PROMPT: I'm a cashier and you're buying some really random products, I'm trying not to judge, but…wtf dude?

Lothiriel has been working in the markets in Minas Tirith since she was old enough to count money. Ada doesn't like it, per se, but Naneth had started the tradition, and he was hard pressed to deny her anything that reminds her of her mother, gone the past two years.

The shopkeepers know her here, and are kind enough to indulge her for the few hours a week she can drop the role of princess and diplomat, and simply be. There are few things on this earth she loves more than flowers, the lovely smells, the way you can use them to send a message of hope, of love, of joy.

Which is something the man before her is utterly, utterly failing to do.

He is not the first suitor to know nothing of the language of flowers, but as he haphazardly chooses another bloom-hyacinths are lovely, but she sincerely doubts he means to express that whoever the bouquet is intended for brings him sorrow-Lothiriel cannot help but wince.

Mistress Alwien catches her expression and snorts. "Go on then, my lady. It would not be the first time you have aided a befuddled suitor!"

Lothiriel smiles, making her way to stand at the man's side. He is a Rohir, that much is obvious, from both his dress and his hair. A tall man, taller than even Faramir, with all of his Numenorian height, and a handsome one, made even more apparent by the breadth of his shoulders, the grace with which he carries himself, even in confusion. She can feel the blush creep into her cheeks and berates herself; he is clearly looking for flowers for his sweetheart, and here she stands, writing odes to how handsome he is! It is not like her, and she will blame it on the giddiness surrounding the return of the King.

"Can I help you, my lord?" She asks. The man jumps, turning to offer her a near furious expression that almost immediately softens as he takes her in. "With the flowers," she explains.

The man's face contorts into an impressive grimace. "I assume I have done it all wrong, then?"

"There are good intentions, here," Lothiriel answers, wanting to be gentle. They have been through so much, these men of Rohan. There is no need to embarrass him for not knowing flower-lore. "Hyacinths are lovely, but a purple one means 'sorrow'."

The man nearly drops the flower as if it had burned him. Definitely a suitor, then, she thinks, plucking the flower and returning it to its proper vase. "A white one, however, indicates 'unobtrusive loveliness'."

His sudden snort makes her smile. "That will not do either, for I have never met the lady."

Lothiriel can feel her eyebrows hit her hairline. Arranged marriages are common amongst Gondor's nobles, but from what she has heard from Eowyn, it is not so in Rohan. "You are making a courting bouquet for a lady you have not met?"

Now it is his turn to look shocked. "No! I-I wished to express my gratitude to someone who has been kind to someone very dear for me." His embarrassment is palpable. "It was a foolish thought-"

"Oh, no," she says, unable to stop herself from reaching out to grasp his elbow. "It was a lovely one. And I can still certainly offer you my help, if-," at this she bites her lip, suddenly self-conscious. "If you would still like it?"

He smiles then, warm and sincere. "I think it is not a matter of liking, and more a matter of necessity."

Lothiriel laughs, pleased at his wit. "We shall see. You may surprise yourself yet!"

As it turns out, he has a good eye for color, though he flinches after suggesting asphodel and she must tell him their somber message, and laughs aloud at the thought of the tansy, so bright and cheerful, declaring war on its receiver. "I did not know flowers could be so...talkative," he says, amusement clear in his tone.

"Like so many other beautiful things, there is often more to them than just their appearance," she agrees.

"Indeed," he murmurs, something bright in his eyes.

Lothiriel blushes, looking down at the arrangement they've managed to put together. Sprigs of sweet basil, for good wishes, lavender for admiration, and finally cheerful bluebells for gratitude. It is a kind bouquet, and a respectful one. "I think this should satisfy your helpful lady."

He smiles again, somewhat softer this time, and she gulps when his fingers brush hers as he takes the flowers from her hands. Mistress Alwien bustles over, to help bundle the arrangement for its journey. In the past, Lothiriel would have turned to other customers, or said a final farewell, but she simply feels...stuck, staring at his back as he pays for the flowers. Oh, she had not even asked his name! Nor given hers, like a foolish child-

He is suddenly in front of her, looking uncertain as he had with the flowers before she'd begun to help him. A bloom is in his hand, offered up to her. White jasmine, she realizes. A many-meaning sort of flower. Paired with others, it meant appreciation or good luck, but on its own...Carefully, she takes it, eyes on his. "I wonder if you would offer this so freely, if you knew its meaning."

"I suppose I will have to come back again, for another lesson," he says. He lifts her hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to its back, and grins when she flushes scarlet. "Until then, blóstm cwén."

Mistress Ailwen chuckles as Lothiriel presses a hand to her mouth, both of them watching him leave. "Careful now, Princess. Can't have you losing your heart to a Rider of Rohan over something as silly as a flower!"

Still, that does not stop her from tucking the bloom behind her ear, nor does it stop her from smiling the entire walk back to Faramir's rooms. Eowyn is waiting for her, startling out of her happy daydream by nearly pouncing on her once she's entered the doors.

"Where have you been all day?" She asks, impatiently.

"Mistress Ailwen's flower stall," Lothiriel says, thinking of dark eyes and surprisingly deft fingers, "oh, Eowyn, you would never believe-"

Eowyn huffs, the fond expression on her face at war with her clear impatience. "Lothiriel, I promise I will listen happily to you waxing poetic about whatever star-crossed suitor came looking for the perfect flowers today, but for now, there is someone I would very much like you to meet."

Lothiriel's brow furrows and then-"Oh, Valar," she groans, "Eomer King comes today?"

"Even worse, he is already here," Eowyn says, sounding utterly cheerful. "Faramir he knows already, and I am afraid we have both told him nothing but good things about you-"

"Eowyn!"

"-but fret not, my brother is notoriously hard-headed when it comes to first impressions-"

Thinking of how frazzled Faramir had been after meeting the man, Lothiriel can only agree.

"-but seeing as how you are a beautiful lady, and not a man intent on courting his sister, he should be somewhat more polite to you-"

"I need to change," Lothiriel tries to interrupt, though they are already nearing the gardens and she can make out the sound of masculine laughter above Eowyn's footsteps, "Eowyn, please-"

"Nonsense," Eowyn insists. "You are as lovely as ever."

And that's how Lothiriel finds herself stepping out into the garden. Faramir grins when he spots her, standing and pulling her into a warm embrace that serves to take away a small measure of her nervousness. "You smell of fresh blooms and sunshine, cousin. Has Mistress Ailwen worked your fingers to the bone in her stall?"

"I enjoy the work, as you well know," she answers, pinching his side in retaliation. "And you are being very rude, Sir Steward."

Faramir winces. "You are right." He turns, ushering her with an arm around her shoulders, saying, "You've met my other cousins, Eomer, but this is Imrahil's youngest. Lothiriel, of Dol Amroth."

But Lothiriel can only gape in, in-shock? Wonder?-as the man from the shop, the Rohir, her Rohir, stands, grinning so widely his face looks likely to split in two.

"Blóstm cwén," he says, offering her the bouquet they'd spent the afternoon putting together, "I can think of no one else who deserves this more."