Return to Buckland (BONUS)

The Mandrake in the wizarding world was nothing like its mundane counterpart. Magical Mandrakes were alive, truly alive. Their roots resembled small, squirming humanoids, and when pulled from the soil, they let out a piercing wail, like a crying infant. That sound alone was powerful enough to knock someone unconscious or, in extreme cases, even kill.

In contrast, real-world Mandrakes, also known as nightshade were just ordinary plants. Potent, yes, but silent. Not deadly by cry.

Still, Sylas wondered: what if he could grow magical Mandrakes here in Middle-earth? 

He had managed to cultivate the Dittany Plants earlier, turning it into a potent elixir. If he could work a similar miracle here, then Mandrakes wouldn't just serve to create voodoo dolls, they'd become invaluable components for powerful potions.

That thought led naturally to Potions.

Now that Sylas had his own wand, he was finally considering delving into the art of potion-making. He had acquired Magical Drafts and Potions during his sign-in at Bywater, but at the time, he lacked both magical herbs and a proper wand. So, he had shelved the idea.

But Potions, like Herbology and Defense Against the Dark Arts, were core pillars of a magical education. And in many cases, potions could do what spells could not, especially when it came to healing.

There were brews that could mend shattered bones, cure curses, or even revive those on the brink of death. There was Polyjuice Potion to change one's appearance, Felix Felicis to tip fate in your favor, and the Elixir of Life itself, a potion that defied death.

Sylas knew that his journey through Middle-earth was just beginning. The dangers ahead might easily surpass what he'd faced in the Barrow-downs. Potions might be his lifeline.

So, along with magical Mandrakes, he needed to gather ingredients, and a proper cauldron.

As he followed the East Road westward, passing the edges of the Old Forest, Sylas finally arrived at Brandy Hall. From there, he turned south, heading toward Buckleberry.

His carriage was still at Drogo Baggins's house, and more importantly, Sylas wanted to see if Gorbadoc Brandybuck might lend a hand. As master of Brandy Hall, Gorbadoc had no shortage of influence, and Sylas hoped he might help him procure some of the rarer materials he now needed.

When Sylas finally arrived at Drogo's charming hobbit-hole nestled in Buckleberry, he raised his hand and knocked.

The round door creaked open, and Drogo peeked out, his eyes widening.

"Sylas! You're back!"

After the initial surprise, Drogo gave Sylas a once-over, his eyes widening in awe.

"Mercy me, Sylas, you look like a proper wizard now!"

"Thanks for the compliment," Sylas replied with a warm smile.

The robe Goldberry had made him suited him perfectly. It was durable, warm, and comfortable, and most importantly, the outer cloak had been enchanted. Unless Sylas chose otherwise, passersby would unconsciously overlook his presence.

He had noticed the effect as soon as he'd walked into Bucklebury.

After all, as the one who had driven the Huorn from the Old Forest, Sylas was practically a local legend in these parts. Yet when he strolled through the bustling market square earlier, not a single Hobbit batted an eye at the tall stranger in their midst.

The cloak, in a way, mimicked the effects of an Invisibility Cloak, though rather than making him vanish, it nudged others' minds to simply not notice him.

Of course, Sylas wasn't naïve. The enchantment merely helped him slip by unnoticed by average folk. Those of strong will, or magical awareness, could still detect him. But even so, he was immensely grateful for the thoughtful gift Goldberry had bestowed upon him.

That night, Sylas stayed once again at Drogo's cozy hobbit-hole. As they settled in by the fire, Drogo leaned forward, his eyes bright with curiosity. Sylas began recounting his journey into the Barrow-downs.

When he described the encounter with the Barrow-wight, Drogo couldn't help but gasp, clutching his teacup a little tighter.

Although the Barrow-downs lay far from Buckland, even Hobbits here knew of its dreadful reputation. The very name Barrow-wight was enough to make most folks go pale. That Sylas had not only ventured in alone but returned unharmed was nearly unthinkable. Drogo's respect for him grew deeper with every word.

"So these are your spoils from the Barrow-downs?" Drogo asked, eyeing the five ancient swords, four silver daggers, and a glittering heap of jewelry and trinkets Sylas had pulled from his pack. His eyes sparkled with amazement, and a hint of longing.

Sylas pushed the pile of jewelry gently toward him. "Pick one you like. A small souvenir," he offered with a smile.

The swords, of course, were too heavy, ill-suited to Hobbit hands even if they weren't cursed relics. Sylas himself had found them burdensome.

But the daggers were another matter entirely.

Forged long ago by the northern Dúnedain, they were crafted to resist the sorcery of Angmar. Each blade gleamed silver, unmarred by rust even after centuries. They bore etched runes of protection and power, designed to cut through shadow and strike fear into the servants of the Witch-king. Against Nazgûl or any creature of darkness, these daggers were more than weapons, they were wards of light.

Naturally, Sylas wasn't about to part with the daggers, each one was a treasure. Not only were they ideal for carving wand cores from tree hearts, but they also far outclassed the two cleavers he'd been using.

Until he mastered more powerful offensive magic, enchanted flying blades remained Sylas's most reliable means of attack. Most of the spells in his repertoire so far were defensive or utility-based. But now, with these four razor-sharp daggers under his control, his offensive strength had taken a significant leap.

Without hesitation, he retired the two battered cleavers.

When Sylas offered Drogo a choice from the pile of jewelry, the Hobbit was visibly flustered. He waved his hands and shook his head in polite refusal, but Sylas insisted, pressing the matter with a smile. Finally, Drogo relented and chose a brooch inlaid with a deep-blue sapphire, clearly touched by the gesture.

After a brief rest at Drogo's cozy home, Sylas set off to visit Brandy Hall, intending to call on Gorbadoc Brandybuck, the Master of Buckland.

Drogo naturally tagged along with him. He was still very much enamored with Primula and took every opportunity to be near her.

Upon arriving at Brandy Hall, the familiar round doors opened wide, and Gorbadoc Brandybuck himself stepped out to greet them, beaming with joy.

"Welcome! Welcome back, our hero wizard, Sylas the Tree-Feller!" he cried warmly. "We've heard little since you visited old Tom Bombadil in the Old Forest. I must admit, we were a touch worried. Your safe return brings me great relief!"

At the mention of that title, Sylas's smile twitched slightly at the corners.

In Middle-earth, it was common to receive an honorary title for notable deeds. Thorin Oakenshield, for instance, gained his name not from birth, but from battle. During the clash at Azanulbizar, when his shield shattered beneath the blows of Azog the Defiler, Thorin had seized a sturdy oak branch and used it to parry attacks, earning him the title "Oakenshield."

But Tree-Feller?

Really?

Of all possible titles, they had to choose that one?

Couldn't they have gone with something more dignified, like Huorn Bane or Scourge of the Forest Shadows? Even Woodwraith Slayer sounded better than Tree-Feller.