CHAPTER 127: MEDITATION METHOD

In any case, Sylas had finally fulfilled his promise and delivered the wands he owed.

Aside from the ones made for Arwen, Elrohir, Elladan, and Legolas, he had also crafted one extra.

It was a twelve-inch wand, fashioned from laurelin wood and embedded with a strand of Lady Galadriel’s hair. This was Sylas’s second backup wand.

Suited especially for casting White Magic, the wand carried a serene and radiant energy. Thanks to the core from Galadriel, it had the unique effect of resisting the corruption of darkness and shielding the wielder’s mind from malevolent influence.

The only drawback was its inability to channel the Dark Arts. Still, Sylas considered it an ideal secondary wand for himself.

With the wandwork complete, his tasks in Lórien were mostly done. But he wasn’t planning to leave just yet.

Gandalf had offered to craft a staff for him.

The wood chosen for the staff was also laurelin, taken from the remaining portion of the core Galadriel had gifted him earlier.

That section had originally been five meters in length. After crafting the wands for Elrohir, Elladan, Legolas, and his own backups, more than three meters still remained, more than enough for a full-length staff.

While Gandalf worked on crafting the staff, several skilled Elven artisans assisted him, and Sylas remained nearby, quietly watching the process unfold.

The Elves’ craftsmanship was sublime. With their flawless technique and elegant aesthetic sense, they shaped the staff into a seamless form. Intricate patterns of leaves and vines were carved into the wood, following its natural grain. Delicate Elvish runes were inlaid along its surface, using Mithril threads as fine as spider silk.

Gandalf, meanwhile, stood holding the Elessar, the emerald of healing and hope, in his palm, chanting in an ancient tongue. As he poured magic into the gem, it began to glow with a soft, green-colored light. The radiance spread gently around the clearing, warming everyone like sunlight in spring.

At the top of the staff, the Elven craftsmen carved a hollow enclosure shaped like closed laurelin leaves, prepared to cradle the Elessar.

When the structure was complete, Gandalf stepped forward. As his incantation deepened, the carved laurelin leaves gently opened, revealing the hollow core. With great care, he placed the glowing emerald inside. The leaves then folded closed on their own, securing the gem perfectly in place.

Gandalf tested the balance of the staff in his hands, muttered a few testing spells under his breath, then nodded in approval.

He turned to Sylas, who had been waiting with barely contained excitement, and handed it to him with a smile. "This is your staff. Give it a try and see how it feels."

Sylas accepted it with reverence, awe flickering in his eyes as he turned the staff over in his hands.

It stood about six feet tall, nearly matching his own height. The golden-brown wood shimmered faintly, its grain flowing like waves in sunlight. Fine silver runes wove up the shaft, and the floral carvings gave the entire piece an aura of gentle power. At its crown, the emerald glowed softly, like a star cradled by leaves.

Sylas raised it slightly and murmured, "Lumos."

Magic surged from within the staff, channeled upward and into the Elessar. The emerald blazed with radiant light, illuminating the entirety of Caras Galadhon. The light spilled over the treetops and spread outward, visible even beyond the borders of the Lórien forest.

Sylas smiled with satisfaction. The staff felt right in his hand.

Wands, he knew, were tools of inward magic. They refined and directed the power within a wizard’s own body. But staffs were different.

A staff reached outward. It bridged the wizard to the magic in the world around him, opening a conduit to the deeper currents of nature.

More importantly, the gem embedded in the staff’s head was not just an amplifier of magic but also a reservoir. Sylas could continuously inject magic into it, and when released, it would unleash a devastating burst of power.

Of course, this did not mean that a staff was inherently superior to a wand.

Casting spells with a wand was simple and efficient. It functioned like a stable pipe, allowing the magic reservoir within the wizard to release energy in a steady stream. The caster could control the direction and amount of magic with ease and precision.

A staff, on the other hand, was like a floodgate. When opened, it released a torrent of power, vast and overwhelming. But such force came at the cost of control.

It also required more time to prepare and was ill-suited for situations requiring rapid response.

Thus, wands excelled at delicate, accurate spells, while staffs were designed for large-scale, high-impact incantations.

"Congratulations, Sylas. Now you truly look a Black-robed Wizard," Gandalf said with a low chuckle.

Sylas leaned lightly on his staff, his eyes filled with gratitude. "I have to thank you, Gandalf, as well as Lady Galadriel and the Elven craftsmen. Without your gifts and guidance, I wouldn’t have such a magnificent staff."

Gandalf shook his head with a gentle smile.

"You crafted wands for others. I made a staff for you. A fair exchange. There’s no need for thanks between us."

Then his tone grew more serious. "Now that you’ve wielded the staff, I imagine you’ve already begun to feel its limitations?"

Sylas nodded, his brow furrowed.

"When I use the staff, the magic becomes harder to control compared to casting with a wand. If it’s just a single spell, it’s manageable. But continuous casting... it wears me down quickly."

"That’s to be expected," Gandalf replied.

