A few hours later, Pallando arrived with the new guests. Their fair voices were high with excitement, for they too had not known there would be others of their kind in Middle-earth. When they entered the living room, however, what greeted them was a solemn sight. The two others of their kind sat with eyes closed, with hands covering their faces. Alatar sat in his chair, in silence, staring distantly into the fire. It was dark and cold outside, but even though the curtains were drawn and the fire was lively, it seemed to them that the warmth of the room was gone.
"You never were good at keeping guests," began Pallando, "but this must be a new record, even for you." Alatar merely snorted. "Well, let us see how you fare with these two," said Pallando sternly. The new guests stepped forward then, and presented themselves in front of Alatar. "I am Síriel, daughter of river," said the left one, a beautiful elf woman with silver hair, and blue eyes, "elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo!" Then she curtsied, and showed him a waterskin with an image of the sun woven on it, much like on the wooden locket Thárion carried. Alatar nodded and looked to the other guest, also an elf woman. "I am Ianthel, sister of Bridge," she said, and gave curtsy as well. She was beautiful too, but of a different kind, with golden hair and green eyes. "Did you tell them in what age they have come?" Asked Alatar of Pallando, "Did you tell them the task ahead?" Pallando nodded. "Yes," he answered, "and I take it you explained to Thárion and Amothar, though they seem to have taken the news less heartily." Alatar coughed, then rose from his chair. "I will miss this chair," he mumbled, before focusing his thoughts. "Go now Siriel and Ianthel," said Alatar, "eat and drink and be merry. Hearten your brethren and give them courage, for tomorrow we must set out on a long journey, and we shall not return to this house, ever again." The elves greeted one another then, singing songs and talking until the morning.
The morning after, the party of six found themselves standing outside the doorstep, with many bags and sacks. Without warning, Alatar and Pallando both whistled, and the sound echoed and carried far into the lands, and soon, eight horses appeared in front of the horse. "These are friends of Aiwendil," said Alatar. "He left them in our care, so to speak. We will ride one each, and the remaining two shall be pack horses. Our journey is long, and so we bring with us much in the way of provisions, though supplement with hunting and gathering we must." Thráion and Amothar were in much better mood now, having found comfort in the songs of the women. They sat out then, trotting slowly, first down from the clearing. When they passed the encircling warding stones, as Pallando had explained, the old age of the world weighed on their shoulders again, and the elves grimaced, but did not lose courage. Coming out of the forest, they changed direction. The party continued north, with the trees on the eastern wall of the Blue Mountains to their right, and the long shores of the Great Sea to their left.
During the first days of journey, the wizards explained some of what they had done on Middle-earth, before retiring to their house as mere observers and consultants. In the east and south they had fought hard against the influence of Sauron. Where they could, they had stirred rebellion, and elsewhere they had given hope to those still faithful, who lived under the light, and not as willing slaves to the shadow.
Pallando had taken the mantle of a leader, amassing armies and resistance, drawing upon the strength of the old blood of the Edain, who had first awoken long ago in the lands of Hildórien, far to the east. In the end, the easterlings of Sauron proved too powerful for the faithful, and so Pallando decided to retreat, focusing on rebuilding the lands of Hildórien, and doing what he could for those willing to start anew there. "The words Morgoth spoke when he first visited the Men of Hildórien stayed in their hearts ever after. A trait, and not a punishment, we are told. Yet, but for the Gift of Men, I do not see it. Perhaps light cannot exist without darkness." He finished his tale in deep thought.
Alatar had worked more in secret, trying instead to disrupt the enemy's supply lines of food and slaves from the south and into Mordor. He was greatly successful in this, and like Pallando, he managed to thin Mordors armies, by disrupting the operations of the easterlings. However, the lands were festering with dark plagues and diseases, and in trying to find a cure for them, he was unable to gather strength and march on the City of Corsairs and Umbar. He did find a cure, though, brewed from a rare type of nectar. It came from a beautiful golden flower, growing on the southernmost tip of Middle-earth, where the great lamp Ormal had once stood, in ancient days.
After two days of travelling north there were no more trees, and the terrain was less lively. Grass gave away to dirt, and soon specks of snow and ice covered the ground. Before long they were travelling in light snow, and the weather grew colder with every step they took. Finally, they were north of the mountain entirely, where they changed direction again. Now they went east, following the shoreline, and after three days they came upon the great Icebay of Forochel. There stood a great crumbled tower. "What is this fallen tower?" Asked Siriel. "I do not remember it." The other elves murmured agreement. "Is it some remnant of Utumno?" Asked Thráion. The wizards shook their heads. "This was a lighthouse," said Pallando. "It was gifted to the men in the north by the dwarfs of the Blue Mountain, long ago, in the Fifth Age, I believe." Alatar strode closer with his horse, studying the ruins. "Many lives it saved," he said, touching the cold stone, "the light it shone helped fishers navigate these treacherous coasts. Now it remains dark." The elves sang then, of the lighthouse Calmindon, which was destroyed long ago along with the rest of Numénor. Afterwards, the wizards pointed south, and they journeyed onwards.
The days came and went, and the terrain gradually gave way to grass and forests again. However, it did not look green and lively to the elves' eyes. Rather, the scenery seemed grey and withered, almost dead. So it was that the party came upon the remains of Emyin Uail, the once great hills of Evendim. Here the Men of Numénor first returned in the Second Age, to find them already populated by the Edain, The Fathers of Men. In the Third Age it was part of the Kingdom of Arthedain, but near the end of the Fourth Age, the hills had been destroyed. "What happened here?" Asked Amothor. "There is something foul about these broken hills." Alatar stroked his beard for a while, then turn to them all and began speaking.
"In the Fourth Age a dark cult rose to power. An unfortunate union of misguided fools, who worshipped the name of Morgoth. At their height, they took over these lands, and from the lowest depths in hiding, they summoned forth a terrible demon of the old world: a Balrog." The elves were shocked at this. "I and Pallando," Alatar continued, nodding in the direction of the other wizard, "fought with it for many days. Nearly did it take both our lives, like the one who slayed Olórin. We could not afford to die, however, for such grace as to return to this world we were not given. Here, on the hills of Evendim, we smote its ruin upon the jagged rocks. Yet in many ways it had already won, for its foul blood poisoned these lands, and rotted the hills. Many men died before the cult was disbanded, and its leader made justice upon. A new shadow, indeed." The elves grew silent. "Come now," said Pallando after a while. "We are almost at Nenuial, Lake Evendim. There you will plant another seed."