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.

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