The journey to the ruins of Esgaroth was long and arduous. Sirius traversed the eastern banks of Long Lake, where the land grew wilder and more desolate with each step. The bustling energy of Dale felt like a distant memory as he arrived at the remnants of the ancient city. The ruins were shrouded in mist, their once-proud structures reduced to crumbled stone and overgrown vegetation.
This was Esgaroth, the original home of the Lake People, where history whispered in the wind but refused to reveal its secrets easily.
Sirius set to work immediately, exploring every nook and cranny of the crumbling city. He examined broken statues and shattered walls, searching for any sign of the treasures that Faerion had described. His coin, the only tangible link to Esgaroth's history, remained in his pocket, its presence a constant reminder of what he sought.
Hours turned into days as Sirius combed through the ruins. He uncovered fragments of pottery, rusted tools, and faded carvings that hinted at the lives once lived here. Yet, despite his relentless efforts, there was no sign of the Sword of Starlight—or any treasure, for that matter.
By the fifth day, Sirius sat on a fallen column, his hands caked with dirt and his spirit weighed down by frustration. The ruins were vast, and he had searched them as thoroughly as any one man could.
"Maybe someone else found it long ago," he muttered to himself. The idea gnawed at him—what if the sword had already been claimed by another adventurer or scavenger? What if it had been lost to time, buried so deep beneath the ruins that no one would ever uncover it?
Still, something deep within him refused to give up. Sirius clenched his fists, recalling Faerion's words: "If fate wills it, the sword will find you."
Sirius stood and gazed out at the still waters of Long Lake, their surface shimmering in the afternoon light. The ruins had yielded no treasures, but he felt no anger, no bitterness. Instead, a strange sense of peace washed over him.
"If it's meant to be, it will come to me," he said aloud, as if reassuring himself. Treasures, especially those of great power, were rarely easy to claim. They came to those who persevered, to those who were willing to wait for fate's hand to guide them.
Sirius stood at the edge of the ruins of Esgaroth, his decision made. The bustling streets of Dale, with their endless clamor and curious stares, held no appeal for him now. He withdrew his wand and muttered an incantation under his breath. A faint glow emanated from the small object in his hand—a hastily constructed portkey.
In a flash of light, Sirius was gone.
He arrived just outside the familiar gates of Bree, a place where the air smelled of rain-soaked earth and the faint tang of pipeweed. It had been almost an year since he last set foot here, and the sight of the town filled him with a mix of nostalgia and relief.
For the first time in months, Sirius allowed himself to revert to his true form. The transformation was almost intoxicating. Gone was the small, wiry body of his Hobbit guise; he stood tall once more, feeling the strength and power of his human frame.
"I'd almost forgotten what it feels like," he muttered, flexing his fingers. He felt invigorated, stronger than he had in years, as if the time spent in his Hobbit form had stored away reserves of energy he was only now unlocking.
Sirius quickly slipped into the rhythms of Bree. The town, a crossroads of travelers and traders, was the perfect place for a man to lose himself. With his wand tucked away and his magical abilities kept discreet, he blended in easily among the locals and the wandering adventurers who passed through the Prancing Pony.
He indulged himself shamelessly, savoring the simple pleasures of life. He spent his days feasting on hearty meals of roasted meats and thick stews, washing them down with mugs of ale that seemed to flow endlessly. The nights were filled with revelry, and Sirius quickly became known as a charming, enigmatic figure who could spin tales as easily as he could win a drinking contest.
Days turned into months, and Sirius found himself content—if not entirely fulfilled. His carefree life in Bree was a stark contrast to the battles and adventures he had faced before. He reveled in his freedom, yet a small part of him felt restless, as though he were waiting for something to pull him back into the world beyond Bree's borders.
Occasionally, thoughts of his Hobbithole tugged at his mind. He missed its quiet comforts, the sense of safety and solitude it offered. Yet returning so quickly after leaving Erebor posed a problem. It would raise too many questions about how he had crossed such vast distances in so little time.
"Better to stay here," he reasoned to himself one evening, staring into the flames of the Prancing Pony's hearth. "No one in Bree cares where I've been or how I got here."
The people of Bree were a varied lot, and Sirius found himself drawn into their stories and lives. He met farmers and traders, adventurers and wanderers, each with their own tales of distant lands and hidden treasures.
One night, over a particularly strong ale, a traveling merchant spoke of strange occurrences in the Shire—of shadows in the woods and whispers of old magic stirring. Sirius listened intently but kept his questions vague, careful not to reveal his own ties to the Shire.
"It seems the world's changing again," the merchant said with a shake of his head. "Old things waking up, new powers rising. Makes you wonder what's coming next."
Sirius smiled faintly, raising his mug in silent agreement. He had no doubt that his quiet days in Bree would not last forever.
As the months passed, Sirius allowed himself to sink deeper into his life in Bree, yet he remained watchful. His coin, safely tucked away, was a constant reminder of the mysteries still left unsolved. Though he had set aside his search for now, he knew it was only a matter of time before fate called him back to the road.
For now, he would enjoy the peace he had found, savoring the fleeting joys of life in Bree. But deep down, Sirius knew that his story was far from over.
The time had come for Sirius Black to leave Bree. The revelry and respite of the bustling crossroads had served its purpose, but the Shire—his home, his sanctuary—called to him. He had spent years as a man among the varied folk of Bree, but now it was time to once again don the guise of Jimmy Potter, the Hobbit.
