[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The gentle gesture of Aman’s hand on his own almost shook his resolve, for the very feel of her skin reawakened his concerns. But he had come here with a purpose, and he meant to see it through…he owed that much at least to Aman.

Snaveling moved his hand away, hoping that it would seem natural and not a hurried response. He tried to make light of the moment. “Apologise? Now, what an irony it would be if I were to accept an apology from you, who should rather be awaiting my own expressions of regret. After all that you did for me, and when there was no reason to do any of it… There can be no apologies between us, my friend. Let us rather say that the past has given us both clean slates, and the understanding to say or do as we would wish with one another without fear!” He smiled to see her face light up at his words. He sprang to his feet. “Come!” he cried, “I did not seek you out so that we could grow sombre upon such a beautiful day. I have something to show you.” He held out his hand to the Innkeeper and she accepted it, although Snaveling was sure that she had no need of his help. Quite the reverse.

He stepped to the edge of the roof and grasped the eaves with both hands. His knuckles were white as he swung his legs out into space, and there was a familiar moment of blank terror as his feet sought the window. There was more scrambling, and one tricky moment in which Aman had to steady him, but then he was in the cool darkness of the attic. With much less effort, and more grace, Aman was beside him and laughing. “You still have not mastered that last step, Snaveling!” As she spoke she laid her hand on his forearm, but he did not pull away. Nor did he return the gesture.

“I am too long out of practice,” he replied. “I did not have much cause or reason to clamber about the rooftops of Minas Tirith.”

“What did you think of the White City?” Aman asked as he led her down the stairs. “Was it very different from what you are used to?” Snaveling noted her concern, and was touched by it.

He smiled. “Yes, you could say that. I could not have even imagined such a place. Before I arrived there the largest building I had ever been in – or on – was the Dragon! We arrived at dawn after a long night’s travelling. Roa had been eager to return and insisted we press on through the night. I was surly and ill mannered with her about that, but at the sight of the city in the morning, shining in the light of the early sun, with her banners aloft and the clear ringing of trumpets filling the air… Well, I forgave her the night’s rest I had missed. I would forsake many a comfort to have that sight again…” his voice trailed off into the memory, and he did not see the look that crossed the Innkeeper’s face as he spoke of Roa.

Soon they were passing through the kitchen and into the yard. “Where are you taking me?” Aman asked, smiling still, but with a slight frown of curiosity creasing her brow. Snaveling merely smiled at her and remained silent. He led her across the yard and into the stables, where he directed her to the stall that contained his horse. He stopped and pointed at him.

“What do you think of him?” he asked.

Aman gazed at the creature, and marvelled at its beauty and strength. It was clearly a noble beast of mighty lineage. “He is wonderful,” she said breathlessly, and for the first time since he had known her, Snaveling detected in the woman’s voice an undisguised longing. An oddly displaced woman of Rohan though she was, one of the Rohirrim she remained. “He was foaled upon the western march, if I’m not very much mistaken.” She said.

Snaveling did not try to hide his surprise. “Yes, indeed he was! You have an excellent eye for horses! He was a gift to the King from the lords of that land. He aided them in their struggles against the Dunlendings, and as a token of gratitude they sent him their finest mount. They say that he is bred of the same line from which sprang the legendary Shadowfax, and there are those in Minas Tirith who saw the companion of Mithrandir with their own eyes, and have attested to the likeness. He is, of course, no equal to his mighty cousin, but he is swift and tireless, and as gentle a ride as any in the West.” Snaveling gazed into the horse’s eyes and stroked his mane with a touch that was both gentle and loving. “He was one of the first tokens of friendship and alliance given to me by the King Elessar. I told him that I had never ridden so much as a mule, but the King merely laughed and said that the horse was well given for he would be sure to bear me easily – and he was right! A great friendship has grown between us, and I love him.”

Aman’s eyes grew wide at the strange transformation in Snaveling. He appeared in that moment both more tender and more distant than she had ever seen him. His hands as he ran them over the mane of his friend were those of an ordinary man with his beloved mount, but his eyes and voice were filled with a majesty and timbre like that of the kings of old. Aman shivered, but she did not know why. To break the spell of the moment she asked, “What is his name?”

“I do not know,” Snaveling replied, still gazing into the horse’s eyes. “When the men of the westfold presented him to the King he was but a foal, and as yet unnamed. The King said that only the man who rode him should name him, and as the King is devoted to his own companion who bore him through the dark days of his battles, it was not for him tog give him a name.”

“Then why haven’t you named him?” Aman asked.

“Because he is not mine to name. The instant I laid eyes upon him, I knew that it would be our destiny to become great friends, but that our ways would lie sundered, for there was only one person in the world to whom I could give him. He is yours to name, Aman. I have brought him here as a gift to you, in gratitude for what you did for me in the past, and as a token of the friendship that we will share in the future.”