Taking Care of Them When They Fall Sick
Characters: Fingolfin, Argon, Aegnor, Rog, Beleg, Elrond
A/N: Since the elves are always taking care of us when we’re unwell, I thought that it was time for the tables to be turned. And knowing how workaholic they are, what better time to fall sick and be pampered 🤭
Synopsis: Taking care of the elves when they fall sick due to overworking and they believe themselves to be dying.
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𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Fingolfin
– He was absurdly composed even when he was falling apart, and finding him hunched over a war table with his head in his hand, eyes unfocused, and still mumbling about troop positions was even more absurd. When you asked him about his appearance, the first thing he told you was, “I do not fall ill,” right before swaying and grabbing the table like it owed him money.
– Dragging the High King to bed was a diplomatic mission. He insisted he could finish what he was doing, while you reminded him that the last sentence he wrote just said “sword horse valley sword sword”.
– Once you managed to get him into bed, he refused to lie flat. He was miserably propped up like a wounded general. “This is very undignified. I’m the High King.” “Yeah, sure buddy, because right now you’re a high fever,” you muttered while shoving the herbal compress against his forehead.
– He didn’t whine, but he did sigh in a way that was designed to induce maximum guilt. “I should be with the people. This weakness—” “This weakness is a fever, Ñolo. You’re not dying. Cease being an overgrown baby.”
– He did complain a lot about the way the fever had him: “I feel sluggish,” “Is this what death feels like?” “How do you mortals withstand such atrocities?” “Is this how Fëanor felt before he combusted?”
– You fed him soup and he stared at the spoon like it had personally betrayed him. “I am perfectly capable of feeding myself.” Then nearly spilled the bowl into his lap when he tried. “Right. Yes. Carry on.”
– Once the fever got worse, he started talking nonsense. You caught the phrase “Noldorin dignity shall not fall to broth” and had to leave the room because you were laughing so hard at how dramatic he was acting over a fever.
– It was even better when he woke from a long nap looking dishevelled and flushed, he blinked slowly and said, “How long was I asleep?” “Six hours.” “…Has a new war started?”
– He thanked you awkwardly once he was better. Then added, “I hope you know I would do the same for you.” You just shook your head, “As if you already don’t. At least I complain a lot less than you do.”
– He was never late to rest again because you teasingly told people the King was vulnerable to soft blankets and tender affection. Though, he never confirmed or denied it. Just glared every time you brought it up.
𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Argon
– Stubborn baby never even considered that overworking himself could lead to illness. He was built like a mountain, or so he believed, and the fever hit like a sneak attack in the middle of training drills. He fainted with all the grace of a tree tipping over.
– You found him slumped awkwardly against a boulder with his eyes glazed and shirt clinging to him from the heat. When he mumbled, “Oh dear…did the sun fall out the sky and land on me?” you had to bite back a laugh before calling for help.
– He was mortified to be carried into the house by others and promptly pretended to faint again when he spotted you hovering with a worried expression. “Tell no one of this, especially my brothers.”
– You forced him into bed and told him you’d handle everything. He pouted. Actually pouted. “But I take care of you, not the other way around…”
– Babying him became more amusing than you expected. He was huge, but absolutely pathetic with a fever, wrapped in too many blankets and still shivering. “You can’t leave me. I might perish in your absence,” he croaked dramatically when you stood to refill his water with a hand over his forehead. He slept like a Victorian child dying of a disease
– He kept trying to insist he could still go out and “polish his armour at least,” which earned him a death glare and a fresh dose of the disgusting herbal drink he hated.
– “This is poison,” he grumbled after sipping it. No amount of convincing you to let him be free and roam once again with nature, his natural habitat, gifted him with escape. “I feel wounded in this form. Is this punishment? Must I repent to be freed?”
– After the first day, he mellowed into a clingy, drowsy mess. Kept whining your name even when he was half-asleep. You’d be walking past and hear, “I thought of something tragic again. Come here.”
– At one point, he tried to write you a letter declaring you his saviour and heir to his sword, in case he ‘succumbed to the fire.’ It was…extremely dramatic and signed in what looked like tea.
– You teased him for days after he got better. He denied everything. “I would never call myself a burdened, my beautiful soul in need of salvation.” You had proof that he had turned into an oversized whiny baby. He refused to acknowledge it.
