He doesn't leave her side even once throughout the night, keeping silent vigil over her as she tosses and turns in her fever dreams. She pushes herself so hard, this woman, but then she would have to. She carries heavy burdens, far too heavy for such young shoulders. Such strength she must have to manage them as well as she does. He admires that.

But still she is only human, with a frail human body. No matter her strength, there is only so much she can take.

When the first blushing light of dawn creeps in through the gasps in the tent flap he is still there, sitting with one knee pulled up and an arm resting on it when she starts to stir. He's always looked a bit tired and worn since he joined them, but even after a night of wakefulness he doesn't look more so now than he had the evening before.

"Good morning," he greets when she sits up. She still has a fever, of that he's sure even without touching her skin to feel for a temperature, but it does seem lowered. Perhaps it is simply that she has had a chance to rest that has her looking less worn but Regis still dares to hope that things are going in the right direction.

"You were indeed," he agrees, "and you are not out of the woods just yet, I dare say. But how are you feeling this morning? Sleep has done you well, I think."