Title: His Meleth
Paring: Thranduil X Reader
Spoilers: I tried not to spoil anything, but it's set after The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies and before The Lord of The Rings: The Fellowship of The Ring. Be careful if you haven't read/watched the movies/books!
Warnings: sick character, Thranduil is caring, some nudity with no description, fluff.
Requested By: madasahatter03
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It began with a sniffle.
It happened in the changing of the seasons, the time between when the moon was bursting with light and resting upon the skies. At first, you ignored the sneezes that came at dawn, dusk and when near the pollinating flowers outside the palace in Mirkwood. But that was when an icy wind passed through the lands, and caught you wearing not enough layers for the chilly season.
"I warned you," Thranduil sighed, cornering you in the chambers. You had tried your best to hide the illness from him, but just like the way he ruled the Elven people in the forests, his gaze was wide, and did not exclude his wife. "You would have thought the Queen of Mirkwood would have learned after half a century of living here that the cold lingers after winter."
If this was any other day, you'd retort at once.
You might have been a royal of Lady Galadriel's court in Lothlórien for the most of your nine hundred years, never straying from the summer forests in those early years. But it was in the final battle for the Lonely Mountain that you caught the eye of the King of Mirkwood. You had led the reinforcements from Lady Galadriel's armies, and fought alongside Thranduil, and fought your way into his heart.
But that seems so long ago. Especially since your head feels like it's full of cobwebs and as heavy as a boulder.
"...I'm fine." You whisper, your throat hoarse. Your Elven voice sounds almost human, dirty, with this cold, and hearing it, your husband's face softens, his hands going to steady you upon your feet. "Thranduil –,"
He shakes his head, those silky locks floating in the wind. "I will have none of it, my Bereth," he chides, but this time, his voice is soft, caring. "Come with me, return to bed. I will have the kitchen make broth."
You lean into his side as he walks you back to your shared quarters. Even though you're more than an able-bodied Elven woman who can hold her own quite well in battle, right now, you feel as weak as a newborn babe.
"Thank you," you tell him, words as soft as a breath of air.
He kisses the crest of your head, lips lingering. "Anything for the light of my world."
When you make it to the chambers, you lean upon your husband, using his hands to steady yourself as you take your slippers from your feet, step out of the leggings, your dress. His hands are warm, something lovely that you lean into, and you wish that they'd never leave your skin.
"Meleth," Thranduil says, the back of his hand caressing your forehead. He's worried. "You are feverish."
You make no fight against his wishes, knowing he will divert you to the bathrooms adjacent to the bedroom. He does not pick your clothes from the floor, instead, leads you toward where the bathing pool sits. Ever since the reclaiming of the Lonely Mountain, the Dwarves trade the Elves water from the hot springs beneath the forges. As you walk into the waters, you suppress a shiver, walking deeper into the pool until your chest is covered.
You pick a rose petal from the surface of the pool. "Did you prepare for me?"
Thranduil sits at the side of the bathing pool, hair swept behind his back, holding the linen that you will dry yourself off with. "It was prepared for a different occasion," he says, "one which I planned where you were not ill...and I could be with you in the water."
You sink your head into the water, gazing at your beautiful husband from the water's surface. "Whatever is stopping you from joining me?"
He motions to your nose, where it begins to run. "I would rather savour my wife in good health," he replies, smiling. "For now, I will take care of her well, as she would if I were sick."
Taking a block of lavender soap, you begin to lather yourself. "She sounds like a very lucky elf."
Thranduil pauses. He catches onto what you're saying, and says, "I would think so, she is married to a very influential, and good-looking elven male."
You splash Thranduil, laughing. But your merriment is called short, as you begin to cough upon your own breath, and the slime that has accumulated within your airways.
"Now, meleth, let's get you bed." Thranduil holds the linen out for you, approaching the entrance to the bathing pool. The linen covers your entire form, and sinking into it, you feel the heat of the pool leaving your skin. You whine, wanting it back. "You'll be warm in the bed. Come on, my Bereth."
You walk to the bed, eyes heavy. The pools did a number on you – you are now as tied as a child after a day playing within the forests of your homeland. Your bones, your skin, your mind, your head all hurt. It's worse than any other illness you've felt before, but to be honest, you say that every time.
You take another step toward the bed, and Thranduil makes a noise. "No, you need to wear a nightgown." He tells you, holding out a fresh garment for you. It's the colour of the forest, trimmed with soft green lace. It's one of your favourites; it falls to your ankles, and as you walk, it feels like wading through the breeze itself. "I'll help you put it on."
"Thank you," you whisper, voice hoarse. The material goes over you, and you close your eyes.
"...and now you can go to sleep," Thranduil lifts the covers to the royal bed just enough for you to crawl into them, and when you are settled, he adds more blankets until you feel a warmth like before. The aching you felt before reduces once you're laying down, and you sigh with relief. "Are you feeling better?"
You smile.
He places a kiss upon your brow. "I'll have the healers send something for you up," you hear him say as he walks away, voice low, and going in one ear and out the other. You're so tired, he could be saying anything, and you would agree. "..."
"I love you Thranduil," you whisper.
Your husband turns at the door. He's an older elf, not as spry as he had been in his youth, and yet, you love him. It's strange; he went through so much heartbreak and ache over his life, the fires of a dragon touched him, he lost his wife, his son wanders Middle Earth, and yet, he still has come out atop it all.
"I love you too, meleth."