[Fordim Hedgethistle]

All day Snaveling had avoided Roa by helping replant the herb garden with slips of plants donated to the Inn by a well-to-do hobbit. Many of the herbs he was familiar with, but some were unknown to him. The Kingsfoil had been a welcome surprise and he had lingered long over its glorious odour. Many a night he had comforted himself with a highly-scented tea made of the herb, according to a recipe long known and cherished by his people. Eventually, the shadows had lengthened and the sky had decorated herself with stars, and the workers outside had gone off to prepare themselves for the party. Snaveling had retired to his makeshift bed in the stables – the Innkeeper had offered him a room in the remade Inn, but he preferred the privacy of his stall – and made himself as ready as he could. There was not much he could do, given he was already wearing all the clothes that he owned. Still, he had been able to give himself a good scrubbing with the help of a handful of hay and a bucket of water, and he had sharpened his knife to shave off the scraggly black beard that hung from his face like moss. There wasn’t much that he could do with his clothes, but he dusted off the muck as best he could and did up all the ties and buttons. The last thing he did, almost as an afterthought, was to take the small amulet from beneath his tunic where all could see it.

He entered the Inn with trepidation and anticipation. What met his eyes staggered him; having spent the better part of his life alone and in the wild, the plenty that awaited him within the common room was at the limits of imagination. Tables groaned with food, and were decorated with huge bunches of fresh flowers. Garlands hung from the walls and ceiling rafters, and a large fire blazed in the hearth, filling the room with warmth. Candles and lanterns added to the light, to the point where there was no shadow upon the evening. The Room was already filled with gaily dressed people, and there was music and talk and laughter from all directions. Snaveling paused for a moment on the very threshold, ready to flee should the crowd take notice of him and realize that he did not belong. But then his eye fell on Roa where she stood chatting gaily, and he stepped forward into the warm embrace of the party.

He stood in a corner, his eyes on the Woman and his heart in turmoil. He did not know what to think of his vision: ever had the woman in his dreams been a faceless person, defined solely by the comfort that she would provide him. She had been as much a feature of his lodge as was the carved front door and the bench of hewn logs at the eastern wing where he could clean his kill. But now she was a person, and one who was far more than a domestic drudge. He wanted to have Roa with him in the lodge just to be with her. The idea of actually wanting to share his life with another was so new to him that he hardly knew how to approach it – all he knew for sure was that Roa was altogether admirable and entirely beyond his reach. Recognizing this gave him an intense pain in his guts that was not altogether unpleasant.

He was drawn from his reverie by a music that felt like sunshine in autumn, and he looked about for the source of it. Galadel stood by the fire playing a tune on a little flute. The melody spoke deep to his hear, and like all Elvish music it took on a form that he saw. Green fields opened before him, and the cry of seabirds rang out. For a moment, he even felt that he could smell the slight tang of saltwater. Galadel altered the tune and looked at him. Seized by the music, Snaveling stepped forward and put the vision into words:

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,
A rivulet then a river;
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree,
And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,
For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee,
A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

It was an old song, one that he had not heard sung since he left his homeland, and singing it took him back to much happier times in his life: times when he enjoyed the company of others and looked to them to provide the kind of solace that the lonely spirit was unable to bring itself. He looked about him, and was terrified to see the many faces of the guests openly staring at him – some in amusement, some (those who had knowledge of him) in open shock. Roa’s eyes were, however, perhaps the widest. He looked at her and, made bold – or driven mad – by the music, he sang again:

All things uncomely and broken,
all things worn-out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway,
the creak of a lumbering cart,

The heavy steps of the ploughman,
splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms
a rose in the deeps of my heart.

The wrong of unshapely things
is a wrong too great to be told,
I hunger to build them anew
and sit on a green knoll apart,

With the earth and the sky and the water,
remade, like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms
a rose in the deeps of my heart.

He fell silent, as did Galadel’s flute. Snaveling slumped into a chair, his heart pounding in his ears, and called for ale.