Gandalf's weathered face creased into the familiar smile that had comforted kings and commoners alike across the long years of his wandering. His grey beard, longer now and touched with more silver, rustled as he chuckled warmly. "My dear Luke! You look well, more than well, actually. There's a strength about you now that wasn't there when last we met."
"It's the work," Luke replied, stepping back to study his old friend with equal fondness. "Both the challenges and the rewards have been... considerable. But tell me of your travels! How goes the world beyond these walls?"
Gandalf's eyes, bright as summer lightning, took on a more serious cast as he leaned against his staff. "The world turns as it always has, with both shadow and light vying for dominance. I've spent these past months in Gondor, riding the length and breadth of that great realm. The Regent requested counsel regarding the eastern borders, where orc raids have grown bolder of late."
The wizard's expression grew thoughtful as he continued. "The White City stands strong, but I sense... unease in the air. As if some great change approaches, though what form it might take remains hidden from even my sight."
Suddenly, Gandalf's weathered features brightened with genuine delight. "Oh, but I must commend you on that remarkable owl of yours! When your message found me, I was riding hard across the Pelennor Fields, Shadowfax at full gallop beneath a storm-dark sky. The creature appeared from nowhere, a white ghost against the black clouds, and delivered your letter with such precision that it might have been aimed by Legolas himself. Poor Shadowfax nearly threw me in surprise!"
Luke laughed, remembering his own amazement at the owls' uncanny abilities. "They possess an almost supernatural talent for finding their intended recipients, no matter the distance or circumstances. I confess I worried it might not locate you in time, given your... peripatetic nature. When it returned with your acceptance, I felt relief worthy of a general receiving word that reinforcements were on the way."
Their conversation was interrupted by a cry that seemed to shake the very stones of Isengard, a sound that combined the regal authority of an eagle with something far more primal and magnificent. Both men looked skyward as a shadow passed across the sun.
"Eru preserve us," Gandalf breathed, his eyes widening with wonder and delight. "What manner of creature...?"
"That would be Aslan," Luke said proudly, watching as his beloved griffin descended in a spiral of controlled majesty. "He must have sensed your arrival. He's grown quite protective of the domain, and curious about all visitors, though he's developed excellent judgment about who deserves a friendly greeting and who requires more... direct attention."
The griffin that landed before them with earth-shaking grace was a creature to inspire both awe and instinctive reverence. Aslan stood nearly twelve feet at the shoulder, his golden-brown hide rippling with muscles that spoke of both aerial mastery and terrestrial power. His eagle head, noble as any king's crown, tilted to study Gandalf with intelligent amber eyes that seemed to peer directly into the wizard's soul. Magnificent wings, each feather perfectly arranged, folded against his leonine flanks with the precision of a master swordsman sheathing his blade.
"Magnificent!" Gandalf exclaimed, his voice carrying the genuine appreciation of one who had seen many wonders across the wide world. "If Pegasus represents the ethereal grace beloved by the elves, then surely the griffin embodies the perfect marriage of sky and earth, storm and stone. I have seen the great eagles of Manwë, ridden the winds with Gwaihir himself, but this..." He gestured toward Aslan with something approaching reverence. "This is majesty made manifest."
The wizard approached slowly, showing the respect due to a creature of such evident nobility. Aslan, perhaps recognizing a kindred spirit in the old wanderer, allowed Gandalf to stroke the glossy feathers of his neck. The griffin's purr, a sound like distant thunder mixed with a cat's contented rumble, vibrated through both man and beast.
But their moment of interspecies harmony was shattered by an indignant whinny that could have awakened the dead in the Paths of the Dead. Shadowfax, the Lord of Horses, stood trembling with what could only be described as pure, unadulterated jealousy. The great stallion's eyes rolled white as he snorted challenges at the griffin, his hooves striking sparks from the stone as he pranced in obvious distress.
How dare this oversized bird-cat steal my wizard's attention! came Shadowfax's mental protest, clear as spoken words to Luke's enhanced perception. Have I not carried him faithfully across all the leagues of Middle-earth? Have I not answered his call through storm and shadow? And now he coos over this... this flying show-off like some starstruck maiden!
