4 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith

Lothíriel did not know what sort of pursuits Éomer had in mind for their morning. It presented a fair quandary as she considered what to wear. After several minutes she chose a frock of violet with a vested surcoat of dove-grey with sturdy half-boots, in the event that they were to do much walking. It was not as tempting as her gown of the previous night, but perhaps that was for the better; and anyway, she thought it was fetching enough. Lothíriel was just finishing putting a plait in her hair when she heard voices in the courtyard. Her heart began drum in her breast, and she skipped from her chamber, giddy anticipation overcoming her nerves.

As she expected, Éomer had arrived. He stood with her father in the courtyard, his usual handsome appearance causing a thrill to course through her. What an excellent morning it would be! She approached as sedately as she could manage and greeted her father with a kiss on his cheek, ignoring Éomer's raised brows in her direction as if to say, No kiss for me?

Certainly not! There was no one around to deceive. Lothíriel gave him a smug smile in return.

"You are looking well this morning, daughter," Imrahil said.

"Thank you!" Lothíriel said breathlessly. Éomer's eyes were upon her too, and she flushed, hoping it would not look too terrible with the color of her dress. Oh, good heavens—was she so reduced as to wonder if her blushes matched her frock?

"Did you partake of breakfast this morning?" her father asked of her. His brows creased as he studied her face, surely noticing her high color of eagerness. Perhaps mistaking it for ill health? Lothíriel gave him a reassuring and somewhat impatient smile.

"Yes, yes!"

"And you told the housekeeper you would be absent today?"

"Of course, Father! She knows the duties to be done." Her very tone was agony. Oh, would he not just farewell them and allow them to leave?

"Good," Imrahil said, nodding. "I was just inviting Éomer to dine with us this evening, if you do not mind."

Hastily Éomer interrupted. "I told your father I would leave the decision to you, in the off chance that you tire of my company."

Lothíriel bit her lip, keeping her bubbling laugh in check. "I do doubt that, my lord!"

"That is settled then," Imrahil said. An indulgent smile grew on his face, and he waved a hand in the air dismissively. "Now, be off with you before my daughter expires of excitement. Go on!"

Was she so transparent? She attempted a measure of dignity as she took Éomer's proffered arm, but his warm gaze met hers and she felt warmth steal over her, walking beside him without watching where she was going.

"Well, miting, I am afraid it may be a very dull morning for you," Éomer said, though his eyes were twinkling. "I thought to stay near the Citadel today, to be seen as much as possible. I would have very much liked to take you on a ride outside the city, but I doubt we would happen across very many courtiers in the wilds!"

"That is wise," Lothíriel admitted.

"Ha! I do try to be."

They stepped into the street, the gate behind them closing with a clang. The morning sun above was warm, promising a lovely spring day, shining brightly and causing the white stone of the buildings and walls to gleam proudly. Very few people were about, and none that Lothíriel recognized as nobility, but still Éomer held tightly to her. They were walking awfully close—but she was not going to complain.

Merchants were strewn along the side of the street, their wares kept under tents to lure travellers into their shade. Some sold silver, some silks and some spices; wares for the wealthier inhabitants of the city. There was one small girl selling fresh spring flowers out of a basket, and Éomer drew Lothíriel there.

"Oh, you needn't for my sake—" she tried to say, but it was too late. He fished a silver coin from his pocket and gave it to the wide-eyed girl.

"Which flower do you think will be prettiest on my lady?" he asked the girl solemnly.

She squeaked in return. "Oh—the purple iris! They match her frock perfectly." And she gathered a handful of irises for him, but Éomer took only one.

"Thank you, little miss." Éomer was smiling when he turned again to Lothíriel, and with gentle fingers he tucked the violet blossom behind her ear. She flushed in return, and he must have noticed, for he grinned.

"The flower is pretty, but you are beautiful."

"Really, Éomer," she chided as they continued their course down the street. "The girl is hardly going to spread your gossip for you!"

"I am not expecting her to," Éomer said cheerily, winding her arm through his once more. "Let us go to the citadel gardens. I think we will happen across plenty noblewomen there, and I have a mind to kiss you again."

"Éomer!" Lothíriel said, aghast, though a laugh was threatening. "What a thing to say! With no one around to hear, I mean."

