On the third day of their ride toward Isengard, the landscape began to shift. The rolling green fields of Rohan slowly faded behind them, giving way to a land scarred and desolate.
In the distance, columns of black smoke twisted into the sky, merging with the low, heavy clouds. The air was thick, damp, pressing down on them with an oppressive weight that made each mile feel longer than the last.
The company rode in silence, the steady rhythm of hooves dull against the dry, hardened earth.
At the front, Théoden sat tall in the saddle, his gaze set, his armor dulled by the gray light of day. Beside him, Gandalf guided Shadowfax with effortless ease, his cloak trailing behind him, his silver hair catching in the restless wind drifting down from the north.
A few paces behind, Aragorn and Calion rode side by side, their horses keeping pace in unspoken harmony. Aragorn glanced toward his companion, noting the stiffness in his movements, the tension in his jaw.
Calion showed no obvious sign of discomfort, but Aragorn knew better. His wound was healing, yet a ride this long could not be easy. He would endure it, as he always did, but Aragorn could see the effort it took.
Further behind, Legolas rode with effortless grace, ever watchful, his keen elven gaze scanning the surroundings with unfaltering precision. His golden hair gleamed under the dull light of day, and his fingers rested lightly on the bow slung across his back, always ready to react at the first sign of danger.
Beside him, Gimli looked as ill at ease as any dwarf could be on horseback. His scowling expression did little to mask his exasperation at spending yet another day in the saddle. His fingers drummed absentmindedly against the haft of his axe, his sharp eyes sweeping their surroundings with mistrust.
Further back, some of Rohan's finest riders followed with disciplined precision, their spears fastened securely to their saddles, their faces set in solemn concentration. Among them rode one of Théoden's chief advisors, a man of noble bearing, clad in a dark mantle fastened by a golden brooch engraved with the emblem of Rohan.
The tension in the air was palpable.
Where once the vast plains of Rohan had stretched untouched, now lay a land marred by war—uprooted trees, fields trampled beneath the march of Saruman's armies.
"The land suffers," murmured Legolas, breaking the heavy silence. "It weeps for the wounds inflicted upon it by these invaders."
Calion, astride Dréogan, did not answer immediately. His gaze often drifted to the horizon, searching for something beyond the thick mist.
"It will suffer for a long time still," he finally replied, his voice quiet.
Aragorn watched him from the corner of his eye, noting the glint of sorrow that darkened his features.
It was not just the ravaged landscape that troubled him.
Calion had known this land before it bore its name. He had walked these forests in an age long past, when they were still alive and untamed, when the wind carried its song through towering canopies and sunlight dappled the ancient woodland floor. He had seen them in their prime, trodden their untouched paths… and now—
A deep sigh escaped his lips, more weary than truly bitter.
By morning, they reached the outskirts of Isengard. The sight before them was unrecognizable.
The once-majestic gardens Gandalf had known were gone, replaced by a chaos of mud, shattered stone, and fallen trees. The once-imposing walls appeared as though they had been swept away by some colossal force, as if a great wave had crashed upon the fortress and left nothing but ruin in its wake. Splintered wood and twisted metal littered the ground, and at the center of it all stood the Tower of Orthanc—still standing, yet eerily solitary amid the devastation.
Gimli let out a low whistle as he took in the destruction. "Well now, this is hardly the place for a picnic."
They advanced cautiously, their eyes sweeping over the wreckage with wary curiosity—until a sound reached them, carried on the wind.
Laughter.
Laughter?
As they drew closer, they beheld a sight most unexpected: Merry and Pippin, perched atop a half-collapsed wall, pipes clamped between their teeth, surrounded by barrels and a modest stash of provisions. The hobbits looked oddly at ease amidst the ruins. With a roguish grin, Merry raised a hand in greeting.
"Welcome to Isengard!" he called, his lighthearted tone at stark odds with the somber mood that still hung over the company.
Pippin, exhaling a leisurely puff of smoke, added with casual ease, "You're just in time. There's still some salted pork left, if you're interested."
A stunned silence met their words. Gimli was the first to react, his face turning red to the tips of his ears. "By Durin! After all we went through to find you, here you are, sitting comfortably, smoking pipeweed as if you were at an inn in Bree!"
Legolas, hiding a trace of amusement, placed a calming hand on the dwarf's shoulder. "They appear to be in good health, Gimli. Perhaps we should be relieved rather than offended."
Gimli grumbled, crossing his arms. "I am not offended, Legolas. It's just that… well, it's unseemly." But his eyes lingered a moment too long on the hobbits' pipes, and a flicker of jealousy crossed his face. No one was fooled—he would have liked to join them.
Calion stepped forward, a warmth rising in his chest at the sight of the two hobbits, safe and unharmed. He felt an invisible weight lift from his shoulders, and a genuine smile softened his weary features.
"Merry, Pippin, you are truly incorrigible," he said, shaking his head lightly, his voice carrying both relief and amusement. "But I am glad to see you, more than I can say."
Merry, grinning mischievously, replied, "Don't hold it against us, Calion. Someone had to make sure Saruman's barrels didn't go to waste. It would have been a crime."
Pippin, his eyes twinkling, added, "Aye, you fought the battle. We celebrated the victory. There are different ways to win a war, aren't there?"
The two hobbits burst into laughter, a laughter so contagious that, despite the absurdity of the moment, it drew smiles from the company. Even Aragorn, ever solemn, let out a quiet sigh of amusement.
Théoden, watching the scene with a perplexed expression, turned to Gandalf. "These were truly your allies in this quest?"
Gandalf, a knowing smile tugging at his lips, replied, "More than you can imagine, Théoden King. Their courage has taken a different form, but it is no less valuable."
