At the southern edge of Riddermark, at the foot of the White Mountains that stood like sentinels guarding the sky, lay Edoras—the small capital of the horse-kingdom, Rohan. It was not a city of towering spires and stone walls like Minas Tirith, but rather a warm and unassuming place. Rolling grasslands surrounded it, dotted with thatched wooden houses, and the rhythmic sound of horses' hooves was the very breath of its people's lives.
In the heart of the city stood Meduseld, the Golden Hall encircled by timber pillars adorned with carvings of horses. Its thatched roof gleamed golden when touched by the soft light of the late afternoon sun.
And within that hall, on a cold night, a baby cried for the first time.
"His name is Thalion," Queen Morwen murmured slowly, her face pale yet radiating a serene peace.
King Thengel gazed at his firstborn son, cradled in the arms of the nursemaid. The infant appeared tranquil after his initial outburst of tears. However, his eyes were wide open, unlike those of most newborns. It was as if he were recalling memories of experiences he had never even lived through.
Thalion—a name bestowed by the royalty, meaning steadfast, or strong in the shadows.
Yet, only he knew, deep within the recesses of his consciousness, that he had once possessed another name: Chandra. A man from a world devoid of elves, dragons, or magic; a world where The Hobbit was merely an overly long film.
And now, he was a child of Rohan, an elder brother to the yet-to-be-born prince, Théoden.
In his early days, Thalion remained mostly silent. He would hear the people speaking in the Rohan tongue—a swift, guttural language rooted in the ancient Westron. But he could not comprehend their words.
He observed intently, absorbing everything. He made silent mental notes.
He instinctively knew that in this world, excessive talk could breed suspicion.
Therefore, he chose to bide his time.
Days drifted into weeks, and weeks bled into years. He grew, and gradually, understanding dawned upon him. The language unfolded like the gentle whisper of a summer breeze, without coercion. It simply required patience.
Rohan was not the grand, majestic realm often sung of in ballads. Yet, it possessed a simple, understated beauty. Its expansive plains felt welcoming, the hues of its sky were clear and pure, and its people were honest and resilient.
Horses were considered brethren. The wind was a companion. And the vast fields served as both playground and classroom.
Meduseld was not a palace of marble, but a wooden hall that seemed to breathe in unison with its people.
And it was here that Thalion grew—with two distinct worlds residing within his thoughts: one that was tangible and present, and one that belonged to a distant past.
He was merely five years of age when Gandalf first arrived in Edoras.
The wizard came from the north, cloaked in grey and wearing a pointed hat. He rode a horse with a light gait, yet his eyes held a profound sense of mystery.
The townsfolk greeted him with awe. Children peered out from behind the pillars of their homes. The soldiers bowed their heads in respect. The Queen welcomed him with a tired but warm smile, and King Thengel embraced him like a long-lost brother.
But Thalion simply stood at the top of the Meduseld steps, observing the old figure with a slight tilt of his head.
He felt neither fear nor admiration, as if he had encountered him before.
Gandalf turned his head, a faint smile gracing his lips.
"Who is that child?" he inquired of Thengel, his gaze fixed on the boy's unblinking eyes.
"My eldest son," Thengel replied. "Thalion. Born five years ago, in the heart of winter."
"Hm..."
Gandalf's gaze lingered. There was something peculiar in the boy's eyes—not just intelligence, but a sense of withheld knowledge.
"Do you know who I am?" Gandalf asked, bending slightly towards Thalion.
Thalion offered no verbal response. His gaze drifted to the carved staff, then to the oversized conical hat, and finally, back to the wizard's eyes.
"I recognize you..." he murmured softly, "...but I cannot place from where."
Gandalf fell silent, his eyebrows momentarily arching. Then, a chuckle escaped his lips as he gently patted the boy's head.
"You are an enigmatic child."
He proceeded into Meduseld. However, in the depths of his mind, Gandalf made a mental note. He had encountered countless children, but none quite like this one.
And for Thalion—or Chandra—this was merely the dawn of a far greater journey. He did not yet know the when or the how, but one certainty resonated within him:
Rohan would be changed.
Following the simple evening meal—warm bread, a hearty meat soup, and light wine from Westfold—King Thengel invited Gandalf to a small chamber situated behind Meduseld's main hall. It was not a lavish room, but it exuded warmth, with a fireplace where embers still glowed softly.
Gandalf settled into a carved wooden chair, placing his staff beside him. King Thengel poured two cups of drink from an earthenware pitcher.
