Prologue and Historical Notes:

Frodo Gardner’s grandson, Harding, was surprised to find two small boxes deep inside a hole in the cellar during a renovation of Bag End in Afterlithe, 1535. The hole appeared to be one of those caused by the damage done when lads from even before his grandfather’s time had dug around looking for the dragon’s gold that Bilbo Baggins had been rumored to have obtained during his adventure almost two centuries earlier. Harding well knew the tales of Mad Baggins and even more the story from the Red Book that his great-aunt Elanor had kept and had now passed into her son, Elfstan’s custody. Being a hobbit of more than usual curiosity, Harding reached inside and drew out two quite old stationery boxes. After he brushed off some of the years of dust and dirt, he saw engraved upon one of them, the initials FB. That one was locked. The other was unmarked and able to be opened. Inside that one were many pieces of loose parchment covered with writing from a hand Harding vaguely recognized. He leaved through the pages, reading here and there and was rather surprised to realize that he had somehow stumbled upon a history of the War of the Ring that had been fought shortly before his grandfather had been born.

Excited and intrigued, Harding ran up the steps and went hurriedly to the library where was kept a treasured copy of the War’s history that had been written out from memory by his grandfather, who had wanted his own copy of the adventures. The hobbit pushed hurriedly to the last page and with quickening breath, compared the last lines with the writing in the box. That page was marked with several ribbons and seals and it read, "This is certified to be an authentic copy of The Downfall of the Lord of the Rings and the Return of the King as written by Frodo Baggins of Bag End, Hobbiton. Attested by one who was servant and friend to the Ring-bearer and who participated in the some of the events described therein. [Signed] Samwise Gamgee, Mayor, 22 Halimath, 1450 S.R." Harding looked at the papers in the box and sucked in his breath. The writing was the same.

And that other box... Harding’s sense of propriety that he would be invading someone else’s privacy if he opened it held back his curiosity for only a moment. His fingers shook slightly as he jimmied the lock. The lid popped open and the hobbit stared in awe at all the papers stuffed inside. He had to catch the top ones from spilling onto the floor so full was the box. They were written in a different hand than the other box, but as Harding hurriedly look through them, breath now coming very fast and his body trembling, he realized he had yet another history in his hands. He stared at the initials on the box lid - FB. Frodo Baggins. Who his grandfather had been named after. It had to be. Harding sat down hard, feeling faint.

When he was revived by a bit of tea, he rushed out that very afternoon with barely a word to anyone, his treasures tucked securely under his arm, to his cousin’s Elfstan’s home in Westmarch. His great-aunt and uncle had passed some years before, but Elfstan still lived and had custody of the Red Book Frodo Baggins had written. In record time, Harding reached there and with barely a how-do-you-do, asked Elfstan for a copy of the book. The elder hobbit raised a curious eyebrow at the breathless request, but handed it to his cousin without question. Harding quickly compared the writing of the three manuscripts and confirmed that the writing was indeed the same in the book and the boxes.

He sat down rather dazed and absently thanked Elfstan for the cold glass of lemon water that was offered as the older hobbit was afraid his pale cousin was about to faint. Harding downed it on one gulp, held out the glass for another which he drank a little more sedately, then sat quietly in the chair. When he looked a little less like he was going to have a brainstorm that very moment, Elfstan asked his cousin what in the Four Farthings was the matter.

Harding took a deep breath and explained the whole thing. The stories were read right then and there by both hobbits with no regard for sleeping and little for eating which was most unusual in hobbits, but then the descendants of Samwise Gamgee were thought to be as cracked at times as had been the previous owners of Bag End, Bilbo and Frodo Baggins. Definitely by the time they were done, their hearts at least were cracked open and many times they had to set the manuscript aside for a moment for their tears to run out.

So it was discovered that two more histories of the War of the Ring existed and were confirmed to be authentic. The ones Harding had, by good fortune, found were in some ways much more detailed than that of the Red Book as far as the Ring-bearers’ were concerned, but curiously lacking in any details outside them. Both were written as loving tributes to the other, though it is not known whether Mayor Gamgee was ever aware of the one his friend and master had written and it is certain that the Ring-bearer was not aware the Mayor wrote, unless he spoke of it when and if he was reunited with his beloved master, since his was written after Frodo had left. Copies were made of both. One was kept with the Gardner’s, one Harding kept, one was sent to Great Smials and one to Brandy Hall. One was sent along with a Ranger with the request that it be sent to Gondor and given to the King as Harding and Elfstan both insisted that it would be of great interest to him. The Ranger smiled at the little ones so intently serious and just as solemnly assured them the manuscripts would indeed reach the king.

The documents were thus conveyed and there were more sleepless nights and tears shed in the Minas Tirith in the king and queen’s private chambers. King Elessar directed that many copies be made and distributed throughout his kingdom. A copy was also sent to King Elfwine of Rohan, son of Eomer, and to the son of Faramir and Eowyn in Ithilien. Elessar kept his copy in his chambers until his death and re-read it often, praying that his beloved friends had found peace and healing.

When he accepted the Gift, Queen Arwen directed the manuscripts be placed in the library at Minas Tirith in a special case against fading and the decay of time. Due to her foresight and love of the Pheriannath, they can be viewed to this very day, these great tales of pain and triumph of two small beings who were so great in heart and soul.

