Never Trust An Elf [closed]

[Purifier]

It had been sheer suicide to try to take the short cut through the bog land. Even keen elven eyes weren’t able to penetrate the dense mist that hung over the vast swamp that morning. The area was unfamiliar to them, they were thousands of miles away from home. ‘Orcs’, Prince Vehiron, their leader, had sneered, ‘they are no threat to a true Elven warrior’. Like so many times before, Vehiron had been wrong.

All but one that had survived until these point of Prince Vehiron’s ill-fated expedition now were dead. The prince himself died first, struck down by an arrow that seemed to come out of nowhere and pierced the noble elf’s neck. Then they heard the low guttural howl of war. The orcs, these feral beasts, where everywhere. Aradan, Nostarion’s cousin, fought bravely against the monsters that attacked from all sides. But in advance he lost his footing, half sunk into the mud he was easy prey for the barbarians and their axes and crude blades.

Retreating across the treacherous swamp, Nostarion struck down three of the orcs, but they almost got him. It was only their own stupidity that saved him. Some of them must have tried to loot Prince Vehiron’s belongings. A blaze of fey-fire blew them away, and caused the rest to be dazzled long enough for the heavily wounded Nostarion to escape.

But would he ever get out of this swamp alive? Right now it didn’t seem so. With broken fingers pressed against his side, he tried to stop the bleeding from the axe wound in his chest, while he felt the burning sting of arrows in his right calf and his shoulder. Don’t stop, don’t stop, just keep on going. He had heard seagulls, felt the ocean breeze. The coast should not be far. If he made it there alive, and if the halfling merchant they had met the other day was right – the one who had warned them against going through the swamp – there would be a few human settlements along the coast.

Under any other circumstances Nostarion would have absolutely loathed the idea of asking humans for help. An elf should always stand above the other races. They should see him as wise, powerful and superior in combat. But right now he was more dead than alive, and his instinct of survival so much stronger than his pride.

Step by step he dragged himself onward, each step more difficult and more painful then the previous one. All his healing magic was spent, his lifeforce all but exhausted. He heard a rooster crow somewhere in the distance. Had he reached a settlement? A farm? An outpost? ‘Don’t let these be orcs’, he prayed silently as he dragged his dying body onward.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Most mornings, Nalu was up before the first cock crow. She would get up, stretch until the sky grew lighter, and then head to the ocean. The first time she visited the ocean in the morning was always a special time. Though she lived near no human settlements (the closest one being a few hours away by horseback), the morning always felt quieter. There was a hush that settled over the hum of the waves, the soft chirps of the killdeer, the sounds of her barn animals as they slowly awoke. It was a magical, dew covered time.

This morning, however, brought a sense of chill to her bones. She had been up long before the rooster crowed, laying in her modest bed. Though the nights close to the ocean were chill, she’d tossed off her thin coverlet during the course of the night. Staring up at the thatched roof, she sighed, turned to her side. She lay there for a moment, and then, with another sigh, tossed to the other side. She lay there another moment, then, with a huff, she got off of her bed, and paced across the packed sand of her home to the front. Throwing back the brightly colored cloth she had draped over as a door, she stood outside of her home, hands on her hips. In front of her, the ocean stretched out, an endless ribbon of white trimmed blue.

Taking in a deep breath, she closed her eyes, feeling the faint rays of the sun as they crept over the horizon, spreading invisible fingers over her skin. Nothing…seemed to be off. The air smelt the same - fresh, crisp. Her animals sounded the same - no sounds of distress. Still, she couldn’t shake that sense of dread. Turning away from the sea, she looked towards the mist-dappled forest. The beach rose up into a dense jungle - the last place she expected to hear or see anyone coming from. Granted, it wasn’t impossible to find her place from the settlement miles away, but the wise traveller would stay towards the normal routes, not try to carve a new way through the jungle.

