The Barrow-downs and The Old Forest

Without planning it, Narzug remained in Bree for a year. The year 2944 T.A. began, and Narzug realized that he had not yet reached his original destination, the Shire. He had enjoyed the year in Bree, especially the conversations about everyday things with the city's residents. Until now, Narzug had not even noticed that he missed typical human conversations, as orcs talked little and only about strength, murder, and slaughter.

The spirit of adventure gripped him again, and he moved on towards the Shire. He came to the Barrow-downs of Tyrn Gorthad and remembered the Barrow-wight from the Lord of the Rings book.

"Should I take the heart of a Barrow-wight and devour it? Wait, do they even have a heart?! Well, I can try. I just hope I can do something against the Barrow-wight with Ira or my illusions."

And so it happened that in the cold, fog-covered hills of Tyrn Gorthad, Narzug went hunting for a heart. The barrows were places of death and fear, haunted by the ghosts of the past, yet Narzug felt no fear. He knew that the barrow-mounds were the resting places of the kings and nobles of the Dúnedain kingdom of Arnor. A dark fire burned in his red eyes, ignited by his greed.

Narzug moved silently through the foggy landscape, his sharp senses tuned to every change in the surroundings. The air was icy, and a cold shiver ran down his spine as he reached the central hill. Before him rose a massive pile of stones, covered with moss and lichens, a monument to the long-dead kings and warriors of Arnor.

With a contemptuous grunt, Narzug shoved aside the massive stone slab blocking the entrance to the burial chamber. An eerie gust of wind, accompanied by a sinister whispering, hit him, but he entered undaunted. The darkness inside was absolute, yet Narzug could see as if it were broad daylight. His eyes, adapted to the eternal darkness surrounding him, pierced the blackness.

Inside the burial chamber, the air was heavy and musty, filled with the smell of old bones and rotting corpses. In the center of the chamber rose a stone bier on which lay the remains of an ancient king. And there, in the deepest shadowed corner, lurked the Barrow-wight, a ghostly being of indeterminate shape. Its eyes glowed like cold fire, and an aura of death surrounded it.

Narzug did not hesitate. With a wild cry that seemed to awaken the dead themselves, he hurled himself at the Barrow-wight. Ira flashed in the dim light of the burial chamber. The Barrow-wight reacted immediately, its shadowy limbs jerking forward, and an icy breath filled the air. But Narzug felt no cold; he was himself a creature of darkness, nourished by the deepest abysses of the underworld.

With a mighty blow, Narzug struck the Barrow-wight, his axe cutting through the ghostly figure with a disgusting sound, as if it were slicing through dense fog. The Barrow-wight let out a plaintive scream, a sound that made the walls of the burial chamber tremble. But Narzug did not relent. He knew no mercy, no fear. Each strike of his axe was an expression of the ancient greed that filled him.

The Barrow-wight tried to fight back, its shadowy limbs wrapping around Narzug, trying to crush and suffocate him. But Narzug was incredibly strong. With a brief surge, he broke the hold and continued his relentless attacks.

Each strike of his axe drove the Barrow-wight further back until it finally collapsed in the corner of the burial chamber, a shadow of its former self. But he had not yet injured the Barrow-wight with his axe. The axe noticed this too and was briefly hurt in its pride. It glowed, and it seemed as if it was devouring the surrounding darkness.

Even the figure of the Barrow-wight was slowly being drawn to the axe.

Narzug knew he had to seize this opportunity. With a final, powerful blow, he let his axe descend on the Barrow-wight. A ghastly howl filled the chamber as the weapon struck the ghostly head of the creature. With a final, shrill scream, the Barrow-wight dissolved into nothingness, its ghostly essence fading and disappearing as if it had never existed.

Breathlessly, Narzug stood in the now silent burial chamber.

The darkness, once infused with the presence of the Barrow-wight, was now an empty, desolate blackness. Narzug stared at the spot where the Barrow-wight had been, his chest rising and falling heavily with excitement. But reality disappointed him. The Barrow-wight had left no heart behind.

Narzug looked around the burial chamber, his senses still sharp and alert. In the corners lay the remains of the long-dead, and the air was filled with a heavy, oppressive silence.

With one last, contemptuous glance at the remnants of the barrow, Narzug turned and left the burial chamber. He knew that the weapons and armor of the buried Dúnedain would be of no use to him. They were already old, and most had already lost all embedded emotions, and those that could still be considered artifacts were already weak, weakened by the relentless gnawing of time.

