Once, in a Fair Green Country…

Prologue

Elrond felt her warm breath against his ear and smiled, though he kept his eyes closed and pretended to sleep. Her body pressed against his. She lay on the bed beside him, her hands on his shoulder, every touch sending shivers through him. He felt her brush his hair aside, leaning in closer until her lips touched his cheek and planted a soft kiss there.

With a deep, pleasant sigh, he rolled over, ready to embrace her. Only as he fell onto his back and opened his eyes at last, the illusion faded. Elrond awoke with a start and no longer felt her beside him. Instead, he found a cold, empty room bathed in the pale blue light of a full moon. He sat up, a strange creeping sensation coursing over his skin, a weighty feeling in his heart, and suddenly he noticed all the spaces she once occupied, the wounds as raw as the day she left. Why, when his rational mind had come to terms with his solitude, did his dreams insist on taunting him?

He lay for a while in that silent space, staring at the carvings on the ceiling. They seemed like swirling fabric, gathered in the centre of the room. Or like waves, he thought – those vast grey waters that divided him from Celebrían... It was no use trying to sleep now his mind had turned to her again. So in the end he swept the blankets aside and got out of bed.

Though many of the Imladris elves did not sleep or meditate when the sun set, the house grew quiet at night nonetheless. As Elrond slipped through the shadowy corridors, watching the drapes waft before him all along the passage, like ghosts milling to catch a glimpse of the fabled lord, he could believe that there was no one else in the valley that night. Only the natural sounds broke the stillness; the call of night birds in the woods by the vale wall; the silvery whispers of the Bruinen below; and the tremulous sighs as the wind ruffled through the leaves.

Yet as he came downstairs, with no particular destination in mind, he drifted near to the Hall of Fire and there heard another sound, one that took a moment to identify. At first he wondered if some great dragon had broken the magical defences of his realm and now lay sleeping in the hall. But then as he came to the doorway and looked in to the flame-licked chamber, he saw that it was merely the sound of thirteen dwarves and a Hobbit snoring in unison.

A dry laugh rose within Elrond as he leaned against the doorframe and looked in on the sleeping bundles, all strewn across the floor, some lying where they had fallen with their ale mugs still clutched in their strong hands. So that was why it was quiet, Elrond mused. No doubt, after spending the night revelling with their guests, many of his household were also sleeping it off somewhere. He tried to imagine what Celebrían might have said if she had been there to witness this invasion. Of course, she might have known Dwarves, he reasoned, when she was a child in Ost-in-Edhil.

Folding his arms, he turned away and returned to the darkness of the corridor. Perhaps if he read for a while he would feel better, he decided, and so headed for the library.

He was so used to the emptiness of the house by the time he reached the door that he almost jumped in fright on seeing another person seated by his desk in the candlelight.

Gandalf turned, pipe in hand, as Elrond entered. A large mug sat on the desk beside him, evidence that the wizard had also been part of the revels earlier. That, along with the slightly reddish tinge to his cheeks, thought Elrond. Yet before Elrond could slip away and leave Gandalf to his contemplations, the wizard raised his bushy eyebrows and gestured with his pipe – an ‘almost’ wave. Though he was not entirely in the mood for company, Elrond knew it would appear rude to walk away, so ventured in.

"I trust you do not mind my being here," said Gandalf, keeping his voice slightly hushed, though it was still deep and clear. "Nor my sampling more of your excellent wine cellar?"

Elrond moved nearer and saw that the the desktop was littered with empty bottles. Though he knew elves had greater stamina when it came to alcohol, and that this strange, wise old man had almost equal power to resist its effect, Elrond still marvelled that Gandalf was still awake, let alone upright.

Raising an eyebrow, Elrond drifted around to Gandalf’s side and sat delicately opposite him. "You are welcome to treat this house as your own, for as long as you choose to stay."

"Pipeweed?"

Elrond shook his head. Gandalf shrugged and refilled his pipe from a leather wallet.

"You don’t mind if I…?"

Elrond smiled and gestured him to ‘go ahead’, then let his gaze fall to the stone flagged floor. He sighed deeply and reached over to the desk, lifting the only bottle that still contained some wine. He looked around for a glass then popped out the stopper and poured a hearty measure.

"We did not disturb you?" Gandalf asked, studying Elrond with a pensive gleam in his eyes. "I understood, of course, that you wished to meditate and perhaps to sleep, but the more ale that was consumed, the less able we were to judge how loud we might be singing. If we roused you, then I must apologise."

"I did not hear you," said Elrond. He lied a little, since he had been aware of the sounds of merriment just before sleep had overtaken him, yet the sound had made him smile rather than be irritated. It reminded him of the early days, when they had celebrated victory over Sauron in those halls, and had looked forward to long days of peace. Days that might soon be at an end. It reminded him also of the great shouts and joyous songs that resounded around the valley when the hosts gathered to see Galadriel’s daughter wed the Lord of Imladris.

"There is a shadow upon you," Gandalf remarked. For the first time Elrond heard the slight slur in the wizard’s speech.

"It is a foolish matter," Elrond told him, and drained the last of his wine. He considered the bottle for a moment before pouring himself another glass.

"I cannot imagine the Lord of Imladris would lose sleep over a ‘foolish matter’."

"It is foolish because it is not something that should disturb me, yet it does."

Gandalf watched him intently and drew hard on his pipe. Without saying a word he prompted Elrond to continue.

"And it is foolish because I know that I will see her again, and that this separation is not eternal," he admitted quietly, speaking more to himself than any other.

"Ah," said Gandalf. "Still, those memories often resurface when they are least expected. Often all it takes is a sound that mimics her laughter or a scent like hers upon the wind, and all at once you realise with a cold and utter certainty that she is not there, when all you desire is to hold her."

Elrond stared at him. Gandalf meanwhile studied the smoke curling from his pipe and seemed, for the briefest of instants, to be elsewhere in spirit. But then he shook his head and straightened, reaching over for the bottle.

"But what would an old man know of such things?" he muttered, and offered to fill Elrond’s glass, adding a low voice, "what indeed…"

~*~

I

A single coal burned within its brazier, casting the dimmest of glows upon her face as she watched it burn. Swathed in black cloth, dark as the shadows that surrounded her, she sat upon a throne of ebony and watched that individual light gleam. The wide hall seethed in silence around her, while unseen servants, as intangible as the smoke from the feeble brazier, went stealthily about their business behind the basalt columns that supported the leathery ceiling.

Into this cavern came Olórin, taking physical form only as he crossed the threshold into this, the largest chamber. His feet set down on the smooth black floor and he approached the throne with cautious steps. The air around him was slightly damp, as if a rainstorm raged outside, though he knew, having arrived at the entrance to these deep-delved halls only moments before, that the skies were clear, if grey, over this part of Valinor. He was used to the coldness of this place. He had come into the gloom before and had learned to see beyond its forlorn atmosphere. So many secrets lay within.

He stepped nearer to the figure and she looked up, a sable wimple upon her head, framing a pale but noble face. Of course, like Olórin’s handsome, marble-skinned features and long silver hair, her body and appearance were nothing more than an adopted raiment, a symbol of the power and the spirit embodied there.

The Vala Nienna drew in a breath that was deep and laden with sorrow before she addressed him in a voice crackled with the strain of a million tears.

