Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

Credit: www dot equine-world dot co dot uk/ horses _ care/grass.

This is a completely AU piece of silliness with some (probably) OOC behaviour from our favourite four-legged friend.

A Pony's Tale

Chapter 1: The Man from the East

Bill’s POV

Bill was very happy in Imladris. He was housed in a roomy stall with fresh sweet hay; had the run of a large field morning and afternoon; and his hooves had finally been freed of those bothersome stones that had plagued him several weeks ago. It was also full of elves - and they were much nicer than his former owner Bill Ferny.

Billy Ferny. The mere thought of the cruel man was enough to send a quiver right down his haunches!

As if to add insult to injury, that was now his name too. He would have been mortified to share such a thing in common with that nasty character had it not been bestowed on him by the little master with the many pots. Still, at least his title was somewhat distinguishable from his former owner’s. Bill the Pony. Yes, that wasn‘t nearly as unpleasant as it could have been.

He whickered in pleasure as a passing elf scratched his nose. He liked elves, they spoke to him, whispered pretty words and made him feel welcome. Since his arrival, they brushed him (daily), fed him hay (also daily) and sometimes sang as they worked. They were very ... sparkly. Like the stars on a dark night.

But he missed the little master with the many pots. What was his name again? It was difficult to understand the speech of those not of his kind (unless it came from elves - or that smelly man who’d dragged him through a marsh riddled with midges. Didn’t the man realise that the pony had been little more than a walking feast for the blighters?).

Sam! Yes, that was the little master’s name. Sam. He’d heard mention of him from the stable master this morning. Sam would be paying him a visit today (as he did most days) and Bill was greatly looking forward to it. He didn’t understand a thing the little being said, but that was of no matter. Just the sound of his homely voice and the treats he usually brought (carrots!) were enough to fill him with happiness. Sometimes, he even brushed him down himself, which meant Bill had his company for almost an hour!

If ponies could smile, Bill would be grinning smugly. Asfaloth, with his superior airs and flowery name, never got brushed down by his friend (although, sometimes Sam offered him a carrot too, which the pony didn’t appreciate: he was his master, after all - and they were his carrots!).

He glared at the white horse, who snorted at him from his corner stall before turning away. Prissy elf-horse! He’d bet the elegant creature even sang at trees. This presented him with a very amusing image, so he stopped glaring to dwell on it; imagining the stately Glorfindel being unable to urge his steed onwards because it had taken to serenading an oak.

Whickering in amusement, he dismissed any further thought of the preening animal (who thought he was too good for the company of a mere pony) and fell into contemplation of his recent travels instead.

There had been other little people with him during the long trek from Bree. In fact, all of the company had been very small indeed, just like a few of those from his old home, apart from the smelly man. And very pleasant little folk they were too, when they hadn’t been chased by the Black Riders.

He shuddered at the unpleasant recollection. Big, scary things they were; riding such horrible dark beasts that Bill was almost inclined to excuse Asfaloth his obsessive self-interest and call him 'friend'. Anything was preferable to the unnatural creatures that had chased them for nigh on three weeks! And what screams of terror they let forth! He had been hard pressed not to run off and leave the others to it! But he couldn’t desert his little master. Who would have carried all the supplies?

Actually, he realised, if he’d ran off, the supplies would’ve ran off with him, being on his back and all.

Never mind. All’s well that ends well, that was his motto. The whole group had made it safely to the elf city (although the little dark-haired one was in a very sorry state for most of the journey - Bill would gladly have offered him some of his oats to cheer him up, if he’d had any at the time). The dark-haired one was much better now, meaning Sam came round to visit him much more often.

He ripped a clump of sweet hay from the bale and began to munch on it happily (his teeth had also been polished during his stay), delighted at his unexpectedly good fortune. Several years with Bill Ferny had almost brought the death of him; half-starved and neglected as he’d been for most of that time. And look at him now! Well-fed and groomed, and great friends with some of the most noble horses in all Middle Earth (apart from the egocentric power-pony in the corner stall). He sincerely hoped he could stay in this lovely, shiny place forever.

A great stomping interrupted his pleasant thoughts and he stuck his head over the door of his stall to investigate. That didn’t sound like Sam. Or the elves. He looked towards Asfaloth’s stall to make sure the cumbersome oaf was still contained and found the narcissistic nag had, in fact, not decided to entertain his stablemates by showing off his fancy footwork in the middle of the enclosure. Thank goodness for that! Bill would rather suffer a saddle sore than encourage the glorified mule with an audience.

What on earth was making that noise, then? He swivelled his head in the opposite direction and saw the most peculiar sight of his life. Sam was indeed coming to see him, but the bashful master was in the company of a ... a ... well, he wasn’t sure what that was. But it walked, and it talked, and looked very fierce, despite the lack of height. It was taller than Sam and the other little people, but smaller than the elves and other Big Folk. Was it a little man of some sort?

The ’man’ was covered in leather and metal garments and wore great, chunky boots with black studs. His head was adorned with a ... was that one of Sam’s pots? But no, there was no handle. And Bill couldn’t see his face at all for all the coarse, red hair sticking out of it. It looked very much like fiery hay sprouting from his cheeks. He wondered idly what it tasted like. It fell past the little man’s chin in great waves and sported a decoration of beads.

What an odd creature! Whatever was his Sam doing in the company of such a one? Then again, he mused, those who did not belong to his kind often displayed rather bizarre behaviour. They sat down to eat, lay down to sleep and wandered off for privacy when nature called. All very peculiar, in his opinion.

Sam brought the little man over to Bill’s stall and pointed at the brown pony. Why was his master doing that?

A horrible thought occurred to him. Oh no! Was he going to sell him to this hay-faced being! Surely not? And just when he thought fate was finally smiling on him, too!

Normally Bill would have stood patiently before visitors and treated them to his best docile look (it was very effective at procuring treats and scratches), but the idea of this bulky mini-man with his hay beard and several pound-weights of clanking metal perched on his back was enough to make him panic. What had he done to cause his master such displeasure? Had he not been a good pony and carried all the food and blankets in his saddles from Bree to Imladris? Had he not bravely fought off monstrous terrors while the others had cowered in fear behind the bushes?

Well, maybe not that last bit. But still, he thought his little master loved him! He scratched his ears in exactly the right spot and always patted his head fondly when they were on the road together. And Bill adored him. Was this the reward for his loyalty?

He gazed at Sam balefully with his liquid eyes in the hope a healthy dose of guilt would change his mind. But Sam opened the door to the stall and appeared to be entering with his companion. Another elf was about to pass by, but paused to greet the two visitors. Bill strained his ears to see if he could learn anything of his fate, but to no avail. The glowing elf only acknowledged his soon-to-be-former master and spoke a few words to both him and the pot-wearing metal man (who had a very rough voice - nothing like his master’s comforting tones at all). What had he called him - Gimmy?

Gimmy? Was that his race or his name?

He had never hear of a race of beings called ‘Gimmy’ before. What did one call a group of them: Gimmies? He pondered that briefly, before deciding it was fairly plausible. After all, he’d never seen the likes of such a one in all his years, yet they obviously existed. And looking as bizarre as the one in front of him did, ‘Gimmies’ seemed a perfectly logical name for them.

Sam and the Gimmy bade the elf farewell before finally entering his stall. This was it! He was about to be sold off and made to go and work for a horde of uncouth Gimmies! No more gentle treatment at the hands of his beloved Sam, oh no! A lifetime of carrying stout, flame-haired, axe-wielding, pot-helmed...

Wait just a minute ... axe-wielding? Bill blinked, then swung his head round as they walked by him and paused at his right flank. Sure enough, strapped securely to the rear of the Gimmy, were a pair of axes. A sensation of impending doom took hold of the poor pony as he recalled a time not too long ago in Bree, when a visitor’s horse had informed him of men from the East that feasted on horseflesh. He’d thought the horse was just scare-mongering, poking fun at his own blinkered existence - but perhaps not! The Gimmy may as well be a man of the East as anywhere else: how was he to know any different? And those axes might be used to slice up the meatiest part of his own slowly-but-surely swelling form for the barbarian’s evening meal!

Of course, he was a pony, not a horse; but could he vouch for the carnivore’s ability to tell the difference? Would the flesh-eater even care if he could? He didn’t look like a particularly fussy individual and one equine may be as tasty to him as the next. In fact, Bill may be his version of the perfect pocket-sized snack: not too big to take on the road, not too small to leave dissatisfied!

Suddenly, he began to regret all the carrots he’d scoffed over the past weeks. And the hay. And the oats. In fact, he decided it may very well be to his own advantage to lose his appetite altogether. At least until the Gimmy was gone.

His guests made their way around his quivering body, his skittish movements causing them to leave a wide berth. Sam spoke soothing words in an attempt to calm him (while the Gimmy protested loudly). The hairy individual was sizing him up from as near to the wall as he could get without forcing himself through it. The pony could hear the thud of his axes against the wooden enclosure and feel the tension rolling off him, which only served to increase his own.

Attempting to remain calm, lest his nervous state brought injury his traitorous master, he allowed Sam to approach and reach a hand out. Hah, Bill knew what he was trying to do! He would not be fooled by such actions! It was too late to play at being his friend when he knew fine well that the little one was planning to sell him off like a prize cow (and meet the same, inevitable fate). Scratching his ears would not buy his good behaviour this time, for he was not so cheap ... ooh, oh, aaahh!

That hit the spot!

He cocked his head further into Sam’s hand and closed his eyes blissfully. Might as well enjoy it while he could. After all, it could be the last decent scratch he ever got.

So absorbed was he in his little pleasure, that he missed the full approach of them both until the delicious sensation stopped and he opened his eyes to find them standing in front of him. The Gimmy was eying him warily and spoke gruffly with Sam, who shook his head furiously. Then the flame-haired flesh-eater stomped to his right flank again, waving his arms wildly and causing Bill to paw the ground nervously, before stomping back and pointing out the door at the other stalls.

Bill watched him hopefully. That was a much better idea - take Asfaloth! He’s bigger. His meaty form will keep you going for weeks! He paused at this. Wait, Asfaloth’s not pocket-sized ... No matter. The Gimmy could make use of his axes and chop him into smaller pieces. Perhaps salt them to make them last longer. Oh, if only he could communicate with them and suggest the clever idea!

But apparently, it was not to be, for Sam pulled the hungry horror back into his stall, pointing at him again. The dejected pony was about to give his master the full benefit of his unhappy brown gaze in the hope it may sway him to pity, when he realised that the Gimmy’s proximity afforded him a better view of the gleaming edges of the axes which peeped menacingly over his shoulders.

It was too much.

He had not survived the neglectful care of a drunken Bree-lander to become a light snack on a long journey: betrayed by his little master and chewed with relish by a walking bale of red hay!

Taking the two guests completely by surprise, he reared back on his hind legs and waved his front ones wildly in their direction. Sam sprang back in shock and the Gimmy threw his arms in front of his face, then turned and tripped over his own two feet in his haste to exit the stall.

The angry man fell heavily, soon trapped in the stall with Bill: he landed on his side too far from the door to make a run for it, and he was now bellowing in fury. This only had the effect of increasing the pony’s alarm and making him rear again. Sam was trying to placate the Gimmy from stall door, but the pot-helmed interloper was not paying attention, having jumped to his feet and drawn his axes.

Which was enough to push the panicking pony over the edge. Throwing caution to the wind, Bill lowered his head and charged at the unwelcome intruder, catching him full in the belly.

A great ‘Oof’ filled the stall as air rushed from the mini-man’s lungs.

The Gimmy flew backwards into the partition behind him, making the elven horse in the next stall whinny in protest. Bill’s unexpectedly bold assault had caused him to lose his axes. The pot-hat flew from his head, revealing yet more fire-like hay sprouting from the top of it. Delighted, Bill trotted over to his fallen enemy, placing himself directly in front of the dazed being.

Well, then, this was a nice reversal of fortune! Now he was doing the looming, while the carnivore was doing the quivering! Perhaps it would be a good idea to give the impudent man of the East a taste of his own medicine?

Ignoring the pleading tones of his ex-master and the concerned elves who’d come to investigate the ruckus, Bill lowered his head threateningly as the little man tried to scramble away.

And the enemy’s cries of horror were music to his ears as he finally discovered what red hay tasted like.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author’s note: The next chapter is from ‘the Gimmy’s’ POV. Let me know if you like it.

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc . I have written this for my own enjoyment.

Credit: www dot Tuckborough dot net and www dot equine-world dot co dot uk/ horses _ care/grass.

A Pony’s Tale

Chapter 2: Never look a Gift Pony in the Mouth

Gimli the Dwarf’s POV

Blasted elf!

Gimli sat at the long dining table in the Last Homely House glaring at the son of Thranduil, who sat at the other end near the dais. He refused to sit anywhere near the pretty princeling - he was still annoyed by their last encounter the previous evening, when they had engaged in (yet another) spat.

