The deeper Sylas ventured into the valley, the more he marveled at its sacred beauty.
This place was worthy indeed to be called the cradle of n, prepared by Ilúvatar Himself. Though Sylas had never seen the undying light of Valinor, he could not imagine it more lovely than this.
At the valley's heart lay a radiant lake, its shores and bed glittering with golden sand and gemstones of every hue. The sight alone would have driven Smaug into a frenzy of greed.
Set into the sheer walls around the lake were a series of caves. These, Sylas realized, were relics of the very first n who had awakened here. And yet, untouched by the wear of ages, the caves seed as though their dwellers had left only yesterday.
He searched them carefully, but found nothing of use.
"Where is the Salt of Flesh?" he murmured, his brow furrowed.
He had already gathered the other two pri materials for the Philosopher's Stone: the rcury of Spirit, drawn from the accumulated thought and mory of Elves at Lune Bay, and the Sulfur of Soul, distilled from the sorrowful essence of the dead upon the Paths of the Dead.
But the Salt of Flesh, Elrond had told him, was not re salt, nor flesh itself. It represented stability, a vital essence, active with life.
Sylas turned to the lake. Perhaps it was hidden there? He drew up a bowl of the shining water and tasted it. Cool sweetness washed through him, sweeping away weariness and leaving him light and refreshed. Yet, despite its wonder, this was not what he sought.
Puzzled, he sat upon the grass at the lake's edge, pondering. If Elrond had said it was here, then here it must be. Only his eyes had not yet uncovered it.
"What could it be…?" he muttered, frowning.
His fingers closed absently upon a clump of earth. Moist soil clung to his palm. He moved to brush it away, then froze. Inspiration struck, and his eyes glead.
'Soil… of course!'
In countless myths of his forr world, n were shaped from clay by the hands of gods. And here, in Arda, though not molded from mud, n had awakened from the very earth of Hildórien. Their souls ca from the Fla Imperishable, but their bodies were tied to this land.
He bent quickly, pushing aside the grass. The soil beneath was rich, dark, and brimming with vitality. It was the hidden source of all life in this valley, the true Salt of Flesh.
Joy surged through him. Yet his task was not done. To separate this life-charged essence from common earth would not be simple.
He raised his hand, summoned a tent from his spatial bag, and set it upon the lakeshore. Inside, he laid out his tools with practiced precision. A mithril crucible glead under his hand as he shoveled in fresh earth. He poured in water from the holy lake, stirring until mud and crystal-clear water swirled together.
Then, carefully, he drew out a small vial of Separation Draught. Three drops fell into the crucible. He stirred, slow and steady, until the Potion fully blended into the mixture.
Sylas left the mixture to sit, waiting patiently for the solution to settle and separate.
Under the action of the separating draught, the life-bearing essence within the soil gradually dissolved into the water. Soon the soil and heavier impurities sank to the bottom, and the murky liquid above cleared.
With careful hands, Sylas poured the clear solution through a golden filter, purifying it before cleaning out the mithril crucible and returning the liquid to it. He lit a small fla beneath the vessel and stirred steadily with his wand, the work no different from brewing a complex potion.
Steam rose in curling wisps, filling the tent with the faint scent of earth and vitality. Slowly the water boiled away, leaving behind a thin layer of white crystals at the bottom of the crucible.
They looked like ordinary salt, yet radiated a rich aura of life, like the very crystallization of living essence itself.
At last, Sylas had found it: the Salt of Flesh.
Heart pounding with triumph, he carefully scraped the crystals into a clear crystal vial. Yet the temptation gnawed at him. He plucked a single shard and placed it on his tongue.
A salty tang filled his mouth, followed by a surge of pure vitality that coursed through his veins, nourishing flesh and bone alike. His body thrumd with life, not like the Ent-draught that made him stronger, but as if the roots of his very years had been deepened, adding the faintest sliver of longevity.
Of course, one crystal was a re mont's gain, but its truth was undeniable. This was a substance that could lengthen life.
Sylas gazed at the vial, his eyes burning with desire. For a heartbeat he wanted nothing more than to devour it all. But he forced down the impulse. This was no ti to squander a treasure. Compared to the Salt of Flesh, the Philosopher's Stone, a promise of true immortality, was his greater prize.
