Time flew, before you knew it, another year had passed.
A streak of white light cut across the sky, illuminating the thick clouds for an instant.
Boom!
Thunder followed close behind.
Splash.
The torrential rain, driven by fierce winds, lashed the ground like a whip, again and again trying to bend the newborn green shoots and smash them back into the muddy earth.
This long-brewing storm had finally erupted.
In the southern Bree-land, an old man, holding a candlestick, walked to the tightly shuttered window. Listening to the rattling of raindrops and staring out into the pitch-black night, he couldn't hide the worry on his face.
On a rainy night like this, having a roof to keep out the wind and rain, plus a warm hearth and hot tea, and a little rocking chair with a blanket beside the fire, nothing could be more comfortable.
At least, it should have been.
"Those two lads, why aren't they back yet," the old man muttered at the window, his brow deeply furrowed.
"They knew it was going to rain and still went out gallivanting about... When you get back, I'll make sure you understand the true purpose of the strap at my waist..."
The rain kept pouring down.
By the time the candle had burned more than halfway, there was still no sound outside but the relentless drumming of rain.
The anger faded from his face. His brow remained furrowed as he paced the room, back and forth, unable to remain still for even a moment.
"I take it back, just come home safe and I'll forgive you..."
The candle burned lower.
"No... no, this won't do."
Finally, he stopped pacing. He quickly threw on his heavy coat, put on a hat that wouldn't soak through immediately, opened the door, and stepped into the night, feeling his way forward under the pounding of raindrops the size of pebbles.
"Pete! Phil!" he called out into the storm, but his voice was quickly swallowed by the howling wind.
"Are you out there? Answer me!"
He continued shouting like this.
By now, most of the villagers were long asleep, and there wasn't a single light to be seen. The old man could only make his way forward by feeling his surroundings and catching faint outlines in the darkness.
For their sake he kept calling, he had left the warmth of the fire, braved the tempest, and walked out of the village, all the way to the edge of a small wood further south.
"They ran this way, I remember..."
By this time, the rain had finally lost some of its earlier ferocity, easing just a little. That allowed his voice to carry farther, though it had grown hoarse.
"Pete! Phil!"
"Here!!"
It was as if the Valar had finally taken pity on the old man, a voice, tinged with sobs, came from his left. His heart leaped at once. He quickly turned his head and saw two figures struggling through the curtain of rain.
One of them was stumbling forward through the puddles, carrying another child on his back. The one on his back wasn't moving, he seemed to be asleep, or perhaps unconscious.
"Phil, what happened?!"
The old man ran over in long strides and took the boy named Pete from Phil's back.
"I... I don't know."
Phil's voice was trembling. "We were exploring in the woods, and then... some shadow pounced on Pete, and then... then no matter what I did, I couldn't wake him up..."
Hearing this, the old man quickly pressed his ear to Pete's chest. Only when his eardrum caught the faint thump of a heartbeat did he allow himself to relax slightly.
He patted Phil's shoulder.
"It's all right. Pete might just be exhausted. Let's go home now, dry off, warm up by the fire, and tomorrow everything will be back to normal, everything will be fine."
Seeing the boy before him on the verge of breaking down, the words of scolding stuck in his throat and turned into words of comfort instead.
Phil nodded desperately, following step by step behind the slightly stooped but resolute figure leading the way back to the village.
The journey back was without incident, and the three returned home safely.
The old man lit the candlestick again, then gently moved the boy from Phil's back onto the bed and began drying him off.
"Pete... Pete..."
He called softly, trying to wake the boy. But no matter how he tried, patting his face, shaking his body gently, there was no sign of him stirring.
The old man frowned deeply, bringing the candle closer. Suddenly, he noticed that Pete's lips had a purplish tinge, and his complexion looked distinctly unhealthy.
Those purplish lips opened and closed slightly, as if trying to call for help.
An ailment, one he had never seen before.
A moment later, in another corner of the room, the old man lit his pipe. With nothing else working, this was the only way to calm his nerves and force himself to think clearly.
His poor child was still trapped in some nightmare, and he himself was utterly powerless.
"I've failed your parents..."
Fear crept into his heart.
Knock, knock, knock.
Just as the old man sighed once more, there came a sudden knock at the door.
"Hello? Is anyone there?!"
It was a young man's voice, full of energy.
A voice he didn't recognize. Not from anyone in the village.
The old man gave no reply. He simply extinguished his pipe, set it aside, and held back Phil, who was about to head for the door.
Silently, he moved to the window and peered out at an angle.
There, at the door, stood two young people in travel cloaks, huddled against the rain, looking rather bedraggled.
"Could we come in and shelter from the storm?"
"Please, the weather's terrible, we can pay you for the trouble!"
Creak.
The door opened a crack.
The old man did not immediately let them in.
"You look like those wandering Rangers."
"Rangers? We are indeed Rangers, but I assure you, we conduct ourselves with complete honor."
The old man made no comment and simply continued, "I've never seen you before. Where do you hail from?"
"Wayfort," one of them replied. "We're Ranger apprentices from Wayfort."
"Wayfort?"
The old man thought for a moment, then said, "I've heard of it. The village chief's leather coat was bought from a caravan out of Wayfort when he visited relatives in Bree last month."
"Come in, then."
"Our heartfelt thanks!" The two young people bowed to the old man in turn before stepping inside.
The house wasn't large, but it was cozy, there was a still-warm hearth, a few familiar-looking square wool blankets, a motionless rocking chair, and a candlestick burning on the oak table.
"Please forgive the intrusion, it's just that this was the only light in the entire village, and we were drawn to it like moths to flame."
I see, the old man thought. Next time, I'll douse the fire the moment it grows dark. That'll keep strangers from disturbing me.
The two earnest young men had no idea what was going through the old man's mind. They spoke freely, accepting the towel Phil handed them, taking turns drying themselves off.
"We don't have any spare beds, you might have to sleep in a chair or on the carpet for the night."
"That's perfectly fine, we don't mind in the least," one of the young men said with a wave of his hand, removing his cloak to reveal a fine steel sword and bow beneath, both bearing the craftsmanship marks of Wayfort.
"Having a place to shelter from the wind and rain is more than we could ask for."