It is our great good fortune that so many copies were made and that a few survive even now to be read and studied and draw inspiration from. It is from one of the many scribes throughout the long centuries who laboriously copied and read in awe of the torment, sacrifice and endurance of the Pheriannath that we have the title of the work. Neither the Ring-bearer nor Mayor Samwise had titled theirs, but a later historian combined the two narratives so they now read as one and called it Via Dolorosa or The Way of Sorrows. Chapters and breaks to indicate the change in voice were also added in later, probably by the same scribe.

It is guessed that the arrival of that particular title must have come about due to the curiosity of a poem or song that was transcribed at a later date than the original manuscript and placed in later copies above where the Ring-bearer’s tale started. It is in written in red ink, instead of the black that both the Ring-bearer and his faithful servant used and the ink is dated to a time much closer to our own, though still centuries old. It is signed Galadriel and the debate over who this admirer was has raged for those centuries in the circles of those who study such things, but even now we know little more. It is, of course, not the Galadriel that left Middle-earth with two of the three Ring-bearer’s, but beyond that the woman’s identity is not any clearer than when it was first discovered.

It is my honor and privilege to bring you this ancient, timeless love story, told in the original writers’ own words - truly one of the tales "that stayed with you" as Samwise once said.

It all starts with that mysterious poem:

Your smile was bright, your heart was glad, your laughter ready, clear and strong; your feet were light and apt to dance, and fair and merry were your songs.

A true child of the Shire you were, a lover of peace, yet peace you had not; for all your joy was stolen away. The way of sorrows was your lot.

You left your home of rolling hills, of fertile fields and trickling streams, to take the lonely road that led to a land surpassing darkest dreams.

Bereft of hope and strength and light, parted from all friends but one, you walked in shadow, towards your doom, weary, sustained by Love alone.

Your faithful Sam walked at your side, ever near to help and bear, to be your hope when hope was gone, to do his best to still your fear.

The way of sorrows was your lot, and from it there seems no return; for even now your deed is done, for that which you hated you yet yearn.

Go then, dear, to Eressea, far across the Sundering Seas. There you may let go your grief and at the last find lasting peace.

Your faithful Sam will join you there, and after a time of joy and rest, you'll go together into the Presence, and there you'll be for ever blest.

And now the tale as the Ring-bearer and Samwise wrote it, in that order:

Prologue:

My beloved Sam, I so wanted to write this as a tribute to you, to your love for me and my love for you, and also to try to explain why it is that I had to leave you, dearest of all friends, my brother. How I love you, how very much I love you. You are my own and I belong to you. 

I knew it would embarrass greatly to read such a tale, but I was willing to risk that. However, I have discovered that this is too much a tale of myself, of my suffering, and that would only cause you more pain and that I am not willing to risk. I have done far too much of that already.

So forgive me, dearest Sam, for not including all of this in the tale I promised I would write for Bilbo and that I plan to leave with you. There is too much pain here for me to burden you with, too much darkness that I am still wandering lost in, too much torment that I can see no end to. I will instead be writing it all out here and putting it in my stationery box Bilbo gave me so long ago and hope it will do what it has always done and relieve me of this pain that is consuming me.I will have to figure out another way of telling you why I must leave.

Remember all those tales of adventure that always thrilled us and Merry and Pippin and how we wiled away many a Shire’s summer afternoon battling dragons and trolls and anything else we could from the tales Bilbo told or adventures he had? All those dangers we so bravely faced with our stout hearts and the wooden swords Bilbo had cut out for us were very real to us, but imaginary at the same time. How little we knew about what real danger was. Even knowing Bilbo had faced it himself was unreal to us, just another story.

We fought our battles under bright sunshine and the worst wounds we received was a scraped knee or bruised knuckles that could always be bandaged and the pain kissed away. We could always come home at the end of the day, to a filling meal and a goodnight’s sleep in a feather-filled bed with lots of pillows.

Nothing could have prepared us for what we faced outside our sheltered world. It was real, dark and terrifying. We did not play in the sun. We suffered wounds too deep to be kissed away, no matter how much we wanted them to be or how deep the furrow our lips made to make it so. We did not have always have enough sleep to refresh us each night or a bed in which to lay our head. We walked in darkness, afraid, hungry, thirsty, exhausted. Often, we slept on hard ground when we could sleep at all and we had little, so little, to eat and drink.

The only thing that was the same of our days of blissful ignorance in the Shire was that we had each other and that made all the difference. So I will write of that part of the tale I promised Bilbo, and in there, my most beloved Sam, you will shine brightest in a celebration of the best hobbits of the Shire facing and triumphing over impossible difficulties. But of my own tale, I will spare you much of it. We took so many of the same steps together and you know so much, or think you do, of what it was like, but still you did not have the same journey and for that, I will be forever grateful. I find I have no heart or will to tell you, so I write this as a tribute you will never see and perhaps that would be better, for while you were ever my light, I fear there is too much darkness in here for you. Bilbo will have his tale, just not this one. No one will.

* * *

I don’t expect any to read this, especially you, my dearest master, friend and brother, but I have to get it out. Maybe when it’s all on paper and just ink on parchment, it won’t hurt so much and I can look back without crying and just remember how much I have always loved you and always will to my dying breath, one I hope, if the Powers allow it, I will be taking with you beside me once more. You are my own and I belong to you.

I actually wish someone would read this so they will know more of what you did, but I won’t add any of it myself to the tale you wrote. What you left out, you left out for a reason and I will not gainsay any of that with you. Besides, I don’t think anyone would be interested in what I have to say anyway. You were always the scholar, my dear, the scribe, the historian. This story is about you and for you, my bright shining star, even if I’m the only one who will ever see it.