Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (except for the minstrel Menelor and the more fully realised Farohan who was nameless in the books). This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

~ * ~ * ~

Author's Note: This story has been in the planning for the past nine months and after such a delay, it is with quite a sense of accomplishment that I finally post the first chapter! As a harp player myself, I have always had a fondness for the eager but unnamed minstrel who sang "The Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom" on the Field of Cormallen.

However, even though the story features that minstrel as the main (active) character, make no mistake. This tale is about Frodo, and about those of the Fellowship who knew him and loved him dearly. Here then is a story to fill in the fourteen days between the end of the Quest and the day that Sam and Frodo wake to be greeted by the host of Gondor.

~ * ~ * ~

The Minstrel's Quest

Chapter One: The Task is Given

* * *

"They return! They return!"

The cry rang out over the quiet battlefield and tired men looked up in gladness.

"Mithrandir has returned," they shouted. "But look! What does he carry?"

Many wondered at this new sight, for it seemed to them that the White Rider carried a child in his arms. A tumult and rush of air swept over the faces of those nearby. The eagles settled upon the earth, vast wings folding and feathers gleaming in the sunlight.

"It is a perian," one soldier said. "Like the one who was lost to us this day."

"But two periannath there are! Another dangles from the eagle's claw. Ah, now the Captain takes him! Who are these little folk?"

And so the men asked their questions even as they helped one another move the wounded and the dying from the evil land. But the periannath were taken to tents a furlong distant and there also went Aragorn, leader of the Captains of the West, and Mithrandir the White Rider.

All the Men watched and wondered and even the healers were left with curiosity unabated, for no man no matter how skilled in the healing arts were suffered to enter the tent where the periannath lay. One healer was permitted entry: a woman few in words but known for her gentle touch. But she would not talk of the halflings, save one thing:

"The Lord Aragorn tends them as if they were his own kin. Such devotion I have never seen." But pressed further upon the subject, she was silent.

* * *

And so the men waited and asked their questions. Glad they were when Gimli the Dwarf found the lost perian, Peregrin of the Guard, but he too vanished into a healers’ tent and was laid beside Beregond, also of the Guard.

It was with considerable curiosity, therefore, that two Men received their summons from the Lord Aragorn.

These two were harpers and Menelor and Farohan their names: men of skill in the art of music and in the singing of lays -- lays that told of the thrill of battle, or that made men weep from sorrow, or laugh with joy. Large were their harps and strung with bronze, but not so large were they that they could not be carried on the backs of those who plucked their strings.

Menelor was the older, a harper who had seen the late Lord Denethor when he first took up the Stewardship of Minas Tirith. Many lays he had written and sung, and many lighthearted songs also: tuneful melodies that came easily to one's lips on a good day in the sun.

Farohan was his assistant -- younger yet not callow, for he had apprenticed with Menelor, along with other students, for half his life. He was now thirty years of age: eager but not boastful, talkative yet thoughtful.

They sat now near their tent, on a dry patch of withered grass. Menelor was plucking out brief snatches of melodies upon gleaming strings as he murmured words, keeping some and discarding others: words that began to weave into an emerging melody. Farohan sat listening as he lightly ran his fingers up and down the strings of his own harp. Sunlight gleamed on the fresh white bandages around the little finger of his left hand.

"They say," he said, once Menelor's murmurings had ceased, "that more healers are allowed into the tents where the two new periannath lie."

Menelor pursed his lips for a moment and then nodded. "Lord Aragorn cannot tend them at all times. Even he must ask for help. There is much more to be done than to take care of two halflings, no matter how valiant they may be."

"Mithrandir too attends them closely," Farohan said. "How I wish that I could know more! What I have heard so far seems to be out of fantasy and legend -- that they brought down the Dark Lord to ruin. If only there was more to hear than mere rumour."

"You are forgetting yourself," Menelor said placidly. "If there is a tale to be told, then most likely we will have the telling of it! We need merely to wait and news will come. And if it doesn't, then it is not for us to know and you excite yourself needlessly."

Farohan gave him a quick grin and shrug and resumed his light fingerwork. Chords and trills rippled through the air.

* * *

Menelor was quite right, for it was not long before the two harpers were summoned before both Lord Aragorn and the White Wizard. The four sat in a tent apart from all others, and there Aragorn gave them their task.

"I would have you," he said, "write such a lay as would bring great honour upon the two periannath that were brought lately from the fire. For they may be small, but the Ring-bearer Frodo did what none other could do, and Samwise, through friendship and loyalty went with him where few others would dare to go. The West would have foundered and all would be lost if not for the fulfillment of the Ring-bearer's Quest."

And he then told of Frodo's tale -- a seemingly simple version, for it was plain to see that the account was not filled with all facts or subtleties. Nonetheless, Menelor and Farohan listened raptly.

When the accounting of the Ring-bearer's deeds in Mordor was finished, Aragorn looked searchingly into their eyes.

"Will you write this lay and accord fitting honour to the periannath as is their due?"

"We will," answered Menelor simply but earnestly.

Mithrandir too gazed at them thoughtfully and then nodded as if pleased by what he saw. "Yes, I believe you will. I am glad of that." He smiled then. "It will give Sam, I think, great delight to hear it."

"What of the periannath?" Menelor asked suddenly. "It seems to me that they were near death when they arrived. Will they live?"

"They sleep for now," Mithrandir answered. "It remains to be seen if they will awaken."

"But if they do not?"

"Then you will write the lay and we will honour them in memory." With that, Aragorn stood and left the tent.

The wizard too rose to his feet and turned as if to leave. He paused and looked back at the two harpers.

"I think," he said mildly, "that you should name it ‘Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom.’" He nodded, as if to himself, and then smiled. "Yes," he said. "That would do very well." And with that he left.

* * *

The two harpers sat for a moment in silence, and then Farohan breathed out gustily.

"I am so glad that you chose me to be the one to come with you. At first I thought you chose me to follow you into death and despair, but not only is there now hope and joy, but I can see and hear such great things. And that I can be the one to watch you craft these lays..."

"Only one lay, Farohan," Menelor said swiftly, "only one. For I am already busy with the Last Stand of the Captains of the West -- the last stand at the Black Gates which turned from courage in despair to joy in victory. That is quite enough for me."

He stood slowly and straightened. Farohan leapt to his feet, a sudden hope rising within him.

"No," Menelor continued, "that lay will be my last great work. But this lay of the Ring-bearer will be your first. You are ready for it, for you have shown great promise. Indeed that is why I chose you to come with me from among all the others. Will you do this task?"

"I will," Farohan said fervently.

"Then," said Menelor, and his eyes twinkled as he smiled, "you have much work ahead. The Lord Aragorn only told you the end of the story. To craft a lay that will do this perian justice, you will need to know much more."

"Much more," agreed Farohan thoughtfully. "A tale must have a beginning... and it must have a hero that is more than a distant figure, filled with courage though he may be!"

The two harpers passed out from the tent and stood there looking at the wasteland before the mountains of Mordor.

"Yes," said Farohan. "In order to write this lay, I must learn more than the little told to us today. My task now is to learn truly about the Ring-bearer Frodo. Who is he, and what may we learn from him -- he who saved us all."

To be Continued...

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (except for the minstrel Menelor and the more fully realised Farohan who was nameless in the books). This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

~ * ~ * ~

Author's Note: Based on some comments I heard after the last chapter, I must hastily say that I don't plan to write the actual lay myself! This story is about Farohan's quest for understanding Frodo as a person, as well as a hero, but sadly I have no talents in the area of lay writing! However, if someone is willing to come up with something that seems to fit, that would be wonderful. It would be fun to collaborate on such a project!

The Minstrel's Quest

Chapter 2: To Write the Perian's Lay

Farohan knelt down and handed the bread to Menelor. The older harper took the food absently, his left hand still shading his eyes.

"The mountains are true to their name," he said, "even in this glad sun."

"The Ephel Duath." Farohan too gazed on the shadowed ranges. "I will be glad to move from this place."

"How do you fare with the lay?" Menelor turned away from the grim sight. "It has been two days and I have not heard any melodies."

"I've tried," Farohan protested, but without vigour. "I need more of the story. I'm not sure where to start. Besides," he said glumly, "Lord Aragorn has been far too busy for me to talk to him."

That was true enough. Indeed the entire camp had been making ready for the journey back into Ithilien, the two harpers among them.

Menelor glanced over to one of the wains being prepared for the ill and injured.

"What about Mithrandir? I am sure that he could tell you what you need to know -- perhaps even more so than Aragorn."

"Mithrandir," Farohan said in surprise. He hesitated. "Perhaps that would not be such a good idea."

Now it was Menelor's turn to be surprised. "Why ever not?"

Farohan smiled ruefully. "I am, I suppose, a little..." His voice trailed off.

"Nervous?" prompted Menelor.

Farohan only nodded.

Menelor chuckled. "People do hold him in awe. But you talked to him when we were given our task."

"You talked to him," objected Farohan. "I merely listened."

"Hmm. Well, you will have to do more than listen now, my boy. It is time for you to speak. Now, go."

Farohan stood and took a deep breath. He looked down at Menelor for a moment as if planning to change his mind, but then walked quickly away.

~ * ~ * ~

Still as a statue he stood, his white robes gleaming in the sun. Mithrandir's gaze, however, was fixed upon the ruined gate of the Morannon and, through it, upon the destruction of Mordor.

Farohan shifted. Of all the expressions he would have expected the wizard to show, this was the last he would have thought of.

There, upon Mithrandir's face, plainly to be seen, sat deep sorrow. The harper began to back away. He could not interrupt this -- he must not!

The wizard saw him. The shutters were lowered, he turned to Farohan, and he smiled.

Startled, Farohan looked back. All traces of grief were gone. For a moment he thought that he had imagined it.

"The periannath?" he said. "Are they all right?"

Mithrandir's eyebrows raised.

"Is there a reason they should not be?"

"No... no..." But Farohan said no more. Any more would be intrusion.

Mithrandir looked keenly at him for a moment, and Farohan quailed under that penetrating gaze. Then it seemed as if the wizard shook off all remaining solemnity, and he laughed.

"Come," he said. "You want something of me. What is it?"

"The Ring-bearer," said Farohan. "Menelor, my master, has said that I should write the Perian's lay. But I do not know enough about him. I must know more."

"And you would like for me to tell you all that Aragorn did not."

"Or..." Farohan faltered, "or as much as you would tell me. Perhaps there are others here that also knew... know the Ring-bearer."

"Know," said Mithrandir, but without anger. "He still lives, and may yet wake."

"I hope so," Farohan said. "He and his servant Samwise."

"Very well, then. I will tell you more. But first -- look to north and west."

Wondering, the minstrel turned around. The cheerless land stretched into the distance where shimmering marshes lay in a murky air.

"The Dead Marshes," Mithrandir said. And without one word of interruption, Farohan listened as, through the wizard's words, the Ring-bearer and his faithful friend Samwise crept over the Emyn Muil and through the very land that the harper now beheld.

As the wizard's words wound to a close, and Frodo and Samwise finally entered the Morgul Vale, Farohan looked up to see the sun and breathed a little more easily.

"And yet he is only a little over half my own height," he murmured to himself. A thought struck him and he looked back down at the storyteller. "But if you were not with him, how do you know of these things? Perhaps the Lord Faramir told you of some, yet he did not know what befell the Pheriannath once they left Ithilien."

"I have ways of seeing," the wizard said. His bushy eyebrows lowered.

Farohan opened his mouth, but thought better of it and shut it again.

"You still have only been told of half their journey," Mithrandir continued. "The rest you should learn elsewhere. Legolas and Gimli might be willing to tell their tales."

"The Elf and the Dwarf?" asked Farohan cautiously. "I have seen them about the camp. "They would not mind my request?"

"That is up to them."

~ * ~ * ~

And so it was that Farohan found himself seated cross-legged opposite two folk from races he had never seen before. Night had fallen and men had gathered around their campfires. Snatches of song could be heard rising in the still night air -- attempts to ward off the gloom that still lay over the land.

Farohan watched, captivated, as the Dwarf set a pipe to his lips. Smoke puffed out, rose, and stretched thin.

"Hobbits gave me this," Gimli said and gestured at the pipe.

"Halflings," Legolas added, his voice -- music. "Another word for Pheriannath."

"Frodo and Samwise?" Farohan said, surprised. Somehow it didn't fit.

"No," the dwarf replied. "Merry and Pippin. Two of the merriest folk you will ever set eyes upon."

"But brave. Men owe a great deal to them," the Elf murmured.

"That they do," agreed Gimli.

Farohan smiled. "I have seen Peregrin... Pippin, although I have never spoken with him. And... Merry? They both are friends of the Ring-bearer? Or servants?"

"Oh no," Gimli laughed. Legolas smiled. "Frodo, Merry and Pippin are all cousins. Frodo, the eldest, and Pippin, the youngest."

"Cousins!" Farohan leaned forward. "Did they also pledge to go on the Quest?"

"Nay," said Legolas. "Frodo was the only one on whom the burden was laid. The others, I think, went out of their love for him."

~ * ~ * ~

And so Farohan was able to add another piece of the story together, for Gimli and Legolas were pleased to recount all that they had witnessed of Frodo and Sam's journey, from Rivendell to the breaking of the Fellowship. Any of Farohan's questions were answered to aid in the honouring of the two hobbits. If there was one thing that they were loath to reveal, it was events around the fall of Mithrandir. And yet that skein of the tale had ended well.

But Legolas said wistfully, "I would have gladly translated the lament the Elves sang in the Golden Wood, if I had had the heart for it. I know that it would have comforted the Ring-bearer to hear of the love that the Elves bore for Mithrandir. He did understand a little, however."

Farohan sat silently for a moment. "The Ring-bearer could understand the language of the Elves?"

"I often heard him speaking Elvish," Gimli said. "The only hobbit to do so other than Bilbo. Remarkable, the Bagginses. I myself have trouble with the odd sounds."

"And yet he was not fluent," said Legolas. "His words were careful and his sounds precise, and no elf had trouble in understanding them, but he spoke simply. And he did not know Quenya as well."

At Farohan's puzzled glance, the Elf continued. "Frodo knew many words and polite phrases in Quenyan, or High Elvish, but it was only in Sindarin that he could construct sentences and hold simple conversations."

"They didn't seem simple to me," rumbled Gimli.

"Only because you can't speak any form of Elvish, my friend," laughed Legolas. "No doubt if I used the few words that I know in Dwarvish, our eager listener here would be much impressed."

"I know neither Dwarvish nor Elven languages," said Farohan ruefully. "Yet we use certain phrases in the lays of olden times, especially those of Númenor. And for great events, we might weave in a few words of ancient tongues. But the only language I have learned that is not of Gondor today is the ancient tongue of Númenor: the Adûnaic. And that, they say, has something akin to Elvish."

"Frodo too has something akin to the Elves," Gimli mused. "Most unusual in a hobbit."

"What do you mean?" asked Farohan. "What are... hobbits like usually? Peregrin does not seem to be Elf-like."

"No, not Pippin!" Gimli said with a smile.

"Nor the other hobbits," added Legolas. "Yet Frodo... Gimli speaks truly. There is something about him. Fair spoken, and fair of face. Elves recognize him."

"Recognize him?" Farohan sat back, perplexed. "Recognize him as what?"

"Elf-friend," said Legolas simply.

"And friend to Dwarves," added Gimli. "All Dwarves who knew Bilbo, Frodo's uncle, knew that both of them welcomed any Dwarves to Bag End."

"Bag End?" echoed Farohan.

"Frodo's home. But you will have to ask young Pippin about that, when he feels up to it. He will be eager to chatter about almost anything you ask of him!"

"Peregrin is awake?" Farohan asked. "I had heard that he was badly hurt."

Gimli slapped his knee and laughed. "Awake and hungry! Like a true hobbit. He woke this afternoon, though I daresay he has since fallen asleep again."

"Which is for the better," mused Legolas. "He was much battered and bruised. He will not be able to walk for some time, yet his spirit is bright."

Before Farohan could reply, Gimli suddenly leaned forward and pointed to the bandages on Farohan's hand.

"What is wrong with your finger?" he asked. "You too were hurt. Will you not have trouble playing your harp?"

