Author's Note: This story takes place five years after the last of my previous stories, the still unfinished "Twice Blessed."  Any references to that story are minor.

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“I don't understand,” Frodo said, feeling ill at ease even as he straightened the festive clothing he wasn't quite comfortable wearing, not since the news he'd received the night before.  “If this is as unimportant an event as you say, why is such a fuss being made over it?  And why did someone give it such a hideously ominous name?”

Olórin smiled, as much as he dared without risking insult to the hobbit, who had now spent a full five years in the bliss of Aman, and yet encountered new sights and new ideas — not to mention new customs and traditions — almost every day. He understood the now-healed Ringbearer's puzzlement, and though he did not wish to make light of his feelings, Frodo's discoveries were to the Maia a constant source of private delight. He had once deeply feared that the halfling might never again know anything but pain and suffering; by comparison, confusion over a rarely employed tradition was a blessing.  “I have already explained, my dear Frodo,” he said, calmly and smoothly, “that calling this particular event a Day of Reckoning is a far too limited interpretation of the Valarin phrase.”

The halfling sniffed softly, needlessly burnishing the buttons of his new waistcoat with the soft cuff of one sleeve.  His outfit had been a birthday gift from the Elven weaver Mirimë, a resident of Lórien's hill country with whom he had become quite friendly during his time in the Blessed Realm.  Frodo had tried to explain to his new friends of that land about Hobbit birthday customs, that it was traditional for the celebrant to give gifts to friends and family on the day rather than the reverse, and while most had honored his ways, Mirimë had made an exception this year.  His birthday, and Bilbo's, fell a fortnight before the local celebration of Eruhantalë, the harvest season feast of thanksgiving.  Since they would be journeying to Valmar for the occasion, Mirimë had wanted to gift him with a set of new garments she had fashioned for him so that he might have something special to wear for the celebration.

It was made after the fashion of the Hobbit clothing Frodo had brought with him to Aman: breeches, a long-sleeved shirt, a waistcoat, and a belt, without shoes or stockings or a coat, since Frodo still had and used the grey Elven cloak with which Galadriel had gifted him, almost nine years before.  All the fabric was beautifully made, of fibers Mirimë had spun, dyed, and woven with her own hands.  The russet-brown breeches were of a corded woolen twill, appropriate to the cooling days of autumn, sturdy yet soft with a slight velvet-like sheen.  The shirt was of a fine cream colored linen, fashioned in a slightly more Elven style with fuller sleeves gathered into longer cuffs; the cuffs, collar, and the front placket closed with simple buttons of lustrous pearl, and all their edges were finished with a fine piping of soft twisted cord.  The waistcoat was more elaborate, made of a rich silk brocade woven in a subtle pattern of tiny golden leaves and silver vines against a deep forest green.  Its pockets were edged in a plain matching green silk, and the front closed with buttons of mithril and gold embossed in a complementary leaf motif.  The belt, made of subtly tooled leather that had been dyed to precisely match his breeches, had a buckle of the same fine workmanship as the buttons that incorporated both the leaf and vine design of the brocade.  It was some of the most beautiful clothing Frodo had ever owned, and he had been too delighted by the weaver's thoughtfulness to refuse the gift — though he now wondered if perhaps Mirimë had known there would be more to this annual observance than the norm.  

He and Olórin had journeyed with a group of Elves from Lórien, a merry if leisurely trip that had taken six days, arriving in Valmar two days before the autumnal feast of thanksgiving.  While he was making his preparations for the journey, Frodo had expected that when they reached Valmar, they would camp outside the city as they had done in previous years, on the open plain to the west where the celebration was usually held.  During the journey, he began to suspect that they might find lodgings in one of the inns along the road than ran between Valmar and the Elven cities of Tirion and Calanomë.  Glorfindel had told the halfling that he planned to meet friends who were coming from throughout Eldamar, and that they would stay at the inn nearest to the city of the Valar, as it was well known for its exceptional accommodations and hospitality.

Frodo had been quite startled when Olórin told him that he and the Maia had been invited to stay in the mansion of Manwë and Varda in Valmar, using the small quarters that had once been occupied by Olórin, before he had taken up residence in Lórien.  Frodo already knew the tale of how the Maia had come to live in the realm of Irmo and Estë, but he had been unaware that the Elder King and his queen still kept a place in their home for their youngest servant.  

The mansion itself was stunningly beautiful, a smaller version of Ilmarin, but rendered in varying shades of blue and white rather than the pure white of the palace atop the great mountain of Taniquetil.  Its windows and topmost dome were of glittering crystal, its gates and doors and intricately wrought shutters were of silver and gold and mithril, save for the pair of doors that were the main entrance to the house.  These had been fashioned of carved sapphire and diamond, the stones set in elaborate mosaics that depicted eagles and other birds flying amid wisps of cloud below brightly starry skies.  The grounds were lush with tall trees, neatly tended shrubs, and many beds of flowers, though all were now in their autumn finery, the blooms of fall crowding out the last few flowers of summer.  The gentle sound of garden fountains mingled with a more distant chime of many tiny bells that rose and fell with the sighing of the wind.  Frodo had been suitably impressed by the beautiful place as he walked the gem-studded path of white marble that led from the front gate to the main doors.  He was even more impressed by the simple elegance of its interior.  It reminded him of what he had seen of Ilmarin during his one visit to the palace atop Taniquetil, a place of beauty but not one of obvious, showy wealth or power.  Though he felt a bit overwhelmed by his first sight of it, it did not take long before he began to feel comfortable within its walls, if not precisely at home.

As he could have expected, Olórin's quarters were modest and remarkably cozy, consisting of a small, simply furnished chamber for rest or meditation and an equally small but nicely appointed study.  Both rooms overlooked a garden that filled an inner courtyard of the mansion.  This particular garden was unique not for its profusion of flowers and decorative shrubbery, but for the myriad wind chimes that hung from the many branches of the graceful mallorn and birch trees which grew at the garden's center.  The ever-moving breezes that caressed the wind-lord's dwelling made the thousands of tiny bells ring without stop, but their tones were marvelously soothing, never intrusive to the peace of those within.  Frodo had found them singularly delightful the moment he first heard them, and that he would be invited to stay even a few days in such a wonderful place was an honor he scarcely thought he deserved — until he was told about this business of Reckoning while talking to one of the other guests in the house yesterday evening.

“I understand that it isn't a trial,” the hobbit allowed, idly fingering the buttons of the cuff he had just used as a polishing cloth, “or an investigation — but it certainly sounds that way!  Why do the Valar consider it necessary to have you give yet another accounting of what you did during your time in Middle-earth?  By now, I would think that you've accounted for nearly every single day you spent there!”

“I completely agree,” Olórin said with a bright smile as he watched his mortal friend finish his preparations for the feast, carefully brushing the hair of both his head and his feet.  The Maia stood beside the room's tall open window to enjoy the sounds and scents from the garden.  His own preparations had taken only a moment, as he was now all but fully recovered from his long ordeals during the past age.  The pure white of his silk damask robe was softened by its subtle trimmings of blue and silver and gold, as well as a mithril belt set with carved sapphire and crystal that Frodo had found during his visit to Tirion three years ago.  He had given it to the Istar as a gift when he and Bilbo had celebrated their birthdays that autumn.  

Olórin had been tremendously touched by the gift, partly because it was the first that Frodo had given him for his birthday since their return to the Blessed Realm, but even more because it was the first thing of any significance the Maia had been able to accept from any Hobbit.  Because of the nature of his mission in Middle-earth, he had had no permanent home, and had owned little more than the few things he could carry with him during his long, near-constant journeys.  Those halflings who had become his friends had always been disappointed when the wizard would accept no birthday gifts that were much larger than a pouch of weed, perhaps a new pipe, or on occasion a scarf or blanket to keep him warm in the wilds.  After enduring his refusals for a few years, the hobbits finally came to understand that the wizard could not afford to bear excessive burdens in his travels, nor could his heart long bear the weight of too many physical reminders of mortal friends inevitably doomed to die.

Here in Aman, however, things were different.  Olórin had a small but lovely home of his own, and Eru Ilúvatar had granted him — and the hobbits — the gift of an untroubled life in Valinor that would last until they were all ready to part.  He knew that even though he now ached to think of losing Frodo and Bilbo, when the time came for them to accept the Gift of their mortality, his joy in knowing what awaited them after death would far outweigh the sadness of his loss.  Thus, he had accepted Frodo's gift with gladness, and the sure knowledge that whenever he wore it, it would always remind him of the happiness he had felt in seeing the healed Ringbearer able to once again enjoy fully the celebrations of his own people.  

The belt, though not ostentatious, was more elaborate than Olórin's everyday garb, of fine Elven design and craft, fashioned by one of the most gifted artisans in Tirion who often took commissions for King Finarfin and his court.  Its elegance was appropriate to the both the solemn and the festive business of the day.  As ever, he continued to wear the crystal circlet that had been gifted him by Eru Ilúvatar on the day of his return from the Hither Shores, for he had not yet been told that he could safely remove it.  Perhaps the most peculiar aspect of his chosen attire was the fact that he had elected to go without shoes or boots, a habit he had acquired during the years since his return to Aman. Though some of the Elves looked upon it as most peculiar, the other Ainur recognized it as a gesture of respect for the Hobbits, as both individuals and a race, without whom his own labors in Endorë would have come to naught.  

Now, as he considered a more specific response to Frodo's question, the thumb of his right hand idly traced a curve of one of the belt's sapphire links.  “I have given more than sufficient accounting of my years of stewardship in Middle-earth, but it is customary to hold this final reckoning in a public setting.”

The halfling paled, his brown eyes widening as he looked directly at the Maia.  “Not... not in the Máhanaxar?” he near whispered.  Though he had not been there during an actual trial or judgment, just the name and the knowledge of its history made him shiver.  He had seen the place, of course, as the Valar had gathered there to greet him and his companions when he first arrived in Valinor, but he was glad that he had been too overwhelmed by all the new sights and experiences of that day to recall any of the more terrible history involved with the Ring of Doom while he himself stood within its circle.

The timbre of Olórin's reply was more reassuring.  “No, there's no need for that.  This is actually quite informal.  When my people undertake tasks that are intended to be for the benefit of the Eruhíni — major tasks, such as Eönwë's mission to help in the establishment of Númenor, Arien's and Tilion's work in aiding with the formation and proper guidance of the Sun and Moon, or the embassy of the Istari — we give an accounting of our actions to the Valar in private as soon after the work is complete as is feasible.  I was allowed a year's grace before I gave them mine because of the state in which I returned, and I will readily admit that some parts of that interview were as uncomfortable for me as you imagine!  Not because they were displeased or angered with me, mind you, but because I felt responsible for certain things that were not accomplished — the failures of Aiwendil and Curumo in particular.  I know, their choices were not my fault,” he said with a wave of one hand, dismissing Frodo's protest before he could do more than open his mouth to utter it.  “But neither was it your fault that the Ring was evil, and that others suffered because it could not be destroyed as quickly as you might have wished.  We all bear our own burdens of wondering what might have been if circumstances had been different — if we had been different — but in the end, all that matters is what came to pass, since we cannot alter the past.”

Frodo sighed.  “I know.  But you went through that four years ago, and from what I have been told by you and others, the Valar were more than pleased with all you accomplished.  What is the point of bringing it up again?”

The Maia's dark blue eyes sparkled, catching the soft glow of  pre-dawn starlight that spilled through the window like the gentle music of the garden chimes.  “For the sake of those who were not there to experience the events, or hear my earlier reports.  Oh, they know most all of what was said — in some ways, my people are worse gossips than Hobbits like Lobelia, as are many of the Eldar who have never seen Middle-earth.  But there are often questions that are left unanswered, simply because no one thought to ask them.”

The mortal's brow furrowed with thought.  “But it's been five years.  What questions could anyone still have?”

“Surprisingly unimportant ones, I imagine,” Olórin said with a laugh.  “And mostly from the Elves.  It is largely for the Eruhíni that these Reckonings are held.  We of the Ainur are, after all, the stewards and guardians of the world that was made to be their home, and the Children deserve a chance to ask what questions they might have in regards to our stewardship.”

Frodo's frown deepened.  “Then you may still be interrogated by the Elven kings....”

But Olórin shook his head, his long, near-white golden hair brushing his broad shoulders with the emphatic notion.  “No.  Shortly after I gave my accounting to the Valar alone, the three Elven kings and a group of nobles from their most prominent houses were given an opportunity to hear my report, and ask their own questions of me.”

The mortal's frown faded as his expression turned to one of perplexed astonishment.  “When?  And where?  I don't recall you mentioning such a meeting.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn't.  I had no wish to trouble you with it.  It was in the early summer of the year after I gave my accounting for the Valar in Ilmarin, when you went to spend some time with Bilbo in Elrond's house.  After I escorted you to Tirion and left you with Bilbo wanting to show you every nook and cranny of the place, I went to Vanyanórë, to Ingwë's city on the slopes of Taniquetil.  Lord Manwë had already made arrangements for Olwë and Finarfin to bring their chosen nobles to the High King's residence there, and I met with them as well as Ingwë and his people so that they might hear a fuller report of what they already knew in part, and present any queries of their own.  There were some points about which they were confused, or wanted greater detail, but very few.  Their own loremasters and minstrels had already written so many tales and sagas and ballads about the Third Age and the defeat of Sauron, they seemed more interested in knowing just how accurate those songs and stories truly were.”

“Then what is the point of this Reckoning today?  Is it just another traditional formality?”

“For the most part, although I would call it more of a traditional informality.  Anyone will be allowed to raise whatever questions they wish, but this is not truly another opportunity for the Valar and the nobility to interrogate me, rather a chance for the common people to exercise that right.  While Fëanor and Sauron and some others have called the Valar petty dictators, despots who would lie to any ‘lesser' beings to achieve their own ends, they all forget that the Ainur entered Eä out of love for the vision they had seen, and the love of the Children who were to come.  They cannot intervene in all the injustices of the world without suborning the free will that all of Eru's Children have been given, but here in their own realm, they want all the residents of Aman to live in peace and harmony.  That is a difficult thing to achieve if they allow the Elven kings and nobles, and themselves, to hold themselves farther above their subjects than their authority truly allows.  The mission of the Istari and the matter of the Rings concerned all of Eru's children in this world, both of the Ainur and the Eruhíni.  Anyone who has even the most trivial of questions to ask me about my time as a steward of Endorë has a right to be heard, and to voice their questions in public.”

For a few moments, Frodo had nothing to say; he blinked several times, as if clearing his eyes to better focus on something he had never quite seen before.  A moment later, he sank down onto a conveniently Hobbit-sized stool beside the dressing table he had been using.  “Goodness,” he finally said softly.  “I hadn't considered things quite that way.  I suppose listening to all you told me about your reports to the Valar, I just assumed that they would have thought of every question imaginable.  But this isn't really about how well you did or didn't do the tasks they gave you, or what questions they asked, is it?  It's about... about fairness of an everyday sort.”

Olórin leaned back against the frame of the window, enjoying the fragrant breeze that wafted in through the lush growth of autumn flowers just below the outer sill.  “Precisely!  The events of this past age were important for those who live both in Aman and in Endorë, and on neither side of the Sea should any person be required to have all information concerning matters of personal and historical significance filtered through announcements from their kings, regardless of how high the station of that king.  Lord Manwë understands this, as he understands how some hurts to Arda might have been prevented, had any person felt free to ask those above them for direct answers to questions of vital significance.  One might say that I am being required to submit to a public inquiry, but I do not begrudge it in the least.  Truthfully, I'm rather looking forward to it.  Oft times, the questions that are raised can be quite... intriguing.”  

He glanced out the window for a moment, then laughed, gently.  “During the Reckoning in which Eönwë  answered questions about the founding of Númenor, there were some very... interesting inquiries as to the nature of the Edain, asked by a group of youngsters who had never set eyes on a Mortal.  Most were perfectly innocent, but several had our good Herald blushing so fiercely, Lady Estë was concerned that his fana might burst into flame, at the very least.”

Frodo couldn't help but laugh at the image.  “You don't expect to be asked things of that nature, do you?”

But the Maia was not concerned.  “No, I shouldn't think so.  After all, I have one great advantage Eönwë did not: there will be two Mortals present who are far better qualified to provide answers than I.”

Suddenly, Frodo found his own cheeks reddening.  “I hope that isn't why Bilbo and I were asked to come!” he retorted after spluttering for a moment or two.

This time, Olórin's laughter was hearty and merry.  “It was not,” he assured his small friend.  “I have considered this advantage, I admit, but I would never put you in such an embarrassing position.  You were invited because this is a time of festival and you are honored guests in this land, and also because as the only Mortals residing in Aman, you should have an opportunity to ask any questions you might have concerning the performance of my duty while I dwelt in Middle-earth.”

“Oh, no,” came the hobbit's instant response.  “I have nothing to ask, for myself.”

The Maia lifted one pale brow.  “Are you certain?  I have heard many more than one person insist that I should have found another bearer for the Ring, rather than force it upon you.”

Frodo bristled with sudden outrage on his friend's behalf.  “You didn't force me, as both you and I know quite well.  And if anyone dares to raise that question today, they will have to answer to me!”

Olórin smiled broadly.  “You, and a number of others.  Glorfindel, for one.  On the journey from Lórien, he told me that there were several questions he fully expects to hear in this Reckoning, and he intends to offer any support and defense he can.  Elrond is of the same opinion, as are many members of his household, Bilbo included.  Galadriel shares those feelings — even Círdan has made it plain to me that he will raise his voice in my defense on certain issues, should they be raised. And I have supporters among my own people who have their own opinions and observations, and will readily speak them, if it should come to that.”  He shook his head in wonder.  “I am tremendously moved to find I have so many staunch friends and allies.”

“You shouldn't be,” Frodo said, quite firmly.  A moment later, his expression turned from determination to bewilderment.  “Are you saying that all of them have known that this Reckoning was coming from the very beginning?  Even Bilbo?”

The Istar waggled one hand in a gesture of ambiguity.  “Some have known for a long time, my folk in particular, since it was decided several weeks before midsummer to hold the reckoning at the autumn festival.  The news was then given to the three Elven kings, who made the announcement to their people months ago, so that those who wished to be on hand for it could plan to make the journey.  Elrond is kin to Finarfin, through his father and also through his wife, as Círdan is kin to Olwë.  Galadriel, of course, is daughter to the king of the Noldor, and was present at the inquiry at Ingwë's palace in his city of Calanomë.  Bilbo no doubt heard of it when Elrond gave the news to those of his house, and Glorfindel has close ties to both Tirion and Calanomë, aside from being a resident of Lórien.”

“Then why did no one tell me?”  There was an echo of hurt in the halfling's voice.

Olórin was sympathetic.  “It wasn't deliberately kept from you, Frodo, I assure you.  I wasn't aware until last night that you had not heard of it.  I assumed that someone had mentioned it to you long before we left Lórien, since everyone else knew and occasionally spoke of it.  It was simply an omission no one noticed, and I do apologize if you feel slighted by it.  No official announcement was made in Lórien because it is primarily an enclave of Ainur, and this Reckoning is not ultimately for their benefit.  The Elves who live there learned about it either from the resident Maiar, or through communication with their kin and friends in Eldamar.  As your host, I should have made sure you were told.”

His regret was so sincere, Frodo could not maintain his indignation.  “No, no, I don't blame you — or anyone else, for that matter.  I hardly seem to be a guest in Lórien.  Everyone has treated me so kindly, I feel very much a part of the community, even like family.  When I take a moment to think about it, I do remember Mirimë saying something about  some kind of special reconciliation being part of this year's festival, but I thought it had something to do with someone who had recently come from Middle-earth, or who was being released from Mandos or some such.  I didn't think to ask more about it, because I was so overwhelmed when she gave me her gift a minute later.”  Suddenly, he laughed.  “It would seem I've been behaving a bit foolishly, thinking this was being kept from me on purpose when it was right in front of my nose all along.”

“Not foolish,” the Maia said quite earnestly as he pushed away from the window's edge to stand straight.  “Well, if you're ready now, we should join the others.  The walk from here to the site of the feast is not long, but we do need to be there before the sun rises.”

Frodo took one last look at himself in the mirror beside the dressing table, gave the hem of his waistcoat a final tug, then nodded his readiness and headed for the door.

Beyond it, a quiet corridor led from the rooms near the wind chime garden to the spacious central greeting hall a few steps below the large main doors of the mansion.  A number of other Maiar and four Elves were already gathered there, talking quietly among themselves as they waited for the arrival of Elder King and Queen.  Frodo had not seen Manwë and Varda since they had reached Valmar, as the presence of the two Valar had been required elsewhere, preparing for the day of thanksgiving, but they and a small group of Elven guests from Tirion had been well cared for by the many Maiar who served in the house.  Both servants and guests offered cheerful greetings to Frodo and Olórin as they joined them.  

One of the Maiar — a tall, slender male clad in the blue livery of the house, with wavy golden-brown hair, startlingly pale blue-green eyes, and the most indefatigable  smile Frodo had ever seen — bowed graciously to the hobbit as he greeted him.  “Was the refreshment I brought yesterday evening to your liking, Master Frodo?” he asked in a quietly musical tenor.

