River-Daughter, Goldberry

"Welcome, dear guest!"

The woman rose gracefully from her seat, stepping lightly over the pottery basins brimming with lilies. With a radiant smile, she walked toward him, her presence as refreshing as a spring breeze.

"I am Goldberry, daughter of the river," she said warmly. "Old Tom told me a young Wizard had come into the forest. We haven't had visitors in quite some time, and you must be starving. Come now, have something to eat!"

"It's an honor to meet you, Lady Goldberry. I am Sylas, a wandering Wizard," he replied, bowing with polite formality and a touch of reverence.

Tom Bombadil's identity remained a mystery.

And the woman before him, glowing with an ethereal beauty, as graceful as an Elf and as grounded as the earth itself, was no less enigmatic.

In the songs sung around Buckland, Goldberry was said to be the daughter of the River-woman of the Withywindle, a kind of water spirit or river nymph. One tale told how, long ago, she had teasingly tugged on Tom's beard as he wandered by the riverbank and pulled him into the water. From that day on, Tom was smitten. Before long, they were wed, and built this very home on the edge of the Old Forest.

Whether the songs were fact or fancy, it was clear: Goldberry and the Withywindle were deeply intertwined.

Seeing Sylas standing stiffly and formal, Goldberry let out a gentle laugh and smiled even brighter.

"What a charming young man," she said. "But no need to be so formal. This is Tom Bombadil's house, and all kind-hearted guests are welcome here."

As Sylas was ushered to the dining table, Tom Bombadil came bounding inside, cheeks red and voice merry.

"Ah! Looks like you two have already met!" he grinned. "Still, let me do the honors. This," he said, gesturing proudly, "is my beloved wife, Goldberry. The light of my life, my singing river-flower! I truly cannot imagine what the world would be like without her in it!"

Goldberry, now seated beside him, gave a soft smile. Her eyes sparkled as she reached out to take Tom's hand.

"Oh Tom," she whispered lovingly, "and I love you. Without you, the forest would be dark indeed."

Watching them clasp hands and gaze at each other as though no one else existed, Sylas quietly put down the grilled sausage he'd just picked up.

Suddenly, he wasn't hungry anymore.

And, truthfully, he felt just a bit like a third wheel.

Eventually, the affectionate couple seemed to remember that their guest, Sylas, was still in the room. Despite smothering him in what could only be described as "a feast of romantic affection," they turned their full attention to him, offering generous helpings of every dish on the table. Sylas was treated like royalty, until he was so full he could barely move, and only then did they finally stop trying to heap more food on his plate.

After dinner came a quieter time, filled with talk and stories. Tom Bombadil was like a boundless spring of joy, cheerful, childlike, and full of wonder. With a voice like birdsong and words that danced like poetry, he spoke of trees, flowers, streams, and wind. In Tom's stories, the natural world was not just alive, it sang.

Goldberry sat beside him, a perfect listener. Her gaze never left Tom, full of warmth and delight, as though every tale he told was the most beautiful sound in the world.

And before he realized it, Sylas was swept up in the rhythm of their stories. As Tom spoke, Sylas's imagination bloomed. He saw trees grow from saplings to giants, flowers opening at dawn, leaves fluttering and falling with the seasons. He felt the breath of the forest in his lungs, and for a moment, it was as if he had become the forest itself, a stone underfoot, a leaf on the wind, a root deep in the earth.

In this dreamlike state, Sylas's spirit stretched beyond its limits. His soul grew brighter, his magical power surged, and a wave of wild life magic radiated from him.

Under its influence, green grass burst through the wooden floorboards, vines climbed up the table legs, and fresh leaves sprouted from the chairs and benches. Flowers bloomed on the walls in a kaleidoscope of color, and even the lilies in Goldberry's clay pots opened in full glory.

And outside the house, the garden flourished too. Grass thickened, flowers burst into bloom, and the Willow River sparkled with an added glimmer of life.

When Sylas finally returned to his senses, he blinked in astonishment. The room had transformed into a lush, living haven, as if a pocket of spring had taken root in their home.

"Did I… do all this?" he asked, turning to see Tom and Goldberry examining the newly grown blossoms now springing from the dinner table.

Flustered, Sylas quickly rose and bowed. "I'm terribly sorry, Tom, Lady Goldberry. I didn't mean to cause this. I don't even know how—"

But Tom Bombadil cut him off with a booming laugh, clapping his hands joyfully.

"No need to apologize, Sylas! I love it! Just look around, flowers on the walls, grass at our feet, why, it's like living inside a meadow!"

Then, plucking a golden marigold from the edge of the table, he turned and tucked it behind his wife's ear with a twinkle in his eye.

