The Mage of Middle-Earth - CH - 101

The wind sang gently through the towers of Helm’s Deep, whispering of wars and heroes. The great stone halls, once echoing with the clang of swords and cries of battle, now held only the sound of mourning footsteps and quiet rebuilding. Deep within one of the guest chambers, Sirius Black opened his eyes.

For a moment, he stared at the ceiling, its stones cool and worn with age. The light that streamed in from the window was pale, subdued, as though the sky itself were still grieving. He shifted slightly, feeling the dull ache in every bone of his body. His chest rose in a ragged breath, and he winced at the soreness that spread through his arms.

Then he turned, and found a familiar shape slumped in a wooden chair beside the bed—Eron, his son, his cloak rumpled, his head resting on his arms as he slept.

Sirius tried to speak, but his voice came out dry and cracked. “Eron…”

Eron stirred, slowly lifting his head. His eyes were red with fatigue, but they lit up as he saw his father awake. “Father!” he said, standing quickly. “You’re awake. Thank the stars.”

Sirius attempted a faint smile. “You look like you’ve aged ten years.”

“You’ve been unconscious for twenty days,” Eron said. “That’s enough time for me to grow a beard, worry myself sick, and argue with at least three commanders who wanted to drag me back to Gondor.”

“And you stayed?” Sirius asked.

“Of course I stayed,” Eron said. “Someone had to keep you breathing. I sent the others on. Rohan and Gondor needed fighters. But I—I stayed.”

Sirius closed his eyes again, this time not from exhaustion, but emotion. “Thank you.”

Eron sat beside him. “The healers said you pushed too hard. Those black chains... the power you used—no one’s ever seen anything like it.”

“They weren’t meant to,” Sirius said softly. “That was magic passed down from generations of the Black family. Meant to destroy, not protect. I… I let it loose, Eron. I let it loose because there was no other choice.”

“You saved Helm’s Deep,” Eron said simply. “Everyone saw it.”

A long silence passed between them. Outside, the wind rustled the banners that still hung over the fortress, though most were tattered now. Finally, Sirius stirred.

“How bad is the war now?”

Eron’s face turned grim. “Worse. Gondor prepares for siege. Rohan sends what men they can. The skies grow darker every day. The Nazgûl fly again. And there’s word—whispers—that the Dark Lord has begun to move more than just soldiers. Fell beasts. Shadows that walk by day.”

Sirius slowly pushed himself upright. His limbs trembled, but he refused to lie back down. “Then it’s time I stop sleeping.”

“You’re not ready—”

“I’ll never be ready,” Sirius said, his voice low but resolute. “But that doesn’t matter. This war won’t end on a battlefield, Eron. Not truly. It will end when the Ring is destroyed.”

Eron frowned. “But—”

Sirius interrupted. “Don’t you feel it? The shift in the magic.”

Sirius closed his eyes and murmured an incantation. A soft light flickered at his fingertips. “Point me... Samwise Gamgee.”

The light trembled, swirled, and pointed toward the southeast—toward Mordor.

“There,” Sirius whispered. “Samwise is alive.”

Eron blinked. “Your old gardener?”

Sirius smiled faintly. “Sometimes, the smallest hands carry the greatest burden.”

Without another word, Sirius reached for his magical trunk beside the bed and drew forth a shimmering bundle. He unwrapped it slowly, revealing folds of rich velvet that gleamed with runes stitched in gold and silver. As he unfurled it, the fabric rose, stiffened, and expanded—shaping itself into a finely crafted, floating carpet.

“I built this years ago, during my time in the Shire,” Sirius said. “A blend of fiction and magic, enchanted for both speed and stealth. It will carry us swiftly—and silently.”

“But you’re too weak to travel,” Eron said, rising.

“I know.” Sirius looked at him. “That’s why you’ll fly it.”

Eron hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. But you’re not moving another muscle unless I say so.”

Sirius chuckled hoarsely. “Deal.”

As the sky darkened into twilight, they mounted the carpet, which hovered just above the fortress wall. The runes along its edges shimmered as Eron placed his hands on the corners.

“Where to?”

“Follow the spell,” Sirius said, gesturing toward the still-glowing light on his palm. “It will lead us to Sam.”

The carpet surged forward, cutting through the wind like a blade. The air rushed past them, and Sirius closed his eyes, trying to suppress the waves of magical exhaustion that threatened to consume him again.

Below, the lands of Middle-earth sprawled in growing shadow. Forests thinned. Rivers turned black. Villages lay abandoned, and smoke rose in the distance. Far to the East, a mountain burned faintly in the distance—Mount Doom, the heart of the enemy.

