Hearing Tom's words, Sylas felt a stirring in his heart.
He was no stranger to the Barrow-downs. Once, it had been hallowed ground for the Dúnedain of the North, the resting place of ancient kings and nobles after the Kingdom of Arnor fractured into three realms. The Barrow-downs had become the seat of Cardolan, one of the successor kingdoms.
But that was long ago.
When the Witch-king of Angmar, chief among the Nazgûl, and servant to the Dark Lord Sauron, invaded from the north, and the Great Plague swept through the land like a curse, Cardolan fell. Its people perished in great numbers, their bones buried beneath the cold earth. What was once a noble necropolis became a place of dread. The dark sorcery of the Witch-king corrupted the tombs, twisting the spirits of the dead into ghastly wights, Barrow-wights, haunting the mists and shadows.
No traveler ventured there now.
And yet, Sylas also knew the legacy of the Dúnedain, their blood traced back to Númenor, the mightiest kingdom of Men. The Númenóreans had once captured Sauron himself, bringing him in chains across the sea. Had they not fallen to pride and listened to his poisoned whispers, had they not dared to defy the Valar by sailing west to the Undying Lands, they might have remained unchallenged rulers of the world.
Instead, Númenor was swallowed by the sea, and its survivors, those who remained faithful became the Dúnedain.
The tombs of the Barrow-downs still held the weapons, armor, and treasures of these great warriors. And by the customs of their people, nobles were entombed with their arms, forged by master smiths in ancient days.
If Sylas truly wanted to find a blade sharp enough to carve the heartwood of the Old Willow Tree, there was no better place to look.
But it would be no easy task.
The Barrow-wights were not to be underestimated. Once proud Dúnedain, they had been twisted by death and dark magic into undead horrors, cold as iron, strong as trolls, swift as shadows. Worse still, they brought with them a choking fog that blanketed the hills, making it nearly impossible to see their approach.
Sylas turned back to Tom with concern. If anyone knew more about these cursed beings, it was Tom Bombadil, who lived at the very edge of the Barrow-downs.
So he asked, "Tom, what exactly are the Barrow-wights like?"
Tom didn't hesitate to answer.
"The wights," he said, voice more serious than usual, "are no ordinary spirits. Their bodies are as hard as steel, and their strength can shatter stones. They move with frightening speed, quicker than the eye can track. And they never come alone. Thick mist always rolls in with them, cloaking the land, making it near impossible to find your way."
Tom's eyes narrowed.
"If they strike you, they leave more than wounds. Their touch curses the soul, it weakens you, drains you. Left untreated, the victim wastes away, body and spirit both, until they too become one of the Barrow-wights."
He paused, then added, "And worse still, ordinary weapons can't harm them. Even if you do land a blow, they heal too fast for it to matter."
The more Sylas listened, the more serious his expression became. These Barrow-wights sounded even more dangerous than the malevolent Ents that haunted the Old Forest.
"Do these Barrow-wights have any weaknesses?" he asked.
Tom nodded. "Aye, they do. Wights cannot abide the sun. The moment sunlight touches them, they vanish like mist before the morning light."
Sylas felt a flicker of hope, until Tom continued.
"But they're clever. They conjure fog so thick it chokes the very air, hiding themselves in its folds. Even in broad daylight, the Barrow-downs aren't safe. That mist never lifts entirely, and within it, they wait."
Tom's eyes grew serious. "If you still plan to enter that cursed land, keep your distance. Never let them near you. Especially if the mist rolls in, hat's when they strike. Silent, swift, and deadly."
"I understand. Thank you, Tom." Sylas bowed his head gratefully.
For now, he decided to shelve the idea of journeying into the Barrow-downs. Without greater strength and sharper magic, it would be folly to risk himself for even the finest of blades.
Instead, he turned back to something more manageable: the very first wand he had carved.
It had begun as a practice piece, something to test his understanding of wandcraft. Yet now, with the Old Willow Tree's heartwood too hard to work with, this simpler willow wand was his best alternative. At the very least, it could serve him until he was ready to forge something greater.
A wand, after all, is not just wood. Its power lies in its core.
In the magical world, a wand core is typically crafted from a part of a magical creature, like a dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, or a phoenix feather. This had long been the Ollivander family's approach.
But Sylas wasn't in the world of Hogwarts. In Middle-earth, unicorns and phoenixes were nowhere to be found. Dragons did exist, there was one, most notoriously, curled within the halls of Erebor, but Sylas was no dragonslayer. He wasn't foolish enough to seek one out. Not yet.
Just as he was wrestling with the problem, he noticed Goldberry seated in her garden, gently combing her long golden hair beside the lily pots. A sudden idea struck him.
Goldberry, the River-daughter. A spirit of the waters, ancient and full of subtle power. If her hair carried even a fraction of her essence, it would make a marvelous wand core.
With all the respect he could muster, Sylas stepped forward and asked, "Lady Goldberry, may I have a single strand of your hair?"
