"Love is the softest rose in the soul's garden." ― Matshona Dhliwayo
A/N: After nearly 2 years, I have completed this story. It has been a life saver, especially during some pretty stressful times, and I am pleased to share it with you guys. It's long and it's dense, but if you like that sort of thing, I think you'll enjoy it. I had a lot of fun writing it and that's what counts!
Enjoy!
When Lothíriel had met Éomer for the first time, she'd been covered in blood. It embarrassed her to think of it, but considering she'd never been fond of forced introductions, it had been a memorable one. She'd been working in the Houses of Healing at the behest of her uncle, flitting from person to person like a bee in search of nectar, determined to put her education to good use. Her father had always found her propensity for herbalism somewhat strange, but his hesitancy hadn't stopped her from doing what she'd felt was right. Unlike the majority of her peers, she disliked being idle, annoyed that she'd been born the youngest of four. Her role in life hadn't helped either. As a young woman, she'd been instructed to behave according to convention, participating in life as though she were an object rather than a person. Her acts of rebellion had been few, but she'd savoured each triumph in an attempt to prolong them. Her purpose in Gondor straddled the line between conventionality and impropriety. She revelled in it, pleased that for once in her life, her existence didn't revolve around marriage. Her enthusiasm had been altogether too evident that day, imbuing her face with a radiance that had rivalled the sun. Everyone in her vicinity had basked in it. The men she'd stitched up had been too enamoured to speak, her colleagues had been impressed by the strength of her constitution, and Éomer had stared at her helplessly from across the room, mouth agape as if he were a fish instead of a man. She hadn't thought much of it. Eowyn's ill-timed nudge had stayed with her the most, lingering in her memory long after its occurrence. If it hadn't been for that, she wouldn't have noticed him standing there, embarrassed that he'd been caught ogling her from afar.
She hadn't seen him in months, but the look he'd given her continued to cross her mind. It had a tendency of catching her unawares, seeping into her waking moments as slowly as sunshine. One moment she'd be pruning deadheads in her father's garden, annoyed by its lack of maintenance, and the next she'd be lost in the throes of a familiar memory, surprised by its abrupt return. The thought of it had become a regular torment. Men rarely stared at her the way Éomer had, too afraid to act upon their feelings. If they had done so, her father wouldn't have taken too kindly to it. She'd been promised to another as a child, living out the majority of her life in constant awareness of it, waiting for the inevitable. Falling in love had never been an option for her. She'd test the boundaries of her father's limitations instead, exercising what little freedom she possessed as often as possible. On the outside, she was the epitome of civility, exhibiting her pedigree as if were something you could wear, but on the inside, she felt empty, tired of obeying rules that weren't of her own making. She'd think of Éomer's face and grieve her lack of autonomy, imagining a life she'd never lead. His expression had been beautiful in its simplicity. Lothíriel considered herself a culmination of many things, but she'd never admit to being fanciful. She had taken a great deal of pride in being sensible, behaving as though love were nothing more than a fool's endeavour, unworthy of her attention. If anyone discovered differently, she knew she'd die of humiliation. It had taken her years to master the art of restraint.
She hated being frivolous, but the memory of Éomer's stare continued to stay with her. The very idea of it made her blush a deep red, attracting unwanted attention from those closest to her. Her brothers had taken notice of the expression on her face first, failing to hide their amusement, curious about her sudden change in colour. She shooed them away, brushing a stray curl from the curve of her cheek. Elessar's coronation wasn't an appropriate place for such an epiphany. Although she liked the idea of being admired by a stranger, she disliked being the center of attention. The romanticism of it wasn't something she'd ever allow herself to indulge in. She tried to distract herself by observing how gracefully her siblings swirled around her, partners in tow, a flurry of fabric, colour, and sound that quickly succeeded in diverting her attention. It had been years since she'd seen a proper dance. Many of the people in her life had been otherwise preoccupied, participating in battles she'd witnessed from the security of Minas Tirith's walls, wounded in ways she'd never completely understand. Their return to normalcy had been time-consuming because of it. Her brothers' smiling faces calmed her somewhat, reminding her of days far removed of the bloodshed she'd been privy to. She couldn't recall the last time she'd seen such smiles on their faces, but she knew that these ones would stay with her when all memory of the night's festivities had faded away.
Amrothos waved at her, urging her to join the celebration, but she shook her head furiously, sticking her tongue out in jest. Her dislike of dancing had become legendary, culminating in a lot of teasing at her expense. As a lady of Dol Amroth, she had made a point of perfecting every dance she'd been tasked to learn, but she had also made a point of letting everyone know how much she'd hated doing it. Every time her hands had been placed in someone else's, she'd lead the dance on purpose, dragging her partner across the floor instead of being guided across it herself, too proud to adhere to convention. The monotony of it had bored her to no end. All of the steps she'd learned had become redundant over the course of time, all attempts at conversation had been bland regardless of her choice in partner, and every time she'd try to excuse herself, they'd find a way to keep their hands on her. Soon enough her stubbornness had discouraged even the bravest of men from procuring a dance with her, allowing her to watch from the sidelines rather than being an active participant herself. This arrangement had suited her just fine, but she knew that her attempts at evasion had come to an end. Amrothos waved at her again, but it was more of a warning than an invitation. Éomer had found her. The look on her face articulated everything she refused to say out loud. She knew they'd cross paths eventually, but she hadn't prepared herself for the reality of it. To decline a dance was one thing, but to refuse a King was another. Their eyes met and she looked away in embarrassment, redder than the armour he'd chosen to wear.
