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No Greater Love, Part Two: Repercussions  by MJ

XV

Close Encounters

Manwë's directives reached all the Valar in good time for them to have lists of questions prepared in time for the hobbits' farewell feast.  They were remarkably brief lists, given the intense curiosity that had already been demonstrated, but not so brief or shallow so as to insult the halflings or fail to answer truly important questions.  

The next morning, when Elrond and several members of his household came for Bilbo and his things, his hosts presented him with parting gifts.  "For my cousin the scholar," Varda said to the elder hobbit as she gave him a small lamp such as those he had seen and remarked upon in the halls of Ilmarin.  It was cleverly fashioned in the shape of a slender silver lily holding a small globe filled with starlight upon its open petals.  When the base of the lamp was turned, the petals closed, shuttering the light for those times when it was not needed.  "May it give you light in your work, and in your rest," she said as she bent to kiss his brow.  Bilbo blushed and could not find his voice, but he bowed deeply in thanks.

Manwë's gift was a pen made from a beautiful quill given by one his great eagles, tipped with a pure mithril point that would never dull or scratch.  Along with it went a journal of the finest linen paper, bound in covers of sapphire blue leather embossed with a golden filigree resembling the swirls of clouds.  In it, he hoped Bilbo would record whatever he wished of his time in Aman, be it his poetry, the little maps he loved to sketch, or whatever so moved him.  "For in after years," the Elder King told him with a warm smile, "when you have at last chosen to accept the Gift that is your birthright, such records would be forever treasured by all who dwell in this land.  You have been our most welcome guest, and I would not have your thoughts, your songs, your joys, or even your sorrows forgotten.  May these implements serve you well, and bring you pleasure in their use."

Bilbo was so touched, he again could not speak, and when the two Valar bent to give him farewell embraces as between kin, he had to dab at his eyes with the handkerchief Varda had given him some days ago before he allowed Erestor to help him onto his pony. 

"I'll see you at Yule, if not before, Uncle," Frodo told him once he was settled.  They had said their goodbyes earlier, when they had made plans for their next visit, which would be in Lórien.

Frodo and Olórin left the following morning, when those they had traveled with from the hill country were ready to depart.  As their parting gift to him, his hosts had worked together and fashioned a most unusual set of wind chimes.  Two circles of tiny chimes were set, one inside the other, hung from concentric rings of twisted silver and gold with a small globe of opal suspended at the center, to act as a clapper.  The chimes on the inner circle were longer and made of mithril, those on the outer ring shorter and fashioned of clear crystal.  When they struck upon one another in even a light breeze, they made a sound that was both silvery and liquid, an echo of that part of the Song sung long ago by the Vala king and queen.  The opal sphere was filled with a shimmering light that shifted and whirled, brightened and dimmed with the motion and music of the chimes, a soft light that was reflected on both metal and crystal.  In those sparkles, images were reflected, sometimes of flowing clouds or drifting snow, other times the patterns of stars in the night sky or the glimmers of dappled sunlight across a breeze-stirred pond.

Frodo stood mesmerized by it for some long moments; when he was able to finally take his eyes from it, his face was filled with a wonder he could find no words to express.  In the hobbit fashion, however, he gave them a deep bow of thanks.

They smiled warmly in return.  "It is only a small thing to give, to express our thanks for the joy you have given to us by your presence in our house, Ringbearer," Varda said, her eyes shining like the stars.  "Every day, we rejoice and thank the One that you live, and offered your life for the life of Arda — and we rejoice all the more that you did not have to give it up utterly for that quest to be achieved."

Manwë agreed.  "Take this with you to enjoy, and remember those things beloved by us, whom you have honored by accepting into your family of the heart.  And remember, we will not suffer our brethren to burden you with too many questions about your people and their traditions.  Give them what pointers you deem useful or needful, and leave them to make the effort of fashioning new traditions of their own.  Call upon us, if their demands weigh upon you, and let the echoes of the Song we put into these chimes give rest and refreshment to your heart and spirit whenever you need it."

After they had bent to embrace him in farewell, Frodo finally found his voice.  "It's a magnificent gift, something I could never have imagined, much less asked to be given!  Thank you, Cousins, for your thoughtfulness.  I will cherish it for the rest of my days, and remember it even after they are spent."

