The astonished party crossed the great stone arch bridge, their eyes fixed upon the towering fortress above. As they ascended the wide, smooth road that wound toward the heights, an almost pilgrimage-like reverence settled over them.
At last, they reached the gates of the castle.
Up close, the sheer scale and grandeur of the fortress left hearts pounding faster. Beneath the towering gatehouse, two massive bronze doors stood open, their surfaces alive with intricate carvings. Every detail told a story, the panels depicted the climactic victory at the Battle of the Five Armies on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain.
In the uppermost relief, the combined hosts of elves, dwarves, and men stood shoulder to shoulder, their blades and spears raised high in triumph. Beneath them, the enemy host, orcs, trolls, and worse, was shown scattering in chaos, their faces twisted in fear.
At the pinnacle of the carving, dominating the scene, was a tall figure mounted upon the back of a great dragon. In one hand, he wielded a wand ablaze with magic; from its tip burst a torrent of fire that swept across the battlefield like the wrath of a vengeful god. The figure's presence seemed to command the entire field, his victory absolute.
'Not even a king's palace could rival such a sight,' thought Mayor Graeme, awe stirring in his chest.
In front of the gates, villagers stood ready to receive the guests. They were smartly dressed, their expressions warm and welcoming.
Mayor Graeme glanced at the villagers in surprise. Their movements were graceful, their manners refined, so much so that they seemed more like members of an ancient court than he, himself a descendant of a noble family. A faint flush of embarrassment crept into his cheeks.
If the villagers had known what the mayor was thinking, they would likely have been delighted. It was, after all, their encounters with Legolas, who had been residing here for a time, that had inspired them to refine their bearing. They had instinctively begun imitating his composure and poise, determined not to embarrass Lord Sylas. The result was an elegance that neither they nor Sylas had entirely anticipated.
The carriage passed through the gates, and before Graeme stretched a straight road paved with white gravel, gleaming in the waning light. Lampposts lined either side, already glowing softly, casting a warm radiance though the sky was not yet fully dark.
Ahead, the golden and silver trees that had been visible from the foot of the mountain now towered in their full majesty. The golden tree soared hundreds of feet into the air, its broad, fan-shaped leaves glistening in the setting sun, bathing half of peak in a warm, golden glow. Beside it, the silver tree was less tall but far more sinuous, its trunk and branches curling like a great dragon in mid-flight. Its leaves shimmered like molten moonlight, casting a silver radiance over the other half of the peak.
Though Graeme did not know their names, he was certain they were no ordinary trees.
"Mayor, we've arrived. You may step down," came the servant's voice from outside.
The door swung open, and Graeme descended from the carriage, followed closely by Barliman. They stepped onto the stone-paved square before the fountain, where the water danced in the golden light. A few villagers moved forward, taking the carriage's reins and leading it toward the stables.
Mayor Graeme's gaze fell upon the fountain, and he almost stopped in his tracks. The statue at its center was a towering dragon, every detail carved to lifelike perfection, and gleaming unmistakably with the sheen of solid gold.
He swallowed hard.
With decades of experience, he was certain this was no gilded imitation. It was gold. Pure gold.
'Far too extravagant…' he thought, quickly forcing himself to look away so as not to seem rude.
They circled the fountain and approached the great doors of the hall, but any lingering thoughts about the dragon statue vanished the moment Graeme laid eyes on an all-too-familiar figure.
"Mayor Graeme, it has been far too long," said Village Chief Luke with a perfectly polite smile. "I am serving as reception manager for tonight's banquet. Welcome to Lord Sylas's table."
"And Innkeeper Barliman," Luke continued warmly, "I hadn't expected you to arrive alongside the mayor. We had planned to send for you at your inn."
"Luke… long time no see," Graeme replied, his expression caught between surprise and unease.
Once, he had used his authority as mayor to push Luke out of Bree, stripping him of influence and opportunity. Now here Luke stood, the respected chief of Hogsmeade, subject to Lord Sylas, and apparently held in high esteem.
If Luke bore a grudge and spoke ill of him to Sylas, Graeme wondered grimly, would he even leave this mountain alive?
Yet Luke's manners remained impeccable.
"Mayor Graeme, Mr. Barliman, you are our first guests to arrive. Please, come in and rest."
He ushered them toward the doors, while other villagers courteously directed the accompanying militiamen, coachmen, and servants to a side hall for refreshments.
