III

As Eönwë turned his horse about, the gates opened behind him, admitting them into the city. Frodo could find few words to describe any of it, then, or even in after times when he thought back to his first arrival in Valmar. The splendor and beauty of the city of the Valar was beyond anything he had seen in Middle-earth, or even elsewhere in the Undying Lands. What he long remembered most of that moment were the people who lined the broad golden street that ran from east to west through the city, watching their passage in respectful silence as the bells rang out all around them. As their company rode by, the watchers followed on foot, and so it was they passed through the western gates of the city and to the Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom. From without, the place appeared to be a round court with white walls and no roof, set with many wide windows to let in the light of sun and star and moon, surrounded by trees and shrubs and flowering vines that leant a sweet fragrance to the air. There were no gates or doors to bar their entry into the court, and thus Eönwë led them on without dismounting.

As they went beyond the walls into the hall itself, Frodo saw that inside lay a ring of high seats, fourteen thrones set in a circle with a floor of shimmering white stone in their midst, like a pool of gleaming pearl. Outside the circle, behind and between the thrones, many folk were gathered, as many had stood along the road and upon the fields outside and around the Máhanaxar, but they were not what held Frodo's eye. As they rode on into the center of the broad ring, the hobbit recognized the high seats as things he had seen in his dream just before the dawn. These were the thrones of the Valar, and each was unique and reflected some part of the essence of the person seated upon it. In his vision, Frodo had been dimly aware that the thrones were occupied, but he had not truly noticed the people in them. Now, as he looked from one to the next, amazed, he found himself recalling from some dim memory the names that went with each of the majestic beings.

As they entered the ring itself, they passed between two of the thrones. Both high seats were of silver, the one to the left draped in shimmering grays like still waters under a full moon covered with a thin veil of mist, that on the right covered with cloths of deep blue and silver that shifted softly with each movement of air and flicker of light so that it appeared almost ghostly, like a dream vision come to life. On the first was seated a beautiful dark-haired woman with a calm, peaceful face, gowned and veiled in gray. Her gray eyes followed the company as they passed by, and her glance soothed those it fell upon. In the other seat was a raven-haired man in raiment that spoke of the night and dreams, both of sleeping and waking; his silver eyes were kind, but held a spark the woman's did not, of deep thoughts, ancient memories, and gentle humor. Estë, Frodo remembered, was the woman's name, the Healer, while the man was her husband, Irmo, the Master of Dreams.

Beside Estë, seated on thrones of bright brass and lush cloths of brown and green, was another couple, both merry of expression with lively dark eyes. The blond man, who was fitted with gilt ceremonial armor but wore no helm, was Tulkas, the champion of the Valar, who had come to Arda to help in the first war against Melkor. His long golden beard was elaborately plaited and fell almost to his broad belt. The chestnut-tressed woman beside him, his wife Nessa, wore a gown of gold and green, simple in fashion but as light and elegant as a butterfly's wing, as were the delicate slippers on her feet. She delighted in running and dancing, and there was a grace and happiness about her that made her seem to be forever in motion even when she was seated and still.

In the part of the circle beyond Irmo, seated on thrones of polished black stone, were the three darkest of all its members: a tall, black-haired, dark-eyed, pale-skinned man robed in black and deepest purple, seated between two women. The one on his left was small and slender with long-fingered hands and elegant almond-shaped violet eyes; her smooth dark hair was caught up in a silver net into which many gems of amethyst and jet had been woven. She was clad in a gown that appeared to be fashioned from intricate webs of the finest deep purple threads. The woman on his right was tall but strong as a slender mallorn that has weathered many storms, gowned in midnight blue velvet flecked with what appeared to be drops of dew or silver tears; her raven hair was covered by a veil of dark gray, bound with a simple fillet of silver. The latter woman was so like to the man in face and coloring, it was clear they were related, as one could see a similar resemblance between them and Irmo. The woman in purple was Vairë the Weaver, who wove the tapestries that told the histories of all Arda; the man was her husband Námo, Lord of Mandos, the Doomsayer of the Valar who kept the Halls where waited the spirits of the dead. The other woman was his sister Nienna, called the Weeper, for she knew most the ways of pity, as well as long-suffering patience and hope. Vairë and Námo watched with a strangely detached curiosity as the newcomers entered, as if they were intensely interested, but felt a need to maintain an aloof demeanor for tradition's sake. Nienna's expression was more open, soft in a way that Frodo couldn't quite call a smile, though he could sense great kindness in her regard.