Farohan looked at his hand carelessly. "My fault. I was too close to an orc when it decided to take a swing. Luckily for me it only grazed the side of my hand. The little finger will heal."

"You were in the battle?" Legolas asked.

"On the edges," Farohan answered. "We are taught to defend ourselves but not to fight." In answer to Gimli's raised eyebrows, he added, "We harpers need to see what happens if we are to write our lays."

"And yet your finger will be stiff, I think, for a while," Gimli said.

"Ah," Farohan answered, "but a harper does not use the little finger. Only four do we use. I will be able to play."

"Good," said Gimli with satisfaction. "I wish to hear this lay. I will let young Pippin know, and I doubt not that he will be eager to talk, even if it be only a way to stave off boredom as he lies in bed!"

To be continued

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (except for the minstrel Menelor, and the more fully realised Farohan who was nameless in the books). This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

 ~ * ~ * ~

Chapter 3: Of Names and Hobbits

He stared at the Morannon. The stony outcrop, the same one where he had found Gandalf the day before, was rough under his feet. Slowly Farohan sat down. He held his harp in front of him. He held it at arms' length: the heel of the box rested lightly on the ground, while pillar and shoulder pointed upwards to the sky.

It made a frame, the harp did -- a frame through which Farohan could see ruined Mordor and the spent volcano within.

Somehow, he thought, his music must make a frame around the deeds of the Ring-bearer -- those deeds that brought him to, and were ended in, that fiery ruin in the distance.

And yet... Farohan felt overwhelmed. As a child, he had grown up near the shadow of Mordor -- always mindful of its sullen ranges and gloomy skies. All his life he had lived in Minas Tirith -- the city that guarded the West against the Eastern Shadow. No-one ever went to Mordor, no-one ever walked within that evil land unless by some dreadful chance they were captured and thereby forced into slavery.

Even the Captains of the West hadn't crossed its borders until Sauron had been thrown down... by the Ring-bearer: the one who had purposefully entered where no other would.

Frodo. Even the sound of his name was captivating. It was an odd sounding name, Farohan thought. The rhythm of the name and the single repeated vowel felt strange. "Fffro..." Gondorian names did not blend such sounds at the beginning of the word.

"Fro..." The sound was almost a sigh: soft and thoughtful. "...do." But that sigh was followed by heaviness. Held down by the ‘d’, it could not escape the solemnity.

Odd, Farohan thought. The very name seems to fight with itself.

"Baggins." Here was a surprise. This name sounded abrupt, almost like a laugh.

Farohan shook his head wonderingly. "Frodo Baggins," he said slowly. He repeated it quickly. The rhythm was odd but pleasing, yet the sounds still fought with one another.

"Fro-do."

He fitted the harp to his shoulder. The fingers of his right hand sought the middle of the strings where the mellow notes lay.

"Fro--"

His fingers moved over the strands, teasing out a melody: something ever-changing, dreaming and adventurous: something akin to elves.

"--do"

His left hand softly plucked a deep chord: a somber sound.

"Fro-do."

The two hands played together then, and the strings shimmered.

~ * ~ * ~

Swaths of heavy fabric billowed. Tossing the poles aside, Farohan laid himself over the tent and spread his arms and legs. Air escaped and cloth slowly sank to the ground.

A shadow fell across him and he rolled over. There, dark against the early sun, Legolas stood with a smile upon his lips.

"It seems as if you enjoy what you are doing," the Elf said.

Farohan laughed and got to his knees. He folded and smoothed the tent. "I imagine that I look a little foolish. Yet I delighted in doing that as a child."

"We have no need of tents," said Gimli, who had just come. "Good solid earth is all we want." He looked about the camp. "Not many of the host here have tents. Yet you have one to yourself."

"One for two of us," Farohan said. "I share this with my master. Yet we are harpers, and we must have a tent." He looked to his harp swathed in a rich cloth. "If our harps were to get wet, or our throats become raw from the wind, we could not sing or play for those who fight."

"Music keeps fear at bay," murmured Legolas.

Farohan looked at him and smiled. "Yes."

"And in this land," said Gimli, "music is needed."

"But we leave for Ithilien presently," said Legolas. "That is a fair place. We passed through it too quickly when we came."

Farohan stood, holding the folded tent. "How is the hobbit, Peregrin? Has he woken again today?"

Gimli shook his head. "Not yet. It is for the best. Otherwise, the removal to Ithilien would be uncomfortable, at the very least!"

"And... the Ring-bearer and Samwise?" asked Farohan hesitantly.

Gimli looked at Legolas. "We have heard nothing," the Elf said.

"There is still hope," the Dwarf added.

Farohan nodded. He walked to the nearest wain. The two companions followed him.

"If you wish," said Legolas softly, "I could ask of the healers whether you might ride in the wain with Pippin and Beregond. I hear that Beregond was saved by Pippin, and that he is very fond of him. You would not lack for talk of the hobbits."

The tent landed in the wain with a quick thump and Farohan turned around, his eyes shining.

"Thank you," he said.

~ * ~ * ~

And so it was that Farohan rode in the wain with Peregrin and Beregond. There were four other injured men other than the two of the guard, and there was one healer also.

None were as badly injured as either the guard or the halfling, yet their wounds were severe enough that the jolting of wheels over uneven ground made travelling a sore trial indeed. Farohan was greeted eagerly by the men for they welcomed distraction.

The healer too greeted him warmly. "I'm glad that there was room enough for you to ride with us," he said. "The Elf, Legolas, told me of your task. I have seen how fond Beregond is of Peregrin. It will cheer him to talk with you, I deem."

Beregond and Peregrin lay side by side at the front of the wain. The halfling was still blessedly asleep, but Beregond was awake and aware of all that went on about him. He was delighted when Farohan explained his purpose.

"It gladdens me that the halflings should be so honoured," he said, "even though I do not know of the two for whom you write this lay."

"That needn't matter," said Farohan. "I know so little about hobbits that learning about the Ring-bearer's kin seems fitting."

Beregond told him then of all his dealings with Peregrin Took, and of those of his son, Bergil. While Farohan listened to the guard's words, he gazed wonderingly at the hobbit. Never before had he had such a chance to look at a halfling so closely.

When Beregond finished his tales, he smiled to see Farohan so absorbed. "How does he seem to you?" he asked.

"Quick to laughter and good cheer," said Farohan slowly. "Hardship was uncommon to him."

"Yet he did not hesitate to fight. And he saved me from a terrible death." Beregond slowly rested his hand on Peregrin's curls. "He even befriended my son who had refused to leave the city with other boys near his age." A touch of pride had crept into his voice. "But, now, you've not come to hear about Bergil. What are your questions?"

"What do you know of the Ring-bearer? Has Peregrin ever talked of him?"

A shadow crossed Beregond's face. "No," he said somberly. "But the grief on Pippin's face when the Ring-bearer's things were shown us was terrible to see." He sighed. "And then the rabble of Mordor fell upon us all. Even now he does not know if his kinsman is alive or dead." He withdrew his hand from Peregrin's head, and Farohan bowed his own.

But then Beregond began anew. "Hobbits, if we are to judge them all from only one of their kind, are very fond of food! It seemed to me that our rations, as short as they may have been for us, would at least have satisfied Pippin a little more. Yet the look on his face when he saw the first meal he took with us..." The guard laughed and then winced. "Nay, scarcely enough indeed!"

Farohan smiled too, but soon the smile vanished, for a small sound came from beside them.

"Hullo," a quiet voice said, and Peregrin opened his eyes. "Am I being talked about?"

"You are, my friend," said Beregond. "We're in luck, for we have a harper to travel with us. He wants to --"

"That could keep," said Farohan hastily. "Let's not laden him down with questions."

As if to underscore the harper's words, one of the hind wheels of the wain struck a rock and all within were jolted.

Peregrin stifled a cry, a little unsuccessfully. At the sound, the healer made his way to the front at once. "Drink some of this," he urged, and held a flask to the halfling's lips. Peregrin drank obligingly.

"There is not much I can do to ease the pain whilst we travel," the healer said in a low voice to Farohan as he turned away. "Yet this will help relax the limbs and thus lessen the hurt a little."

Farohan considered this. "Would it be amiss if I were to sing something that might while away the time?"

The healer seized upon this gladly. "Please do," he said. "It would be welcomed by all who hear it, I think."

"Well, Master Pippin," said Beregond who overheard them, "we're in for a treat: a harper to sing for us, no less!"

Pippin smiled. "As long as it is not I who must sing! But I fear we make a poor audience."

But Farohan protested that the audience was quite enough, and Pippin was contented. And so, as the cheerless lands slowly gave way to the northern reaches of green Ithilien, songs both merry and joyful gladdened the hearts of all those who heard them.

To be continued

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (except for the minstrel Menelor, and the more fully realised Farohan who was nameless in the books). This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Chapter 4: Of Hobbits and Oliphaunts

The host of the Captains of the West slowly wended its way through the trees of Ithilien. It was the third day of the removal from Dagorlad, the battle plain before the crumbled Gate of the Morannon.

During the second day of the march, Farohan and Beregond talked at great length. Pippin meanwhile slept soundly, thereby saved from having to endure the jolts and bumps of the uneven path.

On the morning of the third day, however, Farohan chose to walk and so stretch his legs. Menelor found him alone, humming snatches of a melody that the older harper did not recognize.

"Ah!" he said, pleased. "You have begun the lay."

"Yes," Farohan answered. "Legolas and Gimli have helped me a great deal. They have given me a glimpse of the character of the Ring-bearer as well as more of the story of his journey."

"Good! We don't know when we will be called upon to sing, and it is better to be ready."

Farohan looked at Menelor. "You were worried because I hadn't started, weren't you."

"I was," Menelor answered. "It had been a week since we were appointed our tasks, and these two lays will speak of events the like of which have not happened for an age or more. We must not fail in our duty."

"I know," said Farohan. "And I would not fail in the trust that you have placed in me. Only... I wish for this lay to be the best that I can make it. I still need more. I need to speak to the halfling Peregrin."

Menelor frowned. "What have you been doing for the past three days? You have been with him all this time."

"But he has slept through most of it. Instead, I have spoken at length with Beregond of the Guard who knows Peregrin well. He has told me much about halflings."

"Much about halflings?" said Menelor sceptically. "Peregrin is only one of their kind. How can Beregond know "much about them"?

"That is true," admitted Farohan. "And the Ring-bearer seems to be very different. Yet it seems that Peregrin may be the more "hobbit-like" of the two."

"Hobbit-like?" Menelor raised his eyebrows.

"It is a word Beregond used," said Farohan hastily. "And Gimli and Legolas. It is how the halflings refer to themselves."

"I see." The eyebrows settled back into place.

"But the Ring-bearer seems to be quite different. To listen to Gimli and Legolas, one would think that he were an Elf."

"An Elf? I find that difficult to believe."

"Elf-like," Farohan amended. "He speaks the Elvish tongue and he is spoken of as being fair. I wish I could see him! It is difficult to write this lay when I know so little. I know of most of his journey now, and I know of how two people view him, but he himself remains a mystery to me. Is he like Pippin, or is he of a different quality? A lay fit for a hero that looks and acts like Pippin would be different from one who seems to be Elf-like!"

Menelor laughed. "Yet you will often write lays with less than that in the future! Be content with what you have. You can change words later if need be, but you must not dither any longer."

Farohan nodded, a little distractedly. "There is another thing I regret," he said softly.

"What might that be?"

"I am unable to fetch my good harp from the City. The more I learn about the Ring-bearer, the more I wish to have a purer, sweeter sound than that of the travel harps."

Menelor chuckled. "A little foresight is what you need. You need not fret. While you will not be able to send for your own harp, I have already arranged for mine. Before the company set out, I left orders that, should we achieve victory against the Dark Lord, my court harp was to be sent to wherever we made our encampment before arriving at the city. Dargild will, no doubt, have kept abreast of all such news and movements. He will have sent the harp. It will be waiting for us."

"Your... court harp?" asked Farohan, a little stunned. "The lebethron and mithril? You will let me play it?"

"I will. Play well! If I am to allow you to play that harp, it would not do for you to sing poorly."

"No... no, it wouldn't." But Farohan looked ahead of him in a daze.

~*~*~

Later in the afternoon, the company left the main road that led south and instead took a path that ran westward towards the Anduin. They were nearing their goal: the banks of the great river, in the midst of which lay the isle of Cair Andros. Farohan once more was riding with Beregond and Pippin. Privy to all rumours, Beregond told Farohan the little he had learned about the Ring-bearer and Samwise.

"They are expected to live," he said softly, mindful of the sleeping hobbit beside him.

Farohan closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said. But he had little time to think about this news for at that moment shouts came down the line from the company on horseback further ahead.

"What is happening?" asked Beregond.

"I'm not sure," said Farohan. He stood up cautiously and shaded his eyes against the sun that shone onto the roadway between the trees. "I think they've found something ahead. There looks to be a clearing, but with many fallen... no, broken trees."

"That is odd," Beregond mused. "Yet we do not stop."

~*~*~

Soon the wain reached the break in the trees. Farohan did as Beregond bid and lifted the injured guard half into sitting so that he could see what had taken place.

"Look!" said Farohan. "A great woven cage lies in the shadows."

"I can see it," answered Beregond. "It seems to me as if it is verily a war-tower that has crashed down from the back of a mûmak: one such as those that rode upon the beasts at the Pelennor."

"Such rich trappings," said Farohan. "It is a wonder that it has not yet been despoiled by foul creatures."

"Ah, but there would be few orcs to see this now. Most were destroyed."

Farohan peered at the snapped trunks and trodden earth. "I wonder how long it has lain here."

"It may have been for quite some time," said Beregond. "We did not take this path as we marched north."

"No," agreed Farohan. "We passed Henneth Annûn by altogether."

As the two men gazed raptly at the cage, Gandalf drew alongside the wain on his great white horse. He leaned slightly towards the men. "You may wish to know, Farohan, that that was left by the very same oliphaunt that Sam and Frodo saw."

"Oliphaunt?" asked Farohan and just as quickly added, "Mûmak!"

"Yes," Gandalf smiled. "Sam was thrilled. It was a wonder to them both."

"What happened to it?"

The wizard's smile lessened. "The Rangers of Ithilien do not know. The beast did not know where it was going, maddened in its rage."

Mithrandir rode onward then, and Farohan silently watched him go. The idea of a mûmak trampling all that went before it did not stay in the minstrel's mind. He had seen enough of the beasts during the war. He turned back and helped Beregond settle back onto the pallet.

"Mûmakil are rarely seen here," Beregond said and, as if reading Farohan's thoughts, added, "But, for the hobbits, to see one must have been a wondrous thing."

Farohan nodded vigorously. "How much rarer they must be in the hobbits' own land." His voice then grew quiet. "And how much bigger the mumak must have seemed to them. What else, I wonder, have we known of that has been strange to them. Many things, I should imagine!"

And with that, he fell silent and did not speak again for the remainder of the journey.

~*~*~

The Company made their camp by the great river of the Anduin. Ships lay docked near Cair Andros and men came to greet the travellers. It was the end of the first day of April, and evening birds sang in the trees.

The following day, one more ship came, carrying food and supplies along with the harp of the minstrel Menelor. Joyfully, Farohan took the harp and held it close to him as he walked back down the planking.

Legolas joined him as he made his way towards the tents. "That must be something dear to you," the Elf said.

"Very dear," Farohan replied, but, before he could say any more, Legolas stopped him.

"Look," he said. "There is the fourth hobbit, Meriadoc."

Farohan turned just in time to see a small figure jump down onto the shore. After a moment of inquiry, the halfling rushed towards the tent where the Ring-bearers lay.

"I would have thought that he would have wanted to see Peregrin first," Farohan said. "Were they not very close?"

Legolas smiled. "Circumstances have made it so, yet Merry and Frodo are more alike in age and have had, I understand, a much longer friendship. Nevertheless, once Merry has seen Frodo and Sam, and has assured himself of their safety, no doubt he will visit Pippin."

Without thinking, Farohan took a step towards Pippin's tent.

"It is best to leave them be," Legolas said mildly. "Perhaps on the morrow, when the first emotions of reunion have passed, I might introduce you to them both."

"Of course," said Farohan, abashed. "And... and thank you!" And without further ado, he bore his delicate burden to his tent.

