Three days passed, sometimes tip toeing around each other as the cottage wasn't built up to accommodate guests. But overall, their routine was satisfactory enough, and Laurëfindelë learnt new words every day. Time flowed differently for elves, but he was getting frustrated with his inability to communicate properly. And life, here, seemed to hold some urgency, as if the very ground, the stars and sun pulsated more quickly than at home. This unknown sensation felt strange; he'd never faced it before and couldn't characterise it well. Yet, it affected it.
Was home accessible somewhere ? Had the portal who brought him held on for his safe return, or was it lost to him forever ? Until he could explain, in details, how he arrived on earth, Laurëfindelë was stranded. So every hour not employed to stretch and heal was dedicated to learning. Unfortunately, aside from a few books, knowledge seemed to be enclosed in an awful contraption called a computer.
Eleanor used it way too often; he recoiled every time she powered it on, fleeing the energy that tried to ensnare him. The elf refused to use the machine of hell; it radiated evilly, scrambling his thoughts just like the machines at the hospital did. Even the screen with the moving images – the telly - tended to affect him, but he could sit at a reasonable distance away.
So when Eleanor left this morning to go to work, the elf navigated the channels in hopes of finding programs that taught him more about this world. He wasn't disappointed; the national geographic channel exposed marvels and wonders unseen in middle earth. From the very bottom of the ocean to the highest peaks of their mountains, Laurëfindelë watched avidly as Eleanor's world unravelled.
It still lacked magic, and the glorious brilliance of Laurelin and Telperion; how he missed the trees and their light ! But this world held much beauty. The view, alone, from Eleanor's cottage sometimes sent him in raptures, especially when, in the morning, light mist settled at the bottom of the hill, bathing the surrounding forest in a whitish veil.
And, surprisingly, Laurëfindelë realised that he was allowed to relax, since nothing was expected of him. Here, he wasn't a captain of Gondolin. The burden of protecting the city against Morgoth, the time ticking clock hanging over their heads as they hid from the darkening lands of Beleriand was absent. The pang of guilt remained, though; what was happening to Arda, now that Gondolin had fallen ?
Had Tuor, Irdil and little Eärendil managed to escape Morgoth's beasts ? How did they fare, his people, now cast in the wild lands populated with wargs and orcs ? His death, though, haunted him. He had done enough, hadn't he ? Dying for one's people, didn't he deserve some peace ? Laurëfindelë sighed, feeling the pain creep up his spine. He wouldn't judge Echtelion as harshly as he judged himself.
Who had sent him across the veil of the worlds ? Did he have a purpose, here, other than be a burden to Eleanor ? For the moment, his only goal was to heal. She was the provider of care, protection, and shelter. It almost shamed him.
How difficult it was to step down; Laurëfindelë realised he had not shed the mantle of responsibilities since Valinor. Where was the carefree elf, the one whose blond locks and bright personality were renowned from bringing light into the world ? One of the Calaquendë – those who had seen the light of the trees, and Aman – was fading into darkness. The Valar wouldn't be proud of him.
Meow.
Feline settled in his lap, providing much-needed warmth. The fire had died during the day, but Laurëfindelë would not tend to the flames. Whenever he tried to gather his courage, his steps faltered and sweat gathered at his brow. He, that used to enjoy a good bonfire on the village square, could not approach the chimney with a ten foot pole.
The very notion was humiliating…
After the fourth attempt, Laurëfindelë abandoned the endeavour. Damned Balrog ! He could still feel the flames licking at his skin. His constitution should have protected him from the cold, but the earth wasn't nourishing enough for his body to remain impervious. So, instead, he wrapped himself in Eleanor's blanket and dozed off, Feline purring in his lap. Both the young woman's scent and the strange animal's presence lulled him into rest – he was still weak, but his mobility was improving.
Soon, he would be able to take walks outside. The elf was almost giddy with anticipation; he wanted to explore, to leap and bound in the forest, to commute with all natural elements and feel the ground breathe beneath his body, to set his senses loose and learn of the fauna and flora of this strange world. Perhaps he would hunt, too, provided he could find a good bow.
His body called for meat, but nothing the hospital had provided felt safe enough to eat. Its essence was twisted, laden with suffering. Poor beasts; afraid and malnourished, then slaughtered. Not even Eleanor's higher standards sufficed; he needed flesh charged with freedom and happiness, the energy of a free animal, killed on the spot and revered for its offering. Had the earth beneath his feet offered more, the need would be less jarring. They so seldomly ate mate in Arda.
Laurëfindelë dreamt of peaks dusted with immaculate snow, of the towers of Gondolin glimmering in the morning light, of the gentle gushing of streams beneath his feet. Then came the great wave of darkness, and his heart clenched in abject misery. Gondolin was lost. The twelve houses of his fair city decimated, its people scattered to the high seas. And most of them… dead.
Clang.
The elf started, hissing when his sudden jolt pulled at mending muscles. Feline jumped from his lap with a dissatisfied meow, resentful. Sweat dripped down his spine, droplets that reminded him of his blood flowing freely from the many wounds he'd sustained before the Balrog fell him. He shuddered.
"Laurë ? How are you feeling ?"
