The Mage of Middle-Earth - CH - 10 (Patreon)

The Mirkwood Forest stretched endlessly before Sirius Black, its towering trees swaying gently under the moonlight, and the thick canopy above created an otherworldly atmosphere that felt both ancient and alive. This was a place of legends, a realm whispered about in taverns and told in bedtime stories. It was a place of wonder and danger, filled with elusive creatures and enchanted flora. And now, Sirius had ventured deep into its heart.

His journey had been long, but Sirius reveled in the sense of adventure that guided him to this moment. He had always heard tales of Prince Legolas's home, of the great Elven warriors who protected this land, and of the mysterious creatures that roamed its depths. As he entered the forest, Sirius felt a strange sense of calm wash over him, as if the forest welcomed him, recognizing something in him that belonged to this land.

Sirius made his camp in a small clearing, surrounded by dense foliage and giant twisted roots that rose from the ground like ancient guardians. He set up his tent, lighted a small fire, and began to ward the area, drawing on the knowledge of protective charms he had learned over the years. The runes glowed faintly as they activated, creating an invisible barrier that would keep any unwanted guests away. In this new world, magic had a different feel, but it responded to him just as willingly, bending to his will and skill.

As Sirius sat by the fire, roasting a bit of the dried meat he had packed from Dale, he couldn’t help but reflect on his time since he arrived in this world. He had experienced so much—fighting orcs, making allies with dwarves, humans, and elves alike, and building a new life in a land that felt more like home than the one he left behind. Yet there was something else that lingered in his mind, something that he had been ignoring for years.

He reached for a small, polished hand mirror that he always kept in his belongings and stared into it. His reflection stared back at him, unchanged. The same striking gray eyes, the same unruly black hair that he had when he first arrived in this world so many years ago. There were no signs of aging, no lines etched into his skin, not a single strand of gray in his hair. He looked the same as he had the day he escaped from Azkaban, and that realization left him feeling uneasy.

Sirius remembered what Legolas had once told him over a cup of tea in Dale. They had been discussing the ancient lore of Middle-earth, and Legolas had shared stories about the First Men—tales of those who were gifted with longer lifespans, who aged more slowly than others, living centuries before they finally succumbed to the passage of time.

"Those who share even a drop of the First Men's blood are granted the gift of longevity," Legolas had said, his voice gentle and wise. "It is a blessing and a curse, for while you endure, the world around you changes."

Sirius had thought little of it back then, assuming it to be a whimsical tale. But now, sitting alone in the depths of the Mirkwood, he began to wonder if somehow, some magic of this world had touched him, keeping him from the ravages of time. He had been here for nearly a decade, traveling and learning, yet his appearance remained unaltered.

"Why am I not aging?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely more than a whisper against the crackling fire.

His mind wandered back to the veil that brought him to this world, to the unknown magics that might have intertwined his destiny with Middle-earth's own. Perhaps there was something about this land, something ancient and powerful, that had marked him as one of its own. Or perhaps it was simply his magic, reacting to this new world and altering him in ways he couldn’t yet comprehend.

He sighed deeply, letting the questions linger in the air as he leaned back against a fallen log, his eyes fixed on the stars that twinkled through the gaps in the canopy above. There were no answers here tonight, only more mysteries to uncover. But in a strange way, Sirius found comfort in that. After all, he had always been a seeker of adventure, a man who thrived on the unknown.

As he drifted off to sleep, surrounded by the gentle hum of the forest, he decided that whatever the truth may be, he would face it head-on, just as he had always done. And if this new land had chosen to keep him, to grant him time beyond measure, then he would make the most of it, exploring every corner of Middle-earth until he understood the reason behind this gift.

Tomorrow, he would continue his journey deeper into Mirkwood, perhaps to the halls of Thranduil, the Elvenking, where more secrets and challenges awaited him. But for tonight, he allowed himself to rest, cradled in the ancient embrace of the forest, a traveler lost between two worlds yet finding his place in both.

As Sirius Black ventured deeper into the heart of Mirkwood, he marveled at the sheer beauty and strangeness that the forest had to offer. The air was thick with the scent of moss and earth, and shafts of sunlight pierced through the dense canopy, illuminating patches of wildflowers that bloomed in every imaginable color. Ancient trees, twisted and gnarled, stood like silent sentinels, their roots creating natural arches that led Sirius from one part of the forest to another. Every step seemed to reveal something new—a cluster of glowing fungi, a shimmering stream, or a tree with bark that pulsed faintly with its own inner light.

