I

Family Breakfast

When the hobbits woke the following morning, they were greeted by two household servants, Surëlindë and Alcarrainë.  They brought warm water and soft towels for their morning ablutions, set out clothing proper to the day, and helped them in whatever ways they needed.  Bilbo was used to such attentions, having had a body servant assigned to him when he became a member of Elrond’s household.  Frodo had experienced such things during his travels both in Middle-earth and in Aman, but he was still a bit embarrassed by such royal treatment.  Strangely, he felt less troubled by it when the servants were Maiar, for though they were unfailingly polite, cheerful, and deferential, they never displayed any form of an obsequious or patronizing attitude.  They had selected clothing that while fine was not as formal as yesterday’s garb, and when both halflings were ready, Márandur appeared to escort them to the dining hall while the other Maiar remained behind to tidy the rooms.

The steward led them down the corridor to the central welcoming hall, from which they would move on to a dining chamber on the opposite side of the mansion, where the rooms caught the brightest morning sun. As they passed through the great hall, they were met by Olórin, who was coming down the long, curved staircase to the upper floor.  His brilliant smile and cheerful, “Good morning!” made it plain that his night had been most pleasant.  Like the hobbits, he had eschewed the formal garb of yesterday for more comfortable clothing, a long white tunic with soft silver-blue breeches and a simple silver belt.  In keeping with his recent habit, he was once again barefoot, his unshod footfalls so quiet, even those of the light-footed halflings were louder.  The Istar quickened his pace to join them, and they entered the designated room together.

The dining hall was, of course, not at all like even the grandest of Hobbit dining rooms. It was not the main dining chamber, where Frodo had taken his meals during the days before the festival; but even though it was smaller, it was nonetheless large.  It was half-circular in shape, its roof a dome of delicately colored glass so cleverly fashioned, the designs it showed changed as the light spilling through it changed with the shadows of passing clouds and the hour of the day.  The floor was a single massive slab of sky blue marble, shot with veins of iridescent white and softly gleaming gold.  The walls were of smooth white alabaster, adorned with vibrant tapestries from Vairë's loom, depicting the years of Arda before the first blooming of the Two Trees.  One entire side of the hall was a curve of tall windows, through which a sunny garden with a many-tiered fountain could be seen, its dancing waters sparkling brightly in the morning sun like a shower of tiny, brilliant stars.

The round table that had been set for them was large but not overly so, to permit a more intimate meal. The table clothes were of pure white linen with intricately embroidered edges, and the plates and cups and utensils of porcelain and crystal and silver far more elegant than the items Lobelia had attempted to steal from Bilbo many years before.  The high-backed chairs were softly cushioned, and those for the halflings were of a design that would allow them to sit comfortably at the table without feeling as if they were children.  Five Maiar clad in the garb of household servants greeted them when they arrived, and saw them to their places.  As Varda had said, this was clearly to be a family meal, for there were only five table settings. 

At the door, Márandur bowed to Olórin and the hobbits, leaving them in the care of the waiting servants. As they entered the room, Manwë and Varda also entered, from the opposite door.  They too were dressed much more informally, the Elder King in remarkably plain robes in his customary shades of blue, the star queen in a simple white gown that made her glossy black hair shimmer all the more brightly where it fell over her shoulders and down her back.  They greeted their guests warmly and invited them to be seated.  Both hobbits were eager to comply.

The “family breakfast” Varda had promised them the night before was truly sumptuous, even by Hobbit standards.  The aromas that had greeted them even before they reached the hall were mouth-watering. Having spent many years in Rivendell and Tirion, Bilbo was quite accustomed to Elven fare, while Frodo had learned greater appreciation for it since he had taken up residence in Lórien — but this was not what either hobbit had expected.  The breakfast that had been prepared was almost entirely Shire cuisine, of astonishingly high quality.  While they both appreciated it tremendously, they were also quite startled by it.

“I haven’t had a feast quite like this since I left the Shire!” Bilbo declared after sampling a number of his favorite Hobbit breakfast dishes, cheerfully served to him by one of the five attendants, a slender Maia maid with bright brown eyes in a round, friendly face surrounded by neat plaits of chestnut hair.  “The cooks of Elrond’s household have tried their best to make a few of the recipes I gave them, but they never managed to get it quite right.”

Frodo had to agree.  “I’ve taught some of what I know to Ványalos, and others have come asking me for instruction in Hobbit cuisine, but what they make of my teaching is not quite the same as what I had in the Shire.  I admit that I’m not the most accomplished cook, but the same thing happened when Sam tried to teach the cooks in Minas Tirith how to make ‘proper Hobbit fare,’ as he calls it.  Sam’s an excellent cook, and a better teacher,  so I’d decided our dishes are just something only a Hobbit can prepare correctly.  As only the Elves can make true lembas.  I also suspect that it was the fondness of the memories that made them sweeter than they actually were.  But if I didn’t know better I’d swear you’d brought in cooks from the finest Shire inns.  Who made this?”

Varda smiled, her eyes sparkling.  “Several of our servants, under Márandur’s direction. Some months ago, we told him that we intended to invite you to spend this week with us, and he asked permission to send a small group of our servants most talented in culinary arts to go and observe the finer points of cooking in the Shire.”

Both halflings were surprised that the Valar would permit such a seemingly capricious venture into Middle-earth, but Olórin made a sound of understanding.  “Ah, that explains why Nárënilda came to Lórien this summer and interrogated me about the kinds of meals Bilbo and Frodo preferred.  She is in charge of the kitchens here, especially when there are guests of the Eruhíni,” he added after Frodo gave him a querulous look.

Frodo nodded his understanding.  "That explains quite a bit.  The spiced fruits taste exactly the way I remember Rosie made them.  Nárënilda must have gone to Bag End and spent at least a month in the kitchen, watching, and at least another month practicing."

Olórin laughed.  "Oh, at least.  But that would be just like her.  Nárënilda has never been one to settle for anything less than perfection in what she serves to guests.  I suspect she or one of her companions spent some time in the Great Smials and Brandy Hall as well.  There are recipes the Tooks and Brandybucks have been guarding for generations, and unless my senses or my memory deceive me, they've managed to duplicate several of them precisely."

“I must say, I appreciate the effort everyone has gone through on our behalf,” Bilbo said after savoring another bite of a particularly delicious scone with fresh jam and butter.  “But I don’t understand why.”

This time, Varda and Manwë looked perplexed.  “Why we should go through effort to make your stay here a pleasant one?” the wind-lord asked.

Bilbo shook his head, taking a sip of tea to clear his throat.  “Why your people bother to learn such skills when you don’t need to eat or drink.  I’ve always been partial to the Elven tales and histories of the old times, the ages before we Hobbits came into the story of the world.  Even before I went to live in Rivendell, I pestered some of the wandering Elves like Gildor Inglorion to help me learn their languages and then provide me with books to read.”  He chuckled to himself.  “I think I spent most of my second year in Tirion cozying up to anyone I could find in King Finarfin's court or family just so I could have free access to the wonderful library I’d heard he’d collected.”

At that, Manwë also laughed softly.  “Ah, yes, I’d heard of this.  Several of the people on Arafinwë’s staff were annoyed by your persistence, but he himself was amused.  He felt your interest was a compliment, not a nuisance.  But he did wonder why you simply didn’t ask his granddaughter Celebrían or her husband Elrond to bring you to his house and introduce you to the Librarian.”

Bilbo’s cheeks colored a bit.  “Well, I must admit, I had thought of it.  But everyone in his house had been so kind to me, I didn’t want to risk offending Elrond’s own librarian by making such a bare-faced request.  I was rather afraid that he would be upset, thinking I considered his collection inadequate and inferior.  It was silly of me, I know, since Elrond himself spent considerable time in Finarfin's library.  At any rate, there are many works there that I’d never seen before, and I found them quite fascinating.”

Frodo, having just finished a helping of eggs and sausage that tasted exactly as he remembered from his childhood in Brandy Hall, sighed expansively.  “That’s very interesting, Bilbo,” he said, “but I don’t see at all what this has to do with the excellence of our hosts’ kitchen staff!”

“I was getting to that,” his cousin assured him, thanking the Maia servant who had just refilled his teacup. “As I was about to say, some of the things I hadn’t read before talked about the nature of the Ainur, and how harmful it can be for them to engage in things like eating and drinking, needs that were meant for true incarnates, like Frodo and I.  Something about how the more often one of your people does it, the more it weakens them and makes them bound to a single form, a single physical existence.  If that’s so, then why would any of your people spend the time learning the art of cooking so skillfully that they can make such exquisite meals?”

“To learn, and for the joy of it,” Varda said, seeing the cause of his confusion.  “While it is true that it can be harmful for an Ainu to become too strongly attached to the ways of the physical world, simple things are not dangerous, unless they lead to excess.  Eating, drinking, sleeping, bathing, taking pleasure in the beauties of the senses and of things that can be made from the substances of the world actually teach us a better understanding of the Eruhíni, and allow us to guide and serve and protect them, as we were meant to do.”

“Just so,” Manwë confirmed.  “True hedonism — the obsession with pleasure — can be very dangerous. I know that Olórin’s neighbor Ványalos is called that in jest, but much as he enjoys certain aspects of an incarnate life, it is for him an innocent delight, as it is for many of our kind.  It may not appear so, but Ványalos has a very clear understanding of what he is, and where the boundary lies between appreciation and obsession.  Others have not fared as well, because they lost sight of their own purpose for being, or became enamored of seeking greater power over the physical world through their own adoption of physical form and might.  Those who serve us as cooks are like Ványalos.  They enjoy the myriad ways in which the Children have learned to make their sustenance a delight for their senses rather than a mere necessity, and they take tremendous satisfaction in learning new ways.  For them, the cooking of the Hobbits is very new, and thus very exciting.  They have been studying quite hard, with our permission, and they have been eager for a chance to show you what they have learned.”

Frodo considered what the two Valar were saying while he continued to enjoy the meal obliquely under discussion.  “I see what they mean, Bilbo,” he said when Manwë finished his explanation.  “In Tirion, you live almost exclusively with Elves, while in Lórien, I spend most of my days with Maiar.  I share my meals with Olórin and Ványalos most every day, and the Elves and Maiar gather to share the evening meal, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of the Maiar eat as much as we incarnates do.  They enjoy it, certainly, and some are excellent cooks, but if you or I or even an Elf were to eat as little as they do on a daily basis, I think we would eventually become weak from hunger.”

Olórin smiled mischievously.  “Not that Ványalos cannot keep pace with an entire family of Hobbits, when he wishes,” he said impishly.

Both Bilbo and Frodo laughed.  “Nor that a certain wizard couldn’t do the same, when he showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night, in the rain, and all but emptied my larder!” Frodo retorted.

Bilbo gave a good-natured snort.  “And if he couldn’t, he could be counted on to bring a whole houseful of hungry Dwarves to finish the job — uninvited, I might add!”

The Istar assumed a pose of perfect innocence.  “That was not my fault!” he insisted.  “If I hadn’t been sent to Middle-earth in the true body of a Mortal Man, and then required to travel from one end of the continent to the other without the benefit of a permanent home of my own, I would not have needed to rely so heavily on the kindness of strangers, and friends.”

“None of whom begrudged it,” the younger hobbit assured him.  “At least, among those who called you friend.”

“And you have quite a lovely permanent home now,” Bilbo added.  “Or should I say more than one permanent home?”  He gestured with his fork, indicating the beautiful room around them and the mansion beyond.

“Whenever he wishes it,” Varda said with a warm smile for the Maia.  “Family is always welcome in the home of kin.  That is a custom here, as well as in the Shire.”

“Provided the kin isn’t too... ah... presumptuous,” Bilbo said before taking a bite of sausage.  “But then, I can’t imagine your people would be the kind to try to stuff things into an umbrella to sneak them out of the house.”

They all laughed.  “You’d be surprised,” Manwë chuckled.  “Your cousin Lobelia is not unlike some of the Maiar I have known, although most of those who attempted to sneak off with what did not belong to them were actually over-curious and trying to borrow without asking, not stealing.  Those who were thieves... well, let us not darken a lovely morning with talk of those who have brought sadness into our lives.”

“Hear, hear,” Bilbo opined, lifting his teacup in agreement.  “So, Gandalf, have you enjoyed your first day as prince of the Maiar?”

The Istar groaned, setting down his own cup as he cradled his forehead in one hand.  Manwë sighed rather than say, “I told you so,” though his eyes twinkled with merriment, and Varda politely refrained from laughing aloud.  Frodo considered himself fortunate to be chewing on a mouthful of honey sweetened seedcake, so he was able to diplomatically abstain from any response whatsoever.  From the way he glanced at the Maia, however, he was well aware of how well Bilbo’s comment would be accepted.

“Whatever makes you think that I am the prince of anything, Bilbo?” Olórin asked after a moment or two.

The elderly hobbit shrugged.  “Things I heard here and there, yesterday.  Some of the Elves thought that was how one should properly address the brother of the Elder King.”

The Maia sniffed.  “And how do they define a prince?”

Bilbo considered this while he tasted a spoonful of a berry compote.  “Well, I don’t know how they define it, but to me, a prince is the son of a king.”

“Then as I am Lord Manwë’s brother, I cannot properly be called a prince, can I?”

Bilbo pondered this around another spoonful of berries.  “I suppose not,” he finally conceded. “Although I’m given to understand that King Ingwë’s brother is called a prince.”

“That is partly a courtesy, and partly because until Ingwë had children, his brother was considered the heir to his throne.  Though Elves are immortal, they can be killed, and it would not do for their people to lack a ruler while awaiting the return of their king from Mandos.”

The older hobbit blinked.  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.  Unless Lord Manwë does what was done to the wizards, he can’t die, can he?  Not even the way the Elves do.  I can’t imagine that Eru Ilúvatar would be likely to approve putting the one He appointed to be the King of Arda into a real body.”

“He would not,” said king affirmed, a smile tugging at his lips as he sipped his tea.

Frodo cleared his throat.  “But... Sauron was never incarnated that way, was he?  And whenever his... temporary bodies were killed, it took a long time for him to make a new one....”

“That is true,” Olórin said, running one finger along the gilt edge of his cup.  “But he tended to spend many years in the same fana, for the express purpose of maintaining power over the incarnates he either enlisted or enslaved.  That is one of the dangers of a physical life for us.  Too long a time spent in a single bodily form impairs our ability to set it aside, and we lose much of our power and strength if it is overwhelmed and destoyed by physical forces. The more often that happens, the more difficult it becomes to reincarnate, for the weaker we become.  That is what happened to Sauron.”  He sighed as he spooned up a bit of spiced plum from his plate.  “Here in Aman, most of us have enough sense to regularly shed our fanar and live unclad for a time, unless some extraordinary circumstance requires us to remain embodied.  I myself do so each night, when I no longer need to interact with any true incarnates.”

"Just so," Manwë confirmed.  "It is also part of the reason we decided to send the Istari in true bodies, this past age.  None of us were under any delusion that Sauron's defeat would come about quickly, and we felt that this unique manner of embodiment — within a body not of their creation, which they did not need to maintain through the expenditure of their own native power as Maiar — would protect our servants from the depredations that result from too long a time spent in one fana."

"Which it did," Varda pointed out, patting her husband's hand before he could even begin to stir up the guilt he felt over the mistakes he and the rest of the Valar had made when they had reached that decision.  "What injury did occur was something we could not have foreseen, for we had no prior experience with it."

Frodo nodded his understanding; Bilbo shuddered.  “I must confess, the thought of putting on and taking off a body like a set of clothes...!  It sends chills up my spine.”

The Valië smiled upon the elderly hobbit.  “Then we shall say no more of it,” she declared.  “As soon as we are finished here, I would be happy to show you the rest of our home, Master Bilbo.”

“Oh, that would be delightful!” Bilbo said.  “Much more pleasant than talk of nasty things like dying and Sauron and such.  And I should very much like to see the kitchen first, so that I can thank... what did you say her name is, Gandalf?”

“Nárënilda,” the Istar supplied, concealing his smile behind his napkin.

“Nárënilda, of course.  Such a lovely name, and fitting, too, I’ve no doubt.  But not until we’ve finished, of course?”  His plaintive expression made it obvious that he was nowhere near done with his breakfast.

Amused though they were, his hosts politely kept it hidden.  “Of course,” Varda assured him.

Bilbo’s face shone with delight.  “Then I would very much enjoy a bit more of that splendid mushroom tart with a slice of the yellow cheese, and perhaps another coddled egg or two....”  He favored the female Maia who had been acting as his server with a wistfully engaging smile.  She returned the smile and, with a slight bow, went to fetch what had been requested.

The conversation then turned to more pleasant topics, about yesterday’s festival and the coming months of harvest and winter.  Frodo was telling the Valar of the Hobbit traditions and customs of Yule and Bilbo was happily working on his third and fourth servings of his favorite dishes when Eönwë entered the hall, using a door opposite those leading to the kitchens. 

The herald — simply garbed in the blue and white of the household — bowed to those seated at table. “Good morning, my Lord, my Lady, Master Bilbo, Master Frodo — Uncle.”

Olórin coughed into his teacup, which was fortunately all but empty.

Both hobbits regarded Eönwë with startled expressions.  “Uncle?” Frodo repeated, his attempt to refrain from laughing only half successful.

Eönwë’s grin was mischievous.  “What else?  Almost from their first day in Aman, the Elves started to call me the son of Manwë, because it seemed to them that wherever he went, so did I.  If I am his son and Olórin is his brother, then Olórin is my uncle, is he not?”

The Istar rolled his eyes in a brief moment of exasperation, then laughed merrily.  “Very well, Nephew, I concede the point.  I’m not going to be able to avoid all of this teasing, am I?”

“I fear not,” Eönwë said, his tone of apology mild, but genuine.  “Among our own people, so little changes, anything new will be a subject of interest for a long time.  And to the Eldar, this is something completely unheard of, which makes it all the more monumental.  I beg your pardon for interrupting your repast,” he added in a more sober manner, “but I thought it might be prudent to warn you that you may have a number of unexpected visitors this morning.”

“Oh?”  To Manwë, the currents of the world today seemed no significantly different than yesterday.  In the environs of Valmar, many of the Elves were still enjoying a form of celebration.  Those who had traveled considerable distances for the day of Thanksgiving often remained for at least a week, to share the company of those friends and family who resided in other parts of the Blessed Realm before they needed to part.  There seemed to be more folk up and about this morning than there often were on the day after a major festival, but on the surface, it was nothing truly unusual.  

He closed his eyes for a moment, testing the more subtle layers beneath, as one might check to determine the direction of a light, wayward breeze.  Although these undercurrents felt very similar, there was a hint of greater tension to them, of emotions both positive and negative.

Allowing no more than a faint crease on his brow to show his concern, the Vala opened his eyes to favor Eönwë with a querulous expression.  “At times of festival, that can be wearyingly common,” he said mildly, as he did not want his guests to become concerned.  He nodded to the servant who was pouring tea to refill his cup even as he gestured for Eönwë to join them.  A sixth chair appeared at the table, as did another porcelain cup, already filled.  Understanding his master’s desire to refrain from distressing the hobbits, the Maia accepted the invitation.  “Who is planning to descend on us today, that you felt you should herald their coming?”

Eönwë took a sip from his cup, then replied as he casually added milk and sugar to his liking.  “I suspect that you are already aware that many of the other Valar and a number of Maiar are eager to offer their respects, as well as their thoughts concerning yesterday’s unexpected revelation.”  Olórin snorted softly at his remarks, but it was a sound of resigned humor rather than displeasure.  

“I thought as much before midday yesterday,” Varda said quite placidly as she nudged a small plate with a fresh nut muffin in Eönwë’s direction.  Even though she had barely tapped it, the plate continued to slide across the table until it stopped precisely beside the herald’s cup.  Eönwë raised one dark eyebrow at his lady’s unspoken observation that he had yet to break his own fast.  Though it astonished others when they saw evidence of it, the herald was quite familiar with the star queen’s unexpected nurturing side, and he was happy to indulge her by playing the lovingly obedient son for the visiting Children.  He smiled fondly at her solicitousness as he reached for the butter and jam.  

“Everyone was terribly polite,” Varda added as she tapped a bowlful of berries in the same direction, “but it seemed to me that they were champing at the bit, as Oromë might say.  I sensed nothing upsetting about their mood, more an eagerness and curiosity they wanted to share over so unique an event.”

“That is a fair assessment,” the herald confirmed as he prepared his muffin.  “Lord Ulmo is particularly delighted by it.”

It was Manwë’s turn to snort.  “Yes, he has always thought that we would become too settled and complacent here in Valinor, and to some extent he was right.  If we learned nothing else from the death of the Trees and the early days of the Sun and Moon, it was that even the loss of darkness is still a loss. An unchanging world becomes a predictable and boring world, and in boredom often are sown the seeds of mischief and malcontent. Life in Arda needs change and surprise to thrive rather than stagnate — and I fear we ourselves have started down that path.  For once, I will be more than happy to allow Ulmo to say ‘I told you so’ as often as he likes.”

“I agree,” Olórin said.  “Though something so easily anticipated hardly seems to require an announcement by the Herald of the Valar.”

He said it so puckishly, everyone chuckled.  “True, true,” Eönwë concurred.  “But their interest is such that I suspect they may not think to consult with one another, and thus may all arrive at the same time. There are others who may come sooner.”

“The Elven kings?” Frodo speculated.

Eönwë shook his head.  “No, they are curious, but not overly so.  They understand that this is a personal matter of the Ainur, and will wait until they next meet with the parties concerned, either by chance or by invitation. Some of those who are less patient are Glorfindel and Ecthelion, as well as others among the Eldar who unsuccessfully fought the Balrogs of the First Age.”  He favored Olórin with an apologetic smile.  “I confess, I understand their feelings.  To their knowledge — and mine — you were the only truly incarnate being to have battled a Balrog for ten days and yet survived long enough to see its demise. An extraordinary feat, however it was achieved, and worthy of any warrior’s respect.”

“Perhaps so,” the Istar admitted.  “It certainly felt extraordinarily difficult, though at times, I have wondered if I managed to defeat it only because that particular Balrog had weakened over the thousands of years it had spent in hiding, bound to its hideous shape.  Still, it was deadly enough, and I shan’t deny that I felt considerable satisfaction in having stopped it.”

“I should say so,” Frodo said firmly.  “After witnessing your memories of your experiences, I think that I finally understand that it is more of a failure to deny the worth of what we could and have achieved than it is to dwell on those things we could not and have not done.  I’m very grateful that you chose to answer Eönwë’s questions as you did.”

“As am I,” Olórin replied, his smile warm.  “I have tried as best I can to convince you that your single apparent failure in the matter of the Ring was beyond your control. You reached the limits of what was possible for you to achieve, physically and mentally.  The only way for you to exceed those limits was in the extension of mercy and pity for one whose mind had long since been broken by the Ring.  You stepped beyond the boundaries of what was possible for you to personally accomplish by making the leap of faith that spared Gollum, thus allowing the quest to succeed.  If it seemed that it was only a matter of luck that brought this about, remember that there is One Who is ever watching over us.  In His vision, Gollum’s madness could be Sméagol’s redemption, but only if certain choices were made by others to allow the event to happen.  By your choice, and by Sam’s outside the Sammath Naur, the stage was set.  You were in the proper place to allow the final action to be made, but it was not written that it would be performed by you.  You spared Gollum’s life, and in turn, Sméagol saved the quest.  It was as it was meant to be, as it was meant to be that I would fight the Balrog and die while in the true flesh of a Mortal.  I could have refused to do so, as you could have given up long before reaching Mordor, but I think we both knew that we had to do what was right for more than just ourselves alone.”

Frodo nodded his understanding.  “I should like to thank Eru Ilúvatar for watching over me, and allowing me to finally learn that the most important forgiveness and acceptance I can be given is my own.”

All the Ainur regarded him fondly.  “You have already done so, Frodo,” Manwë assured him.  “The One watches over all His creations, here as well as in Middle-earth.  He has heard your words of thanks, and is delighted to have received them.  A time will come when you will be able experience His delight more directly.”

The hobbit smiled at this reassurance.  Across the table from where he was seated, Eönwë swallowed a bite of his muffin before speaking.  “Even the anticipation of such an event is to be cherished. Yesterday’s experience moved a great many people, of both the Ainur and the Eruhíni, which is why some are anxious to express their reactions.”

When he uttered the word some, there was something in the herald’s tone as well as in his expression that the three other Ainur at table immediately sensed as a veiled warning.  A ripple of ósanwë passed between the four, confirming that what Eönwë was not saying was unpleasant.  

Before their communication went any further, Varda made a decision.  “If we find ourselves overly besieged with well-wishers and curiosity seekers, I’m sure Márandur will come to you for help in fending them off, Herald of Manwë.  I made it plain enough to our brethren during the feasting yesterday that I wished for today to be a quieter time for us.  I promised our hobbit guests a tour of the mansion after breakfast, and I have every intention of keeping that promise.”  She gave Bilbo a questioning glance.

The elder hobbit dabbed at his lips with his napkin, having just pushed away his empty plate.  “Oh, yes, I’m quite ready for it now, Lady Varda,” he said after taking a last sip of tea.  “Goodness, my corners are so well filled, I couldn’t find room for another bite!  Are you finished, too, Frodo my lad?”

The former Ringbearer nodded.  “I finished at least one helping ago, Bilbo.  I was contenting myself with my tea until you were ready.”

“Well, then, that settles it,” Bilbo declared as two of the servant Maiar came to the table with bowls of warm, fragrant water and soft finger towels for the diners.

“If it will not offend you, I will join you soon,” Manwë told their guests as they made use of the proffered bowls.  “Eönwë has not finished his breakfast, and I would not want to deprive him of companionship.”

Varda smiled as she kissed her spouse’s cheek.  “Nor yourself of any entertaining news he has yet to tell. Worry not, we’ll be fine on our own.  But when Bilbo comes to visit Ilmarin, you can be his guide.”

“Agreed,” the wind-lord answered cheerfully, returning her kiss.

The queen regarded Olórin as she gracefully rose from her chair.  “You need not come either, my brother. You are already quite familiar with this house, and I fancy that any tales Eönwë might have would interest you as well.”

“Thank you, my— sister,” the Istar said, correcting himself at the hint of a warning frown that settled between Varda’s eyes.  His own eyes shifted to the hobbits.  “If you don’t mind...?”

Both shook their heads.  “Of course not,” Frodo said after thanking the servant who had brought the finger bowl.  “I think Eönwë’s news is really meant for you, after all.”

“And Lady Varda was the one who offered to show me her house,” Bilbo added, beaming at the Valië in his most charming manner.  “I know how much pleasure I always felt when I showed Bag End to my guests for the first time.”

“Precisely,” Varda said, returning Bilbo’s charm with a shining smile.  “Try not to let these tales of Eönwë’s trouble you overmuch, Olórin,” she suggested as she bestowed a familial kiss to the seated Maia’s forehead. “These days, changes in Aman always come with excitability and exaggerated tales to please those who delight in gossip.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” he promised.  

The star queen solicitously patted the Istar’s shoulder, then moved to join the halflings, extending her hands to take one of each of theirs.  “As you wish to thank Nárënilda, Bilbo, we will begin with a visit to the kitchens, as you requested....”

II

Unsettling News

When the hobbits had gone through the appropriate door, with Varda telling them something of how they were supplied with provender, Manwë gestured to the five servants, dismissing them for the time being.  They bowed their acknowledgment before departing.  

The Vala then turned back to his herald.  “Now, would you please explain what you meant when you said that only 'some' are anxious to express their reactions?"

“Yes, that piques my curiosity as well,” Olórin said as he refilled his teacup, an attempt at nonchalance.

Eönwë sighed.  “I cannot say how serious this is, but I thought you should be told.  While most of the Eldar who witnessed your memories considered them remarkable and worthy of respect, a few have taken a strangely unexpected interpretation.”

The Istar was puzzled.  “About my confrontation with the Balrog or my death?”

“Neither, precisely.  It is not your death that is the issue, but rather what our Father said to you about it, that because you had been bound to the body of a Mortal Man, your fate after death was that of a Man.”

“But only after a fashion,” Olórin pointed out.

Eönwë nodded.  “Yes, I know that is what He said.  But some of the Elves have taken it to mean that what you experienced is what all Mortals experience.  They believe that from this evidence, the Gift of Men is to be taken directly into the presence of Eru Ilúvatar after death, without the risk of any true judgment for their crimes or misdeeds.”

Both brothers were shocked.  “But they know from their own lore that this is not so,” Manwë stated flatly.  “As their own fëar are called to Mandos upon the death of their bodies, so too are those of humankind; it is only after they have passed through Námo’s realm that they go on to their fate beyond the circles of the world.  Even we do not know precisely what that fate might be, though we do know that ultimately, it is indeed a gift.  I believe that some part of it is a chance for them to spend a time with our Father, free from the pains and travails of life in mortal flesh, but I do not know for certain.”

OlórinOlórin agreed.  "I went to the Timeless Halls — our home beyond Arda, not that of Men; there were none but Ainur there.  Surely they saw this in the memories I shared!”

“They did,” the herald confirmed.  “But how they chose to interpret it is another matter entirely.  While most of the Eldar felt honored to share your experience of your brief return to the Timeless Halls, some were angered by what they perceived as evidence that while Men were the Secondborn of Eru, they are His favored Children, and will become Ainur after death.”

“What evidence?” Manwë asked, as Olórin was too appalled to speak.

Eönwë toyed with the edge of his napkin, watching his fingertip as it traced over the raised embroidery designs. “Aside from the presence of only Ainur in that part of Olórin memory?"  He sighed.  "Though the Elves were born first and given the gift of immortality within Arda — as well as other great gifts of mind and body the other Children will never know — they are forever trapped here, while Arda as they know it endures.  When they die, their fëar go to the Halls of Waiting, and if they are not among those few whose transgressions and lack of remorse will keep them there until the End, they are reborn to a life still within the bounds of this world.  Mortals, on the other hand, pass through Mandos and are freed from the circles of the world.  They are not condemned to remain here.  Even if the notion that Men become Ainur after death is incorrect -- and I am certain that it is -- their fate is still to move beyond existence here, into some greater unknown.  The Elves cannot escape this world, or their fate within it.  Like us, they are doomed to remain here until the End — but theirs was not a freely made choice, as ours was.” 

He looked up into the other’s faces, meeting their eyes directly.  “If we, who have the freedom to shed our fanar and travel to places within Eä that they cannot go are beginning to chafe with boredom, how much more must this effect the Eldar, who are still confined to this one place, this one world?  To those with endless life, even the Blessed Realm is not so blessed, when each day is but a copy of the one before.  How long will it take before the comfortable boundaries of one's home become seen as the walls of one's prison?”

Only the sound of distant wind chimes and water softly splashing in the garden fountain disturbed the silence that fell upon the room.  At length, Olórin sighed.  “Well, this at least is not unexpected.  The Elven loremasters have long recognized that in time, immortality will become a burden and a great weariness, even for many of the Ainur.”

Manwë’s nod was heavy.  “But it surprises me that some are beginning to feel that weariness so soon.  I know in my heart that we are far from the Dagor Dagorath.”  He turned to Eönwë.  “Is this a common feeling among the Eldar?”

“It depends on how you define common,” the herald replied.  “There are certainly many Elves who feel somewhat bored with their day to day lives, but only a few feel that boredom so strongly that it chafes them and prompts them into jealousy toward Mortals.  It does not concern me that such feelings exist among them, but I fear they are beginning to nurture them into an unhealthy resentment, like Fëanor’s.  I have no wish to see their boredom broken by the madness of another war — whether it is against us, or against their own kin.”

All three agreed with that sentiment.  “Do you know the names of those who are most upset?” the Elder King asked.

“Most of them, at least among those who came to Valmar for Eruhantalë.  I imagine that there are others among those who did not come who will react in a similar fashion once they hear the news.”

“Then perhaps we should do something to defuse the situation before it becomes more widespread and volatile,” Olórin said thoughtfully.

Manwë considered the Maia’s expression, which clearly showed that his mind was already working on the problem.  “And what would you suggest, my brother?”

A strange hardness flickered in Eönwë’s eyes for a moment, but Olórin smiled.  “Nothing other than the obvious,” he replied.  “Though Father moved Aman so that it is no longer reachable by those upon Arda itself, it is not so small a land as it has become in the minds of many who live here — the Elves in particular.  When they think of Aman, they think only of those parts that they knew of before the One sundered it from Arda.  Yet we who fashioned and helped to nurture this world know that it is far greater than that.”

“Very true,” Manwë said reflectively.  “Those regions are actually a small part of the entire landmass of this continent, perhaps only a tenth of it.  When Eru removed Aman to this plane it now inhabits, some thought that only the inhabited areas and a portion of the environs beyond were included.  We know, of course, that what He moved was not an actual piece of the world — for the resulting cataclysm would have destroyed much of Arda.  The Elves would think of this world as a duplicate Arda, made so by Eru, with that part of it known as Aman fashioned in precisely the same way, so that once the move was accomplished, we would have the same hills and trees and creatures and climate as they knew before, along with all they and we have built.  Yet there would also be dangers that they did not know, since beyond the borders of Aman, this world was wholly new and only marginally habitable, because the move needed to be made too soon, thanks to Sauron's corruption of the Númenoreans.  Even the greatest of their loremasters and scientists do not comprehend the concept of the co-existence of dimensional planes, and that they would not of necessity be in identical stages of formation.”  He chuckled. “Sometimes, I think my own comprehension of it is very tenuous.”

“Which is why we have not attempted to explain any of this to the Children,” Eönwë reminded him.  “If some took poorly to what Olórin showed them of his memories yesterday because of their own fancies about the nature of Men, how do you think they will react if they are told that there is an entire world beyond Aman of which they know nothing?  One they cannot be permitted to enter, not yet?”

“Not well, I imagine,” the Vala conceded.  “If they believe that they have been slighted by the fact that they were created to an immortal life within Time, they are likely to blame us for concealing our greater knowledge of this world and view it as an attempt to keep them imprisoned.  This has already occurred to us, and we have been working on a way to allow them to eventually ‘find’ the truth on their own.  Truly, if it were not for the fact that since Aman was removed from the same physical plane as Endorë, much of the rest of this globe is not yet sufficiently habitable to allow for reasonably safe settlement by incarnates, we would have told them long ago.  At the moment, they would not comprehend the immense dangers.  But when those regions are adequately prepared — if not wholly tamed — we will allow them to discover these new lands on their own.  But that will not be for many years, even by the standards of an immortal.”

“Which I have always believed is a wise decision,” Olórin said with a nod.  “Although you might consider allowing the Elven kings and a few others to be privy to this information soon, so that they will know that this secret was kept for their own safety, not as an attempt to control and confine them.”

Eönwë also nodded.  “I agree.  There are several of their people who could be taken into one of the less hazardous regions so that they can see the dangers for themselves and reach their own conclusions as to the currently inhospitable nature of the land.  It would not take very long for them to realize that for now, the rest of this world is simply too harsh to be survivable, even for the mightiest of the Eldar.”

Manwë considered this for a moment or two.  “Yes, that may well be the wisest course to pursue.  I will take it up with the others very soon.  Yet even if they concur, it still will not solve our current potential problem.”

“That was not what I had in mind,” Olórin said.  He pushed himself away from the table and rose to pace toward the garden windows, his thoughts racing as he examined the possibilities that had presented themselves to him.  Still in a thoughtful mien, he paced back toward the table, but did not sit again.  “If the rather stagnant nature of their lives is a major contributing factor in those Elves who are beginning to view their immortality as a punishment or curse, then a possible solution is to end the stagnation.”

Eönwë snorted softly.  “The last time they tried to do that, it ended in war.”

“Only because we did not know how much the whisperings of Melkor had poisoned Fëanor’s mind and heart. We were familiar with strife and battle, having fought Melkor even before the Elves awakened, but we could not — did not want to imagine that any of the Firstborn would raise a weapon against their own kin, much less take the unthinkable step of actually killing them.”

Manwë’s sigh was heavy with remorse.  “For that, I take full blame.  Others warned me that Melkor was dangerous.  When Fëanor threatened Nolofinwë with death before their own father, it was plain that matters had already gone too far.  A weapon such as a sword is not meant for the hunting of game.”

Both Maiar were quick to contradict him.  “It is not,” Eönwë said first, “but it was not your fault that Fëanor was only too happy to learn its making from Melkor.  He may have been the greatest craftsman of the Elves, but Fëanor’s pride was the equal of Melkor’s, as was his folly.  None of the Valar were in any way to blame for his hypocrisy, cursing Melkor even as he eagerly learned from him the skills to slay his own kin, whose only wrong, if such it could be called, was to exist.”

Olórin stopped his pacing behind his empty chair.  “Last night, Manwë, you told me that Melkor was jealous of the Maiar, and in time all the other Ainur, because he felt our existence robbed him of our Father’s love.  You might say that he taught this evil attitude to Fëanor, but you would be wrong.  Fëanor’s jealousy was of his own making, and began long before you permitted Melkor his freedom.  Certainly, Melkor preyed upon his weakness — his jealous possessiveness toward his father — but it was already there to be exploited."

He shook his head.  "Indeed, if any are to blame for the sickness of mind and heart that claimed so many of that family, I would have to lay that guilt at the feet of Finwë.  He did nothing to teach Fëanor that it was not right for a son to love his father so much that he would not allow even a brother to express that same love; indeed, he helped foster such misguided thinking by failing to defend and support or even comfort his younger sons against the jealousy of his eldest.  If Finwë had been less besotted with his own firstborn and even a bit more attentive to the needs of the rest of his family, much of the tragedy of the First Age might never have come to pass.  You cannot take the blame for Melkor’s actions upon yourself.  You attempted to show him mercy when he had done naught to earn it, and the Noldor should have learned from your example.  Yet instead of rebuking him for threatening his brother's life, as a proper father ought to have done, Finwë chose to follow Fëanor into exile in Formenos, forcing Fingolfin to take up a crown he did not want.  If the Noldor became restless and unhappy in Finwë's absence and began to entertain notions of founding realms of their own because they had been abandoned by their rightful king, that is not your fault.”

“Olórin is right, my lord,” Eönwë said firmly.  “Those of us who love you know that you have bitterly regretted the evils that occurred after Melkor was released from his confinement in Mandos, but you are in no way responsible for his actions.  Evil marred Arda long before the Firstborn awakened, and it was made a part of the Music itself when Melkor chose to sing in discord.  You did not give him free will, and it was not your place to choose his paths.  You were given the responsibility of ruling Arda as its first king, but that never gave you the power — or the right — to dictate the choices each of us make.  You have dealt with what came of Melkor’s madness and Fëanor’s rebellion as well as any could have done.  It serves nothing to cling to a regret over something you could not have changed.”

Manwë remained still for what seemed a long moment; then he smiled, his blue eyes sparkling with pride.  “You are both wise, and generous,” he said, inclining his head to them in a gesture of respect and affection.  “I do know all these things — Varda and many of the other Valar have said as much, often enough — but I fear that in my heart, I will always wish things could have been different.  And I know you wish the same.”  

He took a deep breath, then released it in a soft sigh.  “So, Olórin, if you believe the way to rectify this resentment Eönwë has mentioned is to ease the growing boredom among the Elves, how do you suggest we go about it?”

The Istar took his seat again, but a kind of restless eagerness remained in his eyes.  “We of the Ainur may be familiar with the entire continent of Aman, but the Eldar are not.  It is time to allow them to expand beyond those regions with which they are familiar, and in which they may feel overly protected.  There is enough habitable space beyond the reaches of Valinor and Eldamar to occupy the need to explore and discover new things and places for those who are becoming restless, until it is safe to allow them to explore even further.”

The Vala leaned back in his chair as he considered this suggestion.  “And if they ask why we did not open these lands to them during the time of the Trees, when some of the younger Elves greatly wished to know the excitement and adventure of exploration, seeking for realms of their own, what do we tell them?”

Olórin spread his hands widely.  “The truth, of course.   Even the light of the Trees could not reach to all parts of this continent, just as it could not reach across the Sea to Endorë.  Melkor may not have spread his taint throughout all of Aman as deeply as he did through Middle-earth, but he lurked in parts of it that were not under the direct influence of the Valar before he fled again to the East, as did some of the Maiar who fell under the sway of his corruption. That darkness came with us into this new Arda, for his marring of the Music resonates throughout all of Ëa. Every Elf in Aman knows of Avathar, but few know that since the rising of the Sun and Moon, our people have worked very hard to cleanse those areas of evil, and it has been a long and difficult task.  Even now, they are not completely without dangers or hardships, but to those with courage and fortitude, they can be made habitable, just as those who went to Beleriand tamed that harsh and rugged land as best they could.  To those of the Eldar who are beginning to feel caged, it would offer a challenge that might be precisely what they need to dispel such restlessness.”

Manwë pondered this for a moment, then looked to Eönwë, one eyebrow arched.  “And do you agree with this as well?”

“Yes,” the herald said without hesitance.  “We have never deliberately kept the knowledge of Aman’s full breadth from the Eldar, and if they consult their own records, they will know it.  It is they who have forgotten, not we who have deliberately kept them in ignorance.  In the days of the Trees, it was common knowledge, and the simple fact that those who ventured into the shadowed regions never returned was enough to convince them that the dangers there were real, and should be avoided.”

The Vala acknowledged this.  “I know that Ingwë still remembers, and Arafinwë, but do any of the others?”

“Both Finrod and Galadriel already know the true extent of this continent,” Olórin answered readily, and with certainty.  When the others regarded him curiously, he explained.  “Avathar, of course, is common knowledge, but Finrod knew of the rest of it even before Fëanor’s revolt.  Oromë told him of it when he was but a child, full of questions.  He also knew that it would be a long time before any part of Aman beyond the light of the Trees was opened to them.  While Melkor remained free, he felt an unfamiliar land steeped in darkness was a terrible danger.  He had never been to Endorë, of course, but it was not a place unknown to the Eldar; indeed, their own kin still dwelt there beneath the stars.  Galadriel heard her brother's tales, and later learned more of it from Melian while she dwelt in Doriath, but by then, it was too late to go back, and she knew her destiny lay in Middle-earth.  There are others who still remember.  Turgon, Glorfindel, Fingon, Fingolfin — even Olwë and a number of the Teleri are aware that there are parts of this continent beyond the familiar bounds of Valinor and Eldamar.  Many others have forgotten, but a surprising number have not.  Even Círdan knows of it, from Ulmo and Ossë.”

Manwë smiled broadly.  “I have always felt that your fondness for the Eruhíni would prove to be a great asset to us, even if some of my brethren have considered it a peculiar aberration.”

The Elder King tipped his teacup, saw that it was empty, and tapped its edge. It promptly filled with a steaming, fragrant brew.  He took a sip, then continued.  “We have been discussing the matter of allowing the Eldar to extend their settlements for many years — since a short time after the sinking of Númenor, in fact.  At that time, we knew that it would take some years for the Elves to become accustomed to the change of the world, even though the actual physical upheavals settled rather quickly.  We also knew that the time would come when they would begin to feel confined, and rightly so.  Even though they were meant to live within the bounds of Arda, those bounds were never meant to be so narrowly defined.  The subject has come up more often now that the threat of Sauron is over and the time of Men in Endorë has begun.  We had actually intended to begin discussing the matter with the Elven leaders within a few years.  Perhaps it would be wise to do so even sooner.”

Eönwë’s nod was decisive.  “Definitely.  We know, of course, that a large group of Maiar have been at work in the outer regions of the continent for a very long time.  Most of those that I know personally felt that things were close to being ready over fifteen hundred years ago.”

Manwë nodded.  “Quite so, and we had just decided that it was time to bring the Elven kings into our counsels when Sauron’s wraith servants invaded Angmar and caused considerable fear among the Elves, as well as the Men they attacked.  Many Eldar fled West for safety, and the influx of refugees created significant instability in Eldamar. The repeated attacks upon both the realms of Men and Elves that followed convinced us that matters were growing more grave with each day, and allowing a major change in the lives of those who came here seeking stability and peace would be exceedingly unwise.”

“A sound decision,” Olórin opined.  “The Noldor in particular would have suffered, since Finarfin’s own granddaughter was one of those who sailed, in desperate need of healing.  This happened while I was in Middle-earth, but from what I have been told, he was greatly upset by Celebrían’s condition, as were all her close kin -- so much so that for a time, it took the combined efforts of the king, Finrod, and Queen Eärwen to adequately govern their people.”

Manwë confirmed it.  “That is true.  Even after Celebrían was healed, Arafinwë's house remained unsettled.  That she could have been so terribly wounded and abused said much about the state of affairs in Endorë, and their worry for their kin still in the East did not abate until Sauron was defeated.  Some, I believe, did not truly feel that the war was over and their loved ones were safe until your ship arrived.  Others are still waiting, I fear, but we cannot allow the good of Aman to suffer until those still in Endorë decide if they wish to come hither.  As soon as is feasible, I will bring this matter to the other Valar, and we will make a decision.”  

He favored the Istar with a mischievous smile.  “If I tell them of your convincing arguments in favor of beginning this process, then perhaps even Tulkas will understand why you were clearly meant to be my brother.”

“No!”  Eönwë’s sudden and unexpectedly forceful reaction startled his companions.  He winced at the looks of utter shock with which they both favored him.  “I beg your pardon,” he said most sincerely.  “I fear I was somewhat too... emphatic.”

“Indeed,” the Elder King agreed.  “To what are you objecting so strenuously?”

The herald ran one hand through his thick dark hair.  “That is difficult to say.  I brought up the matter of the Eldar first because I considered it easier to broach.  There are also some of our own people who did not react well to yesterday’s revelations.”

Olórin closed his eyes, his expression unreadable.  All traces of humor fled Manwë’s face and manner; he went still in a way that both Maiar knew meant that he was anything but still within.  “Who?” he asked so mildly, one who did not know him might think he was utterly disinterested in the answer.

Eönwë hesitated.  “I had hoped that I would not need to tell you of this, but I see now that I cannot avoid it.  I would not have known of this at all, but for the vagaries of chance.  During the celebration yesterday evening, I spent a time drifting among the various groups, unseen.  It was not my intent to spy or eavesdrop; I often do this because it allows me to spend a part of such feasts simply enjoying the happiness of others, without the formality and discomfort that too often follows when I am recognized as the Herald of Manwë.  I have never been as skilled at adopting the form of an Elf as you are, Olórin.  Even if they do not recognize me, the Children always know somehow that I am not one of them.”

The Istar understood.  He opened his eyes, which were tinged with sadness.  “I had the same problem at first.  It took a good deal of practice to hone the skill of passing among them unnoted and yet in fana as one of them.  I suspect you project a much more forceful and noteworthy aura than I.  It would make anonymity quite difficult.”

When Manwë said nothing but remained attentive, waiting, Eönwë continued.  “Perhaps I would have been happier if I had been incarnate.  Then I would not have heard things I now wish I had not.  Some of the Children I overheard expressing their displeasure about the fate of the Firstborn were discussing it with several Maiar. Emotions were running so high, even the Maiar did not notice my presence.”

Manwë nodded, his demeanor still deceptively serene.  “Extremes of emotion can have that effect among us.  I presume they were not overcome with joy.”

Eönwë grimaced.  “They were not.  The Elves were upset by what they felt Olórin’s memory of his time after death implied, and the Maiar were attempting to mollify them with their belief that what they had seen was... not real.  The one who was kindest called it a fabrication of a mind normally given to inspiration and invention thrown into chaos.  The others felt it was either an outright lie designed to increase his own importance, or a collusion between you, my lord, and Eru to reward Olórin in ways he had not earned, simply because he has always been your favorite.”

Olórin paled, but Manwë remained placid.  “And on what did they base this accusation?”

The herald demurred, unwilling to repeat things he found distasteful in the extreme.  “On their belief that Olórin would not have entered Eä to begin with had you not offered him a personal invitation.  I know as well as both of you that this was not a display of favoritism but simply encouragement.  Olórin certainly was not the only Maia who was unsure of his or her place in the host and needed some help in finding it.  If his memory was true, they felt he had used his time with Father to prejudice Him in his favor — which of course is not possible.  And they believe that the gift Father gave to him was made completely at your request, and in the fashion you desired: a unique circlet, to show that he was to be considered of higher rank than any other of the Maiar.”

The Istar remained silent, but his roiled emotions were plain on his face.  Manwë, on the other hand, maintained his serenity, but in a way that the Maiar knew meant that his anger was great and growing greater, as still air precedes a terrible storm.  After several moments had passed, the wind-lord nodded once.  “You need not tell me who said these things,” he stated quietly.  “I know well enough who would spread such venom.”

“As would I, had I not heard them speak myself,” Eönwë admitted, his tone rough with anger of his own.

Olórin swallowed to clear his throat, which had grown thick with the emotions eddying through him.  “You are speaking of some of our people who fought during the War of Wrath,” he said, very quietly.  Eönwë confirmed it with a nod, and the Istar closed his eyes for a moment against a brief stab of pain.  “They took what I said to Father about my role during the First Age to mean that I considered my tasks more difficult than theirs, and therefore more worthy of praise.”

“Or that you dismissed the role of the warrior as commonplace and insignificant,” the herald added, disliking the taste of the words on his tongue.

“Then they were not aware that I, too, was a part of that battle, though I fought against the unclad Maiar who sided with Melkor and not his physical armies.”

Eönwë sighed heavily.  “If they were, they have either forgotten, or have chosen to forget.  They are bitter, so afflicted with it that they have become blind.  I am not certain of all the causes for this, but one thing at least was clear to me: they all felt a great sense of injustice.  They felt that when they went forth to fight in the War, they did not return to a hero’s welcome, while you, who were sent merely to guide and teach, came back to the praise of all the Valar as well as our Father.  That you were often required to fight the servants of the Enemy hampered in ways they were not, and died in single combat with a Balrog apparently means nothing to them.”

Manwë’s voice was even, but the brightness of his eyes showed the fire flaring within, lightning searing through stormy skies.  “I see,” he said softly.  “Yes, I see very well indeed.  You need say no more, Eönwë.  I believe I understand what has happened, and what needs to be done.”  He rose from his chair, his every movement filled with purpose. 

Eönwë opened his mouth then closed it again, uncertain; he glanced between his lord and Olórin, then made up his mind.  “It pains me to say it, but I do not know that anything should be done, my lord.”  He made a great effort to keep his tone neutral when the Vala’s brilliant gaze turned to him.  “I am not advocating injustice, I assure you.  It has been difficult for me to refrain from going after each of these ingrates and beating sense into them with my sword — or worse.  But if you react in anger now, they will blame Olórin first, insisting that this is just another example of your favoritism.  And then, they will turn on you, and hold this up as proof that you have lost the perspective and objectivity a king must have to be a properly just ruler.  I am not concerned about what our people might think of this, for in the end, they know that you were made king of Arda by Eru Himself, and though they may not like His decision, they have no right to question it.  It is the potential reaction of the Eldar that concern me.  As things stand now, if some of our own people begin to murmur against your rule, it is all too likely to stir up the kinds of animosity and restless resentment that led to the revolt of Fëanor.”

A frown furrowed Olórin’s brow.  “Then does it not follow that we need to begin some kind of process which will allow that restlessness to be channeled into more productive pursuits?”

“Yes, of course.  But if Manwë declares to all and sundry that you were somehow instrumental in his decision to act now....”

The Istar’s frown faded, and though it did not entirely disappear, it turned to one of deep thought rather than dismay.  “It could have unexpectedly unpleasant results, fostering and appearing to support notions that the Elder King has discarded an impartial rule as the regent of Eru Ilúvatar for one of favoritism toward not only his own kind, but to only certain of his subjects — his direct kin, in particular.  Among the Eruhíni, this is generally one of the first outward signs of corruption in any kind of politics, and in hindsight, it might easily reinforce the still lingering suspicion that his initial lenience toward Melkor was prompted solely by the fact that they were brothers.  Yes, I can see how this might be a concern.”

Manwë’s expression hardened, to one of stern implacability.  “What is of greater concern to me is that any of our people can harbor such unfounded resentment toward one of our own who has done nothing to earn such treatment,” he stated bluntly.  “Whatever they might think of my decisions concerning Melkor has no bearing on such negative attitudes toward you.  You have done nothing wrong — and you have always been my brother, Olórin, whether or not we ourselves knew it to be so.  This is how our Father created us, and it is not a matter for the approval of others.  Now that it has been fully revealed, I cannot even seem to pretend to dismiss it.”

His steely glance returned to Eönwë, softening.  “I appreciate your concern for my reputation, my son.  I very much understand your desire to protect both myself and Olórin from unfounded accusations of prejudice and treachery.  But if I turn a blind eye to such calumny to protect the image of my kingship, then I do not deserve to be king.  Whether or not others care for what resulted, all Olórin has done was to perform unexpectedly well under what none of us knew would be impossibly trying circumstances.  I cannot stand idly by and allow the gossip of small minds to continue to fester and spread, unanswered.  If I did, I would be no better than Finwë.  His silence said far too much; it was proof that he loved Fëanor in his blatant wrongdoing even more than he valued the life of Nolofinwë, and thus twisted that love into an instrument for the use of evil.  The Elves would see this similarity, and consider my inaction an endorsement of the lies and gossip.  Even if it angers those who will not believe the truth, I must act, and act swiftly.  It is better to be accused of favoritism than to allow this malice to grow, unhindered.  Justice delayed is justice denied.”

“But you must move carefully,” Olórin said, winning a surprised look from the Vala.  He smiled wryly.  “I agree with what you have said, but I also know what Eönwë is trying very hard not to say, so let us go directly to the point: He is afraid that our own people will view any swift action you might make in my defense as a repetition of the mistake you once made with Aránayel.  Even you have admitted that you did not sentence her in a manner that befit her crime, that you overreacted because of your haste and your lack of experience with behavior such as hers.  Moreover, because you acted too quickly and allowed your affection for me to cloud your judgment, you failed to see what would have been the best punishment, one that would have guided her in a way to gently and effectively correct her flawed attitudes and not unintentionally feed her bitterness and resentment.  I cannot believe that any of us want a repetition of that mistake.  This situation must be considered carefully, so that the response can be properly weighed and implemented — as quickly as is possible, of course.”

Eönwë had been holding his breath, and now released it in an immense sigh of relief.  “Yes,” he said, nodding vigorously.  “That is precisely what I feared.  I would not see that happen again, if I could prevent it by speaking up now.”

Manwë did not respond for several moments, nor did his expression change.  Then, slowly, the last remains of hardness melted into a smile.  “Both of you are right,” he said, “and I thank you for your counsel, as well as your loyalty.  But I assure you, I have learned from my past mistakes, and I have kept that clearly in mind.  What you have reported, Eönwë, is not a case of naive misunderstanding or romantic rejection.  This disquiet comes of a deliberate and willful refusal to acknowledge both proven truths and my authority, as well as that of Eru Ilúvatar Himself.  It is imperative that it be dealt with before it spreads and poisons not only the peace of Aman, but the minds and hearts of both our people and the Children.”

He moved away from the table and toward the wall of windows.  He stopped in a pool of multi-colored light that streamed through the tinted panes, watching the reflections of sunshine twinkle like stars on the dancing waters of the garden fountain.  For a time, he was silent, clearly deep in reflection; when he turned back towards the waiting Maiar, there was another kind of twinkle in his eyes.  “I fully agree that this situation must be handled with care, and I believe I know just the way to begin going about it.”

Next: 

Brothers Abroad

III

Brothers Abroad

During the three major times of festival in Aman — Erukyermë in spring, Erulaitalë at midsummer, and Eruhantalë in autumn, names that had been used in Númenor during the years of their friendship with the Elves, and which were now used in memory of Elros, son of Eärendil — it was common for those who travelled to Valmar to remain in the vicinity for several weeks, so long as the weather remained favorable.  Because of the throngs who came, it was also common for the three Elven kings to hold special courts, for the benefit of both those who otherwise might have to journey long distances to speak with their rulers.  Although the Valar and their servants occasionally came to witness the proceedings beyond the walls of their city, more often than not, they left the Elves to themselves, or watched unseen.  From time to time, Manwë used this opportunity to hold court among the Ainur, to deal with any matters that might have arisen that would be best handled outside the presence of the Children.  

From the moment he had first become aware of their Father's message for him, the Elder King had known there might be a need for it to be discussed in such a way.  Having heard Eönwë's reports, he was now certain such a gathering was necessary.  In the early days of Arda — before the wakening of the Children, as when the incident between Olórin and Aránayel had occurred — he would have reacted more swiftly, as his herald had feared.  Strangely, however, it had been the coming of the Eruhíni and their ways — which to the deathless Ainur seemed astonishingly hasty, even those of the slow-paced Onodrim — that had taught Manwë the wisdom of slowing his reactions so that all their repercussions could be best understood.  In his command that Olórin join the Istari, he had thought he had considered all the possible ramifications; his overpowering desire to avoid failure had blinded him to the truth of what might result.  He had closed his ears to the counsel of the other Valar, and in doing so had closed his mind.

No more.  This time, he would do his best to see justice done, properly, and he knew that seeking advice from others would be needed.  So, even as he asked Eönwë to act as his herald and give word to the other Maiar that a full court of the Ainur would be held in Ilmarin two days hence, he himself asked the other Valar to join him there late that evening, so the matter could be discussed beforehand.

A short time later, after he had spoken with his fellow Valar, the Elder King met with Olórin in his brother's new chambers on the upper floor, and told him that he wished for the Maia to attend that night's meeting.  The Istar was reluctant to comply.  "I fear that it would be misconstrued," he explained.  "If any of the other Maiar were to hear that I had been invited to a private council of the Valar, it could very well feed the bitterness Eönwë mentioned."

He was startled by the feral gleam in the wind-lord's eyes, and his matching smile.  "I suspect it will — in fact, I hope it will.  I do not mean to use you in an unpleasant fashion, and there are other sound reasons why I would like for you to attend, but experience has taught me that often, the most effective way to encourage those of crooked intent to expose themselves is to make them believe that the events they fear most are indeed about to happen.  Eönwë did not mention it, but I believe that some of the other Maiar are afraid that you are about to be raised into the ranks of the Valar.  That may well be where the Eldar got the notion of the Secondborn becoming Ainur after death -- or perhaps vice versa."

Olórin was so shocked, he could not speak.  Manwë laughed gently, his smile softening as he settled one hand on the Maia's shoulder.  "That will not happen, I assure you.  You are what our Father made you to be, and what you are and ever will be is a Maia.  Moreover, Melkor was never truly counted among the ruling powers of Eä.  He wished to be the sole ruler, and never cooperated with the rest of us in any way.  There is no need to 'replace' him, as some might think.  Were that necessary, the One would have seen to it, long ago.  But why else would any of our people be upset over the fact that you and I are considered brothers in our Father's thought?"

The Maia pondered the question for several long moments; as he did so, the horror in his expression drained away.  "I can think of one or two other possibilities, but they are only variations of the same general idea.  To some who do not know all the facts, it could easily appear that I have been rewarded more than would seem fair, but for your influence and favor."

"Or to those who are too self-involved to see the true merit of others," Manwë said, rather grimly.  "If it will distress you to attend, I will understand and say no more of it."

Olórin pondered the matter, his gaze focused on the images in the domed ceiling above them.  At length, he sighed.  "Your point is well made.  I generally have little taste for subterfuge, but I certainly learned ways to use subtle manipulation during my time in Middle-earth, in ways that avoided outright lies.  With the obstinate or rigidly opinionated, if can be the only way to make them see reason.  If it will help bring this situation to a swift and favorable resolution, then I will of course cooperate.  You were in earnest when you said there are other good reasons for me to be there?"

"There are," Manwë promised.  "You are part of this matter, and as such should be a part of all counsels concerning it.  However we proceed, it will be with your approval, as well as mine."

The Maia accepted that assurance with a grateful smile.  "Thank you.  Some would no doubt interpret your consideration as another example of bias, but I know that is not so.  If Lady Varda intends to give Frodo and Bilbo a complete tour of the mansion, they will not be finished for several hours, will they?"

The Vala's eyes unfocused for a moment, then cleared.  He smiled.  "Yes, she thinks they will not be done until mid-afternoon.  The little ones are both thoroughly fascinated, and Nárënilda offered to serve them luncheon on the upper terrace overlooking the songbird garden."

"A beautiful site," Olórin agreed.  "Are they upset that we have not joined them?"

Manwë shook his head.  "Varda told them that Eönwë had other important news that required our attention, though she mentioned no specifics.  They are sorry that we could not come, but they are so enjoying her company, I doubt they will much notice our absence.  Varda has grown quite fond of them, and the Eruhíni are often astonished and delighted by her charming nature.  It is a side of her they seldom experience directly."

"I have experienced it often enough, and even so, it still delights me.  I must remember to thank her for her graciousness."

"If she will accept it.  She does this as much for her own pleasure as for theirs."

Olórin could see the truth of that.  He acknowledged it with a brief nod.  "Then if we have some time to spare before we must join them, I think I could best use it in seeking Father's guidance, if He will offer it.  I still fear that more harm than good may come of this, if we are not careful.  It puzzles me that He chose to reveal this now."

Manwë snorted, very softly.  "Given how many already knew or suspected, it can scarcely be called a revelation.  But I had also thought to ask His guidance."

Something in his tone struck the Maia as a bell is softly struck, gaining his attention.  He turned his gaze to the wind-lord, then understood.  "Perhaps we should do so together," he ventured, knowing as he spoke the words that it was more than a mere hunch.  "I cannot help but believe that there was a reason Father chose this moment to return my full memory of my death, and my return to Him.  He revealed the truth of our relationship now rather than in the days before Time, and in my heart, I feel that He wishes us to seek His guidance in this, together."

The Elder King smiled.  "I felt this as well, but it would seem I was not so strongly convinced that it was more than a desire of my heart.  We shall do so, then — but not here, I think.  This part of the mansion is private, but there are too many with permission to come here to guarantee that we would not be interrupted."

"If you commanded those with permission to stay away, they would doubtless obey," Olórin noted, his eyes glinting.  "And perhaps this could provide more bait for the malcontents, if it became known that we were cloistered together for a time, and you had ordered that we not be interrupted, in your own house."

Manwë's sapphire eyes widened briefly; then he laughed.  "However our Father may see us in His thought, you will forever be a source of the unexpected to me.  One moment, you resist being part of a private meeting, and now, you are coming up with new ways to expand on my design!"

Olórin grinned mischievously.  "And should a younger brother not learn from the elder?" he asked ingenuously.

"That is often the case — which means I should now take greater care to set a better example.  And I am all the more grateful that Melkor is no longer among us.  Your idea has merit, and I will give orders that we are not to be disturbed.  But I would still prefer to go elsewhere, for my own peace of mind."

The Maia agreed.  "I generally prefer solitude when I am troubled and wish to commune with the One.  It can be so difficult to sense anything beyond the veil of Eä...." 

As he spoke, he unconsciously reached up to touch the crystal circlet; the sensation of its bright smoothness under his fingertips kindled another kind of illumination to his thoughts.  "Is there a place where you go when you seek Father's guidance?  Some place that you would wish to reveal to me, that is.  I know that some things should remain private, even among kin."

Manwë dipped his head briefly, a gesture of gracious acknowledgment.  "Very perceptive.  At times, we fool ourselves into the belief that because we lack the physical requirements of the Eruhíni, we do not share their emotional needs.  Yet among us, privacy can be even more precious because there are often so few other barriers between us."

"Then you need say no more; your private place shall remain yours alone.  My favored spot is not known to many — it is little frequented by any inhabitant of Aman, but I would gladly share it with you.  We will not be disturbed there."

The Vala smiled, his blue eyes sparkling like sunlight on deep water.  "You are generous, my brother -— but I have always known that.  Even before we knew that such a thing as physicality could exist, you gave your joy of being to any who came near you.  If it would please you to share this with me, then I will be pleased to accept."

Olórin returned the smile.  "I am.  And I think you will find this... interesting."

*********

The site to which Olórin took them was far to the south of Valmar.  It was among the lesser peaks of the southern Pelóri, well south of Hyarmentir, so far removed from the commonly inhabited regions of Valinor that even from its considerable height, Taniquetil appeared as a distant flickering beacon, low in the northern skies.  From the crest of the ridge upon which they stood, sharp rocky cliffs fell to the sea on the east, while steep and lushly wooded slopes and deep valleys rolled away to a broad plain on the west.  The air here was warmer, moist and redolent with the scent of growing things, the green of forest and plain intense, suggesting a more tropical clime in the plains below, though the air upon the ridge was refreshing.  A thicket of mixed trees swayed in the soft winds; in their shade, a spring-fed pool murmured pleasantly.  A stream from the pool meandered away between mossy rocks and clinging shrubs until it found an edge of the crest and cascaded down the western face in a small but lovely waterfall.  It crashed and sparkled against the mountainside, eventually disappearing into the abundant trees that were nourished by its waters.

Manwë took in the beauty of the place with a single sweeping glance, his non-physical senses telling him of more than the things incarnate senses could detect.  "I know this place," he said.  "And yet, it seems strange.  This was once called Avathar, very near the place where Ungoliant made her lair, but nothing of her darkness or evil remains."

Olórin confirmed it with a nod.  "Only by the virtue of long years of work.  I'm certain you remember how Oromë and his people scoured this region after the Trees were poisoned, to cleanse the land of Ungoliant's taint."

"Yes, I recall his reports, as well as those of the other Valar whose people also aided in that work.  Even after the sun and moon were set in their final courses, they feared that this place might never fully recover, for Melkor had also hidden here, and he had done much to deliberately foul and blight what he touched.   I have often wished that the One had not allowed that darkness to follow us into this new Arda."

"True," the Maia agreed.  "I was in Oromë's realm when that report was given, assisting a group of reborn Avari who had accepted his invitation to dwell in his forests.  His Maiar spoke of little else, as their lack of total success frustrated them.  One evening after Oromë returned from the council, I was present when he and his hunters were discussing that frustration.  It seemed to me that they had truly done all they could, and that the final restoration of this region might be something best done by those whose skills lay more strongly in the arts of healing.  They were intrigued by the notion, and Lord Oromë asked if I would be willing to speak with Irmo and Estë and Nienna, to see if they would be willing to complete the task.  He and his people were already preparing for the war with Melkor that was soon to come, and since it had been my idea, it seemed only fitting that I should be the messenger."

The soft sound Manwë made was one of sudden recognition.  "I remember when he asked if you might take on the task.  You had been so busy working in Endorë, giving encouragement and hope to the Eruhíni, I was surprised to hear that you were again among us."

Olórin smiled.  "You weren't the only one to have that reaction.  I took great care to make my comings and goings subtle, so that few would know for certain whether I was in Aman or Endorë.  But both Irmo and Nienna were most insistent that I return from time to time, to rest and renew my strength.  Helping the reborn was a joy after witnessing so much sorrow and suffering in Middle-earth.  And they were right to insist, even though I was your servant.  You were far too occupied with greater matters, and I knew that you would approve.  Had I not rested even briefly, I would have been of little use in the war — and even I recognized that war with Melkor was inevitable."

Manwë returned the smile.  "They were wise, and I'm glad you heeded them. I also recall that you asked to participate in this part of the cleansing and restoration, to which I agreed.  But Eärendil arrived soon after, and many projects were forgotten during the war."

"Forgotten, but only temporarily.  Those of us who had planned this project remembered, and always had it in mind to return to it, once Melkor was defeated.  After seeing the damage done to Endorë by all of our enemies, it was a balm to our spirits to be able to heal the place that Ungoliant had so fouled.  But it did not come about easily.  Some hurts take a very long time to heal, and this particular poison was tenacious — so much so, it seems, that Lord Eru allowed it to exist in this new version of Arda.  But perhaps He did that to allow us the satisfaction of completing what we had begun.  Each of us would come here for a while, do what we could, then let the next take up the task, over and over until it was finished.  Because we each had unique gifts, we all worked upon different aspects of the task, and by doing it in a cyclical fashion, we were able to achieve a more thorough cleansing."

"That you did," the wind-lord agreed.  "But I cannot recall being told that the work was completed."

The Maia's smile turned wistful.  "That, I fear, is your own fault."

Manwë's sapphire eyes widened.  "My fault?" he said, incredulous.

Olórin nodded serenely.  "I had just returned from our final assessment of the work and was intending to give you that report when I found you already in council, discussing the proposed mission of the Istari.  After you called me forward and commanded me to go as your messenger, I quite forgot about other matters.  I would have expected one of the others to tell you while I was gone, but they seemed to look to me as the leader of the project, since I had initially suggested it.  As no one yet dwelt in this part of Aman, I suppose they saw no need to bring it up during my absence."

"Or they felt that usurping your prerogative was tantamount to confessing their belief that you would be defeated by Sauron and would not return from your new mission." The Vala continued his appreciative study of the region with all his senses; a satisfied smile spread across his face.  "Yes, that is quite likely what happened.  The other Valar and I discussed the empty lands in general terms in our recent councils concerning the Eldar, but very few specifics were mentioned.  In retrospect, I believe Oromë thought that you or one of the others had delivered the report to me, long ago.  It would explain certain things I perceived in his behavior from time to time — odd confusion, mostly."

He laid one hand on the Maia's shoulder, squeezing gently in a gesture of approval.  "I am very pleased with what you and the others who took part in this cleansing accomplished.  The Eruhíni sadly underestimate the Maiar, I fear.  They see the things we Valar do that are of immense power and scale — and they fail to see that the more subtle things wrought by the Maiar are equally necessary, refinements that are merely less obvious and demanding a different kind of power."

Olórin's gaze shifted to the Vala, his expression mingling curiosity and amusement.  "Have you always felt this way about the Maiar, or is this a recent reevaluation brought on by news of our kinship?"

Manwë laughed merrily.  "I have felt this way from the beginning, I promise you.  The first Maia I met was Eönwë, and from the first, I was struck by the quiet beauty and power of what he was.  I saw it in all the others as well, and the immense variety of skills and talents displayed in the Maiar has always been a source of great delight to me.  It saddens me when others do not see this, or dismiss it because they do not perceive the importance of such abilities.  Without the Maiar to help refine our works, they would lack some of their most enriching depth and detail.  To fashion the substance of a world to bring about its abundance of metals and minerals is a tremendous achievement, but it is the skill of the gem cutter that reveals the full beauty of jewels."

The Istar arched one pale brow.  "Are you saying that it was a Maia who taught Aulë how to make jewels?"

The white-maned head shook slightly.  "No, but it was Maiar who became fascinated with the process and found ways to improve upon it.  Aulë was too busy with his own larger tasks and did not have the time to spare for such subtleties, but several of his Maiar were intrigued by the chemical processes that could result in variations to the properties of the stones.  They devised ways of encouraging them in harmony with the Music and the manner in which Eru gave it physical existence, enhancing the original designs to result in many more varieties of gemstone than Aulë himself had initially imagined.  Those who say that the Maiar were created only to be our servants cannot see their subtle purpose and influence in the world.  One might say that the Valar gave shape to Arda, but the Maiar gave it color and fragrance."

Olórin's eyes widened slightly, in pleasant surprise.  "That is an interesting analogy — and given how often those things have been linked to us, very appropriate.  You should mention it more often, especially in the hearing of the Eruhíni.  It might improve their understanding of our kind, though some will no doubt take it too literally."

Manwë's gentle laugh was like the merry sound of a welcome breeze on a hot summer day.  "Some, but not all.  Our hobbit guests already understand this, and I believe they would even if they had not known of Lord Eru's whimsey in their creation.  Although I suspect they might couch it in more culinary terms, saying perhaps that while it is the heavy work of the farmer to raise the crops, it is the skill and imagination of the cook in the kitchen who brings out the best in them."

The Maia's laughter was hearty.  "Yes, that would be their nature, to think along those lines!"  He continued to give free rein to his mirth for a few moments more, then tempered it to a smile.  "And having thought of them, I am reminded that Varda will not keep them diverted indefinitely."

Manwë agreed.  "Yes, we should settle down to our reason for coming here.  I suspect you have something more specific than simple meditation in mind."

As Olórin nodded, he reached up with both hands to carefully remove the circlet from his wind-tousled head.  It shimmered with a light of its own as he held it, reverently, mesmerized by the beauty that could be sensed by more than physical eyes.  "If I had been more attentive and less consumed by my own troubles, from the first I would have known that this gift was unique in ways far beyond even such wonders as the silmarils.  While we can create things from substances of Eä, it is only such things that we can refashion without harm that can easily be carried with us when we travel without fanar.  I have no idea how this was made, nor what substance it is made of, yet it has always remained with me, though I cannot refashion it.  I can sense that it is with me, even when I am disincarnate — but how that can be, I do not know.  There is indeed much more to it than meets the eye, and given what Father said of it in my memories — which I feel were not fully restored now as a mere coincidence! — I believe it will aid us in seeking His guidance."

He held the circlet upon his open palms, raising it in a gesture that invited Manwë to touch it.  The Vala did so without hesitation, but with delicate respect.  "I thought from the first that Eru meant this to be more than a simple signet of honor, but I was suffering from my own selfish distractions, at the time."  He closed his eyes as he attempted to concentrate more deeply upon the item in question.  

Presently, he released a deep sigh.  "This is truly wondrous.  I can sense that it resonates with the love of the One, yet I cannot perceive how it does so."  He opened his eyes, which crinkled at corners in the faintest of frowns.  "Nor can I feel the direct connection to Him that you are able to feel."

"That may be because it was made for me alone.  Nonetheless, I feel in my heart that it is an essential part of what we must do now."  The Maia studied the glimmering circlet with more than an intense gaze.  "Perhaps...."  His eyes shone brightly in a reflection off the crystal, the intense blue of a flame's heart; then suddenly, both he and the circlet vanished.

But Manwë's vision was not only the keenest in Eä, it was also that of an Ainu.  He saw that Olórin had not departed, but had merely shed his fana and assumed his natural form.  Although his raiment had dissolved into its own most essential state, the circlet was somehow still present, in the form of a kind of energy that was separate from his own, and yet linked to it.  That perception intrigued him, and the Vala shed his own fana to study it without the interference of corporeality.

This is most unusual, he said to the Maia in their native speech.  It has lost the shape of the crystal, but the energy that remains is not that of any of the substances of Eä.  It resonates to the Flame Imperishable, but does not live as such — yet it is alive in its own fashion, for it is not merely energy that is held captive in a matrix, like the silmarils  Have you perceived this?

Only recently, Olórin admitted.  I was told that it would draw to it the power of the Secret Fire to heal me, but as that healing progressed, that aspect of it diminished, yet its overall energy did not.  Indeed, there are times I can feel it grow stronger, and I have begun to entertain notions of why this might be so.  If I may be so bold as to lead you in this, I think I may have discovered how Father wishes for us to use this now.

Manwë acquiesced without even a trace of hesitation.  Lead on, brother, he replied.  

A ripple of pleasure emanated from the Maia, his joy in the easily spoken reminder of their relationship.  Keeping the energy that was the circlet between them, he began to rise into the skies above the ridge; Manwë followed.  Swiftly they soared ever higher, until they were at the uttermost edge of the airs of Arda.  Even the highest peak of Taniquetil was now far below them, and only the thin traces of the outer atmosphere provided any connection to the physical world.  Here, away from the presence of other beings, where not even the mightiest of birds flew nor any of the Ainur dwelt, it was as if the veil between the worlds of spirit and substance had also grown thin.  Above them, the stars were visible through the last wisps of air, while below them, the globe of their second Arda shone blue and white and green in the midday light of Anor.  In this place between Arda and the void beyond, there were none of the distractions that abounded amid the teeming life of the world below.

Olórin focused his attention upon the energy that was the circlet, allowing all his thought to be drawn into the circle of its power.  Manwë did the same, and was startled by the unexpected sensation of being drawn into the depths of a strangely benign vortex.  It was not the strength of water or wind that enveloped them and pulled them forward, but rather a tremendous rush of emotion so powerful, it could not be denied.  Recognizing its benevolence, both Maia and Vala surrendered to it.  They did not move from where they were, but it seemed as if the power of the circlet grew until it was all about them, enveloping them in a great bubble of complete peace and love.

Overwhelmed by the experience and the joy of their current state, they remained still and silent until they felt the warmth of Another smiling upon them.  Although they had not moved beyond the bounds of Eä, they sensed that they were in a state in which they could perceive what lay beyond as if they were gazing through clear glass.  "Welcome, my children," a familiar Voice said, each utterance a greeting that was in itself a loving embrace.  "I am delighted to see that you have found this path at last."

It was Olórin who answered first.  "As am I — although I think we could not have found it sooner, Father.  You meant for me to be healed from my hurts of the past age before Your gift could be used in this fashion, didn't You?"

The soft laughter that came in response was of simple delight, not mockery.  "Indeed I did, for your well-being was of greater importance to me.  Until then, all that came to light yesterday could have waited until a later time to be revealed."

Manwë did not question that statement, though it raised its own questions.  "Yet it seems to have become a matter of importance so quickly, I wonder if it would have waited much longer."

He felt the kind smile of the One as warmth that was not physical.  "Perhaps not, but that which this touches upon the most would have waited, nonetheless.  The reactions of the Maiar which Eönwë reported to you have their roots in feelings that they have allowed to fester for more than the few years since Olórin's return from Endorë.  Some have their beginnings in the time before Time."

Neither Ainu was wholly surprised by this revelation, although Olórin was somewhat more aware of it than Manwë.  "I have often suspected as much," he admitted.  "There are a handful of Maiar who have always seemed to grow cold in my presence, and it was not until long after Arda was fully established that I began to understand that they resented me for reasons I could not comprehend.  Were they aware of the kinship between us?"

"No," was the firm reply.  "But some were aware from the beginning that there was mutual affection between you and Manwë, and they allowed their envy to become bitter jealousy.  Too many, I fear, did so because they themselves admired Melkor, and began to emulate him in ways they did not understand would prove harmful to themselves.  His initial jealousy toward the Maiar prompted him to at first reject those who attempted to draw closer to him, until he realized that he could use that attraction to bind them into his service.  I believe you are acquainted with at least one who was injured by his jealous contempt."

"Aránayel," Olórin said without hesitation.  "She admitted that she was jealous of me because I had been accepted by Manwë where she had been rejected by his brother, whom she had once admired."

"But that matter was resolved years ago," the Vala pointed out.  "Surely she has not relapsed into her old ways so quickly...."

There was reassurance in the One's reply.  "She has not, for she took the lessons of the past to heart.  But others have not learned so well, and they are the ones who need to be given an opportunity to reevaluate their attitudes.  That is an issue which needs resolution, for there are many ancient wounds among your people in Eä which require healing.  I did not think that you would object to being a part of that healing, either of you, for you have both ever sought to mend the marring of the Music."

Both Ainur agreed.  "I wish that it need not have been the result of what I remembered at last in the Reckoning," Olórin sighed, a sound which Manwë echoed.

They both felt the compassion of their maker sweep through their spirits, easing the hurt.  "As do I.  Indeed, I would have preferred that there be no unpleasant repercussions to what should have been a joyful discovery.  But I gave all of you the gift of free will, and it did not come with the gift of all wisdom.  Those who have been slow to learn to be wise tend to slip into folly, and the resentment toward what came to light yesterday is indeed folly.  I have always held the two of you to be brothers, in heart and spirit if not in rank or power.  I made it so when I fashioned you in my thought, Olórin, though I did not reveal it to you in the beginning because I knew already that Melkor would use it as an excuse to do you harm.  But did the lack of full understanding in any way diminish the love in your heart?"

