Chapter Text
Long ago, in a land far, far to the East, in a place unlike any traveler has seen, there existed the greatest kingdom of Middle Earth. Built into the very roots of the dazzling, snow-covered peak of the Lonely Mountain, above the thriving human city of Dale, this fortress city, Erebor, was home to the mightiest of the dwarven houses, the House of Durin.
Its tall arched gate was flanked on either side by an impregnable bulwark of dark green stone that looked as though it could have stretched the length of the mountainside. And if one walked along its battlements they would be able to see Dale, and the land beyond, maybe even as far as the forests of Mirkwood. On the very ends of this bulwark stood two massive statues, dwarven in their likeness and poised in a battle stance like dormant sentinels ready to awaken and defend their home. The walls and the high vaulted ceilings supported by tall arched pillars were chiseled from green marble. The walkways were polished smooth until they were like mirrors, where the light of the braziers could be seen dancing, filling the halls with warm golden light.
Much of Erebor’s commerce lay in the wealth and riches that flowed from its halls in the form of gems, precious stones and metals, hewn from the very rock of the mountain. The ore they pulled from the earth was crushed, smelted and placed in giant furnaces kept warm by fires hot as a dragon’s breath. The weapons and armor fashioned by the hands of the dwarves was unmatched in all the land, in craft and durability. From gold, silver and all matter of soft metals, they crafted fine jewelry inlaid with rubies, sapphire and diamonds.
Erebor, the jewel of the East, was to be ruled by Thorin, son to Thrain, grandson to Thror. He was proud, with a warrior’s heart and a strong sense of loyalty and duty to all dwarven kin. Though for all his quality, he held great distrust, and a fierce protectiveness of Erebor’s wealth.
Upon the eve of Durin’s Day, a great feast was held, for Thorin was to be crowned. Many folk from across the land came to give tribute, men from the far city of Gondor, even the elves of Mirkwood, gifted him with trinkets of splendor. It was during this ceremony that an unlikely guest made an appearance, an old haggard woman hooded and cloaked in a tattered grey robe.
Her face was old and weathered, as though she’d seen many seasons. A light grey hair speckled with silver streaks adorned her head, her walk hobbled if not for the gnarled, twisted branch she used as a walking stick. Despite her pitiful appearance her eyes shown brightly like fire under the shadow of her hood.
The young dwarf king looked on at the old woman with mild interest, and asked what brought her to the grand halls of the House of Durin. The old woman answered simply, ‘to offer the king a gift’. With that the she held out her hand. In her palm lay a simple stone. It was light grey in color, oval in shape and all of its edges weathered smooth with the passage of time. She said the stone was to be placed as the centerpiece on the king’s throne, that all might look upon it and know its worth.
The young king regarded the stone with scrutiny, a poor tribute compared to the wealth of Erebor in his mind. He asked the old woman how such an insignificant thing like a stone from a riverbed could ever reflect the grandeur of the hall of a king. And to that the woman responded that even the smallest things have significant worth, even if it cannot be seen.
Believing it to be false but not wanting to turn away the woman’s offering, the dwarf king took the stone, but he did not place it on the throne. Something of more worth should be placed above the crown of a king, he thought.
That night the young king tossed and turned in a feverish fit, awaking with a violent cry. His skin cracked like a dry lakebed in the hot sun, dark scales forming all over his body. His fingers turned to giant claws, and his heart burned as giant black wings grew from his back. His voice became a deafening roar that echoed through the cavernous halls.
That night the kingdom of Erebor fell to ruin, consumed in the fury of a firestorm that sent sparks high into the night sky. And the beast, once a mighty king, remained, stricken with anger and grief among the desolated halls, for the words of the old woman rang clear.