"You appear weary, Gandalf," Thengel remarked.
"It is not my body that feels the strain," Gandalf replied, accepting the cup. "But rather, my thoughts."
He took a slow sip, then turned his gaze to the flickering flames.
"You have not come merely as a guest, have you?" Thengel asked, his eyes sharp and perceptive.
Gandalf did not respond immediately. He studied the fire as if seeking words within its dance. Then, he released a long sigh.
"There is a stirring in the shadows, Thengel. In the east and in the south. The Eye that slumbered begins to open once more. And the mists emanating from Dol Guldur grow ever thicker. Even the birds dare not venture above them."
Thengel lowered his head, his expression becoming grave.
"Are you certain this is not merely a resurgence of brigands?"
"I rarely arrive with mere conjecture," Gandalf answered softly. "I perceive more than simple banditry. I foresee the onset of a bitter season… not only for Rohan, but for all of Middle-earth."
A moment of silence hung in the air.
"And how am I to be involved in this gathering storm?" Thengel inquired.
Gandalf offered a faint smile, his gaze shifting towards the slightly ajar door. From beyond, the faint sound of children's light footsteps could be heard, followed by an abrupt silence, perhaps as they realized important matters were being discussed.
"Your son earlier—Thalion," Gandalf said quietly. "He looked at me as if he recognized me."
"He is indeed different," Thengel conceded. "Seldom speaks, yet possesses a keen mind."
"Do you know the meaning of his name in Sindarin?" Gandalf asked, his eyes still fixed on the doorway.
Thengel nodded with pride. "The steadfast one. The strong one."
"More than that," Gandalf murmured, his voice a resonant whisper. "Thalion is the name given to those who remain standing, even when the world crumbles around them. Those who are broken… yet not destroyed."
He met Thengel's gaze directly.
"May he prove worthy of that name."
King Thengel offered no reply, his attention fixed on the fire that was slowly dying down.
Gandalf rose to his feet, retrieving his staff.
"Watch over him carefully," he said, moving towards the door. "For sometimes, destiny chooses not from lineage… but from the memories a soul carries within."
Thengel watched the Grey Wizard's back as he slowly disappeared into the corridor.
And outside, at the top of the steps, Thalion stood silently, his young eyes gazing at the starlit sky. He understood little of the conversation he had overheard. Yet, the name—Thalion—echoed in his thoughts that night, like a distant premonition of a future yet to unfold.
The following morning, a thin veil of mist lay across the fields of Rohan. Horses whinnied softly in the distance, and dew clung to the tips of the thatch. On the stone steps leading up to the Meduseld hall, Gandalf stood, his gaze directed eastward.
Small footsteps approached from behind. Thalion, barely five years old, drew near slowly, still clad in his sleeping garments. He regarded Gandalf without uttering a word, his young eyes sharp and filled with curiosity.
Gandalf turned, a gentle smile gracing his lips.
"You are awake remarkably early, young one."
Thalion remained silent, simply settling onto the top step, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
Gandalf sat beside him, stroking his long beard. "Do you know," he began, "far from here, beyond the Misty Mountains, lies a hidden valley called Imladris? Men call it Rivendell. It is there that the High Elves dwell—wise, immortal, and filled with song. In that place, time moves at a languid pace, and the trees communicate through the rustling of their leaves."
Thalion turned his head.
"Are they real?"
Gandalf chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
"More real than you can imagine. And in the east lies Mirkwood, once bright but now gloomy and full of shadows. The Elves there guard its borders with keen eyes and arrows swifter than a whisper of the wind."
"And there is another," Gandalf continued, gazing at the sky, "in Lothlórien. There dwells Lady Galadriel—an Elf of the Noldor and also the Teleri. She came from the far west, from Valinor, and carries the light of stars that no mortal man has ever beheld."
Thalion was silent. The boy's imagination began to paint worlds in his mind—forests, valleys, and starlight.
Then, without a word, Gandalf placed a hand on Thalion's head. It was not a harsh touch, but it felt profound—warm, and as if it were unlocking something.
Thalion's eyes widened. In his mind, a spark of light ignited. Not the light of the world… but like a doorway, a gate that had no name yet.
He gasped for breath.
Gandalf gently withdrew his hand, his gaze soft yet full of meaning.
"You will see all of it one day, Thalion. Even that which is hidden from the eyes of ordinary men."
Gandalf stood, preparing to descend the steps.
