[b]Obligatory author’s note:[/b] Tolkien, as a historian, once lamented that many rich histories were lost, turned into lullabies sung to children. The plot bunnies chewed on this and turned into a Nuzgul, then floated in the forefront of my mind until I wrote the story down and turned it over to my beta-reader. I went over it a lot. I think it’s good. But please, kick my ego and tell me it’s not. I’m a sophomore – ego-kickings are a good idea.

[b]Obligatory disclaimer:[/b] *insert witty way of saying “I don’t own it because Tolkien Estate does” here*

[center]I Eglan Gobennas[/center]
[center][i]The Forsaken History[/i][/center]

I sighed. Our son, Melbenion, wouldn’t stop crying. This was already the fourth time he had woken us up this night, and my husband, supportive as he was, refused to change from a snoring rock to a helpful father, which he had sworn to be just a month ago, when our first son – who was proudly displaying his large lungs – was born. I kicked back the sheets, shoved my husband in irritation (he rolled over, pretending to ignore me), and went to go pick up the baby.

Slipping on my robe, I padded over to the cradle, the cold floor sending shivers up my legs. Picking up my son, I hurried downstairs to the extra room, where there was a rug I could stand on, to protect my feet from the freezing floor. “Hush, hush, Melbenion, hush,” I said. It was to no avail, and he kept wailing. Fearing the wrath of our neighbors at being woken up so early, I began to sing an old lullaby that my great-grandmother had sung to my grandmother, her to my mother, and she to me, this pattern followed for generations. “Ring-a-ding-ding, little baby, ring. A Halfling’s Ring is a pretty thing. He’s gone off marching to lands a-far, the Eye will get in if the door’s ajar.” The words were nonsense, but the tune had the magic to soothe my fitful infant.

Slowly, he began to calm down, his small body relaxing in my arms as I sang and rocked him back and forth. After what seemed an eternity, he finally quieted and fell asleep. A dull light fell through the window, announcing that dawn had arrived. It would be no use going back to bed. I climbed the stairs and placed Melbenion back in the cradle, then slipped on my clothes. I went back down to the kitchen to begin breakfast for my husband, who would be leaving for work soon. As I walked into the kitchen, I stopped abruptly. There was a boy sitting at our table.

“What -?” I asked, my voice cracking in disbelief. He rose, and I saw that he was not a child, merely the height of one. He had dark, curly hair, and a pale but grave and fair face. He was dressed in old-fashioned clothing; a rough shirt rolled up to the sleeves, a vest that had probably been elegant at one time, and dark trousers that were cut off mid-calf, exposing large bare feet with nearly covered with curly hair.

“My lady,” he said. His voice was surprisingly mature. “Are you the lady Gwenneth?” I took a step back, ready to call my husband downstairs.
“How do you know my name?” I asked. It took a great amount of self-control to keep my voice from shaking like an aspen in a windstorm.

“The Valar told me, lady,” he replied. Had it not been for the solemn expression on his face, I would have laughed. Nearly no one believed in the Valar anymore. It was a religion on its last breath, something carried through from thousands of years ago. “They bid me come here to speak with you, for your people have forgotten from whence you came,” he added.

I had backed up so much that I was at the base of the stairs. “Don’t come preaching your ancient religion to me,” I warned.

“Lady, you have no need to fear me,” he said. “I am not here to harm you. I could not harm you. I am not entirely in this world, you see.”

“No,” I said, my fear shrinking as befuddlement took over. “I don’t understand, but I do understand that I want you out of my house.”

“But I’m not really here,” he parried, a smile hovering around his lips. My vocabulary, carefully increased through years at the famous South Ithilien College, utterly failed me. “My name is Frodo,” he added, the smile gaining more ground on his face.

“I can’t say it rings a bell,” I said, still wary. His face fell.

“It is as it was feared,” he murmured. Then he shook his head, as if clearing his mind. “The song you sang to your son, lady, where did you learn it?”

I was taken aback. “The one that goes ring-a-ding-ding, little baby’s ring?” I asked. Frodo nodded. “I learned it from my mother. It’s been passed down in our family for many generations.”