He chuckled. "I am only speaking the truth, miting."

"Do not call me miting!"

But her admonishment had no effect upon him; Éomer merely lifted her hand, kissing it quickly. "That will suffice for now. Let us hasten our steps."

It was not a long walk to the citadel, and with Éomer urging them forward they arrived in haste. They took the marble steps up, the expansive courtyard of Merethrond welcoming them forward. There were a few people about, wandering in pairs or groups, but none near enough to recognize.

They took the stone path winding southwards, passing staid guards until they reached the gardens. It was full of colorful blooms and lush greenery, and Lothíriel reminded herself to compliment Faramir on his management. Éomer's hand had tightened on hers, and his voice when he spoke was more solemn than usual.

"I wondered if I would ever see spring again."

Her heart wrenched as she gazed up on him, though he looked determinedly in front of them, as if to avoid meeting her eyes. His brow was creased. She had never seen him this way, though she had her brothers.

"And that should make it all the more beautiful," Lothíriel said softly. Éomer looked down at her, as if in surprise—he must have been lost in his thoughts. Then he smiled broadly, patting her hand.

"Oh, it is, I assure you."

"Good! Let us make it our objective to appreciate each flower individually, then—we shall have to be here quite some time if you are wishing to convince every courtier of our devotion."

His mood had passed, for he laughed loudly. "I cannot, for the life of me, decide if you are teasing or not," Éomer said, squeezing her hand and drawing her nearer, until her hip brushed against his leg. Oh, what tingling! "Perhaps that is why I like you," he added.

He liked her! Her heart might never beat calmly again.

There were many blossoms to discuss in opulent and grave terms, but their game only lasted a few minutes—Éomer's scolding a rose for not blooming as soon as its fellows caused Lothíriel to giggle, and as soon as the first snigger escaped her, his pretend dignity, too, was broken.

"Perhaps it is for the best," Éomer said, still chortling. "No one would believe a pair of devoted lovers to be discussing mere flowers in such seriousness. Ah—what is that I hear?"

Lothíriel barely had a moment to give her attention to their surroundings to confirm that indeed, there were footsteps approaching, and just as she saw a swish of skirt turn a corner towards them, Éomer had pulled her into an embrace, his mouth pressing to hers.

There was a small gasp just beyond, and a hushed, "Oh, so sorry!" Then the footsteps hastened away.

She expected Éomer to release her then, but he did not. His arms around her tightened, and she stood on her toes to kiss him back all the better. Suddenly the day seemed so much warmer—or what that simply the heat between them? Lothíriel was rather becoming accustomed to the feel of his beard on the sensitive skin of her cheeks and mouth, and decidedly liking it. Her limbs seemed to go limp at the gentle touch of his lips, though he kept her from falling.

When Éomer pulled away at last, Lothíriel was surprised to open her eyes and see the lush gardens around them. She had forgotten where they were! His eyes were very lovely against the backdrop of sky above his head, and his smile made her feel the oddest of sensations: warmth in her breast, and churning heat in her belly. Good heavens!

"You are very good to kiss, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," he said softly, and she felt the vibrations of his deep voice from where their chests were pressed so closely together. She sighed in contentment, daring to push his stray golden hair, escaped from its knot, away from his face.

"And you are very good to be kissed by, Éomer of Rohan."

His eyes crinkled at the corner as his grin broadened. "I glad we have established this."

"Oh, as am I. You had best put me down now—if my legs lose any more feeling, I shan't be able to walk."

Obediently Éomer set Lothíriel gently on the ground, and she clutched his arm for support. He said nothing of this, though the amusement in his laughing eyes was clear as day. Well! She would not give him the satisfaction—she tilted her chin upwards, and attempted an appearance of complete nonchalance.

The winding path took them to an open lawn, where Lothíriel remembered playing with her brothers when they were younger. No such games were there now, though she saw with surprise two of the perian sitting upon a bench, their legs swinging and a platter of fruit set between them. She had met them once before at a feast, but she had met a hundred other people that night, and could not recall their names. There seemed to be a disagreement, for their words could be heard as Éomer and Lothíriel approached.

"I don't think that's right, Pip," the darker haired perian said. "Try peeling it again."

