Bunny Tales
Part Three: Sniffing

Rating: PG. Or should that be PU?
Category:
Pairing(s): Rabbit and Wolf Hunter (implied)
Warnings: Smells.
Summary: You never get a second chance to make a first impression.
Notes: Ta’Na Yar was Rabbit’s name when he still lived among his people.

For Priestess Vesta.

“Sniffing here, sniffing there, sniffing everywhere,” chanted Smudge softly to himself. “Sniffing this, sniffing that, sniffing the other. Sniffing… OOH! ECH! What’s that?”

Seven young Plains Elves paused, raised their heads, and sniffed, completely unaware of their current resemblance to a family of meerkats.

“That’s the dead pig down by the rocks,” said Streak, who was Smudge’s sibling. They were twins, both ice-white, and both with matching streaks of black on their faces, as if they had been caressed by someone with inky hands.

“Does the pig count?” asked Smudge.

“No,” said Hawk. “Sun Raven sniffed that yesterday.”

Following the youngsters was an extremely large, and extremely old, Plains Elf. He was scarred and tattooed, and seemed out of place among the youngsters, but he was keeping an eye on his young betrothed. Ta’Na Yar’s Sia Snow Fire was adamant that his child would not bind one hour before his five hundredth birthday. That was sixty years off, but Wolf Hunter did not mind. He was quite enjoying his time getting to know his young lover and the ways of his new clan. His age and status meant he could choose any position in the band he liked, and he had taken over as Guardian, wearing the pearl and abalone armband that marked him as such. It was now his job to keep an eye on the almost-grown youngsters, helping them to learn the skills they would need to be productive members of their community, and running off any outcasts who may be lurking around, hoping to ingratiate themselves into a clan.

He was also learning the rules to his beloved’s current favourite game; sniffing.

“So what is the point to all of this?” Wolf asked.

“You have to find the worst smell you can,” said Ta’Na Yar. “But it can’t be a stink someone has already smelled.”

“Like the dead pig.”

“Or the rotting auroch excrement in the old swamp,” said Smudge. “We already found that one.”

“And smells you make yourself don’t count,” said Weasel.

Wolf chuckled. “Delightful.”

Yar smiled at his massive lover, looking slightly ashamed of himself to be engaged in such nonsense. “Well, it passes the time,” he said.

“Oh no need to apologize, my little raven. I’ve played similar games in my life, and some of them frightfully recently.” Wolf raised his head and searched the night air. “Well there’s a fascinating reek coming from that hill over there.”

“Skunk!” said Smudge. “Skunks count!”

“One point for Wolf,” said Weasel.

They prowled on in quest of new stenches, their journey taking them past the enormous yurt where Wolf Hunter was staying with his two oldest and closest friends; both of whom were so ancient as to have worn out several names. In Plains Elf society, once one passed a certain number of, not centuries, but millennium, one acquired a name related to the movements of the planets and stars above. Their current names were Eternity’s Guide and Star Weaver. They lounged upon their rugs and watched their friend slowly prowl around their campsite, apparently searching for something.

“What are you doing?” Guide finally asked.

Wolf cast him an aloof look. “I, sir, am sniffing.”

Guide and Star glanced at each other. “Sniffing what?” Star finally asked.

“If you must know, I am playing a game. First person to find the worst smell wins.”

“Then I win,” said Star, casting a glance at his friend.

Guide looked affronted. “I told you that was not me, it was a passing badger.”

“An invisible badger, who had clearly been eating the red beans off that vine.”

“Very nasty creatures, invisible badgers.”

“Yes, well, if you plan on binding with me during my next cycle then you had best be rid of them, or at least take them someplace out of sniffing range.”

Wolf paused and looked at the two. “Binding?” He looked from one to the other. His friends were both of truly gigantic proportions, one as massive as the other. “And… you expect Guide to be able to pick you up to complete the dance… how, exactly?”

“We are still contemplating the logistics of the coupling,” said Guide.

Wolf looked from one to the other again, then said; “I recommend you go to the meat smoker’s hut and borrow his winch.”

Star clicked his blades at his friend. “And while he is winching me up, you can go teach your current love how to count on his fingers and toes.”

“I already have. He can count all the way to twenty-one.”

“Begone, flea,” said Star, while Guide laughed. “Go smell something.”

Wolf laughed and moved away from the yurt, finding his young lover with his friends. Yar was not amused at the conversation.

“I realize I am young, but I am not a child,” he groused.

“Oh pay no heed to them,” said Wolf.

Wolf nuzzled Yar, nudging him. He wrapped his jaws around the back of Yar’s skull, loving the way he instinctively froze, wanting to be taken. For their people, binding was not about acts or rituals, it was an emotional response, instinct and hormones acting in harmony with the heart. They had no need of public formality; their union was already sealed in their hearts. Yar grinned, letting his head fall back as his lover began nibbling his shoulders.