There was a sharp sound—like a chair scraping wood.
"Oi, lad!" Tom Bombadil leapt to his feet, pointing an accusing finger at Sylas. "That's my Goldberry you're talking to!"
Goldberry smiled warmly and gently took Tom's hand, calming his protective outburst. Her eyes sparkled with gentle amusement as she turned to Sylas. "May I ask what you need my hair for, dear?"
Sylas bowed respectfully. "It's like this, Lady Goldberry. My wand is nearly complete, but it still lacks a proper core. I thought... perhaps your hair might carry a powerful enchantment, given your nature. But if I've been presumptuous, I beg your pardon."
Goldberry laughed softly, brushing a loose strand behind her ear. "Such a small thing," she said kindly. Without hesitation, she plucked a single golden strand and handed it to him. "Is one enough? I can spare a few more, if you'd like."
"That's more than enough!" Sylas said quickly, glancing nervously at Tom, who still looked mildly disgruntled. He feared the old forest spirit might smite him over a second hair.
But then, with a theatrical huff, Tom crossed his arms and grinned. "Well then, if my golden lady gives you a gift, I'll not be left out!" He plucked a wiry silver-brown hair from his beard and tossed it to Sylas. "Here, let our hairs be bound as one!"
To Sylas's surprise, the two strands of hair twisted together in midair, spiraling into a single, thicker filament, a blend of gold and brown, pulsing faintly with magical energy.
Sylas blinked. "Did that just...?"
He examined the merged strand. At first, he worried their magic would clash, but the fusion was perfect, no interference, only harmony. The power radiating from it was even greater than before.
He smiled. "This will make an exceptional wand core."
Eager to begin, Sylas postponed plans to carve the Old Willow's heartwood and focused on finishing the wand he had started earlier, crafted from the supple willow he'd carved by hand.
To make a wand, the body and core must be joined through a series of precise rituals and enchantments. It was far more than simply sliding one into the other.
First, Sylas gathered dewdrops that had never been touched by sunlight, collecting a small basin full at dawn. He soaked both the willow wand body and the fused hair in this dew, then left them bathed in moonlight for seven nights to draw out their magical essence.
Next came the binding resin.
Venturing into the Old Forest, Sylas searched for magical trees that produced potent resins. He found a towering pine and a lacquer tree, both ancient and restless. Before they could react, he cast a quick "Petrificus Totalus" to freeze them in place, and collected the morning resin from their bark just before sunrise.
With materials in hand, Sylas returned to Tom's garden and began the true crafting.
Using a fine drill, he bored a channel into the base of the willow wand, just deep enough to house the entire length of the magical hair. Then, with delicate care, he carved a series of runes along the inner walls of the hollow, binding glyphs, channeling sigils, and nodes for magical resonance.
Next, Sylas carefully picked up the intertwined strand of golden and brown hair with long silver tweezers and gently guided it into the narrow hollow within the wand. He made sure it lay perfectly along the channel, with no bends or gaps, allowing the wand's inner runes to fully connect with the core.
He then took a small ladle of gently warmed pine resin, now golden and fragrant, and poured it slowly into the opening. His hands moved steadily, avoiding any air bubbles that might disrupt the bond between wand and core.
Once the resin filled the channel entirely, he let it rest and cool. The sticky golden sap hardened over time, binding wood and hair as one.
When it had fully set, Sylas sanded the wand with smooth strokes, polishing the willow wood until it gleamed with natural luster. Then, he carefully coated it with the resin of the lacquer tree, sealing its surface with a protective sheen.
And so, the wand was born, a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, smooth, supple, and humming faintly with dormant power.
Yet the wand could not channel spells just yet. One final rite remained.
On the next full moon, Sylas stood alone in the moonlit glade behind Tom Bombadil's house, the completed wand held reverently in both hands. The moon was high, casting silver light upon the earth, and the night air shimmered with stillness.
He began the ritual, stepping barefoot into the center of a circle he had traced with river stones. Holding the wand aloft, he moved it through the air in precise, fluid arcs, an ancient pattern handed down from wandmakers of old.
Softly at first, then louder with growing focus, he chanted:
"Runix–Inscri–Berry, Spiritus–Olari–Resonantia…"
The air quivered.
Moonlight spiraled down, drawn to the wand like water to a root. It coalesced into a silvery mist and slowly streamed into the wand, drawn in by the runes etched inside its body.
Then, a faint sound stirred in the silence.
Thump.
A heartbeat.
Thump… Thump…
The wand pulsed gently in Sylas's hand. It was alive.
He took a slow breath, raised the wand, and spoke the simplest spell he knew.
"Lumos."
The tip of the wand flared with bright, white light, casting long shadows through the trees.
Sylas stood still, staring into the glow, his face alight with awe and quiet triumph. A wide smile spread across his face.
...
Bonus Chapter @300 PS