While Varda helped him to safely store it in the saddlebags of the sturdy pony he would ride back to Lórien, who had been patiently waiting alongside Shadowfax, Manwë turned to Olórin.  "I have no parting gift for you, my brother, since we are truly never more than a thought apart, but I do wish I had something to give you that is even half as precious as that which I was given when I at long last discovered that we are kin.  I know," he forestalled with a gesture and a smile.  "The gift was given to both of us, so there is no need.  But it has made me realize that in all the ages we have resided in Eä, I have never given you anything to be yours alone.  I would like to remedy this, somehow."

"Then why not do so when Yuletide comes?" the Maia suggested, his expression mischievous.   "Aside from their birthdays, it's the Hobbits' favorite time of year to do so.  That alone would make it singularly appropriate."

Given how Olórin had adopted several other hobbitish habits — such as going without shoes and smoking pipeweed on occasion — he had an excellent point.  "I believe I shall do just that.  Until then, do see to it that Frodo isn't overwhelmed by the curiosity of our peoples."

The Istar's grimace was wryly amused.  "Oh, he won't be, I promise you.  Ványalos and several others in Lórien have already agreed to assist me in seeing to that — and if it should come down to it, Frodo will have no trouble standing up to any who importune him.   It was his strength of will, after all, that carried him through to the end of the quest.  Some of our people fail to see that as much as he did, but it is nonetheless true." 

"And they will learn that truth at their own peril, should they go too far," Manwë concluded.  They then embraced as brothers, and in ways unique to their kind that went far beyond the physical.  When they parted, they stepped over to where the others had just finished stowing Frodo's gift.  

The pony was as calm as could be, but Shadowfax was beginning to show signs of restlessness.  Though he had been free to roam whither he would during the past week and more, he was eager to be off to the regions he now considered home, closer to the lands and steeds of Oromë.  Even so, when Manwë approached and held out his hand to him, the great silver horse bowed low in his own fashion, showing his respect for the king of all Arda.  He then allowed the Vala to stroke his head, gently, while Márandur — who had been standing by politely, as a good steward will — helped Frodo up onto the saddle of his pony and Olórin gracefully mounted Shadowfax.

"It was a pleasure having both of you with us, this past week," Varda said with a fond smile when they were ready to depart.  "I only hope that you found it as enjoyable, Cousin Frodo.  I fear there were far too many disturbances and distractions."

"I wouldn't have missed a moment of it, my lady," the hobbit assured her.  "Yes, I suppose there were one or two things that I could have done without, but they were far outweighed by all the wonderful and fascinating things you shared with me.  When you do come to visit us in Lórien, if I can show you just a fraction of such enjoyment, I will consider myself the most gracious host to ever have sprung from the Shire!"

"We will come," Manwë promised as he joined his wife.  "Not before your Yuletide, I'm afraid — but then, that will give all of us time to properly consider the matter of gifts."  The glance he gave Olórin could only be described as impish, and won a heartfelt laugh from the Maia.

"Thank you for the warning!" he replied, teasing, and Frodo laughed as well.  So it was on that cheerful note that they said their final farewells and rode out of Valmar, to meet Glorfindel and the company who would ride with them, returning to their homes between Valmar and Lórien, and beyond.

*********

As the weather remained pleasant for the time of year, and none among them were expected to return at any specific time, they moved at a leisurely pace, enjoying the beautiful autumn countryside and the pleasant companionship.  They paused often to refresh themselves, especially mindful of the Mortal among them, and each evening, they made camp before sunset, so they could ready the evening meal before they sang their thanks for the day, as was their custom,  By the reckoning of the seasoned travelers in the group, they would arrive in Lórien's hill country in three days, barring any need to delay longer or make haste.

On the first evening, they made their camp alongside a stream that ran across the road that was gradually leading them south, with the wide central plains to their right and the foothills of the southern Pelóri on their left.  Frodo marveled at the beauty of the late afternoon sun on the distant peaks, which seemed quite near, given their great height.  "One of Lord Aulë's forges is not far," Glorfindel told him, pointing to a snow-capped summit that was golden in the bright late-day sun.

"Is that where he lives when he is not with Lady Yavanna?" the halfling asked.

The Elf shook his head.  "Not always.  This is one of his lesser forges, and yet it would seem a marvel even to the Dwarves who first carved the halls of the Dwarrowdelf below the peaks of the Misty Mountains."  

