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 9: For Eyes to See That Can

The Ring-bearer’s tent stood apart from all others in a quiet glade shaded by beech trees crowned golden green in the new leaves of spring.

There were no guards at the entrance, yet Farohan could see watchful eyes following his and Merry’s steps as the two made their way across the rough lawn. If Merry had not been with him, Farohan thought, no doubt challenges would have been made and he would not have been able to take one step further.

The tent was small and simple, but made of a fine linen that hung in panels that could be laced together tightly or rolled up one-by-one and tied. They were hanging loosely now, both letting in a soft breeze and affording the hobbits who lay within privacy from curious glances.

Merry stopped just outside. He looked at Farohan as if considering what to say, but nothing came. Instead he lifted aside the cloth over the entrance and went in. Farohan stooped and followed him.

Inside, the light coming through the tent was gentle. The canvas overhead was dappled with sunlight that shifted, glowing, as the branches above moved in the breeze.

Two beds there were, each with a hobbit, and Farohan started. With dismay, he realized that he had almost forgotten about Sam, so taken had he been with the Ring-bearer’s story.

He looked at Merry. "Which one is the Ring-bearer?" he asked.

"Frodo," Merry said sternly, but with a smile.

"Frodo," Farohan repeated.

"I shall let you decide who he is," Merry said. "After all, you’ve heard enough about him from the rest of us. We gave you Gandalf’s description. Come on! Let’s see if you’ve been listening."

Slowly Farohan walked to the end of the first bed and stopped.

Stout, red-cheeked, and perky, Pippin had said. Yet Legolas had talked of Frodo’s being fair and recognized as Elf-friend.

Farohan peered closely at the hobbits. With dismay, he realized that each of them could fit one of the descriptions. Both shared the same characteristics of Halflings as did Merry and Pippin, yet both were quite different, each in their own way.

The hobbit closest to Farohan was stouter than the other, although he had the look of one who had lost some weight. He had lighter coloured hair and, with a slight creasing at the corners of his eyes, he certainly seemed as if he could be perky, or at least good-humoured. But even with a plain but good-natured face (as it seemed to Farohan), he didn’t seem to be one that could be described as "Elf-friend."

Farohan moved a little closer to the second Halfling. This one had dark brown hair, and a much thinner face. The skin was far more lined than the light-haired hobbit. It had not the deep lines of a face weathered over time, but very fine lines as if some artist had lovingly, but sternly, drawn the face. Farohan rather thought that the artist (or artists) had been care, suffering… and determination.

He stepped back. The first hobbit seemed to match Mithrandir’s description, and stories from Merry and Pippin seemed to support it. Frodo’s own kin would know him well. Yet the second hobbit’s face brought Legolas’ words strongly to mind.

Farohan dithered. From the corner of his eye he could see Merry watching him. He felt as if he should answer quickly, but still he wavered.

Then Pippin’s words came to him: "...much of what he used to be has been burned away as if in a crucible."

Farohan turned to Merry. "The further one. The dark-haired hobbit is Frodo."

Merry smiled broadly. "That’s right," he said and he went to his cousin’s side. And for all that Merry and Pippin had been somewhat irreverent towards Frodo, as soon as Merry knelt beside the Ring-bearer, his entire demeanour softened. He caressed Frodo's cheek gently, briefly.

Gone was the practical and brisk hobbit. Gone was the challenging but humorous look in Merry's eyes. Instead he gazed down at his cousin with such a look of love that Farohan felt humbled for witnessing it.

Merry stood up then, so abruptly that Farohan stepped back startled.

"Sorry!" said Merry. The brisk hobbit had returned. "I shall leave you then. Take as long as you’d like. I’ll be outside."

"Thank you," Farohan said softly.

~*~*~

Once Merry had left the tent, Farohan knelt down between the beds. His back, however, was to Frodo.

"I nearly forgot Sam," he thought ruefully. "Frodo could not have achieved the Quest alone." He settled himself firmly down on his heels and resisted the temptation to look behind him.