In an effort to bond, the recently formed Fellowship had decided to dine together; unfortunately the discussion had turned to horses (he was not that fond of them), with the princeling singing the praises of the beasts as the most effective mode of transportation, causing Gimli to scoff loudly. The elf had arched one of his (far too thin) eyebrows and enquired as to what he considered the best mode of transport, asking if he perhaps recommended travelling by barrel - suggesting that Gimli had probably floated down the Bruinen in one in his efforts to attend the Council.

This was obviously a dig at the dwarf’s own sire’s inelegant escape from Mirkwood during his time as a hostage there. A hostage of the princeling’s father! It was widely suspected by the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain that Thranduil would have kept the brave adventurers as his prisoners indefinitely, had Bilbo Baggins not been daring enough to risk the outrageously bold monarch’s wrath.

If only the noble hobbit could have found a slightly less … humiliating … method of doing so. A dwarf in a barrel! Whatever next?

Not that he was ungrateful. His father may have otherwise spent the rest of his years in a cramped elven dungeon - unless they let him out to swing on a tree, like they did that Gollum creature. A dwarf in a tree, indeed!

His ire was so provoked at the elf’s acidic comment, that he had immediately sprung to his feet and drawn his axes, declaring that he would not take such an insult to his father’s pride sitting down, and demanded that the young prince apologise before he relieved him of the burden of his head!

To say that the rest of the Fellowship were dismayed at the turn of events would be understating things. The hobbits had paled in fright; Gandalf had sighed deeply; the ranger had unsuccessfully tried to settle the elf; while the Steward’s son attempted to compose the irate dwarf.

With his eyes still glued to Thranduil‘s offspring, his beard quaked in amusement at the remembered look of outrage on the elfling’s face when he had called him ’young prince’. The elf had scathingly declared that he was older than Gimli and all of his ancestors combined, but the quick-thinking dwarf only irritated him by answering:

“’Tis a pity then, that your allegedly long years have not taught you to comport yourself as an adult and show others the respect they deserve! My own father has been ever courteous to you since his arrival, elf, yet you refer to him with nothing but scorn! You bring shame on your kin with such childish behaviour!”

This stellar retort had made the elf flush like a blushing maiden and stutter while he claimed to regard Master Glóin with only the deepest respect. The princeling then stated that he had only meant to imply that his son was unwise to so quickly dismiss the benefit of travelling on four-legs.

They had spent they next few minutes glowering at each other until Aragorn finally decided that enough was enough and disbanded the gathering by dragging the elf off to prance amidst the trees, no doubt.

Gimli growled. ‘Deepest respect‘, indeed! He watched the pretty elf sip on his wine and fervently hoped he inhaled it instead of swallowing. If the arrogant princeling’s respect was as great as he proclaimed, he should not have found it necessary to make such an uncouth remark. And why would he, Gimli, need four legs to travel when he had been endowed with a fine set of two? Four was a pair too much! Plus you had to feed the creatures the elfling was so fond of, as well as brush them down, deal with their bad temperaments (he had ran into Asfaloth two weeks ago when Glorfindel was leaving on a scouting mission and nearly suffered a failure of his own heart when the prissy creature ‘inadvertently’ trod on his foot - his rider claimed it as an ’unhappy accident’, but Gimli was not so sure …).

And of course, some of these tree-coddling elves even sang to their steeds! He would not be bursting into song any time soon just to soothe the delicate nerves of a beast of burden. A singing dwarf? Not he!

The elf, what was his name, Legless, seemed to feel the hot gaze of his future travelling companion and Gimli suddenly found himself being regarded by the steady grey eyes of the annoying princeling. Well, he would not look away first! He could stare with the best of them - and would prove it too. He placed an elbow on the table and rested his chin on his fist.

May as well get comfortable if he was in this for the long haul.

Minutes passed as they glowered at each other, both refusing to look away first. Around them, the diners continued to chat away, enjoying whatever company such unfortunate circumstances could provide before they all left on the fateful quest. Most of the hobbits sat with the elf, except Pippin (who was undoubtedly trying to pester the kitchen staff for more mushrooms), and Gandalf had left to seek knowledge that the vast library provided. Aragorn and Boromir were sitting with Gimli and the dwarves, discussing the happenings of the Lonely Mountain (Boromir was fascinated and hoped one day to introduce Glóin to his brother Faramir, who was apparently a lover of the tales and histories of other races).

However, slowly but surely, the other occupants in the hall became aware that two of those present were not participating in their discussions, and an uneasy tension filled the room as they realised there was a silent contest underway between the elf and the dwarf.

“Master Dwarf, is aught amiss?” queried the son of the Steward when he spied the object of Gimli’s disaffection.

The dwarf was too busy glowering to respond.

The pretty princeling, however, was eager to show he could do two things at once, and spoke as he glared. “Mayhap he is admiring the fine head of hair that I sport and wishes instruction on how to achieve the same effect for his own dishevelled mop.”

Gimli growled again - and the sharp ears of his adversary must have caught it, for he raised a chiselled brow mockingly, leaving the dwarf with an almost uncontrollable impulse to leap over the table and hammer it back into its natural position.

“Legolas!” said the ranger in warning.

Legolas! That was the pup’s name! What sort of a name was that? The elf’s foolish father had obviously imbibed on too much of that prized Dorwinion wine at his son’s birth and named him while he was still deep in his cups! Not that he blamed him. If he had sired such a son, he would drink himself into oblivion, too. The dwarf grinned at the impudent elf, deciding he would much prefer to continue referring to him as Legless.

His evil smirk must have rattled the princeling’s nerves, for the graceful being’s eyebrow dropped and he surveyed him warily, obviously wondering what he was going to do next.

“I was merely pondering the effectiveness of your preferred mode of transport, young prince - the one you were so eager to apprise us of yester eve.” He smiled to himself, knowing his method of address and referral to last night’s incident would rankle his nemesis further - and the princeling would be able to do naught to counter it, given that Elrond had not looked favourably on their inability to ‘co-exist peacefully for the sake of Middle Earth’. Thranduil’s son would not dare to defy the elven lord in his own home by risking his disapproval again.

Unfortunately for Gimli, their host was well aware of what he was doing, being the sire of his own twin terrors.

“I am delighted to hear that you have given the matter further thought,” he drawled at the dwarf silkily, causing Gimli to finally break his gaze with the bratling of an avaricious king (curse him!). His eyes found his host instead.

“In an effort to increase your appreciation of the noble creatures, perhaps it would be wise to educate you on their abilities?”

What?

The dark lord of Rivendell smiled at him innocently. “I have the finest stables for many leagues in this very land and would welcome the opportunity to introduce you to them. Is that not a pleasant thought?”

Gimli’s eyes almost popped out his head.

Nay, it was very definitely not!

But to refuse Elrond’s invitation would be most unwise. His host held his gaze steadily and the dwarf squirmed at the promise of the dire consequences he saw there. He had been outfoxed! And from a very unexpected source.

A stifled cough made him turn his head and he saw his father - his own father - regarding him heatedly. Apparently Gimli would have to concede this round to his unexpected assailant, else his own kin would mete him a public dressing down for offending their host (and thus shaming their family).

Gritting his teeth, he returned his unhappy gaze to Elrond and tried to smile pleasantly. “I can think of no greater pleasure than accepting your gracious offer, Lord,” he managed to choke out. Unless it was bypassing the stables altogether and making a run for Mordor right this minute!

Looking very pleased with himself, Elrond gestured towards the hobbits. “I believe that Master Gamgee is on his way to see his faithful pony after breakfast. It would be a splendid idea for you to accompany him and acquaint yourself with the other horses there as soon as possible. That way, you will be better able to discuss the merits of our four-legged friends when next you chat with Legolas.”

Gimli did not like the way he said ‘chat’. He had not even been aware that beings as academically gifted as the elves used such words. Perhaps he was just utilising it to make a point?

And the point was well made indeed. Not in the near future would he be engaging in heated debate with the pretty princeling, lest he face the wrath of his mighty host. Gimli did not doubt that Elrond had learned a good many things - other than his impressive ability to manoeuvre a situation to his own advantage - over the millennia, and was not wont to discover the various forms of punishment any future misbehaviour on his part may elicit from the ancient elf while he remained under his roof.

He would have to wait until the Fellowship was underway.

The hobbit, Samwise, stood at Elrond’s words and said that, having finished his breakfast, he was happy to leave now. Frodo and Merry would remain with the princeling (distracting him) while Master Gamgee ushered Gimli to his waiting doom.

Reluctantly, he pulled himself off his seat. His fellow dwarves were finding it difficult to contain their amusement and the Steward’s son, Boromir, was actually guffawing heartily. Mayhap he would have to teach him a lesson, too, when their travels commenced. At least Aragorn had the (dubious) grace to cover his mouth with his hand, although his shoulders were shaking visibly. Was Gimli to be the sport of all present for the duration of his visit?

He excused himself from their company as Sam came to collect him and, to his great chagrin, caught the princeling smirking in his direction.

Perhaps a visit to the stables was not a bad idea after all. If he remained here much longer, the threat of Elrond’s retaliation may not be warning enough to keep him from plucking out the elfling’s shiny teeth! Thranduil’s son would never again trouble him with his insolent grin if he could not sport a perfect set of gleaming gnashers.

Heartened by the thought of a toothless Legolas, he joined Sam as they departed the dining hall and made their way past the other dwellings, down the stairs and across the courtyard into the stables. The hobbit was a more agreeable companion than his adversary, and Sam’s happy chatter was almost enough to relax the tension fighting to control his body at the thought of his imminent ‘education‘.

Almost.

He allowed the hobbit’s voice to flow over him as they drew ever closer to the large enclosure which housed the steeds of the Last Homely House. What in the name of Mahal’s flaming beard had he been thinking to get himself into such a predicament? Horses! He could do nothing with such creatures. Give him a hammer and chisel to glean jewels from the wall of a cave. Or his battle-axe to cleave an orc in two. Those he could work with!

But a horse?

“Is everything all right, Mr Gimli, sir? Only, you look as though you’re in two minds about this.”

Gimli pulled himself from his contemplations and saw the hobbit gazing at him speculatively. “Nay, lad. All is well.”

He really should pay more attention to his companion. Dwelling on preferred pastimes would not save him from the ordeal to come, so best get it over with. After all, it was only a few horses they were off to see - ’twas not as if Sauron himself had ’invited’ them over for tea. He could do this. He was a dwarf! The beasts were unlikely to harm him, so long as he did not alarm them.

Deciding to give Sam his full attention, he asked: “Tell me of your horse, Master Gamgee. You appear to be rather fond of him and I am keen to know what has inspired such devotion.”

The young hobbit smiled shyly. “Well, for starters, Bill’s a pony, not a horse …”

What was the difference? Pony, horse - each had two legs too many.

“… and he’s my friend.”

Perhaps the hobbit should try socialising more? ’Twas very unfortunate indeed if the only beings he could talk to were a reserved (although with good reason) master and a speechless mule (Merry and Pippin spent most of their time plaguing the cooks).

“I think you’ll like him,” continued Sam happily as they neared the end of the courtyard. “He’s gentle and mild and always happy to help. He likes it when I talk to him.”

Frowning, Gimli wondered how he could possibly know that, for it was not likely the much-loved beast could tell him.

“Maybe if you talk to him, he’ll know you for a friend and let you scratch him.” The hobbit’s brown eyes watched him hopefully and he found himself squirming again.

Scratch a pony? How his father would laugh at the sight!

“Er … we shall see what … erm … progress … we make this morning, young Samwise,” he bluffed, relieved to see it had satisfied the affable gardener.

“Well, that would be right pleasant-like, Mr Gimli, sir, if you take me. Old Bill didn’t have it easy before he came here, you know. Bill Ferny - that’s the wastrel who had him before - was right cruel to him and when Mr Merry got him while we were still in Bree, he was half-starved and whipped to within an inch of his bones!”

Sam’s face had clouded at the memory, his voice taking on a hard edge and Gimli was surprised at the transformation. Then again, he could understand his anger. He may not be the greatest equine advocate in Rivendell, but neither would he thrill to see any harm coming to a helpless animal. He sighed. For the sake of the little gardener, he would make a concerted effort to befriend the poor creature.

“’Tis a good thing indeed that he found so good a friend as yourself to help him recover, Master Gamgee,” he said (and meant it. He liked the bashful gardener).

The hobbit blushed shyly. “Well, I didn’t do anything much - leastways not as much as he deserves. He’s a good friend, is Bill. He should have a happy home. I only wish as I could offer him one, but we don’t have any stables at Number 3 and I’m not certain as my Gaffer would be pleased if I brought home a half-starved pony to munch on his begonias.”

Half-starved? Was the beast not yet recovered? Mind you, if it required as much nourishment as its doting master, it may take well into the next Age before it was sufficiently able to be of any use again. Still …

“Has the pony not yet made some improvement?”

