The throne room of Valinor was a marvel of impossible beauty. It soared higher than mountains, its domed ceilings cut with stained glass that burned with captured starlight. Velvet drapes in emerald and gold flowed from pillars like rivers of royal indulgence. The floors shimmered with embedded sapphires. Pools of enchanted water reflected the walls like obedient mirrors.
And at the very center of it all rose a grand staircase lined in blue and violet carpet—leading to a raised marble platform. On that platform, beneath a white-canopied dais, sat a god.
Manwë.
He was shirtless, draped in a ceremonial white half-tunic more for sensual effect than propriety. His skin gleamed like sun-warmed marble, his muscles carved with divine precision. His golden hair cascaded around his face like a lion's mane sculpted by Eru Himself. His throne—more a sculpture than a seat—resembled a rising sun, designed entirely to frame his presence.
Around him lounged high elf maidens in barely-there silks, each one a masterpiece of fantasy, their long ears twitching at every gesture he made. Their clothes—if they could be called that—hung like whispered temptation: wraps of translucent cloth and golden jewelry, thin enough to reveal every curve, sheer enough to humiliate modesty. They giggled as they fed him grapes. Some fanned him. Others simply posed, waiting for his approval like living art.
And standing motionless beside the throne, spears held vertically, eyes forward, stood the Eternal Guard. Towering elves, clad in ornate bronze armor etched with divine glyphs, their faces hidden behind stylized helms. They did not speak. They did not breathe. They existed only to kill for Manwë.
At the edge of the chamber, the massive doors groaned open.
A figure entered, shrouded in a gray robe, short by divine standards, and very obviously not accustomed to being here.
Gandalf.
He walked like a schoolboy summoned to the principal's office—except the principal was three stories tall and possibly psychotic. Sweat had already pooled under his arms. His knees trembled audibly. His hair, white from birth and soft as feathers, frizzed with stress.
He tried to bow, tripped slightly, and righted himself with a yelp.
"Y-your Majesty," he stammered.
Manwë did not look at him. He selected a berry from one of the elf girls' fingers and popped it into his mouth.
"You are Olórin," Manwë said at last. "Though they call you Gandalf now, yes?"
"I—yes, I suppose so," Gandalf murmured. "If that's what people are saying. I'm not very good at names. Or attention. Or... pressure."
Manwë finally turned his gaze toward him. Gandalf felt like a rabbit being stared at by a sun.
"There is a sickness in the East," Manwë said, voice calm, godlike. "A rot. The darkness spreads beneath the soil of Middle-earth. A rebellion, led by my former servant... and her assistant."
Gandalf blinked. "Her?"
Manwë smiled thinly. "Irrelevant. You are to go. Investigate. Observe. Subdue. Capture them both, if you can."
"I—pardon?" Gandalf squeaked. "You mean... me? Personally?"
Manwë tilted his head. "Do you see another coward trembling in front of me?"
"Sir, with all due respect, I'm... I'm not a fighter. I faint when I see blood. I cried during my own naming ceremony."
"That's why I've chosen you," Manwë said, standing.
And the room darkened with his movement.
He descended one step. Just one. And it sounded like a thunderclap. He stood over four meters tall—divine perfection in terrifying motion. The Eternal Guard did not flinch. The elf women sighed in collective arousal.
Manwë pointed a single massive finger at Gandalf.
"You fear death. You fear pain. You fear Sauron."
At that name, Gandalf physically recoiled, eyes wide like a child hearing a ghost story.
"And that," Manwë said, "makes you perfect. You will be careful. You will be cautious. You will hide, observe, lie, charm, and crawl if necessary."
"I—but—"
"You will not return until the mission is done."
There was no argument. Not here. Not in this court.
Gandalf's mouth opened. Then closed.
He bowed.
Manwë smiled and turned, returning to his throne, where an elf woman kissed his shoulder like he was a sunrise.
Gandalf left the hall, trying not to collapse, his legs weak, his stomach sick.