To be continued

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (except for the minstrel Menelor, and the more fully realised Farohan who was nameless in the books). This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Chapter 5: From Sunrise to Moonlight

The three Men stood with their backs to the great river. It was the third day of April, and the early sun shone in their eyes as they gazed at the great open glade before them.

"Lord Aragorn," said Farohan, "this field must be where the lay is sung. I beg you to gather the host here!"

Aragorn frowned. "Yet this remains the only open land near the ships. You are asking me to scatter the tents throughout the woods in whatever small glades the men may find."

"I know that what I ask of you seems strange," Farohan said. "Yet if you wish all the host to hear the lay, then this is the only field large enough."

"Farohan's voice," said Menelor, "indeed any minstrel's voice, is not loud enough to be heard by thousands in the open air."

"No," said Farohan, nodding eagerly. "The ring of trees which encircle this land will help. My voice will not be as lost to the open spaces or caught by the wind and carried away."

Aragorn looked about him. "This is true. Yet what of the field further down the river. It too has trees."

Menelor shook his head. "No, my lord. The trees border only one side and the shape of the land is awkward. Look! See how the land here gently slopes to the middle where we now stand, and down to the river? This shallow half-bowl will help carry the voice upward if Farohan should stand here."

"There is one more thing that I would ask of you," said Farohan. He hesitated and looked at Menelor. The older harper nodded slightly. "I need some kind of structure behind me -- it could be a simple wall made of wood. Not much higher than myself. But perhaps slightly curved. Having something behind me would help to throw the voice forward."

Aragorn looked hard at Farohan for a moment, and then suddenly smiled. "You will have your wall." He gazed out over the tents then. Almost to himself, he said, "The men should move their tents this very hour lest this field become mud -- if we are truly to gather here on the day!"

With that he strode away, and soon the harpers could hear shouted orders spreading throughout the camped host.

Menelor turned to Farohan with a smile. "It may be that you will have made yourself rather unpopular with the men."

Farohan looked stricken. "Let's hope that Lord Aragorn will not yet tell them why they must move!"

Menelor chuckled and walked towards the river. Farohan walked at his side.

"Sing to me the lay," the older harper said.

Farohan blanched. "I... forgive me, but I have nothing more than what you heard as we walked on the Road."

"Nothing more?" Menelor halted. "What do you mean by that?"

Farohan too stopped and turned to look back at his mentor. "I haven't been able to talk to any of the hobbits yet. Offers of introduction have been given, but Peregrin has not yet healed enough, and Meriadoc has only just arrived."

Farohna stood facing east, blinded by the Sun. Menelor's face was cast in shadow, yet his low voice could plainly be heard.

"You mean to tell me that two more days have passed and you have yet to show anything for it?"

Farohan tried to shield his eyes to block the sunlight but what he saw in Menelor's eyes made him drop his hand. He floundered helplessly. "I need to know..."

"Yes, I have heard you say that before. But tell me this. We do not know when the periannath will wake. When they do, will it be better to sing an imperfect lay that has been finished, or to be unable to sing at all because the lay will only be finished, and perfect, one week late?"

Farohan could only lower his head. But Menelor spoke again.

"That lay must be sung. If you do not wish for me to take the task back, and if you are to use my harp, you must not disappoint me. You have asked the Lord Aragorn to go to great trouble on your behalf. If you truly want to honour the Ring-bearer, you had best make sure you don't bring shame upon yourself, on him, or Lord Aragorn."

Shocked and miserable, Farohan stayed rooted to the spot, long after Menelor had left.

~ o ~ o ~ o ~

The ships drifted, bumping, against their moorings. Ropes creaked against the gunwales. Normally, such sounds would have been both soothing and exhilarating to Farohan. Even now, they did not leave him unmoved with their whispers of stories from distant lands. But hanging heavy over him was Menelor's displeasure, and his own hollow feeling of anxiety.

Would that Peregrin wake up this day! Instead of the fitful periods of sleeplessness that had plagued the halfling during the march, Farohan hoped for a solid alertness that left Peregrin in need of company -- in need of someone to talk to.

But Menelor was right. A minstrel's work lay in the recording of events and the teaching of people -- to be continually at the service of the Court which asked for such knowledge to be given, sung and written. Minstrels were not privileged dabblers in art who could refuse to work on a piece until time became right.

Who was waiting for him to finish the lay? Farohan forced himself to consider the list: Aragorn, who had ordered it; Gandalf, who had given the title with that secret amused smile that, Farohan suspected, held some deep emotion; and Menelor who risked his pride, his standing as mentor, and the trust placed in him by the future King should Farohan fail. And what about those whom Farohan had lately befriended: Legolas, Gimli, and Beregond? They too knew of and no doubt eagerly awaited the honour promised to their friend, or friend of friends: Frodo.

And there Farohan groaned. Frodo. When had he stopped thinking of the Ring-bearer as a distant, unapproachable figure -- as the subject of the lay? When had the Ring-bearer's own name supplanted the title in his mind? Perhaps this was the trouble? Farohan had stepped across that gap: the task had become personal. But Farohan had never met the Ring-bearer, and now he was hampered by an imagined bond.

He stood. The surface of the river winked and gleamed as it rippled in the breeze. Today, Farohan thought. No more waiting. Today I will write that lay.

~ o ~ o ~ o ~

Shadows were beginning to lengthen when Legolas sought out the elder harper. The Elf was immediately admitted entrance to the tent. Menelor was sitting on a simple stool, tuning a harp which Legolas had not seen before.

"Forgive me," Legolas said. "I was seeking your student, Farohan."

"I do not know where he is," Menelor said. "I trust that he is busy and using his time well."

Legolas hesitated at the terse answer. "If you should see him, please tell him that at least one hobbit would like to meet him."

Menelor looked up at that. "I see," he said slowly. "Yes, I will tell him. But I have not seen him for some time."

Legolas nodded. He smiled then and knelt. "This is of fair workmanship," he said. "May I play it?"

"A moment," said Menelor, and he tightened the last, highest string. He tilted the harp forward and stood up.

Legolas sat upon the stool and leaned the harp against his shoulder. He ran his hands lightly over the sound board and then tapped it. An echo ran richly through the wood.

Menelor smiled as he watched the Elf close his eyes. Legolas brushed his fingers gently up the pillar and over the shoulder. "Strong wood from a good tree," he murmured. "Lebethron, is it not? The dark wood from the south of Gondor?"

"Yes," the harper answered as the Elf's fingers followed the tracery of mithril. "But the lighter wood of the soundboard is from the ash. It gives a better, stronger tone."

Legolas opened his eyes. "I am surprised that you have had such a fair thing brought here. Do you often bring it with you when travelling?" His fingers sought the strings and he played a simple melody. Sweet notes swelled and hung in the air with unexpected power and clarity. The Elf's eyes widened in pleasure and surprise.

"This is the first time," Menelor admitted. He leaned over and, with fingers as deft as Legolas's own, plucked a quick little trill that blended in delicate final counterpoint to the now fading melody. "But these are extraordinary times, and this has been a dream that has come true and a joy unlooked for -- to sing of events that herald the return of our King. No harp but this one would do."

Legolas stood and held the harp upright. He inclined his head. "I look forward greatly to the hearing of your lay -- as I do Farohan's."

Menelor sat down once more and took back the instrument. "Thank you," he said simply.

~ o ~ o ~ o ~

Dusk had fallen. Legolas came silently from out of the trees' shadows and knelt down.

"Did you find the young minstrel?" Gimli asked. Meat sizzled on a stick held over the fire before him.

"I did not, though I walked far afield," said Legolas.

"O bother," said Merry. "After what you've told me, I want to meet him!" He leaned forward, plucked another meat-laden stick from the fire and handed it to Legolas. The Elf took it with a smile and a nod of his head. "After all, if he's going to sing about dear old Frodo, and Sam, then he needs to talk to me or Pippin. He needs to know what Frodo is really like!"

"And as Legolas and I are not Shire folk, we cannot be trusted with such matters," said Gimli. His eyes glinted dangerously, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"I'm afraid not," said Merry gravely but with an answering twinkle in his own eye. "Only hobbits can understand other hobbits. At any rate, you lot are simply too tall. How could you possibly know how we see things?!"

"In that case," said Legolas, "I believe Gimli would better understand your kind... being closer to your perspective, of course."

Gimli said nothing, but his grunt needed no translation.

"I think, though," said Merry, "that Farohan, if that is his name, had better talk to us quickly. Have you heard the rumours?"

"Many," said Gimli. "Frodo and Sam battling their way through Orcs, leaving piles of the creatures behind them; Frodo, through his own will, forcing the Nazgul to abandon the battle at the Gate... Next thing we shall hear is that he fought the Dark Lord himself!"

"Some say that he is half-Elven," said Legolas. "A part of me wonders if Farohan believes that. He seemed to be quite taken with the idea of Frodo speaking Elvish."

"Even more important that he speaks with me!" Merry said firmly. "Frodo would be mortified if he heard such nonsense. Although," he said a little more reflectively, "I'd be content with his being mortified if only he'd wake up soon. This waiting is dreadful."

"Aragorn seems to think that he and Sam will wake up rested and well," said Legolas.

"I know. I'm sorry. They both will. If Strider says so, then I trust him. It's just that I'm anxious to speak with Frodo again -- be with him again. I've gone much longer stretches without him around, of course. That's not it. But with all that we've -- he's -- been through, I feel as if I need to see that he'll be all right. But there I go again." Merry rose abruptly and shook himself slightly. "Enough of that. I'm taking a walk."

~ o ~ o ~ o ~

Merry had to walk quite a ways through the trees before he could get away from the encamped host. For some reason he couldn't fathom, tents had been moved from the large field and were now scattered, some among the trees in whatever clearings might be found, and others further afield in a meadow downstream.

No-one saw or heard him pass by. Pale light filtered down through shifting leaves and Merry knew that the full moon was rising above the grim mountains to shine down on the fair land before him.

He came then to a small rise. It was rocky on the western side but covered with grass on its domed top. He began to climb and, as he neared the crest, he could see that he was now raised up a good ways. The moon shone full in his eyes and he blinked, awash in the silvery radiance.

So it was then that he didn't see the dark shape lying on the grassy eastward slope. He stepped forward and his foot caught on something unseen.

"Careful," a voice said as Merry stumbled. But strong hands caught him by the upper arms and steadied him.

"Thank you!" said Merry. "Awfully sorry. I didn't see you."

"Nor I you, at first." The Man stood up and then paused as if taken aback. "You must be Meriadoc."

"Merry, if you will," Merry answered. "I suppose I'm easy to spot. But you haven't told me your name."

"I am called Farohan."

"Oh!" said Merry. "Well, you're that minstrel, aren't you? The one Legolas and Gimli were telling me about?"

The minstrel laughed a little shamefacedly. "No doubt they told you that I was quite annoying -- always asking questions."

Merry sat down, facing the Moon. After a moment's hesitation, Farohan did likewise.

"Annoying, no," Merry said slowly, "but they told me what you are planning to do... and that you've been asking about Frodo." He looked at the Man sideways. "I should imagine that you'd like to ask me about him too."

The Minstrel leaned forward, his voice eager. "I would." He seemed to collect himself then and sat back. "But... not if it would bother you."

Merry leaned back against the slope and crossed his arms behind his head. "I suppose it all depends," he said, drawing his words out slowly, "on whether you plan to sing of Frodo as some mighty warrior slaying all orcs that stood in his path."

The Man looked startled. "I don't remember Lord Aragorn saying any such thing. And... forgive me, but I wouldn't think it possible, if he is the same size as yourself, or Peregrin."

Merry laughed then and looked directly at Farohan. "In fact, he is shorter than us now. But that's a different story. All right then -- it sounds like you won't listen to those silly rumours. But you come to me, or Pippin, for answers to your questions, mind."

"I will," said Farohan.

"Right then. What are they?"

~ o ~ o ~ o ~

By the time Merry's account of the hobbits' travels from Hobbiton to Rivendell drew to a close, the moon had climbed nearly to its zenith.

Farohan looked at Merry in wonder. "I feel foolish," he said. "Somehow I had thought that all of you, or at least Frodo, had been used to some kind of travelling, or... or adventures as you call them. Yet you were no more ready than any other of your folk."

"No," Merry agreed. "Not really, although Frodo had been brought up by Bilbo -- and that in itself was more schooling than any of the rest of us had."

"Bilbo," said Farohan. "The spinner of song and tale. I would have liked to have met him."

Merry laughed. "And no doubt he'd be delighted to meet you if you were willing to listen to his tales!"

"Does Frodo enjoy sharing tales or stories he has written? Other... other than when he is dancing on a table at an inn." Farohan couldn't quite fit this image into his reckoning of the Ring-bearer.

"A bit," said Merry. "But nothing like old Bilbo. Not that he wouldn't be able to if he were so minded -- he's told a few grand tales of his own to the rest of us when we were lads."

"Did he ever write in Elvish?"

"Write?" Merry looked surprised. "He certainly spoke in Elvish when he had a mind to, although mostly with Bilbo. But write stories in Elvish? I don't think so." Merry rolled over on to his side and gave Farohan a searching stare. "You do know that he is hobbit and not Elf?"

"No, no, I know," said Farohan hastily. "I'm sorry -- it's just that I have heard so many different thoughts and opinions and, yes, rumours that I'm not quite sure where the Ring-bearer stops and Frodo Baggins begins."

Merry's gaze softened a touch. Farohan relaxed and gave an inward sigh of relief.

"I'm not sure that they're not one and the same, now," the hobbit said softly. "This Quest has changed him... had changed him before we were all split up. But Strider, Aragorn I mean, has told me some of what happened later. I just hope that when he wakes, with the Ring gone..."

Farohan bowed his head in respect but then brought it up at Merry's next words. Merry leaned towards him and whispered conspiratorially.

"But I'll tell you something about Frodo Baggins that no one else is likely to tell you."

Farohan blinked at the quick shift in mood, but then leaned forward himself.

"Frodo Baggins is as naive a hobbit as ever walked in the Shire."

"Naive?" said Farohan, now completely confused. "But he read books, talked to Elves and Dwarves..."

"No, no," said Merry impatiently. "He knew a lot more about things outside the Shire than the rest of us did. But I can tell you that he just didn't have any idea at all that anyone in the Shire knew about his leaving... or the Ring!" He lay back again and laughed. "Gullible! We completely pulled the wool over his eyes with our conspiracy."

Farohan gave a surprised chuckle. "I suppose you did. But usually..."

"Usually! Yes. He's a dear old fellow, but naive I tell you. Always was. Though.. now... I can't say. Perhaps he's beyond the question of naivety. Nevertheless, I'm telling you about the Frodo that I know, and he can't have changed all that much!"

"No, perhaps not," Farohan said.

Merry sprang to his feet. "And speaking of those who haven't changed, I daresay that Legolas or Gimli might be looking for me if I don't show up soon. Look how the moon has risen!" But as Merry turned to go, he looked back down at Farohan with a smile.

"One more thing you simply must know about Frodo."

Farohan scrambled to his feet. "What is that?"

"He's greedy."

Farohan opened his mouth but could not think of any words to say. He shut it again.

"Never, ever, ever let him get near mushrooms. I must say -- we hobbits are known for our love of mushrooms... but Frodo? His love of them borders on obsession. Woe betide anyone who tried to help themselves to any that are his!"

"Mushrooms," repeated Farohan.

"Yes. Mushrooms. He even stole them from fields when he was a lad. But when Maggot gave him a basket filled with them for our last night in the Shire, Frodo had the nerve to tell the rest of us to keep our greedy hands away!"

Farohan blinked. Words still refused to come.

"But as long as he had control of his mushrooms, he would give everyone as large a helping as we might wish. So, greedy he might be, but he is also generous. Too generous, I think. So don't you talk about his being selfish in your lay! I just wanted to counter all these nonsensical rumours floating around. Even so," and here Merry blinked hard twice, "just you remember that he is the best hobbit in the Shire, and we all love him."

With that final word, Merry took off and, on quick and noiseless feet, vanished into the trees.

And under the unwinking gaze of the Moon, Farohan sat limply down on the grass and stayed there long into the night.

