As evening fell and the sun sank into the western sea, two brilliant stars rose together in its wake, one shimmering with a pure white radiance, the other burning with a fiery red glow.
They were the Star of Eärendil (Venus) and the Star of Carnil (Mars).
At the summit of Orthanc, Sylas stood within the heart of a vast mithril circle, its runes etched in silver and alive with power. Before him burned a mithril furnace, and beneath his feet the intricate patterns of the array pulsed with restrained light.
Beyond the circle, Elrond, Gandalf, and Arwen watched in silence.
Sylas raised his staff and poured his strength into the array. One by one the mithril runes flared, humming like awakened voices. Orthanc itself seemed to stir, a deep vibration trembling through the tower stones.
At that same moment, Elrond and Gandalf lifted their hands. The Rings of Air and Fire gleamed, and the unseen tides of wind and flame surged forth, drawn into the spellwork. From leagues away, the elements were summoned, air rushing like a storm, fire seething like molten veins, until they swelled into a sea of raw power, spilling into the circle.
Then the heavens answered. Eärendil and Carnil cast down twin pillars of light, white and crimson, that speared the night sky and poured into Orthanc's crown.
Across Middle-earth the sight could not be missed. From the Lonely Mountain in the north to Gondor in the south, from the wilds of Eriador to the iron gates of Mordor, eyes turned upward. Surprise rippled across nations, though few were astonished anymore. Too many such marvels had arisen this year, and most who paid attention already whispered the same name behind these wonders: Sylas.
Yet high above, at the very source of the white beam, a greater marvel stirred.
A ship of purest white drifted among the firmament. Its prow curved like the neck of a swan, its golden oars shone like molten light, and its sails, woven of silver, gleamed like the moon itself. Upon its deck stood a tall Half-Elf crowned with a blazing Silmaril. Light poured from both jewel and bearer until the two were indistinguishable, his form a radiant outline too bright for mortal eyes.
On his shoulder perched a white bird, and he lifted a hand to stroke its feathers.
"Arwen," Eärendil murmured, his voice gentle yet carrying through the void, "our granddaughter has given her heart, and her beloved is… a most curious young man."
The bird trilled a clear, melodious song in answer.
Eärendil smiled, listening as though to a blessing. "Then let us help them."
And with that, his crown blazed brighter, the Silmaril bursting forth with unshadowed light that flooded the seas of heaven.
Far below, Sylas struggled to steady the circle, the twin beams feeding the furnace with overwhelming power. Then, suddenly, the Star of Eärendil flared, burning brighter than the moon itself.
A vast shaft of radiance, thicker, purer, and more sacred than starlight, pierced the heavens and descended directly into the array.
Sylas froze, his eyes wide with awe. "This…?"
No matter how intricate Sylas's circle was, it should not have been able to draw down such pure stellar essence. The sheer brilliance of it defied reason.
Outside the array, even Elrond and Gandalf were taken aback for a moment, then understanding dawned on them.
Seeing Sylas's baffled expression, Gandalf chuckled, his eyes gleaming.
"Fear not, my boy. This is no danger. It is a gift, from Eärendil himself. A blessing that no other mortal has ever received."
Elrond inclined his head in solemn agreement.
"The Star of Eärendil is no mere star. It is a Silmaril. What you are drawing down is not only starlight, but the hallowed power bound within that jewel. With it, the Philosopher's Stone you forge may be of a quality far beyond what any alchemist could hope to achieve. Do not squander this gift."
At their words, Sylas finally understood.
He remembered then the truth of the Star of Eärendil, that it was Eärendil himself, sailing the heavens in Vingilótë, the hallowed ship. And Eärendil was none other than Elrond's father… and Arwen's grandfather.
The tale unfurled in his mind:
How the Elf-maiden Lúthien and the mortal Beren had wrested a Silmaril from Morgoth's iron crown, paying for it with sorrow and sacrifice. How the jewel passed to their son Dior, and from Dior to his daughter Elwing. How, during the Third Kinslaying, Elwing cast herself into the sea with the jewel, only to be borne aloft by the pity of Uinen, transformed into a white bird, and delivered into the hands of her beloved Eärendil.
Guided by its light, they reached Valinor and pled with the Valar to bring deliverance against Morgoth. And so the ship was hallowed, raised to the heavens, and ever since, Eärendil had sailed the night sky, wearing the Silmaril upon his brow, the Great Star of Hope.