This land was teeming with magic, a kind Sirius had never encountered before, even during his years at Hogwarts. And as much as he had set out with the intent to travel beyond the Mirkwood, to see the world and meet its people, Sirius found himself lingering here, captivated by the forest’s mysteries. Each day, he would explore further, collecting rare herbs and plants, carefully placing them in his enchanted bag. These herbs could be the foundation for new potions, and who knew what other properties they might possess?

One day, as he wandered through a particularly dense part of the forest, he felt the ground tremble slightly beneath his feet. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and instinctively, he crouched behind a fallen log, his wand slipping into his hand. Moments later, he saw it—a spider, enormous and black as night, its legs stretching longer than any he’d ever seen. It moved gracefully, silently, through the underbrush, its many eyes gleaming like black pearls in the shadows.

Sirius felt his heart skip a beat. Memories surged forth, unbidden and raw, pulling him back to his days as a student at Hogwarts. He remembered sneaking into the Forbidden Forest with James, Remus, and Peter, running headlong into Hagrid's colony of Acromantula. How young they had been, full of laughter and reckless courage, never truly understanding the dangers they faced. In their animagus forms, they had darted between the trees, desperately avoiding the snapping pincers and venomous fangs, and somehow, miraculously, they had escaped with their lives.

Sirius watched the giant spider as it slowly moved away, and a wave of longing washed over him. He missed his friends—missed the camaraderie, the sense of belonging, and the bond they had shared. It was more than just nostalgia; it was a deep ache, the kind that settled in his bones and made him wonder what might have been. What had become of Remus after he disappeared into this world? What of Harry, his godson, who had been left behind in a world that Sirius could no longer reach?

“Harry,” he whispered to the wind, feeling the name pass over his lips like a prayer. He thought of the boy he had loved like a son, the one he had sworn to protect. “Are you safe? Are you happy?”

He had asked himself these questions countless times over the years. When he first arrived in Middle-earth, his heart had yearned to return, to find a way back and resume his place in Harry's life. But as time passed, as the years stretched into decades, he realized that returning would only disrupt whatever life Harry had built for himself. Sirius had already escaped from Azkaban once, and in doing so, he had altered the course of Harry’s life, had given him hope. To return now, as an echo from a past long buried, would be to tear open wounds that had perhaps healed.

And Remus—Remus had always been the strong one, the one who managed to carry on, even when life was at its darkest. If anyone had survived the storm, it would be him. Still, Sirius couldn't help but wonder what became of his friend. Had he found peace? Had he found happiness in a world that was so often unkind to men like them?

Taking a deep breath, Sirius shook his head, pushing the thoughts away. He would never have the answers to these questions, and lingering on them would only make the pain sharper. This was his life now—this world, with its strange creatures and ancient magic. He had chosen this path, and he would see it through.

"Best to make the most of it," he muttered to himself, rising from his hiding place and dusting off his robes. “Can’t be brooding forever, now can I?”

He picked up his pace, continuing his exploration of Mirkwood. There were more herbs to gather, more secrets to uncover, and perhaps, just perhaps, a bit more magic left for him to discover in this strange and wonderful land. And as he walked, the forest around him seemed to whisper in response, as if acknowledging the presence of a wizard who, like the ancient trees themselves, carried the weight of many lifetimes in his heart.

Sirius Black had ventured further into Mirkwood than he had ever intended, and the forest seemed to grow darker and denser with each step he took. The sunlight barely reached the forest floor now, filtered through the thick canopy above, casting eerie shadows that danced and shifted as the wind stirred the leaves. He could feel the magic of the place vibrating in the air, ancient and raw, almost as if the very ground beneath him was whispering secrets long forgotten. Every day brought new discoveries—rare herbs with peculiar properties, enchanted flowers that glowed faintly in the dark, and strange animals that moved with the grace of ghosts.

But as he pushed deeper into the heart of Mirkwood, he stumbled upon something he hadn't expected: a large, hidden cave system, dug deep into the earth, and the unmistakable sounds of life within. At first, he thought it might be another strange creature of the forest. But as he crept closer, peering into the cave’s dark mouth, he saw them—Orcs. Dozens of them, perhaps more, clad in crude armor, their weapons glinting dully in the low light. They moved with a restless energy, their guttural voices echoing off the walls, their yellow eyes flickering like embers in the dark.

Sirius’s first instinct was to retreat, to disappear into the shadows as he had done countless times before. But as he watched them, something in him hesitated. These were not the mindless beasts he had heard about in the stories of Middle-earth. There was something more in their movements, a sense of purpose, even a touch of weariness, as if they, too, were bound by the hardships of this world.

