The Mage of Middle-Earth - CH - 57

The early morning mist hung low over the streets of Bree as Gandalf and Saruman rode into town, their cloaks heavy with dew. Bree was awake, bustling with activity as merchants set up their stalls and farmers brought in their produce. Yet, despite the warmth of the town, the two wizards felt a chill—not from the weather but from the lingering presence of dark forces stirring in Middle-Earth.

"Are you certain he was here?" Saruman asked, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd.

Gandalf nodded. "I have reliable sources. Sirius Black was here. But whether he still is... that’s what we must find out."

They dismounted and made their way toward Eron’s Clinic, the place where they had been told the mysterious mage had left his mark. As they entered, the scent of herbs and ointments filled the air. The place was bustling with healers tending to patients, some lying on clean beds while others sat waiting for remedies. It was a sight unlike any other in Middle-Earth—a proper clinic, organized and efficient.

Saruman, for once, was speechless. "This... this is no simple establishment," he muttered. "It’s as if he has recreated an Elven healing hall but in a human town."

A young woman approached. "Can I help you?"

Gandalf stepped forward. "We need to speak with Eron."

Eron entered the hall, wiping his hands on a cloth stained with herbs. He was a young man with sharp features, confidence in his stride, and eyes that gleamed with intelligence. Gandalf immediately recognized the signs of Sirius’s teachings—sharp intellect, steady demeanor, and an unshakable presence.

"I’m Eron," he said, extending his hand. "How can I help you?"

"I’m Gandalf, and this is Saruman," Gandalf replied, shaking his hand. "We’ve come to speak about your teacher—Sirius Black."

Eron stiffened slightly. "He’s not here."

"We know," Saruman said sharply. "But we need to know where he’s gone and what he’s up to. Sirius Black is a dangerous man."

"That’s not true," Eron said firmly, his voice rising. "He’s a good man. He saved my life and taught me everything I know. This clinic exists because of him."

Saruman scoffed. "A man who wields dark magic cannot be trusted. No good ever comes from it."

"Dark magic doesn’t mean evil," Eron shot back. "Sirius uses it to heal, to protect."

Gandalf raised his hand to calm the argument. "Peace. We are not here to condemn him, only to understand. Tell us what you know, Eron. Where did he go?"

Eron hesitated but finally spoke. "He left for Angmar."

At that, Saruman’s eyes darkened. "Angmar?!"

Gandalf’s brows furrowed. "Why Angmar? That land is cursed, steeped in shadows and evil."

Eron shrugged. "He didn’t tell me much, only that he was searching for something—a sword, I think. He mentioned the Sword of Starlight."

Saruman turned sharply to Gandalf. "You see? I told you! He’s meddling with powers he cannot control."

"Calm yourself, Saruman," Gandalf said, though he too looked deeply troubled. "If Sirius Black has gone to Angmar, we must find him before it’s too late."

Despite Saruman’s urgency, both wizards couldn’t ignore the miracle unfolding before them in the clinic. Saruman inspected the herbs and potions, occasionally muttering spells under his breath to confirm their properties. Gandalf, meanwhile, watched Eron work, treating wounds with practiced ease.

"You’ve done well, Eron," Gandalf said. "You’ve built something that will help many people. But if Sirius has indeed gone to Angmar, we may need your skills before this is over."

"I’ll do whatever I can to help," Eron replied. "But I can’t leave the clinic. People depend on me."

"Then stay and keep this place safe," Gandalf said. "If we fail, this clinic may be the last refuge for many."

Before leaving, the wizards met Aragorn, who was keeping watch over his injured companion in the clinic. The ranger greeted them respectfully and provided more details about Sirius’s departure.

"He left suddenly," Aragorn explained. "He seemed determined, like a man chasing answers to old questions."

"What do you know of the Sword of Starlight?" Gandalf asked.

Aragorn’s expression grew grim. "Legends say it was forged from a fallen star and enchanted by Elves and Dwarves working together. It was said to be wielded by a great king to drive back the darkness, but after his fall, it was lost."

