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.