As the last glow of the setting sun spilled across the western sky, Sylas rode the giant eagle down toward the Grey Havens.

The harbor lay at the mouth of the River Lhûn, where the great Gulf pierced deep into the land like a silver arrow, parting the Blue Mountains and pointing eastward toward Eriador. It was the end of the ancient East–West Road, facing Rivendell at the other terminus.

The city itself was spread across the cliffs on either side of the water, its halls and quays carved from massive stone. The tallest structures were its twin lighthouses, standing like guardians at the harbor mouth. At night their flames burned bright through the fog, guiding ships safely even from leagues out at sea.

Below, tall white-sailed ships and slender boats rocked gently at anchor, their reflections shimmering across the tide, a vision of beauty and sadness interwoven.

Sylas, from his perch on Thorondor's back, gazed down over it all before guiding the eagle to land on the wide road just outside the port.

The Elves of Mithlond had already marked the eagle's shadow above the waves. Yet none were afraid. The great eagles were friends of their people, servants of Manwë, and their coming was ever a sign of great tidings. Instead, the Elves looked upward with wonder, their voices hushed with curiosity.

Here in the Grey Havens dwelt Elves of many kindreds, Noldor, Sindar, and Silvan alike, but most were of the Teleri, those who loved the sea above all else. It was here that the departing ships for the Blessed Realm were fashioned, and here that those who still lingered in Middle-earth gathered before at last crossing the Straight Road into the West.

Thorondor's vast wings beat once, scattering the harbor fog into ripples of silver mist, while the moored ships bobbed restlessly on the tide.

Sylas leapt lightly to the ground, his black robes whispering in the sea breeze.

A silver-haired Elf stepped forward to greet him. His voice was courteous, but wary.

"Stranger from afar, what brings you to the Grey Havens?"

Sylas bowed in the Elvish manner and replied in their own tongue.

"I am Sylas, a wizard dwelling at Amon Sûl, and I would seek audience with Lord Círdan."

At once the Elf's eyes brightened with recognition. He returned the gesture with elegance.

"Ah! So it is indeed the Lord of Weathertop who comes to Mithlond. Word of your deeds has traveled west across the mountains, dragon-tamer, Balrog-slayer, restorer of Amon Sûl. To see you in truth is a wonder! I am Galdor, Círdan's steward. Yet your coming finds us at an ill-timed hour. My lord has but lately sailed westward with a company of our kin and has not yet returned."

Sylas raised his brows in mild surprise.

"Lord Círdan is away? That is a pity. Lord Elrond entrusted me with a letter for him."

At this, Galdor's expression sharpened with interest.

"Then rest easy, Master Sylas. You are welcome in the Havens until his return. If fortune is kind, it will not be more than a month ere his ship returns from the West."

Sylas inclined his head.

"Your courtesy is greatly appreciated."

Though unable to meet Círdan at once, Sylas was not disheartened. His greater purpose here lay in seeking the Mercury of the Spirit. Meeting the Shipwright was but a welcome addition to his journey.

At Galdor's bidding, he entered the white port city. The walls were hewn from massive stone and in places carved straight from the living cliffs. Above, slender fortresses crowned the heights, their towers looking out over the grey sea.

The harbor itself was broad and deep, wide enough for many ships to rest within, though its narrow entrance forced vessels to pass in order, guided by the light of the twin towers. Mist hung over the water like a veil, giving the whole haven a hushed, dreamlike beauty.

Galdor led Sylas to a guesthouse carved into the cliffside, known as the Boathouse. It was a resting place for Elves who awaited the sailing West. The chambers were simple but graceful, filled with the scent of the sea and with terraces overlooking the waves.

That night, Sylas did not hurry to his task. Instead he lingered on the balcony, gazing at the fading sunset as the voices of Elven sailors rose in song below. The Teleri's music wove with the sighing of the tide, each note bright and sorrowful, as though the sea itself sang through their throats.

