He muttered every oath and curse he knew on his way back to Bree that night.
In the deepening darkness of the fields and pastures, the traveler moved quickly and silently aside from his fuming. There was little reason for him to return to the town in truth, save that he preferred being lost in a crowd of strangers to the utter loneliness of nature.
He was humiliated that his gesture towards his new friend – if he could be so bold as to call her that, yet – had not only fallen flat, it had offended her. What manner of person would turn away such a fine gift, he wondered. No one had ever given him such a thing as what he had offered!
And she buried it. Buried it! Completely wasted.
He'd awoken early that morning to hunt the rabbit. It'd taken him a few hours after sunrise to locate a decent sized warren to stalk, and he'd finally found one near to a sizable farm beyond the worksite in the fields of Bree-land. He sat in the brush for a time, then, to select just the right quarry – and when he saw the great buck squeeze his way out from the largest hole of the warren, he knew it would be him. Well-fed with a coat that was a handsome pattern of mottled earth, the buck was probably the king of that rabbit-kingdom. And he would bag it to gift to the otherling.
Hunting coneys without a trained dog was not an easy task, so he'd decided to use the old walking-up method he had learnt as a child. He drew himself up, walked about ten paces, then halted for a count of thirty. As he repeated this, some of the lesser rabbits scattered, but King Coney paused during the silent counts instead of running, waiting in the quiet to decide what he would do. It is the still periods in that trick that score the kill.
Luckily, the traveler was well trained with the snap-shot that one requires for hunting coneys. He'd already held his knife extended, ready to launch at an instant. That was all the time he had. And at just the precise moment, he threw his blade centered just beyond the King's head – resulting in a perfectly fast kill and completely undamaged meat and pelt. He was proud of himself.
But when he approached the otherling's camp bearing his prize, she was crestfallen. Horrified, he could tell, but attempting to hide it behind civility. She had no interest in cooking it as he'd hoped, even going so far as to suggest he take it to the hobbits of Staddle. That comment pained him the most. The pelt that could have been used in a thousand ways both useful and fashionable – now rotting in the dirt.
She'd insisted that the coney be properly buried, with a ceremony even. As if the beast was a friend.
He cursed again, this time for the doom of all rabbits everywhere.
Still, she'd again given him food despite her affront. And she asked him to bring her honey and berries, next time. He had no desire whatsoever to go berry-picking or tangle with bees, so that was an onerous request.
He believed that he enjoyed her company, though, and wanted to continue with their growing friendship.
More curses.
