Seizing upon their talk of ship models, Sylas asked Círdan about the craft of shipbuilding.

The Shipwright did not hold back, he shared freely, explaining timber, sails, and keel, never keeping his knowledge to himself.

"Lord Círdan," Sylas said thoughtfully, "when sailing the seas, the first concern is the strength of the vessel. Wood, though graceful, is fragile. Have you ever considered steel instead?"

Círdan's first instinct was to laugh and shake his head. "Steel? Impossible! It is too heavy, it would sink at once…" His voice trailed off. He froze, his eyes widening as though a veil had been torn from them. Sparks of inspiration danced there, and suddenly he gripped Sylas's hand, excitement flashing across his ancient face.

"Tell me more of this steel ship, Sylas! My heart warns me that this is the true course of ships to come. Yet it is hidden from me in mist, and I cannot pierce the veil alone!"

Sylas blinked, startled by such eagerness. 'So this is what it means to love one's craft,' he thought, amused. He nodded. "Do you have any iron nearby, my lord? I'll show you."

"Yes! At once!" Círdan all but dragged him to his private shipyard, where a stack of iron ingots lay ready.

Under the Shipwright's watchful eye, Sylas raised his wand. The iron softened and flowed like clay under his spell, reshaping until a small vessel ten meters long took form. Gleaming, sharp-lined, wholly wrought of steel, it was unlike anything Círdan had ever seen. Sylas levitated it into the dock's deep water, where it floated steadily, riding lower than a wooden craft but floating nonetheless.

Círdan's eyes shone like stars. "May I step aboard?"

"Of course," Sylas said warmly, conjuring a slender gangway.

The ancient elf hurried across with the eagerness of a child. Sylas followed, smiling as Círdan's long hands brushed along the cold steel, studying every seam and curve. But at last the Shipwright frowned.

"It is strong indeed… yet so heavy. If we relied on oars alone, the labor would be monstrous, the speed clumsy. Surely there must be a better way."

Sylas's lips quirked into a grin. "There is. If a ship is heavy, why not use a greater force than mere arms and oars to move it?"

Círdan turned, eyes bright as lanterns. "What force do you speak of?"

Instead of answering, Sylas asked, "Have you ever watched a kettle boil? The water steams, and the rising vapor pushes the lid until it rattles, even leaps free?"

The elf's wisdom was quick. His face lit as though struck by lightning. He snatched up a kettle, filled it with water, and set it to boil on the hearth. Soon the lid was clattering from the force beneath. He pressed his palm upon it and felt the power surge up, resisting his strength. His eyes widened further.

"By the Valar… the might in simple boiling water! If we could harness it, contain it in a sealed vessel, channel it into a wheel, aye, such force could drive even this steel ship swifter than the wind!"

Ideas tumbled from him now, each brighter than the last. The Shipwright was already sketching the dream of a steam-driven vessel in his mind.

He turned to Sylas, voice full of awe. "You are a marvel, my friend. Now I understand why Mithrandir and Elrond speak of you with such praise. This knowledge will reshape the course of every voyage to come!"

His eyes glowed with fervor. "Stay with me in the Grey Havens. Learn the craft of shipbuilding. Together we will design and launch a ship of steel and steam, greater than any swan-ship of old. It shall eclipse all my labors!"

Faced with such passion, Sylas could only smile ruefully and shake his head. "My lord, I fear you overestimate me. These are not inventions of my own, but echoes of another age I happen to recall. In truth, I am no master shipwright. Without you, I'd scarcely manage a fishing skiff."

And beyond that, he had little time to spare. Magic, study, and the perilous road ahead demanded all his strength. How could he linger to apprentice as a builder of ships?

Círdan's shoulders fell, and for a moment the old elf looked weary, as though the long ages pressed upon him. He had seen much and done more, yet still he longed for a successor.

He gazed westward, where the sun bled into the sea. He had heard the call of Valinor, and his heart yearned to answer it.

Because of his unmatched shipbuilding skill, crafting vessels capable of sailing the Straight Road to Valinor, the Valar had long decreed that Círdan remain in Middle-earth until the last of the Elves departed. It was his solemn charge to bear them westward, a duty that kept him from answering the call himself.

Yet now, after meeting Sylas, whose ideas about shipbuilding stretched beyond the bounds of elven tradition, Círdan felt a stirring of possibility. Perhaps, at last, he had found someone who might not only inherit his mantle but surpass it.

Still, though the thought lingered in his heart, Círdan did not press the matter. When Sylas politely declined, the Shipwright let it rest, though not without a sigh of regret.

In the days that followed, Círdan poured much of his energy into experimenting with the notion of steam engines. He envisioned a force that could drive a ship of steel across the sea swifter than any oar or sail. Sylas, meanwhile, chose not to interfere, he trusted that with Círdan's wisdom, such puzzles would, in time, find their own solutions.

Instead, Sylas turned to his own task: mastering Apparition. For safety, he asked Galdor to stand by in case something went wrong, particularly the dreaded danger of Splinching. When Círdan heard, he put down his tools and came to watch as well, his eyes alight with curiosity.

In the practice field, Sylas drew two circles on the ground as markers. Taking a steadying breath, he reminded himself of the three principles of Apparition: Destination, Determination, Deliberation.

He fixed his gaze upon the second circle, focused all his will upon arriving there, and spun sharply on the spot.

With a faint pop, he vanished.

An instant later, he reappeared inside the second circle. Success! Or so he thought, until Galdor gave a strangled gasp. Sylas glanced down and realized, to his chagrin, that his left arm had failed to make the journey and still dangled awkwardly back in circle number one.

Instead of panicking, he merely sighed. With a flick of his wand, he summoned the arm, reattached it, and sealed the tear with a mending charm. "There we are," he muttered. "Good as new."

The next attempt was cleaner. In another crack, he reappeared whole. Each trial brought improvement. Soon, he was no longer bound to the two circles but flashing freely around the practice ground, sometimes with the echo of a whip-crack, sometimes near-silent.

At last, with a ripple of displaced air, Sylas appeared directly before Círdan and Galdor, grinning. "I think I've got it. Thank you both for keeping watch!"

Círdan chuckled, his silver beard stirring in the breeze. "We hardly did a thing, my friend. But to see such a wonder with our own eyes… yes, that was a gift."

Galdor nodded fervently, still wide-eyed. "To travel as lightning itself… it is beyond belief."

And so the months slipped by. Each day Sylas sailed the silver waters of the Gulf of Lhûn in his little swan-boat, gathering threads of spiritual mercury.

The once-silver waters of the Gulf of Lhûn had grown pale and thin, the emotions and memories of countless Elves, layered through the ages, now almost entirely drawn away by Sylas.

Even if one of the Grey Havens' folk placed a hand into the bay, they would scarcely feel the surge of longing or sorrow that had once been woven into every ripple. Perhaps, given another few thousand years, the waters would shine silver once more. But by then, the Elves would likely be no more than legend, no ships departing from these shores, no white sails bound for the Undying Lands.

With the collection of spiritual mercury complete, Sylas's purpose at the Grey Havens was fulfilled. He was preparing to take his leave when Círdan himself sought him out, bearing unexpected news:

The steam engine was finished.

Sylas blinked, genuinely surprised. Who could have imagined that in so short a time Círdan and his craftsmen would bring such a vision into reality? His curiosity overcame him at once, and he followed the Shipwright to the heart of the Grey Havens' shipyards.

There, beneath the soaring beams and salt-scented air, stood a vast contrivance of steel and fire.

...

Stones pLzzz

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