"Gandalf!" Sylas stepped forward with genuine warmth, embracing the old wizard.
"It has been too long. How fare you?"
"I'm doing well. I've been in Gondor recently. Just a few days ago, I even discussed the eastern border issue with Steward Ecthelion II," Gandalf said with a chuckle.
He wagged a finger in amusement. "Oh, and your owl messenger is remarkable! When it found me, I was riding Shadowfax at full gallop. Nearly startled me out of my saddle."
Sylas laughed softly. "They do have a knack for finding their mark. I wasn't sure it would reach you, but once it returned with your reply, I knew it hadn't failed me."
Just then, a piercing cry echoed overhead.
Gandalf's eyes sparkled. "Ah, is that what I think it is?"
Sylas nodded with a smile. "Yes. Aslan must have sensed your arrival."
Moments later, a griffin soared from the distant skies and swept down before them. The creature was majestic, lion's body fused with an eagle's wings, talons, and fierce gaze. Power and grace radiated from him, and Gandalf's eyes shone with delight.
"Aslan has grown stronger still. Magnificent fellow!"
If the Elves held their pegasi dear, griffins were creatures after Gandalf's own heart. Were it not for Shadowfax, he might have longed for such a companion.
The griffin, friendly by nature, welcomed Gandalf's touch. But this warmth did not sit well with Shadowfax, who stamped indignantly, ears flat, and let out a warning whinny. The proud horse's dark eyes narrowed as if to say, You dare woo my master?
Not to be outdone, Aslan deliberately leaned closer to Gandalf, brushing against him with calculated mischief. Shadowfax snorted, tail lashing, his pride thoroughly provoked.
Gandalf laughed, patting his horse's neck. "Peace, old friend. You are and will always be my dearest companion."
Shadowfax, however, tossed his mane and turned away, refusing to meet his master's eye. The jealousy of the horse was plain enough that Sylas chuckled aloud. To anyone overhearing, it might have sounded like the scene of a spurned lover.
Leaving the two proud beasts to their rivalry, Sylas invited Gandalf inside Orthanc to rest. Shadowfax and Aslan remained outside, locked in a silent contest of wills.
Within the tower's shadowed halls, they were greeted by Cerberus, the three-headed dog who guarded the gate. Gandalf had met him before, but the sheer growth since last time made him blink.
"My word," he muttered. "If he grows much larger, he won't fit through the door!"
Cerberus remembered the wizard and wagged his massive tail, bounding forward eagerly. The three heads leaned in, each pair of glowing eyes inspecting Gandalf curiously.
Rather than flinch, Gandalf reached out and scratched all three chins at once.
Sylas only shook his head, smiling. "I've no idea how large he'll become. Thankfully, his growth has slowed of late. Perhaps this is his limit."
The dog was indeed colossal, standing taller than ten men, with scales thick as iron, fangs coated in venom, and eyes that could stun prey with a glance. Fire licked his throats when he growled, and even wounds closed near-instantly. His lineage was no ordinary beast, he carried the blood of dragon, basilisk, and the Watcher in the Water.
At the dragon-breeding grounds, Cerberus had once been loosed to herd the great drakes. Though they spewed fire, none of their flames so much as singed his fur. Instead, they scattered before him in comic disarray, fleeing skyward to escape.
So it was that Cerberus became Sylas's fiercest guardian. Not only did he watch over Orthanc, but all of Isengard rested safely under his protection.
When Sylas was away, Cerberus stood sentinel over Orthanc, while the griffin Aslan patrolled the skies above. Between them, Isengard was a fortress few would dare approach.
After speaking of the dog, Sylas led Gandalf upstairs, where he brought forth the Golden Cup as a gesture of hospitality.
At once, the vessel shimmered with enchantment, summoning an array of fruits, delicacies, and sparkling draughts, which spread themselves across the table before Gandalf.
Sylas uncorked a bottle of rich Dorwinion wine, a gift from an Elven lord of the eastern vineyards, and poured it into the Golden Cup. Gandalf's eyes brightened, marveling not only at the vintage but at the cup's wondrous power.
The Cup of Hufflepuff was no mere relic. Beyond its healing and nourishing magic, it could summon feasts from across Middle-earth, drawing upon kitchens near and far. At times, food would vanish mysteriously from a distant table, reappearing here in abundance. And when summoned fare was scarce, the cup could multiply it, transforming a single loaf or roast into a feast fit for a hall.
