She did not know how long she worked with the wounded men. Perhaps she was tired, but she did not notice. It was a hard battle she fought to encourage men to fight for their lives from the grasp of Death. Eventually, the Warden ordered her to rest, and so she did in her own manner. She sat on a bench, sketching in the flickering light of a lantern. Sketching had always been a priority in her training as a healer, for she learned to recognize plants by drawing them to the finest detail. Though her hand was busy, her mind was at peace, wandering the lands of absent thought.
Someone gently tapped her shoulder, startling her out of her reverie. A tall man stood before her with his helmet in his hand. He asked in accented Westron, "Do you know where I might find some food?"
She automatically responded, "Of course, but if you wait here, I shall bring you some." She rose and set off to the kitchen. The fire was already banked, but she knew that a live coal lay buried beneath the ashes. Rather than bothering to start the fire again, she found some bread and cheese. She wished they had fruit, but all of that was gone. When she returned, the man was looking at her sketch. She noted his broad shoulders, made broader by his armor, and his tangled, dirty hair.
"Here is your food, sir," she said, handing him the plate. "I am afraid that I could not find very much other than this."
"Tis no matter," he replied between slow bites. He fell silent before remarking, "What were you drawing? I could not make it out."
She studied her work for the first time as she was not really paying attention to what she was doing when she started. Her sketch appeared to be like the sea crashing over rocks. The waves themselves were shaped such a strange manner that she supposed they could be anything. As for the rocks, she could only tell that they were firm. Finally, she responded, "It is the sea crashing into rocks. You could say that we are like the rocks, firm in the midst of this war. Or you could say that we are like the sea, unafraid to assail the firmest of enemies."
"Or we must be both," he commented solemnly. His brown eyes softened, unless it was a trick of the lamp light.
Seeing that he was quite finished with his meal, she rose. He handed her the dish. After hesitating to depart, she finally offered him the drawing, saying, "Please take this, sir. It is a small gift for what you and your countrymen have done as many others have and shall tell you. Perhaps it shall remind you to be both the sea and the rock."
He smiled slightly, making his solemn face appear younger. He rose and accepted the drawing, promising, "And so it shall, lady. In such times and all times, one must be like the rock and sea. I thank you for your kindness and gift."
She inclined her head, "I am not lady, only a younger healer, sir. I know not what you might be, but I deem you to be of good standing since I've met few of your people who speak Westron. I must bid you goodnight, but I hope we shall meet in better times." She gave him one small smile before turning to the kitchen.
It was the coronation ball of King Elessar of Gondor. Lothíriel stood near her father, forcing laughter and faking smiles with the lesser lords. She ensured that her manners were civil, but cold. One sharp look from her silver eyes killed any hope an aspiring suitor held. She glanced towards her father, who spoke with some lord of Gondor. Then she turned her attention towards the King of Rohan. He stood across the room, and he seemed a little bit out of place. For one thing, his clothing, though simple, was elegant compared to the ostentatiousness of the Gondorians. And for another, he seemed a bit bored by the festivities, which were probably much more sedate than he was used to.
The lord whom she was supposed to talking to suddenly stopped midsentence, asking, "Is everything alright, my lady?"
Lothíriel saw through his wall of insincerity, and answered politely, "Everything is alright, but I do believe Lord Galdor by the wine casks is motioning for you."
Lord Whateverhisnamewas immediately bowered and excused himself. Lothíriel sighed and glanced again towards the Rohirric king. Their gazes met, and recognition flashed in his deep blue eyes. Lothíriel watched his silhouette make his way towards her.
Eventually, he stood before her, bowed, and asked, "Have we met, lady?"
"It is in better times that meet again, sire," she responded as she curtsied. "Have found out you can be both the sea and the rock?"
Puzzlement clouded his brow, but then his bright smile cleared the confusion. "Ah, yes, indeed I have. And have you drawn any new analogies for me to test? Or may I give you one to try out?"
They bantered lightly for the next half-hour. Lothíriel no longer pretended her laughter. It came as easily as smiling.
As the conversation ended, he said, "You know what? I still do not know your name, and I do not think I've told you mine."
"My father, Imrahil of Dol Amroth, has spoken of me, I'm sure. But I know you to be Éomer, King of Rohan."
A few moments later, he hesitantly guessed, "Are you Lothíriel?"
Lothíriel nodded, "Indeed." She added wistfully, "I wish this night wouldn't end too soon. It's been enchanting to meet you."
"Mayhap I am enchanted by you," he whispered, causing a blush to rise on Lothíriel's cheek.
They stood there in silence, enjoying each other's company and wondering if the other had a lover. Eventually, the spell was broken, and they both separated. As they both prepared for bed in their individual room, they thought of the night. Of how everything didn't seem real until they saw each other. Of the first time they met. Of what can be.