– Even after he healed, he occasionally faked a cough here or there to get your attention and bask in your doting. You knew it. He knew it. But he learned not to fake because you teased him about how clingy he became.
𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Aegnor
– You’d told him several times to rest, to take a day off from wandering the northern borders and pouring over battle plans, but Aegnor’s way of ‘rest’ was sharpening his sword in silence.
– You didn’t know something was wrong until he stopped muttering. He always muttered under his breath when focused. And there he was, Snow White in the flesh, swaying slightly like a fragile tree in the wind.
– “I’m fine,” he managed to say before he toppled sideways like a brick and you had to physically drag him inside by the arm, cursing the pride of elves the whole way.
– He didn’t understand fevers. “I do not fall ill,” he insisted while looking visibly feverish and incoherent. Then spent the next ten minutes interrogating his own body. “Why am I sweating so much? Am I dying? I feel like a Balrog with all this fire inside me. Kiss me before I perish and become one.”
– Despite being hot to the touch and weak-limbed, he still tried to lecture you. “You should not have to do this. It is not your—” and then he sneezed six times in a row. The lecture ended.
– You gave him a cold cloth for his forehead and he squinted at you as though it were a holy relic. “You always do this when I’m unwell?” You just rolled your eyes at his dramatics. “You’ve never been unwell before you overdramatic child.”
– Very bad at being still. Kept trying to sit up and give orders through a raspy voice like some bedridden king. You had to throw a pillow at him and say, “You are not issuing battle commands from this bed, Aegnor. Sleep.”
– You tucked him in and he pretended he didn’t like it while making complaints for you to tuck him in properly. But then he caught you gently brushing his hair from his forehead and sighed like he hadn’t breathed in years. “I feel like a pampered princess. Massage my feet, please?”
– Once the fever broke, he wouldn’t stop apologising for being a burden, reckless, and for the sounds he made when sleeping.
– “If you ever try to get up when sick again, I’ll tie you to the bed.” The fool was more interested than terrified. “…Can you specify in what context?”
– He was never careless again though. But he did fake a fever once, just to see if you’d pamper him the same way. It was so terribly done you threw a cold cup of water at him and said, “Next time, try acting lessons first.”
𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Rog
– Rog had two speeds: silent death machine and exhausted death machine. You were the only one who could tell when the switch happened. He didn’t admit it, but you saw how he stumbled just slightly getting out his high-stool.
– He passed out in his forge, collapsed across his workbench with metal dust all over his face. “Rog, you absolute idiot,” you whispered, lifting his head. “Even you’re not made of steel.”
– When he woke up, he was very confused to find himself in bed with your cool hand on his forehead. He blinked slowly. “…Did I perish? Is this the afterlife?” “No,” you replied. “This is me putting up with your nonsense.”
– He was flushed with fever and incredibly grumpy about it. “This is undignified,” he grumbled. “Elves do not—” “Rog, you’re as hot as a furnace. I can use your body to melt iron and craft a new sword.”
– Getting him to rest was like trying to tie down a mountain lion. Every time you left the room, he tried to get up and sneak back to his forge. You caught him once half-dressed and sneezing on his own apron. “Explain yourself,” you said. “I missed it,” he mumbled pathetically.
– You confiscated all his tools and locked the door. But then you got a giant elf who sulked for three hours. Wouldn’t even look at you. Eventually, when you offered soup, he sniffed dramatically. “I suppose I must accept nourishment in these dark days for I may fade away on the morrow. Very well.”
– Was very quiet during the worst of the fever—not used to feeling this weak. He whispered once, “You are gentle with me.” You almost missed it, he was so quiet. You smoothed back his hair and replied, “Only because you’d throw a tantrum if I tried to be stern.”
– Absolutely hated the herbal remedy, but bore it stoically like a warrior. Until you turned away and he tried to hide it under the bed. “Did you just throw your medicine under the mattress?” “Prove it.”
– When he was finally well again, he forged you a ridiculously beautiful brooch shaped like a lily, muttered something about resilience and guardianship, and then walked off pretending his ears weren’t red.
– You caught him staring at you multiple times afterwards, with a strange softness in his eyes.
𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Beleg
– It started with him coming back from a hunt looking pale and uncharacteristically quiet. You thought he was just tired until he nearly dropped his bow trying to string it and mumbled something about “the trees spinning strangely…”
– Beleg insisted it was nothing. “Elves do not fall ill,” he claimed confidently while swaying slightly. You poked his forehead and said, “You’re burning up, Hotman.” He squinted at you, betrayed. “That’s not supposed to happen.”
