Disclaimer: If I could write like Tolkien, I'd be rich. But I can't (though I try), and I'm not rich, so please don't sue me.

A/N: I know… the song's not the best. But, our heroine is not an expert songwriter either, so it kind of works. :) Again, review even if you think everything is terrible. Let me know if this is still staying faithful to Tolkien's style.

Chapter 2: A Song in the Dark

We came just South of the ruins of Osgiliath. Its tall stone towers could still be seen from afar; from where we stood, I looked at the pale gray of Gondor's former Capital, proud but vague and ruined. I wished that I could have seen it instead at the height of its glory. If Osgiliath which had been so grand could be reduced to this, then what of Minas Tirith? What would my City resemble after the hosts of Mordor assaulted it? Would there be one pillar left that still stood, or would there be a single stone left untouched?

I turned sharply away from Osgiliath. I had to go on, for I could not bear to dwell one moment longer on the images of Minas Tirith in a heap of rubble. "Make haste!" I cried as we crossed a small ford about three miles South of the old city. "The Lord Faramir was not jesting when he said that the Enemy would strike here first and hardest."

The sun was getting low on the horizon in a fierce display of crimson and orange and deep gold when we reached the crossroads. Frodo looked along the long north-south road and ahead at the short pass that led to Morgul. "Which way?" he asked.

"East," I responded, "and ever East henceforth. These crossroads mark the last portions of civilized and friendly lands. I shall have to cross this line eventually. But I cannot do it in a simple step."

A terror filled my heart suddenly, and I looked North towards the statue of the King of old. It was titanic, and weathered away by the years, much more so than when I had seen it last in more friendly times, when I had not feared to cross this road. But the statue was marked by a much more horrifying mutilation. Atop, where the head should have been, there was a crude stone crafted in the likeness of a face with a singular red eye branded on the middle of its brow. I turned away in horror, but as I did so, I noted that the King's head had been rudely deposited on the ground nearby. It was badly marred, here broken or cracked, there scrawled upon in mockery with some crude tool. Many of the former facial features could not be discerned. I sank to my knees, despairing, and I noticed that the two Hobbits had come up behind me and were looking at the stone head with curiosity.

"Alas that the Enemy destroys everything we have, even our bit of feeble hope," I said. "I have heard rumor that the King is returning to Gondor at last. Will he not come? Or will he fall lifeless onto the battlefield, to be maimed and hewed by Orc-axes, even as this stone?"

The sun, or what was left of it, was now a sullen blur on the Western horizon. Even then, it shined brighter than it had during the day. This, I feared, would be the last glorious sunset before the twilight of the East covered all. For, by some device of the Enemy, the days were steadily darkening.

But for a moment, the sun broke through the clouds, and briefly illuminated the King's fallen head. And we beheld it, and saw that a wreath of flowers was placed over his head, as if someone had come by to coronate him.

"Look, Mr. Frodo! The King has got a crown again!" Sam exclaimed.

"There is hope left," the other replied. "They cannot conquer forever!"

I stood in silence, continuing to gaze at the fallen head even after the sun had once again hidden itself behind the cover of the clouds. And my heart was a little lighter, but my body no less tired.

"We shall rest here tonight," I said. "I can go no further, and I am sure you are just as weary," I said to the two Hobbits. "And at any rate, it is safer to stop here than on the road to Morgul. We shall continue before the hour of dawn, though if we waited for a true dawn, we would never get started, I fear."

I could not sleep that night; my mind was too preoccupied with worries. Why were these two Hobbits going to Mordor? Surely, they knew they were walking to their deaths. What was their purpose, and why was it so secret? Faramir had told me to lead them on; so why had Denethor sent riders to trap and recall us? What was the Mighty Weapon that he fancied so?

Most of all, I worried about Minas Tirith. I pictured tens of thousands of cruel Orcs surrounding it, hurling stones at it, and trying to make it go down in history as the cruelest and most short-lived siege. I grew concerned for many of the City's civilians, whom I had befriended. But most of all, I thought of the landscape that first captured my heart. I determined that I would be strong and not succumb to tears; but the more I thought about cruel Orc stones breaking the ancient towers of the City, the more upset I became. Finally, I started to shake, and I looked up at the starless sky with tears in my eyes. And all of a sudden, as if it was the last thing I could do to bring myself some cheer, I started to sing. My voice was cracked and broken by tears, but I sang out in a muffled voice:

So beautiful that City was,
And each stone laid with care,
All Gondor's glory it displayed,
In towers proud and fair.

I sang over and over again as I thought of Minas Tirith in its beauty. Then suddenly I stopped, for I heard stirring behind me. I jumped to my feet, prepared to run, though I knew I could outrun no Orc. But it was Frodo, whom I had woken up. He sat up, one hand propping up his chin. "I am sorry," I told him, and sat back down. "I did not mean to wake you."

"I do not think it was you who woke me. Even a slight change in the breeze can cause me to stir nowadays. But your song made me curious. Come, tell me more about it."

