Diagnosis
by Rei hime

"You're pregnant, my lord."

Somewhere in the back of his brain, mere milliseconds before shock set in, Elrond had the fleeting thought that the look on Thranduil's face was one Thorin Oakenshield would have given his entire treasure to see. Then the full effect of the healer's words hit him, and he could only gape at the Elf-king, his mouth moving in a desperate attempt to make words though no sound came out. Failing speech, he slowly turned his gaze around the room to observe the other's reactions, wanting to know if they had all heard what he had or if he was just losing his mind.

Thranduil, at least, had most definitely heard. His eyes had enlarged to the size of saucers, his ears had turned bright pink, and somehow, despite the fact he'd just been informed that he was carrying the illegitimate child of his youngest son's lover's father, he was managing to pull off an expression of startled innocence... about three seconds before it's lost. Poor Gloin wasn't any better; he looked... well, he looked like a Dwarf who'd just been told he'd impregnated the Elvenking of Mirkwood. There didn't seem to be a more appropriate description. The two of them stared at Eruvyreth, who, for her part, stared passively back, not seeming to find anything unusual about the announcement she'd just made.

As for the four pre-existing children of the expectant parents, they were taking the news of their coming sibling somewhat less than well. Maetheron, the proud crown prince of Eryn Lasgalen, had turned red from his neck to his eartips, his fists and jaw clenched tight, and was directing a seething glare at his "step-father." Gentle Faelason stood by him, looking as though he might burst into tears or laughter or both at any moment, but nonetheless keeping a firm grip on his brother's arm, prepared to restrain him should he attempt to lunge over their father and throttle Gloin. Out of all three Elven princes, the one handling it the best was probably Legolas, whose expression was a flushed mixture of shock, disbelief, and a little curiosity, while Gimli, at his side, simply stood there, open-mouthed, repeatedly glancing back and forth, back and forth between his father and Thranduil.

Yet perhaps even their surprise was not as great as that of Gwilwileth, Glilavan, and the unfortunate sons of Elrond; though, to be fair, it must be said that circumstances added to their disconcert. It seems the four mischievous Elves had been passing by in the hall when they noticed the door to this room had been left open just a crack. Due to their natural want to be privy to most things that were none of their business, they crowded in the doorway to listen. Apparently, upon hearing Eruvyreth's declaration, one of them must have fallen forward and grabbed on to another for support, who in turn grabbed a third, who grabbed the last, so that they all ended up in a rather undignified tangle on the floor, from which shock and sheepishness prevented them from rising.

And how was the noble King of Gondor reacting? His amazement and utter horror couldn't have been greater if he'd been told the Dark Lord Sauron had been reborn and, instead of craving world domination, was interested in organizing an enormous slumber party at Barad-dur, complete with marshmallow roasts and sing-alongs. Strangely, the poor monarch found himself thinking that things like this always seemed to happen just when he'd finally gotten some time for himself.

It was he who found his voice first. "E-Eruv-vy-vyreth," he stammered, apparently only slightly more proficient than Elrond at the art of speech at this particular time. "What did you say?"

The dark-haired healer turned a jaded glance to him, as if it were a terrible chore to have to repeat herself. "He's pregnant. About three months along, I should think," she added, turning back to her lord.

Having remained almost admirably motionless up to this point, Thranduil now sat down very suddenly in his chair and lifted his frazzled features to his family's long-time purveyor of bandages and ointments. "I... I... I'm... I... I'm..."

"Pregnant, Sire," she offered. "You are going to have a baby." And then, by all that is sacred and pure in this world, she smiled, her eyes twinkling. "Congratulations."

Her liege-lord only managed a strangled whimper in reply. He wondered if this was a proper moment to throw up.

Gloin, staring at the "mother"-to-be, uttered the obvious question. "How in hell did that happen?!"

The others recovered from their stunned states just enough to look incredulously at the Dwarf, who had the grace to appear embarrassed.

"Oh... right..." He swallowed and laid a hand on Thranduil's shoulder. "Well, this does explain why you've been getting a bit like a Hobbit in the stomach."

The King of the Greenwood half-pouted at his accomplice then glanced down at his lap. And in the most innocently curious manner imaginable, he cautiously laid a hand on his own swollen stomach.

The next sound anyone heard was the soft thud of a body hitting the floor.

Gimli looked down dazedly at his prone lover. "Legolas?"

"He fainted!" Faelason fairly shrieked, rushing to his brother's side with Maetheron fast on his heels.

"Brother, are you all right? Can you hear me?"

"Eruv, do something!"

Eruvyreth sighed and patted her king's hand before seeing to his youngest. Elrond turned to exchange a helpless look with his foster-son. Even considering his immortality, he never thought he'd live to see a day like this.

And what of poor pregnant Thranduil? He was self-consciously rubbing his belly and trying to digest this revelation. He was pregnant. He was somehow going to carry and give birth to a child -- Gloin's child.

Gloin.

Thranduil whipped his head around to look at the Dwarf, a sudden fear growing within him. What if Gloin didn't want the baby? What if he decided he didn't want him anymore? He wouldn't abandon them, would he? The Sinda hesitantly reached out to touch the Dwarf's arm. "Meleth?" he inquired, a pleading note in his voice.

Gloin blinked once at his fretful lover, then smiled and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, hugging him to his chest and kissing his forehead in reassurance. The Wood-Elf made a small noise of relief and nuzzled the Dwarf's neck.

"Don't worry, Thran," Gloin said, glancing at Eruvyreth's endeavors to revive Legolas. "Maybe we'll have better luck with this one."