Sylas- The Tree Feller

At that moment, after finishing his conversation with Sylas, the enigmatic Tom Bombadil strolled over to where the remains of the Old Willow Tree lay.

During his earlier song, the fire that had once engulfed the tree had already gone out. Now only two massive sections of its trunk remained, charred and blackened, lying silent and seemingly lifeless in the moonlight.

Tom stood beside it, hands resting lightly on his hips, and sighed.

"He wasn't always like this, you know," Tom said gently, his voice full of memory. "Old Man Willow once swayed gently in the breeze, sang with the river, and hummed lullabies to the roots of the forest. But over the ages… he watched too many of his kind fall, felled by axes, burned to cinders. The grief twisted into rage. It curdled his heart, made him lash out at anything that walked on two legs."

As he spoke, Tom stepped up to the massive stump and gave it a soft pat, as if consoling an old friend.

"Now, now, Old Willow," he murmured, his tone suddenly stern. "Sleep soundly, and remember what happened tonight. If you stir up trouble again, Tom Bombadil won't come to your rescue next time."

Sylas blinked in surprise at the half-buried remains. He had assumed the creature was already dead.

"Wait, Mr. Bombadil… are you saying it's still alive?"

Tom chuckled and turned to him. "Alive as a spring sapling. The Old Willow's not easy to kill. He's the strongest of the Huorn, rooted deep in the heart of the Old Forest. Unless you tear up every root and burn them to ash, he'll always grow back, given time, water, and earth."

Sylas felt a twinge of unease. Part of him wanted to finish the job, just to be safe, but seeing how Tom cared for the ancient tree, he didn't press the matter. Besides, he'd already done serious damage. It would likely take decades, if not centuries, for the tree to recover.

And by then, Sylas would be stronger. Far stronger. He wouldn't fear Old Willow again.

"Right then," Tom said, dusting off his hands. "I'll take him home."

Then, with a smile and a hum, Tom reached down, and with what looked like no effort at all, lifted the massive lower half of the Willow Tree stump in one hand, as if it were a bundle of kindling rather than a mountain of wood. The sight was so surreal, it sent a ripple of wonder through all who watched.

Tom turned back toward Sylas, his voice cheerful once more.

"If you've ever got time, young Wizard, come pay me a visit. Follow the Withywindle upstream. That'll take you straight to my doorstep."

Sylas was a little flattered but nodded respectfully. "Thank you for the invitation. I will, if the chance comes."

After exchanging farewells, Tom Bombadil hoisted the lower half of the Old Willow Tree's stump onto his shoulder with surprising ease. Humming cheerfully to himself, he strode back into the Old Forest, his voice slowly fading into the gentle hush of night.

Gorbadoc Brandybuck watched Tom's retreating figure with an expression of lingering wonder.

"No matter how many times I see him," Gorbadoc murmured, "he never changes. Always cheerful, always dancing."

Hearing that, Sylas turned his head, curiosity bright in his eyes.

"Mr. Brandybuck… you know him well?"

Gorbadoc chuckled and nodded.

"Almost everyone in Buckland knows Tom. Unlike most of the forest folk, he's a kind neighbor. He's helped more lost Hobbits out of trouble than I can count. In fact, there's a tale that my ancestor, Gohendad Oldbuck, was aided by Tom when he first ventured into the forest."

"Do you know who, or what he truly is?" Sylas asked, leaning forward slightly.

Gorbadoc's tone shifted, becoming more reverent, almost like he was reciting an ancient ballad.

"Tom is older than Hobbit-kind, older than any songs we sing. We've asked him before. Every time, he just laughs and says, 'Tom is Tom.' If you press him, he says he was here before the rivers ran or the trees took root. He remembers the first raindrop and the first acorn. He calls himself the master of trees, hills, and flowing waters."

Sylas sucked in a breath, visibly shaken by the implications.

Those words weren't idle poetry, they hinted at something cosmic.

'Before the rivers ran… the first drop of rain… the first acorn…'That wasn't just "old." That was primordial.

Sylas's thoughts churned with questions. If Bombadil remembered the beginning of the world, and had dominion over nature itself… who else could he be?

But the mystery only deepened the longer he dwelled on it.

In the end, Sylas sighed, setting the question aside for now. Some riddles, he thought, were not meant to be solved so easily.

Instead, his eyes fell to the blackened remains of the upper half of the Old Willow Tree's trunk, which Tom had left behind.

Although its outer bark was charred and lifeless, something caught Sylas's eye, the heartwood exposed at the jagged break.