To be continued

Disclaimer:  All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (except for the minstrel Menelor, and the more fully realized Farohan who was nameless in the books). This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's note: I am sorry for the four month wait since the last chapter. Graduate studies have taken over my life. But I only have five-six weeks to go until it is all finished. Until then, this chapter, I hope, will help show that I have no intention of abandoning this story! I have loved writing this far too much to stop now, and I have detailed plans for each chapter right up to the end.

Chapter 6: The Crucible

Farohan opened his eyes. The sun shone full in his face, and the birds sang lustily about him in the trees.

He sat up and groaned, for he was stiff and sore. All night he had slept on the grassy slope under the stars, but the dew had settled on him and chilled him as he lay unawares.

Shading his eyes, he looked around him... and suddenly froze. And then he heard it: silvery laughter as Legolas stepped out from under the shadow of the trees.

"It is best," the Elf said, "to use a blanket if one wants to sleep upon the grass."

Chagrined, Farohan stood. "I hadn't planned to," he said ruefully, "but I had much to think about."

"Merry said that you and he had talked last night."

"Yes," said Farohan.

It seemed as if it had been a dream: sitting under the moonlight and talking with a halfling -- the first one to emerge from the tales: defensive, mercurial, yet loyal. And in truth, he had dreamed -- of the Ring-bearer, who protected a basket of mushrooms from Farohan only to share them liberally with all others.

"I dreamt of mushrooms," he said, and started down the slope.

"I think that Pippin would like to hear about that dream," said Legolas. And when Farohan looked at him quizzically, he went on. "He is fully awake now and is curious about the bard who sang to him during our travel."

"He... he wants to talk to me?" asked Farohan.

"He is waiting even now," the Elf said. "I said that I would bring you to him."

"Is... is Merry going to be there?"

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "I don't believe so -- I think that he may be watching over Frodo and Sam."

Farohan relaxed a little.

~ * ~ * ~

"Come in, my friend, come in!" Beregond called out in a glad voice, and Farohan entered the tent. The guard was on his feet now, moving slowly and gingerly about the space between the beds. "I have missed your company these past few days, and have been telling Pippin about your efforts." He turned and, past him, Farohan could now see Pippin propped up with many pillows.

"Well, finally!" said Peregrin cheerfully. "I've heard so much about you and your plans. And I'm awfully sorry about falling asleep whilst you were singing in the wain. Lovely bit of music, that!"

Farohan came near Pippin's bed.

"Oh, do sit down and tell me what you've found out so far about Frodo. Have you finished the lay yet? Did I miss being able to help?"

"Oh no, not at all," Farohan said quickly. "I only talked to your cousin last night, and haven't had a chance to... sort it all out yet."

Pippin laughed then but halted as a look of pain crossed his face. "You'd think I'd have learned by now. That hurts." He pressed his hand to his side. "But never mind that. What do you think of our Frodo?"

"I... I'm not quite sure," said Farohan cautiously. "The things Merry said were... were quite different from what I'd heard."

"Well, yes, they would be," Pippin said and smiled. "Merry's bound and determined not to let you go on about this Elvish nonsense we're hearing now."

"Is it all nonsense?" Farohan asked.

Pippin looked at him. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Slowly, Farohan said, "Many different people have told me about the Ring-bearer over the past few days. And each account has been different. Of course, I would expect the stories to vary somewhat depending on the character of the story teller. As a storyteller myself, and as a harper, I have seen this many a time. Yet I confess myself to be completely at a loss when I try to reconcile the different witnesses' descriptions of the Ring-bearer.

Pippin twitched at his blanket with his fingers. After a moment of silence, he spoke.

"Tell me what you've heard. I would dearly like to hear what people have said about my cousin."

Farohan told him -- from Gandalf's first account to Merry's last. All the while Pippin lay quietly, nodding, smiling, and occasionally frowning. As Farohan reached the end of Merry's last comments, Pippin chuckled.

"He told you about the mushrooms, did he," he said when the minstrel fell silent.

"He did," Farohan said wonderingly. "Is it true?"

"Is it true?" Pippin said. "Oh yes, I can assure you that it's true. In fact, it's all true. Well," he amended, "I don't know myself what happened after we all scattered at Parth Galen, but nothing sounds unlike what Frodo might have done."

"But that is what puzzles me," said Farohan. "He sounds like two very different people. And yet, I can see that Merry's accounts, which are the most unusual, are from earlier in the Ring-bearer's life."

"Do call him Frodo!" Pippin said. "It feels ever so odd to hear Ring-bearer this and Ring-bearer that."

Farohan hesitated.

"Don't worry--it's quite all right. He'd prefer it at any rate."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm his cousin! Quite sure."

Farohan settled back in his chair, cautiously elated.

"The Ring-b...Frodo... seems such a puzzle," he said. "Could his Quest have really changed him that much? From a... mushroom-stealer to such a.. an... elf-friend, and...and such a noble being?"

Pippin pondered this. At last he spoke.

"I wasn't even born when Frodo would make his raids on Maggot's farm. I only became old enough to know him after he had moved to Hobbiton. Living with Bilbo changed him, I think. From what I gather... from what Merry has said, actually, it was as if Frodo had found a kindred spirit within Bilbo--and perhaps the other way around, too. At least, he's been interested in Elves and tongues as long as I can remember. Certainly I've never heard that Frodo stole any mushrooms whilst he lived at Bag End!"

"So..." prompted Farohan, "he had already begun to walk down the path that would lead to his role as Ring-bearer before the Quest?"

"Perhaps!" Pippin looked a little startled. "I hadn't really thought of it that way before. But... not completely. Even while we were fleeing to Rivendell with the Black Riders behind us, he still managed to play the fool."

Farohan suddenly smiled. "The song at that inn!"

"Yes," said Pippin. "What a mess he made of it too! All to stop me from talking. I suppose he was worried that I'd mention the Ring! Silly old Frodo. But I wager that Merry didn't tell you what Frodo did in Bombadil's house."

"No, I... I don't think so." Farohan leaned forward.

"Bombadil put the Ring on his finger, but he didn't vanish! And then he made the Ring disappear. Dear old Frodo was quite put out at this, I can tell you! When he had the Ring back from Tom, he quietly popped it on his own finger and off he went! He wanted to play a trick on Tom--and perhaps on us--in the way of small revenge. It worked on Merry and me, but Bombadil wasn't fooled. Not in the slightest. He could see him, you see."

"Tom Bombadil could see Frodo... with the Ring on?"

"Oh yes. There isn't much that the Master misses. But Frodo looked (and probably felt!) foolish when he took it off. Caught in his own joke." Pippin chuckled, but then became somber. "But perhaps the point where he really changed was when he was struck down by the Witch King. From that point on, he made no more jests and became very quiet and thoughtful."

"He wasn't, before?" asked Farohan.

"Oh, he was! He wasn't always jesting--that wasn't his nature-- but he did occasionally have a sharp edge to his tongue. He used it on me often enough."

Pippin shifted gingerly against his pillows and frowned. "No. Cousin Frodo has always been... different. Imaginative, curious,... how can I describe him. Alert and quick of mind, but also full of high thoughts. He wasn't always accepted by other hobbits--with his desire to learn of all the goings on of the outside world, tramping about the Shire, speaking Elvish, being lettered... No... he did not behave as a gentlehobbit should."

"He sounded as if he had been a most unusual hobbit," Farohan said, "long before he went on the Quest."

"He was." At this, Pippin frowned. "Oh bother. Why I am saying 'was', I don't know! I... I suppose that I had thought him lost to us until just the other day. And all this talk of his changing... But I suppose he has. It's as if much of what he used to be has been burned away as if in a crucible. I felt some of that when I used to watch him in Rivendell... and after. Purer somehow. The Quest had become his only thought--his only task. There was almost no room within him for trivial things." Here Pippin's voice became thick and he stopped.

"Oh dash it," he said presently. "There you are. I love him dearly. He's... he's Frodo. I don't know what else I can say."

Farohan politely looked away as Pippin touched a handkerchief to his eyes. When he felt it safe to do so, he cautiously asked, "you said that he had had a sharp tongue..."

A new voice interrupted him. "He did indeed."

It was Merry and he was standing in the doorway to the tent.

Farohan stood up hastily.

"Oh good heavens--don't stand up for me!" Merry came to Pippin's bed and sat on the edge.

But as Farohan sat down, he could see the corners of Merry's eyes glisten.

"How is he," Pippin said to Merry in a quick, low voice.

"He is still sleeping, Pip," Merry answered just as quietly, and he touched Pippin's knee briefly. "They both are." He looked at Farohan. "The healers have asked me to tell you to come again at another time. I think they fear that Pippin will wear himself out talking, although I don't think they know Pip if they believe that!"

"Nevertheless," said Farohan, "I shall leave you to rest. But before I go, is there anything I might do for either of you? You have shown kindness towards me, and I would repay it if I could."

The two hobbits looked at each other and smiled. They looked back at him.

"Give us some time to think about it, would you?" said Merry.

"Certainly!" said Farohan. But as he passed under the tent-flap, he faltered, wondering about those quick, secretive smiles.

What had he got himself into?

To be continued

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (except for the minstrel Menelor, and the more fully realized Farohan who was nameless in the books). This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Chapter 7: Truth and Rumour

As Farohan came out into the bright sun, he saw Beregond sitting on a folding stool just outside the tent.

"I'm sorry!" he said, startled. "I hadn't even realized you had left the tent. I was quite rude!"

Beregond laughed softly. "Do not let that worry you. I had many things to think of, and I welcomed the chance for a little time alone."

Farohan looked at him thoughtfully, for there was some odd catch to Beregond's laugh that subdued him. Slowly, he said, "Beregond of the Guard of the Citadel... Are you he who--"

"Yes. I am he."

"Ah," said Farohan awkwardly.

"May I ask what you have heard of the deeds done that day?" asked Beregond quietly.

"More than most," Farohan answered honestly. "As minstrels, we tend to hear of things more quickly than do others. People come to us both to tell news and to hear it."

"And how do you judge me?" asked the guard, looking steadily at Farohan.

"It isn't my place, or habit to judge. Only to describe," Farohan answered. "--to describe, and to decide what shall be sung--what is of importance, and how to weave the words. And that is a heavy responsibility in itself. All I do know is that Mithrandir speaks to you not as one to a murderer. That which happened at Rath Dinen must be left for men greater than myself to judge."

Beregond bowed his head for a moment, but when he raised it, his face seemed less troubled. "I thank you," he said. "While you strive to separate truth from rumour in your search for the Ring-bearer's tale, I must hear rumours of me that fly ahead of truth--even among those I once served with! But don't you concern yourself about my troubles. I feel that we all have come to a great victory that will banish much of the fear and suffering these lands have known. And for that, at least, I am joyful. And," Beregond added with a smile, "I have your singing to look forward to, as well as a chance to help welcome the Ring-bearers on the day they waken."

Farohan smiled at that, but the smile faded. He looked at the tent door and then back at Beregond. "Would you mind if I talked with you about my thoughts on the lay?"

"Why, of course not," the guard said warmly. "If I can be of service to you, I will be glad of it!"

Farohan looked at the tent again. "Could we move a little ways from here?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Not that it would concern me too much to be overheard, but nonetheless..."

"Certainly." Beregond slowly rose to his feet. Farohan swiftly picked up the stool.

"There is another on the other side of the door," Beregond said, and Farohan took that also.

They moved a little ways off--not far enough to prevent them hearing if one of the hobbits called out, but far enough so that their own voices would not be heard.

Once they were settled on the folding stools and Beregond leaned back against a tree, he looked at Farohan quizzically. "What thoughts are these that you speak of?"

Farohan plucked a blade of grass and began to fold it between his fingers. He brooded for a moment and then looked up.

"When we minstrels sing, we know that we are the ones who tell of great events so that all can hear the story... and its details. There are the learned who will make the written accounts, but few shall read them--they will gather dust in the archives soon enough! But lays are sung and remembered by many more people. And so--it is the minstrel's responsibility to write such a lay that inspires, enraptures, and tells the truth."

Beregond nodded vigorously. "I have heard your master sing. It was all that you said."

Farohan smiled. "He is the best of all of us. I have been fortunate to learn from him. Yet... I am not sure how I should write about the Ring-bearer."

Beregond chuckled. "I could not help but overhear your talk with Pippin. I do not know the Ring-bearer, but what I do know of Pippin would well lead me to understand your plight! And what I heard both of you say about the Ring-bearer certainly seems confusing!" He laughed again. "I don't envy you this task. I would imagine that your master had the easier lay to write. He is writing, if I remember correctly, about the last stand, and about Lord Aragorn. Men and battle! But you must write about a halfling--something we know very little about indeed!"

"And that halfling seems to be two people," Farohan said, shaking his head in wonderment. "Who should I sing about? A... mushroom-stealing, sharp-tongued misfit, often not accepted by his own kind, or a noble, determined hero?"

Farohan flicked the shredded piece of grass away from him and bent to pick another.

"It isn't truly a dilemma," he said, after he had straightened. "The lay is about his Quest, and so it must also be about he who undertook it. Yet it still leaves me to wonder--who is the real Frodo Baggins: what he was, or what he has become. Is he both, or has what he has become overtaken what he was? Even his own kin don't seem to know, or are not sure."

"I think you need to meet him," Beregond said. He leaned back and watched Farohan.

Farohan laughed ruefully. "He still sleeps. And the Lord Aragorn's wish is for the lay to be presented on the day that he wakes. If I am to be ready by then, the lay will need to have been finished by the morning of that day! And," he added in a low voice, "I fear that day may be swiftly approaching. I cannot wait any longer."

Beregond gazed at him speculatively. "Would it help simply to see him while he sleeps?"

"It would," Farohan admitted. "But no-one is allowed near where he lies, except for those close to him."

Beregond nodded. "That is true."

Farohan stood. "I have kept you long enough. Let me help you back to the tent. I must then begin to work on the melody or my master will be sorely disappointed in me!"

o 0 o

Farohan found Legolas sitting at the foot of a tree crowned in golden-red leaves; the Elf was stringing his great bow. The noon meal had been served throughout the camp, yet Farohan had only taken a portion of bread with him so that he could sit and think alone in the woods. But he was not the only one who had returned to the glade where he had woken.

Farohan knelt down beside the Elf.

"The string shimmers in a strange way," he said. "Of what is it made?"

Legolas smiled, but his eyes looked as if he were seeing things far in the distance--or from the past.

"Elven hair. Plaited strands from the golden hair of the Galadrim." He looked directly at Farohan then. "The Lady Galadriel gave me this bow upon the day that the Fellowship departed from Lothlorien--the same day that she gave the Phial to Frodo."

Farohan gazed at it in awe. "It is a wonder that the string has not broken. It must be because of Elven magic."

"Magic?" Legolas smiled. "Good craft, rather. But I treasure this gift that came from the Lady's hands." He ran his hand lovingly down the wood, and then set it carefully against the tree behind him.

"I hadn't come here to seek you out," Farohan said then, "although I did wish to thank you for sending me to the Hobbits' tent. But now that I do see you here, there is a boon I wish to ask of you."

"All you need to do is ask," Legolas said, smiling.

"Would you teach me the Elvish tongue?" Farohan said eagerly.

Legolas looked at him with curiosity. "That is no small favour to ask. It takes great effort to learn another language--and many years to use it with any skill."

"I don't mean to use it to speak," Farohan said hastily. "Rather I wish to sing in it."

"The lay," Legolas said, with understanding dawning in his fair face.

"Yes," said Farohan. He looked at the Elf beseechingly. "The more I learn of the Ring-bearer, the more I think that I might understand why he is called elf-friend. And yet he is a hobbit. It seems to me that the Elven tongue would be fitting alongside our own. I wish to use both."

"If you tell me the words you wish to sing, I shall translate them for you," Legolas promised. "I shall use Sindarin. Frodo will have a far greater chance of understanding it."

"Thank you!" said Farohan, delighted. "But I have no words yet. I was hoping to meet with the Hobbits first. Now that I have, I feel better able to write."

"Then come to me when you can. You will need time to learn the rhythm of our speech."

"I will come soon," Farohan said, and he stood.

It seemed then to Legolas that the minstrel was almost trembling with newfound focus and strength of will. And he watched as the man strode back towards the river.

o 0 o

The ropes creaked against their moorings, and the breeze blew freshly in his face. Light danced upon the ripples in the water of the great Anduin.

