The Mage of Middle-Earth - CH - 99

The light of dawn poured softly over the blood-streaked stones of Helm’s Deep, bathing the ruined battlements in a golden glow. The night of battle was over. The walls that once rang with steel and screams were now silent, save for the quiet sobs of the wounded and the songs of mourning echoing off the stone.

Bodies of the fallen—both friend and foe—lay strewn across the battlefield. Rohan's men, their armor scorched and dented, moved among the dead with reverent care, collecting the bodies of their brothers-in-arms. Even the smallest soldiers—the child fighters whose courage had exceeded all expectation—stood among the men, saluting the fallen with grim and tear-stained faces.

The main courtyard had been cleared, and upon the ancient stone floor, pyres were being raised for the enemies, while shallow graves were being dug for their own. Theoden, King of Rohan, stood tall before his people, his once-shining armor dulled with blood and grime. He looked older now, wearier, as though the long night had carved new lines into his face.

He raised his sword slowly, its edge chipped and blackened from battle. The soldiers gathered around, silent and solemn.

> “Brave men and women of Rohan,” Theoden began, his voice rough with grief, “last night, we stood against a tide that no man believed we could withstand. And yet here we are… battered, broken—but breathing. Our children fought like warriors. Our women stood with blades. And our sons—our brothers—gave their lives so we might see this morning. Let us honor them not with silence, but with the promise that their sacrifice shall never be forgotten!”



The soldiers banged their swords against their shields in thunderous rhythm. Tears welled in many eyes—but they did not fall. Not here. Not yet.

Among them, in a shaded alcove away from the blood and smoke, Eron knelt beside the motionless form of Sirius Black. The once-mighty sorcerer lay draped in a dark cloak, his chest rising and falling in slow, ragged breaths. His face was pale, his brow damp with sweat. The chains of magic that had erupted from his body during battle had vanished, leaving only seared marks on his back—burned deep, like old wounds reopened.

A bowl of cool water rested at Eron’s side, and with a cloth, he gently wiped his father’s brow.

“Hang in there, Father,” he whispered. “You saved them all. Now let us save you.”

Behind him, a pair of guards lingered uneasily, watching the unconscious wizard with wary eyes.

“Is he… truly human?” one of them muttered to the other. “Did you see what he did? I’ve never seen such darkness. Even the orcs feared him.”

Eron looked up, eyes hard. “He’s human. And he’s my father. If it weren’t for him, this fortress would be ash, and you’d be buried beneath it. Show respect.”

The guards fell silent and quickly left.

Meanwhile, Aragorn stood beside Theoden, watching as the people of Rohan—those few who survived—began to gather what little they had and prepare for their return to the countryside. Their homes had been spared, but the scars of war would remain. Children clutched their mothers. Old men carried the wounded. The air was thick with both relief and mourning.

“We have won,” Aragorn said quietly, “but at great cost.”

“Aye,” Theoden nodded. “But we must press forward. Isengard lies wounded. We must strike before Saruman can rise again.”

And so, the main force of Rohan—led by King Theoden, Aragorn, and the elven company—prepared to march toward Isengard, hoping to crush the enemy at its weakest.

But Eron did not march with them.

“I will stay,” he told Aragorn. “My father is not well. I’ll not leave him behind.”

Aragorn placed a hand on the young warrior’s shoulder. “He is strong. Like his son. I will see you both again at Isengard.”

Eron watched as the banners of Rohan disappeared over the hills, leaving behind only a small company to help with the cleanup and defense of Helm’s Deep. The silence after their departure was strange, like a breath held too long.

Inside the healer’s quarters, Sirius Black stirred slightly.

Eron rose quickly, kneeling beside him. “Father?”

But Sirius did not wake. His magic had been stretched beyond its limits—his very soul had been wrung out to protect the living.

Eron sat beside him and took his hand in silence.

“Rest, Father,” he whispered. “We’re safe now. Because of you.”

And so, while the land moved on toward more battles and storms, Helm’s Deep became a place of quiet healing, of mourning, and of waiting—for the waking of a wizard whose name now passed between lips with reverence and fear.



The journey from Helm’s Deep to Isengard was slow and somber. Though the battle had been won, the weight of loss still clung to the soldiers' hearts. Gandalf rode at the front, his white cloak flowing like a banner of peace in the gentle breeze. Shadowfax moved with a grace unlike any other horse, seeming to float above the earth. Behind him came King Théoden, proud and weary, followed by Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and the weary host of Rohan.

For days they marched across the plains, passing scorched fields and broken remnants of war. The land was healing, but slowly. The men spoke little, their minds still tethered to the screams of Helm’s Deep.

As they crested the final ridge and approached the valley of Isengard, a great silence fell upon them. The men halted, staring in awe at the sight before them.

Isengard—once a black pit of iron and fire—was no longer recognizable. The ringed wall that once surrounded the tower of Orthanc lay shattered in places. Machinery of war and forges of destruction had been drowned beneath a great lake of water that now filled the basin of the vale. The once-burning forges hissed silently beneath the flood.

At the center stood the Tower of Orthanc, still tall and proud, though marred with scars and ash. Water lapped at its black base, and strange vines had begun to creep along the lower stones.

And standing at the broken gates of Isengard, with smoke curling lazily from their pipes and half-chewed pork jerky in hand, were two familiar figures.

“Merry?” Legolas said, blinking in disbelief.

“And Pippin?” Aragorn added, his voice rising with joy.

The hobbits grinned at the approaching company. Merry stood with a mock-serious expression, holding a long spear like a sentry’s staff, while Pippin reclined on a broken stone, his bare feet dangling just above the waterline.

“Halt!” Merry called in a pompous tone. “You approach the realm of the Ents! State your business!”

