By morning no ship had come. Lothíriel suppressed disappointment as she took a stroll, just after dawn, circling the entirety of the island. It was too soon for anyone to come; by her calculations the earliest they could be rescued would be noon. She would not allow herself to hope for anything before dusk, however.

Her clothing was crusted to her skin, rubbing painfully against the scratches and tender skin, and despite what the King thought of her, she saw no possible remedy during her walk. The stiffness in her muscles, however, might be worked out, and so she stretched as she wandered about. Her flexibility returned reasonably quickly; she could not complain.

Lothiriel's short traipse brought her back to the beach where they had slept, and to her surprise the King was awake and standing facing the sea, his arms crossed and looking very stern indeed. And even more surprising, a thick weight of discouragement settled on her stomach at the sight. She had forgotten her initial dislike of him; the previous day he had been kind, even showing a sense of humor...it was this, the grim, cold man, that she had refused to marry. If she had known what lay beneath that demeanor, would she have been so quick to deny a wedding?

"Warn me afore you feed me any more mysterious fruits again," he said without turning. "An itemized list of possible symptoms, if you please."

Lothíriel gave a short laugh. "An itemized—? Oh, come off it! We did not eat anything spoiled, and I am perfectly well."

The King grunted in response. "The uncomfortable night I had would suggest otherwise."

"Really! I am not ill one bit."

"How fortunate for you." The King turned then, his expression softening slightly, though still he sighed. "I will not partake of any more fruit. Will I have a good chance of catching any fish?"

"How much fishing have you done in your life?"

"Er—"

Lothíriel sighed, shaking her head and unable to keep from grinning. "Then you have no chance at all. Accept that your future will be filled with mysterious fruit."

The King grimaced, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "If we will be rescued soon enough, I shall fast."

"But why suffer?" she asked. "And what on earth did that fruit do to you that has turned you against it? I enjoyed it immensely!"

"Never you mind," he said crossly. "Even with no chance of catching a fish, I wish to try. Give me direction if you will, or I shall try whatever bad idea pops into my head."

"You sound like Amrothos: 'Do what I want or I will do something stupid.' Not a very successful strategy, but I will help you anyways. There certainly is little else to do."

"Then let us begin."

It took no small amount of trouble to find a stick to Lothíriel's liking; most of the trees on the island had little in the way of hard branches due to the soaking wet of the rainstorm the previous day, but at last in the midst of dense brush she found a decently sized branch. The King lent her his knife for her to straighten it as best she could, shortening the stick to a length of four feet or so and sharpening one end to a sharp point. He looked on as she worked, not speaking.

"A shame we have no twine," she said, feeling the tip with her finger. "It would be a better gamble to tie your knife to the end, as it is a great deal sharper than this shoddy work."

The King smiled wanly. "We will see."

"Come on then." Lothíriel threw the makeshift spear at the King, who caught it. "I found some shallows during my walk this morning; that will be the best place to start."

Said shallows were located at the northwestern part of the island, where an sunny inlet beckoned in all sorts of sea plants and creatures. It was a perfect choice for catching fish, and shielding her eyes from the sun, Lothíriel observed quickly and in detail the foliage and sand around them as she bent over to roll up the legs of her trousers.

"The highest chance of success you will have," she told the King, who watched her warily for a moment before copying her actions. "Is to stand as still as a statue about twelve feet in. The fish will swim close to you then, as long as you do nothing to spook them. Then you might spear one. I have no advice on that topic, and I am sure you have more experience with a spear than myself."

The King straightened, and with a hard smile, twirled the spear expertly in one hand. "Never for fish," he said. "This will be a new skill for me."

Together they sloshed barefoot into the warm water, Lothíriel's eyes fastened on the seabed below. As expected, there were flurries of bright silvers and greens and yellows as dozens of fish swam away from them, and she held out an arm to stop their progress.

"This is where you should wait," she told him, and pointed underneath the surface of the water. "Certain fish hide in the weeds there, and others like to eat it."

