Weaving the Invisibility Cloak was a monumental task.
Every inch of the cloak had to be hand-woven; no spell or charm could replace the painstaking work. Magic cast directly on the threads risked destabilizing the delicate runic lattice. And weaving itself was far too precise to be entrusted to shortcuts, one wrong thread could undo months of effort.
Crafting the Invisibility Cloak was more demanding. Each strand of Shelob's silk and each hair-thin thread of mithril had to be interlaced with runes no larger than a tadpole's mark. Tens of thousands of these sigils had to be woven seamlessly into the fabric, until the entire cloak formed one living, unbroken circuit of concealment.
To Sylas's astonishment, Arwen's hands moved with the grace of moonlight on water. Her weaving was not only exquisite but swift: by nightfall she had completed her first rune, halving the time once thought necessary. Soon her fingers danced with growing confidence, producing three runes a day, each perfect and precise.
And to deepen the cloak's magic, Arwen wove strands of her own hair into the silk, softening the shadowy essence of Shelob's web. Sylas winced at the thought of her sacrificing her shining tresses, and quickly brewed a cauldron of Hair-Restoring Potion. Watching her long hair regrow in moments, he finally breathed easier.
The weaving belonged to Arwen; Sylas knew his talents did not lie in looms. Instead, he guided the design, drew the runic diagrams, and tended the materials. Together, they became partners in creation, the Elf-maiden's artistry and the Wizard's knowledge entwined.
Three months passed swiftly. The cloak was far from finished, but the progress was steady, the woven runes forming a tapestry of hidden power.
While Arwen's fingers worked tirelessly, Sylas turned his attention once more to the Philosopher's Stone.
The third stage of refinement, the Sun Wheel, or yellowing stage, was drawing near. When Saturn rose, he would be ready.
This time, Sylas chose not to work at Orthanc. Instead, he returned to Hogwarts Castle atop Weathertop, where he had once laid down a vast megalithic array during the forging of Hufflepuff's golden cup. That circle of stone could channel the influence of Saturn better than any tower.
So it was that, when the night came and Saturn climbed the eastern sky, Sylas stood within the circle's heart. Upon the central stone dais, the mithril furnace roared to life, Dragon-blood flames burning crimson in its depths.
Within the double-necked flask shimmered a fine silver-white powder, still carrying the faint fragrance of jasmine, the white stone, fruit of the second stage.
For fuel, Sylas had once again drawn upon the Dragons of Isengard, coaxing from them barrels of blood. They had only just recovered their strength since his last work, but he had needed more, and they had grudgingly yielded it.
When Saturn reached its zenith, Sylas raised his staff and summoned the array. Lines of light carved into ancient stone ignited, forming a constellation on the ground.
Then, with both hands, he drew forth the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain itself, and cast it into the flames.
At once the Dragon-blood fire flared, not brighter but deeper, and from the jewel flowed the essence of the earth.
Under the pull of the megalithic array, Saturn blazed in the heavens, erupting with brilliance. A great pillar of golden starlight descended, pouring directly into the circle carved upon Weathertop.
The spectacle drew countless eyes across Middle-earth. Farmers, wanderers, and kings alike saw the unnatural light, whispering questions in fear and wonder. Why had starlight been drawn down to earth so often of late? What new power was being forged?
High in the dark tower of Barad-dûr, the great Eye of Sauron swiveled westward. Hunger and covetous desire burned within its gaze.
"Not yet," a faint voice rasped through the shadows of Mordor, as if murmuring to itself, or answering some unseen command. "The time is not yet ripe."
But Sylas knew nothing of this. Within the blazing circle, his entire being was fixed upon the furnace. The megalithic stones sang with power, streams of Saturn's essence cascading like drifting stardust into the heart of the array.
Raising his staff, Sylas guided that astral power into the flask, mingling it with the earthen strength of the Arkenstone and the steady burn of Dragon-blood flame. Slowly, painfully, the white stone began to change. The pale powder took on a golden tint, its silver gleam turning to molten radiance.
