Ashes.....ashes

"Pallando? Where are you?"  The words come out of a throat hoarse from invoking the energy and power that resides within the Istari...Wizards...Maiar. Though restricted by flesh, the evidence of that power is all about Alatar, one of the Ithryn Luin.  He sits in the charred, still smoking ruins of a woodland elven settlement deep in the heart of Moire Taure, and rocks himself softly.

He sits in the charred, still smoking ruins....

The Orcs are nothing but piles of ashes, and a rogue wind snakes through the trees and smoldering ruins and dives into each pile, scattering ashes.  Alatar's eyes were red-rimmed from weeping and bloodshot, dry as he tries to blink away the scattered remains of these twisted creatures of Melkor's design.  "Pallando," he whispers again, and a shudder takes him. He is cold, empty, drained here in the aftermath. He had not thought but instead acted to neutralize the foul creatures. "But I did not act fast enough," he croaks in a whisper.

Pallando looks over the elven female...

 Pallando looks over the elven female he rescued and sighs with a relief: she is still unconscious. The last thing he wants is to violate the mandate sent along with Eonwe, that they are not to interfere with the First-born. The settlement ahead seems active, and the immediate vicinity looks safe. Thinking it best to go back to his friend, he returns to the ether and drifts back to the clearing in the forest. Alatar is there: the settlement is all but destroyed now. Piles of ash scatter in the light breeze. He slowly approaches his friend, obviously in distress.

He closes his eyes...

Alatar's words are carried away in the wake of the ashes-laden wind.  He closes his eyes. Unlike those who need words to carry power, who must labor and train to gain mastery of such abilities that Men, and even Elves sometimes label magic, Alatar IS  Magic...magic such as the Children of Eru  are considered to be so....he is spirit, as old as the Valar, older than Middle Earth itself. His voice, and that of Pallando's rose and blended with all the other voices of the Ainur, and through them the world of mortals came into being.  But here, encased in flesh, he is trapped by mortal limitations. A weariness not only of flesh seeps into his spirit, and it is then, as he fights to not submit to the feeling of desolation, he senses his friend's return.  "Pallando," he croaks out. Then in a louder voice, he says, "Pallando, friend, oh, Blessed Eru, Pallando!"  He rocks himself as the warm presence that is his friend draws ever nearer.

The area is covered by a grey-blue mix of mist and ash.

The area is covered by a gray-blue mix of mist and ash. Pallando walks through it to his friend. He senses his loss and hopelessness. "I am here. I believe I did save one of the First born. She lies unconscious near a settlement, safe." He looks around at the burned elven homes and destruction. "There is nothing we could have done to save them all, not and observe our role as Emissaries of the West," he says reassuringly, "They have been avenged."