Freya’s eyes were glued to his weapons; of course, he didn’t seem to pose a threat to her, but looks could be deceiving. Her gaze followed them all the way to the ground, where she snapped back up to match the elf’s own.
She continued to watch as he pulled a vial from one of his packs, and honestly, her mind really didn’t flicker to the thought that it could be poison or something. Really.
The salve, as it so happened, was cold, freezing. Freya flinched a tad in discomfort, before letting the elf carry on with his work. She could not likely complain, for he was clearly far more adept in healing than herself.
Erestor, so that was his name. Regal sounding, it fit.
“Freya, just Freya,” she replied. “I’m afraid I’m no noble lady, sir.”
At her flinching, Erestor hesitated to continue, but offered her a reassuring smile as to make her aware that he truly had no intention of putting her in harm’s way.
“Freya.” Erestor repeated, moving on to the gash on the woman’s face. “I apologise if I have caused offence by naming you ‘my lady’, but it is merely a title offered to strangers.” He explained, aware of ho she seemed to resent such titles, yet being unable to address the situation yet. After all, they were just strangers and he knew that she probably wouldn’t tell her story to him just yet.
After the ointment was applied to Freya’s face, Erestor took a couple of steps backwards, admiring the work. “You will be healed in a matter of days - your wounds are not threatening.” Erestor murmured as he reached to his belt to find a dagger. He cut a layer of silk from his shirt and stepped towards the woman again. “May I ask, who did this to you?” Wondered the elf, tying it around Freya’s wounded arm.
Have you ever encountered any other elves by the name of Erestor?
Nay, I do not believe I have.
Asking such a question is very curious, grey one.
The foot falls of hooves, the swish of a tail, the faint clinking of chain mail; Freya stiffened.
Could it be the villains had returned to finish her off? - Not yet satisfied with the trickling of scarlet that stained her, working it’s way through her meager attempt at bandaging and spoiling the last of her silks that adorned her.
Or worse still, could it be a new enemy, seeking her out in her weakened state: an easy kill. Too easy, almost.
She tensed, awaiting the arrival of the imminent opponent, to find herself staring at a figure far too tall to be that of an orc - and even further still - too fair.
It was an elf, and he was speaking to her, though all that graced Freya’s ears in that mad moment of relief was the sound of his kind voice; whatever he was saying was irrelevant. He wasn’t here to hurt her, he wanted to help her.
But what on earth was he reaching for? Oh, oh. Of course, she thought, my arm. His eyes met hers, asking for acceptance, permission, as he addressed her in what must have been his mother tongue, elf-speak indeed.
Quickly, she nodded a reply.
“Help would be m-most welcome”
She seemed so stunned - ao cautious and even a little frightened. The vulnerability of her in this state made Erestor more aware of the obvious weapons he was carrying. He placed them to the floor, letting the other know that he wasn’t there to hurt her if she wasn’t there to harm him.
A gentle smile perched itself upon Erestor’s lips as he was granted permission to study the wound; honestly, it had been quite some time since he had last done this, and he had missed healing.
Erestor turned away for a moment, walking back to the horse and searching for a particular vial in one of the saddle pockets. There. The salve was thick and the violet colouring matched that of his eyes. The elf crouched down in front of the stranger, focusing on the task now appointed to him.
With gentle fingers, he studied the wound for dirt or signs of infection. “My name is Erestor.” He greeted, eyes briefly drifting up to the other. “May I ask, what is your name, my lady?”
Being jumped by a couple of rogue orcs was never fun, especially when they’re clever enough to catch her entirely by surprise.
This time she got hurt pretty bad; a long, angry gash running up her forearm along with a couple of deep scratches to her stomach and face. She was running out of healing tools and bandages, the majority used upon her arm that would just simply not stop dripping.
The worst part of the ordeal was that Freya’s clothes were now a shambles of rips, tears and holes. Cold winds were settling in, and she had no spares, just a blanket for the night.
At least, she thought, they didn’t hurt her horse. That was all the good she could find of it.
Being so far from home prompted queer feelings of longing for Erestor; longing for adventure, yet longing for home. Imladris. He had been travelling for four weeks now, embarking on a mission that had been appointed to him. Elrond couldn’t go, nor could his children or Glorfindel - they were predictable targets. Who would ever suspect an elf who would slip in and out of tricky situations unnoticed? Who would ever suspect the shadow?
The raven-haired elf had stopped for the night, making camp just outside a brush of trees; it had been a long day and, for the first time during the past month or so, his muscles were starting to ache. But nothing ever seemed peaceful for too long. His ears perked up as an unsettling noise from the distance pulled him from what he was doing. He went back to the horse Avathar and eased him, whispering comforting words of encouragement before mounting up again. Swiftly, they made for the sound, only to find that they were too late - the attackers had left. Erestor dismounted, leaving Avathar with an appreciative caress to his nose before making for the figure in front of him.
“My lady.” He greeted, pulling his hood away from his face and proceeding to bow a humble bow from his head. Upon looking back at her, however, his eyes widened with concern. “You are hurt.” Erestor stated, drawing nearer. A stretched out hand reluctantly hovered near the wound on the woman’s arm, and Erestor raised his eyes to meet hers before going any further. “Please..May I help you, mellonamin?”