"Sylas, are you alright?" Elrond and Gandalf stood just beyond the magic circle, their faces lined with concern.
But Arwen, pale and weakened, now rested in her father's arms. Even so, her eyes, bright as starlight, remained fixed on Sylas, full of worry.
As the fog of confusion faded, Sylas regained his senses. His gaze dropped to the Evenstar pendant glowing faintly upon his chest, then to Arwen, fragile yet resolute. Remembering the vision that had nearly consumed him, he suddenly understood: it was Arwen who had called him back.
He hurried out of the circle, kneeling beside her.
"What did Arwen do to wake me?" His voice trembled with urgency.
Elrond sighed, torn between pride and sorrow. He looked at his daughter, then at Sylas. "Gandalf and I tried everything, but nothing reached you. When the danger became too great, Arwen bound her soul to yours through the Evenstar. She called to you from beyond the veil, and you answered."
Sylas's heart clenched. "Will that hurt her?"
"Do not fear," Elrond said gently. "She has only overdrawn her strength. With rest, she will recover. But there is something you must understand: your souls are now bound, more deeply than the bond of twins. If you are wounded, she will feel it. If your spirit falters, hers will share the weight. So I charge you, Sylas, protect her, and never let harm come to her."
Tears pricked Sylas's eyes. Overcome with gratitude and love, he bowed his head. "I swear it. I will never let harm come to her, or to myself."
He lifted Arwen carefully into his arms and summoned the Golden Cup. Filling it with pure spring water from Hildórien, he pressed it to her lips. The water shimmered with ancient magic, and under the cup's enchantment its power grew even greater.
Color returned slowly to Arwen's cheeks. She smiled faintly at him, her hand brushing his. "Do not fret, Sylas. I am already better. Go now, the Philosopher's Stone still waits."
But Sylas shook his head stubbornly. From his pouch, he drew a vial of Potion, poured it into the Golden Cup, stirred it with a thread of magic, and lifted it to her again.
"Drink this first," he said softly. "It will soothe you."
Amused at his persistence, Arwen obeyed. Warmth spread through her, and her strength returned a little more.
"How touching," Gandalf said with a fond smile. "The two of you always rushing to one another's aid."
Elrond remained silent, though his eyes softened.
Once Arwen was able to stand again, Sylas finally allowed himself to breathe freely. Only then did he return to the furnace within the circle.
The crimson glow had faded. Overhead, the Star of Eärendil and the Star of Carnil had already sunk back into the night, their conjunction at an end.
Sylas opened the mithril furnace. The dragon-flame had burned out, leaving behind a single gem, no larger than a child's fist. It floated in the air above the ashes: a ruby, clear and uncut, glowing faintly from within as though lit by its own heartbeat.
He lifted it carefully. The stone pulsed with power, an energy unlike anything he had ever known. It held the essence of spirit, soul, and life, bound together with the four elements of earth, air, water, and fire. It carried within it the influence of elenmirë, Saturn's gravity, the blessing of Eärendil's Silmaril, and the fiery strength of Carnil. All of it fused into one mysterious, inexhaustible source of creation.
"Congratulations, Sylas," Elrond said at last, his voice both grave and joyful. "You have forged a perfect Philosopher's Stone."
He stepped closer, eyes glinting with awe. "Each stage demanded not only mastery of craft but mastery of the self. To complete it is to achieve harmony of body, mind, and spirit. It is a feat beyond compare."
Sylas looked down at the glowing gem, astonished. He had not thought himself capable of such a thing. And yet…
Elrond's gaze softened. "At the final moment, when desire nearly claimed you, Arwen's soul joined yours. That bond brought you back. It was not the path most alchemists walk, but fate has its own designs. And through it, the Stone has reached its perfect form."
It could be considered a fortunate accident, a shortcut that led, against all odds, to the flawless creation of the Philosopher's Stone.
Realizing this, Sylas could not hide the joy in his eyes as he gazed at the gem resting in his palm.
By contrast, Nicolas Flamel's famed Philosopher's Stone had never reached completion.
This was why, although Flamel's Stone granted him a form of immortality, it could not preserve his body from the relentless march of age. His flesh weakened year by year until he was so frail that a simple handshake could fracture his bones.
That curse of endless decline eventually forced him to abandon his pursuit of immortality. Immortality of that kind was no gift, but a cruel sentence.
A perfect Philosopher's Stone, however, brought something far greater: not just life without end, but the preservation of eternal youth. And now, with the flawless Stone in hand, Sylas had in his grasp the true foundation of everlasting life.
Even so, its power was not absolute. The Stone itself did not directly bestow eternal youth. Rather, it enabled the brewing of an Elixir of Life, a potion that, when consumed regularly and without interruption, sustained the body in youth. Should the draught ever be abandoned, the drinker would age and die like any ordinary mortal.
Yet its gifts did not end there. The Philosopher's Stone retained its most legendary property: the ability to transmute base metals into gold.
Eager to test this, Sylas snatched up a plain iron rod. He pressed the Stone to it, but nothing happened. His brow furrowed. Perhaps some other method was required?