But before he could leave, a small voice broke the morning air:
"When you go to Erebor with your companions in the future… take me with you."
Gandalf's steps halted. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in surprise.
"How do you know about Erebor?" he asked, his voice low.
Thalion simply stared back, offering no reply.
Several seconds passed.
Finally, a wide smile spread across Gandalf's face, his laughter soft and genuine.
"Then, Thalion of Rohan, when the time comes… I will come to you."
He then walked down the steps, his cloak fluttering gently in the breeze.
Thalion watched his back until he disappeared into the morning mist.
The morning mist slowly began to lift from the plains of Rohan. The sun had not yet fully emerged, but streaks of golden light began to illuminate the thatched roofs of Meduseld.
From the upper balcony of the hall, two figures stood side by side—a middle-aged man in the robes of a king, and a small boy with tousled brown hair. Both gazed at the dirt path stretching southward, where a grey horse trotted slowly away, descending the golden hills of Edoras.
Gandalf had departed.
Thalion gripped the wooden railing before him, his eyes still fixed on the small point that was gradually vanishing behind the mist. His father, King Thengel, sighed softly and placed a hand on his son's shoulder.
"He leaves as he always does," Thengel said quietly. "Without explaining much, without saying where he is going."
Thalion merely nodded slightly.
Thengel continued, his voice now deeper, as if speaking to the morning wind:
"Gandalf is no ordinary man. He comes and goes like the shadow of a bird across the sky, but every step he takes always has meaning."
He looked down at his son.
"Know this, Thalion… that wizard never does anything without purpose. His arrival in Rohan… could be a warning. Perhaps not for today, but for the days to come."
Thalion looked at his father, then back towards the empty horizon. In his heart, he could not shake the strange sensation that still pulsed from Gandalf's touch on his forehead. It was as if something was unfinished, yet had not even begun.
"I will remember it, Father," Thalion murmured. "I will remember everything."
Thengel smiled. He did not know what his son meant, but he knew one thing: this eldest child of his was different. Silent yet sharp, young yet profound, as if he looked at the world with eyes that had seen it before.
The Rohan morning breeze rustled past them, carrying the scent of damp grass and the distant whinny of horses.
And on the road far below, Gandalf—known by many names—disappeared from view. But he had planted something in Rohan that day, something unknown to anyone, even the Elves who had lived for millennia.
In Dreams
He stood in a void. No sky, no earth. Only white.
Then… the gate appeared. Tall, seamless, covered in strange carvings that he could somehow read.
"Gate of Truth…" Thalion whispered, as if familiar with it despite never having known it before.
The gate swung open. Without permission. Without a command.
Like a tidal wave, thousands of sheets of information washed over him. Formulas. Elemental structures. Ancient languages. Unnegotiable laws of exchange. Symbols. Incantations. Diagrams of transmutation circles. And a voice. A voice that sounded like the world itself:
"What you pay will be equal to what you receive. But not everything received can be controlled."
Thalion clutched his head—unable to resist. But at some point, he did not want to resist.
He accepted.
Awakening
He sat bolt upright in bed, sweat beading on his temples.
"What was that… a dream?" he murmured, but his head still felt full.
Yet he knew… it was more than just a dream. It was a key. A cheat, he thought.
"Ah… here it is. Just like those transmigrator novels I used to read… right, Chandra?" he said with a wry smile, addressing his own old name that now felt like a stranger's.
He stared at his hands.
"If this is indeed a cheat, I won't waste any time. I have to learn… everything."
Days of Learning
The next day, he requested full access to the Meduseld library. Not only that—he began sending messages to the maesters of Gondor, the Ered Luin, and even distant Arnor in the north. His father, King Thengel, was surprised, but also proud to see his eldest son's eagerness.
"You read books of magic, alchemy, history, and herbal remedies?" Thengel asked one morning.
"If I can, Father. I want to know… how this world is structured and how it can be changed," Thalion replied firmly.
The library guards nodded in astonishment every time Thalion entered. The boy could devour three books a day and still remember everything.
One night, he attempted to draw his first transmutation circle in the palace courtyard. There was no explosion, but the soil in the center of the circle became denser—as if naturally compressed.
"The law of equivalent exchange applies… even here," he murmured. "Fascinating."
Dawn broke over the plains of Rohan, revealing dew clinging to the grass like tiny crystals. A gentle breeze blew from the east, causing the green and gold banners atop the Meduseld fortress to flutter.
In the young sunlight, a boy swung a wooden sword through the air.
