Laurëfindele's bombshell that Arda was flat sent Eleanor's brain in a flurry of questionings that she fired at him during the next few days. When words failed at conveying his meanings, her alien friend started to doodle more maps, and artful landscapes.
The young woman remarked that, when sketching, Laurë seemed in less pain than usual. Hence the art supplies that landed in his lap on Wednesday. His whole countenance brightened at the present, some inner joy shining in his eyes like those of a boy. Eleanor accepted his gratitude with a beaming smile; that expression upon his youthful face caused her heart to clench disturbingly in her chest.
His shoulder did not need bandages anymore, and Myriam, in one of her visits, voiced her puzzlement at the fast paced healing. Eleanor had shrugged, feeling guilty for lying to the nurse, but she couldn't possibly sell Laurëfindelë's origins. The fewer people knew, the less danger he would be in. And given the state he'd arrived in hospital, Eleanor did not want to take any chances. Already, the very notion that he had died, if only for a few minutes, unsettled her greatly.
Fortunately, Laurë had charmed Myriam with a few English sentences, and instead of gushing on his closing wounds, the nurse had been derailed by the brilliance of his mind – or his charm. A fast learner, for sure.
The only thing he did not seem inclined to learn was how to tend to the fire when she was absent. Even though afternoons were mild enough, the stone cottage remained frisky during the day, and especially when the sun dipped. Was Laurëfindelë impervious to the cold ? Perhaps his alienish constitution kept him warm ?
Mulling on those thoughts, Eleanor whipped them an easy meal of pasta, grated Parmesan and rocket salad to which she added a few pine kernels. Once the food completed, Laurë joined her at the kitchen counter, his gait much improved compared to the first few days he'd spent in her cottage. Pain killers were slowly discarded, and his left arm regained mobility by the day. Before they dug in the dish, he gestured to the pile of drawings completed on the coffee table.
"I show you my friends."
Eleanor froze, a fork filled with spaghettis hanging in the air.
"From Arda ?" she asked.
"Là," he responded. (yes)
The spark of sadness passed so fast in his blue eyes that she almost missed it. Almost. How could he feel, stranded in a strange world away from both family and friends ? His whole life had been uprooted. And even though knowing he might return, someday, sent a pang of wariness in her chest, Eleanor nodded her assent. Sharing his past could only soothe the wounds after all.
From their past discussions, she had gathered a war had broken up between one named Melko, and his people. Whomever that man was remained unclear; he felt like the Hitler of Arda. Laurë had babbled something about Vala that she could not fathom. All that she knew was that his city – Gondolin - was attacked, and this was where he was wounded, trying to defend those he loved.
The physiotherapist had been right – Laurëfindelë had been a soldier. Who would have known, with his gentle manners and welcoming personality ? He was nowhere remotely vulgar, neither too blunt. But it might explain why, even with a house that bore his name and sigil, he did not shy away from mundane tasks such as cleaning and cooking.
To think he was ready to share more of his story through sketches filled her heart with gratitude.
"I would love to," she responded.
His answering smile was discreet, but genuine. There was little conversation to be had around dinner, as Laurëfindelë floated in his own world, his gaze far, far away. Dare she say, in another galaxy ? A skilled painter would have made a masterpiece of him this evening. With his hair half tied back, oceanic eyes lost in thought, his tall frame and blond waves dancing around broad shoulders, Laurëfindelë was a work of art. The fact that this living model sat at her kitchen counter felt surreal; he almost seemed to glow, haloed in the setting sun that penetrated through the large French doors.
They cleared the dishes in tandem, exchanging a few words and learning new ones as was their routine. Water was set down to boil for an herbal tea. Then, once the kitchen was tended to, Laurëfindelë's fingers clasped her hand and gently tugged.
Eleanor's breath caught in her throat; It was an uncharacteristic move, for him, to touch her skin. He released her hand at once, whether because he felt her surprise, or realised how intimate the gesture was. So when she followed him to the sofa, Eleanor felt her skin weep for the loss.
He sat there, regal, yet unassuming, with three sketches in tow. Sitting down, the young woman awaited for him to present his pieces. What landed in her hand took her breath away. Tall, elegant building gleamed in the sunlight, surrounded by a ring of mountains in the distance. This sketch showed an elaborate fountain throning in the middle of a square, so artfully depicted that she could almost hear it gurgling. An elf sat there, playing the flute, his features equally elegant.
