Having completed the first stage of the Philosopher's Stone, Sylas set his work aside for a time.
The next phase, the transformation of the blackened Stone into the White Stone, required a rare catalyst: the rising of Elenmirë, the wandering star of Middle-earth (what the wise called Mercury). Elenmirë appeared but three times each year, and never at a fixed hour. Its path through the heavens was elusive, its light fickle.
By consulting the ancient star-charts preserved in Orthanc, and with Elrond's guidance, Sylas had calculated its course. According to the Lord of Rivendell's estimation, Elenmirë would next rise on March 8th, a date that now drew swiftly near.
Before that day arrived, Sylas traveled by the Floo-fire to Lothlórien to seek the aid of Lady Galadriel. The second stage of refinement would not be possible without the might of her Ring of Power.
Galadriel had long known of Sylas's work, and when she heard his request she agreed without hesitation. They had once sat together in the White Council, and she knew how deeply this task was tied to Arwen's fate. She would not see her beloved granddaughter forsake immortality as Lúthien had long ago.
Thus, Galadriel consented, and with her came Arwen.
Together they journeyed to Isengard, to the tower of Orthanc. Once Saruman's stronghold, the tower had been reshaped by Sylas into a true wizard's citadel. Its dark stone now served as a conduit of power, a perfect place for works of high magic.
On the highest platform of Orthanc, Galadriel and Arwen stood watch at the circle's edge while Sylas worked. With Dragon's blood he painted a seven-pointed star, each line precise and gleaming. The array would bind and hold the forces of transmutation, preventing them from scattering into the void.
Elenmirë was unlike other stars. It did not crown the sky at midnight, but instead glimmered in the liminal hours, just before dawn, and just after dusk.
And so, in the chill darkness of March 8th, as the world still held its breath before sunrise, Elenmirë climbed above the eastern horizon.
Its brilliance was sharper than any other star, silver-blue and pure.
At the instant its light touched Orthanc, Sylas called the circle to life.
Galadriel raised her hand, and on it shone Nenya, the Ring of Water. Its radiance surged outward, summoning the water-element from every stream, cloud, and hidden spring. A torrent of pale blue light cascaded into the star array, flowing like a river of the heavens.
And Elenmirë answered. A single beam of azure starlight fell from the heights of the firmament, striking the heart of Orthanc's array like a pillar that bound heaven and earth.
The sight was so wondrous that across the lands many turned their eyes toward it.
Far to the north, beneath the Lonely Mountain, King Thorin Oakenshield lifted his gaze. The star-pillar blazed upon the southern horizon, bright as fire.
"What place is that?" he asked in a low voice.
A dwarf beside him bowed and replied, "Your Majesty, it lies near Isengard. That was once Saruman's realm, but now it belongs to the Black Wizard, Sylas."
He reached for the wand at his side. With a graceful flick, silver light burst forth, and an immense Patronus leapt into being, a great elk, radiant and noble, crowned with vast, palmate antlers that mirrored the mount his father once rode into battle.
The elk strode proudly through the forest glade, its hooves glowing with moonlight. At last it bowed its antlered head and pressed its muzzle affectionately against Legolas's shoulder.
Legolas stroked the shining form with gentle hands. His voice was steady.
"This Patronus was a gift from Sylas's teaching. It is the mirror of my spirit, the will to protect my people, my kin, and those I hold dear. If I were ever to taint that protection with self-interest or cold calculation, my spirit would falter, and this Patronus would forsake me.
Father, I do not wish to become one who weighs every bond for gain. Just as your love for Mother endures beyond all else, so too must my loyalty and friendship remain steadfast and sincere."
For a moment Thranduil said nothing. He gazed upon the glowing elk, its form radiant with purity and resolve, and saw reflected there both hope and his son's heart. At last he laid a hand upon Legolas's shoulder, his stern features softened with paternal pride.
"You have grown, Legolas. Perhaps the ways of us old kings no longer serve this world. Walk your path as your heart leads."
At this, Legolas smiled, pure, bright, unshadowed.
...
But not all eyes looked upon the starlight with admiration.
Far in the West, within the blackened land of Mordor, the fiery Eye upon Barad-dûr turned toward Isengard. Sauron bent his will upon the palantír, straining to pierce the veil and uncover what was being wrought.
Yet at Orthanc stood Galadriel, Lady of Light, bearer of Nenya, the mightiest of the Elves left in Middle-earth. She felt his gaze the instant it touched the circle.
Strengthened by the beam of Elenmirë pouring through the array, Galadriel's form blazed with radiance. Her eyes became like twin stars, white pupils burning with holy brilliance. She looked across the void with the force of judgment itself.
"Sauron, thrall of Morgoth, your sight has no dominion here. Be gone."
Her words fell like a binding spell.
And in Barad-dûr, the great Eye recoiled as though struck, its vision torn away. From the tower echoed a voice of rage, grinding with hate and fury:
"Galadriel!"
Meanwhile, in the shadows of Orthanc, Saruman watched the southern sky blaze with the star-pillar. His face twisted with envy, bitterness gnawing at his pride.
That land had once been his. Now it was given to others, and he was left rootless, reduced to dwelling in another's shadow. The thought burned in him like acid.
"Soon," Saruman muttered bitterly, his hands tightening on his staff. "Soon I will reclaim Isengard. Sylas, Gandalf, Galadriel, Elrond… all of you will taste my wrath!"
Yet as his words dripped with venom, his eyes gleamed with feverish delight at the sight before him.
Laid out across the chamber were clutches of eggs, ranging in size and hue. Some were the spawn of Dragons crossed with Fellbeasts, others bred from the dark giant lizards of Mordor and the titanic serpents that slithered in its depths. There were well over a hundred, each one seething with malice.
Even before they cracked, the eggs exuded a foul aura. Into every shell Sauron had breathed a fragment of his own malice, just as he had enslaved the Wargs with dark spirits. These unborn horrors would not only be monstrous in strength when hatched, they would be utterly bound to his will.
And as their artificer, Saruman himself held sway second only to the Dark Lord.
"How long before they hatch, and grow strong enough for war?"
The question came not from the shadows but was the shadow: Sauron's towering presence coiled in the air above the chamber.
Saruman straightened, pride glinting in his eyes. "Only a few months for the shells to break, my lord. Within three years they will stand grown, and you shall have a flight of Dragons at your command."
But Sauron's great Eye narrowed, displeased.
"Not enough. Breed more. Forge me an army of Dragons vast enough to sweep aside every foe, and the time will be shortened."
At his command, power poured forth, a tide of black fire and venom that seeped into the shells. The eggs pulsed as though alive, their veins glowing red as the corruption of Mordor filled them. The air grew foul, thick with a stench of death and brimstone.
Time itself seemed to quicken. Cracks spread across the shells. One by one, the eggs split apart, and the hatchlings clawed their way into the world, abominations of scale and wing and shadow.
The most terrible were those sired from Dragons and Fellbeasts. Jet-black, without scales, their hides leathery and veined, they lacked frost-breath yet inherited a shriek that rattled the bones and froze the heart with terror. They stood upon two clawed legs, wings vast and bat-like, their cries echoing like the screams of the damned.
Others bore the blood of Dragons and Mordor's dark lizards. These had four legs and two wings, resembling winged reptiles. They could take to the skies, their fangs dripping with venom that drained strength and brought a slow, wasting death.
Last were the spawn of Dragons and the titanic pythons of Mordor. These were vast beyond measure, serpentine and limbless, their bodies plated in scales, spines running the length of their backs to their tails. They had neither flame nor frost, nor venom, but their sheer mass and crushing coils promised ruin to all who stood before them.