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.