Upon the surface of the stone basin, a figure slowly emerged. He was clad in blue robes, his face gaunt yet dignified, with deep-set eyes that carried both wisdom and the long burden of years. A gray goatee framed his solemn expression.
This was Rómestámo, one of the two Blue Wizards.
Like Gandalf the Grey and Saruman the White, Rómestámo was not his true name, but a title: "East-helper," or "Savior of the East," given to him by the tribes he had aided. His companion, Morinehtar, bore a name meaning "Darkness-slayer." Both were Maiar, servants of Oromë the Hunter among the Valar. Morinehtar had willingly journeyed into Middle-earth, offering his strength to oppose Sauron, and Rómestámo had chosen to follow him.
Together, they had passed into the lands of the East, once trodden by Oromë himself. There they lent their strength to men who had rejected the worship of Morgoth, fanning sparks of rebellion against Sauron's dominion behind the Shadow's lines.
Balger, the Dorwinion chieftain, bowed low before the scrying vision, reverence in every word as he recounted the battle at Lug Rhûn.
"Rómestámo," he said, "we were saved from certain death yesterday. A Ringwraith and its Fellbeast would have slain us, but another Wizard appeared and turned the tide. He wishes to seek your counsel. Will you grant him an audience?"
"A Wizard?" Rómestámo's brows lifted, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "What manner of Wizard?"
"He named himself Albus Dumbledore," Balger replied, "and said he came from the West."
Standing nearby, Sylas felt a twinge of awkwardness. Stepping forward, he let the guise fall. The wrinkles of his false age melted away, his frame straightened, and in the blink of an eye, he was once more a tall young man with sharp eyes and a dark robe.
"Greetings, Rómestámo," he said firmly. "My true name is Sylas, though some call me the Black Robed Wizard. I have come east at the urging of Gandalf the Grey and Radagast the Brown."
Balger gasped, dumbfounded at the transformation, his eyes wide with shock.
In the shimmering waters, the Blue Wizard studied him with surprise, then smiled faintly. "So, it is Sylas, the Black Wizard. I had not thought you so young. Even here in the East, word of your deeds in the West has reached us. Compared with you, we who labor quietly in the wilderness seem almost unworthy."
"You give me too much credit," Sylas answered quickly, waving his hand. "If not for you and Morinehtar holding Sauron in check here, the West might have fallen beneath the Shadow long ago."
For a time, they traded courtesies, each speaking of the struggles in their own lands, of orc raids, Easterling unrest, and the growing reach of Mordor.
At last, Rómestámo inclined his head. "Tell me, Sylas. You have crossed leagues untold to find me. What is it you seek?"
Sylas did not waste the moment. His voice was steady, though his heart beat quick. "I wish to know of Hildórien, the place where Men first awoke. It is said to be lost to memory, but I have need of what lies hidden there. You and Morinehtar have wandered far across the East. Do you know the truth of it?"
The Blue Wizard's eyes sharpened with sudden light. "Hildórien?" he repeated softly. "So that is your purpose."
Sylas nodded, his gaze intent.
Rómestámo leaned back, a trace of a smile curving his lips. "Most have forgotten. Even among the Wise, many doubt its very place in the world. Yet Morinehtar and I found it long ago. When first we came east, searching for a refuge, our steps led us there."
His voice grew distant, touched with memory. "It lies in the farthest East, hemmed by the Mountains of the Wind in the west and the endless East Sea to the east. A hidden vale, shrouded in stillness, where the air itself seems to sleep. We called it the Valley of Slumber."
The Blue Wizard's eyes softened with recollection. "Its beauty rivals Aman itself. The soil was rich, the waters brimming with life. A sacred hush lingered there, a grace not wholly of Middle-earth. We lingered longer than we should have. If not for the duty laid upon us, to oppose the Shadow, we might well have chosen to remain there forever."
Sylas's spirits lifted at Rómestámo's words. After all his searching in the East, he had at last found certain news of Hildórien.
The Blue Wizard, however, tempered his eagerness with a shake of the head, as if dousing fire with cold water.
"Hildórien is veiled by sacred power," Rómestámo said gravely. "Without meeting its conditions, even with the truest map, you could not find it, nor even see it."
"Conditions?" Sylas pressed at once. "What must be met?"
Rómestámo did not withhold the answer. "Men awoke there with the first sunrise of the First Age, when the Light of the Sun first touched Middle-earth. Therefore, Hildórien can only be entered at that moment's echo, on New Year's Day, when the first ray of sunlight falls upon the land. Only then does the Valley of Slumber reveal itself."
He paused, then added with calm certainty: "This year's dawn has already passed. If you mean to walk Hildórien, you must wait until next year."
Sylas drew a long breath. The wait was a disappointment, but a tolerable one. Most of the year had already run its course, and he had learned patience on longer roads.
Rómestámo's expression gentled. "If you are willing to remain, when my work here is settled, I shall prepare for you a route-map to Hildórien."