Still…

Couldn’t be. She took a few steps forward, squinted. In the distance, it seemed like something was moving. Mmm. Could be a trick of the light. She was about to turn away, dismissing it as some strange configuration of mist, when it moved again. It seemed like it was slowly but surely getting closer - and, taking shape. The form stumbled, nearly fell - but somehow uprighted itself and kept moving forward. She continued to squint at the figure, watching, waiting, as the wavering form took on the form of a man. Dashing back to her home, she retrieved a long, sinister knife from her pile of things. Sure, it was largely blunt, as she used it to pry oysters from the rocks and then to pry open clamshells for the pearls within, but it was still formidable enough to cause someone to think twice about attacking her.

Dashing back out to the edge of the sand, she called out. “Who are you, and what do you want?!”

 

[Purifier]

Usually he was able to pass through the bushes and undergrowth swiftly, fluently, with a speed unrivalled by any non-elf. But now, it seemed every vine, every root tried to hold him back, tried to grip for him. His strength all but gone, Nostarion made his way forward, always forward. His long silver hair drenched in blood and clinging to his face, limiting his vision. Finally the jungle ended and he could see the ocean. Never before had he been that relieved to eave a forest. But would he be safe here? Or just a better target for the orcs that were pursuing him?

He heard a voice from somewhere. Was this real? Or was his mind playing tricks on him. Stumbling onward, he turned his head in the direction of the sounds, his good hand reaching for the handle of his blade – not that he’d be able to be much of a fight, in his current state.

The person calling him was not an orc. It was a human female, of the darker complexion of the humans of this region, clad in rather simple clothing – compared to his ornate reinforced leather armour – and armed with a knife that under normal circumstances would just cause Nostarion to chuckle. Right now any weapon could potentially be a deadly threat to him though. His blade was keen and sharp, the slayer of many a brigand and rogue. But what use was it to him now, with his arms to weak to wield it.

Her figure seemed to blur though. As if under a protective spell or was it just him being dizzy from the massive blood loss. Pulling his last strength together, Nostarion steadied himself. No matter if friend or foe she should not be able to see the extent of his current weakness. Elves were rare in these regions, this made it even more important to give a strong, confident impression.

Forcing himself to walk proud and upright, he slowly advanced toward her, his hand letting go of the blade’s hilt again. “Gi suilon!“ He exclaimed in elven to greet her, forcing himself to speak in a clear and melodious voice that betrayed nothing of his agony. “I am Nostarion of the Silver Lakes. Member of Prince Vehiron’s exploration party.” Slowly he made another step onward his bearing proud and regal. Then suddenly all blurred and he collapsed right before her, having overexerted himself with trying to ignore his wounds.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

As he stepped forward, clear and pristine in the early dawn, her hands flew to her mouth, and the blade plummeted to the sand. She knew what he was - but like most humans, especially out here, she’d never actually seen an elf. She’d heard of them (hard not to; they had quite the reputation), but this close - she wasn’t entirely sure that she was awake.

He announced himself - he might’ve well continued the conversation in Elvish, for all she understood of his title, and still she was transfixed, scared to move forward, scared to go back.

He fell, and the spell was broken.

With a speed she didn’t know she possessed, she dashed across the wet sand, her bare feet barely sinking in. At his side, she gasped - from a distance, she couldn’t see his wounds, or all of the blood. How she missed the blood, she had no idea; he was covered in it. Kneeling in front of him, she reached out with shaking fingers. Should she touch him? Could she touch him? Gods! While she was sitting there wrestling with what she should or shouldn’t do, the man was bleeding out in front of her. She had to stop it.

She looked around - nothing to bind his wounds with. Slipping her fingers under him, she grunted, rolling him over onto his back. She had to get the armor off - had to start somewhere. At first, she tried delicately to undo it, to unlace it bit by bit, to look at the intricacies of it…and quickly gave up, tugging it off none too gently. Getting him down to his lighter clothing beneath, she paused to wipe the sweat from her brow before assessing his wounds again. Standing up, she looked down at him. She could get the armor later - she needed to get him out of the open. Somewhere safe.

Kneeling next to him again, she draped one of his arms around her shoulder, and, with a mighty heave, stood up again, the muscles in her legs bunching. Her thighs shaking, she stumbled under his weight, before straightening out. And slowly, slowly - she began to walk back to her small sea-side hut. Once she got him there, she could tend to him better.

