Prologue

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My dear Frodo.

Bilbo Baggins lit a match, using it to light a candle. Using the light, he walked through the hall of his home.

You asked me one 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.

Opening a chest, Bilbo glanced with fascination and recollection at Sting, his sword in its sheath. He reached out to touch it. At the last second, he hurriedly restrained himself and pulled out a large red book from the chest instead. Sitting down at his desk and opening the book, he saw a drawing of his younger self. He picked up the drawing and looked at it, smiling at the memories that flooded into his mind. Memories of a thirteen dwarfs, a young woman and an old Wizard.

I am old now, Frodo. I'm not the same Hobbit I once was.

Bilbo dipped his quill in a pot of ink, and poised to write in the book. He began his writing.

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.

The city of Dale

full of humans and dwarves who walked happily through markets and bazaars

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full of humans and dwarves who walked happily through markets and bazaars.

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:

A massive gateway had been built into the side of an enormous mountain, just behind the city.

Erebor.

 

Stronghold of Thror,

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Stronghold of Thror,

Stronghold of Thror,

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Heart of a Dwarf; Soul of a Queen: Book One: Alrún Daughter of AredhelWhere stories live. Discover now