Beyond Tulkas were the thrones of Oromë and Vána, the great huntsman of the Valar and his wife, the younger sister of Yavanna, the essence of renewal and youth. Their thrones were of polished amber-hued wood, beautifully carved; Vána's was draped with garlands of the flowers she so loved, while Oromë's was cushioned with pillows fashioned of the hides of the beasts he had vanquished to free the forests of Middle-earth from Melkor's domination. Beside his throne rested a great horn bound in silver and gold, the Valaróma, the sounding of which struck fear into the hearts of any who opposed the Valar. His clothing was that of a hunter, but one dressed for a celebration, in deep browns and greens with a cloak of silvery-white. Vána's gown was the color of spring leaves and embellished with an intricate tracery of flowers; blossoms adorned her golden hair, and the smile she gave the new arrivals was the pure wild joy of eternal youth.

Beside Oromë, on a seat of pearl and silver, was Ulmo, the Lord of the Waters, a tall and powerful man with hair and beard the color of sea foam, eyes the hue of the deep ocean, and garb that shimmered silver and blue and green like the scales of fish in clear sunlit waters. Frodo knew very little about some of the lesser Valar, but tales of the Lord of Oceans were known even among the hobbits, especially those who lived in the western parts of the Shire, on the Tower Hills nearest to the sea. He was quite surprised to see the Vala here, for the tales said that Ulmo seldom left the deep waters, and when he did, he even more seldom chose to show himself in a visible form. That he was here — along with Námo and Nienna, who were also seldom wont to leave their chosen homes — spoke of the importance of this occasion to those who lived in Aman. The hobbit swallowed a bit nervously and tried not to let it show as he glanced at the remaining members of the circle.

The couple seated beside Nienna were as easily identifiable as Ulmo. Aulë the Smith, who had done much in the shaping of the physical world and had once fashioned the fathers of the Dwarves, was a majestic epitome of what one imagined when one thought of a blacksmith: very tall, very strong, skin darkened by the heat of the forge, clever fingered, bright eyed. His garb was simple, in reds and black, though he wore a dark metal belt of masterful craft, doubtless fashioned by his own hands; on his dark haired head was set a circlet of equally intricate craft, made of all the metals and gems of the earth. He watched the newcomers with interest, particularly the hobbits, who doubtless reminded him of the Dwarf folk he had once made in his eagerness for children to teach, and whom Eru had adopted out of compassion. His wife, Yavanna, was almost his antithesis, yet she complemented him so plainly, their devotion was completely understandable. She was tall and slender and beautiful as a beech tree in full leaf, yet also as strong as an ancient oak, with deep roots and branches that could withstand the most powerful storm. She was gowned all in dark green and gold; a girdle of golden leaves was about her waist and a circlet of golden flowering vines upon her auburn red hair. Her throne was similar to those of Oromë and Vána, yet more intricate, with adornments of gold, as Aulë's seat of carved marble was like to those of the three beside him, but more finely crafted and set with polished gems.

