[Amanaduial the archer]

The Previous Night - Revelations from Reminisces...

"Tar-Corondir has noticed a ressemblance between you and his late wife, he believes you may be his lost son's child. ... There is a connection between you I deem ... I know little of your history but is it possible that it is true - or is it only that his wish sees a likeness ?"

Aman’s mouth dropped open as she looked, openly stunned, at Mithalwen. The elf’s grey eyes remained steadily on her own, and the Innkeeper realised with a shock that there was no jest in the woman’s expression – none at all. She seemed quite as solemn as the grave. Looking across at Snaveling, Aman searched his face, her forehead creasing and her eyes questioning. “Snaveling, what..” she murmured softly. But the man did not hold her gaze for more than a second before he dropped his eyes away from hers, taking a gulp of ale from his glass. Aman gave a snort of laughter, as if testing, as if trying to see the amusement in what must obviously have been a joke – for what sort of claim was it for a man to make on a woman he barely knew anything of?

As if he had expected the gesture, Snaveling looked away, his eyes bitter as he closed his mouth resolutely; as if he had expected her to scoff and sneer, yet was still hurt at her doing so. Looking closely at his face, Aman saw disappointment in his features. Confused, she looked back to Mithalwen, but the elf remained unchanging, compassion and solemnity showing on her fair, serious face – the face of a mother revealing some terrible truth to her child.

I am no child of yours, elf. And my business is none of yours.

Aman’s expression changed subtly and she pursed her lips together. The elf seemed to start slightly, as if she had heard Aman’s very thoughts (and maybe she had, Aman thought, for did not elves possess the gift of Osanwe? But only one elf had the permission to do so, and that was Pio – a half elf now far, far away from this Inn…), but her hand remained over Aman’s, tightening slightly as if she was trying to comfort her. Coldly but deliberately and wordlessly, the Innkeeper slowly removed her hand from beneath Mithalwen’s, settling it on her lap without a word. Mithalwen started forward, looking shaken as if Aman had outwardly flared in her anger. “Aman, please, Tar-Corondir did not-”

“Let him speak for himself if it is so important,” Aman replied icily. Looking across at Snaveling, she crossed her arms and took a deep breath and tried not to show her anger. “Well, Master Snaveling? What is it you have to say exactly? Let me hear the words from your own lips – for of all the scandal and confusion and hurt and lies that you have brought into this Inn, this….” She trailed away, the lamplight glittering off her brilliant green eyes. Her words at last seemed to motivate Snaveling into action: moving as if just awaking from an age-long slumber, the man frowned and shook his head slowly. “Lies?” he replied, quietly, incredulously. “I have never lied to you, Aman. And I am not lying now, I promise you that.”

Aman felt a lump rise in her throat as if she was about to start crying and, to her shame, felt tears well up in her eyes. Looking away from Snaveling, she took another deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to find the words to reply before she simply shook her head and got up from the table, walking calmly and wordlessly away. Ignoring Mithalwen’s words as she called after the Innkeeper, Aman strode briskly across the Common Room – and walked out of the door. Making her way across the courtyard, the Innkeeper did not see the newcomer to the Inn make his musical entrance to the Common Room, simply going to the stables and wrenching the door open. With every step that she took, the urgency of her movements seemed to increase, as if the need to get away grew stronger by the second. Half running down the central aisle of the stables, Aman’s fingers stumbled for the first time in years on the catch of a stable door. Getting a grip of the lock, she flung open ‘Falmar’s door and stepped inside, pulling the stables from the door and turning abruptly towards her horse. The mare looked at her curiously, shifting her feet uneasily on the stone floor; Falmar had been elven trained by Piosenniel, the half elf by whom she had been given to Aman as a gift, and maybe this was what had made her so finely attuned to her mistress’s feelings. From the next stable, Felarof whinnied softly, rubbing she side of his huge, beautiful black head on the side of the stable doorway as he looked inquisitively at Aman, disquieted by her anger and unease. The Rohirrim woman glared at the young stallion and even he, last of the mearas, the finest horse on this side of middle earth, backed away from the anger that radiated from her gaze.

Flinging the saddle onto Falmar’s back, Aman started doing the straps up under the horse’s belly, regardless of her steed’s unease. “I’ll be taking you out for a ride instead of him, my dear,” she muttered angrily, only half talking to the horse. “Why, how could I ride Felarof when…when he was merely a gift from…from…” She pursed her lips together tightly, and tugged at the last strap vehemently to check that it was correctly tightened. Her actions were by now clumsy and rushed and as she unbolted the stable door again, she tried to lead Falmar just as hurriedly out of it. The mare did not budge, glaring resolutely at Aman as she dug her hooves into the straw. Aman angrily tried again, desperation now setting in as she muttered to the horse. “Falmar, come – come on, let’s go; we need to…” she stopped, trailing off as she realised what she could only have finished that sentence with.

She was running away.

Loosening her grip on the horse’s lead rein, she released her fingers. Looking up wearily at Falmar, she brought her hand slowly up to the mare’s cheek, and she did not shy away, allowing the Rohirrim woman to stroke her gently. An apology. Stepping forward, Aman buried her face in the horse’s mane, sighing deeply, no longer wanting to cry, merely to work this whole situation out. For in the back of her mind, other thoughts had been nagging all the while behind her anger.

Why had she reacted as she had? If the thought was so preposterous, why had she not simply laughed in Snaveling’s face? Why, instead, had it affected her so deeply?

