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