| |
Bright morning sunlight streamed through the window, shinning on the bed and right in the sleeping Dwarf's eyes. Glóin groaned and forced his eyes open to glare at the light as if that would somehow convince the sun to set several hours early today. He hadn't slept very well at all; Thranduil had kept him up for most of the night with his tossing and turning. The Elf had developed a fever sometime around midnight and had kicked the sheets away, only to grope for them again mere minutes later when he'd grown cold and shivered. This pattern was repeated for the greater part of three hours until he finally wore himself out and fell into a fitful sleep.
Glóin turned away from the window to look down at the Elf that lay in his arms snoring softly and sleeping peacefully at last. He ran a thumb across his forehead and frowned. The Elf-lord was no longer feverish, but now the Dwarf did not like how pale he looked. Thranduil stirred under his touch, his eyes fluttering open, and Glóin sighed. The Elf needed to rest, and Glóin would rather not have him wake. However, he knew that if he didn't get Thranduil up and about soon, the three Mirkwood princes would start to worry and come filing into the room to wake him anyway.
"Meleth-nin?" The Elvenking of Eryn Lasgalen peered up at his Dwarven lover with tired eyes. "It is morning already?"
Glóin nodded. "It has been for quite some time now," he said, watching as the Sinda blinked at the sun then turned to bury his face in the Dwarf's beard and recalling how only weeks before Thranduil would rise early every morning to watch the sunrise. "How are you feeling?"
"Better than before," he replied, lifting his eyes, and tried to give Glóin a smile. "It was not as bad this time. Perhaps I am getting better." This was not the first time Thranduil had been restless. There were some nights when he could not get to sleep at all.
"Maybe," the Dwarf agreed, though he doubted it. True, Thranduil had been able to sleep, but this was the first time he'd gotten a fever.
Thranduil could tell his companion's thoughts by his expression and opened his mouth to assure him that he was fine, but he never got to speak. He paled suddenly, a horrified expression crossing his face. Quickly, he pushed away from Glóin and leaned over the side of the mattress, retching into a bucket that sat by the bed.
His lover frowned in sympathy, moving closer to rub his back and murmur soothing words until he finished coughing. He then helped the Elf back onto his back and gently wiped his face and mouth with a cool, damp cloth. This was not the first time this had happened either.
The Elf-lord sighed and smiled weakly at the Dwarf. "Sorry, meleth."
The Dwarf shook his head. "You don't need to apologize," he said, brushing a strand of golden hair from his lover's forehead and dropping a quick kiss there. "I suppose I don't have to ask whether you feel like eating."
His companion blanched at the thought of food. "Not now, love. Maybe later."
"Are you sure? Do you want anything to drink? Milk or juice?"
The Elf shook his head.
"Wine?" Glóin offered as a last resort.
"Ugh!" the Elvenking groaned, covering his mouth with his hand and turning away. "No, please, Glóin, I couldn't. I'd only just like some water."
Glóin could only nod dumbly and retrieve a glass for his bedfellow, supporting his head while he drank. Now he was worried. An Elf of Mirkwood refusing wine for water? There was no denying it any longer. Something was terribly wrong with Thranduil.
Thranduil saw the Dwarf's eyes move down his body, and, knowing what he meant to do, did not resist as his nightshirt was tugged up to expose his belly -- his now rather round belly. He propped himself up on his elbows for a better view while Glóin sat back to contemplate it.
"It's really not so big of a difference," the Elf said after a while. "Just a little weight I've put on," he continued, speaking the same words he'd used for many mornings.
The Dwarf only shook his head. That was what he had thought when he'd first noticed the change in his Elf's normally slim figure. Thranduil had experienced a sudden increase in his appetite about a month before and had been eating nearly everything in sight. The nausea that soon followed Glóin had also thought to be the result of too much heavy Gondorian food on his temperamental system. But it had been days, almost weeks, since Thranduil had eaten a real meal, his appetite ebbing just as drastically as it had grown, and the swell of his stomach was not getting any smaller.
"If anything, it's getting bigger," Glóin spoke, voicing his thoughts aloud. "And you've been nauseated for weeks." He frowned. Something -- some small tickle in the back of his brain was telling him how familiar this seemed -- a tiny spark of memory waiting to be ignited.
The Elf's voice, however, quickly extinguished the spark. He had mistaken his lover's pensiveness for concern. "I will see the healer today, melethron."
Glóin sighed and gently laid his hand on the small rise of the Sinda's belly. He repeated the question he'd been asking for several days. "Can Elves be sick at all?"
"No," Thranduil answered as he always did. "Only when we are wounded, and there is not a scratch on me, as you and I both well know." When his partner did not smile he continued. "I don't know what it is, but if the healer does not either, I will ask Elrond. He will probably know." He smiled again at the Dwarf. "I'm sure it is nothing."
This time Glóin returned the smile. "You're probably right," he agreed and hoped it was true. He began to slowly stroke the gentle swell of Thranduil's stomach, causing the Elf to sigh and settle back against the pillows.
"Feels nice," he murmured dreamily, his blue eyes drifting closed, and very soon he was asleep.
Glóin smiled affectionately at the Elvenking and pulled the nightshirt back down over his stomach. Very carefully, so as not to wake his companion, he eased off the bed and crossed the room to the bedroom door, slipping the lock into place to discourage any fretful Elven princes. He then crossed back over to the bed and settled down next to Thranduil. Minas Tirith could do without them for a while longer, he decided, closing his eyes and bringing his hand to rest on the round belly hidden under the soft linen shirt.
|
|
|
|