In which Lorna is an unwitting instigator of doom, Dale's healers begin to panic, and Thranduil gets very, very bad news.

Lorna, for the sake of her own sanity, decided to believe that her friends had to be running around all over here, too. If she didn't, she'd do nothing but fear what Von Ratched might be doing to them, and it would drive her mad.

Not that she did a great deal of thinking. For the next three days, her fever was so high that she spent most of them in a semi-conscious dream state, achy and miserable.

The redhead – Tauriel – had to report back to her creepy King, but left one of her soldiers. Menelwen was a pretty woman – Elf – who looked a few years younger than Lorna herself, auburn-haired, with clear grey eyes. She mostly sat beside Lorna's bed, monitoring her, probably bored out of her skull.

The fever finally dropped on the fourth day, though it didn't break, and Lorna actually managed to eat a little – some kind of stew, though the meat tasted strange to her. She also had a standing wash-up and a change of clothes, and while it wasn't enough to make her feel really clean, it was better than nothing.

"I need to wash my hair, when I can," she said, shivering as she wrapped herself in all her blankets again. Even when she'd lived in her van, she hadn't gone this long without a shampoo. God, what did they even use here? Probably just plain soap. That would take forever, but at least her gran had told her you could get the residue out with vinegar. Of course, without conditioner, it would probably take hours to comb. At least her period wasn't due for another fortnight, because she highly doubted they'd even heard of tampons.

Her eyes narrowed when she regarded Menelwen, seated by the fire as she sharpened a truly beautiful knife. "Your hair is suspiciously clean," Lorna said. "There's no way you're washing it with just soap." There was some English garbled in there, but the Elf would probably get the gist of it. "I'll teach you to swear in Irish if you give me shampoo. My hair feels bloody awful."

The Elf arched an eyebrow. "You do not use soap?"

"Not this kind, no." More English. Oh well. "We have what we call shampoo. It is…liquid?" That wasn't the word she wanted, but 'goo' was unappetizing and inaccurate. "And conditioner, to make it easy to brush." She didn't get a chance to say more – once again, she started hacking, that strange, dry, barking sound that made her cringe, and felt rather like her chest was trying to tear itself apart.

"I will see what I may do," Menelwen said, rising. "Drink your water."

Menelwen wasn't about to tell the Edain woman, but she was rather worried.

The healer, Astrid, had told her that pneumonia was a survivable disease, but Lorna was so very sick – and now Sven, the male healer, was ill himself.

Menelwen knew little of the Edain and their diseases, but she did know that they all too frequently died of them. If Lorna died, she could tell the Elves nothing of the person she escaped, or where she came from. This was the first day she'd been anything like lucid since her arrival in Dale. Menelwen's entire task was to extract information, and if she couldn't do that, the King would be…displeased.

The healers had a large store of athelas, though its healing properties were markedly less effective outside the hands of one of the Eldar. Menelwen was little more than a battlefield healer; she was trained to deal with wounds, not illness, which was likely why her efforts to treat Lorna had been both difficult and only partially successful. Yes, the woman's fever was down, but it was far from gone, and the cough remained one of the uglier sounds Menelwen had ever heard a living being produce. It sounded…alien, in a way she couldn't hope to describe, and sent a shudder down her spine every single time Lorna made it.

But all Edain illnesses ran their course, provided they didn't prove fatal. One way or another, this had to end eventually.

Getting Lorna's hair washed was not an easy proposition, but the feeling of a clean scalp was worth it. Yeah, she shivered worse than ever, even with the fire built up, but Menelwen's mystery shampoo made it easy to comb. The act of brushing her hair had always soothed Lorna – as long as it wasn't Von Ratched doing the brushing. In that case, gross.

She'd been so worried about what he might be doing back on earth that she had not, until now, given thought to just what damage he could do here. The Elves weren't human, so they might be immune to him – but that wasn't a certainty.

But how could she explain that to Menelwen? She wasn't kidding when she said she didn't know how to say it in Westron, because Westron literally didn't have the word – and she sure as hell wasn't going to share it mentally.

Still, she had to say something. The needed some form of warning, however garbled. She looked at Menelwen, who was now cleaning her boots, bathed in firelight. Whatever oil she was rubbing into them wasn't half as stinky as one might expect.

