After being asked about a sequel to The Journal quite a number of times, I finally got round to doing it. I wasn't going to originally, but well, inspiration struck and here we are.

If you haven't read The Journal, I strongly suggest you do before you get started on this fic; the characters won't make much sense otherwise.

For those who did read The Journal: welcome back. This is likely to be long, so I hope you're up for it.

As of 29 June 2019 the character list with descriptions is at the bottom of this chapter. I will update it regularly to make sure it remains relevant

Enjoy!

The Book

"Do not read, as children do, to amuse yourself, or like the ambitious, for the purpose of instruction. No, read in order to live."

Gustave Flaubert

Chapter 1

The Author

Erebor, late summer 3019 TA

The sun was just rising over the horizon, its rays touching the eastern slopes of the Lonely Mountain. Summer was nearing its end and there was a chill in the morning air, reminding one and all that autumn was close. The author didn't feel the cold. She'd wrapped herself in a cloak that was too short for her. To make sure her feet didn't freeze off she'd taken a blanket to cover them up.

From where she was sitting the surrounding lands looked perfectly peaceful. In this light everything looked peaceful. Most folk were still abed, at least for the moment. Soon enough there would be people out and about, clearing away all the reminders that not so long ago war had raged over these lands. The author had heard the stories, although she hadn't been here when it all happened. But through their tales it was as though she had witnessed some of the events herself, from multiple perspectives. And she was an author; it was her lot in life to write down all these stories so that they wouldn't be forgotten.

'Have you been here all night?'

The author looked round. Not that she needed to; she knew who the voice belonged to. 'Only a few hours,' she replied. 'I wanted to see the sunrise.'

The wanderer sat himself down beside her. If the cold ground bothered him, he didn't show it. 'You finished reading then?' It wasn't so much a question as a conclusion.

The author nodded. 'I did.'

In the past months he had gotten to know her entirely too well; he heard what she hadn't translated into the spoken word. 'It did not help, did it?'

There was some understanding there, but there was also the tone of voice that betrayed he had expected that result long before it had arrived. She felt a little put out with him for that, especially because he had warned her that reading someone else's story was not always a guideline for one's own life. Of course, after what she had been through herself, she ought to have known that. Maybe it had been easier to ignore it, instead clinging to the altogether rather childish belief that one book could somehow help her figure out what to do with her own life.

Of course her friend had known, but it was the kind of wisdom she had not expected from him. Not that this wanderer was by any means a simple soul – there was intelligence there clear as daylight – but his knowledge and wisdom were of a different nature. He was more of a practical person whereas she… well, she didn't actually know any more what she was and wasn't.

For a moment she contemplated lying, but he'd see through that in seconds and so it served no point. 'It didn't. The situations are too… different.' Different was not a word that conveyed all that she wanted to, but she failed to come up with a more satisfactory alternative. A bit disappointing, that. Words were her trade after all. It has been too long since I've written anything, she lamented silently. My skills are getting rusty.

'And yet strangely alike as well,' he observed.

She shot him an irritated glance. 'When did you get so wise?'

'You never noticed it before,' he replied airily. 'Didn't mean it wasn't there.'

The author gave him a long, hard look and finally noticed what she should probably have seen right away, had she not been so lost in her own thoughts. 'You didn't get any sleep either, did you?'

'Not much,' he admitted. 'I keep on thinking…' He trailed off. 'Never mind what I was thinking. It's a dismal thought and it won't bring him back.'

She nodded and let him drop the subject. It wasn't her place to intrude on his grief. They were friends, true enough, but she'd always felt there was some line that she shouldn't cross. This was that line. If there was anything she had learned about him and his family, it was that they did not talk about what they felt easily, if they spoke of it at all. Her friend's grief seemed to have opened him up some, but not overly much.

There was silence between them for a time as they watched the sun rise. It was beautiful here, the author thought. It would be even more so when the last scars of war had been gone from the land. She'd always had too vivid an imagination and she could almost picture what it had been like only a few months previous. Bodies littering the ground, trees burning, battle cries filling the air. A shiver went down her spine. She'd seen enough of war not to need an imagination of any kind to picture a battlefield. Would that I could make myself forget.

'So, what will you do?' the wanderer asked, breaking the silence at last.

'I don't know.' That had been her answer for so long now that it came to her lips almost effortlessly. I don't know, but I will know soon. As soon as I've done this, as soon as I've seen that… But she had done this and she had seen that and she was no closer to an answer.

He looked at her, well-known half-smile on his face. 'Well, I'm no scholar and I've always abhorred any sort of activity that involves quills and parchments, but you're different, aren't you?'

