[Fordim Hedgethistle]

At first Snaveling was content to let Mithalwen continue in her misapprehension, but he had learned the dangers of secret knowledge and hidden truths…particularly when it involved Elves. But for the moment all conversation was stilled by an odd ceremony that seemed to consist simply of the newly married couple cutting the large (and delicious looking) cake that had been brought out to them. It suddenly occurred to Snaveling that he was hungry, and the Elf turned and suggested that they go eat. Snaveling’s look of surprise made Mithalwen laugh, and she explained, “Nay, it is not your mind that I read, but your stomach. Or, rather, it is your stomach that I hear.” As if on cue, the Man’s stomach growled once more and he agreed that it would be a good idea.

They moved over to the trestle tables that had been set up near the trees and Snaveling was suddenly reminded of how good, and of how plentiful, the food was in this land. It was as he remembered it: hearty fare made simply, but with skill and love. He soon had a plate with bread and cheese upon it, accompanied by a large slice of cold meat pie. In his free hand he clutched a tall tankard of ale, and his pockets bulged with apples. They moved off to one side where they ate in relative silence, for they were each taken up with their own thoughts. Mithalwen seemed to concentrate upon the doings of the mortal beings before her, and as Snaveling had often seen with Elves, she was soon lost in the memories that were as real for her kind as the waking world. Snaveling, for his part, was content to enjoy the food and listen to the music. Again, he caught sight of the Innkeeper, but he had been careful to seat himself where she would be unlike to notice him. With a start he realized just where he had settled – it was just beside the very copse of trees that he had set alight that first day he had arrived at the Inn to find it burning to the ground. The memory of that day was one that contained many different kinds of pain for him, for it was upon that day that he had first met Roa…and had tried to kill her. His face went red with shame as he remembered that and the other crimes he had committed that day. But he came back to the present for the crowd was not to be ignored in its happiness.

Mithalwen stood and beckoned for Snaveling to follow her through the crowd. “I believe that it is customary for the guests at such gatherings to wish the couple well,” she explained. He had little desire to approach the couple for he well remembered the suspicious looks he had received from that same Derufin the last time Snaveling had been through the Inn, but the thought of shaming his King with his own discourtesy drove him forward. There was a press of people about the married couple now, primarily Halflings (and most of them looking for a slice of cake), but they were soon beside the bride. Her head was turned away from them as they approached, for she was busily trying to meet the flood of requests for the treat. Mithalwen seemed quite content to wait, but Snaveling began to grow impatient – and, if the truth be told, the sight of the cake so quickly disappearing into the eager mouths of the Hobbits spurred him on as well. He stepped forward to catch the attention of the bride, but at that precise moment a small hobbit lass tugged at her sleeve squealing out, “Puhleeeeaaaaze miz Zimzi, please, can I have some cake!” The bride turned to address the lass, holding in her hand a plate with a large piece of cake upon it. She was looking down toward the distress of the little hobbit and did not notice the tall, dark Man striding toward her. It all happened so fast that Snaveling only had time to register the fact that the plate with the cake upon it was headed directly for him before it pressed deep into his chest, flipping in the girl’s hand and smearing the frothy mass of icing and cake all over his tunic. There was a gasp from the onlookers and the bride’s eyes met Snaveling’s and widened in horror over what had happened, for it was clear that his clothes, as worn as they might be, were richly woven and expensive. A slight lull fell on the crowd in which the only sound that could be clearly heard was the plaintive cries of the hobbit lass: “Awww! Now my cake’s gone and been ruined by that terrible Man!”

But then a laugh rang out into the silence, like a bell and full of joy. It soon set the others to smiling and they rapidly joined in. The bride tried to look apologetic but her eyes were bright as she dabbed at the mess upon Snaveling’s chest and she could not long contain her mirth before it escaped from her lips in the form of a hearty chuckle. Snaveling’s vanity was mortified, and the look of insulted dignity that he bore only drove the crowd into greater laughter, and it was not long before a softer look took hold of his features. Behind him the clear laughter of Mithalwen filled the air and Snaveling wondered if it was her who had rescued the situation by responding with mirth. But the memory of the laugh which had started it all was too fresh in his memory to be confused with that of the Elf, and even as he remembered, he recognized it. As though led by an instinct like that which drives the Elves, Snaveling’s eyes turned to where she stood upon the edge of the crowd, laughing and looking at him with unalloyed glee. Meeting Aman’s eyes, he laughed as well, and pounded Derufin’s back with breathless hilarity.