And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him that... the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.

Return of the King, “The Grey Havens”

I

He had dreamed again last night, as he seemed to have done every night since the voyage across the Sea had begun. But though most of those dreams had been nothing more than swift images that vanished like mist under the rising sun, forgotten a moment after he awoke, this time, he remembered. Not a great deal, but more than he had of all the others.

He was standing in a magnificent place, a beautiful hall of stone and crystal and shining metals that had no roof above it save a vaulted sky of brilliant blue. The hall was round, and high seats were set about it, a ring of thrones, each unique and beautiful, but less so than those who were seated upon them. They were not ordinary people, he was quickly able to see; each of the seven men and seven women had about them an immeasurable majesty and power that at once set them apart from all other beings to ever walk beneath the light of sun or moon or star. He was standing just within the ring with others he knew, friends and companions who had also come on the voyage, but his attention was not focused on any of them, nor even upon those beings seated upon the thrones. He was instead looking at someone standing at the center of the hall, a young, fair-haired, seemingly Elven male clad in strange white garb, who was smiling at him. He had never seen the man before, of that he was certain, but there was something undeniably familiar about him, especially in the way he smiled. He bowed gracefully....

....and the dream faded, washed away by cries from the deck above, calling out the sighting of land. Frodo sighed, wishing he could have remained asleep for a moment more, to perhaps finish the dream, but maybe the fact that he remembered even in part was a good sign. His sleep had not been as restful as he would have liked since they set out from the Grey Havens, but at least this past night, he had not been troubled with disturbing glimpses of darkness in his slumber. The music of rain falling on the deck above had been soothing, and now, along with the voices, the wind slipping through his tiny cabin window brought with it a pleasant scent of growing things and the sound of distant singing. Intrigued by it all, he forgot the dream, dressed quickly, and went to see what was exciting those who had set up the call.

The sun was just rising as he reached the deck and the rain just ending; the combined effects made it seem to Frodo that a great curtain was opening before them, revealing the hidden land which lay beyond. He saw it, as did all the others gathered to watch, and felt his breath taken away.

It was the most beautiful place Frodo had ever seen, despite the distance that still lay between the ship and the land for which it was bound: the Undying Lands. Amazement prompted him to step forward for a better look. Now, he stood at the ship's rail, wishing he was a little taller, so that it would not impede his view of the approaching land. One of the Elves who were also watching their approach saw the hobbit's plight and wordlessly led him to a place where he could stand atop a convenient bench and see without obstruction. Frodo realized, belatedly, that Bilbo was sitting on that bench, smiling as he looked out across the waters.

“I've heard many stories and songs about this place, living in Rivendell,” the old hobbit told his ersatz nephew, “but for once, I think even Elven words fell far short of doing it justice. It's grand, don't you think, my lad?”

“It's beautiful,” the younger sighed, still at a loss for better words. “I never thought I should have a chance to ever see something so wonderful, much less be able to live there. But I wonder if I shouldn't feel more out of place here than I did in the Shire, these past two years. You may be used to living with the Elves, Bilbo, but....”

Bilbo sniffed. “But nothing. Don't worry about things that haven't happened yet. I once thought that I would shrivel up and die in three seconds if I ever dared leave the Shire for more than a day or two. I saw some terrible places and some wonderful places on my journeys, and I may not have seen as much of the wide world that you have, but I think I know the sight of a safe haven when I see one. I know much of what you didn't tell me about your travels into Mordor, and after, and more than I, you deserve a chance to be and do some of things you couldn't, if you'd stayed in the Shire. You'll fit in just fine. You have friends among the Fair Folk, some great and powerful friends, make no mistake. And even old Gandalf thinks the world of you, though he might not say so out loud.”

The mention of the wizard reminded Frodo of the day he had awakened after being rescued from Mordor, of the conversation he and Gandalf had had, and had not spoken of since. He glanced at Bilbo, and wondered if the old hobbit knew the truth about the wizard, or if he merely presumed that he had been granted this journey as they had, because he, too, had been the bearer of a Ring. From the expression on Bilbo's face, he knew it was the latter. Bilbo had no clear notion that if anyone on the ship truly belonged to Aman, it was Gandalf.

Frodo then glanced around, wondering where the wizard might be. He spotted him sitting apart from all the others, at the back of the ship. Curious — since the wizard had not held himself aloof from the other passengers all through the voyage — he climbed down from the bench, left Bilbo to continue his watch with the Elves, and went to see if something was amiss.

Skirting along the rail at the starboard side of the ship, Frodo did his best to approach his old friend quietly, so as not to seem the busybody. If Gandalf noticed him, he made no sign. He seemed to be looking at the same sights as everyone else: the beautiful green land that glittered like a magnificent emerald amid the crystal blue of the sea, the white shores that skirted it, and beyond, the majestic purple of immensely tall mountains crowned with shining snow, the peaks rising high above the clouds, the tallest standing far above even the highest wisps of cloud, its pinnacle like the beacon of the greatest lighthouse ever built. The nearer green land was doubtless Tol Eressëa, Frodo knew from what he had studied of the place before they'd left Middle-earth, the home of the Eldar that had been made for them many years ago, in the dawn of the First Age. The mountains beyond were the eastern shores of Valinor itself, beyond which lay all the lands of Aman, west to the edge of the Encircling Sea and the Doors of Night. The wonderfully tall mountain was, if Frodo remembered correctly, Taniquetil, the watchtower atop which Manwë and Varda, the king and queen of all Arda, dwelt. From his readings of Elven lore, he knew that the proper name for the mountain was Oiolossë, Mount Everwhite, and that Taniquetil was merely the snow-capped peak upon which Ilmarin, the royal mansion, was situated, but a Noldorin loremaster in Rivendell had told him that Taniquetil had become the more commonly used name for the great mountain. Given that the sharp white horn of the peak so high above the plains of the world was its most striking feature, Frodo could see now why that name was preferred. He couldn't recall much about the lands they could not see beyond the mountains, but he had no doubt they were as beautiful as all they could see now.

And then it occurred to him just why Gandalf might have chosen to sit apart from all the others. Somewhere in this place was his home, had been his home since it had first been made and he had come with the other Ainur to inhabit it, long before even the Elves had first awakened in Middle-earth. In accepting the mission to help the peoples of Endorë oppose Sauron, he had willingly accepted his own diminishment. He had told Frodo that though he loved his home dearly and longed greatly to return to it, he could not remember it clearly because his acceptance had required him to be bound to living flesh that dimmed even an Ainu's mind and memories. He had been gone from it for nearly two thousand years, and though he had returned here very briefly after his death in Moria, he had not felt wholly a part of Aman even then, and afterward found that his memory of those days was quite blurred.

Now, what he had forgotten was before them in truth and not in a dream or a dim recollection, and as he drew nearer to where the wizard sat, learning against the rail, Frodo could sense that while the Elves were focused on green Eldamar, Gandalf was looking beyond it, to his own homeland. For a moment, he thought that perhaps it would be wiser to go back to Bilbo, but something told him to stay.

Rather than rudely stare at the wizard, he went back to watching the land they were nearing. Strangely, as time passed, they did not seem to be changing position, even though Frodo could clearly hear the sound of the ship plying its way through the waters, and the wind rustling in the sails. “Is this just an illusion?” he wondered aloud after a time, quite puzzled by the phenomenon.

Gandalf's soft chuckle drew his attention back to the wizard. “After a fashion. What you see is quite real, but the mountains of the Pelóri are much, much taller than any mountains of Middle-earth, and the isle of Eressëa is itself rather large. They seem very near, even from a great distance, and appear to remain ever beyond reach for a while. We came within sight of Aman during the night, though it was too distant even for Elven eyes to see it clearly without the light of star or moon, and it will not be much longer before this trick of distance ends. Then you will be able to judge the truth.”

The hobbit made a faint sound of relief. “Thank goodness! For a moment, I thought we were being held away, and wouldn't be permitted to land.”

“No, that is not an issue,” he was easily assured. “If this journey had not been allowed, we would not have come this far. Those who could have denied it are quite anxious to meet you, Frodo. They have never seen a hobbit before, nor met any creature who was able to resist such terrible evil for so long.”

It took but a moment for Frodo to realize that Gandalf was speaking of the Valar, and for a moment, the images of his dream flitted through his head. He had known, of course, that this was where they lived, but hadn't quite allowed himself to think of the possibility that he would actually meet them. He could scarcely run away from it now, so he tried not to think of it too deeply. “Of course they have,” he countered instead. “They know you, I should think, and I could never have done what I did if not for you. Bilbo was brave enough in his own way, but he never really understood the evil things in the world. You told me once that he took very little hurt from owning the Ring because of his pity, but after my own experiences, I think it may also be because he was innocent. He never knew what he bore, and because he didn't, it could never quite get a hold on him. I had to lose my own innocence that way in order to take the Ring to Mordor. If I hadn't, I could never have left the Shire. The first glimpse of a Black Rider would have frozen my heart, and all would have been lost. Because you helped me understand the danger of the Ring, I somehow found the strength to do it.”

“But that had nothing to do with my own resistance.”

“Oh yes, it did, it had very much to do with it. The day you came to Bag End and tested the Ring in the fire, and told me about it and its history and its horrible power, I was dreadfully frightened, and I did not have the heart to dare any danger at all. So I offered you the Ring — and that was when I truly began to understand the evil of it, and what needed to be done. I had never seen you frightened before — worried, uneasy, suspicious, angry, almost anything else, but not so full of real fear. I never thought anything could make you so afraid, but when you told me why you did not dare take the Ring, I began to understand. And later, after I had had more time to think about it, and after all the other things that happened later, I realized how hard it must have been for you to resist such powerful temptation. You and Galadriel both told me that the Rings give power to each bearer according to their measure. In time, the One became a sore temptation to me, yet I could not clearly see what it truly had to offer me. Its hold on me had little to do with power and more, I'm afraid, with greed. But I'm sure it offered you much, much more, yet you had the strength to refuse it, and never ask for it again. What you resisted was no less than I did; it was more, even if you will not admit it. If those who live here are anxious to see me because of what I did, they should be no less anxious to see you, since you succeeded where I failed.”

The wizard was quiet while he studied both the hobbit and his words; then, he smiled, gently. “I suppose you may be right, although as I've told you before, you did not fail. We each had tasks to accomplish, in whatever ways we could, and sometimes, we managed in spite of ourselves — and because of the help of others. But I expect no special welcome for myself. I simply did what I was sent to do, and now, I am coming home.”

He looked up at the tall mountains at last looming nearer before the ship. “Home,” he said again, softly, the word full of both joy and sadness.

The latter concerned Frodo. “Did you not wish to return?” he asked, not wanting to pry, but disturbed by what he heard in his friend's voice.

The wizard's dark eyes lingered on the approaching shores for a moment more, then shifted to the hobbit. “Oh, yes, very much, for a very long time. But while I have felt that yearning all the years I lived in Middle-earth, I simply cannot recall as much as I would like. My memories are still clouded, and even the sight of things that should be familiar cannot lift that veil.”

“And this will never change?” The very thought was disturbing. Frodo knew were he in such a position, he would not enjoy it.

Gandalf shrugged. “I suspect it will, but not until....” He hesitated, as if searching for different words. “Not until those who sent me are satisfied that my work is indeed done.”

Frodo thought back on everything he had seen the wizard do, or knew that he had done in the many years he had been in Middle-earth. He snorted softly. “And when will that be? When you've fallen on your own sword to prove you're willing to die again for the sake of others?”

He had meant it as a somewhat sarcastic jest, but Gandalf did not laugh. He merely looked away once again, and said nothing.

Frodo would have preferred any other response. This left him with a cold, sinking feeling that before all was at last said and done, he would lose this friend he had known all his life, forever.

**********

Before long, as Gandalf had promised, the illusion of forever moving without coming closer to land passed, and the mountains of Aman loomed taller and taller before them. The green of Eressëa also grew steadily nearer, but to Frodo's puzzlement, the ship was not bearing toward it. Instead, it was steering toward a wide cleft in the great wall of stone, through which the sea reached a broad arm between Taniquetil and another, lesser peak to the north, stretching west to the lands beyond. There was a name for this place, the hobbit knew, but he could not recall it, just as he could not remember the name of a port city that was dimly visible along the shore north of the bay. He had moved back to see how Bilbo was faring, and found the elder hobbit equally puzzled by their course.

“I should have thought we'd be headed for one of the port cities on Tol Eressëa,” Bilbo reflected as the ship continued on its westward tack. He looked up, not at Frodo, who had no more of an answer than he himself, but to the Elves who were standing nearby, Galadriel and Elrond in particular. “Or are there no facilities there for a ship such as this? The maps in Rivendell seemed rather incomplete, that way.”

“Undoubtedly because most of my household had never been here before, save Glorfindel,” Elrond replied. When Frodo looked up at the Elf lord, he noticed a most peculiar expression on his face, one that combined something of uneasiness with recognition. “Such charts were not needed by those heading into the West. If the ship was properly built and set out on the correct heading, it would reach this place without any further need to set a course. And it was unwise to dwell overlong on such things when it was not yet time for some of us to leave the shores of Middle-earth.”

“I was here, long ago,” Galadriel added quietly, her expression not unlike Elrond's but nevertheless not quite the same. “There are port cities on Eressëa — Avallónë to the south and east, Tavrobel to the north and west. And on the shores of Valinor itself lies Alqualondë, the Haven of the Swans.” She nodded toward the city distantly visible to the north, with great sadness in her eyes. “For myself, I am grateful we are not landing there. I was not a part of Fëanor's madness when he slew the Teleri to take their ships; indeed, I fought against him to defend the innocent. But much evil came of that tragedy, and it will be long ere I will be able to look upon that city again and not remember my own part in those dark days.”

Bilbo grumbled softly, as if this was very old news and therefore of less consequence than current events. His attitude was forgivable, since during the voyage, Frodo had realized his adoptive "uncle" knew more of the beautiful Elf lady than he actually knew her, having first met her when the parties from Rivendell and Lothlórien had met en route to the Havens. The old hobbit glanced at the city on the shores, then back toward the great island. “Perhaps we're just taking a more convenient route into the northwest port — Tavrobel, did you call it? I must confess I don't know much about sailing, even in ordinary waters. Would this be a reasonable course, in these waters? I've at least heard things about the dangers of unseen rocks and strange currents....”

“Not here,” the Elf woman said with complete certainty. “These waters were beloved of Ossë, and for all his fickle nature, he would not have suffered any harm to come to those who dwelt here. No, we are not headed for Eressëa. I believe we are following the path of Eärendil, to the Calacirya and Tirion the Fair.”

That explained Elrond's odd expression, Frodo realized. Elrond and his brother Elros had lost both their parents when the sons of Fëanor had ravaged their homeland, seeking the Silmaril in Elwing's keeping, and it was in following this path to plead for mercy from the Valar that Eärendil and Elwing had been permanently separated from their children. The passage of the mortal man into the Undying Lands had lowered the choice upon him, his wife, and their descendants, to which kindred they would irrevocably belong, and unless his sons eventually chose to be counted among the First-born, Elrond was now the last of his mother's Elven blood. It made sense that he would feel uneasy, taking the same path as his father, especially if this had been unexpected.

When he spoke, however, the Elf lord seemed remarkably calm. “It might well be so. I do not know where Celebrían planned to make her home in the West, but if she found greater comfort and healing in the city of her ancestors, I am sure she would have been welcomed there. You also had kin in Tirion, did you not?” he asked Galadriel.

She nodded. “My parents and brothers, and others of our family. Those who remained would certainly have welcomed my daughter when she came to Eldamar, and done all they could to aid her in her healing. But I do not know where it is customary for ships to land, when they arrive from Middle-earth. Much has doubtless changed since I first departed across the Sea.”

Bilbo snorted. “Well, someone must be steering the ship — or has Círdan simply left it to drift wherever the wind takes it?”

“Círdan is still guiding it,” a new voice said, joining the conversation. Frodo was relieved to see that Gandalf was no longer holding a lonely vigil away from the other passengers, though something in his face continued to disturb the hobbit. He could not say what, just as he could not quite define the odd timbre of the wizard's voice. “We are indeed bound for the port near Tirion, where Eärendil landed those many years ago. And like him, we are called to a destination beyond it. We are summoned to Valmar, and thence to the Máhanaxar.”

The last word was unfamiliar to Frodo, but the sound of it was unsettling. Galadriel, it seemed, found it no more pleasant than he. “So we are called to stand judgment in the Ring of Doom,” she said, her tone a blend of resignation and bitterness.

Gandalf, however, seemed unperturbed by the subject. “Perhaps so, but not all judgments are punishments, my dear Lady of the Golden Wood. If you had been allowed this voyage for the sole purpose of being called to stand trial and do penance for the errors of your past, I would have warned you ere we set sail from the Havens. Even Sauron was told what to expect if he returned to Aman with Eönwë, and he made his own choice by escaping so that he would not have to face it. I am not the herald of the Valar, but I am the last of their five messengers, and I will never believe they would have used me to carry tidings that concealed the truth. There was no contingency laid upon your permission to return. The last of the Ring-bearers are summoned so that the matter which began with their forging more than an age ago can be ended. I think you will find that the Valar are as pleased as any of us to know that this struggle is finally over.”

Galadriel conceded the issue with a polite bow of her head. Frodo was still caught on another part of the wizard's words. “Do you mean Bilbo and I are summoned, too?” he asked, uneasy. Memories of his dream returned once again, and he again found himself disturbed by the notion of actually meeting the great powers who he knew of only through Elven stories and songs. When Gandalf confirmed it, he shivered. The dream images were not frightening to him, but when weighed against what he knew he had done in his final test against the temptation of the Ring.... He tried not to let his uneasiness show on his face, but even he could hear it in his voice. “Must I go?” he asked, thinking even as he said it that he sounded far too much like a child who fears facing up to his own misdeeds.

The wizard shook his head. “If you do not wish, no. This is a request, not a command. But there is nothing to fear, Frodo. The name of the place does have an unsettling sound about it, I do grant, and I myself have felt such reluctance when I was called there. Yet what I told Galadriel holds true for you, as well. You are not asked to come to be sentenced for past crimes. Had we failed in our efforts and fled here to escape the results of our failure, then perhaps we might have cause to fear punishment. We did not, and this is but the closing of the final chapter in the very long book of the History of the Rings. If any one of us will be asked to give an account of our actions, it will be me, for I was sent expressly to carry out the wishes of my superiors, who may have uncomplimentary opinions of how well I did my work. Your participation was wholly voluntary, and you acquitted yourself well. They are anxious to meet you, as I told you earlier, but they are not angry. You need not come if the thought distresses you, but I think you will be pleasantly surprised, if you do. Valmar is a beautiful city, and for all its terrible name, the Máhanaxar is quite beautiful as well. Only those who have done evils worthy of harsh judgment need fear it.”

His words were meant to be reassuring, and to an extent they were, but Frodo could not entirely shake his feelings of trepidation, that if he went to this place, something dreadful would happen. Bilbo, however, spoke while he was still trying to form an answer. “Valmar — that's the same as Valimar, isn't it? Some of the things I translated mentioned it, how beautiful it was, with silver domes and golden gates and all manner of bells. It almost sounded like something out of a dream, to me. I should very much like to see it for myself, to see what a dream looks like.”

The elderly hobbit turned to his cousin. “Now, why wouldn't you want to see something like that with your own eyes, Frodo my lad? Gandalf's right when he says there's nothing to be afraid of. I know you have these odd notions that you didn't do your job with the Ring well enough, but it was a messy business right from the start, quite a good many years before either of us were even born, and whether or not things were finished up neatly isn't as important as the fact that they were finished, no matter who did the job. Let's not borrow trouble that isn't ours.”

“Rightly spoken,” Galadriel agreed, favoring the younger hobbit with a smile. “If the Valar have forgiven me the mistakes I made in the folly of pride, they certainly will welcome you gladly. For how could the tale of Ring be told in full without the presence of its last bearer? You have nothing to fear, Frodo.”

Since it was plain that he could not avoid this without, at the very least, disappointing his companions, Frodo capitulated. But he did not mention that his fear was not for himself, but for whatever Gandalf had left unsaid in their earlier conversation. Perhaps it was nothing more than an uneasy coincidence of words, but he could not shake the feeling that some final unpleasantry lay ahead of them, and whatever it was, it would be met in the Ring of Doom.

II

It had seemed to Frodo that nothing in the world could ever be more impressive than his first sight of Taniquetil, until the ship entered the bay of Eldamar and the great mountain could only be seen by looking up — and up, seemingly forever. The higher snow-covered slopes seemed to go on to an impossible height, far beyond the clouds and even the very air around them, until it was at last crowned by the never-dimming light of Ilmarin, the home of the king and queen of the Valar, Manwë and Varda. The sight of it so astonished the halfling that he did not notice they were at last nearing the shores until he heard the voice of Galadriel speaking nearby.

“This certainly is not as it was when I was last in Aman,” the Elf lady remarked, a note of not unpleasant surprise in her tone. “Any who wished to bring a ship this near to Tirion were required to anchor it in the bay and cross the remaining distance walking through the water, or in a smaller boat. There was no dock or quay to accommodate anything larger.”

Not far away, Bilbo harrumphed. “This makes more sense to me,” was his opinion. “I had to wonder who was making the mistake, the map makers or the persons who decided to put a port miles up the coast, away from the main city. I know, I know, one group of Elves lived here and another group of Elves lived there, and others moved to different places — but really, isn't it much more convenient to have more than just one port?”

As Bilbo made his comments, Frodo managed to take his eyes from the spectacle of the mountain and have a look at what was finally drawing near ahead of them. All along the bay and as far up the coasts as the eye could see, the shores were covered with white sands so fine and brilliant, they looked to be made of diamond dust. Directly ahead, the docking facilities under discussion were rendered insignificant by the beautiful city that lay beyond it. Atop a tall green hill it was built, the greens and golds of slender trees in contrast to its white walls and the sparkling stairs of crystal that wound down the slopes and up to the walls in which the elegant city was held. There were many towers in it, but at its summit was the tallest and fairest of all, an almost delicate spire that looked to be fashioned of the purest mother of pearl, save for a chamber of silver at the very top, in which a brilliant lamp burned, clearly visible even in the full light of day.

At the foot of the lovely tower grew yet another tree, but this unlike all the others, taller and more graceful. Indeed, Frodo had seen only one other like it, the sapling of Nimloth that now grew before the fountain of the king in Minas Tirith. This had the same alabaster bark and slender dark leaves and white blossoms, but it was much taller, much stronger, clearly much older than the White Tree of Gondor — older, he felt certain, than any tree he had seen in Middle-earth. Galathilion, came the name from somewhere in the confusion of his thoughts and memories, once a sapling of the eldest of all trees, Telperion, that had once given light to the world before the first rising of the sun and the moon. Quite overwhelmed by the realization that he was indeed looking upon sights his own people had long since ceased to think of as anything more than very dim and distant legends, he noticed nothing else until he heard Bilbo speak again.

“I would've expected more in the way of a welcoming party, considering some of the persons on this ship,” the old hobbit half-grumbled as they drew up to the dock. “Was no one told to expect us?”

When he looked toward the quay, Frodo saw several Elves who were acting as dockhands, preparing to receive the ship and handle its moorings. Aside from them, he saw only one person, a tall, dark-haired Elf clad in blue and silver. Even at a distance, Frodo could see that his eyes were piercingly bright, and though something about him felt strangely familiar, the hobbit could see no resemblance between him and any of the Elves he knew.

But Elrond — who had turned toward the dock, his interest piqued by Bilbo's comment, no doubt because of his long-anticipated reunion with his wife Celebrían — recognized him at once. “Gil-galad!” he said softly, the name little more than a breath of great surprise.

Frodo might have thought he had in fact mistaken for a word what was in truth naught but an intake of breath had Bilbo not echoed it, more loudly and clearly, and with even greater surprise. “Gil-galad?” he repeated, sounding almost as if he did not believe it. “But... wasn't he killed during the other war with Sauron, in that horrible battle in Mordor? Why, that was over three thousand years ago!”

Elrond smiled wryly. “More than time enough to win release from the Halls of Mandos, for one of our people who died with honor and committed no grave crimes in his life. Is seeing the truth of it so unbelievable, Bilbo, or is it merely, perhaps, that you never quite grasped that the legends and songs you translated concerned real people and not fantasies?”

The elderly hobbit sputtered incoherently for a few moments before grumbling a bit and falling silent, totally flustered. Frodo did his best to conceal the chuckle that rose up at his elder cousin's chagrin, understanding that this was for Elrond a mild payback for some of Bilbo's cheekiness in certain songs he had written and translated while living in Rivendell. Given that he was only now stirring from the sleepiness with which he had lived much of the past few years in Middle-earth, it was quite likely that the old hobbit simply hadn't given much real thought to the fact that once they reached Aman, he might well indeed at last meet some of the legendary figures about whom he had written and sung.

While Bilbo attempted to appear as inconspicuous as possible, Frodo watched the dockhands deftly catch the lines thrown to them from the Elves who had assisted Círdan throughout the voyage. In a matter of minutes, the white ship was safely moored, and a plank set in place for those disembarking. Gil-galad moved to stand at the foot of the ramp, smiling up at those standing at the rail, looking down at him. “Greetings, honored friends and guests!” he said in a clear fair voice well-trained in delivering both commands and formal pleasantries. “Welcome to the port of Tirion, which was just lately completed in anticipation of your arrival to these fairest of shores. I trust that your passage was a calm and blessed one. I have been given the honor of meeting you here at this time of festival, to escort my fellow Ring-bearers to Valmar and the Máhanaxar, where all has been prepared to receive you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Frodo noticed Elrond turn his face away from the quay; to the halfling's surprise, he was smiling and struggling to contain his laughter. “Very much like Bilbo,” the Elf lord commented softly when he noticed Frodo's curiosity. “He never could let pass an opportunity to give a speech.”

The hobbit suddenly understood his humor, recalling that Elrond had served as Gil-galad's herald for many years before the Elf king had been slain by Sauron himself in the battle before Mount Doom. He had been made the heir to Vilya before the Elven armies joined in the Last Alliance and set out to war against the Dark Lord, and thus Elrond certainly knew him quite well. He wondered if Bilbo had overheard Elrond's remark, but was distracted by a comment from Galadriel before he had a chance to see.

“And was nothing prepared to make that journey less tiresome to weary travelers?” the lady said in tones that bespoke her own friendly familiarity with the former bearer of the Ring of the Firmament. “It is a very long walk to Valmar, and not all among us were blessed by Eru Ilúvatar with long and ageless strides.”

Frodo was certain she was referring to himself and Bilbo, and though he blushed to think this was how he would first be brought to the notice of such a celebrated person as a legendary king of Elves, he was glad someone was taking into consideration his kinsman's advanced age. Though he was more animated and awake than he had been when they'd left Middle-earth, Bilbo was still old and worn of body, and not fit for what sounded like a very long hike.

Gil-galad answered with another smile and a polite bow. “Arrangements have been already been made, my good Lady Galadriel, and appropriate steeds await all of you, farther ashore. Although I see that at least one among you may have no need of the provision.” A nod of his head indicated the great gray horse that was being led toward the ramp from a cabin at the rear of the main deck, where he had been stabled during the voyage. Frodo had been wondering where Gandalf had disappeared to, and this answered his question. “Does this noble beast belong to you, my lady?” Gil-galad wondered.

She made a softly skeptical sound, both at the remark and the mildly jesting attempt at flattery. “He is mine no more than I am your lady in any respect, Ereinion. Shadowfax belongs to Mithrandir, if it can be said he belongs to anyone, and he has earned this sojourn in the lands of his ancestors as well as any other who fought against Sauron.”

“I doubt it not. He is welcome to Aman, as are all of you — yourself included, cousin. When the Valar lifted the Ban of the Noldor, they did so for you as well, and you have also earned your welcome here, through all you have done and have not done in the struggle against Sauron. Put aside your worries that you will be forbidden the very lands in which you were born. Now, as it is a fair day's ride to the city of the Valar, I ask that all the bearers come with me, so we may begin the journey and perhaps arrive in Valmar before the day is well past gone.” His subtle emphasis on the word all did not go unnoticed by those on the ship.

“I believe the good king is referring to you, Círdan,” Gandalf called to the shipwright, who was busying himself with checking the moorings, a clearly unnecessary task, as the ship was quite steady against the pier. “You may have surrendered Narya into my keeping, but you bore it for far more years than I, even if you did not use it.”

The ancient Elf appeared faintly uncomfortable. “And does merely keeping something hidden for so long, unused, confer honor on the one who did it?”

“As much as it does so for Bilbo,” the wizard replied, unruffled. “There is less temptation to use a thing when you do not know what it truly is and all it can do. When you know, such resistance is more difficult, and the discipline required to leave it unused much greater. You played your part in the history of the rings, my old friend, and it was as noble as any role filled by the rest of us. Come now, before Ereinion regrets having given it to you in the first place, and abandons us to make our own way to Valmar on foot. Noble a steed as Shadowfax may be, he cannot carry us all!”

Some of the others chuckled; Gil-galad laughed outright. “I think perhaps you have spent too many years as a recluse in the Havens, old friend,” he said to Narya's former bearer, his face glowing with the warmth of affection for the one who had become a father to him after his own had sent him to the Havens for his own safety. “It is past time you came out and about in the world, even though this was a voyage with no return. The way back is now closed to us, so you had best come along and begin acquainting yourself with your new home, and those who live here. Or do you wish to embarrass those who came with you, when they arrive in Valmar without you and the Valar ask to know how and when you fell overboard during the voyage?”

Frodo could not help but laugh, though he quickly smothered it behind one hand. He had heard tales about the Elven king who had been a hero throughout the Second Age, but the stories and songs had all been grim or dark, with a sad ending. None had ever bothered to mention that Gil-galad had a distinctly wry sense of humor, perhaps because it somehow seemed rather un-Elven. Fortunately, the younger hobbit was not the only one who reacted thus, and Círdan finally relented, smiling broadly as he went down the ramp to embrace the foster son he had missed for far too many years. The bearers headed off the ship; the others who had traveled with them would follow or stay as they saw fit.

Bilbo required assistance getting down the ramp more than Shadowfax did, and while Glorfindel — who intended to follow the others to Valmar — and Frodo helped the old hobbit, Gil-galad offered to assist Shadowfax, though he could see it was little needed. The great gray horse plainly intrigued him. “A noble beast, indeed,” he said when Shadowfax was securely on the planks of the dock. “One of the Mearas, I can see quite clearly, but like to none, I think, since Oromë brought the first to the plains of Middle-earth. So another of the older races returns at the last to Aman, to pass forever from the world of Men.”

“It would seem so,” Gandalf agreed, “though I think not to leave Endorë completely. As the blood of the Eldar will be united with that of the Edain in the children of the new king, so I think there will ever be traces of the noble and beautiful and eldest of things in what lives and thrives and grows fair in Middle-earth. A comfort, to know that since the taint of Morgoth cannot be wholly erased until the world is remade, neither can the strength and grace of that which is good and noble be fully removed. It will rise again at times when it is most needed, and the children of the mortal world will show that they are more than those who doubt ever suspect.”

Gil-galad looked at the wizard for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Wisely said. You are the last of the Istari who were sent to give aid during this final conflict with Sauron, are you not? Never have I met you before, as I was born in Endorë and did not leave the Halls of Mandos until after you and the others had been sent upon your errand. I would not have been in favor of allowing one of the Three to pass out of the hands of the Elves when still I lived in the East, but I understand why Círdan made his choice. I have heard many things, and now perceived the truth with my own eyes and senses, and I am honored to have this opportunity to meet you as those in Middle-earth knew you, before all is concluded.”

As the Elf king bowed politely before turning to lead the others to where their mounts awaited, Frodo glanced at him, sharply. Something in the way he said before all is concluded left the hobbit with a chill feeling in his marrow, another suspicion that not all that lay ahead would be pleasant. Gil-galad seemed unworried, however, and when the halfling shifted his glance to Gandalf, there was no apparent concern on the wizard's face, above and beyond the vague discomfort Frodo had witnessed earlier as he attempted to remember his homeland with only limited success. He must have sensed the gaze upon him, for he looked at Frodo a moment later and smiled.

“Are you still uneasy about your welcome, Frodo?” Gandalf asked as the others moved on toward the shore and they followed, a bit more slowly. “I assure you, there is nothing for you to fear, not here or in Valmar.”

Perhaps not for me, the hobbit could not help but think, then tried to suppress the thought, lest the wizard somehow hear it without meaning to. His answering smile was watery. “I suppose you're right, but I can't help but feel a little nervous. I certainly didn't expect to have someone I know of only through legends and songs greet us at the dock!”

The wizard chuckled. “Neither did I, to be perfectly honest, but it is fitting. Of the mortals and immortals who ever bore one of the Rings of Power, all who remain are now here — save for Sam, who bore the One only briefly, and whose time to visit these shores may yet come, after he has lived the life he was meant to live. He will find what healing he needs in the Shire, with his friends and family. Do you believe now that you were perhaps mistaken, to think that you might find the healing which you need here?”

The question startled the hobbit, not because Gandalf was in error, but because he had voiced a question that had lingered at the back of Frodo's mind all through the voyage. He had felt he was doing the right thing when he had boarded the ship, but second thoughts had begun to plague him not long after they were underway. He had almost asked Círdan to turn back at one point, but something had stopped him — a knowledge, perhaps, that it was already too late, but more likely an awareness that whatever else he might feel, he was doing the right thing. He remembered this, and shook his head.

“No, I know that if I do not find healing here, I won't find it anywhere else. If I had stayed in the Shire, I know I could not have lived much longer, not like this. When the pain of my wound came upon me again, I would have let it take me. I wasn't the same person who'd left Hobbiton to help deal with the problem of the Ring. Some things deep inside me had changed, for better and for worse, and though I came back, I didn't belong there, anymore. Not even the Elves could provide the medicine I needed. I do want to be healed, Gandalf, to be rid of all the darkness and the pain and the dreadful memories, and I'm grateful to you and anyone else who was responsible for giving me this chance. But I suppose when I thought of coming here, I imagined we would slip in quietly, just another ship coming into port, with no fuss or bother. How does a mere hobbit like me speak to people like Gil-galad, or the Valar?”

“Just as you would speak to me, or anyone else. You know what I am, Frodo. Has that knowledge made me any less your friend, or changed the ways in which we talk with each other?”

“No, but I've known you much longer, and you were my friend long before I had any real idea of what you are. You were just Gandalf, and the stories I knew about you were nothing at all like the great legends of Elven kings and the Powers in the West.”

The wizard laughed softly. “Very true. I suspect the tales you heard of Elrond were much grander and more impressive than the unkind rumors and peevish complaints you heard about me! Yet you did nothing improper when you first met him, and the circumstances that led to that meeting held much more potential for embarrassment. This time, you have arrived as an anticipated and welcome guest of people who wish to express their thanks for the part you played in defeating Sauron. I believe you will find, when all is said and done, that you will need nothing more than plain hobbit courtesy. You haven't forgotten your manners, now, have you?”

Frodo smiled crookedly. “No, I haven't. You're right, of course. I shall try my best not to worry any longer. But will you do the same?”

Gandalf favored him with a curious look. “I am not worried, not about our reception in Valmar. My mission did not go quite as had been planned, it is true, but neither did my part in it fail. I could, perhaps, have wished to have made fewer mistakes, but so long as the end was achieved honorably, which it was, I am content. Indeed, I prefer this to having done too well, since too much success often brings with it an excess of praise and attention, neither of which have ever made me comfortable. I'm certain you understand this.”

“I do,” the hobbit agreed, remembering the day he had awakened on the field of Cormallen, and the reception he and Sam had received from all the armies and noblemen and kings who had been there. “But do you still have trouble remembering this place as you should?”

He was answered with a slight shrug that dismissed the matter as utterly unimportant. “Yes, but that will remedied, in time.”

“But what if it isn't? What if you don't ever remember? What then?” Frustration bubbled up along with the words, and refused to be contained; both came spilling past Frodo's lips before he could even think to stop them. “Does everyone who ever became involved with those beastly Rings have to suffer and lose so much of what was dear to them, just because other people made the even greater mistakes of forging the things in the first place? Will evil never let go of those it touches?”

He spoke with more passion than he had intended, but in so doing, he let out much of what had been disturbing him since early that morning. Gandalf appeared to understand, for he smiled softly as he laid a hand upon the halfling's shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “I'm afraid such is ever so when great wrongs are done, that innocents pay the dearest price of righting them, in the end. The evil may pass, but always it leaves behind its marks. You know the truth of it, Frodo, you said as much to Sam when you were riding to the Havens. It must often be so, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up so that others may keep them.”

Frodo blinked, surprised to hear his own words echoed by the wizard. “You weren't even there when I said that. How did you know...?”

The smile turned ever so slightly mischievous. “More people than Sam heard what you said, and were moved by it. Elrond told me. What you said was quite true, and it is as true for immortals as it has been for mortals, and always has been. Many someones, both mortal and immortal, gave up a great deal that was precious to them to help undo the treachery of Sauron and end its threat at last. I at least entered into this conflict with my eyes open, aware of the perils I might face, and if my wounded memory does not heal as quickly as I like, there are people here in Aman who can help me, just as they can help you recover from all you have suffered. Do not worry on my account. All will be well, as you will soon see.”

The hobbit made a mildly disgruntled sound. “What I said may have been true for everyone, but some people have very different notions of what is meant by ‘soon.' I recall a time when you used that particular word concerning your next visit to Hobbiton. Nine years passed before you returned, and the real trouble started. You seem to have a very flexible definition of the word.”

Gandalf laughed again, and Frodo was willing to admit that there was no dissembling in the sound of it. “I stand corrected, and very properly rebuked! I do apologize for that, as I have before. For now, I should say that this time, ‘soon' will begin when we reach our destination in Valmar — which will take longer than it might if we do not hurry and join the others before they leave without us!”

Frodo admitted the truth of that as well, for just then he heard Bilbo call out for them to stop dawdling so. “This time, I intend to hold you to that,” he told the wizard, only half in jest, as they quickened their pace to catch up.

**********

Just beyond the port facilities, which were not extensive, since they were new and primarily intended only for the convenience of passenger vessels traveling between Alqualondë and the ports on Tol Eressëa, the steeds of which Gil-galad had spoken awaited them, several fine horses almost as impressive as Shadowfax, as well as two ponies of a breed Frodo had never seen before. As he and Glorfindel helped the hobbits to mount, the Elf king explained how they were descended of beasts favored by the Vala Oromë, who was both a consummate hunter and a tender of the greater olvar , having bred many of the finest creatures ever seen in Arda. In the Elder Days, his favored prey had been not such animals, but the dreadful monsters spawned by Melkor and sent to prowl in the darkness of Middle-earth even before the awakening of the Elves. It was during one such hunt that he had found the First-born, and thus was he held in great respect by many of the Eldar.

The tale was more of an answer than Frodo had expected, but also had the effect of stirring Bilbo from his fit of embarrassment. As they headed off toward Tirion at a comfortable pace, the old hobbit found himself more wide awake than he had felt in years, and bursting with questions about anything and everything they passed or saw. His curiosity was indulged, not only because he was a newcomer and a guest, but because it was shared to an extent by Elrond and Círdan, who had never before seen Eldamar or the Blessed Realm. Many things had changed since Galadriel had last seen these shores, and ever Glorfindel found that not all was the same as when he had been sent to help in the earlier struggle against Sauron, during the Second Age.

Frodo could not tell if Gandalf also noticed such changes, for he said nothing, content to let Gil-galad lead the way, in both their ride and in answering the others' questions. From his wistful expression, it seemed as if the wizard wished he could remember better, but had resigned himself to the situation until it became possible for it to be remedied. Perhaps, the hobbit mused, he was not joining in the conversation because he did not wish to seem too woefully ignorant of his own homeland. Or perhaps he was simply glad for a chance to let someone unfamiliar with the peril take up the task of dealing with questions from an insatiably curious halfling. Whatever the case, he did not seem worried or uneasy, so Frodo did his best to set aside his own concern and forget the disconcerting feelings that continued to plague him in spite of all reassurances.

They were now passing through the city of Tirion itself. The sun was riding high in the skies above, its clear, bright light turning the white walls and crystal stairs and other marvels of the ancient Elven city alight with brilliance. Yet for all its beauty, the place was strangely silent, apparently empty and deserted. They had not ridden far into the city before even Frodo noticed this.

“Was this place abandoned?” he wanted to know, unable to think of another answer, for there were no clues beyond the lack of inhabitants. “Have the people who lived here moved somewhere else?”

Gil-galad chuckled, kindly. “After a fashion, though they certainly have not abandoned fair Tirion! Like Eärendil so long ago, you have arrived during a time of festival, Master Frodo. Several times a year, all the people of Aman gather in Valmar and on the plains beyond and even upon the slopes of Taniquetil to give thanks to Eru Ilúvatar and rejoice in all He has given us. You have come during the festival of the harvest, which the Men of Númenor called Eruhantalë. Though this region seldom knows the bitter chill of winter, there is yet a time of blossom and a time of giving fruit in all growing things, even here. Do your own people not celebrate such a time of bounty, and give thanks for it?”

The younger hobbit flushed even as he winced faintly. “Yes, we do celebrate the harvest, but those who give thanks to anyone but those who did the harvesting only thanked the earth, for her fertility. I'm afraid we hobbits forgot there were higher powers who made the world, long, long ago.”

The Elf king smiled. “Ah, but if you thank the earth and call it her, you have not fully forgotten Yavanna, the Vala Queen who tends and looks after all that grows from the soil. If you offer thanks to her, you are showing your gratitude to the one whom Lord Ilúvatar appointed to be His guardian of such things. From what I have heard, your people have had little contact with mine, or with any inhabitants of Middle-earth who might have taught you of such things. You cannot remember that which you never knew. But as Eru Ilúvatar made you, He did so in whatever fashion He felt was best for your people. You are learning now, and that is soon enough.”

He chuckled. “I have heard that the Little People have an especial fondness for the land and growing things, so I have no doubt that Lady Yavanna — as well as Lord Oromë, who has a great love for trees and the forests — will be most pleased to meet you. The Valar may watch over Endorë as its governors, but they no longer visit it directly for fear of causing harm, and thus they have never been privileged to encounter one of your folk, face to face. When they were petitioned to allow the two of you to come hither for rest and healing, I think they were eager to grant it, so anxious were they to see for themselves the youngest and smallest of all the Children of Ilúvatar.”

Frodo's blush deepened. “I hope they understand, then, that they shan't be meeting the most splendid examples of our people.”

Gil-galad cocked a single dark eyebrow. “Indeed? From what I was told, the West was to be honored by the presence of the two finest offspring of the Little Folk ever to have been born.”

Even Bilbo blushed in answer to that remark. “One shouldn't believe all the tales one hears, my lord,” the elder hobbit said honestly, “especially when the tales are second-hand, at best. I know only too well that those who sing songs and spin stories embellish the truth to capture an audience, and sometimes, the embellishments go beyond mere colorful words into extreme exaggeration. I'll be among the first to say that my nephew here might indeed be the best and brightest hobbit ever born in the Shire, and that he's done things as worthy of praise as any great deeds of the heroes of legend, but I'm his uncle, after a fashion, and quite fond of him, and when family dotes upon one of its own... well, no harm done, it's the way of kin to either heap praises upon one another or despise each other utterly. We've done what we can to help when we could, Frodo and I, but no more, I think, than any hobbit with a good heart would have done if they'd really understood the dangers in the world. There's good hobbits and bad, as there are with any folk, and if we've been better than some, I'm sure we've been worse than others, as well.”

Elrond made a sound that was suspiciously similar to suppressed laughter. “Mark this occasion and remember it well, my liege,” he told Gil-galad solemnly, despite the twinkle of humor in his eyes. “Master Baggins may not be an arrogant braggart, but neither have I ever heard him deny praise. There have been reports from others that such a thing has occurred, but never within my hearing...!”

“Oh, hush!” Bilbo chided him, though he made no effort to claim that Elrond's words were untrue. Those who knew Bilbo well enough chuckled at the jest and made no more of it.

They continued on through silent Tirion until they reached its western gates, and from there passed into the Calacirya and onto the road that ran between the Elven city and Valmar. From the vantage of the high green hill, Frodo could see another city far off in the distance, a point of gleaming brightness amid the green grasses and colorful flowers of a vast plain that stretched off as far as the eye could see. On the wind from the west came a faint sound of bells, not a single one nor even many, but what seemed to be thousands upon thousands of all kinds, from the highest silver note of the tiniest of chimes to the great deep thunder of those that tolled like the ceaseless rhythms of the sea. Mingled with their wild and free and sonorous notes, Frodo caught occasional sounds of voices that seemed to be singing, but using no words he could understand. He started, realizing that this was the sound he had heard coming over the water at sunrise, when he had wakened and emerged from his cabin to catch his first glimpse of the Undying Lands.

“Have you ever heard anything so lovely?” Bilbo sighed, his embarrassment forgotten as they paused for a moment to listen. “Is that the Elves we can hear singing?” he asked Gil-galad.

The Elven king nodded. “The Eldar, and the Ainur as well. All of Aman rejoices, and the most beautiful music that is ever heard within it is made during the times of festival.”

“I remember such times well from my youth,” Galadriel said, her voice filled with the gentle sadness of sweet memories too long ignored. “I wonder now at my rashness in thinking I was fettered here, looking for something more than it seemed Aman had to offer when in truth I did not have the wisdom to appreciate everything already in my grasp. How often we must lose all we hold dear in order to understand how truly precious it is!”

Gil-galad sighed, but not so wistfully. “Indeed yes, we have all suffered and surrendered much to reach this day, but if all our reflections are to be far more bitter than sweet, then perhaps we have toiled to no good purpose, and those who say the Elves delight in sorrow speak the truth. Such words will give our small guests notions that their voyage was in vain, and rather than peace and healing, they will find here only long and lingering sadness and pain. This music we hear is not a song of lament!”

The Elf woman conceded the point with an apologetic nod as they continued on down the long road to the great city. “My pardon, old friend, you do speak the truth. The festivals were always times of great joy to me when I was young,” she told the hobbits, “but I had forgotten how very much I missed them until I heard the song come to us from across the valley. You are right, Bilbo, it is indeed a lovely sound, and this is but an echo of it. We will hear the full beauty of it when we have reached Valmar itself, and that is a thing to be anticipated with joy, not sadness.”

“I thought as much,” the elder hobbit admitted. “We hobbits have always enjoyed a good party, and this sounds to be a splendid one indeed. I look forward to hearing more.” He glanced back over one shoulder, to where Gandalf was riding behind them. “You've been here before, haven't you, Gandalf?” he asked the wizard, not waiting for an answer he already knew. “Did you ever have a chance to hear music such as this?”

The Istar did not reply immediately, but first smiled softly, his expression distant, as he drew up from his clouded memories images of a time long gone by that he would never forget, no matter how blurred his mind became. “Oh, yes,” he finally said, pleased by the clarity of the image in his thoughts. “I have heard even more magnificent music, long, long ago, the most wonderful and intricate of songs ever to be sung. There are moments of beauty that burn themselves so deeply into your mind and your heart, you can never forget them.” Bilbo nodded as if he understood, but Frodo wondered how much he truly did.

They rode on, and at last approached the city of the Valar when the sun yet hovered above the far west horizon, little more than a full hour before its setting. The music they had heard from afar was clearer, yet not as overwhelming or as loud as could have been expected; it was as if there was yet some distance between them and the place where all folk had gathered for the festival.

Indeed, there was only one person awaiting their arrival before the great golden gates of Valmar: a tall and strong man, uncommonly fair of face, with hair as dark as midnight and eyes as brightly blue as the midday sun. He sat astride a great white horse that looked as if it might be close kin to Shadowfax, similarly regal and strong; it was fitted with a saddle and trappings of blue and white and silver, and its harness and bridle were of silver set with gems of sapphire. The rider was not an Elf, nor did he quite seem a Man, but he was of extremely noble bearing, more noble than Gil-galad or any of the High Elves, and he held himself straight and proud, as a warrior born. He wore no helm nor armor and carried no weapon, but in one hand he held a long silver staff bearing upon it a banner of blue, emblazoned with a device unfamiliar to Frodo, a design of stars that gleamed so bright in the late light of the sun, they surely had been wrought of the most brilliant of gems. He was Eönwë, the herald of the Valar, and as the newcomers came to a halt before him and the gates, he smiled and spoke, his voice as clear as the ringing of trumpets.

“Hail and well met, honored travelers and bearers of the Great Rings, kin and friend and followers of those who fought long and well to the last defeat of Sauron the Enemy! Be welcome once again, those who once sailed from these Western shores and now return to us in victory. Be welcome most warmly, those who come to us only now after your terrible labors, and here find rest and refreshment and healing under the grace of the Powers of Arda. Be welcome in especial, those of Eru Ilúvatar's youngest children, without whom victory could not have been won. Your presence is awaited by those who would do you honor, and those who have long missed their beloved kith and kin. Come, follow me!”

III

As Eönwë turned his horse about, the gates opened behind him, admitting them into the city. Frodo could find few words to describe any of it, then, or even in after times when he thought back to his first arrival in Valmar. The splendor and beauty of the city of the Valar was beyond anything he had seen in Middle-earth, or even elsewhere in the Undying Lands. What he long remembered most of that moment were the people who lined the broad golden street that ran from east to west through the city, watching their passage in respectful silence as the bells rang out all around them. As their company rode by, the watchers followed on foot, and so it was they passed through the western gates of the city and to the Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom. From without, the place appeared to be a round court with white walls and no roof, set with many wide windows to let in the light of sun and star and moon, surrounded by trees and shrubs and flowering vines that leant a sweet fragrance to the air. There were no gates or doors to bar their entry into the court, and thus Eönwë led them on without dismounting.

As they went beyond the walls into the hall itself, Frodo saw that inside lay a ring of high seats, fourteen thrones set in a circle with a floor of shimmering white stone in their midst, like a pool of gleaming pearl. Outside the circle, behind and between the thrones, many folk were gathered, as many had stood along the road and upon the fields outside and around the Máhanaxar, but they were not what held Frodo's eye. As they rode on into the center of the broad ring, the hobbit recognized the high seats as things he had seen in his dream just before the dawn. These were the thrones of the Valar, and each was unique and reflected some part of the essence of the person seated upon it. In his vision, Frodo had been dimly aware that the thrones were occupied, but he had not truly noticed the people in them. Now, as he looked from one to the next, amazed, he found himself recalling from some dim memory the names that went with each of the majestic beings.

As they entered the ring itself, they passed between two of the thrones. Both high seats were of silver, the one to the left draped in shimmering grays like still waters under a full moon covered with a thin veil of mist, that on the right covered with cloths of deep blue and silver that shifted softly with each movement of air and flicker of light so that it appeared almost ghostly, like a dream vision come to life. On the first was seated a beautiful dark-haired woman with a calm, peaceful face, gowned and veiled in gray. Her gray eyes followed the company as they passed by, and her glance soothed those it fell upon. In the other seat was a raven-haired man in raiment that spoke of the night and dreams, both of sleeping and waking; his silver eyes were kind, but held a spark the woman's did not, of deep thoughts, ancient memories, and gentle humor. Estë, Frodo remembered, was the woman's name, the Healer, while the man was her husband, Irmo, the Master of Dreams.

Beside Estë, seated on thrones of bright brass and lush cloths of brown and green, was another couple, both merry of expression with lively dark eyes. The blond man, who was fitted with gilt ceremonial armor but wore no helm, was Tulkas, the champion of the Valar, who had come to Arda to help in the first war against Melkor. His long golden beard was elaborately plaited and fell almost to his broad belt. The chestnut-tressed woman beside him, his wife Nessa, wore a gown of gold and green, simple in fashion but as light and elegant as a butterfly's wing, as were the delicate slippers on her feet. She delighted in running and dancing, and there was a grace and happiness about her that made her seem to be forever in motion even when she was seated and still.

In the part of the circle beyond Irmo, seated on thrones of polished black stone, were the three darkest of all its members: a tall, black-haired, dark-eyed, pale-skinned man robed in black and deepest purple, seated between two women. The one on his left was small and slender with long-fingered hands and elegant almond-shaped violet eyes; her smooth dark hair was caught up in a silver net into which many gems of amethyst and jet had been woven. She was clad in a gown that appeared to be fashioned from intricate webs of the finest deep purple threads. The woman on his right was tall but strong as a slender mallorn that has weathered many storms, gowned in midnight blue velvet flecked with what appeared to be drops of dew or silver tears; her raven hair was covered by a veil of dark gray, bound with a simple fillet of silver. The latter woman was so like to the man in face and coloring, it was clear they were related, as one could see a similar resemblance between them and Irmo. The woman in purple was Vairë the Weaver, who wove the tapestries that told the histories of all Arda; the man was her husband Námo, Lord of Mandos, the Doomsayer of the Valar who kept the Halls where waited the spirits of the dead. The other woman was his sister Nienna, called the Weeper, for she knew most the ways of pity, as well as long-suffering patience and hope. Vairë and Námo watched with a strangely detached curiosity as the newcomers entered, as if they were intensely interested, but felt a need to maintain an aloof demeanor for tradition's sake. Nienna's expression was more open, soft in a way that Frodo couldn't quite call a smile, though he could sense great kindness in her regard.

Beyond Tulkas were the thrones of Oromë and Vána, the great huntsman of the Valar and his wife, the younger sister of Yavanna, the essence of renewal and youth. Their thrones were of polished amber-hued wood, beautifully carved; Vána's was draped with garlands of the flowers she so loved, while Oromë's was cushioned with pillows fashioned of the hides of the beasts he had vanquished to free the forests of Middle-earth from Melkor's domination. Beside his throne rested a great horn bound in silver and gold, the Valaróma, the sounding of which struck fear into the hearts of any who opposed the Valar. His clothing was that of a hunter, but one dressed for a celebration, in deep browns and greens with a cloak of silvery-white. Vána's gown was the color of spring leaves and embellished with an intricate tracery of flowers; blossoms adorned her golden hair, and the smile she gave the new arrivals was the pure wild joy of eternal youth.

Beside Oromë, on a seat of pearl and silver, was Ulmo, the Lord of the Waters, a tall and powerful man with hair and beard the color of sea foam, eyes the hue of the deep ocean, and garb that shimmered silver and blue and green like the scales of fish in clear sunlit waters. Frodo knew very little about some of the lesser Valar, but tales of the Lord of Oceans were known even among the hobbits, especially those who lived in the western parts of the Shire, on the Tower Hills nearest to the sea. He was quite surprised to see the Vala here, for the tales said that Ulmo seldom left the deep waters, and when he did, he even more seldom chose to show himself in a visible form. That he was here — along with Námo and Nienna, who were also seldom wont to leave their chosen homes — spoke of the importance of this occasion to those who lived in Aman. The hobbit swallowed a bit nervously and tried not to let it show as he glanced at the remaining members of the circle.

The couple seated beside Nienna were as easily identifiable as Ulmo. Aulë the Smith, who had done much in the shaping of the physical world and had once fashioned the fathers of the Dwarves, was a majestic epitome of what one imagined when one thought of a blacksmith: very tall, very strong, skin darkened by the heat of the forge, clever fingered, bright eyed. His garb was simple, in reds and black, though he wore a dark metal belt of masterful craft, doubtless fashioned by his own hands; on his dark haired head was set a circlet of equally intricate craft, made of all the metals and gems of the earth. He watched the newcomers with interest, particularly the hobbits, who doubtless reminded him of the Dwarf folk he had once made in his eagerness for children to teach, and whom Eru had adopted out of compassion. His wife, Yavanna, was almost his antithesis, yet she complemented him so plainly, their devotion was completely understandable. She was tall and slender and beautiful as a beech tree in full leaf, yet also as strong as an ancient oak, with deep roots and branches that could withstand the most powerful storm. She was gowned all in dark green and gold; a girdle of golden leaves was about her waist and a circlet of golden flowering vines upon her auburn red hair. Her throne was similar to those of Oromë and Vána, yet more intricate, with adornments of gold, as Aulë's seat of carved marble was like to those of the three beside him, but more finely crafted and set with polished gems.

Finally, between Yavanna and Ulmo were seated the king and queen of the Valar — indeed, of all Arda — Manwë and Varda. The lady — Kindler of the Stars, called Elbereth by the Elves — sat upon a magnificent throne of silver beset with white gems that caught the light and glittered like the stars themselves. Varda herself was tall and fair, so beautiful that Frodo understood why the Elves said she was beyond description. Her clothing was purest white and simple as that of a young Elf maid, but her beauty was such that she needed no great finery to enhance it. Her girdle was of twined silver cord, and a circlet of silver beset with many tiny white gems made it appear as if a ring of stars had come down from the heavens to be her crown. A gentle smile was upon her face, and her bright eyes lingered upon Frodo long enough for him to know she had looked upon him directly, but not so long as to make him uncomfortable. He struggled not to blush under her gaze, but suspected it was a war he did not quite win.

Rather than embarrass himself, he politely looked away to her spouse, Manwë Súlimo. The Elder King, lord of the air and winds and skies, was majestic to behold, but less painfully beautiful than his lady wife. Seated upon a throne of gold, fashioned in swirls and bends and twists of metal that suggested both the movement of air and the graceful flowing shapes of clouds, Manwë was a tall and noble figure of blue and white, his regal robes and eyes the color of a fair summer sky, his hair and his beard white as the clouds against them. He bore no weapon, but held in his hand a scepter fashioned of solid sapphire, the signet of his lordship over both the Ainur and all Arda. He wore a crown of gold and blue that reminded Frodo neither of the crowns of Men and Dwarves nor the circlets of the Elves, but something of each, crafted by a hand more skillful than any. When Frodo looked in his direction, the Vala looked back, and smiled warmly. For a moment, the hobbit was taken aback. The expression was neither haughty nor condescending, or aloof and untouchable as he might have expected from the mightiest of the Valar. It reminded him less of cool smiles he had received from noble lords of Elves and Men, and much more of those he had been given by Gandalf.

The surprise of that realization prompted him to look in the wizard's direction, but at that moment, they stopped, then dismounted. People Frodo did not recognize appeared from somewhere beyond the ring of thrones to help their guests and to lead away their steeds. A startlingly tall fellow with coppery hair and clothes of deep blue and silver smiled as he helped the younger halfling from his pony; he was not an Elf, Frodo could see, and thus concluded that he must be one of the Maiar who served here in Valinor. Before he could say more than a polite thank you, however, the fellow was gone again, leading away the pony as other Maiar tended to the remaining guests and beasts. When they had left, only the bearers and Eönwë remained within the circle. The herald stood at its center to address the Valar, while the rest of them remained closer to the edge opposite Manwë and Varda.

“I have brought them as commanded, my lord,” the herald said, bowing to the Elder King but acknowledging all of the Valar with a sweeping gesture.

“You have our thanks, my herald,” Manwë replied in a remarkably gentle voice that Frodo very much suspected could rise to the roar of terrible thunder at need, as the wind could so do. As Eönwë stepped out of the circle to take his place beside the king, Manwë turned his smile to Gil-galad. “And our thanks to you, Ereinion Gil-galad, for escorting your companions from the port of Tirion and leading them to the gates of our city before the closing of the day. Your part in the tale of the Rings is now completed; thus let us bring it full circle in closing the saga for all concerned.”

Eönwë resumed his role as herald and called out, “Nowë Círdan of the Sindar, come forward.”

Surprise flashed briefly across the ancient Elf's face, then was quickly schooled to calm as he did as requested — for it was definitely a request, not a command, such was Eönwë's tone of voice. With no additional instruction, he stepped forward to the spot where Eönwë had stood while addressing his lord, and bowed his head graciously, as was the habit of his people when showing respect.

Manwë glanced at Ulmo before continuing. “Though once the sea called to you and awakened the desire to set sail for the Undying Lands, you heeded the words of the Lord of the Waters, and remained in Endorë to guide and teach the arts of shipbuilding and seafaring, not only for the benefit of the Eldar and the Edain, but so that your skills might be there when most needed, first by Eärendil who sought and found the West and pardon as well as aid, and now by those who have come with you from mortal lands to bring an end to the Elder times in Middle-earth. Your courage in lending assistance to peoples oppressed by the Enemy and your wisdom in surrendering a thing of power rather than hoard it for your own safety and benefit have earned you honor, and whatever reward this land has to offer. You have only to name it.”

The shipwright spoke earnestly, and without hesitation. “I can think of nothing, my lord, that could be a greater reward than being allowed to come to this beautiful place and to at last see the blessed ones whom I have long imagined but never beheld with my own eyes. I have lived a very long life, and my needs and wants are little, now. To meet again old friends who have long since passed into the West will be a great pleasure to me, and I will be content if I might be allowed to continue to live near the sea, and perhaps ply my craft as might be needed. Ships may no longer be needed to fare between Aman and Endorë, but what little I can do from time to time to maintain or repair or enhance what vessels are used to travel between the shore and the Lonely Isle would be enough to give me purpose.”

“Then so shall it be,” Manwë said, pleased. “Ulmo had hoped you would make such a request, and thus there are those of his folk and many of the Teleri who will gladly assist you in whatever ways you need to find your place in Aman -- especially your kinsman, Olwë. Be welcome, and take with you our thanks for all you have done since your first awakening at Cuiviénen.”

Círdan bowed again, this time pausing to recognize Ulmo as well, then withdrew to rejoin the others. Manwë turned his eyes to another of their company.

Eönwë gave the summons. “Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin and Eärwen.”

There was the faintest hint of a pause before the Elf lady stepped forward to take Círdan's place. The ritual of greeting and speaking to honored guests one by one was certainly not unknown to her, and she had fully expected this, but in spite of Gil-galad's assurances, she was doubtful of her welcome. Nonetheless, she came forward with a purposeful stride, neither cringing nor displaying an excess of pride, but merely moving with the dignity of one who had been raised in a noble house. Her obeisance to the king and queen was done as she had been taught in her childhood, respectful, and at long last with proper humility. She understood her position and that some among the Valar might yet consider her a rebel, and she was determined to seem neither obsequious nor insolent.

Manwë's eyes turned for a moment to Varda, and the Valië smiled softly. Some unreadable thought flitted between them before he looked back to Galadriel. “How well we remember your presence in this land during ages past, daughter of the house of Finarfin! Long have we regretted all the misunderstandings which came between us at the time of the Revolt, for had you but learned greater patience and had we shown more forbearance and compassion, perhaps the fire of rebellion would not have wakened so strongly in your heart, and hardened it against us when we offered pardon to your people. You shed no blood and swore no oath, and so perhaps believed you needed no forgiveness, and there are those among us who have plead on your behalf in your absence.” His gaze shifted briefly to Nienna and Irmo. He sighed. “Yet mistakes were made, by us and by you, that in the end have proved of greater good than could have been foreseen. In Middle-earth, your strength and leadership gave guidance which was sorely needed in a time of great trouble, and without it, I deem the cost to all Endorë would have been dear, to the point, mayhap, that there would now be little rejoicing and far greater sorrow in the lands of the East.”

“You are gracious, my lord,” Galadriel replied with suitable and earnest deference. “And I have done what I might to be of service to my people and all those who dwelled within Middle-earth. But I know my own mind and heart, and only too well am I aware that it has taken long for me to learn the lessons of patience and humility, and put aside the pride that led me to crave freedom from Aman, and lands to order to my own will. It was not until I had been made to bear long and difficult responsibility for many more lives than my own that I finally came to understand the burdens of power and mastery. It wearies one in heart and spirit, for complete control is the power of none save Eru Ilúvatar. I know this now, and at last came to understand the deceitful seduction of power when I saw the One Ring come within my grasp. It would have destroyed all I wished to accomplish, not saved it. Thus I finished playing out the role I had set myself, until the Enemy was defeated, but now, I understand the wisdom which many have attempted to teach me down the long years, and I desire power no longer. If I may be granted rest here in the lands of my birth, which I know now I love most dearly than any I dared to call my own, I will be most grateful.”

Manwë smiled. “This we offered you two ages ago, when we pardoned all your kindred, and though you refused it then, the offer was not withdrawn. Be welcome back, then, child of Finarfin. Your kin and others who have long missed you and whom you have yearned to see again await you. All blame is lifted from you, in reward for your labors against the Enemy, and in response to your words of regret. You have done well, and acquitted yourself with honor.”

Acknowledging this, Galadriel did obeisance to the Valar once again, but before withdrawing turned to the Valar Queen. “If it is permitted, Lady Varda, most gracious queen of the stars whose light was a beacon to many throughout our final struggles against the Enemy, I would make a gift to you, in token of the gratitude of the Children of Ilúvatar, and of the Elves in especial. Many thousands of years ago, at the beginnings of the last long conflict, the Ring Nenya was given into my keeping, in it a portion of the power of the Eldar in Middle-earth. As I desire power no longer and renounce it forever, I would like to surrender Nenya to you, if I may, for it was wrought in shape and hue as a precious reflection of your stars.”

Varda smiled gently and nodded. At her signal of acceptance, Galadriel stepped forward to the foot of her throne, and bending gracefully to one knee, removed the mithril ring and offered it to the queen. Varda took it, and as the ring was set upon the palm of her outstretched hand, she laid the other atop the Elf woman's, holding it for a moment in a gesture of thanks before releasing her. Galadriel smiled in return as she paid her respects one last time, then returned to the others at the far side of the ring.

Eönwë called out once more. “Elrond Peredhel, son of Eärendil and Elwing.”

When the Elf lord came forward into the circle and bowed to those who had summoned him, Varda's smile brightened as she traded glances with her husband. Manwë appeared equally pleased. “We are glad to meet you at last, son of the Mariner, who came to us long ago to beg for pardon in crimes he did not commit in order to win our forgiveness and our aid for all who stood against the Dark Enemy. It grieves us that you and your brother paid dearly for what Fate decreed must be the doom of your parents, for no child should be so sorely deprived of the love and care of their kin over a matter of madness and greed. Yet that is a time now long gone, and though Elros your brother chose a path that took him beyond the circles of the world, we are gladdened by your choice, that of your mother and father, for it has given us this opportunity to see you, and offer you our thanks for all you have done in our cause during the years of your life. In time, you may see your parents once again, but for now, others await you: the parents of your father, whom he had hoped to find in his earliest journeys into the West, the kin of your mother who reside now in Aman — and one, I think, you have long wished to see more than any other.”

Manwë gestured to something behind the Elf; when he turned to follow the motion, he saw Celebrían, his wife, standing a little apart from the group of bearers, smiling a smile he knew he had missed but not how deeply until this moment. It took every bit of discipline he possessed to refrain from running to her, but his answering smile was as brilliant as her own, and held the anticipation of joy he had feared lost to him forever. He turned back to the Elder King, aware that his interview was not quite ended. “Thank you, my lords and ladies,” he said, gratitude shining in his eyes, “for both the kind words you have offered to me, and for receiving my wife in her time of great need. For all my skills, I could not heal her, and I had faith that the powers in this indeed Blessed Land would succeed where I had failed. Since we were parted, I hoped with all my heart that what I did to help the peoples of Middle-earth against the growing shadow would be some payment to balance the scales of debt I would owe you, for Celebrían's sake as well as my own.”

“The debt is more than repaid, son of Eärendil,” Manwë assured him, “for you have labored long and diligently, and have lost much that was also dear to you in both the struggle against the darkness and in the establishment of the Age of Men in Endorë. As our dominion ends and that of Men begins, take comfort, if you may, in knowing that you have contributed much to ensure that the strength and wisdom of the Elder races will be a part of that world, even though we ourselves be forgotten. Here there is now a place for you, prepared by your wife and kin you have yet to meet. May you and the members of your household who wish to join you find joy and peace within it, until the world is renewed.”

Elrond bowed deeply, in respect. “I could ask for no better reward, my lord. Like my kinswoman Galadriel, I would now happily surrender any burden of power to you, who were made the Lord of all Arda. Vilya was fashioned to represent the strengths of those things which have ever been under your dominion, and if it may be permitted, I would choose to be a Ring-bearer no longer.”

“Then I accept your gift,” Manwë said, his words grave, but his expression light. When he had taken the ring Elrond offered, he nodded graciously in thanks, and the Elf withdrew as decorously as he could in his haste to be reunited with his wife. Conscious of the propriety of their circumstances, he took her hand and kissed it lightly, his eyes never leaving hers, yet their fingers remained twined together as they stood close, side by side, to witness the remainder of the proceedings. The smiles on the faces and in the eyes of those watching them were brighter, now, for not even the most dour natured person present could remain unaffected by such a simple yet touching and much-delayed reunion.

Eönwë was smiling rather broadly when he was prompted to make the next announcement. “Bilbo, son of Bungo and Belladonna of the Periannath.”