Thorondor had flown to the Blue Mountains to roost for the night, leaving Sylas in peace.

Listening to the melody, Sylas closed his eyes and smiled faintly.

...

At first light, Sylas strolled down to the quays.

Elven ships came and went, some bound for the open sea, others ferrying supplies north to Forlond and south to Harlond, the twin havens that faced one another across the Gulf of Lhûn. Both lay within Lindon, west of the Blue Mountains, once ruled by Gil-galad, High King of the Elves, and after his fall overseen by Círdan the Shipwright. Círdan had never taken a crown; he bore instead the older, humbler title: Lord of the Havens.

As the only gate by which the Eldar might still pass into the West, the Grey Havens (Mithlond) held a meaning beyond stone and sail. Here lingered the Elves' last affections for Middle-earth, their memories, their hesitations, their hopes, slowly steeped into the water like silver light.

Sylas sat on the circular steps of the dock and ladled a handful of bay water. It ran clear between his fingers, yet beneath its surface he felt a soft tremor of spirit: longing, attachment, remembrance… and the courage to let go.

Galdor appeared at his side without a sound. "Here they board," he said quietly. "Only by laying down their last burdens can they reach the Blessed Realm with untroubled hearts. For ages uncounted, those feelings have poured into the Gulf of Lhûn and tinted its waters with silver."

He drew a breath, a wistful smile in his eyes. "When my own road calls me West, I will leave my memories here as well, and sail unburdened."

Sylas marvelled. 'Creation has its own alchemy,' he thought, watching the soft gleam upon the tide.

This was why he had come. The bay's silver radiance was not mere beauty; it was the Mercury of Spirit, one of the three primordial substances needed to craft the Philosopher's Stone. Not seawater scooped at random, but the distilled trace of countless Elven hearts. Of course, it would require careful extraction and purification; only then would the pure Spirit-Mercury reveal itself.

He turned to Galdor and spoke plainly. "Master Galdor, with your leave: may I draw from the waters' essence for my work? I would take nothing that harms the Havens."

Galdor blinked in surprise, then smiled and inclined his head. "You have our goodwill, Wizard Sylas. The emotions bound in this bay are strong, sometimes too strong for those not yet ready to depart. If your art can gently ease them, we will be grateful."

With permission granted, Sylas stepped to the edge, set the tip of his wand to the water, and murmured an incantation.

Invisible currents rippled outward. Slowly, like stars awakening beneath the surface, motes of silver gathered and drew toward the wand. They twined together into a slender shining thread. Sylas slipped a crystal phial from his cloak and guided the thread within.

It pooled there like living quicksilver, flecked with points of starlight.

Spirit-Mercury. Thought made tangible.

Such places were rare; only here, where ages of farewell had steeped the sea, could spirit condense in such abundance. Even so, a single strand was but a beginning. He would need much more, and patience besides.

Around him, the portion of bay he had drawn from faded gently from silver back to ordinary blue. Galdor watched, pleased and a little amazed. The beauty of the shining water had always been tinged with danger: an unwary Elf who fell in might be overwhelmed by memories and lose the will to sail. This soft "unburdening," even in small measure, was a mercy.

Galdor soon provided a small craft, a graceful white swan-boat, and offered sailors to assist. Sylas thanked him for the boat but declined the crew. Settling alone into the swan's curved seat, he set the vessel gliding with a whisper of magic and drifted out upon the quiet lanes of Mithlond.

So he worked through the day: half-reclined, wand trailing in the water like a child idly playing, softly chanting as now and then another filament of silver gathered to his hand and slipped into the crystal. Elven mariners passed with curious glances but did not intrude; the Havens were a place of courtesy.

By sunset, the little swan returned to the quay like a bird to its nest. At the bottom of his phial lay a gleam no thicker than a fingernail—yet bright as moonlight.

At this pace, a full bottle might take a week or two. Sylas found himself content. Without the Havens' natural "pensieve," he might have labored for years to gather so much as this.