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In a long forgotten kingdom, where rivers of gold once wound their way through the villages of men, when the great forests still whispered the ancient secrets of the earth, there dwelt a king by the name of Thorin Oakenshield. This king had been prophesied to be the savior of his line, but through his arrogance and greed, became the harbinger of its destruction.When Thorin Oakenshield reclaimed the kingdom of Erebor from the fiery clutches of Smaug, he thought the greatest of the dangers to his homeland vanquished. He stood proud above it all, riches beyond counting gleaming gold in hallowed halls of his forebears. Yet, he found himself unsatisfied. Unbeknownst to him, a darkness had begun to infect his heart from the moment Smaug's sepulcher had been breached. His desire to claim the Arkenstone as a symbol of his right to rule had become twisted into a deep and covetous greed that grew claws and dug gaping grooves into his mind. Only one thing brought him peace in that time, only one spot of refuge existed from the all-encompassing need to seek the stone- Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit from the shire.Now this hobbit had shown himself as the truest of friends to Thorin. His hobbit’s cleverness and courage had guided his company through countless trials. The king, hardened by years of war and loss, had found in the hobbit’s quiet wisdom a balm for his spirit.That is why it cut all the deeper when Thorin discovered the treachery of Bilbo Baggins (for in his desire for peace, Bilbo had taken the Arkenstone from the halls of his ancestors). In the wake of this betrayal, Thorin’s anger rose with the force of a hurricane and his love was buried deep beneath the tide of his fury.In a blind rage, Thorin cast Bilbo from the ramparts- his companions crying out in protest too late. The hobbit fell to his death, as silent and graceful as he had been in life. When his body broke upon the stones below, the last ember of joy in Thorin’s heart was snuffed.Thus, the curse of dragon-sickness claimed the king under the mountain utterly. The wealth he had won became an unbearable weight, for no treasure could fill the void left by his betrayal. Slowly, his companions—those who had previously fought by his side through any adversity—began to abandon him. First went Bofur, heartbroken at the death of such a gentle soul for such a selfish reason. Then Dwalin, grim and loyal, who could no longer bear to see what had become of his king. Then Balin, and Ori, and Dori… each and every one, left Erebor in sorrow. Thorin was left alone to brood upon his throne.It was then that the transformation began. In the dark of his throne room, Thorin’s body twisted and changed. Scales, black as the deepest night, began to creep over his skin. His voice, once mellow, turned low and guttural- like the rumbling of distant thunder. His eyes, once blue and filled with purpose, now gleamed with the cold, heartless malice of a dragon.Within his mind, a single memory remained untouched by the curse: an acorn. An acorn which Thorin had recovered from the crumpled body of Bilbo Baggins. It was a small thing, an insignificant treasure compared to the hoards of Erebor, but to Thorin, it had been the symbol of the hobbit’s gentle hope—a hope for life, for peace. Bilbo had carried the acorn through their journey and had dreamt of planting it in the Shire at the end of his adventure.Haunted by this memory, Thorin sought to make amends. Perhaps, he thought, if he could plant the acorn, some part of Bilbo might forgive him. With hands now clawed and twisted, he went out into the cold stone courtyards of Erebor and knelt in the earth and there he stayedYear after year, Thorin clawed at the earth with his misshapen hands. His breath, once a roar of flame, grew hoarse with grief. He whispered to the acorn, begging it to grow, for in it lay the last memory of Bilbo, the only thing in all the world that he still longed for. “Grow,” he would plead, his voice a hollow echo. “Grow, for his sake, that I may be forgiven.” But the acorn did not sprout. No matter how deeply he dug or how carefully he tended it, the soil remained barren, and the acorn lay still beneath the earth, as lifeless as the treasure Thorin had hoarded. And with each passing day, Thorin felt the last remnants of his soul crumble, the madness creeping ever deeper into his heart. As the years turned to centuries, and the king’s once-mighty form withered beneath the burden of his curse, he came to realize the terrible truth: the tree would never grow, for it had been planted in the soil of a broken heart. On a night when the moon hung low and pale in the sky, the dragon, weary beyond words, curled his great body around the spot where the acorn lay buried. His wings, now ragged and torn, lay folded at his side. His eyes, once bright with greed, had dimmed with sorrow. “I loved him,” the king whispered, though no one was left to hear. “I loved him, and in my madness, I destroyed him.” And so, under the cold light of the moon, Thorin wept, his tears falling like molten gold upon the barren earth. But the acorn did not stir.And so the King under the Mountain, was lost to the world. His heart turned to stone, and his mind to madness. Erebor became his tomb, and the acorn, the symbol of all he had sought to make right, remained forever as lifeless as the hobbit who once carried it, lying still beneath the barren earth. It is said that if one was brave enough to travel to the lonely mountain in the west would even now be able to hear the echoes of his anguish beyond the mist and feel the earth tremor in response to his roars of grief- a king locked in mourning forevermore.