Notes and Observations by Frodo of the Shire

"In those days the Companions of the Ring dwelt together in a fair house with Gandalf, and they went to and fro as they wished." -The Return of the King

Rated R for violence

The characters belong not to me, but to J.R.R. Tolkien, praise him with great praise!

In Minas Tirith, Frodo grapples with the horrific events of the War of the Ring. The Companions try to help, but can there be healing for him in Middle-earth?

This story is something of a gap-filler, both in Minas Tirith and in adding Frodo POV at certain quest points.

Thank you to my wonderful beta readers: Naiade, Notabluemaia, and my very dear Nilramiel.

Chapter 1: A Blue Book

"I don't suppose you will be able to keep a diary, Frodo my lad..." -Bilbo, The Fellowship of the Ring



The Gondorian soldier looked apprehensive as he opened the door of the house. Frodo could see no initial reason for the soldier's tension. The white stone of the exterior gleamed in the morning sunlight, and Gimli caressed the doorjamb appreciatively. His name was Brethir, Frodo remembered, as the soldier stepped inside and turned with an uncertain flourish.

"It is close to the palace and in decent repair, my lords, and will be cleaned as your belongings are brought." Dirt and debris littered the floor, obscuring the intricate design of the tiles. The four Hobbits, Dwarf, Wizard and the Elf-prince milled around, leaving footsteps in the dust. Pippin sneezed and the Gondorian flushed. He began speaking rapidly, in what was evidently a prepared address.

"There are four rooms on the ground floor and two upstairs. The Steward expresses his regret that nothing larger was available. With the army's return, work will be speeded on the City's repairs, and the King's Companions need spend only a night or two in these undesirable quarters. In the meantime, you are to treat this house as your own, and use any of the furnishings you fancy—"

Brethir paused, taking in the echoing emptiness of the rooms, and plunged on bravely. "Or any additional items you require will be made available." He stopped, looking relieved.

Gandalf walked to the stairway that curved along on the far side of the room, and looked upward. "Tell the Steward these quarters will be fine. You may put my things in the westward facing room upstairs. I will be here and there and do not wish to disturb the others." He began climbing the steps as he spoke and soon passed out of sight. The others looked around curiously.

The door from the street opened onto a small hallway, flanked by a pair of formal rooms. Despite the disorder, Frodo could easily imagine them, as they must have once been, with spotless furniture and artwork carefully displayed. Not cozy or cluttered, for what he'd seen of the White City did not lend itself to such hominess, but fine and fair, cool and elegant.

"Only four rooms?" Merry asked. "It looks larger."

Brethir moved to the double-arched doorway in the rear of the hall. The hobbits followed, and saw a central courtyard surrounded on all sides by a vaulted cloister. The overgrown garden nearly obscured the stone pathways of the courtyard, and the small reflecting pool was dry.

"The roof of the main reception hall-" Brethir pointed straight ahead, "is damaged, but the kitchen to the left, and the dining hall are usable, as are two of the bedrooms upstairs."

Merry walked through the cloister into the long, empty room to their right, and nodded. "This'll do nicely, I think," he said.

The guardsman choked down an objection. If the Rohirrim halfling claimed this room, where would the others sleep? "Very well, and your choice, sir?" he asked Frodo. He had seen the honor the King paid this halfling.

Frodo thought that the man was asking where their meager belongings should go. He waved one hand vaguely. "Anywhere, it makes no difference to me."

Brethir looked surprised, and turned to Legolas. Yes, the Elf-prince was next in precedence. "Prince Legolas?"

Legolas shrugged lightly, his grey eyes merry. "It matters not where my cot lies. The joy of my companions' company is still too new for it to weary me."

The soldier gaped at him in confusion before turning to Gimli. "Master Dwarf?"

Gimli stroked his beard as he considered. "Place my cot by this window, Gondorian. That should be far enough from Master Pippin. I have no wish to listen to foolish babble all the night long when sensible folk should sleep."