Finally, between Yavanna and Ulmo were seated the king and queen of the Valar — indeed, of all Arda — Manwë and Varda. The lady — Kindler of the Stars, called Elbereth by the Elves — sat upon a magnificent throne of silver beset with white gems that caught the light and glittered like the stars themselves. Varda herself was tall and fair, so beautiful that Frodo understood why the Elves said she was beyond description. Her clothing was purest white and simple as that of a young Elf maid, but her beauty was such that she needed no great finery to enhance it. Her girdle was of twined silver cord, and a circlet of silver beset with many tiny white gems made it appear as if a ring of stars had come down from the heavens to be her crown. A gentle smile was upon her face, and her bright eyes lingered upon Frodo long enough for him to know she had looked upon him directly, but not so long as to make him uncomfortable. He struggled not to blush under her gaze, but suspected it was a war he did not quite win.

Rather than embarrass himself, he politely looked away to her spouse, Manwë Súlimo. The Elder King, lord of the air and winds and skies, was majestic to behold, but less painfully beautiful than his lady wife. Seated upon a throne of gold, fashioned in swirls and bends and twists of metal that suggested both the movement of air and the graceful flowing shapes of clouds, Manwë was a tall and noble figure of blue and white, his regal robes and eyes the color of a fair summer sky, his hair and his beard white as the clouds against them. He bore no weapon, but held in his hand a scepter fashioned of solid sapphire, the signet of his lordship over both the Ainur and all Arda. He wore a crown of gold and blue that reminded Frodo neither of the crowns of Men and Dwarves nor the circlets of the Elves, but something of each, crafted by a hand more skillful than any. When Frodo looked in his direction, the Vala looked back, and smiled warmly. For a moment, the hobbit was taken aback. The expression was neither haughty nor condescending, or aloof and untouchable as he might have expected from the mightiest of the Valar. It reminded him less of cool smiles he had received from noble lords of Elves and Men, and much more of those he had been given by Gandalf.

The surprise of that realization prompted him to look in the wizard's direction, but at that moment, they stopped, then dismounted. People Frodo did not recognize appeared from somewhere beyond the ring of thrones to help their guests and to lead away their steeds. A startlingly tall fellow with coppery hair and clothes of deep blue and silver smiled as he helped the younger halfling from his pony; he was not an Elf, Frodo could see, and thus concluded that he must be one of the Maiar who served here in Valinor. Before he could say more than a polite thank you, however, the fellow was gone again, leading away the pony as other Maiar tended to the remaining guests and beasts. When they had left, only the bearers and Eönwë remained within the circle. The herald stood at its center to address the Valar, while the rest of them remained closer to the edge opposite Manwë and Varda.

“I have brought them as commanded, my lord,” the herald said, bowing to the Elder King but acknowledging all of the Valar with a sweeping gesture.

“You have our thanks, my herald,” Manwë replied in a remarkably gentle voice that Frodo very much suspected could rise to the roar of terrible thunder at need, as the wind could so do. As Eönwë stepped out of the circle to take his place beside the king, Manwë turned his smile to Gil-galad. “And our thanks to you, Ereinion Gil-galad, for escorting your companions from the port of Tirion and leading them to the gates of our city before the closing of the day. Your part in the tale of the Rings is now completed; thus let us bring it full circle in closing the saga for all concerned.”

Eönwë resumed his role as herald and called out, “Nowë Círdan of the Sindar, come forward.”

Surprise flashed briefly across the ancient Elf's face, then was quickly schooled to calm as he did as requested — for it was definitely a request, not a command, such was Eönwë's tone of voice. With no additional instruction, he stepped forward to the spot where Eönwë had stood while addressing his lord, and bowed his head graciously, as was the habit of his people when showing respect.

Manwë glanced at Ulmo before continuing. “Though once the sea called to you and awakened the desire to set sail for the Undying Lands, you heeded the words of the Lord of the Waters, and remained in Endorë to guide and teach the arts of shipbuilding and seafaring, not only for the benefit of the Eldar and the Edain, but so that your skills might be there when most needed, first by Eärendil who sought and found the West and pardon as well as aid, and now by those who have come with you from mortal lands to bring an end to the Elder times in Middle-earth. Your courage in lending assistance to peoples oppressed by the Enemy and your wisdom in surrendering a thing of power rather than hoard it for your own safety and benefit have earned you honor, and whatever reward this land has to offer. You have only to name it.”