"No," the Maia admitted.  "I would have liked to be certain that what I felt was not mere wishful thinking, but the delay in arriving at that knowledge does not change the reality of it, nor its depth.  And I certainly do not regret the protection that ignorance afforded me!  For I know beyond question that if it had been known from the beginning that I was Manwë's brother, others besides Melkor would have considered me an enemy or a rival, and acted accordingly."

Manwë agreed.  "Which is why I cannot regret overmuch the delay in confirmation.   There is so much good that you have done since our beginnings that would have been even more difficult — if not impossible — had our elder brother and all who followed him been set against you as my kin.  Even those who are merely afflicted with unresolved envy would have presented far more problems."  He turned his focus to the One.  "What puzzles me is why You made this choice at all, Father.  Would it not have sufficed if we had remained brothers in heart alone?"

There was an certain wry ingenuousness to the response.  "Ah, but would either of you have acknowledged such a connection, openly?  Or would it have remained hidden in your hearts until the End?  Even the troubles with Aránayel did not bring it into the open."

"And it should have," the Vala acknowledged.  He sighed deeply.  "Perhaps neither of us understood the nature of our affection, but if its existence had at least been admitted from the first, I could not have acted so precipitously in my first punishment of Aránayel, ages ago."  His tone became both wry and remorseful.  "Varda would not have permitted it even if I had considered it, and a good deal of suffering might have been prevented.  But after so long a time of habitually avoiding the truth, I fear that I did indeed require such a public revelation to push me into admitting what my heart had known for all the ages of the world."

He was about to address Olórin when the Maia forestalled him.  "There is no need to apologize, brother," he said, correctly perceiving what the Vala had been about to say.  "I know that your denial had nothing to do with me, or rather it was not because of me, or because you would have been shamed by such an admission.  If that had been so, you would be shamed by it now, and you are not.  If Father did not think it wise for us to know the entire truth sooner, then we could not have known — and even if I had known for certain, I don't think I would have spoken of it to anyone.  You are right when you say that it would have hindered much of what I needed to do, and also much of what was needed of you.  We have already discussed this, and I am content to let it go."  

He turned again to the One.  "So, Manwë and I are brothers, as You created us.  I know You cannot tell us what to do about those who do not care for this news without suborning the freedom of our own wills, but I still feel that You wished for us to seek Your guidance now — and that Your gift to me is somehow a part of it." 

The glow of their Maker's smile was both calming and joyous.  "Indeed.  I knew that when you began to perceive more of the true nature of my gift, it would be time for us to speak again.  There are puzzles and contradictions that vex you, are there not?"

"For both of us," Manwë said in complete honesty.  "My tasks in the formation of Arda concerned much more of the basic substances and functions of the natural laws that would govern its very being, yet Olórin noticed before I that his circlet was not a mere construct of crystalline forms."

"No doubt because he has lived with it upon his person for nigh onto all of five years," Eru allowed most graciously.

"No doubt," the Vala agreed, accepting that observation with good humor.  "Yet it remains a puzzle.  Clearly, it is not mere crystal or any other gemstone, as it appears to be.  Nor is it a repository for another scientifically discernible energy, such as light.  You told Olórin that it was fashioned to draw to it the power of the Secret Fire — of the Flame Imperishable, the spark of Life itself — to heal him.  But if there existed a substance capable of doing so, Melkor surely would have discovered it, and used it to give life to his own creations.  Yet we know he failed in that ambition.  What is this?"  Manwë's puzzlement was genuine, as was his desire to understand what he could not perceive on his own.

The softness that touched the One's smile was that of a parent sympathetic to the frustration of a child attempting to learn something that persisted in eluding him.  "Something ordinarily less tangible than light, but no less real.  It is a manifest form of that which Olórin gave to me, returned to him in a manner that would resonate with what I gave to him long ago, so that he might better perceive that connection which is ever between us.  What it is is that which Melkor never grasped, what is the essence of the Flame Imperishable.  He could not find it for all his searching because he failed to see that it resided within him — the first gift I give to all my children."

The light of comprehension dawned on both Ainur in the same moment, although Olórin spoke a fraction of a second sooner.  "Your love," he whispered, awed by the mere concept that what he had been given was his own love of their Father made tangible by Eru's love for him.  He could say no more, so overwhelmed was he by the magnitude of the gift.

Manwë was no less impressed, but as it did not touch upon him so directly, he was able to remain somewhat more detached.  "It is a magnificent gift, Father, and one that Melkor could never have understood, not after he allowed false pride and jealousy to devour his heart.  None of us were ever able to explain to him that love is not a finite thing, especially not Your love, but he would not believe us." 

He sighed softly, regretfully.  "That is perhaps the most terrible pain I have ever known, admitting that I could not love my own brother enough for him to feel it, to save him from the path of destruction.  But I know now that no one could have loved him as he wished to be loved — selfishly, wanting all for himself and none for others.  It was his choice, not my failure."

The One's smile brightened.  "I am pleased to see that you understand this at last.  This is why I gave you a second brother, so that you might one day heal from that hurt, and why now was the time for that gift to be revealed.  And I gave you to Olórin so that he might one day fully understand that even the most humble of servants is no less worthy of great love than the highest of kings."

The Maia had recovered enough to loose a small sound of amusement.  "You had already taught me that lesson through the Hobbits, my Lord — although I confess that I had not viewed that particular lesson so personally before yesterday's events.  I do not believe I could have seen that aspect so well without this most recent revelation."

Manwë agreed.  "And I believe I am beginning to see how this bears upon the issues that require resolution among our people.  Am I in error in thinking that their attitudes spring from feelings of rejection and neglect?"

"You are not," the One confirmed.  "Consider that certain of their feelings and beliefs are misguided — not evil, but they are being distorted by negative emotions which they have harbored for so long, they can no longer see how they are being affected by them.  With this in mind, I believe you will be able to trace the path and see where and how their perceptions went astray."

The Vala nodded.  "Yes, I believe we can, as I can also see that all that has happened was necessary for us to reach this point.  It required such an unprecedented event as yesterday's news to rouse the misguided into speaking openly."  He snorted.  "I have no idea who began the rumor that Olórin was about to be made a Vala, but I see now that it is a good example of just how far some have strayed upon the path of error."

Eru chuckled.  "Indeed, for those Ainur who would think such a thing clearly do not comprehend their own nature, or have forgotten it.  The Eldar, however, do have some justification for such thoughts, given what occurred within the family of Tuor.  But there is no need for such a thing to happen, this time.  Your status and power is in no way relevant to your kinship, nor do you, Olórin, need the burden of increased responsibility.  You often take upon yourself more than your fair share, as it is."

The Maia laughed merrily at this truth.  "Yes, so I have often been told!  I will not doubt it again, since You agree, Father.  I cannot say that You were wrong to have made us brothers, but I will admit that I do not understand why You chose to do so in this fashion.  Would it not have been more... proper for the brother of a Vala to be another Vala?"

The One's smile became wistful.  "By the thinking of some, yes, I suppose it would have.  But you must understand, both of you, that in my thought, all of the Ainur are as one people, all my Children of the world disincarnate.  It was not I who made the distinction between those who came first and those who came later, believing you to be of two separate kinds.  Yes, the Valar have great power and skill, but that was given them so that they could teach their younger brethren when the time came for the Music to be made manifest.  But you are all brethren, as the oldest and youngest of the Elves are of no different flesh, no matter what they call themselves or how they order their nations.  You are both Ainur, and that is enough.  Any other distinction is of no consequence in your relation."

Manwë chuckled, understanding.  "It is only important to us, who saw the difference in our skills and training, and believed it to be a difference in our fundamental natures."

"Just so.  Those who came to be called the Valar came first so that I could teach them all I wished for them to know before I brought forth their younger brethren.  It was my intent that they would then instruct their younger kin as I had instructed them, out of love.  But even as the first of these younger children came into being, I perceived Melkor's jealousy and the harm it would bring.  When I chose to counter some of the pain caused by his choices through a younger brother, I knew that one who was acquainted with the subtle strength of humility would be a better choice than one who was of great status and overt power — for the latter he would see only as a threat, and proof that I no longer loved him.  He never understood that my love for him has not diminished in any way from that brief moment when he was first, and alone.  He could not comprehend that you, Manwë, were his complement, not his rival.  If you, Olórin, had been intended to be ranked as what you call a Vala, he would have seen your kinship with Manwë at once and concluded that you were meant to join forces against him.  How could he not, once his heart had been stained with envy?  At that time, the emergence of another Teacher — which he thought of only as a Power — would, to his mind, have meant that those already in existence were somehow inadequate, requiring another, more powerful than they, to make up for their insufficiency.  You would have been a more terrible rival to him than all the others, and the consequences for the Music — and thus for Arda — would have been even more disastrous."

Both Ainur could see those awful possibilities.  "It would have been just as you say," Manwë concurred in a soft, thoughtful tone.  "I never could understand Melkor's persistently rebellious nature, nor his selfishness, but I have always known that it was power he most desired, and most feared — that a power might exist that was greater than he himself."

Eru's response was one of loving pride.  "And there you have the reason for his rebellion.  He knew that I existed, and was greater than he.  He believed that the ability to create living things would make him at the very least my equal, and felt that I deliberately withheld it from him to prevent that.  He never saw that the greatest power of life is love, and he himself could have shared it with others and thus found what he sought.  He could have given his love to others and thereby multiplied it, but he hoarded it, and made his own heart shrivel and die.  It saddens me that he who might have been the greatest of all my children made himself the greatest failure.  And yet, there is hope, for in the end, his madness might be healed even as Arda will be healed.  The choice remains with him."

Olórin, who had been quiet, deep in thought, spoke up.  "I see the wisdom of Your choice, Father," he said slowly, still thinking.  "But even though You gave us the gift of free will with the gift of Your love, You must have known that in time, we would make the distinction between Valar and Maiar, just as the Children divide themselves into clans and tribes and nations."

"I did," the One confirmed.

"Then You knew how our people might perceive this revelation, that Manwë and I are brothers."

There was a new brightness in Eru's smile, of delight, not mocking.  "Of course.  And I have a purpose in bringing it to light now as well."

Until now, it had seemed to the Ainur that they were within a sphere of pure light, apart from the rest of Eä yet still within its circles, speaking with their Maker through the clearest of all windows, in His presence but not yet with Him in the Timeless Halls.  Suddenly, the light faded and the world around them became visible once more, the stars above and the globe of their Arda below, beautiful in its many-colored glory.  The light of Ilmarin was almost directly below them, and the lands of Valinor and Eldamar spread from the mountains like the most exquisite of tapestries.

"You are aware of the growing unrest among the Firstborn in Aman," the One said, the sight below reminding them of this.  "And the news of yesterday has also brought to your notice a similar discontent among your own people."

The latter statement was aimed directly at the Elder King, and he did not deny it.  "It was almost inevitable, I fear," Manwë said with a deep sigh.  "Too many of the Maiar who came to help in the making of Arda have become too attached to it; they have no wish to take up the task of working with new worlds, and the new Children who inhabit them."

"Nor did I intend that they should, unless that is their wish.  There is still much to be done for Arda, of both this dimension and the first, and there are many of your kindred who remained behind in the Timeless Halls who now desire to be a part of the worlds that are yet to come.  There is a great similarity between the growing plight of the Eldar and that of your Maiar.  Neither can be healed through anger and bitterness, but true healing cannot come if those feelings remain hidden, buried and festering.  That is where your kinship becomes most important."

Though they were still unclad, Olórin's frown was quite plain.  The One chuckled softly, reassuringly.  "No, that is not its sole purpose, my son, so do not do more than think it!  In my thought you are brothers because of your natures, and would be so no matter how events had turned since the beginning.  I created both of you out of love, for what I conceived in that moment, and for all that you could be in your lives thereafter.  The potential that lay within you was yours to discover, to nurture as you choose.  The greatest purpose of your kinship is one of love, which you have always shown and shared, regardless of what you are called.  But it is by the example you show now as brothers that a catalyst can be provided for the healing which is needed.  That is why I wished to converse with both of you so directly at this time, to be certain that you understood why I had done this.  If even one of you doubts that your relationship is genuine and not a mere fancy, others will also doubt, and the good that may come of it will be diminished."

The frown vanished.  "I have no doubts, Father, truly," the Maia said most emphatically, and contritely.  "Forgive me if I seem unduly suspicious.  I fear that in my heart, I am not fully recovered from my recent years in Endorë.  Matters there easily led one to be wary of the motives of others, even those whose purposes were good and noble.  Too often, they led to woe.  I trust You.  I would not exist but for Your love, and in my deepest heart, I know that any designs You have for us are always ones for the greatest good."

There was infinite compassion in the One's reply.  "I know, my son, and I know that some wounds of the heart which you suffered will not fully heal until the Music is made right at the End.  This lingering effect of life in the flesh will teach you even greater wisdom, but the less pleasant aspects will fade much sooner, I promise you."

"It eases my heart to know this," Manwë said with his own sympathetic smile for his brother.  "Like you, Olórin, I know that Father has a purpose and will make right all that has gone awry since the Music began — including all the serious harm that came of our mistakes — but it pains me whenever I see even a glimpse of the hurts you suffered in carrying out my command.  I think we will both heal the better now, with the joy of our kinship to sustain us.  And I believe I am beginning to see ways in which this might lead us to resolve our current problems."

"Then our time together has been fruitful."  The loving smile of the One turned to Olórin.  "I am pleased to see that you followed my instructions concerning your gift, even though it discomfited you at first.  You may be glad its know that its healing aspects are no longer required.  If you wish to set it aside permanently, you may."

For a moment, the Maia said nothing, his attention turned toward the energy that was the circlet.  "I am glad to know that I am fully healed," was his earnest reply.  "But now that I may put it aside, I find that I am loath to part with it.  Were it merely an ornament of crystal, perhaps I would feel otherwise, but knowing that it is Your love for me made tangible, I cannot bear the thought of abandoning it."

"Even though it may make you uncomfortable, from time to time?"

"Yes.  Especially now, with the things some are construing from it, because of what was revealed yesterday."

A trace of good-natured humor touched the One's voice.  "Then it may interest you know that henceforth, you may alter its shape as you see fit.  Perhaps it would be less distressing to you to carry it in another guise, such as a ring or wristlet."

If the incorporeal Maia had had eyes, they would have widened in an expression of astonished delight.  His answering, "May I?" was almost that of a youngster who has just been told that he might at long last do something that had been an elusive heart's desire.

Both Eru and Manwë laughed at this response, but kindly.  "Yes, little one, you may," the former assured him.  "You have earned my gift in many, many ways, and there is no reason you should be forced to give it up, or endure discomfort of any kind because of it.  That was never my intent.  Now, you are healed, and more than healed: you have grown, as all your people might have grown, but too few did — though perhaps they may yet choose paths toward their own enrichment, and all of Arda's.  I gave the Ainur control over the substances of the world, so why should you not have control over the appearance of something that had a part of its source in you?"

That had not occurred to Olórin, and it neatly dispelled any mild chagrin he had felt over his reaction.  "There is no reason at all, my Lord, especially now that its healing function has been served.  Thank You for telling me this.  I am not certain yet what I will do, but it is good to know that I have such an option."

"Which is precisely why I told you."  Eru smiled upon them both, an embrace that was not physical, but was warmer and deeper and of perfect love.  "Go now, my sons, discuss this with the others.  I think you will find that they have ideas which will also be most useful."

Next:  Smaller Matters

Author's Note:  I'm a bit under the weather this week, so please pardon any slow responses or posts.  Thanks!

IV

Smaller Matters

As they had been drawn into the emotional vortex which had taken them to a meeting with their Father, so they now returned as they had come, swiftly but gently.  The One guided them back along paths singing with the resonance of the Music, beautiful and soothing, so that when He placed them again atop the peak in the southern Pelóri, they were both in a state of magnificent peace.  Very little time had passed, and the westering sun was still riding high in the afternoon skies.

As the bliss of being so near to the One faded, they resumed their incarnate forms.  Olórin still held the circlet in his hands, and was regarding it with an expression of joyous wonder.  

Manwë smiled.  "So, brother, will you reshape it before we return to Valmar?"

The Maia looked up, his smile as bright as his eyes.  "Not yet," he said, settling it once again on his head.  "I haven't reached a decision on the matter, and some might question its sudden apparent disappearance.  While that might cause some of our people to think it proof of the rumors about my imminent change in status, it might also puzzle our Hobbit guests.  They would accept the explanation, of course, but I would rather not draw them into our troubles just yet."

The Vala nodded serenely.  "You are most considerate — which I have always known to be among your virtues."  He swept their surroundings once more with an appreciative glance.  "And I am glad to finally have your report concerning Avathar.  It now warrants a new name, but I will leave it for others to choose."

Olórin agreed.  "Since you mean for the Firstborn to settle here, they deserve the honor of naming it as they see fit.  It will still require considerable effort for these lands to be properly tamed, but it certainly is not beyond Elven skills.  I'm sure they will find the experience exhilarating, and rewarding."  He gave a wistful sigh.  "I will be sorry to lose my private quiet place when they come here, but I will be even more pleased to see what had once been an abode of evil become a home for those who seek to build a life, not to destroy others."

"Indeed.  And there is much still to be discussed and planned before that can begin.  First things first.  The other Valar will come to Ilmarin tonight, and in the meantime, we have guests in Valmar who will soon be wondering where we are.  Let us go."

************

When they returned to the mansion in Valmar, they found Varda and the hobbits in the salon just inside the terrace where they had shared luncheon.  The food and dishes had been cleared away, and they arrived to the startling sight of Varda and Frodo attempting to soothe a weeping Bilbo.  Olórin knew that the elderly hobbit could be rather emotional — something that had annoyed Thorin when it surfaced during the adventure to Erebor — but the Maia could not imagine anything in this house that might have reduced him to tears of what was clearly upset.  Manwë was no less concerned.

"What happened?" the Elder King asked as they entered the room.  Bilbo was seated beside Varda on a couch facing the terrace; Frodo stood beside them, gently patting his kinsman's shoulder.  

The younger halfling looked up at the newcomers, his half-smile apologetic.  "Nothing, really," he assured them.  "He just let his curiosity get the best of him again."

Though Olórin appeared to understand, Manwë remained confused.  Sensing it, Varda elaborated.  "We were watching the songbirds in the garden after the meal," she explained, "and Frodo said that after sharing Olórin's memory of the Timeless Halls, he finally had some inkling of what the Great Music must have been like."

Frodo nodded.  "Which of course made Bilbo regret not taking part in that sharing.  I told him that much of which we saw was quite horrible, but he still felt he'd missed out."

Varda sighed, her arm around the old hobbit's shoulders.  "He seemed so disappointed, I felt it would not violate your trust, Olórin, if I showed him some of your memory of your time with Lord Eru."

The Maia's dark eyes widened.  "And it caused this?" It seemed quite beyond belief.  He knelt before Bilbo, his brow creased with confusion.

He did no more than open his mouth to speak before Bilbo spoke first.  "Oh, Gandalf!" he spluttered even as he sniffed back his tears.  "Can you ever forgive me?"

Olórin's eyes widened all the more.  "Only if you'll be so good as to explain why you feel you need it, old friend."

Bilbo snuffled as he searched his pockets for a kerchief; smiling kindly, Varda proffered one of lovely white silk.  Bilbo accepted it with a word of thanks, then politely made use of it before replying.  "I suppose it's my own fault, really.  After we met Ilúvatar, after a fashion, five years ago, I wondered a great deal about what He really looked like.  After Frodo told me about the things you showed Eönwë yesterday, I asked him if he could tell me more about the Timeless Halls and all, but he said he couldn't really describe it, that it was more of a feeling.  That made me even more curious, so when it came up again after lunch, I... well, I sort of tricked Lady Varda into offering to show me what Frodo couldn't describe."

The twinkle in the Valië's eyes told Olórin that she had been fully aware of Bilbo's motives, and had found them charmingly inoffensive.  "Which she did," the Maia confirmed.  "But why does this require my forgiveness?  I'm sure she showed you nothing other than what you might have seen yesterday, had you wished it."

Bilbo dabbed at his eyes as he loosed a deep sigh.  "I'm sure she didn't," he said, favoring the lady with a shaky smile.  "But what I saw...!"  He shook his head in an peculiar mixture of wonder and shame.  "I understand why Frodo said there were no words that could do it justice.  And I am so sorry that I ever pestered you with my complaints about the way you look here in the West!  You — all of you," he added, gesturing to Manwë and Varda, and by inference all of the Ainur.  "What you are is so very much more than what we see with our paltry eyes!  That you do us the courtesy of appearing to us as you do is... is... well, I might say unbelievable, if I didn't believe it already!  I know that you do this for our sake, out of kindness and affection, and if I had any doubts about that, seeing what Lady Varda showed me took them away.  I never quite understood what it was like to be an Ainu — I don't think I really could have understood it without experiencing it like this.  And that's what moved me so, understanding what that truly means, seeing what you gave up to help save us, and remembering how childishly I'd behaved about you not looking like an old man, here in Aman. Can you ever forgive me for being so abominably silly and selfish?"

Olórin would have laughed, but he did not want Bilbo to think he was being treated dismissively.  Instead, he smiled, and fondly ruffled the hobbit's silvered curls. "If you feel you need to be forgiven, then of course you are, dear Bilbo, but I was never offended, I assure you.  We first met when you were a child, well over a hundred years ago, and only for the last five have you known me in this form.  I'm touched by your appreciation of the effort I and others make to seem as one of the Eruhíni, but in my case, it was only natural for your acceptance of it to take time."

"I tried to tell him that," Frodo chimed in, "but he wouldn't hear of it from me, or even Lady Varda."

"Which troubles me not," the star-queen assured both hobbits.  "Bilbo needed to hear this from Olórin, not I."

"Yes, I suppose that's true," Bilbo admitted with another small sigh.  "But I don't want you to think I'm not grateful to you, my lady.  I think Gandalf might not have agreed to do this for me, and in hindsight, I believe I'm better for the experience."  He smiled at the Istar.  "Rather like my adventure with the Dwarves.  I balked at the very idea—"  Frodo snorted at this gross understatement.  "—tried to refuse it again and again, and didn't truly appreciate it until it was all over.  That's often the way of things with mortals, isn't it?"

Manwë came nearer to stand beside Olórin.  "Not only for mortals, Master Baggins, I assure you.  There have been far too many times when it was only by looking back over my own decisions and actions that I could see both their folly, and their unexpected benefits.  It is both the curse and the blessing of having free will."  His smile for the hobbit was warm with fondness.  "Yesterday, I wished to spare you the pain of seeing Olórin's battle with the Balrog through his eyes, for I already knew that it had been terrible.  Had I known that he would also share with us the joy that came after, I might have reconsidered my attitude."

Bilbo shivered.  "I don't regret missing what came first!" he declared most emphatically.  "I'd seen enough of what one dragon could do, and from my studies I know that Smaug was far from the worst of his kind, while the least of the Balrogs were worse than the most terrible of dragons.  No, I'm glad I didn't see any of that, and I don't think there was any way for me to have avoided it, yesterday.  But what Lady Varda showed me makes me wonder how any of you could have left such a wonderful life to come here."

All three of the Ainur smiled.  "For many reasons," Olórin said, "not the least of which was the fact that when Eru Ilúvatar revealed to us a vision of our Music and showed us His Children who would dwell within it, we loved them, and wanted to be a part of their lives.  Oh, there were certainly some who were more enamored with the idea of seeing their own Song become manifest, but they were comparatively few, and none of us were forced to come.  Like you, Bilbo, our hearts were stirred by the vision of the Music so that we wanted to participate in the magnificent adventure it promised.  There have been many pains and sorrows — as you, Frodo, know only too well — but the good has generally outweighed the ill."

Manwë suddenly burst into laughter.  The others, startled by the unexpected reaction, looked up at him with mingled shock and puzzlement.  They saw that though he was smiling broadly, there was a powerful sense of relief in his expression, emphasized by the tears on his cheeks.

Varda regarded her husband with a wry glance of her own.  "Beloved," she said calmly, "have you lost your senses?"

His laughter diminished to a chuckle as he knelt beside Olórin, still smiling.  "Perhaps," he admitted.  "Though I think rather that I have finally come to them."  He draped one arm across the Maia's shoulders to draw him into a companionable embrace.  "Thank you, my brother, for what you just said.  I know that you were speaking in generalities, of things most of our people feel about Eä and our work herein, and it may be that I am reading too much into it.  But I could not help but feel that when you mentioned the good outweighing the ill, you were including the ill that I have done to you, and have forgiven it."

The Istar smiled, a bit crookedly.  "You know that I have, we've spoken of it several times, during the past five years.  Have you never believed me?"

"I have, but it seems that I never felt it as fully as I did just now."  His entire face lit with a joy that outshone the sun.  "Perhaps it is the blessing of hearing this when we are together at last as family."  His gaze and his smile included the two hobbits in that group.  He reached out with his free hand and touched Frodo's where it lay upon Bilbo's shoulder.  "I count both of you as my family as well, in any way you choose to be considered.  Not only because Olórin counts you as kin, but because you have brought to us more delight than we have known in years beyond reckoning."

Varda regarded her spouse fondly even as she nodded to the hobbits.  "Just so," she agreed.  "We had thought that there would be little to come in Arda that would surprise us after the Elves and Men and Dwarves awakened — and then your people appeared."

Bilbo looked up at her, eyes full of curiosity.  "I'd always wondered about that — well, not always, I suppose, but ever since I got to know the Elves, especially after I settled down in Rivendell and had Elrond's lovely library at my disposal.  They never quite knew where Hobbits came into the story of the world.  Gandalf knew more, but even he wasn't certain about the details."  He turned to Manwë.  "Do you know, my lord?"

The Elder King lifted his hand from Bilbo's shoulder and made a vague gesture.  "Not entirely, for I have not had an opportunity to ask the One, who is Father to us all, and all the Children save Aulë's Dwarves were of His Song and His design.  I do know that the first of your ancestors wakened late in the First Age, in regions somewhat apart from those frequented by the other inhabitants of Middle-earth.  They were, of course, mortals, akin to Men, but with their own strengths and talents. Where the Atani sought to expand and explore the wider world, your people sought to know the fullness of those places they made their home, content to remain in the lands they knew so well until circumstances forced them to leave.  Your ancestors had made a good home for themselves in lands well east of those troubled by Morgoth and the wars of that age.  They were unknown to the other races during that era, for they had many other matters of their own survival to deal with.  That early hobbit-folk might have remained there, for it was a temperate and fertile land.  But when my fallen brother's forces scattered after his defeat, far too many of his Orcs and trolls and such fled eastward.  They found the land of your ancient kin and wanted it for their own.  They slew many, and raped the land itself, turning it to barren waste as they despoiled it for their own sustenance.  Your ancestors divided into several groups and fled, each taking a different direction to search for a new home; eventually they all came west again, into what you called the Misty Mountains and the vales of the Anduin. Their full story is quite long, and if you wish, I will have one of my Maiar who knows it best teach it to you."

"Onótilúvë would be more than willing," Olórin suggested.  "It was for good reasons that the Elves believed he remembers everything, and he has told me that he hoped to have a chance to meet our Hobbit guests.  Their origins are a part of the history he loves so well that few in Aman wish to hear about."

Bilbo clapped his hands together even as Manwë nodded his assent.  "Oh, that would be splendid!  I always suspected that someone here in the West knew the whole tale of the Hobbits, but I kept forgetting to ask!"

Frodo smiled at his uncle's delight.  "It's just a shame we came into the world so quietly," he quipped.   "Not like Men, who had the first rising of the sun to mark their entrance."

A mischievous twinkle lit the eyes of all three Ainur.  "Not so, Frodo," Varda corrected amiably.  "There was indeed an event that marked the waking of your folk.  A very appropriate one, as it turned out."

Manwë and Olórin nodded their confirmation; the latter elaborated.  "As Manwë said, the first Hobbits woke late in the First Age. The Sun and Moon had long since risen, of course, but they awoke neither at dawn nor during a night full a stars.  They came at dusk, with the first rising of Eärendil's star:  Gil-estel, the star of high hope.  Your people were Eru's secret hope for the future of Arda, and His sight was of far greater scope than the Elves and Men who saw the star and thought only of their immediate plight."

"Indeed," the wind-lord agreed.  "Even we did not see that potential for far too many years.  We knew of your people's existence, and followed your progress with interest — some of us more than others.  Yavanna and her sister Vána, as well as Oromë and Ulmo, were intrigued by and quite fond of your folk.  They have done what they can to guide and protect you without interfering, mostly in subtle ways, helping your people to learn to love and nurture whatever land they called home.  This suited the nature that all Hobbits have had since the beginning, and it has heartened us to see that with at least one group of the Children, we succeeded as teachers and guides without causing harm.  Even so, it was not until Olórin met your folk in this past age — and in his face to face dealings with all of you perceived the strength that lay hidden within you — that we began to understand some part of Eru Ilúvatar's great purpose in your creation."

Varda's smile brightened.  "Those whom my husband mentioned were not the only Valar who have watched your people closely, and tried to give them aid.  When they first came to our notice, I listened to their longing for guidance, and gave to their paths what light was mine to give.  They were happy and peaceful in their beginnings, much less harmed by Melkor's taints than those who awakened nearer to his abodes.  I have long believed that this gave Hobbits a hidden strength to resist the great corruptions of evil, and that it was a part of Eru's wondrous design.  It nurtured a spirit of stamina and a love for peace within your race, which in turn allowed each of you the capacity to harbor hope when others of what you call the Big Folk might have surrendered to despair."

Manwë nodded.  "When the evil creatures fleeing the rout of their master invaded their land, your forebears did not give up, even when their efforts to turn away the intruders failed terribly.  They understood that fleeing a stronger and more numerous foe was wiser than standing their ground until they were all dead.  They could have despaired, but so long as they had a chance to begin again, they did not.  Onótilúvë can tell you all of the details, which I'm sure you will both find fascinating.  For now, know that we have grown to love both of you for all that you are, most of all the embodiment of fulfilled hope you have become."

Both hobbits blushed at their words, but at the same time they smiled, eyes shining.  "I look forward to hearing the entire story," Frodo said earnestly.  "And now I am all the more grateful for the gift Lady Galadriel gave to me during the quest.  I had thought that it was providential, and it now seems exceptionally appropriate that I was given a phial filled with the light of the very star that rose at the same time we Hobbits rose and wakened in the world." 

He favored the star-queen with an especially warm smile.  "Even more fitting, now that I have become acquainted with you, Lady Varda, since light is your purview, no matter its source.  I won't speak for Bilbo, but for myself, I would be honored to call myself a part of your family."  The shifting of his glance included Manwë.  "I have already come to think of Olórin as a brother, but I don't believe I'm quite ready to think of a king and queen as siblings!"

"Nor I," Bilbo agreed.  "In the Shire, it was something of a tradition for those who had grown close without a connection of blood to call each other cousin.  Would that suit?"

"If that is what you wish, that is how it shall be," Varda declared.  "To follow the Shire custom is, I think, the best choice.  Wouldn't you agree, beloved?"

Manwë inclined his head in gracious assent.  "I do indeed.  Hereafter, you shall be welcome to this house whenever you wish, and those in service to us will honor you as family.  If ever you have need, call upon us, and if we cannot come because of our duties, one of our people will give whatever assistance you desire."

"That's very kind of you," Bilbo said, sniffing back a few tears.

Frodo clicked his tongue, knowing that the elderly hobbit was also deeply touched.  "Don't start up again, Bilbo, or you'll drench our hostess."

"I don't mind," Varda said with a soft chuckle.  "Perhaps you would like to rest for a while, Bilbo.  It's been a full day so far, and as Nárënilda promised to make a proper Shire supper for you, it would be a shame if you were too weary or overwrought to fully enjoy it."

Bilbo dabbed at his eyes with the damp kerchief.  "Yes, of course, that's a very good idea.  And I'm sure you could do with some time to hear what these two have been up to."

Manwë laughed kindly as he and Olórin rose to their feet.  "No doubt she could, though it can wait, if you prefer."

But Bilbo shook his head. "No, no, I'm quite ready for a nap.  Aman has been most kind to these old bones, but I must confess that I've enjoyed an afternoon nap for most of my life."

As he spoke, the Maia who had attended Bilbo that morning entered the salon, bowing to her lord and lady.  "I asked Surëlindë to escort you to your chambers, and see to whatever else you might require," Varda explained as she assisted Bilbo to his feet.

The elder hobbit turned to face her, and bowed deeply.  "Thank you for a most delightful tour, my lady, and for a splendid luncheon."  He began to return her lovely handkerchief, but hesitated when he remembered its condition. 

Varda smiled indulgently.  "You may keep it, Cousin Bilbo, as a memento of this special day.  Rest well."  She leaned forward to kiss his brow before motioning to Surëlindë.  The Maia stepped forward and offered Bilbo her hand.

As he took it, he glanced toward his nephew.  "Are you coming, too, my lad?"

"Perhaps a little later," Frodo replied.  "I wanted to speak with Olórin, and you know I was never fond of naps."

Bilbo chuckled.  "So Cousin Drogo often lamented in his letters when you were but a babe.  Lead on, then, Surëlindë.  I shall welcome a bit of a nap, so long as you make sure I'm awake in time for tea...."

When they were gone, Manwë turned to Frodo.  "Perhaps Varda and I should also take our leave," he began.

But the hobbit stayed him with a shake of his head.  "Oh, no, I didn't mean to imply that I wanted complete privacy.  To be honest, I would like for you to stay, if you can."

The Elder King signaled his acquiescence by taking the seat beside his wife that Bilbo had just vacated.  Olórin drew up a chair so that none of them would stand towering over the halfling.  Manwë gestured, and a chair appeared for Frodo, one that would allow him to sit comfortably and yet be at a proper level to converse with the larger folk.  "This sounds as if you have something rather important on your mind, Frodo," the Maia observed.

"It is, to me," he admitted as he took his own seat.  "After we finished our lunch and Bilbo was asking Lady Varda about all the different birds and flowers in the garden, I excused myself to... well, take care of things we incarnates have to deal with from time to time that don't bother your folk."  He felt faintly foolish, resorting to such silly polite evasions, but the Valar gave no sign of offense or amusement, and Olórin's experiences as Gandalf had made him all too well acquainted with such things to do more than nod his understanding, though he could not entirely keep the twinkle from his eyes.  

Frodo forged ahead, his dignity intact.  "Márandur had come to see if there was anything we needed after the other attendants had cleared things away, and he was good enough to escort me to the proper facilities.  Just as we reached the privy, he was called to deal with something that required his attention, quickly. I told him to go, as I'd have no trouble finding my own way back."  He snorted softly.  "It didn't seem that difficult, since I didn't have much trouble learning my way around Rivendell and Minas Tirith, but I'd forgotten how much help I'd had back then, and how much more time to become familiar with things.  If we'd been on the first floor, I wouldn't have gotten turned around, and all things considered, I didn't do badly.  I only made one wrong turn, and it didn't take but a minute or two before I realized my mistake."

Varda made a soft sound.  "Ah, that explains the delay.  Bilbo said you usually weren't one to dawdle about such matters.  I supposed it was merely a question of distance, since there is only one privy on this floor, and it is not close to this terrace."

Frodo gave her a sheepish smile.  "Well, in a manner of speaking, that was true, since I took a longer route to return.  But there is more to it than that."  He paused to take a deep breath, then continued.  "I'm not quite sure where my wrong turn took me — I think it may have been near your private studies.  When I realized that I was lost, I paused to get my bearings and heard people talking in one of the rooms.  I was going to tap on the door and ask directions, until I realized that whoever was inside was arguing."

"Arguing?" Manwë echoed.  "I trust it wasn't over anything more significant than a disagreement over which linens should be used on the beds."

Frodo was grateful for the attempted levity, but sadly shook his head.  "I wish it were.  I didn't intend to eavesdrop, but whoever was talking spoke so loudly I couldn't avoid hearing."  He paused again, then sighed.  "Are any of you aware that not everyone is delighted by the discovery of your kinship?"

The newfound brothers traded glances; Olórin gestured for Manwë to reply.  "Unfortunately, yes, we know," the Elder King said with sincere regret.  "It was much of what Eönwë came to tell us this morning."

"I suspected it was so, from more than what you have already communicated to me, my husband," Varda sighed.  "They put on polite and cheerful faces for the benefit of our guests, but I could sense that something had occurred to distress our servants.  Did you recognize the voices you heard, Frodo?"

"Not for certain.  I had no idea who were the ones that practically shouted, but I believe the one who answered — much more calmly — was Eönwë."

"That would follow, if he has been able to deliver the news that you requested," Olórin said thoughtfully, addressing Manwë, who inclined his head in agreement.  He turned again to Frodo.  "You were likely near the chamber that Eönwë uses from time to time in carrying out certain aspects of his duties.  After we discussed the news he brought this morning, Lord Manwë asked him to act in his capacity as Herald and announce to the Maiar that a full court of the Ainur will be held two days hence.  It sounds as if you accidentally overheard one or more of them already expressing their displeasure over what they think will be the purpose of the assembly."

The hobbit made a noise of distaste.  "Displeasure, indeed!  'This is an insult!' the one who bellowed first said, and the second shouted, rather nastily, 'None of the rest of us were rewarded so richly for doing our duty!'  Eönwë answered, quite politely, but I couldn't hear what he said.  I was rather shaken, and I hurried away so that I'd have a chance to calm down before I returned to the terrace.  I didn't want to upset anyone.  Perhaps I shouldn't've mentioned it now."

"No, it was the right thing to do," Manwë assured him.  "You accidentally overheard something most distressing, and it is proper for you to unburden yourself to us, as it involves our people.  You are correct in saying that there are some who took yesterday's news badly.  Most are likely cases of simple misunderstanding, but I fear that others are willfully distorting the truth.  Would you be willing to share with me your memory of what you heard — or with Olórin, if that is more agreeable to you?"

Frodo's smile for the Elder King was wry.  "I'm not afraid of you, Cousin Manwë," he replied with grace and humor.  "What I fear is that those who reject your real kinship with Olórin will be angered all the more if they discover that you have taken two Mortals into your family of the heart."

Varda leaned forward to pat the hobbit's hand in sympathy.  "Let us worry about that, dear Frodo.  We will see to it that those who have misunderstood are corrected, and that those who will not understand learn the error of their ways."

Manwë concurred.  "It is not good for any of Eru's Children, of spirit or flesh, to carry grudges and bitterness in their hearts, for it is a terrible poison.  They need healing, and in finding correction rather than punishment, they will find the cure they require."  He reached out to touch the hand from which Varda had just withdrawn her own.  "Concentrate for a moment on the memory of what you heard, please."

Frodo nodded and closed his eyes.  He shivered for a moment at the emotions that had driven those angry shouts, but it passed quickly as the touch of Manwë's own thoughts witnessed the memory, then soothed it.  When the hobbit opened his eyes, they were filled with grateful relief.  "Thank you," he said softly to the Elder King, who smiled and patted his hand before removing his own.

"You're quite welcome.  What you heard was spoken in venomous anger, and you should not have to bear the wounds of it without comforting."  As he spoke, he shared what he had perceived with the others in ósanwë.

Olórin managed to maintain a calm demeanor, though he knew that he was the subject of the anger Frodo had witnessed.  "I'm sure the second voice belonged to Lintamacar, one of Lord Tulkas' people. This is not the first time I have heard him vent his opinion of how he and his fellow servants of the Champion were little thanked for their service in the Wars against Melkor.  Somehow, he has managed to twist the performance of duty into something that should be given without thought for reward, and yet at the same time should be richly praised and rewarded.  I have felt for some years that he would benefit from time spent with Lord Irmo and his siblings, but I could see that Lord Tulkas knew nothing of Lintamacar's feelings and would not understand why such a thing might be needed."

"We will speak to him of this when we meet tonight," Varda promised.  "Tulkas may not be as discerning as others, but I know he would not sanction such an attitude among his people if it were brought to his attention.  It is the other voice that troubles me more."

Manwë nodded.  "Elennúro.  He has always been one of your most faithful and supportive Maiar, beloved, and I have never seen him as anything but friendly toward you, Olórin.  Why would he change so suddenly?"

Frodo saw the answer at once.  "Maybe for the same reason I was concerned about how others would receive the notion of Bilbo and I as your extended family.  Some people consider such things to be demeaning or insulting to one they respect and love.  During my stay in Minas Tirith, one of Queen Arwen's brothers, Elladan, told me that when he'd first heard of her betrothal to Aragorn, he was furious, even though Aragorn had been a beloved brother to him for many years.  He didn't believe that any mortal was worthy of his sister, and that it was not only an insult for Aragorn to ask, but even more of an insult that Elrond was willing to permit it, even conditionally.  Arwen got wind of it before Aragorn heard of his attitude, and she gave Elladan a tongue-lashing that he said still left him stinging, long after he had seen the error of his ways, his unthinking arrogance toward someone he genuinely loved.  If this Elennúro has never been a spiteful sort, I'd be willing to wager that he was simply shocked by something he had never expected, and feared that it might reflect badly on the Lady he loved, lessening her in his eyes, and others'."

"That's an excellent point," Olórin said with approval.  "Elennúro and I have been friends since before the Eldar awakened, and I have never before sensed any hint of resentment toward me.  Much the opposite, in fact.  He was pleased that I was able to complete the mission of the Istari successfully.  He even told me that he had always agreed with Lady Varda's opinion that I should not have been ranked as the third, and had urged you to have me assume Curumo's position as head of the Order after Eru returned me to Valinor.  That hardly sounds as if he resented me, or was angry with me."

"No," Varda concurred.  "But never before has there been a Maia who was brother to a Vala, and though some of the Valar have known or suspected the relationship existed for a very long time, it would seem that it occurred to none of the Maiar."

"If so, that is our own fault," Manwë admitted with great sadness.  When both Olórin and Frodo reacted with shock, he explained.  "We have known from the beginning that we are all of the same kind: Ainur, Children of our Father's thought and spirit.  The Maiar know this as well, but because they were not given the same tasks as we — that we, as the elder children, were meant to be as directors to the realization of the Music in which we all had equal parts — they came to think of themselves as our servants and only as our servants.  But there is no use in having the power of a director without the efforts of gifted musicians to play the symphony.  Each brings to the final work a needed skill, the sound as well as the direction to keep it from falling into cacophony and to bring all to the desired conclusion.  Eru created us out of love, and we should all have worked together out of love, for each other as well as for our Father.  It should not have become such a rigid structure of master and servant.  Music produced in that way is precise, but without color or joy.  We should have corrected this misconception as soon as we recognized it."

"Perhaps, if it had been possible," the Maia agreed.  "But you forget that Melkor made it his purpose to foster disharmony, even before the last note of the Music was sung.  If he could not sway us into his blatant discord, he could achieve something of his aim by making war upon us all once we entered Eä, forcing us into the habits of an army, where a few hold the power of command and many others must submit to that authority and follow obediently.  He could not stop us from loving one another, but he could and did impose strictures upon our actions that would ever after affect the nature of that love.  Is it any wonder, then, that those such as Tulkas's warrior Maiar are the least willing to accept such an unexpected revelation?  More than any, it is the warrior who lives by a proper chain of command and duty, and who views the matter of 'promotion' as something that must be both earned and justified in a proper, proscribed manner."

Frodo turned his surprise to his old friend.  "You talk as if they think you've been turned into one of the Valar."

Both Olórin and Manwë loosed heavy sighs, Olórin's perhaps a bit heavier with the added weight of added exasperation.  "Some do," the Elder King replied, patting the Maia's arm in a comforting way.  "It is not so, and I assure you, it will never be so.  We are content to be brothers as we are, and there is no need to make such a change, even if it is only for appearance's sake.  Because we are spirit and not flesh in our true state of being, there is no reason why any of the Ainur cannot be brethren.  Beyond our roles as those who direct and those who implement, the titles and distinctions were ones we made for our convenience, not because we truly are different.  They suited our appointed roles in Eru's plan, as our individual gifts and powers were given to us for the purpose of fulfilling those roles."  

His face brightened with the warmth of affection.  "One of those roles, for Olórin and I, is to be brothers, and this is the time for us to see that role fulfilled — for ourselves, and for all the inhabitants of Aman. Thank you for telling us of this incident, Cousin Frodo.  It helps make clearer to me a way in which we might resolve the discontent among our people.  Would you be willing to come to our court in two days, if it might aid our plans?"

The hobbit did not hesitate.  "If I can do anything that will help you and Olórin make peace with the others, I shall be honored to help in any way I can."

"I am grateful.  Tonight, the Valar will take counsel on the situation, and I will let you know tomorrow if your presence will be needed at court."  His smile was wistfully gentle.  "My hope is that you will be spared the need, but we must prepare for all contingencies, if these matters are to be resolved without serious conflict.  For now, let us set such worries aside."

He gave the empty serving tables an amusingly mournful look. "Are there even a few crumbs left from the luncheon, my dear, or must we weary travelers wait until tea to refresh ourselves?"

************

Next:

Evening Council

***********

Another Author's Note:  I know I'm potentially taking liberties as to the timing of when the Hobbits first came into the world, but given the ways in which the reckoning of times is often dependent on perspective in the early ages of Arda, I didn't think I would be sticking my neck out too far by having them appear with the first rising of Eärendil's star.  It seemed entirely too appropriate, given the role Hobbits would have to play in the much bigger picture!

V

Evening Council

The entire household saw to it that the rest of the day was as enjoyable and carefree as possible for their guests, so that by the time the hobbits retired for the night, both had all but forgotten any unpleasantries of the afternoon.  Frodo did not tell Bilbo of his conversation with Olórin and their hosts, figuring that it would be better to wait and see how things went at their meeting before troubling him with a situation he could do nothing to change.

Before the evening's council was due to meet in Ilmarin, Olórin sought out Elennúro to discuss the matter with him as a friend rather than before all the other Ainur.  The slender, dark-haired Maia served Varda in a capacity like that of Ványalos in Lórien, as a messenger and occasional emissary to the other Valar.  He and Olórin had become friends shortly after Arda had been formed, when the Ainur began to assume incarnate forms to better understand the state in which the Eruhíni would naturally exist.  They had shared an intense curiosity about the world and the kinds of life that would inhabit it, and thus their paths had crossed outside their work for the Valar they followed.  Theirs had always been a lively and merry friendship, and it saddened Olórin to find that such a shadow had fallen between them.

He had made no effort to disguise that sadness when they met late that afternoon, and Elennúro had reacted to it with immediate shame.  He tried to explain his feelings to the Istar, with difficulty, for he saw now that he had allowed himself to be swayed by another's bitterness into slandering a friend.  His devotion to Varda had been used against him, for Lintamacar had spoken to him in ways that would rouse his protective instincts and cause him to pass judgment on another in haste.  That Olórin approached him in friendship even though he knew what Elennúro had said convinced him that he was indeed in error.  The Istar forgave him without hesitation upon seeing his honest remorse, and they talked, as friends, for a bit more before their duties called them away.

Olórin was relieved to tell Varda the result of that meeting before the council was due to begin.  "It was just as Frodo suspected," he informed the equally relieved Valië.  "Elennúro was confused by Father's revelation, since we know of no other sibling relationships between Valar and Maiar.  He was afraid that some might think of it as demeaning to Manwë, and to you by association.  He had initially planned to speak with you about it after things had settled down a bit, but late yesterday evening, while he was still at the festivities outside the city, he was drawn into a conversation with Lintamacar and others of our people who sympathized with him.  Lintamacar knew precisely what to say to upset Elennúro, and convince him that this was all a covert plot between myself and Manwë to have me counted among the Valar, even though I had not been created so by the One."

Varda sighed.  "Which of course implied a profound insult to me, and a general undermining of the authority of all the Valar.  I would be more sympathetic to Lintamacar's position if it were not so plain that he is using the situation and its uncertainty to manipulate others for his own agenda.  This must stop."  She paused for a moment, lips pursed as she studied the situation.  After another moment, she smiled.  "I think perhaps it would be best if we invited one or two more Maiar to the council tonight."

Olórin's faint frown was one of puzzlement.  "I can easily understand why you might wish to invite Elennúro, as it would both ease his mind and provide evidence to the other Valar of what is happening among our people, but I fear that Lintamacar's presence might turn the council into an argument.  He is obstinate in his views, and no doubt has many clever ways of making them seem fair and reasonable to Lord Tulkas.  Turning this meeting into a trial of one Maia might only serve to strengthen the beliefs of those he has already swayed to his side."

"Quite so, which is why I was thinking of asking Eönwë to come as well.  He was witness to more than just this afternoon's incident, and could provide information that would be much more productively useful than anything Lintamacar might have to say."

Olórin agreed with her assessment, as did Manwë, who expanded it.  So as not to have Elennúro impugned as an informer, he instructed the other Valar to have their chief messengers attend the council as well.  "I know them all," the Elder King elaborated, "and I am certain that if any side with the malcontents, it is for the same reasons as Elennúro.  It may seem to belittle his position, but none can argue that Eönwë is indeed the chief of all my messengers, and I know Arinvílë won't object if he takes on her usual role for the occasion.  She enjoys her work as my courier, but she has often lamented that she is bored to tears by long meetings."

So it was that when the Valar met in the great council chamber in Ilmarin, fifteen Maiar were also present, all but Olórin and Eönwë part of an informal order called the Mentacolindor, the message bearers.  Several of them were well known to Olórin:  Varda's messenger, Elennúro; Ványalos, Olórin's friend and neighbor in Lórien, who served Irmo; Alyanis, who served Estë; Ornedil, the brother of Aiwendil, who served Yavanna; Failaner and Yaisawen, twin brother and sister who served Nienna and Námo, respectively.  He was acquainted with all the others, though less closely:  Ulmo's messenger, Fáraláma; Lúsinara, who served Aulë; Mairosámo, who served Oromë; Riellë, who served Vána; Lanwatur, Vairë's messenger; Vórimanil, who served Tulkas; and Sinyëlilta, who served Nessa. Although they entered with proper dignity, having been informed that this was not a light-hearted social meeting, Ványalos caught his neighbor's eye with a huge grin of pure delight, having had no opportunity the day before to express his feelings about the news that had so many others a-twitter.  The Istar smiled back with greater restraint, but he was glad to know that this had changed nothing between him and one of his closest friends.

As he watched the others follow the Valar to their places, Olórin looked for any signs of their attitudes, both positive and negative.  Not surprisingly, those he knew best appeared at the very least content with matters.  Several of the others seemed indifferent or resigned, but two appeared wary, if not overtly hostile.  The chestnut-haired Lúsinara's tensely guarded expression was not unexpected, for she had been fond of Curumo before he volunteered to go on the mission of the Istari, and quite likely viewed the current situation as a painful reminder of his failure, and her loss.  It was Mairosámo's bitter frown that truly startled Olórin.  The tall golden-haired Maia had been one of those with whom he had worked in the healing of Avathar, not as closely as with some others, but their relationship had always been amiable.  He had not known much of him before that time, but he had known that Mairosámo was one of the most skilled of Oromë's Maiar when it came to dealing with horses.

As he recalled that particular detail, a connection was made in the Istar's mind.  He said nothing of it at that moment, but he planned to bring it up when the proper time presented itself.  Instead, he watched quietly, standing before his seat at Manwë's left hand, while everyone took their place, the other Maiar seated to the right of and slightly behind those they served.  Once in place, all remained standing as the Elder King spoke the traditional invocation.

"May Eru guide us, and grant us wisdom," he said at his most solemn and sincere, to which all responded with, "Nasië."   All then took their seats.

"I know why this meeting was called," Ulmo said in his blunt way even before Manwë had a chance to say more.  "But I will confess that I'm at a loss to understand why you asked us to bring our chief couriers as well.  Fáraláma tells me she had plans to spend the night listening to a convocation of minstrels who had come for the Festival."

The small, slender Maia so mentioned blushed faintly, the pink in her pale cheeks an interesting contrast to the sea-green highlights of her long dark hair.  Manwë gave her a smile of genial reassurance.  "I know I gave very short notice of this request, but it was with good reason, one for which I hope those who were inconvenienced will forgive me."

He nodded to Varda, who in turn gestured to Elennúro.  "All of you know my chief liaison, Elennúro.  He has been of great help to me through all our years in Eä, and never has he been anything less than a good and faithful member of my people.  He has had his loyalty and devotion to me used against him in a wicked way.  I wish for all of you — and by this I mean both the Valar and the Mentacolindor — to know what has transpired."   She gestured again, and Elennúro rose to address the assembly.

"I have no wish for any of you to think that I am attempting to place the blame for what I have done on another," he said in a light, musical tenor.  "I recognize that while I was manipulated, I was not forced, and it was my error to act in a way unbefitting to any Ainu.  Yesterday evening, I was invited to join a discussion among a group of Maiar at the festival.  The topic, as I imagine most have already guessed, was the unexpected revelation that Lord Manwë has a second brother.  I admit that my first reaction to this news was one of shock, for I had not imagined that a Vala and a Maia could have such a relationship in truth, and I feared that some among the Firstborn would view this as demeaning to all the Valar."

He sighed, the sound one of clear regret.  "I had originally intended to ask my Lady Varda of her own reactions, seeking guidance for my confusion, for I worried most how this might hurt the respect others should have for her.  I joined the discussion, and in it heard many opinions that seemed to confirm my worst fears.  One person in particular was very much disturbed by the situation, for he claimed that he had already heard many Elves say that the brother of a Vala must be another Vala, and if this was not so, then the Elder King would intercede with Lord Eru so that what should be so would indeed come to pass."

He paused to collect his thoughts and clear his throat.  "Whether or not this was true, I know now that it was not my place to pass judgment on the will of our Father.  I do not know His purpose in doing what He has done, but I do trust that it is good."  He glanced at Olórin, his face full of apology.  "Nor is it my place to pass judgment upon you, my friend.  I had no right to call you unworthy of this gift Father has given to you.  I now see that I allowed Lintamacar's envy to awaken my own, and I should not have allowed it.  I am most grateful for your forgiveness."

When he spoke the name of one of Tulkas's people, a ripple of reaction ran through those listening.  Not surprisingly, Tulkas himself spoke first.  "Lintamacar?" he repeated, a frown creasing his ruddy face.  "What has he been up to now?"  The exasperation in his voice was plain, and surprised many who heard it.

"You knew of this?" Manwë asked in the mildest of tones, though he was genuinely surprised.

The Champion snorted.  "I had no idea he was stirring up others to resentment or anger over Father's startling news, but I know he can be a troublemaker.  Didn't you know?"

Manwë made an ambiguous gesture.  "I have been given reports, but I have never witnessed it myself.  But if you knew, why did you not try to help him correct his ways?"

"He has," Nienna chimed in.  "Many times, Tulkas has come to me or my brothers, seeking our guidance in matters such as this.  We kept the matter private, so as not to cause him undue embarrassment."

Tulkas's expression grew sheepish.  "I know my weaknesses," he admitted.  "I'm not terribly perceptive when it comes to social subtleties.  I had my own reports about Lintamacar's less than sterling behavior, but I hadn't a clue about how to deal with it, other than giving him a sound thrashing — which I already know won't solve anything.  I know he thinks that the warriors who fought in the War of Wrath didn't receive the rewards they deserved, but he never stops to think that the people he expects to reward him also fought in the war.  Nienna and Irmo and Námo have given me advice about how to help him see that this is something he should just put behind him, but he's been thicker-headed than I've ever been.  I don't know what he really wants that he isn't getting."  

He glanced at Olórin and Elennúro, his dark green eyes sad.  "I'm sorry if he's hurt either of you.  I can see that I'm going to need to take a firmer stance with him."

Vórimanil shook his head, setting his thick golden-brown curls dancing.  "Not you, my lord; us.  I fear that many of the Maiar who serve you have known of Lintamacar's behavior for some time.  We grew so tired of hearing him spout his opinions without listening to those of others that we have chosen to ignore him.  We had hoped that he would eventually grow tired of having a deaf audience and at least be quiet about it, but it would seem that he has merely taken his crusade elsewhere, to more sympathetic ears.  If we had taken a more active stance rather than employ passive aggression, perhaps it would not have come to this."

"Perhaps," Námo said thoughtfully.  "And yet, even this may serve a greater good.  Some wounds are never seen for what they truly are until they cause pain, and thus is the proper cure found."  The Doomsman cocked one raven-black eyebrow at Manwë.  "Am I correct in assuming that you wish for those who have been spreading rumors, like Lintamacar, to continue doing so until court is held, so that they will make themselves more obvious?"

The Elder King smiled.  "Precisely.  It was also in part my intent that Olórin be invited to this council so that those spreading certain rumors concerning his status among the Ainur will become all the more convinced that the purpose of the coming court is to have all our peoples witness his... promotion."

"Yet that cannot be the true purpose," Yavanna said, a statement rather than a question.  "It was given to me to know much of all living things, and I know that the only true difference between the Valar and Maiar are the scope of the abilities we were given in our making, and the rank to which you, Manwë, were appointed by the One.  We who were made to be teachers and guides to our younger brethren are no less their brethren, no matter how the social distinctions may have arisen since the beginning, especially since we entered Eä."

"But this makes no sense," said Mairosámo.  His reaction caused several eyebrows to raise, partly because he would ordinarily have first asked leave to speak, and partly because Olórin was not the only one to have noticed his demeanor.  "It is plain that we are different.  I know that I could not hope to do the things the Valar have done.  I have not the power, and it is clear to me that this was Lord Eru's will for me.  I could never aspire to such rank."

Oromë favored his messenger with a half-hidden smile.  "That may be so, Mairosámo, but differing rank does not make you of a different kind.  Taurëner, your brother, is much younger than you, and his skills are unremarkable, are they not?"

The Maia frowned.  "Perhaps so, my lord, but he has always done what he can to serve the interests of all Arda.  He is much loved by the Avari he has helped to settle in your forests."

The Hunter made a dismissive gesture.  "Yes, but their praise is worth little.  They are mere Elves, and of a kind who did not see fit to come on the great journey to Aman.  They are here only because they died, and had to be sent somewhere after their rebirth.  Taurëner took the job of guiding them because no one else wanted it, and he had not the skill to be even one of the Mentacolindor."

His tone was so belittling, Mairosámo bristled, fairly leaping to his feet.  "Nonetheless, he is still my brother, and has not earned anyone's contempt!  It is not required of us by the One that we both be a part of the same order.  That he does a task others see as menial does not lessen my love for him, or my respect—!"

When he saw Oromë's smile broadening, he choked to a halt, swallowing his words as he realized that the other Valar, and many of the Maiar, were smiling, too.  With that realization came another, which drained the color from his face.  His anger melted away as he abruptly turned his face from his lord.

Oromë, however, spoke gently.  "Yes, you see my point, I think.  Your brother is as worthy as any of my people, for he does the work he has taken upon himself gladly, and has pride in a job well done.  Because you are of another order does not make him less than you, nor you greater than he.  Power or talent or even position alone does not confer true superiority.  You are brothers because our Father created you to be so in His thought, and any of who think less of you for having a brother who has, in their minds, lesser rank than you is worse than a fool."

Now, Mairosámo's whole face reddened.  Hesitantly, he raised his eyes to Oromë.  "Then I have been worse than a fool, my lord, for to my shame, I have harbored such thoughts of others."  

When the Hunter nodded his acceptance of the Maia's confession but said nothing, Mairosámo understood his unspoken thought.  He turned to face Manwë and Olórin, his bearing one of remorse.  "I beg the pardon of both of you, for though I have not spoken against you to others, I have felt great anger and bitterness toward you, ever since the conclusion of yesterday's Reckoning.  I... was not drawn into a discussion, as was Elennúro, but I heard many things.  In my own mind, I agreed with those who felt that you, my Lord Manwë, had deliberately chosen to interpret the One's words that Olórin was to deliver as meaning that he was your brother so that you might give to him greater rank and stature and reward with impunity.  The message contained no specific mention that you are brothers, after all.  That interpretation was made by Lords Námo and Irmo, and was supported by the other Valar.  To me, it appeared that those who believed this to be a conspiracy of the Valar to honor one who was a favorite seemed well substantiated."

The reactions to that remark ranged from sighs to winces to thinly disguised irritation.  It was Nienna who answered it aloud.  "If it is a common belief among the Maiar that Olórin is a 'favorite' of the Valar, then they are only partially in error.  By using that word, it is implied that he is shown preferential bias for no just reason.  That is not so.  Indeed, he has often been asked to take up difficult and dangerous tasks that a true 'favorite' would have been spared.  But if it meant that he is well loved by us, then that is no mistake.  He has offered and given and done and sacrificed much, both in small and great degree, out of loyalty and respect and love of us, and this world in which we have all had a part in the making.  Even if it was a misinterpretation to call Olórin Manwë's true brother, is this not a matter between the two of them alone?  Do they not have the right to choose the nature of their relationship?"

"It is not a misinterpretation," the Elder King said in a mild tone, but his declaration firm.  "We have sought the direct counsel of our Father, and He has confirmed the relationship:  we are indeed brothers in fact, for so He created us from our beginnings.  It grieves me all the more to know that this revealed truth which has brought so much joy to my heart and soul has become a source of pain to others."

Mairosámo had the good grace to flush with shame.  "For myself, it is not pain, my lord, but envy, which I now regret most deeply.  Before he was sent as your emissary to Endorë, I was acquainted with Olórin; we worked together in the healing of Avathar.  Never have I known him to seek glory or status or praise, even when he had earned it beyond doubt.  But I am of Lord Oromë's people.  I love not only my lord, but all those things that are a part of his domain — horses in particular.  I love them for their beauty and their swiftness, and their spirit, willing to serve but strong and free.  I have sometimes imagined that I myself shared such traits.  It has been my pleasure to check upon the welfare of those I see throughout Aman when I journey as his messenger.  When the steed called Shadowfax came upon the ship that returned Olórin from Endorë, I thought that he was sent to be a gift to my lord, as the ancestors of the Mearas had been my lord's gift to the Atani, long ago."

The golden-haired Maia fidgeted uncomfortably.  "When I came to understand that not only was he Olórin's alone, and that he refused even to bear my Lord Oromë, I felt it the gravest of insults.  I let that anger rankle within me, and yesterday, when I heard rumor that the Valar intended to make Olórin one of their number, I assumed that Shadowfax had remained his because it had long been conspired to make this... change in his status.  I see now that I was wrong, and have been wrong for many years.  For this, I most humbly beg your pardon."  His deep bow included not only the two he had most recently maligned, but all the Valar, whom he had accused of complicity in such a conspiracy.

Oromë grinned and clapped him on the shoulder.  "You have always been commendably loyal, Mairosámo, but perhaps you should have mentioned some of this to me sooner.  It is not quite correct to say that Shadowfax refuses to bear me.  Rather, he does not wish to usurp what he considers the great privilege of the immortal Nahar, and risk insulting him.  That would not happen, of course, but I decided to let the two of them settle the matter on their own.  If Nahar someday persuades Shadowfax to change his mind, I will welcome the opportunity to ride him, but if he does not, I will respect Shadowfax's decision.  He, too, has earned the honor of choosing his own life, for he is mortal, and placed himself in great peril when he became Olórin's friend and ally in the final war against Sauron."

Mairosámo nodded, ruefully.  "I see that now, and regret my presumption."  His lifted his head to regard Olórin with contrition.  "I am sorry to have wronged you in my heart, and hope that I may still have the privilege to call you friend."

The Istar smiled in return.  "You may, and gladly.  I must confess, I had no notion that you felt this way toward me, until you entered this room tonight.  But I assure you, you are far from the first to take offense at Shadowfax's obstinacy.  I grieve that this might have led you to think ill of Lord Manwë and the other Valar, but as you came to see your error and admitted to it with only a bit of urging from Lord Oromë, I believe that no lasting harm has been done."

"As do I," the Elder King concurred.  "Unlike others, you kept your thoughts and feelings to yourself, and made no attempt to manipulate those of others.  I am glad that you spoke of this freely, for I believe that what you and Elennúro have told us provide excellent examples of the trouble that has been brewing among our people.  What was revealed during the Reckoning has but served to bring this greater matter to light."

Eönwë's request to speak was instantly granted.  "I suspect that as it is part of their purpose to listen carefully, the other Mentacolindor may have similar examples to report.  As I am here tonight in Arinvílë's stead, and am also your herald, I would like to report those things that have come to my attention." At Manwë's nod, he proceeded to tell details of the things he had witnessed during the autumnal festivities, as well as of his meeting with Lintamacar and Elennúro that afternoon.

"They ostensibly came to air their grievances concerning the purpose of the coming court," the Herald said calmly after he had related the actual incident.  "In hindsight, I believe that Lintamacar deliberately persuaded Elennúro to join forces with him so that he could use Elennúro's position as Lady Varda's messenger to more easily arrange a private meeting with me, in which he might manipulate me into revealing the specific purpose of the court which I announced."

Elennúro's expression changed from poorly hidden guilt to sudden realization.  Varda favored him with a reassuring glance even as she asked Eönwë, "Did you?"

The Herald smiled wryly.  "Certainly not, my lady, and I know that Elennúro was unaware of this hidden agenda.  I could hardly reveal something which I do not know, and I was not about to entertain others with my speculations."

As it was Eönwë's habit to open his mind in ósanwë when giving reports before the Valar, all could perceive his memories and perceptions of all the incidents of which he had spoken.  Elennúro was relieved, but Nessa sighed softly.  "It's sad, that this has come to pass.  In the early days, I rather liked Lintamacar, his sense of humor and his joy in the world; he was much like a son to my husband and I.  It was the long, long wars with Melkor that changed him.  Too much strife, too many things that were made fair despoiled by Melkor's jealousy twisted his joy in our Music into something crooked and bitter.  It seems strange to me that Lintamacar cannot see that what he most hated in our fallen brother has taken root in his own heart."

"All too often, that is the way of things," Irmo said regretfully.  "We cannot see when we share some measure of the negative qualities we despise in another, because for ourselves, we make excuses and find justifications to make our own behavior acceptable.  I cannot believe that we will find complete healing for these troubles in one effort, but we must at least begin the process."

All the others agreed.  "So," said Vána, "is the true purpose of the court to expose those of our people who have been spreading false rumor and encouraging slander?"

Námo smiled faintly.  "Not precisely. I believe its true purpose will be to encourage them to freely reveal themselves, so this will come to the notice of all in a way that cannot be called accusation."

When he glanced sidelong at the eldest of them, Manwë nodded.  "That is my hope.  I dislike the subterfuge it might require, and I will not lie outright; it would be the same sort of behavior we wish to correct.  But it has been a very long time since we held a full court, and never before has there been such a revelation as this.  It would not be untoward for us to acknowledge it with a gathering of all our people, for there are certain to be many who wish to express their feelings on the matter.  They should be said openly, and if some require encouragement to speak their minds where others can hear rather than in secret, so be it."

"Both congratulations and condemnations," Aulë said with a snort.  "Is this agreeable to you, Olórin?  I think we all know how you feel about being the focus of attention."

The Istar's smile was wry.  "I have no problem being the focus of attention when I feel it is warranted, my lord," he said puckishly.  "In this case, I find that it is warranted for several reasons, one being the novelty of the situation, and the other being the more serious matters that it has drawn to our attention.  They need to be resolved, and if my cooperation will allow the necessary healing to begin, I am more than willing to go along with whatever Lord Manwë has in mind."

"And what does Lord Manwë have in mind?" Yavanna asked, her tone one of droll amusement.

The Elder King's answering smile was mischievous, and not only for Yavanna, but for all present, both Valar and Maiar.  "One in which all of us might play a part — and which might be ably assisted by the Mentacolindor.  Allow me to explain...."

Next:  At the Faire

VI

At the Faire

The next day, there was a considerable amount of activity among the messengers of the Valar.  After the by-now well known council of the night before, the activity of rumor among the other Maiar was also considerable.  When asked, the messengers said that they were unusually busy because it had been agreed during the council that all the Valar had a fair amount of neglected business they wished to be cleared away before the arrival of winter, which was absolutely true.  Certainly, the errands were all perfectly innocent, but there were some who felt that was merely a convenient cover for more significant business, of which the messengers probably knew little or nothing.  The messengers reported what they heard to Eönwë in ósanwë, and he relayed the information to the Valar.  To the relief of many, most of the rumors were innocuous and some quite amusing.  Those that were not were, fortunately, few and largely from expected sources.  

Before breakfast that morning, while Bilbo was seeing to his daily ablutions, Manwë paid a visit to Frodo, apprising him of plans made at the council, and asking his cooperation with several aspects in which he could be of assistance.  When he heard what the wind-lord had in mind, the hobbit was delighted to agree.

The first part of that agreement was something Frodo had rather hoped to be able to do during their stay in Valmar.  As many of the Elves remained in the vicinity so long as the autumn weather remained pleasant, it was common for those among them who were craftspeople and farmers to hold daily bazaars along the main road just outside the southern entrance to the city.  There, locals, guests at the inns, and those camped on the plains could come to buy or barter for a variety of goods and foodstuffs from all the inhabited regions of Aman.  Frodo had hoped to have an opportunity to visit the bazaar, thinking to acquire certain items for the kitchen as well as a few gifts for the coming Yule season.

He was not concerned about his ability to pay for the things he wanted.  He had never been trained in any craft, though like many gentlehobbits, he had dabbled in several, both for pleasure and to better understand them.  But since his arrival in the West, Frodo had found that a surprising number of Elves were very curious about the Hobbits, especially their culinary arts, so he had found himself teaching small classes about Hobbit cooking about once every three or four months.  Most often, he was given goods or services in thanks for his instruction, but from time to time, someone desiring unusually intensive teaching would come — usually, he found, cooks from one of the Elven noble houses — and these paid him in what had become the coin of the realm throughout Eldamar and Tol Eressëa.  

They were quite generous, and at first, Frodo had been embarrassed and hesitant to accept, until Olórin had pointed out to him that in all of the West, there were only three people who were truly familiar with the culinary arts of the Hobbits, and the two true experts were mortals who would not be among them forever.  Bilbo had no interest in undertaking such instruction, so those Elves who wished to learn these things to add novelty to their own tables had only Frodo to act as a teacher.  It was sound reasoning, the halfling had to admit, and thus accepted whatever payment his students saw fit to offer.  As he was treated by all of Aman as a most honored guest, he seldom needed to spend even one of the smallest silver and gold coins for his own needs, and he was delighted whenever he had an opportunity to spend them on special little things for the house he shared and for the many friends with whom he now shared his life.

When asked at breakfast, Bilbo declined to take part in the venture, as he had been told yesterday evening that Onótilúvë, a Maia historian, would be available that morning to begin telling him the long tale of Hobbit history.  Though Frodo was interested, he knew that Bilbo would take delight in retelling him all he had learned, and he did not want to deprive his kinsman of that pleasure.  When Olórin said he would join the younger halfling in his trip to the bazaar, Frodo expected that would be the extent of their party, until Manwë declared that he would come as well.

"Much of the necessary business of the day is already underway," the Vala explained when Frodo expressed his surprise, "and Varda invited the other Valiër to some mysterious gathering of their own later this morning.  Should anything needing attention arise, I am quite certain that seven queens will prove more than adequate to the task of dealing with it."

"Indeed, yes," Varda said with an air of feigned haughtiness.  "We, at least, are less prone to childish bickering than our mighty lords."

Manwë laughed at her little joke.  "Just so.  And it has been a long time since I have been free to attend the bazaar.  I enjoy seeing the myriad products of Elven craft and cleverness as much as they enjoy displaying them for our perusal, or purchase."

Bilbo's eyes widened with surprise.  "Do you purchase goods from the Elves?"  From his tone, he considered the very idea scandalous.

But Manwë laughed again, quite merrily.  "We do indeed, although more often than not, it is a matter of barter or trade rather than purchase.  What they generally ask for are certain things we make, such as miruvórë, and certain services we can perform to assist them that are not part of our ordinary duties yet do not go against our trust as guardians and teachers of the Eruhíni."  

His vivid blue eyes unfocused slightly, recalling a pleasant memory.  "Some years before you arrived, there was an item I wanted to give my lady as a gift for a special occasion, and the crafter who took the commission asked me to sing a particular song at his daughter's wedding, as payment.  He very much wanted this as a surprise for her — a lovely child, as I recall, and the tune was one peculiar to the Ainur, though the words had been translated to Elvish.  As he named the price, I was quite agreeable to the arrangement."

Varda, remembering the incident -- and how the bride had fainted from shock to hear the Elder King himself singing the song she dearly loved, so that Manwë had been obliged to start again when she had recovered -- smiled softly at her spouse.  Frodo chuckled.  "So here, it's not just a saying that one can buy something 'for a song.'  Although having heard the music of the Ainur almost every day since I came to Aman, I can understand why.  The privilege of hearing the voices of those who took part in singing the very world into existence truly is a gift."

Every Ainu within hearing was touched by the hobbit's praise.  And with that, they all finished their meal and continued the day.

The day was a beautiful one, cool but not cold, with bright sunshine and the sky the clearest blue of autumn.  Even though the bazaar was held without the city walls, there was a fair bit of traffic on the streets of Valmar itself, people coming and going from the various mansions.  Those they passed, both Maia and Elf, offered nods and bows of greeting, deferential to Manwë in particular, but also to those in his company.  As they passed the mansion of Aulë and Yavanna — an intriguing structure of elegantly hewn stone and cunningly crafted metals surrounded by lush gardens and many tall trees of nearly every variety possible in the climate — they were greeted by the Smith himself, arrayed in everyday garb of crimson and black, and Oromë, a contrast in subdued browns and greens.  

"Would you mind if we joined you?" Aulë asked cheerfully, his smile broad and his teeth gleaming white against the bronze skin of his face.  His query was obviously for all members of the trio, not Manwë alone.  "Varda's little gathering of the ladies has left us with time on our hands."

Oromë snorted genially.  "Which they made us promise we would not spend getting into mischief."

Although Frodo didn't know what to make of the Hunter's remark, both his companions smiled wryly.  "Is it safe to be seen with you at the bazaar, then?" Manwë wondered drolly.  "I seem to recall the pair of you 'getting into mischief' there not that many years ago.  I wouldn't want to be condemned by association."

But both Aulë and Oromë laughed.  "Which is why our ladies suggested we accompany you," the former admitted.  "They decided your presence would provide adequate deterrent — and if it didn't, we would both be loath to set a poor example in the company of the esteemed Ringbearer."  He bowed to the hobbit, who could see that he was teasing.

"They also suggested that we join Námo and Irmo as well," Oromë added.  "Even if Irmo could be persuaded to join in any 'mischief,' Námo would bully him out of it."

"Now, now," the Elder King chided as they continued on toward the southern gates.  "He doesn't bully.  He just makes good use of his Doomsman persona to keep some of us from looking foolish in front of the Children."

Olórin made a sound that begged to differ.  "Lord Irmo might not agree.  More than once, I've heard him sigh about the trials and tribulations of being the younger brother of an Aratar with... shall we say a 'stern' public image to uphold."

Oromë grinned while Aulë laughed outright, a heartily merry sound that rang up and down the wide street.  "Aye, and stern only begins to describe it!" the Smith opined.  "You should be glad, then, young brother, to have a sibling who has a more temperate nature! Ah, I see they are already awaiting us."

"Outside Irmo's front gate, thank the One," Oromë said in a near-mutter, his smile grown wry.  "I know it's all part of that public image, but I wish someone had been able to talk Námo into using a little less black in building his house.  It makes that part of the street so depressing!"

"Perhaps you should should've suggested to Vána that she bring it up with the other ladies, this afternoon," Manwë remarked, his tone and manner making it plain that this was a comfortable old matter that they spoke of in jest from time to time.

The Hunter sniffed.  "I did," he replied, so flatly, one could not tell whether or not he was serious.

Aulë clapped his shoulder in consolation.  "Well, take heart, then — it appears he set aside the color for the day."

Farther down the street, the two Valar under discussion emerged from the mithril and pewter gates of the mansion of Irmo and Estë.  Irmo, the shorter of the pair, was garbed in robes of dusk blue and silver gray, while Námo, half a head taller, had indeed traded his customary black robes for less formal ones of wine-dark purple, relieved by lovely silver embroidery on the hems and cuffs, and silver links in the belt.

Oromë grunted his opinion of the change.  "Almost as bad," he quipped, but he was smiling.  As they met with the Fëanturi, greetings were exchanged, and Frodo was almost shocked to see Námo smile.  He supposed that, given what others had told him about the lord of Mandos, the somber demeanor he displayed in public was for the edification of the Elves, who would have had difficulty reconciling the very weighty duties that were his burden with what they considered normal behavior.  Olórin had told him that the detachment Námo showed most often was a form of protection, a way for the Doomsman to keep the judgments he was duty-bound to speak from crushing his spirit, for he felt both the responsibility and the pain of his darker tasks quite keenly.  But Frodo had never had a chance to meet the Vala in private, and thus was surprised that he would allow the mask of his armor to slip here on a public street.

Irmo saw the hobbit's reaction to his brother's smile, and chuckled.  "Yes, Master Baggins, your eyes are not deceiving you.  I may not be able to convince him to eschew his somber clothing whenever he appears in public view, but contrary to common rumor, my brother the Doomsman is capable of smiling without having his head split asunder."

The glower with which said Doomsman favored Irmo was so deliberately dramatic, Frodo could not keep himself from laughing.  "Duly noted, Lord Irmo," he said with a sweeping bow as he regained his composure.  "Lord Námo, you may rely on my discretion to keep this secret in strictest confidence."

To the halfling's delight, Námo's scowl melted, and the smile returned.  It was a nice smile, Frodo decided, and instantly was sorry that the Vala felt he could seldom let it show more freely.  "I am most grateful, Master Baggins," he said in such excessively formal tones, Frodo knew it was a pose.  "But among kin, there are few secrets, and seldom need to keep them.  I am now honored to be able to count you among my larger family, here in Aman."

Frodo blinked, startled, but he could not object.  "The honor is mine," he replied, with a more proper bow of thanks.  "I was pleased to hear that Olórin has finally discovered the true kin he longed for, but I never expected others to include me as a part of his family, even after a fashion."

"There are many reasons we should do so, Ringbearer," Oromë declared, this time without jest, and with gentle warmth.  "By your efforts and sacrifices, you made possible the defeat of Sauron, a task that was beyond others of our own kind.  Námo, Aulë, and I have wanted to show our thanks for this ever since you arrived.  It was our three emissaries who failed their tasks most egregiously, and perhaps if they had remained true to their mission, your suffering would not have been necessary."

Frodo blushed.  "Perhaps, but I was more than adequately thanked when I was allowed to come here and be healed.  After all, when all is said and done, I am still only a Hobbit, not a Maia."

Námo regarded him with a most unusual expression, one that combined both gentility and deep sobriety.  "True," he said quietly, "but through your choices and sacrifices, you are perhaps more worthy of the name than some who were born so."

The other Ainur favored one another with the oddest glances.  The exchange happened so quickly that Frodo wondered if he had imagined it, for an instant later, Manwë was smiling at him, most benignly.  "Cousin Frodo does have a point, though.  With all the strange rumors flying about, we needn't add to it the absurd notion that a Mortal is to be made a Maia.  That would create an even greater furor than when the fates of Eärendil and Elwing and Tuor were decided.  Come, we should move on to the bazaar while the morning is still young."

They continued on toward the gates, the street now grown busier.  Oromë and Irmo were having a lively discussion about the trials of being a brother, although their perspectives varied, as Irmo was the younger and Oromë the elder to a sister, Nessa.  When Irmo sighed over the difficulty of being a younger brother, Olórin quipped that it could not be as difficult as being the youngest brother among all the Ainur in Eä.

"Aye, I would say that is as bothersome as being the last to arrive!" a deep, ringing voice declared, more than half-laughing.  Tulkas came striding up from behind them, his hair and the collar of his russet hued cloak shining gold in the bright autumn sun.