 

[Purifier]

When he came to his senses again, he felt arms wrapped around him, a body pressed against his aching flesh. His body was moving yet he clearly was not walking. What kind of strange state was that? Was this a dream? A vision? It all was unclear, due to the haze of hellish pain that encompassed him.

It took him some time to realize what was going on. He was getting half lifted, half dragged towards that tiny hut on the beach. By a human woman. Oh how low had he fallen! Did she intend good or ill for him? Nostarion did not know yet. Humans usually were an open book to him, while he preferred to stay aloof and enigmatic towards them. But right now his mind was not working properly.

His armor was gone. He noticed that now. But what would it help him anyway now? If she wanted to kill him she could have done so already. “I can walk”, he groaned between painfully clenched teeth as he now started to move his feet again, slowly. Yet he kept his arm on her shoulder to support him. It was still better rely on a human than to fall down on his face again.

This journey had really been one of endless trouble. But also one of great discovery. And now he the only survivor had to rely on the goodwill and skill of this stranger, this human woman to prevail and be able to return and tell his tale to the king. If he died here, all the deaths, all the pain would have been in vain.

“I need your help” he told her as they reached the hut, a trail of blood, his blood now leading to it. Nostarion thought about promising her reward, but quickly decided against it. She didn’t seem very affluent, especially not for a human, a race for which material wealth meant much more than it did for elves. He didn’t want to get the idea of trying to get a ransom out of him. Who knew if she could be trusted? Humans usually treasured gold above everything else. Almost as bad as dwarves.

Hopefully this one was not as greedy as the average human. He needed rest and shelter, right now he pretty much was in her hands. It might be a good sign that she lived close to nature, not in a house of stone with iron doors and armed guards.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“The hells that you can,” and she tightened her grip around him. When it became clear that he was going to insist on getting something close to standing, she lightened up just enough so he gave the illusion of being on his own feet. Even with elves, she supposed, some things about men were universal.

The road back to her hut seemed longer than ever - one nightmarish footstep after another, acutely aware of the blood that spilled from the inhumanly beautiful man she was helping. Finally, back into the cool safety of her hut, she settled him down onto the bed. The hut was really one large room - no dividers between one section or the other. Not that he would be able to see much more than the bed she was leading him to - a bed that was positioned beneath a large window. As ramshackle as the place looked from the outside, she had done her best to develop it into a home.

“I can see that. That you need my help,” she said, placing her hands firmly on his shoulders in a “stay where you are” gesture. “Stay still. Don’t try to talk any more than you have to. And these will have to come off,” she waved her hands at the bloodied clothing he wore. Despite her brusque manner of speaking to him, a faint blush stained her cheeks. “I’ll be right back. Stay. Here. I mean it!”

Getting up, she dashed outside. A few meters behind the house was a fresh water well - it was more than enough to provide her and her slim livestock with fresh water. Bathing him and dressing him in salt water was out of the question, of course. Although she knew that salt water had some curative properties, he was too severely wounded now for it to be a viable option. Returning with a bucket nearly overflowing with cool, sweet spring water, she lugged it next to the bedside, and, dipping into the bucket, held out the ladle for him to drink.

 

[Purifier]

Under normal circumstances the way she dared to talk to him would have earned her a sharp rebuke. Nostarion was an elf of noble birth, not someone to be commanded around like a child by a human commoner. But talking would have meant exertion. And in his current state exertion meant death. So he just raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

As she was gone he began to undress himself. She was right of course. To treat his wounds properly every article of clothing would have to be removed. Nostarion had never understood the weird morals of the humans. Nudity was all natural and there was no shame connected to it for him. He felt bad because this human woman saw him weak and wounded, but no false modesty made him shy from exposing himself as she had requested.

Undressed – fortunately elven clothes even though ornate were made to be practical and come off easily if needed – he laid his lean but muscular body back on the bed. The pain still was excruciating. He had been wounded before. Badly even. But this was much worse. And why had his healing magic still not returned? Hearing her steps returning to the door of the house again now, Nostarion looked down on his body. The wound in his chest was deep, and still bleeding. He also had a number of broken ribs and all the fingers of his right hand were broken. Serious wounds. But nothing unusual for a warrior like him.