Hours passed in silence, broken only by Eron’s muttered adjustments and Sirius’s shallow breathing. As they passed into the borderlands near Mordor, the carpet began to tremble slightly.

“We’re getting close,” Eron said.

“Careful,” Sirius murmured. “The land here is cursed. The closer we get to Mordor, the more the Eye will feel us.”

Suddenly, a shriek tore through the sky—a Nazgûl, circling above.

“Down!” Sirius whispered. “Fly lower—hug the ground!”

The carpet dipped suddenly, swooping beneath a ridge as the winged shadow passed overhead. Eron maneuvered them into a thicket of petrified trees.

“They’re everywhere,” he whispered. “How are we going to find him?”

Sirius held up his glowing hand. “Samwise is near. The magic draws us closer with every breath. We find them... and we end this war.”

The carpet surged forward again, and ahead, the dark lands of Mordor loomed ever nearer.


The winds that howled over the fiery slopes of Mount Doom carried ash, smoke, and the stench of sulfur. The sky was a blood-red curtain, painted with the unrelenting fury of Mordor’s heart. The cracked, blackened earth trembled beneath every step as Sirius Black and his son Eron crested the final ridge. Below them, in the heart of Orodruin, chaos had already taken form.

Sirius’ eyes narrowed. “There,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Just beyond the outcropping, at the very edge of the chasm, three figures were locked in a desperate struggle. Samwise Gamgee grappled with a skeletal, sharp-toothed creature—Gollum—while Frodo Baggins stood near the lip of the lava river, his entire body trembling. His hand clutched the One Ring tightly. His eyes, once kind and bright, now glowed with a feverish madness.

Eron stepped forward. “They’re fighting over the ring,” he said grimly.

“No,” Sirius muttered. “They’re fighting because of the ring.”

Sam was the first to see them. He turned his soot-covered face toward Sirius, and even amidst exhaustion and despair, hope flared in his eyes.

“Mister Black!” Sam gasped. “You came… I—please—he won’t let it go!”

Sirius stepped forward, the heat pressing down on him like a thousand curses. “Frodo,” he called, his voice firm, commanding, the voice of a man who had stared into the abyss and did not flinch. “You know me. You know why I’m here.”

Frodo looked up. Recognition flickered in his eyes. “Sirius…” he whispered, then gritted his teeth. “You can’t take it. It’s mine. It’s mine!”

A shriek of mad laughter followed. Gollum had the Ring in his spidery fingers again. “My precious! It’s mine!”

Then—he vanished.

Sirius tensed. “He’s wearing the Ring!”

But Eron, sharp-eyed and agile, had been watching the ash on the ground. In a flash, he turned and swept his leg forward—striking something unseen. A shriek echoed as Gollum toppled backward, his invisible form crashing into the rocks. Eron leapt, grabbing at the disturbance in the air.

The Ring shimmered into view, clenched in Gollum’s hand. The creature screeched and writhed, but Eron’s strength prevailed. With a shout, he ripped the Ring free.

“No!” Gollum cried, lunging forward in wild desperation.

The lunge cost him.

Eron’s arm struck instinctively, pushing Gollum aside—and the creature stumbled backward off the ledge. His shriek faded into a wet hiss as his body vanished into the glowing river of lava below.

Eron turned, horror etched across his face. “I didn’t mean—”

Sirius raised a hand. “It was never going to end without pain.”

The Ring gleamed in Eron’s hand, golden and perfect, untouched by the fire and shadow around it.

“I can’t,” Eron whispered, eyes wide. “It—it’s speaking to me.”

Sirius stepped forward. “Then give it to me.”

With trembling hands, Eron passed the Ring to his father. For a moment, it lay in Sirius’ palm—small, ordinary, but burning with malevolent purpose.

Frodo, on his knees, looked up, weeping. “You’ll destroy it? You must—please, Mister Black…”

Sirius nodded. “I will.”

Behind them, Sam gently pulled Frodo back, offering him support. Eron hesitated.

“I can fly us out,” Eron said urgently. “Father—come with us! I’ll take Frodo and Sam on the carpet, then return. You can cast a Portkey, or—anything! You don’t have to—”

Sirius looked at his son, and for a moment, the great wizard’s face softened. “I’ve lived long, Eron. Longer than anyone should. Longer than I deserved. My fight ended the day I saw you rise.”

“No,” Eron growled, tears in his eyes. “It doesn’t end like this.”

Sirius reached up and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You are the future. Take them. Fly. There is no time.”

Sam placed a hand over his heart. “Thank you, Mister Black. For everything.”

