Fields of gold

The Strange man

"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 Cambridge 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.