“Oh yes, sir. He’s looking a sight more healthy than when he arrived. But it may take a few weeks more before he’s his old self again, if you take my meaning.”

Gimli was unsure about this. Their quest could begin at any time once all the scouts returned. There were nine in the Fellowship; that mean nine sets of supplies; food, blankets, healing herbs and tinctures (not that he would need them. His prowess in battle was legend among his kind and, if he had the unhappy fortune of being wounded, better for the one that caused it that the injury was fatal).

Would Bill be well enough to carry such a load when their journey commenced? Perhaps it would be a better idea if they took a more reliable horse. As much as it would sadden him to witness the gardener parted from his trusty pony, the quest must come first.

Speaking his mind aloud to Sam, he got the expected reaction.

“Oh, no, Mr Gimli, sir! Don’t you worry about that. He’ll be as right as rain quick as you please, or my name’s not Sam Gamgee!” declared the startled hobbit.

Gimli wished one of his friends were about so he could check that the gardener’s name really was Sam Gamgee. The hobbit had quickened his pace in his determination to prove that Bill was as near to ‘right as rain’ as could be, which meant they came upon the stables sooner than he would have desired.

“Right this way, sir.” Sam practically hauled him down the hay-strewn path between the stalls and Gimli was forced to trot to keep up. His heavy boots made a loud stomping noise, despite the cushioning, and several equine heads popped over their enclosures to investigate.

Dozens of eyes followed him as they drew close to their destination and he felt distinctly uncomfortable under their gaze.

Finally, they approached a stall near the end of the long enclosure and he spied the head of a brown pony peeping over it, hay sticking from its mouth. That must be Bill.

His guess was correct, for Sam stopped and proudly pointed him out. “That’s my Bill.”

The pony appeared happy to see the hobbit, tossing its head in delight before turning its curious eyes on the dwarf. But when Sam stuck his hand out in the pony’s direction, it suddenly stopped chewing.

Perhaps the beast was waiting for a scratch?

Well, it will wait an Age before it gets one from me!

The creature turned its (decidedly unhappy) gaze to him and seemed to assess him thoroughly.

Just like an enemy before battle begins.

He shifted uncomfortably and was about to say that perhaps this was not the wisest of ideas when he felt the pony’s calculating eyes slip off him and back to its master. Just as Sam opened the door to the stall, an elf interrupted their progress inside it to bid them hello (he was not usually so thrilled to see the pointy eared beings, but something about the allegedly ’gentle’ pony made him uneasy) and then left after what must have been the usual pleasantries at Sam’s visit, leaving him with no choice but to follow the stout gardener inside.

It was quite roomy, as far as stalls went (not that he was an authority on such matters - and as the pony’s head followed their progress through the stall suspiciously, he hoped he never would be). They had enough room to manoeuvre round the beast without disturbing it (though the creature looked disturbed nevertheless - it was pawing the ground nervously).

Pull yourself together, son of Glóin! Are you a dwarf or a mouse?

Stopping at the pony’s right flank, he managed to shake his unease off long enough to get a better idea of its girth. It was a pleasing enough beast to look at from the front, but he now saw that it could easily use a few pounds more in weight and he also spotted some fading scars criss-crossing its flesh, as if it had been subjected to the whip far too often. This made him doubt whether or not the poor animal may indeed be sufficiently recovered in both body and mind for the planned trip outside the elven haven.

Sam dragged him around its hindquarters and the pony became decidedly more nervous at losing sight of them. It began to jostle around the suddenly not-so-roomy stall and Gimli’s pulse raced at its hoof missing his boot by mere inches. He instantly lost any sympathy he had felt for it. It had nearly trampled the same foot so accurately crushed by the elf Glorfindel’s horse. Were the two equine’s in collusion to rob him of his appendages? It was a conspiracy!

“Blasted mule, Hold still, you accursed beast, we mean you no harm,” he snapped, fast losing his good intentions to make an effort.

“There now, Bill, my lad. It’s all right, me dear. Mr Gimli’s a fine dwarf and he won’t hurt you.”

Bah! He wasn’t too sure about that. If the blasted pony made one more attempt to take his foot off, he would be delighted to remove its miserable existence by hacking it into a thousand pieces. The hobbit may object at first, but he would no doubt calm down when Gimli supplied with a more docile pet. Such as a warg.

Gimli moved up towards the wall on the left of the enclosure, to better observe the animal's sturdiness (while discreetly avoiding its hooves). His heart was hammering in his chest and he found that, for once, he sympathised with the elven predilection for free, open spaces. The only difference in his case being that those free, open spaces were completely devoid of horses. And ponies. Dwarves had no business dealing with such beasts - no wonder his father had been sniggering at his misfortune!

Sam was boldly approaching the brutish creature with an outstretched hand, which it eyed dubiously. Very brave of the lad. You would not catch him reaching out to it (unless his outstretched hand housed the gleaming blade of his axe). The beast let the hobbit scratch its ear, bending its head fully to allow better access and closing its eyes at the pleasing sensation. This allowed Gimli to tiptoe to the front of the stall. By the time the stupid animal opened its eyes again, he was safely in sight of the stall door.

“I am not convinced that your pony will be sufficiently recovered to aid us on our quest, Master Gamgee,” he announced gruffly. He was (almost) sorry to see his companion’s glum expression. Sacrifices had to be made for the sake of Middle Earth, after all. Better that the animal live here in relative comfort, than die at the stroke of his blade halfway to Mordor because it had tried to kill him merely for looking at it.

Sam shook his head furiously. “Begging your pardon, sir, but that’s just not right. Why, he’s much better now - look at him. He could carry half of Rivendell on that sturdy back and not so much as break an egg!”

Break an egg? They were off to Mordor, for Mahal’s sake; not off on a picnic.

He trudged (carefully) round to the beast’s right flank again and waved his hands toward it. “Nay, lad. Observe your pet closer: it is yet too thin. And very likely traumatised from the memory of those cruel marks. It would be an unkindness to burden it with unknown trials ahead, when the memory of recent ones clearly linger.”

The pony began to pound its hooves on the ground again and his heart jumped into his throat. The nerve of it! Here he was voicing his concern (though mostly for Sam’s sake) - and it decided to have some more fun by trying to remove his feet! Deciding that the ungrateful creature was definitely not coming with them now (no matter what the hobbit said), he stomped furiously to the door and pointed at the other stalls.

“Look to its companions, lad. Mayhap there is a one there whose back is stronger and temperament sturdier. We cannot have a nervous animal accompany us on the quest, for if it takes fright at the first sign of danger and runs off, we shall be left perilously vulnerable without our supplies.”

There, let him argue with that!

And the hobbit certainly tried. Grabbing his arm and yanking him (really quite forcefully, actually: he must love that sorry cretin a great deal) back into Bill’s stall, Sam’s passionate pleas to his ‘hobbit sense’ (the gardener, in his plight, had forgotten he was speaking with a dwarf) flowed into his ears for several moments, and he pointed at Bill in defiance, claiming him to be stronger, more reliable and far gentler than even the best full-blooded elven horse in Lord Elrond’s stables.

But the pony was making him nervous again, for it had stopped prancing around the stall (having no dwarven target to hit, probably) and was staring directly at him as if daring him to disagree with its beloved master. Its gaze was really quite belligerent, actually. Gimli had a bad feeling about this …

He found out that he had good cause for concern when the ‘gentle’ beast suddenly reared, catching them both by surprise. It was swinging its forelegs at them - nay, it was swinging its forelegs at him! Sam had wisely jumped back out of the way, but in his pony-induced panic, all the dwarf thought to do was thrust his arms in front of his face lest the best smack him in the head. Too late did he realise that he ought to move, managing belatedly to half-twist his torso only to stumble over his much abused feet and fall to the hay-strewn ground.

“In the name of … what are you playing at, confounded mule!” he bellowed as the pony reared up at him again.

“Get away from me, or I shall see to it that you dance on two legs before me, ungrateful beast.” Sam or no Sam, that pony was history!

The frenzied whinnies of the violent creature filled the stables and Gimli could hear elven shouts of alarm drawing closer to them. Sam was yelling at him not to move. Hah! He would not be heeding that advice any time soon. Gimli, son of Glóin was about to face his second adversary of the day - and this time he would be the victor! The day he let some four-legged fiend make a fool out of him, was the day he begged its pardon and requested a seat on its back!

He sprang from the ground and drew his axes, crouching in readiness of the first strike.

“No, Mr Gimli, sir - don’t. He don’t mean you no harm, he’s just frightened.”

So it should be, if the dwarf had his way!

“Just stay still and slide towards me slowly, sir. I’ll speak to him and you’ll get out and everything’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

Slide towards him? Dwarves were not in the habit of sliding! Nay, the lad would be one friend less before lunch, so he may as well get used to the idea.

Unfortunately, he could not voice this retort to the hobbit, for the infuriated pony had taken one look at his axes and lowered its head. Mistaking the action as one of subservience (and therefore getting ready to chop at its neck), Gimli straightened himself slightly …

… only to find himself sailing through the air and into a wooden fence separating them from the next stall. He breath was forced out of his body after the pony had charged him and he lay crumpled on the ground, gasping for air.

What in the name of his hairy mother had just happened? He had lost his axes! They were lying at each side of him. And his helm was gone, too! He heard the plodding of pony steps and looked up to see the beast glowering down at him. Mahal’s beard, but it looked murderous! He tried to scramble in the direction of the door, but it placed itself in his path.

Oh, no! Nice pony …

Bill bared his teeth and Gimli gulped as it lowered its head in his direction.

“No, Bill, don’t!” yelled Sam in horror - cries that he quickly added his own bellows to when the pony started tugging at his fiery locks.

“Aaagh! Get off! Get off! Stop this instant, you blasted nuisance. Ouch! Ow! My hair!!!! My haaaiiirrr!”

The horror of seeing a healthy amount of his glowing locks - and source of much of his pride - hanging from the insatiable brute’s mouth, was just too much for the dwarf to handle.

He slumped senselessly to the ground …

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author’s Note: I’ll do one more round-up chapter after this and that’s your lot! But you have to let me know if you like it first!

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc . I have written this for my own enjoyment.

Credit: www dot Tuckborough dot net, www dot equine-world dot co dot uk/horses_care/grass, ezinearticles dot com, The Naturally Healthy Pet dot com, animalcorner dot co dot uk/farm/horses/horse_about, Equine World UK.

Note: I have extrapolated various nuggets of wisdom from the above sites, but note that my interpretation of them may be flawed as I am (unfortunately) not an equine expert. I do know, that a horse/pony rolling on the ground is NOT a good thing as it can twist their intestines, so if you see a horse doing this, call a vet, fast! It’s also not a good idea for them to move too much when they’re suffering from colic, either. I have only used these here for humorous effect, but - for goodness sake - don’t take it as gospel!

A Pony’s Tale

Chapter 3: Blowing in the Wind

Bill the Pony’s POV

Bill swallowed his last mouthful of red hay just as the elves hauled the Gimmy out his stall.

Tasty!

And what a pity he hadn’t the opportunity to swipe a few more mouthfuls before the little man’s rescue! Unfortunately, Sam had thrown himself between the pair before he could make the next attempt which facilitated the hay-head’s liberation by the elves.

Spoilsports!

His rueful gaze followed them as they carried the mini-man out the enclosure. Never mind. Perhaps there were more Gimmies in Imladris? If only he could convince the elves to have a look, then bring them to the stables; maybe line them up (without their pot-helms) in front of his stall, so he could just help himself? What a lovely idea!

He smacked his lips loudly, having enjoyed his impromptu meal, and wondered if he’d get the opportunity to taste more soon.

The only thing that spoiled his current happy mood, was the fact that his Sam had not stayed longer. Still, his little master must have felt guilty for trying to turn him into a walking buffet, for he’d remained long enough to soothe him (after a lot of finger-waggling and pointing at the Gimmy) and then patted his head. Only then had he left to chase after his companion.

So now, apart from his stablemates, Bill was alone again.

Feeling watchful eyes on him, he glanced at the opposite stall to find the mare it housed watching him with dewy eyes.

Well, hellooo there, pretty elf horse!

He tossed his head proudly to let her better admire him. No doubt she was impressed by his bravery - after all, living right next door to Asfaloth (with his preening ways) must be insufferable. What did that show-off ever do except prance, dance and stare at his own reflection in the water trough? She must be yearning for a little adventure with a dashing stranger, and Bill was just the pony to provide it! He wished his stall door was open, so he could trot up and down before her and show his potential, but Sam had closed it firmly behind him.

The mare blinked, but Bill (in his moment of self-delusion) misinterpreted it.

She had winked at him! Aha! He knew his spectacular victory against the bushy barbarian would not go un-rewarded. Not only had he bravely defended himself against a terrible foe and graciously accepted the (possibly) profuse apologies of Sam for his little oversight, but now a fair maiden of elven stock was making definite overtures to him.