"The man," Lorna said, searching for the words, "the man where I am from, the one who hurt me – he is dangerous. Very dangerous. This language, I cannot translate right, but in mine we call it telepathy. He can read minds, and hurt them – and control them." Like hell was she going to mention that she could technically do the same thing. She was in no condition to be thrown out on her ear.

Menelwen looked at her, those piercing grey eyes searching hers. She probably didn't believe it, but that wasn't Lorna's problem. What the Elf did with the warning was her own business; Lorna's job was simply to give it. Her only method of convincing anyone was something she refused to do, and not just because she could all too easily hurt someone in doing it. Her instinctive violation of Oleg's mind was bad enough. "Explain."

"They are…curses," Lorna said, again searching for the word. "What I did, with the trees, is also a curse. No one knows where they came from, or why. One day, we are normal; the next, we are cursed. Where I was, before I was here, they were – testing – us." No Westron for 'experimentation'. "They want to know why, and how, but all they do is hurt us. He hurts us, even though he is like us.

"I do not know how I came here. I do not know how long I will stay, but if I am here, others may come. And he is not the only dangerous one, though others might not mean to be."

Menelwen tilted her head, inviting Lorna to continue.

She had to pause to cough, but eventually she went on. "Most of us, we do not control what we have. We do not know how. I barely have control of mine, but it is better than I had."

Menelwen frowned, but it was all Lorna could say, because it was all there was to be said. Too many of the other things couldn't be translated. "Lorna, when you are well, I want to take you to the Woodland Realm. You must tell this to the King."

Lorna shuddered. She didn't need to ask if the King was the one with the creepy eyes – nobody else would be riding a creature like that horned thing. "Do I have to?"

"He will not hurt you," Menelwen assured her, and sounded as though she believed it. "I know he is intimidating –"

"He's bloody creepy," Lorna said in English. Then, in Westron, "It is not his fault, but he looks too much like the man who hurt us all. Especially his eyes." They were bluer than Von Ratched's, and they didn't catch the light like his sometimes did, but they were every bit as pale and cold.

In theory, her telekinesis would keep her safe, but she was still so inept with it. She was lucky she hadn't brought one of those trees down on herself. And it was of no use at all if she threw around too much, and knocked herself out doing it.

"The King will not harm you," Menelwen repeated. "He can be cold and harsh, but he is not cruel."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere yet," Lorna said, coughing. "If he gets impatient, he can come see me himself." She'd probably piss herself if he did, but it wasn't likely. He almost certainly had better things to do.

Astrid initially had little sympathy for Sven and his cold, but after two days, it became clear that it was more than just a cold. After another two, he was too sick to get out of bed.

And after another three, he was not alone.

Their little house of healing was a little house – three rooms for the sick downstairs, and six upstairs. All were now occupied, yet there was still more need.

Astrid and her eldest apprentice, Dagmar, brewed tea of dried feverfew and willow bark, with brandy at night to ease the coughing, but even the Lorna woman had yet to truly improve, let alone the more newly afflicted. Astrid had been a healer for forty-five years, woman and girl, and never seen anything this virulent.

Pneumonia, she knew, could spread, but it rarely did. The good thing about living on that Eru-forsaken lake had been few outside diseases – the traders brought all sorts these days, but until now none had been this severe.

They had to contain it, before it became widespread, but she didn't know how. So far, all who had come down with it had either had contact with Lorna, or with someone who had, but they did not sicken right away. There seemed to be a lag of two to three days – meanwhile, the infected went about their daily life, infecting Eru knew how many more.

Bard's eldest daughter, Sigrid, had insisted on helping, to Astrid's dismay – she was crushing dried athelas, a gift from the Elves, though even in Menelwen's hands it seemed to be doing little. The girl had worked with the healers before, at least; she knew how to carry her weight.

"If people see Father's not afraid to have me work here, they'll stay calmer," she'd said, a stubborn set to her jaw that even Astrid would have had a hard time arguing with.

"Is he afraid?" she asked.

"Well, yes," Sigrid admitted. "But I'm twenty – he can hardly stop me."

While Astrid could argue with that, there wasn't time, and she really did need the help. Sigrid worked fast and she wasn't squeamish. More than that, Astrid could not ask for.

The Elf, Menelwen, was possibly the greatest help – though she looked so very grave. She would use the athelas and chant in her beautiful gibberish language, and at first it seemed to work – for a time. Always did the fever relapse.

