"I had to make him a little hat," says Alatar. "He was chilled, Pallando. You know how utterly hot that woman's house was. And he was in that little cage all by himself.“ He turns his head toward his companion and gives his companion a soulful, reproachful look. "Without his hat and scarf, little Oromë would catch a frightful cold."
His companion on this road answers, as he always does, but Alatar turns his head to gaze upon the little ferret on his shoulder, sporting a knitted cap and scarf. Bright beady eyes return the look, and the creature gives a soft chitter before burying its furry white head into the folds of Alatar's cloak. "I am hungry, too, Oromë, " he says to the ferret, "But you know what Eonwe said, and we all know how late a start we got. And if only that cat was not awake when I flew in through the window to open your cage." He pauses and flashes a look over at his companion. “Well,” he says defensively and drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “you heard as I did what she wanted to do to him...monstrous. Why, to rob him of his manhood, erm…ferret-hood…” he shudders, and gives another soulful look. “How was I know the cat was that fast. A round ball of fur that one.”
“How was I know the cat was that fast...."
Pallando answers him, but the reply was not nearly as loud as the rumble in Alatar's stomach. Centuries spent wandering amongst mortal beings in Middle Earth has taught the two much about the coils of mortality, but curbing the loud complaints of an empty stomach still escapes him. Above them the Maia Arien navigates the sun across its well-worn path in the sky, and although the clouds are white and fluffy, still the air bore the chill promise of winter rushing to claim the land before the passage of the year. As they grind the crumbling brown leaves beneath their booted feet, the two travelers share between themselves nuts and day-old hard bread and wizened, shriveled apples. As he swallows the last bite of apple and tosses the core over his shoulder into the patch of still green grass, Alatar's eyes narrow a moment, and his smooth brow furrows. Then his expression clears, and he turns his attention back to the road ahead of them.
“I don’t miss Eonwe’s …” Alatar pauses and searches for the correct word in the speech of Men…”fussiness. Yes, fussiness. It was all, ‘And my Lord, the Breath of Arda this’ and ‘The Lord of the West that.’ Well, we are Istari, you know. We can move at the speed of the wind if we put our minds to it. Although,” he pauses and places a long pale slender hand atop his stomach, “although I do get terrible hunger afterwards.” He looks with longing at the pack Pallando carries. Studying his friend’s young face, he says wistfully, " I don’t suppose there is a spot of cheese still left?”
Pallando answers, and Alatar gives a sigh, resigning himself to the complaints of his physical body, and the moans of his stomach. On his shoulder the little ferret, shifts a little, and rocked by the motion of the wizards’ stride, he presently falls asleep. Alatar – called Morinehtar by the tribes of Men to whom he and his companion are nothing more in these times than “sleight-of-hand” magicians – is immortal. He is Ainu, one of the Blue Wizards, or the Ithryn Luin. The last of the original three Maiar chosen to become Istarin, or wizard, in the common tongue, he remembers the summoning of the Valar to Council, lo, these ages ago. Three emissaries were to go to Middle Earth, but only two stepped forward: Alatar, and Curumo, who became the leader of the Istari, and over time, known as Saruman the White. For love of a friend came Pallando, who, like Alatar were Maia unto the Vala Oromë, the mighty Huntsman.
They fall into a companionable silence, each in their own thoughts, the day clear, the wind promising the changing of the season ere long, the path before them winding amongst the beauty of the Vala’s Yavanna’s creations. At first, in the Second Age of Middle Earth, they were sent to the east of Arda, to countries in far eastern Middle-earth such as Rhûn and Khand, where they were sent to stir up rebellions against those serving Sauron, to support the Second-born, the children of Men, who refused to worship Melkor. And after the first fall of the Deceiver, they sought out his hiding place, and caused division and disruption among those who served his darkness. They returned to the Undying Lands and took their place among their brethren with full honor.
But they were not allowed to stay. The world of mortals dances ever between shadow and light, and the Third Age dawned both beautiful and terrible. And in that world was the one true Ring of power and Sauron rose and sought terrible destruction and evil, and so Curumo, Alatar and Pallando were sent back to Middle Earth, joined by two more. This time, Alatar and Pallando did not return to the Land of the West. “Stay,” commanded the Lord of the West, the Breath of Arda. “Stay among the Children of Eru. Stay amongst the Second-born, stay and watch. Watch and record. Keep the Flame Imperishable in your aspect and your words, for the children will begin to forget themselves. And when they do, evil again will rise, like a serpent.” So stay they did, and all through the long turning of the years, the changing of the seasons, sheathed in flesh, knowing the need of mortality and the diminishment of their powers, they traveled through the whole of Middle Earth, to the farthest corners, both east and south. And now, here, to Moire Taure.
The wind rushes up behind them and Alatar turns his head to it to whisper, “We’re going, we’re going. No proper lunch, I’ll thank you… EONWE,” he frowns and pouts, “but we’re going.” He turns back around and hurries to catch up with Pallando, huffing. But they both quicken their steps.
Once, soon after they were commanded to remain in Middle Earth, as they sat around a campfire and watched the flames dance along the wood, twisting and turning, a song filled with pops and crackles guiding its measure, Alatar had turned to his friend. His own face, in those days, was sallow and furrowed with mortal worries and mortal cares, the wrinkles stretched across his brown and around his mouth. He rested hands spotted and calloused with split and torn nails upon his knees as he leaned forward and asked, in a voice worn thin, “Pallando, it was for love of friendship you came with me. Love of friendship that has been repaid with this …exile.” he dropped his gaze and reached out to pick up a stick that he twirled between his fingers. “Do….do you regret, now, the friendship that brought you hither?”
