[Thinlómien]

Grimhorn noticed that "the boy" was taking a hard line with him. Steel against steel, then, he thought and grinned to himself (but no trace of a smile was to be seen on his face). You asked for this yourself, boy, he thought and a moment later he caught himself being exited about a little battle of words with this boy. Your flighty temper would suit better a man half of your years, a familiar voice echoed from his memory. That is one woman's opinion. One dead woman's opinion. I don't need to bug myself with that, Grimhorn told himself.

"So you say there's a problem in being the son of the "one that runs at dusk"?" Grimhorn growled. He knew it was stupid, if this young man knew more than a general passer-by from the Anduin Vales. Or from Mirkwood. He searched his memory. Hermit Sundry lived in Mirkwood? He had no image where he had lived. Damn, he thought. That's the thing I should remember.

Just then he remembered the lad's offer of peace. He would have liked to take it and talk about something else, but he couldn't drop this matter; he couldn't let the lad keep his wrong image of his father. Wrong, wrong, wrong he assured himself. Lies, lies, lies. No one knows. No one.

"Though I don't have anything against another ale, I'd like you to explain yourself. One can't accuse a man and then get away with it."

"Waiter, bring two beers here!" He was too lazy to go and get them. "Don't worry, Sundryboy, this time I pay", he said, sounding perhaps a bit malicious. He didn't know which one of them was in a more uncomfortable situation, but he decided to enjoy his own misery and gamble a bit and master the situation.

Then, looking at the boy who looked a bit uncomfortable (as probably he did himself) he realised he actually liked the boy. Had it been another place and time and situation, he would have been delighted to share a pint with such a promising young man. And had it been another boy, he thought. The whole Sundry-line is rotten.