"I can't!" said the fairer. He was holding in his hands a pomegranate, attempting to open it, his brows creased with concentration. Lothíriel bit back a smile, and Éomer chuckled aloud. The darker of the two looked up to see them, his eyes alighting with happiness as he jumped to his feet, bowing low.

"Hail, Éomer King!" he said.

"Hail, Master Merry," Éomer said gravely. "What is troubling you this morn?"

"Pippin filched a snack from the kitchens for us to enjoy in the sunshine," Merry replied. "But, as it turns out, we haven't the foggiest notion how to eat any of it. We don't have these sorts of fruit in the Shire."

"I can show you," Lothíriel said, withdrawing her hand from Éomer's arm with a smile. "Do you have a knife, by chance?"

The fair hobbit's cheeks flushed as he gave her the pomegranate. "I didn't think we'd need one," he said. "Otherwise I would have—the cooks are busy today. Sneaking food was no issue at all!" There was pride in his voice.

"Pomegranates have a rather tough skin," she explained. "You can probably break through, given time, but it is much handier to cut."

"Here," Éomer murmured beside her, and she saw with surprise the leather hilted knife he held out to her. Where had that come from? It was probably best not to ask. Lothiriel took the warm hilt after only a moment's hesitation. Making sure that the perian's curious eyes were watching, she made four slices through the ruby-red skin with the knife. Then she pried open the fruit, exposing the seeds inside.

"Oh!" said Merry, his eyes wide. "It is like a pouch of rubies."

"It is our mid-morning meal, so don't bother waxing poetic," Pippin said briskly. "Now, how do we eat it?"

"You have only to remove the seeds!" Lothíriel laughed. "A spoon is preferable, if you are wishing to stay neat, but fingers work just as well. But you must be wary," she said in warning, returning the fruit to Pippin's outstretched hand. "Eating a pomegranate during a full moon will bring true love before the next."

"What?" Pippin blinked in surprise.

"Really!" Éomer said under his breath.

"Well—I haven't any proof," she admitted. "But it is what we in Gondor believe—or say, at least."

Merry was shrugging, and pried out several seeds before popping them in his mouth. "It is delicious!" he said. "True love or not."

"I quite like it," Pippin said, his mouth stained red already. "I wonder if it will grow in the Shire."

Éomer had picked up a second pomegranate from the tray, and copying Lothíriel's actions, cut open the fruit. He raised a brow at her, pausing. "Today is a full moon," he said.

"Yes, that is why I warned you."

"Are you going to partake?"

Lothíriel hesitated only a moment before taking the quarter Éomer held out to her, ignoring the teasing sparkle in his eyes. Tart and juicy as the fruit was, she was far more aware of the rolling sensations in her breast. Merry and Pippin had finished theirs, and were rummaging through the remaining fruit on the tray.

"And what is the superstition when two people share a pomegranate during a full moon?" Éomer asked after a moment. Lothíriel gave him a quelling glare, but the amusement in his eyes was too much—her lips twitched into a smile before she flushed pink and looked away.

"What is this?" Pippin held up a green fruit.

"That is a fig," Lothíriel said quickly, grateful for the distraction. "You can eat it whole, skin and all."

"My lady knows much about fruit," Merry said, smiling up at her, and she laughed.

"No more or less than most people of Gondor, I assure you."

"It is kind of you to help us, anyhow."

"The pleasure is mine!" Lothíriel had not realized just how charming the perian were! It was no wonder her father spoke of them so highly.

"We will leave you to your repast," Éomer said. He was cleaning his knife with a handkerchief, and glanced at Lothíriel. "We have more garden to cover before supper."

"Then we had best hurry," she said. "Farewell, Masters Merry and Pippin—I bid you a good day." Cheery waves in return, and Éomer had taken her hand again, and they continued on the stone path. After leaving the lawn, they were enclosed within several blooming trees, the shade cool.

"I am not a superstitious sort," Éomer said abruptly, gazing down at her. Lothíriel found it difficult to hold his eyes, but how wonderful it felt for him be looking at her with such warmth! A smile grew behind his beard, and he added, "But I shall remind myself on the next full moon to consider my circumstances closely, and decide whether I have found true love."

"Indeed, you should. And I will do the same, for amusement's sake." Lothíriel said, only able to speak for deciding that he was not speaking of his loving her. Why, if he did, she would be too tongue-tied to reply at all!

