Eleanor was pretty positive she'd never spent so much time in town since she'd inherited the cabin. Her faithful cat, Féline, already hated her guts for being absent so often. Every time her little car approached the city, her body protested from the onslaught of waves that assaulted it. Head buzzing, muscles spasming, she thanked God that her classes happened in the massive building of Oxford University. The rocks acted as a shield when it came to electromagnetic waves, and it gave her some measure of relief.
The hospital, though, was much, much worse. Wires ran everywhere, electronics communicating between central and rooms, 5G eating at her brain until she couldn't tell left from right – which actually happened often enough. Strangely, in those moments, watching Laurëfindelë's eyes always centered her. As if his aura lessened the strain upon her fuzzy brain.
And, if HE was here, she could handle the strain, right ? And what she learnt from him defied anything she'd ever laid her eyes upon. Both curiosity and empathy brought her back, again and again, to the hospital room. That man… was so much more than a man. From the pointed edges of his ears to the nobility he exuded, even injured, Eleanor felt like she'd barely scratched the surface. His gaze, often, left her speechless; they seemed to contain a world of their own. As if he had seen everything, swallowed a whole era in full.
And yet, he treated her with warmth and respect. Despite those scars than ran down the side of his back, despite his singed hair, and the pain he sometimes fought valiantly, he was never short with her. As if his soul was made of light, radiating it over the people that came near. Eleanor was addicted.
A few days ago, Myriam had asked if she could be present for the first sessions of physiotherapy to help with translation. Despite the progress she'd done in understanding him, she still had no clue about the nature of his mother tongue… except that it flowed like silk in his mouth, and created goosebumps over her arms.
So there she was, wheeling him downstairs for a session that would, for sure, cause him suffering. He was dressed in scrubs – short sleeves and wide blue pants covering his fair skin. On his left arm remained bandages that covered burns to avoid infection. The rest of his body was stiff, but adorned with efficient muscles. He wasn't a massive man, but there was not an ounce of fat over him.
As the elevator doors closed, Laurëfindelë tensed and twisted in the chair – the movement caused him to wince in pain. At once, Eleanor caught his weary gaze and asked, detaching her words.
"What is it ?"
He took in her relaxed features and seemed to take the cue, elegant fingers unclasping the sides of the wheelchair. Perhaps he was claustrophobic ?
"Afraid ?" she questioned, mimicking the enclosed space.
He nodded cautiously, and she marvelled, once more, that he would allow fears to be laid at her feet without an ounce of shame. He was so very different from the males she knew; proud and unable to ask directions. Strangely, the admission of his discomfort did not take anything away from his raw masculinity. With that mop of wavy hair that rivalled the sun, the lines of his face that seemed to have been carved out of marble, and the long eyelashes, he should have looked feminine. Or, at least, androgynous.
The truth was. That… he didn't. Not one bit. He was, tops down, the most beautiful male she'd ever set her eyes upon, and still managed to appeal to her femininity.
"All is well," she smiled, patting his shoulder. "Mára ná," she added in his own language.
His fingers brushed her in assent, causing a delectable shiver to run down her spine.
"Sankyou," he responded, his voice smooth like silk. "Hantan lye."
This was a sentence she'd heard often in the course of past days. His gratitude always warmed her heart, for he took nothing for granted. She was sure to get a whole new set tomorrow, for she had gathered a few clothes to allow him to feel like an actual human being, rather than hang around with those horrible hospital blouses.
When the doors dinged and opened, his chest expanded in relief; she wheeled him out as fast as she could. As long as the wheelchair was necessary, there would be no other choice but to use the elevator.
The physiotherapy session was harsh on her nerves. She watched, helpless, as her new friend handled a fresh amount of pain to test his mobility. Eleanor couldn't even turn the other way, because they needed her to translate their demands.
Laurë[1] – as she had nicknamed in her mind – took it in stride, his jaw clenching through the agony reflected in his eyes, but without any complaints. She wondered what his occupation was, before he landed in hospital after a cardiac arrest, to endure such amounts of pain without flinching. It hurt her soul, her heart lurching when they twisted him around to the point where a hiss eventually escaped him.
Eleanor jumped to her feet without thinking.
"Stop it !" she bellowed.
All heads turned to her, but she refused to relent. She, the most non-combative woman the earth had borne, was glaring daggers at the physiotherapist.
"Madam…"
"Don't madam me !" she retorted. "There's only so much a man can take. How much hurting are you going to inflict upon him ?"
"We need to assess his mobility to create the program."
"You're going too far."
"So far, I did not hear anything, so I guess the pain is manageable."
Mouth agape, Eleanor was ready to explode.
But can't you feel it ?
An insult itched at the end of the tongue, something about being a health practitioner, pain and sadism but a dark-haired lady interrupted the argument.
"She may be right, Ronan. The man looks exhausted. I think we have what we need."
Eleanor sagged in relief, wondering how she was going to handle being a translation lady when the sessions would officially start.
"Thank you for your humanity," she told the newcomer.
"You're welcome. Forgive Ronan, he's not quite used to soldiers yet."
The notion struck her in the chest like a dart.
"Soldiers ?"
"Yeah. Those guys that have been injured so often that they swim through the pain without battling an eyelash. I bet he is one of those, especially given his wounds. It's not going to be a walk in the park, but we'll help the best we can."
Soldier… warrior ? Eleanor caught Laurëfindelë's gaze and found herself enthralled, once more. Was it the reason why his eyes seemed so old ? No one knew anything about the circumstances that surrounded his near death, and she did not dare prying into it just yet. Somehow, it didn't feel right.