"Will you dance with me?" he asked, clearly amused by her display.
"I have two left feet."
"I have two right ones."
"Then we're a perfect match," she conceded after a second or two, reluctantly meeting his eyes. "I'll try not to humiliate you, but I can't guarantee it."
"I could say the same," he said lightly, offering her his hand.
She accepted it without hesitation. The next few minutes dragged on as though she'd found herself in a dream. His toes didn't go unscathed, but he continued to guide her through each step patiently, holding her hand tightly within his own. She'd never been particularly graceful, begrudgingly obeying her father's requests in an attempt to make him proud, but in that moment, her efforts hadn't been in vain. Her lack of talent vanished in Éomer's presence, captivating onlookers until nothing could be heard but the swish of her dress as it trailed across the floor, brushing against the soles of his boots. If she'd been paying more attention to her surroundings, her embarrassment would have usurped her satisfaction in having succeeded, desperate to flee the implications of such a scene. Instead, she gave Éomer her undivided attention, losing herself in the depths of his eyes. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been bedraggled and unkempt, more concerned over his sister's well-being than his own. He looked completely different now. His stare was devoid of the discomfort she'd seen in the Houses of Healing, searching her features for something she didn't have an answer to. Its intensity had begun to weigh on her, staining her cheeks a vibrant red, clashing with the fabric of her dress. If he'd noticed how flustered she'd become, he decided to keep his revelation to himself. They continued to glide across the floor in silence, enraptured in one another until the music they'd been dancing to reached its conclusion, reverberating through the building loudly enough to shake her bones. The trance she'd found herself in had come to an end. Her curtsy was clumsy, shattering the illusion he'd helped her create, but that didn't stop him from pressing a kiss into the back of her hand.
She opened her mouth to speak, trying to think of something clever to say, but Amrothos interrupted her. Éomer's smile prevented her from chastising him.
"Have you been fooling us this entire time, Lot?"
"I'm afraid not," she replied, shaking her head wistfully.
"It certainly didn't appear that way."
"Then we have lord Éomer to thank. If it weren't for him, your opinion would remain unchanged."
She curtsied again, rectifying the inelegance of her previous one, avoiding her brother's poignant stare. His surprise was palpable. Her dislike of dancing had always been a source of entertainment for him, but he'd failed to recognize the reason behind her aversion to it. While she had never been in want of a partner, a dance reflected the willingness of its participants. His sudden epiphany amused her, but she kept it to herself.
"Thank you, my lord. You've redeemed me."
"For someone with two left feet, you danced beautifully," he said, bowing in reciprocation. "It was a pleasure."
Their eyes met and she flushed again, averting her stare in an attempt to maintain her composure. Amrothos noticed her lack of discretion. He glanced at her warily, engaging Éomer in conversation as a diversional tactic. His intent was more than obvious. A surge of frustration flushed through her like a tidal wave, engulfing any protests she might have had in preventing him from interfering, but she reluctantly conceded. Their shared experiences on the battlefield had made them friends, and an outburst from her would have been more embarrassing than constructive. She quietly excused herself instead, unaware of how Éomer's eyes followed her as she exited the room. She couldn't deny her attraction to him. Their conversations had been few, but the progression of her feelings continued to surprise her. It hadn't been her intention to lose sight of her future, entertaining the notion of him in lieu of her betrothal, ignoring the inevitability of it. His gaze had succeeded in rendering her incapable of logical thought, altering her expectations until they had become unrecognizable. Her life had never been her own. She rarely acknowledged the extent of her immobility, but when she did, the realization of it always overwhelmed her. Her heart skipped a beat in response to her train of thought, pumping frantically behind her ribcage in an attempt to regain its pace. The air in her lungs felt too thin to breathe. She looked around wildly for a place to escape to, ducking behind a pillar as a last resort. The festivities raged on around her, a chaotic conglomerate of people unaware of her inner turmoil, content to simply spin around in circles. She stared at them in dismay, envisioning a man she'd never met. His existence haunted her, intruding upon her life as if were his own, shaping the person she'd become. It wasn't in her nature to live in fear, but she'd done so for a very long time.
She sighed, gripping the fabric of her dress until her knuckles had turned white from the strain of it. Her brother's cautionary stare refused to leave her mind. As much as she wanted it to, love had no place in her life. Her duty towards her family had taken precedence over everything else, leaving very little for her to hold on to. She felt untethered, drifting out to sea like a lifeboat, struggling to navigate the storm that had formed within her mind. There was very little she could do to loosen its hold. Éomer had been nothing more than a ripple at first, hardly warranting her attention, but these ripples had become waves, demanding more from her. She wanted to throw herself into them, ignoring her responsibilities in an attempt to live a more genuine life, unafraid of wearing her heart on her sleeve. The desire to do so was tempting. She'd known nothing but obedience within her father's court, rarely voicing her opinions in fear of being reprimanded, but she craved the liberty of living according to her own values. Her position in life had afforded her many privileges, but without them, she knew she'd struggle to survive. Being born a woman had sealed her fate. From the moment she'd been old enough to speak for herself, her place in the world had been decided for her. These expectations had left bruises in places only she could see, permanent reminders of the burden she'd shouldered for so long. Regardless of how much she'd grown tired of it, she didn't know any different. She'd fantasize about leading an extraordinary life, but every time she'd do so, she'd grow more and more afraid of slipping into delusion. Toeing the line between fact and fiction had become her specialty. It continued to give her strength when nothing else could, calming her nerves.