Stepping into the great hall, Graeme and Barliman found themselves momentarily frozen in awe. The vast chamber, with its soaring white stone walls and high, vaulted roof, could easily hold thousands.
Above them, thousands of candles floated serenely in mid-air, their warm light bathing the room in golden radiance. The ceiling itself seemed enchanted, reflecting the very sky outside, soft blue, streaked with drifting clouds, sunlight streaming gently through.
Four long tables were set side by side. To the left, two were crowded with dwarves, laughing, talking over one another, and raising their tankards in noisy toasts.
At the far end of the hall, atop a low dais, stood another long table, the high table, with a great golden chair at its center, clearly reserved for Sylas himself.
Music drifted through the air from instruments floating as if held by invisible hands. A gentle, soothing melody filled the hall… until a rowdy group of dwarves loudly declared it sounded like a funeral march.
The enchanted instruments paused, as if embarrassed, then, under the insistent requests and hearty cheers of the dwarves, struck up a far livelier tune.
When the dwarves realized the enchanted instruments could understand their words, they were instantly delighted. They began shouting over one another, each demanding a different song.
At first, the instruments tried to oblige, playing one requested tune at a time. But as the calls grew more chaotic, with dwarves changing their minds mid-song, the melody dissolved into a cacophony of clashing notes.
This only made the dwarves laugh harder.
Finally, the enchanted instruments, clearly fed up, ceased playing altogether. Then, with what could only be described as indignant flutters, they swooped down and began bopping the most troublesome dwarves on the head.
The hall erupted in even louder laughter.
Mayor Graeme and Barliman watched the scene in wide-eyed astonishment. To them, it was as if they had stepped into a realm of pure magic, delightful, bewildering, and entirely unlike anything they'd experienced before.
Luke, long familiar with this particular band of dwarves and their antics, simply smiled. Without attempting to interrupt the fun, he continued leading the two men toward the high table at the front of the hall.
"Mayor Graeme, Mr. Barliman," Luke said warmly, "you are both honored guests of Lord Sylas. These two seats are yours."
Graeme glanced at the arrangement and immediately felt a spark of irritation. It was one thing for Barliman to be placed near the edge, but for him, the mayor of Bree, to be seated second-to-last on the left? He considered himself far more deserving, perhaps even worthy of sitting at Sylas's right hand.
His gaze lingered on Luke, suspicion creeping in. 'Could this be revenge?' he wondered. 'A subtle humiliation for forcing him out of Bree years ago?'
The temptation to storm off was strong, but the thought of offending the lord of the castle, under whose roof he now stood, kept him in check. Instead, he forced a tight smile and asked, "I see so many places here. Will any noble guests be joining us? Perhaps I've heard of them."
Luke, either missing or ignoring the bite in Graeme's tone, kept his perfect host's smile. "Indeed, these seats are reserved for guests of high rank: the lord of Dale, the dwarf king of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, the elven king of the Woodland Realm, the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, the elven lord of Rivendell, and the lord of Anduin Vale."
Graeme's head spun at the roll call. Kings. Lords. Rulers of realms from legend.
Compared to such company, he was nothing more than a provincial official. His irritation evaporated instantly, replaced by a keen desire not to draw unwanted attention. He sat down quickly, suddenly grateful for any place at all.
Barliman, on the other hand, had no complaints whatsoever. He settled in comfortably, eyes wandering around the hall with a merchant's contentment. When his gaze fell on the dwarves downing tankards of ale, his smile widened. The castle had purchased the banquet wine from his inn, the more they drank, the more coin flowed into his coffers. He could almost hear the cheerful clink of gold in his mind.
Luke, having settled them, excused himself to see to the rest of the banquet preparations.
Meanwhile, in the highest chamber of the Tower of Amon Sûl, Sylas was greeting another stream of arrivals, guests stepping directly into the room through the emerald-green flames of the Floo Network.
Bilbo was the first to arrive.
He had come earlier than Mayor Graeme and the innkeeper, bringing with him several casks of fine hobbit-brewed ale, rich, dark, and with a mellow warmth that only the Shire's brewers could achieve.
Next came Legolas. He bore a gift from his father, Thranduil, an exquisitely crafted brooch set with white gems, its design unmistakably in keeping with the Elvenking's refined and opulent style.
