It was a jovial English country dance, the dancers weaving in and out delicately but purposefully, switching partners dutifully if only to get a closer look at their teeth: specifically their canines. Everyone knew it should be a funeral dirge, and had no doubt that the final march would come soon. The end would come, and either the dead could be buried by those very lucky, very few left alive, or all but one would serve as trophies in a victory, two gladly sacrificed and so dusted more regularly.
One sat the dance out. The others glanced at her rarely, and either with sympathy or with annoyance, as her sobs nearly overcame the music.
“My poor
Eomer, my…”
Nogrod made sure sharp objects were kept away from her, and everyone simply assumed it was because he was that fatherly type.
Suddenly, an argument broke out. Apparently someone was stepping on some toes, though there were only four guests actually dancing.
“You Cobbler,
Farael,” the Mime exploded before he could stop himself.
“Aha!” the Orc cried, “So you’re not really a mime, are you? Cobbler!”
“Now, now, boys,”
Nogrod parented, but did not leave
Cailín’s side. She wailed once more dejectedly.
“Don’t get into this, old man,”
Farael snapped, “We’re going to do this my way, because we haven’t been doing it my way so far, and so far we’ve been losing, so we’re going to do it my way.”
“Uh…no,”
Nogrod responded lamely, but his eyes lit up as if a revelation hit him. The gleam was short lived, and no one seemed to notice.
“You fool,
Farael! We don’t do it your way, we do it the right way,”
Macalaure mimed frantically.
Holbytlass was not impressed by his logic. “Can’t we
finally get rid of this mime?”
“What about getting rid of the jester?”
Macalaure questioned. “She’s just as useless.”
Nogrod heartily agreed with them both, and naturally, with
Cailín.
“Yes, your charade is up, Wolf, Cobbler, or whatever you are,” the harmless, grieving Robin said, “The evil ones will pay for what they did to my
Eomer!”
It seemed a miracle.
Farael settled his differences with
Macalaure and agreed with him that
Holbytlass should die.
“She’s been stealing your spotlight, man,” the Orc told the mime friendlily, putting an arm across his shoulders.
Nogrod’s fatherly instincts, which he did not extend to
Macalaure, seemed to cause him to console
Holbytlass, or simply keep her from attacking
Farael and
Macalaure in anger.
“It’s okay, my dead…I mean, dear jester. You have but two against you, and the mime has three.”
Holbytlass felt a little relieved, and let out a sigh.
But then
Nogrod spoke again, “Unless of course I change my mind.”
At that moment,
Holbytlass and
Macalaure took their last breaths.
Farael began punching holes in
Macalaure’s throat with his
hand punch, and
Nogrod plunged his
lasting pliers into
Holbytlass’s neck.
Cailín rose up with laughter, and her womanly features and diminutive, feathery costume was replaced by thick fur, pointed ears, claws, and sharp teeth, as her laugh transformed into a growl.
“Yes, those villagers have paid for what they did to my
Eomer,” she spat.
Then suddenly there was heard a small, sweet voice upon the air…
“Together, together, together everyone
Together, together, come on lets have some fun
Together, were there for each other every time
Together together come on lets do this right”*
Lalwendë wandered back into the ballroom, belting it out with much post-Christmas cheer. But when she came upon
Cailín-Wolf and the bloody mess at her feet, her voice died in her throat, and all that emerged was a strangled gasp.
“Oh.”
-----------------------------------------
*“We’re all in this Together” from
High School Musical