"I know why you have come."

"I find it difficult to comprehend," said Olórin thoughtfully. "Long though I have watched them and sought to find some meaning beneath it all."

"Of course you do not fully know that meaning," replied the Vala. "You have not known hardship. Wise though you may be – perhaps wisest of all your rank – you cannot fully understand that which you have not endured. We must remain as onlookers, and be objective in our observations."

She regarded him with a glimmer of pity in her unfathomable eyes. Olórin stood before her, waiting for an answer that would end the tumult of thoughts and doubts within him, like a child waiting for his wise and benevolent parent to explain the horrors of the world in soft, unthreatening terms. There was a clear, ageless intelligence in the Maia’s eyes, yet he stared back at her with innocence and naivety despite his long years.

"But life is a gift," said Olórin. "To create a new life…surely this is the greatest power any being may possess? How can such a wonderful thing bring sorrow? How can it cause hardship? It can only be some sliver of poison left hidden by the Corrupter."

He paced for a while around the hall. Often he came to that place, which most other Maia shunned, saying it was a dark and mournful dwelling. Yet Olórin had always found comfort there. Through her understanding silence and simple, concise answers, Nienna always helped him to unravel his thoughts. And unlike many of the Valar, including those whom Olórin served more closely and knew with greater intimacy, Nienna would sit for long whiles, listening to his strained attempts to understand the new life forming all around them, without impatience or annoyance.

"I remember the beginning of days," Olórin went on, "when we looked upon all that The One had caused to be. I remember when I came with the Host of Manwë and first beheld the continent of Valinor. Such glory there was in creation, and though we helped fashion our halls and cities, we Maiar only rearranged that which He and our Masters had wrought. I remember thinking, what joy could there be if I could fashion something of my own, yet I knew that I could not. Then when the Quendi came from the Hither Shores, and I saw that they had children, young creatures so alike themselves and so alive…I had never thought that sorrow could come from it."

"All life requires sacrifice," replied Nienna. "All creation requires some measure of hardship. For one song to be heard, others must fall silent, lest there be discord. Every craftsman must, in some small way, be diminished as he fashions his creations. So it is with life. To bring new life into the world draws a little strength from the creature who bears that new being. At times, so it seems, the degree of strength required may vary. With some it may hardly be noticeable, with others…well you have seen what happens with others. Do you understand it now?"

"Yet they grieve. The arrival of a new being has brought sadness, though the creature itself bears no blame."

"Oft it happens that a being can bring sorrow through no fault of its own. Every action has consequences, Olórin. You know this. Every note played in the music of the world affects the others, producing harmony or discord. Every being has a choice and a destiny, and with that choice there comes the risk of sorrow. Even in the blessed lands around us there is grief. For not even Valinor escaped the corruption of The Lost One. When the Quendi beget children or take partners or form allegiances, they must risk sorrow. Things are not well in Arda, nor are they wholly perfect here in Valinor. Death still comes. The Children shall weep."

"What will become of the child?" mused Olórin. "Born of such unfortunate circumstance?"

"That is not for me to speculate upon," replied the Vala. "Let him cry to me if he desires it. Here there shall always be an ear to the pitiful."

"But you know something of the future?"

"No more than you do, Servitor of Manwë."

Olórin left the hall with none of the doubt quashed. Even after his physical form dissipated, he continued to frown in spirit as he travelled back across the continent of Valinor towards his usual dwelling place. He remained intangible as he came into the labyrinthine gardens of Lórien and chose a random spot amongst the tall cedars and aromatic pine. Far off, the light of Telperion glittered like a distant beacon, mottled by the leaves within the gardens as they stretched off towards the Two Trees, and so a strange mix of silver gleam and pewter shadows filled the green spaces around Olórin.

He could feel the anxiety around him, shimmering like the mists from the great seas. So much concern and sorrow filled the air that even the fireflies dancing by the sulking pools amongst the roots of the trees seemed to whirl more slowly, their tiny hearts also heavy. With phantom-like silence, Olórin made his way through the shadowy places to a willow-ringed glade where he had come so often in this hidden form to watch the Elven couple and to eavesdrop upon the Maidens of Estë. The Maidens, however, were not present that day as he slipped up to the glade.

Only the two elves were there, one lain upon the sweet grass and flowers while the other knelt by her side, his hands cupped around hers. He spoke in quiet, unhurried whispers, regal and proper as though he was before his court at Tirion and not alone in this subtle, peaceful place. Yet through his gentle pleadings, Olórin sensed an undertone of bitter hurt, and felt that, if that Elven king were not so highly trained in maintaining his decorum, Finwë would have wailed in grief.

Olórin drifted around the edge of the glade, unnoticed. To Finwë he would seem nothing more than a breeze amongst the willows. But Olórin regarded everything, not only observing each flicker of emotion passing over the king’s face, but listening to the hidden song within his heart, trying to fathom what could twist a soul into such torment. Olórin listened as the king called to his dead love, imploring her to return, and the words cut deep into the Maia’s unseen form. For years Olórin had watched the Eldar come to the gardens or live in their fine city upon the hill and he had marvelled at them. For centuries, the Ainur had existed, yet rarely did they see great changes in their lives. Olórin could not remember ever seeing a ‘child’ before the Eldar came. Perhaps he had, aeons ago before the world was made, but he could not recall it.

Secretly he had watched them and had taken some vicarious pleasure from seeing their lives progress. He followed their stories, keeping track of families and young ones as they grew, until he felt some kinship with them. Though they never saw him and rarely sensed that he was there. He often toyed with the idea of taking on their form and borrowing their shape for a while, to see what it would be like to live as one of them, yet he had not yet dared to try this.

Never had he seen one of the Children as sorely grieved as Finwë now appeared. Olórin wished that he could offer some comfort, yet he did not know what he should do. He knew all the ins and outs of the world and observed small details that most others overlooked, yet he stood there impotent, unable to imagine how words could soothe that hurt.

Three maidens entered the glade and came to Finwë’s side, ready to tend the body of his dead spouse as she lay. Finwë rose, composing himself impeccably, and stepped back to let them work. Olórin took this as a sign that he should go. It irked him that, with all his wisdom, he still could not comprehend this. He would need to settle this and find an answer if he was to take joy the world again.

So he headed from the glade, fleet as a morning breeze, and travelled on the air to Tirion. He knew the pathways of the city by heart, and often wandered the meandering streets or climbed the crystal stair and watched the goings on of Finwë’s halls, but never showed himself to the Eldar who lived there. Though he longed to speak with them one day, to ask them everything about their life – what it was like, for example, to eat and drink, or to feel the cold and warmth, or to be hurt – he had not yet found the right moment to reveal himself. For the time being, Olórin wished to gather knowledge about these wondrous creatures and observed them as they observed the plants and the birds of Manwë in the sky.

That day he passed unseen through the corridors and chambers within Finwë’s grand palace, watching the shadows pass over the faces he saw. This grief – not only did it bring a rending hurt to Finwë’s heart, but, Olórin realised, it cast its net far wider and touched the souls of all who cared for the king, all whose lives he touched. Olórin loved to watch the birth of elven children, startling and bloody though that was, but he had never seen such anguish before. He wanted to help them, his beloved creatures. He wanted to tend their wounds and heal them, and see them carefree as they once were. Yet he did not know how to mend a wound that was of the fëa rather than the hroa.