He did not know what Middle-earth was.
He did not know what Chloe or Olga looked like.
All he knew was that if he failed—
Sauron might find out he existed.
And then he would die.
The corridors beyond the throne room were quiet—eerily so. Gandalf was escorted alone, his steps echoing across immaculate marble. Eternal Guards flanked him at a distance, their silver helms gleaming beneath crystal lamps. They said nothing. They never did.
At the end of the corridor stood a lone pedestal.
Upon it, folded with divine precision, lay a set of gray robes: coarse, humble, completely devoid of ornament.
Beside the robes, a small scroll.
And beside the scroll, a leather satchel filled with travel bread, a tin of dried herbs, a waterskin, and a staff—simple wood, twisted and weathered, topped with a pale lightstone no bigger than a coin.
Gandalf stared at it.
This was it. No armor. No gold. No weapon beyond a glorified walking stick. The lightstone, faintly warm to the touch, gave off a rhythmic pulse like a second heartbeat—dim unless willed otherwise. A gift of Manwë. A rare one. Too rare. The Valar didn't hand these out often, unless it amused them.
Gandalf unrolled the scroll with trembling hands.
Orders for the Agent known as Gandalf the Gray
Depart east immediately.
Travel by civilian trade ship to Middle-earth.
Seek out the origin of the darkness.
Locate and capture the rebel known as Sauron and her assistant.
Both targets must be taken alive. No injuries to the face permitted.
Do not reveal your true nature or origin.
Disguise yourself as a wandering old man.
Do not return to Valinor until your mission is complete.
The final line was written in Manwë's own elegant, lazy script.
You are not to fail. You are not to return. You are not to speak of this.
Gandalf stared for a long moment.
Then he changed.
The gray robes itched.
The belt barely fit.
The staff was slightly crooked.
The entire disguise was… perfect.
He looked like what he had been ordered to become: an old man, tired, simple, a traveler of no renown. Someone no one would ever suspect of being divine.
His beard, enchanted to grow wild and white, now dragged down to his chest. His skin took on the subtle weathering of age. His spine slouched by command.
He looked… harmless.
He looked like a joke.
He looked ready.
At the docks, the sun had begun to rise over the crystalline sea. The white ships of Valinor stood tall and sleek, their sails bearing the sigils of trade guilds and Elven merchant clans. Slender and elegant, they cut the water like fish through glass.
Among them waited one older merchant ship, weathered but still gilded in white and silver, packed with goods—silks, wine, scrolls, spices—and a few dozen Valinorean elves dressed like casual tourists.
At the foot of the gangplank stood four men.
Wizards.
In disguise.
The Blue Wizards were already there. Morinethar leaned against a barrel, looking vaguely annoyed, his disguise of a wandering sword-monk barely concealing the celestial fire in his eyes. Rómestámo stood beside him in a hooded traveler's cloak, calm and expressionless as he sharpened a piece of driftwood into a dart. Both carried staves—but slung like walking sticks, unimposing, weather-worn.
Saruman, tall and proud even in faded white and burlap wrappings, stood stiffly near the prow. His disguise was immaculate, but his contempt for it was obvious.
And then—there was Radagast.
He was curled under a rope pile.
Nervously twitching.
He wore a moss-stained green-brown cloak over a thin tunic and bare feet, a wreath of leaves in his hair, and a bag full of mushrooms and rabbit bones tied to his belt. A ferret poked out of his collar.
As Gandalf approached, Saruman rolled his eyes. "Ah, the King of Cowards arrives."
"Lord of Trembling Leaves, actually," Gandalf replied dryly, hoisting his satchel. "You look like you've been sentenced to scrub chamber pots."
"Worse," muttered Saruman. "I'm going to have to share quarters with him." He nodded toward Radagast, who was now hugging the ship's railing and whispering to a seagull.
Radagast looked up, startled, as Gandalf approached.
"H-h-hello G-Gandalf!" he stammered. "Did—did you hear the news? The—the sea snakes are migrating early this year. V-very dangerous. They get into the rudders and—uh—they eat toes. T-toes, Gandalf."