Farohan leaned over the curving side of the ship. Almost at the bowsprit, he could see the river stretch into the distance. The isle of Cair Andros was upon his right, and trees rose fair and green along its shores.

Slowly, he straightened and, without looking away from the water, he began to hum quietly. Occasionally, a finger would tap in rhythm, or a few words would be murmured, considered, and then kept or discarded.

He was not long in this when Farohan was brought sharply out of his reverie.

Menelor stood alone on the quay, shading his eyes against the early afternoon sun. He stood stiffly, his face unreadable. No other men were about.

Farohan hastily scrambled to shore and stood waiting.

"Sing to me the lay."

Farohan shifted on his feet. "I can't," he said. "I have just started to fit the first words to a rhythm."

"What of the melody you had started on the march here?"

"I... I have changed my mind. It no longer fits what I want. Now I have learned more about Frodo..."

"The Ring-bearer," Menelor interrupted, "is expected to waken in the next few days. Lord Aragorn told me this. He wanted to know how you were faring in your task. I couldn't tell him. And it seems that I still can't."

"It will be ready," Farohan said hastily. "I swear it."

"This is the tenth day and you have nothing to show for it. There are but three days more, perhaps four if we are lucky. I have finished my task and am ready. It seems that I must take back yours."

"You mustn't! I've... I've spoken with the hobbits. I know all the story. I have a much clearer idea of who F... the Ring-bearer is now."

"Fortunately," said Menelor stonily, "you have told me most of the story as you have learned it. I may not have a 'clear idea' of who the Ring-bearer may be, but I know enough. I suggest that you spend your time from now on reviewing the old songs of Minas Anor. People will want to hear them again now that they know the King will return." He began to turn away.

"I will not!" Farohan cried out. "I must write this lay."

"It is too late." Menelor's back was turned to Farohan now and the harper began to walk away.

Filled with sudden anger, Farohan swiftly blocked Menelor's way. "You entrusted this task to me. I can do this. I have spent the past ten days thinking of nothing but the Ring-bearer--of nothing but his tale. Either one of us only has three days now. But I know what I want to write. I know him more than you possibly could. You haven't lived with his story all this time. I must be the one to write this lay."

"Take yourself from my path," Menelor said, his face livid. "Three days is scarcely enough time for an experienced harper. It is not enough for you. There is no more to be said on this matter."

For a moment it seemed as if Farohan wouldn't move, but then at last he stepped aside. And once Menelor had passed on and he was alone, he fell to his knees and wept bitterly.

To be continued    

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (except for the minstrel Menelor, and the more fully realized Farohan who was nameless in the books). This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Chapter 8:   A Small Measure of Defiance

The sounds of hammering came clearly through the early morning mist.

"What are they building," asked Merry. He shivered and pulled his cloak around him more tightly. He looked around, stooped and tossed another faggot of wood on the fire.

"It seems to be a wall," said Gimli. "A short wall with no purpose that I can see."

Legolas smiled and took up the pot from its hook over the fire. Gimli and Merry held out their mugs. "It is where the minstrels will sing their lays. The wall will throw their voices forward so that all can hear."

Gimli withdrew his filled cup and grunted. "Stone would be better. Wood is porous."

A new voice answered him. "And where would they find stone, Master Gimli? For there is no quarry near here."

"Strider!!" said Merry. "How good it is to see you! I've seen you here and there, but you've been frightfully busy, it seems, and we've never had a chance to talk."

Aragorn smiled. "It seems as if I now have a little more time to spend however I wish."

"Good!" said Merry, and he smiled. "I've been wanting to thank you for that marvellous idea of a lay for Frodo and Sam. It seems as if that fellow, Farohan, is willing to listen to Pippin and myself, and not to the rumours flying about. Hopeful, that!"

"Then I fear you will not be glad of my next words," said Aragorn with a frown. "He will not be singing the lay."

Merry looked at Legolas and Gimli, and they all looked at Aragorn astonished. "Whyever not," asked Merry. "I liked him. He genuinely wanted to learn about hobbits."

"It seems that, in his eagerness to learn, he has left himself with little time for writing. This was to be his first great lay, and he has not the skill for writing speedily."

"Who will write it then?" asked Merry.

"Farohan's master, Menelor," Aragorn said. "I too am sorry to see him lose this chance, yet I trust Menelor's words, and it is my fondest wish right now to have Frodo and Sam greeted by their story in song. If Menelor says that Farohan will not be ready, then I must follow his advice."

"I was impressed by the Master Harper's skill and artistry in the brief time that I talked to him," said Legolas. "He will write a good lay. Yet it saddens me that all of Farohan's work should come to nothing."

"Why don't they work together," asked Gimli. He drained his mug. "Farohan's knowledge, Menelor's skill--what would be the problem?"

Legolas smiled. "If you, friend Gimli, were asked to fashion a gold piece of jewelry, studded with rich gems, and it was to be given in a great ceremony to a high lord, would you not want to work the thing into a treasure true to your own vision, unsullied by others' ideas or demands?"

Gimli nodded. "I would," he said. "I see the problem."

Merry scowled. "Why doesn't Farohan write it and ask for Menelor's help when he needs it?"

"The decision has been made, Merry," Aragorn said. "I will not gainsay the Master Harper in his area of skill."

Merry filled another mug, put it on a tray and turned to leave. But before he did so, he looked back at Aragorn.

"I would sooner trust one I know to be willing to learn about us hobbits than to one I only know to be skilled in singing of Men. Or has Menelor sung of hobbits and you have yet to tell me?"

Aragorn did not answer.

o O o

The wall was built. The hammer blows had stopped, and birdsong had ceased in the stillness of an afternoon in the warm sun.

The door flaps to Pippin's tent had been rolled back and tied. Cooling breezes banished the stuffy heat of the tent and the sweet spring smell of Ithilien freshened both mind and body.

A Man and a Dwarf came to the edge of the tent awning.

"Go in," Gimli said gruffly, for Farohan had hesitated. "They won't bite." And with those words of dubious comfort, he left.

Beregond, Merry and Pippin were all there. Mutely, in dread of what was to come, Farohan sat on a proffered stool and waited. But he did not expect the words that came.

"We want you to write the lay for Frodo and Sam," Merry said.

Farohan blinked. But all three looked steadily at him.

"I can't," Farohan said miserably. "My master has taken back the task. I have failed in my duty."

"I don't see how," Merry said. "Sam and Frodo haven't woken yet, and you should still have a few days."

Farohan only shook his head and cast his gaze downward.

Beregond spoke then. "I know that it is not done--to gainsay your master's word--and so I will not. But I do know there can be more than one lay for a great deed or hero. Surely you would not betray your teacher if you were to simply write a song for the Ring-bearer's friends to hear?"

There was a pause and then Farohan spoke softly. "Menelor showed great trust in me, and now he says I have failed in that trust. He has never before led me astray. I can only think, in that case, that I do not deserve the honour he tried to show me. I am not ready."

Merry and Pippin looked at each other and unspoken words passed between them. They once more faced the minstrel.

"You may have failed your master's trust, but you haven't failed ours. You asked us yesterday if there was anything that you might do for us. Both Pippin and I agree on this: we want you to write for us that lay."

Farohan breathed in sharply. "I would not be able to sing it at the great assembly when your friends awaken."

"Then sing it after--just for us," said Beregond.

"And Legolas and Gimli," added Pippin.

"And," said Merry, "For Sam. At the very least for Sam. If not for old Frodo himself. I feel no doubt, that Sam would love such a thing. Two lays! He would be beside himself: bashful, but thrilled."

Farohan shook his head. "I don't know. It feels wrong somehow."

"This is no longer the lay you were writing for Aragorn. This is a lay you are writing for us," said Merry firmly. "You asked us if we wanted anything done for us. This is it."

Merry watched Farohan closely. There seemed to be deep within the minstrel a longing to comply, but a look of self-doubt crossed his face, and the impulse was quelled.

Merry leaned a little closer. "If you say yes, I will help you with your writing. Legolas has said that he is still willing to teach you Elvish. And... I will help you in another way. If you will write about Frodo--I will take you to see him--this very afternoon."

"You will?" A look of hope dawned on Farohan's face. "You would not mind?"

"It is for a good purpose," Pippin said solemnly, and then he smiled. "Beregond told us of your wish."

"It is true that I have wanted to see him, even if he is asleep," Farohan admitted. Light was in his eyes. "I will write for you that lay."

"Wonderful!" Pippin crowed.

"Mind you," Merry said warningly. "You still do not have much time."

Farohan smiled a little crookedly. "Last night, in defiance, I continued to fit words to a melody. I have not wasted time."

"Good!" Merry rubbed his hands together. "We'll need to get started."

Farohan looked at him questioningly.

"You want to see Frodo, don't you?" Merry said, patiently.

"Yes! Yes, of course," Farohan stammered.

"Right then. I will just go and look to see if they're along, and then I will return. Wait here!"

And with that command, Merry was gone.

Farohan took a deep breath and turned to Pippin. "Is... is he always like that?"

Pippin glanced at Beregond. "Like what?"

Farohan faltered. Two pairs of eyes gazed at him curiously.

"It's nothing," he said.

o O o

It did not take long for Merry to finish his errand. Even so, he found, upon his return to the tent, that Pippin had already fallen asleep, Beregond had moved to his favourite spot in front of the awning, and Farohan was seated cross-legged on the floor. The minstrel's eyes were closed and his body was moving very slightly in a rhythm while his lips soundlessly formed the words.

Yet it was Pippin who instantly awoke upon Merry's arrival while Farohan remained seemingly unaware. Merry sat at the foot of Pippin's bed and they watched the man as he silently sang.

At last the two hobbits looked at each other and smiled. Merry rose to his feet and softly walked to where Farohan sat. He touched his shoulder.

Farohan opened his eyes.

"We had better go," Merry said.

Farohan was on his feet instantly, but then Pippin said, "We should tell him about Gandalf's letter."

Both Merry and Farohan stopped at this.

"Why?" said Merry.

Pippin beamed. "We wouldn't want our minstrel to mix up Sam and Frodo, would we? We had better describe Frodo to him so that he is prepared."

"Ah! Yes... of course." Merry faced Farohan then. "A stout little fellow..."

"...with red cheeks," said Pippin.

"Stout...?" Farohan said.

"Taller than some..." said Pippin.

"And f... no... no, he has a cleft in his chin," Merry said.

"A perky chap," continued Pippin.

"...with a bright eye," said Merry, "although that won't help you much--his eyes will be closed."

"This is Gandalf's description," Pippin said cheerfully. "Wizards never lie."

"It is?" asked Farohan. "I mean, they don't?"

"It is," Merry answered firmly. "And they don't. Shall we go?"

"Yes..." said Farohan.

To be continued

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (except for the minstrel Menelor and the more fully realised Farohan who was nameless in the books). This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

~ * ~ * ~

Chapter 9: For Eyes to See That Can

The Ring-bearer’s tent stood apart from all others in a quiet glade shaded by beech trees crowned golden green in the new leaves of spring.

There were no guards at the entrance, yet Farohan could see watchful eyes following his and Merry’s steps as the two made their way across the rough lawn. If Merry had not been with him, Farohan thought, no doubt challenges would have been made and he would not have been able to take one step further.

The tent was small and simple, but made of a fine linen that hung in panels that could be laced together tightly or rolled up one-by-one and tied. They were hanging loosely now, both letting in a soft breeze and affording the hobbits who lay within privacy from curious glances.

Merry stopped just outside. He looked at Farohan as if considering what to say, but nothing came. Instead he lifted aside the cloth over the entrance and went in. Farohan stooped and followed him.

Inside, the light coming through the tent was gentle. The canvas overhead was dappled with sunlight that shifted, glowing, as the branches above moved in the breeze.

Two beds there were, each with a hobbit, and Farohan started. With dismay, he realized that he had almost forgotten about Sam, so taken had he been with the Ring-bearer’s story.

He looked at Merry. "Which one is the Ring-bearer?" he asked.

"Frodo," Merry said sternly, but with a smile.

"Frodo," Farohan repeated.

"I shall let you decide who he is," Merry said. "After all, you’ve heard enough about him from the rest of us. We gave you Gandalf’s description. Come on! Let’s see if you’ve been listening."

Slowly Farohan walked to the end of the first bed and stopped.

Stout, red-cheeked, and perky, Pippin had said. Yet Legolas had talked of Frodo’s being fair and recognized as Elf-friend.

Farohan peered closely at the hobbits. With dismay, he realized that each of them could fit one of the descriptions. Both shared the same characteristics of Halflings as did Merry and Pippin, yet both were quite different, each in their own way.

The hobbit closest to Farohan was stouter than the other, although he had the look of one who had lost some weight. He had lighter coloured hair and, with a slight creasing at the corners of his eyes, he certainly seemed as if he could be perky, or at least good-humoured. But even with a plain but good-natured face (as it seemed to Farohan), he didn’t seem to be one that could be described as "Elf-friend."

Farohan moved a little closer to the second Halfling. This one had dark brown hair, and a much thinner face. The skin was far more lined than the light-haired hobbit. It had not the deep lines of a face weathered over time, but very fine lines as if some artist had lovingly, but sternly, drawn the face. Farohan rather thought that the artist (or artists) had been care, suffering… and determination.

He stepped back. The first hobbit seemed to match Mithrandir’s description, and stories from Merry and Pippin seemed to support it. Frodo’s own kin would know him well. Yet the second hobbit’s face brought Legolas’ words strongly to mind.

Farohan dithered. From the corner of his eye he could see Merry watching him. He felt as if he should answer quickly, but still he wavered.

Then Pippin’s words came to him: "...much of what he used to be has been burned away as if in a crucible."

Farohan turned to Merry. "The further one. The dark-haired hobbit is Frodo."

Merry smiled broadly. "That’s right," he said and he went to his cousin’s side. And for all that Merry and Pippin had been somewhat irreverent towards Frodo, as soon as Merry knelt beside the Ring-bearer, his entire demeanour softened. He caressed Frodo's cheek gently, briefly.

Gone was the practical and brisk hobbit. Gone was the challenging but humorous look in Merry's eyes. Instead he gazed down at his cousin with such a look of love that Farohan felt humbled for witnessing it.

Merry stood up then, so abruptly that Farohan stepped back startled.

"Sorry!" said Merry. The brisk hobbit had returned. "I shall leave you then. Take as long as you’d like. I’ll be outside."

"Thank you," Farohan said softly.

~*~*~

Once Merry had left the tent, Farohan knelt down between the beds. His back, however, was to Frodo.

"I nearly forgot Sam," he thought ruefully. "Frodo could not have achieved the Quest alone." He settled himself firmly down on his heels and resisted the temptation to look behind him.

After a moment, he leaned forward slightly, captivated. Here was a plain face, yet those tell-tale creases at the corners of the eyes once again told their story. Good-humoured, this hobbit was. Sam's skin still had some smoothness of youth, yet Farohan could detect signs of weathering from sun and wind.

"A gardener, Lord Aragorn said," he thought. "A gardener given to laughter: fond of jokes and storytelling--perhaps over a pint with friends."

Farohan frowned then and shook his head. "No," he thought. "That is something I would like him to be, but not necessarily what he is. Don't write about him to satisfy yourself!"

With a brief thought that Merry would know, he brusquely tucked his imaginings away for the time being.

"But he is loyal. He was ready to sacrifice all simply to help his master."

A feeling of great humility took Farohan and he bowed his head. And suddenly another thought came to his mind.

"He wouldn't feel at all comfortable if he knew a stranger were sitting here so closely; he wouldn't like to have someone examine him so intently."

And once again Farohan did not know if this were idle fancy or the truth, yet the thought was strong.

"I would like to know you, Master Samwise," he said out loud. And with that, he respectfully turned away.

At last, Farohan could gaze freely upon the Ring-bearer, and soon all thoughts of Samwise had fled. For while Sam's face spoke of comfortable geniality, good in its simplicity, Frodo's gave the feeling of depth.

Frodo's face was beautiful, yet there was not the smooth beauty of youth. It seemed to Farohan as if a fine net of subtle etching had been laid upon the skin. Over time, Frodo's face had altered, yet the change occurred not in the distant past. It spoke of two beings: the hobbit he once had been--dreaming, wandering, yet tied to his homeland--was in counterpoint to what he had now become: old and beautiful and knowing.