He came into the heart of the palace, to those rooms that only the king and his close kin would enter. There, in a small chamber, painted white and bathed in light that streamed through a high arched window, sat a crib, where a dark-haired elleth tended to the king’s child.

Such a delicate thing, thought Olórin as he came to the side of the cot and looked down upon the sleeping child, with its snatch of russet-brown hair and miniature limbs. A tiny, fragile being that was so utterly helpless and alone, yet this creature had drained the life from its mother and had brought this aura of sadness upon Tirion. This creature, through no design of its own, had brought the first wave of bitterness to the Eldar in Valinor.

The child squirmed, opening his mouth as if gulping for air then, screwing his eyes tightly shut, he let out a long and piercing wail. The young elleth moved in, blank-faced, and picked him up. She held him and rocked him gently, though there was no real love in her expression. Her movements came instead from dull routine and service. Olórin did not know her name but imagined she was one of the many maidens tending the young prince. All elves seemed youthful and lithe to Olórin, even those whose wisdom shone through their eyes, yet this elleth looked no more than a child herself. He resolved to find out who she was, as he enjoyed knowing the names of the elves he saw.

As he watched the little ritual she performed to calm the baby, Olórin heard the gentle click as the two white doors at the far end of the room swung open and two more elven women strode across the white marble floor.

"In here," said the first, who walked a little ahead of her companion and bore herself with more confidence. Olórin knew her as Fereniel, a handmaiden once to the queen. Perhaps she was also grieving then, Olórin thought, although he could not imagine tears spilling onto those cold, hard cheeks, as implacable as the marble of Manwë’s hall. Yet in her heart he knew she felt the loss as deeply as the rest of them. Deeper perhaps, as that grief had no outlet. How intriguing to see the wealth of emotions within those fragile beings! For creatures who lived only in the physical form, bound to the fate of the world, they were so fascinatingly complex.

"Raimarië," snapped Fereniel, addressing the elleth who held the child. "Give him here."

Without a word of argument, the elleth surrendered the child. Olórin drifted back a little to observe the scene fully. Fereniel interested him greatly and he watched her pat the child on his back, whispering into his tapered ear. She had two children of her own. Olórin had seen them born and had watched them grow. Fereniel knew the ways of children, though even she treated the baby with distance and respect. Without a mother, would that child know nothing but coldness? To be treated as a chore; not to be loved, but to be attended to when the need arose? Olórin frowned, though none saw it.

"You may leave us," Fereniel said sharply. The elleth, Raimarië, curtseyed and left. Still she did not speak, but Olórin knew her name at least. Fereniel meanwhile turned and faced the other elleth, who had accompanied her into the nursery.

"Here, see how he takes to you," she went on, and handed over the child. "He has been known to be rather particular about his maids. Usually one can tell within minutes. Yes, he seems to like you well enough, Irimien."

"Yes," sighed the elleth, Irimien. "He does."

She smiled; a radiant, genuine expression. Olórin moved silently around the room so he could see her clearly. Though she looked very much like any other elleth, with pale skin and the earth-brown hair that was common to the Noldorin elves, something about her attitude drew his attention more fixedly than the others did. Perhaps it was that, for the first time, he saw some hint of affection in her eyes as she cradled a babe that was not her own. Olórin was pleased, at any rate, to see this woman brought into the company of attendants. He resolved to remember her name.

Though he still did not understand why all this had to be so, why the boy should be raised by strangers, never knowing his true mother, Olórin felt more settled than he had done of late. He sank back and lingered in a corner of the room, thinking he might watch them tend to the child for a while longer, before he would head off to find one of his own kind, one who might know more of this.

Irimien, still beaming happily, held the child for a moment longer and then returned him to his cot.

"You will remain here until someone comes to relieve you," said Fereniel. "And remember, this is no ordinary child you watch over. That is the Prince Fëantáro." She gave the child one last glance, but as Fereniel cast her eyes down, Olórin spotted the sparkle of a tear at the corner of her eye. "The king’s only child," she muttered, before moving off at last.

The sound of the door closing resonated around the lofty chamber for a long while after Fereniel had gone. Olórin drifted back and forth across the room for a moment, brooding on the prospect of following Fereniel or remaining there with the child a while longer, when another sound captured his attention with the sharpness of a skilled hunter’s spear.

The young elleth spoke to the child in soft whispers, her voice like a brisk breeze through the stillness of the room. Olórin went to her side and stood invisibly by, watching as the child stirred again. Fëanor did not cry, however, and Irimien leaned over into the crib, letting the young prince grip her finger with his minute hands.

"You are not alone," she whispered. "We are all here at your command, little master."

She laughed as she spoke, a sound that was to Olórin like a droplet of dew from Telperion falling into a silvery pool. Odd, he thought, how she was like most other elves in her appearance, and was no more beautiful than Fereniel or any of the others he had seen, yet she was infinitely more appealing. Kindness, like the light of the Eldar, shone in her eyes and as she turned away from the crib at last, that light flashed towards the spot where Olórin stood hiding.

Her gaze seemed to linger on that spot, long enough to make Olórin suspect she could sense another being in the room. She paused and seemed to listen, but she did not look alarmed or irritated by her unseen watcher. Instead she continued to smile.

She took a step towards the space he occupied.

In an uncharacteristic flurry, Olórin fled the room, though he did not know why he had done so.

Once in a Far Green Country…

II

Gandalf leaned back in his chair and let his pipe rest thoughtfully on his lower lip. Elrond meanwhile gazed into the crimson dregs at the bottom of his wineglass, beginning to feel pleasantly warm, though the sensation that something was infinitely wrong with the world had not left him yet. It was as though a great piece of him had fallen away, like Beleriand crumbling into the sea, and left him whole in himself, yet with that lost shadow in his heart. Strangely, he saw the same glimmer in Gandalf’s eyes.

He did not know the Istar well enough to enquire what thoughts plagued Gandalf’s mind. Though they had been friends for many years, he had never heard Gandalf say where he came from or what he was. Elrond merely suspected the truth and had not yet been bold enough to test his theories by asking outright. Sitting before the Lord of Imladris, therefore, was an enigma, wrapped up in riddles and an old grey cloak.

"I never understood," Elrond began, watching his companion’s reaction, "why she chose to remain here. And she would never tell me when I asked her. She would merely laugh and squeeze my hand, as if I had asked the most foolish question in the world, the answer to which was right before me. I shall never forget that laughter, nor the light it brought to her eyes. Like her mother’s; though she had never seen the Light of the Trees as Galadriel had done. She was too great an elleth for the likes of me, and ought to have had another more worthy of her love."

"Yet she chose you," sighed Gandalf. "So you were worthy in her eyes. What else matters?"

"I remember how my heart once beat so fast that I thought I might die, simply from the thought of seeing her, or my path crossing hers, by chance that was not really chance."

"And yet when your paths do cross," said Gandalf, "you do not know what to say, or what to do, and the very sight of her can render you powerless, though you do not know why. Not at first. And then, very slowly, like the bright sun spreading over the hills on a cold morning, you realise that it is love for her that causes you to lose all dignity and wisdom in her presence. And then the true turmoil begins."

