Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is not mine, I'm just hopping into the sandbox for a little while.
One of the most commonly-held beliefs about death, especially by those who are about to die violently, is that time slows down and one can see their whole life stretched before them as if on a film reel. Every decision, every word and thought and deed, stretched out to be cross-examined by both the one about to die and whatever Spirit makes the initial judgment of where the soul will end up going. Every triumph, every sorrowful event and celebration...every regret.
And for the two Wizards who fought desperately to stay within the realm of the living, there were so many regrets. So many centuries, filled with laughter and joy before sliding to weariness and sorrow with just the barest tint of despair. Grief for those who were lost, both without and within; let it never be said that one may journey anywhere without losing - changing - part of themselves in the process.
They met on the white sands, as they so often did, listening to the sounds of the waves. It was a calming little tradition, a place where the pair could meet and talk about...everything, really. With the Halls of Nienna in the distant view, it was somehow easier to reveal their innermost hearts to each other. They were as close as brothers, despite not actually being blood-kin, and there were no secrets between them. There was even a running joke between many of their fellow Maiar that the pair shared a mind, as they often completed each other's sentences and actions without seeming to realize it.
"I am to journey to Middle-Earth," said Alatar musingly, considering the distant horizon as Pallando listened attentively, "by the will of Lord Oromë. To aid the peoples there as best I can, through encouragement and enlightened persuasion to do good things rather than heed the Darkness. To aid in the fight against the Darkness, and our fallen kin. It will be a long journey, and I do not know when I would be able to return." He paused then, turning his head to side-eye his companion with an all-too-familiar expression that caused a shiver to run down Pallando's spine.
"I would like you to come with me."
Narrowing his eyes against the flashbangs of the enemy, Alatar lifted his staff and barked a swift string of syllables. The ground shivered before liquifying into pools of quicksand, swallowing the incoming wave of cultists eager to spill their blood. Their battle cries quickly faded to silence as he turned to check on his companion, who was busily fashioning a makeshift tourniquet out of a ragged strip of his cloak. Pallando's face was pale, teeth gritted as he struggled to wrap the bloody cloth tightly enough around the ragged stump of his forearm. Powerful beyond mortal compare the Wizards were, but even they were not immune to death by exsanguination.
Alatar swore quietly under his breath, casting a quick glance around them for danger before hurrying to his best friend's side to take over. This was not the first ambush the pair had encountered, but it was certainly far more organized, equipped and a hell of a lot more zealous than the previous encounters had been. Once, the pair had been clad in stunning azure cloaks; now, the beautifully-crafted cloth hung about them in bloody, scorched tatters.
"This is bad," Pallando said grimly, proffering his wounded arm as he took over watching their surroundings. The fingers of his still-intact hand curled into a fist, old and withered perhaps but still strong. "And we're getting sloppy. This," he twitched his mangled arm and winced as the tourniquet tightened in response, "should never have happened. We should have seen them coming, their tactics aren't exactly subtle..."
"But now they are," replied Alatar with a frustrated sigh as he finished tying off the tourniquet. "There is a heaviness in the air, can't you feel it? Some kind of...miasma, nothing that can be seen but only felt. It's clouding our minds, slowing our reactions. And foolish though these misguided mortals be, there's something different about them. Yet...there's also something familiar, as well." He shook his head slowly, pushed grey out of his eyes and took a slow breath. "It's almost as if they don't care about their own lives, or even about stopping us. It seems like they're trying to..."
"...Stall us..." Pallando finished with narrowed eyes, pushing himself up to his feet shakily and leaning heavily on his own staff. "Whatever it's for, it can't be good. This has been the fifth ambush just today, and we've been running on how many days now of this? We need to get out of here, figure something out or we may have to just abandon this area completely. The Dark may be too entrenched here for us to be able to do anything about it by ourselves. I know you hate the thought of it, but it's true, and no sense in us throwing our lives away when we could be completing our work elsewhere. Let the covens we taught deal with their own kind." Alatar looked at him with no small dismay, but Pallando merely stared back at him unflinchingly. A voice of reason, Alatar had called him so long ago, where reason is not particularly desirable.