"Fro...do....," Farohan said. The light sound of "Fro" whispered softly, undergirded by the heavy bell-like "-do." The melodies Farohan had played before the gates of Mordor rippled and intoned in his mind.

Both natures were Frodo's heritage. No longer was he the light-hearted but intense hobbit that tramped through his green homeland, although those memories were dear to him. Instead, the peace and gravity now etched upon his face were of a beauty that had grown through care, toil and wisdom; they were of one who had fought great evil and who had known evil within himself but after all, and through it all, loved that which he had sought to protect. There would be no return for him to the simple life of the hobbits, Farohan realized, not now--not for one whose face spoke of such knowledge and such sorrow.

He bent his head then in grief and new-found love for this halfling.

After some time had passed, he raised his head once more, and that was when he caught sight of Frodo's right hand. It lay unbandaged on a cushion of clean linen. New pink-red flesh covered the wound, but the skin was uneven: uneven but not jagged. The finger, thought Farohan, seems to have been cut or perhaps bitten off. Farohan pondered Aragorn's words in the original telling of the tale. Frodo had fallen at the very last to the temptation of the Ring, and had only been saved from that horror by being robbed of the Ring by Smeagol.

Should he not conceal this fact, he wondered. Would it not bring pain to the Ring-bearer to hear it sung aloud? Yet by the grace of mercy, by the pity Frodo had shown to another, he had been saved. Surely that was a thing to be praised, to be shouted aloud in awe and gratitude. Farohan looked at the still face once more, and suddenly he knew that while Frodo might deeply regret his own deed at the Sammath Naur, he would in his very wisdom accept that it had happened. No. The Ring-bearer would not be one to hide what he had done either for the sake of his own pride or for fear of censure. He would expect nothing less than the tale in its entirety.

"And that is what I will do," Farohan told Frodo earnestly. "I will tell them all of the story, no matter who it is that may hear it. And the telling of it will both grieve them and enrapture them so that they will love you all the more."

~*~*~

Farohan came to himself with a start. Merry stood by him. The shadows on the canvas had shifted.

He rose to his feet stiffly. Frodo and Sam slept on in that odd yet peaceful stillness. Hushed, Farohan followed Merry out the door, with just one longing look backward.

Outside Merry looked at him with a soft smile. Something, Farohan felt, had changed.

"What do you wish to do now," Merry asked. "Do you need somewhere quiet to write?"

"No," said Farohan firmly, for sudden clarity had settled over him. "It is not the time for me to write more words. I need to speak to Legolas. It is time for me to learn to sing in Elvish."

To be continued

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (except for the minstrel Menelor and the more fully realized Farohan who was nameless in the books). This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

~ * ~ * ~

Author's Note: I wish to thank Gayalondiel for her invaluable help in both translating a line of Farohan's lay into Sindarin, and for bouncing back and forth ideas about language change and pronunciation difficulties. Thank you, Gaya! I do not know, nor profess to know, anything about Elvish! I do, however, have experience in singing and speaking in languages that have sounds unfamiliar to English ears. For those interested in the reference to the languages of M-e, I have included a brief note at the end of the chapter.

One more comment: I have done something I usually avoid. I have given one clear detail of Frodo's appearance in this chapter that may not be in harmony with many readers' perceptions, especially those who base their own internal views of his looks on what is provided in the Jackson movies. If my one phrase is irksome, I apologize. It comes from my own views of his appearance that have existed for 28 years. Please feel free (of course!) to mentally (or even literally, if you, by any chance, download the chapter) change the one word in particular that may offend. And if no word stands out as peculiar to you, then all is well!

Chapter 10: Of Sacrifice and Song

Once more Farohan sang the words.

Annant în guil a pullir cuino.

Legolas crouched listening intently. Even the slope of the grassy mound did not upset his balance. Farohan watched enviously. The new day's sun was in his eyes and it dazzled him.

"You improve," Legolas said, smiling. "The meaning is clear, and you have mastered the trill of the 'r'. However, you did not keep the true length of the double 'n'. Curious, as you held the double 'l'."

Farohan groaned. "I don't know why. The double 'l' feels better to me. The 'n' is awkward. It comes too early in the phrase."

Legolas murmured the phrase softly. "It sounds well to me."

Farohan shook his head. "I'm sorry. It feels strange to me."

"Have you not used it during your studies? Did you not say that you had sung in Adûnaic?"

Farohan frowned. "Yes, but it didn't have lengthened consonants."

Legolas regarded Farohan, unblinking. "Yes, it did."

Farohan crossed his arms. "No, it didn't!"

Legolas' gaze did not waver. "I remember clearly being told of words spoken by Huor of the House of Hador. There were many doubled consonants."

Farohan spluttered. "The House of Hador? That must have been during the first age! I only studied it as it was during the final days of Númenor. I assure you that there were no long consonants by then."

Legolas considered this, and then inclined his head. "Languages do change."

Farohan plucked a long blade of grass and wove it between his fingers. He closed his eyes, and the inside of his lids glowed red-gold in the brilliance of the sun.

Legolas remained in a crouch.

"I know," said Farohan and he opened his eyes. "I shall sustain most of the first note of the phrase on the 'n' and not that first 'a'. The 'n' will naturally stay long and will help me remember."

He sang the line. "Would that offend Elves' ears?"

"No, it wouldn't," said Legolas. "You sing it well now."

"At last," Farohan said and he stretched and yawned. "Pardon me!" He yawned again and wondered when the sun had risen.

"Perhaps you should sleep," Legolas said. "You have a little more time now. You no longer must have it finished for the day the Ring-bearers awake."

Farohan shook his head. "No. I want to have it ready for whenever Merry needs it."

Legolas looked at him closely, and Farohan flushed. "Perhaps," the Elf said, "you wish to show your master that you could have completed your task if allowed to."

Farohan looked down. "Perhaps," he said softly.

Silence passed.

"I am shamed when I think of why Frodo decided to leave his home," Farohan said.

"Why?" Legolas asked. If possible, it sounded to Farohan as if Legolas were perplexed.

"From what I have been given to understand, Frodo was quite well-to-do; he was comfortably settled. He had no reason to leave. He was not young, and he had no need to prove his worthiness. I have learned that most hobbits enjoy their comforts, and avoid disturbing ideas."

Legolas smiled.

"Yet I have not heard that Frodo once ever tried to avoid the heavy duty that was laid upon him. At the very least he could have passed the burden on to another at the Council of Elrond."

"He could have," Legolas said. "He was afraid, very much so."

"But he didn't," said Farohan. "I have seen mighty warriors who have braved dangers, and I have wished that I could have had their courage. Yet I have known far more of such dangers and lived near Mordor all my life, and yet I don't think I could bear what Frodo of the Shire endured. Nay, I am certain I could not!

"And for what? Why did he leave his homeland? He left to protect others. He left on the strength of a story, fantastical as it may have seemed to a hobbit. He trusted Mithrandir utterly, and the mere idea of the suffering of people known and unknown to him was enough to overcome the warning that all his senses and everyday experiences should have given him. This was no adventure, and he knew it. It was sacrifice."

"Yes," said Legolas. "He often thought of death. He wondered about it, and he feared it."

"He talked to you?" Farohan asked, startled.

"No. But we knew. Elves too wonder about death." Legolas' voice was low. "We know little of it. And we do not bestow the name of Elf-friend lightly. Not all of Frodo's thoughts were closed to us. And none were to the Lady Galadriel."

Farohan nodded. He couldn't speak.

Moments passed, and at last Legolas spoke again. "Let us continue."

Slowly, Farohan nodded. He looked at Legolas apologetically and lay back on the grass much as he had done when he first met Merry. With a visible effort he spoke. "I wish that I could sing the words as if an Elf were singing them. Your speech is liquid and flowing--much more so than ours. Yet I cannot seem to match it with my voice."

Legolas cocked his head and thought for a moment. "Perhaps another way of thinking would help."

"How so?" Farohan picked another strand of grass and tied it into a knot.

"Imagine a skein of silk. When you sing, each note, indeed each vowel, is a rain drop; they glisten, each one pure and shining, yet they are not alone. The drops run swiftly down the silk and so strand and water shimmer together."

Farohan sat up. "I shall think of your bowstring: the shimmer of the hair of the Galadrim!"

He closed his eyes and straightened. The bowstring shone before him. Crystal drops of water flashed in the sun. And he began to sing.

~o~O~o~

Merry grunted, and with a "whoosh!" he sat back.

"There's nothing wrong with your legs, at any rate!" Beregond said to Pippin as he watched Merry rub his stomach gingerly.

Merry chuckled and Pippin glanced at him. "It was you, cousin, who suggested I push against you," he said, aggrieved.

"I may have to re-think that idea," said Merry, but he smiled. "All right then. Let's see how strong your arms are. Push against my hands."

This proved to be more difficult.

"Ow," said Pippin, and he lowered his arms.

"More gently," said Beregond.

Merry nodded. "Sorry, Pip."

Pippin grinned. "My arms are fine. My ribs think otherwise. Luckily, it won't be my arms I'm standing on when Frodo and Sam wake up."

"That would be quite a sight!" said Beregond, and he laughed. "Even so, you'll still feel it!"

"Come on," Merry said, and placed his hand carefully against Pippin's. "Gently."

As Beregond watched the two hobbits begin anew, a gruff voice called from outside the tent.

"Is there anyone within?"

"Gimli," Beregond said, and at a nod from Merry, he raised his voice and bid the Dwarf enter.

Gimli did so, and looked at the stretching with interest.

"You grow in strength, Master Hobbit."

"I do!" said Pippin. "Not quite up to battling orcs, perhaps, but I'll get there."

"I doubt it not!"

"Have you seen Farohan at all?" asked Merry without looking up.

"No," said Gimli, "nor Legolas. It has been a full day since last I saw either one. If the minstrel truly learns Elvish, he attacks it with vigour!"

~o~O~o~

Farohan himself answered Merry's question that evening, as he and Legolas walked out of the woods, deep in conversation. They drew near the campfire.

"Hullo!" said Pippin. He was wrapped securely in blankets against the cool night air, and resting with his back against Beregond who cradled him carefully between arms and legs. "You look tired."

Farohan sat down slowly by the fire. "I am," he said.

"If you keep the company of Elves, you must look to your own need to sleep," said Gimli. "They forget that the rest of us cannot do without!"

"Yet he did sleep," said Legolas, "if not as much as he would have liked."

"And how is his skill in speaking Elvish?" asked Merry.

"It comes apace," said Legolas. "He has great skill in mimicking the sounds. However, the grammar escapes him."

Gimli shuddered and Legolas laughed softly. "Luckily he does not need to know the grammar as I have already translated what he wanted."

"I'm glad to hear that!" said Gimli. "And, Farohan, I hear that you did not mistake Frodo for Sam yesterday."

Legolas smiled at this and Pippin looked up. Merry leaned forward.

"Despite our meddlesome descriptions..." said Pippin.

"Which were true, I'll have you know," said Merry.

"...you still managed to pick Frodo out." Pippin shifted awkwardly and so Beregond leaned back a bit more against the tree behind him. "We've been wondering. What helped you choose?"

Farohan looked closely at each hobbit and suddenly his head tilted back and he smiled. He shook his head. At last he said, "We who tell stories of others learn to see."

"Yes, but how?" said Merry.

Farohan paused. "It was something that Pippin had said."

"What was that?" Pippin asked. He had finally found a comfortable position, and he stopped fidgeting.

Farohan took a deep breath. "You two, and Legolas and Gimli, gave me many descriptions. How could I choose one over another? Perhaps you will remember something you said that would have helped me in my choice."

"How can I remember everything I said?" Pippin asked.

Merry leaned towards him. "I can tell you that I never can."

"Farohan?" Pippin said plaintively.

But Farohan was silent.

And Gimli guffawed.

"The tables have been turned, it seems," said Legolas. "Our harper has his revenge."

Farohan only smiled.

Merry chortled. "I supposed we deserve it."

"Fine for you to say," Pippin said, nettled. "I'm the one who has to try to remember what it was that I said."

"Farohan," said Gimli swiftly. The hobbits stopped and looked at him. "What did you think of Frodo and Sam when you saw them? Were they what you thought they might be like?"

Once more all eyes turned to Farohan. "Yes," said Beregond. "I would like to know. I'm the only one here who has never seen them. I look forward to the day they awaken."

Farohan looked at him. "Then I would tell you that it wasn't that they were or were not as I imagined them but rather that, in seeing them, I understood more."

"How so?" Beregond asked.

"One's face says much. Even when I cannot hear the person speak, I can see what his thoughts and emotions have done to the shaping of his face. Are they merry or sad? Thoughtful or sour?" Farohan turned to the hobbits. "Sam seems to be one who enjoys being with people. Yet he wears his emotions easily and openly. There is no tension nor excess of display. His devotion to his Master must be deep but calm."

Merry nodded. "There was never any question in his mind, that he would follow Frodo wherever he went."

"Frodo, though..." prompted Pippin.

Farohan raised his hands, palms out. "No, no! Please don't ask me about him. Not yet. Please wait until I sing the lay. But," and he hurried on, "I would very much like to know this: you said that Frodo had a bright eye. What did you mean by that? What is the colour of his eyes?"

"Ah," Pippin said. "A deep warm brown--soft and gentle. And yet they changed with his moods -- dark when he was angry, but with a sparkle when he was merry. And when he dreamed of adventure, there would be a light in them, like starlight... like the elves." He stopped then and shook himself. He laughed. "There I go, getting maudlin again. Just like the other day."

But Merry shook his head. "No, not entirely maudlin. I saw it too, and I loved him for it."

All were silent. As Farohan thought of Pippin's words, he began to have the odd sensation that Frodo himself sat with them, silently watching with a calm but warm gaze--making no judgement but with hidden thought.

Slowly the sounds around them began to intrude once more. The fire crackled. Men spoke in the near distance at their own fires, and footsteps grew louder. Then the steps suddenly ceased.

He looked up to find Menelor standing near, gazing at him with an unreadable expression.

"Master Harper," said Legolas. "Would you join us?"

Menelor turned to him. "I thank you for your invitation, but I do not have the time." He faced Farohan once more. "I see that you spend time with your friends, yet I need your help with the lay."

Farohan began to rise, but Menelor shook his head. "I don't intend that you come at once. Finish your talking first." Menelor looked briefly around the group and inclined his head. Then he was gone.

"What was that about," asked Pippin. "What would he need you for? Doesn't he know the story?"

"He does," said Farohan. He took a deep breath. "I think that he wants to ask me about Frodo himself."

"Hmph!" said Merry. "He could ask us instead!"

"I know," said Farohan unhappily. "But it took me a lot of time to understand what I do of Frodo. It took me too long. My master doesn't have time. It is easier for him to use my thoughts instead."

Merry scowled. "I didn't take you to their tent so that you could spy on them for your master."

"I...I won't. I haven't," Farohan said miserably. "But I must tell him at least something of what I know."

"Then make it simple," Merry said. "If he doesn't know that you have seen them, don't tell him! Only tell him what you knew up to when he took the lay away from you."

"I won't," said Farohan. "I promise." He stood up.

"Is he displeased that you are also writing a lay?" asked Beregond.

"I...I don't know," said Farohan. "I haven't really seen him since he took on the task himself."

And with that, he left.

~o~O~o~

Pippin was the first to break the silence once Farohan had left.

"I like that!" he said and shook his head. "Take the task away from him and then expect him to do the work!"

"I am not surprised that Farohan hasn't seen his master these past few days," said Gimli. "They must have been avoiding each other."

"That tears it," Merry said, with such heat that the others looked at him in surprise.

"What?" said Pippin.

"This is silly. The whole thing. Farohan should be the one singing at the gathering. First thing tomorrow, I am going to talk to Aragorn."

"Woah!" said Pippin. "His mind is already made up. He won't listen to you."

A steely glint came to Merry's eyes. "Oh, but I rather think he will."

To be continued

Language note: The translation of the line, "Annant în guil a pullir cuino" can be interpreted as "He offered his life, so that others may live," or the more literal, but slightly less meaningfully-exact, "He gave his life, and they / the others lived."