Elrond smiled, toying with the etched patterns on his glass. "What was her name?" he asked quietly. "You know the name of my love, yet you obviously talk from experience too."

Gandalf frowned momentarily, as if to say ‘I should never do such a thing’, but then his expression softened, and Elrond fancied that the wizard almost smiled; a little twitch came briefly to the corner of his lip, but was gone in moments.

"Her name," said Gandalf solemnly, "was Irimien."

~*~

Olórin, having taken physical shape once again, stood by the window in Ilmarin and stared out across the snows, watching the fine, pearl-white powder whip up in great swirls as the wind danced across the peak of Taniquetil. He paid no attention to the passing of time, nor to the conversations in the marble hall behind him. For a long time he had drifted about Manwë’s halls, carrying out any duties he was asked to perform with diligence but not with enthusiasm. His heart and his mind were elsewhere and no matter how hard he tried to fathom it, he could not draw them back.

He had spent a long time trying to discern what had happened to him and what it was that hindered his thoughts, wondering why his mind always returned to Finwë’s halls and in particular to that gleaming white room with the crib. For a while he thought it might be concern for the child. Perhaps that was what worried him. Yet whenever he tried to remember what he had seen there, his thoughts centred not on Fëanor, but on the elleth.

Now not only did he have the riddle of Miriel and Finwë to contemplate as he worked, but Olórin also found himself struggling to discern a new tempest, one contained entirely within his spirit. Why would his thoughts return constantly to one particular being? She was surely no more interesting than the other elves in Valinor and, unlike those he had observed for years, he had only seen her for a moment.

Moreover he could not understand the nature of the thoughts circling around his mind like treasures thrown into the sea. He could not focus on any particular idea, but rather found his mind full of vague recollections, remembered sensations and mingled feelings of regret, guilt and, incongruously, warm satisfaction.

It was only when he sensed another presence in the chamber with him that Olórin finally broke away from his vigil, and from watching the subtle change of the seasons on the mountaintop. Eonwë stood behind him, clothed in the form of a tall male figure in blue robes, with a large roll of parchment in his hand.

"I might have asked your help in tending to King Sorontur while he was here," remarked the other Maia, with just the slightest hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Is he still here?" asked Olórin.

"No," said Eonwë with a sigh. "He and the other eagles have left and Manwë is settled in his tower. I do not know what he is doing, but he has no need of our service for now. Have you been here all this time? The world grows old, Olórin, while you sit around and think."

"I prefer the sound of thoughts to the sound of voices," muttered Olórin, throwing his colleague a sideways glance. Then he straightened, realising with a start that he had indeed been lingering in that chamber for some time, and it was not unknown for one of his kind to spend centuries in contemplation without knowing it, until they turned again to the outside world and saw that all had changed.

"How long have I been here?" he said aloud.

"I would not know," replied Eonwë with little interest. "I have had my tasks to perform. I have not had time to keep track of you and your meanderings. What has captivated your interest now? Something to do with the Quendi, I suppose. You spend so many days drifting amongst them, trying to master every element of their lives, that soon you will be one of them, Olórin. I would not be surprised if you were more Quendi than Maia these days."

"Would that be so awful a thing?" muttered Olórin to himself as he left the hall.

"What shall I say if Manwë calls for you and you are gone from the hall?" Eonwë called after him.

"If Manwë calls me, I shall go," replied Olórin. "If you should call me on his behalf, I shall go. But since at this moment neither of you has summoned me, I am free to wander where I will. Voices can still reach me, even on Tirion."

"Amongst the elves again then," sighed Eonwë, watching the other Maia disappear from the room.

Olórin grumbled slightly as he travelled, since he had, to his knowledge, never neglected his duties to the House of Manwë and Varda to indulge his love of the Eldar. Everything had to be in balance, he thought, and he was able to weigh those things he found fascinating against those things he was bound to do. However he was forced to admit that he was drawn more to the green hill and Tirion that day than he had ever been before. That day he felt more than just a gentle urge to go and sit amongst the Quendi, since he had nothing better to do – that day he felt compelled to go, as if some great and weighty thing depended on his being amongst them again. He only hoped he had not lingered too long in his contemplations.

Perhaps if he spent just a little more time there, he might discover why his thoughts could not leave this place.

He followed the glittered beam from the Mindon Lamp as the light stretched outwards across the skies. He picked a random spot amongst the garden terraces on the slopes of the lush green hill and moved silently around, rustling the leaves like a fading winter breeze as he passed by. He listened to the songs of the birds and the sighs of the wind until he could judge the atmosphere, and soon sensed that the feeling of sorrow had abated somewhat. Though there was still an echo of the sadness Olórin saw in Finwë’s heart whenever the king visited Lórien’s gardens, that echo was now faint beneath the carefree and hopeful ambience.

Time had never mattered much to Olórin before. It had been easy to catch up with the events in the elves’ lives, for nothing much ever happened. Yet now he wanted to know what had become of the child and hoped he had not let too many years slip by unnoticed.

Then as he moved through the gardens he heard laughter, and paused so that he could approach unheard as well as unseen. He followed the sound through the trees and flowers until he found a small, secluded grove, hemmed in by honey-scented roses, where two elves sat together on a marble bench. Olórin felt he knew the ellon, who seemed barely of age and full of the fire of youth, with long black hair about his shoulders and a deeply serious expression that did not fade even when he laughed. The redheaded elleth with him also seemed young but had an air of maturity of her, echoing the stern manner of her companion.

It was only when he spotted Fereniel, sitting a few yards away in another part of the garden, out of sight of the young couple yet still able to observe them discretely, that Olórin realised he was looking at the baby prince. Only Prince Fëanor was no longer so small and helpless.

Olórin’s heart leapt, and not only because Fëanor seemed strong and healthy despite the hardship of his birth, but because a thought then struck his mind like a shard of ice. If Fereniel was still in the service of King Finwë and still guarded the royal child, then would Irimien not also be there? Though again, Olórin could not fathom why so small a detail should concern him.

And if Irimien was there, what would that mean to him? he wondered. What exactly would he do, except watch her as he watched the others, without ever being noticed? What would that achieve? What, when it came down to it, did he want to achieve?

For a moment he paused, a sensation close to holding one’s breath consuming his form, then he moved through the trees to where Fereniel sat reading, and looked around. The garden path snaked on through the ornamental trees and blossoming flower bushes, and around one of its turns, Olórin could see snatches of movement. Drawn like a bee to a bright petal, he passed barely inches from Fereniel’s lap, though she did not look up from her book and her sombre features did not twitch.

A wave of disappointment hit Olórin as he came around the corner and saw that it was not Irimien, yet the sensation soon faded when he recognised the woman stooped over the flowers. One porcelain hand held the head of a rose like a goblet of wine, bringing it to her face as if to kiss it, but stopping just short so that she could breathe in its fragrance. Though she was not the elleth Olórin desired to see, she was so infinitely beautiful, flawless in every aspect, that he could not help but stop and admire her for a while. As she straightened and looked at him, seeing him despite his formlessness, she smiled. Olórin recoiled as instinct, seeing the light in her eyes, the light that shone forth brighter even than the stars she wrought for the skies. For in the face of Varda the Star Kindler he saw the light of Eru.

"So Eonwë speaks the truth," mused the Vala. "This is where you spend your days."

Olórin bowed, throwing his gaze to the ground.

