Sweet Medicine
Ecthelion x modern human!reader
A/N: This had originally started off as a small fic and then it festered into more words before I could stop it. Oopsie
Warnings: fluff, modern human reader in middle earth, humour
Words: 2.3k
Synopsis: You tricked Ecthelion into following your make-up human remedy to cure your fever.
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You felt like you were in a sauna. The linens had been changed twice already, yet the heat still clung to you like a second skin. Sweat dampened your brow, matting your hair to your neck as you lay curled beneath the lighter sheets they’d switched to once they realised how furiously your body had begun to burn up. You didn’t remember getting back to your room—only that the last thing you saw in the kitchen was the blurred edge of a table, and then the sound of shouting before the world had tipped.
Now, the room was spinning faintly when you opened your eyes, and above you was the stone ceiling of the room appearing too bright even in twilight. Groaning at the flooding sensation of that light, you grimaced and licked you lips, only to realise that your mouth tasted stale. Your lips were cracked, and your joints were aching with a dull, simmering pressure. Breathing felt like a reluctant task you were performing for someone else. You swore an elephant was tap dancing on your chest.
And sitting beside your bed, still as a statue but with silvery-grey eyes as focused as a falcon’s, was Ecthelion.
He wasn’t shirtless and sweaty this time. Instead, he wore a layered silver-blue robes, softened around the shoulders and sleeves; thr sleeves slightly pushed up to his elbows in a way that was too casual for the head of the household. His long ebony hair was drawn back in a single plait, and his fingers were curled lightly around a cloth he had clearly been using to dab at your face. Quickly darting your eyes around, you noticed there was a bowl of water on the small table beside him, no longer steaming, with a few herbs you vaguely recognised as things Lord Galdor had once mentioned during a short medical alert for injuries in the kitchen.
“What are you doing here?” you groggily croaked.
“I am not moving until your fever breaks,” he announced as though he knew that you would sneak away the moment he turned his back or departed, leaving you under professional support—because you would and had before. “You’ve frightened everyone.”
“I’m fine,” you reassured casually, trying to turn in your spot. Unfortunately, the motion caused more harm than good as it made your stomach lurch. “Just overworked. Been on my feet for three days. Galdor wanted a feast.”
“Galdor,” he corrected, “wanted venison stew and grilled peaches. Not his cook fainting into the basin of boiled lentils and smoked beef.”
You would’ve laughed if it hadn’t felt like your chest had been stuffed with hot cotton. Worse, your limbs didn’t want to obey you. The ache decided to crawled down your spine, and better yet, blinking started to feel like it took effort. You weren’t used to being sick in this world—rarely caught anything, and when you did, it was usually solved with an hour’s rest and a few drinks of miruvor. This was something else entirely.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you gently reminded again, letting your head flop to the side where the pillow was cool. “You’ve probably got angry murder geese and a fancy diamond fountain to supervise.”
“My swans can survive without me…not sure about this new fountain you speak of, but I can whip something up,” he replied with the faintest arch of one dark brow and a twitch of his lips. “However, I was not going to let the most interesting person in Gondolin die of their mortal affliction like…fatigue.”
A smile pulled lazily at your mouth. “So I’m interesting now?”
“You’ve always been interesting. I simply tried to keep my thoughts to myself.” He wrung out the cloth in the water again, leaned forward, and brushed it across your forehead with careful pressure. His touch was surprisingly gentle for someone who could slice a boulder in half with his sword. “But you make that very difficult.”
“Mmm. Sorry,” you murmured sleepily. “I didn’t mean to collapse dramatically just so you’d come flirt with me.”
He froze momentarily, doing his best not to panic internally at the very true accusations. “This isn’t flirting. This is disaster control.”
“Same difference.”
Shifting your body under the sheets, leg twitching with some half-dreamt memory of the kitchen ovens, you were beginning to feel warm. Too hot. And yet your fingers were cold, your skin prickled uncomfortably beneath the gown someone must have helped you out of your uniform into. You hated feeling like this—so useless, pinned down by your own body while someone like Ecthelion, graceful and composed, hovered like some shining guardian waiting for you to slip away into death.
