As the last rays of the setting sun painted the western sky, Sulond, the giant eagle, carried Luke to the Mithlond (Mithlond). This legendary port city nestled at the mouth of the River Lhûn, where the Gulf of Lhûn, shaped like a colossal arrow, pierced inland, interrupting the Blue Mountains and pointing towards Eriador.
Mithlond also marked the western terminus of the East-West Road, connecting it to Rivendell, its counterpart to the east.
The buildings of Mithlond, crafted mostly from imposing stone, clung to the cliffs on either side of the harbor. Lighthouses, the tallest structures, stood as beacons, their bright, warm glow piercing the evening mist, guiding ships from miles away.
The harbor itself teemed with vessels, from grand sailing ships to delicate boats, swaying gently in the bay, creating a picturesque scene. After surveying the harbor from above, Luke landed Sulond on the road outside the city gates.
The elves of Mithlond had already spotted the giant eagle, but as a messenger of the Valar King and a friend to their kind, Sulond evoked curiosity rather than fear.
This was a gathering point for elves seeking passage to the undying lands of Valinor, making it one of Middle-earth's most densely populated elven settlements. Noldor, Sindar, and Silvan elves mingled here.
Sulond flapped his mighty wings, stirring the harbor mist and causing the anchored ships to sway in the agitated water. As Luke dismounted, an elf with silver hair stepped forward, addressing him in the Common Tongue, "Sir, may I ask what brings you to Mithlond?"
Luke returned the elven greeting, replying in their tongue, "I am the wizard Luke. I have traveled from Hogwarts Castle at Weathertop to pay my respects to Lord Círdan."
The silver-haired elf's eyes widened in recognition. He made an elegant gesture, switching fully to Elvish.
"So it is the Lord of Amon Sûl who has arrived. Those elves who traveled west have brought tales of your legend. To see you today, you are indeed extraordinary! I am Galdor, secretary to Lord Círdan. However, you have arrived at an unfortunate time. Lord Círdan recently sailed to the Blessed Lands with a company of elves and has not yet returned."
Círdan wasn't here? Luke felt a pang of surprise. "That is truly unfortunate!" Luke expressed his regret. "Lord Elrond entrusted me with a letter for Lord Círdan, but I did not expect him to be away."
Hearing that Luke carried a letter from Elrond, Galdor's attention intensified. "Do not worry, Wizard Luke. You are welcome to stay in Mithlond for a while. At the usual rate, if nothing unforeseen occurs, Lord Círdan should return within a month or so."
"Thank you for your hospitality!" Luke replied. Although he couldn't meet Círdan immediately, he wasn't overly disappointed. His primary objective on this journey was to find the Mercury of Spirit; visiting Círdan was a secondary goal. Thus, Círdan's presence or absence made little difference to his main quest.
Accepting Galdor's invitation, Luke entered the seaside port city of Mithlond. The city boasted formidable walls, some constructed from massive stones, others carved directly from the mountainside, rendering them almost unscalable.
A strategically placed elven fortress on the cliff added to its impregnable defenses. The inner harbor was vast, capable of accommodating numerous ships, yet its exit channel, leading to Gulf of Lhûn, was narrow. Twin lighthouses on either side ensured safe passage for departing vessels. A perpetual mist shrouded the harbor, lending Mithlond an air of profound mystery.
Galdor escorted Luke to a cliffside building known as the "Boathouse," where he was to rest. Carved directly into the cliff, the Boathouse featured multiple floors and rooms, serving as a temporary abode for elves awaiting passage to Valinor. Though not expansive, the rooms were simple and elegant, embodying the distinct elven architectural style.
Each also boasted a spacious terrace, offering panoramic views of the ships below and the endless sea beyond. With night falling, Luke decided against immediately searching for the Mercury of Spirit. Instead, he settled onto the terrace, admiring the sunset and the sight of elven sailors returning to port. Sulond, the giant eagle, required no supervision; he had flown directly to the cliffs of the nearby Blue Mountains to rest.
The elves of Mithlond were predominantly Teleri, a folk deeply connected to the sea and exceptionally skilled in shipbuilding and navigation—a mastery exemplified by Círdan himself. They were known as "Shipwrights," tasked with preparing vessels for the long journey west.
The Teleri were also gifted musicians and poets; their beautiful songs often mingled with the sound of the ocean, rich with rhythm and melody. Luke sat on the terrace, captivated by the soothing symphony of the sea and the Teleri elves' songs, as if listening to nature's purest voice.