– The second you bundled him into bed, he became the most restless patient imaginable. “I’m perfectly capable of standing guard at least. Just open the window, I’ll shoot from here.” “You’ll shoot nothing but a fevered hallucination.”
– You caught him sleep-talking once. Something about a particularly sassy squirrel that stole his dried fruit. He snored afterwards. You never let him live it down.
– He got progressively needier the higher his temperature rose. He was used to caring for others during patrol, not being coddled like a napping fawn. You offered him soup and he blinked, looked genuinely moved. “This is...for me?”
– He kept trying to apologise. For worrying you, the way he slumped, the sniffling. “Beleg,” you said, smoothing a wet cloth over his brow, “I will throttle you gently if you apologise one more time.”
– “Of course it is.” “I feel like a prince. Or a tree spirit. Do tree spirits eat soup?”
– He calmed down only when you curled up in the chair next to his bed, reading aloud. At one point he groggily reached for your hand. “You read like summer wind. Warm. Gentle.” “You’re delirious.” “Still true.”
– You caught him later polishing your boots as repayment. “It’s not much,” he mumbled, “but I will earn your kindness.” You shook your head and kissed the top of his stupidly noble head.
– After the fever broke, he tried to sneak off to patrol. You blocked the door and raised an eyebrow and grabbed him by the collar. “Try that again and I’m tying you to the bedposts.” “…I thought you said no threats 🥺.”
– The next time you so much as sniffled, he turned into an overbearing mother hen. “Blankets. You need seven. Eat this bark tea. Sleep now. I’ll sing.” “Are you getting revenge?” “Who, me? Never.”
𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Elrond
– Elrond getting sick was so unthinkable that you thought it was a prank. When he walked into your quarters clutching a blanket around his shoulders, face pale and voice hoarse, your jaw dropped.
– “I believe,” he rasped, “I may be... experiencing a mild biological disruption.” Are you saying you’re sick?” “...Possibly.”
– It was absurdly funny watching a healer become the patient. He knew exactly what to do, but refused to admit he needed to. You actually had to steal his own healing supplies and hide them so he’d stop trying to treat himself in secret.
– He refused to call it an illness at first. “It’s an imbalance of humours.” “You sneezed on my sleeve, Elrond.” “A momentary lapse.”
– “I’m merely fatigued,” he said, swaying slightly while holding a cup of tea. “My immune system is…unique.” You’re so dramatic, Elrond. It’s just a small fever caused by your workaholic self.”
– He was so embarrassed. “I treat others. I cannot be the one who is treated.” “Elrond, you’re literally a half-elf. You can get sick. Own it.” He groaned and buried his face in a pillow.
– The worst part? He still tried to work. He tried to get up and write letters to Galadriel. He tried to mix tonics while sniffling. He tried to instruct you on how to care for him, and you occasionally placed a finger on his lips to silence him.
– “You do realise this is the most ironic moment in the history of Middle-earth? The healer, caught in his own web of care.” He sighed dramatically. “I suppose I should have warded myself better.”
– He became clingier the worse his fever got. You were trying to leave the room once and he caught your sleeve weakly. “I am accustomed to the solitude of illness, but...I would rather not be alone this time.” So you stayed. Sat on the floor beside the bed, reading from one of his many ridiculous old scrolls. He fell asleep mid-sentence.
– You caught him mumbling in his sleep once: “No more root paste. Too bitter. I want honey cakes.” All you could do was stare at him in utter disbelief, like ‘Sir, you’re the same healer who scolded me for the same thing and now look at you.’
– Eventually, he allowed himself to laugh about it. “You have my thanks,” he said one evening, watching the sunset with his hair loose, finally looking more himself. “I hope to return the favour…and when I do, I shall do so a hundredfold.”
– When the fever broke, he refused to look you in the eye for half a day. “I apologise for my lamentable state. It was unbecoming.” “You mean the part where you demanded ‘emotional stabilisation’ and tried to hug my pillow? Never thought there would be a day you would become so…dramatic over a fever you caused.”
– That night you caught him placing a small vial on your nightstand. A tonic against fever. “Just in case,” he said softly, not expecting you to wake up. “I’m not risking being out-caretaken ever again.”
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