[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Snaveling woke to the sound of the Blasted Bard’s full-throated singing. He stifled the curse that came to his lips as he remembered that his bed was at the courtesy of the Rohirric man, but this only befouled his mood further. He had lain awake far into the night, well into the morning, really, turning over and over in his mind the words that had passed between he and Aman – his grand-daughter. He was as yet unsure of how she would take to the idea of their being related…he was not sure of that himself yet either. But that he was indeed her grandsire was becoming eminently clear to both of them. The name and description of her father so closely matched that of his own son, as they had been reported to Snaveling, that there was little room for doubt. They had talked for some time, comparing what each knew about Arad and bit by bit they had pieced together a total picture of the man -- a picture in which the pieces fit together so well and so easily, that there was little room left for doubt. Beyond that, though, was the very rightness of the relationship: Snaveling had long known, deep in his bones, that he and Aman were connected by more than friendship, and that their relationship could never be the romantic one imagined by the girl. This certainty, this knowing sense, was certainly a part of his Numenorean heritage – he came to that and to full wakefulness with a start. That heritage was also Aman’s, he realised. It had not even occurred to him that in revealing the truth of her parentage, he was perhaps staining her with his own dark past. How would she feel about being descended of the Black Numenoreans? He was sure that she would want to keep that interesting piece of information to herself, and he thanked those who dwelt in the West that as yet none knew the truth but he, Aman and Mithalwen.

But then Hearpwine’s song re-emerged, louder this time and even more insistent. The foolish man was twanging away on his harp and singing at full volume out the window of the Inn.

You take the high road,
And I’ll take the low road,
And I’ll be in Gondor, before you!
Me and my true love, will ever meet again,
On the bonny bonny banks of the Snowbourne!

He laughed and turned to see Snaveling awake. “An old tune, and a happy one to begin the day with!” he cried.

“I know it,” Snaveling mumbled as he got out of bed. “But I thought it went, ‘Me and my true love will never meet again.’”

“Pah!” the bard said good-naturedly. “A sad song is not fitting for the morning. I have changed the words to suit my mood.”

“Are you always this…” Snaveling searched for a word, “boisterous in the morning?”

“Aha! You are angry that I woke you up. But the sun is well in the sky and the people of the Inn are about. School children have come, strangely enough, and even they are at work. It is time to get up even though you may have been tossing from pillar to post this long night.”

“How did…?” But Snaveling’s question was cut off with another laugh from the younger man. “You were not so quiet as you supposed,” Hearpwine explained, “nor so circumspect. Do you know that you talk to yourself when you are in distress? Have no fear, my friend, for I shall not reveal your secrets to any – particularly not to the pretty Innkeeper of the Green Dragon!” With that he clapped his arm around Snaveling’s shoulders and led him from their room leaving Snaveling with no chance to respond. As the night before when they had met, Hearpwine’s loud and happy manner, and high spirits, oppressed the more dour Snaveling, but the bard had been so good as to offer Snaveling his room’s other bed when he had seen that Snaveling had nowhere to sleep. After his conversation with Aman the night before, she had seemed to desire the company of her horses more than his, so Snaveling had left the stables to her and returned to the Inn hoping that he would be allowed to sleep one a bench in the Common Room. Cook had seen him settling in, however, and put paid to that idea, and it had only been the quick intervention of Hearpwine that had saved Snaveling from a night in the bushes.

They ate breakfast together. As Hearpwine talked of his journey and of Rohan and (somewhat oddly for a man of Rohan) of Ithilien, occasionally breaking into song, Snaveling looked about for either Aman or Mithalwen but could see neither. At the conclusion of their meal they sat, neither of them certain what to do, when into the Common Room there came a very small hobbit lass, asking the way to the new school. One of the barmaids pointed the lass in the right direction. As she left Hearpwine stood and said, “A schoolroom! Wonderful! I am sure that the students there would be interested in hearing songs of other lands, or even a lay or two about the War. And who knows, perhaps some of them know songs of this land that I might learn.”

Snaveling doubted that there was little more on Hearpwine’s mind than the prospect of performing for an audience, albeit one composed almost entirely of children, but he said nothing for he wished to be left to himself. “You go ahead,” he said. “I have matters of my own to attend to.”

Hearpwine smiled knowingly. “Very well, my friend. I shall see to the children while you go in search of your ‘matters’ – be sure to tell her when you see her that I have a special song or two about the fair maids of Rohan that I’m sure she would like to hear!” And with another laugh he left the Common Room, already humming the tune he intended to sing for the educational benefit of the schoolchildren. Snaveling went in search of Aman.