Everything in Middle-earth could be considered alchemy.
This world was built on stories. It breathed in concepts—tales, knowledge, victory, infamy—and exhaled power. The world sang of deeds: of what had meaning, what had been used, cherished, feared. That song was magic. That was alchemy.
Take pipeweed, for example.
It was grown, harvested, smoked, and shared. It ended days, calmed nerves, soothed aches of the body, mind, and spirit. It relaxed. That was its role in the world, its concept. Alchemy understood that. It could enhance it—refine it—into something greater. All you had to do was listen to the story, understand the purpose, and feed it the right magic.
Without Qi, this would've taken days—maybe weeks—to prepare. But with Qi? With Qi, I could do rituals on the fly.
I sat cross-legged on the grass and placed the dried batch of pipeweed in my palms. I reached inward and outward simultaneously, drawing on the ritual. My Qi flowed gently, like warm mist, settling into the leaves.
I understood the pipeweed.
Its purpose: to relax the soul, the mind, the spirit. To mend the weary. To bring peace at the end of a long day.
I whispered intention. I infused it with worth. I aligned the story it already told with one more profound—and completed the ritual.
A pulse of warmth left my fingers. The batch of pipeweed shimmered faintly, a gold-tinged sheen across its surface like starlight reflected on dew.
I exhaled slowly and uncrossed my legs, the grass cool beneath me. The wind was soft today. The Shire's peace, ever-present, wrapped around me like a blanket.
In this world, concepts held power. Stories had weight. If fame and infamy shaped swords, why not shape leaves? With care, with time, perhaps this batch would lead to seeds that remembered what I had given them.
If so, maybe Bilbo could tend the garden even after I left. Maybe this little ritual could help him in the long run—help him stave off the Ring's whispers. It wouldn't cure him. But it could help. If he kept smoking it, if the effect persisted... who knows?
And if it worked—if the seeds kept even a fraction of their properties—I could start exporting it along with my regular pipeweed that'd make me a hefty bit richer than I already am. Maybe under the guise of a special strain of pipeweed.
I stood up, dusted off my trousers, and grabbed the "Sun-Gatherer"—one of my newest creations. An alchemical device, shaped like a smooth wooden disk inset with shimmering plant threads and golden crystal filaments. It was designed to collect sunlight—and not just the light, but its magical essence.
Built from wood, enchanted leaves, and runes carved during dawn, it gathered the sun's warmth and magic like a sponge. I could use it to infuse rituals with solar essence or, in a pinch, fire off a focused beam of sunlight strong enough to purify corrupted energies. Useful if you were expecting ringwraiths. Or just wanted to impress a particularly annoying goose.
I slung it over my shoulder and glanced up at the sky.
Hmm. Nearly four. Tea time.
I'd better clean myself up. Bilbo hated dirty footprints on the floorboards.
I washed my hands in the bucket of water next to me and stepped out of the garden—or as Bilbo liked to call it, my "laboratory," which I still think was rather rude. He only started using that name after one of my experimental sunflower plants got out of its pot and ran off. That didn't happen anymore though I made sure my other plants were kept secure.
Took me a whole day to catch that little fellow.
Thankfully, the good people of Hobbiton accepted it as a trick of the light or perhaps a shared hallucination... especially after I gifted the town a month's supply of premium pipeweed. Amazing what a bit of smoke can smooth over.
That sunflower eventually settled down after I gave it a proper pot—one filled with alchemically enhanced soil and fertilizer. It liked that. Grew taller and warmer, and even hummed a little under sunlight. Thinking of it now, I realized it was probably due for another batch of Sunfire Elixir.
I turned back into the garden.
It was a sprawling piece of land now—filled with ginormous plants, rich earthy smells, and a peace that soaked into your bones. I stepped into the greenhouse. It looked a bit empty these days, but only because I'd recently figured out how to make my own glass. That breakthrough had led to a rather long process of scaling up production—and speeding it up.
The current method was fairly simple—nowadays, at least. First, I gathered the sand. It was then infused with Fire Qi by one of my alchemical infusers, which were powered by a regulated flame—also imbued with Fire Qi, of course. The sand was then transferred to the crucible, where it was melted and reinforced further. I used to do that part manually, constantly adjusting heat and funnelling in solar energy. Now? It was nearly automated.
Once molten, the mixture was poured into a mould that quickened its solidification. That was the basic method. For the enhanced glass, though, I still had to be personally involved—especially for intention reinforcement, which had to be carefully woven in while the glass was still hot.
I'd automated the other parts: spring water and moonlight infusion. A device I dubbed the Moon-Gatherer collected and filtered moonlight for me, and the spring water was piped in with just the right timing and ratios.
This special glass was used across my greenhouse. It boosted plant growth, amplified the quality of harvested ingredients, and enhanced sunlight absorption. The effects were broad but effective.
As I lost myself in thought, something gently jostled my hair. I blinked and smiled, reaching up to pat the branch that had bumped me. It was Rowan—my tree.