The elderly hobbit — who had been searching his pockets for a handkerchief to dab away the dampness in his eyes that had welled up from seeing his old friend Elrond at long last reunited with the wife he loved so dearly and had missed for so very long — was so distracted, he didn't quite realize his name had been called out until Frodo nudged him and whispered it in his ear. He then was so flustered, not having expected such a summons, that he did not move until he felt Gandalf's staff press against his back and gently prod him forward. The other bearers were making a concerted effort to refrain from laughing, since Bilbo was so seldom nervous about receiving attention of any kind. With a mildly scolding glance at the wizard, he finally drew himself up, stepped forward, slowed by his age but still with dignity, until he stopped where the others had all stood. He then bowed deeply to the king and queen in proper hobbit fashion. He also had the wit to remember it was polite not to speak until spoken to, when interacting with ones of such lofty station.

Manwë chuckled, both softly and kindly. “So at last, we meet face to face one of the Little Folk, of which we have heard much and seen much from afar, but never near. We have long known that Lord Eru created your people for a destiny of which we knew very little, and in our ignorance, we wondered what fate He might have for ones of such gentle simplicity. Yet we see now His plan, at the end of the struggle. The decision that was made many years ago to place before you a choice which would guide you to find the Ring which had long been lost was no error, for indeed the hands of the small and seemingly weak were able to find what not even the mighty and powerful and greatly learned could discover. To you, perhaps, your role in the tale of that Ring has not been an important one, but it was indeed most necessary, and without it, much could have gone very ill indeed. You did well, and what comfort and reward this land has to offer you has been fully earned.”

Bilbo bowed again, an appropriate hobbit acknowledgment of the Vala's praise. “Thank you, my lord. I suppose it is true what Gandalf's told me time and again, how even great heros play only small roles in great deeds, and considering how many wicked people wanted to get their hands on that Ring, it may indeed have been just as well that it stumbled into mine, a mere hobbit who thought it nothing more than a pretty magic trinket, useful on occasion, but not something capable of terrible things. I... oh, do forgive me for carrying on so,” he said when the sound of someone clearing their throat reminded him that he was not at an inn in the Shire, nor even in the Hall of Fire in Rivendell, accounting his old adventures among friends and neighbors. From their expressions, the Valar were at the very least genially tolerant, some actually quite amused by his behavior, and Bilbo took that as a sign of acceptance, but also a reminder to consider what he was saying a bit more carefully. “I am very grateful for this chance to see such a beautiful land and meet such great persons as yourselves, for all the more good it may do me before my end. Being here at all is a marvelous reward, since this place has such an invigorating and refreshing air about it! I feel quite the young hobbit again, even if my old joints tell me otherwise. The only thing I could think to ask for is some small place to stay, a cosy room or two to call my own where I might do a bit of writing, see my old friends, and perhaps meet new ones, from time to time.”

Manwë nodded. “Such a place has indeed been prepared for you, since it was long known that you are a member of the household of Elrond. There you shall live in peace and contentment for as many days as you wish.”

Bilbo was delighted. “Splendid! Thank you, my lord, I could ask for nothing better.” Bowing yet again, first to the king and then to the queen, the old hobbit returned to his place, glad to know that even after such a long voyage to a new world, his comfortable old life would not be so terribly disrupted, after all. Many smiling eyes around the ring followed him as he went, this time assisted by one of the Maia servants who had come forward to help him. Frodo smiled at his cousin, pleased by his satisfaction and the knowledge that Bilbo, at least, would be very happy here.

“Frodo, son of Drogo and Primula.”

The voice of the herald summoning him chilled the younger hobbit for a moment. He was almost afraid to step forward, fearing that he would be the one exception to their praise almost as much as he feared the possibility of being praised. But though he would have stayed back if he could, he knew this was something he had to face, and delaying it would not profit him in the slightest. He did not move forward quite as briskly or nobly as the others, but step forward he did, stopping where Bilbo had just stood, and following his example of offering both the Elder King and his queen a proper hobbit bow of greeting and respect.

There was a reassuring gentility in both Manwë's voice and expression, things that once again reminded Frodo not of a great king of ancient legend and immeasurable power, but of Gandalf in one of his kinder and merrier moods. “Bearer of the One,” he said, “we come to you last not because you have done the least, but because we do not know how to properly honor one who did what we, or any of our people, could not. Your victory, perhaps, did not come as you might have wished, but it came — not because you yourself hurled the Ring into the Gulf of Doom, but because you spared a creature worthy of death, not knowing that in giving him his life, you were ensuring the success of your quest. Your strength of body and mind could not carry you until the end, but the strength of pity and compassion in your heart had more than the full measure your task required. From its very beginning, the struggle against Sauron has not been a simple task; ever has it required many efforts made by many people, supporting the needed action oft in unexpected ways, for the greater goal to be achieved. No player in this great drama fulfilled their given role without difficulty or without the aid of others, and though yours came both from sources expected and unexpected, your ends were achieved by honorable means. Do not belittle your achievement, for we could never rebuke someone for giving his all, and more, when he had nothing left to give. We are greatly in your debt, son of Drogo, and whatever you might wish, if it is within our authority to do so, it will be granted you.”

“I was told I might find healing and rest here,” Frodo said after a moment's thought, “and if that is possible, I will be content, truly. It is sometimes very hard for me to believe I did not fail miserably in the matter of the Ring because of what I did at the end, but if I could be freed of the pains and darkness I cannot seem to lose from the wounds I received and the horrible burden of carrying that awful thing for so long...! If I can find relief and happiness for just a little while, that would be more than enough. My needs are no greater than Bilbo's. To live for a time in peace among friends would indeed be a blessing.”

“And you shall have it,” Manwë assured him. “Lord Eru fashioned each of his peoples with singular gifts, and to yours was given a strength and resilience to resist evil and its lure more than any other. This above all will aid you in your recovery. You will be healed, made whole, and be happy again, if that is your wish.”

“Very much so, my lord,” the halfling said quietly. “It was all I ever really wanted for myself after the Ring was destroyed and the war was over. I couldn't find it in the Shire, but I had hoped I would find it here.”

“Then so you shall. Estë and Irmo are most skilled in the kinds of healing you need, as well as in matters of rest; they will give you whatever aid you require, as will all the powers who dwell in Aman, both greater and lesser. Wherever you wish to dwell, a place will be made for you, and you will find our people ever ready to assist in whatever way you might need or want. Tonight, all of Aman gathers in festival; share it with us, and come to know us better. You are well come indeed, and shall be for as long as you choose to remain with us.”

Frodo offered his thanks in hobbit fashion, then withdrew, momentarily lightheaded with relief. He hadn't quite known what to expect in his conversation with Manwë, and was pleased that it had gone so easily and so well. He let out a long, deep sigh, and smiled when Bilbo patted his shoulder in approval.

After Frodo had joined the others, all abruptly became quiet, both inside the hall and without; the sounds of the bells and all other music and voices ceased. It seemed as if the semi-ceremony was now concluded, and they were merely waiting to be dismissed. As he considered that possibility, Frodo found such a notion deeply disturbing, not because he felt personally slighted, but because though he and Bilbo and the Elven Ring-bearers had been called forward to accept words of gratitude and praise, Gandalf had not even been mentioned by those he supposedly served. He had stood silently, watching the proceedings, and though he did not appear in any way upset — and indeed had seemed quite pleased by some of the remarks made, especially to Frodo — the hobbit wondered if this was typical of the way the Valar treated their Maia servants: perfunctorily, as if immediate and unquestioning compliance was demanded, and expected to be given without thanks. If so, he considered it exceptionally rude. He could never have thought of behaving like this toward someone in his service, especially when that someone had done his work very well indeed.

Irritated thoughts began to creep into his mind, a desire to say something rather than see his friend so summarily ignored, when he noticed several persons enter the circle, carrying a litter of unusually elegant craft, similar to the designs of things he had seen in the Valarin city and the thrones around them. They placed it near the spot Frodo had just vacated, atop a slab of white stone that rose up from the floor of the open court as they approached it. The bearers covered the pallet with an intricate cloth of white and blue and silver and gold, then disappeared back into the shadows outside the circle.

The silence was at last broken when Manwë, not Eönwë, spoke again. “Olórin, come,” he said. “It is time.”

For a moment, Frodo wondered who he was addressing. When the hitherto silent wizard stepped forward, the hobbit remembered with a start that he had heard the unusual name before, first from Faramir, and later from Gandalf himself. “Olórin I was in the West....” Of course, that was the name the other Valinoreans would use for him, not Gandalf.

The wizard stepped forward, smiling at the puzzled Frodo before passing on into the circle. He moved to stand on one side of the covered litter, in the spot where Frodo and the others had stood not long ago, and there looked up at the Valar surrounding him.

Manwë smiled softly. “Here the embassy of the Istari began more than two thousand years ago,” he said solemnly, “and here it shall finally come to its end. We had once hoped this day would arrive for all the brethren of your Order, and it grieves us that now, only you remain. But you have done well, Olórin, far better than any of us here foresaw — save, perhaps, Varda. She knew from the first that you were destined to an end we had not anticipated.”

“But not to this end,” said the star-queen, speaking for the first time. “Only Eru Ilúvatar truly foresaw this, and it shames us to have underestimated you so badly. You are humble and never put yourself forward, seeking praise or power or reverence, yet if not for all you did secretly and quietly against the designs of Melkor two ages ago, Endorë would have long since been lost. By your own wish, you were given no public praise or recognition for what you did then to kindle hope and courage and imagination in the hearts of the Children of Ilúvatar, and we accepted it as your choice of a reward for your service. Now, you may ask that we do the same, but it is the wish of Ilúvatar Himself that we refuse, for at last, your labors on behalf of all Arda have reached their ultimate fruition, and He desires that which you have done to be made known and properly recognized among all our people, and our guests of His children who reside in Aman. Do you plan to contest His will?”

Gandalf shook his head. “No, my lady. He and I discussed this matter when I was returned to Endorë to complete my task, and I understood that should all my hopes be realized, this moment would come. As I accepted what Lord Eru told me then, I accept this now, and am full ready to see the embassy of the Istari — and my own part in the Fate of Arda — concluded, as was meant from the beginning.”

“Then let it be so,” Manwë declared, and gestured to the litter. Acknowledging the simply stated command, the wizard lay down upon it, his staff held atop his body so that it rested along the full length of him, from head to toe. He closed his eyes, visibly relaxed, and took several deep breaths. Frodo could see the rising and falling of his chest as he inhaled and exhaled deeply; then, he took one especially deep breath, held it for a moment, and released it in a long soft sigh. There was a wistful sound to it that the hobbit did not fully understand, until the last of it was expelled, and the wizard's chest did not rise again. 

IV

Distraught, Frodo could not quite strangle the cry that rose up in his throat. Earlier, he had thought in sarcasm that his friend's tasks would not be finished until he had died indeed, yet it seemed now that the bitter jest was true. The white-garbed figure did not move.

But as tears sprang into Frodo's eyes and he heard a choked sound of shock and dismay from Bilbo's direction, along with other startled noises from some in their company, he saw something more peculiar, something unexpected. It seemed to him that the staff in Gandalf's hands began to glow, faintly at first, but then with ever-growing brilliance, rising from the wood as water rises to the surface of rain-wet soil. As it did so, a light sprang up around all his body, not like the fire of a funeral pyre, but a more unearthly radiance that merged with the light of the staff, then lifted away from the body until it was no longer a part of it. It hovered over the litter for a moment, a cloud of glowing white mist, then moved to one side of it -- not as mist drifts on the breeze, but with the purpose of one stepping away.

It then suddenly assumed a shape that Frodo realized with a start was not unlike the vision he had had of Glorfindel at the Ford of Bruinen — yet a sight that surpassed it by far. The Elf lord had been a bright light amid the darkness of the Nazgûl; this was a brilliant flame, a star of incomparable radiance even in the dazzling light of the late sun, not of any human-type form Frodo knew. He realized it was more than just a light, and that not everyone present could see it. His ordeal with the Ring had sharpened his awareness of things ordinarily unseen, and recalling that, he abruptly knew that he was looking on a Maia in his true form, a creature of thought and spirit and beauty of a kind that went far beyond anything physical. His old friend had ended his life as Gandalf, but was now himself once again, Olórin, whole and unfettered — and happy. Though there was no expression to be seen, Frodo could sense the joy in the newly released Maia, a feeling so intense and infectious, it brought fresh tears to the halfling's eyes, for he could not help but feel that same happiness in return.

“For the sake of our guests who have not the eyes to see us uncloaked, it is time to clothe yourself again, Olórin,” Manwë reminded him, adding, “but this fana and its raiment we will fashion for you, as our gift, so that you need expend no more of yourself in undoing what was imposed upon you by the necessity of your mission.”

“As you wish, my lord,” a voice said clearly, the sound of it familiar and ringing, yet not quite the sound of the wizard's old voice. The difference intrigued Frodo, for while it seemed strange, it also seemed perfectly right, especially the sounds of laughter and delight that filled it.

For a time, nothing happened; nothing appeared to change. Then a soft sound was heard, like that of a rising breeze, the rustle of long grass, the fall of rain, the faint rumble of distant thunder, the quiet song of bird voices before the dawn — all the music of the natural world rose up, quietly at first. As it slowly grew, it shifted into the song of voices, singing without words, a simple tune not at all elaborate in its melody, but intricate in its harmony as many voices joined together to create it. Frodo knew that though not many had seen what he saw, he was not the only one hearing this, not from the expressions on the faces of those around him. Some were pleasantly startled and a bit confused, others were smiling, clearly aware of what was occurring. It took some time before Frodo grasped it himself, but at last he realized that he was hearing the voices of the Valar at work, and perhaps some of the other Ainur as well, doing whatever they had meant to accomplish when they had spoken of undoing things that had been imposed. At times, the voices shifted into words that fell so strangely on the ear, they seemed almost unpleasant, but as Frodo grew accustomed to it, he perceived these sounds were as much a part of the music of the world as the more appealing melodies. It was some time before the hobbit noticed any indication of what purpose this magnificent song was serving, but at last, he saw it.

The brilliant figure of light slowly shifted like glittering smoke in the wind, taking on a more human-like shape. At length, it assumed the form of a male, neither young nor old, fair-skinned, and pale-haired. Frodo could not see him clearly, for his back was to the hobbit as he faced Manwë, but the clothing that took shape about him was flowing and elegant without encumbrance, combining aspects of many different kinds of garments without being clearly any single one. It was white, as pure as the white gowns worn by the Lady Varda, belted with silver and gold and crystal, with subtle designs woven into the pattern of the cloth and shaped into the links of the belt that reflected the many things beloved of all the Valar, beautiful yet simple.

When the work was completed and the unearthly light had largely faded, the bearers reappeared to carry away the bier and the now empty body upon it — What will happen to it? Frodo wondered — and Olórin bowed his thanks to each of the Valar in turn, speaking to them with words mortal ears could not hear. When he turned enough so that the hobbit could at last see his face, Frodo was startled, not because he now appeared utterly unfamiliar, nor because he looked precisely as he had before, but because Frodo still knew him, even changed as he was. The dream he had had the last night aboard the ship and had almost forgotten now came to him clearly, and it had been a vision of this very moment. Frodo could only think that he had heard so much from the Elves about the Uttermost West that his sleeping mind had imagined what it would be like to meet the Valar and their people, even then not clearly thinking that Gandalf was indeed one of them. As he watched him now, Frodo was startled, but not unpleasantly so.

The clothing the Valar had fashioned for their servant was beautiful, but no less so than the person wearing it. There was no sign of age upon him. His hair was long and fine and flowing, the palest gold of bright sunshine, so full of that radience that it was almost white. More surprising to the hobbit was the fact that he had no beard; thus, the features of the face Frodo had glimpsed in his dream were fully revealed. In shape, it was somewhere between Elf and Human, not as Elrond reflected that combination, but even more subtly, there being some other unique quality about it which Frodo couldn't quite define. It was, he thought, as if some infinitely talented sculptor had imagined a subject, first roughly, as a Man, then more carefully, as an Elf, and finally, refined and polished the full vision into the image of the being standing before him. The only thing that seemed to have changed very little, if at all, were the bright dark eyes full of wisdom and compassion and humor the hobbit had always known.

He did not know if this was how the wizard always looked here in his homeland, but it did not matter. Though the appearance was unfamiliar, Frodo still saw the face of a dear friend. As he felt the warmth of a smile meant for him, the hobbit recalled from some dim corner of his mind that the word Maia meant beautiful one, and he could not argue with that translation in the slightest. He returned the smile in full, knowing that no matter his changes in name or appearance, this person would forever be his friend. Olórin graciously bowed to him as well, and Frodo answered in kind, knowing somehow that he was being accorded such honor as an equal.

When Olórin had finished paying his respects to those he served and was again facing Manwë, the Elder King spoke. “This gesture is but the smallest token of our thanks for all you have done on behalf of Arda. For three ages of the world, we have tried as best we could to guide and protect what we loved from the ravages of those who sought to pervert or destroy it. You know as well as we do all the errors that were made, by us or for us, out of ignorance, out of the foolishness of pride, and even out of hate. We tried as best we were able to consider these failures before the outset of this last embassy. Though we knew this attempt might fail utterly, we never considered how the turns of Fate that brought it to complete ruin might, through a willing sacrifice, be then taken by Eru Ilúvatar and turned to an end that was at once both the same as our intent and much more than we had foreseen. We have sent others of your kindred forth to act on our behalf in great efforts, but we are humbled to at last understand that in this, you were not our servant, but a direct instrument of the One above us. What you achieved was something we could not, had we even dared to try, and though there was no moment of great personal triumph and glory in your achievement of the task, its successful conclusion has set you above all others of your people.

“Do not seek to deny this, Olórin,” he chided gently when the Maia would have protested the claim. “It is true, as it was for the halflings you helped guide on the paths that would at last free Endorë from the bondage and terror of Sauron. No might of arms or use of great power could destroy the Ring; nor could those things have fulfilled the goal of your embassy. It required patience, determination, and a willingness to forego both power and pride, and self. As you could not bear the Ring to destroy it, we could not direct the opposition to Sauron, nor could any of the Ainur who had not learned the hard lessons of self-denial in the cause of a greater good. Only you have suffered this utter diminishment of self of your own free will, and from it have learned what was needed in order to at last fulfill the tasks you were set. It delights as well as humbles us, but it is, I deem, for the good, for we have learned much from these events. Now, there is nothing we can offer you that is sufficient to express our gratitude, save, perhaps, to end the long and difficult labors, both secret and open, that you have undertaken.”

“That end has already come, my lord,” the Istar pointed out, a simple statement of truth. “The end of the Music as we knew it is upon us, and fate of Endorë is now in the hands of the Atani, as was intended before we Istari set out in hopes of assuring it. The Age of Men has begun, over which we will have no governance, yet were my help to be required again, I would gladly offer it, for I love Ëa no less than you, or all the rest of our people. But my greatest hope is that such aid will never again be needed. Still, Lord Eru alone knows the Fate of Men, what will be the final End of the Great Music, and how each of us shall come to it.”

“Truly spoken. What fate may be yours before that End I do not know, for Lord Eru's plan for Arda is no longer clear to me as it was during the Elder Days. But for a time, He wishes your greatest task to be no more than to rest and take joy in what you have helped bring about. It is well earned, and He has commanded that one last gift be given you in token of His approval.”

Another of the servants appeared on Manwë's right, carrying something wrapped in a cloth of gold and silver. The king stood as the servant opened the cloth and proffered whatever lay inside. As Manwë took it, Frodo saw the bright light of the setting sun glitter off the thing he held up, filling his hands with white flame. The hobbit recognized the object as a circlet similar in fashion to those worn by the High Elves, such as Elrond and Galadriel, much simpler in form yet of even more cunning art, having been crafted in fine intertwined strands of crystal rather than forged of metal. Each thread caught the smallest glimmer of light and transformed it into liquid radiance.

It was quite the most beautiful thing of its kind Frodo had ever seen, a narrow yet elegant circle seemingly fashioned from a delicate web of pure and living light. It seemed to him that his old friend thought so too, and he would have refused it, had such a thing been thinkable. No matter one's discomfort or humility, a gift from the One could not be denied with impunity. Instead, Olórin knelt, and humbly accepted. As Manwë set the crystal circlet upon his head, the rest of the Valar rose up, then as one bowed their thanks and respect.

When Olórin stood again, his voice was very soft. “Thank you, my lord,” said he, the words meant not only for the king and his assembled peers, but for the One Who was always listening.

Manwë smiled. “None are necessary. Welcome home, Olórin. We are glad to have you among us once again, as well as all your companions. Now that the long journey is over, it is time for celebration.

**********

The people of Valinor could have taught the hobbits a few things about the fine art of celebrating, Frodo decided later, after all had adjourned to a place of feasting and revelry that had been prepared for the festival, lit by the most glorious sunset he had ever beheld. Even though the Ainur did not need to eat and drink to sustain bodily life, they could appreciate such things in ways those who felt physical hunger and thirst could not. Thus, all they provided as refreshments were an utter delight to their guests, and a genuine pleasure to themselves. Aside from the food and drink, there was ceaseless music, wonderful laughter, and every kind of merriment the hobbit could imagine.

Frodo completely lost track of the time; he only knew that many hours passed because at length, the sunset faded and the stars opened in the skies above them, shedding marvelous brilliance over the city and the surrounding hills and plains, which was augmented by cleverly crafted lamps and other lights. He also found himself the focus of considerable attention, for many of the locals wanted very much to speak with him, including most of the Valar. Those of the latter who did not converse with him directly stood by and listened very attentively while he and the others spoke. The hobbit later learned this was because those persons — Lord Námo in particular — did not often speak openly at such gatherings, as it unsettled many of the Eldar. It seemed a shame to Frodo, for he saw genuine and deep interest in Námo's expression. He hoped there might be a few quiet moments when they could speak in private, away from the need for the Lord of Mandos to maintain this public persona. The other Elves and Maiar also greeted him warmly, and Frodo soon gave up trying to remember all the lovely but unusual names of the equally lovely but unusual people whom he met. When he needed to remember them he would, but for now, retaining them long enough to complete a conversation was sufficient.

He was flattered by everyone's interest in him, and thus did not realize until some folk began to depart for their own homes that he had not had a chance to speak to Gandalf. He had seen the wizard with others throughout the festivities; he was easily spotted, even though he was not as tall or impressive or powerful in appearance as many of those assembled, even some of the Elves. As darkness settled, his white garments still glimmered in it like moonlight over wind-rippled water, softly bright and clear but never cold, and the crystal of the circlet continued to catch and reflect even the smallest flickers of light. Frodo had not seen his old friend quite so uninhibitedly happy in all the years he had known him, and he could not bring himself to interrupt. These were his people, his friends whom he had not seen in an unimaginably long time, and the hobbit was unwilling to interfere with the joy of his homecoming in any way. There would be time enough for them to talk later; of that, he was now certain.

After a long but intriguing conversation with Lord Irmo and several others whose names Frodo could not recall, the halfling had found a quiet spot on a gentle hillside just beyond the place that had been appointed for the celebration, to sit and rest for a little while, away from the festive hubbub of music and dancing. It had startled Frodo to think of such lofty people as the Ainur dancing, but he was reminded that one of the Valier, Nessa, was tremendously fond of dance, and from her, others of lesser stature had learned the joy of it and turned it to an art all its own. As he sat himself on the thick and fragrant grass, he watched Bilbo — who had become more lively and animated as the feast progressed, the heaviness of age lifting from him the more he settled into this new world — talking with Elrond and Celebrían and some of the Elf lady's kin who dwelt in Tirion. He had just settled down when he heard the sound of a soft, familiar chuckle.

“I suspect this is a dream come true for Bilbo, finally having a chance to see some of the things and places and people he could only read about when he wrote his translations.”

Frodo looked up and saw Gandalf — Olórin, he corrected himself, making an effort to remember the Maia's proper name — standing nearby. He did not know whether the Istar had been able to approach unnoticed because Frodo was distracted or because such utter silence was possible for one of his kind, but he noted that his friend was, for once, alone. He was unsure if this was deliberate or accidental, so he said nothing of it. “Yes, I think Bilbo will be quite happy here. This is a magnificent place, what little I've seen of it, and I'm sure he will be inspired to write several new books of poetry in his excitement.”

“And will you be happy here?” Olórin wondered, the question undemanding, but his dark eyes full of concern. As he sat on the grass beside the hobbit, moving with remarkable grace utterly unencumbered by age or weariness, Frodo noticed things about him that he had not been able to see earlier, at a greater distance. His pale hair had been tucked back behind his ears, and they, he noted with surprise, were not perfectly human-round as they had been in Middle-earth. There was the slightest and most delicate hint of a point to them, suggesting not so much those of the Elves, but, to his astonishment, those of the hobbits.

He had never seen even so mild a semblance of such a thing on one of the Big Folk, and he wondered if, perhaps, this was indicative of some unusual connection between his people and the Maia. He also realized for the first time that the Istar's eyes were not a dark gray, as he had always presumed, but a deep, vibrant blue the color of an early night sky, washed clean of some veiling mist that had dulled their hidden brilliance. Had this always been so, or was it an aspect of his appearance only here in Valinor? Frodo swallowed the question as unimportant as he searched for an answer to the one he had just been asked.

He glanced away for a moment, then looked back at those eyes, and found that he could not lie. “In time, I think so, yes. For now.... I'm still tired, and a little frightened, Gandalf — I mean Olórin. There are so many changes to get used to, so many new things to remember, like you, and your name.”

The Maia smiled, his understanding full of gentle humor. “Those should be the least of your concerns, especially my name. It matters not what you call me, so long as it is spoken in friendship.”

“But your real name....”

“Does not exist, as you think of such things. Olórin is the name I was given by the first Elves who came to Aman, a word they felt described me in some fashion they could comprehend. Before that, during the earliest part of our lives in the Timeless Halls, names as such did not exist among us, for we had no need of a spoken language to communicate with each other. Indeed, even the concept of language was unknown to us, for our speech, if such it could be called, was that of thoughts, concepts and ideas and images."

Frodo was confused. "But... if you did not speak, how could you sing the Music?"

The Maia smiled as he considered his answer. "Where Lord Eru wills, all is possible. We did not have words as such, but there was sound, and we could fashion it according to our thoughts and wills. Thus we made Song, but of a sort that was unique to that place and state in which we existed.

"At any rate, our identities were each unique, but were images of thoughts, not words. We eventually made a language which we used after we came into Eä and took on forms akin to those of the Eruhíni, anticipating their awakening in the world, and some of us had names that were descriptive of our positions or functions, but many more of us did not. Manwë, for instance, was Manawenûz in our language, Blessed One, and it was one of the simpler names in Valarin. Oromë and Ulmo tried to teach it to the Elves, but its purest form was quite unacceptable to the ears of many of the Firstborn. Even when it was simplified so that it was less distressing to them, they preferred their own tongue, and that they used to give us names. Some, like Manwë, were fashioned after our words, others were based on theirs. These we accepted for their sake more than our own, just as our appearances are adopted for those whose eyes were meant to behold the physical world. I think you understand this better than you did before we arrived here.”

Frodo nodded, recalling what had happened earlier. “Yes. I could see you even after you... seemed to die. I thought at first that everyone could, but when I looked at those around me, I realized that it wasn't so. I'm very glad I could, even if I was only able to do so because of the injuries I suffered from the Enemy. I knew what I had read and what you had told me about your people, and how the wizards were sent in real bodies to help them better understand the people of Middle-earth, but it was difficult for me to imagine, until I saw it right before my eyes. Did it... hurt? Leaving your body, I mean.”

Olórin shook his head. “Not this time. I discovered how it feels to die a painful death in my battle with the Balrog, and now I know how it feels to willingly surrender the life of a true body and move on. Not in the way Men move beyond the circles of the world, but rather similar, I think. The only difference was that this time, I knew what lay beyond my choice, whereas Men do not have that certainty. But it is not an end, just a new beginning. Which is also my situation, I suspect. I am only a Maia, but my life here in Aman will never quite be the same, for I will never be the same person I was before I was sent on the mission to oppose Sauron.”

The hobbit smiled. “Well, if it's any consolation, the changes don't matter to me. I am as fond of Olórin the Maia as I was of my friend Gandalf the Wizard, and I was delighted to see you finally given the honor and respect that should have been yours long ago. It took many hard lessons for me to learn just how much you truly had done for all Middle-earth, and every time I was praised for having almost succeeded in my own task, I could not help but think that those same people should be praising you for completing your own. But you preferred to shrink into the background and deny such things, after the war was over. It was a reasonable choice, perhaps, given that you were not of Middle-earth and would not be staying for long, but when the Valar took such pains today to acknowledge me and Bilbo and the other Ring-bearers, yet seemed to ignore you, I thought it was terrible. They at least knew what you had done, all you had gone through, and it hurt to think that they might simply dismiss it as the work expected of any servant. I'm glad they didn't.”

Olórin chuckled softly, and the sound of his good spirits lifted the halfling's heart. It was something he had heard echoed dimly in his old friend's voice in Middle-earth, but until now, he had not fully realized how restrained and repressed it had been under the burdens and cares of an incarnate life. It was a joy to hear it unfettered at last. “I cannot help but feel it is still more than I deserve, but I haven't the courage to argue with Lord Eru's will! I simply have never been... comfortable being the recipient of so much attention, when I cannot see how I might have done anything to earn it.”

Frodo's eyes widened with surprise. “You can't? I may not know everything you did since you were sent to Middle-earth, but I know enough to realize that if not for you, all would very likely have been lost to Sauron, long ago.”

A shadow of sadness dimmed the Maia's face. “Perhaps. Yet because that might be true, I am shamed all the more. I once told you that you had a right to hear the full tale of how I came to be sent to Middle-earth, and now that my memory is restored to me — yes, it is, in full, so you need not concern yourself about it any longer — I can fulfill my promise. If that tale should start at its very beginning, then I must confess that I undertook the task only because Lord Manwë commanded it. I did not want to go. I was terribly afraid of Sauron, and I did not believe I had the strength to oppose him, in any way. I had been an adversary of Melkor during the First Age, it is true, but all I did then I did in secret, and I never was called upon to work openly or directly against him. Melkor had no knowledge of what I was doing to help the Elves and Men maintain hope and courage. Had it been known, my tasks would have failed, for he would have sought me out and done all he could to destroy me. I knew his strength, and his lieutenant Sauron's, well enough to know that I would have been utterly crushed.

“But the embassy of the Istari was not to be so secret, and without that protection, there was a great risk that we would eventually become the focus of Sauron's anger, once he knew that our sole purpose was to thwart him. That we were to be sent in real bodies, not fanar, increased that risk all the more. When Manwë first suggested this approach to the problem and asked for volunteers to take up the challenge, I said nothing. The very thought of going, especially in a diminished form, frightened me, more than I care to admit. If Manwë had not called upon me and insisted that I go as his emissary, I would have remained silent, and I would have stayed behind. Does that sound at all honorable, and worthy of praise?”

Frodo answered without hesitation. “Yes, as much as the beginning of my own quest was worthy of it. If I had known what Bilbo was giving to me when he left me the Ring, I should have refused to take it at all, and left the matter for others to deal with. Even when I had no choice, I longed for someone else to take away the burden — which you certainly know, since I begged you to take it instead. I did not want to bear the Ring, I did not want to go to Mordor, and I never truly believed I was strong enough or brave enough to find a way to the mountain of fire. As much success as I achieved, I managed only because I was never alone, and always had someone at my side to support me and urge me on, Sam especially. I could not give him the Ring to bear, but I could at least let him stand watch over me for a few minutes from time to time, so I could rest and try to regain my strength enough to go on.

"Who was there to stand watch over you? I bore the weight of the Ring, and you bore the weight of all Middle-earth, the responsibility of helping us find a way to defeat the Enemy and be free again. If either of us had failed utterly, all would have been lost, yet you were never allowed the comfort I had in the support of my friends, because your task was far too great. Maybe you had it before the other wizards fell or lost interest in your mission, but not when it was most important, when the final tests came. Even those of the Wise who were your friends, like Elrond and Galadriel, had their own cares, and could not help in more than very small ways. I cannot begin to imagine how you managed to carry on, when all you had were terrible worries and burdens, and very little of comfort or support. I never thought I would say such a thing, but I think you and I are very much alike, at least in this one way. We both had great tasks to fulfill, we did our best and somehow managed to achieve success, and now, we would rather run and hide than accept the praise we cannot believe we have earned. I think it quite odd, and quite amusing, to realize that we can easily accept it for one another, but only with great difficulty for ourselves.”

Olórin considered what Frodo said for a moment, then laughed, a bright sound with no hint of mockery. “Quite true,” he acknowledged. “A very worthy observation. At times, I believe Lord Eru weaves the threads of our lives into patterns such as this to remind us that in His eyes, our worthiness is not measured by stature or birth or what we perceive to be our abilities. Or perhaps He does such things to make us realize that we should not take ourselves too seriously. I have often been amazed by His humors.”

The hobbit blinked. “You've actually met Him?” It seemed beyond belief, since to most halflings, Eru Ilúvatar was, at best, a dim and distant figure of ancient legends they barely remembered, if they recognized the name at all. Frodo knew more than most because of his association with Bilbo and the Elves and Gandalf, but it was still difficult for him to imagine as a reality.

The Istar, however, was quite calm about it. “Of course — although you probably envision such a meeting in a very different way. The One brought all the Ainur into being before this physical world was imagined, and we were in His presence from that beginning until the moment He allowed some of us to enter Arda, to help realize the world of which we sang. I could not describe Him to you, for that is far beyond the ability of any words. Here in Arda, I have known His presence in my mind and heart, but never as we knew it in the Timeless Halls, beyond the circles of the world. We who chose to come here are bound to remain in Arda until its end.”

Frodo felt he understood. “So none of you can leave this place any more than a Man or a hobbit can leave Middle-earth, even though it isn't really your home.”

“It is our home, for now, and the only ones who have regretted the choice are those like Sauron and Melkor and Saruman, who could not be content with any will but their own, and wished to refashion the world to suit their own designs. Still, I did leave it, once, though not through any intent of my own.”

When the hobbit looked at him, puzzled, he explained. “I was bound to mortal flesh when I fought the Balrog, and I knew quite well that I had no chance of defeating it without losing my own life. That meant giving up the success of my own mission so that you might succeed in yours. I accepted my own failure to help ensure yours, because even though I knew of no one else who might have any hope of directing the resistance to Sauron, it was more important that you be able to carry on a task which I knew in my heart could not be achieved by another. It mattered little what became of me, so long as you had a chance to succeed. The Valar had not intended for us to die in that fashion. They had planned for us to return to Aman after our tasks were finished, and relinquish the mortal shell as you witnessed earlier. When my body died there atop Zirak-zigil, I was cast adrift from life in a manner I could not control. I was so weakened by the long battle and two thousand years of life trapped in a mortal body, I was unable to take form in a fana. I was lost, without direction of any kind. I did not remember it then, but now I know that Lord Eru saved me from becoming lost forever, because He approved of what I had done in sacrificing myself, and my pride, to save what was most important: the future of Middle-earth. For a while, I returned to the Timeless Halls and there was with Him again before He returned me to my home in Aman, to be sent back to Endorë to complete my tasks. I was in His presence only a brief time, but it was a magnificent gift, one I do not think any other of my people here in Arda have ever been given. I feel much nearer to Him now than I have since I first came to this world. There is no reward I could ever imagine that could equal this.”

“I should think not,” Frodo had to agree. “It's all quite incredible to me, but I don't doubt that what you say is true, merely beyond my imagination, at the moment. For now, it has been more than enough to see the reality of this place, and the people who live here. When I first read the tales Bilbo translated about the Great Powers in the West, I never dared to think that someday, I would actually find myself in their company! It all seems quite above me, but it has been both an honor and a delight.”

“I'm glad you have enjoyed it. You have not yet seen all there is to see of Aman, of course, and wherever you wish to go, you will be welcome. This is now your home as well, for as long as you choose to remain here, and few places will ever be forbidden to you.”

The hobbit's eyes sparkled with mild mischief. “Truly? If so, there is one place I would very much like to see, if I may.”

“Unless you wish to enter the Halls of Mandos or the private chambers of the Lord and Lady atop Taniquetil, you have only to ask.”

“Splendid! Then I should like to see your home.”

The Maia blinked, surprised by the request. “ My home? Why that, when there is so much else you might choose? My home, I fear, is far less impressive than even the smallest and simplest of hobbit holes.”

“Still, it is your home, and I would like to see it. Ever since you told me what you could of the truth about yourself, I have wondered what your home here might be like, since in Middle-earth, you had none.”

“But why?”

Frodo sighed. “Because all my life, especially after Bilbo took me in to care for me, I have known of you. I remember the first time you came to visit when I was living in Bag End, and in my young foolishness, I asked Bilbo if you were typical of the Big Folk or just especially rude, since when hobbits go visiting, they wear their very best, not old and worn rags. He scolded me for not thinking before speaking — though he was relieved I had spoken those words to him and not to you. He reminded me that I was living a life of privilege, and that others in the world needed to work very hard to provide the comforts we enjoyed, people who had very little and would never be wealthy, no matter how hard they labored. He told me that your work required you to travel almost constantly, all over the face of Middle-earth, through harsh and distant lands of which I knew nothing. He said that though I was then too young to understand it, someday, if I did not let my head swell too large with self-importance and filled it with learning rather than pride, I might eventually be able to see that you were more than just a dirty and ragged old man who occasionally came about looking for a place to rest for a few days.”

He remembered with faint shame his first arrogant reaction to his guardian's scolding, and how time had proved Bilbo's words. “He was right, I didn't understand it then, and at first, I was angry with Bilbo for treating me like a child. I was, of course, so it took a bit before I realized that he was only telling me the truth for my own good, so I wouldn't grow up to be like Lobelia or some of the other well-off hobbits everyone hated because of their snobbish attitudes. It was an unpleasant run-in with her that did the trick, in fact. I decided I wanted to be more like Bilbo than like her, so I did my best to grow up properly and become the kind of person who could see past the clothes a person wore. It took a long time — I don't think I truly finished growing up that way until I accepted the task of taking the Ring to Mordor — but at least by the next time you visited, I had learned enough to try to look beyond the appearance to the person. It was certainly worth the effort. I grew very fond of you very quickly after that, and when I asked you about yourself and you told me you had no home, only a few places here and there where you could spend a day or two as a welcome guest, I was terribly sad. I couldn't understand why. I still believed you were just a Man, and I thought perhaps your family had forced you to leave, disowned you, and that you were now so poor and outcast, you would need to spend the rest of your life depending on the mercy of strangers, or a few friends like Bilbo. That hardly seemed fair to me, because I could see no reason for anyone to dislike you so. You were always very kind to Bilbo and I, and I remember how patient you were with all my childish questions about the wide world. You knew so much and were really very seldom cross, and I couldn't understand why someone somewhere wasn't willing to at least bring you into their household as a teacher.

“I did ask Bilbo about that, and he told me that there were people who had made you such offers, but you could not accept them. You had work to do that would not permit you such a luxury, though he didn't fully understand it. I thought that even sadder. In the Shire, we're taught to respect our elders and give them such comforts and honor as we can in their old age. You seemed to me to be older than even the most ancient gaffer in Hobbiton, but still you would not end your work. Now, I know why, but then, I understood only how sad it seemed, that you would probably die somewhere in the wilderness, still doing your work, and no one would ever know what had happened to you, only that you went away and never returned.

“But now, I know a good deal more — I know the truth. And even if it is no more than a spot in the woods where you go to rest from time to time, I should like to see the place you call your home, if it's not too much to ask.”

“One could hardly call it that,” Olórin sighed, then smiled. “If that is what you wish, then I shan't object. I suppose there will be time enough for you to discover all the things of greater interest Aman has to offer. Truth be told, I am glad of the chance to share this part of my life with you, even though I would have much preferred had it come about in ways that caused you less pain. Not possible, I know, but I have regretted my own inadequacy ever since the day I first began to suspect the truth about Bilbo's Ring. You and he are my friends, and I have always loved you dearly, but I could not think of any way to bring about the Ring's destruction without involving you in dangers you should never have had to face. For that, I beg your forgiveness, though I know now that this fate was appointed for both of us, long ago.”

“And because it was, no forgiveness is necessary,” the hobbit assured his friend with a smile. “I've always known that you did try your best to find another way, but if we were meant to carry out the tasks we were given, there really wasn't anything you could have done to change my fate, was there?”

“No. Our paths were set by others, though I still regret that yours was so painful. I would have spared you that much, if I could.”

“I know. But I am content, really. It was sad to leave the Shire, but in time, I think I will feel quite happy here. If I had come all alone, I would have preferred to stay behind, come what may, but knowing I have friends here, and always will, helps a great deal.”

“It does indeed,” Olórin agreed. “I felt much the same when I was first sent to Middle-earth as an Istar. I felt quite alone at first, since the others had come before me and had gone off to follow their own paths. I eventually found familiar faces among the peoples I visited in my travels, which was a comfort, although they did not, and could not, recognize me. But this is your first night here. Would it not be easier for you to spend it in the company of those you know best?” He nodded toward Bilbo and Elrond and other Elves whom Frodo had met either in Middle-earth or on the ship during the crossing.

Frodo glanced at them, then shook his head. “As you said, there will be time enough for everything. Bilbo has always loved the Elves, and I know he will be happiest with them. For now, this is what I want, unless you feel I'm prying into your personal affairs.”

The Maia's smile became wry with amusement. “No, but I would not have your first day in the Blessed Realm end on a note of disappointment.”

“I'm sure it won't. Do you live very far away?”

“Far enough, though distance, you will find, may not always have great meaning here, as can also be said of time. Shadowfax will make little bother of it, but the dawn is not far off. If you are willing to wait a little longer, you will be able to see more of the lands between Valmar and Lórien than would be visible to you under the stars.”

The hobbit was startled when he gazed eastward and saw through the great pass in the mountains that the skies were indeed growing light, anticipating dawn. “I hadn't realized how much time had passed. It seems only a few hours at most. Is that what you meant by time having little meaning, here?”

“Not precisely,” Olórin admitted with a chuckle. “This I think was more a case of hobbit perception, never quite noticing the hours fly past when they are enjoying themselves. Which I trust you did.”

“Oh, yes, very much. Bilbo thought there might be some kind of grand party when we arrived, but I don't think even he quite had this in mind. It certainly has been a very full day.”

He paused to reflect on all that had happened since the ship had landed. “Gan—Olórin,” he corrected himself, adamantly shaking his head when he saw his friend begin to speak. “No, don't tell me it makes no difference what I call you. It may not matter to you, but it matters very much to me. Names are a very precious thing, and if it truly makes no difference to you, then let me choose which of yours I prefer. I know enough of other languages to understand something of what they mean. Mithrandir is a rather lovely sounding name, but you haven't been gray in several years, nor are you a pilgrim any longer. And though I used Gandalf out of the same habit as everyone else in the Shire, I think it just as silly to continue using a name that made the mistake of presuming you were some kind of Elf. What does Olórin mean?”

The Maia's expression was full of good humor. “That, I fear, is very difficult to translate properly. The most ancient of the Elvish tongues is quite complex, if also musical, and often its words can have many nuances of meaning, depending on how they are used. Were it to be translated as literally as possible into the Common Tongue, it would mean one of clear vision, but that does not accurately convey the intended meaning. Those who gave me the name were not referring to the vision of one's eyes, nor even the visions of one's dreams, but rather the kind of visions one beholds in the mind's eye when one is attempting to construct in their thoughts something they might wish to fashion in physical reality, as, for instance, a work of art or poetry, or the plans one lays before attempting to accomplish a particular deed. They were speaking of the vision of imagination and creativity and inspiration, so I was told, and I suppose that is fair enough, since much of what I have done in my time in Arda has been an effort to help guide and inspire those who wished to make this world a better place.”

He laughed. “When I told the person who first called me this that they might have chosen some name less ambiguous in its interpretation, he replied that I could simply think of it as meaning dreamer, if I preferred. Perhaps that is the best translation, after all.”

Frodo smiled broadly and chuckled. “Perhaps it is, though if you had told me this years ago, when you were in one of your more peevish tempers, I would have thought it most inappropriate. But now, I find it quite suitable, and Olórin is the name I would like to use. I think it says more about you, and who you are, than any of the others.”

“I suppose it does. It's certainly less ungainly than my Valarin name, with which I will not burden you, as it is seldom used now, even among the Ainur. And if that is what you prefer, then I shan't argue with your choice again. But I believe you were going to say something that had nothing to do with my names.”

Frodo chuckled, appreciating the fact that his old friend never seemed to miss a thing. “Yes, I was, wasn't I? I was just wondering what they were going to do with... with... well, with the body you left. If mortals don't ordinarily come here, or die here, I don't suppose there would be any use for a burial grounds. Do they just plan to throw it away or destroy it?”

It was an odd question, but it had been smoldering at the back of the hobbit's mind all evening long. Those who had taken away the litter had seemed to treat it and its burden with utmost respect, but the swiftness with which it had been whisked away made him wonder if such things made the people here feel so uncomfortable, they wanted to be rid of it as quickly as possible.

The Maia's expression softened as he considered his reply to the question. In his eyes, as Frodo looked more closely, he saw a sea of knowledge and compassion and terribly deep wisdom that gave life to so many things, Frodo was sure he would never be able to grasp the full depth of it. That this person still cared for him and loved him as a dear friend stirred a small shiver deep inside the hobbit, for he was beginning to see beyond the changes of name and appearance to the being who had lived a shuttered life inside the confinements and restrictions of flesh, to help save a world he loved that was not his own.

Perhaps Olórin heard the thoughts flitting through Frodo's mind just then, or perhaps he was simply wise enough to perceive the hobbit's feelings without the need for such confirmation. Whatever the case, he spoke gently when he replied. “They will not destroy it,” he said simply. “There is a strange fascination in many of my people for things of the physical world. Not in the fashion that dragons build up great hoards, but in the way that one can come to respect what has been done with or by something even after its purpose has been served.

"Of course, not all the Ainur are immune to that baser lust for possessions; it was much of what drove Melkor — and Sauron, and Saruman — into evil, for they were not content to share, only to have. In that, I am very unlike those of my people whom I have been required to oppose; I have never yearned to own anything for myself alone, and have always been satisfied in sharing with others. That is why I was never comfortable taking gifts from you or any of my other friends in Endorë. I did not wish to reject your generosity, but I was more than content to do so by sharing the ordinary hospitality you showed me as your guest. It was more than enough for me, and was to my way of thinking a truer expression of our friendship than any material gift. But I understood that to refuse utterly would be an insult to you, for hobbit ways were different, and I also understood that you would never quite comprehend why I would only accept the smallest and most insignificant of gifts.”

“I didn't when I was a child,” Frodo agreed, “but I did by the time we left Minas Tirith. Things are not so important as friends. The one weighs us down, and the other lightens our burdens.”

“Just so. Here in Valinor, my people do not have bodies of true flesh, and can generally change from one form to another with little effort, yet we still exist within a physical world. The mountains and grass and rocks and trees and waters here are as solid and real as those in Endorë; those things that live do not die or decay simply because they exist in the presence of immortal powers that hinder them from fading — and yet, the seasons change, much as they do in Middle-earth. My people are deathless, but this place has known death. Long ago, the Elves fought among themselves, and many were slain; Melkor conspired with Ungoliant to poison and kill the Two Trees that once gave Aman light. The bodies of the Elves were buried in Eldamar, and what is left of the Trees still remains on Ezellohar, a hill outside the western gates of the city, beyond the Máhanaxar. It was once a beautiful, green place, but the poisons of Ungoliant blackened it even as it killed the Trees. Yet what was left is still there, and much honored by my people, for it reminds us not only of the beauty that once was, but chastens us to remember how we must ever protect that which we love from the cruelty of evil. I was told that a place had been prepared there, to receive and preserve the bodies of the Istari when we returned and were at last allowed to resume our lives as unfettered Maiar. Only one place was needed, but there the body will stay until the next Change of the World, in memory of the Third Age and all that was sacrificed to bring about the dawn of the next. I suppose others might go there to look upon it from time to time, to know better that which they did not themselves experience, but for me, it is enough to know that the end of my mission was an honorable one.”

“It was. You don't suppose, do you, that the other Wizards might come back someday? You once told me there were five.”

Olórin nodded. “There were, but they will not return. Curumo — Saruman — gave up that privilege when he betrayed our mission, and refused time and again to repent of his wickedness. Aiwendil — Radagast — may, perhaps, change his mind someday and wish to return, but I do not think so. During the time after you returned to the Shire and before our departure from the Havens, there were a number of matters I attempted to settle, once and for all. Radagast the Brown was one of them. He has not forgotten that he is a Wizard, but he no longer remembers that he is also a Maia. To his mind, he is a part of Endorë and must remain there, much like Tom Bombadil. I doubt any harm will come of this, for his was never an evil spirit, but he has forgotten too much and fallen too far from our original purpose. Unless some great cataclysm awakens his memories of what he truly is, he will, I fear, never remember.”

“But what of the other two? Did the same thing happen to them?”

The Maia sighed. “No. Alatar and Pallando were lost to us long ago. They were appointed to tasks in the East, far from all the lands you know; the Men of those regions called them Morinehtar and Rómestámo, names which I suspect are completely unfamiliar to you. During the years when Sauron was gathering his strength and attempting to take shape again, his spirit found and slowly ate away at Pallando's heart. He had been a servant of Lord Námo here in Aman, and matters of death and sorrow fascinated him more than matters of life and joy. He went into a part of the far east of Middle-earth, where the people lived through bitter hardship because the lands were harsh, barely fertile enough to sustain life. At first, he took pity on them and tried to help them, but he was not wise in the ways he chose. Thus was Sauron's shadow able to creep into his heart, and slowly it infected his pity with impatience, tempting him toward goals other than that for which he had been sent. The means of his help began to change. He fancied that he would be able to serve these poor people not by teaching them how to improve their lives, but by using his abilities and knowledge to thwart death. He became a necromancer, telling the people that he would raise their dead again if they would but follow him and give him reverence. It did not last, for his power was not as great as he imagined it to be. Very soon, the people realized the lie in his words, for he could not grant true life, only animate dead flesh into an appearance of life that was but a bitter parody. Before long, the people of that land rose up against him, and Pallando was slain, but in the folly of his resistance, he swore terrible oaths against Eru Ilúvatar for denying him the power of true life-giving, and thus he was denied return to the Undying Lands when he fell. That in itself was tragic, but worse was the fact that from him, Sauron drew power and considerable knowledge of death, which he used to disguise himself in Dol Guldur, as a shadow of evil called the Necromancer.”

Frodo shuddered at the tale. “Could he rise again, as Sauron did, and threaten Middle-earth?”

Olórin shook his head. “No, have no fear of that. Pallando was never as powerful as Sauron, and the Dark Lord took much of his innate strength from him ere he died. Much the same happened to Saruman, and thus, neither of them will ever again be able to take shape and harm the peoples of Endorë. At most, they might be felt in dark places, as shapeless and nameless rumors of impotent fear. In many ways, Alatar fell more thoroughly than they. He was the messenger of Lord Oromë, and like Saruman, he stepped forward quickly when Lord Manwë asked who was willing to go. He knew much concerning the lands of the east, for Oromë had explored them thoroughly long before the Elves first awakened. If the west of Middle-earth fell, those lands would next fall under Sauron's eye, and the Valar were concerned that the peoples who lived there should not be forgotten and left defenseless, primitive though they were. Alatar was a great servant of Oromë, and had traveled to those regions before, in other guises, in the service of his master. He and Pallando had been friends since the earliest days, and when Alatar asked if they might travel together as companions in those empty lands, the request was easily granted.

“Whether it came about as a true desire of his own heart or yet another of Sauron's machinations, I do not know, but it was not long before Alatar began to see how easily the Easterners were influenced by even the simplest of his powers. At first, he thought this would make his task easy to accomplish, but very soon, he felt the temptations of their reverence. They called him a god, and rather than deny it, Alatar accepted it and encouraged it. He drew worshipers to himself, instructed them in rituals of dark sorcery, and utterly fell away from his true task. In his arrogance, he united some parts of those peoples under his own will, and corrupted them into rejecting both the Valar and Lord Eru, much as Sauron had done in Númenor. Before his own mistakes were made, Pallando saw this happening to his friend and fled out of fear, only to eventually fall in a pale mimicry of what Alatar had done. And Alatar himself was later trapped by minions of Sauron when the Dark Lord grew stronger. He would have been taken to the pits of Barad-dûr and either broken or enslaved to the Enemy's will, but in his fear and pride, he took his own life rather than risk death at Sauron's hands. It was a purely selfish act, not a sacrifice of self, and he too was denied return to the West. His spirit has faded even more than Sauron's, and though he will never again trouble the west of Middle-earth, his influence remains in the hideous cults he founded in the east. They, too, might dwindle and be forgotten someday, but for now, they deceive the minds of some Men into believing that they might order the world through arts of powerless sorcery.”

He sighed. “It is a strange tale, the fates of the Heren Istarion, one of which I knew only some details, until I was freed of my mortal body and was again my true self. And it is a sad story, I think, for so much that was good and held so much strength and wisdom and promise failed utterly.”

“But not all,” Frodo reminded him, smiling at his friend in reassurance. “It is a sad story in some ways, but the ending is a happy one, to my mind. Five went, but one did return. None might have returned at all, if you had not been wise enough to resist the temptation I foolishly offered you. And you made no mistake when you saved us from the Balrog. It broke my heart, but it also gave me greater resolve than I had had before, to see the quest through to the end. I couldn't bear to think that you might have died in vain, no matter how frightened I was of the road still ahead. Waking in Ithilien to find that you were alive again was the best reward I could have ever asked for, then or now. Not everything was lost, and some very special things were found again.”

“Indeed they were,” the Maia agreed, his expression full of warmth. “If you wish to see where my body was taken, I will lead you there, but for myself, I feel no need to look upon it again. It is enough to know that it will serve as a reminder to my people of a disaster that was very narrowly avoided, through the wisdom of Eru Ilúvatar, Who sent me back again.”

Frodo shook his head, looking off to the east, where, through the pass of the Calacirya, he could see the skies swiftly brightening with the beautiful pale colors of the coming dawn. “Perhaps someday, but not now. I was merely curious, because I couldn't imagine what the customs might be among a people who seldom, if ever, dealt with such things.”

He looked up at his friend, and was struck once again by the profound difference between his current appearance and that which Frodo had known for so long. He had thought at first that it would take a great deal of getting used to, but already, he was growing comfortable with it. Somehow, he had always known that under the trappings and guises of antiquity, there lay a spirit of great wisdom and compassion and joy, yearning to be freed from the fetters laid upon him by his mission. He had seen it in the wizard's eyes whenever he was faced with the need to watch a friend in sadness or grief or pain: the desire to do more than he was allowed to ease their suffering and give them more than just the kindling of hope. He had felt that compassion turned upon himself during the difficult journey between Rivendell and the Bridge, the sense that if the wizard could have done anything to relieve Frodo's burden without endangering all of Middle-earth, he would have, without hesitation. Only the knowledge that in taking the Ring, he would become more terrible a Ring-Lord than Sauron himself held him to the course he knew he must take, even though his heart ached for the pains he knew all too well Frodo would suffer before the task was finished.

Many who live deserve death. And some who die deserve life. Can you give it to them? After his escape from Moria, those words had been a bitter memory to the hobbit, who had wished with all his might that he could return life to the friend who had so bravely died for him. In the end, it was the memory of Gandalf's words and his willing sacrifice that had prevented Frodo from killing Gollum, which in turn had saved them all from ruin. Thus it was that ultimately, Middle-earth and all who lived there were saved from the oppression of evil by the compassion of one very loving being who was not even a part of the world he had come to protect. Looking at him now and realizing just how much of himself he had been forced to hide and suppress and deny in order to fulfill the requirements of the mission laid upon him, Frodo was overwhelmed with feelings of gratitude and respect and affection.

He suddenly turned his face away; tears filled his eyes. What had he done to deserve this friendship?

He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder, and through it the empathy of the one who had touched him, more than physically. “Are you all right, Frodo?” came the equally gentle question, full of concern. “Perhaps we should not have expected so much of you on your first day in a strange new land....”

The hobbit shuddered for more reasons than even he could understand. “Oh, no,” he gasped out shakily, doing his best to swallow his tears. “No, no, that's not it at all. Everyone has been wonderful to me, so kind and understanding — as you always were, and still are. It's just that I've finally realized everything you gave up to come help us foolish mortals, especially this foolish mortal. I thought myself lucky to count you as my friend when not even you knew the full truth about yourself. Now....”

He looked up at the Maia, dashing away the tears he could not contain. “I'm not sure I deserve your friendship, but I'm so very grateful for it, I can find no words to express it.”

Olórin smiled warmly. “None are needed, my dear hobbit. We've had this discussion before, after you awoke in Ithilien, and though some things have changed in appearance — myself most notably — nothing has changed in substance. We are what we were meant to be in Lord Eru's mind, and whatever purpose we serve, all are equally noble and worthy so long as we fulfill it with a good and honest heart. Varda kindled the stars, but what use would their light serve if there were no one to look upon it? Aulë raised up the mountains, but they would be naught but heaps of cold stone unless other hands worked it, or other creatures came to live among them. Yavanna brought forth the trees and plants and flowers, but if no bird nested in their branches and no creature ate of their fruit, they would be only weeds. The ocean is naught but a vast pool of water if no fish swims in it to make it home and no ship sails upon it to travel from land to land. The wind is nothing but noise and movement without living creatures to fly upon it and breathe its air for life. Even a dream is nothing if it cannot serve to ease burdens, offer small insight, or bring inspiration. The Powers may have wrought mighty things, but even the greatest creation needs to serve a purpose beyond its mere existence. Thus what seem to be small and humble things have equal use in the world; neither is greater or lesser than the other. We are what we are, and so long as we have done our best according to our abilities, we are equals. Do you not understand this even now, Frodo? I have naught but respect and admiration for your ability to do what I could not. If you see the same in what I did to fulfill my mission, which you could not have done, then we are the same. That you are called a hobbit and I am called a Maia matters not. As Eru Ilúvatar loves us both as His children, so we can love each other best by accepting each other as equals, in His eyes and one another's. That will never change.”

“And you would do well to remember these matters, Frodo Baggins,” a deep but quiet voice said nearby. “Wisest of our people Olórin may be, but he is also as stubborn as he is humble. He speaks truly to you, but you will find he has a tendency to forget that such wisdom applies to himself as well. We would be grateful if you would remind him of this from time to time, since you appear to have his ear better than we who have known him far longer.”

Frodo looked up to see the Elder King standing close by, smiling down at them with great good humor. As the hobbit quickly clambered to his feet, Olórin winced faintly, and sighed. “Lord Manwë....” he began.

But the Vala dismissed what he had been about to say with a gesture that might have been called imperious, under other circumstances. “Do not argue with me, Olórin,” he said, not angrily, but as an elder might, in good spirits, chide a stubborn youngster. His eyes sparkled with his humor, prompting Frodo to notice that they were the same intense shade of blue as Olórin's. “We have debated this issue often down the years, and this time, you will not win the quarrel, for Eru Ilúvatar agrees with me. You have done all that was asked of you, and more. The embassy of five was never meant to be fulfilled by one, and much though you might protest that it was Lord Eru's widening of our plans that enabled you to succeed, all that you accomplished could not have been done in the brief days between your return to life and the downfall of Sauron. The resistance of Endorë's people to the Dark Lord began long before his destruction, and all that time was needed to bring it about so that with or without your direct intervention, they could carry on to the conclusion, be that ending for good or ill. You make little of your own part in this, but it was in truth two thousand years of diligent work that bore the fruit of success in the end. Your humility does you credit and has, I deem, saved you from the folly of pride which might have proved your undoing in the temptation of the Ring, but do not be so humble that you insult those who would rightfully honor you. If all our works are of equal worth in the eyes of Lord Eru, as you say, then yours are as well, and we praise Him in acknowledging what you have done.”

The Maia sighed in surrender as he rose more gracefully to his feet. “I know, my lord, but as I once told Lord Eru, old habits take at least a little time to be overcome. If you wish me to change my ways so suddenly, then you run the risk that I will not know how to deal properly with such overwhelming praise, and might become quite consumed by it. Such things have happened before, have they not?”

Manwë chuckled. “Indeed, and I will gladly permit you this grace — so long as you do not use it as an excuse to move so slowly, the end result is the same as if you had made no effort at all. Do not let his humility deceive you, Frodo. As I said, this Maia is indeed the wisest of all our people, but he is also the most stubborn. He has long since found ways to get round us, because we often do not act quickly enough to perceive his cleverness in avoiding certain things. But he has not been as successful with the Eruhíni, because you must, by your nature, act and react in ways we would consider quite hasty. That seems both a puzzle and a blessing to us, and in this case, we would be indebted to you if you would keep watch over Olórin so that he might learn once and for all that there is no evil in accepting both the well-earned praise of others and the truth of one's own self.”

Olórin regarded Manwë in a faintly disgruntled fashion Frodo would not have dared. “I already know these things, my lord....”

The Vala was blithely unperturbed. “Then the watch will be an easy one, and you will spare your friend needless effort.”

He then smiled more broadly, settling his hands on the Maia's shoulders. “Come now, Olórin, I know it has been a long and trying time for you, these many years spent away from Aman as our messenger. What is true for Frodo is true for you as well. Let go of the burden as you let go of the body in which you were sent. Part of the joy we celebrate is on your behalf, and rightfully so, for you accomplished what no one else could, and did what we had tried to do so many times before, without ever fully succeeding. Whether you first went because you wished to go or because I commanded it does not matter — and yes, I know well that this is what weighs upon your heart and makes you unwilling to accept any honor. Though you are my servant, you might still have refused my command, as Frodo might have refused to bear the Ring, and things would now be quite different. I prodded you into taking the onus, but you chose to accept it, and did not allow the manner in which you came to bear it to hinder your fulfillment of the task. Indeed, that very unwillingness at the onset makes your final success all the more sweet, for there can be no doubt that you did what was asked of you solely out of your love for Middle-earth and the Eruhíni, and not for the glory of victory. Yet your heart still feels much of the pain and sadness you knew as an Istar. Go now and find anew the joy and peace which you lost.”

The Maia regarded the taller Vala for a moment, still and silent; then he smiled, in earnest. “If this is another command, my lord, I accept it gladly, for I very much want to know those things again, as I did before our enemies brought so much suffering to the world. But do not make Frodo responsible for my behavior, even in jest. He is here to find healing and rest from his own pains and burdens, not to take up another even more impossible task.”

Manwë laughed, a sound of pure happiness that could have made Frodo smile even in the darkest pits of Mordor. “Very good! I see you are regaining your perspective, as well as your unique sense of humor, for you know full well that there are those among us who have often called you impossible when you were at your most stubborn. Of course, I would not ask any such thing of our honored guest. But he wishes to see your home, and I think this a wise plan.” He turned his smile to Frodo. “For where else in all Valinor can such peace and healing be found as in the gardens of Lórien, where Estë the Healer also dwells?”

“I had thought the same thing,” Olórin admitted, the shadow of discomfort fading from him at last as he looked down at Frodo. “But I did not wish to seem as if I were forcing the notion upon you. In time, I knew you would want to see as much of Aman as you could, but if at first you felt most comfortable with people you knew and places that seemed more familiar, I did not want to hinder that choice with my own suggestions.”

Frodo laughed. “And other than you, is there anyone here whom I know better, besides Bilbo? I don't think he will miss me at all for several days at least, and while he becomes acquainted with the people and places he wishes to know, I see no reason why I should not take the opportunity to do the same. If he knows where I am, I'm sure he won't worry in the slightest.”

“Then so it shall be,” Manwë approved. “Whatever you wish to see or to have or to do, Frodo Baggins, you have only to ask. Neither the Valar nor the Maiar nor any of the Eldar who dwell in the Blessed Realm will refuse you, save in matters over which we have been given no authority. For though we tried time and again to repair the damage done to Arda by the malice of Melkor and his servants, it delights us to see the subtle power of the One at work, using the song Olórin sang so long ago to fashion an instrument that would prove the undoing of evil's might. Go in peace, and find as you may the healing and happiness and understanding you so richly deserve.” He laid his hand upon Frodo's head as he spoke his blessing, then smiled at both the halfling and the Maia before departing.

The first rays of the morning sun broke through the pass of the Calacirya and flooded the lands to the west of the great mountains with light. It was a beautiful sunrise, the most beautiful Frodo could recall. Yesterday, he had wondered if the dawn was bringing with it the beginnings of a day that might end less happily than it had begun. His negative anticipation had proved to be completely unfounded, and he was finding it possible to believe, at long last, that a better future lay before him, one without the horrible lingering pains that had plagued him since he had taken up the burden of the Ring. For a moment, as the memories of what had driven him from his beloved home welled up, a sharp pain lanced through his left shoulder, at once hot as fire and cold as ice. He closed his eyes, praying that he was not about to lapse back into that misery just when he was finally beginning to feel free of it; almost in answer, he felt a hand settle upon his shoulder, and the pain vanished. He opened his eyes and looked up at Olórin, whose hand still rested on his shoulder, but whose eyes were fixed on the rising sun.

Frodo then remembered something the Elder King had said. “What did Lord Manwë mean when he spoke of the song you sang?” he wondered, hoping the question was not impertinent. “I suppose I knew that you must have taken part in the Great Music Bilbo's books mentioned, at least after I understood what you truly are, but I never thought to wonder what you sang about.”

Amusement flickered across the Maia's face like glints of light on ripples of clear water before his glance shifted to Frodo. “Nothing as specific as those things Lord Manwë and the other Valar imagined in their songs. I was very young, back then, as were we all, and I felt myself to be quite the most insignificant of all the Ainur, the least of even the Maiar. I would look at all my kindred and then at myself, and wonder if what I was was nothing more than the smallest afterthought of Lord Eru's mind, a little thing fashioned from all the crumbs of half-formed thoughts left over after the others had sprung forth. I am not certain why, but I have long felt that I was the last of the Ainur to come into being, which made my other notions all the more plausible. If I was the youngest, the last, I was surely the least of all. I seemed to be just an echo of the others; I felt nothing unique to myself alone. I could see no special gift or quality in me that the others did not already possess, save perhaps insignificance. When Lord Eru commanded us to sing, I did not know what to do. Nothing would come to me but repetitions of what I heard from those around me. So for a while, I stayed silent and listened. But as I listened, I began to realize that in all the beautiful and glorious themes I heard, there was none that sang of the small and the simple, of the humble and the weak. Those were things I knew very well indeed, so that was what I sang of, very quietly and rather briefly, before the Music finally ended. I was certain no one had heard me, or if they had, they paid me no mind. What use was there, after all, in unimportance?”

He sighed at the memories of his own youthful naivete. “But Lord Eru hears everything, and He heard my song as clearly as He heard all the others. I had no notion that He would actually make use of it in His creation of the world, but when I saw the vision of it as the others did, I was moved to understand that what is simple and small can be a very lovely and important part of greater things, and that some of the most wonderful works are constructed of many lesser elements brought together from many different sources to create something far greater. In the minds of all the One's children, both the Ainur and the Eruhíni, that is the strength and the power of imagination, to make a paradise out of a barren wasteland, to make magnificent music from the emptiness of air. That was my gift, my portion of Lord Eru's thought: imagination and creativity as they are reflected in the clear visions of simplicity and generosity, not grandeur and possessiveness. Seeing that part of myself in Ëa, I loved it at once, and wanted to do all I could to help nurture it in reality. I came with the other Ainur for that purpose, and I have never regretted my choice. But it was not until I was sent to Middle-earth as an Istar that I saw a very unique way in which Lord Eru made use of my song in a time of great need. He used its spirit in fashioning the hobbits, which I always suspected but never knew for certain until He told me of it, after my death in Moria. Curious, is it not?”

Frodo had been listening in amazement, but growing comprehension as well. He laughed, delighted. “It is, but it explains so very much! I'd often wondered why you cared at all about the Shire and all the hobbits. None of the other Big People ever really seemed to, and though I asked, you never were able to give an answer I could fully grasp. I supposed you didn't quite understand why yourself, and now it seems I was right. But it makes perfect sense, in hindsight. Have you told this to Bilbo? I think he would be delighted to hear it!”

Olórin shook his head. “No, as I said, I had no real knowledge of the truth until after my return from death, and since then, there has been no opportunity, or reason, to speak of it to anyone. While we were still in Middle-earth, Bilbo would have been too weary to understand, and it will take time for him to regain his full strength here.” Mischief glittered in his eyes. “When the time is right, I think perhaps you should tell him. You haven't had many opportunities to teach him something he doesn't already know.”

Frodo laughed even more merrily as he glanced in the old hobbit's direction. “How very true! But you're right, now wouldn't be the proper time. I want to let him know where I'm going, if you don't mind. I suspect he wouldn't notice I'm missing for at least a week, but I shouldn't want him to worry, if he does.”

