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The One Ring Forums: Tolkien Topics: Fan Art: The secret life of Thorin's beloved...: Edit Log


Feb 7 2016, 1:10am

Views: 2788
The secret life of Thorin's beloved...

Minty’s nostrils distended in outrage. She shook her silky, beribboned mane in annoyance. Anyone observing might have commented on an interesting resemblance to a characteristic gesture of a certain dwarf king.

In any case, according to numerous fan-fics and artwork, Thorin Oakenshield and his nephews inherently possessed many enviable qualities completely appropriate to the leaders of an equine herd. Certainly the body language of the herd of females that Minty dominated over radiated happiness, and the women would often break into rhythmic chants indicating their joy. Minty had initially found the chants to be odd, compared to the nickers and whinnies of her four-legged companions.

Still, horses ARE intelligent, ponies being known to be particularly clever. Plus, this was Middle Earth, and any of its denizens could be expected to possess additional talents not wot of in other worlds. (Like those trees that had bad tempers). So the fluffy pony completely understood the body language of the odd, two-legged fillies. It was a contented herd, and she, Minty, was most definitely the dominant mare. It wasn’t these strange fillies’ fault that they were of a breed who did not sport a long tail like herself, and had to resort to wiggling about all the time.

Who would have thought of it? A lowly pack pony like herself. It had been an ordinary day, all those months ago, when she and the other ponies had been prodded through the tiny village. Minty had stood in the cool darkness before dawn, sleepily gorging on the unexpected bounty of tender flowers neatly laid out before her. And then Minty and the others had smelled HIM. Their new herd leader, so much testosterone wafting through the early dawn air that the nasturtiums had simply dropped from her mouth, and she had chewed hard on the bit in her teeth.

And then, HE had come. Her eyes had rolled a bit and Minty had tossed her mane, taking in the scents of woodsmoke and spices, the magnificent mane. He had stroked her cheek and she had licked salt from the leather-strap’d palm. Cerulean blue eyes had gazed with both fierceness and kindness into her own large liquid rich brown orbs. And with that, Minty’s life had changed forever. He had chosen her. She had found her ONE.

Not that her heart had not been terribly bruised, for a time, after the ponies had fled, that awful day. A group of frightened horses can be an unstoppable force. And she had to admit (for Minty had a good heart) that some of her companions had been unfairly treated. Mountain ponies ARE strong, but it was a bit much for any but a draft horse to be expected to carry that fat dwarf, mile after mile. It wasn’t so much the weight as the shifting center of gravity, at the many curves in the mountain paths. Plus, Bombur’s pony had complained, sometimes he drools when he looks at me, and clutches at that big black pot of his. When he gives me a treat, I worry he’s fattening me up. He’s tried to feed me sugar but I kick at him, every time.

The ponies had been loosely tied together when they all bolted in fear. Minty had been forced to run along with the rest at the fearsome scent of the wargs. She hadn’t wanted to leave her ONE. The only real comfort during that dark time had been when the small, curly-headed being had found her, in Bree, later. He had buried his face against her neck and cried. Minty had smelled her ONE on him. I’ll look after you, the hobbit had said. For HIM.

And so he had, and Bilbo brought Minty an apple every day. But Minty could have told him, if the halfling had been able to understand horse language. HE was coming. He WOULD come, for them both. She would chew at the hobbit’s hair comfortingly. Love could shift mountains, and the Heirs of Durin were BELOVED. Not even death itself would keep HIM from them.

For Minty had large ears, and the blood of her free-roaming wild ancestors. And every day she could hear the earth and the skies, the talk of the birds. Warrior, says the wind. King, says the rain.

Oh, PLZ, says the Elven King. I’m still trying to get the cells sanitized, and whose idea was it to feed the prisoners stewed beans?


(Elros had protested that he HAD kept to protocol, after all, it WAS vegetarian. The only PROTEIN they had, plus the nuts. And inexpensive, too. Besides, the dwarves had refused to eat anyway. Thranduil said that was just a cheap ploy to gain sympathy with the audience. Didn’t his ELVISH EYES see the EMPTY plates?

Behind Thranduil, a nameless guard had stood rigidly at attention, with every lithe muscle tightly contracted, silently thanking the Valar for the eerie mask over his face. The stiff elf had fought down a burp. When meals in Thranduil’s kingdom regularly consisted of three peas and a carrot artfully arranged on a plate, you had to grab an opportunity when you could. Besides, the guard had thought, with all the dampness the place smells like mildewed boot socks, so what difference did it make?)

And so, Minty had waited in Bree, occasionally stamping impatiently, every day HIS scent of spices and FIRE and brandy wrapping more closely about her, ruffling her mane. During this time, visitors to the stable would often comment on the bright eyes and spirit of the pony. Some tried to ride her. That was a mistake that left the would-be riders face down in the mud of the stables, to the amusement of onlookers. Minty would only tolerate the occasional pack job, for those times allowed her to see the road where HE would come, he with the most lush of manes and that deep musical voice. The hobbit’s pony had told her she should try to be nicer. But, Minty swished her tail and tossed her head. There could be only one, her ONE.

