The Mage of Middle-Earth - CH - 76

The dark boughs of Mirkwood Forest stretched endlessly before Sirius Black, their ancient limbs whispering in the cold wind. He walked with purpose, the familiar weight of his weapons at his side, his boots crunching against the damp earth. The time for hiding was over. No more disguises. No more false names.

He was Sirius Black, and it was time for Middle-earth to know it.

For years, he had traveled in shadows, shifting faces and names as easily as one might change cloaks. Jimmy Potter, the hobbit. Alden the scholar. Darnel the smith. Harrin the Healer. He had played a dozen roles in a dozen places, but now, there was no room for deception.

The enemy was gathering its forces, and Sirius needed to stand as himself if he was to lead the charge against the darkness.

His path led him north, toward the lands of Erebor and Dale—a place that, in many ways, owed its very survival to him.

It had been many, many years since Sirius had last walked the streets of Dale as himself.

In those days, the city was still growing, still rebuilding. The scars of the past had not yet faded, but under his leadership, the people had worked tirelessly, turning Dale into a flourishing kingdom once more.

Sirius had never desired to rule. Power was a burden, not a privilege. Instead, he had ensured that Dale was governed by its own people, placing its fate in the hands of an elected council, a system of governance that would last long after he was gone.

And it had.

He had seen Dale prosper from afar, watching as its people thrived, its markets grew, and its walls stood strong against any who would threaten it.

But the last time he had set foot in Dale, it had been under a different name, a different face. He had observed in silence, unseen and unknown, over fifty years ago.

Now, he would return as himself.

Sirius quickened his pace.

As he neared the great northern valley, where the River Running met the slopes of Erebor, Sirius felt the weight of time pressing upon him.

He had walked these lands as a warrior, a leader, and a friend.

He had helped lay the foundation stones of the new city, had trained its first guardsmen, and had ensured trade routes flourished between Dale, the Dwarves of Erebor, and the Elves of Mirkwood.

And then, when Dale no longer needed him, he had stepped aside, vanishing into legend.

The people of Dale spoke his name in stories, but few knew the truth of what had become of him.

Would they still remember him? Would they recognize the man who had once led them through fire and ruin?

Sirius pulled back the hood of his cloak, letting the cold northern wind sweep through his jet-black hair. His sharp, storm-gray eyes fixed upon the horizon.

The towers of Dale were just beginning to appear in the distance, golden rooftops gleaming under the midday sun.

As Sirius passed through the gates of Dale, his keen eyes scanned the streets, taking in the vast changes that had reshaped the city.

It was no longer the humble yet resilient Dale he had left behind. It was grand, lavish, and burdened with the weight of politics.

He had expected development, prosperity, and progress. But what he saw instead was a city of wealth, excess, and corruption—a kingdom where luxury had replaced discipline and political games had weakened the very foundation he had once built.

And, perhaps most unsettling of all—his name was forgotten.

No one recognized him. No one knew Sirius Black, the wandering mage who had rebuilt it from the ashes of Smaug’s wrath.

His legacy had been erased.

And before he could even process the changes, he discovered something even more pressing—Dale was preparing for war.

Inside the Tower of Dale, where once he had laid the foundations of governance, now an army gathered.

War banners snapped in the wind, armor clanked, and weapons glowed under torchlight as soldiers moved with grim determination.

Sirius had seen many armies before, but even he was unprepared for the sheer scale of this force.

He soon learned why.

The Easterlings—the ancient enemies of Dale, fierce warriors from the distant East—had crossed the Red River and were marching toward Dale in numbers far greater than ever before.

The Council of Dale—the very system of governance he had put in place—had already mobilized its forces to intercept the Easterlings before they could reach the city.

But as Sirius observed, one thing was clear—this was no longer the united Dale he had left behind.

Sirius had built the Council of Dale with one purpose—to ensure that the city would be ruled by its people, for its people.

But power, he knew, was a hungry beast.

Over the years, the system had slowly decayed, the elected council transforming into a hereditary oligarchy.

The sons of the first council members had inherited their positions, passing power through blood rather than merit. And now, Dale was no longer a land of shared leadership, but one of competing political factions, each vying for dominance.

It was still strong in wealth, still proud in its heritage—but it was weaker in unity, in spirit, in the very thing that had once made it great.

And worst of all—his own role in the city’s history had been erased.

