So, well. Inspiration struck and I decided to start the story. It will be slow updates, I'm pretty busy with both the Taisho fire (inuyasha) and Hijikata (what makes history) right now. But I will eventually get there.
"Ella, we've got a strange man speaking a stranger language here. If you can help; I'll be grateful."
A strange man. Lost in a set of deep blue eyes, Eleanor's blood started buzzing as she tried, and failed, to keep her jaw from falling on the floor.
A strange man.
Who the fuck called a demigod a strange man? Had Myriam traded her glasses for blinds? Even broken, bruised and battered, his poise rivalled those of angels. If she concentrated long enough, she could almost see him … glow?
Concentrate, Ella. Don't go that way.
Long golden hair shone like a beacon around his pale face, emphasising the strong, chiselled jaw that gave him more character than the best-looking model in the world.
Eleanor's eyes narrowed as she took in the discolouration against his neck. Entire strands of his glorious mane looked singed unevenly. On the side of his face, bandages hid another area of badly burnt skin.
How is he even alive? Aside from the defibrillator's magic, of course. He was burnt and broken in so many tiny pieces when they brought him in.
But he was now half propped on the hospital bed, his gaze swirling pools of wisdom and weariness, half-hidden underneath tresses of gold. And beneath them peeked a slightly pointed ear.
Eleanor took a sharp breath; A pointed ear! By the gods!
This was the last straw! Being called in on a Sunday by her friend was one thing. To drive down to Oxford when she absolutely hated anything remotely citadine, wrestling her instincts to remain recluse in her cottage had been a struggle. Electrosensitivty and heightened senses always brought a headache, if only because the modern world was too bright, too harsh for her. She had chosen her remote cottage for the lack of coverage for that very same purpose.
It kept her from going crazy … too soon.
But Myriam knew her well; the incentive of working on a remote language had done the trick. And her friend's panic. The broken man, swathed in bandages and knocked out by morphine she expected to find now looked at her with curiosity, his whole attention drilling a hole into her.
Manners, Ella.
Frozen into place, Eleanor shook herself mentally to reach for the chair at his bedside. The hospital gown, as unflattering as it was, did not diminish the overwhelming aura of the being that watched her approach. His gaze was so heavy, so wary that she paced her steps, settling down with slow purposeful moves.
"Hello, I am Eleanor. It is nice to meet you."
Deep, blue eyes blinked at her as the man inclined his head regally with a flinch. Who was this guy? His bearing was that of a king, and his skin almost glowed under the harsh lights. His keen gaze remained fixed upon her, causing goosebumps to raise over her skin. Containing a shiver, Eleanor slid a glance to Myriam who lifted her hands in surrender.
"Eleanor," she repeated in hopes of making first contact. Then she pointed to her friend. "Myriam."
A spark of recognition bloomed in those fathomless eyes.
"Laurëfindele," he said, his tones akin to songs of old.
Eleanor's breath stuttered as the richness of his voice. Even though she had not understood, at all, the origin of his name. Any moment now she would wake up. This man just wasn't impossible. First, he healed from two dozen fractures without being crippled, let alone survived burns that should have marred anyone's face for eternity. The eeriness of his posture was unnerving, his attention vying for all of hers. She, that tended to multitask as easily as she breathed, found herself completely enthralled.
He is a bit unsettling, but definitely a looker, Myriam had said.
Hot damn. He looked too otherworldly to be real. For a moment, Eleanor considered turning tail, and allowing the psychologist to take over. They would eventually find where the man came from, and find someone from his own country, right?
But the endless depths of the man's gaze quelled the need to flee; she could feel his pain, his disorientation. The man was lost and might not even know how he'd ended up in hospital. The trauma was written clearly enough in his gaze, even though the smooth lines of his perfect features kept it hidden. Resolve set in deep inside her belly; she would help him find a way home.
Was his family looking for him? His looks, alone, betrayed a Caucasian origin, which narrowed the search in terms of languages.
"Can you speak to me?" she asked.
The man cocked his head aside in a clear interrogative stance. Then, a blasted alarm sounded off and he jumped, twisting aside in defence. The movement caused him much pain, for his eyebrows scrunched in agony, but not a sound passed his lips.
Myriam jumped to the side, silencing the offending machine.
"Sorry, his heartbeat went up and I keep having to put the alarms in silent mode. He's very sensitive to noise."
Eleanor nodded, watching the pain etched upon his fair face. On a whim, she reached for his hand and squeezed the warm flesh.
"It's alright," she crooned soothingly.
He didn't jump, latching upon her fingers instead and squeezing tight.
"I think he's in pain, Myriam."
Her friend nodded.
"I'll put another dose of morphine. He's got a few fractures on his upper spine, I think he jolted them when he jumped."
"Damn machines," Eleanor grumbled to avoid, at any cost, to dwell on the tingling of her hand encased in his own. His skin was warm, alive and humming against hers.
"They have their uses, ya know. They saved his life a few times the first few nights."
A sigh was the only response and silence fell over the room, only disturbed by the busy corridors and the beeping of machines in the other room.
"Listen, Ella. I'm going to have to do my rounds. I'll be back in an hour or so. The morphine should kick in pretty soon. Either he'll fall asleep, either he'll talk to you. There is no obligation, OK?"