“I doubt that he will,” the Maia agreed, “though I'm sure he will appreciate such politeness, even if he does not always remember to return it. But we had best hurry, then, since it looks as if he is about to depart for Tirion without you!” That did indeed appear to be the case, so still laughing, Frodo hurried off to inform his kinsman of his plans, eager to begin what was already promising to be a wonderful new life. He did not notice how Olórin's gaze followed him, nor the shadow of concealed pain that had crept into his eyes.

V

As Shadowfax flew across the open plains, away from Valmar and the mountains in the east, it occurred to Frodo that this was a unique occasion for him, in more ways than one. Aside from the fact that he was traveling across a beautiful new land with the most pleasant scented wind in his face, it was the very first time he had ever ridden astride the great gray horse. It was also the first time he had ever ridden with the wizard, on this or any other beast. The only other time he had ever been on horseback rather than on a pony was when he had been placed on Glorfindel's Asfaloth, between Weathertop and Rivendell. The memories of that time were still dark, and he recalled very little of that portion of their journey, aside from the terrible feelings of fear and pain.

Now, the circumstances were quite different. He was not racing from a dreadful enemy, hoping against hope to reach aid before he succumbed to the will of the Dark Lord. He was riding with one of the dearest friends he had ever known, the person who had, perhaps, given more of himself to help defeat that Dark Lord than any other. The wind of their passage was refreshing, the country around them was lovely; when the memory of Weathertop and his wound caused his shoulder to ache and a shadow of cold evil to darken his mind again, he felt Olórin touch his arm, ever so lightly, and both the pain and the shadow completely disappeared.

He smiled. He did not know if it was merely a coincidence, but since this was the second time since his arrival that such a thing had happened, he could not help but feel that it was not. Unencumbered by the restrictions he had known in Middle-earth, the Maia seemed more perceptive of all around him, including the suffering and dark memories of his halfling companion, and his ability to help was also greater. Perhaps he would ask about it later, Frodo reflected, but for now, he was content. He had never thought he could be at ease in any land but the Shire, without the familiarity of other hobbits around him, but with Olórin, he felt comfortable, at peace. Smiling to himself, he leaned back against his old friend in wordless gratitude, and watched the world fly by beneath Shadowfax's hoofs.

After a time, drowsiness washed over him, and he dozed without realizing it until the horse slowed his pace and the rhythm of movement changed. He had been dreaming of the Shire, of the green fields, singing streams, grassy hills, wooded glens, the scent of flowers and sunshine on fresh earth, the song of birds, the warmth of home. He opened his eyes, and thought he was still dreaming.

From the position of the sun in the sky, it was now mid to late morning. Shadowfax had come to a halt atop a rise that looked out over a wide valley, and as he beheld the land spread out before them, Frodo saw not an unfamiliar new place, but the Shire. He would have thought that all the events of the days before he had wakened were the dream and he was back in Middle-earth, but for the lack of hobbit holes and tilled fields. But the resemblance to his native land was so uncanny, he could not restrain a soft gasp at the remarkable sight.

He both felt and heard Olórin's gentle chuckle. “Yes, I suppose you can see now why I was so fond of the Shire, even with its absurd collection of hobbits digging their homes into the sides of the hills. What the Elves were thinking of when they called this the Garden of Valinor was something rather different from what you would call a garden, less groomed for farming and more the natural world allowed to grow in its own way, with its own beauty merely lovingly tended, not ordered for the purpose of growing crops or formally arranged plantings. That is why I was drawn to this place as my home, even though I am a servant of Lord Manwë. Its simplicity spoke to me on a level that touched my very heart. When I first saw the Shire, it stirred dim memories of my home, and whenever I was in need of peace and rest, I could find no better place for it.”

“Is this the land they call Lórien?” the hobbit asked when he could speak again. “Why, it looks nothing at all like Lothlórien...!”

“Not here,” the Maia agreed, “but it is a large country, and there are other parts which resemble the Golden Wood — or rather, I should say there are parts of this land which the Golden Wood was designed to resemble. See the woodland surrounding the great lake?” He gestured to a place that Frodo might have mistaken for the Bywater Pool east of Hobbiton, save that he now realized it was more distant than it had at first appeared, was wrapped in a haze of silver and gold, and held an island in its midst. “That is the lake of Lórellin, where the Lady Estë dwells, and the wooded lands around it are more akin to Lothlórien than anything in the Shire. If you were to reckon the lake as being the equivalent of the Bywater Pool, then my home is some miles away to the west and south of it, about where Tuckborough would be. But please, never mention this to any Took! I'm afraid it would have quite gone to young Pippin's head, had he ever known such a thing.”

Frodo laughed, understanding, and though he felt sadness, hearing the name of a friend he would likely never see again, it passed quickly. He may have given up his own Shire and the people in it whom he loved, but now, he had a new version of it to explore, and new people to meet. Back in Middle-earth, he would have soon become a burden to his friends, not in terms of finances or other such worldly matters, but emotionally, as with each passing year, they would watch him suffer from pains and shadows they could do nothing to heal or dispel. His guilt would also have grown proportionately, so in the end, he had done the only thing he could do. When Gandalf had come to visit this past Midsummer's Eve and had told him that he would be welcomed in the West, Frodo had felt less torn than he might have only a few months before. The West offered him a chance to find healing and peace, something he had at long last concluded would never be his in Middle-earth. And every time he saw Sam or Rose or Merry or Pippin watching him with ever-growing concern, he grew more firmly convinced that he could not continue to be a part of their lives if it meant causing them pain. So he had made the decision, the only one possible to a person who genuinely loved his friends, and had gone over the Sea. He had expected that at the very least, he would be no worse off here, for Bilbo would be with him, as well as other friends — perhaps less close than those in the Shire, but friends nonetheless. At least he would not be anyone's burden, and those he had left behind could get on with their lives as they were meant to live them, in happiness.

He certainly had not expected Olórin to take him under his wing as he had, not so quickly. Perhaps he should have anticipated it; it was certainly in keeping with the general personality of the wizard he had known. The gruffness Gandalf had occasionally displayed was, Frodo now perceived, very much a feint, designed for both his own protection and that of those for whom he cared. Knowing him too well inevitably meant becoming involved in the dangerous business that was his reason for being in Middle-earth, and for him to become too close to any of its mortal inhabitants inevitably would mean heartbreak, for they could not live forever and he must eventually leave when his task was done. That he risked as much personal pain as he had in loving the peoples of Endorë was quite probably the greatest reason he was beloved by all who knew him as more than just a wandering old man, meddling in affairs not his own. That he would now have a chance to know the real person and not simply that aspect of him manifested in Gandalf the Wizard delighted Frodo, for he could already tell that there was much about him to love, and even more that he would return in friendship. He no longer felt any worry that he would continue to linger here as he had in the Shire, in recurring, horrible, wasting pain. If no one else in Aman would help him, Olórin would, in whatever ways he needed and for however long was required. No, Frodo could not feel sorry for himself over what he had left behind, not anymore. He still missed his friends, it was true, but he knew even now that he had gained much more than he could have possibly anticipated.

Happy, both with himself and the world around him, he smiled as Shadowfax set off again at a more gentle pace, down the rise and across the open hill country toward a wooded region that did indeed resemble Tookland, from a distance.

As they went, he began to notice that the countryside was not empty of inhabitants, as it first had seemed. There were all manner of familiar creatures living here, as well as people. From what Frodo could tell, some were Elves, but others were not. He could only assume that they were other temporarily incarnate Maiar, as they had about them a certain indescribable beauty and inner radiance that he had seen in many at the celebration. At length, he became aware that there were dwellings in the areas they passed, some simple and others quite magnificent, though all seemed a part of the countryside and blended in with the trees and shrubs and waters and grasses, as if they had grown from the land itself and had not been artificially constructed. They were even more a part of the hills and glens than the hobbit homes, and it warmed Frodo to know that the people of this “Shire” respected it and loved it as much as the inhabitants of his own. Some waved or called greetings as they went by, as if they were all old and familiar friends in these parts, and no attempt was made to stop them.

At length, they came to a place that so reminded Frodo of the land where the Stock Road entered the wooded hills to the east of Tuckborough, he found it difficult to imagine that the resemblance was more than coincidental. The path they were following was not as well-traveled as the road through Tookland, but it wound its ways through gentle hillocks and shady groves that seemed precisely the same as those Frodo had last seen when visiting that area. There were no hobbit holes in the hillsides, but there were other dwellings here and there, places that Frodo could almost believe were homes to a different strain of halfling families. They slowed to a trot as they passed through a denser area of trees, then came to a stream which they then followed around the curve of a larger hill. In a glen between the stream and the hill, there was another copse of what looked like beeches and lindens and what might have been mallorns. At the edge of the grove, Shadowfax halted, following some unspoken request from his master.

Frodo looked around as Olórin dismounted. The place was quite lovely, but he could see no sign of any habitations. “I was only joking when I said something about your home just being a quiet place in the woods,” he said, glancing about again to see if there was something he might have missed. “That isn't the truth, is it?”

The Maia laughed brightly as he lifted the halfling from Shadowfax's back and settled him on his feet. “No, not at all, but you've seen how many of the dwellings hereabouts seem to almost disappear into the grass and the woods. Mine is much the same, and rather less impressive. It's not far. Come.” As Shadowfax trotted off into the meadow, Olórin led Frodo onto a path that the hobbit would have sworn had not been there moments before. It led through the trees and the underbrush to a broad clearing with a gentle upward slope. Frodo stopped when they entered the open space, first because his companion did so, then because of what he saw before them.

On the other side of the clearing stood a structure the hobbit would have hesitated to call a house, and certainly would not have called unimpressive. It was not huge, but it was rather more than many of the dwellings they had passed on the way. Like them, it blended wonderfully with their surroundings, but it stood out more than the others, in a very unusual way. The place seemed to have grown where it stood, fashioned of many living branches beautifully intertwined to create walls and windows and a roof rather than trees and brush. Delicate vine-like latticework covered several large windows to either side of a pair of doors clearly of the same craftsmanship; the doors themselves opened onto a broad porch three steps above the woodland floor. Shrubs and vines in full fragrant flower hugged the base of the structure and crept up its sides and over its roof. To the right of the structure, a stream wound its way into the grove, but only after spilling down a stony hillside, falling against the smooth stones with gentle music rather than a noisy roar; rays of sunlight sifted through the trembling leaves on the surrounding trees and sparkled upon the moving water. The path they had taken ended at the bottom of the stone and wood steps, but from the look on his face, this was not at all what the Maia had expected to find here.

Frodo thought he understood. “I suppose a great deal would have changed during all the years you were gone,” he speculated. Growing things, after all, had a way of shooting up and developing in ways one did not expect, altering the appearance of a place in only a few scant years. After the passage of several thousand, quite a lot might no longer be the same.

Olórin snorted softly. “I suppose they would, but not like this! This is not my home. I was there when I returned briefly, after Moria, and I am quite certain this wasn't here...!”

“But it is your home,” a pleasantly musical voice said from behind them, almost laughing. Frodo looked up and felt his eyes widen as he beheld a stunningly beautiful woman, pale skinned, raven haired, with eyes the color of a verdant meadow and soft raiment the hue of a butterfly's wing. He did not know her, but she looked very familiar, so familiar that he felt sure he should have known her name. She smiled at him, seeing his reaction to her presence. “You must be Olórin's friend, the hobbit Frodo,” she said in those same wonderfully musical tones. “I am honored to meet you, as I was not able to attend the feast in your honor. Welcome to Lórien, and to the house of Olórin, though he apparently knows it not.”

“Very true, I do not know it,” the Istar agreed, seeming faintly bewildered and annoyed. “Which I am sure you know quite well, Melian, and indeed intended. Was this change your idea?”

The other Maia shook her head, still smiling. Hearing her name, Frodo understood why she seemed so very familiar. She was Melian, once the Queen of Doriath, the mother of Lúthien Tinúviel, and the ancestor of Arwen Undómiel, who walked in her likeness. “No, indeed, I should not have dared to be so bold, knowing how discomfited you are by displays of honor and recognition, even when they are well earned. The idea was suggested by several of your friends and followers among the Eldar, and was supported by Eönwë after your brief return to us less than two years ago. The Valar themselves approved, but it was Yavanna and Aulë who brought it about. After you were sent back to complete the work of the Istari, I believe they felt especially responsible for the fact that you would need to do this task alone, as their emissaries who should have been your greatest support proved to be the greatest disappointment. It is no palace, my old friend, but it is indeed more suitable to one who has earned the favor of the One, and who may, from time to time, have need to see to the comfort of more than just himself.”

She turned her smile to Frodo, who blushed faintly, realizing that she was referring to him. She was indeed more beautiful than any of the Elf ladies he had ever seen, and there was a sadness in her eyes that was also very Elven. Frodo recalled, then, that Melian's husband, the Elf king Elwë Singollo, Thingol of Doriath, had been slain many years ago, much to her heartbreak. And while most Elves could be reborn in new bodies and rejoin their people, those who had committed great crimes or were unrepentant of evil things done in their lives were doomed to remain in the Halls of Mandos. Frodo could not recall that Thingol had done any such terrible thing, but then, so much pain and suffering had come about because of his demand that Beren bring him a Silmaril as the bride-price for his daughter Lúthien, it was possible the Elf lord simply did not have the heart to return, and face the shame of what he had done. That would certainly explain the unquenchable sadness in Melian's eyes, for she had lost everything — her husband and daughter and all they had ever wrought in the world — to Fëanor's curse upon the Silmarils.

And yet, for all that, she still managed to smile graciously upon the hobbit. “The Elves did the work of crafting the furnishings inside,” she continued, “for they are more familiar with the needs and comforts of those who must walk in true flesh, but Vána and I helped attend the gardens without. She felt no place could truly be a home without the beauty of flowers, and I feel much the same about the song of birds. It was meant to be a surprise, and I see that it was indeed — but one, I hope, that has not offended you in its presumptuousness, Olórin. All this was done out of love, of your friends and your followers and the Valar, and Lord Eru. It was well meant.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” the Istar admitted, letting go of any irritation he had felt. “To be truthful, I had given no thought to the matter of bringing any guest into my house.”

Melian laughed, a silvery sound of mirth. “I'm sure you had many more pressing matters to concern you in Endorë, and even had you considered this, there was nothing you could have done from afar. So those of us who love you did it for you, and we beg your pardon if we have erred in our choice.”

“No need, there is never a mistake in a gift so generously and thoughtfully offered. Thank you, Melian, and extend my thanks to the others who contributed to this, since you know who they are and I do not! You have all helped to make my return home far more joyful than I had ever anticipated.”

When Melian had departed, to allow Olórin to discover all of this gift for himself, Frodo watched her go, then turned back to the wizard. “That was very thoughtful of your friends and all the others,” he remarked, marveling anew at the lovely house. “But you seem... I don't know, upset isn't precisely the word I want, but not entirely comfortable with this. Did they offend you, and you simply didn't mention it to spare her feelings?”

Olórin shook his head. “No, not at all. I wouldn't lie about such a thing to an old friend, even if there were any point in so doing, since Melian is quite perceptive in her own right. I was merely... surprised, and perhaps yes, a little uncomfortable. I have never really owned much of anything, neither here nor in Middle-earth. What few things I had were given to me by others, or things I found and made use of for a time, like Glamdring. My own creativity has always been in imagination, not in craft, and though I greatly appreciate the artistry of those who pursue such trades, I have never attempted to fashion anything of my own. What little I have made has been for others, not for myself. To be the recipient of so much unstinting generosity in one day makes me feel almost like a thief. But I know in my heart all of this has been done with the best of intentions, and I fancy I shall appreciate it more when I come to know it better.”

“Well, if the inside is as lovely as the outside, then I think you may have just been given the most wonderful home in existence, at least from a humble hobbit's point of view. Can we go in? Even if you are not curious to see it, I am.”

The Maia laughed merrily, understanding very well the hobbitish fondness for home and hearth, and led the way across the clearing to the sun drenched steps and porch. Closer inspection showed just how lovingly they and everything else had been designed and crafted, not only to meld with the world around them but to delight all the physical senses with their artistry.

The same could be said for all they found within. Inside, the house was roomier than it seemed from without, though it lost none of its comfort and coziness. A large central chamber reached from the porch at the front to another veranda at the back, with an open central hearth that, though currently unlit, would provide light and warmth and cheer without the annoyance of bitter smoke. The ceiling that arched above it twisted into a tall and cunning chimney of sorts, the draught through which any smoke and fumes would be quickly and easily guided away. The floor nearest the hearth was of silver-flecked white stone, the rest of polished ash wood with decorative rugs of Elvish craft and colors. Other furnishings of similar workmanship provided seating, surfaces, storage, and whatever else one could want. There were several rooms on either side of the central hall, chambers for study or sleep on the right, simple kitchen and dining and bathing facilities on the left. Frodo noted the latter with interest.

“Do you normally need such things?” he wondered, thinking that immortal spirits who took on substance as a convenience for others would not be troubled by needs to wash and eat and sleep.

“After a fashion,” Olórin admitted while the hobbit made a thorough examination of the kitchen. “The forms we assume may be but temporary, as we so wish, but they are nonetheless real. If we do not attend them as what they are in their appearance, we do not appreciate them properly, which is a sure path to arrogance, something most of my people honestly wish to avoid. Before my departure to help the resistance against Sauron, I often had Elvish guests, friends and students who had more need of such things than I, though my old home was not as well equipped to accommodate them. I cannot help but think that when this place was made, someone had it in mind that I might be entertaining hobbits in the future.”

Frodo chuckled. “Perhaps they did. This is almost as familiar to me as my own kitchen at Bag End. Though when I asked to see your home, it wasn't with the expectation that I would be invited to stay for more than the day.”

The Maia sighed softly as he settled into a chair near the cupboard into which the halfling had been peering. “You may stay for as long as you like, my dear Frodo, for as long as you are happy here,” he said, better able to address his friend directly, now that they were on a more comfortable level to look eye to eye. “I will be glad to have you, and there truly is no place in Aman that can offer greater healing for the body and spirit than Lórien. You have suffered so very much, and offering to share my home is the least I can do to help you find peace and happiness again.”

“You've already helped me in that way, more than I think you know, but if your offer is in earnest, I would be delighted to accept, for a little while, at least.”

“Of course I spoke in earnest. I have many friends here in Aman, but of a different kind. Those of my own people are more like cousins I have known all my life; we did not choose to become acquainted with one another, we were simply thrown together by the circumstance of our creation. Many I know of the Eldar are followers more than friends, pupils I have taught down the years. You and I began our acquaintance on a similar path, as I did with Bilbo, but we ended our time in Middle-earth on a different one. You learned from me and I from you, and our experiences have been both alike and quite different. We understand one another, for we each fought the same struggle in our own ways, and that is something I have shared with no one else in quite the same fashion. Our labors have ended well, and now, I will do all I can to make certain you know at least as much happiness as I in the time left before you.”

Frodo understood what he was saying, in both greater and lesser ways. His face dimmed as he considered the last of his friend's words. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I suppose I never really gave any great thought to such a thing when I agreed to come here. I know that some of the Elves I've spoken with have said that living with mortals is painful for them, because when they finally have grown accustomed to having us about, we die and leave them forever. I shouldn't want to cause that kind of pain for you.”

There was undeniable warmth in Olórin's face as he settled one hand on the hobbit's shoulder. “Do not worry on my account. To my people, even the Elves seem as children. You cannot live here forever, it is true, not without going quite mad; the Second-born, of which your people are a part, were meant to move on to a life beyond the circles of the world. This fate cannot be altered, save by Eru Ilúvatar, and to my knowledge, only thrice has He done such a thing, in decreeing the fates of Tuor and Elwing and Eärendil.”

“I am not asking for any such privilege...!” the hobbit began.

The Maia's smile deepened. “Of course not. Still, things do not decay here in Aman, not as they do in mortal lands, and your life will end by your own choice, when you grow weary of the world and wish to pass on. That may be in the normal span of years for a hobbit, it may be much longer, or even shorter if you find you cannot bear living in so strange a world. The choice will be yours. But that does not mean that we shall never meet again. Because I came into Ëa to help with the making of it, I am bound by the pact we made with Lord Eru at the beginning. I must remain here until its end, but when that time comes, all of Lord Eru's children will come together again to make the final Great Music. What will happen after that... I do not know, and I would rather not know until the time comes. Some things should be left as a surprise, and being what I am, I have had few enough of those in my life. For as long as you choose to remain here in Aman, and even after, I will be your friend, Frodo. Though I will miss you greatly when the parting comes, I have every intention of enjoying the time before, and if there is aught I can do so that you might also enjoy it to its fullest, you have but to ask.”

The halfling considered all the Istar had said, and was deeply touched. “You have already done more than enough for me. From things Elrond told me during the voyage, I realized that long before I understood that I could not find healing and peace in Middle-earth, you had already considered the situation, weighed the possibilities, and were prepared to make the offer to allow me to come here, to the West, should what you feared indeed come to pass. Everything you have told me since our arrival makes me see that you would live your life for my sake, on behalf of our friendship. I shouldn't think anyone deserves such loyalty, but I cannot refuse it. I had thought I might be lonely, but now, I know I never will be. So I thank you again, and hope that the time I am allowed to spend here will be as pleasant for you as I'm sure it will be for me.”

“Of that I have no doubt. Well, then, since you asked to come here to see my home, perhaps we should finish that task, since it would seem it is as new and unfamiliar to me as it is to you!” Frodo laughed, and happily agreed.

The remainder of the house was intriguing, both because of its elegant artistry and because it indeed appeared to have taken into consideration the potential presence of guests much smaller than Elves or Men. The only thing Frodo found at all curious was a harp, fairly hidden in a dim corner of the central hall. It was a tall and beautiful thing, taller than the hobbit himself, strung with wires of silver and gold, fashioned of rich warm wood carved with flowing figures and designs and gilding that captured the image of golden leaves being swept along on an autumn wind. In Minas Tirith, Frodo had seen a few such instruments being used by the most accomplished harpers in the city, who could draw music both soft and gentle and powerful as thunder from the strings. This was an even lovelier thing than the Gondorian musicians had used, and it looked older than most everything else he had seen in the house. That uniqueness piqued his curiosity.

“It was something I had before I first left for Middle-earth,” Olórin explained when the hobbit asked about it. “The Ainur tend to be a rather musical people, but I have always had a habit of listening rather than participating. Long ago, one of the Telerin Elves, Lindarinë, was extremely fond of music, and he often visited Lórien. There are many here, like Melian, who are especially gifted in those arts, and the days both begin and end with song. On nights when people would gather to make music in the meadows under the stars, he noticed that though I often came to listen, I never took part. When he asked why, I foolishly attempted to evade him by saying I considered myself a poor singer and had no other instrument, so he promptly went to work to remedy the situation by having this made for me. After that, I was obliged to either participate or be elsewhere during the singing, lest I offend him.” There was such a note of exasperation in his voice, Frodo could not help but chuckle.

“I suppose it would have been embarrassing, to be given a gift like this, if you could not play it,” he speculated.

But the Maia shook his head. “No, that was never the problem. Music is very much a part of all my people, even those of us who choose not to use the gift very often. The problem was that I have always felt uncomfortable being an object of attention, which was why I preferred to listen. The Elves have their own gifts of music, but they have been fascinated by those of the Ainur since the first time they heard a one of us sing. I suppose that in a way, this was my punishment for being less than honest with him, implying that I could not sing. Absurd, really, for any Ainu to claim that. Even Melkor could sing. It was his subject and not his skill that marred the Music.”

“Did you decide to participate or be elsewhere, then?”

“Some of both,” Olórin admitted. “It was probably good for me, since at the time, I had a bad tendency to always listen and seldom interact, and often went on journeys alone. One can acquire great wisdom from such behavior, both by observing others and embracing the quiet of solitude, but one can also develop a terrible inner coldness by forever remaining aloof. I had not felt such a frost creeping upon me, but I believe Lindarinë did. I had gone through some unpleasant times before he came to Lórien, and I suspect he was able to see the shadow chilling my heart more clearly than those who had known me far longer. Lindarinë's gift pushed me into the company of others more often than had been my wont, and in time, it made me realize that I had been moving down a dangerous path that might have ended very badly for me. I was very grateful for what he did. I only wish that I could have helped him as well.”

The sadness in that statement puzzled the hobbit. “What happened to him?”

There was a long hesitant pause before he was answered. “He was killed in the Kinslaying. His family were sail-makers at the harbors of Alqualondë, and he was with them on the day Fëanor led the revolt of the Noldor. He did not take up arms against them, but such was the madness upon Fëanor and his followers that they struck down any who offered even passive resistance. Lindarinë was permitted to return to life, of course, having died in innocence, but the grief of what happened saddened him so greatly, he never sang or made music again. He still dwells in Alqualondë, but he is not the person he was before that awful day. Before I was sent with the Istari, I visited him as often as I could, but the joy has gone out of his life. If I knew a way to give it back to him, I would, but this is his own choice, and I cannot change it.”

“How very sad,” Frodo said softly, studying the harp with new respect. “I don't suppose I would ever have the heart to touch it again, after that.”

“I felt the same, for a while, until I realized that it would do more good for others to hear the gift of Lindarinë than for it to remain forever silent. Perhaps in time, the music will reach his ears, and reawaken what has gone dead in his heart. It has been silent for many years now only because I was gone. Eventually, it will sing again — very likely sooner rather than later. I suspect that by tonight, we will have more visitors. There are many I expected to see in Valmar who were not there, even though it was a time of festival, and I have a feeling that my friends were being kind, attempting to avoid being an overwhelming nuisance by showing themselves all at the once. Doubtless I am being given time to settle in again, but I have no delusion that they will wait for long. I fully expect some will show their faces by nightfall.”

The hobbit glanced out the window, and saw that the sun was near the noon. “Well,” he sighed, “since I would like to stay for at least a few days, if I may, is there anything I can do to help prepare for them?”

Olórin turned his eyes from the harp and smiled. “Yes, you would do well to rest for a time, I think. You may not have been paying attention to such trivial things, but I can see your eyes growing heavier with each passing moment. You've been awake for well more than a full day now, and the journey before that was a time of great excitement and stress. Your brief nap during our ride here has helped, but doubtless a longer and more comfortable rest would help even more. In time, you may find that you will not need to sleep as often or as long as you did in Middle-earth, but for now, rest is something your body and spirit will desire greatly. Let yourself be healed, Frodo. It is the best thing for you, at the moment.”

The hobbit did not argue, but even as he headed for the smallest of the sleeping chambers, another matter occurred to him. “I won't be forced to wear the same clothes forever, will I?” he wondered, thinking that nothing of his own had been brought from the ship, and he had no notion of where it had been taken.

The Maia chuckled. “No, not even my people do that, and for us, clothes are simply a matter of appearance, not a necessity. If no one has thought to send your things here, I will see to it that the matter is taken care of. In the meantime, it shouldn't be too difficult to make do with what is at hand.”

“I suppose,” Frodo said with a sigh as he turned down the coverlet on the low bed which, he could not help but suspect, had been designed with the express possibility of accommodating a hobbit-sized guest. “I must confess, I grew rather weary of forever sleeping and living in the same clothes during my journey to Mordor. I had hoped never to endure that again.”

“And so you shall not,” he was assured. Puzzled by the remark, Frodo glanced at his friend, who had opened a chest beneath the window to the left of the bed and from it had drawn out a plain sheet of white silken cloth. Holding it in his hands, Olórin closed his eyes, whispered something that may or may not have been actual words — and suddenly, the cloth changed, not in hue or texture, but in shape. What a moment before had been a piece of bedding was now a simple night-shirt of the kind hobbits preferred, in a perfect hobbit size.

When Frodo gasped, the Maia opened his eyes and chuckled. “Well, I once told you I needed something to work upon in order to do what mortals call ‘magic,' and this is no different. Simple enough, actually, since it was just a matter of altering the shape of it and nothing more, and much easier than it would have been back in Middle-earth. I created nothing, merely refashioned what was here, as a seamstress or blacksmith or woodcrafter takes their materials and makes something new of them. This was how we did our work here in Arda to help shape the world after we first entered it. Are you truly that surprised to find I can do this? If it disturbs you, I shan't do it again in your presence.”

It took a moment before the hobbit was able to find the wit to shake his head. “Oh, no, no, no, I mean, yes, I'm surprised, but not frightened. You never did anything like this back home, and certainly not so casually. But I suppose there were a great many things you couldn't do at all when you were living in Middle-earth that you can do quite easily, now. It was startling, but not unpleasant. Thank you,” he said as he took the proffered gown. “I think I'll sleep much more comfortably, now.”

“Then sleep well, my friend, and dream pleasant dreams. Here, you will never have any cause to know fear."

VI

When he had closed the door behind him, Olórin stood for some long moments, leaning against it, his eyes closed as he felt Frodo drift off into sleep. Carefully, gently, he reached out with his own abilities, probing the old wound in the halfling's shoulder and the darkness that still lingered in it like bitter poison. He knew what day it was back in Middle-earth, and had been wary ever since the sunrise; all through the day, he had felt the growing presence of pain and darkness emanating from it. He could not simply take it away, but he could at least provide some temporary protection to shield Frodo against the memories that awakened every time the pain burned anew. He did not have the healing skills of Estë, but at least he could offer a temporary palliative to the hobbit's suffering. When he was as certain as he could be that Frodo would indeed sleep peacefully for a time, free of fear, the Maia opened his eyes and stepped away from the door.

“Lord Irmo?” he said softly, calling to the Lord of Lórien.

The Vala answered at once. “I hear you, Olórin,” he said, also quietly, a moment before his tall fana, clad in silver and dusky blue, appeared near the center of the hall. “And I have seen what you saw. Darkness and evil have left dreadful marks on this young halfling, more terrible than I had thought when first I heard of it. Mine are not the skills to heal his body, though Estë will be able to do much for him, given time. His mind and his spirit, however, can be strengthened and healed, and this, I deem, will make Estë's tasks easier, if he is strengthened in his resistance and can break such holds as the shadow has over him.”

The Maia was both relieved and reassured by the Vala's confidence. “Then you will help him?”

The master of dreams smiled. “I will, but through you.”

Olórin's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, perplexed. “And let him suffer longer than is necessary? My skills are not as great as yours, my lord....”

“Perhaps,” was the reply, and the word was not one of doubt. “In many matters, my power is greater than yours, but not in all. Would I value your advice and wisdom as a counselor if all you had to offer was mere validation for what I already knew? The Maiar do not have the breadth of ability with which we of the Valar were gifted, but in some things, your skills exceed our own. Only Lord Eru is omnipotent, and He bestowed His gifts upon all of us in His own ways for His own reasons. That you are the wisest of our people seems fitting to me, for in the humility of your station, you are able to speak such wisdom and be heard and heeded because you neither have nor crave any great position of power among our people. What you offer comes not from any desire for mastery or lordship, but from humble honesty. Who better, then, to offer counsel, who has no greater purpose than the good of all and obedience to the will of Lord Eru? Yes, you made errors of judgment in Endorë, but that was by cause of the diminishment you suffered, not the fault of any weakness you possessed when you were unfettered by flesh, as you are now again.

“And this, Olórin, is why any help I might have to offer Frodo will be best passed on to him through you. Although my skills in such healing are greater, you have an intimate understanding of the frailties and peculiarities of life in true flesh, which no other Ainu in Aman possesses, not even Melian. You know through long and difficult experience things of which I have no knowledge, of how existence within such a body visits pains and fears and limitations upon the spirit that dwells within. You can aid me in comprehending the suffering of your small friend, and I in turn will instruct you in how to help him be healed. I have no doubt that your knowledge of a fully incarnate life will also prove invaluable to Estë. But it will all take time, I fear. He was wounded by a monstrous evil, and only patience and persistence will cleanse it from him.”

The Maia did not argue with Irmo, but he sighed at his last words, and nodded. “I am afraid you are right. The healing of such injuries will not come swiftly, much as we might wish it to be otherwise. But will it help Frodo to tell him he must remain here in Lórien? His cousin's heart lies with the Elves, and I suspect Bilbo will want to remain with them, in Tirion or on Eressëa, or wherever those he calls friends have chosen to settle. Frodo will not want to be separated from him for as long as his healing might require.”

“It will not be an easy decision for him,” Irmo agreed. “And whatever choice he makes, in the end, it will be difficult for you.”

When the Istar looked away, the Vala also sighed, gently. “I am sorry, Olórin, truly. We did not consider well enough all of what might come to pass when we sent you and the others to Middle-earth, tied to bodies as of Men. We knew what it would do to your abilities, but we could not anticipate what we did not know ourselves, what such a life might do to your hearts. We were aware, of course, that mortals live in Arda for what seems to us but a few seasons before passing on beyond the circles of the world, but never had any of us lived among them as one of them, growing to love them as friends and kindred, only to lose them forever, far too soon. We thought only that they needed help and guidance to stand against the evil of Sauron, and that through the embassy of the Istari, it might be done in a way that would redress wrongs we had made of old. We did not imagine until it was too late, until you had long since departed, what it might do to those we sent when they returned to Aman.”

“Perhaps not,” Olórin answered quietly, looking back at the dream master with an expression of sad resignation. “But I knew, even before I was sent. This was not my first journey to Endorë. Even though most of my work in the First Age was among the Eldar, I came to know the Atani as well. I saw the pain mortals suffer at the separation of death; I have felt it myself, time and again. I know what it means to grow fond of someone, only to watch them die and be lost until the End. I had no doubt that living as one of them in truth and not as an Ainu would be even more difficult, which is part of why I resisted taking on such a burden when Lord Manwë first asked it of me.”

He stepped away from the door to the room in which Frodo was sleeping and moved to one of the windows that overlooked the veranda and the garden beyond. The sun filtering down through the leaves was warm and bright, but there were shadows even it could not dispel. “It is difficult now,” the Maia admitted, “to have brought with me two of the dearest friends I have known among the Eruhíni, well aware that no matter the power and blessing of this land and those who dwell in it, it will never be enough to take from them the Gift of Men and spare me the grief of that inevitable parting. I do not look forward to it, but I will not allow my own fears of what will someday come to pass to diminish what is precious now. They are still my friends. They have both earned this healing, and I will do whatever I can to help them find it so that they at least will know some time of peace and joy before they must give up life and move on to whatever fate is theirs by Lord Eru's design.”

He looked back at Irmo and smiled, very sadly. “I am grateful for your sympathy, my lord, but do not regret this overmuch. I did what I felt was right when I finally agreed to accept Lord Manwë's charge, and I accept this fate as well. I have loved all the Children of Ilúvatar too well for my own good. I blame no one for what happened, not even Sauron. This was my choice. If immortals will take the risk of meddling in the affairs of mortals, they must be willing to endure the consequences. I am. My concern now is for Frodo, not for myself. Bilbo did not suffer under the weight of the Ring as did he, nor was he ever wounded so deeply by the minions of evil. Since the dawn this morning, I have done what I can to protect Frodo from the pain of the wound he suffered three years ago near Amon Sul, but I can only stand between him and it and suffer it myself so that he will not. It is a terrible pain, but not beyond my ability to endure — and to keep silent so that he will not know what I have done, for he would surely protest if he knew. Yet I cannot take it from him forever, and I would see him healed in a more lasting way than this.”

Irmo agreed. “And so we shall do all we can to see it come about. Nienna will also help in this, for your sake as well as Frodo's. He is not the only one to have suffered in the cause of destroying Sauron and his Ring. There are many griefs we cannot avoid because they come without warning, and even those we see approaching cannot all be diverted, only weathered. Manwë's choice in sending you was not precisely in error, for there are none of our people who share your depth of love and compassion for all the Eruhíni, but perhaps it would have been better to send someone who cared less deeply and thus would not be hurt as bitterly by such partings.”

“And if this had been done, where would Middle-earth now be, my lord? Reunited and flourishing once more under a king who will rule wisely and with great thought for its future benefit, or under the heel of Sauron — or worse, subject to a tyrant of their own kind, another Ar-Pharazôn with dreams of glory and power and conquest?”

The Vala acknowledged the point with a slight nod. “All too likely, I fear. Once he fell to the lure of power, Curumo would have deposed Sauron only to replace him, and without such wisdom as you knew even diminished, there would ever have been the danger that the guidance of the Istari might turn to that of puppet-masters, allowing the Eruhíni to rule but forever standing behind the throne and directing those upon it. Still, knowing how you will give your all for the sake of others, I would have spared you this pain. I will do what is within my power to make certain the time left to the halflings will not be visited ever and anon by suffering.”

He turned his own silver eyes toward the room where Frodo slept, his thoughts searching the hobbit's slumbering mind and weighing what he found in those dreams. Presently, he took a deep breath, then loosed it quietly. “I see he holds his own share of conflict, wishing to be with his kinsman, yet desiring to stay here in this land that is so much like his own, to ease the loss he felt in forever being parted from it. You know them better than I, Olórin. Do you think it possible that Bilbo might be persuaded to come here, too, at least for a while? It would do both of them good to know the healing of Lórien, and once that work is well begun, they need not tarry here if they wish to reside elsewhere in Aman.”

Olórin considered the matter for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I see your plan, and I am certain it could be done. Bilbo has been very happy living in Elrond's house in Rivendell, but he has also missed the Shire. He would come to Lórien, I have no doubt, and having seen this part of it, would stay as long as is needed, especially if he knew it would help Frodo. And there are Elves nearby as well, at least one with whom he is already well acquainted, Glorfindel. He might be quite pleased by the notion of spending time in a land so like the Shire that also has inhabitants he perhaps would like to know better.”

“And residing here for a while would help restore to him a greater measure of the strength and vigor he has lost to mortal age. Even Estë cannot mend it permanently, but it would be enough to help the old one enjoy his time in Aman as fully as he may.”

The Vala's eyes narrowed slightly as he concentrated again upon Frodo and his condition, and what Olórin had already done to shield him from it, at least for the day. At length, he turned away from the door to face the Maia. “You have done as much for Frodo as any could, but I sense that he would not be so pleased with it if he knew the full truth, that his pain and suffering cannot be erased yet, only diverted to another, as you have taken it upon yourself.”

“Which is why I have said nothing of it to him,” the Istar admitted. “Frodo lost track of the days during the crossing; he does not know that today is the sixth of October back in the Shire. He would indeed object if he knew that to spare him the pain, I must take it upon myself, but I could do no less. It was even more painful, knowing that I might have been able to help him thus back in Middle-earth, had I not been bound and restricted and hampered by the diminishment of mortal flesh. Now, free of it, I have the means to deal with such suffering that he does not, nor is this to me the reminder of a terrible moment of weakness that it is to him. But the physical pain is less to me than the emotional suffering, and I will be glad when the day is over, for it is difficult at times to hide this from him. My hope is that before this day comes round once more, he will be sufficiently healed so that there will be no need for him to bear any pain, ever again.”

Irmo's bright eyes studied the Maia carefully, on more than a physical level. Olórin did not forbid his curiosity, since he knew well that Irmo was seeking out all he could find about every aspect of Frodo's condition, and any information the dream master might learn from such a study would ultimately be for the hobbit's benefit. When he was finished, a trace of a smile touched the Vala's face, though his eyes were filled with pity. “It does you great credit to be so willing to do this in his behalf. It is an act of true friendship, but it will only make the time of final parting more difficult for you.”

Olórin's own expression remained studiously neutral. “As I have said, it is but another of the consequences I accept. As his friend, I can do no less. I have had my heart broken before, Lord Irmo, many times, and at least once far more grievously. I shall endure this not only because I must, but because I know that when it comes, it will be but a part of Lord Eru's greater Music, and not a cruel rejection. For today, it was forgivable to act surreptitiously, so that Frodo's first full day in the Blessed Lands would not be marred by darkness, but he must soon know all of what is planned to help him in his healing.”

“Estë and Nienna and I will take counsel for this tonight, and we will discuss it with both of you as soon as we may. The evil that was done to this poor mortal was terrible, and it would be cruel and unjust to devise in haste a cure that will be even more painful than the wounds.”

Olórin concurred. “Once this day is past, the shadow of darkness and pain will pass with it for a while. Unless you ponder the matter until the spring, there should be ways enough to lighten his heart and help him find at least some rest and healing until a permanent solution is found.”

“We will find an answer sooner than that,” the Vala assured him, though at the moment, he felt more concern for the Maia than for the hobbit. “I suggest you also find rest, while you may. Two thousand years of unceasing labor is difficult even for one of our kind, and a single day free from the burden of flesh but weighted instead with suffering borne for another is not lightly brushed aside. I cannot command you as your liege lord, Olórin, for you are my counselor, not my servant. But as one who values both your wisdom and your friendship, I ask you to keep in mind your own welfare. You cannot help Frodo or any other if you give away so much of your strength, you can no longer stand. I see in your thoughts the responsibility you feel for having been the one who presented Frodo with the choice to bear the Ring to its destruction, but remember that you were also but an instrument of a greater will at work. The task fell to you because only you held true to your mission, but in no fashion were you to blame for the existence of such a need. You have told Bilbo that starting is too great a claim for any, and that only a small part is played in great deeds by any hero. It was wise counsel, and applies to you as well. You did not choose Frodo to carry the Ring any more than you yourself forged it. Had you borne some responsibility for its making, then you might well feel guilt in what was necessary to achieve its unmaking, but you did not. I know, it is easier to say than to do, especially when the well-being of those we love is involved, but recrimination will not heal what was done. You must not punish yourself for that which was not your fault.”

The Istar had looked away when Irmo had begun to offer his advice, again staring out the window at the dappled sunshine that knew nothing of the cares of the world on which it fell. Presently, he sighed, his blue eyes turning back to the Vala's. “I am not punishing myself, my lord, though I can well imagine it would seem so. Yes, I do feel responsible for Frodo, because I am responsible for my own mistakes, and one of them allowed me to be taken prisoner at a time when my help was desperately needed elsewhere. Curumo's lust for power had begun to trouble me over a hundred years before Frodo was even born, and if I had but listened to my own heart rather than his sweetly deceptive assurances, I would never have been so easily lured into his trap. For that, Frodo suffered this very wound which is troubling him now, and for my part in it, I owe him greatly. I could do little for him in Middle-earth, and I have not the power to heal him fully even here, but I will do whatever I can, whatever I must to make certain he suffers as little as possible. I erred terribly during my mission to Endorë, but I have not lost all wisdom. I know that I cannot help him at all if I grow too weak and weary in struggling with this darkness. If needs be, I shall call upon others to help, should I be unable to bear it until the day is over. I am not so proud to think that I must do this alone, at any cost, when it is not necessary. I would have gladly accepted help in facing the Balrog, had any of our company been able to challenge it and survive. Circumstances worked against me then, but they are quite different now.”

“Yet how much will you take upon yourself before you ask for aid? I do not doubt your sincerity,” Irmo hastened to add when a frown darkened Olórin's face. “You would not lie, and I know it well. But it is plain to me that you do hold yourself to blame for all this halfling suffered after he took up the burden of the Ring, not only the matter of your delay caused by Curumo's betrayal. Your vision in this matter is not as clear as might be, not because of pride, but because of pity. You care, perhaps too much, what will become of him.”

“And what would you have me do otherwise?” the wizard answered, exasperation and frustration finally evident in his manner. He moved away from the window and strode across the room toward the hearth, unable to stand still. “When I was sent to Endorë, I was not told to leave behind my heart; indeed, if I had done so, all would have come to ruin! I have always cared deeply what will become of the Eruhíni; that was no secret when I was made a part of this embassy. I was, in fact, under the impression that it was because of my love for them that I was chosen to go. So I went, and I did what was required of me, and now, I cannot go back and undo any part of it. I was asked to give whatever I could to help save Middle-earth and her peoples, and so I have done. If you wish me to cease caring for those of Endorë who came with me and allow others to assume the full task of their healing, then you must send me away and give me other work to do, for I cannot leave this unfinished!”

“Not even if it will drain you of all strength and break your heart yet again?” the Vala asked softly, able to remain calm in spite of the agitation he was witnessing.

The look with which Olórin favored him was not defiant, but it was most definitely unyielding “I have been asked to suffer such things before, for less worthy causes. I will do it again, if needs be. I was made a steward of people who looked to me for guidance and protection. Should I abandon my charge before my task is fully completed?”

Irmo wanted to say yes, but he understood that such an answer would not be well received, even though he would have meant only that it should be given into the hands of others so that Olórin could finally rest. But he knew this Maia very well indeed, and was aware that he could not leave his appointed tasks for others to finish before he had given his all, no more than he could willingly turn to evil. His sense of responsibility and commitment ran too deep. Instead, the dream master sighed. “No. I know you far too well to even ask such a thing of you. But as you are Frodo's friend, so have I been yours. I ask only that you allow others to help so that you will not be hurt. You have said that Frodo would object if he knew what you are doing for him in silence, and rightly so, if you do thus to your own detriment. He would no more wish to see you come to harm than I, especially not for his sake. Is suggesting that you permit others who care for you to assist in this task truly too much to ask?”

The Maia's frown remained firmly in place for a minute or so, then at last began to fade. “No, my lord,” he said quietly, his irritation melting in the face of Irmo's placid reason. “I try very hard not to allow myself to be burdened with regrets, because I know well that the past cannot be changed. Yet of all the errors I made during my life, none have been so bitter to me as this one. Curumo insisted that the Ring was lost forever, that it would not trouble us again — and I should have known better than to let such reasoning persuade me to do what he wanted: nothing. So long as the Ring endured, even lost, Sauron would endure, and thus what purpose would be served by standing idle and waiting? All it did was allow the Enemy to gather greater strength, to renew himself and rebuild his machinery of war so that few could stand against him, whether or not he possessed the Ring. I was not the only one duped in this way, but I was supposedly Curumo's peer, one who had known him long. I should have also known him better , and that folly I regret deeply. Many suffered for it, and though I cannot help them all, I will at least try to make amends to the one who suffered most. I would not have anyone else share responsibility for my mistakes, even willingly, yet I know I cannot do this alone. I have reason to believe that some who live nearby will wish to visit this evening, and if it will ease your concerns, I shall ask those who have the skill to assist me, if they are willing. Will that suffice, or need I make a formal promise?”

The Vala shook his head and smiled. “No. You may be quite impossibly stubborn at times, but your wisdom has always been much greater than your obstinacy. It has never been necessary for you to make any kind of vow to bind you to your word, for what you say you do, unless some disaster prevents it, and thus it has always been. I understand why you need to do this. I would not press the issue if I could not see how badly you also need rest and healing, my friend. It was plain when you returned briefly two years ago, and it is all the more evident now. My servant Ványalos is your nearest neighbor, is he not?”

Olórin confirmed it. “Yes, and he is the first I expect to come visiting, since I saw him only briefly yesterday, serving in the Máhanaxar during the receiving ceremony, but not at all through the remainder of the celebration. He and I were good friends, though we were not in the same service, and I had expected to meet him at the festival.”

“Which you did not, undoubtedly, because he took it upon himself to make certain all was in order here before you arrived. If it will not offend you, I shall speak to him of this matter before I return to consult with Estë and Nienna. For all his seemingly impetuous nature, Ványalos has a good heart, and has ever been among my people one of those most skilled in discerning the emotions of those around him, and offering what help is most needed. Let him take on your task for a few hours so that you might rest for a while. It would do both of you good, since it is plain that you are weary, and Ványalos could benefit from learning more about the Second-born, as he has never visited Endorë.”

The Maia's first impulse was to refuse the idea, but it took no more than an instant for him to acknowledge the wisdom of it. “It will not offend me,” he said truthfully, “but let me ask the favor myself. He and the others did a splendid job of preparing this new home for me, but they neglected to provide it with food, and if I am to have even one hobbit as a guest for a time, it will be necessary to correct that oversight as soon as possible. Unless many things changed while I was gone, Ványalos knows how to acquire what is needed, and I will be able to attend to both matters at once.”

Had almost anyone else made such a suggestion, Irmo might have been suspicious of a deliberate attempt to manipulate circumstances to avoid following the Vala's advice as much as possible, but the dream master did indeed trust his counselor to do whatever he said both honestly and to the best of his ability. “An excellent idea,” he approved, smiling. “Ványalos could do with some exercise of all his abilities, even those more mundane.”

His smile dimmed. “Please understand, Olórin, that I do not ask these things because I do not trust you, or believe that you are not sufficient to the tasks at hand. My only concern is for your well-being. I need not worry about Frodo's, since you are clearly doing more than enough to make certain none of us fail in our attempts to aid him. But I cannot stand by and watch you come to harm for his sake or any other's, if it is within my power to prevent it. We have asked so much of you already — far more, I now see, than perhaps we should have. There was little we could do to help you in Endorë without violating the rules we ourselves had made. Let us make amends for our mistakes now, and do what we can, for both of you. For we also have bitter regrets.”

For a moment, Olórin said nothing; then he conceded. “I understand, my lord,” he said, “and I do appreciate your concern. If you would know the full truth, my obstinacy is not only due to guilt. I have been fond of the halflings ever since I first became aware of their existence, and the more I knew of them, the more I loved them, with all their faults and failings and unusual ways. They were dear to me long before I knew for certain that Lord Eru had fashioned in them a part of my song. I am grateful He did not confirm that suspicion to me before I entangled Frodo with the matter of the Ring, or I could not have done it. I would have looked for other ways, other people, some other method to take the Ring to Mordor and destroy it. I might have even been foolish enough to attempt it myself, and I know that would have ended in utter disaster, for myself and all of Arda. It was very difficult to leave Middle-earth because of my fondness for the Little Folk; being permitted to bring two of my friends made the separation more bearable. I know that inevitably, I will lose them, as well as all direct contact with their people still in Endorë, but I cannot begin grieving it now, or the time I do have will be wasted. I am greedy of every moment I will be given, and because of that, you may be assured that I will accept your help, and that of any other who can give Frodo relief from his suffering, be it temporary or lasting. They are as family to me, in ways I could not have understood before living an incarnate life among them. I want only what is best for them, as any parent does for their children. Can you not understand that?”

“Not quite in the same fashion as do you,” Irmo admitted, “for matters of parents and children are a gift Lord Eru gave to the Eruhíni, not to those of us who sprang from His thought. But I understand how you feel, and that is enough. I will not press the issue further. Ványalos will provide any assistance you need for now, and I am certain you know that you may call upon me or any of my servants at any time, should you require aid. In the meantime, I will do all I can to find the means of Frodo's healing as swiftly as possible.” He inclined his head graciously in a gesture of farewell, then vanished.

Olórin studied the place where Irmo had been for several moments, reflecting upon their conversation. He knew that he was behaving in the way that generally earned him the description of impossible, but more than on any other occasion, he felt that this time, he was justified in his behavior. He doubted that Frodo's welfare meant quite as much to any of the other Ainur, because none of them understood what it was like to actually live as one of the Eruhíni in the ways he now grasped it. He did not blame them for the lack, but so long as he knew it existed, he was determined to make up for it by whatever means were necessary.

But he also admitted that the dream master was right about not pushing himself so far, he could not help Frodo effectively, if at all. After taking a moment to assure himself that the hobbit was still serenely asleep and would remain so for a while, he went off to make good on his promise to find and enlist other aid.

**********

The dwellings in the hill country of Lórien were neither too near together nor absurdly far apart. The wooded glen and hillside where Olórin's home had been built were spacious, but the walk to the next nearest habitation was not long, taking perhaps ten minutes at most at an unhurried pace. Around a bend of the hill to the west, the woodland thinned and ended, and it was there in an open grassy sward bright with flowers where the home of Irmo's servant, Ványalos, was situated. Though the structure was not opulent or intrusive to the countryside, it was much larger than Olórin's home had been before others had taken it upon themselves to rebuild it for him.

Ványalos had no spouse or friends who lived with him, but he was an extremely social person, and often entertained many guests. He was, by everyone's admission, some reflection of the essence of merriment, but one that delighted in mild mischief from time to time, though his heart and spirit were true to the will of Eru and deeply compassionate when compassion was needed. He had an excellent sense for determining such occasions, but the timing of his humors was not quite as keen; thus, he spent his time in Aman, helping the whole of Arda by acting as a messenger and servant to Irmo and Estë among people who knew him well and would not be puzzled by his sometimes inappropriately mercurial behavior. To those who met them for the first time, Olórin and Ványalos appeared to be complete opposites, as the former generally seemed quiet and thoughtful while the latter appeared whimsical and quite unable to keep silent for more than a few moments, but those who came to know them better understood that they were more alike at heart. Olórin himself knew that he owed much to his neighbor, for long ago, in what had then felt like the very blackest part of his own life, it had been Ványalos who had helped him learn to laugh again.

As he walked to his neighbor's home, Olórin noted that the path between them, which he had thought would have been well overgrown during the years of his absence, was still quite well-trodden. That confused him for a bit, since the trail led nowhere but to his own home, until he remembered what Irmo had said about Ványalos taking it upon himself to see that the new house was in order. Doubtless there had been considerable coming and going, enough to keep the path open, at least in recent weeks, though he would not have been surprised to discover that Ványalos had been keeping an eye on his home for the past two thousand years, simply to prevent it from being overrun with woodland growth and turned into an oversized refuge for birds and other small creatures.

A pair of ancient elms shaded the path before the entrance to Ványalos' house; to Olórin's eye, very little about the place had changed during his many years of absence. The greatest difference, in fact, was how quiet it seemed, as deserted as his own home before he had returned. For the gregarious Ványalos, that was quite unusual, unless he was off on a journey for the Lord and Lady of Lórien. Briefly, he wondered if that were indeed the case, and he had chosen a poor time to visit, but he quickly realized that Irmo would not have suggested Olórin ask his servant for aid if he would be gone for any length of time. Perhaps—

“Olórin!”

The wizard's reflections were interrupted when, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, he was lifted up from behind and swung about, almost like a child caught up unawares by an adult appearing out of nowhere. That was not entirely impossible, he thought as he endured the surprise welcome, given the person he was coming to visit. He heard bright laughter accompany the startling embrace, and when he was set down again, he could not help but smile.

“After two thousand years, I might have expected to see some evidence of greater maturity,” Olórin said with mock sternness as he turned to face his neighbor. “But if you have changed at all, Ványalos, you have only grown more impertinent.”

The culprit laughed again, well aware that he was being teased. The Maia Olórin had come to visit was significantly taller than he, no matter what fana either of them chose to adopt. He had the height and typical build of an Elf, slender and graceful. His clothing was of deep blues and silver grays, the colors of the forest at midnight, but his hair was bright red-gold, caught up in a single long braid that fell down his back nearly to his waist. He had an almost impish look to his ruddy and sharply handsome features that was vaguely reminiscent of Pippin, as was the gleam in his gray eyes. Like many servants of the Valar, he was quite fair to look upon, and it took much to wipe the pleasant smile from his face. It was firmly in place at the moment as he gave his friend a second and more proper welcoming embrace. “I would say you are quite wrong, pityandil,” he answered merrily, “if I did not know it to be a lie. I'm afraid you may be right, but I hope it will not mean the end of our friendship.”

“Certainly not!” he was assured as the hug was returned. “After so many years of dealing with dark and evil matters, I am very grateful to return to a home even more joyful than the one I left. I hear that you put considerable effort into preparing it for me, so much so that you willingly gave up a time of festival to make certain all was in order.”

“I did my best,” Ványalos said with what, for him, was considerable humility. His eyes twinkled as he added, “Although I did not give it up entirely. I was there for a time yesterday — or did you not see me serving in the Máhanaxar?”

“I did indeed, and if you had allowed Frodo to slip or fall in helping him dismount, I assure you, you would have borne the wrath of all his friends, his uncle not the least!”

The tall Maia chuckled. “Yes, for all his apparent infirmity, the old one seemed to have considerable fire yet within him. But truly, he was half your size, my little friend, and thus no burden at all. Yet they are quite a remarkable people, from what I have seen and heard. I hope to be allowed to make their acquaintance better, soon, if I may.”

“You may — sooner than you may suspect.” Olórin then explained his primary reason for coming. As he spoke, his neighbor's manner grew less frivolous. Ványalos looked off in the direction of the Istar's house, and was silent for some moments after Olórin had finished speaking.

Presently, he sighed. “I see now why you value these friends so highly,” Ványalos said, completely in earnest. “I had not realized the full depth of what Sauron had done in Endorë, ‘til now. This little one has been burdened and wounded by an evil few of our own people have dared to face. It is a marvel to me that he survived this quest at all, far less having taken such comparatively little hurt from it! But I also see that his injuries run deep, terribly deep. I will do whatever I can to help you protect him from it, of course, until Lord Irmo and the others have found ways to heal him more thoroughly. Indeed, I will be glad to do so, for I have often regretted my lack of direct experience with the Second-born, and felt I should be able to find some way to do more on their behalf, and this may be my last opportunity.”

The wizard breathed a soft sigh of relief, even though he had expected nothing less from his old friend. “Then there is another way in which you can be of assistance. I have noticed that this house was uniquely prepared to accommodate visitors much smaller than we are wont to see in this part of Lórien, but while those who built and furnished it took into account hobbit size, they failed to account for hobbit appetites. I have never quite determined whether it was by Lord Eru's design or merely a quirk of their own choosing, but though others call them halflings, their hunger is astonishingly out of proportion to their size. Frodo is not gluttonous, even by ordinary standards among mortals, but he does need to eat, and there are no provisions in the house. Unless your fondness for food and drink has diminished over the years, I had hoped you would be able to find at least a few such things before Frodo wakes.”

Ványalos' bright smile returned. “It has not, and I easily can find whatever you or he might wish, so long as his people — hobbits, did you call them? — eat the same foods as the Eldar, and us.”

“For the most part, though they have tastes of their own that you might find interesting, should you be brave enough to discuss matters of food and cooking with any hobbit. Thank you, old friend, for all your help. If there is aught I can do in return....”

The tall Maia chuckled. “Yes, indeed there is! You can hie yourself back to your new house straightaway and spend some time becoming acquainted with the comforts of the bed that the Elvish craftsmen made for you. Lord Irmo was right when he said you need rest, at least as much as your small friend. I did not spend the night in revelry or the morning traveling across the wide country from Valmar, and I can attend to both of your requests at once with no trouble at all.”

A shadow of doubt touched Olórin's expression like thin clouds drifting over the noon sun, dimming it. “I do not want to risk Frodo's well-being....”

“And you will do so far less if you leave the matter to me for now than continue to take it upon yourself. I may not be as gifted in wisdom as you, pityandil, but what gifts were given me, I have not failed to learn to use as well as I am able. We knew each other well ere you accepted the final mission of the Istari. Humble you may have ever been, but never were you weak or frail. Yet I look upon you now, and though I see my friend of old, he seems to my eyes to be fragile, as if he were made anew from thin glass that though filled with light may yet shatter if too much weight is placed upon it. You are grown pale with exhaustion; you need time to regain your strength, and not even the power of Lórien can give you rest and healing if you will not avail yourself of it properly. I promise you, I will not let Frodo suffer, nor allow him to know what is being done to guard him until you deem the time appropriate. I am not familiar with the minds and hearts of the Second-born, but I am able to perceive that in their truest essence, they differ little from those of the Eldar — or even our folk. We are all Eru Ilúvatar's children, in our own fashions. If I feel myself unable to continue the task properly, I will be less hesitant to ask for help than you have been, for I have none of your feelings of personal responsibility for the hobbit's condition. Nusírilo and his spouse would gladly assist, as would Úrambo and Túrante, and if need be, I would not hesitate to call upon Lord Irmo himself. Since acquiring the provender your guest will need is a simple matter of asking the persons who can provide it, I will not be so distracted that I cannot keep watch over him at the same time, even at a distance.”

His fair face darkened with wistful sadness. “You used to trust my judgment in such matters, Olórin. Has your time in Endorë changed you so greatly that you cannot accept the word of an old friend without suspicion?”

The wizard looked away for a moment to hide a faint wince of remorse, then looked back again, apology in his expression. “I would prefer to believe it has not,” he confessed, “but perhaps the years I have spent in Middle-earth have left more of a mark upon me than I had thought. It was difficult, sometimes, struggling to achieve a goal that seemed forever beyond reach, hampered both by foes and by some I had thought were friends.”

Ványalos nodded soberly. “I have heard what became of Curumo. I never knew him well, since my tasks here in Aman seldom took me to the places where he worked and dwelt. I knew he was proud, but never would I have guessed that it would lead him to such incredible folly, to betray not only those whom he was charged to protect and serve, but to turn against his own brethren! Such treachery would make anyone suspicious for a time, especially when matters concern the safety of those one holds dear. I am not offended, and I promise I will do all I am able to ensure that Frodo comes to not a moment's harm or discomfort while he is in my care.”

“Then that is insurance enough, and I will be able to rest well. Thank you, Ványalos, and please extend my gratitude to anyone you choose to enlist in this effort. I know it is little compensation to offer, but I would be more than honored if you and my other friends who made this splendid new home for me joined me there this evening.”

The tall Maia's merry smile returned in full. “It is more than enough, especially since it includes an opportunity to meet and become better acquainted with your unusual young guest. Rest well, pityandil. All will be well.”

For once, Olórin did not doubt it. Thus, after genially enduring another exuberant farewell embrace, he returned home, to sleep for a time as he had not slept in almost two thousand years.

VII

The sun was falling to the west, sending a stream of brilliance through the window in Frodo's room when the hobbit finally awoke. He was surprised to find that so much time had passed — it appeared to be late afternoon, at the very least, possibly six hours since he had retired — but his sleep had been sound and peaceful, more refreshing than any rest he had taken for a very long time. He wondered if Olórin had intended to wake him or had planned to let him sleep himself out. The house was quiet, the only sounds that of birdsong out in the trees, the distant babble and rush of falling water cascading over stones, and a soft, musical chiming from the back of the house. The latter was erratic, rising and falling with the rustling of the breeze, so Frodo could only suppose it was some sort of wind-bells that he had not noticed before.

A gentle answering rumble in his stomach told him that he would need to find some nourishment soon, but not immediately. He did not recall seeing any food in the kitchen, however, and he had no idea how one went about obtaining such things here. The Elves needed to eat, he knew, but though the Ainur did from time to time, it was not required for them. Well, if he wanted the question answered, he supposed he would have to find Olórin to ask it. He slipped from the bed and was about to dress in his dusty traveling clothes when he decided that for the moment, there would be no harm in moving about the house in the white silk nightshirt. Its style was not unlike many garments he had seen on others here, and if he was going to stay here for a few days, he really wanted to ask if there was a way to fetch some of his own things before he put on the old clothes once again.

The central hall, he quickly saw, was empty, but as he entered it, he heard low, very soft humming coming from the kitchen. That caught his attention at once, and he headed in its direction. “Olórin?” he began as he stepped across the hall and through the open arch between the two rooms, expecting to find his friend. Instead, he found a startlingly tall stranger dressed in dusky blue, red-haired, bright-eyed, with a fair face filled with merriment. He was in the process of taking things from a number of baskets and putting them in their appropriate places in the pantry cupboards; he paused when Frodo arrived, looked up, and smiled.

“Olórin is asleep, at the moment,” the fellow said, his tones respectful of that fact and clearly unwilling to cause a disturbance. “As he needs the rest very much and we who prepared the house neglected to provide it with food and drink, not knowing precisely when he would return to it, he asked if I might help in that matter. I am Ványalos, Olórin's nearest neighbor; my house is just outside the wood, in the meadow to the west. You would be Master Frodo, of course.”

The hobbit nodded, surprised to find that he was not at all disturbed by the presence of this stranger. But then, he realized the fellow wasn't quite a stranger at all. “Yes, at your service,” he answered with a proper bow of greeting. “I remember you! You were in the city yesterday, and helped me off the pony.”

“Guilty on all counts,” Ványalos said with a chuckle as he resumed setting the things he had brought where they belonged. “I am a servant of Lord Irmo and Lady Estë, and since they have never been able to find appropriate tasks for me in the lands beyond Aman, I serve as well as I am able here in the Blessed Realm.”

“Does that include going to market for other servants?”

The Maia laughed. “Sometimes, although this was no command, merely a favor for an old friend. Olórin and I are not of the same people. He is a servant of Lord Manwë.”

Frodo blinked, feeling a bit confused. As he slipped into a chair at a table that was neither too high for him nor too low for taller folk, he tried to work things out. “Then why does he live here?” he wondered aloud. “This is rather far from Taniquetil.”

“Very true,” Ványalos agreed. Finished with the task of putting things away, he reached into one of the baskets and brought out a linen cloth, which he opened and offered to Frodo. In it were a number of small white biscuits, still warm from the oven with a delightfully sweet fragrance. “Olórin mentioned that your folk enjoyed the pleasures of food and drink as much as I,” he explained as he set them on the table after Frodo had taken one, then fetched goblets and a bottle of some pale golden drink, the color of sunshine. “Which was why, I am sure, he asked me to take care of this for him, since I am well acquainted with every source for such things throughout the length and breadth of Aman. A minor benefit of serving as a messenger for so many years. There will be a more substantial meal later, of course, but from what I know of the Eruhíni, it is best not to eat too heavily immediately upon awakening. Have you enjoyed your stay here, thus far?”

“Yes, indeed,” Frodo replied, politely waiting for Ványalos to finish pouring the beverage and join him at the table before sampling the biscuits. They tasted even better than they smelled, and indeed sat very nicely inside, quieting his rumbling belly. “Although I've spent most of my time here in Lórien sleeping. And I must admit, I'm still rather puzzled. Where I come from, servants usually live near the people they serve. Why does Olórin live here, and not closer to Lord Manwë's home?”

The tall Maia smiled at he settled into one of the other chairs and took one of the biscuits to nibble. “Distance is not so great an issue for our kind,” he explained. “We can speak to each other when we are very far apart, through our minds, and if needs be, we can move from one place to another in the blink of an eye, if we are not within a fana or are willing to shed it. It is also possible for us to stay in one place and send a reflection of ourselves to another, to watch and listen. The messages I carry for my lord and lady are generally sent thus out of courtesy, or because some item needs to be sent with it. We may move ourselves about with ease, but we cannot do the same with things; they must be carried.”

“Very interesting,” the hobbit admitted. “I hadn't thought that you might move about that way, but considering some of the things Olórin's told me, it makes perfectly good sense. So I suppose it doesn't really matter much where you choose to live, if you can be called and go wherever you need to go at a literal moment's notice.”

“Quite so, though most of us Maiar do tend to choose permanent dwellings near the Vala we serve, and visit other places from time to time, as we need or desire. Olórin's situation is... unusual.”

Frodo looked up at Ványalos from over the rim of his glass as he took a sip of what tasted like refreshingly light wine. He was quiet for a moment after he set down the goblet. “I'm not sure if that sounds good or bad. He wasn't... forced to live somewhere else, was he?” From what he had seen of the Elder King and his relationship with Olórin, the hobbit could not imagine what the wizard could possibly have done that would have warranted the punishment of exile.

Ványalos chuckled. “No, he chose to live here, and Lord Manwë gave his permission. Most of the Valar host servants of the others in their lands, to act as emissaries and messengers on their behalf. Olórin is Lord Irmo's favorite counselor, and he often visits the Lady Nienna as well, but Lord Manwë did not appoint him as his emissary to Lórien; he asked to be allowed to dwell here, and it was granted.” He sighed softly when he perceived that his explanation did little to lighten Frodo's puzzlement. “I see that I am not providing a sufficient answer. I have no doubt that you are Olórin's friend, but it would seem that he has not told you much about himself and his past.”

“He hasn't,” Frodo confirmed, “but mostly because he couldn't, I think. Until yesterday, he found it very difficult to remember what his life had been like before he came to Middle-earth; there was much he was not allowed to remember, and things he could not recall because he was living like one of us, in a mortal body. After he was freed of it.... Well, there simply hasn't been much time to talk about it. However, I don't mean to pry....”

The Maia dismissed that worry with a casual wave of one hand. “If you were asking after secrets, I would consider it so, but curiosity over what is common knowledge is not prying. If you like, I will answer your questions, but with one condition.”

Frodo felt he understood. “That I not tell Olórin?”

To his surprise, Ványalos shook his head. “No, quite the opposite. I want you to tell him that you heard this from me. Should I have unintentionally made an error, then he will know who is to blame, and can correct me. But I hope you do not mind listening to rather lengthy tales, for this story is not a brief one.”

Frodo laughed. “You undoubtedly do not know hobbits very well, Master Ványalos. After food and drink, we love stories and songs nearly as well, and so long as we are provided with the first two, we will happily go on listening to the latter until we fall asleep from weariness. Which, if the teller or singer is good, seldom happens. I have wanted to know more about Gandalf — that is what my people called Olórin in Middle-earth — for a very long time, and if you think he will not object, I will be very happy to listen to the tale from you, and for once spare him my curiosity.”

Ványalos chuckled softly as he took another sip of wine, his eyes fixed on Frodo. Though they were bright with good humor, for a moment, the halfling sensed something deeper in the Maia's gaze, as he sometimes had after the war, when he caught Gandalf watching him. Usually, the wizard had been concerned for Frodo's well-being and was looking for signs that he was unwell, though he found it difficult to imagine the same worries were prompting this glance from Ványalos. He felt perfectly fit, without a care in the world, and if he was seeking some sign that the hobbit was ill, Frodo felt certain he would find none. The moment passed quickly, however, when the Maia smiled.