Eleanor's worried voice wafted in the living room as she set upon the kitchen counter a set of boxes that smelt strangely like burnt wood. But it didn't feel charred. His stomach growled at the anticipation of food, and he shook his head to chase the veil of dark thoughts away.
When the young woman knelt in front of the sofa, he spotted her worried frown.
"I am well," he responded.
Her hand hoovered over his, hesitant, but she retrieved it with a shudder of her own.
"It is cold in here," she remarked, the crease between her eyebrows still present. "I thought I had left enough firewood for the day."
His eyes averted, and Eleanor reached for the plaid, covering the elf more thoroughly.
"You can use it to keep the house warm," she insisted.
Laurë gave no indication he understood her. With a sigh, the young woman rose and grabbed the piping hot pizzas to bring them to the coffee table. A blond eyebrow rose in the sea of his pale skin. Eleanor smiled, happy to have caught his attention.
"This is a pizza, Italian food. It's not good for our health, but sometimes, it helps with the mood."
She lifted up the lid and retrieved plates in the kitchen, dropping two logs in the dying embers before she plopped on the couch beside him. Laurëfindele seemed in a strange contemplative mood, and she was exhausted from too long a day. Hence, she suggested to watch yet another documentary while they ate those pizza.
It was a messy affair, especially for a pristine elf with noble manners. Yet, he did not recoil at the idea of eating with his hands. No matter his poise, Laurëfindelë was never haughty nor condescending. No pride neither vanity, but a sense of himself that ultimately made him magnetic. As if he knew his worth, and had no need to prove it to the world.
This, Eleanor decided, was a feat in itself. As an adept history nerd, her life had been populated by the stories of noble houses, and their abject behaviour with people they would call peons.
As they ate, exchanging a few basic words, Eleanor wondered how a being thrown in another world, beaten black and blue and on the brink of death could accept things so easily. Laurë did not throw fits, he did not criticise his life conditions even when the hospital fed him crappy food, never protested when the physiotherapist hurt him, or when the nurses flirted with him.
He took every new thing in stride and adapted as if he'd lived a hundred lifetimes. If melancholy sometimes dominated his mood, she was surprised he never took his anguish upon anyone else than himself. That attitude reminded her of Buddhist monks, or those elderly people that had seen war and were just content to be alive.
Overall, five days after she'd had welcomed him in her house, Laurë remained a pure mystery. His musical language was a treat, as it flowed out of his mouth like sinful music. Yet, Eleanor struggled to learn it as it resembled nothing she'd ever studied before. Fortunately, Laurëfindelë's progressed outmatched hers, which allowed them to exchange a few more notions than the standard 'how are you ? In pain. Thank you very much.' It still wasn't enough, though, to ask all those questions that festered in her mind.
Where was his world ? How did he come to be here ? How did he get hurt ?
And so, when all subjects of easy conversation were exhausted, and her mind too scrambled to learn new Quenya words, Eleanor chose a documentary on the ancient Maya civilisation and fished out two pears from the counter. The pizza had died, along with whatever remained of Laurë's leftover salad from lunch.
Eleanor almost snorted when he started peeling the fruit with nothing but a small pocket knife, the skin dropping in a long, artful spiral. No doubt that, in his place, she would have sliced off her fingers. Pizza, it seemed, did not hold the same appeal as organic salad and fruits to her alien visitor. Who could blame him ? There was, after all, little nourishment in overcooked flour and bad quality cheese.
A strange sense of contentment washed over her when she curled on the sofa, watching the wonders of Chichen Itza beside her guest. She so seldomly invited people to stay overnight, for she valued her privacy and always longed for solitude after socialising. Curiously, Laurë did not ping on her 'intruder' radar; beside him, she did not feel any pressure to be anything than her grumpy self.
Eleanor's contented sigh caught Laurë's attention and he lifted an inquisitive eyebrow, blue eyes boring into her with such intensity that she blushed. A shrug was the only response she could give him. What else, but to voice that here, now, sharing both the sofa and a plaid in her quaint little cottage, she felt utterly at peace ?
Laurëfindelë did not push, his gaze returning to the telly while Eleanor allowed the stress of the past days to dissolve. Somehow, the dread of stealing an alien from the hospital was now settling. The government had not found them, and the man was nothing but friendly and respectful. There was no sign of madness, or evil intent coming from him. If any, he seemed grateful for her care, and she, in turn, enjoyed his easy company.
Fate had thrown them together and, for the moment, she had little to regret. This temporary arrangement wasn't as tedious as she expected. Then, one day, Laurë would find his way home, right ? What else was there to say, really ?
"It is round!"
Wrenched from her musings, Eleanor blinked, only to find a bewildered expression upon that sinfully beautiful face. A few golden strands dangled comically in front of his eyes, as if puzzled. With no little effort, the young woman took a peek at the TV; the documentary showed a rotating planet to illustrate the amazing ability of the Maya for cosmic calculations. Curious, Eleanor cocked her head aside; how could such a trivial thing send her alien into raptures ? Surely his own world was just as round as earth, right ?
"Er, yes," she responded. "Isn't yours ?"
Laurëfindelë stared at her as if she'd grown two heads.
"No," his melodious voice stated so genuinely that it made no doubt he believed it. It was her turn to freeze.
What the fucking hell ?