Author's Note: Disclaimer:This is a FanFiction from the Lord of the Rings world, created and trademarked by J.R.R. Tolkien. The characters, settings, and anything created by J.R.R. Tolkien are not my own and I do not claim ownership to any of them. This is a FanFiction I made with nothing to do with J.R.R. Tolkien, and is for entertainment purposes only:I am not profiting financially from this work, which may or may not be canonical. Thanks to J.R.R. Tolkien for making the world of The Lord of the Rings, for without it, many people would be un-enlightened to the genius of Lord of the Rings and J.R.R. Tolkien and the following FanFiction would never have been made, and I would have no life. Credits from most dialogue and setting to Peter Jackson, one of the best directors ever.

I also do not own the movie or book Wuthering Heights, which is mentioned in this chapter.

I also do not own The Hobbit, movie or book, or its contents, which are briefly mentioned in this chapter.


I sat in my car, flipping through my book, The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien. I was ready to go into the theater to watch Wuthering Heights, but just had to look at the ink on paper once more, reading aloud to myself.

"In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit."

I skimmed over the description of the hobbit hole, wondering at how Peter Jackson had done so well in bringing an epic to the modern world of only men. Sometimes, I often wondered if we were in a fifth age of Middle-Earth, where men were dominant and all other races forgotten. But, if that were true, then the race of men would've diminished greatly from the power it had with the Dunedain, Gondorians, and Rohirrim. I chuckled as I put the book down next to the Lord of the Rings books I kept with me wherever I went. I opened the door, looked back, and put The Return of the King in my purse. Why, I would never know. After all, I knew the books nearly word for word.

A summer breeze passed through the red leaves hanging on the trees, their vibrant colors not meant to last for long. Stores had huge sales, wanting to sell their Halloween wares before the day of costumes and candy and children running about would come.

As I locked my car, I adjusted my long, soft, dark green coat. Blond hair flew in my blue eyes, and I hastily tied it back. I hated my hair. It was too long, reaching down to reach halfway down my back. I made a note on my Blackberry-make hair appointment. If a barber didn't cut it soon, my kitchen scissors would.

I strolled into the theater, its popcorn scents washing away any trace of fresh and crisp autumn air. I went to buy a ticket and went straight to the theater. Theater 9. I smiled to myself, thinking of the nine walkers. The Nazgul came to mind as well, but I pushed the thought of vile wraiths away.

Previews were playing, so I plugged earphones into my phone and listened to "The Lord of the Rings" soundtrack, thinking of the time when I could also own "The Hobbit" soundtrack impatiently. I opened the book I had earlier stored in my purse, flipped to the destroying of the Ring. Gollum, in his joy in taking the Ring from Frodo, had carelessly danced over the edge inside the fiery Mt. Doom. I pitied the poor guy, always being twisted and corrupted by the Ring. I reached for a bookmark, not daring to doggy-ear the pages of a book, when the scent of parchment overcame the smells of a theater and as the movie began, I felt myself being drawn away, and in the empty theater of only me, I was swept away.