“Then I will start at the beginning,” Ványalos said, “for you must know of that to understand the end. Do your people know of how the world began, of the Great Music sung before it was made?”

The hobbit nodded. “Yes — well, that is, I know, because Bilbo, my cousin, translated some of the great books of the Elves and encouraged me to read them when I was young. I know about the Ainulindalë and those who sang it, in the way the Elves recorded what they knew of it. And only yesterday, Olórin told me about the things he had sung as his part in it.”

“Then you know he is not a prideful sort at heart. When Lord Eru told the Valar that those who wished might come into Arda to help shape it into the vision they had been given of the Song made manifest, He told them they could bring with them those of our Maia people who were also willing to come, to be their helpers and servants. Like many of us, Olórin wanted very much to be a part of this effort, but he did not think any of the greater Powers would be inclined to invite him to join them, since he had little to offer in their service, being gifted mostly in matters that deal with the small and seemingly insignificant. So it was that when the time came and all was made ready for the host to pass on into the physical world, Manwë saw that Olórin was not with them, that he had remained behind. ‘Do you not wish to come and be a part of this great work?' the king asked him, and Olórin said yes, he did, but as none of the Powers had invited him, he could only think that he was not wanted, or welcome. Manwë laughed at that, but kindly. ‘Little one,' he told him, ‘we did not ask because we knew there was no need. We had no doubt you wished to come, and we could not decide which of us should have the honor of counting you among our people.' So Manwë asked him to be numbered among his servants, which Olórin accepted gladly, and came into Arda with the rest of us.

“But because of his very nature, though he looked to Manwë as his lord, he would offer his service to any who needed it, a generosity of which the king approved most highly. At some time or other, Olórin has done service for all of the Valar — save the Nameless One, whom he would not serve, no matter what power or wealth was offered him. Melkor hated him terribly, for there was in Olórin's gifts an ability to help others counter the fear and despair which were Melkor's chief weapons. Had the Nameless One known that Olórin went to Endorë during the First Age to work against him thus in secret, he would have bent his will to find and destroy him. But as Olórin acted in silence, unmarked or unseen, Melkor supposed, as did others, that he did not have the courage to leave the safety of Aman. They were wrong, of course, but Olórin wished the mistaken notion to remain, so that if his help was needed again, he would be free to give it.”

“But he told me that he was afraid to come to Middle-earth when the Valar sent him as one of the wizards,” Frodo pointed out. “What you say makes it sound as if he should not have been.”

Ványalos nodded as he added more liquid to their glasses. “Perhaps so, but though the Istari were to be sent in disguise, they could not be secret, not as he had been during the conflicts with Melkor. When Manwë proposed sending him on this errand, I think he feared that whatever guise he adopted, it would not be enough to hide his true identity from Sauron. Melkor never learned that Olórin was the one responsible for some of what had been done to thwart him during his reign of terror, but ere the end of it, Sauron knew. He became aware that another of his own folk was working against his master, and though he made the discovery too late for it to be of use to Melkor, he uncovered the identity of that opponent.

"But Olórin knew Sauron better than Sauron knew him, for he had had ample opportunity to watch Melkor's lieutenant openly at work, while Sauron and he never met face-to-face. When he was sent as one of the Istari, Olórin's fears were not unwarranted, for indeed, if Sauron had recognized him, he would have done his best to seek vengeance. One might have argued that this too could have worked in favor of their mission, giving the Dark Lord a target to seek other than the people of Middle-earth, but Olórin's premonitions were correct. Had he not been able to work quietly, for the most part beneath Sauron's notice, all would have come to ruin, in the end. At any rate, I suspect you know more of this part of the tale than I, and I am letting the story get far ahead of itself.”

Frodo smiled sheepishly. “I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to interrupt.”

Again, the Maia dismissed the apology without a second thought. “Think nothing of it, since I interrupted myself, going off and discussing Melkor. To come back to where I left off: After we entered into Arda and saw all the work that lay ahead of us, giving shape to the vision Lord Eru had shown us, Olórin was one of the busiest of us, for though he had no notions of doing great deeds and making grand things, he was forever a help to all who needed it, in whatever small ways he was able to give it. He sought neither praise nor reward, and always said the joy of seeing a task well finished was more than reward enough for him. Thus he earned the respect of all the Valar, whether he craved it or no, and many of the Maiar as well. Strangely enough, it was among our own people that he encountered the most adversity, for though Lord Eru gifted us with many abilities and special skills, He did not make us free from emotional failings, such as jealousy. And this was what brings us to the part of the tale that will answer your original question.

“In the many thousands of years before the awakening of the Eldar, much needed to be done to shape the world into the vision we had beheld, and each of the Valar took upon themselves some portion of that task. They and their Maia servants worked long and hard to complete it; some had greater roles, some lesser, others labored more diligently while some were less eager, having been disappointed to discover that Ëa was not fully formed when they first arrived. Lord Manwë's appointed work concerned matters of the air and the skies, of the breath that would sustain life in the physical world and the creatures who would live within the sky. Olórin had no specific larger role in his service to this project, but he helped all of Lord Manwë's servants as they needed or asked for it.

“There was one who used his assistance rather more often than the others: Aránayel, one of the lesser handmaidens of Lady Varda. She had a glorious voice, as beautiful as Melian's but more haunting. Upon hearing it, Lord Manwë chose her voice to be the sound of the wind, for he wished it to have music it to it, as Ulmo had given music to the sounds of the sea. Aránayel was ever appointed to accomplish what to her seemed great tasks, and she took considerable pride in this distinction. She chose for herself a fana of exquisite beauty, to rival her voice, and thus she won for herself the admiration of many. Olórin was no less affected by her charms than any other of our people, and he was glad that she would accept his help as often as she did. He became quite fond of her, and in time he fell in love with her, for to him it seemed that she took pleasure in his company, as she often accepted his aid to help with matters she might easily have accomplished on her own.”

Frodo could not help but smile. “I would never have imagined that,” he admitted, “not back in Middle-earth, at any rate. When we never know a person as anything but old, it's very hard for us mortals to think of them as ever having been young, much less capable of things that only young people are supposed to do. The wizard I knew always seemed much too practical and sensible.”

Ványalos laughed softly. “Having seen him as you knew him until he was freed to be himself again, I can understand how you feel. I did not know Olórin when he fell in love, but from what I have been told, even those who were his friends then thought he was acting rashly, and making a grave mistake. Aránayel was beautiful, yes, and she had talents few others could hope to match, but she also loved herself above all else. She was vain and self-serving, and to others, it seemed that the attention she gave to Olórin came not from affection but from selfishness. He would do anything for her; she was well aware of it, and so she took advantage of it. They warned him against her, but he would not listen. He knew her better, he told them; he had worked with her too closely and for too long to be mistaken about this. Besides, he said, he did not expect her to love him in return; he knew only that he loved her, and wished for her to know it. His friends felt it unwise for him to speak of it, and for a time, they managed to persuade him to hold his peace. But being simple in his own heart and still young, as we all were, he did not fully understand their warnings; thus, he did not heed their advice forever. He felt certain of his love and even more certain that no harm could possibly come from revealing it, and so, though it took some time before he was able to find the courage to speak of it to her, at last he did.”

He sighed. “One day, when they had both been summoned to Ilmarin to perform some service for the Lord and Lady, Olórin told Aránayel all that was in his heart, honestly and with no expectation that his love would be returned. She listened — and then laughed at him, not as one laughs when they are surprised, or when they hear a jest, but very cruelly, knowing full well he had spoken in earnest, and how her words would affect him. She demanded to know how he could be so presumptuous, since she was a handmaid of the queen, the very voice of the wind, and he nothing but a lowly worm that burrows through the soil so that her song could enter there. She had accepted his help because he was so pitifully eager to give it, and she saw no reason not to take advantage of it so that she could spend her own time and effort on worthier matters, not because she found him in any way desirable or worthy of her attention. She said many other things, much less kind, caring not who heard her or how their witness of it might further humiliate Olórin; quite likely, she wished for it, since she felt he had acted in unconscionable impudence. And after he had listened to her berate and belittle him without uttering a single word of protest — for there was nothing at all he could think of to say, so shocked was he — she called him the weakest of cowards, since he would not even try to defend himself. She did not understand him in the slightest, nor had she comprehended the value of the gift he had offered her, and her arrogant vanity utterly crushed Olórin's heart.

“He fled her then, and would have sought some place to hide in shame, had not Eönwë met him as he was about to leave Ilmarin. Lord Manwë was in need of a messenger to go to the house of Nienna and bring back some item she had for the king; he had asked Eönwë to find someone to make the journey, so the herald, not knowing that anything untoward had happened, asked if Olórin would be willing to go. He was indeed, for he knew Aránayel would not come there, as she disdained all places she considered dark and bleak, and there at least he would be able to avoid her for a time.

“Lady Nienna knew Olórin from those times when he had given his help to her and her people, as did all the Valar. When he arrived, she had but to look upon him to understand all that had happened, so plain was it writ upon his mind and his heart. She was greatly disturbed by it, and so she told Olórin that there would be a delay before she could send him back to Ilmarin, as another matter required attending first. He was glad of it, for he had no wish to return quickly, fearing that someone who had overheard Aránayel's words might have told others of his terrible foolishness, taking delight in such unkind mockery. What he did not know was that Nienna went to bespeak Lord Manwë, asking him if Olórin had come to her house as the expected messenger or as one in need of her aid. When Manwë answered that he did not understand, she showed to him all that she had perceived in Olórin's thoughts and feelings, his memories of what had happened to him not long before.”

Ványalos took a deep draught of his wine before continuing; his fair face hardened. “The king of the Valar is not easily moved to wrath; his anger is slow to kindle, but terrible to behold when at last it comes. It has been said that nothing, not even the betrayal of his own brother Melkor, has ever enraged Manwë so swiftly as the things Nienna showed him in that hour. It was not merely his fondness for Olórin that so moved him, but the outrage he felt in discovering that one of his own people could act so cruelly toward another, especially to one who had given so much to help her through the years. Manwë asked Nienna to tell Olórin that he wished for him to remain in her house for a time, to serve her on behalf of his people. Olórin accepted the assignment without hesitation, and Lord Manwë then turned to find and deal with Aránayel.

“She came before the king, completely unaware of his wrath, and was genuinely surprised by it. To her mind, she had done nothing wrong. She had never pretended to hold any love for Olórin, and she was under no obligation to accept it, or return it. If she had feigned to have sympathy for him, she would only have been coddling him with a lie, she deemed, because she felt nothing for him. When Manwë asked if she felt even the slightest bit of gratitude for all Olórin had done to help her in her work, she said no. She had first been required to work with him because such had been commanded by the king, and after, she allowed him to continue to assist her as he would because it was easier to let him have his way, and convenient for her to allow him to do such menial tasks for her. She had never told him aught but the truth, and if he could not bear to hear it spoken plainly, she was not to blame.

“Lord Manwë was wroth, for he had not realized how cold Aránayel could be, for all her beauty, how she so loved herself above all else, there was no room within her for even a bare trace of pity for another. She was punished, not because she had refused Olórin's love, but because she had treated him with cruelty unbefitting one of her supposedly lofty station. That, it is said, is why there is often hollow sorrow in the voice of the wind, a melancholy that weeps for itself but not for others, as Aránayel pitied her punishment but not what she had done to Olórin. ”

“That's dreadful,” Frodo said, feeling terrible sadness for what his friend had once endured, trying to imagine how anyone could reject another so callously, especially someone he knew to be very caring and generous of heart and spirit. Even hearing the story brought tears to his eyes. “How could she do such a thing?”

“She has a will of her own, as do all Lord Eru's children,” Ványalos said simply. “Her heart was full of herself alone, her pride, her arrogance, her own self-interest. She was not evil, not as Melkor and Sauron and others were evil, but she was cold, like a sculpture of great beauty carved from ice that cannot melt. She could not begin to understand how another person could so freely give of himself yet ask nothing in return, and because Olórin could do so with apparent ease, she was certain that what he offered was worth nothing, not even a polite refusal. She was not wise, she never has been. Many of the Maiar have made foolish choices, and follow paths of self-destruction. Aránayel's has not been as bad as others', and she still serves in her own way, but she will never truly understand what she loses every time she rejects something out of pride or vanity. In that, she has been a good lesson to others, a warning not to follow a similar path, but I fear she will never change.”

The hobbit's eyes widened. “You mean, she's still here? She wasn't sent back to wherever you came from?”

The Maia's smile was wistful. “If it could have been done, I suspect Lord Manwë would have exiled her, as you say. But we are confined to Arda until the End of the World; only Melkor has been cast out into the Void, and none are allowed to return to the Timeless Halls. She is seldom seen abroad, however, since she was cast from the service of the Lord and the Lady, and now serves Lord Námo and Lady Nienna in what ways she is able, in the hopes that she will learn something from witnessing the sorrow and pain of others. All of this happened very long ago. After passing judgment on Aránayel, Lord Manwë chose to have Olórin remain with Lady Nienna for a time because he knew that there he would find healing from the hurt he had suffered. He became a great pupil and friend of Nienna, and ever after would visit her from time to time, both to offer her his service and to learn from her. It was she who sent him here to Lórien to complete his healing, and he so learned to love this place, he had already begun to think of Lórien as home before Lord Irmo asked Manwë if Olórin might be permitted to dwell here, for Irmo had come to value him greatly as a counselor.

“And none of this might have come about, but for the cruelty of Aránayel. She begrudges the changes that came upon her life as the result of her actions, but Olórin is quite different. When she hurt him, he did not blame her; he blamed his own folly for speaking his heart when he had misjudged hers so badly. He might have chosen to be bitter or vengeful, but in finding relief from his sorrow, he learned instead to pity her and forgive her all she had done. In many ways, she did him a favor neither of them could have understood at the time. She pushed him away, and sent him stumbling down a road that would lead to greatness of a kind she would never comprehend, for in learning pity and forgiveness and patience in the house of Nienna, he learned how to love even his enemies more fully than he had before. It gave him great wisdom, and he has continued to grow in all the ages since. Had he not lived through this, he would not be the friend you and I now know.”

“Yes, I suppose that's quite true,” Frodo agreed after taking a moment to consider it. “Whenever I thought about where Gandalf might have come from, and what his life had been like when he was young — if I could even imagine him as young! — I never thought of things such as this, not even after he told me that he was really a Maia. I didn't have much of a notion of what that meant, to be honest, but I thought only mortals were foolish enough to fall in love with the wrong people and have their hearts broken because of it.”

Ványalos' smile became wry. “Such failings, I'm afraid, are common to all Ilúvatar's children, both those of Aman and Endorë and beyond. I first met Olórin when he came to Lórien to seek healing from Lord Irmo and Lady Estë, and though he seemed then to be quite wise and sad, I saw that the sadness was covering a great joy he had almost forgotten how to feel. I knew that with help, he could find it again, and since I lived so near to the place where he had chosen to settle, I took it upon myself to give him that help. At first, I was quite the nuisance to him, for I would not let him forget the importance of happiness, and I often enlisted the assistance of one of the visiting Elves, Lindarinë, in continuing the effort. Olórin was quite stubborn, but he was also wise enough to understand that we meant him only good, and in the end, it turned out well.”

“Not for Lindarinë,” the hobbit said softly, recalling the tale he had been told about the Elf. “Olórin told me what happened to him.”

The Maia's expression softened with remembered sadness. “Yes, that was a turn of fate any of us who were Lindarinë's friends would have changed or avoided, if we could. But do not grieve overmuch for this, young Frodo. Olórin may have told you that tale, but he likely forgot to mention how long it took for he himself to recover from the injury that turned his own life about. Each person heals in their own time, according to the depths of the wounds they suffered, and as Olórin's time came, so too will Lindarinë's. As will yours, if I might be so bold as to point out. The swiftness with which you will be healed will be directly connected to your desire to be cured, as well as the amount of effort you are willing to give to it. It may not be easy, but you will be given as much help and support as you may need or want. For now, do not trouble yourself about it. Rest from your journey and find whatever place suits you in Aman. The matter of your recovery from the Shadow is already in the hands of the Lord and Lady of Lórien, as well as very much in the thoughts of those who are your friends of old.”

A small smile crept back into Frodo's eyes. “Yes, that much I know. When I spoke with Lord Irmo yesterday, I felt as if I was visiting an exceptionally clever healer who was collecting information about my condition, whether I intended to tell him about it or not. And I know Olórin cares for me a great deal. Before we arrived, I was worried that I might never find peace here, but now, I could not doubt it if I wanted.”

Again, a strange shadow flickered across Ványalos' face, but it passed too quickly to be more than noticed. “I am glad to hear it,” he said simply, rising. “It is our custom for those who partake of such things to share the evening meal at the hour of sunset. Olórin told me that your people are quite fond of food and drink, and also enjoy preparing it. Tomorrow, perhaps, I should very much like to learn the ways in which you have refined the arts that might be unknown to us foreign folk. But for today, others will do that work and bring the meal here, as this is also a part of our customs of welcome. It is now but two hours before the setting of the sun, and I should see how those who are making the preparations are faring. If you are uncomfortable being alone, I will stay, of course, but it will not be long, I think, ere Olórin wakes.”

“Then go, by all means,” the hobbit said, also rising to bow in farewell. “I shall be fine, and I must have taken up quite enough of your time already. But thank you for bringing the food, and answering my questions. I shan't forget to uphold my end of the bargain.”

Ványalos grinned in return, and offered his own gesture of parting. “Then I will look forward to seeing you again this evening. If I have neglected to bring anything you might wish in the way of provisions, let me know then, and I will see to it that all is taken care of on the morrow.”

“That's very kind and generous of you. Thank you, Master Ványalos.”

“You're quite welcome. And since I suspect we may become friends ere you depart from Lórien, you may call me just Ványalos, if you please. I have never been certain what, if anything, I am a master of.”

Frodo laughed at his self-effacing light-heartedness, but the Maia was gone before the hobbit could say another word.

VIII

When Ványalos had departed, Frodo spent a few moments tidying the kitchen before investigating what had been brought to stock it. He took the used glasses to the sink, and only then realized that had seen no sign of a well outside the house, and thus had no idea how water was to be obtained for cooking or cleaning or even drinking. There was, of course, the nearby stream, but it seemed to Frodo that it would not be terribly convenient as a water source, given where it was in relation to the outer doors. Moreover, he had seen no sign of a bucket or other carrying containers larger than a goblet anywhere in the house.

Perplexed, he looked more closely at the basin obviously meant for washing dishes and vegetables and such. The thing was shaped like a broad but deep shell and was quite lovely in design; on the wall above it was a curved handle, inlaid with pearl. There was no pitcher or bucket at hand for bringing the water to fill the basin, though there were towels and soap in a storage space beneath it. It was hard for him to imagine that whoever had built this place would miss providing something so necessary, so he began to wonder if here, there were other ways of obtaining water. In Minas Tirith, he remembered seeing places where it could be brought into a house without the need to haul it from stream or well. The pumps they had used were not wholly unfamiliar to Frodo, simply a bit surprising, seen inside a house. Perhaps, he reflected, the handle on this wall was a kind of pump handle. Noting that it was neither too high nor too far for him, he reached for it to see if it would move.

It did indeed, but not as a pump would. When he lifted it, water began to flow into the basin from unseen outlets concealed in the fluted curves of the inner shell. When he released it and let it fall back to its original position, the flow stopped, but the water remained. When he pressed down on it, equally hidden drains opened, and the water flowed away. If he turned the handle slightly in one direction while lifting it, the water that emerged was cool, but if he turned it the opposite way, it was quite comfortably heated, the perfect temperature for washing rather than drinking.

The hobbit chuckled his delight. “How very clever,” he approved, thinking how many more wonders he had yet to discover in this new world. More than he could imagine, he was sure. Pleased by that thought, he filled the basin sufficient to clean the goblets, used one of the soft towels to dry them, then put them back in the cupboard from which Ványalos had fetched them. That brief task finished, he set about inspecting the formerly empty storage places to see what had been brought to fill them. When he had satisfied himself that nothing important had been neglected, he recalled what Ványalos had said about others bringing the evening meal in what was now less than two hours, and decided he should see to washing himself and changing back into his day clothes before they arrived.

In the bathing room, there was a large tub on one side of the room, set into the floor so that one did not need to climb in, only to step down and settle into the water. Opposite it was a shallow basin on a pedestal, low enough for him to use comfortably, and both were filled by the same method as the kitchen sink. After he was finished and had made sure the room was left as clean as he had found it, he went to get changed. He did not relish the thought of using the same outfit for what felt like the third day in a row, but it simply could not be helped. Fortunately, he had done nothing strenuous in the clothes, and had managed not to soil them either at the feast or during the ride to Lórien. He wondered about such things as laundering facilities, but that was another matter for the future. At least he wasn't in the uncomfortable position of having nothing to wear but filthy rags, as had been the case on the day he had awakened after the end of his journey to Mordor.

When he was dressed, he estimated that an hour had passed since Ványalos had left. He felt reasonably certain Olórin would not want to be caught napping when the guests arrived, but neither did he wish to disturb him too soon. He decided to peek into the room where the wizard was resting and then make up his mind. The question was rendered academic when he opened the door just a crack, peered inside, and found his old friend already awake and seated on the edge of the bed. This room, Frodo noted, had clearly been arranged and furnished for the comfort of one of the Big Folk, and very nicely, from the look of things. A hobbit would have been quite lost on the Man-sized bed; the chairs and shelves and chests and drawers were all of a height suitable to one much taller than he. Olórin had removed the crystal circlet and set in on a small table near the bed, out of harm's way, and he had exchanged the white clothing made for him by the Valar for a long simple tunic of soft blue linen that fell halfway between his knees and his currently bare feet. He had been rubbing the remains of sleep from his eyes when Frodo opened the door; he looked up at the sound, and smiled.

The hobbit returned it. “I hope you rested well,” he said, opening the door more fully. “It's about an hour before sunset, I believe, but if you'd like, there are a few sweet biscuits left in the kitchen, along with some very nice wine. Your neighbor Ványalos stopped by to deliver provisions while you were asleep. And before you ask, no, he didn't wake me, he was being very quiet.”

Olórin laughed softly as he rose from the bed, stretching gracefully. “But not so quiet once he knew you were there, I'll wager. If I have ever known a person who loves to talk about anything and everything as much as a hobbit, it's Ványalos.”

“Well, I certainly didn't discourage him,” Frodo confessed with a small laugh of his own. “We had a very pleasant chat, and before he left, he told me that he and some others of your friends would be bringing the evening meal, around sunset. I think that should be in about an hour, so perhaps you won't wish to spoil your appetite.”

“Perhaps not, but I wouldn't want you to spoil yours by not having a proper hobbit snack before dinner. Did Ványalos bring enough of the right things to provide for you?”

“Oh, yes,” he was assured as they went back to the kitchen. “He said that tomorrow, he'd like to learn a bit about how hobbits cook, though I couldn't quite tell if he was serious or teasing.”

“He was serious. Another trait he shares with the Little Folk: he enjoys food and drink greatly, even though he does not need it, which is why I asked him to see to acquiring whatever you might need. Tonight, my other friends and neighbors will bring what are traditional things for a welcoming meal, much like what was served yesterday in Valmar, but simpler, and possibly more Elven than Ainu. A number of Teleri live in Lórien, and I was well acquainted with many of them before I was sent to Middle-earth.”

“So those who will be visiting tonight will be both Elves and other Maiar?” Frodo asked as he fetched the goblets he had just washed and set them back on the table, along with the remains of the wine and the biscuits.

The wizard nodded. “I suspect so. Some, like Ványalos, were unable to attend the full festival in Valmar because of other business, and others chose to spare me the shock of being greeted by everyone I know all in one evening. From what I heard last night, they are all quite eager to meet a halfling. At best, they have only heard tales about your people brought by Elves who sailed to the West, and none of the tales were long. Until Bilbo, your people had only occasional and very brief dealings with the Fair Folk. Were it not for your involvement in the matter of the Ring, they would likely have little more than polite interest in you. Given the role you played in the War, they are very curious indeed.”

“Then I hope they don't find me disappointing.”

Olórin dismissed that concern with a gesture. “Not likely, given how you were received by the Valar. My people understand quite well the matter of playing smaller, supporting parts in a much greater drama. It was what we were born to do, after all. We are not the Powers who performed the greatest shaping of Arda, only their servants. That we occasionally are called upon to perform more significant tasks does not change what we are, though some, like Saruman, became enamored of what they perceived to be their own high station. I never had any such illusion about myself, nor do my friends here in Aman.”

Frodo pondered this for a few moments, then spoke what was on his mind. “You know, before I came here, I thought that the people in the West were all above such pettiness, but I should have known better. I knew enough about the history of the old days to know that people are people, whether or not they're immortal. I suppose that given enough time, most folk would learn not to hurt or be cruel to one another, but not all do.”

He took a sip of his wine, then looked up at Olórin. “While you were asleep, Ványalos told me some things about you, and he wanted me to be sure that I let you know he had been the one who told me these things. I asked why you lived here in Lórien when you are actually one of Lord Manwë's servants, so he told me. Part of the tale concerned what had happened a long time ago with one of your folk called Aránayel.”

The Maia stiffened almost imperceptibly, setting down the goblet he had been holding. He sighed. “Fair enough. I know nearly all there is to know about you, and if you are to be my guest, there are some things it would be best for you to know about me, since they are common knowledge here. What did Ványalos tell you?”

“That you loved her very much, and that she was very cruel to you when she rejected you. He seemed to think that what you are now was very much the result of what you lived through because of what she did to you.”

Olórin reflected upon this for a moment, then nodded. “He's right. If I hadn't been hurt so badly in that way at that time, I might never have done some of the things I did in attempting to recover from it. We may each have a greater destiny in the Music, but because we are free to choose, we can refuse it, and let someone else play the part intended for us. Some of our greatest lessons and deepest wisdom have their roots in the pains we suffer, and that was beyond doubt the greatest pain I had ever known. In some ways, not even the betrayal of Saruman or my death struggle with the Balrog hurt me as deeply. It was the strength I found in the healing I sought after Aránayel's rejection that allowed me to endure much greater pains during my life in Endorë.” He looked at Frodo, his glance curious. “Is there a reason you mentioned this just now?”

The hobbit shrugged. “I suppose I thought of it because of what you said about people who become proud, like Saruman. I never knew you as anything but an old man, so I never imagined you might've lived through the things your friend told me. I don't think anyone in the Shire ever really thought about wizards as if they were real people. You were just another one of the Big Folk who came through from time to time, and if you were any different, to most hobbits' way of thinking, it was just that you stirred up a different kind of trouble. I'm afraid hobbits really do tend to view the world in very narrow ways, never looking beyond the bounds of the Shire, or ever thinking that other kinds of people can be just the same as they, or better. Those few of us who knew you knew the truth, of course, but even that didn't stop us from seeing only so far. Even when I knew you were more than just an old Man, I never quite made the connection and tried to imagine what you really were. And I certainly never stopped to think that you might have once been in love, like any other person. I'm rather ashamed to admit it, but I wasn't much better than the people who thought you were nothing but a nuisance.”

“Nonsense. How could you imagine something you had never seen or experienced? An Elf or a Dwarf or a Man is like you in enough ways that you can draw an image in your mind of what they might be like from stories and descriptions alone. But to try to imagine a person who in truth has no body, whose existence is quite different from your own... well, you simply don't have what is called a proper frame of reference. You may be able to imagine the Ainur as thoughts, because you know what it is to think, but to imagine us as living creatures without bodies would be quite difficult, since that is beyond your experience. To conceive of that and the fact that we can feel love and passion in some all-too-human ways...! No, you have nothing to be ashamed of. As I was in Middle-earth, there was no reason to wonder about such things, and some questions one avoids asking so as not to seem a busybody. I never asked you if you had ever been in love, after all.”

“No, you didn't,” Frodo admitted, his cheeks coloring faintly. “I suppose it was rude of me to talk about a private matter like this. I should have kept what I was told in confidence.”

But the Maia shook his head. “It truly is in the past, Frodo, well over and done with. I feel only pity for Aránayel now, a wish that she might someday let go of her pride and learn to treat others more kindly. I have no wish to be with her, since any love I once felt for her is gone, and will never return. But she did indeed help make me what I am, and it is good that you understand this, since the day may come when you will meet her.”

The halfling grimaced as he swallowed his mouthful of biscuit. “I'm not sure I would enjoy that. I'm afraid I would tend to think only of what she once did to you, and wouldn't be at all fair to her.”

“Possibly, but it may yet occur, and if it does, you would do well to remember how I feel toward her. Don't let the tales of a bitter injury that happened long ago distort your vision for what is now. As with Gollum, I suspect that if you ever chance to see her with your own eyes, you will understand why she is to be pitied, not despised.”

Frodo was quiet for a bit while he considered Olórin's words. At length, he sighed again. “You're right, of course,” he finally allowed. “And I will do my best to remember what you've told me. I was, you know. In love once, that is,” he added when the Maia regarded him with confusion. “When I was in my tweens and still quite a silly lad. Violet Bolger, the prettiest lass in Hobbiton — not that my cousin Angelica would have agreed, but I certainly thought so. I was terribly smitten with her, but was too shy to say anything. So I decided to take after Cousin Bilbo instead, and wrote her dozens of poems, none of them very good, I'm afraid. I'd hidden them away where I was quite sure no one would ever find them, but Bilbo came across them one day. I was mortified when he mentioned it to me, of course, but he was really very kind. He said that if I truly had such feelings for Violet, I should find a way to tell her, or I might wind up regretting it for the rest of my life.”

“And what happened?”

This time, the hobbit's sigh was much deeper. “Not what happened to you — fortunately. I think I would have died, if she'd treated me like that. We had been friends for years, and she was always very good to me, so I decided that the next time I saw her, I would try to say something. I rehearsed my speech over and over, so I wouldn't embarrass myself, and after a week or so, I was ready to give it a try. I met her at the market a few days later, and walked her home to help carry what she'd bought. She seemed very cheerful and happy, and once we were away from the market, I found out why. While I was off writing poetry in hidden corners, Munco Greenbriar, one of the hired hands on her father's farm, had been speaking to her more directly, and she'd very much enjoyed his company. He'd come of age a few days earlier, and had asked her father for Violet's hand the day after. Violet invited me to the wedding, and was very excited about the whole thing, and though I tried very hard to feel happy for her, I was rather heartbroken, too. It was my own fault for never saying the truth, and I really couldn't expect her to wait for me when she didn't even know how I felt. After that...”

He shrugged. “Well, I cannot say that I lost interest in finding a wife, but I simply didn't have the heart to go looking. After Bilbo left and I inherited Bag End, there were plenty of young women interested in catching my eye because I was well-off, but that certainly wasn't what I wanted from such a relationship. I eventually decided it just wasn't meant to be, for me. There was something more I needed, and I didn't understand what that could be, until I was on my way to Mordor to destroy the Ring. When I realized that this was what I was meant to do with my life, I was glad that there was no one I'd left behind who could be hurt if something went dreadfully wrong. It was bad enough, knowing that I had friends risking their lives to help me. If I'd come home to a wife and family, wounded and broken as I was, I would have felt that they were paying the most terrible price of all for what I'd had to do.”

“I understand,” the Maia said, briefly clasping his friend's nearer shoulder in sympathy. “If these were indeed the destinies fated for us from our beginnings, then it truly was best that those in our lives who would suffer if we were lost were not as close as our own kin. My folk do not have offspring — except for Melian, who took on physical life for a time to bear Elwë a daughter, Lúthien — but the emotional ties between those who take spouses are as deep as those between the Eruhíni and their mates and children. Had I completely failed of my task and returned in utter shame, I could not have borne the pain it would have caused to my wife, if I had had one. Lord Eru, I think, gave us those choices early in our lives so that we might have a chance to avoid even greater pain later on, for more than just ourselves. It is always easier to face what might be your end if you know there is no one who will feel abandoned or humiliated, should you lose.”

The Maia sipped his wine for a minute, his eyes glittering as thoughts flitted behind them. He smiled mischievously. “Violet Bolger, hmm? I remember her. You're right, she was quite a pretty young lady, very charming. Her father was one of the few members of his family who hadn't lost his head to the self-importance of his family name and reputation, still believed in putting in an honest day's work. She was much like him, as I recall, bright and cheerful but not proud. You might have done well together, had things not gone otherwise. I'm afraid if they had between Aránayel and myself, I would have regretted it greatly in the end.”

“I should daresay. Didn't you have any idea she could be such a heartless person?”

Olórin sighed as he twirled the stem of the goblet between his fingers. “I should have, but love is blind, as they say, and at the time, I was too inexperienced and naive to know better. There were enough warnings — from several of my other friends, in fact — but I did not want to see or hear them. You might say I was bewitched, both by her and myself. I wanted to believe that what I felt for her was true and that she was as beautiful in heart as she was in other ways. And she wanted me to believe anything that would allow her to continue to make use of me without obliging her in any way, even with simple gratitude. I did not believe she would feel as I did, but not even in my darkest dreams had I imagined that when I offered her my heart, she would rip it from me, crush it beneath her heel, and spit upon it. I knew I was far from the greatest of our people, that I was indeed quite likely the least — but even the least, I thought, was worthy of some small kindness, the politeness, perhaps, not to mock love that was earnestly given. I expected to be rejected. I did not expect it to come with such cruel humiliation. I have long since put it behind me, even though the memories still ache, from time to time. But I do not regret it, not any longer. I have changed and grown and learned much since then, and I am content with my life. The love of a spouse is only one kind of many, after all, and since we cannot have everything, losing that was really a small price to pay for all I have now.”

Frodo smiled back. “I agree — or I will more wholeheartedly, once I've grown accustomed to being here, and my homesickness has had more time to fade. I still feel echoes of the pain from my wounds from time to time, but ever since the ship landed, it never lasts for more than a moment. I certainly didn't expect that part of my troubles to heal so quickly. Is it part of the blessing of being here, do you think?”

“Not entirely,” Olórin said quietly, unable to lie. He regarded Frodo for a short time, an odd light in his eyes. “Do you know what today is, back in the Shire?” he asked.

Frodo tried to count up the time that had passed since their departure, then shook his head. “No, I lost track of the days some time ago. It was difficult, once we were on the ship.”

“Understandable. It's October the sixth.”

It took a moment before the importance of those words truly sank in. When they did, the hobbit looked up at Olórin, his face full of disbelief, but there was no doubt in the Maia's nod. “It can't be,” Frodo near-whispered. “Every time the anniversary of some terrible day comes round again, I felt equally terrible pain. Today I felt... nothing. Well, not quite nothing, only a twinge or two early this morning. I was thinking about the only other time I'd ridden on a horse, when Glorfindel sent me on ahead to cross the Ford and the Nazgûl were trying to catch me. My shoulder hurt for a moment, then you touched it and the pain disappeared. I wasn't sure if you'd done that on purpose, or if it was only a coincidence, but the same thing had happened when I was remembering Weathertop while we were watching the sunrise. It was your doing, wasn't it?”

“It was,” the wizard said gently. “I was not invading your thoughts, but I could feel what you felt, nonetheless, and I saw no reason you should suffer needlessly. Has your shoulder troubled you at all, otherwise?”

“No, not in the slightest. I couldn't have slept so peacefully this afternoon if I'd been bothered by it. Whatever you did must have cured it.”

But sad regret filled the Maia's eyes. “No. Estë's healing power fills this land and doubtless eased your discomforts, but to prevent you from suffering as you have before, someone had to divert it from you and take it upon themselves, so that you would not feel it. I did not want your first visit to my home to be a day filled with pain, so I did what I could to make certain that would not happen. Ványalos has helped me in this, since I did not yet have the strength to deal with it alone, and I did not wish for you to suffer a moment more than was necessary. Please forgive me if I have acted deceitfully. I meant only to do what was needed to make your first days in Aman joyful, not dark with shadow and grief.”

Frodo stared at him, sorting out all the greater implications of what he had just said. “Does this mean that in order for me to know peace and be free from pain, even here, someone else must suffer instead?”

Olórin let loose the breath he had been half-holding in a wistful sigh. “For the moment, yes.”

The halfling was appalled. “Then why did you ask me to come here? If I can find no true healing anywhere, I would rather have borne it alone and not burdened anyone else with it! Why didn't you tell me this?”

“Because until we arrived and today dawned, I did not know what would happen,” Olórin said plainly. “And please, Frodo, calm yourself, you are leaping to conclusions. I did not say you would never be properly healed; I said this was the only way to help you for the moment. Yes, I was responsible for diverting your pain today so you would not feel it — and so was Ványalos, who took on the task of protecting you willingly so that I could rest and regain some of my strength — but it is not as overwhelming to me as it has been to you. I am a Maia, not one born to a life in flesh. This shell in which I exist is fully under my command; if I so choose, there is no physical discomfort I ever need feel. That part of what I diverted from you has no effect on me. The suffering your wounds bring to your heart is far more grievous to me, but please believe me when I say I do not mind experiencing this to spare you. Because of what I am, I have abilities to deal with such things that mortals do not, and my long years of study with Lady Nienna and Lord Irmo have taught me how to cope with such bitter grief without being destroyed by it. To be honest, I have been grateful for this experience, because it has let me come to know you better, and all that you have endured these past three years. Since I was the one who nudged you onto this path, will you begrudge me the opportunity to know more fully all the results of my actions and suggestions?”

Frodo was quiet as he pondered what had been said; then he spoke, slowly. “No. But I had hoped to find more lasting healing. Will someone always need to do this so I need not suffer?”

The Istar shook his head emphatically, fair hair brushing his shoulders with each movement. “No. Lord Irmo is confident that a permanent solution can be found, and I believe he is right. It was my own choice to do this today, because of the unfortunate timing of the date and our arrival. I said nothing because I knew you would object, and I felt it wasn't worth an argument. I was not exaggerating when I said I am able to deal with this, Frodo, and though I might have been foolish enough to do so without help, Lord Irmo persuaded me to seek the aid of others, such as Ványalos. For all he appears somewhat flighty and overly light-hearted, Ványalos is quite adept at understanding the feelings of others, and doing what is needed to help when help is needed. After two thousand years of incarnate life and difficult labor in Middle-earth, I am not as strong as I was before, and it will take time before I recover fully.” His laugh was soft and rueful. “I am also in need of healing, though not as seriously as you. Perhaps I should have spoken to you before doing what I did, and if I erred in my judgment, I am sorry. I only wanted to be certain your first days here would be happy ones, untainted by any bitter shadows.”

Again, Frodo was quiet for a time before he answered. “You needn't be sorry,” he said at last, his eyes fixed on the liquid in his glass. “You did what you thought was best, and to be completely honest, I think you did the right thing, for the right reasons. If I'd had to endure another day of pain and darkness because of that old wound in my shoulder immediately after arriving here in Valinor, I would have thought the entire trip was in vain, and nothing would ever be able to give me relief. I probably wouldn't have been inclined to listen to reason, no matter who told me this would not be a permanent situation, that I could be healed in time. What you did....”

He looked up, caught Olórin's gaze with his own and held it. He smiled. “Whether you intended it or not, you just proved to me that things are different here, that it is possible for me to be healed. You couldn't help me back in Middle-earth; no one could. But today you did, and I never even realized it. If you can do that with such apparent ease, how much more can those of the Valar who are skilled in healing arts do for me? Oh, no, Olórin, you have no reason to be sorry. I'm grateful, even if I'm still a bit surprised by everything that's happened. Thank you, for all you've done today, and for telling me of it. I have real hope now, more than I had thought I would. And I'm glad you listened to Lord Irmo and found someone else to help you rather than exhaust yourself for my sake when you're still weak after all those years of being trapped in Middle-earth.”

He was quiet for another moment, thinking hard before speaking again. “You've told me what you and others have done. What will I need to do to help myself get better?”

The Maia returned his smile, grateful for his friend's understanding. “Lord Irmo and I discussed this, and we agreed that you will probably recover more quickly if you remain here in Lórien for a time, until your healing is well underway. You needn't stay here in my house; if you prefer, there are those who would happily assist you in acquiring a place of your own. But it did occur to me that you might feel uncomfortable spending so much time apart from Bilbo. Aside from being your kin, he is the only other hobbit here in Aman. If we were to ask him to visit, and he saw how like to the Shire this region can be, how difficult do you think it would be to persuade him to live here, for a while? It would do him good as well, and that way, neither of you would need feel like some kind of strange curiosity in our midst.”

Frodo laughed. “I suspect it wouldn't be difficult at all. Bilbo is used to being the only hobbit in a house full of Big Folk, but I know he missed the Shire while he lived in Rivendell. This would be all his wishes come true, I think. I will be glad to have him here, although I haven't felt nearly as out of place as I thought I would. After talking with people at the feast last night, and with Ványalos this afternoon, I'm beginning to see that the height of a person makes very little difference when it comes to the size of their heart. I cannot say what Bilbo might want to do, but for myself, I would like to stay here with you for a time, if you don't mind. I have always counted myself lucky to call you my friend, even when I didn't really know you well at all. I should like to have a chance to do that better.”

“You will always be welcome here, for as long as you wish to stay. I have never before had kin, and you and Bilbo have become as dear to me as any family I have ever seen among the Eruhíni. My house is yours, as you always opened your home to me in years gone by. I have only begun to repay some of the many favors and kindnesses I have long owed to both of you.”

Frodo did his best to keep from blushing at the words of praise. He was attempting to devise a way to politely shrug it off when the distant sound of voices singing drifted through the westward-facing windows of the kitchen. The sun, he noticed, was now very low in the sky, the shadows grown long and purple as the day's end drew nigh. “Are those your friends coming?” he wondered, trying to make out the words of the song, without success.

Olórin listened to the music on the breeze, then smiled softly. “Quite likely. If they follow custom, they will arrange whatever they have brought in the clearing outside the house, to watch the sunset and offer thanks for the day before sharing the meal. If you'd like to be there to greet them, go on ahead and wait for them on the porch. I'll be along in just a moment. Generally, we do not stand on ceremony for such simple occasions, but I would prefer not to greet them still dressed in a sleeping gown.”

The hobbit chuckled, thinking how visitors would have reacted to such an ill-mannered thing back in the Shire. “Of course, come when you're ready. I would have been nervous about doing this alone a few hours ago, but after meeting your friend Ványalos, I don't feel the least bit worried, anymore. In fact, I don't believe I'm going to mind living here at all, even if it's ‘til the end of the world!”

The Maia watched him as he headed off to the front door, eager to greet their guests. The sigh that escaped Olórin was faint, but full of sadness. “If only it could be so,” he whispered, echoes of his earlier conversation with Irmo suddenly murmuring through his thoughts. He shook his head as if to banish the unwanted specters, then went to exchange his night clothes for more suitable attire, and hopefully with it shed the feelings of a growing melancholy that had crept into his heart.

IX

“So, Ványalos, what is your opinion?”

“My opinion, Lord Irmo, is that I should not have agreed when you asked if I would perform this little ‘service' for you.” The Maia was at the dream master's home near the shores of Lake Lórellin, a shady and peaceful place built amid the golden groves and flowering gardens where the Vala took care of his own business during the days while Estë his wife rested in her island haven in the midst of the great lake. The sounds of many fountains and the song of small birds provided a constant, soothing music for those who came to visit the lord, and to those of his household servants who remained there to tend the waters and the lands and other living things of his modest mansion home. Ványalos, usually happily at ease here, was abnormally restless, not because he was uncomfortable with his surroundings, but because he was ill-at-ease with himself. “I have done many tasks for you and the Lady Estë, and I begrudge you none of them — save perhaps this one. I find that I do not enjoy spying upon others, not even in a good cause — especially not when the subject is anyone I have even the slightest reason to call my friend.”

Irmo, who was seated in a comfortable chair of silver and blue-gray near a quiet fountain that was one of his most favored, regarded his servant with a small smile of regret. “I understand your disquiet, but I would not have asked had I not felt it to be of utmost importance. So I will ask again: what is your opinion? Is the situation as serious as I had first perceived?”

Ványalos, aware that he would not be able to avoid tendering an answer, sighed as he paced along one side of the rectangular pool. Sometimes, when the waters were stilled by the command of the dream master, one could see visions reflected in its surface; now, it seemed as ill-at-ease as the visiting Maia. “More than I had thought, when you asked this of me. His strength is not what it should be, and I fear that not even a year of rest and healing here in Lórien will restore it. Too much was lost, and it may not be possible to regain it, not even if he cooperates fully with whatever cures you and the Ladies deem necessary. There is a shadow within his heart; I doubt if even the full light of Aman can cast it away.”

“Yet we must try. You may not be the most skilled of my servants in the gifts of healing, but you are able to perceive certain things others would not. Knowing what you now do, would you have any advice to offer concerning the situation?”

The Maia snorted gently, watching ripples swell up in the bottommost pool of the fountain as water from a higher level spilled into it with a soft whisper of sound. “The only advice I could think to offer, my lord, would be quite useless. This was a burden he should not have been made to carry, not for so long. When the final critical moment of decision came, he should have been allowed to return home — indeed, he should have been ordered to return home. Why he was allowed the choice to continue I will never understand, not after all he had already suffered. Could someone else not have completed the task?”

Irmo made a vague gesture. “Apparently not, since this was not of our choosing. We did what we could to guide matters from afar, but some of the most important moments of personal choice have ever been left in the hands of Lord Eru, and those to whom the choices are given. We Valar would, I fear, have influenced these decisions based primarily on our desires to avoid error, and in so doing would have caused it yet again. We did try to present such an option, but the One preferred otherwise. Regretting what was not within our power to alter or direct is surely useless, as you say. So there is no advice you can offer to enlighten us.”

Sighing this time, Ványalos took a seat on the low white marble kerb surrounding the pool. Several small birds from the nearby groves and gardens swooped low to drink from the waters; one settled on the Maia's shoulder for a moment, chirruped sweetly, then moved on to join the others of its flock. “I am not your counselor, my lord, only your messenger. I sense, somehow, that there might be a more lasting way to help him recover, but I cannot see it clearly. It seemed to me that his strength was greater when I first saw him yesterday than it was later in the evening, but whether this came about because of natural weariness or for some other reason I do not know. If you wish, I will continue to keep him under my watch, for I am also concerned, but I cannot promise that I will be able to see the answers for which you are searching.”

“Perhaps not, but mayhap in seeing what you have seen, we will understand it better. Will you be able to continue without being noticed?”

“I believe so. Young Frodo has agreed to teach me what he can of how his people took what was a necessity to sustain life and turned it into a pleasurable art, which, from what I have been told, will give me more than ample opportunities for observation, since it is not a lesson which can be taught in a single day. Some Eldar of the hill country tell me I have taken on a course of study I may never be able to finish, but the longer it takes, the better it will suit the purpose with which you have charged me. For I have certain suspicions, and would prefer to have seen solid proof of them ere I speak of it aloud.”

The Vala indicated his acquiescence with a graceful inclination of his head. “A wise course, so long as you do not take overlong before speaking. For I believe I know that which you suspect, and should it be true, we will not have the luxury of time to spend in long study of the problem ere we act.99 upon it, if action is indeed possible. Lord Eru has granted us great powers of help and healing, but there are ills in Ëa that not even all the might of the Valar can fully cure. Go now, and find whatever you can find, as swiftly as you are able.”

Ványalos rose as gracefully as he had seated himself, and bowed to his master. “As you wish, my lord.”

**********

While Ványalos was in conference with Irmo, Frodo woke and began his day. It was well after sunrise, he noted, and it was with some pleasure that he realized he was not only free from any pain or discomfort, but the dreadful anniversary of his wounding at Weathertop was now passed, and with it any need for others to suffer for his well-being. He had just sat up in bed when that fact occurred to him; a moment later, he noticed something more: the things he had brought with him from the Shire were now with him, the few small trunks that had been sent ahead to the Havens settled in a corner between the window and the larger furnishings that had been provided for more permanent storage. He was startled to see them, for they had not been here when he had gone to bed, and he had heard nothing while he slept. He was certain Olórin had some hand in this, though precisely how and to what extent, he did not know. He had mentioned his desire to obtain some of his belongings, especially his clothes, but though his host had said it would be done, he had not said how or when. Frodo was grateful, however, and intended to ask how this had been managed so quickly.

But an opportunity to do so did not immediately present itself. The day before, he had noticed that Olórin seemed to share a habit of his own, that of closing the door to his sleeping room when it was in use and leaving it ajar or fully open when it was not. When he emerged from his own room, the hobbit saw that the door in question was shut, and thus could only presume the Maia was either asleep, meditating, or for some other reason wished to have privacy. He made no attempt to interrupt him, not even to look in and see if he was asleep, for he had taken to heart the claims both Ványalos and Olórin himself had made concerning his own need for rest and healing, even though he had begun to understand that Maia notions of what constituted rest were nearer to those of the Elves than the mortals. Besides, he was rather looking forward to the thought of preparing breakfast on his own, as he had had little opportunity since Sam and Rose had moved into Bag End. If he was going to make good on his promise to instruct Ványalos in hobbit culinary arts, he felt he should at least make certain he hadn't grown too rusty to be an adequate teacher.

After he had bathed and finally changed into fresh clothing — reminding himself to ask after local laundering methods, since he was certain the number of days he would be staying here were likely to far exceed the changes of clothing he had brought — he searched the pantries to decide what he wanted for breakfast. His choices made, he set about preparing it, humming to himself one of the many new tunes he had heard the night before. He smiled at the memories it awakened.

When he had gone out to the porch to greet the gathering neighbors — who were, to him, a remarkable mixture of Elves and Maiar, some very strikingly different in appearance and form, others astonishingly similar — he had found them in the midst of preparing for the meal. It had reminded Frodo of his first meeting with Gildor and the Elves in the woods of the Shire: thick carpets of beautiful craft spread out over the grass for the participants to sit upon, containers of many lovely and unusual shapes and sizes and colors filled with food and drink of most delectable fragrance. Utensils were set at hand along with other necessities, and when they were done, he had stepped down to join them just as the sun touched the far horizon and swiftly began to sink beneath the hills.

That was when he had first heard the song, a melody that though strange sounded yet familiar. The Elves were the ones singing it, and though the tune was unknown to him, very quickly, he began to recognize the words:

A Elbereth Gilthoniel, silivren penna míriel...

They sang it once using the words with which Frodo was familiar, but to a melody very unlike that which he had heard time and again in Middle-earth: not in a somber key, filled with the Elven longing for the West from which they had been sundered, but in one of reverent remembrance for times that were now in their past. They then sang a new verse, still with reverence but with greater joy, the words too complex for Frodo to quite grasp fully, though he perceived that they sang of their love for the home they had regained, and their honor of the Valar who had granted their return.

As the colors of the sunset painted the skies with a palette of brilliant artistry, new voices took up another song, in words Frodo had not been able to understand at all. It was the strange tongue he had heard used by the Valar in the Máhanaxar; the blend of its peculiar sounds with the beauty of the voices singing it was almost too unearthly to bear. Frodo supposed that one could grow accustomed to it, given time, but it was not, he suspected, a language meant to be often heard by the ears of lesser beings. It was beauty of a sort so powerful that it was painful to those not meant to bear it, and it had not lasted for long. After a single brief verse, the song had shifted into the language of the Elves, and though Frodo could not understand all of it, he grasped enough to know that it was a paean of thanks and praise offered to Eru Ilúvatar by His servants, the Maiar. At length, as the swift sunset faded and the stars began to kindle in the skies, the Elves took up their song again while the Maiar continued their own, and the blending of the melodies was so perfect, it brought tears to the hobbit's eyes.

It was only as the music was drawing to a close that Frodo noticed that Olórin had joined them, and was singing with his people. Frodo had not been able to keep himself from staring, for though he had heard Gandalf sing from time to time, the voice he had as Olórin was not that of a Man, but a Maia, still deep and resonant, but without the gruffness or breathiness of mortal singing. He'd realized he had been gawking only when Olórin looked down at him and smiled, the brightness in his eyes expressing the laughter his voice could not, for the moment. It was not meant to mock, however, and had the effect of stirring Frodo from his startled state soon enough to join the Elves in singing the last line of their song, which he had heard repeated often enough to render accurately.

The sudden silence that followed was almost more stunning than the music; it lasted until the last glimmer of sunset was gone, and the skies were bright with stars. All the visitors had seemed to stir at once, then, talking, laughing, and kindling lamps to provide extra light for the clearing. Throughout the remainder of the evening, the others came and introduced themselves to Frodo, offering him many words of welcome as well as praise. The hobbit might have found it quite embarrassingly intolerable, had he been alone in receiving such attention, but Olórin had been made to share in it as well, as his friends and neighbors were equally eager to welcome him home after his long absence.

Somewhere during the course of things, Frodo had noticed that his old friend had chosen attire scarcely more elaborate than his sleep tunic, a robe of simple silver-gray linen belted with a plain blue cord; he had left the crystal circlet behind, and had chosen no other adornments. It did not seem at all out of place to Frodo, since the others who had gathered for the meal were by and large no more ostentatious in their dress, save for some who favored brighter colors. Even they did not feel wrong, for they were bright after the fashion of flowers in the fields and hues of the rainbow, not garish or in poor taste. What had actually surprised the hobbit were the many modes of dress these folk had chosen, some very Elven, some very Mannish, several almost Dwarvish, others in styles he could not place, even a few that appeared almost Hobbitish. He wondered at that for a little while, but at length decided it was nothing more than a reflection of Aman itself, a place that held in its vast length and breadth something of all the world, but unspoiled, unmarred. He gave it no further thought, and enjoyed as much as he could of the remaining evening, until weariness finally caught up with him and sent him off to sleep.

He remembered lying in his bed listening to the voices in the clearing, still talking and singing softly; he had no notion how long they continued, for he had fallen asleep to that pleasant murmur of beautiful voices, soothed rather than disturbed by it. Olórin had remained behind to see to the departure of his guests, and Frodo presumed that he had retired after they had gone. He had no notion of precisely when that might have been, but given how Ványalos and several of the other Maiar had treated the Istar during the evening, the hobbit was reasonably certain they would not have stayed much longer. They were all apparently of the opinion that a two-thousand year sojourn in a mortal body was not something from which one recovered in only a day, and had been quite diligent in making certain Olórin had no opportunity to tax himself and in reminding him that Frodo was not the only resident of this house in need of recuperative rest. They had all been ever so polite about it, but their behavior had elicited more than a few half-hidden laughs from the halfling, who remembered quite clearly how insistent and fussy a certain old wizard had been in seeing to the well-being of injured or exhausted friends.

He smiled again at the memories, both new and old, as he finished preparing his breakfast, still humming to himself. He had just arranged it on the table and was about to settle down to eat when the sound of a soft but merry chuckle interrupted. “I have heard it said by some of my people that the Elves wrote that particular tune with the express intent of designing a melody one simply cannot get out of one's mind. Legend has it that the composer was quite dismayed when he found that my people have no trouble at all dismissing it, and only his own folk were bothered in that fashion — so much so that they supposedly forbad him to write any new tunes for at least another Age. I have no notion if the tale is at all true, but it would seem that the song had its reputed effect on you. And good morning, Frodo, I trust you slept well.”

“Yes, very well, thank you,” the hobbit answered politely after recovering from his initial moment of surprise. Olórin was standing in the open arch between the kitchen and the central hall, hands busily plaiting a portion of his damp pale hair above and behind his right ear, as he had already done to the other side, to keep it back and out of his face. His garb was much like that of the previous evening, a plain robe of unadorned white homespun that fell half a foot short of his ankles, with a narrow gray belt and light shoes of matching hue. “And good morning to you, too. I must have been more distracted than I thought. I didn't hear any sound of water in the bathing room, and when I've used it, it seemed to echo rather noticeably.”

“You heard no noise from the room because I did not use it,” the Maia admitted. “You were already there when I woke, and the fall of the stream in the back is adequate for such things, if somewhat cool. A benefit this morning, to be truthful, since I was up somewhat longer than I had initially planned.”

As he took his seat at the table, Frodo glanced back at Olórin to study him more closely, and frowned at what he saw. Though weariness did not show on the Ainur in the same ways as it did on mortals, an odd translucence to his skin and a strange dullness to his ordinarily bright eyes betrayed him. “You said that you would rest after the guests had gone,” he reminded the wizard. “Surely you didn't deliberately delay them to avoid keeping your promise. I heard you admit more than once that you still need rest to recover from all you endured during these last two thousand years.”

“I did, and I still do admit it. I did not delay them, though a few seemed inclined to tarry for a bit. And I did intend to rest, but once I was alone, I found that I couldn't. I did not want to take any risk that you would suddenly waken to pain and terrible nightmares, so....” He shrugged, clearly chagrined.

Frodo was appalled. “You stayed awake until dawn? Olórin...!”

The Maia waved his hands to ward off the protest, finished dealing with his hair. “I know, I know, I did make a promise — and I also did mean to keep it, but I simply couldn't. I tried, but rest of any kind refused to come until I was absolutely certain any danger to you was passed. I was not wounded as you were, Frodo; my need for recovery is truly no more serious than you might require if you had had a great deal of very hard work to do with little or no chance to sleep and regain your strength. I did not consider one night of delaying my own healing too great a price to pay to make certain yours could progress and not be set back by the lingering poisons from the Enemy's blade. I am sorry if you feel I have violated your trust in me, but once the dawn had broken, I assure you I went straight into the deepest sleep possible. I do not enjoy reneging on any promise I make, however casual, but I would have felt far more guilty of betrayal had I fallen asleep and you suffered unpleasant consequences because of it.”

The hobbit considered what he had been told, weighing it against the honesty he could hear in Olórin's voice and see in his face; he relented with a nod. “I do understand, I would likely have done the same, in your position. When one is worried and cannot sleep, there isn't much to be done for it but wait until the worry passes and sleep comes. Will you at least try to rest later? Ványalos plans to visit.103 this afternoon to learn about hobbit customs of food and drink, and I daresay you can't be very interested in hearing or watching something you've seen and heard uncounted times before.”

Olórin laughed gently, fetching a second cup to share a bit of the tea Frodo had brewed, though he politely refused the offered meal. “Quite true,” he confessed as he settled into the chair opposite Frodo's. “My plans for the day are not overly strenuous, I assure you. I intend to check on Shadowfax to see how he is faring. He has spent his time since our arrival in the Great Meadow west of this part of the hill country, where other horses make their homes. The grass and water are sweet there, and there is plenty of open country for them to roam without straying too far from the homes of the friends who are their riders. Ványalos and some of the other messengers for the Valar have steeds there, and I'm sure Shadowfax will enjoy their company more than loitering about here in the woodland. But I would like him to know that I have not forgotten him! It is not far, and the walk will not tire me. After that, I plan to speak with Bilbo at Elrond's house in Tirion, to make arrangements for his visit, if he is willing to come. And from what Ványalos said before departing last night, there is a possibility Lord Irmo and Lady Estë may come to confer with you this evening.”

Frodo swallowed the piece of bread in his mouth before speaking, though his eyes widened before he could. “You plan to ride all the way to Tirion and back before this evening? Or were you intending to leave me to my own devices when the Lord and Lady visit?”

Olórin smiled over the rim of his cup. “They may indeed prefer that I do, but no, I had not. Riding from here to Tirion and back would take a full day, even at Shadowfax's best speed. There are ways in which I can speak with Bilbo without traveling so far on horseback. If my strength in general were greater, I would simply go there as my people do, but that, I fear, is not really wise for me, at the moment. One loses some strength each time one changes or sheds or adopts a fana, and for a time, I think I should remain as I am.”

The halfling suddenly made a connection he had failed to see before. “That's why the Valar did it for you the day we arrived, isn't it? Because they already knew you shouldn't?”

Olórin nodded. “I have little doubt. At times, they will do things for us out of kindness rather than order us or forbid us because they are aware of more than we ourselves are. I suspect that they deliberately chose to deal with me last of all our company because they were using skills of their own to assess my condition and determine what, if anything, needed to be done or not done in relinquishing the body I had been given and restoring me to my more typical form. And I am certain that is why Lord Manwë was so in favor of your desire to visit my home and stay here in Lórien for a time. After what we have been through together in recent years, he must have felt that you might be better able to persuade me to do things for my own good than my friends and neighbors of old.” He sighed, rather expansively. “I do fear that he was right.”

Frodo sniffed. “Not if last night is any indication. Sitting up until dawn....” He clicked his tongue and shook his head like a sententious old gaffer.

The Maia laughed. “And I accept your well-deserved rebuke, my dear hobbit! Ványalos told me he had chosen to continue to keep watch over you even after I had told him it was no longer necessary, to spare me the effort so I could rest more easily, but all the logic and common sense to the contrary could not stop me from worrying. Fortunately, unless you have been concealing your discomforts much more than you should, such a day should not come round again for several months, in which time the Lord and the Lady of Lórien will have undoubtedly found ways to at least begin more permanent healing for us both. And I will take the time to rest this afternoon, I give you my solemn word.” He grimaced. “I do not enjoy such feelings of weariness, especially now that I have been released from a kind of life that seemed unendingly wearisome.”

Frodo sighed. “I wish that my troubles could be so easily cured, but at least here, I have lost must of the sense of being weighted down and haunted by shadows that was forever troubling me in Middle-earth. Those feelings are still there, but sufficiently diminished so that I feel I can lead a reasonably normal life without too great an effort. Although I will be glad to eventually be rid of them, as much as is possible.”

“Completely, it is to be hoped. And should it turn out to be otherwise, you will ever have friends who will help you endure.”

“As you did yesterday,” the hobbit said quietly. “You and your friends. It astonishes me to think of how readily they accepted me.”

Olórin cocked one pale eyebrow, his smile wry. “And is that any less astonishing than how quickly you appear to have become accustomed to how I have changed?”

Frodo dismissed the difficulty of that effort with a gesture. “That was quite simple, actually, since you haven't really changed at all. You may look different and have a different name, but you're still the same friend I always knew, in all the ways that matter. Just as Aragorn was still the same friend I had come to trust after he was no longer Strider and was the king of Gondor. But your friends here had never before met me, and still they welcomed me and treated me as if I was just like you, a neighbor come home again.”

“Which they very much wanted you to be. So little that is new comes to these lands, the people are ready to greet it whenever it does, with generosity and open arms. If they offer friendship or food or help or anything at all, it is because they truly wish to. You have already begun to make good friends here, and Ványalos not the least of them. He agreed to help you yesterday out of friendship for me and curiosity about you, but it was for his your sake only that he continued to offer his aid. He can learn much about another person very quickly, and what he learned about you during your first conversation told him that he wished to number you among his friends. So have others decided; thus, you need not worry about confining yourself to this house if I am not able to guide you.”

“I had wondered if it would be better if I didn't wander about alone. This place is so much like the Shire, I feel as if I couldn't get lost if I tried, but I'm sure I would find out only too quickly how wrong that assumption is if I attempted to off alone. And I do want to have a chance to explore more of this place, without being a bother to you all the time.”

The Maia set down his empty cup. “You are never a bother, dear Frodo, of that you may rest assured. If you would like to begin your explorations sooner rather than later, you may come with me to the Meadow, if you wish.”

As the hobbit considered the offer, he glanced out the window to find the sun and estimate the time. It was clearly late morning, for the shadows were short and the light brilliant. He shook his head. “No, I'd better not. Ványalos said he'd be along after his appointment with Lord Irmo this morning, and he didn't expect to be long about it. After what he did for me yesterday, the least I can do is be here when he arrives. You won't mind if I don't come?”

“Not at all,” Olórin said, rising. “There will be time enough later, and while it might be entertaining for you to watch me attempt to chase after Shadowfax if he's in a playful mood, I would rather spare myself the public embarrassment!”

X

“I really don't understand what difference this would make,” Bilbo told Olórin some time later, after the Maia had seen to Shadowfax — who had, predictably, been doing quite well, and, also predictably, had been in a mood to play after his own fashion, being glad to see his master again. The Great Meadow was a peaceful place, and in a shady glen beside a stream that ran through a copse of rowans, Olórin had settled down to enjoy the quiet, the cool breeze, and take care of his business with Bilbo. Being unfamiliar with the house Celebrían had prepared for her husband and the rest of their household, he had gone to Elrond first, not physically, but in a kind of phantom state that his people were able send to a place where they wished to be, without the need to physically cross the distance, in any way. Saruman had done such a thing the night before Gandalf had rejoined Aragorn and the others in Fangorn Forest; the three companions had spotted the fallen wizard's ghostly self furtively moving through the battlefield where his orcs had been defeated by the Riders. Such a projection was capable of speech, though Saruman's had not spoken, and Olórin had felt this would be the best and most expedient way to communicate with Bilbo.

He had not, however, reckoned with the old hobbit's surprising reactions. Elrond had led him to Bilbo's rooms, which were very much like the quarters he had used in Rivendell. Celebrían had terribly missed her home in Middle-earth, and in her certainty that her husband would someday join her, coming to Aman in bittersweet victory, she had built a house on the eastern edge of Tirion as like to the mansion of Imladris as could be managed. Many of its windows faced the sea, as she looked out across it in hope to see each new dawn and wait patiently for Elrond's arrival. After escorting Olórin to Bilbo's chambers, Elrond had stayed to hear the Maia's explanation of what Lord Irmo had said about Frodo's condition, how it could best be examined and his healing begun if he remained in Lórien for a time, how the dream master felt Frodo would improve more quickly with his kinsman closer by, and how such a stay would also help Bilbo himself. Bilbo had listened politely, as had Elrond; the Elf had offered his opinion of the plan's merit, which he felt was good, then looked to Bilbo for his response.

The hobbit had cleared his throat, hedged for a minute, cleared his throat again, and then gave his startlingly negative reply. “If being around family or other hobbits or such is good for him, what difference does it make, here or there? I'm sure Elrond would be happy to find rooms for the lad....”

“I'm sure he would, too, but that is not the issue,” Olórin answered, puzzled by his old friend's apparent resistance to the notion. “Doubtless you have heard more than enough about what is actually troubling Frodo, and what caused it. Elrond certainly has told you that it is far beyond his skill to heal; those of my people who have such gifts live in the part of Aman called Lórien, where my home is. If you were back in the Shire and Frodo was sick, would you refuse to allow him to be taken to a healer and spend time there if that was the best place for him to be?”

“Of course I wouldn't! But in the Shire, the healers are not miles upon miles away, and more often than not, the healers recommend the sick person stay in their own home and sleep in their own bed. They come to their patients, not the other way around!”

Bilbo's agitation was as unexpected as it was obvious. Olórin and Elrond exchanged puzzled glances; the Elf shrugged, the Maia sighed. “Then would you have preferred if Frodo had not gone with me, after all?” the latter asked in as neutral a tone as any living creature could muster.

“No!” Bilbo insisted; one could fairly hear the air whistling through his hair, so vigorously did he shake his head. “I'm saying that I just don't... that is, I can't see... or rather, I don't think....”

His voice trailed away as he seemed to shrink under the two patient gazes fixed on him. He sighed, considerably more heavily than had Olórin. “Oh, I don't know what I'm saying, Gandalf, there's just been too much for an old hobbit like me to soak up properly, if you take my meaning. Like... why do you have to look so different, now? I'd long since gotten used to the way you always were back home, and I know things aren't the same for your people, you can choose whatever way you want to look — so why did you have to choose this?”

The Maia smiled faintly, amused by his friend's quandary, which he knew quite well to be a feint to hide what was actually causing his current ill temper. He prudently did not laugh when he answered. “Perhaps you don't recall, but I did not choose this fana. That was done by the Valar, and what they chose is the form in which they knew me best, for it has changed very little over the many thousands of years of our residence in Arda. But if it will make you more comfortable, at least for the moment....” In the blink of an eye, his already illusory appearance shifted to that which he had worn for many years before their recent arrival in Aman. It was all but instantaneous, and the suddenness of it made both the hobbit and the Elf start.

Bilbo nearly jumped out of his chair. “You might have given me a bit more warning than that!” he scolded. “Bless me, but my heart nearly stopped!”

Olórin acknowledged his reprimand. “I beg your pardon, I hadn't intended to give you a fright. But I cannot believe you would not wish to come to Lórien simply because I no longer look as you think I ought. I have never known you to be so concerned over something as meaningless as mere appearance.”

Bilbo looked away, uncomfortable under the piercing gaze so intently watching him, searching for some clue to explain this inexplicable behavior. “That isn't it at all,” the hobbit admitted, turning back to address the Maia more politely. “It's just — I know you've already refused any refreshment, but can't you at least sit down and stop towering over me? You used to be more polite about such things, you know.”