"Why me?"
Alatar didn't answer for a time, merely tracing idle patterns in the sand at their feet. "You balance me," he finally replied, "with your logic and critical thinking. I know I can be...impulsive." Pallando merely rolled his eyes at that statement of obvious fact, waving a hand for him to continue. "At least I recognize it, eh? You never hesitate to tell me when you think something is going too far, or hasn't been considered all the way, or is outright a foolish idea. I...could use your blunt honesty."
A raised brow, an expectant face. Pallando knew his friend far too well to buy that as the only reasonings.
A sigh, then a soft chuckle. "No getting out of it, I guess? Then let me be plain - I would miss you, my friend, and would much rather journey forth with you by my side rather than alone."
Pallando considered this for a time, studying his oldest friend carefully. There was never any doubt that Alatar had a good heart, but he also had a troublesome tendency to not always give all the information about anything. It was never out of malice, but a simple excitement. Eagerness, almost childishly pure, to do and live and enjoy life to the fullest. It was an endearing trait - most of the time - but it often got them into quite a bit of trouble that could have very easily been avoided. Weighing the pros and cons, Pallando closed his eyes and sighed, then slowly nodded. "There are conditions, I suppose? Restrictions by which we must abide?"
"Of course...you will go with me, then? You make my heart most glad, my friend." Embracing his companion, Alatar smiled happily. Wide, untainted and truly joyful. "We will take on the form of Wise Elders, for the mortals tend to heed most the advice of those who have clearly lived long enough to know what they're talking about. Who've experienced enough to be able to give true and sound advice to the younger generations. We will go to the Easternmost lands, and work back from there." He paused, taking in Pallando's thoughtful expression and pre-empted the next question. "Curumo, Olórin and Aiwendil were also tasked to go, though they will be going to different areas within their own talents. It will definitely be a journey for the ages."
Hissing through gritted teeth, Alatar clenched his fingers upon his staff and looked away. He knew the truth as well, it was plain to see, but he so hated to leave a task unfinished once begun, necessity or no. It simply galled him, that they could be turned aside without much apparent effort, they who were the Blue Wizards. But there was no sense in arguing with Pallando, especially when he got that particularly stubborn expression on his distressingly pale face. Perhaps retreat was indeed in order, if only a temporary measure to see to their wounds before returning to the fray. But alas, it was not meant to be.
"Well, well, well...look what we have here. Two lost lambs, stumbling through the dark."
The pair stiffened and looked about, both inwardly cursing this new voice. It was soft and sultry, feminine and inviting and damning all at once. A woman, dressed in flowing robes emblazoned with an eye, stepped out from a half-burned copse of trees to assess them, immediately followed by an escort of six men armed with bow and sword. Dark of hair and eye, she smiled as she took in their ragged state. "You needn't suffer any longer, you know. There is rest, healing and food nearby, in our temple. Everything will be made aright, if you will but lay your burdens aside."
"If it please you, Lady," Pallando said stiffly, "we'll take our chances elsewhere. You bear the same sigil as the madmen who attacked us, and we'll have no part of it."
"Madmen?" The woman laughed gently, shaking her head. "You misunderstand, they were not mad. Merely enlightened and...well, perhaps they were a bit over-enthusiastic. But that is of no matter anymore, you will be safe within our walls. No one will raise a hand to you."
"A lie, and a poorly hidden one," Alatar said in turn. "We know your measure already, the 'kindness' you show to those who don't convert to your way of thought. There was another village nearby, maybe a day's ride back, slaughtered to the last man and each bearing the brand of that eye."
"Not the children," the woman countered with a hint of pride. "We do not slaughter children; the young should be preserved, to be guided along the true path in their own turn. There are other temples who would have slaughtered that village to the last babe in arms, but we are not so barbaric as that. Come, will you not see for yourself? See the Truth, or at the least, allow me as the High Priestess to speak to you of why we do what we do?"
