Tom Bombadil

Sylas's heart tensed in an instant.

The trauma from the Old Willow Tree's magical howl had left a lasting impression. At the first hint of song from the woods, his instincts screamed caution.

But this melody... it wasn't laced with malice.

Instead, it brimmed with joy.

As he listened more closely, he realized it was a man's voice, though not a song in the proper sense. The tune was loose and carefree, like someone humming simply for the delight of it, unconcerned with rhythm or rhyme.

The singer hadn't even appeared yet, but his melody traveled ahead of him like a breeze, rustling the leaves before the wind.

And that melody, whatever it was, seemed to carry its own kind of power.

The stormy wind that had whipped through the trees stilled. The pained cries of the Huorn faded into silence. Even the roaring inferno, which moments before had threatened to consume the entire Old Forest, began to die down on its own.

Sylas's eyes narrowed.

This... wasn't ordinary magic.

There was no surge of mana, no ripple of spellwork in the air, just a song, and yet the flames dwindled, smoke thinned, and soon not even an ember remained.

Then, from the shadowed edge of the forest, a figure appeared.

He danced into view with carefree steps, as if he hadn't a worry in the world.

A tall, floppy hat with a wide brim sat atop his head, and a bright blue feather bobbed from its band. His stride was more of a bounce, and his arms waved like a conductor's in tune with his own song.

By firelight and moonlight, Sylas caught his full image:

He stood only slightly taller than a Hobbit, but clearly wasn't one. Too nimble. Too old. Too... strange. A pair of oversized yellow boots stomped merrily through the grass, and every tree in his path leaned aside as if to let him pass.

He wore a sky-blue coat, a thick brown beard covered most of his rosy-cheeked face, and his eyes, those sharp, twinkling blue eyes, sparkled like stars reflecting on a river's surface.

Sylas recognized him at once.

Tom Bombadil.

A legend of the Old Forest. A riddle wrapped in a rhyme.

The Hobbits of Buckland had sung about him for years, The Adventures of Tom Bombadil was practically nursery lore. He was said to live somewhere deep in the forest, in a cozy home filled with strange things, where he dwelled with his beloved Goldberry, the River-daughter.

And yet the songs, however whimsical, barely scratched the surface.

It was Bombadil who, long before the Fellowship had formed, saved Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin from the Old Willow Tree's grasp when they'd first fled the Shire to escape the Nazgûl.

It was Bombadil who had held the One Ring in his hands, laughing, tossing it into the air, making it vanish and reappear, completely unaffected by its power.

Not even Gandalf, one of the Istari, would dare handle the Ring so carelessly. But Bombadil? It had meant nothing to him. Not even invisibility touched him when he wore it.

Some said he was older than the Elves, older than the world. Others said he simply was, and always had been.

Had he not refused to meddle in the affairs of war and kings, the entire saga of the Ring might have ended before it began.

Now, here he was.

With each bouncing step and hum of song, the last remnants of the forest fire gave a final hiss and winked out. No smoke. No spark. Only silence and dew.

Even the Huorn, those scorched, blackened tree-giants, stirred again.

Somehow, impossibly, they had survived.

"Hey now, trees! What are you thinking, eh?" Tom Bombadil called out, his voice suddenly deep and commanding, though still laced with a musical lilt. "You shouldn't be up and about like this, not tonight!"

He waved a finger at the Huorn and scorched trunks all around. "Back to your places! Dig your roots deep, feast on good soil, drink deep from the streams, and dream sweet dreams beneath the stars. Bombadil says: no more fussing!"

His voice carried with it a weight beyond ordinary sound, like the murmur of a mountain or the hush of an ancient forest. And the trees listened.

All around him, the Huorn and younger trees slowly turned, their charred limbs creaking, roots sliding into the earth. One by one, they shuffled back into the Old Forest. Bark groaned, branches bent, and silence returned.

Tom clapped his hands and bounced over the hedge with a cheerful hop. "That's that!" he said brightly, landing in front of the gathered Hobbits like a spring breeze. "Hello again, little folk!"

"Tom, what brings you here?" Gorbadoc Brandybuck stepped forward, clearly familiar with the strange man. His voice held both relief and confusion.