Meanwhile, Calion, still standing near Merry and Pippin, regarded them with sincere affection. He knew their lightheartedness masked an unseen strength. These simple moments—filled with laughter and mischief—were what made all the trials worthwhile.
Before the conversation could continue, a deep, resonant voice rumbled behind them, immediately drawing everyone's attention.
"Hoooom…"
Slowly, a colossal figure emerged from the background. An ancient Ent strode forward, his bark weathered by centuries, his eyes fathomless, as if holding the weight of a thousand years of wisdom. His gnarled branches stretched like knotted limbs, and every movement carried the patience of a being accustomed to the slow passing of ages.
Merry and Pippin turned toward him, their faces lighting up with delight. Merry hastily made the introductions.
"Allow me to present Treebeard, the guardian of the trees."
Treebeard halted before the gathered riders, his heavy gaze sweeping over them, as though weighing each one with an unfathomable wisdom. His towering form cast a vast shadow over the murky waters that still flooded the ruins of Isengard.
He inclined his head slightly, the leaves in his branches rustling softly with the motion.
"Hm… Treebeard, I am," he rumbled, his voice deep and resonant, like the distant growl of a coming storm. "Guardian of the forest… Shepherd of the trees. And you… Riders of Rohan… Travelers from distant lands…"
His gaze lingered a moment on Gandalf, whom he already knew well, before settling on Théoden, who regarded him with a mixture of awe and wary respect.
At last, Treebeard's deep, unreadable eyes settled on Calion.
A silence stretched, longer than necessary, before the Ent finally spoke again, his voice laced with quiet curiosity.
"Hm… You… I know you."
Calion's gaze darkened slightly.
"Perhaps," he replied simply, his voice calm yet guarded.
Treebeard seemed to ponder this for a moment before slowly shifting his attention toward the towering black spire of Orthanc, still standing defiantly amidst the devastation.
"Hm… You have come for the Iron Wizard…" he murmured gravely. "I shall take you to him."
With heavy, deliberate steps, the Ent turned and began to move forward, his every motion carrying the weight of ancient purpose.
The tower of Orthanc rose like a black spear thrust toward the sky, defying the light of day even as ruin lay scattered at its feet. Its dark, polished walls drank in the fading sunlight, reflecting little more than a dull sheen. A cold, sinister aura emanated from the stone, its sharp edges only accentuating its menacing presence.
At the base of the tower, stagnant, gray water stretched like a vast, shallow lake, the lingering remnants of the flood that had drowned Isengard. The riders' horses, though accustomed to treacherous terrain, hesitated at the edge, their hooves sinking slightly into the sodden earth. The air hung thick and heavy, carrying the stench of damp wood, overturned soil, and a strange, acrid scent—as if the very machines of Saruman still exhaled their corruption.
Not far from the gathered company, the Ents toiled steadily, their immense hands lifting fallen trunks, gathering scattered branches, and pressing the wounded earth closed as if tending to an ailing friend. Towering above them, Treebeard stood watchful, his glowing eyes fixed upon the fortress, as though weighing the true extent of the threat that still loomed within.
Gandalf urged Shadowfax forward, the white stallion stirring ripples in the water with each measured step. Raising his staff, the wizard's voice rang clear and unwavering through the air, breaking the hush that had settled over the ruined stronghold.
"Saruman! Show yourself! Your power is broken, and your deceit holds no sway here. Come down from your tower and surrender!"
The words echoed off Orthanc's blackened stone, rebounding into the heavy silence that followed, as though the very air had paused in anticipation. Then, at last, a figure emerged at the summit of the tower.
Saruman.
Clad in robes that had once been pristine white but now hung sullied by defeat, the fallen wizard stepped forward with a measured grace. His long white beard drifted in the faint breeze, and his piercing gaze swept over those who dared to call him down. Yet behind him, half-hidden in the shadows, another figure slunk forward—smaller, restless.
Théoden, his expression taut with a fury barely restrained, narrowed his eyes as recognition dawned. A low, venomous curse slipped from his lips.
"Gríma…"
Gríma Wormtongue. Dressed in black, he lingered at Saruman's back, his skeletal hands wringing together in nervous habit. His shifty eyes darted from one rider to the next, never settling, never meeting the gazes that scorned him. Like a cur clinging to its fallen master, he remained close to Saruman, as though the wizard's presence alone could shield him from the judgment he knew was coming.
Saruman raised a single hand, and at the motion, Gríma fell still—though his twitching unease only grew under the silent command.
Gandalf remained where he stood, unmoving, his piercing gaze locked onto his former brother-in-order. There was no anger in his stance, no outward hostility—only a patient, unyielding scrutiny, as though seeking some trace of regret, some fracture in the once-mighty sorcerer's resolve.
Among the riders, Calion remained slightly apart, his green eyes keen and wary. He studied Saruman intently, yet it was not the fallen wizard that held his focus.
The atmosphere hung heavy with tension, teetering on a fragile balance as all awaited Saruman's response.
His voice, deep and resonant, carried through the thick air surrounding Orthanc, laced with calculated defiance. Leaning upon his black staff, he weighed his words with precision, ensuring each one struck where it would wound most.
"What have you to say, Théoden King?" he began, his tone deceptively smooth, an insidious echo of the man he had once been. "Shall we make peace, and shall you accept the aid that my knowledge, gathered over long years, might grant you? Shall we take counsel together against these dark days and seek to mend the wrongs done to one another, so that our realms may flourish as never before?"
A murmur rippled through the ranks of the Rohirrim. Théoden, sitting tall in his saddle, fixed his gaze upon the tower with fierce resolve. His face, lined with age and the weight of recent trials, betrayed nothing but cold disdain.