Frodo, pale and gaunt, managed to whisper, “We’ll remember.”

Eron stood in silence for one last moment—then nodded, his eyes burning. He turned, helped Sam and Frodo onto the carpet, and within seconds, it soared into the ash-filled sky.

Sirius was alone.

He stepped to the edge of the chasm, staring into the molten fire of Mount Doom. In his hand, the Ring pulsed with vile life. It whispered to him, filling his ears with promises, temptations.

You could live again. You could reshape the world. Make it safe. Make it right. Become the master of death...

But Sirius Black was not so easily swayed.

He closed his eyes and summoned the fortress within his mind—the shield of Occlumency, forged through years of suffering and defiance. The Ring screamed against it, like a child denied its toy.

Sirius opened his eyes.

“Your time is over,” he said.

He threw the Ring.

The golden band spun through the air—then vanished into the fire.

There was a moment of utter silence.

Then the mountain screamed.

The earth split beneath his feet. Fire exploded from deep within the chasm. The tower of Barad-dûr cracked in the distance, the Eye blazing with final fury as the foundation of its power was undone.

Sirius stumbled, grabbing onto the crumbling ridge. The very stone of Mount Doom shook, as if crying out against its own death. A great fissure opened near his feet. Rocks cracked. Steam hissed.

And then—he slipped.

The ledge broke away beneath him, and Sirius Black, last of the House of Black, fell. Not with fear, not with regret, but with peace. His cloak billowed behind him like wings.

As he descended, he looked up at the falling ash and fire.

It happened in a blink.

There was the unbearable heat—the scream of stone and fire—the feeling of falling.

And then… silence.

Sirius Black felt pain only for the briefest moment, like fire biting into his feet—and then it was gone. Completely gone.

He gasped.

Air filled his lungs—not smoke and ash, but clean, sharp air, tinged faintly with the scent of dust and parchment. He was no longer surrounded by the fiery pit of Mount Doom. Instead, he found himself lying on a cold, black stone floor. The light was dim, flickering. The silence was broken by the echo of screaming.

And then… laughter. High-pitched. Cruel. Echoing through the stone chamber like broken glass.

He blinked his eyes open. Shapes resolved. Shadows sharpened.

There was a great stone archway in the center of the chamber. A tattered black veil swayed gently in an invisible wind.

Sirius’s heart stopped.

The Veil.

Memories hit him like thunderclaps—fighting Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries, a jet of red light, the sudden tilt, falling—falling through that very veil.

And now… he was here.

He pushed himself upright, limbs trembling. His skin was whole. His robes scorched at the edges, but he bore no burns, no marks of fire. He was breathing.

And then his eyes found the source of the scream.

“Harry…” Sirius whispered.

There—kneeling on the floor, hands gripping at his hair, his face twisted in agony—was Harry Potter. Just feet away. Someone was holding him by the shoulders, trying to steady him. Sirius blinked.

It was Remus.

Remus Lupin, pale and stunned, stared at Sirius like he’d just seen a ghost.

Bellatrix Lestrange, her mouth half open in twisted laughter, had frozen. Her wand hung limp in her hand. She, too, was staring at him in silent horror.

Sirius’s voice cracked. “Harry…”

Harry’s head snapped up. His tear-streaked face went white. “S–Sirius?” he breathed.

In a blur of motion, Harry surged forward and threw his arms around Sirius’s chest, nearly knocking him back to the floor.

“SIRIUS!”

Sirius held him, arms shaking. His godson’s warmth felt real, alive. He buried his face in Harry’s hair.

“Harry…” he choked. “You’re… alive. It’s really you.”

Harry nodded into his chest, barely able to speak. “You—You fell—you—how?”

Remus approached slowly, his wand lowered, disbelief etched across every line of his face. “Sirius?” he asked, voice hollow. “Is that… is it really you?”

Sirius turned toward him, still cradling Harry. His voice was hoarse but steady.

“Yes, Moony,” he said. “I’m back.”





Author's Note:

With this chapter, I am officially concluding The Mage of Middle-Earth. I want to sincerely thank everyone who followed Sirius Black’s journey across worlds. I know the ending may feel rushed, and I apologize for that. The truth is, I found myself overwhelmed and a bit burned out by the depth and complexity of the Lord of the Rings universe—which, while beautiful, can be quite a beast to navigate.

That said, if you’d like to see this version of Sirius Black return and fight in the final war against Voldemort, let me know in the comments! If more than five people express interest in continuing the story, I’ll happily add new chapters exploring his role in the wizarding war back in his original world.

Thank you again for reading and supporting this crossover adventure. Your encouragement means everything.

— Beuwulf