As night fell, the hidden Star of Eärendil and the fiery Star of Carnil rose once more from the western horizon. Again their twin beams of starlight fell upon the pinnacle of Orthanc, flooding the great Mithril array with unceasing brilliance.
When the sun rose, the stars slipped back into the heavens, but the circle still thrummed with their lingering power.
Day after day, the golden liquid within the furnace deepened in hue, more and more of it turning to crimson. Its glow grew fierce, casting a ruddy brilliance that bled across the tower and the land beyond.
Beneath that light, Sylas's own power swelled like a storm-tide. His spirit climbed to new heights, his grasp of sorcery, alchemy, and lore deepening at a staggering pace. Yet with every rise came a shadow: his innermost desires magnified, sharpened, given flesh as visions.
In those illusions, he strode as a god. Sauron lay broken beneath his feet, Morgoth cowered vanquished, and the Valar bent their proud heads. He surpassed them all, until even Ilúvatar's place seemed within reach. Then the dream carried him further still, into the wizarding world where he took up the mantle of Death itself, gifting the Peverell brothers their Hallows. He watched the Four Founders raise the walls of Hogwarts, and at last returned to his first homeland, enthroned as its sole deity.
The visions were so vivid he could scarcely tell waking from dream. Only the fortress of his Occlumency kept him tethered, a single bastion of reason holding back the flood of longing. Still, he knew the castle's stones were thinning. Desire was not an enemy without, but within, his own will, twisted against him.
Outside the circle, Gandalf and Elrond poured the might of their Rings into the array, sustaining the fire and air that fueled the work. Arwen remained by their side, silent, her eyes fixed upon Sylas with quiet fear.
This strange conjunction lasted longer than any recorded in lore.
The folk of Middle-earth, at first startled by the twin columns of starlight, had grown accustomed. After weeks of marvels, it became to them another wonder in a season of wonders.
So the days passed, ten, twenty, fifty. On the seventy-second dawn, the crucible neared its end. Only the last thread of gold remained in the furnace, bleeding away into crimson.
The light flared to its zenith. A wave of scarlet brilliance erupted from the furnace, and the summit of Orthanc blazed like a beacon of fire. The vale of Isengard lay drenched in red, as though a star had been set into the crown of the tower.
Creatures throughout the land turned their faces to it. The hippogriffs in the wood, the three-headed hound Cerberus, Aslan the griffin, even Shadowfax himself, all basked in the glow with quiet ease. Their simple hearts knew no peril of desire, only warmth and strange comfort.
But Gandalf and Elrond felt otherwise. Bathed in that same crimson tide, their strength swelled, their long-dormant reserves stirring with new life. It startled them, for they had not known such swift increase in centuries. Yet wonder turned quickly to dread, for they knew what such power demanded in exchange.
Elrond's face darkened, his voice low and taut.
"Mithrandir, even standing here, I feel the fire of longing gnawing at me. If we, who merely stand at the edge, struggle so, what of Sylas, caught in the heart of it? His burden is a thousandfold ours. I fear he cannot endure until the end. We must be ready… if need be, we shall wrench him free, lest he be consumed."
Gandalf's gaze remained fixed on Sylas's straining form.
"However, the longer he endures, the greater his reward shall be," Gandalf said gravely. "I will lend him the strength of Narya, the Ring of Fire. Its flame will stir courage, kindle hope, and drive away weariness. May it be enough to keep him standing until the end."
He raised his hand. The red jewel upon Narya flared, and its warmth flowed like fire into Sylas's body.
Elrond, watching closely, felt the strain in his brow ease. A small smile touched his lips.
"Fortune favors him. Of the Three, Lady Galadriel's ring is for preservation, mine for healing. But your ring, Mithrandir, your ring alone kindles the heart, turning despair into strength. Perhaps this gift will be the key to see him through."
And so it proved. The crumbling fortress of Sylas's mind steadied, its walls reinforced by the flame of hope. His spirit, once guttering like a candle in storm-winds, flared anew. Though the desires clawing at him still pressed in, their force no longer crushed him outright.
For a time, the burden eased. Yet Sylas knew it was but a respite. The deeper the liquid in the furnace turned to red, the more mercilessly his innermost longings surged forth. The trial was not ended; it had only sharpened.
