The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[piosenniel]

~*~ GREEN DRAGON INN FACTS ~*~

The Green Dragon Inn is located in Bywater, just off the Great East-West Road.

It is the 4th Age, year 12. By the Shire Calendar it is year 1433 S.R. (Shire Reckoning).

King Elessar is on the throne of the Reunited Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor.

Mirkwood has been reclaimed by the Elves and is now called Eryn Lasgalen.

Paladdin Took, Pippin’s father, is Thain of the Shire. (Thain is an honorary title for the military leader of the Shire. The title has been held in the Took Family since the position was first established in 3rd Age 1979 with Bucca of the Marish as First Thain.) Paladdin Took dies in year 13, and will be succeeded by his son, Peregrin, ‘Pippin’, Took.

Samwise Gamgee is Mayor of the Shire, having succeeded Will Whitfoot in 1427 S.R.

The Innkeeper, in the Green Dragon Inn of this forum, is: Aman – a young woman from Rohan.

Before her, the Innkeeper was Piosenniel, and before her it was Dwarin, the Dwarf.

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Other ongoing characters in the Inn:

Ruby Brown, Hobbit – not married – server and maid

Buttercup Brownlock, Hobbit – not married – kitchen assistant and maid

Vinca Bunce, widowed, Inn Cook (character played by Piosenniel)

Derufin, General handyman/jack-of-all-trades round the Inn; Man from southwestern Gondor (played by Envinyatar)

Zimzi (Zimziran), wife to Derufin; a skilled potter from Lindon(played by Pio)

Meriadoc - Stablemaster

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Ongoing characters from outside the Inn:

Halfred Whitfoot – local Shiriff from Bywater and Postmaster for this area of the Shire; his pony’s name is Dumpling.

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Please Note:

No 'SAVES' are allowed in the Inn (except for modifications needed to be made by the Moderators or Innkeeper).

With the exception of the Innkeeper and the Moderators, no OOC (Out Of Character) comments are allowed in the Inn.

Only the Innkeeper, Amanaduial, or the Moderators move the timeline for the Inn forward.

Visitors to the Inn will need to read the posts that come before theirs to get an idea of what time it is in the Shire, what the weather is like, and what is happening.

No violence is allowed in the Inn or on Inn grounds.

Please be familiar with the rules for the Inn and Games in The Red Book of Westmarch, the first topic in the Shire.

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About Elves in Shire RPG's:

Please use this description from Tolkien when crafting an Elf:

Return of the King – Appendix F: Tolkien’s description for the Quendi (The Speakers) – the name given to the Elves by themselves after they first awoke in Middle-earth.

“They were a race high and beautiful, the older Children of the world, and among them the Eldar were as Kings, who now are gone: the People of the Great Journey, the People of the Stars. They were tall, fair of skin and grey-eyed, though their locks were dark, save in the golden house of Finrod; and their voices had more melodies than any mortal voice that is now heard . . .”

Please use this as a guideline for describing your Elven character’s appearance.

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EVERYONE

Please be familiar with The Red Book of Westmarch which gives the rules for posting in the Shire RPG's and in The Green Dragon Inn.

Thanks!

Piosenniel, Shire Moderator

[piosenniel]

It is now early morning, just after first light. The sun is peeking over the horizon and into a cloudless sky. Rain was heavy last night, but it has now cleared up. Paths and byways are still quite muddy.

Cook and the kitchen crew have been up for quite a while. The fire in the common room has been relit and is crackling merrily to drive away the dawn chill. The smell of freshly baked bread and sweet rolls wafts out from the cooling racks in the kitchen, as does the heavier scents of potatoes fried up with onions, thick slices of bacon, and scrambled eggs. Pots of thick oat porridge mingle their homey fragrance into the welcoming scents.

Early risers in the Inn are nursing cups of strong, sweet tea as are those farmers up early about their business . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Hearing the knock on the door, Miz Bella hurried over and invited Camille inside, "I am so glad to see you. There's much to be done. Have you eaten breakfast?" she added.

Camille said yes and explained that she'd eaten twice, bread and butter at home as well as two bowls of porridge in the Common Room.

"Good! You'll need your strength. I just finished breakfast myself. Let's have a look at the classroom.."