Frodo could not stop himself from laughing; only after the sound had burst from him did he realize that his unintended response might be considered rude.  Then he heard Olórin chuckling behind him, and felt a brief flush of relief that his reflexive reaction had not been inappropriate.  “Refreshment?” he repeated as he reined in his mirth.  “Master Márandur, even by the standards of my people, that ‘refreshment' was enough to qualify as a sumptuous meal — or two!  It was more than to my liking, but I never expected my request for a small bite to eat to result in such a... a banquet!”

“And yet you managed to finish all that was sent,” Olórin noted, his tone one of droll amusement.

The hobbit blushed.  “Well, yes, I suppose I did, but it was all so good, I found it hard to insult whoever prepared it by leaving so much as a crumb!  I don't think I could possibly be hungry again until well after noon.”

Márandur's eyes twinkled brightly as his smile broadened.  He was the steward of both dwellings of Manwë and Varda; directing those who were their household servants was one of his many responsibilities, as was seeing to the comfort and well being of any guests.  “Then the labor was well rewarded, for that was the intention.  We know that all the Eruhíni require regular nourishment, and Mortals more than Elven-kind, but we did not wish for you to suffer any discomfort during the morning's ceremonies.  Tradition requires that no one break their fast until after the formal thanks has been offered to Eru Ilúvatar this day, and I had heard that things did not go well for you during last autumn's ceremonies.”

The red in Frodo's cheeks deepened at the reminder; Olórin rose to his defense.  “Hunger was not precisely to blame, Márandur.  He fainted last year because he spent too much of the night before with Glorfindel, giving some visitors from Alqualondë a sample of songs and stories from the Shire.”

“It wasn't Glorfindel's fault that I wanted to show off how well I've learned to play the little harp I was given,” the hobbit said a trifle sheepishly.  He did not want the Elf lord, to whom he owed much, to take the full blame for the incident.

“No,” Olórin agreed.  “But it was his fault that he gave you more wine than food.  Glorfindel has had many friends among the Secondborn.  He of all the Elves in Aman should have known better.  It's a wonder you merely fainted the next morning.”

Márandur nodded his understanding of that unfortunate event.  “Whatever the case, I did not want you to risk any chance of further embarrassment, Master Frodo.  Today, the ceremony may be longer than it was last year, and though no one would hold it against you if you needed to break with the tradition of fasting, I thought you might prefer if something could be done to avoid either possibility.”

“That is very kind of you,” the hobbit said with a deep bow of gratitude.  “I confess that I had misgivings on that account because of what happened last year, which is why I thought that a snack before retiring might be wise.  You did a splendid job of anticipating my needs, even better than I.  I was afraid that I would experience some troubles from my... well, to put politely, greed of last night, but however you managed to choose my ‘refreshment,' it left me thoroughly sated without the slightest bit of upset.  Not even the best cooks of my people could have managed that.”

Márandur acknowledged the praise with a gracious nod.  “I am pleased.  You may be happy to know that I spoke of this to one of our people who accompanied those traveling from Tirion, and she made certain that Master Bilbo would also be similarly — refreshed.”

“Hmm, yes,” Olórin said, his eyes sparkling with amusement.  “It wouldn't do to spare the stomach of one hobbit from undignified hunger pangs only to have the entire ceremony disrupted by the untoward growlings of another's.”

Frodo couldn't help but laugh, though it was tempered by the knowledge that his humor was at Bilbo's expense — however merited it might be.  For many years, he had teased his ersatz uncle over the surprisingly loud sounds his stomach could make when he was hungry, though Bilbo had always taken it in good humor.  Márandur regarded him with a querulous expression, but he was spared the need to formulate a polite response by the arrival of the Elder King and his queen.

Manwë and Varda entered the hall, descending a long curved staircase that led to galleries and their private chambers on the upper floor.  They both appeared serene and in a pleasant mood, which for Frodo was always a delight to see.  He remembered the sad days of his first year in Valinor, and how much of it had touched the royal couple with deep sorrow.  To see them, and Olórin, know unhindered joy once again was a balm to the hobbit's own spirit.

Today, the two Valar were arrayed in finery befitting the autumn feast of thanksgiving, Manwë's long outer robe was made of heavy silk in a deep sky blue, and was embroidered with elaborate patterns of swirling leaves in the fire and earth tones of the fall.  He wore not his crown, but instead a simpler circlet of gold fashioned in graceful intertwining curls like streaming clouds, set with fourteen bright sapphires.  Varda had eschewed her habitual white formal garb for a gown of midnight blue, embroidered at the lower hem and up the full skirts with thousands of leaves in red and russet and gold. The neckline was embellished with a pattern of stars beset with pure white jewels, and the golden net in which her glossy black tresses were caught sparkled with myriad diamonds that glittered like the starry heavens above an autumn sunset.  

Frodo had seen the Elder King both bearded and clean-shaven, depending on his mood and his business of the day, and today, no whiskers hid the elegant planes of his face so that his smile shone forth, completely unobscured.  It had taken the halfling some time to become accustomed to these apparently whimsical changes in Manwë's appearance, thinking at first that he did not care for it when he had no beard.  In time, however, he realized that he had been equating it with an attempt to imagine how Gandalf — the wizard of Middle-earth rather than his Maia self — might have looked without his sweeping silver beard, and he saw that the effort was truly silly.  As Olórin was still his beloved friend, no matter what his outer appearance, so too was Manwë the same admirable being, whether he chose to sport whiskers or not.  Today he had not, and somehow, it gave his thick, rippling white hair an even stronger resemblance to the clouds in the skies that were a part of his personal domain.

Everyone in the hall, Frodo included, bowed deeply as the couple reached the bottom of the staircase; after only a moment, Manwë gestured his acceptance of their homage.  He greeted the Elves who were his guests:  Finrod, his wife Amarië, and their twin son and daughter, Arcalimon and Amaurea, who had come of age only a few days before.  Frodo did not hear their quiet conversation, but something Varda said to them made the two young Elves laugh softly.  The happy looks on their faces was infectious, so much so that the hobbit found he could not be irritated with Arcalimon for offering his erroneous information about the Reckoning the night before.  After a few more words, the Elves gave their thanks to the Valar, who then moved on.

As they approached Frodo and Olórin, both bowed in greeting, and were answered with warm smiles.  “Welcome to our home, my friends,” Manwë said warmly.  His intense blue eyes sparkled with an inner light; his rich deep voice was like the sonorous but gentle sound of distant bells swaying in the wind, full of fondness. Varda also drew near to bestow an embrace of greeting, first to the halfling, then to the Maia.  Frodo blushed to be so honored, but Olórin accepted it with remarkable grace, the estrangement between himself and any of the Valar now long since resolved.

After Varda stepped back, the wind-lord turned his smile directly to the hobbit.  “We are glad to hear that you approve of our steward's foresight concerning this morning's traditions, Master Frodo,” he said, good humor in both his expression and his voice.

“Indeed I do,” Frodo replied, not even pausing to question how the Vala knew of a conversation that had taken place only a minute ago, outside his presence.  He had learned long ago that the Ainur were aware of a great deal because they spoke often among themselves via their thoughts — ósanwë, as the Elves called it — not because they were busybodies, but because such easy and frequent communication was a part of their natural state of being. “I have thanked him for it, and for extending that foresight to my kinsman Bilbo.”

Varda laughed gently, a beautiful rippling sound that blended perfectly with the music of the wind chimes in the garden, as it did with her husband's voice.  “Let it not be said that we are unwilling to learn to appreciate new friends when we meet them,” she said, “as we did when we met you and your esteemed cousin.  Observing a hitherto unknown race from afar is not the same as having them be a part of your life, and we take joy in learning your ways.”

Her spouse agreed.  “There is no trouble any of us would refuse to go through for your sake, and Bilbo's.  We will ever be in your debt.”

Hoping to hide yet another flush in his cheeks, Frodo bowed deeply, in proper Hobbit fashion.  “What I did, my lord, was not for my own sake, but rather for the sake of this world that we both love so dearly.  Perhaps like Olórin, I did not begin the task set before me with the most willing of hearts, but neither did I expect to be rewarded.  Please, if you still wish to reward me, I beg you to do so by foregoing any further mention of debt.  I now understand that it was Eru Ilúvatar Who asked me to bear the Ring if I would, and I expect that someday, He and I will have a chance to settle any accounts — if indeed any remain to be settled.”

Manwë glanced at his queen, whose face was brilliant with delight, then turned his eyes to Olórin, who replied with an equally delighted nod before regarding Frodo with proud affection.  One could fairly feel the approval of the other Maiar, as well as the Elves, as a tingling in the air.  The Elder King then returned the hobbit's bow, in respect, not mockery.  “Then it shall henceforth be as you wish, Frodo Baggins.  Indeed, as was once said, were all the Elf-friends of old — all the heroes of Eä assembled, whatever their race or lineage — you would be among them in a place of high honor, for your gracious humility, if naught else.”

Frodo nodded once to indicate his acceptance of this bargain between them, and no more was said.  Outside, the distant notes of a single clear trumpet was heard, joined after a few notes by a second, then a third, creating a joyful harmony that soon ended. When only the echoes of their fanfare remained, Manwë lifted his head, as if listening to some other call from far away.  He then turned again to Frodo.  “It is time for us to depart.  If you will, Prince Findaráto — Finrod, as you call him — and his family would be honored to accompany you to the plain where all will gather.  Today, Olórin will need to take his proper place among my people.”

“I understand,” Frodo assured him, smiling at Finrod and his family as they approached.  “And the honor is all mine.”

“I think it best if we share the honor,” Finrod said, as they had become well acquainted during Frodo's visits to Tirion, being Galadriel's eldest brother.  Without Celeborn at her side, she hungered for the companionship of those family and friends who had known her husband, a distinction both Finrod and Frodo possessed, though neither had known the lord of the Galadhrim as well as they might have liked.  “Since my return from Mandos, I find I prefer the company of equals — and I prefer to believe that we are all equal, in the eyes and heart of the One above us.”

“Truly spoken,” Manwë declared as others nodded their agreement.  His tone was serious but his expression merry.  “Let us go.”

The guests and Maiar stepped back to allow the Elder King and Queen to move first to the doors, which opened soundlessly as they approached.  Olórin fell into step behind Manwë, as another Maia — Valinélë, second among Varda's handmaidens — fell into step behind the Valië.  Márandur indicated that the five Eruhíni should follow, and behind them came other Maiar, servants of the king and queen, each in the train of the Vala they served.  As they stepped outside, a ripple of wind flowed out into the city, setting its many bells to ringing, softly at first but growing steadily.  The outer gates opened as the doors had, without sound or a hand to move them, and when they neared, Frodo saw Eönwë and Ilmarë awaiting them, bearing the standards of their lord and lady.

They continued down the broad central road that ran the entire length of Valmar, which was flanked on either side by the mansions of the Valar.  Though all were beautiful and elegant in their own ways, they ranged in appearance from rustic to palatial, as suited the natures of their residents.  In one thing they were all the same: the side that faced the stone-paved avenue had a wall or fence of some sort, with a tall centered gate bearing whatever emblem or emblems were associated with the owners.  The gates were slightly offset, so that none directly faced another.  As the royal entourage passed, each gated opened and those who dwelt within emerged, the Valar preceded by their standard bearers and followed by the guests and people of their house.  Thus the procession grew larger and longer, the numbers of those who walked down the long street increased by the presences of others who went with them unseen, the many Maiar who served each of the Valar.  

They soon reached the open gates of the city, which looked out across a plain filled with thousands of Elves of all kindreds who had come for the celebration.  Just beyond the gates, the standard bearers of the Valar met with those of the three Elven kings and the kings themselves; all knelt in obeisance to the guardians of Arda.  After a warmly smiling Manwë gestured for them to rise, Márandur touched Frodo's shoulder and pointed to where Bilbo was standing with Elrond and Celebrían, beside Galadriel, who stood to the right of and slightly behind her parents, the king and queen of the Noldor.  Márandur smiled and nodded to the Ringbearer, who understood that it was time for him to join Bilbo and the others, even as Finrod and his family went to join his parents and his sister.  Other Elves who had been guests in the mansions of the Valar also joined their kin and friends.  With that small formality completed, the unseen trumpets sounded again, the Elven kings and their companies fell in behind the entourage of the Valar, Ingwë following directly behind Manwë and Varda, Finarfin behind Aulë and Yavanna, Olwë behind Ulmo.  The procession continued on, beyond the gates, past the Máhanaxar, to a green slope near the mound of Ezellohar.  As they moved from the city at the same stately but steady pace, the skies slowly brightened and the stars dimmed, heralding the nearing dawn.

“I see they made sure you looked like a prince of the halflings, too,” Bilbo whispered to his cousin as flocks of birds swooped in from mountain and plain, soaring high above in a procession of their own.  They were supposed to remain silent until after Manwë had offered up the formal prayer of thanks to Eru, but the elderly hobbit could not contain himself.  Frodo glanced at him, and was unable to restrain a grin.  Bilbo was bedecked in Elf-crafted Hobbit-style finery no less sumptuous than his own, although he had been apparently gifted with attire in the colors of Elrond's house, blue and silver-gray and white.  He did not have a Lórien-made cloak,  but the thick woolen fabric of his new cloak —  dyed a rich midnight blue and edged with silver embroidery of intricately twined vines and leaves — looked quite warm, excellent proof against the early morning chill.  Frodo was delighted that Elrond — and Celebrían as well, no doubt — cared enough for Bilbo to not only make certain he had his own festive attire, but that it would take into account the needs of his aging body.

As if he could read Frodo's thoughts, one corner of the elder hobbit's mouth quirked into a wry smile.  “Elrond still won't believe I'm not as feeble as I was those last years in Rivendell,” he said very softly, no doubt trying to avoid being overheard by sharp Elven ears. “Silly, if you ask me, but I still bless him for thinking so kindly of me.”  The twinkle in his brown eyes was both amused and touched.

Frodo agreed with a small nod, then touched one finger to his lips when he saw Celebrían glance their way.  Being a half-elf, her husband might not have caught the whispers, but she no doubt had, for she showed her approval of Frodo's shushing gesture with a grave nod of her own, which she mitigated a moment later with a bright, fond smile.

Some distance ahead, where the Valar and their servants walked behind the line of standard bearers, Olórin heard Bilbo's whispered words and sensed the responses to them.  A small smile brightened his face, reflecting the much deeper sense of satisfaction he felt within.  So much suffering had been the price of ending Sauron's realm, and that those who had been sorely wounded — Frodo, Bilbo, Celebrían, and yes, himself — could feel mischievous joy in the midst of solemnity was perhaps the greatest gift for which he was thankful this day.  In the ever-moving subvocal ripple that was the flow of emotion and communication between all the Valar and Maiar, he knew that both Manwë and Varda were also aware of what had occurred and were pleased and delighted by it, though they kept it from manifesting in their dignified outer appearance.

At last, they arrived at the appointed place, a spot beyond Valmar where three hills rose at the edge of the broad, open plain. The hill nearest to the city held the Máhanaxar, which from without appeared rather beautiful, a ring of tall and elegant columns of stone surrounded by gardens of graceful trees, thick shrubs, and a profusion of flowers, all in full autumn splendor.  A short distance to the west rose the hill of Ezellohar, a mound that was no longer the lush green place it had been when the Two Trees were alive and thriving.  The dark husks of the long dead trees remained, still standing as a memorial to a lost past and a reminder of what evil could wreak if those who opposed it allowed their vigilance to fail.  

And yet, it was no longer quite so desolate a place as it had once been.  Five years ago, a bier of white and silver and gold had been set between the remains of the Trees, upon which the mortal shell that had been Olórin's burden during his labors in Middle-earth's Third Age had been laid to rest after he had been permitted to release it and resume his natural life as a Maia.  The body did not decay, and it had been placed there both to honor the Istar's achievement, and to remind those who had never tasted mortal life of the sacrifices that had been made to free all of Arda from the evils of Sauron.

The third hill rose to the south of Ezellohar, a green place with neither trees nor shrubs nor structures.  There was nothing to distinguish it from any other hill, but for many years, it had been the center for occasions on which the peoples of Aman gathered on the plain beyond Valmar.  Yet because of its particular position, its summit was the first spot beyond the Calacirya to be touched by the first rays of the dawn, a distinction that gave it special prominence on this day.

The fourteen standard bearers of the Valar came first to the hill.  There, they moved halfway up the slope and spread out into a perfect circle, ringing the entire hill, where they planted their pennants and remained standing beside them.  The bearers for the three Elven kings went no higher than the foot, but moved to three compass points, the Teleri to the east, the Vanyar to the south, and the Noldor to the west.  The northern point was traditionally left empty, in remembrance of those of the Elves who had refused the Great Journey to Aman, and were considered by some a missing realm.  Each of the kings and their chosen court stood behind their standard, facing the hill, while the Valar and their attendant Maiar moved up the hillside.  The Maiar remained below the fluttering standards, while the Valar themselves stood before them, facing the hilltop.  Manwë ascended to the summit alone.  There, he bowed to each point of the compass, beginning with the north, and when he ended with a bow to the east, he stood straight, still facing the brightening sky, and lifted up his hands.

The only sound was the movement of the wind upon the grass and the gentle rustle of the silk banners; even the birds had stilled their song, as if in reverence to the moment.  Time seemed to have stopped as Manwë remained silent, unmoving; then, answering some call he alone could sense, he raised his face to the skies above and began the prayer of thanksgiving to Eru.  Much of it remained the same from year to year, traditional phrases that were eternal truths which gave comfort to those who heard them.  Yet there were always changes, as with each turning of the seasons and the world, there were ever new reasons for which to be thankful.

One thing was constant: the prayer was sung, not spoken, in the Elder King's clear, magnificent voice.  All who heard it heard the same words, but in whatever language was their own mother tongue.  For the Elves the words were Sindarin or Quenya, even very ancient versions of the latter for those who had awakened at Cuiviénen.  Frodo and Bilbo, the only mortals present, heard it in the dialect of Westron that was spoken among the Hobbits of the Shire.  The Ainur heard it twice over, audibly in Valarin, and in their hearts and minds as they had heard all forms of communication before they had first known the wonder of incarnate existence.  And as Manwë sang aloud the ritual phrases and the expressions of gratitude for things that were public knowledge among all the residents of Aman, those who had private thanks to offer did so in the silence of their thoughts.

When at last he sang the final word, “Násië” — may it be so — the dawn broke over the eastern horizon, and the first rays of the sun pouring through the Calacirya fell upon Manwë.  For a moment it turned him to a brilliant, glowing figure of living flame.  The voices of all present echoed his final word, and then rose up in songs of joy and praise to the One.  The light of morning flooded the lands west of the mountains, the brilliant blue autumn sky flecked with only a few small clouds that shone golden in the rays of dawn before turning to purest white.  Still smiling as the singing went on, Manwë lowered his arms and walked serenely down the hillside toward Eönwë.  The herald lifted up the standard again, as did the other bearers; the breeze freshened as the Elder King reached him.  He nodded for Eönwë to precede him, and they continued on.  The other Valar followed in the same fashion, the remainder of their peoples coming behind them.  They moved on to a place that had been prepared for them, a flattened part of the southern slope of the hill that was much like a broad step between the summit and the plain.

Upon this open site, which was clearly visible to the various encampments, fourteen carved wooden chairs had been set, each cushioned in the color appropriate to the Vala for whom it was intended.  They were placed in a semi-circle set back from the step's edge with a wide space between them, open to the south.   Between the chairs were low tables bearing an array of refreshments.  When the bearers arrived, they placed their standards behind the seats readied for those they served.  Manwë's banner was placed on the western end of the semi-circle, facing east, toward the dawn, with Varda's to his left.  The others continued thus, with the Fëanturi and their sister Nienna along the northern curve of the crescent, and the seat of Ulmo directly opposite Manwë's.  The overall effect was that of a gallery rather than a court, a place for observation, not judgment.  When the Valar arrived, they went to stand before their seats while their banners were set in place.   They remained standing until Eönwë came to the center of the open space, bowing to the kings and queens.  The herald then gestured to Olórin, who came forward to stand beside him, giving his own obeisance to the Elder King and his queen.

“Are you prepared for this, my friend?” Manwë asked his youngest servant.

If he was not, there was no trace of it in Olórin's expression or his manner.  “I am, my lord,” he said, his voice clear and firm.

“Then let this be finished,” the wind-lord declared.  By an unspoken cue, all of the Valar took their seats.

Eönwë turned to face the open southern side of the gallery, beyond which the pavilions of the Elven kings and thousands of others had been erected.  The Eruhíni remained standing; many of the Maiar withdrew to give the incarnates a better view of the gallery, some came to attend their lords and ladies, others stayed for reasons of their own.  All talk and singing came to an end when the herald raised one hand.

