Buckland lies on the eastern border of the Shire. Its terrain forms an irregular semicircle stretching from south to north, bordered by the Brandywine River to the west and a tall hedge wall to the east—a barrier separating it from the Old Forest that seeks to drive the Hobbits away.
Beyond the hedge lies a scarred, burnt belt of land, silent testament to the Brandybucks' long struggle against the encroaching trees. Even now, the two remain bitter enemies.
Under bright sunlight, the wide Brandywine River flows slowly past a broad wooden dock standing on the western shore. A winding path connects it to Buckland's capital, Bucklebury. Behind the village, Buckland Hill towers high, its slopes dotted with numerous round windows—the ancestral home of the Brandybuck family, Brandy Hall.
"Click." A round green wooden door gently closed behind Aedric.
He looked up at the sun already high in the sky and sighed, turning to the young Hobbit beside him. "Let's go check out the river."
There had been no agreement. What about the brown-robed wizard Radagast? The white-robed Saruman? Lord Elrond of Rivendell? To Gorhendad Brandybuck, the portly lord of Buckland, none of these names meant anything.
After reading Took's letter, they treated Aedric as their savior. He had rescued people from the Barrow-downs and escaped successfully—clearly no ordinary man.
The scene had been desperate, with the Brandybucks practically begging on their knees. That description might be somewhat exaggerated, but not far from the truth.
It put Aedric in an awkward position. Whether from past experiences or personal conviction, he carried some spirit of helping others deep within. Moreover, he was being paid—even wandering the outskirts looking for solutions was worth two gold coins.
With things put so plainly... well, he might as well investigate.
Luna, unfortunately, was unwilling to reveal Rivendell's location. Otherwise, sending Hobbits to plead with Lord Elrond could make this trouble far easier to resolve.
"Master Aedric, this way please." Lorimar Brandybuck, dressed in a white shirt and brown trousers, led the way forward.
He was Gorhendad's eldest son and the next lord of Buckland—also Frodo's uncle and Merry's grandfather, though the two young lads had yet to be born.
Aedric nodded. Morgan, who had been guarding the gate, fell into step behind them.
Though it was daytime, Buckland's streets were empty, with all doors and windows tightly shut. Occasionally, a voice could be heard scolding children: "Go away! Or that walking willow tree will grab you and drag you into the river to feed the fish!"
"I don't want to feed the fish! I want to play!" Children's crying grew louder, soon joined by the sharp sounds of spanking.
Lorimar looked embarrassed and lifted his head to speak, but Aedric waved him off.
People were like that. When Aedric was young, ghost stories had swept through his village after traveling minstrels performed frightening tales. Rumors spread wildly at school—the woods behind the schoolhouse supposedly harbored spirits that walked at night with glowing eyes.
What could children do? He and his friends kept doors locked and heads buried under covers, encouraging each other through the fear.
This scene wasn't much different. Moreover, this was a world where spirits and demons were real. Aedric understood and didn't press the matter.
The three walked silently to the Mountain Inn at the foot of the hills. The dwarf caravan was temporarily lodged there, but business was poor—not a single customer in sight.
Inside the tavern, however, the atmosphere was lively, with slightly intoxicated drinkers discussing recent events in town.
"I hear these walking trees are multiplying. There were perhaps a hundred before; now there are over two hundred."
"Nonsense. My great-nephew is assigned to watch the riverbank. He never told me that."
"The lord forbids mention of the exact numbers."
"My cornfields are ripening over there. If this isn't solved soon, the birds will eat everything."
"Don't worry about birds. They won't come near. Maybe soon your corn will get up and march down the stalks to your storehouse on its own."
"Stop that talk!" A frightened drinker chugged a large mug of ale to calm his nerves.
Corn marching down the street—just the thought sent shivers down spines.
"By the way, I heard Lord Took sent someone. Will they solve the trouble?"
"Hopefully."
"I heard he's tough—dared raid the Barrow-downs and escaped alive!"
"Surely he can handle this!"
"My corn might be saved after all!"
"You seem to have quite a bit of faith in me," Aedric thought wryly. He shrugged and followed Lorimar across the tavern.
"I'm coming too!" Gimli, helmeted and armed, lifted his distinctive double-bladed axe and ran over.
"It's dangerous. Does your father allow it?" Aedric glanced at Glóin guarding the merchant stall.
The dwarf waved a careless hand, his rugged face filled with nonchalance—as if to say: Go ahead, solve it quickly. I have business to conduct. Otherwise this trip was wasted.
"No problem." Gimli patted the axe on his shoulder proudly. "Chopping trees is definitely better with an axe than your sword."
"All right." Aedric stopped trying to dissuade him.
Dwarves were brave and fierce by nature. In the First Age, they had faced Middle-earth's first fire-drake—Glaurung—and wounded it with battle-axes, a testament to their ferocity. By the Third Age, dwarves were no longer as fierce as their ancestors but still remarkably brave. Against Balrogs and Smaug, they still lifted weapons fearlessly.
Perhaps to them, trees turning into Ents were far less terrifying than starvation.
A gentle breeze blew as one human, two Hobbits, and one dwarf walked along the country path in Buckland. Ripening summer wheat shimmered golden under sunlight, swaying leaves whispering softly. Corn stalks gleamed green and nearly as tall as Aedric, their heavy ears gladdening the eye while green tassels gradually turned dark—the harvest was near.
The air hung heavy with the sweet scent of ripening crops, drifting pleasantly past their noses.
They walked through this pastoral scene for over an hour, then turned westward. Ten minutes later, the situation rapidly worsened.