The classroom was in a state of chaos. Chairs were overturned, tables flung everywhere, and old papers thrown down; the entire room was littered with rolling dustballs. There were even some old household items scattered here and there. "I've no idea what they used this room for before. It almost looks as if someone had a jumble sale here." Miz Bella pushed a chair out of the way so they could enter the room. "Here's a broom and dustpan as well as some rags and a mop. You can put the trash in the cloth bag over there. I want to work on some plans for my lessons but when you need to move the furniture you can give me a holler. I expect we'll want to put some of the tables out in the courtyard and have them moved to a storage shed."

Bella was relieved to see that Camille looked happier than she had last night. The lass picked up the broom and enthusiastically began to sweep until Miz Bella interrupted.

"Ah, I almost forgot. Do you see the two crates over by the door? The Mayor sent those over this morning. Lots and lots of books from the Bag-end library. And Master Samwise plans to send two of his little ones to the school. I was so pleased."

"What shall I do with them, Miz Bella?"

"See the shelves over there" Miz Bella pointed to a series of shelves lining the wall. "Set the books on the shelves and then put them in alphabetical order according to the titles. That may take a while, but it will help me to find them later on."

Camille looked stonily ahead and said nothing but Miz Bella had already whizzed back through the door and returned to her own work.

[Noinkling]

‘No offense taken by your question . . . Anyopâ is it?’ Benat shifted in his chair, making himself more comfortable. ‘We Beornings consider our animals as part of our family, so to speak. Or at least consider them friends. And so it is not our custom to kill and eat them.’ He gave his tablemate a toothy grin. ‘The killing we do is left for our foes. For ages of my people those have been the foul Orcs that infest the Misty Mountains and some of the wolves and other creatures that were corrupted by their master. And thankfully those grow less of late.’

The server came out with a large tray, loaded with three platters of hot food and a basket of toast with pots of butter, jam, and honey. Cullen stood up, greeting the arrival with a grin and a wag if his tail. He set to with purpose, not waiting for an invitation or permission.

‘Plenty to eat here without meat, eh?’ said Benat, buttering a piece of toast, then loading it up with jam.

[Huan]

‘Indeed!’ replied Anyopâ, casting an eager glance at his own platter of savory food. He paused before he picked up his own fork and began to eat. Turning his gaze toward the west, he observed a brief moment of silence.

Noting his companion’s gaze, he smiled as he took up his knife and buttered a piece of toast. ‘We, too, have our own customs,’ explained Anyopâ. ‘It’s interesting, isn’t it how we men wed ourselves to custom to remind us of our better selves lest we lose those selves altogether or they become so thinned out in the passage of our daily lives that we cannot recall them when they are most needed.’

He laughed taking up a forkful of his food. ‘Woolgathering mixed with eggs and potatoes! I hope I have not put you off your breakfast with such thoughts so early in the day.’

[Undómë]

Hob sipped the warm cider. Combined with the heat from the fire he was feeling quite toasty. Breakfast had been quite satisfying; the eggs and potatoes and toast running with honey had filled up every hollow. He sat back satisfied in his chair and pulled out his worn leather pouch of pipeweed. ‘One pipe-full,’ he promised himself, ‘just time enough to let everything settle in nicely, then old Strawberry and I will be off to make our rounds.’

Near him, enjoying their own platters of the Shire’s morning offerings, Benat and Anyopâ sat enjoying each other’s company. The room was not that noisy, many were still abed, and he could not help but hear their little discussion. He puffed quietly on his stained clay pipe, wondering where their thoughts would take them next.

[Saelind]

Slowly, the sun inched higher in the heavens and the cool breezes of the Shire crept through the half open window under which both Thalion and Neviel continued to sleep. The young Elf slept peacefully, his body curled up in a lazy little ball, his head buried deep in the soft goose-down pillow that Ruby had given to him. His father, however, was not so fortunate. Thrashing and turning from side to side, Thalion found his sleep interrupted by eerie images and whispered words that echoed uncomfortably through his head.

The visions he saw were lifelike and disturbing. Thalion struggled to wake but found he could not. He could not even tell whether he was still sleeping soundly in the Shire and had simply fallen into a troubled dream, or if the master of visions had whisked his body and fea off to Aman without his consent. He had never been to the isle, but the misty gardens, silver willows and soft beauty of the place lookedly exactly like Lorien, the resting place of the Valar and Eldar. Thalion gazed across a small lake and spied a willowly figure approaching. For a moment, his heart pounded furiously. Surely, this was his wife. But coming more closely, he could see that the woman, although familiar to him, was not Anoriel.