“If you get me pregnant, my Sia will have a fit.”

Wolf laughed quietly, but had a feeling the first one to get pregnant in this pairing would not be Yar. Wolf’s body was already making preparations for him to have his first cycle in centuries; further proof that they were already bound. And Yar was not unaware of his beloved’s changing condition. They began slowly circling each other, then, reluctantly broke off.

“I am not going to be able to wait another sixty years,” said Yar.

“I’m not certain I can, either,” said Wolf.

“You’d better,” said Smudge. “I would not want to be the one who brought Snow Fire the news. He’s small but he’s fast, and he is a most formidable protector of his children!”

Yar ignored Smudge and drew close to Wolf, breathing in his scent, nipping his throat, then kissing him. He growled in frustration as Wolf gently pushed him back. Reluctantly the pair resumed their game, though Yar could think of something he would rather sniff than bad smells. He wanted to sniff Wolf, wanted to chase him all over the land, to finally catch him, and…

And a traditional binding dance was out of the question because there was no way he was going to be able to lift Wolf. Well, he was certain he could work out something. He was a clever Elf. Yar glanced over his shoulder as Guide walked up, followed by Star. Both had a look of distaste on their faces.

“What in the name of Titania is that stench?” asked Guide.

The Plains Elves, young and old, raised their heads and sniffed, once more resembling a colony of meerkats.

“Eyew,” said Freebird. “Oh… EYEEEWW! Oh that is NASTY! What is it? Smells like… burned urine.”

“And vomit!” said Grey.

“And… and… oh what is that stink?” Yar sniffed, casting his head back and forth. “Whew! Oh that is truly awful! I have never smelled anything like it!”

“Nor I!” said Sun Raven. “Ooooooooooo…. horrid!”

The seven youngsters and three seasoned veterans snorted and sniffed and snuffled, but could not name the truly dreadful aroma.

“Well,” said Wolf, “only one thing to do. We must go see what stinks.”

The pack of Plains Elves began loping in the direction of the horrid stench, moving with the eerie silence of their kind. Then as they drew close to the cause of the reek, they slowed and fanned out like a pack of wolves, approaching cautiously, uncertain if the stink was dangerous or not. They spied a dying campfire and several bodies, and slowly, silently, drew near.

***---***

Finwë, High King of the Noldo, and his dearest friend, Elu, King of Doriath, were drunk. Since no one liked to drink alone, their small collection of friends and knights were drunk as well. They saw no harm in a bit of nonsense; these were peaceful times in a land of peace, and they were out on a hunt. The most ferocious thing they had encountered so far was a colony of marmots. After lingering a while to watch the silly little fat things, they had found a flat spot sheltered behind a low hill, made camp, and had a civilized meal. That was when they learned the small sack of onions they had brought had turned rancid. They dumped them in a heap a little ways from the camp, so that they could rot and return to the earth. But the onions, so far, had been the biggest tragedy of their trip.

Finwë would always later insist it was Elu who had brought the rum. Elu would always insist it was Finwë who had brought the cask. The knights knew full well that each king had brought his own cask, but since Elven Royals were not supposed to be drinking anything as lowly as rum in the first place, they never said anything about the matter. Finwë could certainly use a drink; he was an Elf with a problem. His baby son Fëanor and his intended bride-to-be Indis loathed each other.

“Be at peace,” slurred Elu. “The child has never had to share you before. He will warm up to her.”

“You don’t know Fëanor,” said Finwë, grinning. “He’s a fierce little thing.”

“There is nothing wrong with the little tyke that a swat to the backside would not cure.”

Finwë, reluctantly, agreed. “I know, I spoil him, but… he’s so cute! It’s so adorable the way he clenches his little fists and lights up like an ember. And he’s a marvellous little orator.”

“Yes I’ve heard some of the little darling’s orations.”

Finwë chuckled. “Well I did reprimand him for suggesting the reason your backside was so large was to make a suitable pillow for when you went riding.”

“After you finished laughing, you mean.”

“Face it, my son needs a spanking and your backside needs shrinking.”

Elu grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Well why don’t you come into my tent and you can help me exercise it.”

Finwë kissed him. “Tempting a delicacy as you are, my friend, I doubt very much my Lady would approve.”

“Ah, who does she possess that I do not?”

Finwë grinned, a wicked glint in his eye. “A balcony from which one could perform theatre plays.”

“Yes I’ve noticed that. If ever she falls forward, she will have no fears of breaking her nose. Well if you won’t force yourself on me then pass the rum.”

