Leaving the treasury, Sylas walked toward the garden.
The air there was fragrant and alive, a mingling of countless blossoms under a sky of bright gold and drifting cloud.
Within his gardens grew many rare and wondrous plants: among them, the healing King's Grass, whose leaves could close wounds and restore life.
It had long been a blessing to the folk of Hogsmeade, the village nestled at Weathertop's base.
Whenever illness struck, villagers would climb the winding path to seek a handful of King's Grass.
Sylas never refused. He had even tried to transplant the herb down the mountain, that the people might grow it for themselves, but the attempt failed.
The plant's nature was delicate. It would grow only in places steeped in magical vitality, where warmth and enchantment intertwined.
Weathertop was such a place.
Runes were carved into the very stones of its fortress; dragons and eagles roosted above, and beneath its halls slept basilisks and acromantulas. Each creature exuded a subtle aura, their presence shaping interwoven fields of magic.
Above all, two divine trees sanctified the land, the Holy White Tree, descendant of Nimloth, and beside it, the towering Mallorn Tree.
The White Tree, carrying the blood of Telperion itself, radiated quiet light and kept the mountain ever-living. Under its protection, even plants with impossible growing conditions, King's Grass, Elanor, Evermind, and Entwife Blossoms, flourished as though in Valinor's gardens.
Golden stars of Elanor shone among white circles of Evermind, and at their edges bloomed Entwives' Flowers in hues of sunset and sapphire.
A gentle wind wove their fragrances together, carrying sweetness through every corridor of the citadel.
Those who passed through the gardens would pause involuntarily, their hearts eased, their spirits lifted as if tasting starlight in the air.
Most days, Arwen tended these gardens herself.
She often fetched water from Galadriel's fountain in Lórien and used it to nourish the two trees, and every flower beneath them.Under her care, the garden had grown lush and luminous, as fair and vibrant as the golden woods of Lothlórien.
Sylas walked beneath the leafy canopy until he stood before the Mallorn Tree.
It was vast, taller than even the White Tree beside it, rising more than a hundred meters high, its trunk so wide that thirty men could not encircle it.
A spiral staircase wound upward around its girth, leading to the platforms among the branches.
Each great limb bore marble terraces, and upon them stood delicate pavilions and silver-roofed towers that caught the morning light.
Sylas ascended, his steps echoing softly against the living wood, until he reached the highest platform.
There the golden leaves shimmered in the breeze, gilding the entire mountaintop in radiant color.
Even the clouds drifting past seemed brushed with gold, and Weathertop itself gleamed like a sanctuary of light upon the world.
Upon this height stood Sylas's palace, built into the upper boughs of the tree.
He often came here in quiet hours to rest, listening to the rustle of leaves and the whispering wind, gazing down upon the valleys and the far-off plains.
But today was not a day for rest.
He climbed higher still, to the greatest platform, where a colossal bird's nest rested.
This was the home of Giant Eagle Thorondor.
Once, the nest had belonged to the King of Eagles himself, but Thorondor had long since outgrown it. Larger now than any of his kin, he had rebuilt and expanded the nest with his own talons, weaving enormous branches together to fit his vast frame.
When Sylas arrived, Thorondor lay nestled within the great nest. One wing was still frostbitten, the mark of his reckless courage in the battle against the Frost Dragon Hrívemir.
Seeing his master approach, the eagle lifted his proud head and uttered a low, affectionate cry.
"Do not strain yourself. I've brought food."
He opened his spatial box, and from it slid the corpse of a dragon, vast and gleaming, scales dull with death.
Thorondor's eyes blazed with hunger and gratitude. With a single strike of his hooked beak, he tore into the carcass and began to feast.
Sylas watched him, his expression gentle. Among all his companions, he treasured Smaug and Thorondor most dearly.
He valued Smaug for power, for the raw might that strengthened his dominion.
But Thorondor held another kind of worth. Sylas had found him as a dying chick, abandoned and near death, and had nursed him into the mightiest of all the eagles in the skies of Middle-earth.
And unlike the others, Thorondor bore no magical contract.
Sylas had never bound him, for he knew he did not need to.
The eagle's loyalty was absolute, proven beyond doubt when he had thrown himself against the Frost Dragon in blind fury, believing his master had perished.
However, with Smaug now having swallowed the Dragon Crystal, his power would only grow mightier in the future.
The gap between him and Thorondor would become even more pronounced.
Sylas didn't care about that. He never measured Thorondor by strength alone. Keeping him was enough; he did not expect the eagle to become another world-shaking creature.
But Thorondor clearly thought otherwise.
After being injured, he had grown quiet and withdrawn, burdened by a creeping sense of shame. He feared he had become useless, a burden to his master, and that, perhaps, Sylas might one day abandon him.
After all, in the Battle of Isengard, it was Smaug who had delivered the killing blows, Herpo the basilisk who had struck with deadly precision, and even Cerberus and Aslan the griffin who had fought bravely and earned Sylas's praise.
Even the lesser dragons had proven their worth, bringing down many of Saruman's beasts.
Only Thorondor, he thought bitterly, had faltered.
