The Lonely Mountain [1]

There lived a Hobbit

Bilbo.

"My dear Frodo."

Bilbo struck a match with shaking fingers and used it to carefully light a candle. He walked through one of the hallways in his home of Bag End, candle in hand. The flame caused shapes to dance across the walls in the early morning darkness.

"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."

Bilbo opened an old chest. He glanced with fascination and recollection at Sting, his old sword in its battered sheath, and reached out to touch it. At the last second, he hurriedly restrained himself and pulled out a large red book from the chest instead. He sat down at his desk and opened the book to reveal an old drawing of his younger self. He picked up the picture and gazed longingly at it.

"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 smiled slightly in recollection before he began to write.

"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."

The city of Dale was made from gleaming white stone and men and dwarves lived happily side by side. There was an enormous mountain just behind the city; the dwarves had built a massive gateway into the kingdom of Erebor. Thror ruled as the king under the mountain. Erebor withheld vast chambers and huge carved statues. Thror sat in the throne, ruling with his son Thrain and his grandson Thorin by his side

"Thror ruled with utter surety, never doubting that his house would endure, for his line lay secure in the lives of his son and grandson. Ahhh, 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 hewed 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."

The Arkenstone was placed in the headrest of the king's throne, reminding all who visited of Thror's rule. Thranduil entrusted the dwarves to protect the heirlooms of his house; white gems of pure starlight. To Thranduil, their safety was more important than the usual bad blood between elves and dwarves.

"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 Elven 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."

As a shadow covered Erebor, Thror walked though halls teaming with gold and jewels. The look on his face told his grandson, Thorin, that his grandfather had been consumed by greed. Dragon's sickness they called it.