"What brings you here so often, Olórin?" asked Varda, her voice striking his being like the laughter of waterfalls. "Still concerned about the King and his loss? Your compassion for the Children is commendable."

"My Lady," said Olórin.

"These roses are beautiful," sighed the Vala. "Yavanna must have wrought them with love, and Finwë’s gardeners take good care of them. What then are you searching for now, Olórin?"

The Maia hesitated, still looking towards the earth.

"Why does it trouble you to answer?"

"Because it would seem foolish, My Lady," Olórin admitted at last. Varda cocked her head to one side but her smile remained.

"Foolish? From the wisest of those who attend us?"

"I do not understand what brings me here, My Lady."

"Then describe it. It is no failing to find things beyond one’s comprehension. Only The One can know everything."

"I came here to try and discern it," Olórin explained. "I have tried to find meaning in my thoughts, yet I cannot, and so decided that if I wandered for a while amongst the Quendi, I might understand. I have always loved to come here and watch their lives play out, yet now I wish to find one thing in particular. One being in particular. My thoughts are full of her and yet I cannot think of anything specific. Nor do I know why."

Varda regarded him with a slightly more serious tint to her expression. "She is not Maia? She is one of the Quendi?"

"Yes."

"Not unheard of, I suppose, yet not the most convenient of arrangements."

"I do not understand."

"Perhaps it will come to nothing," mused the Vala. "Remember you have duties here, Olórin, and not just those quotidian tasks we appoint you at Dâhanigwištelgûn. Remember that it is our charge, Valar and Maiar both, to care for the Children, so that their lives here may be in bliss and peace."

"I wish nothing else," said Olórin, trying to fathom her meaning without success. Varda nodded and turned her attention back to the roses, then she slowly walked away, letting the garden fall into a hush once again. Olórin remained, feeling as though he had just been reprimanded, though he had no idea what for. But as he thought on it he felt the wind shift around him and looked up in time to see another figure headed his way.

The sight of Irimien took him by surprise and for a moment he was frozen, powerless to think or move. She could not see him and walked with her head slightly bowed, a faint smile on her lips. She seemed to be deep in thought, humming a song while she toyed idly with the sleeves of her dress. Olórin watched her pass him by, fighting the urge to make himself solid and to present himself before her. It would only disturb the elves to find a Maia suddenly amongst them, and above all, Olórin loved to watch them going naturally about their lives. Yet he followed Irimien and stayed close by her, wanting to watch her most of all.

She sat beside Fereniel and gave the young prince and his betrothed a quick glance and a smile.

"All seems well," she remarked plainly. Fereniel nodded, a slow and deliberate movement that gave the impression that she did not want to offer an opinion on the prince or his affairs.

"We must remain in these gardens as long as we are needed," Fereniel concluded, as if reciting some book of laws she adhered to in all things. "Did you deliver the message to Mahtan?"

"I did," replied Irimien, speaking in a hushed whisper that sounded, to Olórin, breathless and excited. She seemed genuinely thrilled by the prince’s situation and her eyes gleamed as she looked upon the young couple. She rejoices in love where she sees it, thought Olórin.

"I told him his daughter would be joining King Finwë and his son at dinner tonight, and that the king would arrange for her to be taken home when the feast was over. I also said that the King’s welcome extended to him also, if he desired to come, yet he said he would not, as yet. He said he would leave the night to his daughter, and allow her time to enjoy her troth and the exhilaration of that state, before he attended to the more formal arrangements." She giggled as she remembered her conversation, though Fereniel did not share the emotion.

"Very well," concluded the senior attendant. "I shall find the king and see if he needs me. I believe he is wandering around her somewhere. You remain here in case Fëantáro should require anything."

"The king is in the grove at the end of the path," Irimien told Fereniel, as the older elleth rose to leave. "I saw him there, talking to the Lady Indis…"

"Whom he talks to is none of my concern," snapped Fereniel. "Likewise it is none of yours. You would do well not to pay heed to rumours and whispers in the corridors, and to concentrate instead on your own duties."

"My apologies, Fereniel, I meant no disrespect," replied Irimien, bowing her head.

"Then let it be forgotten," said Fereniel. "Wait here until you are needed or until someone comes to fetch you."

Olórin waited until Fereniel was out of sight before he drifted nearer, slipping into a narrow space amongst the flowers. Though his presence ruffled the leaves and blooms, Irimien did not notice. He would have given anything to have spoken with her, to find out what fuelled the light and laughter in her eyes, or made her smile no matter what the world presented her. He wanted to know what she thought of anything and everything, and above all to see her look on him with the same kindness and understanding that she threw in that glance towards Fëanor.

Yet how could he reveal himself, and how would he explain his desire to talk with her? How would he tell her that one of the Maiar had seen her and had become entranced? How could he explain that, when he could not understand it yet himself?

Then, as he looked upon her, an idea washed over him like the sun on a stormy day. Olórin quickly left that part of the gardens, ready to return again later in another form.

__

Notes

Dâhanigwištelgûn – Valarin name of Taniquetil

Once in a Fair Green Country….

III

Olórin thought about his plan for a long time, debating every aspect of it until he knew each intricate detail by heart, and still he did not feel entirely sure. The mechanics of it were no hardship for him. To take the form of one of the Firstborn would be no difficult feat for one of his race. A body was a raiment, that could be worn or discarded just as the Children wore silks and velvets. Only when one became too accustomed to such bodily form could it be a problem, and Olórin did not intend to stay ‘Elven’ for too long. Just for a moment, he told himself. Just to see how it would feel to speak with Irimien as one of her kin, as her equal perhaps. The idea of that precious moment stifled any doubts that lingered and helped Olórin ignore the uneasiness.

He crouched by the edge of one of the silvery pools beneath the trees of Lórien and poured over his reflection in the still waters. He did not look too different from his usual ‘physical’ manifestation, save that his ears now tapered subtly to a point, and his features were a little more polished than usual, a little narrower perhaps. He had tried to model himself on some of the ellyn he had seen over the years, to pick out the qualities he had admired most in them; recreating, for example, Fëanor’s dark hair. Strange how a change of hair colour could alter him, he mused.

And then for the first time he wondered if his appearance was pleasing, though he had no idea why that should worry him. All beings were beautiful in their own way, and were filled with the love of Eru, with some small portion of His Light, so it should not matter what, specifically, he looked like. Yet it concerned him. Perhaps, he thought, he would learn more from this short conversation than he had anticipated. It seemed as if his being was erupting with new sensations and thoughts he had not experienced before in all his long years. And it had all started with the sight of her.

Choosing to appear in clothing that felt suitable for an ellon of Tirion, Olórin took one final moment to inspect himself in the pool. Then when he was certain he could create a believable elven form, he let this new body dissolve again, so that he might travel to Tirion quickly and unseen.

~*~

It took an eternity to find a quiet enough corner to take form. Nowhere seemed quite out of sight, and each time Olórin settled, steeling himself to make the transformation, one of the Elves inevitably would walk by, or the flurry of voices on the wind would startle him out of the endeavour. Even when he came to the most isolated and solitary place upon the hill, the gardens at Finwë’s hall that had been Miriel’s favourite, where none had walked since her spirit departed, he could find no peace. He had barely breathed out the last of his reservations when Fëanor appeared in the rose-swathed gateway, his fine features contorted as he held back all manner of emotions. Olórin would generally have paused and observed the young prince, but despite himself, Olórin felt irritated and quickly fled. Why and how often the prince visited his mother’s gardens would have to remain a mystery until Olórin had finished this self-appointed task.

