As one of the wisest Elven lords in Middle-earth, deciphering a map like this was no challenge for Elrond. The moment he laid eyes on it, he recognized the runes for what they were, Moon-letters, a secret form of Dwarvish script visible only under certain conditions.
"Moon-letters can only be seen under moonlight," Elrond explained, gently adjusting the parchment on the crystal table. "And not just any moonlight, the phase and season must match precisely with the night on which they were written."
He traced a long finger along the map's edge.
"These were inscribed on Midsummer's Eve nearly two hundred years ago, beneath a young crescent moon."
He looked up, his eyes calm yet gleaming with subtle marvel.
"Your arrival here was not mere coincidence, Thorin Oakenshield. Fate is at work, for tonight, the same moon graces our skies."
Elrond guided them to a broad table carved of shimmering crystal, placing the map beneath a beam of moonlight refracted through the open arches above. Slowly, as if awakening from sleep, pale silver runes began to shimmer across the map's surface.
"Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks," Elrond read aloud, his voice low and musical. "And the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the keyhole."
The Dwarves leaned in. Even Thorin, though still holding himself rigidly, couldn't hide the glint of eagerness in his eyes.
The message was clear: they had to reach the Lonely Mountain by Durin's Day, and when the final ray of the setting sun struck the rock, the keyhole would be revealed. That was when the door to the mountain could be unlocked.
Thorin was already bristling with impatience, eager to set out at once and beat the coming deadline.
But Gandalf interjected firmly.
"We remain in Rivendell for a few more days."
Thorin's expression soured. He had no interest in ancient councils or broader concerns. He had come to reclaim his homeland, not to linger among Elves and talk of phantoms.
Gandalf, however, had summoned the White Council. The reappearance of the Witch-king of Angmar and the shadow gathering once more at Dol Guldur demanded urgent discussion.
Thorin grumbled privately and made quiet preparations to press onward without the wizard.
Meanwhile, Sylas made good use of the extra days in Rivendell.
Under the guidance of Elrohir and Elladan, he explored the hidden corners of the valley, its radiant gardens, the vast libraries filled with lore older than kingdoms, the quiet forges where Elven smiths wrought wonders.
To his great surprise, he also met a child who would one day be known to all as King Elessar, Aragorn.
But at this moment, the boy was no king. He was ten years old at most, quiet and perceptive, and went by the name Estel, "Hope" in Elvish, raised in secret by Elrond after the fall of his father.
Sylas watched as Estel ran beside the twin sons of Elrond like a younger brother. There was an innocence in their bond, untouched by fate.
He found himself wondering, if Elrohir and Elladan knew that this boy would one day marry their sister Arwen, that she would forsake her immortal life for him, would they still be so warm, so playful with him?
It was a question Sylas did not dare to answer.
Soon, the appointed time for the White Council approached.
Sylas assumed he would part ways with the Dwarves then, continuing eastward while Gandalf remained behind.
But Gandalf surprised him by pulling him aside.
"I'd like you to attend the Council with me."
Sylas blinked. "Gandalf, is that really appropriate? I'm not a member of the White Council."
Gandalf shook his head gently. "Your presence is needed at this meeting, Sylas. There are matters we must both confirm, for clarity, and for credibility."
Seeing the firm look in Gandalf's eyes, Sylas gave a small nod and did not press further.
Truthfully, he had long wished to meet the members of the White Council. Every one of them was a figure of legend, mighty, wise, and shapers of the age. It was a rare thing indeed for so many of them to gather in one place.
The moon hung full and bright over the highest garden terrace in Rivendell, where the meeting was to take place.
Sylas followed Gandalf up the winding stone path toward a secluded pavilion of white marble, half-veiled in vines and illuminated by silver moonlight.
As they stepped under the archway, a tall and radiant figure greeted them.
Standing in the moonlight was an Elf-woman of such beauty and majesty that the very air seemed to shimmer around her. She wore a flowing white robe embroidered with starlight, and her golden hair spilled over her shoulders like liquid sunlight, gleaming with silver strands that shimmered softly in the night breeze.
Her eyes were deep and wise, shining with an ageless light that held the secrets of the world—ancient, serene, and quietly overwhelming.
"Mithrandir," she said with a graceful smile. Her voice was like a song carried on the wind, and at her greeting, the garden itself seemed to grow still, the stars above brightening ever so slightly in her presence.
