(T/N: Only twelve chapters today :(( )
The ancient art of weaving an invisibility cloak is perhaps the most arduous undertaking known to wizard-kind, a craft that bridges the ethereal and the tangible with threads finer than spider's breath and more precious than dragon's gold.
Each thread must be guided by mortal hands alone no spell, no charm, no magical enhancement can touch the work without corrupting its very essence. The delicate balance of concealment magic woven into every fiber would unravel at the slightest touch of external sorcery, like morning mist dissipating at the first harsh word.
More than this pragmatic concern, the work demands a precision that transcends what even the most skilled magical weaving could achieve. It is the difference between a master calligrapher's brushstroke and the crude scratching of an enchanted quill, both may form letters, but only one carries the soul of true artistry.
In the world Luke had known before magic became his reality, great machines could produce countless yards of ordinary fabric with mechanical efficiency. Yet the most exquisite textiles, the legendary brocades with their phoenix patterns that seemed to dance in candlelight, the cloud-silk of Persia province that caught moonbeams like dewdrops, these could only be born from human hands guided by generations of inherited wisdom.
A master weaver might labor from dawn to dusk and produce merely two millimeters of perfect work. A single misplaced thread could unravel hours of painstaking effort, forcing the artisan to begin anew with patience worn thin but determination unbroken.
The weaving of an invisibility cloak makes such earthly craftsmanship seem child's play by comparison. Each square inch must be embedded with runes no larger than tadpoles, wrought from threads of spider silk so fine they seemed more light than matter, intertwined with mithril filaments that caught starlight and held it prisoner. These were not mere decorations but living magic, tens of thousands of microscopic sigils that would bend light around the wearer like water flowing around stone.
An ordinary weaver, even one blessed with exceptional skill, would require a full day's concentrated effort to complete a single rune. The mathematics were as daunting as they were elegant: ten thousand runes meant ten thousand days, nearly thirty years of unbroken labor. It was no wonder that true invisibility cloaks were rarer than dragon's hearts, and why the Peverell brothers' creation had become legend.
But Arwen Undómiel was no ordinary weaver.
Luke watched in quiet amazement as her fingers danced across the loom with fluid grace that seemed to blur the boundary between craftsmanship and magic. Though no spells touched the work, there was something otherworldly in the way she moved, each gesture precise as a harpist's touch, each thread falling into place as inevitably as autumn leaves finding their rest. Her Elven heritage sang in every motion; centuries of accumulated skill made manifest in hands that had once woven banners for the armies of Gil-galad.
"How do you make it look so effortless?" Luke murmured, watching silver threads weave themselves into impossible patterns under her guidance.
Arwen's smile was soft as twilight. "Patience learned in halls where time moves differently. When you have watched the same stars wheel overhead for three thousand years, the urgency that drives mortal hands fades into something deeper, a rhythm that matches the turning of the world itself."
In less than half a day, she completed what should have taken twenty-four hours of mortal effort. But her true innovation lay in something that made Luke's breath catch with its simple beauty and profound sacrifice.
Without ceremony, without dramatic gesture, she began to weave strands of her own midnight hair into the cloak, not for vanity or decoration, but to counteract the inherent darkness that clung to spider silk drawn from creatures of shadow.
"Arwen, no, " Luke began, reaching toward her, but she stilled his hand with a look.
"The spider silk carries echoes of the darkness from whence it came," she said quietly, never pausing in her work. "My hair has known the light of the Trees, has been kissed by stars older than the sun. It will serve as an anchor, ensuring the cloak conceals without corrupting."
Luke watched helplessly as silver scissors severed locks that had cascaded down her back like liquid moonlight. Each strand that joined the weaving seemed to pulse with inner radiance, transforming the cloak from mere tool of concealment into something approaching sacrament.
The dark associations of the spider silk, creatures of malice and shadow, were neutralized by hair that had caught starlight in the golden woods of Lothlórien.
Unable to bear seeing her sacrifice go uncomplemented, Luke disappeared into his laboratory that very evening. He worked through the night, grinding moonstone petals and distilling essence of mallow, until he had crafted a potion that would restore what had been given. When dawn broke silver over Weathertop, he pressed the crystal vial into her hands.
"For you have given enough," he said simply, and watched with relief as she accepted his offering.
As autumn deepened into winter, their partnership found its rhythm. Arwen's skill continued to evolve at an astonishing pace, where once she had managed one perfect rune per day, now she could complete three with time to spare. What had seemed an impossible three-year endeavor was suddenly within reach of a single year's dedicated work.
While her fingers wove magic into reality thread by precious thread, Luke turned his attention to an equally demanding task: the third and most perilous stage in refining the Philosopher's Stone.
The celestial calculations had been precise, Saturn would reach its optimal alignment in the constellation of the Forge, creating conditions that occurred perhaps once in a wizard's lifetime.
