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Curse her! Snaveling swore inwardly. Her and all the others like her who won’t let a man have his own way in peace! He glared up at Galadel through his drink-soaked eyes, hearing only a few of her words above the roar that the brandy had set off in his ears. He tried to force his way past her to where Toby sat, sure that in his friend there would be at least one person who would not judge him and hate him and spit upon him for being what and who he was. The Elf woman was much stronger than he had anticipated, however, and easily prevented him from moving forward. So enraged did he become with her that he began to contemplate another use for the bottle beneath his tunic, but his violent hand was stilled by a single sentence of Galadel’s that came to him clear through the fogs of rage, shame, confusion and drink: I promise you that if you go through with your plan Roa will never speak with you again.
His heart lurched at the thought and his gorge rose. Forgetting that he had stolen the brandy he pulled it out from beneath his clothes and took another long pull from it to quell his stomach. The liquor burned through his pain and tore a hole in his rage, letting out a pathetic sob of drunken misery. He lurched forward and caught himself on a table, dropping the bottle with such a crash that for a moment the room stilled and turned its attention toward him. As before, when he was singing, the eyes bore into him with a hateful mixture of apathy, amusement and dislike. This time, however, he could feel the resentment and disdain of the people about him like a thick cloak of treacle, and he could smell their hatred like the vile smoke of a funeral pyre. He raised his eyes toward Galadel and saw coming up behind her the small hobbit lad who had spotted him from the door. Aman then swam into view at the bar. Her eyes stabbed him like daggers and Snaveling knew that there was a reckoning to be had more dear than he was perhaps able to pay.
“Galadel,” he gasped, his voice still bitter and stinging. He was in a mood to hurt, and he flung his words at the Elf as though they were stones. “Why are you always whispering in my ear that my happiness is to be lost? Why cannot you just leave me alone?”
Galadel sighed. “It is not I who besets you, Man of the South. It is yourself. I only offer you my help in the battle that you must continually wage against your greatest enemy.”
“And who would that be?” he mocked. “How am I to tell who is my greatest enemy, when I am surrounded by those who hate me,” he looked at Aman, “or who regret that they ever pretended to befriend me!?” and he glared at Roa.
“Snaveling!” Galadel’s tone staggered him like a slap. “There is very little time. You must choose, now, what your path in life will be. Once before you confessed to a crime – remember the benefits of that! This time you must not just confess but seek to make amends to the one you have harmed.”
The hobbit lad stood before Snaveling. Looking up into the eyes of the much taller Man he said in an important tone, “Miss Aman wants to speak with you!”
Snaveling looked at Galadel and pulled himself erect. Squaring his shoulders against the drink and the emotional storm that wracked his frame, he met Aman’s eyes from across the room and said, “Yes, I imagine that she does. I believe I owe her the cost of a half dozen bottles of wine and a bottle of brandy.”
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