Everyone had over-slept this morning. Dori and his brothers, the Groinsons and Bifur had found a billet elsewhere, so it was only the remaining half of The Company seated glumly about the breakfast table, nursing hang-overs and large mugs of strong coffee, when the connecting door boomed open and Thorin appeared. He had Orcrist in one hand - Thorin's inevitable threat-reaction, which was particularly ludicrous in this case.

"She's sick," he announced without preamble. "Fetch Oin."

There was a long and somewhat thoughtful silence. Then Fili, himself more than usually green about the gills this morning, buried his head with a hollow groan in his folded arms on the table. Kili's mouth fell open and stayed there as he stared gaping from his uncle to the bed clearly visible in the room behind him like a suddenly beetroot fish - and Bofur punched the air. "And that's five coppers you've won for me off o' Nori," he declared. "You're the grand dwarf, Thorin Oakenshield."

Even Bombur, the only one among them who'd been able to face breakfast, paused for almost a second with his porridge spoon halfway to his mouth.

From behind Thorin came a truly enormous sneeze, followed by the somewhat pathetic whimpers of a hobbit shifting feverishly on the pillows. Thorin looked more panicked than ever.

"I'm sure it's naught but a cold, Lad." Balin kept his face modestly averted, studying his coffee with interest, while the glint of an unholy smirk tugged at the corner of his beard. "Anybody could see last night that the lassie was weakening - in her health, I mean," he added, at which point Bofur lost it completely.

"Thorin," said Dwalin. "Will you take an order from me? Will you for the love of Durin go and put your trousers on."