Small Stones
"Their coming shall be as the small stones that start an avalanche"
White steps, reaching seemingly ever upwards. He looks around him, wondering where he it is that he stands. He is on those steps which are on a mountain, indescribably high above the surrounding lands. The clouds are miniature pearlescent patches below his feet. Far below, on the slopes of the Mountain there stand many fair towers, of beautiful spiraling construction. They are formed of many magnificently hued metals and stones in all the colours of the reefs of Osse's oceans. Between the towers, like threads of gossamer, are myriad graceful curving walkways: highways of air. All over the mountain are astoundingly vast trees, which are dwarfed only be the Towers themselves. They too are hives of activity; lived in, upon, and around. Many steps are carved in their sides, and great platforms were suspended in them and between them. Whole cities were hung between the vast groups of trees. It is a spectacle that defies thought. He turns from it to look at the heights of the Mountain. At the top are fourteen peaks arrayed in a circle, at the base of which he now knows to be a great seat, for he at last knows where he stands. From the great circle, bright light shone to the point where it was hard to directly observe it without pain. He is on the slopes of Taniquetil, the Mountain of the Valar. Valinor! How he missed it! Oh, how he longed to return! Yet he had..had he not? And yet he had no memory of a journey to this spot. He had not taken the gray ship to come here. There was no vessel for him. There had been no journey. Of that he is certain. Something tells him to continue up the mountainside.
The Council of the Valar is about to begin; he hears Manwe's timeless voice which embodies the depths of heaven bringing it into session. He walks up to the great circle, stopping between the seats of great Tulkas, the wrestler, and Nessa, and to his great wonderment he sees one who he least expects to see in Valinor, or anywhere else. Olorin, whose task it had been to contain and defeat the last of the Great Enemies. He who had feared; who was reluctant. Olorin had said he was too weak for the task, all those many years ago, when he was asked to go to Middle Earth. He feared Sauron, and yet survives to return to Valinor. He is before the Council!
With Olorin is a small dark-haired being who is looking about him in wonder at all he sees. His glance turns towards him, and lights upon him. It holds him because of the eyes. They are the color of Ulmo's waters. He turns to one who is near him to ask who and what this being is, only to find the Valinorean totally unaware of his existence. In fact, the elf is looking directly through him. He moves to the side and looks back towards the person, who is looking at him with a bemused expression. He is perplexed. How can it be that this being sees him, but a Valinorean High Elf does not? He does not long ponder this as Olorin has begun to speak.
"Ye Lords of the West, here is he who has triumphed, the Ringbearer who bore that dire token to its destruction. He along and the first Ringbearer have been brought to this land to heal the great hurts they have suffered in its destruction, the blade of sorcery, the Sting of Ungoliants spawn, and the great Burden upon the mind and spirit that the Ring was. I have returned here at last, for truly my time in Middle Earth had come to an end with the conclusion of the Labor. It is now my pleasant duty to say to you that Sauron, the cur of Morgoth is at last destroyed utterely and wiped from the face of Ea. His armies have been destroyed, his Tower, and all things of his efforts cast down into utter ruin. He has failed entirely. Here now the details of his fall shall be told in full before all."
The silent watcher listens with increasing amazement to the tale of the Lord of the Rings, recounted in full. Great deeds, and much change had come in the Northwest. There was a King in the land of Gondor and Arnor again: the line of Numenor resurrected from the shadows of history, unlooked for in the North Downs. The Evenstar had chosen mortality, as Tinuviel to whom she was compared had. The Valinorean Noldor that remained had at last departed, returning to the great Citadel Tirion on the hill of Tuna. This land of the shire is new to him since he had travelled through the West long ages agone. These were just some of the things related there. Most was the state of Olorin. Oh, how he had changed. That he who was afraid should be the chief mover of these great events was an amazing accomplishment. He had gained courage, strength, and knowledge along his road. He kept heart when all seemed lost, and drove others along . He was now the White Wizard, the head of the order.