Olórin, whom he had addressed, regarded the Champion with an arch expression.  "Shall we wait here for a moment until Lord Ulmo arrives," he said drily, "or will he be joining us at the bazaar?"

The other six Ainur laughed at this, for it did indeed appear that this was to be an outing for all seven lords of the Valar.  "I have heard nothing to that effect," Tulkas replied with a confident grin, "but as he is not losing the company of a spouse for the day and thus might need to find diversions to fill the lonely void, I doubt he will make an appearance."

He was wrong.  Not far beyond the main gates of Valmar, the bazaar spread all along and about the road and between the buildings without the walls, a colorful panoply of stalls and tents and other temporary structures erected for the event.  The sound of music and voices and laughter was everywhere, along with the scents of many things, from the pleasant aromas of cooking foods and fresh produce and flowers and fine scented oils, to the less pleasing and more pungent odors of various animals and the acrid smells of the forge.  One of the pavilions nearest the gates belonged to a group of Telerin merchants.  Unlike the Teleri of Middle-earth, who often affected subtle colors so as to more easily avoid the notice of enemies, the Teleri of Aman favored bright colors and patterns as intricate as the nets they so skillfully made.  The merchants offered not only such things as fine netting and all manner of items crafted from the shells and jewels of the sea, but a wide array of delicacies that were only available to those who lived in the interior of Valinor when the sea folk brought them, freshly caught.  Ulmo was in the midst of a group of fishermen, praising them for the clever means that had been devised to keep a large catch chilled so that it could be brought to market, still fresh.

"It's not as difficult as it used to be," remarked one of the more prominent Teleri, the harbormaster of Alqualondë, Ciryator.  "When Alqualondë was the only harbor on the shore of the mainland, the distance was much greater.  "But since we now have Vorimalondë here just beyond the Calacirya, it's much less of a bother.  But the Noldor of Tirion considered the matter an interesting puzzle, and were most helpful in devising a method to help us achieve it."

"It was easier back in the days when nothing in Aman ever spoiled or faded," one of the eldest of the fishers, Halaner, observed with a snort.  "I recall the early days, just after we arrived from the Great Journey, when one could bring in a month's haul and leave it in tubs without a single small fry going bad before it was time to go out for another month's provisions.  I never understood why things had to change."

"Because, Master Halaner," Manwë said as they drew near the pavilion, "we discovered that while our people do not suffer as greatly for it, the Eruhíni become seriously afflicted by lives without change.  To be deathless is one thing, but to be stagnant is another.  Would you prefer it if we simply arranged to have the fish wash ashore so that you need not go out in your ships to fetch them?"

The aged Elf flushed, though Manwë had spoken kindly, with a smile.  "Well, no, my lord," he admitted.  "That would be... boring."

"That it would," Ulmo said most emphatically, though his amiable grin did not fade.  "Even for us, it's good to have things shaken up a bit, now and again."  He turned his grin to Olórin.  "You managed to do that for us at your final Reckoning, didn't you, youngster?"

The Maia was not bothered by the sea lord's remark.  "Not deliberately, Lord Ulmo," he replied innocently.  "If you wish to blame someone for that surprise, you will have to take it up with Lord Eru.  He, after all, was the one Who deliberately inhibited my memory — and couched His revelation in a rather cryptic message, at that."

Ulmo's grin widened.  "Well said, little brother, well said!  Never let a bully like me place blame on your head when it rightfully belongs elsewhere!"  

He shifted his regard to the six Valar, one seafoam-hued eyebrow lifted.  "So, your ladies have abandoned you for the day, eh?  And you decided to mitigate your loneliness by inflicting your company on these two innocent youngsters?"  His gesture indicated Olórin and Frodo.

Oromë snorted.  "As you inflicted your company on these poor Lindar?"

Though most of the listening Elves smiled at their remarks, well aware that the two were clearly jesting, a few appeared ready to leap to Ulmo's defense.  Irmo intervened before they spoke up.  "Come, now, brothers," he chided.  "I was told this was to be a pleasant outing with the newest members of our family.  Bickering in front of the Children is most unbecoming."

Tulkas let out a great guffaw.  "Oh, aye, but which children do you mean?" he joked, plainly including the "newest members" to which Irmo had referred as "children."

Smiling crookedly, Oromë cuffed the Champion's ear.  "The ones that include you, of course, you big lout."

Irmo frowned at this byplay, but many of the Elves laughed.  "Don't take it so personally, Lord Irmo," Ciryator suggested amiably.  "This kind of bickering is common among our families, and so long as it is done in good humor, there's no harm to it.  Indeed, it is reassuring to some of us to see that it happens in all families, not just ours."

"Sad, but true," Halaner said, smiling.  "Though if I wanted to spend the morning watching bickering, I'd go loiter about the Noldorin pavilions."

Snickers and chuckles rippled through the throng, and all smiled.  "I can think of much more pleasant things to do, I'm sure," Manwë declared.  "Were there specific things you wished to look for, Cousin Frodo?"

Frodo, who had been giving half his attention to one of the Telerin vendors' wares -- a display of beautiful items crafted from shell and pearl and sea-glass -- started slightly when his name was spoken.  His smile held only a hint of chagrin for his wandering attention.  "Yes, Cousin Manwë," he answered, his familiar address of the Elder King causing many widened eyes among the Elves.  "But I do want to see as much of the bazaar as possible, if I may.  I enjoyed the autumn market and the Free Fair in the Shire, before the burden of the Ring stole so much of my health and happiness.  I've been to other markets and fairs in various parts of Aman, but this is so much larger than any of those, I want to explore all of it!"

His enthusiasm touched all who heard it, Olórin more than any.  "Then we were wise to set out as soon as we could," the Maia observed.  "And if Mistress Marilla's fine wares have already caught your eye, perhaps we should begin here."

"An excellent suggestion," Manwë approved, turning to smile at the merchant.  

Marilla — a small Telerin lady with near-white hair that shimmered in the sunlight like the pearls after which she had been named — paled to find herself the subject of not only Frodo's attention, but that of his eight Ainu companions.  She had seen all of them at a distance, of course, but she had never met any of the Valar directly, and only spoke with some of the Maiar on rare occasion.  She had met Olórin once, before the death of the Trees, and was surprised that he still remembered her.  But he and Frodo went about their business in such a disarming manner, she soon found herself managing to discuss her goods with the Valar, a number of whom were interested in acquiring small gifts for their absent spouses.  It was all done in a relaxed and affable way, so that Marilla soon lost her timidity in speaking with them, and was able to bargain with them as respected customers rather than the governors and guardians of  Arda.  By the time they moved on, several purchases had been made, and Marilla was doing a brisk business with newly interested customers who had come to see what had so intrigued the distinguished party.

The day continued in much the same fashion.  From time to time, the group would split up, one or more of the members going off to see something that did not interest the others, or to take care of their duties, which could not be wholly neglected.  On and off, others would join them for a bit, sometimes Elves, sometimes Maiar who had no obligations to keep them from attending.  When they all gathered for the midday meal at a pavilion both Oromë and Ulmo had recommended — one being run by a group of Elves from all three kindreds, who operated one of the best inns on the road outside Valmar — their numbers had been increased by half a dozen.  Glorfindel and Ecthelion, both of whom were keen to discuss the finer points of single combat with a Balrog with Olórin, had brought with them Ereinion Gil-galad, who was himself most interested in speaking with the halfling who had made possible the defeat of the fallen Maia who had slain him at the end of the Second Age.   Finarfin and Olwë had joined them, for unstated reasons of their own, and Eönwë had also come.

It made for a surprisingly merry impromptu feast, even when Glorfindel waxed poetic on the rather grisly topic of which was worse, plummeting while in combat with a Balrog or simply engaging it in battle on solid ground.  He relented only when Olórin pointed out that some of his remarks were causing Frodo to turn a rather distressing shade of green, after which the Elf lord was most apologetic and solicitous toward their mortal dining companion.

The two Elven kings smiled at Glorfindel's attempts to make amends.  Finarfin was particularly amused.  "Did Amatírë tell you to go bother other folk for a while?" the Noldóran asked, the twinkle in his eyes belying the innocence in his tone.

Glorfindel blushed.  In the years since his return from Middle-earth, he had re-established his relationship with Amatírë, a very patient Elf-maid of the Teleri whom he had met after his rebirth in the Second Age.  Back then, they had talked of betrothal, but had postponed it when the plan for him to return to Endorë to assist the surviving son of Eärendil had been devised.  Amatírë was a remarkable person who felt pity rather than bitterness toward the Noldor for what had followed Feänor's dreadful Oath.  It had helped that Glorfindel, the son of a Noldorin mother and a Vanyarin father, had been quite young at the time of the Kinslaying and thus had taken no part in it, even though he and his parents had followed Turgon into exile, as his father had long been a devoted friend to Fingolfin's second son.

Amatírë's affection for Glorfindel was genuine, but she had also felt a sense of duty toward her mother, as her father had perished in a shipboard accident during the War of Wrath and had not been granted rebirth before Glorfindel was due to depart on his journey to help Elrond.  Rather than force Amatírë to choose between following him and abandoning her mother, they had decided to wait to make a formal declaration of their intentions until after Glorfindel returned.  Neither had anticipated that it would be a separation of several thousand years, and rebuilding their relationship since his return had had its shares of ups and downs.  Thus far, the worst of it had been some startlingly heated verbal exchanges, many of which ended with the very request Finarfin had mentioned.

Glorfindel cleared his throat.  "Ah... well, yes, though not in those precise words.  I tried to help her and her parents set out their wares before the bazaar opened. Eärmírë and Alyasímar are the finest glass crafters I have ever known, and I fear that in my eagerness to be of assistance, I nearly shattered several of their most valuable pieces.   Amatírë said I was being as helpful as a Balrog in a house of glass, and suggested I go find another place to get into mischief before I destroyed all of their goods."

"A wise suggestion," Olwë opined.  "We must see to it that you and Amatírë settle down together sooner rather than later.  If you wait until you no longer have these little spats, you will never wed!"

There was laughter all around; Aulë favored Glorfindel with a broad smile.  "Too true, alas," he sighed.  "Yavanna and I have never gotten over that habit, though our disagreements have become less heated and more comfortable, with time.  She has even come to think of them as charming overtures to more pleasant activities — once she recovers from her fits of pique, of course."

The others chuckled at that insightful estimation of the Earth Queen.  "It is long overdue," Olórin told his fellow Balrog-slayer.  "Have you gotten around to discussing where you will make your home, when the time finally comes?"

Glorfindel was relieved by this slight change of topic.  "We have.  She would like it if we could spend part of each year in Vorimalondë, as most of her kin moved there to help in building the harbor for Tirion, and stayed to found the adjacent city once the port was completed.  The rest of the year she would like to spend in Lórien.  I'm quite amenable to the notion, if Lord Irmo and Lady Estë are agreeable to having another Elf settle in their realm."

"We would consider it an honor," Irmo assured him.  "Amatírë is a sweet and gentle spirit, not to mention an exceptionally skilled herbarist.  Estë and I have long been fond of her, and would welcome her.  But have you no plans to spend any part of your year in your family's house, here in Valmar?"

The dimming of Glorfindel's face was like a cloud crossing the sun.  "Not until my kin return there.  I still cannot understand why it is that I was reborn more than five millennia ago, and yet they who died before me are still in Mandos."

Many eyes shifted to Námo, who regarded the Elf with a distant but sympathetic expression.  "It is complicated," he said quietly.  "This decision is not mine to make, nor Manwë's.   The rage that led some of your family to pursue a course of ill-considered and fatal revenge after the death of the Trees is not yet resolved in their hearts.  Others are waiting for them and have thus far refused to leave until those who remain obstinate are released.  For some, the proper time simply has not come.  But I promise you, Glorfindel, your family's house will not stand empty forever."

When Glorfindel did not appear much consoled by Námo's assurance, Ecthelion elbowed him.  "Come, come, now, old friend," he chided with a smile.  "The two of you have gone 'round on this so often, I've begun to think you've gone deaf.  You know Lord Námo can't give you a schedule of when and where your family will be coming back.  And you know that even if he does know, he isn't going to tell you until it's the right time, he's not allowed.  Don't spoil the day for the rest of us by sulking."

Manwë clicked his tongue, but only in the most gentle of rebukes.  "Perhaps Lord Glorfindel has earned the right to sulk for a minute or two," he said.  "It saddens us as well when we cannot tell these things to those who have waited many long years to be reunited with those they love.  But it is rare that we withhold that information when we do have reliable foreknowledge of the time it will come to pass.  There is much we know that you do not, it is true, but when the matter involves the free will choices of the Eruhíni, there is nothing of which we can be certain."

Námo nodded, the autumn sunshine gleaming on his smooth black hair.  "That is so.  I know that it is common belief among the Firstborn that I know all that is to come, but only Eru Ilúvatar is capable of holding so much knowledge in His mind.  I know what He reveals to me, when He chooses to do so, and sadly, that is not nearly as much nor as frequently as others -- or even I! -- often wish.  I know that it will not be long before some of your kin are restored to you, Glorfindel, but I cannot tell you when because I simply do not know.  That becomes certain only when each fëa entrusted to my care makes that decision for his or her own self.  Only then can we restore them to life in hröa, and can they take the final steps to return to the living.  You know this."

Glorfindel did indeed, as did the two other Reborn Elves sitting at the table.  "I do," he admitted.  "But I still dislike it."

Olórin, who was seated to his left, laid one hand on his arm in a gesture of sympathy.  "No one expects you to do otherwise, my friend," he said with great compassion.  "Accepting a thing never means that you have to take pleasure in it."

"Indeed," Irmo agreed, "and I beg your pardon for having mentioned the subject.  Our youngest brother has gently corrected me, and rightly so.  It was not my intent to distress you, Lord Glorfindel."

The Elda's entire demeanor softened, hearing the sincere regret in the Vala's voce.  "I know that, my lord, and you are forgiven.  I have heard that the Valar are saddened by the long emptiness of the House of the Golden Flower, no less than I.  But it would not seem right for me to take up residence there, for I was never the head of that House here in Aman.  Turgon bestowed such a title upon me in Gondolin to honor the memory of my parents, who were his friends and perished in the same tragedy that claimed his wife Elenwë.  But here in Aman, that honor rightfully belongs to my father, or grandfather.  I am content to wait until they return to claim it."

He spoke in earnest, and all accepted it.  Frodo, who was sitting across the table, looked up at him.  "I have often wondered about you, Glorfindel, about how you first came to Middle-earth, and to Gondolin.  Olórin has told me some things, but I can see now that he didn't tell me very much.  Perhaps you can tell me more, if you wish — but later.  For now, I think Lord Ecthelion is right, and we shouldn't spoil such a lovely day with dark thoughts about the past.  Did you say your lady's parents are Eärmírë and Alyasímar?  I've heard that Eärmírë is the most skilled glassblower in Eldamar, and that her husband fashions magnificent windows that are beautiful pictures made of tinted glass.  I would love to see their work."

The conversation then shifted to a discussion of the glassmaker's arts, and other less contentious topics.  Glorfindel favored Frodo with a smile of grateful relief for his timely remarks, and both Olórin and Manwë gave him nods of approval for his deftly handled diversion.  Aulë and Ulmo were soon having a lively debate over who were the most skilled in crafting glass, the Noldor or the Teleri, while Gil-galad, who was seated beside Frodo, asked him about the Shire, which until the establishment of Arnor had once been a part of his realm in Middle-earth, though long before the arrival of the first Hobbit settlers.  Manwë and Olórin were engaged in conversation with the two current Elven kings, and the attention of the others flitted back and forth to whichever discussion seemed most interesting to them at the moment.  

The spectacle of the large group of distinguished diners caught considerable attention of others as well, and long before they finished their meal and departed, the pavilion was overflowing with those who came to sate their appetites for food and drink and potential gossip.  The ever-shifting throng consisted of both Elves and Maiar, and the happenings at the tables where the Valar and their company were seated was of interest to all, and was surreptitiously noted by more than just the Elder King.

Next:

Through a Glass, Brightly

VII

Through a Glass, Brightly

When they were finally ready to continue on their way, Manwë saw to it that the proprietors and all their staff were suitably rewarded for their hard work, as well as the fine meal.  Glorfindel, Ecthelion, and Eönwë remained at the pavilion to talk with friends who had arrived only a few minutes earlier, while Finarfin, Olwë, and Ereinion joined the larger party.  Olwë was acquainted with Glorfindel's lady and her parents, and as he knew where they had set up shop in the bazaar, he led the others to it.

Outside the pavilion where the glasscrafters were displaying their wares, Amatírë had set up a booth from which she was selling a wide variety of the herb and spice concoctions that were her specialty.  Many were for culinary use, but there were also a large number of preparations that were used to provide pleasing scents for home and bath.  While Olórin assisted Frodo in looking over the cooking herbs and spices that were not available in Lórien, several of the Valar and the Elves continued on into the pavilion, while the rest approached Amatírë.  She was a lovely maid of medium height, with an expressive round face dominated by large gray-green eyes and waves of ash-blonde hair somewhat darker than was typical of many Teleri.  Those wide eyes widened all the more when she saw who had come to her booth.

Manwë smiled warmly as she gave him her obeisance.  "No need to stand on ceremony, my dear," he told her when she would have made a courtesy to each of them.  "We are here merely as customers today.  Varda made sure to tell me to visit you, as she is busy entertaining guests.  Do you have any of the sachets she favors?"

Amatírë nodded vigorously, and ducked behind one of her displays to find what the Vala had requested.  His disarming manner, as well as that of the others, soon put her at ease, and their business was conducted quite merrily.  Frodo had a few questions about some of the more unusual herbs and spices with which he was unfamiliar, and she answered them both expertly and eagerly, as she had met the hobbit and Olórin before, while visiting Glorfindel in Lórien.  Frodo quickly made his selections and paid for them, and was a bit surprised when Olórin made a purchase of his own, a bundle of sweet cinnamon sticks.

"For Ványalos," he explained.  "He's quite fond of cinnamon, but as the tree from which it comes does not grow in Lórien, he has few opportunities to enjoy it as often as he would like.  He takes his duty to Lord Irmo more seriously than many would think, so he seldom takes advantage of his travels to obtain such luxuries for himself.  He also never learned any skill to earn money or barter among the Elves — and when he does have either, he spends it on others."

Frodo instantly understood, and Irmo smiled.  "Aye, for all that he appears to be a rogue, my messenger is unfailingly generous.  You are kind to think of him, Olórin."

The Istar dismissed it with a casual gesture.  "No more so than the kindness he has shown me as a friend — and that you and Lady Estë have also shown, by allowing me to live in your realm all these many years."

Irmo's expression warmed as he settled one hand on the Maia's shoulder.  "That was no kindness, young brother.   It was a gift we gave to ourselves."

Olórin accepted the dream-master's compliment with a gracious nod.  Manwë then suggested that they continue on into the glassmakers' pavilion.  Most of it was open-air, as the works on display were best seen in bright light.  Sunbeams sparkled on the beautiful products of their craft. Tables draped with cushioning velvet cloth held many works of blown glass, from simple clear goblets to intricate multi-colored decorative sculptures.  Easels and display scaffolds bore works of stained glass, some small enough for Frodo to hold in one hand, others taller than he.  Everything was a marvel to him, but it was the largest of the displayed windows that caught his eye and held it.  It was round and stood half again as tall as the tallest of the Valar, and when a beam of sunlight fell through it, lighting the image and making it seem to come alive, he gasped.  

"Oh, Olórin, look!" he breathed in wonder, tugging lightly on the Maia's sleeve to get his attention.  The Istar turned his head to glance where the hobbit was pointing, and his own eyes widened.  The large round window was aglow with an idyllic scene of low green hills, wide fields ready for harvest, and lovely woodlands, which were just beginning to show the first traces of autumn color.  The cloud-flecked sky depicted was the same bright fall blue as that above them, and as one looked more closely, a road could be seen, winding its way between the hills, past shrubs and flowers and round doors and small windows.

"It's the Shire!" Frodo exclaimed in delight.  "I thought it was Lórien at first, but — oh my, it's Bagshot Row!"

Olórin nodded his agreement, smiling.  "It is, and the way it was before Saruman tried to ruin the Shire."  He looked up at Alyasímar, who had come to stand proudly beside this most unusual masterpiece.  The Teler was not as tall as many of his kindred and was darker haired than most, but he had a quick and gregarious manner that gave him considerable presence.  "How did you find such details?" he asked the crafter.  "I'm certain you've never been to the Shire...."

"Never, my lord," Alyasímar confirmed.  "But those who commissioned the work saw to it that I was provided with descriptions and drawings from those who knew it well.  Glorfindel was most helpful, as was Gildor Inglorion, and many who had been a part of his company in Endorë.  Lords Arafinwë and Olwë put several of their finest artists and draftspeople at my disposal to render the descriptions of those who were interviewed, and Lord Ereinion contributed detailed sketches of what he recalled of the trees and other flora of Eriador.  I was also given an opportunity to speak with the elder Master Baggins, though he did not know that it was this commission that sparked my interest in his former home."

At the second mention of a commission, Frodo managed to tear his eyes away from the window.  "But who in Aman would want such a thing?" he wondered.  "It's much too large for an ordinary house, and very few people here know anything at all about the Shire.  I should think they would want a depiction of the Hill Country in Lórien."

"I wanted it."  

When Frodo looked to see who had spoken, he was shocked to see Námo step forward.  The hobbit was so thunderstruck, he could not speak.  The Vala smiled gently, understanding his reaction.  "There is a place in my halls where those who have been reborn and are soon to be released gather to speak to one another of what has been, and what is to come.  They take comfort from one another, and from the tapestries my lady Vairë displays there, to remind them of the beauties of the world they are about to reenter, of its goodness rather than its evils.  I and my siblings have felt that if more light were to enter the room — the natural light of star and sun and moon — it would hearten those who come there, and further ease their adjustment.  I have long been familiar with the art of Alyasímar, and I wanted to commission him to make the largest of the windows that would be placed there, but I could not decide what subject I wished for him to depict, until you and Bilbo arrived in Aman."

Frodo blinked, startled by his choice.  "But wouldn't it have been more logical to show Lórien?  Many of the reborn come there for a time, I'm told, and all of them are Elves.  A few know of the Shire, but none have ever lived there."

"True," Námo agreed.  "Which is part of why I chose it.  Even though they are returned to innocence, some of the reborn might wonder why it is not their town or their country I chose for them to see, were I to have selected a place familiar to them, and they might take offense.  The Shire may not be known to them, but it has a beauty that brings peace and contentment to the hearts of those who look upon it.  And not a few of those Elves died in the long struggles against Sauron over the last two ages.  Though they are not told all the history of the world of the living since they left it, they have been informed of Sauron's defeat, and how it was brought about."

He lowered himself to one knee, not in homage, but to speak with the halfling face to face.  "That knowledge gives them relief, or joy, or hope — or all three.  And if they should ask what beautiful green land it is that they behold in this window, they will know that it is the land where their hope and joy was born.  For it was from the deep soil of the Shire that you and Bilbo and Samwise and your honored cousins sprang, and it will be remembered and honored as an emblem of hope and rebirth for as long as my halls stand."

Tears filled Frodo's eyes as he listened to the Vala.  "Thank you, Lord Námo," he said softly, afraid his voice would crack if he spoke any louder.  "I could never have expected such a tribute, but it touches me deeply.  Did you ask Alyasímar to bring it here for display, so that I might see it?"

Námo smiled. "Not precisely, although I am glad you had the opportunity.  Master Alyasímar brought it with the intent of delivering it to me, but also so that others who may never visit my halls would have a chance to see it before I take it there.  It is indeed a masterpiece of his art."

Frodo agreed.  "We must make sure Bilbo sees it before the bazaar is over, then, since he didn't know about this commission when Alyasímar spoke with him."

"That should be easily arranged," Olórin felt certain.  "As long as the weather remains fair, the bazaar should continue for at least several more days, and once he hears of this, Bilbo will no doubt suggest that he have a chance to see it."  He glanced in Manwë's direction.

The wind-lord chuckled.  "If Ulmo will cooperate, it can be managed.  I'm sure all our Elven guests, both the merchants and their customers as well as those who are traveling, will appreciate a week or two of reliably fine weather."

Ulmo nodded his agreement, grinning.  "Anything for our new cousins — and other kin, of course."

Eärmírë — who had the lithe build of many Telerin women and elaborately braided hair the color of honey — had been quietly listening to the conversation, and now stepped to stand beside her husband.  "Alyasímar has every right to be proud of this commission," she said, regarding the hobbit with kind eyes of the same gray-green as her daughter.  "It is one of the finest things he has ever wrought, though perhaps all the attention paid to it has made him forget his other recent works."  She gave her spouse a pointed look.

Alyasímar blinked in momentary confusion, then suddenly grasped her meaning.  "Oh, yes!" he said even as he moved toward one of the tables where their supplies were stored.  "Those who helped me work on the design provided a great number of drawings and other images," he said as he searched through the things that were stored behind the table.  "Many more than I could use in Lord Námo's commission, I'm afraid.  I hated to see it go to waste after the others had made such an effort to help me, and Amatírë had a suggestion that I was pleased to implement.  Lady Vairë provided this particular image; I could not have imagined it so clearly, from mere description."

He brought forth something of about Frodo's height, wrapped in sturdy canvas.  It was large and clearly heavy, but as he was used to handling the weight of glass and lead and other materials of his craft, Alyasímar made no bother of it.  As he brought it to one of the empty easels, he slipped the knot on the cord holding the cover in place and allowed the canvas to fall away to the ground. It was, of course, another of his glassworks, set in a frame of finely polished oak.  The sunlight fell through the glass, bringing its colorful image to life.

"This is for both of you," he told Frodo and Olórin as he placed it upon upon the easel's wooden crossbar, so that it would be at at comfortable height for viewing.  "My daughter and Glorfindel both felt you would appreciate it, and I am glad to make the gift, in return for having provided me with so much inspiration — even though you were unaware of it."

The glass was generally rectangular in shape, rounded at the top.  The scene it depicted was one of the evening, with the fading colors of sunset along the far horizon below the deep blue of the coming night flecked with the first stars.  High above gleamed the curve of the Valacirca, and Eärendil's star, the brightest of all, sparkled well above the edge of the sunset.  Beneath the display of the heavens was the Hill in Hobbiton, and atop it were two figures.  One, a young hobbit in his tweens, was seated on the grass dotted with summer flowers; the other, an old man robed in gray, stood behind him, one hand raised to point at the brilliant evening star, while the other hand held a faintly smoking pipe.

"I remember this," Frodo said, his voice soft with wonder, the memory coming clearly.  "It was a year after Bilbo adopted me as his heir.  You had just arrived that afternoon, Olórin, and Bilbo had something special planned for that evening.  He shooed us out of the house and told us not to come back until he called for us.  We walked up to the top of the Hill to watch the sun set, and when the stars began to come out, I asked you what you knew about them.  That was the first time I heard the story of Eärendil, and that the stars we Hobbits called the Plough were really the Sickle of the Valar.  I barely knew what any of it meant, then, but now...."

He looked up at the Maia, pleasure in his eyes at the long-forgotten memory, and was startled to see tears on his old friend's face.  "Olórin...?"

The Istar cleared his throat before responding.  "I remember it as well, Frodo.  It was a special moment, and a special day.  I am glad that Lady Vairë saw fit to share it with others."

He turned to Alyasímar and gave him a bow of deepest gratitude.  "This is a gift beyond measure, Master Alyasímar.  You have captured a moment I will treasure in my heart forever.  In later years, after my mortal friends have chosen to accept the Gift of the One, it will give to me a window to the past and a remembrance of the love and joy I was able to share with the most remarkable of Hobbits."

Frodo had not considered that aspect of the beautiful window, but hearing Olórin speak of it, he glanced at Námo.  The dark Vala returned his glance with a gleam in his eyes that told Frodo that this was no coincidence.  Vairë had given the glasscrafter this image, knowing it would inspire Alyasímar to do precisely what he had done, with these very results.  He inclined his head to the Vala, his own eyes shining, graciously acknowledging the part Námo and his wife had played in bringing this about.

"I have a feeling that Master Alyasímar was provided with more than just images to work with," Frodo remarked, casting his eye about the pavilion and noting that not only were all seven lords of the Valar present, but Eönwë and the Elves who had joined them for lunch as well.  "Given the shape of the work, I suspect he was provided with the precise dimensions of the window that overlooks the front porch of your house, Olórin.  Or am I mistaken?"

Both Eönwë and Glorfindel had the good grace to appear mildly abashed.  "Guilty as charged," the latter confirmed.  "Though I was only the decoy, and Ecthelion my accomplice.  Lord Aulë suggested that window as the most suitable for the purpose and told us the dimensions, but Alyasímar wanted to check them to make certain nothing had been changed since the house was first built.  Eönwë did the actual checking.  I simply made sure that both of you were out of the house while he did it."

Aulë snorted affably.  "You might've just taken my word for it and saved everyone the trouble."

Eönwë conceded the point with a grin.  "Aye, since Master Baggins could see it was a perfect fit without the need for measurements!  But the subterfuge was not entirely wasted; it did give me a chance to answer Master Alyasímar's question about which shade of wood would be best suited for the frame.  We hadn't thought to ask you about that, my lord."

"Just as well," the Smith admitted.  "I left the details of decoration and colors to Yavanna and the other ladies who helped in making the house.  They changed their minds a score of times, as I recall."

Some of the others laughed, but Olórin merely smiled as his gaze returned to the window.  He settled one hand on Frodo's shoulder.  "That would be the perfect place for it.  At the front of the house, it will catch the light most of the day, and all our guests will see it — except for Ványalos.  He seems to prefer coming in through the kitchen window." 

Frodo was not the only one to laugh at that observation, as the nature of Irmo's messenger was well known to more than the Ainur.  Finarfin, who was probably the least familiar with the roguish Maia, chuckled, then asked Alyasímar, "Did you finish work on the other piece in time to bring it as well?"

"Oh, aye, my lord," the crafter assured him even as he gestured to his wife, who went to fetch it.  "I would not have felt right about presenting this gift had the other not been ready.  This is for your kinsman," he told Frodo as Eärmírë brought a much smaller piece of stained glass.  "I could not have made any of these things without his aid, and this is but a small expression of my thanks."

The piece that Eärmírë held out for the hobbit's inspection was a circle little wider than her two spread hands, but of equally exquisite workmanship.  It depicted the western side of Bag End, where a window overlooked the garden.  By the varieties of flowers making a riotous bloom of color below and around the window, it was early autumn, when all the garden plants put forth their last display, but before the chilly nights caused the leaves to turn.  Bilbo and Gandalf were inside, standing at the sill to admire the beauty without.  

From the gentle smile that crossed his face, Olórin recognized this moment as well.  "This was the day I arrived in Hobbiton for Bilbo's Party," he said, lightly touching the image of the strangely un-aged halfling.  "Bilbo always said this was the last quiet moment he had before all the preparations became overwhelming.  And he was proud of his garden.  He will be very pleased with this gift, Master Alyasímar."

The crafter looked quite relieved.  "I had hoped so.  Lord Elrond told me that there is a window in his study where this could be hung without diminishing either the light or the view."

"Then if it can be arranged for Master Bilbo to come and see the other panes, we can present him with this at that time," Eärmírë suggested.

"An excellent idea," Manwë said, favoring her with a smile of approval.  "Today, he is closeted with  Onótilúvë, learning the earliest history of the Hobbits, and tomorrow is the day of court for all our peoples.  Perhaps a meeting with Bilbo can be arranged for the following day."

Though the Elves and Frodo readily agreed, there was a bit of hesitance among the Ainur.  "Provided we aren't in the middle of a civil war by then," Tulkas muttered to Oromë in Valarin, too quietly for any but the Ainur to hear.  Manwë, whose ears were among the sharpest in all of Eä, gently chided the Champion in ósanwë, but said nothing aloud.

Eärmírë and her spouse were pleased with the Elder King's suggestion.  "Obviously, my husband did not expect any of these things to be taken immediately, as they are quite large.  He had hoped to appease his vanity by showing them off for a time — which, for once, I agree is well deserved," she amended with a fond look for her mate.  Alyasímar flushed at her mention of his vanity, but though he was abashed, he did not deny it.

Eönwë stepped up behind Olórin and clapped him on the shoulder.  "So, Uncle," he said with cheeky cheer, "will you invite the rest of us to come and see the new window after it's been properly installed in your house?"

Though many of those in the pavilion smiled at the Herald's flippant remark, some of the customers were startled, and others were clearly scandalized.  If he noticed those negative reactions, Olórin feigned ignorance of them and responded in kind.  "Certainly, Nephew.  I shouldn't want you and your cohorts to be deprived of seeing the final fruits of your subterfuge."

Glorfindel pretended to take offense at that, his ill-disguised laughter contradicting his indignation.  Ulmo then suggested that they finish whatever business they might have with the glasscrafters and then move on, so that the potential customers who had gathered to see what so interested the dignitaries could have a chance to admire the wares and possibly make purchases of their own.  Before they departed, Frodo looked over the beautiful blown glassware Eärmírë had available, and purchased several small but artful flasks and goblets.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in much the same way, moving from one vendor to the next, occasionally pausing so that Frodo could refresh himself with light food and drink.  Olórin and Manwë remained with him throughout the day, and at least three of the other Valar were also with them at all times.  Various Elves and Maiar also joined them from time to time; most were persons of some note, as were even the Maiar the Valar called upon to periodically relieve them of their purchases and return them to the appropriate mansions.

Late in the afternoon, as the autumn sun was nearing the horizon, Frodo was intensely involved in his perusal of the goods of a Vanyarin weaver when he felt a light tap on his shoulder.  He looked up and saw Olórin smiling down at him.  "Isn't this beautiful?" the hobbit said, holding up a length of exquisite silk voile, done in subtle blues and greens with hints of purple and silver, the design clearly meant to suggest flower petals floating upon a stream.  "Mistress Mirimë is just as skilled in her craft, but she's told me she never bothers to weave silk this sheer, as her clients seldom want it, and the better fiber comes from other regions of Aman.  But I remember the way she looked at the light gowns Lady Celebrían wore when she and Lord Elrond visited Lórien this past summer."

"Hmm, yes, with the very warm spell we had at midsummer, there were many ladies who envied Celebrían her summer wardrobe.  Fine linen can be as light and cool, but not always so soft and pleasing to the touch, or to wear.  Are you thinking that Mirimë might fancy a bit of this as a Yule gift?" the Maia speculated, still smiling.

Frodo nodded.  "The colors are ones she favors, and the pattern is quite lovely.  I was just wondering if she mightn't consider it insulting, to be given a gift in her own craft."

"Never," Olórin said with utter certainty.  "She is a very sensible person, and can appreciate the skills of others, especially in her own arts.  The Vanyar may be most renowned for their more intellectual and artistic pursuits, but they also have craftspeople of the highest degree.  Calandil Narvinyion is widely known as one of the finest silk weavers in all of Aman; Mirimë would surely be delighted by a gift of his handiwork."

The hobbit loosed an expansive sigh of relief, glad that he would not offend the lady who had become a dear friend to him, and made his purchase.  "When you are finished," Olórin added while the cloth was being measured and cut, "we should return to the mansion.  You may not have noticed how tired you are getting, but I have, and we are expected home for supper."

Even Frodo noticed when several other customers, not to mention the helper who was cutting the cloth, looked askance at the Maia's offhand reference to the Elder King's mansion as "home."  Wisely, he kept his own opinion of their reactions hidden.  "Yes, of course," he said as mildly as possible.  "Will we be able to return to the bazaar tomorrow?  I don't think we've seen more than half of the vendors."

"Not tomorrow," Manwë told him as he finished a purchase of his own, which he intended to be a gift for one of Ingwë's daughters, in thanks for her assistance in procuring certain things they had wanted on hand for their hobbit guests.  "While the Elven kings hold court tomorrow, we will be holding our own, and your presence will be required there, Cousin Frodo.  The bazaar does not open while court is in session, but it continues the day after.  We may return then, if you like."

He had not raised his voice, but the Vala's words were quite audible to all nearby.  When Frodo completed his purchase, Olórin took the parcel for him, they bid farewell to the Elves still in their company, and headed back toward Valmar.

Next:

Dinner and Deviousness

VIII

Dinner and Deviousness

"Are all of us invited for dinner?" Ulmo asked as they continued on at a leisurely pace, nodding and smiling at those who acknowledged their passing.

"Do you think Varda would have it otherwise?" Manwë replied, his tone serene but the sparkle in his eye impish.  "Our household staff is delighted whenever we have guests of the Eruhíni, and those who enjoy cooking have been especially thrilled to be providing for our esteemed Hobbit cousins.  Nárenilda had promised Bilbo a proper Hobbit supper yesterday, but she lamented that she didn't have as much time as she would have liked to make it truly proper.  She wanted to try again today, even after Varda warned her that there would be many extra guests.  She's thrilled to have another chance with such a distinguished group of diners."

Frodo chuckled. "Nárenilda may be happy, but are you sure all your lords and ladies will be?  Our dishes are hearty, but not as refined as the Elven cuisine I suspect many are accustomed to."

"Then it will be a welcome change," Tulkas said, his opinion seconded by nods from Oromë and Aulë.  "Not that I'm criticizing them, mind you, but most of us have never had a chance to share this part of the culture of the Secondborn."  He snorted softly.  "Other than Manwë and Varda and Olórin, none of us have had the pleasure of tasting the fare of the Hobbits."

"Not true," Irmo contradicted.  "Estë and I had that privilege this past Midsummer, at the celebration in Lórien.  Master Frodo has been giving Ványalos instruction in Hobbit cuisine since the day after he arrived in the Hill Country, and they were both very eager to show us all he has learned.  We enjoyed it immensely."

The talk wandered into recollections of other pleasant celebrations as they made their way to the Elder King's mansion.  It was perhaps a quarter of an hour before sunset when they arrived.  As they entered the great mansion, they found not only the seven Valiër awaiting them, but the fourteen Messengers and Eönwë as well.  From their expressions, the Maiar had considerable news, not all of which was pleasant.  Ványalos appeared particularly unsettled, the red of anger on his normally cheerful face clashing rather peculiarly with the coppery hue of his hair.

Manwë noticed all this as well, and sighed.  "Will this wait until after we have dined, or should we deal with it now?" he asked the ladies.

Varda smiled wryly.  "As much of the news of the day has already been shared among us in ósanwë, I believe the discussion of it can wait.  I for one would prefer to enjoy the hard work of our cooks on a calm stomach rather than an unsettled one."  To Frodo's surprise, she winked at him, and he suddenly understood that she had caught his stray thought, wondering if the Ainur were capable of suffering from such fleshly distress.  Her amiable jest made him chuckle, and dismiss the matter as irrelevant.

The meal was taken in the great banquet hall of the mansion, so that all the Valar and the Maiar who had come could partake.  The western wall of the hall held many tall and wide windows that were now filled with the beautiful display of the setting sun.  Before taking their seats, they followed the custom of many in Aman, and sang their thanks for the day, the exquisite voices of the Ainur so enthralling to their mortal guests, they were not able to join them until almost the very end.  When the song concluded, they stood for a moment more in respectful silence until the last edge of the sun disappeared below the far horizon.

Being a meal in the Hobbit fashion, it was less formal than might have otherwise been the case, with no rigidly assigned seating and a casual atmosphere.  The servers brought trays and bowls and platters to the tables where things could be passed about, and extras were set at sideboards, along with pots and pitchers of various beverages.  Some of the couples sat together; Bilbo remained alongside Varda, having taken to her immensely, and the star-queen delighted to dote upon him. Frodo was happy to see Ványalos again and chose a seat across the table from him.  Olórin had elected to sit beside his neighbor, and to Frodo's amazement had to cajole him into doing more than pick at his food.

"It's not that the food isn't excellent," the redhead assured them as he poked at a savory cheese and mushroom tart that Frodo happened to know was one of his favorites in Hobbit cuisine.  "It's just that hearing what I heard today has taken away my appetite — a difficult thing to achieve, as I'm sure you know!"

Yaisawen and Failaner — the twin Maiar who served as messengers for Námo and Nienna — both grinned at Ványalos's complaint.  "Impossible, so I've heard," Yaisawen, the auburn-haired elder of the two quipped.  Her smile faded as she added, "Although under the circumstances, it's fully understandable.  Until today, I had never thought that any of our people who did not follow Melkor could be so... petty and self-absorbed.  Aránayel was a fool, and somehow managed to misguide herself, but she at least was consistent in her behavior.  To the best of my knowledge, she never went about saying one thing while obviously expecting another."

Olórin nodded.  "You must be referring to Lintamacar."

But Failaner shook his head, his own thick auburn hair brushing his shoulders.  "Not just him.  We spent much of the day going hither and thither on errands that were intended to allow us to listen for indications of unrest.   Most of us found that most of the Valar have at least several in their service whose thinking is quite similar.  It isn't precisely that they dislike you personally, Olórin..."

"Though Eru knows, some do, for the most ridiculous reasons," Ványalos interjected sourly.

"...but rather that they harbor considerable feelings of having been cheated, which makes them extremely envious of what they feel are rewards lavished upon you."

The Istar sighed heavily.  "I have known many Elves who feel that the Ainur who did not side with Melkor must be free of such emotions.  I suppose that if naught else of good comes from this, it will at least provide an example that will finally convince them that they are in error."

Frodo suddenly found himself bristling with outrage.  "You consider that good?" he asked, appalled.  "Olórin, have you lost your mind?"

Ványalos managed a crooked smile.  "If he believes what he just said, yes.  I know that you have a well-earned reputation for wisdom, pityandil, and under any other circumstances, I would say that your observation shows remarkable patience and insight — but in this, you are wrong.  The kind of example this sets for the Children is one they do not need, from us or anyone else.  We are supposed to be their guides and teachers, but not in how to behave abominably toward one another!"

The vehemence in the normally insouciant redhead's manner took Olórin aback for a moment, especially when he saw it reflected in Frodo's face.  He glanced at the twins, and at the others seated at their table, and realized that they all felt the same.  In ósanwë, he saw many images of what the messengers had seen and heard, and he knew that they were not exaggerations.  "I stand corrected," he said softly, suppressing a shiver of reaction.  "I wanted to believe that Lintamacar was an example of the worst response to our Father's revelation."

Alyanis, Estë's messenger, was seated beside Yaisawen, and had shared her own experiences of the day in their brief exchange of thoughts.  "He may not be quite as intensely negative as some of the others, but he has certainly been the most vocal about it.  Truly, Olórin, it is comparatively few of our people who think this way, and I do not believe that any of it is actual hatred toward you, or Lord Manwë.  There is a greater undercurrent of... disillusionment, I would say, toward the Valar whom the malcontents serve.  Most of them want greater recognition from those Valar to whom they have dedicated their lives, as they see it, and because they feel that they have not gotten it for one reason or another, they believe their efforts have been deemed insufficient and unworthy."

Ványalos snorted.  "That may be so, but it doesn't excuse their behavior.  Attacking innocents is never an acceptable solution to any problem, real or imagined."

"I should say not!" Frodo agreed most emphatically.  He had not been privy to the communication the Maiar had shared, but his experience of the previous day was enough for him to deduce what had been in the exchange.  "Obviously, none of us are immune to the temptations of our baser emotions.  If the Ainur were, Melkor would not have rebelled, nor those who followed him.  But I know from my own experience that people who believe they deserve something and then take out their frustrations on those who have what they want inevitably wind up causing trouble.  By and large, Hobbits are peaceful and content with their lives, but then there were the Sackville-Bagginses.  They let their resentment over what they felt should rightfully be theirs taint their entire lives, and ultimately all of the Shire. I doubt that the Shire would have come through the War wholly unscathed once it became of interest to Sauron and Saruman, but Lotho's notions of what he thought he should have made things much worse.  Oh, he was a splendid example of how bad a Hobbit can get if he becomes greedy and too full of himself — and if the others hadn't let him get away with it right from the start, Saruman's ruffians might not have had such an easy time of moving in and taking over.  Merry once told me that I wouldn't rescue the Shire by being shocked and sad, and you won't solve this problem by being shocked and sad either, my dear Olórin."

For a long moment, the Istar was completely still, both his thoughts and his expression unreadable; then, he smiled, softly.  "Now I understand why Manwë wishes for you to come to our court tomorrow.  Though we have different fates and powers, we are all Eru's children, with the same capacities for both folly and wisdom.  This world was made to be the habitation of the Eruhíni; we are, in the end, merely guests, here to be of service to the realization of the Music we sang, and the Creator we love.  When others mentioned your worthiness to be counted among the Maiar, they spoke a greater truth than perhaps they intended.  You have comported yourself with more dignity and wisdom than some of my kind have shown, Frodo, and I thank you for it."

The hobbit blushed, at the unexpected praise and the approving nods and glances of the others at the table.  "You're welcome," he said with only a slight trace of a stammer.  "But all I've done is spoken the truth."

"That can be the greatest wisdom of all," Ványalos declared with uncharacteristic sobriety.  "You spoke plainly, without any embellishment or exaggeration which might obscure that truth, or lead others to draw erroneous conclusions."

Frodo sniffed.  "But isn't that what some of Valar did when they implied that I might be made a Maia?"

"Perhaps," Yaisawen allowed.  "And I do not believe that the ends justify the means, if the means are wrong, and hurtful to others.  But did any of them say that you should be counted among the Maiar?"

The hobbit considered this, then shook his head.  "No.  At most, they said that I deserved it, but not that it should actually happen.  In fact, at least once, Lord Manwë bluntly said such a thing would never happen."

Alyanis chuckled.  "I believe I was nearby when he said it.  More people who overheard reacted to the fact that you called him cousin, I think."

"Just so," said Failaner, nodding.  "What the Valar said of you is true, as Olórin has already observed.  By your actions, you have shown yourself to be in spirit and heart no different than those of us who are not Eru's children of true flesh.  In honor, you deserve to be counted among us, but not in actuality.  What is the need?  Were you to become one of us, you would then be bound by the limits placed upon us, to remain within Eä until its end.  You would lose the Gift of Mortals, and would not be able to follow your kin beyond the circles of the world.  We could not even want to rob you of that blessing.  Yet if those who themselves crave higher rank and reward twist the truth into something that was not intended, they but expose their own crookedness.  No deception is needed, for in their minds, they have already believed such things are possible, of their own free will.  The Valar know this, as do we.  There was never any intent to trick them into believing a lie; rather, it was desired that those who harbor such jealousies and misconceptions be encouraged to express them without coercion, so that in exposing their hurt, they might be healed."

"Just so," Ványalos added.  "I understand that you were disturbed by the argument you overheard yesterday, Frodo.  I was just as disturbed by things I heard today. I do not like to hear anyone maligned, and Olórin is my friend; I love him as a brother as much as Lord Manwë loves him, and thus dislike hearing such things directed toward him all the more.  But only those who allow their own base feelings to blind them to his true worth, and yours, can imagine that the Valar have plotted with our Creator to change what He made both of you to be into something different."

Frodo understood what they were trying to explain, but one thing still nagged at him.  "But isn't that what He did for Lúthien, and Tuor, Eärendil and Elwing?"

"Not precisely," Olórin replied.  "Both Eärendil and Elwing were of mixed blood, and thus had some right to choose their fate, as their sons did.  Lúthien was born of two immortal kinds, and was allowed to give up that immortality for the love of Beren.  Only Tuor was of purely mortal descent, and Eru granted him the life of the Eldar only after his son made his choice.  In that case, it was an act of love, done for the sake of Idril and Eärendil — and, I suspect, because the One knew what Elrond's choice would be. He wished for at least part of their family, which had known so much tragedy and separation yet had done so much to help others, to one day have a chance to be reunited in joy.  In our case, there is no reason for such changes to be made.  They would serve no purpose, not even one of love, as neither of us desire to be other than we are.  Or am I mistaken?"

Frodo blinked.  He had wondered what it might be like to be an Elf — or, less often, an Ainu — and perhaps if Eru had not granted him and Bilbo the blessing of a healed and protected life which they could give up when they were ready to fully accept the Gift, he might have stronger yearnings to be immortal.  No one had ever asked him if he wanted it, not so directly, and he considered his answer for several moments so that he could be wholly truthful.  "No," he finally said.  "No, I'm quite happy being a Hobbit.  I think all mortals wonder what it would be like to never die, especially if they live with immortals, but there's so much more to it than just living a very long time.  And having seen your memory of the Timeless Halls, I want to find out if what awaits mortals is even half as wonderful.  Not soon, of course," he added with a small smile.  "I'm still on the young side for a Hobbit, and there's a lot I want to see and do in this world."

"And I hope to share in some of those things — but I have no wish to become a mortal, nor a Vala," Olórin answered with a small smile of his own.  "I am as Lord Eru made me to be, and I am content.  My only regret is the discovery that others cannot feel the same."

All at the table, Frodo included, nodded their sad assent.  They finished the meal companionably, eschewing grimmer and more contentious topics for a discussion of the fine, and to most quite novel, cuisine.  Frodo, along with Olórin and Ványalos, were happy to answer questions and offer their own observations, which made for a more relaxed mood.  When the meal was over and all but the cups and mugs and glasses for beverages had  been cleared away, Manwë rose.  

Before he spoke, Frodo felt something ripple through the room that set his hair on end and made him shiver.  At first, he thought it was a night wind that had slipped past the tall windows, but he realized a moment later that it was a shiver of power, like the tingle one feels before a near lightning crash.  He glanced about quickly, and the rapt looks in the eyes of all the Ainur told him that they were sharing their news through the swiftness of ósanwë rather than the slower means of physical speech.  The hobbit was glad, for he had dreaded listening to more reports of what he was sure would only echo things that he had heard too much of already.  Very soon, the Elder King sighed.

"So it comes to this," he said, sadly.  "Can it truly be that only the people of Vána have none among them who harbor such bitterness?"

"That does not surprise me," the fair Valië admitted.  "Few of my people were actually involved in combat during the War of Wrath, or its more grim aftermath.  Most of my folk offered everyday but necessary support, such as seeing to the feeding and clothing and comfort of those who were directly involved.  Their work was not as taxing as that of a warrior or a healer.  Indeed, many have felt ashamed that they could not have done more, but I have assured them that their work was sorely needed by both our people and the Eruhíni.  They have long since accepted this, and set any guilt behind them."

Nienna nodded.  "Those few of my people who have revealed this affliction in their hearts are, I believe, less troubled by a need for recognition of their deeds and more by envy.  That Olórin has been my greatest pupil is an old puzzlement to them, for it seems most illogical.  The rumor that he is something other than a Maia is a thing they can seize upon to make sense of that conundrum, yet it also troubles them, for it is new and strange."

"If the incidents our messengers report are even a small fraction of the actual numbers of those upset, I believe we can at least take comfort in the fact that it is still a comparative few who are so stricken," Ulmo pointed out, his manner deeply thoughtful.  "Among my people, I suspect that it is nothing more than envy, not hatred or malice.  There are a few of my folk who would either wish to be my brother in truth, or feel that I should have been created as Manwë's brother, for we have always been very close."

Aulë sighed heavily.  "I wish I could say the same, but I know I cannot.  Ever since Curumo stepped forth to volunteer for the mission of the Istari, some of my people have rankled at any suggestion that he should not be counted as the highest of their order.  He was certainly wise in matters of craft, and very deep in his knowledge of many things, but there have ever been areas in which wisdom eluded him.  When he learned to use his voice to persuade others to his thinking rather than let the merit of his ideas alone provide the persuasion, he began down a dangerous path.  I made many attempts to steer him from it, for it was by such means that Sauron began to think of himself as being superior to his brethren.  Some of my folk did not take well Varda's foresight that Olórin would not be forever his subordinate, and their bitterness deepened when Olórin was charged to replace Curumo after his betrayal by him.  They are sorely in need of healing in their hearts, but alas, that is not among my gifts."

"It is among mine," Námo said in all honesty, "and yet I have not been able to heal all those of my own people who bear a similar affliction.  From the first, when the failure of Pallando became known to us, there were those of my folk who knew him, and came to me when their hearts were troubled by feelings of disappointment, shame, and anger.  Without exception, I was able to assist them in resolving those issues, either alone or with the help of my siblings.  But those who are now demonstrating resentment never spoke of it to me.  What is kept hidden in the heart may remain hidden long before others become aware of its existence.  And thus buried, it may grow to bear bitter fruit."

Irmo agreed.  "For good or ill, that has been the way of it.  Both Námo's people and mine, as well as Estë's, did considerable work during the War aiding those who were wounded both physically and spiritually, or easing the way for those who were dying.  It was a dreadful burden, and many of us were exhausted and in need of considerable rest and healing of our hearts and minds afterward.  I cannot help but think that those who are resentful or angry now never sought as much of those things as they truly needed, perhaps in an attempt to show that they were stronger than others.  I know of at least one of my people whose discontent was revealed today who resumed her work sooner than I had recommended.  But she would not be gainsaid, declaring that she would find the completion of her healing in aiding that of others.  Sometimes, this is true, as the gentle resumption of the very task that was so wearying restores one's confidence in their own ability, and reassures them that the work is not always so overwhelming.  This appeared to have been the case with her, for she hid her resentment well.  Indeed, I wonder if she herself was even aware of it, until recent events and the more open bitterness of others brought it to the fore."

"Likely not," said Nessa.  "Although it is clear that not all can make that claim.  Those of my people who are upset over recent revelations never before showed any sign of discontent.  Yet now, I can see that they were deeply troubled by the fact that their part in the War was not, to their minds, significant.  My archers were most skilled in battling Melkor's beasts and of great help in teaching the Eruhíni who needed to learn from them, but that plainly was not so worthy of note as the role of Eönwë and the warriors who were the vanguard and captains of the assault."

Tulkas loosed a grunt of displeasure.  "My own people were very much a part of that vanguard, beloved, and still, they are some of the most vehement in their complaints!  They have been given praise and told that they have earned honor by many more than I, yet it does not seem to be enough to appease them.  I cannot imagine what it is that they want!"

"Nor I," Oromë concurred, his nod echoed by Yavanna, whose people had fought alongside the Hunter's.  "I cannot think that they missed having a grand victory celebration when the War was ended.  It was a dreadful and painful experience for all involved, especially given how sorely it touched even those who did not fight, and Aman itself.  To celebrate would have been unthinkable.  The memorial that was held was sufficiently difficult."

"But to some who crave recognition, it may not have been enough," Vairë reflected.  The Weaver's function as a historian had not kept her and her people from participating in the battles, but it gave her a unique perspective.  "The memorial was held for the Eruhíni, to begin the healing that needed to occur, especially in the hearts of the Teleri, once the exiles began to return.  Their losses and their contributions were recognized in a public demonstration of respect, yet among us, there was never a single large gathering for that purpose, as there was fear of disturbing the Children.  Perhaps what was needed was more than the recognition we expressed among our individual peoples."

"Perhaps," Varda allowed.  "But that is hardly an excuse to carry such bitterness for two ages of the world.  It may not be proper for one to ask for praise, especially under the painful circumstances that prevailed after the War, but it is even less proper to nurse such feelings into unwarranted spite and malice.  It is wicked to turn those feelings on those who have done nothing to merit such treatment."

"So what are we to do?" Vána asked, bringing the discussion full circle.  "I gather that you have some kind of plan, Manwë, but does it involve more than calling all our people to court and coaxing those who are harboring ill feelings to reveal them?"

"Somewhat more than that," the Elder King replied with a faint smile.  "All of it, of course, hinges upon our ability to do what you have just said, Vána.  We cannot force our people to reveal what they wish to keep secret, and if any remain adamant, some vestiges of the problem will remain."

Bilbo snorted.  "Yes, and very likely get worse again, if I'm any judge of such things.  No matter what Frodo and I did to try to appease the Sackville-Bagginses, they remained convinced that they should be the heads of the family — and in the long run, the entire Shire.  I'm sure you know how that turned out!"

Frodo's initial thought to chide Bilbo for being impertinent vanished as another, better thought occurred to him.  "It certainly didn't turn out well for us, but I think that this time, it might be just what is needed."

Ulmo regarded the younger hobbit curiously, being familiar with the tale Bilbo had mentioned.  "So you think we should just turn over the leadership of our people to the dissidents?"

Frodo smiled impishly.  "Why not?  Oh, I don't mean permanently, of course, but it seems to me that those who crave attention and praise when they say they don't are really wanting the prestige of being the one in charge — and not of just their little corner of things, either."  

He turned to Olórin.  "Wasn't that part of Boromir's problem, and his father's?  They talked about defending Gondor and preserving it for when the king returned, but the truth was, they really wanted to be the king, with full authority, not just stewards holding the land for someone else.  They may never have said it that bluntly, because it would make them look treasonous to others, but that's what was in their hearts.  Or am I in error?"

The Maia shook his head.  "I'm afraid you are not.  And that was also the trouble with Sauron, and Saruman and Melkor.  They wanted the authority to order their worlds as they wished; they were never content to merely be in service to a higher authority.  Melkor wanted to be Lord Eru, Sauron wanted to be Melkor, and Saruman wanted to be Sauron."

Aulë's brow furrowed with thought.  "And yet Sauron appeared content to serve as Melkor's lieutenant for more than an age of the world," he pointed out.

"I believe that appeared content is the operative phrase, my lord," Eönwë replied.  "If that had been truly so, Sauron would have remained with Melkor and would not have established his own strongholds outside Thangorodrim.  I'm certain he convinced Melkor that this was ultimately to his benefit, giving them more than one point of strength in Endorë, but from what I know and saw of him, Sauron was always most attentive to his own interests, not Melkor's.  Even in Númenor, he invoked his name as something he could use to manipulate the king and his followers.  Everything he has done has been with the ultimate goal of preserving and advancing himself, to take the place of Melkor, as Olórin says.  If he were but a loyal and dedicated servant, he would have been working to find ways to free his master, not become him."

"And he has never made that attempt," Failaner said with considerable certainty.  "One of my fellow servants of Nienna, Ardil, is among those who kept watch upon the Doors of Night after Melkor was taken into his final captivity.  Before Father placed His own restraints upon him to ensure that Melkor would remain captive until the End, Ardil was concerned that Sauron or the other fallen Maiar would at least try to free him while it was still even remotely possible, but not a single attempt was ever made.   I know that if it had been my lady Nienna who was imprisoned, I could not have rested until she was freed.  But then, she has my love, not merely my fealty, and I serve her because of that love, not because of her power."

Manwë was not the only one to nod, sadly.  "Yes, love is something my elder brother shared with no one, and I have no doubt that those who followed him or fell to his ways had similar issues."

Lúsinara, Aulë's messenger, sighed.  "I know that it was true of Curumo," she said in a subdued voice.  "I had thought that he and I were close in heart, but I allowed my own feelings to blind me to the truth.  I loved him, and I believe that in our early days, he returned my affections.  But as the ages wore on, he became capable of loving only the works of his hand, the discoveries he made, the knowledge he amassed, the stature he gained.  Love became something he did not give to others without condition.  Perhaps if he had, he would not have strayed from the path of light."  

She looked toward Olórin, her dark eyes full of sadness.  "Do not regret that you could not persuade him to repent, Olórin.  I fear that his desire to lead the Istari was but a step along a road he had sought to follow long before you were charged with that mission.  He ever coveted Sauron's position, and once he had achieved that part of it which had been his among Lord Aulë's people, it was inevitable that Curumo would desire the status Sauron enjoyed in Endorë, once he was there.  He would have wanted to depose him so that no greater servant of the Smith would remain to be his rival, and within Endorë, he would have wished to be held in similar reverence — or fear, if reverence could not be had.  That he wanted all this was not your fault, nor Lord Aulë's.  Curumo could have craved things for the good of others.  Instead, he craved what fed his selfishness, and thus he came to the small, mean end that he deserved."

Though he knew all too well what Curumo had done as Saruman, and how mean his end had been, Frodo felt deep pity for this lady of the Maiar who had loved him.  Touched, he stood and bowed deeply to her.  "I have only met you before in passing, Lady Lúsinara," he said, "but I feel moved by what you have just said.  I did not love Saruman — Curumo, as he was in Aman — for I did not know him until long after he had fallen.  I am told that I had good reason to hate him, for the way he despoiled my home and my country, out of spite and malice.  Yet I could not help but pity him, and wish that he might have chosen to mend his ways rather than succumb to evil.  I never quite knew why — until now.  I think you are right when you say that he did not love others as he ought to have done, and I think he did not truly love himself, either.  Both are a sickness deserving of pity.  I grieve for your loss and hope that someday, there will come a time when Eru Ilúvatar will grant him a chance to see his sickness for what it is, and choose to be healed."

Lúsinara regarded the hobbit with great surprise, then smiled wanly and inclined her head in acknowledgement of his unexpected graciousness.  "That is what I hope as well, Master Frodo, and I thank you.  You are most kind and compassionate."

"He is that indeed," Olórin said, favoring the hobbit with a warm smile before turning to the messenger.  "I share that hope, Lúsinara, for both your sake and Curumo's.  I truly believe that he had a good and wise heart in the beginning, and that he might have cared for you as you cared for him, had he not fallen victim to the lure of pride.  Even before he betrayed Lord Aulë by following the ways of Melkor, Sauron did much that stirred the harmful sort of pride in his fellow Aulendur.  In the end, I believe that was Curumo's greatest mistake, and it became his downfall when he refused to turn away from it."

"That lure has led many to do things they later regret," Manwë agreed, "myself included.  It is in the humbling that comes after our pride fails and betrays us that we learn the wisdom to better resist when it tempts us again."

"And that is what some of our people need to experience now," Námo said.  "The humbling — but not by punishment or degradation.  They need to be made to see and understand the true nature of the pride that has led them to jealousy and bitterness."

Bilbo harrumphed softly.  "Well, then, if that's the case, Frodo has the right idea.  The Sackville-Bagginses were just that way, letting their pride make them jealous and bitter, and greedy.  The mistake my nephew made with Lobelia was not staying around to keep an eye on her — or Lotho.  She wanted the fine home and the prestige.  He wanted more, too much more, and there was no one there who could make him stop, not even his own mother.  As we say, he bit off more than he could chew, and in the end, it bit him back."

Manwë had been gazing upon the elderly hobbit as he spoke, his expression growing thoughtful.  "I see your point," he said when Bilbo was finished.  "Properly offered, a taste can be as good as a feast — and a feast can make one sick if they hunger for it to the point of gluttony."

Varda looked up at her spouse, her eyes gleaming with amusement at the way he had couched his response in terms a hobbit would find appropriate.  "I understand what you mean, beloved.  But can it be done in such a way that it will not bite us back, as Bilbo says?"

The wind-lord's glance shifted from Bilbo to Varda, then to Frodo and Olórin.  Both the Maia and the hobbit wore faintly impish smiles; the latter nodded.  Manwë caught his brother's brief thought, and returned the smile.  "Yes, I believe it can.  We will proceed as we have planned, and come tomorrow, we will find who of our people are content with a taste, and who will succumb to the lure of gluttony."

He bowed to the Mentacolindor, most of whom were regarding him with curious or mildly puzzled expressions.  "I thank all of you for the help you have given us today, and regret if your service brought you any discomfort.  Your assistance in this effort has been invaluable, for with the information you have provided as well as the suggestions that have been offered, I believe we can restore harmony among our people without resorting to severe measures.  Cousin Frodo," he added with a genial smile, "I thank you as well for your cooperation today.  If you are still willing to attend our court on the morrow, we will arrange your transportation to Ilmarin tonight."

"Would you like for me to be there as well?" Bilbo asked.  "I'll understand if you say no, of course, since I'm not trying to intrude on your business.  But if it would be helpful to have me there, I'm willing to come."

Manwë considered the suggestion for a few moments.  "It might be of help, although I have no desire to draw you into a matter that might prove uncomfortable for you."  His glance shifted from Bilbo to sweep the others in the hall.  "Are there any objections — or further insight anyone might wish to offer?"

Oromë snorted, grinning crookedly.  "Not that you won't proceed as you see fit, regardless," he joked, then turned more serious.  "I know something more of the Hobbits than many of our people, and from what has been said, I suspect that your plan is to... adapt one of their customs to address our current difficulties."

The Elder King nodded.  "You presume correctly."

Ulmo saw the connection at once.  "Then it would be best if Master Bilbo attended as well," he declared.  "He is the elder, and as such would be considered the greater authority by most of our folk, as they are more familiar with the ways of the Elves."

Riellë, Vána's messenger, appeared quite puzzled, as she was probably the least familiar with the halflings, both as a people and as their guests in Aman.  "I don't understand," she admitted, giving Ulmo a look of apology, in case she had offended him with her interruption.  "What custom are you referring to?"

Ulmo's smile indicated that no offense was taken.  He gestured to Frodo.  "Perhaps you should explain, young Master Baggins, as the idea was yours."

Frodo blushed faintly, but inclined his head in acceptance.  "As far as I know, Lady Riellë, it is something peculiar to the Hobbits.  As a part of our winter celebrations, which we call Yule, those of us who are fortunate enough to have others in our employ set aside one day of the Yule season to honor them.  By our custom, on that day, the servants become the masters and the masters the servants.  In that way, we all learn to appreciate both the privileges and the difficulties of one another's roles.  Obviously, it can't be done in quite the same way when there are many servants and few masters, but the general spirit of the tradition can be suitably adapted, as Lord Ulmo said."

Tulkas made a sound of sudden realization.  "Ah, it would suffice to 'reward' the dissidents in such a way."

"So I believe," Manwë confirmed.

"But have we sufficiently identified the greatest malcontents to implement such a plan effectively?" Yavanna wondered.

It was her messenger, Ornedil, who answered, his tone and expression grave.  "We have, my lady," he assured her.  "As we have been about on this business today, so have others of our people been gathering information and passing it on to us.  Not as spies, but as ones who are also disturbed to find such unrest among us, and wish for it to be healed."

The other messengers made sounds or gestures of agreement.  "I in particular have drawn such confidences," Ványalos chimed in.  "It is widely known that Olórin and I are good friends, and while those who harbor ill feelings toward him have not been inclined to show me their displeasure, those who are appalled by such bitterness and animosity and have witnessed it have been eager to tell me what they know, so that I might inform Lord Irmo, or warn Olórin of these secret enemies.  We Mentacolindor have shared what we discovered throughout the day, and I believe we have identified all of those with the greatest grievances and complaints."

"There are others who are even now verifying the information," Eönwë added, as he had been included in that sharing.  "Before court convenes at dawn, we will know for certain.  The number varies in each of the peoples of the Valar, but there are at most seven and as few as three in each group.  In total, there are sixty-two such dissidents, seven of whom are particularly bitter or angry."

Aulë released a sigh that sounded the deep rumbling of the earth itself.  "Few, as all our people are numbered,  but too many for my liking."  He ran one hand through his dark hair, his expression a mixture of sadness and dismay.  "It grieves me to think that so many believe we have neglected them — or that we may indeed have failed some, by not properly recognizing their efforts."

Manwë was not the only one to commiserate.  "It is indeed a sad discovery, but we will find a way to resolve it.  We can ill afford for this to lead to open strife, for I do not think Arda would survive another war among our people."

Both Bilbo and Frodo paled.  "You — you don't think that could actually happen, do you?" the elder hobbit asked, a bit shakily.  "Goodness, the war with Sauron alone was quite horrible...!"

Varda patted his arm in consolation; Manwë regarded him with blue eyes full of sympathy.  "Every war in which any of our people have been involved has had terrible consequences for Arda; those in which many of us fought were indeed the most destructive.  None of us can say that it is impossible for such a thing to happen again, for Melkor alone was able to begin many long ages of strife.  But for myself, I think it unlikely — and this time, I am speaking with a clearer understanding of evil than I have ever known.  Unless there are some greater and more corrupt persons directing matters in utmost secret, those who are showing displeasure or anger now are not truly evil.  Misguided, perhaps, and selfish, but not evil.  War could happen, but I cannot believe that any of our people wish for that as a supposed resolution to their grievances."

"Nor do I," Námo said, his sentiment echoed by many of the others, Vairë in particular.

"Your own experiences are remarkably similar," the Weaver said, favoring both halflings with a gentle smile and warm understanding in her dark almond-shaped eyes.  "Much as your kin desired position and prominence and wealth among the Hobbits, and were able to find others of like mind to collude with them in acquiring it, none of them wanted the fate that ultimately befell them, or the Shire.  If you had but known how far they might stumble down the path of folly, you might have been able to avert some of what happened, but not all."

"That's true," Frodo allowed after a moment's reflection.  "What happened in the Shire was dreadful, but with or without Lotho's cooperation, I fear Saruman's ruffians would have done what they did.  They turned against Lotho in the end, regardless."

"Just so," Námo confirmed.  "I am not, perhaps, as freely imaginative as others of our people, as it is part of my duty to speak of certainty, not possibility, but as the Keeper of Mandos, I have learned much of the ways of the heart, both its strengths and weaknesses.  Those who let their base emotions gnaw inside them until they are hollow of heart tend to act in ways that are entirely too predictable, even without foresight.  By the time he became interested in your country, Curumo had become so filled with jealousy and a desire for personal power that he could only have avoided what came to pass if he had been willing to let go of those things to make room in his spirit so that the better nature he had abandoned could return."

A frown creased Bilbo's brow.  "But what if these new troublemakers have become like him?" he wondered.  "You can't force them to let go of their envy and bitterness, can you?"

"No," Irmo replied.  "But you and Frodo have given us a way that may allow them to experience the error in their ways that will lead them to believe that changing them will be more to their liking than keeping them.  If they persist in keeping to those habits even then...."  The dream master's shrug was eloquent.

"There are things that can be done which will neither violate their free will nor allow them to continue to spread dissension among us," Manwë assured the hobbit.  "Do not concern yourselves on this account, my cousins.  You have provided us with a path toward resolution that may well be the best for all involved."

With that, he stood and gave a gracious bow to the messengers.  "You have my deepest thanks for the help you have given us today, especially as it was not always the most pleasant of news you had to bear.  I have no doubt that your service will prove invaluable in healing the problems that have been brought to light.  If any of you should chance to hear more that could bear upon these matters before our court tomorrow, please do not hesitate to bring it to our attention."  He was not speaking in the royal plural, but rather meant all of the Valar, who were equally concerned about this situation.  "It is not my wish that you who have been our faithful and trusted couriers should become spies or carriers of idle gossip; indeed, we have ever relied upon your discretion, and not one of you has ever failed in that trust.  But I believe that all of us have been troubled by the bitterness we have found stirring in our midst, and wish to heal it by peaceful means."

He then turned to include the others.  "I thank all of you for your patience and forbearance in this matter.  We  will need to determine the specifics of this plan before court begins tomorrow, so if you would bear with me a little longer this evening, I would ask my fellow governors that we meet in our council chamber in Ilmarin after we have seen to the transportation and comfort of our hobbit guests."  

Manwë gave Frodo and Bilbo a small, warm smile.  "I think it best if you come there tonight," he told them, "so that you might have a full night's rest after the journey."

Frodo, who had been to Ilmarin only once, shivered slightly at the memory of that exhilarating -- and terrifying -- flight on eagle back, and nodded.  "Yes, that' s a very good idea!  Especially if we're to travel as I did the last time, and at night!"

Bilbo, who had heard the tale of that journey, and recalled his own trips via lesser eagles, winced.  "Goodness, you can't be meaning to take us up to the heights of the tallest mountain in all the world, clinging to the back of a giant bird -- in the middle of the night!?"  He looked up at the standing wind-lord, then turned his wide-eyed, stricken face to Varda.

She gave him a sympathetic smile along with a soothing pat on his arm.  "Not to worry, Cousin Bilbo," she assured him.  "We know of the hobbit distaste for such things, and would never wish to distress you so.  No, we had thought to take you in the manner of our people.  For incarnates, such journeys are best done with you asleep, so that the shifting of the very fabric of the world about you will not cause you distress.  When you are ready to go, we will send you to sleep and take you to Ilmarin, where we will see to it that you are made comfortable for the remainder of the night, so that you will awaken refreshed in time to break your fast and prepare yourselves before court begins.  Is this agreeable to you?"  She looked first at the elder hobbit, then at the younger, seeking the approval of both.

Now, the two hobbits traded glances; then Frodo looked up at Olórin, who smiled softly.  "There is nothing to fear," he said with confidence.  "Such movement presents no danger to your lives or minds, but our experiences with the Eldar and their reactions has led us to take this precaution.  They find what we take for granted profoundly unsettling -- much like an extreme version of how most hobbits respond to being taken onto a boat.  If you sleep through the voyage, you never risk any distress."

"That's true," Bilbo agreed with a sigh of relief followed by a small chuckle.  "It wasn't merely because of old age that I slept away so much of the journey from Middle-earth!  And when we wake, breakfast will be ready?"

He said it with such eagerness and such a hungry and roguish gleam in his eye, it brought laughter to many lips and smiles to all.  "We will have it served to you in bed, if you like," Manwë promised with a wide, fond smile of his own.  And so it was settled.

Next:

Before the Dawn

IX

Before the Dawn

After the Valar had given their messengers proper thanks for their help all that long day, they adjourned to another part of the mansion to discuss the details of their plans for the morrow.  Several of the Mentacolindor then also departed, having other plans for the remainder of the evening, while others had business to attend for their lord or lady.  The rest came to talk with the hobbits and Olórin, wanting to know more about the halfling's custom that would be adapted to help deal with the current problems among their people, or simply to become better acquainted with them.  Frodo and Bilbo readily told them all they wished to know -- particularly Bilbo, who always reveled in the chance to talk to such an appreciative audience -- and the remainder of the evening went quite merrily, especially when Nárënilda saw to it that refreshments were brought.

When at last Olórin and Ványalos noted signs of weariness in the Mortals, they subtly informed the others, who then bade them goodnight, thanking them for indulging their curiosity so splendidly.  As they escorted the hobbits to their rooms, Olórin also informed Manwë and Varda, who were there to bid them goodnight when they arrived.  Neither noticed that the two Maiar were humming softly while the Valar embraced them as they would kin; thus, neither felt sleep overtake them before they were released.

"Thank you," Manwë said softly, nodding to the pair as he lifted Frodo into his arms and his spouse did the same with Bilbo.  "Our skills in moving incarnates as we move may be greater than yours, but both of you have learned much of the ways of sleep from Irmo and Estë, more than we have, and you know more of hobbits than any of us.  Will you come with us, Ványalos, to watch over Bilbo's sleep?"  He did not need to ask Olórin, knowing full well that the Maia would come to do the same for Frodo, as he had done since his arrival in the West.  This time, it was not concern for the Ringbearer's sometimes troubling dreams, but rather a precaution, in case awakening in a different place proved troubling.

"It would be my pleasure," the redhead replied with a slight bow.  "He was concerned that the cooks in Ilmarin may not know what constitutes a proper Hobbit breakfast, and I told him I would do what I can to instruct them."  He said it with a wry tone and expression, since he knew very well that Nárënilda took care of such things in all residences of her lord and lady.  

The others laughed softly at his gentle teasing.  Then, after making certain that both mortals were deeply asleep, contentedly journeying on their own path of dreams, the two Valar took them on a very different kind of journey, slipping between the fabric of the physical world to travel from Valmar to Ilmarin at the speed of thought, the two Maiar following with equal ease and swiftness.

***********

When Frodo stirred toward wakefulness the next morning, he was unsure if the sound of singing he heard was reality or a dream.  He had awakened to such a sound many mornings in Lórien, either that of distant voices, from neighbors in the Hill Country going about their day, or, much nearer, Olórin singing for whatever reason had moved him.  Bilbo had once said that the Elves seemed to live on song more than food, but as much as they were fond of music, they could not compare to Ainur, whose very existence was intimately woven with song.  

The soft voice he heard in his half-dreaming state sounded like Olórin's, although he did not recognize the song at all.  It seemed to be wordless at the same time it had words he could not understand, and that puzzle tugged at his thoughts and finally caused him to awaken fully. 

As he opened his eyes, for a moment he expected to find himself at home in Lórien.  The half sleep-blurred sight of an unfamiliar ceiling above him reminded him that he and Bilbo were spending the rest of the week in Manwë and Varda's mansion in Valmar.  But his memory of that ceiling was one of a soft blue surface, so pale that it was almost white.  Here, he looked up at a higher ceiling that appeared slightly curved, like that of a shallow dome, with a texture of swirled blue and white, like clouds in a summer sky.  The air was also sharper when he inhaled, crisply clean with faint hints of fir and cedar and flowers that bloomed only high in the mountains.  Pallid light suggested that the hour was still quite early, likely before dawn.  There was the sound of a distant fountain, but more closely the voice, quietly singing.

Frodo closed his eyes again and relaxed into the soft comfort of the bed, smiling as he listened.  He was all but certain it was Olórin singing, as this would be far from the first time he had wakened to the sound of the Maia's voice, thanking Eru as he welcomed the day.  It was always a pleasant thing for him to hear, especially since for so many years, he had thought that the wizard was only a very old Man, not one of the spirits who had taken part in the very making of the world Frodo knew and loved.  The joy that suffused his clear light baritone was a delight to Frodo's ears, reminding him of the things in life for which he himself had reason to be joyful.

But today, though the soft singing was clear and as always held that note of rejoicing, there were definitely no words to the song, not that he could perceive.  That both puzzled and intrigued the hobbit, and at length, his curiosity grew more powerful than his desire to remain in the comfortable bed.  He opened his eyes again and sat up, not at all surprised to find that he was wearing his own nightshirt.  Nor was he entirely surprised by the sight that greeted his eyes.

The room was vaguely similar to the bedchamber he'd been using in Valmar, though the furnishings were clearly different.  There was a small window to the left of the bed, through which he could see the pre-dawn skies, still glittering with stars.  Several paces beyond the foot of the bed, in the same wall as the window, were a pair of glass doors that led to a small outer balcony.  Before the doors -- which were closed to keep out the night chill -- light shimmered, but it was more than the light of Varda'a stars, or even the coming dawn.  And Frodo recognized it at once.

Although he had suffered many horrible and lingering effects from the War of the Ring, one result that the former Ringbearer did not regret, once he'd grown accustomed to it, was a greater sight and perception of things which to other mortals normally went unseen and unfelt.  Here in Aman, there were a great many such things, and while he was certainly not aware of them all, those with which he often came into contact were now much more noticeable to him.  

In Lórien, for instance, he often knew when there were unclad Maiar about; he could sense their presence, and sometimes catch a brief, vague glimpse of their unseen Light, or catch a hint of their unique scents.  For those he knew well and saw on a near daily basis, he perceived them much more strongly and clearly.  Back in the Shire, some might have described them as ghosts -- which now made Frodo wonder if those incidents, usually attributed to overactive imaginations or being "touched," were actually moments in which the passing of an Ainu was caught.

Whatever the case, here in the West, Frodo no longer wondered.  Though he could not see all the unclad Maiar clearly, those with whom he shared his life were not hidden from his senses, even when they were disincarnate.  Olórin was as close to him as a brother, and he knew him now in all his forms.  To Frodo's eye, his Light reminded him of a precious opal, bright and clear yet shimmering with an inner fire of many hues, which could change with his mood as the color of the opal changed with the shifting of light. 

What Frodo saw now was Olórin's opalescent Light before the closed balcony doors, with a smaller but more intense light beside him, and the soft sound of the wordless song still continuing.  It took a moment or two more for the halfling to finally recognize it as a Song of Making, and that piqued his curiosity.  The Song was not a powerful one, but Frodo was reluctant to interrupt a potentially crucial moment in whatever the Maia was doing, so he waited and watched for a few minutes before gently clearing his throat.

