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It had never snowed like this in Eriador, as far as Gandalf could remember. As he trekked the long road from Bree toward the Tower Hills where the sun was setting, the wind swirled fiercely about him, threatening to pull the pointed felt hat straight off of his head. The snow was up to his knees already and still falling. He would likely have an uncomfortable night if he were to sleep outdoors; but he was now passing through what had been a city of ancient Arnor in centuries past; and he thought he recalled this road passing through the ruins of a stone outbuilding which could make shelter for a weary traveler at a pinch. He only hoped that he would find it before the snow became much deeper.

Just as he thought he spied the shadow of the stone edifice through the blinding flurry, a nearer object caught his attention. It was a small cart, such as might be pulled by a single pony, abandoned in the road. There were some packages still on it, and it was covered by a layer of snow thin enough that it evidently had not been there long. From its size and proportions, he thought it must belong to the little folk who dwelt west of this region. He had had only sporadic contact with this people, mostly in Bree or while traveling the road between Imladris and the Sea; but he had always been charmed by their good-natured cheerfulness and hospitality.

Sure enough, a trail through the snow leading away from the cart could only have been made by a person of half man-size. It occurred to Gandalf then that the little folk must be especially hard-hit by this weather; for at their height the piled snow must come nearly up to their waists.

Now quite concerned, the wizard followed the trail in the snow off the road and into the trees. As it happened, it led to the same destination he had been seeking: the crumbling stone watchbuilding hunched over beside the road like a wild beast, with dark empty windows for eye sockets. The wooden doors had long since rotted away, leaving a gaping hole for an entrance. Gandalf struggled hurriedly through the piled snowdrifts and peered inside.

The wide entrance hall was mostly intact -- at least, it had four walls and a ceiling and despite the uncovered door and windows it made a fair protection from the storm. At the back of the room, huddled in the most sheltered corner and only just visible in the fading light, was what appeared to be a small group of the little folk -- hobbits as they called themselves, he remembered. Beside them was a dripping pony, its head hanging low with fatigue.

The hobbits had looked up startled as he entered, and now seemed to shrink back further in fright than they had from the cold. Gandalf supposed that he must make an intimidating sight on this stormy evening, with his great black boots crunching through the snow and his long hair and beard flying about in the wind. He slowly approached the rear of the chamber, where the snow lay thinner on the stony floor, and after removing his pack sat down against the wall with a sigh. After a moment of silence he turned to face the little folk beside him. There were three of them: a man, a woman and a small child whom she clutched tightly to her bosom.

"Pardon me," he said, "if I stop here to rest. I can see that you are travelers like myself. Whither are you bound?"

He could tell that the little family -- for such they must be -- was still nervous at the intrusion of a stranger, and one of the Big Folk at that; but the husband answered quite politely. "G'day, sir. I'm Tom Brockhouse, and this is my wife Holly. We've just been in Bree visiting family for the Yule, and were returning to our home in the Westfarthing when this storm overtook us." He shivered violently for a moment, and then huddled closer to his wife and child.

Gandalf then noticed a pile of soggy sticks on the floor, which they had obviously been trying to light, without success. "And having a rather rough time of it too, I gather," he observed. "Let me see what I can do." The wizard rose to his feet, pointed his staff authoritatively at the pile of kindling, and muttered a few words. Instantly a green flame sprang up amid the branches, turning red as it greedily consuming them.

The child started crying loudly and clinging even more tightly to his mother. She backed away from the fire, rocking him gently and making soothing noises. Her husband moved to stand by her, staring at the wizard with wide eyes. "Who -- who are you?" he whispered.

Gandalf took off his hat and bowed. "Gandalf the Grey, at your service."

The name meant nothing to the frightened hobbit. "Are -- are you some kinda wizard?"

"Some have said so," said Gandalf, sitting down again and putting his hands to the fire. "But fear not! I am a friend to all folk in these parts, especially those who are in need of help."

Cautiously, the little couple moved toward the warmth of the flames; but the child, despite his shivering, pulled back in fear. "He's scared of fire," the mother explained as she put her arms around her son and attempted to urge him forward. "There was an accident -- when he was but four years of age -- "

As a glint of firelight fell upon the child, Gandalf saw that the entire left side of his face was badly scarred; it was likely that he could not see out of that eye at all. His mother tried to move him closer to the heat, but the boy shrank back whimpering despite his continued shivering.

Gandalf gave the boy a kindly look from under his bushy eyebrows. "Ah, you're afraid," he said, nodding. "Quite reasonable of you."

The child glanced at him in a mixture of fear and confusion.

Gandalf reached out and gently touched the scarred cheek. "You know more than most that fire is not a force to be trifled with. There is an untempered rage in it. If left unchecked, it would devour all in its path without mercy."

The boy shuddered, and drew closer to his mother.

"Yet there is another side to fire," continued Gandalf. "One must only know the right way to approach it -- and it may be coaxed into a friend in the darkness, and a bringer of warmth and comfort in the chill." He reached one hand -- cracked from the cold-- toward the merrily crackling flames, and sighed in contentment. The boy watched uneasily.

