Five days passed in the blink of an eye.
During that time, Sylas remained mostly in his room at the Bird and Baby Inn, devoting himself to the art of wandless casting. His progress with the Lumos charm was remarkable.
By now, he could summon a bright, blinding light from his fingertips at will, brilliant enough to dazzle any would-be foe. Even more impressive, he had learned to condense that light into a glowing orb, which floated freely in the air, illuminating his surroundings like a drifting star.
This fusion of Hogwarts spellwork and his innate magical control marked a real breakthrough.
When the day of the anniversary arrived, Michel Delving was alive with excitement.
Colorful banners hung from rooftops, cheerful Hobbits bustled through the streets with baskets of pies and jugs of ale, and musicians filled the air with sweet melodies from flutes and fiddles. Laughter rang from every corner, mingling with the aroma of fresh bread and roasted meats.
By evening, the entire town had gathered in the Great Hole Hall, a vast, vaulted chamber carved into a hillside, its ceiling high enough even for a Human guest to stand tall.
Long tables stretched from wall to wall, piled with platters of steaming food and barrels of beer. Children darted between the grown-ups, squealing with joy, while pairs of Hobbits danced in circles to the lively country tunes.
Sylas had been invited to sit in the seat of honor beside the Mayor, with Sheriff Robin to the other side.
The Mayor, a round-cheeked fellow with a commanding presence and a flower tucked behind one ear, rose after the meal began and raised his mug.
"Tonight, friends, we celebrate not only the 1,200th year of our dear Michel Delving, but also the visit of a most extraordinary guest!" he declared, beaming. "Let us raise a toast to Sylas the Wizard, whose presence makes this evening even brighter!"
A thunder of claps and cheer erupted from the room. Blushing slightly, Sylas stood and gave a respectful bow.
From where he stood, the view was surreal. Hundreds of Hobbits, none reaching above his waist, gazed up at him with a mix of awe and wonder. For a moment, he truly felt like he had stepped into a storybook land.
As the evening wore on and the hall filled with music, laughter, and ale, the Mayor, his cheeks ruddy from drink, turned to Sylas with a warm grin.
"Master Sylas," he said, eyes twinkling, "would you honor us with a display of your Magic? Nothing dangerous, of course. Just something... wondrous."
Robin gave a sly wink. It was clear this had been planned in advance.
Sylas smiled. "It would be my pleasure."
He stepped forward, and the room fell quiet with anticipation.
With a clap of his hands, a brilliant light burst between his palms, radiant as a falling star. Some gasped, others shielded their eyes.
Then, with a second clap, the light scattered, shattering into hundreds of glowing orbs that floated and danced around the room like fireflies at midsummer.
Children gasped in delight. One brave Hobbit child reached up and caught a glowing mote between his fingers, squealing with joy as it danced away again.
Even the musicians stopped playing to marvel at the magical display.
"Incredible!" the Mayor exclaimed, nearly spilling his drink. "That's true Wizardry!"
A wave of amazed murmurs rippled through the hall, as every Hobbit stared up at Sylas with newfound admiration.
Seeing that the moment was right, Sylas bowed once more and made his request known.
"There is one small matter," he said politely. "There's a chainmail vest in your Mathom-house, a Dwarven work of great craftsmanship. I humbly ask if it might be offered to me, for protection on my journey."
The Mayor looked at him, then at the crowd.
"Well, what say you, folks? Shall we gift our good Wizard something we've never had any use for anyway?"
The answer was a resounding cheer.
Not a single Hobbit objected. After all, most Mathoms were just curiosities, kept out of habit, not necessity. And this chainmail had hung unworn for generations.
"With unanimous consent," the Mayor announced, "we shall give the Dwarven chainmail to Sylas the Wizard, both as a token of gratitude, and a wish for safe travels ahead!"
The hall erupted with applause.
Sylas, touched by the generosity and warmth of the Hobbits, placed a hand to his chest and bowed deeply.
"Thank you," he said, "from the bottom of my heart."
Having received the Dwarven-forged chainmail vest, Sylas was visibly elated. With no more reservations, he fully embraced the celebration, clinking mugs with the Mayor, Sheriff Robin, and a slew of merry Hobbits. The sweet, deceptively strong Hobbit ale flowed freely, and by the end of the night, Sylas found himself stumbling slightly, cheeks flushed, heart light, the first time he had ever been truly drunk.
The next morning, a little bleary-eyed but still smiling, Sylas prepared to leave.
"Mister Sylas," Sheriff Robin said, trying one last time, "are you sure you won't stay for a bit longer? The Midsummer Feast is nearly upon us. It's a grand occasion, you'd be our guest of honor!"
