She had never felt so afraid in her life, nor had she felt so in pain; even when an orc had viciously hurt her arm a century before it had not hurt like this. The chances of catching this had been slim, near impossible. Elves were a race of health. Surely whispers would be spoken that she caught it because she decided to live with the dwarves. What she had heard of the sickness was true - it was terrible.
Kili searched through the book, asking her to translate a word for him every once in a while. He had stayed by her ever since she fell ill, bringing her food and trying to help her the best that he could. It was so kind of him to do this for her.
"Kili," she said, "could you do me a favor?" She shut her eyes; the light was beginning to get too bright.
"What?" Kili's voice was tinged with desperation and covered in fear. "Do I need to get Legolas? Thranduil?"
"No." But maybe, probably, later. "I need a pillow." They had more than enough in Erebor, and made of silk no less. Sleeping on walnuts was not doing anything to help her.