[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Snaveling sat in the shadows and watched Aman speaking with the new arrival. He had spent the day by himself pondering the words that he and she had exchanged, going over and over them in his mind. At first, he had been oddly relieved by their conversation as it had finally put the girl to rights as to their relationship, but as the hours had worn on he had become more and more…anxious, was the only word that he could summon. He sat at his table and sipped a slow glass of wine as he worked through their last encounter yet again. As the scene replayed itself this time, however, he paid no attention to the words she had spoken, but focused instead upon something that she had done with her hands, a peculiar manner of holding them in her lap… It was something he had seen her do a number of times before…but had he? That was, he realised, the real sense of his anxiety, for he could not consciously remember seeing the Innkeeper hold her hands in that familiar way, nor – now that he thought of it – tilt her head in that comfortable fashion. The more he thought of it, the more he realised that there had always been something about her that was comfortable, even, almost, recognisable, like the barely heard murmur of an old tune from one’s childhood.

He took another tentative sip of his wine. Mithalwen, whom he had not seen all day, had returned to the Common Room and though he longed to speak with her she was with a large group of folk he did not know, and he little felt ready to the task of introducing himself. His mind drifted once more, back to the rooftop and to the evasive answers he had given his friend about his lack of funds.

He had been hesitant at first to explain, but why he could not have said. “I met a man,” he had explained, “a man who claimed to have information for me – or, more exactly, about me.”

Aman’s eyes had narrowed at his manner. “What kind of information?”

He sighed, reluctant to continue, and again not sure why. “I was married once, long ago,” he said, and he caught Aman’s slight intake of breath. She was angry. “I was very young, and it was not for very long that we were together. My wife was slain…as was our child.”

“Oh, Snaveling, I…I had no idea…” Aman reached out a hand to him, but the shift in their relationship, so jarring and painful and recent, stilled her motion and she fumbled for something in her lap. It was this motion that Snaveling noticed and recognised. He had seen it before. His eyes locked on to her face and he saw in it something that had been there all along, but which he had never noticed before. What is it?

Shaken, he replied to Aman with unusual candour. “As I said, it was a long time ago. I had gone ahead to the winter hunting grounds with my companions to build shelters, and the women and children were coming along after. It is our way. They were ambushed by Dunlanders. None escaped.” He took another deep breath, reluctant to go on to the most painful part. “It took time and many years, but I had come to accept their loss. But the man I spoke of, he claimed to have information about that attack. He claimed that there were survivors of the attack…” he trailed off, and Aman’s eyes grew wide.

“Your wife?”

Shaking his head, he said quietly. “My son.” There was a moment of silence as the wind played about them, carrying their words away into the morning air of the Shire. The sun was still shining and the world was beautiful, but Snaveling could see none of it. “When I was in the King Elessar’s court, the story of my family became known. I believe that there was even a brief song made about it, ‘The Death of the Infant Heir’ it was called, I think. That the lost heir of Numenor should appear was a tale in itself, but when it was revealed that his infant son was slain by wild men of the hills, effectively ending that line, well…the Gondorians, I have found, are a sentimental people.” He managed a wry laugh. “This man I speak of is named Wutan and he came to hear of my story. He set out immediately to speak with me, but I had already left Minas Tirith in search of…to come North. He followed me, seeking me everywhere, and finally he found me at the Prancing Pony. I was just on my way back here from the marshes, and I was seeking comfort and warmth from a pint of ale. He sat across from me and introduced himself, but a more disreputable person I had not seen – not, at least, since I had looked at myself in the mirror when I was still a wandering and houseless vagabond! He told me that he had been servant to a lord of Rohan, and that this lord had taken in a foundling waif who had been taken by the Dunlendings. He claimed, that he could prove that this child was my own son, and that he could give me his name…for a price.