"My dear, no bloom could match your beauty, but this one comes close!"

"Oh, Tom," Goldberry chuckled softly, her smile like sunlight on water. She turned to Sylas with gentle reassurance. "Please don't worry. In fact, you've done me a kindness. My water lilies haven't bloomed like this in years. It's quite the miracle!"

Seeing that neither Tom nor Goldberry blamed him in the slightest, Sylas finally let out a breath of relief.

The vibrant energy still pulsing through him, the rush of magic within his veins, and the memory of that transcendent state just moments ago left him both exhilarated and awestruck.

He recalled how it all began, with Tom's stories. It was like an epiphany out of the old tales of mystical phenomenon, a moment of sudden insight that transformed everything. Just a single evening, a single story, had shattered the limits of his soul and unleashed a wave of magical growth.

He knew this incredible experience had come from Tom. Rising from his seat, Sylas bowed deeply, his voice filled with sincerity.

"Tom, I don't know how to properly thank you. I, Sylas, am willing to serve you if ever you should need me."

But Tom simply waved him off with a carefree smile. "I've told stories to many who've come through this door, lad. Not all of them walked away with a forest blooming underfoot. So there's nothing to thank me for."

Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he gestured to the blossoming room around them.

"Besides, look at all this! Isn't it thanks enough? This is the best gift you could have given me!"

Sylas couldn't help but smile. Though he said nothing more, he made a silent vow in his heart: if he ever had the chance to repay Tom, no matter how small, he would not hesitate.

As the hour grew late, Sylas was shown to the guest room. The bed was soft and inviting, and as he lay down, his gaze drifted toward the pale-white tree heart resting beside him. He thought about asking Tom how to carve it properly, but sleep claimed him before he could finish the thought.

The next morning, Sylas was gently woken by the sound of soft, melodious singing, Goldberry's voice, light as the morning breeze. After breakfast, warm and cheerful as the day itself, Sylas finally had the chance to bring out the Old Willow Tree's heartwood and present it to Tom.

He explained his troubles carving it, his voice tinged with equal parts frustration and wonder.

Tom took the long shard of heartwood in both hands, examined it with a curious eye, then gave it a casual flick with his finger. The sound it produced was sharp and musical, like a bell made of wood and steel.

"Aye," Tom said with a knowing nod, "this is the Old Willow's heart, sure enough. It's good wood. Very good. Dense with memory, and steeped in the songs of the forest. Perfect for wandmaking."

He looked at Sylas with a grin. "I could shape this into anything you like, neat and clean. But I think... you'd rather do it yourself, wouldn't you?"

Sylas nodded immediately. Creating a wand from this rare wood, shaped by his own hand meant far more than simply owning one. It would be a reflection of his journey, and his bond with the forest.

"Then I must ask, Tom... do you have any blade here sharp enough to cut this?"

Tom gave a chuckle, stepped over to the table, and without ceremony picked up... a butter knife.

Before Sylas could protest, Tom pressed the knife to the heartwood, and with an effortless motion, sliced through it like warm cheese. The wood parted cleanly, smooth and even, without so much as a splinter.

He handed Sylas both the knife and the freshly cut piece.

"Whether a knife is sharp or not doesn't really matter here," Tom said with a cheerful shrug. "So no, I don't keep any enchanted blades or finely forged tools lying about."

Sylas took the butter knife from him, eyebrows raised, and gave it a cautious test. He pressed the blade against the tree heart and tried to slice it, but it was no use. The knife scraped uselessly against the white wood, unable to leave even the faintest mark.

It truly was just an ordinary butter knife.

Sylas gave a soft sigh. So much for learning some mysterious crafting technique from Tom. If even Tom's casual touch could part the tree heart, but no tool could replicate it, then perhaps he still needed to find some kind of divine weapon after all.

Seeing his disappointment, Tom chuckled and added, "Still, if you're set on finding a blade that can cut through this wood, there is one place I know of."

At once, Sylas perked up. "Where?" he asked eagerly.

Tom turned toward the rolling hills behind his home and pointed.

"Out there, beyond the edge of the Old Forest, lies the Barrow-downs," he said. "Long ago, the Dúnedain of Númenor buried their dead there, and with them, many of their finest weapons. Blades forged by ancient smiths, able to cleave iron like butter. For mortal men, they were divine weapons indeed, and one of those might just be able to shape your tree heart."

Sylas's eyes lit with hope, until Tom's voice grew serious.

"But," he added, "those hills are no longer a place of peace. The Barrow-downs are haunted. Barrow-wights prowl the mists, drawn to warmth and life. The dark magic clings thick to the earth there, and few who wander in ever return."

...

Bonus Chapter