Lothíriel emerged from her hiding place when she felt prepared enough to, blending into the crowd as though she'd never left it. The role she'd been given had become second nature to her, preventing anyone from seeing the illusion she'd crafted for what it was. She'd smile, laugh, and even curtsy if the occasion called for it, but she rarely felt comfortable in her own skin. Navigating crowds had become easier than navigating her own life. By the time she'd managed to locate her brothers again, Éomer had left. Elphir and Erchirion bombarded her with questions, curious about how she'd become so coordinated in their absence. Answering truthfully wasn't an option, but their inquiries quickly deteriorated into teasing anyway, coercing smiles from her mouth that succeeded in illuminating her eyes. Equilibrium had been returned.
When Lothíriel saw Éomer for the third time, she was covered in dirt from rummaging around in her father's garden, dressed in a way that went against everything she'd been taught to adhere to. The fabric of her kirtle complimented her eyes, but the mud smeared across it was as dark as the braid that fell down her back. Her embarrassment at being seen in such a state was difficult to hide, and while she prided herself on her ability to keep calm in stressful situations, her cheeks had already begun to flush. She hastily inspected her hands, annoyed at the amount of dirt trapped beneath her nails, but no amount of fretting could fix them now. The smile on Éomer's face confirmed to her that he'd noticed, but that didn't stop him from making his ways towards her, sauntering across the flagstones in good humour. He'd been in trade agreements with her father for the last few hours. She'd noticed his presence before she'd stepped outside that morning, surprised to hear his voice ringing throughout the halls of her house. Instead of resuming her morning tasks, she had sought him out. His hair had proven to be an excellent distraction, a tangle of gold, bronze, and copper that had succeeded in emphasizing the look in his eyes, glinting in the morning sun like a dying ember. She couldn't help but think of it now, reluctantly admiring how the sun continued to illuminate every stand on his head. She'd never seen anything like it before. He continued to demand her attention in the littlest of ways, encouraging her to embrace parts of herself she'd locked away for years, wearing her heart on her sleeve instead of hiding it behind her father's crest.
"I didn't take you for a gardener, my lady."
She tried to compose herself, but her lack of discretion had been noticed. She didn't need a mirror to know that she was as red as the roses she'd been transplanting. Her emotions had betrayed her first, bubbling up from within her like a spring of water, emerging from a place she thought she'd hidden from prying eyes. Her words would betray her next, spilling from her lips before she could fashion individual sentences. By the time she'd find it in herself to look at him, she knew she'd be a lost cause. The expression on his face spoke volumes.
"Few do, but you're forgiven."
"You're bleeding."
"Oh! I'm fine, I can assure you," she exclaimed, glancing at her fingers passively. "Roses are beautiful, but they're a nuisance."
"How so?"
"They grow with a vengeance."
The sound of his laugh was like music to her ears. He didn't look as though he laughed often, but it suited him. The way his face had lit up softened something inside of her that had been hardened for quite some time.
"Are the women of Minas Tirith so averse to flowers?"
"Roses aren't to my liking, that is all."
"What would you prefer?"
"Something practical," she replied, finding the courage to meet his gaze. "Just because a flower is pretty, it doesn't mean that it is useful."
"Flowers are more than capable of being both."
"Aren't the Rohirrim beyond the trivialities of flowers?"
"Looks can be deceiving," he replied, staring at her poignantly.
He'd made her feel an assortment of things in their short acquaintance, but the emotion that had begun to make its way into her heart refused to be contained, wreathing wildly within her chest in an attempt to make itself known. She didn't know how to subdue it. The look on his face had infiltrated her defences, stripping her bare. Every thought of hers had been coerced from the recesses of her mind with very little effort on his part, imbuing her expressions with more meaning than she had intended them to. He took his time flipping through her pages, committing what he'd learned to memory. She couldn't find the strength to shut him out.
"What are your favourites, my lord?"
"Simbelmynë," he replied after a moment, clearing his throat. "It means Evermind in your tongue."
"It is a flower of remembrance, is it not?"
"Aye, it is."
"Then you have far better taste in flowers than I," she told him, allowing the corners of her mouth to raise in amusement. "The Rohirrm could teach the women of Minas Tirith a thing or two."
"I've certainly learned a lot from you, my lady."
"I could say the same."
He had moved closer to her throughout the duration of their conversation, learning in so that he could peer into her eyes. She couldn't help but wonder whether he was drawn to her in the same way that she was drawn to him. He didn't appear to be uncomfortable in her presence, promoting conversation when many would have done the opposite, sharing smiles as though it were second nature to him. There was a softness to his features that felt contradictory to her, but she liked seeing him at ease. Her brothers had spoken of his temperament many times, emphasizing his good qualities in lieu of the bad, painting an accurate portrayal of a man she hadn't yet met. They continued to hold him in high regard, sharing stories of their camaraderie whenever the opportunity had presented itself. She could see why. There was something about Éomer that compelled her to open up in ways she normally wouldn't do, content to simply bask in his light. He was like his own sun, secure in the knowledge that his strength could aid others in finding their own, enabling them to stand on their own two feet. Never in her life did she think that a man would willingly entertain her attempts at conversation, but he had done so effortlessly, navigating every sentence without resorting to ridicule. He had been called many things in the presence of others, but his propensity for kindness hadn't been alluded to. It surprised her more than anything else. He seemed to be aware of this, overly perceptive of how she'd been made to feel, offering her another one of his smiles in compensation. She couldn't help but reciprocate.
