In the heart of Caras Galadhon, beneath the silver boughs of mallorn trees, Celeborn and Galadriel received Gandalf and Sylas within their high palace.

"The Balrog of Moria, destroyed at last, by your hands!" Celeborn said in wonder, his voice echoing softly against the carved walls of the chamber. His eyes lingered on the two travelers with admiration. "What you have done is no small deed. Long shall it be remembered."

Even from distant Lórien, the storm atop Zirakzigil could be seen: lightning and fire, thunder and shadow. "In the years to come," Celeborn added with a half-smile, "songs will be sung of that battle, the grey wizard and the black-robed wanderer who slew the last Balrog of Middle-earth."

Gandalf chuckled quietly, leaning on his staff. "Songs will say much, Lord Celeborn, but the truth is less grand. Those below the peaks saw only storm and fire, not the struggle within. It is well that they did not."

Galadriel's gaze softened upon them. Her voice was calm, musical, yet filled with deep insight. "And yet truth does not hide itself forever. The mountain may keep its storms, but deeds such as yours shine even through cloud and snow. You have carried heavy burdens. I see it in your spirit." Her eyes turned to Sylas, reading him with an ancient gentleness that seemed to bare his very soul. "You are weary unto the bone. Go now to Nimrodel, where the waters sing. There you may lay down your cares for a while."

Gandalf and Sylas bowed and did not resist her counsel. They knew the path to Nimrodel well, where the river flowed down from the snowy heights. They waded into its chill, clear waters, letting the icy current wash over them. Pain and weariness seemed to lift from their bodies as if carried away downstream.

Sylas leaned back on the soft grass by the riverbank, half-dreaming. In the murmurs of the stream he thought he heard a fair voice, like that of a spirit singing.

"Wake up, Sylas, you'll freeze if you stay in too long."

He blinked awake, and Arwen was there, kneeling beside him, her eyes warm with concern. "Arwen? You're here too?" he asked, still dazed.

"Yes," she smiled, helping him up. "Nimrodel's waters heal, but linger too long and they will numb even the strongest heart. Come out."

Sylas climbed from the stream, and only then noticed Gandalf had already gone, leaving the two of them alone by the river. Arwen held in her hands a neatly folded robe of white.

"Your clothes are ruined," she said softly, offering it to him. "These I made myself. Will you try them, and see if they fit?"

"You made this for me?" Sylas's eyes lit with boyish joy as he accepted the white robe.

Arwen laughed softly and nodded. He took her hand in both of his, smiling with genuine warmth.

"Arwen, you are wonderful. I cannot imagine the shadowed path of my life without you beside me."

Her lashes fluttered like the wings of a butterfly, and her smile curved as gently as the crescent moon. "Good. But change quickly, before you catch cold!" she urged, her voice tender.

"Here? Without turning away?" Sylas teased, his grin mischievous.

Color touched Arwen's cheeks, pale as dawn upon petals. With a flick of her wand, she summoned a veil of silver mist to wrap around him. "No more jesting, Sylas. Change quickly. My grandparents and Gandalf are waiting."

Regretfully abandoning his game, Sylas dressed swiftly in the elven robe. When the mist faded, he stood tall and fair, clad in white trimmed with silver, carrying a nobility that seemed beyond mortal blood. He turned, half-proud, half-shy. "Well? Does it suit me?"

Arwen's eyes lit, and she nodded. "It suits you perfectly."

Together, they walked from the riverbank through the golden woods until they reached Galadriel's garden. Gandalf, Celeborn, and Galadriel were already seated among the rattan chairs, the Lady's white presence luminous beneath the mallorn trees.

Seeing the two arrive, Gandalf's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Ah! At last! I thought you young ones might keep us waiting longer."

Sylas and Arwen flushed at his teasing, but soon joined the circle. Inevitably, the talk turned back to the Balrog. Gandalf, with quiet gravity, recounted their struggle, falling into the abyss, the desperate chase through the tunnels, the climb to Zirakzigil, and the final slaying upon the peak.

