Making of a Horcrux was not without consequence.
When Sylas had torn a sliver from his soul to bind into the palantír, he discovered that it was not only a fragment of spirit that had been lost. A measure of his clarity, his reason, had gone with it. In its place crept impulses he had never indulged before, recklessness, impatience, the dangerous temptation to act before thinking.
His daring rescue of Morinehtar had been proof enough. By all rights, it had been a fool's gamble, an act that might have cost not only his life, but the ruin of two Istari besides.
And that had been the toll of a single Horcrux. He shuddered to imagine what would remain of his mind if he had followed the path of Voldemort, sundering his soul into seven pieces.
Holding the darkened palantír in his palm, Sylas felt unease coil in his chest. He had once considered making more Horcruxes, weaving his essence into other relics within his keeping: the Crown of Wisdom, the Golden Goblet, even the Resurrection Stone or aeglos. Each would have been nearly indestructible vessels.
He uncorked a vial and drank. Coolness spread through his body.
The potion cleared Sylas's mind like a fresh mountain wind. The faint ache of his divided soul, ever gnawing at the edges of his thoughts since the creation of the Horcrux, ebbed away at once. His impulses quieted, his restlessness stilled, and for the first time in weeks, he felt wholly himself again, calm, rational, and steady.
But he knew it was only a reprieve. One vial of Soul Stabilizer would last no more than a month, and when its strength faded, the old unrest would return. Each batch he had managed to brew was enough for only three months. If he wished to keep the shadow of madness at bay, he would need to set aside time continually to replenish his supply.
Time, however, was what he lacked most. The year was waning, and the dawn of a new age was close at hand. With it would come the one chance to reach Hildórien, the cradle of Men, which revealed itself only when the first light of New Year's Day touched the earth. He had to be there. He had to be ready.
The Blue Wizards had their own burdens. Once certain his friend was safe, Rómestámo had taken the Portkey back to the Far East, unwilling to leave the region unguarded lest Sauron's armies seize the chance to strike.
Morinehtar, too, despite his frailty, could not bear to remain in Rivendell while the East still struggled. Against Elrond's counsel, he pressed to return. His staff, however, had been stolen by Saruman. Seeing this, Elrond and Sylas placed in his hands the staff once stripped from Saruman himself.
Morinehtar accepted with gratitude. The staff did not fit his hand as naturally as his own, but it was better than walking into peril unarmed. And so the irony stood, Saruman had stolen Morinehtar's staff, only for Morinehtar to wield Saruman's in turn.
Once Sylas had settled his affairs in Isengard and Weathertop, and taken leave of Elrond and Arwen, he pressed his fingers to the silver brooch upon his breast. In a shimmer of silver light, he vanished.
When he opened his eyes, the world was different. He stood in the Far East.
"Welcome, Sylas," said Rómestámo warmly. Morinehtar smiled beside him, though his face was still pale with weariness.
They stood in a quiet mountain wood near the southern shores of the Sea of Rhûn. Behind them rose a small timber cabin, one of the many hidden strongholds the Blue Wizards had built across the East. Here they could retreat, heal, and plot anew against Sauron's forces.
Rómestámo offered him a horn of milk from the Araw oxen that roamed the hills nearby, mighty beasts descended from the herds of Oromë himself. "Drink," he said. "This will strengthen you."
The oxen were coveted by Easterling tribes for their power. Their horns could gore lion and tiger alike, and even their milk, taken often enough, lent hardiness and might. But to catch one was no small feat; they were swift and fierce, guardians of the wild.
Sylas raised the horn and drank. The milk was thick and strange upon his tongue, but within moments he felt its force stirring in his limbs. Yet the effect was muted. His body, already quickened by draughts of the Ents, bore the strength of Elves; the milk could do little more for him.
Though the milk had only a faint effect on him now, Sylas knew that if taken over time it would surely strengthen his body.
And truly, what wizard would ever refuse to grow stronger?
He even mused, half in jest, half in earnest, that when his current mission was done, he might try to capture a few Araw oxen and bring them back to Isengard to rear.
Inside the cabin, Rómestámo poured another cup of the pale milk for him, while Morinehtar brought forth the promised gift.
It was a golden bow.
At first glance it seemed forged of solid gold, yet when Sylas held it he felt its resilience, supple as steel. Fine carvings wound along its surface, patterns of stars and leaves, woven through with strange runes of power. With it came three silver arrows, bright as moonlight.
"The bow itself was fashioned in Valinor," Morinehtar explained, his voice tinged with reverence. "The stave is cut from a tree that grows only in the Blessed Realm. Its string is woven from the tail-hair of a Vala's steed. As for these arrows..." He touched them with careful hands. "They are part of a dwindling set. Once, there were twelve."
He recounted how one arrow had slain an Orc-chieftain upon the Misty Mountains, another had struck down a cruel Easterling king, and seven more had been loosed in wars against Mordor's hosts. "Now only three remain. Paired with the bow, they never miss. No matter how far, no matter how well hidden the mark, if your will is strong, you can strike true from a thousand miles away."
Sylas's eyes gleamed at the thought. A weapon that obeyed the will of the archer, swift as light, faster than sight itself, by the time one realized an arrow had been loosed, it would already be too late.
A pity, he thought, that even such a bow could not unmake Sauron himself. Otherwise he would have gladly loosed one of the silver shafts toward the Black Land at once.
Still, even without its enchanted arrows, the bow never strayed. Any shaft it loosed would find its mark.
With heartfelt thanks, Sylas accepted the gift. In return, he gave each of the Blue Wizards a sapphire brooch of his own making.
"These are Portkeys," he explained. "In a time of peril, tap them three times, and they will carry you straight to Isengard."
The brothers in blue looked down at the brooches, deeply moved. Such a gift was no mere trinket, it was a safeguard, a promise of survival.
Their farewells were brief but sincere. Sylas pressed on eastward, driven by the nearing turn of the year and the hidden valley that awaited him at dawn's first light.
The two Blue Wizards remained behind. Already the drums of war were sounding. Easterling tribes sworn to Mordor were stirring under some great command, their armies gathering like storm clouds.
Rómestámo and Morinehtar prepared to meet them, rallying what free folk they could, determined once more to stand in the breach against Sauron's will.
...
Stones Plzzz
Read chapters ahead @/Keepsmiling818