"As you say."

With no other response forthcoming, Lothíriel left the King to his hunt, trying to make as few splashes as possible as she returned to shore. However promising the location was to obtain food, she had as little confidence in his abilities as he had expressed. She made for the trees; a more thorough search of the area would hopefully yield not only fresh water, but insects to bait fish as well.

The shade of the trees gave little relief from the sun. Muggy heat made her clothing stick to her skin uncomfortably, and she tried to fan herself as she searched the undergrowth. Fresh water would most likely to be found near the densest growth of plants, and finding such a place, she tore some away from the gritty ground. It was damp, and Lothíriel hoped it was from fresh water, and not still wet from the storm. There was little else she could do at present without some sort of spade, so she gathered a handful of caterpillars and beetles to return to the shallows.

Sunlight pierced her eyes as she left the shade, and she blinked several times before realizing the sight in front of her. The King had evidently found his task to be too warming, for he had removed his tunic and tossed it to the shore. He was facing away from her, his bronzed, muscled shoulders glinting in the sun. Lothíriel snapped her mouth shut (somehow it had opened of its own accord), and she walked on strangely numb legs to a point closer to where he was standing in the water. He was perfectly still, and though he glanced at her with a tight smile to show that he knew she was there, he did not speak or move otherwise.

Lothíriel sat on the sand, keeping her eyes averted as she focused on the slimy, wriggling bugs in her hand. She picked up a caterpillar, positioned it on the flat of her opposite hand, and aiming deftly, she gave it a mighty flick and it soared across the sparkling water to plop in near the King. A beetle followed, though it fell short, and enjoying the practice, Lothíriel flicked them all out in rapid succession. That ought to be enough to tempt the fish.

"Have you done this before?" The King's voice was low, but it carried across the lagoon easily.

"Not precisely," Lothíriel admitted. "I know the theory of spear fishing, though I have never tried it. I care little for the sport."

He grunted in response. "As little as I am beginning to, I wager."

"Do not give in so soon!" she said. "Otherwise the fish will approach as soon as you leave."

"That would be my luck."

"Such little optimism! I will tell you what: I shall go about building a fire. Then you simply must hold out until you catch a fish."

"A fire!" The King nearly shouted as he turned to her, looking askance. "We should have done that last night! Any searchers could have found us—"

"Do not frighten your supper away," Lothíriel said coolly. "We might have done so, it is true, but there would not have been any ships in the area; either by chance, due to the storm, or sent by my father, as it was too soon."

Mollified, he shook his head, returning his eyes to the water. "Then we should build one tonight."

"Certainly." Lothíriel stood to leave, brushing the sand from her trousers. "If there is any dry wood to be found, that is."

Another hour of searching yielded little, but that was more than enough time for her to decide to lay out the most promising branches of wood in the sun, away from the tide of the ocean, to dry more quickly. With the dry sticks she was able to find, she set about attempting to make a fire. It was slow work, and after rubbing her hands raw on the wood for nearly an hour, Lothíriel gave up with a huff and threw the sticks angrily at the sea just as the King was walking down towards her down the beach.

"My, my," he said, and with a smug grin, stuck his spear into the ground, on which now hung several brightly-colored fish. "I suppose the fire has not cooperated?"

Lothíriel sniffed, unable to help noticing that he had replaced his tunic. "You could put it that way, I suppose. I am impressed by your catch."

"Why, thank you. Now let us see if my luck will extend to a fire, eh?"

A few minutes later his quick actions resulted in a small, flickering flame, but she was too impressed to be irritated any longer. She busied herself instead preparing spits on which to cook the fish. He had fed the fire several pieces of wood, and was now gutting the fish with his knife. Though they worked in silence, they were efficient, and soon the smell of cooking fish made Lothíriel's stomach rumble with hunger. She tore open a fleshy dayig fruit from the previous day, and to the King's alarm, began to squeeze juice over the sizzling fish.

"You said that fruit causes fevers!" he said.

