II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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