Gimli stared wide-eyed, then let out a booming laugh. “By Durin’s beard! You two rascals survived!”

“Aye,” Pippin said, blowing a lazy ring of smoke into the air. “We’ve been through root and branch to get here, but we’re intact. Mostly.”

“And we’re guarding the gates,” Merry added proudly. “Treebeard put us in charge.”

Legolas leapt down and embraced both hobbits at once, unable to hide the joy in his heart. “It is good to see you both alive.”

Gimli approached, his eyes moist. “You’ve no idea how much I worried,” he muttered. “When I heard you were taken by orcs—”

“We escaped, with a little help from our leafy friends,” said Pippin, grinning and patting a nearby tree root. “And now we’ve got jerky!”

With that, Merry reached into a soggy satchel and pulled out a handful of thick, smoked pork jerky. “Best part of Saruman’s pantry. Still dry, thanks to his barrels.”

Gimli’s eyes widened as if he had stumbled upon a hidden dwarven treasure. “You would share it with me?”

Merry chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of hoarding it.”

He handed over a generous portion, and Gimli tore into it with a satisfied grunt. “Mmmm. A proper taste of meat! Bless your hairy feet, hobbit.”

King Théoden dismounted, marveling at the scene. “So, this is the work of the Ents?” he asked Gandalf.

The wizard nodded. “Aye. The forest marched. Treebeard and his kin destroyed the forges, the war machines, and flooded Isengard. Saruman is trapped in his tower, alone and broken.”

“And the hobbits?” Théoden asked, amused.

“Found their way to comfort and food, as hobbits do,” Gandalf replied with a smile. “And took up sentry duty while they were at it.”

Soon, the company made its way across the stone causeway, where the water reached up to their knees. Tree roots cracked through stone, and birds now nested where once black smoke had billowed.

At the foot of the tower, Treebeard waited—ancient and towering, his bark glistening with morning dew. He bowed slowly.

“Hoom. Gandalf. Aragorn. Riders of Rohan. Welcome… to what remains of Isengard.”

“Treebeard,” Aragorn said, bowing in return, “you have done what no army of Men could achieve. You have broken Saruman’s hold on the valley.”

“Hroom… the forest remembers,” Treebeard rumbled. “And it does not forgive.”

Gandalf stepped forward, eyes fixed on the obsidian tower. “The time has come to speak with Saruman. He must answer for his crimes.”

Treebeard’s limbs creaked as he gestured to the door. “He will not come out. But perhaps… he will speak.”

The company stood in the broken courtyard, surrounded by water and vine, stone and silence, preparing to face the fallen wizard at last.

And as Merry and Pippin refilled their pipes and passed around more jerky, Gimli leaned back with a sigh.

“I never thought I’d say this,” he said, “but I wouldn’t mind spending a few more days in a ruined fortress… if the company stays this good.”


The company gathered in the ruined courtyard of Isengard, water lapping around their boots, when Saruman finally revealed himself. High above, atop the black tower of Orthanc, he stood in his once-proud white robes, now dulled and singed, a shadow of the wizard he once was. His eyes glinted with malice, and his voice echoed unnaturally through the still air.

"So you have come to gloat, Gandalf? To stand in the ruins of my domain and claim victory?"

Gandalf stepped forward, his staff shining faintly in the morning light. "We did not come for triumph, Saruman, but for knowledge. The war is far from over. Tell us what you know. Sauron is preparing for an assault—where will he strike?"

Saruman laughed, a dry, hollow sound. "And you think I would betray my master? You think I would hand over his plans to you, even as I fall? I may be caged, but I am not your servant."

Gandalf's expression hardened. "You are a fool, Saruman. Your tower is broken, your army drowned, your allies destroyed. Cling to your pride, and you will die with it. Help us, and perhaps there may be a sliver of redemption."

"Redemption?" Saruman snarled. "You preach to me of redemption, when you stole my place and turned my servants against me? No. I will show you what remains of my power!"

With a sudden motion, Saruman raised his staff and unleashed a barrage of fireballs. They screamed through the air, crackling with dark energy. Gandalf raised his own staff, summoning a protective shield. The flames shattered against his barrier, but one of the fireballs veered off, exploding among the elves who stood at the rear.

The blast sent them flying, some crashing into the stone wall, others into the water. Cries of pain rang out, and Legolas, enraged by the unprovoked attack, raised his bow with unerring focus.

"No more," he whispered.

He loosed a single arrow. It flew true, piercing Saruman's chest with a sickening thud. The corrupted wizard staggered back, his face twisted in shock and fury, and then he plummeted from the top of Orthanc.

The fall was long. The impact, final.

Silence fell over Isengard once more, broken only by the distant cries of birds and the murmuring water. Treebeard bowed his head solemnly. "He was great once... but now his roots are severed."

Gandalf turned to the wounded elves, assisting them with gentle words and healing magic. "Let us honor our fallen and tend to our wounded. The battle here is ended."

With Saruman's threat finally extinguished, King Theoden and his company departed Isengard, returning to the plains of Rohan. The journey was slow, but the hearts of the riders were lighter than before.

Upon reaching the Golden Hall of Edoras, a great celebration was held. The mead-hall was filled with the sound of song and laughter, the clatter of mugs and the scent of roasted meat. The warriors of Rohan drank deep and feasted well, lifting their voices in remembrance of the brave and the fallen.

King Theoden stood and raised his cup. "Tonight, we honor those who fought and fell. And we give praise to those who stood and lived. May their courage be sung in every hall, and may our swords remain sharp for the darkness yet to come!"

A resounding cheer rose, and for the first time in many days, the people of Rohan felt alive again. In the flickering torchlight, with food, drink, and friendship close at hand, hope returned to the hearts of men.