A moment later, the answer came to him. He channeled his magic into the gem.
At once, the Stone blazed with crimson light. The iron rod shimmered and flowed, its dull grey shifting into a rich, gleaming gold.
Sylas's eyes lit with triumph. He raised his wand and sliced the rod in two. Both halves gleamed with the same unyielding luster. The transmutation was real, true gold, not illusion.
The others watching drew sharp breaths of surprise.
Gandalf chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "Well, Sylas, I can now say with confidence that you are the wealthiest man in all of Middle-earth. With this Stone, you can summon riches enough to shame the hoards of kings."
Arwen, her lips curved in a teasing smile, added, "And no doubt the happiest of all will be Smaug. He already drives the spiders half to death weaving cloth just to fill his hoard with treasure. If he knew you now held the power to make gold itself, he'd be beside himself with glee."
At that, Gandalf and Elrond both laughed aloud. They, too, had faced the mighty dragon and knew well how insatiably he lusted for gold. If Sylas were not his master, Smaug might very well have claimed the Stone outright, just as he once claimed the treasure of the Lonely Mountain.
Sylas joined in their laughter. Yet inwardly he knew the truth: though the Stone could indeed turn metal to gold, the act demanded considerable magical energy. Creating mountains of treasure was no simple feat, even with the Philosopher's Stone in hand.
With the Stone's perfection assured, Gandalf and Elrond's roles were complete. Elrond was preparing to return to Rivendell when Sylas suddenly stepped forward and stayed his departure.
Before Elrond's astonished gaze, Sylas lifted the newly-forged Philosopher's Stone, its crimson glow casting light across his face.
"My lord Elrond," Sylas said, voice steady but filled with reverence. "I come before you with all the respect of my heart, to lay bare my wish. I love your daughter Arwen. She is the one and only star of my path, the resting place of my soul in this world."
"I beg your mercy, Lord Elrond. Allow me to take Arwen as my wife. I swear by the name of Sylas, and I offer the Philosopher's Stone as her betrothal gift. In this life, I will cherish her, protect her, and never fail your trust."
Arwen gasped softly, her hand flying to her lips. Tears shimmered in her eyes, joy breaking over her like sunrise.
Gandalf beamed, his staff resting lightly in hand, his whole face alive with delight.
Elrond, however, remained silent for a time. He looked from the anxious young man before him to the Philosopher's Stone glowing crimson in Sylas's palm.
The Philosopher's Stone was no mere jewel, it was Sylas's very life's work, a creation tied to his own existence. Yet he was willing to relinquish it into Arwen's keeping. In the custom of Elves and Men, a betrothal gift became the bride's own possession, managed apart from her husband's house. By placing the Stone in Arwen's hands, Sylas was giving her not only his treasure but the very key to his destiny.
At last Elrond's stern expression softened into a smile.
"I once set you a condition," he said quietly. "If you could achieve immortality, I would grant you Arwen's hand. Now you have forged the Philosopher's Stone itself. You have fulfilled your vow, and I have no reason to refuse. I give you my daughter, my most precious jewel. See that you guard her well and grant her happiness."
Sylas's heart leapt at the words. But Elrond raised a hand, forestalling his joy.
"Yet the formalities must be observed. You must send a worthy proxy to Rivendell, bearing your pledge with proper honor. Before witnesses, a contract will be sealed, and a date set for the wedding. Only then shall I place my daughter fully into your care."
Relief and joy mingled on Sylas's face, and he nodded eagerly. "It will be done."
Gandalf let out a laugh, warm and booming. "Then let me stand as your proxy and your officiant, my boy! I think I am qualified for both."
Sylas clasped his hand and replied with heartfelt gratitude, "Of course. There could be no one more fitting."
Elrond inclined his head, wholly in agreement. Given Gandalf's stature and the bonds he held with both Rivendell and Sylas, no better choice could have been made.
The chamber of Orthanc filled with light-hearted laughter, relief, and joy. But far to the East, in the black land of Mordor, another fire burned.
Upon the pinnacle of Barad-dûr, the Eye of Sauron turned west, its gaze piercing leagues of shadow, falling upon Isengard.
Beneath it crouched a monstrous dragon, longer than a thousand feet, crowned with jagged iron. Its breath steamed with a killing frost, and the air about it froze, so that Orcs and lesser creatures dared not draw near.
Atop its back stood Saruman the White, staff in hand, his robes stirring in the foul wind. His eyes gleamed with dark resolve.
Around them seethed a host of horrors, hundreds of lesser dragons cloaked in black vapors, their vast eyes lit with spectral fire. On the backs of twisted crossbreeds, half-drake and half–fell beast, the Ringwraiths sat like shadows given form, their blades thirsty.
"Depart," came Sauron's command, echoing through the night.
With a thunderous roar, the crowned dragon spread its colossal wings and rose into the sky. The swarm of winged beasts followed, blotting out the moonlight. On the ground, dragons without wings bore legions of Orcs upon their backs, surging like a living tide.
...
Stones Plzz
Support me on patreon and read chapters ahead @patreon.com/Keepsmiling818