**Author’s note** Jennie is not me, though I drew a little inspiration from myself to write her; it’s always best to write what you know, and I know me. This is just a story I wrote because I thought it would be fun. Please review and let me know if I’ve failed miserably at the fun part.

Prologue
Being the beginning of the tale

My name is Jennie Marie Marlowe, and I am Not to Be Believed, according to leading mental health professionals. It’s all because of my great adventure, which is more fantastic, and more implausible, than the Greek myths. It’s a true tale though, and this is how it goes:

I was lazing around one day avoiding, with single-minded purpose, doing my chores. It was a Saturday, and my parents believe with deep, near-religious fervor that Saturdays were created for weekly cleanings. Therefore, since I am 15, and a girl, and not a mature, responsible individual, I was laying in bed, faking sleep (it was only 10 am or so), and covertly reading my well-worn copy of The Lord of the Rings (which is the greatest story ever created).

As I was feigning sleep, listening to my dad mowing (twice; he always mows twice) the front lawn, and perusing my favorite passage, the one in which Aragorn is busy putting his healing hands to good use, I noticed a slight discoloration on the page. I’d never seen it before, and trust me, I notice every little thing about my beloved book, and I at first took it as evidence that my sister Max had been reading it again. She is forbidden use of it ever since she ripped the page right through the passage where Éowyn is telling Faramir that she no longer desires to be a Queen. (The page is now well taped.) But as I looked at this mark, debating in my mind whether blasting Max’s eardrums with my wrath would be worth admitting I was awake and able to do chores, I noticed a strange things: the mark looked like words.

It kept looking more like words the longer I looked at it, and every time I blinked it stopped being words till I had stared for a while longer. Finally I waited long enough to blink, apparently, for it became actual Elvish writing in a vague, pale brown sort of color, like when you reveal what the lemon juice ink is spelling.

I immediately decided that it was far too much to ask of me to stay in bed, because this was like something out of a book and I was not going to let my lack of Elvish-writing skills get in the way of finding out just what the words meant. So I popped out of my comfy bed, dashed with all speed to the bookshelf, and grabbed my Elvish dictionary, which conveniently also has the Tengwar listed.

After about 30 minutes (I told you my Elvish writing skills were lacking), I learned what it spelled. Elvish is a terrifically confusing language, because there are no actual vowel letters; just little dots or added tails. I consulted my dictionary and this is what it translated to, more or less:

“Blessings be, in the name of the Valar. Speak, friend, and enter.”

Now, being a good little Tolkien scholar, I knew the answer to that riddle. And I couldn’t resist: so I spoke friend. That is to say, I went, “Mellon,” in a funny little voice, because I had no idea what was going on; you try having strange markings show up on a page of your favorite book where there have formerly been no markings.

I spoke friend. And then the whole world turned upside down, I was flung somewhere that I’ve never been before, and suddenly…everything was still and quiet, except for the far-off sound of singing, and I was laying on a green mound somewhere that had poor lighting.