"Tathor, have you heard? Humans are coming to meet with my Ada!"
"Humans?" Tathor zipped over to his friend. "Really?"
"Yeah—Ada wants me to practice Common so I can greet them 'properly'."
"Wow, I hope I get to talk to them..."
. . . . . .
"Hello, Firith? Are you busy?"
The young Silvan elf put down the napkins he was repackaging and bustled over. "Hi, Lord Taensirion, what can I do for you?"
The advisor handed him a small stack of papers. "Have you heard we will be hosting some human ambassadors next week?"
Firith scanned the first paper—a list. "You want me to be in charge of setting up their quarters?! I—I'm honored!"
"It will not be all that exciting," the Sinda chuckled. "There are only a few extra considerations. For example..." He stepped beside Firith and indicated a particular entry. "Humans are extremely vulnerable to cold—it can kill them in some cases. It should not be a problem here, but to ensure their comfort, their rooms should be stocked with extra blankets and firewood."
Firith flipped to the next page. "Boiled water?"
"Humans may become ill from things which do not harm us, especially in water; my understanding is that boiling kills those things. Their meals will be provided separately, but they should always have purified water available. And," he added as an afterthought, "it might be best to keep them away from the river, just in case."
"How odd," Firith mused.
. . . . . .
Tathor raced into the healing ward full-tilt, sliding on the smooth floor. "Felrion! Legolas says humans are coming to visit!"
"Funny you mention it," said the head healer, emerging from a back room, "because that's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about." He waved for Tathor to follow him into the room where the healers kept their books describing obscure afflictions, then selected a book half again as tall and wide as the others and three times as thick, and dumped it into his apprentice's arms. "This catalogues every condition we know of which humans can develop; I want you to memorize as much of it as you can over the past week, and ask me about what you don't understand. You and I will be making sure the humans stay healthy during their visit."
Tathor nodded enthusiastically. "May I start now, please?!"
"Be my guest." Felrion guided his apprentice out to a chair in the large entry chamber to the healing ward. "And I, meanwhile, will be making some human-approved medicines."
Tathor's face was already buried in the book. "Felrion, why do they—hello, King Thranduil—call it the 'common cold'? Does it make them cold?"
"I honestly don't know why," Felrion admitted. "What can I do for you, my lord?"
Thranduil waved for his guards to stay outside. "I see you are already preparing for the human ambassadors."
"So the 'flu' is like a big version of a 'cold'," Tathor whispered to himself.
"That's right," said Felrion, answering one or the other.
The king nodded, looking anywhere but at Felrion. "And you will be prepared?"
"Yes, my lord."
Tathor flipped to a new page. "Appendi—yikes."
Thranduil raised an eyebrow in Tathor's direction. "As it seems we will have mortal guests more often from now on, I was wondering if you could train some of the elves who will be around the humans most often to respond to their medical emergencies."
"Huh." Felrion stroked his chin. "That's a good idea. A lot of it would be brushing up on things that rarely happen to elves... choking, seizures... and then new things like allergic reactions and heart attacks..."
Tathor turned to the section labeled "heart problems", and his eyes widened.
"Allergic reactions," mused Thranduil. "How can we anticipate those?"
"The humans should know if they have any. I'd worry more about the things that can poison humans, but not elves—I'll give the cooks a list, and they'd better check their recipes very carefully."
Tathor was still flipping through the book, his face growing more and more horrified with each page.
"It should all be fine," Felrion assured Thranduil. "We've done it before without any—"
"Aaugh!"
They both turned.
Tathor slammed the book shut and slapped his hands over his eyes. "How do they live to EIGHTY?! There are so many ways they can die!"
"Oops," said the healer. "Tathor, most of those things only happen to a tiny fraction of humans; I've only ever seen a few of them. Chances are they'll all be fine during their visit."
The king cleared his throat. "Actually, how do we handle the situation if they bring a contagious illness with them?"
"If it's something severe, we isolate them all so they can't spread it to each other, and bring in healers to take care of each. More likely it'd be a cold or something else mild, in which case we either ignore it or postpone your talks a few days until they recover."
"Is that all?"
"We might have to do more depending on the sickness, but we've planned it all out. It's unlikely, anyway."
"And if one does die, one way or the other?"
"Then, unless it looks like we killed them or completely failed to help, I'm sure the humans will understand. But again, the ones who come should all be healthy and not too old—they shouldn't be any more likely to die on a given day than your elk is."
That was enough for Thranduil, and he nodded and excused himself.
