The Mage of Middle-Earth - CH - 86

The southern skies stretched wide and gray over the endless plains, the horizon broken only by the occasional twisted tree or rocky outcropping. The air was sharp with the coming chill of night, but Sirius Black pressed onward, undeterred by the loneliness of the road.

He had left the Dale army behind, their cheers and the rising banners fading into memory. His path now led south, toward darker lands—lands where the shadows thickened and the orc warbands grew bolder with each passing day.

To aid his long journey, Sirius took out his old sled—a sled pulled by rabbits.

Not ordinary rabbits.

These were enchanted creatures, enhanced with magic, their muscles bound with spells of speed and endurance. Their white fur seemed almost to shimmer in the sunlight, and when they ran, they moved like ribbons of wind across the earth.

Sirius sat cross-legged in the small sled, wrapped in his heavy traveling cloak, guiding the rabbits with nothing but a flick of his fingers and a whispered word.

The sled barely skimmed the surface of the grasslands. Where other travelers would have trudged for weeks, Sirius flew like a phantom.

His travels were not without interruption.

Twice that morning, orc hunting parties crossed his path—filthy, snarling creatures armed with crude spears and jagged blades. They roamed the open lands freely now, emboldened by the darkness spreading from Isengard and Mordor.

But they never lasted long against Sirius.

As soon as he spotted them, Sirius stopped the sled, stepping calmly onto the earth. He did not draw a sword. He did not raise a shield.

He simply lifted his hand, and magic answered.

When the first orc party saw him—a single man against dozens—they laughed. A deep, cruel sound.

“Look, boys! A wanderer! He thinks he can scare us!”

Their leader, a hunched brute with yellowed tusks, spat into the ground. "We'll gut 'im slow!"

Sirius tilted his head slightly. His voice was quiet, yet it carried across the field.

"You made two mistakes."

The orcs paused, confused.

"First," Sirius said, "you crossed my path."

He raised his hand. It glowed with a low blue light, humming with restrained power.

"And second... you thought you had a choice."

The spell burst from the hand without warning—a wall of invisible force flattening the first line of orcs like leaves in a storm.

Before the others could react, black fire coiled from Sirius’s other hand, twisting into a spear that pierced the chest of the orc captain, lifting him off the ground before he disintegrated into ash.

The remaining orcs charged, howling—but it was already over.

Sirius moved like a shadow. Every step, every swing of his hand unleashed shockwaves, fire, ice, or pure, blinding light.
Orc blades shattered against invisible barriers. Arrows froze mid-flight and fell harmlessly.

One by one, the orcs fell, until only silence remained—broken only by the soft rush of the wind.

Sirius stood over the fallen, his heart steady. He looked down at the corpses without triumph.

He did not revel in the killing.
But he knew: if he had spared even one, that orc would have crawled back to its dark masters, would have returned with more blades, would have slaughtered innocent villagers sleeping peacefully in their beds.

Sirius whispered a small prayer—not for the dead, but for the living who might yet be spared because of this moment.

He waved his hand, and the bodies burst into clean flame, turning to dust within seconds.

He would leave no sign for others to find.
No warning.
Only a ghost of fire on the plain.

As he climbed back into his sled, the rabbits barely stirred, trained to calm in the presence of their master’s fury.

Sirius glanced southward, toward the far-off mountains and the swirling dark clouds.

“Not long now," he murmured to himself. "Souron… your time is coming.”

He gave a small signal, and the rabbits leapt forward once more, the sled flying over the grasslands like a shard of silver under the dying sun.

He traveled faster than shadow,
swifter than rumor,
toward the heart of the storm.


The plains were endless, a rolling sea of golden grass swaying under the chill morning wind. The sky above was a blanket of soft blue, streaked with long, feathery clouds. Sirius Black guided his enchanted rabbit sled with easy mastery, the rabbits' paws whispering over the ground like wind on water.

He had traveled far from Dale now, nearing the wilder lands where the world seemed to hold its breath before the storm.

It was then that he saw it—a dark speck against the sky, growing larger with each heartbeat.

An owl.

Not just any owl.

A silver-and-black feathered owl, swift and sharp-eyed, its wings cutting clean lines through the morning light.

A smile broke across Sirius’s face. He stood up in the sled, slowing the rabbits with a simple hand gesture. The owl circled once overhead before swooping down gracefully, alighting on Sirius’s outstretched arm with a soft flutter.

“Hello, old friend,” Sirius murmured, reaching up to gently untie the small parchment scroll attached to the bird’s leg. “Bringer of tidings from my wayward son, I hope.”

The owl hooted softly, as if answering, and nipped affectionately at Sirius's fingers before taking flight again, disappearing into the broad sky.

Sirius unrolled the scroll with careful hands.

The writing was rough but familiar—bold strokes, words packed tightly together, carrying urgency and determination.

He read:


Father,

I hope this owl finds you well. I left Bree some time ago to fight against the growing darkness. I could not sit idle while others bled and the world crumbled around us.

I am traveling toward Isengard. Saruman the White is no longer our ally. His forces grow stronger every day. I am not alone—there are others who still have courage—but I wanted you to know where I ride.

I carry with me what you taught me, both in healing and in battle. I will make you proud.

May the stars guide you. We will meet again, in brighter days or in the halls beyond.

Your son,
Eron


Sirius folded the letter slowly, pressing it against his chest for a long moment.

He let out a long, steady breath.

Pride and worry mixed within him, a storm of emotion swirling behind his usually sharp eyes.

Sirius sat back down in the sled, letting the rabbits rest for a while. His gaze drifted toward the south, where distant storm clouds gathered around the far-off mountains.

“Foolish boy,” he said softly, though there was no anger in his voice. Only love. “You couldn’t have stayed in Bree if I had chained you there myself.”