"You are a liar, Saruman," he declared vehemently, his voice cutting through the ruins with unwavering strength. "A corrupter of men's hearts. You extend your hand, yet all I see is the claw of Mordor."
For a fleeting moment, anger flashed across Saruman's features, but it was quickly replaced by an expression of derisive amusement. His tone, now laced with mockery, sought to humiliate.
"Senile fool!" he thundered, dripping with contempt. "What is the house of Eorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink amidst their own stench, while their whelps crawl in the dirt among the dogs?"
A heavy silence followed. Théoden clenched his fists, his lips pressing into a thin line as he fought to contain his fury. But before he could respond, Gandalf stepped forward, his voice calm yet carrying an unyielding force.
"Saruman," Gandalf said, urging his horse forward slightly. "There is still time for you to do what is right. You have served the enemy—that much is undeniable. But now, you have a chance to amend at least some of your wrongs. Tell us what you know. What information can you offer?"
A sharp, humorless laugh escaped Saruman. He straightened slightly, towering over them from the heights of Orthanc. "Information?" he sneered. "Is that why you have come all this way? Oh, I do have information… for you."
With a dramatic flourish, a black orb appeared in his hands as if conjured from the very shadows. A gleaming sphere of darkness, within which ghostly images swirled and flickered. A ripple of unease passed through the company. Even Gandalf's expression hardened, his sharp gaze locking onto the object.
Saruman let his eyes drift over the gathered riders below, a knowing smirk playing on his thin lips. His voice, rich and insidious, wove through the heavy, stagnant air that clung to the ruins of Isengard.
"Something stirs in Middle-earth, something you have failed to see," he murmured. "You are blind, deaf to the truths that surround you."
He paused, savoring the tense silence that followed. The tendrils of smoke rising from the wreckage painted the scene with an eerie, almost dreamlike quality, as if the very ground held its breath.
Then, his smile widened, cruel and deliberate.
"A traveler… someone close to you… comes to visit me today."
A creeping unease spread through the company. Théoden's jaw tightened, his hand instinctively clenching around the hilt of his sword. Aragorn, ever watchful, flicked a sharp glance toward Gandalf, expecting some treacherous maneuver from the fallen wizard.
Saruman's gaze slid over the assembled riders before lingering—just a moment too long—on Calion. His smirk deepened as he noticed the subtle way the ranger's fingers tightened around Dréogan's reins.
"And so, this is what stands against the power of Mordor…" Saruman continued, his drawling voice dripping with disdain. "A handful of weary warriors, a king without a crown, and…" He narrowed his eyes, his tone turning almost honeyed. "A being who is not what he claims to be."
A chill swept through the company.
Saruman tilted his head slightly, like a predator toying with its prey before the final strike.
"Gandalf, you are not the only one to whom the Valar have entrusted secrets…"
His voice dropped lower, almost caressing, yet laced with venom.
"He bears the name of a man… but is he truly one?"
The silence that followed was suffocating, almost tangible.
Aragorn felt Théoden's gaze shift toward him, then slide toward Calion. Legolas' instincts flared to life, his keen eyes scanning the growing tension that seeped into the group like a slow poison.
Calion did not move. His face was unreadable, yet every muscle in his body was drawn tight, like a bowstring on the verge of snapping.
Gandalf, who had remained silent until now, raised his staff and struck the ground with force.
"Enough!"
A deep echo reverberated through the air, drowning out Saruman's final syllables.
The White Wizard straightened slightly, caught off guard, though his mocking smile did not entirely fade.
"Do not seek to sow discord here, Saruman," Gandalf warned, his voice sharp as steel.
He urged his horse forward a step, imposing himself before the tower.
"You have lost Isengard. Your power withers, and your reign is at its end. But it is not too late. Answer my questions, and perhaps you may yet escape the fate that awaits you."
Saruman arched an eyebrow, feigning amusement.
"Oh?" He crossed his arms, leaning slightly on his staff, still savoring the moment. "You cannot truly believe that this ranger will one day sit upon Gondor's throne. This exile, this shadow of a man, will never be crowned king."
Calion, already withdrawn like a fortress under siege, caught the subtle shift in Aragorn's stance.
Gimli was already growling in impatience, while Legolas, bow in hand, watched the White Wizard like a hawk awaiting the inevitable strike.
Gandalf did not flinch.
"One last time, Saruman. Come down, and you will live."
But a cold, mirthless laugh echoed from the tower's heights.
"You are pathetic."
And with a sharp motion, Saruman leveled the tip of his staff toward Gandalf—
The silence shattered in an eruption of flame.
A heavy stillness fell upon the company.
Calion did not stir, but Aragorn sensed, in the faint tremor of his friend's muscles, the storm raging within him.
Gandalf stepped forward, his movements deliberate and unshaken.
"Enough of your poisons, Saruman."
His voice was calm, yet it carried a weight that not even the fallen White Wizard could ignore.
"We have not come to listen to your lies, nor to be ensnared in your games of shadows. Come down and surrender. Or will you remain up there, like a toothless crow, spitting venom at the living?"
Saruman hesitated, his features tightening with anger.
"You are all doomed. You know it."
His voice was harsher now, more urgent. He knew his hold on the moment was slipping.
Calion finally lifted his head.
His gaze, usually alight with fire, was eerily calm.
The silence that followed was thick, nearly suffocating.
A few paces away, Gimli, perched behind Legolas, let out a gruff huff of impatience, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle. "Someone put an axe in that wretch already!" he grumbled.