"Gondolin ?", she asked.
"Là. Ondolindë, in Quenya."
The young woman nodded; by now, she had gathered his people spoke two languages, one being derived from the other. Laurëfindelë preferred Quenya, but would sometimes talk of things in Sindarin. His city was one of those, for a reason she had yet to discover; perhaps its official name ?
Laurë's long finger pointed to the man, and she felt his voice waver when he presented the character he'd depicted so skilfully.
"Echtelion. House of the Fountain."
She felt his emotion when his finger gently caressed the paper.
"Echtelion Laurëfindelë-va meldo ?", she asked, a lump forming in her throat at the melancholy painted over his features. (Echtelion is your friend ?)
"Yes," he murmured."Meldo mara min." (The very best.)
His wistful tone suddenly triggered a spark of understanding; she had so rarely seen Laurëfindelë so depressed that she wondered whether Echtelion was a good friend, or his significant other. If so, her alien friend probably missed him terribly. Perhaps, too, that he was sick with worry.
"This man, he means a lot to you."
Laurëfindele nodded, but corrected her nonetheless.
"No man. Ellon."
Ellon ? What the hell is that ? A social status ? A sexual one ?
Puzzled, Eleanor watched the long black hair of Echtelion, and the beauty of his features, eyes closed, when he played the flute in the King's square. He seemed like a good man, one who could appreciate Laurëfindelë refined manners and gentle smile. She could almost see them, come what may, composing music or debating the King's decisions until the sun retreated behind the white peaks.
"What happened to him?" she asked, fearful to hear something evil might have befallen such an important character in his life.
Laurëfindelë trembling hand retreated, and he blinked moist away from his eyes. For a moment, he was silent. Eleanor gave him some privacy, contemplating the svelte spikes of white stone reaching for the sky. Every single line was elegant, almost ethereal. What kind of civilisation could possibly build such artful places ?
"Firië."
Eleanor frowned; this was a word she was unfamiliar with. But Laurëfindelë wasn't, for he trapped her in his gaze and translated for her sake.
"Dead."
The young woman gasped. Then, instinctively, she reached for his hand and squeezed his warm flesh.
"I am sorry. Very, very sorry."
Her alien friend nodded, his face an unreadable mask. And even though his eyes spoke of destruction and sorrow, his countenance was that of a warrior, a chieftain. Then, with the little words he possessed, he explained that the forces of Melko had stormed his city with both soldiers and many different kinds of fantastic creatures. Wargs, Balrogs, giant serpents… Everything felt so exotic. If she had not observed Laurëfindelë day and night for the past days, she would have committed him to the nuthouse.
"Echtelion killed Gothmog. They fell in fountain and died."
Eleanor heaved a sigh. Drowned. That poor fellow had drowned after battling a monster in the King's square. The lord of the fountain, doomed by the waters.
"How many died ?" she asked, fearful about the answer. "Manotë… firië ?"
"Lord Duilin dead, Lord Penrod and Rog also. Outside the walls. My house fight in market. The house of nandë (harp) came to aid, and we go to King's square."
Eleanor's breath itched as he recounted the battle with broken sentences. Many a time, his voice died, struggling to find words, or too struck to continue.
"Echtelion," he choked. "Fight Gothmog to save King Turgon. King said to abandon city, and the… survivors left. Turgon… came not."
Laurëfindelë's feeling towards his liege seemed unclear, but it was obvious he still suffered from the demise of his lord King. After his best friend's – or lover ? – death, she could easily understand how despair had gained the ranks.
"He stayed behind ?"
"Là. He said it was his fault. His house died with him."
Guilt. The King had chosen to die rather than live with his guilt, condemning his house to share his doom. "And you ?"
"I ran with people. To protect them."
Laurëfindelë shuddered violently, and Eleanor surmised she'd better stop asking questions and allow him to stir the conversation. Better not to push rather than stumble upon a bigger trauma.
Most of his men, and probably, most of the soldiers of the city had succumbed to the attack. He included, but Eleanor ignored if he was aware of it. Laurëfindelë was a survivor from a horrible massacre. And even though Gondolin wasn't hers, the young woman felt her heart clench at the idea of such a beautiful placed sacked by the forces of darkness.
