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She remembered happiness. She remembered being carried on her father's shoulders, and running around in spring and gathering flowers, making flower crowns for herself or just picking them as a gift for whoever she wishes to give them to, smiling up at the guards or sticking her tongue out to her brothers while doing a little dance of mockery, and being chased by them right after.
She remembered despair. She remembered trying to blink her tears away and dispel the heavy weight in her chest as she watched her father go, to fight in the War, and she remembered the feeling of hopelessness, knowing that there's a possibility that she would never see her father again— not that she doubted her father's strength, no, but the crushing fear of loss floats in her mind and weighed in her heart for weeks.
She remembered relief. She remembered bouncing around and grinning, even though she's a full-grown adult with responsibilities of her own, but the war is over, they said, and that means that Sauron was destroyed, and she could meet her father again, for they had also sent word to her that he was alive and well.
She remembered awe. She remembered seeing one of the Halflings, their savior, and she hesitantly walked up to him and bowed, in which he— Frodo, his name was, pale and thin, with dark hair and blue eyes— bowed back, and Lothíriel could only stand with her mouth slightly open until Frodo offered her a seat beside him, and they talked, about everything and nothing, chuckling and teasing as if they were friends for years, until Frodo excused himself to rest.
She remembered love. She remembered the loud thudding of her heart when her eyes met those of Éomer's, the flush in her cheeks, the smile that she forced in her lips as he steadily met her gaze.
And, finally, she remembers peace. She remembers the warmth of Éomer's chest, the softness of his lips, and the gentleness of his hands, and she cannot help but smile, and Lothíriel looked up and caressed her beloved's cheek and kissed him.