One part of the account bites into him like a poisoned dart. The one who had been greatest among them, and who had always scoffed at Olorin behind his back, and at Radagast openly, Curomo the great had been the first to fail, to fall from his purpose to utter ruin. Even Radagast the Brown, least among the Istari had not fallen. He was forced to ask himself as he stood there between his Lords and Ladies, "How close am I to that abysmal precipice?" If Curomo had fallen, what was to stop him from having a like ending. The head of the Order never returned to this Land. Never to reach home to feel the warmth of the Valar's life force filling his soul, because he failed in his task. He thought of what he had accomplished, and was shamed. He and his partner had tried, in the beginning, but the East had proven too much for them. For seven years, they had fought the endless swarms of corrupted men, and orcs. Through attrition those that came with him from the West were slowly destroyed until the final battle when they were six, including himself and his brother. They had been camped near the entrance to Dinfennas pass in the Hithrig Mountains, about a quarter mile from its mouth, when the few guards they had posted called warning. The warning came late as the enemy had already surrounded them on three fronts, and was rapidly closing the fourth. He and his friend had been up instantly. They, and what remained of their force charged the thinnest parts of the line on the fourth front which faced the mouth of the pass. He realized that two armies must have come, from the North and South. Throughout his time in the East there had been hordes of the powerful Easterling warriors. The Easterlings were from a land that Morgoth Bauglir had visited and abided in for many long years before any emissary of Aman had ever reached them. There were lesser and greater servants of the Great Enemy that he had left there in his absence when he returned to Angband. They had entirely possessed the minds of the Eastern people and held them under the sway of darkness and evil. The people had never seen the Valar. To them the Valar were irrelevant, a figment of rumor that they were happy to ignore. They served One and One only, and though that One was no longer extant in the world, his servants remained. In that final battle there were no less than two of the terrible Baelrogs, the ancient guards of Morgoth. The fear of the staffs had begun to wear off; the Baelrogs were driving the two hosts into each other from either side, and one by one their companions had been killed.
At last they felt a third presence, and saw a Third host coming from the west. The third presence was much different from the other two. It had a serpentine feel to it. The only remaining companions had been the few of the elves of Lorien who had joined them. They had fallen to their knees in dismay, and had been cut down by the ravening hordes. The press of the enemy had separated him from his friend and partner; he had done the only thing he could and hoped that his partner had done the same. He had cast a decoy, an image of himself fleeing the battle, and made himself invisible to the press of foes. Then he retreated into the pass, and had climbed high onto the sides of the pass, where he had spied a small hole. Masking his presence he had waited for the search to cease. He soon found that the hole went much further into the side of the pass then he thought. He followed the small cave for what seemed like a long time until he saw light ahead. He had stumbled upon a hidden vale, like that in which Gondolin was founded in the Second Age. He explored the vale, finding running water, and food. And there he stayed. He remained in for that vale for 2133 years. For all his power and knowledge, nothing was accomplished. He simply existed. His staff had sat collecting dust, just as he had. He forgot his home. Valinor became as a distant dream, a fairy tale, remembered as a phantasm of thought.
With a start, he returns to the present to realize that Olorin has ceased speaking. He had said he was called Gandalf, and Mithrandir in Middle Earth, and both names suited him better in his new stronger persona that had come forth in his labours. There is silence for a short time after Mithrandir finished speaking. The Valar perhaps communicate amonst themselves in thought coming to a consensus. Then there comes a voice which in it's timber and inflection contains all the qualities of the endless reaches ot the heavens: a voice of eternity. It is the voice of the Elder King, Manwe, the Lord of the Air.
"You have done very well...Mithrandir, for so shall you be known to all hence forward. Great deeds have you wrought upon the plain of Middle Earth, and so Sauron and his great evil are ended at last. Above and beyond your purpose, you led the war against the Darkness. You alone accomplished what three were sent to do, and so you reach your just reward, as do the greatest who followed you.
The Fourth age has begun, the proving ground of humanity. And soon, so very soon after the end of your labours, the Council feels the stirring of new evils. We have detected stirrings and movements in the currents of power. Someone is gathering it to themselves, elevating themselves in power building their possession to truly significant proportions. Ulmo has informed us that vast armies of orcs and evil men cross his eastern rivers. His power has withdrawn from certain areas, chased out by the growing evil. We feel therefore that a significant Evil remains in the world. Few there are left who could deal with a being powerful enough to disturb currents of power the way we have sensed. We must know: Do you have any knowledge of the Ithryn Luin? Of Alatar and Pallando?"
