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