He opened his mouth to say something in return, staring at his feet sheepishly, a gesture she'd never seen him do before. It changed him again, levelling the playing field. For the first time that morning, she didn't feel self-conscious in his presence, too distracted by his change in composure to care about her own. Her heart began to beat wildly again, reverberating through her ears until she was certain that he could hear it too, but it didn't last. Eothain rounded the corner and Éomer cursed in Rohirric, shifting his weight so that he wasn't as close to her anymore. She couldn't tell if he was relieved or annoyed to be interrupted, but she decided to ignore it. He was needed elsewhere.
"I apologize, my lord. I've kept you from your duties."
"I'll take the blame," he replied, offering her his hand. "I enjoy your company."
She reached out hesitantly, unsure of his intent, but their fingers collided before she could retract them. It was far from being customary, contradicting everything she'd learned within the walls of her own home, but she liked the feeling of his hand in hers. Dancing had its liberties of course, but touching someone for the sake of simply doing so was a liberty very few people risked taking. His disregard for propriety fascinated her. She couldn't help but look forward to his transgressions, patiently waiting for another aspect of his personality to be revealed every time they bumped into one another like this, unravelling before her as slowly as a stray thread. He continued to pique her curiosity although it hadn't been an intentional act on his part, occupying her thoughts until she could think of little else. She knew that it was dangerous to succumb to her inhibitions in such a way, but she was desperate to feel something other than resignation. Every time he looked at her, she was reminded of her own naiveté. Her youth had been spent in subservience to those in possession of a power she could only dream of having, observing her life through the eyes of an onlooker. Her participation in it had been permitted at the discretion of others, dependent on her capacity for self-denial, watching the world around her change while she remained immobile. Her choices had been few, but taking Éomer's hand was within her control. He wouldn't have understood the significance behind such a gesture, acting under the assumption that grasping her fingers was of little consequence, but his amusement was palpable. He squeezed her hand slightly, lingering longer than he should have, but eventually, he let go.
"Until we meet again, my lady," he said, bowing his head in parting.
She lowered hers in return, reluctant to see him go. If he'd noticed her blood on his fingers, a parting gift from the roses she'd uprooted, he managed to keep it to himself. She felt as if she'd stained him somehow, marring him in a way that had become irreversible from the moment they'd first laid eyes on one another. At some point he'd wash his hands of her, figuratively and literally, withdrawing his kindness upon realizing she had nothing to offer him but sweet words and soft smiles. The idea of it pained her greatly, dulling her senses until she could see nothing but his back in the distance, moving farther and farther away from her. She didn't want to fade into the background of his life, but she didn't know how to stay inside of it without breaching the confines of propriety. The war she'd waged within herself had made its way to the surface, darkening the expression on her face one facial feature at a time, conveying more than words would allow. Her father's garden witnessed this change when little else could, devoid of life with the exception of the plants cultivated within it. Every rose she'd transplanted seemed to glare at her from the pile she'd made, every leaf seemed to laugh at her, and every petal seemed to droop in the wake of her revelation, mocking her lack of initiative. Cracks had begun to form in her facade and every time Éomer made an attempt to inspect them, they progressively got worse. She tried to brush it off, resuming the tasks she'd forgone in his presence, uprooting roses with a renewed sense of vigour. Her attempts were half-hearted at most, draining her of energy until she was completely depleted of it. She abandoned her pursuit the moment her fingers began to bleed again, pierced by thorns she'd been too distracted to avoid touching. She'd never been particularly graceful, but falling apart was the most graceful thing she'd ever done.
Within the span of a few days, flowers started appearing out of thin air. She didn't think too much of it at first, moving from one place to another like she'd always done, accustomed to the monotony of her daily existence. Her father's house in Minas Tirith had always been relatively empty, devoid of anything reminiscent of a woman's touch. Lothíriel's belongings had always been relegated to her room, a series of odds and ends she'd taken from Dol Amroth in an attempt to make her stay more comfortable, far from the eyes of those who wouldn't appreciate them. Her family had never stayed in Minas Tirith long enough to have much of a presence within the city itself. Her father and brothers had arrived much later than she had, and even though she'd grown accustomed to the solitude their absence had generated, she hadn't overextended her reach. She wasn't much of a homebody herself, too busy tending to her garden when she wasn't tending to the injured. The ins and outs of her father's house had never piqued her interest. While she hadn't noticed any initial changes to it at first, let alone the arrival of the flowers, once she had, every new addition stuck out to her like a sore thumb. They could be found in strange places, anywhere from window sills to bookcases, inhabiting spaces reserved for dust, darkness, and things of little consequence. She'd find a new one everyday, twirling them between her fingers just so she could get a better look at them. They were never extravagant or exorbitant in nature, nor were they flowers she'd expect to find in the house of a man as influential as her father. They were simple yet pretty, varying in colour, size, and purpose, reminiscent of the wildflowers she'd plant in Dol Amroth. Just the thought of it was enough to make her heart ache. She'd been away for far too long.
