Chapter Text
They began with the elves.
It was the just after the death of King Thrain that the dwarves of Erebor and their loyal fire drake descended upon the forest of Mirkwood and destroyed everything in their path.
Decades before, when the dragon Smaug came to The Lonely Mountain seeking its gold, a deal was struck. Smaug would get his golden nest and spare the dwarves’ lives, for they could mine more gold for him. And the dwarves would not attack the dragon, for he could protect them. King Thror was hailed as a wise and mighty king for his ingenuity, and there was much rejoicing.
But when King Thror passed and Thrain ascended the throne, the new monarch had an idea. They had a force unlike any other. A weapon nearly indestructible. Why not use it? So in a bargain with the drake, promising all of the gold of Moria, the dwarves marched.
It was in the battle of Azanulbizar that Prince Thorin took the hand of the great pale orc, and earned his name Oakenshield. It was in the battle of Azanulbizar that Smaug showed his true strength to Middle Earth, and scorched the tunnels of Khazad-dûm, killing the monsters that resided there. It was in the battle of Azanulbizar that the prince got his taste for conquest, and Middle Earth saw a new power rise.
Many tried to ignore the signs. They defended the dwarves and denied the truth to themselves. The truth that the dwarves could take on any army in Arda with their dragon if they wished. The truth that no one whom possessed any gold or gems was safe. The truth that the young prince had a thirst for battle. Some paid attention. Some watched the prince and the dwarves and their dragon closely. Some were suspicious.
But King Thrain was a good king. While he may have not been as kind to the people of Dale as his father, or as respectful to the elves as his council, he was never cruel or unjust.
And then he died.
There were rumors of how. So many that the truth could never be accurately deciphered.
But when the Smaug, under orders from the new king, burned the forest Mirkwood to the ground, people stopped talking about the old king rather quickly.
It was the new king people needed to worry about, for he had a vast hate of elves, a disdain for Men, and a bloodlust towards orcs.
The dwarves raided what little was left of the elven stronghold. Many wondered whether he would stop there. He didn’t.
The dwarves and their drake pillaged and burned the forests of Lorien and Fangorn. They colonized the Misty Mountains and warred with the Men of Rohan, eventually overcoming their forces. They took over Dunland and made Rivendell their own trading port.
The dwarves were somewhat merciful, only killing and burning where they met resistance. Unfortunately, many rulers of Men and Elves thought little of the dwarves with their short stature and alleged thickness. Those leaders were wrong. The leaders whom actually voiced their assumptions were fed to Smaug. The dwarves of Erebor turned villages and cities into military bases, mines, weapon smithies, and farms. Middle Earth became the factory of their war machine.
All the while Thorin ruled. He was feared, respected, hated, and in one very small place, completely unheard of.
That place was the Shire.
And in the Shire lived a little people called hobbits.
In all ways other than height (and possibly the love of food) hobbits and dwarves were opposites. The hobbits were peaceful, kind-hearted, gentle farmers. They liked comfort, joyful parties, and family. They paid little attention to the world outside their borders.
Not to say they didn’t have friends outside them.
Which brings us to Gandalf the Gray.
He was a mighty wizard, one of the first to suspect that the dwarves could be dangerous. And he was one of the few wizards left. Radagast the Brown had fallen in the burning of Mirkwood. Saruman was trapped in his own tower by the dwarves. Gandalf, the Gray Traveler, was the only one free and living.
And he was a friend of the Shirelings.
He believed that Thorin would not stop until he had all of Middle Earth under his thumb, and at the rate he was moving west, he could very well reach the Shire. So Gandalf hurried.
But Thorin knew. He had many spies. He heard of the wizard’s flee westward, and while no one could give a clear reason why the wizard did so, Thorin did not like it. Wizards, as he had come to know them, did not flee. Radagast had fought with an army of animals, only dying under the dragon’s breath. And though Saruman did not step out of his black palace to fight, he did not fly away on the back of eagles either. So where was Gandalf going?
Thorin led his armies as fast as he could, conquering everything in his path, after the wizard.
By the time Gandalf finally made it to his goal, Thorin was already on the edge of Bree.
The wizard had little time. He ran to the only hobbit he knew would believe him.
Bilba Baggins.
The daughter of the adventuress Belladonna Baggins, and the current caregiver to the wee Frodo Baggins.
He told her disaster was coming. He told her that the dwarves would be there by morning. He told her to run.
She packed.
She threw all that was necessary into a back pack, scrambled little Frodo out of bed, and they ran for the forest.
They knew they could not save the Shire.
But that didn’t mean they couldn’t fight the dwarves. She and Gandalf created a plan. A weak, unlikely to end well plan that worried Bilba, but what else could they do? Middle Earth was at its edge, on the precipice of disaster. The chance of a good plan had died long ago. So Gandalf ran off to tend to other matters, and Bilba made a campsite that was livable.
And she prayed that her home would not be devastated and demolished come morning.