Outside the array, Arwen kept watch. She did not return to her weaving of the Invisibility Cloak, but stood guard with quiet, anxious eyes. She remembered the last stage, the whitening, when Sylas had nearly been broken by the trial of greed. What test might the yellowing bring?
Inside the furnace, the transformation deepened. The substance melted into a golden droplet no larger than a tear, yet its light was dazzling, soft as morning sun upon linen, and it carried a fragrance like warm air after summer rain.
The light pierced the mithril furnace itself, dyeing silver metal with a sacred sheen of gold. Bathed in that glow, Sylas felt warmth suffuse his whole body. His life-force swelled, as though his mortal flesh were being refined into something higher.
But the gift came with torment. His senses, sharpened by the golden light, turned against him.
Colors blazed too bright, stabbing his eyes with every glance. His ears rang with every sound: the rasp of his breath, the pulse of blood, the hammering of his own heart, the deep hum of the array itself. Scents crowded his nose until even the fragrance of jasmine soured into stinging pungency. Every fiber of cloth upon his skin rasped like sand, every breath of air scoured his flesh raw.
Such extremely sensitive five senses made Sylas very uncomfortable; he constantly found his concentration scattered, and even maintaining his magic output became very difficult.
This heightened sensitivity was not fleeting, it worsened with every heartbeat, growing more unbearable as the substance within the flask continued to transform.
Sylas had no choice. He clenched his eyes shut, cast a Muffling Charm to deaden his hearing, and sealed his nose to dull the overwhelming scents. With his senses muted, he sank deep into meditation, forcing himself to keep the flow of magic steady, his mind tethered only to the changes within the furnace.
Time slipped by. Saturn had long since descended into the western sky, yet the megalithic array atop Weathertop still blazed with gathered power. The starlight spilling down bathed the entire fortress in radiance. The sacred trees, the towering Mellon Tree and the White Tree, gleamed like living silver fire, their light spilling across the slopes.
Even the distant town of Bree, nearly a hundred leagues away, could glimpse the brilliance crowning the mountain. Travelers stopped upon the roads in awe, merchants craned their necks, and townsfolk whispered in reverence. Minstrels seized their lutes to compose songs of wonder, while painters hastily stretched canvas, eager to capture the vision of a star descending upon the world.
Days stretched into weeks, and still the starlight streamed into the array. It grew thinner and thinner, until only the Dragon-blood flames remained constant, hissing and burning within the mithril furnace. Sylas endured the ceaseless trial, pouring his magic into the flask, guiding Saturn's celestial essence and the earthen strength of the Arkenstone into the white stone, binding it together in fire.
The powder dwindled. The golden liquid within swelled, shimmering with growing brilliance, its light brightening until it rivaled the dawn. The array confined much of the radiance, but even so, beams of gold escaped, spilling across the fortress like sunlight woven into stone.
Bathed in that glow, Sylas felt his body subtly reshaped, his very lifeforce stretched and strengthened. His years lengthened with every drop of golden light. Yet the gift came with torment: even through his wards, his five senses were flayed open, sharpened until each became a torment. His sight burned, his hearing rang, every breath carried pain, and even the brush of air on his skin was like a rasp of iron.
At times he longed to collapse, to hex himself into unconsciousness, or simply abandon the array. But the promise of the Stone, the miracle of its transformation, was too great to surrender. Gritting his teeth, he bore the agony, maintaining both the furnace and his fragile concentration.
By the forty-ninth day, the white stone had been wholly transfigured. Within the flask churned pure golden liquid, radiant as a newborn sun. The megalithic array blazed with holy light, dazzling beyond even the Light of Eärendil, a brilliance that seemed to wash the world clean.
Though the circle held back most of its power, some light still spilled forth. The entire fortress glowed like a beacon, gilding every tower and tree. All who dwelt within its walls, Elves, Men, beasts, even the flowers in the gardens, drank in unseen blessings. Their hearts beat stronger, their bodies thrummed with hidden vitality, and their years stretched quietly ahead.
Arwen and Smaug felt the transformation most keenly, sensing the enormity of what was taking place. But the servants and guards of the castle remained unaware.