"All of you in this room?" the guardsman blurted. He immediately turned beet red. "I mean, only with such high and puissant gentle-folk we are accustomed to make better provision—" He was further discomfited when the Company, excluding only Legolas, roared with mirth at these words.

"Young human," Gimli sputtered, "sleeping indoors marks luxury to old soldiers."

"Not to mention on a mattress instead of cold ground," Sam muttered.

The guardsman made no further demurral, and ushered them out to begin the work.

The hobbits watched for a while as men unloaded cots, packs, chairs and other necessaries from a heavily laden wagon and carried them into the house. Pippin sidled over to a carved chair sitting in the street and curiously fingered the gilt on the back. Bright flakes floated to the ground.

"Pippin!" Merry hissed and pulled him away. "Time for lunch. Let's go over to the barracks mess-hall."

Frodo did not reply, absorbed in the carving on the lintel.

"What is it, Frodo?" Merry asked.

"The family name, I believe. I wonder why this house is empty."

Merry shrugged. "Perhaps they fled."

Frodo looked thoughtful. "Perhaps." He trailed behind the others and said nothing more.

The next day, Frodo decided to indulge his curiosity about the carved runes. He questioned Pippin about the City of the Dead, and made his way there, prowling around with Sam in his wake, protesting.

"Couldn't you just ask someone, sir?" Sam said again.

"What would be the fun of that, Sam?" Frodo answered absently. He matched the carving on the mausoleum against his memory of the house runes. It was very similar—if this broken bit were filled in—yes, this must be it.

He stepped inside, hearing Sam's muffled "Mr. Frodo!" Openings under the roofline illuminated the tomb with shafts of daylight. Sam shuffled within, reluctance showing in every line of his body. An effigy rested atop a central dais quietly, nobility evident even in the timeworn features. The walls around were incised with his descendants' names.

Many names, some so old their carving had been obliterated. Long discolored streaks marked the walls under the roofline openings, marking the slow drip of rain over the years. More recent inscriptions were sharper, but fewer in number. Frodo walked the walls, tracing the Gondorian script carefully. The last name had a broken spear carved eloquently above it, and only blank stone after. Beloved son, the runes read.

"Brrr!" Sam said. "What a creepy place!"

"Do you think so, Sam? Rather sad, I thought." Little more than a score of years separated the dates under that last name.

"Can you read any of that?" Sam asked.

"A little," Frodo answered. "I don't think this family fled, Sam." He moved back to the names before, that of a man and woman. The wife's death coincided with the son's birth date. The dates under the man's name spanned sixty-five years, and the second date fell only three years after the death of the young scion. Frodo touched the cold stone gently. Last of the line.

He looked around the interior, seeing it with new eyes. It was grand indeed, with columns, statuary, and bowls for offerings.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"The line failed." He touched one of the bowls, covered in dust and grime. No sons to pour wine, and no daughters to lay flowers. Sam looked at him in concern, and he shook off the melancholy that enveloped him. "My curiosity is satisfied, Sam. Shall we return?"

Despite his words to Sam, he was drawn to further explore the house when he next had time to himself. The lower floor and Gandalf's room had been cleaned and furnished for the use of the Companions. The other upstairs rooms still contained possessions of the previous occupants.

Faded tapestries, and carved wooden chests, their fine workmanship still apparent. A magnificent bed bereft now of curtains and bedclothes dominated one room. A broken chair tipped forlornly on its side. All signs of the great family that had once inhabited this place.

In one room, shoved against a wall, he found a desk of marvelous workmanship, crafted with cunning drawers and compartments. Every possible item had a place; each space was labeled with the appropriate runes carved into the wood. He was overcome with admiration for its beauty, opening the compartment doors and peeking into the drawers, despite a faint feeling of trespass.

Would the tall Man who had sat here transcribing or translating care to have a stranger's eyes on his treasure? This desk had been important to someone who valued the written word and the page as highly as gold.

One open compartment held a few ragged quills in a space meant for three times as many. A drawer held brittle fragments of parchment. These shreds are all that exists of whatever that Man once prized so. Poetry? Chronicles? Perhaps nothing more than letters and missives, but still dear to the one who created them.