Saruman interrupted. "And now Sirius Black seeks it to claim its power for himself."

Aragorn frowned. "Or to destroy it, if he deems it too dangerous. You underestimate him, Saruman. He may be mysterious, but he’s not evil."

Saruman dismissed the ranger’s defense with a wave of his hand, but Gandalf seemed to take Aragorn’s words to heart.

With heavy hearts, the two wizards left Bree, traveling north toward the shadowed lands of Angmar. As they rode, Gandalf’s thoughts lingered on Sirius.

"If he’s found the sword," Gandalf murmured, "it could mean salvation—or destruction."

"And if he’s corrupted by it?" Saruman asked.

"Then we’ll have to stop him," Gandalf replied. "But I won’t believe he’s lost until I see it with my own eyes."

Saruman said nothing, but his thoughts were darker. He didn’t trust Sirius Black. Not now. Not ever.

As they crossed into the barren lands leading to Angmar, the shadow of the Witch King’s legacy loomed large, and both wizards knew that whatever awaited them in the ruins of Carn Dûm would test their strength—and their faith.


Sirius Black stood in the desolate ruins of Carn Dûm, the ancient stronghold of the Witch-king of Angmar. The air was heavy with a sense of dread, and shadows clung to the broken stones as if alive. His wand was hidden beneath his cloak, and his elvish blade gleamed faintly in the dim light filtering through the cracked walls.

He had followed the traces of old magic, the echoes of dark spells long since cast, to this forsaken place. And now, he faced what he had hoped was only a legend.

Before him hovered a ghostly figure clad in dark, jagged armor. A massive spiked helm sat atop its head, and the eye slits were empty voids, darker than any shadow. The faint flicker of blue flames burned in the gaps of the armor, giving it an eerie glow.

The Ghost of the Witch-king of Angmar stood silent, as though weighing Sirius with an unseen gaze.

"You have come far, mortal," the ghost spoke, its voice echoing like a thousand whispers in the wind. "But you tread where none should walk. Turn back, or be consumed by the shadows."

Sirius gripped his sword tightly. "You’re already dead," he said, his voice calm but firm. "You can’t harm me."

The ghost’s hollow laughter echoed through the chamber. "Dead? Yes. But not powerless. I remain bound to this place, and my will endures. I see into your soul, wizard. You carry the shadows of another world."

Sirius flinched. He had expected dark magic but not something that could peer into him so easily. "Who are you to judge shadows?" he retorted. "You’re the remnant of a tyrant. I’m here to make sure your darkness doesn’t rise again."

"You cannot stop the darkness," the ghost hissed. "It is eternal. And you, like all others, will fall before it."

Sirius raised his wand. "I don’t think so."

With a flick, he sent a jet of light toward the ghost, but it passed harmlessly through the armored figure, dissipating like mist. The Witch-king’s ghost laughed again.

"You think mortal magic can banish me? Fool! My power is bound to this land, as old as the stones themselves."

Sirius frowned. He had studied enough ancient magic to know that spirits bound to a place couldn’t be destroyed so easily. But they could be weakened, broken, and banished. He needed time to figure out how.

The ghost raised a spectral blade, dark energy crackling along its edge. "You cannot win this battle, wizard. Kneel before me, and I may yet spare your soul."

Sirius smirked. "Sorry, but kneeling’s never been my style."

He flicked his wand, sending a wave of Repulso to push the ghost back, but it only staggered slightly before surging forward. Sirius dodged, rolling behind a fallen pillar. He muttered an incantation, setting protective wards around him.

The ghost halted and pointed its blade toward Sirius. "You seek the sword," it said. "The blade that felled kingdoms and shattered armies."

The chamber grew colder as the ghost of the Witch-king of Angmar raised its spectral sword. Its jagged edges shimmered with an unnatural glow, crackling faintly with dark energy. Sirius Black tightened his grip on the hilt of the Sword of Starlight, the blade humming in his hands, alive with raw power.

