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Ambushed by orcs after they made it out of Mirkwood, they were caught unawares and still exhausted from their ordeal in the barrels. It’s not until a few hours later that Fili realises something is wrong.
Kili had been unnaturally quiet; limping along silently, eyes hidden under his hood and favouring his right leg. He’d waved off any attempts to inspect his injury and had hobbled towards the nearest boulder when Thorin announced they’d set up camp under a large overhang of rock near the base of a valley.
He was as white as a sheet when Fili approached him, legs stretched out in front of him and head tipped back against the damp, lichen-spotted stone. Fili knelt beside him, touched his shoulder. “Kili; brother. What’s the matter?” he asked quietly, so the others would not hear. Kili did not stir, but his eyelids fluttered weakly and a quiet sound escaped his throat.
Fili’s heart lurched in his chest as he shook his brother’s shoulders more firmly. “Kili!” he cried, past caring about his brother’s embarrassment. Kili’s head lolled like a dead weight to the side, hair falling over his face; Thorin was beside them in a heartbeat.
“What is the matter?” he asked urgently. Fili looked up at him in despair. “Kili won’t wake up; he’s been looking unwell all day but…” he trailed off, turning back to his brother and patting his cheek gently. “Come on now, Kili. It’s not time to sleep yet.”
Bofur knelt down in the grass beside them and pressed the back of his hand to Kili’s forehead, drawing it away with a hiss. “He’s got a fever.” He set about pulling the leather laces at Kili’s neck loose while Fili looked on in horror.
“It must be his leg,” he said suddenly. “He injured it this morning but refused to let me look at it.” Bofur hesitated a second, then sliced through the leg of Kili’s leggings, exposing his calf. There was a rip in the muscle of his leg; inflamed with infection. Bofur held his hand over it, clicking his tongue at the heat radiating off it.
“That’s a nasty infection; he must’ve been caught by an orc blade. We need to get him warm.” Fili looped his arms around Kili’s waist, dragging him to his feet and staggering over his brother’s dead weight in his arms. The rest of the company, who had been looking on curiously, now all wore matching expressions of concern.
Thorin was all business. “Get a fire going,” he snapped. “Night is approaching and we don’t want to be left out here in the dark.” Bofur, who had been rifling through his and Kili’s packs, laid out Kili’s bedroll in the back of the overhang.
“Bring him over here,” he called, setting down his bag and digging through it. Fili stepped forward laboriously, arms straining as he tried to hold up his brother. Suddenly the weight in his arms lessened; he looked down in surprise to see Bilbo, arm wrapped firmly around Kili’s waist.
“Mr Baggins…” Fili began but Bilbo waved him off with his free arm.
“Don’t say anything, Fili,” he gritted out, adjusting his arm. “Let’s just focus on getting your brother comfortable, hm?” Together they half-dragged, half-carried Fili over to Bofur, Fili gently cradling the back of Kili’s head as they laid him down. Bilbo leaned heavily against a rock, hair damp at his temples. Gloin, with a few deft flicks of his wrist, quickly had a fire going, and its glow licked gently over Kili’s face, casting one half of it into shadow. Bofur, after inspecting the wound more carefully, left with Dwalin to find White Sage for a poultice, and left Fili in charge of cleaning the dirt from Kili’s leg.
Unfortunately, Kili appeared to be lucid enough that any touch to his injury caused him to cry out so plaintively and an attempt to move his leg away meant that Fili had tears in his eyes before he’d even cleaned half of it. Bilbo took pity on him. He knelt down, resting a hand on Fili’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Fili, we’re going to have to hold him down. If it doesn’t get cleaned, it’ll only get worse.” Fili sucked in a harsh breath.
“I know, I do.” He set his jaw and resolutely set about cleaning the dirt and blood off his brother’s leg, while Bilbo held down Kili’s leg with all his might, the young dwarf’s cries ringing in his ears.
By the time the wound was clean, Fili looked ashen, bloody cloth held in a loose fist and face drawn. Bilbo gently eased it out of his hand as Thorin tugged Fili roughly to his chest, and arm around his nephew’s shoulder. Bilbo wandered back over to the rest of the company, sitting down heavily beside Balin and rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh.
