Thousands of miles away, at the circle of Isengard.
With a sharp twist of air, space rippled. Sylas, Rómestámo, Morinehtar, and the great white yak materialized on the grass before Orthanc.
Sylas staggered as the hook-like pull of the Portkey released him. For the first time since Minas Harad, he allowed himself a long breath of relief. They had escaped. Against all odds, they had torn themselves from Sauron's grasp.
Yet the cost had been heavy. He raised his hand and studied the Ring of Power upon his finger. Its glow had faded to a dull, lifeless gleam, the reservoir of magic completely drained. Half a year's patient gathering of power, his own strength multiplied a hundredfold, had been consumed in mere minutes under Sauron's assault. The loss cut at him like a blade. That precious magic would have to be rebuilt, grain by grain, drop by drop.
The great hall within astonished Rómestámo. Its cavernous chambers and soaring stonework dwarfed even the grand halls of the East. But his wonder quickly turned to wariness, for before them lay a beast of monstrous stature.
A dog, towering as a house, unfurled itself from slumber. Three heads lifted at once, eyes burning. The creature's hackles bristled; three throats rumbled as fire began to kindle deep within.
Rómestámo raised his staff in alarm, but Sylas lifted a hand, his voice sharp.
"Quiet!"
All three heads froze. The beast whined, tails thumping, and lowered itself submissively.
"Cerberus," Sylas said firmly, though with a sigh, "they are guests. Behave."
The dog whuffed apologetically, lolling tongues out in a doggish display of contrition.
Sylas reached up and patted each massive head in turn. "Yes, yes, I know. Another time. We have urgent matters to attend to."
Obedient now, Cerberus slumped back against the doorway, all three pairs of eyes glowing as he resumed his watch.
Rómestámo's eyes widened as the three-headed dog wagged its tails under Sylas's hand. Surprise softened into a faint smile.
"Is this your companion?"
Sylas gave an apologetic nod. "Yes. His name is Cerberus. He's a three-headed hound, still a variant breed, and only just over a year old. Not yet full-grown, so he can be a little… excitable."
But Rómestámo showed no anger at having nearly been scorched moments before. Instead, he gazed at the beast with something like admiration.
"At such strength when barely out of its youth? If well-trained, he might one day rival Huan himself."
Sylas shook his head quickly. He could not accept such praise. The thought of comparing his mischievous companion to the great Hound of Valinor seemed almost irreverent. Huan was legend: the slayer of Carcharoth, the one beast who had ever brought Sauron himself to heel. Sylas recalled the tale told by Elves, that when Lúthien came to rescue Beren, Sauron had taken the shape of a monstrous wolf, and still Huan seized him by the throat. Neither sorcery nor transformation could free him, and in the end Sauron fled, broken, from the Isle of Werewolves.
And yet Sylas and his companions had only just escaped that same Dark Lord by the thinnest margin. The difference in power was beyond measure.
He set such thoughts aside and wasted no time. Guiding Rómestámo and the frail Morinehtar, Sylas led them to the fireplace and stepped through the emerald flames of the Floo Network, vanishing into Rivendell.
They emerged in the House of Elrond, where the river sang beyond the windows and ancient trees shaded the stone halls. Elrond himself greeted them, his expression calm but tinged with concern.
"You return sooner than I expected. Was your journey smooth?"
Sylas shook his head. "We traced the path to Hildórien, but it can only be reached on the first day of the New Year. And… there were complications."
He spoke plainly of the events in the East, of Minas Harad, the trap, the Ringwraiths, and Sauron's sudden appearance.
Elrond's brows knit as he listened. At last he sighed, the weight of ages heavy in his voice. "You walked a perilous edge. Sauron's power is vast. Had fortune not given you a way of escape, your fate would have been dire indeed."
Sylas inclined his head, accepting the rebuke. He knew it was true. Overconfidence had nearly cost them everything. Only the sudden boon of the Portkey had kept them from ruin.
Together they went to the healing chambers. Elrond received the two Blue Wizards with deep respect, honoring their long struggle in the East against Sauron's shadow. He promised his utmost skill in their care.
Rómestámo's exhaustion was great, but his spirit remained whole. With rest, his strength would return.
Morinehtar, however, was another matter. Elrond bent over him, his face grave.
