Two days later came the fatidic moment to change all his bandages. As much as Laurëfindelë wished to avoid putting a strain on the domestic truce, he could not forgo a nice, hot shower any longer. Savouring one of the miracles of this world – running water – did not stave the nervousness of having Eleanor see and touch his skin. Such a display was reserved to lovers, or healers. Out of the two, she was none. More than a stranger, but less intimate than a spouse.
He'd glimpsed, a few times, her bare legs beneath a nightgown. Exposed arms, too, when she wore a t-shirt with short sleeves. This was the extent of their intimacy, for she never touched him. Respect went both ways; Eleanor did not take what he was unwilling to give. Whether it concerned matters of the mind, or the flesh.
She fed him, instructed him, and cared for him from a respectful distance. And he, in kind, tried to help in the house to lessen the burden. In the past days, they had managed to exchange basic information about their respective families. His parents were no longer strangers to the linguist, even though Valinor remained a concept of half-truths. She knew from whom he inherited in blond hair - maternal side - and the eyes - paternal ancestry – a Vanyar trait. But they did not master their respective languages enough for a complete history of the first eldar to set foot in Aman. He had no doubt, given her love of history and tongues, that she would relish in the legends of his people.
Eleanor, in exchange, explained her mother's mind sickness, and the absence of a father she keenly felt. The cowardice of the man, fleeing responsibilities after siring a child, appalled him to no end. What a heinous crime to abandon a child and his pregnant wife ! Eleanor's red hair came from a place called Ireland – her mother's country - another island west from here. Those hazel irises, she had no clue. Her father, perhaps, or a trick of genetics as she called it. He felt her sadness as acutely as if it was his own; the slow decay of her mother lay heavy upon her shoulders, as much as her father's abandonment.
But Eleanor did not allow those circumstances to vanquish her. On she went through life, determined and solitary, except for her friend Myriam. And he, in turn, missed Echtelion. The shock of his death had not worn off yet; he, sometimes, allowed his soul to reminisce when he sat in the garden, overlooking grassy hills. Centuries of friendship crushed by the Balrogs of Morgoth. How many of his house had died ? How many of King Turgon's retinue? The lords ?
Why, and how had he survived ? For he was sure, now, that he had died, for at least a second. With a sigh, Laurëfindelë wrapped in bandages every piece he could do by himself. Then, flustered, he walked out of the diminutive bathroom, bare-chested and shy, to find the human woman that shared his days.
Meow.
Féline gave him the stink eye; he ignored the moody animal, well aware that it was jealous its mistress' care was redirected somewhere. Not that Eleanor's attention was bothersome; her wit matched the depth of her heart, and he felt humbled by the easiness with which she'd welcomed him in her lonely household. Perhaps he provided companionship, as she did for him.
Learning her culture temporarly chased many sombre thoughts, enough to keep him partly sane after the mighty defeat against Morgoth. When he tried to understand computers, machines and the evolution of mankind, the fear to see middle earth disappear under Melkor's brutal rule was staved off.
Now, his precious sanctuary had fallen, sending his fellow Gondolidrhim into wild lands populated by orcs, wargs and bloodthirsty beings. He wished, with all his might, that they would be safe, and trusted in Tuor's guidance, and Ulmo's ever benevolence to help them.
"Laurë ?"
Eleanor's voice dragged him out of his musings; her hazel eyes had drifted from the list, both in English and Quenya, she was studying. If he had not felt so exposed, half-naked in the living room, he would have smiled at the diminutive form of his name. One Echtelion sometimes used.
"Do you need some help with that ?"
He nodded, taking place by her side when she shifted. Her little hands gathered Myriam's ointment, warming it between her palms. For a moment, Eleanor seemed to hesitate, and Laurëfindelë held his breath. Then, the softness of her fingers found his healing skin and started massaging the balm into the horrendous scars that covered his side and upper back. Strangely enough, Eleanor's gentle touch almost didn't jostle the pieces of him that still begged for time to regenerate.
As if exploring, she hummed under her breath, fingers soft and warm. Underneath the pads of her skin, his own rose to life, as if she was leaving a trail of joy. And when her hand glided down, reaching underneath his arm to the thinner skin of his flank, the elf couldn't help but shudder. Eleanor paused at once, fearful.