After all, the Salt was finite. Even if he scoured every grain of earth in this hidden valley, it would never be enough for eternal life.
Still, exhilaration welled up in him. Having succeeded once, he yearned to produce more. Before resuming, however, he picked and ate more of the valley's sacred fruit. Soul restoration was just as important as body, and Hildórien was proving to be his greatest blessing yet. Here he had found both the raw material for the Philosopher's Stone and the fruits that soothed the wounds of his sundered soul.
He almost laughed aloud. Truly, this valley was a gift from Ilúvatar Himself. If not for its distance from Weathertop, he might have settled here forever.
Just then, the familiar chi of the system rang in his mind:
[Hogwarts Sign-in System: Location — Hildórien. Sign in]
Sylas's eyes lit up. "Sign in!" he said eagerly.
[Sign-in successful. Congratulations on obtaining the Obscurial Talent!]
He froze. Obscurial? His heart skipped a beat.
In wizarding lore, Obscurials were born when young witches or wizards suppressed their magic, giving rise to a parasitic force, the Obscurus, that consud them from within. Those afflicted rarely lived long, burning out like dying stars. Even Credence, the longest-lived Obscurial in recorded mory, had perished before his pri.
Was this a reward… or a curse?
Unease prickled at him. He quickly probed his body and magic, searching for any sign of corruption. At first, he felt nothing amiss. But then he noticed it, subtle, yet unmistakable. His magic was growing faster. Far faster.
If he ditated, it could even double in growth!
Sylas should have been elated with such a gift, yet the Obscurial talent, a power that might one day consu him, left a quiet weight of worry in his heart.
Still, no matter how he tested himself, no Obscurus stirred. The only change he could sense was the steady, unrelenting growth of his magic. With nothing else to do, he set his unease aside and turned back to the task at hand.
In the days that followed, Sylas worked tirelessly, separating the Salt of Flesh from the sacred soil. When hunger gnawed, he ate the valley's fruit; when thirsty, he drank from its golden lake.
A month slipped away in the blink of an eye.
By then, the soil around the lake had been carefully tilled, yielding a whole vial of crystal-white Salt of Flesh. Yet Sylas soon realized the truth, only the ground near the lake, the cradle where n first awoke, still carried the full spark of Ilúvatar's blessing. The farther he strayed, the fainter the vitality beca, until the soil yielded almost nothing at all.
Worse, each ti he drew out the active essence, the ground he left behind beca lifeless. Flowers wilted, the grass lost its sheen, and though the damage was hidden with magic, Sylas knew the truth.
If he harvested the entire valley, Hildórien's sanctity would be broken, its beauty destroyed.
So he stopped. Instead, he turned to preservation, nding the lake's banks with careful enchantnts, restoring the appearance of the earth he had stripped.
Hildórien had endured countless ages under the fading echo of Ilúvatar's blessing. Soday, perhaps in distant ages, even this divine power would wane and the valley would sink into obscurity. But not at Sylas's hands.
Resolute, he made the valley a refuge rather than a quarry.
He restored the ancient caves of n, shaping them into elegant halls that blended dwarven strength with elven grace. He even built a hearth of stone and tested it with Floo powder, half fearing the holy aura of the valley might resist such mortal enchantnts.
To his relief, the fireplace flared green and connected smoothly with his networks at Weathertop and Isengard. Now he could co and go freely.
As a final safeguard, Sylas enchanted an ancient apple tree in the valley to serve as a Portkey, bound to the White Tree at Weathertop. Circle the trunk thrice to the left, thrice to the right, pat the bark, and whisper Open, and the two sacred groves would answer each other.
Three months passed before he knew it.
The valley's fruits, rich with Ilúvatar's lingering grace, had done more than feed him. They soothed the ragged wound of his sundered soul. The side-effects of his Horcrux dwindled until they were almost gone. Even without soul-stabilizing draughts, his mind was calm, clear, no longer shaken by impulse or sudden rage. Perhaps, once the last fruit was consud, his soul might be made whole again.
At last, with his work complete and the valley's gifts secured, Sylas gathered the remaining fruit, preserved them with magic, and prepared to leave.
Standing before the hearth he had built, he tossed in a pinch of Floo powder and spoke clearly:
"Isengard."
Green fire roared to life, curling around him. In a flash, Sylas was gone, and the sacred valley of Hildórien stood silent once more.
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