She shook her head. 'I'm not so sure. I haven't written anything in so long.'

He must know that she was making excuses. 'My sister always tells me writing is like riding a pony. You don't forget because you haven't done it in a while.' He conjured up a smile. 'It's been her favourite argument to get my brother to do his letter-writing for many years now.'

'This is not letter-writing,' the author pointed out. 'Besides, what point would there be to it? I've got all the information, but if I wrote it down and had it published, who would believe it? And she has already told her own tale. There's no need for my book.' She snorted. 'Imagine that. All the work that's gone into this investigation and now it turns out I can't write about it after all. There's irony in that somewhere.'

'I didn't mean her story,' he said in a tone that suggested the idea must have occurred to her. 'I meant yours. You've done enough of your so-called research to make it a good one.'

'It's not just so-called…' she began to protest, a habit that had been years in the making. Research was what she based her work on. She was not one of those story-writers. Her work was based in fact and she liked to keep it that way, thank you very much. 'Anyway, it doesn't matter. I don't write stories.'

'Your work is based in hard facts,' her friend agreed, parroting her endless refrain back at her. 'Just wondering why you seem to be thinking all our adventures are mere stories. Didn't it feel real enough?'

She snorted. 'There were times when it didn't.' There had been times when she could have sworn she had wandered into a dream or a nightmare, depending on the situation. 'And even if I wanted to, I don't have the time.'

That look told her how much he believed of that. 'If you didn't have the time, then why come all the way up here?' he asked. Clearly it had been meant as a rhetorical question and she treated it that way. Her not bothering with an answer had nothing to do with not wanting to admit she didn't have a clue why she had acted as she did.

Truth was, she was not even all that certain why she kept on delaying the inevitable. She had known what the outcome of all her pondering would be before she even began. No, that was not entirely true. She had known what the outcome should be. It was not the same thing, not the same thing at all.

What was true though was that time was rapidly slipping away. A choice had to be made and the longer she thought about it, the more she convinced herself that her friend was right. If she did this, if she wrote about what happened the way she did in her other books, her own path might seem a bit clearer than it was now. That wasn't necessarily true, but she could make herself believe it if she only tried hard enough.

In the end it was the lack of a suitable alternative that decided her. She had spent the better part of the morning wondering about what to do, but sitting on a mountainside thinking about it hadn't gotten her anywhere in the previous days, so it stood to reason it would not miraculously get her anywhere in the days to come.

She had been given a room of her own. It was sparsely furnished, but there was a writing desk and, thanks to her friend, enough writing equipment to keep her stocked for weeks. Her belongings, including all her documentation, the result of months of painstaking research, were scattered around the place. The wanderer had been right; she had more than enough hard facts to base her story on.

'Bugger these quills,' she muttered when she sat herself down. The author had used them before, but only briefly and mainly for short notes. This would not be short by any stretch of the imagination. And her penmanship wasn't going to win her any prizes either. Her script was barely readable even when she had better material to work with. 'Positively medieval.' It was hardly the first time she had uttered comments like that and it was surely not the last time either.

But there was nothing else for it. She took a deep breath, dipped her quill in the ink and began to write.

Here follows the account…

Dramatis Personae

In Erebor

Thoren, son of Thorin: King under the Mountain, currently striving to redefine the word recklessness, to the sheer exasperation of basically everyone around him.

Thráin, son of Thorin: His brother, smith and wanderer, making friends wherever he goes. Another one with occasional suicidal tendencies.

Duria, daughter of Thorin: Their sister, nosy scholar, overdosing on overprotectiveness.

Narvi, son of Bombur: Duria's husband, probably has the patience of a saint.

Nari and Dari: Duria's sons. Mischief on legs. Also unexpectedly very sweet.

Nes: Narvi's sister. Stone mason with a cheerful and practical disposition.

Jack, son of Thorin: Thoren's youngest brother. Has issues, so many issues. Definitely a dwarf, though, which is always good to know.

Cathy, daughter of Thorin: Jack's twin sister. Accomplished seamstress and trouble finder. Has a cunning streak a mile wide. A deft hand with a hairpin.

Halin: Cathy's husband. Merchant and diplomat. Reluctant possessor of more grey hairs than he had before this whole thing started.

Dalin: Halin's older brother. Not a pleasant fellow.

Nai: Their mother. An old hag.

Fíli: Thoren's cousin. Probably the most sensible person under the Mountain. Not that anybody ever stops to tell him.

Síf: Fíli's wife. Dispensing valuable historic information wherever she goes.