“Would you like water?” he asked, breaking you out of your thoughts. “Or more of the willowbark?”
Grimacing, y shook your head weakly. “Oh god! No more bark, please. Makes me feel like I’m high on cloud nine.”
Opening his mouth to question your unusual phrase, he shook his head and considered it the fever talking. “It is a sedative. It would make one feel drowsy.”
“Hey, I thought elves weren’t supposed to know much about human sickness.”
“I asked Glorfindel.”
“Glorfindel!—” If you had the ability to sit up, you would. Instead, you opted for staring at him concerned. “—You’re putting my life in his hands? His solution to everything is wine and a very sharp sword.”
“And yet he’s still more knowledgeable than I am by advising me to ensure you remained in bed.” He leaned back, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. “Your species is incredibly inconvenient, you realise. You work yourself to the bone, you refuse to eat enough, you forget to sleep, and then you fall into bed with a fever like a wilting flower.”
“You sound like my mother,” you sighed.
“You had the healers in this house running in circles for the first hour. They had no idea what to do. I started thinking you had some incurable mortal affliction.”
“Just overworked,” you lightly reminded again, trying to move and regretting it immediately. “Tell Galdor to let me sleep more next time.”
“He has already been informed. Somewhat loudly.”
You turned your head toward him, blinking through the sweat. “You yelled at Lord Galdor?”
“I didn’t yell,” he corrected politely. “I lectured. Sternly.”
The image of it made you smile weakly against the pillow. Ecthelion, tall and formal, walking into Galdor’s kitchen with all his might just to scold a lord unintentionally for working his cook to the bone, and then staying—still here, hours later, watching you like a hawk as if you might disappear the second he turned his head. You probably you have.
“You don’t have to keep watching me,” you suggested. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. You mortals have a very dramatic way of collapsing without warning.”
“Still mad about the stew?”
“I’m mad about the state of you.”
His thoughtfulness made you soften. “You care?”
He looked briefly startled, like the words had escaped him by accident. And yet, his expression shuttered immediately, as he politely looked away to hide his face. “I do.”
A pregnant pause hovered in the room before another drop of sweat slid down your temple, prompting you to let out a low groan and reached weakly for the sheets, trying to shove them off with your trembling fingers. “It’s too hot. Can’t—can’t sleep like this.”
“You’re burning,” he said. “You need to stay covered to sweat it out.”
“For the love of all things good, I don’t need to combust.”
He sighed, and then pushed his chair closer to the bed, rolling the sleeves of his robe even higher as he leaned over to adjust the pillow beneath your shoulders. Once he was finished, he dipped the cloth into the water again, and then wiped your neck, gently pressing at the overheated skin.
“Why are your hands so cold?” you mumbled, eyes half-lidded as you stared at his wrist, trying to hold back a violent shudder and clearly failing.
“Because I haven’t been sick,” he murmured humourless. “Nor do my people tend to run temperatures unless we’re active or in the sun.”
“Tch. You’re so rude to me, Thel. I’m not dying.”
“That is not what your skin is saying.”
“Fine, then. If you want to cure me, then kiss me.”
The cloth stilled against your throat.
“What?”
Blinking up at him with a straight face and cracked lips, you met his eyes. “It’s an old fashion remedy from back in my world for temperature regulation. A kiss.”
Ecthelion looked at you as if you’d just said that you were the Dark Lord incarnated. “What nonsense is that?”
“It’s a human thing,” you stated faintly. “Secret healing technique that I believe works best with elf-lords after deeper…research.”
“You’re delirious.”
“True,” you agreed, leaning in slightly closer to him. “But it’s real. Helps equalise body heat by absorbing the cooler temperature, magic and...saliva or something. It’s science.”
“You’re using your illness as an advantage and too seriously,” he protested, but there was a blush and tightness around his mouth that suggested he was trying not to smile.
