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....”