The shipwright spoke earnestly, and without hesitation. “I can think of nothing, my lord, that could be a greater reward than being allowed to come to this beautiful place and to at last see the blessed ones whom I have long imagined but never beheld with my own eyes. I have lived a very long life, and my needs and wants are little, now. To meet again old friends who have long since passed into the West will be a great pleasure to me, and I will be content if I might be allowed to continue to live near the sea, and perhaps ply my craft as might be needed. Ships may no longer be needed to fare between Aman and Endorë, but what little I can do from time to time to maintain or repair or enhance what vessels are used to travel between the shore and the Lonely Isle would be enough to give me purpose.”

“Then so shall it be,” Manwë said, pleased. “Ulmo had hoped you would make such a request, and thus there are those of his folk and many of the Teleri who will gladly assist you in whatever ways you need to find your place in Aman -- especially your kinsman, Olwë. Be welcome, and take with you our thanks for all you have done since your first awakening at Cuiviénen.”

Círdan bowed again, this time pausing to recognize Ulmo as well, then withdrew to rejoin the others. Manwë turned his eyes to another of their company.

Eönwë gave the summons. “Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin and Eärwen.”

There was the faintest hint of a pause before the Elf lady stepped forward to take Círdan's place. The ritual of greeting and speaking to honored guests one by one was certainly not unknown to her, and she had fully expected this, but in spite of Gil-galad's assurances, she was doubtful of her welcome. Nonetheless, she came forward with a purposeful stride, neither cringing nor displaying an excess of pride, but merely moving with the dignity of one who had been raised in a noble house. Her obeisance to the king and queen was done as she had been taught in her childhood, respectful, and at long last with proper humility. She understood her position and that some among the Valar might yet consider her a rebel, and she was determined to seem neither obsequious nor insolent.

Manwë's eyes turned for a moment to Varda, and the Valië smiled softly. Some unreadable thought flitted between them before he looked back to Galadriel. “How well we remember your presence in this land during ages past, daughter of the house of Finarfin! Long have we regretted all the misunderstandings which came between us at the time of the Revolt, for had you but learned greater patience and had we shown more forbearance and compassion, perhaps the fire of rebellion would not have wakened so strongly in your heart, and hardened it against us when we offered pardon to your people. You shed no blood and swore no oath, and so perhaps believed you needed no forgiveness, and there are those among us who have plead on your behalf in your absence.” His gaze shifted briefly to Nienna and Irmo. He sighed. “Yet mistakes were made, by us and by you, that in the end have proved of greater good than could have been foreseen. In Middle-earth, your strength and leadership gave guidance which was sorely needed in a time of great trouble, and without it, I deem the cost to all Endorë would have been dear, to the point, mayhap, that there would now be little rejoicing and far greater sorrow in the lands of the East.”

“You are gracious, my lord,” Galadriel replied with suitable and earnest deference. “And I have done what I might to be of service to my people and all those who dwelled within Middle-earth. But I know my own mind and heart, and only too well am I aware that it has taken long for me to learn the lessons of patience and humility, and put aside the pride that led me to crave freedom from Aman, and lands to order to my own will. It was not until I had been made to bear long and difficult responsibility for many more lives than my own that I finally came to understand the burdens of power and mastery. It wearies one in heart and spirit, for complete control is the power of none save Eru Ilúvatar. I know this now, and at last came to understand the deceitful seduction of power when I saw the One Ring come within my grasp. It would have destroyed all I wished to accomplish, not saved it. Thus I finished playing out the role I had set myself, until the Enemy was defeated, but now, I understand the wisdom which many have attempted to teach me down the long years, and I desire power no longer. If I may be granted rest here in the lands of my birth, which I know now I love most dearly than any I dared to call my own, I will be most grateful.”