The official records credited the Council as the saviors of Dale, as the founders of its new golden age.

Nowhere was his name written.

No books, no stories, no memories remained of Sirius Black.

His legacy had been stolen by the very system he had created.

Yet, not all had forgotten.

As Sirius walked through the Tower, he finally found one name he recognized—one who still remembered the truth.

Brand, grandson of Bard.

Bard’s grandson Brad was nothing more than one of council members—one who still held the old honor of Dale but had no power to change its course.

But when Sirius laid eyes on Brand, something was clear—he was ready to fight.

Brand had the same fire in his eyes that Bard once did.

He knew Dale had fallen into corruption. He knew his grandfather’s name had been buried beneath politics.

But more than anything—he still honored Sirius.

Unlike the other council members, who had long forgotten, Brand still carried the stories of his grandfather.

And when Sirius met his eyes, Sirius knew.

He did not say a word. He did not ask questions.

And in that moment, Sirius knew—Brand might be Dale’s last hope.

As Sirius stood before the war council, listening to the strategies, the plans, the debates, he could not shake a single thought from his mind.

He had made a mistake.

He had thought that a council of men, elected by the people, would ensure fairness, strength, and balance.

But in reality, politics had poisoned what should have been pure.

If he had let Bard be king, if he had chosen a leader rather than a system, perhaps Dale would be stronger today.

Perhaps it would not have fallen to bureaucracy and infighting.

Perhaps it would not be marching toward war with a fractured heart.

The Easterlings were coming, and Dale would stand and fight.

But Sirius knew that this war was only the beginning.

If Dale was to survive beyond this war, if it was to become strong again, then Sirius would have to correct his mistake.

And that meant doing something he had never intended to do—

Taking back control of Dale.

Sirius made his way toward the war chambers, where Brand—grandson of Bard—stood with a group of warriors, discussing battle formations.

As Sirius approached, memories surfaced.

He remembered Bain—Brand’s father—when he was just a child, playing in the streets of Dale. He remembered Bard’s daughters, always watching with curious eyes as their father rebuilt the city.

He remembered Dale before it had changed—before politics had eroded its unity.

Now, Brand stood before him—a teenager hardened by duty, ready to fight for a city that no longer honored its true history.

Sirius stepped forward.

“I need to speak with you,” he said.

Brand turned, eyeing him warily. “And you are?”

Sirius met his gaze firmly. “Sirius Black.”

A moment of silence.

Brand frowned. “Sirius Black is a legend. A myth from old stories.”

Sirius smirked. “And yet, here I stand.”

Brand crossed his arms, skepticism evident. “If you expect me to believe that, you’ll have to do better than just saying your name.”

Sirius had expected this.

So, he reached into his coat and pulled out a handful of coins—not just any coins, but the same ones he had once gave to Bard.

Brand's eyes narrowed, but a flicker of recognition passed through them. He hesitated before taking the coins, running his fingers over the old markings, the strange engravings that only his grandfather have possessed.

Brand's breath caught.

“Where did you get these?”

Sirius simply said, “I created them myself.”

Brand’s eyes flicked up, but he was still hesitant. This was proof, but not enough.

Sirius sighed. He reached into his pack once more and pulled out something even greater than gold.

A weapon—one of the enchanted blades he had crafted during the early years of Dale’s rebuilding.

A weapon unlike any other, imbued with magic, one of the few remaining artifacts from Sirius’ time in Dale.

Brand stared at it, recognizing the craftsmanship instantly. He had seen similar weapons in his family’s vault, weapons his grandfather had once treasured.

Still, Brand hesitated.

So, Sirius did the one thing that would erase all doubt.

He stepped forward, locked eyes with Brad, and whispered, “Let me show you.”

Before Brand could react, Sirius placed a hand against his temple.

The world around them vanished, replaced by visions from the past—

Scenes unfolded in Brad’s mind:

His father, Bain, as a boy, running through the streets of Dale, laughing as he played with his sisters.

Bard, his grandfather, young and strong, standing tall as he oversaw the rebuilding of Dale.

Sirius himself, younger but unmistakable, standing beside Bard, giving advice, crafting weapons, laying foundations.

The golden days of Dale, before corruption, before politics weakened its spirit.

Brand stumbled back, gasping as the visions faded.

His chest rose and fell quickly, his mind racing.