But finally he found an empty pavilion amongst the trees, where the light fell in dappled pools upon the faded flagstones, and there, after pausing for a long while, he gathered up the courage to change. None disturbed him this time, and with a sigh no louder than a whisper, he stepped out of the pavilion onto the sweet, damp grass with his long robes slipping coolly past his newly formed limbs.

He watched the other Elves as he passed through the gardens, and paid attention to their eyes, waiting for some flicker of confusion or intrigue, but most merely smiled if they acknowledged him at all. At first he felt like the Great Trees against the black night sky, so bright and so contrasting that none could fail to miss him, but soon the feeling dissipated. No one treated him strangely. No one even seemed to notice him much, other than to glance at his face with a look that said ‘oh, I do not know you’. It suddenly occurred to him though that he might need some story to explain his being there.

Despite his uneasiness, Olórin’s mind still worked quickly and reliably. He would tell them he was of the Teleri, he decided, of Alqualondë, here to see the city and visit his distant kin. He disliked the idea of speaking untrue words, however, and so decided not to resort to this story unless it was absolutely necessary.

He searched around the gardens for a long while, not noticing the changing of the light above him, for he was intent solely on finding Irimien. He thought of nothing but the moment when she would see him. Of course, she would not know who he was or that he had watched her in secret. She would not know that she enthralled him. He could not explain it to her either, for he still did not understand it himself. But to speak with her…what would that be like? he wondered again and again. To hear her laughter intermingled with the sounds of his voice, like two melodies dancing and intertwining in a song.

In fact, Olórin thought on this so intensely that he did not notice Irimien ahead of him, walking slowly and distractedly his way, until at last they collided. They walked into each other without much force and roused one another from their reverie.

"Forgive me," said Irimien, smiling. "I was not watching my path."

She nodded then passed him, falling back into her pensive mood as she went on her way.

The moment passed in the blink of an eye and Olórin was left standing on the path, staring into the flowers while he fought to order his thoughts. Only after a second did he realise she was headed away from him and that his opportunity was slipping by, like sand through his fingers. He turned quickly and watched her walk off for a moment before he hurried after her, reaching out to touch her arm and attract her attention.

Only as she paused and came to face him, he realised he did not know what to say.

"Is something wrong?" Irimien asked him, her eyes scanning his face, trying to fathom who he was.

Olórin stared. "No," he replied. How could he explain what he really wanted, and not overwhelm the elleth? How could he explain to her that he could think of nothing else but her smile, when he did not know why this was the case? What if they thought him strange or corrupted like the ones who followed Melkor? What if they thought he had lost his way like them?

"Then," Irimien went on, stepping back from this strange ‘ellon’ very slowly and cautiously, "what can I do for you?"

"I do not know," replied Olórin candidly.

"Are you lost?"

He shook his head quickly. "No, I am not lost. Irimien…"

"You know my name?" she asked, cocking her head to one side. As she grew concerned and confused, Olórin watched her smile fade. This was not how he had wanted their meeting to progress. It was a foolish thing to say. How could he explain how he came to know her?

"Yet I have not seen you before," Irimien continued. "Have we met before?"

"Not as such," he replied. "Forgive me…"

Irimien drew in a slow breath, then buried her hands in the sleeves of her robes.

"Good day," she said with a smile tainted with bemusement. She left him there, glancing over her shoulder a few times as if to check he was not following, still frowning as she tried to remember who he was. She was soon gone, and Olórin, without caring if anyone saw, let his physical form dissipate.

~*~

Elrond glanced towards the doorway at the sound of footsteps outside. Two of the dwarves wandered past, groaning slightly as they moved, or perhaps they were trying to sing. Whatever noise they were trying to create, they soon disappeared again along the corridor and the study fell quiet once more. Elrond turned his attention back to Gandalf, noticing though how heavy his eyes felt, and how many empty wine bottles now sat on the desk.

"Irimien?" he said, echoing Gandalf. "That name would make me think either of Númenor, or of one of the High Elves."

"Indeed," mused Gandalf, revealing nothing more.

"I know so little of you," Elrond went on. "I could not even guess at your history. If you say nothing more, I cannot work out for myself what happened."

Gandalf sighed deeply, and this time the wizard reached over to pour more wine. "Some things occur so long ago that they seem more like a dream than a memory. Soon it becomes hard to tell if she was real, or just some figment of my imagination."

"Since you are being evasive," muttered Elrond, sitting back in his chair, "then she must have touched your heart."

"She did," Gandalf admitted, nodding. "She did indeed. Though many people touch our hearts each day, and doubtless we do the same in turn. The trick is to find someone whom you can affect in equal proportion. And that is often the stumbling block of many a lover’s tale."

Once in a Fair Green Country

IV

Olórin lingered with the rest of the Maiar on the outskirts of the Ring of Doom, where they all waited for their respective masters and mistresses to call them. Nearby he saw many of his kind, some he had not spoken to in centuries, some he had not seen in millennia, and others, like Eonwë, that he saw far too frequently for his liking.

They clustered in their natural, shapeless form, beyond the thrones of the Valar, watching and listening to the sombre proceedings. The debate within the Ring was just what Olórin needed, as for the first time since his meeting with Irimien, he had something other than the elleth to concentrate upon. Like the others jostling soundlessly beside him, he wanted to hear the outcome of the council. For many years they had followed the affairs of the Valar, and many of the Maia had gone to Valmar to see the newly freed Melkor, to report on his activities to their fellows in excited whispers. Now they watched with interest as Melkor became the subject of debate once more.

"For some time now," said Manwë, "we have gained from the counsel of Melkor and long now has he shown himself to be penitent. Though there are some among us who, as in the first calling of this discussion, remain silent as to whether he should have been freed at all, I believe the time has come to relax our vigil, and to allow him the freedom of Aman once more. For in the beginning of days, Illúvatar intended all of us to be a part of the Music of the World, and though some may have brought discord, they must have the chance to find the right note once again. We must allow Melkor the opportunity to do so."

Olórin listened thoughtfully, and watched the smile grace Melkor’s face as the judgement was pronounced, then he drifted off towards the Green Mound of Ezellohar, taking shape, as did a few of the other Maia around him.

"Well then, all things are well," said Eonwë, appearing suddenly behind Olórin, who had not sensed the other’s presence until the very last moment. Beside Eonwë was a female of their kind, in the form of a pale-skinned woman with hair the colour of the night before the stars were wrought.

"What?" asked Olórin.

"Olórin has his thoughts elsewhere," Eonwë whispered to his companion, loud enough for Olórin to hear. "Though I would think he would care what happens here, since now Melkor will walk amongst Olórin’s beloved elves."

"Why do you spend your time amongst the Quendi?" asked the female, Ilmarë, idly gazing towards the trees.

"He finds them fascinating," sighed Eonwë, wandering past Ilmarë, brushing a hand over her hair.

"You say that as though it is an evil thing," laughed Ilmarë, pulling out from his grasp and losing her solid shape for a fraction of a second as she stepped away, smiling. "They are fascinating. Melian thought so, at least."

