The Easterling lands churned with unrest, but Sylas had no time to concern himself with politics or wars.
He mounted his broomstick and soared eastward, cloaked in a Disillusionment Charm that bent light around him, rendering both himself and his broom invisible. Silent as a drifting shadow, he cut across the sky, unobserved.
His flight carried him over the great Orocarni, the Red Mountains, tallest in the farthest East. On the western slopes stretched the Savage Forest, veiled in ancient legend. There, the Elves had once awoken at Cuiviénen, beside a mountain-fed river that emptied into the Bay of Helcar. From that first kindling beneath the stars, the Children of Ilúvatar had grown and flourished, dividing into the Vanyar, the Noldor, and the Teleri.
But the world had changed since those elder days. Seas were broken, mountains shifted, and rivers reshaped. Cuiviénen was lost, swallowed by the reshaping of Arda.
Gliding above the jagged peaks, Sylas glimpsed the glimmer of forges and the hardy figures of Dwarves. Four of the seven Houses of the Dwarves had their ancient halls in the Orocarni, where their fathers first awoke. Yet even their kind was divided. Under Sauron's long shadow, some had been corrupted, becoming Dark Dwarves who waged ceaseless war against their uncorrupted kin for dominion over the mountains.
The Blue Wizards had worked tirelessly to knit alliances in these lands, rallying the Mountain Dwarves, the wandering Elves of the East, and brave Men willing to resist, so that Sauron's dominion could not fully choke the East.
Sylas did not linger. He pressed onward, following the route-map Rómestámo had entrusted to him.
At last, on the eve of the New Year, he reached the farthest edge of the continent. The Sea of the East stretched before him, boundless and shimmering, waiting for dawn's light to crest the horizon. The coast below was untouched, a realm of tranquil green hills and clear rivers. Perhaps shielded by the Orocarni to the west, or perhaps merely too remote for Mordor's arm to reach, it lay like a hidden sanctuary, a pure land unmarred by war.
Folk dwelled there, simple, dark-haired Men who bore closer likeness to the Easterlings of his old memories than to the warlike tribes who bent knee to Sauron. He did not disturb them. Guided by the map, he turned inland, where a curving wall of mountains rose before him.
The range swept in a vast semi-circle, its central peaks towering like watchful sentinels. From the Sea came moist winds, caught and held by the slopes, weaving the heights in a perpetual shroud of mist. Only when dawn-winds rose with the sun would the veil briefly part, revealing the mountains' hidden face.
Thus these peaks were named the Mountains of Wind.
And within them, Rómestámo had said, lay Hildórien, the cradle of Men.
The map ended here. Only at sunrise on the year's first morning, when the first light touched the valley, would the mists part and the Valley of Slumber open.
Sylas, restless with anticipation, raised his hand and murmured:
"Show me the way."
Golden light sprang from his wand and sped into the fog-draped heights. He leaned into his broom, following at once.
The mist thickened as he entered, blinding and damp, so dense he could not see his own fingers. With a flick, he conjured a whirlwind to sweep it aside, but no sooner had the air cleared than the fog folded in again, smothering the path.
Sylas reluctantly abandoned his attempts to pierce the mountain's mystery. Even the guiding light of his spell faltered, as though smothered by some vast and ancient power. Sight, sense, even magic itself, all seemed muted in the Mountains of Wind.
He spent an entire day scouring ridges and gullies, missing nothing, yet found no sign of Hildórien. At last he sighed, accepting what Rómestámo had told him: only at the turning of the year would the veil be lifted.
At the foot of the range, he raised his traveling tent. Outwardly it was no larger than a one-man shelter, but within, spells had stretched it into a three-storied dwelling complete with kitchen, hearth, and bath. Outside, he laid protective wards, Repelling Charms and shields to keep stray eyes away, then settled into meditation.
Meditation had become more than practice for strength; it was his way of knitting back the torn threads of his soul. The night passed in stillness, and when Sylas opened his eyes again, dawn was already brushing the eastern sea. He looked from the tent's window and saw the first pale shimmer upon the horizon.
It was now the first morning of the year, the dawn of the Third Age 2946. He realized with a start that five full years had passed since he first set foot in this world.