"The raw fruit does, yes," Lothíriel replied. "The cooked juice is quite safe, however. It will add a better flavor to your meal; it will not need any other seasoning."

"I was not so informed yesterday," the King said gruffly. "Perhaps you should educate me of all the properties of all the other fruits as well, so I am not so utterly ignorant."

She lifted her brows at this, glancing at his dubious features from across the small fire. "Are you referring to your illness last night?" Lothíriel asked. "Tell me your symptoms, then, and I will search the memories I have of my studies of flora."

He was grimacing, refusing to meet her eye, which only deepened both her amusement and curiosity. At last he spoke again, as if the words were forced from him, "It is not a matter to discuss with a lady."

"Ahhh…" Lothíriel, while perfectly sheltered as a 'lady', had lived too long with her older brothers to remain totally ignorant. Suddenly the King's reluctance to speak made complete sense. She stood and walked into the trees once more, searching for only a few minutes until she found what she wanted, and tugging several green fruits from the ground where they were protruding, returned to the beach to show them to the King.

"Buti," she explained, passing one to him. "I have heard it told—and read in numerous books—that many people favor it as an aphrodisiac. Though I have always been skeptical of such an effect of any food, many men swear by it."

The King looked up at her, his brows raised. "And you know that—how?"

Lothíriel pursed her lips. "I am not deaf to gossip nor too noble to be interested in it. And anyway, buti is served at the spring solstice in many forms; stewed, fermented, grilled, poached—for fertility."

"Fertility!" he said, scoffing as he tossed it back onto the sand. "It plays mind tricks, that does."

"Well, I have never heard that. But there, now you know. Be aware before you partake in the future!"

There was a pause as the King turned the fish on the spit; they were nearly cooked through, and residue dayig juice dripped onto the fire. "You are not bothered by it? The buti, I mean."

Lothíriel shrugged. "I never have been before. And I enjoy it well enough that it shall be my luncheon while you eat your fish."

"My—you mean, our fish?" The King, in the process of trying to slide a fish off of the spit with another stick onto a clean leaf, glanced at her. "I cannot eat all this alone."

Suppressing a flush, she said hastily, "You caught it yourself, I did not intend to assume—"

But he was already handing the leaf to her, on which he had piled three of the steaming fish, his eyes locked into hers. "Whatever you think of me," he began, his voice stiff, "I am not such an arse that I would not share my meal—any meal—with a comrade. And I could not have caught anything without you, Lothíriel."

She smiled, tremulously, and nearly jumped out of her skin when his hand brushed against hers as she accepted the leaf. "I would offer you the buti in return," she said. "But…"

"Do not!" The King burst into laughter, and Lothíriel knew he had forgiven the fruit.

They ate in a companionable silence, facing the sea together. The only discomfort was her thoughts of his earlier words, and when she could bear it no longer she said in a quiet voice, "I do not think you are an arse, my lord."

He glanced lazily over at her. "I think we have quite reached the point where you may call me by my given name."

It was on the tip of her tongue to argue about what exactly she should call him by, as whatever sort of relationship they now had would dictate, but Lothíriel only said coolly, "Then I do not think you an arse, Éomer."

"I thank you for the compliment. I am sure I do not deserve your confidence but I am grateful for it, all the same."

She was mildly surprised, though it lessened as she considered it, that he allowed the topic to drop just then; her brothers would have fished for further compliments. It seemed Éomer either disbelieved her entirely, or was not the sort to deliberately flame his own self-importance. Lothíriel waited a moment, and then asked in genuine interest, "What does your name mean in your tongue?"

"Grand horse, by literal translation."

Lothíriel smothered her titters by taking another bite of fish. "You do not look very horse-like to me," she said after swallowing, smiling over at him. He chuckled.

"Were my cousin alive, he would tell you I was born ugly enough to be mistaken for one," Éomer said. "And I must beg of you—do not tell me you agree! I have been sufficiently humbled these last days; any more is unnecessary."

