The morning sun had just begun to warm the Isle of Stone as Elros ventured into the forest, his keen eyes scanning for the plants and herbs he needed. Over the past year, he had learned the island's flora well enough to identify what might help treat wounds and ease pain. He carried a small satchel with him, gathering what he needed: a mixture of mosses, leaves, and roots that could be ground into a paste.
When he returned to the great hall, the girl was still unconscious, her breathing steady but shallow. Setting his findings on the wooden table, he worked swiftly, crushing the herbs with a rounded stone and mixing them into a paste with a bit of water. The result was a thick, greenish balm with a strong, earthy scent.
He approached the bed cautiously, sitting on the edge. The girl's face bore the signs of suffering: bruises along her cheekbones, a split lip, and faint scratches that trailed down her neck. Her body, too, showed evidence of violence. Elros pulled back the blanket to reveal her back, where whip marks crisscrossed her pale skin. He applied the paste gently, his touch firm but careful, working it into her wounds to prevent infection and promote healing.
When he reached the deeper cuts on her lower back, he hesitated. The marks there spoke of cruelty he could scarcely imagine. His jaw clenched, anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. He applied the paste to these wounds as well, then dressed her injuries with clean strips of cloth he had salvaged from the ruined village.
By the time he finished, the sun had climbed higher in the sky. He placed a blanket back over her, smoothing it out before leaving the room.
The next day, Elros entered the great hall to check on her. She was still unconscious, but her breathing was stronger now, and her complexion looked healthier. He removed the bandages carefully, his hands steady as he inspected her wounds.
Her face, though marred by bruises, was strikingly beautiful. Her long brown hair framed a face of delicate features—a high brow, soft cheekbones, and a slender nose. There was a natural grace to her even in her weakened state, one that reminded him of his sister Tar-Míriel and the Eldar he had once known. But she was different, her beauty tempered by fragility and the harshness of her experiences.
Elros pulled himself away from his thoughts, covering her again with the blanket before leaving the hall. He picked up his wooden spear and Dramborleg, leaving Aranrúth behind for now. The sea was calm as he set out to fish, the salty breeze carrying the cries of gulls overhead.
An hour later, Elros returned to the hall with five fish slung over his shoulder. Entering the great hall, he set the fish on the long table, preparing to clean and cook them. As he turned, a glint of steel caught his eye.
Aranrúth was gone.
His instincts took over, and he ducked just in time to avoid a sword strike aimed at his head. The blade passed so close he could feel the rush of air. Without hesitation, Elros spun, his fist connecting with his attacker's face. The force of the blow sent them staggering back, and before they could recover, he lunged forward, pinning them in a chokehold.
His attacker struggled, their movements frantic but uncoordinated. As he tightened his grip, Elros caught snatches of words spoken in the tongue of the raiders he had fought before. Two words stood out: "Stark" and "Snow."
Realization dawned as he looked at the person he held. It was the girl.
Her nose was bleeding from his punch, and her struggles weakened as the chokehold took effect. She went limp in his arms, unconscious once more. Elros released her carefully, lowering her back onto the bed. His heart raced, a mix of guilt and anger surging through him.
He bound her wrists and ankles with strips of cloth, securing her to the bed but ensuring she wouldn't be harmed by the restraints. She would wake safely, but she would not be able to attack him again.
Taking Aranrúth, he returned it to its sheath at his waist. He moved to the table, sitting heavily in one of the chairs as he ran a hand through his hair.
The events of the day left him unsettled. Why had she attacked him? What did the words "Stark" and "Snow" mean? The girl's presence on the longship had already raised questions, but now her actions posed even more mysteries.
For now, he would wait. He kept a watchful eye on her as the fire in the hearth crackled softly, its warm light filling the hall. When she awoke, he would get his answers.