Legolas, also nearing the limits of his patience, drew an arrow from his quiver with practiced ease, fitting it to his bowstring. But before he could act, Gandalf raised a firm hand.
"No!" His voice cracked like a whip, restoring order. "No one touches him. Saruman! Come down at once, and perhaps you will be granted clemency."
But Saruman, far from being intimidated, let out a sinister laugh, his eyes gleaming with malice. Below, the riders stiffened, sensing that every word, every action, was drawing them closer to the breaking point.
Calion, however, remained rooted in a glacial stillness, his thoughts tangled in a storm of anger, memories, and resolve.
Tension snapped into action when Saruman, his gaze dripping with contempt, thrust the base of his staff toward Gandalf. A blazing fireball erupted from its tip, hurtling through the air with a furious hiss. The spell tore through the space between them, and for a moment, all breath was held.
But as the attack struck Gandalf, it dissipated abruptly, snuffed out like a candle in the wind. The air still crackled with residual energy, and Calion, unmoving on his mount, felt something stir. Energy pulsed around him, flowing between the two wizards, invisible currents weaving through the air. The sensation was eerily familiar—something he had felt before, yet never fully understood.
Memories surged forth: the wind he had stilled upon the frozen cliffs of Caradhras, the instinctive forces he had summoned when danger had loomed insurmountable. He understood now, at least in part, that those moments had been more than mere chance. He had drawn upon something, shaped it unconsciously. The realization unsettled him—but his thoughts were cut short.
Gandalf's voice rang out like thunder:
"Your staff is broken!"
Saruman, still gripping his staff with defiant resolve, looked down in shock. Before their eyes, the black wood splintered, cracked, then burst apart into fragments. Shards of it tumbled into the abyss below, swept away by the wind.
Deprived of his weapon, Saruman seemed to shrink. He swayed slightly, his arrogance crumbling. No longer a figure of immense power, he now stood as nothing more than an old man, frail and diminished.
Beside him, Gríma Wormtongue, crouched and trembling, lifted his gaze toward Théoden. His pallid face bore a silent plea. Théoden, his voice firm yet carrying the weight of sincerity, called out:
"Gríma! Come down. You were once a man of Rohan. There is still time to redeem yourself."
Gríma's gaze wavered, a flicker of hesitation lighting his eyes. But before he could utter a single word, Saruman, sensing his wavering loyalty, struck him violently with his foot, sending him sprawling to the ground.
"You wretched cur!" Saruman roared. "You dare betray your master?"
Gríma groaned, his hands clawing at the ground as he struggled to rise, but his expression had shifted—he was no longer the groveling sycophant. He was a man cornered.
Gandalf, his voice measured but insistent, addressed Saruman once more.
"Saruman, you were privy to the Enemy's secrets. Tell us what you know."
A hollow chuckle echoed from the tower's heights, a sound devoid of mirth. Saruman straightened, his features carved with an arrogance that had not yet crumbled.
"Call off your guards, let me walk free, and I will tell you what fate has in store for you. But I will not remain a prisoner here."
He never finished his sentence.
Like a shadow rising from the depths of despair, Gríma lunged. A dagger flashed in his hand, plunging into Saruman's back. A silent gasp parted the wizard's lips, his eyes widening in shock.
Gríma withdrew the blade, then struck again, this time with greater force. The moment was surreal. Legolas, reacting in an instant, loosed an arrow with unerring precision. Gríma reeled from the impact, his grip slackening, the knife slipping from his fingers. He crumpled backward, his lifeless body sprawling across the cold stones.
Saruman, staggering, lost his balance. His white robes billowed around him as he fell—a wounded bird cast into the abyss. The descent seemed endless, silence stretching before the inevitable end. Then came the sickening crunch of his body impaling upon a jagged wheel of his own ruined war machines.
Pippin flinched at the brutal finality of the sound, his wide eyes fixed upon Saruman's crumpled form. But something else caught his attention—a glimmer at the water's surface. A strange light, eerie and alluring, pulsed beneath the rippling waves.
Drawn by some unseen force, Pippin slid from his saddle, stepping into the shallow pool. His feet sank slightly into the cold, murky water as he approached the source of the glow.
"Pippin, what are you doing?" Calion's voice carried an undertone of unease. A dark energy coiled in the air around them, a whisper too faint to hear yet heavy enough to feel.
But Pippin did not answer. His gaze remained locked on the shifting reflections. Slowly, his hand plunged into the frigid water, emerging a moment later clutching a smooth, black orb. The Palantír.
The swirling shadows within it twisted and writhed, an ominous glow pulsing from its depths.
"Put that down," Calion commanded, his tone sharper now, edged with urgency. Pippin hesitated, clutching the sphere against his chest as if reluctant to part with it. But before he could respond, Gandalf strode forward, his robes billowing like a storm gathering force.
"Give it to me, Peregrin Took."
The wizard's voice, usually warm even in its authority, was now cold and brooked no argument.
Pippin's fingers tightened briefly around the Palantír before, with visible reluctance, he extended it toward Gandalf.
The wizard did not touch it directly. Instead, he pulled a swath of cloth from within his robes, wrapping the orb carefully, as though fearing that even the barest contact might unleash its latent power. Without another word, he tucked the bundle into the folds of his garments and fixed Pippin with a gaze both stern and understanding.
"This is not a toy." The words were simple, yet they carried the weight of unspoken warnings.
Pippin dropped his gaze, shame flickering across his face.
Calion extended a steadying hand, helping the hobbit back into his saddle. As their fingers met, a chill ran through him—a lingering reminder of the darkness they had just held in their hands.