When the only sounds to be heard were the distant bells of Valmar still ringing in the morning wind and the nearer trills of now wakened birds, Eönwë spoke, his voice not loud, but still powerful enough to be heard by all on the plain.  “People of Aman!” he announced, gaining the attention of all.  “We have gathered here to give thanks to Eru Ilúvatar and to celebrate the bounty and beauty of all He has given us.  Yet before we join in feasting, it is time for the final Reckoning of the Third Age to be heard.  Five years ago, we gave thanks for the defeat of Sauron on a day which saw the return to Aman of Olórin, servant of Manwë, known to the Elves of Endorë as the Istar Mithrandir, named Gandalf by the Secondborn, Tharkûn by the children of Aulë.  Two millennia past, he was charged by the Valar to accept the body of a mortal Man and sent to Endorë as the ambassador of the Elder King, to act as a steward of Middle-earth and there guide and instruct the free peoples of that land so that they might accomplish the overthrow of the Dark Lord.  Of all his order, he alone completed his tasks and returned.  Your leaders have heard his accounting of his stewardship, and have been given the opportunity to ask of him any questions they might have in regards to his performance of those duties.  He now comes before all the people of Aman assembled to submit to this final Reckoning, so that any person of any rank may address to him any matter they feel was not asked, or was insufficiently answered.  This is done in the name of justice, so that the accounting of the Embassy of the Uttermost West in the Third Age may at last be closed, to the satisfaction of all.  Let those who wish to be heard come forward.”

His task completed, the herald withdrew to stand behind Manwë.  Olórin serenely moved forward to face the assembly, standing at the edge of the hill in a place clearly visible to all.  He bowed deeply to the throngs, acknowledging that they, the people of Aman, would decide what happened next, not the Valar.  

As if in answer, Ingwë, Olwë, and Finarfin came forward.  Ingwë, the king of the Vanyar and High King of all Elves, was among the oldest of all the Firstborn, as was Olwë, the king of the Teleri; as such, they were among a very small number of the male Elves who had a beard.  The blond Vanya wore his neatly trimmed and considerably shorter than did Olwë, whose silky silver beard was long, and plaited with white pearls and silvery-blue shell beads.  Finarfin — Arafinwë, as he was called in Quenya-speaking Aman — was considerably younger than his royal peers, and though beardless was nonetheless held in high regard as the king of the Noldor. All three were attired as befitted their stations, Finarfin in the deep blue and silver of the Noldorin royal house, Olwë in the sea-green and silver of the Teleri, and Ingwë in the white and gold of the Vanyar.  All were tall and of noble bearing, though Ingwë was the tallest of the three, an imposing figure who nonetheless wore a pleasant, if dignified, smile on his fair face.  As one, they bowed to the Istar in a gesture of respect.  Ingwë spoke for them all, his voice strong and clear.

“For myself, all my questions concerning your tasks were answered long ago, Lord Olórin,” he said, his blue-gray eyes bright and warm.  “Speaking for my kin and those of my court, they are also satisfied and require no additional inquiry.  In this, Arafinwë of the Noldor and Olwë of the Teleri are in full agreement.  However, we wish to make it clear to all our peoples that though we, our families, and those of our courts are content, they should feel no shame or hesitance in seeking answers to their own questions, if they so desire.”

Olórin inclined his head in polite acknowledgment of this courtesy.  “You are gracious, my lords, and wise.  I am pleased to know that I have sated your curiosity, as I am gratified to hear you encourage others so that they may also be satisfied in the name of justice.”

The kings bowed once again, then returned to stand with their families.  For a perhaps a minute, nothing happened save for the sound of soft murmurs flitting through the watching throngs.  Manwë was about to ask Eönwë to give a formal summons again when one of the Elves came forward to stand where the kings had stood a few moments before.  He was of the Noldor, tall and dark of hair, and though he was finely dressed, he did not display the opulence of a noble.  Olórin recognized him, and smiled.

“Rautanáro Alarion,” the Maia said in greeting as the Noldo bowed.  Olórin fervently wished he could tell everyone to do away with such formalities as bowing, but he knew the solemnity of the occasion would not permit it.  “I understand that I have you to thank for this beautiful gift I was given by my friend, Frodo Baggins.”  He touched his belt as he spoke, knowing that it was a product of this smith's skilled hands.  “I have long admired your work, for few have your fine talent in combining art with functionality.”

“I am honored by your praise, my lord,” Rautanáro replied.  “And I am also pleased to know that you took pleasure in the gift.  I have heard much concerning the work you performed in Endorë during the past Age.  Before coming to Valmar, there was no question I could have thought to ask of you.  But it has been many years since I have been to Valmar, and when my wife and I went to Ezellohar yestreve, to pay our respects to the place of the Trees, I saw the hröa that had been yours upon the hill, and the ring still upon the hand.  I recognized at once the work of a Fëanorian, and I was told that it was one of the Three Great Rings fashioned by Celebrimbor for the leaders of the Eldar of Endorë.”

Olórin nodded.  “It was indeed, Narya, the Ring of Fire.  It was given into my keeping a short time after my arrival in the Havens of Mithlond, by Lord Círdan, to whom it had been given by Ereinion Gil-galad, then High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth.”

For a moment, Rautanáro's brow furrowed as he paused to phrase his next words.  “I do not mean to imply wrongdoing on your part,” he explained, “but it is my understanding that the Istari were sent to Endorë to be guides and teachers to the peoples who inhabit those lands, to aid them in their struggles against the so-called Dark Lord Sauron.”

“That is so.”

“Yet was not the greatest threat posed by Sauron due to the Master Ring he had made to control the others?  Was it not an unconscionable risk for one of your order to take possession of one of the Three?  It was a thing of power that might have tempted a bearer to desire even greater power, something that could have made anyone who carried it terribly vulnerable, should Sauron regain his Ring.  How could you have taken it?”

Even before the last question was asked, a sad smile shadowed Olórin's fair face.  “Narya was indeed all that you have said, Rautanáro, although its own power was not of a kind that would generally lead one to desire a path for domination, unless such a desire was already within them.  I have never sought that kind of power or control, and even so, the One Ring did indeed tempt me to desire greater power for good.  I am relieved to say that I did not succumb to its lure!  But to answer what I believe is your ultimate question: I took it because at the time it was offered to me, I did not know any better.”

Rautanáro blinked, startled; he was not to the only person to react with surprise.  “I — I beg your pardon?” was all he could manage to say.

Olórin understood his confusion.  “I know that sounds quite impossible, but I assure you, it was not.  You are aware that when we were sent to Middle-earth as the emissaries of the Valar, all of the Istari were embodied in true flesh and blood, not merely in fanar such as we wear here in Aman.”

The smith nodded.  “I had heard as much, and saw the proof of it last evening upon Ezellohar.  Before Master Baggins came to my shop in Tirion, I had never met one of the Secondborn, and until yesterday, I had not seen even a body of a Man.  Had you been sent in a fana, I presume there would not have been a shell of flesh for you to leave behind.”

“Just so.  And before I was sent, I had never before inhabited a body of true flesh.  It was... a disconcerting experience.  Between the time that I was given that incarnation and the time I landed on the shores of Endorë, less than a month had passed.  When I arrived in Círdan's havens, I was far from acclimated to that change of being, which was so profoundly different from anything I had ever known, I have never truly been able to describe it.  Those of the Eldar who have been returned from death have told me that from my descriptions of the experience, it was very similar to their rebirth.”

“That is true,” Glorfindel said as he emerged from a group not far from the place where Elrond's household was gathered.  He moved to stand beside Rautanáro, giving the Maia a half-bow of both greeting and apology.  “If I may?” he asked.  Olórin nodded permission, and he continued.  “What Olórin says is quite accurate,” he told Rautanáro.  “I myself have been reborn.  After my release from Mandos, I spent many months in the house of the Lady Nienna, where I was aided in my adjustment from existence as an unhoused fëa to life in hröa.  In the early days, I scarcely remembered who or what I was, and I fear that my wisdom of greater matters was little better than that of a child.  As he and I are friends, Olórin and I have spoken of this; in ósanwë, I was able to perceive that his circumstances upon his arrival in Middle-earth were very similar.  I would, in fact, say that his situation was considerably worse than mine.  I was restored to what I had been, one of the Eldar, but he was placed in the body of a Mortal Man.  The Atani, admirable and noble as they are, exist in ways we cannot fully comprehend.  Even the least of the Elves is able to experience communion with another's mind and spirit, to some degree, while to the greatest of the Atani, this is, with very few exceptions, unknown.”

“Lord Glorfindel is correct,” came the voice of Finrod, from where he stood between his parents and his sister, Galadriel.  He stepped forward so that he might be seen more clearly.  “I too have been reborn, and my experience was much the same, as was that of my cousin Ereinion.  It is the natural state of our kind to live with both fëa and hröa joined, yet being restored to a physical body was incredibly disturbing.  And during my life in Middle-earth, I was friend and sword-brother to some of the most noble of the Atani, yet even with them, I was unable to share the closeness of thought and spirit that I knew with all of Elven-kind.  Some few of the Edain were able to perceive the thoughts I directed to them in ósanwë, but none could reply in the same fashion.  The Secondborn live their lives sundered from one another, able to communicate only by the means of spoken or written word.  I held them in the greatest of esteem, and at the same time, I grieved for them, for their aloneness.”

Rautanáro's confusion turned to shock, a reaction that again was mirrored in other faces among the watching Elves.  His gray-green eyes turned from Glorfindel to Olórin.  “Is this so?” he asked, not able to speak much above a whisper.  “The Secondborn are so... isolated from one another?”

Intense sadness darkened Maia's expression as he nodded.  “It is.  I had known of this long ago, during my work in Endorë of the First Age, but I never fully understood it until I awakened in that human body.  The utter loneliness....”

His voice trailed off as for a moment, he was overwhelmed with memories that were disturbingly painful in their clarity.  He bowed his head for a several moments more, until he had collected himself, his voice on the brittle edge of cracking.  When he raised his head again, the sparkle of unshed tears in his deep blue eyes was plainly visible, though his light baritone was once again steady.  “I had never known anything like it.  From the moment Eru Ilúvatar called me into being, I had never been alone.  Always, I could feel His presence, and the presence of my people.  Even after I came with the others into Eä, I was alone only if I chose to be.  Never was I more than a thought away from the comfort and support of others.  I believe you are somewhat familiar with this, Rautanáro.  Your people are sensitive to the thoughts and emotions of one another, even though not all have the full gift ofósanwë.”

“Yes,” the smith agreed, still speaking softly.  “It is why I, and all I know, could not understand how any Elda could become a kinslayer.”

Olórin sighed.  “Evil is ever beyond the full comprehension of those who do not harbor in their hearts.  In general, the Secondborn do not have such gifts as speaking mind to mind, nor of literally feeling what another feels.  Oh, they are not heartless and cruel, as some would say.  Indeed, many Mortals I have known have greater hearts and compassion than some who are held in high esteem among the Eldalië — even some among my own kind.  But they are each alone and separate, trapped within their flesh, unable by their nature to be close in their thoughts as the Ainur and Eldar are blessed.  Some few, by the grace of the One, are occasionally able to perceive glimpses of such contact—” He smiled wistfully at Frodo.  “—but it is, sadly, a pale reflection of what I had known all my life.  When I was put into the incarnate body of a Man, I experienced what it is to exist as they exist.  Alone on the ship that bore me to Middle-earth, I felt as if I had been flung into the Void.  I was greatly relieved when I arrived in Mithlond, for there I would have the company of others, but I remained very confused and disoriented.  During the time I spent with Círdan and his people, I began to regain some sense of myself, and of the fact that I would not be forever denied the touch of another's mind and spirit, yet I also knew that so long as I remained bound to mortal flesh, the experience would be greatly diminished.  It was a part of the burden that had been laid upon the Istari, not to know our full power and knowledge and wisdom, lest we be tempted to use it in ways that had been forbidden to us.  So, Rautanáro, when I say that I did not know any better than to take Narya when Círdan offered it to me, I mean it in truth.  At that time, I had not yet settled into my new existence enough to know the full ramifications of taking the Ring of Fire.”

Círdan, clad in the grey and silver-blue of Mithlond and standing near his kinsman Olwë, snorted — a rather indelicate sound, but perfectly expressive of his attitude.  “You knew enough,” he said staunchly.  “As I recall, you and I spent the better part of a month ‘discussing' the matter, most of your arguments being to the effect that you were unworthy or some such nonsense.  By the time you finally accepted, I was even more certain that I was doing the correct thing in surrendering Narya into your keeping.  One who would have taken the ring without question or hesitance would, I fear, have been totally unsuited to bear it.”

Olórin smiled at the shipwright.  “You are right, my old friend, and I am grateful that your wisdom at the time was greater than mine.  You did not give me Narya to wield over others; you gave it to me for comfort and support, which I did not know would be so sorely needed during the long years of my tasks.  Yet you foresaw this, and I cannot repay you for your generous gift.  Narya eased the coldness in my heart and spirit and allowed me to do better what I had been sent to do.  It was no more than I needed, and never did it tempt me to desire more.  Indeed, I believe the strength it gave me actually helped me to resist the temptation of the One Ring better than I might have done alone.”

“All that Olórin has said is true, Rautanáro,” came the voice of Galadriel.  Clad in a simple white gown with a kirtle of golden leaves and a circlet of twisted gold and silver, she stepped out from the throng of the Noldor, followed by Gil-galad and Elrond.  “We three can attest to what both he and Círdan have said of the nature of the rings.  Lord Elrond and I also worked closely with Olórin from the time of his arrival in our realms, not long after he first came to Middle-earth.  If he was unwise to take Narya, then I was far more guilty of that sin than he, for I did see it as a means to gain greater power and control, and took the ring which I was offered all too gladly.  But that failing came from within me, not through Nenya.”

Elrond, garbed in the grey and blue and silver of his house, agreed.  “I was the second bearer of Vilya, and did not have any desire to rule a larger realm, but I understand what the Lady Galadriel has said.  The Three were not meant to give mastery or power of a political kind; they were meant for healing, preservation, and understanding.  Whether or not he knew it at the time he was offered Narya, Olórin clearly understood its true nature in his heart.  He always counseled us to caution in regards to our rings, and for myself, I tried to follow his advice as best I could.”

Ereinion — resplendent in the midnight blue and silver of the high kings of Middle-earth — nodded.  “It was sound counsel.  When I possessed Vilya, never did it tempt me to desire the One.  The Three were never touched by Sauron, and though he would have used them as a means to corrupt us, I believe that because they were fashioned for more noble purposes, they gave their bearers some  degree of resistance to the lure of the One.  I know that Círdan agreed with me in this matter, and if it is so, then his gift to Lord Olórin was a wise and compassionate one.”

As a murmur rippled through the onlookers, another Elf stepped forward, this a maid of the Vanyar, whose attire indicated that she followed the people of Yavanna.  “But if this was so,” she said, confusion plainly written upon her face, “then why was no such aid given to the other messengers?  Was this done as a mark of favoritism?”

Before the other bearers could formulate a response, Olórin spoke.  “No, Lady Tuilindë,” he said, his tone both gentle and sad.  “Lord Círdan's gift came as a prompting of his heart, which may have been moved by the inspiration of Eru Ilúvatar.  Why this should be so, none of us can say, though if this was bestowed upon me as a special blessing from the One, then I shall forever be grateful for it.  Yet even if all the Three had been surrendered to the Istari, there would not have been enough to protect us, for we were an embassy of five.  It is not my place to speak for the motives or reasoning of others, nor to speculate upon what might have happened had events of the past been different.  I can say that an embodied life was a great burden to all of us, and each of us carried that burden in his own way — as each of us failed, in his own way.  As one devoted to Lady Yavanna, I know that you speak from concern over the fate of Aiwendil, who did not return to Aman.  I can only tell you that this was his own choice.  I attempted to persuade him to accompany me, for it seemed to me that he had become confused by his long life as an incarnate and had forgotten too much of his own nature.  When last I spoke with him, he did not even recall that he was a Maia.  This troubled me greatly, and if I had had the power and the right to compel him to take ship, I would have done so, for I believe that once returned to Aman, his memory would be healed.  But I had not been given that authority.  Perhaps in the future, his memories will become clear, or the Valar may choose to intervene directly; I do not know.  Whatever the case, I do know that he was happy in the life that he had chosen.  I believe that is the greatest gift one can wish for a friend, that they be happy, whatever path they choose to follow.”

As Tuilindë listened, her stricken expression softened somewhat, but some of her confusion remained.  Yavanna was about to speak up when another Maia appeared at the elf maid's side.  Olórin recognized him at once: Ornedil, the brother of Aiwendil.  He favored the Istar with an inquisitive glance, to which Olórin answered with a slight nod.  “I understand your feelings, young one,” he said softly to Tuilindë, “for I once shared them.  Olórin bears no blame for what became of my brother.  I fear his choice was ill-considered from the start.  Aiwendil's eagerness to do good has ever been complicated by his impulsiveness, his tendency to act without thinking through all the consequences of his actions.  Even here in Aman, he would become so fascinated with certain aspects of his tasks that he would lose sight of what needed to be accomplished.  It was not an act of rebellion, nor of selfishness, which I believe is why he was spared the more terrible ends of the other messengers who fell away from their purpose.  Olórin did not lie when he said that my brother is happy in his life, for now.  I was allowed to watch him as he is for a time, and though it pains me to know that he does not remember me or any he loved here in the West, he is living a choice that he made of his own free will.”

Tuilindë looked up at the tall, brown-haired Maia; she appeared to be trembling on a brink between tears and acceptance.  Ornedil smiled, gently.  “If you wish, we will talk of this later, you and I.  I would be glad to share memories of my brother with you.”

She hesitated for a moment more, then nodded her acceptance, managing a small smile of her own.  She turned and bowed to Olórin.  “Forgive me, my lord,” she said, her voice steadier than before.  “I spoke out of turn.”

“No forgiveness is necessary,” the Istar replied kindly.  “This Reckoning is for the answering of questions concerning my mission, and Aiwendil was a part of it.  I hope that someday, he will return to us, for it pained me greatly to leave him behind.”

Tuilindë agreed, and bowing again, withdrew into the crowd of onlookers, Ornedil still beside her.

Rautanáro also bowed, his shock having dissolved into something closer to sympathy.  “Thank you, my lord,” he said.  “My question has been answered — indeed, I now have answers to questions I had not considered, but should have.  I see now that the mission with which you were charged was more complex than I had ever imagined.”

Olórin smiled.  “Do not regret your inquiry, Rautanáro.  In the end, it turned out to be far more complex than even the Valar had imagined, so you are in excellent company.”  A rustle of laughter from the watching Powers assured the observers that they were in full agreement with their servant.  Understanding that he was not being mocked, a tentative smile tugged at Rautanáro's lips.  He gave his obeisance to the Valar, then withdrew into the throng.

Before any other Elves came forward, the Istar heard an odd sound off to his right.  “Yes, Bilbo?” he asked, seeing the elderly hobbit fidgeting, a strangely thoughtful crease on his brow.

Bilbo cleared his throat again.  He glanced the way Rautanáro had gone, then let his gaze touch upon Glorfindel and Finrod before turning to his old friend.  “Is what you said true, Gandalf?  I mean, of course, I know you wouldn't lie, but... I suppose I always knew that wizards weren't like other folk — not like Elves, but living much longer than any Man or Dwarf or Hobbit, nobody ever recalling a time when they were young.  Frodo figured out the truth before I did, smart lad, but I just never gave it as much thought as he did.  Head too full of tales and songs and stories to want to ponder weightier matters, I guess.  Other than not growing old — or older — and passing on from old age, if you were in the body of Man, does that mean when you... when you fought that creature, the Balrog... did you really... die?”  His volume had diminished such that the last word almost came out as a squeak.

Olórin caught his eye before the hobbit could look away, his own eyes filled with such fond compassion, Bilbo knew that the Maia had understood what he could not quite bring himself to say aloud.  “Yes, my old friend,” he said ever so gently.  “I really died.  There in Middle-earth, with my own mission incomplete — failed, in truth — I could not have escaped the body in which I lived in any other way.  I had been blessed with stamina and strength somewhat greater than that of an ordinary Man so that I might endure the long trials I faced, but it was still human flesh, subject to all the weaknesses and frailties a mortal might know.  You remember the Battle of the Five Armies, and the broken arm I received as a result of my participation?”  Bilbo nodded, and the Istar chuckled at his intensely thoughtful expression, but even more at his own memories.  “And do you recall the autumn I came to visit for your birthday, and you ended up nursing me through a rather annoying illness?”

The halfling gave a snort of laughter.  “Oh, yes, I recall it well!  I think that was why it took so long for me to understand what you were.  I didn't know immortal beings could come down with such a nasty cold!”

The Maia laughed fully.  “Neither did I, and if I had dared to think myself immune despite my human body, I was taught a lesson I would not soon forget!”  He continued to chuckle for several moments, then sighed, becoming more serious.  “It was a truth I knew very well by the time I faced the Balrog.  I had powers that an ordinary Man did not, but they were severely diminished and limited by that incarnate body.  The Balrog was originally of my own kind, a Maia, and though it had suffered its own weakening of power by a long life in that hideous body it had chosen, it was much more powerful, and under no restraints.  Whatever might it had, it was free to use against me, where I was not.  Once we engaged in battle, I knew there could be only one end for me.  I would die, but if I was fortunate, the Balrog would die first, or would die with me.  There was no other choice, and I am forever grateful that I was able to prevail so that one terrible enemy would not go on to cause more death and destruction in Middle-earth.”

Bilbo's expression had become thoughtful again, but less intense.  “So if you actually died, as we mortals die, did...”  He paused to collect his thoughts.  “Afterward — did that happen as it happens for mortals, too?”