Farohan's decision to sustain a note primarily on a consonant instead of a vowel comes from the idea that an 'n' can easily be continuous, unlike many consonants. I don't know if Elves would have ever sung on an 'n', but it is common, certainly, in Japanese music, and can be done melodiously. I have therefore taken the liberty of suggesting that this is possible in Sindarin. A somewhat supportive instance could also be taken from the beginning of the (Quenyan) phrase mornie alantië as sung by Enya in May It Be. There, a seperate "lead-in" note is sustained on the 'm'.

I also used these two websites to help me in with extrapolating historical change in Adûnaic: Ardalambion and The Encyclopedia of Arda. Any inaccuracies, however, are my own!

Disclaimer:  All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (except for the minstrel Menelor and the more fully realized Farohan who was nameless in the books). This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Chapter 11: The Voice of the Shire

Aragorn son of Arathorn sat on a stool in the middle of a large tent. It was not grand and the canvas was plain, but it was of good quality, and the pennant of the White Tree and the Seven Stars and the Crown flew above it.

Aragorn had just entered into a conversation with Gandalf when they heard voices outside, one with the clear, high tones of a hobbit. They exchanged glances and waited. They were not disappointed, for presently the guard lifted aside the tent flap and apologetically asked if Aragorn were free to speak to Meriadoc and Peregrin.

Aragorn nodded his assent, and the visitors were shown in. Merry strode in, dignity in his bearing. Pippin followed behind, supported by the careful hand of Gimli the Dwarf.

When Pippin was settled in a chair, Aragorn leaned forward. "How may I help you, gentlemen?"

Merry spoke. "It is about the lay that is to be sung for Frodo."

Aragorn frowned. "We have already discussed this. The master harper is the one who will sing the lay."

"Actually," said Merry slowly and carefully, "we did not discuss this. You told us of your decision. Beyond my comment to which you did not reply, there was no discussion."

Aragorn's voice was mild. "I did not, and still do not feel that there is a need to have one. I have made my decision."

"But it is not only your decision to make," said Merry. "Oh, bother. I'm so sorry. I hate talking to you like this. Even though we used to speak easily to you, things have changed. And I know that you see us now as soldiers with duties, but I hope that you can see that we are here in different roles."

"And what may they be?" There was no trace of anger in Aragorn's eyes, yet he was very still.

"Ever since I came to Minas Tirith," Merry said, "and stayed in the Houses of Healing, I have seen, or heard of how you have listened to and taken counsel from leaders or emissaries from other lands. You listen carefully to Legolas and Gimli and they have not been appointed to any such role. At least, that I know of."

"Yet what about the Shire? We are the only representatives able to speak concerning Shire matters. If Frodo were awake, I would defer to him; however, he isn't, and so I must take his place."

At this, Aragorn nodded. "Go on," he said.

"This may not figure largely in your thoughts, but my father is the Master of Buckland and I am to inherit that role. It is a well-respected position and one of great power for our kind. I hope and trust that I will be able to be as good a leader as my father is. But whether I will be or not, I am as good as any temporary emissary as you're likely to find."

"Your argument," said Aragorn, "is noted. However, the subject at hand is not a Shire matter. The lay was commissioned by myself, given to a man of Gondor and intended for an audience mostly made up of people of these southern lands. I know, of course, that there will be four hobbits present, yet it is precisely because I wish to honour two of them that I intend a completed lay to be sung."

"But it is a Shire matter! That's precisely it! Except for you and Gandalf," and Merry bowed to Gandalf who tilted his head in return, "hardly anyone knows about hobbits! I can't say how many rumours I've heard flying around both Minas Tirith and this camp, but if you were to believe some of them, you'd think Frodo was a tall elf who slew the Dark Lord himself! Others at least acknowledge his height but then they will believe any other nonsense that comes their way.

"It is simple. People know nothing of hobbits, and what little they have heard is twisted through rumour. Even those I speak to have questions they won't ask, and fantasies they won't control of peculiar people in the north. They don't hear us! And so I see a harper given your commission at the last moment who hasn't any intention of talking to either myself or Pippin, the only ones who can speak of our folk and our ways.

"Aragorn, we have no voice! If this lay is truly to honour Frodo, it simply must allow him, and the land he is from, to have a voice. Frodo is not an elf. He is not a warrior. The only way that the Men of Gondor and Rohan can truly understand is to listen to the harper who is willing to be that voice. Only Farohan has taken that time to truly honour Frodo, and to respect the only emissaries of the Shire that can speak for him."

Merry paused, out of breath. Both Aragorn and Gandalf spoke not a word but waited until Merry once more looked them in the eye.

"Only Farohan has earned the trust of this hobbit to present any lore about Frodo and who he truly is."

"Only Farohan has earned my trust," added Pippin.

"I see," said Aragorn. He thought for a moment, and silence settled heavily over them all. Merry shifted his weight to another foot.

Aragorn straightened, and Merry snapped to attention.

"And if Farohan is not ready, what then? Do you wish for Frodo and Sam to be greeted by an unfinished tale?"

"No," said Merry reluctantly. "But... oh, couldn't you just listen to him?"

Aragorn sighed. "It is my hope and plan that Frodo and Sam will awaken tomorrow. Whoever it is that sings has only one day left to prepare."

Merry stood tense and still. Aragorn fell silent once more. After a few moments he stood up, and immediately Pippin struggled to his feet. Gimli made a motion forward, but Pippin shook his head.

"I have considered what you have said," Aragorn said, "and I have come to understand more of your thoughts. My own concerns have not been answered, but I believe that I shall do precisely as you suggested. I shall listen to the young minstrel tonight."

Merry began to smile, but Aragorn continued. "I shall speak to Menelor and tell him of your concerns. If and only if he is willing for this to be done, I shall listen to both minstrels tonight. I shall listen to each lay and consider their merits--on their readiness, and their ability to speak of Frodo, and Sam, their deeds... and their culture.

"That is as much as I am prepared to do. I trust that this will answer your claims, at least in part."

"It answers them well," said Merry. "Thank you." And he bowed.

"One moment," said Aragorn. "I have listened to your complaints and I have accepted them. I do, however, expect this matter to not spread beyond those who know of it now. I must ask you who else knows of your grievance."

Merry blinked. "Beyond us, there is Legolas and Beregond. Farohan himself doesn't know that I have come to you."

Aragorn inclined his head. "I would have you ask both of them not to speak of this matter to others. I will not have Menelor's skills cast into doubt. He is not the one whose lay is in question, as he has felt compelled with good reason to take over with very little time before the end. No. Menelor will be the measure against which Farohan will be judged."

"I understand," said Merry meekly. "Thank you for listening to us."

"Thank you for putting this matter before me, said Aragorn gravely. "Indeed, if the Hobbits of the Shire are to have a voice, they would be well served by you."

Merry blushed but he only bowed, and Pippin did likewise. Gimli nodded, as if to himself, and moved to Pippin's side. Pippin leaned on the offered arm and with Merry following closely behind, they left the tent.

~o~O~o~

The remainder of the day passed much as did the day before. Farohan was nowhere to be seen, and the master harper Menelor could be heard from within his tent, singing in a low voice and playing snatches of melody, too softly to be heard clearly.

Merry paced about and fretted. "No one has seen Farohan. If he doesn't know to return in time, Aragorn will not hear him!" With fumbling fingers he rolled open and tied the front flaps of the tent tightly.

Pippin slowly lowered himself on to the side of his bed. "It's nearly dinner time. He must turn up soon. He wouldn't miss that, would he?"

Gimli laughed. "I wouldn't depend overmuch on that, Master Pippin."

From his accustomed spot by the tent opening, Beregond chuckled. Pippin shrugged and grinned. "I am merely proving that I am indeed a seasoned warrior. Is that not how you put it, Beregond? Always looking to their next meal, for there is no telling when there will be food in the future."

"Yes, Pippin," said Beregond, "but to watch you, one would believe that there never would be any food in the future."

There was a burst of laughter from Merry who had stopped pacing, but at that moment, Legolas appeared at the doorway to the tent. He inclined his head to Beregond, and then looked at the hobbits.

"Did you find him," cried Merry.

"I did," said Legolas. "He knows to come at the appointed time."

And with that, the crisis passed.

~o~O~o~

No man could be seen near Aragorn's tent. All those who usually slept within speaking distance had moved outward to join those at further campfires. At Aragorn's orders, guards stood at this new boundary, and no one was allowed through.

Within the tent, there were a small but solemn group. Aragorn and Gandalf sat upon stools at the rear edge of the tent, and completing the circle were the Master Harper and Farohan, each with their great harps, Merry, Pippin, and finally Legolas and Gimli.

Merry swallowed. Farohan seemed quite pale. He wondered briefly if the minstrel had had enough sleep the night before, and he rather suspected that he hadn't.

Aragorn then spoke, and Merry fixed his gaze upon him.

"With the Master Harper's assent, we have come to hear both him and his apprentice as they present their work. From this will I decide who sings on the morrow."

Aragorn turned to Menelor. "Who wishes to sing first?"

"It matters not to me," said Menelor. He looked at Farohan and said, not unkindly, "Which would you prefer?"

Farohan started and then shook his head. He kept his gaze lowered. Menelor nodded, as if to himself, and he settled his harp against his shoulder. "It will be me, my lord."

Merry straightened and took a deep breath. Releasing it slowly, he placed his hands palm down on the ground by his sides.

Menelor swept a hand over the strings of his harp. A rich sound sprang forth, and Merry could see Pippin unconsciously straighten.

Soon Merry closed his eyes, for to keep them open seemed quite unnecessary. The voice of Menelor, a deep stirring timbre, rose and fell, blending at times with the melody of the harp, and falling out of step at others in insistent messages of hope, fear, and triumph.

Merry listened in wonderment. Spoken through music, darkness seemed to lurk within the tent, until hope wove its gentle theme. Despair made blackness seem to come before Merry's eyes before it was dispelled by full notes of triumph.

He didn't know how long they had been sitting there before Menelor finally ended and the last notes stilled. When he opened his eyes, he saw Pippin hastily brush at something on his cheek.

It was a moment before Aragorn stirred and spoke. "Thank you, Menelor." His voice was low but all could see that he had been greatly moved.

"How will Farohan top this?" thought Merry. He looked over at the younger minstrel and saw, with a pang, that Farohan was still gazing at the ground, his fingers knotted together.

"Farohan?" said Aragorn. "Would you now play for us?"

Farohan started, and then looked up to meet Aragorn's eyes. "Yes, my lord," he said so softly that Merry could scarcely hear him.

But before he could pick up his harp, Menelor spoke.

"Come now. If you do sing tomorrow, I think that you would prefer this harp. After all, I did promise you the use of it!" And Menelor stood and brought the gleaming lebethron and mithril instrument to where Farohan sat.

Slowly, as if in a dream, Farohan took the harp and gingerly settled it against his shoulder.

Merry's fists clenched. At his side he could hear Pippin shift and settle. Gimli breathed heavily to his left. Of Legolas, there was no sound.

Farohan lifted his hands to the strings, and a melody began to weave through the air--a tune that had none of the power of Menelor. Yet Merry leaned forward, intrigued. For the melody was none that he had heard before, yet suddenly he knew a sympathetic feeling, a recognition that suddenly thrilled within him.

"Why," he thought, "they would like this at home!"

But then Farohan began to sing and the melody took on a deeper tone. Words of dreaming, wandering, and even a few that surprised in their bruskness rode over that melody. Yet through it all, his voice rose and fell in pure, liquid notes.

Images of Frodo walking through the Shire, and having long talks by the fire passed through Merry's mind.

But now the music changed, and something dark came. Merry swallowed, but reminded himself that it was but a song recalling the past.

"Frodo," Farohan sang, and Merry saw quick fingers amongst the short strings that shimmered near Farohan's shoulder. "Frodo," the minstrel sang again, and the deep notes sounded from the long thick strings that vibrated against his outstretched hand.

The light and the dark, Merry thought dazedly. But now friendship, in warm chords, rippled through the air and Merry felt glad in his heart. "Ah, Sam!" he thought with gratitude. "Oh, thank you, Sam!" He felt eased.

But now discord came jarringly, and Merry bowed his head. Notes and words of fear and despair curled about them, and Merry fancied that there was a weight that burdened him. Chords ponderously sounded and Merry bowed his head.

Now it seemed as if shadows were cast, and sullen notes flickered in the distance. They were growing louder though, and a chill ran through Merry as he thought: the Mountain is near!

But then a gentle tune wove itself through the deep and the burden was eased if just a little.

"Frodo," sang Farohan, and the high and low notes once again embraced each other, and Merry knew that what he wanted most was to hear his cousin's name again. Don't let him disappear! he thought. Stay with him, Sam! And so Farohan sang the beloved name again. Strings shimmered and vibrated.

But solace was soon gone, and an anguished cry came. Wounding words cruelly told of terrible deeds, and chords fought together. And then? One deep note ended all. One harp string quivered low.

Then softly Farohan began to sing again, and the sweetness of his voice soothed Merry. Shadows fled, and a calm sadness welled up inside him. He waited for what must be the inevitable end.

But lo! It was not quite the end, for a soaring sweep of strings brought joy to all the hearts of those who listened. And when the fast beating of hearts calmed, and breathing slowed, a delicate hushed chord brought the lay down, down, down to blessed peace and, at last, to sweet silence.

To be continued

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (except for the minstrel Menelor and the more fully realised Farohan who was nameless in the books). This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note: The long quotation at the end of this chapter is lifted directly out of The Return of the King. The words are written, of course, by Tolkien (George Allen & Unwin, 1965, p. 232). They are set in italics for identification.

Chapter 12: Silver and Gold

For several moments there was neither sound nor movement. At last, Farohan laid the great harp gently down and sat back. Merry raised his head and he saw the minstrel's hands shaking. Slowly, others stirred. Gandalf took out his pipe and lit it. Was that a tremble in his hands, Merry wondered, watching him closely.

"Thank you, Farohan," said Aragorn in that same hushed voice he had used for Menelor. But he did not speak further.

At last Menelor stood. He looked around the circle and stopped for a moment at Farohan. He then faced Aragorn and spoke. "I believe, my lord, when I say this, that these are not my thoughts alone. Farohan should be the one to sing for the Ring-bearers tomorrow. Despite my warning to you of three days ago, I think that he is ready. Not only is he ready, but he has done more than I thought he could in such a short time. Respectfully, I would like to resign the task--no, the honour--to him."

Aragorn looked at Menelor closely and nodded. "Merry," he said, "is this in accord with your wishes?"

"It is," Merry said. "And yet," he said after a moment of thought, "I'd be awfully sorry if Menelor's lay weren't heard at all."

"Isn't there some way for it to be sung?" asked Pippin. "Maybe on another day?"

Aragorn nodded. "I agree. Would you, Menelor, be willing to play at another time?"

"I would," said Menelor.

"Good!" said Merry, delighted. "That settles it then. As I said once before: two lays! Sam will simply be beside himself."

~o~O~o~

But as Farohan left the tent, Menelor pulled him aside.

"I want to tell you," Menelor said in a low voice, "that never have I been so surprised and delighted on hearing you sing as I have tonight. You have done well. You have truly done well."

Farohan's hands relaxed upon the pillar of his harp. "Thank you, Master," he said softly.

Then Menelor gripped Farohan's shoulder. "But never, never, never leave it to the very last possible moment again! You managed it this time, but if you do not wish to be the death of me, I beg you that that be the last time!" His voice was stern, but there was a twinkle in his eye. "Honestly--you had me thoroughly convinced that you couldn't do it."

"I know," said Farohan. "I know, and I am sorry. Yet that delay allowed me to learn and see in a way I would never have imagined. I wouldn't change one moment, even to spare you the anxiety."

Menelor shook his head. "I see that. And I wouldn't ask you to--not now." His voice became brisk. "Yet if you are to sing tomorrow, you had best sleep while you may. You are pale. I am quite sure that you have not slept in days."

Farohan laughed ruefully. "You are right," he said.

"Then go! I would not have you forget your words on the morrow for lack of sleep. Leave the harp once you reach the tent. I will wrap it. Go!"

"Thank you," Farohan whispered, and he obeyed Menelor's command with alacrity.

~o~O~o~

Men looked with curiosity at the four friends as they walked out of Aragorn's tent and across the emptied space. Yet none of the four spoke until they were past the guards. Then Pippin said, "Let's sit on one of those ships. I fancy being in the open tonight."