Olórin was not deceived by the abrupt change of topic, though he did his best to comply with the request. “You're deliberately trying to put me off, Bilbo,” the wizard said as he affected a semblance of sitting. “I've already explained that what you are seeing of me cannot eat or drink or touch anything physical, because it is only an illusion. I know perfectly well that you understand what that means, even if you haven't ever dealt with anyone in this fashion before. I can understand how you might be unsettled by it, and by the fact that my fana does not look very much at all as you have known me all your life. But you are making far too much of what both of us know are trivial matters, only to avoid giving me a direct and honest answer. I am not asking this of you due to some frivolous whim. It is the belief of the Valar who are most skilled and most powerful in all the arts of healing that Frodo should remain in Lórien until his recovery is well underway. The land itself has restorative virtue to it; simply being there for a time can renew and revive the strength of both body and spirit, even for the Ainur. Thus, your presence there would not only help Frodo, but would be of benefit to yourself as well. I would be happy to have you as my guests, as would any of the Elves and Maiar who make their homes there. Why do you not wish to come? Did Frodo offend you by asking to accompany me to Lórien rather than come here, with you? Have I somehow offended you?”

From his tone of voice, Olórin was genuinely perplexed by the hobbit's behavior; Bilbo turned away again to hide a sudden welling of shame. For some long moments, he looked out the window over the desk at which he was sitting in the very comfortable and beautifully appointed study that had been put at his disposal. Beyond it, he had a lovely view of the part of the city that spread out east of the watchtower, and beyond that the green country and white shores that led to the sea. “No,” he finally said very quietly, turning back to his guests. “You haven't offended me, nor has Frodo. I... well, if you must know the truth, I'm afraid. It's that simple.”

Even Elrond was taken aback by that admission. “Afraid?” he echoed, incredulous. “What is there to be afraid of here in Aman, Bilbo? You have faced ravenous trolls, terrible giants, the terrors and hideous spiders of darkest Mirkwood, blood-thirsty orcs, angry Dwarves, and even a dragon! What could possibly be left for you to fear?”

The hobbit's voice was small. “Death,” he said.

Both Elrond and Olórin were silent for a time; the Maia spoke first, gently. “While it is true that the Undying Lands cannot take the Gift of Ilúvatar from a mortal, you will not die until you are ready to surrender life, Bilbo. Have you not already felt the power of this land giving you strength to sustain you? I have not seen you this awake and alive in many a year....”

“Yes, that's true, I do feel much better, and I am aware that just being here can't prevent us mortals from dying. I know that. But....”

He was quiet again for several moments, then made a remarkably frustrated sound. “I read and learned a great deal about ancient history while I was in Rivendell, and there were two things that seemed quite perfectly clear: when the Noldor rebels were allowed to come back to Aman after their exile in Middle-earth, they were only allowed to come as far as Tol Eressëa, not back to Valinor itself. And mortals were forbidden to set foot in the lands of the immortals; if they did, they would be struck dead where they stood. They made an exception for Eärendil because his coming fulfilled his destiny, but why should they make an exception for me? Oh, I'm willing to allow that I've been permitted to live here in Tirion because I've been living in Elrond's house for years and he isn't a Noldorin Elf -- not entirely, anyway, and he was born in Middle-earth long after the Revolt took place. And this is a part of Eldamar, Elven Home, not Valinor proper. And I can understand why they would make an exception for Frodo after all he did to help destroy the Ring and end that terrible war, and for Elrond as well. But why should the Valar be willing to make an exception for me?”

As he listened to Bilbo rattle on, clearly agitated, Olórin tried to restrain himself from smiling, but could not. When the halfling asked his question, the Maia answered with bright laughter, which won him the blackest scowl he had ever seen on his old friend's face. “I was not making a jest, Gandalf,” he grumbled testily. “I meant every word I said!”

“I know you did,” Olórin said, doing his best to rein his amusement. “And I know you were quite serious. But answer me this, Bilbo: Why should they not make an exception for you?”

“Because I didn't do anything to earn it!” came the exasperated reply, accompanied by a broad gesture that sent several papers skittering from the desk like leaves in autumn. “You know precisely what I contributed to that beastly War, which was all but nothing! Oh, yes, I know the Valar said what I did was important — important enough to warrant allowing me to come here and live in my little rooms in Elrond's house, but important enough to be given the freedom to roam the whole countryside when even some of the greatest of the Elves haven't been permitted that? You will have to forgive me if I find it difficult to believe that's so!”

Both Olórin and Elrond saw his error in the same moment. This time, Elrond spoke first. “You believe the Noldor are still confined to Tol Eressëa?”

The hobbit snorted. “Well, aren't they? I haven't heard anything to the contrary....”

“And apparently you haven't seen it, either,” Olórin remarked, still smiling. “Celebrían, who is of the Noldor through her mother, lives here in Tirion, and has since she arrived in Aman. Galadriel's father's kin live here as well, while her mother's reside in Alqualondë, farther up the coast. Glorfindel also has high standing among the Noldor, and he lives perhaps a mile or so, as you measure it, from my own home in Lórien, along with a group of Elves from all the Kindreds here in the Blessed Realm. He and the parcels he was asked to carry arrived safely early this morning, shortly before dawn,” the Maia added as an aside to Elrond, who had received a message concerning Frodo's belongings before Glorfindel had departed for Lórien to rejoin the friends and family with whom he had lived of old.

Elrond nodded sagely, having hidden his own amusement at Bilbo's quandary. “Ah, good, I was wondering if he had yet arrived. The horses that were put at his disposal looked to be fine beasts, but not of Shadowfax's ability. He thought he might arrive by morning, and it would seem he is a better judge of how long it takes to travel between one place and another in this land.”

From the way Bilbo's face was reddening, he was being sorely torn between anger at what appeared to be teasing and chagrin. The wizard relented. “It was the Valar who placed these restrictions upon both the Noldor and mortals, Bilbo,” he explained gently, “not a decree from Eru Ilúvatar. This is their land, their home; they are its governors, and they the have the right to forbid or permit entry to whomsoever they choose. When they called upon Lord Eru to intervene after Sauron convinced the last king of Númenor that by conquering the Undying Lands, he could gain immortality for himself and his people, Ar-Pharazôn and his army perished because they had broken many laws in making that attempt, and had rejected not just the authority of the Valar, but that of Eru Himself. What happened was terrible, but they earned the punishment they received, as did, to a lesser extent, the Noldor who defied the Valar and slew their own kin.

“But all of those things happened long, long ago, and in that much time, even the minds of the most obstinate people can change. The Valar could feel the sadness and sorrow of the exiled Noldor who were not permitted beyond the Lonely Isle, and eventually, they were moved by it to compassion. They lifted the ban completely, so that those who had been sundered from kin who had not participated in the rebellion or who had been forgiven their crimes could be reunited in the lands they had all once known so well. And as for the injunction against mortals setting foot on Valinor, that became a moot point after Aman was removed beyond the reach of any who might think to assail it. No ship can come here without the knowledge and approval of the Valar, and all who come are welcome — in full, Bilbo, not just to a few rooms in one house in a single city. If you truly fear to travel farther into the lands of Aman, then you need not do so, but I promise you, you will not be struck dead if you go. I have not exaggerated when I said that it would be best for Frodo if he remains in Lórien for a time, and he very much would like to share with you all that he has already found there. If that is not enough to persuade you to come, the others who dwell there would also be delighted to have you, for they have been hearing tales of you and your exploits ever since the first ship sailed West after the Battle of the Five Armies. They would like to know in person the brave little adventurer of whom they have only heard in song.”

Bilbo perked up visibly at those words. “They've written songs about me? Here? What kind of songs?”

“Oh, many kinds,” the wizard said distractedly, having counted on Bilbo's curiosity about such things to pique his interest. “I cannot repeat them for you; I was not here when they were written, and I have not had time enough to hear and learn them all. If you want to know more, you should ask those who wrote them.”

“Which means traveling all the way to Lórien.” The hobbit sighed, his spirits deflating. He toyed with a reed pen on his desktop, rolling it back and forth for a bit while he considered all he had been told. “It's not that I don't want to go, Gandalf,” he said at last, honestly, “especially if it would do Frodo good, and me as well. But I'm still not as spry as I once was, and the journey from Middle-earth was long. I've only had a day or so to start settling in here, and if I'm to stay in Lórien for more than a week or two, it's going to take a lot of fuss and bother and more tiring travel to get there. Are you sure there is no other way?”

Olórin sighed sympathetically. “For you, I am afraid not. You cannot shed your physical reality and cross great distances with a thought, as my people can. But Lord Irmo did not say that you must come as quickly as possible, and Frodo certainly would understand if you wished to make the journey at whatever pace is comfortable for you.”

“And I have not heard that you must make that journey alone,” Elrond added. An idea had grown in his thoughts as he listened to the others talk. Bilbo looked to him, his expression one of mingled hope and puzzlement. The Elf explained. “When Celebrían first came to Aman seeking relief and healing from the harm she had taken at the hands of the orcs, she was given the best of care, and that can be found with the Lord and Lady of Lórien. She spent a very long time there, and she came to love that land dearly. I would like to see this place and its people with my own eyes, to offer my thanks to any who helped my wife in her time of need, and Celebrían has mentioned that she would very much like to go with me, to visit old friends and places she has long come to love. If you wish, Bilbo, we could travel together, in whatever way you please. There is but one pass through the great mountains, so we cannot avail ourselves of sail by ship or boat, but there are other ways that would be less tiring for all of us, if not as swift. If you do not object to my wife and I as traveling companions, that is.”

“Object!” the hobbit exclaimed, his face brightening. “Gracious, no, Elrond! I could hope for no better company, but I hadn't dared to think it possible! Are you certain Lady Celebrían will agree to this?”

Elrond chuckled, his gray eyes glinting with his humor. “Quite certain. When she introduced me to the Lord and Lady at the welcoming feast, she mentioned how she hoped we could visit Lórien soon. I am as eager to see it as she is to show it to me, and if our journey can be fortunately combined with your own, so much the better. I know she does not intend for us to remain there indefinitely, and if you should find the place not to your liking, you can return here with us. So in no case must you choose to stay there permanently.”

“An excellent plan,” Olórin approved. “Well, Bilbo, now the decision rests with you. Shall I tell Frodo that you will be paying him a visit soon, or must I find a way to break the news that his cousin does not wish to see him?”

Bilbo wrinkled his nose at the wizard. “That has never been the case, and you know it well, Gandalf. But I take the point. It's bad enough that the poor lad has had to suffer at all just because he tried to help Middle-earth avoid disaster. If he can brave the fires of Mount Doom and all those leagues between the Shire and the Land of Shadow, I can brave venturing a little farther into the Blessed Realm. Never let it be said that a Baggins refused to face up to a challenge! It might do me some good after all.”

“It might indeed.” As Olórin's illusory self rose from the chair, it changed back to the appearance of his current fana.

Bilbo stifled a small sound of surprise under a cough. “If you insist on doing things like that, you might at least have the decency to give me a moment's warning!” he chided.

The Maia's half-smile was faint. “I shall try in the future,” Olórin said placidly, “so long as you try to become accustomed with the fact that even though I care little about my appearance, this is how people here have grown used to seeing me, for far more years than I lived in Middle-earth.”

“Oh, very well, I shan't insist on having everything my own way,” Bilbo replied affably. “You can go tell Frodo and anyone else who enquired that I shall be along in a few days, or however long it takes Elrond and Lady Celebrían to escort a doddering old hobbit across however many miles lie between here and Lórien. And tell Frodo not to make a fuss!”

“I most certainly will not!” the wizard said with a gentle laugh. “I and others are counting on the anticipation of your visit to provide Frodo with enough distractions so that for once in far too long a time, he can take the proper hobbitish joy in preparing to receive and entertain friends and family. He had little opportunity to do so once he returned to the Shire, with all that needed to be done to put things in order again, and then knowing that Sam and his other friends were forever worrying about him and fretting over their inability to provide the help Frodo truly needed. I and others in Lórien are concerned for his well-being, but we are able to help him find some relief while he is being healed. That will speed his recovery greatly, I should think, as will your visit, however long that might be.” Mischief glittered through the blue eyes like dappled sunlight over the ripples of a clear stream. “I suspect you'll find Lórien more to your liking than you may be anticipating, Bilbo. Has anyone told you of it?”

The hobbit shrugged. “Lady Celebrían and Lady Galadriel said some things about it when we were traveling back to Tirion, after you and Frodo had left the feast in Valimar. They said the Golden Wood that used to be their home in Middle-earth was similar to it, though not nearly as large and beautiful. Having never seen Lothlórien, I'm not certain I have a very good notion of what that might be like. The largest forest I ever knew was Mirkwood, and beautiful is the last word I would ever use to describe it!”

“Yet even Mirkwood was once a place of beauty, before Sauron and his creatures darkened it. Lórien is not like that at all, I assure you, but I think it would be best to allow you to make your own judgements of it after you have seen it, and not spoil the anticipation with an inadequate attempt to describe it.”

Elrond spoke, thoughtfully. “Before he left, Glorfindel told me that given ordinary horses and no need for haste, the journey between Tirion and Lórien takes two days, with pauses for rest. Given Bilbo's desire for comfort, we will doubtless move more gently and pause more often. And it will take time to prepare before departure.”

“Then I will tell Frodo not to expect you for at least five days, possibly a week, depending on how much Bilbo dawdles in making ready,” Olórin said with a sly glance at the old hobbit, remembering the first time he had set out on a journey beyond the bounds of the Shire.

Bilbo was thinking of it, too, and laughed. “If dawdling means being visited by you in this ghostly manner to nag at me, I promise I will make ready in all haste! But I suppose you're right, Gandalf, this will be good for me. Forgive an old hobbit for being so stubborn. I set out on an adventure once when I knew there would be a dragon at its end; even the worst of fears should not have made me think even for a moment of anything but Frodo's welfare. Tell him I'll come, of course, and please don't mention I said anything to the contrary.”

“Since it would only upset him and the whole purpose of bringing the two of you to Aman was to help you find peace and healing, I won't breathe a word of it.” And with that promise and a gracious word of farewell, the Maia departed.

**********

Back in the shady glen where he had been sitting while he sent out his illusory self to converse with those in Tirion, Olórin remained seated on the thick grasses, his eyes closed while he concentrated on refocusing himself fully within his fana. It was much more difficult than he remembered it should be, yet another manifestation of his current weakened state. He had not anticipated Bilbo's initial unfavorable reactions, and such emotional stress always took its own toll in the energy expended to resolve the situation. Perhaps he should have made things easier on himself by mentioning the hill country's coincidental similarity to the Shire; but Frodo had wanted to surprise the old hobbit, so he had chosen to hold his peace on the matter unless there had been no other way to persuade Bilbo to come. He was glad that Bilbo had agreed and would help look after Frodo as much as he was able, but he was even more relieved that Ványalos had taken such an immediate liking to the younger hobbit, and was more than willing to offer what assistance he could. The Istar was beginning to doubt whether or not he himself would be able to contribute as much to Frodo's recovery as Lord Irmo had planned, for he did not know if he yet had the strength to do it. Yesterday's efforts had clearly depleted him far more than anticipated; speaking with Bilbo and Elrond had drained still more.

Worst of all, he did not understand why. Although he had not spent as much time in Middle-earth during the years of the struggle against Melkor, Olórin knew for a fact that what he had done then had required far more energy and strength than the two millennia in which he had lived there as a human. Yet now, he found himself noticeably weakened from the effort of doing something that should not have troubled him at all. Even regaining his focus was not as simple a task as it would have been only yesterday, and this apparent deterioration disturbed him. A cold fear was gathering deep inside him, a possibility he was afraid to acknowledge but unable to deny:

What if the Valar had fashioned his fana for him not merely to spare him the effort, but because they already had known that he would not be able to do so himself?

He had only been here two days, and already he could see distressing evidence to support this notion. The little things he had done in expending power had caused him noticeable, if not yet severe, weariness. Lord Irmo had insisted on coming to visit Olórin to discuss Frodo's condition when in the past, he had relied on the Maia's memories and powers of observation to bring him such information. Ványalos, one of Irmo's more trusted servants, had been exceptionally helpful and attentive — perhaps no more so than might be attributed to someone glad to see a long-absent friend, but perhaps for more profound reasons as well. During both the festival in Valmar and the welcoming meal last night, none of his people had allowed Olórin to expend even the slightest bit of real effort. Their repeated remarks that he was in need of rest had seemed to be light-hearted banter and teasing, but in reflection, he could not help but wonder if there was much more to it than that. Even the beautiful house with which he had been gifted was no longer so seemingly innocent. It had been provided with facilities for guests who lived their lives bound to flesh, who needed food and rest beyond restorative meditation — yet a part of those things had clearly been designed and meant for him. Certainly, he had long since come to understand and appreciate the unique properties and benefits of sleep, as Estë did, but was this an acknowledgment of his appreciation or an understanding that he would require it as the Eruhíni did, once he returned home?

His darkening thoughts were interrupted by a gentle nudge on his right shoulder. Olórin looked up at Shadowfax, marveling anew at the great creature's intelligence, then chuckled wanly as he sighed. “You have a perfect fool for a master, Shadowfax,” he said as he reached up to stroke the smooth soft nose that had so effectively garnered his attention. “I brought Frodo across unchartable seas because I was worried for his welfare and wanted to see him whole again, and here I sit, fretting about myself instead! Given all the talk I've heard down the years about the uniqueness of my imagination, I should know well enough that applying too much of it to the wrong subjects will create phantom dangers where none exist. If I would only listen to what all my friends have been saying and stop attempting to read between their words, I would be far better off. Perhaps Ványalos was right after all, and all those years in Middle-earth have made me overly suspicious. I should just go home, rest, and let the power of this land restore me as well as it is plainly restoring Frodo. What do you think?”

The horse tossed his head in what was clearly a nod of agreement. The Maia laughed. “See, even you have more sense than I! Very well, then, I shall go back to my house, let Frodo and Ványalos fuss over how much longer I was gone than I had said I would be, and start trying to follow all the advice I have been given about my own need to heal.” Gracefully, he rose to his feet...

...and just as gracefully sagged back against the gray horse, suddenly overcome with weariness. It was not a strange feeling to Olórin — he had felt it often during the last two thousand years — but it was one he had expected he would never feel again, now that he was shed of his mortal body. He attempted to remain on his feet, but the exhaustion would not allow it. Instead, he sank back onto the thick grass, struggling to push down a rising fear. Shadowfax nuzzled his neck, concerned. “I'll be all right, my friend,” the wizard said with as much assurance as he could muster. “But I think perhaps it would be best if I rested here for a little while before returning home.”

So saying, he lay back on the grass and at once fell so deeply asleep, Shadowfax had to bend close to tell if he was still alive, if such could be discerned with the assumed forms of the Ainur. As near as could be told, he was not dead, but he remained utterly still.

The great silver horse stood watch as the sun crossed high overhead; when it began to sink into the West and still his master did not stir, he nudged Olórin gently. When he received no response, he nudged him again, more firmly, and repeated the motion with increasing urgency until the Maia answered with an incoherent mumble and the slightest of movements. Shadowfax waited a few minutes more to see if he would waken fully. He did not, and seemed, in fact, to fall back into a sleep even deeper than before. The horse then did the only thing he could under the circumstances: he left the glen and sped off across the meadow more swiftly than the wind, in search of help.

XI

Ványalos had arrived just as Olórin was leaving to head for the Great Meadow. He had seen Shadowfax in the Máhanaxar and knew that he was now with the local horses who made their homes in the open grassland. Since the Istar was not planning any journeys that day, Ványalos bid him a pleasant walk to the meadow, and settled down to his business with Frodo.

Much of what they did was talk, about hobbits in general and of their various customs and practices and habits and preferences, which were many and remarkably varied, to the red-haired Maia's point of view. He in turn answered some of Frodo's questions about other local customs, not merely about food, its preparation and its acquisition, but other mundane matters, such as the cleaning of clothing and how they managed the remarkable miracle of bringing water — heated water in particular — directly into the house. Frodo was fascinated by the explanation of how certain springs naturally produced hot water rather than cold, and how Aulë and some of his more clever people had long ago devised methods to deliver it wherever they wished, largely for the convenience of the Elves, but also to build some of the magnificent fountains Frodo had seen not only in Lórien, but also in Valmar and Tirion. And Ványalos for his part was equally astonished by Frodo's descriptions of such things as hobbit birthday traditions, and particularly the complex schedule of meals that was a part of everyday hobbit life, seemingly vastly out of proportion to their diminutive size. In matters of actual preferences, there were a remarkable number of similarities between the tastes of residents of Aman and Endorë, although Frodo had already noted that meat was not a staple of the diet here.

The Maia explained that difference while they cleaned up the mess they had made of the kitchen so that Frodo could show his guest how the Bagginses made one of his favorite simple tea breads, using dried fruits and honey, a variety he had not seen thus far among local victuals. “When one can communicate with the lesser creatures,” Ványalos told him as he brushed the crumbs of their snack off the table at which they had eaten and the sideboard where they had made preparations, “one finds it quite difficult to take their lives for food. Not all our people are as skilled in such speech as others, but since we eat for pleasure and not out of necessity, we have generally avoided such things.”

Frodo considered that notion as he washed out the bowls and utensils that had been used in the cooking. He shivered. “No, I suppose it would be like killing a friend to eat them. I never could do such things for myself, and every now and again, I'd think about it while eating and lose my appetite. Bilbo said it was because I had too vivid an imagination, and I suppose he was right. But I don't think I'll miss it terribly; I certainly haven't thus far. But if what you say is true, I'm a bit confused. I certainly recall seeing Olórin eat meat from time to time when he was living as Gandalf in Middle-earth, although I don't believe he ever ate very much of it. If he feels the way you do — and I would imagine he does, given how I know for a fact that he understands quite a bit about the speech of many different animals, and did even when he lived among us — why would he do that?”

Ványalos shrugged. “Most likely because he was sent in the body of a living Man of flesh and blood, and though the notion may seem somewhat repugnant to us who do not need such things to sustain us, Lord Eru fashioned Men to require certain things to live. I am not sure, as I am not familiar with that portion of His thought, but I have suspected, at times, that He did not necessarily mean for them to be most easily obtained through the consumption of meat, but that it was a manifestation of Melkor's taint upon Arda that distorted and perverted the olvar and kelvar of Middle-earth so that it would become necessary for the Second-born to kill in order to live and thrive properly. The Eldar awoke during a time when Melkor's poisons had not spread so widely, so they were spared much of this. But it was decided that since the coming Age was to begin the ascendancy of Men, the Istari should be sent in that form, not as Elves, for the results of their work would most profoundly influence the world of mortals, not immortals. Their bodies were real, and thus so were their needs.”

He chuckled wryly as he tossed the crumbs out a nearby window for the birds to feast upon. “I can well imagine the quandary this must have caused for some of them, especially Aiwendil and Alatar! Of the Istari, they were ever the closest to the lesser creatures of the world, and discovering such a craving in their new forms, however mild it might be, must have come as a dreadful shock to them. Olórin doubtless was also disturbed by these conflicting urges, the needs of the mortal shell at odds with feelings that have so long been in his heart, he could not have entirely forgotten them, no matter how dimmed and confused his memories may have been.”

“That would explain a great deal,” Frodo said after reflecting on what the Maia had said and upon his own memories. “I suppose then that he simply accepted what food was offered to him out of politeness, or because he was hungry and had no other choice. He did tell me that unlike here, eating was not a choice for him and the other wizards in Middle-earth; it was as much a necessity for them as it was for us.”

Ványalos confirmed it. “And if your people took such great delight in the necessity that you devised as many different ways of fulfilling it as you've described to me, I believe I can understand why he would have sought out your land, above and beyond its resemblance to this part of fair Lórien.” He picked up the remains of the slice of bread he had been eating earlier, and held it up to study it as one might a work of fine art. “It's remarkable how you can take simple ingredients such as flour and milk and fruit and honey, and make something quite delectable of it. The Elves have wonderful foods of their own, and they are delicious and satisfying in their own ways, but I think there is a greater... earthiness, if you will, to those of your folk, if this is any sample.”

“Is that good or bad?” Frodo wondered.

“Oh, good, most definitely,” he was assured. “If naught else, it offers whole new areas of edible wonders to be explored and enjoyed. Even here in Aman, variety is appreciated — especially here, where change is very slow and all too infrequent.”

“It doesn't seem at all that way to me,” Frodo said as he removed the cleaned dishes from the sink and watched the small ripples on the surface of the remarkably warm water still inside the basin. “I feel as if so many things have changed in little more than the blink of an eye. Not just the way Olórin changed, but other things. Bilbo, for one. The last time I saw him in Rivendell, he spent most of his time sleeping, and he was much the same on the ride from the Shire to the Havens. It was the same for the first few days aboard the ship, then he suddenly seemed to wake up, as if he'd done enough sleeping and was ready to start doing things again. And after we arrived, he was much more the way I'd known him before he left the Shire.”

He looked up at the Maia, who had taken up the task of drying the just-washed items. “I wasn't really quite sure what to expect when we finally reached Aman. I knew that the others felt I would be able to find healing and rest that I couldn't in Middle-earth, but I hadn't thought I would begin to find it so quickly! Is it just the power of this place, or is there more to it, as you and Olórin deliberately helped me yesterday so I would not feel the horrible pain of my old wounds?”

“Some of both,” Ványalos said quite honestly. “The aid you need is more abundantly found here in Lórien, because of the presence of its Lord and Lady, and they are lending you support to help you prepare for your healing, much as Olórin and I did. Do not worry that they are suffering for your sake; such succor is a part of what they are and a portion of their purpose in this world. Olórin will doubtless continue to watch after you because of his affection for you, though I intend to make certain he does not neglect his own needs for recovery. And your own desire to be healed is helping you as well.”

The hobbit's dark eyes widened. “Really? I hadn't thought that possible, not after the last two years. I wanted to recover very badly, but nothing seemed to help.”

Ványalos smiled, sadly. “Another manifestation of Melkor's taint upon Endorë, I fear. All life there decays and fades, and even the strongest of spirits can be wounded too deeply for any cure to avail it. Aman is the only remnant of Arda unmarred by his evil, and here, the power and vigor of our hearts and our minds can work seeming miracles. Lord Irmo and Lady Estë are not familiar with the unique ways and frailties of mortal bodies and spirits, which is why they wish to speak with you before deciding upon which course of healing to take, and it is hoped that Olórin will be able to help them reach a better understanding more quickly, for of all our people who remain here in Aman, only he has actually lived as a mortal. Even Melian has no knowledge of this, for she took the form of an Elf to wed Elwë, and it was of her own choosing and making, not given to her by Lord Eru, as were the Istari's.”

“But Olórin was never mortal,” Frodo felt constrained to point out as he stepped back to the table to collect the plates and cups and other things they had used in sharing their snack. “No mortal has ever lived for two thousand years, and not changed appreciably in all that time.”

“Perhaps not, but still, it was a very different life than any of our kind have ever lived. We comprehend the ways in which your bodies function, and why they require certain things, such as food and sleep, but knowing it and actually experiencing it as you do, as the necessities of life, are wholly separate things. I know that you must eat things which provide you with sustenance, that you must drink water, breathe air, sleep, give work to your limbs and muscles to keep them fit — but I truly have not the slightest idea of how doing these things would make my life any different than if I did not do them. We do not grow sick, our fanar are not easily brought to any harm, we do not hunger or thirst or feel pain and exhaustion as you do, yet we desire very much to help you be healed of the hurts that were done to you. Who better to help us understand what you need to recover, and to help you understand what you yourself must do than someone who understands both our kind of life, and yours?”

“That's true. But I hardly feel as if I need healing, anymore. I suppose it's just the relief of knowing I didn't have to live through another horrible sixth of October, and finally being in a place where I don't have to worry about ruining other people's lives with my troubles. Although it does seem as if a good many people are putting themselves out for my sake....”

Ványalos laughed merrily. “Nonsense. If you listen to Lord Irmo and half of Lórien, I could do with being put out for the sake of others a bit more often, and in any case, it is why we came to Arda: to help it be shaped and grow and become the world of which we — and Lord Eru — sang. All of us, even the Valar, are here to serve, not only the will of Eru, but His children for whom the world was made. You are not a bother to any of us, Frodo. Your coming here has given us a purpose, and one, perhaps, that we can fulfill without making mistakes in our haste to do good.”

Frodo rinsed the last of the dishes just as Ványalos finished his task with the others; he paused to give the Maia a puzzled glance. “What do you mean?”

Ványalos began to explain, but was interrupted by noises from the clearing outside, the pounding of horse hoofs approaching at a dauntless pace. As that rolling thunder slowed, it was followed by a neigh that fairly shook the rafters of the kitchen. Ványalos smiled crookedly. “It sounds as if Olórin has finally returned, and that his desire for haste was not entirely appreciated.”

“Or perhaps the need to stop so soon,” Frodo speculated, amused. “I have only ridden on Shadowfax once, but it seems to me that he was born to run far and fast, and is a little disappointed when the journey is over.”

“I should like to meet this fine creature,” Ványalos said, putting away the last of the dishes as he finished drying it. “As I was serving in the Máhanaxar during the festival, I did not have the opportunity to more than glimpse him before other duties called me away, then and for the remainder of the day. Perhaps if we move swiftly, we may have a chance to do so before Olórin dismisses him and he goes off running again.”

Shadowfax, however, had not departed by the time they joined him in the clearing before the house; both hobbit and Maia were surprised to see that he was alone. Frodo was perplexed, Ványalos amused. “So, did you challenge your master to a race and arrive as the victor?” he asked the great gray horse, half-laughing. Shadowfax was restless, and when he answered with what could only be a shake of his great head, the smile faded from the Maia's face.

Frodo saw the motion as well, and knew it for the reply it was. “He understands what you say,” the halfling explained, “much more than any other horse or pony I have ever known. I was told this is one of the things that set the Mearas apart from others of their kind. Did Olórin send you, Shadowfax?” he asked politely, trying to find the answer to this riddle.

Again, the horse shook his head, then, carefully, lowered it to Frodo's arm and ever so gently caught a bit of the fabric of his sleeve in his teeth and tugged.

Ványalos saw what the horse was attempting to communicate. “I am not as skilled in understanding the speech of beasts as he is in understanding ours, but I believe he wishes for you to come with him — or both of us,” he amended when the Meara made motions with his head to both indicate the Maia's correct interpretation, and to include him in the request.

“Then we should go,” Frodo said when Shadowfax bent to indicate that he would carry them. “Olórin must have asked if he would be willing to do this for us, for I have never seen him bear anyone unless they were riding with his master.”

Concern furrowed Ványalos' brow for moment, disappearing quickly before Frodo could notice it. “Then we will go, of course. Such a rare opportunity should not be denied!”

Shadowfax stood still while the tall Maia lifted Frodo onto his back, then nimbly leapt into position behind him, showing no concern for the lack of saddle or bridle. No command needed to be given once they were settled; Shadowfax knew when they were securely in place, and started off, keeping a gentle pace until they cleared the woodland and were in the open fields beyond. He then made a sound that was a warning to those he carried, and now free to move more quickly, he sprang forward with the speed of a storm gale. The wind of his passage carried away any words Frodo or Ványalos might have exchanged, but both marveled at his swiftness, the Maia because he had never before ridden such a steed, and the hobbit because he had never seen the great horse in such apparent need of haste.

He did not have much time to wonder at the cause of it, for they soon reached the Meadow and had crossed it, at last slowing when they approached a copse of trees through which a fast and clear stream wound its way, softly singing. Amid the deepening shadows under the trees and the green of the lush grasses along the banks of the water, Olórin's pale garments and hair gleamed like a pool of light spilled into darkness. But to Frodo's eyes, that light was dimmer than it should have been, and he lay perfectly still, unmoving even as Shadowfax came to halt nearby to let those he carried climb down.

A thousand thoughts flashed through Frodo's mind like the wings of many panicked birds struggling to break free of a cage. One hopeful notion, that Olórin had chosen to rest here rather than at home, bubbled up amid the chaos, but its rise was quickly suppressed when he saw the expression on Ványalos' face as the Maia helped him down. “What happened?” he asked simply, taking what small relief he could find in the fact that no blood appeared to stain his old friend's white clothing.

Ványalos sighed. “If I better understood the speech of horses, I might be able to tell you for certain, for I suspect only Shadowfax was witness to it, and came to us as the only help he knew how to find in a strange new land. But we shall find out soon enough.”

Once Frodo was firmly on his feet, the tall Maia turned quickly, the tail of his braided copper hair whipping about him with the sudden motion. Quickly, he moved to his neighbor's side and knelt beside him. He laid one long-fingered hand across the too-pale brow, studied him intently for some moments with all the senses he possessed; at length, he sighed. “Oh, pityandil, what have you done?”

Something in the tenor of his words sent a chill through Frodo's blood. “Is he hurt or sick?” he asked, his worry deepening into fear for his unconscious friend.

“Not as you would think of such things,” Ványalos replied after another moment of study. “But you have heard many of us tell him that he also is in need of rest and healing, and I fear he may have ignored our warnings, or did not understand how seriously we meant them to be taken, and thus pushed himself beyond the limits of his endurance.”

The halfling swallowed nervously. Over the years of his acquaintance with Gandalf, he had seen him exhausted and occasionally injured, but never so gravely. It disturbed him to see him like this now, after he had been freed of his bonds to a mortal existence. “Is there anything we can do?”

Ványalos considered the question before answering. “I can help him, for now,” he said at last, “but I suspect he needs more than I can give.”

Still watching the unresponsive Istar with concern, Ványalos leaned over him, took his head in his hands, and gently raised it from the bed of grass. Closing his own eyes, he bent forward until their foreheads touched. He said nothing, but held very still for at least a full minute. Neither of the Maiar moved, but as he watched them, Frodo could feel something moving around and between them, a heaviness in the air that felt and tasted like the approach of a summer storm — almost like the crackling skies over Mount Doom, but of a far more wholesome mein. The hobbit could not tell how many minutes had passed before at last, Olórin stirred, inhaling so deeply, his back arched and a gasp escaped his lips. When he released the breath again, his eyes blinked open as he struggled to focus on the world around him.

“Ványalos,” he said faintly as the tall Maia released him and sat straight again, settling back on his heels. “How long have I been here?”

The redhead smiled impishly. “Long enough for Shadowfax to come looking for us to bring you home. A fine beast, Olórin, with far more sense than you seem to have, at the moment.”

“So I have already noticed,” the wizard admitted, still softly. He glanced about and noticed both the horse and Frodo standing nearby, each showing concern in his own way. He frowned. “I must have been asleep much longer than I anticipated, for all of you to be so worried.”

“Not quite long enough for us to have noticed you were overdue,” the hobbit admitted, relieved to see his friend awake again, but still concerned. “What happened?”

Olórin attempted to sit up, an effort that required a bit of assistance to be successfully achieved. “Foolishness on my part, I suspect. I spoke with Elrond and Bilbo in Tirion, and it took considerably longer than I had expected.”

Ványalos favored him with a stern glance. “I trust you did not attempt to actually go to Tirion.”

The fairer head shook. “No,” came the reply as Olórin rubbed his eyes. “I had considered it, but I know I would not have the strength to do so quite yet. I had no notion even this would be so exhausting.” He let his hand fall to his lap; Frodo, shocked, saw that it was trembling. The wizard looked up at Ványalos, his expression saying clearly that he would brook no dissembling. “There is something more wrong with me than the weariness of many years' labor in Middle-earth, Ványalos, and do not deny it. I was not suspicious of it the day we arrived, but as time passes, I can feel it more and more strongly. And I have begun to realize that your eager helpfulness is something more than neighborly concern for an old friend. You have been asked to watch me, haven't you?”

“Yes,” Ványalos confirmed, then hastily added, “but I am no more certain of what is troubling you than you are, pityandil. Lord Irmo asked me to watch over both of you—“ His gesture included Frodo. “—but he was not forthcoming with his reasons for wanting such observations. I have my own suspicions, but I would prefer not to speak of them until I have seen proof to support them. I think it would be best if you discussed this with Lord Irmo himself, and not here. Do you feel strong enough to stay on the back of your horse if I help you mount, and Frodo rides with you to help you remain steady? I would come, but I would prefer to go on ahead and summon Lord Irmo.”

Olórin's smile was as pale as the rest of his face. “Shadowfax will not let me fall, whether I ride alone or not. But I will welcome any company. This weariness is troubling me more with each passing moment, and I fear what might happen if I am left alone.”

Ványalos answered honestly, his normally merry face dark with worry. “So do I. Come now, let me assist you.”

Frodo wondered if the taller Maia would simply pick up his friend and place him on Shadowfax's back, but he had the grace to allow Olórin some semblance of dignity, assisting him first to his feet and then helping him mount the horse, who had moved as close as possible to make the process less difficult for his master. The Istar was quite pale by the time he was settled, and when Ványalos placed Frodo in front of him, the hobbit could feel Olórin trembling from fatigue. He began to mention his concerns, but decided against it before he had more than taken the breath to speak. He could sense somehow that his condition was troubling Olórin far more than he was willing to admit, and he would not add to his friend's discomfort by voicing his own worries. He had relied upon the wizard for support often enough in the past, and he was determined to repay the debt by providing any help Olórin might need now, even if it was merely to give him something to cling to on their way back to the house. When they were both settled, Shadowfax took them out of the glen and across the wide Meadow with such smooth speed, Frodo felt as if they were flying.

XII

Frodo did not look back to see what had happened to Ványalos, but by the time Shadowfax delivered them to the porch of the house in the wood, he was waiting for them, in the company of three others, a man and two women. In his concern, Frodo merely noted their presence and not their identities until both he and Olórin had been aided in dismounting. One of the two women stepped forward to help the Istar into his house; the touch of her hand on his arm was enough to steady him more than whatever Ványalos had done to waken him.

Relieved to see his friend able to move normally again, Frodo took a moment to look more closely at the three guests. He recognized them as three of the Valar he had met on the day of their arrival, Irmo, Estë, and Nienna. He was surprised by the presence of the two women, as it was yet daylight and he had been told Estë typically slept by day, and that Nienna left her home in the far west of Aman only on occasions of great importance. That they had come so quickly in answer to whatever summons Ványalos had made told the hobbit a great deal about their feelings for this Maia who had been their counselor, pupil, and friend. Quietly, he followed, careful to stay out of the way, but also needing to know whatever they determined about this unexpected situation.

“I have told you all that happened, all that I did,” Olórin said somewhat testily a short time later, after he had been settled in a comfortable seat in the central hall and had recounted recent events for their visitors. Estë had asked Frodo to bring a cup, and had filled it with a clear fragrant liquid much like a beverage that had been served at the festival in Valmar, yet even more appealing and wholesome; she had then given it to Olórin to drink, and would not allow him to speak until he had drained the glass. He soon appeared less pallid than he had before, and the tremors were gone, though to Frodo's eyes, he still seemed somehow dimmed in ways the hobbit could not describe. “I am quite certain I did nothing so extraordinary as to cause this degree of exhaustion, yet I have no other explanation for it. When I woke, I was suspicious that something more unusual was at fault; now, seeing all three of you here on a moment's notice, I know it must be so. You will forgive my peevish temper, my ladies and my lord, but the last time I can recall being treated so... gingerly was many thousands of years ago, after the incident with Aránayel. You were not so solicitous when I returned after the conflicts with Melkor, nor when Lord Eru returned me here after I was slain by the Balrog. I cannot believe you came now simply because I fainted from weariness!”

“And then slept for much of the afternoon, so deeply you could not waken on your own,” Nienna said gently, her voice as ever full of compassion. “Your Shadowfax is as attentive as he is loyal; I learned enough from him to understand his concern, as well as that of your friends.”

The Istar snorted softly. “For which I am indeed grateful, my lady — yet none of this answers my question, which is: why is this happening to me? I have spent many years in Middle-earth before, if never so many at once, and the work I did then was as difficult as any I have done more recently. Yet on all those occasions, when I returned home, my strength was restored with the passage of time; it did not diminish, as would seem to be the case now. Something is amiss, and if you have any better a notion of what that might be, please do not continue to hide it from me, for I am the one being thus affected, and I would know the truth of what is wrong with me.”

Irmo glanced at Ványalos, who responded with an ambiguous gesture; after several long moments, his silver eyes slipped to his wife and sister. Some unspoken communication passed between all four of them, Frodo suspected, and at length, the Lady of Lórien sighed, her voice as soft as the breath of the night wind. “We would tell you that truth, Olórin, if we ourselves knew it for certain. Since the time when you were sent to us by Lord Eru after the death of your body in Endorë, Irmo has had misgivings about the mission of the Istari and your part in it. He has spoken of them to us, as he has to you, but it was not possible to gain a full measure of understanding until your tasks were completed and you returned to us, freed from the restrictions of that embassy. As you have kept watch over your small friend, so we have kept watch over both of you. Frodo and his kinsman have begun to find healing in the power of Aman, yet you who have long been a part of it have not. With each new use of your Maia abilities, you seem to slip farther into an abyss of weakness, from which rest can only partially restore you. This should not be so, and we are at a loss to understand what must be done to cure it.”

“I cannot enlighten you,” Olórin said after pondering Estë's words. “I know only that something is not right within me, and I cannot live as I lived before.” A shadow of fear darkened his face, though he did not let even a trace of it enter his voice. “Have I spent so many years tied to mortal flesh that I have indeed become mortal?”

“No,” Irmo said, his confidence in his answer absolute. “You know as well as any of us that only Lord Eru can cause such a change, altering the very nature of a being from one kind to another, and that He did not do when He agreed to fashion the bodies in which you and your brethren Istari were sent to Middle-earth, nor did He do so when he returned you after your fall. The bodies were those of Men, but your spirits remained Maia, and not even a hundred thousand years spent tied to them could change that. Yet such a union caused far-reaching results which none of us had anticipated. I fear we did a terrible wrong in how we chose to send you to Endorë, a mistake that may not allow you to fully regain the strength you knew before you were sent on this mission. As binding themselves to a single fana for so many centuries depleted the strength of Melkor and his minions, so being bound to a mortal shell may have done the same for those of your order, even though we had attempted to make certain our methods would prevent all of you from being permanently harmed by it. You were sent in forms untouched by evil, but as a cloth laid too long upon blood takes up its color and can never be wholly cleansed of it, so too in time did the poisons of Melkor which mar Endorë stain your mortal bodies and touch your spirits within them. You are still a Maia, but the ordinary means of healing available to us seemingly cannot correct the damage that such a life in flesh has done to you. Even freed of it, you no longer have the power you once knew, and as yet, we do not know how to restore it to you.”

“But why?” Frodo asked from the corner in which he had been sitting, unwilling to risk getting in the way of these great beings, but too horrified by what he was hearing to keep silent. “Why did you do this? If you knew that your people were weakened by living in the same body for too long, why did you send the wizards that way, in real ones? Didn't you stop to think that they might be hurt by it?”

Olórin would have spoken in the Valar's defense, but Nienna, who was standing nearest him, laid a hand on his shoulder to still him. “We did consider that very question,” she said gently, “especially those of us whose gifts lie in matters of hurt and healing, both of the body and the heart. We debated the matter among ourselves before we brought it to full council with our servants to seek volunteers, for they would be the ones who would go forth thus as our messengers. Manwë sought Lord Eru's counsel in this, for only He could fashion the bodies in which our emissaries were to be bound. He gave His sanction, and He told us such a method would imperil those we sent in this manner, but He did not warn us of this possibility, nor did we think of it until it was too late. Yet we should have foreseen it. Of all the peoples of Middle-earth, it is Men, who are bound most closely with its fate and yet have their own destiny beyond the world, who have borne the greatest burden of Melkor's taint in their flesh. They fall prey to illness and hunger and weariness much more quickly than the Eldar or even the Dwarves, and that poison touches their spirits even when their hearts are true and pure, bringing them great sorrow and frustration and even anger. As they are exposed to it throughout their lives, the evil settles within their flesh and their hearts like a shadow, either pulling them down into corruption, or weighing them heavily with the cares of the mortal world, until they can bear them no longer and thus take to themselves the blessing of the Gift of the One, to be freed of both the burden and the evils Melkor wrought in Arda.

“Do you not know this from your own experience, Frodo? Your people are not Men, yet you are indeed a part of the Second-born. It was those same poisons of the Enemy that lay upon the blade that pierced your shoulder, and now lingers in your body and spirit, causing you pain and grief far beyond the time when you were wounded. Our five servants who were sent to Middle-earth were among the most noble spirits of their kind, and their strength of will and mind and heart was great, as great as Sauron's, though they were forbidden to use all but the least of the powers that sprang of their Maia birth. We felt certain that their strength of spirit and their purity of purpose would be more than enough to protect them from the evils that haunt Men. But as the years passed and they remained bound to these human bodies, those same poisons crept into their flesh, for it was real and not feigned, and at length, evil reached into their very hearts.”

Frodo was appalled by what she seemed to be saying. “Olórin is not evil...!”

Nienna's sigh was full of compassion and deep regret. “I did not say this was so; well do we know he is not, and never shall be. You yourself are not evil, yet you bear its mark, and it steals from you the joy of life that should be yours. Thus it is for Olórin. Evil touched him deeply, for he was bound by his mission to confront it often, and lived constantly in its presence, as it lies deep in all the lands Melkor marred. It did not injure his body as it did yours, but it scarred his spirit, for he was often called upon to contend with the Enemy in such ways. As years of hard labor wear down mortal flesh, so too can long work of this kind weary and wound a spirit, and we are creatures of spirit. When he was severed from life in Endorë by the death of his body, Olórin came not to us, but went into the hands of Lord Eru, for he had given up his life as a sacrifice to save the only true hope remaining for Middle-earth. The One accepted him and blessed him, giving back to him his life and his strength, yet even so hallowed and enhanced, the scar of evil — not evil itself — remained upon his spirit, and in time, even he wearied of life in the mortal world and yearned to be freed of its cares and burdens.”

“So were all the Istari affected, Frodo,” Irmo said. “Some were not strong enough to resist, and fell utterly. Alatar and Pallando succumbed all too quickly, as they yearned for the power and reverence they had been forbidden to seek. It touched Aiwendil by corrupting his memory, causing his knowledge of his true origins to fade and decay until he strayed from his mission and any desire to return to his home and his former life. Curumo resisted at first, but then saw what had seduced Sauron and so many others long ago; he embraced the darkness and desired to become a Power within it. Only Olórin remained strong enough to keep true to his tasks and return to us. We knew the threats of evil and darkness that linger in Endorë, and we had thought that when our servants returned and were shed of those mortal shells, with them they would shed all the shadows that had tried to cling to them.”

“But always, it seems, we underestimate evil's reach,” said Estë. “As the Morgul knife left a mark upon you that will not heal, so too were our messengers wounded by many years of a life unceasingly exposed to the poisons of our Enemies. Such a scar upon their souls casts a shadow between them and the light of Eru, a harmful thing, for we Ainur are a part of His very thought, and our strength and power and life comes of Him. It is not without reason that those of our kind who defy Him eventually expend and weaken themselves until they are all but nothing; as they choose to remove themselves from His light, they remove themselves from the source of our very life. The shadow that now dims Olórin's strength comes of many wounds wrought by evil, and of his long mortal life in Endorë. As with your injury, his grows no worse, yet the shadow remains, and it hinders him from recovering fully, requiring him to expend himself without allowing him to regain in full measure what he loses each time he puts forth his strength. The diminishment has hastened now as it did not in Endorë, for here, he is no longer restrained from the full use of his abilities, and has indeed made significant use of them since his return, more than he had in Middle-earth since his return from death. This we did not anticipate, and there are no words to tell how greatly we rue our shortsightedness in all this matter, for Olórin has long been beloved of all the Valar, and it grieves us to see him harmed in any fashion.”

The wizard listened to their explanations, still and silent, showing no sign of how those words might be affecting him, but Frodo's horror was plain. “So you had no idea that this plan of yours would hurt them, but if you'd chosen some other way to send them — if you'd just trusted them to abide by your rules and restrictions and hadn't insisted on tying them into real human bodies — none of this would've happened. They wouldn't have had to deal with the weight of the tasks you set them and the problems all of us mortals face when we're confronted by evil, and they might've all carried out their work and come home safe and sound. But you didn't trust them enough to do it, and now Olórin is paying the price.”

Nienna closed her eyes, touched by the hobbit's indignation and loyalty. Estë looked away in sorrow; Irmo regarded the halfling, his gaze steady but sad. “I fear you are right,” he admitted regretfully. “We gambled with our servants' well-being in what amounted to an untested trial, and though the ultimate goal was achieved, the cost was too high. I can see your worry that Olórin will die, and though I can assure you he will not, I cannot tell you how or when or even if we will find a cure for what has happened to him. It is beyond our experience, and if no solution is found, he will very likely continue to fade and lose strength, to what end I do not know. None of our people whose spirits were scarred in this fashion ever returned to Valinor; they chose diminishment and exile over repentance. The power of Aman can preserve and sustain, but it would seem now that some works of evil are too great even for the might of all the Ainur to heal.”

Estë turned her face back toward the hobbit. “But do not lose hope, Frodo. I do not yet know how these matters will end, but I believe that your fate and Olórin's are bound together in this matter. It is the same evil that has touched and injured both of you, and if we can find healing for one, both of you will benefit from it.”

Frodo swallowed with some difficulty; his throat felt as dry as the ash of Mordor. “If ?” he echoed. “Is this something else you aren't sure about? Was the hope for healing I was offered nothing more than that, just a hope?”

“Hope can bring about more healing than you know, Frodo Baggins,” Nienna said, her voice soft but as unshakable as foundations of ancient stone. “It was naught but the thinnest thread of hope that carried you across all the miles between your home and the mountain of fire in Mordor, a thread that held only so long as neither you nor your companion surrendered your belief in the strength of pity. We can heal you of the physical injuries you have suffered, more thoroughly than any in Endorë were able. Whether or not your heart and spirit are able to heal as well and drive out the shadows within you is your decision alone.”

The hobbit winced at the Lady's tone, which reminded him of times when Gandalf had chided him over the same subjects. He suddenly could see very clearly from whom the wizard had learned such things. “I'm sorry if I sound ungrateful,” he said, hesitantly meeting Nienna's gray eyes, then glancing to her companions. “I'm not, but I am worried — more for Olórin than for myself, I think. I knew I was not well when I came here to Aman. I had no idea he was unwell, too.”

“None of us did for certain, until you came to us in the Máhanaxar, and we were able to judge for ourselves,” Irmo replied, his manner graciously accepting of the apology. “When he was here briefly after his fall in Moria, he kept himself apart from us while he waited to be told whether or not he would be permitted to return. I did speak with him one day, and even then I could sense that something was amiss, but I was not able to find the reason for my feelings before he departed again. We did what we could to help him, then, as we have since he was freed of his mortal form, but we had hoped there would be more time to study the problem and search for answers before matters turned serious.”

He turned to the Istar, who had been listening, impassive and silent. “Perhaps if we had told you of this directly upon your arrival, the current situation would have been avoided, but as you wished for Frodo's first days in Aman to be without care, so did we wish for you. Once again, it would seem we have erred gravely in our effort to do good.”

“No more so than I, my lord,” Olórin said with a faint sigh. “I heard all the warnings I have been given to rest and refrain from expending my energy more than is necessary. Every friend and neighbor who came to visit last evening made a point to remind me of it, as did the three of you and Lord Manwë on the day of the festival. If I had not been stubborn then, I might have found other help for Frodo and not even risked exhausting myself when I already knew that I was weary. I cannot hold any of you to blame for this, not even in the fact that you chose the manner of our sending without knowing for certain how such a life would affect us, if too greatly prolonged. What needed to be done was done, as we must work to determine the best way to proceed now.”

Estë smiled softly. “I am pleased to hear you say that, Olórin, for then I may now presume that you will offer no objections to any support given to you and Master Frodo in the time to come, by our peoples or the Eldar. And I expect that you will take to heart my advice that work is one thing that you should avoid as much as possible.”

The wizard made an exquisitely disgruntled sound. “I cannot sit idle from dawn to dusk and in all the hours between, my lady....”

“Indeed not,” Irmo agreed affably, “for Lórien already boasts one resident who seems to have made that his lifelong goal, and one Ványalos in all Aman is more than enough. Two thousand years of difficult labor have doubtless made the desire for activity a habit, but I think it should not be too hard to find ways to keep yourself occupied. From what you told us, you have guests due to arrive in several days, and unless you cannot restrain yourself from doing things you know will cause you harm, I see no reason why your plans should be altered. It will provide both you and Frodo with many diversions, and give us time to study this matter more closely and work upon a viable solution.”

An odd expression twitched across Olórin's face. “So in other words, I am to conduct my life as a mortal, until I have been told I may do otherwise.”

The three Valar nodded; Frodo's opinion of that verdict was not as accepting as his old friend's. “That certainly does not seem fair to me,” he said, his tone stiff with irritation.

Olórin, however, was less disturbed. “Perhaps not, but it is at least convenient in its timing. I have not yet had a chance to forget how to do so; indeed, I have had moments since my return when I needed to consciously remind myself that I am a Maia and no longer bound to mortal flesh.”

He looked to their guests. “Very well, I shall do as you suggest. I suppose I truly have no other choice, for if I do not cooperate, I will be the one to suffer for it.”

Nienna spoke with a compassion beyond any Frodo had ever heard before. “It is hoped that suffering will no longer be a part of your life, Olórin, or of Frodo's. Both of you have given far more than could ever have been asked of you to complete work that should never have become your burdens. Yet there is always a time in any healing when the light that awaits at the end cannot be clearly seen, only the long dark journey ahead. We and those who are your friends among us will do whatever we can to ease that journey, and make it as brief as possible.”

With that, they said their farewells and departed to begin the tasks ahead of them. When they had gone, Olórin sighed yet again, a note of genial exasperation in his voice. “I presume, then, that this means we will be put through the trial of suffering your presence more than usual, Ványalos.”

The tall Maia grinned impudently. “I could not allow an old friend and neighbor to endure such restrictions without doing all I can to help, pityandil. It would be rude and selfish, not to mention in direct defiance of what my Lord and Lady have already asked me to do.”

“I thought as much. Well, so long as you do not insist I remain housebound and idle, I will do my best to abide by the advice I was given, and keep my complaints to myself. I may not be pleased to find myself in this predicament, but I do understand that all of your intentions are good.”

“Then you have my promise that I will not to attempt to keep you confined for my own convenience.” Ványalos took his leave then, able to sense that his continued presence might be a cause for discomfort, for the time being.

Frodo watched him go, then turned his attention back to the wizard, who remained seated in the chair from which he had not moved since their return from the Meadow. “Would you like me to leave, too?” he asked, aware that his friend might need some time alone to come to terms with how his life had suddenly changed for the worse.

But Olórin shook his head. “No, not unless you feel ill at ease, loitering about when there is so much more of this new world for you to see.”

The hobbit moved closer, taking a seat on a wooden bench beneath the window near the Maia. “I had rather hoped you would be the one to show it to me,” he said.

“So had I,” was the regretful reply, “but it seems that is not to be for now, if ever it shall be.”

Frodo closed his eyes against the ache in those words. He suddenly felt as if he wanted to scream, against the injustice of the world, the accursed persistence of evil that reached even here into the most blessed of living lands to tear apart if not life then the happiness it should have had. He felt the burn of a growing rage toward that injustice, and at last could keep silent no longer. “Aren't you angry with them, Olórin?” he wanted to know, unable to comprehend how he could take this so calmly. “Don't you feel the least bit... cheated, that they sent you to do their work for them in a way they didn't even know would be safe? That they made a mistake and you now have to pay for it?”

The Istar did not answer immediately, but when he did, it was with the same calm. “No. How can I blame them for making a mistake, when I myself have made so many? They did not willfully cause me harm or force me to undertake a mission they knew beyond doubt would have negative personal repercussions; they acted upon the best of the knowledge they had at the time. I came to Arda as a servant of the Valar, Frodo, and though I have not always agreed with their decisions, they have done nothing to lose my loyalty. There is never any guarantee that what we do in the struggle against evil will be safe; our personal security is not as important as the goals we work to achieve. We Maiar have been called the hands of the Valar, for they cannot be everywhere at once, and when they must be elsewhere or the task is one they dare not undertake themselves, we their servants must carry on for them. I knew this even before I first left the Timeless Halls, that I would be entering into a world where my life would be dedicated to work not always of my own choosing. Lord Manwë felt that I possessed unique abilities which would enable the mission of the Istari to succeed, and though I believed he was mistaken, time and events have proved that he was indeed right. There was never any doubt in my mind that this task would be a dangerous one, full of perils of all kinds. That I did not anticipate this particular one is ultimately unimportant. Even if I had known then what I know now, I would not have chosen differently.”

Frodo's outrage cooled considerably before that placid explanation. He reflected upon it, then sighed. “Just as I would not have changed my mind about taking the Ring to Mordor, even had I known how things would end for me. But aren't you the least bit frightened by this? It's even worse than having to leave your home forever, as I did.”

Olórin looked out the window, a reflection of light off the falling waters flickering across his face and for a moment making it appear as if he himself were trembling on the brink of light and dark, life and death. “Yes, of course I'm frightened,” he said at length, the illusion dissipating as he turned back to Frodo. The hobbit could see in his eyes that his words were not empty; there was genuine disquiet and worry filling them. “I am neither so strong nor so foolish as to be beyond fear when what is at risk is my very existence. I shudder to think that in time, I could dwindle and be left adrift in the world, powerless and without shape or purpose. If this cannot be avoided, I would have been better off taking Aiwendil's path and remain in Middle-earth rather than follow the yearning of my heart to return home. And I cannot help but feel some guilt for bringing you here only so that you could witness this.”

He leaned forward, setting his hands on the halfling's knees as he gazed directly into the dark eyes. “But I also have faith, Frodo, not only in the skills of the Valar but in Lord Eru as well. I cannot believe that He would have sent me back to Middle-earth, strengthened and revived, if I was doomed to end like this. I believe with all my heart that He has some other plan in mind, and though I cannot say what that might be, I am willing to face my fears and continue on as best I may, until I have found that destiny. And I will pray that I find the strength and the courage to endure until that time comes. But in my heart, I have no doubt that it will.”

Frodo was so moved by both his friend's words and his clearly unwavering belief and trust in a power greater than himself, for a time, he could not speak. When he found his voice again, it came in little more than a whisper. “I wish I had your confidence. I think I found the courage to go to Mordor only because I was afraid of failing you, and proving myself to be unworthy of all the trust others had put in me. That would have been more difficult to bear than the Ring itself. But if you believe there is hope yet to be found for both of us, then I will try my best to believe with you, even though I have none of your experience with Lord Eru.”

Olórin smiled wanly. “You have experience of a different sort, not direct interaction as I have had, but at times you have been guided by a greater will, and it was neither mine nor the Ring's nor that of the Valar. Manwë chose me to be his messenger in Middle-earth because of things he saw in me that I did not; perhaps Lord Eru chose you to bear the Ring for much the same reasons. Whatever the case, I cannot help but feel He was the one Who guided me to Bilbo, and you, for I could not have chosen so well on my own.”

The hobbit returned the smile, somewhat sheepishly. “I think you could have, but I suspect you are right, and all of us were playing parts we didn't even know we'd been assigned. If I have a part to play now, and it can be of my own choosing, then I want to help you in any way I can, to repay the debt I owe you for all the years of guidance and support you gave to me. If a cure can be found, for both of us, I am not going to give up hope or give up trying until we find it. I can promise you that.”

Olórin chuckled. “Then I shall rest more easily, knowing as I do that a hobbit is easily my match for stubbornness and tenacity!”

Frodo's smile became stern. “I meant what I said, Olórin, every word of it. I may not have had the strength to hold out against the burden and the pressures of the Ring, but this time, I am not going to give up. We hobbits are stubborn creatures, and if all the powers of the West cannot find a cure to the affliction of mortals and immortals meddling in each others' affairs, then perhaps a headstrong hobbit or two will be able to manage it. And if I can help, then I will feel better, knowing that my coming here served some purpose beyond granting me a privilege I still feel I have not fully earned.” His frown faded back into a wry half-smile. “Perhaps that's also a part of Lord Eru's plans.”

“Perhaps it is. In all the years since I was sent as one of the Istari, I did not feel this shadow creeping upon me, as they described to us. If this is how evil first works its way into the hearts of Men, then I have sorely misunderstood them, even as I pitied them.”

“That's something I don't understand. If this happened to you because you'd been trapped in a mortal body for too long, why didn't it pass away when your body did? And why did Lord Eru not heal you completely when He sent you back?”

Olórin's eyes filled with distance as he pondered the question. When he focused again on Frodo's face, there was sadness in his small smile. “For we of the Ainur, changes that come upon our spirits remain with us even after we are separated from our incarnate forms, permanent or temporary. When I returned after Moria, I had not completed my mission; my test was yet unfinished. Lord Eru did a great deal for me, but that He did not heal me in this way convinces me all the more that there is some greater reason behind it, some purpose yet to be served by it.”

Frodo half-sighed, half-grumbled. “It would seem so, but I still think it's dreadfully unfair. You've already done so much. Would it have been too much to ask to take that burden from you even before you realized you had it?”

The Maia's reply was completely in earnest. “Yes, it would have been. Were you given such an advantage after you were wounded by the Nazgûl, yet resisted their evil long enough to bring the Ring safely to Rivendell? When Shelob poisoned you, were you blessed with complete health and strength again so that you could complete the quest more easily? No, my dear Frodo, Lord Eru's decision was perfectly fair. If we expect Him to take away all our cares and burdens simply because we feel we have earned the respite, we would never learn many of our most important lessons. I would not be the person I am today but for the cruelty of Aránayel, the treachery of Saruman, and the evils of the Enemy. Nor would I have the heart to carry on if I had not experienced the joys of discovery, the love of friends, and the loyalty of those who stood beside me in a just cause. This is the root of all life, mortal and immortal, both the sweet and the bitter. I do not believe that Lord Eru means for me to fade and diminish to naught simply because I spent too long a time in a body of true mortal flesh to carry out a task for the good of all, but if even that should be my fate, I will accept it, so long as I know that it is somehow a part of the greater Music yet to come.”

His unwavering faith both touched and shook the hobbit, who found himself without a single word to offer in response. Instead, he leaned forward and embraced his old friend, glad that they had been seated close together, so that the height of the bench made the motion simple, despite their differing heights. Olórin respected both his silence and his almost tangible emotions. Resisting the impulse to offer comfort in the non-physical way of his people, he instead did what he could after the fashion of mortals and returned the gesture of affection, thanking the One for having given him such a friend and allowing him to still be a part of his life at such a time. The road ahead did indeed look dark, all the more so because the other immortals of Aman could not truly grasp the mortal frailties they had never — and could never — experience. Yet in the darkness, there was one great consolation: the knowledge that they would not walk this long and bleak path alone.

But as he closed his eyes to look down that metaphorical road into the future, the only light he could see at its end was faint and red and flickering, like the fires of Orodruin awaiting the conclusion of the Quest. Olórin did not know what such an image might mean in this situation, and for the time being, he put it out of his thoughts and did not speak of it to Frodo, or to anyone else.

XIII

Frodo held fast to his promise to do whatever he could to help find the answer for Olórin's predicament, as well as his own, but by the day Bilbo was due to arrive in the company of Elrond and Celebrían, he had not discovered anything particularly useful. Estë had given Olórin an injunction to sleep at night whether or not he felt the need of it, but it was an unnecessary order, for by the end of each day, the wizard admitted that he was more than ready to rest. To Frodo's eyes, he looked it, as if he himself were fading with the sunset, a little more with each passing day. Olórin did not even object when Frodo fairly tucked him in every night, lingering at the doorway to his sleeping chamber until he was certain his friend was indeed following the Healer's command. The hobbit generally woke first, not long after dawn, and though each morning Olórin appeared considerably refreshed and much stronger than the night before, very nearly his old self again, it seemed to Frodo no different than the vigor any human felt after a good night's sleep, and it diminished ever more quickly as each day progressed.

And though Olórin did not complain about his restrictions, nor over Ványalos' daily visits — which always came with fresh supplies of those provisions that did not easily store from day to day — there was no denying that the wizard did indeed feel confined by those strictures, like a falcon hooded and jessed to prevent it from taking wing. But Ványalos also held to Irmo's promise that Olórin would not be literally confined so long as his condition did not warrant it, so each morning after breakfast, he went out to the Meadow to visit Shadowfax and for a little while ride farther than he was allowed to go on his own. Frodo went with him most mornings, not as a keeper, but because he enjoyed the company and wanted to become acquainted with more of the country and its inhabitants. Lórien was much vaster than he had first thought, larger than the Golden Wood of Middle-earth, encompassing the hill country and meadowlands that were so reminiscent of the Shire, a beautiful forest where the Lord and Lady dwelt, and other regions that awakened memories of the fairer parts of Middle-earth Frodo had seen in his travels. And everywhere, the land was threaded by silver streams, cooled by still pools, refreshed by glittering fountains. Frodo was quite taken by it, and the people they met along the way.

No, it was not Olórin's complaints that were troubling Frodo on the morning of the day of Bilbo's arrival; it was his silences, which were growing longer and more frequent. He had asked about them at first, but he gave up when he saw that he would always receive the same answer. Nothing was wrong, nothing was bothering the wizard, and Frodo finally had to conclude that whatever was on his mind was not something he was about to share. The hobbit had long since learned the futility of trying to press his friend for answers when he had decided to be close about a subject, and he knew that this was yet another of those times. So he stopped asking, although he did tell Ványalos, who thanked him for his observations, but was unable to assuage Frodo's worries. Apparently, when Olórin chose to keep something to himself, he was usually able to prevent even his own people from prying. That, Frodo supposed, was doubtless a part of how he had earned himself a reputation for stubbornness here in Aman, one that seemed to be well-earned.

Since the last message they had received from Bilbo's party indicated that they would likely reach their destination at midday, Frodo decided to remain behind for the morning trip to the Meadow so that the noon meal would be ready for Bilbo when he arrived, his hobbit appetite having revived along with the rest of him. That Olórin did not gainsay his choice told Frodo that he had been correct in thinking the Maia might want some time alone before their guests arrived. The halfling was unsure if anything had been said to them about Olórin's situation; if not, he would doubtless want an opportunity to reflect upon the best way to give them the news, which was still unpleasant, as no progress had been made in the efforts to resolve it. And if they had been told, he quite likely needed that time to prepare himself for what might be an uncomfortably solicitous welcome.

Frodo kept himself busy in the kitchen and did his best not to fret. He was reasonably successful, until he finished his work, glanced out the window to see the position of the sun, and noticed it was nearing the time when Bilbo and the others were due to arrive. He was leaning on the sill, looking out to see if he might hear or spot anything to indicate the approach of either the guests or the owner of the house, and instead saw Ványalos coming across the grass, a basket in hand.

He smiled as he stepped up to the window. “Not yet, little one,” he told the hobbit, lifting up the provender he had brought for the day so that Frodo might take it. “Your kinsman and his Elf friends are making good time, so I am told, but they have just reached the hill country, and it will be a while yet before they arrive, perhaps an hour or so. Possibly two; I must admit, I have never been very good at counting time this way. I tend to think more of dawn and dusk, and noon and midnight, which are the most notable events of each day, here in Aman. Alas, I have never been to Endorë to learn how to mark the passing hours as do the Eruhíni.”

“I can assure you, you have missed very little. My people are not all that different, since we mark the times of day mostly by the meals that come with them. But thank you for the news, and this,” the hobbit said as he took the basket. “I didn't think it was quite time, and I was looking to see if Olórin was on his way back from the Meadow.”

The Maia's gray eyes unfocused for a moment, as if he were looking at something far too distant for mortal eyes to discern. “Not quite yet,” he said presently. “He and Shadowfax are coming through the southern woodland, returning from plains beyond the river country.”

Frodo made a soft sound of worry as he set the basket onto the table nearest the window. He had ridden with the wizard to the river that flowed through the south of Lórien, and he had seen the vast plains that stretched beyond it, a beautiful grassland that lay between Lórien and the southern reaches of Valinor where the forests of Oromë were located. The plains were not a part of Irmo's and Estë's realm, and thus lay beyond their influence. “Is it safe for him to leave Lórien, Ványalos?” he asked, not needing to mention the subject of his inquiry. “When I ride with him, we go a little farther every day, and when he rides alone, it always takes longer for him to return. Can he go too far, and hurt himself?”

Ványalos shook his head, hoisting himself up to sit on the sill while Frodo unpacked the basket. “So long as he keeps to his promise to behave as a mortal, no — and before you ask, yes, he has kept his promise, quite diligently. But the restriction chafes him, even though I think he tries very hard not to let you see his discomfort.”

Frodo snorted. “Oh, yes, he tries so hard that I know that's exactly what he's doing. He doesn't want me to worry about him, and I think he's uncomfortable with the thought of lying constantly to spare my feelings, so he says nothing rather than tell me what's bothering him. The silences worry me more than anything I can imagine he could say.”

“I know,” the visiting Maia said, sympathetic. “He's frightened, with good reason, and he's searching for answers he does not know how to find. You have known him long enough to realize how poorly he would suffer such circumstances. He is not the sort to feel superior to others because of his knowledge, but he has long taken satisfaction from the quest for it, and his ability to find answers when he needs them. Now, he cannot, and it both disturbs him and makes him feel more keenly the bondage of the limits placed upon him.”