For this crucial work, Luke had abandoned the familiar confines of Orthanc Tower in favor of Weathertop's ancient crown: the massive stone circle that remained from his creation of Hufflepuff's Cup.
The megaliths stood like sleeping giants in the pre-dawn darkness, each stone precisely positioned to channel Saturn's influence. Mithril inlays traced geometric patterns across their surfaces, silver rivers that would soon carry starlight itself into the heart of his alchemical work. This was no mere tool but a temple, a place where the barriers between earth and sky grew thin enough for mortal hands to shape cosmic forces.
As Saturn's pale light crested the eastern horizon, Luke stood ready at the circle's heart. The mithril furnace blazed with dragon's blood flame, its crimson tongues licking hungrily at the double-necked flask that held his life's work. Within that crystalline vessel, white powder sparkled like captured starlight, releasing the faint, sweet scent of jasmine, the signature of the Albedo Stage successfully completed.
For this final transformation, Luke had spared no expense. A dozen barrels of dragon's blood, extracted from Smaug during the great wyrm's recovery, fed the eternal flames. Each drop was liquid fire, older than kingdoms and more precious than gold. The dragon had not given this treasure easily, but their partnership had evolved beyond mere necessity into something approaching friendship.
When Saturn reached its zenith, hanging like a baleful eye in the star-drunk sky, Luke activated the great circle with a word of power that seemed to shake the very foundations of the mountain. Simultaneously, he drew forth the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain, a treasure beyond price that had driven men to war and madness.
Without hesitation, he cast the irreplaceable gem into the furnace flames.
The Arkenstone's death was beautiful and terrible. Under the dragon-fire's caress, it dissolved like salt in water, releasing centuries of accumulated earth-power in visible streams of golden light. The energy flowed upward, drawn by the circle's inexorable pull, until it merged with Saturn's descending radiance in a column of brilliant illumination that could be seen for a hundred miles.
Such a display could not go unnoticed. In the far towers of Minas Tirith, astronomers scribbled frantic notes about celestial phenomena beyond their understanding. In the halls of Rivendell, Elrond raised his head from ancient texts and turned his gaze westward with troubled eyes. Even in distant lands, where Luke's name was whispered in taverns and trading posts, people emerged from their homes to witness the pillar of light that connected earth to sky.
But it was not mortal eyes that proved most dangerous.
From the black tower of Barad-dûr, across the ash wastes of Mordor, another consciousness took notice. Ancient beyond measure, malevolent beyond redemption, the Dark Lord's attention turned westward with sudden, terrible focus. Sauron's voice, when it came, was no more than a whisper in the darkness, yet it carried the weight of mountains and the promise of dominion.
"Patience," the shadow murmured to itself, or perhaps to the Nazgûl that waited in the depths of the tower. "Let him complete his work. Let him think himself safe. The greater the power he achieves, the greater the prize when it falls into my hands."
But Luke, lost in the intricacies of his craft, remained oblivious to the malevolent gaze that had found him. All his attention focused on the miraculous transformation occurring within the furnace.
Saturn's power flowed through the stone circle like liquid starlight, filling every carved channel, every precisely placed crystal, until the entire formation blazed with otherworldly radiance. The mountain itself seemed to pulse with each breath of cosmic energy, as if Weathertop had awakened from aeons of slumber.
With careful precision, Luke guided the mixed powers, Saturn's cold influence and the Arkenstone's earthen strength, into the flask where they met and mingled with the White Stone. Under the catalytic fury of dragon's blood, the three elements began their final dance. The white powder swirled like a miniature galaxy, each grain catching and reflecting the supernatural light.
Time passed as it does in dreams, both eternal and instantaneous. Saturn completed its celestial journey and vanished behind the western mountains, but the power it had donated continued to work within the formation. The great stones hummed with accumulated energy, casting prismatic shadows that painted Weathertop in impossible colors.
Miles away in Bree, early risers paused in their morning tasks to witness the aurora that crowned the distant peak. Merchants and travelers gathered in the streets, pointing and whispering of magic and miracles. In Hogsmeade, so close to the phenomenon that the very air seemed to shimmer, artists rushed to capture what they witnessed, knowing that such visions come perhaps once in a lifetime.
As the hours stretched into days, the transformation within the flask grew ever more dramatic. The white substance diminished grain by grain, each mote surrendering its essence to the growing pool of golden liquid that gathered at the vessel's base. This was no ordinary gold, it pulsed with inner life, radiating warmth that penetrated bone and soul. The light it cast was gentle as summer sunshine, carrying the scent of clean linens dried under an open sky.
The illumination proved so intense that it transformed the mithril furnace itself, silvering the precious metal with aureate radiance until the entire apparatus gleamed like a relic of the gods. When that golden effulgence touched Luke's skin, he felt his very cells awakening, as if mortality itself were being burned away in favor of something infinitely more durable.