He was turning away when a gleam of silver in a lower compartment caught his eye. He rested his elbows on the wide writing surface, and saw a rectangular shape tucked far in the back. He pulled it out, realizing as he did that it was a book. It was half the size of Bilbo's Red Book, making it a very small journal for a man. The cover was of blue leather, embossed with the Tree of Gondor. Silver picked out a simplified version on the book's spine.

He hesitated for a moment weighing the book in his hand, in keen curiosity and anticipation. Books are valuable, and if this is some long lost record, overlooked these many years, then it properly belongs in the Hall of Records. The feeling of trespass had faded, as if his respectful behavior had convinced the sorrowing spirits of the house that he meant no harm.

He opened the cover, and suppressed disappointment. The first page was completely blank. Then he looked at it closer. Not the first page, after all. Down the book's center ran the jagged edges of torn-out pages. He flipped rapidly through the pages that remained but all were blank.

He went back to the torn out pages, feeling the edges, before carefully separating them. Perhaps some writing remained on the stubs? But the obliterator had been too careful; not even a stray inkblot remained.

He turned the book over in his hands. Why did someone remove these pages? There were no answers offered in the house's silence, so he set the book down and commenced a careful search of the desk. He found inkpots with dried ink, and a stub of sealing wax; a broken scraper and an empty seal drawer, neatly reinforced with iron and a lock, to protect those tokens of honor and duty. He found nothing that resembled torn book pages. A puzzle.

The desk was the room's sole furnishing, and the floor was uncovered wood, its rich varnish now scratched and marred. Rubbish littered the grate of the fireplace. He took one step toward the door that led to the other rooms and stopped. If one rips out the pages of a book, one might conceivably wish to destroy those pages. And the quickest method by far would be...the fire, which is right to hand.

Hardly daring to breathe, he went and crouched down on the hearth. What he had taken for rubbish was more of the desk's supplies. He identified charred quills, wiping rags, and a sand tray, and in the center a great sheaf of parchment, curled and completely blackened. He reached tentatively for the parchment, hoping some unburned portions remained buried within the stack. But at his first touch, they crumbled, falling into unrecoverable grey and black fragments. Too late. Too late.

He sat back on his heels, wondering if anything else was salvageable. The sand tray was decorated with an interlocking leaf pattern. Was that a mallorn leaf? He lifted a corner to examine it, and started when he saw pages underneath, buried in the sand that had spilled from the tray. Pages with a torn edge. He looked from the pages to the book in his hands, and then cautiously raised them from their long rest.

The pages were partially burned and grimy, but the sand had doused them before they could burn completely. The hand of he who wrote them was large and fair and Frodo could easily make out their sense: names.

Names covered the pages, with lines connecting them in groups.

Liamal—Daneril—Orhieon—Gobelir

Cimbacil—Huriador

Temoth—Beramon—Calor—Toriseth

A long and glorious lineage. He recognized some of the names from his visit to the mausoleum. He fingered the pages, remembering. The last child of this lineage had not been the last to die. And so that son's father, the last of a line stretching perhaps to fabled Numenor, sat in this room and destroyed his carefully written pedigree, burning it and the rest of his writings.

But why not burn the book as well? He turned it in his hands, looking from it to the desk. One to whom the word and the page were more precious than gold. Who could not bear to burn a book, not when there was yet some chance of use being made of it. Perhaps he had hoped to return someday and inscribe some other, fairer resolution.

But the design went amiss, for the book was small enough to the doughty Men of Gondor as to be nearly unnoticeable. It had lain forgotten until now. Frodo hefted the book thoughtfully, his face solemn as he considered. Unused long, but not forever. Books are meant to be filled with words.

He paused at the doorway, and then bowed to the magnificent desk. The action did not feel as absurd as he had expected it would. Notes. Won't Bilbo be surprised? The last thought brought a smile to his face as he left the room.