“Take the fever away,” you whispered dramatically, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Save me from the boiling curse, oh my noble lord.”
“I should uh…fetch more cold water.”
“Don’t leave me! I’ll die before you come back.”
You were clearly out here questioning his sanity. He didn’t know whether to walk away and hope that it was the fever doing to talking, however, the opportunity might never return unless he worked up the courage. Giving a long-suffering sigh, then dipped the cloth again and pressed it back to your collarbone with something bordering a glare.
“You are insane.”
“I am dying, as you claim.”
“You’re not dying, you’re melodramatic.”
Pouting at his response, you eyes close again, letting the pressure of the cloth moved to your jaw, then your cheek, lingered there a moment longer than necessary. His fingers were much more careful compared to a moment ago. It was clear to state that his gaze had wandered as he contemplated.
Feeling the lingering against your cheek, you opened your eyes, to meet his gaze on you, but softer—less rigid like something in him had begun to fold. He didn’t realise it yet, but he was leaning in closer, his hair slipping from behind his ear to form a small blind.
“You really are overheated,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
“Mmm. Too bad no one’s kissing me,” you taunted. “Ever heard of the phrase ‘A kiss from a handsome lord, keeps illnesses away?’”
His gaze tenderly flicked up to yours, eyes softening around the edges and making you realise just how beautiful his eyes were when indecisive. You could see it now—he was actually considering it. His brow furrowed, mouth pressed into a flat line, but the decision was making itself somewhere behind his eyes. Your fever must have been sky-high to think that Ecthelion of the Fountain was actually entertaining the idea of—
And then his hand, the one that had been holding the cloth, shifted to your jaw. Those cool fingers, that held swords and fought for victories, cradled your cheek. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, the gesture slow, contemplative and urging you not to look away. Gingerly, he leaned in just a fraction, and the air between you stilled.
“This is ridiculous,” he murmured.
“Not denying it works.”
“Just to be clear,” he whispered with an unreadable expression, “if I kiss you, it’s to cure you.”
“Whatever floats your boat, Captain.”
He didn’t even bother rolling his eyes at your comment and instead, leaned in.
His lips were cool, unexpectedly soft, and incredibly still at first—like he was giving you the chance to pull away. But when you didn’t, when your fingers reached weakly up and curled into the sleeve of his robe, he pressed closer. His lips were careful and undeniably tender—a far cry from the fevered mess of clashing mouths but something more…purposeful. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing beneath your jaw as he deepened the kiss slightly—just enough to steal your breath. And as if it was a mind trick, the heat of your fever melted under him for one brief moment. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were steady.
You breathed. “I’m still hot.”
“That is not my fault.”
“Should try again. For science’s sake.”
“Do you not have a sense of decorum?”
“Says the person who listened to my foolishness and kissed me.”
He quickly cleared his throat, sitting back a little and appearing flustered. “Do not think I make a habit of kissing semi-conscious humans.”
“I’m not unconscious.”
“Barely counts.”
You smiled again, even as your vision blurred. “You’ve got good hands for a warrior.”
“I have excellent hands. I simply rarely use them for wet cloth and feverish cheeks.”
“You’re better than most doctors I’ve had.”
“I should hope so. I am many times their age and ten times as intelligent.”
Saying nothing, you let your head fall back to the pillow while your body continued to ache. The fever still hummed beneath your skin, but there was something oddly comforting about the sensation now. The agonising ache in your joints and muscles were reduced—something about your kiss was extra magically with whatever elf-enhancements he added.
Peering at him through your lashes, his eyes were still on you. Even when you were semi-conscious, apparently, you half-wondered what else he’d done for you. As your thoughts began to fade into another drowsy fog, you heard him shift beside the bed, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. Another cloth dipped into the bowl.
“I’m going to sit with you,” he said quietly, like a promise, “until you’re better.”
“Why don’t you give me another kiss instead?”
“Firstly, get better.”
“Sounds like you really like me,” you slurred.
He didn’t answer.
But the cloth was cool on your brow, and his hand never left yours.
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