"He has endured grievous torment. His body may yet recover, but his mind… that is more perilous. A shard of Sauron's malice lingers within him. It has stained his spirit. Were it not for his extraordinary will, he would already have fallen."
Rómestámo's worry broke through his composure. "Lord Elrond, is there a cure?"
Elrond shook his head, regret in his eyes. "To cleanse such corruption entirely lies beyond my power. Perhaps only in Valinor, before the Valar themselves, could his spirit be restored in full."
The words weighed heavily. Return to the Blessed Realm was no simple matter; their mission in Middle-earth remained unfinished, and the way was barred.
Yet Elrond's tone softened. "Still, all hope is not lost. Though I cannot purge the shadow, I may seal it. With Vilya, the Ring of Air, I can bind the poisoned fragment, halting its spread. It is not a cure, but it will grant him time, so long as his will endures."
Relief passed through Sylas, though he bit back a wry thought about Elrond's penchant for ominous qualifiers. Rómestámo, however, seized upon the hope with gratitude and urged Elrond to begin at once.
So Elrond set to work. First he tended Morinehtar's wounds, bathing him in gentle light to restore a measure of vitality. Then, drawing upon the hidden might of Vilya, he reached into the wounded Wizard's spirit. Bright threads of power wove around the darkness, enclosing it, locking it deep within, so that Sauron's influence could spread no further.
Elrond's healing skill proved worthy of his renown as the greatest healer in Middle-earth. Within a short time, Morinehtar's wasted frame was restored, strength returning to his limbs, and his eyes cleared as full consciousness returned.
"Thank you, Lord Elrond," he said with deep reverence, bowing low. "Without your aid, I would have slipped into shadow, lost forever."
Elrond inclined his head, receiving the thanks with a gentle smile. Yet his words were tinged with caution.
"I have sealed the corrupted fragment within you, but Sauron's influence has not vanished. The nearer you draw to him, the weaker that seal will become. And know this, when I bound the corruption, I bound part of your own power with it. You must be prepared for that burden."
Morinehtar, however, only smiled with a quiet, unshaken spirit. "It is still far better than the fate I expected."
Then he turned to Sylas, his voice filled with sincerity.
"My brother has already entrusted you with the Horn of Victory, but that alone cannot repay what you have done. You saved not only me, but Rómestámo as well. I cannot fathom the despair we would have faced, had we been taken by Sauron and turned into his thralls, forgetting our purpose and our oaths."
He bowed again, this time to Sylas.
"I possess a golden bow, forged by a Noldorin smith of Valinor in memory of Oromë, the Hunter. It is said never to miss its mark, whether the prey be distant or hidden. When I return to the East, it shall be yours."
At such a promise, Sylas's curiosity was piqued, though he accepted the unseen gift with a nod of respect, recognizing the depth of the Blue Wizard's gratitude.
While the two Istari rested and recovered in Rivendell, Sylas returned alone to Weathertop.
He descended into the deep vaults, where the air shimmered with the warmth of dragon-fire and the gleam of gold. There, sprawled amidst a hoard that would shame kings, lay Smaug. Half-buried in treasure, the dragon lifted his head as Sylas entered, his eyes gleaming with avarice.
"Master, you've returned!" Smaug rumbled, his voice eager but edged with wariness. With a subtle sweep of his claws, he drew the treasure closer to his body, as though shielding it from any request for payment.
Sylas ignored the gesture, his tone flat. "Bring me what is mine."
The dragon's throat rumbled, and with a reluctant heave, Smaug spat forth a round black crystal that clattered onto the stone floor.
Sylas wrinkled his nose. With a flick of his wand, a cleansing charm swept away the dragon's saliva before he took the object into his hand.
It was a palantír, yet unlike any of its kind. Dark vapors coiled within, and faint threads of sorcery shivered across its surface. The faint image of Sylas's own face glimmered within the swirling mist.
This was no ordinary seeing-stone. This was his Horcrux.
Before setting out to the East, Sylas had taken a terrible precaution. He had sundered a fragment of his soul and bound it into the indestructible heart of the palantír. The ancient stone, harder than steel and impervious to flame, had become the vessel of his survival.
At the price of an Orc's life, the deed had been wrought. He had then entrusted the Horcrux to Smaug, certain that no thief would dare pry a secret from the dragon.
Now, as he held it again, Sylas felt both a shiver of triumph and a shadow of unease. Should death find him, this stone would draw him back.
It was his final safeguard.