“How is he?” Balin asked quietly, face grim. Bilbo lifted his head up and stared into the fire.
“He’s conscious, for now. Though by the looks of the gash on his leg it would probably be better if he wasn’t.” He smiled grimly. “Either way, we certainly can’t move on until his fever’s broken, at the very least.” he stood up suddenly, needing something to do. “My mother always used to say Yarrow was good for fevers, she used to make me drink it like tea.” Balin looked up at him curiously.
“Yarrow?” He asked. “I seem to remember such a herb mentioned often in the cities we travelled through. Thorin!” He called over. “Have you any Yarrow in your pack? Or has Bofur any in his bag? Mr Bilbo believes it may help with the lad’s fever.”
“I have none myself,” Thorin admitted, getting to his feet and opening Bofur’s bag where it rested against a rock. Bilbo hurried over. “I know not what it looks like, however.”
“It is green herb, with a white flower; similar to Cow Parsley, although much more useful.” Bilbo supplied, spotting it tucked in between Soapwort and Comfrey and tugged it out. “Have you a kettle?” he asked, careful to not drop the herb as he hurried back to the fire.
“Aye,” replied Bombur, returning from the search with Dwalin. In his hand was a bunch of silvery-white leaves. “In my pack, Master Baggins. You are right about yarrow. If we are quick, Kili’s fever may yet be broken before the night is over.” He gently nudged Fili to the side. “Find a clean cloth, wet it with cold water and put it on his forehead,” he whispered to Fili. “It will help with his fever.” Fili nodded, getting quickly to his feet and running over to the horses.
Thanks to Gloin’s skill with the tinderbox, the fire quickly heated the water in the kettle until it was bubbling furiously. Bilbo carefully poured the boiling water into a beaker half full of Yarrow, crushing it with a spoon until the liquid was a dark yellow. “It would be better strained, and better still brewed for four hours, but we have no such luxury,” he explained to Balin as he added cold water from his water skin to cool the tea.
He hurried back over to Bofur, who was busy crushing the leaves into a paste with a little water. “Excellent work Master Baggins,” Bofur said, not looking up. “You must get him to drink some.” Bilbo was keenly aware of Thorin’s presence, looming behind him.
“Help me sit him up.” He said shortly, putting the beaker down and hefting Kili up. Thorin hesitated a moment, then knelt at his nephew’s head and together they lifted him into a sitting position. “The real challenge will be getting him to drink any at all.” He said grimly as he lifted the cup to Kili’s lips. Fili ran up, breathless and fell to his knees beside his brother, wet cloth in one hand.
The liquid barely touched Kili’s lips before his screwed his face up, trying to turn away with a groan. “Come on now Kili,” Bilbo coaxed, trying again. But Kili refused to open his mouth, or to taken even a sip of the tea. “Curse the stubbornness of Dwarves,” Bilbo muttered. Fili touched his arm.
“Let me try, Mister Baggins.” He asked, desperation in his voice. Bilbo conceded, handing him the cup and moving to the side. “Kili, please.” Fili murmured. “You have to drink this.” Kili’s eyes slitted open, his breathing shallow and breastbone shining with sweat. But as Kili tipped the cup up, Kili’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped heavily against Fili, who in his shock spilt a good mouthful of the tea down his own arm.
“Kili!” He cried. “Mister Baggins, what do I do? He won’t drink it.” There was such fear in his voice that Bilbo was taken aback.
“Fili, calm yourself. There are other ways we can use Yarrow. Where is that cloth you went to get?” Fili handed it to him, eyes still fixed on his brother’s pale face.
Bilbo doused the cloth in tea, careful to mind the odd bit of leaf and wrung it out until it was just-damp. “Right, lay him back down Fili.” He said, folding the cloth over on itself several times. Fili did as he was told, fussing as he brushed Kili’s damp hair back from his forehead. Bilbo handed him the cloth. “Place it on his forehead, it will work just as well.” Fili did so, arranging it carefully while Kili shifted minutely where he lay, discomfort evident on his face.
“You’ll need to hold him down, lad.” Bofur said suddenly. “I’m afraid this will hurt like nothing else.” He gestured to a stripe of cloth, covered with a thick, greenish paste. “It’ll help with the infection, but its sting is vicious.” Fili swallowed audibly, leaning over his brother to hold his shoulders steady. With the speed of a fox, Bofur spread the cloth over Kili’s leg. The effect was instantaneous.