"And there is great beauty in fire, for one who cares to look," Gandalf added absently. Then his lips quirked into a smile. With a quick glance at the boy, he waved his hand toward the small fire and lively green sparks began popping out of the top of it. The little boy jumped in fear; but after a moment or two he gathered the courage to peer out from behind his mother's back at the glowing flames and watch the emerald sparks go dancing across the floor. His parents stared with wide eyes, clearly fighting their own unease at this overt display of magic.

Gandalf gave them what he hoped was a kindly smile, and they hesitantly returned it. He gestured again and sparks turned blue, then purple. Curiosity gradually overcoming his fear, the child crept a few steps nearer so as to view the spectacle more clearly through his one good eye. His mother put an arm around him, encouraging him forward.

"Where might you be traveling on this stormy night, if I might ask, sir?" inquired Tom politely, as he led the pony a bit nearer the fire and brushed the melting snow from its flanks.

"I meant to stay for a time at the Grey Havens upon the coast," said Gandalf, brows knitting in thought as he gazed at the still-shivering hobbits, "...but my errand is of no urgency, and I begin to wonder if I may not be of more use in nearer parts." The husband and wife looked at each other, not sure what to make of this remark. At that moment Gandalf noticed that the boy, sitting still beside his mother, was looking at him. The magic sparks had now died down, and the fire was quite ordinary again.

"You want to see more, eh?" asked the wizard with a wink. The boy merely gazed at him in wide-eyed silence. Gandalf raised his staff, and thick green smoke billowed up from the crackling branches, mingling with a shower of brilliant white sparks. The little one stared in awe, despite his continued trembling, and his mother gently seized his hand and led him closer to the warm circle of firelight. He did not put up nearly as much protest this time.

Gandalf continued chatting quietly with the hobbit couple as they warmed up, and learned a good deal more of their background and of the grim situation they suspected the Shire was in for this year if the snow and wind did not let up. Every so often, to keep the child amused, he performed more tricks with the fire and smoke. Before long the gathering had become quite a cozy one, and the boy had left his mother's side to lean upon Gandalf's knee. The child had finally ceased shivering, and a healthy glow illuminated his intact cheek. Hobbit children really were absurdly small, Gandalf thought as he softly patted the youngster's head.

"You see," he said softly, "fire has its kindly side too." The boy looked at him. "And not only in warming cold travelers and looking pretty! Why, just think of all the things we wouldn't have without fire. There would be no cooked food... no tools of iron or brass that must be shaped by heat..." He continued murmuring quietly to the youngster about the benefits of fire; and as the child gazed contemplatively into the flickering orange glow, Gandalf's mind drifted back to a time before time when there was no heat or cold, light or darkness, but only Song.

He had been well nigh to the mighty one when his music first began to clash with the theme that the One had propounded before them. Confused, he fell silent as the sound roared and crashed about him like a storm upon the sea. In bits and snatches, he could still make out the original theme, but only faintly, as from a great distance. The Ainur about him, his sisters and brothers, sang with the mighty one or were silent.

The mighty one's song was loud and full of rage, like a beast that would conquer and devour all other music than itself. Yet as he hearkened, he seemed to find ways in which, with a few small changes, it might be softened and made sweet to listen to, or even brought back into harmony with the original song which it had tried to overwhelm. Hesitantly, he sang a few notes -- ones that were in accord with the mighty one's music, yet not quite in accord with it. He strained to hear the One's song over the roaring din, and to weave his melody into it.

But the music of the mighty one was too loud, and his little voice was overpowered and drawn back into its blaring tune against his will. He faltered, and his notes went astray.

Then another voice, clear and strong, blazed out amid the storm of sound. It was a bright spirit that he knew, and she was doing as he had tried to do: taking the notes of the mighty one's theme and fitting them into the sweet and subtle music of the One's design, and so enriching and harmonizing the whole. Heartened, he listened to his sister's song and lifted his voice in harmony with hers. Around them, other Ainur joined in. Their voices rose in a joyful chorus, as they took the great one's wrathful song of consuming and devouring and shaped it into a song of warmth and light. Into his own song the small spirit put the beauty of flying sparks and flickering colors. And from afar off, those Ainur who still followed the first theme responded, and wove their rebellious notes into the grand design.

The child had long since fallen asleep with his head upon Gandalf's knee; and when his mother came and lifted him into her arms, she smiled briefly at the wizard in thanks. The father was unrolling the blankets that would serve the family as a bed. The pony had already laid itself down upon the wet stone, and its ears twitched occasionally in its sleep. The wind continued to howl outside, but the stone walls of the Númenoreans were strong and the room's corner, with the fire before it as a shield against the chill, made a cozy enough nook for the little family. Though they had made their small camp as far as possible from any outlet in the walls or ceiling, the rising column of smoke seemed to drift mysteriously sideways for several yards against the wind, streaming neatly out the nearest window and leaving the air behind it warm but clear. As the hobbits curled up together in their nest of blankets, Gandalf sat for a while, gazing silently into the dancing flames. There were rough times ahead for the Shire, no doubt. But there was always hope: for he who had made the cold had also, unwittingly, created its enemy. Satisfied by this thought, Gandalf unrolled his own blanket and laid his weary hröa down to sleep.