That immediately caught Olórin's attention.  Although he remained unclad, the Song stopped, and the hobbit was aware of the concerned regard being turned toward him.  "I beg your pardon, Frodo, did I disturb you?"

At moments like this, Frodo was never quite sure if he heard the voice with his ears or in his thoughts, but he had ceased to puzzle over it some time ago.  He shook his head, noting that the other light near the Maia had suddenly dimmed.  "No, you didn't disturb me.  This is such a peaceful place, I don't think you could have even if you'd shouted into my ear!  But did I interrupt something important?  I think by now, I recognize the sound of your... ah... 'working' Songs."

He felt something in the shimmering Light that he knew was a smile, and an instant later, Olórin was standing beside the bed, now in his usual fána.   As he incarnated, Frodo caught the subtle fragrance that was uniquely his when he assumed his physical form.  It was a blend of several things: the fragrance of a hillside in the spring, redolent with the scents of new grass and apple blossoms; the pungent smell of the deep woods in autumn, heavy with a scent that only came from fallen leaves mixed with the sharp tang of evergreens; the rich odor of good pipeweed, not when it is burning, but when it is cured to perfection, ready for the pipe; the clean, crisp bite of brisk wind on a winter day, when the sun is bright, but one can smell the coming snow in the air.   This particular aspect of the Ainur was a complete mystery to Frodo -- how could a being without a true body have any smell at all? -- but he had come to accept it as a part of the vast world their Maker had fashioned for His own delight, and theirs.  If naught else, it made the Children of Eru's Thought seem more akin to His Children of the physical world than they often seemed.

As he sat down on the edge of the bed, Olórin held out his hands to Frodo, where the smaller light still glowed.  "What do you think?" he asked, cocking his head as he gave it his own appraisal.

Frodo leaned forward to get a better look.  Cupped in the Istar's hands was a sparkling wristlet, made of the same sort of crystal as the circlet he had been given for his healing.  "It's lovely," the hobbit opined, for it was indeed.  "Did you make this to complement the circlet Lord Eru made for you?  The style of it is much the same."

The Maia's long, fair hair brushed his broad shoulders as he shook his head.  "No.  When Manwë and I spoke with Father two days ago, He told me that I no longer need to wear His gift, as my healing is complete, and that if I wished, I could refashion it into a form I might find less... disagreeable."  He said the last word with a wry wrinkle of his nose, for they both knew how uncomfortable he had been, accepting the fact that he needed to wear a diadem to affect the healing he had so desperately needed after the two millennia he had spent laboring in Endorë.

Frodo chuckled, gently.  "That was kind of Him.  And I imagine He knew that it might be more agreeable to more than just you alone."  He was thinking of the disaffected Maiar who had wrongly taken the circlet to be a sign of unwarranted favor.  

He worried at his lower lip for a second or two before looking up at the Istar.  "Are the Valar planning to select the worst of the dissidents for the 'honor' of sharing our custom? I should think it would make the underlying intent much too obvious."

Olórin quite agreed.  "Just so, which is why Manwë and several of the others devised a variation on your custom, which they will present when the court is assembled later today."  The impish glint in his eye suggested that it would be truly devious, and potentially amusing.

Seeing that, the halfling sighed, half-laughing.  "Well, then, as it seems this will be an interesting surprise, I shan't press for details."  He looked back at the shining wristlet -- which was truly elegant and lovely in its design -- and found himself with another puzzle.  "I can see why you would rather not continue to wear the circlet, given the discomfort it caused both you and others, but I'm not quite certain why you don't just set it aside, as you did before you understood its purpose, which is no longer needed."

The Maia's smile grew brighter.  "Ah, yes, but there was another aspect of the gift that I'd failed to comprehend."  He focused his thought for a moment on the crystal band.  The flow of Love was strong to him, and was not, he deduced, beyond Frodo's ability to perceive as well, if he guided him.  He returned his attention to the hobbit.  "The circlet appeared to be made of crystal -- and after a fashion, it is -- but there is more to its substance than even the most brilliant of all the creations of all His children.  I can help you sense what it is, if you will permit me to be your guide."

Frodo did not hesitate.  "From the first day we met, you have been my guide in many things," he said with warm affection and trust.  "Yes, I would like to try.  What must I do?"

Olórin shifted the wristlet to one hand, so that he could place the other on the side of the hobbit's curly-haired head.  "Touch the crystal, then close your eyes.  I promise, there is nothing to fear, but if what you sense becomes unsettling, simply withdraw your hand."

That anything about a crystal wrist-cuff could be unsettling gave Frodo a moment's pause, and then piqued his curiosity.  He looked at the thing as he took several deep, calming breaths.  Given that it had been an instrument in healing a being of pure spirit, he supposed that it could possess qualities that would be overwhelming to a mortal.  But he did trust that Olórin would not encourage him to do anything that would risk his safety -- not now, not since he still felt sorely responsible for all that Frodo had suffered because of the Ring. 

Besides, this wouldn't be the first time he'd touched the crystal, and the hobbit had never felt anything at all from it, much less any danger.  Yes, both the circlet and the Ring were beautiful, but there was a profound difference in their attraction.  Both were simple in form, without elaborate ornamentation to hide the beauty of their simplicity -- but the difference was felt with senses beyond those of mere eyes.  The Ring drew one to it, with a pull like a that of a great maelstrom in the sea, an inward vortex in which one become trapped and ultimately destroyed.  Olórin's circlet had a more subtle draw to it, one that was merely part of a cycle, like the inward draw of one's breath, bringing life-giving air to the body before moving outward again.  No, Frodo did not fear this bit of crystal, and he was curious to know more about it, if he could.

When he had taken a few more steadying breaths, he did as Olórin had instructed.  He set the fingers of his restored hand on the cool, glassy surface of the refashioned crystal, then closed his eyes, waiting with perfect trust for his friend to guide him.

The Maia could feel that trust, and was deeply touched by it, especially from this hobbit, who had every reason in the world to distrust him, after all he had suffered.  He cherished it, and did his best to make certain it was not misplaced.  Before Frodo made contact with the physical aspect of the crystal, he made sure that his own power formed a firm barrier between him and its non-physical properties.  Then, keeping close watch over the mortal's condition, wary for any sign of distress or dismay, he slowly allowed the barrier to grow thinner, more permeable, so that some of the great Love that had been woven into this gift would seep through to touch Frodo -- touch him, Olórin hoped, not crash into him like a destructive wave of pure emotion.  But the Love of the One was so powerful and intense, anything was possible.

Fortunately, Frodo was neither destroyed nor unsettled.  In fact, the Istar was being so careful to shield him from harm, the halfling initially felt disappointment, suspecting that he was too dense somehow to sense what his friend was attempting to help him perceive.  Before long, however, he began to feel something -- naught that could be called truly unsettling, but rather a gentle and steadily growing warmth, like that of a slowly growing fire newly built in the hearth on a bitter cold night.

At first, Frodo thought that he was feeling something of Olórin's normal presence -- which seemed perfectly logical, as this gift had been made for him -- but suddenly, the quality of what he was sensing changed, causing it to expand into something far greater.  Yet while it seemed as dazzling as an exploding star, it was not so cataclysmic; rather, it grew into a brilliance that encompassed all but destroyed none, a benevolent Light that could easily nourish the deadest of ash back to flourishing life.

The awe that it awoke in Frodo was not frightening, but it was powerfully startling, so much so that he let out a gasp as he involuntarily pulled his hand away from the crystal.  Keeping careful watch, Olórin knew that he was unharmed; still, he reached out with his own Power to make certain his friend remained calm.  "A bit more than you were expecting?" he asked, smiling softly.

Frodo nodded even before he opened his eyes.  The lingering sense of what he had felt was one of pure Love, and he basked in that bliss for as long as the echoes of it remained.  When it had almost fully passed, he finally opened his eyes and looked up, his face full of wonder.  "I understand now why you don't wish to set aside this gift," he said in a quiet voice.  "Is... is this what it's like to be in the presence of the One, outside of this poor mortal world?"

Olórin gently ruffled the hobbit's dark curls before lowering his hand to waggle the fingers.  "A mere echo of it, but a very clear one.  Whatever awaits you after death, I'm sure it will hold greater joy than this, though I think perhaps you see now why it was so very difficult for me to choose to leave the Timeless Halls to return to Arda."

"More than ever," Frodo agreed.  "The memories you showed us were vivid, but not as...."  He hesitated, searching for the words to explain what he had perceived.  "Not as real, if you take my meaning."

The Maia's chuckle was a kind and joyful sound.  "I do.  As detailed as those visions were, they were but memories of what I had experienced, some years ago.  This, however, is a connection to something that is present now, not a mere recollection of our Father's love.  I had no more idea of this aspect of the crystal than you, until two days ago.  I knew that it was special, but not precisely how -- and now that I know, I cannot bear to be parted from it."

The halfling's dark eyes lowered to study the gleaming crystal that was more than mere crystal.  In his eyes, it had always had a certain ethereal quality to it, making it seem somehow unlike every stone and gem he had ever seen before -- and it truly was.  "I can certainly understand why!  Although I'd thought you planned to wear the circlet to court today."

"I did, and I still do.  But I wanted to see if it would be difficult to change the shape, and I had the time on my hands, so...."  He shrugged, smiling sheepishly as he returned the crystal to its original form.  "I'd thought I would be quiet enough not to disturb your sleep."

Frodo laughed as he patted the Maia's arm.  "So you were, I promise.  I was just ready to waken when I did, and I'm quite used to the sound of you singing being the first thing I hear in the morning."  

He watched as his friend returned the circlet to his head, with a habitual wince.  That unconscious expression of discomfort brought another matter to Frodo's thought, something he had been pondering for the last two days.  It took a moment or two for him to find a way to phrase those thoughts.  "I know that you're not... comfortable with the notion of some folk calling you a prince of the Maiar," he began in the politest of tones.

Olórin snorted.  "That would be a considerable understatement," he agreed, one corner of his mouth quirking wryly.

Frodo returned with a small smile of his own.  "Yes, indeed it would be.  But I've been thinking, and actually, I don't believe it's so inappropriate, after all."  

When the Maia's expression turned from wry to aghast, he hastened to explain.  "Not the prince, of course, but not all princes earn the title because they're of the blood royal.   How many people in Middle-earth called me and Merry and Pippin -- and even Sam! -- princes of the halflings?  We don't even have royalty, and never have, but after a time, even I learned to understand that they didn't call us that because we were noble by blood."

Olórin's horror mellowed somewhat, but did not wholly vanish.  The last thing he wanted was for the friend he lived with to start behaving differently toward him because of what had come to light in recent days.  "True, but many of those in Gondor who said such things presumed that you were -- indeed, that you must have been, else you would not have been a part of the Company of the Ring.  Boromir was the son of their ruling Steward, Aragon the King returned, Legolas a prince of Mirkwood, and Gimli a descendant of Dúrin.  In their minds, any others who were chosen for this quest would also have been of similar rank."

The hobbit couldn't suppress his impish amusement.  "Quite -- and wouldn't that include you as well, since you were our leader?"

His answer was a chastening scowl that would have been perfectly at home on the face of Gandalf the Grey.  "You know very well how the people of Middle-earth thought of me!  While a few granted that I had power and knowledge, being a wizard, none thought of me as being of lofty nobility.  That honor they gave to Saruman, and he was welcome to it -- at least until he started to believe it meant he deserved to rule Endorë.  And I don't see what this has to do with my position here in Aman."

The mischief faded from Frodo's face and manner.  "Ah, but you see, I wasn't thinking of either blood ties or rank. Sometimes, a person is called a prince not because of birth, but rather because of what they have done, and how their accomplishments and behavior show them to be the embodiment of things that are the best of their people -- indeed, what should be the best part of all peoples."

Olórin did not respond at once; instead, he looked off toward the nearest window, beyond which the skies were beginning to soften with the pale colors of the nearing dawn.  Before long, however, he turned back to the hobbit.  "You're very kind to say that of me," he said at last in all humility.  "Especially given how you suffered at least in part because of my misjudgments."

But Frodo dismissed that with an easy wave of one hand.  "What I suffered had naught to do with you, and everything to do with Sauron and his accursed Ring.  But don't you see?  In our awareness of our shortcomings and failures, we would both deny that we have earned such an accolade, and yet others insist that we deserve to be so honored.  And perhaps their sight in this is far clearer than ours.  I am no more the Prince of the Hobbits than Pippin or Merry or Sam, but in the eyes of those who wished to honor us, we were all princes of our people.  And so it is with you.  You are not the Prince of the Maiar, but you have very much been an example of some of what is best in your people, in both your deeds and your manner.  So has Eönwë, and Melian, and no doubt many, many others I cannot name.  Is it truly unacceptable to you, to know that others might wish to honor you so?"

For some moments, Frodo could not read the expression on Olórin's fair face, nor in his dark blue eyes. Then he focused fully on the hobbit, smiling softly.  "No, it isn't unacceptable to me.  I shan't ever be wholly comfortable with it, I fear -- but then, that may be for the best.  Without proper humility, such an honor could all too easily go to one's head!"

With that thought, he unconsciously touched the circlet with the tip of one finger, running it along the smooth surface that was at once cool with the early morning air and warm with infinite Love.  "I believe I shall mention this reasoning of yours to Manwë, if you don't mind.  It deserves deeper contemplation, especially by those who were given charge of Arda."

"I won't mind at all.” He laughed merrily.  "I know, this means I won't ever again be able to argue against those who wish to honor me in a similar fashion, but after due consideration, I believe it's just."

The Maia's eyes twinkled brightly.  "Ah, good!  Then you won't shy away and protest when Lady Vairë offers to dress you in princely raiment for Court?"

It was Frodo's turn to respond with horror, imagining what one of the queens of the Valar might consider appropriate for such an occasion.  "She -- she wouldn't!  Would she?"  The timorous query squeaked from his suddenly dry throat.

Olórin managed to hold back a merry chuckle for only a few moments.  "She did mention the possibility, but Lord Námo was good enough to point out to her that this is the first time any Mortal has attended a Court of our people, and that alone might be sufficiently overwhelming for you, without any the addition of discomfiting trappings."

Now, the halfling paled.  "Overwhelming?"  He hadn't considered this aspect of the day's events, and the possibilities made his head swim.  Even before he had made the decision to sail West, Frodo had known that it was said Mortals could not long survive in the presence of the Powers; the question of what would happen to them if they came to a large assembly of the Ainur was one that had never occurred to him.

But Olórin's impishness gentled to reassurance, perceiving his concerns.  "Not to fear, my dear hobbit!  Eru Ilúvatar granted both you and Bilbo the grace to live out your lives in Aman, unharmed by the deleterious effects ordinary Mortals might suffer.  I was merely thinking of your ability to see some of us unclad.  Many will be there in fána, but many more will remain in our natural state.  If you should grow distressed by this, know that Nienna and her brothers will be keeping watch, and will come to your aid by placing veils upon your senses, to lessen your perception of our myriad unclad brethren."

A long sigh of relief whistled past Frodo’s lips.  “Oh, thank goodness!  For a moment, I was having visions of being the moth slowly being burnt to ashes by the flame it can’t avoid!  But none of you would have asked us to come if that would happen, I’m sure.”

“Just so,” the Istar agreed, his face suddenly lit with rosy golden light as the first soft rays of dawn reached into the room.  He looked up into the light, hummed a brief welcome to the day, then gracefully rose from his seat on the edge of the bed.  “Well, now that your mind has been put at ease, it’s time for me to see about fetching your breakfast.  After which, a bath should be ready for you — and then we shall see whether Lady Vairë heeded her lord husband’s wisdom, or not!”

Next:  The Court of the Ainur Begins

X

The Court of the Ainur Begins

Although the mansion of Manwë and Varda in Valmar had largely been constructed to reflect their halls upon Taniquetil, they were not precisely the same, as Frodo soon discovered.  There was a small parlor joining his room and Bilbo's, where Olórin and Ványalos saw to having a sumptuous Shire breakfast set out for the two hobbits after they had used the privy, freshened themselves a bit, and donned the warm, thick house robes that had been provided for them.  Full preparation for the day would come after they had bathed, but the little parlor was as warm and cosy as the dining nook in Bag End, complete with a fire cheerily burning on the hearth.  The two Maiar served them and shared the meal with them, then left them to the baths that had been readied for them.

After he had finished his own, Frodo was relieved to find that the clothes he'd worn on Eruhantalë had been readied for him, cleaned and pressed and as spotless as the day he'd been given them.  As he dressed, he smiled to himself, thinking how fortunate he was that Lady Vairë had taken the advice of her lord husband, for he felt the raiment he already had was quite princely enough.

When he was clean and dressed, however, he looked at his reflection in a glass while he brushed his curly hair to put some order to it, and suddenly wondered if he would in fact be appropriately attired for the court he was about to attend.  He knew that none of the Valar and certainly few of the Maiar would even consider criticizing his appearance, but their own natural beauty often took his breath away.  Given how splendidly they had dressed for the celebration of thanksgiving with the Elves, how much more magnificent might their own private court be?

He was still contemplating this when he left the dressing room, and found a Maia waiting for him in his bedchamber.  She was small and slender, dressed in a gown as purple as asters in the autumn, her long silvery hair plaited with golden cords that were a curious match for her amber eyes.  She bowed to him in greeting, her smile gentle and pleasant.  "Good morning to you, Master Frodo.  I am Samindalia, a member of Lady Vairë's household.  She asked me to beg your pardon for not bringing her gift in person, but as I helped fashion it, I was more than happy to deliver it in her stead."

"It" was a cloak, which she had carried draped over one slim arm, and which she now unfolded and held out for him to see before she helped him into it.  It was not made to be proof against inclement weather, but was ceremonial in design, meant to be worn over his other clothing.  Its fabric was lush velvet of a deep and lustrous green, the very color of a grassy hillside of the Shire, sparkling with morning dew.  The full, wide sleeves reached to the middle of his forearm, allowing a part of his white silk shirt sleeves and cuffs to be seen.  It was unbelted and unbuttoned; its open front was held in place just above the breast by a wide decorative band, leaving a broad gap between the two edges that showed off the collar of his shirt and his formal waistcoat to their best advantage, but did not allow the cloak itself to shift or slip from his shoulders.  

The body of it was long, so long that it brushed the floor behind him.  All its hems and edges were exquisitely embellished with a garland of leaves and vines and flowers of the Shire, the hues subtle but so realistic, the embroidered petals and leaves looked as if he could pluck them from the cloth and inhale their fragrance.  The closure was similarly adorned, with the addition of four round buttons, two on each end, all fashioned like tiny gilt vines that cradled a gleaming emerald carved into the shape of a small acorn.  It would have been considered outlandish dress in the Shire, but here in Aman, it was undeniably elegant, and enough to allay any concerns Frodo might have had about fitting in among an assembly of the Ainur.  He thanked the Maia most graciously, and she smiled as she bowed in acceptance before taking him to join Bilbo.

Frodo was particularly relieved by Vairë's thoughtfulness when he met the elder hobbit in the little parlor, and found that Bilbo had been given the same gift.  "Perhaps it's vanity," Bilbo told his ersatz nephew after Samindalia had departed.  "But I must confess, after so many years of living among the Elves and even traveling with Dwarves who aren't at all chary about showing off their wealth, I sometimes feel... well, just a wee bit shabby by comparison!  Not that hobbit clothing isn't attractive and well-made, but it's always been done with an eye for practicality, will it wear well and last for several seasons and such.  I shouldn't want to dress like this every day, but once in a while, it's quite nice, don't you think?"

Frodo couldn't help but laugh.  "Oh, and the finery Lady Celebrían gave you only a few days ago wasn't princely enough?"  A gesture indicated the clothing Bilbo had worn for the thanksgiving celebration, which he was also wearing today.  When Bilbo blushed and made flustered sounds, he relented his teasing.  "But I know exactly how you feel, dear Bilbo.  We hobbits all enjoy a good party, but all these formal courts and high feasts find us quite out of our element!"

The color that had risen in Bilbo's cheeks faded a bit as he smiled back.  "Yes, my lad, just so!  It was kind of Lady Vairë to provide for us, so that we shouldn't feel so dreadfully out of place today.  Why, it reminds me of one Yule I spent in the Great Smials when I was a tween.  The weather was dreadful and the driver was in such a rush to get to a dry and warm hole, no one noticed when the satchel with all my best clothes bounced off the back of the cart and into a mud puddle.  It wasn't found until the night before the feast.  Everything was ruined, of course, and I was heartbroken -- all of it was new, you see, and I hadn't had a chance to wear the things, not even once!  But my Aunt Rosa saw how upset I was, and how I dreaded the idea of coming to The Took's Yule Feast in my plain everyday clothes, so she sat up the entire night just to make me a new weskit that was even more beautiful than the one I'd lost.  It was so lovely, I didn't mind at all, wearing it with my ordinary shirt and trousers.  Such a kind soul she was, and I've never forgotten her generosity."

As he listened to Bilbo's timely anecdote, Frodo ran his fingertips over the raised stitches gracing the wide cuff of one of his cloak's sleeves.  He marveled at how the embroidered flower petals felt as soft as those of violets or roses, the stems of the twining vines thick and firm but pliable, like those of the ivy that grew over the windows at Bag End, the glossy leaves as smooth and sleek to the touch as those of the beech trees that shaded the west banks of the Bywater Pool.  The skill that had gone into their crafting was truly wondrous, for some threads had been made of soft shimmering silks, others of gleaming metals drawn into fine strands, and still others of what appeared to be spun gems, glistening with every shift of the firelight from the parlor's hearth.  

The care that had clearly been taken in fashioning this robe touched his very heart, as did Bilbo's tale.  His thoughts were drawn to how he also had been blessed by such kindness after he'd survived the quest to destroy the Ring, given lovingly made things to replace those that had been lost or ruined during his arduous journeys -- and how at the time he had been dreadfully unsettled by the finery, believing he did not deserve it.  He had learned so much since then, some things just this morning.  He wished that he could go back to those long-gone days, to let all the people who had made such efforts to honor him know that he was not an ingrate, that both their efforts and their kindness had been very much appreciated.  

He couldn't, of course, but instead, he could show his gratitude to those who had extended him the same courtesy today.   "I do hope we have a chance to thank the Lady and any who assisted her properly, after the day's business is done.  Everyone in Aman has done so much to make us welcome here, I don't think I shall ever be able to say 'thank you' often enough."

"Nonsense!" a familiar voice contradicted, causing both halflings to look toward the open archway that led from the parlor to a corridor beyond.  For a moment, Frodo expected to see Olórin, but it was Ványalos who stood beneath the arch, smiling broadly.  The tall Maia was dressed much as they were, in a flowing robe over his other clothing, but the differences were startling.  It wasn't so much the colors or the embellishment -- his cloak was of dusky blue over a long silver-gray tunic and breeches, adorned with subtle designs that bespoke his affiliation with both Irmo and Estë -- but a certain ethereal quality to the garments themselves, as if they had been spun and woven of dreams and mist and the calm of a still lake, deep in a cool woodland.  His long red hair fell down his back in its customary four-strand braid, but today, it shimmered brightly, like a line of living flame against the darker blue of his cloak.

Both hobbits gasped softly, though Bilbo was first to find his voice.  "Good gracious, I don't think we can thank Lady Vairë enough for her thoughtfulness!  Is this customary dress for your people's courts?"

"For formal ones, yes," the Maia answered with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.  "Many of us enjoy showing off for the occasions, so be prepared to see others far more magnificent than I!  But truly, we are all well thanked when what we do brings you pleasure or comfort.  That is worth more than mere words, although you may be sure the Weaver and her helpers will delight to hear them."

"Then we must be sure to seek her out when the court is over."  Frodo craned his neck a bit, to see if Ványalos was alone.  "Won't Olórin be coming with us?"

The redhead's grin widened.  "Oh, yes, he was very insistent that he and I be the ones to escort you into the Great Hall.  Certain folk, however, were also insistent about other matters, and it took a bit longer for that... ah... discussion to be settled.  I hadn’t yet heard the end of it when it was time for me to make myself ready.”

The way a corner of his mouthy quirked when he said discussion made both hobbits chuckle.  "Dear me!" Bilbo said.  "I remember some of the 'discussions' I had with Gandalf back in Middle-earth -- and I hope this doesn't mean he will be in a disagreeable mood for the rest of the day!" 

Frodo winced.  "It wasn't an actual argument, was it?" he asked, concerned.  Olórin had been in excellent spirits over the last few days, in spite of the less pleasant matters that had been brought to light; it would be a shame for something to have happened to spoil it.

Ványalos ruffled his hair in affectionate reassurance, somehow not mussing the halfling's dark curls in the process.  "Not really.  There was a difference of opinion between him and Eönwë over -- ah, here he is now." 

A very soft rustle of fabric could be heard in the corridor just before Olórin appeared in the archway.  As always, Ványalos was markedly taller than the Istar, but today, that gave him no advantage in sheer presence.  Olórin had also readied himself for Court, and though his garb was similar in style, it was considerably more striking.  The outer robe was of vivid blues, shading from the bright hue of a clear summer sky at the shoulders to the dark sapphire of night at the lower hems, which swept the floor even more than the hobbits' cloaks.  There were subtle patterns in the shimmering samite, like the whorls of clouds on the wind; the designs glimmered more brightly than the heavy silk, as they had been woven in fine threads of mithril.  

More prominent variations of those patterns graced all the hems, where tiny sapphires and precious opals had been cleverly worked into the embroidery.  Under the cloak, he wore a pure white ankle-length robe of lighter silk damask, cinched at the waist with the sapphire and mithril belt Frodo had given him.  His long fair hair fell smoothly down his back, the sides having being drawn away from his face and plaited with cords of mithril and gold, beset with gems matching those on his cloak.  On his head, he wore the brightly shining crystal circlet made by the hand of the One.  Where Ványalos seemed to be garbed in mist and dream, Olórin looked as if the very heavens, from dawn to midnight, had come down to clothe him, an effect that was undeniably regal.

The hobbits had never seen their friend dressed so magnificently, but though they were at a loss for words, Ványalos was not.  "So, you lost the argument with Eönwë?" he asked cheekily, the sweep of one hand indicating his friend's princely raiment.

Olórin lifted his chin with an expression that was smugly amused.  "Not at all.  He enlisted Lady Vairë's support in insisting that the brother of the Elder King should be appropriately attired for a formal Court, and I had other support in countering that the Herald of the Valar and 'son' of that same king should also be appropriately arrayed for said occasion."  An impish smile crept across his face.

The other Maia's eyes widened, then he laughed.  "He couldn't have taken that well!  Was it your idea?"

The Istar's smile widened as he shook his head.  "Actually, no.  I was telling Manwë and the other Valar of some interesting notions Frodo had mentioned to me before breakfast when Eönwë arrived.  As he'd heard most of what I had to say, he felt justified in declaring that now, I simply had to attend court in garb befitting a prince of the realm, which Vairë’s immediately seconded.  I was in the process of trying to come up with a reason to counter everything I'd just said to avoid it, when Lady Varda made her own suggestion concerning his attire.  It was such an elegant answer to Eönwë's teasing, I was delighted to be a part of it -- even if it meant enduring this."  He spread his arms, causing all he was wearing to shimmer and sparkle like moonlight on fine streams of snow carried by the night wind.

Bilbo gave his nephew a puzzled glance.  "Dear me, what did you say to cause such a fuss?"

Frodo coughed, but was spared the need to explain when Olórin chuckled.  "Nothing that should not have been said, Bilbo -- which you can hear in more detail later.  For now, come.  It's time for us to be on our way to the Great Hall."  He held out a hand to Frodo while Ványalos offered his to Bilbo, so that they could lead them to their destination.

Though Bilbo accepted the hand extended to him, Frodo hesitated for a moment.  He could see no sign of upset in the beautifully dressed Maia, but....  "Eönwë isn't angry, is he?"

Again, the fair head shook.  "No, not really.  He simply didn't expect to have his bluff called, and by the Elentari herself!  Come now, and you shall see all in good time."

Frodo put aside his misgivings to take Olórin's hand and follow, mindful, as was Bilbo, not to step or trip over the long ceremonial robes.  Fortunately, their pace was sedate, as they were in no hurry, and the halls were well-lit by sconces and overhead lamps which gave clear light, but with no apparent flame.

"Are those Fëanorean lamps?" Bilbo asked after they had gone down the long straight corridor and had entered another that gently curved and sloped upward.

"It would be more accurate to say that Fëanor's lamps were inspired by these," Olórin replied as they continued along at the same calm pace.  "Aulë fashioned these, and Varda filled them with light, long before any of the Eldar arrived on these shores.  After the Two Lamps were destroyed by the Enemy, they made these in their memory, to light their halls before the Two Trees were brought forth.  If you should visit other mansions of the Valar, you will find that they also have such lamps to light them."

Frodo listened to the explanation with quiet interest, occasionally looking down to make sure he did not step on the hem of his robe, or Olórin's.  The blue and white marble tiles of the floor were cool beneath his unshod feet, but not cold -- and on one downward glance, he noticed that the Istar's feet were bare as well.  He looked up at him, surprised that he would continue this recent habit even today; he was about to mention it when he decided against it.  If others were scandalized by the revelation that he and Manwë were brothers in Ilúvatar's thought, then the fact that he would come to court arrayed as a prince but with bare feet would probably seem a very minor issue, by comparison.  Instead, he turned his attention to their surroundings.

They continued on along the same wide corridor, and as the curve and slope of it took them ever upward, Frodo knew he had seen no similar place in the Elder King's mansion in Valmar.  It was beautiful, from the carvings above door lintels and at the edges of both floor and ceiling, to the niches with small sculptures and the tapestries gracing the walls.  But as they drew closer and closer to their destination, the hobbit became aware of more than mere air moving through the hall.  Other Maiar, exquisitely garbed in their own ceremonial robes, joined the procession, while still others, unclad, moved along with them.  For the most part, Frodo could not see them as more than occasional glimmers of pale light, but he could feel their passing as tingles of wind brushing against his skin, some briskly cool, others soothingly warm.  

Briefly, he felt as if he might be overwhelmed by the sensations, but the warmer clasp of Olórin's fingers around his own calmed him.  It was then that he became aware of many voices singing, a soft and simple chorus that became louder and more intricate in its harmonies as they drew nearer to the Great Hall.  Ványalos joined in, his clear tenor as pleasing as a  mellow voiced flute, and in time, Olórin added his strong baritone to the song.  The words were in Valarin and mostly unfamiliar to Frodo, but here and there, he caught a word he knew, and soon he  recognized it as a song of joy and love for the One, their Father.  Bilbo listened raptly, a smile of pleasure wreathing his face; before long, Frodo found himself humming along, quietly, enjoying the thrill he always experienced when he was graced by a chance to share music with any of the Ainur.

The corridor broadened as it at last grew level again.  A short distance beyond the final curve stood three immense arched doorways, their exquisitely filigreed doors of mithril and gold thrown wide to permit access to what lay beyond.  As they and their companions and the myriad Maiar who followed stepped into the Great Hall, Frodo saw that it was indeed unlike any chamber he had seen in Valmar.  Great was an insufficient word to describe it, for it was an immense place, seemingly without walls or roof, a plateau of white marble shot with veins of gold and sapphire and silver, cut into the very fabric of the holy mountain.  

When Olórin led them farther into the hall, where the incarnate Maiar were gathering with others of their own peoples, the hobbit was able to see that they were under a vast dome of crystal, so perfect and clear that he could only perceive its presence when rays of sunlight caused a brief rainbow gleam that accentuated its high curves.

As they made their way to the place appointed them, Frodo saw that there was an inner circle to the wide hall, along which fourteen pillars of crystal were evenly spaced.  They were tall, but not so tall as to support the high dome; rather, they reminded him of places he had seen in the countryside of the Shire, where standing stones had been set as a memorial or a marker of some notable site.  Here, they clearly indicated where each Vala's people were to gather, for those who were in fána went to the place where others in similar, if not identical, garb were assembling.

To Frodo's eyes, made keen by his ordeals with the Ring, there was an otherworldly quality to the place that was an effect of both the presence of many unclad Maiar and the unusual raiment of those who were incarnate.  While there was a general standard to the shape of the ceremonial robes, many looked to be made of more than even the finest fabrics and other materials available.  On some of the people of Ulmo, for instance, the cloaks looked to be made of water, held in the required shape by their wills alone.  Several of Varda's folk wove light into shining cloth, while a number of Vána's Maiar had fashioned garb of still living and budding blossoms that swayed as flowers will in a soft spring breeze.  Their attire was less overtly majestic than what Olórin had been persuaded to wear as the Elder King's brother, but it was nonetheless fascinating in how it blended aspects of the everyday physical world with the extraordinary world of what some folk called magic.

While he took in the sight of all the wonderfully arrayed Maiar, still singing as they proceeded with joyful dignity to their places, Frodo looked to see if he could spot any of the dissidents, but there were simply too many faces to study, even with only a portion of the throng in visible form.  Moreover, none of the Maiar that he could see were anything but beautiful -- which struck him as something of a relief.  He knew that those who were corrupt in their hearts became less able to take on forms that were truly fair.  Sauron had been able to assume forms that were outwardly pleasing, until he made and lost his Ring, but even before then, not all eyes had been fooled by his comely appearance.  

Frodo had talked of this at some length with Galadriel, who of all the Elves in Middle-earth had not been deceived by "Annatar" when he came offering gifts of knowledge and power, asking nothing in return.  He could not be certain, but Frodo was reasonably sure that now, he also would not have been tricked by a fair-seeming face.  Before he'd taken on the burden of the Ring, he would certainly have been duped, until Sauron's actions proved his true intent, but now, with his awareness of more subtle things vastly increased, he would have been suspicious from the start.  Were any of the beautiful folk around him now truly black of heart, corrupted by evil desires and designs, Frodo would have sensed it as a shadow upon them -- but as he did not, he believed that none of those he could perceive honestly intended to do evil.  He hoped that he was correct in this belief, and in his heart whispered a prayer to Eru Ilúvatar that it would be proven so.

As they proceed outside the inner circle, the incarnate Maiar gathering near each pillar came to stand in rank after rank, before rows of elegant crystal benches, each tinted a pale color associated with the Vala they served.  The floor on which they were set sloped up toward the edge of the hall, so that whatever happened at the center could be seen by all.  Frodo quickly lost count of how many rows there were, for the room seemed to stretch on almost to infinity -- a physical impossibility, he knew, though perhaps this was his mingled perceptions of the material world and the world of the unseen.  It was a dizzying sensation, trying to find the actual boundaries of the hall, so he returned his attention to things nearer at hand, and less perplexing to his senses.

Olórin and Ványalos led their Mortal guests to the innermost row near the pillar opposite the great entrance doors, where the benches were a faint sky blue, a more pallid version of the vivid hue worn by the Maiar who were moving to stand before them.  The first bench had no one before it, and it was here that they finally came to a halt, with the two hobbits standing between their friends.  They remained standing, as did all the others, and at length, the joyous song reached a final crescendo, then ended.

The last of the incarnate Maiar took their places as the echoes of the song faded.   The stillness that followed held in it a frisson of anticipation that was broken by a sudden fanfare of trumpets and bells.  If gold and silver had had voices to be heard, they would have sounded thus, full and deep, sharp and clear, bright as the mingled lights of sun and moon and stars, warm as the blaze of fire.  Both hobbits listened in unabashed wonder, aware that they were privileged to hear what no Mortal ears had ever heard so clearly.

As the trumpets continued to sound, the doors to the two outer arches closed, and a striking figure entered through the third.  It was Eönwë, in full armor, seated astride a great war horse of purest white.  His mount was in full barding, plates and lames fitted to protect the beast in battle, fashioned of silver washed steel etched with gold.  A deep blue caparison draped over part of the metal armor; the heavy cloth was embroidered with all the emblems of the Valar, wrought in rich threads of many metals.  There were no reins nor bit nor saddle, but the edges of both the headstall and the pad on which Eönwë sat were decorated with a heavy twisted cord fringe and tiny silver bells that made a pleasant silvery sound as they moved across the hall.  

Over his own beautifully etched armor, the Herald wore a simple surcoat of blue silk lined with gold tissue, with the emblem of the Valar on the breast, with a long cape of heavy white velvet spilling back from his broad shoulders.  In his right hand, he carried a tall staff bearing the standard of the Valar; his left hand rested upon the pommel of an unsheathed greatsword laid across his knees.  He sat tall and straight astride his proud steed, and together, they moved to the very center of the hall, where a large star of fourteen points was blazoned on the stone floor, each point wrought of a different gemstone, inlaid upon the marble.

The fanfare ended when they reached the centerpoint.  There, Eönwë lowered the long staff of the standard he bore.  As he slowly turned his mount in a complete circle, he struck the floor with the foot of the staff fourteen times, once on each ray of the gleaming star.  Every strike rang through the hall like a clap of thunder; as it sounded, light flowed from the place he had struck and seared through the inlaid gemstone like lightning, making it glow from center to tip.  When he had come full circle and the star beneath him was shining brightly, the pillars that stood at the end of each ray suddenly transformed into fourteen thrones, carved of the gemstone on the floor before it.  A moment later, the Valar themselves appeared before them, their garb more regal and eerily magnificent than all of the Maiar combined.  

The hobbits' eyes were briefly dazzled by their arrival, but it soon passed.  Eönwë then lowered the standard and raised his sword even as he raised his voice.

"Now commences the court of the Valar," he declared in a clear and powerful voice, the voice that had greeted the Elves when they first came to Aman, that had hailed Eärendil when he landed upon the shores of the West, that had declared the coming of war upon Morgoth and his minions, that had welcomed the Ringbearers into the peace of the West only a handful of years ago.  "May the One above us all guide our minds and hearts on the paths of wisdom, understanding, and mercy."

"Nasië," the Valar said as one, as they made deep bows of respect to their ever-watching Creator.  The Maiar repeated both the word and the bow, as did Frodo and Bilbo, respecting the customs of their hosts as well as the Being who had made it possible for them to attend this court with neither harm nor fear.

The echoes of the word were fading as Eönwë lowered the sword and set the standard into its place at the center of the inlaid star.  The trumpets and bells sounded again as he moved to his place at Manwë's right, where he dismounted. While a servant of Oromë led the warhorse to a place prepared for its comfort, Eönwë sheathed the sword and removed his helm, revealing an intricate circlet of mithril and gold that gleamed upon his midnight black hair.  He set both sword and helm onto a low stool that appeared out of thin air, but when the Valar seated themselves upon their thrones, signaling that the others may also be seated, the Herald did not, for protocol demanded that he remain standing throughout the ceremony.  

As he took his own seat on the bench, Frodo understood why Eönwë might not have been pleased by Varda's insistence that he attend the court in full panoply.  Although the armor did not cover his entire body in metal plates and would not weigh upon him as it would a true incarnate, it was elaborate -- ostentatious, even, better suited to a herald riding at the forefront of the Hosts of the West as they marched into battle, not one acting in a mere court setting, where the velvet cape alone dragged heavily on the floor.  

Still, Eönwë showed no sign of resentment.  Indeed, when the halfling saw him glance Olórin's way, he caught the herald's smile and small nod, a good-natured admission that he had been bested in their little game.  Having seen that, Frodo was better able to relax, free of any concern that there might be friction between the two friends, who were his friends as well. 

When all were seated, the second fanfare ended. As its final notes faded, Frodo suddenly felt a shivery sensation, as if a draft from the coldest reaches of Arda had swept through the immense hall.  He recognized it as a brief ripple of osánwë, as all the Ainur present -- both clothed and unclothed -- shared a moment of communion in their thoughts.  Bilbo's hand touched his, and he knew his kinsman had felt it, too.  Frodo closed his fingers around the elder hobbit's and gave them a quick squeeze of reassurance.  He was far more used to this feeling than Bilbo, and he knew well by now that they had nothing to fear.

Then the moment of communion ended.  Manwë stood again, tall and majestic of both appearance and bearing, his raiment the winds and skies made manifest, his snowy white hair the flowing clouds of the heavens, his keen sapphire eyes as piercing and brilliant as lightning, but his expression as warm and gentle as the first warm breath of spring.  He was the very picture of the Eldest of all the kings of Eä, and as he looked out upon the assembly, the court of the Ainur truly began.

Next:

Plans Unfolding

************

Author’s Note:  The descriptions of the elaborate ceremonial robes and the procession to the Great Hall were in part inspired by the artwork of the illustrator Sulamith Wülfing, which often depicted a juxtaposition of intricately dressed living people with ethereal spirits.  She and Arthur Rackham are among my favorite illustrators, and if my descriptions sometimes wax poetic, you may often blame one of them. :)

Chapter XI

Plans Unfolding

"We thank all of you for attending this court upon such brief notice," Manwë said as he took a few steps from his throne.  As he moved, the ermine trimmed hems and train of his long royal blue robes swept about him on the glowing sapphire beneath his feet, like the whirl of clouds against the brilliant sky of a summer sunset.  His voice was not loud, but it was strong and clear, enough for even the most feeble of Mortal ears to hear, had others besides the two hobbits been present.  He was not speaking in the royal plural, but on behalf of himself and the other Valar.  He also spoke not in Valarin but in Quenya, as had Eönwë, knowing that both hobbits were fluent with that tongue.  

"It has, perhaps, been overlong since we held such an assembly of our own, a matter which we hope to remedy in the future.  This is ordinarily a time among all the peoples of Aman for giving thanks and not for surprise revelations, but our Father does so in His time and for His reasons, which are not ours to gainsay.  I will not deny that I have rejoiced in the news He chose to make known to us but a few days past, yet I am not so naïve as to believe that it was received so joyfully by all.  Certain things have reached our ears that led us to decide it would be best to address these matters sooner rather than later."

He paused, casting his gaze upon the entire assembly, singling out none but rather letting it be known that he was attentive to all, whether they be clothed or unclothed.  "I will begin by saying this:  the rumors that anyone shall be made into something they were not created to be are unequivocally false.  The periannath who have come among us have already been blessed by the hand of Eru Ilúvatar Himself, so that they might dwell among us in peace and safety and joy until they choose to accept the Gift that is their birthright.  We honor them for what they achieved in helping bring about an end to a terrible evil wrought by one of our own kind in Endorë.  It is true that they have joined us in our court today for a purpose, but it is not so that they may be transformed into our kind.  Such is beyond our power, and moreover, it is not their desire, nor the will of the One."

Manwë again swept his eyes around the great hall, imperceptibly lingering on certain faces among the watching Maiar.  He took a deep breath before continuing.  "It is also untrue that my kinship with Olórin is in any way a machination of our devising to show him undue favor, or as a prelude to grant him rank among the Valar.  Though we knew it not in our minds, we have always known in our hearts that we were somehow akin, and any ulterior motives in revealing this now are of our Father's making.  Olórin was my brother in the thought of the One from even before the moment of his creation, and if any doubt this, they should seek the truth of Eru in their own hearts.  He does not lie to us, and all of us have been the given the grace to find His guidance there, if we but humbly ask for it."

There was a faint murmur in both the hall and in the flow of osánwë.  "Then why have they all come arrayed as princes?" a single voice asked, boldly but not impudently.  

Both of the hobbits were startled to hear one of the Maiar speak up so brashly, without leave, and to the Elder King himself!  Ványalos noted their appalled reactions, and leaned forward, smiling.  "Do not be too offended," he suggested in a clear whisper.  "This is not a solemn High Court, where matters of utmost importance and gravity are dealt with.  None but a true rebel would dare speak out of turn on those occasions.  It is Lord Manwë's choice to set the tenor of today's proceedings, and I believe he is wise in choosing a more relaxed manner."

Both halflings saw his point at once.  In allowing anyone to speak freely, within the bounds of courtesy, Manwë was also allowing the possibility for things that had been hidden to come to light.  It was not the kind of behavior they had seen condoned in the courts of Gondor and the various Elven kingdoms, but reminded them of many "official" functions in the Shire, where if a body had something to say, they spoke right up and said it, and took whatever consequences followed.  Manwë, they were sure, would be able to restore order much more efficiently than any of the Shire's leaders, if he felt the need.

Olórin recognized the speaker, for he laughed amiably, looking across the hall to the place where Nessa's people were gathered.  Rather than be so bold as the other Maia, he first looked to Manwë, who easily gestured his permission for him to speak.  The Istar stood and addressed the Maia who had raised the question.  "Not because any of us consider ourselves of greater stature, Sérevarno.  Indeed, I for one would rather have come more simply attired."  He gave a dramatic little shudder, as if to shake off his unusually opulent finery.  Smiles and soft chuckles around the hall admitted the truth of his claim, since Olórin's humility and preference for subtlety were well known.

Eönwë cleared his throat, winning his own smiles, as well as a nod from the Elder King.  "I fear this is largely my fault," the Herald confessed, rather sheepishly.  "I have been teasing Olórin ever since we discovered his kinship with Lord Manwë, and this is part of what came of my taunts this morning."  A sweep of his hand included both the other Maia's garb as well as his own extremely elaborate outfit, which was not at all his usual attire for such courts, unless there was a trial or other weighty matters to be dealt with.  "He does not consider himself a prince, and I should not have given fuel to such rumors by teasing him about it."

"And it was I who gifted our Hobbit guests with traditional ceremonial garb, like to our own," Vairë joined in.  Her robes shimmered with many colors as she rose, for in the shifting weave and hue of the fabric was displayed glimpses of the ever-changing tapestry of history, from the very beginning to but a moment past.  "Should they be made to feel uncouth and inferior at an assembly where all come attired in splendor, when we and our Father have told them that they are honored guests in our land?  I think not."  She spoke calmly, but there was an edge to her voice that dared any to contradict her.  She cast a cool eye around the hall.

Not a single sound of protest was made.  Manwë offered Vairë a nod of thanks, and she resumed her seat.  "It is as our sister has said:  these things have not been done to raise any above their station, or to make others feel as if their worth has been diminished.  These gestures were ones of appreciation and love, as it was out of infinite Love that long ago, our Father saw fit to give me a younger brother who would help to heal the wound my very fëa suffered from the betrayal of my elder sibling. He withheld knowledge of the gift until we were both ready to receive it, but I assure you, Sérevarno — and any other who has doubts — it was never intended to be taken as a sign of favoritism."

Another voice was raised, this from the gathering of Oromë's people; it was reasonably polite, for all that the Maia did not seek anyone's leave to speak.  "Yet there are many here who have given great service down the long ages, who have also suffered bitterly through betrayal and battle, on behalf of both our kind and the Eruhíni.  Have all of them been given the honor and recognition they are due?"

"They have not, Máratyaron," Manwë agreed without an instant's hesitation, causing a rustle of gasps to be heard around the hall. 

From Oromë's comment to him in osánwë, this was one of his folk's dissidents, though not the worst.  Máratyaron had a sister, Nornonis, who had fought at his side during the War of Wrath.  She had bravely led a number of sallies against the Enemy, the last of which had ended with her being taken captive — briefly, but with terrible results.  She had left Oromë's service after her recovery and healing, and was now a member of Estë's household. She had shunned any praise for her actions in the war, but Máratyaron — who missed her constant presence and sometimes felt that she had been sent away because of her failure to win that one battle — had never been fully convinced that this was her uncoerced decision. 

Unperturbed, Manwë was about to continue when Irmo rose from his throne, his robes a more regal and far more ethereal version of Ványalos'.  "This is another matter that has come to our attention, and we are sorely grieved to be made aware of our negligence.  Although we attended the memorials of the Eldar after they returned from that war, we deemed that they had greater need of them, as many among them had never been acquainted with death in any form."

Directly across from Manwë, Námo rose to support his brother, his raiment living shadows that were dark as the darkest night, but not the black of unrelieved despair; the glimmers of silver and adamant that showed among the shifting folds were as the light and comfort of hope, glimpses of the brightness to come once the storm has passed, after the night has ended.  "Our kind do not suffer death as do the Eruhíni; among us, Olórin was the first to have done so and be reborn to us.  Two ages earlier, when the War with our fallen brother was ended, we made the mistake of believing that our people did not need the rituals of the incarnates, for was it not blessing enough that our loved ones remained among us, to be cared for and succored back to health?"  

On the side of the circle directly opposite Irmo, Nienna came to her feet.  Her deep blue and silver robes flowed from her shoulders and spilled into a pool spread about her, rippling like the ever-flowing tears of sorrow and pity and infinite compassion.  "And in this, we erred," she declared, nodding to her brothers as well as their king.  "All our struggles with the Fallen One and his armies in the times before the Firstborn awakened did not prepare us for the full scope of how long strife and physical battle would affect us in our hearts, once we lived and worked among true incarnates.  Their ways were new to us, and not always easy for us to understand.  We grasped well the need for gratitude and support of the spirit, but...."

"Let us speak plainly," Oromë interrupted, giving a huge sigh before standing.  In some ways, his garb was less obviously grand than that of the other Valar, but when one looked upon his ceremonial cloak for more than a moment, the leaves of which they appeared to have been made shifted, first from season to season, then from one kind to another, the oaks and maples of the ancient woodlands giving way to the younger poplars and birches, then to great redwoods and cedars and pines, and still more.  If one continued to watch, they would in time see all the trees of all the world shown in the robes of the Lord of the Forests.  

Now, however, it was the Hunter himself who garnered one's attention.  "There are many among us whom we thanked for their service in the War of Wrath, but we did so in our own ways — privately, which had been our habit for uncounted years before the awakening of the Elves.  When they and the Atani came into Arda, they created public ceremonies and celebrations of kinds we had not considered, and which clearly play an important role in the healing of our hearts and minds after the horrors of war.  We failed to honor our own brethren as well as did the Eruhíni.  We have since adopted some of these customs, but that does not forgive our failure to do so in the past, when those in our service saw the Elves on these shores give open recognition to their own, despite their losses, while we did not.  It is time — and long past time — for us to do the same.“

The murmur that rippled through the hall in response to Oromë's statements was both audible and something felt through more esoteric senses.  Frodo was certain that many of the Maiar were discussing what they had just heard in osánwë.  Manwë remained standing while the other Valar resumed their seats.  

He was about to continue when another voice spoke up — a melodious voice, to be sure, but one that had a certain edge to it that was not so beautiful.  "So that is all?" the speaker asked in Valarin.  "More than ten thousand years pass, and your answer for that negligence is naught but an admission that it happened?"

Tulkas grimaced, recognizing that voice.  "Peace, Lintamacar," he said in a stern but long-suffering tone, not bothering to rise, as he was not addressing the entire assembly.  "You have not yet heard the full tale."

But the disaffected Maia was not so easily silenced.  "What more of the tale needs to be told?" he demanded as he moved to the front of the ranks of the Champion's people.  His appearance was every inch what one would expect of one who had chosen to follow Tulkas; indeed, he could have been taken to be a son of the Vala: tall and powerful, broad of shoulder, keen-eyed.  His ceremonial garb was also golden, but the robe looked to be made of supple mail, strong enough to deflect even the sharpest of blades.  His thick golden hair was elaborately braided, and on his head he wore a simple circlet of bright-burnished steel, not a diadem but a band to hold back his hair, as he might in battle.  He carried no arms — but something in his carriage said that he would have preferred otherwise.

"We know well enough the tale of the past," Lintamacar continued, his expression grim.  "The Eldar call us your children, but you say servants — and that we have certainly been.  We are your eyes, your hands, the backs that carry the burden of your decrees and make them possible.  So we have done, through all the uncounted ages since we entered Eä, and if we have not complained before now, it does not mean that we have not felt slighted."

Silent glances were traded among the Valar, who had been expecting this — even counting on it.  The unrest had to be revealed in one way or another, and coming from this particular source was easier to deal with, in many ways.  "And if we have done so, we are profoundly sorry," Manwë said mildly, and sincerely.  "That is but the beginning of how we wish to make amends; it is where all reparations must start.  But before we say more, may I ask, Lintamacar, if you — or any others," he added, his glance sweeping out to include all the Maiar, "—regret your choice to enter Eä?"

The warrior did not respond, but another did.  "It is not what I had expected," a quiet, almost timid voice admitted. 

Both Yavanna's and Aulë's eyes widened with shock; all heads turned in the direction of the voice.   "Nárellë?" the Smith said as he stood and turned toward the one who had spoken from among his people, his robes gleaming with liquid gems and metals even as they flickered with living flame.  "You regret having come with us?  Or do you regret having chosen to be one of my people?"  There was hurt in Aulë's bronze-skinned face, for this particular Maia had always been dear to him, and had been given charge of his personal household.

Nárellë, who was already seated in the first rank of the Smith's followers, stood, her head bowed.  She was small, perhaps the smallest of all the incarnate Maiar Frodo had ever seen, but she was as beautiful as any, though her ceremonial robes were more simple than others'.  "I have no regret of that, my lord," she said in her quiet way.  "Serving you will ever be a joy to me.  But...."  She took a deep breath, then sighed as she raised her head.  "When the One bid us to sing for Him, I was glad to do so, and when He showed us the vision of our Song, I was as delighted by it as any.  I could not have hesitated to come here to be a part of its making as more than vision."

Then her face, which had been shining with joy, dimmed.  "But it was not for us.  It had never been for us.  It had always been meant to be for His other children — all that we do and have done, here and before Time, has ultimately been for them.  I do not bear ill-will toward the incarnates, but sometimes, knowing these things is a sore disappointment to me.  For are we also not His children?  Have we no purpose in our being but to forever serve others who are deemed more precious to Him?"  She did not speak in bitterness or anger, but it was clear that this weighed heavily upon Nárellë's heart and soul.  The tremble that had crept into her voice was like the brightness in her eyes that quivered on the brink of tears.

Aulë would have moved to embrace her, had Manwë not done so first.  "Dear child," the wind lord said gently, but clearly enough to be heard by any who wished to hear.  "Do you believe that you are the first who has felt this disappointment?"

His words came as an even greater shock to many.  Nárellë looked up as soon as she dared, her small size making her seem indeed a child in the Elder King's arms.  "Y-you, my lord...?"  The question was but a whisper, as if she was afraid to even think it.

But Manwë was serene as he nodded.  "Not recently, but yes, I felt this very ache, long ago.  I was made the first king within Eä, yet I was ever but an instrument of the One above us all — a poorly made instrument, I deemed, for there seemed to be naught in this world I could make or devise that my elder brother could not bring to ruin.  Always, I was working to counter his malice, and for a world that would never truly be my own to rule.  When the Noldor rebelled and some of their best and brightest fled Aman to seek realms of their own, it was difficult for me — not because I could not bear their rebellion, but because a corner of my own heart understood their desire, only too well."

Nárellë was far from the only one to react to this revelation with even greater shock.  Manwë lifted his head to look about the hall, then laughed softly.  "Yes, even I understand feelings of disappointment and rebellion.  I am not so perfect as to be above such things!  But there is one great difference: in my heart, I asked forgiveness for my misplaced pride, for I have come to understand that though this world was made to be the dwelling place of the Eruhíni, it is not a sign of our Father's greater love for them.  For did He not bring us forth first of all, to share in His joy, to be a delight unto Him for no other reason than to be given His Love?  He entrusted me with this task as a gift, a sign of His love and His great faith in me, even when I did not know the full extent of my abilities.  We are His helpers, all of us — and I have come to know that I would sooner be a willing and joyful instrument in His great designs than the greatest of kings in my own feeble imitations of His Art."

"Yet what is an instrument but a tool, to be used when required and then cast aside with the other tools, to await the next time they are to be used?"  This voice, which held notes of both bitterness and confusion, came from among Manwë's own Maiar.  

Olórin turned and looked up, as others did of his people, knowing that voice quite well.  "That may be true for some, Cuandur," the Istar told the Maia, whom he had fought beside during several of their battles against Melkor.  "But only for fools.  You and I have fought together, and made music together, and I know you are no fool.  After battle, you care for your sword, not just because it served you well and you wish to use it again, but because you made it with your own hands, and it is precious to you in its own right, as a thing of art, not a mere blade.  The same is true for your viol.  I have seen the care you give to both, because though they are not of the same kind as you or I, in your hands they have a kind of life, and you love them despite their differences.  Can not the same be said of us — of all of us?"  His gesture included everyone in the room.  "We may well be the instruments by which the Great Music was made, but without those instruments, even the most gifted of composers cannot make his music manifest.  Each of us play our part, and when we play it well and with joy, our joy is redoubled, for it brings delight to us, and to He who directs us."

Cuandur — a tall chestnut-haired Maia who was seated several tiers back — looked at Olórin as he spoke, his dove-gray eyes troubled.  "Then you have never felt this... disappointment?"

But Olórin shook his head.  "Oh, no, I have felt it often enough.  Most often when I have grown weary from struggling against evil, for in weariness, we are all made more vulnerable to such failings.  I have wished for greater control and greater power to defeat that evil more easily, and when I was trapped in the body of a Man for most of the last Age, I felt the bitterness and the desires even more keenly.  We all have, for there is not one among us who can say that they have not faced their limitations, and their failures, more than once."

A loud snort came from another quarter, this among the Maiar of Yavanna.  "Very easy for you to say, Olórin," a deep but feminine voice opined.  "Few of us have been given such obvious and extreme and immediate recognition as you — and for what?  Failing the others of your own order?  Taking credit for what you couldn't do, and had to rely on mere Mortal creatures to achieve?  Leaving behind the only one of your brethren who did not fall to darkness?"

The Istar pressed his lips together, biting back a sharp retort even as a pained frown creased his brow.  He had never sought praise or recognition for his deeds, but he was still very much aware of how other had suffered because of his errors — the two hobbits in this very chamber not least among them.

Yavanna, however, spared him the need to respond.  "Hold your tongue, Mirulinda," she rebuked the aggrieved Maia, her green eyes flashing like the sun-fire woven into her robes.  "The matter of Aiwendil and his failure to return to us has long since been settled, by ones with greater knowledge and compassion toward what occurred than you!  His fate was of his own choosing, and it was not Olórin's task — nor any other's — to protect him from his own folly.  What could be done has been done.  Pass no judgment where you have no authority, or sympathy."

"Hear, hear!" Bilbo agreed, his own anger at the Maia's presumption — and her rudeness in calling them "mere Mortal creatures" — spurring him to speak.  He jumped to his feet with surprising energy, his eyes flashing as brightly as the Earth Queen's.  "No one has ever forced me to do anything I did not ultimately choose to do — not Lobelia, not Thorin, not Thranduil, not Elrond, and not even a Wizard!  Just because we're Mortal doesn't mean we're imbeciles!"

If the circumstances had been more casual, Frodo would have been smiling when he stood beside the elder hobbit.  "I might have chosen to put it more delicately, but Bilbo speaks for me as well," he declared firmly.  He was well aware that any one of the beings in the hall could have incinerated him with a thought, but he refused to be intimidated, or insulted.  "I may have wondered why Olórin felt so strongly that I had been the one Chosen to bear the Ring to the mountain of fire, but I have known almost from the start that he had never been the one to do the choosing.  If Ilúvatar Himself considered me capable of the task, then who are any of us to question His choices?"  He surprised himself with his words, but he realized as soon as he had uttered them that they were the truth.

"Both of our guests have the right of it," Námo said in the deep yet piercing tones of the Doomsman.  "The One above us holds each of us as uniquely precious to Him, and we are equal to Him in His love, no matter what our beginnings or our kind, or our abilities.  Our disappointments and desires are ours alone, the works of our own hearts and imaginations, governed by naught but our own free wills."

"Just so," Manwë agreed, laying a gentle kiss of comfort on Nárellë's brow before releasing her to Aulë, who embraced her and gave her his own fond kiss, whispering a few soft words that made her smile before he sent her to resume her seat.  "All of us have made errors in our thoughts and our deeds, for none of us are the One.  We who were made to be your elders and teachers have erred most grievously, for we should have known better.  We cannot make reparations for all the mistakes we have made, but we at least wish to try in some measure."

Lintamacar made a sour noise. "Only because the truth has at last come out, and you can no longer avoid or ignore it, or hide behind lies."

The rumbles and cries of protest that came in answer to that brazen accusation was loud, both audibly and in osánwë.  Manwë permitted it to continue for the better part of a minute, allowing those who needed to give vent to their outrage a chance to do so, and also allowing the other Valar to assess the other reactions that swirled amid the furor.  It was gratifying to all of them when they were able to note how little sympathy there was for the dissidents.  That gave them all hope that this could be dealt with before it degenerated into an open rift among them.

When he called for silence again, the hall quieted quickly.  "To some extent, what you say is true, Lintamacar."  When the protests began anew, Manwë quelled them at once.  "No, we will not deny this.  Certain truths have been made known to us in the past few days, matters that have long been hidden in the hearts of our people here in Eä, and now that they have come to light, we will not dismiss them.  But never has there been a deliberate plot to conceal these truths by the Valar, though perhaps at times, some of us turned a blind eye to what we might have seen.  Again, this was never done out of malice or haughtiness, simply out of ignorance.  There is no sin more grievous than for one of us to break the privacy of another's heart and thoughts, and if any of you chose to conceal a hurt, we could not have known of it, unless you gave us some outward sign.   We might have done better in reading those signs, but...."  

He sighed and shrugged as he made an expansive gesture of submission.  "Well, that is neither here nor there, as the saying goes.  What's done is done.  We cannot bring back the past, nor remake it, so we must do what we are able, to make amends here in the present."

"And is this endless talk about it to be the restitution itself?" a new voice demanded from another quarter.  

Ulmo gave a great snort of laughter that could have sent high waves across all the seas of the world.  As it was, his garb — which was fashioned of the waters and sprays of all those seas, adorned with shells and corals other jewels of the deeps — rippled like foam dancing upon the waves of the incoming tide.  "Hardly, Falastaría — and I side with you in this.  Enough talk about what should have and might have been.  Our hobbit friends are here for a purpose, and since that purpose is a part of our greater plans, let them speak, before Ossë loses his patience and brings the surf pounding over the Pelóri just to reach these heights and knock on Ilmarin's doors!"

There was much laughter at that jest, for the impetuous Maia had indeed been twitching restlessly in his place on the bench directly behind the throne of the Lord of the Seas, eager for more action and less debate.  He looked mildly affronted by the laughter, but his cheeks also flushed.  He couldn't deny that he was losing patience by being forced to simply sit and listen.  When Uinen patted one of his jiggling knees to comfort her husband, there was another spate of chuckles among those seated nearby, since Ossë's "knee-jiggling" had been known to cause unusually high surf along the shores of Aman.

"Which would be tragic indeed," Varda said in a lightly teasing voice as she gave Ulmo a nod of thanks for bringing some levity to their court.  She turned in her throne to give a warmer smile to their guests, beckoning to them with one hand.  "If you would, Cousins, I believe now would be a good time for all to hear of your custom, which we would like to adopt as our own."

Both hobbits — who were still standing — hesitated, unsure of how to take the Star Queen's gesture, until Olórin laid a hand on their shoulders.  With a gentle smile, he guided them between the thrones of Manwë and Varda, stopping when they stood between the glowing points of sapphire and adamant in the star laid into the center floor, beside the Elder King.

They had just realized that they hadn't discussed how they would present this or who would speak first when someone else did.  "I don't understand this," a Maia from among Varda's people said, sounding confused and a trifle peevish.  "Why do you call them 'cousin'?  None of us have ever been so honored, yet any of us are more akin to each other than we could be to a Mortal."

"Then, Tintinallë, you forget the descendants of Lúthien, whose mother Melian was very much one of our kind," Varda replied, her tone mild but also a clear warning for her not to repeat Mirulinda’s prejudice.

"And this is our custom," Bilbo added.  "Among hobbits, we will call anyone we consider to be family a cousin, regardless of blood ties or a lack thereof.  I myself have had many cousins outside of Shire folk — Dwarves and Elves and Men, and even a great Eagle or two!  Gandalf was a part of the Baggins family in Middle-earth, no matter that he was a Wizard, and he was better kin to us than some who sprouted from our own family tree.  Here in the West, he has still been as family to us, so is there something terribly wrong when his kin wish to show us the kindness of counting us as a part of their family as well?"

Manwë gave the elder hobbit a look of thanks.  "You are wise, Cousin Bilbo — and I fear that you are mistaken, Tintinallë," he added with a regretful sigh, turning his glance to the Maia.  "Do you think that we do not understand the import of our words when we call one of you daughter or son?  Are these not words of kinship, even closer and dearer than that of a cousin?"

Tintinallë — who Frodo could now see clearly, lovely and willowy with long silver-white hair that shimmered like the trail of a falling star and eyes the intense blue of the autumn sky after sunset — bit her lip and bowed her head, suddenly made very aware of her error, for both her lady and the Elder King had often called her daughter.  She stood, her robes sparkling like an evening sky bright with stars, then bowed contritely, first to Manwë, then to his queen, and finally to the hobbits and Olórin.  "My most humble apologies," she said sincerely.  "Sometimes, it is too easy to forget the blessings we already have when our hearts are blinded by envy."  Her eyes lingered for a moment on the Istar before dropping again in shame.

Olórin knew she referred to what he had revealed during his final Reckoning, and his expression  filled with sympathy.  "Oh, Tintinallë, you needn't be ashamed for having felt the very thing I have for so many ages!  I envied every one of our people who had a sibling or a spouse or anyone they could call true kin, from the moment I became aware that such things existed.  I even envied Eönwë his reputation as the son of Manwë, and that was nothing more than an interpretation of the Eldar.  If another stood in my place today, I would envy them as well, so you need not feel remorse on my account.  Besides," he added with a twinkle in his eyes, "if you are as a daughter to them, then you not only have me as your uncle, but Eönwë as your brother."  He gave the Herald a sly, teasing glance.

Eönwë wrinkled his nose at the Istar, but only to keep himself from laughing.  "True," he replied with consummate dignity.  "And don't forget that she will also have Ilmarë as her sister!"

"Leave me out of this," came the droll response from where Varda's first handmaiden sat on the bench nearest the Valië's throne, a shining figure in garb that gleamed like the brightest blue-white stars on new-fallen winter snow.  Her gray eyes, however, were bright and dancing with mirth, as she was not at all offended by the laughter her remark won from the throng.  She turned to look up at Tintinallë, her smile warm.  "I for one would welcome another sister.  Brothers, I have found, are what some Mortals describe as a 'pain in the neck.'"

That brought another, even stronger round of laughter.  Even Námo was smiling openly, as was Nienna, who gave Ilmarë an amused nod of approval and agreement.

Although he laughed with the others at the droll byplay, part of Manwë's attention was focused on the more dissident Maiar.  A number of them were plainly amused; only a handful were frowning or showing other signs of displeasure.  Perhaps they might settle this matter today....  

We cannot expect to mend this so easily, beloved, Varda reminded him, aware of his secret hope.  The solution that is too simple is often not a lasting one.  

Inwardly, the wind lord sighed, knowing it to be true.  Outwardly, he let the merriment run its due course, then again raised a hand to signal for quiet.  "As I'm sure our guests will tell us, teasing such as this is common in all families.  Or am I mistaken?"

"Not in the slightest," Frodo confirmed, still smiling broadly.  "Should you ever chance to meet my cousins Peregrin and Meriadoc — who are my genuine blood kin, by the bye — you'll be given a first-rate sample of the kind of teasing that occurs in hobbit families.  Good-natured teasing, of course."

Manwë gave him a knowing wink.  "Of course.  I believe you may have seen just this sort of behavior among two or three of us at yesterday's bazaar."  He didn't bother to glance toward Oromë or Aulë or Tulkas, all of whom conspicuously adopted innocent expressions.   "Was the custom we asked you to come explain to us created as a way to lessen strife and ill-will in your larger families of the heart?"

Frodo had no idea, so he looked to see if Bilbo had an answer.  The elder hobbit scratched his head.  "Well, now, I don't know for certain, but I suppose that may have been something those who started it hoped to achieve.  We haven't much of a gentry, you know, but we do have very large families, so I imagine this custom came about as a way to reward the members of the household who did much of the day to day work, without much reward or recognition."

"An all too familiar situation," Lintamacar grumbled quite audibly, again in Valarin.  

This time, Nessa turned to frown at him.  "If you cannot speak in what our king has chosen to be the language of today's Court, then I suggest you remain silent."  Ordinarily, she would not have rebuked one of her husband's people, but at the moment, Tulkas appreciated her more diplomatic approach.  It would not have done for him to use his preferred "direct approach" and potentially start a brawl.

Frodo continued as if the exchange hadn't happened, to move on with the business at hand before the disgruntled Maia had a chance to pursue any complaint.  "It's quite a simple matter, actually, and I wouldn't have been offended if someone else had presented it to this Court, but I suppose since you got the idea from me, it's best that I be the one to explain.  In Middle-earth, we hobbits have a custom of celebrating the end of our year with a six-day festival we call Yuletide.  It comes in the winter by our calendar, at the time when the sun begins to turn away from the long dark days of winter toward spring."

"What a charming idea!" cried one of Vána's people, a Maia who was particularly fond of the first flowers of spring, given the profusion of snowdrops and crocuses and other early blooming flowers that adorned her cloak.  She clasped her hands in delight, positively beaming at the halflings.  "I imagine such a celebration is most welcome during that dreary time of the year."

"Indeed it is," Bilbo agreed, beaming back at her, welcoming her cheerful and friendly response.   "For a few days, we make merry with wonderful feasts and song and dance, warm fires on the hearth and the warmth of good cheer in our hearts."

Olórin gave a little snort of amusement.  "Easily done, with the warmth of all that good food in your bellies!" he joked, though his expression was full of fond memories of his own times in the Shire at Yule.  "Even the poorer Hobbits manage four or five sumptuous meals every day during Yuletide, and among those better off, the flow of food and drink never ends."

"Not even on the day we set aside to honor those who have worked for us during the rest of the year," Frodo agreed when the spate of laughter Olórin's observations had caused had dwindled.    "You see," he went on, "on the last day of Yuletide, we recognize those who have helped us throughout the year by trading places with them, so to speak — the masters become the servants and the servants become the masters. On that day, we serve those who have served us so very well, and thereby show how we have valued their work, no matter how humble it may have been, as well as their loyalty."

"Do all the households of the perinnath have servants?" one of the Maiar seated among Námo's folk asked, his tone simply curious.

"Not at all," Bilbo answered.  "But many share their homes with other kin — elderly relations who need a bit of extra care, orphaned youngsters, siblings who have lost their spouses, adult children or those in their tweens who have no spouse or hole of their own.  In those homes, the heads of the household take over the tasks that would be handled by the others, and see to it that they have all the comforts they might want for the day.  And for those who have neither servants nor such other kin, they honor those friends or neighbors or even shopkeepers who have given them help during the year."

"And sometimes, we include people who are neither kin nor even a hobbit," Frodo said, his eyes going dreamy with nostalgic pleasure.  He looked up at Olórin.  "Do you remember the year that I insisted to Bilbo that you should be included with the Gamgees and Twofoots on Honor Day?"

The Maia rolled his eyes and laughed.  "Oh, heavens, yes, I remember!  You were still a tween full of energy, and perfectly happy to run about serving and seeing to our needs.  But half of Hobbiton could hear Bilbo's complaints from the kitchen about being run to exhaustion, having to cook for us bottomless pits — and according to him, being a Big Person who didn't see more than three square meals a week when I wasn't in the Shire, I was the most bottomless of all!"

The elder hobbit harrumphed even as others chuckled over the anecdote.  "That was only because I hadn't been expecting you to arrive until a week after the holiday!  I wasn't planning on spending the entire day singlehandedly cooking for six hobbits and a Wizard!"

Olórin gave Bilbo's shoulder a consoling pat.  "Yes, I do grant that cooking for six hobbits alone had to have been more exhausting than doing so for thirteen Dwarves and a Wizard!  But I appreciated your kindness then, old friend, and I still do.  I admit, when I arrived that day, I was weary from my long journey from the far south, and had completely forgotten it was Honor Day.  If I'd remembered sooner, I'd have delayed my arrival so as not to increase your burden."

Now, Bilbo tutted and waved one hand.  "Oh, nonsense, it really was no bother, and a bit of inconvenience for me was better than having you sleep out in the wild in that icy rain!  No, Frodo was right to insist, and we were glad to have you.  It was the only time we had a chance to have you with us for that day, if you recall."

The Istar did, since even when he'd come to the Shire at the beginning of Yuletide, he had always made a point of conveniently "disappearing" on the last day, to avoid precisely what had happened by accident that one year.  Still touched by it, he knelt to give both his friends brief hugs of thanks.  

Many watched the exchange with fond or thoughtful or even wistfully longing expressions.  "It is this spirit that we wish to emulate among our people," Manwë said to the assembly once Olórin had risen.  "Ever do we appreciate the efforts made by all who follow us, but this unique way of showing thanks would, we believe, bring to all of us a new sense of community — and family."

"An interesting custom," was the opinion of a Maia who was known to be among the disaffected, one of Estë's folk.  "But has this... honor never been abused?  Do some who are masters refuse to participate, or do some who have served use the day to take advantage of others?"

Sadly, both hobbits nodded.  "Both have happened, yes," Frodo confirmed.  "It's a custom, not a law, after all.  Indeed, if it were a law, I think it would lose all meaning, for a reward that is given by force is no true measure of honor."

"And some definitely used their temporary status to lord it over others," Bilbo said, grimacing.  "Never in any house I was part of, but some of my more distant cousins were guilty of that!"

"The intent behind the custom has merit," one of Irmo's people said in a thoughtful tone.  "But it cannot possibly be practical for us to follow.  Among the Ainur here in Eä, there are far too many servants, and very few masters.  Even the Valar cannot take on all our duties at once!"

"Quite so," Varda concurred with a secretive smile.  "Which is why we have devised our own variation, which we hope will suit the needs of our people."

The other Valar nodded, many with similar smiles of their own.  Manwë turned to the hobbits and gave them a polite half-bow.  "Thank you for telling us of your most excellent tradition, my cousins, and of how you introduced it to Olórin."

Both halflings bowed in return.  "And thank you for inviting us to your Court, Cousin Manwë," Frodo replied.  "I still think that our presence wasn't necessary, but I am honored to have been allowed to attend."

"Very honored," Bilbo agreed.  "Of all the beautiful things I have encountered since we arrived on these shores, I can think of none that could hope to surpass all I have seen and heard today.  Thank you for making us welcome."

All of the Valar and many of the Maiar gave small half-bows and nods to the hobbits before Olórin escorted them back to their seats.  Their simple sincerity and appreciation of the event, despite the less than perfect behavior of some, touched the vast majority of those who heard them.

The Maia who had mentioned the possible problem with their numbers spoke up again after their guests were settled in their seats.  "I still don't understand how this can be made to work among us, and not be unfair, somehow."  He sounded puzzled rather than rebellious.

"It is certainly an issue, Nólaquen," the Elder King acknowledged.  "So we have decided to make this a tradition to be followed every year, as is done among the Hobbits.  Doing so at the same time of year is also appealing to us, because of the symbolism Calmea mentioned—"  He inclined his head to the Maia of Vána's people who had been so delighted by it.  "—and because this is not a time that has already been devoted to other long-established major celebrations here in Aman.  We cannot possibly honor every member of our households in this way, but we also believe it would be absurd to elect only one each year."

Varda stood and moved to stand beside her husband.  "After discussing matters, we have noted that among those who follow us, each of us have nine Maiar whom we have appointed to what could be called positions of leadership.   Adding ourselves to that number, we have decided that every year, ten from each of our peoples will be elected to be honored, and served by us on this day.”  She did not say it, but that also conveniently ensured that the number of honorees would meet or exceed the number of those most profoundly disaffected in each group.

Lintamacar snorted.  "And I suppose that this year, you will select all of those favorites of yours to be 'honored.'  How... unbiased."  His tone was perilously close to a sneer.

But Manwë shook his head, affecting not to notice his impertinent — not to mention disrespectful — attitude.  "No.  This is a time for those who ordinarily do not enjoy prominence to be rewarded for all their labor, and their loyalty.  Some of our Maiar who have serve us in positions of authority may also wish to participate by giving service on that day."

"I certainly will," Eönwë volunteered, a sentiment immediately echoed by many others who ranked high among the Maiar, as well as some who did not, but liked the idea of such a day, and had someone in mind whom they wanted to recognize in this novel fashion.

A ripple of approval went between the Valar in osánwë before the Elder King continued. "And we will not be the ones to select those who will be honored.  We have decided that the election would be most meaningful if it is made by the Maiar of each Vala.  In this way, there can be no favoritism from us, and those who prefer to work very quietly may have a better chance of having their labors recognized."

That observation met with general approval.  From the expressions and quick glances that flicked about the room, more than a few of the Maiar already knew of just such persons among their comrades.  "This might not be such an easy thing to do, especially the first time," said one of Varda's people who had glanced at a nearby friend.

"Perhaps not," the Star Queen agreed.  "But it is still several months before Yule.  That should be time enough for you to make your choices, and if any difficulties arise, we will, of course, be willing to give advice — though we will not make suggestions, or make the final selections for you.  That will be your task.  You have the privilege to honor your brethren, and thus yourselves, by deciding who among you are most deserving to be honored, this year and in each following year.  Our only stipulation is that those who are chosen one year will not be eligible again until the entire household has had a chance to be selected."

"Must we accept this election, if we truly don't wish it?" came a polite question from among Nienna's people.

The lady herself responded.  "Of course not, Elesinyë.  Any who wish to abstain from participating may do so, so long as it is their freely made choice.  Just as any who attempt to force another to abstain will be punished.  As our guests have pointed out, it is possible to abuse this tradition, but we will not suffer it to be undermined by actions that clearly show no respect for its greater meaning."

"And if any should choose not to take part one year, they will not be forbidden from choosing otherwise in another," Irmo clarified.  "We can understand that many might wish to abstain this year, so as to see how well this custom works.  There is no shame in either choice, for we as a people are both eager for new experiences, and wary of them, thanks to our fallen brethren."

Manwë agreed.  "Truly, this is meant to be a celebration of gratitude and love; it should not be rigid but rather allow all of us to take part each year in whatever way gives it the greatest meaning.  Only we of the Valar will always remain among those serving rather than receiving honor, for this day is to be forever dedicated to the Maiar, who have been far more to us than mere servants or vassals.  You are our younger brothers and sisters, the children we cannot have as do the Eruhíni, but whom we love and cherish so very deeply."

It seemed to Frodo as if a great gasp rushed through the immense hall, but not of breath being suddenly inhaled.  Rather, it was something felt in the mind and the heart, a sensation that was in part surprise, and in part wonder.  Manwë had spoken with such simple and earnest conviction, there was no question that to him, this was truth, of a kind that could not be contested.  The former Ringbearer did not know for certain, but he suspected that this admission of familial love was something that had never been quite so openly expressed when virtually all the Ainur of Eä were present.  That even Lintamacar's expression lost its arrogance and softened into a kind of astonished yearning — if only for a moment — convinced him that his guess was in the gold.

After what felt like a brief infinity of stillness, a soft-spoken voice broke it.  "I for one see no reason why we shouldn't at least make an attempt to follow this custom."  The remark came from Yavanna's messenger, Ornedil, who was also Aiwendil's brother.  "If for some reason we find it unsuitable for our kind, we need not do so again next year.  But I hope it does work.  I feel my brother would have enjoyed it, for I'm certain he loved the Hobbits, if ever he met them in Endorë."  He gave the seated halflings a gracious smile.

"Yes, I also think we should try this at least once," someone from another part of the hall chimed in.  "We've never really attempted any of the customs of the Mortals, and since Endorë has now entered the Age of Men, I'd say it's long overdue."

"But Mortal thought they be, the periannath are not Men, as I know they have told us time and again," one of the Maiar who lived in Lórien's hill country pointed out with a pleasant wink for the hobbits, letting them know she was largely joking.

