[Nurumaiel]

I was first introduced to LotR long before the movies came out. I was just a little lassie when I first watched bits and pieces of the Return of the King cartoon. It had been recorded on video tape and then was recorded over and lost, save the very end, which I watched numerous times, puzzled and intrigued by it. When I was five and going on six my elder brothers received for Christmas some LotR cards, which instantly sparked our interest. We would play a game we called, 'the Frodo game,' for hours on end. I would be Frodo and my brother would be Beregond... two names we had picked up from the cards. My father was a devout fan of LotR, and my godfather, who lived very close by us and who we saw quite frequently, was equally ardent, and we heard discussions on that fascinating subjects all the time. For my sixth birthday I requested a 'movie about Frodo' and after some searching my parents found a copy of the Return of the King cartoon from which I had seen extracted scenes as a very young child. At the end of the film I was almost in tears, and I was saying, 'Yes, Gandalf, there is Hobbit in me, there is!' From then on the road was laid, and I had only to move along it.

One cold and snowy day, when the fire was briskly blazing and the baby was playing about on the floor, my father left the room to return with a rather old-looking book. It was rather large, and it was hardcover, and it was not in the best condition though it was readable. He sat down upon the hearth, opened it up, and began. We were enthralled from the first, delighted to hear more about our dear Frodo, and the Mr. Bilbo Baggins we knew about a little, and that wise old Gandalf, and of the loyal, endearing Samwise Gamgee. We would not let him stop reading until he was completely exhausted the first night, and afterwards we were miserable if he did not read us at least a chapter. His actings out of different scenes were charming to the heart of a child, and the manner in which he spoke when he read of Boromir's death, or of the bittersweetness of Frodo's passing into the West brought a tear to every eye. The laughter when he sang the song of the Man in the Moon, dancing and capering on the hearth, was full of childish delight and bliss. And, oh! weren't we sorry when we did something that incurred the terrible punishment of staying away from the fireplace until we had made up for our wrong. Foolish and stubborn pride brought this punishment upon me once, and I wept heartily, but still would not give in, until at last even pride had to give way. And how happy I was to be sitting at my father's knee, free from disgrace and, more importantly, delighting that I could hear about dear Frodo once again! Sorrow was bountiful when my father closed the book, looked at each one of us gravely and sorrowfully, and said with a little smile, 'The End.' It seemed impossible, and I for one wept the lonesome nights, reflecting that we would never again hear the tale. And, faith, how I would like to go to that fireplace now and sit at my father's feet and say for myself, 'Well, I'm back.'

It was impossible for it to end there, even though the tale itself was done. There was no end of stories made up and acted out, stories of dear Frodo, and even more enjoyable, stories about the numerous children of Sam. Back then we could each take on the role of three or four children apiece, and though it was eventually narrowed down to only two apiece, the fun never ended. Snails provided valuable playmates for 'Little Frodo' and 'Little Merry,' and oh dear, the stories we made up! If Tolkien had been present our only hope of avoiding his wrath would be that he understood children and that their little games were always ridiculous. Faith, taking on the role of 'Little Frodo,' I never ceased to bring the wrath of Gandalf upon me, from drowning his own pet snails (oh, horror that Gandalf should have pet snails! but children can't help it) to things that don't bear mentioning. As ourselves, we always thought of excuses to get Sam and Rosie out of the way, and then as the Gamgee children we would bring about havoc under the care of Gandalf. Fortunately 'Uncy' Frodo always gently intervened when things looked bleakest for Gandalf, if it was not our own real-life supper calling us away from Gamgee mischief. The Gamgees always were the center of attenion. I remember being about eight years old and patiently explaining to a friend of mine just who Frodo and Sam, along with the latter's wife and children, were, just so the two of us could play together that charming 'Frodo game.'

Time went on, and admittedly we would play other games, but somehow those others games always wound up into LotR. Horror of horrors! Could Narnia be played without our dear Frodo? No, nay, never! There was nothing to do but mysteriously bring Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin into Narnia so they could run about with the Pevensie children, and indeed, yes, be captured by the White Witch! Oh, nothing would stop us, not even the barriers between worlds. It was nothing to bring LotR into Narnia, or the other way around, or even to let Darth Vader run rampage in Middle-Earth even the fancy struck us. We grew older, and LotR was never abandoned. Our love for it was renewed with all vigour, for we came of an age where we were capable of reading the grand books ourselves.

And then the movies came out.

If our fervour for LotR had cooled any, it was brought to a raging blaze at that. The children who hadn't even been born on the wintry night when my father first read to us the story became immensely interested in Frodo, and there was no end of excitement and proclaimations of devotion to the movies. They were wonderful, and increased our already burning devotion for LotR, and made it much easier to read the book, for it was much simpler to go through the lengthy descriptions when the films depicted the landscapes in a marvellous way.

And then, slowly, slowly the first excitement of the movies began to fade and things didn't seem quite right. For the most part, Middle-Earth was our own little world still, because nobody we knew really loved it as much as we did. They were only passingly devoted to LotR, and they'd move on whenever the next big film came out. We owned Middle-Earth, still, but it was being invaded by mysterious forces. People would ask us if we liked LotR, and with a fire in our eyes we would cry fervently, 'Yes!' And then they would start talking about New Zealand, and the charming Orlando Bloom, or the big, charming eyes of Elijah Wood, or the amusement they derived from Merry, Pippin, and Gimli. We didn't like what we heard, and annoyance grew in us.

And, of course, after watching the movies numerous times, we noticed something rather... odd... about the characters. They had the names, to be sure, but something was lacking in each of them. Nobility in some, honour in others, and then others seemed to just be missing themselves. The books were brought out, read, and it seemed an entirely different world than that we had seen on the screen. Slowly we began to fade away from the films. We talked about the books instead of the films, we talked about the characters instead of the actors, and we immersed ourselves in our own darling Middle-Earth again.

Assuredly, I love the films very much and I'll always hold them dear, for they were magical and charming. But they weren't LotR to me, not the LotR I grew up with. Watching the films I find myself in a place that is similiar to Middle-Earth, but is not Middle-Earth. The full magic, the full charm, the full honour and nobility, the full of everything held precious in my childhood and now, I only find when I take up the old, worn, half-torn books that my father read, and creep back to the fireplace, and sit down as if I were at my father's feet again, and read of dear Frodo, and of Mr. Bilbo Baggins, and of loyal Samwise Gamgee. And then I smile and murmur softly, 'Well, I'm back.'