In the ages that have passed before these old gray eyes, I have seen much evil.

When the dragon brought its terror to the lands of Middle Earth, and the beastly Orcs dominated the realm with their cruelty, I thought I knew evil.

But then came the Dark Lord Sauroman and his shadowy minions that enslaved the countryside under the powers of darkness.

We paid a heavy price, but eventually even that crisis had ended, and I thought, for once, that the powers of evil and darkness would no longer strike fear in the hearts of the innocent.

But then the comets came.

It was winter solstice in the Shire, a time of festival. I'd been invited to this quaint little land by my good friend Frodo, of whom much has been written regarding the Quest for the Ring, and his close friend, Samwise, of course.

Frodo had invited other friends, too. Elves, dwarves, and Aragorn, a tall man like myself, all one time allies in the ring ordeal.

Why Frodo would return to such a backward, closeminded society after years of sailing and most unhobbitlike adventuring, I cannot guess, except to suggest, perhaps, that he was homesick.

Frodo used to live in the shire, with his family in Bag End. They're all hobbits, plump little people with hairy feet.

If you've never been to the Shire, it's a sleepy little place, looking like how a rabbit warren would if the rodents had saws and hammers and blown glass. They dwelt in the earth, hiding in their elaborately furnished caves, enjoying the best fruits of the land.

At the time of the festival, their homes were like snowbanks with chimneys, little round windows peering out of the mounds like eyes. Snow covered wreaths hung from their circular doors, but the doors themselves were clean due to the festival traffic. The moon was bright, giving everything a pleasant glow.

The town square held the glut of the merriment, most notably a band of musicians, a dance stage, and town merchants offering up various food and drink.

The presence of our guests proved awkward, since the townfolk were nervous and a little prejudiced, and the dwarves were insulting about the state of the strength of Hobbit ale, but on the whole it was peaceful, and those who didn't like the festivities or the town left early.

I, renowned for my fireworks displays, was obligated to provide additional entertainment. In reward for my labors, I was given a tankardful of the best ale Hobbiton had to offer, and some excellent pumpkin cakes, both which I enjoyed thoroughly. Since the Crisis of the Ring had been averted, I thought it reasonable to assume that I at last could afford to relax and take it easy.

My show was as good as can be expected. Among other things, I made knights in the sky fighting Shelob the queen of spiders, a dragon, and a majestic eagle.

When my fantastic performance was over, I sat on the Baggins family's front porch, drinking Hobbit ale and blowing smoke rings from my pipe, gazing at the sky.

The stars were bright, and I could clearly see the swordsman Menelmacar and Wilwarin the butterfly.

The falling stars came while I was studying the Telumendel constellation.

As a wizard, I am required to know vast volumes about the changes in the constellations and the behavior of comets and meteors, but what I saw in the sky that night did not fit into the category of anything I had ever witnessed before.

These shooting stars were too large, their shape a rounded rectangle like the leathern sheath on a dagger.

"It's fantastic!" Frodo said over my shoulder. "I've never seen comets like that in my life!"

His hair was bursting with curls, reminding me, to some annoyance, of a time in my youth when I attempted to create a perm by heating metal rods in a fire.

The boy was fidgeting with his hands again, idly running his fingers over the smooth stump that used to be his ring finger. I've told you about that shriveled imp Gollum, haven't I? Well, no matter, he's gone. It's not important.

Frodo's bare feet stood in an inch of snow, whereas I had to wear thick woolen socks to keep mine warm, and I still found them lacking. I frowned at them with their absently wiggling toes for a moment, then corrected his ignorant astronomical observation. "They're not comets," I said. "They're falling stars. Comets never come down from the sky like that."

My response was brusque, but I couldn't help it. Something about those meteorites seemed...wrong.

He gave me a brief frown, but since he was used to my rudeness, he brushed it off, remaining cheerful. "Anyway, it's really amazing." He kicked away a puff of snow.

"Yes it is," I muttered, sipping my ale. "Aren't your feet cold?"

"No. Are yours?"

I just drank some more. A couple years ago, I was ankle deep in snow, wearing robes thinner than what I had on now, as I braved blizzards on a mountain pass. Perhaps, despite all the life extending potions and rejuvenation serums, I was feeling my age.

"Rosie's got a nice fire going in there. You're welcome to come inside..."

I laughed. "And sit in one of those tiny chairs?"

"You're sitting on one of those tiny chairs."

"It's a stool," I said. "And I'd prefer to sit in a place where I don't hit my head every time I go to use the chamber pot."

I raised the tankard. "I think I'll just finish this and go home."

