Sylas was entirely unaware of the schemes Sauron and Saruman plotted in Mordor.
For his part, he pressed on with his own task. He entered the Netherworld again and again, each time gathering more of the essence of death, until at last he had enough. The materials for the Resurrection Stone were ready.
But crafting such a relic required a precise ritual, at midnight, at the year's turning, beneath the rising of Helluin, the star of Sirius. Until then, the work must wait. First, he would see the matter of the Hufflepuff Cup resolved.
For now, he turned his attention to the Rings of the Nazgûl. Though he had claimed one of the Nine Rings of Men, its dark power was too dangerous to wield. He sought counsel with Galadriel, Elrond, and Celeborn in Lothlórien. Together, they agreed: the Nine could not be kept. They must be destroyed.
Unlike the One, these Rings were not bound to the fires of Orodruin. Their unmaking was possible. Four of the Seven given to the Dwarves had been consumed by dragonfire in ages past.
So Elrond proposed they turn to the same power. Let Smaug to melt the Ring. The others consented.
Sylas summoned the dragon, and Smaug unleashed a torrent of flame. The Ring glowed red-hot, its surface warping, but it resisted. Smaug was mighty, but not the greatest of fire-drakes. Alone, his fire would need to burn for days to reduce the Ring fully to slag.
Unsatisfied, Sylas fetched another weapon: a vial of basilisk venom. He poured it over the heated Ring. The venom hissed, boiling at once, its corrosive power biting deep. The gold blackened, pitting under the venom's kiss.
Encouraged, Sylas added still more. He conjured the fire, wrapping it around the Ring as Smaug's fire seared it from above. Basilisk venom, dragonfire, and protego worked together, and the Ring's resistance began to fail.
The Nine Rings of Men were more than ornaments. Like Horcruxes, they were soul-vessels. The essence of each Ringwraith was bound into its Ring. To wound the gold was to wound the spirit within.
Far to the east, Khamûl screamed. The Nazgûl clutched his chest, his wraith-form blistering as though bathed in acid. His shriek pierced the dark, his shade peeling, tearing, his strength unraveling. The flames that licked the Ring licked his spirit as well.
The other Nazgûl turned in horror, sensing his torment.
And in Barad-dûr, the Eye of Sauron blazed.
"It is the Black Wizard!" he roared. "He dares destroy the Ring of Power!"
He had hoped for the opposite. If Sylas had worn the Ring, even for a moment, the corruption would have begun. He would have been twisted into another wraith, a prize bound to Sauron's will. That hope now lay in ashes.
But the current situation had dashed his hopes.
Far from being tempted by the Ring of Power, Sylas was actually attempting to destroy it.
Khamûl writhed in the flames, his shadow-form weakening, unraveling strand by strand. For once, even Sauron was powerless.
The Ring was the Nazgûl's true essence. It was not merely a token but his very being. Once destroyed, the wraith bound to it would perish utterly, beyond even Sauron's power to restore.
Desperate, the Dark Lord summoned the lure of the Ring, sending its whispers across the void, temptations of dominion, immortality, glory beyond death. He sought to sway Sylas's hand, to halt the destruction.
But Sylas had prepared himself well. With the Star-glass of Eärendil at his side, the Ring's pull fell on deaf ears. He pressed on, guiding Smaug's dragonfire and the raging Protego, while basilisk venom hissed and ate through the gold.
As for sending the other Nazgûl to strike? Sauron dared not. Galadriel and Elrond stood nearby, their power unyielding. To risk his wraiths here would mean only more losses, more shattered Rings.
Thus, Sauron was forced to watch helplessly as Khamûl dwindled, his shrieks echoing across both realms, fading into silence.
At last, after a full day of burning, the Ring yielded. The gemstone cracked with a sharp report. A jet of black vapor burst forth, coiling into the twisted visage of Khamûl himself. The shade wailed, a final cry of torment, before exploding into nothingness.
Far away in Barad-dûr, the Nazgûl's essence shattered. The Shadow of the East was gone forever. Not even the will of Sauron could call him back.
One of the Nine was no more.
The remaining eight wraiths quaked, cowed and silent. Terror seized them as they watched their brother vanish and dared not even raise their eyes to their master.
Then came the storm.
The Eye of Sauron erupted in fury, its flame searing against the dark sky. The sky above Mordor twisted, black and crimson, as Mount Doom roared, vomiting fire and smoke as though the world itself were ending.
Every creature of darkness in Mordor fell to the ground, trembling, begging the Dark Lord to quell his wrath.
Meanwhile, in the safety of Lórien, Sylas exhaled at last. The Ring was gone. A wraith of Sauron's Nine had been slain outright. He could almost imagine the Dark Lord's rage tearing across Mordor. The thought made him smile grimly.
One threat was ended. For now, he turned back to his other tasks.
Time passed, and autumn deepened into winter across Eriador.