Aslan, far from being intimidated by the horse's display, seemed to find the situation deliciously amusing. With the calculated mischief of a creature too intelligent for its own good, the griffin deliberately moved closer to Gandalf, rubbing his great head against the wizard's shoulder while maintaining eye contact with Shadowfax in a display of territorial smugness that was almost human in its pettiness.
Oh, this is rich, Aslan's thoughts practically sparkled with mirth. The famous Shadowfax, reduced to a common stable nag's jealousy! Perhaps next he'll stamp his little hooves and demand sugar cubes.
Shadowfax's response was to rear up on his hind legs, a display of equine outrage that would have been impressive if not for the almost comical nature of his distress. The great horse's mental voice rose to an indignant shriek: Little hooves?! I am the Lord of Horses, you feathered buffoon! My lineage stretches back to the foundations of Rohan itself!
"Now, now, Shadowfax," Gandalf said soothingly, finally noticing his mount's distress. He moved toward the agitated stallion with practiced ease. "You know you're irreplaceable, old friend. No griffin, however magnificent, could take your place in my affections."
But Shadowfax, wounded pride written in every line of his noble form, turned his head away with the disdain of a spurned lover. The horse's thoughts carried wounded dignity: Words are wind, Mithrandir. I saw how your eyes lit up at the sight of wings and talons. Next you'll be asking if he might carry you to Gondor faster than my poor earthbound legs can manage.
Luke, watching this display of interspecies drama with poorly concealed amusement, finally took pity on both parties. "Perhaps we should leave these two to work out their... territorial negotiations," he suggested diplomatically. "I have refreshments prepared in the tower, and I'm curious to hear more about your recent travels."
Gandalf nodded, though he cast one more longing glance at Aslan before following Luke toward Orthanc's entrance. Behind them, griffin and horse continued their staring contest with the intensity of generals planning siege warfare.
The moment they crossed the threshold into Orthanc's shadowed interior, they were greeted by a sight that never failed to impress visitors, Cerberus, the three-headed guardian, rose from his comfortable position by the great hearth.
The massive creature had grown even more impressive since Gandalf's last visit, now standing well over ten meters at the shoulder when fully upright. Each of his three heads was the size of a draft horse's entire body, equipped with fangs that gleamed like polished ivory daggers in the torchlight.
"By Eru's beard," Gandalf murmured, genuine amazement coloring his voice. "When I left, he was merely the size of a small dragon. Now he could give Smaug pause!"
The middle head, the one Luke had long since identified as the dominant personality among the three, fixed Gandalf with eyes like molten gold, recognition dawning in their depths. The great tail began a slow, earth-shaking wag that spoke of remembered friendship, while all three heads oriented toward the wizard with expressions of canine delight that were both endearing and terrifying.
Cerberus approached with the careful gait of a creature aware of its own immense size, lowering his heads to investigate this remembered friend. The left head sniffed delicately at Gandalf's robes, while the right examined his staff with obvious curiosity. The center head, however, pushed forward with shameless demand for attention, presenting the space beneath his chin with the universal gesture of a dog seeking scratches.
Gandalf, showing not the slightest fear of the creature that could have swallowed him whole without effort, reached up to accommodate the request. His weathered fingers found exactly the right spot, and soon all three heads were purring with contentment that rumbled through the tower's stone foundations.
"Remarkable," the wizard murmured as he worked. "I can sense the multiple magical lineages woven into his very essence. Dragon's fire-immunity, basilisk's deadly gaze, the kraken's regenerative abilities... and yet underneath it all, still fundamentally a loyal hound who wants nothing more than belly rubs and approval."
Luke nodded with pride as he watched his oldest magical companion bask in Gandalf's attention. "His growth has finally stabilized, thankfully. For a while, I worried he might outgrow even Orthanc itself. But his power has grown along with his size, he's become the ultimate guardian. The dragons in the breeding enclosures have learned to give him a very wide berth."
"I imagine they have," Gandalf replied with amusement. "A creature that combines a dragon's might with a dog's loyalty and intelligence would be formidable indeed. Though I suspect his greatest weapon remains those three sets of puppy-dog eyes."
As if understanding the compliment, Cerberus's tail wagged even more enthusiastically, causing several suits of ceremonial armor to rattle in their alcoves.