Finwë passed him the small cask. “Tempt me not.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Oh, my, look. Good gracious, I’ve spilled rum all over myself, however shall I get clean?”

“ELU! For the love of the All-Father will you kindly stop that? I am trying to be faithful.”

“I know, that’s what makes this game so much fun!” Elu had a drink from the cask, being sure to let a fine stream of golden liquid flow over his jaw and down his throat. Finwë watched with unabashed want.

“You’re evil.”

“Evil? Me? Nonsense.” Elu put down the cask, then selected a thin strip of dried venison, taking one end into his mouth and slowly, idly sliding it between his lips.

“Definitely evil,” said Finwë. He glanced towards one of his knights, noticing he was positively green. “Neylolin, you are not looking well.”

“I fear that is a direct result of my being ill, my Lord,” said the exceedingly drunken knight. He wove, his skin changing hues. “I fear I may…”

Elu bravely leapt to his friend’s defence, dragging Finwë out of the way just bare seconds before the knight suddenly vomited. Puke shot out in a stream, hitting a full tankard of rum on its way to the fire, knocking it over. The rum ignited, sending flames high into the night sky. Sparks rose up like small blazing insects, fluttering down into the grass, setting it alight.

“For the love of Yavanna someone do something!” called Finwë. “We’re Elves; we’re not supposed to be burning down whole fields!”

Nelylofin’s best friend Culdraug rose to the occasion; literally. He stood up and unfastened his breeches.

“I shall save you, my lords!” he called, and proceeded to douse the flames in a manner few Elves would have considered. Elu and Finwë didn’t know whether to be amused or horrified.

“Brilliant,” said Elu distastefully.

“Glad to have been of assistance, my lord,” said the knight, and promptly fell over backwards, hitting the ground with a thud.

Finwë stood up, looking down at himself. “Lovely. Vomit, urine, rum, and soot, all over me. Well none can say the evening has been a failure. I am going to go find someplace to bath, and…. Oh no. No, no, no, nooooo little animal brother, do not do the deed you are considering, I pray! I beseech thee! Do not…. AIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!”

The skunk had been sleeping peacefully near the Elven encampment, feeling safe with the nearness of the First Born. That was, until it was scorched with a stray ember mere seconds before being sprayed with vomit and urine. Singed and outraged, the small animal voiced his opinion with the only means of expression at his disposal. Finwë and Elu both received a full dose of the skunk’s annoyance, and stood, rooted in horror, as the small animal vented his indignity, then trundled off, uttering small grumbling noises.

“I’m going to cry,” said Elu in a small voice, while beside him Finwë was already weeping.

Elu put an arm around his drunken, reeking friend, and the two began walking slowly towards a nearby pond. They were almost there, when Elu’s feet went out from under him and he fell violently onto his backside, dragging Finwë with him. Then they noticed a new stink being added to the cacophony of stench. The pair lay, staring up at the stars.

“We slipped on the onions, didn’t we?” said Finwë.

“Oh yes,” said Elu.

“I thought so. Shall we lie here and collect our dignity?”

“Have we any left to collect?”

Finwë laughed. “Be brave, dear Elu. This will be funny some day.”

“Elves don’t live that long,” said Elu, and sat up. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of movement. He turned to look, and reached down to shake Finwë by the shoulder. “Finwë. We have guests.”

Finwë sat up abruptly, and both watched in awe as the gigantic beings roamed silently out of the darkness, making no sound even their keen ears could detect. Three of the beings, the largest of the group, were clearly of great age, their bodies marked with strange illuminations. All were clad simply, wearing only breeches and soft-soled boots. One wore an arm band, beaded with pearls and tiny animals carved of abalone shell. Their hair was long and wild, and two of them were the most astonishing shade of white, as if they had been painted by the moon, their fair faces streaked across the eyes by smears of black. All had eyes the colour of sunlight through leaves, and they moved with a slow grace that spoke of realms yet unseen by Finwë and Elu.

“What are they?” asked Elu. “Are they dangerous?” But Finwë could only shake his head.

“I do not know. I have not seen their like before.”

The beings drew near, the smaller ones hanging back, the larger, older ones approaching the Elven Kings. They stared down at them from their great height; seeming as tall as Ents to Elu and Finwë. They studied the Elves without malice or threat, then one lowered his head and sniffed delicately. He jerked back reflexively, and backed away, grimacing. Shaking his head, he said something to his fellows, and the entire group turned and loped away. Elu and Finwë watched them retreat, then slowly, dispiritedly, turned and began making their way to the pond.

Something flew out of the darkness and landed at their feet. Curious, Elu bent to pick it up. He stared sourly at the bar of fragrant soap.

“At least they are not dangerous,” said Finwë.

“I am never going hunting with you again,” muttered Elu.