I hope you enjoy this one! A slightly lighter scene for you, I hope!

Chapter Thirty-Two: Pony Tales

Odo the pony did not know have an extensive vocabulary, but if he had, disgruntled would have been his word of choice to describe his current feeling.

As it was, he simply stewed in his indignation, and trotted further and further up the mountain. He could see a faint glow on the path, and a gentle tug in his gut old him to follow it, so he had been for a long time. Night had come, and passed, and day was reaching its peak. In the light, he huffed and whinnied his resentment to the rocks around him, and to the little birds that flittered over them, and made the mountain their home.

His Master had sent him away – him, Odo, the mountain pony who trekked where great horses dared not, and climbed as well as the goats of the faraway mountains! True, his dwarf had promised that they would reunite, that Odo would find the way home, and true, Odo had no desire to enter the deep dark of the mines. The good wolves had spoken to him in the tongue of animals, telling him of his Master's reluctance, of his fear for Odo's welfare. And Odo understood that. He appreciated that. His dwarf was a good master. But Odo ran with wolves and held his own, and he would ride into a forest fire, if that was where Master Gimli would lead him.

It was for his Master that he left without complaint. When the elf finished speaking, and the soft glow appeared on the path, he had followed it, because it would be more difficult for Master Gimli if he stayed. But still, this was not how he wanted to return to the mountain of his birth. Alone, unsaddled. The blood of wild mountain ponies ran through him, but he did not feel wild or free. He felt cast away, alone, and disgruntled.

Not that he knew most of these words. He was, after all, not privy to the human-like intelligence of Beorn's wolves, and there were few words that he understood at all. Tossing his head, he let out another disgruntled whicker, and sped into a gallop. The cold wind blew his mane behind him, and the ground beneath his hooves threatened to trip him, but it was no match for a pony of Erebor. The sound of his hooves was a thunder, and they hit flint, and cast sparks into the sky.

Before him, the glow of the path grew lighter, and the call in his gut was to slow.

Careful, careful, careful…

He neighed in glorious protest and pushed his legs faster. Up, up, up, he was going up and over, and then down to the lands of the skin-changers, and through the forest of elves, and back o the mountain of his birth. That was where he was going, but first he would go up –

Careful, careful, careful…

Up! Up! Up!

He rode until his heart was racing, until his breath came in heavy pants – until he reached the final stretch before the summit of the mountain, and cloud shrouded all that he could see.

All but the path, which glowed stronger than ever beneath his feet. Triumph swelled in him, and he turned to gloat at his victory, to show the wolves that he was as quick and skilled as they were, but then he hung his head.

His breath joined the clouds as he huffed sadly.

The wolves were not there.

His Master was not there.

His Master was down, down in deep darkness.

Without Odo to bear him.

Weariness fell upon him like a blanket of mail – heavy, cumbersome, and he let his legs buckle. He laid down, sheltered against the rocks near the very top of the mountain. He had scaled the most dangerous point of the high path, and he did not know it. All he knew was that he was tired, and hungry, and miserable.

But then he saw the light pulsing on the path, saw it growing larger and smaller like the shadow of a bouncing ball. His head tipped to the side and he stared at it. It grew faster.

He huffed at it, jutted his head toward it, and it danced towards him. He drew his head back.

He had never seen anything like this. He doubted that even Master Gimli had seen anything like this. It was simply light, light on the ground, that was moving of its own accord, moving towards him in a little circle, then shooting off towards the rest of the glowing path.

Odo propped himself up again, and pushed onto his weary legs. Curiosity won out, and he followed the glow.

For a moment, the cloud grew thicker and colder, and it was harder to see, but then the light spilled onto the ground. Onto a patch of wildflowers.

With a whinny of delight, Odo trotted forwards, and gave the plants a curious sniff. Then, he dug in, eating his fill of the sweet flowers, and the grasses that grew around them. There was more than enough her to fill him, and by the time he finished grazing, night had fallen again. He glanced at the glow of the path, and slowly laid down. It stayed as it was – faint on the path ahead, but stronger around him.

Stay, stay, stay…

Odo closed his eyes.

He did not rest for long. It was not in his nature. Instead, after a few hours of sleep he stood, refreshed, and set off again. So sooner had he thought of water, but the light veered off the path to a cold, clean stream, and he drank until his thirst was sated. Then he followed the light back to the path, and made the final ascent.

He crested the mountain at dawn, as the sun rose over the world and spilt its brilliance everywhere, and painted the mountain with pinks and oranges. For a moment, he stood proudly atop the mountain, but then he carried on. The cloud was beginning to lift, but it was still hard to see further than a few feet away, when he heard it.

The clatter of hooves on rock, of a pony moving fast – hoofbeats that were not his own. He pricked up his ears toward the sound and listened careful. There was also another sound, growing stronger by the moment – wild, catching breaths of panic, of fear.

Someone was running towards him. And they were terrified.

Instinct told him to run, to flee back the way he had come or hide until the danger passed, but stubbornness and curiosity ran stronger in his blood than fear. He let out a cursory whinny, and a startled shriek returned to him. But the hoofbeats drew nearer, drew towards him, and he stepped forward to meet the stranger.

But it was not a stranger.

It was a pony that he knew, and knew well. It was Sven, whose master was Gimli's father. Sven was often stabled beside Odo, and they were cousins. He had the same steel in his bones, the steel of a mountain pony – except it did not look much like it now.

Sven's eyes were open so wide that they were turning red, and he was foaming at the mouth and on the sides. Even when he halted before Odo, he did not stand still, but stamped his feet on the spot, his eyes and ears roaming to find a reason to run.

Odo whickered. Hail.

Tossing his head, Sven let out a high whinny, and stamped his feet once more. Danger! Foes! Flee!

Odo snorted, and looked around. What foes? Where foes? He stepped forward and stamped his own foot, once, nudging at Sven's reins. Where Master?

With a shudder, Sven pressed his ears back and pulled up his lips to reveal his teeth, whinnying as he did. He tossed his head over his shoulder. Orcs. Back. Flee.

Snorting, Odo stomped again. Master?

Back.

Why?

Many, many, fire! Flee.

Full tack – Sven was wearing full tack, and there were plenty of saddle bags on his side. Odo patted the ground. Dwarves did not eat from the ground, nor did they often drink straight from streams. They drew food from their bags, and at night they sheltered themselves with blankets. Without his bags, Sven's master would be in trouble.

Odo stepped forwards, butting Sven with his head. Back.

No! Sven reared and let out a shriek of a whinny, his legs flailing like a colt as he tried to pass Odo.

Odo snorted, and tossed his head. Back.

No!

Huffing in frustration, Odo bit at the saddle bags, but he could not pull them from Odo. They were fastened by dwarves, dwarves with hands, and Sven bucked wildly, leaping from Odo's grasp.

Flee!

And then he careened down the mountain, back the way that Odo had come. Breathing heavily, Odo looked at the road ahead. It was forked – the light glowed down one direction. Sven had come from the other.

Master Gimli was gone. But that did not mean that Odo could not help him.

He huffed, bobbed his head, and set off. Down the unlit path.

The light glowed before him, pulsing on the ground and then shooting away, towards the path, and the tug in his gut urged him to use the other fork. But he held his head high, and began to gallop again. Away from safety, towards Master's father.

If he could have, Odo would have grinned.

I hope that you enjoyed that little chapter. It was a lot of fun to write, and to experiment with the way that pony's communicate. Anywho, I hope that it made sense! Please do let me know, and I will see you on Monday for the next chapter :D