One of the chests the soldiers had brought had contained a box of writing materials, most likely intended for Gandalf's use. Frodo did not think Gandalf would begrudge him their use. Perched on one of the windowsills of the former dining hall, now filled with the Companions' belongings, he took up a quill. The sill was wide and low enough to be a hobbit window seat, though hobbits had been long forgotten when this house was built. He opened the blue-leather book and wrote on the first page:

Personal Notes and Observations

By Frodo Baggins of the Shire

Intended as an addendum and supplement to the Red Book memoir of Bilbo
Baggins.

Then he turned that page over and began at the top of the next:

6 May 1419

The White City of Minas Tirith rejoices in the return of its long-
fabled King. The King's Companions (including myself) have been given
much praise and honor. Several popular songs have taken the city's
fancy, including one entitled: "The Halfling Prince."

In it, the Halfling Prince comes to Minas Tirith and manages to single-
handedly defeat many enemies, turns several of the Guard on their
heads, and drinks a prodigious amount of ale. Although Pippin firmly
denies any connection between himself and the song, I suspect he is
its main inspiration, especially as the song states—

Frodo jumped as a hand fell on his shoulder and a large blot marred "he called for another cup."

"What are you doing, Frodo?" Pippin asked him.

"I was writing, Pippin," Frodo answered. "Now I am blotting."

Pippin looked over his shoulder and read out: "And could down three ere he supped." He looked sheepish. "Why are you writing that down?"

"I thought it worth preserving," Frodo answered. He tilted the book and blew on the offending blot.

"Frodo," Pippin began in an exaggeratedly patient voice, "why are you sitting here alone writing doggerel when it's a beautiful day with sights to see and ale to taste?"

Frodo watched the ink lose its shininess as it dried. He blew on it again.

"Merry says to me, Pip, where's Frodo? Anyone seen Frodo lately? And, no, I hadn't. And Merry hadn't. And Sam hadn't either, which surprised him since he was sure you were right behind him when he was walking out of the mess hall. So then, Merry says, blast it, where's he gotten? And Sam says, well, I don't remember what Sam said but it wasn't good."

The inkblot was completely dry now. Frodo picked up a parchment scraper and tried to tease up the edge of the blot. Concentrating, lest he rip the page with the unfamiliar instrument in his weakened right hand.

"So they decided we should look for you. Merry went to the Houses of Healing. Sam went to that place on the walls where you stand and look out sometimes. But I thought, perhaps Frodo was tired and wanted to have a nap. I will check the house and here you are. Writing, so you say."

The scraper skittered across the surface of the blot without lifting it. Frodo muttered under his breath, and began again.

"Frodo, you are not listening to me," Pippin complained.

This time, the scraper slipped neatly under the edge of the blot, and flicked a goodly portion of it off. "I am listening, Pippin. I haven't seen the need to respond yet. I am fine. I only wanted to think. "

Pippin's hand, sun-browned and strong, caught Frodo's as he tried to apply the scraper again. "Alone?"

Frodo looked up into his eyes, which were concerned and not nearly as careless as his prattle had been. "Yes." He tried a small laugh. "It need not concern everyone if I simply wish to sit alone and think for a time."

"But it does. How can it not?" Pippin said quietly.

Frodo sighed. Since when is Pippin so sensitive? Or so perceptive? He is grown, and in far more than in height. He and Merry and Sam, all grown in their ways; larger than they were. Except for me. I alone end this reduced; less than I once was, not stronger but weaker.

"Yes, how can it not," he agreed tonelessly. He closed the book and set the scraper atop it. Shoving thoughts of writing aside for the time being, he stood up and faced Pippin. "Did you say ale to taste, Pip?"

Pippin's smile flashed across his face, driving the worry from his eyes. "You were listening."

"I'm always listening, Pip," Frodo assured him as they left the house. "Even when I'm snoring." Pippin's laughter rang merrily across the courtyard, and even as he joined in, Frodo wondered at it. Can it be so? We two laughing in Minas Tirith, together again? We, who so recently despaired of all, love, care, even life? Then they hurried across the yard, for Merry and Sam were waiting.

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/TBC

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Author's Note:

The names are entirely of my own invention. :)