As he exited the burial chamber, the fog seemed to lift, as if nature itself was reacting to his deed. The hills of Tyrn Gorthad lay still and deserted before him, a desolate monument of the past. But Narzug felt no peace in the surroundings. He knew that other Barrow-wights lurked in the other barrows, sent by the Witch-king of Angmar to protect the weapons of the dead, so that no one could claim the treasures of the defeated Arnor.

Narzug had no interest in the buried gold; he did not want to travel with a huge chest or something similar.

With one last look at the barrow-mounds, he turned away and disappeared into the shadow of the forest before him. No heart in one Barrow-wight means no hearts from the others.

"Let's let Frodo and his friends tremble with fear when they come in a few decades."

Narzug stepped cautiously through the Old Forest. He knew exactly what the forest concealed, yet he still wanted to explore it.

The Old Forest was a place of ancient power and mysteries. Even the oldest beings dared not wander here thoughtlessly. The trees, tall and awe-inspiring, seemed to watch him, their branches like long, bony fingers reaching for him. However, Narzug was not unprepared. He knew the stories about the forest from "The Lord of the Rings," knew how Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin almost lost their lives here, and was aware of the danger lurking in the shadows.

Narzug remembered Tom Bombadil, the peculiar guardian of this forest, whose songs even drove away the darkness. But today, he was not looking for the hopping old man; Bombadil was definitely too much for Narzug. His goal was the 'Old Man Willow,' an ancient being that rested deep in the heart of the forest. Narzug knew that a spirit resided in the tree, presumably since the time of the Trees.

He recalled Gandalf's words, who spoke in the book about the old world, when the trees were still young and the Valar walked the earth, and how this time was described in "The Silmarillion." He knew that the Old Man Willow was not just a tree spirit but a guardian, a living protector, perhaps even one of the Maiar in the form of a tree.

The deeper he ventured into the forest, the heavier his steps became. An eerie silence settled over the forest, and even the birds dared not sing. Narzug could hear the whispering of the leaves, as if they were exchanging secrets only they understood. He knew he was being watched, but he was undeterred.

After hours of marching, as the sky had already turned a gloomy gray, Narzug finally reached the clearing where the Old Man Willow stood. The tree was gigantic, its bark old and weathered, its branches like mighty arms touching the sky. A cold shiver ran down Narzug's spine, but he stepped forward fearlessly.

"Old Man Willow," he called in a thunderous voice, "I am Narzug and I am here to explore the Old Forest. I harbor no ill intentions. Please let me pass."

For a moment, there was silence. Then the branches of the Old Man Willow moved slightly, as if an invisible wind passed through them. A deep, ancient laughter echoed, and the ground seemed to vibrate beneath it.

"Narzug the Mist Demon," answered a deep voice that seemed to come from the heart of the tree, "you dare to disturb me? The trees told me of your deeds in the East..."

The tree did not speak aloud, but Narzug could understand him without any problem. The voice of the tree came from its song, convoluted and old like the roots of the tree itself, but for Narzug as clear as the starry sky on a summer night.

Narzug stood firm, his eyes sparkling with determination. "I seek adventure, knowledge, and power. I am not like the others of my kind; I am more than just an Orc."

The Old Man Willow was silent for a moment, as if considering Narzug's words. Then the branches began to move, and suddenly roots shot out of the ground, wrapping around Narzug's legs. Narzug felt the power of nature pulling him to and into the ground.

An incredibly malevolent force seemed to emanate from the Old Man Willow, apparently unwilling to grant Narzug's wish.

Narzug fought against the roots, his muscles tensing as he tried to free himself. But the more he fought, the tighter the roots wrapped around him. The breath of the forest grew heavier, and the darkness seemed to envelop him. Even his dragon strength did not help him here. He transformed into his hybrid form, and Narzug and the Old Man Willow were in a stalemate. The tree spirit could not crush Narzug further, but Narzug could not free himself either.

In this moment, Narzug reached for Ira, ready to simply fell the old tree spirit. With one last, desperate effort, he swung, ready to shatter the roots and free himself.

But before Ira could deliver the first blow, a voice rang out that made even the Old Man Willow fall silent and stop.

The voice was clear and penetrating, echoing through the forest like a bell toll. The voice sounded singing and rhythmic, full of life and energy, almost like a song or a cheerful poem, although it only spoke a single word. Narzug halted in his movement, his axe in the air, the roots still tightly wrapped around his legs.

"Stop!"