A/N: Sorry about the delay in posting; I had some writer's block with this chapter, and then I had to do some research. Thanks to Tangelian and alkaline_night (both on LJ) for proofreading and providing preliminary feedback. There are additional notes at the end of the chapter explaining my sources in some things.

Disclaimer: As always, I endeavor to make it as realistic as possible, but this being a story means that I can also tweak things so they fit what I want. ;) I wouldn't recommend you try any of this at home, whether the treatments or anything else I mention...

_Chapter 18, Life Goes On_

"Please tell me that was the last of them," the King's mutter was heard by only his intended audience.

"I'm sorry, the next will be the last, and then the ambassadors from Umbar wish to conclude their business. Apparently they have a time of festival approaching, and would like to return home for the event," Faramir replied in a hushed voice, and he tried unsuccessfully to hide his amusement as the King sighed heavily and yawned.

"Tell me, Steward, will it always be like this?"

"I cannot say. But I doubt there will always be such disturbances on the third level."

"And we have our friend Joram to thank for that. Even in death he causes trouble," Elessar groused.

"But he is gone now, and once repairs are made, we can hope it will not happen again."

Their conversation was cut short when the last six prisoners arrested the night before were brought before the King. "You are here to face charges of disorderly behavior, setting fire to buildings, and attacking soldiers of the King. What say you?"

The sullen men, like Joram before them, made no answer.

"Then I pronounce this doom: you shall labor to repair that which you have damaged, spending your nights in confinement. Once your work is completed, you will spend an additional week in confinement. You will then be free to go about your business, but if you are ever brought before me again, know that I will not be so lenient." He motioned for the guards to come forward. "Take them away."

As the men were escorted out, another soldier approached the throne, bowing as he said, "My lord, there is a woman outside, saying you instructed her to come?"

King Elessar had been in the midst of rising in preparation to go meet the ambassadors from Umbar, but he sat again when the soldier spoke. He was confused for a moment, then remembered the woman from yesterday. "Ah, yes, Joram's wife. Send her in."

The disheveled woman stepped forward timidly and fell to her knees before the King. "M-m' lord," she stammered.

He smiled kindly as he assured her, "You may stand, my lady. I have been told you are -or rather, were- the wife of Joram and have two children by him. Is that correct?"

She nodded as she stood. "Aye, m' lord."

"Have you any means to support yourself and your children?"

"N-no, m' lord. We be livin' wi' me fambly."

The King considered her for a moment, then replied, "Scribe, let a deed be drawn up that gives ownership of Joram's tavern to this woman, his wife. She shall also be given a sum of money with which to purchase the necessaries until she sells the tavern or can open it again for patronage."

