"When firelight illuminated the ancient tomb, he lay quietly on the stone platform, wearing a crown on his head, clad in black robes, with a golden belt at his waist. Around the platform were piled glittering gold, silver, and jewels of every color."
As soon as Aedric approached the riverbank, he heard Saradoc recounting their experiences within the ancient tomb.
"Christina cried out loudly that she'd found the herb, then climbed the platform and removed the wight's crown, saying she'd give it to her uncle in gratitude for his help—that'd be you, Master Baggins."
"I know." Bilbo replied tersely, his brow furrowed as he stared at the mist tinged with gray darkness.
Only when Aedric's figure appeared as expected did his brow relax, hastily calling: "Aedric, over here, over here!"
His hands still gripped the oars, ready to row away at any moment.
Aedric leaped aboard in one bound, his form barely steady as he shouted: "Go! Quickly!"
Bilbo and Saradoc hastily rowed as the small boat shot forward like a loosed arrow across the water.
Aedric gripped his long sword, looking back at the increasingly distant shallows. Seeing the wight hadn't followed, he exhaled heavily.
Turning to the two conscious and one unconscious Hobbits, he said: "Fellows, I've got good news and bad news."
Two pairs of eyes looked over in puzzlement.
"The good news is we're all still alive, and the wight's given up chasing us."
"The bad news is we still have Old Man Willow and his kind to deal with, and night's fallen. Whether we can withstand that cursed singing remains unknown."
"So, have you got any good ideas?"
Though seemingly asking everyone, Aedric fixed his gaze on Saradoc. He and Christina, not yet adults, had dared venture into the eerie Withywindle valley—surely they had some advantage unknown to him or Bilbo.
Moreover, Buckland bordered the Old Forest. Who better understood dealing with those troublesome Huorns than those living there?
"We can use this." Indeed, Saradoc reached into his pocket and produced a small green bottle.
Upon receiving it, Aedric immediately smelled a faint odor—somewhat like mint, possibly mixed with other herbs and ingredients. He knew nothing of potions or perfume-like substances.
Curiously pulling the cork, he inhaled deeply and shivered violently several times. Though mint-like in scent, its effect proved far more potent. Aedric felt as if two soft yet freezing icicles had thrust straight through his nose into his brain and lungs.
Instantly achieving ultimate alertness!
"This is my grandmother's concoction. Just dab a little under the nose, and the Withywindle valley's songs can't disturb us. The effect lasts quite long too."
Saradoc explained proudly. Clearly, his grandmother held a considerable reputation in Buckland.
"Excellent potion." Aedric hadn't expected Middle-earth to possess such crafts. Given the opportunity, he must visit Saradoc's grandmother.
Suppressing the urge to pocket the bottle, Aedric dabbed some under his nose before passing it to Bilbo.
Soon all three had applied it. Saradoc pocketed the bottle, but when withdrawing his hand, he pulled out a brilliantly golden belt.
One red, two green, and two blue—five large gems were set in sequence, sparkling under starlight.
The small Hobbit scratched his head, saying embarrassedly: "Christina took the crown, and I thought to take something as a memento, so I pulled off the wight's belt, which resulted in... in... awakening him..."
Then Christina had waved her torch, shouting to flee quickly. He'd grabbed a sword, wanting to display bravery before his companion, only to be terrified by the wight's horrible appearance and turn to run.
Saradoc omitted this part, falling silent for several seconds before continuing: "Regardless, I must thank Master Aedric for saving my life in that critical moment. Please accept this belt."
Another unexpected gain. Aedric hadn't anticipated additional compensation.
Looking down at the boy, after brief consideration he felt he deserved it and accepted without ceremony. The belt was connected by solid gold segments, with exquisite hollow runes surrounding the gems.
Aedric suspected this was no simple ornament. After all, the Northern Kingdom's predecessor came from Númenor's Faithful, retaining considerable knowledge from Aman.
Though this knowledge originated from elves, it all came from the Valar—this world's gods. Given the opportunity, he should ask Lord Elrond or Lady Galadriel to examine it—perhaps it possessed miraculous effects.
"Come, let's hurry home. Christina needs immediate treatment."
Bilbo accelerated his rowing. Unconscious, Christina curled up, her body emanating chill as she shivered.
"We could visit my grandmother—her medical skills are Buckland's finest." Saradoc suggested.
"Impossible." Aedric shook his head. "Reaching Buckland requires walking through the Old Forest, going north at least ten miles. On Old Man Willow's territory, I can't guarantee your safety."
"Ah, you're right!" Saradoc closed his mouth, realizing his foolish words.
At night, even Buckland residents locked doors and windows, posting guards at fences against potential dangers. None would venture into the Old Forest seeking trouble.
Bilbo considered: "Should we return to the Golden Wheat Sheaf inn for shelter, then seek a doctor?"
"Also impossible." Aedric again refused: "We offended their proprietor and hands. Though they seemed to yield, they won't abandon revenge."
"Staying at the inn means watching every morsel of food and drop of water, sleeping with one eye open."
"Are there other choices?"
"Only Thornfield remains." Bilbo added: "We could row past the inn, then at Deepshore village take the northern road three to five miles to a small path. I hear there's a good doctor there too."
He'd never visited, but Bag End possessed a map detailing many Shire villages and roads—his mother's gift.
"Good, let's go then." Speaking thus, Aedric reached for Saradoc's oar.