Mother, mother? Is that you? Thalion recognized the woman and ran forward joyfully for it had been many years since his mother and father had left for the West.

Yes, it is me, Thalion. Your mother. But do not step closer. You do not belong here.....at least not yet.

But, why not? I am an Elf. I have a right to sail West, just as you have done. Neviel and I are on our way to the Havens and soon we will join you on the shores of Aman.

Why do you do this thing, Thalion? You were ever a headstrong child, and I see that you have not changed. Did you not listen to your beloved wife and the words she shared with you the night before she lay down her life.

Anoriel, have you seen her? Has she come to the Blessed Shore, and does she fare well?

Well enough, my son. But she would fare better if you would heed the wise advice she gave you. There are few children here, Thalion. Aman is not a place for the getting of families. There would be no one with whom Neviel could romp or play. Give your son that chance to be young. For he will have many years to live till the end of Arda comes about.

His voice full of sadness, Thalion objected. But here too we have few young Elves. Everywhere I journey in Middle-earth, I see only tattered remnents of what used to be. There is so much loneliness....so many Elves have left. Should I not bring Neviel to Aman so he can be with his people?

In time, Thalion, all in due time. But are there not children in Middle-earth? Are you so proud that your son can not play with a hobbit or a human or a dwarf. Would you deny him the chance to laugh?

But I am an Elf. It has always been our way to hold to the side.

Always? That is a strong word. Have you not heard of Legolas Greenleaf who is close friend with Gimli the Dwarf and King Elessar? Are you so proud that you and your son can not do what he has done......to learn something of the ways of the other free folk of Middle-earth?

I don't know, mother. I have heard of this Legolas but I had never thought in terms quite like that.

Then, think again, and remember the words of your wife. The sea-longing has not yet come upon you or Neviel. Someday, it will come, and you will find your way west in Cirdan's vessel or in a ship made with your own hands. But for now, look about and open your eyes. There are beautful things to see and learn. Share these with your son.

The words trailed off, and the images receded. Thalion awoke with a start, leapt from his bed, and ran to the window. Outside he saw a fine green land, hills and fields tended with loving hands. It was as if he had never truly seen them before....

[littlemanpoet]

With the rising sun, Falowik awoke, lying on the ground near a tree behind the Green Dragon Inn, to find Uien standing near him, her arms outstretched, facing the rising orb; its blinding light made his head hurt.

"Good morning," he said.

She turned. "Good morning to you as well. How do you feel?"

Falowik put his hands to his head. "Horrible. I really must spend less time in the hospitality of hobbitish inns."

"Or any, for that matter."

"Heal me, O Queen of the Dawn."

She laughed. "I must save my strength for a more demanding labor today. Besides, it would do you no harm to suffer the pains of your own overdrinking.

"You are cruel, my love."

"There is a new Elf at the Inn, whose thought came to me last night. I would see who he is. And Mithalwen will be making braces for the hobbit boy Rory. I must speak with her; it seems that she is not so used to the osanwë."

"Then she and I have something in common," Falowik drawled.

"Up with you, Lauréatan! There is breakfast to be had and aid to be given to Mithalwen, who seems to think that she must do this in a more difficult fashion than need be."

Falowik laboriously sat up. "The wise Elf Lady of the evening stars knows best what must needs be done." He half smiled, watching her through squinted eyes.

She stamped her foot and put her hands on her hips. "Are you sure you have not been listening to my thought? I do not know best, and must be careful not to needlessly tread underfoot the best thought of others. All the more reason to seek out Mithalwen."

Falowik got his feet under him and grunted himself to his feet. "I need a bath."

"There is a stream you know of well," Uien replied, "where I learned that your hair was not dark but golden."

"Oh, I remember," Falowik grinned. "I suppose that was all you learned?"

"Shush! I am a proper Elf Lady, you human lout."

"Human lout that you have sworn undying devotion to."

Uien tilted her head and regarded him measuringly. "That ale is both on your breath and coming off your tongue. I've never heard you speak so brassily."