Today's specimen was a Black-Eyed Susan, bright and sunny, juxtaposing the weather outside. She had found it near her gardening tools as though it had always belonged there, ready to be of use. Its presence comforted her. She'd tucked it behind her ear as an afterthought, weathering the rain despite being warned not to, unafraid of dirtying her clothes or wetting her hair. Staying inside had sounded more appealing to her at first, but her time in Minas Tirith had come to an end. Leaving her father's garden in a state of disarray did not sit well with her, so she had taken it upon herself to finalize the changes she'd made to it. She'd forgone everything else in pursuit of her goal, preferring the company of plants over people. Although she wouldn't have thought so herself, her change in disposition had become obvious. She refused to accept that the very idea of leaving Minas Tirith had become burdensome to her in the worst way possible, filling her with a sense of dread she'd mistaken for homesickness. She missed residing in familiar rooms, wandering halls she'd memorized as a young girl, content to bury her nose in books she'd read hundreds of times. All of that paled in comparison to what she'd experienced outside of her father's circle of influence. She'd come to realize that her perception of freedom had been based on a lie. Even if she returned home, she knew exactly what she'd be returning home to. She felt like a bird, free to roam the sky upon the condition that she'd return to her cage. Being asked to do so after everything she'd done was an offence far greater than being born a woman. It was cruel.
She made her way outside without giving it a second thought, stepping into the rain as though she were an extension of it, oblivious to how unpleasant the weather truly was. Her home by the sea had always been in constant flux, sunny in one instance only to be stormy again in the blink of an eye. She didn't know any different. In her eyes, Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth were altogether too similar, ruled by weather in ways mortal men could only dream of doing themselves. She was too distracted by it to pay any attention to her surroundings. All she could think about was the inevitability of her departure and the flowers she continued to find scattered within the halls of her home. From the moment she'd found the first one, she had known Éomer was to blame. He was the only person she'd shared her love of flowers with, the only person she'd chosen to confide in that day, and the only person she'd been comfortable enough to be herself around. The fact that he'd felt the need to leave her flowers confirmed to her that on some level, he reciprocated her feelings. She wanted to be excited about it, but she refused to give it the attention that it deserved. She continued making her way towards her garden instead, thinking of roses when she should have been thinking about him, storming into the rain as though she were a force of nature herself. Every step she took felt like it belonged to that of a stranger. She could see her boots, every individual scratch she'd made over the years, and how the rain had seeped into the leather, but she didn't feel like herself. She'd listened to her fair share of ghost stories as a young girl, imagining the way they'd vanish into walls like smoke, too incorporeal to be of any substance, yet she couldn't help but relate to them now. She wasn't altogether present herself.
When Éomer's boots appeared in front of her own two feet, she wasn't surprised to see them there. His friendship with her father wasn't a secret, but his visits to her garden had become one over the span of a few weeks. She could feel his eyes on her, counting every breath of air that passed through her lips, searching for words when she had none to offer. Finding the courage to look at him took her longer than she was willing to admit. The moment they'd lock eyes, she knew that her sense of conviction would vanish in an instant, slipping beneath her skin in the same way rain had begun to slip into her boots. It would disappear for a time only to return again with a vengeance. She wasn't sure if its absence would provide her with much relief in light of it all, but to avoid his stare didn't sit well with her either. She couldn't help but think about how her return to Dol Amroth would sever her from his presence, ruining their tentative relationship and everything they'd poured into it. He frequented her father's house often enough to become a part of it, blending into the floors, walls, and hallways as though he were as commonplace as the bookshelves she'd found his flowers in. The house had been empty for so long, but now that he'd found a way to fill in all of the empty spaces, she didn't want to leave it. He had inched his way into her life day by day, altering her perception of it until she couldn't imagine a day going by without him in it. The issue at hand had found her at last. He'd given her something to hold on to when she'd had nothing but self-assurance to rely on, feeding into the lies she'd tell herself in an attempt to make things more bearable. She looked at him in desperation, reaching for his hands in an attempt to stay upright, seeking solace in their strength. His warmth flooded into her and she felt more alive than she'd been in years.
"Why won't you let me love you?" he asked hoarsely, honest to a fault. He looked as though the very idea of being without her was killing him slowly, depleting him of energy.
"I am betrothed to another."
"Who is he?"
"If I knew, I would tell you," she said, struggling to find the right words to say. "My father thought it best that I remain ignorant."
"Your father would want you to be happy."
"I am happy."
"You are not."
A laugh slipped through her lips, filling the silence that stretched between them with an emotion she hadn't intended to make known. His impertinence would have offended most women's sensitivities, but she couldn't help but find it fascinating. It was a shock to her, one she'd never experienced before, but if he was willing to be honest with her, she would return the favour.
"What would you have me do then, my lord? Run away with you?"
"If that is what you desire, then yes. If you wish to marry your betrothed, I will not stand in your way."
"I don't understand—"
"I love you," he said, brushing his lips across the top of her knuckles. "I have loved you since I first laid eyes on you and I'll love you until I draw my last breath. If you don't want me, I'll still love you, and if you do want me, I'll love you all the more for it. I want nothing more than to give you my heart, but I can't make you take it. That choice is yours alone."