"Felrion!" Tathor wailed, now sitting with his legs pulled up to his chest, the evil book on the chair next to him.
Oh dear. "Pull yourself together, Tathor. The humans will be fine, but I want you to be prepared just in case."
Tathor took a deep breath and nodded bravely.
. . . . . .
"And keep them in the middle of the walkways—remember, their balance is really bad. We don't want to lose a human because they got too close to the edge." Kilvara paused in her lecture. "I think that's all. Any questions?"
One of the four elves who'd been assigned to escort the humans around when they came raised his hand. "Is it really a good idea to give them a tour if they're that clumsy?"
"Just keep a really close eye on them and it'll be fine. Most of them will stay away from big drops and sharp things anyway—just keep an eye on the young males."
"They're all young," protested the elf.
"Youngest. Like..." She tried to describe how to identify the youngest humans. "If they look like elves instead of having face wrinkles and gray hair. Or if they have beards—hair around their mouths—but they're thin and... y'know what, I'll point them out to you."
. . . . . .
"Remember," Taensirion said to the welcoming committee—Legolas, Felrion, Tathor, Kilvara, and the four escort elves—"they are all very young—the oldest may be fifty or sixty years old—but they do not like to be reminded of that fact. Try to treat them as adults."
"They mature faster than elves, too," Felrion added.
The advisor nodded. "True, and so they may seem older than they are. Still, they may not know things an elf would, so try to preserve their dignity."
Legolas, Tathor, and the escort elves nodded eagerly, filing that away in their memories. Legolas especially was quite happy to learn that all the humans would definitely be younger than himself and Tathor.
Someone called for Taensirion off to the side—it sounded like Firith, who was finalizing the humans' living arrangements—and he excused himself even as the huge entry doors creaked open. An elven patrol entered, led by Silana (who was grinning), and with them came ten humans, staring around them with wide eyes. Legolas chuckled; humans probably couldn't build things like this with their short lifespans. All the humans were males, and three had gray hair, two salt-and-pepper, four dark, and one blond. They wore heavy ceremonial clothing—like Sindarin-style formal outfits, but inflexible and uncomfortable-looking.
One of the gray-haired ones, a short but confident-looking man with a thick, curly beard, led the others forward and bowed—the patrol elves hung back. "Prince Legolas, it is an honor."
Legolas wondered if he'd met this human before—Kilvara said they changed so much over time that it could be hard to recognize them—or if he was just recognizable. "Greetings—" He scrambled for the human's name. "Berant, of the humans."
The human smiled. Legolas felt he should say something more, but he was saved from having to think of something when Tathor shyly approached. "Hello," the Silvan elf said in shaky Common. "My name is Tathor. It's very... exciting to see you. I have never met a human before."
The human cocked his head. "Would I be right, then, in assuming you are quite young? Or new to your profession?" He gestured toward Tathor's healer's outfit.
While Tathor was visibly working through the words, Felrion smiled and stepped forward. "This is my apprentice, Tathor, and yes, he's very young; I hope you'll forgive his questions, since this is his first opportunity to learn about humans."
"Of course," said Berant with a smile. "And well met again... Felrion, is it?"
Felrion bowed. "Well met."
Just then Taensirion came back. "I believe our guests' accommodations are ready." He looked to Legolas.
The prince tried to look like he knew what he was doing. "Very good, Taensirion. Are they to meet with my father before or after they rest?"
"The king would like to see them before, if they are not too tired from their journey."
Both looked to Berant, who nodded. "That is suitable."
"I could show them the way, if you wish," Taensirion offered.
It still made Legolas uncomfortable the way Taensirion could switch from fatherly to deferential when they acted as prince and advisor. "I believe Kilvara was already assigned to do so."
"Ah, very well, then. Hmm—my lord, I believe Tathor has a question for you."
He turned around; Tathor indeed had a hand raised. "Don't you think the healers should make sure they're not sick?" the apprentice asked in Silvan, making Felrion chuckle.
Berant surprised them all by saying, in perfect Sindarin, "You would be quite welcome to do so after we meet with King Thranduil, if you like." He returned Felrion's wink.
. . . . . .
"So, what's the verdict?" Kilvara inquired as Felrion finally pulled Tathor away from the humans; she, Legolas, and Silana had been hanging around to watch the examination, while Taensirion questioned Berant about what was happening in the human town.
"One has an affliction of the lungs that the humans call asthma," Felrion replied, "but it's not contagious and shouldn't shorten his life any. The others are all healthy. I'd say the odds of any of our visitors dropping dead in the next few weeks are as low as they can get for humans."
