To enter the shadow-realm of the Netherworld, Sylas knew of only two paths. The first was to wear the One Ring. The second was to be pierced by a Morgul blade.
But both were unthinkable.
The Ring's lure was corruption itself; even Gandalf, wise among the Maiar, would not dare to touch it. To wear it was to court enslavement, the sure path to becoming Sauron's thrall. Besides, the Ring was no longer within reach, it rested in the keeping of Tom Bombadil, who alone seemed utterly immune to its malice.
The other method was even worse. A Morgul blade was forged for torment, its shards burrowing deeper into a victim's body until they reached the heart. Without swift and skilled healing, the wounded soul was lost, drawn into shadow, enslaved as a lesser wraith beneath the command of the Nine.
Even with Elrond's care, scars lingered, as they had in Frodo, who each year relived the agony of his wounding until he found peace only across the Sea.
Sylas had no intention of stabbing himself merely to slip into shadow.
With the two known paths closed, he turned to the one person whose counsel rarely failed him, his "all-knowing" father-in-law, Elrond of Rivendell.
They walked together along a quiet, winding path beneath Rivendell's trees, the sound of water tumbling in the distance.
When Sylas posed his question, Elrond stopped mid-step, turned, and regarded him with a grave expression.
"You wish to enter the Netherworld?"
Sylas nodded.
"I seek to capture a fragment of death's essence," he explained. "It is needed to forge a relic that can reach across the boundary of life and death."
Elrond's brows furrowed. "What sort of relic?"
Sylas described the Resurrection Stone, its ability to summon shadows of the departed.
Elrond's eyes widened. "The souls of the dead are gathered in the Halls of Mandos, to await the Doom of Arda. None return unless Mandos himself allows it. If your stone can call even the faintest echo back into this world, it would rival the Philosopher's Stone in wonder!"
Sylas shook his head. "Not a true summoning. Only a projection. More substantial than a ghost, less than a body of flesh, like a memory given form."
"Even so," Elrond murmured, "that is no small power. To call the departed across the threshold belongs only to Mandos, Lord of the Dead."
They returned to the question at hand: how one might enter the Netherworld.
"The Netherworld is woven into the spirit of Arda itself," Elrond said slowly. "Not all who die pass immediately into Mandos's keeping. Some linger in shadow. The Nazgûl are prime examples, neither flesh nor phantom, bound to the unseen world. Without Sauron's disguises, they would appear only as formless wraiths."
He glanced at Sylas, measuring his resolve. "Understand this: the Netherworld is not, by nature, evil. It is a realm of spirits, some dark, some light. Lady Galadriel can perceive it at will. Glorfindel, reborn from Mandos's halls, walks in both worlds with ease. But for most, to step into shadow without protection is perilous."
Elrond's tone hardened, his gaze solemn. "If you would cross that boundary, you must take safeguards. The living shine like torches in that realm, Netherworld beings will sense you at once. And there, your spells will hold no strength. Stripped of your magic, you would be no more than a wandering soul, prey for creatures far older and darker than you can imagine."
He let the words hang in the air, heavy as stone.
"And mark this well: linger too long, and you will not return. The shadow will seep into you, body and soul. You will become one of them, a wraith, bound forever to the Netherworld. Do you still mean to take this risk?"
Sylas was not intimidated. A faint smile curved his lips as he nodded.
"For the Resurrection Stone, I must at least make the attempt."
Elrond studied him for a long moment. Seeing the resolve in Sylas's eyes, he gave no further warning. Instead, he turned and led him back through the halls of Rivendell to the high library of his palace.
From among the countless scrolls and tomes, Elrond carefully drew out a single weathered scroll. He placed it into Sylas's hands.
"This is an ancient magic circle for piercing the veil between worlds. Long ago, one of our kind devised it in the hope of calling back Elven spirits who had refused Mandos's summons. None succeeded, but the circle remains."
Next, he produced a black sword swaddled in leather and bound with seals of Elvish script. Sylas recognized it instantly: the Morgul blade that Radagast had once given to Gandalf, the very weapon of the Witch-king of Angmar. Its aura was dark and cold, like a breath from the grave.
"You must find a place steeped in death-essence," Elrond instructed, his voice low and solemn. "At the stroke of midnight, activate the circle, and use this blade as your guide into the shadow-realm."
His gaze hardened.