He gave me a nod, walking back inside, and I sat with my back against Bag End, staring at the place where the comets, er, falling stars had landed.

He closed the door, of course. To keep out the draft. Everyone else in town was doing the same, packing up their things, retreating into their little holes. It was like Hobbiton was at last giving me the cold shoulder.

When the tankard was empty, and I'd puffed enough tobacco, I half walked, half staggered my way to the tiny stable where they kept my horse, the only place in town where you could walk across a room without knocking your head against a beam.

Paying the stable keeper, I opened the stall, mounted my horse, a beautiful cream colored stallion, and rode right into a beam. In my inebriated state, I forgot you could only walk into the stable without injury.

Somehow, I stayed on my horse long enough to get halfway down a lane before tumbling off into a snowdrift.

I awoke on a bed two feet shorter than my body, with my feet propped up on a row of chairs, and short quilts laid across both ends of my body.

I stared at the rounded boards, the green and black walls, the roaring fireplace, the fine wood furniture.

Bag End.

A small frizzy haired blonde woman was looking up at me, offering me another quilt.

Rosie Cotton the bartender, of course.

Formerly. Now she's Rose Gamgee.

Sam's wife. I always thought he would have had enough of rings after our little adventure.

"No thank you," I moaned. "I was just getting up."

I tried to sit up, but hit my head on an overhanging board.

"Sorry about that, sir. I'll go get Sam."

A few moments later, a fat faced thick limbed male Hobbit stepped in, followed by Frodo, both giving me knowing grins.

"I see you decided to stay the night!" Sam grinned. "Very good, sir!"

I groaned and rubbed my head.

"You should be careful with Stonehill's ale," said Frodo. "He's been traveling abroad, learning some things from the dwarves."

"And potions from wizards," I muttered. "Remind me again why the dwarves left?"

He laughed. "I thought you'd sampled dwarven ale."

I threw my legs over the side of the bed. "Not for a very long time."

Rosie came in with a bubbling concoction in a bowl. "Old Bree hangover cure. It's got willow leaves and some other things in it. It's a little bit more effective than the local cure."

I had potions that made a man walk an hour after passing out in a stupor just minutes before, but I decided to accept it, since they went through all the trouble of mixing it for me.

A bitter swill of plant leaves, vinegar and raw eggs. Dreadful stuff. Rosie claimed there was honey in it, but I couldn't even taste it.

When I heard someone shouting my name, I was actually relieved, because it gave me an excuse to set the putrid stuff aside.

"Gandalf! Gandalf!" they kept shouting.

"Oh what now!" I grumbled, rising to my feet.

The shire had a doctor, a healer, but the healer couldn't always cure everything, so they sometimes came to me with their medical problems, wounds, diseases, poisonous snake bites. One time I even delivered a baby. If it's another one of those, I thought, I'm going to be very upset.

And if Andy Roper has having trouble urinating again, he's going to have to talk to someone else.

Staggering through the tiny boarding house, I hit my head on a beam en route to the main den.

A rail thin Hobbit stood on the rug in front of me, a long faced male with unkempt brown-black hair and dark circles under his dull blue eyes.

Nob Appledore. The town thief. The kind of thief that steals from other Hobbits instead of dragons.

The fact that he wasn't pocketing anything told me this was serious.

"Gandalf!" he cried. "It's Grifo Boffin! Something's wrong!"

He turned and ran through the door, leaving me to stumble awkwardly behind, knocking a chandelier to one side as I dodged another head injuring beam.

Outside in the snow, I saw five Hobbits gathered around a makeshift stretcher formed out of cloaks and logs. The plump faces were drawn and pale as they stared at the body.

A body in green and brown winter clothing, with a pale salmon colored creature wrapped around its face.

I'd never seen such a thing before in my life. A six legged spider-like beast with a long muscular tail which wrapped around the Hobbit's neck like a wild jungle snake.

"He followed the comets to the forest," Nob said. "And upon the ground, we discovered a metal house, filled with the dead bodies of giants and large green eggs. This creature..." He shuddered. "It attacked him when he tried picking one of them up."

"By the names of all gods..." I cried, tugging on the tail.

"I wouldn't, sir," said a tan black haired youth named Harding Gardner. "It only wraps itself around tighter."

I dug in my pocket, but then realized my hosts had helpfully set my things on top of a dresser for my repose.

Seeing a knife sticking out of Ferumbras ("Fiver") Took's pocket, I asked to see it.

"Again," Harding said. "I wouldn't." And he pointed to the burns on Erling Greenhand's face. "Its blood burns."

"What devilry is this," I muttered, at a complete loss as to what to do.