" I know little of them," said Mithrandir. 'They traveled with us from the West, and they went into the East, perhaps as commanded, though I have no knowledge of what tasks Orome and the Counsel had given them. I never heard from them again, though perhaps Saruman did, but he never saw fit to tell Radagast and I. Thranduil of the Woodland Realms said they passed through his land. Some of his Warriors went with them, and they never returned. That is all I know."
"They must complete their task! For with these warning signs, the situation is ominous. Perhaps the existence of what we sought to preserve is in the balance. The missing has assumed renewed importance. The lost must be found, the mysteries unraveled. The Ithryn will be reminded of their mission." said Manwe.
Here the gaze of Ages shifts from Mithrandir to weigh directly upon Alatar one of two Istron of the Blue Robes, for that is his identity. None of the other Powers seek him out, but he knows now that they at least, are aware of him. One gaze was more than enough to endure; the Lord of Air's eyes pierced him through and through. He began to feel light-headed. "They must be made to...
R
I
S
E........
The World swirled about, a vortex of light and sound. He was falling, and all at once he was soaring. Blackness rose over the world, the Light was quenched. Terror took him. And he saw. The vast hordes of orcs, the Haradrim, organized and fighting upon the Southern and Eastern reaches of Gondor. He saw the blood red fleets of Death, raiding up and down the shores. War was kindled again, so very quickly after the War of the Ring. The sons and grandsons of the Hero's of the Ring embroiled in conflict again. The long slow but steady retreat of the forces of the White Tower. And the End. The result of his failures. An enslaved world. Men being corrupted by Power, changing from what was natural, to things ghastly and brutal.
And then he awoke. Words blazed in fire before him. "Seek ye Pallando thy friend. The Tree's light was always brightest when two became one. Seek the House of the White Tree!"
He awoke disoriented, lying on his back, the words fading into nothingness above him as he stared into the sky. Again he was unsure of his location, or where he had been. He had the impression of something fair having left him. some form of paradise lost to him. Slowly he sat up. He was on a large rock in the middle of a stream. Now memory of mortal life returned to him. The hidden vale from which the stream flowed west to add its significance to the Silivros River was that which he called home. He had been meditating and had gotten the impression that the water was whispering at him. A great drowsiness had taken him, and he had thus fallen into unconscious darkness. The WATER! Ulmo's communication often came from the water. The dream...nay the vision had come to him then. It was a communication, and a very pointed one, from the West itself.
He tried to clear the cobwebs from his mind. Standing, he regarded the stream, and the rock, which were now so familiar to him. There was a chill wind from the West. It smelled of rain. The heavens would open up in a deluge soon. It would be best for him to be inside before it broke. The storms of the Hithrig mountains he called home were sudden and fierce. He gazed about him, his dark eyes taking in the dense bamboo forest which carpeted the valley floor, as it began waving in the rising wind. The sun, now hazy in the clouds that were fast approaching was westering now, turning the great mountain top into an emerald haze as its rays were reflected from the tops of the bamboo stalks. It was a beautiful sight. The storm clouds were visible as a fast approaching black wall. He had to be moving on. Turning, he headed further into the vale in which he had wasted away over 2000 years.
He moved with the lightness and grace of a hale warrior who had been trained in the art of war by those who knew it best. He wore a loose flowing robe of deepest night blue. Around his waste was a black sash with a row of silver rings in the center from which hung several pouches and small bags. His belt held two of three swords he carried. The third was on his back. He had carried all three with him when he came to Middle Earth. They were all similar in appearance. Each was entirely black: sheath, handgrip, and blade. Forged from a rare form of black mithril found only in Valinor, the three swords each had runes inscribed with silver mithril which imbued them with magical properties. On his back was Gwathcrist, the Shadow-Cleaver. It's blade was three feet long; the handgrip was that of a two handed weapon, yet because of its marvelous lightness he could used it with one hand if need be. His two short swords, Nen, the Water, and Wilya, the Air, he used as a pair when the fighting got close. Not that he had been in any fighting recently. What a farce. He hadn't used them in two millenia.