One of Estë's people gave a little snort.  "I hardly think it matters.  We have precious little experience with the ways of Mortals, since our only major dealings with them as a people were during the War of Wrath, and they were limited, even then.  This seems a most suitable and charming way for us to learn more of their customs, as we learned to understand those of the Eldar by being a part of them."

"Could we learn more about all the celebrations and traditions of this Yuletide?" came an eager query from among Vairë's folk.  "It sounds like a very joyful time, not at all somber, and I think it would be more meaningful if we shared more of the entire experience."

"Are there Yuletide dances?" That even more eager question came from among Nessa's folk, and was swiftly seconded by Vána's.  On the heels of it came a cry from one of Ulmo's Maiar, "And music!  There must be songs for it!"

"Aye!" cried someone nearby as he fairly leapt to his feet.  "The Little Folk have always lived so far from the Sea, and so many fear the lakes and rivers, we've scarcely had a chance to hear their music.  Do they have new instruments they play on?  Are their songs and dance tunes different from those of the Eldar and the Atani?"

A sudden excited flurry of questions and comments filled the hall with babble for a little while, until Manwë once again called for order.  "Let us not overwhelm our guests in our zeal," he suggested, sending an unseen smile of satisfaction to his fellow Valar.  This was an excellent sign.  "After this court is dismissed, we can assemble what questions we have, and later present them to our hobbit friends, to be answered at their convenience.  For now, let us address the other matters that need attending — and please, let us be as brief as possible, so as not to bore our guests beyond endurance!"

"Or ourselves," came a wry quip from behind the wind-lord's throne.  During the laughter it elicited, Manwë turned to give Olórin a mock stern glare.  The Istar returned the most innocent look his face had ever worn, which turned the false glare to a genuinely fond grin. 

The Elder King then called upon Oromë to present a final summation on the restoration of Avathar, opening discussion of how it might soon be opened for settlement by the Elves.  As he settled back upon his throne and gave the Hunter and the following debate the attention they were due, Manwë also turned a much smaller part of his vast mind to more casually observe the undercurrents of excitement, anticipation, and curiosity that were still swirling among the Maiar.  If these reactions were any reliable indication, the weeks ahead would prove to be most interesting indeed.

Next:

Waiting For Answers

XII

Waiting for Answers

After the court finally ended amid the glorious sound of all the Ainur singing, Frodo and Bilbo were ushered to a chamber where they could doff their ceremonial cloaks.  Refreshments had also been set out for them, and whichever of their friends and extended family wished to join them.  It was a merry little gathering, and when the hobbits were quite sated, Manwë gave them a better tour of Ilmarin, as he had promised he would, should Bilbo chance to visit.  Both Mortals were tired and ready for a bit of a nap when it was done.  While they slept, they were taken back to the mansion in Valmar, where it had been planned for them to spend the remainder of the week.

Frodo still wanted to see the rest of the bazaar outside the city, and Bilbo very much wished to see the works of the glass-crafters, which he had heard much about.  The fine weather continued to hold, and after the long hours spent in the more somber business of the various courts, both merchants and customers were eager to have another day or two for buying and selling and meeting with friends and distant kin before it was time to head back to their various homes, near and far.

Manwë and Varda had wanted to join the hobbits, but that turned out to be more difficult than they'd anticipated. One of the matters that had come up before all the Elven courts was the issue of a need for expansion, before there were more than stirrings of unrest from those who were feeling crowded, restless, and confined in the currently limited regions of Eldamar.  The two Valar found it necessary to remain at the mansion until their discussions with the various Elven representatives were concluded.

In their stead, Eönwë and Ilmarë came to accompany them.  Though the Herald was raven-haired and his sister honey blonde, they were both very tall.  The handmaiden was more slender than her warrior brother, but there was no mistaking their kinship in their elegant faces, for all that they were self-incarnate, not born of flesh and blood.

"I didn't truly have a chance to enjoy the bazaar the other day," Eönwë said after he'd explained why they had arrived in lieu of their lord and lady.  "When one is charged with the task of covertly gathering information and then coordinating the reports of others, it tends to diminish one's pleasure in the outing."

Ilmarë sniffed.  "At least you were able to go.  I was needed to attend at the gathering of the Valiër -- a pleasure of its own, but of a different kind."  She smiled brightly at the hobbits and Olórin.  "I also welcome a chance to discover if uncles and cousins are better company than nuisancy brothers."  

The rude face Eönwë gave her was priceless.  Ilmarë rolled her eyes in exaggerated exasperation.  "Typical."  The others laughed, recognizing the teasing banter as that of affection, not malice, and so they set out in a merry mood.

It was a beautiful day, bringing brisk business and a generally cheerful atmosphere.  Most folk were polite and deferential to them, but in some ways, it was much more relaxed than it had been two days before, no doubt because the Elves were more comfortable around the Maiar than they were the Valar.  Even Eönwë, whom many considered to be the highest ranking of all the Maiar, was less daunting to them than even the least of the Powers.

Bilbo was quite insistent that they make their first destination the pavilion of Alyasímar and Eärmírë, so that he could see the two great stained-glass windows that Frodo had described to him.  No one had mentioned the smaller pane Alyasímar had made for him, wanting to preserve the surprise, and he was indeed startled, and greatly moved, by the gift.  After he had thanked them profusely -- and spend more than a few minutes sniffling and dabbing at his eyes -- he was promised that the pane would be safely delivered to his apartment  in Tirion, where Elrond's craftspeople would see to its proper installation.

Afterwards, Bilbo felt the need for a bit of refreshment to recover from his unexpected episode of emotions.  Fortunately, they had enjoyed a large and satisfying breakfast just before setting out, so the stop at a nearby baker's pavilion for some fresh sweet buns and a cup of tea was comparatively brief.

Ilmarë knew that such enjoyment of food and drink was a trait of the hobbit people, and while this first-hand experience with it was a bit startling -- they were so small, after all! -- she found it oddly endearing.  When they asked the three Maiar to join them, a jovially generous invitation, she found their manners and light-hearted conversation most pleasant, and quickly came to understand why her Lady had so easily taken them into her heart.

When they resumed their exploration of the bazaar and all it had to offer, Bilbo happily entertained her with tales of the markets and fairs of the Shire, as well as the Hobbit customs of gift-giving, for all occasions.  Frodo was somewhat more focused on continuing the shopping he had begun the other day, looking for items to purchase as Yule gifts for the many friends he had made throughout Aman.  Olórin and Eönwë were happy to help him, both in locating appropriate vendors and by offering suggestions when the younger hobbit had difficulty deciding, especially if they were well acquainted with the intended recipient.

At the booth of a silversmith, even their combined advice couldn't help Frodo decide on a particular purchase.  The Vanyarin smith was talented in the making of any form of clasp, pin, brooch, or buckle, and there were several that Frodo thought would be most suitable as gifts.  One, however, was set with what he felt were inappropriate stones, so he and the crafter went aside to look over other gems that the smith had on hand, to see if any met with the Ringbearer's approval.

Bilbo and Ilmarë were lagging behind a bit, at the nearby pavilion of a stationer, where the elder hobbit wanted to see every single pen, paper, quill, inkwell, and whatever other items the merchant had brought to sell.  The stationer's wife was an illuminator, and in one corner of the pavilion, she was working on a commission, a beautiful rendering of a traditional verse that was to be a gift for a coming wedding in Alqualondë.  Ilmarë was fascinated by her skill, and enjoyed watching her work while Bilbo was busy examining scrolls of parchment, leaves of fine linen paper, and an assortment of exquisite silver-tipped quills.

Not wanting to intrude on either hobbit's business, Olórin and Eönwë found a place nearby where they could wait without impeding other potential customers.  The Herald watched the halflings, smiling.  "They take their bargaining seriously -- but they do enjoy it, don't they?"

Olórin nodded, remembering his many visits to all the places where hobbits had lived during his time as a Wizard.  "Very much so.  They are a generous people at heart, even if some of their gifts aren't new or costly.  Of all the Eruhíni, I believe they take the most joy in giving rather than receiving -- a trait that I hope they are able to teach to the other races of Middle-earth."

"And to us as well," the raven-haired warrior added with a knowing gleam in his eyes.  "If some of our own people were more concerned with what they are able to give and less with what they and others have or have not received, our current situation wouldn't exist."

Olórin inclined his head in agreement.  "Too true, alas.  It seems that no matter how many opportunities we have to learn things for the betterment of all, there will always be some too eager to choose the wrong lesson."

Eönwë chuckled.  "Well, perhaps the novelty of this coming opportunity will meet with greater success."  He paused as a group of eight youngsters came toward them, ogling and whispering at the sight of the tall Herald and the much shorter Istar.  From their appearance, they were mostly kin, with a few friends of similar age tagging along.  The two Maiar gave them pleasant smiles of greeting as they passed by, which further widened the eyes of the oglers.  A few giggles rose up amid the whispers as the Elves quickened their pace, then disappeared into a tailor's pavilion.

When they were gone, Eönwë sighed softly.  "Did you truly mean it when you said you envied me my reputation as Lord Manwë's son?  It's no more than that, after all, just a presumption on the part of the Elves, which has sometimes puzzled me.  I look more akin to Lady Varda, after all."

That was true, given that the Herald had Varda's dark hair, though his eyes were a vivid sky blue rather than the Valië's keen star-silver.  Olórin's answering laugh was merry.  "Yes, I suppose you do at that!  But to be honest, from the very beginning I envied anyone among our people who had kin, whether it was a brother, sister, or spouse. And when the Firstborn awakened and all their myriad kinds of kinship became known to us, I wanted it all the more."  

"If I had not had Ilmarë as my sister from our beginnings, I believe I would have felt much the same," Eönwë admitted.  "As it was, I often yearned for a brother whose kinship to me was not of the sword.  I have long regarded you as such, though I've not often spoken of it."

"I know, and I have appreciated it, more than I could say.  Finding that I have true kin does not change those feelings.  I hope we will forever be brothers in our hearts."

Eönwë chuckled softly even as he gave the shorter Maia a warm familial embrace.  "Are you saying that you've already grown tired of being an uncle?  After only a few short days?"

"Oh, not at all!" Olórin assured him after returning the brotherly hug.  "Being the only one among our people thus far, I have yet to explore all the possibilities it might present!  Still, it was a sibling I yearned for most all those long ages."

He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper that even Elven ears could not hear.  "I was so desperate, I would've been delighted to have Sauron as my brother, even after he had fallen, and even if it was only to be able to pester him with, 'You're the elder of us, you're supposed to be setting me a better example!'"

He said it in such a perfect imitation of a young, pesky, whining child, Eönwë threw back his head and roared with laughter, which Olórin joined a moment later.  Their reaction won many startled glances, and brought a few heads popping out from nearby tents and pavilions.  But such was the merriment in the sound of it, all who looked their way couldn't help but smile, sharing in their joy simply for the pleasure it brought to their hearts.

When they at last got the better of their mirth, the Herald clapped the smaller Maia's shoulder in a most companionable way.  "I can just see you doing it, too!  It's a shame you didn't know who your real brothers were long ago.  I have a feeling that you might have been able to annoy even Melkor into giving up his wicked ways.  Manwë is wise and powerful, but a whining pest he is not!"

Olórin mock-scowled as he elbowed his friend, an expression that quickly melted to wistful smile.  "I believe Bilbo would agree with you, given how I pestered him into going on an adventure he was quite set against -- so I would appreciate if you didn't mention this to him."

"Didn't mention what to whom?" Bilbo asked as he and Ilmarë approached, his arms laden with carefully wrapped packages.

Eönwë and Olórin traded wry glances at the hobbit's timing.  "Nothing for you to worry about," the latter assured him.  "Did you purchase at least one of every item Master Túrelio had to offer?"

"Oh, not at all," the hobbit said in such a breezy manner, one couldn't be quite sure if he was dismissing the teasing or simply hadn't noticed it.  "He has ever so many interesting wares, and I'd've happily spent the rest of the day with him -- he's such a pleasant fellow, and you know, he dabbles in writing poetry, too, and has a keen interest in lore.  But Mistress Órecalima finished what she'd been working on and insisted that it was high time her husband took a moment for luncheon, as he hadn't had a proper breakfast this morning...."

"Which of course made your stomach think it was high time for your own luncheon, since you haven't had a bite to eat in at least an hour," Olórin quipped.  When Bilbo tried to protest but couldn't because it was the truth, the Maia gave his shoulder a friendly pat.  "Since almost three hours have actually passed and both you and Frodo have been engaged in the hungry work of bargaining, it is time to give the matter due thought."

"Actually," Eönwë chimed in, "I've already considered it.  There's a pleasant inn nearby, the Wandering Willow. The keeper, who took ship from Mithlond a few years before your arrival, was friendly with the hobbits who lived in the westernmost parts of the Shire."

Both Bilbo's and Olórin's eyes widened.  "It sounds as if he was also friendly with the Ents!" the Istar observed.  "Or perhaps even the Entwives, if some managed to survive."

"Perhaps you should ask him," Eönwë suggested.  "From what I've heard, he had a fondness for Hobbit fare, and has attempted to incorporate parts of what he remembered best into his offerings.  I'm sure he would welcome a visit by you and Frodo, Bilbo."

"And I would welcome a chance to see if he's managed to do half as well as Nárënilda when it comes to making proper hobbit fare!"  He was about to head into the silversmith's pavilion to hurry Frodo along when one of the larger packages started to slip from his arms.  He almost dropped them all, but Ilmarë was quick to save them from falling.

"I can return these to your rooms at the mansion," she told the halfling, then sighed regretfully.  "I fear I must go back.  My lady Varda has summoned me, so I won't be able to join you at the inn."

"Oh, no!" Bilbo looked positively stricken, having much enjoyed her company.  "Would you rather we waited until you're free again?  I can't believe Lady Varda would keep you busy for all the rest of the day, not after she'd already released you from your duties for the day."

"Is it serious?" her brother asked, keeping his tone light even though his eyes had darkened with concern, as had Olórin's.

But Ilmarë's smile was also light.  "Naught to concern any of you," she assured them, explaining more fully to her fellow Maiar in their thoughts.  "A situation has come up that requires my presence, and while it could perhaps wait, it's best dealt with as soon as possible. I promise, I will join you as soon as I can," she told Bilbo, laying a soft kiss atop his curly head.

With her assurances accepted she waited until Frodo had joined them, then collected the hobbits' parcels and returned with them to the mansion in Valmar.  "It's a shame she can't come with us," Frodo said as he watched her leave, politely strolling off to a less public location rather than simply vanish into thin air.  "I hope it's nothing serious."

Olórin shook his head, gesturing for Eönwë to lead the way.  "It shouldn't be.  She gave us more of the details in osánwë.  As I'm sure you recall, the Valar each gave the privilege of selecting those to be honored at the end of Yule to their Maiar.  There was a disagreement among several of Lady Varda's people as to how that selection should be accomplished, and as she is chief among her fellows, it is Ilmarë's duty to help resolve the issue."

Bilbo winced.  "Bless me!  I hope it doesn't turn out the way some of the Baggins' family squabbles did!"

Frodo heartily agreed.  "Lobelia alone could take a minor disagreement and turn it into a ten-year feud, or worse."

Eönwë gave a short laugh.  "Which to us would seem but a few moments!  But you needn't worry, my friends.  My sister is not the chief of the Elentari's people for naught.  She can be as stern as she is beautiful, yet she is also a clever negotiator, and has handled many arguments of a much more serious kind with consummate skill.  In our early days, after we entered Eä but long before the Elves awakened, she successfully parlayed with Melkor himself on more than one occasion, and spared all of us many additional years of painful strife."

Both hobbits were suitably impressed.  "I don't doubt what you say, Eönwë," Bilbo added as they made their way from the crowded byways of the bazaar to the busy but less tightly-packed surrounding streets just off the main road.  "But I haven't heard any songs or even tales of her deeds.  Which seems to me to be a terrible lack of recognition -- worse, I think, than anything I heard complained about yesterday!"

"Perhaps because there were no Elves about to write them," Olórin pointed out while they waited for a cart loaded with fresh produce from the recent harvest to pass by.  "During the ages while we labored on the fashioning of Arda itself, spoken language was an art among us, not a necessity.  It was when we began to self-incarnate in preparation for the coming of the Firstborn that we began to record our history in words that the Elven scholars would later translate.  Ilmarë's deeds in the earliest years have not been forgotten, but she has somehow managed to avoid having most of them written into the songs and stories of the Eldar."

Eönwë's laugh came out as a sly snort.  "Which sounds like another Maia I know," he said, grinning, which Olórin blithely ignored.

Frodo was amused by their antics, but kept his reaction to a smile.  "Perhaps if you can find someone to tell you more of the details, you might write a ballad or two, Bilbo."

He had meant both the deeds of Ilmarë and Olórin, but Bilbo missed it.  "Oh, that's a splendid idea!  I've been thinking all day that I would like to find an appropriate Yule gift for Lady Ilmarë, especially after seeing how much she enjoyed the work of Mistress Órecalima.  I did hear her singing yesterday, you know, and she has such a magnificent voice, I'd thought perhaps I could ask if she has a favorite poem I might have illuminated for her -- but this is so much better!  Perhaps Master Onótilúvë would be willing to oblige me -- or you, Cousin Eönwë!  You are her brother, after all, so I suppose you'd know all about these things."

That brought an impish smirk to Olórin's face.  The Herald coughed.  "Ah... yes, I do -- but I can hardly be considered an unbiased source," he added hastily, relieved to have found an out.  "Such things can be beautifully descriptive and poetic, but they should also be accurate, don't you think?"

Eyes sparkling with mischief, Olórin mouthed the word coward at the taller Maia, even though he knew why Eönwë wished to avoid being the one to give Bilbo the details.  Ilmarë would probably make his life miserable for the next age of the Sun if she ever found out that her brother was the source, no matter how lovely a poem Bilbo composed.

"An excellent point," Frodo opined, carefully stepping over a mud clod that had fallen off one of the cart's wheels as they continued on their way.  "You know you have a tendency to wax a bit over-poetic at times, Bilbo.  I shouldn't want you to embarrass poor Ilmarë by embellishing events as they didn't happen."

It was the elder hobbit's turn to clear his throat, cheeks flushing.  "Well, yes, that's very true, I wouldn't want to do that, especially after she's been so kind to me today.  Is it much farther to this inn?" he asked in a hasty change of subject.

"Just around the next corner," Eönwë promised, equally glad for the diversion.

As promised, the Wandering Willow was only a short distance away.  It was not at all like a hobbit inn in design or structure, but it was an inviting-looking place that was all the more charming once one had entered the cosy interior.  The dark wooden tables and beams shone from careful and loving maintenance, reflecting the warm glow of the lamps and the fire on the large hearth opposite the main doors.  The deep green upholstery on the chairs and benches was an excellent complement to the intricately woven hangings of forests and fields that softened the look of the smooth-plastered walls.  A curved staircase to the left of the entrance led to the guest chambers; along the same wall was a tall counter where a fair-haired Elf woman was dealing with a pair of guests who were preparing to head back to their home while the fair autumn weather held.  All around were the sounds of cheerful customers and busy staff, and the air was laden with the delicious scents that wafted from the kitchens.

As he took it all in, a wistful expression filled Frodo's gaze.  "It reminds me a bit of The Prancing Pony in Bree."

"Will you be favoring us with a song after we've eaten, then?" Olórin asked drolly.  "I've always been rather sorry I missed that particular performance."

Frodo sniffed and refused to rise to the bait, knowing full well that his old friend was merely teasing.  They had talked about that episode long ago, and while at the time it had seemed the most foolish and dangerous thing the hobbit had done during his possession of the Ring, it had also been fortunate in how it had led him to meet Aragorn, whom he might not have trusted so readily had he not helped Frodo out of that perilously sticky situation.

The subject was easily dropped when a jovial auburn-haired Elf noted their presence and came to greet them.  "This is an unexpected pleasure, my lords!" he exclaimed with such expansive good cheer, there could be no doubt that he was the proprietor.  He bowed as he introduced himself.  "I am Olindar Tatharelion, and yonder is my wife, Nelladel."  He motioned to the woman behind the counter, who was still busy with the customers. "You are all most welcome to our house.  How may we serve you today?"

His outgoing manner quite reminded the hobbits of hostellers throughout the Shire, which instantly put them at ease.  "Lord Eönwë has heard that you were acquainted with our people back in Middle-earth," Frodo explained after returning the bow of welcome.   "As my uncle and I were ready for our luncheon, we wanted to see for ourselves if you do indeed boast Shire dishes on your bill of fare, as Eönwë claims."

Olindar answered with a broad smile that was also self-effacing.  "Ah, yes, I have attempted to duplicate some of what I so greatly enjoyed at an inn at the very edge of the westernmost parts of your homeland -- The Plough and Hammer, it was called.  Perhaps you know of it."

Bilbo lit up with delight.  "Of course I do!  It was a good day's walk on the Road west of Michel Delving, and was often visited by the Dwarves from the Blue Mountains in their travels.  Elmo Thornwhistle, the keeper, claimed that when his father was the proprietor, he was the last person of the Shire to see Isumbras Took before he went off to Sea.  He also mentioned that the Fair Folk sometimes stopped by to ask how the crops were faring in the Shire, but none ever visited whilst I was there."

The Elf's cheeks flushed.  "He was likely referring to me.  I used to own a farm that provided for Círdan's folk in Mithlond, and when I felt a desire to talk shop, so to speak, I found the Shire folk ever so much better to converse with on such subjects.  The Falathrim had little mind for aught but shipbuilding and fishing and the Sea, while the hobbits enjoyed the bounty of the earth.  I'm sorry we never had a chance to meet upon the Hither Shore, but I'm glad to have had the chance at last!  You're here for luncheon, you say?"  He glanced up to include the two Maiar along with the halflings.

Olórin's expression was mischievous.  "Unlike Bilbo, I have had the pleasure of meeting you in Endorë, Master Olindar..."  And for a moment, his appearance shifted from that of a shining Maia to the old gray wanderer he had been during the past age.

The innkeeper laughed, a bright, unexpectedly booming sound that drew the attention of all in the crowded main room, almost more than the presence of four such notable guests had already done.  "Of course, of course, Mithrandir!  How soon we forget what we knew but a few days ago!  Come, then, I have a small parlor free where you may all settle down in peace, away from the hustle and bustle -- and prying eyes! -- of the public hall.  Tinuwen," he called to a young elf woman who had just finished delivering a round of drinks to a group of travelers.

She excused herself from the customers and came over at Olindar's beckoning.  She was of an age the hobbits would have called in the tweens, of average height but slightly more plump than many Elves were wont to be, her simply plaited hair of a deep reddish blonde, her face pleasant, and her eyes a bright gray-green.  "This is my second daughter, Tinuwen," the keeper introduced.  "She will see you settled in the front parlor and acquaint you with the food and drink we have to offer.  And I will make sure our kitchen staff prepares everything precisely to your liking!"

Tinuwen turned out to be a cheerful young maid with fond memories of the Shire, as she had accompanied her father on several of his trips to the Plough and Hammer.  She had been more interested in meeting the locals and learning their songs and dances, and she was delighted to be given the privilege of waiting upon them now.  Unlike her father, she remembered that Olórin had once been Mithrandir, whom she recalled fondly from his visits to the west of Middle-earth, and she was not in the least bit intimidated by Eönwë, which the Herald found wonderfully refreshing.

The meal was a merry one, between the good food, good company, and the cheery attentions of  Olindar, his daughter, and his wife, who came to greet them when she had a free moment amid her other duties.  While the food wasn't precisely like Hobbit fare, it was very close and still delicious.  The drinks were more than passable, the wine even better than Old Winyards and the beer comparable to Butterbur's best.  If other guests peeked in every now and then, none of the four minded, and they spent the early part of the afternoon enjoying these unexpected pleasures.

When the meal was finally done, their hosts cleared away the dishes and brought another bottle of wine for them to enjoy with a platter of little nibblements for "filling in the corners," as the hobbits put it.   The three who had actually been to the Shire were telling Eönwë tales of the various Shire inns and innkeepers when yet another figure appeared in the doorway.  The Herald was about to suggest that they run along and satisfy their idle curiosity another time when he realized who was there, and nearly spilled his wine in his haste to jump to his feet.

His sudden and rather extreme reaction drew the attention of the others, wondering what had caused it.  It was debatable as to which surprised them more: the fact that it was Lord Námo standing at the door, or the fact that he was dressed in the simple -- and not somber --  everyday clothes of an average Elf, the breeches and tunic and other accoutrements in shades of brown and cream and a striking rusty red, the hue of bittersweet berries.  "Forgive me for interrupting," he apologized, motioning for them to remain seated.

For his part, Frodo waved away the apology.  He was glad to see the Vala again, and even more glad to see him not looking so terribly serious, save perhaps for the small crease on his brow.  "We were just finishing, so there's nothing to interrupt -- unless you count oft-told tales of the goings on in Shire pubs and inns!  Won't you join us?"  

When the others seconded the suggestion and Olórin produced a crystal goblet for Bilbo to fill from the half-full bottle on the table, Námo took the empty seat Eönwë offered him before the Maia settled back into his own.  "What brings you, my lord?" Olórin asked with amiable curiosity.  He had served in the Halls of Waiting from time to time, and he knew quite well that this particular Vala seldom appeared in such a public place without reason.

The question brought a surprisingly shy look to the Doomsman's face.  "Several reasons, not the least of which is a need to escape the... pandemonium for a time."

Four pairs of eyes widened with shock.  "Pandemonium?" Eönwë repeated.  "Has trouble broken out in Mandos?"  From the way he suddenly sat bolt upright, the captain of the hosts of the Valar was a moment away from fetching his sword.

But Námo shook his head, his smile small and rueful.  "Perhaps I used too strong a word -- although to me, the day has certainly felt as if chaos has descended on my Halls!  No, all is in order insofar as the fëar in my keeping are concerned.  The... commotion, such as it is, is among the Maiar in my service."

That did little to reassure his listeners.  Bilbo set down his wine glass, sighing heavily.  "Dear me, the revolt hasn't begun already, has it?  So soon?"

"It can't be that," Frodo declared, though he was not at all certain.  "I know that some of the Maiar have been upset for an impossibly long time, but they haven't even given this plan a chance to work!"

"I wouldn't have anticipated such a strong and immediate response from your people, my lord," Olórin said mildly, though there was a hard gleam in his eyes, as if he were already thinking of just which of those Maiar needed to be permanently changed into toads.

It was Námo's turn to react with wide-eyed surprise at their extreme and immediate reactions.  Then suddenly, he laughed, a very unexpected but not at all unwelcome sound of pure mirth.  "Peace, my friends," he told them when he was able to speak again, now smiling widely at their astonished faces.  Námo's laugh was not dark or forbidding, as many would have predicted, but was strangely refreshing, like the promise of spring after a long, bitterly cold winter.  "You misunderstand.  It seems that those disaffected members of my household were so taken with the idea of us adopting the Hobbit custom of Honor Day, they have quite given up on any notions of rebellion."

"So easily?"  Eönwë wanted to believe him, but after all their struggles with Melkor and his followers, it was difficult for him not to be skeptical.  Even the halflings appeared doubtful.

But the lord of Mandos shrugged.  "It seems unbelievable, but I know my people well enough to know that they were never truly rebellious.  Because of the tasks that fall upon them, they have always had difficulty finding the kind of acceptance they yearn for, even among our own kind.  Their acceptance -- or lack of it -- is even more disheartening among the Eruhíni."

A sigh of agreement came from Olórin.  "Sadly true, especially among many Mortals.  Sauron's corruption of Númenor and his deeds as the Necromancer instilled a terrible fear of death among many peoples of Endorë, and I have seen the taint even among the Elves here in Aman."

"Which, I have discovered, is why they have so eagerly embraced this plan of ours."  He turned to Frodo.  "When they heard you say that Yuletide celebrates the darkest time of year with the promise that it will not last forever, it delighted them.  For so long, they have wanted to find ways to make the incarnates understand that death is not an end but a release, a path to something even greater and more beautiful than life in the flesh.  Your traditions showed my people that perhaps their efforts were not in vain, and they now wish to know all they can of the holiday, no matter how minor the detail."

He rolled his eyes.  "They have been plaguing me with questions since the Court was dismissed, and though I cannot fault them for their enthusiasm, it was beginning to try my patience."

Eönwë grinned, knowing how he and Ilmarë had dealt with similar queries that morning.  "So you came here to avoid being pestered into insanity?"

A sheepish look returned to the Vala's face.  "It would be less than honest to say that wasn't one of my reasons for coming," he confessed.  "I promised them that if they would assemble a list of what they considered their most important questions, I would bring them to my new cousins myself.  I hope you don't object," he added, directing it to the hobbits.

Frodo took a sip of wine, then chuckled.  "Speaking for myself, I shan't mind answering their questions, if I can -- and if the list isn't too terribly long!  Bilbo is the family loremaster; he enjoys being closeted with his books for weeks on end, but I don't have quite his stamina for such things."

The elder hobbit clicked his tongue.  "You flatter me.  You've always been a good scholar, and Elrond's house is positively overflowing with true loremasters, so I'm a mere dabbler by comparison!  But perhaps we can divide whatever questions they have between us, if the list is too long or difficult."

"It shouldn't be," Námo felt certain.  "I reminded them that they are not the only ones who wish to know more about Yuletide.  It wouldn't be fair to the Maiar of the other houses to have their questions left unanswered because my people first overwhelmed you with a flood of petty inquiries."

"Very kind of you," Bilbo commended, then reached out to pat one of his nephew's hands.  "You may answer any of their questions about dancing, my lad.  That's one thing I no longer have the stamina to deal with!"

Námo understood their misgivings.  "You need only answer as much or as little as you wish to, my friends.  In fact, it may be best if you do not provide all the answers they want.  We are taking your tradition to make it our own, yet there should be aspects of it that are uniquely ours, as others will remain unique to your people.  We are all children of the One after our own fashions, but if He had wished all of us to be alike, He would have made us so."

Given the recent rumors about him being made a Maia, Frodo agreed completely. "Hear, hear!" he declared most fervently, lifting his glass, and the others raised theirs as well.

Bilbo sighed contentedly after taking a long, appreciative sip of the wine.  "Now," he said as he reached for a small tart on the tray of nibblements, "where's the list you promised to deliver?"

Next:

Still Waiting

XIII

Still Waiting

Four hours later, they were still at it.

"So if I understand all you have told me aright, the metaphysical implications and symbolism of your 'Yule log' custom concern warmth rather than light, hospitality and the longing for spring, not death itself."  Námo and the hobbits — with an able assist from Olórin, who was well acquainted with all their customs and history — had gone over the list of questions from the Vala's Maiar.  Most had been very easy to answer, but it was when they came to symbology and the more deeply philosophical questions that there had been some snags which required further discussion.

Eönwë knew nothing about the Hobbits' Yule, but he was interested in learning more, so he had stayed to lend his own able assist in seeing to it that cups were kept filled and curiosity seekers deftly turned away.  The lord of Mandos had been wise to come in common Elven garb and sit with his back to the doorway, else there might have been repercussions to his presence that could have adversely affected their host's business.  While they may have been intrigued by the halflings and the two Maiar, many Elves were disturbed by the mere presence of the Doomsman, and would have left had they known for certain he was there.  Though some may have felt the presence of unusual power, to their eyes, he was but a visiting Noldo.

As it was, Tinuwen was startled when she came to ask if there was anything more that they wished and saw Námo seated at the table.  But though she paled, recognizing the Vala despite his abnormal garb, she showed admirable pluck, and did not let herself be more than momentarily flustered by the discovery.  It was at that point that Eönwë took up the task of attending to the needs of those deep in the discussion, since word had apparently spread about the unusual guests at The Wandering Willow, and both dining halls and pub rooms were busier than ever with those who came to gawk, but stayed for the good food and drink.

For their part, the four others were largely oblivious to the stir outside the small parlor.  "I doubt that many hobbits would look on their holidays in a philosophical manner, Lord Námo," Olórin told him with a wry little smile.  "Having cause to feast and make merry during the coldest and darkest time of year is reason enough, especially to Mortals."

Neither of the halflings argued with that observation, for it was true enough.  "I know that I seldom looked beyond the merriment and the warm companionship," Frodo admitted.  "But that doesn't mean that your people shouldn't give our customs their own interpretations, ones that have deeper meaning for them.  When I was very young and my parents first took me to Brandy Hall for Yule, I watched as they brought in that immense log and prepared it.  It took four study hobbits to move it, and when it was ready, my Uncle Rory made quite a ceremony of setting it alight.  All of us youngsters were to gather up the kindling and set it in the great hearth before the log was placed, so that we'd feel a part of all the fuss.  When the time came for the log to be lit, just as the first stars were kindling outside, everyone gathered 'round the hearth, and all the lights in the house were doused.  Standing there in the dark — and it was quite dark, for all the windows were shuttered against the winter cold and night came swiftly, then — all of us lads and lasses were a bit frightened, until Rory, being the Master, struck new fire amid the kindling, using flint and steel.  There were a few moments when we all held our breaths, seeing the fire waver and refuse to catch — and then suddenly, all the kindling caught at once.  The flames roared up around the log, then lit the smaller bits of firewood that our fathers and uncles added to help feed the big log until it was burning well."

As he stirred sugar into the cup of tea Eönwë had just poured for him, Bilbo listened, then nodded, his entire expression turning nostalgic as his thoughts filled with memories of his own.  "And then the womenfolk brought out wine and cider in great pots, heated them with sweet spices over the burning log, and when it was ready, they poured out cups for everyone, from the youngest to the oldest, to drink a toast to the beginning of Yule."  He sighed, smiling.  "Ah, I remember it very well!  The Tooks had wonderful Yule traditions of their own up in the Great Smials, but there was something about those in Brandy Hall that felt less formal — if anything in the Shire could be called formal, compared to the ways of Men and Elves!"

Having been to both himself, Frodo agreed.  "At any rate, being so young, I found the whole thing quite magical, and forever after, I thought of kindling the Yule log as kindling the whole of Yuletide itself.  Not merely marking the time it began, but lighting all the warmth and cheer that was to follow, which couldn't happen without it.  Silly childhood nonsense, of course, which made all the grown ups laugh after I'd told them, but I never completely gave it up.  Somehow, it made all the feasts and frolicking even more special, at least to me."

Olórin reached over to pat the younger hobbit's healed hand, his own smile fond and warm.  "More of the world should indulge in such nonsense, my dear Frodo, both in Middle-earth and and in Aman.  Kindling the log kindled the joy in your own heart, and you shared it freely with everyone you met during Yuletide.  That is magic of its own kind, with a power that can reach beyond even the greatest works of the Ainur."

"Indeed so," Námo concurred, offering Frodo his own nod and appreciative smile.  "Perhaps we need to devise other ways to find deeper meaning for our kind, but such warmth and generosity of the heart is precisely what we hope to gain from the effort — or I should say regain.  The long ages we have spent in Eä have had too many years of strife and struggle against the Darkness, and the coldness that has crept into many of our hearts needs to be dispelled.  What you just told me, Cousin Frodo, describes a kind of renewal of life, not physical life, but life of the spirit.  The burning of this log brought light to your eyes, but it also brought light to your soul, and evermore gave you a thing to look forward to with eager anticipation and joy during the bleakest time of year.  We sorely need such a thing."  

As he lifted up his goblet of wine to take a sip, the Vala's dark eyes shone over the rim, momentarily unfocused but sparkling with the active thoughts behind them.  When he spoke, it was softly, as if he was speaking to himself.  "I believe I can see ways in which my people might wish to adapt this particular tradition so that it will have profound meaning to all of our kind."

Bilbo lowered his teacup quickly, rather than let his sudden snort of amusement splash the hot liquid onto the table.  "I can't quite see Lady Yavanna taking to the idea of burning a Yule log," he pointed out, cheekily.  "Weren't the Ents the result of her taking offense over Lord Aulë using wood to fire his forges?"

Even Námo had to laugh at that summation.  "It depends on who you ask," Eönwë said, grinning.  "She would say yes, he would say no."

"And both were right — and wrong," Námo added.  When the hobbits answered with puzzled expressions, he elaborated, setting down his wineglass to fold his hands on the table before him.  "Those of us who were most deeply involved with the formation of the physical parts of Arda hold aspects of what we made so dear to us that seeing them marred in any way is a pain to us, Aulë no less than Yavanna.  He grieves to see the stones and metals of the earth recklessly wasted as much as his wife laments for the destruction of trees.  But this world was to be made for the use and delight of the Eruhíni, not ourselves.  In a Mortal world, Yavanna's works could not endure forever, and her desire to single out the trees for special protection was... irregular.  It was only by the indulgence of Eru Ilúvatar that Manwë was allowed to grant her the shepherds of the trees, but as you have seen for yourselves, even their protection cannot endure forever.  Now is the age of Men in Arda, when all the elder kindreds will depart or fade, their power and presence much diminished from what it was of old. Some of the Children who remain will always love the trees and protect them in their own ways, using the resources they have to give with prudence and wisdom, but also with care for their continued survival.  Some will not, but it is not our place to make this choice for them, much less force it."

"And we may hope that Samwise Gamgee will be an excellent example to all who know him, and their descendants," Olórin pointed out, trading a glance with Frodo, who had been thinking just that.  

The once-Ringbearer nodded.  "If he chooses to sail West, I think it will be a very merry meeting between him and Lady Yavanna!"

"Also Lord Oromë," Eönwë said, taking his seat again, now that all their cups were filled.  "He is, after all, Lord of the Forests, and though he did not bring forth the trees as the Kementári did, he loves them.  Yet his is a more practical view of the part they have to play in the world, and I think he will also wish to honor your friend, from what I have heard of him and the part he played in restoring the Shire."

Bilbo sighed.  "I'm glad I never saw what Saruman and his lackeys did to our beloved Shire, but I do wish I'd had a better chance to see how Sam repaired the damage to wood and field.  I slept my way through most of it on my ride to the Havens, don't you know, being so worn and tired as I was then.  Glorfindel wanted to tie me to my pony to make certain I didn't fall off!"

Frodo had picked up a sweet ginger biscuit from the replenished tray of snacks; he paused before taking a bite.  "I know just how you feel, Bilbo.  I wish he had tied me to his horse during the last leg of my journey to Rivendell — though I don't suppose I really would've noticed if he had or not!"  He nibbled an edge of the crisp sweet, his own eyes unfocusing much as Námo's had.  "I do hope Sam decides to Sail, someday.  I'm sure he'd be delighted to see how those who live here have taken to hobbit food and drink and even customs."

"Is he as fond of Yuletide as the two of you?" Eönwë asked as he reached for a ginger biscuit of his own.  "I've heard that the two of you have enticed both Elrond's household and the folk who dwell in Lórien into celebrating Yule with you each winter."

The hobbits laughed.  "It took very little persuasion!" Bilbo insisted.  "Elrond's folk had already more than half adopted it while I lived in Rivendell, and from what I've heard, Olórin's neighbor Ványalos is in truth a very tall Hobbit disguised as a Maia."

Both Frodo and Olórin had to agree, with laughter.  "Yes, and the fact that he has always been that way makes me wonder if perhaps he shouldn't have been sent in my place during the past age!" the Istar said, highly amused.  "But then, he would likely have gone astray from our mission much as Aiwendil did, taking up residence in a comfortable Shire inn and quite forgetting what he was there to do in the first place.  I was never able to do that, alas."

Námo gave the fair Maia a searching look.  "Does the fate of Aiwendil continue to trouble you, Olórin?  I know what you have said in answer to the complaints of others, especially among Yavanna's folk, but your words have always seemed to mask an inner unrest."

It was Olórin's turn to sigh.  "Perhaps they do.  What I know and what I feel are sometimes at odds with one another.  I know that Aiwendil made choices during his time in Endorë, as did all of us who were sent — indeed, as we all do throughout our lives, no matter what our kind.  Free will was Eru's gift to all His Children, and like all gifts, it can be both a blessing or a burden.  I wish that I had had the time and the clarity of thought to realize the path Aiwendil was stumbling down long before he fell away from our purpose, so that perhaps I might have been able to offer him support or guidance.  That I did not weighs upon my heart, at times.  Still, none of us were able to see and think and reason as clearly while trapped inside those truly incarnate forms, and in the end, it likely would have made no difference.  The task with which we had all been charged was to see to ending the threat of Sauron, not to our personal safety.  Aiwendil knew this as well as I, and made his choices despite it.  I regret that I could not do more, but I could not force his decision, any more than Lady Yavanna can force all the Eruhíni to love trees as much as she."

The Vala nodded, his expression sober, yet sympathetic.  "Yavanna does not blame you for this, but should your heart be overly troubled by the memories and the regret, do not hesitate to speak to one of us.  Any of us would gladly listen — though I think perhaps you may find  Manwë's counsel most efficacious.  He has had more than his share of regrets to bear, and often, the wisdom of our kin can bring the most ease."  He smiled softly.  "Also, speaking from my experience as the middle of three, I know it is an honor to be asked for counsel from a younger sibling, and a joy to be given loving aid and comfort from an elder."

Námo's remarks reminded Olórin that he spoke from a unique perspective.  Though there were many sibling relationships among the Ainur, there were very few that had more than two.  Among the Valar, there had been only one — at least until several days ago.  He smiled back and nodded.  "Thank you for your advice, my lord.  I'm still getting used to the knowledge that I have an older brother.  I shouldn't want to become a burden to him, but your words are reassuring."

"I'm still trying to get used to that idea, myself," Bilbo said after taking another sip of tea.  "Not that I think it's bad, mind you!  Just a bit much for an old hobbit to wrap his head around, someone finding only now that they've had a brother since literally before the beginning of Time."

Olórin chuckled as he leaned forward to pour himself some of the tea from the pot Eönwë had left on the table.  "Then don't trouble yourself with it, old friend.   Do you think you've told Lord Námo all he needs to know about the Yule customs in the Shire?"

Frodo, who had been listening with great interest, spoke up.  "There's one other tradition the Tooks had that some might find interesting.  Pippin said it began even before the Old Took was born, and they'd always called it 'sharing the light'."

"Oh, bless me!" Bilbo exclaimed, remembering.  "I haven't thought of that in years!  But it was a charming tradition, yes."   When he caught Eönwë's and Námo's curious eyes on him, he elucidated. "Everyone in the Great Smials — both the usual residents and all the guests, from the youngest to the oldest — would gather 'round the central hearth and in all the connecting passages while the Thain lit the the log.  Every person had a candle, and as the lot was kindling, the Thain would light a bit of the bark that had been kept aside when the log was being prepared.  From that, his wife would light her candle, then she lit all those of her children, and they passed the flame to the candles of their nearest kin, and so on until all the candles were lit, through every room and passage in the Great Smials.  I have no idea how the tradition began, but it was older than Gerontius, from what I'd been told."

"It truly was a beautiful sight," Frodo agreed.  "Pippin's father insisted that it was the oldest of all Hobbit Yule customs — which was ridiculous, since the custom of the Yule log obviously must have come first.  But I have no idea how old it actually is or how it began, so please don't ask me if it has some deeper philosophical meaning!"

Námo chuckled at the friendly little jibe while Eönwë grinned broadly.  "You may not know, but he does," the Herald said with a smirk, motioning to Olórin with a wave of his teacup.  "I can't recall the last time I saw him looking so smug."

The Istar answered with a wrinkle of his nose.  "I am not being smug!  But I do happen to know how the tradition began.  Frodo's right, it didn't predate the use of the Yule long, and as for a deeper meaning...!"  He shook his head, clearly amused.

Both halflings turned to him with surprise.  "You never told me!" Bilbo scolded.

"You never asked," the Maia countered smoothly.  "I did have other things to worry about, you know, much more pressing matters than the history of every tradition in every family in the Shire!  But," he continued more genially, "the origins of this particular custom aren't what one could call impressive.  I've heard Tooks of more recent generations claim that it was begun by their 'fairy ancestor,' or was something taught to them by one of the wandering companies of Elves that passed through the Shire more frequently in olden days."

"That's what Pippin believes," Frodo said.  "During the first Yule after the War, he told us a tale about how his many-times great-grandfather, born before the Great Smials were made, came upon a company of Elves out on the Far Downs on the eve of the Elves' new year.  All their lanterns and lamps were like stars under the trees, and there he encountered an elf-maid who fell in love with him at first sight.   She became his wife the following Yule, but when she bore him a son the next year, she died in childbirth.  He returned to the Shire with his son, and ever after, they kindled candles in her memory every Yuletide."  He snorted.  "Rather an unlikely story, I think."

Olórin laughed even as he agreed.  "Yes, I do believe Pippin was inspired by the many grand tales he heard during his travels.  Not at all uncommon for those in their impressionable tweens, or on their first great adventure!"  He winked at Bilbo, who flushed, but smiled widely as well, remembering his own adventure and how much it had inspired him.

The Istar sighed as he continued.  "The truth, alas, is more mundane.  Several generations before Gerontius, the Tooks owned most of the lands north of Tookland, and had tenants who lived there and worked them on behalf of the Thain.  When Isumbras the third was Thain, one tenant family, the Longtoes, had the dubious pleasure of working the area that included Rushock Bog."

Eönwë gave his fellow Maia a look of patent disbelief.  "Longtoes?" he repeated, more than half sure Olórin was making this up, given that the Hobbit family names he was familiar with were of a different sort, such as Baggins and Took.

But Bilbo quickly quashed that.  "An apt enough name, given that most everyone in that line has unusually long toes.  Hugo Longtoes was a friend of mine in Michel Delving, and he had the most remarkably long toes of anyone I've ever seen, Big People or small.  Were these ancestors of his?" he asked Olórin.

"Almost certainly, though I haven't kept close track of the family trees of everyone in the Shire.  Moro Longtoes and his family farmed the lands around the southern half of Rushock Bog — not the most hospitable place, I'm afraid.  Ordinary crops did not thrive there, so for many years, Moro paid their rent with the harvest from the waxberry bushes that grew thick around and over the southern half of the bog.  They were good people and did work as hard as they were able, so Isumbras never had the heart to turn them out."

"Then he was fair-minded as well as kind," Námo opined.  He was clearly interested in hearing this story, if only for the insights it would give him to the Little People.  "If they were granted their tenancy with the understanding that they farm the land to the best of their ability, then they fulfilled their obligation by returning whatever bounty that land had to offer.  It was not their fault if it was not well-suited for the cultivation of other crops.  Or did they choose this land because they knew it was infertile, and thus would give them an excuse not to work harder?"

The fair head shook.  "No, they were honest folk.  Moro and his wife Lily had worked another small farm for the Tooks, farther south along the Water, but a fire followed by a flood destroyed their home and much of the fields and groves beyond repair.  After careful inspection of the ruins, Isumbras felt that the land had become too dangerous to be safely farmed, and would remain so for many years.  He would have found them other work in Tuckborough, but the Longtoes were farm folk and uneasy with the idea of living in town.  The Rushock Bog farm was the only place Isumbras had available at the time, and though others had disdained it, Moro was willing to try to work it.  He'd hoped it might be suitable for cultivating mushrooms, but the soil was too acid.  He was only able to get a few small plots of vegetables to grow, but the waxberry shrubs that already grew wild in the area thrived quite luxuriantly."

"So Moro did do the best he could with what the land had to offer," Frodo concluded.

Now, Olórin nodded.  "He did.  Waxberries, as you may know, are not fit to be eaten by Hobbits, but after the waxy coat has been boiled off and the fruit dried, it can be used to feed domestic fowl, and the wax can be made into sweetly scented candles.  So Isumbras did profit from the harvest, though not as he had expected."

"And what does this have to do with the sharing of light custom?" Bilbo asked a bit impatiently, genuinely eager to know more.

Olórin took a long sip of tea before resuming the tale.  "Ah, now we come to it.  The Longtoes were so diligent in improving the one decent crop their farm had to offer, the waxberry harvest grew more and more bountiful, until after a few seasons, the Tooks found themselves with plenty of hen feed and far more candles than even they could use over the course of an entire year.  One Yule, when their storerooms were overflowing and more space was needed for other things, Isumbras's wife, Columbine, finally grew tired of trying to store the ever-increasing number of candles, so she emptied one big closet by handing them out as little favors at their Yule feast.   When the guests asked why, she said she was 'sharing the light,' since the winter was long and dark, and that particular winter colder and snowier than usual.  After the lighting of the Yule log, one of Isumbras's cousins who had been helping decided it was time for a pipe, and he used his candle to get a flame from the log.  His brother then brought out his own pipe and asked him to 'share the light.' 

"When Mistress Took heard them making a joke of her gifts, she scolded them so roundly for it, some of the other cousins decided to follow their example, and before long, half the candles she had given away were lit.  Columbine felt she was being unfairly mocked, and she complained to Isumbras, demanding he put a stop to it.  But being the sensible hobbit he was, he laughed and said that it was such a lovely sight, seeing all those flickering little lights on such a cold dark night, he would make a tradition of it every Yule.  He managed to get Columbine to see the humor in it, and by the following year, they'd devised a more suitable way to 'share the light,' with the little ceremony the two of you have described."

Bilbo leaned back in his chair, pleased with the story.  Frodo laughed softly.  "It's too bad Pippin isn't here to hear the true story of his 'fairy tradition.'  You were actually there, weren't you, Olórin?"

The Maia's eyes twinkled over his cup.  "I was.  The Tooks were often the most welcoming to me in those days, and I was grateful for their hospitality.  It was largely due to the support I had been given by the Thain that other hobbits throughout the Shire were willing to accept my help several years later, during the Long Winter.  Isumbras did not survive that bitter winter, but his family and his new tradition did."

Námo had listened attentively, and now sat thinking upon all he had heard.  "So even though Isumbras himself soon accepted the Gift of the One, his spirit has been carried on among his people even beyond his death, his Light symbolically evoked and rekindled each Yuletide in this elegantly simple ritual he began."

Both Bilbo and Frodo looked up at the Vala, surprised yet moved by his observation.  "I doubt that he had such an interpretation in mind at the time," Frodo said thoughtfully.  "But as Olórin has so often reminded me, what we call chance and coincidence are often the subtle hand of Ilúvatar at work in our lives.  Yes, it's entirely possible that the tradition came about to remind some of us that death is not an end but only a point of transition, just as the cold of winter, even at its darkest, will inevitably give way to the warmth of spring."

Bilbo agreed.  "That would be a fitting legacy for the father of Bandobras the Bullroarer and the great-grandsire of Gerontius.  And perhaps it might be a legacy of sorts to others?"  His pointed glance shifted toward Námo, a small impish smile playing about his lips.

The Doomsman returned the smile.  "Just so, Cousin Bilbo.  It will need more discussion among my people, I am sure, but I believe this may be just what they were looking for."

"If it has anything to do with light, you can also be sure Lady Varda and her people will want to be involved," Eönwë noted as he reached for another ginger biscuit — only to have his hand suddenly slapped away.

"Yes, we would certainly want to be a part of that discussion," Ilmarë said, looking down at her brother with a stern expression.  She had just returned, but so quietly, those in the parlor didn't know if she had walked in or simply materialized where she now stood.  She clicked her tongue when Eönwë frowned back.  "I can see you haven't been paying attention to the hour, not a one of you.  Nárënilda has been beside herself, not knowing if anyone would return to eat the supper she's been hard at work preparing, and though Lord Manwë and my Lady Varda have been very busy, they've begun to wonder what's become of their guests.  Are you to blame for this, my lord?"  Her question and arch look was aimed at Námo, since to the best of her knowledge, the hobbits had not planned to meet him today. 

The Vala was not in the least bit ruffled by her manner, nor were the two Maiar.  Frodo was quite certain that was because Ilmarë's scolding was entirely a pose, as any of those questions could have easily been answered via osánwë.  However, Bilbo, used to living among Elves rather than Ainur, was dismayed.  "Oh dear, they're not terribly upset are they?  We were having such an interesting conversation, I completely lost track of the time.  I hope we haven't missed supper, or delayed it into ruin!"

Ilmarë's expression softened into apology while Olórin gave the elder hobbit's arm a reassuring pat.  "Not to worry, Bilbo.  We would have been warned sooner if anything was truly amiss."

"Yes, do not let my sister's dubious sense of humor trouble you," Eönwë added, casting her his own chiding glance.  "We've been here longer than we may have originally intended, but the hour is not that late."

Námo rose from his chair, favoring the hobbits with a gracious smile and nod.  "Even so, it is nearing the time you should return to Valmar.  If I have kept you here overlong, I beg your pardon, but I am most grateful for the help you have given me, and my people."

Still seated, Frodo answered with a slight bow of his upper body.  "It was my pleasure, Lord Námo.  If I can do anything more to help, you have only to ask."

"Yes, indeed!" Bilbo chimed in, having calmed himself.   "Frodo and Gandalf can both tell you how much I enjoy showing off things I've learned, and to do so for you or any of the other Ainur is a great honor."

"Then let us settle accounts with Master Olindar and be on our way," Olórin suggested as he also rose.  "If you would, Ilmarë, go on ahead of us and reassure Nárënilda and Lady Varda that we will return soon — that is, if we can avoid any new delays along the way!"

Next:

Enquiring Minds

***********

Author’s Note:

I’m sorry that I didn’t get to responding to reviews for the last chapter; between the brutal cold and a slight illness, I was barely had the energy to stay awake, much less write, and when my energy came back, I wanted to get this chapter finish (which proved to be something of a problem of its own, for other reasons).  Thank you to all who reviewed, and Fiondil, I have only two words for you: protective coloring. :) 

XIV

Enquiring Minds

That evening, shortly after the hobbits finished the excellent supper Nárënilda had provided, Estë arrived with a number of questions from her Maiar.  They were not quite as curious as Námo's, but by the time Frodo and Bilbo had given her satisfactory answers, they were more than ready for bed.

The next morning, Nienna arrived not even an hour after breakfast, also with inquiries from her people.  Bilbo fell asleep somewhere in the midst of their long discussion, needing his afternoon nap; he woke just as the lady was preparing to depart.  The remainder of the day was quiet, and the Mortals were able to spend it enjoying the company of their hosts — a particular delight for Bilbo, as Manwë was genuinely interested in hearing any of the poems the hobbit had written.  Varda's interest in the poetic forms was not so keen, but when she demonstrated how one of Bilbo's works fit perfectly to a tune long beloved by many of the Ainur, both halflings were awed by the breathtaking beauty of both the music and her voice.

The following day, Irmo and Vána showed up at almost the same moment in the early afternoon, while Frodo was being shown some of the more fascinating aspects of the wind chime garden and Bilbo was in the kitchen with Nárënilda, giving her a few pointers on the preparation of some of his favorite dishes.  And when Aulë, Oromë, and  Tulkas came early the next morning before the hobbits had broken their fast or even dressed for the day, Manwë finally put his foot down.

"We invited them here for the week to be our guests and enjoy the hospitality of our house and our city," the Elder King told the trio in no uncertain terms after Márandur had directed him to a study on the topmost floor of the mansion, where both Varda and Olórin joined them.  "They have been commendably patient and accommodating in giving so much of their time to answering all these questions, but we did not invite them here to work, or to be the subjects of examination.  There are well over two full months until their Yuletide begins, and if you must press them with all these enquiries, do have the grace to not impose upon them all at once!"

All three of the visiting Valar had the grace to look somewhat sheepish at their deserved scolding, so much so that Olórin and Varda had to struggle not to laugh or smile too overtly.  "It was just a coincidence of timing," Aulë insisted, despite his abashed expression.  "I had no idea anyone else would come now."

"And I had no idea they'd been so... harassed," was Oromë's alibi.  "I've been busy managing my people's questions and discussions — sometimes very lively discussions," he added with a slight curl of his lip, implying that there had been a few out-and-out fights.  "I haven't been out of my halls in the south since the day of the Court."

"I wouldn't quite describe it as harassment," the Star Queen chimed in.  "I do believe our young cousins have generally enjoyed all the unprecedented interest in their people and their ways.  But as Manwë said, there's time enough before Yuletide.  These questions needn't all be asked and answered inside of one week — a week, I might add, that is almost gone."  Her lips tightened when she said that, a controlled expression of her displeasure over what had happened during the past few days.

The three visitors nodded, much like errant schoolboys caught in some foolishness.  Tulkas sighed, running one hand through his thick golden hair.  "I don't know about your peoples, but some of mine have been driving me to the point where I'd like to take them across my knees and give them a different kind of answer they won't so easily forget!"

Olórin, who was standing near one of the tall leaded-glass windows that allowed the soft early morning light to brighten the comfortable room, kept his own deeper curiosity well-hidden. "Lintamacar?" he asked mildly.

But the Champion shook his head, drawing looks of surprise from all the others.  He immediately clarified.  "Oh, he hasn't been quiet by any means, but he hasn't been asking questions — not like the others, at any rate.  A fair number of my folk are interested in this Yule holiday, the feasting and the celebrating and gift-giving and such, and Nessa's are so impatient to know more about the dancing, it's all she can do to keep them from going to Endorë to pester the poor Shire folk about it.  What he wants to know is just how we're going to make sure the 'right' people are chosen for this Honor Day, and just how much real power and authority they're to be given."

Aulë made a soft sound of unhappy agreement.  "Yes, I've heard similar queries among my people.  So far, they've been polite enough not to press the matter, but I'm well aware that before long, they'll become more insistent."  

The little sigh and nod that came from Oromë showed that the Hunter's experiences were much the same.  "I'm grateful that none of Vána's folk truly care about that aspect of things.  They're totally intrigued by the holiday itself, the merriment and pleasures, and don't care one whit about whether or not any of them are selected to be honored."

"They should be a blessed example to all of us," Manwë commended, only too aware of the issues Tulkas had raised.  "My own people have been more restrained in their various... enthusiasms, but not due to a lack of interest."

"That, my lord, is because of Eönwë," Olórin pointed out, speaking not as a brother but as one of those people.  "He has been their captain in so many things for so long, they trust him to provide them with clear and concise directions for how the... er... campaign is to be carried out, with adequate time to allow for its proper execution.  And many of their questions about the holiday itself have been directed to me, not you.  You, after all, have never lived as a Mortal Man among the various peoples of Endorë, not for one instant."

He made that final observation so drolly, Manwë couldn't help but laugh.  "A good point," he allowed when he mastered his mirth.  "Perhaps I shall, one day.  But in the meantime, we need to address the more immediate situation.  Has Lintamacar been causing trouble among your Maiar, Tulkas?"

Now, the Champion tugged at one of the plaits of his thick golden beard.  "Not in a way that anyone could call trouble.  He raises questions among the others — valid questions, for the most part, but the sorts that can stir up doubts.  This matter of the election of the ones to be honored, for instance.  He's questioned whether or not the Valar will invalidate their choices because they didn't follow specific but unstated rules concerning the process.  And since we didn't actually say anything about the process itself during Court, there are some who wonder if his concern has merit — if we will ultimately manipulate things to honor those we wish to see recognized, not they."

Varda's sigh was heartfelt, as was the look of sympathy she gave him.  "You aren't alone in this, Tulkas.  My own Maiar had several quarrels about these very issues the day after Court.  Fortunately, Ilmarë was able to mediate matters to their satisfaction, without my intervention."

That was something of a consolation to the great warrior, though his mind was not entirely set at ease.  "Frankly, I was hoping someone had come up with a set of rules I can give him, so he'll stop agitating the others.  I didn't come here to ask anything of our hobbit friends, I'm sure we'll learn all we need about the traditions in due time.  I came for advice from you."  He inclined his head toward Manwë, who was both their king and the eldest.  "How much actual authority do we plan to give to those elected?"

The wind lord stroked his chin as he considered this.  "That, of course, is something we Valar must decide, of course.  Clearly, we cannot simply hand over our entire office, no matter how worthy the selected.  Those of the Aratar in particular have responsibilities that are not within the power of any of the Maiar to carry out.  But I do understand your concerns.  It's almost certain that a number of the dissidents will be elected — indeed, that has been our hope all along — and if the authority they are granted on that day is hollow, it will not serve either our purposes or their need for satisfaction."

"Yet neither will a single set of rules suffice," Oromë opined.  "Granting our people the privilege of choice but then restricting the process with rules of our making will ultimately undermine it.  And even the decision as to the ways and degrees of authority to be delegated cannot be universal.  Vána has already told me how glad she is that she needn't worry much about that aspect of this plan."

"While her sister has been fretting without stop over what she should do when the time comes," Aulë said with a sigh so heavy, it was almost a groan.  "I must admit, I see something of Yavanna's point in worrying.  There have been so many among my people who turned against us, it will not be easy for me to grant even a part of my authority to any of them, no matter how briefly."

That was a matter the others understood, all too well.  "It matters not," Manwë assured him, his tone calm but unyielding.  "What temporary authority may be given them will not be given with greater personal power to enforce their wills, whether they be for good or ill.  That would be an alteration of their kind, an augmentation that can come only from Eru Ilúvatar and not from any or all of us."

"Yet what if they should choose to join against us in actual rebellion?" Tulkas asked grimly.  "Our power may be greater than theirs, individually, but they are many and we are few.  To quell a wide scale revolution of Maiar, we would surely destroy much more than was laid waste even against Melkor and his armies.  If we could succeed at all."

That very sobering thought brought some long moments of silence, which were ended when Olórin lightly cleared his throat.  "That may be true, Lord Tulkas, but if I may remind you, only a few days ago, great pains were taken to remind us — all of us, whether we are called Maia or Vala — that we are one people, one kind, of the same origins in the thoughts of the One Who created us.  There is no 'they' or 'we'; there is only us.  Yes, some of us may be misguided and mistaken in our own thinking, but this is nothing new, and those who are are in a vast minority.  Do you truly think that even if half your people turned against you, the other half would not rise up in your support and defense?  Do not make the obstinacy of one or two of your younger brethren into the rebellion of all, not until events prove that such has come to pass."

The five tall Valar regarded the shorter Maia with faces full of wonder; then, Manwë smiled.  "My brother has justly earned his reputation for great wisdom," he declared, inclining his head to said brother in an expression of gratitude.  "If we allow events of the past to make us afraid of what might happen in that part of the future we cannot see, we will surely cause the very outcome we wish to prevent.  Let us instead study the circumstances immediately at hand.  Lintamacar believes that we will disallow the election of any who displease us and base that decision on hitherto unspoken rules.  Is that your concern, Tulkas?"

The Champion nodded.  "Yes, just that.  Couldn't we prevent that by giving out a concise set of rules or guidelines now?"

"Not necessarily," Aulë replied, his dark brow creased in deep thought.  "If we do that, he's likely to then claim that we're attempting to control the outcome by setting contingencies beyond those that were stated during Court.  What he's attempting to do is create a belief that we've set up a no-win situation to assure the results we favor rather than a just outcome."

From his own nod, Oromë had reached the same conclusion.  "It would be in keeping with the elements of unrest that have already been reported to us."

Tulkas, less of a deep thinker than his brethren, was simply appalled.  "Then how do we prevent it?" he wanted to know, plainly at a loss.

Again, Varda favored him with compassion.  "By requiring them to take up the responsibility that is an inherent part of the privilege they were given.  Each of our peoples must decide upon their own methods of electing the ones to be honored, just as we must each decide the ways in which we will share with them both the joys and burdens of our daily lives as the governors of Arda.  From all the hobbits have told us since the Court, this tradition of trading places is often a learning experience for both those who lead and those who serve."

"Oh, yes," Olórin confirmed, chuckling even as his thoughts ranged back to his long years across the Sea.  "Even my one personal experience as a recipient during Honor Day in the Shire taught me things I didn't know — if nothing else, the degree to which Hobbits are willing to go to make good on anything they view as a pledge or obligation, even if it involves Outsiders.  I already knew that Bilbo was quite stubborn that way, of course, from his deeds during the quest of Erebor, but I had often wondered if that was simply the result of his desire to prove himself to Thorin, given the Dwarf's scornful attitude towards him, and hobbits in general.  That day, I learned that it was not only a deeper trait of Bilbo's, but of Frodo as well.  Even the Gamgees took their obligations as honorees quite seriously, which convinced me that if my premonitions concerning the role of Hobbits in the coming war were accurate, they would not fail whatever that role might be for want of determination.  I had already known that in some ways, but something in the experiences of that day convinced me even more deeply and strongly than before.  They would be true to any task they took upon themselves, for as long as their strength of mind and body allowed — and perhaps even longer. So yes, in being one of the honored, I learned from the experience."

Manwë fully agreed.  "And perhaps in observing this tradition in our own fashion, we will also discover things to treasure in one another, precious things that we may have only glimpsed before.  We cannot hope to cure all the hurts that may exist due to prior mistakes and misconceptions, but if we begin to make the effort, in time, I believe we will all benefit from it."

The others did not dispute that wisdom.  "Do you think we should not confer with each other on these matters, then?" Oromë wondered.  "I would rather not fuel any new rumors that we are involved in some hidden collusion."

It was Aulë who snorted and dismissed that worry with a wave of his hand.  "Those who are inclined to believe such things already do.  So long as we remain open and do not behave abnormally, as if we are deliberately hiding our actions and discussions, they will have no reason to become even more suspicious."

"Besides," Olórin put in rather cheerfully, "if you think the Maiar of your houses are only discussing these things with others in your service, you have no idea what dreadful gossips we can be!"

That impish remark drew laughter from the five Valar, and eased the tension in the room.  "So does this mean we shouldn't bother our hobbit friends with any new questions about Yuletide?" Aulë asked when he'd reined in his mirth.  "My people know very little about the periannath, I'm sorry to say, but unlike Curumo, many of them are keen to learn more. Not all my folk believe the only worthy crafts and arts are those of the forge."

As she listened to the discussion as only she could, Varda gathered the glimmers of ideas into a clearer plan.  "Bilbo is due to leave with Elrond and his household in two days — as all of you should know, since you were invited to the farewell feast earlier this week.  If you can write down some of your questions for him to take with him back to Tirion, I suspect he will be quite happy to answer them as best he can, over the next two months.  He takes great pride in demonstrating his skills as a scholar," she added with a fond smile.

"And while Frodo has told me that he wouldn't mind staying here in Valmar for as long as might be needed, I think it would be best if we returned to Lórien fairly soon," Olórin said.   When Manwë gave him a puzzled look, he explained.  "He thinks that I should have more time to spend here, getting used to the fact that I now have the family I always longed to have.  And while I don't disagree with him in principle, I also don't feel it would be wise to change my entire life so abruptly, especially given the current circumstances.  Some are bound to interpret an unexpectedly extended stay as the prelude to a permanent move."

Manwë offered no argument, but his answering smile was filled with regret.  "While I would enjoy more time with you as well, at the moment, I fear those same persons would deliberately misconstrue it as collusion or favoritism.  And at the moment, I have taken as much time away from my duties as I dare.  Should I neglect them much longer for the sake of personal pleasure, the more reasons will I give the dissidents to deepen their grievances and rebellion.  No, return to Lórien as you originally planned.  If Frodo is willing to share the task of providing answers about Yuletide and its customs, we can give him part of whatever written questions are brought tomorrow, and later direct some of those seeking information to visit him at your house."

"We ought to do that, when we have a chance," Varda said.  Now, both brothers looked at her, perplexed.  "Visit Olórin and Cousin Frodo in their home," she clarified to her spouse.  "The last time we were there could hardly be called a social call, or even one of courtesy."  She was referring to the time not long after the Istar's return from Endorë, when all the Valar had gone to his home in an almost vain effort to prevent him from diminishing into nothingness.

Not so long ago, Manwë would have felt the sharp pangs of bitter regret and shame over what had caused that incident, but enough had since passed between him and the Maia since then to heal those hurts.  "I would enjoy that as well, but I'm afraid it must wait until after we have done more to settle the unrest among our people."  

He turned to the three visitors.  "If you would be so kind as to inform your ladies, I will see to it that the other Valar are instructed to collect and write down some of their peoples' questions for Frodo and Bilbo to take with them when they depart."  He then gave the three a glance that was both warning and amusement.  "I trust you'll keep your lists to a sensible length."  

Tulkas blushed sheepishly, Aulë coughed, and Oromë rolled his eyes.  But all three took the Elder King's point.  The hobbits were Mortal, after all, and they neither could nor should spend all hours of the day and night attempting to instruct the Ainur or appease the idly curious.

With those decisions made, the visitors made their farewells.  Aulë headed out the study door, Oromë simply vanished, and Tulkas was about to follow the Smith when he paused, turning to  Olórin as if he'd just remembered something important.  "Have you and Lintamacar ever had some sort of fight or disagreement?" he asked in his blunt way.

The Istar shook his head.  "Not that I'm aware of.  We aren't of the same mind in all things, that I know from having heard him speak at various councils and gatherings over the years.  But he and I have never actually worked together, even on those few occasions when I served you.  It would be most accurate to say that we know of one another, but are not actually acquainted.  Why do you ask?"

The flickering expressions that moved across the Vala's mobile face made it clear that he was debating whether or not to say more.  Finally, he shrugged.  "He seems to have taken the matter of your relationship to Manwë as a personal insult, from what I have heard and have been told by reliable sources.  It is as if he bears a powerful grudge against you, the sort I've most often seen in those who have somehow been bested in battle, or felt shamed by losing an argument they believe they should have won."

"We have seldom spoken more than a few words to each other, and none ended in conflict," Olórin told him with some regret.  If they had fought at some point, the warrior Maia's current attitudes might have made more sense.

Tulkas grimaced, letting loose a deep breath in a rushing sigh.  "Perhaps I'm misinterpreting the situation.  When you return to Lórien, just ask Irmo what he thinks of my pitiful attempts to learn... what did he call it?  Complex interpersonal relationships and subtle non-verbal communication."  He snorted, self-derisively.  "I know where my strengths lie, and I'd rather wrestle an army of Balrogs than the kinds of subjects he tried to teach me."

The Champion then made his own farewells and departed.  Olórin looked the way he had gone with eyes unfocused, lost in his thoughts over all Tulkas had just said.  

A touch on his shoulder drew him from his reverie.  "I do not doubt that what you told Tulkas is true," Manwë said in a gentle voice, full of trust.  "But have you ever spoken against Lintamacar to another, or said harsh things of him that might have been heard by another and repeated to him?"

The Maia's automatic denial died on his lips, which he pressed together as he searched his memories, understanding what his brother was implying: that a carelessly spoken remark about Lintamacar might have been heard, repeated, and gradually made into an insult through the twists and turns of gossip.  "I don't think so," he said at length.  "I try very hard not to be a part — or a source — of rumor, and while I've known that he has a reputation for being brash and hotheaded, I've also tried to give him the benefit of the doubt.  Until the past few days, I've seldom had reason to talk about him; I would even venture to say that almost everything I ever have said about him to others has been said during this past week.  And I don't believe that any of it was something that could be taken as an insult."

Manwë gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.  "Then I needn't warn you to mind what you say hereafter.  You have always been the very soul of discretion — save for those times when your temper is pricked by injustice or insolence."

Olórin winced even as he accepted that assessment.  "My temper, or my pride," he said with a sigh of submission to the truth.  "And from what I have seen of him, Lintamacar's verbal darts are often aimed to strike such foibles.  I will do my best to be wary, should we happen to meet.  Perhaps better yet, I will do my best to avoid meeting him!"

"I doubt that will be possible," Varda observed with her own sigh of resignation as she stepped closer to join them.  "I feel in my heart that of all the dissidents, Lintamacar will not be assuaged until he has stirred up some open confrontation.  Whether it is a particular battle he wishes to be fought or full revolution...."  She shook her head in uncertainty.

Manwë reached out with his other arm and drew her close.  "We must all take care during the coming months.  It seems to me that his rebellion is more personal in nature, but until we have determined the causes behind it, we need to be cautious, lest we fan the small flames of individual resentment into a more widespread conflagration."

With that bit of wisdom shared, he shifted the hand on Olórin's shoulder to slip his arm around him, and then gave both his wife and brother a warm, if brief, embrace.  "Well, then," he said cheerfully in a "that's that" manner.  "Shall we head down to breakfast?  I'm sure that by now, both our hobbit cousins have at least three helpings' worth of a head start on us!"

Next:

Close Encounters

XV

Close Encounters

Manwë's directives reached all the Valar in good time for them to have lists of questions prepared in time for the hobbits' farewell feast.  They were remarkably brief lists, given the intense curiosity that had already been demonstrated, but not so brief or shallow so as to insult the halflings or fail to answer truly important questions.  

The next morning, when Elrond and several members of his household came for Bilbo and his things, his hosts presented him with parting gifts.  "For my cousin the scholar," Varda said to the elder hobbit as she gave him a small lamp such as those he had seen and remarked upon in the halls of Ilmarin.  It was cleverly fashioned in the shape of a slender silver lily holding a small globe filled with starlight upon its open petals.  When the base of the lamp was turned, the petals closed, shuttering the light for those times when it was not needed.  "May it give you light in your work, and in your rest," she said as she bent to kiss his brow.  Bilbo blushed and could not find his voice, but he bowed deeply in thanks.

Manwë's gift was a pen made from a beautiful quill given by one his great eagles, tipped with a pure mithril point that would never dull or scratch.  Along with it went a journal of the finest linen paper, bound in covers of sapphire blue leather embossed with a golden filigree resembling the swirls of clouds.  In it, he hoped Bilbo would record whatever he wished of his time in Aman, be it his poetry, the little maps he loved to sketch, or whatever so moved him.  "For in after years," the Elder King told him with a warm smile, "when you have at last chosen to accept the Gift that is your birthright, such records would be forever treasured by all who dwell in this land.  You have been our most welcome guest, and I would not have your thoughts, your songs, your joys, or even your sorrows forgotten.  May these implements serve you well, and bring you pleasure in their use."

Bilbo was so touched, he again could not speak, and when the two Valar bent to give him farewell embraces as between kin, he had to dab at his eyes with the handkerchief Varda had given him some days ago before he allowed Erestor to help him onto his pony. 

"I'll see you at Yule, if not before, Uncle," Frodo told him once he was settled.  They had said their goodbyes earlier, when they had made plans for their next visit, which would be in Lórien.

Frodo and Olórin left the following morning, when those they had traveled with from the hill country were ready to depart.  As their parting gift to him, his hosts had worked together and fashioned a most unusual set of wind chimes.  Two circles of tiny chimes were set, one inside the other, hung from concentric rings of twisted silver and gold with a small globe of opal suspended at the center, to act as a clapper.  The chimes on the inner circle were longer and made of mithril, those on the outer ring shorter and fashioned of clear crystal.  When they struck upon one another in even a light breeze, they made a sound that was both silvery and liquid, an echo of that part of the Song sung long ago by the Vala king and queen.  The opal sphere was filled with a shimmering light that shifted and whirled, brightened and dimmed with the motion and music of the chimes, a soft light that was reflected on both metal and crystal.  In those sparkles, images were reflected, sometimes of flowing clouds or drifting snow, other times the patterns of stars in the night sky or the glimmers of dappled sunlight across a breeze-stirred pond.

Frodo stood mesmerized by it for some long moments; when he was able to finally take his eyes from it, his face was filled with a wonder he could find no words to express.  In the hobbit fashion, however, he gave them a deep bow of thanks.

They smiled warmly in return.  "It is only a small thing to give, to express our thanks for the joy you have given to us by your presence in our house, Ringbearer," Varda said, her eyes shining like the stars.  "Every day, we rejoice and thank the One that you live, and offered your life for the life of Arda — and we rejoice all the more that you did not have to give it up utterly for that quest to be achieved."

Manwë agreed.  "Take this with you to enjoy, and remember those things beloved by us, whom you have honored by accepting into your family of the heart.  And remember, we will not suffer our brethren to burden you with too many questions about your people and their traditions.  Give them what pointers you deem useful or needful, and leave them to make the effort of fashioning new traditions of their own.  Call upon us, if their demands weigh upon you, and let the echoes of the Song we put into these chimes give rest and refreshment to your heart and spirit whenever you need it."

After they had bent to embrace him in farewell, Frodo finally found his voice.  "It's a magnificent gift, something I could never have imagined, much less asked to be given!  Thank you, Cousins, for your thoughtfulness.  I will cherish it for the rest of my days, and remember it even after they are spent."

While Varda helped him to safely store it in the saddlebags of the sturdy pony he would ride back to Lórien, who had been patiently waiting alongside Shadowfax, Manwë turned to Olórin.  "I have no parting gift for you, my brother, since we are truly never more than a thought apart, but I do wish I had something to give you that is even half as precious as that which I was given when I at long last discovered that we are kin.  I know," he forestalled with a gesture and a smile.  "The gift was given to both of us, so there is no need.  But it has made me realize that in all the ages we have resided in Eä, I have never given you anything to be yours alone.  I would like to remedy this, somehow."

"Then why not do so when Yuletide comes?" the Maia suggested, his expression mischievous.   "Aside from their birthdays, it's the Hobbits' favorite time of year to do so.  That alone would make it singularly appropriate."

Given how Olórin had adopted several other hobbitish habits — such as going without shoes and smoking pipeweed on occasion — he had an excellent point.  "I believe I shall do just that.  Until then, do see to it that Frodo isn't overwhelmed by the curiosity of our peoples."

The Istar's grimace was wryly amused.  "Oh, he won't be, I promise you.  Ványalos and several others in Lórien have already agreed to assist me in seeing to that — and if it should come down to it, Frodo will have no trouble standing up to any who importune him.   It was his strength of will, after all, that carried him through to the end of the quest.  Some of our people fail to see that as much as he did, but it is nonetheless true." 

"And they will learn that truth at their own peril, should they go too far," Manwë concluded.  They then embraced as brothers, and in ways unique to their kind that went far beyond the physical.  When they parted, they stepped over to where the others had just finished stowing Frodo's gift.  

The pony was as calm as could be, but Shadowfax was beginning to show signs of restlessness.  Though he had been free to roam whither he would during the past week and more, he was eager to be off to the regions he now considered home, closer to the lands and steeds of Oromë.  Even so, when Manwë approached and held out his hand to him, the great silver horse bowed low in his own fashion, showing his respect for the king of all Arda.  He then allowed the Vala to stroke his head, gently, while Márandur — who had been standing by politely, as a good steward will — helped Frodo up onto the saddle of his pony and Olórin gracefully mounted Shadowfax.

"It was a pleasure having both of you with us, this past week," Varda said with a fond smile when they were ready to depart.  "I only hope that you found it as enjoyable, Cousin Frodo.  I fear there were far too many disturbances and distractions."

"I wouldn't have missed a moment of it, my lady," the hobbit assured her.  "Yes, I suppose there were one or two things that I could have done without, but they were far outweighed by all the wonderful and fascinating things you shared with me.  When you do come to visit us in Lórien, if I can show you just a fraction of such enjoyment, I will consider myself the most gracious host to ever have sprung from the Shire!"

"We will come," Manwë promised as he joined his wife.  "Not before your Yuletide, I'm afraid — but then, that will give all of us time to properly consider the matter of gifts."  The glance he gave Olórin could only be described as impish, and won a heartfelt laugh from the Maia.

"Thank you for the warning!" he replied, teasing, and Frodo laughed as well.  So it was on that cheerful note that they said their final farewells and rode out of Valmar, to meet Glorfindel and the company who would ride with them, returning to their homes between Valmar and Lórien, and beyond.

*********

As the weather remained pleasant for the time of year, and none among them were expected to return at any specific time, they moved at a leisurely pace, enjoying the beautiful autumn countryside and the pleasant companionship.  They paused often to refresh themselves, especially mindful of the Mortal among them, and each evening, they made camp before sunset, so they could ready the evening meal before they sang their thanks for the day, as was their custom,  By the reckoning of the seasoned travelers in the group, they would arrive in Lórien's hill country in three days, barring any need to delay longer or make haste.