He had crossed the Horsehead Mountains with wounds worse than those. In midwinter. Nostarion couldn’t see the arrow wound in his shoulder. But the one in his calf was visible not that his deerskin pants were gone. The point of the hooked arrow – still lodged in his flesh as he had been too weak to cut it out – was surrounded by a greenish black spot which looked almost like a skull. At first glance it might have looked like a poisoning. But the elven ranger knew better. This was not poison. This was an orcish curse. The group that had attacked them must have been supported by a powerful shaman.

Revenge for the orcs they killed six days ago, in the Steppe of the Hopeless?

Whatever the reason was, without proper treatment it meant certain death for him. Nostarion know that now his life was no longer in his hands. Whatever this human woman’s motives were to help him, he know needed her help. Not to recover quickly and be on his way again as he had thought just minutes ago. But to break this curse. It was unlikely that this young woman knew much about orcish magic and powerful curses. This was rare knowledge, and even he only knew about them because of the war he had taken part in about one hundred years ago.

When she returned, he smiled, looking up at her. Somehow the knowledge of almost certain death had made him more tranquil, more at peace with himself. He had no fear of the world beyond and if he had to die here in this hut, it should be so. But now he was still alive, at least somewhat and inclined his had to drink the fresh water from the ladle. He thanked her with a gesture.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She’d taken one look at his naked body, and stared, openly.

It wasn’t that Nalu hadn’t seen naked men before - usually in passing, and without little fanfare. After all, she did live near the sea, and when she traveled along the lines of the beach, it wasn’t uncommon to run into groups of bathers.

But a naked man of this beauty was simply beyond her. Fumbling, the hand that held his ladle trembled. His smile nearly undid her. She seemed in a trace, before his gesture of thanks seemed to break the spell over her. She pulled the bucket of water closer to the bed, and, forcing herself to be as objective as possible, began to look at the wounds that covered his body.

It was clear that he was suffering from numerous grave injuries; the worry that had started in her stomach spread through her body now. She had no idea how to take care of the worst of the injuries - the only thing that she was truly set up for would be minor burns. She had a small herb garden in the back of her modest property, but she was quite sure that whatever it offered wouldn’t be enough. Well, whatever she had, it would be at his disposal.

“I’m going to go get some water and herbs to treat your wounds,” she started, her eyes nervous as they locked with his. “I’m going to do the best I can with what I have, but..” She shook her head. “I’ll do the best that I can,” she said again, firmly, more reassured this time. With trembling fingers, she reached out and touched the side of his face. Though she knew she was being quite forward, it was meant to comfort him. Her eyes were kind, despite her earlier brusqueness. Letting her fingers trail from his face, she stood up, and was out the door again.

Her dark golden mare, Wave, whinnied at her pleasantly as she walked out to the garden. Behind her home, there was a path leading to a hill, with the well on top of the hill. A few meters from the back of the house was the livestock enclosure - a crude fenced off area that she penned the animals up at night. Normally, during the day, she let the animals out to fend for themselves - which, she felt, that they appreciated. They never strayed too far, and were always back well before nightfall.

Nalu smiled at the horse, before letting her and other animals out. Rubbing the top of the mare’s head, the horse’s eyes closed in pleasure before she wickered softly. “I can’t stay, Wave - I’ve got an ill man in the house,” Nalu called as she rushed down the path. The mare watched her go. The back of her home seemed to be on the verge of being reclaimed by the forest - after all, there wasn’t much that one woman could do against the forest, and the forest surrounded the beach. So, the path down to the well was partially shaded by towering trees; her gardens had been carefully carved out of the forest. Carved but not intrusive; if one wasn’t paying attention, the things that she grew looked no different from any other underbrush. Retrieving another bucket of water, she made her way as quickly as she could back down the path to her hut.

Kneeling, she plucked several leaves and flowers, and collected them in the folds of her modest skirt. She wore a sleeveless dress that ended well above her knees (the better for her to run in), and her feet were bare, allowing her to move soundlessly through her property. Hefting the bucket of water in one hand and holding her skirt out with the other, she made her way back into the hut.

