Middle Earth, Western Rhûn; August, 2979th year of the third age

For many days and nights now Pallando had ridden with no end in sight. He couldn't afford to stop at any of the inns he passed on his way, there was too much of a chance he might be recognized by one of the patrons. He'd made a big enough name for himself around these parts, that any man worth his money could tell him from the brim of his wide hat. One of the many reasons the earth bound Maiar had chosen to ride without it, a loss perhaps, but a hood would hide him better.

There had been much loss as of late, he wished he would not dwell on it so, but on the long and dusty roads of this land, with no company save the horse that carried him – it was hard not to seek inwards for distraction. Harder still that the last conversation with Alatar refused to fade into the comforting darkness of a forgetful mind.

'You've become quite mad after all this time, haven't you my dear Pallando?' His fellow wizard seemed to hiss into his ear, no…that was madness, twas naught but the wind. It had started to pick up and had a biting chill to it, by rights he should probably look for shelter soon. Perhaps there was some sort of cave nearby.

'Hiding in a cave, like the sneak and liar you are, how fitting.' Alatar's voice was not floating on the wind's current, no it was…it was just his paranoia playing tricks with his senses. Yes, that must be it, well nice try but Pallando the Blue was much too wise to fall victim to that prank, at least at this stage of his journey. Cradling his precious cargo against his chest, Pallando urged his steed forward, squinting through the rain that had begun to fall heavily around him. If that wasn't proof of Alatar's corrupting influence on this poor land, then Pallando didn't know what was. He jerked his horse's rains sharply, a little too sharply it would seem; for when his beast shuddered to a stop the old wizard went hurtling over its head, landing face down in the mud beside the animal's feet. From beneath his cloak his prize tumbled forth and away from him, it's light creating a beacon in the storm for all those who might have lost their way, or alternatively, all those who might have long lost his trail.

Pallando scrabbled for the Silmaril, only serving to push it further into the mouth of the cave. The mud beneath him squelched between his fingers, propelling his hands forward. His face hit something sharp and he could feel the blood begin to well from his nose. Judging by that hard-cracking sound, he had well and truly broken the dratted thing this time. Oh, to think how the other Maiar would laugh so to see mighty Pallando the Blue now, drenched and broken over a blood-stained beard. Alatar would certainly have a good old chuckle, well maybe not now, but the true Alatar, the boy he had been when they left Valinor – would have a had a right old giggle. If time were not so dear for his task, Pallando would weep at what had become of that boy, but now was not the time for such lamentations of grief and woe.

The wizard's heart rate grew as he crept into the dark of the cave before him, he'd lost sight of the Silmaril and behind him he could hear the distant sound of a horse's gallop. However, whether that was his own steed making its escape or one of his hunters finally catching on to his trail, was uncertain. Pressing himself flat against the wall, the wizard felt his way along it; there was no need to continue to scrabble around blindly in the dirt, when he found the mighty gem again, he would not need his hands to see it. The sound of galloping grew closer and Pallando felt his chest constrict, no they can't have it… it was his…no, no, what was he saying? It wasn't his, it was the Valar's and he was going to return it to them no matter what the cost. A shadow appeared over the mouth of the cave and a loud, shaky voice cried out.

'Rómestámo! Rómestámo the blue!' Pallando remained still, not sure whether this person was friend or foe.

'I bring tidings from your brother wizard!' The fool didn't even have to finish before Pallando was off and down the tunnel, faster than any mortal could have seen; but he didn't have long before this mortal's shock wore off, and he'd be after him again. Skirting round what he had hoped was a corner, Pallando found that the very ground beneath his feet had vanished. He didn't have time to scream before he was falling deeper and deeper into the earth. He couldn't scream while he was falling because the wind stole the air from his throat; so, it wasn't until his knees hit the ground below, that Pallando's scream at last left his lips.

The ear-splitting noise bounced off the surrounding rock and vibrated back into his skull, until the old wizard was sure that he'd gone mad from the sound, if he hadn't been mad already. He jammed his gnarled fingers into his ears, and curled in on himself, chanting in rhythmic fashion to 'make it stop, make it stop, oh Valar make it stop'. It would seem they heeded him, for the noise soon dimmed to an echoing murmur and Pallando was once again able to raise his head without complete agony. Stiffly he raised himself up, gripping the wall when he swayed dangerously to the left – he felt quite light headed. Pushing himself away from the rocks, he stumbled forward and collapsed to the ground, retching.

The soft humming at the back of his mind had begun to grow in pitch and volume, until he couldn't even hear his own breathing over it. The noise beckoned him, pressuring him to come hither, and he obeyed as much as he could. Not trusting his stomach's strength on standing straight, Pallando crawled towards what he was almost certain was the source of the beautiful sound. Further, further on Maiar, it seemed to say to him, and further he went; further down the tunnel, further than his aching body could cope with and further than even his mind could comprehend, at least in its current state.

He pulled himself over jagged rocks and his hands began to bleed until they were little more than ragged flesh over bone. That didn't stop him though, in fact it hardly slowed him down at all. What truly could, now that he could see it, see the brilliant light that had called to him? It had been said that the light of the Silmarils was unlike any light on this earth or beyond, truly such a description paled in the presence of the living thing. For it was a living thing, how could it not be? A living, thriving life force of pure love and power, that reached out to him even now to grasp it and hide it where no Man, Elf or Valar could discover it. He reached his ravaged hands towards the light and grasped it tightly in their bloody palms. Even as he held it, his flesh began to sizzle under the Silmaril's light, but the gem's voice was too mighty in his mind for him to take much heed of pain in the physical world.

'Give me breath,' it seemed to say. 'Give me being, give my light a form.' Heeding its words Rómestámo opened his mouth and cried. At first it was little more than a wordless wail, but slowly words began to emerge from within its terrible depths.

Flesh of the gentle
Heart of the strong
Give thy form for
Bread and Bone
And Lay thy Head
In Mother's Womb
Seek thee now where
Bond is strong
I give thee now
Thy Mortal Form

Suddenly his body was ablaze, and he screamed now not in abundant joy but terror; he could not feel, he could not see, and he could not hear anything, but the Silmaril as its Elf-made shell cracked and shattered all around him. Centuries old glass splintered into the soft flesh of his up raised face, sinking into the underside of his eyelids, and blinding him. The Silmaril too seemed to scream, although it lacked the voice to truly express its pain as he did. Yet the way its core twisted and shuddered around the wizard's grasp, seemed to cry out no less strongly than Pallando.

Another voice joined in their harmony of pain, deeper and huskier, the voice that had propelled Rómestámo down the dark winding tunnel to what would appear to be his doom.

'Rómestámo of the East! I bring word from your comrade and fellow wizard...' The comrade's name was drowned out by the Silmaril. It had found its voice at last, and it was a terrible thing to behold; it cried so loud and so harshly the rock around them began to crumble, large chunks of stone fell in on themselves and Rómestámo soon found himself caged and unable to move. The ceiling too was no match for the sound of the Silmaril in his hands. Inwardly Rómestámo marvelled that he had somehow eluded death, with so much destruction mere steps from where he sat. Finally, the light of the Silmaril began to rise; slowly at first and then as if called by some force unknown, it shot from his sight and up into the darkness of the night sky above.

The wizard fell back, too exhausted to care whose heavy footstep now echoed down the tunnel, as he let a darkness of his own claim him at last.