Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

~ * ~ * ~

Author's Note: This page of drabbles and ficlets are centred around the theme of writing. I never planned such a theme, but requests seem to create one on their own.

A week before I wrote this drabble for Nivina's birthday, I had watched a television special on the creation of an illuminated, hand written copy of the Saint John's Bible. I have always had an interest in illuminated manuscripts and studied them in my Anglo Saxon course at my first university a long time ago.

As I watched the master calligraphers form the perfect letters, the images of the writer carefully, but boldly pressing that nib to the beautiful sheets of paper, and of how the flowing, glistening ink obeyed the writer's every intention just amazed me. And so I wrote these two following drabbles.

Part One

Sam touched the soft leather binding reverently. The journal had been found among Bilbo's stacks of books and papers.

"What are you going to do with it?" he asked.

"Bilbo asked me to put his writings in order," Frodo said. "But he will not return to the Shire. And even though we will, I want all his stories, his fanciful ones as well as his adventures, to be written down.

"I don't believe that he can remember them in detail now, but I can -- along with the ones we made up together. And of the memories that have returned to me, those are some of the most dear."

Frodo opened the book to the first creamy white page, dipped the pen into the inkwell, and pressed the nib to the paper. He smiled.

And even though they were not yet in the Shire, Sam felt as if he had come home.

~*~*~

Part Two

The golden nib swept downward, curving just a little to the left before racing under. The even pressure dented the paper just enough for shadow and sunlight to vie for supremacy until the nib left the page in a long but even trail of ink.

Black glistened as a surplus of liquid pooled and sank into the vellum. But the edges of the half-formed letter were crisp and clear, and the ink was even.

Down came the stained tip once more and Sam held his breath as the sure touch of the writer sent the pen gliding through another bold, smooth curl of a perfect stroke.

Rivendell's waterfalls might thunder outside, but the calm strength of the letters forming quietly under the four-fingered hand carried far greater power.

And the almost fey intensity on the face of he who wielded the pen showed greater power still. The power of imagination.

~ * ~ * ~

Not long after the drabbles I wrote above, I came up with this ficlet which included the elements Gayalondiel requested: Sam beta-ing Frodo's writing in the Red Book.

Concerned about Hobbits

"You forgot the hobbits, sir."

"The... the hobbits?"

"The hobbits." Sam stroked the worn red leather. "You give everyone's names, but you don't tell about us. What we are like, what we love. Why we fought against the ruffians."

Frodo looked at him blankly.

Sam picked up the book and held it reverently."In a hundred years time, no-one will remember how Lobelia was before the hard times, and so how we loved her after. Mr. Bilbo knew when he wrote his part -- concerning hobbits, that is."

He put a warm hand on Frodo's shoulder.

"Let us live through your writing, even if you can't bring yourself to live amongst Shirefolk no more. And maybe you will live a little more if you let yourself remember more than just the nastiness and the fear in these pages."

He gave the book back to his master then, and Frodo held it tightly to him.

The last thing Sam saw as he passed out through the door of the study was his master cautiously dipping pen-nib in inkwell and hovering it over waiting page.

It was a beginning.