With the Palantír secured, the company departed Isengard in solemn silence. Hooves splashed against the wet earth, the faint echoes swallowed by the vast, empty ruin. Each rider carried the weight of what had transpired, their thoughts heavy as they pressed forward.
At the edge of the forest, they found Treebeard waiting. The ancient Ent stood still as stone, his bark catching the last golden rays of the fading sun. His deep eyes, fathomless as the oldest rivers, gleamed with wisdom beyond reckoning.
As the riders passed, Treebeard lifted a great, gnarled arm, halting Calion. Dréogan obeyed without hesitation, pausing as the others continued onward. In the hush that followed, the Ent leaned down, casting a vast shadow over Calion.
"You are… curious, Calion," Treebeard rumbled, his voice a slow, rolling echo of time itself. "The energy of Arda flows through you… stronger than in other men. I do not know your tale, but I feel it. Your roots remember. Your branches whisper. You have left your mark upon this land… and it has left its mark upon you."
A tightness constricted Calion's chest. The Ent's words reached deep, stirring echoes of something long buried.
Calion lowered his gaze slightly, uneasy beneath the weight of such scrutiny. He parted his lips to respond, but before he could speak, Pippin, ever inquisitive, interjected.
"What do you mean by 'the energy of Arda'?" The hobbit's voice was filled with both curiosity and apprehension.
With a swift but subtle motion, Calion nudged Pippin in the ribs, silencing him. "Thank you, Treebeard," he said simply, his tone formal, carefully measured. He tightened his grip on Dréogan's reins, signaling his intent to move on.
Treebeard remained still, his ancient eyes tracking Calion's departure.
"Take care of him," the Ent murmured. Though none could say to whom the words were truly meant.
Then, with deliberate slowness, he turned, stepping back into the depths of the forest. Shadows swallowed his towering form, and soon, he was gone.
Calion urged Dréogan forward, falling back into formation with the others, his expression unreadable. Yet beneath his stoic exterior, his mind churned with restless thought.
Nightfall found them camped beneath a sky awash with stars. Flames crackled at the heart of the gathering, casting flickering shadows across weary faces. The weight of their encounter with Saruman still lingered, unspoken but ever-present.
At last, Théoden broke the silence, his voice grave beneath the vast expanse of the night.
"Gandalf, we must speak."
All eyes turned toward the king. Some curious, others wary.
"Saruman's words were laced with deceit, as they always are," Théoden continued, his fingers curling slightly against his knee. "But that does not mean there was no truth within them." He hesitated, his gaze scanning those around him. "Someone among us is not what they claim to be. Is this a lie? Or have we allowed a threat to walk beside us, blind in our trust and friendship?"
A chill ran through the camp.
Seated slightly apart, Calion felt his breath shorten. His grip on his spoon tightened, suspended over the half-empty bowl in his hands. His gaze remained fixed on the fire, as though willing himself to disappear into its glow.
Not far from him, Pippin shot him a fleeting glance, sensing the sudden stiffness in his posture. Gimli, seated beside Legolas, thumbed the handle of his axe, his brows drawn together.
Gandalf, leaning lightly upon his staff, lifted his head. His face was composed, yet his keen eyes gleamed with quiet displeasure.
"Théoden, you heard Saruman's words. They were poison, as always. Do not let his dying breath plant seeds of distrust in your heart."
His voice was steady, yet it carried an undeniable weight of command.
Théoden did not falter, meeting the wizard's gaze with a hard stare.
"I have seen my people suffer under the influence of a deceitful spirit, Gandalf. I will not allow it to happen again." His voice sharpened, edged with iron resolve. "If a stranger carries darkness within them, they cannot remain under my roof. My kingdom cannot withstand another betrayal."
A heavy silence descended upon the company.
Calion sat motionless, his jaw tightening beneath the flickering light. His mind braced for what was to come.
— "And what if it were me, Théoden?"
Gandalf's voice split the air like distant thunder.
The king's mouth parted, stunned.
"Would you cast me out like a stray warg? Abandon me by the wayside simply because I am no longer quite what I once was?"
Théoden hesitated, glancing around as if seeking support. But no one spoke. Even Aragorn remained silent, his gaze shifting between Gandalf and the king.
Legolas, ever watchful, stole a quick glance at Calion before he finally broke the silence.
"Saruman did not speak in certainties. He only sowed doubt. What he said may be true… or it may be a carefully crafted falsehood meant to divide us."
The Elven prince let his words settle before continuing, his voice soft but unwavering.
"But if he did speak the truth… what does it truly change?"
Théoden shot him a sharp glare, incredulous.
"What are you saying, Elf? If a servant of darkness walks among us, does that not trouble you?"
Legolas did not flinch.
"I have seen beings change. Gandalf the Grey became Gandalf the White." He paused, his keen gaze flickering briefly toward Calion, whose fingers had tightened around his bowl, knuckles white. "Why should another not have followed a similar path—one that led them away from darkness?"
Théoden clenched his fists, suspicion still hard in his features. "And if that path is but a façade?" he challenged, his words sharp as a blade.
Gandalf straightened, his towering form casting a long shadow in the firelight. His voice rumbled, cold and formidable.
"Tell me, Théoden, would you interrogate every man among us? Would you scour their souls and their pasts before deciding whether they are worthy of your trust?"
The king opened his mouth to retort, but Gandalf pressed on, not allowing him the chance.
"Have you never, yourself, committed wrongs? Crimes which, if brought to light, might cast whispers even among your own people? If we are to judge each man by his past sins, who among us is fit to walk beneath the sun?"
A heavy silence fell over the camp.
Théoden, though clearly displeased at being chastised so openly, seemed chastened. He averted his gaze, unable to withstand the searing intensity of Gandalf's.