Then came the night in Bree when Minty’s nostrils flared to the full wave-blast of HIM, all of HIM, the smell of salty sweat and argan oil hair conditioner and spices and ale and smoke, the heavy uneven tread of iron-toed dwarf boots, the cries of human females splitting the air, accompanied by one of those loud rhythmic chants that Minty would come to know so well (“Got me looking so crazy right now!, Your love's got me looking so crazy right now!, Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, oh no no!”)

What a reunion that had been! Minty had been so proud, to be able to support her ONE, once more. (Thorin had been having trouble staying upright, thanks to the copious amount of healthful fruit drinks that had been passed around in celebration). Rightfully, the fillies of Thorin’s strange two-legged herd had surrounded her in joy, petting her and the other ponies. There seemed to be no end to the apples and carrots the two-legged fillies could produce. The only slight flaw in the reunion had been when the hobbit fainted, but her ONE’s two handsome colts had simply folded the hobbit facedown on Myrtle for a while, to keep him from being stepped on. So happy Minty had been, she hadn’t even looked back when she and Thorin eventually left the Prancing Pony by that open window. Minty hadn’t really understood that, and it had been a near thing with her sturdy pony frame, but the strength of her ONE had helped worry her through the tight opening.

And since their reunion, Minty’s life had been filled with joy and wonder. Every day was bliss, and filled with interesting things. Like the time she had spent with her ONE in that sweet-smelling yellow forest. There had been so many of those tasty yellow flowers in the grass, and how Thorin had radiated his approval, the more she ate!

Well, naturally. His own darkling locks were so magnificent, and with the consumption of the flowers Minty, too, had both mane and tale that shimmered softly in the moonlight. (The more horse-crazy of the Fang-gir-iells would brush them in awe, saying she was as beautiful “as those ponies of Beorn’s”, whatever that meant).

Minty had been careful to search out every last golden flower there, for life on the road had taught her to take advantage of forage when available. Those strange bony beings with the syrupy voices hadn’t seemed to be too happy about it, but since they all seemed to move in slow motion and unable to focus their eyes, Minty hadn’t paid them much attention. Besides, Thorin had a great big sword.

And so, Minty was well aware of the status she had, on the Partei-Barge. She was the undisputed LEAD MARE. While all the ponies were treated kindly, it was to her the very BEST apples went, every night. Minty usually wasn’t too fussy about who gave her the nightly apple, as by then Thorin would have sung her a bedtime song and made sure her silk pony blanket was snug.

And she knew the next morning she would be at her rightful place at the front of the barge, HIS arm comfortingly around her neck, the morning breeze ruffling her forelock. Anyway, it was usually HIS hobbit, the one who carried the scent of HIM and smelled like honey cake, that most often gave her the night apple. But lately, off and on, a new two-legged filly had been sent to tend to her gleaming mane and tale, to remove the free fertilizer that Minty so thoughtfully provided on a regular basis. (For Minty’s stall must be always pristine and full of the best straw.)

Minty’s frequent gifts were temporarily held in wooden barrels, as was much of the other supplies. Farming communities would cheer as Minty’s barrels were freely distributed whenever the Partei Barge docked in an agricultural community. Although, there HAD been that distressing incident when the Partei-Girls mixed some of the barrels up. The farmers had been happy that day, as they received barrels of fruit marinating in brandy instead of the expected compost.

They said the Partei Barge was welcome any time, and encouraged the Company to return for the Spring Festival that involved “many songs and a great tall pole decorated with ribbons”. (There was lot of Fang-gir-iell snickering at that and mentions of tattoos, and all three Durins had flushed and looked #Majestically at the horizon. Minty, however, had been content with the special crispy oat cakes the farmers gifted the ponies with.)

But Thorin had been none too happy when the Partei-Girls (not possessing the dwarven eyes that were so comfortable in the dark), had accidently mixed barrels of Minty’s thoughtful daily gifts with rum and cherries. After all, wooden barrels look pretty much alike, and the Partei-Girls were not celebrated for their reading skills. As was so often the habit of the Partei-Girls, they set the mixture alight in honor of the Durins. They called the concoction “Cherries Jubilee”.

Once again, the dwarf king would call upon his honed warrior training and royal diplomatic skills. The Mountain King said that, as always, he appreciated the honor shown to Himself and the princes, but perhaps it would be best to offload the barrels to the River, RIGHT NOW. Fortunately the Barge had made it around a bend before the resulting conflagration had truly flared to the night skies, and the Fang-gir-iells had spent the rest of the evening madly laughing and re-writing the lyrics of a “movie theme song.”

