The best of birthday's the worst of birthdays

I had forgotten it was the day of my birth. I had seen many with little to celebrate. The years passed without the attainment of my heart’s desire.

 This year, though, was the worst of all birthdays. Boromir was dead, the Fellowship broken and the young Hobbits taken by Orcs. The Elf, the Dwarf, and I pursue them.

A sign at last. Maybe the Hobbits have escaped into the forest?

An old man blocks our path; I see a white robed wizard and draw my sword.

Then amazed, I recognise him. Gandalf has returned.