He smiled, small and sad.

“Healing and fighting. Heart and blade. Just like I taught you.”

Sirius knew that Isengard was dangerous—far more dangerous than most could imagine. Saruman had turned his tower into a fortress, spawning orcs in pits of fire, forging weapons of destruction. No place in Middle-Earth stank more of treachery and ambition now than the halls once known for wisdom.

Yet, deep inside, Sirius trusted Eron.

He trusted his son’s strength, his cunning, and the goodness that even war could not taint.

The wind picked up, tugging at Sirius’s cloak. He tucked the letter carefully into a hidden pocket inside his robe.

He stood up, tightening the sled’s reins.

“Well, lad," Sirius said aloud, as if Eron could hear him across leagues, "if you’re going to ride into the lion’s den… then I suppose I better not lag too far behind.”

He clicked his tongue, and the rabbits leapt forward once more, pulling the sled southward with incredible speed, racing the storm brewing in the distance.

Sirius Black, the wandering flame of Middle-Earth, rode onward with renewed purpose—his heart lighter, his will sharper than ever.

He was not alone in this fight.
And neither was his son.


The day had worn thin, and the light grew softer as the sun sank toward the west, casting long golden rays over the plains. Sirius Black rode low in his enchanted sled, the rabbits pulling effortlessly across the land like mist on water.

He had grown used to the empty wilderness by now—abandoned fields, burned farmsteads, and the stink of orcish raiding parties far off in the hills.
But as he crested a low ridge, a different scene caught his sharp eyes.

Below, in a dusty stretch of old road, a group of armed men—not orcs, but humans—were herding a line of villagers.
Old folk, women, and children, all bound by rope, their faces hollow with fear and exhaustion. Some stumbled; others were dragged forward by the rough hands of their captors.

Sirius narrowed his eyes.

“These are no soldiers of Rohan,” he muttered. “Or Gondor. Their armor is too filthy. Their blades too cruel.”

He reined in the sled.

This was not the time for showy magic.

Sirius whispered a command, and the rabbits slowed. He stepped off the sled and tapped a rune on its frame, causing the enchanted vehicle to fold neatly into a small trunk no larger than a satchel. Slinging the trunk over his back, he walked steadily toward the grim procession.

He carried only a sword, sheathed at his hip—a plain weapon compared to the ancient magic he wielded, but sharp and true.

As he neared, the men noticed him.

One of them, a sneering brute with rusted chainmail, called out. “Keep walking, old man. This road’s none of your concern.”

Sirius stopped a dozen paces away, arms loose at his sides.

“Where are you taking them?” he asked calmly, his voice low and cutting.
“What have they done wrong.”

The soldiers laughed cruelly.

“Mind your own business, traveler,” another said. “Or you’ll be walking with them.”

Sirius tilted his head slightly. His voice grew colder.
“They are not slaves. You have no right.”

The leader of the soldiers spat on the ground. “Rights? Who are you to speak of rights? Get lost—or die.”

When Sirius did not move, when he simply watched them with that maddening calm, the soldiers grew furious.

“Get him!” the leader barked.

They charged as a pack—ten against one.

But Sirius was already moving.

His sword sang free of the scabbard, a silver arc under the fading sun.
The first soldier lunged, but Sirius sidestepped with a smooth, almost lazy grace and slashed the man’s leg, sending him sprawling with a scream.

Another thrust his spear. Sirius batted it aside and stepped in, elbowing the man hard across the face, shattering his nose. Before the man could recover, Sirius knocked him unconscious with the hilt of his sword.

Two more rushed together.

Sirius turned sideways between them, one clean strike across both their chests, dropping them gasping to the ground.

The captives cried out in terror, shielding the children, but Sirius never faltered.

Another soldier swung a crude axe—Sirius caught the shaft with his free hand, yanked it forward, and drove his knee into the man’s gut. As the soldier doubled over, Sirius clubbed him unconscious with the flat of his blade.

Three came at once, swords flashing.

This time, Sirius didn’t retreat.
He met them head-on.

Steel clashed. Sparks flew. Sirius moved with an economy of motion, each step a dance, each strike deliberate. In less than a minute, all three lay broken on the earth, moaning.

The last soldier, realizing too late that this was no simple wanderer, turned to flee.

Sirius threw his sword—one swift, powerful throw.
The pommel struck the man behind the ear, sending him sprawling senseless in the dust.

Silence fell.

Only the labored breathing of the defeated remained.

Sirius wiped his blade on the nearest fallen soldier's cloak and slid it back into its sheath. He turned to the stunned villagers and slowly approached.

One of the older women, her face lined with sorrow, fell to her knees before him.

“Thank you, my lord,” she whispered.

Sirius knelt and untied her bonds, then moved quickly along the line, freeing each prisoner.

“Who did this to you?” Sirius asked quietly, helping a small girl rub the rope burns from her wrists.

It was an old man, his voice shaking, who answered.

“We are from the village of Hardmere... beyond those hills. Our leader, Lord Harnic... he made a deal with the goblins.”

Sirius’s brow darkened.

“What kind of deal?”

The old man swallowed hard. “He promised them... ten souls, every seven days. In exchange, the goblins would leave the rest of the village alone.”

The woman added, voice breaking, “Half our people are already gone. Taken... eaten. Harnic chose the weakest first. The old, the sick... and now, even the children.”

A fire lit behind Sirius’s eyes. Cold. Bright. Unforgiving.

"And you," he said quietly, "were the next offering."

The villagers nodded, some beginning to weep.

Sirius stood slowly, his cloak catching the rising breeze.

“Not any more,” he said. His voice was low but as sharp as a drawn blade.

He turned to the stunned villagers.

“Gather your families. Gather the willing. Tonight you will not die. Tonight, you will take back your home.”