A/N: Thanks to sholio for not only hosting the "Happy Distracting Comment Fest" over on Dreamwidth but also for posting a prompt (Any, any, memoirs) that got me writing LOTR for the first time in yonks!
ETA: Thanks also to Shirebound for pointing out a mistake I'd made in an earlier version! It's corrected now.
The Red Book
By San Antonio Rose
The last pages are for you, Sam.
Sam ran his hand over the red leather of the book on his desk. Mr. Bilbo had started it, telling of his journey to the Lonely Mountain and back. Frodo had filled many more pages with the story of the Fellowship and the War of the Ring, having heard most of the rest of the group's adventures while they were still in Minas Tirith. (It was a mercy Frodo had been able to relearn how to hold a pen once Strider and Master Elrond had healed his poor hand as far as they could.) And Sam had managed to fill in the story of the trip to the Grey Havens and back, but for decades, he hadn't been able to write any more.
"Well, I'm back," he said.
The thing was, Sam was a fair hand at writing poetry-at least Frodo had said so when Sam had dared to recite a few of his own verses while they were on the road-but he didn't feel he was a match for Frodo and Mr. Bilbo when it came to prose. And what more did he have to tell about his life, anyway? There hadn't been any more grand adventures since he'd come home... the odd royal visit to the north when Strider had invited Sam, Merry, and Pippin and their families to come see him and Queen Arwen in Annúminas, true, and the one time Sam and Rosie took Elanor to Minas Tirith for a year, but beyond that, it was all babies and weddings and festivals and elections and settling minor disputes. There were no more dragons or battles or any of the things that graced the pages he'd long since memorized from reading them over and over to his bairns.
All the same, he was ninety-six years old now and retired from being Mayor. Mr. Frodo had told him to fill those last pages, and it was high time he got on and did it.
He just... didn't know how.
Rosie came into the study and put a hand on his shoulder. "Writer's block again, Sam?"
"I'm afraid so." He sighed and reached up to squeeze her hand without looking away from the book. "What is there left to say? Our lives have been so full, and yet... our troubles have been so small since the War."
"Well, maybe it isn't the story you need to add."
He looked up at her, confused.
"In all this time," she continued, "I've learned the stories of the War all separately, as Mr. Frodo told them, but I've had a terrible time keeping track of what happened when. If you could sort out what was happening on each day when you were all separated, and maybe give a... a chronicle or summat with what came before, it would be a good deal of help to the reader, and then at the end you could add a short chronicle of what's come since."
"A chronicle," he echoed thoughtfully and nodded. He'd need to do a fair bit of research for the early parts, but... yes, a chronicle would be far easier than a tale. All he'd need to include were the big moments, not the little everyday conversations that he couldn't even remember anymore. He nodded again, more decisively. "I can do that. Thanks, love."
She kissed him and left. He opened the book to a blank page, reached for his pen, and wrote the title before the idea could leave him:
The Tale of Years
By Samwise Gamgee