In all her life, she couldn't remember being given a choice before. She'd always had a knack for bending the rules, complying in ways that had suited her when many of the things she'd been asked to do had not, but this was different. His intentions had been made clear. For the first time in her life, she'd been given a choice, but the reality of it had become overwhelming within a matter of seconds. Her emotions had always been hers to control, hers to reign in, and hers to hide from prying eyes. They had no place in a position that required her to stand firm against all odds, allowing the demands of others to wash over her. She'd been given very little space of her own to occupy, forced to relinquish her sense of self as though it wasn't hers to fight for in the first place, struggling to make herself heard over the cacophony of voices telling her how to live her life. Éomer's confession was enough to bring tears to her eyes. She hadn't lived her life devoid of love, but his love for her was entirely unconditional, free of strings, expectations, and obligations. When she looked into his eyes, his entire face was aglow with it. She had spent plenty of time losing herself within them, memorizing the expressions that frequented his face when he wasn't paying attention, but his one was new to her. No one had looked at her like this before. The intensity of his stare was enough to render her speechless, stealing the air from her lungs and deafening any protests she would have had in different circumstances. He looked at her as though he could see into the very fabric of her soul, piecing together the parts of herself she'd misplaced with the ease of someone well-accustomed to fixing broken things. He welcomed the work instead of shying away from it, wrapping her hands within his own in the same way his soul had wrapped around hers.
"I've always had an obligation towards my family, to my country, and to my King, " she said slowly, reaching out to touch the curve of his cheek. "But for the first time in my life, I can't do it anymore. My heart has been yours for quite some time."
He pressed his lips into the palm of her hand, pulling her into him until she could feel his breath tickling her cheeks. The rain continued to fall around them, dampening their hair and clothes, but it wasn't enough to pull them apart. His hands had drifted to her waist and her arms had found a new home around his neck.
"So be it," he told her, trailing his mouth across her face until he reached her lips, hoping she'd close the distance between them. It was the easiest decision she'd ever made.
She'd had her fair share of kisses, but those encounters paled in comparison to kissing someone she'd fallen in love with. She thought she'd been starved of air before, shocked by his words and how he continued to hold himself within her presence, but the emotion that had begun to form within her chest was too invasive to make room for anything else. It spilled from her like water, overflowing from her heart and into his, but he accepted every drop of it with the eagerness of a dying man. He had wound his fingers into her dress in desperation, pulling her against him so he could feel her warmth, hear her heartbeat, and taste her breath. His need for her was as all-consuming as an inferno. The rain had soaked through every layer she'd put on that morning, but she had never felt so hot in all her life. She couldn't tell where the fabric of her dress ended and where Éomer's hands began. She had wrapped herself around him in reciprocation, embracing the flames he'd ignited within her until she could feel herself burning between his fingers, subservient to his touch until she couldn't imagine life without it. His lips quieted her thoughts, coercing sounds from her mouth that had never seen the light of day before, but he answered in kind, uttering words he'd never told another soul in all his life. He pressed those sentences into her skin as though he were afraid she'd evade them somehow, dragging his lips across the shell of her ear, the curve of her jaw, and the column of her neck, committing her taste to memory. Her penchant for self-restraint had finally been put to the test. It took everything in her to pull away from him, tucking her head into the crook of his neck in an attempt to catch her breath.
She could feel his fingers resting at the base of her skull, sliding into her hair as if the act itself were second nature to him. He simply held her against him, grounding her to the earth even though a part of her had taken flight, soaring high above the city's towers like the clouds they refused to seek shelter from. It had gotten cold enough that she could see her breath in the space she'd created between them, mixing with his own until she was tempted to steal some of it for herself. Although it had only been a passing thought, it had made itself known to him, spilling across her face in a way that coerced a laugh from his lips. Out of all of the laughs he'd shared with her so far, this one was her favourite. She revelled in the sound of it, pressing a kiss into the corner of his mouth just to tease him, and it was this kiss that didn't go unseen. She was too enraptured by him to notice anything else, threading her fingers into his hair so he'd understand the extent of her desire for him. She refused to see beyond his embrace, beyond the clouds that had caged them in, and beyond her father's garden. By the time she'd regained any semblance of thought, it was too late. The sound of the rain had usurped everything else.
The next few minutes passed by in a haze of colour, emotion, and sound. Amrothos had appeared out of thin air, ripping her from his embrace like a flower being uprooted from the earth. The force of his touch was enough to send her sprawling to the ground. The taste of dirt filled her mouth almost immediately, a stark contrast to the way Éomer's lips had felt against her own. The shock of it was the equivalent of being thrown into cold water. She barely had time to register that the palms of her hands had been torn open or that her dress was covered in mud, mixing with the blood dripping down her fingers until everything was one muddled mess. The flower she'd tucked behind her ear had met its end. She could only stare at her brother in shocked silence, watching as his fist struck Éomer's cheek with the finesse of someone used to throwing punches. The sound of it brought her to her senses. She threw herself at them, clawing at Amrothos in desperation, pleading with him to stop, to let go, to hear reason. Her voice had reached a pitch few had ever heard before, and it was enough to stall her brother's third swing. The look that he gave her belonged to that of a stranger, red with a rage she'd glimpsed in the eyes of men who had fought on the Pelennor. She didn't think she'd ever see that expression inhabit the face of someone she cared for, but now that she had, she couldn't look away. The fire in his eyes turned to ash under the weight of her stare. He managed to compose himself in a few short seconds, prying his fingers from Éomer's shirt until he was free of it. She wanted to say something to him, anything if it could erase what she'd seen, but she couldn't find words appropriate enough to share in light of what he'd done. He grabbed her arm in passing instead, pulling her towards the house in spite of her protests. Lothíriel called out for Éomer, desperate to meet his gaze in an attempt to divine his thoughts, but he was already being escorted from the garden. All she could see was his golden head of hair, the slope of his shoulders, and the blood she'd left on his sleeve from where she'd touched him. Even though he could have fought back, he had chosen not to.
