You ask me? Which of us two is truly the native here?!
Aedric muttered inwardly, explaining: "From what I know, the Old Forest's trees have lived far too long. Before the Valar abandoned Middle-earth, they'd already taken root and sprouted in Eriador—at least six or seven thousand years ago."
"Such lengthy ages perhaps granted them entirely different life, understanding joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure, unable to tolerate felling and invasion. So they actively assault travelers venturing near the Old Forest."
"Ah! I understand—they must be seeking revenge!" Bilbo exclaimed, clearly accepting this explanation.
He pulled out the small stove once more, trying to light it while continuing: "Michel Delving's archives record that when Buckland cleared land, they burned vast stretches of woodland and felled much timber for building houses and fences."
"This surely angered the Old Forest's moving trees. No wonder folk have always vanished around here—so that's the reason."
Aedric raised his brows, thinking, No wonder those branches risked being severed to target you, Hobbit! So there was indeed such history.
"It should be so." Aedric nodded, removing his sodden outer garments to dry beside the stove, then drawing out a handkerchief to clean Mithreleth of water stains and green sap.
This was a most precious gift and weapon requiring proper care.
"I wish we hadn't approached the Old Forest." Bilbo muttered, suddenly lifting his head to ask urgently: "By the way, might Christina and Saradoc be in danger?"
Whoof—the tinder in the stove blazed to life, flames rising to lick the black charcoal.
Aedric warmed his hands, comforting: "No—traveling this far, we found no abandoned boat. Saradoc, raised in Buckland from childhood, should know to avoid the Old Forest's trees."
"Rather, our loss is considerable—we've got no oars." The small boat had come with just one paddle. When Bilbo sank clutching it, it failed to surface with them, while the boat had drifted some distance.
Seeking it now would prove futile.
"What to do?" Bilbo frowned in distress for a minute or two, then drew a frying pan from his pack, using it as an oar.
Remarkably optimistic, resilient Hobbits always conceived unexpected solutions. Though using a frying pan for rowing proved less efficient, it was certainly superior to bare hands.
The boat truly moved, creeping forward along the western bank rather than spinning in place.
Aedric took up the green branch. It no longer glowed, having drawn all phosphorescence deep within. Overall it appeared verdantly alive, as if vigorous life flowed through it.
In his grip it proved remarkably flexible, bending freely without breaking like a whip of finest leather. A special material indeed.
"Not entirely without harvest." Aedric wound it about his waist. Should an opportunity arise to visit Rivendell, he might ask Noldorin craftsmen to examine it—perhaps they could fashion some magical trinket.
Like Sam's rope, which proved quite interesting and useful.
As time passed, thin mist began spreading across the water. The eastern sky gradually whitened, like spilled milk upon a dark table.
The stove's charcoal glowed bright red. Feeling waves of warmth, Aedric yawned involuntarily.
Since nightfall yesterday, he'd rowed constantly, then fought the Old Forest's trees. Though unvictorious, it was quite exhausting. Then he'd struggled in water with Bilbo for some time. Now he was weary and drowsy.
Slowly, slowly, he closed his eyes and began dreaming. Aedric knew he dreamed, for he floated in water yet breathed easily. This defied reason. Yet he knew it defied reason. Therefore, it was surely a dream.
The figure who'd smiled and waved from the water appeared again.
Goldberry.
Somehow Aedric's thoughts were remarkably clear, instantly recalling her identity. She was the River-woman's daughter, dwelling in the depths of the Withywindle flowing through the Old Forest—not of the Ainur, yet still a spirit of sorts.
Her husband was Tom Bombadil. A being present when Arda appeared, of carefree, casual nature, acting according to joy and happiness. His origins were most mysterious.
Perhaps some unrestrained thought of Eru Ilúvatar had escaped? After all, the Ainur were all segments of that great one's mind. Even the well-known Gandalf and Saruman were no exception.
Aedric smiled and nodded to her. He could be certain Goldberry bore no ill will toward himself and Bilbo, having even rendered aid.
Their emergence from water directly beside the boat and away from the eastern shore was surely no mere fortune. Perhaps aid granted for the sake of Ulmo, Lord of Waters?
Just as Aedric prepared to offer thanks, her countenance quietly changed. Still golden-haired.
Luna?!
She spoke: "Aedric, I await you in the Grey Havens."
"Aedric!" "Aedric!"
Through increasingly urgent calls, Aedric opened his eyes. Day had brightened fully, trees lining both riverbanks around the clear blue stream.
Breakfast was a large sandwich filled with bacon and tomato, his clothes neatly piled nearby. All fruits of Bilbo's industry. Clearly he'd slept long indeed.
"Aedric, from here we need to turn eastward, continuing along that stream to reach the Barrow-downs directly." Following Bilbo's pointing finger, Aedric saw a dark green stream flowing from mountain valleys, its banks bearing denser, taller trees.
Their branches were thicker and longer too. Should they take to beating people, it'd likely hurt more?
"However, first we need proper oars. I hear the Withywindle valley is the Old Forest's most eerie and mysterious place, where most folk vanish. Though daylight's safer, we'd best not linger."
Bilbo held up his frying pan, his face showing pain. This he'd purchased dearly from a dwarf caravan, crafted in the Blue Mountains at Thorin's halls.
There stood a great forge gathering many dwarf smiths. Countless excellent iron goods were forged there, flowing to the Shire, Bree, Lindon, and even Rivendell and the wild lands.
