Facing a horde of countless wraiths and shadowed beasts, Sylas stood his ground. Though he could summon no spells in this place, he remained calm, rooted in quiet defiance.
As expected, when the creatures surged forward, they slammed into the edge of the protective circle surrounding him, as though colliding with an unseen wall. Some drew so near that their breath of decay brushed his skin, yet not one could take a single step closer.
Frustrated, the spirits howled, their rusted blades clattering against the barrier. Sparks of pale fire danced where steel met the ward, but the circle did not waver.
Relief washed over Sylas. He silently gave thanks to Lord Elrond for lending him this circle of protection. Still, he knew the shield would not hold forever. Constant blows, even from shades, would eventually wear it thin. Worse, he had not come here to stand idle. His task was to collect the essence of death itself, and every wasted heartbeat in the Netherworld was a danger.
Drawing a deep breath, Sylas slipped a crystal vial from his cloak—the Star-glass, gift of Galadriel, blessed with the Light of Eärendil. He shook it gently, and a piercing brilliance flared forth, pure and white, cutting through the gloom.
The Light of Eärendil, born from the radiance of the Two Trees of Valinor, was a terror to all creatures of shadow. The wraiths shrieked, shielding their hollow faces from the glow. They recoiled, their forms unraveling as if the light itself scoured them away.
Ignoring their cries, Sylas lifted the glass higher, letting its rays spill into the darkness. Then, with steady steps, he crossed beyond the circle and into the endless night of the Netherworld.
From the distance, twisted forms followed, Orc-spirits, ghostly Wargs, and men corrupted by evil. They dared not approach, yet their eyes never left him, burning with greed and malice.
It was then Sylas spotted something. His eyes lit with urgency, and he quickened his pace toward a patch of drifting mist not far away.
There, above the ground, coiled a thin wisp of black vapor. It swirled restlessly, alive with a sinister rhythm. Though small, its aura was unmistakable, the essence of death itself. Even the surrounding spirits hesitated to near it, shrinking back in unease.
Sylas did not touch it barehanded. Instead, he drew forth a black bottle carved from shards of obsidian he had cut from the Paths of the Dead. Elrond had taught him that such stone could steady the minds of restless shades, and more importantly, preserve the unseen. With care, he coaxed the mist into the vessel, sealing it tight.
One fragment of death's essence. A beginning, but not enough.
As far as he knew, Peverell, who created the resurrection stone, had to guard the Gate of Death for several years to collect enough death matter to forge the resurrection stone.
So he pressed on. Yet no matter how far he searched, death's essence remained scarce. Only a few more wisps came to his keeping, and always the evil spirits trailed him, eyes burning with hunger for both the light he bore and the treasures he sought.
He longed to venture deeper, but when he checked the small hourglass he carried, the last grains were falling fast. Time was gone. He was still alive, and no living man could linger here too long. To tarry would mean corruption, the slow twisting of his spirit until he too became one of the restless dead.
With reluctance, Sylas turned back, clutching his bottles close. He hurried toward the glow of the protective circle, heart pounding, knowing well that if he overstayed another breath, his soul might never find its way back.
Though the Netherworld and the living realm are bound together like two faces of the same coin, they remain apart, parallel lines that seldom meet.
Ordinary folk cannot see into that shadowed domain, just as most spirits bound there cannot touch the world of the living. Each keeps to its own side of the veil.
Yet there are exceptions. The Nazgûl, bound to the Nine Rings and the will of Sauron, walk in both realms at once, their presence bleeding through the boundary. And the Oathbreakers of the White Mountains, cursed for treachery, linger still upon the Paths of the Dead until their oath is fulfilled.
Sylas hurried back to the heart of the circle. All around him, the spirits shrieked with malice, clawing the air, their eyes filled with hunger and spite. He placed the morgul blade back into the circle just as the last grains of sand slipped through the hourglass.
The moment he let go of the blade, the world around him shifted. The wraiths, their howls, the suffocating gloom, all vanished as though a curtain had been drawn aside.
Color returned. The dim pall of the Netherworld lifted, replaced by the chill brightness of the living realm. Sylas stood alone again, wrapped in silence beneath the glow of a clear, silver moon.
He exhaled slowly. The memory of the Netherworld still clung to him, the air there had been oppressive and heavy, like drowning in icy water. With each passing moment, its cold had seeped deeper into his body, freezing marrow and blood alike. By the end, his very heart had felt ready to turn to ice.
And worst of all, his magic had faltered in that realm, stripped of strength. Had it not been for the Star-glass and the Light of Eärendil gifted by Lady Galadriel, he would never have endured, much less gathered what he sought.
Glancing at the circle, he saw that its strength was spent; the death-essence surrounding it was nearly gone. It would no longer serve for another passage. His brow furrowed with regret.
"It seems I'll have to seek another place," he murmured.
