Prologue.
It was a toy.
It was just a silly children's toy. Little boys played with it and used it to fire stones at birds when they annoyed them. Young dwarrows used it to shoot squirrels and rodents off railings for fun. It was used for play and mischief, not warfare. Not fighting.
That's all it was; a toy. No, not even that. It was neither a toy nor a weapon. It was a toy that wanted to be a weapon or maybe a weapon that was just a toy. Or both.
It was insignificant, ineffective. What good would it do?
Could he really slay giants with it, like he had told him he could? Did he really believe that it could do any good his hands? Did he really have that much faith in it; that much faith in him?
Of all the weapons he could have given him, why this? It was not a sword, or a knife, or an axe, a hammer or bow. It could not fire arrows, just stones. It was not sharp or made of steel or iron. It was an elastic string attached to a y-shaped stick. It was no weapon; it was just a slingshot. It was not made for battle.
And neither was he.
Why was he even here? He was a child! He knew that's what everyone was thinking. He was the youngest and the most inexperienced of the dwarves. He was not a warrior, he was a scribe. He had never seen war. He had never even wielded a weapon or taken a life.
The only weapon he ever held was his quill. The only arrows he ever fired were the words he had written down on faded pieces of parchment. The only lives he ever took were those of the characters he wrote about in his stories.
All make-believe; fairy tales made up in his head. None of it was real!
But this was!
Why was he here? Why did he come? Was it to prove to his brothers and kin that he was capable of doing it? Was it to prove that he was not a weakling and could fend for himself? Or was he trying to prove it to his own self doubt? Because honestly he wasn't even sure whether he was capable enough for this; he didn't realize what he had gotten himself into.
Yes, he was brave enough to jump up in front of the others at Bag-end and shout about how he wasn't afraid to face the dragon, declaring it in a big, bold voice. But what was that? Just a mask to hide how scared he really was and make him seem braver than he really felt.
Even the other young dwarves in the company who were around his age were more capable than he; because they had training. They knew how to wield a blade or use a bow and arrow; they knew how to fight. He did not!
He was small and scrawny; barely a dwarf, to be honest. He was not built like a warrior. He was not big and strong like some of the others were. He had no prowess in battle, no experience. He was as naive and incapable as the hobbit was, or at least appeared to be.
Now, he was most likely going to die trying to reclaim a home he had never seen; never knew. And he was most likely going to die because he was incapable of fighting for it.
He knew that the rest of the company liked him and that they wanted him to be safe. But he also knew that their confidence in his abilities and usefulness on the quest was not very high.
"He's just a boy." He could almost hear them thinking. "Just a foolishly brave boy with his silly toy."
But, it wasn't just a silly toy; not to him. It was so much more than that, and it meant so much more. Why? Because he had given it to him. He, of all people; he, the most powerful and respected dwarf among them, gave him this silly toy. Because he saw it as a weapon and trusted him with it; because he cared for him enough and valued his life so much that he wanted him to have a chance to defend himself.
Because he had faith in him.
And because of that, this toy, this slingshot, meant more to him than any weapon he would ever hold! Because of who had given it to him, where it came from and what it represented, he would always wield it, as insignificant as it seemed.
But, could he and this slingshot really make a difference on this quest? Could he really save lives and defeat monsters with it?
Could he, the youngest, smallest and most inexperienced dwarf of them all, become a hero?