CHAPTER 158: IMMORTAL FLAME

Sylas had received another flask of Ent-draught from Treebeard, but he didn’t drink it right away. The old Ent had explained that the draught was extremely potent and its effects lingered for quite some time. When an Ent drank it, he preferred to lie down afterward so the strength of the draught wouldn’t rush too quickly to his head. Too much in a short span could strain the body, so Treebeard strongly advised against drinking it all at once.

Taking the advice to heart, Sylas carefully divided the flask into three smaller bottles. One he set aside for himself to enjoy later, and the other two he offered to Gandalf and Arwen.

Gandalf, however, only shook his head with a wry smile.

"I’ve tasted this draught many times before. It does me no good now. Besides, if I truly wanted more, I could always ask Treebeard for it myself, best not to waste it on me."

Treebeard rumbled in agreement, his deep voice echoing like wind in a hollow trunk.

Seeing that Gandalf wouldn’t accept it, Sylas grinned and said, "In that case, I’ll give your share to Bilbo."

At this, Gandalf chuckled warmly, his eyes crinkling with mirth. "Then I look forward to seeing Bilbo Baggins become the tallest hobbit in the Shire!"

Arwen, too, was about to refuse her bottle, intending for Sylas to keep it for himself. But he was faster, pressing the cool glass into her hand before she could speak.

"I’ve no shortage of Ent-draught," he assured her with an easy smile. "I can always trade with Treebeard for more."

With the matter of the draught settled, Gandalf leaned on his staff and asked, "Now then, Sylas, what brings you here to seek me out?"

Sylas didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his enchanted satchel and drew forth a large, motionless bird. Its crimson feathers shimmered faintly in the light, and waves of heat radiated from its body as though it were a living forge.

Gandalf’s brows lifted in astonishment. "By the Valar... What kind of bird is this? I’ve never laid eyes on such a creature."

Treebeard stepped closer, peering down with ancient, unblinking eyes. "Its body burns like a furnace, ready to breathe flame at any moment. It reminds me of a fire-dragon, though its shape is that of a great bird. Could it be some strange offspring of dragon and eagle?"

Even the unshakable Ent seemed wary, and with good reason, though fire did not frighten him, Fangorn’s forest would not withstand such a creature’s wrath.

Arwen studied the bird curiously, her voice soft but filled with wonder. "Sylas, what manner of bird is this? And where did you find it?"

Feeling the weight of their gazes, three pairs of eyes filled with equal parts suspicion and curiosity, Sylas simply smiled and began to explain the story behind his latest magical experiment.

"So, you created this firebird?" Gandalf’s voice carried genuine surprise.

Sylas shook his head lightly. "Not exactly created. I merely combined the magical circulation patterns of a giant eagle and a dragon, then transformed a captured orc with spellcraft. I didn’t expect the result to be... this fire-breathing marvel."

"That was a remarkable experiment indeed!" Gandalf stepped closer, eyes glimmering as he studied the creature’s molten feathers. "To think such a majestic being could emerge from an orc..."

Arwen’s brows lifted in astonishment. "That explains it. While I was in Rivendell, my father received word of an orc stronghold destroyed in the northern Gram Mountains. Was that your doing, collecting subjects for these experiments?"

Sylas smiled faintly and nodded. "Magical transformation is dangerous work. If I need test subjects, better to trouble orcs than harm anything innocent."

None present found fault with his reasoning. Orcs, after all, were cruel and corrupted by nature; neither Gandalf, Treebeard, nor Arwen had any saintly mercy to spare for them.

"So then, Sylas," Gandalf asked with a curious tilt of his head, "how exactly do you want my help?"

"I want to refine this firebird into something greater, a sacred bird that can be reborn from its own ashes. When its body begins to fail, it will embrace the flames and rise anew..." Sylas’s voice warmed with excitement as he waved his wand. Above them, a shimmering image of the phoenix formed in the air, every feather painted in living fire.

The phoenix’s graceful silhouette reflected in Gandalf’s eyes, sparking wisdom and inspiration. When Sylas finished describing the creature’s powers, Gandalf murmured, almost reverently, "If I did not know such a being has never existed in this world, I would believe it walked the skies already. How could you imagine something so... perfect?"

Treebeard’s slow nod rumbled like distant earth. Arwen’s gaze lingered on the phoenix’s fiery form, her eyes alight with wonder, and perhaps a little admiration for Sylas himself.

"What is this beautiful creature’s name?" she asked softly.

"Phoenix," Sylas replied. "Or Firebird of Rebirth."

"Phoenix," Arwen repeated, tasting the name with delight. "A beautiful name for a beautiful soul."

Sylas’s eyes turned to Gandalf with earnest hope. "The phoenix I imagine is a spirit of fire, its immortality bound to the flames. Your understanding of fire surpasses all others. Will you help me?"

Gandalf chuckled modestly. "I know a little of fire, perhaps enough to be of use. If it is within my power to bring such a creature into being, I will help you."

Sylas’s smile broadened at the pledge. And so, the two set to work at Treebeard’s home in Fangorn Forest.

