Prologue

A sizzle and the smell of a recently-lit fire. He kindled the candle in his hands and immediately the darkness that had surrounded him, dispersed and a flickering illumination enlivened his hobbit hole. Guided by this small flame that threw dancing shadows on his earthy-brown walls, he moved toward his chest with intent and purpose. It was time. He had awoken this morning and to all intents and purposes it would have looked like it was a normal morning in Bilbo Baggins' household. He had awoken to the sun's light shining on his weathered cheeks and illuminating his silvery hair. He had awoken and he would have strained his ears to detect the sound of soft, dulcet humming and he would feel intense disappointment at perceiving the silence in his home. He would stand up with difficulty due to soreness in his back that seemed to have become a constant company to him for the past few months. He would think of his progressed age, of his senility with bitter amusement. Time had passed so quickly. Too quickly and it seemed as if it had only been yesterday when he had shakingly passed his fingers through untameable red curls and, with tears imparing his vision, had held a dainty hand that had been so cold. Colder than the air in Gollum's cave, colder than the winter that had come upon them when he had been a young, sensible man and that had taken almost everything from them. Bilbo closed his eyes as the memories came down upon him like an avalanche and the pain accompanied them smothered him. Bilbo's youth and strength had left him, but the memories had cruelly remained. The memories of the quest- of her.

Appearance-wise this morning had not been special. Bilbo Baggins had awoken and he had gone to his kitchen to cook breakfast and tea for himself and his nephew. The young hobbit lad had come in, prompted by the sweet smell of warm tea and the scent of warm bread. Uncle and nephew had sat down and enjoyed their meal and Frodo had questioned him about his adventures, for Bilbo Baggins was known for his unorthodox, daring spirit in the whole of the Shire. Bilbo Baggins, who had nothing of the conservative, burgeois manner of the Baggins folk, but had inherited his mother's Tookish streak. He was often looked down upon for his adventures, would often be described as foolhardy and admittedly slightly mad for leaving the comfort of his home to engage in pursues that were entirely galling and would make him late for dinner. Adventures, uncomfortable things that make you late for dinner, the Hobbits would say. This conservative perspective had prompted Bilbo from being regarded as the most sensible and responsible of young lads to an older man that was the topic of Hobbiton's gossip. Yet, while he was frowned upon by the adults, the hobbit infants seemed enamoured with him and his tales of bravery and courage. Tales that were so fantastical that they seemed to be fairy tales, but that according to the teller had indeed occured. Tales of glorious heros, of beatiful princesses, of the most fierce and breath-taking battles. Descriptions of the most magnificent locations. Stories that would prompt the young, impressionable Hobbit children to reenact the tales in the surrounding woods, shielded from their parent's disapproving eyes.

No, this morning had nothing out of the ordinary. He would sit with Frodo at breakfast and the kitchen would be brightly illuminated by the sun's light, that had filtered through the pane of the windows and the smell of freshly sprouting grass and roasted sausages would intersperse and fill the alcove, blanketing itself around Bilbo and Frodo. The idyllic quietude of the outside would infiltrate Bag End's kitchen, but it would also be accompanied by the sound of Bilbo relaying one of his many tales to Frodo and indulging the young lad's curiosity. He had told him all his adventures. All but one, for this one was too painful to relive.

It would seem to be a day as others. Yet, apperances were so deceiving, because when Bilbo Baggins had awoken this morning, when he had opened his eyes for the first time and his weary pupils had been hit with the early morning sun, an unprecented determination and euphoria had gripped him. Had caused him to recover some of his strength that had inhabited him during his youth. Had caused him to rise much quicker, propelled by this urge and certainty that it was now time. And it was this very same urge, that now had him moving through the unlit, winding corridors of Bag End, his only companion being the candle, that he held onto like a sacred beacon and the eary silence. His nephew had long ago retired and were Frodo to awaken, he would be quite disconcerted by the fact that his elderly uncle was still wandering the halls of their hobbit hole, like an unholy spirit. Like a ghost, that had not managed to find its peace, but seemed possessed. Possessed by the need to complete the task that had been trust upon it, in hopes of achieving liberation.

