~Prologue~
Once Upon A Time
They Say…
You're the King of Everything,
The One Who Taught the Wind to Sing,
The Source of the Rhythm My Heart Keeps Beating.
You Can Be the Hope My Soul's Been Seeking.
I Wanna Tell You Now I Believe It.
I'm An Empty Page.
I'm An Open Book.
Write Your Story On My Heart.
~Write Your Story, by Francesca Battistelli
Disclaimer: Me No Own; You No Sue.
Fairytales.
I read the cover.
"Can you read this to me?"
"Yeah, I can read this to you."
A small wistful smile claimed pink lips. I slowly dropped down to the white blanket, which had dulled with age, and pulled the thick tome into my arms. Back resting against the rock, I gently brushed clean fingertips along the edges of the old, ripped, and dusty book. It slowly creaked, the chapter in the middle of the book falling open as my eyes greedily drank in the familiar words and pictures. My favorite fairytale, The King and the Dragon, was open.
"Once upon a time," I whispered, word for word, and practically reading the story from memory, "there was a very powerful kingdom hidden beneath the Mountain. Carved into the face of the Mountain by Mahal himself, the Dwarves lived in relative peace and prosperity, mining for the riches buried below – until the day that the dragon came! The Desolation of Smaug was very great, and terrible, in its strength, its pain. Prince Thorin, the strongest, smartest, and bravest Dwarf of all, led his devastated people away, as even their allies turned their backs to the heartbroken Dwarves, who had lost much to the fire and the brimstone.
One day, though, Prince Thorin promised, Smaug would die by his hand – and his hand alone…
He would become the King Under the Mountain.
He would reclaim his homeland, Erebor.
Thorin swore it."
My heart warmed, and I thought of the famous King, the King Under the Mountain. He was a person of legend, lost between fact and fiction, myth and fairytale. Some said that the Dwarf led his Company into the fiery bowels of Erebor to kill Smaug. He killed Smaug and the Pale Orc, thus reclaiming his lost homeland for his people. Others claimed that the King and the two Princes, Fili and Kili, died in battle, though their homeland became theirs once more.
Another legend, and much older than the others, whispered of the –
"What happened next, Sammy?"
Blue irises dropped down to observe the small boy seated beside me. He was young, only six (and three quarters, if asking him), and still had the slender build of childhood. One could tell, with his black hair and brown eyes and tan skin, that the boy would be incredibly handsome someday. At the moment, however, Elijah Sinclair was a sweet little boy with dimples, and scabby knees, and big ears. He was cute.
Me, though – I was a mess with frizzing blonde hair, freckled skin, and sky blue eyes. I was covered in scratches and bruises from crawling around in the dark hidden tunnel that the lead archaeologist had uncovered yesterday. I was the smallest there, with the exception of Eli, and the team asked that I crawl in. Apparently, Mister Black had uncovered the path leading to the dungeons in the ruined Halls of Thranduil, from the ancient Woodland Realms. Little Eli had helped to clean up my scratched hands.
Curling my arm atop his, I pulled him closer and kissed the top of his head. He grumbled lightly at the touch and tried scrubbing the girl cooties from his dark hair, small hands furiously raking through the curly strands. I smirked down at the little boy, pleased with his dramatic reaction, and mockingly leaned in again. Through long black eyelashes, which made me a very jealous girl, Elijah glared darkly at me. I succumbed to laugher at his supposedly threatening look, swiftly ruffling his hair.
"Sammy!" Eli whined through his teeth, before inhaling and puffing his cheeks out in anger. He was going for mad, but the boy only managed to look cuter with his red face and his little chipmunk cheeks.
"Okay, okay! I'll stop," I laughed at him again and pulled him back into my side. He cuddled much closer, his tanned face buried into my chest, and curiously stared at the yellowed story pages. A small finger pointed to the first one.
"What happened to King Thorin the T-Trumpet?" Eli curiously asked while squinting at the last word and stumbling through its pronunciation. He made to stick his thumb in his mouth, but I gently knocked it back down.
"King Thorin the Triumphant," I corrected him, masking the smile that claimed trembling lips at the mistake. "Say it with me." He grumpily did like asked and pointed at another word. "It says the Company."
"…Oh," Eli simply said, before sticking his thumb in his mouth. He realized it before I could remind him not to suckle at it and removed this thumb from his mouth with a pop and scowl. "What happened to King Thorin the Tri-um-phant and the Com-pany of Thirteen, then?"
"Nobody knows, Eli," I mysteriously informed the boy, face darkly shadowed by the flashlight I used to illuminate the small tent. He giggled at me as my small fingers fluttered and wiggled in front of his face, and then batted them away. I grinned down at him.
As a child stuck in the Question Phase, Eli wanted to know anything and everything. He furrowed his little black eyebrows and asked, "Do you think that King Thorin is real?"
"Yes," I replied immediately and without doubt. My fingers flicked through the pages, until I arrived at the ending of the story. I pointed to the page, with the handsome Dwarf King and Company standing, side by side, with their swords pointed at us. Eli stared with wide eyes.
"Most of the story is lost to time, like their kingdom, but there are some artifacts – tapestries and pots and swords – that have made it out and into the hands of the archaeologists," I informed Eli, smiling down at him while gushing about the most recent find. "Yesterday, Daddy found this really old sword while digging through the Halls. It's Elven in make, but I looked at it, and I think the runes on it translate to Biter."