But when his gaze fell upon the obsidian bottle in his hand, his frown melted into a smile. Though the journey had been perilous, it had not been in vain. He had brought back fragments of death itself.
To any ordinary eye, the bottle appeared empty. Yet Sylas could feel it, inside, a knot of cold energy pulsed faintly, steeped in the essence of death.
He swept away the traces of the circle with a practiced hand, then Apparated back to the windswept height of Weathertop.
Still, the shadow of the Netherworld clung to him. For days he lingered in the sun upon the castle lawns, soaking in its warmth until the last of the chill leached from his bones. His skin even bronzed a little from the long hours beneath the sky, but at last he was whole again.
Then came new plans. He would have to walk the Netherworld once more.
To breach that realm, one must go where death's presence was strongest, where countless lives had ended and the veil grew thin. His first thought was the Dead Marshes.
That forsaken land had once been the battlefield of the Last Alliance. There, Elves, Men, Orcs, and creatures beyond count had fallen. The air above the bogs was thick with death, the waters reflecting pale faces of the fallen, ghost-lights drifting endlessly over the mire. Few places in Middle-earth bore such heavy shadows.
It was no wonder that in the Dead Marshes, the barrier between the living and the dead grew weakest. Spirits crossed more freely there.
The only problem was that the Dead Marshes lay too close to Mordor.
If Sylas ventured there, he would not only face countless restless dead but would also risk drawing the gaze of Sauron himself. That peril outweighed any potential gain, and so he abandoned the thought with regret.
His attention turned instead to Dol Guldur.
Once a proud fortress of the Elves of Greenwood, it had been twisted into Sauron's stronghold when he still wore the guise of the Necromancer. Though the White Council had driven him forth, the shadow of his presence lingered, forcing Thranduil and his people to withdraw northward. Even now, the place remained steeped in malice and decay.
Sylas first stepped through a Floo-fire to Lothlórien, then Apparated onward to Dol Guldur.
The moment he arrived, the dark aura weighed upon him like a cloak. He frowned. Since the Council had united to banish the Necromancer, he had expected the fortress to fade into ruin. Yet the miasma was still thick, clinging to every stone.
He cloaked himself with a Disillusionment Charm and Apparated inside the fortress walls, moving cautiously.
What he found disturbed him. The fortress was infested: Orcs in their hundreds, brutish Olog-hai bred to resist the sun, Wargs skulking in the shadows, and monstrous spiders crawling in cracks and hollows. They had tunneled deep beneath the foundations, building warrens to nest and breed.
A sudden gust stirred the air. A pack of Wargs lifted their heads, sniffing. Their hackles rose as they caught an unfamiliar scent. With sharp howls, they drew the attention of every creature in the fortress.
Weapons clattered as Orcs and trolls bristled with suspicion, scanning the gloom.
Seeing his concealment unravel, Sylas dropped the Disillusionment Charm.
At first, the Orcs grinned wickedly, sneering at what seemed a lone man daring to intrude. But then their faces froze, as recognition swept through them. Horror replaced mockery.
"It's him!" one shrieked. "The Black Robe Wizard, the bane of Orcs!"
A murmur of dread rippled outward, swelling into panic.
"Run! He's come for our lives again!"
The rabble broke almost at once. Orcs scattered in terror, fleeing through tunnels and gates.
The Olog-hai, slower to grasp what was happening, scratched their thick skulls as they watched their smaller kin flee. But when they saw Sylas standing upon the wall, cloaked in dark robes and unshaken, even their dull eyes widened in unease.
Sylas had no intention of letting them escape. He was already an enemy of Sauron, and to leave his creatures alive was to leave the shadow unweakened.
He drew forth the Ring of Power that hung at his chest and slid it onto his finger.
At once, he unleashed Protego diabolica.
The cursed flames erupted with a roar, magnified a hundredfold by the Ring's dark might. They surged into monstrous shapes, Balrogs wreathed in flame, vast winged dragons, and coiling Basilisks of fire. The fortress shook beneath their fury as they swept through halls and caverns alike, consuming everything in their path.
Orcs shrieked and were silenced. Olog-hai crumbled into ash. Wargs and spiders were devoured in an instant. Not a den nor burrow escaped the inferno's reach.
From the high flets of Lothlórien, Elves standing watch could see the blaze tearing through the southern horizon, blue against the night.
The firestorm raged until nothing living, or unliving, remained. Then, with a word and a gesture, Sylas bent the flames back. The Balrogs, dragons, and Basilisks bowed their fiery heads before him and dissolved into sparks, obedient to their master, offering no resistance.
He studied the Ring glimmering on his hand and allowed himself a small smile. This was the first time he had wielded it so fully, and its power exceeded even his expectations. Without it, no wizard could have contained such a blaze, nor commanded the diabolica forms to heel.
Dol Guldur was cleansed.
As the smoke curled toward the stars, Sylas lifted his gaze to the sky. Now the ground was clear, and it was time to carve the circle that would lead him once more into the Netherworld.