In the Court of the Dragon Emperor by pandemonium_213

 The cloying fragrance of one thousand camellias assaulted Alatar's nose, and one thousand colors of silk battered his eyes,  the excessive sensations adding to his agitation.  Sweat trickled down his cheeks into his beard, and he schooled himself to keep his nerves in check. By contrast, Pallando remained cool and collected as they stood before the throne of the Dragon Emperor: the Son of Heaven and the Supreme Ruler of Kitai, a man who could order them beheaded at any moment.  Beside him stook his Empress, a small and graceful woman, whose delicate stature was deceiving.  It was said that she wielded as much power as her husband, and that it was she who advised him of the most critical matters of state.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alatar glimpsed a hundred soldiers arrayed in golden armor with curved swords at their sides. They stood at attention along the periphery of the court, while in its center, the emperor's counselors, wizened elders draped in luxurious robes, looked on as slaves laid gold at his and Pallando's feet. Alatar, who wore light shoes made from the fine leathers of the Land of a Thousand Cities, glanced at the riches before his friend's feet, which were bare, a custom Pallando had adopted from the immortal sages who dwelt in the Mountains of Snow. 

Pallando remained unmoved by the rosewood chests of gold spilled before them. It was more difficult for Alatar to resist the temptation of such treasure.  He considered that these monies might persuade the fearsome tribes of Palisor to abandon their allegiance to Sauron or that the gold could buy food and weapons for the impoverished villages where Alatar fomented rebellion against the Abhorred's tyrants. 

Next came servants bearing enameled jars filled with exotic spices — cloves, anise, myrrh — their scents adding to the barrage of the camellias when the lids were opened so the Istari might inspect the contents.  Alatar refrained from wrinkling his nose.  

Then jars and vials holding strange powders were brought to them.  The old scholar who carried the most opulent container, embossed with the images of red and gold chrysanthemums, extended the exquisite box to the Istari.

"The Son of Heaven offers a most rare gift, my lords.  This powder is made from the bone of the manticore.  A mere pinch in one's tea will cause the member of a one hundred year old man to rise as hard as that of a youth."

Alatar ensured that he projected a courteous yet detached demeanor when presented with the bizarre concoction, but his mouth twitched, almost with a will of its own as a smirk tried to express itself.  He pressed his lips together.  He was older than one hundred years — far older — and had no such difficulties in any of his human manifestations, including this elderly yet vigorous body.  What Pallando thought of the rare powder, he could not say, because as ever, his friend's face remained serene.  Alatar was impressed.  Pallando had learned much during those years he had spent amongst the immortals in the Mountains of Snow. 

Perhaps, Alatar considered, when I am next in Bharat, I should take Mélamírë's advice to study with the gurus so that I might still my mind as skilfully as my brother does.

When the next set of gifts were paraded before the two Istari, Alatar fervently wished he had listened to the young half-blood's words of counsel.  Twelve lovely women — the most select of the emperor's concubines — paraded before them, their hips swaying with a movement that proved to Alatar he had no need of the pulverized manticore bone to respond. 

Alatar glanced at Pallando.  Surely, he cannot be unmoved.  Pallando's eyes widened with frank appreciation, but otherwise, his expression remained passive.  That, thought Alatar, took discipline, and he admired his friend for it.

The chief minister stepped forward, the strands of his long black mustache floating over his brocaded robes while the Dragon Emperor regarded them implacably from the Throne of Heaven.

"All of these can be yours, masters," said the minister with a voice as honeyed as sweet jasmine tea, "if only you give our beloved Emperor the secret of eternal life. For you are mages, are you not?  Good men, wise men who speak true words, so you say to the Son of Heaven." 

Alatar shifted on his feet.  He bowed to the minister and the Emperor before turning to his companion. "My brother speaks for both of us."

Pallando also bowed, his head bald as an egg in the manner of the sages of the mountain temples.  Light reflected from his golden skin. So meek and mild Pallando appeared at this moment, but Alatar knew that beneath his sky-blue robes, muscles as supple as a panther's rippled, honed by the discipline of the arts — part meditation and part deadly combat — that his friend had learned from the immortal sages.

"The Son of Heaven is the most generous of Men, and his beautiful words are most courteous," Pallando responded, his voice gentle and measured, "But it is said that truthful words are not beautiful; beautiful words are not truthful.  Good words are not persuasive; persuasive words are not good.  A thousand gifts will not change the truth: we cannot extend your life past its natural span."

Only the rustling of silk and the piping of the songbirds in the gardens could be heard.  Alatar wondered what beheading would feel like.  Would his head retain consciousness for a brief moment as it went flying from the anchor of its body?  They could only hope for the mercy of beheading with a sharp sword. There were far more horrible ways to die here in Kitai.  He imagined the grave disappointment of Manwë should he and his brother return to Aman prematurely as fluttering spirits, their mission unaccomplished.  At least he hoped that Manwë would be merely disappointed. He had no desire to face the Elder King's wrath.  Even worse, was the prospect of the silent Halls of Mandos where the eyes of the Doomsman, as chilling as those of a cobra, watched over all.  

Then the Dragon Emperor raised his right hand, strong, graceful, and refined, and spoke:

"You have passed the last of my tests. You are in truth sages, not mere tricksters. Come, I would learn from you."

Chapter End Notes

The philosopher Lao Tzu is quoted in the fic (Pallando's commentary about truthful and persuasive words).  In addition to taking inspiration from Tolkien's "Morinehtar  and Romestamo,"  I also borrow from Sampsa Ilamri Rydman's wondeful maps on his Lindefirion site. 

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