Olórin shrugged.  “That, I'm afraid I cannot say.  In my heart, I believe that some aspects of the experience were precisely those which mortals know after death.  I know that at some point after the death of that hröa, I was taken into the presence of Eru Ilúvatar.  Before I was sent back to Aman, I asked Him if I had died as a mortal truly would. He told me that I had, after a fashion.  If that is so, then I understand why death is called the Gift of Men.  For mortals, death is merely a step in the transition from this world to another, where the fëa is freed from the weight and weariness of the incarnate world.  What the ultimate fate of spirits of the Secondborn might be beyond life I do not know, but I do know that it is not in any way a punishment.  Eru wishes only to love us, and to see us exist in happiness.”

The Maia lowered his head for several moments; when he raised it again, he brushed away tears from his cheeks.  “Today is Eruhantalë, and I give thanks for the mortal death I was privileged to know, for in it, I learned more than I had ever known of the incredible depth of the love which the One offers to us, every day of our existence, be it in life or after life.”

A soft murmur rose throughout the throngs who were watching, all speaking the same word: Násië.  When the last echoes of the sound had faded, Olórin smiled at his two smallest friends, his eyes bright and clear.  “So you see, there is no need for either of you to ever fear death.  No matter what you have done in life, no matter how greatly you fear you have failed, if you can forgive yourself, or at the very least be willing to ask for forgiveness, it not only will be offered, but it has already been given.  Even the rebellion of Melkor, great and terrible as it was, has not diminished Eru's love for him.  It saddens Him, yes, but in the end, it will be Melkor himself who will decide his own fate.  If he can accept love and mercy and forgiveness, then he will have brought himself to a place where all debts for his wrongdoing will be paid.  If he cannot....”  The Maia shook his head.  “That I will not speculate upon.  It is his to decide, and I can but hope that he, like all of our people who fell away from the Light, will someday understand how truly simple it is to return to it.”

Both hobbits nodded, as did many others, especially among the Ainur.  “Thank you for telling us this, Olórin,” Frodo said after a minute or two of respectful silence.  “I confess that I have not been entirely convinced that I do not deserve punishment for my failures, but I understand now that I only punish myself by not accepting the forgiveness I have already been offered.  If you are right, and the fate of mortals after death is indeed a blessing, then I look forward to the time when I am ready to receive the Gift.”

“As do I,” Bilbo echoed.  “And I also thank you.”  Both halflings bowed deeply in Hobbit fashion.

Still smiling, the Istar left his appointed place to join the halflings.  He knelt to embrace them, a gesture of friendship as well as reassurance, especially for Frodo, who had been so concerned about this inquiry only a short time before.  After a few whispered words between them, he returned to the edge of the gallery to await his next question.

When none of the Elves came forward, he began to wonder if this could possibly be the end of the matter, until he heard someone gently clearing their throat.  He turned to look to his right, trying to determine the source of the sound, and was surprised to see Eönwë come forward from behind Manwë.

The herald's face wore a blend of apology and sheepishness. “I would have thought that after all these years, having been present for every inquiry you faced, there could not possibly be any question I could have that you have not already answered at least once.  But as I have been listening today, a puzzle has grown in my thoughts.  If I may be allowed to ask it....”

“Of course, my friend,” Olórin replied without hesitation.  “This is a day of reckoning, and if your riddle has an answer within my power to give, you have but to ask.”

“You are most kind.  I have listened most attentively to all the questions and answers at the previous accountings, and it embarrasses me to realize that it was not until a few minutes ago that I truly understood the limits of human existence and mortality that were imposed upon you and the other Istari.  I have served the Valar most often as a warrior, and I remember only too well the War of Wrath, and all the forces our Enemy sent against us.  The Balrogs were among the most terrible, no doubt because they were others of our kind, given over to evil.  Any of the Eldar who fought them died, and only two succeeded in bringing down their opponent in the process.  None of the Atani were able to withstand them for long.  Even if you were blessed with longevity, and allowed some of the knowledge and wisdom and power that was your heritage as a Maia, how did you manage to survive an encounter with a Balrog — ten days of constant battle and pursuit!  How did you endure it long enough to defeat it?”

Olórin did not answer immediately.  He was carefully considering his reply when Manwë spoke.  “If you do not wish to answer this question, Olórin, you need not,” the Elder King said with great compassion.  “I understand my herald's curiosity, for it speaks to his nature as a warrior, but not only is this inquiry for the sake of the Eruhíni, this also touches upon a matter that does not by necessity address the performance of your duties during the past age.”

The Istar inclined his head in acknowledgment of what Manwë offered.  “Thank you, my lord, but I would like to answer, as best I can.  I believe that of the many choices I made during my time as your messenger, this was one of the most significant in how it affected the outcome of the task for which I had been sent.”

He turned then to Eönwë, one corner of his mouth quirked into an odd half-smile.  “I could avoid it by saying that I have no idea how I managed to survive long enough to defeat the Balrog, but I know that is not true.  I survived because I surrendered.”

The procession of reactions that flowed across the herald's face was fascinating to Olórin, both because of the swiftness with which one transformed into another, and because of their startling clarity.  His expression finally settled into something between shock and disbelief.  His voice, usually strong and clear and ringing, came out soft and strained, as if his tongue refused to form the words.  “You surrendered to a Balrog?”

Olórin smiled at the incredulous tenor of the question.  He took pity on the warrior by shaking his head.  The sun, now climbing into the sky and burning away the morning chill, sparkled off the crystal circlet that was often all but invisible against his pale hair.  “Not to the Balrog, no.  That was not an option.  I surrendered to fate, I suppose you might say.  I acknowledged the inevitable, that in the body of a Man, my flesh was far more vulnerable than a Balrog's.  If I fought him, I would die.  I surrendered to that reality, and to the reality that I must fight him, whatever the outcome.  That required me to accept the failure of my greater mission.  It was painful, but I was not prideful enough to believe that my continued life was more important than the destruction of the Ring and the defeat of Sauron.  The Balrog was an immediate and considerable threat to the safety of the company of the Ring, as well as to all the free peoples of Middle-earth.  Even if my chances of defeating him were poor, I had to try.  If nothing else, by keeping him involved fighting me, I would give the Company time to flee to Lórien, where they would have greater protection and could warn the Galadhrim of the danger.  I knew that Galadriel and Celeborn would do all they could to aid Frodo and the others, and see to it that they were able to continue the quest in what safety could be offered.  But the longer I kept the Balrog engaged with me, the more time they would have to prepare.  If against all odds I managed to defeat it, so much the better.  Thus I determined that I must give all that was mine to give to combat with that ancient foe.  Hoping to do the best I was able, I surrendered, to inevitability, to fate, and to the will of Lord Eru.  I offered to Him all that I was — not in an attempt to strike a bargain for His favor, but because I knew it would take such a sacrifice to carry out the task at hand.  I surrendered to Him the only thing that was truly mine to offer: my very existence, the greatest of all His gifts, and in expending it, I summoned the courage and the strength to do battle with a creature beyond the measure of even the greatest of Mortal Men.”

The look upon Eönwë's face was no longer mixed; it was one of a person who has just heard something so profoundly disturbing, he cannot bring himself to believe it.  It took some moments before he could bring himself to speak, and when he did, it was little above a whisper.  “I — I cannot imagine that the One would have allowed such a sacrifice...!”

“Why should He not?” Olórin answered mildly.  “It was mine to give.”

“Yes, but...!”  The normally eloquent herald found himself spluttering, struggling to find words for the miasma of thoughts and feelings that were turning his mind to chaos.  “You were charged to accept the form and life of a Man, that I understand, and if you came to physical death in the execution of your duties, it was no more than might be asked of any warrior who fights for a greater good.  But even in facing the hordes of Morgoth, never was it asked of any of our people that they give up their very existence!  Even the Great Enemy himself was not forced to that fate!  Why did you do this?”

There was a kind of anger in Eönwë's words, but Olórin easily perceived that it was not aimed at him.  Rather, it was for him, for the awful circumstances that had caused such a thing to be.  He sighed softly before offering a reply.  “Because I could see that only in such a choice would I have the opportunity to seize that tiny chance of defeating the Balrog.  If I continued to cling to anything for myself, even my own existence beyond death, I knew I would not have the strength to do what needed to be done.  I held to Hope, that in His infinite wisdom, Lord Eru would take whatever resulted and turn it toward good.”

He paused, searching for a way to better explain his decision to his old friend.  He could see and feel the depths of Eönwë's genuine concern — a concern he could sense was now raised in many observers who were also his friends — and he wanted very much to find some way to put all their minds at ease.  Finally, he turned to Manwë.

The Elder King saw a certain hesitance in the Maia's demeanor that seemed decidedly uncomfortable.  “Olórin,” he said with exquisitely gentle firmness, “I know that you wish to answer every question that is posed you, but some venture beyond anything that I or all the Valar assembled would ask of you.  We did not understand how fully an incarnate life would bind you to the fate of the Secondborn, nor how deeply the taint of our fallen brother would affect your spirit as the years lengthened and the weight of your burden became ever more difficult to bear.  It is enough that we know the outcome of your battle with the Balrog, and the decisions of Eru Ilúvatar concerning your fate that followed.  To ask that you describe any details of that bitter struggle would be unconscionably cruel, and you need say no more of it.”

Eönwë flushed, and was about to apologize to both his master and his fellow Maia, but Olórin shook his head.  “No, my lord,” he said.  “I thank you for your kind consideration, but you misunderstand.  My battle with the Balrog was indeed terrible, and though I have not spoken of it fully to anyone, it is not because I do not wish to.  Truthfully, some of the memories are ones that I would very much like to share, and thus be unburdened of them forever, but until now, I did not feel I could speak of them, even in ósanwë.  Lord Irmo once told me that my memories and understanding of my life in Middle-earth would return to me when Lord Eru deemed I was able to properly deal with them, and I believe that I am now ready.  But there are no words that I can think of to accurately describe what happened; it would be much easier to share my memory, so that the answer will be as clear as possible.  Yet I do not wish for this to be a sharing only between myself and the Ainur, and those of the Eldar who are gifted to mind-speech.  This is meant to be the final reckoning of my stewardship, and I believe that this is perhaps the most important of all the decisions and actions I made in regard to it.  I would like for all present who wish to know to share this as well, but I do not think I have quite enough ability to see this done.  If you are willing, I ask that you and any of the Valar who are also willing to please aid me in this.”

Manwë's eyes touched upon the other Valar, his gaze alone asking the question.  Several of them nodded: Varda, Námo, Nienna, Ulmo, Oromë, Yavanna, Aulë — all of the Aratar.  The others indicated their approval, although they declined to actively participate.  This did not surprise Manwë, for the others either had limited contact with the Children, or by their natures they were not well suited to do as Olórin had asked.  It was best this way, the wind-lord decided, since this would leave some to stand watch in case of difficulties. He then raised his voice to address the watching Children.

“Olórin has agreed to answer the questions Eönwë has raised, but as he feels the explanation would be better shown than described, we will aid him in allowing any who wish to share this experience to do so.  Any who do not wish this have only to refuse our touch in their thoughts, and they will remain undisturbed.  Also, we will not allow this to be communicated to any children, and if we sense that anyone who allowed this contact is becoming distressed by it, we will end their participation, and send one of our people to make certain of their welfare.”  

His bright blue eyes focused directly on Glorfindel and another who was standing not far from him: Ecthelion, the reborn lord of the House of the Fountain of Gondolin, who had perished in the act of slaying Gothmog, the lord of the Balrogs.  Manwë made certain he had their full attention before speaking.  “I will leave this choice to you, but I am inclined to suggest that both of you refrain from this experience,” he said bluntly.  “You have already suffered the consequences of confronting one of the Valaraukar, and I would not have either of you exposed to such a thing again, even images that are echoes of another's past.”

The two lords of Gondolin, who had been well acquainted before falling in the fateful battles of their city's demise, looked at one another.  A silent communication passed between them, and they turned again to Manwë.  “I appreciate your kind concern, my lord,” Glorfindel said with a slight bow of thanks.  “But as I already know firsthand what such a confrontation can entail in terms of pain and suffering, I believe I am better prepared to witness such a memory than most.  Moreover, Olórin has been my friend for many years.  We have discussed this matter before; to see it more clearly will, I think, only serve to make stronger my respect for him.”

Ecthelion — a tall, dark-haired Noldo clad in watery silver-blue and white — agreed.  “I do not have Glorfindel's personal history with Lord Olórin, but I would be honored to witness this memory of which he has spoken.  In this, we are brothers of the sword, with a common past shared by few — thank Eru.”

Manwë accepted their decisions.  His attention then shifted to the two hobbits.  “I know that you have both been blessed with sufficient sensitivity of heart and spirit to perceive when another is speaking to you through ósanwë,” he said gently.  “And I am also aware that you, Frodo, have seen visions of the future that were not sent to you by any of our kind.  These things are not common among your people, as they are rare even among the Edain.  For an ordinary Mortal, it would be difficult to allow them to share in what Olórin has suggested without causing them considerable distress.  Because of your particular gifts, I believe you would not experience such difficulty, but I do not think I would favor it if you wished to make such an attempt.  It would cause all of us great pain if you suffered any hurt because of our actions.”

While Bilbo considered this, Frodo looked away, not wanting to chance meeting his cousin's eye. The older hobbit didn't notice, as he was wrapped in his own thoughts.  He spoke first.  “For myself, I would say that you are wise, my lord.  This mind-speech  as you call it... well, I haven't experienced it very much at all, and I will admit that I found it most disconcerting.  I already know all I need to know of what Gandalf did while he was in Middle-earth.  I was never a warrior, even in the one war I happened to be a part of — I was knocked on the head so soon after the battle began, I missed most of it!  I'm too... bookish, I suppose people might say.  I prefer songs and sagas and ballads to the grim reality of history.”  

His gaze slipped to the Istar, full of apology.  “I hope it doesn't offend you, Gandalf.  After our journey to Erebor, I know how brave you can be, and how much you do truly care for people who are under your guardianship.  But I don't think the stuff I'm made of is stern enough to actually see in my head something that already gives me nightmares!”

Olórin regarded the old hobbit with great fondness.  “I understand, Bilbo, and I'm not offended in the least.  To be honest, I agree with Lord Manwë: I cannot say that I would want for either of you to witness what I mean to show Eönwë and the others.  I'm relieved to hear that you would prefer to abstain.”

Bilbo let loose a huge sigh of relief, taking a silk kerchief from his pocket to mop his brow.  Frodo, however, did not do the same.  His mind made up, he turned his face from his study of the grass beyond his toes to Manwë.  “It's very considerate of you, my lord, to want to spare me any discomfort, but unless you forbid it, I would prefer not to be excluded.”  He heard a distressed sound from a number of directions, most notably Bilbo's and Olórin's.  He gave his ersatz uncle a look that clearly said that he had no desire to discuss his decision; Bilbo relented after a moment or two.  Frodo was no child, and as Bilbo could hardly begin to imagine all he had lived through during his last years in Middle-earth, he did not feel he had the right to gainsay him.

Olórin, however, was not so easily convinced.  “Frodo,” he began.

Before he could say more, the hobbit stepped out from his place at the edge of the great mass of observers and strode toward the Maia with determined purpose.  Sighing softly, Olórin met him halfway.  He knelt to spare his friend the need to glare up at him.

“I know what you want to say,” Frodo declared, his voice deliberately kept low so that even the Elves would have difficulty hearing them.  He was aware that any of the Ainur who wished could listen, but he knew them well enough now to know that they would respect his obvious desire for privacy.  “You don't want to burden me with this, just as you didn't want to burden me with the task of taking the Ring to the fire.”

“Very true,” the Istar conceded.  “You have endured so much pain, Frodo.  I have no desire to be the cause for even another moment of discomfort for you.”

The breath Frodo let loose was only half exasperated.  “I appreciate it, Olórin, I assure you.  But I think you already know that because of the Ring, I saw and felt horrors that It forced into my mind.  During the quest, one of the worst lies it fed to me, over and over again, was how it was my fault that you died to save me from the Balrog.”

Olórin's sapphire dark eyes went wide.  “You cannot believe that...!”

But the hobbit remained firm.  “Can't I?  If I hadn't been there and in danger, would you have fought that creature, all alone and exhausted as you were?”

It took little contemplation before Olórin tendered an answer.  “No,” he admitted.  “Alone, I would have done what I could to flee and secure help.  I never was a dedicated warrior, and I would have considered myself the greatest of fools to engage a Balrog singlehandedly.  But it was because of me that you were there to begin with....”

Frodo shook his head, adamant.  “I was there because I volunteered to take the Ring to Mordor.  You may have encouraged Bilbo to let the Ring pass to me, but you did that because you feared for Bilbo, and did not know the truth about the Ring.  I don't blame you for that, and you know it.  Bilbo was already suffering because of the Ring, and if he had kept it longer, it might have done him terrible harm.  You know this, all of this.  I kept the Ring and bore it willingly.  I was in Moria because that was where I was meant to be, as you faced the Balrog because that was what you were meant to do.  I understand that what happened to you was horrible.  But afterward, during all the weeks of carrying the Ring to the mountain of fire, the Ring kept torturing me about it, telling me that you died because I was weak, because I needed your protection, that you wouldn't have died if I hadn't been there, unable to defend myself.  And It taunted me, wanting me to believe that your death would ultimately be a waste because I would fail to destroy It, in the end.”

Profound pity shaded the Maia's fair face.  “You do know that none of that is true,” he said, a statement, not a question.

Frodo nodded.  “Even more, I know that if you hadn't died then, you couldn't have come back stronger and better able to help the peoples of Rohan and Gondor.  Seeing what actually happened would not be a burden, Olórin.  It would help to finally convince me that the Ring was pure deceit, that even if I couldn't throw it into the fire with my own hand, I did the best I could — like you.  I have been nearly slain by a cursed blade of the Nazgûl, stung by a spawn of Ungoliant, taken to her lair as food, imprisoned by orcs, herded halfway across Mordor in foul orc rags, driven mad from thirst and starvation and the relentless pressure of the Ring in my mind, and had a finger bitten off my hand to wrest the Ring from me.  Is there truly anything that you experienced in your fight with the Balrog that can be more horrible than that?”

As he spoke, tears welled in the Istar's eyes that spilled over when Frodo asked his final question.  Olórin did not bother to wipe the dampness away; he touched the hobbit's cheek with one gentle hand even as he shook his head.  “No.  It is compassion that makes me want to spare you any new hurt, but I know that you have more than enough strength to make your own choice.  In my heart, I do believe that you are right.  As I have said that this event was most pivotal to the eventual success of my mission, you more than any other deserve to know the whole of it, if that is what you wish.”

“It is.”

“Then let it be so.”  As he stood, he bent both as a bow of respect and to kiss the hobbit's brow.  He moved back to his place on the hillside as Frodo returned to stand beside Bilbo.  The Maia caught Manwë's querulous gaze when he was once again beside Eönwë.  “This is Frodo's choice, my lord,” he said, “and he has convinced me of the right of it.  Let it be as he wishes.”

“Very well,” the wind-lord conceded, little though he liked it.  He closed his eyes and bowed his head, as did all the Valar.  Long moments passed; then Manwë lifted his head, though his eyes remained closed, and said softly, “When you are ready.”

Olórin understood.  He turned to face Eönwë.  Briefly, his dark blue eyes unfocused, searching for a time and a place made distant not only by the passage of years and long miles, but also by the distance of another life.  His vision sharpened again, to meet and lock with the herald's eyes, which were so similar to his own.  And then, he opened himself to a memory that was more than memory.

“Fly, you fools!”

The words seemed to echo endlessly in the huge cavern surrounding Durin's Bridge, only to be snatched away, dwindling as they were pulled off into some immeasurable distance.  But the echo was not moving away.  He was the one moving, falling down into the abyss, the whip of the Balrog still tangled tight about his legs just as the fire of the Balrog streamed all about him.  The fallen Maia was also falling below him, no farther away than the length of its terrible whip.  Even more terrible was its fire, for the wizard had not the hide of the demon to resist the effects of the flame.  He tried to divorce his thoughts from the pain and the smell of it, for the scent of his own singed hair and flesh was stronger in his nostrils than the sulphurous stench of the Balrog.   If he could only disentangle himself from the whip, or somehow manage to sever it....

As the fall continued, Olórin managed to clear his mind enough to consider some sort of action, and only then realized that he still held Glamdring in his right hand.  He wasted neither time nor energy contemplating how this miracle had come to be, for he already knew the answer.  During their escape and battle, he had kept a tight grip on his weapon, for he could not afford to lose it.  Perhaps he would have done better in avoiding the fall if he had let it go... but no.  The whip was as tight about him as a noose, and he would have been pulled down, regardless.  Now, he had a blade in hand, and a means perhaps to cut himself free and do battle against his enemy.

He tried to twist his body so as to be able to reach the thongs that kept him connected to the Balrog, but such a movement was difficult, as the speed of their fall caused more resistance than he had anticipated.  With considerable effort, he managed to turn and face his foe, whose flame grew stronger and hotter in its throes of anger against the Maia who had caused its fall.  The wizard smiled to himself, grimly.  Those huge, terrible wings of demonic flesh and smoldering shadow were of no use.  They made the Balrog seem bigger and more horrifying to its foes — and even to allies it wished to intimidate — but they were ill-suited for actual flight.  They could not even be used to control the demon's descent, which gave the wizard strange satisfaction.  How little Morgoth and his minions had truly understood the world they wished to conquer!  A peculiar thought flitted through his mind, wondering if this particular Valarauka had ever paid attention to the means by which flight was actually achieved in the physical world.  Probably not, for in the early ages of Arda, its strength had no doubt been greater, and it had had more of the power of the Ainur still at its command.  More than two full ages spent shackled to its monstrous flesh had no doubt sapped its strength so that it could no longer achieve flight in any way.