And now Sylas, through his bond with Elrond and Arwen, basked in that legacy, receiving what he could only call a wedding-gift in advance from their immortal forebear.
Resolving not to waste the blessing, he drew the essence of Eärendil's Silmaril and the red fire of Carnil down into the furnace. The dragon-blood flames roared, their heat sharpened by the influx of elemental fire, and the starlight merged with the golden liquid within the flask.
Beside him, Elrond and Gandalf poured their strength into the circle, channeling the might of Vilya and Narya, the Rings of Air and Fire, until the array thrummed with unearthly power.
Hour by hour the work continued.
By dawn, when the stars withdrew into the brightening sky, Orthanc still burned with light. The accumulated stellar power clung to the tower, glittering like drifting stardust. Seen from afar, it was as though a radiant star had descended and lodged itself upon the crown of the tower.
The Dunlendings, who dwelt nearest the valley, had witnessed the beams of light piercing the night and had fallen to their knees in awe. Now, seeing the tower blazing with starlight even beneath the day-sun, their awe deepened into reverence. Whispers spread among them that Sylas was no longer merely a lord or wizard, but a god in human form.
Some knelt in worship. Others dared not even look directly at the tower.
At its summit, the furnace roared ever hotter. The dragon-blood flames, fed by the abundant fire elements called down by Narya, blazed with an intensity never before seen.
The twin-necked flask holding the molten gold could not withstand the heat. In an instant, it vaporized, leaving behind only a hovering sphere of golden liquid suspended within the furnace. It remained intact against the searing dragon-blood flames, but rather than withering under them, it grew ever more radiant.
Fed by the dragon's blood as a catalyst, the liquid greedily drew in the gathered currents of fire and air, binding them together with the starlight of Eärendil and the red fire of Carnil.
Then, within the golden glow, a single fleck of crimson appeared.
It was no larger than a grain of sand, yet it shone with such brilliance that it seemed like a drop of cinnabar fallen into molten gold, impossible to ignore. From that speck pulsed a crimson radiance, piercing furnace walls, wards, and barriers alike.
The light fell across Sylas, and at once his mind blazed with clarity. His thoughts became sharp as tempered steel, his perceptions keener than ever before, as though a crown of wisdom had been set upon his brow. The tangled strands of spellcraft, potion-work, and alchemical law unraveled themselves before him in perfect order. Insights he had never dreamed of leapt forth, and his magic surged like a river in flood.
For a heartbeat he rejoiced, lost in the wonder of it.
But the joy curdled. The light carried with it another burden: his own desires, magnified a hundredfold, pressing against his heart and mind. What he most longed for, power, love, triumph, immortality, rose like phantoms before him, tempting, whispering, demanding surrender.
He fell back on Occlumency, summoning the fortress of his mind to withstand the storm. The mental castle held against outside intrusion, but this trial was different. These shadows were not enemies assailing him from without, they were his own desires, drawn from his very soul, swollen until they threatened to overtake him.
For the moment, he fought them down. Yet he knew the truth: as the golden liquid continued to turn red, so too would the pressure mount, until his spirit might break beneath the weight of what he wanted most.
If he faltered, the work would fail, not only the Stone, but himself. He would not become a thrall to some Dark Lord or cursed artifact, as with the One Ring. Instead, he would become a slave to his own longing, bound forever to the hungers of his heart.
Outside the circle, Gandalf, Elrond, and Arwen watched, their faces etched with concern.
Elrond's brows knit as he spoke in a low, grave tone.
"This trial is harsher than any before. If Sylas endures it, his spirit will emerge perfected, and the Stone he forges will be without flaw. Yet such a victory is almost beyond imagining. Even I would not swear to resist every desire that lies hidden in the depths of my heart. Can any mortal withstand such a crucible?"
He cast a sidelong glance at Gandalf, but the Grey Pilgrim only watched, staff clenched, his eyes hard with resolve. Arwen pressed a hand to her lips, her worry plain.
Elrond sighed, preparing himself. If Sylas faltered, he would intervene, better to snatch him from ruin than see him consumed by his own yearning. But if that moment came, the Stone would be not be perfect.
Just like Nicolas Flamel's Philosopher's Stone, although it could grant immortality, it could not prevent the body from aging.
...
Stones Plzz
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