The night smells wrong.

Not like wet leaves or old stone or the clean bite of cold air—no. There is iron in it. Steam. The sharp, unmistakable tang of blood.

I slow before I mean to. Kíli is a few steps ahead, already cursing under his breath about the ponies, about Thorin, about how this is absolutely going to be their fault. Bilbo trails behind us, puffing quietly, lantern held too close to his chest.

And then I see her.

She is bent over one of the fallen ponies, tall even while crouched, her silhouette wrong against the grass. Too thin. Too long-limbed. White hair spills forward like frost over dark fabric, catching what little moonlight reaches the clearing. For a heartbeat my mind refuses to give the shape meaning.

She lifts her head.

Red eyes meet mine.

Not wild. Not blazing.

Startled.

She freezes as though she’s been struck, blood dark at her mouth, hands still braced against the horse’s flank. I see then how sunken her face is—cheeks hollowed to bone, jaw sharp beneath skin pulled too tight. She looks… starved. Not like an animal that gorges, but like something that has gone without for far too long.

Kíli inhales sharply behind me.

“Fíli—”

“I know,” I murmur, never taking my eyes off her. “I see her.”

Bilbo lets out a small, horrified sound. “Oh—oh my—”

She straightens slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter whatever fragile truce exists in this moment. She does not advance. Does not bare her teeth. She only watches us, shoulders tight, eyes flicking once—just once—toward the tree line, like a creature expecting pursuit.

Everyone else sees a monster.

I see a woman who looks like she hasn’t eaten properly in an age.

My hand lifts without my permission, palm open—not reaching for a weapon, not reaching for her. Just… open.

“It’s all right,” I hear myself say, voice low, steady. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

Kíli makes a strangled noise. “Fíli, are you mad—”

“Don’t,” I cut in, still watching her. “Please.”

Her gaze snaps back to mine, sharp and incredulous, like she cannot believe the sound that just came out of me. For a moment I think she might run. Or lunge. Or disappear into the dark like smoke.

She does none of those things.

Instead, she swallows.

The motion draws my eyes again to her mouth—to the blood she has not wiped away, to the way her lips press together as if in shame rather than threat. The pony at her feet lies still, its sacrifice already spent.

Bilbo clears his throat behind us, voice trembling but stubborn. “Now, now, let’s all just—just keep our heads, yes? No need for shouting. Poor woman looks like she’s been through enough.”

I glance back at him, startled. He gives me a tight, encouraging nod.

When I look at her again, something in her expression has shifted. Not softened—no. Tightened. As though being seen clearly is somehow worse than being feared.

“You chose the ponies,” I say quietly, more to myself than accusation. “You didn’t come for us.”

Her eyes flicker. Just the smallest reaction—but it’s there.

That answers everything.

I take a careful step closer. My heart is hammering now, but not with terror. With the overwhelming, inexplicable urge to understand.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, not unkindly. Not rhetorically. “You look like you’re holding yourself together by habit alone.”

She stares at me as if I’ve struck her.

Behind me, Kíli mutters, “You’re unbelievable.”

Kíli mutters it low, half a laugh and half a warning. “You realize Uncle’s going to cobble you for that, right? Being nice to… whatever she is.” He glances back at camp, then at her. “Not saying don’t do it,” he adds quietly. “Just saying… pick your moment. Thorin doesn’t handle surprises well.”

Maybe I am... and damn the consequences.

Because all I can think, looking at her—this pale, ruined, ancient thing standing in the grass with blood on her hands—is not what she is.

It’s whether anyone ever asked her if she needed help.

And whether I’m already too late.