It was not love he felt for her. It was not attraction. He could not deny she was not ugly, and despite how dark and unusual she was, she was lovely in her own way. But what he felt towards her was a strange, far - off whisper of familiarity. There was no pressure for cordiality, no awkward glances asking what the intent behind simple words was. It was as if he knew her, though he didn't know why. He hadn't seen anything like her in all of his years - and they were innumerable. He smiled slightly and went to wipe the tears from her foolish face, but she pulled her face away with such determination that he stopped, cast his eyes down and apologized.
"May I help you up?" He offered, taking the more polite option and standing, holding out his hand for her. This cordiality felt more like a game to him than a social necessity.
She acted as though to put her hand in his, but stopped short, looking at him with an expression he could not read.
"My lady?" He asked.
Without moving a muscle in her face, he thought she cracked an almost indecipherable smile. But it was gone in an instant, long forgotten. "You may not touch me." She told him.
"Of course, my lady." He said, offering her his walking staff.
She refused this also. Instead, she gripped the trunk of a nearby tree and pulled herself up.
"What is your name?" He asked, turning to lead her to nearby Rivendell. When she did not answer he turned back to her in question. "My name is Cirdanian..."
She collapsed again, this time falling unconscious. He knelt beside her and attempted to rouse her, but found her unresponsive, her flesh hot and her hairline wet with blood.
Quickly and easily he lifted her limp body off the ground and continued towards Rivendell for help. Now that he had her in his arms he realized that she was emaciated - there was not a place on her body that he could find where his arms weren't bruised by sharp rods and sheets of bone. His heart went more and more out to the girl as he carried her feeble frame up to Elrond's house. She could feel it, though her body was unresponsive, and even as she battled against it, Cirdanian's affection was driven even more earnestly into her veins. She screamed at it and used everything she knew to get it to abandon her black hole of a heart, but little prevailed. Slowly she was losing strength and hope, and quickly she was being overthrown.
Cirdanian, feeling the heat of her fevered body through his clothing and hers, began to ask questions more earnestly than before. Who was she? Where did she come from? What was she? And why had she been wandering through that forest? He reached the castle where his lord was having lunch with his generals and his family, and as he stepped over the threshold, he vowed he would not leave her side until he had the answer to all of his questions.
Elrond ordered her into the dining room at first glance. "There is no time for beds," he said, "clear off a place on the table."
Many of the generals took their leave after helping clear the table for her death-bound frame. Others lingered, having more skill in healing, and wished to help. Elrond asked little of them except to fetch him things. Most of them slowly trickled away as the hours rolled by. Elrohir, his son, and Arwen lingered the longest, Arwen visibly wracked with concern.
It was a while before there was any color in the girl's face. Elrond worked hard. Beads of sweat began to form on her brown forehead, and finally, she opened her eyes.
Elrond stood over her and pressed a compress to her forehead.
She smirked just slightly, and in it were the faintest glints of childlike hope. "Hello Grandfather," she said.