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A Narrative of the Discontented Soldier(
by Young Dee

During Faramir’s battle against a troop of Haradrim, one of them crashed through the brush, landing dead at Sam’s feet.

It was Sam’s first view of a battle of Men against Men, and he did not like it much. He was glad that he could not see the dead face. He wondered what the man’s name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace–all in a flash of thought which was quickly driven from his mind.

The Two Towers, LOTR

Then, as if in answer to his thoughts, he saw a small blue book, hardly the size of a hobbit hand, gilded with a gold ship on its cover, though besmeared with mud beside the dead Southron. Hardly knowing what he was doing, Sam stooped down and picked up the book, quickly placing it among the folds of his clothes. To trust fate in these things, the book traveled with Sam all across Mordor all the way to Gondor and back to Shire without him once remembering about it until he was about to do his first washing.

Leafing through it, the writing was evidently alien to his eyes, being none at all like those of elves or the common speech. Though much puzzled, Sam placed it beside the Red Book having better things to do than wondering at the meanings of the Haradrim, for this he thought it to be.

Now the book came in possession of the Fairbairns where there was a member who was curious in all things of lore. There are no language during that time in Middle-earth or mentioned in any books that he could not read. He even learnt the tongue of the Southrons yet was despaired to find upon his return that the book was not of that language despite all what his grandfather might say, befuddled in his old age maybe. All he knew was that the ship on the cover is a corsair, having found a description of it somewhere.

During a stormy night in the Prancing Pony, where he meets those alike in interest, a man in a pale green cowl suddenly laughed right aloud, and it seems, very pointedly at them. Very much angry, though controlling their tempers, the small group continued at their efforts with constant debates when suddenly the man got up and told them with all seriousness and not a very pleasant tone that he can’t bear it any more. Felony! Crime! An utter outrage! They are committing the murder of words! With soft but firm protests, they denied at killing anything, relating the whole history of the book to reassure him. Then the man grinned broadly and good cheer returned to his round face, for he saw indeed that they are truly ignorant. He then revealed, to their quiet astonishment, that the book is in fact written in the tongue of the Easterlings.

Having apologized heartily, the stranger offered to translate the whole book for them though he declined to teach them the language. For, as he insisted despite the pitiful pleadings of pundits, it is of no use to them and takes too long for his comfort. Much against his will, the Fairbairn gave the stranger the blue book on the account of his friend’s beseeching, who were quite desperate having already spent five years in vain. Three weeks later, he received a translated copy and a note attached with writing in a circular, bubbly hand.

"I’ve done as I promised though this is but the first pages of the funny blue book which the author (probably) himself titled "An Account," I hope there are no ill-will between us for I am also a dedicated student of lore. As you will read, curiously, there are no names of persons or places mentioned in this account though I have a suspicion to the original ownership. How a piece of the Formal Easterling writing was carried to war on the body of a Southron soldier, I do not know, for traditionally those two are bitter enemies except in the Great War. Once anything is confirmed, I will surely keep you posted, having learned of your most honorable humor the other night. Good luck reading and I hope you are happy.

Yours truly, A Chance Acquaintance."

From "An Account"

I was born in a time of relative peace and madness. Never could I forget the melodies that pierced through me from the earliest memory, wounding my heart with disquiet that never ceased then, faded. The first sights that greeted my young eyes were rich soft silk, jewels beyond splendor and the serene faces of servants dressed with ostentatious livery. Indeed, my father was a lord among men and a loyal to the king that he serves with great obeisance, too great perhaps. Our family is noble in lineage and wealthy, though few in number as a rule, being consisted of father, mother, brother, sister and me, having never exceeded that count in all our history. We never cared for any calls of life than that of arms for the furthering the glory and advancement of our country. Music to us was the trumpeter’s call to war, which we value no less than the sweet voices of the morning birds. But the allure of distant lands and feats of battle is always deadly, especially to one who is idle in all other ways of life, one such as me.

"War," as men of the wise in our country say, "is an effective way to prevent the idle from mischief." How right they were who speaks centuries ago and relates so effectively of our present affairs. As I said, my childhood was spent in a calm atmosphere. There being few battles, and lesser wars. Days were drowned in revelry and merriment, in admiration of beauty. Those who were born then never heard in all their lives that ancient melody and what comes after. The aging generation of my father looked down upon us with frown and worry evident on their faces, but never had they chided and scolded us for the complacency they never had. And so, in all our bliss and possible folly we welcomed the cloud that one day will cover our sky.

In my childhood I participated with wonder all the parties, celebrations and festivals without end, each more exquisite and lavish than the last. Food and precious minerals being in great abundance in our land where fecundity of vegetation grow without guidance. O how I miss it! My senses bathed in all the pleasures that a man might not procured in several lifetimes. And yet as my years progressed, they, who might have been the ambitions of another in some other place, began to bore me while my companions remain intoxicated in its sweetness.

I grew distant from them as I divulged deeper and deeper into our own history, learning of the great heroism in military campaigns which so predominates our past and the distant lands that they traveled. Stories of military feats and magnificence achieved filled my head. I dreamt of the clashing of armies and ingenious strategies. They set my veins on fire with a desire, unequaled perhaps even by love, to fight for an ideal in whose passionate wake I would devote my life or even sacrifice it. Yet as I looked around me and the luxury that I have, despair falls over my heart and ever I go downcast and forlorn except when I escape by some great book or other, in whose hands described fantastic lands faraway, ever so near as I read amongst rich velvet cushion of tyrian purple and the delicate music of albogues.

It was not until a mysterious figure appeared from beyond the sea that all was changed. He emerged as a shadow would from a great darkness that was nearly forgotten and recalled to the mind of our king the renowned grandeur of wars we had long ago waged with men across plains and sea. By some secret artifice of the nameless messenger, for so he claims to be one, our king was tossed into a torrent of nightmares. Memory fading with time sprung out at him with stark vivacity and haunted him in all his thoughts. Whether in eating or conversing with his ministers, past defeats ruled in his mind and body, rendering him beyond all reason. This wearing down by words eventually killed him and his son, a comely and soft- spoken youth, came to the throne to many’s relief.

For a few months everything was peaceful, rumors stopped and whispering ceased. Suddenly, without warning, among one of my worst glooms, and the height of Epicureans in our land, the ancient trumpets resounded within our ears against all harmony and we were called to march to war.

As the hobbit read beside the firelight, all this he thought very familiar and strangely sad, having read many times the Red Book. He hoped with all his heart that the author did not die in that legendary war where many of his people perished. A strange pity rose out of the his gentle heart, partly due to sleepiness, for he think he knows who the dark messenger is though it is but a guess.

He was very much fatigued after he finished, though it was short, and inwardly he complained of his Chance Acquaintance being lazy. The wordiness distracted him, for he thought the writing style slightly tedious and now he wished very much to go to bed.

–Young Dee

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