Chapter 267: Taking the Elixir of Life
Sylas gazed at the shimmering Elixir of Life, anticipation glimmering in his eyes.
This single cauldron of elixir could extend a mortal’s lifespan by thirty years. After carefully dividing it, he found it made exactly three small crystal vials, each containing but a mouthful, each capable of granting ten years of life.
Without hesitation, Sylas uncorked the first bottle and drank.
In the next instant, warmth flooded his veins. His body grew light, his spirit buoyant, and a vibrant surge of life force coursed through his limbs and bones. He felt as though time itself had paused around him, his cells brimming with vitality.
He had gained ten years of life, frozen in youth.
Joy rising in his chest, Sylas lifted the remaining two vials and swallowed them in turn.
A golden brilliance seemed to pulse faintly beneath his skin. In that moment, his life was extended by thirty years, and for those three decades, not a trace of age would touch him.
He smiled to himself. But the taste of immortality only deepened his hunger.
Almost immediately, Sylas began anew, preparing another batch of the Elixir of Life, determined to create a small stockpile for the future.
A month passed swiftly.
In his potion chamber, three more cauldrons of elixir gleamed red as molten gems, yielding nine vials in total, enough to extend his life by ninety years.
Adding the first batch he had already consumed, Sylas now possessed one hundred and twenty years of borrowed eternity.
It wasn’t that he did not wish to make more, but he had exhausted his most precious ingredient: the Tears of the Oarni, the pink pearls gifted by Círdan the Shipwright.
Only the Teleri elves, who still communed with the sea-folk, could obtain such pearls.
He made a note to travel to the Grey Havens someday, to seek Círdan or other Teleri mariners who could collect them anew.
The dew of the White Tree was equally troublesome. Each cauldron required nearly a pint, enough to fill a mortal’s water flask, and it could only be gathered under moonlight, never touched by sunlight.
It was a labor of patience and reverence.
Facing the nine vials of crimson elixir now resting in his cabinet, Sylas felt a childlike temptation to drink them all.
But he knew better.
The Elixir of Life worked like nourishment, it had to be taken in measured intervals. To swallow too much was to risk overfilling the vessel of the flesh.
Even with his enhanced body, stronger than any wizard’s, three vials had already brought him to his limit.
Ordinarily, one bottle should be taken once every ten years, granting a decade of youth.
Then, as those ten years waned, another vial could be consumed, perpetuating the cycle, and thus achieving a form of true immortality.
With a soft sigh of satisfaction, Sylas locked the nine vials away within his potion cabinet.
He would drink another in ten years, extending his life again by twenty more before the next cycle began.
That way, he would never risk aging unexpectedly, even should delays occur.
As he closed the cabinet, a long-held weight lifted from his heart.
For the first time in years, the shadow of mortality, the quiet dread that had pursued him since his earliest experiments, was gone.
He had done it.
He could now live for centuries, unaging, enduring as the world itself changed around him.
A rare smile touched his lips as he stepped out into the sunlit corridor. His steps were light, his mood brighter than it had been in years.
Passing along the marble halls of Weathertop Castle, he cheerfully greeted the portraits lining the walls.
Years of careful enchantment had filled the castle with living paintings: portraits of himself and Arwen, of Smaug coiled atop golden hoards, of Thorondor soaring over the Mallorn trees, of Cerberus, Herpo, and Aslan.
There were even enchanted likenesses of his subjects from Hogsmeade, dwarves from Moria, and elves of Rivendell.
Some portraits showed the sea, where the Kraken swam freely beneath glittering waves; others depicted the basilisks chasing Acromantulas through shadowed forests.
Some of the paintings were remarkably lifelike, their inhabitants moved and spoke as if truly alive. Others remained stiff.
Sylas’s intelligent portrait was, in many ways, no different from the real man himself.
He regularly infused it with his own memories, each silver thread of thought drawn from his temple and woven into painted mind and motion.
Over time, the portrait had developed a complete and living personality, one that thought, spoke, and reasoned as he did.
Not all portraits in the castle were so refined.
Many held only fragments, flickers of memory given form. Those were dull echoes at best, imitating life without truly possessing it.
The Orcs and Trolls, for instance, were recreated only from Sylas’s vague recollections of them, and thus appeared foolish and clumsy.
In one painting, three trolls bellowed in pain as thirteen dwarves hacked at their ankles and smashed their feet with hammers. Their comic howls and exaggerated expressions made the entire scene look more like a farce than a battle.
Even Bilbo Baggins made an appearance, painted soaking in a great iron pot, his face innocent and bewildered.
The piece, depicting the company’s misadventure in the Trollshaws during the quest for Erebor, had been painted by Balin, now Lord of Moria, and gifted to Sylas years later.
Not all portraits in the castle were his own work.
