Going to Tom's House

The moment Sylas laid eyes on the heartwood, his face lit up.

A powerful magical aura radiated from the pale, ivory grain, and from a wandmaker's perspective, it was nothing short of a treasure, perhaps the finest wandcraft material he had ever encountered.

And with a length like this? He could easily carve more than a dozen wands from it.

Grinning with delight, Sylas reached out to lift the heartwood… only for his hand to sink under its surprising weight. It was dense as iron, with a metallic texture that sent a jolt up his arm. No wonder it had taken two Hobbits to carry it.

After thanking the militiamen and bidding them farewell, Sylas examined the trunk segment, carefully considering how best to handle it.

It was at least four meters long, far too big to bring into the cottage. For now, it would have to remain in the yard, propped carefully between two stumps.

His plan was simple: cut it in half, then slice off a short segment for a single wand core.

Drawing his blade, he took aim and struck.

Ding!

The metal rang out sharply as sparks flew. The vibration jarred his entire arm, numbing his fingers. He staggered back, wide-eyed.

The blade had barely scratched the surface.

Sylas blinked in disbelief.

'How in Merlin's name had I managed to slice this tree in half during battle?' He couldn't make sense of it.

Left with no choice, he sought out the carpenters of Bucklebury, who had already proven both skilled and deeply grateful to him for protecting the Shire's border.

When he asked if they might help him cut the heartwood, they agreed on the spot, no coin necessary. To them, aiding the wizard hero of the Brandywine was a matter of honor.

The job, however, proved far more taxing than expected.

Even with their finest blades and tools, the heartwood resisted like enchanted steel. After shattering over a dozen saw blades, soaked in sweat and trembling from fatigue, the carpenters finally managed to split the log into two clean halves.

Panting, one of the elder craftsmen spoke to Sylas.

"Mister Sylas," he said sincerely, "that's the hardest wood I've ever worked with. It's like cutting through pig iron. If you plan to shape it any further… you'll need something stronger than any ordinary tool. Perhaps even a weapon of legend."

Sylas gave a sheepish smile. "I understand. And thank you, truly."

Sylas ccepted his advice, and seeing the carpenter panting, he felt a bit embarrassed and secretly placed the few remaining silver coins from his pocket on the table before leaving with the two halves of the tree heart.

...

Back at Drogo's cottage, Sylas sat in the yard, eyeing the two halves of the Old Willow Tree's heartwood with a troubled expression. Just sawing the log in half had required tremendous effort and broken tools, how could he possibly shape it into something as delicate as a wand?

Carving a wand wasn't a matter of brute force. It required precision, careful whittling, polishing, shaping the wood grain along the magical ley lines. Ordinary tools simply wouldn't do the job.

While Sylas mulled over his problem, help came unexpectedly during a visit from Gorbadoc Brandybuck, who had dropped by to extend an invitation to Brandy Hall for supper.

"Sylas," Gorbadoc said, sipping from a mug of cider, "why not ask Tom Bombadil for help? He's been around longer than the hills and knows more than anyone alive. He's always cheerful and helpful, and didn't he invite you to visit?"

He chuckled and raised an eyebrow. "Seems like the perfect excuse."

Sylas blinked. That's right, Tom had extended an invitation. He'd nearly forgotten.

And Gorbadoc was right: if anyone in Middle-earth had a tool, or a secret that could help him work this rare heartwood, it would be Tom Bombadil.

Still, Sylas didn't set off immediately. He remained at Drogo's home to focus on his recovery. Though the worst of the magical backlash had passed, he knew better than to overexert himself again too soon. He spent his time practicing wandcraft using ordinary wood, refining his skills, learning the grain, the feel, the resonance.

Meanwhile, Drogo Baggins had completely lost his head over Primula Brandybuck since the victory banquet. Ever since that night, he had become a regular fixture at Brandy Hall, coming and going with a dreamy grin and the unmistakable dazed look of young love. At this point, he practically treated the Brandybuck estate as his own home.

As a single man, Sylas could only roll his eyes and grumble good-naturedly about his friend chasing love instead of spending time carving wood with him. But in truth, he wished Drogo all the best.

He found it amusing, Primula Brandybuck, if he remembered correctly, would one day become the mother of Frodo Baggins, the very hero who would carry the One Ring to Mordor. Had he accidentally nudged fate forward? Would Frodo now be born a few years early?

...

Time passed quickly.

In the blink of an eye, Sylas had now spent three full months in Bucklebury.

And then, one quiet afternoon, after wearing down a small mountain of trial wood, Sylas finally carved his first proper wand.

It was twelve inches long, carved from common willow. Slightly springy in the hand, with a clear, clean magical circuit running through its grain, simple, elegant, functional.

Holding it in his palm, Sylas felt a smile rise on his face. There was nothing flashy about it, but it was his. His first wand.

And with it came that rarest of feelings: quiet pride.

A true sense of accomplishment.

Having successfully crafted his first wand, Sylas knew it was time to move on. After bidding a warm farewell to Drogo Baggins and Gorbadoc Brandybuck, he packed up the precious heartwood and mounted his sturdy pony, riding south along the road until he reached the confluence of the Withywindle.

From there, he followed the river upstream, its gentle current gurgling alongside him.

As he passed through the familiar river valley where the Old Willow once stood in fury, Sylas caught sight of the tree again.

It hadn't moved from its place by the Withywindle. There was no sign of disturbance in the soil around its roots, no scars of battle remained. If not for its charred bark and the half-missing trunk, it might have seemed as though the Old Willow had never stirred at all.

Now, it slumbered deeply. No magical humming, no shudder of branches greeted Sylas. Only a few fresh green leaves, newly sprouted among the blackened bark, hinted that it still clung to life.

Sylas paused, watching it for a moment, but did nothing. Then he turned his pony back to the trail and rode on, heading upstream.

Before long, a path appeared beside the river, flagstones half-covered in moss, winding gently through the trees. Sylas smiled. He was close now.

Sure enough, after another hour's ride, he saw it: a cozy house nestled on a low hill, surrounded by wildflowers and golden evening light. Windows glowed with warmth, and the front door stood open, casting a soft orange glow that spilled down the path like a welcoming beacon.

This was the easternmost edge of the Old Forest, near the borders of the Barrow-downs. Behind the house, the hills rolled on toward those ancient, mist-shrouded tombs, and the headwaters of the Withywindle trickled out from a hidden ravine deep within.

Around the house stretched a well-tended lawn, a ring of cheerful blooms, and a narrow cobbled path leading right to the doorstep.

Sylas dismounted just as Tom Bombadil stepped outside, grinning from ear to ear.

"Welcome, Sylas!" Tom cried. "Come inside, come inside! My lovely Goldberry has supper waiting, and the mushrooms won't stay warm forever!"

To Sylas's surprise, it seemed they'd been expecting him.

Tom wasted no time, pulling him into a jolly embrace before leading the pony to a small stable behind the house.

As Sylas stepped inside, the scent of fresh bread and roasting vegetables filled his nose, and his stomach growled in delight.

The table was laid with an assortment of dishes, some familiar, some completely foreign but mouthwateringly fragrant. And seated on a willow-carved chair near the hearth was a radiant woman.

She had long, cascading golden hair like sunlight, and wore a flowing green gown that shimmered faintly with silver threads, like dew on spring grass. A simple gold belt encircled her waist, and her bare feet rested beside ceramic pots filled with water lilies.

...

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