It was only going to be a matter of time before someone died. Bard disliked asking for aid, especially when they already owed the Elves more than they could ever repay, but he was going to have to.

The city of Dale and its surrounding environs were home to over a thousand people, and those numbers grew by the year. The land around the city had grown fertile since the death of the dragon, and farmer had joined the fishermen and tradesmen.

They knew that some diseases could spread, but they did not know how, and there were none who could tell them. Elves did not sicken, and Dwarven maladies seemed quite different from their own – not that there were many of those. Dwarves didn't catch colds, and pneumonia was very, very rare.

Dale's healers knew that many diseases were spread through contact, but not why, or how. They certainly didn't know why some seemed to spread without any contact at all. Disturbingly, this appeared to be the latter, and Astrid didn't know why. Within a week, dozens were sick, rapidly depleting the store of herbs and remedies.

And then, terrifyingly, the Elf started coughing.

She at first looked utterly confused, as though uncertain if the sound had come from her. Astrid couldn't blame her – everyone knew Elves couldn't sicken.

Those clear grey eyes flicked to her, but the Elf said nothing. What was there to say? Elves didn't cough. Elves didn't take ill. She didn't look ill – her flawless pale skin had no hint of a flush – but she had coughed.

"What are you feeling?" Astrid asked, leading her to the only place anyone could sit down now – the nearly-empty storage cupboard. It was stifling, for they'd kept all the fires burning high, the bitter scent of dozens of herbs stinging in Astrid's nose. If the elf really was ill, she might not know how to describe her own symptoms.

"Fine," Menelwen said, still visibly bewildered. "I sense no difference in my hröa – my body," she clarified. "None at all."

"And yet you coughed."

"And yet I coughed. It was a…strange sensation." She shuddered a little.

"I don't understand it," Astrid growled, glaring at the sparse shelves. "It's pneumonia. There's no phlegm, nothing in the head, but I've never seen pneumonia spread like this, and now you're coughing, which is impossible. What in Eru's name did Oleg drag here?"

"We need more athelas," Menelwen sighed, "and a proper healer. I must go to the Woodland Realm."

"Oh no you don't, Missy," Astrid said firmly. "If you somehow are sick, you can't risk infecting the rest of your people. King Dain can loan us a raven, and hope your King will actually send someone. Once he knows what's going on here, I wouldn't blame him if he didn't." King Thranduil had been a surprisingly good neighbor, but his own people came first and foremost, as they should. It was the same with Dale, and with the Dwarves. Alliance didn't extend to suicide on someone else's behalf.

"He might not," Menelwen said, "but nor would he stop any who wished to come. If we want to risk our lives, that is our own affair."

She coughed again, and Astrid's blood turned to ice.

Ingrid, wife of Sven, at first though little of her cough. It was mild, as was her fever, and a dose of feverfew seemed to tamp both down. Yes, Sven was very sick, but it had been four days since he went to the healers' houses, and until this morning she had felt fine. It was early enough in the spring that ordinary winter maladies could still be passed around – which meant the children were likely to catch it, too. They always seemed to.

Percy only felt mildly ill when he went to his shift at the gate – chilly, with a slight headache. By noon, he had spiked an impressive fever, and a painful cough. Aldor sent him home, calling up a replacement and ordering him to get some rest. It was not an order he was tempted to disobey.

Bard hated Council meetings, and held as few as he could get away with. There were inevitably many things for him to read and sign, both of which he hated, but the worst was the arguing.

The meetings were held in the town hall, and usually drew a crowd of the elderly, bored, or both, but not today. The rows of oak benches, still new enough to gleam, were largely empty, and a good half the Council was missing.

"The last cold of winter, my lord," Einvald said, coughing into a lace-edged handkerchief. He was a big man, and florid, but his face was even redder today. "Ingmar's down with it, and the boys."

Bard frowned. Their newcomer was sick, but she'd been in the house of healing since she arrived. Yes, some of those who dealt with her were now ill, but neither Einvald nor any of his family would have had contact with them. Astrid had called it pneumonia, and she wasn't known to be wrong, but Bard didn't believe in coincidences.

"Go home, Einvald," he said, rising. "The rest of you, I need to know who is sick, and where." What he was going to do with that information, he didn't know, but he ought to have it.

He hurried out before anyone could stop him, his eyes sweeping the sun-washed city. The hall stood near the center, high enough that he could see the lower west and south sides clearly.