One other visible weapon he bore. Many years ago, when he had passed through Lorien Galadriel had given him and ancient bow from the First Age of the Sun. It had been her brother Finrod's in the ancient days of Beleriand. Lithramar, or Ashwings it was called. It was an unusual bow with three strings running through pulleys in such a way that pulling the bow pulled all three, only two, or just one string as the bowman preferred. Its like was not found in Middle Earth. Only in the Elder Days were such things produced. It was made of an ash gray substance which was unidentifiable, even by Galadriel. She was steeped in all the oldest knowledge of the earth, but she had not been present when it was created. As far as she could determine, Finrod had been the only person who could identify it. Alatar was perfectly skilled in its use however. He had a quiver on his back which he filled with arrows. Gwathcrist in its sheath ws in turn sheathed in a slit in the quiver. The bow was strung across his back.
The wind was rising; he had even felt drops of water on his short haired head. He was different from his Western peers. His assumed appearance was that of an old but vigorous Easterling, though he was not as dark skinned as they. He did not wear a beard as the others did; a long mustache was braided and hanging down to his waist. His eyes were dark and almond shaped.
As he approached his home, he sensed something amiss. The bamboo forest was silent. This was what had caught his attention. There were always birds singing, furtive rustlings in the thickets. It was never silent. By this time night was rapidly taking the land; it was dusk. He was alarmed when he saw light near his home. The light was moving! To his horror he heard voices speaking the eastern tongue. They had discovered his long hidden home! After so many hundred's of years he was undone. He stood where he was, his mind moving mor swiftly then the lightning. Though he was tempted, he could not just leave. Of course not. What few belongings he had were exceedingly precious. He had long since gotten rid of anything he didn't actually need. He would have to get his things. His decision made, he silently climbed the heaviest bamboo stalk that was near him, his leather boots making very little noise.
Upon reaching the top, he stood on an offshoot that should not have been able to hold him, and unlimbered his bow. He stood there and watched the Easterlings. There were eight of them; six were coming and going from the cave, two stood guard. He built a suggestion in his mind, rolled it up in mist and misdirection and sent it to one of the guards. The guard went to relieve himself in the bushes leaving one guard. He pulled an arrow, nocked it, drew back and let fly as quick as thought. The shaft took the guard through the eye, and he fell silently, dead before he fell. The other man returned, but was unable to see the corpse. He called the other guard in the language of the East. He was hit in the center of his forehead. Though his fall too was silent, it ended in a pool of firelight. A third man was walking out of the cave. Seeing the body he let out a startled yelp. It was to be the last sound he ever made, but the damage was done. Three warriors emerged from the cave, weapons drawn. Two swordsmen and one archer. It was time for a change in tactics.
Alatar leapt from one thin shoot to another, the shoot barely depressing beneath him. It was raining in ernest now, the rain coming down thickly, obscuring his movements from view. He traveled around an imagined perimeter until he was opposite his original position. The three were attempting to form a defensive shield, with the two swords in front and the archer behind. It was futile however. Alatar was behind them. The wind had greatly increased now, and rain was falling in greater quantities with every passing minute. It was not arrow weather anymore. He dropped to the forest floor on the slope above his cave, and drew three throwing stars from their pouches. Two throws in quick succession, two warriors dropped. One swordsmen remains. Alatar leapt to the top of a stalk, and launched himself into the air from that elevated point. As he reached the zenith of his arc, he drew his sword. Gwathcrist would draw blood this night. The swordsmen never stood a chance. As the two halves of the corpse fell to the earth with sodden slaps, he gathered and jumped back to the top of the cave, knowing full well that two warriors remained in the cave. Belatedly, an arrow flew from the cave mouth, embedding itself in a stalk of bamboo. He waited.
Suddenely yelling and Eastern curses erupted from the cave followed by a shriek. Argumetns among the Easterners often ended violently. THe wind had lulled. Alatar nocked an arrow. A warrior came tearing from the cave, a bloody dirk in his hand. Alatar drew and fired, but the wind gusted causing the arrow to fly off its mark. It hit a dead stalk next to the man, causing it to explode into thousands of tiny bamboo shards. Alatar sprang down and chased after, knowing full well he wouldn't likely catch up with the fleeing man. The Easterling had a lead, and ran because his life depended upon it. The man dove into the opening of the hidden entrance to the vale just as Alatar came into view. There was no point in following after. In the darkness of the tunnel the man might be able to come at him unawares, and if sound of the struggle escaped, he could be sure that a horde of them would soon be upon him.
