Gandalf sat with his back to a tree, smoking his pipe. The rest of the Company were asleep, exhausted from fighting their way through the rough lands and from the bitter cold that assaulted them. He was tired, too, the growing shadow weighing on his shoulders like a stone. He took the first watch, though, for he needed to think. But it was difficult, his mind racing too fast, trying to evaluate too many options at the same time and eventually going nowhere.
As was his habit in times of distress, the Wizard sought in his mind for the best comfort he could find in these dark lands across the Sea. Slowly, memories of light and color began filling his mind, of movement and sounds sweet as silver bells. Amid the ripples of lost beauty one figure coalesced and stood radiant, like an anchor in this strange whirlpool of time and space. Splendid and majestic his Lord was, immense power coupled with a kindness so deep it filled the heart with solemn joy. The Wizard sighed through the smoke and tightened his grey cloak about himself.
He remembered Taniquetil, lit by a light far greater than that of the Sun, and the clear singing of the Vanyar which always filled the Elder King's halls. He remembered flying up those great steps, disembodied as was his custom, drawn by a call he could not resist. How lovely were the ages he spent at his feet! Huddled around the throne with the rest of the Maiar, learning from the Vala's wisdom and telling him about the discoveries he made on his journeys – that time seemed wrapped in a haze of happiness and belonging. But at last he remembered his shock and dismay as he learned of his mission. He pleaded with his Lord then, but the Vala would not budge.
"I am sorry, Olórin," he said, profound sadness in his velvet-soft voice. "I could entrust this task only to you."
"But I'm afraid of him, always was: he is much more powerful than I am." He thought back to his Lord's host as it marched to war: ranks of winged Maiar, tall and proud in their shining armor. He was just a small spirit, better for shrewd speech and solving puzzles than for bearing arms. "What could I possibly do to fight him? Were I perhaps strong, like Eonwë…"
"You might not be strong, but you are wise, little Maia. Your thinking is different than that of most: you see things others cannot even perceive. Perhaps you will succeed where mighty heroes failed of old." A hand cupped his cheek gently, lifting his face to gaze deep into the Vala's pale blue eyes.
"Go with my blessing, Olórin. My thought will be with you in every step of the way."
The memory of the bliss of that contact, so far from its source, was painful. Maiar that were left alone for too long, with no Vala to draw strength from, pined away. Each responded in a different way: some hibernated, like the Balrogs did when Morgoth was captured, only awakening when they heard his cry. Twisted monstrosities they were, corrupt from the start, but still beings of his own sort. This notion troubled him, nagging at the worries filling his mind like picking at a wound. Why was he thinking of Balrogs, all of a sudden? They were all long gone. His Lord saw to that. Frowning, Gandalf wiped his mind clean of their filth, thinking instead of his friends.
There was not much comfort there, too. Of all the members of his Order, Pallando and Alatar were faring worst. Lord Oromë did not ride through these woods anymore, and without him they were led astray and lost. Radagast held on, maintaining close contact with the earth and his Lady's creations. But he, too, was failing in his soft, kindly way. Gandalf himself was probably the luckiest of them: the Eagles knew him for who he was and loved him, and up here in the high passages of the world he could feel his Lord's breath all around him, cleansing and invigorating. By no means was his soul's hunger sated, but at least its edge was dulled.
But Sauron was better off than all of them – there was too much of his accursed Master left in the very fabric of Arda. He could latch onto it like a maggot, spreading the disease further and further while gluttoning himself on power. And Saruman…
Well, it would appear that Saruman has found himself a surrogate.
But he was strong at first, was he not. Wincing slightly, Gandalf recalled that terrible moment when the mirror-still waters of the world he knew broke and bent under the prow of their ship. In a sudden panic he felt the blinding light in his soul where his master's presence was fade into a soft murmur of a contact, into a memory. The breaking of the world severed them from the West. They were on their own now.
The others felt it too: Pallando cried out loud and Aiwendil bent over the rail, retching. Olórin's hands tightened in a spasm onto the rail. Glancing at Curumo, he saw that he, too, was pale, but he held himself upright stiffly and stared onwards into the East, admirable in his resolve. Alas, he should have known.
Again, those black thoughts that won't leave him! He turned defiantly away from their snare and squared his shoulders. He was not an exile, not an outcast from all that was holy and pure. He was on a mission, and by all means available to him, he will perform it. He looked at Frodo, curled up in his blanket with his face shadowed, and the yearning in his heart turned to pity. One way or another, it will all end soon.
He blew another smoke ring, and then his eyes widened in delight: a gust of soft wind had turned it into an eagle.