Thalion. His body was still growing, but his movements were already sharp and practiced. Sweat beaded on his brow, yet his eyes remained focused.
Every morning before the rooster crowed, he was already awake, earlier than the guards. In the palace training grounds, he sparred alone—against his shadow, or occasionally practiced with his father's chosen warriors.
"Is my attack slow?" Thalion asked Ser Cedric, the captain of the guard.
Cedric smiled, stroking his beard. "If that's slow, young lad… I might as well be a stone."
His training relied not only on muscle but also on technique. He devoured all the old manuscripts on the fighting styles of the Dúnedain, the cavalry techniques of Gondor, and the battle strategies of the Haradrim tribes.
Midday: In the Library
After training, Thalion cleaned himself and then entered the quiet room that was his little sanctuary: the Meduseld library.
Stacks of books, scrolls, and old artifacts were neatly arranged on wooden shelves. Some originated from Gondor, gifts from Elrond in Rivendell, or ancient copies brought by merchants from the North.
"This text is written in Quenya… and this, hmm, Khuzdul?" he murmured, turning the pages.
Not all the library guards understood their contents, but Thalion could read most of these languages—and was in the process of learning the rest.
He made his own notes, redrawing maps of Middle-earth from various eras, even attempting to create a system of transmutation symbols that combined Elvish philosophy, the principles of Dwarven runes, and his knowledge from the "Gate of Truth."
Night: Reflection & Experimentation
At night, when all of Rohan began to slumber, Thalion did not immediately sleep.
He sat alone in his dimly lit study, accompanied by the flickering light of torches, the scent of beeswax candles, and a cup of herbal tea from a kitchen maid.
"What cannot be exchanged? What has a value that cannot be measured?" he asked himself, drawing transmutation circles on a stone tablet.
Sometimes, he conducted small experiments—changing the shape of stones, solidifying metals, or even growing plants from seeds overnight. It wasn't always successful, but he never stopped trying.
At the Age of Fourteen
At the age of fourteen, Thalion was already as tall as his father. His muscles were defined by training, his mind sharpened by knowledge, and his aura began to feel different to those around him.
Some of the guards remarked:
"That boy… he carries both light and storm within him."
Even the palace animals, including the wildest horses, seemed tame in his presence. Ravens liked to perch on his window, as if wanting to listen to the words from his lips.
Yet Thalion remained humble, and when asked where all his knowledge and abilities came from, he would only reply:
"Perhaps… I just heard the world's voice earlier than others."
The Beginning of Rohan's Transformation
Spring arrived earlier than in previous years. Wildflowers bloomed on the hills around Edoras, and the horses seemed wilder than usual, running freely across the seemingly endless plains.
Thalion turned twelve years old.
But unlike other Rohan children his age, who spent their time racing horses or practicing archery, Thalion was drawing something on a roll of parchment—a schematic. Not of a weapon, but of… water flow, dams, and terracing.
He took the schematic to the study of King Thengel, his father, who was looking at a map of Rohan's territory.
"Father," Thalion said calmly but firmly. "May I speak for a moment, not as your son… but as a citizen of Rohan?"
King Thengel raised an eyebrow. "You sound like an old man who reads Gondorian scrolls too often."
"Perhaps, but allow me to speak. I want to help make Rohan more prosperous, not through war… but through the land, water, and knowledge."
King Thengel set down his wine cup. He was silent, waiting.
"The fields of Rohan are vast, but much of the land lies dormant. If we create irrigation systems, build terraces on the western hills, and manage crop rotation, we can harvest twice as much."
"We can create ponds and manage grazing for livestock. We can store the harvest in winter-proof barns."
"And—" Thalion lifted his head. "—we can build schools, Father. So that farmers know how to care for their land, and the children of Rohan grow to be people who can read the sky and understand the world."
King Thengel looked at his eldest son for a long time. Those eyes… were more mature than his years. Not just intelligent, but there was something he hadn't seen in a long time—the flame of hope.
"Schools?" Thengel repeated softly. "You wish to bring the spirit of Rivendell to the heart of Rohan?"
"Not Rivendell, Father. But a new Rohan. One that knows when to fight, but knows better how to preserve life."
The King was silent for a moment, then chuckled softly. Not mockingly—a light laugh full of pride and… a guarded hope.
"You are no ordinary child, Thalion. But remember, great visions always challenge foolishness and fear. Are you ready for that?"
Thalion replied without hesitation.
"If I don't start now, when will Rohan rise?"