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Snaveling had never been more pleased to see Toby than in that moment. He had amends to make to many people, but he knew that it would be best to wait until he was sober to speak with most, and that it would be easiest to begin with the gentle-hobbit. He handed the now half-empty bottle of brandy to his friend and bid him drink it down. Toby’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the bottle and he let out a low whistle. “Where in the Shire did you get this?” he asked. “Why I’ve not suh. . .seen a genuine bottle of 1385 in yuh…years. We need glasses!” He scrambled to the bar, looking more like a rodent than when he were sober, and demanded two snifters. Aman smiled lightly as she handed them over to the hobbit and her eyes met Snaveling’s. It seems that the brandy was an even richer gift than I thought, he reflected. Still, it’s not half so rich as what else I’ve gained this night.
Toby was soon at Snaveling’s side and they looked about them for someplace to sit. There were a couple of empty chairs near where Roa and Galadel sat, but Snaveling urged Toby to sit with him somewhere else, as he was not feeling quite ready to face them. The hobbit, too far gone to notice his friend’s reticence, quickly guided them through the press of bodies to a quieter corner where they were able to commandeer two armchairs. Carefully pouring out the brandy, Toby settled back into the soft cushions and took a deep sniff. He let out a sigh of utter satisfaction before sipping the brandy as though it were liquid gold. Following his example, Snaveling took a gentle sip and found that all the hard pulls he had taken from the bottle before had done the liquor a terrible disservice. It warmed his tongue and filled his belly with blueberry jam. His exchange with Aman had done much to sober him, but he still sipped his glass slowly in order to enjoy the drink and prevent himself from falling into a total stupor.
“So,” Toby began, simultaneously closing his eyes and laying his head back against the chair, “What were you and Aman doing closeted together like that?”
Snaveling was not ready to tell Toby about the wine and stealing the brandy. “We were merely working out the details of my continued presence here,” he said. “I can’t afford to pay for a room or board, but she’s agreed to let me stay on and help out in exchange for my lodgings.”
“Good, good,” Toby said, not really listening, his eyes still closed. “What I think we need Snaveling is a suh…song” he hiccuped. “You have a surprisingly good voice – who would have thought it to luh…look at you! Would you care to give us another?” Snaveling took another gentle sip of the brandy, and whether it was the liquor or what had transpired with Aman he could not tell, but he was not at all averse to singing. In fact, he found that he rather wanted to.
“There's a bower of roses,
by Brandywine’s stream,
And the nightingale sings
'round it all the day long.
In the time of my childhood
'Twas sweet like a dream,
To sit by the roses
And hear the bird's song.
That bower and its music
I never can forget,
But of when alone
In the bloom of the year
I think, "Is the nightingale
singing there yet?"
Are the roses still bright
by the calm Brandywine?
“No, the roses soon withered
that hung over the wave,
But the blossoms were gathered
While freshly they shone,
And the dew was distilled
On the flowers, that gave
All the fragrance of summer -
when summer is gone.
Thus memory draws from delight
ere it dies,
An essence that breathes
of it many a year.
Thus, bright to my soul
as 'twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower on the banks
of the calm Brandywine.”
Snaveling finished his song, and to his own surprise, smiled and bowed his head to the scattered applause. “Well my friend,” he said turning to Toby, “What say you to my song?” He paused for a moment. “Toby? Are you awake?”
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