Sirius ventured far from Bree, deep into the wooded paths where no prying eyes could witness his transformation. His tall, lean human form shrank, his features softening into the cheerful, rounded appearance of a Hobbit. His hair curled slightly, and his feet grew large and bare, as befitting his new identity.
He patted himself down, adjusting to the change as he always did. "Well, Jimmy," he muttered to himself, "time to make an entrance they won't forget."
The next step was securing transportation. Sirius acquired a small but sturdy pony from a wandering merchant, paying well above the asking price. It was a fine animal with a sleek chestnut coat and a temperament suited to a Hobbit's needs. He outfitted it with a custom saddle designed to hold two trunks—trunks filled to the brim with gold coins he had taken from the troll cave during his adventures.
To complete his appearance, Sirius donned fine clothes fit for a prosperous and worldly Hobbit. A dark green waistcoat embroidered with golden thread, a crisp white shirt, and sturdy trousers paired with a long brown coat made him look the part of someone who had seen the world and returned richer for it.
Lastly, he strapped his elegant elven blade across his back—a subtle nod to his adventures but a bold statement of his worth.
Sirius, now Jimmy Potter, rode back into Bree with a flourish. His pony trotted steadily through the gates, drawing attention from the locals. The sight of a well-dressed Hobbit with two trunks of gold and an elven blade was a rare spectacle, even in a town as diverse as Bree.
The usual crowd at the Prancing Pony paused their conversations to watch as he entered the inn. Jimmy strode confidently to the bar, his boots clinking softly against the wooden floor. He ordered the best ale available, his jovial demeanor immediately endearing him to the patrons.
"Back from a grand adventure, are we?" one man asked, raising a mug in salute.
"Oh, just a little trip," Jimmy replied with a modest shrug, though his smile hinted at untold stories. "Saw a bit of the world, made a bit of coin, and now it's time to return home to the Shire."
The inn erupted in cheers and laughter, the patrons toasting to his success.
Jimmy stayed in Bree for only a few days, just long enough to reinforce his carefully crafted persona. Then, early one morning, he set off toward the Shire.
The journey was uneventful, the rolling hills and quiet roads a stark contrast to the chaos and danger of his time in Dale and Erebor. Jimmy enjoyed the peace, taking the time to reflect on all he had seen and done.
Though he traveled alone, he felt no loneliness. The memories of his adventures kept him company, and the weight of his elven blade and trunks of gold reminded him of the rewards his courage had brought him.
As Jimmy approached the borders of the Shire, he felt a pang of excitement. It had been years since he last walked these paths, and he wondered how much had changed.
The first Hobbits he encountered on the road greeted him with curiosity, their eyes widening at the sight of his fine clothes, laden pony, and elven blade. By the time he reached Hobbiton, word of his return had spread, and a small crowd had gathered to welcome him.
Jimmy dismounted his pony with practiced ease, tipping his hat to the assembled Hobbits. "It's good to be home," he declared, his voice warm and sincere.
The crowd cheered, their whispers filled with awe and admiration. Who was this Hobbit, they wondered, who had ventured beyond the Shire and returned with such wealth and grandeur?
When Jimmy Potter finally arrived back at his Hobbit hole, he felt a surge of nostalgia. The familiar scent of freshly tilled earth and blooming flowers filled the air, and the sight of the cozy hill with its round door brought a rare smile to his face. It was good to be home.
But as he pushed open the door and stepped inside, expecting to see his old friend Bilbo bustling about, he was instead greeted by the sight of an unfamiliar Hobbit—a stout, middle-aged fellow with weathered hands and a no-nonsense expression. The Hobbit was sweeping the floors, pausing only to glance up as Jimmy entered.
"Ah, so you're finally back," the stranger said, setting the broom aside. "About time, too. You've been gone so long, I was beginning to think you'd vanished like old Mad Baggins."
Jimmy blinked, momentarily taken aback. "And you are…?"
"Hamfast Gamgee, at your service," the Hobbit replied with a slight bow. "Most folks just call me the Gaffer. Bilbo Baggins appointed me to look after your farm and house while you were off on your adventures. Said it wouldn't do to let the place go to ruin."
Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "And where, pray tell, is Bilbo? Last I checked, he was supposed to be managing this place."
Hamfast wiped his hands on his trousers and gestured for Jimmy to sit. "Well, Mr. Baggins came into a bit of land of his own while you were away. Some distant relative passed on, leaving him a tidy little property near Hobbiton. He decided it was time to settle down proper and handed your affairs over to me."
Jimmy chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Typical Bilbo. Always finding a way to make himself comfortable."
"Can't fault him for it," Hamfast said with a shrug. "He did right by you, though. Left clear instructions, made sure everything was kept in order. You'll find your house just as you left it, maybe even better.
Over the next few days, Jimmy got to know Hamfast better and found himself impressed by the Hobbit's work ethic. The Gaffer was as steady and reliable as they came, tending to the farm and house with a diligence that Jimmy couldn't help but admire.
Hamfast lived nearby with his family, and though he was a simple Hobbit of modest means, he took great pride in his work. He had a knack for keeping the gardens lush and the fields fertile.
With Hamfast's help, Jimmy quickly settled back into life in the Shire. Though he still carried the memories of his adventures and the mysteries of the coin, he found a certain peace in the simple routines of Hobbit life.
He spent his days tending to the farm, sharing meals with the Gaffer, and catching up with old friends. Though he knew his wanderlust would one day call him away again, for now, Jimmy Potter was content.
The world beyond the Shire could wait. For now, he had a home, some friends and the quiet joy of a life well-lived.
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