He looked up at Sirius, and for the first time, his doubt wavered.

“It’s you,” he whispered.

Sirius nodded.

Brand ran a hand through his hair, his expression torn between disbelief and awe. “My father never spoke much about you. But my grandfather… he never forgot.”

Sirius smirked. “Well, your council did their best to erase me from history.”

Brand gritted his teeth, anger flashing in his eyes. “That’s what they do. They rewrite the past to serve themselves.”

Sirius nodded knowingly. “And now, they’re leading Dale to war. A war it may not survive.”

Brand straightened, his gaze hardening. “Then it’s a good thing you came back.”

Sirius tilted his head. “That depends. Are you willing to listen?”

A long pause.

Then, Brand extended his hand.

“I believe you, Sirius Black. Now tell me—what happens next?”

Sirius grasped his hand firmly.

“Now, we prepare for war. But we fight it the right way.”

The Tower of Dale buzzed with tension as the Grand Council convened, its seven ruling families gathered in the great hall, their voices rising in debate.

The Army of Dale was preparing for war against the Easterlings, and now, the greatest question lay before them—who would lead?

Since the seven noble houses controlled the resources, soldiers, and defenses of Dale, each house wanted one of their own commanders to be given the title of General.

But seven different leaders for one army was a disaster waiting to happen.

If Dale was to win, it needed one commander, one mind, one strategy.

And yet, the bickering of the Council threatened to undo everything.

Inside the great stone chamber, beneath the golden banners of Dale, Sirius Black sat silently—a ghost among the living, unseen, unknown, forgotten.

But he had secured a place in this Council thanks to Brand.

And now, as the nobles argued and schemed, Sirius knew it was time to act.

He stood.

“Enough,” he said, his voice carrying through the hall.

The room fell silent, eyes turning toward him.

Many looked at him with suspicion. Others with indifference.

And yet, none recognized him.

Sirius didn’t care.

He stepped forward, his storm-gray eyes sweeping over the gathered lords and ladies.

“The decision is simple,” he said. “Command of the army should belong to the council member who is actually going to war.”

A murmur ran through the chamber.

Sirius continued, his voice unwavering.

“Most of you have grown comfortable in luxury. You live in Dale as rulers, as merchants, as politicians—but not as warriors.” His eyes hardened. “You talk of honor and duty, yet few of you are willing to stand on the battlefield yourselves.”

Some of the older council members shifted uncomfortably, their faces betraying the truth in his words.

Sirius smirked. Exactly as he expected.

He turned his attention to Brand, the youngest of the council, seventeen years old, yet one of the few who had the courage to fight.

“Brand is a member of this Council,” Sirius declared. “He is the only one among you willing to march into battle, to stand at the frontlines. And if he is brave enough to fight for Dale, then he should be the one to lead.”

At once, protests erupted.

“He is too young!” one noble shouted.

“He is untested!” another added.

“We cannot entrust the fate of Dale to a boy!”

Sirius’s eyes flashed.

“Then who among you will take his place?” he asked, his tone sharp as steel. “Who among you—sitting comfortably in your silken robes, drinking wine in golden halls—will take up a sword and lead this army?”

Silence.

The nobles glanced at one another, but none spoke.

None of them would go.

Sirius grinned.

“Exactly as I thought.”

He folded his arms. “If you refuse to fight, then you forfeit your right to command. Brand has earned the right to lead, not because of his name, but because of his willingness to stand and fight while you cower behind walls.”

A few nobles still grumbled, but the room was growing tense.

Even those who opposed Brand could not deny the logic of Sirius’s words.

And then, the weight of reality settled in.

The Easterlings were coming.

A leader needed to be chosen.

And with none of them willing to risk their own lives, Brad became the only option.

The final decision came quickly.

After heated discussion, after desperate attempts to push for alternatives, the Council reluctantly agreed—

Brand, son of Bain, grandson of Bard, would lead the Army of Dale.

The declaration was made, and though some of the nobles resented it, none could argue against it.

Brad stood tall, his face composed, but Sirius could see the flicker of determination behind his eyes.

For the first time since his arrival, Sirius felt a glimmer of hope for Dale.

The city had grown weak with politics, but strength could be restored.

And now, with Brand at its helm, Dale had a chance.

Sirius met Brand’s gaze and nodded.

This was just the beginning.