Calion slowly loosened his grip on his spoon, his eyes still locked on the flickering flames. He knew suspicion would not be so easily dispelled, but he was grateful to both Gandalf and Legolas for their defense.
The rest of the evening passed under a weighty quiet, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the murmur of wind rustling through the trees. Each of them withdrew into their own thoughts, Gandalf's words still reverberating in their minds.
The journey back to Edoras was steeped in silence. Their horses moved at a steady pace, hooves kicking up clouds of dust that hung in the air like a lingering mist. Few words passed between the company.
Calion, quiet as ever, seemed to retreat into an old, familiar solitude. His sharp, ever-watchful expression had grown heavier, his gaze fixed on the desolate landscape stretching before them. He rode slightly behind the others, as if seeking distance, as though the rolling hills of the Riddermark might grant him some measure of escape.
Merry and Pippin, unbothered by the change in atmosphere, whispered amongst themselves, lighthearted despite the weight of Isengard's events. Gimli, however, cast frequent glances toward Calion, his brow creased in concern.
Legolas, ever attuned to the subtleties of mood, seemed to understand the turmoil within Calion. More than once, he turned his head, meeting the man's gaze with quiet support. These silent exchanges did not go unnoticed by Calion, who answered them with small nods or faint smiles.
But Aragorn—ever the most observant—watched his brother-in-arms with growing unease. He saw the way Calion was withdrawing, how he was slowly becoming once more the guarded man Aragorn had first met long ago.
At last, after several days of riding, the golden halls of Edoras came into view. The setting sun bathed Meduseld's rooftops in flames of amber and crimson. A sight that should have been comforting. But for Calion, it seemed to hold little meaning.
As they passed through the great gates of the city, he dismounted, a grimace flashing across his face as his wounded thigh protested the movement. Though his injury had begun to heal, the pain lingered, a constant reminder of his ordeal. He placed a steadying hand on Dréogan's flank for support.
A stablehand stepped forward, reaching for the horse's reins, but Calion lifted a hand in polite refusal.
"I'll see to him myself. Thank you."
Still astride his own horse, Aragorn watched him go, knowing full well what this meant. This was not merely a desire to care for his mount. This was Calion seeking solitude. Seeking escape.
A few minutes later, Aragorn found him in the stables, brushing Dréogan's coat with slow, deliberate strokes. The motion was precise, almost mechanical.
Aragorn leaned against the wooden wall, arms crossed. He did not speak, letting the silence linger.
Calion, though he did not turn, knew he was there. And so, he kept brushing his horse, waiting for the words he knew would come.
"Moragor."
Aragorn's voice was soft, yet it struck like a hammer.
Calion stilled. His shoulders tensed, his posture subtly collapsing inward, bracing for condemnation.
"Moragor is dead," Aragorn continued, more resolute now. "You are not that man anymore. You are Calion, the Golden Blade. A hero of Helm's Deep. You are Calion, friend to Dwarves, to Elves, to Men… and my brother."
His voice gentled.
"You have no reason to be ashamed of your past. It is behind you."
Calion did not move at first. His hand remained poised mid-brush, frozen in place. Then, with a slow breath, he set the brush down.
"I am not that man anymore," he murmured, the weight in his voice unmistakable. A bitterness lingered there, a quiet struggle. His fingers ghosted over the hilt of Calimmacil, resting at his side. "I have made peace with that part of me… yet it haunts me still. I know I will never be free of it. It will always weigh upon me."
Finally, he turned to face Aragorn, his green eyes burning with barely restrained emotion.
"I think Legolas knows."
Aragorn inclined his head, his expression soft. "Has he turned away from you?"
Calion shook his head.
"Then listen to me," Aragorn said firmly. "Legolas sees your worth. He will not let the shadows of your past eclipse the light of the man you are today. Trust in those around you. Trust in the bonds you have forged. You are not alone in this."
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Then, slowly, Calion nodded. "Thank you, Aragorn."
His friend placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, a reassuring smile touching his lips. Then, with a lighter tone, he added, "Now, let's see if you can stay on your feet long enough to eat."
"But Théoden…" Calion began.
Aragorn raised a hand, cutting him off, his gaze firm. "Théoden has only known you for a short time. He is afraid, and fear makes men quick to judge. Forgive his wariness and his words. In time, he will see the truth, just as I do."
A silence stretched between them, broken only by Dréogan's steady breath. Then, slowly, Calion nodded. "Thank you, Aragorn."
His friend placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, offering a faint, knowing smile. Then, with a lighter tone, he added, "Now, let's see if you can stay on your feet long enough to have dinner."
The great hall of Meduseld flickered with warm, golden light, the torches lining the walls casting long shadows over the high-beamed ceiling. Théoden and Gandalf were engaged in deep conversation near the central table, their voices low but intent.
Calion, now dressed in cleaner garments, approached with measured steps, his boots striking softly against the stone floor. There was a quiet gravity to his expression that immediately caught Gandalf's attention.
The Istari gently interrupted the king, a small, appeasing smile on his lips. "Forgive me, Théoden, but it seems I am needed elsewhere."
Théoden's gaze shifted toward Calion, his expression unreadable, though his eyes carried a restrained curiosity. Calion could feel the weight of that gaze like an unseen burden, but he made no acknowledgment of it, keeping his focus solely on Gandalf.
With a subtle motion, Gandalf straightened, gripping his staff, and together they departed the hall, leaving Théoden behind.
The night air was cool as they walked in silence, their steps carrying them to a secluded corner of the courtyard, where the high stone walls cast deep shadows over the ground. The wind murmured through the wooden beams of Edoras, carrying distant voices and the quiet sounds of horses stirring in the stables.