“It’s me,” she called, though she wondered if he suspected that anyone else lived there with her. “I’m going to try and dress your wounds the best that I can.” She set down the bucket of water, and spread the herbs out on the bed next to him. Leaving him for a moment, she quickly came back to his bedside with bandages, and a few rags. Dipping one of the rags in the water, she gently began to sponge at the wound in his shoulder first.

“I’m Nalu,” she said, softly. “What’s your name?”

 

[Purifier]

Seeing her stare at him caused Nostarion to raise his finely curved eyebrow. He would have said something to comment but the pain was still to strong for any of that. Her reaction amused him. But right now even amusement meant over-exertion. At least she seemed to know what she was doing. It would have been a rather ignoble death to pass away in agony while a fascinated human woman just said there watching him in amusement. Compared to the average human man in their hairy brutishness he’d certainly leave behind a much more aesthetic corpse.

But not yet. “Herbs, herbs are good”, he said between clenched teeth. He had stayed quiet to save his energy, but now it was important for him to speak. “Do you have any Caer’dar?” He asked. Caer’dar was the elven name for a type of leaves from which a paste could be cooked that helped heal fractures. It wouldn’t help with his main issue, the curse. But with his broken ribs and fingers healed he’d at least regain some of his mobility. And mobility was important to survive. He was an elf after all. Many other races were much stronger and more resilient than elves. But they could hardly achieve the same agility.

Agility and the wisdom of the ages that’s what kept the elves alive.

He looked at the woman as she touched his face. Studying her for the few moments until she rose again, he noticed she was quite attractive for a human. The touch didn’t last for long though. Once he was alone again, Nostarion closed his eyes for a moment. He tried to remember the correct procedure to break the curse that had been brought to him by the orcs. It had been so many years since that war. And the pain made it hard for him to concentrate. He would need a number of rather rare herbs and minerals. All treated in the right manner. This was not a trivial undertaking. To succeed he would have to rely on his host to do what he was not capable of doing in his current state.

At least he was able to rest here for a while. It had been so long since he had properly rested. On this ill-fated expedition they had been always on the move, always alert. Once when a group of halflings invited them for a stay, a meal – and halfling meals were said to be excellent – and some rest, Vehiron reminded the other elves of the treachery of the halflings back in the ancient days, and urged the expedition to move on instead. Whenever they reached one of the big bustling human cities, Vehiron only allowed them to trade and quickly move on. These human cities were hotbeds of sin, crime and corruption. No place for any honorable elf to stay. Thus they had rushed on, getting more and more weary with every week of travel that passed.

Now there was no one urging Nostarion onward. All he needed to do right now was to rest, heal and survive. He was dozing off a bit when the woman returned. His silver eyes opened again as soon as she entered. His nose picked up the scent of healing herbs, some of them familiar to him, others strange and exotic. “My name is Nostarion”, he introduced himself, even though he was sure he had given her his name when they met. But maybe the pain had been playing tricks on his mind.

It was getting better now, her tender touch bringing some relief from the pain.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

That’s right - he had told her his name. Well - she blamed it on her rapidly fraying nerves that she’d asked him again. “Nostarion,” she said softly, testing the word in her mouth. As she looked at the plants laid out in front of her, she began sorting them. Some would need to be crushed for a poultice, others would need to be fed to him. “I think that I had Caer’dar growing, but I’m not sure. I think that’s an Elvish word - and, well,” she laughed, ever so softly. It was as musical as the waves in the early morning. “My Elvish is nonexistent. You’re the first elf I’ve ever seen up close. Oh, don’t worry about answering me,” she added, as an afterthought. “I’m just going to be talking to myself while I work on you. Helps with my nerves.”

That much was true. Though Nalu was not a trained healer, she knew enough “practical” healing arts to take care of herself and her animals. Some things, though, were beyond her means. Curses, for one. And though she wasn’t magically inclined by any means, there was something about Nostarion’s wounds that suggested that some were much deeper than what she could see. But she couldn’t afford to “waste” time with lamenting over what she couldn’t do.

