Goodbye Drogo (BONUS)

With the full support of the Brandybuck family and generous funding from Sylas, the entire Bucklebury community had mobilized in earnest. Hobbits from every corner of the region lent a hand, and soon, bundles of mugwort, lavender, daffodil root, and daisy root came pouring in. Basins of slugs, leeches, caterpillars, beetle eyes, and even mouse tails and spleens were lined up neatly outside Drogo's front door like a bizarre farmer's market from a potion master's dreams, or nightmares.

Sylas, though thrilled by the rapid progress, quickly found himself swamped. Each ingredient needed special treatment: some had to be dried carefully under moonlight; others preserved fresh in dew. It was a meticulous business.

Feeling overwhelmed, Sylas roped Drogo into helping. The poor Hobbit stared at a basin full of squirming slugs with a grimace, utterly flummoxed.

"Uh… Sylas, are you sure this isn't some elaborate poison-making scheme?" he asked, hesitantly prodding one of the slimy creatures with a stick.

"Absolutely positive!" Sylas replied cheerfully. "Once I'm done, I'll give you the first bottle. Works instantly."

A flicker of mischief twinkled in Sylas's eyes. He really didn't want to deal with the slugs himself, so he had ever-so-politely dumped that honor onto Drogo, who lacked the nerve to decline.

The moment Drogo heard he'd have to drink the final product, his smile faltered. "Er… maybe I'll pass. I hardly ever get sick anyway."

Still, he gritted his teeth and picked up a slug with a pair of tongs, snipping off its little antennae with scissors, apparently, the tentacles were the useful part.

Sylas wasn't faring much better. He was working on a basin full of caterpillars. Donning thick sheepskin gloves, he carefully sliced open each one to extract the usable portions, then rinsed them clean and laid them neatly on a stone slab to dry in the sun.

Even with magical assistance, the sheer effort left Sylas sore and exhausted. A full week passed before the raw materials were properly processed, and his back was threatening mutiny.

Fortunately, not all his harvest was quite so revolting.

Alongside the animal parts, Sylas had acquired four potted magical plants: two pots of dittany and two pots of common mandrake.

He planned to use the dittany to brew a new batch of healing potions.

As for the Mandrake, Sylas had more ambitious plans. He intended to cultivate it into the kind of Mandrake found in the wizarding world.

The two specimens he'd gathered near the edges of the Old Forest had been growing undisturbed for decades. Their roots already bore a faint resemblance to tiny, gnarled human figures, arms, legs, even a rudimentary face.

Each day, Sylas carefully infused all four of his potted plants with magic. The dittany plants, vigorous and responsive, began to shimmer with subtle vitality. Leaves thickened, their scent sharpened, and they radiated healing energy. But the mandrakes? They showed no outward change. They simply continued to drink in Sylas's magic, and in startling quantities.

Sylas wasn't disheartened. On the contrary, the fact that the plants absorbed magic at all meant they had potential. And now that his magical reserves had nearly doubled, he no longer feared running dry.

Once all the potion ingredients were collected and his plants were steadily progressing, Sylas didn't immediately begin brewing. Instead, he organized his inventory, packed his carriage carefully, and prepared to leave Bucklebury behind.

It was time to return to Hobbiton.

Though he couldn't recall the exact date Thorin's company would set out toward the Lonely Mountain, he knew the clock was ticking, and if he wanted to catch that journey, he couldn't linger much longer.

So, after bidding farewell to a misty-eyed Drogo and the ever-generous Gorbadoc Brandybuck, Sylas climbed onto his wagon and rode off once again.

Hobbiton greeted him with the same gentle beauty he remembered: tidy gardens, sleepy lanes, and the scent of fresh bread wafting through open windows.

At Bag End, Bilbo had just finished a hearty lunch and was lounging in a wooden chair beside his rose bushes, leisurely puffing on his pipe. His gaze wandered over the rolling hills as he murmured wistfully, "I wonder where Sylas is now…"

Life had grown quiet since Sylas left, and though Bilbo found comfort in the calm, he often caught himself worrying. Had Sylas run into trouble? Should he have gone along with him?

Just as Bilbo knocked the ash from his pipe and turned toward the kitchen to set the kettle on for tea, a familiar creak echoed from the lane.