Reason indicated that the men were probably a foraging party for a larger force. He quickly moved back towards his cave, realizing now that his long home was no longer safe. Even if the message hadn't been enough to cause his departure, these warriors had discovered him, and one had escaped. They would be returning shortly. He would have to leave this night as the storm raged. It inhaled the warmth from the air, releasing it in frigid blasts. The rain was coming in waves: an army assaulting a fortress.
He looked at what the Easterners had removed from his cave. It consisted mainly of food. Ironically, their efforts made his escape easier. He grabbed one of the packs of food they had finished off. Moving across the clearing, he removed his arrows and throwing stars from the bodies and stalks of bamboo. The three star he cleaned off and replaced in their pouch. Then he went towards the cave which held his most important possession. This was his staff, Telpethond. Here was the reason he needed to find his partner Pallando. For Pallando carried Laurethond, the mate of Telpethond. The two staffs were a pair; a lesser work of the great Feanor. They had been formed from the roots of the Great Trees in old Valinor, Telperion, and Laurelin. Like the two trees they were most powerful when they were together. Each was excellently formed, each the same save for their colors. Both were topped with magnificent crystals, grasped in eagle talons, white and amber respectively Each staff had been wound with a long strip of mithril. Feanor through his great art had somehow changed the color of the metal to gold for Laurethond. Telpethond had white wood, Laurethond had a warm tawny color. He went to his spelled and locked chest , removing the guarding spells . Alatar opened the chest, and looked at al the precious items that were in it. The chest itself was magical, and held more in its dimiuitive walls than any would guess. It held loaves of Lembas he had kept like treasure all his many years. The chest also contained a crystal which would act as a ship for his mind, allowing him to see far away places, traveling over Middle Earth like a will-o-the wisp, special herbs saved in potions and other such things, and a book of all the plants of Yavanna's creation, and their properties. It had been a gift from a Maiar of Yavanna's house who was his friend. He closed the chest and enacted the spell which ws in the nature of the object. A blue light ran like water over the chest and contracted until it was a fist sized box. The light diminished and faded leaving a small cube behind, which Alatar picked up and placed in his pack. He swung the pack over his shoulders, and and walked out of his cave without looking back. Outside, the storm was in full swing. Lightning crackled across the sky leaving the smell of ozone in the air. His sharp ears picked up the sound of talking farther down the Valley. At last, they came for him.
He lept to the top of a bamboo shoot and paused there to observe the approach of the enemy. There were at least 50 of them, advancing in a square overlapping their shields for protection. It was likely that they had archers protected in the middle. They wore matching gold armor, chased with crimson. Their equiptment was obviously mass produced in some vast war forge that fed armies; the armor of an organized host. He reached over his shoulder and pulled his staff from its harness. Its warmth traveled into his hands. He whispered his call to the wind. "Naur an e draith ammen!" The lightning leapt from the the sky to his cave, striking three times and incinerating all that remained in his ancient home. He leapt to a stalk high on the slope, and continued in this manner, virtually flying to the heights surrounding the valley. He had planned an escape many years before, and as part of his plan, he had buried barrels of a highly explosive substance in the ground around his home. He again called the lightning, which struck one to the barrels, igniting all the others in a chain of flaming incineration. Turning, leaving fire and death behind him he traveled down the opposing side of the mountain, until at last he reached the floor on the other side of the mountain.
The bamboo forest was much the same here as in the vale. He stood in thought deciding what to do next. The rain had been slowing down for some time as he traveled over the mountain, and now was a dull drizzle. He turned and headed north along the base of the mountains. From the message, he knew Pallando to be to the North, and so he headed silently into the night.
So ends Chapter two in the Wars of Seregon. The story continues in "Dark Conclave" where we witness a dark meeting of powers in the Heart of Evil.
Read on in Chapter III. "Dark Conclave: The gathering storm
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