On the outskirts of the Old Forest, the Withywindle River flowed gently out of its valley, passing a house surrounded by blooming flowers. The nearby homes all had wide lawns and bright gardens, and even the trees of the surrounding forest, which should have been wild and ancient, looked as though they had been patiently coaxed back into healthy order, forming a neat, living wall.
This was the home of Tom Bombadil and his wife, Goldberry.
Thanks to the Old Forest and the enchanted lake behind it, Tom's little house was normally shielded from visitors. Few ever reached this place.
But today, Tom's cottage grew lively once again.
A flicker of green fire flared inside the hearth, and from within the flames stepped Sylas, Gandalf, and Frodo, one after another. As for Sam, Merry, and Pippin, who had loudly insisted on coming, they had been firmly left at Hogwarts.
Tom greeted the three warmly, sweeping each of them into a great laughing embrace. Goldberry, serene and radiant as ever, brought out platters of fruit and nut-cakes, harvested from the enchanted groves she tended. Their flavor was richer than anything grown in ordinary soil, and each bite left one feeling refreshed and full of life.
As they ate, the three visitors shared tales of the world beyond: forests and plains, mountains and rivers, the wonders and perils of Middle-earth. Tom paid no attention to the wars or the bickering of kingdoms; natural things delighted him far more. He listened eagerly whenever Sylas or Gandalf spoke of flowers, trees, and wandering waters.
Frodo, unfamiliar with most of what they discussed, sat quietly beside them, nibbling Goldberry's nut-cakes without interrupting.
At last, Gandalf explained their purpose for coming.
Tom Bombadil's face lit up in sheer relief. He leapt to his feet, laughing, stamping, waving his arms.
"This is splendid news! You've finally come to take that troublesome little thing away!"
Without waiting for a reply, he dashed into a cluttered side room and began burrowing under heaps of odds and ends. Sylas and the others followed, curious.
Tom pulled out a large wooden chest, opened it, and revealed a smaller box inside. He opened that one as well, revealing yet another, this time a small silver casket, shaped almost like a flute case.
He carried it back to the sitting room and dropped it onto the table with a grimace.
"That Ring keeps muttering nonsense," Tom complained. "Makes my head ache. And lately its whispering has grown louder. Even my horses and cows have grown restless. It was trying to slip away, too! It even poisoned a mouse once, hoping to make it run off with it. Had to lock the cursed thing in this box to get some peace."
He tapped the silver container lightly. The lid sprang open on its own.
"To be honest," Tom huffed, "if you hadn't come soon, I'd have thrown it away myself. Because of that thing, the small creatures of the forest won't come here anymore. My poor animals are getting thin!"
As the silver casket opened, the One Ring gleamed inside, bare, simple, and infinitely dangerous.
At that moment, a powerful, seductive presence swept outward from the Ring. In an instant, Sylas felt its pull, felt it whispering in his mind. A voice seemed to rise from within his own thoughts:
Take it. Gain Sauron's power. Break your soul's shackles. Become more than mortal, become a god. Eternal. Unbound.
Reason and temptation clashed violently inside him. His fingers twitched toward the Ring.
Just before his hand reached the box, a sudden sharp pain speared through his skull. His vision cleared for a heartbeat.
Sylas stumbled back, face draining of color. Reflexively he activated Occlumency, a discipline he had perfected over decades. Within his consciousness, an immense mental fortress rose, walls slamming into place, blocking out the Ring's whispers.
The fortress was like an inner reflection of Hogwarts itself: countless towers, corridors, labyrinthine passages… traps of thought, false memories, decoy chambers, blackened voids where no intruder could find his true spirit.
With the technique fully engaged, the mental castle sealed itself, unyielding. The Ring's influence could not breach it.
Sylas had spent decades mastering and refining his Occlumency, never once relaxing his discipline. Over time, he had pushed the art far beyond its Hogwarts origins, building a mental citadel strong enough to withstand even Sauron's spiritual assaults. For the Dark Lord's greatest weapon was not fire or shadow… but corruption. He could twist even the mightiest beings, hollow out their souls, and bind them to his will.
As Sylas sealed his mind against the Ring's whispers, Gandalf too resisted its pull, his immense spiritual will battling the temptation pouring from the casket.
Yet despite his strength, Gandalf's body remained taut, every muscle braced. The Ring's presence was far more overwhelming than either of them remembered. They had not even touched it, and still its voice reached for their spirits.
Even so, Gandalf had prepared himself. Seeing it with his own eyes, feeling the malice radiate from it, still made his expression darken.
His gaze snapped toward Frodo and Sylas, worried they, too, might be caught in its sway.
What he saw startled him.
Sylas stood frowning down at the Ring, eyes sharp, unaffected.
"Are you all right, Sylas?" Gandalf asked urgently.
Sylas shook his head lightly.
"Don't worry. My Occlumency holds firm. As long as I don't touch it, its influence can't reach me."
Gandalf exhaled in relief. He trusted Sylas deeply. Over the past decades, Sylas's magic had grown to staggering levels, his understanding even deeper. His strength now rivaled the greatest masters in Middle-earth, and his spirit had been tempered by long meditation and discipline.
He was, in every sense, approaching the threshold of an exalted spiritual being, a transformation so rare that only a handful in history had achieved it.
Eärendil, after his trials in the First Age, had been lifted into the heavens as the Star of Hope.
Glorfindel, who had perished fighting a Balrog, had been granted rebirth by the Valar and returned with power akin to that of the Maiar.
Even Galadriel, mighty though she was and bearer of the Ring of Water, Nenya, had never crossed that final boundary.
Such advancement required staggering spiritual purity and unimaginable trials. It was, for mortals, akin to reaching the realm of the divine.
Seeing Sylas unharmed, Gandalf turned toward Frodo next.
Frodo had felt the Ring's temptation as well, but as a hobbit, his natural resistance far surpassed that of other races. He faltered only for a moment before shaking off its influence, stepping back in wary disgust, determined to keep the Ring at arm's length.
Gandalf smiled in quiet satisfaction.
Hobbits truly were a peculiar race, small, unremarkable, easily overlooked. And yet they could resist the corruption that even great spirits struggled against.
...
Stones Plzz
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