Good pans should cook delicious food, not paddle water.
Borrow? Aedric felt puzzled. From where? Surely not detour to Buckland? That would require walking through the Old Forest for ages—too time-consuming. Bilbo wouldn't propose such a plan.
Were there settlements nearby? In puzzlement he looked about.
Water rushed onward, bearing the boat past dense woodlands. Beyond the greenery, a three-story brick-and-timber house appeared upon the western bank's gentle slope.
Neat tiles gleamed in sunlight, and wooden signboards were carved with heavy, golden wheat ears. Eastward ran a north-south road where a swift horse raised dust northward while several wagons formed a slow caravan bearing furs, wooden chests, and heaped barrels.
The shore held a crude dock with a small boat for ferrying passengers to Buckland across the river.
"The Golden Wheat Sheaf inn—the Shire's southern border's last tavern. Their ale's quite famous." Bilbo rowed the boat, adding: "They surely have spare oars, and we might ask whether Christina and Saradoc passed through."
"Good—you're the guide; you decide." Aedric dressed and lifted the rope from underfoot.
The boat slowly entered the dock. Bilbo jumped onto the planks, tidying himself thoroughly to appear a composed gentleman before walking toward the inn.
Aedric was somewhat delayed. As he finished dressing and secured the boat, just stepping ashore, he heard an angry roar.
"Damn little thing! Can't understand speech, eh?"
A burly fellow in coarse cloth, half his face full of flesh, the other half scarred as if scalded by boiling oil, raised his left hand high to slap Bilbo.
Another ordinary-looking Hobbit tried to intervene but was kicked aside, rolling away. Bilbo Baggins retreated repeatedly, avoiding attack. Fully displaying Hobbits' agility and nimbleness.
Yet the brute pressed on relentlessly, using his height advantage to kick again. Then Aedric had charged over, leaping to deliver his own kick.
Striking second but arriving first, he hit the man's abdomen. The brute reeled backward like struck by a charging warhorse, stumbling several steps before slamming against the wall with a great crash, slowly sliding down spread-eagle fashion.
It wasn't finished. His face reddened, straining and straining until finally he vomited his breakfast with a great "wah," spewing upon the ground.
Those unidentifiable substances mingled with ale flowing from cups and urine seeping from his trousers, staining his pants and boots.
"Are you alright?" Aedric extended his hand, helping Bilbo up.
He didn't know what had occurred—ascending the slope, he'd witnessed that scene. How dare they! Did they think the party lacked tall folk?
"I'm unhurt." Bilbo shook his head, pointing at the groaning, vomiting brute: "But he..."
"He'll live." Aedric glanced at the man. His kick had been restrained.
Though results exceeded estimates—leaving the fellow vomiting, urinating, moaning, and unconscious—it wasn't fatal. Probably not.
Before they could speak, a clamor arose from within the inn. Aedric turned to look, his expression instantly growing grave as his right hand gripped his sword hilt, his left protecting Bilbo behind him.
A crowd pushed through the doorway—mostly travelers clutching ale cups or bread, including a pipe-smoking red-haired dwarf.
Then three ugly men emerged from the throng. One triangular-eyed with a flat nose, wielding a short dagger. One with protruding ears, gripping a stool. One stout fellow barely taller than Hobbits, holding a meat knife.
All showed malice, regarding the two uninvited guests with ill intent.
Aedric's expression turned cold. Not that he judged by appearance, but in any world, these three seemed like no good men indeed!
"Who's making trouble at our inn's door!"
A woman dressed like a proprietress emerged. She had wine-red hair, narrow eyes, a high nose, and tempting red lips—charming with seductive appeal.
Her figure was full and shapely, swaying as she walked, captivating surrounding customers' gazes. Only her voice was sharp and harsh, her eyes always narrowed like a cunning fox eyeing prey.
Seeing the man slumped on the ground, surprise flashed across her face. She turned to stare at the two "guests"—one tall, one short—saying resentfully: "Hmph! You two struck our man without cause. Without explanation, don't expect easy departure!"
Aedric pressed his lips together. He didn't believe Bilbo had provoked the confrontation.
Yet he wouldn't waste breath arguing. The incident occurred at the entrance—she surely knew what happened, yet acted as if they'd caused trouble. Nothing to discuss then.
It was normal, given Middle-earth's environment, social rules, and her greedy eyes. Reason was utterly useless! Moreover, tall folk bullying short folk—what explanation should he give!
Aedric waved his left hand, signaling Bilbo to retreat, his right hand lightly drawing his blade.
Clang! Mithreleth emerged half a foot from its sheath, gleaming brilliantly in sunlight, nearly blinding to behold.
His feet planted firmly, every muscle tensing. Instantly combat-ready.
This attitude needed no words—it said everything.
The proprietress felt overwhelming pressure approaching like surging tidal waves while she was but a lone, helpless boat. Her breathing caught, heart tightening as she unconsciously stepped back.
Then, looking around, she found her men making identical retreats.
"This..." The proprietress possessed some experience. Swallowing saliva, she forced back the words "get them," her face instantly wreathed in smiles as she amended: "But speaking again, the Golden Wheat Sheaf is a place of business—what reason have we to trouble customers?"
"Ma'am, they're not customers yet!" called a trouble-stirring patron from behind.
"Shut your mouth! They will be soon!" The proprietress turned to snarl, then faced them with an ingratiating smile: "Whatever you gentlemen require, we'll strive to satisfy."