The woman again fell to her knees. "Thank ye, m' lord."

~~~~

The concluding negotiations with the representatives from Umbar proceeded more quickly than anticipated, the eagerness of the foreigners to return home making them more amiable and compliant, and by the close of the day all parties were satisfied with the arrangements. When word spread to the other dignitaries of the imminent departure of those from Umbar, they too became anxious to depart for their homelands and insisted upon immediate audiences with the King to finalize their treaties. Yet the King is but one man, and when confronted with so many demands for his presence, he can only do so much. Thus it took several days for him to address the varied concerns brought to his attention, and left almost no time to eat or rest, much less pay a visit to certain halflings dear to his heart.

While the hobbits were overlooked by the King for a time, they were by no means forgotten. Jael continued to attend them, doing her best to adequately amuse the four demanding beings who were quickly growing weary of remaining cooped in the same room. She was always relieved when the wizard or the Steward paid a visit and provided distraction to the small ones, often bringing food as well (which was also more than welcome). Esli called upon them at least once daily, and the elf and dwarf would come by at unpredictable intervals, with tales of their tasks in the repair and improvement of the city.

When nearly a week had passed in this state of affairs, Gandalf brought an unexpected piece of news: he'd picked out a house for the Fellowship to reside in for as long as they remained in the city, and they could relocate there on the morrow. The stream of excited chatter continued long into the night, inquisitive hobbits asking endless questions of the wizard who soon regretted having said anything at all. Finally eyes began to droop and mouths erupted in cavernous yawns, and Gandalf made good his escape as Jael convinced them to go to bed.

The house was a modest two-story affair, set into the wall of the sixth level. It contained a number of bedrooms, though not so many that the hobbits could each have his own, as well as a sizeable kitchen, a sitting room of decent proportions, and a study that Frodo instantly took a liking to. Its window, complete with a window seat that was low enough for a hobbit to use unaided, overlooked the city below and wide fields beyond, the shimmering ribbon of river dancing along the edge of the picturesque view. The room itself, unlike so many in this city of stone, was paneled in a rich wood, with bookshelves set into the walls and thick carpets upon the cool floor. Two armchairs, separated by a sturdy table, were set before the fireplace, and a large desk stood opposite the door.

In his exploration of this room and its contents, Frodo discovered a beautiful set of pens and some paper in a desk drawer. He eagerly picked up one of the wooden instruments, marveling at the gentle curves made to fit comfortably in one's hand and the carefully molded metal nibs in a variety of widths that could be fit into the pen. His hand curled about it in the familiar manner, though the pen was far larger than the quills he was accustomed to. When it failed to come to rest upon his middle finger, instead falling into the gap between his fingers and resting there upon the healing tissue, his face fell as he realized that he could no longer write as before. He hurriedly put the pen back into its place in the tray and slid the drawer shut with a slam, composing himself before leaving the room to find the others.

They were outside in a fenced courtyard alongside the house, containing a slightly overgrown garden, one of the rare gardens to be seen in the crowded city. Sam was delighted by this discovery, and Frodo was grateful for a place he could get some air without having to face the people of the city. When the sun was shining he often took his naps here rather than in his room, and Sam would tend to the weeds -so as not to fall out of practice- while keeping an eye on his master.

Jael continued to look after them, her growing ease with cooking for the hobbits most useful since Gandalf, Legolas, and Gimli were often away during the day and, as was to be expected, the kitchen's accoutrements were over the hobbits' heads. She also was one of the few people Frodo would heed in regard to his wellbeing; she, in collaboration with Sam, made sure he rested at least twice in the day and didn't allow him to leave the meal until he'd eaten enough to satisfy them. Mostly thanks to this care -though Frodo would never actually say so- his health slowly improved.

The remaining Fellowship had inhabited the house for about a week before Frodo was again drawn to the desk's drawer and the writing materials inside it. Sam looked on from one of the chairs before the fire, an old gardening text he'd found in the citadel library open upon his lap, but his eyes often strayed from it. Merry and Pippin soon came to watch as well, drawn to the room by the not-so-subtle language being used by their cousin towards the pen, the paper, the ink, the nib, and anything else that particularly vexed him. They were not as discreet as Sam, however, instead standing on the other side of the desk and propping their elbows on the edge, watching Frodo's every move.

For his part, Frodo was not about to admit that he was having trouble grasping how to use the unusual pen. It was too big for his hand, he could not figure out the best way to arrange his fingers upon it, he could not seem to get the ink to draw properly into the tip so all the ink rushed out into a large puddle the instant he brought the edge to the page... it was a most frustrating situation.

And his cousins were not helping. They were making comments about his efforts: a sarcastic remark here, a derogatory comment there, and when added to his already building frustration with himself and the whole situation, they soon pushed him to the edge of his tolerance. "Enough!" he cried finally, casting the pen down in frustration, where it immediately began to make a puddle of ink upon the already spotted page. "If you haven't anything better to do than poke fun at a poor fingerless hobbit, I have something you can do," he said in exasperation, glaring at them as they peered at him in wide-eyed astonishment. He hadn't been this angry at them in quite some time.

Frodo slid down from his stack of books upon the chair -to boost him high enough to reach the desk- and stalked over to the bookshelves where he'd stashed all of his borrowed items from the citadel library. A number of books and folios of papers met his perusal, and he had to pull several out and peer closely at them before he found what he wanted.

"Here," he said, handing one stack to Pippin before retrieving another bunch and shoving it into Merry's hands. "I want you to learn as much as possible from these before we leave. Then you can tell me about these histories once I can actually take notes. Pippin, you have material from Gondor; make sure you learn all of the Stewards' names and their years of leadership. Merry, yours is from Rohan. I want to know all of the kings and their interactions with Gondor or other nations." He crossed his arms and sternly met their surprised looks. "Now go away."

They obeyed mutely, eyeing their armloads with trepidation. Once the door closed behind their retreating backs, Frodo returned to his perch without another word and resumed his attempts.