So Minty was usually a very contented, friendly, pony. And lately she had not had any reason for unease. But natural wild instincts within her had begun to stir. There was a WRONGNESS here. It’s often said that animals can sense fear, and with this lanky Fang-gir-iell, it wasn’t that, exactly. Minty didn’t have a word for it, but the way this Fang-gir-iell moved was beginning to make her nervous. It was a strange combination of that weird, wafting movement she had seen in those beings from the yellow forest (the one with all the delicious flowers), and the kind of movement she herself had when a stone lodged in her hoof.

As well, there was something not right about this filly’s face. The cheekbones reminded her of something her kind was wary of, a large creature that silently might stalk her on clawed, soft paws. As did the eyes of this Fang-gir-iell, at times, when she looked up. But that was strange too, why did she not look more at Minty? Even the Mountain King would gaze deeply into her eyes, before pulling her head close and rumbling endearments into her large velvety ears every morning. “My little pony”, he would whisper musically in his rough secret language. “Amrâlimę.”

And most of all, this Fang-gir-iell had begun to smell like the man that had stumbled into the stable in Bree that one time, and had slept an entire day on the floor. It had been most annoying for all of the ponies to have to step over. Then man eventually woke up when the goat had wandered in and ate all the man’s clothes. The cold had roused the man and he had fled with peculiar crouched gait, and the ponies had all had a good laugh. But Minty didn’t appreciate anyone smelling like that bringing her the special night apple. Where was the hobbit? HE smelled like brown sugar and Thorin.

And so, Minty tossed her head at the approach of this Fang-gir-iell. She laid back her ears as the Fang-gir-iell reached for her silky mane to steady herself. Minty was used to the often-wobbly gait of her two-legged companions – even Thorin was unsteady on some nights – but this was TOO strange. Not only did this creature smell like the Bree stable-man, her sensitive nostrils caught the whiff of something else. Something in the Fang-gir-iell’s oddly colored hair. That light striping at the base of the filly’s hair reminded Minty of an aggressive, smelly animal she had unfortunately met as a curious foal. AND the hair smelled like those little jars that Thorin’s golden colt would light up and toss into the air!

Minty was having none of THIS. She was used to the coats of HER herd smelling like fruit and herbs and leaves and all manner of good things. Even her own mane and tail smelled of the special rosewater rinse the Fang-gir-iells used. Minty gathered the powerful muscles in her hindquarters, strengthened over so many mountain miles. She kicked.

The Fang-gir-iell moved with impressive speed, Minty had to admit. For Minty rarely missed, when she aimed a hoof. The creature was muttering in some strange breathy language, and seemed to be going to leap to her back. Outrageous! Only Thorin, or at need, the princes or the halfling would ever sully HER in such a way. Minty had no use for this “horse whisperer” nonsense. She kicked again.

This was beginning to be fun, like being able to prance and kick about a field on a bright spring day. Minty would kick, enjoying the stretch to her legs. And the Fang-gir-iell would hop swiftly, but awkwardly, looking like some of the movements of the Partei-girls. Only much, much higher and faster.

Minty thought, now one of the two-legged fillies knows what it is like to have to jump wearing iron shoes.

The Fang-gir-iell finally dodged a hoof that took a large chunk of wood out of the stall, and soared gracefully over Minty to land outside the stall. She landed heavily and winced at the pain in her feet. Bilbo’s pony watched inquisitively. The Fang-gir-iell was slumped on the boards, and said something to Minty in that breathy language that Minty didn’t understand. The tone wasn’t very nice, and then the odiferous Fang-gir-iell actually tossed an apple at Minty! It banged against a board.

But then the Fang-gir-iell’s eyes began to glow like those strange blue lights that Minty had seen the wafting yellow forest creatures use, and the Fang-gir-iell swiftly leapt back into the stall. She dodged a snap from Minty’s teeth and thudded out of the stall again, desperately clutching the apple.

Minty bared her huge gleaming pony teeth at the Fang-gir-iell in a horsey laugh. The hobbit came every night to check on the ponies, and ALWAYS had an extra bit of apple. And carrots, too. It’s not as though Minty would lose sleep over the loss of one apple.

The Fang-gir-iell hobbled quickly away as the very gentle patter of the hobbit’s feet was heard on the wooden floorboards. Bilbo was coming to do his last nightly check on the ponies. When Bilbo arrived, she nuzzled the hobbit affectionately. That had been amusing, Minty thought. And in the morning, HE would come, and she would take her place by his side. Because, as all knew, she was Thorin’s girl.

(This post was edited by Avandel on Feb 7 2016, 1:24am)

Edit Log:
Post edited by Avandel (Half-elven) on Feb 7 2016, 1:12am
Post edited by Avandel (Half-elven) on Feb 7 2016, 1:21am
Post edited by Avandel (Half-elven) on Feb 7 2016, 1:24am

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