"I do not agree," Lothíriel assured him, though her wayward thoughts sent a warm feeling of his attractiveness through her limbs. Somehow the vision of him, half-nude in the shallows, recalled itself swiftly.

"And your name? My Sindarin is barely proficient."

"It is close to 'flower garlanded maiden.' Also clearly as misguiding as yours; as you can see, I do not go around with flowers 'round my head. 'Twould become most uncomfortable!"

Éomer laughed at that, and Lothíriel prickled with pleasure. "Rather, the added beauty of blossoms would put we mortal men further from you, rather," he suggested, and her tingles ceased with abrupt confusion. "I am thankful you abstain."

Staring down at the pile of fish bones on her leafy plate, she found herself speechless. So she cleared her throat, and said with perhaps too much vigor, "If you have no other schemes for this afternoon—I would very much like to learn some of your language."

"In a single afternoon?" His tone was one of skeptical amusement.

"There is no saying how long we will be stuck here," Lothíriel said briskly. "May as well do something useful."

"Or take the time to relax from duties." Éomer discarded the remains of his meal with a grin towards her. "Not a single counsellor chasing me around—I have not remembered to appreciate the peace thus far."

"Court ladies," Lothíriel agreed with unnecessary vehemence. "I do swear—this is the longest I have gone in weeks without having to listen to superficial gossip regarding who-wishes-to-marry-whom and who-is-pregnant-by-whom and who-gambles-too-much."

Éomer glanced at her, his smile lingering. "I thought you enjoyed gossip."

"Useful gossip," she said tartly. "The sum total of gambling debts of whomever I have never met is not useful."

"And all the matchmaking rumors?"

Lothíriel was silent for moment, unsure how to respond. She tossed away her scraps and stretched out her legs on her dayig leaf. "Now if I was to hear of Amrothos's impending wedding, I should be interested," she said. "But Lord Whatsit of Wherever and Lady Whomever of Just Over There, not so."

"Fair enough." Éomer was reclining on his back, supporting his head as he gazed out at the sea. Once again, Lothíriel wondered if her father had ever approached the King of Rohan regarding a match between him and herself… Though she was enjoying his company more than expected, she was not quite comfortable enough to ask him plainly, and so she bit back a sigh.

"Westu hál," he said suddenly, and she nearly jumped.

"Bless you—" she began.

"It means 'be well,'" Éomer told her. "It is a greeting. Go on, then. I will teach you."

Lothíriel's subsequent mangling of the Rohirric language, rather than offend him, seemed to bring Éomer a great deal of delight. He laughed uproariously before correcting her each time, but she was not offended either, especially as the possibility of using such Rohirric phrases in the future as 'my horse is white' and 'where is the nearest tavern' was low. But somehow, within the echoes of his voice, any anxiety that they might not be rescued, did not even occur to her. She was feeling too light-hearted, too cheerful…

Eventually, with the beginning of the sinking of the sun in the dusky purple sky, they had to search out more ferna for drink and to soothe their throats from so much talking. Then they returned to the beach, and sat in quietude gazing at the horizon. Lothíriel both hoped and dreaded seeing the sails of a ship approaching.

"Ic leornesse náwa for ahlog swá forswiðe eac swelc sum fæger forwif," Éomer broke the silence with a low voice, more solemn now than he had been that afternoon.

Lothíriel smiled up at him; somehow when they had returned from the trees, they had come to be sitting much nearer, and she could see the dimples around his mouth as he smiled back. "You will have to say that more slowly," she said, mocking severity. "One word at a time, please; I only recognized the first."

His grin was both wicked and cryptic. "Not this time, Lothíriel. You shall have to puzzle that one out yourself."

"Bother!" she said crossly, though she could not truly be annoyed with him.

"Perhaps you need a Rohirric name," Éomer suggested. "That might somehow assist you in your learning, though it would take a near miracle."

"Ha," Lothíriel sniffed. "Give me one, then."