"But hear me well, Sylas: once you cross, you may remain no longer than fifteen minutes. The Netherworld is perilous. If any spirit or wraith lays so much as a hand upon you, your body will falter, your soul unravel. You will become as they are, an unseen wanderer, bound to shadow for eternity."
Sylas's smile faded. He bowed his head with equal solemnity.
"I understand. I will tread carefully."
Elrond knew his son-in-law's capabilities. He offered a few final cautions, then allowed the matter to rest.
After bidding Elrond farewell, Sylas returned to Weathertop with the scroll and the Morgul blade.
Arwen already knew of his plan. Though her eyes carried deep worry, she did not try to dissuade him. Instead, she touched his arm softly and whispered, "Only promise me you will be careful."
For days, Sylas studied the diagrams of the magic circle, memorizing every rune and counter-sigil. He needed a place saturated with death's echo, where countless lives had ended violently, thinning the veil between worlds.
The Barrow-downs were his first thought. But he had already scoured them clean; their death-essence had faded, the Barrow-wights now lying in restless slumber. That place no longer held the power he needed.
His thoughts turned northward, to Fornost. Once the proud capital of Arthedain, it had been broken a thousand years before by the Witch-king of Angmar. There, armies of Dúnedain and Angmar clashed in slaughter, their corpses heaped high and buried hastily, if at all. The land itself had been christened Dead Man's Dyke, so steeped was it in blood and ruin.
That was the place.
Bidding Arwen goodbye, Sylas Apparated to the North Downs. He chose the embankments where the battle had raged most fiercely, where every stone and blade of grass bore the echo of the fallen.
Even now, the ground seemed to hum with sorrow. A chill lay heavy over the ruined earth, the lingering aura of countless dead.
Sylas set to work, inscribing the ancient runes of the magic circle into the soil. When it was finished, he placed the Morgul blade at its heart. The air grew colder, sharper.
He knelt, waiting as dusk bled into night.
At the stroke of midnight, he whispered the incantation. The circle flared faintly. Death-essence stirred from the earth, rising like unseen mist, streaming inward toward the blade.
The air thickened, the world around Sylas dimming as though a pall of mist had been drawn over it. In that instant, the boundary between life and death fractured.
The moon above shifted, glowing an ominous blood-red. From the silent fields rose faint whispers, murmurs like the breath of forgotten voices, and the brittle sound of cruel, mirthless laughter.
Within the circle, the world wavered like a mirage, a shimmer of shadow dividing the inside from the outside. It was as though the formation itself had torn open a rift, a threshold between two realms.
Without hesitation, Sylas stepped forward.
The moment he crossed, a cold like plunging into black ice engulfed him. His breath caught, his bones ached with frost, and every nerve screamed at the chill. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on, forcing himself into the circle's heart.
He reached for the Morgul blade. The instant his fingers closed around its hilt, the world shifted again.
Color drained away. The familiar land of Fornost remained, yet it was warped, gray and lifeless, as though steeped in shadow for a thousand years. Nothing moved, no warmth lingered. It was the Netherworld, where the veil between life and death thinned to nothing.
The Morgul blade had become his key.
Sylas quickly checked himself. His cloak, staff, and belongings remained, but when he raised his wand and whispered a spell, nothing answered. The wand was only wood, inert as a stick. He probed inward and felt no magic stirring in his veins.
Elrond's warning rang bitterly true: here, he was no wizard. Here, he was mortal.
A gnawing unease crept into his chest.
And then he saw them.
In the world of the living, the field had been barren. But in the Netherworld, the plain teemed with shapes. Spirits. Countless spirits.
They circled him like wolves. Orcs, Wargs, Trolls, twisted souls of beasts that Mandos had never summoned. Among them loomed the faint outlines of men, no Dúnedain fallen with honor, but the craven warriors who had once followed Angmar's Witch-king.
These men had feared the judgment of Mandos and refused the call. Their punishment was to linger here, neither living nor dead, rotting in shadow.
In this place, they were solid, their forms coalesced from decay and darkness. Their eyes gleamed with hunger, fixed on Sylas.
"A living man," one hissed, its voice like rust scraping bone.
"I smell his breath… his essence," another croaked.
The whispers rose to a fever pitch. With a sudden howl, the spirits surged toward him from every side, a tide of claws and teeth and rotting hands.
...
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