~~~~

It was mid-afternoon when Gandalf returned to the quiet house. The silence made him instantly suspicious, for while the hobbits can move almost without noise, the only time their voices can't be heard is when something is wrong or they are planning something. Especially these four.

He peered into rooms as he passed, looking for the hobbits, a thin trail of smoke from his lit pipe the only indication of his presence. At length he heard voices, and using them as his guide, found Merry and Pippin in the sitting room, laying on the floor with a spread of books and papers before them.

"There are so many strange names all jumbled together... I can't make any sense of them. Why don't they use longfather trees? It would be much easier if there was a tree," Pippin lamented.

"So make one," Merry suggested irritably. He wasn't getting very far himself and sorely wished Pippin would stop prattling so he could have a chance to think in peace.

Pippin brightened at this idea, but after a moment's thought, he retorted, "The paper is in the study," as if that settled the matter.

Gandalf chose this moment to join the conversation. "What is wrong with the paper being in the study?" he inquired, entering the room and sitting in a chair near the unlit fireplace, his robe brushing the hobbits' feet as he passed.

"Frodo is in the study," Pippin informed him matter-of-factly.

"He's angry at us," Merry added.

"So what have you done to deserve your cousin's ire?" the wizard asked, knowing full well there would be a story behind it.

The pair looked at one another before facing Gandalf with guilty expressions. "He's trying to write again," Merry explained softly, "and we were teasing him about how badly he was doing. We took it a little too far and he got mad, gave us this stuff, and told us to go away."

"He's trying to write, is he?" Gandalf murmured thoughtfully, chewing on the stem of his pipe. "What is that he gave you?"

"Old records and histories of Gondor and Rohan. We're supposed to learn as much as we can to tell him later."

"They're dreadfully dull and there are far too many strange names," Pippin complained.

"I have no doubt, Peregrin Took, that if you can keep your own family history straight, you shall have no trouble with the line of Stewards," the wizard remarked. "Men do not have as many children as is common with hobbits."

"It's still confusing," Pippin grumbled under his breath.

"Perhaps your idea of putting the names into trees has merit. That method of reckoning families never caught on amongst Men, I fear. I think I shall look in on Frodo and see if I can liberate some paper for you," Gandalf said, rising to his feet and moving toward the door, leaving the hobbits to themselves once again.

~~~~

Even after his cousins' departure, Frodo had no better luck in persuading the pen to behave, much less convincing his hand to produce a legible stream of ink across the page. He even tried wrapping his hand around the barrel, much like a toddler would when first presented with such an item, but to no avail. His only progress was in getting the ink to take a little longer to run out of the tip, making a streak instead of a puddle.

Sam still watched in silence, wondering from time to time if he should at least offer to help, but then a muttered oath or a scathing glare directed at the paper or pen would convince him that perhaps it was best to leave Frodo alone.

Finally, with a cry of frustration, Frodo flung the pen across the room and buried his face in his hands. He looked up again when he didn't hear the pen clatter to the floor on the far side of the room, and instead a quiet 'thunk' drifted to his ears. To his surprise, he saw the pen sticking out of the wall, metal nub having dug into the wood paneling, still quivering from the force of the impact. Sam was startled as well, and wondered with some concern what Frodo was going to do next.

A mischievous gleam in his eye, Frodo pulled open the drawer and eyed the other five pens in the set. Working slowly and deliberately, he picked each one up, fitted it with a nib, and let it sail to bury itself in the dark wood, happy that he'd found something the instruments were useful for (since obviously they were useless as far as writing was concerned). He had just let the last one fly when Gandalf opened the door, the pen just barely missing the wizard as it impacted the panel right beside his shoulder.

Gandalf stopped in his tracks and surveyed the wall, not sure if he should be annoyed or amused. Tending more toward the latter, he turned and addressed the embarrassed hobbit. "Writing not going well?" he asked dryly.

"No, not really," Frodo admitted before yawning and scrubbing his face with ink-spotted hands. "Those ...*things* don't work like quills. And they're not exactly hobbit size."

"Indeed. If you're serious about writing again, there are several purveyors of quills and pens in this city. We can find some that would better fit you," Gandalf suggested, coming to the desk to see what Frodo had managed to do.

"Of course I'm serious! I promised Bilbo to bring back news, and any old songs and tales... and I can't possibly remember everything. But all I have so far is a page that looks like it was in a war of ink."

"As do you," Gandalf chuckled. Frodo had ink smudges and smears dotting his face, his hands were almost completely black, and his shirt would likely always bear a number of splatters from the ordeal.

The hobbit seemed to realize this as he looked down at himself and said with a small laugh, "I seem to have made a mess." He climbed down from the chair and stretched before heading for the door. "I'd better go wash up."

"Where is Jael?" Gandalf asked as he followed Frodo into the hallway, with Sam trailing behind.

"I think she's," he yawned, "at market."

"Perhaps you ought to take a nap once you're a little cleaner..."

