Title: The Road We Came By
Written for: Wil for Yuletide 2009
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Summary: The Blue Wizards left the West long ago and never returned.
***
"It will be enough this time," Alatar says.
Pallando nods without speaking. He has already offered every conceivable argument against their present course of action. Sometimes he feels that he has done nothing in the hundreds of years since they came to this Middle Earth except argue, protest, plead, reason and debate, only to concede, yield, give way. He remembers when he was considered eloquent with a sense of irony he could only have learned here, far from the light of Valinor. Once removed from that light, his words proved to be of little use.
Still, he cannot claim with any truth that he regrets.
"Thank you," Alatar says, laying both hands on Pallando's shoulders. "Thank you, my friend. I know your feelings about what we do. We have spoken on it too many times and too harshly for me to add anything now. Let me only say that your friendship is the deepest joy in my life, and the debts I owe you are beyond my power to repay, even if I were as great as Manwe."
"Alatar," he says. He grasps for the fair speech that once won him so much praise. "You owe me nothing. Without our friendship, I would be nothing. I have always done what I believed to be right, never more or less. This is no exception. So let us complete the task we have set for ourselves."
Alatar's fingers tighten on his shoulders and he covers them with his own hands, gripping firmly. So it begins: the power in them awakens and moves. To an observer, they would appear simply as two old men, blue robes flapping in the cold wind that moans across the steppes. There is no one to see; Alatar made certain that none of the people who live here would be close, for what they are attempting is dangerous even for themselves. The plains stretch out in all directions, empty as far as the eye can see, and they are the only figures taller than a clump of bristling brush. Still, Pallando knows that to the east, beyond the reach of the human eye, there are people waiting for them, to learn what will become of them.
The wind howls more strongly and the sound of it awakens cold fear in Pallando's bones. He is afraid, deeply afraid, for this task not only tests the limits of their power, it also falls far out of the boundaries of what they are permitted to do in Middle Earth. They were sent to guide, counsel, and protect, not to unleash magic so powerful it can reshape what Ilúvatar created. He would never have dared it on his own, not without Alatar pushing him. It has become clear to Pallando over the long years that Alatar cares more for the people of this Earth, Easterlings and Westerlings alike, than for Valinor and its commands. And though he does not share those feelings, he has neither the conviction nor the heart to condemn his friend for them.
Alatar begins to chant in the old tongues, speaking to the earth and the fire far down below it. Beneath their feet the ground shakes and shudders and heaves until they fall to their knees, still clinging to each other. The connection is too important to break, even for a second: they must be united, for the power of one Maia alone is not enough. Until this moment, Pallando has doubted whether the power of two will even be enough, but now he can feel the molten rock rushing up from the depths, coming at Alatar's call.
To the west, the earth erupts. It's too far away to see much except for the black cloud of smoke and dust, lit by fire throughout, that rises miles high into the air. But the noise reaches them: a low rumble, carried by both the ground and the air, that grows to become deafening, to the point of pain, deep into the realm of pain, until Pallando can feel himself screaming only by the soreness of his throat. Through it all, he knows that Alatar has not stopped chanting, calling forth the stone; death alone could conquer that resolve.
The innards of the earth rise up, up into the sky, a newborn mountain range stretching north and south to immeasurable lengths. The mountains are like the walls of Valinor, Pallando thinks in confusion, it is almost like being home. They soar to scrape the roof of the sky and their young shadows race across the plains towards where their creators are cowering. Walls too tall for Sauron or his allies to ever scale, walls too high for wizards to cross, walls so great when Pallando sees them towering that he wonders, in terror and sorrow, if even Ilúvatar can see over them. One thing is certain: the road they came by is now closed, and the only way back to Valinor is through death.
His last thought as darkness enfolds him is that death has found him already. And with it, home. So when he wakes in a tent, covered by warm blankets and attended by a serious woman with healer's hands, he is not immediately joyful. There is an emptiness in his heart, as if something essential has been lost. The woman treats him with fearful deference and addresses him with an honorific reserved for her people's gods. Her worshipful gaze sours his stomach with shame. They have done too much, he thinks, they have gone too far, even to protect the East from Sauron, this was too far.
Then he looks across the fire and sees Alatar, awake and haggard but with the fierce gleam of happiness in his eyes. And the hollowness in his chest fills with warmth. He would not tear down those mountains even if he could, he admits; for the guiding light of his life has always been Alatar's friendship, and he knows of nothing he would not sacrifice for it.