With a breath of crisp mountain air, he stepped outside, collapsed the tent with a flick, and slipped it back into his satchel. Then he waited.
The horizon brightened. Moment by moment, the sea flared with gold, until at last the newborn sun lifted shyly from the waves. Its first rays struck the Mountains of Wind, and with them came a strong breath of air. The mists that had clung so jealously to the peaks rolled back like a curtain, unveiling the full shape of the range.
Sylas felt it as much as he saw it, an ancient veil stirring, as though the mountains themselves were awakening. Then, above a canyon, a rainbow arced into being, shimmering like an archway wrought of light.
His heart quickened. He mounted his broom and flew straight for it.
Yesterday he had passed this very gorge and seen nothing but rock and shadow. Now, beneath the rainbow, the air rippled. A vision, like a mirage, hovered between the cliffs.
Landing on the canyon floor, he stepped forward. A sudden breeze swept past him, carrying a fragrance so sweet it seemed to wash sorrow from his bones. His spirit lifted, his heart eased. For an instant he felt as though he had returned to the womb, enfolded in perfect safety.
He pressed on, beneath the rainbow, through the shimmering air; and the world changed.
He stood now within a hidden valley, bright and overflowing with life. Sheer cliffs ringed the vale, their walls silvered by mist. The air was rich with fragrance and song: nightingales trilled in the boughs, and a soft radiance suffused everything, as if time itself had forgotten to pass here.
Trees of many kinds filled the valley, heavy with sweet fruits, their blossoms drifting like snow in the eternal spring. A silver river wound through the heart of the glen, its bed glinting with dust of gold, with jade and agate washed down from the heights. Everywhere was youth, untouched by decay; even the stones seemed to breathe purity.
Sylas stood in wonder, scarcely daring to breathe, as though he had stumbled into the dwelling place of the Valar themselves.
At last, half-entranced, he plucked a crimson apple from a low branch. Its skin gleamed in the golden light. Without thinking, he raised it to his lips and took a bite.
The moment his teeth sank into the fruit, sweetness burst across his tongue. A current of sacred energy followed, flooding into him.
At once, Sylas felt an indescribable comfort surge from the depths of his soul, like parched earth drinking rain. The tremors of his fractured spirit quieted, soothed by a power beyond mortal reckoning.
A laugh escaped him, bright and unrestrained. It was as though he had starved for lifetimes. He devoured the apple with ravenous delight, then reached for another, and another still, feasting until he could eat no more. Only when his stomach refused another bite did he stop, gazing wistfully at the boughs still heavy with shining fruit.
And as he ate, he felt it: the missing fragment of his soul stirred. Though the growth was minute, almost imperceptible, hope blossomed in his chest. For years he had resigned himself to mending his soul thread by thread, through slow meditation and endless patience. Now, against all expectation, he had stumbled upon a miracle.
Hildórien, the birthplace of Men. Here, long before the First Age, Ilúvatar's Second Children lay sleeping through the Years of the Lamps and the Years of the Trees. To keep them safe, Ilúvatar Himself had hidden this valley from the sight of all, even the Valar. Only when the Sun first rose from the West did the birthplace of Men reveal itself to the world.
The valley still thrummed with that divine concealment, imbued with holiness. The trees that grew here were no common trees but living vessels of Ilúvatar's blessing. Their fruits bore the lingering touch of His power, a sacred essence meant to nourish the Firstborn of Men.
And now, that same blessing was knitting the torn edges of Sylas's soul.
He marveled in silence, humbled by the sheer magnitude of it. If the faintest trace of Ilúvatar's will could make these trees so potent, what must the fullness of His power be?
Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from the branches. This valley was too precious, too wondrous, to abandon lightly. For a fleeting moment, Sylas imagined himself retreating here, hidden away in this cradle of youth and holiness. The air was richer than Rivendell, more fragrant than Lothlórien; the magic denser than even the Golden Wood. A paradise untouched by corruption.
But there was more to seek. His mission was not yet fulfilled.
When at last he could move again, he rose and walked deeper into the valley, letting the lingering sweetness of the fruit settle within him. Ahead lay the innermost hollow, the place where Men had first awakened. There, he would find what he had come for: the final ingredient for the Philosopher's Stone, the Salt of Flesh/Body.