Author: Sam

Story: Leather-bound: Prologue: 0 of ?

Series: n/a

Rating: R: Violence

Summary: The Red Book of Westmarch is being written (this is basically a prologue to the rest of the series).

Spoilers: Hmmm... how about the entire Tolkien Middle Earth collection? We're talking stories covering The Silmarillion, The Hobbit, and Lord of the Rings. I left nothing sacred if I could help it.

Category: Series: Song-Fics, Movie & Bookverse, General.

Setting: Bag End as well as The Red Book of Westmarch, though the series will take you to the ends of Middle Earth and back.

Disclaimer: LotR is a trademark of JRR Tolkien and his surviving children. I am in no way connected with these people, and I do not claim ownership to these characters, lands, or names. I have borrowed them to share a story... and most likely not a story Tolkien would have written, had he had the time or no. I am making no money from this, and it is just for my entertainment, and that of free entertainment to a select group of friends. I also do not own any rights, even mental, to these songs used in the series. They were all written by someone else and I am in no way claiming or making money off of them; they are noted by italics or asterisks surrounding them. Thank You.

Distribution: Please ask first?

Notes: I give you only excerpts from The Red Book of Westmarch not the entire story, as to write that, I'd be writing as much as Tolkien himself originally wrote, if not more. This series is merely being used to highlight certain events of the book, and certain songs, which really remind me of these events. Yes, this series is based on a collection of songs I've gathered. These may also be given out of order of the actual story.

Song Note: One by Denisse Lara. You can find this song on the Pokemon 2: Movie Soundtrack, but don't let that dissuade you from reading this.

Feedback: Yes, please? Especially constructive. samwise_baggins@yahoo.co.uk

Webpage: http://www.oocities.org/samwise_baggins/index.html

Shuffling slowly, joints stiff with age, the Hobbit made his slow way to the large bookshelves of his home in Bag End. Standing there, slowly reading over the carefully lettered spines of the leather-bound books lining the wall, aged eyes tired but still fully sighted, he sighed. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he took the book with the red cover down.

The old Hobbit slowly made his way to the wooden desk nearby. Climbing carefully, painfully, into the cushioned chair, he sighed with the effort of adjusting his aching bones into a tolerable position for the hours ahead. It wasn't an easy project he had set up, but it was one he felt compelled to begin, and hopefully end, before he left for his last journey. He hoped that journey would be some years in the future; he would miss the Shire.

He began a ritual of preparation: checking inkwell, sharpened quills, and book. Yes, he was ready. There was nothing more he needed; young Frodo had made himself available to take care of any problems that might pop up, though he hardly knew what the beloved older Hobbit was doing in the study. He hadn't been told and had refrained from asking, though watching over Bag End took him from his own pursuits. For this concession, the would-be-author was extremely grateful. This would be difficult enough without the questions clever young Frodo could devise.

With a sigh, at last, he opened the book.

A wrinkled hand smoothed over the crisp parchment. He read slowly through bits and pieces of what was already written. After only minutes, however, he stopped, knowing it was just a delaying tactic. He wanted to write this book, but he found the memories hard to relive, hard to merely put into words on paper... hard to sterilize by writing them rather than telling them. It felt almost wrong to do such a thing to the wondrous, beautiful, horrible story he had to tell. However, time would not run backwards and the words needed writing before no one was left to write them. Several of his companions on that long journey were already gone; he could not risk leaving this too late: he needed to pass it on.

Dipping the quill into the ink, the elderly Hobbit paused, thinking. How to begin? With a slow, soft chuckle, he nodded. At the beginning, of course, that was how to begin any tale. Of course, he could easily begin with something to draw people in, as he would do when telling the story to an audience. With a decisive nod, he dipped the quill again, smiling now, and began to write. The quill tip scratched across the page as he poured out his words, his memories, his emotions... his life.

Has it really ended? I'm not fully sure, actually. Perhaps, the journey continues indefinitely. But you may ask, just what legend do I speak of? Just what glory do we have? What has occurred to merit begin told again and again? Those questions are not easy; they do not flow from the tongue smoothly, nor do they sit easy with the hearer. They are, rather, questions which dredge of a year of horror and pain, seasons of weary travel and cold boredom, a lifetime of sadness and joy. And all of this occurred because of one person.

Odd, isn't it, how just one being, tiny and scared, could change the fate of the people to come. You might even think that I'm exaggerating. I'm not. The person I speak of had help, true, from time to time. That is necessary for anyone in any situation. After all, no person could live totally alone. But this one, small Hobbit was able to perform one of the greatest feats of Middle Earth.

Yes, even you could find it deep in yourself to leave the comfort of hole and hearth to trudge through muck and fire to save all you hold dear. If put to the test, if presented with a force which threatens the very home you hold so dear, even you could find the strength and courage to go out into that wide, terrifying world and do what was done by this one small Hobbit.

But to take on such evil forces: to travel rivers and marshes, mountains and roads... to meet with goblins and orcs and wolves and whargs... to stand strong in the face of evil itself and listen to its voice ever trying to persuade you to come just that one step closer... that is truly a test of will and love of life. If given such a challenge, how would you meet it? Would you answer that seductive call? Would you turn from the temptation of power and riches? Would you watch as your companions were taken from you in horrific battles? Would you hold the hand of a dying friend and watch him depart forever?

Perhaps, this is more than a story of one person, then. Perhaps this story encompasses everyone who ever helped on that great journey: helped... or hindered. Perhaps, to tell this story, one should also tell of the evil itself and of those who wavered between both sides or merely provided advice or a meal to the travelers? Or, if told all of the story, would you realize that it is truly about one...