After spending a few more minutes with the delighted guardian, Luke led Gandalf up Orthanc's spiral stairs to the upper chambers where comfort and hospitality awaited. The wizard's appreciation was evident as they climbed past windows that offered breathtaking views of Isengard's transformed landscape, no longer the industrial wasteland Saruman had created, but a thriving harmony of cultivation and wilderness.
In the main receiving chamber, Luke brought forth his greatest treasure for the entertainment of his guest: Hufflepuff's Cup, its golden surface gleaming with inner light that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the room's magical ambience.
"What a legendary cup," Gandalf breathed, recognizing the artifact immediately. "I had heard of its forging, but to see it in person..."
With a simple gesture from Luke, the cup began its miraculous work. Fruits materialized from empty air, apples that gleamed like rubies, grapes that sparkled with their own dew, pears golden as sunshine and soft as silk.
Delicacies appeared as if summoned from the finest kitchens of Minas Tirith: honey cakes that still steamed from the oven, cheeses aged to perfect complexity, bread that filled the air with the scent of harvest fields.
But the true marvel came when Luke produced a bottle of wine, a vintage from the legendary vineyards of Dorwinion, where Elven vintners had perfected their craft over centuries. As he poured the deep purple liquid into the cup, it transformed, taking on a luminescence that spoke of magic beyond mortal brewing.
Gandalf accepted the offered cup with reverence, inhaling the wine's bouquet with the appreciation of a true connoisseur. "This is... extraordinary. Not merely the wine, though that alone would be worth a king's ransom, but the cup's enhancement of it. I can taste sunlight captured in grapes, rain that fell on vine leaves, the very song of the earth that nurtured the harvest."
Luke settled back in his chair, pleased by his friend's appreciation. "The cup's abilities extend far beyond simple refreshment. It can summon prepared food from across Middle-earth, though doing so means someone, somewhere, finds their meal mysteriously vanished. More usefully, it can multiply existing provisions, turning a handful of grain into enough bread to feed a village."
The wizard's eyes grew thoughtful as he contemplated the implications. "Such power in the wrong hands..."
"Could topple kingdoms," Luke finished with a nod. "A beggar with this cup could become a king overnight, feeding the hungry masses until armies rallied to his banner. Alternatively, it could trigger wars as nations fought for control of unlimited sustenance. The temptation for abuse is... considerable."
"Yet here it sits," Gandalf observed, "used only to offer hospitality to friends. Many would say you waste its potential."
Luke's expression grew distant, touched by something approaching melancholy. "Power unused is not power wasted, old friend. Sometimes the greatest strength lies in restraint. I could march forth tomorrow, cup in hand, and within a year half the continent might bow to my banner, not through conquest, but through gratitude for full bellies and nourished children."
"But you choose not to."
"I choose differently," Luke corrected gently. "My path lies in understanding, in growth, in the pursuit of knowledge and capability for their own sake. Ruling others... holds no appeal. I've seen what such ambitions do to men, even the best of men."
Gandalf nodded slowly, understanding flickering in his ancient eyes. "You think of Saruman."
"Among others. Power sought for its own sake corrupts. Power sought to rule others corrupts absolutely. But power pursued in service of understanding, of growth, of protection..." Luke shrugged. "Perhaps that path leads to wisdom rather than dominion."
"A philosophy that would perplex many in this world," Gandalf observed with a slight smile. "Most cannot fathom strength that does not seek to dominate, knowledge that does not demand recognition, capability that asks for nothing but the joy of its own existence."
The days that followed passed in comfortable companionship. Gandalf threw himself into the life of Orthanc with the enthusiasm of someone finally able to rest from long wanderings. He spent hours watching Luke work on magical formulae, occasionally offering insights gleaned from centuries of experience with the deeper mysteries of Middle-earth.
When not serving as assistant and advisor to Luke's research, the wizard delighted in reacquainting himself with the tower's other residents. Cerberus received daily visits that left all three heads in states of blissful contentment, while the dragons in the breeding pens learned to recognize the Grey Pilgrim's approach with excited anticipation, his visits invariably brought treats and gentle words of encouragement.
Aslan, having apparently forgiven Shadowfax for being merely terrestrial, permitted Gandalf to experience the pure joy of griffin-flight. Together they soared above Isengard's transformed landscape, the wizard's delighted laughter echoing across valley and hill as he experienced the world from an eagle's perspective.
