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