Éomer had finally summoned the nerve to follow Lothíriel, come what may.  He hated to think himself so debased in her sight, but, upon further thought, he realized that all the blame lay with him.  “Better to face one’s problems than run,” he told himself, and so he was.

She was leaning against the balcony, weeping into her hands, and the golden light of the setting sun was around her.  Tentatively he laid his broad hand on her shoulder, and she turned to him immediately and buried her face in his chest.

Feeling rather awkward, and telling himself that this was just like when he and Éowyn were young, he placed his arms around her.

“Will you forgive me?” she said, when she was finished.

“What?” said Éomer.  “What wrong have you done?”

She pushed herself out of his arms and turned away.  “Éowyn did arrange the match, but Faramir sent me a letter first.”

Éomer started.

“He told me what you had said to him, and asked that I, on behalf of all women, avenge my aunt.  I agreed, for I did not know you.  And so, I fear, I deceived you, but now that I do know you, and I know that you are a good man…”  She trailed off in another fit of weeping.  “Can you forgive me?”

“Lady,” said Éomer, in his gentlest voice, “look at me.”

She turned and looked at him, and he noticed for the first time how beautiful her eyes were.  “I hold you blameless in this matter,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Lothíriel.  “It is a weight from my mind.”  She took a small step closer to him, almost shy, and tipped her face up at him.  “I find myself growing rather fond of you, Éomer King…”

This close to him, he could smell her, jasmine and half a dozen other exotic flowers.  He opened his mouth to reciprocate her statement, but words had fled him.

So he kissed her instead.