"And now Melian lives in a hole in the ground," replied Eonwë, "hidden away, locked in her hroa."

"She abides with one whom she loves," said Ilmarë. "And not an idle love, like that you hold for the cold halls of Taniquetil, or I for the light of stars upon the clouds. Love that consumes, that almost has a fëa of its own, writhing within your being. That is what she has. Uncontrollable love for another creature, that made her leave this aimless, idle life of ours."

Olórin paid them little heed. He wandered around the Green Mound at a slow, dolorous pace, his mind empty. Ilmarë watched him, frowning slightly, then followed. Eonwë reached out to her for a second, then with a disgruntled sigh and a muttered, "I shall return to my duties then," he dissipated.

"What would ease this trouble in your heart, Olórin?" Ilmarë asked. "It is not right that you should ponder on sad things."

"They are not sad things," said Olórin. "Merely inexplicable ones."

"To one so wise as you? Then they must be riddles indeed."

"Even the wise can find folly," grumbled Olórin.

"What has happened?"

"I do not know myself of late. I think it must be some foul mood, that will no doubt pass. Think nothing of it, though I thank you for your concern."

Ilmarë watched him, straying very close to him. "Has she a name?"

"Who?"

"The one you are thinking of."

"What makes you think…"

"Because I saw that look in Melian’s eyes, just before she left us."

Olórin turned and stared at the other Maia for a while, but Ilmarë simply smiled, a look of faint triumph on her ethereal features, before she gave him a brief wave and disappeared from sight.

~*~

"Yes," sighed Gandalf, finally answering Elrond’s question properly, after his long trail of reminiscences. "I did love her. But how to understand love, when you have never experienced its like before? How to know what should be done, or what should be said? And how to tell someone so far apart from me, so distant from my world, who did not even know me and had never seen me as I truly am that she was my everything. That she was as dear to me as the trees were to Yavanna."

He exhaled wearily and considered the glowing embers in his pipe.

"I have always been a fool," he muttered beneath his breath. "Always."

~*~

Olórin found a great crowd gathered in the square beneath the Mindon lamp in Tirion, which made it difficult to find a quiet corner in which he could take on physical, elven form, but eventually he managed to transform, and stepped out amongst the others. He did not feel quite so self conscious that time, being distracted constantly by the other elves, in examining the mixture of emotions on their faces. He could not quite fathom it, but many seemed concerned, some seemed almost displeased, others afraid. Yet he did notice that they all seemed to focus their attention on the king’s halls. Although Olórin did not know what was happening, he could guess that something of import was taking place within Finwë’s palace.

Then just as he apologised to an ellon, whom he had just walked into as he looked around at the other Quendi, Olórin spotted Irimien on the far side of the square, looking up towards the sharp beam of the Mindon as it reached into the clouds.

Taking a deep breath, Olórin rehearsed his words again inside his mind, before he started off towards her. He had spent months watching others of her kin around Tirion or in the Swan Havens, secretly listening to their conversations, watching how their lovers interacted, until he felt confident enough to think of approaching her again.

He found her by the wall of one of the grand houses on the square, standing alone. After pacing around in a small spot for a while, wringing his hands, Olórin finally went up to her, taking it a few hesitant steps at a time. She did not notice him at first, then as he came to her side and his shadow fell upon her, she turned and looked directly at him. For a moment Olórin simply stood there, his mouth open and ready to speak.

"I know you," Irimien said, frowning as she fought to remember him.

"We met some time ago," said Olórin, though he could not fathom how many years or decades even might have passed since their last encounter. "Though only briefly. I did not have a chance to introduce myself, nor to speak with you, however much I wanted to."

He bowed, took her hand and kissed it.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"One who has waited a very long time to meet you," Olórin replied.

"Are you here at Finwë’s calling? Then you should go through – the council has already started."

"Council?"

"King Finwë has called his lords and advisors to him."

"Oh," said Olórin. "That is not why I am here."

He was about to say more and offer his rehearsed speech, when a murmur of voices from across the square made him turn. Irimien walked past him, her attention on the doors to Finwë’s hall. Soon a crowd had gathered all around the square and she pushed to get to the fore. Olórin went with her, for want of a better plan.

Soon though he saw what had drawn the elves’ attention. Fingolfin, the king’s son by his second wife, strode out of the hall, his features set into a mask that only just concealed a tempest of emotions. He remained utterly dignified, however, as he made to cross the square, trying not to pay heed to the dozens of eyes following his movements.

Yet moments later the door to the halls flew open, thrown so violently that it battered against the wall and all in the square fell silent, watching in awe as Fëanor thundered out, heading towards his half brother. As he moved, he reached beneath his robes, and something glinted. Before Olórin realised that the object in Fëanor’s hand was a sword, the tip of the blade was levelled at Fingolfin’s chest. Irimien reached out and clung to Olórin’s arm as an instinct, gasping quietly. Olórin froze for a second, feeling her touch, but he could not enjoy the moment.

"See, half-brother!" said Fëanor, eyes bright with desperate rage. "This is sharper than thy tongue. Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father, and maybe it will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls."

Silence fell upon the square. Olórin stood wondering whether he should speak or intervene. What was his duty in such circumstance?

Finally Fingolfin stepped aside, keeping his gaze fixed on Fëanor’s eyes rather than the sword, then without a word he walked away, shouldering aside a few onlookers as he strode off across the square. Fëanor put his sword to his side and thrust back his shoulders, challenging the crowd to comment on the scene, though no one did. Only when Fëanor turned and went off into the halls again did the crowd start to disperse.

Irimien released Olórin’s arm slowly, her gaze fixed on the spot where that scene had just played out. Olórin stared at her hand sadly for a while, knowing there was no tenderness in her gesture. It was simply a reaction, he analysed. She would have grabbed onto a tree if it had happened to be beside her.

To confirm his assessment, Irimien then turned and hurried across the square to join a group of ellith, others from the palace, thought Olórin. They launched instantly into hushed whispers and Irimien did not spare him so much as a glance. With a deep sigh, Olórin walked away from the square.

However, although Irimien’s complete indifference weighed heavy in his heart, Olórin knew he had other matters to attend to. The image of that ellon, clutching his secretly-crafted sword, was branded upon Olórin’s mind. He knew he had no choice but to return to Taniquetil and report what he had seen and heard, even though he suspected the news would already have reached Manwë. It was his duty, and as Varda had told him, his duties would always take precedence.

Besides, he thought dully as he slipped out of sight and let his physical form dissipate, Irimien did not even know that he existed. Perhaps it was time to end that endeavour. Perhaps his duties should be his only concern.

Perhaps, he mused, they were all he would ever have.

~*~

Notes:

Fëanor’s little bit of dialogue is taken from The Silmarillion: Of the Simlarils and the Unrest of the Noldor.

Once in a Fair Green Country

V

"Melkor will be attended to," said Manwë, but his kinsman, Tulkas, had already left the Ring of Doom to find the errant Vala, charging through the assembled crowd of witnesses and Maian onlookers. Olórin stepped aside to let him past, then turned his attention back to the proceedings. He chose to remain unseen to all but the Valar and his own kind, for across the Mahanaxar he could see Irimien amongst the group of elves who had seen the incident in the square or knew of it. He imagined Irimien would not notice him, even if he did take on physical form, yet it was easier this way. Beside him he sensed Eonwë and Ilmarë, and felt their attention on him rather than the debate within the Ring. Perhaps they were watching his reaction, seeing if he would speak up in defence of the elves, or of Fëanor in particular.

