No matter how many Half-orcs Allen had slain, or how many victories he and his allies had won against Sauron, Arda could never truly be called safe until the Dark Lord was destroyed. There was only fleeting peace. This was the central refrain of the third theme of the Music of the Ainur.
An empty, clamorous, ceaseless chorus sounded alongside a deep, sweeping concerto of sorrowful beauty. They rose and fell, one forever seeking to drown out the other. Everything Allen had experienced was merely an echo of that melody, yet even so, the struggle between the two sides was fierce.
In little more than a decade, Allen had lived through no fewer than three major wars, to say nothing of the smaller battles. Those fought by him or his subordinates numbered close to a hundred, if not more. This land was, after all, a place fraught with danger.
Faced with such danger, some far-sighted sages chose to withdraw from the world. Their unique nature had allowed them to discern its patterns long ago. Knowing they were no longer the central figures of the age, they took a more passive approach to the darkness of the present.
They also had somewhere to retreat to, and did not necessarily have to settle the contest with evil in Middle-earth. The hatred between them had largely run its course. Those who remained did so only out of attachment to this beautiful land.
Other sages harbored the lofty ambition of ruling a land of their own. One such woman led her people in gathering strength within Mirkwood, always ready to strike back at the enemy. Until that time came, however, they remained deeply concealed, and most humans misunderstood them.
Others chose simply to muddle through, withdrawing within their territories and leading their people in