[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The cellar was cool but still his efforts made Snaveling sweat. He had set
aside his outer garments before getting to work for fear of soiling them
overmuch. He had done some damage to them in his clambering about the roof
with Aman, but he was not yet so vain as to mind the slight snags and an odd
bit of dirt. It was just that he had spent a good amount of Toby's money on
the clothes and he wanted to protect them for as long as he could. And so he
worked, hauling empty barrels and casks up from the cellar and rearranging
the rest, in nothing more than a simple white shirt and breeches. He had
always been strong and lean - his life in the wild had seen to that - but
the last few weeks of good food and hard labour on the reconstruction of the
Inn had given his muscle both mass and tone. He was amazed by his own
ability to lift heavy barrels, and once, or so he thought, he had caught one
of the halfling lasses gazing at him with open admiration as he pulled a
huge barrel up the cellar stairs before slinging it onto his back and
carrying it into the yard.

Aman's words to him atop the Inn remained with him throughout his morning's
labour. He smiled several times as he remembered his reference to his age.
All of his people were long-lived, his own father had been well over a
hundred when he died, and Snaveling knew little of other Men, so it had
never really occurred to him that his 78 years was so much out of the
ordinary. His mind pursued this thought and connected it with what Galadel
had told him about Númenór and its descendants. If what she had said were
true then Roa, too, came from a long-lived people. He had assumed that she
was no more than a score of years of so, and this had added to his despair
of ever telling her how he felt - but if she were of the same kind and
manner as himself, she could easily be much older. This thought gave him
some comfort.but not enough to convince him to seek out the Ranger and open
his heart to her.

After a couple of hours’ hard labouring he paused in his work and went up to the
kitchen for a bite of food. He had eaten no breakfast for the swimming in
his head from the night before, but the air that he had breathed at the top
of the Inn and the sweat he had shed in its cellar had cleared his mind, and
settled his stomach. The serving maids, who had, among all the folk in the
Inn, been the most suspicious of him when he first arrived, had become used
to his presence. His time spent alone with Aman had also gone a long way to
calming their fears about his nature, as had - he could see - his
transformation of the night before. Buttercup had even taken a bit of a
shine to the Man, for he loved her cooking and would eat prodigious amounts
of whatever she gave him. "Good morning Master Snaveling," she said as he
puffed his way into the kitchen, still breathing hard from his exertions.

"Good morning Mistress Brownlock," he replied politely. "I have been slaving
away in that cellar for two hours of back breaking, arm-straining labour - do you
think you could give me somewhat to eat by way of breakfast?"

"Breakfast?" the hobbit gasped. "My my, but I'm afraid that breakfast is
well out of the question; so too is second breakfast and elevenses and dinner! But you're just in
time for an early tea!" And within moments, Snaveling was seated at the little
kitchen table with a plate before him, upon which was piled warm bread from
the oven, two large apples, a large wedge of a creamy yellow cheese that
smelled like clover, half small cold meat pie, and enough butter and honey
for three loaves of bread. Snaveling set to, and much to his surprise
finished the lot, chasing it all down with a small ale from what he was
assured was the Innkeeper's own private stock. He stood up and stretched his
tired arms out as far as they could go, "Thank you Mistress Brownlock," he
said. "That was a wonderful breakfast, no matter what you call it. But to be
honest I can't believe I ate as much as I did - now that was a labour to
match what I've done this morning in the cellar!" The hobbit lass merely
smiled at him before whisking away the plate and cup.

Snaveling still had work to do in the cellar and yard, but decided to take a
look into the front room to see if Toby were still there (which he suspected
he was) and if he wanted to join Snaveling in a bit of a smoke (which he
knew he would). He left the kitchen and walked into the Common Room looking
about for his friend, but there swam into his vision Bredan, who had clearly
had too much to drink. As soon as the Gondorian youth saw Snaveling his eyes
narrowed into a look of intense dislike and his fist began to twitch as it
had when Snaveling had interrupted Bredan's discussion with Aman earlier.
Snaveling knew that common sense, not to mention common civility, dictated
that he move away from the young man and avoid a confrontation. But
Snaveling did not feel like giving way to the man, the boy, really. For too
many years Snaveling had done just what he should do now: turn away, hide,
pretend to be chastened. And he was tired of doing that. Tired, and a bit
proud, now, of his ancestry, and of the mighty line to which he stood heir.
It occurred to him that this man was a subject of the King Elessar, and that
he would undoubtedly hate and fear Snaveling, if he were to find out who he
was. This brought Snaveling's back to rigid attention, and set his eyes in
his skull like glowing coals. When he spoke, he did so with disdain and cold
authority. "You seem to be in my way," he said, his voice like steel drawn
through fine cloth. "Stand aside so I may pass!"