Yet this was no mere ornament. The brooch carried the blessing of the wood-elves: whoever wore it would feel the forest's presence as a constant companion, sheltered beneath its unseen boughs, as if the trees themselves extended their protection. Sylas accepted it with deep respect, knowing the worth of such a gift went far beyond gold.
Following Legolas was Beorn, the Skin-changer. Towering and broad, he arrived with a great wooden bucket brimming with thick, golden royal jelly, brewed by the giant bees he kept with patient care. This rare delicacy was more than food, it was a potent tonic, capable of strengthening the body and quickening vitality.
The fourth arrivals came together: Bard, Lord of Dale, and Fíli, heir to Thorin Oakenshield. Fíli had come as Thorin's chosen representative. Sylas was unsurprised by Thorin's absence, but he had not expected him to entrust Fíli with so public an honor.
He asked Edward to escort the new arrivals to the banquet hall, while he remained in the highest chamber of Amon Sûl to receive the next guests.
Soon, the Floo fire in the great hearth flared a brilliant green, and from it stepped a figure of such grace that Sylas's eyes lit with recognition.
"Arwen? What brings you here?"
"Am I not welcome?" she asked lightly, her voice like soft music, her eyes bright as the evening star.
"How could you think that?" Sylas replied at once, shaking his head. "I simply didn't expect you to be among the first to arrive. Tell me, did you come from Rivendell or from Lothlórien?"
"From Rivendell," she said, stepping clear of the hearth and glancing down at her gown with a faint frown. Fine specks of soot clung to the fabric.
Seeing this, Sylas lifted his hand and murmured a charm. A soft ripple of magic swept over her, banishing the dust without disturbing so much as a fold of her dress.
"Thank you," Arwen said, her smile as radiant as moonlight. "The Floo powder you make is remarkable. My only complaint is that it leaves me dusty every time I travel between Rivendell and Lórien."
Sylas's lips curved in a teasing smile. "Nothing in the world is perfect, is it?"
"That's true," she agreed, her gaze holding his with a hint of mischief. "Though I can't help but feel you rather enjoy seeing me in such a state."
"I'm innocent!" Sylas raised both hands in mock defense. "Perish the thought."
"If you like," he added, "I can teach you the same cleaning spell I used just now. Then you'll never have to worry about Floo dust again."
Her smile widened. "Then it's a deal."
"It's a deal."
"What are you talking about?"
Green flames flared in the hearth once more, and the tall figures of the elf twins, Elladan and Elrohir, stepped gracefully from the fireplace, one after the other. Catching sight of Sylas and Arwen in easy conversation, their expressions carried a flicker of brotherly wariness.
"Sylas was offering to teach me a new spell," Arwen said, her voice light with happiness.
"Truly?" Elladan's eyes lit at once, and Elrohir leaned forward eagerly.
"Sylas," Elrohir said, "could you teach us a few more as well? We've already mastered the spells you showed us last time."
Faced with the expectant stares of all three siblings, Sylas couldn't possibly refuse. He nodded with a smile. "No problem. Once the banquet is over, stay here for a few days, and I'll teach you more."
The three elves exchanged delighted glances, clearly pleased with the promise.
Just then, the green flames roared again.
"Lord Elrond!" Sylas exclaimed in genuine surprise. He had assumed that Arwen's arrival, along with Elladan and Elrohir, would represent Rivendell, and perhaps, by extension, Lothlórien. He had not imagined the Lord of Rivendell himself would attend.
Elrond stepped through the flames with his usual calm dignity, the corners of his mouth curving in a mysterious smile. "I am not the last guest," he said, his voice carrying quiet amusement. "There are more important visitors yet to come."
With that, he moved to one side of the hearth, as though making way for someone of equal or greater presence.
A flicker of realization crossed Sylas's mind, an incredible guess that made his pulse quicken.
The next heartbeat proved him right.
The Floo fire flared brighter, its green light washing over the chamber as the tall, luminous form of Lady Galadriel emerged.
Dust itself seemed unwilling to touch her; her white robes and her long hair, a cascade of gold and silver intertwined, were immaculate, as if she had stepped from the light of the Two Trees themselves. A gentle radiance surrounded her, and when she smiled, it was as if the very air bent to her presence.
"Sylas," she said softly, her voice carrying the clarity of a distant harp, "we meet again."
...
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