Author: Sam

Story: Leather-bound: 3 of ?

Series: n/a

Setting: Bag End as well as The Red Book of Westmarch.

Song Note: How Can I Keep From Singing? by Enya.

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

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

With a low sigh, the writer pushed himself back from the desk. He lifted a shaking hand to wipe at the tears on his cheeks, tears aroused by memories of years long gone, of treasured friendships torn asunder, of death and destruction. He needed a break. Yes, he would ask young Frodo for some tea then continue his story. That would be best.

With a slight groan from the stiffness of having maintained a bent position for over an hour, the elderly Hobbit slid from his seat and shuffled slowly to the study door. Softly, he opened the aged wood, smiling as he noted that the hinges were silent, well oiled. Yes, when he left Bag End, it would be well cared for.

"Frodo?" He had to clear his throat and repeat himself before his voice carried to the Hobbit moving quietly around the kitchen.

"Sir?"

"I'd like some tea, please? I've found this to be thirsty work." He waited, hoping against hope, for the younger Hobbit to start the inevitable barrage of questions. They didn't come, and he was thankful. He wasn't ready to answer, wouldn't be for some time. Questions would demean the work he'd set himself, demean the emotions he put down on parchment. Questions would turn a lifetime into something to be analyzed, and this was hard enough without picking apart all the mistakes made by those he'd known in his long lifetime.

With the tray in hand, young Frodo approached the study. He glanced curiously at his companion, wondering but not vocalizing. He'd seen the wariness in those beautiful, changeable eyes. No, he could wait. His mentor would speak when it was time; he always did. Until then, he could wait, though the silence and mystery worried him more than even the illness which had wracked Bag End last cold season.

When he was permitted entry at his soft knock, Frodo moved to the desk and carefully placed the tray down. He couldn't resist glancing over the red leather-bound book with the beautifully done lettering. At last, curiosity overcame the younger Hobbit and he turned to the elder. "Sir? You're writing a book?"

With a sigh, the other Hobbit nodded and eased himself back into his chair. "Yes." He knew it would happen, but had hoped it could wait. "A book of my journeys, I suppose you might say."

With wide eyes, Frodo smiled. "Oh, please, could you tell me a bit of what's written? I love your stories and never tire of them."

"If I tell you a story, will you let me write in peace, lad? I need to write this before I forget; I am getting on in years." Somehow, though, he was pleased with the request. Strange, as he'd been so reluctant to let his companion know his occupation. But, somehow, it seemed right he should recite a bit of the story to Frodo. It... would feel more alive, more natural, than simply putting it on the cold, unfeeling paper. After all, stories should be told to be enjoyed to their fullest.

Frodo nodded, pouring tea for the old Hobbit. "Yes, I'll leave you in peace if you tell me one of the stories. Please? I love the way you tell them." He stood by the older Hobbit's elbow, smiling encouragingly.

With a single nod, the erstwhile author began to relay his tale: a tale of Dwarves and goblins, wolves and Men, a wizard, a bear, and a dragon. He smiled, enjoying the reciting of the Riddle Game played once, long ago, with a creature named Gollum, frowning softly as he came to the bit about winning a ring as a prize. With a low, captivating voice, he spoke of escaping trolls with sunlight, whargs on eagles, and Elves in barrels. He enjoyed the light in his companion's eyes when he spoke of the War of Five Armies and the resulting truces. Sadness tinged his voice with remembered losses as he spoke of the death of a Dwarf King and the return of a solitary Hobbit to his once secure, peaceful life.

Finally, the old Hobbit sighed and bowed his head. "It's not as easy to write things as it may seem, lad. It's not the putting of words on the paper that's hard, you see. It's the remembering them, reliving them, that hurts the most. But the tales often end in sadness and hope. Softly, he sang in a sweet, surprisingly clear voice.

Leaning forward, as if to say that he had come to the most serious part of his recitation, he continued, voice only shaking a small bit with his vast emotions.

Frodo wasn't smiling any longer. Instead, he slowly shook himself from the strange spell which seemed to have been woven by the song. He nodded slowly. "I'll go make sure no one interrupts your writing." He was disturbed by the fact that perhaps, one day, he too might receive an unexpected call to danger and glory.

And with that, a young Hobbit left to ponder the future and an old Hobbit stayed to mourn the past.