When the first of the herbs were crushed into a paste, helped by the fresh spring water, she draped a bandage in it, and gently began to wrap it about his shoulder. Rather than asking him to sit up so she could wrap his wound easier, she simply scooted closer and slipped her hands as slowly as she could under him. It made the process of binding the wound slow going, dreadfully slow, and very intimate, but it would ultimately put less strain on him, even if it was a bit more of an invasion of personal space. Her breath was warm on his shoulder, she was close enough so that he could see the steady pulse of the vein within her neck.

Her hands, though rough from the farming and ocean work that she did, were feather light as she wrapped the pungent bandage around his shoulder. “Should help with the bleeding and closing of the wound,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “I’ll make you a tea that will help with internal cleansing. It won’t be the best tasting tea in the world, but I promise it will help.”

She leaned back, taking a look at the rest of his body. Best to start with the chest wound next. Repeating the process with the bandages, she sighed. “This is probably going to hurt. I’ll go as quickly as I can, I promise,” and she began to gently probe at the wound on his chest with a cloth steeped in the bitter smelling herbal mixture. At any sign that he was distressed (well, more than usual), she stopped, letting him get acclimated to it. She had to make sure that the inside of the wound was well coated in the mixture; that would help.

As she fell into a rhythm of watching and waiting, dabbing and adding more of the paste to the injury in his chest, she surprised herself - she started singing softly to herself. She hadn’t expected him to answer if she started talking (after all, she’d told him not to), and she knew that if she started talking, all she would do was fluster herself further. Singing seemed to draw her into an auto pilot mode, calming her and allowing her to focus as she needed to.

 

[Purifier]

“I will tell you how to find Caer’dar and what else you will need”, he spoke, through clenched teeth, speaking still so painful to him. He would have to recover from his other wounds first at least to some extent, to be really able to give her meaningful instructions on how to deal with the curse. Now all he could do was hope her healing skills were good enough to aid his recovery.

Lying back to rest, Nostarion watched the human woman as she prepared the potion. She seemed to know what she was doing, so that certainly would help. She seemed pretty self sufficient there in her hut, so much different from those humans they had encountered in the city they passed through. It had always been confusing for Nostarion to see humans who called themselves ‘nobles’ or ‘patricians’ but yet would not be able to handle the simplest tasks of survival without the help of their servants. An elf of noble birth took pride in being able not only to hunt and fish, but also in having all other skills necessary for survival, even things as mundane as sewing or woodcutting. An elven life lasted much longer though than that of any human. Maybe that was the reason why many humans specialized on one thing and were useless in other basic tasks.

This woman here, Nalu, was much different from these townspeople. At least when it came to matters of survival. But what else would she know apart from that? Most likely very little. Nostarion though was in no condition to test her on those matters. Right now her skills in survival were all that mattered.

Her fingers were now working on his wounds, her finger probing them with a herbal mixture that seemed in part familiar to him, in part unknown. It wasn’t what he would use, but it seemed it would do. It would suffice to heal the mundane wounds he had suffered. But the smell of it… He had been a warrior for so many decades and therefore had been suffered many wounds, and been treated by many healers – all of them elves – none of their lotions ever smelled as bad as this one. Did these humans have no functional noses?

The pain as she dug into his wounds was excruciating. But Nostarion was determined to not lot it show. So he managed to smile through all the procedure, yet whenever her fingers too strongly pressed against the broken bones, his smile briefly turned into a grimace of agony, before quickly relaxing again.

Her song calmed him, made it easier to deal with the pain, as did the herbs which even despite their crude smell certainly had their effect. So he just rested there, watching her as she worked on his wounds, his eyes following her finger’s skillful movements. For a moment their eyes met and his smile briefly grew a bit wider, before he laid back again, his gaze returning to her hands.

Soon he realized he was about to drift into slumber. Not a bad thing, as his tired body needed sleep. Usually he would have done what ever possible to avoid falling asleep in the presence of a human. But he had to trust her with his life anyway. His eyes slowly closed as he began to drift into sleep.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She’d worked as quickly as she could. Though she had no way of telling how much pain he was in as she treated him, she knew it had to have been extensive. Just the nature of the wounds alone was enough to let her know how much it hurt him. Whenever she got to a place where she thought she would have to cause him more pain, her singing grew a bit louder, in a desperate hope to give him something to focus on.