A carriage.

Bilbo squinted, curious.

The wagon drew nearer, the driver's smile growing brighter, and then a figure leapt down and waved.

"Long time no see, my friend!" Sylas called out with cheerful mischief. "Did you miss me?"

"Sylas!" Bilbo gasped, delighted, and hurried forward, practically hugging the wizard's leg like an excited child.

"How did you get back so soon?"

"What, am I not welcome anymore?" Sylas teased.

Bilbo swatted his arm and grinned. "Don't be daft! You're always welcome here."

He ushered Sylas toward the door. "Come in, come in, I've got scones on the rack and raspberry jam!"

Sylas chuckled, pointing at the piled wagon behind him. "I'll join you in a minute. First I've got to unload all this. Oh, and I brought you something special. A fresh bag of Longbottom Leaf."

Bilbo's eyes lit up. Aside from his fondness for afternoon tea, few things delighted him more than a good pipe, and Longbottom Leaf was his favorite tobacco by far. At the sight of the sack, he beamed and made to help.

But Sylas waved him off gently. "No need to lift a finger, my friend. Just show me where to put things."

With that, he snapped his fingers. One by one, the contents of the carriage floated into the air, sacks, jars, bundles of herbs, and began gliding neatly toward Bag End. The sack of Longbottom Leaf soared directly into Bilbo's arms.

Bilbo blinked in awe, grinning like a child watching fireworks. "Even after all this time… your magic still amazes me, Sylas!"

Laughing, he hurried to open the door and cleared a storeroom to make room for Sylas's belongings. But as the magical procession continued, Bilbo's jaw slowly dropped.

Pots of herbs, daisy root, mugwort, and daffodil root, he could understand. The four potted plants, too, though two of them looked a bit sinister. But what caught his breath were the jars.

Jars filled with slugs. Leeches. Caterpillars. Sheets of snake skin curled like parchment. Bilbo recoiled slightly at the sight, especially when a particularly large leech squirmed against the glass.

He swallowed nervously and asked, "Er… Sylas, what are you planning to do with these things?"

"Make Potions," Sylas replied matter-of-factly, as if that were the most natural answer in the world.

"Potions? With these?!" Bilbo's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Of course," Sylas chuckled. "You'll understand soon enough."

He didn't elaborate. Now that he was back in Hobbiton, his plan was simple: brew as many Potions as possible before the expedition eastward began. He wasn't about to be caught unprepared.

Once everything had been sorted and put away, Sylas brought out a small chest filled with glittering trinkets, jewels, brooches, rings, and ancient accessories looted from the Barrow-downs.

Though these relics were undeniably valuable, Sylas had no interest in keeping treasures stolen from the dead. Their cold beauty unsettled him, and he'd rather see them used by the living.

So he turned to Bilbo. "Take your pick. Consider it a thank-you, for the tea, the bed, and for always making this place feel like home."

Bilbo blinked at the contents of the chest. "Sylas, this is… far too generous."

But with a little coaxing he finally selected a ruby-studded brooch. Funny enough, Drogo had chosen a nearly identical one not long ago.

Later that afternoon, the two friends sat down in the kitchen for tea—warm scones, clotted cream, and jam between them. Bilbo launched into an enthusiastic retelling of his recent thoughts and little adventures, while Sylas listened with a contented smile.

It was during this conversation that Sylas learned his exploits had become the talk of the Shire. Word of his stand against the invading Huorns in the Eastfarthing had spread like wildfire. The Brandybucks, in particular, had done their best to make sure everyone knew the tale, going so far as to christen him with a rather embarrassing title.

"'Tree-Feller,' they're calling you now!" Bilbo announced with a grin.

Sylas groaned. "Oh, come on… that makes me sound like a lumberjack."

"It's got a heroic ring to it," Bilbo offered unconvincingly.

Though he grumbled, Sylas had no choice but to accept the nickname. Titles were like gossip in the Shire, once they took root, there was no digging them out.

What Sylas didn't know was that his name was not only known in the Shire but also in Bree, outside the Shire.

The Prancing Pony in Bree was a temporary resting place for many traveling merchants, Hobbits, adventurers, rangers, and even Dwarves. So, it was no surprise that his name would spread throughout Middle-earth with these people.