Well, this day just kept getting better and better!

Oh, if only he could go to her, nibble gently on her ears and whisper sweet nothings to the pretty thing (this would have the added benefit of enraging the glossy goat in the next stall). She would realise that her life so far had been empty until that moment! Swear her undying devotion to him (being an elvish horse, that would be a very long time)! They would pledge their troth before the Gimmy’s hair even had enough time to grow back and provide a decent wedding feast (though he was sure the elves would be obliging enough to accommodate them with some oats).

As he gazed dreamily into the mare’s eyes, he lost himself to wild fantasies: a pony and an elven mare, star-crossed lovers galloping across open fields, defying the conventions of the land with their happy union, while the prissy elf horse was left in their sparkly dust, bleating about the unfairness of it all.

Talking of prissy elf horses …

A loud thud and an even louder whinny interrupted the delicious contemplation of his future mate and, extremely annoyed, he swung his head to the left to find his adversary glaring at him. What was wrong with him? It wasn’t as if he had ever shown an interest in his lovely neighbour. Why, he probably thought himself far too elegant for her and fancied his chances with one of those Mearas he was always blabbering on about! Why should Bill be denied his chance of happiness by an uppity social climber?

He snorted in the white steed’s direction.

Mind your own business, oaf!

Returning his attention to the pretty mare, he decided to be bold and make his intentions clear before Asfaloth could ruin the moment and frighten her off. He winked back at the lass, then flashed his teeth, hoping she wouldn’t misinterpret it for a threat.

See, my lovely? These pearly whites will defend you from Gimmies everywhere. Let them be my gift to our children!

Before he had the chance to gauge her reaction, Glorfindel entered with another dark elf and strode towards Asfaloth’s stall. His elven friend disturbed Bill’s view of his potential bride when he opened the mare’s stall.

No! Don’t take her away, silly elf - I was making progress ...

His silent protestations were ignored as the elves saddled their steeds and left the stables within a matter of minutes. Bereft without his mate, he was left alone to contemplate the (hopefully) shiny future that lay before him.

At least the morning outing in the field gave him the opportunity to plan how he to capture the elven mare’s heart. He found himself hoping the smelly man might wander by for a visit - after all, he would understand Bill’s plight, for he had the great fortune of securing the love of an elven maiden himself. How had managed it, though? Since their arrival in Imladris, the man had been considerably less unkempt (and far less smelly), so possibly a good wash had been all that was needed to secure her affections. Or maybe he’d shared his oats with her? Then again, the now flowery-scented man was great friends with a wizard. Perhaps he’d saved himself the necessary encounter with hot water and just had his friend cast a spell on her, instead?

That was it! Bill had to find the wizard and convince him to use his magic on the lovely mare (and his long stick on Asfaloth - just for good measure)!

He cantered round the large field happily, wondering what his chances were of jumping the fence and seeking the wrinkly one out before the elves had a chance to stop him. However, his morning run ended with his return to the stall and no Gandalf in sight.

As the day progressed (with no further sight of his intended), Bill began to experience a growing discomfort. There was a definite gassiness in his abdominal region which became increasingly uncomfortable, and as that day spilled into the next, the unpleasant sensation grew worse. He shifted restlessly in his quarters, desperate to have some relief, and the evening found him considering a roll on the ground. But the stable master must have sensed his discomfort for he confiscated his feed. Left with nothing to eat and no spouse to comfort him, he surrendered to the oil rubs and massages that were deemed as therapy and sincerely hoped that the next morning found him a few pounds lighter.

But no such relief was forthcoming. On the second morning after his encounter with the Gimmy, his abdomen felt so swollen that he did take a roll on the ground. Thank goodness Asfaloth and the pretty mare weren’t there to watch him kicking his legs in the air as if he were making some futile attempt to walk on the ceiling!

He was convinced it was the Gimmy’s fault. His hay-head was poisoned! He had scoffed a goodly amount of it and was now paying the price for his folly! It was all the same to him that the stable master had already told him the hay-head had no intention of eating him (he knew from the start that his Sam was a good master). That information was no good to him now.

Glumly, the pony lifted his head as an elf opened his stall door. He didn’t feel like company, thank you very much. Not even the sparkly elf’s. He’d rather be alone. The elf scratched his nose, but Bill ignored him.

He wished he hadn’t charged at the pot-helmed ... thing (he had been told what the being’s race was, but couldn’t pronounce the word - that happened sometimes: even the fair speech of the immortals wasn‘t completely comprehensible. Bill wished elves could whinny, or snort, even. That would be very helpful).

Perhaps he shouldn’t have chewed on the red hair either? After all, the little man was only trying to be helpful, apparently ...

A loud gurgle filled his ears and he shifted uncomfortably. Thank goodness his tasty hay had been confiscated; the sight of it right now might reduce him to tears!

His morose contemplations were interrupted as the elf led him out the stall, down the stables and outside. Oh good, he was going to the field. Perhaps a breath of fresh air would make him feel better? And if he was lucky, he might see his Sam strolling about the grounds! He had missed him that morning when he hadn’t shown up.

Allowed to roam freely over the wide expanse, Bill resisted the urge to trot and kept his pace to a steady, plodding walk. No point in jarring his tummy. He wondered what Sam was doing at that moment. Maybe his little master would come by to see him while he was on the field and he could show him how much his behaviour had improved?

But there was no sign of anyone other than the elf who’d led him outside.

Until Asfaloth appeared.

Still, if the power-pony was back, that meant his beloved must be, too! But where was she? Nowhere in sight, apparently - just Glorfindel’s horse. His spirits sank further.

For goodness’ sake! Just what he needed - a showdown with the prissy elf horse. And just when he wasn’t feeling his best, too. If the singing steed thought he was weak, he’d never hear the end of it! Why couldn’t they take him somewhere else? This field wasn’t big enough for the both of them!

Deciding that it was necessary to project an air of normality, Bill bravely upped his pace and began to trot (as far to the other side of the field from Asfaloth as possible). If he pretended that he was perfectly happy and healthy, perhaps he could convince even himself?

Alright, then. He tossed his head defiantly as Asfaloth regarded him from the gate. The sun shines, I have a warm stall, I will not be the main course for a ravenous Gimmy and my betrothed is pining in anticipation of my speedy return to the stables. I am feeling very good indeed! See how I skip happily around the field, tree-lover? Skip, skip. Skippety, skip.

The white horse broke into a trot of his own, his long legs carrying him farther than Bill’s could. Running in the same direction as the pony, he quickly overtook him and Bill snorted in annoyance.

Show off! Well, he could certainly match the arrogant mule’s pace, bloated or not!

Increasing his speed, he soon found himself merely a metre behind the snowy creature. That’s it, look back in wonder. See what a mere pony can do!

He was almost past Asfaloth’s flank, when the horse began to canter, taking him further from the pony’s reach.

Why that overgrown, airy fairy, plague of botfly! Was he challenging him?

As the horse rounded the corner of the field, his smug gaze caught Bill and the pony whinnied in frustration before breaking into a canter of his own.

Two can play at that game.

The chase around the field provided him with a distraction from both his raging belly and his earlier sorrow at missing both his mare and Sam (and his newborn contemplation of making peace with the Gimmy). But as the faster pace continued on (with him more often than not left staring at the gaping rear of the horse’s generous posterior - Asfaloth had kindly raised his tail), his stomach began to protest at the added strain of his locomotion.

He tried to ignore it. He would not let that insufferable prancing donkey show him up in such a manner - he must endure this for ponies everywhere! What was a bit of discomfort when the reputation of his kind was at stake?

Ignoring the increasingly uncomfortable rumbles of his digestive system, he daringly upped the ante by flying into a gallop, which carried him past the astonished Asfaloth.

Hah! See how I run? Catch me now, if you can, wargling!

His efforts at self-deception into his current state of health proved quite effective - for a few minutes. Lost in the sensation of speedy delight (and showing the affronted horse his own posterior for a change), he galloped the length of the field in a haze of superiority, ignoring the observing elf‘s look of alarm.

I am King of Imladris! Prince of Ponies. Watch me frolic while you trail behind me in an envious shame! Hah, I scorn your attempts to put me in my place, prissy elf horse!

But his thundering pace was not to be maintained for long. As he turned into his third rotation of the open space, the gurgling in his belly became more insistent and he began to sweat like a panicked Gimmy.

Oh, no! What was happening?

Asfaloth had, by this time, bypassed him and was racing around the field while the pony’s hooves were beginning to falter.

No! He could not allow that glorified nag to overtake him. He’d never be able to look him in the eye again (not that he looked into his eyes that often, if he could possibly help it). Bill tried to maintain his motion as the smug creature travelled the length of the field again (allowing him another unfortunate view of his rear), but it was becoming impossible and by the time Asfaloth had overtaken him a fourth time, his protesting stomach forced him to stop.

He staggered to a halt as the dark elf ran over to assist him.

Oh my, but his belly hurt! He was completely unable to take another step, lest he burst open. Make it stop, nice elf. Ouch! Ow!

The bloated sensation had travelled from his stomach to his hindquarters, but was not moving any further down, and when the elf caught up to him to lead him off the field, every step sent a sharp spike of pain shooting through him. Bill was extremely annoyed with himself - if he’d known that Gimmy hair could cause this much discomfort, he’d have stuck to pounding at the little man’s boots instead!

Talking of little men …

They had just approached the gate of the fence separating the large field from the grounds, when the now-flowery-scented man came towards them, accompanied by a pretty, blond male elf and none other than the Gimmy himself.

But Bill was currently in no state to entertain company, let alone attempt to make friends with the worst haystack he’d ever had the misfortune of encountering.

Go away!

The flowery man approached and called out to his dark-haired handler, pointing at Bill, while the pretty elf glared at the Gimmy (the Gimmy was alternating between glaring back and throwing cautious glances in his direction - as well he should. Bill was not feeling very favourable towards him at present; this was all his fault!).

Another gurgling bellowed through his form as he was led out of the field to stop in front of the flowery man - thank goodness he had used water in the past few weeks, for encountering his former stench at this moment would have sent the pony fleeing back to the loving arms of Bill Ferny. He had enough to worry about without having to gasp for air, too. His belly clenched and he feared that if he didn’t get relief soon, he might pop. Bill the Exploding Pony. He didn’t much like the sound of that (although Asfaloth would probably neigh in delight at the spectacle of Bill-bits gently floating to the ground, noxious nag!).

His handler halted with him to speak to the flowery one, and he fervently hoped that they would not be kept there long. The man stepped towards him and scratched his nose gently, but he could not enjoy it as much as usual, nor did he feel inclined to discover how he‘d successfully wooed his bride-to-be - not yet anyway. The man placed one of his hands on the side of Bill’s head and spoke gentle elvish words.

Now, really! Did he look like he fancied a chat? His gassy belly was swelling to such proportions that he could barely put one leg in front of the other, and the silly man wanted to discuss the affairs of the day? He glanced at the blond elf and the Gimmy, hoping they weren’t here for a lengthy conversation too; but to his relief they were too busy glowering at each other.

Hmm, interesting. A Big (and little) Folk version of his own relationship with the prissy elf horse?

The prissy elf horse must have been reading his mind, for he heard his clopping hooves behind him and was forced to move out the way to allow him through the gate. His stomach protested violently while he swung his form round, glowering at Asfaloth as he swanned past (looking victorious). Unfortunately, his new position placed the blond elf and the Gimmy directly behind him, which would not have concerned him greatly had they not started bickering with each other.

And the flowery man still had his hand on his head, too. Oh, well. He obviously wasn’t going to leave until Bill let him have his say, so he tried to ignore the squabbling pair and his bubbling intestines and listened to the flow of elvish. It was quite comforting, actually, once you gave in to it. The man’s voice was really quite soothing. A warm sense of peace began to infuse him, relaxing his tensed muscles as the warmth of peace flowed over him.

Ooh, yes, that’s nice … keep going.

The warmth flowed down into his roiling belly and fought the demons that lurked there as he relaxed further - and considering the growing ruckus behind him, that was quite a feat. What on earth were those two arguing about? Not that he cared, really. It felt as though the toxins of the Gimmy hair were finally about to flee his body. And if the squabbling mini-man didn’t move soon, he might get the dubious pleasure of having them gifted back to him.

But the Gimmy did not get his hair returned to him in this most unfortunate of manners - though as the combination of his movements to allow Asfaloth passage through the gate and the steady flow of healing words coursed through him, an enormous blast did emanate from his nether regions, providing him with unimaginable relief …

… at the same time as the roar of Gimmy laughter and the din of elvish yells resounded behind him.

He turned his happy head towards the sound, a move mimicked by the flowery man and the dark-haired elf, to find his former snack rolling on the ground in mirth as his windblown, filth-strewn enemy seethed in rage.