On the first evening, they made their camp alongside a stream that ran across the road that was gradually leading them south, with the wide central plains to their right and the foothills of the southern Pelóri on their left.  Frodo marveled at the beauty of the late afternoon sun on the distant peaks, which seemed quite near, given their great height.  "One of Lord Aulë's forges is not far," Glorfindel told him, pointing to a snow-capped summit that was golden in the bright late-day sun.

"Is that where he lives when he is not with Lady Yavanna?" the halfling asked.

The Elf shook his head.  "Not always.  This is one of his lesser forges, and yet it would seem a marvel even to the Dwarves who first carved the halls of the Dwarrowdelf below the peaks of the Misty Mountains."  

Having seen the grandeur of Khazad-dûm even in its long-abandoned decay, Frodo could scarcely imagine the splendor of a place that would have outshone it in all its newly fashioned glory.  He stood there for some long moments, lost in his thoughts as he watched the rays of the sinking sun reflected off the peak, then stirred himself to help the others settle the camp and see to preparing their supper.

Olórin had gone to collect wood for the fire from the deadfall that would inevitably be available beneath the trees growing along the brook.  There would be no fear of rain that night, but the autumn evenings were growing chill enough for the fire to be a cheerful welcome for more than cooking, especially to a sleeping hobbit.  He headed upstream toward the mountains while another of the party went in search downstream.   

He was well out of sight of the camp by the time he had filled his arms with enough dry branches of a size to be useful for more than kindling.  He had paused to consider whether he should simply return with a thought so that he come back to collect a fair sized log that would easily last through the night when he could sense that he was not alone.  It took only another moment to determine the presence nearby, since he knew it well.  

He smiled.  "Good day to you, Turmanarmo," he said aloud.  "Did you come to see me, or did I just happen to stumble across you on an errand for Lord Aulë?"

A few steps farther upstream, another Maia suddenly incarnated.  He was not much taller than Olórin, but he was much broader, heavily muscled like the classic image of a smith, with heat-bronzed skin, dark hair, and keen silver-gray eyes.  They were not the closest of friends, but they had worked together in the past, most often when there was some service Olórin had been able to offer to the Smith.  Their relationship had always been amiable, so the Istar would not have been surprised to find that Turmanarmo had merely taken the opportunity to say hello.

But once he had clothed himself in fána, it was plain that he had more on his mind.  "I was returning from an errand for my lord when I saw you here," he admitted, his voice as deep as roots of the Pelóri.  "I...."  He hesitated, his face a mix of sheepish puzzlement.  "I had something I've wished to ask you ever since Eruhantalë," he finally continued.  "But while you were staying in Valmar, I couldn't seem to find a proper time."

Olórin understood that difficulty.  "There is little privacy there, even among our kind.  I take it your question has naught to do with the halflings or their Yuletide traditions, since you say you've had it since the day of thanksgiving.  Does it perhaps concern my Reckoning?"

Again, Turmanarmo hesitated, then nodded quickly.  "After a fashion.  Not the Reckoning itself, but rather he memories you shared with us. I do not hold any of what happened to you in the past against you, nor do I think that you and the Valar are colluding in some kind of conspiracy.  But what you recalled was so very clear, I have found myself wondering...."  

He paused to take a deep breath.  "Do you know... did you see... was perhaps my brother Mótan among the Ainur now in the Timeless Halls?"

Briefly, Olórin closed his eyes.  He remembered Mótan only too well.  He had been one of Aulë's Maiar seduced into following Melkor and Sauron long ago, and had tied himself to the form of a Balrog in his service to the Fallen One.  When the Istar opened his eyes a moment later, it was to gaze upon the other Maia with a look of infinite compassion.  "I do not know, truly," he admitted, sadly.  "My interactions with all but Father were very limited, as I was tremendously exhausted when He brought me to Him.  It is generally accepted that those spirits of our brethren who chose a dark path are either doomed to wander through Eä, bodiless and powerless, or consigned to the Void until the Dagor Dagorath.  Do you have reason to believe that Mótan may have met with a different fate?"

Turmanarmo sighed heavily.  "Not so much a belief as a hope, perhaps a foolish one.  Some of the others in my lord's service speculated that if you were taken back to our true home after suffering an incarnate death, then those whose fates we do not know should also have been taken back, if they died in such a fashion."  

His grimace was one of a troubled mind in deep thought, not anger.  "Their reasoning seemed flawed to me, somehow, but despite his terrible mistake in abandoning us, I still love my brother.  I had hoped you might know something more."

This particular news took Olórin aback.  Over the ages, he had heard many things about the ultimate fate of the fallen Ainur, and while it was known for certain that some, like Melkor, were indeed imprisoned in the Void, the fates of the fallen Maiar were not.  If any of the Valar knew, they had kept silent on the matter, but it was Olórin's personal opinion that they knew no more than they had already told.  He was aware that some considered his brief return to the Timeless Halls as an unprecedented reward, but he didn't know that others, like Turmanarmo, might regard it as an indication of what had become of the diminished Maiar as well.

"I wish I did, truly," the Istar said with his own regretful sigh.  "I have come perilously near to the fate of utter diminishment, and in pity, I would wish it on no one, not even those who betrayed me, or the one who slew my hröa.  But much though I wish to ease your pain, I cannot lie and give you false hope.  I saw no one in the Timeless Halls who had become sundered from us in ages past."

The dark-haired Maia's face dimmed with sadness.  "None at all?"  The question was asked in a wistful tone, an attempt to hold onto the last threads of unraveling hope.

But Olórin shook his head.  "None.  That doesn't mean they are forever lost to us," he offered, since that was a hope he shared.  "Perhaps Father has a place apart where He keeps them for a time, even as Mandos has a separate place for the fëar of the Secondborn, where they wait for a while before moving on beyond the circles of the world."

That possibility clearly hadn't occurred to Turmanarmo, for his fallen expression lifted, if just a tiny bit.  "That may be so," he willingly allowed.  "We may have sung many notes of the Great Music, but we did not sing all, and the mind and imagination of the One is far beyond the feeble reckoning of even the mightiest of us."  His sigh was now one of relief.  "Thank you for pointing that out to me, Olórin.  I honestly held scant hope that you had actually seen Mótan, but this does give me reason to hope that someday, we will meet again."

"Then I'm glad you found me here.  Would you like to come back to camp and share the evening meal with us?  My Elven companions often forget that having one hobbit among us doesn't mean they need to bring enough provisions for an army!"

Turmanarmo managed a wan but earnest smile as he shook his head.  "No, thank you, I must finish my errand for Lord Aulë.  But before I go, may I give you a word of advice, poor though it may be?"  When Olórin inclined his head, urging him to continue, he did.  "I know that I am not the most wise or perceptive of our people, but I have heard enough in recent days to realize that some have taken deep offense over what came after your terrible suffering at the hands of... of a valarauka."  His hesitance to even think the word was understandable, given the fate of his brother.  "They are gravely mistaken, and to me, their bitterness seems to have strange roots.  What they are is unclear to me, but you are wiser than I, Olórin.  If you should chance to speak to one of these — Mirulinda, or more likely Nólaquen — listen if you can to the words beneath their words.  I feel that they are most important."

The words beneath Turmanarmo's own were clear.  He was aware of the unrest among their people, and wished to see it settled before it turned to open rebellion.  He was an excellent crafter and had been the source of many brilliant ideas that enriched those things of Aulë's purview, but the subtleties of politics and such by and large eluded him.  For him to mention this now meant that he had noticed something worthy of further investigation, even though he could not do so himself — and Olórin did not spurn what he offered.

"If I have an opportunity, I will.  I'm grateful for your advice, Turmanarmo, and for your honesty.  I'm also curious.  Given how I died, didn't you have some trepidation when you considered asking me about your brother?"

An odd smile touched the darker Maia's face.  "A few days ago... yes, I was hesitant to ask you.  Even though Mótan was not the one who killed you, I had no wish to arouse your anger, or painful memories.  But then it occurred to me that you have a brother who did far worse, even though you only recently discovered your kinship.  I think I know you well enough to realize that you were far more likely to sympathize than to become angry.  Was I mistaken?"

Olórin chuckled as he smiled back.  "No, not at all.  I do sympathize, and you haven't hurt me. You have, in fact, given me much to think upon."

And as Turmanarmo continued on his way and Olórin headed back to camp with his armload of wood, his thoughts were indeed reflecting upon all the other Maia had said.  Both Mirulinda and Nólaquen were among the dissidents; they both had siblings, and moreover, those siblings had followed Melkor during the years before the coming of the Firstborn.  That was an interesting connection between them, but Olórin knew that not all of the dissidents had connections to those who had fallen to the dark, nor did they all have kin.  

Still, that several of them had that much in common made it worthy of further examination.  It was unlikely that he would see Mirulinda, one of Yavanna's Maiar, any time soon, but Nólaquen was one of Irmo's people who seldom left Lórien.  Arranging an "chance" encounter with him should be comparatively easy — and if it proved to be otherwise, the Istar was sure he could count on Ványalos to help give "chance" a nudge in the right direction.

Next:

Curiouser and Curiouser

XVI

Curiouser and Curiouser

"He won't talk to you, you know," Ványalos told his neighbor late on the afternoon of his return to the hill country, as others were gathering to welcome them home and make preparations to share the evening meal.  While inside the house, Frodo was deep in a lively discussion with the Elven weaver, Mirimë, Olórin had taken the red-haired Maia aside to have a word with him concerning Nólaquen, since they served the same master.  Ványalos offered his advice with a look of uncomfortable apology.  "Not just you, though.  To be perfectly frank, he won't talk to anyone, these days — not even Lord Irmo."

The Istar's dark blue eyes widened with shock.  That any of the Maiar would refuse to speak to the Vala to whom they had given their allegiance was a very worrying thing — a potential sign of rebellion, especially in unsettled times.  "Has he told Manwë and the others of this?"

But Ványalos shook his head.  "No — not yet, at any rate. Lord Irmo hasn't insisted, since he feels that Nólaquen's mood is the result of temporary upset, not defiance or hatred."

"He above all would know, given his particular gifts and the many years he has spent as Nólaquen's master," Olórin allowed, well familiar with the master of dreams.  "I don't suppose I need ask why he is upset."

The tall Maia sighed.  "No, I don't suppose you do.  Most of us who have been in Irmo's service from the beginning have never questioned his choice when he asked you to be his counselor, but even before he did, among us, Nólaquen had a reputation for wisdom that few could equal.  I can only imagine that all the attention you've been given of late has served to stir up the old bitterness we'd long since thought he had put behind him."

Olórin had suspected as much, but there was more than that on his mind.  "Has anyone suggested his sister as another possible cause for his current mood?"

Now, Ványalos' silver-gray eyes widened.  "Laureára?  Or... what's the name she took when she chose to follow Melkor?"

"Rúcima.  Why anyone would wish to give others visions and dreams of fear and horror, I will never truly understand, but that was the dark path she chose, and she served her new master entirely too well.  Has Nólaquen said anything of her recently?"

Ványalos nibbled a corner of his lower lip as he contemplated the question and examined his memories.  "Not within my hearing, but a few of the reports and rumors I gathered for Lord Irmo several days before Court did mention her.  Some have always looked upon her as your antithesis, you know.  Or rather, what she became once she fell to the delusions of darkness.  Before then, she was as merry a person as one could hope to ever meet, and would never have dreamed of whispering images of terror and despair into the sleeping minds of the Children."  

He gave his smaller friend a sidelong glance.  "Do you think Nólaquen blames you for that as well?"

Olórin wanted to say no, but he could only shrug.  "He has never said so, nor have I ever caught anything in his words or attitude to support such a notion.  But it's not impossible — nor is it impossible that he bears other ill will toward me."  He then told Ványalos of his encounter with Turmanarmo, and the notions that had been aroused in him by the tale of what had happened to Olórin after his bodily death.

"I know it's not the case with all the dissidents," he concluded, "but it struck me as quite curious that both he and Nólaquen — as well as several the others — have siblings whose fates are unknown to us, since they gave their fealty to Melkor."

The redhead agreed.  "It's an interesting coincidence, but it's not universal.  Not all of the dissidents had kin who betrayed us."

"Of course not.  But a number of the others have siblings who were sorely hurt in our struggles against Melkor and his followers."

Ványalos cocked one eyebrow.  "Do you see some sort of pattern in this, pityandil?  If so, it eludes me.  Lintamacar, for instance, has no kin, nor was he himself injured by the Enemy during the conflicts."

Olórin sniffed softly.  "We were all injured by the Enemy, my old friend, whether we fought his forces directly or not."

The tall Maia sighed, nodding.  "True.  Not a one of us failed to feel the hurt of it, having never imagined such a thing as betrayal, much less evil of that magnitude."

For several moments, their thoughts ranged back to those earliest times, to the days before days, to the innocence and joy they had all known in their beginnings, and the terrible feelings that had followed when that innocence had been shattered, far too soon, and far too grievously.  

When at last his own thoughts returned to the present, Olórin looked out at the colors of bright fall flowers surrounding the still-unharvested little garden at the back of his house, just beyond the terrace where he and Ványalos had gone to talk.  He loosed a gentle sigh of his own.  "My heart tells me that there is a pattern, some common thread that lies beneath the unrest in our brethren.  If I knew all of them better, I would probably see it clearly, but I do not."

"The Valar could likely do so," Ványalos observed.  "We may not know all the Maiar here in Eä so intimately, but they each know their own people well."

"Certainly — but since they do, why haven't they already found the answer?  They've conferred often enough since this entire affair began."  The fair head shook, dismissing that path to an answer.  "No, I think this task is meant for me, not for them.  After all, I am the one who has been the recipient of what some are misinterpreting as enormous favors and gifts.  To find an easement for their pain would be a way for me to share a part of that bounty."

Irmo's messenger cocked his head as he considered what his friend had said; then he smiled crookedly.  "Perhaps, but you do realize that you were the greatest gift of all — or don't you?"  He added the question when Olórin favored him with a startled expression.  He grinned.  "No, I can see that hadn't occurred to you.  It's true, nonetheless.  You were ready long ago to know you had a brother, even though you would have had difficulty believing it could be the Elder King himself.  Manwë was not.  His grief over Melkor's betrayal was so deep, he was not ready for the knowledge that he had a second brother, for he would have feared a repetition of that pain.  The gift could only be given when he was ready to receive it, and that gift is you.  But I'll wager you've been thinking exactly the opposite, that you were the reason for the delay.  Am I right?"

As he listened, Olórin was reminded of the reasons why Ványalos had chosen to be numbered among the people of Irmo, and why the dream lord had gladly accepted him, as servant and ersatz son.  For all his sometimes flighty and frivolous outer demeanor, Ványalos was keenly aware of the moods and motives of others, and his insights could be profound.

He answered first with his own small, wry smile.  "You know me entirely too well," the Istar chuckled.  "Yes, that's just what I'd thought.  Oh, I knew better, but I had a hard time actually believing the truth.  This revelation came when the time was right, but what I am, I have always been in our Father's thought."

"And the timing was for Manwë's sake, not yours.  And perhaps for the sake of others who needed your support even more than he."  Ványalos nodded in the direction of the wide windows that looked back into the little house, where Frodo was showing Mirimë the beautiful ceremonial robe Vairë had made for him to wear at the court of the Ainur.

The sound Olórin made as he watched them through the glass was wistful.  "Yes, the needs of others, and all of Arda, had to come first.  No harm came of waiting, though much might have resulted had we known our kinship sooner, and Manwë had failed to send me as his emissary during this age just past.  I think perhaps that some of our disgruntled people have not truly grasped that small but very significant detail."

"But you don't believe that this... misunderstanding is the common thread they share."  It was a statement, not a question.

 Again, Olórin shook his head.  "I'm certain that some do, but not all.  You are better acquainted with Nólaquen than I.  Do you think he shares this misconception?"

Ványalos considered this, then gave another little sigh.  "No.  Given what I know of him and what we've been discussing, if I had to hazard a guess as to his motives, I would say he is driven by the desire to know the fate of his sister.  Like Turmanarmo, he wants to know if she was taken back to the Timeless Halls as you were, and if not, why."  He let loose a deeper, more whistling breath.  "If there is one thing these dissidents have in common, it appears to be jealousy.  Would that the One had spared us that particular failing!"

"An unhappy possibility stemming from the gift of free will," Olórin pointed out, not without his own measure of regret.  "Alas that it was the first such failing to cause strife among us!  But there is more to this than jealousy.  Turmanarmo desires to know the fate of his brother, yet he is not jealous of what happened to me.  His personality differs from Nólaquen, which may be the reason why.  One could ascribe Lintamacar's surliness to jealousy as well, but from things he has said — and the way he has said them — he has taken this to be a personal insult, as if Father Himself had conspired with Manwë and I to hurt him."

"Father would never be a part of such calumny," Ványalos insisted rather hotly.  "No more than you or Lord Manwë could be.  But I take your point.  There is something Lintamacar wants that he feels you were given — unjustly, to his mind.  Perhaps he wishes Lord Tulkas was his brother?"

Olórin shook his head.  "Lord Tulkas already looks upon him as a son, if a rather wayward one, much like Lord Ulmo considers Ossë, and I believe Lintamacar is aware of this.  But...."

Just then, a call came from within the house, asking Ványalos to come help with the meal preparations, as he had promised to do.  He gave Olórin a querulous glance, wanting to know if his friend needed him to remain, but the fair head shook as he answered with a small smile.  "Go.  There will be time enough for further discussion later, if needs be.  I'd like some time to think upon it, anyway, and Failon will never forgive you if you go back on your promise!"  They both laughed, as the Elven baker, while known for his generally affable nature, was also known for his fits of pique whenever he was in charge of the kitchen and things did not go according to plan.

Olórin watched his neighbor go, lingering behind to reflect on their conversation.  After due consideration, he concluded that Turmanarmo was indeed headed in the right direction, but was not on the right path to the desired destination.  The answer, he believed, lay not with those who had an obvious commonality, but with those who appeared to be exceptions to it.   Tonight was not the time to investigate, but soon, very soon, he would need to talk with several of those exceptions.

*********

Despite his determination, weeks passed, and Olórin was still unable to implement his plans.  The matter of opening the now-cleansed region of Avathar for settlement by the Elves had become of keen interest to the three Elven kings and their councillors.  As one of those who had been instrumental in the work done to restore the area to habitability, the Istar found himself being called upon quite frequently to provide information to all three courts, as well as the councils their representatives held with the Valar.

Frodo was busy as well during this time, corresponding with Bilbo to answer the lists of questions that had been given to them before leaving Valmar, and speaking with visiting Maiar who came with new inquiries, mostly from their own masters.  They kept those visits as brief and to the point as they could, so Frodo didn't object to indulging them.

The autumn progressed to its typical coolness in Lórien, very much like the season in the Shire, save for the trees that kept their golden leaves above the grasses, which had faded from the deep green of summer to a pale green-gold.  Here and there, swathes of flowers still swept across the meadows and hillsides, the dark purples and rusty hues of asters and fall mums and other flowers now unique to Aman that grew wild in these parts.  The woods that surrounded Lórellin and Murmuran turned to gold of many shades, from deep bronze to brilliant sunshine yellow, the colors the trees would wear until the coming of spring.  

With the help of Ványalos and other neighbors, Frodo collected and prepared the vegetables and herbs from their garden for storage during the months when all the plants would rest, for Olórin found almost all of his time consumed by the needs of the plans being made to open the southern lands for new settlements.  All three of the Elf kings were determined to be ready to begin as soon as possible, and though he might have wished for others to take on his tasks of guiding them so that he could pursue his personal goals, the Istar did not shirk his duties, much though he chafed under them.  Yule was coming more swiftly than he liked, and still he had not been able to find the answers he desired.

One day, late in the month the Hobbits called November, the Maia found himself with an unexpected afternoon to himself.  His immediate instinct was to go to his private place in the mountains of the southern Pelóri to spend part of that time meditating to clear his mind, but when he arrived there, unclad, he found the place already occupied and busy, with other Maiar and a group of Elven scouts who had been sent to survey the region before the first settlers were sent.  He thought himself away again, to another spot in the far west of Aman that was usually peaceful — but not today.  One by one, he went to all those places in which he reliably found soothing calm and quiet, and found that for one reason or another, all were abnormally crowded or hectic.  Frustrated, he spent several moments at a loss before heading back to his house. 

But once there, he discovered that Frodo had visitors, a group of musicians — mostly Elves, but also a few Maiar — to whom he was teaching some of the Hobbits' Yule songs.  Ordinarily, he would not have been bothered by this, but today, he was intensely annoyed and frustrated.  

He needed some time alone, some place where he knew he would be undisturbed.  To a being whose natural state was spiritual, it should have been quite simple, but here in the incarnate world within time, it was not always as easy as it seemed, even for one unclad.  Though his people generally respected each other's privacy, at times, especially stressful ones, they needed distance to find the inner peace that led to clearer thought and calmer emotions.  Olórin couldn't find that distance at any of his accustomed places, today.  He was about to give up — or at least go and have a good sulk — when the sound of another’s voice echoed in his memory.

"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."

He knew then that no coincidence had led him to this realization, no more than coincidence had caused this seemingly impossible inability to find quiet privacy.  Ványalos was wrong — or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he wasn't entirely correct, as Olórin could now see that he himself had been only partially correct.  The gift of kinship may not have been revealed sooner because Manwë had not been ready to accept it, but until this moment, Olórin had not been ready to fully believe that he could call upon him and ask for his help — not as his king or his master, but as his brother.  And this task was not meant for him alone; it was meant for them.

He knew where he needed to go now, and thanking the Almighty Hand that had clearly guided him, with a thought, he went.

Next:

Unraveling Threads

*****

Author's Note:  So sorry this chapter took so long and is so short, but while I was in the midst of writing it, my Muse took several unexpected turns.  I hope that the one I chose is the right one, and that she stops being quite so unpredictable!

XVII

Unraveling Threads

When Olórin left his home in Lórien, he went not to his rooms in the mansion in Valmar, but instead to those that had been given him in the uppermost levels of Ilmarin.  At the moment he arrived, in a council chamber on the lowest floor, Manwë and several of the other Valar were just concluding a meeting with the Elves who had been placed in charge of their respective people's colonization efforts.  The Elder King was aware of his brother's arrival, and though he could sense that Olórin had come seeking him, he hesitated to join him.  The head of the Noldorin delegation had suddenly raised another question, and Manwë was torn between his desire to go and his keenly-felt sense of duty.

"Go," Varda told him softly, taking him aside into an adjacent corridor while Oromë and Aulë answered the Elf.  She, too, had sensed Olórin's arrival elsewhere in the great mansion, and she had read her husband's reaction with equally keen clarity.  "These discussions will continue for months before any expedition is mounted, and you need not be present for every moment of every session."

"But my duty to the Children—"

"—does not include managing every aspect of their lives, particularly when there are others of us who can assist them just as ably as you — perhaps more so," she added with an amused but meaningful lift of one elegant eyebrow.  

When Manwë reacted with a look of mildly shocked surprise, she sighed softly and laid one hand on his arm.  "Beloved, none of us have been more assiduous than you in honoring those duties we took upon ourselves when we came into this incarnate world.  But from our beginnings, we have also had duties to ourselves that are a part of the great Gift we were given when the One created us.  You sometimes neglect those personal duties in favor of others, and while it is often for the sake of a greater good, this time, it is not."

Now, her spouse regarded her with curiosity.  "And what makes this time different?" he asked, curious rather than offended.

There was something of both mischief and compassion in Varda's answering smile.  "The fact that you have been working so hard since Eruhantalë, you haven't truly taken more than a few moments to truly enjoy the gift that you were given that day — and neither has Olórin.  You know as well as I that there is naught that occurs within our Father's will that is done without reason, and often many more than one reason, which we cannot fully see.  You remember the message He sent, that the time had come for what had been most sorely wounded by Melkor's betrayal to at last be healed."

Now, he was puzzled.  "And you believe that discovering my kinship with Olórin was not the means of healing?"

The star queen shook her head.  "Not wholly.  He has always been your brother, whether you knew it or not.  And I believe that you learned of it now because both of you are in need of great healing.  You have both suffered betrayals and losses, but none so grievous as what was lost when your innocence of heart was sullied by the deliberate malice of those who had once been dear to you."

Manwë was silent as he reflected on her words.  He knew that she referred not to the terrible mistake he himself had made in ordering Olórin to take on a dangerous task against his will — which for all its shortsightedness had not been done out of malice — but to the betrayal of Curumo, who had been as a brother to the Maia for many years.  "Your point is well taken," he admitted with a grateful nod.  "But that healing will take more time than any of us have to spare, now."

"Agreed," Varda acknowledged graciously.  "But the task that is never started takes longest to complete."

He chuckled softly, recognizing her paraphrase of something once said by Hamfast Gamgee, later repeated by his son.  "An apt reminder.  I shall leave things in your capable hands, then, unless you believe the others would object to my absence for a few hours."

She wrinkled her nose and gave a ladylike sniff.  "I would object," was her stern rejoinder.  "I intend to tell them, and any who ask, that you and Olórin are unavailable for the remainder of the day, at the very least.  I would prefer that it be the remainder of the year, but with Yuletide coming soon, I know that's quite impossible."

Manwë smiled wryly.  "And do you have any specific plans for what we should do with this time, O my Queen?"

She lifted her chin, eyes flashing as brightly as the stars -- but twinkling as well.  "I expect you both to take a vacation from duty and find what mutual healing you can in whatever fashion you find enjoyable.  And should I discover even the slightest evidence that either of you have done so much as answered a question about the correct spelling of Avathar or how many days remain until the beginning of Yuletide, you will both learn just how serious I am!"

He bowed deeply, his own eyes alight with both humor and affection.  "As my lady commands," he replied most sincerely, then gave her a warm but gentle kiss before he departed.

**********

In the private quarters high in the mansion, he found Olórin in the rooms he had been given, seated on the floor beneath the clear crystal dome and looking up at the magnificent view of the stars visible here, be it night or day.  When Manwë entered, he did not turn away from his study of the heavens, although the Vala felt and returned his greeting in osánwë.  The words the Maia spoke aloud were soft and filled with wonder.  "I will never cease to be amazed by the difference in perception one can experience when in hröa, even a very temporary fana.  I can remember when the stars were first made, and I know most all there is to know of their structure and nature, yet when I see them through physical eyes rather than through our native senses, I better understand why Eä was made to be the abode of the Children, not our kind.  I came to realize this most fully when I made the crossing from Aman to Endórë in the body of a Man, and first stood upon the deck of that small grey ship at night.  It was a humbling experience, but one I have never regretted."

Without a second thought, Manwë settled down on the floor beside his brother and turned his own gaze up toward the stars above.  "I must confess, I haven't noticed it personally — but then, the fanar I choose are generally much less complex in actual substance than the ones you've often adopted in your work among the Children."

"Understandable.  The higher degree of physicality is usually needed only when one lives among the Eruhíni for extended periods in their communities outside Aman, and there has yet to be a need for you to do so." 

The Vala nodded.  "That has not been my purpose here in Eä — though at times, I wish it had been otherwise.  I have envied you your closeness to the Children, and the seeming ease with which you have become a part of their lives, however briefly."  

He looked away from the stars above to favor his brother with a small, wry smile.  "But I sense that neither of these things are what brought you here."

Olórin's soft sigh was an answer in itself.  His head dropped, turning his face away from the stars for several moments before he spoke.  "No, they are not," he agreed, having decided to go directly to the point.  "These past two months, I've been working to find the answer to a very knotty puzzle — and yet it seems that whenever I come close to unraveling the strands of it, they twist into a new and even more puzzling knot."  Without further urging, he explained to Manwë not only the difficulties he'd encountered in attempting to discern some pattern among the motives of the disaffected Maiar, but also his frustrations of that day, trying unsuccessfully to find a place where he could simply think in peace.

When he was done, Manwë remained quiet for a few moments, not only to allow the Maia a bit of the peace he'd sought, but also to ponder the other matters he'd described.  At length, he took a deep breath, then let it out in a gentle sigh.  "It does seem as if there is a commonality between them, or at least among those whose grievances have been most profound.  The loss of or injury to friends and kin would indeed be a powerful motivator, but Lintamacar has no such history.  He has no kin, nor has he lost any of those he calls friend to injury or the Dark."

"Are you certain there are none he left behind in the Timeless Halls when he chose to enter Eä?Tintinallë, I've found, was distressed by seeing the truth of my death because she has siblings who remained with our Father, and of whom she very much desires news.  The same is true of Astaldaron, although he feels that since his lord Tulkas was allowed to change his mind and come late to Arda, others, like his brothers, should have been permitted to do the same."

The Elder King snorted most unregally.  "Which is a mistaken presumption, since Tulkas had always wished to come.  It was Eru Who asked him to hold back, knowing as He did that his particular gifts would be of poor use in our early work, yet would make a great difference at a later time.  Tulkas knew his own nature well enough to agree to the delay, without hesitance or regret."  The wrinkle of a small frown creased his ageless brow.  "I find it surprising that Astaldaron believes what he does, as our Champion has never kept this a secret from anyone, least of all his people."

Olórin agreed.  "It may well be a willful ignorance on his part.  He has always been impatient, and I suspect he rushed to come into Eä before he had fully thought through the consequences of his choice."

"A mistake many of our people made, for none of us could comprehend what it meant to exist within Time until we had actually done so.  A wonder for some, but a terrible shock to others.  While the vast majority of us adjusted to the difference — indeed, learned to rejoice in it — there remain a few among us who did not."

Olórin pondered this for some moments, then at last turned his gaze directly to his brother.  "If he were one of those few, that could explain Lintamacar's behavior.  But I rather felt he preferred Eä to our Home — for the opportunities to do battle, if naught else."  He let out a sharp, frustrated sigh.  "Perhaps my failure to unravel this puzzle is due to nothing more than the fact that there is no puzzle to be solved!  But I've not been able to dismiss the feeling that I am meant to do so."

He abruptly looked away again, not up at the stars, but down, at nothing.  Before he could speak, Manwë settled one hand on his shoulder.  Both the touch and his tone of voice — audible as well as in osánwë — were full of warm compassion.  "And it may well be so. Your heart has seldom been mistaken in these matters, for you lack the ambition and selfish pride that would mislead others into such beliefs."  His words grew even more gentle.  "I understand your frustration, Olórin.  The task you have taken upon yourself is an important one, and the days grow few before it should be completed."

There was gratitude in the Maia's face when he looked up again.  "Yes, exactly!  If I am meant to do this and I fail...!"

Manwë's fingers tightened, staying him before he could say more.  "Then you will not fail alone," he said firmly.  "This entire situation we find ourselves in is the result of many small failures, that reach back well before we finished the shaping of Arda.  Do not blame yourself, especially before the task is done."  

He gave a moment for that advice to sink in before chuckling, softly and ruefully.  "Varda gave me some advice of her own before I came here.  I thought she might have been exaggerating at the time, but now, I see her wisdom."  He elaborated when Olórin's expression became curious.  "She said that both you and I have been far too diligent, these past few months, devoting ourselves to our work without taking the time to properly care for ourselves.  I know that I have certainly been guilty of it."

"As have I," the Istar confessed.  "I understand that I haven't been the cause of the unrest among our people, only a catalyst by which it became revealed — which nonetheless makes me feel responsible for finding a solution, if one exists."  He exhaled in a long sigh, his eyes focused but not truly seeing his own bare toes.  "When I came here, I'd thought to ask your help in finding it.  Now, I think that I should ask your help in determining if there's an answer to be found."

Manwë smiled even as he shook his head, noting the direction of Olórin's gaze.  In the vastness of his thoughts, a wisp of an idea began to form.  "If you feel there is, there is.  Possibly not the answer you expect, but something that may nevertheless help us heal the troubles among us."  

Still smiling, the idea becoming more certain in its shape, he clasped the Maia's shoulder more warmly, then stood and offered him a hand up.  "For now, set aside your worries.  Varda has decreed that we must spend at least the remainder of today enjoying the gift we were given by our Father on Eruhantalë, and her suggestion is sound.  We both need to put away our duties and troubles for a time, and thus perhaps return to them with lighter hearts and clearer minds."

Though he did not need it, Olórin accepted the assist as a gesture of kindness.  His own smile was wry.  "I'd intended to find a bit of rest and quiet before coming here, but I was thwarted in every attempt — which inclines me to believe that Someone wanted me to come here.  Did Lady Varda also suggest an itinerary, or a destination that might suit?"

The Vala laughed softly.  "No, she wasn't quite that presumptuous, though I think she may have had a number of suggestions to offer, should we have difficulty coming up with ideas of our own."  He glanced up at the star-strewn skies above, remembering the long-gone years before they and the rest of Eä had taken their final forms.  "I'd thought that we might leave Arda for a short while, to enjoy a part of our greater Song well away from the troubles facing us here."  

When he lowered his gaze, he saw the expected hesitance on his brother's face, and a small sigh escaped him.  "But I suspect that you wouldn't truly enjoy such an excursion just yet.  Or am I mistaken?"

Olórin's expression became sheepish as he shook his head.  "No.  It's not that I no longer find joy in such things, but...  I've been too strongly tied to Arda for this past age, in a way I'd never been before.  The hurts I suffered from my time in true flesh have healed, but I'm afraid I haven't as fully unraveled the emotional bonds in my heart."

"Perfectly understandable," he was assured as Manwë laid one arm around his shoulders in a brotherly gesture of comfort.  "And some of those ties will always be with you, which is as it should be.  You gave the peoples of Endórë your love in your efforts to help them, and love freely given is never wholly forgotten."

"No, never forgotten," Olórin agreed as he relaxed into the embrace, unaware until that moment of just how tense he had been.   He gave the Vala a wan smile.  "I suppose I sound as if I regret returning to my life here, as a Maia.  I don't, not in the slightest.  But Endórë has its own beauties, despite the attempts of our enemies to destroy or subjugate it, and living there as one of the Eruhíni for two millennia helped me to see those beauties more clearly.  And the Mortals are a wonder I learned to appreciate all the better for having lived as one of them.  I shall miss it all, the joy of close association with both the peoples and places of Endórë."

Now, Manwë knew for certain that the idea which had been taking form in his mind was precisely the answer he needed to comply with Varda's wishes.  Idly, he wondered if his queen had had this in mind all along.  If so, she was right in requiring him to find it on his own, for it came with the gift of understanding.  "It has been a very long time since we dared to walk openly in Middle-earth," he said, with regret.  "Oh, not so long in our reckoning, but the longer we watch over the Eruhíni and share our lives with those who dwell in Aman, the more we grow accustomed to regarding time as they do."

He turned his gaze to the Maia leaning against his shoulder, his own eyes bright with mischief.  "It seems that what's needed now is an easement for what we both miss, in our own ways."

It took a few moments before Olórin grasped the greater meaning of that remark.  He lifted his head and stood straighter.  "Do you — my lord, are you suggesting that we go to Endórë?  Now?"

Manwë made a sound of disapproval, though the merry gleam in his eyes remained.  "Now, now, I thought we'd agreed, none of this 'my lord' business in private!  And of course now.  Varda made it clear that she wants us to spend some brotherly time together, and preferably well away from this house, or any other place where we might be importuned and dragged back to our duties.  You miss the Mortal lands, and I've not had a chance to do more than observe them from afar since the War of Wrath.  Not the best opportunity to appreciate their beauties, I'm sure you'll agree, and much has changed since then.  Since neither of us are bound as you were during your time as my emissary, it would take only a thought for us to return here, should we be needed.  But I think that for at least a few hours, Eä can continue to exist without you and I overseeing it."

For several moments more, Olórin simply stood there, blinking up at his brother while he took in all he'd just said.  "I would like that," he finally admitted.  "But are you exaggerating just for my benefit?  Has it really been so long since you've visited Arda, in person?"

The answering nod was sad.  "And much longer since I walked upon that land in a time of peace.  Not since the Lamps and Almaren were destroyed.  It may not be the vision of perfection we once imagined in our Songs, and I know that our elder brother's poisons still mar the very fabric of the world, but I should still like to walk upon it, to see and feel how it lives and thrives despite him — in person, as you say."

The Maia understood that by this, he meant in fana, rather than in their natural unclad state.  He spent yet another handful of moments considering the implications; then he nodded.  "Then you should choose where we go, since it has been so long since your last... ah... visit."

Manwë laughed, a sound of pure amusement.  "So I cannot count on you to be my — how might it be called? — my experienced tour guide?"

Olórin's own laugh was brightly joyful.  "I would gladly give you the benefit of whatever experience I have to make the journey an enjoyable one, but the honor of choosing our destination should be yours.  After all, you haven't set foot upon Middle-earth for literally Ages, while I've had the pleasure of walking the length and breadth of much of it for most of the one just passed!"

The Vala conceded the point with good humor.  He tightened the arm about the Istar's shoulders in a quick embrace, then released him to step back slightly.  "Then let us away, before Varda comes and treats us both to a well-deserved tongue lashing when she finds us still here!"

Still laughing, Olórin took the hand Manwë offered, then felt the Elder King's familiar and comforting power enfold him as he thought them both away to his chosen destination.

Next:  Where Many Paths and Errands Meet

***

Author's Note:  My apologies to anyone who has been waiting for me to resume writing this story.  I've been suffering from severe depression for the last few years, and a recent visit to the ER finally pushed me to take serious steps to deal with it.  The first positive result of it is this chapter, which I hope will be the first of many as my treatment progresses.  I thank you all for your understanding and your patience.

Author's Note:  I had wanted to have this ready to post on my birthday (which was on the 20th), but my Muse is still working slowly, and then got carried away!  Nonetheless, here is my gift to all of you; I hope you enjoy it!

—————————————————————————————————————————-

Chapter XVIII

Where Many Paths and Errands Meet

Although the Middle-earth that was their destination now lay in a wholly different dimension than the Aman from which they departed, their respective positions were the same on the near-identical globes.  So while it had still been midday atop Taniquetil, the sun was dropping toward sunset in Endórë, especially in the more northerly regions to which Manwë brought them.  This was the part of Middle-earth Olórin knew and loved the best, having walked or ridden across the length and breadth of it again and again as the Grey Pilgrim.  Autumn still touched lightly in the southernmost reaches of Gondor, while in the North Kingdom, winter was beginning to stretch its fingers across the land.  To the east, Greenwood the Great would have lost its autumn splendor, while on the western shores, the sea-Elves of Mithlond would be preparing their ships and homes to weather the winter storms to come.

And in the lands between the mountains, the residents of the Shire would have brought in the last of their harvests by mid-November, and now, the month was drawing to a close.  Even though some hardy trees still clung to their faded leaves of deep bronze and dark russet, the Hobbits who lived beneath their branches were already turning their thoughts and activities toward preparations for winter and, of course, Yule.

Given how that particular event was very much on the minds of their own people, it came as no real surprise to Olórin when they arrived at their destination, and he found himself once more in the Shire.  They were both yet unclad, so his smile was felt rather than seen, and Manwë returned it.  This region is well known to you, is it not? the Vala asked.

Olórin was about to reply that of course it was, all the lands of the Shire were quite familiar to him — but then he looked more carefully at their surroundings, and gave a small equivalent of a gasp.  Outside Tuckborough, near the Green Hills, he said, recognizing the part of the Shire that was echoed in the region of Lórien that was his home in Aman.  Not so terribly green, at the moment, he added with amusement, since the hillsides had turned to the tawny colors of autumn:  dried stubble or roughly tilled earth covering the fields where crops had been harvested, swathes of faded grass and withered flowers in the wild stretches between the neat farms.  The woodlands and hedges showed many bare branches, and those leaves that remained had lost the summer's suppleness along with the brighter hues of early fall. 

Were this Aman, we would be standing on the western verge of the woods near my home, Olórin said as he "gestured" in the appropriate direction.  Here, the trees were fewer than in Lórien, as the fields of a small Hobbit farm lay just beyond them.  Through the movement of bare and half-bare branches being stirred by the cool late autumn wind, the low wood-and-stone farmhouse and barns could be seen on the opposite side of a field of corn stubble.  The house is close to the spot where Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna raised my new home.  A cosy place, I'm sure, but very different from anything in the West.  Were you thinking to go there?  The Maia had no idea who lived here, but knowing the peculiar gifts of some hobbits, he had no wish to disturb the owners if they were the sort who felt the unclad presence of their kind as "ghosts."

Manwë perceived his thoughts, and gave the equivalent of a smile.  No, I wouldn't wish to disturb the good folk who live there.  But I see why you were drawn to the reflection of this region in Aman.  Even in this season of fading, it has a simple beauty and peace that the grandest halls of Ilmarin lack.  I want to see more of the land and its people, though better clad than this.  The humor in his words conveyed the amusing but perfectly absurd image of him walking down the road beyond the farmhouse in his usual fana.

Olórin's own thoughts were bright with laughter.  I fear that would be more disturbing to the hobbits than a mere feeling that spirits were about!  Aside from their general leeriness toward Big Folk, few of them hold with wearing "outlandish dress," and even the simplest garb that we of the West favor would strike them as quite unseemly, at best.

Manwë's answer held an air of innocent smugness.  Then it's good that I have more suitable guise in mind.  Would the road that lies beyond the farm be a good place to begin a journey though the Shire?

Olórin considered it.  The road in question was the Stock Road, which ran between Tuckborough on the west and the town of Stock near the Bucklebury Ferry to the east.  If they followed this road in fana, the risk of encountering people it might be best if he avoided in any guise was too high for the Maia's comfort. Travelers were more common along the East Road, some miles to the north, but he felt it would be better for them to begin someplace more quiet.

However we choose to incarnate — unless it be as birds or squirrels! — I'm reluctant to go to places where those Hobbits I knew well as Gandalf still live, he told his brother after pondering the matter.  This road and the one farther to the north are major byways between their larger and more prosperous settlements, so while they might have greater points of interest along them, they would also go close to the homes of those very hobbits.

Manwë chuckled.  Then I leave it to you to choose a path that will offer little risk, of either accidental encounters or boredom — if you will allow me to choose the manner of our... ah... garb.

The wryness of his tone made Olórin wonder for a moment if the Vala did indeed plan for them to assume the forms of some animal.  While the guise of hawks or other swift birds was more likely to be the Elder King's preference, the image of strolling down even a quiet Shire backroad as a pair of chubby hedgehogs seeking a nice, warm den for their winter's nap struck him as all too amusing, so he happily conceded to whatever plans the elder Ainu had in mind.

With a thought, he led Manwë to a wild area beside the lesser road that ran through the western parts of Tookland, south to Longbottom and Sarn Ford, north to Waymeet and up through the parts of Westfarthing north of the Road.  Weeks earlier, when the harvest had been brought in and folk began laying in the supplies they would need to last through the coming winter, this road would have been busy, with carts and wagons taking the produce of summer to barns and markets, with people from the outlying countryside going to town to procure what necessary items they could not make on their own.  Now, travelers were few, especially on days like today, when the wind blew chill and the sky was thick with leaden clouds, heavy with the threat of cold rain, or perhaps even an early snow.  All of this was familiar to Olórin, who had walked this way many times during the Third Age, often under far less pleasant conditions than today.

This would be a good place to begin, the Maia decided after quickly scanning the area and finding only wildlife nearby.  Whitwell and Tookbank are just south of us; Waymeet is perhaps ten miles to the north.  This part of the road is more lightly traveled than some others, and though a different season might have made for a more pleasant journey, I think you won't find it to be a disappointment — or boring, he added wryly.

Manwë laughed, accepting the jibe.  We would arrive after full dark, but I have no objection to that.  There will be rain soon, however.

I don't mind the rain, Olórin assured him, though I might change my mind, once I know how you've chosen to clothe us.

His brother accepted the teasing hint with good humor.  Rather than explain, he again extended his power to encompass them both, and the Maia willingly surrendered control of himself to it.  He had always trusted Manwë, even when he was upset or angry or bewildered by him, a singular truth that had been the unshakable bedrock of his belief that they were somehow kin.  Knowing all that he now did, his surrender to that trust brought a warm feeling of profound joy to his innermost heart.

As he gave up control, Olórin also shared with the Vala all his experience in taking on incarnate forms that would not be easily detected as vessels disguising far greater power.  He knew that as the Elder King and the mightiest of the Ainur, Manwë knew more than he about the substances and energies of Eä, but his practical experience with this particular aspect of self-incarnation was limited.  By virtue of the many things he had done at his lord's behest in working among the Children, both in Aman and Endórë, Olórin had much more practice in perfecting this skill, which he now gladly shared.  There will be a number of profound differences between this type of incarnation and the kinds you have favored down the ages, the younger Ainu warned even as he gave his brother all he knew of it.  They aren't dangerous, but they can be disconcerting and limiting, until you grow accustomed to them.

For his own part, Manwë appreciated the gifted knowledge, and the warning.  While he knew the processes involved, Olórin had developed ways to greatly enhance the results — another example of a Maiarin gift for refining and giving added detail that had not occurred to the Valar in their designated tasks as the greater Powers within Eä.  He smiled to himself as this knowledge allowed him to fashion their new fanar in ways that would not only let them pass as ordinary Incarnates with question, but would also give greater depth to their own experiences within these temporary forms.

"Intriguing," the windlord said aloud after this new and different sort of fana — more akin to a hroä than was his wont — had settled about him.    "And this is how you clothe yourself when you've walked clad among the Children, at my behest?"  His voice was not as full and resonant as usual, not even to his own ears, which he surmised was another consequence of this unique type of incarnation.

Olórin had deliberately made sure his eyes would be closed when his new form had fully manifested, wanting to give himself a moment or two of anticipation before the surprise Manwë had clearly planned.  The changed sound of his brother's voice startled him, so much so that his eyes popped open, involuntarily.  Before he could answer the question, an equally involuntary laugh of pure delight escaped him when he saw the form in which the Vala now resided.

Manwë's chosen hroä was not that of a hedgehog, as the Maia had whimsically thought, but it would have been equally at home in comfort under a snug hill.  Rather than a less regal version of the Elven form that was his usual habit, the eldest of all the Ainur in Eä had elected to embody himself as a Hobbit.  The features of his face were still recognizable to Olórin, but had been imbued with a greater earthiness, as well as aspects that were very Mortal.  His hair -- on both head and feet -- was thickly curly, as was common to Hobbits; while he had kept the color he usually favored, the white was not quite so pure, and was mixed with darker streaks of silver and gray — much like Bilbo's hair had become, once he had escaped the influence of the Ring.  To go with the hues of age he had chosen, Manwë also allowed his face to show some of the lines and weathering that went with Mortal accumulation of years.  His eyes were still bright, however, of the same deep sapphire he preferred, and the rest of his hroä was fit and healthy, if not as fresh and supple as that of a youth, or an ageless immortal.

His garb was also suitable to his form and the season, proving that the Elder King had indeed paid close attention to the smallest of the Eruhíni since they first appeared in Middle-earth.  The trousers and coat were of sturdy dark green wool, the shirt beneath a heavy weave of cream-colored linen, and the thicker woolen hooded cloak over all of deep blue.  In one hand, he held a serviceable wooden walking stick, shod with steel.  At his brother's laugh, he cocked one eyebrow, not quite successfully hiding his own amusement.  "What, did I do something wrong?"

Olórin reined in his mirth.  "No, I'd say you did splendidly.  I just can't remember having ever seen you dressed quite so... plainly!  Oh, the fabrics are of excellent quality and the clothing well-made and very hobbitish, but I doubt that Lady Vairë would consider it suitable for one of your high station." He added the last with an impish smirk.

Manwë couldn't help but laugh.  "Then it's just as well she isn't here," he replied with a grin and a wink.  "Do you think I did as splendidly for you?"

In his surprise, the Maia had completely forgotten that he had yet to see his own temporary hroä.  He glanced down at himself, and saw that he was similarly, though not identically, attired, and that the curls of hair on his own feet were a light golden brown — not a common color among the halflings, but much more often seen than the pale blond he generally affected while in fana.  There was no hint of silver or white frosting those strands, so he assumed that Manwë had given him a more youthful appearance.  The image of himself that he was given in osánwë confirmed this, as did the Vala himself.

"You are my younger brother, after all," was the only explanation he gave.  A brief frown creased his brow as he noted a slight oversight on his part; with a thought, he produced a second walking stick, which he offered to the erstwhile Wizard, smiling again.  "Not as impressive as the staff you carried as my messenger, but better suited to the occasion."

"Much better," Olórin agreed, thinking how it resembled Bilbo's favorite walking stick, which he had used as he left the Shire on the night of eleventy-first birthday, and had kept with him even when he Sailed.  He could sense that Manwë had been well aware of this, and upon closer inspection, he saw that it was an exact duplicate, down to several scars the hard wood had taken when Bilbo had used it to take out his frustrations on a rock that had been foolish enough to place itself just so that he couldn't avoid stubbing his toes on it.  The Maia was touched by the thoughtfulness displayed in this seemingly insignificant detail.  He offered his thanks with a simple nod and a warm smile.  "Then shall we be on our way?"

***********

Though the wind was chilly, it was not yet icy, but in this more intricate form of fana, the sensations of it were more clearly felt as the Children felt them, if not as strongly as they would be experienced in a body of true flesh.  As Ainur in their natural forms, their senses would have been vastly more powerful, giving them information that none of the Eruhíni could hope to gain through their own, but there were compensations to be found, nonetheless.  Manwë found the coldness of the wind on his face fascinating, as he found other differences of the senses that were piqued as they walked along the quiet road to be equally intriguing.

"I can better understand now why you were often eager to do my bidding when I asked you to walk among the Eruhíni," the disguised Vala said as he lifted his face to feel the first drops of light rain fall from the heavy clouds above.  He'd scanned the clouds as they'd started out, and had predicted that the rain would be light, and end before sunset.  Since then, they had put several miles behind them, and with the exception of one farmer driving a pony-drawn wagon filled with barrels of cider and sacks of potatoes, they met only wildlife and an occasional farm cat.  Manwë had found every step fascinating, from the sensations of the hard-packed earth of the road under the leathery soles of Hobbit feet to the pungently thick scents of decaying leaves carried on the winds that whistled through a woods they passed on their way north. "There is a greater sense of... connection to Arda itself in this form — though not so great, I'm sure, as you knew more recently."

Olórin didn't need to ask to know that he was referring to his time in these lands as the Grey Pilgrim, when he was confined to a body of true flesh.  He sniffed softly as he pulled up his hood.  "This is a mere suggestion of that connection, by comparison.  It does have unique pleasures that we cannot fully share in our natural forms, but in that condition we are better shielded from being influenced by the poison Melkor poured into Arda, trying to claim it as his own."

Manwë nodded soberly, knowing to his own regret that his brother spoke from sad experience.  "I'm grateful that you have been fully healed from such poisoning," he said softly, nodding briefly to the ring on the Maia's right hand, which was a reshaped form of his crystal circlet, better suited to their current fanar.  "It should never have happened...."

"But it did," Olórin replied easily, "and in the end, it was a small price to pay for the greater lessons that were learned.  Now, I suggest you pull up your hood, before you become too intimately acquainted with the less pleasant sensations of cold rain running down the back of your neck!"

His suggestion was so congenially offered, the Vala knew that the anger and disillusionment of the past was well behind them.  He paused to tug up his hood, realizing when it was in place just how much of the chill dampness had already made its way under his collar and down his back.  "By any chance, is there an inn along the way, where we could rest while we dry off?"

Olórin shook his head.  "Not until we reach Waymeet.  There used to be a pleasant little inn halfway between Whitwell and the East Road, but it was closed when Lotho came under the influence of Saruman's ruffians.  They used it for their own comfort — badly, I'm afraid.  It burned to the ground in the aftermath of some drunken brawl among the brigands, and the family who'd once owned it decided not to have it rebuilt during the Restoration."

The heavy sigh that rushed past Manwë's lips was made all the more somber by the Mortal sound his current hroä lent to it.  "Of all Curumo's sins, this was perhaps the most grievous.  His betrayal of you and the cause you both should have had in common was bitter, but you at least were of his own kind and better able to defend yourself.  These simple folk should not have been made to suffer for his jealous pride and hatred."

The Maia shrugged.  "They acquitted themselves well enough in the end, and restored much of what had been destroyed, thanks to Galadriel's blessing — and Lady Yavanna's — but I agree.  If I let myself be lulled by Saruman's honeyed voice, it was my own fault, since I knew the peril of listening to him and taking his words to heart.  The Hobbits had no such experience, and had done nothing to merit his scorn, or such vile treatment at the hands of one who had been sent to help succor them against evil."

He loosed a sigh of his own, one of resignation rather than remorse.  "Well, the past is the past, and though some things might have ended more favorably, in general, most matters turned out for the best."

"As Father promised, long ago.  Now," Manwë continued, his tone and demeanor much more cheerful, clearly wanting to change both the subject and the mood, "tell me about the local inns.  I know the ones in Eldamar, and I'm aware that the proprietor of the Wandering Willow fashioned his establishment around pleasant memories he had of a particular Shire inn, but I suspect now that his perspective is somehow shaped by his own flawed recollections and Elven expectations."

Olórin chuckled.  "Very true.  Having been to both the Wandering Willow and the Plough and Hammer, I can see how something was lost in the translation between Hobbitish and Elvish!  Not that it doesn't have its own charms, but Master Olindar's experiences are seen through the eyes of an Elf, which have certain blind spots of interpretation when it comes to other races."  He grinned widely.  "Frodo and Bilbo were as amused as I by the... ah... distortions, shall we say, points where Olindar's memories were clearly in error.  But none of us were so crass as to tell him, or show our amusement to his face.  Our hobbit friends were touched by the simple fact that any Elf thought so highly of a Shire inn as to want to replicate it in Aman, and so was I."

They paused to watch a fat squirrel scamper across their path.  It was totally oblivious to the larger creatures, being focused on getting the large walnut in its mouth to some safe and secret place before winter made food more difficult to find.   While they watched, the rain began to fall more heavily, but not enough to turn the hard-packed dirt of the road to mud.

"I was quite pleased when Master Olindar opened his inn, years before even we knew for certain that Frodo would indeed take up the burden of the Ring," Manwë said as they continued on.  "The Eldar can be very resistant to change, especially when confronted with new things that make it impossible for them to ignore the fact that they are not the only Incarnates worthy of respect.  There was some concern that Olindar might have been seeking mere novelty rather than acting from genuine appreciation of the periannath, but our fears proved to be unfounded.  His love for the Little Folk is honest; indeed, it helped pave the way for our hobbit friends to be accepted as more than heroes when they arrived in the West."

"And to think that Frodo once worried that he would be accepted in Aman only if he was recognized as worthy because he had done great deeds!  Had we known that some of those in Eldamar would hold him in high esteem because of the excellence of Hobbit seedcakes and mushroom tarts and ale, he would've had no cause at all for concern over his reception!"

That thought made them both laugh, fondly, for they had known just how stubbornly Frodo had claimed that he'd done nothing at all heroic during the War of the Ring, and yet had willingly shared his culinary expertise, such as it was, with those of the West who wished to learned.  The sound of their merriment startled several partridges that had been under cover of the low brush between the road and a harvested grain field.  They flew up suddenly amid a great flurry of wings, then glided off across the field to another patch of shrubs where they would be less bothered by any passersby.

Manwë smiled benignly as he watched their flight.  "I used to believe that creatures such as those, which the Incarnates hunt or raise for food, were a sign of our elder brother's ruinous influence upon the Eruhíni, but I've come to realize that such is not so."

Olórin gave the Vala a look of almost shocked surprise.  He himself had come to rethink that particular belief, common among the Ainur, during the last two millennia of the Third Age, but he hadn't known that the Elder King had as well.  "Oh?  Whatever changed your mind?" 

"Several things," Manwë said as they continued on.  "Life lost to war or sickness or perfidy is, of course, something to be abhorred and greatly regretted.  But while we have helped to shape the kelvar and olvar, down to the smallest organisms, we did not give them their spark of true life, nor did we ordain what things they would need to sustain it.  That portion of the Song was Eru's, the harmony He gave to our Music that made all of it possible, here within Eä.  I began to consider this long ago, when Yavanna came to me with her complaints about the ways in which the Children — Aulë's in particular — would use the things that came of her Song.  When the Eldar came among us, I began to see that the matter was more complicated than I had realized, but the wars against Melkor and the struggles with Sauron put it from my mind until recently."

"What brought it back?" the Maia asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

He did.  "The week Frodo and Bilbo spent with us in Valmar, after Eruhantalë.  I have, of course, been to many feasts and celebrations among the Elves, but never have I lived among any of the Eruhíni, as family.  Seeing the joy and gratitude with which the hobbits took each meal, even the simplest, I could not believe that it was in any way a reflection of evil.  Oh, I know that some Incarnates make an evil of it by their gluttony and utter lack of appreciation for that which they consume, for the life given to sustain their own.  But I do not believe that Father meant it to be an aspect of darkness or corruption.  Eä was made to be shared by many kinds of life, each contributing to another in a great pattern that is the very rhythm of the Music."  

His smile was wry and almost bashful.  "I fear I allowed my thinking about death, for any reason, to be overly influenced by the nature of the Firstborn.  They were such a marvel, like and yet unlike anything we had anticipated, that I let myself come to believe that death perhaps should have been unnatural for all the lesser forms of life Father permitted us to guide into being.  I completely failed to take into account the nature of the Secondborn, and how it was and always had been the plan of Ilúvatar Himself that they would die, and their deaths be part of a greater plan that was not for us to truly understand.  All that we Sang of, all that we imagined in our hearts and brought forth with the gifts we were given were for Him to use as part of His designs, and it is an honor and a joy to so serve the One Who made us out of Love.”

Olórin nodded even as he watched a swirl of damp fallen leaves skitter across the road and over his bare feet.  "And there are many kinds of harvests in this universe, some of which seem wrong and evil to us because we cannot know Father's full purpose.  When I was embodied as your emissary and felt actual hunger for the first time, I was shocked by some of the foods I began to crave.  But as I grew accustomed to that condition and lived among Mortals as I never had before, I came to understand that the wickedness we perceived came not from the Children's need for meat, but from those who killed for the sake of killing, or showed no respect for the creatures who provided them with sustenance.  It was difficult for me to understand it fully until I had lived truly as one of them.  And of all the Children, even the Elves, the Hobbits have ever been the most grateful for the bounty of Arda, for theirs has been the most difficult rise from their primitive beginnings."

Manwë sighed.  "And they are the only ones who have never suffered for our interference with the natural course of their development.  I knew this long ago, of course, but it was only when our small friends came to visit and took us into their hearts that I saw it clearly, and fully understood.  How arrogant we were, to think that any of the Children could do better under our protection than that of the One!  Arrogant — and naive."  

He gave Olórin a rueful little smile.  "And now I also understand why I was not yet ready to know that we were brothers, until now.  I needed these past five years of lessoning under the gentle tutelage of our little cousins to see the fullness of my own failings, and to forgive myself for them, even as you and Father have forgiven me.  And in this, I have also come to a better understanding of my strengths, and how I can better use them for the benefit of not only Eä and the Children, but for our people as well."

Olórin considered all the Vala had said while they continued on for some minutes in companionable silence.  Their conversation had taken an unexpectedly serious turn, but he could sense that these were things Manwë had needed to speak of, and he was more than willing to offer a compassionate ear.   When he finally spoke, his words were sincere.  "I... hadn't  anticipated such a... confession, but I do sympathize.  I think far too many of us — and not only the Maiar — have believed that since you stand in Father's stead, you also know the parts of His mind that we have all been told none of us can know.  In our love and honor and awe of you, perhaps we have laid too great a burden on your shoulders — more, at any rate, than even the One ever intended for you to carry."

Manwë smiled warmly as he clasped the Maia's shoulder with his free hand.  "And since it was done out of love, I freely forgive the assumption.  Indeed, it is my hope that among our own people, this Yuletide tradition we plan to borrow will help us all better understand one another.  The world is changing, and we must learn to change with it, and lay aside misplaced pride and our mistaken notions of the past."

With that, Olórin fully agreed.  The cold rain was falling more heavily as the wind from the north strengthened, becoming sharp and biting.  The former Wizard looked up at the thick clouds, which showed no sign of thinning, and snorted softly.  "I think we should've checked the weather signs more closely before we started our walk.  This is not as unpleasant as it would feel in wholly true flesh, but this more complex sort of hroä makes it more uncomfortable than it would be in a simple fana.  I don't suppose you'd consider encouraging the clouds to pass?"  The question was asked with a mischievous little smirk.

As expected, the windlord shook his head.  "I doubt Father would approve for such a selfish reason, especially since this was my idea from the start.  No, I think it would be better if we simply sought shelter for a while.  You may have endured worse during the past age, but I fear this is quite the most discomfort of hroä I have ever experienced!"

"I did try to warn you," Olórin replied, laughing, and Manwë laughed as well.  As there were no farm buildings or hobbit holes in the immediate area, they quickened their pace.  The road curved to the east, bending around a wooded hill; once around it, they spotted a low, dilapidated building slightly to the west, where another slope of the gently rolling hills began. 

"That was the inn I mentioned, the one that had been destroyed by ruffians," the Maia said.  "The Hill's Foot Rest, as I recall.  Wild shrubs and weeds have overtaken much of the place, but you can still see the scorch marks on the surviving walls."

"And what little remains of the roof," Manwë added.  "Do you suppose enough of it remains to give us shelter until the rain passes?"

"Do you mean to say you haven't already checked?" 

The Vala wrinkled his nose at the teasing jest, but also smiled widely.  "That would be defeating the whole point of wanting to experience things as one of the Children, wouldn't it?  Besides, I find that I haven't quite adjusted to this... more solid form.  Using powers not native to it would require abandoning it completely, I fear."

That came as no surprise to Olórin.  "Yes, I found that to be true the first few times I attempted fashioning such a hroä.  Don't worry, it's not a permanent condition, such as we Istari knew when we were sent here to oppose Sauron.  You'll no doubt learn to allow for the differences more quickly than I did.  Well, since there seem to be no better options at hand, we should at least investigate.  Even a leaky roof and half a wall would be some improvement, in this wind."

Manwë made a quiet disgruntled sound as they picked their way through the wet tangle of brush and dead vines and grasses between the edge of the road and the fallen inn.  "I hope Varda is seeing to it that the others give us our privacy.  I'm afraid I'd never hear the end of it from certain quarters, if they knew that our little visit was being hampered by a blustery wind!"

"Tell them it was a valuable learning experience in self-restraint," the disguised Maia suggested with a chuckle.  "One that a few of them might benefit from, as well."

From his responding grunt, the Vala totally agreed.  After wading through several feet of dead plant tangles, they came across a narrow trail leading to the ruins.  It was impossible to tell if it had been made by the feet of hobbits or by wild creatures that used it for shelter, but it made an easier way than trudging through the underbrush.  The Shire was home to a number of animals that might have wanted such a den; most were small and thus presented no real danger, but they nonetheless moved with caution when the path led into an area where a corner of two half-tumbled walls and a third "wall" and "roof" of fallen beams still covered with old thatch created a hollow space remarkably well protected from the wind and rain.  The sheltered area was small by the standards of Big People, but in the hroär of hobbits, it was quite roomy.

"These two walls must have been part of an attached carriage house, a place where guests on pony-back or those in carts or wagons could dismount in comfort."  With his walking stick, Olórin tapped on the cobbles underfoot, which provided a solid but less comfortable floor than the wooden planks or smooth tiles hobbits preferred in their living areas.  Around the edges of the protected space, grasses and weeds had grown up between many of the displaced paver stones, but under the slanted remnant of the roof, they were still tightly fitted and smooth, if cluttered with bits of rubble and wind-blown dried leaves.

"Someone else has used this for shelter," Manwë noted as they moved farther in.  He indicated a ring of stones and broken bricks in the driest corner, where little of the wind and none of the rain could reach.  Within the circle, the stones and pavers were blackened with soot and the charred remains of old fires created a small, crumbling heap.  On three sides of it, roughly-hewn blocks were set as seats, cut from unburnt portions of the square beams that had completely fallen.  "Travelers like us, do you suppose?"

"Not quite like us," Olórin said, laughing as he looked about, "but certainly no four-footed wanderers laid those stones, or chopped those blocks of wood."  He nudged a scattering of rodent-gnawed nutshells with one foot, and pointed to an old bird's nest tucked into a convenient cleft between two fallen beams.  "Birds and beasts have been here, as well as hobbits, I think.  I saw no sign of boot-prints outside, such as Men or Dwarves would make, and a place like this would little appeal to Elves.  But it should be more than adequate for a hobbit's needs, and thus ours."

Beyond the walls and the rain-filled clouds, the sun was sinking low in the west.  Inside the makeshift shelter, the light was dim; though it was adequate for the moment, it soon would not be.  Rather than use his own powers to create light, Olórin looked about the many nooks and crannies of the collapsed inn to see if there might be any wood dry enough to use to make a small fire, while Manwë cleared away the old nut husks and shells and autumn leaves and small twigs that had been blown in drifts about the bases of the improvised seats.  The Vala gave a startled cry — a common oath most unbecoming the Elder King — when the thick soles of his adopted feet proved not quick thick enough to prevent a stab of sudden pain when he accidentally stepped on a sharp-edged bit of nutshell.  

"Throw those things into the fire-ring," Olórin told him, keeping his amusement over his brother's lapse in decorum to a hidden smile while he rummaged about those parts of the ruins where there was enough cover to hold out all but the worst rain, though the "ceiling" there was too low to provide a comfortable shelter for those on two feet.  "They'll do for kindling."

"If we can find anything dry enough to burn," came the grumbly reply.  "After this, I may be a bit more attentive when the Children pray for protection from storms."

The Istar snorted.  "If you consider this a storm, my lord, methinks you've spent too much time in Ilmarin, reveling in the Vanyar who sit at your feet while you listen to them sing your praises."

A well-gnawed walnut still more than half in its husk went sailing across the "room," accurately bouncing off the back of Olórin's still-hooded head.  But Manwë was grinning even as he rolled his eyes.  "Perhaps now that you're family, you'll spend more time in Ilmarin, and discover for yourself just how bloody boring it can be, having the Children worship the ground you walk on!  I'm very fond of Ingwë and his people, and there are indeed some gifted poets and musicians among them, but if they write one more couplet about me...!"

Olórin was laughing softly as he returned, his arms full of dry wood.  "Why do you think I used the first excuse I could find to move to Lórien?" he teased, eyes twinkling while he bent to arrange the wood and the kindling for a proper, if small, fire.  "I dearly love the Eldar, but I know that even Lady Varda was delighted when they built cities of their own and only came to visit Valmar or Ilmarin in small groups, and generally by invitation."

Manwë sighed even as he nodded.  "We were so eager to have the Children living among us, that we quite forgot to take into account how overwhelming the sheer numbers of them might be when they finally arrived in Aman.  It was as much a learning experience for us as it was for the Elves, I'm afraid, and I do believe they benefited from having cities of their own where they could be away from us even more than we benefited from the greater peace and quiet!"

"Do you suppose that's how Father felt when the lot of us came into Eä, and stopped pestering Him with all our questions, not to mention our nagging about when we would get to see the Music for real?"

The elder Ainu laughed merrily.  "Yes, I imagine it was — or would've been, if the One had had our failings!  Personally, the experience gave me great sympathy for those of the Elves with children of their own."  As he watched Olórin finish arranging the wood and kindling, he noticed something unusual.  "Some of that wood has been cut," he observed, recognizing the marks of an axe, used to chop and split larger logs.

"Yes," the Maia confirmed.  "And there's more than this, stowed under a conveniently placed piece of a broken table-top, where it would be protected from rain.  I believe that whoever arranged the stones and made those 'stools' has been using this place somewhat regularly.  Not within the last week, I think, but at least once within the past month."  From a pocket, he produced a small bit of flint and a piece of steel, what looked like a bent and otherwise useless harness buckle.  "I found this in the same place," he said as he expertly struck sparks into the dry leaf kindling, which quickly caught and spread to the small twigs and nutshells mixed with them.

Manwë frowned.  "It troubles me to think that some poor, homeless hobbit has been using this for a house...."

But Olórin was quick to discount that possibility.  "There's no evidence of that.  Even the poorest of hobbits would try to bring some homier touches to wherever they live.  And on the whole, the only hobbits who have ever found themselves homeless were those who had done evil and were shunned by all family and friends, like Sméagol.  No, I have a feeling that this is a secret hiding place for some of the local children, young farm folk who come here to play after chores, or to avoid them!  The fire would be used for cooking, most likely, roasting nuts or fruits or such.  There are a few old blackened pots and pans from the inn's kitchen stashed along with the wood, and hobbit children old enough to light a fire would certainly have the skill to cook such simple treats."

The Elder King's frown melted into a fond smile at the image Olórin's words conjured in his thoughts.  "I could see some of the elflings in Aman doing just that, if we had any convenient ramshackle ruins for them to lay claim to!  And yet, I can recall a few of our own people doing much the same, when we and Eä were all young, and there were too many fascinating new marvels to see and things to experience to divert us from our work."

Olórin remembered those times very well, as he recalled his own insatiable curiosity, which had been tempered to tolerability by his natural humility and his love for those he served.  "Even you?" he wondered as he coaxed the fire with one of the harder sticks so that it would properly catch on the larger pieces of wood.  "To me, you always appeared the very image of dignified leadership."

Manwë's laughter rang through what still remained of the crumbling inn.  "Oh, yes, even I was sorely tempted by such distractions, although it would seem that my attempts to conceal them were successful, if you believed otherwise.  I knew that I had grave responsibilities that could not be shirked, and when Melkor moved against us, I could not allow temptation to win out over duty.  But rest is a thing all living creatures require, and we are no exception.  During my rest periods, I could indulge myself in those distractions, and unless I was exhausted by battle or some particularly difficult and strenuous work, I often did.  Does that surprise you, my brother?"

The Maia was about to say yes, until the reminder of their relationship caused him to reconsider.  A slow smile spread across his face.  "No, not really," he admitted.  "You're right, all of us need time for rest and relaxation and play.  It was so even in the Timeless Halls."  He laughed softly as he thought back upon that part of his life, before the Music.  "The first time we met was soon after my Emergence.  I had exhausted myself with looking and exploring and asking Father countless questions about everything.  I believe He sang me to sleep right there at the foot of His throne, just to have a few moments' peace!  And when I wakened, you were there."

"Pestering Him with questions of my own," Manwë pointed out, remembering the incident with fondness.  "And after He introduced us, you said you wanted to hear the answer to my last question, since it had occurred to you as well, which brought up another question in your mind, which fed yet another in mine...."  He smiled and chuckled as he shook his head in wonder.  "We were so alike in thought even then, you and I.  How I failed to see right then that we were kin still astounds me!"

Olórin shrugged, though his own fond smile remained.  "It was as Father willed, and ultimately, as we ourselves needed it to be."  The fire was now merrily crackling and warming them; the little smoke it made went up into the angled space about eight feet above them, where there were sufficient cracks between stones and beams to allow the wind to carry it away.  

As he looked up to see that there was adequate ventilation, the Maia noticed that there was a plank with hooks and pegs mounted on the portion of the brick wall that still stood, no doubt a leftover from days when it would have been used to hang wet tack or cloaks.  "If you give me your cloak and hood," he told Manwë as he stood to remove his own, "I'll hang them here, to dry in the heat of the fire."

For a moment, the Vala hesitated, gauging whether or not their little shelter was warm enough, then did as he was bid when he decided it was.  "It still seems strange, not to be able to simply will the dampness and cold to vanish," he mused aloud.  "And you're certain this... incapacity will not last?"

Olórin nodded while he hung his own things across several pegs, spreading the fabric a bit to better expose it to the warmth.  "The first times I fashioned a more substantial hroä such as these, it took the better part of a day before I could easily use my powers without first shedding it.  It was very disturbing, until I decided to learn from the situation.  There is so much we take for granted, things the Children will never know.  To willingly set aside my own convenience was little enough to pay for the experience of having even a small taste of life as they know it."

"A small taste?"  The question was clearly skeptical.  "You have had more than a mere taste of life as they know it — especially as Mortals know it."

The former Wizard shrugged again as he took Manwë's damp things.  "Perhaps, though that is nothing unique.  The other Istari—"

"—did not die as you did.  And those whose bodies were slain did not lay down their lives for the sake of the Eruhíni.  It was a great sacrifice you made, Olórin, and a great risk that you took, for the love of the Children."

The Maia was glad his back was to his brother while he hung his cloak and hood to dry.  He wore a pensive look when he turned to face him again.  "It was the only choice I could make, and yet remain true to myself, and to all who had placed their trust in me.  From the moment the Balrog appeared, I was doomed to death — either physically, by engaging it in battle, or spiritually, by forsaking all I have ever believed is right and good simply to spare my own life."  He looked down at the fire, his eyes unfocused as the light of the flames flickered across his face while the light without grew dim.  

He looked up again when Manwë stepped nearer and set his hands on his shoulders.  "You did what I have always known was in your nature to do," he said with gentle compassion.  "Which is why I knew the mission of the Istari would fail without you.  I knew you would do whatever had to be done, because you loved the Children more than your own safety or pride."

Sharp sadness suddenly changed his expression, as the wind blows storm clouds to block the summer sun.  "I never anticipated the lengths to which you would go for that love.  None of us did.  When you died...."  

Manwë closed his eyes against the remembered pain in his own heart.  When he continued, his voice was soft with anguish.  "We could sense no trace of you.  Not in the way that you learned to guard yourself from detection; when you did that, we always knew that you still existed, if not where you were.  It was much the same when Alatar and Pallando were slain.  We knew that they continued to exist, somewhere, though even now, we know not where.  But when you died, you vanished utterly, and not even Námo could tell what had become of you.  To the best of our knowledge, you had ceased to exist.  We believed we had lost you forever, and never have I felt such terrible grief."

As Manwë spoke, quietly but with great feeling, his fingers tightening on his brother's shoulders, myriad things suddenly became clear to Olórin.  The Vala may not have discerned the truth about their kinship as swiftly as he had, but on some level he had always been aware of it.  And because he was the Elder King, some of what he had been compelled to ask of the Maia as his servant had been a great pain to him, made all the worse by that unrecognized awareness.  Neither of them could have done other than what it was in their nature to do, nor could they have neglected their duties, assumed out of love for the One and His Children.  Thus much of what had happened to them and between them over the long ages had been unavoidable.  Yet now, Olórin realized just how much of his own pains and sorrows Manwë had pushed aside, lest they hamper his ability to function in his assigned role as Eru's regent in Eä.

There were no words adequate to express the compassion he felt for his brother, now that the Vala was finally allowing himself to reveal more of his hidden heart.  So he did as any brother would do to offer comfort, and embraced him.  "So you do know something of what it is to be Mortal, or to befriend them," he murmured after a time, in tones of both soothing and pity.  "Losing someone you love to a death from which there is no return.  I came to know it only too well when I walked these lands, and I grieve that you ever had cause to experience it so intimately."

Manwë did not refuse the offered comfort, nor did he disdain to return it.  "I do not regret the experience of loss," he said when he at last moved back so that they could squarely gaze on one another.  "I learned much from it, most of all the understanding of what it truly means to face the uncertainty of death and loss, as Mortals do.  What I regret is that you bore the price for that lesson.  And yet, I cannot regret even that overmuch, at least in hindsight, for I know I would not have learned what was needed so well, had it been any other who was lost to me.  No, what I regret most is that I almost lost you a second time before I faced the fullness of my mistakes, accepted my blame, and grew from it."

"As we both did," Olórin admitted with a crooked little smile.  "Lady Varda told me, you know."

The Vala's brow creased with puzzlement.  "Oh?  What exactly did she tell you?"

"That you didn't take the reality of my death in Endórë terribly well at all.  From the way she described it, you rather lost your wits for a few days, until Father returned me to my house in Lórien."

Now, Manwë's eyes widened with shock.  "And when did she tell you this?" he wondered.

The Maia patted his shoulder before stepping back so that they could sit near the fire again.  "Not so very long ago.  The night before Frodo and I returned to Lórien in October.  She wanted to sit down and have a private sisterly talk with me, and at some point, she mentioned it.  She thought it important that I know, and that I not hear of it through rumor.  The One knows how many trials we've suffered of late because of that!"

The windlord snorted even as he took the seat beside Olórin's.  "Yes, rumors and gossip have ever been a source of trouble, the worse for the fact that the source is often elusive."

"And unreliable," the former Wizard agreed as he poked the fire with long pot-hook he'd found with the pans in the makeshift storage cache.  He rearranged the nicely-burning wood to make room for a somewhat larger piece that would last longer, since the sun was clearly setting and the rain showed no signs of letting up.

"Like my weather predictions, it would seem," Manwë sighed.  "I had no notion that such a substantial hroä, even a temporary one, would be so limiting."

"And both are but a minor inconvenience," he was assured.  "A month from now, the wind would be much colder, and we might have had ice or snow to contend with.  A much less pleasant situation, all around!"  He had leaned forward to settle the new log on the fire, and now settled back onto his seat.  The crackling of the burning wood was a pleasant harmony to the falling rain and even the whistling wind, neither of which importuned them in their snug little shelter.  As the newest log began to catch fire and send up its smoke, it gave the sweet smell of applewood, the fragrance mixed with the stronger scents of the rain and damp earth. 

"Is that why you wanted to know how to take on this kind of hroä, and one of Mortal-kind?" Olórin asked after they had sat for some minutes in companionable silence, enjoying the fire's warmth.  "Because you wanted greater understanding of Mortal death?"

The silver-curled head shook.  "Not death, but I did wish to know more of how the Mortals experience life.  I suppose it might've been more prudent to choose the form of an Elf, since this is my first time in such a confining body, and my direct experience with the Children has largely been with the Firstborn.  But much as I care for them, they are not family."  There was no need for him to elaborate; his brother understood what he meant, perfectly.

The Maia let another few minutes slip by before he spoke again.  "So I suppose you have no desire to shed these hroär so that we can move somewhere more comfortable.  Say, to a nice dry inn in Waymeet."

Manwë smiled at the droll comment.  "It would be convenient — but no.  This is quite sufficient for now, and totally unlike anything I had expected.  I see no harm in 'roughing it,' as I believe some call it.  And if we did as you suggest, I'd like as not need to start over in becoming acclimated to this condition.  I'd rather not, thank you."

Olórin smirked.  "You may change your mind once the Hobbit appetite wakes up.  We didn't bring along any food, and unless the squirrel we saw some miles back has family in this area, storing up food for the winter, we won't have a chance to find anything until we reach the town.  Not at this time of year, with all the harvest well in."

"Then I reserve the right to change my mind, if I find it too much to endure," the windlord replied, eyes twinkling merrily.  He thought that would be the end of the matter, until his adopted stomach growled.

Olórin didn't want to laugh at his brother's expense, but he couldn't help it.  "Lord Irmo has always said that the Eruhíni can be highly suggestible, especially when it comes to anything they deem important," he said when he got control of his mirth.  

Manwë was red-faced with embarrassment.  "Did anything like this ever happen to you?" he asked in an odd tone, a mixture of chagrin and affront that a temporary form he'd made himself could so betray him.

"Oh, much, much worse!" the younger Ainu promised.  "You have no reason to be dismayed, brother, truly.  Once you're able to connect with your native powers while in this kind of fana, such things won't be an issue.  But hunger is one of the the traits all the Eruhíni share, even those races that can survive longer without food."

"And I had just been saying how much I appreciated the Hobbits for their joy in the bounty the land has to offer.  I should heed my own wisdom!  Live and learn, as the Children say, and this is educational, if a bit embarrassing."  The half-smile he gave Olórin was shyly rueful.  "Are you sure there isn't anything edible in that cache you found?"

