Amidst the expectant hush of the Elves, Gandalf slowly opened the ornate box in his hands.
Inside lay a black gem, smooth as glass and the size of a man's finger. Its surface glead faintly, swallowing the surrounding light.
The Elves leaned forward, curiosity bright in their ageless eyes.
"This," Gandalf said solemnly, "is the Resurrection Stone. It holds the power to summon the souls of the departed."
The words rippled through the hall like a gust of wind.
At once, soft murmurs broke out among the Elves, disbelief, reverence, even yearning.
Many had watched loved ones sail to the Undying Lands, never to be seen again. To hear of a stone that could call back their voices was sothing almost unthinkable.
Gandalf closed the box gently, letting the wonder linger in the air.
Then all eyes turned to Sylas, who stepped forward and opened the final box.
Inside, nestled within velvet, shimred the Philosopher's Stone.
It glowed softly, its crimson light pulsing like a living heart.
Gandalf lifted his staff and spoke once more, his voice deep and steady:
"This is the Philosopher's Stone, the pinnacle of alchemy. It can transform stone into gold, heal mortal wounds, and grant everlasting life."
A hush fell again.
The Elves, long-lived and already immortal, were less moved by its promise of eternal life than by its creative power, the ability to reshape matter itself. Even so, they could sense the Stone's overwhelming magic, and awe still flickered in their eyes.
Three treasures, the Golden Chalice, the Resurrection Stone, and the Philosopher's Stone, each a wonder of its kind.
That Sylas would offer all three as tokens of betrothal was beyond anything the Elves had imagined.
Even Elrond, who rarely betrayed emotion, showed visible astonishnt.
He had heard of the Philosopher's Stone before, from Sylas's earlier tales in Isengard, but never imagined that the man would also offer the Golden Chalice and the Resurrection Stone, artifacts of near-legendary power, as gifts.
Yet more than surprise, Elrond felt a quiet, profound satisfaction.
To see Sylas part so freely with treasures of such magnitude was proof enough of his devotion to Arwen.
As a father, how could that not gladden his heart?
Even Elladan and Elrohir, who had entered the day prepared to glare daggers at their would-be brother-in-law, now found themselves smiling, perhaps grudgingly at first, but with genuine warmth soon after.
Their resistance lted into a shared, heartfelt blessing.
At last, Elrond rose from his seat, the silver circlet upon his brow gleaming in the hall's light.
His lips curved into a calm smile.
"I see no reason to deny what both your hearts already know," he said. "I give my blessing. I consent to your union."
A wave of joy surged through the hall.
Sylas's composure finally broke; he grinned like a boy, barely restraining himself from cheering outright.
Gandalf clapped his hands together, laughter booming warmly.
Bilbo began applauding with all the enthusiasm of a proud uncle, his small face flushed with delight as if this were his own wedding.
All around, the Elves smiled, their soft applause filling the hall with a sound like rain upon crystal.
Then Gandalf, as Sylas's elder and representative, turned to Elrond once more to discuss the engagent formalities, the exchange of silver rings, the rites of witness, and the wedding to follow a year hence.
anwhile, Sylas suddenly found himself gently seized, one arm taken by Elladan, the other by Elrohir.
He blinked, startled.
Were they about to beat him up for stealing their sister?
For a mont, he actually weighed his options:
Should he just take the blows to show sincerity, or defend himself and risk delaying his marriage for a century out of brotherly "revenge"?
His thoughts must have been transparent, because both brothers chuckled.
"All right, stop panicking," Elladan said, smirking. "We're not here to test your dueling skills today."
"We brought you to et soone," added Elrohir with a knowing look.
"et soone?" Sylas asked, puzzled.
"You'll see," they replied, giving nothing away.
He followed them quietly through Rivendell's forest paths until the trees opened onto a adow bursting with flowers. Golden elanor and white niphredil swayed in the sumr breeze, filling the air with gentle fragrance.
At the adow's center stood a marble statue, graceful and serene, its expression soft and tender.