“Like a prisoner,” Frodo said softly. “Watching him, I think I must know how some of the Noldor like Galadriel felt, long ago, when they wanted to go to Middle-earth because they felt too restricted here. Even the most beautiful cage is still a cage.”

“As we also are beginning to understand, now that our part in the Music is done, yet we cannot leave Arda to return to our true home in the Timeless Halls. Try not to worry, Frodo. My Lord and Lady are certain there is a remedy to this situation, and if you wish to do something to prevent Olórin from brooding so, employ some of your own stubbornness.”

The sound the hobbit made was exquisitely frustrated. “How, when all I get from him other than polite everyday nonsense is silence?”

Ványalos' grin was impishly impudent. “Fill the silence with noise. You are his guest, and the custom of this land is for the host to provide whatever the guest needs, from food and drink to conversation. If he attempts to avoid you, remind him that this is his duty as your host. Require him to listen to you, and to answer you; the subject matters not, and do not relent. If he does as courtesy requires of him, sooner or later, he will either slip and speak of what he had meant to keep secret, or he will remember that troubles kept buried inevitably lead to even greater pain for more than just the one maintaining that silence.”

As Frodo listened to the Maia's plan, he saw a connection he had not anticipated. “Is this how you and Lindarinë supposedly helped him after he first came to live in Lórien?”

The redhead nodded. “Yes. We drove him first to distraction and then to the brink of anger with our persistence, involving him in life when he would have sooner withdrawn, but ere he turned his wrath on us, he understood what we were doing, and why. He is wiser now than he was then, my little friend. It should not take him quite as long to see reason, especially not if your kinsman also possesses this unique obstinacy. It was a much easier task when there were two of us to see to it.”

Frodo tried to imagine attempting such a thing; he grimaced. “I think we would stand a much better chance of prodding him into forgetting his promise to forego using his abilities so that he could turn us into toads. Even Bilbo and I together are not that stubborn.”

Ványalos chuckled. “And I think you are underestimating your ability. Olórin values your friendship more than his stiff-necked need for privacy in a matter he knows well indeed concerns you, not only himself. He may resist, but he will back down if you insist. And what you must insist upon is that he not continue to take himself off alone to brood. I will give what assistance I can in this, but ultimately, I believe it is you he will heed, not me. Your fates are bound together in ways he cannot ignore or deny.”

“Perhaps not,” the hobbit allowed as he returned the now-empty basket. “But I would rather make the journey to Mordor again than deliberately provoke him. His temper may cool quickly, but while it is still hot, it is something I would prefer to avoid.”

The Maia laughed as he swung his legs over the sill and dropped down to the ground again. “I cannot say that I blame you, but do keep it in mind. Olórin's stubbornness has occasionally done him credit, as has yours, but at times, it is necessary to push and prod a bit to encourage such a person to be stubborn about the right things.”

As he walked off, Frodo considered what he had just said, and his own recent tendencies to be stubborn about the wrong things, such as his supposed failure in Mount Doom, and his unworthiness to be accorded honor and privilege for all he had done. Many people had been attempting to persuade him the reconsider those notions, and he had resisted, not because they were wrong, but simply because he was being obstinate. As all of them had a point in insisting otherwise, so did Ványalos. Perhaps there was a way to begin this campaign of nudging that might work, after all, and he was certain Ványalos, and Bilbo, would help him implement it.

**********

Given that Shadowfax could run far more swiftly than any ordinary horses that would have been put at the disposal of Bilbo and his companions, Olórin managed to return before they arrived. After Ványalos had departed, Frodo had tidied up the kitchen and himself, then had settled himself on the front porch, ostensibly to read a book while he waited to see who arrived first. As he watched the great silver horse crossing the clearing at a gentle pace — he had taken to spending his time close to the house, understanding as he did that his master had greater need of him than before — Frodo did his best to appear distracted, more interested in his book than anything else.

“Did Shadowfax enjoy his run across the grasslands?” the hobbit asked casually after the wizard had dismounted and sent the Meara off to graze. He turned to favor Frodo with a curious glance.

“Yes, I suppose he did. How... ah, never mind, I should know by now that Ványalos is constantly keeping watch over me.”

“He is, and he also told me that Bilbo and the others will be arriving soon. If Ványalos hadn't told me that you were already on your way back, I might have thought you had gone so far so as to deliberately avoid being here when they came.”

“That was not my intent,” Olórin said, his tone such that it seemed he was torn between feeling offended or chagrined. “It may be some time before Shadowfax and I will have another opportunity to ride so far. He wished to see some part of the lands in which the oldest of his ancient ancestors were born, and I saw no harm in indulging him. But this is my home, and it would have been unconscionably rude of me not to be here when I know guests are due.”

“Yes, Ványalos told me something about the local customs concerning the duties of a host,” Frodo said with deliberate nonchalance. “I had thought you wouldn't forget them, but lately, it's difficult to be sure, since you aren't terribly inclined to talk of anything but trivialities. I hope you'll be in a more agreeable mood, once they've arrived. I cannot say I fancy the thought of spending however long this healing process takes with someone whose preferred topics of conversation are either not very meaningful, or nothing at all.”

The oddest of expressions twitched across the wizard's face; he cleared his throat as if preparing to make some response, then very clearly changed his mind. “If Bilbo and the others are due to arrive soon, I should go make certain I'm presentable to receive guests.”

Frodo sniffed. “Yes, you should. And do try to remember that the whole point of having him come to visit is to persuade him that staying here for a time is a good idea. He's not going to think that if you spend day after day being peevish and broody.”

As he passed by on his way into the house, Olórin paused to glance at Frodo again, this time with a faint frown. “I have not been peevish!”

The hobbit shrugged without looking up. “No, I wouldn't suppose you'd call it that, it's rather unflattering. You haven't been going about snapping people's heads off, you've just been gloomy enough to make me want to do it to myself. Peevish was the wrong word, then. When I think of what the right word is, I'll let you know.”

The Istar had begun to move on, but stopped again on the threshold. “That's a bit of an odd tone, coming from you,” he noted. “I don't believe I've ever heard it before, not even when you were still a child.”

There was blithe indifference in Frodo's reply. “Oh? Well, perhaps it's catching. There are certain tones I've been hearing from you of late that I've never heard before — or, I should say, haven't heard, since these last few days, the only time you've said much more than please and thank you has been when we're riding and there was something about the countryside or the people or the local customs or some impersonal thing to talk about. I don't suppose Bilbo or even Elrond will mind that, since they're both as new here as I am, but it might bore poor Lady Celebrían to tears, especially since she's been about these parts of Valinor a good deal more than you, these past five hundred years. You might want to keep that in mind, or you might find her correcting you over things you thought you once knew but don't, anymore.”

Frodo had to struggle not to look up to see what he felt certain must be the most peculiar of expressions flit across the Maia's face. He heard Olórin take a breath, the sound of one about to speak, but he exhaled it a moment later, said nothing, and continued on into the house. Only after the door had closed did Frodo look up, glancing in the direction Olórin had gone.

He let loose the breath he himself had been holding. He hadn't expected the wizard to grow angry with him, but he was well aware that he was pushing him in that direction, and that if he was not careful, he might go too far too fast and wind up in an unpleasant situation he would regret. Cheekiness of this kind was something Pippin managed far more skillfully, and though he thought back on that example to help guide him, he knew he could not do this as well as his absent friend could have done with ease. Being a nuisance was not something that came naturally to him, possibly because after his parents had died, he had been terribly frightened of being left alone in the world, and had done all he could to make certain he would not be a bother to the cousin who had adopted him. His parents had left his life unexpectedly, for reasons he had not understood as a child; he had had nightmares about being abandoned, turned out to fend for himself, a threat he had heard other adult hobbits hurl at their children when they misbehaved. That he had never heard of anyone actually doing so had been immaterial; just the thought of such a possible fate had been enough to make him mind his manners, especially until he felt more secure in his life at Bag End. Really, even as an adult, Bilbo himself was much more of scamp than Frodo had ever been as a boy; he would be glad when his Bilbo and the others arrived and could assist him in his inexpert attempts at manipulation.

“Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger,” he muttered to himself, very softly. “Remember that, Frodo, and perhaps you'll survive the day still in one piece!” With that thought in mind, the hobbit closed his book and spent a few minutes collecting his thoughts, preparing himself to continue the assault.

**********

When he had closed the door behind him, Olórin hesitated before continuing on into the house. He closed his eyes, actively suppressing the instinctive desire to use his more esoteric abilities to determine just why Frodo had been acting so strangely. The fact that he had to make such an effort to refrain from doing so disturbed him more than the hobbit's behavior. He was in the process of deciding whether or not to change his mind yet again and step back outside to discuss the matter in an ordinary fashion when the sound of a voice behind him startled him out of the notion.

“Ah, so I see you did have the good manners to return before your guests arrive,” Ványalos said with his usual irrepressible cheer, from where he stood several paces behind his neighbor. “Had you delayed much longer, I would have indeed thought your many years in Endorë had left you with no social graces whatsoever.”

A frown clouded the wizard's expression as he turned to face the taller Maia. “As you have failed to learn any at all in your many years here in Aman,” he answered a bit more testily than he had intended. He was not angry with his friend, but he did not know if Ványalos had already been waiting here in the house before he had entered, or if he had come a but a moment after sensing that his neighbor had returned. The latter thought unsettled him, for reasons he did not care to acknowledge. “I was under the impression that you were going to meet Bilbo and the others to guide them here, since Lady Celebrían has never before visited my home. If I had known you were not, I would have gone myself....”

The redhead curtailed any possible lecture with a broad gesture. “Yes, I know, which is why I said I would see to it myself. Your ride this morning was much longer than usual, and you should take a least a few minutes to rest. I simply stopped by before going to meet your friends to see if there is anything more I can do to help.”

Olórin grunted as he moved on into the house, striding past Ványalos and toward his sleeping chamber. “Yes, you can go and do what you said you would do and leave me to enjoy a minute or two of the peace you insist I should have! I am quite capable of changing clothes and preparing to receive guests without supervision. Were you a mortal, I would think you had appointed yourself to be my mother, or my keeper.”

The smile on Ványalos' face did not fade as he let his fellow Maia pass; his eyes glittered with mischief, though his expression was one of feigned indignation. “Alas, that was not my decision, pityandil. Lord Irmo gave me that assignment, and I am but following his will, as would any faithful servant.”

Olórin's grunt was rather more pronounced and skeptical as he pushed aside the half-open door to his bedroom and entered, Ványalos in his wake. “Then be a good servant and go tell him I am abiding by my promise, and then go abide by yours. I do not require such constant surveillance, and if Lord Irmo has changed his mind on that account, I would sooner move myself into his mansions and let him make the observations directly rather than be constantly followed and reminded and asked the same questions again and again!”

He stalked over to a storage chest near the foot of the bed as he spoke, and punctuated his last words by lifting the lid and throwing it back so forcefully, it slammed hard and loud against the wall behind it. Ványalos, having stopped on the threshold to lounge against the jamb, crossed his arms and clicked his tongue. “Now, now, there is no need to be testy and out of sorts....”

“I am not testy!” the wizard snapped back, focusing his attention on the clothing inside the chest rather than surrender to an impulse to glare at his neighbor. “And if I appear to be out of sorts, it's because I am beginning to grow weary of either being treated like an invalid or a child!”

“No one is treating you like a child, old friend,” Ványalos said quite calmly. “Indeed, I would not truly know how one goes about doing such a thing, as children are not a part of the experience of life we of the Ainur know, and those of the Eldar with whom I am acquainted have had very few. But from what little I have seen, I would not call this a bad way to be treated, for it would appear to me that most parents love their offspring very much and treat them with great kindness and affection....”

This time, Olórin gave in to the whim and did glare at his guest, a look chill enough to freeze an entire lake in high summer heat. “You know very well what I mean,” he said levelly, “and if I concede to your claim that you are not viewing me as a child, then it implies that you are treating me as an invalid. Continue to do so, and you will only prompt me to do something to prove that I am not!”

Ványalos' smile turned crooked as it faded slightly. “I am not saying that, either, and you are making this empty threat only to encourage me to let off with my teasing and go away. Very well, I shall do as you wish, since it is nearly time I went to meet your friends, but I hope you will not attempt any such rash act in my absence. I would not want you to suffer simply to prove a point that does not need proving.”

The wizard grumbled as he went back to rummaging through the contents of the chest. “And I would not have made that threat if you had let me be when first I asked! Have you and Frodo formed some kind of conspiracy designed to irritate me? If so, you are succeeding admirably.”

“Not to irritate you, no,” the redhead said quite casually, standing away from the doorframe to take several steps into the room. “But to look after your welfare, yes. For it seems that wise though you may be, you do not always demonstrate common sense when it comes to such things. Are you certain you do not need help with whatever it is you're trying to do?” he added when the Istar stopped his searching with a sound of exquisite frustration. The tall Maia leaned forward and peered into the chest, quickly taking note of the trouble his friend was having. There was very little in the trunk, and what was there was not in what one might call properly presentable condition. Ványalos understood the problem. “Ah, when Frodo asked after laundering facilities, you must have forgotten that you would need them as well for the time being, since you are forbidden to use other abilities to maintain what little you have in the ways our people habitually do. No harm done. It will take but a moment for me to—“

Olórin slammed shut the lid of the chest, punctuating the dark look he gave the taller Maia. “No, thank you, I can manage very well without help.”

Ványalos' expression turned considerably more serious. “You are not thinking to do this on your own, Olórin....” His words promised dire consequences if he was.

But though the wizard had been commanded not to make use of any skill that might sap him of his native strength, he could nonetheless effectively block his neighbor from seeing into his thoughts. “I promised I would not, and I will not,” he said bluntly as he straightened from where he had bent over the trunk. “But it does nothing for my confidence, or my spirits, if you do such things for me in the ways I have been denied. It was my own fault that I forgot I would have need to do this, and my resources are not as meager as you plainly think. I will make do. And you should leave, before Bilbo and the others take a wrong turn and become hopelessly lost!”

Though they had been friends for many thousands of years, Ványalos had never heard a tone such as the one now in Olórin's voice. He did not know quite how to interpret it. “I meant no offense,” he said mildly, understanding that this, at least, was a part of the emotions he could not read. “I thought only that I might be able to provide assistance to make your tasks easier, but if you wish to attend to matters in your own way, of course, I will not interfere. I am concerned for your welfare, but I know you well enough to be certain that you will not forget to look after yourself, even though you have spent the past two thousand years minding the good of others and neglecting your own.”

“Not generally by choice,” the Istar said, still rather frostily, but the chill melted a moment later; his entire demeanor softened. “I know you mean well, Ványalos, and I suppose that I will appreciate it better after I have had more time to adjust to the ways in which my life has changed yet again. You may torment me with your impudence all you wish, but please, do not coddle me like an invalid and do for me things that I can still do for myself. I may be ill after a fashion, but I am not helpless and incompetent.”

“I would never even imply that you are,” the redhead replied, both honestly and ingenuously. “Perhaps I was being too solicitous, and I will endeavor to be somewhat less so in the future — though I am afraid I still must continue to observe, as Lord Irmo requires of me, until he tells me otherwise. I shall do my best to be more subtle in carrying out my duties.”

Olórin made a face of exquisite disbelief, then chuckled softly. “Subtle is a word only in your vocabulary, not in your repertoire of actions. Oh, be off with you, Ványalos, I am not angry. Frustrated, perhaps, but I will deal with that better if I do not feel as if every fumbling motion I make is being watched. And on your way, do tell Frodo that this ploy of yours will not be needed. I am not so lost to common sense that I cannot see what you are doing, now that I know both of you are a part of this plan. I remember quite well how you and Lindarinë once hounded me incessantly to draw me out and make me stop brooding over the ill turns my life had taken, and I would rather capitulate to reason now than suffer another such siege! You do not know the full scope of what you might have unleashed, bringing a hobbit into such a plan as this!”

The mischief returned in full to Ványalos' grin. “Oh, I know it indeed, pityandil, which is why I selected this particular mode of action. Small they might be, but these little ones are more than your match for persistence, else they could not have succeeded in all they did during this past age. I will go, and I will not doubt your word to behave, for I know I am leaving you in good hands.” Still smiling, he bowed with exaggerated courtesy, then strode from the room. His soft footfalls quickly faded.

Olórin sighed when he was gone, relieved that Ványalos had had the presence of mind to eschew simply disappearing in front of him, which even the rogue had to realize would have been intolerably rude. He then glanced back at the closed chest, silently scolding himself for not paying attention to the fact that he had not tended to his own clothing as he ought. But in Middle-earth, he had owned very little, and though he had tried to keep as clean as possible, far too often his clothing had been washed by driving rains while it was still on his back. He had grown accustomed to washing both himself and his garb in cold streams and rivers, but it had been a necessity, seldom a pleasure. The times he spent in places like Rivendell and Lothlórien, where his hosts had been able and more than willing to provide better attire and more useful facilities for bathing and cleaning had been luxuries, very much appreciated, but not something on which he could rely on a regular basis. The nature of his work and his constant travel about the lands had precluded that. Before his life as a mortal, such things, especially the maintenance of one's clothing, had not been an issue. When one was capable of altering shapes and forms at will, it took only a thought to change one's attire in such a way that it shed any dirt upon it like water slipping away from oil. The more careful tending of the body, after the fashion of the Eruhíni, was also not a necessity, but was actually a daily ritual of understanding to those Ainur who adopted such forms, as for a few moments, it brought them closer to the peoples of Arda whose physical nature they chose to imitate. He had heard Frodo's question about laundering facilities, of course, but Ványalos was right: he had not realized that the question pertained to himself until just now. And it was that lapse of understanding that had frustrated the Maia just as much as the restrictions which forbad him from remedying the situation as he would have of old.

As he made a singular effort to not think about such disheartening things, the wizard bent and lifted the lid of the chest to peer at its contents once again. It truly had been very short-sighted of him, he admitted, to merely toss things aside after he changed out of them without giving a thought to whether or not they needed to be cleaned. He hadn't been involved in strenuous physical labor of any kind during the past days, but he had ridden as much as he was allowed and had tended the garden that had been planted to provide vegetables and herbs for the occupants. Given the size of his wardrobe, which was quite small, he should have paid more attention to its condition. Still, he was not without recourse, as he had told Ványalos. The clothing that had been made for him on the day of his return had remained untouched since his arrival in Lórien, and though it was less simple than his general preference, it would suffice. It was not, after all, wholly inappropriate for the occasion of receiving honored friends.

He had taken the things with him to the washroom and was in the process of making himself suitably presentable when he caught the shuffle and clatter of someone moving about in the kitchen, Frodo in the process of making tea, from the sound of it. He was attempting to think of some way to persuade the hobbit to forego participating in Ványalos' methods of “help” and was just about to collect his soiled clothing and leave the room when there was a soft tap at the door. It cracked open a moment later, and a hesitant Frodo peered through the opening.

The hobbit loosed a quiet sigh. “Oh, good, you really were able to take care of matters on your own. Ványalos said some things to me before he left,” he explained in answer to Olórin's curious expression. “And I must admit, I'm glad he changed his mind about trying to help you by annoying you. I was willing to try, if he thought it really would do some good, but I'm afraid I've never had any talent for that sort of thing, not even when I was a boy.”

The Maia smiled crookedly as he finished collecting his things. “No, that was never a skill of any Baggins I ever knew. That talent was more a true gift of the Tooks, and of your generation, Pippin seems to have taken the greatest share of it, leaving precious little for his siblings and more distant cousins.”

Frodo laughed more easily than he might have only a week ago at the mention of a friend he would not see again in this life. If there was any positive side-effect to his unexpected condition, Olórin reflected, it was that it had given Frodo something to worry about outside of himself, opening him more fully to the healing nature of Lórien. That his concerns for Frodo were not having similar results meant, so the wizard suspected, that either Frodo's condition was already improving enough to be less worrisome, or that Olórin was spending too much of his time looking inward, trying to find the answers to his own problem and thus interfering with any possible recovery. Unhappily, he suspected it was more the result of the latter.

Frodo spoke, interrupting his reverie. “Yes, and Ványalos is much more like him than I. He may be able to attempt such mischief and get away with it, but the most I could ever manage were harmless boyish pranks, like stealing mushrooms from Farmer Maggot, or hiding Bilbo's favorite pipe. I never could even tease people the way some of the other lads did and not feel terrible afterward. I only agreed to this because I couldn't think of another way to make you stop trying to pretend nothing's wrong when we all know very well that there is.”

“I know,” Olórin confessed as he took his collected clothing and carried it back to his sleeping room. Once there, he began to toss it into the chest with his other things, then decided he ought to remove all of them and put them somewhere to remind him that they needed to be cleaned before they were used again. He continued to talk as he worked; Frodo leant his assistance by sorting out smaller items, like belts, that would not require washing, and rearranging them properly for storage. “Both of you meant well, but there is one thing you would do well to remember, Frodo: Ványalos and I have been friends for more years than you can truly imagine, but during these past two millennia, he has changed very little, while I have changed a great deal. It is the natural result of the lives we led during that time. Aman is very much the same as it was when I left, but in Middle-earth, change was an everyday occurrence. Had events here required it, I'm sure Ványalos and many of the others would have also changed to adapt to the circumstances, as I did, but they did not. I am not the same person I was when I left to begin my work in Middle-earth, yet I believe I am a better person now for what I experienced there, living as a mortal. My view and understanding of this vast world Lord Eru created and we helped to shape has been greatly enhanced.”

“That's reassuring to know,” the hobbit said with a small smile. “Sometimes, it feels as if being a mortal is just a lot of fuss and bother that immortals like the Elves don't have to worry about.”

“Not at all. The Elves have their own fuss and bother, and there is value to every kind of existence, else Lord Eru would not have brought it into being. But it is one thing to be aware of the differences, and quite another to have actually experienced them. Ványalos does not yet understand this, not entirely. He remembers our relationship as it was in the past, and though I'm sure he is attempting to comprehend the ways in which I have changed, he cannot know all that happened to me since I last resided here. I do not think he can quite grasp the full nature of the fears that are troubling me now. He does not know what living as a mortal truly means. He can imagine what it would be like to willingly refrain from using his natural abilities, but in the way you can imagine what it is like to be blind by merely closing your eyes. The sensation might be distressing, but all the while your eyes are closed, you know you can open them whenever you wish, and your sight will be restored. My eyes are closed now because I have been told I must do this so as not to injure myself further, but I have no certainty that when and if I am allowed to open them again, my sight will still be there. It is disturbingly possible that it may not.”

Frodo paused in his task of coiling a length of cord to look up sharply at his friend. “Lord Irmo told me you would not die....”

“No,” Olórin agreed. “Not as you think of it. But it seems to me much worse a fate, to lose one's strength of being until they are nothing but a shadow of what they once were, unable to act, unable to do anything but drift aimlessly without direction or purpose or ability, unable to even leave the confines of Arda and move beyond it as do human spirits after death. If what Men experience when they leave this world is what I experienced after I was killed by the Balrog, I would happily choose to be mortal rather than endure such terrible diminishment. I would sooner willingly cast myself out into the Void and spend what is left of my days in utter nothing than become the barest wisp of an utterly powerless wraith in this world, as happened to Saruman and Sauron and the others. I do not think I have the strength or the courage to endure such an existence, much less the heart to stand by and know that with each passing moment, I am growing nearer and nearer to that empty and impotent state. It is a terribly frightening thing, Frodo, and I believe you understand this better than Ványalos, or even Lord Irmo.”

The hobbit nodded, remembering the mist-like shape that had arisen from Saruman's body as it lay dead before the remains of Bag End, already faint and shapeless, to be blown away and scattered before the wind. He shivered, yet at the same time felt his resolve deepen. “Yes,” he said, his voice quiet but his words firm. “I think all mortals do, at some time or in some fashion. We all seem to have known someone who grew infirm with age, or were hurt by sickness or injury in a way that left their body helpless but their mind still alert. We pity them, and at the same time fear that we will become like them, still alive and able to perceive life around us, but unable to participate. I understand perfectly, Olórin, and I am not surprised others of your people like Ványalos and Lord Irmo do not. But that is no reason to give up so soon.”

“I am not giving up,” he was instantly assured. “But it is the reason I have not been myself, lately. I am not a stranger to fear, but I am uneasy with this kind of uncertainty. This situation is something I never anticipated, never even began to imagine. I trust Lord Eru's wisdom, but I can see nothing of my own future clearly, and that is making it more for difficult for me to adjust to the limitations set upon me. If you, at least, will help me to remember the necessities of living as a mortal that I cannot seem to remember on my own, I promise I will not continue to be so rudely distant. You have been trying to help, as I have tried to help you, and it has been worse than impolite of me to refuse to acknowledge your concern, especially since you are my guest.”

“I would be more than happy to do whatever I can, as I have tried to tell you before. I really do not intend to pry when I ask what's wrong, but I have been worried about you. Whenever you were so close about something in Middle-earth, it always turned out to be quite dreadful, in the end. And I have occasionally wondered if perhaps keeping it to yourself was not the wisest thing to do. As Sam's Gaffer used to say, when wolves are prowling ‘round the fences, half an eye is as bad as none.”

Olórin sniffed as he set the more neatly stacked clothing atop the chest after Frodo closed it. “I believe I might actually miss old Hamfast's peculiar words of wisdom. I take it by this he meant that serious situations need to be watched very carefully to keep the danger to a minimum.”

Frodo chuckled. “Or something to that effect. He also said that a sick person makes a bad healer, and he is right about that. A person in pain or fear usually isn't the best judge of how to make things better. I know that was the case for me ever since I returned to the Shire. Other people had to find the best solution to my problems, and I would like to repay some part of that favor, however I may.” He let loose a heavy sigh. “I've said that I want to help so often, these past few days, I may scream instead if I must say it again. Do you not believe me, or do you think I should not, or cannot, be of any use?”

The Maia answered honestly. “Neither. What I believe is that I've been absurdly thickheaded and stubborn, which Lord Manwë warned me against the very first day we arrived. Do forgive me, Frodo, I shan't allow myself to be that obstinate again. There are many other things I am not permitted to do; adding one more restriction of my own choosing will not be a burden, especially if it will make life less unpleasant for both myself and those around me.”

“I could have dealt with it,” the hobbit said, making his tone as confident as possible, “but Bilbo might not have been so patient. And as for my help with matters of mortal living, there is already one thing I can offer. When I asked after matters of laundering, everyone told me to talk to the local Elves, since they attend such things in what I think of as ordinary fashions, whereas your people apparently deal with them in ways we lesser folk cannot. So I did, two days ago, when you showed me the place where the people who live in this area gather to talk and sing and do things I would call going to market. While you were busy with something else, I was directed to a very kind Elf lady who makes the most lovely weavings, Mirimë. She apparently has frequent need to wash cloth and clothing because of her craft, and she said she would be happy to show me where she does it, and how it is managed. Today is one of her regular washing days, and when I told her that it would be difficult for me to come, as we were expecting guests, she offered to come collect my things and take care of them for me. It would be no trouble at all, she said, since she has others to help her and my needs are not great. I cannot imagine she would object if we added your things to the bundle. Your clothing may be larger than mine, but there is considerably less of it.”

Olórin rubbed his chin as he glanced at the pile of cloth; it was an odd motion, as his reflexes had been long accustomed to the presence of a beard that was no longer there. “You're right, she would not object. Mirimë crafted the bedclothes and many of the other fabrics in this house; I recognize her handiwork. She would do this for both of us without a second thought. Thank you for thinking of this. I had begun to wonder if I would need to prevail upon Ványalos to help, after I had already told him I would not need it, since I doubt that Bilbo would have much interest in local laundry customs and I will not be able to wear the same things until he is gone.”

Frodo agreed as he gathered the heap of fabric into his arms. “She said she or one of her assistants would come to collect my things before midday, and that should be any time, now. I'll just put this with the other things I have ready for her.”

He turned, about to bustle out, when a hand firmly laid on one shoulder stopped him. Frodo looked up to see Olórin smiling down at him. “I am not so far beyond hope that I cannot manage to carry my own dirty clothing into the next room,” he told the halfling, a thread of laughter running through his words like veins of silver in stone.

Frodo smiled back and conceded the point as he handed over his burden. “Of course you can, and I shall do my best not to forget that in the future. I should see to the tea, in any case. Bilbo may prefer it brewed strong enough to curl even a hobbit's hair, but I seem to recall Elrond's tastes are somewhat more refined. Are you going to wear that, too?” he asked as they both moved toward the door, his eye happening to fall upon the crystal circlet, still resting on the bedside table where it had been set days before, untouched since Olórin had removed it after their arrival. “It was made to go with that clothing, wasn't it?”

The Maia both shrugged and shook his head. “I have no idea, but no, I was not planning to. This is not a formal occasion, after all, and it would seem rather too ostentatious for greeting guests when they have just arrived after a long journey.”

“True. I remember how I felt after I awoke on the field of Cormallen, and all I had to wear were orc-rags, when everyone but Sam seemed to be dressed for a much more splendid occasion....”

He rambled on, recounting memories of that day while he headed to the kitchen to attend the tea. Olórin listened to his relaxed storytelling while he took a moment to set his clothes atop the pile of those Frodo had set aside for cleaning, in an out-of-the-way corner between the front door and the bathing room. He was glad to hear the hobbit able to speak of that part of his past without pain, and more relieved to know that the notion of a conspiracy to harass him out of his recent reticence had been ended. Perhaps it would be better, after all, to stop searching so hard for the answers that slipped farther away the harder he tried to grasp them, and instead seize each moment as it came. Since he could not see to what end he was bound, there was more wisdom in looking at the road close at hand, within his sight, so that he would not fall into some unforeseen abyss in his haste. He had been patient for two thousand years to finally see the end of his hopes to defeat Sauron; with the aid of the friends who had provided the most help in achieving that goal, he could find the wherewithal to be patient just a little bit longer.

XIV

Bilbo's reaction to his first visit to Lórien was very much as predicted: astonishment to discover that any part of Aman so closely resembled the Shire, delight over the prospect of being able to spend as much time here as he wished, still among the various fair folk who inhabited the land, and genial annoyance with both Frodo and Olórin for not telling him about this beforehand. Although Olórin's house was not a hobbit hole, it seemed quite pleasant and homey to Bilbo, who quickly grew comfortable there. By the end of that first day, he was willing to admit he would be quite happy to stay for as long as was necessary and even a bit longer.

During his leisurely trip with Elrond and Celebrían, he had quickly admitted that any fears and misgivings he might have had had been quickly dispelled. The lands of Valinor beyond Eldamar and the city of the Valar were breathtakingly beautiful in many different ways, but in none that Bilbo could not comprehend. It made perfect sense, he had realized, for Aman to be so. It was, after all, the last remaining part of Arda that had not been spoiled by Melkor's hate and madness; in it were all the things of which the Ainur had sung, and that they had labored long to make manifest for the Children of Ilúvatar whose world it was to be. Melkor had tried to destroy them beyond recognition in Middle-earth, but he had not succeeded. Though things were different here, there was nothing Bilbo saw during their journey to Lórien that struck him as wholly unfamiliar. It pleased him, in fact, to know that he had been given the privilege to see even a small portion of the world as it had been meant to be, had evil not tainted and twisted it. And though he was mildly miffed at Olórin — whom he continued to insist upon calling Gandalf, declaring that he was too old to break this lifelong habit — for not being more specific when he had asked him to come, it passed swiftly, as he was too delighted by what he had unexpectedly discovered to remain cross for more than a minute. Several days later, when Elrond and Celebrían continued on to visit Celebrían's friends in other parts of the land, the old hobbit had not even a glimmer of a second thought about staying. Between the familiarity of the countryside, the friendliness of its inhabitants, and no lack of food and drink and song and other creature comforts, Bilbo could not have asked for more to convince him to stay.

Time passed. Frodo tried to keep count of the days, but soon realized that in Aman, there were no schedules kept for work or business that required careful attention to what day of the week it happened to be. The people who lived here were attuned to the rhythms of the land in which they lived, and allowed life to continue at that same pace. By some instinct, they knew when certain days arrived and when it was time for things to be done; other than that, they followed the courses of the sun and the moon, and worried not at all about the count of weeks and months and years. That, Frodo supposed, was one of the distinctions between mortals and immortals, though even those who did not die held each day as a precious gift.

Several months passed by Frodo's count, through what would have been the fall and winter in the Shire, though here, the weather remained comfortable, the only difference in the season being that some of the plants went into a sort of resting phase, in which they stored up strength for the spring, when they would blossom and bear fruit yet again. Their leaves did not fall, nor did the grass fade and the flowers die; new blooms arose in the meadows and woodland floors suited to this season, and the birds did not fly off for the winter. During those months, he became very well acquainted with Estë and Irmo, as he and Olórin were often summoned to their mansions, or were on occasion visited by them. Frodo noticed his own condition slowly improving with the help of the Lord and Lady, and also of Olórin, who had greater knowledge than they of mortal existence and suffering, and was currently very well suited to explain to them the difficulties of leading a mortal life, on many different levels. Irmo's original plan to have the Istar be the one to directly assist Frodo in this healing had been abandoned when it became plain that Olórin's own difficulties were not improving, and were gradually growing worse.

The Maia did not attempt to hide those troubles, nor did he make an issue of them, but on occasion, his frustration, and his fear, was plain to Frodo. A sharp word, an expression of distress, a moment of distant silence — the younger hobbit needed no more than that to understand. Bilbo was not quite so perceptive of such things, but then, his younger cousin had always been more thoughtful and contemplative, as well as more sensitive to those around him. His experience with the Ring had heightened those sensitivities, as for Bilbo it had stretched out his life; Frodo had thought he would never be able to look upon this change as anything but a curse, but now, he was grateful for it. It not only aided him in enduring what was necessary for his own healing, but it helped him to grasp how and when he could best help Olórin to prevent his condition from deteriorating more quickly. He was developing a fine instinct for knowing when was a good time to encourage Bilbo to chatter about things he had discussed with the other residents he met during the evening meals or at the local gathering place during the days, when it would be best to draw the Istar into their conversations or activities, and when it was wise to let him be for a time and allow him privacy.

Bilbo was not wholly unaware of Frodo's machinations, and when he was not too distracted by excitement to pick up on his cousin's cues, he was rather adept in doing what was needed to assist. Life in Lórien had been very kind to the old hobbit, giving him back a considerable amount of his more youthful energy and ability. By no means was he even as fit as he had been when he had left the Shire for good, but he was far more alert and capable than he had been since he had given up the Ring. He was not able to go tramping over hill and field as he had in his younger days, but he was quite up to walking about the most settled part of the hill country, exploring it and getting to know its many fascinating residents — and doing whatever Frodo thought was needed at a particular moment to help their host through this rather trying period.

Olórin was well aware of what both hobbits were doing on his behalf, and neither attempted to thwart it nor begrudged it. He was, in truth, quite grateful for it, as it did what he had hoped and helped him fall back into the patterns of mortal life he had been forced to follow in Middle-earth. From time to time, he acknowledged that he chafed under his restrictions and longed to simply be himself again, but he supposed that life as a Man was now a part of what he was, for he would never be able to forget the two thousand years he had spent in that guise. Even so, the hobbits did not let him completely forget what he had been before that sojourn in Endorë, but they managed to find ways of doing so that did not violate the necessities of his current condition. Bilbo's fascination with songs had not diminished over the years; as he was restored to a more lively state, once he saw the harp and realized that his old friend supposedly knew how to play it, he had pestered him with doubts that he could until Olórin gave up and proved it. In that, the hobbit reminded the wizard of Lindarinë and how he had come to own the harp in the first place. Frodo, who was not quite so insistent but nonetheless supported his ersatz uncle in this curiosity, adroitly played the role Ványalos had taken so many years ago, and thus reminded the Maia that no matter how much his life had changed, some things would forever be the same. His friends would be concerned about his well-being and happiness just as he was concerned for theirs, and he was glad of it.

Even so, all the concern and watchfulness had not improved his declining condition. Though he studiously avoided the use of any abilities that would expend power he could not afford to lose, the simple maintenance of a physical body was enough to cause a slow but steady deterioration. Each day, he tired more easily, each morning he woke apparently restored to full vigor, but it slipped away a bit more quickly as the day wore on. Several months after their arrival, shortly after the time the hobbits would have called Yule back in the Shire, the turning of the year, no solution to the wizard's problem had yet been found, though one discovery was made that concerned not only his condition, but Frodo's as well.

“There was not a simple means to examine this matter,” Irmo told them one day after they had been visited by the dream master and his spouse, the latter of whom had departed to rest after aiding Frodo through another phase of his physical recovery. “You have both been injured by evil, yet you did not confront it in the same fashions, and there appeared, at first glance, to be no commonality between your experiences, unless it be the source of that evil, Sauron and the lingering poisons of Melkor in Endorë. There was one other matter, which I initially dismissed, but as I have pondered and examined the situation, I have come to see that it had more bearing upon these circumstances than I had thought. Why is it, Olórin, that you were able to successfully resist the lure of evil throughout your tenure in Middle-earth, even the lesser lure which Aiwendil felt, that led him astray from his mission and rendered him ineffectual against the enemy he had been sent to oppose?”

The wizard smiled crookedly from where he stood near one of the windows in the central hall, a vantage that looked out over the gardens beyond the veranda. “I have often wondered that myself, my lord,” he admitted. “I know that we were chosen in part because of our different natures and abilities, but also in part because we were deemed to be peers of Sauron, though I have never felt myself to be so. The only explanation for this I have ever been able to devise is that I somehow managed to make fewer mistakes than the others, when it came to errors of judgment, choices that would lead to good or to evil. I have never thought that it was because I was better than the others, or somehow blessed in a way they were not.”

Irmo — who was seated in a most comfortable chair near the cold central hearth, having been fussed over by Bilbo, who could not bear the thought of entertaining such exalted guests without offering them more than an average measure of hobbit hospitality — answered with his own small smile, eyes full of a knowing gleam. “Perhaps you did not, but both were true, in their own ways. Of the others, only you and Aiwendil never held notions of personal gain from your work here in Arda, and worthy though he was, he lacked a certain strength of character which you possess, and which helped you greatly throughout your embassy. And though you did not ask for it, nor did any of us perceive the fullness of its meaning until recently, you were indeed blessed in a way they were not, a way that we now believe had much to do in sparing you a part of the injuries of evil from which the others suffered more greatly.”

Bilbo, sitting near the entrance to the kitchen, seemed puzzled by the Vala's remarks, but after a moment, Frodo, who had taken a seat nearer the back windows, made a soft sound of understanding. “The Elven Ring,” he said, seeing the connection. “Narya. None of the other wizards were given such a thing, were they?”

Irmo shook his head. “They were not. It was not planned for Círdan to make such a gift to any of our messengers, yet he was moved to do so when he first met Olórin, despite the fact that he seemed to be the least of all who came. Though the Elven rings of power were not at all akin to Sauron's Ring in nature and effect, they were nonetheless precious and potent things, capable of a great deal within their natural limits, while their power endured. When we thought to examine this aspect of similarity between the two of you, we spoke with Círdan, to discover, if we could, why he was so moved to surrender his ring to a complete stranger. He said that he had lived long and seen much, and was sometimes able to see farther and deeper into the true heart of another than most people. He is indeed one of the First Born, awakened at Cuiviénen when the world was still in twilight, and his sight is keener than some who were born here in the Bliss of Aman. Yet he also admits that he felt strangely moved in his own heart when he first saw the Gray Messenger, as he did at times when he knew he was being given guidance by Ulmo, lord of the waters. But Ulmo denies any part in this; it was not he who gave such inspiration to Círdan, nor did any other of the Valar. We knew of these rings, of course, and of their purported abilities, but our concern was wholly with the One, that presented great danger to all of Arda. The others were the business of those who owned them, and their fates for their bearers to choose. That Círdan made such a choice was no mere whim, for its giving had far greater results than any of us anticipated.”

Olórin paced toward the hearth, momentarily lost in thought. “He offered it to me for support and comfort, or so he said when he surrendered it,” the Maia said. “It did indeed provide that, if not in the ways and measures I might have wished at times. I often felt as if the power it possessed helped to lighten the burdens I was doomed to carry, so that I would not be crushed beneath their ceaseless weight. That alone gave me hope that my mission would not be in vain. Without it, I fear I would have lost heart as the struggle dragged on. I would not have given up, but I would have felt it more keenly.”

“And there you see the blessing you were given, and the common thread of experience you and Frodo shared. Each of you bore a Ring of Power. Its effect upon a mortal body and spirit was after the nature of the One; it stretched out his life even as it tormented him with its weight and malice. It is the gift of his people to have remarkable resistance to such evils, which allowed him to carry out his task, but he was not unharmed by it. And you, who carried one of the Three unsullied by evil, were by its nature protected from it, not enough to keep evil from ever touching and injuring you as our people are affected by it, but enough to slow the poisons and prevent them from consuming you or subverting your mind and your purposes as they did your fellow Istari. Without Narya, you may yet have returned to us, for your heart and your dedication to the will of Lord Eru is powerful, more so than your fellows, but you would have come back to us far more injured and diminished than you are even now.”

Frodo brightened. “Then would it help if we brought Narya from Valmar?” The ring had not been removed from the body Olórin had left behind, and rested with it still.

But Olórin already knew the answer to that. “No. Its power was all but gone by the time we reached these shores, Frodo. By now, it would have faded completely. It was never meant to be a part of Aman, just as the One Ring was a product and problem of Middle-earth, and was fated to meet its end there.”

“Just so,” Irmo agreed. “We here in Aman were aware of the both the power and potential inherent in these seemingly innocuous creations, but as the Eruhíni were meant to be the inhabitants and governors of Endorë, so too had Sauron bound himself and his own fate to that land, following in the path and desires of his own teacher, Melkor. Had one of these things been sent here while it still wielded power, it would have been refused, for they were all enmeshed in the history, and the future, of Middle-earth and its peoples. Yet Círdan chose to surrender his ring to one who was sent as an emissary of the Valar, moved, I now deem, both by his own heart and the hope — but not the control — of a will greater than his own. For though we wished to protect our messengers however we might, the plans we set into motion did not allow us to interfere so directly. We might turn our thoughts to those who sought our guidance and so aid them, or we might make known to those in critical positions a choice they might consider for the betterment of all. We did not even contemplate showing Círdan the notion that he might choose to offer his ring to one of our servants, yet someone did, or so it now seems. And if it was not one of us, there is but one Will that might have done so.”

Olórin stopped his slow pacing to glance sharply at the dream master. “You believe this was prompted by Lord Eru? Why?”

Irmo's smile became wistfully wry. “Need you ask? You have been in His favor ever since you chose to sacrifice yourself for the sake of your company and its greater mission. This you know, but it would appear that He had some interest in your welfare long ago, and that an interest above and beyond the love He shows to all of us, both of the Ainur and Eruhíni. I cannot say why He did this, or why He chose you and not one of the other Istari. Perhaps there is a destiny awaiting you that none of us can see. Perhaps He wished to be certain that this embassy did not fail, and so gave at least one of your number the possibility of some blessing to help ensure it. Or perhaps your amusing notion that you are the youngest of us is not so amusing after all, but is the truth, for Eru Ilúvatar is the Father of us all, and oft times parents have a special place in their hearts for the last of their children. We are not as the Eruhíni; there will be no more of us than those who were made before the beginning of the world. Thus, it is not unthinkable that if you were indeed the last child of His thought to be born, He holds you dear in a way He does not look upon the rest of us. But I truthfully do not know why. All I know is that it was the power of the ring you were given that helped protect you from even greater injury of the spirit.”

The wizard frowned. “Then I was given an advantage, and the others were not....”

“Perhaps so,” the Vala quickly interrupted. “But I do not think it was given because you were deemed less able to carry out your tasks and thus in need of aid. I believe, actually, that this was done more for Círdan's sake than your own. He had lived many years isolated on the western shores of Endorë. He governed his people well and sent aid when it was needed, but seldom did he himself set foot outside his land after the war with Sauron at the end of the Second Age. He was becoming distant from his brethren in Middle-earth, and needed, I suspect, to begin thinking again of the world that lay beyond the Havens. Your coming moved him to do so, and in giving you Narya, he gave to himself a reason to pay closer attention to the rest of Middle-earth and the events that were threatening to tear it apart. There is much he did after your coming that he might not have done, had he not given Narya into the hands of another whom he felt was wise enough to know how to best make use of its gifts. Do not look upon this turn of events as a confirmation of personal weakness, Olórin. Círdan could have chosen otherwise, but in you he saw the strength to do what he could not: use the ring for the benefit of far more than just a small haven in a growing sea of darkness and despair. That it also protected you was but a minor consequence in comparison. Yet even this small thing caused good where otherwise only greater evil might have happened. Perhaps this information is not useful to your current condition, but it may so be. We must continue to think upon it, to see if it might bear fruit, and enlighten us as to why Frodo's healing is progressing well while yours is not.”

Bilbo snorted — softly, in deference to the Vala's presence. “I don't understand,” he said candidly. “If such a ring protected Gandalf when he was in Middle-earth, couldn't another be made now that would do the same thing? Not make him better, perhaps, but at least stop things from growing worse, and let him live his life in a normal fashion.”

“The skill exists, Master Baggins,” Irmo replied, “but the effort would serve no purpose. Aulë, who has such gifts, has long since regretted how Sauron, who was once of his people, took the skills he learned from the master of all such crafts and perverted it to evil. Devices of power should gain their potency from the blessing of Lord Eru, not the instilling of one's own will. It runs contrary to the purpose of Eru Ilúvatar, and however benevolent the initial intent, the use of such items always exacts a toll upon those who use them — the greater the power, the greater the price paid. You but held the One Ring little used in your possession, yet it left a dark and lasting mark upon you. The power of Nenya kept the land of Lothlórien free from blemish and stain, Vilya made safe and fast the haven of Imladris, but not without cost. The use of the rings' power weighed heavily on those who commanded them, darkening their days with cares and burdens, some of which touched those dearest to them. Such an item could be made here in Aman, but none who understand the true price of power would dare to fashion it.”

The dream master sighed. “There are other things we might do to help, but they also would be temporary, and done too often, would have tragic results. We of the Ainur could support Olórin with our own native power, to free him of the restraints now imposed upon his actions, but it would only be an illusion of healing, which would fade quickly, and it would exact its own terrible price. It would be as if you were to pour water again and again into a broken vessel. It will hold the water for a time, and all seems well, but slowly, it seeps away, leaving the vessel empty. In time, as more water is poured upon the broken shards, it causes what is still whole to crumble utterly, until at last it can no longer contain anything at all and falls to dust. Thus would it be if we of his people attempted to return to Olórin a semblance of the life he should have without healing him of the hurt that was done to him. I would gladly give him my own strength if such a thing could cure him, but it would not be a lasting remedy. He would improve for a time, but as he expended that borrowed strength, none would come to replace it, for the damage that had stolen it would not be repaired. Indeed, at length, what began as an act of pity would but hasten the coming of utter diminishment. None of us wish for this to happen; our desire is to see him made whole again. Do you not also wish this for your friend?”

Bilbo cleared his throat and hedged for a moment. “Well, well now, of course I do, I just didn't understand. I can't quite imagine these injuries you and the others have been talking about, but from what you say, it sounds like what happens with us mortals if we have a wound that festers and instead of cleaning and caring for it properly, we just cover it up and hope that it goes away.”

The Vala nodded. “Very much like that. Those parts of Frodo's wounds that have been troubling him are akin to Olórin's though not quite the same; it is easier for you to understand them because they have left physical scars which you can plainly see. But the deepest part of your kinsman's pain is in the poisons of the spirit evil left behind, and that is the portion most difficult to draw out so that he may be cured.”

“But I am getting better,” Frodo pointed out. “I know it will be a long time before I'm completely free of it, but I've been able to feel myself growing stronger and more at peace with each passing day. Why can't you find at least this much of a cure for Olórin?”

“Because we have never known how to heal a spirit that was injured in this way. The shadow that weakens him is rooted in some way we cannot fathom; it came upon him through no fault of his own, and he does not appear to be clinging to it of his own free will. It is as a leech to his strength, a very elusive one, and we have yet to determine how to pry it away and set him free. But that we will do, Frodo, have no fear. If I must call upon Eru Ilúvatar Himself and beg Him to give me the answer, then that I will do. Olórin has served me well for many years; I owe him more than that for his service.”

“My service was offered without any expectation of reward, Lord Irmo,” Olórin told him, “but I am grateful nonetheless. And I am glad to see that Frodo, and Bilbo, are both benefitting from their stay here in Lórien. Perhaps this is a just payment, for I have spent many more years enjoying life here in Lórien than I likely should have, being a servant of Lord Manwë as I am.”

Irmo gave a surprisingly undignified and skeptical snort as he rose to his feet. “The healing and refreshment of Lórien are free to all who come here, for as long as they need or wish it, and you know that well. Indeed, if we did not offer this to all who visit or dwell in this land, what purpose would my lady and I have here in Aman?” Smiling, he placed one hand on the Maia's shoulder. “Worry not, my counselor and friend, Lord Eru has filled this world with myriad answers to all the questions we could ever think to ask. We will find the one you need, ere long.”

The Istar acknowledged the remark with a gracious nod. “Of that, I no longer have any doubt, since it would seem that Lord Eru has been looking after my welfare for many more years than I had realized.”

He then thanked the dream master for having stayed to tell this news, and saw him to the door. Irmo and the others had long since recognized that it would be impolite to simply vanish in front of one of their own who did not dare to use such abilities. When he returned to the hall, Bilbo was still sitting, a frown puckering his face as he thought furiously over all that had been said; Frodo had risen to collect the empty wine goblets, though he was also thinking.

“Do you really think this offers any new hope?” the younger hobbit asked Olórin as he moved to assist Frodo with the cleaning up. “It does explain some things I'd wondered about, but will it make any difference in helping you get better?”

The wizard shrugged. “I would like to think so, and I did not exaggerate when I told Lord Irmo that I did not doubt a cure could be found. I knew when I was sent back after Moria that Lord Eru had taken interest in my mission, but I had thought it merely a reflection of His approval for what I had done in allowing myself to die so that the rest of you might live and carry on. Some of what He said to me at the time could have implied that His interest was considerably more far reaching, and of earlier origin, but I had thought it quite vain to believe such an interpretation was the truth. Apparently, I was in error, and this does encourage me. But I cannot presume to understand more than the tiniest bit of Lord Eru's plans, or His mind. We must choose our own paths, and though our choices may lead to the wonderful ending He plans for the world, the steps we must take to reach it may be dark and terrible, and full of pain. And we may make the wrong choices, and thus fall forever into darkness. I do not want to meet with such an end, and I will make every effort to avoid it, but I have made mistakes before. If I err now, it is possible there will be no returning from the dark abyss.”

Bilbo harrumphed as he pushed himself out of his chair. “Not if your friends have any say in the matter,” he said bluntly. “If this Lord Ilúvatar is as benevolent as you and the Elves and everyone I've met here have been telling me, I cannot believe He could let something like this happen to you of all people and not lift a finger to prevent it! Oh, yes, I know,” he said, waving his hands to forestall whatever Olórin had been about to say. “He gave everyone a will of their own, and if we make mistakes and choose to do evil or just be a witless fool when we should know better, it's our own fault and we must pay the price for it. That makes perfect sense, and I'm glad to know that all the mean-spirited people I've known who never apologized for any harm they caused will likely get their just rewards in whatever end we all come to.

“But that's just my point, Gandalf! You didn't do anything to warrant the same kind of end as Sauron and those other wizards who turned bad! You did everything you were supposed to do, and more, and if you ever did anything evil to merit such an awful punishment, you've done a splendid job of hiding it. Making mistakes is not wicked; even the Valar have done that from time to time. It shames us when our mistakes hurt others by accident, but no one is perfect. Does Lord Eru make no allowances for that? Or for the fact that you became sick like this because of something beyond your control?”

It was quite likely the most impassioned speech Bilbo had given in many years; both his cousin and his host were startled by it. Frodo somehow managed to find his voice first. “He's right, you know,” the younger hobbit said quietly. “I've thought all these same things time and again since we realized you had been hurt by your life in Middle-earth, and I keep coming round to the same thought over and over again. If Lord Eru approves of all you did and you are in His favor, can't He do anything to help you now? You've more than earned it, more than I earned the privilege of coming here and finding hope and life and health again.”

Olórin was silent for some moments, looking at the goblets he had picked up to carry into the kitchen without actually seeing them. Finally, he let loose a soft breath that shivered with regret. “He could,” he answered, “but that does not mean He will, or must. His plans for the world and all in it are sometimes beyond our understanding. If His will requires us to leave it untimely, we can try to oppose it, but in the end, His will always shall prevail. I have served Him faithfully from the moment He made me, and He is the only parent I have ever known. He created us to be His servants and helpers in the marvelous work of shaping and tending the world and guiding as we could the children He made to live in it. I do not want to meet with an unpleasant end, but if He does ask it of me, should I at the last break faith with Him and refuse to accept my part in His will out of selfish pride?”

Both hobbits saw his point, though neither liked it. Bilbo grumbled, “Well, when you put it that way....”

“No,” Frodo said, reluctantly. “If you were going to do that, you might as well have taken the Ring when I offered it to you and turned straightaway to evil, like Melkor and all his followers. But it still seems quite unfair.”

The Maia nodded. “I agree, it does, which is why I am doing my best to believe that all will be well in the end, even if the road is dark and full of pitfalls. I have walked such ways before. I can do so again, if needs be.”

A disgruntled expression twitched across Frodo's face as he carried the dishes he had collected into the kitchen. “I had been under the impression such things would not be needed again, once we reached the West. I had thought that it had not been spoiled by evil.”

“Not spoiled,” Olórin said as he followed the younger hobbit. “Yet still touched by it. Evil deeds have been done here, and each of us carries the seed of evil within us, in that very freedom of will Lord Eru gave to us. We can refuse to allow it to take root and grow so that we ourselves do not become evil, but even the innocent can suffer at evil's hand. Many who died in the Kinslaying had no evil thought and did no evil deed, yet they were injured and killed by those who had allowed that bitter seed to flourish within them. So long as we have a will and the freedom to use it as we would, we cannot avoid such things. And there will always be innocents who are dealt unwarranted ills through no fault or act of their own. The only place where no evil is suffered is in the Timeless Halls where Lord Eru Himself dwells. Arda will forever have that flaw, for Melkor marred the Music almost from its very beginning. Perhaps someday, after the world is changed, this world will be perfected, but for now, we must make the best of the way it is.”

“Which has always been the way of life,” Bilbo said as he joined them in the kitchen. He scowled good-naturedly at his cousin. “Don't keep encouraging him like this, Frodo, or we'll get nothing from him all day but profound wisdom and gloomy remarks. If this is how you act when you feel encouraged, Gandalf, I shudder to think of how dismal you might be when you are disheartened!”

The wizard laughed, the sound shattering the darkening mood that had been growing about them. “I beg your pardon,” he said, still chuckling. “These are very old habits, I'm afraid, and I shall do my best to avoid falling into them overmuch. If you still had questions about the history of this part of Lórien, Bilbo, perhaps when we are finished here, we can go harass Ványalos about it. The rogue doubtless knows as much as anyone on that account, certainly more than I, and I think it would be quite fair if for once, we went to pester him in his own home rather than suffer his invasion of ours!”

**********

Less than a month after Irmo's visit, in a time Frodo reckoned to be late January, Bilbo went off to visit Glorfindel and his kin for several days. The younger hobbit had let him go, confident that nothing would happen while he was gone that Frodo could not deal with alone, or with the help of their neighbors. Nothing did, not precisely, but one morning, Frodo woke and found Olórin already risen and nowhere to be found. Shadowfax was still in area he had made his paddock and pasture, yet there was no sign of his master, and no note left to say where he had gone.

Frodo tried not to be concerned by this while he made his breakfast, but the oddness of the situation nagged him with one worry he could not banish: what if something had happened during the night to cause Olórin's condition to abruptly change for the worse, hastening it so quickly down that dark path that he had already dwindled to nothing? He repeatedly told himself that such an idea was nonsense, that surely, someone would have sensed such a dire turn approaching. But still, the thoughts would not leave him. He was able to choke down no more than a few bites of his meal, and finally decided that he should go consult Ványalos when he heard the sound of a door opening. For a moment, he feared it was the redhead come to tell him the terrible news, but the fear dissipated when he saw Olórin move past the entrance to the kitchen, headed into the main hall. He breathed a sigh of relief as he pushed away from the table and went after his friend.

“Thank goodness!” he said even before he reached the hall. “I was just about to go find Ványalos to see if he knew what had happened to you. I don't mean to be such a frightful nuisance, but when I saw Shadowfax still here....”

The words still unspoken fell silent in his throat, unspoken, when he entered the hall. Olórin was standing at the window where he had stood on the day Irmo had last come to visit, as still as a guard post, looking out upon the leaf-dappled morning light on the garden. Something about the way he stood had caught Frodo's voice and silenced it, something that seemed at once very unusual and disturbingly familiar. After what seemed the longest of all moments, the Maia spoke, softly.

“It was three years ago, this very day. How strange that it seems an age past now, yet only yesterday. I had fought many battles, faced many enemies before, but I had never imagined a struggle against such a terrible foe. Ten days we fought — ten days! How can it seem as if it lasted but a heartbeat's span, yet continued for an eternity? Never had I felt such exhaustion, such dreadful pain. I did not know one could be both frozen and burned at the once, but so it was, even as we fought in our last desperate stand. I scarce expected a mortal shell could endure such torment for more than a moment, but I discovered the truth, and took ten days in the learning.

“He could have won that battle, if he had simply fled from the depths and not answered any attack I offered. I could not have escaped on my own; I did not know the way, and I could not have found it alone, injured as I already was from the battle above and the long fall engulfed in his fire. But he wanted to crush me, not merely leave me behind to die in the darkness far beneath the earth, nor had he wanted to defeat me in some nameless place where none could see his victory. If he had not been so impatient and eager to attain it in his own way, I would have died far from the sight of any living thing in a nameless sea as cold as the Void, and he could have returned to the world above in triumph. To this day, I do not know how I was able to drag myself out of the icy depths; I was already exhausted, frozen, burned, in pain unlike anything I had ever felt or imagined. I continued the fight only because I knew I must, until either my enemy was defeated, or I was myself slain. I cannot say where I had found the strength to go on, but for ten days I did, and only with the last of all the strength I had left to me was I able to cast him down. When that was spent.... I had thought death something to mourn, something to pity — but I know better, now. It is indeed a gift, a reward to the weary and broken who can go no farther. It is a release from bondage, not cruel punishment. Three years ago this day, I learned that lesson. Did I learn it well enough, or must I be instructed yet again?”

Even though he could tell that the final question was not meant for him to answer, Frodo could sense that Olórin had been speaking to him, though he had not once turned in his direction, nor had his voice raised above that wind-soft murmur. The hobbit did not even try to venture a reply to the rhetorical query. “I didn't know you remembered your fight with the Balrog like this,” he said instead as he stepped farther into the hall, understanding that the Maia had been speaking of that conflict, and of its end, which had been death for both the victor and the defeated. “I thought only I had such dreadful memories that I relived each year. Why did you not say anything of this before?”

“Because it would have served no purpose. I knew that when the time was right, I would return home. I thought I would be able to put it behind me here, let time and distance and healing take the sting from the memories, as they had after my heart was torn apart by Aránayel. And to speak of it to you would have only deepened your pain, for you already had heaped yourself with enough blame for all that happened during the journey of the Ring to the fire. I only spoke of it now because this is the first time since my fall from the Bridge that you and I were in the same place when the day of my death came round again. Unless I were to leave you alone until the day is done, I could not hide this from you, and I have promised not to try. Speaking of it does help, actually, for I know that you understand such inescapable memories and the feelings they stir. I am glad that coming here has been able to help you find some measure of the relief I had thought I would know much more quickly and easily.”

The hobbit frowned. “And that is yet another unfairness, since you were the one who asked leave for me to come here, and this is your home. Can't you ask Ványalos or Lord Irmo or someone to help you the way you helped me the day after we arrived?” It disturbed Frodo to remember that what the Maia had done on that day was quite possibly what had led to the hastening of the weakness that now would not leave him.

Olórin finally turned his face away from the window and looked down at his small friend, a sad smile in his eyes. “Perhaps, but it isn't necessary. My struggle with the Balrog left me burned and frozen and broken, but I was not poisoned by him as you were by Shelob and the Morgul knife, nor maimed in the way Gollum tore the Ring from your hand. The memories are dark, I do not deny it, and they trouble me deeply, but I feel no pain such as you feel from the reawakening of your wounds. You still live in that same body which evil hurt and maimed; mine that suffered so was left behind three years ago, crumbled to dust. We both bear scars that continue to cause us pain and grief, but they are not quite the same, for we are not the same.” The smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “I left for a little while this morning to walk in the woods and think, alone, so that when I returned, I could tell you the truth even before you asked what was troubling me. I had expected to return before you woke. I'm sorry if my unexpected absence frightened you.”

Frodo's cheeks colored ever so faintly. “Only because I have a terribly over-active imagination, I'm afraid. After seeing what happened to Saruman when Wormtongue killed him on the very doorstep of Bag End, my mind kept conjuring up images of something of the same sort happening to you, because you'd taken a sudden horrible turn for the worse. You don't look especially well this morning,” he added, raking the taller Maia with a critical eye. Olórin looked paler than usual and tired, a weariness that dimmed the sparkle in his eyes and made his skin seem like the translucent glass of a lamp in which the flame has sunk low and is about to gutter and go out. “Perhaps we should speak to Lord Irmo, or Ványalos, at least. I haven't done much good in trying to help you get well again, but I can at least go to fetch someone who can....”

But the wizard shook his head. “It's not necessary, and you've done as much as anyone else has been able to do — more, in fact, since seeing that you are at last on the mend has done my heart good. I'm tired, my dear Frodo, nothing more. My sleep last night was troubled by unsettling dreams, no doubt because I knew this day was coming, and did not welcome it. You've told me you have always anticipated such anniversaries with dread.”

The hobbit conceded the point. “I did, and I don't suppose it ever helped that when such days arrived, I was in less than the best of health because I had slept so poorly for several nights before. I was fortunate to have Lady Arwen's gem to help me through the most difficult days.” A sudden thought occurred to him, brightening his whole demeanor. “I still have it, you know, though Lady Estë asked me to set it aside when she began my healing in earnest. Might it have some strength in it as Narya did, to protect you? It came from the Elves, and its power has not waned.”

“True, but its power was naught but a pale reflection of even Narya, the least of the three Elven rings. It could not give such protection, though I thank you for offering it. I think it would be best if I simply tried to live the day as I would any other, and neither resist nor invite the troubling memories. There are enough tasks that need to be done that we have been neglecting, and if you would bear me company to attend them, I should require no more than that to keep myself sufficiently distracted. The garden is especially in need of attention, or we will soon have a snarl of unruly growth not even Lady Yavanna could hope to untangle!”

**********

After Frodo cleared away the remains of his breakfast, they set to tending the garden, taking their time about it and sharing lighter tales of their past history with other plant life. Olórin recounted several incidents during his recent life in Middle-earth that had convinced him that cockleburs and nettles were as much a product of Melkor's evil as orcs and trolls, while Frodo told of his more amusing youthful forays into gardening which had been so abysmally unsuccessful, he had been all too easily persuaded by other lads to engage in pilfering the crops of Farmer Maggot rather than continue to murder poor unsuspecting plants under his care. They had been at work for some time and were laughing over Olórin's tale of how he had first discovered the existence of cockleburs after unwittingly making camp after dark in a virtual bed of them, only to wake and find his clothes and hair and beard full of the nuisancy things, when Frodo, about to carry a basket-load of root vegetables to the house, happened to look up and see a shadow pass over the sun. He looked again, more carefully, then gasped.

“It's an eagle,” he said, pointing to the huge bird gliding high overhead. “But see how large it is! Why, I think your friend Gwaihir would seem but a hatchling, beside this one.”

Olórin turned his gaze to where Frodo was pointing, shading his eyes with one slightly dirty hand. “He would indeed,” he agreed. “That is one of the eagles of Lord Manwë, I am not certain which. Doubtless others have been born since I was sent to Middle-earth, and I have not had an opportunity to become familiar with the descendants of those I knew of old, the true eagles and not those of my people who served Lord Manwë in that form. They are seldom seen far beyond the Pelóri, unless he sends them on errands.”

“It's's beautiful. Do you think perhaps he might be going to see Lord Irmo and Lady Estë?”

After a moment, the Maia shook his head. “No, I think perhaps he is coming here. He is already circling to land, and he appears to be headed for the clearing in front of the house.”

The hobbit's eyes widened. He found himself trembling. “Lord Manwë doesn't send them to take people away, does he? Will Shadowfax be frightened of him?” He felt as if he were babbling, asking silly questions, but the words tumbled from his lips, unable to be stopped.

Olórin chuckled as he climbed to his feet. “No, and no. Calm yourself, Frodo. There is no reason whatsoever Lord Manwë would ever banish you from Aman now that you are here, so put that absurd notion from your head before it has a chance to take root. Shadowfax has seen Great Eagles before, if none quite this large, and he has faced the Lord of the Nazgûl without so much as flinching. He will not be bothered by this. But we should go see what is afoot, since the eagles do not come here without some purpose.”

When the reached the front door, however, they did not see the eagle settled on the ground. Instead, they saw a person coming toward the house to meet them, a passenger whom the eagle had swooped down to deposit on the ground before soaring into the skies once again. As the shadow of the great bird's wings passed, Olórin recognized the blue-clad newcomer. “Eönwë! To what do we owe the honor of this visit?”

The tall herald smiled as he climbed the stairs to join them on the porch. He was still a striking figure even without the ceremonial garb in which he had greeted them upon their arrival, though to Frodo's eye, there was a shadow in his expression that had nothing to do with those cast by the eagle or the nearby trees. “Does friendship require an excuse to prompt a visit?” he asked, his glance and smile catching and holding the hobbit as well. “I have been curious to see the results of deeds for which I was partially responsible—“ A sweeping gesture indicated the new house. “—and it has been but a few days less than three years since I last was here, before this place was changed. Will you begrudge me this as a call of courtesy?”

Olórin's answering smile was not dimmed by any shadow; there was the sound of humor in his voice, the raillery of long-time friends jesting in matters with which they are completely at ease. “No indeed, but I note that you came hither in a most unusual fashion! The eagles of the highest peaks of the Pelóri are as large and swift as their ancestors of ancient legend, able to carry many full-clad warriors upon their backs without trouble, but not even they are as swift as the thought that can carry any of our people from one place to another in less than the blink of an eye. Was it but a coincidence that one of Lord Manwë's eagles was bound in this direction for other reasons, and he offered to carry you with him so that he would have company upon the journey? That is not the typical habit of those who are well used to the lonely heights at the very roof of the world.”

Eönwë's smile dimmed to wistfulness as his glance returned to his fellow Maia. “You miss little, my old friend, as ever,” he said softly. “No, it was no coincidence, and my visit is not simply a call to satisfy my curiosity, intrigued though I might be to see what others have wrought, in part at my suggestion. Lord Manwë sent me to ask if you would please come to Ilmarin, for he wishes to speak with you as soon as may be.”

Olórin nodded his understanding. “I am as always his servant, no matter where I happen to reside. I will, of course, obey his command, if I may have but a few moments to clean away the dirt from the garden.”

“There is no need for haste — and this is no command, Olórin. It is our master's request, not a summons. There are matters he desires to discuss with you, but if you do not wish to come, you may refuse, without regret or shame, not matter what your reason.”

The wizard had begun to turn back into the house; something in the herald's voice gave him pause. He studied Eönwë for several lengthy moments before speaking. “As I was told I might do so if I wished, when I was summoned to the Máhanaxar to decide the matter of whether I should return to Middle-earth to complete my unfinished tasks as an Istar? It is not our master's habit to extend social invitations to his servants, save on days of festival and at times when there is clear reason for celebration. I somehow sense that neither of those situations apply today. And never before have I been asked to come to Ilmarin as a guest and not in the service of the Lord and the Lady. What are you not telling me, Eönwë? Do you know what it is Lord Manwë wishes to discuss?”

The eyes of the Istar met those of the Herald, both the same vivid yet deep shade of blue, which they shared with the Vala whom they both served. Eönwë did not look away, but he closed those eyes for a moment before answering, as if he had felt a brief stab of pain. “I know,” he said, “but I am not free to speak of it. It is important, Olórin, that much I can tell you. I would say more if I had not been enjoined against it, and I think you would want to know what you will hear. More than that, I cannot say, except that if he so desires, Master Baggins may come with us, for what will be said might affect him as well.”

Olórin paled. “Then this matter must be important indeed, for never before has any mortal set foot upon the heights of Taniquetil, with or without the leave of Lord Manwë.”

