The Mage of Middle-Earth - CH - 100

The great feast in the Golden Hall of Meduseld had gone deep into the night. Fires roared in hearths, the scent of roast meats and honeyed bread clung to the air, and the songs of Rohan echoed in joy and sorrow alike. Warriors toasted fallen comrades, and even the Hobbits were given pride of place—heroes of the war no less than any sword-wielding knight. Laughter and ale flowed freely. But even amidst the celebration, darkness stirred quietly in the corners of fate.

Peregrin Took, more commonly known as Pippin, sat cross-legged near the edge of the gathering, his thoughts elsewhere. From beneath his cloak, wrapped in a swath of wool, he drew out the small bundle he had taken from the ruins of Isengard—the beautiful orb, smooth and shining, pulsing faintly beneath the cloth like something alive. He had kept it hidden, uncertain why he felt so drawn to it, but unable to part with it.

He slipped away from the gathering, climbing the stairwell to a small guest chamber where he could be alone. Once the door was shut, Pippin settled near the hearth and unwrapped the orb with trembling fingers. It shimmered in the firelight, the surface flawless, glass-like, but dark and swirling within, like the depths of a stormy sky.

"It's just a trinket," Pippin whispered to himself. "A souvenir…"

But as soon as his fingertips brushed the surface of the orb, the room disappeared.

A scream tore from his lips as white-hot pain surged through his head. His eyes rolled back, his hand locked to the orb like it had grown roots into his bones. Fire burst from its core, spiraling through his fingers and up his arm. He gasped as his mind was yanked across endless black distances, shadows tearing at his sanity.

Images flashed—armies marching, towers crumbling, the red lidless Eye staring through him like a brand upon his soul. The Eye of Sauron.

“No! Please! Get out!” Pippin cried, his voice hoarse and broken.

The orb now glowed with internal flame, his hand stuck fast to it, his screams echoing through the hall.

A door slammed open.

“Peregrin!” Gandalf's voice thundered through the chamber. The wizard’s staff flared with light as he saw what was happening.

Gandalf rushed forward, seizing Pippin’s shoulders and knocking the orb loose with a powerful incantation. The Palantír rolled across the floor, dimming instantly. Pippin slumped into Gandalf’s arms, trembling and drenched in sweat.

“Gandalf… it was him,” Pippin whispered. “He saw me. He knows me.”

Gandalf’s face was grave as he laid Pippin down on the bed. The old wizard’s eyes scanned the hobbit's face for signs of corruption.

“He saw you, yes,” Gandalf said, wrapping the orb again in the woolen cloth with practiced haste. “And he believes you bear the Ring. That was his mistake—but a dangerous one.”

Footsteps thundered in the hall. Merry burst into the room, out of breath. “Pippin! What happened? I heard shouting—”

Pippin reached out weakly toward Merry, “I’m all right… just tired…”

Gandalf turned to Merry with a tone of gentle finality. “He’s been marked. The Eye of Sauron has touched his mind. That was a Palantír—a seeing-stone, ancient and perilous. Saruman had one, and through it, Sauron saw.”

“You mean he thinks Pip has the Ring?” Merry asked, eyes wide with horror.

Gandalf nodded. “Exactly. Which means he will hunt him. And those near him.”

Merry looked torn between fear and sorrow. “Then what will you do?”

“I must take him away,” Gandalf said. “Far from Edoras. He must not remain near anyone Sauron would think to destroy in search of the Ring. You must stay, Meriadoc. I know your heart, but this is for his safety… and yours.”

Merry stepped forward and gripped Pippin’s hand. “Don’t do anything foolish, Pip. I’ll see you again. Promise me that.”

“I promise,” Pippin said with a brave little smile. “We’re Tooks and Brandybucks, aren’t we? Can’t keep us apart for long.”

Gandalf gently urged Merry back. “Time is short. We leave at first light.”

As dawn crept over the hills of Rohan, Gandalf the White mounted Shadowfax with Pippin held before him. The wizard said no goodbyes, for there was no time. The wind stirred his cloak, and with a mighty cry, Shadowfax surged forward—like lightning across the plain.

And behind them, Meduseld began to stir, unaware that a new thread in the tapestry of fate had been pulled tight.



The hooves of Shadowfax thundered over the moonlit plains, swift and sure, barely touching the earth. The wind sang past Pippin’s ears as he clung tightly to Gandalf’s cloak, eyes wide with wonder and fear. Behind them, Isengard lay in ruin, and ahead—somewhere beneath the brooding shadow—loomed the last great hope of Men: Minas Tirith.

They rode by night, for the skies were no longer safe. Above, the Nazgûl circled on monstrous winged steeds, shrieking into the darkness. Their cries pierced the soul, like the echo of despair made flesh. Once, when one flew too low, Gandalf raised his staff and uttered a word of power that blazed with a sudden white light. The Nazgûl veered away with a scream, the sound of it fading into the mountains.

“They are searching,” Gandalf muttered. “The Eye has turned eastward, and now it hunts. He believes the Ring is near.”

“Because of me,” Pippin said, his voice dry and tight. “Because of that orb.”

“Palantír,” Gandalf corrected him gently. “And yes. He saw you. But in his haste, he may have seen what he wanted to see.”

“And now he thinks I have the Ring?”

“For now,” Gandalf said grimly. “And that may buy Frodo time. But we must not tarry. The White City needs us.”

