The Other Child: The Ithryn Luin
*Please note: I quote a few of Tolkien's words here, from Return of the King - The Scouring of the Shire
The wizard Alatar finished packing the last of his meager belongings. He went to the entrance of his cavern and leaned upon his staff, looking out over the Sea of Rhûn. His features were stern and weathered; his beard, once black, was now shot with silver. His eyes were a deep blue, as were his robes. From his mountain aerie he could discern the clusters of villages scattered throughout the foothills bordering the Sea. He looked to the West, towards the setting sun. It was high time he was on his way.
He'd spent many years amongst the people collectively known as the Easterlings. Thanks to his efforts many of them had not fought in the battles that so often bloodied the plains of Middle Earth. He had been able to convince some tribes not to participate in the War of the Ring, promising clemency and open trade routes with the King that was to come to his throne in Gondor. Those to the southeast were unmovable; their proximity to Mordor had long ago swayed their allegiance. Those who dwelt in the Far East were far more malleable; he had been able to stay them from joining with the Dark One. He would have had much greater success if his colleague in Khand to the South had not himself allied with Sauron; it was one of his most bitter memories. He and Pallando had been the Ithryn Luin - the Blue Wizards - comrades and partners, but only for a time. Now he would travel the Western path alone, in search of his comrades. Among them only Radagast the Brown and Gandalf the Grey had avoided the lust for power that Sauron inspired. Meneldor the Eagle had kept Alatar apprised of news from the other quarters of Middle Earth. Thus had he learned of Saruman's betrayal and of Pallando's long before. Both had failed in their missions as Istari. Even worse, they had taken the part of the Dark Lord of Mordor. There would be no passage to the Utmost West for either of them.
Alatar sighed as he leant upon his staff, wrapped in memories of his many years in the East. Dagorlad, the Battle Plain, had been the gateway into Gondor for many armies of Easterlings to attack Ithilien. Most of these battles were Sauron-inspired; only the Battle of Balchoth had involved the migration of entire peoples due to pressure from a warlike nation further east. The Balchoth tribe had lived in Rhovanion to the east of Mirkwood and raided the Vales of Anduin to the south of the Gladden Fields. They crossed the Anduin and were aided by Orcs of the Misty Mountains in raiding Calenardhon. In the Battle of the Field of Celebrant they were annihilated by Cirion of Gondor and the Éothéod. Senseless bloodshed, Alatar thought, shaking his head sadly.
Then there was the infamous Battle of Unnumbered Tears when, in the fight against Morgoth the men of the East, led by Ulfang the Black and his sons Ulfast, Ulworth and Uldor committed treachery against their Elven allies, turning upon them in midst of battle and slaying them from behind. Only the faithful house of Bór with his sons Borlad, Borlach and Borthand fought nobly to their deaths of behalf of the Elves in that age.
Another threat from the east involved the Wainriders who traveled in large wagons whilst their chieftains fought in chariots. This Eastern confederacy first ventured west of the Sea of Rhûn in 1851, when, stirred by Sauron they attacked Gondor, taking Rhovanion and killing King Narmacil II. In 1899 the enslaved Northmen revolted and Gondor, under King Calimehtan, took advantage of this to defeat the Wainriders in yet another battle on Dagorlad. Fifty years later the Wainriders reattacked in a two-prong assault on Gondor from the east and the south in 1944; in this they were aided by the men of Khand and Near Harad under the instruction of Pallando. King Ondoher and his two sons were killed in this attack, but Ëarnil and his troops defeated them in north Ithilien in the Battle of the Camp, taking them unawares whilst they celebrated their assumed victory.
In general Alatar found the Easterlings irritable by nature and greedy for the riches of Gondor, yet they could be men of sense if they heeded his counsel. They lived primarily in tribes, under the leadership of their elders and chieftains. If these individuals were men of honor and reason Alatar was fortunate in his dealings with them. He had worked with the tribes of Bór to strengthen the resolve of the Easterlings to resist the Dark Lord and his minions; it had been difficult work indeed, but had resulted in the occasional treaty and their abstaining from battle at the very least.
