"Prologue: Dear Frodo

My dear cousin…. You once asked me if I had told you everything about my adventures. While I can honestly say I've told you the truth, I may not have told you all of it. I may not appear old now, Frodo, but I'm not the person I used to be. I think it's time I tell you what really happened, what started it all. It began long ago in a land far to the East, the likes of which cannot be found today.

There was the city of Dale. Its markets, full of bounties of vine and vale, were known far and wide. This peaceful and prosperous 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 the endurance of his house, the line that lay secure in the lives of his son, Thrain… and beloved grandson, Thorin.

Ahh, Frodo, Erebor. Built deep within the mountain itself, the beauty of this fortress city was legend. The wealth that lay within it was just as unequaled. Gems hewed from rock and gold running like rivers through stone. The Dwarves, who are master miners and craftsmen, dug for these treasures and used them to make hundreds upon thousands of beautiful objects. Ever they delved deeper, looking for more… and that's where they found it. The heart of the mountain. The Arkenstone. Thror dubbed it the King's Jewel and took it as a sign of his divine right to rule. Many and all would come from miles around to pay homage to him, even the great Elven King, Thranduil.

However, the years of peace and plenty were drawing to an end. The days grew sour and the nights closed in from all around. Thror's love for treasure had grown very fierce. A sickness, one of the mind, had formed within him. And where sickness lies, bad things are bound to follow.

And follow they did.

Their first warning was a sound like a hurricane coming down from the North. The mountain pines cracked and bent in a strong wind, which was hot and dry. Then, a shadow was cast over Dale before the city burst into flames. It was a dragon, 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 a dragon's lust for gold is a dark and fierce desire of theirs. The Dwarves tried their best to defend their kingdom, but it made no difference. Erebor was lost, for a dragon will guard his plunder as long as he lives. Robbed of their homeland, the Dwarves of Erebor wandered the wilderness, a once mighty people brought low. None could forget the mountain smoke beneath the moon, the trees ablaze like torches, and dragon fire in the sky… as it turned their city to ash.

Now, I must introduce a pair of very important persons into this tale. In the early winter, about 45 years after these events occurred, a baby was discovered on the edge of Hobbiton. The poor thing, looking only about a week or so old, with nothing but a small blue shawl with a tan trim and tassels protecting her from the early winter chill. She was of Elven descent, easily told by her small pointed ears. They say she had soft golden hair and strange silver eyes. Yet, they also say she had no voice. You've probably guessed by now, Frodo, that this child was indeed me, Celandine Baggins. And the one that found me was, of course, your dear uncle and my father, Bilbo Baggins.

Yes, it was quite by chance, and the will of a wizard, that he, as well as I, would become a part of this tale. It began just as you would expect. In a hole in the ground, there lived a Hobbit and an Elf. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole; this was a Hobbit hole, and that meant plenty of food, a warm hearth, and all the comforts of home. Back in those days, if one can believe it, your uncle was quite the respectable young Hobbit. And, besides my happening, nothing unexpected ever happened. At least, not until the summer of my fifteenth year….

That, my dear Frodo, is where we come in.