V

As Shadowfax flew across the open plains, away from Valmar and the mountains in the east, it occurred to Frodo that this was a unique occasion for him, in more ways than one. Aside from the fact that he was traveling across a beautiful new land with the most pleasant scented wind in his face, it was the very first time he had ever ridden astride the great gray horse. It was also the first time he had ever ridden with the wizard, on this or any other beast. The only other time he had ever been on horseback rather than on a pony was when he had been placed on Glorfindel's Asfaloth, between Weathertop and Rivendell. The memories of that time were still dark, and he recalled very little of that portion of their journey, aside from the terrible feelings of fear and pain.

Now, the circumstances were quite different. He was not racing from a dreadful enemy, hoping against hope to reach aid before he succumbed to the will of the Dark Lord. He was riding with one of the dearest friends he had ever known, the person who had, perhaps, given more of himself to help defeat that Dark Lord than any other. The wind of their passage was refreshing, the country around them was lovely; when the memory of Weathertop and his wound caused his shoulder to ache and a shadow of cold evil to darken his mind again, he felt Olórin touch his arm, ever so lightly, and both the pain and the shadow completely disappeared.

He smiled. He did not know if it was merely a coincidence, but since this was the second time since his arrival that such a thing had happened, he could not help but feel that it was not. Unencumbered by the restrictions he had known in Middle-earth, the Maia seemed more perceptive of all around him, including the suffering and dark memories of his halfling companion, and his ability to help was also greater. Perhaps he would ask about it later, Frodo reflected, but for now, he was content. He had never thought he could be at ease in any land but the Shire, without the familiarity of other hobbits around him, but with Olórin, he felt comfortable, at peace. Smiling to himself, he leaned back against his old friend in wordless gratitude, and watched the world fly by beneath Shadowfax's hoofs.

After a time, drowsiness washed over him, and he dozed without realizing it until the horse slowed his pace and the rhythm of movement changed. He had been dreaming of the Shire, of the green fields, singing streams, grassy hills, wooded glens, the scent of flowers and sunshine on fresh earth, the song of birds, the warmth of home. He opened his eyes, and thought he was still dreaming.

From the position of the sun in the sky, it was now mid to late morning. Shadowfax had come to a halt atop a rise that looked out over a wide valley, and as he beheld the land spread out before them, Frodo saw not an unfamiliar new place, but the Shire. He would have thought that all the events of the days before he had wakened were the dream and he was back in Middle-earth, but for the lack of hobbit holes and tilled fields. But the resemblance to his native land was so uncanny, he could not restrain a soft gasp at the remarkable sight.

He both felt and heard Olórin's gentle chuckle. “Yes, I suppose you can see now why I was so fond of the Shire, even with its absurd collection of hobbits digging their homes into the sides of the hills. What the Elves were thinking of when they called this the Garden of Valinor was something rather different from what you would call a garden, less groomed for farming and more the natural world allowed to grow in its own way, with its own beauty merely lovingly tended, not ordered for the purpose of growing crops or formally arranged plantings. That is why I was drawn to this place as my home, even though I am a servant of Lord Manwë. Its simplicity spoke to me on a level that touched my very heart. When I first saw the Shire, it stirred dim memories of my home, and whenever I was in need of peace and rest, I could find no better place for it.”

“Is this the land they call Lórien?” the hobbit asked when he could speak again. “Why, it looks nothing at all like Lothlórien...!”

“Not here,” the Maia agreed, “but it is a large country, and there are other parts which resemble the Golden Wood — or rather, I should say there are parts of this land which the Golden Wood was designed to resemble. See the woodland surrounding the great lake?” He gestured to a place that Frodo might have mistaken for the Bywater Pool east of Hobbiton, save that he now realized it was more distant than it had at first appeared, was wrapped in a haze of silver and gold, and held an island in its midst. “That is the lake of Lórellin, where the Lady Estë dwells, and the wooded lands around it are more akin to Lothlórien than anything in the Shire. If you were to reckon the lake as being the equivalent of the Bywater Pool, then my home is some miles away to the west and south of it, about where Tuckborough would be. But please, never mention this to any Took! I'm afraid it would have quite gone to young Pippin's head, had he ever known such a thing.”

Frodo laughed, understanding, and though he felt sadness, hearing the name of a friend he would likely never see again, it passed quickly. He may have given up his own Shire and the people in it whom he loved, but now, he had a new version of it to explore, and new people to meet. Back in Middle-earth, he would have soon become a burden to his friends, not in terms of finances or other such worldly matters, but emotionally, as with each passing year, they would watch him suffer from pains and shadows they could do nothing to heal or dispel. His guilt would also have grown proportionately, so in the end, he had done the only thing he could do. When Gandalf had come to visit this past Midsummer's Eve and had told him that he would be welcomed in the West, Frodo had felt less torn than he might have only a few months before. The West offered him a chance to find healing and peace, something he had at long last concluded would never be his in Middle-earth. And every time he saw Sam or Rose or Merry or Pippin watching him with ever-growing concern, he grew more firmly convinced that he could not continue to be a part of their lives if it meant causing them pain. So he had made the decision, the only one possible to a person who genuinely loved his friends, and had gone over the Sea. He had expected that at the very least, he would be no worse off here, for Bilbo would be with him, as well as other friends — perhaps less close than those in the Shire, but friends nonetheless. At least he would not be anyone's burden, and those he had left behind could get on with their lives as they were meant to live them, in happiness.