The walls of her father's house caged her in before she could catch another glimpse of him. She assumed that Amrothos would explain himself the moment they had passed through the doorway, but he had dropped her arm immediately, storming from the room as quickly as he'd left it. The silence that ensued was deafening. She didn't realize she had started to cry until his absence proved to be absolute, and for the first time in many years, the illusion she had spent so long creating finally shattered. She sank to the floor slowly, shocked to see tears dripping down the bridge of her nose and into the fabric of her dress. Her shoulders shook from the force of suppressing the sound of her cries, but she refused to involve anyone other than herself in the throes of her grief. If she was supposed to feel guilt in lieu of what she'd done, ashamed by how she'd discredited her family's name by being in the presence of a man she didn't belong to, it was entirely absent. All she could feel was an insurmountable sadness, weighing her down in the same way her dress seemed to cling to her skin, dragging her to the ground. The best day of her life had become her worst.
Lothíriel woke up to the sound of whispering voices, but she couldn't make out what was being said. She knew that she was in her own bed, trapped under layers and layers of blankets, but she couldn't remember how she'd gotten there. She could barely hear her own thoughts over the pounding in her head, ricocheting from one ear to the other in an endless cycle, thwarting any attempts at conversing with the people she'd woken up to. It didn't take her long to realize that she had been bedridden for quite some time. Her bones ached, her mouth was dry, and the stench of flowers was suffocating, permeating her room until she could envision each arrangement in perfect detail. Tulips, daisies, and lilies filled the recesses of her mind when she didn't want them to, flowers often accompanied by well-wishes and white cards. These were the kinds of flowers she disliked vehemently. The Houses of Healing had never been without them, using anything from abandoned pints to broken bottles just to have them available when the need arose. The people of Minas Tirith had resorted to pulling flowers from their own gardens when the threat of war had been at its worst, determined to provide their loved ones with comfort when comfort could not be had. Their sweet scent had intermingled with the scent of death in those days, and that was all she could associate those flowers with now. She never thought she'd find herself on the receiving end of such a thing. The very idea of it was enough to usurp the pain within her head, compelling her to open her eyes for the first time in many days. The sudden introduction of light blinded her temporarily, amplifying her headache in a way that elicited a groan from her mouth, but it wasn't enough of a deterrent. The walls of her room were a welcome sight while the flowers inside of it were not, and she would have smiled if it weren't for her father's presence next to her. Although she feared the worst, his gaze was as soft as the sunlight spilling across the floor, falling upon her as though she were a plant in need of tending to.
"How long has it been?" she croaked, struggling to form the words she wished to say.
"A little over a week."
"And lord Éomer?"
"Has sat with you many times now," he replied, amused by the expression on her face. "Love is not easily concealed, nor does it take kindly to being ignored."
"How long have you known?"
"Since Elessar's coronation. You've never been a dancer, Lothíriel, but you fooled everyone in attendance that night, including me."
She would have laughed if the situation had called for it, but honesty was required and laughter was not.
"Then you already know that I've given him my heart, and without it, I don't think I'd be of much use to anyone," she said, staring at her hands in contemplation. "I'm not asking this of you, Ada."
"Do you love him?"
She nodded her head, allowing her tears to fall freely. She hadn't spoken this candidly with him since childhood. They had been a lot closer to one another in those days, making more of an effort to spend time together in the years following her mother's death, but his advisors had put an end to it before she had been able to foster a relationship with him. His relationship with Minas Tirith had been of the utmost importance, and as the threat of Mordor became a reality, it usurped everything else. She didn't begrudge him for it. Her brothers had taken care of her in his absence, sharing their knowledge and wisdom whenever the opportunity had presented itself, encouraging her to learn things women weren't typically taught. Every time she'd bump into him, he hadn't tried to put a stop to it. She couldn't help but wonder why he had permitted it when it hadn't benefited him in the slightest, enduring all manner of ridicule just to let her learn in peace, but she suspected that her mother had asked it of him. Her influence continued to hold sway even though she'd been gone for many years, preventing her father from doing what was considered proper for ladies of her pedigree. His hand was within her reach, so she grabbed hold of it, taking solace in the familiarity of his touch. He squeezed her fingers as gently as possible in return, mindful of the bandages that had been wrapped around them. Although his gaze was as gentle as his grip, she knew that he could discern more than most, and what he discovered within her was enough to harden his resolve.
"Then I am content," he said, pressing a kiss into the back of her hand. "A father wants nothing more than to see his children happy."
"But what of the betrothal?"
His eyes twinkled for a brief moment, but it wasn't lost on her.
