I am not entirely certain when I wandered too far from the camp.

In my defense, everything in the marsh looks exactly the same—wet, tangled, and just a little bit like it wants to swallow you whole. One moment I’m near the fire, listening to Aragorn and Gandalf speak in those very serious, very quiet tones they use when something important is happening, and the next I’m following what I thought was a slightly less muddy patch of ground and—well.

Now I am here.

Alone.

Which, I will admit, is perhaps not my best decision.

I pause, glancing back over my shoulder, trying to spot the glow of the campfire through the trees. It’s still there—faint, flickering between branches—but far enough that I should probably turn around.

Yes.

Turning around would be wise.

Very wise.

I nod to myself and pivot, immediately stepping into something that sinks slightly beneath my foot.

Right.

Less wise than I thought.

I make a small face, pulling my foot free with a soft squelch, and that’s when the forest goes quiet.

Not normal quiet.

The kind of quiet where everything feels like it’s watching you.

“Oh,” I say softly to absolutely no one, “that’s not good.”

Something shifts above me.

I freeze.

Very slowly, I tilt my head upward.

The branches move.

And then—

She drops.

Not falls. Not stumbles. Drops—like something that belongs in the trees more than on the ground—landing in front of me in a low crouch so sudden I nearly fall over backward.

I do not scream.

This is, frankly, a miracle.

Instead, I stare.

Because standing—no, crouching—in front of me is the most alarming and possibly the most fascinating person I have ever seen.

There are bones in her hair.

Actual bones.

And feathers.

And her eyes—

Right.

Do not think about the eyes.

She doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t even blink, I think.

She just… watches me.

And then she hisses.

It is not a polite sort of hiss.

It is a very direct sort of hiss that I am fairly certain means something along the lines of you should not be here and I am considering making that your problem.

“Oh,” I say again, because apparently that is all I am capable of right now. “Hello.”

She does not respond.

Instead, she moves.

Not toward me exactly—but around me.

Circling.

Which I feel is a very important detail.

I turn slowly where I stand so I don’t lose sight of her, hands lifting just a little, palms open in what I hope is a non-threatening gesture. Internally, I am having several very important thoughts all at once.

First: this is very scary.

Second: this is a pretty wild lady.

Third: I am going to die.

Fourth: I would prefer not to.

She hisses again, sharper this time, and the sound seems to push at me, like she’s trying to herd me in a particular direction.

“Oh! Oh, I see,” I say quickly, nodding as if this is all perfectly reasonable. “You want me to go that way, do you? Yes, that makes sense. Very good idea, really.”

I take a cautious step backward in the direction she seems to be guiding me.

She follows.

Not close enough to touch—but close enough that I am very aware she could, if she wished, do something quite permanent about my current situation.

Another hiss.

“Yes, yes, I’m going,” I assure her, voice a touch too bright. “No need to rush, I’m very cooperative, actually.”

Internally, I am reconsidering every decision I have ever made. Also, I have decided that if I survive this, I am absolutely telling Merry about it.

She moves again, quicker this time, and I nearly trip over my own feet trying to keep up the backward retreat. The campfire flickers a little brighter through the trees now, and I feel a sudden, overwhelming sense of relief.

“Oh, that’s mine,” I say helpfully, gesturing behind me. “Well, not mine exactly, but you know, shared fires.”

She makes a low sound in her throat

I freeze again

Right, perhaps less talking.

No, definitely still talking.

“I just want to say,” I add, because apparently I have no survival instincts whatsoever, “you are very impressive. Terrifying, but impressive. Thanks for the help."

I like this one a lot.