All this flashed in and out of the wizard's mind, ending with the bitter thought that now, he was in no better condition than his enemy — worse, for his was the flesh of a Man, not a demon of fire.  The searing heat of the Balrog's flame now fully enveloped him, and the pain of it was beginning to erode his efforts to keep it at bay.  With all his might, he focused on the matter of the whip binding him to the Balrog.  He could not pull himself free of it, not so long as he trailed above the creature, so instead he turned and twisted until his free hand was able to get a firm grip on the thongs about his knees. He was able to pull them away just enough to create a space into which he could slip the point of Glamdring.  A moment later, the ancient blade sliced through the thick bands of hide as easily as if cutting through thin air, and he was free.

For a blessed instant after their connection was severed, the gap between wizard and Balrog lengthened so that Olórin was no longer wrapped in its flame, but the reprieve passed all too briefly.  The Balrog roared in anger to see its whip now destroyed, and with its bellow, its fire flared all the more.  The Istar was once again enveloped by fire, as if the demon were determined to see him reduced to ash before they reached whatever bottom was inevitably below the span of Durin's Bridge.

The pain was intense and the stench of singed hair, smoldering wool, and burnt flesh even more so.  Olórin grit his teeth and kept his eyes tightly closed, wishing for some better protection against the Balrog's most deadly weapon, fire.  His right hand, which still clutched the sword-hilt, throbbed as if with liquid flame; when it did so again an instant later, he suddenly remembered Narya — the Ring of Fire.  It was powerful in many ways, not enough to defeat Sauron or any being with the strength of an Ainu — for that was not its purpose — but strong enough perhaps to provide him with some protection against his flaming foe.  He concentrated on the ring, envisioning its pure fire countering the dark flame of the Balrog.  A ripple of warmth radiated from it to cover all his skin, and he felt a lessening of the searing heart.  It was not enough to completely spare him the effects of his adversary's fire, but was enough to provide some temporary relief.  

Grateful for even that small reprieve, he opened his eyes, just in time to see the light of the red fire below him suddenly ripple out in all directions.  Olórin braced himself for another onslaught of heat and flame, only to realize an instant later that the ripple was one in truth and not in seeming, the light of the Balrog's flame reflecting off a huge basin of black water.  He did not even have time to wonder how far away it might be before the demon struck the surface, sending up huge gouts of steam and spray a split second before the wizard himself made contact.

Between the heat of the steam and speed with which they had been falling, the impact was painful.  The Balrog, much bigger and heavier than the wizard, plunged far deeper into the icy depths of the underground lake.  All around it, the waters boiled as the demon's fire was extinguished, but the iciness of the water returned swiftly.  With the fire doused, the only light was that of Glamdring, shining fiercely in the presence of its terrible enemy.  Though his eyesight was sharper than that of a Man, Olórin could not truly see the dark bulk of his foe; unfortunately, it could see him only too clearly, between having eyes long accustomed to the dark, and the veritable beacon of the bright blade.  It attacked just as the wizard broke the surface to gasp for air, and it was now a powerful thing of disgusting slime, more horrible for being a creature of darkest shadows, elusive and terrifying.  Its massive paws wrapped around the other Maia, the fingers like great snakes winding about a victim to crush it to death.  

Somehow, Olórin managed to keep his sword-arm free; despite the hampering water, he slashed at his foe.  The Balrog howled in pain and anger, reaching again for its prey only to have the blade of Gondolin hew it again.  Glamdring burned brighter each time it bit the Balrog's flesh, as if reveling in the chance to be used against one of the demons it had been forged to fight.  Their struggle continued far from any light of the world above to mark the long minutes — perhaps hours, perhaps days.  Ignoring the pain of his burns and other wounds, the wizard doggedly answered every attack with counterattack.  The cold of the water seared like fire, but as time passed, it became numbing, and thus allowed him to carry on the fight.  Finally, the Balrog attempted to withdraw, but Olórin pursued.  So long as he was able, he would not, could not allow this foe a chance to escape, to lick its wounds and eventually emerge in the outer world.

At last, the numbing cold of the water became more than either of them could bear.  The Balrog slithered out of the Istar's reach and lurched toward some dark and distant shore.  Olórin followed, just barely able to keep the demon in sight.  It hauled itself from the water not far from where the wizard reached land — rock, actually, black and cold but not so bitter as the icy lake.  In Glamdring's pale light, he could see the Balrog lying against the stone, for the moment unmoving.  It was not dead; Olórin was certain of that.  It was injured from their battle, but its breath was still strong, and the Istar could fairly feel the pounding of its heart through the fabric of the stone beneath them.  It was resting for a moment, catching its breath, marshaling its strength, preparing to strike again.

It was possibly the best chance Olórin would get to strike it down, ending their fight while it was recovering from exhaustion, but  he could not take it.  He was at least as weary as his foe, probably more so.  The running battle with the orcs and the need to use his power to seal the door to the Chamber of Records and to break the bridge had sapped his strength considerably.  Worse, he was already gravely injured by the long fall enveloped by the Balrog's fire.  It was a miracle that he was still alive, and as he took the brief respite to gather his own strength, he could already feel it failing him.

He closed his eyes, searching within him to see if it might be possible for him to overcome the limitations that had been imposed on him nearly two thousand years before.  He had a vague memory of being told that, when his mission was complete, he would be able to return to the West, lay down the shackles of mortal flesh, and regain all that he had once been.  The memories of his life before his arrival in Mithlond were dim, but he knew what he was, if not all he had been.  He was a Maia, and somewhere, the abilities of his heritage should still exist.

But the weight of his mortal body was too heavy, the ties to it too strong.  He was what he had been made to be for the purposes of his tasks here in mortal lands, and the means to unmake those burdens was denied him.  However this conflict ended, it would do so with him trapped in this prison of flesh, weakened, limited, restrained.  The cold stone pressing against his burned cheek scraped at the cracked skin, underscoring the tremendous disadvantage he now faced.  If his heat blasted eyes could have summoned enough moisture to do so, he would have wept.

Oh, Eru Ilúvatar! his entire mind and spirit cried out.   What am I to do?!

In the silence, the breathing of the Balrog deepened.  It would not be long, he knew, before it rose and resumed the fight.

Ignoring the pain in his body as best he could, Olórin's mind raced, considering all the options open to him.  Very soon, he understood that there was only one.

He would die.  His mortal shell, hardy though it had been fashioned to be, was no match for the beastly Balrog.  His mission as such was no longer important, for with his death, that mission would fail.  All that was left to him was to fight to his last breath, doing all that he could to bring down a foe who had no place in this world, in this age.  He had to try to defeat it, though the chance was slim, to at least buy enough time for the Company of the Ring to get as far away as possible — hopefully to the safety of Lothlórien, where they could warn Galadriel and Celeborn.  When the Balrog came forth, the Galadhrim would be prepared, and without the armies of Morgoth behind it, it would somehow be slain.  That was his only choice, to do all that he could so that even in his personal failure, others would be able to carry on.  He accepted this, and felt a strange peace wash through him.

He knew what he had to do.

Lord Eru, he whispered in that place within him that was ever closest to his Creator.  Father, hear my pledge.  I give into Your keeping all that is mine to give: what has been, was is, and what might be.  I surrender to my failure in hope for others to succeed.  All I ask is to use what strength has been allowed me as best I can, for as long as I am able.

The sensation of peace rippled through him once more, washing away any vestiges of fear.  What is is what must be, he told himself as he summoned the strength to push away from the stone and staggered to his feet.  Deep inside, he found the reserves of strength he needed, not in the magical might of a Maia, not even in the lifeblood that flowed through his veins.  He found it in his very existence, his own small flicker of the Flame Imperishable that gave him being.  He called upon it, knowing even as he did so that to expend it meant to expend his own existence, but having surrendered himself to the inevitable, he spent it gladly.  In Glamdring's pale light, he saw the Balrog stir, and did not wait to see what he already knew the beast might do next.  He attacked.

There was some grim satisfaction to be had in the fact that the wizard managed to strike the first blow, solidly.  Even though he had not the sheer physical power of the Balrog, his assault made it clear that he was not a foe to be easily dismissed.  The fallen Maia howled in pain and lashed out with one huge arm in an attempt to knock his enemy off his feet.  Despite his injuries and the hampering weight of his wet clothing, Olórin was still quick enough to avoid the blow, answering it with a deep slash to the thick-hided arm.  Hissing, the Balrog half-lifted itself from the stone to swing its no longer fiery whip.

But the thongs had already been shortened considerably when the wizard had sliced them away during their fall.  Now, Glamdring's keen edge cut through the remaining length so easily, the blade was not slowed in the slightest by the contact.  The sword again hewed at the demon, and the Balrog bellowed in frustration.  Weaponless, it reached out with its paws, hoping to wrap its mighty fingers around its opponent, to crush and strangle him, but Olórin continued to fight.  Glamdring was a blur of deadly light, hacking and piercing whatever it touched, striking the Balrog so often, the demon finally realized that it was at a serious disadvantage.  Faced with an unrelenting foe in this place of cold and wet, it had neither weapon nor fire nor even terror to use against his grimly determined opponent.  Enraged, it did the only thing it could: it fled.

Under any other circumstances, Olórin would have welcomed the turn of events, but he had already realized that he was nowhere near even the deepest delvings of the Dwarves.  While he had lain on the shore of the icy lake, he had been able to see something of the stone walls about him, and he knew that they had not been carved by the hands of any of the Eruhíni.  Even the cold water had had a foul feel to it, not unlike the pool from which the Watcher had spied upon the west gate of Moria.   Things for which he had no names lived in these deeps, born and bred to a life without the light of star or sun or moon.  He did not know if they were things of Morgoth's making, creatures he had twisted to evil form like the orcs and trolls, or things that had simply lived so long in the bowels of the earth, they no longer held any love for beings that walked the world above.  Truthfully, he did not wish to know.  All that mattered was that if the Balrog was fleeing, that it very likely knew something of this place and how to return from it to the Dwarf realm above.  Taking a deep breath, Olórin ran after his foe, unwilling to let it out of his sight.  If he did, he would likely become lost, while the Balrog could find some hole in which to hide, nurse its wounds, and eventually return to the upper world to wreak havoc.  He could not allow that to happen.

The wizard's suspicion concerning the origins of the tunnel down which the Balrog fled were confirmed as he continued the pursuit.  The floor was not smooth or even, as it would have been had it been hewn by two-legged beings who planned to use it as a path.  While the ridges and shallow pitting caused him to occasionally stumble, it was also an impediment to the Balrog.  When it had difficulties with the tunnel's uneven surface, it gave the smaller and more nimble Istar a chance to come at it from behind, the flashing Elven blade glad for any opportunity to pierce its ancient foe.  Each time, the Balrog either attempted to swat away its annoying adversary, or it did its best to put greater distance between them.  When the fallen Maia surged ahead, Olórin summoned more of his own strength of being to increase his speed so that the Balrog could not escape him.

The pursuit continued for what seemed an eternity.  From time to time as they raced through the twisted tunnels of the underworld, Olórin caught brief glimpses of things half-hidden in the shadows of connected caverns and cross-passages.  Even a momentary sight of the creatures sent chills up the wizard's already chilly spine, memories that were more primal feelings than images.  He might have known what they were, if his knowledge had not been so diminished by his incarnate life, and for once, he was glad of the limitations.  He hurried on, intent on his quarry, praying that his strength would last long enough so that he would not die here in this strange world beyond all light and memory.

After what felt like days of running, fighting, stumbling, only to rise and run again, their surroundings began to change.  The rough and convoluted tunnels gnawed in the deepest earth gave way to hewn passages, the tunnels of miners carefully digging into the rock in search of veins of precious metals and minerals.  These too were rough at first, but they were far better than the immense worm-holes through which they had come.  The Balrog was able to move more swiftly here, forcing Olórin to call upon his reserves of strength, further depleting them.  Periodically, they came to more open chambers were mine shafts crossed, and the Balrog would turn to attack its enemy.  After the first such attack surprised him, Olórin was prepared for others, and he never allowed his foe to gain that element again.  Whenever they encountered a widening of the shafts, he surged forward to bring the battle to the demon before it had a chance to strike first.  Glamdring remained just as keen and deadly no matter how often it struck, infuriating the Balrog.  The wizard did not know why the beast had not summoned back its powers of flame; it surely had been days since they had left the wettest regions of the underworld.  He did not care.  He was grateful for it, as his already seared flesh made every step and every move a stab of agony.  He did not think he could long endure another fiery assault.

Finally, the shafts became smoother and wider, connecting with others, twisting and turning in ways that the Istar could not follow.  The Balrog moved more swiftly here, for they had at last reached paths through the mines that it apparently knew very well indeed.  Olórin pressed on behind him, keeping him within sight and occasionally within reach of Glamdring's shining edge.   At last, the well-worn paths of the shafts became a long, dark passage that gave access to deep dungeons, and the passage took them to a broad, winding stair carved in solid rock.  Up and up it went, without break, a great spiral that pierced the stone that was the very spine of the mountain.  Even as he continued the pursuit, a name came to Olórin's mind: the Endless Stair.  He had heard of it, the great passage of thousands of steps which took one from the deepest depths of Moria to its highest peak, Durin's Tower atop Zirak-zigil.  The wizard wondered if he would have the strength to complete such a climb, and do it swiftly enough to keep the Balrog in sight.  Why his enemy had chosen this particular path he did not know, and he did not have the energy to ponder it.  He needed all he had to keep up the chase, and hopefully engage in battle when at last the climb was ended.  The Balrog must be stopped; nothing else mattered.

As he ran, Olórin felt the first flickers of despair.  The journey through the underworld and the abandoned mines had been long, and his struggles with the Balrog frequent, the pursuit unrelenting.  He had no real notion of how much time had passed in that realm beyond the reach of any light, but he was fairly certain it had been several days at least.  In his previous visit to the Dwarrowdelf, searching for Thráin, he had explored much of the Dwarf realm — enough to know that the distance from the dungeons to the summit was great, greater perhaps than he had the strength to manage.  He paused for a moment to catch his breath — a risk, but not too large a risk if they were indeed upon the Endless Stair and he did not stop for long.  Glamdring's blade continued to burn bright, assuring him that the Balrog was not moving too far ahead.  

As he breathed deeply, he rubbed Narya's great red stone with the palm of his left hand.  That flesh, at least, was not burned from the Balrog's fire, and the great ring's power warmed him in a very profound way.  He closed his eyes for a moment, and an image came to his mind of a beautiful land filled with trees and sweet grass and fragrant flowers, its waters cool and refreshing, glinting brightly under a sunny blue sky.  All around, there was music: the song of birds, of the wind, of voices speaking and laughing and singing.  It was a scene of pure joy that was more than a mere image in imagination.  It was a memory, a very precious memory, of a place he had not seen in two thousand years — his home.  He heard the singing, and a smile touched his cracked lips.  He had been seeking a source of renewed strength, and it had been with him all along.  He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and charged on up the stairs, still smiling.

But this time, he started to sing, anything that came to mind: beautiful Elven ballads, stern and haunting tunes of the Dwarves, bold and fierce songs of Men, light and cheerful and laughing ditties of the Shire.  He sang, his voice growing stronger as he pursued the Balrog, and the notes rang off the stone walls like great tolling bells in Valmar.  The sound pursued the fallen Maia as well, and it screamed in anger, trying to drown out the strains of joy and life and love with its tuneless, bestial bellows.  The music gave the wizard new vigor drawn from the depths of his own being, and he spent it with a strange and fiercely joyful determination.

After long hours of running and climbing up the steep spiral stairs, Olórin saw something he had not seen for many weary days:  sunlight.  They had reached Durin's Tower, an exit to the outer world that reached only as far as a narrow place beyond the door high above the lesser mountains and plains below.  Even as he followed the Balrog out into the blazing sunshine, the wizard caught the scent of his enemy's sulphurous stench.  A moment later, he felt the blistering heat as the Valarauka burst back into flame, turning to pounce now that its power of fire had been rekindled.

But Olórin did not flinch.  In his long pursuit, he had come to know that this final stand would be a fight from which there would be no retreat, no possibility of escape or even a minute's rest.  If he did not give his all to this battle, to doing what he could to cripple this demon, then he truly would have failed, not only in his mission but in his very beliefs and reasons for being.  He lunged at the Balrog, using Glamdring as one might wield a scythe or an axe, to cut down some poisoned and perilous growth that could not be suffered to live.  He continued to sing, drawing some added strength from the fact that the Balrog hated it.  When he could not recall any words to torment his adversary and warm his own heart, he sang without words, drawing the song from the deepest parts of his being.  It was his song, his Music, the notes that he had sung before Eru in the Timeless Halls, the Song that had given him his own life.  The sound of it was like the piercing of knives to the Balrog, who had long since forgotten its own Music.  

They fought, and the cold winds howled about them; they fought, and the clouds below rose up to blot out the sun and send down sheets of rain as frigid and harsh as needles of ice.  The Balrog used anything it could find as a weapon against its foe.  Rocks were hurled at the wizard, who managed to evade most of them.  It fell upon him as a wrestler might, trying to choke and beat and physically overwhelm him, which it did best with the scorching heat of its fiery body.  But again and again, Olórin managed to free himself, and Glamdring again reveled in slashing at its ancient foe.  

For three days, their battle continued, until at last the blade of Gondolin found the place on the Balrog's hideous body in which it was most vulnerable.  In its death throes, the Balrog sent forth all the flame and heat that it had at its command, but to no avail.  Olórin withdrew the sword, only to strike again, piercing the demon's throat and cutting down to its blackened heart.  The Istar put all his remaining strength into one last mighty push, and the Balrog stumbled backward, slid off the shining blade even as it slipped on the wet and icy rocks behind it.  It fell, plunging down the sharp fingers of stone thrust up from the mountainside, crushing many upon impact until finally, it met one great flinty spear that tore its broken body in two.  It howled its rage one last time, then lay still, silent.

Olórin looked down the precipice only long enough to be certain that the Balrog was truly dead.  When he felt reassured that its threat was ended, he staggered backward and fell to his knees.  He saw that the entrance to Durin's Tower was now destroyed, though he could not remember how it had happened.  But it did not matter.  The Balrog would never again trouble this world, and he had the satisfaction of knowing that at least in this, he had met with success.

He had no strength to do anything more.  Utterly spent and exhausted, battered and burned and in agony, he collapsed onto the stone ledge.  He somehow had managed to fall so that he lay upon his back; as he looked up to the clearing skies above him, he smiled.  “Thank you,” he whispered, and let go of his tenuous connection to life, to existence.

*********

At the time, he had not known if what followed had been the last imaginings of a dissolving spirit or reality; only in hindsight did he know that it had been real.  He found himself alone — so utterly alone that he knew he was in no physical place, nor in any place which other beings inhabited.  It was the Void in its truest sense.  

In his isolation, all he had was the company of his own thoughts, which suddenly became a procession of memories and images that encompassed his entire life, from the moment of his creation.  There was a startling clarity to it that frightened him, but he could not stop what was happening.  There could be no illusions here, no excuses, no denial or distortion of truth, no lies.  He knew all that he had done, for good or ill, and could see how it had affected others, also for good or ill.  It was terrifying, more terrifying than any trial he might have undergone.  His own judgment, unclouded in a way he had never known, was more adamant than Lord Námo when pronouncing Doom.  He knew that he had done much wrong — and yet, he also knew that he had done much that was right.  He went through this labyrinth of self-examination for what seemed a full age, but in time, he reached the center, and found there a single word:

Choose.

Choose?  Choose what?  Whether he should live or die?  Whether or not he should return to Aman?  Whether or not he should have fought the Balrog?  Whether or not he should have accepted the mission of the Istari?  Whether or not he should have submitted meekly to Curumo's leadership?  Whether or not he should have followed him into betrayal in hopes of finding his redemption?  Whether or not he should have insisted that Frodo not be made to carry the burden of the Ring, even though his heart told him that this was meant to be? Whether or not he should have even entered Eä, become a follower of Manwë, allowed his curiosity to lead him into occasional service to the other Valar?  Whether or not he deserved to continue to exist?

A massive wave of confusion engulfed Olórin, a chaos so profound that no escape was possible.  He felt as if his entire being was now a miasma of conflicting thoughts and emotions, causing him to become untethered from any mooring, even the sensation of being lost in the Void.  Perhaps he had chosen, then.  He was about to fly apart, and there would soon be nothing left of him, no thoughts, no memories, no life nor death nor existence....

“No, child.”

The voice was warm, as warm as the sudden sensation of a greater presence enfolding him, restoring him, pulling together his scattered thoughts and emotions.  He was so startled by this change in perception, he felt as if he wanted to cry out in terror — but in all that was happening to him, there was nothing to be feared.  He surrendered to it instead, and in that instant, the darkness vanished, to be replaced by pure Light.  He reveled in it, in the warmth and the joy and, above all, the limitless love.  The confusion was gone, replaced by wondrous peace.  He knew precisely where he was.

He was Home.