Dale was never quiet during the day, and he could hardly say it was now. People went about their business – tradesmen, guards, errand-runners of all sorts, the streets still rather busy. They were not, however, quite so busy as usual, and a number of the people who passed him were coughing.

If not for their mystery woman, he wouldn't be alarmed. It was late in the season for illness, but some cough or other always did seem to get passed around all winter. Like as not it was the same now, but perhaps he had best pay Astrid a visit.

Lorna was aware of nothing that went on outside her room, and little enough aware of what was in it. She'd gained a roommate, a woman every bit as ill as she was, but her fever had spiked again, and she walked now in delirium.

She'd wanted to forget Von Ratched, so naturally it was that which haunted her nightmares. The scent of his office, citrus and spice, the ungodly heat of his fingers as he laid them on her forehead. That was all he'd done, their only point of contact until she attacked him, her telekinesis for the first time somewhat under her control.

She was no stranger to pain, and he knew that, knew he could break her bones without breaking her, so he'd gone into her mind and – and –

No. No, she would not re-live that. Delirious or not, she had enough presence of mind to force it away, for now. Sick and miserable though she was, she tried to wince to the surface of her consciousness. Yes, she was sick – hell, maybe she was dying – but she was free. God knew how far she was from her friends, in this strange place that had somehow drawn her to itself, but she was free, and she wasn't alone.

She had just enough coherent thought to hope her presence wasn't getting other people killed, too.

Thranduil was not remotely happy to receive one of Dain's ravens, and even less so once he read the note it bore.

He stared at the precise writing, too fine to be Dwarven, certain there had to be some mistake. Eldar simply did not sicken. Plagues of old had devastated the populations of the Edain and the Dwarves, but always the Elves remained untouched. Eru had built them so.

He poured himself a glass of wine, setting the parchment on the cluttered surface of his desk. The fires was bright, the room warm, and yet he felt very cold.

The missive, if it was true, left him at something of an impasse. He could hardly be expected to expose more of his people to some alien pestilence, but neither could he abandon Menelwen. Yes, she was only one person, but she was one of his. Elves did not abandon their kin, not unless they had no other choice.

Thranduil had a choice. He had lost enough of his people five years ago – he would not leave Menelwen out in the cold. No, he could not in good conscience order anyone to go to Dale, but he wouldn't need to. Healers were healers; they went where there was need of them, regardless of the risk to themselves.

He sank into his desk chair, downing half the wine at one go. They had still found no sign of their mystery Edain's tormenter, and he was beginning to think they weren't going to. Impossible though it was, she really did seem to have dropped out of thin air.

And had, he was sure, brought this disease with her. Tauriel said she had been sick when the guards' party had left; there was simply no way this was coincidence. He rather wished they had shot her when they had a chance.

How, you ask, is Menelwen sick? Be patient and you will find out.

So, I'm on rather shaky ground here, medically speaking. You don't hear much about pneumonia outbreaks because bacterial pneumonia is typically a secondary infection, and while it can be contagious, you pretty much have to hack right in someone's face – it's not like a virus, that can actually have a shelf-life outside a host. On Earth, odds of this happening are pretty low, but the result of Middle-Earth bacteria meeting Lorna-germs has basically resulted in a bacterial superbug.

Now, I'm not anything resembling a medical professional, but I've been fascinated by diseases and pandemics since I was a kid (I was a weird kid), so I'm trying to draw on that now. I've actually had pneumonia, but it was bronchial, which is a lot less dangerous (though not much less unpleasant) than Lorna's lobar pneumonia. It's how I discovered that they essentially make liquid Vicoden – the doctor gave me some so I'd stop coughing long enough to sleep.

Lobar pneumonia is nasty shit, and is the kind that, without antibiotics, can in fact kill you. Pre-antibiotics, it was one of the leading causes of disease-related death around the world. Fortunately for Dale, the Elves have wonderful medicine, provided they don't wind up needing it all themselves. It ought to be glad she's not carrying measles, which has historically wiped out groups of people with no prior contact to it – or even influenza. In 1918 it killed fourteen percent of Fiji in two weeks, and by the end of the pandemic, over twenty percent of the population had died.

Fortunately for Dale, I'm not that cruel. Lorna might be Typhoid Mary, but at least she hasn't brought actual typhoid.

Title means "Epidemic" in Irish. As always, your reviews give me hope.