"Good," Gandalf muttered. "Maybe they'll eat the part of you that talks."
"D-does Manwë really think we'll s-survive?" Radagast whispered, glancing around. "Th-th-this is a merchant ship, not a—a war fleet. And I didn't even get a map."
Morinethar spat off the side of the dock. "We're not meant to survive, rabbit-humper. We're meant to observe, charm, and capture—with our fists tied behind our backs and our real names buried under lies."
Rómestámo added softly, "At least we'll see the world."
Saruman snorted.
Gandalf looked out across the sea. The ship's bell rang. The crew began to load crates of silk and wine.
The Elves didn't look at the wizards twice.
After all, they were nobodies now.
Disguised. Stripped of power. Bound by duty. Forbidden to speak of home.
And ordered to go east—into a land none of them knew.
The five boarded in silence.
The ship cast off just after noon, its sails catching the warm wind, and the shores of Valinor faded behind them—golden, glimmering, and cold.
None of them looked back.
Except Radagast.
Who whispered to his ferret, "P-p-perhaps if I jump o-o-overboard and p-play dead, th-they'll forget I exist..."
And the ferret licked his nose.
---
The journey across the Sundering Seas took weeks.
Their ship—long, white, and silent—cut across the mirror-flat water like a memory in motion. Elven crewmen said little. The cargo was mostly silk, spice, and sacred wine. None spoke to the five passengers who kept to themselves on the top deck, cloaked in simple robes and hiding strength like fire behind fog.
For most of the voyage, the wizards said little too.
Saruman and the Blue Wizards meditated, trained in silence, or debated the politics of Orc kinship structures. Their eyes were always to the East.
Gandalf leaned on the railing, staring into the endless sky, often with his mouth slightly open like a tourist trying to see the curvature of the world.
Radagast kept throwing nuts overboard to feed the sea birds. He apologized each time they ignored him.
Then one morning, the fog broke—and they saw land.
White towers. Cliff-hewn steps. A harbor carved like a fan into the coastline. A city of quiet majesty rising in tiers of light and shadow. Mithlond—the Grey Havens, capital of Lindon.
The Elves of Lindon were not waiting for them.
No one stood at the docks. No horns sounded. No banners were unfurled. No one bowed.
They were not returning heroes.
They were just five unknown passengers stepping off a merchant ship.
And the moment Gandalf set foot on the dock, he gasped.
The smell of salt air. The sound of gulls. The gentle silver polish on every stone. The murmur of Elven speech in the distance, soft and melodic.
It was Valinor—or close enough.
The buildings weren't quite as tall, the robes not quite as clean, the statues a little more worn. But it felt the same. It felt like home.
Gandalf froze, smiling stupidly. "It's... beautiful," he said, his eyes wide with wonder. "It's just like home... but warmer."
Radagast clung to his arm like a frightened puppy. "I—I think we sh-should s-stay here. J-j-just for a bit. M-maybe forever. W-w-we can find a tree and m-make a—mushroom farm!"
Saruman marched past them without a word, his boots echoing off the ancient docks.
Morinethar glared back. "We're not here to admire the view."
Rómestámo nodded to a nearby path. "The palace district is uphill. The High King of Lindon will see us. He must."
"I could really go for a nap," Gandalf muttered, turning to Radagast. "Maybe take a few weeks to get our bearings. Nobody's watching us. What's the rush?"
The other three stopped mid-step.
Saruman turned slowly. "What did you say?"
Gandalf smiled awkwardly. "Well, it's not like Manwë is here. Or that anyone's tracking us. I mean—what if we just… explored the West for a while? Felt it out? There might not even be a need to go east. Sauron might be dead. We could just blend in."
Morinethar's face twisted with fury. "That's treason."
"It's logic," Gandalf countered. "We were sent with no weapons, no armies, no instructions besides 'capture two cosmic warlords alive and don't hurt their faces.' That's not a plan. That's suicide."