Calion stopped, crossing his arms over his chest, inhaling deeply before speaking.
"Gandalf, there's something… strange I wanted to speak with you about," he began, his voice low, hesitant. "During our confrontation with Saruman… when he cast that fireball… I felt something."
Gandalf tilted his head slightly, his keen eyes sharpening with interest. "What do you mean, Calion?"
Calion searched for the right words, his green eyes glinting faintly under the pale glow of the moon. "It was as if… as if the air vibrated. As if some unseen energy was shifting between you both. And I could feel it. It was subtle, but real."
A slow smile crossed Gandalf's lips, tinged with both pride and relief. "That is excellent news, Calion. It means you are beginning to attune yourself once more to the energies of Arda."
Calion nodded slightly, though uncertainty lingered in his features. "Do you think… that I would need a staff to wield these energies? Like yours?" He cast a fleeting glance at the imposing staff Gandalf held.
The wizard let out a quiet chuckle, not mocking but full of gentle amusement. "Calion, did you need a staff when you struck down that troll with a strength even the Rohirrim deemed unnatural? Did you need a staff to calm the winds atop Caradhras?"
Calion lowered his gaze, feeling almost foolish for asking. "No… that's true," he murmured.
Gandalf, still smiling, lifted his staff and extended it toward him. Calion glanced up, startled, searching the wizard's expression for meaning. "Take it," Gandalf said simply.
Hesitant, Calion raised a hand, his fingers trembling slightly as they neared the polished wood. The moment his fingertips brushed against it, a searing heat shot through his palm, like a sudden, invisible current of energy repelling him. He recoiled instantly, his breath catching as he staggered back a step.
Gandalf chuckled softly, the sound like a ripple through the still night. "You have no need of a staff, Calion. A wizard's staff is an extension of his being, bound to him alone. Just as you cannot touch mine without resistance, I could not take up Calimmacil without feeling something similar."
Calion frowned, thoughts racing. "Now that you mention it… I recall the reaction of the guard when I handed over my sword at Meduseld's gates. He hesitated, almost afraid."
Gandalf inclined his head, his smile turning thoughtful. "Calimmacil is a powerful tool, without question. It carries a resonance that is tied to you… but it is not the source of your power."
Calion considered this, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. "Do you think my sword helps me channel these energies?"
Gandalf folded his arms, appearing contemplative. "Perhaps. It is clear that when you fight with it, you seem more attuned to the forces around you. But remember this, Calion: it is not the sword that makes the warrior, nor the tool that creates magic. Your strength lies within you, in who you are. Calimmacil is but an extension—an instrument, nothing more."
A silence settled between them, thick with unspoken thoughts.
At last, Calion lifted his head, his green eyes glimmering with uncertainty. "Gandalf… do you think you could help me?" His voice was quieter now, tinged with an unusual hesitancy. "To understand these energies I sometimes feel? I want to learn how to control them, but… there's something inside me that resists."
Gandalf regarded him intently, fingers curling lightly over his staff. He seemed to weigh his words before exhaling a soft sigh. "If only I could, Calion. But our magics, if one can call them that, are fundamentally different."
Calion's brow furrowed, frustration creeping into his voice. "But… why? The things I see in my memories, the things I feel… there are similarities to what I sense here in Middle-earth. Forces that respond to will, things I once did—things others did…"
Gandalf remained silent, allowing him to continue.
"I have seen light pour from my hands, just as I've seen golden sparks dance across Calimmacil. I have seen objects move without touch, just as the winds rose to answer me. I have seen creatures of shadow drain the light from souls, just as I have felt darkness creeping into me under Morgoth's influence. All of it…" He swallowed, his throat dry. "All of it resembles the energies of Arda… but at the same time, it's different. More raw. More… violent."
Gandalf nodded slowly. "It is no surprise that you feel this, Calion." His gaze drifted toward the distant hills, as though peering beyond the veil of the world. "Your past…" He hesitated before continuing. "The world you once knew followed its own design. You speak of forces that obeyed men, of phenomena beyond explanation. But the thread that weaves the fabric of your former world and that of Arda… is not the same."
Calion clenched his fists. "Then why does it feel connected? Why do these memories intertwine with what I experience here?"
Gandalf offered him a knowing, enigmatic smile. "Because all existence is bound by unseen forces, even if they do not take the same form. What you were has left an imprint upon you—an imprint that Arda's energies recognize. They do not reject you as a foreigner… but neither did they shape you."
Calion closed his eyes briefly, absorbing these words. It only left him with more questions. He recalled wielding a strange wooden object, one that bent to his will. He remembered incantations that harnessed raw, untamed power. Here, there were no words of command, no wands… and yet…
Gandalf placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Let time reveal its answers, Calion. But do not expect to reclaim what you have lost. The threads of your fate have been rewoven, and your power will never take the same shape again."
Calion took a slow breath, nodding at last, though a flicker of disquiet remained in his features.
Gandalf studied him for a long moment before offering a gentle smile. Then, in a lighter tone, he added, "Now, come. Théoden has spoken much of Rohan's ale. Let us see if it lives up to his praises."
A faint, reluctant smile tugged at Calion's lips.
Together, they stepped away from the shadows and back toward the golden warmth of Meduseld, Gandalf's words lingering in Calion's thoughts long after they had passed through the hall's doors.
The night air was filled with muffled laughter and the occasional clink of tankards. Inside Meduseld, the festivities carried on, though some revelers had already succumbed to the generous flow of ale. Gimli, the most affected, lay slumped over a table, arms crossed beneath his head, his deep, steady snores a testament to both exhaustion and intoxication.