~~~~

The outing in search of the proper sized quills commenced the next day, so after second breakfast, Gandalf, Frodo, and Sam set out for the fourth level. Merry and Pippin had pleaded to come along as well, but given that Frodo was still rather annoyed with them, the wizard did not think it wise and advised them to tour the city with Gimli and Legolas if they wanted to leave the house (given recent events, he did also not think it wise for any of the hobbits wander the city unaccompanied by one of the Bigger Folk).

The nearest quill seller was on the fourth level, and at first Gandalf insisted that they take a cart so the hobbits wouldn't have to walk the whole way; his concern was mostly for Frodo, though he didn't say so, knowing what the result of that would be. Frodo would have none of it and insisted on walking, saying he needed the exercise to help him recover. It would have been a standoff but for Sam's suggestion that if they walked, then Frodo would simply have to allow Gandalf to carry him if he grew tired. Frodo was reluctant, but once the wizard made it clear it was either that or the cart, he agreed and the three set off.

It did not take long for them to reach the small shop, most of the way being downhill after all, and upon recognizing the three, the proprietor was most eager to please. Frodo was fascinated by all of the different quills and pens and inks, and could have happily spent several hours poring over the variety of wares, but the stale air of the shop did not agree with him and spurred several coughing spells that quickly persuaded Gandalf to make their trip as short as possible. The shopkeeper proved most capable, recommending several types of quills and suggesting a few methods to figure out the most comfortable way to hold the implement in spite of Frodo's missing finger. He also provided a pen knife small enough for the hobbits to use with ease, allowing them to try several ones out until they found the one that worked the best.

As the man wrapped up the quills, knife, and a pot of ink he'd given them without charge, Gandalf prepared to pay him, and Frodo and Sam browsed through the boxes and displays of elaborate pens. Some looked like quills but used the same nibs as a pen; others were carved from wood and decorated with inlays of gold and silver and a pearly-colored substance. The nibs were also made from a number of materials; some looked like wood, others metal, and then there were some that were a pale white color that neither of them had seen before. "Tha' be iv'ry," the shopkeeper put in, having come over upon the completion of his business with Gandalf. "From them tusks." He demonstrated by hanging a few fingers by his mouth.

"From oliphaunts?" Sam asked, wide-eyed.

"Aye. I been sending away fer these, and right pricey too, but wi' them dead un's outside, I be makin' meself a fortune! Soon I'll have iv'ry pens and iv'ry nibs and iv'ry..."

"We must be going," Gandalf interrupted the man, to Sam's relief. He didn't relish learning all the uses for the tusk of an oliphaunt, though he wondered who first thought of using such things for such purposes, anyhow. Frodo had been listening with one ear to the conversation as he coughed again; Gandalf had him step outside into the better air while he rescued Samwise from the garrulous proprietor.

