Sylas was genuinely astonished to see both Elrond and Galadriel step through the green flas.
With a bright smile, he moved forward to greet them. "Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel, your presence brings true honor to Hogwarts."
Elrond returned the smile, his voice calm and warm.
"Congratulations, Sylas. Weathertop now has a strong and capable lord. I believe all of Eriador will know greater peace because of it."
As he spoke, he glanced at his eldest son. "Elrohir, the gift."
At once, Elrohir stepped forward, producing a finely woven space-bag and placing it in Sylas’s hands. "These are copies of books from the library in Rivendell," Elrond explained. "They concern elven spellcraft, magical theory, and certain principles of enchantnt. I hope they will be of use to you."
Sylas’s eyes lit up instantly. Having been the one to expand Elrohir’s space-bag with a Traceless Extension Charm in the past, he knew exactly how much it could hold. With barely contained excitent, he opened it and peered inside, only to find thousands of neatly stacked volus.
His face broke into a broad smile. "Lord Elrond... this is an extraordinary gift. Thank you."
In Middle-earth, books could be more precious than gold. They were the vessels of a people’s wisdom, fragile treasures that too often perished in war. Even the once-great Núnóreans, for all their splendor, had descendants among the Dúnedain who now sought their forefathers’ craft by studying relics left in ancient barrows.
But Rivendell’s library was unmatched, the richest collection of written lore in all the West. Sylas had once hoped to request permission to spend months there, copying volus with a self-writing quill to fill his own shelves. Never had he imagined Elrond would send him such a gift outright, and one focused entirely on magic.
"As long as you find them useful," Elrond said gently, the kindness in his eyes like that of a wise elder.
After receiving Elrond’s gift, Sylas turned to Galadriel with a look of anticipation. The Lady of Lórien did not disappoint.
Galadriel smiled and glanced to Arwen, who stood beside Sylas. At her grandmother’s signal, Arwen stepped forward and produced a slender, beautifully carved wooden box, the surface adorned with delicate vinework.
"This is from my grandmother," Arwen said softly.
Sylas accepted the box with reverence. As he lifted the lid, a soft radiance spilled forth, bright but not harsh.
Inside lay a crown of such exquisite beauty that for a mont he could only stare.
It was wrought entirely of gleaming silver, shaped as though woven from the living branches of the White Tree itself. Broad and slender leaves intertwined in a natural, flowing pattern, each curve and fold so perfectly rendered it seed a breeze might stir them.
At the center, set among the silver leaves, blazed a single white diamond, its light pure as starlight. It shone brilliantly yet gently, like a lone star resting in the heart of the crown.
"This..." Sylas breathed, unable to finish the thought.
Sylas could only stare at the crown, utterly lost for words. No description seed worthy of its beauty.
Seeing his expression, Arwen’s lips curved into a smile, her voice carrying quiet pride.
"I designed the crown," she explained, "inspired by the Silmaril that my grandfather, Eärendil, wore. The central gem is a star-stone, into which my grandmother wove the light of the stars. It will shine brightest in the deepest darkness."
At her words, Sylas finally let out the breath he had been holding. "This is... far too precious. Lady Galadriel, I fear I cannot repay such a gift."
Galadriel shook her head gently and stepped toward him. Even Sylas, tall for a man, found her presence towering. She lifted the crown from its box, her hands as steady as the surface of a still lake.
"The worth of a thing is not in its substance," she said, her voice like the soft music of silver chis, "but in the aning you give it. May it shine more brightly because of you, that will be its greatest value."
Her words seed to linger in the air like starlight, and for a mont, Sylas felt as though he stood half in a dream. When he returned to himself, the Crown of the White Tree was already upon his brow.
The star-gem blazed softly, its light spilling over him, wrapping him in an aura of majesty and mystery. For a heartbeat, he seed less a wizard and more a king descended from the night sky itself.
Those gathered in the room fell silent, struck by the sight. Arwen’s eyes shone with satisfaction, her smile bright and warm, her design had found its perfect bearer.
Galadriel gave a small nod of approval. "Well then," she said, "if no other guests are expected, might you show us your castle?"
"Of course," Sylas said at once. "Please, follow ."
All those he had invited had arrived, or sent representatives, save for Tom and Goldberry, and he suspected they would co on their own ti. There was no need to delay further.
The group passed down the long corridors of the fortress. The elves regarded the architecture with interest, offering quiet praise. Though history held its share of quarrels between their kind and the dwarves, none could deny dwarven mastery of stonework. negroth itself, the Thousand Caves of Doriath, had been shaped by dwarven hands at the request of the elves.
When Sylas entered the great hall with Galadriel, Elrond, and the others, a hush fell over the gathered company. All eyes turned toward the tall, radiant elven lady at the forefront, whose beauty seed to command the very air.
And yet, Sylas, crowned with starlight, held his own beside her, his presence no less striking.
