I sat listening to Tom Bombadil spin the tale of the River-Daughter when I felt that horrible presence again: Shadow. In the distance, I could see a giant black form, the thing that could only be the Great Old One called Morgoth. Flashes of the ruins of the towns smashes to cinders in his wake bubbled up in my mind, but quickly went under the terror I felt at the approaching idiot destructive force.

Tom walked, unaffected, back into the woods, and I followed him quickly. My death was all but certain now, but I still stayed by Tom's side. I could do nothing but stare in wide-eyed horror as Morgoth approached the forest. Closer came the iron tyrant, louder echoed the footsteps. My fear escalated greater and greater as he approached the wood. He raised his great iron fist over the wood...

Morgoth fell back. He was thrown backward by some great force. I looked at my companion to see Tom with his gaze focused on Morgoth, laughing as the god fell to the ground. Tom Bombadil? Could that strange old fellow possibly have...

The Dark Lord rose to his feet. He walked toward the Old Forest, but every step he took looked labored, as if it took every ounce of his power just to move forward. Tom was not what he seemed to be; he was if anything the exact opposite of Morgoth. Morgoth, lord of death, held no power over Tom, as he was concerned with life. The Dark Lord called forth a great fire from the sky to consume the old forest, but instead the fire fizzled in the air above the wood and Morgoth was again cast backward.

Then...

I looked at Tom and saw he was not what he seemed not at all. There was power in Bombadil to laugh at Morgoth, to play with the ancient evil as child with a toy. The power embodied in the ridiculous fellow beside me... What was it? The new realization of the power assaulted my mind, but somehow it was familiar. I wanted to force this feeling from my mind, to concentrate on the Enemy evidently powerless against the Old Forest.

I turned by head up at Morgoth, once again thrown back by the easily concealed might of the Master of the Old Forest. More than anything, at that moment I wanted that accursed being gone from Middle-Earth. I wanted him gone from Middle-Earth. That my own will, a force I thought feeble after being broken by the Sauron cult, shone greater than fear astonished me.

The Dark Lord Morgoth made one final lunge at the Old Forest with his great iron fist. Tom looked up at the fist with amusement.

"Break the limbs and burn the roots
Old Melkor wants to do
But Morgoth hurts not brush nor twig
For his time is through."

The five-foot-tall fellow, ignorant of all fear, stood before the great giant. He continued signing, words of nonsense and utter lack of seriousness, yet they somehow took on continually more meaning and power in my mind until the truth suddenly blazed before me: Tom was a mere aeon, an embodiment for some power beyond comprehension. I looked into his deep blue eyes, and they shone with holy silver-white light as two jewels. His song of nonsense, to my ears, sounded fairer than any I have ever heard.

At that instant, Morgoth looked down at Tom, a mere old hermit, in utter fear. Tom's song seemed painful to Morgoth, who staggered backwards from the woods. Morgoth looked down at Tom, a mere old hermit, in utter fear. His movement ceased, then he fell to the ground, his iron countenance turning to stone, which moss quickly began to grow on as soon as the massive body hit the ground. From the stone corpse of the god escaped a swirl of what appeared to be black dust. It dissolved in the sunlight, leaving only the sound of Tom's signing as his eyes dimmed.