The library at Minas Tirith was a wonder for Frodo to explore. Stacks and stacks of manuscripts towered far above his head. The room held so very much he knew he could happily spend several lifetimes reading it all. Faramir was glad to guide him through the labyrinth. Sam was there as well, though sneezing more than once from the dust.Frodo smiled sympathetically at his faithful guardian. “Why don’t you go back to our room and rest, my Sam? I won’t have you taking ill.”

The gardener sniffled. “A bit of dust is naught enough to scare me off, master.”The Ring-bearer smiled further. “No, I suppose it’s not at that.”

The hobbits followed Faramir around, reading here and there or listening to the Steward translate for him. Frodo sighed in contentment and longing to lose himself here. He could almost forget all that happened and just be a scholar and scribe. Sam continued to sneeze, but refused to leave his master’s side. Frodo took his hand in appreciation.He looked at several of the manuscripts that were at his eye level. “Some many different hands, even some in Sindarin. I could spend forever here.”

“I would often be found here myself,” Faramir said with a smile. “I should have been elsewhere of course, but this place drew me in as nowhere else in the City. And as a small child, I could always find so many places to hide. Boromir was the only one who knew all of them, but he never told our father or the tutors who came looking for me. It became a refuge for me especially after our mother died. It was my own little world where I could read about all sorts of dangerous adventures and pretend I was someplace else than the dreary world that occupied my days otherwise. Here I could lose myself for hours. I would have stayed for days and weeks if I could have. I could trust my brother to bring me food and even a blanket, though he never understood why I was happier in here than anywhere. Here we could talk of mum and da and here he could comfort me. When I grew older, it was here that I learned the history of my land and to love it and to yearn for the return of the king and the restoration of Gondor’s glory of old.”Frodo stood and looked around in awe. “I do not doubt it.”

He looked another manuscript, one of the more ancient ones. “What is this one about?”Faramir looked at it. He paused for a moment before answering. “It is Isildur’s recounting of his gaining of the Ring.”

Frodo felt Sam’s hand tighten around him a bit in intuitive understanding that it would be needed. The darkness that had not bothered the Ring-bearer before now pressed down upon him. The torch that Faramir held seemed to be that of the Fire and the shadows it threw to those of the wraiths that had haunted him. His breath quickened and he felt about his neck for the thing that had so long tormented him. It felt as though it was there even now but he knew it was not. His fingers felt nothing, though his maimed hand and heart ached. Faramir looked at him concerned.“What does it say?” Frodo forced himself to say.

“Are you certain, Frodo?”The Ring-bearer swallowed hard. There was naught to fear here. Sam was with him and so was his newer friend. The torch light was not the flames of Mount Doom and the shadows were not wraiths. The Ring was gone. The Ring was gone...

Frodo took a shaky breath. “Yes. If Sam is not going to be frightened away by a bit of old dust, I will not be words just as ancient.”Faramir smiled slightly as he gave his friend a long look. His admiration for the Ring-bearer grew. Slowly he recounted the tale in Isildur’s own words, counting on Sam also to keep an eye on Frodo and alert him if it became too much.

When he was finished, Frodo was pale and Sam felt a tremor through the hand he held. “It was so long ago,” the Ring-bearer breathed, “yet it feels so real still.”“Yes, I think that is the magic of this place, if such a word can be used,” Faramir said. “Everything is still sharp here, whether it be of the Second Age or a later one. I think that is why I loved this place so much. There was a great sense of time here, not so much of the thousands of years as ancient history, but of those years still vividly alive and living alongside the present.. One day the tale of the War of the Ring will rest here.”

Frodo licked dry lips. “Yes, perhaps it shall.”Faramir smiled. “I shall be glad to read of it. I understand from your cousins, Pip especially, that your uncle commissioned you to write it.”

“Yes, he did.”

“Then I await it with great expectations.”

Frodo was silent. He moved away from the doom of Isildur and occupied himself with matters not so pressing upon his own. The riding to the Field of Celebrant thrilled him and Faramir and Sam were both glad to sense most of the tension had left the Ring-bearer’s body as he enjoyed himself again. At last he decided he had enough for the day and vowed to return when he could, and secretly wished it to be without Sam if he could manage it, as he ached for his guardian’s poor nose and throat.Maybe one day his volume would indeed find a place here. The last chronicle of the Ring.

He bowed as he left the room in reverence for the great weight of history and lives that were inscribed here. Did his tale truly belong? Yes, he was determined it would. The heroic fidelity of his Sam and the exploits of his cousins and king must be celebrated and left for the ages to discover. The only doubt he had was whether he himself belonged here among so many great people. He tried to ignore the whisper of Isildur’s words that sought to follow him. Precious to me...precious... The Ring-bearer clutched again for the chain that was no longer there and felt the weight of what it no longer held.