I own nothing. This is my first Lord of the Rings story, so forgive me if you don't agree with how I wrote this. Suggestions are welcome.
The door was breaking. The dwarves watched as the troll on the other side won the battle against the young, firm wood and the shiny metal barrier. They shifted nervously, adjusting their grips on the axes and other weapons.
Only one wasn't holding any kind of weapon, though one was beside him. He was sitting beside a beautiful stone tomb, holding a large book and a pen. The book looked to be made of a leather binding and expensive paper. The writing utensil appeared to be gold with a beautiful tip. The dwarf glanced at the door when it was hit with a particularly nasty blow, but kept writing.
"Lad, you should take up your axe," one of the dwarves in front of the door called to him over the banging. "They shall be through the door any minute now."
"A minute more and I shall be finished. I must leave something behind, though we will not survive," the dwarf holding the book answered. He was still writing even as a hole was smashed through the door and an ugly fist poked through. The ones nearest attacked the troll's hand, leaving pitiful marks in its strong hide. The marks barely drew blood, but at least they were fighting back.
The writer deemed his work finished and set the book down carefully, out of the way of what was to come. He took up his large axe, made just for dwarves, and moved to stand with the others. Rank didn't matter here, as there was no particular order in which they aligned themselves. The scribe just happened to make it in front of the door alongside one of the better fighters.
The door finally gave. It was thrown open with a burst of fire and there, not three feet in front of the defenders, was the Belrog, a hoard of goblins, and two mountain trolls. The dwarves didn't think twice before charging.
None survived to tell their tale, but the diary was mostly untouched. Blood splattered on it, making pages unreadable. Fire scorched it, destroying its beauty and some of its pages. Some of the pages lost had fresh ink on them.
Years later, when the Fellowship entered the room and found the book along with the remains, Gandalf didn't read the whole diary. The last few pages were destroyed and some of the ones in between were unreadable, though the wizard didn't see that part before one of the hobbits knocked a skeleton down the well. Not all of the scribe's words had made it, but something had remained. And that was all the scribe wanted.