"Maybe I should drink more often and copiously."

They continued their banter hand in hand as they walked toward the inn, Falowik detouring to the stream where the water ran deep; Uien went in search of Mithalwen.

[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger tries to “help” Camille . . .

Ginger balanced the tray against her hip as she rapped on the door. In the once empty area outside the room were now stacked some odds and ends of furniture. Cook had sent her with a pitcher of cider, several mugs, and a plate of flaky currant scones to Miz Bella’s classroom. There was plenty of work to be done, long dusty, thirsty work. Camille and Miz Bella would have need of a little sustenance.

She thought she heard a muffled voice, or at least some sort of sound, through the door. Not wanting to wait any longer, she took it for a ‘Come in!’ and opened the door. Her mouth dropped open in an ‘O’ of surprise. Cook had made her believe this room was a shambles. But here was Camille with everything clean looking and in order. Save for the books, that is. Camille was sitting down a look of frustration on her face. There were piles of books on the floor, and a few arranged on one shelf . . . a very few.

‘My stars, Miss!’ Ginger exclaimed. ‘Look what you’ve done with this place!’ She put the tray down on one of the nearer tables, and bent over to pick up one of the books. ‘Oh, look at this! I think I’ve seen just this very coney in one of my hedgerows. And this bird – one just like this nests in one of the apple trees near my sister’s burrow.’ Ginger put the book back down and picked up one of the thick ones. She frowned as she turned through several pages of printing, then her face brightened at one of the pictures. ‘It will take me forever,’ she muttered, ‘to be able to read what this is all about.’ She leafed through a few more pages. ‘Just look at all these letters! Stare at ‘em long enough and they pull tricks on your eyes it seems.’

Ginger poured a cup of cider for Camille and handed it to her. ‘I’ve got a little time. Want some help getting these books on the shelves?’ She bent down and started separating the piles into other smaller piles. ‘Don’t know how you were doing it, but how about putting all the picture books together and arrange them by height. The others we could separate into fat and thin and arrange them by height.’ Ginger looked around at the shelves. ‘They’d be nice and neat that way, like the rest of the room.’

[Nurumaiel]

The door to the new schoolroom opened and Marigold crept in, rubbing her eyes and gazing about her in a dazed fashion. When she saw Camille, she burst into a radiant smile, more confident now that she saw she knew someone in the room.

"Goodness, but I'm aching!" she said, bending down and rubbing her legs. "I have bruises all over me from falling off that horse. But I'm so glad to be out of bed." She turned her eyes to Miz Bella, who had re-entered the room to make sure Camille was doing all right, and, after an uncertain pause, dropped a little curtsy. "Good morning, ma'am," she said. "I've come to attend the school, and to help you fix everything up. Mr Headstrong will be coming soon to help, as well. Oh, and my name is Marigold."

Miz Bella's smile was warm and inviting. "Good morning, Marigold," she replied. "It's good of you to come help us."

Perhaps she would have said more, but Marigold interrupted, more confident before as result of the kind words. "Yes, isn't it good of me?" she said, beaming. "I'm so excited about the school. I know a little bit of my letters, because my papa taught me. But I want to learn more. It takes me a long time to spell out words, and I once saw a hobbit who could read it just like it was all coming out of his head, he was going so fast and easy!" Her eyes widened at the memory, and she nodded firmly. "I want to be able to read like that."

[Undómë]

I wonder what customs strengthen them?

A fit of coughing assailed him as the smoke from his pipe crept down his throat too deeply. The discussion of the men at the next table had intrigued him and at the same time made him feel quite rustic. Various thoughts assailed him and he’d quite forgotten he was puffing on his pipe. Eyes watering from the cloud of smoke he’d coughed out, he gulped a little of his cooled tea to ease the raw feeling in his chest, and laid his pipe aside for the moment.

Hob waved away one of the servers who’d come up, a look of concern on her face. ‘Down the wrong pipe,’ he rasped out at her. ‘That’s all. No need for concern.’ Nonetheless, she poured him a bit more hot tea and left a wedge of lemon, saying the lemon would easy the throat.

Customs? The word still echoed in his mind.