At mention of the nameless creatures beneath the earth, Arwen's hand closed tightly around Sylas's, her eyes filled with fear and gratitude that he still lived. Celeborn's gaze grew grave. "I had thought such tales but legend. To hear they truly dwell in the deeps…"

"Yes," Gandalf admitted, his voice low. "I once dismissed them as rumor. Yet we saw their shadow, felt their gaze. It was more dreadful than any flame of Udûn. Were it not for the Balrog itself fleeing before them, we would never have escaped."

Sylas nodded, shuddering at the memory. The memory of that formless terror gnawed at him even now. "It was not sight, but a presence… an abyss of despair greater than death."

"What are they, these nameless things?" Arwen whispered, never having heard the legend.

Galadriel rose, gliding to the Mirror of Galadriel. She touched its surface, and the water rippled like glass. Her voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of ages.

"They are ancient… more ancient than orcs, older even than Balrogs. They were here before Arda was shaped, born from the chaos before the world's beginning."

Galadriel's hand moved over the Mirror. For a moment, countless fractured images shimmered across its surface like fleeting dreams. Then, suddenly, the water turned utterly black. Not the soft black of a starlit night, but a suffocating void, thicker than ink, swallowing even the thought of light.

From that darkness came whispers, ancient, formless, and cold. A horror without name stirred, as though its gaze had brushed against their world through the Mirror. Galadriel's eyes fixed on it, unflinching, until the danger of being noticed grew too great. With a swift motion of her hand, she dissolved the vision, and the Mirror was once again clear water.

Arwen's voice trembled softly. "Was that… the nameless thing from the deeps?"

Galadriel inclined her head. "Yes. There are beings in Arda that were never shaped by the Valar, nor brought forth in the Music. They are older than fire and older than flesh. In the first darkness, beyond the Walls of the World, Ungoliant came, and others as well. The Nameless Things, who gnaw at the roots of the earth. Ancient lore speaks that, in the world's last hour, one will rise and devour all foundations until nothing remains."

Seeing her granddaughter's unease, Galadriel's sternness softened. She reached out, gently brushing Arwen's cheek. "Do not fear, child. That time lies far beyond even the longest lives of Elves. It is not a shadow we need bear in this age."

Sylas, though unsettled, managed a faint smile. 'It sounds much like the serpent of the Norse tales, gnawing the World-Tree, or the Leviathan of the old tongues. But to hear it within Middle-earth's lore… that is a weight indeed.' He shivered faintly, but then forced the thought aside. "Better we turn to the task before us."

He drew forth the Fire-Demon's heart, a crystal the size of a great stone, glowing with inner heat. Its core burned with a black flame, writhing with malice, violent and destructive. Even across the table, its presence pressed upon them, a remnant of the Maia's corruption under Morgoth.

"This is the Balrog's heart," Sylas said quietly. "Its crystal furnace. Though the fire is tainted, at its core it is still the undying flame of a Maia. I had hoped to use it, to shape the fire of a Phoenix's rebirth into my Animagus form."

Celeborn's brow furrowed. "To wield such a thing, unpurified, would be folly. That path leads only to darkness and ruin."

Gandalf nodded gravely, yet there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "True. But all corruption can be unmade. The Balrog was once a servant of the Flame Imperishable before it was seduced and bound to Morgoth's shadow. The black fire within this crystal is only a veil. If it is purged, the pure fire can endure. Lady Galadriel, no power in Middle-earth rivals yours in cleansing and light. Will you lend your hand?"

Galadriel's gaze fell upon Sylas, his eagerness, Arwen's pleading eyes beside him. Slowly, her lips curved in a faint smile, both solemn and kind. She gave a single nod.

...

You can support me on patreon and read chapters ahead @/Keepsmiling818

Stones Plzz