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“Mister Falco…?” Snaveling echoed stupidly, so dazed was he by the flood of instructions from Buttercup over the care of Marigold’s hurt.
“Falco Headstrong!” she said, somewhat exasperated by the Man. “I saw you and him talking to one another with Marigold just this morning. He’ll be worried for sure about the lass.”
Snaveling just nodded at this, torn in his thoughts between irritation with himself for his manner and an odd misgiving about having to confront the fellow about this matter. He had seen what the Halfling’s opinion was of himself, and he knew the colour that would be cast over his involvement with the accident to Marigold. Indeed, in Buttercup’s manner he already saw the way the story would be told. That ne’er do well rogue and tramp of a Man, still up to his ways. There’s no trusting or changing him. Again, he wondered why the opinions of the Shirefolk mattered to him at all. The Lord Elessar had spoken highly of these people, but so far he had seen little to merit such praise. Their views were as narrow as their horizons, they were quick to mistrust and slow to forgive (and he ignored the nagging voice at the back of his mind that pointed out how accurate a description that was of himself…). To Buttercup he merely nodded and said gruffly, to hide his discomfiture, “I’ll be sure to tell him the next time I see him.”
The Halfling gave Snaveling the most withering look yet, and for a split second the Man feared that she might just be about to clamber up a stool the better to grab him by the ear as though he were a miscreant youth. “Well then get telling him now!” she said, and pointing across the Common Room with her little finger she picked out Falco Headstrong where he sat at a small table. It was in one of the Inn’s deep bay windows, and thus out of sight of the bench where Mithalwen was tending to Marigold. Snaveling turned to Buttercup but was spared any further embarrassment with her by the sight of her indignant back as it strode into the kitchen, clearly saying what a fool she felt him to be. Snaveling, Tar-Corondir, the last King and heir to Numenor, kinsman and bondsman to the Lord Elessar…slunk away from the Kitchen like a chastened Halfling boy.
He hurried to Mithalwen and gave her the poultice and oil. He began to relay Buttercup’s instructions but the Elf merely smiled at him and began applying the medicines with the expert hand of her folk. Snaveling turned then to where Falco was sitting. He approached the Halfling cautiously and because of where he was sitting, the little fellow did not see Snaveling until the Man was practically looming over him. Just as Snaveling was about to clear his throat to announce his presence, Falco looked about and was confronted only with the dark screen of Snaveling’s clothes. With an involuntary yelp of surprise, Falco sprang back and looked up into the countenance of the Man. One look at his expression, and Falco knew that something was up, and before he could take better thought he blurted out, “Where’s Marigold, then? What have you done with her?”
Snaveling, surprised himself by the abrupt manner of the Halfling, simply took a step back and pointed toward the couch where Marigold lay, saying limply, “She’s had a fall. But Mithalwen says that she will be all right, now. I’ve fetched her some medicine.”
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