Scars
Nerdanel sat in the dark of her room, her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. His words burned in a way no iron at the forge could. They created wounds and scars at times that could linger and fester if she let them, if she did not treat them. Unfortunately she would sometimes tend to them with stinging burns of her own. Striking out blindly in pain she would pick at the old wounds they both carried, scratching and clawing till the anger would flow thick and free and new wounds were created along with the old. It was not hard really. They had both come to learn this trick very well and would eventually perfect it in time. It was a hurtful act. A painful act. An act that had become somewhat repeated of late.
It was not yet common knowledge, their affections for the other. Their friendship slowly turning and evolving to something more, something that they did not quite understand at first and had kept secret, ducking behind garden walls and furtive meetings arranged in wooded areas or the occasional sneaking into bedrooms in the wee hours of night. He would prefer not do such things in secret, happy to let his feelings be known and approach her father to which she would roll her eyes and laugh, reminding him of their age and inexperience and the futility of their stations in life. This had always angered him and felt as if she were belittling his feelings, insinuating that he did not know or understand his own self. And he would lash out, accusing her of lack of steadfastness and stating that perhaps she was right and he should find someone who was better matched to his station in life, not some craftsman's daughter far too low ever understand what it could mean to be queen. And she would spit back that she always knew it would come to this, the spoiled prince entertaining himself till something far more socially acceptable came along.
They were silly fights, the disagreements of petulant children. But it did not lesson the sting of their bite.
She listened to the familiar click of pebbles against her window, but she did not move. The lights were off and perhaps he would think she was not home. Although when the sound stopped she knew that would not be the case. She rested her head against her knees and waited. After a few moments she heard a rustling sound as the window slowly creaked open. She did not look up. She did not need to for she could feel him there, crouched in the window sill, his eyes boring into her. The floor barely made a sound as he moved across and she felt the bed slowly move as he sat next to her. She still did not look at him. She felt the bed shift as he slowly moved behind her, legs moving around her sides, his chest pressed against her back as he lowered his head on her shoulder. They sat there like this for several moments. Please would be the only word to flitter across her conscience, hesitant and imploring. Please it would whisper again, caressing the open wounds with a gentle touch that begged for forgiveness while never saying it. Please she would hear until eventually she would lift her head back and melt against him as he would bury his face against her neck and wrap his arms around her in a tight desperate embrace.
Why, she would say. Why do we do this? Why must it always come to this, she would ask. But he would simply silence her by pressing his mouth against hers. And she would lose herself in the feel of his body and forget her arguments, their combined heat cauterizing their wounds into tiny little scars that would always remain.