Suddenly, the monumental task of bonding with this strange man hit her hard, and she wondered if she would manage. Eleanor spent eons buried in books, whipping up classes for her students on long dead languages and live ones. Human contact had never quite been her forte, especially with gorgeous males. But Myriam counted on her, and she owed her much.
"Will you be alright?" the nurse insisted.
Gathering her courage, Eleanor nodded stiffly.
"Aye, I think I will."
A smirk spread upon Myriam's lips.
"Somehow, that outdated expression seems to fit just right with our knight here," she snarked. "He looks straight out of a medieval fantasy LARP."
Eleanor's return smile barely stretched her lips.
That's not polite to speak of a foreigner if he cannot understand you.
When Myriam turned tail and the door closed upon the beautiful stranger's room, silence settled like a heavy blanket. He wasn't asleep, his breathing still ragged and uneven, but his fingers had stopped squeezing hers to death. As he relaxed his hold and released her, Eleanor's skin slid over callouses that covered his elegant palm.
Sports, for sure. No wonder, with a physique like his…
The distant echo of something crashing caused his shoulders to tense again and he released a painful whimper. Was he, like her, oversensitive to the throes of the city bustle?
On a whim, Eleanor started to sing a traditional English song. Down by the sally gardens escaped her before she could second-guess herself; singing in front of a man whose voice sang naturally. But the melody transported her to distant past; once again a girl, seeking comfort from her mother. Nature everywhere, tall trees and grass dancing in the wind, the lone voice soothing her fears. Naturally, her eyes fell close as she relished in the moment.
After the first few lines, and a chorus, Eleanor was surprised to feel the man's gaze upon hers once more. Eyes snapping open, she smiled.
"You need to speak to me, sir, so I can try to understand you."
He frowned, two golden lines scrunching in the midst of alabaster skin to mark his lack of understanding. But Eleanor wasn't a language nerd for nothing; she'd spoken to half the people of earth with her hands and a notepad, and always found a way to communicate. Mimicking words falling out of her mouth, she repeated her words.
Eventually, the man understood; he responded with a single, flowery sentence.
It was her turn to frown, listening intently.
"Can you repeat?" she asked.
Silence.
She showed two fingers.
"Repeat. Again."
The man seemed to catch on, and spoke again, more slowly this time. In her mind, Eleanor started mapping out words and languages she knew, only to come up empty.
"Go on," she said, showing his mouth again. "Go on speaking."
The light of wariness in his eyes turned to curiosity as he obliged her. His language flowed like a dance, caressed by the smoothness of his voice. She'd never heard anything as remotely beautiful… Unfortunately, even though she was Oxford's language expert, this particular one didn't strike a bell. But she could pick up a few words, here and there.
Welsh and Finnish.
"Mistä tulet ?", she asked in broken Finnish, hoping he would understand she wanted to know his country of origin.
The man shook his head, and so she tried the same sentence in Welsh, which she knew much better, down to the countryside accent.
"O ble wyt ti'n dod ?"
A puzzled look passed in his eyes and she sighed. Her extensive knowledge of languages had not prepared her for abject failure. Unwilling to surrender, Eleanor fished out a notebook from her purse and started sketching. If their mother tongues were too different to communicate, she would resort to using pictograms. If it worked on disabled children, it might trigger the memory of a traumatised man. For a moment, she wondered if he was just amnesiac.
As she spoke, very slowly, she sketched a map of earth and set a cross in their current location. Then, she told him she came from Cornwall, and handed him the map. At once, his frown intensified, puzzling over her drawing with a worried expression. Eventually, he returned the notepad to her and shook his head.
In his eyes danced a spark of despair so deep that her heart constricted in dismay. The sudden urge to weep tore her insides and she tried to hide it by putting the notepad away with much fuss. Why did she feel so sad? His distress seemed to take hold in the deepest recesses of her mind, as if his emotions permeated and Eleanor struggled to retrieve a neutral countenance.
When, at last, her eyes returned to the injured man, she found his eyes closed. The morphine had knocked him out, surely. His body grew limp against the mattress. Even unconscious, his presence was utterly overwhelming. Defeated, she stood, eyes lingering upon him, wondering if the slight shifting if the air around his prone form was a figment of her imagination.
No. You are hallucinating.
A tendril of fear ran up her spine, cold dread pooling in her stomach. Was the madness upon her already? At barely thirty, she tried, very hard, to keep it at bay. Both her mother and grandmothers had succumbed its call, and she knew, without doubt, that the hypersensitivity to any type of electromagnetic wave was the premises of the curse that ran in her feminine line.
But to see energy swirling around a man, however strange – or drop dead otherworldly gorgeous – he was…
Eleanor rubbed her eyes vigorously, struggling not to dissolve into tears.
Not now. Not yet.
Steeling her spine, the linguist exited the room without looking back. Her heart was heavy when she relayed her failure to Myriam; her thoughts sombre as she drove home, for once finding her little cottage less welcoming than usual. Even the soft mewls and purrs of her four legged companion failed at abating her fears.
Eleanor just couldn't erase the dread that, perhaps, her time would come earlier than planned. And in the back of her mind, as she lamented on the family madness, a set of ocean eyes danced.
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