The likeness was unmistakable: the sa elegance, the sa gentle smile.
And seated before it, weaving a crown of flowers, was Arwen.
Hearing their approach, she turned and smiled, sunlight catching in her dark hair. For a fleeting instant, she seed to rge with the statue behind her.
"You're here," she said softly.
"Go on," the twins murmured, nudging Sylas forward before departing quietly.
Sylas had wondered during the ceremony where Arwen had gone; now he understood.
He crossed the adow to her side.
Arwen placed the finished flower crown upon the statue's head, her gaze tender and wistful.
Sylas looked at the sculpture, noting its gentle features and familiar beauty.
"Is this your mother?" he asked.
Arwen nodded, her eyes soft with mory.
"Yes. This is my mother, Celebrían. After she left for the West, Father carved this statue with his own hands. Each year, on her birthday or the day she sailed, he cos here alone, to sit in silence, or to look toward the sea."
Sylas reached out and gently took her hand.
"That ans Lord Elrond loved her deeply."
"I know," Arwen whispered, her gaze lingering on the statue. "But I still wonder... will I ever see her again?"
"You will," Sylas said firmly. "When peace finally cos to Middle-earth, we'll sail together to Valinor. You'll see her again beneath the light of the Two Trees."
His certainty made her smile faintly. The sadness in her eyes softened, though a new worry soon rose within her.
She could go to Valinor, but what of him?
Valinor was no longer part of the mortal world, and only those permitted by the Valar could enter.
In all the long ages, only one Man had been granted that grace, Tuor, the mortal who wed Idril of Gondolin, and beca the father of Eärendil.
Arwen's great-grandfather.
After the Fall of Gondolin, Tuor built the great ship Eärrámë and sailed westward with his wife, the Elven princess Idril Celebrindal, into the Undying Lands.
There, Tuor received the grace of the Valar. His fate was bound to that of the Noldor Elves, and he was granted immortality, the only mortal ever to be so blessed.
Their son, Eärendil, too, received the Valar's favor, yet he was no longer wholly Man, but of both Elven and human kind.
And so the question lingered in Arwen's heart: would Sylas ever be granted such grace? Could he, a mortal, truly follow her to Valinor?
She doubted it, and the doubt ached quietly within her.
Sylas noticed the shadow in her eyes. He knew what she feared: that if he could not go West, she would renounce the Undying Lands and remain in Middle-earth with him.
But Sylas did not share her worry. He rembered that, long after this age, even Frodo, Bilbo, Samwise, and Gimli the Dwarf would one day be allowed to sail into the West.
If they could be granted passage, then surely he, who had fought beside wizards and Elves and borne the burden of the world's fate, would not be denied.
And if grace would not co freely, then he would earn it, by defeating Sauron and restoring peace to Arda itself.
Seeing Arwen's brows still knit in worry, Sylas reached out, gently lifting her chin until her eyes t his. The warmth in his gaze made her heart still.
"Alright," he murmured softly. "No more frowning. Trust , Arwen. Your father has agreed to our marriage, shouldn't you be happy?"
Arwen's lips curved into a tender smile, her eyes gleaming like starlight.
"I am," she said simply. "Very happy."
"Then co," Sylas grinned, taking her hand. "We'd better get back to the hall before your father changes his mind and delays the wedding for a century! I swear, I'd die of heartbreak before then."
Laughing, Arwen let him pull her along the garden path. His playful panic only deepened her fondness, and she followed with quiet amusent, her long skirts brushing through the golden grass.
When they returned to the banquet hall, Gandalf and Elrond had just finished setting the formal dates.
"The engagent shall be held at the Harvest Festival, three months hence, on September 21st," Gandalf announced cheerfully."The wedding itself shall take place one year later, on September 21st, Third Age 2948."
Sylas's jaw dropped. "That long?!" he blurted.
Gandalf gave him a weary look. "You should be thanking . If I hadn't argued on your behalf, Lord Elrond was considering postponing it several more years! You'd be climbing the walls by then!"
