"Someone's been grasping at my face!" Nob muttered in a false low voice as he stood over the bear. He raised it an octave as he glanced at the other one. "Someone's been grasping at my face!" And then he cackled like mad.

The three bears. Gallows humor. Trying to cope, I suppose.

I ignored him, digging in my robe for tools.

With animals and beasts as my test subject, I could afford to be more liberal in my experimentation. If I lost a beast, it would sadden me, but if I saved it, it would prove to be a great boon that would leave man and nature alike in my debt.

The bear, being the biggest, most obvious subject, I chose for the beginning of my experimentation.

The first order of business: Severing the serpent's tail of this vile thing, a luxury I had not been able to do before in good conscience. With a crude mask made from a few window shards and a gauntlet I borrowed from Frodo, lined with a leather glove, I sawed through it with a dagger.

Frightful business, rescuing a bear. The mighty arms could easily tear a man in half, the claws ripping through flesh like warm butter. This harrowing ferocity I encountered, even as I attempted to save the poor thing's life.

True to form, as I sawed, the little brute around the bear's neck tightened and squeezed the animal's windpipe until it expired, the bear nearly killing me in the process. However, I became the victor. The spider beast quit the carcass at once, fleeing into a thicket.

Without a live body, the serpent creatures had not a suitable womb from which to hatch.

The trouble: The act proved no more practical than allowing the creatures to conduct their ordinary affairs unimpeded.

I speared the one smothering the second bear on the tip of my sword, but the poor victim again suffocated, this time due both to the flood of burning blood and the constriction of the creature's tail. Before dying, the bear tore into my face, leaving a row of bloody claw marks as a parting shot. Thankfully only superficial wounds. Nob worried, but I told him I was all right, continuing my experiments.

"Are you sure that's safe, Gandalf?"

"Perfectly. It's only a dying man's thrashing. Far more hazardous would be the type of foolhardy teasing your friends are wont to do with such careless abandon."

I moved on to the last of the (sigh) Three Bears. The removal of the evil parasite's legs resulted in strangulations similar to my previous two attempts. I narrowly avoided injury this time, but only just.

I got quite practiced at spearing them on my sword as they leapt from the carcass, shielding myself from disgust by making mental comparisons to impaled olives in alcoholic drinks, of which I would have much more rather been imbibing at the moment.

During my visits with the elves in Rivendell and other sites, I'd been acquainted with the concept of pressure points, sensitive regions of the spirit which cause pain and paralysis in the body. I doubted these demonic pests had any spirit, but they still showed signs of experiencing pain. I therefore dabbled with incisions in carefully selected regions to see which caused the beast to expire.

I expected Nob to flee me, or turn away in disgust as I continued these mutilations, but he displayed an unHobbitlike curiosity regarding such things, the likes of which I had not seen in the heroic Frodo, or even Bilbo his father. An ordinary Hobbit shudders and looks away from gruesome sights such as these, but it seemed my wide eyed companion would have written down notes, had he possessed the proper instruments to do so. I saw in Mr. Appledore a great potential to be a medical examiner if he only applied himself.

After killing several more of these parasites, I at last came across a lobe which caused the thing to spasm, though unfortunately not in the way I had wished, like a man would bite off his own tongue upon receiving a blow to the head. If the secret lay in this lobe, it would require the injection of poisons, relaxants, or nerve deadening agents.

The dwarf as dead by the time I reached him, but I had doubts about his survival from the start.

The Orc, well, saw him as a mere beast anyway.

Finished with my rudimentary experiments, I enlisted Nob's aid, and the aid of our horses, to gather the carcasses together.

"Have you found it, Gandalf?" Nob asked eagerly. "Have you discovered a way to remove these horrid Face Graspers?"

Face Graspers.

I frowned.

A culture-less, unsophisticated name for an ugly, unsophisticated foe.

Fitting.

As a sorcerer, I strive to maintain good relationships with the spirits of nature, so it pained me to set fire to so many animals, but it couldn't be helped. My attempts to save them had come to naught, so I had no choice.

I only hoped that the spirits would see as I did, that their children were sick with a malignant blight, a tumor that must be excised and not allowed to spread, or risk infecting the countryside with its corruption.

For this reason I made offerings and spoke apologies to these spirits as I set about dousing the poor infected beasts with fire potions.

Despite how supplies in Hobbiton proved substandard at best, my concoctions withstood the test of the damp and snow, and I soon developed a massive bonfire upon the bodies of the unfortunate bears with piles of icy logs.

As the carcasses boiled in the flames, the serpents emerged from their burning wombs as expected, and I played the game of hunt and stab.

I tried my best to eliminate every one that burst free, but, being only one man, and my companion being neither a hunter nor a swordsman, several of these Chest Rupturers' (Nob's term, not mine) escaped into the forest, burrowing into gods knows what host.

As I slew the last Rupturer I could find and tossed another carcass onto the bonfire, my ears suddenly pricked at the sound of bells and hoofbeats.

A procession of splendidly caparisoned steeds galloped into the clearing, bearing the intertwined symbols of Arnor and Gondor.

Rolling my eyes, I ignored the finely dressed riders, throwing another sodden log on the fire.

"Gandalf Greyhame!" a man shouted. "His majesty the King Elebar Telcontar requires your assistance!"

"Go away!" I yelled back. "Can't you see I'm busy!"

Then I saw the man himself.

The noble warrior so crucial to the success of the War of the Ring.

Aragorn son of Arathorn.

Fine clothing, worthy of royalty, yet practical enough for a second war. On his head he wore the crown of the two kingdoms.

Long haired and bearded, just like I remembered him. He had kept well groomed over these years. Life had been treating him well, but, to my relief, he had kept in shape and not allowed himself to go to seed.

"Too busy to help an old friend?"