Elrond leaned over the motionless figure once more, his keen ears catching the rhythm of their steady, untroubled breathing. A quiet sigh escaped his lips, tension easing from his shoulders. For days now, he had tended to the mortal, their care a task that demanded his undivided attention. The room was heavy with the earthy aroma of burning healing herbs, their smoke curling lazily as he crossed to open the window, inviting Rivendell's cool, restorative air to flow in.

His gaze returned to the stranger resting on the hastily prepared bed. They lay almost serenely, though their presence was a puzzle he had yet to solve. Elrond knew nothing of them—not their name, their origin, nor the reason they had appeared so abruptly within Rivendell’s borders. Their garments were peculiar, alien to his eyes, crafted from fabrics and designs that bore no resemblance to the artistry of his world.

The paint upon their face had been particularly puzzling. When he had first begun to cleanse it away with gentle, practiced hands, he had paused to consider its meaning. Could this mortal be of noble blood? A dignitary from a distant land? The intricate marks suggested significance, yet none in Rivendell had seen such adornment before.

After ensuring their condition remained stable, Elrond settled into the chair beside the bed once more. His sharp elven senses detected no sign of distress, but he could not deny his growing curiosity—and, perhaps, a faint concern. This mortal was far from home, vulnerable in ways he could scarcely imagine. Still, he found himself hoping they would awaken soon, not only to shed light on their enigma but to reassure him that his efforts had not been in vain.