[Fordim Hedgethistle]

He had left the Inn in contempt and returned now in despair. The bone-biting chill of the rain that soaked him through and through was an apt reminder of what awaited him beneath the roof of the Green Dragon. He could well imagine what Aman and Toby would make of his desertion, of the late night disappearance without so much as a word of farewell. At the time it had seemed the only thing to do. He had been at the Inn for less than a day and already he had become embroiled in the petty concerns of those who dwelled in this tiny land. Toby’s ridiculous problem could so easily be solved. Snaveling had money and position enough to give his friend a life of easy and luxury in the South beyond the wildest imaginings of the peasants in this land, and yet his friend – from some inconceivable devotion to this place – had refused his offer to take him away. The rejection had stung, and stung deep, for Snaveling had long contemplated what he could do to make the elder hobbit ample recompense for his friendship. At last, there was as an opportunity, and the old goat had thrown it back at him.

It was not Toby’s behaviour, though, that had driven Snaveling from the Inn, and in his more honest moments he could admit that to himself. It was Aman. His last night at the Green Dragon, he had been firm in his resolve to speak with the Innkeeper in the morning, but as the night wore on his resolve weakened. Aman’s girlish infatuation, at first almost flattering, had become a galling idea. He did not relish the thought of having to speak with her about it, and he began to hope that she would realise of her own accord how hopeless it was. By the time the grey light of the dawn was just touching the horizon he could think about speaking to her with nothing less than a shudder at the indignity of it, to her as well as to him. He had come North once more to find Roa, not to indulge the romantic fantasies of a mere slip of a girl from Rohan. As the morning came on he began to see more and more clearly what his purpose should be. He would leave now, before speaking with Aman, so that she could in time come to realise that he was already bound to another, more great and altogether noble person than she. Roa was a worthy mate to Snaveling, last heir of the vanished west, in ways that Aman could never be. It was a painful truth, but one that he felt sure Aman would come to on her own, given time.

So he had crept out of the stables before dawn and disappeared into the Wild. For a long time he had scoured the North in search of Roa, but he could find neither sign nor news of her. Where had she gone? He went first to the East and searched past Bree, all the way to Amon Sul. From there he had gone south once more to the fords of Bruinen, where the Rangers had once lived before being called to their King in the South. North and West he had then searched, all the way to the lands beyond the borders of the Shire, where the chill of winter clung to the land even in the heart of summer. But it had been fruitless. With nowhere left to wander, he found himself turned once more toward the Shire and the Green Dragon Inn. It was the one place in all the North where all the news that could be had was gathered in one place, and it was – he had to admit – the best and only place to search for Roa.

He plodded up the road and through the drizzle toward the few lights that remained at the Inn. He had consumed the last of his food three days before and his stomach was pained with hunger, but his heart was not up to the task of entering. At this time of night, only one person would be sure to be awake, and he could not face her until he was rested, fed and more at his ease. There was a large party of Men entering the Inn as he came into the yard, and as they passed through the door, Snaveling caught a glimpse of the warm yellow light that still filled the Common Room. He passed by the windows as silently as a shadow, but could not help glancing through the rippled glass as he went. There, sure enough, behind the bar, her face brightening with the practised polish of long use as she greeted the newcomers, was the Innkeeper Aman. Snaveling’s feet paused ever so quickly as he looked at her, and she seemed – for no more than a heartbeat – to glance toward the window, but he rushed past, hiding his features beneath his hood.

So well did he know the stables of the Green Dragon Inn that he did not need the use of his eyes to find an empty stall. Curling in amongst the hay, he was soon asleep in its warmth.