As her eyes ran through every little detail, Laurë slid another sheet in her hands, covering the previous one. She caught sight of a horrible beast and dropped the sketch with a squeak of terror. Hands shaking, the young woman mumbled a few breathless 'sorry', her heart racing from fright. For a moment, they remained thus, so close yet separated by a world.
Laurëfindelë did not insist, stoically awaiting for her to take the decision. But how could she deny him the chance to unburden himself ? If that beast was a foe he had to face, what coward did that make her to refuse to handle a sketch ? What amount of courage did it take, for him, to fight such a thing ? Hands shaking, she retrieved the paper and perused its content.
A glowing warrior stood proud, sword at the ready, his wavy blond hair dancing around him.
"Laurë ná ?", she chanced. (It is you ?")
"Aye," he responded, his voice heavy with grief.
Eleanor nodded, noticing how the posture was exactly his, yet so very different from his usual poise. The man on the sketch seemed to be bouncing on his feet, ready for the strike, all of his energy poised for that crucial blow. Then, she gathered the little courage she had left and allowed her eyes to take in the massive beast.
Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest; that thing was too terrifying for words, a massive – meaning, twenty feet high, probably – monster of flames and shadows, fangs bared in the furnace of its essence, claws at the ready.
"Man-ië ?" her voice shook. (What is this ?)
"A Balrog of Morgoth."
And even though she did not know that second term, Eleanor shivered violently. The words would not come in Quenya, her brain too scrambled, her insides clenched tight. Adrenaline flooded her veins, pure terror seeping into her bones as she considered the beast.
"You fought that ?" she asked, breathless.
Gentle hands enclosed the heavy plaid around her legs, Laurëfindelë's proximity sending reassuring waves in her mind. Echtelion, the beautiful dark-haired man with a flute, had also faced that hellish monster, and killed it. To think her gentle friend had lived through such a battle…
"I, er. Put my knife in his belly. It fell down mountain."
"You stabbed it with your sword ?"
Ocean blue eyes trapped hers in their depth, swirling with warring emotions.
"Yes." His wounds made sense now. Most of his left side had been broken to pieces – had taken a heavy blow from the beast ? Another possibility popped in her mind, one that she prayed was untrue for the pain it would have caused him.
"Did you… did you fall ?"
"Là," he confirmed. "Balrog took my hair."
She gasped: it explained the burns upon his body, and the singed hair. Shaking uncontrollably, Eleanor dropped the sketch upon the coffee table and took a deep breath. It didn't help.
A warm touch settled upon her shoulder when shameful tears leaked from her eyes. Overwhelmed, Eleanor pivoted and pounced, burying her face in his uninjured shoulder. She squeezed his frame tight, and she berated herself for being so weak. He had died, faced a demon from the very pits of hell to save his people, and she was the one crying over it.
"I am … glad you are… alive," she sobbed. "I cannot imagine…"
His arms wound up around her shoulders, strong and safe.
"You are so courageous, Laurë."
His tale shocked her to the very core, unearthing a bottomless terror that resonated, deep within. Perhaps she might have preferred to remain in the dark. To know that, in his world, such beasts existed, lurking in the shadows, consuming cities and golden warriors like the minions of hell… She should have recoiled and called him a liar, anyone else would. But, in her mind, there was no doubt about the truth; Laurëfindelë wasn't a crazy man spinning tales to gather some sympathy.
Suddenly, Eleanor wondered if she should help him return to his world, for what were his chances, now that his hidden city had been overcome ? Surely he would want to find the survivors, should he find a way home, to protect those who had fled. But to say goodbye would be akin to sending him to his death. Again.
His encompassing embrace warmed her from within, and she eventually deflated in his arms. Laurë was safe here, and healing nicely. Blond waves fell over her cheek when he tilted his head, his scent wafting through her sensitive nose.
Eleanor closed her eyes, feeling his body hum in unison with hers, like two suns rotating around each other. There was something vibrant to him, something entirely ethereal. As if he shone from within. She did not fear his alienness anymore. Did not fear him. And no matter what happened she would protect him, both from his world and from their government.
Laurëfindelë has seen too much sorrow in his life; she swore to herself she would find a way bring him joy.