Sylas chuckled softly and shook his head.
"Thank you, Sheriff Robin. Your kindness has already kept me here longer than planned. But the road calls again. I must continue my journey."
He cast a fond glance at the silver chainmail vest now snugly hidden beneath his robes.
Even now, it gave him a sense of comfort he hadn't felt before.
Out of curiosity, and to test its strength, he had tried striking it with his twin cleavers the night before. The result had been telling: the chainmail remained spotless, while the cleavers' blades had chipped slightly from the impact.
It was clear, this armor was no ordinary trinket. Forged by Dwarves, it was resistant to both steel and flame. And now it was his.
Sheriff Robin gave a resigned sigh and offered his hand.
"Then I wish you fair weather and safe travels, Wizard Sylas."
Sylas grasped his hand firmly. "And thank you, for your town's warmth and generosity. Farewell!"
With his bag enchanted to float behind him once again, Sylas departed Michel Delving and turned southward, his destination already in mind: Tookland, more formally known as Tuckborough, nestled deep within the green hills of the Westfarthing.
He remembered Tuckborough from the book. It was the ancestral home of the Took clan, Peregrin Took's birthplace, one of the famed Four Hobbits of the Fellowship of the Ring.
The journey took less than a day by foot, and soon the green hills gave way to a peculiar sight.
Unlike most Hobbit settlements that nestled peacefully into valleys or alongside rivers, Tuckborough stood proudly atop a hill, its round-doored homes set into the sloping sides. It had the feel of a miniature fortress. Sylas even spotted patrols, Hobbits walking with purpose, some bearing horns, others short wooden spears.
As he approached the outer boundary, a pair of Hobbits stepped forward, blocking his path with wary eyes.
"Halt there! Who are you, and what business brings you to Tookland?" one of them asked.
Sylas offered a calm nod, sensing no malice, just good old-fashioned Hobbit caution.
"I am Sylas, a traveling Wizard from Michel Delving. I've come to visit Tuckborough on my journey through the Shire."
The two guards exchanged glances. One of them squinted, as if trying to match the name to something he'd heard.
"Wait here, if you please."
One of the Hobbit darted back up the hill.
After a short wait, a Hobbit with curly golden hair and a dignified air emerged, walking beside the town guard. He paused to quietly assess Sylas, then stepped forward with a warm smile and outstretched hand.
"Welcome, Wizard Sylas. I am Paladin Took."
His voice was kind but carried the weight of leadership.
"A few days ago, I received a letter from Bilbo mentioning that you might be visiting Tookland. I hadn't expected your arrival to be so soon."
Sylas blinked in surprise.
"Bilbo wrote to you?" he asked, genuinely caught off guard. "I didn't know he'd reached out."
Paladin chuckled.
"Bilbo's mother, Belladonna Took, was my aunt. That makes us cousins, though he rarely boasts of it. Bilbo may live in Hobbiton, but Took blood runs strong in him."
With a gentle gesture, Paladin motioned for Sylas to follow.
"Come now, it would be my honor to host you properly. A traveler from afar, and a wizard at that, deserves a warm welcome in the Great Smials."
Sylas followed him into the town and soon arrived at the Took family estate: the legendary Great Smials.
It reminded Sylas of Bag End, only on a grander scale. Built into the side of a hill, the Great Smials was less a home and more an underground palace. Dozens of circular doors lined its halls, each leading to rooms that branched like tunnels in a Hobbit kingdom.
The ceilings were high (by Hobbit standards), the walls lined with polished wood, old portraits, and ornate lanterns. Laughter echoed faintly in the distance, there were many Took children running about.
Paladin's quarters were located at the heart of the estate. Lavish yet warm, they reflected both his status and his character. As head of the Took family and the hereditary Thain of the Westfarthing, he governed not only Tookland but also held sway over many surrounding towns.
The Tooks, Sylas soon learned, were no ordinary Hobbit family. For generations, they had been wealthy, influential, and bold. They had filled seats on the Shire Council and provided several Mayors in Shire history.
Unlike most Hobbits, however, the Took bloodline held a spark of something more, bravery, perhaps, or restlessness. They were famously adventurous, sometimes even a bit reckless. It was said that many Took ancestors had gone on wild journeys far beyond the Shire.
And that spirit had clearly not faded with time.
Indeed, Sylas now understood why Gandalf had once chosen Bilbo Baggins for an adventure of great peril, because buried within the gentle Hobbit's heart was Tookish courage.
Just as he settled into the guest room prepared for him, a familiar flicker of magic sparked before his eyes.
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