"Did I hurt you ?"
He shook his head, anticipating the return of her hands to warm him up from within. But, once more, hesitation stilled her hand.
"Are you cold ?"
Another shake of his head, for he did not trust his voice. No, he wasn't cold. Not at all. His skin was burning, consumed by her touch; he had never felt this way before.
"I'm almost done," Eleanor hummed, wishing it wasn't so.
A thousand questions rose in her mind, prodding and pulling at notions she'd thought defined her. Eleanor had never been prone to cuddle or hug before; the very thought of physical contact always left her puzzled. When her friends gushed about their first time, kissing, boyfriends and sex without raising any kind of desire in her mind, she'd come to accept that, maybe, she was close to being asexual.
But to touch Laurë's skin was akin to hearing a beautiful poem, the warmth and softness stronger than any voice, more enthralling than words lined up in joy. Never before had a man roused the animal that resided within her. Those sensations, the pull, the mesmerising feeling that tingled along her palm, were all new. New, and freeing. Eleanor's breath caught; for the first time in forever, her body felt alive. Truly, and completely alive. All because of the gorgeous man sitting beside her, looking very ill at ease.
Eleanor frowned, and retreated.
That's very wrong, Ella.
She should not take advantage of him. Grabbing a bandage, she started covering the scars over his shoulder. For a man half-burnt to death, his skin seemed to be healing miraculously. And, despite the numerous breaks he'd sustained, he was already moving around with much more ease than he should. Alien constitution, maybe ?
Good for him.
Instead of living the rest of his life scarred for life, he might have a chance at wearing a swimsuit again someday without being stared at. Not that he didn't look gorgeous with the scars either way; some lines on his back seemed older than his recent wounds. None of them tuned down his otherworldly beauty. Yet, Eleanor found that her heart ached, watching him so abused.
Quit drooling !
The chastisement brought another problem to life; she needed to reach under his arm to cover this wonderfully chiselled flank. Laurëfindelë wasn't a bulky man, but his stature was broad and his muscles efficient. Still, she could not wrap his ribs without ducking under his arm. Finding herself in a predicament, Eleanor pondered on how to proceed. Her patient still couldn't lift his arm, and would have trouble holding it aloft as she worked.
Perhaps… ?
"Can you put your hand on my shoulder ?" she asked.
He frowned. Stuck, Eleanor retrieved the list she had been studying to find the right words.
"Er… ma ? málya apa romá ?"
It didn't seem to make much sense – syntax issue, probably - but Laurëfindelë offered his hand nonetheless. On a whim, Eleanor reached out and settled his warm palm upon her shoulder, trying very hard to ignore how the contact of his skin caused hers to tingle happily. A blond eyebrow lifted in interrogation until she bent over and wrapped the bandaged tight around his ribs.
Many fragrances reached her nose, ointment and disinfectant intertwined with the distinct feeling of cold mountains and pine forests. With her sensitive sense of smell, Eleanor only bought non-perfumed soaps. Hence her flustering; this particular smell definitely belonged to him. The contact of his hand over her shoulder, his proximity, his intensity were jarring. Her mind stopped working, and she found herself in a trance similar to meditation.
From the puzzled look that bloomed on his face, he wasn't doing it on purpose. Her initial fears seemed laughable now; if Laurëfindelë sought to enthral her, she was a willing participant. His eyes, though, were genuine and gentle, yet incredibly penetrating. Every time he looked at her this way, she felt naked, as if her soul reached back without her consent. Her gentle alien was mesmerising on his own; he did not wrack her mind on purpose.
But he still did.
Snap out of it, Ella !
As she tied up the bandage, eyes drifted to the golden mane he'd tucked over his other shoulder.
"Perhaps we should even out your hair ?" she offered. "How do you say hair, by the way ?"
"Findelë," he responded, the song of his voice caressing her senses. So his name meant something about his hair; was he born with a mop of golden tresses, perhaps ? Eleanor bit her lip.
"So, erm. What does Laurë mean ?"
His mouth quirked, amusement flickering in his deep blue eyes.
"Light. Gold light."
All air left Eleanor's lungs as she realised how fitting that nickname was. She literally called him light. Golden light, the light of the sun. And then, something enormous struck her and she stuttered.