"Ah...well," Sylas coughed, straightening up quickly. "I think that's perfectly reasonable. A whole year… yes, that's just right."
Gandalf rolled his eyes. "Young people. No patience at all."
Bilbo, sitting nearby with a plate of sugared fruits, nearly choked on his laughter.
But Gandalf, apparently unable to resist stirring more mischief, turned suddenly toward the Hobbit.
"Well then, Bilbo," he said with mock solemnity, "you're not getting any younger. Is there a lady in the Shire who's caught your eye? If you'd like, I could act as your proxy, get you a fine wife before winter!"
Bilbo froze, blinking as if struck by lightning. "Wh-what? ? Oh, no, no, Gandalf, I'm quite happy as I am, thank you very much!"
Gandalf sighed dramatically. "Pity. Without an heir, all those treasures of yours might fall into the hands of… unpleasant relatives."
At that, Bilbo's face fell. The image of Otho Sackville-Baggins and his dreadful wife Lobelia flashed through his mind, the pair who had once tried to buy Bag End right out from under him.
Bilbo, however, fell silent after Gandalf's teasing. He furrowed his brows, deep in thought.
Perhaps the wizard was right. Maybe he should find an heir, soone trustworthy, to inherit Bag End and his estate after his passing.
Because if he didn't, he'd rather donate every last coin to the poor than see Otho and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins laying their grubby hands on it.
Watching him lost in contemplation, Sylas couldn't help but smile.
He suddenly rembered that Bilbo was now fifty-seven years old.
Although Hobbits lived longer than ordinary n, typically ninety to a hundred years, without the One Ring to unnaturally extend his life, Bilbo likely wouldn't survive to witness the events of the War of the Ring as he once had in fate.
And so, Sylas made a quiet decision.
For Bilbo's upcoming fifty-seventh birthday, he would gift him sothing extraordinary, a bottle of the Elixir of Immortality.
By happy coincidence, Bilbo's birthday fell on September 22nd, the day after Sylas and Arwen's engagent.
Perfect timing. After the engagent ceremony, they could host a grand birthday banquet for Bilbo at Weathertop, and surprise him with the gift.
Sylas smiled secretly to himself. He would not spoil the surprise just yet.
Returning to the celebration, the hall of Rivendell glowed with music and starlight.
After the date of their wedding was set, Sylas and Arwen stood together before the gathered Elves and publicly announced their betrothal.
When Sylas lifted the Golden Cup and poured wine into it, the cup shimred faintly, and then, before everyone's astonished eyes, the single pour beca a feast.
Dishes appeared in golden platters across the tables, fruits from the West, roasted venison, silverfish, and Elven sweetats dusted with starlight sugar.
Laughter, song, and wonder filled the air.
The banquet reached its height; even the ever-serene Elves couldn't help but toast with genuine joy.
From that day forward, word of the three treasures of Sylas of Weathertop spread swiftly across Middle-earth.
The Elves spoke first, and then the rumor traveled among the Dúnedain, then among n, Dwarves, and even Orcish spies.
The tales grew wilder with every retelling.
So said the Golden Cup could raise the dead with a single sip.
Others claid the Resurrection Stone could summon lost souls back into their bodies.
And still others whispered that the Philosopher's Stone could create endless mountains of gold, or grant godlike immortality.
No matter how distorted, one truth remained constant:
Sylas's love for Arwen had beco legend.
But where there was legend, there was also greed.
Soon, whispers turned into plots.
Treasure-hunters, rcenaries, crept toward Weathertop, hoping to steal one of the three divine relics.
So dread of using the Golden Cup to command nations. So sought the Resurrection Stone to bring back their lost beloveds.
And so, blinded by lust for eternal life, hunted the Philosopher's Stone.
Yet none returned.
Not one of them even set foot upon the mountain.
The Black Lake surrounding Weathertop served as the Castle's natural defense, and its guardian, the colossal Kraken, obeyed Sylas's command.
Those who dared to trespass never reached the shore.
...
Stones PLzz
Read Chapters ahead @ keepsmiling 818 p@reon
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