"Reasonably sure, but I can look again, if you like."  Without waiting for an answer, the Maia went back into the dark shambles of the former inn to investigate.  Being very accustomed to this kind of incarnation, he needed no light to see in the gloom, though he had decided to otherwise refrain from using his powers until his brother could do so as well.  That would help to mitigate Manwë's feelings of inadequacy, and would make the experience more valuable for him as well, as he had never before incarnated as a hobbit, even in a simple fana.  

He was just about to declare the search a failure when he stuck his hand into a pot and found a small rough cloth sack full of hard lumps.  It may have been nothing more than some child's collection of pebbles or jackstones, but a quick search revealed the lumps to be nuts, mostly walnuts and hazelnuts but also a few chestnuts, all husked and still in their shells.

As he made his way back through the rubble to the little shelter, he idly brought out a few of the nuts to see if they were still edible.  "There was something tucked away, after all," he announced as he came back into the firelight.  Manwë, he found, was checking the bottom of his foot in the now brighter light, to see if his misstep had somehow managed to do an injury to his temporary hroä.   Olórin saw what he was doing, and smiled.  "Although given how you were attacked by a nutshell, this might not be to your liking."  He jiggled the sack, rattling its contents

for emphasis.

The Vala chuckled and wriggled the toes of his abused foot.  "On the contrary!  I would consider it just retribution for the assault."  He set both feet on the ground and got up to find a stone suitable for use as a nutcracker.  Olórin set the sack on the third wooden seat and went back to fetch one of the pots to hold the shelled nuts.

So for the next little while, the brothers sat before their fire, the elder happily cracking nuts between two pieces of brick, the younger freeing the nutmeats from their shells, tossing the edible parts into the pot and the detritus into the fire.  Manwë hummed as he worked, and presently, Olórin started to sing a suitable Hobbit harvest-time song, light-hearted and amusing.  The Vala cheerfully joined in the refrain once he'd heard it sung through.  The song came to an end just as the last of the nuts was thrown into the pot.

"A pleasantly fitting tune," the windlord said as he set aside his improvised nutcracker.  "Shall we eat them as they are, or roast them?"

Olórin peered into the half-full pot, tossing the shells of the final nut into the fire.  "The chestnuts would be better, were they toasted, and warm food does tend to feel more filling in the belly.  Though we'll need to take care.  I can rig the pot-hook to suspend the pot above the flames and use a stick to stir the content, but we have no utensils for eating."

"I think I can survive until things have cooled enough to spare our fingers."  He studied said digits while his brother set up the long pot hook to accommodate the cooking.  "Would they actually be harmed, in this self-incarnation?" he wondered.  "The pain I felt in my foot was quite real, but there was no actual injury to the flesh.  And I cannot believe that this sort of hroä is so far removed from our more typical fanar that it could sustain true damage."

Olórin waggled one hand as he picked up the pot to hang it from the firmly braced hook.  "It can sustain more harm than you realize, although it would require very severe damage for us to sustain a permanent loss.  This is similar to the kinds of forms Melkor and Sauron took in their attempts to dominate and control Arda and all the Children, but not as thoroughly linked to very substances of the physical world.  Their forms required an investment of their native power that was quite draining and extremely difficult to reverse.  Ours are much less so, and any loss of strength we might experience will be easily remedied by rest, once we have shed these forms.  But as you've already discovered, these bodies react as those of real Hobbits.  We feel cold and hunger and pain, and were we dealt a sufficiently strong blow, the shock of it could be overwhelming for a time."

Manwë understood.  "So you're saying that it would be prudent to avoid injuries that might prove overwhelming — like a serious burn from handling hot metal without proper precautions."

"Exactly.  Once you've adjusted enough to easily access your powers again, you could use them to avoid any such discomforts, but as you've said, that would defeat the purpose of learning from the experience, even in its less agreeable aspects."

The Elder King's bright blue eyes unfocused as he reflected on this.  "I wonder if our brother and his lieutenant tried to insulate themselves in that manner?" he mused.  "I cannot imagine that one of us could feel pain as the Eruhíni do, and still feel no compassion for them."

The Maia snorted.  "One must have compassion in their heart in order to feel it.  By the time our fallen brethren had chosen this path to domination, I fear they'd quite lost that capacity."

Manwë could not but agree.  Rather than pursue what might become an unhappy conversation, he quietly watched the Istar tend to both the fire and the contents of the pot.  "Here, now, let me tend to the cooking while you see to the fire," he suggested cheerfully as he took charge of the stirring stick.  "After all, it's my stomach that's complaining!  And though some of the Valier — not to mention Nárënilda — might say otherwise, giving a pot an occasional stir isn't beyond my cooking skills."

Olórin gladly surrendered that part of the job, since he was doing his best to use ordinary means to keep the flames from burning too high under the kettle.  "I've heard Lady Yavanna and her sister claim that no male of any species can cook anything edible.  Lord Oromë begs to differ, but in the case of Lord Aulë, they may have a point."

The Vala laughed merrily.  "True, though have you ever had occasion to sample Námo's attempts in the kitchen?"

The younger Ainu nodded with mock gravity.  "I have.  And I would gladly take slightly singed or oddly spiced food over the taste of coal soot and shale oil."

They both laughed now, since they knew that Olórin's jesting exaggerations were not without a basis in reality.   Made more mindful of his own performance, Manwë gave the pot a careful stir, to be sure that the heated evenly and did not burn.  A delectable aroma rewarded his effort, to which his stomach responded with a gentle (and less embarrassing) reminder.

Olórin noticed, but made no comment upon it, save a small smile.  "It's a pity we didn't think to bring actual supplies with us.  I know a number of simple but delightful ways to roast nuts, given the proper ingredients."

Manwë waved off the matter with the hand that wasn't busy stirring.  "This will do quite nicely, until we can be on our way again.  They do smell delicious!  I'm sure I'll enjoy them—"

"Only if ya gets t' eat 'em, ya stinkin' rats."

The rough and unfamiliar voice startled both not-hobbits, prompting them to look up.  In the flickering firelight, two Men — as rough in dress and face as the one who'd spoken — pushed their way into the sheltered area.  Neither were overly tall, so they were able to stand under the slanted roof; both were wet with rain and smelled of too many unpleasant odors to catalogue.  They wore knives and carried heavy sticks that had clearly seen use as clubs.  From the feral light in both their eyes, they would gladly use them at the slightest provocation. 

While Olórin looked them over through narrowed eyes, Manwë gave them a bright smile.  "We'd be happy to share with you," he began, cut off by the sound of shifting debris and cursing from the other side.  The disguised Ainur looked up and saw two more Men push into the shelter, as rough and foul-smelling as the others.  One had used the axe he carried to chop away a part of the fallen thatch that had been providing something of a wind-block; the other gripped a heavy cudgel, reinforced with iron.  

The brothers exchanged glances, and knew they had reached the same conclusion:

They were trapped.

Next:  Expect the Unexpected

Author’s Note:  This has been a very difficult month for me, so when I found myself with any energy to write, I chose to spend it hammering out this chapter, which was incredibly troublesome.(I really really REALLY hate writing action!)  I hang my head in shame for not managing to find a few minutes to at least tell my reviewers, “Thank you, I VERY much appreciate you taking the time to review,” because I most certainly DO appreciate every single word!  I will try to do better in the future, promise!

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Chapter XIX

Expect the Unexpected

Although their first instinct was to simply shed their assumed hroär and leave the surrounding brigands befuddled, both Manwë and Olórin recognized an instant later that this was a rare instance in which they need not remain inactive in order to preserve free will.  As the four Men had approached them of their own incentive, so too had they brought themselves into this place and this state of their own freely made choices.  While shedding their forms would be convenient, remaining as they were would give them an opportunity to do something about these ruffians, who clearly had no love for Hobbits, nor compunctions against harming them.  While Manwë's powers were still very limited by his lack of familiarity with this kind of corporeal state, they were still able to speak to one another via the swift silence of mind-speech.  In the brief moment they exchanged a single glance, they also held converse.

Do you still remember how to fight, my lord? Olórin asked cheekily, though his expression betrayed nothing of it, nor of the fact that in his thoughts, he indicated the walking sticks that were on the ground between their seats, barely visible in the wavering firelight.

Manwë's inner snort went unheard.  Well enough, he answered drolly.  But I deem we should not be the ones to begin this fight.

The Maia agreed, adding grimly, Though if they begin it, we shall finish it.  And his brother silently concurred.

The four ruffians were, of course, totally unaware that anything had been said or done in that bare fraction of a second that it took in osánwë.  They pushed into the covered space, heads barely missing the low and slanted excuse for a roof as they tried to make use of the shelter and warmth they had done nothing to make.  Manwë wrinkled his nose as he afforded them a mild glance.  "Stinking rats," were they?  If anything stank here, it was the wet and dirty and plainly unwashed Men, but he kept the thought to himself, as it would surely be considered provocative.

"Oh dear, I don't think we have quite enough for everyone, after all," he said instead, giving an unplanned but remarkably good impression of Bilbo's consternation on the day he'd been beset by strange Dwarves who'd interrupted his afternoon tea.  Olórin had to struggle to hide his laughter, though Manwë felt it in his thoughts.  He gave the intruders a warmly cheerful smile.  "Still, we'll gladly share what we have, and a warm bite to eat on a chilly evening is better than nothing at all, wouldn't you say?"  

Spoken like a true Hobbit, was the younger Ainu's amused subvocal response.

The Men, unfortunately, were not so charitable.   "Nah, I've got a better idea," said the ruffian who'd already spoken — apparently their leader — with a rude curl of his lips.  "How's 'bout we just take everythin' ya got, an' we'll see if we feel like sharin' any of it with you?"  The other Men chortled at his suggestion.  It was clear that they planned to take whatever they wanted, and give only threats and abuse. 

Olórin's mild response was the lift of one eyebrow.  "And what makes you think we have anything, other than a small pot, half-full of assorted nutmeats?  We're not wealthy travelers."

An assortment of snorts and rough laughter was the reaction to that claim.  "'S not what we heard tell," the Man with the axe said with a most unpleasant smile, made even more unpleasant by the state of his teeth.  "Word up 'long th' Road says some well-off Shire rats'd be comin' by this-a way, t'day or tomorr'r."  He grinned at his fellows.  "They look nice 'n' plump 'n' ready fer pickin' t' me, don't they, lads?"

While the Men chortled and pressed more closely to the fire, Manwë pressed his lips together in a tight line of annoyance.  I hadn't expected that choosing healthy hroär would be a detriment, he muttered to Olórin in osánwë.  Aloud, he said, "Now, there you're wrong, gentlemen.  I assure you, this will be the first meal I've had in days!"  Which was the absolute truth, since he had had no call to break bread with any of the Children in Aman for several weeks.

Since anyone who knew anything about Hobbits was well aware of their habit of eating well and often, it was hardly surprising when that remark was answered with sounds of utter disbelief.  The leader of the group slapped his bludgeon into the palm of one meaty hand, making a loud and unsettling smack!  "Sure ya haven't," he sneered.  "Jus' like yer poor and penniless!   We've got eyes t' see, same as you, an' it's plain as plain that those ain't no farmhand's worn out work clothes on yer backs."  He'd moved close enough to prod the elder "hobbit's" chest with his heavy stick.  "A right fancy weskit, there, wi' gold buttons, an' a fine heavy wool coat wi' a velvet collar an' all.  Ye've got a fine heavy purse somewhere's, too, I reckon, t' pay fer it all!"

 The others muttered in agreement.  The two who had pushed their way in opposite the larger "entrance" moved closer; their rough motions caused a shower of dust and old ash debris to fall from the remains of the roof above them.  "Gold buttons an' silver buckles," the one with the iron-heavy club grumbled.  "An' that sparkler there hain't no bit o' broken glass!"  He used the club to point out the shimmering ring on Olórin's right hand.  Inwardly, the Maia winced, having forgotten that perhaps it would have been more prudent to leave his Gift behind, or at least render it invisible to Mortal eyes.  Too late now.

The ruffian with the large knife drew it from its worn sheath, baring his teeth in a feral grin.  "Then let's skin 'em both!" he chortled.  "Betcha they'll recollect where they left the coin they say they ain't got if we takes all them fine clothes an' kicks 'em out inter th' cold rain!" 

"Aye, that ought'r do it," the leader agreed.  "But I'm fer some o' those chestnuts, first.  No sense wastin' good food on fat lazy Shire rats.  Here, hand 'em over an' be quick about it!"  

Manwë bristled at that description.  He was getting quite tired of being called a rat, and while he hadn't devised forms for them that were slender as reeds, he knew he hadn't chosen any shape that could be called fat, never mind lazy.   He was about to speak when he heard Olórin's silent whisper.  In a moment — be ready.  No further explanation was needed.

"Hurry it up there," the axe-wielder said when they didn't comply instantly.  He poked the disguised Vala's shoulder with the butt of the axe handle.  "Or we'll be skinnin' more'n jus' th' clothes off o' ye."

Olórin gave a huge sigh of surrender, and reached for the pot hanging over the flames — without using anything to protect his hand from the heated metal, which he knew would be quite hot.  But he grasped it casually, as if it were perfectly cool to the touch.  He felt the burn of it against his not-quite-fleshly skin, but let not so much as a twinge of the semi-real pain register on his face or in his movements.  And he deliberately took his time about it, making it look as if he was having a problem getting the pot handle off the hook.

As anticipated, that did not sit well with any of the ruffians.  "C'mon, hurry it up!" snarled the one brandishing the knife, giving the younger Ainu a less than gentle kick with one muddy boot for emphasis.

Even though the kick hadn't truly hurt, Olórin made a sound as if it had, for the benefit of the ruffians.  Their glee in having the two not-halflings apparently at their mercy would put them off their guard, such as it was.  It also gave Manwë an opportunity to believably cringe away from their threat, one arm coming up in a warding-off gesture while the other dropped to his side, away from the nearing brigands and, conveniently, much closer to his steel-shod walking stick.  Thus, when the Maia lifted the pot off the hook with a resigned groan, the leader of the Men pressed forward eagerly to snatch it away.

Now!

When the ruffian leaned over to grab the pot, Olórin met his motion with a lunge of his own, pushing the thing into his bare hand.  It was hot from the fire, much hotter than the disguised Istar had made it seem.  The Man screamed at the unexpected pain, but when he tried to snatch his burned hand away, Olórin simply pushed harder.  He shoved the scorching hot metal into the thug's belly with such force, the Man stumbled back, lost his footing on the loose rubble, and landed so hard on his backside that the breath was forced from his lungs and he dropped his bludgeon. 

In that same moment, Manwë grabbed his walking stick.  With fluid motions and a strength that belied his apparent age, he struck the arm of the knife-wielder, numbing it so that he could not hold his weapon; he then aimed it backward, so that the stick's steel foot came up squarely under the chin of axe-Man, causing his head to snap back with such force, he fell onto his back,  unconscious. 

The Man with the iron-weighted club let out an angry roar when he saw the two "Shire rats" attack his cohorts.  He lunged forward as best he could, given the limited space and the clutter of debris, swinging his club with the clear intent of flattening Manwë.  Olórin, however, had picked up the rock his brother had used as a nutcracker, and with the unerring accuracy of many hobbits, he threw it at the ruffian, hard.  It hit him smack in the middle of his face; a bellow of pain and gush of blood from his nose followed, along with an involuntary flood of tears in his eyes.  His swing went far wide of his mark, and the force of it sent him stumbling perilously near the fire.

"Y' filthy vermin!" The snarl came from the knife-Man -- more aptly, Lost Knife Man -- who, though numb of arm and currently weaponless, was the least injured of them.  "I'll skin th' both o' ye wi' me bare hands...!"  The threat would've been much more effective, if his right arm had been better able to cooperate.  

Despite his bloody nose, the Man with the weighted club managed to recover his balance before tripping into the fire.  Enraged, Bloody Nose started to swing his club to smash Olórin's skull, but Manwë deftly brought up his walking stick to hit him in the gut, knocking him back as he simultaneously avoided the Lost Knife's lunge.  The Maia scooped up a handful of hot cinders from the fire and flung them into the face of the downed leader, who'd gotten his breath back and was attempting to regain his feet.  

"Kill them!!!" the burnt Man shrieked even as he tried to claw the searing ashes from his face and eyes.  The other two who were still conscious tried to do so, but Lost Knife couldn't spot his weapon amid the rubble on the ground, and Olórin now had his own walking stick in hand.  Both not-hobbits were clearly prepared to defend themselves — and moreover had shown themselves to be quite capable of it — which made their opponents hesitate.  Like the ruffians who had despoiled the Shire on Saruman's orders, they were unused to Little Folk willing and able to fight back.

"Come along, now," Lost Knife said in a smarmily reasonable tone even as he tried to look about for his lost weapon, or anything that might serve as one, while the out-of-breath Bloody Nose gasped for air and tried to staunch the bleeding with the back of one filthy sleeve.  "It ain't worth all this scufflin' about, jus' fer a few coins, now, is it?  Hand 'em over along wi' that there ring, an' we'll be on our way."

Olórin snorted his opinion of that suggestion, while Manwë offered a cheerfully chilling smile.  "I've a better idea," the disguised Vala said, his words mild, but the tone beneath them implacable.  "Why don't you and your friends leave, now, while you have a chance."  It was not a question, but an assurance of what would happen if they persisted.

Bloody Nose spat — though whether in derision or to clear the thick fluids choking him was not clear — while Lost Knife hissed and Leader bared his teeth.  "A chance?!" the last of the three growled as he once again tried to climb to his feet.  The action was hampered by his burned hand and the grit still in his eyes.  "I'll give ye—"

But whatever threat he'd been about to make was cut off by the sound of a horn being blown in the near distance.  Before it had even begun to fade, it was answered by another call, from the opposite direction, at a similar distance.

Both of the Men still on their feet swore.  "It's a trap!" Lost Knife cried, abruptly realizing — or so he thought — why two simple halflings could so effectively stand up to four armed Men.  "Them bleedin' Shirrifs've gone an' set us up!"

"Not me!" Bloody Nose declared, giving up on the fight to push his way out of ruins to freedom.  He used his club to knock away a part of the roof that had come down when he and the still unconscious Axe Man had forced their way in; another shower of dirt and debris fell as he did so, along with some of the rain.

Lost Knife would've followed him, but for the fact that the two armed hobbits and the stupefied Axe Man were blocking the way.   Leader grabbed Knife's belt, using the added leverage to pull himself to his feet and almost bringing them both down in the process.  "Split up!" he ordered, pushing the weaponless Man back out the way they'd come, giving him a second shove to get him running across the road and to the southeast while he headed for the northeast.  

The incognito Ainur did not give pursuit, especially when they heard the clamor of scuffles coming from all three directions in which the brigands had fled; the fluent cursing and noises of pain that followed made it clear that the Men were on the losing side of the conflict.  The sound of galloping ponies along the road underscored the fact that this was no accidental engagement.

Manwë looked over the mess the ruffians had made of their semi-cosy little refuge from the rain while Olórin made sure the fire was still properly contained.  The Vala sighed, seeing the discarded pot and the scattered and trampled nutmeats.  "Waste of perfectly good food," he sniffed, then cast a jaundiced eye at the remaining Man, who was just beginning to make sounds of reviving.  "It would also seem that in a pinch, there is no such thing as honor among thieves.  Are you well?" he asked the Maia, concerned that he might have taken harm from handling hot metal and coals in this unusual incarnation.

But Olórin shook his head.  "I'm far better acquainted with this kind of hroä and how to make use of my natural abilities while in it.  Even if you haven't acclimated yet, you acquitted yourself quite creditably," he added with a twinkle in his eyes.  A slight nod of the head indicated the downed axe-wielder.  "It may have been a long time since you last fought, but it seems you haven't forgotten how."

Manwë answered with a small smile and a shadow of ancient sadness in his eyes.  "Some things, you dare not forget more than once."  He cocked his head in thought as he studied the fellow on the ground.  He tried to extend his powers to do a better examination of the Man, but was still frustrated by his inability to do more than receive a very vague impression that he was at least alive and in no danger of dying. "I hope I didn't cause him serious harm."

The former wizard picked his way over debris the Men had kicked about in their haste to flee to pick up the dagger Lost Knife hadn't been able to find, though Olórin could see exactly where it had been dropped all along.  "The Eruhíni may seem frail, but we often underestimate their hardiness.  I can tell from here that he didn't do worse than rattle his brains when he fell.  He'll have a lovely headache when he comes around, no doubt, but no worse than that."

The Vala accepted that diagnosis, since he could at least tell that his brother wasn't relying on ordinary Mortal senses to make his appraisal.  It was mildly annoying, being unable to use his powers as easily, but he allowed, without rancor, that it was part of the price he owed for keeping his distance from Endórë for so very long.  The lessons he was learning from it were worth the temporary inconvenience.  "Do you think we should find something to use to restrain him before he does come around?"

Olórin had been thinking just that.  "Our belts would suit, if naught else, though I wonder if we oughtn't to fetch some of the Shirrifs to handle it...."

The question was settled when they heard the rustle of people approaching from the direction of the road — hobbits, from the sound of it, not Men.  A moment later, three stout halflings carefully made there way into the semi-sheltered area, which was dripping more rainwater on the far side, from where two of the ruffians had pushed in past the fallen roof.  All were damp with rain; two wore hooded brown cloaks and the third a wool hat with a somewhat weather-bedraggled feather drooping to one side.  All three carried staves of a more weapon-like sort than those of the disguised Ainur, with daggers at their belts; the two with hoods also carried coils of rope slung at their shoulders.

The hobbit with the hat — one of the official Shirrifs — smiled broadly when he saw the two strangers.  "Ah, this explains why Ned and Barlo had us hurry along, afore they'd had a chance to by 'waylaid' by these louts!  We had a notion they've been holing up somewheres along this road, but not in the 'secret hideout' of Orell Wilkin's young 'uns!  Did they nab you on the road and drag you here?"

Manwë chuckled while Olórin returned the wide smile.  "If Ned and Barlo were supposed to be the 'well-off Shire rats' these brutes were expecting to pass this way, then I imagine that was their plan!  But we were on our way up to Waymeet when the rain and wind grew foul enough for us to seek some sort of shelter, and warmth.  Likely that's what drew them here, the sight of our fire and the promise of easy pickings."

One of the hooded hobbits barked with laughter.  "Not so easy, if that one there's a sample of how you greeted 'em!"  He nodded to the Man on the ground, who was beginning to groan his way toward consciousness.  "And from the look of the other two we caught making tracks across the road, you dealt with them just as handily."

A small frown narrowed Manwë's eyes.  "There was a third, headed in the opposite direction.  Did he escape?"

"Oh, no," the Shirrif assured him.  "We've had people trying to track down these four since they started causing trouble along the roads, back in the spring.  We were hoping to catch all of them at the once, so we had plenty of the local lads, like Ferri and Talb, here, out to help tonight."

"They've been thieving from our farms and harassing our women-folk and youngsters," Ferri, the one who'd laughed, said grimly.

Talb nodded.  "We were right sorry to hear they'd caught innocent folk, instead of Ned and Barlo.  They were coming south on the road, expecting the ruffians to jump 'em, when they spotted the light from your fire an' saw this gang head in, all stealthy-like."

"They heard enough to signal for the rest of us to come," the Shirrif said.  "The Captain, he was right worried that whoever they'd caught might come to harm before we could close in.  They didn't hurt you, did they?"

Olórin shrugged. "No more than a bit of shoving and rough talk."  He offered the Shirrif the knife he'd collected.  "The one who'd had this threatened to use it to skin us."

The hobbit took it with a sour expression.  "I'd be willing to wager he used it more often to pick locks and stab a few people in the back.  They haven't done no killing yet that we know of — not of our own folk, anyways — but they've hurt folks they've robbed, and were getting too bold in their thieving.  It was time to deal with 'em proper, afore winter sets in and there's nothing in the fields and orchards for them to steal.  Nobody wanted 'em to start thinking about robbing a snug little house or hole to winter in."

"Should we truss up this one, Mardo?" Ferri asked, seeing as the Man would likely be more trouble once he'd fully come around.

Mardo, the Shirrif, gave a nod of approval.  "Aye, that'll be safer.  Dando Thatcher's bringing up his wagon to haul 'em down to Whitwell.  Captain made arrangements with the Thain to hold them there 'til it's decided what to do with 'em."

"Is there a usual punishment for their kind of thieving?" Manwë wondered while his brother went to give the others a hand with the soon-to-be captive brigand.  The Elder King knew a great deal about Hobbits and their ways, but if he'd known this, it was locked in a part of his mind he couldn't quite access at the moment.  But that, he knew, was a lesson about how the Mortals lived, for few of them had the powers of recall that even the Eldar enjoyed, much less the Ainur.

Mardo made a vague gesture while Olórin went to assist the others.  "Afore the Troubles, we didn't much need 'em; usually the Thain or the Master or the Mayor decided what was to be done, if the need arose.  Most times, they were made to work off what debt was owed to those they'd robbed.  After the right mess Sharkey's Big Men made of the Shire, though, the Thain'd like nothing more'n to take this lot and bury 'em in the deepest hole ever dug.  But the Captain, he wants the new King to deal with 'em and all their like.  Not a bad idea, mind you, since the Big Folk are better fixed'n we are for dealing with their own kind, but...."  

He shrugged again, considering the matter too weighty for him, a simple Shirrif, to judge.  "Well, that's for the Thain to decide.  Our job is to round 'em up and get 'em down to Whitwell.  A pleasanter job in better weather, but not tonight!"

While Mardo explained the situation to Manwë, the others made their way over rubble at the far side of the "shelter" where the downed Man was stirring, the two hobbits to the left and Olórin to the right.  "Take care," the Maia warned as he spared a moment to glance at the dripping beams and thatch where the Men had pushed in — and out again.  "Between our scuffle and their forced entrance, things may not be as stable as they once were."

Ferri snorted as he took the rope coil from his shoulder.  "My youngsters play here with the Wilkins lads.  Can't say as I've ever thought of this place as 'stable'!"

Talb agreed.  "Can't for the life of me figure why it's still here.  I can see why Cadaroc didn't build here again, but most everything else the ruffians ruined was put to good use fixing things up again."

"There's no good use left in burned wood and fire-cracked brick, left to rot for years," Ferri pointed out.  "Let's start with his feet.  I don't want him trying to kick or run on us afore we've got him bound good an' proper."

"You're not from these parts, are you?" the Shirrif asked Manwë while the others prepared to restrain the ruffian.  "Can't remember seeing either of you hereabouts before."

"My brother and I are from much farther west," the Vala said in perfect honesty.  "We took it into our heads to hike up to Waymeet, but we weren't counting on this weather.  Foolish, I know," he added with an abashed smile.  "It's an unpredictable time of year."  And that could be true even in Aman, unless the Powers deliberately controlled the elements, which they seldom did in these latter days.  Life with no uncertainties became dangerously boring.

Mardo snorted his agreement.  "Neither did we, but this looked to be our best chance to finally catch these louts."  He was about to say more when the clop of pony hoofs and the rattle of wheels on the road interrupted.  "That'd be Dando with the wagon.  I'll go fetch my brothers to give a hand hauling this 'un out."

Manwë watched his go, then turned back to the others.  The two true hobbits had crouched down to start binding the axe-man's ankles.  Ferri, being more stout of build than Talb, found the space too restrictive; when he bent down, his back end pressed hard against the half-fallen beam behind him.  He shifted to make his work easier, and pushed so hard against the obstacle, it shifted position.  

That caused a part of the slanted roof near Olórin to shift even more precariously, showering him with dirt and burnt rubble and rainwater.  He instinctively attempted to hold up the part that was sagging, to make certain that if anything more shifted and fell, it would not fall on them or the two hobbits, who tried to hurry their work, seeing the danger.  The Man was starting shift about as he struggled back to consciousness, and the movement of his legs made their work more difficult.

Manwë saw the added danger of the fire, which could cause even greater problems if it spread, especially with their mostly-dry cloaks hanging so near it.  He had collected them from where Olórin had put them to dry and was about to poke the fire into a smaller, neater shape when a motion caught from the corner of his eye drew his attention back to the others.  He gasped, and cried out almost as swiftly as he tried unsuccessfully to reach for his powers.  

"LOOK OUT!!!"

On the heels of his shout, several things happened in far too quick succession.  The ruffian — who had been more awake and aware than he'd let on — kicked out with one leg, pushing back the two hobbits who'd been trying to bind him.  At the same time, the hand that had been lying lax upon the haft of his axe grasped it and swung the blade toward Olórin.  

Fortunately, he hadn't the time to shift the weapon in his grip, to aim the sharp edge at the not-hobbit, but he struck him with the flat of the heavy blade with enough force to cause the Maia's knees to buckle and his footing to slip on the damp pavers and loose rubble.  While Olórin fought to recover his balance, Ferri attempted to spring onto the brigand, without success.  The Man kicked him, hard, knocking him back into Talb.  Both hobbits slammed into and through the wall of decaying thatch, pulling the already unstable beam even farther out of place.  

While that was happening behind him, the Man pushed himself onto one elbow to take a second and more effective swing with his axe.  Olórin just barely managed to turn himself in time to avoid the wicked edge, which whistled past his midsection with less than an inch to spare.  

Unfortunately, the twisting move caused him to lose his balance, and let the blade of the axe swing with full force into one of the more rotted timbers of the fallen roof.  It broke, and a large piece of more solid wood fell, now free from whatever had been holding it up.  Even as he lost his footing, it slammed into the back of Olórin's unprotected head a moment before what was left of the beams and thatch and a part of the scorched brick wall came crashing down, burying the suddenly senseless Maia along with the hapless ruffian.

Next:

Complications

Chapter XX

Complications

For the first time in his unimaginably long existence, Manwë truly grasped the Mortal perception of Time.  He understood what it meant for time to fly so quickly that dire events could happen before his eyes and be unable to do anything to prevent them, for the lack of time.  And he understood how it felt when seconds dragged on as long as centuries while he stood numb with shock, fearing for the safety of one he loved.  He was scarcely aware that he'd shouted, "Olórin!" when he saw their meager shelter collapse.  The cloud of dust that blinded him lasted only as long as it took for the rain to beat it down again, but it also damped the fire, and with it their only light.

The Vala's first impulse, to sweep away the debris with an errant wave of his power, struck a wall of frustration when he still could not do so while in this temporary but more restrictive hroä.   He was just about to throw aside all caution and revert to his natural form — a terrible danger for the truly incarnate hobbits — when Mardo and his brothers came running up.  The Shirrif had heard Manwë's cry and saw him about to plunge into the chaos, bent on freeing his brother.  He grabbed the "elderly hobbit" by one arm, holding him back.

"Have a care!" Mardo warned his three brothers, who were now scrambling to help those who  had been caught under the wreckage.  "We won't help anyone if we bring down even more rubble and bury ourselves, too!"

Manwë glared at him, a look that went unnoticed in the failing firelight.  "Olórin — my brother — is under there!  I have to help him!"

"We will, friend, we will," Mardo assured him in his best soothing tones.  "But we need to do this proper, or he may end up worse off 'n he is now."  He looked back toward the road and loosed a piercing whistle.  "Hi, lads!  Bring some lanterns over so's we can see what we're doing!"

It was a perfectly sensible plan, though in his presently diminished state, it took Manwë more than a moment to recognize it.  What he realized sooner was that Mardo, seeing him as an elderly hobbit who might easily be prompted to hasty action beyond his aging abilities, still had a firm grip on his arm.  Unconsciously, he had been resisting it, which made the Shirrif hold on all the more tightly.  Briefly befuddled, the Vala stopped his resistance, and instead reached out to Olórin in the only way left to him, through their thoughts.

He was reassured when he felt his brother's presence, as strong and bright as ever.  Yet when he called to the Maia in osánwë, he was strangely unresponsive.  He remembered that Olórin had said they could be overwhelmed by pain and injury in these forms, which reminded him how many of their people had taken permanent damage to their feär via dreadful injuries done to their temporary hroär, during the wars against Melkor.   Manwë had seen how hard the falling beam had hit the back of Olórin's head, how it had struck with an audible crack that could easily have broken the neck of a true incarnate....

Dear Eru, his thoughts whispered as his eyes closed in sudden anguish.  Had this unforeseen accident hurt his brother so seriously that he might never fully recover his natural strength?  These bodies they wore weren't as fully and truly incarnate as the one Olórin had been required to live within during the past age, but they were also much more vulnerable to actual damage carrying serious consequences than a simple, illusory fana.  It had taken the hand of the One Himself to give back a fully healed life to Olórin after his battle with a balrog.  Manwë had not that power, nor did he think their Father would do so again.  He prayed that he was wrong, that whatever harm Olórin had taken was not so severe, but unless he shed his current form and revealed himself before these Children, he had no way of knowing for certain.

"Don't you worry, now," Mardo said, his tone so compassionate, the Vala opened his eyes and saw the hobbit's expression of concern, and determination.  "We'll get your brother out and taken care of.  It's only proper, after the two of you got caught up in our plans — and we Hobbits look after our own."

Manwë was about to point out that they'd only just met, that they were strangers, when he thought better of it.  This loyalty was part of what Olórin had often said he admired in the Little Folk, as well as their generosity in a crisis.  Instead, he gave the Shirrif a shaky smile.  "Thank you," he said softly.  Mardo returned the smile, then set about directing his brothers and those who had arrived with lanterns and other implements to help free the trapped.

The sensations of nervous uncertainty that roiled the Vala's gut brought with them a sudden realization as he watched the others set to work.  This was a large part of what it meant to be a true Incarnate, and to be Mortal: not knowing what would come from one moment to the next, never certain of anything, yet carrying on in spite of it, relying on hope alone to provide the faith that things could be better, farther on.  As an Ainu, he knew that much of his faith about the future was grounded in a solid knowledge that Eru Ilúvatar existed and had a plan for the fate of all He had created, even though Manwë himself did not know what the ultimate plan might be. 

Even in his worst crises of faith, he had that certainty to anchor him and give him comfort.  The Children, especially the Mortals, had no such absolute knowledge, only the words they had been taught by those who had come before them.  They had never looked directly upon the face of the One, had never knowingly been held within His embrace nor been so directly aware that He, the Orchestrator of Creation, was the origin and eternal fount of Love, and Life.  They had doubts and uncertainties that sprang from their existence in flesh, within Arda Marred, and now, caught for the first time in a hroä that, though yet under his full command, was more firmly bound to the substances of Eä, Manwë understood. He understood, in all the myriad implications that understanding brought with it, and the weight of it made his body tremble, and his legs unwilling to support him.

Without conscious thought, the not-hobbit sank down onto a large stone, out of the way of those working.  Shock, something within him whispered.  This was what the Eruhíni meant when they used that word to describe another's condition in the aftermath of a traumatic experience.  Emotionally and intellectually, it was familiar to Manwë, but physically....  Oh, no, this was something very new and strange to him, the way the breath grew quicker yet more shallow, the heart racing and yet seeming not to provide enough to sustain the flesh, the body flush with the heat of anxiety while his limbs grew heavy and chill....

One of the lantern-carriers stopped beside him as he stepped into the now more ruined ruins.  "Cob," he called to one of those coming behind him, "you and your brothers hand off your lamps and help free whoever's trapped.   The rest of you, make sure they have good light — we don't want anyone hurt because they can't see what they're doing!"

Cob and several other sturdy hobbits willingly did as instructed.  "Don't you worry none, Captain, we'll get everyone out safe and sound.  We weren't named Burrows for naught!" 

Some of the others chortled at the familiar joke — which was true in its own way, as the Burrows brothers were known throughout the four farthings as the most skilled of hole-excavators and builders — then all settled down to work as quickly as possible. Manwë felt peculiarly detached from it all, until he felt someone settle a warm cloak around him.  

He looked up into the face of the one who had stopped beside him.  The hobbit Cob had called Captain had set down his lantern to doff his own cloak and wrap it about the "elderly halfling," to protect him from the chill wind and rain.  "There now!" he said with a cheerful smile as he pulled the hood up over the silver-white curls.  "It's not a fit night for friend or foe to be out, and Mardo told me you and your brother are very much our friends.  Stay here and stay warm, while we see to him and the others.  I'm sure he's fine — or will be, once we get that rotting straw and splintered wood off him!"

"Don't worry about us," Ferri called from outside the worst of the wreckage.  "We'll have some lovely bruises, but that bloody fool of a ruffian did us a favor, kicking us away afore he brought down what's left of the house.  We can get ourselves out."

"Aye," Talb agreed as he threw off the bits and pieces of smaller debris that had fallen on him.  He shook his dust-covered head, now getting wet with rain.  "See to the old one's brother first, he took a bad knock to the head, he did."

One of Mardo's brothers, who'd been working on removing the wreckage burying the brigand, snorted.  "Not as bad as this 'un did, I'll warrant."  He crouched for a closer look at what had been revealed when he and one of the others had lifted away the broken timber that had struck Olórin before it completed its crash.   He shook his head, grimly.  "We needn't worry 'bout digging him out first so's we can make sure he won't cause more trouble.  Bloody fool is right, swingin' that axe so hard, he came 'round and got himself with it."

"Then leave him," the Captain said crisply, though he shuddered at the description of the hapless Man.  "Robin and the others can see to getting the body out to the wagon after we've finished here.  Cob, you and Beldy get under that end of the beam and lift.  Carefully, now!  I can see a hobbit foot poking out from the thatch under the beam."  

While Cob and Beldy moved as directed, Mardo and another strong hobbit took hold of the opposite end of the fallen timber.  "He's luckier'n that ruffian, then," Beldy observed.  "Thatch this thick would've cushioned him from the worst of it."

Cob chuckled.  "Aye, and he's lucky he's just under all this and not pinned under a dead troll, eh, Captain?"

Some of the others laughed; the Captain sniffed.  "At the very least, this smells better!  When I give the word, you four lift.  Hal, Rollo, stand ready to help me get him free, quick.  With luck, we won't make things worse, but we need to move him to safety as fast as we can.  Ready, now?"

There was some changing of position and adjustment of lantern light before the workers signaled their readiness.  As he watched, Manwë felt some of his peculiar numbness melt away.     He knew Olórin was alive, no matter what the state of his current form.  And yet here he sat, paralyzed by shock — a kind that was quite alien to him, granted — while these true incarnates, who had no such reassurance, labored to free a trapped and injured stranger.  Shamed by his inaction, as forgivable as it might be, Manwë shook off his torpor, stood up, and went to do what he could.

As the hobbits clearly considered him to be at least somewhat impaired by age and the shock of seeing his brother hurt and buried under rubble, he made no attempt to assist in the physical labor.  Instead, he saw that the one the others called Captain had set down his lantern, in a place that while safe did not make the best use of its light.  He picked it up, and, carefully keeping out of the way of those doing the more important work, he held it up, above shoulder height, and at an angle that shed much better illumination on the area where Olórin was trapped.

"That's the ticket," one of those preparing to assist the Captain approved.  "Makes it easier to see what needs doing.  Looks like we'll just need to pull him free of the thatch, once that beam's away."

The Captain also gave Manwë an approving nod.  "Just be prepared to jump clear, if needs be," he warned the disguised Vala.  "No telling what else might fall, when something's shifted."

Manwë made no argument against such prudence.  As detached as he had felt but a minute ago, he was now fascinated by this new perspective of Mortals, especially these smallest of Ilúvatar's Children, with whom he had not labored, as he had with the Eldar and Edain of the First Age.  The staunch determination he had seen in Frodo and Bilbo was echoed here, perhaps not as strongly in all present, but the sense of community among them was clear, and touching.  The Vala did not delude himself into thinking that they would have all been quite so willing to assist strangers who were of other kindreds, but in some he saw a deep kindness of spirit that needed no great powers to be perceived.  The kindness in his own spirit responded to it, and was grateful.

The four who were to lift the fallen timber signaled that they were ready; Hal and Rollo nodded their readiness to the Captain.  "On three, then," their leader said.  "One...two...three!"

Amid loud grunts of effort, the four hobbits standing on either end of the downed beam got under it and lifted.  It had been a large timber of heavy oak, and though broken and partly burnt away by the fire that had ruined the inn, it still took hard work to raise it high enough for the others to free Olórin.  Smaller bits of debris shifted and fell as the beam was moved, forcing several of those holding lanterns to move back a bit, but Beldy had been right: the half-rotted thatch had given the disguised Maia some protection.  Unfortunately, it also made getting him out more difficult, as his left arm and leg were tangled with old straw and the rotting cords that had once been used to make the bundled yelms.

Two of those with lanterns set them down and went to help free the fallen not-hobbit.  After a few tense moments, they were finally able to pull him out.  They quickly moved him onto a cloak someone had offered, to use as a makeshift litter so that they could easily carry him away from further danger.  Manwë followed, bringing the lantern so they could better see Olórin's condition.

He was still limp and unconscious and covered with dirt and rubble, his exposed skin bleeding in places where he'd been scratched by broken thatch spars poking through the straw.  Why he remained unresponsive was a mystery to Manwë, who had expected that Olórin's ability to use his native powers while in this hroä would have let him avoid any real harm.  But Olórin was not feigning his condition, and his own inability to communicate with the Maia through mind-speech had Manwë greatly worried.  What was wrong?

Reacting instinctively, as any of the Children with injured kin might have done, the Vala followed those carrying the Istar to safety; he knelt beside him while one of the older hobbits did a quick but competent examination.  "Heart's beating strong, breathing's fine, and nothing seems to be broken, thank goodness," he reported.  "He's got a big lump on the back of his head — no surprise, that, from what Talb said — and his right shoulder might've popped the joint.  No bleeding or wounds, aside from those scratches.  He'll probably have a nasty headache when he wakes up, and I think a healer should have a look at his shoulder.  Might need to be bound or put in a sling for a while, but he should be fine before long."

The Captain, who'd been one of those who'd carried Olórin from the wreckage, nodded.  "That's reassuring, Dewi.  We should get him into a proper bed under a decent roof, then."  He touched Manwë's shoulder to get his attention.  "Were you expected by anyone tonight?"

The question caught the not-hobbit by surprise.  He blinked for a moment, then shook his head.  "No, we've been on a walking holiday, and we're far from home.  Olórin suggested going to an inn he knows in Waymeet tonight, but we'd made no prior arrangements for lodging, nor had we counted on this weather arriving before we reached town.  He remembered this place--"  He indicated the abandoned shell of a building around them.  ”--from the last time he came this way, so we took shelter here to wait until the rain passed."

The leader of the hobbits gave him an odd look when he mentioned his brother's name — obviously an outlandish one, by local standards.  Manwë winced, realizing that he should've considered other names for them to use when he'd decided on this course.  But then, he hadn't anticipated their current situation, nor his own peculiar disorientation, if such it could be called.

But then the Captain smiled crookedly.  "Then he hasn't been this way in almost a year, since the owner of this inn opened his new one just last Yule, and not half a mile farther north, around the next bend on this same road."  He cocked his head for a moment or two, his expression thoughtful.  "I think we should take your brother there; it's the closest proper shelter, and Master Caradoc's wife Tansy is a very skilled healer.  She wouldn't turn away anyone who's hurt, even were the inn full and she had to give up her own bed to help them. And they'll be pleased to give aid to the brothers who helped catch the louts who've been harassing their customers, and spoiling their business!"

He turned back to where some of the others were working to free the dead ruffian's body.  He called to one of the lantern-holders, who had brought some of the farmers and the Shirrif from the Tookbank area in his pony cart to help with the round-up of the highwaymen.  In short order, he went to fetch it so that they could move Olórin more safely and quickly, while the Captain went to give instructions to those who were loading the three securely restrained brigands into the larger wagon, for transport to Whitwell.

While they were gone, one of the workers brought over the cloaks and hoods Manwë had been collecting just before the collapse.  Dewi, the hobbit who'd examined Olórin, made sure the invalid was snugly wrapped in one of the cloaks, both to keep him warm and to protect his injuries from jostling when they moved him.  Manwë assisted, and when they were done, he touched the Maia's cheek, brushing away the dirt that marred it.  There was a kind of solidity to this flesh that was more than he was used to when they were in ordinary fanar, a warmth that was more real than illusory.  He attempted to whisper to his thoughts while he touched him, but still, Olórin did not respond.

"He's going to be fine, never fear," Dewi told the Vala, kindly, having seen the worry on his face and the affection in his gentle touch.  "Your brother — Olrin, did you say?  He's younger than we are, he's strong — and it's plain that the both of you are fighters.  It's them that give up who don't make it, and if I may be so bold, I don't see him as a quitter."

"No, he's not," Manwë confirmed, his own small smile thanking the hobbit for his compassion.  He didn't bother to correct his mistake about the name, since Dewi apparently considered it acceptable.  "He's been through worse than this—"  He shivered at the memories of his fight with the Balrog and his death that Olórin had shared so vividly at his final Reckoning.  "—but he may not be the best of patients, especially if he wakes with a bad headache!"

The hobbit chuckled.  "Aye, most of my own family's that way.  But Mistress Tansy will make him comfortable, and do all she can for him, and you.  They've suffered so because of these wicked Men, first Sharkey's that drove them out and burnt this place to ruins, and now these thieving brutes, harassing innocent travelers and farm folk.  It'll be their pleasure to give you help and hospitality, seeing as how you helped make sure they won't cause more trouble."

"We hadn't planned it, you know," Manwë said wryly.  "But once they came upon us, there was no question of what we should do.  Even so, it was fortunate that you and your fellows came along when you did."  Although he knew very well that such "fortune" was seldom mere coincidence, which made him wonder if perhaps more than met the eye was being directed by a Greater Power.

"I'd say 'tis the other way 'round," Dewi replied, now smiling broadly.  "Oh, Ned and Barlo are hearty lads, and brave enough in their own way, but the plan was to have 'em look like wealthy travelers coming down the road, posing as the bait to lure the brigands out into the open, where the Shirrifs and the Captain would close in to catch 'em.  You and your brother sent 'em running right into our arms, so to speak, and already half worn down from fighting.  It made our job much easier, with fewer injuries than we'd likely have seen, with our plan."  His grin faded.  "I would've wished for no one to be hurt, mind you.  Not even that lout over yonder."  He nodded his head toward the dead ruffian.

Though his powers were greatly limited at the moment, Manwë clearly sensed the hobbit's sincerity.  Dewi was a simple, gentle soul, who wanted only peace.  "You have a kind and generous heart," he said softly, his smile warm as he touched Dewi's arm in both a gesture of thanks and to give him what blessing he could.

Dewi's cheeks flushed at the words of praise, and a dim sense of the benediction that washed over him.  "And a soft head, according to my wife and children, though they mean no harm by it.  Some folk need to be more forgiving and giving, or we'd all live in a world worse'n things were during the Troubles."  

He cleared his throat as a small pony-drawn cart came clattering up the road, to stop as near to them as was practical.  "Ah, here's Aric, now," he said heartily, glad for the diversion to hide his embarrassment.  "Come along, lads, let's get Olrin safely in the cart."  Several of the hobbits immediately bustled about to do just that, with the diligent care that showed they had prior experience in helping to transport the injured.

Again, thinking that Manwë was as elderly as he appeared to be, the younger halflings insisted that they would do the lifting and carrying and settling, so he stood by watching when the Captain returned, leading a pony of his own.  

He stopped beside Manwë.  "Robin and the other Shirrifs will take the wagon to Whitwell, as soon as they have that one loaded on."  He motioned to where others were finally preparing to take the body of the luckless Axeman to join his cohorts.  "I have a feeling that riding with him for a few miles will keep the other ruffians from thinking of trying anything, even if they could. They've been trussed up more tightly than an over-stuffed holiday goose!"

"It was an accident," the not-hobbit pointed out.  Until now — what with so much of the work they'd done having been in crouched positions or while highly distracted — Manwë hadn't noticed that the Captain was markedly taller than the other hobbits.  He had a cheerful face, a luxurious head of dark brown curls with golden-red highlights, and bright, clear eyes of a woodsy hazel-brown.  

And his answering smile was charmingly impish.  "Indeed it was, but they don't know it, and I see no reason to tell them otherwise, if it'll encourage them to behave.  I'll be coming with you to the inn," he added, more seriously.  "Dealing with the brigands is rightly the job of the Shirrifs, so I'm not really needed, now that things are in hand.  But I do want to be sure you and your brother are well taken care of, since you did all of us a great service, even if it wasn't planned."

A cold gust of wind and rain blew back Manwë's hood, reminding him that the cloak he was wearing was not his own.  "You'll be wanting this back, I'm sure," he said as he reached for the clasp.  

But the Captain stayed his hand, and instead took the cloak that had been returned to the Vala.  "This will do quite well for now," he said as he put it on, smiling as he pulled up the hood, then did the same for Manwë.

Dewi and his helpers finished settling Olórin; as the younger workers climbed out, the elder hobbit gestured for Manwë to join him.  "You'll be coming along, too, Dewi?" the Captain asked as he helped Manwë up into the cart, taking care so as not to jostle the still unconscious Maia.

"Aye," came the ready reply.  "I want to be sure Olrin has no problems on the way, and my place is just a bit farther up the road.  Aric said it'd be no bother to take me on home after we've stopped at the inn."

The Captain considered it a sound plan.  Once Manwë was aboard, settled to one side of his injured brother with Dewi on the other, the tall hobbit closed the gate and signaled for Aric to start off.  He watched them get underway, moving out onto the wet road at a slow but steady pace.  When he was sure they'd have no trouble moving over muddy wheel-ruts with a heavier load, he mounted his pony.  He was about to follow when he heard someone call to him.  

"Master Pippin!  I mean, Captain Peregrin!"  One of the younger hobbits, a farmer lad from Tookbank in his tweens, waved for him to wait.  He came rushing up to the pony, a bit breathless.  "I think they left these behind," he explained, holding up two walking sticks.  "They're too small to have belonged to any Big Folk, and I heard the old one say that they'd been on a walking holiday."

Pippin thanked the lad as he took them.  "Did they forget anything else?  Packs or satchels?"  There hadn't been any taken onto the cart.

The youth shook his head.  "I haven't seen any, but they might've been buried when the last of the roof fell."

That was entirely possible.  "Have everyone keep an eye out for them.  They must've had some supplies with them, if they're on holiday.  I'm sure they'll appreciate having them back, if they weren't ruined by the collapse.  If you find anything, send it to the inn with one of the Burrows brothers.  They'll pass by it on their way home."

The lad acknowledged the instructions and went back to work.  As he settled the staves across his saddle bow, Pippin smiled to himself.  They were certainly of hobbit-make and size; one, in fact, looked very much like Bilbo's favorite walking stick.  It couldn't have been, of course, since he'd seen the old fellow use it and take it with him as he'd boarded the white ship at the Havens, over five years ago.  

Nonetheless, without thinking, he turned the wooden shaft in the flickering lantern light — and was surprised to see several marks on it.   When he'd been a boy, Bilbo had told him and some other wide-eyed youngsters that the marks had been made when he'd single-handedly driven off a wicked goblin that had tried to rob him during one of his many long tramps around the Shire.  Pippin had completely believed it at the time, and he'd still thought fondly of the story after Frodo, Merry, and even Gandalf had confirmed that the worst of the marks had come from beating on "goblin" that had actually been a pesky, unmovable rock in a poorly-chosen campsite that had had the sad fortune of coming into conflict with Bilbo's toes more times than he'd cared to count.

My, but he hadn't thought of that story in years!  That hadn't been young Pippin's first encounter with Bilbo's favorite walking stick, either.  Several days before he'd been told the tale, Pippin had found a little knife near the woodpile outside his home, and as no one had seemed to miss it, he'd kept it.  He had tried his hand at carving patterns and shapes into bits of wood, as he'd seen some of his elders do.  The knife had been small enough for him to keep hidden in a pocket, so he'd carried it around with him and practiced his new "hobby" whenever he found a likely looking (if often inappropriate) piece of wood.  

The morning after Bilbo had arrived for his visit, his sister Pearl had been exceptionally bossy, telling Pippin to do this and do that until he'd had quite enough and had decided to hide from her in the little cloak room off the front entrance hall.  It had been a safe enough hiding place, but also boring, so after a bit, Pippin had taken it into his head to try carving his name onto one of the wooden sticks propped in a corner near his chosen spot on the floor.  It hadn't been very well done, since the light was poor and he'd only started learning to write his letters a few months before, but he'd been very proud of the results.  

Oddly enough, Bilbo had never scolded him for it — although in hindsight, Pippin suspected that the story about the goblin — which Bilbo had told the very next evening, after returning from a walk in the Green Hills — had been a not-so-subtle hint that young Peregrin was never to try doing such a thing again.

The memory brought a fond smile to the now-adult Peregrin's face, and a hint of a tear to his  eyes.  His life had been very full since the ship had sailed, but he still missed Bilbo and Frodo, and even Gandalf.  The name by which the old hobbit had called his injured brother had sounded very much like a name the Wizard had once said he'd been called when he lived in the West, but of course that had to be nothing more than an odd coincidence.  After all, half the residents of the Shire had names that sounded much like those of the other half.

He was about to dismiss all these thoughts as nothing more than nostalgia when, just as he began to urge his pony forward to follow the cart, someone holding a lantern shifted it, so that for a moment, the light shone more brightly on the walking stick — and revealed the old, inexpert carving of his name in the well-worn wood.

In that instant, it felt as though time suddenly stood still, and Pippin's heart seemed to stop before abruptly restarting with a tremendous thump!  Bilbo had taken his stick with him; of that, Pippin was absolutely certain.  And yet here it was, in his hands, a piece of gear left behind by two strange, traveling hobbits, of one whom was called....

"Olórin," he said in a bare whisper, his eyes wide, now positive he'd heard the name correctly.  It had been long ago when he'd heard it, all of seven years back, when he and the rest of the Companions had lived in Minas Tirith, following Aragorn's coronation.  That had been an exciting time for him, when Gandalf had freely spoken of so many things, no matter how often he was pestered with questions.  But... was what he was thinking now even possible??? 

Pippin took a deep breath, then another, his heart and his thoughts now racing.  The memory of when he'd first heard that name called to mind all his days in the White City, even the days before the War had ended.  And he remembered that more than once during that time, he'd wondered where Gandalf had come from, how old he actually was — indeed, what he was.  In the years since, feeling keenly his unexpected status as a knight of Gondor and the future Thain of the Shire, he'd read many books:  histories of Middle-earth, of all the kingdoms of Men and Elves and even Dwarves, as well as some of the ancient Elven books of lore that Bilbo had translated.  Here and there, he'd pieced together some fragments of answers to his many, many questions, though nothing definite.

With a sudden rush of insight, he realized that perhaps tonight, Fate had presented him with an incredible opportunity that he might never have again.  Even if it turned out that his suspicions were just wishful thinking, attempting to find out the truth would be well worth the risk.  Heavens knew, he'd embarrassed himself often enough with some of his mistaken notions, just in the three years since he'd come of age, so it would be nothing new to discover that once again, he was wrong.

But this time, he was certain he was right.

He wouldn't find out, though, by sitting on the back of a pony, going nowhere in the rain.  So touching gentle heels to his mount, Pippin set off to follow the cart, toward the waiting inn and, with luck, to answers that might soothe at least a bit of his Tookish curiosity.

Next:  Questions and Answers

Author's Note:  I'm dreadfully sorry for how long it's taking me to continue, but it seems that as I go through the more intensive parts of therapy to work through my CPTSD, I'm also chipping away at the things that are the basis for my creative blocks.  In some ways, I consider this to be a very good thing, since perhaps it will mean I can finally find a way to prevent the inevitable blocks from becoming so permanent in the future.  I thank all of you who are still reading for your patience as well as your forbearance.  Now, on with the story!

XXI

Questions and Answers

The rain did not lighten as the pony cart made its slow way up the muddy road toward the nearby inn, and the wind grew stronger, driving a chill dampness into those in the cart.  "It's going to be a cold winter, I'm afraid," Dewi sighed as he pulled his own cloak more tightly about him.  "There's a smell of it in the wind."

Manwë grimaced at the mention of wind a part of his personal purview.  Though his borrowed cloak kept him quite warm, he was pricked by the oblique reminder of how he still could not use any but the least of his native powers.  It was a strange sensation, one he couldn't say he enjoyed, but he was both humble and wise enough to appreciate whatever he could learn from these experiences.  Even discomfort.  

Fortunately, he was spared the need for what might have felt like an embarrassing response when one of the cart's wheels hit an especially deep rut.  The sudden jolt jostled those in the back of the cart, who instinctively did what they could to make sure the unconscious Olórin suffered no new hurt.  Though it did no real damage, the hard and sudden bump elicited a soft groan from the Maia, who also shifted slightly, as a deep sleeper might in reaction to a brief but distressing dream.

Seeing this, Manwë touched him, brow furrowing as he again tried to assess his brother's condition.  His presence was still strong and steady, and though he did not respond to the windlord's silent query, Manwë felt nothing to indicate that he was in greater distress.  When the cart hit a second but less jarring bump, he mumbled, again as someone whose sleep had been disturbed.  The soft, "M'nwy?" came out breathy and slurred, but was sublime music to the Vala's ears.

"I'm here," he answered promptly, sending his brother what reassurance he could through osánwë, even if it was not perceived.  "We'll take better care of you very soon, I promise."

That seemed to reassure the injured Istar, who settled back again, the faintest of relieved smiles on his dirty face.

"That's a good sign," Dewi said even as some of the worry lines smoothed from Manwë's own face.  When the Vala looked up, his blue eyes full of puzzlement, the hobbit explained.  "Them as who've been very badly hurt from a blow to the head don't ever show signs of waking.  But he woke up enough to know it was you who answered his call — that's your name, I presume, Munwy?"  The vague sound the not-hobbit made was sufficient confirmation for Dewi.   "With luck, Olrin won't come around fully until we're off this rough road and inside where it's dry and warm.  He'd be spared waking to the full aches and pains he'll likely have while he's wet and shivering with cold."  

It was a shrewd observation, and one with which Manwë totally agreed.  He shifted a bit so that he could extend part of his cloak over Olórin, to provide a better shield from the elements.  As the wind was to his own back, it also served to help protect Dewi a bit more, for which the aging hobbit was grateful.

The new inn was indeed not far from the ruins of the old.  Very soon, they came around the bend in the road that had let it hide behind a copse of naked trees and the slope of a hill.  In his current position — crouched in the back of the cart with its slatted sides and the driver perched on the raised seat before him — Manwë couldn't see much of it, but the glow from its low windows was warm and inviting, especially on such a bleak and chilly night.  

What he heard more clearly was the sound of the Captain catching up with them.  The clop of his pony's hoofs was wet and muffled by the mud on the road, but even in the dimness, the beast was able to easily step over things the cart could not avoid.  The Captain had seen the cartwheels hit the deep rut; he slowed his pony long enough to ask if the injured passenger had taken further harm from it.  Assured by Dewi that all was well, he then trotted on to the inn, no doubt to warn the owners of their imminent arrival.  

"He has a good heart, our Captain Peregrin," the aging hobbit told Manwë as the cart plodded on.  "Oh, he was a rascal as a boy and even as a tween, but there was never any meanness in him.  Some say he shouldn't've gone off with his cousins just before the Troubles started here, but if you ask me, he learned a thing or two on his travels that did him good."

"Peregrin?"  The name was familiar to Manwë, even with his memories not as sharp as they would have ordinarily been.  He suddenly realized that he should've recognized the unusually tall young hobbit the others called Captain.  "Peregrin Took?  He's your Captain?"

Dewi nodded, smiling.  "That's what folks hereabouts took to calling him and Meriadoc Brandybuck, after they roused the Shire and led us in dealing with Lotho and Sharkey's Men.  I hope you're not thinking ill of him."  From his expression, he was ready to offer defense.

But the disguised Vala smiled back.  He knew much of Peregrin Took, of course, from his own observations as Eru's regent and the Elder King of all Arda, as well as from fond tales Olórin had told him.  He was surprised that he hadn't recognized Pippin sooner, but between distraction and disorientation, it was understandable. "No, not at all.  I've never met him before tonight, but everything I've heard of him has been good.  He appears to have been a lively and curious lad, and the follies of youth are easily forgiven, especially when one takes the lessons learned from them to heart."  

Dewi sighed for the truth of that, having had his own share of youthful follies.  The clouds chose that moment to let go their burden of heavy rain again, so they hunkered down under the shelter of Manwë's borrowed cloak, to keep themselves and Olórin as dry as they could until they reached the inn.

Happily, it was only a few minutes before they arrived.  The new establishment had the same general layout as the old.  The front half was a long, low building of traditional Hobbit style, with round windows, wide doors, and a well-thatched roof above; the rear half was built into the foot of the hill that rose up behind it.  A wide cobbled path led from the road to a covered breezeway on the south side of the inn, for the convenience of mounted customers or merchants bringing supplies in wagons.  The cart came to a stop in a spot well shielded from both wind and rain, and several people came out to assist.

One, carrying a lantern, was the owner of the inn, Caradoc Underwood, a ruddy-cheeked hobbit of middle years whose normally cheerful face was, for the moment, more sober.  Pippin was with him, as were four tweenaged hobbits who worked at the inn.  Two carried a litter — an unusual thing to have on hand at other Shire inns, but as Mistress Tansy was well known as the best healer between Waymeet and Longbottom, folk who had need of it were often brought to her.  "Come along, now, lads," he called to his helpers.  "Let's get Master Peregrin's friends out of this beastly night.  Is only the one hurt?"  He glanced between Pippin and those in the cart.

"Aye, Caradoc," Dewi replied as Manwë lifted away the cloak that had been giving them some shelter.  "Olrin here's been showing some signs of coming 'round soon, but he'll be wanting Tansy's gentle attention."

"Very gentle, from what the young master told me," Caradoc agreed.  "Careful, now!" he cautioned the lads who were helping Dewi and Manwë lift Olórin from the back of the cart and onto the litter.  "Don't jostle his head, and have a care with his shoulder, or my missus'll have your heads!"

The tweenagers followed his instructions, and in short order, the unconscious Maia had been moved from the cart onto the litter.  "You're both in good hands, now, Munwy," Dewi told the not-hobbit as he helped him out of the cart.  

Pippin's brow furrowed slightly at the sound of the unfamiliar name, but the innkeeper lifted his chin proudly.  "The best hands, Dewi Cotterill!  Easy, now, lads," he told the litter bearers while Dewi wrinkled his nose and laughed.  "Tansy's getting things ready in the largest guest room.  Nibs, run ahead and see if'n she needs something fetched.  And Burl, go to the kitchens and see to it that a proper hot dinner is sent to that parlor.  Andy's already seen to the hearth fires, and Alyssa should be finished with the linens...."

The innkeeper bustled off with his helpers and their burden, giving orders along the way.  Manwë followed, wondering how they'd gotten themselves in this situation, then wondering why Father clearly wanted them in it.  For he had no doubt that such was the case, else Olórin would have answered his touches in osánwë.  He didn't notice that Pippin had stayed back to have a few quick words with those in the cart, but he did notice when the young hobbit fell in step beside him as he followed Caradoc and the others down a long hall that led from the large common room to the guest quarters.

"I hope you don't mind, but I made arrangements for you and your brother to spend the night here, and for as long as you might need," Pippin said quietly.  "You said you hadn't made any arrangements for lodging tonight, and I thought it was the least I could do, after you got caught up in what should've been our trap."

When the others stopped at an open door, someone inside the room gave directions for those with the litter to be careful, maneuvering it through the doorway.  They had no sooner passed the jamb than a spate of new orders were given, in such a crisp, no-nonsense tone of voice that Caradoc signaled for the guests to hold back in the hallway for a moment.  As they waited, Manwë replied.  "It's kind of you to do so, Master Peregrin, though both of us were glad to be of help."

Pippin's smile was characteristically impish.  "Ah, so you know who I am.  Not surprising, I suppose.  Did I hear Dewi call you Munwy?  Not Munwy Broadfoot from Oatbarton, Rollo Broadfoot's grandfather?"  He didn't want to believe it, since if it was confirmed to be so, then his entire string of assumptions concerning at least one of these two strangers would be snipped to bits.  But the age of this fellow looked to be about right, and perhaps Bilbo had left behind his walking stick, after all.

But to his relieved delight, the not-hobbit shook his head.  "No.  Is he a friend of yours?"

Pippin waggled one hand.  "I'm acquainted with Rollo — our fathers have been friends since we were lads, and we've spent more than a few merry evenings visiting inns while they discussed such dull things as crop yields and cattle fodder — but I've never met his grandfather.  It was the name Munwy that struck me.  It's not a common one."

Manwë considered correcting the error in pronunciation, but Caradoc's helpers left the guest room just then.  As they bustled by, off to handle other duties, the innkeeper leaned out and gestured to the waiting pair.  "You can come make yourselves comfortable in the parlor.  Tansy's got your brother settled down now, Mister Munwy, and she's sent one of our lads to fetch some dry clothes for him an' you while she examines his hurts.  Won't do either of you any good to sit about, soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone, but Master Pippin didn't bring no luggage for you, only your walking sticks."

The not-hobbit hadn't known that, and gave Pippin a querulous glance as they followed Caradoc into the guest quarter's parlor.  The room was snug and comfortably furnished, with a good fire already blazing on the hearth.  The door to the connected sleeping room was closed, but no sounds of distress could be heard from the other side.  

Pippin was only too happy to take advantage of the fire's welcome warmth.  He doffed the wet cloak he'd borrowed from Manwë and spread it to dry over a chair near the hearth.  "They were found among the debris just before I left," he explained to the Vala while Caradoc frowned at him for putting the dripping cloth on good upholstery.  "If you had packs with you, they must've been buried when what was left of the roof collapsed.  I told those working there that if they're found, they should be brought here.  But I'm afraid it's more than likely that they won't be salvageable, between the crush of debris and the rain."  He gave the innkeeper a darkly pointed look.

Caradoc's frowned vanished.  "Now, now, Master Peregrin," he blustered as he moved the cloak off the chair and onto more appropriate hooks beside the fireplace.  "Let's not go 'round again about why I didn't rebuild at the old site, or why I didn't have the wreckage hauled away.  Your Da an' I have had butted heads about it, often enough.  Besides, from what you've already told me, it's naught but a total ruin, now, and getting it cleared away can wait until spring."

The younger hobbit relented with an amiable, if crooked, grin.  Caradoc turned to Manwë, gesturing for him to hand over his own borrowed cloak, so it could also be hung to dry.  "If I know my Tansy, it'll be a good half hour or more before she'll be finished checking Olrin.  She's gentle with her nursing, I promise you, but she's thorough.  She won't let you in sooner, unless she needs you or he asks for you.  Burl will be bringing your dinners soon, but if you'd prefer a hot bath beforehand...."

Ordinarily, Manwë would have politely declined both, but in this unusual hroä, the thought of a hot bath after being thoroughly chilled and soaked was appealing.  His new stomach, however, reacted first at the very mention of food, given that it had been denied the snack it had  anticipated with so much relish.  It growled loudly; he winced and blushed in chagrin, quite sure that the noise would be heard all the way back in Valinor.  

"Food first, capital idea!" Pippin approved as he plopped down onto the chair he'd used as a cloak hangar to stretch his cold feet before the fire.  Caradoc gave him a good-natured scowl while Manwë removed his very wet grey cloak.  If he moved slowly with the unfamiliar closure, the innkeeper took it to be hesitance, trying to decide if the needs of his stomach should take precedence over his concern for his brother.

In that moment, however, the Vala at last felt the touch of that brother's thoughts, reaching to him in osánwë.   My lord...?  

Inwardly, Manwë smiled, allowing him that slight lapse into old habits.  I am here, Olórin, he replied, his relief intense.  Are you well?

He could feel the snort that no one could hear.  As well as can be expected.  I felt the roof collapse only at the last second — too late to keep it from knocking me senseless, but soon enough to prevent it from breaking this body's neck.  I feared I hadn't acted soon enough, for it was difficult to collect myself sufficiently to finally respond to you.

Do not blame yourself for that, came the firm reassurance.  I have a very strong feeling that Father has had a hand in this, for His own purposes.  Have you wakened enough to determine how badly you are injured?

There came a ripple of emotion that was the equivalent of a chuckle.  I've wakened enough to startle my healer!  He added no further detail of what had happened as he paused to assess his hroä's condition.  The blow to the head wasn't severe, since I was able to deflect the worst of it.  Were I still a fully incarnate Wizard, I'm sure I would find it more of a problem, but this is merely a nuisance, not incapacitating.  My left shoulder actually took a harder blow, since it was struck after I became unconscious, but nothing is broken.  It was slightly disjointed, but it either slipped back of its own accord or the healer has realigned it.  There will be a considerable amount of bruising and swelling, if I remain in this form.

Manwë could feel the unspoken question, as to whether or not they should shed these bodies as soon as possible.  I think it would be best if we remain as we are for now.  We know from the wars we fought while in hroä that less of our native power is lost if we allow the wounded flesh, temporary though it may be, to begin its healing as it naturally would for one of the Eruhíni.  I can help to quicken the process and ease your discomfort, once I either gain more control of my powers or can shed this form for one less... solid.  But I believe that Father wishes for us to remain here, as we are, for a day or two.

There was no need for Olórin to think upon that.  He well remembered the wars the Ainur had fought against Melkor, and how they had affected those who had been injured while self-incarnate.  He also had felt as if a Power greater than either of them had been subtly at work in all that had occurred since their arrival in the Shire.  I agree, on both accounts.  But will Lady Varda not become concerned if you fail to return at the end of the day?

I have no doubt that she has at the very least watched us to make certain we do as she commanded, was the Vala's droll reply.  If she becomes concerned, she will contact me, or send help.  Laughter brightened his unspoken voice.  If I prove inadequate to help you heal, I'm certain we'll find Estë paying a visit, at Varda's request. 

Disguised as a Hobbit gammer, complete with a basketful of herbs and disgusting tonics, the Maia answered with equal amusement.  

But beneath the good humor, Manwë was able to detect the strain of weariness.  Rest for now, little brother, he recommended, the touch of his thoughts a gentle and compassionate caress.  Let the healer do what she can to make you well, while others see to my needs.  When she deems it proper, I will be with you.

Olórin did not argue.  Manwë felt him slip into genuine sleep rather than injured unconsciousness, and was grateful.  

He was also grateful for the speed with which osánwë occurred, allowing them to converse so swiftly that there was no unusual behavior on his part for the hobbits with him in the parlor to notice.   He gave Caradoc a small smile as he undid the clasp of his borrowed cloak and shrugged out of it.  "I'm sure my brother is in the best of hands.  And while I won't deny that a warm bath would be appreciated, I think it would be best if I first quieted this noisy stomach of mine!"

The innkeeper chuckled as he took the proffered cloak and hung it up to dry.  "Aye, we wouldn't want to risk making your poor brother's head ache even more with that kind of a racket, not when there's an easy solution at hand!  Now, you just make yourself comfortable near the fire, and I'll see what's keeping Burl." 

Just as he was bustling through the door to the hall, the young hobbit who'd been sent to fetch dry clothing returned.  He set one assortment of neatly folded items on a sideboard opposite the hearth, then slipped into the sleeping room to give the remainder to those within.  He was sent out promptly, either to take care of another errand or to return to his normal chores about the inn.  When he was gone and the hall door closed behind him, Pippin turned to Manwë, his air of cockiness gone.

"If you'd rather I didn't loiter about, I'll quite understand, Master Munwy."  The name still felt... wrong, somehow, but for now, he wouldn't question it.  "I have no brothers of my own -- none of blood, at any rate -- but I know how I should feel if one of my sisters or close friends were hurt."

But the disguised Vala shook his head as he settled in one of the comfortable chairs near the hearth.  The warmth of the fire felt uncommonly good, yet another appreciation of an incarnate life that he'd never before felt quite so fully.  "I have no objection to your company, Master Peregrin.  It's good of you to show such compassion toward strangers."

The hobbit somehow managed to hide his amused reaction to that remark.  Of course, he might yet be proven wrong his assumptions, although he highly doubted it.  "Strangers who fell into the trap we'd set for those rogues, and who might've been far more badly injured!  You did handle the situation better than many of our Shirrifs might've, but they at least had actually volunteered for the task.  If there's anything you or your brother want or need, just ask, and I'll see to it that you have it."

His generosity was touching.  "Are you planning to stay here until we leave, then?” he wondered.

Pippin smiled widely.  "If needs be.  I'll stay for tonight, at the very least; I've already made arrangements for my own lodgings."  His expression became abashed.  "To be honest, I wasn't looking forward to riding home after the weather turned so wet and blustery.  I've had quite enough of traveling in all the worst kinds of weather, thank you very much!  I'm glad for the excuse to spend the night here, or longer.  Caradoc keeps a fine house, and an even finer board, and cellar."

Manwë was well acquainted with the reasons behind the young hobbit's feelings.  Both Olórin and Frodo had given him many first-hand accounts of their travels, and even for an adventuresome Took, Pippin had been through more trials and hardships than even the oldest and most experienced of the little folk could claim, save for the other Companions.

The not-hobbit nodded, his smile soft.  "The longer and harder the journey, the more dear become the pleasures we took for granted when we left them behind."

Pippin's expression brightened.  "Yes, just so!  I'd never really been away from home — from the Shire, that is — before I joined my cousin Frodo on his... ah... adventure.  Then coming home to find all the inns closed, food in short supply, and the whole of the Shire in a sad state....  Well, I expect that made me grow up more than anything I'd encountered in all my travels!  Which is another reason why I want to be sure you and your brother are well cared for.  Having one's holiday spoilt by bad weather is a nuisance, but getting waylaid by ruffians who mightn't have been out on the road but for the fact we'd lured them there...!"

"No more than an unexpected twist of fate, as it's called," Manwë assured him, though he was personally quite sure fate had nothing to do with it.  "You and the others have apologized for it quite sufficiently, so perhaps we can put it behind us now and enjoy both the comfort and the company."

To that, Pippin readily and heartily agreed.  He wiggled his toes in the warmth of the fire as his thoughts ranged back over the remarkable events of the evening.  "You said you live far from here," he ventured, not wanting to pry but intensely curious as to the answer.  He didn't expect that his companion would up and say "We're from Valinor," but even the right evasion could be illuminating.

Manwë, however, forestalled any need to evade or lie.  "Yes, it's quite a way to the west and south.  I suppose we could've picked a more pleasant time of year to go tramping about, but my wife wanted us out of the house for a while.  When she's in that sort of mood, it doesn't do to argue with her."

The hobbit was taken aback by that unexpected response.  "Your wife threw you out of the house?"  He wasn't sure which surprised him more: the fact that this probably-not-a-hobbit had a wife, or that she would've behaved so very... normally.

The Vala laughed.  "It's not the first time, though she's usually not quite so insistent.  It's the time of year, I suppose."

Suddenly, Pippin felt he understood completely.  "With Yule coming?  Oh, yes indeed.  My own mother is always at her worst in the late fall, wanting to have every last inch of the Smials scrubbed and polished before Yuletide.  If a fellow doesn't want to be put to work, sweeping and mopping and hauling tubs of water in and out, he'd best stay out from underfoot!  But—”

He'd wanted to ask if they celebrated Yule in the West, figuring that he'd at least get some sort of answer that might provide him with evidence concerning the true identities of these two "strangers," when the door to the hallway opened again, this time letting in Caradoc and several of his young helpers.  The lads bore trays laden with dishes full of food, plates, cups, eating utensils, and napkins, while the innkeeper carried a pitcher of ale and a bottle of wine.

"I should've asked your preferences, Master Munwy," Caradoc said while younger hobbits set their burdens on the sideboard before drawing a table nearer to the hearth, so that the guests could eat where they were in comfort.  They made quick work of setting out the crockery and cutlery, then brought the bowls and plates and platters of food, all warm and giving off the most delicious scents.  "I know the tastes of our young Took, here, but if there's anything you prefer and we have it in the larder or the cellar, you've only to ask."

Given the time he had spent with both Frodo and Bilbo, enjoying their company while they enjoyed proper Shire meals, Manwë wasn't surprised by the amount and variety of victuals that was now set before him.  What did surprise him was the extremely loud reaction of his stomach, and the way his mouth began to water at all the delectable smells.  He had to swallow several times before he could reply without embarrassing himself further by drooling.  

"It all looks and smells quite delicious, Master Underwood," the incognito windlord assured him.  "Goodness, I haven't seen a table laden with so much bounty for some weeks!"

"Not since your wife started her frenzy of fall cleaning?" Pippin suggested with a grin and a wink.

Caradoc understood and laughed along with them.  "Aye, many's the time I've wished I could go on holiday while Tansy's turned the Rest inside out, wanting to make sure not one speck of dust escapes her!"  He cleared his throat, remembering that she was just on the other side of the bedroom door.  "But she's what makes this the most comfortable place for weary travelers in all the Westfarthing."

"And don't you ever be forgetting it, Cardi Underwood!" a lilting feminine voice agreed as the lady in question chose that moment to emerge from the sleeping chamber.  As she carefully closed the door behind her, Manwë saw that Tansy Underwood was a lovely complement to her husband: plump, bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, with a ready smile and a calm competence in the way she carried herself.  She turned that smile to the one unfamiliar person in the room, guessing correctly that he was her patient's kin.

"You're Olrin's brother?" she asked as she came to stand beside the elderly not-hobbit's chair.  When he nodded, she patted his shoulder in a motherly gesture of comfort.  "Not to worry, then, he's going to be just fine.  The bump on his head will hurt a bit for a day or two, but it's not serious — nothing broken, nor are there any signs that he's taken more serious hurt from having his brains rattled so.  His left shoulder had been put out of joint a bit — just a bit, mind you, and when I slipped it back, he came around.  Nearly kicked me onto my backside before he woke, but he was thinking clear enough to tell me to lay off, poking and prodding at things that already hurt."

She laughed, a kind and merry sound that brought smiles to the others' faces and reassured those who worried that all would soon be well.  "I've gotten much worse from some I've tended, and I was glad to see that he has that sort of fight in him.  It's as good a sign as I could've hoped for to tell me that he's suffered nothing so serious that a bit of care and a few days' rest won't put to rights.  I've put a poultice on his head and shoulder to ease the swelling, and he'll want to keep from using that arm until it's had time to go down.  His right ankle was twisted a mite as well, so it shouldn't be too hard to convince him to stay here and rest for a while."

That Olórin hadn't apparently noticed this third injury startled Manwë, but only for a moment.  Yes, Father wanted them to stay here for a time, of that he was certain.  It was a pity that the means of persuasion came at the poor Maia's expense, but he was the one who had chosen to put himself into the position of danger — a habit, no doubt, acquired during the years when he had done what he could to help and protect the Hobbits, in another guise.

"Not in such a pleasant and comfortable house," he said, giving her a warm smile of appreciation.  "Is he awake now?  I should like to see him for a moment, to let him know I'm all right." He knew the answer, but he knew he would appear cold if he didn't ask.

Tansy chuckled.  "After he apologized for kicking me, he drifted off again — no doubt to avoid the embarrassment of having me and my girls wash away the dirt from the roof fall, then change him out of those wet things and into a clean and dry nightshirt.  He may sleep until morning, now, but when you've finished seeing to your own comfort and your supper, you may go sit with him.  If he wakes and is hungry, send to the kitchen for some hot broth and bread.  Best to go gently with food at first, just in case he took more hurt than it seems.  But he'll need proper nourishment to heal."

After more effusive thanks and assurances had been exchanged, Tansy took a final look at her patient, then gathered her things and her daughters.  Caradoc had already sent his own helpers back to their usual tasks, and remained only long enough to help carry out a heavy basin of water that had been used by those doing the nursing.  With a promise to check back and send in a hot bath if it was wanted, the innkeeper and his family bid them a good evening.