With sufficient magical strength, it could feed a village, a town, a city, or an entire nation.
Placed in the wrong hands, such a treasure could alter the balance of kingdoms. It was not hard to imagine rival lords or greedy monarchs waging war to seize it, for in a land where famine often stalked both peasant and soldier, an endless source of food was more potent than an army. A beggar with the cup could be raised as a king, while a king without it might be cast down.
Yet here it was, resting quietly before Gandalf, used not to sway nations but to honor a friend.
The wizard of the Grey Pilgrim could not help but marvel, and respect Sylas all the more. For if Sylas harbored the ambition of Saruman, he could have revealed the cup and bent all Middle-earth to his rule. Instead, its existence was known only to his closest companions, never flaunted, never abused.
Indeed, Sylas himself often joked he had no interest in crowns or dominion. Even Hogsmeade and Bree, which fate had placed under his protection, he governed lightly, entrusting rule to their mayors and interfering only when corruption or cruelty threatened the people. Isengard, too, was not an empire but a stewardship entrusted to him by Gandalf, Elrond, Galadriel, and their allies.
The Dunlendings, who had bent the knee, were left their own customs and councils, while Sylas remained a watchful guardian rather than a conqueror.
For Sylas's only true ambition was strength for its own sake, not to enslave, not to dominate, but simply to become stronger.
It was a mindset that Middle-earth could scarcely comprehend. For Morgoth, Sauron, and Saruman alike, power was but a path to dominion. To their way of thinking, strength unused was strength wasted. Why forge a weapon if not to conquer? Why wear fine robes if only to walk in darkness?
To Gandalf, Elrond, Galadriel, and others, Sylas was a young man of remarkable promise, ambitious in his pursuit of knowledge and strength. Yet, to Elrond's eyes, his lack of worldly ambition bordered on excessive restraint, a curious humility in one so gifted.
Gandalf, now settled comfortably in Orthanc, took his leisure in ways both simple and wondrous. When not watching Sylas inscribe glowing circles of mithril across the tower's stone floor, and occasionally offering a wry suggestion, he spent his days exploring Isengard's many marvels. Sometimes he would scratch Cerberus beneath all three chins until the great beast purred like a dozen kettledrums. Other times he would soar high above the tower astride Aslan the griffin, laughing into the wind, or wander into the woods to converse with the proud hippogriffs.
And when he learned that Sylas kept a dragon farm, the Grey Pilgrim was as delighted as a child at Yule, vanishing for hours to marvel at the winged titans. For a time, he was so enthralled by Isengard's wonders that he quite forgot about returning to his own duties.
So the days passed swiftly, and the night of the long-awaited celestial alignment at last arrived, the conjunction of Venus and Mars, the Star of Eärendil and the red flame of Carnil burning side by side.
With the whoosh of green fire in the hearth, Elrond stepped gracefully out of the Floo, arriving from Rivendell.
"Mithrandir, long have we been parted," he greeted warmly. "I had not expected you to reach Orthanc before me."
Gandalf chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "My lord Elrond, you are ever weighed with the cares of your house. This old wanderer has fewer burdens. I came a week early, and between Cerberus, griffins, hippogriffs, and dragons, I nearly forgot the passing of time."
Elrond turned to Sylas, his expression calm but earnest. "And you, Sylas? Is all in readiness?"
Sylas inclined his head respectfully. "Everything is prepared, Lord Elrond. We wait only for the twin lights of Eärendil and Carnil to rise together tonight."
Elrond's eyes softened as he nodded. "Good. This conjunction will endure for many weeks, the longest in a thousand years. In that time the starlight will be strongest, and the chances of success in your work greatly increased. But remember: at the final moment, you must master your heart. Calm and composure will matter more than power. Do not let the weight of hope break your focus."
"I will remember, my lord. Thank you for your guidance," Sylas replied, listening with full attention.
For if anyone shared his stake in this task, it was Elrond. The wise Lord of Rivendell had poured his counsel and strength into Sylas's work, not for his own sake, but for the sake of his daughter.
Elrond feared the echo of old grief, the fate of Lúthien and Beren, of Arwen's foremother who surrendered her immortality for love. To guard Arwen from such a sorrowful choice, Elrond gave freely of his wisdom, hoping that Sylas might complete the Philosopher's Stone and gain a life long enough to walk beside her through the ages.