"The oldest one is seventy-four," Tathor told them in amazement. "Can you imagine, Legolas? Only living to a hundred!"
"Hmm, like Legolas would have if that elk had gotten him better a few decades ago?" Felrion raised an eyebrow.
Legolas gave him a look. "You always have to bring that up."
"Shh," said Silana suddenly.
They all looked at her, then at the human she pointed at, who was getting Taensirion's attention. "Lad, do you think you could fetch some water?" the human (who was perhaps twenty-five) requested politely.
Taensirion blinked several times. "Did—did you just call me 'lad'?"
Berant flushed scarlet. "Lord Taensirion, I am so sorry."
"It is all right, it has just—" Taensirion had to muffle his laughter with one hand. "—been a while."
"Oh no," groaned the offending human, covering his eyes. "How old are you?–Or is it rude to ask?"
"I am..." Taensirion ran a hand through his hair. "What year is it? Somewhere past four thousand; if you want a more exact answer, I will have to do some math."
"Four thousand," repeated the human blankly.
The advisor chuckled. "Indeed. And yes, I would be happy to get you something to drink."
"Oh—you don't have to—"
"No, no, I insist." Taensirion was still fighting off giggles as he passed the other elves. Berant began chewing out his obviously unobservant companion for not realizing he was talking to the third most important elf in the entire elven kingdom, whom they'd talked about several times on the journey there...!
"I guess four thousand must be kind of mind-blowing when you have such short lives," Felrion mused quietly.
Tathor held out his hands. "It's mind-blowing to me!"
The older three chuckled.
"I'm kind of surprised they put up with you that long," remarked Kilvara. "That one man was so confused when you asked if he'd ever had a cold; it sounded like you were asking if he'd ever come close to fading."
"I warned them," Silana admitted, grinning. "When Tathor ran up to me with his giant book and started chattering about... what's it called?"
"Tuberculosis," he provided.
"Right. Then I knew I had to do something."
"Oops..."
She ruffled his hair. "Don't ever change, Tathor. Besides, they are terribly fragile creatures, the poor things."
. . . . . .
Meanwhile, among the Hwenti, another (half) human was inspiring similar sentiments.
Cough.
Thump.
"Ow!"
"Shut up, I'm sleeping!"
"I'm so sorry, does my human illness bother you?"
"Psst... Dawn!" Raven hissed. "Flint's sick again!"
Storm sat up and craned his neck to see the half-human. "How often does this happen, again?"
"Only every few decades, after we've been around humans," said the sleepy flame-haired leader as she got up to check on her son.
"Don't rub it in," Flint muttered, giving another small cough. "Leave me alone, Nana, I'm fine." They could hear the rawness of his throat from his voice.
Other elves were waking up now. "Is Flint dying?" Fox mumbled as he and Moon tried to see what was going on, the former tilting one ear toward the speakers to make up for his lack of sight.
"Looks like it," said Raven cheerfully.
Star waved dismissively without even bothering to roll over. "He's fine, let him sleep."
Raven poked the half-human.
"Ada!" Dawn scolded.
His unrepentant grin only widened when Flint kicked him in the shin.
Storm, who'd been watching all this in considerable amusement, snorted at their antics. Flint's head whipped around at the sound, and he leapt to his feet with a huff (and another cough into his arm). "I'm not taking this," he announced as he stalked off into the dark scrubland.
The Avari looked at each other. "...Come on, Silvan, let's go get him," Raven told Storm, having the decency to look a bit ashamed.
"I don't think he wants to talk to us," Storm observed, but he followed Raven anyway.
"Just so Dawn doesn't complain," was Raven's excuse—actually quite a good one; she was giving them the glare that said they'd be keeping watch all of tomorrow night, Raven very much included.
They followed the sound of hacking to a nearby stream, where Flint was splashing water on his face, presumably trying to lower a fever. "I hate this," he muttered, giving them a glare over his shoulder as they approached.
Raven looked at him, then at Storm, then at Flint again, his thought process clear. He pushed his more diplomatic companion forward.
Storm stuck his tongue out at the ancient elf and went to sit next to Flint, trying to figure out what the ill Avari needed to hear. He settled for patting him on the back, which turned to thumping as a full fit of coughing overtook the young half-human.
Flint sighed and rested his head on his bent knees.
Raven tapped Storm's shoulder. When he sleeps, we carry him back, he explained in the Avarian sign language.
Storm winked; he'd been thinking the same thing.
What would actually happen if you visited Middle-Earth.