[Diamond18]

There were many flies in the vicinity of Gol Dulldor, as one might well expect from an Orcish stronghold. There were black flies, blue flies, red flies and dead flies (Flywraiths). There were houseflies, barn flies, and dark-tower flies. There were horse flies, and mule flies, and dragonflies. But worst of all, there were knickerbuckles.

Pimpi swatted at one fly of indistinct species, and wondered, “What do they eat when that can’t get half-hobbit?” She really wanted to know, as the digestive habits of different creatures was a curiosity to her.

Vogonwë took advantage of the fact that O Lando was occupied with that other Elf, and came to her rescue. He opened his flask of 'Mudwater and took a dainty sip, then with amazing accuracy that wasn’t really amazing coming from the erstwhile Arrow Throwing Champion of Workmud, he spit a stream of liquid at one of the buzzing insects and hit it right between its buggy eyes. It exploded with a little poof, and a sickening scent filled the air. Or rather, as they were in the vicinity of Gol Dulldor, he put the already ill aroma on its deathbed.

He repeated this a few more times before he caught the attention of Earnur, who said, “What ho…is that the fabled drink of the Workmud Elves?”

Vogonwë swished a bit around his mouth and spat three deadly streams out in quick succession, killing three more hapless flies before they could dare to land on his love. “Yes, it’s a bit of Double 'Mudwater Gargleblaster Surprise Delight,” he said, then handed over the flask gregariously. “Try some!”

Earnur accepted it and took a sniff, effectively killing his olfactory senses for at least a week. Then with no further ado, he swigged a swizzle of the stuff down manfully. He then promptly fell off of his horse.

Baklava had been lost in thought. Truth to tell, he had been daydreaming again about trampling Lord Etceteron to death, and had just got to the good part, when he was startled out of his reverie by Earnur’s sudden dismount. For a moment he seriously considered making his dreams a reality, but his hooves were stayed by a low, lyrical, mellow, snort.

He turned his head in the direction of the lovely sound, and saw Pasdedeux beside him. Gently, gracefully—and not to mention, quite helpfully—she swished her tail and flicked some flies off of his hide for him. All thoughts of...what's his name...fled from Baklava's mind.

Pasdedeux's riders had also dismounted, though less violently, of course. Vogonwë had leapt off in order to retrieve his flask before its contents ran out upon the ground. Pimpiowyn rushed to Earnur’s side to see if the fall had killed him. For, if he was dead, she wanted to rescue any food he might have had in his pockets before the decaying corpse contaminated it.

So it was that Pasdedeux and Baklava were riderless and fancy-free, staring into one another’s almond shaped eyes. (As any horse drawing book will tell you, the eyes are indeed like unto almonds, and the chins like teacups.) Long on this journey had they been glancing surreptitiously at the other when the other was not looking. She, admiring the noble black stallion with the rippling horsy muscles, too horsily handsome for linguistic gymnastics to describe. For Pasdedeux went wild for the dark and brooding type. And he, silently smitten with the beauteous mare, with her mane of the softest, silkiest, velvetiest…mane. Her mane put Vogonwë’s hair to shame. And speaking of the half-elf: his bothersome method of mounting the mare had grated seriously upon the nerves of the stallion, who hated to see such a fine creature utilized like a pommel horse.

In a romantically tragic sort of way, both had previously been too shy to do anything more than gaze dreamily at a distance. And then there was the fact that their confounded, cursed, contemptible owners had been constantly riding them or tethering them apart from each other. That had not helped.

But now Pasdedeux, in an admittedly uncharacteristic display of forwardness, had seized the moment. While Vogonwë and Pimpi were hastily trying to revive Earnur by slapping him, the horses were communing silently. Now, a stallion of lesser heredity and utter equine excellence would have said, “What’s a mare like you doing with a dippy Elf like him?” But nay, Baklava didn’t even need to neigh. As they looked deep into the depths of each other's eyes, there passed between them an understanding, which conveniently cannot be recounted in any tongue of Men, as it would ruin the surprise.

The blissful moments passed away far more quickly than the amount of time you have spent reading about it, so nothing much had happened with those of the company who were concerned with petty things such as getting into Gol Dulldor, rescuing Halfullion, and revenging the Entish Bow, etc. But Vogonwë and Pimpi did succeed in summoning Earnur back from the dark pit of drunkenness into the world of the living, and it was far too soon for Baklava’s liking. As the groggy nobleman took the reigns of his stupendous steed and manfully resumed his mount upon the cranky creature’s back, he had no idea what was racing like a racehorse through the mind of the great horse.

And it was probably just as well, for it would have hurt his feelings.

[ February 25, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]