Kíli: Their eldest son. Smith. The most sensible brother, Maker help them all.

Thorli: Kíli's brother, also smith. Slightly less sensible. Has an immeasurable talent for stating the obvious.

Víli: Their youngest brother. Ditto with the profession. Not a steady hand with the ropes and chains.

Sigdís: Their sister. Cook. Busy.

Dori: Thoren's uncle. It's not a mystery where Duria gets the fussing from. Not a very happy dwarf these days.

Nori: His brother. Utterly annoying and slightly loveable crook. Rumour has it he is directly responsible for every one of Dori's grey hairs.

Ori: The youngest of that trio. One-handed Head Librarian with unsuspected Dori-qualities.

Thora: Ori's wife. First person in recorded history who successfully drugged an elf into deep sleep. Deals in common sense and optimism as much as medicine and let's face it, this family needs both in spades.

Flói: Their eldest son. The easy-going one. If anything fazes him, the rest of the world has yet to notice. Jack's best friend, possibly surgically attached at the hip.

Lifur: The younger son. The foolish one. Fancies himself a scholar. Can probably get drunk from sniffing alcohol a mile away. Lacks dancing qualities.

Glóin: Thoren's trusted advisor. Not good with patience. Manners only on request and a full stomach.

Gimli: His son. Likewise with the patience and the manners. About to drastically rethink his position on elves.

Bofur: Hat-lover. Very fond of the architecture of Lord Elrond's fountains.

Thulfa: A scholar. Fond of silver linings.

Lufur: Very patient guardsman. But don't get on the wrong side of him.

Nara: His wife. Might just be capable of telepathy.

Dwalin: A dangerous dwarf with an axe.

Alfur: The reluctant punchline of most jokes, but still cheerful about it.

Halnor: Maker of aforementioned jokes.

Nuri: Is he mute? Who can say?

Ónar: A sudden and fervent advocate of physical violence.

Fion: A dwarf who knows his trade. Suffers from sudden outbursts of muttering.

In Dale

Brand: King of Dale. Does not let his age hold him back in any way.

Bard: His son.

Old woman: With a backbone of steel. Not the orcs' next dinner.

Man: A moron. There's one who won't live to a ripe old age.

Thormod: A young lad who knows what needs to be done. Just the right height for a walking stick.

Olaf: A very capable archer, especially considering the state of his eyes.

Gunnar: The unforgiving sort

In Esgaroth

Ingor: Master of the town. Universally disliked. Worries about all the wrong things at all the wrong moments.

Ingor's uncle: Disillusioned.

Sigrid: Doing her duty and sad about it.

Alfred: Not the best example of good life choices.

Farulf: His brother. Letting his emotions do his thinking for him. The results of that are about as good as you'd expect.

Two guardsmen: Who should have known better.

Ada: Making a mistake with lethal consequences.

Solmund: Doing the right thing even when it isn't easy.

Einar: Successfully delivering messages of vital importance. Still has a thing or two to learn about guarding.

Oda: Owner of a pair of sharp knitting needles.

In the Iron Hills

Dáin Ironfoot: Lord of the Iron Hills. Why on earth would anyone try to get past his gates when you meet him on the other side?

Thorin Stonehelm: His son. Missed his vocation as town crier.

In Mirkwood

Thranduil: King of Mirkwood. Doing some growing up, which is about time.

Legolas: His son, currently rethinking his position on dwarves. Still a little undecided.

Lainor: Advisor to the king. For some reason.

Elvaethor: Former captain of the guard and very happy about it. Studying for a degree in advanced recklessness.

Tauriel: His sister and current captain of the guard. Getting thoroughly exasperated with all these dwarves getting themselves into trouble when she is around.

Aerandir: Courteous elf. "The wordy one."

Galu: Quiet elf.

Feredir: Dangerous elf.

Tegalad: Bearer of bad news.

Lancaeron: Adapting well to unexpected visitors.

Erynion: A rich source of information.

Aennen: Suffering from a massive unrequited crush on his captain.

Cilmion: An elf with an axe to grind. So grind it he will.

In England

Elizabeth Andrews: An author with a keen eye for detail. About to solve the family mystery, just not in the way she expects.

Harry Andrews: Her son. Winning hearts and minds with one hand tied around his back.

Peter Andrews: Beth's brother. If you want him to stand still, you'll have to glue his feet to the floor.

Mary Stiles: Their sister. A mother hen surprisingly bad at saying no.

Terrence Stiles: Her husband.

Thomas and Lily: Their children.

Fiona Andrews: Beth's mother. Not happy. With good reason.