Finally, she finished. Stopping to mop sweat from his brow, she sighed, and sank back heavily onto the floor. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been. His eyes were closed - which, caused her a moment of panic. Before she caved to it, she wrangled enough sense to pull her eyes towards his chest. Noticing that it was steadily rising and falling, she exhaled, feeling tension leaving her shoulders. He was alive.

Finding the strength to stand, she wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, and looked around the inside of her small hut. It seemed that today would definitely be much different from what she originally had in mind.

_____________

Knowing that he was sleeping, she’d done her best to keep both close to her hut, but also not work inside of it, for not wanting to disturb him. And, for the most part, she found herself distracted, unable to focus on even the simplest of tasks. Frustrated by the more complicated things, she gave up, and went inside, choosing to sit close to the bed and to mend a fishing net. That way, she could easily keep an eye on him. And mending the net was quiet work.

Soon, though, the net was a forgotten tangle in her lap. One quick glance had turned into another, longer glance. Her hands eventually stilled, and she was outright staring at the dozing elf in front of her. From the delicate tips of his pointed ears to the starlight of his silver hair, he was astoundingly beautiful. So much so that she realized that her mouth had gone dry merely looking at him. It was a strange beauty, though - like…the moon, or the night sky. She didn’t feel a physical desire for him; he seemed to be above something as earthy as that. If she hadn’t touched his body, she wouldn’t have believed that he was a real thing.

Even as she stared, she would make no move to touch him. She reminded herself that it wasn’t rude in this case - she had told him that she’d never been this close to an elf. And, as she thought to herself, she needed to keep an eye on him. Just in case he showed any signs of distress.

 

[Purifier]

The singing seemed to some extent contribute to easing Nostarion’s pain. Her voice was so different from that of an elven woman. He had always considered human voices to be more rough, less skilled than those of his fellow elves. The elven languages were full much more centered on melodies and patterns, intricate rising or lowering of the voice, subtle variations in speed or pronunciation could give a sentence a completely different meaning. But yet he realized there was a beauty of its own, a simple, soothing quality in the voice of this human woman. And it was her voice as well as the skilled work of her hands that finally brought him some ease from his agony.

He finally awoke when the pain returned to his body. During his travels in the course of that ill-fated expedition had become accustomed with pain of all sorts, somehow they always ended up getting injured by ambushes, traps and other hazards. The inhabitants of the lands they traveled had yet to learn to be friendly and hospitable to elves. But the agony he was feeling now was different from the pain that had been his constant companion. First thing he realized was the pain in his shoulder. Still so intense as the arrow has pierced it deeply, but soon he realized it was already much less bad than the day before. The same applied to his chest wound. He was healing well due to her treatment. Not as well as he would have been able to if he was still able to use his magic. But he’d soon be well again.

That was what he was thinking before, suddenly a cruel, ravaging pain crept on him from his calf. The poisoned arrow! How could he have forgotten this? Nostarion bit his lip as the burning agony returned to his body. Only tentatively he dared to look down along his body, to find the dark spot, the grim skull like mark extended now, covering even more of his leg, creeping up to the knee.

For a moment he considered reaching for his sword, hacking off the part of his leg that had been affected to save the rest. A gruesome action indeed, especially for an elf, who believed in the unity of their bodies, the sacred wholeness. But with powerful magic even lost limbs could be regrown. But then, his hand already searching for the blade, he remembered that this was a no more poison but a mighty curse. Mutilating himself would only make him weaker but not do anything to break the curse.

Letting out a pained, desperate groan, Nostarion let his eyes wonder around, surprised to find the human woman still nearby, watching him as she sat there. If he wanted to survive he needed her help, and he needed it quick. He had to tell her how to find Caer’dar, and how to perform the ritual necessary to heal him. It would not be an easy task, and he had no idea if this young human woman would be willing and able to do so. But the only other option he had was death. And Nostarion knew he was the only surviving member of the expedition. If he died now, all their ordeals, all their sacrifice would have been for nothing.