious sustenance from her lips. "Hand me another one—that one there—and you may drink as well."
The King's reaction the drink was not so satisfactory as her own, and he drank with a grimace.
"'Tis an acquired taste," Lothíriel told him with a smile. "But it is better than starvation, to be sure."
"Indeed," the King muttered.
"The dayig is not, however." She picked up a dark, prickly fruit about the size of her fist. "Sweet as a rose but not worth the fever, I think."
"We have enough issues without fevers," he agreed. "So—how are we to get off this blasted island?"
Lothíriel had deliberately been avoiding thinking about just that problem, and she sighed, returning his knife. "We cannot build anything that will float in the open sea with so little resources," she said, glancing again at the forest behind them. "And I will have to explore a bit more before I can say for sure, but I do not think there are any inhabited islands nearby. Certainly there are none in this direction." She nodded towards the sea in front of them, which sparkled innocently in the orange of the setting sun; had it been so long already? Not a cloud was in sight, and the gentle, lapping waves on the beach were not at all reminiscent of the swells which had nearly drowned them.
"How long has it been?" Lothíriel asked abruptly.
"I would estimate four hours since I lost sight of the boat, still afloat and fighting the waves. The rain ceased not a half-hour after the rope broke. The waves were kind enough to deposit us here, since they deprived us of our transportation."
Four hours of unconsciousness! The throbbing headache that was beginning to bother her would only worsen. Lothíriel bit her lip, thinking harder. "Well!" she said at last. "Assuming my brothers made it to safety, they will warn my father that we are lost and ought to be able to give a partially accurate location. There will be plenty of ships searching for us soon enough."
"Truly?" The King's tone was uncertain, and Lothíriel gave him an affronted glance.
"Of course! It is only a matter of time before we are rescued. Until then, we have only to survive."
"And how long will we have to survive?"
Lothíriel paused. "I do not know."
The King laughed humorlessly, running his fingers through his matted hair. "What a day!" he said. "If I die, my sister will kill me."
"Then she would be saved the bother," Lothíriel said blandly. "We will not die, my lord."
"There are not many more of those farny-whatsits, and I really would rather not try those fever-thingys—"
Angrily, Lothíriel kicked an oblong green fruit. "This we can eat!" Then a large bunch of blue pods. "This we can eat!" At last a bunch of yellow berries. "This we can eat!"
The King held out a hand as if to calm her, saying hastily, "Alright, alright…"
She got to her feet, ignoring her trembling knees and wrenching off both the rope, which had not saved them, and the oilskin cloak, which had not kept her dry following her dive into the sea. Sand and salt had collected and matted on her trousers, and she cleaned them as best she could. That her feet were bare was mildly embarrassing, but as it was the warm season, she was unlikely to catch a chill. Lothíriel made a noise of disgust as she shook the sand from her arms, and then she stalked towards the trees, ignoring the throbbing and aching pains across her body.
"Wait—what are you doing?"
"Collecting leaves," she called back to the king, several paces away and standing in alarm as he watched her. "I would rather not sleep on the sand nor on these terrible roots—" Indeed, the roots of the trees were so rugged that she was in danger of tripping if she did not carefully watch where she was walking.
Dayig trees, which were practically useless for decent nourishment, were nonetheless the best choice when it came to leaves. Each one was easily as large as Lothíriel, bright-green and thick. She had to jump to reach the ones closest to the ground, and when she caught hold of the first leaf, it held her weight suspended above the ground. She was left feeling stupid as she tried to yank it downwards with her.
Laughter reached her ears, and her temper, already fragile, nearly shattered. Lothíriel was ready with a scowl when the King appeared next to her, their eyes nearly level as he observed her with amusement.
"I see what you are trying to do," he said in his deep voice. "May I assist?"
"If you will," Lothíriel snapped.
It seemed to take him no strength at all to snap the leaf from the trunk of the tree, and Lothíriel nearly fell over with the heavy leaf on top of her. She straightened. "I will take this to the beach," she said unnecessarily.
"If you will." The King grinned. "And I will gather more."
It was an irritable Lothíriel that sat stiffly on the dayig leaves that evening; the sun had set to their backs and the dusky sky turned an elegant purple before the stars began to twinkle within it. Together, they feasted in silence on the variety of fruit. Clearly the King thought better of these fruits than the ferna. Lothíriel was sure her lips would be stained from all the dark juice, but the darkness kept her from worrying about it. When the last berries were eaten and the shells and seeds thrown into the sea, the King stretched out on his leaves, some three feet from Lothíriel, and gave a contented sigh.
"I have never tasted such a variety of fruit," he told her, though she had guessed as much. "I wish they might grow in my homeland!"
"You could have saved the seeds," Lothíriel said. "At least those of the mugua; we use it in poultices to heal bruises."
"Really?" The King sounded interested. "We use witch hazel, I think."
"Mugua is better," she declared. "But witch hazel is well enough."
She felt, rather than saw, the King's glittering eyes on her in the twilight, and she stiffened. "You astonish me," he said after a moment. "A princess of Gondor who can navigate better than any man I have met, who has the knowledge to survive alone on an island and the herblore to discuss medicinal plants. And—" Here he paused. "Who has the bravery to dive into the sea during a storm to save a man she does not know."
Lothíriel flushed with pleasure at such a compliment, though she hastened to dissuade his admiration. "Then you should hear me play the lyre," she said. "Then you will know I am as human as anyone else—after your ears cease to bleed, that is."
The King propped himself on his elbow, still watching her. "Why did you do it?" he asked.
"Do what? Play the lyre, you mean? It was a required lesson when I was—"
"No." His voice cut across her. "Why did you save me?"
"Oh." Lothíriel could think of what to say. That he was, in a way, her adopted brother? Her friend? That she felt guilty for refusing to wed him? That the thought of him dying made her heart prickle with discomfort? "My brothers were otherwise occupied," she decided. "We could not allow a foreign king to die in our care."
"It was an accident," he protested. "My own ruddy fault for rushing to the side to vomit—may as well have done it anywhere on the ship, with all the water pouring in—"
"You did not fully understand the danger—"
"I could have guessed. I am not that thick."
Silence followed this. The King's voice had grown agitated, as if he was angry at himself. Lothíriel, feeling uncomfortable, brought her ratty, crusted braid over her shoulder and began to unplait it, her fingers tugging out the salt and sand. "More experienced sailors have done worse," she said quietly. "Do not blame yourself. You did well pulling us towards the boat—if only the rope had not snapped...if anything, I am to blame, for I should have chosen a thicker rope."
Still the King's gaze had not left her, though he was slow to speak again. "I cannot—Lothíriel, I cannot thank you enough for saving my life. While my death might not have been the disaster as you seem to believe, I do enjoy life, and for what you did, you have earned my gratitude and loyalty forever."
Lothíriel was discomfited by this speech. She was not sure how she felt to have earned the King of Rohan's loyalty; she was merely a princess, after all, and would not be commanding any king in any foreseeable future. "I only did what anyone would have done," she said. "And besides...you saved my life as well by bringing me to this island. I consider any debts settled."
"That does not signify. My feelings are unchanged."
She finished braiding her hair and shook it out, sand splattering the dayig leaves. After deftly plaiting her hair once more, Lothíriel brushed the sand from her sleeping place before lying gingerly down on her back, her hands folded on her stomach and staring at the sky. Tomorrow they might be rescued, at least, or else they might become very weary of an only-fruit diet.
"Sleep well." The King's voice broke the quiet.
"And you." Lothíriel yawned, turned on her side away from him, and closed her eyes.