"Lady Galadriel," Gandalf returned with a slight bow, his voice touched with warmth. "The years may leave their marks upon me, but they cannot touch the grace of the Lady of Lothlórien."
Galadriel's smile deepened. For a moment, the moon paled beside her.
Sylas, who had been standing slightly behind Gandalf, was left speechless.
She was the most beautiful Elf he had ever seen, not merely in face, but in bearing. There was an effortless elegance to her, a weightless command in every motion. She radiated wisdom and timeless serenity, but behind her smile was power, raw, immense, and old beyond reckoning.
He had heard tales of Galadriel's beauty, of course. But no tale had done her justice.
And yet… there was something more in the way she smiled at Gandalf, in the warmth that lit her face. If Sylas hadn't known she was long married to Celeborn, he might've misunderstood the relationship between the two.
That foolish thought had barely formed when her eyes shifted, and locked with his.
Meeting those eyes that seemed to penetrate people's hearts, Sylas's heart skipped a beat; he quickly cleared his mind and bowed to her, thereby avoiding those penetrating eyes.
Gandalf, standing beside him, took the initiative to speak. "Lady Galadriel, allow me to introduce my companion, Sylas, the Black Robe Wizard. In truth, my own talents and command of magic pale in comparison to his."
"Greetings, Lady Galadriel," Sylas said formally, placing a hand over his heart and bowing with care. "May the light of the stars always shine upon you."
"Black Robe Wizard?" Galadriel repeated softly, her gaze sharpening with a mixture of curiosity and gentle scrutiny.
Her eyes lingered on him, not harshly, but as though peering into a deep well.
Then, without moving her lips, a voice whispered within Sylas's mind.
"Young Wizard… why do you not dare to look me in the eye?"
Sylas stiffened. His heart thudded once, sharply.
Telepathy. It wasn't just her gaze, she was inside his thoughts.
Galadriel's expression didn't shift, but the glint in her eyes deepened, unreadable.
"Is it because you carry secrets you would rather I not see?" her voice echoed again in his mind, quiet but impossible to ignore.
Caught off guard, Sylas scrambled mentally for a response that wasn't exactly the truth. He focused and replied inwardly, "Of course not, Lady Galadriel. I simply dared not look directly into your eyes… They are as radiant as the Star of Eärendil, too dazzling for me to face unguarded."
He didn't dare admit that he'd been wondering about the nature of her relationship with Gandalf, and was afraid she'd read it in his face.
As if to prove himself, Sylas slowly raised his head and met her gaze, doing his best to appear sincere.
Galadriel's lips curved slightly.
"Sly young Wizard," her voice hummed with mirth, "your tongue is silvered."
Then, as though satisfied with her teasing, she withdrew her presence from his thoughts.
With a soft smile, she said aloud, "Once your journey is complete, young Wizard, you are welcome to visit Lothlórien."
Before Sylas could respond, she extended a pale, graceful hand. Resting in her palm was a gem, emerald green and glowing faintly, as if holding the warmth of the sun within.
Sylas blinked. "This is…?"
"This is the Elessar," Galadriel said, her tone light, but her words carrying the weight of ages. "Also called the Elfstone. It contains the light of the sun, and would serve well as the core of a staff."
Sylas stared at it, stunned.
The gem radiated not only warmth, but a gentle, living pulse of magic, pure and radiant. Holding it even for a second, he could tell it would forge a staff unlike any he'd ever crafted.
But more than that, he remembered its place in the lore.
The Elfstone. The very one that would one day be gifted to Aragorn as a sign of Arwen's love, and as a symbol of his right to rule.
And now… she was giving it to him?
Even Gandalf and Elrond seemed taken aback.
Sylas hesitated. "My lady, this… this is far too precious. I could never—"
"Take it," Galadriel said gently, though her voice left no room for refusal.
Before he could think of another protest, the gem was already in his palm, glowing softly, its warmth spreading through his fingertips and up his arm, as though sunlight itself flowed into his veins.
He stood dumbfounded, lips slightly parted.
Galadriel's smile remained, but her eyes sharpened slightly.
"There is… one condition," she added.
Sylas blinked and looked up quickly. "A condition?" A part of him felt relief, he wasn't simply receiving this gift without reason.
Galadriel nodded, then said calmly, "I want you to craft a wand."
Sylas tilted his head. "A wand? For whom, my lady?"
"For Arwen," she replied.
...
Stones PlZzz