The pervasive green had taken on an undeniable darkness. Trees no longer appeared as guardians of fields but twisted into monstrous shapes. Even the grass had lost its summer vitality, wilting and curling upon itself.
"Master Aedric." Lorimar stopped, trying to appear less afraid, though his voice trembled. "Just a short way ahead, about a pipe's length further. To avoid causing trouble, I'll leave you here."
His legs trembled noticeably.
"All right, you can go back." Aedric looked around without turning his head.
This place was indeed strange. The sun's light seemed unable to fully penetrate the canopy. The Twilight Circlet automatically activated its night vision—meaning it believed darkness had fallen, despite the sun still shining above.
In Aedric's enhanced vision, the originally dim environment became clearer and brighter—not the usual green night-vision effect, but something more natural.
"Hey, mate." After the Hobbits left, Gimli called out. "That gem on your forehead flashed with golden light just now, didn't it?"
"That was sunlight reflecting." Aedric answered softly. His eyes flicked toward the trees, spotting Luna. He nodded to his companions.
"Stay alert. We'll circle the perimeter and retreat immediately if there's serious trouble." He drew Mithreleth and inhaled deeply the air tinged with decay.
Then he stepped forward.
In truth, he felt nervous. If dozens of orcs blocked his way, he wouldn't be afraid—even if he couldn't overpower them, he could fight through and run. But he had no idea what awaited ahead. The unknown always frightens. Still, having promised, a man ought to at least look. Besides, he still had a journal entry to complete.
Actually, Aedric had prepared a trick to try. He just didn't know if it would work.
As they prepared to move out, a loud voice sounded behind them.
"Three of you... oh, no, four young friends—I advise you to stop immediately. It's very dangerous ahead."
Aedric turned. He saw a very tall, kindly-looking old man wearing a gray robe and blue pointed hat. His gray-white beard fluttered in the breeze, nearly reaching his waist. He carried a staff—rough-looking and simple, but one could imagine it hurt if used to strike.
Aedric was no longer afraid. Instead, excitement stirred within him.
"Who... who are you?"
"Oh, my name?" The old man stroked his beard. "I have many names, but here in the Shire, people call me Gandalf."
"Gandalf?" Aedric repeated with rising excitement. "Gandalf!"
"Oh?" The old man appeared surprised. "You've heard of me?"
"Of course." Aedric smiled. "Recently, more than one person has mentioned you."
"Good." Gandalf pointed at the silver star on Aedric's chest and smiled. "I've heard your name too, Aedric."
He had learned it from the Dúnedain. Wielding an Elven longsword, wearing a circlet inlaid with pale golden gems, and dressed in Elven clothes with a cloak of the Golden Wood—though patched many times, the outfit was distinctive.
"So you're Gandalf!" Morgan suddenly recalled something, speaking excitedly. "At the Prancing Pony, you told a story about rings. I remember it clearly. Didn't expect to see you here."
"I'm glad to see you here too." Gandalf removed his pipe. "Seems my story left a deep impression, Morgan. Made you forget I was once a customer at the Golden Wheat Sheaf Inn."
"Was I?" Morgan had no memory of that, as he was just a cook who helped deliver dishes during busy times.
"Certainly. Old Wheat Sheaf's home-brewed beer was quite good—frothy and mellow. Your dishes were always excellent, making people want more." Gandalf's smile faded, his expression turning somber. "Sadly, the inn suffered that tragic fate."
"It's in the past now," Morgan said quietly.
As the two chatted, Gimli stepped forward and patted Aedric's arm, lowering his voice. "Is this old man famous?"
That caught Aedric off guard. Was fame really the point? He thought for a moment but couldn't answer confidently. Nodding slightly, he whispered, "Yes, very famous. Better not just call him 'old man.'"
"Oh, understood." Gimli scratched his head and asked, "Then why did he say there were four of us?"
Aedric gestured toward the trees. "I have an Elven companion who's a skilled archer. There's no need for her to travel openly with us, so she moves alone. You've probably seen her too."
Though Luna usually remained hidden in the woods, she sometimes emerged to eat. But Gimli paid little attention—he was thinking of something else.
"Was it she who shot those two orcs in Tookland?"
"Yes." Aedric paused, then nodded.
"She shoots well—better than Kíli!" Gimli mumbled softly.
"What did you say?"
"N-nothing!"
Just then, Luna stepped out from behind a tree, bowing slightly with her hands at her chest and greeting in Common Speech: "Greetings to you, honorable Míriel Elendil."
"Isilriel?" Gandalf bowed in reply, studying her up and down before speaking. "I never expected Lord Círdan would let you travel the world."
"Yes." Luna glanced back at Aedric and nodded.
Gimli tugged on Aedric's sleeve.
"By your clothing, your companion is an elf from Lindon?"
"Impressive!" The dwarf then asked, "But why does she call that old man Míriel Elendil?"
Before Aedric could answer, Gandalf looked sharply at the dwarf, raising his eyebrows and saying loudly, "Gimli, elves call me Míriel Elendil, southerners call me Incánus, and you dwarves call me Shagrat. That should ring a bell now!"
"Shagrat? Shagrat! You're that wizard!" Gimli finally dug up some memory and said in surprise. "The wizard who put on fireworks at Durin's Day?"
"All right, all right, my dear friends." Gandalf laughed heartily, instantly easing the mood. "There's plenty of time to chat later. For now, let me explain this corrupted forest ahead."
The wizard summoned them close, his expression turning serious. "An evil force is corrupting this place, but I haven't determined the cause yet. You mustn't rush in recklessly. The trees inside are strange and dangerous. To rid this land of them, I may need special power—or possibly a journey to the Old Forest itself."