Olórin, in truth, did not know what to say. He knew that this was a matter beyond his wisdom, and so had been, in a way, glad to tell Manwë what he had seen and leave the incident in the hands of the Valar.

"However," Manwë went on, "there is still the matter of Fëantáro. For though the malice of Melkor may be, at the root of it, to blame, it was this ellon who did break the peace of Aman, and who drew his sword upon his kinsman. Such cannot be ignored."

"Thou speakest of thraldom," said Namo the judge. "If thraldom it be, thou canst not escape it; for Manwë is King of Arda, and not of Aman only. And this deed was unlawful, whether in Aman or not in Aman. Therefore this doom is now made: for twelve years thou shalt leave Tirion where this threat was uttered. In that time take counsel with thyself, and remember who and what thou art. But after that time this matter shall be set in peace and held redressed, if others will release thee."

"I will release my brother," said Fingolfin suddenly. For a moment all, Vala, Maia or Elf, looked upon the younger son of Finwë, and Fëanor turned, for the first time since his arrival at the Ring to look upon the group of elves. He remained implacable, but Olórin fancied he saw something in Fëanor’s eyes, something more than mere surprise. Despite his years observing the Quendi, Olórin still could not understand them.

"So be it," said Manwë. "For twelve years this doom will stand. And with thee go thy sons, and any who would choose to stand by thee despite thy wrongdoings."

"Never have I let my son go alone into the world," replied Finwë, standing at the head of the elven crowd. "In my solitude, before my life was blessed with love and the hand of Indis, he was my strength and my sole endeavour. If it is the will of the council that some might travel with Fëanor and remain with him in this exile, then I shall quit my halls and travel with him. Those amongst my household shall have the choice. I shall feel no malice to those who wish to remain in Tirion."

"If thy heart is set," said Manwë, "none shall endeavour to stop thee. Let us hope thou canst persuade thy son to heed his father’s word once more."

"And what of Olórin?" whispered Eonwë darkly, shifting closer to Olórin. "Will he follow after those he has grown to love, or will he remain with his own kind?"

"He will remain," Olórin replied with utter surety. "There is nothing for him."

As he spoke, his gaze fell again upon Irimien, as she moved off with her people.

"It is not wise to follow," said Ilmarë, as the Maiar too drifted away from the Mahanaxar, with no real destination in mind. "There is an ill wind, can you not sense it?"

"I have heard it in the voice of Manwë," added Eonwë. "I have heard him say to Varda that he thinks things are soon to change. Long has he watched the writhing corruption in Aman, yet what can he say? What can he do against it, since the Quendi are free beings? If they choose to spoil that which was provided for them, then they must accept the consequences. All that Manwë and the others can do is to ensure the section of their populace corrupted by Melkor’s ways will not ruin all of Aman for their kind."

"For your own sake, Olórin," Ilmarë continued, "do not follow her. You know of whom I speak, though Eonwë may not see it. Our kind must not follow one side or the other, but must stay true to our masters. Trust that the Valar know best."

"I know this," Olórin told her gruffly. "We all have our duties to do. We must think of that alone, and let the Quendi take their own path without our interference."

Olórin left them at that, hoping that it would be as easy to enact this philosophy as it was to speak it.

~*~

The sun had tried hard to break through the black clouds that drifted up to the swathe the skies above Nienna’s halls. Small streaks of distant gold could just be seen through the twisting vapours, yet somehow that glimmer of light only leant weight to the mournful atmosphere about the place; so beautiful, yet it could not fully penetrate the clouds and remained forever out of reach.

Olórin hesitated for a long while before entering, but finally, when he came to the great hall, he found the Vala by her brazier, face barely visible in the dying light, a fog of dark, newly wrought cloud around her feet.

"She is not there," Nienna said by way of greeting. She did not look up from her work.

"Not yet," Olórin replied.

"Every day now you come to Mandos. Every day you leave, unable to decide if you should rejoice or weep."

"If she comes to Mandos," sighed Olórin, "then I know that she has met her end in Arda."

"Namo ought not to allow you to wander so about his halls," mused the Vala.

"He does not let me wander. Yet his servants will answer my question each day. They tell me if her fëa has come to Mandos and will say naught more. Then I go, unsure why I wished to know."

"Because there is more pain in that," said Nienna. "To know that she is slain would be to have some final word upon it all. And ‘twould give you hope, for if she and her kind may one day be pardoned and released, you may be reunited in Aman. If she lives then you will not see her again, but you would know she was well, and you could close your mind to her. The unknown kindles hope and it is that hope that causes pain, for it is that faintest of glimmers that we desire most, that we long for."

"How can I wish for death?" asked Olórin. "Only so that I can see her? It would be heartless of me, selfish in the greatest sense. I ought not to feel that way."

"And Namo ought not to allow you in those halls to ask after her. Yet he does. For whether you speak with him or with his servants, his permission is given and he knows of it. If you would question every tremor within your being, Olórin, you shall never again know happiness. These things pass, like clouds across the sun, casting their shadows for but a while, before something entirely new succeeds them. The wisest among us can never predict every caprice of fate. Only Eru knows, and we must adapt and learn as best we can. Only Eru can be flawless."

"Then one day I may forget her? And this madness I have succumbed to?"

"No," said Nienna. "But one day you may understand it."

~*~

"In all my years," said Gandalf quietly, "I never heard news of her again. I do not know if she lives here in Arda still, or if her spirit shunned the summons of Mandos and lingered here. No doubt I may never know. And if I were to find her again, I do not know what I would do. For she means so much to me still, and yet my heart no longer years for her as once it did. Nienna was right. I have never forgotten her, yet my heart seems to have healed in part. No longer do I ache to think of her name, but instead I remember her with fondness only. True, there has never been another, nor do I think there ever will be, but it no longer grieves me."

He sighed deeply.

"So there, my friend. The old man is far older than you can imagine, and yet he was not wise enough to escape the follies of the heart. Though I ought not to have spoken of it, and I would ask you not to repeat anything I have…"

Gandalf glanced over at Elrond and then smiled. The Master of Imladris sat in his chair, head slightly to one side, his features relaxed his eyes closed. Gandalf wondered for a moment just how much he had heard before sleep overtook him, and gave the wine bottles a dire glance, cursing them for loosening his tongue. Then, wearily, he rose and prized the goblet from Elrond’s hand, setting it down safely on the desk. He could find out how much Elrond knew in the morning.

"Goodnight," Gandalf whispered, then withdrew into the shadows, wandering out onto a balcony above the river where he could look out upon the night.

Middle-earth was such vast place, he mused. And he had no time to find her. Though he knew that somewhere, out there in the dark, she may have been singing to the stars, or sleeping on a talan in Lórien, or watching the sea in Lindon, there was no real chance that he would see her again. There was too much to do. Duty again must take precedence.

Yet though he knew this, he still wondered, if one day...

And he smiled as he smoked his pipe and remembered those moments again.

~*~

Notes

Mandos / Namo’s speech if from The Silmarillion: Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor