[Diamond18]

Meanwhile, in a small gazebo in a quiet and peaceful section of the Farm, a young woman sat alone, sipping warm buttermilk from a silver goblet. The sun fell upon her head of red-gold curls, and they glowed as if the light of the Similars, or Stones of Feeblenor, had once again returned to Middle-earth. She sighed, and her thoughts returned to that day so long ago...it was like yesterday. But it wasn't yesterday. It was long ago, of course. She took another swig of buttermilk, and pushed the thoughts away.

"Pimpiowyn! Oh, Pimpi! Pimpi my love!"

Pimpiowyn rolled her stunningly large sapphire blue eyes, and wrapped her hand around a small pendant hanging against her red velvet bodice. Pimpi wore red as often as possible, as that was something those infernally beautiful she-elves never wore. A reassuring warmth emanated from the pedant, and she felt ready. "Yes, darling?"

A graceful figure bounded into the gazebo and did a triple loop, then struck a pose, his toes pointed delicately. He reached up and adjusted a grey satan bow that perched attractively atop his head. The sunlight shone down upon his silky cascade of grey-brown hair, and also upon the grey-brown fur of the small field mouse that perched atop his shoulder. Or rather, hung on for dear life. A small black cat with one white whisker tiptoed up the steps behind him and rubbed itself in and out between his legs.

"Ah, there you are, Pimpi my dear. I have been searching all over for a glimpse of thy lovely, globular face," spoke the wood-elf Vogonwë Brownbark in a liquid voice.

"I prefer, 'round', darling," Pimpi replied with a sigh. As she spoke, the cat left Vogonwë and jumped up on Pimpiowyn’s lap, and began to help itself to her buttermilk.

"Berugheera!" Vogonwë said disapprovingly. "Hisss, khak kak ick ick reooow." The small animal slunk down guiltily, and licked its paws under Pimpiowyn's chair.

Pimpiowyn fished a black hair out of her buttermilk and took another sip. "You didn't bring anything to eat with you, did you?" she inquired.

"No, I'm afraid not, Pimpi my love," said Vogonwë regretfully. "But, darling, I have come to tell you something!"

"You are going back to Workmud to live with your father?" Pimpi asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"No," Vogonwë shook his head gracefully, nearly knocking the mouse off of his shoulder with a swish of his hair. The mouse hung on. "Do you remember when I asked you for three hairs from your golden head, and you gave me one?"

"Yes; it was only yesterday," Pimpi said, brushing cat hairs from her red velvet frock.

"I have composed a poem in honor of your beautiful hair, my dear, and ode to the follicles on you head. Would you like to hear it?"

"I have a feeling that I'm going to," Pimpi said, downing the last of her buttermilk. She licked the edge of the goblet and then ran her tongue around her full red lips. Vogonwë struck yet another pose and flipped his hair over his shoulder. The mouse went flying out of the gazebo and landed on the grass. He cleared his throat, and began to recite:

"This hair so golden, almost red,
Used to be lodged in your head.
When it was there, amongst your other hairs,
It looked very nice with the clothes you wear.
You plucked it from your scalp, tore it from your head,
And now this golden reddish hair is dead.
Its life was fleeting, it ended with yesterday's meeting,
When you plucked that hair and ended its life with a tear.
Why did you do this? Why is this hair now dead?
Because I asked you, 'tis true. I asked you to do this, I asked you.
And you consented to kill this hair for my pleasure, and out it came.
It doesn't have a name, but is that any excuse it to maim?
Love is such a strange game.
I love this hair that came from your head, I love this hair though it is dead,
And its death I caused, I know with shame, but that doesn't matter much.
Because I love you and would do anything to have a memento of you,
For you will soon be as dead as this hair from your head,
Who will be to blame for that? Not I, I hope. I would be a dope,
To cause the death of the one I love above all others,
Above all mountains, hills and towers, you're prettier than flowers.
Which also die in their turn. Oh when will they ever learn?
And so I sing this song to you, to you whose eyes are really blue.
And your hair, I hold so near my heart, and hope that we shall never part,
Even when you yourself depart."

Vogonwë paused expectantly. He was met with silence, as Pimpi had found a biscuit in her pocket, and was devouring it with a dainty air. "Do you like it?"

"Oh...yeth, darwing," she replied.

They heard the whinnying of a horse in the distance, in the direction of the Fountain Garden. "What could that be?" Vogonwë wondered out loud. "Could it be a visitor from Workmud? Perhaps my father has sent me a letter, or a message, or something. But no, that does not sound like the whinny of a Workmud steed."

"Why don't you go find out?" Pimpi suggested.

"I shall," Vogonwë agreed, twirling upon his toe. He walked down the steps and scooped up the little mouse. "Squeaky eep eep," he said. The mouse squeaked in reply that it was all right, and Vogonwë set it upon his shoulder.

The cat tiptoed out from beneath the chair, and as the trio left, Vogonwë turned around and called back in his clear voice, "Pimpiowyn, what rhymes with 'whinny'?"

"Skinny, mini, ninny and tinny," Pimpi replied.

"Thank you!" he lifted a well-manicured hand and waved goodbye with a graceful flick of his wrist.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the biscuit was gone and all the crumbs plucked from the folds of her clothes and devoured as well (indeed, when there was not one crumb left, not even one too small for a mouse) Pimpi left the gazebo. She walked across the lush grass and entered a small grove. She approached a pair of headstones, and knelt tenderly in front of them. Above one was the statue of a Man in the Armor of the Mike, seated upon a rearing horse. Above the other was a plump and jolly looking hobbitlass, though uncommonly tall.

Pimpi tenderly reached out and removed some pigeon droppings from the engraved words on the headstones, and let her large blue eyes survey the epitaph.

Here lies Éohorse son of Needahorse
Valiant Man of the Mike.
Bravely he fought the Orc horde,
And breathed his last upon the picnic blanket.

Here lies Pipsissewa Took
Fairest Flower of the Shire.
Long of limb and fat of face,
A Hobbit with uncommon grace.

"I will avenge you someday, Mama and Papa," Pimpi whispered. "I will hunt down the Orcs that survived the Elven raid, and I will kill them...or at least stand by and watch someone else kill them."

She again reached for the pendant, the Head of Lopitoff, the noble steed of Éohorse. But she paused before she touched it, and wiped her fingers upon the grass. When they were clean enough to grasp the golden horsehead, she recalled the words of Lord Roneld as he presented her the pendant many years ago. It seemed like yesterday...but it wasn’t yesterday...it was a long time ago...

"The power of the Elves can shrink a horse's head, but only you have the power to wear it."

"And wear it I shall," Pimpi spoke aloud to the graves of her parents. "It is mine to wear, like my red velvet cloak trimmed with black silk."

[ February 12, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]