The Mage of Middle-Earth - CH - 91

Atop the rising green slope of the White Mountains, nestled between golden hills that rippled like waves of honey, stood the ancient city of Edoras—the heart of Rohan.

From a distance, Eron and his small band of warriors gazed upward, their eyes fixed on the majestic silhouette crowning the hill: the Golden Hall of Meduseld, its thatched roof gleaming like burnished gold beneath the sun, and long banners swaying in the wind, each embroidered with the symbol of a galloping white horse.

Eron drew his horse to a halt on the worn stone path. Behind him, his warriors waited in silence—bloodied, road-weary, but proud.

He raised a hand. “We camp here.”

Jareth frowned. “We’ve come this far. Why wait?”

Eron’s eyes remained locked on the distant city. “We’re not here to challenge the king, Jareth. We’re here to cure him.”

He turned in the saddle. “Marching in with armed men may only harden the court’s paranoia. Saruman’s lies have festered here. The last thing we need is to look like enemies.”

He chose three to follow him—Jareth, Brida, and Eamon, a quiet soldier with a healer’s touch.

The rest remained behind under the shelter of the hill, just beyond the city’s line of sight.

The stone path leading up to Edoras was old and well-worn, carved into the hill’s side and lined with white stones, half-covered in grass and creeping moss. As Eron and his three companions rode up the slope, the wind picked up, carrying with it the clean scent of mountain herbs and the distant echo of a horse’s whinny.

Below them stretched a vast field dotted with small wooden homes and circular farms, the roofs thatched in straw, livestock roaming the outer pastures. Shepherds moved among the flocks, and smoke curled gently from hearths.

Children laughed in the lower village, though their joy felt thinner now—tempered by fear. Blacksmiths hammered in silence, guards watched strangers warily, and old women whispered to each other from behind curtained windows.

Rohan had not fallen.

But it had been wounded.

As they reached the gate of Edoras proper, two golden-haired guards stepped forward with spears crossed.

“Who comes to Edoras?” one called.

Eron raised a hand in peace. “Travelers and warriors, from the North. I seek audience with your king.”

The guard eyed their weathered armor, stained with battle. “The king receives no strangers unannounced. You will lay down your arms.”

Eron nodded and dismounted, offering his sword with the hilt first.

“We come not to fight. Only to bring warning… and healing.”

The sound of boots on stone echoed softly.

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a silver-edged cloak stepped into view. His eyes were sharp and weary, and a scar crossed one cheek. This was Captain Elric, a veteran of Rohan’s wars, and one of the few left who had sworn his oath directly to King Théoden—not to Wormtongue.

"You are the northern rider who asked for audience with the king," Elric said, keeping his tone quiet but firm.

Eron inclined his head. “That’s right. My name is Eron, son of Sirius. I’ve come with a message, and a remedy.”

Elric studied him with a soldier’s caution. “A hundred have come before you—merchants, wanderers, healers, all claiming to restore the king. None succeeded.”

“I’m not here to sell false hope,” Eron replied. “I’m here to fulfill a vow. A vow made by your prince.”

He reached into his cloak and withdrew a small, weathered leather pouch. Inside was a silver ring, engraved with the crest of the House of Eorl—the personal signet of Éomer, the king’s banished nephew.

Elric’s eyes widened the moment he saw it.

“That ring…” he whispered. He reached out and took it, turning it over carefully in his hand.

“There’s more,” Eron added. He pulled out a folded parchment, sealed with Éomer’s mark. “Read it. The prince knew I would come.”

Elric opened it and read swiftly, eyes narrowing at first—then softening.

When he finished, he looked up. “This message… it’s his hand. His words. He speaks of your honor.”

“He believes Théoden King is under a spell,” Eron said. “And I believe it too. What I ask is simple: bring those still loyal to Rohan—not to Wormtongue—into the court. When I speak to the king, I want the real men of Edoras behind him. Not those who whisper in the dark.”

Elric nodded slowly, understanding dawning. “There are not many I trust… but there are a few. Enough to stand beside the king should he awaken.”

“We only need a moment,” Eron said. “A single chance to break Wormtongue’s grip.”