There was no physicality as such in the Timeless Halls, but as he had lived for so long within the confines of Eä, where so much was defined by the boundaries of substance and incarnation, his mind instinctively equated existence here in terms of the physical.  He felt the smile of the One Who had saved him from the Void, and was deeply grateful to once again know and behold the Love that had made him so directly, so intimately.

“To me, it has been but a flicker of a moment since last you were here, but I understand your feelings, little one.”  It was the same deep, infinitely caring voice that had called him back, and he knew it well.

“Father.”  The word was full of relief, for the Maia knew it was so.

The smile of the One brightened as he embraced the Istar.  “Yes, Olórin, and you are correct: you are home.  Let your mind and spirit be at ease.  Here, there is no time, and thus there is all you need.  Rest and be refreshed.  I will remain with you, and call you when I wish to speak with you again.”

The Maia smiled back, reflecting the great love that his Creator gave to him, and for a time that could not be measured, he closed his eyes and slept.

When he heard his voice spoken again, in gentle affection, it seemed to Olórin that no time had passed — for it had not, as his Home was beyond the effects of time, which was something wholly of the physical world.  But he no longer felt disoriented and exhausted; indeed, he felt refreshed and alive in a way that he had almost forgotten was possible.  This was existence as he had known it in his very beginnings, and it was magnificent in every way imaginable.  He opened his thoughts to awareness of things outside himself, and shivered in joy to sense the One smiling upon him once again.  “Yes, Father?” he said as he opened his nonphysical eyes, humble before his maker, but reveling in the wonder of simply being in His presence.

“Are you feeling better, now?”

It was a needless question, for Olórin well knew that there was nothing of which Eru was unaware, but the compassion and consideration He showed in the asking was in itself a gift.  “Oh, yes, much better, my Lord.  I knew that living as a Mortal Man was a great burden, but I had not realized how much my spirit had been wearied by simply living within Eä.  Does this afflict all of us who dwell there?”

“To differing degrees, yes.  Those who seldom incarnate feel it less, those whose tasks are light are little afflicted by it.  You and the others of your Order bore a heavy burden, partly because of the means by which it was decided you should carry out your mission, in true flesh.  None of your kind have ever been so sorely weighted by it, save for those like Melkor and Sauron who used incarnation as a means to attempt to gain dominion over Arda and all within it.”

A feeling of discomfort rippled through the Maia like a chill wind.  “Is what I experienced what happens to the Atani when their bodies die?  Would the other Istari experience what I did, if their bodies were slain?”

The One's smile grew sad.  “It is much like it, yes, at least for those Men who die and do not hear or heed the call to Mandos.  For true Mortals, the paths they follow afterward are different, for they are not my Children of Thought, as you are.  Two of your Order have indeed already passed beyond the part of the transition you experienced.”

Olórin knew he spoke of Alatar and Pallando.  He pondered this, and the sadness it caused the One.  Finally, he managed to form a question.  “Were they also asked to choose?”

“They were,” Eru confirmed.  “As you did, they saw all the days of their existence with clear eyes, were allowed to consider it without any lies or illusions, and they were offered the choice: to forgive themselves and accept the love for them that I offered, or to reject both.  I will not tell you how they chose, nor what became of them after.”

“I would not ask it,” Olórin admitted, for he truly did not wish to know.  The One did not punish mistakes, no matter how egregious and willful they might be, but all His children had the choice to accept or deny the consequences of their actions.  It was the inevitable burden of the gift of free will.  Something else weighed more heavily in his mind.  “But... I did not choose.  You asked me to do so, and I did not know what to do.”

Eru's laughter was bright and joyful, not at all mocking.  “I did not expect that you would, little one.  How could you?  The transition from life in hröa to what lies beyond for mortals was not for you to know.  It was not a Gift meant for your kind.  But when you became bound to a body in the way that Men are bound to theirs, I allowed some of their fate to become a part of your own, after a fashion, so that you might better understand my younger Children.  It resulted in many pains and sorrows and difficulties during your life in Middle-earth, but it also brought with it many pleasures and joys you would otherwise never have fully been able to experience or understand.  That knowledge is precious, especially for those of the Ainur who love my Children of Eä.  Would you not agree?”

“With all my heart, Father,” Olórin replied.  “I am honored to know that You were willing to share this with me, and the other Istari.”

The earlier sadness was now gone from the One's smile.  “For whatever reasons each of you held at the time, you took a tremendous risk.  I felt there should also be some gain to be had as well.”

The Maia saw His point.  “I expected no personal gain or reward for my work, but I thank You for the experience, Father, and the gift of understanding.  I took on the onus out of love for Your Children, nothing more.”

A sudden dimming of Eru's countenance caused Olórin to wonder if he had said something wrong, but the brightness returned quickly.  “I am pleased to hear you say that, child.  It is further proof of what I have always known, that you have a heart greater than many are willing or able to recognize, and you give your love unconditionally.  If you sensed displeasure from me, it was not directed toward you.  There are things concerning the embassy of the Istari of which you are unaware, and I will not tarnish your joy by telling you of them.  You will find out the truth when it is time; do not spoil these moments by hastening to learn of something that cannot change what has been, but might become a hindrance to you if discovered too soon.”

Olórin knew that the One always wanted what was best for him, and graciously submitted to His advice.  “Then I shall say nothing of it.”

“That is wise.  Now, it is time again to ask you to choose.”

The Maia blinked.  “My Lord, if I am to choose to forgive myself and accept Your love, I believe I have already done so.”

The One laughed again at the tenor of the Istar's remark.   “Very true!  I never had any doubt of what choice you would have made, had you not been so disoriented by the transition of death.  Your faithfulness has ever been unwavering, and had I simply asked if you would come, I know you would have flown to my side, full willing.  No, this is another choice, and one only you can make, for only to you is it offered: You have served me and the Powers of Arda well, better than they had hoped, and better than any other could have done.  For all you have accomplished and all you have suffered, you deserve great reward, and you shall choose what that reward shall be.  You may remain here with me in the Timeless Halls, be fully healed of all hurt and weariness, and enjoy a reunion with all your brethren here who have sorely missed you.  You were willing to give your very existence to spare any in Middle-earth from the threat and terror of the Balrog — a sacrifice that has never before been offered by one of the Ainur.  For that, you deserve a rest from your labors, of a degree that cannot be found within the physical world.”

This time, the Maia's eyes widened.   “Truly?”

Eru smiled upon him.   “Truly.  That is one choice.  The second would be for you to return to Aman, healed of all hurt, restored to your fullness of self and power as a Maia, so that you might fulfill the promise you made to remain within the circles of the world until its end.  The burden of guiding events in Middle-earth would no longer be yours; it would fall to others to find a means to bring about Sauron's defeat.  No one would hold it against you for making this choice, for they already know the tremendous weariness you have suffered; they would be loath to burden you with it again.  Finally, as a third choice, you may return to Middle-earth and attempt to complete your task as an Istar.  You would again be bound to a body of true flesh, but a new one of my making, one less fragile than before.  If at last you return to the West, your work complete, then you may shed it without loss to yourself, and resume your true life as a Maia.  But heed these warnings: there are hurts to your fëa that would not be fully healed if you select this path.  The Valar may not see them clearly, and it may be beyond their ability to fully understand and heal them.”

Olórin did not respond at first, taking time to consider all he had been told.  “Would these hurts make it more difficult for me to fulfill my tasks in Endorë?”

The One shook His head.  “No more so than before.  The greatest danger they will pose to you will come if you succeed and return to Aman.  There, that danger will serve a greater purpose, one that I deem is needed very badly for the benefit of the Valar.  If you choose to return to complete the mission that was interrupted by the Balrog, you will take with you the seeds of help for your own people — but they will not bear fruit without bringing pain to you.  I will not allow you to suffer forever, but the matter may not resolve until it has brought considerable grief to you.”

Olórin sighed.  “This would not be the first time.  Many of the Maiar of Arda who fought in the War of Wrath think that because the tasks which I had been appointed during the First Age were performed unseen, they were easy.  They were not.  Trying to support and encourage and inspire people who all too easily ignore what has been offered, and then choose instead actions that end in tragedy...!”  He shook his head.  “To see it happen once is painful.  To watch it happen again and again is agony.  If You believe that the pain of which You speak will help my people, then I trust that it will be worth it, in the end.  It will hurt more to know that You feel such a thing is necessary.”

“Which is why you will not know.  Memory can be a terrible burden, at times.  If you choose to return and take up your mission once again, I will place restraints upon your memories of what occurred after your death.  Some things you will remember easily; others will only come back to you when it is time.  This may trouble you, but it will be better than the kind of despair that can result from knowing too much, too soon.  It will also lessen the grief you might feel, knowing what you gave up for the opportunity of completing your tasks.”

This time, Olórin did not need to ponder things quite as deeply.  He nodded.  “You are kind, Father.  I do not think I could remain in here peace, knowing that my work was left unfinished and none of my fellow Istari will rise to complete it.  But it would indeed grieve me if I also remembered that I had been offered a chance to remain here with You, where my heart longs most to be.  I would not want to be unfit for my tasks because I was crippled by a longing for what I could no longer have.”

A great warmth surrounded him, the tender sensation of the One's loving embrace.  “Someday, all of you will be with me once again.  But I promise you, I will not suffer you to resume your burden without gratitude or reward.  If you decide to return thus, you will be protected from such grief until you are once again in Aman, freed from a life in true flesh.  I will then see to it that you are given a gift that will allow you to always carry with you a connection to the Timeless Halls, and to me.  That will be your reward for having freely given so much of yourself for the safety — and the love — of others.”

For what seemed a very long time, Olórin could not speak.  When he did, it was in an awed whisper.  “I — I am not worthy of such a gift, my Lord...!”

Eru disagreed.  “But you are, if for no other reason than I wish you to have it.  But there are many reasons, Olórin.  You have seen all of your life since your creation, with the clear and honest sight of self-judgment.  Can you now look upon what that sight revealed to you, and still insist that you are not worthy?”

After a moment that was an eternity, the Maia shook his head.  “No, Father.  I know what I have achieved.  I have not always done the best thing, nor the right thing.  I have made mistakes, and I have failed to do things I set out to do, but never did I willfully do wrong.  I have done the best I was able, always, and that is all that You have ever asked of us.  If I have done well enough so that You wish to reward me, then I am worthy of it.  But I do thank You.  To be given a second chance would have been reward enough.”

The One chuckled gently even as His smile broadened.  “Then am I to take it that you have already made your choice?  You will go back and attempt to complete the task that was given you rather than remain here in bliss with me, or in safety in Aman?”

The weight of the three possibilities suddenly pressed heavily upon the Maia, and the imminence of separation made the necessity to choose overwhelmingly sharp and bitter. He found himself weeping, his head bowed low.  “Oh, Father, I do not want to leave You !  But I made a promise to You, to remain in Arda until its end.  And I made another promise to Lord Manwë, to go to Middle-earth as his emissary and do all I could to guide Your Children so that they would be free from the tyranny of Sauron. If I stay here with You, I will break both promises — and more, I will turn my back on the promises I made to Your Children, to help them in their struggles against one of my own kind who would make slaves of them all.  If I remain here, I will suffer nonetheless, from the stinging guilt of knowing I could have chosen to do more, but refused out of selfishness.  What other choice can I make but to return to Endorë?”

Eru did not laugh, but the tenderness of His expression deepened.  “No one would call such a choice selfish, Olórin, certainly not I, nor will any of the Ainur, here or in Eä.  You have earned the right to remain with me in paradise.  But I am proud of you.  To return shows great courage; to want to return when it means giving up such a precious gift shows courage greater than any of your kindred would believe possible.  Many of them, even some of the greatest, would not make such a choice, uncoerced.”

“You did not coerce me, my Lord!” the Maia cried, wanting to make it plain that this had required no persuasion.

The One touched the Istar, a gentle caress of soft fingers upon his cheek, brushing away any vestiges of tears and restoring his spirit.  “Peace, my son, I know that full well.  I will not tell you what future lies before you, for you still have the freedom of will with which I made you.  But I know you, and I know that whatever path lies before you, you will continue to do as you have always done: your very best.  And thus you prove your worthiness, of any reward and any honor.”

Olórin felt faint chagrin at his outburst, but it passed quickly.  “Thank You,” he said softly, calmly.  “It would seem that I have chosen, then.  Will You send me back now?”

“Soon.  As we are beyond the circles of time, there is no need to hurry.  And I do not think I will send you back to the peak of Zirak-zigil.  There are many in Aman who have grieved from the moment they felt your fëa pass beyond their ability to perceive.  They are deeply concerned for you, and I suspect you would want to ease their minds before you resume your tasks.”

The Maia smiled sheepishly.  “You do know me well, Father.  Yes, I think that would be an excellent idea.  But if I return first to Aman, might it not take too long for me to return to Middle-earth, if I am to go there in true flesh once more?”

“It would,” Eru confirmed.  “So I will devise a swifter method to accomplish it.  When it is time for you to be sent, the Valar will know what to do.  I also think it would be wise for you to spend at least a few days in your home in Lórien, enjoying its rest and healing.  When I restrain your memories, I fear you will not enjoy it, and may require some time to come to terms with the condition.  It will not be too unpleasant, but it is preferable to the pangs of grief, as we have agreed.”

Olórin nodded.  “Yes, that would be best.  Will it take until the End until I remember the time I have spent here?”

The One shook his head.  “No.  The memories will not all come swiftly.  Some concerning your death will return within a few hours, others will not come back for several years.  But the time will come, and you will remember all that has happened to you, without sorrow or pain.  And when that time arrives, I have a message that I wish for you to deliver to Manwë.”

Olórin was mildly surprised — for of all the Ainur within Eä, Manwë was closest to the One, and spoke with Him most easily and most often — but he did not question the request.   “Anything, Father.”

“Tell him this: The one who arose in might has fallen, and in his falling broke a precious vessel, seemingly beyond repair.   That which was held within it was lost, and the emptiness of that loss could not be assuaged.  But behold, the time is come for the vessel to be fully restored, and the emptiness to be filled.  For even before all the Ainur were brought into being, that fall was foreseen, and the means to heal that which it most sorely wounded was fashioned.  The marring of Arda is not yet to be undone, but the time to heal the first wound wrought by the fallen has come, delivered not in might, but in humility.”

The Maia listened carefully, committing the message to memory; when Eru's voice stopped, he frowned, puzzled.  “There is nothing more?” he wondered, for it did not seem quite finished.

“Nothing more,” the One replied.  “Manwë will know the rest.  In his heart, he will know all of what is meant, and will understand.”

Olórin considered this, then smiled wistfully.  “Perhaps by then, I will understand it as well.”

Eru laughed softly, kindly.  “When at last you remember this time and this message, I assure you, you will understand it.”  He embraced the Maia, softly kissed him on the brow, and on the waves of bliss bestowed by His infinite love, Olórin was sent back to Aman.

The memory faded.  What had come after Olórin left the Timeless Halls was common knowledge by now, and thus Eönwë's questions were fully answered.  As the sensation of reliving that part of his past dwindled, the Istar closed his eyes, reveling in all that he only now fully remembered.  He savored the utter joy of being in the presence of their Father, thrilled to at last fully comprehend the greater purpose of the crystal circlet that had been bestowed upon him on the day of his return to Valinor.  He focused his thought upon it, and through it felt the touch of perfect love that was their Creator, as near to him as the soft morning breeze against his skin.  This was his true gift, beyond the healing to his wounded spirit, and he was deeply honored to receive it.

A few moments later, he opened his eyes, and was startled when he did not see Eönwë standing before him.  He was even more surprised to see the herald kneeling, clearly in deference to him, and was further shocked when he glanced about and saw that all of the Ainur, including the Valar, had apparently followed Eönwë's lead.  He cast his eye to those who had been watching upon the plain, and saw that many of Eruhíni were also on their knees, most likely those who had chosen to witness all he had just revealed to Eönwë.  He paled when he noticed that Frodo and even Bilbo were among them, though the younger hobbit was whispering something to his elder cousin.  Trembling, he turned back to the herald, hoping that by focusing on one person, he would not feel quite so overwhelmed by this disturbing turn of events.  

“My friend,” he said, willing his voice to remain steady, “there is no need for this!  What have I done to cause such an... inappropriate response?”

Eönwë looked up, his bright blue eyes unwavering.  “Can you recall what the One said to you, and not know the answer, Olórin?   To return shows great courage; to want to return when it means giving up such a precious gift shows courage greater than any of your kindred would believe possible.  Many of them, even some of the greatest, would not make such a choice, uncoerced.  He spoke naught but the truth, and if we kneel to you, we are only acknowledging that we are among those who would not have made such a choice.  And you did more than give up the gift of returning to His Presence to resume a bitter task.  If the greatest love one can show to a friend is to wish for their happiness, how much greater is that love which will sacrifice one's very existence to save an entire world?”

The Istar's pale face suddenly flushed red, but even in his embarrassment, he could not deny the truth of which Eönwë spoke.  He had not offered himself out of duty, but out of love for the Eruhíni, and the world the Ainur had fashioned to be their home.  The quest to destroy the Ring was a part of that, for much would have been lost without the defeat of Sauron, but in the end, he had taken up the burden of an Istar, relinquished it in its moment of failure, and taken it up again all out of love for the Children, and those who had sent him.  For a time, he did not know what to say.  Then, he reached down and took Eönwë's hands and raised him up.  Tears were bright in his eyes when he finally was able to speak.

“I accept the honor you do me,” he said, in a clear voice that all could hear.  “I admit that the choice to leave the Timeless Halls and return to a life in which more pain and suffering were inevitable was the most difficult decision I was ever asked to make.  But our Father promised me that I would be given a gift that would ever allow me a connection to that joy which I surrendered, and it was bestowed upon me but a few minutes after I returned to my life without the encumbrance of true flesh. That is a great comfort to me, and I will cherish it always.”

He let his glance fall upon all the others, first the Valar and their people, then the Eruhíni; he was relieved to see that they were also rising.  He smiled when his gaze touched Frodo and Bilbo, who were watching with shining eyes and broad smiles of their own.  “And I will always cherish the love of the many friends who have come into my life.  If it were not for all of you, I could never have found the courage to perform even one of the deeds that you consider so admirable.  It is another thing for which I give thanks today.”  He bowed deeply to the assembly, honoring them in return.

Eönwë accepted the obeisance with a polite nod.  “And I thank you for your willingness to give such a thorough answer to my question.  I could not have asked you to share your memories as you did, but I am most grateful.  Through them, I feel as if I, too, have returned to be with our Father, if only for a moment.  That is a gift beyond price.”

A murmur of agreement rose up from the Ainur, the Valar included.  Eönwë then took his leave and returned to his place behind Manwë's seat.  It was only then that Olórin realized that, though the other Valar had settled into their chairs, the Elder King was still standing, an expression of great wonder upon his face.  When their eyes met, Olórin abruptly remembered the message he was to give the Vala — the message he had already given, through the shared memory of his time with the One.  And as Eru had promised, he finally understood its meaning.

Manwë echoed the words that the One had spoken long ago.  His voice was soft, but clear.  “‘But behold, the time is come for the vessel to be fully restored, and the emptiness to be filled.  For even before all the Ainur were brought into being, that fall was foreseen, and the means to heal that which it most sorely wounded was fashioned.  The marring of Arda is not yet to be undone, but the time to heal the first wound wrought by the fallen has come, delivered not in might, but in humility.'  

“In humility,” he repeated when Olórin suddenly looked down, his face flushed.  The Vala shook his head, not in denial but in amazement.  “Oh, how can I have been so blind?  How many ages of the world have passed, and yet never did I see what was so plain before me?”

He strode across the gallery, stopping but an arm's length from the Istar, who still seemed inordinately interested in the thick grass before his bare toes.  “How long have you known this?” Manwë asked.  When he did not receive an answer, he put one hand beneath the Maia's chin, forcing him to look up.  “Olórin,” he said, firmly but not angrily.  “How long have you known this?”

The Maia's eyes remained lowered for a moment, but he did not resist for long.  His gaze met the Vala's, a bit tentatively, but without flinching.  “Since the first time we met in the Timeless Halls,” he admitted.  “I was aware that a connection existed, but I did not understand any of what it could possibly mean for a very long time.   Long after we entered Eä, in fact.  I began to piece together bits of the truth after the Lamps were destroyed, during the raising of Valinor.  I have long known that we are kin, if not in what fashion.”

Manwë's tone was gentle.  “And you said nothing?”

Olórin shrugged.  “What could I say?  I have always feared that I had reached the wrong conclusion, and I did not want to risk causing offense — or humiliation.  Lord Eru said that I would understand when I remembered His message for you, and I do understand now, quite fully.  It is for the best that I kept this to myself.  If I had spoken of it those many years ago, and if I had been believed, would you have sent me to succor the Eruhíni against Melkor's darkness and despair during the First Age, or charged me to be your emissary in the Third?”

Manwë's reflection took only a moment.  “No, I would have found it quite difficult.  I do not blame you, Olórin.  I do not think I was ready to hear this, until now.  And now that I am ready, I rejoice.”  His face lit with a brilliant smile even as tears filled his eyes.  He opened his arms and the Maia gladly entered his embrace and returned it, shedding his own tears of joy.

“Rejoice?  For what?” a rather puzzled voice came from behind Olórin.  Tulkas, seated beside Ulmo in resplendent golden glory, looked thoroughly perplexed, though the smiles worn by many of the other Valar showed that they had grasped what he had not.