"We are the plan," Rómestámo said coldly.
Gandalf shrugged. "Then it's a bad one."
There was silence.
Saruman stepped forward. "I should have known. From the beginning. You always were a coward. This mission was never for you."
He looked to Radagast.
Radagast squeaked and instantly shuffled behind Gandalf.
Saruman said nothing to him—just shook his head once in disgust.
And then the three turned.
They walked away, their cloaks snapping in the sea wind, climbing the path toward Círdan's ancient halls—toward alliances, equipment, war.
Gandalf and Radagast were left standing on the sunlit dock, surrounded by crates of silk and Elven tourists eating fruit.
Gandalf sighed. "Well. That went well."
Radagast nodded nervously. "S-s-should we f-follow them?"
"No," Gandalf said softly, gazing up at the towers. "We're home now. Or close enough."
And with that, the two youngest wizards turned from the path east—and wandered into a world they did not yet understand, but already felt too comfortable in.
The adventure had begun.
For some, but not for all.
And now the city unfolded before them in quiet elegance—terraced balconies of pale stone, ivy-strung arches, stairways that curled upward like vines made solid. The waters of the Gulf shimmered far below. The streets were wide but empty, save for a few soft-footed Elves walking in pairs, heads bowed in quiet discussion.
Gandalf strolled ahead, hands behind his back like a bored academic on holiday.
Radagast followed closely, eyes wide, mouth open, whispering to every bird that crossed overhead.
The air smelled of salt, wild sage, and crushed orange blossom. Above them, delicate blue banners drifted in the wind. Music floated down from a high window—something stringed, sad, and perfect.
Gandalf exhaled deeply. "You know, Radagast... this might actually be better than Valinor."
Radagast blinked. "M-m-more trees. Less s-shouting. N-n-nobody watching us."
"Exactly," Gandalf said. "And none of those Valar leering down at us from their sun thrones. These elves are... shorter. Less judgmental. Quieter. I like them."
They passed under a vine-draped gate and emerged into the Market of the Crescent Shell—a sun-warmed plaza lined with arched alcoves, polished stalls, and merchants cloaked in deep greens and ocean silvers.
The scent hit them like a wave.
Spiced citrus, crisp baked barley, honey-cooked fish, fruit preserved in rosewater. Steam rose from carved stone braziers beneath clay-baked bread. A row of crystal jars glittered with enchanted herbal pastes that smelled like forgotten meadows.
Gandalf's stomach growled.
Radagast's did too.
Gandalf wandered up to the nearest stall. Behind the counter stood a silver-haired Elf in a long, seafoam robe with faded embroidery of waves crashing against stars. He was meticulously arranging wedges of cheese around a bottle of fig-laced oil.
Gandalf leaned over and grabbed one.
The elf looked up. "May I help y—"
Gandalf popped the cheese into his mouth.
The elf blinked once. "That piece was two medium coppers."
Gandalf waved him off. "You're fine. It's good. Keep going."
He grabbed a second. Radagast reached for a honey-drenched pastry without hesitation, devouring it in two bites and licking his fingers like a delighted raccoon.
The elf stared in silence.
"Very friendly people," Gandalf said cheerfully, already strolling to the next booth.
Radagast tried to stuff a handful of dried fruit into his cloak pocket.
At the next stall—roasted nuts laced with spiced sap—Gandalf helped himself again, smiling politely.
"I do admire how generous your people are," he said to the merchant.
The merchant did not smile.
"Would you... like to pay for that?"
"Pay?" Gandalf asked, mouth full. "I'm a wizard. We don't pay for things. We bless economies."
Radagast nodded rapidly, then sneezed into a bag of roasted almonds.
The merchant's expression flattened into a kind of serene horror.
"Excuse me," came a calm voice behind them.
Two Lindon guards stood at the edge of the stall, each no taller than Gandalf's shoulder, but clad in shimmering segmented mail of silvered bronze, spears held in relaxed, practiced grips.