"My name… some say it means light."
Laurëfindelë blue eyes sparkled with something unknown, as if his opinion on the matter was settled already. For a moment, she wondered what he saw when his keen sight watched her; until they could communicate better, the only certainty was than an X-ray probably fell short of his perceptions.
His fingers flexed upon her shoulder, warm and strong, and she tied up the bandage.
"There," she concluded, breath short. "All done."
He bowed his head to her, the movement less stiff than the previous days.
"Hantan lye."
She watched him stand and walk back to his room, wondering if she'd ever get rid of her flustering. Laurëfindelë's body was a work of art, and to see it scarred and injured tugged at her heartstrings. But it wasn't his physique's perfection that caused her heart to beat so fast. The little, innocent contact left her almost dazed.
When he returned, a large t-shirt adorned his frame. Laurëfindelë rummaged through the kitchen, flitting through her knives with a disappointed sigh. Eleanor's eyebrow quirked, wondering what her blond guest had in mind when he started sharpening a long, thick blade over another. Even with the limited arm range, the movement was fluid; she watched the blades dance in his hands, wondering what kind of technology his world used.
Eventually, he seemed satisfied with the result and disappeared once more. Shrugging, Eleanor decided to start on lunch; fixing a salad with plenty of sprouts and a few fruits filled with healthy nutrients. In the few past days, she'd seen Laurëfindelë hum in approval whenever whole, healthy food was concerned. He still recoiled a bit before meat, and she'd concluded he probably was a vegetarian, albeit he conceded to eat seafood. If he came from another world, who knew what nutrients would harm or heal him ?
Thus, fried tofu, eggs and seaweed had become a common occurrence in Eleanor's cottage. As she worked on an omelette, her guest appeared to set the large kitchen knife into its sheathe. If her attention wavered at his proximity, Eleanor refused the distraction. Laurëfindelë set two plates upon the counter, fishing out forks, knives and two glasses as if he'd lived here his whole life. Only a few days, and his memory guided him with more efficiency than a machine.
Eleanor did not complain; it made everyday life easier. And she, like him, was gifted with an incredible memory. Thus, it was only when she turned the stove off that her eyes found his hair, shorn above his shoulders. A squeak and the saucepan escaped her grasp. He moved so fast that she only felt the air displace, catching their lunch before it could splatter upon the ground.
"Laurë…", she whispered, shock and sadness mingling at the loss of his beautiful mane. "Did you just cut your hair with a knife ?"
The man nodded.
"Damnit ! You're not a sheep, I have scissors, you know ?"
A blink told her he had not understood a word of her rant. No sheep in Arda, perhaps ?
With a sigh, Eleanor cocked her head aside and stared at his new look. Two braids ran over his temples, keeping golden tresses out of his face. Shining pearls seemed to secure it, and she approached with curiosity. His otherworldly appearance felt even stronger now that his features weren't hidden behind loose strands. He looked… like a warrior about to lay waste on a battlefield.
"What are those ?"
Sadness flickered in his eyes, deep and heart wrenching, so strong that she felt tears welling on his behalf. Was he projecting it, or was she soaking it up ? Blinking them away, her gaze returned to the tiny beads, recognising the strange item he'd recovered from the hospital's bathroom. They looked golden, with a joyful flower carved in the middle.
"Symbol of house," he revealed.
Of his house ? What was he, a freaking noble ?
Eleanor mused over it, wondering if, perhaps, he was using one word for another.
"House of the flower ?" she attempted.
"House of the golden flower, in Gondolin."
Whose warrior household was called the golden flower ? Well, after the war of roses in England, nothing could faze her. Recognising the name of his city, Eleanor wondered if, perhaps, he would be able to draw some pieces of it. It would both sate her curiosity, and be cathartic to him to share about his home. For the moment, though, she just smiled and pointed to the stool.
"Well, then, Laurëfindelë of the golden flower, please take a seat and enjoy your meal."
A small smile lifted the corner of his lips, and her strange guest settled behind the counter with a nod of gratitude. As she poured more tea and water, Eleanor felt another piece of the puzzle slide into place. Everything, in him, was almost regal.
Perhaps a lord, yes.