After a moment, he leaned forward slightly, captivated. Here was a plain face, yet those tell-tale creases at the corners of the eyes once again told their story. Good-humoured, this hobbit was. Sam's skin still had some smoothness of youth, yet Farohan could detect signs of weathering from sun and wind.

"A gardener, Lord Aragorn said," he thought. "A gardener given to laughter: fond of jokes and storytelling--perhaps over a pint with friends."

Farohan frowned then and shook his head. "No," he thought. "That is something I would like him to be, but not necessarily what he is. Don't write about him to satisfy yourself!"

With a brief thought that Merry would know, he brusquely tucked his imaginings away for the time being.

"But he is loyal. He was ready to sacrifice all simply to help his master."

A feeling of great humility took Farohan and he bowed his head. And suddenly another thought came to his mind.

"He wouldn't feel at all comfortable if he knew a stranger were sitting here so closely; he wouldn't like to have someone examine him so intently."

And once again Farohan did not know if this were idle fancy or the truth, yet the thought was strong.

"I would like to know you, Master Samwise," he said out loud. And with that, he respectfully turned away.

At last, Farohan could gaze freely upon the Ring-bearer, and soon all thoughts of Samwise had fled. For while Sam's face spoke of comfortable geniality, good in its simplicity, Frodo's gave the feeling of depth.

Frodo's face was beautiful, yet there was not the smooth beauty of youth. It seemed to Farohan as if a fine net of subtle etching had been laid upon the skin. Over time, Frodo's face had altered, yet the change occurred not in the distant past. It spoke of two beings: the hobbit he once had been--dreaming, wandering, yet tied to his homeland--was in counterpoint to what he had now become: old and beautiful and knowing.

"Fro...do....," Farohan said. The light sound of "Fro" whispered softly, undergirded by the heavy bell-like "-do." The melodies Farohan had played before the gates of Mordor rippled and intoned in his mind.

Both natures were Frodo's heritage. No longer was he the light-hearted but intense hobbit that tramped through his green homeland, although those memories were dear to him. Instead, the peace and gravity now etched upon his face were of a beauty that had grown through care, toil and wisdom; they were of one who had fought great evil and who had known evil within himself but after all, and through it all, loved that which he had sought to protect. There would be no return for him to the simple life of the hobbits, Farohan realized, not now--not for one whose face spoke of such knowledge and such sorrow.

He bent his head then in grief and new-found love for this halfling.

After some time had passed, he raised his head once more, and that was when he caught sight of Frodo's right hand. It lay unbandaged on a cushion of clean linen. New pink-red flesh covered the wound, but the skin was uneven: uneven but not jagged. The finger, thought Farohan, seems to have been cut or perhaps bitten off. Farohan pondered Aragorn's words in the original telling of the tale. Frodo had fallen at the very last to the temptation of the Ring, and had only been saved from that horror by being robbed of the Ring by Smeagol.

Should he not conceal this fact, he wondered. Would it not bring pain to the Ring-bearer to hear it sung aloud? Yet by the grace of mercy, by the pity Frodo had shown to another, he had been saved. Surely that was a thing to be praised, to be shouted aloud in awe and gratitude. Farohan looked at the still face once more, and suddenly he knew that while Frodo might deeply regret his own deed at the Sammath Naur, he would in his very wisdom accept that it had happened. No. The Ring-bearer would not be one to hide what he had done either for the sake of his own pride or for fear of censure. He would expect nothing less than the tale in its entirety.

"And that is what I will do," Farohan told Frodo earnestly. "I will tell them all of the story, no matter who it is that may hear it. And the telling of it will both grieve them and enrapture them so that they will love you all the more."

~*~*~

Farohan came to himself with a start. Merry stood by him. The shadows on the canvas had shifted.

He rose to his feet stiffly. Frodo and Sam slept on in that odd yet peaceful stillness. Hushed, Farohan followed Merry out the door, with just one longing look backward.

Outside Merry looked at him with a soft smile. Something, Farohan felt, had changed.

"What do you wish to do now," Merry asked. "Do you need somewhere quiet to write?"

"No," said Farohan firmly, for sudden clarity had settled over him. "It is not the time for me to write more words. I need to speak to Legolas. It is time for me to learn to sing in Elvish."

To be continued