"Do you gentlemen have permits or coinage?" one asked.
Gandalf blinked. "I have a satchel."
"You have violated trade law," said the second elf, voice like sanded glass. "This district does not operate on assumed goodwill. Please return what remains and step aside."
Radagast held up a half-eaten roll, already trembling. "I-I c-could... put it b-back?"
The guard's eyes narrowed.
Gandalf raised a hand. "Gentlemen, surely there's no need for... hostility. We're emissaries. Divine ones. From across the sea."
"That makes it worse," the guard replied.
And suddenly there was another elf—a calm, elderly one in ocean-gray robes, holding a ledger, walking with the grace of a tree that had never been hurried. His voice was soft but certain.
"I am Calion, assistant to the harbor quartermaster. If you are what you say you are, then shame on you. If you are not... then doubly so."
Gandalf opened his mouth to argue. But the man continued.
"Do you know what hunger is, stranger? It is when a boy must choose which sibling eats first. Our people remember famine. We remember betrayal. We remember what it means to pay for things."
The older elf, Calion, reached out and took the half-eaten pastry still in Radagast's trembling hand.
His voice remained calm, but cold.
"Leave this district. Now. Before the King hears of it."
There was no shouting. No weapons drawn.
Only disappointment.
And that, apparently, was unforgivable.
SMACK.
Gandalf's hand shot out like a thunderbolt. The impact cracked across the marble arcade like a thunderclap. Calion's head twisted unnaturally as he was flung backward into a stack of aromatic fish baskets. His ledger tumbled, pages fluttering like wounded doves. Blood smeared the edge of a fruit crate.
A gasp rippled through the market.
Radagast froze mid-bite, the pastry wedged between his front teeth. His jaw slowly worked the dough as his eyes darted between Gandalf and the bleeding elf. "D-d-did… w-w-we j-j-just commit… h-h-hospitality homicide…?"
Gandalf didn't answer.
He stood above Calion's crumpled form like a god surveying an insect he'd just crushed underfoot. His breath steamed from his nostrils, eyes alight with the kind of wrath no mortal creature could fake.
Then he turned to the crowd.
"How dare any of you presume to touch us. We are emissaries of the Valar! Instruments of divine will! Do you know what it costs to breathe the air in our presence? DO YOU?"
He seized a peach from a nearby stand, took a single bite, then hurled it across the square where it struck a merchant's head with a dull thwack.
"Do you charge your king for oxygen? Then why do you charge us for fruit?"
Radagast stumbled after him, wide-eyed, arms still full of stolen bread, pickled mushrooms, and what looked like an entire honey-baked squirrel leg wrapped in seaweed. "G-g-gandalf, s-sir, I th-think we're m-making a scene—"
"Quiet, Radagast!" Gandalf barked, spinning. "You are not here to think! You are here to follow!"
Radagast flinched so hard he dropped a jam jar, which shattered on the marble. "S-sorry, sorry—th-the jar w-was slippery, I d-didn't m-mean—"
"Then pick it up with your tongue, you moss-brained mushroom servant!"
Radagast whimpered and crouched, carefully licking jam from the floor with all the speed and dignity of a frightened otter trying to please a crocodile.
All around them, the Elves of Lindon stood frozen—too stunned to move, too polite to scream. This wasn't just bad manners. This was mythological vandalism.
Guards emerged from every arch and alleyway. Three. Then six. Then ten. Now a dozen. Light armor shimmered across their shoulders like moonlit water. None drew weapons, but they encircled the plaza like an elegant noose.
Still, none stepped forward.
They didn't know if they were dealing with fools, or with angels.
Gandalf marched through their silent formation like a burning ship through fog. He strode toward the tiered steps that led to the cliffside inns, his boots cracking against the stone like war drums. A discarded pastry squelched under his foot. He didn't slow.
Radagast scrambled after him, mouth sticky with stolen fruit. "W-w-we're s-s-still allowed t-to l-l-leave, right? R-r-right…?"