"Er—literally, I suppose you could be called, Blóstm-cynehealm-mæg. A bit of a mouthful though, do you not think?"

"Eugh!"

"Here is an idea: Hleahtorbære."

She eyed him, untrusting. "And what does that mean? Idiot? Rascal?"

"Neither!" Éomer laughed. "I would not be so unkind. It is the word for one who causes laughter, because you have made me laugh more today than I have in years."

Lothíriel was both startled and flattered by this, and the unfamiliar glint in his eyes only increased her feelings. "That is hardly commendatory," she decided to say. "If that were my name, people would think me no more than a common jester! A joke, really."

"I do doubt anyone could."

"And it is quite hard to say as well," she said. "Is there not something shorter?"

Éomer pondered this. "Hleah would be an appropriate shortname. Do you like it?"

"I do." She turned away so that he would not see any traitorous blush. He could have named her a goose and she would still treasure it.

The fire had long since died, and though remembering Éomer's advice that they light it to alert any searchers to their position, Lothíriel was reluctant to break the spell that was now surrounding them. Rescue, though an immediate concern, was far from her mind. There was only the darkening sky, the twinkling stars and the rushing whoosh of the tide as it swept on the beach...somewhere, there were insects chirping and she could hear the occasional splash of fish feeding on the surface.

"It is very pretty," Éomer said softly. "I suppose I did not expect to find such a wonderful place here." She only hummed in agreement, and a moment later she startled as she felt his fingers touch hers on the sand, and she jerked her hand away. Had he meant to do that?

"It is growing late!" Lothíriel said, too loudly to be wholly natural. "I am starving, too; I had not noticed. Where is the buti?"

"Dare I give it to you?"

"Oh, shush, you should be named rascal—" Despite his teasing, Éomer handed to her the fruit, and Lothíriel wasted no time to peel the skin and pop several berries into her mouth.

"Would you care for a snack?" she asked innocently, though it was unlikely he could see her grin in the twilight. "There is plenty, to be sure."

His response was swift and harsh. "No, thank you."

"Oh, come now—'tis not so bad…"

"You would have to tie me down and force it down my throat!" Éomer declared. "Never have I spent a night in such discomfort."

"'Tis delicious…" Lothíriel said in a singsong voice, and aiming as best she could, she pelted a berry towards Éomer, and it hit his shoulder.

"I do not deny that, but the consequences—really, I do not think either of us would wish—Béma, woman! Are you an archer? How have you such accurate aim?" Another missile had hit his forehead, and he rubbed it ruefully.

"This is not the first time I have thrown fruit at a person," she admitted. "Erchirion—well, he was once rude to me at supper, and I...well. I am not proud of what I did, per say, but it did give me a sick sort of satisfaction to see his face and neck stained purple from my retaliation for days afterward."

Éomer was chuckling, throwing the berries which had congregated on his lap towards the sea. "Remind me never to cross you," he said, and then, as if to himself, he muttered, "'Well-behaved princess,' indeed!"

"What—what did...well-behaved? Who said that? Of whom are you referring?"

He glanced at her, askance, before shaking his head. "You. Your brother Elphir either knows you not at all, or has blinded himself completely."

"Elphir said that of me?" Lothíriel laughed in astonishment. "That little git! He must have thought it expedient; he never stretches the truth unless it is for a purpose."

Éomer grunted in response, and offered no further explanation. Despite herself, Lothíriel yawned hugely. The sun had been down for at least an hour or more, but she still vaguely sore from the previous day's ordeal. She brushed the sand off of her dayig leaves before lying down.

"Tomorrow we need more water," she said sleepily, yawning once more as Éomer crawled over to his sleeping space. "And...the fire. We should probably do the fire as well."

"Should we build it now? Will they search in the dark?"

She was already half-asleep when he posed these questions, and she took a moment before answering. "No. Not even Amrothos is stupid enough to try to scour the seas for two people in the dark. Good night, Éomer."

"Good night, mín Hleah."