[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Snaveling had never been happier for a marriage ceremony to begin for it interrupted the conversation and obviated the necessity of either answering or avoiding the hobbit lass’s question about Aman. As the ceremony went forward, Snaveling noticed the Innkeeper but she was too involved with the proceedings to notice him. All for the good he thought. A presence behind him made him turn and he saw Mithalwen looking at him contemplatively. She smiled and he knew that she had been attempting to sound the hidden depths of his conscience. But he had learned much from the King, including how to keep is thoughts shrouded from those who would seek them. He had always been able to hide himself in this manner, but the King had taught him ways of more effectively preventing unwanted intrusions.

At last the ceremony was over and the couple moved aside, happily beaming at all those about them. The groom, whom Snaveling finally, and for the first time, recognised as Derufin, passed within a few arms’ lengths of him, but the former stablemaster clearly did not recognise Snaveling, so distracted by joy was the newly married man. The crowd became noisy and animated once more, and soon there was singing and dancing. Snaveling was just about to seek the solace of his stall in the stable – for he still had not paid for a room – when he once more caught sight of Mithalwen looking at him. She advanced with her hand out and had she struck him a blow she could not have surprised him more than when she asked if he could dance. So thunderstruck was he by the request that the truth slipped out of him before he could prevent it. “Indeed, after a fashion. I learned a few dances before I came away from Minas Tirith.”

“Good!” the Elf said happily, “then let us take a turn together!” and before he knew it, Snaveling was dancing upon the green grass with a tall Elven lady whose grace surpassed his own as a beech tree does a humble stalk of straw. At first they attempted a simple country quickstep like that being traced out by most of the others, but Mithalwen quickly saw that Snaveling was hopelessly lost. She asked him what dances did he know and Snaveling, somewhat embarrassed, suggested that they attempt a formal waltz. “I know how out of place such a dance may seem here,” he explained, “but I learned only courtly dances in Minas Tirith. There are no country balls in the court of Elessar!” The Elf assented gaily and taking her hand he led her about the field in a dance that he had learned from one of the Queen’s waiting women. The memory led him back to the last time he had danced this very pattern and he soon found himself lost in memory.

“You dance well. For a Man that is,” Mithalwen said somewhat teasingly.

“I was taught well,” he replied.

“You are remembering having danced this step before.”

Snaveling was not surprised by her statement. “Indeed I am. But do not be offended for the last time I followed this pattern it was with the Queen herself. In token of her Lord’s friendship with me she deigned take a turn about the floor at the Midsummer’s ball.”

Mithalwen’s eyes widened slightly. “A high honour indeed, and a rare one. Although not, I think, so unusual. I hear that the Lady Arwen has ever been courteous to the Dúnedain.”

“That she has, but I must tell you that I am not of the Dúnedain myself. That is an honour I cannot claim.”

“But you said that you are kin to the Lord Elessar. I had thought that all such relations were descendants of Númenor that is lost.”

Snaveling was quiet for a moment before answering. “I am of Númenor, lady, but I cannot count among my ancestry either Elendil or any that fled the wreck of that city with him. There are other men of Númenorian blood in Middle-earth and from them have I sprung.”