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.

The Dwarf men, and woman fled from the gates; children cried, and mothers clutched them to their breasts in a frail attempt to protect them.  The Dwarf Prince Thorin bore his grandfather's arm over his shoulder and labored in commanding the people to run.  The Elves stood upon the hill side, armed for war, and Thranduil sat astride a great elk – its massive rack stretching out- was Thranduil.

"Run for your lives! Help us!" He cried up to the on watching Elves.  There was no movement on their lines, and the Kings stared into one another's eyes, before Thranduil turned his head, and lead his kin away.  Thranduil would not risk the life of his kin against the wrath of the Dragon.  No help came from the elves that day, or any day since.

Robbed for their homeland, the dwarves of Erebor wandered the wilderness.  A once mighty people brought low.  The Dwarf prince took work where he could find it, laboring in the villages of man.  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 turn to ash; and He never forgave, and he never forgot...

Far away in another corner of the world, Dragons were only making 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.

A small Hobbit child danced around the old wizard, cloaked in grey, taking wooden sword, and waving it around, while his mother called his name, laughing merrily.

It was the beginning of an unlikely friendship that has lasted all my life, but it is not the start of my story... 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...

A young dark-haired Hobbit emerged from the pantry, an apple in his hand.  He smiled as he caught a whisper of sound from his uncle muttering little bits of his story under his breath absentmindedly.  He stepped into the hallway and used one hand to pull open the round green door.  An old mark could be seen at the bottom edge.  It had been painted, not five years ago, yet Bilbo always kept that little mark as it was. A memento of sorts.

The Dark-haired Hobbit was called Frodo, the nephew of the old hobbit that wrote with a flaming passion inside.  Frodo took the mail from the old mailbox, and stepped back inside, closing the door behind him, looking briefly over the letters.  Frodo stepped into the study where his old uncle Bilbo wrote.

"Thank you." Bilbo said as Frodo placed the letters on his desk.  A piece of parchment caught his baby blue eyes, and he smiled.

"What's this?" Frodo asked with a grin, picking up portrait of Bilbo, as a young Hobbit that was drawn by a skilled hand, one that knew his face well.

"That's private, keep your sticky paws off." Bilbo scolded, and Frodo leaned over to read the writing in the leather-bound manuscript.  Bilbo quickly curled the cover over the page to keep the scribbles hidden. "It's not ready yet." He explained to his overly curious nephew.

"Ready for what?" Frodo chuckled.

"Reading." He quickly explained, and Frodo moved off to look at the chest in the hallway that lay open. "What on earth are these?" Bilbo asked as he reached to hold the letters on his desk.

"Replies to the party invitations." Frodo said, and Bilbo perked up with a wide smile.

"Good gracious; is it today?" He asked gleefully.

"They all say they're coming, except for the Sackville-Bagginses, they're demanding you ask them in person." Frodo said holding up an old and faded sage-green jacket, with polished oak buttons, and leather patches on the elbows; the initials V.E. were embroidered inside one of the sleeve cuffs.

Bilbo gently took the jacket up in his hand, and chuckled a bit before saying, "Are they indeed? Over my dead body." Bilbo snorted, and stepped around picking up tiny things at first.

"They'd probably find that quite agreeable.  They seem to think you have tunnels overflowing with gold." Frodo retold from what he had heard around the Shire.

"It was one small chest, hardly overflowing, and it still smells of troll." Bilbo objected, and stuffed a few small brass and gold keepsakes in a wooden chest.

"What on earth are you doing?" Frodo asked with a confused chuckle, his uncle was acting rather peculiar of late, and he wondered if this was another step towards one of his nervous outbursts where he fretted over seemingly nothing, then soothed himself as soon as his hand reached his right vest pocket.

"Taking precautions.  You know I caught her making off with the silverware once." Bilbo explained, plucking something off a high shelf of a bookcase.

"Who?" Frodo inquired.

"Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. She had all my spoons stuffed in her pockets.  Dreadful woman. Make sure you keep an eye on her after I'm- when I'm..." Bilbo trailed off, teasing tone going flat.

"When you're what?" Frodo prodded slowly.  Bilbo shook his head slightly.

"It's nothing." He muttered, stepping into the kitchen. "Nothing." Frodo followed, still confused, if not a tad worried.  What was Bilbo so worried about.  Perhaps he was sick, and he was seeking for a way to ease it onto Frodo.  Though Bilbo had never been much good at keeping secrets.

"You know, some people are beginning to wonder about you, uncle.  They think you're becoming odd." Frodo said, and Bilbo did not look up.

"Odd?" He echoed as He grabbed a large sheet of parchment, and quickly used a quill to write upon it.

"Unsociable." Frodo added and Bilbo chuckled genuinely.

"Unsociable? Me? Heh – nonsense.  Be a good lad and put that on the gate." He fumbled about and handed Frodo the parchment which held a message that contradicted what poor uncle Bilbo had just said.  He looked from the paper to his uncle then back, and finally sighed, before walking away to do as his uncle asked.

Frodo hammered the fourth and last nail into the gate, keeping it firmly there.  The phrase had contradicted Bilbo's objection to being called on sociable.  No Admittance accept on party business.  It stated plainly.  Bilbo stood just outside his door and stretched, popping his back a bit.

"Do you think he'll come?" Frodo asked and Bilbo furrowed his brow.

"Who?"

Frodo smiled a bit. "Gandalf." He elaborated, Bilbo smiled in recognition at the name, and chuckled.

"Oh~ He wouldn't miss a chance to lid off his wiz poppers.  He'll give us quite a show." Bilbo assured Frodo; Hands tapping at his sides.

"Alright then; I'm off." Frodo said, stepping away from the gate, down the path a step or two.

"Off to where?" He inquired in his fatherly manner – taking a shuffling step forward.

"East Farthing woods. I'm going to surprise him." Frodo Explained with a cheeky grin, tapping his small pocket-sized book on his leg.

"Well go on then, don't want to be late!" Bilbo waved a hand to Frodo, who started off down the path happily running east to the edge of the woods.

Bilbo looked to the sky and sighed to himself. "He doesn't approve of being late." Bilbo sat down on a bench, placing the end of his pipe in his mouth, and drawing in a breath.  His hand smoothed the jacket over, and he sighed, puffing out a ring of smoke – Not that I ever was – In those days I was always on time; I was entirely respectable, and nothing unexpected ever happened...