“Elessar had warned me that once my story and wealth were known that there would be many such men as this, and at first I refused to listen. But the more he spoke of the lost child and of the circumstances of his discovery, the more I was compelled to listen. For three days we stayed together at the Pony and I questioned him about his tale in the most particular detail, but never once did his story falter or change, and there was ever in his manner the air of a man telling the truth. He was a cunning and subtle scoundrel, no doubt, but I could see that he believed what he was telling me.

“Still, I would not pay the price he was demanding for the tokens that he spoke of. I told him that information which is bought with gold is as empty as the purse which has paid for it. Seeing that I was resolved he reluctantly produced his proof.” Snaveling reached into the folds of his tunic and produced a small brooch. Aman gasped in recognition, for she instantly saw from the shine of the metal that it was mithril, and it bore upon it a familiar design: a tall crown with seven stars above it.

“That design,” she said wonderingly, “it is the same as your amulet. The token that proved you to be the heir of Numenor!”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “It is the match to that amulet. Before I left my family, I gave it to Heoll, my wife, to keep in trust for my son for he was but a year old. I demanded of Wutan how he came by it, but he refused to tell me. All he would say was that his lord had taken it from the child and kept it secret, believing it to be an evil device of the Dunlendings. It was the belief of this lord that the child was of Rohan, and that he had been taken by the wildmen as a slave. It was an easy mistake, for my son was like his mother, with hair that shone like straw and eyes as blue as the sky upon a winter’s morning. I believe now that Wutan stole the brooch from his lord when he fled in search of me, but as it is mine by right I took it despite the method of its return. I demanded to know the name and fate of my son, but Wutan demanded money again. I asked how much he wanted, no longer caring, and that was a mistake for he saw my desperation and asked a price so high that in paying it I left myself not only destitute, but in some considerable debt to the Innkeeper Barliman, who agreed to loan me the extra.

“It was a high price to pay for bitter news, for what I heard was little to my liking. He told me that my son had been named Arad by the lord and that he had been raised to think that he was the lord’s natural son. I was wild with hope but Wutan destroyed that like glass when he told me that Arad had gone to war with the Lord Elessar…and that he had fallen before the gates of Minas Tirith.” Snaveling felt a tear slide out of his eye, but he did not brush it away. “I lost my son again in that moment. But…” his voice caught. Aman’s hand reached out to his own and took it up, pressing it to her lips in a kiss. It was not a gesture of passion, but of comfort and friendliness and Snaveling returned it with a grateful look. Aman returned his gaze with a warm smile, like sunshine upon frozen ground.

And his breath had caught in his throat, and his heart had skipped a beat. For in that moment, the expression on the Innkeeper’s face, like so much about her, was as familiar to him as his own countenance, and for the first time he saw it fully. He was stunned that he could have been so blind to it all this time. For in her face he saw the likeness of his wife Heoll looking back at him. The expression of her eyes, the tilt of her head, even the deep and welling sadness came to him as though the years were but a day, and he was once again beholding his beloved bride. The resemblance had terrified him, and rather than continue the conversation he had hurried away, seeking solitude, and hoping that once more the girl’s goodness of heart would forgive him his odd shifts of mood.

As he sat at his table now, looking at Aman and sipping his wine, that moment of seeing his wife in the Innkeeper’s face returned, as did the rest of his conversation with Wutan – the part of the conversation that he had not been able to reveal to Aman. “But that is not the end of your line, Tar-Corondir!” he had said, “Arad did not die without issue; he left behind him a daughter – your grandchild!”

Snaveling had grasped Wutan by the wrist savagely, wringing from the wretch a cry of surprised pain. “Who is she?” he had demanded. “Where can I find her?”

“I do not know!” the man gasped from between clenched teeth. “Not for sure, but she may be nearby. Before I came in search of you I made inquires. Your son’s daughter came north some time ago to visit a friend, but she never returned.”

As Snaveling gazed upon Aman and remembered Wutan’s words, the truth was revealed to him with a thunderbolt. He fell back in his chair, and the wine glass slipped from his hand to shatter upon the floor. The Inn span about his head like a flock of birds, and he knew…he knew…

He had found his granddaughter.