"A staff allows a wizard to reach beyond themselves, to channel the magic of nature itself. That power is boundless, but it doesn’t come easily. A person, no matter how talented, is still limited. To harness a power greater than your own, you need more than just knowledge or will."

"You need a powerful soul."

Sylas looked startled. Soul magic was a subject shrouded in fear and taboo. In the Harry Potter world, all forms of soul manipulation were branded as Dark Arts. The Unforgivable Curses, Avada Kedavra, Crucio, and Imperio, were infamous not only for their effects but because each one damaged or manipulated the soul in some way.

Any research involving souls was forbidden, punishable by imprisonment in Azkaban.

Gandalf’s voice remained calm and steady.

"Sylas, you must know that the soul is the foundation. A powerful soul can perceive the world, influence matter, and communicate with the power of nature.

Ancient Elves like Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond, over long years, accumulated enough wisdom and knowledge, and their souls were tempered to be powerful and indestructible.

They do not need staffs or wands. The world itself responds to their will."

"If you wish to command greater power, or simply to master the staff you now carry, then you must strengthen your soul."

Sylas fell silent. He understood what Gandalf meant, and why it troubled him.

Elves had eternity to refine their souls, to grow in strength and clarity over the course of millennia. Gandalf himself was a Maia, a spirit of creation cloaked in mortal form.

But Sylas was only a wizard. A man with a mortal lifespan. A stranger from another world.

He looked up, troubled. "And how is one supposed to make the soul stronger?"

Gandalf smiled. A slow, knowing smile that suggested he had been waiting for that very question.

"There are many paths to that goal," he said.

"First," Gandalf began, "there is the path of the Elves. Over long centuries, they accumulate wisdom and insight. Their souls grow stronger with each passing age, slowly transcending mortal limitation."

"This method is the most stable and reliable," he admitted, "but the drawback is obvious. Unless you possess the time of an Elf, you will never gather enough knowledge and experience to strengthen your soul this way."

Sylas immediately dismissed that option. He didn’t have centuries to spare. He couldn’t afford to walk a path that demanded thousands of years.

Still, he remained silent and waited patiently for Gandalf to continue.

"The second path," Gandalf said, "is one of trial and suffering. Enduring great tribulations tempers the soul. Especially those moments when one teeters on the brink of death, the terror, the clarity, the strength of will required to survive, these forge a soul of steel."

He paused for a moment, his eyes glinting with meaning.

"Take Lord Glorfindel, for instance. He fell in battle against a Balrog and perished. Yet the Valar saw fit to restore him, and when he returned, his soul was reborn stronger than ever. He walks this world now with the grace and strength of the Maiar."

Sylas raised his eyebrows and shook his head slightly.

That path was clearly too dangerous. Life-and-death trials might strengthen the soul, but they could just as easily end it. He had no desire to stake his existence on such reckless risk. Not everyone was granted a second life by the Valar.

Gandalf, sensing his hesitation, offered a small smile and revealed a third path.

"Then there is meditation," he said. "And this, I believe, is the most suitable path for you."

"Meditation?" Sylas repeated, puzzled.

Gandalf nodded. "Yes. Meditation tempers the spirit, sharpens the will. It does not yield results as rapidly as trials of life and death, but it is far faster and safer than relying on centuries of slow accumulation."

He leaned slightly on his staff, his expression lightening.

"This is the little trick I promised to teach you. I told you I would give it to you when you received your staff."

Sylas straightened. "How do I begin?"

"Meditation," Gandalf said, "is simple to describe but difficult to master. You must clear your thoughts, empty your mind, or focus your entire being on a single thing. In Rivendell, I often sit in the Hall of Fire and meditate, letting the flicker of the flames guide me into stillness."

Sylas tilted his head. "But why would you need to meditate? You’re a Maia. Isn’t your soul already strong enough?"

Gandalf looked at him knowingly. "Meditation is not a practice reserved for the weak. Even the Valar themselves reflect, dream, and meditate. The deeper the soul, the more vital it becomes to keep it balanced."

He paused, letting that thought settle.

"Now," Gandalf continued, "let me tell you something interesting. You already possess a meditation method, though you’ve failed to recognize it."

Sylas blinked. "I do?"

"You do," Gandalf confirmed. "In fact, your method may be far more refined than the one I had in mind. You’ve simply never looked at it the right way."

Sylas furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?"

"Have you forgotten the song taught to you by Tom Bombadil?"

Realization struck, and Sylas’s eyes widened. "You mean... that tune is a form of meditation?"

He had always treated the melody as a kind of emotional balm. It lifted his spirits and dispelled the gloom that followed close encounters with dark magic. He had even noticed that casting the Patronus Charm while humming it made the spell significantly more powerful.

But he had never imagined it held deeper meaning.

Gandalf nodded, his tone gentle. "There are many ways to meditate. Some sit in silence. Some chant ancient verses. Others walk barefoot through forests or pray in sacred places. What Tom taught you is music, yes, but it is also an invitation, a rhythm that draws the mind inward and aligns the soul."