"All will be revealed in time, Lothíriel. For now, you're to rest until you're well enough to stand," he replied, rising to his feet. "And forgive Amrothos. His heart was in the right place although his fist was not."
She opened her mouth to speak, but she thought better of it. She let him leave instead, watching the door swing shut behind him. A part of her wanted to run after him, demanding answers he wasn't willing to give, but she was also afraid of learning the truth. It ate away at her, occupying every corner of her mind in the same way that a dandelion wreaks havoc in a garden. No matter how hard she tried to rid herself of it, it returned again and again, sticking out like a sore thumb. She sat like this for hours, nodding off only to wake up again, staring at the flowers that surrounded her bed in an attempt to adjust her line of thinking. For a moment, she thought she had finally overcome her distaste for them, but their pungent smell exacerbated her fears until they overflowed from her like a cup that's been filled to the brim. She threw off her blankets one by one, staggering towards the window so she could open it. Her fingers had found several flowers along the way. The very idea of throwing them from the second floor was enough to bring a smile to her face, but it didn't last. Éomer sat in the garden below, holding his head in his hands. The light from the setting sun illuminated him in gold, stretching across the entire courtyard as though it had come from Valinor itself. It was enough to take her breath away. Her grip around the flowers loosened one by one, giving them the space they required to slip from her fingers and onto the floor. They were quickly forgotten. She crushed them beneath her heels on her way out of her room, navigating the halls as quietly as a ghost. Her father's words faded from memory under the weight of her resolve, but patience had never truly been a strength of hers anyway.
He didn't see her at first. She approached him slowly, stepping into the sunlight until it covered her from head to toe, showering her in hues of gold, copper, and bronze. She would have denied it herself if given the chance, but in the eyes of an onlooker, she was as resplendent as an elven queen of old, a living testament to a time that had come and gone. The sun had returned the colour to her cheeks, illuminating every strand of hair on her head until it hung about her like a halo, crowning her in golden light. The dressing gown she had chosen to wear trailed behind her as though the wind was hers to command and hers alone, adding to the overall effect. By the time she had reached Éomer, his eyes had found hers and he was spellbound. His lips parted, his gaze softened, and he was on his feet in a matter of seconds. The expression on his face reminded her of their first encounter, but the bruise engulfing his left eye was an unwelcome addition. It had begun to heal, fading into tones green and yellow at the edges, muddying the colour of his eyes. She had missed looking into them. She reached for him at the same time he reached for her, eyeing the bandage wrapped around her hand as though he were to blame for it. The smile on her face absolved him of all guilt.
"Are you well?" he asked, gripping her fingers as gently as possible. His voice was as gentle as his touch.
"As far as I can tell. Are you?"
"I have survived much worse."
"How long have you been out here?"
"Long enough. I was reluctant to leave you, but your father thought a change of scenery would be good for my health. I can say with certainty now that he wasn't wrong."
The blush that had begun to spread across her skin warmed her more than the sun had, filling her with an emotion she had seldom felt before. Her illness fled in the wake of it, and in that instant, she had never been more beautiful in all her life. The sun was no match for the flame that burned within her, and no one could deny that love was to blame.
"I have spoken with him myself," she said after a moment, entwining her fingers with his own. "He has never been particularly forthcoming, so I am looking to you for some answers."
Éomer laughed awkwardly, pressing a kiss into the back of her hand. She could tell that he was nervous, but he had never been anything but honest in her company. After taking a deep breath to prepare himself, he began to speak.
"You were originally betrothed to my cousin, Lothíriel. If he had lived, he would have become King of Rohan. That role is mine now. Your father intended on discussing the betrothal with me weeks ago, but it seems to have taken on a life of its own. Everything I've told you, everything I've said—it still holds true. I am yours if you'll have me, but I have no desire to force your hand. Your mind is your own and I lay no claim to it."
She stood beside him in contemplative silence, watching as her father's roses swayed in the afternoon breeze. Although she had claimed to dislike them in the past, it had proven to be nothing more than another lie. She had disliked what they had come to represent, and in turn, she had disliked what it had meant for herself and for her future. She had tended to them, watered them, pruned them, and had occasionally uprooted them for the betterment of their health, but she had never taken any of them home with her. She had considered herself exempt from love, destined to observe it instead of being an active participant in it. She wanted to laugh at the irony of it all, allowing her voice to ring throughout the courtyard for all to hear, proof that love had found her at last. Éomer continued to honour her right to choose and she continued to be in awe of it. His respect for her was unwavering. She had never fought so hard to have her voice heard in all her life, refusing to bend even though she'd been asked to for as long as she could remember, but she finally felt as though some force beyond her reckoning had been listening. Éomer was her rose. He'd come home with her at the end of the day, holding her hand tightly within his own. Tears began to stream down her cheeks and she let them fall freely, pressing her lips against his own without a second thought. He answered in kind, cradling her head between his hands as gently as possible, completely aglow with love for her.
"Dance with me," she said afterwards, slipping her hands around his neck. "If I am to be your wife, I require further instruction."
"Is that a yes?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Then I am more than happy to oblige," he whispered, allowing his lips to brush against the shell of her ear. "Just don't step on my toes."
The sound of their laughter filled the courtyard and they began to sway from side to side like the roses scattered within it, dancing to a song that only they could hear.