Oromë snorted and rolled his eyes in mock exasperation; Námo provided an explanation, in a cool manner that was betrayed by the good-humored sparkle in his dark eyes.  “The meaning of the message is quite plain, Tulkas,” he said with the feigned seriousness of the Doomsman, leaning forward in his chair and steepling his fingers in the manner of a teacher instructing a child.  “Even before all the Ainur were brought into being, that fall was foreseen — this surely speaks of Melkor, and that even as He brought forth the other children of His thought, Eru Ilúvatar foresaw that Melkor would make choices which would lead to his fall.   That which was most sorely wounded might be the Music, or the world that we helped to fashion from it once it was made manifest, but even more grievous was the personal wound that was caused when Melkor rebelled against Eru and broke the heart of his brother Manwë.  The One created the remedy for this terrible injury even before it was first inflicted.  That means, delivered in humility rather than might, is that which came not first but last: the youngest of the Ainur of the Great Music.”

When Tulkas appeared even more puzzled than before, Irmo took pity on him, nudging Námo with one elbow.  “An explanation offered like a pronouncement of Doom is not terribly enlightening, brother,” he chided the Lord of Mandos.  Námo maintained his air of false innocence; Irmo smiled at Tulkas.  “What Námo has been trying to say in his own inimitable way is that Lord Eru understood what Melkor would do very soon after his creation, and made certain that his loss would not leave such an emptiness in Manwë's heart forever.  Olórin, who was the last of those Ainur brought forth to sing the Great Music, is the instrument of that healing.  He is their younger brother.”

Sounds of surprise and understanding rustled through those who heard like the sound of wind through the grass.  Among the Valar, several gave nods of comprehension.  “That explains much,” was Ulmo's opinion.  “It was wise to keep the knowledge hidden, for if this had been known from the beginning, Melkor surely would have attempted to corrupt or harm him, to the great sorrow of many.  As the youngest of us, with no acknowledged relation to any and of a humble demeanor, Melkor would have deemed him to be of no consequence.  And I have often wondered how Olórin alone among all the Maiar was able to conceal himself from Melkor's notice during his labors of the First Age.”

“And how he was able to move beyond Manwë's perception, five years past,” Nienna added, smiling at her pupil.  “Yes, it explains a great deal.  A mere servant may balk at being ordered about by his master, without consultation or explanation, but to a younger brother, such treatment can be a devastating rejection.”

Manwë heard them, and knew they were referring to the manner in which he had forced the burden of the Istari upon Olórin, and how it had hurt and angered the Maia when the full consequences of that command had been revealed to him after his return to Aman.  He stepped back from the Istar, his expression heavy with remorse.  “I now regret that mistake more than ever before,” he said in all humility.  “It was wrong of me to place my pride before anyone's safety.  It was unforgivable to do it to my own brother.”

But Olórin immediately rejected that assessment.  “No, my lord,” he declared, unwilling to brook any argument.  “We have both made mistakes out of pride, I no less than you.  Even if we had both known of our kinship, you are still the king of Arda, and you have both my fealty and my love, as Nolofinwë has given his own to Arafinwë as his king, and yet remains his brother.  What you did needed to be done, for it was a part of your responsibility as a king.  And how I responded to what was required of me was also written within the designs of Lord Eru.  I was angry, yes, because it seemed to me as if my thoughts and feelings in the matter had been dismissed out of hand, but sometimes, that is the path our fates must tread.  My anger may have clouded my reason for a time, but never did I cease to love you.  And did Eru Ilúvatar not tell me that the hurts I would suffer would serve a greater purpose?”

Manwë studied the Maia, seeing nothing but sincerity in his eyes and in his heart.  “He did,” the Vala conceded.  “And we have learned much from it that was needed.  You are right, Olórin.  We have done what we were meant to do, though I very much have wished that our education had not come at the cost of your pain.”

There was general agreement with that sentiment, which seemed to end the debate — at least among the Ainur.  One of the younger Elves — a page in Ingwë's court from his garb, still some years from his majority — spoke up.  “But... how can a Maia be a brother to a Vala?  Isn't that like... like a bird being a brother to a fi— ”  The child suddenly became aware of many eyes upon him, and realized that he was about to say something that was potentially quite offensive.  He blushed red with embarrassment before blanching white with fear that he might have invoked the wrath of the Elder King.

But both Manwë and Olórin laughed.  “I suppose that it might seem that way, young one,” the Vala said kindly.  “But it is not as it appears.  Although not all of the Ainur are of the same order, we are all of the same kind.  The Vanyar and Noldor and Teleri are different in their appearance and in their skills, but all are of the Eldar.  As all of you are kin by the blood of your kind, the Valar and Maiar are kin by the nature of our kind.  Our blood is the thought of Lord Eru, and in that, we are all kin.  What makes those of us you call the Valar different from the Maiar is only the degree of power and ability with which Lord Eru gifted us.  Olórin and I are much alike in our natures, and I should have realized long ago that this was no coincidence.  That we are true kin is a part of our Creator's vast and intricate designs, and it gives me great joy to know that He understood how it would pain me to lose my elder brother to the ways of evil.  I rejoice in the gift I have been given in my younger brother.  He need not be counted among the Powers of this world to be precious to me.”

“Nor to me.”  Varda had risen from her seat and had come to join her husband.  Her entire countenance, already glowing with the beautiful Light of the One, was shining with joy.  “Welcome to your family, my brother Olórin.  And as for you, my husband,” she added, scowling at her spouse with mock annoyance.  “It's about time you finally recognized the truth.”

The wind-lord's mouth fell open at what she had implied.  “You — Varda, my beloved, are you... have you known about this as well?”

Her radiant smile turned wry.   “Of course.  Those of us who have been closest to you saw the... ah... family resemblance the first time we beheld the two of you together.  I had thought that Olórin was as unaware of it as you, that you were both...  What is the phrase, Yavanna?”

The earth queen's chuckle was perilously close to a girlish giggle.  “Too close to the forest to see the trees,” she supplied, her glance flicking to Oromë.

The hunter nodded, grinning.   “A saying of the Atani, as I recall. Quite appropriate.”

Varda thanked them for their help.  “Yes, quite appropriate.”  She turned her smiling gaze to Olórin.  “Too close to the forest to see the trees.  I am pleased to know that you at least were not so unobservant.”

The Maia blushed.  “Nearly so,” he confessed.  “If I had been created to fulfill as great a role as even the least of the Valar, I think that I would have been too preoccupied to notice.  As it was, I truly did not understand the whole of it until my memories of my life after death were stirred as I shared them today.”

Varda's silvery eyes twinkled like the brightest of her stars.   “Hardly your fault. The One said that you would understand when it was time, so I doubt you could have done so any sooner.  He does enjoy watching us piece together the little puzzles He plans for our lives.”

Ulmo snorted, rather like Círdan had earlier, the sound amused.  “I used to think of them as annoying, until I realized how boring our lives could become without such little challenges.”  Many of the others nodded their agreement.

Manwë was still attempting to digest his wife's news when someone among the observers interrupted.  “Does this mean that the Reckoning is over?” came Bilbo's plaintive question.  “Because if it is, it's nearly time for second breakfast, and I still haven't had my first!”

Those who were familiar with the elderly hobbit's appetite — which had been greatly renewed since his arrival in the Blessed Realm — laughed.  Manwë saw Bilbo's increasing chagrin and held up his hands for silence, sparing him further discomfort.  “Master Baggins's question is a valid one,” he said, his voice easily projecting for all to hear, as the wind sweeps over an open plain.  “If any unanswered questions remain concerning Olórin's performance of his duties as my messenger and a steward of Endorë during this past age, come forward now, and let yourself be heard.”

All was quiet for a minute or two, but in that stillness one could feel the movement of thoughts among those of the Eldar gifted with mind speech.  After the moment and the breeze passed, the three Elven kings exchanged glances and nodded.  

Ingwë stepped forward, smiling.  “My lord,” he said, “it would appear that we and all of our people are in full agreement.  Lord Eönwë said it plainly: there can be no greater love than for one to offer their own existence for the sake of others.  Whatever mistakes and misjudgments Lord Olórin might have made in fulfilling the charge that was laid upon him as your emissary, they are more than compensated for by the great and willing sacrifices he made in order to secure the peace and safety of all inhabitants of Arda.  If Eru Ilúvatar Himself is pleased and has shown His approval, then we can do no less.  As no other questions have been raised, we ask that this Reckoning be held fulfilled, and we thank Lord Olórin for the remarkable thoroughness of his accounting.”  He bowed one last time, as did the other kings and the members of their families and courts.

Manwë accepted this, hearing similar approval from the Valar and Maiar.  “Then I declare that this final Reckoning of the Istar Olórin is ended, that his duties are judged to be completed, and he is commended with the highest honor all the peoples of Aman can accord.  So let Eru Ilúvatar witness.”

“Násië,” came the reply from all in the assembly.  There followed a traditional moment of silence to honor the completion of the solemn event and give thanks for it.  Then, with no discernable cue, the entire gathering turned to celebration.  Musicians struck up joyful tunes, the pavilions that had been prepared for feasting and revelry were filled with people laughing and talking and singing as they broke their fast together.  The sun had fully cleared the Pelóri, and her rays shone bright and warm on the land below.

Atop the hill, the rest of the Valar had come to offer welcome to the Elder King's brother, while Manwë suffered in good humor their teasing congratulations for having finally realized what many of the others had already suspected, if not known outright.  To Olórin's relief, they moved on to be with the gatherings of their own people rather than make overmuch of the matter.  When the last of them — Aulë and Yavanna — were offering their congratulations to Manwë, he glanced down the hill toward Arafinwë's pavilion, where Frodo and Bilbo had joined the household of Elrond for breakfast.  He could see the hobbits settling down near Elrond and Galadriel, and noticed when Frodo looked up in his direction.

He turned back to his king and queen as Aulë and Yavanna were moving away.  “I promised Frodo that I would join him and Bilbo for breakfast,” the Maia told them, sensing that perhaps they would wish for him to join them instead.

They understood.  “Of course,” Manwë said with a nod of approval.  “Naught has truly changed, save between you and I, and there will be plenty of time for us to discuss this later.”

“Indeed there shall be,” Varda agreed.  “Even before today's unusual events, we had planned to ask if Frodo and Bilbo would like to spend the next week with us here in Valmar.  We owe much to both of them, and until now, we have not been able to enjoy their company as often as we would like.  Since they are as family to you, it now seems only proper that we should all spend a bit of time together becoming better acquainted, as family.”

The look of gratitude on Olórin's face required no spoken words.  Smiling, Varda kissed his cheek, then hurried to catch up with the Smith and his spouse.  The others were deliberately keeping their distance, not ignoring the newly discovered brothers, but rather giving them the space and time to speak without intrusion.  

Manwë fondly watched Varda glide away for a second or two, then turned back to his sibling.  “I hope that when you extend the invitation, you warn our hobbit friends that Varda is likely to pamper them shamelessly.  She has always envied the Children their offspring, and this is just the excuse she has been looking for to unleash her pent up motherly inclinations on beings vastly younger than you.”

Olórin laughed softly.   “Of course.  Frodo may balk a bit at the notion of being considered young, but I think Bilbo will devour the attention like a child with an unlimited supply of his favorite treat.”

Manwë grinned, a rather rare expression for him in such a public setting.  “Then perhaps she will finally be satisfied.  You do know that after today, she and I will not suffer you calling us ‘lord' and ‘lady' in private.  You made an excellent point earlier, when you said that even loving siblings owe fealty to their brother, if he is a king and rules well.  The Eldar have suffered much because of what happened in the family of Finwë, so perhaps you and I can set them a good example — especially since I suspect some will think of you as my half-brother, being a Maia rather than a Vala.  But we are family, in more than just seeming.”

The Istar concurred.   “As you wish.  I am honored to see how readily you have accepted this, but I fear I may forget myself from time to time.  Old habits are never changed quickly.”

“That is true for all of us,” Manwë admitted, wistfully.  He touched Olórin's face gently, then settled that hand on the white-clad shoulder.  “My heart sings with joy in the certain knowledge that I have found my younger brother, whom I have always loved, but I fear I will long regret how I did not recognize our kinship soon enough to spare you the pain that passed between us because of my pride.”

Olórin looked away for a moment.  He sighed softly as he once again met the Vala's gaze.  “As I said earlier, if there was fault due to pride, then we were both to blame.  Never before had you given me such an order without some kind of explanation, and I did not like the feeling when at last you did.  It stung all the more because I had long ago sensed that we were somehow akin.  If you should have explained yourself, then I am guilty of a similar omission.  I should have told you that I felt hurt by your blunt command, and why.”

Manwë did not attempt to dismiss his reasoning.  “Then I hope that we have both learned a great lesson from the experience.”

“Násië,” the Maia heartily agreed.  “I have certainly learned that if I feel in my heart that something is true, I should at least attempt to find the answer and not wait for other proof.  I might have prevented the friction between us, and uncovered Curumo's betrayal much sooner.”

“All things come to pass in Eru's time,” Manwë reminded him, and himself.  “What matters is that we do the best we can, and learn from our mistakes — which we have done.”  

Olórin confirmed it with a nod, knowing that it was so.  Manwë held the Maia's gaze for a moment more, then drew him into a brief but joyful embrace, which was gladly returned.  His smile was brighter than the dawn.  “There will be time enough to discuss this later, if we must.  Go, my brother, join your friends.  It is a time for great celebration —  and I do not think I can bear Bilbo's glare much longer!”

They both laughed and, with a respectful half-bow, Olórin turned and hurried down the hillside.  Manwë watched him go.  When the Maia reached the pavilion and was drawn to his place between the Hobbits and the Elves, the Vala closed his eyes, reaching out to the One Who was ever watching over them.  “Thank you,” he whispered, needing to say no more.  Eru alone knew how deeply he had been wounded by the betrayal of Melkor, and though Olórin was not meant to be — and could not be — a replacement for that lost part of him, the gift he had been given in him was beyond price. He let his entire being revel in the ripples of love and joy that were sent to him in acknowledgment of his gratitude.  Still smiling, he went to answer Varda's call to join her with a lighter and more healed heart than he had known in years beyond count.

The hobbits happily accepted Varda's invitation when Olórin informed them of it, and so they returned to Valmar that night, long after the sun had set and the midnight stars shone brightly overhead.  Frodo was already settled into Olórin's old rooms, so Márandur had prepared chambers for Bilbo just across the hall, also overlooking the wind chime garden.  Bilbo was delighted to find that their lodgings had easy access to both an extensive library and the kitchens, and that whenever he wished, various household servants would appear to assist him.  As the hour was already late by the time they arrived, Varda saw to it that they were both comfortable, assured Bilbo that there would be a family breakfast ready for all of them in the morning, and that a proper tour of the mansion would follow.  Satisfied, both hobbits bid the Valië goodnight.

While she was seeing to the needs of their guests, Manwë asked Olórin to come with him to the private chambers on the upper level.  The Maia had been there before, at the invitation of the king or queen, but always, it had been on some matter of business. Now, he was guided to a part of the mansion in which he had never been before, and he was curious.

They at last came to a suite of rooms not far from the most private chambers shared by the Vala and Valië, where only a few of the household servants were permitted to go.  Manwë opened the wide door to the largest room, a combination of parlor and study; he gestured for Olórin to enter first.  The Maia did so, puzzled, then forgot his confusion a moment later as he saw what lay within.

The room was one of the most beautiful constructs Olórin had ever seen, even in the most regal palaces of the Valar.  It was neither huge nor ornate, but it had been fashioned in such a way that upon crossing the threshold, one felt as if they had passed from the ordinary world into the firmament itself.  The walls and floors gave the impression of clear skies and windswept clouds, while the ceiling arching high above was the very dome of the midnight heavens, glittering with living stars.  There were furnishings about the room, but somehow, they had been crafted so that they did not intrude upon the sensation of being amid the very airs of the world.  Olórin was mesmerized by it all, by the beauty and peace of the place.  He had no idea how long he had stood there, drinking it all in, before Manwë came and stood beside him.

“I made this place when we first constructed the house,” the wind-lord said in a quiet voice, also enjoying the surrounding peace.  “Varda helped, of course.  She has a way with anything representing the stars that I simply cannot match.  I had no idea why I did this, other than a very strong feeling that someday, I would want such a place to be here.  We have never actually used these chambers, although I have come here to meditate in private, from time to time.  Whenever I did, I felt as if I should be seeing something that was missing.”

Olórin was so wrapped up in his study of the wonders about him, it took a few moments for the Vala's remarks to register in his conscious mind.  “I cannot imagine what could possibly be missing,” he said, awed.  “This is truly magnificent, my l— Manwë,” he corrected a trifle sheepishly.  “I know of few places so well suited for rest and meditation.  Had you said nothing of it, I would have expected you to tell me this was made for just such a purpose.”

“Perhaps it was,” Manwë allowed.  “After we finished fashioning Valinor and laid out the city of Valmar, I had hoped that someday, Melkor might repent of his ways and wish to live among us once again, as kin and ally.  I once thought that I could offer him this suite as a temporary place to live until he made his own home in Aman, and that perhaps here, he would find sufficient peace and rest to heal what became twisted within him.”  

He shook his head and sighed.  “That wish was in vain — and yet, I see now that I was not entirely inaccurate in my feelings.  I had prayed that these would be my brother's chambers, a place for him to stay and find rest when he visited this house.  And now, it is my brother's, and shall always be his.”

A small frown creased the Maia's brow, of confusion, not displeasure.  “Do you wish for me to leave Lórien and take up residence here?” he asked presently.

To his relief, the Vala shook his head most emphatically.   “No, of course not.  You are happy there, and I could not deprive Irmo and all the others of your presence when it is good for so many, yourself included.  But there will be times, such as now, when you will need or want to spend time here, and you should have a place of your own in the house of your kin.  I made this for my brother, not knowing that you were destined for it.”

Olórin hesitated before speaking.  “Are you disappointed that it is me and not Melkor?” he asked softly.

This time, Manwë paused to reflect before replying.  “I suppose it would not be true if I flatly said no,” he admitted.  “It was a terrible disappointment to me when Melkor refused to turn from his evil ways, and thus turned his back on me, on all who would not side with him.  But I am most assuredly not disappointed to know that you are my younger brother, Olórin.  I have always loved you, because we were so unusually alike.  I had no idea how alike we actually were.”

The Maia's frown finally melted into a smile.  “Neither did I.  If I had, I would have been able to put a name to our kinship well before our Father gave me His message to deliver.  Ever since I became aware of such relationships, I longed for family of my own, seeing how much joy it brought to others.”

Manwë snorted.   “Until Melkor introduced the concepts of dissension and rebellion and betrayal to our lives.  I do not question Eru's wisdom in creating Melkor, but I have sometimes felt I would rather have had no kin than have a brother who caused so much harm.”

“Then perhaps it is good that I am nothing like him.”

The snort became a brief chuckle.  “Varda would disagree with you — and after listening to her reasoning earlier today, I can see that she is right.”  

When Olórin's face became a picture of horrified disbelief, Manwë hastened to explain, albeit with a smile.  “She pointed out that while you never had Melkor's sheer power nor his high stature — nor his great hubris and monumental selfishness — you have always possessed a fire that was much like the fire he had in his earliest days, before thoughts of rebellion began to darken his very being.  From the beginning, you have been filled with ideas and inspirations of things that might be done or made for the enrichment of Eä, but you have never displayed a need to claim them as your own, or attempt to see them fulfilled to enhance your position and power.  Whether it is something you make or something you only imagine, you give both away freely, and take delight in the joy others gain from the objects or the implementation of the ideas.  You have never claimed to be the source of another's inspiration or even their hope unless you were hard pushed to it.  You have seen and experienced much of sorrow and death and the ugliness of war because of Melkor's marring of Arda, but the core of your being has ever retained an innocence of spirit that is very much akin to my own. You cannot take Melkor's place and I would not wish it, for I cherish your uniqueness.  But I can also see how you are his brother, as much as I.”

The disbelief and horror had drained from Olórin's expression while he listened to the explanation.  What Manwë had said made sense, and he found he could not refute it.  He looked up at the high domed ceiling, at Varda's stars glittering there, and commended the Valië for the keen perception she had passed on to her spouse.  “I think you may be right.  But then, it makes me wonder all the more what common thread runs between you and Melkor.  You have always seemed to me to be completely unalike.”

“Not always,” the Vala said sadly.  “In the earliest part of our existence, before Eru brought forth the Maiar and was instructing us, Melkor was as eager to learn and know and understand as I, simply for the joy of it.  We were still innocent, for we were truly as children, and he and I were inseparable.  It was not until the One made the Maiar that he became aware of the miraculous power of creation as Eru creates, creatures with true life sprung from His own power of Being.  We were all in awe of it at first, but when the numbers of the Maiar increased and grew far greater than our own, the spark of jealousy awoke in Melkor.  He feared that with so many others about, our Father's attention to us would be greatly diminished.  It did not, of course, for Eru has limitless love to give, but Melkor's jealousy eventually grew into covetousness.  He thought that Eru had created all the other Ainur because He desired the love and adoration they gave Him, and he wanted it for himself, feeling that he had somehow been slighted.”

Olórin found this surprising.  The Love of the One was so profound, he could scarcely imagine anyone thinking that it could have limits — or that Eru would deliberately withhold it from any of His children.  “Do you suppose that if we Maiar had not been made, Melkor would not have rebelled?”