Sylas's eyes brightened. "That would be a gift beyond price. I am in your debt, Wizard Rómestámo."
Yet he noticed something in the Blue Wizard's manner, hesitation, as though a request lay unspoken. Choosing not to wait, Sylas bowed slightly and said: "You have already offered me aid. If there is aught you would ask in return, speak it plainly."
Rómestámo's face softened, but his sigh was heavy. "It is about Morinehtar. He has wandered far south into Harad… and I fear he has found some trouble there."
Sylas stiffened. "Trouble? What kind of trouble?"
"I cannot yet confirm," Rómestámo replied, his tone low. "Nor can it be explained in a few words. Better we speak of it when we meet face to face."
The answer left Sylas full of questions, but the Wizard's restraint was clear. He pressed no further.
The vision faded, and they agreed to meet in the Dorwinion stronghold.
For half a month, Sylas remained among the Dorwinions, until one morning a rider appeared at the edge of their camp: a tall figure in deep blue, astride a wild ox of pale, gleaming hide.
Rómestámo had come.
At once the Dorwinions broke into cheers. Men and women hurried to greet him, eyes alight with reverence. To them he was no wandering stranger, but their savior and guide.
The Wizard returned their greetings with warmth, calling many by name as if he remembered each one. Then his gaze found Sylas across the throng. He smiled and inclined his head.
Rómestámo dismounted in a single, fluid motion, cloak swirling at his heels. "So, at last we meet in truth, Wizard Sylas. When tidings of you first reached me from the West, I confess my curiosity was stirred. Seeing you now, you are more than the rumors claimed."
Sylas inclined his head in return, studying the Blue Wizard with quiet fascination. Unlike Gandalf's kindly bearing or Saruman's austere grandeur, Rómestámo carried a wilder presence, mystical, yes, but also rugged, like a hunter who had roamed long among beasts and untamed woods.
Yet part of Sylas's attention strayed to the great beast that had carried him. The wild ox was immense, larger even than the war-steeds of Rohan. Its hide shone with a pale luster, almost silver in the sun.
The ox's two enormous, snow-white horns gleamed in the light, radiating an air of sacred majesty.
"Wizard Rómestámo, is this your mount? He is magnificent!" Sylas said, genuine admiration in his voice.
Rómestámo's smile deepened. He laid a hand fondly on the creature's flank. "This is Norlimar, an Araw-ox, descended from the herds of Oromë himself. I found him as a calf in the hills above the Sea of Rhûn and have kept him at my side ever since."
Norlimar gave a deep, sonorous moo, and his eyes shone with uncanny intelligence.
Sylas understood at once. For a Maia in Oromë's service, it was fitting to choose a steed sprung from the lineage of the Hunter's own beasts. Oromë, after all, was famed for his companions, Huan, the faithful hound who defied even Morgoth's wolves; Nahar, the white stallion whose offspring became the peerless Mearas of Rohan; and now this line of divine oxen, whose strength and endurance had few equals in Arda.
Sylas could not help but wonder what hidden gifts Oromë's oxen carried, whether they bore the raw power of mountains, or perhaps an endurance that outlasted the ages.
Norlimar turned his great head toward him and gave another questioning moo, almost as though he had sensed Sylas's musings. The young wizard chuckled softly, dismissing idle speculation, and turned back to Rómestámo.
The Blue Wizard produced a roll of parchment. "Here is the route I once traced to Hildórien. May it guide your steps when the appointed day comes."
Sylas unfolded the map. His heart leapt as he studied its lines, for here at last was the key to his long quest. "Thank you, Wizard Rómestámo. You cannot know what this means to me."
With this map, he could reach the Valley of Slumber when the first dawn of the year broke, and there claim the final substance he needed, the Salt of the Flesh/Body, the last piece of the Philosopher's Stone.
But gratitude alone did not sit well with him. He raised his eyes and asked, "You spoke before of your companion, Wizard Morinehtar. You said he was in trouble. What kind of peril is he in? Is there aught I can do?"
At that, Rómestámo's face clouded. He let out a long, heavy sigh. "When first we came East, Morinehtar and I worked side by side. Yet the Shadow was too vast for us to confront together. To hinder Sauron's reach, I labored among the tribes of Rhûn, while he went south into Khand and Harad. For long years we exchanged tidings… but now his voice has gone silent. My heart tells me ill, that he has fallen into some grave snare."
Sylas's brows knit. "And what do you intend?"
The Blue Wizard's gaze turned distant. "I had thought to ride south alone and seek him. Yet my foresight warns me: the road is perilous, and a misstep could bind me in ruin. But now, meeting you, I sense a turning. Perhaps the Valar themselves have guided our meeting."
His eyes met Sylas's, clear and earnest. "Therefore I ask this of you, Black Wizard, will you come with me into the South, and together seek out Morinehtar?"
...
Stones PLzzz
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