Patrick Andrews: Beth's father, who is not going to have a good time anytime soon.

Susan Andrews: His sister. Moved to Australia and never came back.

Archie Andrews: Their older brother. Voice of conscience. Possesses pictures that he doesn't quite understand the relevance of.

Jacko Andrews: Beth's grandfather, deceased. Took the answer to the family mystery to his grave.

Diane Parker: A private detective's daughter with quite the collection of documents.

Alex Tanner: Beth's ex and Harry's father. Suffers from acute commitment allergy.

In Rivendell

Lord Elrond: Up to his ears in visitors, not all of whom are very welcome.

Elrohir: His son. Partner in crime.

Elladan: Elrohir's twin. Unapologetically so.

Arwen: Their sister. Making unconventional choices.

Bilbo Baggins: Former burglar and honoured guest of advanced years. Aspiring author.

In the Shire

Frodo Baggins: Ring-bearer. Much more observant than he's given credit for. Struggling.

Samwise Gamgee: His gardener. Invaluable on every count. Also more observant than everyone else thinks. Stick expert.

Meriadoc Brandybuck: Unexpectedly sensible. Not a good swimmer.

Peregrin Took: Heavy sleeper. A veritable ray of sunshine and clever commentary. Not to be trusted with stones.

In Lothlórien

Galadriel: Lady. Gift-giver. Mirror-owner. Possibly a good neighbour. Who knows?

Celeborn: Lord. Galadriel's husband. Not overly fond of dwarves, but conveying important information in spite of it.

Haldir: Does not like introductions. Good public speaker. Not bad at sword-play either.

Almárean: A very lucky elf.

Námion: Unfamiliar with the concept of knocking.

In Gondor

Denethor: Steward of Gondor with a somewhat founded dislike for dwarves. Not in the race to win Father of the Year Award.

Boromir: His eldest son. Does his duty with a determination that would put a dwarf to shame.

Faramir: The youngest son. Hero of the hour.

Aravir and Eradan: Rangers. Unexpectedly in it up to their necks.

Eglerion and Berior: Tower guards. Doing their duty. There's a pattern here. Can you see it?

Thugs: As it says on the tin. Nasty, but fortunately not too bright.

In Rohan

Théoden: King. With mental health issues.

Théodred: His son. Looking good for a dead man.

Gríma: The King's primary advisor. Has a penchant for dark clothes. Bears a remarkable resemblance to something slimy.

Éomer: The King's nephew. Speaking his mind and suffering because of it.

Éowyn: His sister. Dreams of glory and might actually get it.

Háma: Guardsman. Doing the decent thing.

Gamling: Unsuccessfully guarding the door, though not for lack of trying.

Gárbold: Old, one-eyed, frail. Ignoring all of these disadvantages, because everybody knows that these things go away if you ignore them long enough.

Éohild: Also old and frail. Is she his wife or sister? Who can tell? Speaking the language could help to clear it up. Mislaid her teeth some time ago.

Éorryth: Woman with the opposite of a sunny disposition. Professional frowner.

Helm: Hungry for knowledge.

Freda: Helm's sister. Using her words.

In Harad

Hadnor: Very concerned with animal welfare.

In the East

Sacal: Likely to sell his own mother if it would save his skin.

Mubul: Unconvinced that a career in the military is quite the thing for him.

Móbaz: Unsuccessfully commanding troops.

Those without a place to call home

Gandalf: A wizard. Doing the right thing for his world.

Gollum/Sméagol: Creature with a long time crush on a piece of jewellery. Not the epitome of sanity in anyone's book.

Strider: Also known as Aragorn, a Ranger who seems to be collecting names as he goes. It gets very confusing.

Teddy: Dont't ask. Just don't.

Nori: No, not that Nori

Old Stomper: Mûmak named for its most prominent talent.

Lucky Lady: A textbook example of how a name doesn't always live up to the expectations.

Also featuring a full cast of:

- Armies, so many armies. Elves, dwarves, orcs, men, trolls, wargs. If you can think of it there's probably an army of it around in this story.

- Healers: busy.

- Nazgûl: scary.

- Creepy creature of the Lake: slimy, tentacled. Enough said. Close encounters should probably be avoided.

- Traitors: a bloody nuisance.

- Scouts: ditto.

- Loads of civilians: dissatisfied with the way things are being run in the time-honoured tradition of civilians everywhere, because everyone knows that a civilian happy with politicians/kings is rarer than a four-leaf clover.

- And one snobbish horse with Opinions, probably on the lookout for a rider who actually knows what he's doing.