Disclaimer: See the first chapter.
It took him three years to track the wizard down. Three years of dealing with the Easterlings, at first scattered and afraid of retribution from the West, and then later on and further East, suspicious and quick to doubt him and his words.
He supposed that was fair enough. They lived a hard life in a hard land; here, as it was in Mordor, there was no place for weaklings. He'd shown them respect he did not feel in his heart; and they believed it. And he followed whispers, rumours, ever further East, until word came.
This tribe was fatter, far better off than its neighbours, but no more intelligent, and entrance was easily gained. Too soon it was his blade at the knife of the guard's throat. Too soon. Too easy, and that was a worry, a thought prickling at the back of his mind, for nothing was ever this easy.
"Take me to Pallando," he said, in the speech of his captive, but the man shook his head, frightened beyond words.
"Pallando," he repeated, then realised he might be known by another name. He tried to think of the words to explain to this ingrate. "The Wise One. The Blue…" The blade in his hand twitched, feeling his anger – yes, his knife was as thirsty for blood as he was, but this was more important. This was vital.
"Pallando?" The word was drawled, each syllable stretched out over the tongue as if it was a fresh piece of meat to be savoured, before being devoured. "That, my friend, is a name I have not heard for a long time. It is a name to conjure with, if you will pardon the expression."
Morglin gaped, dropping the guard to the ground. Not since – not since a thin young man bearing an angry scar and a sorrowed heart had walked into Mordor, alone, unfrightened, and said, "Take me. Teach me," – not since then, not since Sauron had anyone had this effect on him.
Not since Sauron had anyone been able to pierce him with a gaze, sift through each fibre of his being as if testing for weakness, usefulness, prying into the darkest corners of his soul with the ease and carelessness with which a child squashes ants.
Pallando smiled, his eyes ice-blue and ice-cold, and in his pocket Morglin felt the Key hum in recognition.
"Come, Morglin," he said, turning away without looking to see if his words would be obeyed. "We have business to discuss."
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There was not much to do in Imladris these days. The Orcs were all but gone from this corner of the world, pushed back into hiding in the far reaches of the mountains where few travelled. Anything that needed doing, Celeborn could be assured that his grandsons would be more than capable of handling it.
Which left him to enjoy a little time to himself, working through the most excellent cellars of wine Elrond had left behind, and carefully transcribing copies of some of the old legends, as gifts to Arwen and Estel, and to Faramir of Ithilien, who had taken one look at the libraries of Rivendell and, it seemed, nearly died of jealousy.
Dipping his quill into a pot of green ink, he carefully inscribed a border of mallorn leaves around the edge of the copy of the Lay of Leithian he was working on; this was for Arwen and Estel, which went without saying. In an act of pure whimsy, he drew two swallows, chasing each other around the page, which was then laid to dry beside its fellows.
Just then, a breeze blew through the room. It disturbed the drying pages only a little, luckily, but the tapestries shivered and Celeborn did so as well, wondering when the autumn had turned so cold. A loud thump behind him made him jump; but when he turned around, it seemed all it had been was a book falling from a pile stacked overly-high.
Frowning, he headed over to pick it up. He recognised it as the story of the Ruin of Doriath; not something he chose to dwell on often, certainly. Even as he reached down towards it, the wind started up again, colder than before. Voices wafted on the breeze, songs sang of a forgotten past.
As if in a trance, he took it into his hands. The pages turned of their own accord; Celeborn of Doriath looked down, and screamed in anguish.
A/N: Some Silm. references here. The Lay of Leithian is the story of Lúthien and Beren, and Doriath was the home of Lúthien and also of Celeborn in his youth, but was destroyed at the end of the first age with a large chunk of the west of Middle-earth.
Pallando, like the other Wizards, was the same kind of being as Sauron – a Maia. It is not unsurprising, therefore, that he has a similar effect on poor Morglin. The next chapter will be longer – promise!