He thought of the folk on Girdley Island; his family, his neighbors. Ordinary folk, he thought. Kind folk and brave as needed, he nodded, thinking on how Rowan Chubb’s goat had got stuck on one of the outlaying feet of the island when the river rose and old Taffy had gone out in his ramshackle boat, his sons holding on to the line he’d tied to it and nearly got himself drowned getting Rowan’s nanny back to her.

Generous, too he added recalling how those around old Gammer Rushybanks place helped the old girl plant her garden and harvest it and put it up. And how Gammer always made sure that those whose gardens hadn’t quite seen them through the wet winter had a few jars of her soups to get them through a day or so.

Thrifty . . . he smiled at the much laughed at but fond tradition of the Spring Faire Fisherman’s Cup and the Pie-makers’ Pie Pan. One of the Big Folk from Bree, a merchant who stayed at the Inn when he passed through, was so enamoured of the Cook’s eel pie and fish chowder that on one of his trips through he had presented her with a gift. A large, gaudy tureen in river blue with fish in bright and unusual colors swimming all over it and a pie pan from the same maker with fat eels swimming about its exterior. They had quickly become mathoms and were given to the Faire committee who put them to good use. Hob chuckled, remembering his turn with the tureen sitting on the hearth. His wife had laughed at him as he placed it proudly there, and said, ‘Thank the stars we’ve only to look at it for a year!’

Merry folk and most without a mean bone in their bodies. Little victories were celebrated with food and drink and a shared pouch of pipewood. Many of them at The Cottonwood Inn he remembered fondly. A good day of fishing; the first of the spring onions coming up heralding a healthy garden crop for the year; Gaffer Reedly’s ewe giving birth to healthy twins.

There were many other customs he could name he thought. None so lofty as those of the Big Folk. But good and sturdy ones, nonetheless, that had and would see them through. Yes, he and his folk were rooted in custom, their toes dug deep in its nurturing soil.

With a laugh aloud, he turned toward the table where Benat and Anyopâ sat finishing the last of their breakfast. ‘Begging your pardon, sirs,’ he said, drawing their attention. ‘I couldn’t help but hear your conversation.’ He introduced himself, saying he had sat at their table last night while Master Benat worked up to his story. ‘We Hobbits do have customs . . . though small ones and quite ordinary seen in the light of yours, I’m sure.’ He held out his pouch of Longbottom Leaf. ‘And here’s a fine example of one,’ he said grinning. ‘If you gentlemen are done with your meals, there’s nothing like the Shire’s finest to round out the satisfaction.’

[Tevildo]

After warmly greeting Marigold and lauding her determination to learn to read, Miz Bella excused herself and returned to her desk in the adjoining chamber in order to put the finishing touches on the first day's lessons. She left Camille and Marigold with instructions to continue setting up the classroom and the books from Mayor Samwise. She was pleased to note that Ginger, one of the servers at the Inn, had come in to help them.

As the door between the chambers closed, Camille beckoned to Marigold with an inviting hand, "Come here and see what Ginger and I are doing." There were a great many piles of books strewn all over the floor in one corner of the room. Ginger was studiously working but gave a brief nod of welcome to Marigold. The books seemed to be sorted according to size, height, and color. Ginger would separate the volumes into piles and have Camille set them neatly on the shelves.

Turning to Marigold, Camille explained, "Miz Bella asked me to put the books in order. She had said we might do it by title. But Ginger thought of a much better scheme: to arrange the books by size and height. She's so smart. And I had another idea, too. I suggested we sort the piles by color. Very pretty, don't you think? I did try it by title but the big and little books were all mixed up in a jumble. I'm sure Miz Bella will like this better." Camille did not bother mentioning that she had only succeeded in alphabetizing three of the volumes, which were at the very beginning of the alphabet.

The young hobbit lass pointed triumphantly to a long shelf on the wall where there were a series of red books all in a row: fat ones on one end, skinny ones on the other, and the very tallest in the middle. A few picture books sat on the lower shelf. Camille beamed proudly at her handiwork, observing, "I've seen Cook store her bowls in the kitchen just like this: big ones in one cupboard, another for smaller ones, and the third for those that are middle-sized. So it should work well with books. I hope Miz Bella will be pleased."

With that, the young hobbit set back to work, mentioning to Marigold, "If you'd like, you can help us to sort the rest...."

[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.”