PROMPT: (kiss) on a scar

Since the very first, Lothiriel has made it her mission to learn everything she can about Eomer. No, they had not married for love, but if he was to be the man that she would spend the rest of her life with, is it so very wrong of her to want to know him?

It does not help that he seems determined to remain unknowable, even after their wedding. And their wedding night! And the many days and nights following, when they have been as close as it is possible for two people to be! He seems perfectly willing to share his bed with her- and it should be said that she is not unwilling, either, because for all of his gruffness and his mighty temper, there is no denying that her husband is a very handsome man, and a good one, underneath it all-but everything else about him he keeps sealed up tighter than an oyster.

She suspects, much like an oyster, there is a treasure inside of her taciturn, stubborn husband. If only he would tell her!

At least she can say she has learned the physicality of him. She has spent many hours-likely more than she should-studying the planes of his face, the way his mouth curves in the smallest of smiles, as if it is against his will to do so. The broad width of his shoulders. The way his eyes darken when they kiss, the overwhelming heat of his hands on her skin, the slight-but-not-unpleasant sting of his beard.

And the scars. Those fascinate her most of all.

It is not as if they are unexpected-she is the daughter of a war-time Prince, sister to three warriors, and cousin to a ranger. Lothiriel knows very well that such lives lend themselves to injuries and thus, scars. And it is very clear that Eomer's life as a marshal has been no different.

Eomer does not like to talk about them-Eomer does not like to talk about most things, from what Lothiriel can tell-but she finds herself looking at them when his back is turned in their rooms, or when he is asleep beside her in the slowly dying light of the fire.

It is not that he is sharp with her, nor unkind. He is just...distant, though they spend most of their nights together. His answers-when she can eke them out of him-are short and to the point. Lothiriel does not mind, not truly; she has always liked puzzles, and her husband is the most intriguing puzzle she has ever faced.

"Eomer," she murmurs, one night when he is very nearly asleep, face pressed against her collarbone. One of her hands is stroking through his hair-the full long length of it, made more golden than ever by the dim firelight and she feels absurdly envious-the other resting gently on his arm.

"Hm?" A customary response, similar to other times she has spoken-or tried to, anyways-to him like this.

"How did this come to be?" She asks, sliding her finger along the raised, curved edge of a scar on his shoulder.

He lifts his head to meet her eyes. Confusion, for once, is writ plainly on his often stoic face. "The scar?"

"Yes," Lothiriel says.

"Why?"

Ridiculous man, she thinks, though it's tinged with fondness, even now he cannot give me a straight answer! "Because I wish to know," she says.

Eomer's brow furrows. After a moment of silence, he finally murmurs, "An Orc's arrow grazed me. I was sixteen."

Frowning, she covers the scar with her hand. "That is so young, to be fighting Orcs."

"Most Eorlingas do not have the luxury of long childhoods," he says. "I joined my first eored at fifteen."

At fifteen, Lothiriel had finally managed to convince Ada that she was old enough to ride along the shore with only two Swan Knights for guards. How different their lives have been!

"Was it very painful?" She asks, unable to keep herself from asking.

Eomer shifts, leaning his chin on his free hand while letting her keep her grip on his opposite arm and the scar there. "At the time, I thought it so. But I have endured worse since then."

That makes her frown in the way Aunt Ivriniel always warned her against-deeply, with lines pulling at the corners of her mouth, oh, Lothiriel, you have wrinkles before you are thirty, if you keep making faces like that-and it is her turn to shift, rolling herself out from under him and turning on her side to meet his now very confused stare. Before he can ask what she's doing, she stretches forward, replacing her hand with her mouth. The scar is puckered, strange feeling under her lips.

There, she thinks, all better.

"Lothiriel," Eomer says, in a tone that she doesn't recognize, "what was that for?"

Abruptly, her cheeks flood with color. It is a childish notion, and a silly one at that. To think that her kiss can heal a hurt over a decade old.

"In Gondor," she says, looking away from his piercing, searching gaze, "when children are hurt, we tell them that a kiss can heal any ill. Or help heal it, anyways. I-it was foolish-"

Her words peter out. The silence is like a weight, pressing down on her chest. For all that she has tried-and wanted-to know her husband, perhaps he does not have the same interest, when it comes to her? Perhaps he really had just wanted someone to fill the role of Queen, to have an heir quickly and then be done with, like Lady Istoril had said-

Please, she thinks, I want to know you, and I want you to know me, we need not always be such strangers-

The sudden press of his thumb and forefinger around her chin makes her jump. "You are so kind," he says, an even more unrecognizable tone in his voice. "So very kind, lȳtlu gesinge."

"I try to be," Lothiriel stutters, unmoored by the softness in his expression. "I-you deserve kindness, Eomer, after all you have suffered-"

He snorts, and pulls her into his arms, mirroring their positions from before. "I deserve to be horsewhipped, for not speaking to you of this-of anything-more easily," Eomer grumbles. "Words are not my strong suit, Lothiriel, but I have been miserly with them with you. I am sorry."

Stunned and elated, all at once, she presses closer to him. Her hand brushes along his ribs as she moves. She feels another scar there, thin and jagged.

"You are forgiven," Lothiriel says, "if you tell me the story behind this scar as well."

Eomer's lips turn up in the small smile she knows so well by now, but it looks anything but reluctant this time.

"Very well," he agrees. "But it must receive the same treatment as the one before it."

They are up very, very late. Eomer has almost too many scars to count, and words to go with them, now that she has pried them from him.

Just like I thought, Lothiriel thinks to herself as she yawns through the morning meal, just like an oyster.

Although she suspects that the treasure to be found within Eomer will be worth much more than a pearl.