Having seen the grandeur of Khazad-dûm even in its long-abandoned decay, Frodo could scarcely imagine the splendor of a place that would have outshone it in all its newly fashioned glory.  He stood there for some long moments, lost in his thoughts as he watched the rays of the sinking sun reflected off the peak, then stirred himself to help the others settle the camp and see to preparing their supper.

Olórin had gone to collect wood for the fire from the deadfall that would inevitably be available beneath the trees growing along the brook.  There would be no fear of rain that night, but the autumn evenings were growing chill enough for the fire to be a cheerful welcome for more than cooking, especially to a sleeping hobbit.  He headed upstream toward the mountains while another of the party went in search downstream.   

He was well out of sight of the camp by the time he had filled his arms with enough dry branches of a size to be useful for more than kindling.  He had paused to consider whether he should simply return with a thought so that he come back to collect a fair sized log that would easily last through the night when he could sense that he was not alone.  It took only another moment to determine the presence nearby, since he knew it well.  

He smiled.  "Good day to you, Turmanarmo," he said aloud.  "Did you come to see me, or did I just happen to stumble across you on an errand for Lord Aulë?"

A few steps farther upstream, another Maia suddenly incarnated.  He was not much taller than Olórin, but he was much broader, heavily muscled like the classic image of a smith, with heat-bronzed skin, dark hair, and keen silver-gray eyes.  They were not the closest of friends, but they had worked together in the past, most often when there was some service Olórin had been able to offer to the Smith.  Their relationship had always been amiable, so the Istar would not have been surprised to find that Turmanarmo had merely taken the opportunity to say hello.

But once he had clothed himself in fána, it was plain that he had more on his mind.  "I was returning from an errand for my lord when I saw you here," he admitted, his voice as deep as roots of the Pelóri.  "I...."  He hesitated, his face a mix of sheepish puzzlement.  "I had something I've wished to ask you ever since Eruhantalë," he finally continued.  "But while you were staying in Valmar, I couldn't seem to find a proper time."

Olórin understood that difficulty.  "There is little privacy there, even among our kind.  I take it your question has naught to do with the halflings or their Yuletide traditions, since you say you've had it since the day of thanksgiving.  Does it perhaps concern my Reckoning?"

Again, Turmanarmo hesitated, then nodded quickly.  "After a fashion.  Not the Reckoning itself, but rather he memories you shared with us. I do not hold any of what happened to you in the past against you, nor do I think that you and the Valar are colluding in some kind of conspiracy.  But what you recalled was so very clear, I have found myself wondering...."  

He paused to take a deep breath.  "Do you know... did you see... was perhaps my brother Mótan among the Ainur now in the Timeless Halls?"

Briefly, Olórin closed his eyes.  He remembered Mótan only too well.  He had been one of Aulë's Maiar seduced into following Melkor and Sauron long ago, and had tied himself to the form of a Balrog in his service to the Fallen One.  When the Istar opened his eyes a moment later, it was to gaze upon the other Maia with a look of infinite compassion.  "I do not know, truly," he admitted, sadly.  "My interactions with all but Father were very limited, as I was tremendously exhausted when He brought me to Him.  It is generally accepted that those spirits of our brethren who chose a dark path are either doomed to wander through Eä, bodiless and powerless, or consigned to the Void until the Dagor Dagorath.  Do you have reason to believe that Mótan may have met with a different fate?"

Turmanarmo sighed heavily.  "Not so much a belief as a hope, perhaps a foolish one.  Some of the others in my lord's service speculated that if you were taken back to our true home after suffering an incarnate death, then those whose fates we do not know should also have been taken back, if they died in such a fashion."  

His grimace was one of a troubled mind in deep thought, not anger.  "Their reasoning seemed flawed to me, somehow, but despite his terrible mistake in abandoning us, I still love my brother.  I had hoped you might know something more."

This particular news took Olórin aback.  Over the ages, he had heard many things about the ultimate fate of the fallen Ainur, and while it was known for certain that some, like Melkor, were indeed imprisoned in the Void, the fates of the fallen Maiar were not.  If any of the Valar knew, they had kept silent on the matter, but it was Olórin's personal opinion that they knew no more than they had already told.  He was aware that some considered his brief return to the Timeless Halls as an unprecedented reward, but he didn't know that others, like Turmanarmo, might regard it as an indication of what had become of the diminished Maiar as well.

