[Fordim Hedgethistle]

It had been, without doubt, one of the worst weeks of Snaveling’s life, and this day promised to be no better. He had spent most of the night, as he had all of his nights since he took up residence in these wretched stables, tossing and turning in an agony of loss. Formerly, his dreams had been filled with something wonderful, a place that had given him joy and an ease of heart that he had never known in life. Where that place might be, and whether it was real or feigned, he could not now remember. Only fragments remained to him now: a cracked and weather-beaten flagstone, the memory of a valley wind, the echo of a footstep coming through a door. Every day he had been forced to carry away the debris from the ruined Inn, and every night he had forsaken sleep. . .for his dreams, when he could sleep, had become a torment and a terror to him.

The dream had come to him on the first night. The purse of gold was there before him, hanging in the dark, and all about him were the sounds of human voices, indistinguishable from the cries of beasts, and the sounds assailed him like blades. He reached for the purse, but as he took it, flames leapt up on all sides, and his skin was charred to ash in an instant. Letting out a cry of agony he released the purse, and it fell to the ground where it shattered like a glass vase. This dream had come to him each night since, and every time it was more terrifying to him than the night before. He awoke each time, clutching in his trembling hand the small, tarnished silver amulet that he wore about his neck. It was a simple device in the form of circle, inscribed with a tiered crown which was itself surrounded by seven stars, but he knew nothing of what it meant or where it had come from before his elder sister had given it to him the day he left home. The trinket was his last tie to his homeland, and he had worn it for many years beneath his clothes without ever thinking of it. But lately, he had found himself taking it out and stroking it even during the day, and deriving some strange comfort from this.

Torn by the exhausting work of the day and the terrifying dreams of the night, Snaveling had kept to himself as much as he could. Try as he might, though, he could never wholly elude the watchful eyes of Roa, Valthalion and Galadel. The only comfort he could find were in the few moments that he could slip into the trees or shrubs around the Inn, lay down upon the earth, and imagine that he was far away from this place.

Snaveling had taken to pretending to sleep late in the mornings, as he had found that the tender-hearted fools who surrounded him did not begrudge him the rest – his deteriorating condition had not escaped their notice. He heard and felt the presence of Toby long before the stupid little hobbit jabbed him in the ribs with his finger. He feigned sleep, but Toby jabbed him again, more insistently this time, and Snaveling was obliged to open his eyes. “Good morning,” the ridiculous creature said. “Well, as good a morning as is possible before you’ve had breakfast. Want to join me for some?”

Snaveling scowled at Toby but he bit his tongue. He had yet to forgive the hobbit for being such a fool about the gold before Roa and Galadel, but he knew better than to say anything about it now. And there was something about this little fellow that appealed to Snaveling. All week he had watched as Toby somehow managed to avoid all the heavy labour, all the while appearing to help. He had also noted his preternaturally high spirits, and his unflagging optimism. Once, Snaveling had even caught himself smiling at the fellow’s antics – a smile that he had quickly wiped from his face when Roa had caught sight of it.

Dragging himself to his feet, Snaveling looked out the stable door and squinted at the brightness of the sun. He was once again absent mindedly stroking the amulet as he spoke to Toby. “Well, I had a miserable night again, and as the day promises to be no better, I may as well have some food before offering myself up as Roa’s personal servant.” He tried to smile but it came out as a sickly grimace. He saw the look of concern that crossed Toby’s face, and in some odd way that touched him. It had been a long time since anyone had shown any real concern for him.

At that moment, Otho ran into the stable and told him that Roa was awaiting him outside. Snaveling clutched his amulet until his knuckles went white. It had been a very long time since he had answered to anybody, or been forced to keep any schedule but his own, and while Roa was a fair taskmaster, and a gentle one – and, if Snaveling had been capable of admitting it, a just one as well – having to pay her heed had been a sore trial for him. Last night he had got almost no sleep, and that little he had managed had been ravaged by his nightmare. And that after a day in which he had been forced to haul away stones from the wrecked foundation of the Inn under the merciless direction of an insane Dwarf. Something inside Snaveling snapped, and his usual reserve slipped. “Tell Roa,” he snarled at the terrified Otho, “that I do not jump at her beck; nor do I await her every whim. I wish to have breakfast first, and then a nice smoke out in the sun. In fact, I do not think that I shall do any work this day – let her carry the stones for once!”

With that, he stamped off toward the cooking fires.