On a hole beneath the ground, in the darkest hour of night, a hobbit paced around his home thinking on the best way to start his tale. This hobbit had lived through many adventures in his lifetime, but there was one that held a lot of meaning inside his heart.
"My dear Frodo: you asked me once if I had told you everything there was to know about my adventures. And while I can honestly say I have told you the truth… I may not have told you all of it."
Old Bilbo Baggins opened a chest containing tokens of his past, of the days when he was a young hobbit full of dreams and hopes of going in adventures, of discovering treasures and new lands. He searched through the chest and then his eyes landed on an old sword, for one moment Bilbo reached out for it and then thought better.
He took out an old leather bound red book. Sitting on his stole he opened it. The first thing that he found was a piece of parchment with the portrait of a young hobbit drawn on it, next to it was the portrait of the same hobbit lad next to a girl who looked quite alike his younger version; smiling fondly he set them apart and turned the page.
"I am old now, Frodo. I'm not the same hobbit I once was. 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."
Bilbo Baggins started his story telling his young nephew about the greatest dwarven city of all times: Erebor.
"There was the city of Dale. Its markets know far and wide. Full of the bounties of vine and vale. Peaceful and prosperous. For this city lay before the doors of the greatest kingdom in Middle-earth: Erebor. Stronghold of Thror, King Under the Mountain. Mightiest of the Dwarf Lords. Thror ruled with utter surety never doubting his house would endure for his line lay secure in the lives of his son and grandson".
At this he snorted and looked back at the second drawing, focusing on the hobbit girl that stood right next to his younger version; he shook his head and dripped his quill into the ink.
"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 rock and in great seams of gold running like rivers through stone. The skill of the dwarves was unequaled, fashioning objects of great beauty out of diamond, emerald, ruby and sapphire. Ever they delved deeper, down into the dark. And that is where they found it. The Heart of the Mountain. The Arkenstone."
If someone could have seen Old Bilbo's face as her recalled the grandeur of Erebor they would have been able to imagine such greatness just by looking at his face, the way it lit up or how his eyes shined with images from the past.
"Thror named it "The King's Jewel". 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, Thranduil. But the years of peace and plenty were not to last. Slowly the days turned sour and the watchful nights closed in."
Here, his face darkened and a crease appeared on his forehead.
"Thror's love of gold had grown too fierce. A sickness had begun to grown 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 of the mountain creaked and cracked in the hot, dry wind. He was a firedrake from the North. Smaug had come."
He closed his eyes for a moment trying to imagine the catastrophe the dragon left behind him trying to remember how the city looked when he set foot on it sixty years back. He sighed.
"Such wanton death was dealt that day. For this city of men was nothing to Smaug. His eye was set on another prize. For dragons covet gold with dark and fierce desire. Erebor was lost. For a dragon will guard his plunder as long as he lives. Thranduil would not risk the lives of his kin against the wrath of the dragon. No help came from the Elves that day… nor any day since. Robbed of their homeland the Dwarves of Erebor wandered the wilderness, a once mighty people brought low. The young Dwarf prince took work where he could find it laboring in the villages of Men. But always he remembered the mountain smoke beneath the moon, the trees like torches blazing bright. For he had seen dragon fire in the sky and a city turned to ash. And he never forgave, and he never forgot."
Without his notice the day had already arrived and as Old Bilbo Baggins continued with his tale the birds chirped outside, the Shire coming to life.
"That, my dear Frodo, is where I come in. For, quite by chance, and the will of a Wizard, fate decided I would become part of this tale."
He looked out the window placed just above where he sat, memories flooding his head.
"It began… Well, it began as you might expect. In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole full of worms and oozy smells."
Not that she'll ever allow it, he thought with a smile.
"This was a Hobbit hole. And that means good food, a warm hearth and all the comforts of home."
He chuckled as he kept writing about the life of a hobbit and stopped once he notice Frodo making his way over to him. Putting the quill down and clearing his throat he turned to his nephew who had a stack of letters on one hand and a half eaten apple on the other.
-Thank you –Old Bilbo said in a stern toned as Frodo picked up the drawing of his younger self; reaching over he took it from his hands as Frodo asked about it-. That is private. Keep your sticky paws off.
Frodo tried to read the page in front of him and Bilbo closed the book claiming that it wasn't ready to be read, at least not yet. The young hobbit walked straight towards the chest and started taking out the old trinkets he could find there; a helmet, too big to fit him, or any hobbit for that case, was the first thing he could find.
-What on earth are these? –Bilbo wondered out loud taking the letters from the shelf on top of his desk.
-Replies to the party invitations –Frodo answered from the other side of the study.
-Ah. Good gracious. Is it today? –Bilbo's face lit up with a childish gleam on it.
And here both hobbits started a discussion on the Sackville-Bagginses; quite dreadful folk if you ask me, filled with interest and cunning, trying their whole lives to get their hands on Bag End. The worst of all: Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. Old Bilbo once caught her trying to get away with the silverware, and that is why right in that moment he was "taking precautions" and hiding every valuable he could find on sight.
-She had all my spoons stuffed in her pocket. Ha! –He said as Frodo trailed behind him-. Dreadful woman. Make sure you keep an eye on her after I'm… -Here, Bilbo stopped and hesitated-. When I'm… When I'm…
-When you're… what? –Frodo looked at his uncle doubtingly, wondering for a moment what was passing through his mind.
-It's nothing. Nothing. –He went straight to his desk and took out a cardboard and a paintbrush. Frodo walked in and expressed the concern people had over Bilbo's behavior, saying that he was odd and unsociable. Bilbo puffed, and turning to Frodo with a smile handed him the sign he just had made-. Unsociable, me? Nonsense. Be a good lad and put that on the gate.
Frodo took one look at the sign and shook his head, sighing he headed towards the garden gate of Bag End and hammered the sign which read: "No admittance except on party business". Now, don't think that Old Bilbo was in fact "unsociable", he was only tired and under no circumstances wishes to deal with people before his great night. It was, after all, his birthday.
Stepping out of Bag End, Bilbo inhaled the morning air, he took out his old pipe and watched as Frodo ran down the hill towards East-farthing Woods to wait for the old Wizard, Gandalf.
-Well, go on, then. You don't want to be late. He doesn't approve of being late. Oh, no. Not that I ever was. –Bilbo took a seat on his garden bench and lit up his pipe. Smiling to himself he blew a cloud of smoke up in the air-. In those days, I was always on time. I was entirely respectable. And nothing unexpected ever happened.