He glanced at Frodo, saw the suddenly troubled expression on the face that had been laughing but a minute before, then pushed aside his own uneasiness and favored the hobbit with a smile that at least appeared genuine. “You are being offered a great honor, Frodo, to be the first of the Second Born to see the magnificence that is Ilmarin. Few of even the greatest of the Eldar are permitted there. You need not come if you do not wish, but I do not think it likely you will be made such an offer again. If you have any desire at all to see the heights of Taniquetil, this is the time to satisfy them.”

Frodo did not need to debate the matter. “Have you decided to go?” he asked. “For if you have, then I will go, too, but if you prefer to stay, then so shall I. I would not feel right, going alone, and doubt I would be welcome to come without you, in any case.”

“Perhaps not, and I would not want you to be robbed of such a unique opportunity merely because I was suffering from a lapse into stubbornness! Very well, Eönwë, we will both come, as soon as we have cleaned away the dust of our work. And I will trust that whatever it is Lord Manwë wishes to discuss, it will not be as grim as your mysterious words seem to forebode.”

The wizard would have felt better about his decision had the herald answered with even the vaguest agreement. But Eönwë remained silent, and Olórin could not dispel the worry that settled upon his heart to both clutch and pierce it like the icy claws of despair.

XV

Ever after, Frodo found it difficult to describe the experience of his visit to the home of Manwë and Varda atop Taniquetil. The flight was surprisingly swift, as each stroke of the great eagle's wings carried them much farther than the fastest horse ever born could hope to run in the same span of time. Lórien was soon far behind them as they climbed ever higher in the skies above Aman, so high that even the clouds were left far below, and the very air felt thin and cold. Something, Frodo knew not what, protected them in these surroundings. As they approached the summit of Taniquetil, white with everlasting snows, gleaming with the light of the halls built upon it, the hobbit saw the sky itself seemingly turn to deep blue glass, through which the stars of the heavens could be seen even though to the world below, the sun was near the noon; at this tremendous height, it seemed but the most brilliant and nearest of all the great stars in the firmament. The mighty eagle bore them ever upward, above the halls of Ilmarin, and as he wheeled toward them, gliding in preparation to land, Frodo beheld the legendary mansions of the Elder King and his queen. He saw the domes and the walls of purest white, the pristine courts and gleaming windows that looked out over all of Arda, but what he remembered most was the light, the brilliance that shone through every part of it, as if all had been fashioned of naught but radiance made tangible.

Nothing but the sound of rushing wind could reach his ears while they were in flight, but as the eagle at last slowed and settled, bringing them to a broad court that could easily accommodate its magnificent size, the hobbit heard music, very faint and distant, so soft that he almost thought he was imagining it. All else was silent, save for the breath of the wind and the soft murmur of water flowing in a fountain at the center of the round courtyard. It seemed very strange to him, though he did not know why; but Olórin noticed it as well.

“It seems unusually quiet today,” the wizard observed, the ceaseless wind blowing long strands of his pale hair across his face as he looked up at the white walls and gleaming domes about them. “It has been long since last I was summoned here, but if there is one thing I recall above all else, it was the singing of the Vanyar who dwell here. I remember several occasions on which you and Ilmarë asked if they might be told to be silent for a time so that you could better concentrate upon important tasks. Is something amiss?”

“No,” Eönwë replied, and even to Frodo's ears, the answer seemed to come too quickly. “I was told there had been a birth among the kin of Ingwë who dwell on the lower slopes, a rare thing among his people, these days. Those of the Vanyar who live here in Ilmarin have gone for the day to celebrate this great blessing with their kin.”

“A rare event indeed,” Olórin agreed with a smile. “Is this why I was asked to come, so that I might hear with my own ears what I think has not been heard in Ilmarin since the day the Vanyar came to live among us: peace and quiet?”

“Nothing so simple, I fear,” Eönwë said, sighing. “Though I may not say more, I can tell you that Lord Manwë and Lady Varda have both watched the progress of your healing with keen interest. Whatever else may be said, do not doubt that our master has been concerned for your well-being, and Master Frodo's.”

The wizard's smile faded; he looked at the herald with a puzzled expression as Eönwë led them to a beautiful archway of pearl and adamant, not the most impressive of the many entrances facing the fountain court, but quite lovely nonetheless. “I have never doubted it. Your words do nothing to ease my mind, Eönwë. I may have been forbidden the use of all my abilities as a Maia, but I do not need them to tell that something here is very wrong, and that it somehow concerns me.”

The herald made no answer. They moved through the arch into a well-appointed entrance hall, elegantly embellished with decorations and furnishings of white and silver and many shades of blue. The tiles beneath their feet were glazed in such a way that it looked as if they were walking upon the sky itself, flecked with white clouds; the translucent dome that arched above them shimmered with adornments that made it resemble a star-filled sky at midnight. Several more entrances were set into the walls of the hall, one each at the four compass points; Eönwë led them to the largest, a pair of tall silver and sapphire doors opposite the arch through which they had entered. He laid his hand upon the left of the doors and was about to open it when he paused, and turned to the wizard.

“I do not know how matters will settle in the end, Olórin,” he said, his voice quiet but intense. “But whate'er betides, please remember that I will ever be your friend, as will the many others of our people and the Eldar — and the Atani,” he added, nodding briefly toward Frodo, “who both respect and love you.”

Olórin regarded him, his face full of grave perplexity. “I do not doubt this, either. You do not encourage me — indeed, your words darken my heart. I think it best that you say no more, if you cannot speak plainly. Whatever lies before me, let it be revealed as it will.”

Frodo could not have agreed more, as he also found Eönwë's remarks troubling. The herald nodded his acquiescence to his fellow Maia's request, and laid his hands against the double doors. They opened both effortlessly and soundlessly, and through their high arching entrance, Eönwë led them.

Frodo had not known what to expect upon the other side; what he saw as they entered seemed both surprising and appropriate. As with all else he had seen here, everything was made of white and blue and silver and crystal and all the things that spoke of the skies and the stars and all the heavens above the world. The room was quite large by hobbit standards, but remarkably conservative by those of the Big Folk, especially what Frodo had seen of kings and queens and other nobility. The nearer portion of the room reminded Frodo very strongly of some he had seen in Rivendell, an inner chamber appointed for the comfort of one or two persons, not a sleeping room, but rather a parlor where one spent private time in study or reading or conversing with kin or close friends. The wall opposite the door was scarcely a wall at all, being instead a series of archways that opened onto a broad terrace with no roof and — to Frodo's astonishment — no rail. Nothing stood between the marble and crystal balcony and what lay beyond: a sheer drop of what appeared to be many thousands of feet, straight down the most precipitous rise of the snow-covered stone of Taniquetil itself. Though he had grown somewhat accustomed to heights in his travels, and had not been too badly disturbed by the flight on the eagle's back, this was more than Frodo's hobbit instincts could manage, and he made a point to stay well clear of it.

Fortunately, it did not appear as if they would need to step out onto that lofty terrace. As they entered the room, Frodo noted that Manwë was already waiting for them, standing before the arch farthest to the right, looking out at the skies above and beyond the treacherous balcony. The wind moved constantly through the chamber, not strongly, but as gentle breezes that move the air and keep it forever clean and fresh. It stirred the Vala's white hair and blue robes, the latter of which were surprisingly simple, the garb of someone at ease in their home and not presenting an image of majesty before the rest of the world. He did not turn or move in any way when they entered, but he nonetheless knew that they were there.

“You may leave us now, Eönwë,” the king said quietly, his tone very much akin to that of the herald's when he had arrived in Lórien: subdued, threaded with some indefinable sadness. “I thank you for bringing my guests.”

Eönwë hesitated before acknowledging his master's words with a bow. To Frodo, it seemed that there was something he wanted to say, but thought better of it before uttering a sound. “I am ever at your service, my lord,” he said as he bowed, then paused to glance at those he had brought before departing. His steps made only the faintest sound, as did the closing of the doors behind him.

Since they had not been given leave to speak or to sit, Frodo followed Olórin's example in remaining where they were, awaiting some indication from Manwë as to what they should do next. The Vala continued to gaze beyond the terrace for more than a minute, silent, then at last turned to his guests. It was the same face Frodo remembered from the day of their arrival, but without the easy cheer and geniality he had shown that day. Manwë looked troubled — almost, Frodo thought, like a young hobbit who knows he has neglected his chores and feels both the guilt and the fear of punishment inevitably to come. Why he might be in such a mood, Frodo could not begin to imagine; briefly, he hoped that he was not misreading that expression, and that they, not Manwë, should be the ones in fear of punishment.

But there was no rebuke or hint of it in his voice when he spoke. “I am glad you chose to come, Olórin — and you as well, Master Frodo. I have no doubt that both of you are at a loss to understand why I extended such an invitation.”

Now free to speak, the wizard did not hesitate. “Completely, my lord, especially since Eönwë mentioned that you had forbidden him to explain it to us, yet what little he was able to say left me feeling quite uneasy. I can think of nothing either of us have done to warrant your displeasure, so I can but assume that the disquiet I sense is somehow related to the matter of healing which both Frodo and I share. I am certain you have held council with Lord Irmo and Ladies Estë and Nienna, so am I wrong in concluding that this visit might involve some unpleasant news concerning what they might have discovered about it?”

To Frodo's great relief, Manwë shook his head. “No. They have kept all of us abreast of this situation, and we are pleased to know that Frodo's condition has been steadily improving, as has that of his kinsman. They have, in fact, improved more quickly than we had anticipated. But perhaps you are not entirely in error, for we have also been distressed to hear that no progress has been made on your account, and that while it is not happening as swiftly as the hobbits' healing, your condition nonetheless continues to deteriorate, with no solution yet in sight. This does trouble us, and it especially troubles me, for I am the one wholly to blame for what has happened to you.”

It did not take more than a moment for the implications of those softly-spoken words to register on both the hobbit and the Maia. Frodo's expression became one of confusion, suspecting that he must have heard wrong or misunderstood what had been said; Olórin's went quite still, changing little but for an impression of utter disbelief in his eyes. “That cannot be possible, my lord,” the latter answered, certain this must be so. “What happened to me was the result of dwelling too long amid the evils of our Enemies in a form too vulnerable to their more devious attacks. How could you have done aught to be blamed for this harm I suffered?”

Manwë took a very deep breath, and again released it in a sigh. “It is not as long a tale as one might think, and I had very much hoped that it would never be necessary for you to hear it. But as time passes and Irmo and Estë can only report that you grow weaker, not stronger, I know that I cannot keep silent. Irmo advised me against this, saying it might only make matters worse, yet there is also the possibility that if you know all of what brought you to this pass, you who have actually lived through it and not merely viewed it from afar might see in this the answer that eludes those of us who are trying to help. As the halflings are themselves a part of the mortal race, I felt it might be wise to let them share in this, for they have unique insights into such things that we do not. But I also thought it would be kind to spare the elder Master Baggins this burden, for even here in Aman, his years will not be many, and they should not be dimmed if at all possible.”

He turned to Frodo. “If you wish to leave now before you hear aught that might distress you, you are free to do so. The choice is yours.”

The hobbit sniffed softly. “If you think I might be able to help if I know what you're about to say, then I certainly want to stay, Lord Manwë. Olórin has been my friend all my life, and I have promised to do anything I can to help him now. But I don't understand. Everything I've heard thus far about why he is in such difficulty said that it was the forces of evil in Middle-earth that hurt him. As far as I am aware, you have not set foot there since the end of the First Age. How could you possibly be responsible for what happened?”

The sadness that filled the Vala's face was so deep, Frodo had to blink to hold back unbidden tears. “By being responsible for sending Olórin when I knew I should not.”

The wizard made a skeptical sound. “Lord Irmo has spoken of such things, that I should not have been sent to Endorë because of my feelings toward the Eruhíni, but you are certainly not to blame for that, my lord. They are not a part of what caused my troubles, and you did not use them to persuade me to go as one of your messengers....”

“No, I did not,” Manwë agreed. “I commanded you to go instead — and therein lies my fault.”

“That is still not a reason to blame yourself for this. I am your servant; you asked me to do something that clearly needed to be done. I should have accepted the task and not refused it, out of loyalty to you, if naught else. If anything, I am to blame for my circumstances, for it is a faithless servant who shrinks from a task out of personal fear, wishing instead to leave it to another so that he need not take the risk and remain safe while others walk into peril.”

But the sadness in the Vala's expression deepened, and mingled with pain. “Oh, Olórin, you do not understand. I am grateful to you for attempting to exonerate me, but you have not allowed me to explain more fully. Sit, and hear me out before you say another word.”

He gestured to simple chairs of carved white stone with blue and silver cushions, near one of the arches overlooking the terrace. When his guests were seated, he took yet another deep breath, and continued. “When we Valar first conceived the plan to send our Maia servants as messengers to oppose Sauron, we knew that this could not be done by the means we had used before. In our struggles against our Enemies, each time we have intervened in the affairs of Endorë by traveling to it personally, disaster has followed. Even when we attempted to do so from afar, the use of power to counter the dark powers has only ended in tragedy. How much longer could Endorë endure such upheavals without finally being struck by a cataclysm so tremendous, naught could hope to survive? We feared making such a mistake yet again, so we decided that this time, our intervention must be more subtle, using persuasion rather than might to achieve our ends.

“Yet even if we sent only Maiar to do this, it would be difficult. Those who went could not themselves be weak, for the task of uniting the peoples of Middle-earth through love and persuasion would require great wisdom, intelligence, and the ability to adapt to whatever situations might arise. If such persons were sent unfettered, free to use all the abilities and knowledge at their disposal, in time, frustration alone might prompt them to use those powers to simply have done with subtlety and achieve the end more quickly, to the detriment of the Eruhíni — and very possibly all of Endorë. So it came to us that the solution to this problem was to send our messengers as those whom they were to succor. In the forms of true Men, they would come to know and understand far better the people they were meant to help, and the weight and restrictive nature of that flesh would impose a diminishment of power and knowledge that would prevent them from freely using their native abilities as they would. But although we can rehouse the fëar of the Elves, that is but rebuilding something which was lost after the patterns of the old. To make a wholly new body which is of true flesh, not a fana, requires an act of creation, and that is beyond our power and authority. So we decided to ask the counsel of Lord Eru, to seek guidance, and His aid in constructing these bodies for our messengers, should He approve of our plan.

“All of this, you know, as it was made clear to you before you were sent as one of the Istari. What you do not know is what happened before that council at which those who would go were selected. I was the one who presented our plan to Lord Eru and asked for His help. He told me that the idea had merit, and could indeed succeed without causing calamity to Middle-earth, though because of this diminishment of power, the chances for failure were greater. And, He said, there were perils to inhabiting living flesh that we did not and could not understand; thus, all those who were to go must be warned of the danger before they departed. He would fashion the bodies for our messengers and place their spirits into them, but we were to be extremely careful in our selection, and all should make this choice of their own free will. None, He advised, should be commanded to go, for if such were to be done, tragedy would result, of a kind we would bitterly regret.”

Manwë had been looking directly at Olórin, his gaze fixed upon his servant while he spoke; so it was that he saw the Maia's eyes widen and his face grow ashen. “But... my lord, you ordered me to go....”

The Vala closed his eyes against what he could see growing in that suddenly stricken face, something he could not bear to behold. “I know,” he near-whispered. “And that is wherein lies my blame, Olórin. I was counseled not to do this by Eru Himself, yet I did not heed that counsel, as I ought have done. You need not ask why; the answer is all too plain, for it is what lies at the root of every supposedly well-meant error that harms another: pride. When we held the council to put forth this plan to our servants, we asked for those who were willing to be a part of it to step forward, and only Curumo and Alatar responded. When no others would come forth, I began to feel the rise of fear within me, for I knew both of them well enough to realize that skilled and learned and powerful though they might be, they did not have a sufficient store of the wisdom that would be needed to carry out their mission while living a life in which both their learning and their power would be greatly inhibited. They were also proud after the fashion of those who have great ambition, and desired to be held in reverence; they knew little of how to accept an unassuming role and do a thing only because it must be done, not because it will win them renown or praise.

“In my growing alarm, I could think only one thought: that if none but ones such as they took part in this embassy, we would fail yet again, and Endorë itself would be forever lost to Sauron and the shadow of evil, Melkor's evil, which we had tried and failed to fully uproot of old. I could not bear that thought, for we had already inflicted much harm on Arda when in earlier days, we did not consider our actions well enough, or pondered only the immediate results, not those of a much wider scope. Alone, Curumo and Alatar would have certainly failed; the task was greater than any two of your people could manage, least of all two who would swiftly grow impatient to see their goal achieved, by whatever means necessary. What was needed was greater wisdom, humility, and patience, and as I realized this, the answer came to me that you could bring to this mission all those qualities. Yet when I asked, you resisted and refused, and my fear grew all the more. I do not know if it was that fear or some foresight which prompted it, but I felt very strongly that you must go, that I could not allow you to refuse this task or all would come to ruin. So though I attempted to make light of it in my words, saying that your own fear of Sauron was all the more reason why you should oppose him, I did what I knew I should not, and ordered you to go as my messenger.

“Later, after you had acquiesced and all was being made ready to prepare for the effort, I saw my error, but I could not bring myself to revoke my command. Though I clearly recalled what Lord Eru had said, I felt that I could suffer whatever tragedy might befall me if in the end, it allowed this mission to succeed. Only long after you had departed for Endorë did I realize the bitterness of which Lord Eru had spoken: that the tragedy to come would not fall upon me, the one who gave the command, but upon the one to whom it had been given, who did not deserve such a reward for his faithful service.”

Manwë laughed, but the sound was hollow and self-mocking, heavy with grief. “Fool that I was, I thought that the tragedy which was doomed to befall you came when you faced the Balrog of Moria and were slain. I did not even begin to see the horrible truth until you returned to us, and I perceived for myself the scars that mortal life and so many centuries of human exposure to the evil at work in Endorë had left upon your very being. Even then, I did not fully understand your plight; I felt certain you would be quickly healed, now that you were home. It shames me deeply to realize that I was in error yet again.”

Frodo listened to the Vala's quiet but earnest speech with a blend of astonishment and some other emotion he could not define — pity, perhaps, for Manwë's apparent naivete, or trepidation, a fear that there might indeed be no answer to Olórin's predicament. His astonishment came of the realization that this mistake had been made by the king of the Valar himself, whom Frodo had thought was too inherently good and noble to knowingly commit such an act.

He could not tell for certain, but he suspected that Olórin shared in his astonishment, for that was the only thing he could read in the wizard's otherwise blank and pale face. His eyes were fixed on his master as those of someone who beholds, unexpectedly, the shattered fragments of some beautiful and precious thing they had not believed could ever be broken. Frodo could almost feel the churning of thoughts and feelings within him, confused, upset, undecided, aggrieved, aghast — it was impossible to tell if any one was stronger than the others.

At length, Manwë spoke again. “Lord Eru told me naught but the truth when He said it would be bitterly regretted if any of us did this thing He advised me against, and none regret it more bitterly than I. I cannot undo what I have done, yet it eats at my heart to know that if I had been less anxious to succeed and more patient to do what was right, this would not have come to pass. Now, I can only ask your forgiveness for my terrible folly.”

Olórin did not yet look away from his master. He continued to stare at him for what felt a very long time to Frodo, then slowly rose from where he sat and at last turned from the Elder King. He now faced the broad white terrace and the open skies beyond; the wind stirred his pale hair and tugged at his white robes, the only motion about him as he stood with his back to his companions. Finally, he spoke. “You wished for me to go as your messenger because you felt I had wisdom and patience and humility enough to help the work of the Istari succeed, despite the obstacles pitted against us.”

“Yes,” Manwë agreed with a nod as deep as his voice. “I could think of no one better suited to achieve such an impossible task, and I was so certain of this, I knew the mission would fail if you were not a part of it.”

Olórin remained motionless for several moments more. He then turned to face Manwë, his eyes filled with a sudden fury that even to Frodo felt like a physical blow. Yet despite the blazing anger, his face was damp with tears, anger commingled with anguish. “Then if you knew me so well, my lord, why did you not trust my much-vaunted wisdom enough to tell me the truth? When I said that I feared Sauron and felt myself too weak to oppose him, could you not have explained to me the reasons behind your desire rather than disregard the counsel of Eru Ilúvatar Himself to force my compliance? You knew that harm would come of it. Even if you did not know how or in what way or time it would occur, you had been warned. All of we who are called the Ainur, from the least to the greatest, were brought into the world to serve Him — you above all others! How could you disobey Him to achieve an end which you could have reached by simply telling me why you wished me to go? Did you think so little of me that you could not even trust me to understand your reasoning? Did your pride deem it necessary to force this upon me, when you should have known that I would do whatever was asked of me, no matter how perilous or difficult, if only I was allowed to understand the need? Was it from you, my lord and king, that Aránayel learned how to betray and destroy those who have given naught but faithful service and unwavering devotion?”

His last question was asked with such sharp bitterness, Frodo grimaced even as Manwë lowered his head. “You have every right to be angry with me, Olórin,” the Vala said quietly, “even more than I am angry with myself. But I did not mean to betray your trust....”

“No indeed,” the Maia replied, his calm facade crumbling like a dam of sticks and dust before a raging flood. “I would not think such a thing had entered into your mind, for that is but the smallest of misdeeds when measured beside the betrayal of Lord Eru's will!”

“You do not understand...!”

“Yes, my lord, I do not! Of all of the Ainur, you are the greatest, the one nearest to Eru Himself, the one who knows most clearly and fully His will and His plans for all Arda. We had not yet come to the last notes of our song when the Istari were sent to Middle-earth; your knowledge of what was to be had not reached its end. The One Himself told you Do not do this! and yet you chose to do that very thing. Oh, you say that you thought whatever tragedy was to come would fall upon you, and I will not deny that you spoke the truth as you believed it to be — but why, my lord, why did you not pause to consider that ever in the past, when ills have come as the result of your actions, never did the blow they caused fall upon you? You have known me from well nigh the beginning of our existence, yet did you truly know me so little that you doubted my willingness to help, regardless of the consequences, if only I knew that my help was truly needed? Did your wisdom fail you at last?”

A lesser being might have answered with anger, but Manwë was not of that ilk; he bore the rebuke as just, for he knew too well his own responsibility, and what he had done to cause such merited outrage. “It would seem that it has. I may stand as the regent of Lord Eru here in Arda, but I am not Him, and when I err, it seems always that I do so to my everlasting regret, and the pain of others. Yet even admitting my fault does not mitigate my blame. I have no means to make right what I have done to you by my wrongful choices; I can only ask for your forgiveness, and hope that others will find the way to amend my mistakes.”

Olórin glared at the Vala in silence for the span of several heartbeats, then spoke in a low voice of frighteningly level intensity. “Two thousand years ago, I would have given what you ask, had you but told me what you had done before you sent me away to live a life you could not possibly understand, toiling toward a goal you had scarce hope could be achieved, and at the last drawing ever closer to an end against which you had been warned, but did not heed. I will pay the price of your errors and misjudgments, my lord, for I myself have made many which I deeply regret, and it befits what I am and always have been to make such a sacrifice for another. But I cannot grant you forgiveness to ease your conscience. I am not the one you have most greatly wronged; I am but the one from whom the penalty will be exacted. Let it be so, then, and let it come swiftly. But the forgiveness you seek is not mine to give. All I can offer is my life in payment for your deliberate betrayal of Lord Eru's will.”

Before either of his companions could react in any way, he turned and swiftly strode out onto the terrace, increasing the pace of his stride until he was running across the tiles of adamant and crystal, headed directly and without hesitation toward the edge that was guarded by no kerb or rail.

Frodo saw where he was going, what he was doing, and in utter horror sprang from his seat. He did not think to ask Manwë to intervene, did not even notice whether or not the Vala was reacting at all; he only knew that somehow, he had to stop his friend before it was too late. “Olórin!” he cried, the words torn from his throat in utter anguish. “Gandalf, no...!!!”

But before the cry had time enough to reach Frodo's ears, the Maia raced over the edge of the precipice, fell from sight, and was gone.

XVI

Frodo was not even aware that he had started to run after Olórin, madly hoping to stop him from doing the unthinkable without even a thought for where he was headed, until he was caught and held firm by strong arms, not even two full steps from the very brink of the precipice. The determined halfling struggled against that grip, but it did not let him go despite his best efforts. He glared up at his captor in the very moment that Manwë spoke, firmly but gently.

“No, Frodo, do not despair. Behold!” With a nod of his white-maned head, the Vala indicated that the hobbit should look over the edge of that terrible face of sheer icy stone. Ordinarily, Frodo would not have dared, for fear of the incredible height, but something in Manwë's voice calmed that terror and let him do as he had been bid. Already far below, he saw a falling speck of white, barely visible against the snowy slopes of the mountain. Suddenly, there was a flash of light, as of the sun glinting off the sharp edges of fresh ice, and to his amazement, the speck was no longer falling. It had changed shape, still pale, but soaring on the currents of the wind, speeding away from Taniquetil and across the plains of Valinor. Squinting against the brightness, Frodo saw that it had taken the form of a white bird, and was now making use of its wings to hurry itself away from the mountains and a situation it could no longer bear.

As the hobbit marveled at the sight, Manwë spoke again. “Our people can assume whatever forms we wish, or none at all, and still travel about the land as we desire. Olórin had heard more than enough from me, I deem, and wished to hear no more. I cannot blame him for his anger, or his need to be away from me. Never before have I broken faith with one who has served me so well. Were I able to flee my shame as he has fled my presence, I would.”

When that small white form moved beyond his sight, Frodo finally relaxed, no longer resisting the Vala's restraint. As Manwë let him go, he looked up at him, his face a mixture of warring emotions. “Why did you do it, Lord Manwë?” he asked, still unable to fathom such a thing. “Why did you disobey Lord Eru when you knew that someone would be hurt by it?”

As he knelt beside the halfling, Manwë remained placid, but sad. “Why did you put on the Ring below Amon Hen when you knew full well the danger of it, to yourself and your company? Why did you risk drawing the attention of enemies who would have taken you and what you bore, and slain all of your friends and comrades with nary a thought?”

“I had no other choice!” Frodo answered instantly. “Boromir was trying to take the Ring from me, and in his madness, if he had succeeded, all might have been lost! He was so much larger and stronger than I, I had no other way to escape him but to hide as quickly as possible. I did the best I could to protect all my friends, and the quest....”

Something in the way the Vala was regarding him stilled the hobbit's explanation. It was not accusing, but compassionate. “Did you think to call upon the others for help instead? If you had cried out for aid, do you doubt that your comrades would have raced to your side at once? Were you so very far removed from them that such a course of action would not have been possible?”

Frodo's eyes widened at the softly-asked questions. He opened his mouth to speak, but found no words waiting to be uttered. He closed it, then began again, more quietly. “No, I wasn't so far away, and they would have come, certainly — though if I'd raised an alarm, it might have drawn our enemies as well.”

“And did you know that they were so near as pose a threat? Was that risk greater than placing the Ring upon your hand when you knew beyond a doubt that so doing would attract the notice of enemies attuned to its evil?”

“I don't know,” the hobbit said after hesitating for a long moment. “I did what I thought was best at the time. I suppose that in hindsight, I might have acted less rashly, and perhaps spared my companions considerable grief and hardship. But I didn't know that until after I had already done what I did. I truly thought that the only risk was to myself, and to no others. I was trying to help.”

“As was I. As you believed the greatest danger to be to yourself alone, so did I believe that taking an action I had been told was perilous and should be avoided would harm no one but myself, the one who committed the transgression. Had you known that your actions might have contributed, directly or indirectly, to the death of Boromir and the capture of Meriadoc and Peregrin, you would have reconsidered the steps you took. Had I known that Olórin would be the one to suffer for my decision and my pride, I would have done the same. Who can say what might have happened had we both seen our errors and repented of them while perhaps there was still time to undo the wrong? Was the doom invoked at the moment of our choice, or did it come later? We cannot know now, for the time of choices is long past, and we can but live with the consequences of what we have done, and pray we find the strength and means to repair the damage.”

Manwë rose, a tall figure of blue and white that towered over the hobbit, yet somehow seemed to be small and bent with sorrow. He sighed. “Know this, Frodo: If I could take upon myself the injuries that were done to Olórin, if I could give to him all my strength and by it make him whole again, I would, without hesitance or regret. He is not, perhaps, the most powerful or brilliant or masterful of my many servants, but his heart is like none other. He has a kind of courage that knows fear yet perseveres in spite of it, and his wisdom is indeed as great as the tales tell. Though he sometimes acts rashly, he is far more patient than he often seems, and his generosity of spirit knows no equal, beyond that of Lord Eru. He is dear to all of us, save to those who are themselves small of heart. He does not deserve this doom, and I would sooner have brought it upon any but him.”

A faint, sad smile touched Frodo's face. “As I would have spared Sam all that he suffered in helping me find my way into Mordor and to the fire. Such faithful service and generous friendship deserves better than that. But Sam, at least, was rewarded in the end. He has his home and his family and his life before him. If I made mistakes, I was the one who was made to carry the pain and punishment of them, in the end. Why can it not be the same for Olórin?”

Manwë answered with a like expression. “Perhaps because your mistakes were not of the same magnitude as mine. You erred in your judgment. I spurned the advice of Eru Himself, out of pride. May He forgive me my faithlessness! For even in his anger, Olórin remained wise. He spoke truly when he said that the one whom I have betrayed most grievously is Lord Eru, for He gave to me the benefit of His counsel to guide me, and I rejected that gift out of the prideful desire to not seem a failure yet again. All I wish now is to do aught that I can and must to make amends for the harm I caused Olórin.”

He lifted his head and looked out across the panorama of the wide world spread around and below them. “I cannot hear him,” he said after a moment, his brow furrowing. “He has closed his thoughts and his heart to me, very likely to all who might thus perceive him. I do not know what he has in mind to do, or where he has fled. I can see far, and perceive the movement of all within Arda, but he is putting forth his power to interfere with my sight, so that he will remain elusive. He learned that skill well two ages ago, when he worked in Endorë in secret opposition to my brother Melkor. Had he not, he would have swiftly been discovered, and destroyed.”

Again, the Vala sighed as he turned away from the edge of the cliff. “Yet his store of strength is sorely depleted, and will dwindle quickly the more he uses it to flee and to hide. I fear very much he will soon exhaust himself, and we will be hard pressed to find him. He was not bearing toward his home, and I do not know where he intended to go, save that I suspect it might be as far from here as possible.”

“And where would that be?” Frodo wondered, shivering slightly at his last sight of the sheer mountain face before he followed Manwë back into the parlor.

“As you reckon distance, either south to the forests of Oromë, or north and west to the Halls of Mandos. Think you that he would seek either of these as a place of refuge?”

The hobbit considered the matter as best he could before shaking his head. “I don't know. He might go to the forests, since he always loved such places even in Middle-earth, but if he's wanting to hide and be alone for a time, I don't think he'd go there. It seems too obvious. And as for the other place...! He's not like that, Lord Manwë, the sort who wants to die when things grow difficult. I panicked when he left because of my instincts, not his. I may not know him as well as you and the others here, but I know he wouldn't try to take his own life.”

Manwë nodded slowly as he acknowledged Frodo's observations. “You speak truly, he is not that way, nor has he ever been. Our people do not seek death because it is beyond our scope of experience, and none invite the sort of diminishment that befell Sauron and Curumo, not unless they are fools enough to expend their all in seeking to dominate and conquer others. Yet Olórin is unique among us, for he has known death, and has returned from it. If the sorrows and pains of life have become too great for him to bear, he may wish to find that path again, though it is now closed to him.”

“He wouldn't,” Frodo insisted as he watched the Vala move to an archway to the left of the main entrance. He gestured for Frodo to follow, and the hobbit complied. “He loves life too much, I think, though....” He hesitated, remembering something the wizard had said to him on the day of their arrival.

Manwë paused, his hand upon the door, to glance at the hobbit. “Though?” he prompted.

Frodo shrugged, reluctant to say more, but aware that he should not withhold what might be valuable information. “When he told me about his death, he said that after he had died, he didn't come here first, but returned to wherever it is Lord Eru and the other Ainur live. He thought it was a very precious experience. Perhaps that is what he wants to find.”

“He cannot,” Manwë said, not without regret. “What happened to him then was a part of the mortal life imposed upon him, and a choice of Lord Eru's, not ours. We are all bound by an agreement we made to remain here within Arda until the End. There is no path for us to return to Him, unless He wills it. Even Melkor could not be wholly banished from the world; he yet lives, though bound, within the Void, where he will stay until the Dagor Dagorath. Though he may dwindle to but a flicker of what he has been, Olórin cannot leave these shores.” He exhaled deeply. “Perhaps it would have been best if he had remained with Lord Eru, then. He would be free of this danger, and living the greatest reward any of us can hope to earn.”

He opened the door, which swung aside with only the lightest of touches. He led Frodo down an unlit passage, into a large, round room through which the air moved in silent but unending motion. The chamber was dark, but as Manwë lifted his hands and spoke a word, all above them suddenly filled with light. Frodo saw that the roof, which was lofty indeed, was a huge dome that seemed to have been made of a web of crystal and light. In it, the hobbit saw beautiful shifting colors and the barest glimpses of images that would come into focus for only an instant, then change to something new. He found the sight both compelling and dizzying, and after a short time looked away, lest he grow faint from the spinning reflections of all he could not quite see before his eyes and in his mind.

Again, Manwë spoke in a language Frodo did not understand, but was coming to recognize as Valarin, the tongue which the Ainur had made for themselves even before the awakening of the Elves. In it, a single word could hold immense power; many could draw forth enough power to reshape half the world. The more he heard of it, the more he realized that he had heard a few words of this language long ago, uttered on rare occasion by Gandalf in times of great danger. He did not know if he would ever grow fully accustomed to the sound of it, but as he understood it better, he appreciated it more.

Whatever Manwë had said just now caused the dome above to fill with many images of Valinor itself, flickering by too quickly for Frodo to recognize more than small bits and pieces of the few places he had actually been. He murmured another word after a time, and though the images did not cease, there was another almost immediate response. A calm voice spoke, one Frodo had grown to know quite well indeed.

“You search in vain, Manwë,” Irmo said, the sound of his voice preceding his appearance near the outer edge of the circle, facing the Elder King. “I advised you against informing Olórin of what you had done long ago, and if now he seeks refuge from his feelings of betrayal, you will not find him, though you search beneath every stone and tree and blade of grass in Aman. This gift he learned to evade the most powerful of our kind, at our behest, and he learned it well indeed. You will not find him so easily, nor will any of us, until he either wishes to be found or has so drained himself of strength, he can no longer maintain his disguise. Was it worth this end to have unburdened yourself so? Might you not have waited, until some answer to his predicament was found?”

“We will not find that answer easily,” yet another voice declared, quietly but with firm conviction. Frodo looked in the direction from which it had come, and saw Varda entering the chamber through a door opposite the one Frodo and Manwë had used. “As the source of the trouble eludes us because we have never lived the life of a true mortal, with all its cares and sorrows and joys, so too is this beyond us. How can we discover a thing which is so foreign to our understanding, we could not see it were it set before us, unhidden?”

“Varda speaks truly,” said a deeply resonant voice as Aulë appeared, not far from where Irmo stood. “You may have been the one to make the mistake by which these sad circumstances came about, Manwë, but we knew of those things the One said to you in counsel, yet none of us uttered so much as a word to make you reconsider your actions. We might have stopped this tragedy ere it began, but we did not.”

“We are all guilty of silence,” said yet another voice, deeper than Aulë's yet even more piercingly clear. Frodo looked to the speaker, who stood near Varda, and was startled to see Námo. He had heard it said that the lord of Mandos never spoke, save at Manwë's command, to pronounce doom. Olórin and other Maiar had assured him that this was not true, but as Námo was seldom seen by the Elves outside his halls, the legend persisted. Today, Frodo could not help but wonder if Námo needed no command from the Elder King because the doom to be pronounced would be Manwë's own. “We all felt the stinging fear of failure, and could not bear the thought of failing yet again, when the price would be all of Middle-earth. What should we have done to end the menace of Sauron without risking further destruction of the world the Atani were to inherit? Should we have marched forth ourselves directly, come as a host of might and majesty to collect one truant child who had gone woefully astray? Should we have said to our servants, go in our stead, and use whatever means are necessary to end this matter as quickly as possible, no matter the terrible cost to Endorë? No. What should have been said was that doing right sometimes entails great risks, and requires the skills of those willing to forego power and pride and praise for the sake of those they love. Varda spoke of this indirectly when she said that Olórin would not be third among our messengers, but she spoke not plainly enough. None of us did. You commanded rather than persuaded, Manwë, and we allowed it when we should not have. All of us stand in equal blame, and for the sake of Olórin, whom we all betrayed in our silence, there is much that requires redress on our part, if we can but find the means.”

“Yet what means will avail us?” still another voice asked, this a woman's. Frodo glanced toward her, a tall woman in green standing near Aulë, and recognized Yavanna. “Evil has poisoned him, as evil poisoned the Two Trees. Not all our song and weeping and power could bring them back; they were sickened beyond our abilities to heal. Can we now find some new means to draw the poisons from Olórin's spirit and repair what harm they have wrought? I have seen no way to do this.”

“Nor I,” Irmo agreed, “or my wife Estë. Yet even in their last throes of death, the Trees were able to put forth fruit and flower that allowed their life to carry on. It may not be possible for Olórin to continue his life as he once knew it, but that does not mean he cannot continue at all. Perhaps we are not finding the answers we seek because we are asking the wrong questions. Should we be searching for a cure to restore Olórin to the life he knew before, or should we be seeking ways to help him move from it into a new life?”

“This may indeed be what is required,” Námo said, nodding to his brother. “What we must seek to find and understand is Lord Eru's will in this matter. Olórin's fate is not known to us, for he was removed from this world and the Music for a time, and returned to it by the will of Eru Ilúvatar. He alone knows what plans He had made for Olórin's future when He decided this. He has not revealed that fate to me, nor, I perceive, to you, Manwë.”

“He has not,” the Elder King confirmed. “Yet I cannot believe He meant for us to do naught but stand silent once again and watch Olórin dwindle into nothingness. Though Lord Eru's judgements may seem harsh at times, they are always just, meet to the crime of the transgressor. It would be less than fair and more than cruel to Olórin to have sent him back to complete a task after such long and hard labors, only so that he might return to us and let us stand witness to the pain of our mistakes as they are visited upon him, who had done no wrong.”

Aulë sighed. “Even so, it would appear to be the case indeed, so long as we can find no means to help him. I regret this as bitterly as you, Manwë Súlimo, for had I but considered that my servant Curumo's pride was as great as his skill, I would have known from the first that he was ill-suited to this embassy. But never have I been a good judge of others' hearts. I have also been too quick to act without considering all that might come of my deeds. Yet even when I disobeyed the will of Lord Eru, He was swift to grant me forgiveness when I showed repentance, and did not make the innocent to suffer for my error. Surely He will not do otherwise for one of His own servants who has done well indeed.”

“I cannot believe He would allow this to continue to a tragic end,” Yavanna agreed.

Námo sighed, a heavy sound like the trembling of the deepest roots of the earth itself. “Yet so He forewarned us,” the dark Vala reminded the others. “Tragedy was the end He foretold, and thus would it be, were Olórin's life to end this way, poisoned by evils from which he had asked to be spared, diminished in strength and power until he joins the nothingness into which his own enemies have fallen. What end more bitter and tragic could any of us imagine? It may indeed be Olórin's fate, much though all of us would wish to change it. We brought it upon him through our words and our silence, even as Melkor brought pain into the world through his defiance of Lord Eru. Now we know how easily he fell into evil, for we ourselves have most surely fallen as well.”

There was an infinite moment of ponderous stillness in the domed chamber, in which all of the Valar present acknowledged their blame. At length, Varda spoke. “Dark indeed have matters grown, yet even in the deepest darkness, light can fall if but the smallest crack is opened to it. We have all acknowledged our guilt and our shame, but we have not asked Lord Eru to be forgiven. Should we be so proud as to avoid this, when we have so often sought His counsel on other matters? Perhaps this is not so far-reaching as the fate of Endorë, the wars against Melkor and Sauron, and the defiance of Númenor, but it is close to all of us, for it involves the fate of one who has been held dear to us all. Can we never act out of love, but only seek to conquer evil and hate?”

“We can,” Manwë answered, “and we should, but first we must find Olórin and let him know that we will do this. Indeed, I see now that we should have done it long ago, but again we fell victim to pride and our belief that we have power enough to mend any harm in Arda that we so choose. We know full well that we do not. Yet he has skillfully concealed himself. Where should we look to find him?”

An answer suddenly appeared in Frodo's thoughts, so clearly, he almost believed a will other than his own had put it there. But it was only a memory, despite its clarity, prompted by the discussion of those around him. “He said he would sooner cast himself into the Void than suffer what happened to Sauron and the others,” the hobbit said softly, surprisingly uncowed by the presence of these powerful beings, but not wanting to rudely interrupt their discourse. He looked up at Manwë, who was standing nearest him. “Is there a way he could do that?”

“It is not impossible,” the Vala replied after taking a moment to consider what Frodo had said. “But it is not as simple a thing as walking from here to there. The Doors of Night are shut fast and well guarded, to prevent Melkor from returning to Arda. They can be opened now only by our will, or Lord Eru's. We would know at once if Olórin attempted this, and he has not.”

“Yet it disturbs me to hear that he had even considered such an act,” Varda said, her beautiful face dimmed with sorrow. “Such despair is unlike him, who was once a spirit of great joy. Is this the burden of all who have been mortal?”

“At times, yes,” Frodo answered, since the lady had looked upon him when she asked her question. “Especially for those who are sick, or crippled. It can be very difficult to carry on from day to day when your life has nothing more than ordinary mortal hardships, but when you have more heaped upon you by illness and injury, you feel... different, unlike everyone else, a burden to yourself and to others. I felt that way after the War was over and we returned home. I tried to return to a normal life, but I had been hurt too deeply, in ways that would not heal. I wasn't like my friends and neighbors, anymore; I was a stranger to them, an object of pity, or sometimes even scorn. I don't recall that Olórin ever fell ill the way ordinary mortals do, but I know that he had been hurt several times, probably more than I know of for certain. He experienced those feelings as we true mortals do, and I suspect he was hoping that once he returned home and could be himself again, he would be able to put them behind him. I can't imagine it's been an easy time for him. At least in Middle-earth, other people knew what it was like to be sick and hurt. Here, he must feel very out of place, since nothing like this has ever happened to one of your people. If you were gone for many years, my lady, then came home and found that you had become a curiosity, something to be pitied more and more as time went by, could you be happy in spite of it, and not feel that all was indeed hopeless?”

Varda inclined her head in acknowledgment of Frodo's words. Aulë sighed. “Perhaps we ourselves should have gone to the aid of Endorë in such a mortal state, for it seems that though the experience is not an easy one, there is much to be learned from it. Yet we cannot step back in time and unmake what was done, only go forward and make reparations as best we can. Olórin cannot leave us through the Doors of Night, nor do I believe he would sincerely try, but if he is seeking solitude, the shores of the farthest west might provide what he desires, for that is a desolate country, where even the most curious of the Eldar seldom go.”

“Nienna will search, then,” Námo said, his voice still dark and deep. “Our sister knows that land best of all our people, for though others avoid it, she sees in its seeming emptiness things which they cannot perceive.”

“Ulmo will also help,” Manwë added, approving the plan. “As she is familiar with the western lands above the waters, he best knows the those barren shores and the shoals that stretch out from them into the Encircling Sea. Together, they will find him.”

“And then what?” Frodo's voice sounded small even to his own ears. He felt the eyes of all the Valar turn to him, but with compassion, not scorn.

“We will bring him home,” Varda replied, the pity which filled her face the most touching of all. “And we will do whatever we can, whatever is necessary to help him. He should never have come to such a pass as this.”

“But what if you can't? I don't mean to sound disrespectful, but it doesn't seem as if anyone has been able to think of a single thing to heal him. Will he have to fade into nothing, like the Maiar who turned to wickedness, in spite of it all?”

“I do not know,” Manwë said gently, settling his hands on the hobbit's shoulders. “But if at the last we cannot find the answer he so sorely needs, and indeed nothing can prevent him from that unwarranted end, I will ask Lord Eru to show him mercy, and take Olórin back to the Timeless Halls, as He did after his death in Moria. No work of evil can long endure in the light of Eru Ilúvatar's presence, and there he would be restored to strength and wholeness, as he was in his beginning. The harm Olórin suffered was not healed when last he was there because, I deem, we who had wronged him needed to be shown the full truth of what we had done, to learn its bitter lessons. Naught would have been learned had we not seen for ourselves what had become of him. If we have studied to Lord Eru's satisfaction, and have made every attempt to amend the result of our mistake, He will not allow Olórin to suffer needlessly.”

Manwë's answer both relieved and disturbed Frodo. “So if that is what is needed to make him well, I may never see him again.” It sounded terribly selfish the moment he said it, but again, the hobbit was startled when he was answered not with a rebuke, but with compassion.

“Perhaps not in this life,” Námo replied, his deep voice surprisingly sympathetic. “But in Lord Eru's plans, there will come a time when all His children shall meet again, to sing the Second Music after the last battle. Meager consolation this may be to you, for you will be saddened to lose your friend, as will we, but I see in your words and in your heart that you truly wish what is best for him, as he wishes for you. If this is what must be, we must all bear the parting for his sake, and take what small comfort we can in the knowledge that there will come a time of joyful reunion, when all the world will be healed.”

Somehow, the halfling took more solace from Námo's honesty than he might have from a thousand reassurances that a solution would of course be found, the unwanted end avoided. It was indeed a small comfort, but it was better to know the truth than to be given false hope. Even so, Frodo continued to pray that such extreme measures would not be necessary, though as he looked up at the dome above and its many shifting images, he found himself wishing that in one of these myriad reflections, Olórin would be found, and the much desired answer as well.

**********

In all the long years of his life, Olórin could not recall a time when he had ever wished to flee anything more desperately than he had run from Manwë and the words of betrayal he had spoken. The occasions on which he had fled Sauron in Dol Guldur had not been prompted by fear or upset, merely a prudent realization that he had not the power, nor the authority, to confront the rising Dark Lord alone; better to escape and gain the help of others in so doing, to make victory certain. Had he but known how Saruman would betray them all with words of deliberate misdirection, lulling them to inaction, he perhaps might have done differently. But skilled though he was at seeing and understanding so many other things, Olórin was always shocked and saddened by betrayal when it revealed itself to him, because such an act was so alien to his very nature. He could not consciously betray another; he did not even know that he could do so unconsciously. Yet time and again, his trust in others betrayed him. First Aránayel, then Curumo, now even Manwë himself.

And the last to be recognized was beyond doubt the most terrible of all, not because of what it portended for his future, but because he had so loved and trusted and believed in the goodness of the lord he served. Manwë knew the pains of betrayal well; his own brother had done so to him more than once. He had witnessed the injustice of it countless times in his position as the king of Arda, as he had been made aware of what Aránayel had done to Olórin long years ago. Knowing what he did, how could Manwë have even begun to justify this most cruel betrayal of all — not of his servant, but of Lord Eru? For He was the one Manwë had defied, and such defiance was beyond Olórin's comprehension. Every child chafes against the authority of their parents as they grow, and perform small acts of disobedience which allow them to grow and stand firm on their own as an adult, but this had been no act of childish rebellion. It had been a chosen rejection of a clearly-given instruction, and that was what Olórin could not begin to imagine. He could not have done the same and ever justified it in his own heart, not for a moment. Yes, he had made many mistakes during his life, some with dreadful repercussions, but none of them had entailed breaking faith with Lord Eru's will, in even a small way. As Manwë could not truly comprehend evil, Olórin could not truly comprehend this act of defiance. Betrayal had hurt him too often, too deeply and apparently in ways it had not hurt the king of the Valar.

So now, all he could do was flee his master until he had somehow managed to calm his distraught emotions and at least attempt to find some explanation, some bit of insight that would help him understand how this could have happened in the first place, when it should not have happened at all. One thing he did know: it hurt him far less to know that Manwë's choice had caused him very lasting and serious injury than it did to realize that the Vala he had served so faithfully ever since their entrance into Arda had not known or trusted him enough to make him privy to the true reasons behind his command. He had not had enough faith in Olórin's loyalty to know that there would be no question of his participance, regardless of the personal dangers, so long as he was told why it was needed.

That would have been enough. Manwë need only have spoken his mind plainly, and Olórin would have willingly agreed. He saw the wisdom in not doing so before the others who were to go. Curumo in particular would have taken Manwë's reasons badly; his reaction to Varda's words at the council was sufficient proof of that. But even a concern to avoid dissension among the Istari before their mission was begun was not reason enough for Manwë to have simply ordered Olórin when he had been warned that such an act would bring bitter consequences, especially when he should have known that his servant would do anything to give his aid to any cause that would benefit from it. Did Manwë truly know him so little, or had he himself never truly known the Vala whom he served?

It was a question that could not be answered, not now, and in his heart, he could not help but feel that even were it known, the answer was long since past the time in which knowledge of it would make any difference. They would come looking for him soon, worried that he would exhaust himself beyond the point of no return, but at the moment, he neither wanted to be found nor cared if he did push himself beyond his limits. Olórin had very few illusions left to him; he had lived too long and seen too much for that. But he had held the belief that of all the beings in Arda, Manwë was if not perfect at least incorruptible, understanding so little of evil that he would never fall to it in any significant way. Yet he had, full knowing that his act was one of which Eru disapproved, and now, to Olórin's shock and dismay, the unthinkable had happened. His own diminishment was not so hurtful as the loss of his faith in the Elder King, now shown to be just another illusion that had shattered like a bubble of thinnest glass against a boulder of hardest diamond. No, he had no wish to be found, for once again, he felt as if someone he had admired and loved had reached inside him and torn out his very heart.

So he fled, swifter than the bird he currently appeared to be, clinging to the shape not because it could help him flee faster, but because some part of him still feared that if he wholly abandoned incarnate life, he would never be able to assume any physical form again. He felt the strength draining from him more swiftly with each passing moment as he flew headlong away from the mountains and toward the empty west; he made use of the skills he had learned ages ago to keep himself hidden, as he had once hidden from Melkor to work in secret against him. If he could but fly far enough before his strength was gone, he could conceal himself in simpler ways, and spend the time coming to terms with this most bitter betrayal. He had not the heart to think of sharing this with anyone else, least of all those he counted as his friends. He needed to be alone.

He was all but exhausted when he at last saw the Ekkaia, the outer sea, stretching away from the land to the west beyond West, where only the Void awaited those who would dare travel those dark paths beyond the Doors of Night. Had he retained enough strength, he might have considered attempting that escape from the world, such was his mood, but he did not think it, for he knew he was too exhausted to try. When he could not carry himself farther, he allowed himself to glide down as far as his wings could carry him, and at last came to land on a rocky shore where the rolling surf broke against the bleak dark stones in an endless rhythm like the pulse of Arda itself. He lay where he had fallen, unable to do more, and made no effort at all to alter his form. Perhaps this was fitting, after all, for he had often felt like the tiny bird amid the greater ones of the flock that was all the Ainur. It suited to think that he might meet his end this way, as the smallest of birds whose wings had at last failed, and left him to fall, broken in heart and body and spirit, on the hard, unfeeling rock of a cold and desolate shore.

XVII

Where water flowed, so too did the awareness of Ulmo, Lord of the Waters. What water touched, Ulmo knew, and when he bent his thought to it, he could perceive almost as much of what passed in Arda as Manwë could at the summit of Taniquetil. At the behest of the Lord of the Air, he turned his thought to the western shores of Aman, seeking one spirit whom he did not know quite as well as many of the other Valar, but who was yet known to him. In all his traveling through the many parts of the world, eager to learn and curious to know, Olórin had come to the sea from time to time, admiring its beauty and appreciating the wonders water itself provided for life in this physical world. He had not served Ulmo often, but he had on several occasions, and the Vala had come to appreciate the unassuming Maia. He saw certain things which Ulmo often thought he alone could see, a comprehension of how what seems small and common and unassuming can be more effective than the powerful and the majestic. The strength of a storm-driven sea pounding against the shores of the world was both terrifying and inspiring of awe, but it was the more gentle trickles of water, dripping over thousands of years in little hollows below the earth that made the incredible glory of caverns and built natural halls of immense beauty where otherwise nothing but overburdened rock would have stood. Some, such as Aulë's Dwarves, appreciated the artistry of these sights, but few appreciated what had actually made them. Olórin did, because he himself understood much of simplicity and humility, and for that alone if nothing else, Ulmo was fond of him.

Now, Manwë and the others had called to him, seeking his help in finding that humble Maia, and Ulmo did not hesitate to agree. He knew of Olórin's skills in avoiding detection when he wished, but if he was still in physical form of any kind, Ulmo would be able to find him so long as he touched water. He would know where Olórin had gone if he stepped into a stream or fell into the ocean, or stood under a shower of rain. If he stooped to drink, Ulmo would sense it; if he shed tears, Ulmo would know it. There were ways to discover where the Maia had gone, and Ulmo called upon all his power over water in all its forms to aid him. The small clouds in the skies over the west of Valinor spread and grew heavy with rain; soon, their showers fell upon all the lands below, not so heavily as to drive those in the open to cover, but gently so that one moving through them would feel no need to avoid them. The waves of the sea itself lifted to greater heights, reaching farther ashore, washing over as much of the land as could be managed without endangering any of the lesser creatures who might be near its edges and would be swept away to their deaths. Ulmo focused all his thought upon what the waters whispered to him, and he examined each murmur with care.

He was not particularly aware of the passage of time; the movements and changes of the sea were endless and unceasing, and in that part of the world, mere hours or days were meaningless. But at length, one faint whisper of the falling rain spoke to him; it was echoed in the rush of a wave over stone and sand. Ulmo listened more closely, and the sounds were heard again as the drops of rain continued to fall and another wave washed upon a rocky shoal on the western shores. The sounds became clearer as he focused on them, and at last, he was able to perceive where they were pointing. Ulmo opened all his senses to the place; at first, it seemed as barren as all that stony shore, but when the waves rolled over it yet again, he noticed a small speck of white, barely visible amid the rocks and rushing waters. His thought touched it, and though it did not respond, he knew it for what and who it was.

The place was not far from the halls of Nienna, and it was to her that Ulmo now called. A little one you know and love has fallen on the shores of your home, the lord of the seas said to her. He needs your help, and quickly, or it may soon be too late. Come, follow my thought and I will bring you to him.

**********

Moments later, Nienna was standing atop a rise of stone that formed a natural sea wall along the shores west and south of her house, which stood near the Doors of Night. A tall figure in black and gray, she seemed almost a part of the desolate shore, but though she stood still, her eyes and her thoughts searched what lay before her, moving unerringly to the place which Ulmo had indicated. She saw that small dot of white amid the dark rocks, and without hesitation went toward it. She moved nimbly over the wet stones, never slipping despite the treacherous footing, and soon stood beside the fallen white bird. Gently, she took it into her hands and returned with it to the land above. As she went, the rain ended, and the sun shone once more. But even as the skies brightened, Nienna wept.

It was her way, her gift, not merely the understanding of sorrow, but the healing that is brought of the expression of grief and pity. Olórin had been her greatest pupil, ever the most willing to learn the lessons of compassion and patience she had to teach. He had acted in haste, taking flight from Taniquetil and depleting his meager store of strength to run from the hurt of betrayal, but she had not come to judge his motives. She wept, not only for the pain she could sense within him, weak as he was, but for the ache she felt in her own heart over all the injustice he had endured. Nienna was called the Weeper, and some thought her distant and cold and heartless, but she was perhaps the most feeling of all the Valar, the one most sensitive to the emotions and physical conditions of those around her. So she had taken to herself no spouse, and lived in the far stony land of the western shores, away from most who dwelt in Aman, yet also close to those who were often most in need of pity and understanding, the spirits of the dead who resided in the halls of her brother Námo. Few truly understood Nienna and her ways and powers and purposes, but one of those few who had made the most remarkable effort was Olórin. He had first come to her in grief, in need of solace and healing for his heart, and had left a much stronger and wiser person, who came back often to learn from her, not only the lessons of pity and patience, but of endurance and hope as well. He was almost as a son to her, one in whom she held great pride, and now, he came back to her lands broken and empty and in despair.

So Nienna held the still white body in her hands and wept, her tears falling upon him like the rain that had passed. In her tears were comfort and strength, which she poured into him as one pours water into a vessel of clear crystal. As she held him and her tears fell, he finally stirred, very weakly. She bent to lay the gentlest touch of a kiss atop the tiny head, and an instant later, the shape of what she held shifted, became for a moment a bare gleam of white light, then was cradled in her arms as a small man of pale hair and snowy garb, Olórin once again. He was not conscious, but neither had he dwindled beyond recall. She gave him more of her power to strengthen him, and as she did so, Ulmo, still near at hand in the seas, lent his aid to her effort by offering a measure of his own strength, cascading down from the heavens as a sudden rush of rain. It stopped when finally, the Maia stirred, his eyes slowly blinking open to regard Nienna. He was too weak to speak or move, but he remained himself, not yet diminished into nothingness.

“Do not despair, Olórin,” she said, her voice filled with compassion even as tears still slipped down her pale cheeks. “Hope is not yet lost. We have been too idle, thinking not that your need required great attention now, and that is the greatest of our failures. For too often have we chosen to wait rather than act, out of prudence, out of fear, and yes, out of cowardice. We of the Valar have power, but not all wisdom — indeed, too often we are woefully unwise, and thus poor governors of Arda, ill-chosen leaders of our own servants. If you cannot forgive Manwë his misguided choice, please forgive us our ignorance. For though we knew there would be terrible repercussions stemming from his error, we did not even dare to dream that they would bring harm to you, and in our fearful lack of courage, we could not summon the strength to act. We let too much of the burden of your troubles fall to Estë and Irmo and to your friends; we delayed overmuch. This should not be, and though I suspected it from the beginning, the others have come to see this now as well. All of us will help you, and we will not rest until we have found a way to obtain lasting healing for you. They and your friends await you at your home. Will you let me take you there, or do you wish to remain here and seek your own ending?”

He could scarcely move, but instead reached out with the faintest of thoughts. I will come with you. But I fear there is no hope left for me.

“You live,” Nienna said as she stood, and with no effort at all lifted the smaller Maia into her arms. “And life itself is an affirmation of hope. You know that lesson well, for I taught it to you long ago, when you first were made to suffer because your trust had been broken. But Manwë is not Aránayel, no matter what he may have done. He lost faith because of fear, and on you fell the price of his transgression, which he rues more greatly than you can see in your anger with him. He loves you, as ever he has. He grieves for the wrong he did to you, and wishes not to buy your forgiveness with acts of penitence, but to pay whatever price is needed to obtain your healing. Has your heart become so bitter that it cannot allow him, or any of us, to try?”

Olórin did not need to speak or move or do more than think the thoughts; Nienna perceived his answer with ease. No. And I forgive you, my lady, for you have never done me harm.

“Then let us go,” she said, glad that he had found at least the strength to forgive again. “There is much to be done.”

**********

With the swiftness of a thought, Nienna returned Olórin to his home. In spite of the help she and Ulmo had given him, he was still incredibly weak. He had lost more than power, she perceived; he had lost much of the hope that had long been one of his most defining traits, and had given him the strength to fight against impossible odds and come out the victor time and again in the past. For all their efforts thus far, no hope had been found to support the belief that he would yet be healed, and in light of all that had happened, it was not surprising to Nienna that as he was losing his ability to hold and keep other things, his grasp of ever elusive hope was all but gone as well. She took him not to the hall but to his own bed, where he could at least rest in comfort. The others had shown the wisdom to not appear in their usual fanar; their presence could be felt in the little house, but they did not physically manifest, save for Irmo and Estë and herself. Others there were as well, Eönwë and Ványalos and the two halflings, the elder brought back by Glorfindel, who had stayed on out of worry after he had returned Bilbo in answer to the summons.

Frodo had returned to Lórien with Eönwë on eagle-back while the Valar searched for Olórin; it had taken almost two days for Ulmo and Nienna to find him, such had been his desire to remain undiscovered, and that had also been time enough for Bilbo to be brought home. As the Elf lord stayed out of concern, so too had Eönwë, and Ványalos.

The usually impudent Maia had sobered considerably once he became aware of what had happened, and Frodo was touched to see him shed tears when at last Nienna brought her favored pupil home, weak and much faded. He understood Ványalos' reaction, for he felt it just as keenly. The friend who had seemed always full of life and light was now so dimmed and diminished, it did not surprise Frodo to see Nienna carry him to his bed with such ease. She was tall and strong, yes, but Olórin was so pale, he seemed transparent to the hobbit's eyes, so frail and insubstantial, Frodo felt certain he could have lifted the Maia himself, despite his greater size. When she had settled Olórin where he could be comfortable, she and all the others whose presence filled the house set about their work at once.

In after times, what Frodo recalled most about the days that followed was a personal feeling of helplessness. The greatest powers in Arda had all come to Olórin's house to do all they could to heal him, and there was nothing a mere hobbit could do but watch and wait. At the times when the great ones needed to consult with each other about what they had learned and what new method to attempt, or to rest — for they, too, wearied, especially when the labor was long and difficult and required them to spend much of themselves — Frodo and Bilbo would sit with their old friend, sometimes with the other Maiar and Glorfindel, sometimes not. His condition fluctuated greatly, for though the Valar attempted to sustain him with their own strength, he had become like a sieve to it, unable to hold any power for long before fading back into debilitating weakness. Whether he had done himself great damage in his deliberate and long use of his Maia abilities or whether he was making no effort to hold on to the strength he was given was impossible to say, for though he allowed the great ones to do what they would, he seldom spoke to them or revealed his heart.

Though this disturbed most of the Valar, it actually gave Frodo some measure of hope that all was not yet lost, and they were not fighting a battle doomed to defeat. The friend he had known both here and in Middle-earth had ever been stubborn, and though he appeared not to care what became of him, that he kept a part of himself private, beyond the poking and prodding of those above him, said to Frodo that he was being stubborn still. He had not given up, not entirely, and where even a single ember still burned, a fire could yet be reawakened.

But he did need help, that was plain to both of the worried hobbits as they kept him company while the others were busy with greater matters. Bilbo did more talking than Frodo, telling Olórin tales of the days he had spent with the local Elves. The wizard did not often respond to them, but on occasion he did, with a faint smile or a whispered word, and that was more than he gave the Valar on most days, so it was encouraging, at least to Frodo. But still, no answers were to be found.

Hours became days, days became weeks, and Frodo at last lost count of how much time passed while Olórin's condition failed to improve, despite the concerted efforts of the Valar and their servants to find the cure for his illness. Neither Frodo nor Bilbo nor any other of the wizard's friends could fault them for giving less than their all to the effort. Irmo, Estë, and Nienna seldom left the house, and always, Frodo could somehow sense — in ways Bilbo could not — that many of the Valar spirits were present, sometimes all, sometimes only several, as some would depart from time to time to search elsewhere for information that might provide a clue to guide them. Frodo knew that they had called to Lord Eru for help, but He was strangely silent. At first, this annoyed Frodo, but as the days slipped by, he began to realize that there was a purpose behind this as well. Had they called to Him for aid and He simply stepped in to right the harm they had caused, not only would He then raise the question, “Why did you not help in ages past when the world was marred and broken?” but He would also have done the work for those who had made this error, requiring nothing of them to make the most necessary reparation. It was a punishment they had earned, for in struggling and failing to help one of their own for whom they cared, they were learning much of what was common life for the mortals who had inherited Middle-earth.

It was bittersweet to Frodo, for they did deserve to learn this harsh lesson, they who had so often held themselves apart and aloof and cold when the world they supposedly governed was crying out for help. Frodo especially remembered the tales of the First Age, when great sorrow and suffering was occurring in Middle-earth because of Melkor and his evil, but the Valar did little to help, remaining apart because they felt that doom had decreed that they could not intervene until one person found Valinor and came to plead for help on behalf of both Elves and Men. Frodo had never understood why they had not acted earlier, why so many people had to suffer and die because ultimately, one person, Fëanor, had brought a kind of madness to his people, and some had been foolish enough to follow his wicked lead. Perhaps they deserved punishment, for they had killed innocents in the name of vengeance against another and for the desire of what amounted to baubles, but the Elves and Men of Middle-earth who had had no part in that insanity had done nothing to merit sharing in that fate.

Frodo had never understood how the suffering of so many could be justified by the acts of a few, nor had he ever truly grasped why the Valar had felt so constrained by a prophecy one of their own had uttered. They might say that it was Eru's will, a part of Eru's plan already written in the Music, but if others, through the exertion of their own will, could change what was foreseen for evil's sake, why could no one ever act to change a fate already caused by evil toward the sake of good? Perhaps this had been a large part of his hesitance to meet the Valar when he had first arrived in Aman. He did not know how to think of persons who had sat by for hundreds of years and let innocents die all for the sake of prophecy. It made no sense to him, and he could not imagine that he would be able to understand beings to whom it apparently did make sense.

But now, he better understood the truth of the matter. The Valar did occasionally act of their own wills, and not always to a bad end, but they had become afraid. Their actions in the First Age had been disastrous for the world they had been charged to protect and nurture, as had been their inactions in the Second Age when they failed to move more decisively against Sauron before he had tricked his way to Númenor and corrupted most of its people. Even though new evils were always waiting to come forth in the world, had they acted sooner in dealing with Sauron, the woes of the Third Age might never have been.

Of course, Frodo knew that one could never go back and undo what had already been done, but at the very least, he would have expected them to learn more from their mistakes than fear of continued failure. But then, those failures had never truly touched them directly, until now. Now, they had failed and that failure was threatening the very existence of one of their own people, and if he was lost, it would not be something they could brush aside as a cost of war, an act of the Enemy. They bore the responsibility for this, and thus they had become the Enemy. They understood it now, all too clearly, and Frodo acknowledged that they were at least trying to make amends by doing and giving all they could. If Lord Eru did not require this of them, they would go on as always, and nothing would be learned, leading eventually to even more mistakes. Frodo knew, somehow, that if this was to be his end, it was at least an end which Olórin could accept because it would contribute significantly to a far greater good.

Even so, the hobbit still did not believe that this would be the wizard's end; it seemed unthinkable to him, for reasons he could not quite grasp. What little he could do to help, he did, and always he searched in his own ways for the answer no one could find. He begrudged the needs of his mortal body that required him to lay aside that search to eat and sleep and do the things all mortals must to sustain life and health. Yet from time to time, when the Valar themselves required a least a few hours of rest, Bilbo and the others would rest as well, and Frodo would volunteer to spend that time with Olórin so that he would not be alone. The hobbit could think of nothing more horrible than to be so weak and helpless and to be left with no companionship, abandoned to the darkness of what must be painful and brooding thoughts, unlightened by the presence of even one other. So he took that watch gladly, and even if he could think of nothing to say to his old friend, he could at least be there to let him know that he was not forgotten.

One day — Frodo knew not how many weeks after all this had begun, only that the world beyond the windows looked to be changing seasons yet again — he had been told that such a rest period was nigh, and had gone to wash himself a bit and change into fresh clothes before he took up the vigil. While sifting through the contents of a small chest in search of a particular belt, he came across Arwen's jewel, which Estë had asked him to set aside at the outset of his own healing process.

The hobbit saw it lying where he had put it safe by in a corner of the small chest, which he seldom used. It was still as bright and beautiful as the day on which he had first seen it, worn about Arwen's neck with a beauty almost the equal of her own. As he lifted it by its silver chain, he remembered the comfort it had so often brought him during the long and difficult months between the time he had left Minas Tirith and his departure from the Grey Havens. Although the Healer's efforts were now wholly focused on another patient who needed her most desperately, Frodo had not felt any urge to take to wearing the jewel again. He had felt no twinge or ache of pain from any of his old wounds since the dawn of the day after the white ship's landing in Valinor; truth be told, he almost never thought of those horrors and agonies, for his concern was completely involved in the worry and care he felt for Olórin. Those aches in his heart and spirit, the dreadful fear that he might lose his dear friend to a fate literally worse than death had taken the place of those he had felt for himself and what he had endured. As he studied the jewel and remembered its gift to bring ease to an overburdened heart in despair, he did not for one moment think that he might use it to comfort himself. Now, he wondered only if it might be able to provide some small portion of much needed comfort for another.

He held it up to the early afternoon light that streamed into his sleeping room, marveled at the way it glittered like all the stars of the heavens, and made a decision. He took it, put it in his pocket, and finished dressing just as he heard someone call for him.

“Ah, Frodo my lad,” Bilbo greeted when he reached the hall outside Olórin's room. The elder hobbit had been bearing up under all the strain remarkably well, but he, like the Valar who had been pouring their efforts and energy into the aid of their servant, looked exhausted, and very much in need of rest. Glorfindel had gone off with Ványalos perhaps an hour ago, to see to collecting fresh provisions for the house and to take care of other necessary matters which its occupants had not the time to bother with. Eönwë came and went on errands for the Valar, and had left early that morning on such a task. For now, only Frodo and Bilbo remained in the house, and it seemed strangely quiet.