Of course it is preposterous. If affects me because…well, because it is Snaveling. He will always affect me… Aman’s lip twisted bitterly but Falmar’s whinny and gently nudge caused her to realise her sudden stiffening, and she tried to relax once more. No, that couldn’t just be it – would she have reacted as vehemently to anyone else if they had made such a claim?

The simple fact was that Aman now could not be sure.

The Innkeeper came, as was well known, from Rohan, the land of the horse-lords, and her father had been one of them: a Rohirrim lord, respected and well-liked by those he knew and fair to those who served under him, as his father had been before him. Aman had never met her grandfather, or in fact any of her grandparents, but her father had told her that her grandmother – his mother – had passed away many years before her birth, dying in childbirth with him. But although her grandmother had paid with her lifeblood for her father’s life, she was well rewarded in her son’s good looks; for it must have been she who Aman’s father took after, there being remarkably little resemblance between him and his father – quite different from Aman, who took strongly after her father with her darker hair and fine bone structure, a contrast to her mother’s typically Rohirrim blonde hair, although she took after her mother with her sparkling green eyes.

Not that she could remember him well: her father had passed away twelve years ago, when Aman herself was but a girl. He had died fighting for King Elessar, falling at the gates of Minas Tirith – a noble and good death, if such a thing exists. She had not often been at home for the years before the War of the Ring, however, having started an apprenticeship as a horse-trainer when she was only fourteen. What with that and the fact that her father was often away on business, the relationship the couple had had been more distant over the last few years of his life, unlike when she was younger. Sighing with a mixture of regret and happiness for times past, Aman thought back to when she had been very young, when her father had taught her of the history of the people of middle earth.

“The oldest of the Mannish people of Middle Earth are the Dunedain, those who remain from the Numenorians,” he had begun one lesson. “They are like to other men in some aspects, but in others they are much different.” He had sat back, taking a sip of wine as he reclined in the thick armchair and looked down at his young daughter as he addressed her by his personal nickname. “Tell me, ‘Ana, why would the Dunedain or Numenorians be different from the Rohirrim?”

Aman screwed up her face, wrinkling her nose as she twisted her hands in her lap. “They…they live for longer!” she announced, suddenly remembering and beaming widely as she did so. Reaching up to the horseshoe necklace around her neck, she began to twist it uncertainly as she tried to gain time by continuing vaguely, “They live for years and years longer than us…”

“Aye, like your father apparently.” Aman’s mother’s voice interrupted their lesson and she entered the room with a tray of tea and toast which she put down on the rug in front of the young Aman. Looking across slyly at her husband, she feigned irritation as she tsked at him, hands on hips. “The Bold Untold will live forever and never seem a day older than he is now, ‘til I’m old and grey!” The Bold Untold: that had been her mother’s name for her father, although exactly why Aman had never found out – something to do with her father’s mysterious nature and his habit of engrossing himself in work for hours on end, so unlike the rest of the Rohirrim.

Her father laughed, reaching out to take his wife’s hand and kissing it tenderly, his dark eyes glittering darkly in the firelight although he kept a solemn expression on his always serious face. “’Til you’re old and grey, my sweet? Why, too late!”

His wife gasped in shock and took a pillow from the chair, clouting the man across the shoulder with it. His face breaking into a grin, Aman’s father threw back his head and laughed, grabbing her and pulling her across onto his lap, tickling her mischieviously as she yelled for him to stop, laughing all the while, her golden hair stark against his dark mane and complexion. As he stopped tickling her, the man started to sing softly, his voice low and deep as he began to little ditty, his smile growing. “One day to pastures of Rohan rode, a beautiful maid on the back of a mare, fair of face and spun of gold, the maid to the Rohirrim did declare –”

“Darned Rohirrim songster getting in my way…”

Aman almost jumped as she tensed and looked around to where Snaveling stood at the other end of the barn, spooked by how his words seemed to eerily follow her own thoughts. He looked surprised at her shock, taking a few steps forward as he added, “Got in my way when I was coming out of…of the Inn…” the man trailed off uneasily, halting in his speech and his steps. Looking anxiously at Aman, he regarded her wordlessly. Aman sniffed and turned back to Falmar.

“How long have you been watching me for, Snaveling?” she said quietly.

“Only since you started doing that…braiding thing with Falmar’s hair,” he replied without hesitation. “Although I can’t say I think she’ll suit plaits as well as you…” he grinned, then, unable to see Aman’s expression, he became more serious. “How are you, Aman?”

“That sounds like the start of a conversation, Master Snaveling,” she replied curtly. “I thought I established that I did not feel like conversing.”

Snaveling made a deliberating sound, seeming for once to be lost for words. “Hrm. Indeed. Well. I…” Aman smiled secretively to herself but did not turn around. Sighing deeply, she continued to fiddle with Falmar’s mane, her eyes fixed intently on the growing braid. “Snaveling…may I ask what prompted this most recent outburst of identity?” she asked, somewhat scathingly. Her voice softening, she added, “Why are you pulling me into this?”

The pause this time was much longer. “Because I believe it is true, Aman. I told you about my history but…but I did not tell you all of it.” The Numenorian hesitated again, and Aman heard him take another hesitant step forward. “Aman, please, I must as you one question – what…what was your father’s name?”

Aman frowned, closing her eyes. Once more the dark, laughing eyes and handsome face of her father danced into her mind’s eye, and she turned her head to look at Snaveling, her chin held high and a little pride in her voice. “My father, Snaveling? My father was the son of Lord Taraphir of Rohan, and his name…his name was Lord Arad of Rohan.”