The small Hobbit held fast, patting his chest: "Sir, you're injured—I can manage this small task perfectly!"
Only then did Bilbo notice the savage wound on Aedric's arm. He cried out in alarm, hastily rummaging through his pack for bandages and medicine.
Ordinary treatment had little effect on wight-inflicted wounds—they didn't even bleed. Aedric knew this well, understanding healing likely required that power within his body.
Yet he didn't prevent Bilbo from wrapping his arm like a festival package.
Night deepened as the moon crept above treetops, darkness gradually settling. Tired from rowing, Saradoc set down his oar and expertly drew a fishing rod from the boat's compartment.
Producing bait from his pocket, he patted his chest, promising to catch fish for warming soup.
Aedric didn't object. The downstream boat moved fast enough—lacking one child's rowing wouldn't matter greatly. Without song interference, the return journey should prove unproblematic.
Moreover, given his current cold, hungry, exhausted state, hot soup would prove most welcome.
Saradoc cast his hook, quietly watching the water. Within ten minutes, a plump trout gleaming silver in moonlight leaped from the water, splashing greatly.
"Impossible!" Such efficiency left amateur angler Aedric gaping in disbelief.
Soon the cleaned trout sizzled in the pot, then clear water was added, becoming thick white fish soup under charcoal heat. A few seasonings created a rich, savory flavor.
Hobbit culinary skills were truly exceptional.
Saradoc served three bowls respectfully, then gulped his own completely, patted his belly, wiped his mouth, and took up the oars. No panic from the narrow escape whatsoever.
Bilbo held his young niece, trying to feed her hot soup, but Christina's lips remained sealed—it all flowed outside. Sighing with food-waste principles, he tilted back and drained the soup.
Then anxiously grasped another oar.
Aedric listened to beautiful singing that had started sometime, holding soup in one hand and provisions in the other, watching ripples reflecting moon and stars. Lost in thought.
Truly thoughtless—his mind held no ripples, like a calm, waveless lake. Yet his forearm wound emanated blue phosphorescence, driving out cold evil while pale skin gradually regained redness.
Until violent ripples accompanied by "thud, thud, thud" sounds from the opposite shore roused him from this special state.
Instinctively looking up, a massive black shadow had charged to the bank, pushing roadside trees askew with its huge form, producing creaking wails.
By moonlight, Aedric saw a willow over six meters tall, its rough, tough bark bearing an angry human face formed by wrinkles. Frowning, glaring, baring teeth—like meeting mortal enemies!
He stepped on thick root-legs, splashing into the river with unsettling waves, approaching the boat.
"Damn..." Aedric flung away his soup bowl, leaping up and painfully drawing his sword despite his left arm's agony.
His heart filled with distress. "How can I kill a willow that's gained sentience? Chant spells to summon thunder?"
Suddenly, river water surged as a familiar figure slowly rose. Goldberry.
She still wore that emerald gown, silver threads sparkling in moonlight. Now watching the sentient willow, she spoke softly: "You cannot proceed."
Then pushed back a wave, carrying Aedric's boat away from this place.
The willow's face grew more furious, completely twisted like a whirlpool-formed black hole. Ignoring the warning, he roared and continued forward while dense crown branches became whip-shadows lashing out—the greenest one appearing severed by blades.
Displeasure flashed in Goldberry's eyes. Raising both hands, river water instantly surged, forming a huge budding lotus that firmly wrapped the unwilling willow. Then she dragged the willow underwater, his struggles proving futile.
Moments later, the river surface calmed, the willow floating horizontally with no movement. He hadn't lost life, but the Huorn aspect would likely take very long to reappear.
This was punishment for overstepping bounds!
Goldberry glanced back at the departing boat, then vanished. Thus both riverbanks returned to complete silence—no songs, roars, or heavy footsteps remained. Only night wind through leaves rustled continuously.
Witnessing all this, three faces showed amazement, looking at each other wordlessly as they rowed away.
Aedric would've thanked helpful Goldberry, but she vanished without opportunity. Perhaps later.
Both Hobbits were shocked speechless. One was already planning how to boast before companions upon return. "Know what I saw this trip?"
The other planned on weaving this experience into a completely original story. He'd already conceived the opening.
The remaining journey passed in silence as the boat successfully returned to the Brandywine.
Moonlight shone bright, draping everything in hazy silver. The distant Golden Wheat Sheaf blazed with lights. As they drew closer, melodious singing and hearty laughter could be heard within.
Bilbo's and Saradoc's eyes showed longing as they sniffed—ale's aroma seemed to drift over.
Hobbits had little resistance to such lively gatherings, especially after tiring journeys when desires for rest and merriment could make them forget danger and warnings.
Fortunately, Aedric maintained vigilance. He patted Saradoc's and Bilbo's shoulders, signaling continued progress without stopping.
The boat passed the inn's dock, where a figure stood in moonlight, watching the water with an ingratiating smile. It was the burly guard who was kicked unconscious that morning.
He seemed to await these boat passengers' lodging. Only his scarred face made this smile uglier than crying.
He watched the boat approach, then watched it depart. His smile turned puzzled, then angry before he quickly ran toward the inn.
Aedric also looked back, unease growing in his heart as he urged a faster pace.
Soon the boat reached shore at shallow waters. Aedric walked ahead, gripping his sword hilt; Bilbo carried his niece in the middle, while Saradoc bore baggage and held his short sword at the rear.
The four stepped into night's embrace.