After the wizards had revealed themselves, they gave their names. "I am Alatar, meaning after-comer," said the oldest of the two, "though in the south I was known as Morinetahr, nectar of hope." He then gave a nod, taking off his hat. His hair was a long and tangled mess of white and grey. "I am Pallando," said the other, "but in the east I went by Rómestámo, helper of the east." Pallando took off his hat as well, revealing shorter hair, still white and grey, but well kept.
"Now you simply must join us for that meal," said Alatar, "for elves cannot live on starlight and poetry alone!" The wizards winked at one another. "That much is true," replied Thárion, "but words may feed what bread and water can not." Amothor nodded in agreement. "What do you mean?" Asked Pallando. "He means the spirit," said Alatar, before the elves could reply. Pallando raised an eyebrow. "If your spirit hungers so," he said, "then we have many books inside." With that, the discussion ended, and they all went back to the house.
The first floor was a wonderous sight, filled with many sweet and tingling scents of herbs and potions, and furnished with chairs, and tables, and lamps, and many paintings, books, strange instruments, objects and artifacts from many ages. It was layed out into three rooms, a kitchen, a living room, and a storeroom. On one shelf in the living room lay the Red Book of Westmarch, the one written by Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, and finished by Samwise Gamgee. Next to it was a five-part series of the history of Middle-earth, from left to right: Ainulindalë, Valaquenta, Quenta Silmarillion, Akallabêth, and finally, Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age. After this followed the book of the Fourth Age. It was black, and on its cover was the white tree of Gondor. At the right-most end of the shelf, after many books in many colors, lay a grey, unadorned book. Amothor took the grey book down from the shelf and opened it. To his surprise, all of its pages were blank.
"What point is there in keeping blank pages?" Muttered Amothor, then put the book back. "The point is to write in it," said Alatar, catching the elf unaware, "and in history it is custom to write of things that have happened, rather than what is to come." Then Amothor became wide-eyed, for he saw plates and cups and cutleries were floating in the air to pass by him, apparently following Alatar's many gestures and mumbles, until one by one, they landed neatly on the dinner table by the fire.
Thráion did not notice the flying dinner set. He was preoccupied with a lamp in one of the passages joining the three rooms. There was something odd about it. It gave off a soft, yellow light, yet there was no fire and no smell. It seemed to him that light itself had been trapped inside the clear glass of the lamp, shaped like that of bulb. Pallando, having noticed the elf's interest, explained too him what it was. "A late dwarven invention," he said, "wherein light is produced by heating a thin, coiled metal wire, which is trapped behind that glass, and is filled with gasses distilled from the depths of the mountains. It actually draws strength from the whater wheel outside." Thráion gawked at it. "Made by the dwarfs, you say?" He asked, in disbelief. Pallando smirked, and then beckoned them all to join at the dinner table for a hearty meal.
When the day grew late, the living room was filled with a beautiful golden red colour from the window, where the sun glittered in the Great Sea to the west, and the seagulls cried longingly. It was a beautiful sight, and it almost made the elves forget the sadness they had felt when they came ashore north of Forlindorn. Then they saw a shadow in that sparkling water. It was a small boat, and as far as their elven eyes could tell, much like the one they themselves had arrived in. The told the wizards what they saw.
"Ah," said Alatar, looking mighty comfortable in his chair, and patting on his pipe. "It seems the last of you are finally here." Amothor and Thráion looked perplexed. "There are more of us coming?" Asked Thráion, and the wizards nodded. Pallando pointed with his mug to the sea. "Two more shall come", he said, "and they shall carry the water, as you carried the seeds." He finished his mug and rose from his chair, taking care not to hurt his back. "Since you appear to have grown into your chair, Alatar, I suppose I will go and fetch them," the wizard said, "but I trust you will ready the table for our new guests?" Alatar nodded in response, coughing into his pipe.
"You knew of the seeds?" Asked Thráion then. "Yes," answered Alatar. "For that is the final task given to us by the Valar: to guide you through the ending of the last age of Middle-earth, and see to it that the seeds of Eä are planted and watered, so that the world can be healed and made new again." Slowly, it dawned on the two elves what this meant. "The last age," whispered Amothor, and tears welled in his eyes. "Indeed it is," said Alatar, "with the exception of Aiwendil the brown, only spirits and animals roam these lands now." Thráion grew silent. "Do not despair, dear elves," said Alatar, studying their faces. His voice was soft and filled with empathy as he spoke. "Much that once was may now be lost, yet that which was marred shall become healed, and that which was unmarred shall become even more beautiful."