PROMPT: "There's a leaf in your hair."
The King of Rohan is staring at her.
Lothiriel cannot fathom why he is; he is friends with her father, of course, and with her brothers, but they have exchanged perhaps five words at most. She is not a beauty, not in the high, otherworldly way of her new Queen, nor in the golden, fierce way of his fair sister, but she knows she is not unpleasant to look at. (Or, if she is, everyone has been very good at keeping it from her.)
And yet the king is staring at her, as if she has suddenly grown a second head.
It is...disconcerting, to say the least.
"You are blushing," her sister-in-law murmurs, low enough for just Lothiriel's sensitive ears. "Would you tell me why?"
"Aly, please," she begs, dropping her gaze. "Don't tease me so."
Alycia frowns, but pats her hand under the table subtly enough. "Alright. For now."
Lothiriel tries to eat her meal as gracefully as she can, but every time she looks up he is still staring. On one such time, she meets his sister's eyes as well. The White Lady of Rohan had been intimidating at first-so fair! So brave!-but she has come to know her cousin's betrothed very well, and likes her very much.
So of course, Eowyn reads the distress in her face, follows her embarrassed gaze to her brother. Who is promptly elbowed-rather viciously, from what Lothiriel can tell-in the side.
Finally, he seems to realize he's been making her uncomfortable, grimacing into his wine glass as Eowyn whispers Valar-knows-what into his ear.
Still, she feels ill at ease. Why had he been giving her such scrutiny? She is not much like the other ladies of the court. Too soft-spoken, taking the most pleasure in small, intimate groups of those she already knows than the loud, raucous celebrations the end of the War dictates...Lothiriel rarely calls attention to herself.
Her father offers her a sympathetic smile when she slips from the table-Amrothos would usually call her out, or Elphir would join her, but both are absorbed in conversations with various members of the famous Fellowship.
The garden is a quiet relief after the loudness of the hall. Lothiriel could sit all night, alone, under the stars, and wish for nothing else in all the world.
But it is not to be.
The footfalls that announce someone's presence are light, controlled. The walk of a soldier, she thinks, and turns to face them, expecting her one of her brothers, or even Faramir.
But no. It is the King of Rohan, once again.
"I owe you an apology," he says, startling her. "I should not have stared at you so."
Lothiriel gulps. He should not be frightening-he is a king, a friend to her family, remarkably tender with his sister, and prone to sincere smiles when talking with Merry and Pippin-and yet there is something about him that makes her face flush, her pulse race faster.
"I am not accustomed to such attention," she admits in a quiet voice. "But you need not apologize."
His small smile only makes her face heat further, and she is grateful for the relative darkness of the garden. "Will you let me explain, at least?"
She nods, rather curious herself.
He reaches out towards her and her breath nearly stops in surprise-what is he doing, does he not know how improper it is for a man to touch an unwed maiden's hair-only to wince when something catches, tugs a few strands of her braid out of place.
"There was a leaf in your hair," he says, holding the offending item up for inspection. "And as I have never seen you anything other than perfectly poised, I could not imagine how it came to be there."
Flushing deeper still, she tucks the loose strands back behind her ear. "I am fond of the outdoors, my lord. Even we Gondorian princesses are permitted some imperfections."
His laugh is perhaps the most charming thing about him, and she finds herself wanting to bottle the sound, to keep it for times when things are less easy, less happy.
"I am glad to hear it," he says, and offers her his elbow.
Her fingers tremble, but she laces her arm through his all the same.