I'd imported him as a sapling and had been enhancing him through alchemy, slowly infusing him with my own Qi and Earth Qi over time. He was now my second most animated project.
He was still young, relatively speaking. Small enough to stay inside the greenhouse, though not for much longer. Eventually, he'd need a proper place to grow into himself. I had plans for Rowan—trees of his kind were tied to protection, foresight, and the warding of evil. All things I'd need, one day.
I stroked the branch softly and whispered to him.
"It's alright, Rowan. Just lost in thought again. I'm only here to grab the Sunfire Elixir—I'll be back tonight."
Rowan's branch lifted and waved faintly before settling back into stillness. He went back to sleep.
I turned toward the collection tanks. Fifteen bottles. Full. Again.
Seems the elixir was being produced faster than expected—I'd need to tweak the input rituals and flow modifiers. Later, though. I shut off the taps and left one partially open, just in case the pressure built up again. Placed a bucket beneath it as a precaution.
The fifteen bottles went into a padded carry bag, save for one, which I uncorked for personal use.
And then, I left the greenhouse and made my way back toward Bag End.
There was time for worrying about alchemical overflow later.
Right now, it was tea time.
The walk back to Bag End was a familiar one by now. The stone paths were comfortably worn, and the glowing herbs along the hedgerows made for gentle company in the waning light.
As I crested the last little hill, Bag End came into view—its bright green door glinting faintly in the afternoon sun, the windows twinkling with that faint golden shimmer I'd come to associate with my handiwork.
I'd finally managed to infuse Earth Qi into the window glass just last week—an annoying problem, all things considered. Organic structures, like wood or stone, responded naturally to Earth Qi, but glass? That had taken finesse. The secret was intention reinforcement during the liquefaction phase, synchronizing the Earth Qi flow with the molten sand's crystallization pattern. A real headache, but the end result was worth it. The windows now hummed with a gentle, grounded energy—resistant to shattering, resonant with the land, and just a bit cozier on cold mornings. Perhaps one day I could do so when already solidified but I had other things to do.
The door itself had long since been reinforced. Not that Bilbo knew. He'd notice if I started turning the entire house into an alchemical fortress—but a few discrete safety measures? Well, those were just thoughtful housekeeping.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
"Afternoon," I called, slipping off my boots and setting the bottle of Sunfire Elixir by the side table. "Tea?"
Bilbo peeked his head around the corner from the kitchen. He had a small apron on and a teacup in one hand. "Ah, there you are. It's nearly four, isn't it?"
"I come bearing both tea and questionable intentions," I said with a grin.
"Oh no," Bilbo muttered, already wary. "We've had this conversation."
I held up my hands, walking into the kitchen. "No enchanting the house. Got it. I'm just saying—now that I've sorted out the Earth Qi problem, I could easily—"
"No," Bilbo said, already sitting at the table and sipping his current brew. "You've already reinforced the door, the floorboards, and half the windows. I'm liable to wake up one morning and find the entire hill has stood up and walked away."
"Fine, fine," I said, pulling out the teapot. "But what about objects? Just small enhancements. Like—what if the teapot stayed warm without needing the stove?"
Bilbo squinted at me over his cup. "That sounds suspiciously like you trying to start again."
"Oh come on," I said, gesturing toward the pot. "Just the teapot. Not the house. A simple heat-retaining enhancement—maybe a resonance glyph so it brews faster. I'm not asking to embed a sigil in the foundation stones."
Bilbo sighed but smiled. "You've been here for months now, you know. You don't have to keep doing all this."
"I know," I said softly, picking up the kettle. "But I want to."
That seemed to land. He looked down at his cup, then nodded slowly.
"Alright," he relented. "Just the teapot."
"Excellent." I cracked the tiniest grin and pulled out a bottle of Sunfire Elixir. The rich golden liquid sloshed gently inside the glass, glowing faintly.
"What's that?" Bilbo asked, already intrigued despite himself.
"A little infusion experiment. Sunfire Elixir. Think of it as solar essence concentrated through plant alchemy. Tastes like warmth and a good morning."
Bilbo raised an eyebrow. "You're going to put that in our tea?"
"Just a drop," I said, adding the elixir into the pot with practiced care. A gentle golden light pulsed in the liquid for a moment before vanishing. "It blends well. Helps with clarity, improves mood, and slightly boosts digestion."
"I don't suppose it makes the dishes clean themselves?" Bilbo asked, mostly joking.
"Not yet," I said, pouring us each a cup. "But I'm working on it."
We sat in comfortable silence, the light from the infused windows bathing the room in a soft amber hue as the golden tea steamed gently between us. The air felt heavy in a good way—calm, rooted, like the house itself was quietly exhaling.
Bilbo took a sip and blinked.
"…That is quite good."
"Told you."
And just like that, we sank into the kind of quiet only a hobbit-hole in the afternoon could offer—one filled with good tea, old wood, and sunlight caught in glass.