And then, there it was—that nagging feeling that always seemed to surface when faced with the unknown. The part of him that questioned everything, that refused to accept the world in black and white, that understood that just because someone had deemed these creatures monsters didn't make it an absolute truth. Sirius knew what it felt like to be judged, to have people look at you and see only darkness. He had seen it in the eyes of the wizarding world when they thought him a criminal, a traitor. He had seen it in Remus’s eyes, haunted by a curse he never asked for. And he had felt it in himself, every time he tapped into the ancient, dark magic that flowed through his veins, threatening to consume him.

“Not today,” Sirius whispered to himself, taking a step back. He wasn’t here to pick a fight, especially not with an entire horde of Orcs. He had fought enough battles to know that violence was rarely the answer, and if there was one thing he had learned from his years as a member of the Order of the Phoenix, it was that sometimes, walking away was the most courageous choice one could make.

But even as he retreated, he couldn’t help but watch them. The way they moved, the low murmurs that passed between them. He saw one Orc, larger than the rest, holding a small, frail one up by the arm, barking something in their harsh, guttural language. The smaller Orc cowered, trying to curl in on itself, and Sirius felt a familiar pang of empathy flare up inside him. It reminded him of how his family had treated him when he refused to conform, how they had tried to beat their beliefs into him, to make him into something he was not.

Sirius sighed, knowing that intervening wouldn’t change anything, but the urge to step forward, to say something, to do something, was almost overwhelming. “No prejudice,” he muttered to himself, almost as a mantra. “Everyone deserves a chance.”

He turned on his heel, forcing himself to walk away. He couldn’t save the world, and it wasn’t his place to interfere in a land that wasn’t his own. But as he moved deeper into the forest, away from the cave, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been wrong about something—about this world, about himself, about the darkness that pulsed within him.

The forest seemed to grow quieter, more still, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for him to make his next move. And as he stood there, listening to the wind rustling through the leaves, he felt it again—that darkness, that power that surged through his veins, whispering to him, calling to him.

The Blacks had always called it the "Black Madness," a sudden rush of power that overwhelmed the senses, that made them stronger, faster, more dangerous. It was a gift and a curse, one that had driven many of his ancestors to madness, to violence, to ruin. Sirius had felt it before, that surge of energy that threatened to drown him, to turn him into something he wasn’t. And for a moment, just a moment, he was tempted to give in, to let that power consume him, to see what he could do with it, to unleash it on the world and see if it could be tamed.

But then he thought of James, of Lily, of Harry. He thought of Remus, struggling with his own darkness, fighting every day to keep it at bay. He thought of all the battles they had fought, all the sacrifices they had made, and he knew—he knew he couldn’t give in. He couldn’t let the darkness win.

With a deep breath, Sirius closed his eyes and reached for the light within him, that spark of magic that had kept him going all these years. The magic that had protected Harry, that had fought against Voldemort, that had defied everything the world had thrown at him. And slowly, the darkness receded, curling back into itself, retreating to the deepest parts of him, where it belonged.

“Not today,” he whispered once more, feeling the weight lift from his shoulders, feeling the air grow lighter around him. “Not today.”

Sirius looked back once, towards the cave, and then he turned away, disappearing into the shadows of Mirkwood, the forest swallowing him whole. There were other battles to fight, other paths to walk, and he would face them all in his own time. For now, he would continue his journey, one step at a time, letting the world unfold before him in all its beauty and mystery. And as he walked, he carried with him the knowledge that, even in the darkest places, there was always a choice.

Sirius trudged back toward his camp, his feet heavy against the forest floor, each step more arduous than the last. The Mirkwood Forest had a way of whispering secrets to those who wandered within its depths, and for weeks, it had seemed to welcome him, wrapping him in its ancient, enigmatic embrace. The soft glow of bioluminescent fungi illuminated his path, casting eerie greenish light that shifted and danced along the bark of towering trees, their branches entwined like skeletal fingers reaching toward the sky.

He paused to catch his breath, the cool air filling his lungs, mingling with the scent of damp earth and moss. As he stood there, surrounded by the natural beauty that only Middle-earth could offer, a faint smile tugged at his lips. He’d grown fond of this place, the way it felt like a world suspended in time, unchanging, untamed. But a nagging thought still lingered in the back of his mind—had he truly seen all the forest had to offer, or had he just scratched the surface?

The ambush shattered his momentary peace.

An arrow whistled past his ear, embedding itself into the tree trunk beside him with a sickening thunk. Sirius instinctively dove to the ground, rolling behind the thick trunk of a nearby tree, his heart pounding in his chest. He drew his wand with a speed that spoke of years of practice, his eyes darting toward the shadows where more arrows now emerged, raining down upon his campsite from all directions.

