Leaves rustle ahead, quick and nervous, and I laugh before anyone else can draw steel.

“Ah, laddies,” I say easily, waving a hand as if the forest itself has simply sneezed. “Just a hare, I’ll wager. Mirkwood’s full of the little blighters, and they’ve a talent for sounding far larger than they are.”

A few of the Company ease, muttering, but I’m already stepping off the path, boots crunching softly through leaf‑mold. Humor first—always humor. It’s how I keep the dark from biting too deep.

Then the brush parts.

And the smile dies clean in my throat.

She’s crouched there like a doe caught in torchlight, folded in on herself so tightly she looks more skeleton than anything. She’s shaking—proper shaking, the kind you don’t fake—and I can hear the faint click of her teeth knocking together. Not an Orc. Not a spider. A woman.

By Mahal's Hammer.

Too thin. Painfully so. As if the world has been carving her down bit by bit and never once thought to stop. Her hair hangs white and dull around her face, not silver, not shining—just pale, like something leached of all warmth. Her eyes are wide with terror, red‑rimmed and hollow, and when she lifts her hands I see it: dried red body fluid caked along her fingers, smeared at the corner of her mouth.

My heart stutters.

“Oh—oh no,” I breathe before I can stop myself.

She flinches at the sound of my voice and scrambles back, branches snapping as she tries to melt deeper into the shrubs, as if she expects a blow. That hurts worse than the red body fluid. Worse than the hunger written all over her.

“All right,” I say quickly, hands coming up, palms out, showing empty skin and no weapons. “Easy now. That’s on me. Big voice. Big beard. Terrible first impression, truly.”

I make a crooked smile I don’t quite feel. Humor. Anchor it with humor.

She keeps retreating, back pressing into shadow, eyes locked on me like I’m the danger.

And maybe I am.

I glance back once toward the path, making sure I’m the only one she can see, then angle my body just so—broad shoulders turned aside, stance open. “You’re hurt, aren’t you?” I say gently. “Or hungry. Or both. Mirkwood’s not exactly known for its hospitality.”

Her breathing comes fast and shallow. She shakes harder, and it hits me then—not fear alone. Effort. Standing still costs her something.

Right.

That changes things.

“Well,” I murmur, lowering myself a little so I don’t loom. Knees complaining, but worth it. “We’ll sort that. Stew, maybe. I make a fine one. Best thing for rattled nerves, stew. Gets a bit of warmth back where it belongs.”

She retreats another inch, shadows swallowing her shoulders.

“No no,” I say at once, softer now. “I won’t hurt you. And I won’t let anyone else do it either. You’ve had enough of that, I reckon.”

The words surprise even me, but once spoken they settle firm in my chest.

I lower myself fully, sitting back on my heels, hands still visible. “You don’t have to come out if you’re not ready. We’ll take this at your pace. Slow as you like.”

Her eyes flick to the red body fluid on her hands, then back to me, shame tightening her mouth.

I swallow.

Whatever happened here, it wasn’t kind.

“What’s your name?” I ask gently, like a question instead of a demand. “I’m Bofur.”