And so they did. Soon the two hobbits lay on the deck, Pippin covered warmly in blankets fetched by Gimli. Legolas stood at the prow, and Gimli sat with his back to the side.

"The stars shine tonight," said Merry. The ship rocked slightly beneath him, and the water of the Anduin gurgled and lapped against the hull.

"And Eärendil crosses low in the west," said Legolas. His hair lifted slightly in the breeze off the water.

"Frodo and Sam wake tomorrow," said Pippin. "We will see them again. Oh, Merry! Imagine that. Things really will be all right, won't they." Then he laughed. "As if things aren't all right now! But you know what I'm on about, I daresay."

Merry reached over and squeezed Pippin's hand.

"I know, Pip. I'm just as excited as you are."

A deep chuckle came from Gimli. "We all are. But just you remember, young hobbit, that if you intend on fulfilling your duties during the festivities, you do not overtire yourself in the morning. I would not like to see you fall over after too much enthusiasm!"

Legolas laughed then and he turned back from looking out over the water. "I fear it not. I shall simply whisper a few words in the ear of Beregond. He has proven most attentive to Pippin's needs. He will ensure that enough rest is taken!"

Pippin scowled. "He is not a nursemaid!" But his petulance did not last long. "Just imagine how Frodo and Sam will look when they hear the lay."

"The lay," Merry said as if in a dream. He laced his fingers and put his hands behind his head. He looked at the stars. "I felt as if I were there. Alongside them. I could feel it!"

"And I also," said Legolas. "It is astonishing that a mortal's music could move me so. Yet it is fitting, for it was written by a skilled singer for a friend whom I love."

"As for me," said Gimli, "the notes seemed like jewels that sparkled as they came forth."

"I liked the Elvish words," said Pippin. "It sounded as if he were singing the way Elves do." He raised his head slightly. "Did he, Legolas? Was he good?"

"He did not sound like an Elf," said Legolas. "But he sang the words well. Any Elf would be satisfied with his pronunciation."

"I think that means yes," said Merry. "And I'm sure old Sam won't be able to tell, or won't care anyway." He was quiet for a little while, and then suddenly raised himself on one elbow. "There were Elvish words?"

Pippin laughed. "Of course there were, silly. Didn't you hear them?"

"Well, no. I didn't," Merry said slowly. "Words didn't seem to.. to stand out. I don't know. I remember feeling what happened, but not hearing about it in words. How odd. I must have heard them."

"Fro--do..." Pippin sang.

Merry turned to him with shining eyes. "Yes. I did hear that. Oh, yes."

But then he was quiet, and so too were the others, until the full moon rose into the sky

And then at last, Gimli took up a sleeping Pippin and bore him back to his tent, and Merry and Legolas followed behind, each lost in his thoughts.

~o~O~o~

Farohan ran his hand over the wood of the wall that stood between him and the river. The grain of the newly cut wood shone golden in the late morning sun.

The King had this built for me, Farohan thought in wonder. He had asked for it and it was built.

Just a little towards the trees were three grassy hillocks fashioned into seats: throne-like in their stature, yet simple and rustic in their make.

They will sit there--all three, he thought and he knelt before them.

"They aren't here yet," a teasing voice said behind him. And before Farohan could get up, Pippin walked before him.

"But they will be soon," said Merry, and there he was also. "Have you heard? Frodo awoke early this morning, and Sam might at any time."

"Have you seen him yet?" asked Farohan eagerly. He sat back on his heels.

"No," said Merry. "Not yet. Gandalf is with them now, and we don't want to crowd around. Not yet, anyways!"

"Have you slept?" asked Pippin. "You look a sight better now than you did last night."

Farohan laughed, slightly giddily. "Astonishingly well. I thought that I'd be too nervous, yet I seemed to relax as soon as I lay down. I don't think that I have had such a deep and pure sleep since perhaps I was a child."

Pippin grinned. "Are you ready? Have you sung yet this morning?"

"Yes," Farohan said. "I assure you, Pippin, that I have indeed sung."

"Excellent," Merry said. "Ah, there was something we wanted to talk to you about--concerning the lay, that is."

"Oh?" said Farohan, a little warily.

"Don't worry!" said Merry. "We don't want to change anything."

"It's just," said Pippin, "that we don't want Frodo and Sam to know that we helped you with it: answering questions and all that."

"Why not?" asked Farohan, his curiosity piqued.

"Well," said Merry, "you see, it seems as if it would be more of a mystery or part of a legend if it looks like you didn't have help from all of us. A bit more magical, if you will. Sam would like that, I think."

"And they might feel a bit peculiar if they knew that we'd all been talking about them so closely, in such detail," said Pippin. "We don't know, of course, but they might."

"Of course we don't expect you to lie to them," added Merry, "but... just... don't offer them the truth."

"Unless they ask for it," said Pippin.

"And you can't escape," said Merry.

Farohan put up his hands. "I won't offer the truth unless they ask. But it is likely that I won't meet them; minstrels often do not meet the subjects of their lays." He shrugged and smiled wistfully. "We are only seen by them when we sing."

The Hobbits considered this. "That's a pity," said Pippin. "But I don't see why--"

Pippin's next words were cut off by a sudden stir in the woods and glades about them. As the three turned to look, Menelor could be seen carrying the great harp, all wrapped, and striding towards them.

"The perian Samwise has woken," he said when he reached them. "The entire company is preparing to come. The pheriannath will soon be ready to be brought hither."

Farohan took the harp carefully from Menelor's arms. "I am ready," he said.

"Then you will do well! And I hardly need tell you: send your voice forth as loudly as you may!"

And with that, Menelor left as quickly as he had come.

"We had better go too," said Pippin.

"Yes," said Merry. But as he turned to leave, he stopped and said, "I hope that we may still speak again. But if we do not have a chance, I would like to thank you for your great kindness. You listened to us, and... and you have become our friend."

"Yes," said Pippin. "Oh, I do hope we don't lose sight of one another!"

Farohan could not speak and only looked at them with shining eyes. But then, to his lasting surprise and delight, both Merry and Pippin bowed to him deeply, in the strange manner of hobbits.

They had to part then, for time was slipping away. But Farohan bowed his own head, with his arms around the harp, and he stood still and he waited.

~o~O~o~

The great company was assembled, and all was quiet. Then, calling through the warm air came the peal of a lone trumpet. The host turned as one and faced the archway of trees.

Farohan could not see past the companies of men. Standing, as he was, in front of the curved wall and to the side of the three seats, he could only see the King as he sat upon the grassy throne, the sword Andúril across his knees.

But then arose a great clamour from the host, and Farohan gripped the harp tightly.

They come! he thought, and he swallowed. They come!

And Aragorn rose and went forward. Farohan could not see him for the multitude of the host, but soon the King returned. A warm rush of gladness rose within Farohan then, for holding the hands of the King were Frodo upon the right and Samwise upon the left.

And jubilantly with all the rest of the company, he cried out in answer to the King.

"Praise them with great praise!"

~o~O~o~

And when the glad shout had swelled up and died away again, to Sam's final and complete satisfaction and pure joy, a minstrel of Gondor stood forth, and knelt, and begged leave to sing. And behold! he said:

"Lo! lords and knights and men of valour unashamed, kings and princes, and fair people of Gondor, and Riders of Rohan, and ye sons of Elrond, and Dúnedain of the North, and Elf and Dwarf, and greathearts of the Shire, and all free folk of the West, now listen to my lay. For I will sing to you of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom."

And when Sam heard that he laughed aloud for sheer delight, and he stood up and cried: 'O great glory and splendour! And all my wishes have come true!" And then he wept.

And all the host laughed and wept, and in the midst of their merriment and tears the clear voice of the minstrel rose like silver and gold, and all men were hushed. And he sang to them, now in the Elven-tongue, now in the speech of the West, until their hearts, wounded with sweet words, overflowed, and their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness.

To be continued

Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (except for the minstrel Menelor and the more fully realized Farohan who was nameless in the books). This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note: The quotation at the beginning of this chapter is lifted directly out of The Return of the King. The words are written, of course, by Tolkien (George Allen & Unwin, 1965, p. 232). They are set in italics for identification.

There is a fairly brief reference in this epilogue to a character that is from another story of mine: The Trial of Frodo Baggins. It is not necessary to have read that story to understand this epilogue, although it would bring background to the character. It is enough to know that this other character also learned of Frodo in his own way, met him briefly and, like Farohan, missed him greatly when he left Minas Tirith.

Epilogue

And at the last, as the Sun fell from the noon and the shadows of the trees lengthened, he ended. "Praise them with great praise!" he said and knelt. And then Aragorn stood up, and all the host arose, and they passed to pavilions made ready, to eat and drink and make merry while the day lasted.

~o~O~o~

All the rest of the day, Farohan and Menelor moved about the tables in the pavilions, playing their harps and singing as was their custom.

Only distantly could Farohan see the Ring-bearers, yet during the evening feast, he heard the glad voice of Samwise break through the clamour. Then he knew that the Hobbit had caught sight of Merry and Pippin as they were fulfilling their duties to their Kings.

~o~O~o~

Farohan did not see the hobbits after that day for a long time, for now that the waiting was over, his own duties as minstrel kept him busy, and the four hobbits went out and explored Ithilien together. But one evening, when Farohan was sitting on the banks of the Anduin and listening to the ripples of the water against the river edge, he heard a gentle voice from behind him, asking his pardon.

There in the soft shadows of twilight stood Frodo.

Farohan hastily moved to stand up, but the Ring-bearer bade him stay seated.

"It is easier for me not to have to look up," he said. "May I join you?"

"Of course!" stammered Farohan. "I would be honoured."

Frodo sat down but he was silent. Farohan studied him. In the last flush of fading light from the sunset, Frodo's face seemed younger, as if the light had smoothed away the fine lines that Farohan had seen earlier. But his eyes were of an aged soul, soft and thoughtful, but unhurried and at peace.

"You do not keep company with your friends tonight," said Farohan. "Are you well?"

"Oh no," said Frodo. "No. I am well." He looked out over the water and gave a little laugh. "I suppose I am in the mood for quieter company tonight. And when I saw you there, I thought I should like to meet you. I do hope you don't mind. Please let me know if I am intruding."

"You are not," Farohan assured him. "I was, in truth, enjoying the quiet, and the sounds of the breeze and the river. Yet I have wanted to meet you--very much."

Now, in turn, the Ring-bearer studied him. Farohan sat still and looked out to the ships that drifted in their moorings. He could still feel the Ring-bearer's gaze, but he patiently submitted to it. Surely it was Frodo's turn now to examine him!

And then, with a sudden smile, Frodo spoke. "Yes. I thought I knew you. You are the minstrel with the beautiful voice. And behind you must be your harp, wrapped closely though it seems to be. You sang the lay about--the lay that Sam loves."

"The lay about you," Farohan said gently.

Frodo looked down then, and Farohan caught a quick movement of his hands; the left covered and clasped the right.

"Yes," Frodo said softly. "The lay about me."

Farohan shifted then and sat, one leg folded beneath him, facing the Ring-bearer. "Was... was it all right? Did it meet with your approval? I... I so hoped that I took no undue liberty."

Frodo laughed then, and it was a lighter sound. "Oh no. No. Not at all. Do not mind me! If I seem sombre, it is just a mood that is on me tonight." But his voice became quiet again. "The lay," he said, and he lingered over the word. "Sam loved it ever so much."

Farohan let out his breath. "I am glad. So glad."

But Frodo continued. "Did you know--although I don't know how you could have--Sam had longed to hear just such a telling of the story, sung at some grand gathering." A note of wonder had crept into his voice. "He even had the name already chosen--the very same as yours."

Farohan started. Gandalf! he thought. Frodo looked at him and waited, but Farohan said nothing. And so Frodo spoke again.

"It gave me such great pleasure to see Sam's delight, and so I must thank you for your gift of kindness."

"It was my honour to be the one to sing that lay." Farohan said, almost fiercely. "The more I learned about what you had done, and who you are, the more I loved you. All who know you love you."

But on hearing these words, Frodo looked away. At last his own words came, low but with feeling. "You do me too much honour, I fear. Yet, for that, I must thank you. Sam and I have been shown nothing but kindness since we awoke, and these have been glad days."

Sudden doubt assailed Farohan. "I didn't... the lay did not cause you pain?"

Frodo looked fully at him then, and there was a faint smile on his face. "I suppose it did, a bit. Perhaps it is a sign of your great skill that I felt almost as if I were there once more. It is not a thing I would wish to visit again."

But when Farohan bowed his head, the soft voice spoke again. "Please do not fret. The lay was beautiful, and it has given great pleasure. And of all the rewards I think Sam should have, for all that he has done, this one is among the greatest. And so I treasure what you have done. For that, I would gladly listen to it again."

Farohan looked up again, and there was Frodo's face, gentle in the shadows. The last of the light lingered low in the west, but no longer did it reach the eastern shore of the Anduin.

Farohan never knew afterwards what had moved him to do what next he did. Perhaps it was the last of the twilight that faintly lined Frodo's face in some elusive manner. Perhaps it was something in the way Frodo leaned just slightly into the soft breeze, as if the wind were some living thing that brought its own whispers of what might be or what may have been.

"Come with me onto one of those ships," Farohan said. "Come--I wish to show you something."

And so the Ring-bearer, without hesitation or guarded feeling, followed the minstrel onto the nearest of the ships. Up to the prow Farohan went, bearing the harp and Frodo came after, content not to ask questions but to wait for whatever Farohan might do next.

And Farohan sat in the vee of the prow on a great pile of sacking that awaited the morrow's storage and he rested the harp, still in its wrapping, up high so that the breeze, stronger over water, beat softly against it.

"Sit close to the harp," Farohan said, and Frodo silently obeyed.

And when Frodo himself was perched high on a crate, Farohan whispered softly, "Listen!"

And he drew away the cloth with one hand as the other steadied the harp. And within the frame of the harp, through the shadowy lines of the strings, he could see Frodo's face faintly.

Softly at first the sound came, and Frodo leaned forward so as to hear it better. For the wind caught each and every string, from the greatest span to the smallest, and set them whispering, just a faint breath of a chime at the first. But as the breeze caught the strings more firmly, the whisper became a hum, and the hum became a stream of sound, as if the stars were ringing softly in the firmament.

Frodo's eyes widened, and he pressed himself closer--not quite touching--yet he was drawn to the strings as a moth to a flame. And he stayed there, with a faint smile on his face, unmoving.

And so they listened, and Farohan felt the wind stream through the humming strings, and it flowed through the dark curls of the Ring-bearer's hair in a steady, never-ceasing motion. It was not until at last the wind dropped and the singing of the strings ceased that the two moved again. But caught by the hush of the night, and the music echoing in their heads, they did not speak again but smiled instead and went separately to shore and to their rest.

~o~O~o~

After that night on the ship, Farohan did not see Frodo again save at a distance. Yet he was comforted in his disappointment, for each time he thought of Frodo's quiet joy that night over the song of wind and harp, he knew this: that even though he had finished his lay and learned what he could of Frodo, the story itself would continue. Frodo still had more of his own story to live. Yet Farohan often felt a pang of loss, for he knew Frodo would soon leave for his homeland and be no more amongst Men.

But it was on such a day, well into fall, and several months after the pheriannath had left Minas Tirith that Farohan met Legolas. Upon speaking wistfully of the Ring-bearer, Farohan was taken by the Elf to a dwelling on the 5th circle of the City. And here Legolas introduced him to a young lad.

"It seems to me," said Legolas to the two of them, "that you are united by a love for Frodo. Beregond told me of you, Fellen, when I was last in Ithilien, not five days ago. He bade me to introduce you to Farohan. For both of you miss Frodo, and both of you have thought to learn Sindarin because of him. I would teach you if you were willing."

And Farohan and Fellen each rejoiced to find in the other one who shared his thoughts, and they took up the offer of Legolas.

And through his friendship with Fellen, and their talks of Frodo, Farohan finally felt at peace. For he knew that Frodo was among his own kind in the land of the pheriannath where surely his tale would be told. And in Gondor? The lay would live and change, passed from one minstrel to another. For the harpers, the story-tellers--they would live and die, but the story of Frodo Baggins would continue for ever more.

The End