Weaving.  Weaving.  Forever weaving the lives of all.  Three women—one young, one old, one older.  They weave as they see all with vacant eyes, eyes that shine in the darkness.  The youngest clothed in blinding white, the older clothed in comforting gray, the elder clothed in a black that seems to swallow things whole. 

            They weave the fates of all.  They see all.  They know all.

            -A great evil is rising, the Maiden said as she spun the thread, her voice echoing in the empty chamber, a voice so light and high a ear had to strain to hear it.

            -Yes—a great evil is rising, the Mother repeated as she wove the thread into the Great Tapestry, the Cloth of Life.  Her voice was both beautiful and crushing, bearing down and yet lifting up those who heard it.  Once again he is stirring in Mordor.

            -HE IS STIRRING IN MORDOR, hissed the crone, her voice horrible, killing all warmth and joy.  HE WHO HAS CHEATED DEATH, WHO HAS ESCAPED FROM MY SHEARS.

            -SAURON…

            -He longs for the one Ring, said the Maiden.

            -The one Ring, said the Mother.

            -THE RING OF POWER—NO BEING SHOULD HAVE IT, the Crone hissed.

            -It should have been destroyed,

            -It should BE destroyed.

            -BUT NO ONE CAN FIGHT ITS CALL.

            The Mother fingered one thread that she had just begun to weave into the tapestry.  There is one born to bear it.

            Three pairs of vacant eyes fixed upon that one thread.

            -A Ringbearer, said the Maiden.

            -THE HOBBIT.

            -His fate is undecided—he may fail, the Mother said as her hand drifted from the thread.

            -I FORBID IT!  The Crone hissed.  I WILL NOT LET HIM ESCAPE MY SHEARS AGAIN.  I WILL CUT SAURON DOWN!

            -Then we must ensure that the hobbit succeeds, the Maiden said as she spun a new thread.

            -DESTINY CAN SUMMON A PROTECTOR FOR THE GREATLY BURDENED ONE.

            -But it must be one that can be strong, the Mother said as she paused her weaving to run her hands along the threads that were there.  One that can resist the call of the One Ring.

            -Shall it be from among the elves? The Maiden asked as the Mother's hands drifted above the immortal Elven threads.

            -Nay—not of the elves.

            -THEN OF THE DWARVES? Asked the Crone as the Mother's hands drifted above the dwarves threads.

            -Not of the dwarves.  Not of the race of Men.  They are strong, but I fail to find one that can truly ignore the ring's call.  The one we summon must escape that temptation to be chosen.

            Her hand continued to drift over the innumerable threads, until her hand paused over one small thread.

            -Yes…she slowly said as she reached for the thread.  It was a new thread—a newborn.  Yes—she will do…

            The Mother slowly took up the thread in between her thumb and middle finger.  The three Fates visions were filled with the image of a warm hobbit hole, a proud hobbit-father, a weary but happy hobbit-mother.

            "A girl!" the hobbit-father cried, his voice distant and weak to the ears of the Fates. 

            "Yes—a beautiful healthy girl," the hobbit-midwife said, her voice just as distant and weak.  "A daughter to be proud of."

            "Milo," came the hobbit-mother's voice, even weaker from childbirth.  "You promised if it were a girl, we would name her Mira."

            "Then Mira it shall be!" the father-hobbit cried in delight as he held the bundle in his arms.  "Mira Sandybanks!"

            -Yes—her heart is open to me.  Her future is clear.  The Mother said.

            -Her heart will not falter at the Ring's Call, the Maiden said.

            -HER STRENGTH WILL BE GREAT.  The Crone said.

            -SHE IS THE ONE.