Manwë smiled. “This we offered you two ages ago, when we pardoned all your kindred, and though you refused it then, the offer was not withdrawn. Be welcome back, then, child of Finarfin. Your kin and others who have long missed you and whom you have yearned to see again await you. All blame is lifted from you, in reward for your labors against the Enemy, and in response to your words of regret. You have done well, and acquitted yourself with honor.”

Acknowledging this, Galadriel did obeisance to the Valar once again, but before withdrawing turned to the Valar Queen. “If it is permitted, Lady Varda, most gracious queen of the stars whose light was a beacon to many throughout our final struggles against the Enemy, I would make a gift to you, in token of the gratitude of the Children of Ilúvatar, and of the Elves in especial. Many thousands of years ago, at the beginnings of the last long conflict, the Ring Nenya was given into my keeping, in it a portion of the power of the Eldar in Middle-earth. As I desire power no longer and renounce it forever, I would like to surrender Nenya to you, if I may, for it was wrought in shape and hue as a precious reflection of your stars.”

Varda smiled gently and nodded. At her signal of acceptance, Galadriel stepped forward to the foot of her throne, and bending gracefully to one knee, removed the mithril ring and offered it to the queen. Varda took it, and as the ring was set upon the palm of her outstretched hand, she laid the other atop the Elf woman's, holding it for a moment in a gesture of thanks before releasing her. Galadriel smiled in return as she paid her respects one last time, then returned to the others at the far side of the ring.

Eönwë called out once more. “Elrond Peredhel, son of Eärendil and Elwing.”

When the Elf lord came forward into the circle and bowed to those who had summoned him, Varda's smile brightened as she traded glances with her husband. Manwë appeared equally pleased. “We are glad to meet you at last, son of the Mariner, who came to us long ago to beg for pardon in crimes he did not commit in order to win our forgiveness and our aid for all who stood against the Dark Enemy. It grieves us that you and your brother paid dearly for what Fate decreed must be the doom of your parents, for no child should be so sorely deprived of the love and care of their kin over a matter of madness and greed. Yet that is a time now long gone, and though Elros your brother chose a path that took him beyond the circles of the world, we are gladdened by your choice, that of your mother and father, for it has given us this opportunity to see you, and offer you our thanks for all you have done in our cause during the years of your life. In time, you may see your parents once again, but for now, others await you: the parents of your father, whom he had hoped to find in his earliest journeys into the West, the kin of your mother who reside now in Aman — and one, I think, you have long wished to see more than any other.”

Manwë gestured to something behind the Elf; when he turned to follow the motion, he saw Celebrían, his wife, standing a little apart from the group of bearers, smiling a smile he knew he had missed but not how deeply until this moment. It took every bit of discipline he possessed to refrain from running to her, but his answering smile was as brilliant as her own, and held the anticipation of joy he had feared lost to him forever. He turned back to the Elder King, aware that his interview was not quite ended. “Thank you, my lords and ladies,” he said, gratitude shining in his eyes, “for both the kind words you have offered to me, and for receiving my wife in her time of great need. For all my skills, I could not heal her, and I had faith that the powers in this indeed Blessed Land would succeed where I had failed. Since we were parted, I hoped with all my heart that what I did to help the peoples of Middle-earth against the growing shadow would be some payment to balance the scales of debt I would owe you, for Celebrían's sake as well as my own.”

“The debt is more than repaid, son of Eärendil,” Manwë assured him, “for you have labored long and diligently, and have lost much that was also dear to you in both the struggle against the darkness and in the establishment of the Age of Men in Endorë. As our dominion ends and that of Men begins, take comfort, if you may, in knowing that you have contributed much to ensure that the strength and wisdom of the Elder races will be a part of that world, even though we ourselves be forgotten. Here there is now a place for you, prepared by your wife and kin you have yet to meet. May you and the members of your household who wish to join you find joy and peace within it, until the world is renewed.”

