[Fordim Hedgethistle]

It had been an odd week for Snaveling. As the renewed Inn had been completed he had felt a change no less profound come over him. He had laughed more and enjoyed the labour that he put into the rebuilding. He had sat with Toby for hours together and listened to him ramble on about the doings of the Shire. And while not all of what the hobbit had to say was of interest to him, he found the comings and goings, the births, the misadventures and the little scandals that kept the imagination of these people to be refreshing. Wordlessly they had remarked on the changes in each other, as both forgot about the gold and the silver that they had gained in the fire, and then lost. But, as Snaveling had learned from Toby in one of his interminable and circular tales about the Shire-folk, “a fox doesn’t stop stealing chickens just because he loses his tail.”

Just the day before yesterday a large group of hobbits from far to the west of the Shire had arrived and inquired about the cost of stabling their ponies. Unfortunately for them, they had inquired of Toby and Snaveling as they were taking a break from the reconstruction effort to have a bit of a smoke. Without even having to confer with Toby, Snaveling said “Two shillings.” The travellers quickly handed over the coins, and Toby and he had quickly spent them on the some of the finest leaf that either of them had ever sampled – Gondorian Pride, or some such it was called.

It was the last of this that Snaveling was smoking as he reclined against the stable wall, soaking up the first of the morning sun. He watched as Roa headed for the Inn, undoubtedly to have her breakfast with Toby. Snaveling had been avoiding her for days and was in no hurry to face her now. The memory of his actions in the cellar had been crowding into his mind with increasing force of late, and he was beginning to fear that the Ranger might remember them herself. He did not know what would happen when she did. He had confessed to stealing the purse, but Roa had not – as yet – released him from her bond, and Snaveling was reluctant to demand that she do. The truth be told, he had become somewhat wary of Roa in the time that he had known her. He had spent a lot of time chatting with Val in the last few days, as Roa had seemed to delight in assigning them to work together. The youth’s fascination with Roa, and his obvious affection – bordering on idolatry – for the Ranger, had only increased Snaveling’s discomfort toward her. She was mighty indeed, and not the person he had taken her for at first. Rarely did Snaveling misjudge people, but he was beginning to worry that he had done so with Roa…perhaps badly.

So concerned was Snaveling with what might happen should Roa remember the cellar, he had contemplated simply slipping out of the Inn one night and making for the Wild. But he was sure that Roa would pursue him should he flee, and while he was woodcrafty he knew that he could not elude a Dunedain Ranger. And there was another consideration, one that surprised him. One of the topics of conversation that he and Toby seemed to turn to again and again was the prospect of his buying some land to the south of the Shire and settling down. While such an idea, on the surface, should have appeared loathsome to Snaveling, there was something about it that appealed to him. He was sure that he did not want to live in the Shire amid all these halflings, but the idea of a house of his own had a magical kind of air to it…like the memory of an old song that was just out of reach of his conscious thought. For a moment he thought he saw something in his mind, but it was gone and he shrugged to ward off a sudden chill that swept through him, and he sucked on his pipe to drive away the terrible melancholy that he felt suddenly well up the back of his throat. Such feelings had been coming to him more and more lately, and he had no idea why.

Galadel was at his side, smiling down at him. Snaveling had given up the effort to dislike the Lady and had taken to speaking with her whenever he could. At first, they had shared their knowledge of herbs and plants. Snaveling had been able to tell her about the herblore of his land and she had told him much about the properties of plants both new to him and long familiar. It was not a friendship that had grown up between them; Snaveling very much doubted that anything like that would ever be possible between himself and one of the Eldar, but there was companionship, and an odd kind of respect. Still, something about the Elf disturbed him. He was sure, now, that she had played a role in his recovery from whatever curse it was that had assailed him over the gold, but still she seemed to want more of him. Of late, she had suggested that he spend more time with Roa, and just yesterday she had commented on how the Ranger’s memory was improving daily. Snaveling was beginning to worry that perhaps the Elf knew something about what had happened in the cellar, and that she might tell Roa of it.

This morning, however, their talk was of birds. Galadel was appalled that Snaveling’s knowledge was confined to hunting them, but he knew things of their ways that she did not. Galadel, for her part, was able to tell Snaveling much about their ways and their manners when amongst themselves. Eventually, however, the conversation turned to Roa once more.

“Why do you avoid her, Snaveling? There is much that you can still do to help yourself should you open your heart to her.”

Snaveling felt his face go hard as his heart quailed within him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean My Lady,” he stumbled. “I listen to her and do as she bids.”

“That is not what I mean,” she replied. “I think, Snaveling that the time has come for you to listen to your heart and do as it bids.” She looked at him but he did not reply. The truth of her words, if not their full meaning, sank into him. “When you are ready, I will be with you. Do not fear Roa. She is indeed a powerful Woman and a dangerous enemy to those who do her or her King wrong. But you can trust to her heart and to her wisdom.” Galadel rose and walked off, leaving Snaveling to finish his pipe in concentrated silence.