Pippin watched and listened all through the exchange, keen for any clues as to the origins of these visitors, or proof of their identities.  Frankly, he had no idea who Munwy might be, though since the mention of his wife, he had begun to think that perhaps he wasn't from the West at all.  Rather, he might have been someone from a distant part of the Shire who had been a friend of Gandalf's and might be willing to play the role of his brother so that the Wizard might more easily travel in Middle-earth, now that Gandalf was supposed to have departed forever.  As no family name had yet been mentioned, he'd begun to entertain fancies that perhaps Munwy was a descendant of one of his Took ancestors who'd gone off adventuring, many years ago.  What business Gandalf might have in the Shire now, in the guise of a Hobbit, he couldn't begin to guess, but Pippin was sure it had nothing to do with getting kicked out of the house for pre-Yule cleaning.

For his part, Manwë was marveling at the difference between eating when in an ordinary fana and doing so in this unique kind of hroä.  The savory stew, warm breads, mushroom soup, and other hearty fare had a depth of taste and scent that he was certain was unique to the true Incarnates.  The Ainur appreciated these things when they partook of them, but in ways that were unique to their own perceptions as primarily spiritual beings.   The next time he shared a meal with his Hobbit cousins in the West, he would be able to speak with more authority about the quality of the fare.

"You were quite right about the excellence of Master Underwood's board," he told Pippin after he'd finally managed to take the edge off his persistently gnawing hunger.  "Have you been here often?"

The young hobbit sighed, a wistful sound.  "Often enough, though not as often as I'd like.  I used to share a house in Crickhollow with my cousin Merry, and once I came of age, my father expected me to start learning the Thain's duties more seriously, so I had plenty of excuses to visit all the inns I liked best that were more or less along the way.  The Rest is the best along this road, and since my father spends as much time in Whitwell as he does in the Great Smials, I've managed to give Cardi — that's what folks in Tookland call Caradoc — plenty of my business.  But Merry's been spending more time away from Crickhollow, courting Estella Bolger, and I do suppose I've been enjoying Diamond's company more often of late, too...."

As hobbits were wont to do when talking of family and friends, Pippin happily regaled his companion with as many amusing tales and bits of gossip as he could think of, to keep a cheerful atmosphere while they finished their meals.  Given how amiably Munwy listened and provided a few brief tales of his own — when he wasn't eating, of course — Pippin grew more confident in his belief that he was a true Hobbit.  "Olrin," however.... He was equally sure that he'd heard Munwy call him Olórin more than once, and that he knew for a fact was no Hobbit name.

Moreover, from all he'd heard, any Hobbit would have been far more seriously hurt by that blow to his head — and then there was the matter of the walking stick.  If he hadn't had a chance to examine it more closely, he could've chalked up the appearance to mere coincidence, but seeing his own name carved into the very spot he'd remembered doing it....  Oh, no, he wasn't wrong about that!  He'd seen Bilbo use it while boarding the ship at the Havens, and only someone who was able to travel from the West could have returned it.  That road had been closed to the Elves since the fall of Numenor, which, by his calculations, left only one person who both knew Bilbo and could have brought it back.

Manwë was content with Pippin's amiable company, as well as his tales.  By the time he was finished with his own meal, he was astonished at both how much he'd eaten, and how many stories the young hobbit had to tell.  Spending time with Frodo and Bilbo had been educational, but he was beginning to think that perhaps it might be even more so if the other Valar took turns experiencing the life of the Little Folk as he was now.  It was a pity that he hadn't thought of it weeks ago, but perhaps there would be time enough for a few of them to do so before Yule.

He was given no opportunity to ponder the matter more deeply.  A familiar brush of thought in his mind told him that Olórin was waking.  Pippin saw his glance toward the bedroom door, and discerned at least a part of his intention.  "You should go and see how he's doing.  I'll have Cardi's lads come and clear away this mess.  If you want, I can have them prepare a bath for you as well."

Again, Manwë was initially inclined to say no, but after considering how much better he felt after a proper meal, he nodded.  "I would appreciate it.  Thank you for your company, Master Peregrin.  Perhaps someday, I'll have a chance to repay your kindness."

Pippin dismissed the need with the wave of one hand. He finished the last of the ale in his mug, then left to do as he had promised.

When he was gone, Manwë entered the sleeping chamber.  It was a cosy but well-appointed room.  A central hearth opposite the door was flanked by round windows; under each was a wash stand, a small dressing table with a chair, and a clothes press.  Perpendicular to the outer wall were two wide beds, each dressed with thick mattresses, full featherbeds, fluffy down pillows, and colorful quilts.  The foot of each bed was nearest to the hearth, so that the sleepers would be sure to have warm feet on cold nights.

Given the wet and chilly weather tonight, the fire was blazing cheerily and the shutters had been closed tightly.  Olórin had been settled in the bed to the right of the door; his damp clothes had been taken by one of Tansy's helpers, to be cleaned and repaired of any damage they had suffered in the accident.  The Maia himself had been well tended, his injuries bound with white linen bandages and a sling.  After he'd been cared for and cleaned, his clothes had been exchanged for a snowy woolen nightshirt, and he'd been tucked under a thick, warm quilt.  As Manwë entered, he looked up sleepily, a faint smile on his somewhat battered face.

"You look better than I'd half-expected you would," the Vala teased gently as he took a seat on one edge of the bed.  "How do you feel?"

Olórin snorted.  "As if a roof collapsed on me.  But to be truthful, I've felt much worse.  Dying, for instance.  Not an experience I could recommend, particularly in the way I did."  He paused to yawn, then winced slightly as the motion was not appreciated by the lump on the back of his head.  "Have I been asleep for long?"

Manwë chuckled.  "Long enough for me to finally get a proper meal to quieten my stomach!  I presume you were able to glean something of what happened and where you are the last time you roused?"

The answering nod was considerably more cautious than the yawn had been.  "Enough to satisfy my immediate curiosity.  It's absurd, that it didn't even occur to me that the Underwoods might've simply relocated the inn after I'd Sailed.  It had been a thriving business, and he had too large a family to support to simply give it up.  I should've checked the area more carefully before I led you off into the ruins."

Manwë dismissed the matter with a casual gesture.  "Then we've both made an error in judgment today, neither of which has resulted in lasting harm."

The Maia sighed.  "No lasting harm, though more than enough temporary discomfort.  A day or two of rest would be welcome, so long as our absence causes no difficulties at home."  He briefly closed his eyes as his expression turned sheepish.  "I neglected to tell Frodo that I was going to Ilmarin, you know."

The windlord patted his brother's uninjured arm where it lay on the coverlet.  "Varda will have let him know not to expect you.  She knows that you went with me, and she considers our little outing to be of immense importance."  His laugh was gentle, but merry.  "So does One other, it seems.  Though I have yet to grasp why Father wishes us to stay as we are, unless it is for my education.  I've found my experiences in this form thus far to be quite illuminating."

Before Olórin could ask for his own enlightenment on this matter, Manwë gave him a warm smile.  "Well, that can be discussed better when you are better.  Mistress Tansy instructed me to ask after your own state of hunger, should you wake before morning.  She insists that proper nourishment is necessary to proper healing, which I imagine is doubly so for the hroä of a Hobbit!"

The erstwhile Wizard chuckled.  "Oh, certainly.  But Tansy Underwood is a good healer, I remember that from my previous visits to the Shire.  Even though she hasn't the word for it, she knows to look for signs of a concussion in a patient with a head injury.  I was able to protect myself from that, thank Eru."  He paused to consult the state of his stomach.  "But I don't think I'm quite up to a typical Hobbit meal."

Manwë's laughter was full and bright.  "Having just partaken of my first such repast with complete and very intimate knowledge of what that means, I understand your hesitance!  But fear not, Mistress Tansy recommended much lighter fare for you."  He stood up, then bent to place a gentle kiss of relief and affection on the bandaged forehead.  "I thank Eru that you took no greater harm, my brother, swiftly though you may heal from it.  As soon as I am able, I will do what I can to help speed your recovery.  Rest now, while I see to having your meal brought."

Olórin offered no protest.  He closed his eyes again and settled more deeply into the comfort of the bed and pillows and soft covers that had been tucked around him.  Now that he was more fully awake, he turned his senses inward, to give his temporary body a more thorough examination.  Tansy and her daughters — whom she was training in herb-lore and healing arts, such as Hobbits knew them — had done their work well, even down to washing him and exchanging his wet and dirty clothing for fresh sleepwear.  He was able to ignore much of the pain from the swelling and bruising on his head and shoulder, and her poultices certainly helped to ease what he could not.

What startled him was the discovery that his right ankle was also bandaged and poulticed.  The throbbing that he could feel beneath the part of the pain he was able to shunt aside indicated that the injury was not severe, but enough to keep him from any desire to leave for at least a few days.  He almost laughed.  Very adroit of You, Father, to make use of my own willingness to help the Children to keep us here.  What is it that You want us to find, or witness...?

He did not receive an answer, and had not expected to, although he did feel as if he was being favored with an amused smile from Someone Who was not there, yet was always there.  He closed the fingers of right hand to rub the crystal ring on its third finger.  The now-familiar sensation of his Creator's Love flowed back to him, and eased the pains of both transient flesh and immortal spirit.  Caught up in that rapture, though he noticed sounds of increased activity in the parlor, he paid them no heed.

After some minutes had passed — little though he was aware of passage of time around him — the door opened; he heard the soft sound of hobbit footfalls and a quiet rattling, as of metal or ceramic against wood.  Manwë had no doubt returned with his food, but Olórin wasn't quite yet ready to open his eyes and end his blissful meditation, even though he knew his stomach was rumbling in reaction to the pleasant aromas.

The quiet laugh that answered the grumble made it clear that it had been embarrassingly audible.  "Ah, good," said a familiar voice near the right side of bed, accompanied by sounds of a heavy tray being set onto the small table. "I'm glad to hear that your appetite, at least, wasn't injured!  Munwy asked me to bring in your food, since Caradoc had his bath ready and he didn't want Cardi to have gone through all that effort, only to have it wasted."

Munwy?  The odd name caught Olórin's attention almost more than the strangely familiar voice.  

Was that an alias the Vala had given the locals?  Curious, he somewhat reluctantly pulled himself from his state of blissful relaxation.

The voice went on before he'd stirred enough to open his eyes.  "Mistress Tansy was concerned about that knock you took to your head, but really, I thought there was little reason to be overly worried.  From what I recall, you have one of the thickest heads in all the world.  It'd take much more than being struck by an old rotten timber to give you more than a lump or two!"

Now the Maia was more than merely curious.  Not only was the voice familiar, both in sound and its insouciant manner, but what it said plainly indicated that the speaker felt he knew the not-hobbit — which should have been impossible, in his current guise.  The need for an answer to this conundrum swiftly became more alluring than any restful meditation; Olórin opened his eyes.

They were welcomed by the sight of a friendly face he had last seen wearing a far less cheerful expression.  The memory of that final farewell on the quay of Mithlond came back to him as vividly as if it had happened only a few moments ago: the yearning for home, for the end to his long burdens, made bittersweet by the parting from dear friends.  "Peregrin Took," he said softly, for he could never have mistaken the beloved and exasperating young hobbit for any other, even though he himself was wearing an unfamiliar face.

Which made it all the more astonishing when Pippin's smile widened, and he said, "Hullo Gandalf — or, rather, Olórin.  This is a pleasant surprise!"

Next:

Family and Friends

XXII

Family and Friends

When Pippin first entered the sleeping chamber and saw Olórin apparently napping, his first impulse was to leave again and tell Munwy that maybe this wasn't the best time for the patient to eat.  His curiosity, however, was always stronger than his sense of propriety, and he used the opportunity to carry the tray with the food to the bedside — and thereby get a closer look at the person he was certain had to be the former Wizard in disguise.  When the not-hobbit didn't stir or even open his eyes as he approached, he saw the excellence of his chance, and took it.

What struck Pippin most strongly when he took his first close look at the person on the bed was how very much he looked like a fairly ordinary hobbit — a Fallohide, he decided, given the fair skin, moderate build, and curly golden hair.  Of course, that shouldn't have surprised him, since in most ways, Gandalf had looked like a fairly ordinary old Man, unless one had a chance to look very closely, to see beyond the disguise.  At first, he didn't see any resemblance whatsoever between this fellow and the Wizard he had known, but there was something elusively familiar about his face....

He was trying to work out the puzzle in his thoughts when he heard Olórin's stomach grumble.   He chuckled as he set down the tray on the small bedside table, chattering as much to determine whether the patient was awake as to provide information.  But when he turned back to the bed and saw Olórin open his eyes, the last of his doubts vanished.  The color was unfamiliar — not the dark gray that he had known of the Wizard, but a vivid, clear, dark blue — and yet the gaze itself was one he knew, as well as any young Mortal could.  His own name, softly spoken in recognition, was added confirmation.  He had heard that voice utter his name so many times in so many varied tones between merriment and anger that even without the gruffness, he could never have mistaken it.

Pippin knew that his greeting was a bit cheeky — in his own mind, at least, since he couldn't recall if he'd ever told Gandalf of his personal reaction to their first reunion amid the wreckage of Isengard — but he couldn't help himself.  And the way those familiarly unfamiliar eyes widened in response made it worth it.  Though for a long moment, no other reaction followed, a moment that dragged on just long enough to again stir the hobbit's doubts.

But then, Olórin laughed, not loudly and with due caution for his injured head.  The merry sound was just as Pippin remembered of Gandalf, especially after the burden of his long tasks had been lifted and he could laugh wholeheartedly, and the smile was definitely the same as had belonged to the Wizard.

"Impertinent Took!" he chided, though his smile was wide and eyes bright with humor.  He'd considered denying his identity for perhaps two heartbeats, but he had never lied to Pippin — had avoided many a direct answer, yes, but had never deliberately misled him — and he had no intention of starting now.  "However did you come to this conclusion — or were you told?" It was entirely possible that Manwë might've done so and had said nothing of it in their earlier mind-speech so as to surprise him.

The confirmation of his suppositions and the light-hearted manner in which it was offered brought a beaming grin of relief to the hobbit's face.  "I wasn't told, not in so many words.  I heard your traveling companion call you Olórin, and I remembered that years back, you'd told us it was your name in the West."

One golden eyebrow arched.  "And from one word alone, you concluded that I'm not what I appear to be?  It didn't even occur to you that it might be a mere coincidence of a similar-sounding name?"  The young Took was bright, but such a leap seemed too extraordinary for belief. 

The color rose in Pippin's cheeks.  "Well... not exactly.  Here, let me help you sit up so you can eat your supper.  Tansy had the broth sent in a mug, since that'll be easier for you to handle with one arm. She figured you wouldn't want to be spoon-fed, and I agreed completely!  The bread is fresh from the oven, and I'm told the butter was churned just this morning...."  He chattered on as he carefully assisted the not-hobbit into a more upright position, fluffing extra pillows and tucking them behind his back to help prop him comfortably.  

He was about to bring the tray and set it on the invalid's lap when Olórin caught his arm with his good hand, staying him.  "You needn't be so nervous, Pippin," he said with gentle reassurance.  "I couldn't be angry with you for guessing who I am, not even if I were of a mind to try!  I am glad to see you again, though I admit, I hadn't planned nor expected it.  So come, bring me that delicious smelling meal Mistress Tansy prepared for me, have a seat, and tell me just how you did manage to realize — and believe — who I am."

The kindness in the disguised Maia's manner touched Pippin, just as it had in those moments in the past, when the Wizard who could be so stern and gruff and impatient with foolishness let show the caring heart that lay beneath the facade.  "It really is you, Gandalf, isn't it?"  He was sure of it, now, but a part of him needed the direct confirmation.

Olórin chuckled and nodded.  "Yes, it really is me, though I think perhaps that name doesn't suit my current appearance, does it?"

The hobbit laughed.  "No, it doesn't, does it?  If I were to call you Gandalf in front of anyone else in the entire Shire, they'd think I was either totally potted, or had gone the way of Mad Baggins!  The others have been calling you Olrin, since that's what Dewi Cotterill thought Munwy had called you, but I heard him say Olórin, plain as plain!  Of course, I'd heard you say it before, years ago, and I don't have a cousin named Olrin, as Dewi has."

Ah, that explained it.  If one name had been misheard and a more familiar one substituted, it was likely that both had been.  "You may call me whatever name you wish — although, if the others here have already come to think of me as Olrin, it might be wise to use that, when they're about."  His expression became thoughtful as he watched Pippin fetch the tray.  "I will admit, I'm surprised that you remembered the name.  I don't believe I mentioned it that often, in your presence."

"You didn't," Pippin admitted while he settled the tray so that Olórin could reach the cup of broth and the cloth-covered plate of warm bread.  There was also a small crock of butter, and another of a soft pale cheese, flavorful but mild.  Before he took a seat on the bedside chair, Pippin also took the liberty of unfolding the provided napkin, then tucking it at the not-hobbit's throat, so that it would catch any drips or crumbs that might fall.  "But I also heard it from Faramir, while we were still in Gondor, and from Frodo, after things were settled here in the Shire, before he sailed. He is all right now, isn't he?  He didn't go West just to... die?"  That was something that had troubled him ever since Frodo had departed, regardless of everything he had read in the books of lore that had been left behind.

Olórin carefully shook his head.  "No, he didn't go West to die," he assured the young hobbit after swallowing a mouthful of the delicious broth.  "I promise you, both he and Bilbo are alive, and much better than they would have been, had they stayed."

Pippin let loose an immense sigh of relief.  "Oh, I am glad to hear that!  I truly wanted to believe that would be the case, but with no word able to come back to Middle-earth, I couldn't help but wonder, at times.  Do they still think of us?  Have they a proper place to live, and do you see them often...?"

The erstwhile Wizard interrupted before the rush of questions could become a torrent.  "Yes, they think of you often, and I see them quite regularly.  I can tell you more — after I've finished eating.  In the meantime," he added, bright blue eyes twinkling merrily, "I'd like to hear more of how you decided I'm not a true hobbit!"

Pippin drew the chair nearer the head of the bed; while he spoke, he made himself useful by carefully cutting the warm bread and spreading it with the butter and soft cheese, to spare his injured friend the awkward and potentially painful effort.  "Well, hearing your name surprised me, especially that name, not Gandalf.  But it was really the walking stick that got me to thinking."

The Maia's brow furrowed with puzzlement as he lowered his cup.  "The walking stick?"

The hobbit nodded.  "One of the lads who was helping clean up over at the old inn found two of them in all the clutter, and he gave them to me to bring back to you and Munwy.  I wouldn't've thought anything of them, if one of them hadn't looked exactly like Bilbo's favorite, the one I saw him using when he boarded the ship at the Havens.  And I could've dismissed even that and all its scars and dents as a coincidence, if I hadn't found the marks I'd made myself, when I tried to carve my name on it, back when I was a small lad learning to write his name."

That revelation brought a moment of stillness, followed by soft laughter.  "Did Bilbo know of that?  He never mentioned it to me, though I heard all about the tales he gave you youngsters to explain the various other marks on the wood!"

Pippin grinned.  "Oh, he knew, and scolded me for it, in his own way.  But I was little and so put upon by my big sisters during that visit, I suppose he didn't have the heart to tell my parents, and risk having them punish me.  I knew the look of that stick almost as well as Bilbo ever did, and I was positive he took it onboard the ship with him.  But when I saw it here, with the marks I'd put on it myself a good thirty years ago, I could only suppose that someone who could return from the West had brought it."

Olórin's eyes danced as he took another sip.  "And so you concluded that only I could've done so?"

"Oh, no," came the assurance with the wave of a butter knife.  "I know that the Elves can't come back anymore, but you and the other Wizards came from the West after that route was closed to the Elves.  You told us that yourself, during our stay in Minas Tirith."  He lowered the knife and set the prepared bread onto the edge of the plate nearest Olórin. 

The Maia gave him a nod of thanks as he set down the cup to sample the bread.  He savored the mix of flavors and textures, and swallowed before speaking.  "I suppose I did.  But I don't recall ever telling you that I was able to change my appearance this drastically.  As I was then, it was quite impossible."

"Really!"  The word was not a question;  its sauciness was softened by an impish smile.  "I know that I can recall at least one occasion on which you seemed to grow as tall as a tree.  And even if the incident in Hollins was just an illusion to scare off the wolves, there were just too many things about you that didn't add up to what you looked to be.  You obviously weren't an Elf or a Dwarf or a Hobbit, but you weren't a Man, either, not really.  I figured that much out by the time you and I arrived in Minas Tirith."

Olórin chewed on another mouthful of bread while he listened.  "Oh, you did, did you?" he asked, affecting an imperious air that hid his amusement.

It did not fool Pippin one tiny bit.  He rolled his eyes in equally feigned exasperation.  "Of course I did!  Men don't live for thousands of years, the only magic any of them have ever been said to work is the bad type that they learned from people like Sauron, and outside of old stories that most hobbits don't even know, they don't come back from the dead!  And let's not forget the fact that it was you who had the third Elven ring — and I have it on very good authority that you used it!  Are you going to deny any of that?"

The not-hobbit maintained his air of aloofness for slightly longer than it took to finish his piece of bread.  Indeed yes, this young Took might have been a scamp and a bit of a fool and sometimes a nuisance — but how could Olórin hold those qualities against him when he himself had been so in his own youth?  Especially now, when he had just shown how bright he could be, and how much he had grown.  His haughty air melted into a chuckle.  "No, I daresay I couldn't, not without resorting to brazen mendacity.  So, were you ever able to put a name to what you do think I am?"

Pippin cleared his throat.  "Ah... well, yes, I was, but I didn't figure it out on my own," he admitted sheepishly.  "After you visited the Shire for the last time before you sailed — on the Midsummer just before, I'm sure you recall — I stayed on at Bag End for a few days after you'd gone off, I think to Rivendell.  What you'd done to make the lights from the bonfires shine like living gems on the grasses and trees all night long started me wondering about you again.  So I asked Frodo if he knew, since he was closer to you than any of the rest of us.  He said if I wanted to know, I should do some studying on my own, and he gave me one of the Elven books that Bilbo had translated."

Olórin nodded while he sipped more of the broth.  "Bilbo did excellent work, especially given the difficulty of the language and the age of the texts.  There were some inaccuracies, but no more than there were in the accounts of the Elves who wrote of events they had not witnessed firsthand.  Did you actually read it?" he asked with a teasing glint in his eyes.

The hobbit whuffed out an expansive sigh.  "Not right away, I'm sorry to say.  The title was so long an Elvish word, I couldn't get past it!  Frodo laughed and said that wasn't the part I should read, but it put me off for a while.  I didn't understand why he couldn't just give me a straight answer, but he didn't, so I took the book but didn't read it until after he'd sailed."

"But you did read it.  Time was, you would've sooner let your sisters talk you into cleaning the Great Smials from stem to stern, all on your own, rather than settle down to any kind of studies."

It was difficult to argue with that truth; instead, Pippin laughed.  "Too true!  And yes, I did read it.  I'd thought that Frodo might've pulled a joke on me at first, because it didn't seem to have anything at all to do with what a Wizard might really be.  It wasn't like the stories we heard in the Hall of Fire in Rivendell, the ones I could understand, at any rate.  It was older than the Elves, about the beginnings of everything.  I wondered if any of it was true."  He hastened to explain, not wanting to give the impression that he didn't believe any of it.  "I mean, I know that some things had to be real.  The first time I ever met Elves, they were singing about Elbereth, and she was in the stories.  I knew about the Valar and Ilúvatar, too, in a general way, but so much of this was unfamiliar, I couldn't tell if I was reading history or just a story based on it."

"As I said, there are some inaccuracies, which began with the Elven bards," the Istar said as he attempted to tear another bit of bread off the small loaf.  "But by and large, the tales are true.  Most of the errors were in certain details that the Elves knew nothing about."

That appeared to please Pippin.  He politely brushed aside Olórin's hand, then took up the bread knife to cut another slice from the loaf.  "I'm glad to hear it.  Because I finally understood why Frodo gave me the book when I read the part that began with, Wisest of the Maiar was Olórin.  After that, I went back and re-read all the parts about the Valar and the Maiar and the making of the world.  And I realized that you had to be the Olórin the book was talking about.  Was I wrong?"

Olórin shook his head.  "No.  I've argued with that particular description, but the Elves who wrote it remained quite firm in the accuracy of their assessment."  He shrugged his good shoulder.  "I have managed to be wiser than some of greater rank and power, so I suppose there is some merit to it, after all."

The hobbit was delighted to have had his conclusions confirmed.  "So you're one of the servants of the Great Powers.  Splendid!  I knew you weren't just a very, very old Man!  I suppose that means Saruman and the other Wizards were, too."  He shuddered expressively.  "That explains why Frodo said he was of a kind we wouldn't have dared raised a hand against when some of us were all for cutting him down after the old villain tried to stab him.  Is Munwy a Maia, too?  I know he's called you his brother, but I was beginning to have a notion that he might be a hobbit you knew from before you sailed, perhaps someone descended from one of my Took ancestors who ran off to adventure...."

Pippin's barrage of chatter along with his irrepressibly cheerful nature brought a wide, fond smile to the disguised Maia's lips.  "Bless me, but I've missed you and your ceaseless curiosity, my dear young Took!  Your notions are quite intriguing, but I'm afraid my companion isn't one of your distant relations, and he is no more a hobbit than I am."

A look of disappointment flickered across Pippin's face while he finished buttering the bread; then he gave another little sigh.  "I suppose that was a bit farfetched," he admitted.  "But I rather liked the idea that someone who called you his brother might be a relative of mine, however remote, which would make you a relation, after a fashion.  Family is family, after all, no matter how slight the connection."

His wistful explanation stirred Olórin's pity, as well as his humor.  He was about to mention how Frodo and Bilbo had already taken him into their family of the heart, and thus had already created that connection to Pippin, when the brush of Manwë's mind against his own interrupted.  

The Vala had finished his ablutions and wanted to know if he should come and send Pippin on his way, lest he start asking questions the incognito Maia could not evade without revealing his true identity.

He already knows, the Istar replied in osánwë.  Realizing that his brother was unaware of this, he swiftly shared with him their conversation, and bid him join them.

A moment later, a gentle rap at the door was followed by its opening.  After another moment or two, Manwë stepped inside, bearing a small tray on which was set three mugs of a steaming drink.  The windlord himself was dressed in borrowed clothing, a soft woolen nightshirt like Olórin's, with a warm house robe of plush dark green over it.  His shining clean skin was still pink from the warmth of the bath, his silvered white curls still faintly damp, but fragrant with the lingering scent of an herbal soap.

"Mistress Tansy sent this," he explained as Pippin hurried to relieve the "elderly hobbit" of his burden.  "If you had no trouble with the meal — which you clearly haven't, and I was sure you wouldn't — she felt it might help all of us relax and sleep better.  Yourself included, Master Peregrin.  I'd told her you were in here, helping my brother."

"Oh, thank you!" the young hobbit said most earnestly as he took the heavy tray over to the bedside table.  "Tansy's secret brew is famous, but she doesn't share the recipe with anyone, and she offers the drink only to family and special guests.  Since I'm not family, I usually only rate when she's in an unusually generous mood."

He chuckled as he set down the tray and took Olórin's now empty broth mug and exchanged it for one of the fragrant drink. "But then, I haven't spent the night here very often, with this inn being so close to Tuckborough and Whitwell.  Not unless I felt the need to escape my sisters!"

"Which happened often enough, as I recall," Olórin remarked drolly.  "While I understand quite well what it's like being the youngest, I have no sisters as such, and yours could be unusually bossy."

"To say the least!" Pippin agreed.  He passed "Munwy" one of the two remaining mugs; he offered him his chair, but the Vala refused with a polite shake of his head.  Pippin glanced between the two of them, looking for telltale signs of their kinship.  The most obvious was their eyes, the same strikingly vibrant yet deep blue, with depths of age and experience that made even Elves like Galadriel seem terribly young.  "So you're really brothers?  The book I read didn't have much to say about you, Olórin.  I know it didn't mention that you had any siblings."

"We only discovered proof of our kinship very recently," Manwë explained, after taking an appreciative sip from his cup.  "Olórin always suspected, but his suspicions weren't confirmed until only a few months ago."

The hobbit whistled softly.  "If I properly understood what I read, that must've been a terribly long time to wait!"

"It was," the windlord acknowledged, smiling warmly at the bedridden Maia.  "But it was well worth the wait."

Pippin considered this as he took a drink from his cup.  He licked his lips as he swallowed.  "So, your name isn't really Munwy, any more than his is Olrin."

Both Ainur shook their heads.  Olórin gave his brother an enquiring look over the rim of his mug, to which Manwë replied with a small nod.  "Peregrin Took," the Maia said formally after lowering his cup.  "Son of Paladin, knight of Gondor, and future Thain of the Shire, allow me to make known to you my lord Manwë Súlimo, the Elder King of Arda, he who stands and speaks for Eru Ilúvatar within Eä, and by the design and will of the One, my elder brother."

 At this revelation — for Manwë was a name he remembered well from the book Frodo had given him, and even from some of the poems Bilbo had written — Pippin's eyes widened.  His swallow was more of a gulp.  "Ah... the Elder King?  As in Bilbo's poem about Eärendil?  He came unto the timeless halls where shining fall the countless years, and endless reigns the Elder King in Ilmarin on Mountain sheer...?  That Elder King?"

Manwë nodded.  With an impish twinkle, he added, "And, by way of Bilbo and Frodo, who have taken me and my Lady Varda into kinship as their cousins, your cousin as well."

Pippin's eyes couldn't grow any wider with astonishment, so his mouth fell open instead.  Only small, inarticulate sounds escaped him as his mind tried to grasp the implications:  that the tenuous connection to the former Wizard for which he'd wistfully wished was not only more than a wish — for Hobbits considered one's chosen kin to be as real and precious as those of blood — but that with it came kinship to the highest king of all, save One.

Given all the extreme surprises he'd encountered in the span of a few short hours, it was no wonder that the young hobbit's mind couldn't quite deal with this last and greatest surprise.  Nor was it any wonder that, with his head spinning so, Pippin's legs decided they couldn't support him an instant longer.  He flopped back into his chair, wobbled in his seat for perhaps two moments, then promptly fell out of it as he fainted.

Next:

A Merry Meeting

*******************************

Story Note:  The mention of Gandalf's presence in the Shire (and Pippin's description of what he did to the fires) can be found in HoME IX: Sauron Defeated.  "At midsummer Gandalf appeared suddenly, and his visit was long remembered for the astonishing things that happened to all the bonfires (which hobbit children light on midsummer's eve).  The whole Shire was lit with lights of many colours until the dawn came, and it seemed that the fire ran wild for him over all the land so that the grass was kindled with glittering jewels, and the trees were hung with red and gold blossom all through the night, and the Shire was full of light and song until the dawn came."  Although Christopher Tolkien dismisses this deleted passage as meaning that Gandalf never returned to the Shire before sailing West, I prefer to think it was left out not because it didn't happen, but to simply shorten what was an otherwise lengthy denouement to the entire story.

Author's Note:  Once again, I must humbly beg the pardon of my reviewers for not responding to their much appreciated comments on the previous chapter.  November has been a very busy and very difficult month for me, and I do thank each and every one of you for both your kindness and your seemingly infinite patience.  This being Thanksgiving Day, I give thanks for all of you, and all who have been reading this story.  I hope all of you have a bountiful, happy, and safe year ahead!

Author's Note:  So sorry that it literally took a year for me to finish this chapter, but it has been an incredibly difficult year.  I thank all who are reading this for their immense patience.  I'm keeping my hopes up that the next chapter won't take quite so long to finish (but I'm not holding my breath.  Severe depression can be SO unpredictable).  Many thanks to all, and I pray your year was much better than mine.

XXIII

A Merry Meeting

"Oh, dear."

"That was unexpected.  Not entirely surprising, given that it's Pippin, but unexpected nonetheless."

The two Ainur gazed on the young hobbit where he had fallen from his chair — yet hadn't quite struck the floor.  Seeing that the direction of Pippin's fall might easily bring his head into a potentially harmful collision with a sharp corner of the heavy wooden storage press, Olórin had instinctively reached out with his power to prevent it. 

Manwë reacted to the same prompting of instinct.  Though he was unable to exert his power as easily, in making the unconscious attempt, he was able to "see" what Olórin had done and just how he had done it from within this more solid form.  Inside him, it was as if a locked door had opened, not fully, but enough to allow him to reach within and touch some of what had been beyond his grasp since he'd assumed this hroä.  With a deep feeling of relief like a sigh to one who'd been holding his breath for too long, he caught both the dropped cup and the hot liquid that spilled from it before it could soak either Pippin or the floor.  With slightly more effort than was normally required, he returned the drink to the cup and set both safely on the table.

He then turned to the unconscious hobbit, whom Olórin had caught and then settled gently on the floor.  "Poor child," the Vala said with a sigh as he crouched beside him.  "If I'd known he'd take it so poorly...!"

Olórin chuckled.  "I doubt he'd say so.  He was particularly excitable as a child.  Sometimes, when he was at his happiest, he would faint out of sheer delight.  When he comes around, I'm certain you won't hear any complaints from him!"

Manwë bowed to his brother's greater wisdom in this matter.  "Still, it doesn't feel quite right to leave him lying on the floor like this."  Without another word, he scooped up the hobbit, lifting him in his arms and standing straight again with little effort.

The injured Maia smiled softly.  "I see you're becoming better acclimated to this hroä," he remarked, since an ordinary hobbit would not have been able to lift Pippin's dead weight so very easily.

"Just now," the Vala admitted as he settled Pippin in the chair at the bedside; he kept one hand on the hobbit's shoulder to make sure he remained in his seat until he awakened.  "I was able to perceive how you prevented him from being injured in his fall.  Had I been able to connect with my powers only a few moments earlier, I could have prevented this... episode entirely.  I saw that he was breathing much too quickly, and I am Lord of the Breath of Arda."

His droll remark made Olórin laugh — not loudly, but the merry sound of it reached through Pippin's swoon and caused him to stir.  "Ohhhhh..." he moaned, an expression of embarrassment, not pain.  "I haven't done that since I was boy...."

"Such a terribly long time ago," the Maia teased, with affection.  "How are you feeling?"

"Foolish," came the bluntly honest answer.

Manwë tightened his fingers where they rested on the young hobbit's shoulder.  "Nonsense," he said, his smile reassuring.  "You have just proven that you are no one's fool, my dear Peregrin."

"Pippin, please," he corrected without hesitation.  "How have I done that?  I just fainted — I did faint, didn't I?  I thought I felt myself falling off the chair...."

The Vala's smile widened.  "You did, but we were able to catch you.  And whether or not you fainted is hardly a measure of foolishness.  From very little evidence, you were able to discern Olórin's identity, and though the revelation of mine came as something of a shock to you, you haven't rejected it, as many would.  With meager proof, you have accepted us, primarily on faith, and that faith is not unfounded.  Indeed, it is well founded, on the basis of the most powerful force in all of Creation: love."

As Manwë spoke, the hobbit's eyes were drawn to his, and as he looked and listened, his entire face filled with wonder.  In those impossibly blue eyes, Pippin could both see and feel all of which the Elder King spoke, and knew it to be true.  When he said the final word, Pippin turned his gaze to Olórin; he saw not only his gentle nod and warm smile, but also the same things reflected in his own deep blue eyes.  He felt his cheeks flush, but he couldn't help but return the smile.

He cleared his throat, abashed.  "Well... yes, I've always liked you, Gandalf.  Even when you were upset or annoyed or angry with me, I knew it was because I'd done something I oughtn't have.  If it'd been my father who'd caught me at it, he wouldn't've just barked like you did.  And after I finished pouting, I always realized that you wouldn't have gotten upset to begin with if you hadn't cared.  Not just for the quest or the safety of the others, but for me."

"And you were correct," Olórin confirmed.  "I cared for all of you — not just the hobbits who were a part of the Company or those who were my friends, but all your people, even those whose greed and pride and foolishness caused far greater harm than ever you could.  I pitied them, and hoped that they would learn the error of their ways, and amend them.  But I never truly had such worries for you, Pippin.  You were young, and I knew that it was a lack of experience combined with the impulsive curiosity of youth that led to your foolish mistakes."  His expression softened into a kindly look Pippin remembered quite well, the gentle understanding that had always followed his personal experiences with the Wizard's wrath.  "How could I not forgive you when I had been forgiven for the very same things when I was young?"

"You were young?"  The words — and their incredulous tone — slipped off Pippin's tongue a fraction of a second before he realized how rude they sounded.  His look of surprise became one of mortification as he clapped a hand over his mouth and furtively glanced from one to the other of the not-hobbits, hoping against hope that they would forgive him.

He was unsure if he felt relieved or concerned by their easy laughter, until Manwë spoke.  "All created beings were once young, Cousin Pippin, even if that was an unimaginably long time ago.  I am the eldest remaining of the Ainur who were brought into being before the Great Music, and I well remember my own youth, and all its follies.  Olórin was the youngest of us during the days before Days, so it was only natural that he had his own share of mistakes and youthful foolishness.  But like you, his heart was steadfast and pure, and in time, he learned wisdom from his missteps."

"Which is what I had hoped you would do," the erstwhile Wizard added.  "Enthusiasm and curiosity are admirable traits, so long as they are tempered by prudence and do not lead one into disastrous pride or greed or malice.  Such has been the downfall of far too many, beginning with Melkor but — alas! — not ending with him."

Pippin nodded even as he accepted his mug of still-warm drink from Manwë, who had fetched it from the table.  His thoughts were too busy with other things to wonder how it had been saved when he'd fainted. Sipping the beverage helped calm him.  "I can see that now.  Some of my relatives worried that I'd be spoiled by the way my Mum fussed over me, being the only boy and the youngest.  It was probably touch and go with that for a long time, I admit.  Too much pampering and privilege....  That's what led Lotho to ruin, I'm sure."  After another sip, he gave the Maia a bashful smile.  "Thank you for caring about me enough to help me avoid that — no matter how much I tried your patience!"

Olórin raised his own cup in an amused salute to both his companions.  "No more than I tried the patience of my own elders, I do dare say."  He glanced at Manwë, one eyebrow lifted as if daring him to refute the truth.

The windlord didn't even try.  "That those who are younger can be a trial to their elders is a given," he said puckishly.  "After all, Melkor all too quickly found me to be a nuisance, and he in turn managed to strain the infinite patience of the One!  But even on those rare occasions when you tested the bounds of my tolerance, I still loved you, Olórin.  Nothing you have ever done could have changed that."

"And I eventually understood that it was the same between you and I, Gandalf," Pippin said with a wistful little smile.  "Oh, I never enjoyed it when you barked at me, but even when I did the most dreadfully foolish and even dangerous things, you never really bit.  Having seen you in battle, I know for certain that you could indeed bite — and very effectively!  But with me...."  

He paused to take another sip of his drink, then let out a sigh.  "You understood something about barking and biting that I wish some of my relatives had known:  that the whole point of it, especially with silly and headstrong youngsters, is correction, not punishment.  And looking into the palantír was its own punishment — nothing you could have said or done could have been worse than that!"

Olórin's answering smile was no less wistful than the hobbit's.  "I would gladly have spared you that ordeal, but you learned from it, far better than Saruman, who should have known better.  But for all your inexperience and impulsiveness, your heart has never been tainted by a desire for power, or destructive envy.  One could not say the same about Saruman, which proves that my faith in the strength of Hobbits was not unfounded.  Sadly," he added with a rueful chuckle, "my faith in the loyalty of certain other Wizards was."

Pippin made a sound of easy dismissal before Manwë could react.  "Hardly your fault!  Even before I read Frodo's book, I knew that you and the other Wizards had all been sent here for the same purpose; you told us that yourself.  It was a good purpose, but it wasn't one you were allowed to force on any of us, no matter how foolish or wicked we might be.  Please correct me if I'm wrong, but I think that applied to your fellow Wizards, too.  You couldn't make Saruman do anything he didn't want to do, and if the old villain managed to trick you — and everyone else, it seems — into trusting him when he was no longer trustworthy, it only proves that he'd truly gone bad while you hadn't."

The hand that held Olórin's cup halted before he could bring it to his lips.  His eyes lifted instead to regard the halfling with a look of not unwelcome surprise.  Manwë laughed, the sound full and merry.  "Thank you, Cousin, for stating the truth of the matter so boldly!  You have more than amply demonstrated the wisdom you've acquired with the passing years, since you see quite clearly in a matter which Olórin himself sometimes sees with less perfect sight."

The Maia in question sighed softly as he lowered his cup while Pippin regarded the windlord with wide eyes.  "I have always known that Curumo's downfall was of his own making, not mine," the Istar rebutted.  "Is it wrong for me to wish that I might have seen through his deceptions in time to prevent it?"

Pippin quickly recovered from his astonishment at Manwë's remarks and let out a tutting sound that came just shy of rudeness.  "No more wrong than it was for Frodo to wish he hadn't sold Bag End to Lobelia, and put her odious son in a position to bring ruin to the Shire.  The heart that can carry out the kinds of evil those two wrought was rotten long before anything you or Frodo did or didn't do that they merely turned to their advantage.  And don't you dare say otherwise!" the hobbit added, waggling one finger at the former Wizard.  "I saw how you treated with him at Orthanc, and out in the wilds as we traveled north after the war.  You and Frodo both gave him more chances to redeem himself than I'll wager he deserved, but he was the one who scorned them.  I'd have liked to have given him a taste of what he put Merry and I through at the hands of his beastly orcs!  No, I'd say that you gave Saruman as much help as he would ever have been willing to accept from you, before or after he turned traitor."

"Our young cousin is very wise," Manwë said in grave tones, though his eyes were as bright as his smile.  "Envy was a weakness of Curumo's long before these shores were here for any to set foot upon.  You know this as well as I, Olórin.  His fall saddens me, and yet, his spite has but proved what Eru Ilúvatar told us many ages ago:  in the end, all will show itself to be but a reflection of His glory.  The Shire was nearly destroyed, yet now, it is more beautiful than it could ever have been, but for Saruman's malice.  The designs of the One are fairer than anything we poor created beings could have planned, and we should rejoice in the beauty that is rather than regret what perhaps was never meant to be."

Olórin toyed with his cup as he considered all that had been said; he then took a long, slow drink of the cooling liquid, and finally nodded.  "Both of you are right, of course, and I do know it.  I've never been a good patient.  The greater the discomfort, the grumpier I fear I become."

That observation made Pippin suddenly forget the shock of being praised by the most powerful being in all of Arda.  "Ah!" he cried after quickly swallowing the beverage in his mouth.  "Now, that's something that's been puzzling me.  Not you being grumpy when you're hurt or sick, Gandalf, I knew that a long time ago.  But you're not 'Gandalf' anymore, and I rather suspect that neither of you naturally look like hobbits."

Both of the disguised Ainur chuckled.  "No, I think we've already established that fact," Olórin confirmed with an amused twinkle in his eyes.

"Which means your bodies aren't exactly real, not like the ones the Wizards had, at any rate.  You... I don't know if I quite understood all of this properly.  You make them yourselves, from your thoughts, and you can unmake them whenever you want."

Manwë waggled one hand.  "Not precisely, but that is close to the truth.  Through the powers we were given in our creation, we can fashion incarnate forms for ourselves.  Those that come wholly of our thoughts are illusions with no true substance, while those we make by manipulating the substances of which all Eä is composed are more substantial.  Unlike the bodies of the Istari — which were of true flesh, made so by the power of the One — both are under our control and can be dismissed or changed at will or at need, but sometimes at considerable cost to ourselves."

Pippin considered all this while he finished the last of his drink.  "Is this one of those times?" he finally asked.  "I mean, wouldn't it be better if Olórin didn't have to be hurt and uncomfortable?  Would it hurt him even more if he... changed his injured body for one that wasn't?"  As he spoke the words, his expression scrunched with distaste.  "That sounds perfectly horrible, doesn't it?"

The Maia laughed.  "Not as horrible as you think, my lad.  The answer to your first question is yes, it would be better for me, but only in some ways.  When the bodies we fashion are injured, we suffer a different kind of weakening if we abandon them while they are completely unhealed.  Sauron did just that more than once, and he eventually paid a terrible price.  The more severe the injury, the greater and more permanent the loss of native strength; more than once, he abandoned his assumed body when it was all but annihilated.  None of my injuries now are so serious, nor are we pressed for time, so it will be enough if I wait until I've let this body recover a bit, naturally."

"And I will be able to help speed his healing," Manwë added as he collected the empty cups and returned them to the tray.  "We will need to take care, even so.  Too many others have seen Olórin's injuries and have become involved in caring for him.  It would raise questions that cannot be properly answered if he leapt to his feet tomorrow morning, whole and sound again after nothing more than a good night's sleep."

"Goodness, no!" the halfling exclaimed upon hearing this previously unconsidered problem.  "Either someone would get the notion that Tansy has discovered a miraculous cure, or you'd be suspected of having exaggerated your condition to cheat your way into free lodgings, or to make yourself the center of more attention than you deserved.  Not that others haven't done just that, but I'd never expect it of you, Olórin.  It's not at all like you."

"It certainly is not," Manwë agreed, even as his brother thought that it was like some others of his kind.  The particular other Olórin had in mind, however, couldn't be fully explained by motives of attention-seeking, though heavens knew that Lintamacar was guilty of that as well.  He started to turn his thoughts to the other possible motives Pippin had mentioned when Manwë continued.  "We shall stay here for a few days, which should appease both Mistress Tansy and my lady wife."

"Then she really did kick you out of the house?"  He knew that he probably shouldn't, but the young hobbit couldn't help but grin at the very idea of the Elder King being told to vacate the premises because his spouse wanted to do a proper cleaning.

The disguised Vala smiled widely in return.  "Not for the reasons you suggested, but yes, Varda did indeed kick us out, as you say.  It was not even a full two months ago when Olórin and I first discovered that we are brothers; both of us have been extremely busy with our work since then, and she determined that it was well overdue that we spend some time together as ordinary siblings might."

Pippin's eyes widened.  "So you came to the Shire, disguised as traveling hobbits.  Is that what ordinary siblings of your people do for a lark?"

His unvarnished surprise made the two visitors laugh once again.  Olórin managed to regain his voice first.  "I suspect a number already have, though to be frank, I more than half-expected Manwë would choose for us to visit in the form of hedgehogs, to avoid drawing undue attention."

The very suggestion of such an image brought a peal of delighted laughter from the hobbit.  "It certainly would have done that, though at this time of year, most hedgehogs are settling in for the winter and not often seen out and about!  But even as you are, I doubt you would've drawn much notice if you hadn't stumbled into the Shirrifs' plan to catch those four ruffians.  You're no more richly dressed than a typical gentlehobbit, and the only striking thing about either of you is Olórin's hair, at least for a hobbit of his apparent age.  Many Shire babes have been born with golden hair since the end of the War, you know.  But even so, it's only uncommon among the older folk, not shockingly unusual."  

He chortled to himself for a few moments.  "Merry and I shock many more Shire folk these days, having grown so extraordinarily tall after our time with Treebeard and the Ents.  We're more puzzling to them than any hedgehog out in the wild in winter!  That they could explain — a disturbance in their nest, some other natural reason — but Tree Shepherds and ent-draughts?  Oh, no, things like that only exist in children's stories, or in one too many mugs of ale!"

"Or in the mad ramblings of adventure-prone Tooks and their kin," Olórin noted drolly as he settled back into a more comfortable position against the pillows, pulling up the thick blankets to better cover his upper body.  Having only one hand free to do so, it was more awkward than he liked.

Pippin quickly moved to help.  "It's getting colder," he said with a shiver while he tucked the covers about the Maia's injured shoulder.

Manwë went to draw the drapes across the shuttered windows, which were rattling as the winds outside strengthened.  "Master Dewi said he could smell it in the wind.  I was too distracted and disoriented at the time to notice it, but I fear he's right.  There is much colder weather on its way, very likely with ice and perhaps even early snow."

"Dewi Cotterill is known for his excellent weather-sense all through the Westfarthing," the hobbit confirmed.  Having finished tucking in the patient — who was smiling with fond amusement at the young fellow's cosseting — he went to add another log to the fire.  "I hope it won't be a heavy storm.  I haven't cared for those since we were nearly buried, trying to get through the pass on Caradhras."  

He paused in his selection from the woodbox to look up at Manwë.  "Isn't this something you can control?  I mean, aren't you the lord of... what did Bilbo's book call?  The breath of Arda?  Air, wind, clouds, things of that sort?"

Said windlord nodded as he pulled the last of the heavy curtains across the windows.  "I sang of such things in the Great Music, yes, and I do have greater ability to manipulate them than any of the other Ainur.  But I no longer use those abilities to influence the natural course of weather, especially here in Middle-earth.  Oh, I did so long ago, while Arda was still very young, but once the Children awakened, such interference often led to terrible disasters.  Now, I occasionally send a favorable wind or gentle rain in answer to the sincere supplications of Eruhíni in great need, but in general, I only use my powers to influence weather when I am directed to do so by Eru Ilúvatar."

Pippin sighed his mild disappointment as he turned back to the woodbox and chose a thick split log to add to the fire.  "Well, I suppose that's sensible.  Goodness knows we saw enough of what happens when people with power meddle with the natural way, first in Isengard and then near Mordor, and even here in the Shire!  But I do hope this weather doesn't last terribly long.  I've a fair bit of riding to do before Yule, and it's never pleasant in ice and snow."

"I myself never enjoyed it," Olórin said as he watched the hobbit place the wood on the fire, then use the iron poker to prod the coals beneath it.  Little tongues of flame licked up around the new log, though it didn't catch as quickly as Pippin would have liked; in fact, his prodding seemed to have the opposite effect, causing some of the coals to die.  

Sensing his friend's mounting frustration, the Maia whispered a single word.  In response, a small burst of green and blue flames streamed up from beneath the fire grate.  At their touch, the coals glowed more brightly, the already burning wood on the grate flared, and the new log caught, then burned merrily even when the unusually colored fire faded away.  

Pippin's gasp was one of both surprise and delight, although Manwë snorted softly.  "Show-off," he opined, though his expression was one of affectionate teasing.  

The young hobbit, however, clicked his tongue.  "Now, now, no harm done, and the warmth is very welcome!  Besides, Gandalf was so rarely a 'show-off' when he lived here in Middle-earth, there were many who thought that when called himself a Wizard, it was just a pose to frighten people, because he was actually a meddling beggar who knew a few simple tricks to earn himself free meals.  I never believed that, mind you, nor did any Took who was up on our family history, but others did.  It's actually rather nice to see him showing off for a change, and not because we're in danger of freezing to death!"

The timely reminder won a laugh from Olórin.  "By any Wizard's standards, the incident on Caradhras hardly qualified as 'showing off' — but I admit, at the time, it felt like the most egregious display of power possible."

"'Egregious' is not a word that any of our people could apply to you, my brother," was Manwë's amused response.  "True, as our messengers during the past age, the Istari had been enjoined against overt displays of power, but you seldom did so, even when it was warranted.  And either here or in Aman, your greater uses of power have always been to defend or inspire, to heal or delight, but never to put yourself forward."

"I thought as much," Pippin said, turning away from the hearth but still enjoying the renewed warmth.  "When I first met Denethor, he struck me as being more powerful in a wizardly sort of way — though only at first," he added, giving the Maia an apologetic little smile.  "I doubt that either he or Saruman could have ever made such splendid fireworks, or even appreciated them.  I don't think the people of Gondor ever went in for such things, but do they have fireworks in the West?"

Any answer he might have received was preempted by a sharp knock on the outer parlor door.  Both incognito Ainur sensed who had come; Manwë politely called for them to enter.  Tansy and three helpers came bustling in, two to remove the no longer needed tub from the parlor, and another to collect the trays and dishes from the bedroom.  She eyed the empty plates and cups as they were quickly gathered, then taken off to the kitchen.  "I'm glad to see you've an appetite, Master Olrin," Tansy said as she gently checked his injuries and her treatments.  "Unless this young scalawag helped himself to what was meant for you."  She gave Pippin a look that was both skeptical and good-natured.

Pippin grinned, knowing that she had fair reasons for her doubts.  "Not a crumb or a drop, I swear, even though it all smelled delicious."

Tansy's answering harrumph was entirely for show, since she was well aware that for all his youthful mischievousness, the young Took had never been a bald-faced liar.  "I'm glad to hear it.  There's been trouble enough here tonight."

All three of the males frowned.  "Rowdies in the common room?" asked the youngest of them.

The healer shook her head as she carefully adjusted the bandage on "Olrin's" head.  "No, thank goodness.  But the weather's taken a turn for the worse, and we've a sight more people to put up for the night than we'd expected.  Some of the travelers who'd stopped here for supper have decided not to move on tonight, and another group headed toward Waymeet came in looking for lodgings.  Can't say as I blame them, it's not fit weather for folk nor beasts to be on the road.  Cardi wouldn't turn anyone out, but they need to be made comfortable if we're to uphold our reputation, and we're short on room for so many."  

She saw "Munwy" begin to speak, and favored him with a stern look before he could do more than take a breath.  "Now, don't you even think of suggesting that you and your brother give up this room!" she scolded.  "Even if you hadn't done us a good turn by helping the Shirrifs catch those ruffians, we don't turn away anyone who comes to us, hurt and in need.  You've earned this, much more'n some who think they're important just on account of their family name, an' their own notions of being better than common folk who earn an honest living from honest work."

Pippin made a singularly disgruntled noise.  "Not Aldo Boffin again, I hope."

Olórin turned his head, his curiosity piqued by the young Took's comment.  Tansy turned it back again so that she could finish her adjustment of the bandage.  She shook her head.  "Not tonight, though he's been by often enough, looking for a free mug in exchange for the same old story about how he'd risked his life when you and Master Meriadoc roused the Shire to deal with Sharkey's Men."  She snorted indelicately.  "If he risked his hide, 'twas on account of him being afraid that he'd be considered a ruffian himself for what he'd done before you Travellers returned.  He'd not be out on a night like this, but other uppity folk are.  Cardi will deal with them, you can be sure, but we're still short on lodgings, for them and more decent folk who don't expect special treatment."

Manwë offered no argument.  "I might have suggested we take another room, were my brother uninjured, but I don't wish to ruin your good work, or his health, by moving him so soon.  What I was going to suggest is that rather than take rooms of his own, Master Peregrin might share ours.  Each of these beds are large enough for at least two, and I would be happy to share mine with him, if it would help make room for your other guests."

Tansy glanced from the disguised Vala to the Thain's heir.  From the almost shocked look on the latter's face, she wondered if he would be amenable to the idea, helpful though it would be to the inn's current predicament.  "Another free room with such accommodations would ease matters considerably, I won't deny it," she said.  "But young Master Took usually shares quarters only with his close friends or his kin."  She was clearly offering him a way to politely refuse the suggested arrangement if it was not to his liking, though her own expression showed that she hoped he would agree.

Pippin hastily closed his open mouth.  His reaction hadn't been one of revulsion; rather, he was shocked by the very idea that the most powerful of all the Powers in Arda would even consider such sleeping arrangements.  "Oh, it won't be a problem, Tansy," he finally managed to say.  "We've been talking, you see, about this and that, and it turns out we're distant cousins.  Easy to spot, actually, if you know to look for it.  Some of the Tooks are inclined to unusually fair hair, you know, as well as blue eyes, especially in the more distant branches of the family."  He didn't say it aloud, but his eyes twinkled merrily as he thought that this particular pair of "cousins" were perhaps as distant as any kind of relative could get.

Olórin needed no special powers to be able to read the thoughts behind that impish expression.  "I have no objection to the arrangement," he told Tansy, his smile droll.  "It not only will ease the crowding of the inn, but this young fellow can make himself useful, helping us as we might need it.  That will free you to see to the comfort of your other guests."

The future Thain bowed to the erstwhile Wizard in a manner that was not quite cheeky.  "During my travels, I learned well to respect and be of service to my elders, and I will happily do so now."  A slight emphasis on the word elders made clear that he had a fair idea of just how very much older than him was even the younger of the two not-hobbits.

Tansy let out the skeptical snort that the others restrained.  "Just don't be a nuisance to them, young master, and that'll be a great help to us all."

Her frank remark brought a blush to Pippin's cheeks, and a hearty laugh from Manwë.  "He has  already been both a great help and most pleasant company for us, Mistress Underwood.  Should that change, I'll be sure to let you know, although I'm certain it won't be necessary."

"I should say not!" Pippin declared, with all the severe dignity of a knight of Gondor who had borne a sore affront to his honor.  He then smiled impishly.  "And to prove it, let me help carry your things back to the storage closet, Tansy.  My usual room's not far from it, and if I collect the gear one of your lads took from me when I arrived, he'll be free to help with the extra guests rather than run errands I can easily manage myself."

The healer's skeptical sniff was clearly for show, since she readily accepted the offered assistance.  Pippin took the heavy hamper of assorted medicaments, leaving only a light basket with her other tools for Tansy to carry.  He was the very soul of courtly manners as he opened and held the door for her, then closed it behind them.

Manwë smiled softly as he watched them depart.  "If Father had no other reason for us to be detained here, this opportunity to meet young Peregrin would be worth it for me.  I have watched over him since you first met him as a babe, but this is much more rewarding.  He has a bright future before him."

Olórin sighed.  "One that I hope this meeting does not disrupt.  Ever since the disasters of the First Age and before, we have been very careful to not reveal ourselves to the Eruhíni.  Pippin may have guessed my identity correctly even before I saw him here, but perhaps I should not have confirmed it, or revealed you to him."

The Vala chuckled.  "And if we are correct in our belief that Father has had a hand in all that occurred to detain us here, then I suspect He also wished for you to waken at that precise moment, and react as you did.  An odd but more noble purpose, I think, for being struck senseless!"

Olórin could not help but laugh softly as well.  "Father's ways are often indeed a great mystery to us poor lesser creatures.  So small and simple a thing might in the end serve a far greater good."  He shifted, trying to settle his aching shoulder into a more comfortable position.

Seeing his brother's unease, Manwë came around to his injured side and sat lightly on the edge of the soft mattress.  As gently as he could, he laid a hand upon the bandaged shoulder, closed his eyes, and began to sing.  He kept his voice quiet, so that it would not carry beyond the bedchamber, as the words were in a tongue that had not been heard in Endórë since long before the awakening of the Elves.  

A loremaster of the Eldar had once described the spoken language of the Ainur as like to "the glitter of bright swords," but not all their words were so sharp, nor could any incarnate ears have fully heard all the subtle overtones and undertones and empathic vibrations that were a part of each syllable.  The song Manwë sang was ancient, a song of healing that had been made to comfort and heal those who had been wounded during the earliest wars with Melkor and his minions.  It could mend more than broken flesh or an injured fana; it brought healing to a wounded fëa or a damaged mind.  

Olórin was not so sorely hurt, but the song was soothing, almost as soothing as the knowledge that he was being offered this solace by one he had long loved, and now had the joyful right to love even more as true kin.  With a small sigh, he smiled and closed his eyes, allowing the comfort of both the well-made bed and the gentle singing to relieve his pains and ease him into healing sleep.

Manwë could sense when the Maia drifted off into slumber, but he continued to sing to the song's end, to give him as much relief and restoration as could while in this still-strange hröa.  He knew that he could have done more had he shed it, but he also knew that now was not the time.  Father meant for them to remain here for a while, and remain they would.  He carefully rose from the bed as he sang the last line of the song, then bent to lay a feather-light kiss upon the unbandaged part of the Maia's brow.  "Rest well, little brother," he whispered, pleased to see Olórin's smile widen ever so slightly.

Then he very nearly jumped as he heard a small sniffle behind him.  So intent had he been on bringing comfort to his younger sibling, he hadn't even heard the door open.  He quickly glanced over his shoulder toward the sound, and saw Pippin in the doorway, his pack in one hand and a look of wide-eyed wonder on his face.

"That was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard," he was finally able to say after several failed attempts to speak.  Even so, his voice was scarcely above a whisper.

Manwë almost laughed, but felt it might be misconstrued.  "Was it, now?" he said in the mildest of amused tones.  "There are many Eldar who find our language to be quite unpleasant to their ears."

The hobbit blinked, surprised.  "Really?  Well, I suppose there's no accounting for tastes — and to be perfectly honest, I don't know that I actually heard any of the words.  If I did, I certainly didn't understand them.  But your voice...!"  He shook his head, not in negation, but in awe.  "Even the most gifted singers I heard in Rivendell and Lothlórien couldn't compare.  I could sometimes see the things they sang of, but when you were singing, I could feel...  I'm not sure what, but it was very moving, very comforting.  Like when I was a babe, and my Mum would sing to me when I was sick or frightened."

The Vala moved away from Olórin's bed to the one he and Pippin would share.  "It was a song for healing," he said softly, so as not to disturb the sleeper.  "The Lady Estë made it long, long ago, to help those of our people who were injured.  Healing is her particular gift, and this song is one of the many ways she has shared it with us.  Do you know of her?"

Pippin nodded as he followed, then set his pack on a chair and opened it.  The pack itself was  large, not a mere day pack but one for longer travel.  Pippin had intended to ride north and then east to Bywater after his business with the Shirrifs was done, beginning a longer journey to the Northfarthing, but the turn of the weather and the unexpected meetings had changed his plans, at least for the night.  From the pack he brought out a nightshirt and a small brush.  The shirt he draped across the bedside chair and the brush he placed on the washstand, beside the bowl and pitcher.  "Estë was mentioned in the book Frodo gave me, but I don't recall if it said anything about such a song.  She lives with her husband in a place called Lórien, is that right?"

"It is.  Olórin also has a home in Lórien, which he has shared with Master Frodo ever since his arrival in Aman."

The hobbit's hands paused in the process of unbuttoning his shirt.  "He has?  Has he been happy there?  Frodo, I mean.  I knew that Gandalf was going home when he took ship at the Havens, but I've wondered how Frodo might feel once he arrived.  I knew that Bilbo would fit right in, as he did in Rivendell, but Frodo never quite had his appetite for adventure."

Manwë smiled widely as he folded down the bedcovers while Pippin resumed preparing for sleep.  "They are both quite happy, I assure you.  Bilbo has taken up residence in Elrond's house outside Tirion, and the part of Lórien where Frodo now lives is very much like this part of Shire."  He gestured with one hand, indicating the lands about them.  "They have been warmly welcomed — and deeply honored — wherever they go, but those two places are where they have come to feel quite comfortably at home."

A sound of relief whistled past Pippin's lips as he finished with his shirt and turned to pour water into the basin.  "I'm so glad to hear that, especially about Frodo.  It seemed terribly wrong that he was never properly honored here in the Shire, after all he had done, all he'd suffered.  I sometimes wanted to shake or slap or shout at people to make them understand, but it wouldn't have changed a thing.  Frodo wanted to be left alone, and most folks were perfectly pleased to do as he wished."

The disguised Ainu gave a small but very hobbitish snort,  "Olórin is much the same, which is no doubt why Frodo has come to think of him as kin.  But their friendship has been good for them both.  They have learned to better accept duly earned honor, and to understand why others offer it."

"I know that Frodo needed to learn that," Pippin agreed while he carefully washed his face and neck, then poured more water into a wide basin on the hearthstone, where he gave equally careful attention to his feet.  "And while I once wouldn't have said the same of Gandalf, during the war — and especially after it — I began to think otherwise.  Without him, I don't believe either Rohan or Gondor would have survived long enough to provide the diversion Frodo and Sam needed.  Yet it seemed that after the Ring was destroyed and Sauron with it, he gave all the credit to them, and Aragorn, and just about everyone else but himself."

"That has always been his nature," Manwë confirmed.  "Ever willing to help where it is needed, but not as willing to bask in adulation.  I fear that in his youth, he saw too many others fall to terrible evil from an excess of pride.  He chose to never risk following the same path."

"And still carries it too far, I'll warrant, like Frodo.  I suppose I can't blame him," the hobbit mused while he dried his feet and brushed the thick, damp hair.  A small shiver ran up his spine, despite the warmth of the fire on the hearth.  "I saw enough of what became of Saruman, and have read more than enough about Sauron and Morgoth and how they came to be so wicked.  Were I one of your kind, I should be just as afraid of turning out like them!  Lotho did horrible things to the Shire, but I don't think even he could've dreamed of doing as much harm as Saruman did, simply out of spite."

Manwë's answering sigh was sad.  "The greater the power, the more bitter the fall.  My elder brother taught all of my people that lesson even before we entered Eä."  His thoughts began to ruminate upon that distant past; before they could do so fully, he finished readying the bedcovers and turned to see Pippin meticulously brushing his wooly feet.  His eyebrows arched in surprise.  "I hadn't thought to do that after I bathed," he admitted.  "Is it necessary?"

The young Took gave him a broad smile.  "For those with particularly thick and curly hair, very necessary.  Mine isn't as thick as some — one of my Banks cousins had to brush his feet five or six times a day, just to keep the hair from knotting so badly he'd need to take a wire brush to it to smooth out the tangles, a rather painful affair and best avoided.  Which is why I like to give my own a good brushing morning and evening, when I can."

Manwë studied his own temporary feet with an appraising eye.  Pippin chuckled, noting his expression.  "However you came by it, you needn't worry about that happening to you.  Fair-haired hobbits tend to have finer and more loosely curled hair, much less apt to become snarled and matted."  The hobbit's hazel eyes twinkled impishly as he offered the brush.  "You can take care of it now, if you like.  I don't mind letting you use my brush, since I'm sure you didn't think to bring one with you."

The Vala's answer was an arch look, followed by a mischievous not-quite smirk.  Having reconnected with some of his native abilities, it took only a moment of concentration for him to coax the silvery hair on his new feet to "brush" itself.  Pippin gasped as he saw the disarrayed curls ripple, smooth out, and then lay neatly, all seemingly of their own accord.  A bark of laughter almost escaped him, but he quickly covered his mouth to contain it, not wishing to disturb Olorin's sleep.

"I wish I could've done that when I was a little lad," he whispered, his face lit with delight.  "It would've saved me ever so many scoldings from my Mum and sisters, not to mention my aunts!"

Manwë's own expression became a bit sheepish.  "I suppose I shouldn't have done that," he admitted.  "But even those of us you call the Powers find that once in a while, we simply can't help ourselves."

But Pippin waved that off with his brush as he set it aside to begin changing into his nightclothes.  "I shan't tell a soul, if that's what worries you," he promised.  "But... I'm glad you did it.  I'm afraid that earlier, I would've been rather uncomfortable, sharing a bed with the Elder King himself.  Now, I can see you aren't as far above my understanding as I feared — are you?"  He was almost certain, but there was still some room for doubt.

Manwë allayed his concerns.  "Not in the ways that are truly most important.  We are all Eru's children, Cousin, no matter how different we may seem to each other at first glance.  He created us for His joy, and for ours, and we should never disdain to share that joy with one another in any way we can."  

Seeing that the young Mortal was relieved, the Vala removed his borrowed house robe and hung it on a peg on the wall away from the hearth while Pippin pulled his own thick flannel nightshirt over his head.  Outside, the whistling wind blew strongly against the wall of the inn, rattling even the tightly closed shutters beyond the thick drapes.  When Manwë saw him shiver, he suggested that the halfling take the side of the big bed nearer the hearth.  "Though I feel the cold, I won't be harmed by it," he explained as he settled himself on the opposite side.  "And I doubt I'll even feel it much, once I'm under the covers."

Pippin offered no argument and happily climbed in under those covers, once his own things were left neatly folded atop the clothes press and the lamps had been snuffed for the night.  "I can't imagine why anyone would want to feel the cold, if they had a choice in the matter."  The shutters rattled again, this time with a wet, icy sound; the hobbit shuddered.  If Pippin had been sharing the bed with a friend or relative, he would have immediately moved closer to them for warmth, but he was still reluctant to show such familiarity with someone of Manwë's stature, even if he currently looked like an elderly hobbit.  "I'm glad I'm not out in that!  Is it true that when you were asked to sing for Ilúvatar, you sang about the wind?"

The Vala shrugged.  He was aware of the hobbit's shyness, and politely respected it.  "That was a part of what I sang, yes.  But it was my elder brother Melkor who sang of scorching heat and bitter cold, and winds so powerful that they would bring destruction.  My thoughts were of the ways the movement of the airs could benefit Arda and all that lived within it, not of controlling the inhabitants or bringing all to ruin." 

For some long moments, Pippin said nothing as he reflected on what he knew of the things Manwë spoke of, and the poignancy in his voice.  "I've always wanted a brother — I have nothing but sisters, you know — but I shouldn't want one who could have done such dreadful things.  He never truly repented of them, did he?"

The silvered head shook.  "No.  He pretended to do so, and to my everlasting regret, I believed him, in spite of others counseling me against it."

"Well, he was your brother," the hobbit observed, as if that was all the explanation needed.  "And now, you have another — a better one, I think."  He spoke with such utter sincerity, Manwë was startled by it.  Before he could frame a response, Pippin continued.  "Did he sing in the Great Music, too?  Olórin, I mean.  I know that Morgoth did, he was responsible for almost spoiling it, that was in Frodo's book.  It told about what the Valar sang, but it didn't say much about the songs of the Maiar, or if they even sang at all."

His innocent curiosity brought a smile to Manwë's face, and warmth to his heart.  It was a wonder to him, how the young hobbit could speak of the chaos Melkor had wrought, and yet forgive the windlord for giving his brother chances to redeem himself that he had not earned, all in the same long breath!  Some of his own kind had not yet done so.  Manwë was touched by his generous spirit, which he wished all of Eru's children, both of flesh and of thought, would share.  "All the Maiar sang," he answered softly.  "Olórin included.  His was a warm and joyful song, neither loud nor elaborate, but every bit as important to the harmony of the Music as songs that were more intricate."

"Really!"  Pippin was intrigued.  He shifted position to lie on his side, so he could see the Vala's face in the flickering light from the hearth.  "I don't know if I can quite imagine how it sounded, but I'm glad to know he was a part of it.  What did he sing of?  Fireworks?"

The windlord chuckled.  "No, nothing so flamboyant.  He sang of small things, none seemingly important, but all things from his very heart that would enrich or strengthen the greater songs made by others."

The expression of eager anticipation on Pippin's face turned thoughtful, then mildly disappointed.  "So it's not likely that I would ever see something he sang about and recognize it for what it is."

Manwë saw his change of mood, and regretted having dimmed it.  "Is it important to you?" he asked.  As Olórin had been concerned about revealing too much, so too did the Vala worry that what he might say could complicate the young incarnate's life.

Said young incarnate shrugged.  "Not important, no," he admitted.  "But now that I've met you, the wind will always remind me that I have cousins of a sort in the West.  It would be nice to have a similar reminder of Gandalf.  No one can make fireworks as splendid as his, not even the Dwarves."

His mention of the adopted Children of Eru reminded Manwë of their origins.  Along with the memory came an unexpected sensation of peace, a reassurance that he should not worry so.  Certain that it came from the One, he set aside his hesitance.  "I should like to see a display of this art, someday.  While it is true that most of the notes of Olórin's song are difficult to separate from the harmony they are part of, Eru Ilúvatar used the spirit of my young brother's music to fashion a part of Arda that you see clearly everyday."

Pippin's melancholy fled in an instant.  "Oh?  Is it as bright as the stars, or as beautiful as trees, or as strong as the sea?"  He mentioned those things, recalling how the tales of the Valar said that they were among the many things they treasured.

Manwë nodded.  "All those things, and more, much more.  The One heard Olórin's song and took the heart of it as the inspiration for His design when He created Hobbits."

For several moments, Pippin could only blink, as if he hadn't quite understood the meaning of Manwë's words.  Then, his eyes widened.  "Do you — do you mean to say that... that Gandalf sang the song that made all Hobbits?"

The Vala smiled kindly, seeing his shock.  "Not precisely.  For one, he was not called 'Gandalf' then.  Indeed, such names as we had in the days before days were not of a kind that could easily be translated into any language in Eä, as they were pure thought.  And Olórin himself had no idea that our Father would someday make use of what he sang in such a way.  If he had, I think he might well have refused to sing at all!  Not because he disliked Hobbits, mind you.  But Olórin has always felt an affinity for what is small and simple and humble, because he has always known that there are in such things a kind of beauty and strength and hope that might be long overlooked, yet in the end prove to have the greatest value of all.  Eru wished for your people to have these very traits, and so He wove Olórin's music into your making.  Whenever you see your own reflection, or look upon your friends and kin and neighbors, and even strangers of your kind, you are seeing a part of Olórin's song made manifest by the One."

As he listened to the Elder King's quiet explanation, a look of wonder suffused Pippin's face.  He glanced at the sleeping Maia all but buried under the thick, warm covers.  "He never said anything," he murmured, "not in all the years he lived here.  Or if he did, no one I knew ever spoke of it."

"They never spoke of it because you are right, he never mentioned it to them.  And that is because while he lived here, he didn't know, not for certain.  Being incarnated in true flesh, many of his memories were dimmed or even forgotten, especially those from times long, long past.  But even before he embarked on his mission as one of the Istari, he had never considered a direct relationship between the Hobbits and his Song.  In his heart, I believe he sensed that there was some connection between himself and your people, but I suspect that he attributed it to a personal fancy."

Pippin was quiet again for a time, taking in all he had been told.  Presently, he said, "I suppose both Frodo and Bilbo know this, now."  The statement was almost a sigh.

"They do," Manwë confirmed.  He heard the note of disappointment that had returned to the young hobbit's voice, and he hid the wider smile that was tugging at his lips.  He knew of no people, his own included, whose young did not take a certain pride in knowing secret things few others were aware of.  "But on this side of the Sea, only you have been so privileged.  Not even the Elves of Middle-earth know of this aspect of the origins of Hobbits."

It took only a moment or two for Pippin's crestfallen expression to vanish.  His hazel eyes were bright with both firelight and hope as he turned them to Manwë.  "Truly?"

"Truly," the windlord assured him, now smiling widely and warmly.  "He is very fond of you, Master Peregrin, though he may not have often told you.  I believe that I can say with certainty that he wouldn't mind sharing this secret with you, for he knows he can trust you to keep it safe."

Pippin blinked several times, then burst into a laugh, which he again quickly smothered.  His eyes were dancing with delight when he dared to speak again.  "I dare say he does, since he knows very well that even Merry and Sam would think I'd gone daft if I told them any of this!  But thank you for telling me, Lord Manwë.  I will do my very best to honor that trust.  And please, do call me Pippin.  When I'm among friends and family, the only time I hear 'Master Peregrin' is when I'm in for a lecture or scolding!"

Manwë chuckled as he nodded his acceptance of the request.  "As you wish.  In return, I would ask that you not call me 'my lord' or any such title.  The others here would not understand why I am anyone's lord, and while I will allow Olórin to do so when offering introductions or in his role as one in my service, I've made it clear that outside those bounds, I am only Manwë — or Munwy, as the others have dubbed me," he added with a twinkle in his eyes.

Pippin grinned merrily as he saw the point.  "Yes, that's probably best, when others are about.  I'm afraid most Hobbits wouldn't recognize your true name; they'd simply think it outlandish."  He wrinkled his nose.  "Unfortunately, that would be enough for some hobbits to dislike you, or at least be suspicious toward you."

The Vala patted his arm in a gesture of sympathy.  "Hobbits are not alone in that.  Many Elves and Men distrusted those who came from outside their own realms.  Even some Ainur have similar attitudes.  When you have suffered because of betrayal or oppression, anything that seems abnormal or unfamiliar can become suspect."

Outside, a strong gust of wind rattled the shutters and shrieked over the tops of the chimneys, creating an updraft that caused the fire on the hearth to flare and crackle.  A cold draft rustled the heavy curtains, and Pippin pulled the covers more snugly around him.  "Are you sure you couldn't do something to calm the winds, Cousin?" he asked, largely in jest.

"Not unless you want to have the storm stay where it is and bury this part of the Shire under ice and snow," was Manwë's puckish reply.

The hobbit shuddered dramatically, and entirely for show.  He remembered their earlier conversation, as well as Manwë's explanations.  Emboldened by the disguised Vala's gentle teasing, he dared to move closer to him for warmth.  When he was not rebuffed, he dared just a bit more, then sighed happily as he settled into the softness of the bed.  He was tired, but not yet sleepy; the excitement of the day was still racing through his mind, along with thousands of questions he wanted to ask, but wasn't quite bold enough to do so.  After a minute or two of comfortable silence, one question bubbled to the surface.

"Is Frodo truly happy, there in the West?  I know neither you or Gandalf would lie to me, but after all, he's a hobbit in land without hobbits.  I'm certain that Bilbo is perfectly content; sometimes, I think he's at least partly an Elf.  But Frodo had been through so much, and though he tried, he couldn't hide how unwell he was, toward the end...."  His voice hitched to a halt as a lump thickened in his throat.  It had been very difficult to watch Frodo seemingly fade while the rest of the Shire flourished after the War, and despite Olórin's earlier assurances, Pippin could not dismiss his worry that Frodo had indeed left so that he could spare his friends the awful sight of watching him die, bit by agonizing bit.

But Manwë had known this, even before the ship had sailed from the Havens, over five years ago.  His answer was soft but very kind.  "He is much better now, Cousin Pippin, I promise you.  He has made many new friends throughout the Undying Lands, and has fully healed of all his terrible hurts.  In fact, he is so much better now, he has done a great deal to introduce parts of Hobbit culture and traditions to all the folk who live there.  The High King of the Elves, Ingwë, considers him one of the finest cooks of his acquaintance, and even now, my fellow Valar are pressing him to teach him all he knows about the Shire customs of Yule."

"You don't celebrate Yule in the West?"  Pippin was aghast.  "But why wouldn't you?  It's one of the most splendid feasts in all the year!"

The Elder King shrugged.  "The traditions of the Eldar take precedence in our land, since only a handful of Mortals have ever lived there.  They have a celebration of sorts around the winter solstice, but to them, it has been considered a lesser holiday.  Even those who had lived here in Middle-earth and knew of Yule did not celebrate it."

The halfling snorted.  "Well, that's utterly barbaric!  That should be added to those old books, you know.  And some people think Elves are so superior.  Not celebrating Yuletide!  Simply scandalous!"

Manwë found his candor refreshingly amusing.  "I'm inclined to agree with you.  My people are attempting to rectify that oversight now, though I doubt all of the Eldar will, especially not after Frodo and Olórin introduced them to the Hobbit tradition of smoking pipeweed, last year."

Pippin was frankly surprised.  "They did?  With all the Elves living there?  However did they manage it?  All the Elves I've met have simply hated smoking!"

The Vala laughed.  "Those in Aman are much the same, save for a few who live in Lórien's hill country, near the house Frodo shares with Olórin."

Now, the hobbit regarded him with an eager sort of pleading.  "Would you tell me about it?" he asked, almost shyly.  "How they tried to introduce the people in the West to pipeweed.  It sounds like an interesting tale."

He was hungry, Manwë realized then, hungry for news of the friends he had thought he would never see nor hear of again.  It made his own heart ache, for the sundering of the world that had ultimately come about because of Melkor and those who had followed him into evil.  He wished that none of the Children would have been forced apart due to their poisons, just as he had long wished that Melkor had never chosen his path of madness, destroying the love that had once been between them, forever.  Looking into the terribly young, wide eyes, how could he refuse?

"Of course," he told Pippin.  He pulled up the thick feather-filled top quilt to tuck under the Mortal's chin, to protect him from the chilly drafts driven in by the still howling winds.  The fatherly gesture brought a happy smile to Pippin's face, and Manwë minded not a bit when he scooted just a smidge nearer.  He settled himself more comfortably against the soft bed pillows, then spoke, quietly but warmly.  "It all began in late spring, several years ago, with a gift of seedlings the Lady Yavanna sent to Frodo...."

Next: A Long Winter's Day