His friend had answered, as he always had and does, and his voice sought to soothe Alatar, to reassure him into a gentle sleep, but long after his companion snuggled into his bedroll and drifted off to dreams and gentle snores, Alatar sat staring into the fire. And the next day, gone was the wizened features. Instead Alatar took on the form of a young man, pale of skin, dark of hair, smooth browed, and upon his face he bore a tattoo he never explained to his friend, or himself. Many forms the two have taken, and even today Pallando looks for all the world as a young boy, on the cusp of manhood, care-free and light of heart, but never when they take the form of Men has Alatar again donned the visage of a wise, old man.
Suddenly Pallando pulls up short and lifts a slender hand. “Wait,” he says softly, and his face becomes slack as he purses his lips and frowns in concentration. “Something ahead is not…” he pauses…”as it should be. He turns a troubled look to Alatar.
Alatar stops and grows still. The wind behind them drops away, and there settles in its wake an stillness deep and troubling. Cocking his head and closing their eyes, both wizards bend their head and stretch forth their awareness all about them. Upon his shoulder the little ferret wakes and sniffs the air before burying itself deeper into the folds of Alatar’s cloak. Lifting his head, the wizard follows the ferret’s example and breathes in the smells all around him… Trees, earth, the promise of cold…the musk of woodland animals, the smell of cookfires and …..no…those are not cookfires. His eyes fly open and he whirls around to lock gazes with Pallando. “Orcs,” says his friend simply, “Orcs. In the forest.”
...he whirls around to lock gazes with Pallando. "Orcs...."
“In Moire Taure,” finishes Alatar, and in a rush, he shucks the cloak, letting it drop gently to the ground, the ferret burrowing deeper in the folds. “Stay here,” he tells the tiny creature. And with one more glance at his friend, both wizards rush to the forest, moving faster than any mortal is able, than any mortal could dare.
The trees rush by in a blur, and all about them now, instead of stillness, they hear the heartbeat of all the woodland creatures. The smell of blood rises upon the crush of leaves, the smell of pine, the scent of late blooming flowers and a thousand other natural smells that should have been welcoming, reassuring, calming. The smell of blood rises even as the melodious voices of First-born rise in alarm, call to defense, and screams of panic and pain. One of the two Istari scream out a wordless cry in response, of warning too late, of shock, of recognition too late. For the Orcs have descended upon their victims, and as fleet as the two Istari are, limited by mortal senses, the clear danger came too late to warn, too late to save those bleeding out, those dying. As Alatar and Pallando enter the elven settlement deep in the Moire Taure, the smell of blood, the screams of dying elves and triumphant murderers deafen the two wizards to all else. As Alatar looks about him, his eyes lock upon an Orc lifting the still dying form of an elf maid and throwing her body into a common cook fire pit in the center of the settlement. The smell of cooking flesh rises, and for a moment, Alatar is trapped by the body’s response to the sight, and worse, his stomach rumbles at the smell, not much different than the smell of cooking meat roasting on a spit in any tavern. He feels the bile rise up to his throat at the physical response and swallows it down. He looks about him and sees Pallando a blur of motion, heading straight for a slender elven maid.
The sights, the sounds, the smells rush over Alatar, and a rage boils up from deep inside him. The skies above are red, and Alatar notes with cool detachment that somewhere along the parameter of the settlement, more Orcs are moving among the woods, setting fire. Birds take to the skies in a flurry of wings, and animals rush away in wild panic. Taken by surprise, outnumbered are the elves, and the orcs, driven by blood lust are savage. Alatar raises his head to the red skies, and begins to stretch out his arms. His being swells, his energy surges, and he feels all awareness of his body fall away as he opens his mouth and a terrible yell spills forth in the language that existed before all languages, the one formed in the swell and afterthought of the Great Song. “YOU SHALL NOT,” he cries out in that first tongue, and all about him the trees bend mighty ancient limbs to the ground as if in homage to the syllables and consonants.
His hands take on a bluish cast as he lifts them up....
Possessed by the power, shaking with rage, the blood of innocents rising like a perverse incense to the skies above, the air around him whirls in a fury, his dark hair whipping about his face as though possessed of a will of its own. Slowly he raises his hand and in a terrible, dread voice, he calls out, and the skies turn an unnatural indigo. His hands take on a blue cast, and as he lifts them up to the skies, the orcs stop their terrible rampage and stare at this slender being, their piggish eyes locking on the screaming, fury of wind that twists and turns about him. A few turn to run. Others stand in mute terror. Still other roars their challenge. But nothing can save them. Nothing. Alatar surrenders the fury within him to the power about him, and in a single moment, the wind breaks upon itself and like a demon in its fury reaches out with tentacles of air and rip each Orc apart. Tossing his head back, Alatar closes his eyes and opens his mouth, feeling the release of pent up power surge through the mortal form, find its victims and execute his justice.
...as the Istari crashes to his knees....
Then, as the Istari crashes to his knees, his breath hard, ragged, his body trembling and weak, his eyes blurred with tears, the wind dispels and is no more. Wrapping his arms about his slender form, Alatar rocks back and forth, wordless sobs rack him and he weeps for the ones they came too late to save and wonders in a far corner of his mind…..
Where is Pallando?