Tom let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Ah, Gorbadoc, Gorbadoc," he said with mock exasperation, twirling his feathered hat. "You've stirred up old Bombadil tonight. I was curled up in bed with my lovely Goldberry, dreamin' of river lilies and starlight, when the whole forest started wailing like a frog with a cold!"

He wagged a finger playfully. "Had to get up, I did! Couldn't let the trees trample my mossy doorstep or spoil Goldberry's dreams."

"We're truly sorry, Tom," Gorbadoc said, scratching the back of his head. "The trees attacked without warning. We only defended our homes."

"Mm," Tom nodded, then turned his gaze toward Sylas.

"This is Wizard Sylas, he's the one who saved us," Gorbadoc added, stepping aside.

Tom tilted his head curiously, his eyes, bright blue, ancient, playful, fixing on Sylas.

"Oho! So you're the one. Magic smells fresh around you... like applewood smoke and storm-touched parchment." He leaned in with a grin. "From far-off lands, you are. I've heard your footsteps in the song of the world."

Sylas's heart skipped. Did he just...?

His thoughts scrambled for footing. Could Tom Bombadil know, not just who he was, but where he truly came from? His memories of Earth, the strange transfer to this realm, the inexplicable appearance of the Hogwarts system... Did Bombadil somehow see through it all?

Trying to maintain composure, Sylas gave a cautious nod. "Hello, Mr. Bombadil. I'm called Sylas. May I ask... do you know where I come from?"

Tom nodded thoughtfully, then shook his head, his expression sincere and open, as if holding nothing back.

"Tom knows the names of every creature, every tree, every pebble that walks or rests upon the earth," he said gently. "The moment your feet touched the soil of this world, Tom knew you. But where you came from? That part, Tom does not know."

His tone was honest, curiously so, as if he found mystery delightful rather than troubling.

"I've met others who called themselves Wizards, like you," Tom added, rubbing his beard. "They too appeared suddenly, like dewdrops after a storm, drifting into Middle-earth from places unknown. But your thread… it hums a different tune."

Sylas felt a slight relief bloom in his chest. Tom could sense he wasn't of this world, but clearly didn't know he was a transmigrator from another universe. That small reassurance was comforting.

And those "other Wizards" he mentioned? Sylas had a good guess.

Gandalf, Saruman… perhaps even Radagast or the Blue Wizards—Alatar and Pallando. They too were not native to Middle-earth. In truth, they were Maia: lesser divine spirits sent by the Valar to guide the Free Peoples in resisting Sauron. Yet even they were bound by mortal forms and strict limitations.

Still, powerful as they were, even the wisest of them, Gandalf, had treated the One Ring with immense caution.

But Tom?

Tom had once held the Ring in his hand… and was entirely unaffected. No temptation. No corruption. No flicker of greed. He had even made it vanish and reappear with a laugh, like a child playing a game.

That alone set him apart from any Maia.

Sylas narrowed his eyes, curiosity burning stronger than ever.

If Tom Bombadil wasn't a Maia… then what was he?

In all the vast lore of Middle-earth, immortals typically fell into known categories: Elves, who were ageless but not indestructible; Dragons and Balrogs, ancient and dark; or the divine Valar and Maia.

Bombadil was clearly not a Dragon or a Balrog, he bore no malice, and his presence felt more like morning sunlight than shadow. His stature ruled out Elf-kind. And if he were a Maia, the Ring should've had at least some effect on him… but it didn't.

Which left the Valar.

But there were only fifteen Valar, fourteen after Melkor's fall. Their names were known, their roles well recorded. None matched Tom Bombadil in form or temperament.

And the thought of him being Eru Ilúvatar, the One, the Creator of all things?

Sylas almost laughed at the idea. That couldn't be. The Ilúvatar in legend was all-knowing, all-seeing, the very essence of creation. If he had orchestrated Sylas's arrival in Middle-earth, he certainly wouldn't act as if it were a surprise.

Besides, could a god so mighty really be roused from bed just because his wife's dreams were disturbed by grumpy trees?

No… that didn't fit either.

Which meant Tom Bombadil remained… unclassifiable.

...

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