In his other task he had known only failure. Each of the Istari had been charged with discovering the location of the Entwives; it was said of old that Yavanna would restore war-ravaged Middle Earth when the reunion of Ent and Entwife, her oldest creations, had been achieved. Despite his efforts, no news of them could Alatar gather after their days of habitation in the Brown Lands. When their gardens were destroyed during the war between Sauron and the Last Alliance they had disappeared with them. Radagast felt they had moved to the east and bade Alatar be on constant vigil for them, but he had not found any Entwives no matter where he searched.
He sighed and retrieved his sack as he saw Meneldor spiraling above his mountain. Soon the bird landed then bore him away, towards the West and the house of Iarwain Ben-adar. Alatar's long efforts in the East were, at last, finished. The King and his advisors must now maintain their own treaties and their peace with the Easterlings.
While Alatar soared with Meneldor high above the treetops of Middle Earth another Istari pondered his fate many leagues to the south. In a mountain cave in the easternmost range of the Ephel Dúath, the wizard Pallando sat hunched over a large iron cauldron, his blue robes in tatters. He despondently watched the magical waters, trying to determine his next actions. He had learned to discern the waters at the very knee of Sauron himself; it was their chief means of communication. Now the waters of Barad-Dûr were still. The Dark Lord had been dethroned and broken sent into the Void to follow his master Morgoth, leaving his faithful servants lost and hopeless. Pallando was one such servant.
Pallando remembered better days when he was useful to his master. The Variags of Khand and the tribes of Near Harad followed his counsel and allied themselves of old with Mordor. The Haradrim of Haradwaith and Far Harad had also cast their lots with the dark throne. Pallando's efforts had been greatly appreciated by Sauron and the wizard had enjoyed the favor of his master for many years. He fingered the medallion upon his breast. It had been a gift from Sauron, augmenting his own powers with those of his master to make his voice smooth so that his influence would win the hearts of all who would listen. In these bitter days the medallion lay useless; it could not combine two powers when one had gone into the Void.
Now, crouching like a besieged animal in his mountain stronghold, Pallando knew desolation. He had few options. He might return to the Utmost West, if there was a ship that would bear him, and petition the Valar for mercy. He did not hold forth much hope on this course. His actions had long opposed the wishes of the Valar when they sent him forth with the other Istari. The testimony of Alatar alone would condemn him and he would be thrown into the Void with Morgoth and Sauron forever.
Yet what else was he to do? He could stir up the ever-present enmity of the Haradrim, encouraging them to join forces with the Easterlings in their age-old dispute with Gondor, but to what avail? His medallion was dead and even in his most grandiose moments, Pallando knew that he was no master of men. He'd always needed the leadership of someone else, someone stronger, to give him his marching orders. But where would he find such a one in these sad times?
While Pallando mourned his fate, Frodo and his companions arrived at Bag End, horrified and dismayed by the ruin of Hobbiton. The chestnuts were gone, the banks and hedgerows broken. Bagshot Row was a gaping gravel quarry and the Party Tree was cut down; it lay where it had fallen, lifeless. This brought Sam to angry tears. Merry raised the silver horn of Rohan; its clear blast rang over the Hill and brought to them friends - hobbits who were well ready to fight at last.
Bag End was heaped with refuse, its door scarred and broken.
