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 …
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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!