Elrond bowed deeply, in respect. “I could ask for no better reward, my lord. Like my kinswoman Galadriel, I would now happily surrender any burden of power to you, who were made the Lord of all Arda. Vilya was fashioned to represent the strengths of those things which have ever been under your dominion, and if it may be permitted, I would choose to be a Ring-bearer no longer.”

“Then I accept your gift,” Manwë said, his words grave, but his expression light. When he had taken the ring Elrond offered, he nodded graciously in thanks, and the Elf withdrew as decorously as he could in his haste to be reunited with his wife. Conscious of the propriety of their circumstances, he took her hand and kissed it lightly, his eyes never leaving hers, yet their fingers remained twined together as they stood close, side by side, to witness the remainder of the proceedings. The smiles on the faces and in the eyes of those watching them were brighter, now, for not even the most dour natured person present could remain unaffected by such a simple yet touching and much-delayed reunion.

Eönwë was smiling rather broadly when he was prompted to make the next announcement. “Bilbo, son of Bungo and Belladonna of the Periannath.”

The elderly hobbit — who had been searching his pockets for a handkerchief to dab away the dampness in his eyes that had welled up from seeing his old friend Elrond at long last reunited with the wife he loved so dearly and had missed for so very long — was so distracted, he didn't quite realize his name had been called out until Frodo nudged him and whispered it in his ear. He then was so flustered, not having expected such a summons, that he did not move until he felt Gandalf's staff press against his back and gently prod him forward. The other bearers were making a concerted effort to refrain from laughing, since Bilbo was so seldom nervous about receiving attention of any kind. With a mildly scolding glance at the wizard, he finally drew himself up, stepped forward, slowed by his age but still with dignity, until he stopped where the others had all stood. He then bowed deeply to the king and queen in proper hobbit fashion. He also had the wit to remember it was polite not to speak until spoken to, when interacting with ones of such lofty station.

Manwë chuckled, both softly and kindly. “So at last, we meet face to face one of the Little Folk, of which we have heard much and seen much from afar, but never near. We have long known that Lord Eru created your people for a destiny of which we knew very little, and in our ignorance, we wondered what fate He might have for ones of such gentle simplicity. Yet we see now His plan, at the end of the struggle. The decision that was made many years ago to place before you a choice which would guide you to find the Ring which had long been lost was no error, for indeed the hands of the small and seemingly weak were able to find what not even the mighty and powerful and greatly learned could discover. To you, perhaps, your role in the tale of that Ring has not been an important one, but it was indeed most necessary, and without it, much could have gone very ill indeed. You did well, and what comfort and reward this land has to offer you has been fully earned.”

Bilbo bowed again, an appropriate hobbit acknowledgment of the Vala's praise. “Thank you, my lord. I suppose it is true what Gandalf's told me time and again, how even great heros play only small roles in great deeds, and considering how many wicked people wanted to get their hands on that Ring, it may indeed have been just as well that it stumbled into mine, a mere hobbit who thought it nothing more than a pretty magic trinket, useful on occasion, but not something capable of terrible things. I... oh, do forgive me for carrying on so,” he said when the sound of someone clearing their throat reminded him that he was not at an inn in the Shire, nor even in the Hall of Fire in Rivendell, accounting his old adventures among friends and neighbors. From their expressions, the Valar were at the very least genially tolerant, some actually quite amused by his behavior, and Bilbo took that as a sign of acceptance, but also a reminder to consider what he was saying a bit more carefully. “I am very grateful for this chance to see such a beautiful land and meet such great persons as yourselves, for all the more good it may do me before my end. Being here at all is a marvelous reward, since this place has such an invigorating and refreshing air about it! I feel quite the young hobbit again, even if my old joints tell me otherwise. The only thing I could think to ask for is some small place to stay, a cosy room or two to call my own where I might do a bit of writing, see my old friends, and perhaps meet new ones, from time to time.”

Manwë nodded. “Such a place has indeed been prepared for you, since it was long known that you are a member of the household of Elrond. There you shall live in peace and contentment for as many days as you wish.”

