[Diamond18]

In the Tower of Minus Moreghoul, it was silent but for the tender sound of Elven tears falling from Elven eyes onto Orcish carrion. Gravlox was indeed dead, and if you poked him with a stick, ten to one he wouldn’t respond. Merisuwyniel had no intention of poking him with a stick. Her grief was the kind that doesn’t incline one to use sticks. She stroked his matted hair and tried to remain calm in front of the others, for admirable resolve is as admirable resolve does.

Pimpiowyn rose from her knees and stood a moment watching the touching scene. Then, she began to speak in a sad and regretful tone:

All my life I have wished for avengement,
Never really knowing what revenge meant.

Can his dying conquer their death?
He has paid his debt with his life.
But will it restore them to breath?
Is his end an end to my strife?

And so now he is slain.
Do I call this success?
Her kind heart to maim,
Is this proper redress?
Does her loss mean my gain?
Can my heart feel gladness?
All we’ve left her is pain,
And rivers of sadness.

All her hopes and her dreams,
Fly away on the wind.
Life lives on in a scream,
Yet my wounds never mend,
Blood flows red like a stream.
All we’ve done in the end,
With our plots and our schemes,
Is betrayed our own friend.

Now I want to forgive,
And defy unfair fate.
To live and let live,
But it is far too late.

All my life I have wished for avengement,
Never really knowing what revenge meant.

She sighed, and one of the statues in the corner of the room joined in Merisuwyniel’s sobbing. On second consideration, however, Pimpi determined that the sound was coming from behind the statue, where her hapless love had gone to hide from unpleasant repercussive action anyone might want to take.

It’s hard to say what his tears were for. It could either be the guilt that accompanied the rash killing of a reluctant adversary, the poetic beauty of such awe-inspiring mortality, Merisuwyniel’s nobility in sadness, or the realization that his girlfriend could write better poetry than he could. Whatever it was, it touched said girlfriend’s heart, and she went over and offered him a handkerchief.

“There’s a moral in all this,” Vogonwë sniffed, accepting the hankie.

“Yes…revenge is not sweet, it is very bitter,” Pimpi nodded.

“Well, yeah. I was going to say ‘When Ideas talk to you, it isn’t a good thing, so don’t listen’,” Vogonwë replied. “But yours works too.”

“This is just as much my fault as yours,” she said while he blew his nose. “You did this solely for my sake, because of my desire for revenge. It was a sweet gesture, I suppose, and I was terribly worried for you. But I’m afraid we both owe Merisuwyniel an apology.”

“Yes, an apology.”

“I intend to throw myself upon her mercy, and let her determine what justice must be done,” Pimpi declared resolutely.

“It’s only fair,” Vogonwë nodded.

“Well then.”

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to as well?”

“I was thinking of hiding behind this statue for the rest of my life,” he admitted.

“No, no. You have to pay the piper sometime. Gravlox had to do it, we all have to sometime. It’s a vicious cycle that you can’t run away from. The only thing to do is stick your head in the gears and hope that it stops them without getting ground to bits,” Pimpi explained. “Come, if we don’t beg her forgiveness now, we’ll be contributing to a cycle, and you don’t want to do that, do you?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Come on!” Pimpi ordered, trying to yank him to his feet. “Merisu is sweet and kind, she’ll probably forgive us whether we deserve it or not.”

“Yeah, she’ll forgive you! She likes you! She’ll probably have the guys beat me up, the Wizard curse me, the Dragon burn all my hair off, and the Dwarf steal my clothes!” Vogonwë grabbed the waist of the statue and held on for dear life.

“I’ll buy you new clothes,” Pimpi assured him. “Now come on!”

“I’m too pretty for this!”

“COME ON!”

“Oh, all right,” Vogonwë groaned. “I’ll do it—if you’ll promise to marry me later, hairlessness, clotheslessness, bruisedness and crunchiness notwithstanding.”

“You would chose a mortal life for me?” Pimpi asked in surprise.

“Well, technically, I have no choice. See, scholars say that if I have even one drop of mortal blood in me, I’m made fully mortal, and subject to the Drift of Men, unless the Velour step in and barter my case with Ilovetar. But I don’t think they will, because I’ve never done anything exceptional.”

“I see…”

“So here—here’s a tolkien of my undying, dying love for you,” he said, giving her his hairbow.

“You cannot give me this!”

“It is mine to give, like my heart.”

“But, what would I want with it?”

“If you wear it, you can speak the language of the Kevlar,” said Vogonwë, “and you’ll be bullet-proof, to boot.”

“Vogonwë, I don’t want this, I don’t need to talk with the animals, bullets haven’t been invented yet, and besides, it would look horrible with my hair-color.”

“But—”

“Take it back.”

“It was a gift. Keep it,” he insisted. “At least for now, anyway, so if Merisu lets the Dwarf take all my accoutrements, we’ll still have that.”

“Well, in that case…okay.”