Elric turned, closing the scroll with a fist. “You’ll have it. I’ll gather my men and be at the hall by sunset. When this is done, may Rohan ride proud again.”

Eron clasped his arm. “It will. Or we’ll fall trying.”

As Elric disappeared into the corridor to rally the last of the true Rohirrim, Eron stepped back into the flickering light of the torches.

The time had come.

Beyond the gate, Meduseld rose in splendor.

Its long walls were carved from seasoned timber, darkened with age but strong as stone. Golden shields were mounted along the hall’s exterior, and intricate carvings of horses, warriors, and trees adorned its great doors. Massive pillars of dark oak framed the entrance, carved into the shapes of galloping steeds.

The sunlight hit the roof just as they approached, casting a golden glow so vivid it almost hurt the eyes. The wind tugged at the massive banners hanging from the rafters—each telling a tale of ancient battles and the proud line of Rohan’s kings.

Brida whispered, awestruck, “It’s like something out of the old stories.”

Eron nodded. “This is where the heart of the West must awaken. Or the East will devour us all.”

The guards escorted them inside.

Within, the air was thick with incense and shadow, the flickering light of torches casting dancing shapes along the carved walls. Rich tapestries lined the interior, but many were dusty, aged, and some slumped slightly—as though neglected.

At the far end of the hall sat King Théoden, slumped upon his throne, pale and thin, with a grey beard like snow-drift. His eyes were clouded, sunken beneath his brow.

And beside him—cloaked in black, sharp-eyed—stood Gríma Wormtongue, his whisper never ceasing.

Eron’s jaw tensed.

He stepped forward slowly and bowed low.

“Hail, King Théoden of Rohan. I bring word from the north—and a cure."


The air hung with the scent of old incense and wilted herbs. Flickering torches cast elongated shadows across the carved wooden pillars. Upon the throne sat Théoden, son of Thengel—once a mighty king, now a husk of his former self. His eyes were glazed, skin ashen, and his posture slumped beneath layers of velvet and fur.

Beside him, as always, stood Gríma Wormtongue, cloaked in black, lips whispering poison, his fingers curled around the king’s armrest like a spider on its web.

Eron stepped into the hall, followed by Captain Elric and a quiet procession of Rohirrim—soldiers loyal not to whispers, but to Rohan. Their armor clinked softly, but their gazes were hard. Silent oaths burned behind every stare.

Gríma narrowed his eyes. “More strangers bearing empty promises. This court has no room for tricksters and would-be heroes.”

But Eron did not flinch. He stepped forward slowly, carefully, until he stood before the king.

And then, from beneath his tunic, he drew a small silver pendant on a delicate chain—its surface etched with ancient runes that shimmered faintly in the firelight.

“This,” he said, lifting the pendant, “was given to me by my father—Sirius Black, a great healer and warrior of the old world. It shields the heart from corruption and the mind from enslavement. I have worn it since boyhood.”

He turned toward Théoden.

“But now, it is needed more than ever.”

Gríma sneered. “You dare—!”

But before anyone could react, Eron moved.

In a flash—a blur of speed only possible with enhanced magic—Eron dashed forward. In less than a heartbeat, he stood before the throne.

And in one swift motion, he placed the chain over Théoden’s bowed head.

A gasp rippled through the hall.

The pendant flared with a warm, white light that shimmered like the dawn. The glow surged outward from the king’s chest, rippling up through his withered arms and into his pale face. His eyes fluttered—then opened wide.

The light deepened. Wormtongue stumbled back, shielding his eyes as if in pain.

And before the court’s eyes, the transformation began.

Théoden’s hunched form straightened.

The pallor of death faded from his skin, replaced with the flush of life.

His sunken eyes cleared, the fog of Saruman’s control lifting like mist in sunlight. His beard, once scraggly and unkempt, now shimmered with its old regal silver. His shoulders squared, and the weight of age fell from him.

Gasps and whispers filled the hall.

Eron stepped back, eyes locked on the king.

Théoden stood.

Not as a puppet.

Not as a prisoner.

But as a king reborn.

