[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Snaveling hurried through the yard of the Green Dragon to the stables. He felt as a child did before a celebration, so excited was he by the thought of the new clothes that he would be purchasing. His brief conversation with Aman remained clear in his mind, but it was quickly moving into the background as he thought ahead to what was to come. He had been too terrified to speak with Roa after carrying up the barrel, even after her manner had made it clear that she was ready to accept him into her company again, if not to forgive him entirely. He wondered if Aman had chosen a barrel of ale consciously, to remind him that his crimes were not forgotten. The weight of the barrel lingered in his lean arms, but he shook them lightly to drive away the strain.

He paused before the door of the stable and took a deep breath of the night air to clear the last of the cobwebs from his mind. He was still light-headed from the drink, but so much had happened this night that the fog which had enveloped him earlier was all but gone.

Inside, Pimpernel was waiting for him with an extremely fat hobbit whom he introduced as Otho Bracegirdle. The tailor bowed to Snaveling deeply and immediately began pulling his wares from a small valise that he had brought. “I don’t often get requests for clothing from the Big Folk, but I do have some that might suit you nicely. Yes,” he said, evaluating, as he held up a bright tunic of red velvet, “this might be what you need.” Snaveling shook his head and glared at the hobbit darkly. Immediately, another tunic, this one a rich blue appeared, but Snaveling did not like the look of the tassels that adorned the shoulders so it too was soon replaced.

It took a while, for the valise at the hobbit’s side was remarkably full, but eventually Snaveling was satisfied with his new clothing. He quickly removed his rags and placed them gently on the straw of his stall – he was tempted, as a gesture, to throw them away, but he knew that the fortunes of those who dwelt in Middle-Earth were never so certain that one could toss away their old cloaks heedlessly. Mr. Bracegirdle helped him get dressed and spent a few minutes adjusting the cloth. It was a surprisingly good fit, requiring only a few stitches under the arms to tighten it up. As the fat tailor worked on his suit, Snaveling put Pimpernel to work coming out his long black hair with an iron comb that the Man borrowed from a nearby saddlebag. When they were finished Snaveling stood and looked at himself in the small mirror that the tailor had brought. It had been so long since he had seen himself in a mirror, or – for that matter – anyone in fine clothing that he hardly knew what to make of himself.

“Thank you Mr Bracegirle,” he said. “These clothes will do nicely. Now, I have no idea what this might cost so I will ask you to take what you require from the coin Pimpernel brought you, and to return the change to Mr Tobias Hornblower. Oh! Make sure that Pimpernel here gets one or two silver pennies as well.” Both hobbits, the young and the fat, bowed to him deeply and started into their extended hobbit thank you’s, but Snaveling was already out the door and heading to the Inn.

The moment he stepped into the light he knew that the transformation was as profound as any he could have hoped for. Those who knew him stared with open surprise, while those who did not assumed that there was a new arrival at the Inn. Several weeks at the Inn, and the company he had formed and kept there, had done much to improve his manner and bearing. Where before there had been a cringing sallow fellow, there now stood straight and tall a Man of the South; his face, previously bearded and cragged, was clean shaven and the lines of his face were no longer vicious but patrician and severe. He was much taller than any there remembered, but in truth, he had merely found the strength to stand upright. His dark eyes flashed with glee, but there remained in their depths a hardness unassailable and inviolate. He was a dangerous Man still, but no longer in a petty and mean way. His new clothes were of dark material, richly woven. They were simply cut and made, as were all the clothes of the Shire, but they were worthy of a powerful lord, and indeed he did not seem out of place in them. On his chest, glittering in the light of the party and bright against the black of his tunic, was his amulet, freshly polished.

Snaveling recoiled somewhat from the stares of those who turned to look at him, but his eyes sought out the table where Toby and Roa sat. Both of them were looking at him in amazement. As he strode toward them he caught Aman’s eye from across the room and saw something in her expression that was at once unreadable and thrilling. He could hear Galadel’s golden voice somewhere in the Inn. He stepped up to where Roa and Toby sat and looked down at them. “Tobias, Roa – might I join you?”