Bilbo quietly, but resolutely limped toward his chest and opened it. The first thing he saw was his sword, the sword he had acquired during his first adventure, during the quest that he both cherished and cursed, for he had gained so much, yet felt that the price he had to pay had been too high indeed. That what he had lost had been too great and what had acquired had been too slim in comparison. But he still felt the siren call of the sheathed blade, that he had kept in this chest and locked away. That had been a prisoner and was now urging Bilbo for its freedom. Bilbo withdrew his hand that had been unconsciously moving toward the blade and he reminded himself of what his task now was. He picked up his leathered case, that contained his parchment and moved toward his study. Kindled by the flickering light of the candle, he began to write and he wrote the whole night through. He wrote in hopes that he would be able to ensnare the painful memories that had tormented him for six decades now. Hoping that he would be able to trap his bane between the lines of his neat caligraphy, was able to imprison him behind the beige bars of the parchment. He wrote the story of his first adventure, the quest where he had helped the company of Thorin Oakenshield reclaim their lost home.

Dear Frodo,

you asked me once if I had told you all there was to know of my… adventures. And while I can honestly say that I have told you the truth… I may not have told you all of it. I am old now Frodo, I am not the same Hobbit I once was.

He stopped writing for a second as the pain of his realization once more hit him. He looked at the portrait that he had cast aside bitterly, when he had opened his case. The portrait that showed him as a young lad, the portrait that had been painted of him just before he had gone to his coming-of-age feast. The feast that had celebrated the completion of his thirty-third year on Middle Earth. It had been a long time ago, and he could not recall the event clearly. He could recall details, like firey-red hair swirling in the air, as he danced with her. Her delighted laughter at his antics and the beaming nature of her smile. How she had awoken him early that morning by jumping on his bed and then when he had been lucid and prepared to admonish her, she had embraced him so lovingly, that his indignation had dissipated and transformed to indulgent amusement. He furrowed his grey brows and pushed the portrait aside. He needed to do this. He owed it to her, he owed it to himself.

I think it is time for you to know what really happened. It began long ago. In a land far away to the east, the like of which you will not find in the world today. There was the city of Dale, its markets known far and wide, full of the bounties of fine and veil, peaceful and prosperous. For this city lay before the doors of the greatest kingdom of Middle Earth: Erebor. Stronghold of Thror: King under the Mountain. Mightiest of the dwarf lords. Thror ruled with utter sureity, never doubting his house would endure, for his line lay secure in the lives of his son and grandson.

Bilbo closed his eyes as the memories of Thorin and Erebor asailed him. Thorin with his majestic and invulnerable demeanour. Thorin that had been his leader and that Bilbo had grown loyal to. But it was not the memory of Thorin the king under the mountain that pained him. No it was the memory of Thorin, his leader, dare he say his friend? The memory of Thorin, the man she had… He shook his head, as if wanting to shake away his rumifications. He thought of Erebor, the vast fortress he could remember. The impenetrable stronghold, that had been so wealthy, that he upon his viewing had understood why the dwarves had longed to return and would have lost their lives for it. He could still remeber the luxurious constructions, the unending treasure, how the sophisticated and majestic aura it had exuded, had undermined the fact that this castle was buried deep within the mountain with no sunlight, no connection to the outside world and a lifeless, ominous atmosphere that as his stay progressed had begun to smother him, leading him to the conclusion that only Thorin's treasures could survive the dark and damp halls. He picked up his pen again and continued:

Ah Frodo, Erebor! Built deep within the mountain itself, the beauty of this fortress-city was legend. Its wealth lay in the earth, in precious gems hewn from rocks and in great seams of gold running like rivers through stone. The skill of the dwarves was unequal, fashioning things of great beauty, out of diamond, emerald, ruby, and saphire. Ever they go deeper, down into the dark. And that is where they found it. The heart of the mountain: The Arkenstone. Thror named it the king's jewel and he took it as a sign, a sign that his right to rule was divine. All would pay homage to him, even the great elven king Thandruil. But the years of peace and plenty were not to last. Slowly the days turned sour and the watchful nights closed in. Thror's love of gold had grown too fierce. A sickness had begun to grow within him. It was a sickness of the mind, and where sickness thrives bad things will follow.

The first they heard was a noise like a hurricane, coming down from the north. The pines on the mountain creaked and cracked in the hot, dry wind. He was a firedrake from the north. Smaug had come! Such want and death were dealt on that day, for the city of men was nothing to Smaug. His eye was set on another price. For dragons covet gold with a dark and fierce desire. Erebor was lost, for a dragon will guard his plunder for as long as he lives. Thandruil would not risk the life of his kin against the wrath of the dragon. No help came from the elves that day, or any day since. Robbed of their home, the dwarves of Erebor wandered the wilderness. A once-mighty people brought low. The young dwarf prince took work, where he could find it, labouring in the villages of men. But always he remembered the mountain smoke beneath the moon, trees like torches blazing bright, he had seen dragon fire in the sky and a city turned to ash. And he never forgave and he never forgot.