“I have slept too long…” Théoden said, voice deep and resonant, like a mountain waking. “And in my absence, vipers made a nest beneath my feet.”

His eyes snapped to Gríma.

“You.”

Gríma staggered, shrinking beneath his cloak. “M-my lord, I—”

“Silence,” Théoden commanded. His voice alone struck like thunder.

He turned to Elric. “Captain. Seize the traitors. Every man in this hall who served Gríma’s will over mine.”

Elric raised his hand. At once, the loyal soldiers moved.

Men in black sashes tried to flee—but the loyal guards were faster. Swords were drawn, and within moments, Wormtongue’s web of lies began to unravel. Shouts and clashing steel echoed briefly, but the loyal prevailed.

Gríma was dragged before the king, his lips trembling.

Théoden looked down on him, eyes cold. “You poisoned my court. My people. You allowed orcs to roam my kingdom while you fed lies to my ear.”

“My lord… it was all for your protection,” Gríma pleaded. “Saruman—”

“I will deal with Saruman myself,” Théoden snapped.

To the guards, he said, “Cast him out of Edoras. Let him crawl back to his master and see what mercy he finds there.”

Gríma was dragged from the hall, screaming and cursing, but no one looked away from the king.

Théoden lifted his sword from beside the throne. It had been untouched for too long. He raised it high, the firelight glinting across its blade.

“No more shall I sit idle while Rohan burns.”

He turned to his people. “Sound the horns. Sharpen the blades. Tell every village and hall: The King rides again.”


The hall began to exhale—nobles speaking in hushed relief, warriors sharing nods. But the stillness was shattered by a voice that cut across the throne room like a blade:

“No.”

All heads turned toward Eron.

He stood with arms crossed, cloak falling behind him like a shadow, his eyes fixed on the space where Gríma had vanished.

Théoden’s brow furrowed. “You speak against the will of your king?”

“I speak against a mistake,” Eron said calmly. “You let him live. That man bled your people without drawing a sword. He betrayed your house, fed your enemies, and helped Saruman defile your lands.”

Gasps echoed among the court.

“You cast him out? Then what? You think he will vanish into the hills and write poetry?” Eron stepped forward, his voice gaining strength. “He will ride straight to Isengard, and everything you’ve fought for today will come undone. Because you chose mercy when the time demanded justice.”

A few guards tensed, their hands reaching for hilts. Captain Elric watched silently, lips pressed tight.

Théoden’s eyes narrowed. “You dare accuse me of weakness in my own hall?”

“I don’t belong to your hall,” Eron said. “I’m not your subject. I am the son of Sirius Black, and I answer to my conscience—and to the innocent people Wormtongue may kill next if he escapes your judgment.”

There was stunned silence.

Then Eron turned to the three warriors who had come with him—Jareth, Brida, and Eamon—and nodded once.

“Find him and kill him.”

Without a word, they turned and left the hall, their boots striking the stone with purpose.

Several of the older commanders—men who had once commanded cavalry or defended Rohan’s borders—glanced at one another. Some with disapproval. Others with uncertain approval. Many of them had sat quiet for too long. Eron’s words stirred something raw in them.

King Théoden stood, his restored form still regal but his face troubled.

“You tread dangerous ground, Eron. This is still my kingdom.”

“I know,” Eron said evenly. “That’s why I didn’t give my order in your name. I gave it in mine.”

Moments later, the doors to Meduseld swung open again.

Jareth and Brida returned, mud on their boots, blood on their blades. Between them, wrapped in a stained cloth, was Gríma’s severed head.

Gasps and cries rang out in the hall. One lady fainted. Others turned away in horror.

Eron stepped forward and addressed the court.

“Let this be the first warning to those who serve Saruman in secret: We are not merciful to traitors.”

He turned to the stunned King Théoden and offered a short bow—not in mockery, but in mutual understanding.

“You said the king rides again. Then ride as a king who will not suffer serpents at his feet.”

Théoden stared at the head in silence. Then, after a long pause, he looked at Elric.

“Increase the patrols. Lock the gates. Rohan is not safe—not yet.”

Eron turned and walked toward the door, leaving the court to reckon with the truth he had forced upon them.