Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, etc. I am only borrowing his characters for this fanfiction and am making absolutely no profit whatsoever from them.

Credit: Thainsbook dot net (formerly tuckborough dot net).

Almost Bill the Pony

Half-starved of more than mere food, whipped within an inch of his bones, and shivering with fright, the pony painted a pitiful picture.

A ranger and three hobbits stood with the innkeeper, regarding him doubtfully. A fourth hobbit approached slowly, and he tried not to flinch. But apprehension turned to surprise when the hobbit raised a fist which flowered open, revealing a shiny green apple.

"Here you go, poor lad. Something for the long road ahead, eh?"

Tentatively dipping his neck, he gratefully accepted both the delicious treat and an ear scratch.

Bill-to-be had never been happier in his life.

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Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, etc. I am only borrowing his characters for this fanfiction and am making absolutely no profit whatsoever from them.

Credit: Thainsbook dot net (formerly tuckborough dot net), henneth-annun dot net, thesaurus dot com.

Gwaihir the Windlord

Gwaihir circled Isengard in dismay. Ugly pits now scarred the once beauteous gardens, their sweet scent supplanted by acrid, billowing smoke. Upon the pinnacle of Orthanc stood an unkempt figure in grey, gesticulating wildly in an attempt to attract his attention.

"Mithrandir!" he cried, alighting on the towering platform. "What brings you to this high place?"

"Most assuredly not the view," croaked Gandalf wryly. "Saruman has betrayed us. Will you bear me from my gaol?"

Gwaihir nodded without hesitation, and Gandalf sprang gratefully upon his back.

"Come. Let us linger no longer in darkness!"

They soared noiselessly into the night.

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Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, etc. I am only borrowing his characters for this fanfiction and am making absolutely no profit whatsoever from them.

Credit: Thainsbook dot net (formerly tuckborough dot net).

**Please review. It really is my only reward.**

Shadowfax, Prince of Horses

Shadowfax. I have need of you in Fangorn!

The cajoling voice surfaced suddenly in the meara's thoughts, and he seriously considered ignoring it.

'Urgent need' his hoof! The last time he deigned to aid Mithrandir, the wizard abandoned him in the Ettenmoors.

The Ettenmoors!

True, the ground was too rocky to pass across safely, but Shadowfax still spent several hours afterwards dodging (huge) missile-lobbing trolls.

'Urgent need', indeed!

Then again, he did rather like Mithrandir …

One more adventure, then. But if he got so much as a whiff of a troll, the wizard could walk!

Decision made, Shadowfax headed north.

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Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, etc. I am only borrowing his characters for this fanfiction and am making absolutely no profit whatsoever from them.

Credit: Thainsbook dot net (formerly tuckborough dot net).

Windfola

How unusual to have such a slight rider! Even in full mail, their weight was significantly less than Windfola was accustomed to.

Not that it was a problem, really. Certainly it would mean more manoeuvrability, if the ride into battle was long enough to allow him time to adjust. It was simply … disconcerting.

At a signal from his rider, he stepped nimbly away from the gathering host. The warrior dismounted and held a low conversation with someone, then returned with the other in tow. Windfola whickered in satisfaction as their combined weight settled on his back.

That was much better.

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Author's Note: Poor Windfola deserts them in the end - but only when faced with the horror of the Witch-king of Angmar. And I don't blame him. I would've cacked my pants and made a run for it too, given the same circumstances. In fact, I wouldn't even have lasted that long into the Battle of the Pelennor ...

Kara's Aunty ;)

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, etc. I am only borrowing his characters for this fanfiction and am making absolutely no profit whatsoever from them.

Credit: Thainsbook dot net (formerly tuckborough dot net).

Snowmane

Faithful servant yet master's bane

Lightfoot's foal, swift Snowmane.

“'Tis rumoured he was one of the mearas,” said a Gondorian soldier, one of three who had just finished erecting the stone marker on Snowmane's grave. They retreated slightly to better admire their handiwork.

“A meara!” exclaimed another. “I believed Mithrandir to be master of the last of their kind.”

“And so he is, now.”

The simple marker seemed to grow in stature as the enormity of what Rohan had sacrificed to aid them struck home.

“Then let us honour our fallen properly,” announced the third.

As one, they bowed reverently.

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Author's Note: Whether Snowmane was a meara or not is open to speculation, but, personally, I like to think he was.

I 'd also like to think he was remembered more for the years of loyalty and friendship he gave Théoden, than for crushing him. It's not like the poor horse deliberately chucked himself onto his master!

Anyway, this is my attempt to put a more positive spin on his memory. Hope you like it. The next drabble will not be equine-related.

Kara's Aunty ;)

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, etc. I am only borrowing his characters for this fanfiction and am making absolutely no profit whatsoever from them.

Credit: Thainsbook dot net, learner dot org, wikipedia.

Landroval

Of course he could walk. He had two feet, did he not? But why bother, when a few flaps of his mighty wings would send him high into the air to seek out heady currents that allowed him to soar effortlessly for miles? No. He was a child of the heavens, born to call the sky his home. Feet were of little use to him, other than for landing upon or clutching at prey.

And ripping enemies apart.

With a chilling, bloodthirsty screech, Landroval bore down upon the Morannon, deadly talons readying to sink deep into the nearest Fell Beast.

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Author's Note: A birthday present for me. Self-indulgent, I know. But someone has to love me :o)

I've often had flying dreams, where I'm soaring across a city, sometimes through it, and effortlessly navigating my way around tall buildings. They might have been dreams, but they were so real, so exhilarating, so liberating, that it was deeply disappointing to wake up and discover I'm just an ordinary landlubber after all.

*wanders off singing Happy Birthday to Me (very dejectedly)*

Kara's Aunty ;)

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, etc. I am only borrowing his characters for this fanfiction and am making absolutely no profit whatsoever from them.

Credit: Thainsbook dot net, learner dot org, wikipedia.

Meneldor

The Swift he was called by his brethren. Young and eager he was; no task too small or too great for him. It was one of the reasons he dared exposure to the foul, acrid plumes billowing over the Gorgoroth.

That and the pitiful sight of two brave periannath lying spent amidst the burning fury of Mount Doom.

With a jubilant screech, he swooped down, tenderly grasping an ailing figure in his talons, then turned about and fled north with his precious cargo.

There would be no more death at Sauron's hands this day.

Or ever again, thanks to them.

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Author's Note: One more to go. But who will it be?

*grins*

Kara's Aunty ;)