Author's Notes: Beren/Lúthien, free-write. :)


"in sickness, in health"

.

.

Catch

It came upon her slowly, like a whisper of the wind before the rains came.

The cold season came for the first time since their coming to dwell in Tol Galen. She sang as she passed through the woods; but no longer did her voice have the power to turn the snows to melt, to turn the sleeping winter-trees towards a blossoming of spring flowers. Her voice was clear and lovely, and somewhere above her a bird trilled in reply to her song, but that was all. She trailed her hand over the trunks of the trees as she walked, and imagined that she could feel their great branches turn towards her. But no longer did they dance. No longer did they bow.

She had to wear boots and gloves in deference to the cold of the season, even as mild as it was. The first time she had felt the chill in the air, she had blinked, trying to decipher what the sensation she felt was. She had only ever been cold in the halls of dark Angband before. She had known the chill of spirit that came from the breath of Mandos, but this . . .

This was mortal, she realized, this was natural in her new body. And so her dresses became thicker in reply. She wore fur lined cloaks and heavy woven wool instead of the light Elvish weaves she still had from home. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh when she walked outdoors, and her breath frosted on the air as it turned colder.

She woke one morning to find that her eyes were warm. Her skin felt flushed and her nose ran – all terribly inconvenient symptoms that bloomed into a full blown sickness by the end of the day, with her stomach angry at her every breath and her body burning as with fire.

This was . . .

"A cold," Beren explained simply, dabbing at her brow with a cool cloth. "They come often at the start of the winter season, but you should be well within a day or two."

How terribly . . .

"It's a curse of Men," Beren said softly. "One of the new perks of the body you wear."

Lúthien made a tired noise in the back of her throat, trying to hide just how horrible she felt from her husband. Beren still came to guilt over the smallest of things when it came to her and her new fate, and she had no wish to cause him pain now - not when she had naught of the strength to talk him out of his doubts and fears. The sheets stuck to her sweating skin as she moved. Her throat felt like tree bark as it scrapped against branches.

"It is not . . . too trying," she managed to croak her words out. Her voice sounded like her throat felt. She narrowed her eyes at the sound, vexed.

"Oh?" Beren raised a brow. "Then Mandos was kind to you," he said, humor peeking into his voice. "For it is terribly inconvenient for the rest of us."

She snorted, wishing that she had the energy to swat at his arm. Instead, her fingers tightened in the sheets.

"I daresay that this is a part that will not make it to the songs," Beren said as he stirred a combination of herbs into a kettle of boiling water. She watched him with interest as he did so – for every malady Mankind had to face, they had a dozen solutions and more. It was something that fascinated her – the perseverance of Men, the resolve . . .

She tried to hold on to that same resolve in her own bones. She tried to make it her own.

"There are no lovely words for a minstrel to describe this," she agreed. "I know not what their lyric would be."

"Oh, I don't know," Beren said easily, trying to distract her from just how terrible she felt. "You can rhyme 'snot' with 'mortal lot', and 'heal' with 'unflinching zeal'."

"Please," her laughter came out as a raw sound from her throat. "Even the trees have ears – do not give them ideas."

"No? I shall have to think of something better then," Beren teased. With only one hand, his motions were careful as he stirred honey into her cup, and then handed her the mug of tea. She took it with gratitude, taking note of the herbs he used within, and resolving to ask him about it later. She wished to be prepared next time.

A moment passed between them. He dipped the cloth in cool water again and dabbed it at her forehead, his dark blue eyes soft with feeling – even with her nose red and her hair a tangled mess about her head. She saw a familiar curtain fall there, and before it could descend, she said, "I have been ill before." There was something like pride in her voice with the statement.

"Oh?" Beren raised a brow.

"Indeed I have," she coughed into her hand. "Daeron and I were young, very young, but thought ourselves to be quite grown up – so grown up that we stole a bottle of wine at the feast that welcomed Anor to the sky . . . Thranduil and Celeborn found us, and Thranduil took it upon himself to teach us a lesson about spirits that were stronger than us."

Beren covered a hand before his mouth, seeing where her story was going, but waiting for her to tell it.

"He drank us under the table," Lúthien revealed, making a face at the memory. "Celeborn helped me back to my rooms later, and Mother came with a potion that night so that Father would not know the trouble I got myself into . . . but it was a good lesson. I never abused the vine again."

Beren had a glass of what the Elves called wine once while in Menegroth – at the feast that celebrated their wedding, before realizing that his idea of wine and the Doriathrim's idea of wine varied greatly. Even half of that one glass had left him unsteady on his feet, his vision blurry – so he could only imagine what anything more than that would do, even to one of Elven blood.

"This is not much different," Lúthien said, a note of stubbornness to her voice as she spoke. "Not much different at all."

"Again," Beren stroked a soothing hand through her hair as he spoke. "Mandos was kind to you."

Her attempt at laughter turned into a cough, once again. She coughed into her hand, waiting for her body's traitorous reaction to be done. She was exhausted after, and leaned back against her pillow with a sigh.

"You should try to sleep now," Beren said as he took the empty mug from her. "Sleep helps the sickness pass faster."

Whatever he had put into the tea was making her tired, she thought. Her eyes felt heavy; her limbs like stone. What a surprise that had been in those first days, discovering just how much sleep a mortal body needed, even when they had too few of years to spend so much time in unwakefulness . . .

She made a noise in the back of her throat that was agreement, and felt herself drifting off before she felt the bed sag underneath an added weight. Familiar arms wrapped around her, and she blinked, groggy, before she turned to her husband in protest. "You should not stay," she said gently. "If you were to catch this -"

" - and leave you to your first sickness alone?" Beren shook his head. "There is no choice, dear one. Not for me."

She swallowed, but did not have the strength to protest further. Instead she settled into his hold, her head finding it's familiar place against his chest as she burrowed closer, arms and legs tangling with the ease of long intimacy. Her heart slowed in her chest. It was a warmth she felt then, a warmth that settled bone deep, fighting away the uncomfortable heat of her sickness. She had to admit, she did feel the tinniest bit better so entwined with him.

She would make him leave later, she thought drowsily. But for now . . .

She waked that morning feeling much revived. Her limbs felt movable. Her nose was dry and her throat was tender, but no longer rubbed raw. She sat up, and felt at her skin, finding it warm to the touch, the bite of her fever gone. She stood – too quickly it seemed, for she felt lightheaded a moment later, but that was a small symptom when compared to how she had felt the night before.

Well
, she thought, trying to look on her body's rebellion with eyes of humor instead of anything else. That had been . . .

She looked down to see Beren still asleep. His breath was heavy and congested in his chest, a telling sound to her ears. She bit at her lip, and reached down to touch his brow, finding it warm beneath her touch – too warm.

"Foolish man," she said, but there was fondness in her voice when she spoke so.

She turned to the kettle, putting the water on to boil, even as she called to mind the herbs that Beren had used the day before. It was a process – long and slow, but she was learning. Slowly, she was starting to make a home in this new form, in this new life.

Humanity was as a sickness, she thought, and it was catching.