Bidding the man farewell -though Sam felt rather sorry for him, having no more customers to talk to- they turned their steps back the way they came, walking for a time in silence.

"The first time I go anywhere since all this happened, and it's cut short," Frodo grumbled.

Gandalf looked down at him. "Would you rather you hadn't gone at all?" he prodded him gently.

"And why do the gates between levels have to be at the very opposite ends of the level?" the hobbit continued. "It takes ever so long to get anywhere."

"It's a very good defense, as Pippin can likely tell you," the wizard countered.

Frodo sighed, then coughed, so they halted until it ceased and Frodo could continue. "And why is any return trip always uphill?"

Gandalf stopped and crouched in front of the complaining hobbit. "Frodo, are you tired?"

"Yes... I mean, no! I'm perfectly all right."

"You know I know you better than that, my dear hobbit. Now come, let me carry you."

Frodo opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking to Sam for support. But Sam had been about to ask Gandalf if he shouldn't carry Mr. Frodo now, so Frodo found no sympathy there. "All right," he grudgingly accepted. Once Gandalf picked him up and the three continued on, he admitted, "I feel like such a child, needing to be carried about and taking naps and..."

"No one here sees you as a child, Frodo. Just look around you," Gandalf directed with a motion of his hand toward the people of the city nearby. Then Frodo noticed they were bowing as the trio passed. "They honor what you have done, Frodo. They certainly see no child, just a brave halfling who is recovering from ill treatment."

"Brave? Hardly what I'd call it."

"Nevertheless, the statement remains."

Frodo said nothing further, instead lapsing into thought. By the time the house came into view, he was dozing in Gandalf's arms. The wizard carried the hobbit to his bed, gently prying the wrapped package from clinging fingers before laying him down. Eyebrows quirked as the sleeper felt the change, but smoothed out again as he shifted and lapsed further into slumber with a sigh.

~~~~

The next day Frodo resumed his attempts, but this time he had not the excuse of foreign implements to explain his difficulty. Ink flowed as it should, the quill fit his hand much better, but it was as if he had forgotten everything he ever knew about writing the simplest things. Sam was watching him silently, peering over the edge of the desk while standing on his tiptoes, so Frodo addressed him. "Why isn't this working?"

Sam looked at the paper thoughtfully and answered slowly, "Maybe it needs to be reminded how it's supposed to go."

"Reminded?"

"Aye." Sam came to the other side of the desk and stood on one of the chair rungs, reached out and, putting his hand atop his master's, guided him to form an uneven but legible letter. "Like that."

Frodo looked at it, and then at Sam, and said, "Come up here and sit with me?" So both hobbits knelt on the chair, Frodo slowly and painstakingly tracing the letters Sam helped him form before trying his own, and Sam providing guidance and suggestions when needed. It was how Bilbo taught each of them and they remembered it, but neither spoke of it.

Both curly heads were bent over their work when Jael peered in, curious about what they were doing. She came in the room, but was momentarily distracted by the map next to the door, pinned to the wall with... were those pens? Indeed, they look to be the pens... She concluded that hobbits could be quite inventive.

Jael drew near to the desk, looking at the books and papers before peering at Frodo's writing. "Does it say anything?" she asked, unable to make heads nor tails of the markings.

"No, they're just letters," Frodo replied. Then he whispered a question to Sam, who shook his head and shrugged. Frodo slid off the chair and went to the bookshelf, pulled off a rather weighty tome, and returned to the desk with it. He handed it up to Sam and climbed back on the chair. As he flipped through the dusty pages, he commented, "I didn't think I'd actually use this book. I just thought it looked interesting."

"What is it?" Jael wanted to know.

"An old book of names. I'm hoping it'll tell me how to spell yours..." he replied, turning pages more slowly as he neared what he wanted. "'Jael'...'J'... ah, here it is!" His eyebrows raised as he read the entry. "I warrant you didn't know your name is from a word for a female goat," he said with some amusement.

Jael laughed. "I did not, though I'm sure my brother would've believed it. He always said I was quite obstinate."

Frodo had pushed aside the book while she was talking and was slowly writing on a new leaf of paper. "There. Jael."

He handed her the paper, which she looked at with awe. "That's my name?"

"It is."

"What about 'Esli'?" she asked, giving back the paper.

"Hm, let's see..." he turned again to the book. "'Esli' isn't listed... but it seems easy enough..." He again bent to work, then handed Jael the result. "Esli."

She looked at it carefully, trying to memorize the curves of the lines so she could recognize it if she ever saw it again. "What about the two of you?"

Frodo's writing was a bit more confident now, as he spelled out the familiar names. "'Frodo Baggins' and 'Samwise Gamgee'," he said, handing the paper back again.

"What do they mean?"

"I... I don't remember," Frodo replied after a moment's puzzled thought. "Sam, did Bilbo ever talk about our names?"

"He did," the gardener answered, "but it were a long time ago... I think mine's half-wise, and yours is... wise, or learned, or some such thing."

"I see," she said, glancing at them and then back at the paper.

Frodo watched as Jael looked at the new words, then realized something. "You don't know how to read, do you," he murmured, but it wasn't a question. "You've got the paper upside-down."

Jael blushed as she righted the sheet, and admitted, "No, I cannot read."

"Would you like us to teach you?"

She slowly put the page down as she regarded them in amazement. "You... you would do that?" she whispered.

"Of course! It's the least we can do for all you've done for us... for me."

Jael swallowed and looked down at the list of names, just groups of random marks now, but that held the promise of being understood... "I would like that very much," she ventured with an uncertain smile.

Both hobbits returned the smile. "Then let's begin," Frodo said briskly. "We'll need to find another chair..."