"I wish I did, truly," the Istar said with his own regretful sigh.  "I have come perilously near to the fate of utter diminishment, and in pity, I would wish it on no one, not even those who betrayed me, or the one who slew my hröa.  But much though I wish to ease your pain, I cannot lie and give you false hope.  I saw no one in the Timeless Halls who had become sundered from us in ages past."

The dark-haired Maia's face dimmed with sadness.  "None at all?"  The question was asked in a wistful tone, an attempt to hold onto the last threads of unraveling hope.

But Olórin shook his head.  "None.  That doesn't mean they are forever lost to us," he offered, since that was a hope he shared.  "Perhaps Father has a place apart where He keeps them for a time, even as Mandos has a separate place for the fëar of the Secondborn, where they wait for a while before moving on beyond the circles of the world."

That possibility clearly hadn't occurred to Turmanarmo, for his fallen expression lifted, if just a tiny bit.  "That may be so," he willingly allowed.  "We may have sung many notes of the Great Music, but we did not sing all, and the mind and imagination of the One is far beyond the feeble reckoning of even the mightiest of us."  His sigh was now one of relief.  "Thank you for pointing that out to me, Olórin.  I honestly held scant hope that you had actually seen Mótan, but this does give me reason to hope that someday, we will meet again."

"Then I'm glad you found me here.  Would you like to come back to camp and share the evening meal with us?  My Elven companions often forget that having one hobbit among us doesn't mean they need to bring enough provisions for an army!"

Turmanarmo managed a wan but earnest smile as he shook his head.  "No, thank you, I must finish my errand for Lord Aulë.  But before I go, may I give you a word of advice, poor though it may be?"  When Olórin inclined his head, urging him to continue, he did.  "I know that I am not the most wise or perceptive of our people, but I have heard enough in recent days to realize that some have taken deep offense over what came after your terrible suffering at the hands of... of a valarauka."  His hesitance to even think the word was understandable, given the fate of his brother.  "They are gravely mistaken, and to me, their bitterness seems to have strange roots.  What they are is unclear to me, but you are wiser than I, Olórin.  If you should chance to speak to one of these — Mirulinda, or more likely Nólaquen — listen if you can to the words beneath their words.  I feel that they are most important."

The words beneath Turmanarmo's own were clear.  He was aware of the unrest among their people, and wished to see it settled before it turned to open rebellion.  He was an excellent crafter and had been the source of many brilliant ideas that enriched those things of Aulë's purview, but the subtleties of politics and such by and large eluded him.  For him to mention this now meant that he had noticed something worthy of further investigation, even though he could not do so himself — and Olórin did not spurn what he offered.

"If I have an opportunity, I will.  I'm grateful for your advice, Turmanarmo, and for your honesty.  I'm also curious.  Given how I died, didn't you have some trepidation when you considered asking me about your brother?"

An odd smile touched the darker Maia's face.  "A few days ago... yes, I was hesitant to ask you.  Even though Mótan was not the one who killed you, I had no wish to arouse your anger, or painful memories.  But then it occurred to me that you have a brother who did far worse, even though you only recently discovered your kinship.  I think I know you well enough to realize that you were far more likely to sympathize than to become angry.  Was I mistaken?"

Olórin chuckled as he smiled back.  "No, not at all.  I do sympathize, and you haven't hurt me. You have, in fact, given me much to think upon."

And as Turmanarmo continued on his way and Olórin headed back to camp with his armload of wood, his thoughts were indeed reflecting upon all the other Maia had said.  Both Mirulinda and Nólaquen were among the dissidents; they both had siblings, and moreover, those siblings had followed Melkor during the years before the coming of the Firstborn.  That was an interesting connection between them, but Olórin knew that not all of the dissidents had connections to those who had fallen to the dark, nor did they all have kin.  

Still, that several of them had that much in common made it worthy of further examination.  It was unlikely that he would see Mirulinda, one of Yavanna's Maiar, any time soon, but Nólaquen was one of Irmo's people who seldom left Lórien.  Arranging an "chance" encounter with him should be comparatively easy — and if it proved to be otherwise, the Istar was sure he could count on Ványalos to help give "chance" a nudge in the right direction.

Next:

Curiouser and Curiouser





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