Sylas stepped closer to the splintered trunk, examining the exposed core of the Old Willow Tree. To his surprise, the heartwood was a smooth, milky white, gleaming faintly like polished jade. When he tapped it lightly with his wand hilt, it rang out with a crisp tone, like a silver bell struck against stone.

His eyes lit up.

'This... this wasn't ordinary wood.'

Even among the magical trees of the wizarding world, this heartwood was something special. Sylas could feel the faint hum of ancient power still pulsing through it. If this was used to make a wand, or perhaps even a staff, it could rival or surpass the willow branches he had previously collected.

Unfortunately, Sylas was still drained from the battle. His magical reserves were depleted, and he didn't trust himself to handle something this valuable in his current state. He needed help.

Turning to Gorbadoc Brandybuck, he asked,

"Mr. Brandybuck, may I trouble you with a request? Could your people help extract the heartwood from this trunk? I don't have the strength to do it myself right now."

Gorbadoc smiled warmly and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Of course! I'll send Buckleberry's finest woodworkers right away. That heartwood is yours, consider it our thank-you gift."

True to his word, Gorbadoc quickly gathered a team of master carpenters, and the work to preserve and process the trunk began.

That evening, Gorbadoc invited the entire town to a grand celebration at Brandy Hall to commemorate their survival, and honor their unlikely hero.

The banquet was lively and joyous, and Sylas, unsurprisingly became the center of attention. Hobbits young and old gathered around him with awe and admiration, offering drinks, food, and endless stories.

Drogo Baggins, his closest friend also basked in the attention. He was seated beside Sylas at the high table, directly across from a charming young Hobbit lass with curly brown hair and sparkling green eyes: Primula Brandybuck, Gorbadoc's daughter.

The moment Drogo laid eyes on her, he forgot entirely about his ale and second breakfast. He stared, starry-eyed, completely mesmerized.

Across the hall, Gorbadoc Brandybuck rose from his seat with a full tankard and called out merrily, "Everyone! Let's raise a toast to the one who saved our land tonight! To our hero, Sylas the Tree-Feller!"

A chorus of cheers erupted around the room. Hobbits leapt to their feet, mugs held high.

"To Sylas the Tree-Feller!" they roared in unison.

Sylas managed a smile and lifted his own mug in response, but inwardly he winced.

'Tree-Feller? Really?'

It made him sound like some grumpy old lumberjack in the woods. Couldn't they have come up with something more wizardly, like "Guardian of the Grove" or "Willowbane"?

He made a mental note to request a rebranding at the next feast.

The celebration lasted long into the night. By the time Sylas and a lovestruck Drogo stumbled home, the moon was high and the stars glittered like scattered gems.

The moment Sylas's head touched the pillow, he sank into sleep.

When he finally stirred again, sunlight was already slanting through the windows, and it was well past second breakfast, nearly time for afternoon tea.

He sat up groggily. Though his body felt rested, his magic had yet to fully recover. His core felt shaky, unstable, as though the channels of power within him were still rattled from the overload during the battle.

So for the time being, Sylas resolved to avoid casting magic altogether. Not until his magical strength had properly realigned.

Temporarily unable to use magic, Sylas found himself with idle hands and too much time. So, he returned to a familiar pastime, carving wood.

He gathered scraps from around the house and began whittling small figures and staffs, letting the rhythm of carving soothe his restless mind.

Just as he was shaping the spiral handle of a wand-sized staff, there came a knock at the door.

He opened it to find a group of Hobbits standing proudly, each wearing the green-and-gold trim of Brandy Hall. At their head was a stout fellow with a carpenter's mallet slung over his belt.

"Greetings, Mister Sylas," the Hobbit captain said with a cheerful bow. "We've brought the heartwood, as ordered by Master Gorbadoc."

The other Hobbits shifted aside to reveal the heart of the Old Willow Tree, carefully wrapped in cloth, supported between two of them like a sacred treasure.

According to the captain, splitting the ancient trunk had proven no easy feat.

"The wood was stubborn as stone," he explained. "Took over two dozen of our best to split through it. It's the hardest we've ever seen. We didn't know how much you'd need, so... we brought the whole thing."

Sylas's eyes widened.

What they presented to him was a single, gleaming length of heartwood nearly four to five meters long, about as thick as a grown man's wrist. It shimmered faintly in the light, a smooth milky white like polished ivory. Delicate wood grain ran down its length in fine, flowing patterns that reminded him of runes etched by nature itself.

It was beautiful. Enigmatic. Alive.

...

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