"So, this is it? Damn, I thought there were things to look forward to out here."

"Mm? You say something?" The drunk to Zarioth's left looked up from his pint, eyes half-closed and sending a cloud of foul breath through the air.

"Just talking to myself." The tall, caped man stood up and began striding away in disgust. The drunk looked after him for a moment before he abruptly gave up and returned to his drink. The shadows from the mounted lamps magnified the glares of intrigue sent Zarioth's way by the hungry mercenaries at every table. He didn't deign to return their stares, instead pushing through the door and out onto the filthy street.

A whole month in the world of Men. Zarioth was finding it less than breathtaking.

It had quickly come to his attention that the common folk had believed that all their problems would disappear once the fabled Elessar had vanquished the Dark Lord; that peace meant lives of promise and plenty for everyone. Of course, it had quickly become clear that this was not the case. While the new king was doing his very best to usher in a golden age, many who lived on the Gondorian frontier were still disgruntled over the absence of an abrupt change in the quality of their lives. Most of them having never had to deal with the threat of orcs, they didn't quite understand what everyone back in Minas Tirith was so elated about. All they knew was that a light in the sky had gone out.

It had been amusing for a while, until Zarioth found out where the elves were.

Across the sea, in Valinor.

Almost every. Single. One.

The outrage he had felt upon learning this had been considerable. Eventually it had simmered down to a dull, throbbing disappointment, burning away behind his eyes. It could still be felt, however; a street merchant, stepping forth to pitch his silver necklaces, looked into the black-caped man's eyes and unconsciously took several steps back, nearly tripping over one of his business associates. The reaction caused a bit of satisfaction to creep onto Zarioth's face, but it was quickly washed away by the ebb of disappointment.

No elf would have backed away like that. At least, no elf worth their salt.

Though his stated reason for leaving Angband had been boredom and curiosity, he had only been telling half the truth. Yes, the pits were dreadfully boring, and yes, he was interested to see what the outside world was looking like after such a world-altering event as the final defeat of Sauron, but what he hadn't said was that he was itching for a fight. He had literally been conceived to make battle - there was no way he could quietly live out his days in Angband, waiting to finally extinguish.

Only there was no one worth fighting here. The world had been reborn, and its new inhabitants were, Zarioth thought disgustedly, soft as butter. This same thought ran through his mind, each time growing hotter. As he strode along the dirt road, past house after tiny, thatch, unassuming, nonthreatening house, he felt an indignant rage boiling up within him. As he reached the edge of the village, he realized that the skin under his fingernails was burning red-hot. He needed to get it out.

He needed to let loose his fire. He needed to incinerate, rend, ravage, annihilate something. Anything. Anyone. A woman, wicker basket on her arm, passed in front of him and gave him a sideways glance.

His pupils vanished, leaving his eyes as bloodshot white pools. That was all he needed-

Do be quiet. It's hard to think with all that fwooshing going on.

Zarioth's head snapped sideways at the sudden words in his mind. At first he saw nothing, for the red mist clouding his vision was too potent. But soon, he began to make out a vague outline, seated on the ground by some sacks of grain. The haze cleared, bit by bit, and he saw the vagueness of the figure was due to the baggy cloak and wide-brimmed, softly pointed hat they wore. He stepped closer, hand reached out in a claw, and grasped what felt to him like a long, wooden shaft.

"That's close enough, my friend," came the figure's voice, kind but firm.

"I am no friend of yours," Zarioth stated flatly (or so he thought, but his voice dripped with menace).

"That is true. In fact, we are opposites, you and I. However, in my current predicament, I can do little to act upon our differences, and you don't know me. Yet," he added enigmatically.

Thoroughly intrigued, Zarioth tried to rub his eyes free of the mist that plagued them, but to no avail. Instead, he sat warily, gathering his long cape around him and aiming his semi-blind gaze at where the figure was thickest. Ineffectual as his vision was, he reached out with his mind instead, and found power - power all too similar to one he knew very well. For a moment he sat in stunned silence, then let out a hoarse croak.

"Impossible... My Lord?"

A barking laugh and a swift blow to the head told Zarioth he was completely wrong. Embarrassed and caught off guard, he snarled, shook his head and reached out again. Indeed, this power was familiar, but heavily muted, and lacking a distinctive darkness.

"I'm afraid you're completely mistaken, son - as I've already told you, we couldn't be more different, you and I. To think I'd be mistaken for the Dark Lord himself! Although, I suppose that we are the same in that we're... adrift, to put it vaguely."

This made sense to Zarioth, at least in regards to himself. Having heard the stranger's cryptic words, he found himself confused as to whether his guard should be up. He could hear the stranger shifting in the dirt, and as his vision cleared, so his embarrassment grew, and the anger from before returned in full force.