Many were painted by Elven artists from Rivendell and Lothlórien, while others were commissioned from mortal craftsmen whom Sylas had personally enchanted with potion-based life magic.
As a result, Weathertop Castle, though often quiet and solemn, never truly felt empty.
The portraits filled its halls with chatter, laughter, and song.
The dwarves’ portraits, in particular, were a rowdy lot, always drinking, singing, and arguing late into the night, their raucous celebrations echoing through the corridors.
This, of course, drew the constant ire of the neighboring Elven portraits, who repeatedly lodged complaints to Sylas.
He had since moved the dwarves’ paintings to a quieter hall, a compromise that pleased no one but at least restored some peace.
At first, the castle’s attendants and servants had been frightened by the moving, talking portraits. But, in time, they grew accustomed to the strange liveliness of the walls.
Now, they even spoke with the paintings as they cleaned them, treating them like familiar spirits.
Particularly the mayors of Hogsmeade and Bree, Luke and Graeme, often reported local affairs to Sylas’s portrait whenever he was away.
And the portrait, with its full intelligence and memory, offered precise counsel as if the man himself were speaking.
Even so, both mayors still felt a tremor of awe whenever they stood before it.
Sylas had promised them, half in jest, that if they continued their work well, he would one day paint their portraits, granting them a form of eternal remembrance within the castle walls.
The promise ignited their spirits, and they worked with renewed vigor to expand their cities.
Rumors of these living portraits spread far beyond the mountains, drawing travelers and nobles alike to Weathertop, each eager to witness the "talking paintings" of the immortal wizard.
One afternoon, Sylas stood before his own portrait.
Drawing his wand, he pressed it to his temple and pulled forth a gleaming strand of silver thought. The memory thread shimmered like liquid moonlight as he guided it into the portrait.
The painted Sylas blinked, then smiled faintly as life returned to his eyes.
"Congratulations, my original self," said the portrait with a knowing grin.
"You’ve done it, you’ve achieved immortality."
Sylas’s lips curved upward, but only slightly. "Immortality? Hardly."
He shook his head, sober and calm. "It’s only a borrowed eternity, an illusion maintained by external means. If the Philosopher’s Stone were lost, or the elixir’s ingredients spoiled, everything would crumble. No, this is no true immortality. Not yet."
The portrait nodded thoughtfully, its expression a perfect mirror of his own.
Sylas continued, "this is still a heterodox path. True immortality can only be achieved through transformation, by perfecting the self, not clinging to external power."
His gaze drifted toward the tall windows, where the wind stirred the golden Mallorn leaves.
"That’s why the Animagus Phoenix evolution must be completed next. Only the Phoenix, reborn through fire, can serve as a foundation for genuine immortality."
The portrait’s eyes flickered in recollection. "I remember... the Balrog’s heart you purified in Lothlórien. It should be nearly ready, shouldn’t it? When will you proceed?"
Sylas sighed, folding his arms. "It’s close, yes, but this isn’t something I can rush. The transformation from human to Phoenix is still only a hypothesis. No wizard has ever succeeded."
"Once an accident occurs, it’s irreversible. I must be fully prepared, there can be no mistakes."
In all the annals of the magical world, no Animagus had ever successfully transformed into a magical creature.
Sylas knew the risks better than anyone.
The transformation from human to beast was already one of the most delicate branches of Transfiguration, pushing that boundary into the realm of magical beasts was courting catastrophe.
If an accident occurred during the process, even the smallest misstep could twist the spell in unimaginable ways.
In lesser cases, the wizard’s body might warp into a deformed monstrosity, like the fabled Five-Legged Beast, an infamous product of a failed experiment.
In worse cases, uncontrolled magical feedback could tear through the wizard’s core, resulting in total mana detonation, an explosion of flesh, magic, and soul.
And even in the rare event of a successful transformation, there was no guarantee of return.
Some had achieved the form they desired, only to find themselves forever trapped, their human consciousness gradually eroded by bestial instinct.
Sylas would not...could not..let that be his fate.
If he was to transform into a Phoenix, he must first ensure absolute stability during the transformation, and secondly, guarantee that he could return to human form with his mind and soul intact.
Before that, every precaution had to be made.
To ensure the highest probability of success, Sylas resolved to brew Felix Felicis, the legendary Potion of Fortune.
Among all potions, Felix Felicis was a pinnacle of complexity and subtlety. Known as Liquid Luck, it temporarily imbued the drinker with uncanny fortune: every decision, every movement, every chance would align perfectly in their favor.
For the duration of its effect, accidents became impossible, danger turned aside, and the path to success unfolded like destiny itself.
Sylas reasoned that if he were to drink Felix Felicis before attempting the Animagus transformation, he could tip the scales of fate itself toward success.
However, when he unrolled Professor Snape’s handwritten notes on the potion and began studying the intricate process and ingredients list, his brow furrowed deeply.