"Fly, you fools!"
And he was gone.
Down, down to Goblin-town below, my lads!
But this was to be much further, much deeper than any dark holes where the goblins hid. This was the chasm spanned by Durin's Bridge, and not even the dwarves who had long ago carved Moria from the earth knew how far down it went. The Balrog was far below him, his flames fanned into a dazzling fireball as he plummeted.
The walls raced past dizzyingly, endless gulf beyond gulf. Now and then a blind passage would loom, and be instantly gone as the Wizard hurtled past. Once he saw a large plateau, ringed with sputtering torches and crowded with jostling orcs along the edge, wailing in terror that the Balrog had just fallen to his Doom.
But even in the stretched instant in time that Gandalf could see the orcs far below the main levels of Moria, as night was falling outside and the rest of the Fellowship were racing for the Silverlode, he knew that time had changed somehow.
He could see the chains on the walls behind the orcs, and the clubs in their hands; he could hear the tales of horror taught to their young, he could feel the despair of their lives. They were the orcs of Moria, and the only Lord they had ever known was now fallen- the Power of their dark dreams was destroyed. Still on and down he plunged.
And then the world stopped.
An immense cavern, old as Middle-Earth itself maybe, and far below was water which had collected since the first stars had been seen in the skies outside. No shafts penetrated to these depths; no chance ray of the sun could find its way to the very heart of the world beneath Khazad-dum. But other lights there were: strange, luminous growths covered the walls and produced a twilit darkness of twisted shadows.
Far below Gandalf saw the Balrog strike the surface of the water with a tremendous splash and the fireball went out abruptly. A pall of steam rose from the water with a great hiss. His grip tightened on Glamdring, which still glittered ghostly white, for he knew that though his dark fire was quenched, the Balrog still lived. Such a thing could not be destroyed by a simple fall: far off were its beginnings, in the lands beyond the seas, and mighty it had been in its making. It was not of Middle-Earth, and as such was invulnerable to the tests of time and happenstance which could befall any of its natural inhabitants.
Gandalf remembered the days of the downfall of Thangorodrim, and the chaining of Morgoth. The Hosts of the Valar had thrown down the walls and laid bare the eyeless dungeons, but in so doing, the lands of Middle-Earth had been broken. He had been sent by Nienna to care for the sick and the wounded, to offer hope in despair. Eonwe, the Herald of Manwe had come to him for counsel.
"We have ended the Realm of Morgoth. Tulkas himself has laid the bonds on his limbs. But is our task ended? Many of Morgoth's lesser servants were scattered upon Middle-Earth before we came, and of his greater servants we have not yet accounted for all. I would not have them escape, but for their capture I would not see the destruction of all this Middle-Earth."
Olorin (as Gandalf then was called) looked around at the ruined lands: great smoking fissures scored the earth, and with the sight of far-vision that was given to him he saw far off the devastation in other lands. Kingdoms had been set ablaze under a great rain of fire from the sky, cast up when the Towers of Thangorodrim had fallen. Crops had burned. Many a field lie now burned and barren, and many an innocent child would now die of starvation. Lifetimes of men would pass before Middle-Earth again would be green, and the creatures who dwelt here could again breathe clean air. He knew that far beneath the wreck of Thangorodrim there must be passages delved, far beyond light, where evil things had fled.
But to pursue them would rend the very earth, beyond all knowledge and foretelling.
"We must weigh here the lesser of evil. We know that the Power of Morgoth is broken forever, yet evil has not been completely ended. Sauron himself has escaped your wrath, O Eonwe. Yet my cares are with those who still dwell here: we have not been appointed to end all that is here. My heart tells me that our task, for the present, is accomplished- but that I myself shall perhaps rue the evil choice we now face."
Eonwe had ceded to his wisdom long ago, and the Hosts of the Valar had left Middle-Earth.
As he plunged into the water, he knew that he now faced the test: a challenge to the wisdom of counsel given long ago.