Bilbo was delighted. “Splendid! Thank you, my lord, I could ask for nothing better.” Bowing yet again, first to the king and then to the queen, the old hobbit returned to his place, glad to know that even after such a long voyage to a new world, his comfortable old life would not be so terribly disrupted, after all. Many smiling eyes around the ring followed him as he went, this time assisted by one of the Maia servants who had come forward to help him. Frodo smiled at his cousin, pleased by his satisfaction and the knowledge that Bilbo, at least, would be very happy here.

“Frodo, son of Drogo and Primula.”

The voice of the herald summoning him chilled the younger hobbit for a moment. He was almost afraid to step forward, fearing that he would be the one exception to their praise almost as much as he feared the possibility of being praised. But though he would have stayed back if he could, he knew this was something he had to face, and delaying it would not profit him in the slightest. He did not move forward quite as briskly or nobly as the others, but step forward he did, stopping where Bilbo had just stood, and following his example of offering both the Elder King and his queen a proper hobbit bow of greeting and respect.

There was a reassuring gentility in both Manwë's voice and expression, things that once again reminded Frodo not of a great king of ancient legend and immeasurable power, but of Gandalf in one of his kinder and merrier moods. “Bearer of the One,” he said, “we come to you last not because you have done the least, but because we do not know how to properly honor one who did what we, or any of our people, could not. Your victory, perhaps, did not come as you might have wished, but it came — not because you yourself hurled the Ring into the Gulf of Doom, but because you spared a creature worthy of death, not knowing that in giving him his life, you were ensuring the success of your quest. Your strength of body and mind could not carry you until the end, but the strength of pity and compassion in your heart had more than the full measure your task required. From its very beginning, the struggle against Sauron has not been a simple task; ever has it required many efforts made by many people, supporting the needed action oft in unexpected ways, for the greater goal to be achieved. No player in this great drama fulfilled their given role without difficulty or without the aid of others, and though yours came both from sources expected and unexpected, your ends were achieved by honorable means. Do not belittle your achievement, for we could never rebuke someone for giving his all, and more, when he had nothing left to give. We are greatly in your debt, son of Drogo, and whatever you might wish, if it is within our authority to do so, it will be granted you.”

“I was told I might find healing and rest here,” Frodo said after a moment's thought, “and if that is possible, I will be content, truly. It is sometimes very hard for me to believe I did not fail miserably in the matter of the Ring because of what I did at the end, but if I could be freed of the pains and darkness I cannot seem to lose from the wounds I received and the horrible burden of carrying that awful thing for so long...! If I can find relief and happiness for just a little while, that would be more than enough. My needs are no greater than Bilbo's. To live for a time in peace among friends would indeed be a blessing.”

“And you shall have it,” Manwë assured him. “Lord Eru fashioned each of his peoples with singular gifts, and to yours was given a strength and resilience to resist evil and its lure more than any other. This above all will aid you in your recovery. You will be healed, made whole, and be happy again, if that is your wish.”

“Very much so, my lord,” the halfling said quietly. “It was all I ever really wanted for myself after the Ring was destroyed and the war was over. I couldn't find it in the Shire, but I had hoped I would find it here.”

“Then so you shall. Estë and Irmo are most skilled in the kinds of healing you need, as well as in matters of rest; they will give you whatever aid you require, as will all the powers who dwell in Aman, both greater and lesser. Wherever you wish to dwell, a place will be made for you, and you will find our people ever ready to assist in whatever way you might need or want. Tonight, all of Aman gathers in festival; share it with us, and come to know us better. You are well come indeed, and shall be for as long as you choose to remain with us.”

Frodo offered his thanks in hobbit fashion, then withdrew, momentarily lightheaded with relief. He hadn't quite known what to expect in his conversation with Manwë, and was pleased that it had gone so easily and so well. He let out a long, deep sigh, and smiled when Bilbo patted his shoulder in approval.