"Merlin’s beard," he muttered, throwing up his hand and conjuring a shimmering protective shield that enveloped him like a translucent bubble. The arrows clattered against it, ricocheting off in all directions, but he could feel the strain of maintaining the barrier, his magic buzzing against his skin. He had encountered orcs before, but never had he faced such an organized attack. There was intelligence in their movements, a cunning that was at odds with their brutish appearance.

As the barrage of arrows ceased momentarily, Sirius dared to peer beyond his shield. His sharp eyes caught sight of the hulking, armored figures moving among the trees, their eyes gleaming with malice and triumph. They began to advance, closing in on him, their snarling voices echoing in a guttural language that sent shivers down his spine.

He shifted slightly, wincing as pain flared in his shoulder. Looking down, he saw a thin arrow protruding from his flesh, blood staining his robes. “Stupid… how could I be so careless?” He reached for the arrow, gritting his teeth as he pulled it free, but as soon as he did, he felt a wave of nausea roll over him, his vision blurring around the edges. His heart raced in his chest, his breaths coming in shallow gasps, and he remembered Legolas’s words.

"Orcs favor poison," the elven prince had warned. "Never let your guard down."

As the orcs continued to close the distance, he fought against the dizziness, forcing himself to stay upright. He staggered back, his thoughts becoming more erratic, frantic. The poison was working its way through his veins, burning, searing, and he could feel the icy fingers of panic begin to claw at his mind.

“No,” he hissed, digging his nails into the palm of his hand, trying to ground himself. “I won’t go down like this. Not here… not now.”

Desperation clawed at him, and as his vision began to dim, he felt the pulse of something deep within him, something dark and ancient, something that had always lurked beneath the surface, waiting for a moment of weakness to emerge. The world around him seemed to slow, the shadows lengthening, deepening, until they bled into one another, swallowing all light.

With a primal, guttural roar, Sirius let go.

The darkness erupted from him like a storm, swirling tendrils of shadow wrapping around his body, coiling through the air with an almost serpentine grace. His eyes, once a warm grey, burned with an inky blackness, and from his back emerged thick, twisted chains—twenty in total, each one dripping with dark magic, each one pulsating with raw, untamed power. They thrashed and writhed as if alive, as if hungry, and when they struck, they did so with the force of a hammer against an anvil.

The orcs, who had been so confident in their approach, suddenly found themselves frozen, terror etched across their faces. They had seen fear, pain, and death before, but never like this—never something that moved with such malevolent intent, something that radiated an aura of darkness so profound it seemed to consume the very light around it.

With a flick of his wrist, Sirius sent the chains hurtling toward his attackers. They moved like vipers, slashing through armor, through flesh, through bone. The orcs had no chance to scream, no chance to flee. The chains whipped through them, each strike delivering a death so swift that some fell with looks of confusion still etched upon their faces.

As each chain struck, black smoke poured from their wounds, and the air grew heavy with the scent of blood and fear. Trees splintered, shattered, and leaves turned to ash in their wake, the power surging through Sirius spreading like wildfire, hungry, insatiable. He stood at the center of it all, his arms outstretched, his face twisted into an expression of pain, anger, and something far more dangerous—ecstasy.

It was over in moments. The clearing was littered with the bodies of the fallen, and the forest, once so alive with the sounds of nature, now stood in silent reverence, as if mourning the violence it had just witnessed. The chains slowly withdrew, slithering back into Sirius’s body, leaving behind only the faint wisps of black smoke that curled through the air.

Sirius swayed on his feet, the adrenaline leaving him as quickly as it had come. He glanced around, his breathing ragged, his skin slick with sweat. He took one step forward and collapsed to his knees, his vision swimming, his mind foggy. He could feel the poison still coursing through his veins, mingling with the remnants of dark magic, and he knew, even before he lost consciousness, that he had pushed himself too far.

As his eyes fluttered shut, the last thing he saw was the twisted, broken bodies of the orcs lying around him, a reminder of the destruction he was capable of. A shiver ran through him, but whether it was from the cold or from the fear of what he had just unleashed, he couldn’t say.

The forest was still, the darkness heavy, and as Sirius fell into unconsciousness, it felt as though the shadows themselves reached out to cradle him, drawing him deeper into their embrace, whispering promises of power, of vengeance, of secrets yet to be uncovered.

The Mirkwood watched, silent and ancient, as the man who had dared to challenge it lay at its roots, his body broken, his soul teetering on the edge of darkness, and for the first time in a thousand years, the forest seemed to draw a breath, waiting to see if the man would rise again or be swallowed by the shadows forever.