Our Song Lives On

Awake

It was the year T.A. 2940.

A hooded little man, well, little against the humans of Bree, walked into the Prancing Pony evading the rain. He was big, for a dwarf; the sturdy, intimidating kind, the sword at his side helped with that image. This dwarf liked his solitude, against everything that might be said about the race of dwarves. He sat at his table, alone; eating his meal, alone. That was until he noticed the burning glares itching to join him. They were not the friendly kind, he noticed, and reached for his weapon as the two men rose to confront him. Rather unexpectedly instead, a third man came along, surprising the dwarf and thwarting the other men. Except, this one was not a mere man, but a great wizard.

Gandalf the Grey.

And he introduced himself so.

"I know who you are." The dwarf grumbled, which didn't deter the wizard's happy mood.

"Well, now. This is a fine chance. What brings Thorin Oakenshield to Bree?"

Across the map of Middle Earth there lay a mountain. No, not the lonely one; this one belonged to the goblins. Down below the Misty Mountains and farther past goblin town, where their songs of the plentitude ways of death could barely be heard above whispers, were caves. Caves that all had thought to be abandoned; but abandoned they were not. For in them resided a creature, a hobbit in a past life. It was in these caves that he lived, feasting on fallen goblins and befriending his own reflection. His most favorite part of any day, far more than crushing skulls with rocks, was keeping his prized possession.

His precious.

Not for a second did Gollum, the creature, part with his thing. The ring. The shiny, gold, precious ring. He wore it, or he kept it in his pocket. Never parting with it. It happened that this time, when Thorin Oakenshield sat in Bree, not far from the Hobbit shire, that the ring awoke.

See Gollum did not own the ring. He had found it, thousands of years later since it had dropped from existence, at the bottom of the lake.

No, the ring had only but one master. One master to rule them all. And when Thorin Oakenshield had set out on his quest, this master had found his moment to return.

But the ring was not the only thing that had awoken, no. The Dark One would need an army if he had any hopes to win the war to come, so he started to build it; raising his minions from the dead.

Among his legion were the mountains of Angmar, originally which had been dwarf land. It was guarded by the fort at Mount Gundabad, where an army of orcs and other creatures lay wasted. But when the Dark One's spirit arose, he raised them. Raised every soul that lay in Mount Gundabad. Most of them were orcs and berserkers and bats, and they all fled to find their master.

Most, does not mean all, as among them rose the soul of a she elf. Though overcome with disorientation, she dared not make a sound while the creatures still remained.

When surely all of them had left, the elleth spent the first hours of her rebirth crying. It couldn't be nature that brought her back. She was dead. Slowly, she regained enough strength to crawl out of the fortress. She rediscovered her skill to ride when she stumbled upon the horde of horses held captive in a dungeon. She climbed one before opening the gate, and the horses needed not any order to escape.

So, she knew all that her parents had taught her: how to talk, how to walk and all. Yet she did not know her own name. Though just below her need for survival echoed only but two words, or part of them.

"...las. ...uil."

And this was all she muttered when her horse galloped into a land of men. The horse reared, afraid in the mass of people and ran off, dropping off the girl as it went.

The townsfolk surrounded her, and the wiseman of the town lowered to check her vitals. He heard her mutter words with her every breath, her every heartbeat. One for the 'las', the other for the 'uil'.

"She lives!" He declared and had her taken to his home.

At his home, Thorin Oakenshield dragged his nephews in from the rain. The brothers, Fili and Kili, were upset about being stopped from their usual mischief and quarrel, but their uncle's story about his day entertained them. Without a mother or a father, Thorin was all they had, and he, them. Without a land to call home, Thorin took them wherever he could find work and lodge. It was a very uncomfortable life for princes.

In their stead, luxury was afforded to a rather unsuspecting, carefree, normal little hobbit that lived in a hole. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell; nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat.

It was a hobbit hole.

It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, furnished with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats—the hobbit was fond of visitors. The expected ones, of course.

Now you're met with all the races spread over middle earth; the good, the bad. The dwarves the wizards the ogres the orcs the elves the humans. And of course, the hobbit.

This is their story retold.