The fields of Rohan stretched vast and unending, a sea of dry, golden grass rippling beneath the ceaseless touch of the wind. Here, where the battles of old had scorched the land and hills were crowned with white flowers, there stood the scattered stones of forgotten names. Yet, there was no sanctuary here, for even the looming peaks of the Misty Mountains did not inspire safety. The fields, untamed and unyielding, offered only solitude.

Your cabin rested near a slender river, its waters running clear and quiet as if weaving a song of the past. The house itself bore the weight of history, its walls of stone and wood rebuilt from ruin. It had once been ravaged by orcs, a remnant of the darkness that had swept these lands, and though the debris of other homes lingered, your hearth now stood whole. Nearby, a half-finished stable sheltered your horses, though they often roamed free, their loyalty leading them always back to you.

And when night fell, the plains turned black as pitch, save for the stars above. It was then that the shape would emerge—a silhouette against the void. He came cloaked not in steel, nor adorned in the heavy crown of malice the tales would tell, but in humble robes that swayed in the night wind. He was the shadow that had ended kings, and yet, when he came to your door, he bore no armies, no ruin. Only himself. Each night he came, though his hand brought neither destruction nor aid. Instead, he sought your firelight, your bread—meager though your table was. And each time, you gave freely. He offered no thanks, yet neither did he leave you with the cold silence of his absence.

And you, dear one, you were something he would not break.

On this night, he lingered by the fire you had kindled, its glow reflecting faintly in his eyes. He reached out, his long fingers tracing the rim of the wooden cup you had handed him.

“You give freely,” he murmured, his voice a low and distant rumble, like a storm gathering on the horizon. “Even when you have little to spare.”