3rd POV
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 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. Its walls were alive with movement, while the air was filled with the joyous talk of people, and laughter from excited children who looked over their parents – begging them for honeyed nuts or sweet pastries. People called out for friends and they spoke to each other with smiles, and offered precious things like silk, jewelry, and food, ranging from apples to exotic foods such as Passion fruit, and papaya.
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 was legend, its wealth lay in the earth, in precious gems hewn from rock; and in great streams of gold, running like rivers through the stone. The skill of the dwarves was unequal, fashioning objects of great beauty out of diamonds, emerald, ruby, and sapphire. Ever they delved – deep down into the dark, and that's where they found it... the heart of the mountain, the Arkenstone.
Thror named it the king's jewel, he took it as a sign that his right to rule was divine. All would pay homage to him, even the great elven king, Thranduil. As the great wealth of the dwarves grew their store of goodwill 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? 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 voice like a hurricane, coming down from the north. The pines on the mountain creaked and cracked in the hot dry wind.
Thorin Grandson of Thror rushed to the lookout post above the great gate, and looked around, sensing the presence of a beast drawing near.
"Balin, sound the alarm." Thorin ordered stepping around his old friend, who's beard grew whiter as the years went on. A flagpole snapped, and Thorin ducked away instinctively. "Call out the guard do it now!" He commanded, stepping away from the edge.
"What is it?" Balin asked hurriedly.
"Dragon." The Dwarf Prince said gravely, and then his eyes widened; he saw the shadow om the clouds, and it dipped low. "Dragon!" He roared over the side in warning to his people who walked in the great hall below. There was a scream, and a scramble as a howling roar cut the air. Shrill and threatening. 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 as long as he lives.
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Of Monsters and Men
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