Oops!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author’s Note: My mojo abandoned me within the last week, leaving me some difficulty in attempting the next chapters of both these fics.

However, after lengthy negotiations with it (and its very scary looking union rep), I have promised it an increase in salary and fed it haggis, neeps and tatties (it is Burns’ Night after all), so for the moment we appear to have called an uneasy truce.

Kara’s Aunty ;)

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment - and who knows, maybe yours?

Credit: www dot Tuckborough dot net and Encyclopaedia of Arda.

A Pony’s Tale

Chapter 4: The Pride that comes before the Fall

Gimli the Dwarf’s POV

It was a rather confused son of Glóin who awoke half an hour later in his guest chambers at the Last Homely House.

What had happened to him?

His scalp burned as if he had been dipped head first into the fires of Mount Doom.

Wait ... had he? Was the Quest over? Mayhap he had been struck by a flying rock when the mountain exploded as he heroically endeavoured to rescue the Ring-bearer from its foul location? The Fellowship must have carried him to the nearest city of the West upon the success of the quest. He had survived against all odds!

But of course he survived. ’Twould take more than the filth of Sauron to lay this dwarf so low.

Durin’s beard, but his head was smarting!

With his eyes still closed, he raised a hand to it and ran it over his scalp to find …

“Aaagh!” Gimli flew upright, his hand clutched over his head in disbelief.

Nay! Not his hair! It could not be!

Springing from the bed, he ran across the room to the mirror situated on the dressing table (he would never voluntarily keep such an object of vanity in his own quarters - he did not need it; he knew he looked magnificent) and stumbled to a halt in front of it, afraid to remove his hand and see the glaring truth of his dilemma.

What horrors lay beneath his fingers - and was he dwarf enough to face them?

Reluctantly admitting that he was, he took a seat in front of it (like a preening maiden) and gazed at his reflection. His beard was dishevelled, the braids somewhat undone, but otherwise intact: check. The right side of his head sported an abundance of burnished red locks: check. No wounds adorned his face: check. Now for the true test …

Slowly, he peeled his fingers from the left side of his scalp one at a time until only his palm remained: this was it. Lifting his palm away he gasped in horror at the shiny, red skin it proudly revealed.

He had a bald spot! An eye-catching, fist-sized, glowing-like-a-newborn-babe’s-smacked-posterior bald spot! Oh, the shame of it!

Miserably examining his war wound, he saw that it was not entirely bare. Little tufts of wiry growth yet remained, making it look even more ridiculous than it already did. A bald dwarf. He was a bald dwarf!

He growled. Frodo Baggins better have survived his bold rescue from the Dark Lord’s lands after such a sacrifice or he would personally tear him limb from limb! Well, mayhap not. One could not dismember a spirit.

Still, Ring-bearer or nay, where did this leave his valiant rescuer? Gimli the Dwarf could not go marching around the now-free lands of the West with a naked scalp (although when he next entered a dark cave, he need only remove his helm to offer the gloom some light, so brightly it shone). Of course, he could just keep his helm on at all times: but mayhap his current hosts, whoever they were, would find that offensive?

His eyes crawled above the horizon of his head to investigate his surroundings and saw, reflected in the mirror, the richly carved beams and earthy autumnal tones of the chamber. The walls were decorated with elegantly woven hangings depicting various scenes from a bygone Age, and the headboard of his bed was covered in elvish scroll.

Elvish scroll?

He stumbled to his feet. They had not yet left Rivendell? Confused, he scratched his head absently, then yelped in pain as he lacerated the tender flesh of his bald spot.

Curse it all! The quest was not yet underway and already he had sustained a grievous injury. He slumped dejectedly onto his seat again. How, then, had he come by his wound? Turning to face his reflection, he let his eyes travel to the ravaged wasteland of his scalp to study it further. He leaned forward to get a better view of the pathetic tufts and found that they were somewhat frayed. Even more perplexed, his gaze studied the leagues of naked skin around them.

Why, it looked like someone had ripped the hair from his head! Who on Middle Earth would do that? And in the Last Homely House, too! His thoughts flew instantly to the princeling before dismissing the notion. Nay, the elf may look as dainty as a blushing maid, but he could not believe that even the delicate son of Thranduil (curse him!) would fight like one. Mayhap he should speak with his host, the Lord Elrond, to discover …

Wait a minute. Elrond ...

It all came rushing back to him. Elrond’s suggestion that he visit the stables to ’educate himself’; the short walk across the courtyard with Master Gamgee, who had been singing the praises of his fine …

The pony!!!

“I WILL SLAY IT WERE IT STANDS!!” he bellowed as the truth hit him like a ... mad pony. No enemy of dwarves more terrible had ever stalked the lands, than one so brazen as to graze on his hair. Rage coursed through him as he hunted through the room for his axes and, upon finding them, marched to the door and flung it open.

He was less than five paces from his chambers when he ran into an elven maiden. She was a beauty, indeed! Tall, lithe, with chestnut locks flowing from her pretty head. Gimli paused in his anger to politely allow her passage past him and she locked eyes with him ... nay, not with him, with something above him. What on earth was so fascinating?

It was only when the maiden giggled that he realised he had stormed out of his chamber in such a fury that he had forgotten to cover his head.

Mortified, he turned on his heel and fled the few steps back to his sanctuary.

Aaagh! She had seen his bald spot!

This distressing event left him cursing his own short-sightedness.

Was he blind? He had barely been able to wrench his own eyes from it less than a minute before but, oh nay, that was no reason to suspect that anyone else would find it so captivating. Fool!

Several colourful epithets followed this line of reasoning (most of which questioned the validity of his own parentage) as he stomped to the night table next to the bed and retrieved the helm some unknown person had kindly deposited there; but it felt strange in his hand. Curious, he took a closer look to find that it sported a large dent.

The marauding mule had stamped on it!

Blasted creature. He would feast on its flesh!

It would take several hours to repair, too, leaving him trapped in his room until the deed was done. This sufficiently pricked his swelling rage enough to leave him merely very frustrated. Alone in his room with no one for company for hours on end, hiding like a new bride on her wedding night.

Now that he thought about it, where was everyone? He had been attacked by a vicious beast and none were there to offer him comfort - not even his own father.

Then again, Glóin now may be ashamed to have a bare-headed, soon-to-be-pony-slayer for a son. This depressing thought drew him back to the chair in front of the mirror and he regarded his reflection bitterly. What on earth was he to do? He could not leave the room looking like that.

Gimli weighed his options. Mayhap if he pulled the front of his hair straight back over it and clipped it behind his head, it would not be so obvious? He yanked his hair backwards and held it fast behind his head, turning it first right, then left.

Nay, he looked too much like he wished to follow the fashion of the pretty elf princeling. His grip loosened and the locks tumbled back to their natural position, revealing the scarlet expanse near the front of his left side.

What else? Oh, perhaps if he ...

Lifting a fine-boned comb, he created a parting on the right side and threw the abundant remnants over to his left. Dipping his fingers in a jar of water, he moistened the springy locks to calm them down and surveyed his handiwork.

Hmm. Possible. If only he could get the blasted hair to stay in place.

He searched for a clip of some description, ripping a fastening from his tunic and trying in vain to attach it to the side of his head, but it had nothing secure to cling to (he would not pierce his skull with it merely to get some traction), so he discarded it in disgust.

One more option left. With a piece of leather cord, he grabbed the end of the ‘transplant’ and gathered it with the remaining hair underneath his shiny patch, tying them together. This successfully covered his bald spot, but had the misfortune of rendering him as girlish as a child of men less than five winters old - but with a beard.

“Bah!”

Furiously, he yanked the cord from his head and returned the transplant to its natural territory.

Mayhap it was a good thing he had no company. The very idea of others seeing him like this was not to be borne!

No sooner had this thought flashed through his mind, when a light rapping was heard at the door and, before he could tell his unknown visitor to go away, his host entered.

“Ah, I see you are awake, Master Gimli. Good. I have returned to check on your ... erm ... wound.”

The dwarf had initially been alarmed at the entry of a spectator to his misery, but when his esteemed host stumbled over his choice of words, he flushed with embarrassment. Clamping his palm over the barren site on his scalp, he tried to think of a way to get rid of the (suddenly annoying) elf as expediently as possible.

“Er ... ’tis of little consequence Master Elrond ... erm ... you need not trouble yourself over it.”

Leave that to me.

Elrond gazed at him in understanding, and though the dwarf was grateful (sort of), he really did not wish to feel the pity of his visitor.

“Allow me to be the judge of that, son of Glóin.” The Lord of Imladris approached the flustered dwarf. “If you would kindly remove your hand, I may better inspect the damage.”

He would remove his hand when the elf started hacking at trees! “Nay, Master Elrond, all is perfectly in order, I assure you. You have other duties that need tending to which are far more important than a mere scratch.”

“A mere scratch? From what I saw when you were carried senseless to your chambers, it was a little more than that.”

Senseless?

“I can assure you, my Lord, that I was most certainly not senseless!” Gimli protested loudly. “I was merely ... erm … that is, I ...”

Elrond cocked his eyebrow (which made the dwarf seethe - what was it with elves and eyebrows?) before suggesting: “Unconscious?”

Gimli could feel his temper rising again. Him? Unconscious?

“Sleeping!” he barked.

Was the elf concealing a smile?

“Tell me, do dwarves generally sleep in the abode of their enemies, or is that a habit particular only to yourself?”

Blasted elves! Mayhap it would be better to show him the hairless waste of his head than dance around words all day. Reluctantly, he removed his palm from his scalp and used it to firmly grip the other that lay in his lap (lest it forget itself and take a happy swing at the smug creature in front of him).

Cool fingers gently skimmed the surface of his bald spot. “It does not appear to have suffered much damage …”

What? He was bald!

“… nor need you fear that the hair will not grow back ...”

Gimli gulped. That thought had not occurred to him.

“... although it remains slightly reddened from the affront to the skin ...”

Slightly reddened? It sparkled like the Arkenstone!

“... I think a little balm should take the worst of the sting from it and provide you some relief ...”

Hah! The only thing that could possibly provide him relief was if that cursed beast walked into the kitchens and offered itself up as the evening meal’s main course.

“... and then you may feel free to join us in the dining room for lunch.”

Not in a million years of men would he be joining anyone for lunch!

“I thank you kindly for your concern, Master Elrond, but I do not require sustenance.”

The elf cocked his eyebrow again and Gimli wondered if it would be considered impolite to rip it off his forehead.

“The fine morning meal you so graciously provided still sits heavily in my stomach and I would have more time to digest it properly.”

A blatant lie. He was starving.

“Master Dwarf,” countered his opponent, rubbing ointment over the wound. “Your friends are eager to see you again. It would be most inconsiderate of you not to provide them with the pleasure of your company.”

Was the elf trying to make him the laughing stock of Rivendell?

“They cannot be that eager to see me when even my own father has not provided me with the pleasure of his company,” he fumed.

Placing the balm next to the mirror, Elrond turned away to take a seat on the edge of the bed. “Master Glóin and the rest of your company took a stroll with Glorfindel but a few moments after you left for the stables and they have not yet returned. I am certain that your father would not have deserted his son in his hour of need, had he been aware of it.”

The delicate reprimand made him flush. Of course his father would have come to him had he known - what had he been thinking? The tragedy of his misfortune was obviously wreaking havoc with his sense of reason.

“Master Gamgee accompanied you when you were brought back to your chambers and was most disappointed to have to leave, but I thought perhaps you may prefer solitude when you awoke; to contemplate your ... erm ... encounter, and recover from it peaceably.”

He had paused again! The blasted elf had paused again! If the lord of the land himself was not able to control his speech at the sight of his blushing bald spot, then other (less diplomatic) people would scarcely be able to conceal their fascination. He would be a laughing stock!

Take heart, son of Glóin, he thought. If he did not remain in full possession of his hair, at least he still had possession of his axes - and he would be happy to wield them freely at the first person who commented on his suddenly receding hairline.

“That was most thoughtful of you, Master Elrond,” he said through gritted teeth. “No doubt the lad is distressed enough by ... events. I would not wish to have alarmed him further by my own ... reaction on this discovery.”

“How kind of you to think of his comfort in the midst of your own misfortune.” The elven lord rose and walked to the door. “May we then expect your company in the dining hall for the noon meal?”

“If I had something to cover my head with, I would say ’aye’ to you instantly,” he replied, flushing once more at the shame of such an admission.

“Nay, Mater Dwarf. It would be better if you allowed your wound some air: we do not want to trap the tender skin under a helm, cause it to overheat and then become infected with stale moisture from surrounding hair. There are yet two hours before the meal will be served. Perhaps a walk in the gardens until then will aid in your recovery? I believe the hobbits will be convening there shortly for elevenses.”

With that, he departed, leaving a very unhappy dwarf in his wake.

