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Three Times She Slept, and Once She Didn’t

Part Two: Baby Bird

It was boiling hot: nearing a raging 109 degrees . . . and Lyn was shivering. This wasn’t due to normal reasons such as being cooled by a good AC or being scared with goosebumps, but rather from the nasty bout of fever. What had started as a simple sniffle had become a cold, and the cold had transformed into a fever and chills. Though the young woman’s skin burned visibly, she was freezing. From the depths of her thick winter hoodie and denim pants she curled into herself, breathing labored as she subconsciously fought to stay warm. With murky brown eyes the girl slowly looked across the room, from where she lay miserably on her couch, towards the kitchen where she could hear the soft clinking of pots and pans.

“Sire, please come back. . . You don’t have to cook for me just because I’m sick,” the woman said while laughing in a croaky voice, before she coughed painfully, wincing as her swollen throat burned.

“Lady Lyn,” a serene voice called from the other room, “Must I remind you once again that you cannot laugh in your present condition?”

The woman rolled her eyes heavenward as she was chastised and replied, “But they say laughing is the best medicine, Thranduil.”

Thranduil, the Elven King, reentered the room with a tray in hand at that exact moment, his thick brow raised in challenge. “Only when one still has the full faculties of one’s voice.”

“Fair point,” Lyn said hoarsely, flopping her hand in the air aimlessly before she smiled at the Elf who now set the tray on the coffee table in front of her. He gazed at her with gentle light blue eyes- calculating her paled brown complexion studiously before he gestured to the bowl on the platter.

“Can you sit up for me, Mellonamin?”

The young woman nodded. “It might take me a minute . . .”

“I am patient. I can wait.”

Lyn obediently raised herself from the couch, blinking as her head swam before she was in an upright position- albeit a slouched one. Before she felt weight on the cushion next to her. Then, she felt two strong hands pull her into a warm crook, a soft silk tunic pressing against her cheek. The writer looked up at the Elf curiously, where he was hovered over her, picking up the bowl and spoon with his free hand.

“What are you doing, Thranduil?”

He lifted a brow as he dipped the spoon into the broth he had made, and proffered it to her. “I believe there is a phrase that suits. . . ‘Feeding the baby bird?’ ”

Lyn almost choked on her broth as the familiar and silly term was said with such simple indifference. Lyn’s mother had said that line to her a million times while growing up, as the little girl had shared food with her parent. And several weeks ago, while telling the Elven King some childhood memories it had come up. . . Not that the writer had thought that the Fae would remember such a thing.

“But that’s what mother’s say to their children,” Lyn teased as she accepted another mouthful of the soothing soup.

Thranduil looked thoughtful before he gave her a little smile. “I had assumed it was reserved for all family members, mellonin.”

The young woman blushed, as he placed the bowl back onto the coffee table and wrapped both of his arms around her shaking form.

“I suppose it can be. . . But what family member would that make you, Majesty?”

Thranduil chuckled quietly as he brought her closer to his side, engulfing her in his warmth- making her sigh in relief from her frozen state.

“I will tell you when you are yourself, mellonin. But now I must insist you rest and regain your strength.”

Lyn gazed up at him, with already droopy eyelids. “You promise to tell me later, Thrandy?”

At the nickname he frowned slightly, but inclined his fair head once. “You have my word, young one.”

The writer gave him a little smile as she snuggled deeper into the fold of his silken garment and his warm torso, before she sighed almost inaudibly, “Love you, Thranduil.”

And with that Lyn was asleep, and the Elven King was left to ponder her words. . .

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Three Times She Slept, and Once She Didn’t

Part Two: Baby Bird

It was boiling hot: nearing a raging 109 degrees . . . and Lyn was shivering. This wasn’t due to normal reasons such as being cooled by a good AC or being scared with goosebumps, but rather from the nasty bout of fever. What had started as a simple sniffle had become a cold, and the cold had transformed into a fever and chills. Though the young woman’s skin burned visibly, she was freezing. From the depths of her thick winter hoodie and denim pants she curled into herself, breathing labored as she subconsciously fought to stay warm. With murky brown eyes the girl slowly looked across the room, from where she lay miserably on her couch, towards the kitchen where she could hear the soft clinking of pots and pans.

“Sire, please come back. . . You don’t have to cook for me just because I’m sick,” the woman said while laughing in a croaky voice, before she coughed painfully, wincing as her swollen throat burned.

“Lady Lyn,” a serene voice called from the other room, “Must I remind you once again that you cannot laugh in your present condition?”

The woman rolled her eyes heavenward as she was chastised and replied, “But they say laughing is the best medicine, Thranduil.”

Thranduil, the Elven King, reentered the room with a tray in hand at that exact moment, his thick brow raised in challenge. “Only when one still has the full faculties of one’s voice.”

“Fair point,” Lyn said hoarsely, flopping her hand in the air aimlessly before she smiled at the Elf who now set the tray on the coffee table in front of her. He gazed at her with gentle light blue eyes- calculating her paled brown complexion studiously before he gestured to the bowl on the platter.

“Can you sit up for me, Mellonamin?”

The young woman nodded. “It might take me a minute . . .”

“I am patient. I can wait.”

Lyn obediently raised herself from the couch, blinking as her head swam before she was in an upright position- albeit a slouched one. Before she felt weight on the cushion next to her. Then, she felt two strong hands pull her into a warm crook, a soft silk tunic pressing against her cheek. The writer looked up at the Elf curiously, where he was hovered over her, picking up the bowl and spoon with his free hand.

“What are you doing, Thranduil?”

He lifted a brow as he dipped the spoon into the broth he had made, and proffered it to her. “I believe there is a phrase that suits. . . ‘Feeding the baby bird?’ ”

Lyn almost choked on her broth as the familiar and silly term was said with such simple indifference. Lyn’s mother had said that line to her a million times while growing up, as the little girl had shared food with her parent. And several weeks ago, while telling the Elven King some childhood memories it had come up. . . Not that the writer had thought that the Fae would remember such a thing.

“But that’s what mother’s say to their children,” Lyn teased as she accepted another mouthful of the soothing soup.

Thranduil looked thoughtful before he gave her a little smile. “I had assumed it was reserved for all family members, mellonin.”

The young woman blushed, as he placed the bowl back onto the coffee table and wrapped both of his arms around her shaking form.

“I suppose it can be. . . But what family member would that make you, Majesty?”

Thranduil chuckled quietly as he brought her closer to his side, engulfing her in his warmth- making her sigh in relief from her frozen state.

“I will tell you when you are yourself, mellonin. But now I must insist you rest and regain your strength.”

Lyn gazed up at him, with already droopy eyelids. “You promise to tell me later, Thrandy?”

At the nickname he frowned slightly, but inclined his fair head once. “You have my word, young one.”

The writer gave him a little smile as she snuggled deeper into the fold of his silken garment and his warm torso, before she sighed almost inaudibly, “Love you, Thranduil.”

And with that Lyn was asleep, and the Elven King was left to ponder her words. . .