His lifespan stretched ahead of him like an unfolding map, years adding themselves to years with each pulse of light. His muscles grew denser, his bones stronger, his mind clearer. It was evolution compressed into moments, the transformation from mortal flesh to something approaching the eternal.
But power, as always, came with a price.
The enhancement of his physical form brought with it a terrible amplification of sensation that threatened to drive him to madness. His vision sharpened until he could see individual dust motes dancing in shafts of light, until the blazing beauty of his own creation became painful to behold.
Colors gained saturation that human eyes were never meant to process, reds became living flames, blues turned to liquid electricity, and the gold of the Philosopher's Stone blazed like a captive sun.
His hearing expanded until he could perceive the mountain's geological groaning, the whisper of wind through grass a mile away, the frantic beating of his own heart that sounded like thunder in his skull. Even the magical emanations from the stone circle registered as audible frequencies, a symphony of power that threatened to overwhelm his sanity.
Smell and taste became instruments of torture. The jasmine scent of the Albedo Stone curdled into something nauseating. The clean mountain air carried a thousand separate odors, pine sap and stone dust, distant smoke and the metallic tang of starlight on granite. His mouth filled with flavors both familiar and alien, as if he were tasting the very essence of magic itself.
But it was touch that proved most unbearable. His skin became so sensitive that the brush of air felt like sandpaper, his clothes like suits of mail. Every nerve ending sang with unwanted information, until the simple act of breathing became an exercise in endurance.
"Focus," Luke whispered to himself through gritted teeth, forcing his consciousness to narrow to a single point of purpose. He cast spells to muffle his hearing, covered his eyes to block the overwhelming visual input, even pressed herbs to his nose to deaden his sense of smell. "The work... must... complete the work..."
Days blurred together in a haze of concentrated agony and transcendent purpose. Luke's body continued its metamorphosis while his spirit fought to maintain the delicate balance of forces within the furnace. The golden liquid grew by precious drops, each addition bringing him closer to success and deeper into sensory torment.
Around him, Weathertop had become a beacon visible across Middle-earth. The accumulated starlight in the stone circle painted the castle's towers in shifting hues of silver and gold, while the White Trees that graced the courtyard seemed to glow with inner fire, their leaves singing softly in harmonies that mortal ears could not quite perceive.
Even Arwen, normally lost in her own demanding craft, found herself drawn from her loom to watch the miraculous display. She stood in the castle's highest window, her midnight hair stirring in breezes that carried the scent of distant stars, worry clear in her ageless features.
"What trials face you now, my love?" she whispered to the night. "What price does the Stone demand for its secrets?"
She had witnessed Luke's transformation during the Albedo Stage, had seen him battle the seductive whispers of greed and emerge victorious through strength of will. But this final stage brought challenges of a different nature, and she could only watch and hope as the man she had come to care for fought battles that no one else could fight.
By the fortieth day, the white substance in the flask had dwindled to mere specks suspended in an ocean of liquid gold. The light emanating from the vessel had grown so intense that it rivaled Eärendil's star in brightness, transforming the furnace into what appeared to be a miniature sun imprisoned in mithril and crystal.
The formation groaned under the weight of accumulated power, its ancient stones singing with frequencies that resonated in the bones of mountains. Golden light leaked through gaps in the containment, bathing the entire castle in aureate radiance that carried within it the gift of extended life and perfect health.
Those touched by that light, servants and guards, stable hands and scribes, would carry its blessing for the remainder of their days. They would live longer, age more slowly, suffer fewer ailments, and know a vitality that set them apart from their fellows. In years to come, Weathertop would be whispered of as a place of healing and wonder, where mortal flesh could taste, however briefly, the immortality of legends.
But Luke, trapped at the heart of the transformation, knew only the exquisite torture of senses pushed beyond their limits. His consciousness felt stretched like molten metal, shaped and reshaped by forces that cared nothing for human frailty. Every moment brought the temptation to abandon the work, to flee the circle and escape the unbearable intensity of enhanced perception.
Yet he endured. Through will alone, through love of knowledge and dedication to craft, through the understanding that some prices must be paid regardless of their weight. The Philosopher's Stone, true goal of alchemists for a thousand years, lay within his grasp. He would not, could not, surrender it to weakness.
As the forty-ninth dawn broke over Middle-earth, painting the eastern sky in shades of rose and gold, the last grains of white substance finally surrendered to the transformation. The flask now held nothing but liquid light, the Philosopher's Stone in its ultimate incarnation, powerful enough to grant immortality, wise enough to choose who deserved such gifts.
Luke stood in the heart of his triumph, no longer entirely mortal, no longer bound by the limitations that had defined his species. The work was complete, the complete Stone achieved, the impossible made manifest through dedication and sacrifice.
But somewhere in the darkness of Mordor, ancient eyes still watched, and patient malice began to stir. The greatest test, perhaps, was yet to come.