PROMPT: "Here, let me see."

If Eomer were a wiser man, he would insist on someone-anyone-else to be the one patching up his bruised shoulder. As it is, Eomer has never been very wise-stubborn, yes, courageous, so they say-but wise? Not hardly.

As it is Lothiriel huffs at him from across the room, the pungent smell of whatever poultice she's currently making thick in the air.

"Remind me again," she says, aggravation clear in her voice, "why you and my idiot brother decided it would be a good idea to go sailing?"

"I had never been," he says, "and Amrothos said that the weather was ideal for speed-"

"For him, an experienced sailor!" She interrupts. "You are a novice at best, and the winds were wild today-"

"Yes," he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He'd already heard as much from Eothain, then again from Imrahil himself. Who must be as mad as his youngest son, to permit his daughter to be the one to doctor him after the afternoon's...accident. "I know."

She sets her jaw, stomping over to him with bandage in hand. "If you knew, then why did you do it?"

He opens his mouth to respond-that Amrothos had seemed so confident, that he would like to learn more about the things she enjoys during his short visit here-but swallows any defense at the look on her face. Anger, yes, irritation in no short supply, but Bema...concern. Worry.

"Nevermind," she says, waving a hand at him. "Shirt off, troublesome king."

The world seems to spin. Perhaps he had been hit in the head, after all?

"What?" He asks.

"I can hardly put a poultice on over your shirt," Lothiriel says, slowly, as if he's a small child. "Thus the shirt must come off."

Oh, helle.

"Lothiriel, that's-is there no one else-"

Abruptly, she looks amused. "I have three brothers, Eomer. You need not worry about being the first man I've ever seen shirtless."

This is decidedly different, he thinks, grumpily, but concedes to her point. She is well-trained in healing, and has likely seen men besides her brothers unclothed. The thought makes him strangely...irritated. She waits, mostly patient, as he strips out of the thin shirt Erchirion had loaned him. He winces as it jostles the injured shoulder. Being pinned against the mast by a loose piece of rigging had not been pleasant, but he had not expected the bruising to be so bad. The front of his shoulder is mottled, a mix of red and purple, and he can only imagine how the back looks.

"Here," Lothiriel says in a much softer tone, "let me see."

Her fingers are gentle, though he cannot fight back a hiss as she touches a particularly tender spot. She is disarmingly close, strands of her hair falling loose around her face as she smoothes the poultice into his skin. There is a band of freckles along her nose, spots of pink her cheeks, the soft fullness of her lips slightly parted as she contemplates him-

Forget the rigging, Eomer things, this is true torture.

By the Mark's standards, he would be well within his rights to kiss her, as her betrothed. But, as he has been reminded on numerous occasions by her brothers, Eothain, and even traitorous Eowyn: they are not in the Mark.

Mercifully, she steps around him, hiding her all-too-tempting mouth from his sight, to examine the other side of his shoulder.

Her sudden sharp intake of breath startles him. "Lothiriel?"

She's silent for a moment, and then-

Eomer flinches at the sudden touch of her fingers along his back. Ah. The scars.

One does not lead an eored for the majority of their life without accumulating some lasting injuries, and Eomer is no exception. The one she's touching now came from a Dunlending's arrow, luckily prevented from causing further damage by his mail. Her fingers flit over to his shoulder blade-this scar is faint, he knows, a luck swipe from some Southerling's spear. He had not noticed it until well after Morannon-how could he have, with Eowyn nearly dying in the Houses, Theoden lost?

"Eomer," she murmurs, voice thick. "Oh, Eomer-"

"They are old wounds, swete," the pet name comes naturally, because for all her temper, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth is sweet, and gentle, and kind, "do not trouble yourself."

She's silent again, before she steps around to face him again, setting the bowl down with an angry clatter. "Do not trouble myself?! What kind of woman do you think I am, Eomer!"

Eomer can only blink at her. "I meant no offense-"

"Who is to worry for you, if not for me?" She cries and he can see tears in his eyes-Bema help him-and she jabs a finger against his chest. "I am-I am going to be your wife!"

It is the first time she has ever said it aloud. It is the first time he has ever heard her acknowledge, in truth, what this betrothal means for her, for him.

So, Bema help him, he can do aught but reach out, tug her close, and kiss her. She is stiff for a moment before relaxing, all but melting against him, her mouth hot and welcoming against his. She winds her fingers into his hair and he moves to pull her closer, damning Gondorian propriety for denying them this-

The sudden sharp ache of his shoulder is enough to make him gasp a curse and Lothiriel freezes, blinking at him and then at his shoulder in surprise.

"Oh, Elbereth," she murmurs. "Your shoulder-I am sorry-"

He kisses her, gently, to stop her ramble. "You need not apologize for that."

She huffs a laugh, drifting back closer to press her forehead to his. They're both silent for a moment, until she says, in a very soft voice, "I will always worry for you, Eomer. Please do not ask me not to."

He can only draw her closer, strokes a hand through her hair. "I suspect I shall be very bad at forbidding you anything," Eomer says, smiling slightly as she laughs again, "much less something as kind as that."

"Good," she says, lifting her head from his uninjured shoulder to smile at him.

Not for the first time, he suspects he owes Eowyn a very large favor for insisting on him taking a trip to Dol Amroth after her wedding.