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