Legolas, however, left the main hall with his usual grace, his steps light and unhurried, showing no sign of inebriation despite the considerable amount of mead he had consumed. He pushed open the great doors of Meduseld and stepped into the crisp night air, leaving behind the warmth and revelry in favor of the vast, quiet sky. His silent steps carried him to the edge of the esplanade, where the golden glow of the torches no longer reached.
A lone figure stood in the shadows.
Calion.
A half-full tankard rested in his hand, but he seemed to have forgotten it. His gaze was lifted toward the heavens, eyes reflecting something deeper than the simple wonder of the stars. He was lost in thought, so much so that he did not immediately notice Legolas' presence. The elf observed him for a moment, noting the slight tension in his shoulders, the weight of something unseen pressing upon him. Then, with his usual fluidity, he stepped forward.
"Rohan's ale seems to have less of an effect on you than on our dear Gimli," he remarked lightly, a small smile touching his lips. "Perhaps one day I should tell him that it does not affect me as much as it does him."
Calion turned slightly, raising an eyebrow at him before glancing toward the hall. Gimli remained sprawled across the table, oblivious to the world. A wry smirk crossed the ranger's face.
"He would never forgive you," he said, lifting his tankard though he made no move to drink. "He'd challenge you at once to defend his honor. And he would lose. Again."
Legolas inclined his head in quiet amusement. He let his gaze wander over the darkened plains stretching before them, the rolling hills bathed in spectral moonlight. Then, after a pause, his tone shifted, losing its earlier levity.
"Théoden does not trust me."
Calion fully turned to face him this time, the surprise flickering across his features.
"You?" He shook his head, incredulous. "Why in the world would Théoden doubt your loyalty?"
Legolas let the question hang in the air before responding, his voice as still as a lake at dawn.
"Saruman planted seeds of doubt. And men are quick to grasp at such things, especially after enduring so much."
Calion crossed his arms, his irritation evident.
"That's ridiculous. He has never seen you falter. He knows what you have done."
Legolas finally turned his piercing blue eyes toward him, his expression calm, unbothered.
"It is not about facts, Calion. It is about shadow and light. I am the only immortal here, save for Gandalf. To Théoden, I am the only one who could have been swayed by darkness."
Calion clenched his jaw.
"So he suspects you of being the one Saruman spoke of?"
Legolas gave a slight nod, but his serene expression did not waver.
"He does not say it. He does not even need to believe it himself. But doubt—doubt is enough."
Calion exhaled sharply, stepping back to cast his gaze skyward, toward the stars burning cold and distant.
"Théoden should not doubt you so easily."
A quiet, melodic laugh escaped Legolas, light as a breeze through the leaves.
"It is not I who suffer from his doubt, Calion. I do not concern myself with the suspicions of men. I know my heart, and I know where my loyalties lie. Let Théoden doubt—it changes nothing. My deeds will speak for me."
Calion studied him for a moment, a flicker of admiration passing through his emerald gaze.
"You are far wiser than I am, Legolas."
Legolas shook his head with a small smile.
"It is not wisdom. It is certainty. Every being carries darkness within them, some heavier than others. But it is not those shadows that define us—it is what we choose to do with them. We are shaped by our trials, not by the mistakes we have left behind."
Then, turning fully toward Calion, he fixed him with an unyielding gaze—not judging, not accusing, merely seeing.
"And you, Calion… your past is far more complex than you have led us to believe."
The tone of the elf's voice was different now. It was neither threatening nor pressing. It was the voice of a hunter who had spent long days tracking an elusive prey, slowly piecing together its path.
"I have watched you for a long time," Legolas continued, crossing his arms, a faint crease forming on his brow. "I considered many possibilities. At first, I believed you were an Istari—a wizard from across the sea, hiding his power beneath a mortal guise. But you are unlike any of them. Not even Gandalf. You do not radiate their light, nor their ageless wisdom."
Calion remained silent. He knew Legolas had not finished.
"Then, I thought perhaps you were a man blessed with unnatural longevity, a remnant of an ancient age, an heir to a forgotten people. But your eyes tell me otherwise."
Legolas stepped closer, searching for something deeper, something hidden. "There is something in you… something old, deeply rooted in this land, and yet… foreign."
He let the silence settle before he finally spoke the words, his voice lower, heavier.
"I believe you are immortal."
Calion went still. It was not a question. It was a conclusion—one drawn from long observation, careful analysis.
"Not like an elf. Not like an Istari," Legolas continued. "But you do not age. You do not die—not by time's hand. I am almost certain of it."
Calion did not move. His grip on his tankard loosened slightly.
"How long have you been here, Calion?" the elf asked gently.
Calion hesitated. This was not a question he could simply dismiss.
"I have seen the way you look at the land," Legolas pressed on, relentless yet measured. "It is not the gaze of a traveler, nor that of a king surveying his realm. It is the gaze of someone who sees memories lingering behind every tree, every river, every stone."
Calion parted his lips, prepared to protest, but Legolas silenced him with a quiet motion of his hand.
"Do not be concerned. I do not seek to know," he said softly. "I will not force a truth you are not ready to share. I only wish for you to know this: whatever you are, whatever you have been… you will always find a home among us."
A silence fell, vast as the night that stretched above them.
At last, Calion pulled his gaze from the heavens and met Legolas' eyes. He found no accusation there, no fear—only certainty, quiet and unwavering.
For a moment, he considered speaking. Considered telling him everything.
But he was not ready. Not yet.
So instead, he simply nodded.
Legolas asked for nothing more. He did not need to.
And together, in the hush of Meduseld's quiet night, they stood in silence, gazing at the stars.