A walk in the gardens? Without sufficient covering for his head? Gimli blanched at the thought.

*~*~*~*

He did not go in to the gardens after all, nor appear for lunch. Glóin returned from his walk half an hour before the midday meal was served and, upon hearing of his son’s plight, came to visit him.

His father was very sympathetic, too (after he stopped laughing), and offered to bring his lunch to his room until he could muster the ’strength’ to leave it. Gimli did not like hiding himself, but really, sometimes, such actions were necessary! He could almost imagine the look of glee on the elfling’s face when he entered the dining hall sporting the biggest bald spot this side of Gondor, so it was necessary to plan his attack when the enemy struck.

It was not because he was a coward …

The hobbits came to see him during his meal and a very guilty looking Sam apologised profusely for the incident before presenting him with a generous serving of his own salted pork in an attempt to make amends (the dwarf nearly threw Pippin out when the youngling commented that he should perhaps rub it on the wound: the fat would apparently encourage hair growth). The foursome remained for a goodly while and raised his spirits considerably (after Merry clouted his cousin for the indelicate remark).

When they departed, Gimli contemplated the remaining meat on his platter.

Oh, why not? Perhaps it would work ...

*~*~*~*

Gimli finally left the guest chambers to attend the evening meal (with his hair pulled over the top of his head and tied behind it, covering his shame - Elrond could glower all he wished!). Fortunately for him, Sam had made a bold request of their host that none other than those present at the time of his friend's encounter with Bill discover what had occurred, so the dwarf’s blushes were spared.

For the most part.

Many of the guests were rather flummoxed at seeing him appear in such a fashion, though none dared question it when he set his axe on the table and growled at them menacingly.

When he finished his meal, he quickly exited the dining hall, intent on returning to his chambers and repairing his helm. To his great dismay, though, he met his enemy in the corridor on his departure. The elf was obviously making his own way in for dinner. Legolas almost passed him by, not recognising him at first; but before the dwarf could rejoice at his lucky escape, the elf paused.

“Why, Master Gimli! Is that you?” he asked in astonishment.

“And here I thought that elves boasted heightened senses. Have your eyes failed you, elf? Obviously, it is I."

If the princeling had somehow found out ...

Legolas smirked at him and Gimli considered leaving the bratling for a more pleasant view - like the pony‘s teeth.

“Forgive me,” said the elf in a deceptively sweet manner. “It is merely that I have never before seen so much of a dwarven face. I begin to appreciate the fortune of my earlier ignorance.”

Did the spawn of a mad king just call him ugly??

“You tread on dangerous ground when you insult a dwarf, elf," he spat, longing to lunge for the axes strapped to his back and relieve the princeling of his eternal existence. Elrond would understand.

“We elves are very nimble, dwarf. No ground is too dangerous for our clever feet,” answered his nemesis smugly. “But I must say that I am very flattered."

Flattered?

Gimli knew he was not going to like the response, but he was unable to stop the demand: “Explain yourself!”

His foe smiled and the dwarf clenched his fists.

“You obviously so admired the style of my hair earlier today, that you have fashioned your own in a similar art! I had not expected such flattery from one of your kind."

He felt his face flushing and wished the smug elf an eternity of baldness of his own, but before he could retort, Legolas delivered the final blow.

“And may I say that, although such a style is … ahem ... unusual ... on your kind, you look almost ... pretty.”

That was it! Gracious host or not, the elfling would not live to see the sun set in the west that very night. Fuming with affront, he made a wild grab at the axes as the elf sprang back and drew his twin knives; but in the dwarf’s haste to remove them, he inadvertently ripped the not-so-secure cord from his head - causing the liberated locks to spill back to their natural position - and giving the princeling a very clear view of his scalp.

Nay! Oh, the shame of it! He clapped a hand over his bald spot and, confrontation forgotten in his greater need, fled.

*~*~*~*

He knew! The son of a mad king knew!

Gimli sat on his bed, cursing the day Thranduil had met the bratling’s mother. How on earth was he to endure the remaining time in Rivendell and a quest of unknown duration with the elf gloating at his misfortune?

Mayhap he should shear the creature’s own hair off with his trusty axe? The princeling would be unlikely to comment on his shining badge of dishonour if he was too busy lamenting the loss of his own tresses.

Durin’s shaggy beard! Anger and embarrassment both fought for control of his body: he would get no rest this night. Curse the elfling!

Deciding that the sooner his hair grew back the better, he grabbed the concealed platter of pork remnants from under his bed and lifted the remaining slice. Placing it on his head, he ripped a soft washcloth lengthways and placed it over the meat, looping the ragged lengths behind his ears and tying it under his chin.

He wasn’t entirely convinced about Pippin’s claim of fat stimulating his follicles, but he was desperate enough to try anything.

Satisfied that he was at least taking some positive action in his battle against baldness, Gimli retrieved his helm and tools before settling himself comfortably on the bed, and began to repair his other casualty of the day.

*~*~*~*

A knock at the door awoke him from his slumber the next morning and Gimli heard his father’s voice calling him to breakfast before retreating into the distance.

He must have been more tired than he thought after the previous day’s drama, for his helm lay discarded on the floor with much of its damage still evident. Mayhap he should not have made himself so comfortable on the bed.

Yawning deeply, the dwarf flung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled himself up, stretching luxuriantly. Suddenly, the huge lungful of air he was pulling in brought something most unpleasant to his attention.

What in the name of Mordor was that smell?

An awful stench filled the air and, confused, the son of Glóin looked around for its source. Did the Last Homely House boast a battalion of unwashed orcs?

There was no apparent culprit in sight, but every breath he took warned of a decaying beast somewhere nearby.

He walked around the room, frantic to discover the odour ’s cause (lest Elrond blame him for polluting the air of Rivendell) and, passing the mirror, came to a grinding halt …

Aaagh! The pork! He had fallen asleep with his lunch on his head. Fool!

Yanking it off, he rushed to the water jar and hurriedly filled the bowl, scrubbing at his head like a manic mother. But no amount of scrubbing would relieve the stench. He was almost gagging!

What on earth was he to do now? Not only did he have a bald spot, he had a smelly bald spot!

And he had no one to blame for the latest development but himself; Pippin had not suggested he use his lunch as a sleeping cap, merely rub it on his head - and who knew whether the lad had been entirely serious, or if it were no more than an attempt to cheer the miserable dwarf? Bah!

There was nothing else for it: he would have to forego breakfast for a walk instead. He needed to let air circulate around his bald ...

Nay! He would not call it that anymore.

His wound.

Decision made, Gimli lathered his scalp with Elrond’s balm and hoped the flowery scent would a least do something to disguise the ghastly odour emanating from it (as smoke emanated from Mount Doom). He tied it behind his head (more securely this time) until he could find a solitary area in the woods outside to let it loose to breathe. Gathering his helm and tools, he decided to finish the job he had unwittingly abandoned the evening before whilst he cavorted amidst the trees (like a short, hairy elf) waiting for the stench of his head to dissipate.

Mission accomplished, he made his way to the door of the chambers and opened it slightly, peeking out to make sure the coast was clear before slipping outside and making his way to the courtyard staircase.

So far, so good. He had not encountered another living soul as of yet.

His stomach rumbled. Oh, but he was hungry! Still, no point in lamenting that fact now; had he not been fool enough to sleep with a pork slice on his head, he could happily have joined the others to break his morning fast. Blasted idiot! It would serve him right to spend the morning isolated and half-starved after his ridiculous actions. Mayhap he should try to fill his belly with the lingering taste of the meat by attempting to run his tongue over his head ... a fitting punishment!

The unhappy dwarf neared the stables - the root of all his current woes - and briefly pondered the idea of entering them to secure himself a leg of pony for the most important meal of the day (so his sweet mother said), but quickly dismissed it. He was not willing to chance another attack: what if the beast took a fancy for his beard this time? Loomed over him again, flashing his teeth in anticipation of the next bite, like a four-legged Mouth of Sauron? Finding the idea distinctly unappealing, he passed them quickly, stomping instead into the woods of Rivendell in search of an isolated clearing to air his bald spot.

Nay, wound!

*~*~*~*

Gimli returned to the main dwellings of Elrond’s house several hours later, having repaired his helm (and smelling a good deal less like a dead pig) to find Frodo and Sam hovering outside his chambers.

“Master Frodo, young Samwise, good day to you lads. What may I do for you?"

“Hullo, Gimli,“ said Frodo, smiling, while Sam nodded shyly. “We didn’t see you at breakfast this morning and were quite worried. Are you well?"

Bless them! They were concerned for him! His heart swelled at the sight of their big eyes and furrowed brows. ”Do not worry, young hobbits. I partook of an early morning stroll to ... eh ... discover more of our charming surroundings and repair my helm in solitude - I find I am better able to work without distraction and my hunger was not so great this morning that I required feeding.”

A blatant lie.

Frodo looked relieved.

Sam however, was sniffing the air suspiciously. “What’s that smell Mr Gimli, sir?” he asked, with a look of slight revulsion marring his features.

Smell? His head did not still reek, surely? He took a deep sniff and, sure enough, the whiff of spoiling meat floated up his nostrils.

Aaagh! He had left the blasted pork lying next to the water bowl. Why had he not disposed of it?

Gimli stormed past his startled visitors and rushed into his chambers - the stench was almost overwhelming. The heat from his head last night had softened the meat considerably and encouraged its degradation further. He wrapped it in a soft cloth and hurriedly left the room, dashing passed the confused (and gagging) hobbits before making a mad run for the woods again to bury the evidence of his embarrassment.

Frodo and Sam were awaiting him in the courtyard when he returned half an hour later. “Are you sure everything’s all right, Mr Gimli?” asked the stout gardener. “Only, you ran off like you were being chased by a giant wereworm.”

Wereworm? Was that a predator of his kind?

“Nay, lad. All is well. Just some remnants of yesterday’s fine lunch you brought - I had forgotten to dispose of the leftovers sufficiently ... no doubt a side effect of my unhappy encounter with your pet.” He hated to cause the lad guilt, but it was necessary to stop any further enquiries into the matter.

Sam blushed. His master, however, spoke:

“We were going to have elevenses in the gardens with Bilbo and thought you might care to join us, Gimli. It would normally be a little cool for a picnic at this time of year, but Rivendell seems to be somewhat immune from the harsher elements outside. What do you think - will you join us?”

They looked at him hopefully and he could not refuse. How very considerate of the lads! “Aye, Master Baggins, I believe that would be a splendid idea.”

A horrible thought occurred to him: everyone liked the hobbits. What if the elf joined them, too? After having fled the spawn of Thranduil (curse him!) the eve before, Gimli was not looking forward to another encounter - especially as the pretty princeling had now had plenty of time to digest what he had seen.

“Eh, who else will be there?” he asked as casually as he could.

Sam spoke. “Oh, only you, us, and Mr Frodo’s kin.”

Well, then, that would be acceptable. An hour or two away from the stench of his room would give it some time to air properly, if he left the door open.

He smiled broadly at their little faces. Good food (hobbits always ate well), good company (such a cheery little folk) and no danger of verbal duels with the son of a mad king! The three of them left to meet with their companions and spend a pleasant hour enjoying elevenses in the garden.

*~*~*~*

Much to Gimli’s dismay, Elrond was present when the three found Bilbo, Merry and Pippin on a large blanket spread before the pretty little fountain at the rear of the garden.

“Ah, Master Gimli, I have been searching for you all morning. I wish to take a look at your wound.”

The dark elf was frowning at him in disapproval. “And I believe I said that you should not cover it,” he said, indicating the hair pulled across his head and tied at the back of it.

Blasted elf! Mayhap he should be grateful, though. At least his host had not referred to it as his ‘bald spot’.

“You said that I should not cover it with my helm,” he answered truculently. Really, was it completely necessary to chide him before company?

Elrond approached and held out his hand. “Do you have the balm with you?”

Gimli reached into his tunic and produced the pot, miserably untying his hair so his host could minister to his wound. The dark-haired elf frowned even more at the sight of the raw, red skin.

“Is that pork I smell?” he asked in disbelief. Pippin looked up happily from his place on the blanket next to Bilbo, an apple in one hand and a slice of cake in the other.

“Oh, good! You took my advice. See Merry? I do know what I’m talking about!”

Sam and Frodo were watching Glóin’s son in astonishment.

Oh, dear ...

“What advice would that be, Peregrin Took?” enquired the firm voice of the elf.

Nay! Do not tell him, lad.

But a very pleased Pippin was thrilled to share his wisdom with the stately healer.

“Well, you see, some of the cooks at the Great Smials have rather hairy shoulders. It’s the result of constantly hauling joints of meat into the kitchen. If it encourages such growth on their shoulders, it should have the same effect on Gimli’s head, you know,” he announced expertly.

The tweenager took a bite of his apple, “That might be something you could use in the future, too, if you ever meet a bald elf,” he sagely announced between crunches.

