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Prologue

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. The 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 unequalled. 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 pay homage to him. Even the great Elven king, Thranduil.

Thranduil and several elves go to the throne, and both kings bow their heads towards each other. A chest opens for Thranduil to see, whose eyes glow when the gems are seen and goes to touch them until the dwarf holding the chest closes it abruptly before he can touch it.

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? 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.

Thorin stood far away looking as Thror is surrounded by gold, and eventually stepped into the shadows, wishing to see no more.

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.

"Balin, sound the alarm", a flag flew pass him, and he ducked, "Call out the guards, do it now!"

"What is it?", asked the confused dwarf.

"Dragon", then, he turned to the citizens in the mountain, "Dragon!"

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.

In a land nearby, in the kingdom of Doriath, an elf had felt the difference in the air. She was connected to the Earth in a much deeper way. She felt its sorrows, and its happiness. Sitting with her legs crossed in a vast meeting room, she had been writing, probably something that had to do with strategies, I know how much she enjoyed those. Eventually, it became too much, it was impossible to ignore the sudden shifting of her own mood. Gently putting the material away, she stood up.

"Seldë?", a tall man turned to look at the woman that walked towards the window.

"Atar, something is wrong", whispered the other, her keen eyes fixed on the mountain.

"Is it the Mountain, my child?", she nodded and gasped as fire appeared.

The woman meant to go there, but alas, her father did not allow it. Once, she had almost been taken by a dragon. Never again, he would not allow it. Despite her urgency in dispatching men to go help the people of Dale, her King did not allow it. She watched from the window as fire consumed the vegetation around the city, and wept along with the children and the people that burned there. Her own burnt back felt the pain it had suffered years prior.

"No!", Thorin finds Thror and grabs a hold of him, dragging him away.

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

"Run for your lives!", yelled the Prince, "help us!", the elves had come, and stared from the top of the cliff that overlooked the entrance to Erebor. They turned their backs to Thorin and his people's pain.

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. What came to Thranduil, as he dispatched his troops and they returned home, was the anger of an Elven Princess, that lived so close to the dwarves...

'How could you!?', I know, she asked. You see, Frodo, she too held grudges against the dwarves, like any elf alive. But she was more against the bloodshed, and against the damaging of the cities that were surrounded by forests. Her father had shamed the acts of the other King, Thranduil had not had the blessing of King Donovan in his attitude. Neither did he receive the blessing of the only living child of the King, Princess Mäetharanel, the sister of Thranduil's late wife.

Robbed of their homeland, the dwarves of Erebor wandered the wilderness. The once mighty people brought low. The young dwarf prince took work where he could find it, labouring in the villages of men. But always, he remembered the mountain smoke beneath the moon, the trees like torches blazing bright, where he had seen dragon fire in the sky, and a city turn 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 fairy dust. And that, my dear Frodo, is where I come in.

It was the beginning of an unlikely friendship that has lasted all my 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.