As dawn approached, pale and thin behind the thick curtain of cloud in the East, they saw the mountains part and the land widen into a great plain. There, gleaming faintly under the gray sky, stood Minas Tirith.

Pippin gasped.

The city rose like a beacon on the side of a towering hill. Seven walls of white stone curved in ascending rings, each level narrower than the last, until at the crown stood the Citadel with its high tower piercing the sky. The White Tower of Ecthelion, proud and ancient, gleamed even through the gloom. But as they drew nearer, Pippin saw the cracks in its majesty—walls weathered and worn, towers blackened with soot, and banners faded by years of war.

Even so, he felt awe settle over him. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Gandalf said. “But its strength wanes, and its light is dimmed. War eats at its roots.”

Guards in dark cloaks and silver helmets opened the great gates without a word, for Shadowfax needed no introduction, nor did Gandalf the White. They climbed steadily upward, passing from gate to gate, level to level. Each circle was built higher upon the hill, and each had its own gate and wall. The people watched them pass in silence, eyes wary, shoulders hunched as if bracing for a storm.

At last they reached the Citadel, where a single tree stood in a circle of marble. Its bark was pale as bone, and its branches bare. The fountain beside it gurgled softly, and a low mist hung over the stone. Pippin stared at the tree, feeling a deep sadness emanating from it.

“That is the White Tree of Gondor,” Gandalf said quietly. “It has not bloomed for many long years. It waits for its king.”

They entered the Hall of Kings, a long, dark space lit by torches. The throne of Gondor stood empty, untouched for generations. At its foot sat a black stone chair, and upon it, Denethor, Steward of Gondor.

Pippin had expected a frail old man, but Denethor was tall, with a proud bearing and dark robes embroidered with silver. His hair was gray, but his eyes were sharp and full of restless fire. On his lap rested the shattered horn of Boromir, split down the center.

“I bring you one who fought beside your son,” Gandalf said, bowing his head slightly. “Peregrin Took of the Shire.”

Pippin bowed low. “My lord.”

Denethor’s eyes studied him. “You are from the same land as the Ring-bearer?”

“Yes, my lord. Samwise Gamge is my friend,” Pippin said carefully.

Denethor’s fingers closed around the horn. “Then you have walked in shadow. Tell me, how did my son fall?”

Pippin swallowed hard. “He died defending us. He was brave, my lord. Many orcs attacked us, but Boromir fought them off… until he could no longer stand. I owe him my life.”

The Steward’s expression did not change, but he nodded slowly. “Then you are in his debt.”

“I am,” Pippin said quickly. “And I offer my sword in service to Gondor, to honor his memory.”

Denethor’s brows rose, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “An odd offer from one so small. Yet, I accept.”

Gandalf’s face remained unreadable.

Denethor turned his gaze toward Gandalf, cold and appraising. “Ever you bring strays to my gates, Mithrandir. Strays with secrets.”

“And ever you look for plots where none exist,” Gandalf said calmly. “Do not mistake caution for conspiracy.”

Denethor stood, towering above them. “I will rule Gondor until the King returns. Do not forget that.”

“I do not forget,” Gandalf said. “But do not forget, either, what darkness approaches.”

Outside the hall, Gandalf led Pippin away in silence. When they reached the Tower courtyard, he finally spoke.

“You handled yourself well.”

“He didn’t seem to like you much,” Pippin noted.

“No,” Gandalf said. “Denethor is proud and sees much. He has little love for those who challenge his authority.”

“Is he… mad?”

“Not yet,” Gandalf said. “But he is grieving. And grief can open the door to darkness.”

Pippin was assigned to Beregond, a kind-hearted soldier with kind eyes and a weathered face. Beregond gave Pippin a tour of the city and taught him the passwords to each level.

They stood on a high wall, gazing eastward. A shadow hung over the land beyond the Anduin River.

“That is Mordor,” Beregond said. “Imlad Morgul lies at its edge. Do not drink from its waters, whatever you do.”

“I won’t,” Pippin said, shivering.

Beregond pointed to the plains below. “Reinforcements have begun to arrive. Dol Amroth, Lamedon, and Lossarnach. Not many, though. Too few.”

From the gate, captains and companies arrived, each bearing banners from their provinces. The proudest was Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, tall and fair, his armor polished like silver. But even he brought fewer men than hoped.

In the streets, children stared with wide eyes at the soldiers. Women clutched their families. The air grew heavier with each passing day.

That night, a black cloud settled over the city like a blanket. The sun did not rise.

Pippin climbed the Citadel steps to find Gandalf standing at the edge, staff in hand.

“There is no dawn,” Pippin whispered.

Gandalf looked to the east. “No. The Darkness has begun.”

From beyond the wall came the long, cold shriek of a Nazgûl. Even the guards on the walls froze in terror.

“They will come soon,” Gandalf said softly. “And the city must hold.”

Pippin looked at the bare branches of the White Tree.

“Do you think we’ll win?”

Gandalf turned, resting a hand on his shoulder. “There are many paths in this world, Peregrin Took. And none are certain. But as long as hope burns in the heart of even one soul… the Shadow cannot win.”

Pippin nodded, though he felt very small. As the bells of the city tolled midnight, he realized just how close they stood to the end of the world.

And yet—he also realized—he was not afraid.