He led them to the high table, intending to offer Galadriel the great golden chair at its center. But she smiled and shook her head. "You are the host this evening. We cannot take the place of honor."
Elrond nodded in agreent.
And so, with no further protest, Sylas took the central seat, Galadriel settling gracefully to his left, and Elrond to his right.
Arwen chose a seat beside Galadriel, while Elrohir, Elladan, and Legolas took places on Elrond’s side.
Bilbo, Bard, Fíli, and Beorn also grouped together, old acquaintances who had much to talk about.
At the sa table sat Mayor Grae and Barliman. Both n were uncharacteristically subdued.
Their eyes drifted toward Sylas, seated at the high table’s center. The starlit crown on his head glead brilliantly, lending him a noble, mysterious, and commanding presence. He leaned slightly toward his left and right, speaking easily with the two elves beside him, one bearing the quiet majesty of a king, the other the radiant, ethereal grace of a queen.
Mayor Grae felt an unexpected pang of humility. In the presence of such company, he hardly dared raise his eyes.
anwhile, Sylas was deep in conversation with Galadriel and Elrond, discussing the arrangent of the banquet hall. Both were fascinated by the floating candles, the enchanted ceiling, and the self-playing instrunts, and the three exchanged thoughts on the magical workings behind each.
Arwen sat close to Galadriel, listening quietly. From ti to ti, her gaze wandered toward Sylas, drawn to the easy warmth in his voice and the light in his eyes.
When the last of the invited guests had arrived, the music drifting through the hall ceased. The sudden silence brought all attention to the high table.
Sylas rose to his feet.
Before him, the four long tables were filled, dwarves, villagers, and honored guests all looking up at him. A rush of energy coursed through him.
’So this is the weight of command,’ he thought. He could almost understand why so many coveted power.
But he quickly set the thought aside, his expression brightening. He spread his arms wide and smiled.
"The feast begins!"
In an instant, platters of fruits, delicacies, roasted ats, and fine wines appeared on every table, both in the hall and before the high table guests.
Gasps of surprise rippled through the room. Many stared in astonishnt at the food that had appeared as if from nowhere.
The enchanted instrunts struck up a rry tune, a lilting, joyful lody Tom Bombadil himself had taught Sylas. The music carried a magic of its own, lightening hearts and drawing smiles even from the most reserved faces.
Arwen, eyeing the lavish spread before her, leaned slightly towards Sylas.
Galadriel, asked with curiosity, "Did you conjure all of this?"
Sylas shook his head with a small smile. "Of course not. The villagers prepared everything in the kitchens. I rely summoned it here. Magic cannot create a feast from nothing, not a real one."
"I see," Galadriel said, and the others around them nodded in understanding.
The feast grew more lively as the evening wore on. In the latter half, the dwarves, now thoroughly ward by ale, cast aside their restraint. Laughter bood across the tables, tankards clinked, and, at their insistent urging, the enchanted instrunts shifted to bold, spirited battle songs, filling the hall with the rhythm of marching drums and ringing steel.
While the rrint continued, Sylas and several of the elves at the high table quietly rose and slipped away.
He led them through the moonlit corridors and out into the gardens, where a small pavilion stood nestled between two towering trees, one silver-white, the other golden, by the edge of a still lake.
The golden Mallorn tree, its leaves dimr now in the night, seed almost subdued. Yet the White Tree, beneath the moonlight, shone brighter than it had in the day, its silver bark aglow with an inner light.
The elves halted in surprise.
"If I did not know that Lady Galadriel gave you the mallorn seed only months ago," Elrond said, gazing upward, "I would have sworn it had been growing here for decades."
Galadriel stood between the two trees, her eyes far away, as though her mind had stepped into an age long past. Slowly, she spoke, her voice tinged with longing.
"Long ago, on the green slopes of Ezellohar, two trees grew thus, the golden Laurelin and the silver Telperion. By turn they shone, day and night, bathing all of Valinor in their light..."
Her words trailed off into silence. Then, moving to the Mallorn, she laid her hand upon its silver bark.
A soft radiance blood between her fingers as the power of Nenya, the Ring of Water, flowed into the tree.
Before their eyes, the mallorn stirred with renewed life. Even from many paces away, Sylas could feel the surge of vitality coursing through it. Golden blossoms began to unfurl, bright as starlight, until the branches were strewn with a thousand tiny suns.
From a distance, it was as though the night sky itself had spilled its stars into the leaves.
"Since there are two trees," Elrond said with a rare smile, "it would not do for one alone to wear such beauty."
He crossed to the Holy White Tree, placed his hand upon its trunk, and let the power of Vilya, the Ring of Air, flow into it.
The tree answered instantly. Its strength deepened, its sap quickened, and within monts its branches were crowned with snowy blossoms, each pure and delicate as frost-kissed petals.
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