Bilbo managed a smile for his ersatz nephew. “They've gone for now, but they promised to be back before suppertime. Will you mind sitting alone with him for a bit? I simply can't keep my eyes open much longer, but I won't need more than a good nap, and Ványalos said he'd be back soon.”

“It's all right, Bilbo,” Frodo assured him, answering with his own brave smile. “I don't mind sitting alone, and you definitely do need the sleep. Rest as long as you like, I'll manage just fine, especially if Ványalos returns soon. He'll keep both of us company, I'm sure, and even help ready tea for you before you wake.”

His cousin sighed with gratitude. “Thank you, dear boy. I've lived through many a difficult time in all my days, but it breaks my heart to see poor Gandalf fading away like this. He's just not the sort to give up without a struggle, but he hardly has the strength left to him now to fight a bare breath of air. I can't help but think that the answer to his troubles is right in front of all our noses, but we're just not seeing it because we're looking at it the wrong way or some such.”

Frodo nodded, understanding the feeling well indeed. “I know what you mean, but I'm beginning to think the problem is that we're all trying so hard and are so tired, we couldn't even see our noses if we tried, much less the answer lying in front of them. Rest, Bilbo, and I promise I will too, as soon as I have the chance. The great ones may not feel they have the time for that, so perhaps if we hobbits rest up well and get our wits about us, we'll be able to find what everyone's been missing.”

“Oh, I do hope so,“ Bilbo sighed as he headed across the hall toward his own room. “Don't hesitate to wake me if you need me,” he reminded his young cousin.

“I won't, if Ványalos is due back soon. Rest well, Bilbo. We'll need both our wits sharp if we're to find what even the Valar cannot.”

When the old hobbit had gone, the door to his room closed behind him, Frodo went to Olórin's chamber. The door was still partly open, and he entered quietly, in case the Maia was asleep. The room had changed little since Nienna had brought him here, but for the addition of two chairs and the removal of some small objects from the surfaces near the bed, put away in safety lest they be accidentally broken. The Istar's head turned slightly toward the faint creak of a door hinge as Frodo stepped inside; the halfling saw that his dark blue eyes were open and appeared to be focused, even though they seemed as transparent and exhausted as the rest of him. Frodo summoned the most heartfelt smile he could manage, his hand wandering into his pocket as he moved to the chair beside the bed, which was usually occupied by Estë or Irmo. It was a bit taller than was comfortable for most hobbits, but after using it for at least a little while each day, Frodo no longer made a bother of it. “You really do need to get better, Olórin,” he said in the lightest tone he could muster. “Or I will simply have to start growing to the size of one of the Big Folk just to use these chairs properly, and Merry and Pippin will never forgive me for having beaten their records.”

He saw a shadow of a smile momentarily lighten the Maia's near-transparent face. “They would indeed,” he answered, his words barely more than a breath. “But I fear that may not be my fate.”

“So do many others,” Frodo said candidly, “but even if they — and you — are growing ready to give up, Bilbo and I have not. What purpose would be served if you faded to nothing, like Saruman and the others of your people who brought themselves to a bad end? Naught that I can see.”

“More than you know,” the wizard said, to the hobbit's surprise. He had grown so very weak, he seldom had more than a few words to say. “Manwë and the others are learning much they have never known about mortals, and life in the world Melkor poisoned. They are learning that some mistakes cannot be amended, and that children cannot always rely on their parents to make right what they made wrong. If that is the role I was meant to play, then I gladly accept it, for I think it will do much to make the Valar better guardians in the future. But I do not want to go, not like this. For I love all of Arda, and the people in it, especially those I have come to call my friends. More difficult than fading from this world is the sorrow I feel at the prospect of leaving behind the people I love and being forever parted from them.”

“I know,” Frodo said softly, nodding his understanding of such feelings even as he marveled at the fact Olórin had managed to say so much without utterly wearying himself. “I don't think I'll ever quite understand why Lord Eru chose to make mortals and immortals, and have them be a part of each others' lives. It was always very hard to think of being friends with an Elf or someone like you, because I couldn't help but know that in time, either they would leave for the West and I would never see them again, or I would die, and they would live on and forever be losing people dear to them. I thought it was sad that Arwen chose to be mortal when she knew Elrond had already made his decision and would have to leave Middle-earth. Now I understand even more what a bitter grief this must be for him, for the longer I stay here in Aman, the more I realize that immortals aren't as aloof and unfeeling as they sometimes seemed to be. And I cannot bear the thought that someday, no matter what happens now, I will leave and cause pain for people like you, who have been and have become my friends.”

As he spoke, he felt dampness welling in his eyes. Determined not to cause further upset for either himself or Olórin, he rubbed away the unshed tears with one hand, then brought out the jewel in his pocket. “I know you told me some time ago that this could not help protect you from the ills that had befallen you, but I was thinking that perhaps it might give you some comfort, as it helped me through the most difficult days after I had returned to the Shire. It isn't much, I know, but if it would help you even a little, I would feel that I have not stood by, completely useless, through all this trouble.”

A dim but warm glow lit the Maia's eyes. “You have never been useless, Frodo,” he said very softly, “not in all the years I have known you. I have made many friends since I entered into Arda, yet it seems quite odd to me that the ones I have come to cherish most are those who came last into my life. I will accept your gift, of course, as you wish. It was given to Arwen to ease her grief over the trials and loss of her mother, and so she gave it to you to ease the burdens you suffered because of the evils of the Enemy. My injuries came upon me more subtly, and I hastened my own decline in my angry reaction to Manwë's confession, yet the source of my affliction was the same, the poisons Melkor and his servants left in Middle-earth. Perhaps the jewel's passing into new hands is a sign that your own griefs are near their end. I would be glad of that, especially now, when mine may be nearing an end of a very different sort.”

Frodo tried not to frown as he leaned forward and set the jewel in Olórin's hand, helping him as he attempted to close his fingers about it. “I do wish you wouldn't say such things, or even think them. Yes, I know we cannot deny the inevitable, but if you accept that it is inevitable before we know for certain, you might make it so when it needn't be. The only persons I ever knew who could somehow manage to find hope in what seemed like hopeless circumstances were Sam, and you. Please, Olórin, don't give up yet. I know in my heart that this isn't the way things are meant to be. I cannot tell you how I know this, but I do. Please, don't leave us before we've tried all we can.”

Olórin closed his eyes for a moment, an easier way to signal his acquiescence than moving his head. “I will do my best, I promise. Thank you for the gift, Frodo. It is very much appreciated.”

“It's the least I can do. And thank you for telling me about it. I never knew how it came to Arwen, and with all that has happened since she gave it to me, I never remembered to ask. I'm glad it was you who told me, because now I can remind you that if you can still tell tales even now, there surely must be hope remaining.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Olórin admitted after a moment's consideration. “Ever since I relinquished my mortal body, I have felt as if some shadow lay between my eyes and the world around me. As my condition grew worse, it grew thicker and darker, and now, the world seems forever in twilight. When my fingers closed around the jewel, the shadows seemed to lighten, if only a bit. If it can do this, small as it is, there must be some way, some thing that can help even more. I will hold onto my hope as best I can.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly about the gem.

To Frodo's eyes, he looked perhaps the smallest bit less pale, but more weary than ever. The hobbit sighed softly. “I am glad you felt up to talking with me for a while, for I have sorely missed our conversations, but I would rather you hadn't if I had known it would tire you so. I think you need to rest, now....”

“As do you,” another voice said, unexpectedly. Frodo looked toward the door and saw Ványalos just entering; Olórin recognized his neighbor's voice and did not bother to open his eyes. “You will help no one if you tax yourself too heavily, Frodo.”

“Let him be,” the wizard suggested, cracking open one eye ever so slightly. “I do not begrudge him this. It was strength well spent.”

“Not if it hastens an end that might otherwise be avoided. The others are using this time to rest, as should you, pityandil. Or would you prefer to ignore the advice of your healers?”

Olórin's snort was soft but ever so clear. “It was the ignoring of advice that brought this upon me, and thus far, I have not noticed any especial healing that has occurred on my behalf. But before you take me to task for sounding bitter, I will rest. Sleep is far preferable to yet another pointless debate.”

“Then I will keep watch for a while so Frodo might do the same.” The tall Maia made a sweeping gesture, indicating that Frodo could relinquish his task for a while. The hobbit reluctantly agreed to the suggestion, and climbed down from the chair.

“Rest well, old friend,” he said before leaving the bedside, and was gratified to see a small but sincere smile in answer. Reassured by it and the way Olórin kept his fingers closed about the jewel, he stepped out of the room.

Ványalos followed him into the hall, just far enough to make certain he headed off to his own bed. But tired though he was in heart, Frodo knew he would not sleep even if he tried, so agitated did he feel inside. He looked up at the watching Maia and spoke quietly, not wanting Olórin to hear. “He's much worse than he was yesterday, Ványalos, and say what we might, I can't help but fear that we are going to lose him soon, despite all that has been tried. He said he wants to stay, but I don't think he has the strength and enough will to manage it, anymore. Is there truly nothing that can be done?”

The red-haired Maia glanced into the bedroom, saw that Olórin had already drifted off to sleep, and pulled shut the door to keep their soft words from reaching his ears. “Some of the Valar have begun to believe so, for their own skills are not of use in this task, and the power they have to lend has done little to do more than alleviate Olórin's weakness for a brief while. They feel as if they have attempted again and again to throw a life line to someone in greatest peril, but that rope is covered with oil and try as he might, Olórin cannot hold fast to it for more than a few moments.”

“But do you believe they're right? Do you think we should give up and let him go, so he won't suffer any longer?” It hurt simply to say the words, but for all that he knew or felt that he knew, this was a possibility Frodo could not deny.

Ványalos' answer was perhaps the most serious he had given in his entire life. “No. Perhaps the Valar know more of power and strength and healing than I, but I know Olórin better than they. He will only let go when he has utterly no strength left to hold on, or if Lord Eru Himself steps in and bids him to do so. All of Aman calls him stubborn, and that he is, Frodo, make no mistake of it. It is a reputation well earned, and he will hold onto this life with all that is in him until no other choice is possible. He is weak now, yes, very weak, but that stubbornness is still there, and it is strong. He has some time left to him, I deem, and if the Valar cannot find the cure he needs, then it is up to us who are closer to him to finish the task. Is that not appropriate, my little friend? For it was not the Valar but the humblest of their servants who at last found the means to achieve the impossible, to defeat Sauron. And Olórin himself was able to accomplish it only through the unflagging efforts of the smallest of Lord Eru's children.”

That comparison had never occurred to Frodo, and though he was not sure it was entirely applicable, it was at the very least food for thought. Ványalos smiled at him and gently ruffled his dark curls. “Rest then for a while, my friend. It will do you good.”

Frodo nodded, but still, he knew he would only toss and turn if he went to his bed. “If you don't mind, I think I would find much more rest in taking a walk than in trying to sleep when I know I cannot. I can't remember the last time I left this house, and perhaps seeing more of the world outside would clear my mind and help me relax enough to rest a little later.”

Ványalos agreed. “There is sense in what you say, and I will admit, I have not seen you set even a foot outdoors since you returned from Ilmarin. I will keep watch for you as long as you like, and I vow I will not allow Olórin to come to further harm.”

Frodo's smile was watery, but genuine. “I know. I know the Valar care for him in their own ways, but at times, I think they cannot care as much as those of us who are not quite so powerful. They are so used to carrying burdens as large as the world that it seems they cannot quite understand how to deal with smaller ones.”

“Just so. I am very used to carrying burdens much smaller, and I will let you know at once if there is any change, for the better or the worse.”

“Thank you,” the hobbit said with a small bow, then headed off to see what changes had come to the world outside.

**********

He did not intend to go far, no farther than the small commons where local residents were often wont to gather, but his feet carried him into the western meadow, and before his distracted mind was aware of it, he found himself in the little green glen where Shadowfax had brought them to help his master, what now seemed many years ago. The afternoon sunlight fell in fingers of radiance through the branches overhead, which Frodo noticed were not only thick with new leaves, but also in what could only be spring flower. The grasses below were still littered with a few of the old fallen leaves that had not been carried away by the wind, and all about was strewn with delicate and fragrant flowers, as beautiful as those in the meadows and vales of the Shire in spring. He somehow found the spot where Olórin had fallen, and there he settled himself to lie back and look up at the skies and listen to the murmur of the nearby stream as it flowed over its bed of silver and white stones.

He lay there for a while, several hours at least, not truly aware of time's passage, thinking of all that had happened since his arrival in Aman. Finally, when he noticed that the sun had fallen past mid-afternoon, he sat up, let his eyes follow the flowing water of the stream, and sighed. “It's not fair,” he said to the world around him, confident that it at least would not be so bold as to argue with him. “It's just not fair. This never should have happened.”

“That is certainly true,” came an unexpected answer. Frodo started, glanced about wildly to see who had spoken, and saw Ványalos coming down the gentle slope into the glen. The halfling frowned.

“I thought you said you'd stay and look after Olórin,” he scolded. “How could you leave him alone? Unless....”

The Maia shook his head as he gracefully lowered himself to sit on the grass beside the hobbit. “He is not alone,” the redhead assured him, “and I have not come with news of woe. You have been gone for some time; I am concerned for your welfare, and thought you might need to talk. Your cousin listens, but he does not always hear.”

Frodo sighed, both at the truth in that remark and in relief that the situation had not taken a turn for the worse. “That is true, most of the time. Bilbo can be very sympathetic when he pays attention and listens to what others have to say, but much of the time, his head is too full of other things to manage it for more than a few minutes. I love him dearly, but it is the truth.”

“As you also love Olórin dearly, in spite of his flaws. Nothing in the world is without them, and at times, it is the imperfections that make something, or someone, precious.”

Frodo sniffed. “Sometimes, though some people's imperfections seem much more... imperfect than others'.”

Ványalos chuckled. “You are referring to the Valar, of course, and at times I have felt much the same toward them. Greatness is its own burden, and where power is great, very often fault is equally great. I cannot blame the Valar for their intentions, for they have ever been motivated by what they perceived as good, but they have often failed to look beyond the result they wish to achieve. They found the Elves in the twilight of Cuiviénen, and in their delight of them and their knowledge of Melkor's threat, they wished to protect them. That was not an ill motive, for many things could Melkor have done to them had they been given no guidance whatsoever. They saw those needs, and that the Elves could best be guarded if they were not left to fend for themselves in a land far too close to the fortress Melkor had built for himself. So they took them as far away as they possibly could, to Aman itself, where it was most convenient for them to be teachers and protectors. They did not stop to think that they need not have taken them so far, nor that removing them entirely from Endorë might indeed cause more harm than good. They did not look far enough to consider those possibilities; they devised a plan that seemed good to them, and they did not consider its possible repercussions. They have done this so often, I am moved to wonder if they have not gone blind, in some ways. Their fear of evil too often makes them avoid rather than confront it.”

“Perhaps they have,” Frodo said, plucking a small blue flower from the grass beside his maimed right hand, to study it without truly seeing it. “I can understand why Olórin became so angry and upset with Manwë when he finally told him the truth about why he had fallen ill and was not getting better. Kings and rulers and other people with very large responsibilities make mistakes when it comes to governing those things over which they have authority, but to do something you have been told is wrong, and hurt someone who is essentially a member of your own family...!”

The halfling shook his head. “Lord Manwë explained himself to me, and I do see why he erred, and that he had meant to hurt no one but himself, but it makes the result no easier to accept. Olórin was all but a member of my family when he lived in Middle-earth, Ványalos, like a traveling uncle who came now and again and told wonderful tales and did what things he could to help whenever he visited. If we love him and want what is best for him and will do all we can to help him be healed, why won't Lord Eru? You and Bilbo have both said that if the Valar cannot succeed, then we must, but much though I detest saying it, it's obvious that no one in this world is going to find the answer he needs to be whole and well again, not quickly enough. If Lady Arwen's gift could give me ease from my pain and help me survive until I could come to a place where I could be healed, why can't Lord Eru do something like that for Olórin? He was the one who sent Olórin back to finish his tasks. I think it's terrible that He sent him back still crippled, and won't do a thing to help him even now...!”

Though Frodo was clearly upset, Ványalos remained surprisingly calm, a beneficial side-effect, Frodo supposed, of having served the placid Lord Irmo and Lady Estë for so long. “And why do you think He has not done anything to help?”

“Because Olórin's getting worse, not better!” the hobbit exclaimed, exasperated, hurling the flower into the stream. He watched as it was swiftly carried away, swept away by the rushing water as he was beginning to feel hope be swept away from his own heart. “Everything Olórin's told me about Him makes Him seem like an incredibly wonderful and loving being, but how can someone say they love another and let them hurt when it isn't necessary? Does Olórin have to die, truly die, before the Valar will learn whatever lessons they need to learn? Does he have to sacrifice himself again, and be dead and gone before Eru will be satisfied? Isn't that cruelty, not love?”

Ványalos nodded; his voice remained steady despite the halfling's agitation. “It is, and He would not do such a thing. You and the others believe that all the supplication made on Olórin's behalf has gone unheard, but if it seems so, consider this: Is it because those pleas are not being answered, or is it because they had already been answered before they had even been spoken?”

Frodo blinked, not quite certain he understood that remark. “How can anyone answer any request before it's been made?” he wondered, perplexed.

The Maia smiled wryly. “When one has made all the universe and knows what is to be before it happens, one can easily act before action is demanded. All Eru's children, both of thought and of the incarnate world, have wills of their own. If they were interfered with too often, there would be no point in having given such a gift. But it was music that defined this world, and as many songs can end on the same chord, so can many different themes be woven into a work that will come to its conclusion at that same desired chord. Each of His children sing their own themes in the use of their wills, and He does not hinder them, for He loves their songs, even the sad and harsh ones, but it is His will that shall orchestrate the final shape of the Music. For good or ill, He allows each of His children to fashion their own part of it. But He knows how the Music will play out, and at times, He uses His knowledge for the benefit of His children when it will not conflict with their freedom of choice. Thus, if He is aware of some coming hardship that need not be fully suffered for that theme to be expressed, He can act to minimize the harm even before those who will feel its pain are aware that such succor will be needed. So can a cry for help be answered before it has even been uttered.”

Frodo did not feel especially enlightened by that explanation. “I don't understand what you're trying to say,” he admitted. “If all the prayers asking to help Olórin have already been answered, why is he still fading?”

“Because sometimes, though we have eyes to see, we can look upon something and not understand what it is we truly behold.”

Though he and Bilbo had spoken of the same thing earlier, now, Frodo felt as if he would scream from frustration. He could sense there was something not being said, something he should be able to grasp, but could not. “I still don't understand. What are you saying? Speak plainly, please! What can't anyone see?”

The redhead reached out and gently took the hobbit's maimed right hand between both of his own. “The token you seek has already been given, Frodo. All life is part of a great circle, and this circle remains unbroken.” With a smile, he released the halfling's hand, then stood and swiftly left the glen.

Still confused and frustrated, Frodo started after him. “Ványalos, wait!” he cried, pushing himself up from the ground...

...and as he did so, he gasped. He saw both his hands splayed upon the grass as he prepared to rise, and could not believe his eyes. He fell back on his heels, and held up his right hand in one of the streams of sunlight, touching it with the left to break what was certainly some illusion.

But it was not. Where moments ago there had been but four fingers, there now were five again, whole and real and unharmed.

Frodo nearly fainted from shock as he realized this was no figment of his imagination; when he was able to think somewhat clearly again, he leapt to his feet and raced out of the glen. “Ványalos!!” he cried, but when he reached the meadow, he saw it was empty; the Maia had left in the way of his people, gone as swiftly as a thought. Frodo wished desperately that he too could move about so quickly, but spurred on by all that had been said and what had just happened, he ran as fast as he could, hurrying back to Olórin's house where for once, he hoped to find a direct answer to his questions.

XVIII

Frodo was nearly out of breath by the time he reached the woods surrounding Olórin's house, but an occasional glance at his right hand — which remained whole and restored — kept him moving when he began to think he could run no more. His mind spun with myriad questions, buzzing about like a swarm of angry bees. How had Ványalos done what he did? And why, when there was another person far more in need of such healing, someone who was a very old friend? Had all his puzzling remarks been his way of saying that the answer had been found, and Frodo should come back? But why would he have spoken of it so cryptically? If it had been meant as a jest, it was a very poor one, and Frodo had every intent of scolding the Maia soundly, should he discover this to be the case. He ran on, across the meadow, across the commons, through the woods, and finally to the clearing that opened before Olórin's house. He saw Eönwë and Bilbo on the porch, and headed straight for them.

“Is Ványalos here?” he demanded between gasps for air.

Bilbo took one look at Frodo and immediately went to help him up the steps. “Yes, he's inside with the healers. Sit down, my lad, before you fall down....”

But Frodo shook his head emphatically. “No! Bilbo, you don't understand, I have to talk to him...!”

“He is needed elsewhere at the moment, Master Frodo,” Eönwë said quietly, his fair face filled with worry. “And I think it best if you do not disturb that work.”

“There's been some new trouble,” Bilbo clarified when the herald's words only deepened Frodo's confusion. “Ványalos called the others back a short time ago. It seems that whatever the Valar had been doing to help keep Gandalf from fading away suddenly isn't working, anymore. So Ványalos called them here, then woke me and told me to come and keep an eye out for you, since he didn't feel he dared leave Gandalf long enough to fetch you.”

That provided a reason for why Eönwë had returned, but Bilbo's words merely made matters more puzzling. “That's not possible! He came and talked to me near the meadow, no more than fifteen minutes ago! He made it sound as if everything was going to be all right — and Bilbo, he did this!” Frodo held up the hand that for the last three years had been missing a finger. The elderly hobbit gasped when he saw that it was whole again; even Eönwë made a sound of astonishment.

“Ványalos could not have done that,” the herald said, utterly certain. “Is this some strange illusion?”

“No, it's real,” said Frodo, extending the hand for Eönwë to see more closely. “I thought the same thing, that it was just a trick he'd played with my imagination, but it's solid and healed, not an illusion. If Ványalos could do this, surely he could help Olórin...!”

Eönwë took the proffered hand to examine it more closely; when he touched the part that had been restored, he suddenly let go and gasped. “Ványalos did not do this,” the herald declared, his eyes wide, his tone hushed and reverent. “You have been touched by Lord Eru, Frodo. It was He Who healed you.”

Frodo took back his hand and stared at it for a moment before looking up at Eönwë, shaking his head. “No, I'm sure it was Ványalos....”

The Maia nodded slightly in answer. “I understand your confusion, little one, but I am certain of this. The person who spoke to you may have looked and sounded and even behaved as Ványalos would, but it was a form He assumed that you could comprehend, so that He could speak with you without frightening you. I know Lord Eru's presence, as do all the Ainur. It was He Who touched you, and restored your injured hand.”

For what felt a very long time, Frodo could not speak, so overwhelmed was he by Eönwë's quiet words. When he had managed to absorb enough of them to feel the first glimmers of understanding, he finally found his voice. “But why? Why would He bother with something as trivial as my hand when Olórin needs His help so much more than I? Why didn't He come here, where everyone has been asking Him to come?”

“I do not know,” the herald admitted. “What did He say to you?”

Frodo had to think hard to remember, so much had shock muddled his mind. “Mostly things about why He thought the Valar made the mistake that caused all this, and why they needed to learn from it. I said how cruel I thought all of this was to Olórin, making him suffer so that others could learn from their mistakes, and how none of the pleas for help seemed to have been heard. He said some things I still don't quite understand, about how a prayer can be answered before it's even uttered. Then He took my hand, said something about the circle being unbroken, and then He left. I was confused, I thought He was Ványalos, so I started to go after Him, and that was when I noticed my hand had been healed. When I realized what had happened, I hurried to follow, but He was already gone. I truly thought it was Ványalos, and that he'd come back here the way your people go from place to place when they're in a hurry, so I ran back as fast as I could. Do you understand what He meant, Eönwë? What does it mean, the circle remains unbroken?”

“Many things, perhaps,” Eönwë answered after a moment's thought. “I think this was not a coincidence. Come inside with me, Frodo. Perhaps the ones I serve can better understand the full import of your tale.”

Anxious, Frodo glanced at Bilbo, who waved him on. “Go ahead, my boy, I'm sure they won't bite, certainly not like Gollum did. But I'll come along, too, if you want. I'd like to know what really happened almost as much as you do.”

Eönwë agreed to his oblique request, and led the hobbits into the house. The sensation of power concentrated within its walls was palpable, like walking from the torrid outdoors into the cool of a snug hole under the Hill on a hot summer's day. It seemed strange to Frodo that it should feel so cold inside when the very walls were throbbing with the power in the air. It made him think of ashes in a cold hearth, the pit of a freshly dug grave, the bottom of the river where his parents had died, chill and dark beyond all light and knowledge. Shivering, he reluctantly followed Eönwë across the hall and to the room he had left not so long ago, still clinging to some tatters of hope that all would indeed be well.

Ványalos was standing just outside the open door; he glanced in their direction as they approached. From his expression, he did not think the hobbits should be here, but Frodo could faintly feel the thought that flicked between the two Maiar, a swift explanation of why they had come. The redhead's expression changed rather abruptly, from doubt to awe. When they drew near, he bent to speak with Frodo. “I can assure you that Eönwë is right, you did not speak with me in the glen. I am honored that Lord Eru chose my likeness as one you would readily accept and would not fear, but I have no more notion than you why He chose to do this, especially now. Come, I think Lord Manwë will wish to see how you were blessed more closely. Of all the Valar, he is still the one who best knows the ways of Lord Eru's thought.”

Gently, he laid a hand on the younger hobbit's shoulder to guide him into the room. The sensations Frodo had perceived upon entering the house were much stronger here, where all of the Valar had gathered, in body or in spirit, in a last desperate attempt to save their servant who was swiftly slipping away, fading beyond recall. When Frodo dared to look at the figure on the bed, he was both distressed and not surprised to see that Olórin seemed more transparent than ever, a shadow of his former self that was growing more faint with each passing moment. His eyes were closed, and Frodo could not tell if he was awake or even aware of anyone who was with him; the halfling hoped he was not, for the mere thought of being able to feel yourself not dying, but inexorably being drawn from life as water slides down a drain had to be horrible indeed. Frodo struggled to swallow the thickness clogging his throat and was glad for the excuse to look away when Manwë spoke his name.

The Vala, who seemed understandably distracted, as if he were focusing his mind and his strength on two matters at once — listened to Frodo repeat what had happened while he knelt to carefully examine the hobbit's healed hand. He completed his study as Frodo finished his story. “Do you know what He meant, Lord Manwë?” the troubled halfling asked very softly, as he had told of recent events. “Why would He heal me and not help Olórin instead?”

“I do not know,” Manwë sighed, his exhalation as mournful as the winter wind through barren branches in the dark of night. “We have asked, I assure you, but He has been silent. And though I see in your thoughts what happened as you experienced it, His words are no clearer to me than they are to you. That we Valar needed to know all the ills that came of our decisions, and had to make the effort to repair the damage we caused, is no new revelation. I am surprised that He could speak of us as charitably as He did, after our acts of willful disobedience, but I cannot see how our supplications have long since been answered. We did not even know what harm had come to Olórin until after he had returned to us, and now, nothing we can do seems able to help him. I would sooner believe that Lord Eru had chosen to withdraw any aid He might have been giving to Olórin, for since we left but a few hours ago, he has begun to slip away from us far more quickly than we can offer strength to help him hold on to this life.”

Frodo bit his lower lip, deliberately inflicting the pain to keep back the tears burning in his eyes. “I feared it might be so, before I left the house. He's barely talked at all, these past weeks or months or whatever it has been, yet after all of you had gone, we spoke a good deal. I didn't want to even think it then, but I fear he was saying goodbye, because he knew what was to come very soon. But it makes no sense! If it truly was Lord Eru Who came to talk with me in the glen, what He said seemed to be words of encouragement — but none that I could fully understand.”

Manwë agreed, his nod slow and heavy. “Nor I. I can see how you perceived your conversation with Him, but I cannot see into His mind as well. He reveals it to us only in His time, for His reasons. I do not know this token of which He spoke, nor can I clearly see what was meant by a circle which remains unbroken. There are many circles in this world, not physical marks upon the ground, or bands of gold invested with power; there are circles of friends and family, there are the circles of the world in which Arda is contained, and that has not been broken, save when Lord Eru opens a path for the spirits of Men to leave, bound for a fate we Ainur do not know.”

“Might He have meant that our efforts would not be in vain, for those circles would not open to allow Olórin to leave this world again?” Ványalos wondered.

“Perhaps so,” the Elder King said after briefly pondering the notion. “If Olórin's spirit is fated to remain here with us, even far dwindled and diminished, there will ever be a chance that we might find a way to restore him to wholeness and strength, though he may spend some years faded beyond the ability to interact with those of us who have not suffered this doom. Lord Eru may well have decreed that this would be so, should Olórin succeed in his mission, when He sent him back to Endorë to complete his unfinished tasks. The circle that was broken by his death in Moria was made whole again, and to the best of my knowledge, it has not been breeched since.”

“But what token was given?” Bilbo, who had been hanging back near the door, asked, perplexed. “He did say something about that, didn't He, Frodo?”

His cousin nodded. “Yes, He said the token I seek had already been given.” A thought suddenly sprang to mind. “Do you think perhaps He meant Narya, after all?” he said, turning back to Manwë. “It did help protect him for many years, and it does seem that Lord Eru was the one who moved Círdan to give it to him. Could He have known this problem would come so long ago, and acted even then to forestall it? Olórin didn't begin to have difficulties until he returned to Aman....”

A frown of intense concentration creased the Vala's face. “True, but—“

He was interrupted by a soft but sharp call from Irmo, who was standing on the far side of the bed beside his seated spouse. “Manwë, he is leaving us!”

He needed say no more to return all the king's attention back to the matter of his fading servant. Although he spoke no word as he lent his power and the strength of his will to the struggle to prevent the disaster Irmo could sense was imminent, Frodo had no doubt that Manwë's concern for his fading servant was great. The look of anguish upon the Vala's normally serene features declared more eloquently than any speech his sorrow and regret and intense determination to do all that he could to prevent Olórin's loss. But blended with those expressions was one of inescapable doubt, the fear that all their power combined could not stop the demands of fate from claiming Olórin's very being in payment for his master's mistakes.

Frodo, distraught by the sound of worry in Irmo's voice and the sight of Manwë's face, looked again at his friend upon the bed. Olórin had become so literally transparent between the time of Frodo's arrival and this moment, the hobbit could see Arwen's gem, still clutched in his hand, through the very flesh and bone. Its polished surfaces caught the errant light from the window, mocking the tragedy of what was happening to the person holding it as it, a carven sliver of cold, unliving stone, glittered brightly with light and life. Frodo shut his eyes tightly to hold back the tears, and because he could not bear to see the very moment when Olórin finally dwindled to nothing, like the remains of Saruman's spirit on the wind. The circle of life in Arda might well remain unbroken, but this part of it was coming to an end, as was the history of help given to those in need by Arwen's jewel.

Frodo remembered — bitterly, now, the happiness of the memories now mocking him — the day they had arrived and how joyful Olórin had been to let go of his mortal life to be an unfettered Maia once again. Had he only known that this would be the result, perhaps the wizard would not have been so quick to relinquish mortal existence, for all its troubles. He remembered the quiet talk they had had, sitting on the hillside at the end of the feast, watching the sun rise over the eastern sea, the way its radiance had made bright the white clothes and crystal circlet the Valar had given him....

Frodo's eyes abruptly snapped open as he focused on that memory, then thought back to an earlier part of that same day, when the Valar had gifted him with the clothing, and the—

“Circlet,” he whispered to himself, barely more than a breath. “The circle remains unbroken — this circle remains... oh, good heavens!” With the suddenness of an avalanche, a hundred different connections fell into place in Frodo's mind, and he knew at last what all of them had been failing to see. Frantic, he pushed past Manwë to the head of the bed, to the small table that stood beside it. “Where is it?” he demanded aloud, finding that the surface was bare. He glanced at Bilbo and Ványalos. “The things that used to be here — where are they?”

Ványalos appeared puzzled; Bilbo provided an answer. “Oh, I put them away in the little chest over there, weeks ago, when Lady Nienna first brought Gandalf home. These Big Folk kept bumping about and tipping things over and brushing them off to the floor.” He snorted. “You'd think they'd never had to walk about any home smaller than a huge mansion before, or didn't care if other people's things were broken. Shamefully impolite, if you ask me....”

He might have said the same for his younger cousin's behavior, for rather than stand and listen to the explanation, once he heard where the things had gone, Frodo again pushed past anyone in his way to reach the chest which Bilbo had indicated. There were few things in it, and it did not take long for Frodo to find what he sought: the delicately woven circlet of crystal that had been given to Olórin on the day of his return. He held it for a moment, swallowing thickly, dredging up from his memory the words Manwë had spoken when he had bestowed it. “One last gift, in token of His approval,” he murmured, as one recollection spurred another. “The token you seek has already been given.” Of course, it was simple, too simple for anyone to have seen amid all the upset and confusion.

The halfling turned about to face Ványalos and Bilbo again, since they were the only ones who appeared to be watching him. He held up the circlet; it caught an errant ray of sunlight and gleamed brightly, a ring of cold white fire in his healed hand. “Where did this come from, Ványalos? Who made it?”

The Maia shrugged, uncertain, but Frodo received an answer, from Manwë. “It came from Lord Eru, and to the best of my knowledge, it was He Who wrought it.”

“Then that's what He meant!” Frodo said, trembling with the excitement of having made such a discovery, and the fear that his conclusion might be wrong. “Olórin was fine until he stopped wearing this, but he left it on the table near his bed, and every morning, after he'd spent the night sleeping near it, he'd wake up and seem his old self again. But he couldn't hold onto that strength when he was away from it, and it faded faster and faster each day, because every day, he went farther and farther away, for longer times. And then... then after he went to Ilmarin and let himself get so upset that he deliberately pushed himself far beyond his limits, it was put away, to keep it safe, and... and....” In his agitation, Frodo could say no more.

Manwë turned toward him fully, reaching down to take the glittering thing. “You may indeed have the right of it, Frodo, and there is but one way to know for certain.” Moving swiftly but certainly, for time was of the greatest essence, he turned back toward the bed and moved to the head of it. Estë, understanding what he intended, leaned forward to lift Olórin's all but invisible head so that Manwë could set the circlet upon it.

For a moment, Frodo feared the wizard might already be too insubstantial to wear it; yet it stayed in place. Nothing happened at first, but as Estë gently lowered the Maia's head back to the pillow beneath it, one of the shafts of sunlight filtering through the windows fell fully upon his face and head. It struck the circlet's woven crystal and set it afire, the full light of Anor's flame causing it to blaze with a sudden glory that momentarily blinded all in the room, mortal and immortal alike.

The light was so brilliant, Frodo could still see it even through his tightly closed eyelids; when it began to fade at last, he dared to crack them open, desperate to know if this had been the light signaling a new beginning — or a tragic end. What he saw stole his breath in amazement.

The radiance that had flared from the crystal had shifted into a distinct form, that of Olórin, but unlike him in any way the hobbit had ever beheld. As he had earlier seemed to be as fragile as glass, now he appeared to be made of glass indeed, thin and clear without flaw, but filled with that same white light, only dimmed ever so slightly in its containment. Frodo was suddenly reminded of the phial of Galadriel, a crystal filled with the glow of Eärendil's star — yet this vessel was not cold and inanimate, but lived and breathed and moved. It was the most astounding sight Frodo had ever seen, and in his own wonder, he was completely unaware of the reactions of those about him.

As the light finally began to diminish, Olórin slowly became less transparent and more solid; the radiance flowed through him like blood flowing through veins, bringing life and health and strength to every part of him. Color and substance returned to his body, which swiftly grew whole again, as his mortal shell had been renewed and reborn atop Zirak-zigil. He turned his head to look at Frodo, and the halfling watched his eyes become those he had known so well, clear and bright and shining with life. He smiled at the hobbit — then, as he at last became fully solid once more, he looked away, toward the foot of the bed, and smiled even more broadly.

He sat up, lifted his hands, and reached out to touch other fingers that reached back to return the handclasp, seemingly come out of thin air. Frodo followed Olórin's gaze to see who had elicited this response from the Maia; his breath caught. It was Ványalos — yet it was not. The tall Maia was standing behind Frodo, with Bilbo, and from the sound he made, no one was more surprised to witness this than he.

The second Ványalos favored his double with a smile that was every bit as impish as any the Maia had ever made; He then turned his attention back to Olórin; the affection and pride in His expression brought a mist of tears to more than Frodo's eyes. “You have done well, my littlest one,” He said, His voice the very echo of Ványalos', yet resonant with a depth and breadth of knowledge and experience that went far beyond any other voice, mortal or immortal. “You have faced the greatest perils of life and spirit, and emerged the victor. You have fulfilled the potential of my thought for you, and exceeded it. Live now in joy and peace, for your labors and trials are at an end. There will ever be things for you to do, help that you can give for the sake of others, but for now, your part in the Music you knew is done. Rest well, for you have earned it indeed.” He clasped His own fingers more firmly about the Maia's, smiled brilliantly and warmly, then released his hands and turned to the others.

Frodo suddenly felt that the room had grown much smaller, and in a way it had, for all the Valar were now here, in solid form and not merely in spirit. They and the two Maiar who were in attendance bowed in reverence to the One Who was plainly not Ványalos. Frodo could see it now, even though the appearance was utterly the same; it was something not able to be grasped by ordinary senses, and in his upset at the glen, he had not been able to perceive it.

For the moment, His attention was not on the hobbit, but on Manwë and the other Valar. He sighed, and the sound was that of a disappointed parent about to lecture His wayward children. “This is not the first time I have tried to teach you the lesson of considering the consequences of your choices and actions — all the consequences, not merely the ones that are most desired or most obvious to you. Time and again, you were faced with decisions of far-reaching effect, and time and again, you erred in the same fashion, by not looking beyond the goals you hoped to achieve. If the fate of all Arda was not enough to make you learn this, my governors, then I deemed that a smaller but vastly more personal lesson was required. I advised you against the very choice you made, and who is to blame that you chose to invoke this fate upon a servant well-loved by each of you? Olórin might have been more stubborn, it is true, and refused to take up the burden of this task even after he had been commanded, but his heart has ever been faithful to you, and to my will.

“And so he suffered for your mistakes, first in Middle-earth, and then here. These past months, you could not find the cure for his predicament, despite your diligent search and other endeavors, for you held fast to your pride, and the belief that the solution lay wholly within the scope of your power. Your worry for Olórin was genuine, and your efforts as generous as you were able to make them — which does you credit — but did a one of you pause to consider that others could have seen what you perceived of his condition when he returned to Aman, were at least as concerned as yourselves, and that an action might have already been taken in an attempt to bring him aid? Had Frodo failed to see the answer which you could not, I would have intervened directly, for those who have said Olórin did not deserve such a tragic end in reward for his devoted service spoke truly. But I would not have done so before this lesson was fully learned — and it very nearly came to the bitterest end before you knew and understood all your folly.”

He folded His arms across His chest, His piercing gaze flicking from one Vala to the next in turn, resting last and longest upon Manwë. “In the ages to come, Endorë will be governed by others, those you call the Second-Born, and not yourselves, yet it is my wish that you do not utterly abandon them. Guidance may be asked for, and guidance may be given, yet in far subtler ways than have been employed in the past. Your work in Arda is not yet at its end, and I shall make my will known when I deem the time appropriate. For now, reflect upon all that has happened in this past age, and consider well what might have been had you not disobeyed me, and had I not felt Olórin worthy of my care to heal what he has suffered. Both will take time, and when he is whole once again and I believe you are ready to listen and learn, I will speak with you more plainly about what is to come.”

Not a one of the Valar uttered a word, but all respectfully and humbly acknowledged what they had been told. He Who was not Ványalos then turned to Frodo, and smiled upon him. Though the hobbit started, he had the presence of mind to bow politely, in hobbit-fashion, and smile back. “Thank you, my Lord, for healing my hand and helping Olórin,” he said with appropriate deference. “But I don't understand why you did this.”

He chuckled softly, the sound of His amusement remarkably like that of the Maia whose appearance He had borrowed. “Because if I had not, many others, not only you and the Valar, would have grieved sorely over his loss, and he indeed had not earned such an end. As for your hand, I restored it because I wished you to know that such things are possible — indeed, that within my will, all things are possible. Is the healing of an injured hand more wondrous than the healing of a broken heart, or a shattered spirit? You had thought your maiming to be beyond any healer's skill to repair, yet deemed the healing of your mind and spirit perhaps less difficult. Yet I restored what had been taken from you physically with only a touch, while it has required many days more for that cure which you had thought to be the simpler to be achieved. Know you what day this is, Frodo?”

The hobbit did not, but having seen the world outside again, he was able to make an educated guess. “The twenty-fifth of March?”

The One laughed, well aware that it was indeed a guess. “Just so. And you had no notion of this, felt none of the debilitating pain and heartache and emptiness from which you have suffered on this day, each year since Sméagol in his madness provided the remedy for your own madness by biting off your finger, and destroying the Ring. Yet on this occasion, more dreadful than the day of your wounding on Amon Sul, there was no one to intervene on your behalf, for those who might have been of aid were otherwise occupied.”

“I was too worried about Olórin to think of it, I suppose, like they were,” Frodo admitted.

“Indeed yes, and now you perceive how you have healed yourself in spirit as I have healed your body. It is in the joy they may bring to others that all my children of honest heart find their own greatest joy, and it is in caring for the pain of others that they find the ways to ease their own. If you forever worry at a wound, forever disturbing the dressing and breaking the new skin while it is still fragile, it will never mend. Yet if you tend it properly, then let it be, the wound will in time become whole and sound again, with little extra care. And that time will go by more quickly and with less discomfort if you look beyond your own suffering and turn your thoughts and actions to pity for others who suffer far more than you. You were aware of this in some measure, though you did not ponder it overmuch, for as you say, you had other matters of great concern to keep you occupied.”

“But I wasn't the only one. Everyone was concerned, at least everyone I know of, and they did much more than I could to try to help.” A sweep of his arm indicated the silent but attentive Valar. “Why did you come and speak to me, rather than help one of them realize how to solve the problem?”

From the glitter in His eyes, this question had been expected. “Because you were already nearer to finding it than they — and because if it had been asked of you, you would have given your life to save your friend, with greater knowledge than my governors have of what such a sacrifice means to one of mortal life. You never spoke of it aloud, but that thought has long been on your mind and in your heart, ever since that day in Moria where you first witnessed the full pain and price of such steadfast friendship. The triumph you achieved at the end of your Quest came not in your strength of will to destroy the Ring, which was beyond the ability of any mortal to truly bear. It came long before, and began with what you learned of pity and loyalty and love that is willing to give all for the sake of others. It grew in your continued acts of mercy toward one who had rightly earned harsher judgment, and the fruit it bore came of that seed. For it was indeed Pity that in the end saved both you and all of Middle-earth — and so it is now. You will find that the sores of your old afflictions are no longer so tender; in your distraction of compassion for Olórin, you have given them time enough to allow the poisons to drain away and the wounds to begin healing; ere long, they will trouble you no more. Do you not find this a splendid way to celebrate that victory over the darkness which happened four years ago? Olórin has back his life, as do you, and both will be happy ones. Evil wounded each of you, but it could not triumph, in the end. This I said to Melkor when first he tried to despoil the Song I and his brethren had made, and thus shall it ever be.”

Frodo found that affirmation reassuring, yet for some reason, he could not feel as delighted by it as he felt he ought. He was trying to determine just why he would have such feelings of hesitance when the One dismissed the Valar.

As they paid their respects and then vanished, Eönwë departing with them, He turned back to Olórin. He touched the seemingly fragile circle of crystal set upon the pale head; it shone even more brightly under the hand of the One Who had fashioned it. “Do not remove this until you have been told otherwise, littlest one,” He said with gentle affection, a father speaking to a beloved child who has done much to make him proud. “I fashioned this to be your shield against the darkness that scarred your very spirit while you lived the life of a mortal in poisoned Endorë, but Manwë evidently did not grasp this when I gave it to him to be bestowed upon you. I might have spoken to him more plainly, for I truly did not wish to prolong your suffering, but he and the others had yet to show that they had learned the most vital lesson of their errors. That he did not fully understand when I gave him my gift for you and spoke to him of it was but further proof that he sorely needed this instruction.”

“There is no need for you to apologize for this, my Lord,” Olórin answered, his voice and expression tinged with mingled amazement and delight that he should be treated with such respect and consideration by one so far above him. “I knew in my heart that you had some greater purpose in allowing my condition to remain unhealed, for you certainly were aware of it. If it will indeed make the Valar better counselors and guides of the mortals who have inherited Endorë, then I regret naught that I have endured. It is over now, and I am honored to have been allowed to be of even humble service in such a noble and necessary cause.”

The One smiled softly upon the Maia, eyes shining. “You are ever of service to me, littlest one, and your willingness to give of yourself for the benefit of others does you great honor among all my children, your own people in especial. Which is why I fashioned my gift thus, for such things have long been considered a mark of high grace among all the peoples in Arda, and I wished others to know beyond doubt that you stand as brightly in my favor. As it guards you from the shadow which would sap your strength and wither your very being, so does it heal what evil harmed, and in time, the power of the Secret Fire which is ever drawn to it will banish that shadow forever and restore and repair what you have lost. I could, if you wish, heal you as swiftly as I did Frodo....”

But Olórin shook his head, an emphatic motion that was at once sincere and humble. “No, that is not necessary, my Lord. It would be more convenient, perhaps, but I have long known that the quickest answer is seldom the one which provides the greatest wisdom and opportunity for learning. Frodo, I think, had already learned all he could from what was done to him in the Sammath Naur, and after hearing your words to the Valar, I especially would not choose a path of expediency. And I do not think I could bear to be parted from your gift, now that I know it did indeed come from your hands. But would this end have been any different, had Lord Manwë not commanded me to go, and instead helped me to see why my aid was needed? For I know now that in this, he was not in error, for I know no other of our people who could have brought to that struggle the same traits and abilities which I did, and time proved that such things were sorely needed to achieve Sauron's defeat in the manner that was desired.”

A new smile danced across the familiar face. “It would have been different, in that had he given no such command, he would have been abiding by my will rather than his own. Perils would still have stood before you, for your kind were not meant to live as true mortals do, but had Manwë only spoken of those dangers to you, openly, making plain his heart and his knowledge rather than concealing his fear out of pride, you would have been more clearly warned, and thus could have gone and made better use of your own skills to avoid being injured so deeply, much as you did when you came to Endorë to oppose Melkor. Very likely, you would still have been hurt, for you were to be denied full use of your abilities, but the wounds would not have been so deep, nor the poison so fully absorbed. Your healing would have been a matter much like Frodo's, and the Valar could have helped you as they helped him. It would not have been beyond their skills, and no bitter near-tragedy would have come of it.”

“And would you have let Gandalf die if the Valar hadn't learned their lesson?” Bilbo wondered, finally having recovered from his shock over the whole business well enough to speak.

The gentle smile turned upon him. “No, Bilbo, I would not have allowed that to happen. Had worse come to worst and my governors utterly failed to pass the course of instruction they needed so badly, I would have brought Olórin home to me once again. I would not have told them this, not immediately, for in suffering the loss of one of their servants by their own fault, they would have finally learned what had so long eluded them, and gained a fuller knowledge of the Eruhíni, mortals in particular. But I would not have let Olórin diminish into the same nothingness that was earned by Sauron and Curumo and those who sought only to work their own wills and dominate or destroy all others. I am not so cruel, nor so inflexible, as to permit an evil like this to happen to one who has done naught but good. The fear of such a loss brought so very near was enough to awaken the Valar to the truth. But think you that death is a punishment? It is not, though you have yet to truly understand why it is a gift to all mortals. The incarnate life of innocent Men may be shortened by works of evil, yet it does but bring them to know my gift more swiftly. Some day, you will know why this is so.”

With a start, Frodo realized why he had not been encouraged by knowing more about his own healing. “It is a gift for us mortals, perhaps, but it seems to me that for immortals, it's almost a punishment. We die and leave this world and they do not, so they lose all their mortal friends, if they dare to make any, and never know what truly became of them because they cannot die.”

The One laughed softly. “Never is a word I think I should not have taught to any of my children, for none can truly comprehend it. What you say is true of Arda as it is now, but it will not be so forever. It will change again, it will be renewed, and then shall all of my children, the dead and the living, come to live together in peace. Does it trouble you to know that in time, you will leave behind your friends of the Eldar and the Ainur?”

The younger hobbit shook his head. “No. It troubles me to know that when I leave, they will still be here in a world they cannot leave, and that even if they eventually forget me, for a while, just the fact that I left will hurt them. If death is indeed a gift, why can't they share in it, too, or at least not feel the pain of the parting?”

“For reasons you could not comprehend, even were I to attempt to explain them to you. Yet I understand your concerns, for by accident or by choice, you have lost many in your life for whom you have felt the grief of separation, and are certain you can never meet again. And you would not wish to be a faithless friend to those immortals whom you hold dear, and to whom you owe much, leaving them only a legacy of sorrow. It seems a riddle with no answer, does it not?”

“Much knottier than any of Gollum's puzzlers, that's for certain,” Bilbo agreed with a soft snort. Ványalos, who for once could not have been impudent had he tried, nudged the old hobbit, scolding him for his impertinence.

The One placed a hand atop each of the hobbits' heads and smiled softly. “Yet there is no riddle for which I do not have an answer, and so this gift I offer to you now: I do not release either of you from what is called the Doom of Men, for it is your fate and your birthright as mortals. But henceforth, so long as you dwell in Aman, you shall not know the wear and weariness of the world as would others of your kind, and the time of your leaving shall be wholly of your own choosing, when you are ready to know what lies beyond this life and not when the weight of the world presses you to the decision, as it does with those of humankind who do not meet death untimely. This gift I make not only for your sakes, but for Olórin's as well, for he alone of his people has truly lived as a mortal and survived the experience, and more than just the knowledge of it is now a part of him. It cannot be separated from him, and thus, I will not require him to be separated from those few of his mortal friends who live in this undying land, until he and they are full ready to part.”

His eyes slipped toward the wizard, who was as surprised by this declaration as the hobbits. “You have not spoken of it, Olórin, but I see in your heart how the thought of at last being sundered from the company of all mortals pains you, and there is no need for you to suffer this. For now, you do not wish them to leave, and neither do they wish to go. Is this not an obvious solution to the problem?”

“Perhaps,” the Maia said, his words slowed by his reflection upon the question. “Soon after I returned to Aman, Lord Irmo did express his concern that this very matter might prove to be more difficult to face than I wished to imagine. But I am afraid that like the Valar, I have not all wisdom, and I readily admit that I cannot see how this might turn out badly, in the end. Yet I also believe you would not do anything to deliberately harm a one of your children, so I can only presume that this is indeed a generous gift you offer, and not some punishment in disguise. For you are right. I had begun to reconsider the wisdom of asking these of my mortal friends to come here, for I knew that no matter what healing and peace they might find, at length, they would leave — perforce by madness, or willingly by mortal weariness — and when that time came, I would grieve deeply in the knowledge that I could not follow. This is not a promise of eternity, but it is a gift of precious time, and that is more than I had hoped possible. Thank you, my Lord.”

“You are most welcome, child. Does this plan also meet with your approval, little ones?” He turned back to the hobbits, still smiling warmly.

Frodo was attempting to decide whether or not he had heard correctly; Bilbo was less reticent. “So if I understand you aright, you're saying that Frodo and I can stay here for as long as we like, not worrying about getting old or sick or driven mad with boredom or fatigue, and give up this life only when and if we have a mind to?”

The One chuckled at the elder hobbit's forthright manner. “That is precisely what I am saying, and I say this also for any others of your Fellowship who suffered in their service to the defeat of Sauron and his minions, and who might come hither in later days. If those whose fates are not already tightly bound to the foundation of Endorë's future should choose of their own free wills to seek relief from their burdens in this haven, and out of love for the friends who reside here, then I shall allow them to share in this choice. I cannot say if such will ever happen, but this I promise to do, out of my love for all of you, who have served so very well indeed.”

“Cannot say, or will not say?” Frodo wondered, amazed a moment later by his own temerity in asking such a thing.

But Eru Who was not Ványalos merely laughed, a refreshing and joyful sound like the first sweet rains after a long and hard drought. He smiled upon them all, and vanished.

Bilbo sniffed. “Well, that was an answer that didn't need to be heard to be understood. But heavens, if anyone had told me this morning all the things I'd see before the day was over, I'd never have believed them! You are all right now, Gandalf, aren't you?”

“Yes, I'm fine,” the wizard assured him as he shifted position to leave the bed. There was no hesitance or weakness in his movement or his voice, which was a notable change from only a few brief minutes ago. “And I daresay not a one of us could have anticipated this. Lord Eru saved me once before; I had no reason to believe I was worthy of being rescued a second time.”

“And why not?” Frodo demanded, still trembling a bit from all that had happened so quickly. “He was concerned for you even before you truly began your work in Middle-earth. He was the one Who put the notion in Círdan's head to give you Narya, after all.”

“And He has given me so much more,” the Maia sighed, brushing his fingers upon the circlet, then laughing ruefully. “I suspect He created His gift in this fashion quite deliberately, so as to make drawing attention to it unavoidable. I shan't ever understand how humility can be considered so highly praiseworthy, yet then be constantly subverted by the very people who supposedly value it!”

Bilbo half-laughed, half-snorted. “Ah, you must be feeling better, Gandalf, you're already getting testy, and with Eru Ilúvatar Himself!”

The wizard made a face of pure exasperation, but laughed brightly nonetheless. To Frodo, that was better than all the reassurances in the world, for it was a sound he had missed very much indeed during the darkness of the past months. In a surfeit of relief, he enthusiastically embraced his old friend. “I'm glad you're back, Olórin,” he said, rather more fiercely than he had intended.

The laughter remained in Olórin's voice, strong and clear. “I was never away, my dear Frodo, and so long as I have any say in the matter, I shall never come close to doing so ever again. Now, then,” he added, turning his glance to his silent neighbor as he released his smaller friend, “have you nothing at all to say, Ványalos? I have never seen you stand for so long without making a sound when no one has commanded you to hold your tongue. Or do you not find it intriguing that of all the people in Arda, Lord Eru chose to appear as you?”

The red-haired Maia opened his mouth slightly and began to speak, but only a small and inarticulate sound emerged, followed by a noise of exquisitely extreme dismay as he flopped to the floor in an apparent faint. The others laughed at his comically exaggerated display of distress, and at long last, to Frodo, all seemed right in this wonderful new world.

Epilogue

Because only Eru Ilúvatar is perfect, it could not be said that the years which followed were perfection made manifest, but to Frodo's mind, they were as near to it as he could ever imagine. When he had agreed to come to Valinor, it had only been with the thought that here, he might at last find rest and surcease from the darkness that continued to plague his body and spirit. In truth, he had more than half-expected that here he would soon die, but that his end would at least come in a place where his passing would not further trouble the lives of his younger friends and cousins who had already seen too much of sorrow and darkness and evil. He had given up Middle-earth so that they could be happy. He had not expected to find such happiness himself, not in the measure he had been given, nor after facing a near-tragedy that had in the end burned away the remnants of his own suffering, like the last faded leaves of an old autumn tossed onto the trash fire of the following spring.

Bilbo never did change his habit of calling Olórin by the name he had known for him in Middle-earth, but at the very least he finally grew comfortable with his changed appearance. That adjustment was helped along considerably when the old hobbit one day asked the Maia a barrage of questions that had been collecting at the back of his thoughts since the weeks after their arrival, his two most burning questions being why Lord Eru had called him His “littlest one,” and why he alone of all the Maiar had ears rather like those of a hobbit.

Olórin had laughed, amused by such “important” inquiries, but had given the best answers he could. He was “the littlest” to Eru Ilúvatar's mind because he was — apparently — the youngest of all the Ainur, something he had long suspected but had heard confirmed only on the day of that remarkable visitation. And because he had not consciously chosen any aspect of his current appearance — this particular detail of which had not been a part of him before his return from his long mission to Middle-earth in mortal guise — he surmised that it was a manifestation of something Lord Eru had mentioned, the fact that more than just the knowledge of mortal life was now an indelible part of him. Neither matter disturbed the Istar, and that a visible aspect of his connection to humankind was now evident after some small fashion of the hobbits delighted him, for though he had great respect for all the Second-Born, his greatest fondness would ever remain with the halfling folk who were distantly descended of his Song sung before Arda had been made.

Since there was no longer an urgent sense that he must spend as much time as possible with Bilbo before he passed on, Frodo decided to remain in Lórien after his elder cousin returned to Tirion to finally spend some real time in the rooms he had been given in Elrond's house, and where he could delight in meeting and becoming acquainted with some of the greatest of the Elves ever to be born. Though he enjoyed the company of the Elves, and visited his Bilbo often, Frodo was happier in the quiet and beautiful land that was, he now perceived, the inspiration for the region of Middle-earth called the Shire. The other residents of Lórien's hill country had offered to build him a home of his own when he made known his intent to remain there, at least for a time, but so long as Olórin did not object to sharing his house, Frodo decided he would prefer that arrangement. Ványalos had teased and coaxed him with suggestions of constructing a proper hobbit hole, since many of the locals, himself included, were curious to know more about such an unusual dwelling, but Frodo had merely answered that perhaps someday, he and Bilbo could show them how it was done, but for now, he was content. In the little house in the woods, he was not alone, and there he had a sort of family once again, complete with many frequently visiting “relatives.”

For they certainly did not lack for company. Not only was there the omnipresent Ványalos, always ready to provide Frodo with whatever he needed in the way of food and drink and dining companionship, once it had become common knowledge that Olórin was no longer in danger of losing his very existence, the Elves and others of his own people who had been a part of his life before his mission to Middle-earth came to call quite often, sometimes for pleasure, other times as pupils, wishing to learn from him.

Frodo had never seen this particular aspect of his old friend, not quite so clearly expressed. In Middle-earth, his attempts to impart knowledge or wisdom to others had seldom been presented as any kind of true instruction; it had typically been offered as advice, there for the individual to accept or reject as they would. A result of the restrictions that had been imposed upon the Istari, Frodo understood, not to force their wills upon others, but only to persuade. On the days when he deigned to teach those who came to him in search of such things, Frodo always watched and listened, fascinated, and in the process, he learned more things than he had ever imagined about this world he now inhabited, and the relation between it and the mortal world he had left behind.

And as for Olórin himself.... If Frodo had thought he had seen him as he truly was in the few days between his return and the onset of his illness, he had been mistaken. Even then, he had been weighed down and held back and darkened by the hurts from which he had already been suffering. Even Ványalos, with his sharp sense of humor and amusing ways, did not have the sheer joy in life that Olórin possessed, and from having this long opportunity to know him and watch him simply live, Frodo gained a tremendous understanding not only of his old friend, but of how to appreciate his own life as well, both past and present. The Future would take care of itself if they but took care of the Now.

For his own part, Olórin was highly amused by the irony of how his circumstances in Valinorean society had subtly shifted; not that he was held in any greater esteem or reverence because of what had happened, but that he who had for so long been a pupil of the Valar was now their teacher. For no one in all of Aman — indeed, in all of Arda — had the singular comprehension he now possessed of what it meant to be both mortal and immortal, in truth and not merely in abstract theory; no other had lived as an immortal, died as a mortal, and yet come back to resume a mortal life, and thence to immortality once again. As Lord Eru had made it clear that their roles in the future would require a clearer and fuller understanding of humankind, the Valar had come to realize that merely viewing the life of Men from afar was not enough. They had never dwelt among mortals, nor had anyone still possessed of mortality lived for long among them. Overseeing their lives and affairs from the aloof safety of Aman was no better than watching a shadow-play; it allowed them to see appearances that did not provide deeper knowledge of the beings these illusions appeared to be. They could see into the hearts of Men, could perceive their thoughts, but they did not fully grasp all the feelings and motives and frailties they beheld. Some seemed very akin to their own, but others were shockingly foreign to their thought.

They could have asked for such insights from the mortals among them; in fact they did, but they had soon recognized that Frodo and Bilbo could not tell them enough, for they did not think like Ainur, nor had they ever lived such a life. Only Olórin now knew both, and the intimate knowledge he possessed of the differences was invaluable to the Valar as they struggled to prepare for whatever tasks Eru Ilúvatar might have for them in the ages to come. So the humblest of their servants became their teacher, and Olórin was glad that he had long ago availed himself of Nienna's lessons in patience, for without such wisdom, he would swiftly have lost his temper and given up on them as hopeless. Now, he merely took wry amusement from it, and found odd satisfaction in its unexpected irony.

But as Lord Eru had also enjoined him to rest and enjoy the peace of Aman now that his greater tasks were over, such times of instruction came only at the Maia's discretion, and his masters knew better than to go against the will of the One, especially where Olórin was concerned. He and Frodo, and sometimes Bilbo and others of their friends who were more lately come to Valinor, traveled the length and breadth of the Undying Lands, exploring all that it was not out of a sense of restlessness, but to enjoy the wonder and beauty of Arda Unmarred that remained a delight each time it was beheld anew.

Some years later, on another anniversary of the twenty-fifth of March, Frodo and Olórin had celebrated the day by going to the meadow to watch the new foals of the great horses at play in the open fields amid the long grasses, bright with the blossoms of spring. One in particular — a handsome young colt who was the offspring of Shadowfax and a lovely sweet-natured mare who was also of the Mearas, the steed who looked to the Lady Estë as her mistress — commanded their interest, for he held himself both proudly and with the faintest hint of the smug vanity of all youth, aware that he was the center of attention, as was his due. He was not quite so dappled a gray as his dam, but neither did he have the silver mane of his sire; both his mane and tail were already of flowing pure white, like the foam of the sea, and in the fullness of time, he would grow to even greater beauty and intelligence. Estë had given the colt his name, Lossemár, in the Elvish rather than Valarin or Rohirric fashion, and none who saw him as he raced across the meadow doubted that he was as good a beast as his name implied.

As they sat atop a the slope of the hillside between the commons of the local settlement and the easternmost edge of the meadow, Frodo watched not only the colt, but his ever-protective parents, especially his sire. Shadowfax so reminded him of a proud but defensive father as he followed his offspring across the meadow full of lengthening shadows that heralded the nearing sunset, that the sight of him brought a smile to the hobbit's lips. “You don't suppose that Lord Eru included Shadowfax when He said none of us would need to pass beyond this world until we wish to do so, do you?” he asked.

Olórin shook his head, the motion causing the near-dusk light to gleam brightly on the circlet of crystal he had not yet been told to set aside. “As noble and intelligent a beast as he is, Shadowfax does not possess the same kind of spirit Lord Eru gave to His children of Aman and Endorë. He will leave this life when it is his time, yet he will never be fully departed from it. There are not many births here in Aman, for the nature of this place does not often require it, even among the lesser creatures, but their lives are still not as long as even yours might have been, had Lord Eru not granted you His special gift. Shadowfax will live on in Lossemár, and he in his offspring, when the time is ripe. For now, I find it a delight to watch them, since it was rather plain that Shadowfax was quite annoyed with me once I was able to move about freely without him. For a time, I suspected he would never let me near any foal that bore his blood. I shan't ever make that mistake again, seeming to ignore him after all he has done for me! I think I now know how Lord Manwë felt when he discovered the error he had made in disregarding Lord Eru and commanding me to go to Endorë.”

Frodo laughed, remembering the great stallion's seeming fit of pique when for several weeks, Olórin — in his enthusiasm over finally being well and whole again — had done all his more distant traveling without Shadowfax. It had been almost entertaining to watch the stallion deliberately ignore his friend and master in his irritation, as well as the various gestures of apology that he had required of Olórin to get back in his good graces. Ványalos had found no end of jests to make over the situation, but it had quite possibly been those jokes and seeing his master made the butt of one too many that had finally prompted Shadowfax to forgive him. Since then, he had shifted his aloof disregard to Ványalos, his pointed rejection a subtly appropriate revenge against the gregarious and sociable Maia.

As they watched the horses run off to the far side of the meadow, to drink from the stream that ran through it, Frodo recalled the first time he had ever seen Shadowfax, after the war was over. In the encampment on the field of Cormallen, most of the horses had been stabled away from the places where the soldiers and civilians ate and were quartered; thus, it had not been until the day they made ready to ride to Minas Tirith for Aragorn's coronation that Frodo had finally seen the beautiful stallion of whom he had heard so much, especially from Pippin. The young Took had filled Frodo's ears with many a tale of what he remembered as a harrowing ride from Rohan to Gondor, but no opportunity had arisen for Frodo to actually see him until the day of their departure. He hadn't thought any horse could grow so large without appearing somehow monstrous, but for all his great size and strength, Shadowfax had seemed only noble and gentle, not unnatural. Gandalf had offered to have Frodo ride with him, but as Merry and Pippin were to be on ponies rather than such magnificent horses, Frodo had chosen to ride as they did, and not diminish what honor they had earned by seeming to put himself forward, a sentiment with which Sam had fully agreed. Nonetheless, he recalled his first sight of the great stallion quite clearly, and now, knowing that he too had served hard and well during the war, it pleased the hobbit to watch him free and at play with his own kin and family.

Frodo sighed, also remembering Sam's first startled reaction to the sight of the lord of the Mearas. “Do you think Sam will ever choose to come here, Olórin? He was another Ring-bearer — perhaps not for long, but at a very crucial moment. If not for the difficult choice he made near Cirith Ungol, all would have been lost.”

“He certainly has earned it,” the Maia agreed, watching the flight of the horses even as he listened to the approach of others behind them, Ványalos and Bilbo bringing the evening meal while other local residents also gathered to share food and song and the always splendid sight of the coming sunset. “But the choice is up to him, Frodo, and we could not influence him if we wished. If you want my opinion, however, I would say he will definitely come, when he has gained all he desires from life in Middle-earth.”

“And when will that be?” Frodo wondered.

Olórin laughed, a sound of pure merriment that to the halfling was as great a delight to hear as any grand and glorious music ever made. “Even if I knew, you know I wouldn't tell you. There are some things in life that should remain a surprise — especially a thing such as this, which can only lead to happiness. He will come soon enough, and then you can begin a whole new life here, showing and teaching him all you have learned during your time in Aman, as I have done for you.”

The hobbit smiled. “You did, though it won't be an entirely new life, of that I'm sure. Bilbo has been my father in all but the name since I was a boy, Sam was my best friend, especially during the struggle to reach Mordor and Mount Doom, and you have been the brother I never realized I missed having, until I came to know you well. Even Ványalos has begun to feel like a permanent fixture in my life, though I can't quite decide how and where he fits in — perhaps some unusual distant cousin, like Pippin. No, when Sam comes, I see no reason at all why my life should start over. This music hasn't ended, after all; he will simply be adding another voice to the choir.”

The wizard chuckled at the appropriate metaphor, and gracefully rose to go help the other members of their tiny chorus carry the things they had brought for the meal and for their comfort in sharing it. Frodo also joined them to lend a hand with the preparations, and after all had been readied, the now familiar ritual of saying farewell to the day and welcoming the night began once more. He glowed with pleasure at the sound of it, fully able to understand both languages in which it was sung.

O stars that in the Sunless Year
With shining hand by her were sown,
In windy fields now bright and clear
We see your silver blossom blown!

O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!
We now remember, we who dwell
In this fair land of twilit trees
Thy glory o'er the Western Seas.

Ah! One, Who ere the world was wrought
And Song was heard in ancient days,
Brought forth from heart and mind and thought
Thy servants, who now sing Thy praise:

Watch o'er us in this distant land,
Where entered we in darkest night;
Grant us Thy peace; put forth Thy hand
To guide us ever with Thy Light.

The End of the Beginning

Dear Readers and Reviewers,

I would very much like to thank all who have read or are reading this story, and all who have been offering their kind reviews. After five years of near total writer's block, this is providing a much needed balm to the spirit, and is encouraging me to continue with my one currently in-progress work. When that's finished, I'm hoping it will have greased the gears of my brain enough to go back and finish the blocked sequel to The Return.

I have every intention of responding to the reviews, as I began, but as I have said, I'm in the midst of preparing to go on a several week business trip — and wouldn't you know, I managed to get a whopper cold this past weekend that segued into a sinus infection. I'm trying very hard to get it cleared up before we leave, which means a lot of rest (and chicken soup). As my brain is only functioning so well at the moment, I think it best if I hold off on my responses until I can answer intelligently. But rest assured, I am reading and delighting in each and every one. As soon as my brain is back up to speed, I plan to get back to it, even if I have to go find a coffee shop with wi-fi during the trip!

Bless all of you for your kindness, and your support.

Pax!

MJ