He took a deep breath. "So, we fight for it, then?" Sirius said, masking his unease with bravado. "Fine by me."

The ghost’s hollow voice echoed. "This is no mere fight, wizard. This is a test. Prove yourself worthy, or fall like the others who dared to claim the blade."

Sirius gritted his teeth. "I’ve faced worse than you."

The Witch-king lunged. Its ghostly blade moved unnaturally fast, cutting through the air like a streak of lightning. Sirius barely managed to parry, the clash of swords sending out a shockwave that made the walls tremble.

Sirius immediately knew something was wrong. The Sword of Starlight vibrated in his grip, resisting his movements as if it had a will of its own. When he tried to swing it for a counterattack, it felt like pushing against an invisible force.

"What’s wrong with you?" Sirius hissed at the sword, trying to force it into motion.

The ghost laughed. "It rejects you, wizard. The blade has judged you unworthy!"

Sirius snarled and focused his Occlumency shields, clearing his mind of doubts. "No. It’s not that. It’s testing me."

He steadied his grip and let the blade’s magic flow through him instead of fighting against it. Slowly, the hum of resistance lessened.

The ghost lunged again, and this time Sirius managed to block more fluidly. Sparks of light and shadow danced as the blades met, each strike ringing out like a bell tolling doom.

Sweat dripped down Sirius’s brow. He had faced monsters and dark wizards, but never something like this. The ghost wasn’t bound by physical laws—it twisted and warped unnaturally, attacking from angles no living opponent could.

The spectral blade slashed toward him, and Sirius barely dodged, feeling a burning cold graze his arm. He stumbled back, eyes wide.

"You can actually hurt me?" he said, half in disbelief.

The ghost loomed closer. "I am no ordinary spirit. My hatred binds me to this world, and my blade cuts through both flesh and soul."

Sirius gritted his teeth. "Good. I was starting to get bored."

He surged forward, the Sword of Starlight finally responding to his command. Light erupted from the blade, forcing the ghost to recoil. Sirius pressed the attack, slashing and weaving around the ghost’s counters, but the more he fought, the more he realized the sword’s power was draining him.

Minutes felt like hours. Sirius’s arms burned, his breath came in ragged gasps, and his legs felt heavy. The ghost, however, showed no sign of fatigue.

"You cannot win, mortal," the ghost hissed. "You are fading."

Sirius smirked, though he was barely standing. "You talk too much."

The Sword of Starlight flared again, but this time it felt heavier, harder to control. Sirius knew he couldn’t keep this up.

Desperation fueled him as he channeled his magic into the sword, forcing it to unleash its light in one blinding burst. The ghost screamed, its form flickering and pulling back.

But the attack drained Sirius completely, and he fell to one knee, barely able to hold the sword.

The ghost reformed, looming above him. "Foolish mortal. You are not worthy!"

Sirius closed his eyes. He thought of Harry, of James and Lily, of Eron, of all the battles he had fought and survived. He wasn’t about to die here—not without a fight.

He calmed his breathing, letting the magic flow naturally instead of forcing it. The Sword of Starlight pulsed in response, and this time, Sirius felt its power align with his own.

The ghost raised its blade for the final strike.

But Sirius was faster.

He surged upward, his blade cutting through the ghost’s form with a burst of light. The Witch-king screamed, its spectral body shattering into fragments of shadow and flame before vanishing into the darkness.

Sirius collapsed to the ground, the sword falling beside him. He stared at the ceiling, chest heaving, as the echo of the ghost’s scream faded.

The Sword of Starlight lay quietly, its glow dimmed but steady. Sirius reached for it and felt no resistance this time. The blade had accepted him.

"Bloody hell," Sirius muttered. "That was harder than I expected."

He stood up shakily, leaning on the sword for support. The chamber was silent, but the air felt lighter—as if the Witch-king’s presence had finally been banished.

Sirius looked down at the blade. "You better be worth all this trouble."

As he sheathed the sword, a faint hum of approval resonated through it. Sirius grinned despite himself. "Yeah, I thought so."