I sighed. I was not wont to talk at the moment, but then, I could think of no better use of my time. Sitting, staring at a cheerless sky, and brooding would not help me sleep easier. "It is no song of the wise or fair, as you could probably have divined, and that verse does not do my City proud in the slightest. It is a stanza from a song I wrote about my life, though it sounds outlandish to do such a thing."

"I think not," Frodo said. "My cousin with whom I lived in the Shire was always writing songs about everything – about his life, his adventures, his feelings. I miss him dearly." He had a distant look in his eyes, as if remembering a lot of things all at once. "But that is another story. I should very much like to hear yours now."

I looked up quite suddenly, for I heard more stirring in nearby, and I saw that Sam had now sat up as well. He approached us curiously, taking his seat next to Frodo and facing me.

"My past is no matter for small talk," I began, "and my song is as one of a foolish child compared to all others of my people. The words are few and simple, and the melody elementary. Yet, if you seek sleep, then perhaps one stanza of my song shall provide that for you!" I laughed grimly before I reluctantly began:

Long years I spent in the Northwest,
Among folk big and small.
Like a shadow I dwelt in the Bree-land,
As a mystery to all.

Though I dwelt there with my kin,
No comfort did I find.
I longed to travel the wide world,
And restless was my mind.

Ere long the secret was disclosed
That I was of Mixed Race.
Then I was frowned and spat upon,
And looked on with disgrace.

As an outcast I turned to the East,
To the very Edge of the Wild.
My eyes beheld nothing save dark, grim land,
And I forgot how to smile.

How I wearied of aimless wandering,
And how I longed for home!
But I would long be bound to this fate –
Forever doomed to roam.

After long years I traveled South,
With no hope of a home,
Until I saw the White City,
And then I ceased to roam.

So beautiful that City was,
And each stone laid with care,
All Gondor's glory it displayed,
In towers proud and fair.

All Big Folk frowned at me, but I
Stood strong and took my place.
And at long last, I was received,
Though I was of Mixed Race.

In lore and maps I became learned,
And all the Big Folk wondered.
At last, their love and trust I earned –
Thenceforth, I never wandered.

I turned to Frodo and Sam, who had both remained silent. Sure enough, Frodo's eyes were closed, and I thought he had drifted into slumber from boredom, and Sam stared blankly into the distance as though he could doze off at any moment. But Frodo spoke after a few moments. "I liked it better than I should have from your description of it."

"Yes, I did too," Sam finally spoke up, albeit hesitantly. "It reminded me of one of old Mr. Bilbo's rhymes." And, with a tired yawn, he stretched out on the ground once again and was soon asleep.

Frodo, apparently still unable to find rest, stayed sitting up a while longer. "Something still puzzles me about your song," he said. "You speak in riddles. Tell me what you mean by Mixed Race."

"I was born in the Bree-land. If you have journeyed through there, you know that Hobbits and Big Folk dwell together there in peace. But they do not intermarry. That is what made me an outcast: my mother was a Big Person, and I had a Hobbit father."

"Now part of the riddle is solved, for this is how you know of Hobbits and their ways. The large, unshod feet and the height had also puzzled me, but I will wonder no more."

"You are blessed to be a full-blooded Hobbit. I had much more difficult circumstances to face. I was looked upon as an outcast, and no one understood me. I was mocked incessantly. Finally, I left. At first, it was because I was restless and because I wanted peace from the mockery and quiet. But I continued wandering out of necessity. One cannot remain long in those cheerless lands East of Bree for long without losing all hope and spirit."

"I know of what you speak, for not half a year ago, I had my own adventure in those parts."

"In that case, I am sorry for you. It was good fortune that you did not stay long! I roamed in those wild lands for years, eating what I could from the land, and doing all that I needed to just survive. I would describe it with any word but adventure. But, come; let us not talk of this now. We have little hope as it is, and the journey will only become bleaker henceforth. You ought to do as Sam has and sleep in preparation for the next stage tomorrow, young Hobbit."

"You call me young, as if I were yet in my tweens."

I laughed grimly. "And are you not? Even if you have come of age, you are still young to me. I would guess that I am at least thirty years your senior."

"That is quite impossible, even if you speak of Hobbit years, unless you have not aged despite all your wild wanderings. For I am going on fifty-one years come this fall."

"What! Fifty-one years! Now I shall marvel again. You do not look a day over your coming of age. Take that as a compliment, if you will, begging your pardon for my ignorance. But I am younger than I look. I look every bit of seventy-five as Hobbits reckon it, but in fact I am only going on sixty-eight. That makes me about thirty-seven in human years."

"Now that sounds like it is within reason. Still, you are eighteen years my senior – I am yet a young Hobbit to you. Well, I shall say goodnight now, and hopefully it will be. Sleep well!"

He turned away and lied down on his side and was asleep shortly thereafter. I stayed up for a little while in thought. Frodo was a Hobbit both compassionate and agreeable, so long as he wasn't in the process of acting as if he were the elder and dictating to me what I ought to do. No matter, I thought, stretching out on my back and trying to sleep myself. Take each day's worries as they come. With nothing to worry about for the present moment, I finally fell into a last peaceful sleep.