Hugo of the Wurzelstock and the Secret Gate

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The morning was still young when Hugo of the Wurzelstock and Brummel Mossbeard left the small path that led from the hobbit-house into the heart of the forest. The sun glittered through the leaves, and the wind carried the scent of wild herbs and damp earth. Hugo walked with even, deliberate steps, his walking stick in one hand, his pipe safely in his pouch. Brummel followed him, the silver box clutched tightly to his chest. "Three shadows, you said?" asked Hugo as they wound their way through the ferns and brambles. "Three," Brummel confirmed. "And a gate, overgrown with thorns." Hugo nodded thoughtfully. "That sounds like the old Dragon Thicket. I haven't been there in ages. The trees there... whisper differently." The path became steeper, the forest denser. Soon the shadows swallowed the light, and the air smelled of moss and ancient secrets. Birds were silent, and only the cracking of branches beneath their feet could be heard. "Remember," Brummel murmured, "how we, as boys, came here to look for dragons?" Hugo grinned. "All we found was a particularly grumpy wild boar. But it was adventure enough." Suddenly Hugo stopped. A small clearing opened before them, and in the middle stood it: the gate. Grown into a thicket of black thorns, barely visible among vines and roots. It was made of old stone, circular, with strange symbols that glowed faintly in the twilight. "Just like in the picture," Brummel whispered reverently. Hugo stepped closer. "And the shadows?" There they appeared—three figures, little more than silhouettes, formed from mist and leaves. Their eyes glowed amber, and their voices sounded like rustling. "Who approaches the gate?" they asked in unison. "Hugo of the Rootstock," Hugo said calmly. "And Brummel Mossbeard. We seek the answer." "What question do you carry?" Brummel lifted the box. "What is this stone? And why has it brought us here?" The shadows nodded. "You bring the Heart of Memory. The gate watches over the lost stories. But only those who sacrifice a part of their own history may pass through." Hugo frowned. "Sacrifice? What does that mean?" "You must give something dear to you—a memory, a feeling, a song." Brummel looked at Hugo. "Can you do that?" Hugo was silent for a long time. Then he stepped forward and placed his hand on his heart. "I give... the scent of summer, when we first saw the shower of shooting stars. I remember, but I'll never be able to smell it again." The shadows bowed their heads. "It is enough." Brummel stepped forward. "I give... the sound of my mother's laughter. I remember, but I'll never hear it again." The shadows touched the two men's foreheads with their misty fingers.