"I wonder if our skepticism will prevent our finding it."

She laughed. "If not our skepticism—certainly our disbelief towards the superstitions of the world!"

"I shouldn't wonder if Fate does make things difficult for us, for our impudence," Éomer was grinning, and Lothíriel sighed to herself with pleasure. She couldn't care less about Fate, not while she was with him… But he was evidently unfinished with his teasing, for he declared, "I haven't given much thought to marriage. Perhaps the pomegranate will see to that, for me."

"Never?" she asked in surprise.

"Never before."

There was something odd in his tone, but Lothíriel could not gauge it. "I am quite astonished," she said lightly, her fingers clenching more tightly on his arm. "I would have thought—that is…I would have expected you to have a woman in Rohan."

Éomer was clearly taken back, blinking at her in his own surprise. "I do not!" he said. "For if I did, I would not need your charming company to keep the ladies away. I could declare myself quite spoken for!"

"Oh—right." Her face burned with embarrassment for her assumption.

"I will tell you why I have not thought of marriage, however," Éomer said, and his teasing smile was back in place. He leaned closer to her, his voice lowering as if to confide a secret. "When I was young, my mother often told me the tale of how she met my father. She knew the moment she saw him riding into Edoras upon his stallion that he would be the man she wed—astonishing to believe, I know. But the story has stayed in my mind; and I suppose I am waiting for that same moment in my own life."

"O—oh?"

"I have always felt sure that I would know the woman destined to be my bride the moment I laid eyes upon her." His eyes were warm, so breathtakingly warm, gazing down at her in a way that no ordinary man would. Lothíriel swallowed past her dry throat, and managed to say in a croak,

"You said you were not the superstitious sort, my lord. Now I hardly know what to believe of you!"

Éomer laughed, and the spell between them was broken. "Perhaps my mother is easier to believe than a fruit," he said.

"I daresay," Lothíriel murmured. "Then I must surmise that you have not yet had that—that Fated Moment, if you will."

He pressed his lips together, hiding a smile. "Now, now, miting—we are hardly on intimate enough terms for me to confide that to you."

"Intimate enough that you persist in calling me 'miting,'" she said, not bothering to hide her scowl, which seemed to only amuse Éomer further as he chuckled.

"There are many different types of intimacy, my dear. We have yet to traverse through all of them. Ah—oh, ow! Ouch!"

Lothíriel, disappointed and annoyed and not a little huffy at his teasing, was prodding him in the ribs with a finger, and he grasped her hand to stop her attack, frowning. "That is rather unnecessary!" Éomer said severely. "Why, if someone were to happen upon us this moment, they would not believe us to be lovers at all!"

"You are ridiculous!" she declared, unable to put all her feelings into words. But clearly he was not taking her strong words seriously, for Éomer gave a laugh.

"It is quite liberating to be ridiculous," he said. "Do you hear anyone approaching us?"

"No," she said stoutly. But she was wrong—a moment later, and a figure tumbled out of from behind a tree and onto the path, leaves in his dark, moppy hair and looking as astonished to see them as they were to see him. There was a moment of silence.

"Amrothos!" Lothíriel exclaimed. "Whatever are you doing here?"

Her brother straightened, brushing down his tunic and affecting a lofty air. "Same as anyone else, I suspect," he said testily.

"Ha," she said. "I have never once known you to stroll around gardens for mere pleasure."

"Perhaps because I never knew the pleasure before," Amrothos shot back, and she recognized his ears turning red—a sure sign of embarrassment—or temper. What in Arda could have caused him, her nonsensical brother, to be so sensitive to teasing? Lothíriel lifted a brow, but gave it up.

"Anyways," Amrothos continued. "I was just leaving. Good morning." He turned on his heel and stalked away from them. The back of his trousers were stained with grass, and Lothíriel's bemusement grew.

"I might suspect my brother of having a secret," she said thoughtfully. "If I thought for a moment that he could keep one."

Éomer laughed. "You might be surprised, miting."

Lothíriel glanced up at him, her eyes narrowing. "Do you know something?" she asked sweetly.

"Oh—no." He would not meet her gaze, and cleared his throat. "Let us continue on. The morning is waning."

"Hmm. Very well."