After Frodo had joined the others, all abruptly became quiet, both inside the hall and without; the sounds of the bells and all other music and voices ceased. It seemed as if the semi-ceremony was now concluded, and they were merely waiting to be dismissed. As he considered that possibility, Frodo found such a notion deeply disturbing, not because he felt personally slighted, but because though he and Bilbo and the Elven Ring-bearers had been called forward to accept words of gratitude and praise, Gandalf had not even been mentioned by those he supposedly served. He had stood silently, watching the proceedings, and though he did not appear in any way upset — and indeed had seemed quite pleased by some of the remarks made, especially to Frodo — the hobbit wondered if this was typical of the way the Valar treated their Maia servants: perfunctorily, as if immediate and unquestioning compliance was demanded, and expected to be given without thanks. If so, he considered it exceptionally rude. He could never have thought of behaving like this toward someone in his service, especially when that someone had done his work very well indeed.

Irritated thoughts began to creep into his mind, a desire to say something rather than see his friend so summarily ignored, when he noticed several persons enter the circle, carrying a litter of unusually elegant craft, similar to the designs of things he had seen in the Valarin city and the thrones around them. They placed it near the spot Frodo had just vacated, atop a slab of white stone that rose up from the floor of the open court as they approached it. The bearers covered the pallet with an intricate cloth of white and blue and silver and gold, then disappeared back into the shadows outside the circle.

The silence was at last broken when Manwë, not Eönwë, spoke again. “Olórin, come,” he said. “It is time.”

For a moment, Frodo wondered who he was addressing. When the hitherto silent wizard stepped forward, the hobbit remembered with a start that he had heard the unusual name before, first from Faramir, and later from Gandalf himself. “Olórin I was in the West....” Of course, that was the name the other Valinoreans would use for him, not Gandalf.

The wizard stepped forward, smiling at the puzzled Frodo before passing on into the circle. He moved to stand on one side of the covered litter, in the spot where Frodo and the others had stood not long ago, and there looked up at the Valar surrounding him.

Manwë smiled softly. “Here the embassy of the Istari began more than two thousand years ago,” he said solemnly, “and here it shall finally come to its end. We had once hoped this day would arrive for all the brethren of your Order, and it grieves us that now, only you remain. But you have done well, Olórin, far better than any of us here foresaw — save, perhaps, Varda. She knew from the first that you were destined to an end we had not anticipated.”

“But not to this end,” said the star-queen, speaking for the first time. “Only Eru Ilúvatar truly foresaw this, and it shames us to have underestimated you so badly. You are humble and never put yourself forward, seeking praise or power or reverence, yet if not for all you did secretly and quietly against the designs of Melkor two ages ago, Endorë would have long since been lost. By your own wish, you were given no public praise or recognition for what you did then to kindle hope and courage and imagination in the hearts of the Children of Ilúvatar, and we accepted it as your choice of a reward for your service. Now, you may ask that we do the same, but it is the wish of Ilúvatar Himself that we refuse, for at last, your labors on behalf of all Arda have reached their ultimate fruition, and He desires that which you have done to be made known and properly recognized among all our people, and our guests of His children who reside in Aman. Do you plan to contest His will?”

Gandalf shook his head. “No, my lady. He and I discussed this matter when I was returned to Endorë to complete my task, and I understood that should all my hopes be realized, this moment would come. As I accepted what Lord Eru told me then, I accept this now, and am full ready to see the embassy of the Istari — and my own part in the Fate of Arda — concluded, as was meant from the beginning.”

“Then let it be so,” Manwë declared, and gestured to the litter. Acknowledging the simply stated command, the wizard lay down upon it, his staff held atop his body so that it rested along the full length of him, from head to toe. He closed his eyes, visibly relaxed, and took several deep breaths. Frodo could see the rising and falling of his chest as he inhaled and exhaled deeply; then, he took one especially deep breath, held it for a moment, and released it in a long soft sigh. There was a wistful sound to it that the hobbit did not fully understand, until the last of it was expelled, and the wizard's chest did not rise again.