"This is worse than Mordor," cried Sam. "Much worse, in a way - because it is home and you remember it before it was ruined!"*
"Yes, this is Mordor, Sam," said Frodo sadly. "Just one of its works. Saruman was doing its work all the time, even when he thought he was working for himself."*
They heard cruel laughter and Saruman himself appeared at the door. "So, I am able to welcome you home," he sneered. He looked well fed and well pleased, his eyes gleaming with malice and amusement. "Evidently you did not expect to see me here."*
"I did not," said Frodo. "But I might have guessed - a little mischief in a mean way; Gandalf warned us that you were quite capable of it."*
"Quite capable! You made me laugh, you hobbit-lordlings, riding along with all those great people, so secure and so pleased with your little selves. You thought you had done very well out of it all and could now just amble back to your nice little country. Saruman's home could be wrecked and he could be turned out, but no one could touch yours. Oh no! Gandalf would look after your affairs!" Saruman laughed again. "Not he! When his tools have done their task he drops them. Well, thought I, if they're such fools, I will get ahead of them and teach them a lesson. One ill turn deserves another. I have done much that you will find it hard to mend or undo in your lives. And it will be pleasant to think of that and set it against my injuries."*
Frodo sighed. "If that is what you find pleasure in, I pity you. It will be pleasure in memory only, I fear. Go at once and never return!"*
The hobbits that had assembled murmured angrily. "Don't let him go! Kill him - he's a villain and a murderer!"*
Saruman looked around at their hostile faces and smiled. "Kill him!" he mocked. "Kill him, if you think there are enough of you!" He drew himself up and stared at them darkly with his black eyes. "Do not think that when I lost all my goods I lost all my power! Whoever strikes me shall be accursed and if my blood stains the Shire it shall wither and never again be healed."*
The hobbits recoiled. But Frodo said, "Do not believe him! He has lost all power save his voice that can still deceive you, if you let it. But I will not have him slain. It is useless to meet revenge with revenge - it heals nothing. Go, Saruman, by the speediest way!"*
"Worm, Worm!" called Saruman; and out of a nearby hut came Wormtongue, crawling and cringing. "To the road again, Worm! These fine fellows are turning us out - come along!"*
Saruman turned to go and Wormtongue shuffled after him. But as Saruman passed close to Frodo a knife flashed in his hand and he stabbed swiftly. The blade turned on Frodo's hidden mail coat and snapped. A dozen hobbits, led by Sam, leaped forward and flung the villain to the ground. Sam drew his sword.*
"No, Sam!" said Frodo. "Do not kill him, even now. I will not have him slain in this evil mood - he was great once, of a noble kind that we should not dare to raise our hand against. He is fallen, and his cure is beyond us; but I would still spare him in the hope that he may find it."*
Saruman rose to his feet and stared at Frodo with a strange look in his eyes of mingled wonder and respect and hatred. "You have grown, Halfling. Yes, you have grown very much - you are wise and cruel. You have robbed my revenge of sweetness and now I must go hence in bitterness, in debt of your mercy. I hate it and you, and all of Middle Earth! I shall yet have my revenge - you shall see."
He walked away and the hobbits let him pass, albeit white-knuckling their weapons. Wormtongue hesitated.
"You need not follow him," said Frodo. "You can have rest and food here, until you are stronger and can go your own ways."*
Wormtongue looked back as if prepared to stay. Saruman laughed. "It was Worm here who killed your little Lotho. Worm is not very nice - you had better leave him to me."*
A look of wild hatred came into Wormtongue's red eyes. "You made me do it," he hissed.*
Saruman laughed. "You do what I say, don't you, Worm? Well, now I say follow!" he commanded, kicking Wormtongue as he turned and made off.*
At that moment something snapped in Wormtongue and he rose up, drawing a hidden knife, and snarling he sprang on Saruman, jerked his head back, cut his throat and ran off down the lane. Before Frodo could recover three hobbit-bows sang and Wormtongue fell dead.*
To the dismay of those that stood by, about the body of Saruman a grey mist gathered and, rising slowly to a great height like smoke from a fire, as a pale shrouded figure it loomed over the Hill. For a moment it wavered, looking into the West; but out of the West came a cold wind and it bent away and with a sigh blew into the East.*
Far to the East, Pallando stood at the mouth of his cavern, looking over the Sea of Nurnen in despair. Suddenly he saw a dark cloud of grey, moving swiftly from the West. Soon it enveloped him and, as it overtook him his medallion burned like fire at his breast and he heard the soft voice of Saruman; he rejoiced that his salvation was upon him.
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