The hippogriffs, too, found in Gandalf a kindred spirit. These proud creatures, offspring of wind and earth, responded to his natural authority and gentle manner with unusual friendliness. Soon he could be found in their paddocks, brushing their glossy coats while discussing matters of wind-current and weather-lore that only flying beings truly understood.
Time flowed like honey in those golden days, sweet and thick with contentment. But all things must eventually face their appointed hour, and the celestial calendar cared nothing for mortal comfort.
The night of the great conjunction arrived with fanfare written across the heavens themselves. Venus burned like a captive star low in the western sky, while Mars glowed with ruddy determination in the east. Between them, the dance of cosmic forces created currents of power that even untrained eyes could sense, the very air seemed to hum with potential.
It was into this charged atmosphere that the fireplace suddenly blazed green, its flames taking on the ethereal hue that marked passage through the Floo Network. From the emerald conflagration stepped Elrond Half-elven, Lord of Rivendell, his ageless features touched by the urgency of the moment.
"Mithrandir," he greeted with genuine warmth, clasping Gandalf's hand in both of his own. "I confess surprise at finding you here before me. The roads from Gondor are not usually swifter than the paths from Rivendell."
Gandalf's response carried the contentment of time well spent. "My lord Elrond, I arrived a full week early and found such excellent company that time seemed to vanish like mist before sunrise. Luke has been the most gracious host, I fear I've grown quite comfortable in his tower."
Elrond's perceptive gaze took in both men, noting the easy camaraderie between them and the relaxed happiness that marked true friendship. But his attention soon turned to more pressing matters, silver eyes fixing on Luke with paternal concern mixed with anticipation.
"All preparations are complete, I trust?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer. "The conjunction approaches its peak, and we dare not miss this opportunity."
Luke nodded, his expression growing serious as the weight of the approaching work settled upon him. "Everything stands ready, Lord Elrond. The final components await only the joining of Eärendil and Carnir in the night sky. The furnace burns with dragon-fire, the vessel holds the perfected White Stone, and the stellar calculations align precisely as your wisdom predicted."
The Elf-lord's features softened with something approaching fatherly pride. "Excellent. This conjunction of Venus and Mars will endure for several months, the longest such event in nearly a millennium. The stellar powers will be at their absolute zenith, offering the greatest possible chance for success in completing the Stone."
But then his expression grew more serious, touched by the wisdom of one who had witnessed the rise and fall of kingdoms. "Yet for all our preparation, the final moments will test you in ways that preparation cannot fully address. You must maintain perfect equilibrium, not too eager, lest haste ruin precision; not too cautious, lest opportunity slip away. The Stone will sense your worthiness in that crucial instant, and only a calm heart can prove deserving of its gifts."
Luke absorbed the counsel with the respect it deserved, understanding that this advice came not merely from scholarly knowledge but from personal experience with the deeper mysteries of creation. "I will remember, my lord. Your guidance has brought us this far, I won't fail you at the final step."
But Elrond's investment in this endeavor went deeper than academic interest or even friendship. Luke could see it in the ancient elf's eyes, a father's love, desperate and boundless, willing to risk everything for his daughter's happiness.
For Arwen Undómiel had chosen love over immortality, binding her fate to mortal Aragorn's when the time of choice arrived. Like Lúthien before her, like all the Elven-maids who had surrendered eternity for the briefness of mortal love, she would fade with her chosen partner unless some alternative could be found.
The Philosopher's Stone represented that alternative, true immortality that could be shared, granted to those deemed worthy regardless of their original nature. If successful, it would allow Arwen to keep both her love and her life, bridging the gap between mortal and immortal with alchemical mastery.
The weight of such hope, such desperate paternal devotion, settled on Luke's shoulders like a mantle of starlight, beautiful, precious, and impossibly heavy. In a few short hours, he would either forge a miracle that could rewrite the fundamental laws of mortality... or fail, and watch a father's heart break for his daughter's inevitable fate.
Outside the tower, the stars wheeled toward their appointed convergence, while inside, three friends, wizard, elf-lord, and alchemist, prepared to witness the birth of something that could change the very nature of life and death in Middle-earth.