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Snaveling snuck through the door, hoping to avoid the piercing gaze of the Innkeeper, but it was no use. The moment she laid eyes upon him her face gained an edge that he knew meant he would soon have to confront her. He glanced away and headed to a table near some that were crowded with folk, hoping that the proximity to others would deter Aman from what would surely be an intimate and private conversation.
He had roamed the woods about the Inn for the last two hours going over and over what had happened in the stables. The gift of the horse had gone as he had hoped it would, but when Aman had begun her song – his song – something had come over him. He had heard much beautiful music in his time at the court of Elassar, but the rough rendering of the simple girl had possessed a charm for him. It reminded him of the past that he had left so thoroughly behind in his homeland, and for a second the long years that lay between those days and these had melted, and it was as though he were sitting upon the bank of the river with his sister, singing a song of their childhood innocence. It had been a mistake to give way to the visions, but given way he had.
At first, that had been the most distressing thing. His whole life, Snaveling had felt more at home in his visions of the world than in the felt reality of existence. For a time, with the King Elessar, he had moved out of his dreams and into the light of day, but since leaving for the north the dreams had come again. It was as though, having found who and what he really was, the world had suddenly become too small for him, and he found himself dreamily wandering through the streets of a mighty city of stone where he had never been, and yet which seemed oddly familiar. During the day, these visions were pleasant, if sometimes so overpowering that he lost sight of the fields and forests through which he had travelled to get here. But at night the dream would come in a more terrifying form, for the city would be one of the dead, filled with tombs mightier than the houses of the living, and all about him would be the wailing of women, and the sky would grow dark with a sudden wind, and a wave would come from the West, drowning all…
He shook himself away from the memory and looked about the quaint interior of the Inn, seeking reassurance from its smallness. Once more his eyes fell upon the Innkeeper and he was struck by how simple and how plain she suddenly seemed. Although his visions of the city had not yet included any people, he could not imagine a girl from Rohan upon its streets. How old was she anyway? The thought suddenly entered his mind – she appeared no more than a youth, as a child to him. He had spent decades roaming the world, and he smiled slowly at the thought of her extreme innocence of what he had seen.
A great wave of pity came over him, for he recalled the stories he had heard of the Lady Éowyn and of her unrequited love for the King Elessar. At the time of the telling he had paid the stories little heed, for he did not care much for matters of the heart. But now it came back to him with especial force for it so closely mirrored his own situation. The girl of Rohan had once again become enamoured of a Man out of her reach.
He regretted the gift of the horse now, for it would only serve to drive on her wild dreams of him, and to encourage her to continue in her hopeless desires. Snaveling felt more comfortable in his chair as he thought this through. It would be hard, but hard truths must be heard. When they next spoke, he would explain the impossibility of her situation to Aman. He hoped that she would be able to see the truth as he did, and that she would not be too hurt by it…
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Scribbling scrabbling.
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