The forest is in a mood.

I can feel it in the way the air sits heavy, in the way the leaves won’t quite settle, in the way even the fire sounds like it’s thinking too hard. That’s usually when I start whistling. Not because it helps—just because silence makes me itch.

So I’m mid-tune, tapping my foot, when the woods shift.

Not squirrel. Not bird. The wrong kind.

The tune dies.

The Company stills.

Bifur tilts his head. Bombur frowns. Thorin’s shoulders square. Dwalin’s hand finds his axe. Gandalf’s gaze lifts to the canopy.

A growl rolls out of the dark. Low. Wet. Unhappy.

Another answers it. Closer.

Then a hiss—sharp, territorial.

Every hair on my arms goes up.

Ori makes a small noise. Kíli says something enthusiastic and ill-advised. Thorin’s grip tightens. Gandalf’s staff lifts a fraction.

The forest goes still.

Not quiet.

Still.

Then something drops out of the tree.

Not branches. Not brush.

The canopy.

She lands in a low crouch at the edge of the firelight, spear up, body coiled. Ash-grey skin catches the glow. Black dreadlocks heavy with bone and feathers. Runes cut into her arms and one into her cheek. Claws where nails should be. Teeth bared.

An Avari

Not gentle.

Not tame.

I freeze.

Because she’s looking at me.

Her head lowers. Shoulders roll forward. The growl deepens.

“Er—hello,” I manage.

She hisses. Loud. Offended.

I smile. Of course I do.

Before anyone can stop her, she moves—fast—straight toward me. Her hand snaps out and lifts my hat clean off my head like she’s plucking a leaf.

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

My mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

She turns the hat over, sniffing it like it might bite. Tilts it. Shakes it. Peers inside. Her nose wrinkles. She growls at it.

I watch, entranced. Hopeless.

She hesitates… then places it on her own head.

It slips.

She stills.

The whole camp holds its breath.

She looks around, confused. Suspicious. Deeply unimpressed.

What is this thing? Why does it go on head? Why does it exist?

I laugh—soft, then a little louder—because she looks personally offended by the concept of clothing.

Her head snaps to me. Eyes narrow. Teeth show. The hiss that follows is sharp and direct.

I clamp a hand over my mouth. “Sorry—sorry—just—no, that’s… that’s perfect on you.”

She blinks. Once. Twice. Slow. Unconvinced.

I grin anyway. “That’s my hat,” I add cheerfully. “Well. Was. It’s yours now, I suppose.”

Her shoulders tense. The growl returns, deeper, vibrating.

She steps closer. One step. Claws dig into the dirt. The spear never wavers.

I soften my voice without thinking. “It suits you,” I say. “Very fierce. Very… authoritative.”

Her jaw tightens. The growl sharpens.

I hum. An old, light tune. Habit.

Her whole body reacts—an offended flinch, a blade-sharp hiss.

Oh. That bothered her.

I stop humming.

Try whistling instead.

Immediate response: a loud, furious hiss, shoulders forward, teeth bared, thunder in her chest.

Right. Noted.

I absolutely should not smile.

I do.

Bright. Unrepentant.

“Does that annoy you?” I ask gently. “Oh. That’s unfortunate.”

She snaps her teeth. Near me. A warning.

I laugh softer. “I can stop,” I promise. “Probably.”

Her stare is intense—assessing—like she’s deciding if I’m prey, threat, or some third, deeply inconvenient category.

She snorts. Short. Sharp. Disdainful.

I tilt my head. “You’re very quiet,” I add. “I talk enough for both of us.”

The growl is immediate. The hiss sharper. Her grip tightens on the spear.

What is this thing? Why does it laugh? Why does it sing? Why does it whistle and why does that make me want to bite it?

I beam at her.

Completely, utterly smitten.

She bares her teeth.

Thorin’s voice cuts in behind me. “Bofur, do not—”

I lift a hand without looking. “I’m fine.”

She hisses at his voice. Then growls again—territorial.

Gandalf lowers his staff a fraction. “Easy,” he murmurs. “She is not here for blood.”

Her eyes flick to him. The hiss is pure offense.

“—yet,” he amends.

I swallow. “Love that. Very comforting.”

She steps closer—

Oh I am in trouble..