While Gandalf and Sylas toiled over magical patterns and fire essence, Arwen grew fond of the ancient Ent. She would often ride upon Treebeard’s shoulder during his slow patrols, visiting other Ents and returning with gifts of wild fruit, delicate flowers, and smooth river stones.

Gandalf’s mastery of lore and the subtle workings of fire soon guided Sylas toward a more refined magic circulation for the firebird. Empowered by the Ring of Fire upon Gandalf’s hand, the creature transformed again, not merely breathing fire but burning with living flame, a true spirit of the blaze.

Yet, despite their progress, the greatest challenge remained: the miracle of rebirth itself, the Nirvana of the phoenix.

They both felt a pang of regret as they watched the firebird collapse into a pile of ashes before their eyes. Yet in that moment of loss, they discovered the key to a phoenix’s rebirth. Two conditions were essential: the Fire of Nirvana and an immense reserve of magical power.

The Fire of Nirvana was the phoenix’s natal flame, its very life force, which could grant rebirth from ashes. The vast magical power was what allowed the creature to endure the transformation and rise anew. Without either, Nirvana was impossible.

The flame itself could not be an ordinary fire; it had to be an immortal flame, one that could never truly die. In all of Arda, Gandalf explained, there were only a few such fires:

The Fire of Arnor, the Fire of the Sun. Its radiance blazed high in the heavens, far too hot for mortals to approach, much less capture. Even Gandalf’s ability to summon it was merely sunlight in form, not the Sun’s true flame.

The Fire of the Balrog, the corrupted counterpart to the Fire of Arnor. The Balrog, once a Maia, bore within it a power both eternal and destructive. Its flame burned as long as the creature endured, an unending symbol of raw might.

The Flame of Narya, the Ring of Fire, a hidden fire of great potency, invisible to mortal eyes, and the source of Narya’s power. It held ancient magic tied to the essence of fire itself.

The Secret Fire, the Flame Imperishable, dwelling in the Void, used by Ilúvatar to bestow life and true being upon creation. It was the breath of souls, a power Morgoth coveted but never found. It belonged to Ilúvatar alone and was beyond the reach of any being in Arda.

The Eternal Flame, a magical flame in Sylas’s possession, born from his own condensed magic. It could burn without end for a time, but its endurance was finite. It was not truly eternal.

Gandalf shared this knowledge without hesitation, even revealing the closely guarded truth of Narya, the Ring of Fire on his own hand.

Sylas rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of the problem. The Secret Fire and the Fire of Arnor were utterly unreachable. That left only the Fire of the Balrog and the Flame of Narya. But seizing the flame of Narya from Gandalf was out of the question, morally and practically.

That left the Balrog.

Sylas happened to know where one still lurked... but the thought brought him no joy. A Balrog was the very being that had forced Gandalf to fight to the death in Moria. Facing such a creature now would be folly.

For a moment, Sylas considered abandoning the phoenix project, at least until he grew much stronger. Perhaps then, when his power rivaled the great heroes of old, he could confront the Fire Demon and claim the flame it carried.

Gandalf noticed Sylas’s hesitation and offered a gentle smile.

"Perhaps I can share some news that might ease your worries."

Sylas looked at him in mild confusion.

"What news?"

"I have recently heard that the Dwarves of Erebor are discussing an expedition to reclaim Moria," Gandalf said. "You might find cause to work alongside them once more."

Sylas’s brows rose in surprise.

"They mean to retake Moria? Have they forgotten what dwells there, the Balrog?"

It was well known that in ages past, the Dwarves’ relentless delving for mithril had awoken the ancient terror sleeping in the deeps. Moria had fallen soon after, its great halls overrun by orcs, and the Balrog had brooded in the dark ever since. The very name of Khazad-dûm had become a warning whispered across Middle-earth.

"Are the Dwarves of Erebor truly so confident they can defeat such a creature and reclaim their ancient halls?" Sylas asked.

Gandalf sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching in a wry smile.

"You, of all people, should know the nature of Dwarves. Moria is the birthplace of Durin’s Folk, a treasure-hoard of history, pride, and mithril beyond measure. They will never surrender it entirely.

"Remember, Thorin Oakenshield and his companions braved the dragon Smaug to win back Erebor. It should not surprise you that they now dream of Khazad-dûm."

Sylas folded his arms.

"And when do they intend to march?"

"They are not blind to the danger," Gandalf replied. "The matter is still under heated debate. Yet I suspect that if you were to lend your strength, the decision might be made swiftly. After all, the Dragon Lord’s presence would be a mighty boost to their courage."

A rueful chuckle escaped Sylas.

"You think far too highly of me, Gandalf. Truthfully, I have no confidence in facing a Balrog. Even with the aid of the Dwarves, I doubt our chances. The creature is no mere beast, it is a Maia, an immortal spirit of terrible power, steeped in sorcery and shadow. It has ruled the depths for millennia. Even if Smaug himself fought at my side, I suspect the outcome would be grim."

Gandalf’s eyes glimmered with mischief.

"Do not be so quick to surrender hope, my friend. When the time comes, I shall be there at your side. Together, we might yet prevail against even such a foe."

Sylas’s eyes widened.

"You would come as well?"

"Of course," Gandalf said with a broad smile. "How could I possibly miss an adventure so lively?"