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