Sitting in his comfy chair inherited from one of his great aunts from some time past, an elderly looking Hobbit lit a match before bringing it to the pipe he was smoking. His hair was greyer than it had been in the past. His face had more wrinkles. To those that knew him, he was general thought of as a respectable hobbit. But Bilbo Baggins was anything but what a hobbit should deem as respectable.
Relaxing into his chair, he began his musings. Wetting his feathered quill before dipping it in ink, he began.
"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.
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 where they found it.
The heart of the mountain.
The Arkenstone.
Thror named it the king's jewel. He took it as a sign, a sign that his right to rule was divine. All would py homage to him. Even the great Elvenking, Thranduil.
As the great wealth of the Dwarves grew, their store of good will ran thin.
No one knows exactly what began the rift. The Elves say the Dwarves stole their treasure. The Dwarves tell another tale. They say the Elf King refused to give them their rightful pay.
It is sad, Frodo, how old alliances can be broken. How friendships between peoples can be lost. And for what?"
Wetting his feathered quill, he scoffed at the ridiculousness of greed. Bringing his quill back to his journal, Bilbo continued with his musings.
"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 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 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.
Far away, in another corner of the world, dragons were only make-believe. A party trick conjured by wizards on midsummer's eve. No more frightening than the appearance of Fairy dust from the wings of Fleur. And that, my dear Frodo, is where I come in.
It was the beginning of an unlikely friendship that has lasted all my life. One between my sister, the smallest of us all, gentle and braver than any warrior, and the wizard who became my ever-faithful companion through my long life.
But it is not the start of my story.
For me, 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. "
Laughing to himself as the older Hobbit wrote down his memories, his nephew Frodo Baggins came into the room with the mail. He was a wonderful young fellow who had just the same spark in his eyes that Bilbo had in his. That also meant he was good at finding things he had ought not to find.
Picking up a piece of paper that belonged to his uncle, he got curious.
"What's this Uncle?"
"None of your business. Keep your sticky paws off." Bilbo replied roughly.
Frodo learned over to see what his uncle had been writing in for so long, only to have Biblo close it quickly.
"It's not ready yet."
Scoffing, Frodo continued. "Not ready for what Uncle?"
"Reading."
Picking up the mail, Bilbo found an ominous stack of letters.
"What on Earth are these?" He asked, perplexed.
"Replies to party invitations."
Gasping, Bilbo exclaimed happily "good gracious! Is it today?"
"They all say they're coming, except for the Sackville-Bagginses, who are demanding you ask them in person."
"Are they indeed? Over my dead body"
"They'd probably find that agreeable. They seem to think you have tunnels overflowing with gold."
"It was one small chest, hardly overflowing with gold. And it still smells of troll."
"What on Earth are you doing?"
Bilbo had just finished hiding yet another piece of silver dishware into a separate container as a squirrel would hide his nuts for winter. "Taking precautions. You know, I caught her making off with the silverware once."
"Who?"
"Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. She had all my spoons stuffed in her pocket. Ha! Dreadful woman. Make sure you keep an eye on her after I'm. . . when I'm. . .when. . ."
"When you're. . . what?"
"Its nothing" Bilbo replied, looking off into the distance. "nothing."
"You know, some people are beginning to wonder about you uncle."
"Yeah?"
"They think you're becoming. . . odd."
"Odd? Oh. Hmm." Bilbo replied distractedly. He was busy writing something on a scrap of paper.
"Unsociable."
Unsociable? Me? Nonsense. Be a good lad and put that on the gate."
The sign read no admittance except on party business. Frodo went to nail it to the gate like a good nephew.
"You think he'll come?"
"Who?" Bilbo asked
"Gandalf" Frodo replied, exasperated but smiling.
"Oh, he wouldn't miss a chance to let off his wizpoppers. He'll give us quite a show, you'll see."
"Right then, I'm off."
"Of to where?"
"EastFarthing woods. I'm going to surprise him" Frodo claimed happily while carrying his book.
"Well go on then! You don't want to be late. He doesn't approve of being late."
Not that I ever was, he thought to himself. In those days, I was always on time. I was entirely respectable and nothing unexpected ever happened.