Merry spat his berry juice all over the blanket and Bilbo snorted with laughter. “A Took to the core!” he declared between gasps.

Elrond shook his head. “There is no such thing as a bald elf, Master Took,” he said, torn between amusement and disbelief, before returning his gaze to the dwarf. The dwarf, however, was rapidly losing his fondness for the lad. Could not Merry control the rambling child?

“So, Master Gimli, have you been ‘hauling’ joints of meat on your head? On a fresh wound, still raw from its earlier insult, no less?”

Gimli glared at Pippin. “I did no such thing!” he declared, while debating if Bilbo was still fit enough to replace the youngest hobbit on the quest.

It was not a lie, really. He had not hauled it. Foolishly strapped it to his head before falling asleep with his pretty new hat still in place, perhaps, but not hauled.

“Then explain to me, please, the unfavourable odour emanating from it,” demanded Elrond, glowering down at him.

Oh dear. He could not answer that without incriminating himself (and appearing completely foolish before the others), so he remained quiet. His healer lathered more balm on it and - just as Gimli was gathering his hair to pull it back over his head - snatched the leather cord from his fingers.

“You will not be needing this any more, Master Dwarf. If I see so much as a finger covering that wound, I will personally tie your hands behind your back and relieve your scalp of the rest of its covering with a kitchen knife!”

Gimli’s eyes almost popped out his head. He would not dare!

As if reading his mind, the elf added: “Do not underestimate me, Master Dwarf. I shall. And I will seek the full authority of your father to do so. And further more,” he took a threatening step towards the dwarf, “you will attend all your meals in the dining hall with the rest of my guests. If I find out that you have been handling meats anywhere outside of it to perch on your head, and thus ruin all my efforts at treatment, the Valar themselves will not be able to help you!”

With a final warning look at his patient, the Lord of Imladris departed, leaving his patient gaping like a fish at his back.

*~*~*~*

The rest of the morning and afternoon dragged on like a slow torture. Elevenses had not been as pleasant as he had first anticipated due to his paranoia. Could anyone notice? Was it glowing still? Would the others think it rude if he left them to their treats after he had so readily agreed to their company? But if he did that, he would still have to run the gauntlet of the passage back to his room. What if he ran into the other guests? What if he ran into his nemesis? He gulped.

Pippin had tried (futilely) to cheer him. “Don’t worry, Gimli, you can hardly notice it. You’d have to be a lot taller to get a really good view.”

That was not very comforting: everyone in Rivendell was ‘a lot taller’ than him, present company excepted. And what did the tweenager mean by ‘a really good view’? Mayhap he should retire to his (stinking) chamber (and remain there until the quest commenced).

But when he did arrive at it after elevenses, he found two elven maidens already inside: they had been ordered to clean out and perfume his room after several complaints of a horrific stench by passing guests; knowledge which left him flushed with embarrassment. His father would kill him for bringing shame to dwarves everywhere if he thought his son was not even capable of maintaining basic levels of cleanliness in their hosts‘ home.

And when he finally left his much improved quarters later that afternoon, things only got worse.

Much worse.

*~*~*~*

Dinner was one of the worst ordeals the unhappy son of Glóin had ever lived through. His father insisted on sitting him as near the dais as possible (three seats down on the left), which meant that not only Elrond could keep his beady eyes on Gimli (and his bald spot), but he suffered the shame of showing it off to yet another lovely maiden, for Arwen had joined her father and sat under the canopy at the top table.

Boromir (who was sitting directly opposite him) had not been able to take his eyes off Gimli‘s wound! He chewed his bread and cheese mechanically while simultaneously staring at the left side of the dwarf‘s head in morbid fascination before Aragorn finally elbowed him in the stomach and forced him to look away.

Gah! The Steward had another son, did he not? Mayhap he would not object to losing the elder one, if the ignorant man gawked at him like that again. The furious dwarf tore at his meat (venison, thankfully) and glowered at the impudent southern lord.

He could not enjoy the meal or the company, though, convinced that every whisper concerned the naked expanse of skin on his head, that every bellow of laughter was at his expense, and he was all for taking a jaunt to the stables to hack the blasted pony into smithereens that very minute. But his wrath quickly found a new target when the legless one pranced into the hall and took a seat to Boromir‘s right. Nay! Not that close, blasted elf!

‘Legless’ appeared to ignore him for a few moments, but it was only a matter of time ...

“I was sorry to hear of your misfortune in the stables yesterday morning, Master Gimli,” he announced, looking at him in wide-eyed innocence.

How in the name of hungry hobbits had he heard about that? Gloin choked on his ale and Gimli glared at him in disbelief. His father had told him?

“Legolas was most alarmed on your behalf yesterday at dinner time after he met you in the hall, son, so I felt it necessary to inform him of the attack to belay his concern. There is no need for shame - we are all friends here,” he said, trying not to look guilty.

Friends?? His father was jesting, surely! And if the pretty princeling had been genuinely concerned, he would swallow his own axe! Furthermore, he was almost certain the elf had omitted to mention that he had waved his knives at him before appearing for his meal. Curse him!

His father realised he would not be so easily forgiven and muttered some excuse about a meeting with Master Erestor, before quickly rising and departing the hall. Gimli was about to follow him, but Frodo appeared with the other hobbits and they all clambered up on the bench at each side of him, smiling brightly in his direction. He was trapped!

The legless one addressed him again and Gimli swore he caught a slight smirk dancing around his lips. “Does your head pain you, Master Gimli?”

Growling, he answered: “Only when the sound of your voice resonates through it - a situation easily remedied with you absence.”

Legolas laughed. “But I have only just arrived. You are a natural wit, son of Glóin. How delightful! I was afraid that perhaps the pony had swallowed your humour as well as your hair. However, it appears that I had no reason to fear, after all.”

Gimli ground his teeth together; he would be happy to supply the elf with a reason to fear!

But Aragorn interceded, speaking elvish words to the spawn of a mad king which ceased any further antagonistic remarks on his part (for the moment). Gimli continued to clear his plate that he may leave the elf’s company as quickly as possible.

Five minutes later though, he could feel his enemy’s eyes on him again. “What is it now, elf?” he barked, making the hobbits jump.

“I find myself somewhat confused, Master Gimli,” retorted the princeling, not in the least intimidated by his gruff manner.

Confused? Not possible. Gimli had not struck him on the head yet.

“Then I suggest you spend less of your never-ending existence gazing at your own reflection and more of it learning about matters of import,” he huffed.

“That clever wit again! But nay, my confusion lies in this: I smell pork from your general direction, but see venison on your plate. Is that not strange? Do you have a hog concealed under your tunic ... or elsewhere?”

Three sets of accusing hobbit eyes and one set of angry dwarf ones turned to the youngest member present.

“What?” asked Pippin stupidly. “I told Aragorn and Boromir - they‘re men and might need the knowledge one day, you know. Legolas just happened to be there too when I said that Gimli had already tried it out. Where‘s the harm in that?”

The company rolled their eyes, but Gimli was seething. That cheeky young rascal had unwittingly aided his enemy - at his expense! Bilbo, as a member of the Fellowship, was becoming more and more attractive to him: he would be happy to carry the ancient one all the way to Mordor on his back if it would spare him the company of the reckless tweenager!

And the elfling was beaming with delight! He had to fight the urge to leap over the table and knock all his teeth out before it consumed him. A polite cough behind him made Gimli tear his eyes from his foe; Elrond was standing behind him. What? His superior elven vision could not see his glowing head from a mere ten feet away? He had to come and stand directly over it?

“Master Gimli, I would be honoured if you would accompany me to the Hall of Fire where we are to be entertained this eve by Lindir,” said his host.

Hah, he would not be spending the rest of the evening flashing his shame to all and sundry!

“I thank you most kindly for the invitation, Lord Elrond, but it has been a long day and I wish to retire for the night.”

“But Master Gimli, you cannot retire without hearing the wondrous voice of Imladris’ resident nightingale,” offered Legolas’ (much to Elrond’s surprise). “He would be most distressed to be robbed of an audience as auspicious as yourself.”

The dwarf regarded him with narrow eyes. What was the elfling up to?

“Well said, Thranduillion.” Elrond appeared to be very pleased at his guest’s felicitation. “Gimli?”

“Oh, please, Gimli - we’d love to have your company, too. We’ll follow you after we’ve finished eating and maybe have Sam sing you one of his own songs - they‘re very clever!”

Sam blushed furiously at Merry’s praise and Gimli was hard pressed to refuse the eager little faces shining up at him hopefully.

“Very well, then.”

He stood and followed his host from the dining hall, resigned to his fate. The others may have accepted the elfling’s flowery comments at face value, but he would be keeping an eye out for any mischief on the part of the son of Thranduil (curse him!).

*~*~*~*

Ninety minutes (and several glasses of wine) later found a slightly more mellowed Gimli seated on the floor, resting against one of the pillars opposite the great fire. Its blaze burned brightly, reflecting light off his glass rather prettily and he found his gaze caught by the sparkle as Lindir trilled comfortingly in the background. Mayhap elven song could be rendered appealing, if one had imbibed enough. The hobbits had thrown cushions on the ground next to him to soften their seats and they were enjoying the music and overall atmosphere of the ethereal Hall.

Applause broke out as Lindir’s ballad came to an end. Thank goodness, he had been warbling the same tune for the better part of an hour, and Gimli was beginning to suspect he would run out of air.

Movement caught his eye as the elfling replaced him on the raised platform. Mahal’s beard, not him too! If he had to listen to a rendition of the glories of trees from the pretty princeling for the next sixty minutes, he would tear the rest of his hair out!

The hobbits were delighted to see that their elven friend was about to perform for them, and all leaned forward in anticipation of this special treat.

“Tell me, Master Baggins, does the bratl ... eh ... the princeling often perform?” he queried, anxious to know how long the upcoming torture would have to be endured.

Frodo’s brown curls swung merrily as he shook his head. “No. In fact, this is the first time he has done so. I’m very keen to hear some songs from Mirkwood.”

Hmm. The first time? He had a feeling he was not going to enjoy this ...

And his feeling was justified as Legolas opened his mouth and began to sing:

*

“A sorry tale of woe and ail his history did tell

A form maligned by hands unkind in misery did dwell

Until one day when came his way a master brave and hale

Warm words he spoke and shackles broke he freed him from his gaol

*

Our hero knew, though fell winds blew, a new life lay ahead

He need not fear the horrors near when master soothed his head

Though Riders Black bayed at his back, their screams they filled the night

He did not shake, he need not quake, his new life was in sight

*

Then suddenly, oh joyfully! He entered elven land

His hurts were healed, his wounds were sealed by gentle elven hand

A homely stall, with oats and all and lots of golden hay!

His master new, a hobbit true, would visit every day

*

Was this a dream? It would thus seem, such happiness he knew

A large field near, pure water clear, more food than he could chew!

Until the day there came his way a sight of great appeal

In heavy mail, a walking bale, a locomotive meal!

*

Just when he thought there could be naught more tasty than his feed

This mobile meal did thus reveal a very urgent need

To taste a bite of red delight and chew and munch away

To relish bliss that looked like this delicious, fiery hay!

*

Alas, Alack! The hay fought back, unwilling so to part

With glory red, from dwarven head, the pride of dwarven heart

With pony eyes, still on their prize, he would not be denied

His wont was such, he cared not much for foolish dwarven pride

*

With head down low, Bill charged his foe and pressed him to the fence

So stunned was he, could barely see, the dwarf had no defence

And as the sight of pony might came rushing to his head

The scourge of equines everywhere, he fainted as if dead!”

*

Gimli was livid! Never before in his life had he so dearly wished to crush the existence from someone - not even the blasted pony! It was only defending itself, but this ... this ... elf ... had deliberately humiliated him in front of half the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.

Now, fully alert and ready to kill, he stormed towards the raised platform, murder fairly screaming from his pores. He hoped the bratling had a sibling, otherwise his mad father would be left heirless before the moon rose!

But Elrond had anticipated his reaction.

“Master Gimli! Stay where you are, I will deal with this.”

“I think not! The elfling has insulted my honour and I will have my vengeance, Master Elrond,” he bellowed as all activity in the Hall ceased.

Legolas, who had been enjoying the smattering of applause his ditty elicited, looked startled. “Beg pardon, my Lord ... ‘deal with this’?”

“Aye, son of an avaricious king, ‘deal with this‘!” Gimli spat in fury. “But I shall be the one doing the dealing, while you will be the one accepting it gratefully! Show me your neck and I will show you the mercy of a swift death!”

Elrond sighed heavily. Not again ...

“Son of an avaricious ... how dare you. How dare you accuse my noble father of avarice when the greed of the dwarves is legend among my people! You burrow into places best left undisturbed in the lust to fill your overflowing coffers; hoard your tawdry treasures at the expense of the hand of friendship - and you call my father avaricious? Indeed the pot has called the kettle black! Mayhap your feared enemy - a pony - ripped what little brains you have out of your head and swallowed them with your coarse hair!”