Kili screamed, writhing violently under his brother, the tendons in his neck jutting as he tried to strain away from the pain in his leg. His screams slowly died away, leaving great choking sobs in their wake. Thorin was frozen where he stood, muscles in his arms knotted with strain, while Fili’s face was twisted with pain as he released his brother’s shoulders. “That’s a good lad.” Bofur murmured, adjusting the cloth. Fili keened, twisting on the bedroll, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists.
It took a long while, but his sobs petered off, leaving a shocked silence in their wake, save for the crackling of the fire. Thorin moved suddenly, was beside Fili in an instant as his nephew stared blankly at his brother’s unmoving face. “Come, Fili. There is nothing more you can do for him,” he urged, but Fili would not be moved.
“I can’t leave him, Thorin.” He said desperately, looking up at his uncle with wide eyes. “What if he wakes, and I am not there? I promised our mother I would look after him; how could I leave him to suffer on his own when he needs me?” He looked back at Kili, quiet in sleep and took his hand. Thorin sighed and got to his feet, patting Fili on the shoulder as he moved away.
To Bilbo’s surprise, Bofur got to his feet as well. “Come on, Master Baggins. There’s nothing to be don’t now but to wait and see if the lad’s strong enough to fight off the infection.” He picked up his bag.
“But, is it alright to leave him?” Bilbo asked, glancing back as they walked together, back to the rest of the company.
“Fili will look after him.” Bofur assured him. “They will fight the infection together, just as they have done in all things.” He smiled at Bilbo, and moved to hang his bag on the branch of a nearby tree. Bilbo reluctantly sat down, poking the red embers with a stick, and glancing back to where Fili was crouched over his brother; dark shapes in the gloom.
Bilbo slept uneasily. Three times he woke in the night, expecting to hear Kili cry out, or Fili shouting that his brother’s condition had worsened. There were no such cries, but the second time he jerked awake, he heard Fili whispering softly to his brother, in a language Bilbo could not understand, but it moved his heart to hear.
The dawn came all too soon, and Bilbo awoke suddenly as someone carefully stepped over where he lay. It was Thorin; he did not look down, or offer any apology, but seemed intent on making for the jut of rock where his nephews lay, and Bilbo could not begrudge him.
Fili looks up as he approaches, the relief evident on his face even from where Bilbo lies.
“His fever broke during the night. I think, I think he’s going to be alright.” Fili says, holding Kili’s hand like a lifeline. Thorin’s relief is evident in the sudden slump of his shoulders. Bilbo smiles to himself, tucks his face back into the crook of his arm and tries to go back to sleep.
By the time Gloin has the fire crackling merrily again, Kili’s awake. While he’s leaning heavily against Fili, and there are dark shadows under his eyes, he’s lucid enough to joke with his brother and to force down some soft bread that Bombur produces out of nowhere, and an infusion of Sage to see off the last of the infection.
Thorin makes the executive decision to linger for one more day, and while Kili protests weakly, there’s no real heart in it. Thankfully, Thorin seems to prioritise the safety of his company over his yearning to retake his homeland, something that Bilbo is grateful for. By the evening, Kili’s able to eat with the others; granted, relying on his brother to help him walk, but he looks stronger and manages a full bowl of stew, all the while laughing along with the company.
Fili is glued to his side for the evening, something that Bilbo would find overbearing, but he catches Kili looking at his brother with such gratitude and love, that it tugs at his heart and he has to look away. As a hobbit, he is unused to the strength and intensity that dwarves love; such a passion is rare in the Shire, rarer still amongst the gentlefolk that reside there.
But Bilbo has come to love this ragtag bunch of dwarves on a suicide mission. If he does return to the Shire, to his old life, it will not be the same. He remembers Gandalf’s words; they echo still in his ears.
“…If you do, you will not be the same.”
He catches Thorin’s eye across the fire. He smiles shakily and Thorin bows his head, dark eyes glittering like pitch in the firelight. Bilbo looks away hastily, taking a mouthful of water from his water skin, and basks in the feeling of good company, as the laughter of his friends and dear, dear companions swells around him.