[Amanaduial the archer]

Preparations for such a party can get strenuous after a time – especially for one who doesn’t like responsibility at the best of times. Aman could have told you that one hundred times over.

The great black Meara leapt effortlessly over a fallen log, dancing away as if it’s hooves barely touched the ground, living up to all it’s ancestry. Bent low over it’s neck, fingers entwined in it’s mane, Aman couldn’t help grinning, although she was in a rush. She was going to be late back to the Inn: despite her dislike of rising early, she had left early this morning to take a ride out on the beautiful black horse, but had gotten rather carried away. But it was hard to feel regret, even if she had meant to welcome Zimzi back as early as possible: this horse was the finest she had ever rode.

“Just think, Aman: the finest horse in the West, descended from the line of the Meeras. Given to you, by me.”

The words Snaveling had spoken when he gave her the horse came back to the Innkeeper vividly, so sharp that she could see him, hear him, smell him as the words echoed in her mind. Distracted momentarily, she jerked heavily to one side as Felarof jumped another log; but the horse seemed to move to accommodate her. She had not been able to ride him out for long since Snaveling had given him to her, but this morning they had formed a sort of bond, and the Innkeeper was almost beginning to think that the rather hostile dark horse actually liked her – even if the giver of this so-fine present had vanished, like smoke, from the Green Dragon and Aman’s life. Again.

Felarof. The horse had been a gift from King Elessar to Snaveling, but he had chosen not to name him, instead urging Aman to, and so she had. Felarof: steed of Eorl, the first king of Rohan; a might creature, whose sires were brought from the Undying Lands, it was said, by the Valar; a horse who produced the line of mearas. Wild, free, violent and intelligent.

They slowed, gradually coming to a halt as they came to the peak of one of the hills of the Shire, and from their perch, Aman could see the Green Dragon below. The Innkeeper let out a long breath and patted the dark, downy fur of her horse’s neck. “You lilive up to your name, m’darling,” Aman murmured softly into his ear. Felarof gave a whinny and tossed his head wildly and Aman smiled fondly, patting him again with the flat of her left hand, the fingers of her right hand still deeply entwined in it’s mane: she would not consider riding such a majestic creature with a bit or bridle. Once again, just like his great ancestor. Aman grinned to herself and gee-ed Felarof up again, rearing up, a silhouette against the sun behind them. Turning to the path, they began their thunderous ride down to the Green Dragon.

Hobbits, of course, are not really known for their love of horses. Not to say they don’t like the creatures, of course: but a deep affection for the majestic giants, as known by the Rohirrim, has never really come naturally to a race who generally don’t exceed four feet in height. So, although she knew straight away that Felarof would probably be able to gallop faster than any horse in the West, she also knew that to terrify her diminutive customers by thundering down the path to the Inn like Melkor in a rage would probably not do any good. Slowing down to a canter, then a trot, she approached the Green Dragon at a rather more moderate pace – and preparations for the handfasting were already evident from the front. For one thing, on any usual day, you wouldn’t usually see two hobbits, one hanging from the bedroom window on Bree side, the other from the window on the far Hobbiton side, struggling to hoik up and pin in place a banner that stretched right across the front of the Inn – a banner proclaiming the handfasting of Zimzaran and Derufin. Aman smiled widely, then was jerked forward as Felarof slowed, then stopped, tossing his head with a whinny.

Knowing he would not shy without purpose, Aman was immediately on her guard, and peered into the undergrowth suspiciously, her green eyes narrowed – to see a pair of equally green eyes peering back at her. Giving a small expression of surprise, the Innkeeper dismounted quickly and approached, one hand ready on the knife in her sleeve. Hobbits were not known, generally, for hiding in grassy verges. In fact, it was rarely that anyone was found hiding in grassy verges, and rarer yet that they had a good reason. “Who’s there?” she asked softly, but sternly. “Come out, whoever you are…”