Rather than answer Pallando reached out to grab Alatar's arm, shaking his head warningly. "We can't afford it," he said quietly, shifting his feet to try and keep from swaying visibly. "Not now. We leave, and hopefully we won't have to fight our way out of this. Plus now that we know where this place is..."
"...the other covens can band together to take care of it," finished Alatar with visible frustration. "Good thing we took the time to teach them the fundamentals, eh? Fine. Your way. Let's go." His fingers tightened on his staff again, wishing his aged body did not ache so. Wishing that he never asked Pallando to come with him...wished that he had never been asked to go in the first place.
"Leaving so soon? How unfortunate." The Priestess sighed, shaking her head in disappointment. "I had hoped we could speak on the matter, but the Teachings are clear now. And where the others failed, we will succeed!" Lifting her arms, scores of new cultists answered the signal by stepping from the shadows, the treeline, the hills themselves to surround the Wizards. At a note from their leader they took a collective breath, then began to sing a single, cohesive note.
It was Pallando who recognized it first, head cocked slightly in confusion before his body stiffened. This was indeed familiar, and painfully so. He squeezed Alatar's wrist, eyes wide with dismay. "Remember how you were wondering where they learned it all? Why it seemed so familiar? Listen...they must have split off from the groups we taught and perverted it to this!" Alatar stared at him uncomprehending, the mere thought of such a thing being utterly abhorrent to him until he too recognized the weaves of power tucked neatly behind the Song. His face paled and he swayed on his feet, shock almost buckling his knees were it not for Pallando struggling to hold him upright. Were either of them to fall here, there would be no getting back up again.
Weary though they were, the two Wizards heaved a sigh as they looked at each other, linked their arms and focused their own power. Matching the Dark power raised, through strength and determination. But they were wounded and weakened, and the cultists fresh and strong and in a place that already favoured their twisted magic. As the Dark Song began to shiver the air, it split into a chorus of painfully harmonic notes that ruffled the Wizards' tattered hems. The pair began to chant in unison, but the many were also of one mind, and singularly focused on their destruction even at the cost of their own lives. Their leader was no novice in magical works either, skillfully weaving her followers' lives and songs into one devastating ritual. Even the ground below them seemed to shiver and hum, the Faithful who had been slain by the Wizards lending their death-wishes to the rite to destroy these enemies of the Dark.
"From Darkness we are born," cried the Priestess as the power came to its height, ecstatic and so very determined despite the utter certainty of death, "and to the Darkness we return!" Her followers began to drop, each dying where they stood with a smile as their life essence was drawn out and the magic clashed with the desperate weavings of the Wizards, each fighting for dominance before detonating against each other in a massive explosion that cratered the land. Nothing remained of the cultists, nor of the Wizards; only glass, tainted and cooling, marked the place where they had all once stood. The air shimmered, heat-haze mingling with the distorted magic as the glass reflected images not consistent with the skies above them; a red sky, a blue sky, black and purple-bruised clouds against a starless night. A rift between worlds, where the Void itself began to seep through before it collapsed against itself.
Back in Valinor, in the Undying Lands where the Valar lived and took counsel amongst each other to best safeguard Arda against the Darkness, the days continued on untroubled. No sickness or Darkness touched those lands, and the Light shone through everything from the Elves who lived there to the very grass and stone beneath their feet. But one day, there came an anguished wail from within the Halls of Nienna, the Vala in question fleeing to the Halls of Her brother, Námo, for He as the Doomsman of the Valar knew nearly all that was and ever would be.
But the Halls of Awaiting were not the calm, peaceful place they normally were. The shades of the Dead were restless, troubled though they themselves did not quite understand why. Deep within the Halls lay the great looms upon which Vairë the Weaver clothed Her husband's domain with the history of the world. A number of Her handmaidens were gathered, watching in dismay as their mistress worked feverishly upon a new tapestry. Finally the last threads were tied and cut, the Weaver leaning back with a sigh before shaking Her head abruptly as if to clear Her thoughts. Gazing upon Her own work with the horror of a dreamer unsure if the nightmare that had ensnared them was truly over, Vairë the Weaver screamed.