“I will slay you were you stand, Legless!” roared the infuriated son of Glóin and rushed forward, only to be restrained by Lindir and Boromir. Elrond and Aragorn had the seething prince by the arms as he struggled to free his knives.

“ENOUGH!”

Everyone jumped at the almighty roar and several dozen eyes swivelled to the entrance as the snowy white beard of Glóin reverberated from the volume of his cry. The elder dwarf stomped to the front of the Hall until he stood between the infuriated pair.

“I have heard enough foolishness!” he declared, glaring first at his own son, then Thranduil’s. “You are neither of you fit for the company of this Hall, let alone the company of a Fellowship. If this is how you continue to act amongst yourselves, better that we all set off for the Black Lands right this very minute and beg the Dark Lord for the mercy of his domination!”

All eyes widened at his wrath (and several hardened warriors - elves included - fervently thanked the Valar for the gifts of their own, suddenly-not-so-bad fathers).

Glóin rounded on Legolas. “Master Elf, you know well that your father and the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain parted as friends and allies at our last encounter. And since then, we have remained on such terms. We may not visit often for tea and gossip, but we are most definitely not enemies.” He held the infinitely older being’s grey gaze locked in his own and Legolas flushed liked a recalcitrant child. “If your father heard the words you have just uttered about his friends, he would be ashamed of you! However, he is not here, so it remains for me to be ashamed of you on his behalf.”

At this, Legolas lost all desire to fight and dropped his eyes to the ground in submission.

Gimli was about to crow at his father’s victory when Glóin turned on him.

“Your father, on the other hand, is here, and so I tell you this ...” he walked slowly towards his speechless child.

“If your behaviour does not alter this very minute, I will see to it that you face the wrath of one who will make Sauron’s rage appear like a childish tantrum!”

Oh, nay ...

“Oh, yes!” declared his father, accurately reading the crestfallen look Gimli now sported. “And well know you what that means ...”

He would not dare!

But his father knew his features too well and read every thought that passed through his mind.

“Apologise to Master Legolas for your words this instant or I will see that she hears of this outrage,” he threatened.

Swallowing the well-founded fear that had created a lump in his throat, he faced his enemy. Durin’s shaggy beard, but this was difficult! But the thought of his mother and her well-honed swinging-arm was worse.

“I apologise for my hasty words, Master Elf,” he sputtered.

His father hissed at him. “Use the lad’s name, child, or I will pull down your breeches myself and see to it you cannot sit for a week!”

The horrific image of an amused crowd guffawing heartily as Glóin smacked his hairy rump was sufficient to make him obey - indeed, he could barely get the words out fast enough: “Master Legolas, I ask for your forgiveness at my uncouth remarks. Mayhap I have imbibed on a little to much fine elvish wine and took leave of my senses.”

Elrond and Aragorn were deeply impressed by his father’s handling of the situation and threw him admiring glances, which only increased when Glóin turned back to Legolas.

“Now, lad, it is your turn.” At the blond elf’s last half-hearted look of defiance, he approached him and Gimli almost sympathised with the princeling.

“Do not think I would let my advanced age and surroundings stop me from throwing you over my lap too. Mayhap your father would thank me for it!”

He probably would, Gimli mused. The elfling must be a living nightmare to control at home.

And the threat worked, for Thranduil’s son met his gaze. “Master Gimli, I too apologise for my hasty words. They were completely unfounded: I hold only the deepest respect for your people.”

Bah! What nonsense! “Then show it and apologise for the song, Master El ... Legolas,” he retorted, voice dripping with scorn.

His father shot him a heated look of warning and he bit his tongue to prevent further catastrophe.

“I apologise for the song ... I suppose.”

“That will do well enough!” declared Glóin as Gimli began to simmer at the latter remark. “Now, you will each of you go your separate ways and, in the morning, Master Legolas will kindly accompany you to the stables to personally familiarise you with the steeds there. I will not have any son of mine running in fright from a mere pony!”

What? He stared at his father in disbelief.

But before he could protest, the princeling made his feelings on the matter clear first.

“With all due respect, Master Glóin, I do not think it necessary for me to personally oversee your son’s ... tuition. There are many elves at work in the stables already who would be glad to share their knowledge.”

“That may be, Master Legolas ...” His father faced the elf with that look again. “But none of them were spiteful enough to compose a tawdry song about a distressing encounter for my son. If you object, I would be happy to introduce you to his mother too.”

Legolas paled. He had heard of the infamous ire of dwarven females and, from the look on Gimli’s face earlier as his father threatened him with her, he knew it was not to be taken lightly. “As you wish, Master Glóin.”

With promises of good behaviour and team work secured, Gimli’s father smiled broadly. “Well, then. What say you all to another song?” he declared happily as the elf and dwarf were released from their bonds and stalked to opposite sides of the room.

Gimli only remained another half hour (to leave too soon after such a public dressing down would be to admit his shame at it). He watched from amidst the gaggle of hobbits as Elrond, Aragorn and, well, just about everyone else, treated his father like some sort of conquering hero, before he could take no more. Bidding the four little ones farewell, he retired for the night to contemplate his fate.

*~*~*~*

The next morning, Aragorn rapped on his door to inform him that he would accompany Gimli and Legolas to the stables.

“We leave after the morning meal, so do not be late Master Dwarf.”

Do not be late, indeed! Did the man imagine he would spend the whole morning in bed, when his father was eager to use any excuse to send for his mother?

He dressed and appeared in the dining hall promptly, loading his plate with tomatoes (nicely grilled), eggs (beautifully scrambled, like the elfling’s wits) and several fat sausages (Merry and Pippin had attempted to coerce the cooks into making them the first week of their stay and the kitchen staff refused, but when Sam came along and said they were the Ring-bearer’s favourite, they relented). Might as well furnish his stomach with the energy it needed if he was to be faced with both two- and four-legged enemies at the same time.

He ripped at the sausages with his teeth while glowering at the pretty princeling. A whole morning in his company - and under the watchful gaze of a sharp-eyed ranger, too! He would rather shear his beard off.

The sharp-eyed ranger chose that moment to cast his gaze in Gimli’s direction, so the dwarf lowered his own eyes and finished his breakfast in stony silence. Once the meal was over, the moment he was dreading arrived.

“If you have both partaken of sufficient sustenance, let us make our way to the stables,” he said pleasantly, causing both elf and dwarf to glare at him. Apparently, Aragorn was not in the elf’s good books either.

They left the hall, descended the stairs and crossed over the courtyard. Gimli was very unhappy indeed, and his misery must have been plain on his face, for the princeling whispered: “Do not fear, Master Gimli. I will protect you if the vicious beast makes a lunge for the remainder of the springy down on your head.”

He growled. Aragorn was several steps ahead and did not seem to be paying attention to the soft words. Typical! Trust the man to side with his friend.

“I do not require your protection, elf. I am a dwarf, and more than able to protect myself,” he hissed back at the smug princeling.

“Ah, I see. Is that why you sport leagues of naked skin on your scalp?” he enquired smoothly. “Did the pony frighten you so much that you forget your warrior’s arts and immediately offered it your head?”

Curse the son of a mad king! Gimli tried to think about his mother’s ire as a means of keeping his temper in check, but a stoning by her hand was beginning to look more appealing than tolerating any more nonsense from the bratling.

“Do you realise,” continued his enemy, looming over him, "that with all this bright light bouncing off your bald spot, I can see my own reflection in it?”

That was it! He whirled to face the bane of his existence and was just about to make a grab for his axe when Aragorn yelled at them.

“Gimli! Legolas! Desist with your childish behaviour instantly, or I shall fetch Master Glóin!”

Apparently, he had not been as oblivious to the pair’s bickering as the dwarf had originally thought. They glared hot coals at each other for a full minute before Aragorn grabbed each of them by an arm and marched them towards the stables.

“Mae govannen, Aradheth,” the ranger greeted the stable master. “We are here to teach our dwarven friend the art of caring for horses. I would like to start with the pony that accompanied me from Bree, first. They have a relationship to repair…”

Gimli seethed.

“… where is Bill?”

“Estel, mae govannen. He is in the field at the rear of the stables, but, take heed; the pony is suffering from a digestive ailment that has swollen his stomach. He may not be agreeable company this morning.”

Aragorn nodded and led the pair to the rear of the stables. Gimli was most annoyed. Had the stable master not just informed him that the mad beast was not in a fit state for company? A swollen belly on a horse (or pony) was no light matter. The creature had obviously eaten something that did not agree with it and would more than likely be happy to take out the first person foolish enough to approach it - one who could not soothe it as the elves did.

Which immediately ruled out the princeling and the ranger.

Well, that was just perfect! But, wait a minute ...

Something that did not agree with it?

The dwarf felt instantly better. Hah! The beast was suffering from his stolen meal two days since. It would appear that he may be safer than he thought! This pleasant thought was almost enough to make him tolerate the company of the odious elfling, and he grinned widely.

“Does something amuse you, son of Glóin? How odd. I would have sworn that you would be quaking in you boots this near to your enemy.”

But Gimli did not rise to the bait. “I am already this close to my enemy and see how I steady I am?”

He thrust a hand in front of the elf’s face and grinned wider when it did not so much as quiver. “Steady as rock, young one.”

Legolas was not impressed.

“If you would be so kind as to remove your hand,” he said scathingly. Aragorn called out to the dark-haired elf who was leading a very distressed looking Bill from the field. “The stench of rotting pork still clings to your flesh like prey in a spider’s web. Have you been rubbing it on to your skin again? We elves prefer to bathe with soap and water. Have you heard of them?”

The pony was led out through the gate. Gimli clenched his fists at his side, lest he use them to wipe the smirk off the pretty elf’s face.

Brat of a mad king! He stole a look at Aragorn to make sure he was otherwise occupied, and gave the swollen beast a cautious glance too, before returning his gaze to his other opponent.

“Count yourself fortunate, elf, that my father is not here to listen to you slander our kind yet again. He would not take kindly to it after yester eve’s little incident.”

Aragorn’s voice floated towards them in a flow of soothing elvish words. The elf was just about to answer when the pony suddenly swung its frame around, treating the pair to a view of its rear.

“Your claim of steadiness fails you, I see, when the pony so much as moves a hoof. And, for your information, I was referring solely to yourself when I enquired about bathing habits.”

Gimli balked. “You appear to have a rather unnatural interest in my bathing habits, elf! They remain now, as they have always been, none of your business!”

Asfaloth was led past them by another dark-haired elf, looking proud and magnificent: a direct contrast to the pathetic picture portrayed by the miserable pony.

“You flatter yourself if you think that I have any interest in your state of hygiene - or how you achieve it. The only interest I have is in not toppling over from the reek of your unwashed hide!” declared an infuriated Legolas, obviously repulsed by the subtle slur on his character.

Aragorn’s voice continued to wash over them as his hand held Bill’s head gently. But it did little to soothe the bickering pair at the pony’s rear, so immersed in their argument were they.

For the rest of his life, Gimli would always look back and question what made him leap away at exactly the right moment, but he always failed to come up with a plausible answer. Mayhap it was his prolonged stay in the elven lands rubbing off on him, or the sudden piecing together of several facts that led him to the inevitable conclusion; but as the princeling continued to rant and rave over his indelicate remark, a loud gurgling from the pony’s belly made him leap back from his enraged companion ...

... just as an enormous blast of wind bellowed from the pony’s rear, catching the pristine elf’s hair and blowing it in all directions. A rain of slimy brown droplets hit the astonished princeling simultaneously, covering him with the foul by-products of the pony’s former misery.

Gimli collapsed on the ground in heaving mirth, so overcome with wave after wave of raucous laughter that he could not support his own weight.

Mayhap he should call himself ’legless’ now, too!

Aragorn and the dark-haired elf’s heads popped around the side of the pony in curiosity when the elfling yelled in disgust. And the sight of the much happier pony’s face gazing docilely at the infuriated princeling was enough for Gimli to find forgiveness for it in his heart as he continued to roll on the ground in uncontrollable mirth.

Bill the Pony. His new best friend!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author’s note: Phew! I’ve been working on that all week. But I did promise a good Legolas/Gimli feud, so I hope I’ve delivered it. I am not a conniseur of elvish poetry, and Legolas' effort is probably a bit more hobbity and less elegant than it should be, but if it raises a giggle, I'm well pleased. Also a little bird pointed out to me that dwarves call Aulë 'Mahal', so I've amended it in this chapter (I tried not to refer to the vala at all, but had little choice, in the end). I will amend the metions of him in Chapter 2 at a later date.

One more wrap-up chapter and this story’s ‘vorbei’, as my German friends say…

Auf Wiedersehen, meine Freunde und Freundinnen!

Kara’s Aunty ;)