~~~~

It soon became quite typical to find the two hobbits and one woman all huddled over the desk in the study, Frodo writing, Jael reading, and Sam leading them both, much to his discomfort. The Steward had paid the house a visit not long after Jael began learning to read, and at Frodo's request he located a few beginning primers that had been packed away after he and his brother had mastered them.

Jael learned quickly, though she felt it forever before she could recognize even the simplest of words. It did not take long for Frodo to be able to write with some alacrity, his hand finally adjusting and compensating for what was lost until the strokes closely resembled his handwriting of old (though still rather messier than before, which he daily laboured to correct).

A day soon came when all of the foreign embassies had departed and all other business was for the moment settled, and the King finally could stroll down to the sixth level to call on his friends. Aragorn's visit lasted long into the night as the Companions reveled in being in one another's company without the stiffness of behaviour required at formal feasts.

He came more often after that. One day the conversation strayed to when they would all be able to leave and return to their respective homes, to which Aragorn replied, "At last all such things must end, but I would have you wait a little while longer: for the end of the deeds that you have shared in has not yet come. A day draws near that I have looked for in all the years of my manhood, and when it comes I would have my friends beside me." But of that day he would say no more.

Later Frodo asked Gandalf, "Do you know what this day is that Aragorn speaks of? For we are happy here, and I don't wish to go; but the days are running away, and Bilbo is waiting; and the Shire is my home."

"As for Bilbo," said Gandalf, "he is waiting for the same day, and he knows what keeps you. As for the passing of the days, it is now only May and high summer is not yet in; and though all things may seem changed, as if an age of the world had gone by, yet to the trees and the grass it is less than a year since you set out. And Aragorn himself waits for a sign."

TBC

A/N: The last three paragraphs from the chapter are taken directly (with a few modifications) from RotK, "The Steward and the King," p. 949 in my copy (Houghton Mifflin paperback).

I found myself doing some considerable research for this chapter, having known basically nothing about quills and other such things. Name research was done at http://www.behindthename.com. For anyone who's interested, Tolkien says in Letter 168 that Frodo's name basically means "wise by experience" (a reference I found via the Encyclopedia of Arda: http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/).

Information about quills and pens; some of which I found fascinating (though I ended up not using much of it, but it helped get the general idea of things):
http://www.flick.com/~liralen/quills/quills.html

http://www.regia.org/quills.htm

http://medievalwriting.50megs.com/tools/quill.htm