She woke up screaming in her bedroll with tears running down her cheeks, her hair damp and plastered to her face from sweat. She was cold and she was hot, but, most of all, she was sick. A vicious string of coughs left her and her throat was starting to burn, her body shaking with each offending cough. Snot was starting to dribble from her nose and panicked whimpers chased every cough and every sigh she uttered, the tears in her eyes falling each time.

It was the third time that night and Kíli was worried that she might not be able to travel when the time came, for Durin's Day wasn't far off.

He'd been hopelessly watching her sleep and cry from his bedroll two feet away, listening to her cough and whine in pain. He wanted to go and comfort her, to hold her in his arms and tell her that everything would be all right, but he didn't. He was afraid she'd scream at him, throw a rock at him, reject him entirely, and, more than anything, he knew his uncle would disapprove strongly, for a woman should not have come along on this adventure to begin with. He scowled at himself, crossing his arms behind his head, and let out a long sigh. It was either watch her groan as she flopped from side to side to get comfortable or move closer and throw an arm around her to calm her down. Hell, he didn't even have to do that! He could just lay his cloak on her and be done with it.

But she needed more than just an extra blanket, more than a piece of leather. She needed reassurance and kindness, comfort and warmth - all were things Kíli was almost completely certain she would shield herself from, shrug him off, smile weakly and tell him, 'I'm quite all right, silly dwarf,' and roll over in a pathetic attempt to return to sleep.

For the third time that night, she turned onto her side, facing him, and, silently, she cried.