Sam sat back in his chair, a piece of paper in his hand. He thought a moment, frowned, then scratches something out and rewrote it with a new quill pen.

He felt a shadow in the doorway and looked up to see Pippin standing there with an impish smile.

“You about ready, Sam?” Pippin asked. “I finished mine near five minutes ago, and Merry just finished.” He waved a piece of paper of his own at Sam.

“Nearly finished, Mr. Pippin. Don’t rush me,” Sam replied. He scratched down a few more words, then stood up and smiled in satisfaction.

Suddenly Pippin straightened. “I think I smell your wife’s apple tarts,” he said, grinning at Sam before dashing away.

Sam stayed where he was a moment longer, thinking back to when Pippin had first suggested the idea.

It had been a dark dreary day in late April and Pippin had been looking for a way to cheer Frodo up, when suddenly he had suggested they each write down a tale or legend they had heard told in Minas Tirith.

They had each come up with some fairly entertaining tales. Frodo’s favorite was one Pippin said Faramir had told him of Denethor teaching him to read one rainy day. Faramir had been five, and Denethor had been in a decidedly better state of mind in those days.

They had decided to make the tale writing challenge a tradition, to write one story every year and compile them in a single volume after a number of years, but Frodo had sailed for Valinor that September.

Nevertheless, Sam, Merry and Pippin had kept it up, writing more the next year, and adding three more tales to their collection. Now they had been collecting tales for three years.

Sam glanced down at his paper. Had it really been that long?

“Sam! Hurry or we’ll eat it all without you!” Merry called good-naturedly from the other room.

Sam folded his paper and headed out the door.

“Don’t worry, love,” Rosie said as he entered the kitchen. She handed Sam a plate. “I’ve saved some for you.”

“So what is it that’s had you working till the last second to finish?” Merry asked, just as Sam took a bite out of his apple tart.

When he swallowed, he said, “It’s the story the city folk told their little ones about Frodo and the Ring. The tale’s accurate, an’ I figured since we was writing tales from Minas Tirith it ought to be included as well.”

“That’s a splendid idea, Sam! I wonder that we didn’t think of it before now,” Merry said, nodding in approval.

Rosie smiled at them. “Well, then, lads, let’s hear these stories o’ yours,” she said, sitting down by her Sam.

“Well, all right,” Sam said, and he stood up to begin his tale.

~Finis~