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.

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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