Hello! This is my first story for The Hobbit category. It is a long one, and I have it planned out through LotR as well. This version I have written follows the movie(s) rather than the book. If you think that I should post the book version instead, please let me know. Also, much text is direct from said film(s), and is not my property.

(Insert Usual Disclaimers here.)

That being said, all aspects of this story that do NOT belong in the movie or book are my work, and belong TO ME.

Thanks so much for reading!

-Ana

Prologue

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED

In the smallest hours of the morning of his one hundred and eleventh birthday, Bilbo Baggins awoke to a sudden, joyous realization: an old and dear friend whom he had parted with, almost sixty years before, would pay a long awaited visit that afternoon.

Yet he knew that this wasn't what had woken him; he had been counting down the days for weeks prior. No; his conscience troubled him: once again, he was forgetting something...but what?

Suddenly, it dawned on him. Of course! Bilbo sat bolt upright in bed. For years, he had put off writing down his memoires; today his nephew needed to know who this guest really was, and why its visit meant so much to old Bilbo. After all these years, today was the last opportunity.

He had only one chance, and not a moment to lose.

Bilbo slipped out of bed and dressed as quickly as he could. He hurried through the halls of his comfortable, mathom-filled hobbit hole, knowing that he mustn't wake his nephew; Bilbo couldn't abide interruptions. A rather large portion of his past had been withheld from the boy. Now, as he lit a candle and went about fingering mementoes, Bilbo realized that there was quite a lot that had to be brought to light.

And knowing that his words always came out best on paper, he sat down at his writing desk and began penning a letter:

September 22, Shire Year 1400

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 that I have told you the truth, I may not have told you all of it.

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.

There was the city of Dale: its markets known 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.

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 how they found it: the Arkenstone.

Thror named it the King's Stone. He took it as a sign; a sign that his right to rule was divine. All would pay homage to him, even the great Elvenking, Thranduil.

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 fire drake from the North: Smaug had come.

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 a dark and fierce desire.

Erebor was lost, for a dragon will guard his plunder for as long as he lives.

Thranduil would not risk the lives of his kin against the wroth of the dragon. No help came from the elves that day, or 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 like a city turned to ash.

And he never forgave; and he never forgot.

That, my dear Frodo, is where I come in. For quite by chance, and the will of a wizard, fate decided that I would become a part of this tale.

Bilbo looked up to dip his pen, and saw that the night had passed; it was another beautiful Shire morning, with the early light of day streaming the the round windows of Bag End. He smiled. Today was the day. Despite his nervousness, Bilbo was overjoyed at the idea of seeing once again his dearest friend.

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: this was a hobbit-hole, and that means good food, a warm hearth, and all the comforts of home.

Across the hall, Bilbo could hear his nephew rummaging around in one of the pantries. So intent was he on his work that he barely heard him step outside to fetch the mail. Only when his nephew returned did he stop writing. Bilbo had been chuckling quietly to himself; but when Frodo came into the room he laid down his pen, composed himself, and said rather stiffly:

"Thank you."

While setting the bundle of letters onto a nearby shelf, Frodo caught a glimpse of a worn sketch of Bilbo in his younger days. Grinning, he picked it up and showed it to Bilbo.

"What's this?"

"That is private." Bilbo snatched it from him. "Keep your sticky paws off!" Frodo looked over Bilbo's shoulder at the large red notebook he had been writing in.

Bilbo slapped the book shut. "It's not ready yet."

"'Not ready' for what?"

"Reading."

Frodo stepped out of the room to examine some of Bilbo's old relics: weapons and armour that had been sitting in a musty trunk in the hall for decades.

"What on earth are these?" asked Bilbo, noticing the letters for the first time. He flipped through them confusedly.

"Replies to the party invitations." said Frodo.

Bilbo gasped. "Good gracious! Is it today?'

"They all say they're coming," Frodo reassured him, replacing an oddish looking horn into the trunk and pulling out a wide-bladed sword. "Except for the Sackville-Bagginses, who are demanding you ask them in person."

"Are they indeed," muttered Bilbo. He stormed out into the hall and shoved a stray helmet into the trunk. "Over my dead body."

"They'd probably find that quite agreeable," said Frodo, watching as Bilbo set various silver plated items into an open chest and cover it with a coat. "They seem to think you have tunnels overflowing with gold."

"It was one small chest, hardly overflowing," corrected Bilbo. "And it still smells of troll."

"What on earth are you doing?" Frodo cried, as Bilbo thrust a few more trinkets into covered bowls.

Bilbo whipped around, surprised. "Taking precautions," he said, lidding a dark wooden urn. He gazed at Frodo intently before rushing off again. "You know I caught her making off with the silverware once."

Puzzled, Frodo asked, "Who?"

Snatching a book off of the top of a shelf, Bilbo replied (with no amount of small disgust),"Lobelia, Sackville-Baggins!" He strode through the dining room, and Frodo followed, intrigued. "She had all my spoons stuffed in her pocket." Bilbo laughed, and set the items on the kitchen table. "Dreadful woman! Make sure you keep an eye on her after I'm..." He faltered. "When I'm...when..."

Frodo eyed him suspiciously. "When you're... what?"

Bilbo stared off for a moment before replying in a distant tone, "It's nothing...nothing." And he wandered off into the sitting room.

Frodo blinked, assessing. "You know," he said, trailing after Bilbo, "some people are beginning to wonder about you, uncle."

"Hmm." Bilbo bent over a table, writing a notice on a large sheet of tacking paper.

Frodo stood, observing him cautiously from the doorway. "They think you're becoming odd."

"Odd?" Bilbo stood up abruptly. "Huh." And he went back to his notice.

"Unsociable," Frodo clarified, stepping closer and still watching Bilbo's reactions closely.

Bilbo laughed. "Unsociable? Me? Nonsense. If I were unsociable, I wouldn't be inviting a guest to stay, now would I?"

"Well..."

"Of course not," Bilbo answered himself. Lifting up the tacking paper, he handed it to Frodo. "Be a good lad and put that on the gate?"

Frodo read the notice and looked up at his uncle disbelievingly.

He read it again while nailing it onto the front gate:

NO ADMITTANCE

except on party business.

"Do you think she'll come?" Frodo asked, as Bilbo did his morning exercises on the doorstep.

Bilbo froze mid-stretch. "Who?"

With an impatient look, Frodo said, "The Aigrette*.(*In the Common Tongue, Aigrette is pronounced eye-gray.)

Bilbo laughed again, nervously this time. "Oh! Well, we promised; although..." he hesitated. "Well, it is a rather old promise. Still, I don't think and Aigrette would break an oath. In fact I know she wouldn't." But Bilbo looked unnerved.

"Right," said Frodo with an innocent smile. He knew nothing of Aigrettes. "And Gandalf?"

"He wouldn't miss a chance to let off his wiz-poppers. He'll give us quite a show, you'll see!" This was Bilbo's chance to smile encouragingly.

"Well then, I'm off," Frodo announced, dashing off with a book under his arm.

"Off to where?"

"East farthing woods. I'm going to surprise him!"

"Well, go on then!" said Bilbo, "You don't want to be late!" And after Frodo was gone, he said to himself, "He doesn't approve of being late."

Not that I ever was, thought Bilbo, continuing his mental narrative as he blew smoke-rings out and over The Hill. In those days I was always on time. I was entirely respectable, and nothing unexpected ever happened.

Yeah, I know that was pretty much a narrative of the beginning of the movie. The next chapter shakes things up a bit (: