[Diamond18]

The day was balmy and bright, and so also felt Vogonwë son of Geppettuil, third cousin of Throngduil, thrice removed, as he rode along on his stupid steed, Tweedledum the Twaddle-brained.

The half-elf paused to wonder if it would be more expeditious to announce himself as simply “Vogonwë Brownbark, third cousin of O Lando L’oréal Bloom thrice removed” (or was that “fourth” and “quadruple”?) for O Lando seemed to be considerably more popular and well known than his father. Saying “Throngduil” often got blank stares unless he remembered to tack on the “King of Workmud” bit, which felt rather tacky, because any King worth his lembas should need no clarification. On the other hand, everyone had heard of O Lando, and many females swooned at the very mention of the name. “I’m his cousin, you know,” was a most effective pickup line. And just so long as you never let your girlfriend actually meet the fellow in person, things could go smashingly from there.

Vogonwë pulled his mind from this aside and firmly returned it to the matter at hand—the day was nice. Sunny, a bit of a breeze blowing from the west, a few puffy white clouds drifting languidly across the jet stream. Somewhere off in the lush, distant lands they were headed for, a light midmorning spritz of life giving rain was pattering down. Vogonwë started to placidly hum an old Elvish ballad; “On th’ Ëroádà Gaín”, while brushing flies from the flanks of his horse with a whisk broom. If only, he mused, the animal could figure out how to flick its own tail.

Riding beside him, on Tweedledee the Twitty, Pimpi heaved a long, heavy, melodramatic sigh. After Vogonwë missed his cue (and continued to hum cheerfully) she took a deep, deep breath and expelled it so forcefully that his hairbow was swept off his head and trampled under the horses’ hooves.

“What did you do that for?” he inquired, glancing ruefully at the mangled gray accessory on the muddy ground. He thought about cartwheeling down to retrieve it, but seeing as how for the past few weeks he hadn’t been able to coax even the slightest hint of understanding from his horse, he was now struck with a sudden apathy for the so-called wonder of kevlar communication. Still, he was off-put by the pointed way Pimpi ignored his question. “I say, sweets, what’s the matter? Why did you blow my bow down?”

“Oh, I don’t expect you to understand,” Pimpi pouted.

Somewhere, a strangely metallic voice cried out ”Danger, Vogonwë Brownbark, Danger! but Vogonwë didn’t hear it, and he replied, “That’s ridiculous. I am half-elven, which makes me perceptive, wise, and uncannily understanding.”

Pinkjin, trotting along within hearing distance, uttered a soft snort which might have insulted Vogonwë if his hairbow had not been lying forlornly in a hoof print a few strides back.

“Then you don’t have to ask, do you?” Pimpi said, with a toss of her curls.

“Let’s say that I do, and blame it on my mother’s side of the gene pool.”

“That’s just it!” Pimpi exclaimed, “You’re always yammering on about your father, and your mother, and your gene pool, and your elvish side and your mannish side and your ancient elven heritage! Do we ever talk about my heritage?”

“Well, I do recall killing someone a while back and I think it had something to do with—”

“Don’t be a smart aleck with me! You know what I mean. And besides, you males always think that killing someone is all you have to do to be supportive.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not. I’ll tell you why I’m feeling down today, Vogonwë—”

“Hey, that rhymed.”

She flashed him a “speak and die” look, and continued “—All that time we spent in my father’s homeland, the land where I spent the first few years of my life, I could not feel the slightest bit at home. I’ve forgotten how to speak and understand their dialect, and to be honest, they all looked the same to me. Tall, big boned, flowing blond hair, blue eyes… you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. And I could not find any close relatives. Yes, while you were getting drunk and slapping men on their hindquarters (don’t think I didn’t notice that) I was trying to get in touch with my family. But alas, no one seemed to have ever heard of Éohorse son of Needahorse. Can you believe that? I mean, you’d think they’d remember a man who brought a hobbit home as his wife, but nooooo. Could I find even one old aunt? Or any cousins, even ten times removed? Noooo! I have passed through Soreham, my homeland, and I feel more acutely than ever, that I am a foundling waif; my only heritage buried in a forgotten corner of the Elven Farm!”

“Oh. That’s too bad,” Vogonwë observed. “You’re a very pretty foundling waif, though.”

“And not only that, do you realize that all this time we’ve been questing, I have gotten to do any real sheildmaidening? Oh sure, there were the trolls, and that food fight, but I wanted to do something heroic, what’s so heroic about a food fight?”

“That whole thing was about defending your honor, you know.”

“Hmph. I think you just enjoyed it,” Pimpi begged to differ (though, really, there was nothing pleading about her tone whatsoever).

“It felt heroic at the time.”

“Well, I thought we were going to be doing big, important things on this Quest. So far we’ve done nothing but burn a city and steal a couple roof supports. And where are the legions of evil? Trolls are just, well, dull and stupid creatures. Where are the hosts of darkness with which to do glorious battle?”

“Darling, it’s a beautiful day, can we sing a travelling song or something?”

“No. I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“Look, sweetie-pie, I’ll admit that so far there hasn’t been much to write an epic poem about, but hasn’t it been the least bit fun? I think it’s been good for a few sonnets, at least. Well, limericks anyway. Bawdy doggerel. Something.”

“That’s right, it’s all about your ‘poetry’, in the end,” Pimpi rolled her eyes.

“I’m just trying to be positive.”

“And I don’t want to be positive. I want to slay hordes of Orcs and rescue people from dungeons, like last time.”

“I think both times last time the prisoner in question escaped before we had the chance to—”

“Oh, you’re impossible!” Pimpi cried, and urged Tweedledee on ahead. “I’m going to talk to Merisu, at least see listens to me! Hmph!” She and her horse trotted away, her curls bouncing and its tail flicking. Vogonwë watched them for a moment, then sulkily threw his whisk broom into the mud.

“Flick your own flies,” he muttered to Tweedledum, who of course did not understand him.

“Ah,” mused Etceteron, who had been eavesdropping along with Pinkjin the entire time. “Young love. Well I remember those days, bickering about various petty issues long into the night.” He paused, smiling at the memories of his and the fair Vinagrettial’s legendary differences of opinions over the dread sword Wylkynsion. “Those were the days….”

“Excuse me, Lord Etceteron, but I am not young. I am quite a bit older than you, at any rate, whatever age you are.”

“Well, yes, in years,” Earnur nodded. “But, since Elves mature at a slower rather than humans, if we want to talk about emotional maturity—”

“I don’t want to talk about emotional maturity!” Vogonwë snapped, and kicked his horse forward. “I’ve had enough talking, I’m going to go sulk.” And this he did for the better part of an hour, with all the diligence and passion of his elven nature. After a while, though, he fell to ruminating on which horse was stupider, Tweedledum or Tweedledee, and he composed short poem about it:

Tweedledum is dumb, we see,
What is that to Tweedledee?
Tweedledee can flicks its tail,
And at that Tweedledum does fail.
But yesterday Tweedledee ate a nail,
And Tweedledum didn’t.