Suddenly exhausted, Eleanor thanked the nice lady – Judith – once more and decided to get the hell out of dodge. The sun was shining outside, and despite the frisky weather, an idea bloomed in her mind.
"Shall we go outside ?" she asked her friend and patient.
Blond eyebrows furrowed, and she cursed the lack of pictograms in her bag. She searched her mind for 'outside', or 'sunshine', and found her reservoir lacked diversity, but there was a word she knew.
"Alma," she repeated stubbornly while pointing outside. "Flowers."
A smile pulled at the edge of his lips and Eleanor's mind, once more, blanked. Not that she wasn't used to it; despite his difficult circumstances, Laurëfindelë expressed his gratitude through smiles often enough. But the perspective to see the outside world, for once, seemed to brighten his very soul. The usual polite quirk of his mouth had turned into a billion wat expression, blue eyes flickering with anticipation.
His very soul seemed to dance, and Eleanor felt the full brunt of his happiness from three meters away. Dazed, the young woman reached for the chair and the mismatched pair resumed their trek, pausing at the coffee shop to ask for two cups of green tea. Of course, the bagged leaves would be crushed and slightly bitter, because not rinsed first, but it would be better than coffee. She knew, from Myriam, that Laurëfindelë did not even consider the brew edible; the first day they'd brought him coffee, he'd mistaken it for ink and drawn a fresco upon the tray.
Myriam still had the picture of this makeshift painting; it was magnificent, just like the rest of him. Everything Laurëfindelë did was perfection, as if he'd worked his art his entire life. Drawing, writing, singing, learning… His mind was one of a kind.
The young woman asked him if he could hold the tea cups as she directed the wheelchair outside, and mourned that she could not see his face as they, finally, stepped out of the infernal building that held him hostage. For a moment, Eleanor wondered if they would throw him to the streets once he was healed and considered able to work.
After all, he had no papers. Would they detain him ? Eleanor frowned, unsettled by the notion. What could she do anyway ? He needed to return to his family.
For the moment, though, she steered the chair under a set of blooming trees until she found a bench with direct sunlight. The breeze was fresh, and she considered Laurë's athletic form, wrapped in the thin cotton layer. Oblivious to the elements, he observed the surroundings, eyes darting at every blade of grass that grew in the makeshift park. On a whim, Eleanor unwrapped the long, thin scarf from her neck and settled it around his shoulders, covering the bare skin of his arms.
Laurëfindelë inclined his head in thanks, the movement reminiscent of Japanese bows without the stiffness of it. Satisfied, she removed the tea bags and threw them in the bin; green tea should never brew too long. It was bad enough that the water had been boiled instead of simmered. Suppressing a sigh at her own obsession, Eleanor sipped at her cup and closed her eyes, enjoying the sounds of nature awakening. Of course, machines, people and vehicles polluted it badly, but she couldn't help but relish in the warmth of the sun.
When her eyes opened once more, Eleanor found herself mesmerised by the expression of pure bliss set upon her friend's face. His uneven waves fell over her scarf, gold shining so bright that it felt almost alive. Fair skin offered to the sun, fine eyebrows drawn like arrows over long lashes, jaw relaxed, but oh so divinely defined. Never before had she seen such a beautiful man, inside out.
Lips quirking, Eleanor forced her attention away from him; he would catch it, he always did, and she refused to spoil this moment. For the first time since she'd met him, two weeks prior, Laurë seemed at peace. He, too, was allowed to bask in the experience, hands warmed by the cup of strange brew, senses unfurling in the spring light.
For a moment, neither of them said a thing; words weren't needed. Eleanor sipped at her tea contentedly, overlooking its bitterness as she rested her mind. And despite the many interferences assaulting her brain - the disagreeable buzz - she also allowed her senses to scour the area. Life struggled to rise from the concrete alleys and pesticides, an attempt to keep them in line. But nature always won the battle in the end, and, for once, it made her proud rather than depressed.
"Sankyou."
Laurë's silky voice caressed her senses, and she smiled.
"You're welcome," she responded, knowing he would understand that notion. "This is what friends do," she added, showing her cup. "Tea. Nature. Speak, or remain silent."
"F'iends ?" he asked, brow furrowing adorably over his ocean eyes.
Eleanor attempted to explain the concept with the limited vocabulary she had already covered. But eventually, she found a twig and drew two people in the dirt, holding hands. Two men, two women, a man and a woman to ensure the concept wouldn't be mistaken for a lover. It was bad enough the nurse had called him her husband the other day… a man like him probably had a family, or a lover that looked like a goddess. It was just a matter of time before her mentioned her, or remembered. Half the words that passed his lips remained a mystery anyway.
Eventually, Laurë nodded.
"Meldë," he pointed to the women. "Meldo," to the men.
"Im meldë Laurëfindelë ?", Eleanor attempted; knowing the structure couldn't be more wrong. To her surprise, a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. Struck speechless, she felt her cheeks burn from both shame at her poor attempt, and utter awe to hear him laugh for the first time.
"Eleanor Laurëfindelë-va meldië," he corrected.
When his amused expression turned into a shiver, Eleanor called it quits; the weather was too cold for him to be out in a set of scrubs. Eyeing his silhouette, she surmised he might fit in one of her mother's old ski jackets. It would be better than nothing. For the moment, though, she allowed him a few more minutes to enjoy the poor scenery, wondering if he, too, would marvel at the view in her remote cottage.
Bad Ella ! she chastised herself. He'll be out and back to his family in no time. Once he remembers…
But today was not the day. And the next one either for that matter. Today, he was all hers.
[1] Which means golden light, in Quenya.