"Istari," he hissed in a voice deeper than any human could hiss, shadows creeping out from his eyes. His entire body tensed, prepared to spring. Excitement as he hadn't felt since he left Angband rushed through him. Finally! This was it! Better than he could have imagined, a battle not only worthy of him but of legend lay just a few seconds away-

"Oh, calm down. I'm not here for a scuffle. In fact, I'm quite tired. After tracking down all those stragglers in Nurn, then making the journey all the way back to Gondor without any horses or any help, the furthest thing from my mind would be to fight - least of all you.

Horror hit Zarioth like an arrow. "So you won't fight me?"

"Out of the question."

The air was still as the two quiet forces hovered in the air, neither pushing against the other, until Zarioth gave a great cry of anguish. The wizard leaned back quickly as his would-be opponent threw himself face-first on the ground, wailing his fury for all to hear. A small crowd gathered, but dispersed when they saw nothing of interest was occurring. A few stayed to watch in amusement as the huge, black-clad man roared despairingly into the dirt.

"Why? Why why why why?!" He raged, pounding his fist against the earth hard enough to make the sacks of grain shudder. "A whole season of nothing, not even a trace of action through this whole damn realm, and now I've come across you, and you won't fight, and I can't take it!" He was close to tears. The wizard looked on with something resembling sympathy, and after a minute of watching the fiendish thing voice his wrath, leaned forward and patted Zarioth on the head.

"You really want to fight that much, Valaraukar?"

Zarioth looked up, eyes brimming with tears. "Y-yes!"

The wizard shook his head, chuckled and offered his hand. "Well, come on, then. I'm not the wizard I once was, and you don't seem to have killed anybody, so come get some ale. I'll pay."

Zarioth thought of slashing the wizard to pieces, but then realized that this would be neither engaging nor exciting given their current states. So he took the hand.

"My name is Pallando. Pallando the Blue."

"I know."

"You kn - ah, yes. Of course you do. What is your name?"

"My true name is Tegbreged. You may call me Zarioth."

The wizard sat in brief silence, taking a sip from his ale and unceremoniously wiping his mouth.

"That's a dark name."

"Ay. Would you expect something less from one of us?"

"Not at all. It's quite suitable, I think. Might I guess that you've returned to us to bring violence?"

"That was my intent," said Zarioth with a mournful sigh, "but it all appears to have been a great waste of time. There is no one worth fighting in Middle-Earth; not even the ruler of men could hope to threaten me."

Pallando gave the despairing fiend a long stare, until Zarioth met his gaze and began to snarl.

"Maybe not."

"No, men are worthless in battle -"

"No, no. I mean maybe this excursion of yours isn't all pointless."

Zarioth's eyes narrowed. When he did so, Pallando noticed his irises burned with an unsettling baleful fire, and reminded himself exactly what he was dealing with.

"Go on."

"Ah, yes: the reason I've dragged you in here. See, I've come from the far side of Mordor, where me and my associate were searching for some very particular items. I think you've heard of them." He lowered his voice and leaned in conspiratorially. "Palantirs."

The transformation that overcame Zarioth was astounding. One moment he was slumped miserably over his ale; the next he was leaning across the table, his eyes wide with intrigue. "What of them?"

The wizard smiled. "Like I said, my associate and I were searching for them - the missing ones, anyway. We're rounding them up for... ah... removal."

"What kind of removal?"

Pallando sighed and leaned back, taking another sip from his tankard. "The king has declared them too dangerous to allow out in the world. He's sent searchers out to collect them, and once they're all together, he aims to destroy them. My associate and I decided that we'd help out, and all we need to start the search is one Palantir-"

"-And use the one to find the others! Good, good. Does the king have any yet?"

"Two: The stone of Minas Tirith and the stone of Orthanc. These we'll worry about later."

"Whoa, wait. We, as in you and me? I'm not on board yet. And why would you worry about the ones the king already has?"

Pallando smiled. "Because I have no intention of letting him keep them."

Zarioth returned the smile. "Openly defying the king of Gondor? Now you've got me."

The wizard slammed down his tankard and held out his wizened hand. "Great to hear. Gandalf always said you'd find adventurers in the most peculiar places. I see now he spoke the truth. Now, Zarioth..." As the black-clad man grasped his hand, Pallando pulled him close. "I've caught word that a certain lady is traveling this way with her retainers, and that she may be in the possession of what we're looking for to start our adventure."

Zarioth gave a sly grin. "And you want me to kindly request they hand it over, unless they want trouble, right?"

"Something along those lines. Now, something you might want to consider-"

"Mm?"

"They're elves."

Zarioth's grin became demonic.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Please comment and/or review, it's always welcome.