The following day, Luke walked to the docks. Elf ships bustled in and out, their sailors navigating the seas, some journeying afar, others ferrying supplies to the ports of Forlond and Harlond, situated at the opposite end of Gulf of Lhûn.
Harlond and Forlond were maritime gateways to Harlindon and Forlindon respectively, regions west of the Blue Mountains that once fell under the rule of Gil-galad, the High King of the Elves. After his fall in the War of the Last Alliance, Círdan assumed stewardship. However, Círdan retained only the title of Lord of Mithlond, choosing not to become king, thus governing only Mithlond and the Lindon region.
As the sole stronghold connecting Middle-earth to the Western Valinor, Mithlond held extraordinary significance, embodying the elves' final affections and memories of this land. This intangible attachment, woven through countless ages, had, over time, undergone a profound transformation.
Luke crouched on the circular steps of the dock, gazing at the shimmering silver water before him. He reached out, scooping a small amount into his hands. The seawater was clear and transparent, yet Luke felt the potent spiritual fluctuations contained within it—a complex tapestry of reluctance, attachment, memories, and hope.
"The elves boarded their ships here," Galdor said, appearing beside Luke, his voice soft. "Only by releasing all attachment to their homeland could they truly reach the blessed land on the other side.
Thus, for thousands of years, Gulf of Lhûn has carried the final attachments and memories of the elves who sailed west, gradually dyeing its waters silver." He sighed. "When my heart yearns to move on, I, too, will leave my memories of Middle-earth here, then sail to the Blessed Land unburdened."
Hearing this, Luke marveled at the wonder of creation. He gazed at the silver sea, his eyes alight. This was the very purpose of his journey. The seawater, imbued with the spiritual beliefs of countless elves, was the source of Spiritual Mercury, one of the three essential components for creating the Philosopher's Stone.
Of course, simply collecting a bucket of this water wouldn't suffice. Though the silver seawater now contained spiritual power, it still required extraction and purification to yield the purest Spiritual Mercury—the specific ingredient needed for the Stone.
Luke then explained his purpose to Galdor: "Secretary Galdor, would you mind if I extracted the spiritual essence from the waters of Gulf of Lhûn to create a magical material?"
Galdor looked surprised, then smiled and shook his head, indicating his consent. "Wizard Luke, please do as you wish. The emotions within this sea are too strong, and they are, in truth, a burden for us elves. If you can alleviate it, we would be grateful to you."
With Galdor's approval, Luke felt a sense of relief. He faced the sea, inserted his wand into the water, and began chanting a spell. An invisible magical force flowed from the wand tip, spreading through the water, forming unseen ripples.
The condensed memories of countless elves within the water gathered into shimmering silver stars, converging towards Luke's wand tip, finally transforming into a slender silver thread. Luke produced a crystal bottle and carefully collected the silver thread.
It swirled within, sparkling like liquid mercury infused with starlight—this was the Mercury of Spirit, the pure materialized form of spiritual power. Spirit was intangible, yet a unique place like Mithlond could accumulate such profound spiritual energy, allowing Luke to gather enough Spiritual Mercury.
Naturally, this mere wisp of Spiritual Mercury was far from enough to forge the Philosopher's Stone. He needed to collect much more, a time-consuming and tedious endeavor. As Luke drew spiritual power, the surrounding seawater quickly lost its silver sheen, reverting to ordinary water.
Galdor watched with surprise and delight. Though the silver seawater was beautiful, its intense emotions could affect any elf who accidentally fell in, making them sentimental or even extinguishing their desire to sail west. Now that Luke was draining these emotions, even if only a small portion, the effect was significant.
Galdor offered Luke a small boat, allowing him to extract Spiritual Mercury throughout the bay. Luke accepted the kind gesture, taking an exquisite little white swan boat. He politely declined the assistance of the elven sailors, instead sitting alone in the boat, controlling it with magic, and gliding across the water.
He half-leaned, stirring the water with his wand as if in play, chanting spells, and from time to time, extracting silver strands from the water, depositing them into his crystal bottle. Passing elves observed him with curious discretion, but no one disturbed his work. Luke continued until sunset.
The little white boat, as if returning to its nest, sailed effortlessly back to the dock. After a day of diligent work, a shallow layer of Spiritual Mercury had accumulated at the bottom of Luke's crystal bottle. At this rate, it would take about one or two weeks to fill the bottle. Luke, however, was immensely satisfied.
After all, without this natural "Pensieve" of Mithlond, preserving the emotions and memories of countless Elves for Middle-earth over the ages, collecting his ''Mind Mercury'' would take God knows how long?