He had fought, yes, but in the end, he was struck down and robbed of the one thing that defined him: his ability to fly.
Sylas, of course, could hear his thoughts as easily as the rustling of leaves in the wind.
It made him smile, a little sadly, a little amused.
To him, Thorondor's mind resembled a family drama:
Smaug, the brilliant eldest son, radiant and unstoppable. Herpo, the prodigious third, talented and deadly. Cerberus and Aslan, the lively younger siblings, adored despite their mischief.
And Thorondor, the second child, overlooked, brooding in the corner, convinced he was unloved.
And himself? He was the exasperated father trying, and failing, to treat everyone equally.
The thought made Sylas chuckle under his breath.
Yet, when he saw Thorondor's drooping wings and downcast eyes, the amusement faded, replaced by quiet empathy.
He began to think seriously about his old friend's future.
The Giant Eagles, for all their intelligence, were still bound by the limits of their kind. They had strength, courage, and vision, but unlike dragons, they had no innate magic: no flame, no venom, no enchantment in their blood. Their advantage lay only in flight and size, and even that advantage vanished when facing true dragons.
But Sylas was no stranger to transformation.
He had turned himself into firebirds, bears, even spirit forms born of flame and shadow. He had once considered evolving his Animagus form into a Phoenix.
So, he thought, perhaps he could help Thorondor evolve as well, reshape his essence, awaken the magic dormant within his soul.
And in that instant, an image appeared in his mind, one clear as lightning across a night sky: the Thunderbird.
A majestic, storm-born creature from distant lands, a being said to sense danger in the winds and summon tempests at will. Its wings could call forth thunder; its cry could shape the storm.
Newt Scamander, the Magizoologist who rescued a Thunderbird named Frank from traffickers in Egypt. That same Thunderbird had later saved New York, unleashing a rainstorm imbued with magical venom to erase the memories of Muggles who had witnessed forbidden magic.
Yes, if any form suited Thorondor, it was that.
A creature of wind, lightning, and storm, born to rule the skies.
If Thorondor could harness such might, if he could summon storms and strike with thunder, he would no longer be outshone by any dragon.
But there was a problem.
Sylas knew little about the Thunderbird's internal magic flow.
Without a model or a sample, even he couldn't risk attempting such a transformation.
"Ah," he sighed softly, running a hand through his hair. "If only I had a Thunderbird specimen, or even a proper diagram, just once."
Still, though the chance was slim, he wasn't ready to give up.
That evening, he explained his idea to Thorondor.
And the eagle's response made him smile.
At once, Thorondor's gloom vanished. His golden eyes burned with excitement; he spread his great wings, as if testing a future storm. He was eager, impatient even, to begin the transformation, to command lightning and rain, to become the true King of the Sky.
Sylas couldn't help but laugh softly.
He thought about asking Gandalf for help later.
After all, the two of them had once worked together to design the Phoenix's magic circulation system.
This time, to design the Thunderbird's magic circuit, he could once again consult Gandalf, and perhaps even seek Elrond's wisdom as well.
However, that was a matter for another time, distant and not urgent.
For now, Sylas set the idea aside in his mental notes and turned his attention back to the simmering brew of his Elixir of Life.
In the potion chamber, the golden cauldron had been gently boiling for twenty-four hours over a low flame. The liquid within had darkened into a deep crimson, nearly black, glimmering faintly under the firelight.
Sylas took out three soft pink pearls and crushed them into fine powder within a mortar.
These were no ordinary pearls, they were formed from the tears of the Oarni, the Merfolk of Middle-earth.
The pearls had been a gift from Círdan the Shipwright, who, through his long friendship with the sea-folk, had been able to obtain them.
In the original recipe, this stage required the scales of a Selkie Merperson, but Sylas had found the Oarni's pearls to be an ideal, perhaps even superior, substitute.
Adding the powder into the cauldron, he stirred four times clockwise, the surface of the potion shimmering with pale light.
Next came the Dragon's blood.
He poured it in slowly, chanting an incantation under his breath, then stirred seven times clockwise, sealing the spell.
Once again, the cauldron simmered over the low flame for another twenty-four hours.
When the time came, Sylas lifted the Philosopher's Stone from the potion. It showed no change, its surface unblemished, its warmth serene.
He set it aside carefully, then removed the cauldron from the fire to cool.
Now, the liquid had turned a brilliant, translucent scarlet.
Throughout the cooling, Sylas continued to stir, ensuring the potion's essence did not separate. When it had settled, he poured the liquid into a separatory funnel, allowing it to stand for an hour.
From there, he drew off the lower layer and returned it to the pure gold cauldron.
To this he added Dragon marrow, heating the mixture once more and stirring steadily until it began to boil.
Then, with a single wave of his hand, he extinguished the flame.
As the brew cooled, the potion transformed into a jewel-bright crimson, radiant like molten rubies under the lamplight.
Sylas gazed at it for a long while. The scent of magic hung heavy in the air, humming faintly in his veins.
At last, he smiled faintly.
The Elixir of Life, complete.
...
Read chapters ahead @Keepsmiling- P@eon