Manwë shrugged.  “Perhaps, but I very much doubt it.  At times, I think that Eru made a mistake in making the first of us so very powerful.  Melkor thought that his great ability was meant to be a sign of our Father's special favor, that because of it, he should be considered superior to the rest of us.  In ability, he was, but that was not enough.  He wanted a greater share of our Father's love, and he did not like that the One gave it to us all in equal measure.  He especially disliked that Father gave His love equally to the Maiar, whom Melkor always considered vastly inferior.  Yet as much as he disliked the creation of the Maiar, he also grew to dislike the fact that the other Valar also existed.  He should have spoken of these things to Eru, for anger and resentment kept hidden tend to fester greatly, but he preferred to keep his own counsel and found no healing or comfort.  Thus began his madness, his fury toward anything that existed that was not of his making.”

The Vala fell silent, his head bowed with the weight of memory; then he shook it off with a will.  “For now, I see no point in belaboring the matter.  Melkor made his choices of his own free will, as do we.  Eru does not make mistakes, so I believe that there is some greater purpose in Melkor's fate that we will understand only when the Music has come to its final notes.”

“I pray that you are right,” Olórin said, thinking of the Maiar who had fallen into darkness as well.  He knew they had chosen their own paths, but he was no more at ease with their decisions than Manwë was with his elder brother's.  It disturbed him to think that they had given their loyalty to someone who wanted their worship, and would use them as pawns against the designs of the One Himself.

The wind-lord nodded, then looked up at the Maia, his smile returning.  “I wish that I had been aware of our kinship long ago, but I believe that Ulmo was right.  Had Melkor known you were our brother, he would have tried to suborn you, or destroy you.  I am glad that he never made the attempt.”

Olórin shivered, but not from the cool night air that drifted in through an open window.  “He did, but without success.”

It was Manwë's turn to be shocked.  “He did?   When?”

Olórin hesitated before replying.  He fingered the embroidered hem of one sleeve for a bit, seeing but not focusing on the intricate threadwork.  When he spoke, his voice was soft.  “During the time of his freedom in Aman, after you had permitted his release from Mandos but before he fled and Fëanor was exiled to Formenos.  I had gone to the house of Finwë on an errand from Lady Nienna.  I had been spending time in her halls, and she had heard of the difficulties arising between Fëanor and his wife Nerdanel.  She had a message for Nerdanel and asked if I would deliver it, since I was due to return to Ilmarin.  After I had spoken with Nerdanel, I was departing the house when Melkor arrived, why I do not know.  He... said things to me that I would prefer not to repeat, but he attempted to persuade me to join with him.  He made quite plain his belief that I would only find true purpose in my life if I cast aside my foolish loyalty to the Valar and Eru, gave up being their errand runner and menial laborer and gave fealty to him instead.  

“I was so appalled and angered by his words, I could not bring myself to answer him.  He mistook my silence for stupidity, and said that perhaps I was best suited to the life I had after all, for I had not the wit of even the least child of the Eldar if I did not appreciate the tremendous opportunity he had offered me.  I fled rather than vent my anger in a house of one of the Children, and I am very glad that he never approached me again.  I believe that Sauron's opinion of me was strongly influenced by his master's contempt, which ultimately was to my benefit during my work as an Istar.  If the opinions of his servants and thralls was any indication, Sauron, like Melkor, felt I was weak and easily dismissed as a threat.”

“And so ever does evil harm itself,” Manwë said, loosing his breath in a long sigh.  “I am glad that they dismissed you so easily.  They did so at their own peril, and in the process spared you from the danger of their direct attention.”

Olórin agreed.  “Their indirect attention was bad enough.  For myself, I am grateful that I didn't know how closely related I was to Melkor while he still walked the world.  If I had known when he approached me in Finwë's house....”  He fell silent, shaking his head to dispel the dark thought.

Manwë did not press him for any further explanation.  He took a seat on a long, softly cushioned bench that ran beneath a wide bank of windows.  Several were open; those that were not were fitted with panes of colored glass depicting such things as wind-tossed trees and birds in flight.  He gestured for the Maia to join him, which he did, sitting so that they could comfortably face one another.  “You said you were aware of a connection between us since the first time we met.  How did you interpret it, all these years?”

The Maia looked out one of the open windows for a time, collecting his thoughts.  After a while, he shrugged.  “I admit, the perception changed with my wavering certainty.  At first, I had no particular interpretation, for I knew nothing of the specifics of relations among the Ainur.  I knew only that there was a connection, a resonance that drew me to you.  Perhaps if I had met you and Melkor at the same time, I would have understood it more clearly, but I did not actually meet him until much later, after we entered Eä.  When I discovered that you and he were brothers, I thought that the connection I sensed must have been completely different.  And then, when the time came for us to enter the physical world, you asked if I would follow you, and I began to think that the connection must be one of service.  It appeared that many of the Maiar followed those of the Valar who were as kin to them in their hearts, and that they had been created so.  I decided that it must have been the same for me.”

He paused, then sighed.  “But as the years passed, though I was glad to call myself one of your people, I found myself drawn to serve others of the Valar as well, though none so devotedly as you.  I thought little of it until it was pointed out to me that this was quite unusual.  Those Maiar who served more than one of the Valar usually did so because the Valar were kin or spouses, or shared areas of responsibility, like Yavanna and Oromë. Apparently none of the others went as far as I did, eventually serving all of the Valar, from time to time.”

Manwë laughed softly.  “That is true.  Though any of the Maiar will serve a Vala if so instructed by the one to whom they have given fealty, none but you appear to have done so with such eagerness — and without explicit instruction.  I have never stood in your way in this, for I knew it was a good thing, and would in time lead to even greater good.  Your curiosity to know and learn has amazed many, and I suspect that this is why more than a few of the other Valar saw that you and I were brothers.  I do not have that fire to such a degree, but Melkor once did.  In him, it turned to evil; in you, it manifests as great compassion and inspiration.”

“I had never considered that,” Olórin said after reflecting upon it for a time.  “It might explain why I was so powerfully opposed to Melkor's designs, and why I was able to counter the despair he used as a weapon against the Children.  I understood him, though I did not know how.”

He took a deep breath before continuing.  “At any rate, I was all but certain that you and I must be brethren, until the Eldar awakened and I saw the myriad ways in which they could be related to one another.  For a time, I was confused and began to doubt that the connection I felt was real.  Then some of the Maiar heard the Firstborn call us the Valarindi, the children of the Valar, and I started to think that the connection between us might be one of an ersatz father and son.  Yet try as I might, I could not believe that was so.  There was something wrong, something missing, and I finally gave up trying to put a name to what I felt.

“Then, shortly before the feast of Midsummer five years ago, some of the Maiar in Lórien were discussing the matter of parent-child kinship between us and the Valar.  I happily admitted that I harbor some feelings of that kind toward Lady Nienna, since she has always treated me like a beloved son.  But later that evening, Frodo asked if perhaps I considered you as a father figure, and I had no difficulty denying it.  I cannot say that any of the Valar inspire that kind of feeling in me.  I have always felt much too strongly my filial bond to Lord Eru; no other could take His place.  But my thoughts about our connection were stirred once again, with no better result than before.  Today at last, it all makes sense.”

“It does,” Manwë said with a fond smile.  “I had thought that we had come to know each other quite well since your return from Endorë, but today, I learned things I had never suspected of you.  You told us before that you had known you would die when you faced the Balrog, but I had never imagined that you offered your very existence in hopes of defeating it!  Your courage and the depth of your love for the Eruhíni put me to shame.  I am not as brave — and I fear I would have been one to choose to remain with Father rather than return to the certainty of more pain and suffering.”

Olórin's answering smile was slightly wry.  “Until I did it, I had no notion I could be that bold and unselfish.  But often, we cannot see the true depths of our own being until we are put to the test.”

The sound the Vala made was one of self-recrimination.  “A test I would have failed.”

The Maia's smile softened with sympathy.  “Ah, but since you have not faced the actual test, you cannot know the result for certain, can you?”

Manwë was touched by his faith in him.  He chuckled.  “You are trying to let me off the hook, as Ulmo would say.  I appreciate it — and I believe you are right.  It is pointless to feel guilt for failing a trial one has yet to face.  If I am fortunate, I will never be asked to do so.”

“That is my hope as well.  Not because I believe you would fail, but because I would spare you the pain that inevitably comes before the results are known.”

“That is kind of you.  So, you bear no ill-will toward Father for not helping you to find the truth more quickly?”

Olórin shook his head.   “No, not really.  Oh, I do wish the right time had come much sooner, for I have longed terribly for a family of my own kind, and did not understand why I should feel connected to you if there was in fact no kinship between us.  But I have loved you since I first met you, without knowing more — and as you have said, He does not make mistakes.  While I would have been deliriously happy to know that you are my brother long, long ago, I see that I truly was not ready to know it for certain until today.  While Melkor was free, the knowledge would have been a terrible danger, and even after he was exiled to the Void, the danger from Sauron remained.  Curumo became jealous of me because Círdan chose to give Narya into my keeping.  How much worse would things have been had he known that I was also your brother?  No, there were things I was fated to do whether I liked them or not, and until they were done, the knowledge was best kept secret.”

He laughed ruefully.  “Now that I think upon it, even these past few years might not have gone so well, if the Elves of Aman had known of it.  I think they needed to see for themselves, as they saw today, that I did all I could to help their kin in Middle-earth, and that I honestly loved them all more than they knew.  Now, they can accept me freely as the younger brother of Manwë Súlimo, for I have earned that honor, even in the eyes of those who might have thought otherwise.  It is no longer a danger — or if it is, it is one I will be capable of dealing with on my own.   But... I still cannot help but wish I had had some confirmation of it earlier.”

Manwë's eyes sparkled, almost impishly.  “Perhaps it wasn't confirmation, but Father did give us a clear hint, five years ago.”  When Olórin regarded him with a complete lack of comprehension, the Vala reached out and touched the crystal circlet about the Maia's head.  “I have heard you bemoan the fact that His gift to you was a symbol of high honor that some would likely misinterpret, but I think we were the ones who made that mistaken interpretation.  Is it not appropriate for the king's own brother to wear such a thing?”

That had not yet occurred to the Maia.  He considered it, then made a gesture of acquiescence.  “I suppose it is.  As long as no one decides it's an excuse to start calling me ‘prince,' or some such nonsense.  Your crown is not of a kind for which there could possibly be an heir.”

Manwë's chuckle could almost be called a snicker.  “Our people know that, but I suspect you'll have to do some convincing among your Elven friends.  With so many kings of realms both past and present, half their population could likely make a persuasive argument that they qualify for such a title of distinction.  Today, I heard talk among the Eldar, wondering if you are not some distinctly different kind of Ainu, less than a Vala but more than a Maia.”

Olórin's face drained of color.  “You're joking,” he all but squeaked, appalled.  “Please tell me you're joking.”

“Alas, I am not,” Manwë said apologetically.  “I did my best to quash such speculation, but I doubt that I was entirely successful.  Because we are not naturally incarnate and they are, it is very difficult for the Eruhíni to understand that there is no essential difference between the Valar and the Maiar.  That we can have vastly differing power and rank does not alter what we are in our being, and that is the same.  It was the Elves who named us Valar and Maiar, thinking us to be different in nature.  You and I can be brothers if for no other reason than that is how the One wishes us to be.  The lack of physicality in our creation makes it hard for those who are naturally physical in their existence to understand this.  I believe that a few of the Elves who are of a more scholarly nature grasped what I told them, but I suspect that many concerned more with politics and less with metaphysics never will.”

Olórin groaned, knowing the wind-lord was right.  “I think I'm going to make a point of avoiding Eldamar for a while — a year or two, at least.”

The Vala laughed merrily.  “In your position, I would want the same thing.  But I wish you luck in attempting it.  You have an extraordinary number of friends among the Eldar, and in their royal houses.  Someone is bound to mention it sooner or later, and I think it will be sooner.”

The Maia grimaced.  “I wonder if Lady Varda would mind if I spent a bit more than a week here.  Say, until next Eruhantalë....”

Manwë's smile was broad.  “You are welcome to stay here that long, if you wish, but I think your friends in Lórien would miss you.  And Varda and I have duties in Ilmarin that we cannot neglect for so long.”

He looked up at the glittering stars in the domed ceiling, thinking of the palace atop Taniquetil that this mansion echoed.  “There are rooms there, you know, very similar to these, that I had fashioned for the same purpose.  The roof there is a clear crystal dome, and the stars that are seen in it are real, in the heavens above.  The lights of Anar and Isil enter only through the windows, so that the stars are visible regardless of the hour of the day.  You could spend the next year there, I suppose, but it would be even more inaccessible to your friends.”

Olórin surrendered to the inevitable.  “Then I will have to devise a suitable way to dissuade them from using such a ridiculous title before they actually do it.”

He shifted position slightly so that he could see more of what lay beyond the window.  The courtyard below held the wind chime garden, and the soft night breezes stirred the tiny bells so that they made a soothing music.  Through the branches of the trees, he could see the windows that opened onto the rooms Frodo and Bilbo shared.  There were still lights visible in each room, but as he watched, first one then the other went dark.  He smiled to himself.

Manwë saw the fondness in his face.  “They are so young, and yet so precious,” he observed, knowing what the Maia had seen.   “The youngest of all Eru's Children. You do realize that you are no longer the youngest of our kind.”

The Istar was perplexed by that statement, but only briefly.  He examined the awakened memories of his recent sojourn in the Timeless Halls, and saw what the Vala had also noted: the presence of totally unfamiliar Ainur in their Home beyond Eä.  “Yes, I do,” he said with a nod.  “Until today, I did not recall all that happened before I was returned to Eä — very little of it, I now see.  I find it a bit odd that He called me littlest one when He came to heal me five years ago, but I see now that He knew full well that my oldest memories of the Timeless Halls would be strongest, until all of my memory returned.  To be truthful, I am glad to know it.  I have never quite been comfortable, being the youngest, the last.”

“It is a place of honor,” Manwë reminded him gently.  “And you will always be the youngest among those of us who sang the Great Music.  You are special to all of us.  Why do you think that all of the Valar have been so willing to let you serve them?  You thought of it as service; they viewed it as instruction, and they were happy to share with you knowledge of the things that to them are most beloved.”

“Ványalos has said things to that effect, often enough,” Olórin confessed.  “It would seem that he was right.”

Manwë laid one hand on the Maia's nearer arm, a gesture of comfort.  “It is nothing to be ashamed of,” he said with firm reassurance.

“I know,” the Istar sighed.  “It is not shame that I feel, simply... discomfort.  I know that many Maiar have greater power and authority than I.  And yet I seem to have found unusually ready acceptance by all of the Valar.  I once thought it was pity; I know now that it was a kind of affection.”

The Vala nodded.  “That it was, and still is.  Your eagerness has always been tempered by an engagingly sincere humility, which made it difficult for any to refuse your quest for knowledge and understanding.”

“That I know as well, now.  It was two thousand years spent in the true flesh of a Man that increased my doubts about myself.  It is one of the most terrible things that Melkor's evil inflicts on the spirits of Mortals, the conflicting pulls to either fatal pride or a crushing lack of self-esteem.  I did not know it during my mission, but Curumo and I were apparently injured by it in those two opposing ways.  It has taken time for my spirit to heal from that wound, and I still cannot help but feel that self-doubting discomfort when I sense that I am being drawn onto a path of wrongful pride.  I could not accept the honor of being the last, the youngest, and yet I could not change what I am.  So instead, my heart, still conditioned to react as I did when I lived as a Mortal, attempted to reject the honor through feelings of unworthiness.”

“Which are misplaced.  Someone came first, so someone would naturally come last.  It is simply the way things are.  What I truly find surprising about the situation is that Father decreed that both positions would be held by one of my brothers.  The only distinction I was given was the dubious honor of being the king of Arda.”

He said it so drolly, Olórin could not help but laugh.   “Oh, a terrible, terrible insult, to be sure.  After all, given how many kingdoms the Eruhíni have established in their comparatively brief time in this world, being a mere king would not appear to be so great an honor, would it?”

“Indeed not.  Whenever the so-called loftiness of my station threatens to go to my head, I have only to remember that, and I regain my perspective quite quickly.  Varda enjoys reminding me of it even when there is no such danger.”  He shook his head, grinning.  “Actually, I enjoy it when she does.  It reminds me of how much she cares for me, which is worth any amount of teasing.”

The thought of the publicly proper queen of the stars baiting her spouse struck the Istar as amusing, and oddly touching.  “I will enjoy becoming better acquainted with her.  When she said it was about time that you recognized our relationship, I was almost shocked.  Not that she said it, but by the way she said it.  She is always so dignified before the Eruhíni, I could scarcely believe she was actually teasing you in front of half the population of Valinor!”

“Which is why she did it, no doubt.  The Eldar love her dearly, sometimes too much so.  She feels that occasionally, they should be reminded that she is merely another fallible child of Ilúvatar, not the One Himself.”

Manwë's sapphire eyes unfocused for a moment, in a way that any Ainu knew meant that he was engaged in ósanwë.  “She has finished with our guests and seeing to the preparations for the morrow.  I asked if she wished to join us, but she thinks it would be best if we took this time to ourselves, to adjust to the sudden change in our lives.”

“She is wise,” Olórin said, moved by her consideration.  “I could not have asked it — she is your spouse, and this is your home — but ever since this morning, I have been hoping that there might be a few hours in which we could talk, alone.  It seems rather... childish—”

That hand that still lay upon the Maia's arm squeezed it, lightly.  “If that is so, then we are both being childish, for I feel the same way.  Varda knows this, as do most of the other Valar.  Tulkas may continue to be confused for a while, but only because he has never been one for pondering the metaphysical complexities of creation.”

Olórin did his best to suppress his laughter, but it managed to find its way out despite his effort.  “Others would not put it so politely,” he said, eyes dancing with mirth.   “Even among his own people.   I have heard several of his closest Maiar say that he prefers a... direct approach to the time-wasting nonsense of words.  They find it quite endearing.”

Manwë also attempted to restrain himself, without success.  “‘Endearing' is an interesting description.  Oromë and Ulmo call it ‘refreshing' — but they have always favored a ‘direct approach,' especially in dealing with one's foes.”  The wind-lord glanced out the window, then turned back to the Istar.  “Are there other such interesting things you know about your fellow Maiar?”

The gleam in his eyes unleashed a flood of delight in Olórin's spirit, for there was an easy familiarity about it that was magnificently reassuring.  “Ah, so is that it, you would claim me as your brother so that I can be your informant among the Maiar?”

“Certainly,” the Vala intoned with a ponderous formality he could not maintain. “Of course not,” he said as a smile destroyed his semblance of grave authority. “I know that our people can be terrible gossips, all the more so as our lives seem to become more limited with the passing ages, but I would never ask you to betray a trust, or to act in any manner contrary to your nature.  But I do admit, though I am charged with the guardianship of Arda, I see and hear less than I would like of the doings of my own people, so much are my thoughts caught up in matters of the Children, especially in Endorë.  In you, perhaps Eru has given me the gift of a stronger connection to my own kind.  You are out and about more than I can often be, and what news you can give me of the everyday lives of our folk would be a blessing.”

“I will do the best I can,” he was assured.  “Although for that kind of news, perhaps you should rely on Ványalos.”

Manwë chuckled, well aware of the gregarious nature of Irmo's messenger, who was also Olórin's friend and neighbor in Lórien.  “I will keep that in mind.  Come,” he said, rising and gesturing for Olórin to follow.  “Let me show you the other rooms.  And along the way, if any other intriguing tales should come to mind....”

The Maia grinned as he rose from the window seat.  “Well, I do recall one amusing incident involving Eönwë and Ranyalór....”

“Námo's steward?”

Olórin nodded.  “After the War of Wrath, Ranyalór felt that Lord Námo had exhausted himself near the point of collapse, tending to the fëar of all those who had fallen in the battles.  Eönwë believed he was singularly well suited to understand that condition, as he felt much the same after leading the Host of the West and dealing with the aftermath of a very hard-won victory.  He and Ranyalór came up with the most outrageous idea to trick Námo into an extended ‘vacation.' They were working on their plot in one of Lady Vairë's tapestry galleries when they were overheard by Lady Nienna's servant Helyanwë, who had come on an errand to the Weaver.  She insisted that Nienna could benefit from such a rest as much as her brother, for she had also borne a heavy burden of grief due to the War.  How they decided that I should become entangled in this plot, I do not know, but one day, I found the three of them crowding the doorstep of my old house in Lórien....”

He continued the story as they went through the rooms, which now and again rang with laughter as the tale went on.  On the floor below, Frodo, on the brink of sleep, heard the echoes of their merriment and smiled, the sound to him more sweet than the chiming of the many bells in the garden; he let it soothe him to sleep like a beloved lullaby.  The laughter was heard by all the Ainur in the house, and beyond.  Its echo rippled throughout Aman and rose up beyond the circles of the world, where Another laughed with them, rejoicing in the healing that was at last taking place in the hearts of two of His most cherished sons.

To be continued in Part Two: Repercussions

Addendum:  I know I've been MIA for several years.  This can be blamed on severe depression, illness, and my husband's bout with prostate cancer.  As I do have much of Part Two completed, I will be posting it chapter by chapter in the near future.  Thank you to all for your patience!