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 to 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.