[Amanaduial the archer]

The words mocked Aman and she felt as if a hand had reached into her chest and squeezed roughly at her heart. From the way Snaveling avoided her eyes, she guessed he knew what the effect would have been, although his face was impassive as he stared into the fire. Aman felt her throat stifled, but forced herself to speak, her voice as calm as his face was expressionless.

"Roa..." She felt a choke coming and stopped herself, clearing her throat and looking away, before standing, straightening herself fastidiously as she tried again. "Roa? Strange, that she did not linger longer in Gondor longer. But Elessar," she continued quickly before Snaveling could comment. "Elessar has been on the throne for thirteen years, he knows what he is doing - did he not welcome you back?"

Still chattering to push away the lump in her throat, Aman began to move away, her hands fiddling with anything, everything: stroking at her dress, flattening down her hair, running her long fingers over the surface of the wooden tables. Turning brightly to Snaveling, she smiled a wide, fake smile. "You will be wanting some food, of course, you must be tired after that ride." It was statement more than a question and Aman immediately turned away towards the kitchen, her face beginning to crumple a little, the cracks appearing in her mask.

"Aman." The word, and the hand on her arm, stopped Aman, but she didn't turn immediately. Rebuking herself inwardly for letting her charade slip, the Innkeeper turned to the man, her face expectant. Snaveling's eyes darted questioningly over her face, but they were all that showed any concern or...any emotion.

He feels nothing...

"And you, Aman, how are you?"

The woman laughed merrily, although maybe it was a tad shrill. "Me, Snaveling?" she chattered. Why, I told you all about what we have been doing, while you teased me by withholding-"

Her merry dialogue was cut off as Snaveling interrupted, his voice still low. "That is not what I asked, Aman. How are you - not Aman the Innkeeper, you: Aman. You did not tell me about her."

He feels nothing...

A faint swell of bitterness rose up, buoying the lump in Aman's throat and swaying her judgement. She smiled again, overly brightly once more, but her eyes showed something else as they met with Snaveling's. Her voice was mocking and jovial, or so it seemed - there was something else underneath, undertones in voice also to be found in it's words. She looked straight at Snaveling as she spoke. "Ah, but master Snaveling - it is only Aman the Innkeeper who you came for."

With that she turned, dignified and holding herself well, forcing herself with every inch of self restraint not to run or move faster at all. But as she did so, she stumbled on a chair leg and her face cracked slightly. Disregarding it, she ignored the pain welling up in her leg and forced herself into the kitchen, where Cook sat, and stumbled to the sink, head hanging over it as she squeezed her eyes impossibly tight in a subdued, silent grimace of pain, pain from inside - the worst kind. Behind her, she heard a chair scrape and realised that Cook was still hear, and for the first time since she had come to the Inn felt spiteful thoughts against the old hobbit woman: Is there nowhere in this blessed place where I can escape the interfering halflings?! Habit quickly knocked this away, shocked, but there was a part of her that didn't give a damn about habit though: a new part, a part which had been awakened with new vigour, and energy, and hope for it's life - a part which had been struck and sent sprawling in the mud of rejection when Snaveling had said his true purpose.

I am a pretty, bright domestic bird: caged, ornamental, she sings her bright, ridiculous song, over and over and over, while she listens to the word of the master who feeds her titbits while she falls in love with his caress.

And begins to hate his sweetheart.

Aman felt her hands tighten, spreading themselves out so hard that they shook. "I...I am fine thank you, Vinca. Just a...a pain." Out of the sight of Cook, Aman's mouth twisted wryly at the truth of the statement that the hobbit wouldn't realise. "Could you do me a favour please? There is a woman outside who wanted a room for the night..."

"Of course, of course, dear, take your time." The chair creaked and the sound of the old hobbit bustling across the stone floor was heard. She patted Aman considerately on the lower back, but that was all: she had been around young people and Big Folk enough to know that there are times when their mysterious ways simply convey a need to be alone. The old gentlehobbit had never understood it herself but, ee, there was nowt as strange as folk, as her old gaffer had used to say. As Aman listened to Cook wandering off purposefully into the Common Room, her fists began to clench: as the door shut, her hands slammed down against the rims of the sink on either side of the basin, her face tight as she struck back the tears. The pain was a distraction, but not enough to mean anything. Her eyes strayed to the knife and her face hardened...

And so the litte bird begins to hate his sweetheart...

...but she stopped herself immediately, lifting a hand to smack herself suddenly across the face. No. Not that far. Never that far.

He was a man, just a man; had she not seen hundreds, of every race, pass through this Inn? They came, they went, as everyone did; no matter who came, they always inevitably left.

"Everyone leaves me..." Aman whispered softly, sadly, melancholy seeping through the anger. Her green eyes sparkled and as she closed them a tear peered out before launching itself down her reddened cheek. Flinging her head back, she inhaled sharply, blinking away the tears: this would not do, this would never do.

"Stop being stupid, you silly girl," she snapped to herself quietly. Crossing briskly to where the plates of supper were laid out, she selected one with great subconcious care and, as an afterthought, poured a generous cup of black tea with it. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the Common Room door open with her foot and pasted the smile back on.

"Supper is served, ladies and gentlemen," she announced clearly. The ringleader. Trapped in her own circus.