“Do you know where that song came from?” he inquired. I shook my head, and was about to give an explanation, when he stuck out his hand. “Take my hand, lady.” I hesitated.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you will remind the people of Gondor what they have lost,” Frodo declared. My mouth flapped stupidly for a few minutes before I could formulate a coherent statement.

“Why me?” was all I could say.

“You are one of the few who remembers even the basis of my journey,” Frodo said patiently. “You have always been dedicated to history, and your mind is open to possibilities some folk do not have.” A smile once again flitted its way across his face. “And your location is very convenient, so close to Minas Tirith.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand,” I said, my mind still reeling.

“Take my hand, lady. Let me show you, for words can only do so much,” Frodo said. I took a leap of faith and grasped his hand. The world faded out around me, then faded back into focus.

We were no longer in my house. Instead, we were in a white stone room with high, vaulted ceilings and shelves crammed with old leather books. Pieces of parchment littered the wooden tables that were scattered around the room between the shelves. I was reminded of the ancient paintings I had seen of the Old Kingdom of Gondor, hidden amongst the vast archives of my college. I sneezed suddenly; the entire room was coated in a thin film of dust. Frodo had wandered off amongst the shelves; I hurried to catch up with him.

“Where are we?” I asked, gazing in longing at the old books. Trained as a historian, I yearned to learn what was in their pages; they were obviously old and could cough up some good information.
“We are in what you call the Old City of Minas Tirith.” Centuries ago, Minas Tirith stood as the largest city in the kingdom of Gondor. Now it is still the center of government, housing the Parliament and various ministries, but it is no longer the center of commerce. “This is what used to be the royal library,” called Frodo. For a short being, he could move quickly. “I’m looking for a certain book for you to read…Ah, here it is.” He pulled out a homely, abused book. Bound in dark red leather, it was by no means a small book, in width, length, or height. The gold lettering on the cover read “The Red Book of Westmarch.” Opening to a random page, I found that it was handwritten in now-fading ink. Peering over my shoulder, Frodo commented, “It is as I thought. That’s the original copy you have in your hands, lady. Be careful with it.”

“I will,” I promised. Walking over to a table, I cleared some space and cautiously flipped to the first page, fearful the pages would crumble beneath my fingers. “There And Back Again,” the spindly handwriting read.

“Lady Gwenneth,” Frodo called. “I trust you will finish reading the book. Though it looks a tome, I think you will find it an interesting read. It was once the most popular book in all of Gondor’s realm.” He smiled. “I should know, I think. I wrote most of the second half.” I looked up.
“Really?” I asked. He nodded.

“The history of your lullaby is in that book, Lady Gwenneth,” he said, softly. “But I will tell it to you now. The lullaby sings of a fearsome Ring. I was the Halfling who went off marching to far away lands to keep the Eye of Sauron from the getting in the door. Over time, that book,” he said, pointing to the open tome, “has been slimmed down into a nearly forgotten four-line lullaby.”
I sensed a task coming on. “What do you ask of me?”

“Find someone who will re-publish the book. Tell people to read it. Promote it,” he said, almost begging. “Just see that people read it and remember.” I promised I would. Frodo beamed brighter than the sun. “Come, then,” Frodo said, the urgency gone from his voice. “I will take you home.” I grasped the book firmly, then, taking one last look around this magnificent historian’s heaven, and when the world faded back into focus I was back in my kitchen. The grey light was still trickling in through the window. It seemed that time had not moved forward in my absence. I set the book down on the kitchen table and opened to the first page. “In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit…”

And so it was that on Melbenion’s second birthday – the same day when, thousands of years ago, Elessar Telcontar was crowned king of Gondor – my family and I celebrated the republishing of “The Red Book of Westmarch” into five volumes – “There And Back Again,” “The Fellowship of the Ring,” “The Two Towers,” “The Return of the King,” and “The Silmarillion.” And that night, I sang to Melbenion the lullaby that started the journey, the journey that ended in five international bestsellers. They sold millions of copies in Mirkwood, Harad, Arnor, and Rhûn alone, not to mention its success in the Sister Countries; Gondor, Rohan, and Mordor. I had even heard talk that someone smuggled it into the Shire, thought the rumor was never confirmed.