On the sixth night after the full moon, Sylas Apparated into a secluded valley in the Windy Hills. At the foot of a vast, thousand-year oak, he worked swiftly. With a golden sickle he cut the pale-yellow blossoms, catching them in a white cloth so that not a petal touched the ground. Then he plucked seven ripe acorns from the shaded side of the tree.
Raising his wand, he traced a sign upon the trunk. The bark shivered, and a hidden fissure opened. From within, he withdrew a fist-sized piece of gold-essence.
One side bore Celtic sigils of life, healing, and protection; the other was etched with runes of fertility. The golden stone radiated a rich, earthy fragrance, brimming with vitality. It pulsed with such force it seemed less like cold metal and more like a living heart, beating with the power of the earth itself.
Cradling the gold essence, along with the acorns and blossoms, Sylas turned back towards the hill.
The gold-essence was first laid beneath the sun for nine days, soaking in its warmth, and then bathed in moonlight for nine nights more, drawing upon the softer silver radiance of the stars.
Afterwards it was placed within a furnace, where it burned for thirteen days. Each day Sylas infused it with his own magic, hammering, shaping, whispering words of power into the glowing metal. Slowly, patiently, it began to awaken.
When at last the forging was complete, the essence had become a vessel: a delicate two-handled golden cup. Runes were carved along its sides, and charms woven into every line of its form. The cup gleamed with a living light, its weight both heavy and graceful, etched with intricate patterns of life, earth, and harvest.
This, however, was only the vessel. The true Hufflepuff Cup required consecration beneath the heavens.
For that, they would wait upon a rare moment: the opposition of Saturn, known in Middle-earth as Lúmbar. Every 378 days, the pale-yellow star rose brighter than all others, even outshining Eärendil's light. That time drew near.
Before the rite, Sylas prepared the offering. He gathered the acorns and parasitic blossoms he had harvested beneath the oak, and carried them into Mirkwood to seek Radagast the Brown. With the Brown Wizard's guidance, he exchanged certain ingredients for herbs native to Middle-earth.
From full moon to full moon he labored, brewing a potion from the acorns and blossoms, its color shifting with the phases of the moon. At last it was ready, shimmering with a strange, earthy glow.
Then came the night of Saturn's rising.
At Weathertop, upon the vast lawn where the hill rose into the sky, an ancient circle of stones stood. Each monolith bore ancient runes, aligned with the stars.
As dusk fell, Lúmbar climbed from the eastern horizon, burning yellow and bright, the very lamp of the heavens. Even the Evening Star paled before it.
At the circle's heart, Sylas placed the golden cup upon a stone altar and filled it with the potion. Then, standing as a priest of the old ways, he lifted his voice in an ancient chant.
His words rolled through the stones, resonant and deep, echoing against the sky. The earth trembled softly. Runes blazed with light, and the circle awoke, its power weaving upward like branches of a tree, reaching for the heavens.
When Lúmbar reached its zenith, the stones themselves roared. From the star a great shaft of golden light fell like a pillar, striking the circle with overwhelming brilliance. The cup blazed in response, overflowing with radiance.
Across the lands of Middle-earth, those attuned to power turned their faces toward the sky.
Far to the east, in the black land of Mordor, the great Eye upon the Tower of Barad-dûr fixed its unblinking gaze on the west. Fire seethed in its depths, as though it plotted a new and sinister design.
Meanwhile, at Weathertop, immense forces converged. Starlight and Saturn's radiance poured into the stone circle, focusing into the golden cup upon the altar.
The potion within began to change. What had once been clear as spring water grew luminous, shifting to a liquid gold. It shimmered with life, glowing faintly and releasing a fragrance like earth after rain, mingled with the sweetness of flowers and the green breath of herbs.
Sylas breathed it in. At once the weariness in his limbs lifted, the ache of long hours standing forgotten. Strength coursed through him, as though he had drunk some rare tonic. If mere fragrance could restore him so, what might the draught itself accomplish?
Yet the ritual gave him no chance to taste it. Before his eyes, the golden liquid sank into the cup itself, vanishing drop by drop until the vessel alone shone with that inner radiance.
Only when Lúmbar sank low toward the western horizon did the rite end. The star's influence ebbed, the circle fell silent, and the ancient stones returned to their watchful stillness.
On the altar, the cup remained: two-handled, gleaming, heavy with sacred power.
Sylas stepped forward and lifted it.
"Aguamenti," he commanded softly.
Water flowed into the vessel, as though drawn from the very air. He tapped the rim with his wand.
"Become wine."
The liquid darkened, blushing crimson, until it glowed like ruby. The fragrance of rich wine rose to meet him.
He raised the cup and drank. At once a gentle warmth spread through him, deeper and steadier than fire. It filled his veins, his lungs, his very bones. His strength renewed, his magic surged back into him, and every hidden weariness, every subtle sickness of the spirit, was washed away.
Relief flooded him. His body felt light, as if unburdened of years.
...
Stones Plzz
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