"How do you always know all of this stuff?" Eli asked with admiration. He, like me, was in love with the legends and the fairytales surrounding the history of Erebor – King Thorin, Prince Fili the Fierce, Prince Kili the Keen, Bilbo the Brave, and all the rest of the Company.
Grinning, I leaned down and motioned to him to lean closer as if to tell him something in secret. I whispered, "Well, I read lots of books and study lots of different information because I want to be an archaeologist, like Daddy." As usual, I made certain to slowly speak the bigger words.
"Me, too," Eli gasped out, his tiny body nearly trembling with the strength of his excitement. A small hand tugged at mine, and the little boy asked, "What about me? Can I become an arch-ae-ol-o-gist, too?"
"Of course," I said while solemnly nodding down at him. I gestured to the space outside of the tents. "We always tag along with our parents to help at the digs!" I teased, "We'll have to take over when they're all old and wrinkly."
"They're already all old and wrinkly," Eli replied matter-of-factly, like only somebody of six (and three quarters, Eli piped) could do. He was now straight faced and serious. "Does that mean we're going to have to take over soon?"
"Not for a couple of years," I laughingly told him. I closed the old book, hugging it in my arms, and offered Eli the flashlight. He pointed it at me, and I winced, swatting it away. "We have to go and take all sorts of classes at a university first."
"What kinds of classes? Are they like math? Because I really don't like math," Eli complained, his face falling at the thought of having to do more multiplication. His Mom, who taught him during the summers, was a stickler for math worksheets. Poor kid…
"Not too many," I reassured him, which seemed to cheer the little boy up. "History classes are really important. Anthropology and religion, too! You get to go into the field early, which means you get to dig around and search for stuff before becoming a real archaeologist."
Little Eli scrunched his face up, nose curling in between his puffed cheeks. He confusedly asked, "Is it like…practice?"
"Exactly," I praised him, smiling at his brightening expression. "It's kind of like pushing the practice button for the mini games on Mario Party."
"Cool," Eli simply replied, before unexpectedly – well, maybe not, in his case – changing the subject. "What about the sword? Do I get to see it? Is it sharp? Can I hold it?" He began to vibrate like a small Chihuahua. "Can I? Can I, can I, can I?"
Pinching the bridge of my nose to stall the oncoming headache, I answered, "Your Dad helped Daddy to clean it up. It's in storage. You can see it tomorrow. Yes. It is really sharp. Your Mom will probably say no." I ticked the questions off with four fingers.
"What? Why can't I hold it?" Eli whined, but before the little boy could really start complaining, I interrupted him by covering his mouth with my palm.
Dryly, I explained, "Well, Daddy is pretty protective of it. They – Daddy, Mr. Bill and Mrs. Hannah – all think it might be Orcist, the sword given to King Thorin by the Wizard –"
"– Gandalf the Grey," Eli cheered his little interruption, tossing his hands up and exclaiming the name of the famous Wizard. He loved Gandalf. Last Halloween, Eli had taken off with an old blanket and stick, stomping around the neighborhood and claiming to be the Istari.
"SHHH!"
Eli and I both jumped.
"Some people here actually need to get up early to excavate in the morning! Keep it quiet!" Mr. Ron, who was mean and rude to everybody except Mister Black, hissed, "Okay?!"
"Yes, Mr. Ron," Eli and I dutifully chorused while rolling our eyes. I thought about telling him not do it, but I had done it, too. I shrugged. His Mom could tell him off if Eli did it again.
"Go to sleep, Eli," Mrs. Hannah, his mother, grumbled from the tent beside ours. "Be good for Sammy. Or else you'll sleep in here for the night." She grumbled lightly. "Your father is snoring, too…"
"Okay," Eli sighed, blowing his bangs up, and then crawled into his sleeping bag. He tucked himself in, though I was permitted the great honor of handing him his stuffed red dragon. "G'night, Mom. G'night, Sammy."
"Goodnight, Eli," I whispered because his Mom had already fallen back asleep. After checking my sleeping bag for snakes, finding none, and slipping in, I clicked the flashlight off and kissed his forehead. "Sweet dreams."
My own were vivid and bright with magic. My dreams echoed with the clashing of metal hitting metal and fire screaming through the air, rushing by stone, and lighting the night sky like Fourth of July fireworks. A Dwarf, his hair dark and his face handsome, slowly lowered his sword and lifted his other hand, stretching it out to me. I reached out for him and smiled.
That night, I dreamed of Erebor.
***Author's Note***
Hello! :) To all those that have read through my stories before, welcome back! To any new readers, hello and welcome! As I have mentioned to those reading Sacrifice, the story I am just finishing for The Lord of the Rings, I wanted to try writing a story for The Hobbit! Readers have asked for Thorin to be the romantic interest of Sammy, and vice versa. A poll is up, and you're welcome to still vote for the next day or so! Most have reviewed and voted for Thorin. Who can really blame them, though? ;)
NOTE: Please review with who you'd like to see as a romantic couple other than Sammy/Thorin. (i.e. Kili and Tauriel.)
Anyway, I hope you all enjoy the story, which I will be updating again soon!
Sacrifice will be updated, completely edited, tomorrow!
PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!
:)