He sank into meditation, striving for stillness. In the silence of his mind he tried to let thought itself fall away, resisting the torrent not with force but with emptiness.
At last the final trace of gold in the crucible bled into crimson. The liquid blazed like molten glass, scarlet light bursting outward as though a new star had been kindled atop Orthanc.
That light fell full upon Sylas. His heart's desires, now magnified beyond measure, surged like a flood. The tide smashed through the walls of his mind, sweeping his consciousness into its depths.
Elrond's face went pale. "No! He is sinking too far. Quickly, wake him!" He thrust the power of Vilya into Sylas's being, his voice ringing through the young man's thoughts: "Sylas! Awake!"
Beside him Gandalf unleashed the full might of Narya, filling the circle with fire bright as dawn, pouring courage and light into the faltering soul. Yet Sylas did not stir. His spirit was lost, dragged into the heart of the illusion.
Arwen's hands clenched at her chest. She saw the Evenstar pendant, the jewel she had gifted him, gleaming faintly against his chest. Resolve lit her eyes. If her father and Mithrandir could not call him back, then she would.
—
Sylas blinked.
The roar of starlight was gone. Instead he heard a shrill beeping. A phone alarm? He sat up in bed, dazed.
He looked around. Dingy walls. The familiar, oppressive scent of his rented flat. His desk stacked with bills and a tired laptop.
"This… this is my room?" His voice trembled. It felt familiar, yet wrong, like a place half-remembered.
"I… I must've dreamed," he whispered. "Yes, I dreamed of another world. Magic, elves, dragons… What nonsense. I've been reading too many novels, that's all."
He forced a laugh, though unease gnawed at him. Dressing in his cheap suit, he joined the faceless crowd on the subway, clutching his coffee. Another gray day of corporate toil stretched before him.
Day after day, Sylas had fallen into the rhythm of this ordinary life. Work, commute, fatigue, each day blurred into the next. And yet, when he collapsed into bed at night, staring at the ceiling in exhaustion, a single thought always stirred in him: this is not the life I was meant to live.
The thought came unbidden, vanishing as quickly as it appeared, like a whisper half-remembered from a dream.
In his sleep, voices called to him, distant, faint, but persistent. He dismissed them as stress, a mind fraying at the edges. He dared not seek a doctor's counsel, fearing the word "madness" and the loss of his job. Instead, he sought distractions: long walks, empty cinemas, weekend amusement parks.
One evening, he passed a poster in the theater lobby.
The Lord of the Rings Trilogy — 3D IMAX Re-Release.
He paused. He had seen those films years ago; the stories were familiar, though vague in detail. With no new release catching his eye, he bought a ticket for the marathon and settled into the seat.
At first he watched with casual interest. But soon, unease stirred. Gandalf, Elrond, the fair folk of Rivendell, when they appeared on the screen, they did not feel like characters. They felt like family. Companions. Faces he had lived among.
Sylas's heart beat faster.
And when Arwen and Aragorn's tender confession played out upon the screen, the audience sighed softly in admiration. But Sylas clenched his fists, a bitter ache rising within him. Though he knew the tale, he could not bear it. Arwen should not be with Aragorn. She should… she should be with..
The thought struck like lightning. He gasped at his own absurdity, until the impossible happened.
Aragorn vanished.
On the towering screen, the actress who played Arwen shimmered, her mortal guise falling away. In her place stood a true Elf-maiden, radiant with a light no camera could capture. Her eyes, deep and starlit, pierced the veil of the illusion and met his own.
"Sylas," her voice rang, sweet as a harp-string, echoing in his chest. "Wake up. This is not real. I am waiting for you."
The veil tore. Memories, long-buried under the weight of the false life, surged back into him. The runes, the tower, the flame, the starlight, Arwen.
"Arwen!" he cried, leaping to his feet in the darkened theater.
She smiled, a smile brighter than any dawn, and stepped through the screen as though it were mist. She bent close, kissed his brow, and drew him into her embrace.
"Come back, Sylas," she whispered, holding him as the light of the Evenstar pendant flared between them. "We are all waiting for you."
Blinding brilliance poured forth, consuming the false world, washing away cinema, crowd, and city like ink in water.
—
In the heart of Orthanc's circle, Sylas's eyes fluttered open. The crimson glow of the Philosopher's Stone reflected in his gaze. For a moment he stared around, dazed, as if waking from another lifetime.