He certainly had not expected Olórin to take him under his wing as he had, not so quickly. Perhaps he should have anticipated it; it was certainly in keeping with the general personality of the wizard he had known. The gruffness Gandalf had occasionally displayed was, Frodo now perceived, very much a feint, designed for both his own protection and that of those for whom he cared. Knowing him too well inevitably meant becoming involved in the dangerous business that was his reason for being in Middle-earth, and for him to become too close to any of its mortal inhabitants inevitably would mean heartbreak, for they could not live forever and he must eventually leave when his task was done. That he risked as much personal pain as he had in loving the peoples of Endorë was quite probably the greatest reason he was beloved by all who knew him as more than just a wandering old man, meddling in affairs not his own. That he would now have a chance to know the real person and not simply that aspect of him manifested in Gandalf the Wizard delighted Frodo, for he could already tell that there was much about him to love, and even more that he would return in friendship. He no longer felt any worry that he would continue to linger here as he had in the Shire, in recurring, horrible, wasting pain. If no one else in Aman would help him, Olórin would, in whatever ways he needed and for however long was required. No, Frodo could not feel sorry for himself over what he had left behind, not anymore. He still missed his friends, it was true, but he knew even now that he had gained much more than he could have possibly anticipated.

Happy, both with himself and the world around him, he smiled as Shadowfax set off again at a more gentle pace, down the rise and across the open hill country toward a wooded region that did indeed resemble Tookland, from a distance.

As they went, he began to notice that the countryside was not empty of inhabitants, as it first had seemed. There were all manner of familiar creatures living here, as well as people. From what Frodo could tell, some were Elves, but others were not. He could only assume that they were other temporarily incarnate Maiar, as they had about them a certain indescribable beauty and inner radiance that he had seen in many at the celebration. At length, he became aware that there were dwellings in the areas they passed, some simple and others quite magnificent, though all seemed a part of the countryside and blended in with the trees and shrubs and waters and grasses, as if they had grown from the land itself and had not been artificially constructed. They were even more a part of the hills and glens than the hobbit homes, and it warmed Frodo to know that the people of this “Shire” respected it and loved it as much as the inhabitants of his own. Some waved or called greetings as they went by, as if they were all old and familiar friends in these parts, and no attempt was made to stop them.

At length, they came to a place that so reminded Frodo of the land where the Stock Road entered the wooded hills to the east of Tuckborough, he found it difficult to imagine that the resemblance was more than coincidental. The path they were following was not as well-traveled as the road through Tookland, but it wound its ways through gentle hillocks and shady groves that seemed precisely the same as those Frodo had last seen when visiting that area. There were no hobbit holes in the hillsides, but there were other dwellings here and there, places that Frodo could almost believe were homes to a different strain of halfling families. They slowed to a trot as they passed through a denser area of trees, then came to a stream which they then followed around the curve of a larger hill. In a glen between the stream and the hill, there was another copse of what looked like beeches and lindens and what might have been mallorns. At the edge of the grove, Shadowfax halted, following some unspoken request from his master.

Frodo looked around as Olórin dismounted. The place was quite lovely, but he could see no sign of any habitations. “I was only joking when I said something about your home just being a quiet place in the woods,” he said, glancing about again to see if there was something he might have missed. “That isn't the truth, is it?”

The Maia laughed brightly as he lifted the halfling from Shadowfax's back and settled him on his feet. “No, not at all, but you've seen how many of the dwellings hereabouts seem to almost disappear into the grass and the woods. Mine is much the same, and rather less impressive. It's not far. Come.” As Shadowfax trotted off into the meadow, Olórin led Frodo onto a path that the hobbit would have sworn had not been there moments before. It led through the trees and the underbrush to a broad clearing with a gentle upward slope. Frodo stopped when they entered the open space, first because his companion did so, then because of what he saw before them.

On the other side of the clearing stood a structure the hobbit would have hesitated to call a house, and certainly would not have called unimpressive. It was not huge, but it was rather more than many of the dwellings they had passed on the way. Like them, it blended wonderfully with their surroundings, but it stood out more than the others, in a very unusual way. The place seemed to have grown where it stood, fashioned of many living branches beautifully intertwined to create walls and windows and a roof rather than trees and brush. Delicate vine-like latticework covered several large windows to either side of a pair of doors clearly of the same craftsmanship; the doors themselves opened onto a broad porch three steps above the woodland floor. Shrubs and vines in full fragrant flower hugged the base of the structure and crept up its sides and over its roof. To the right of the structure, a stream wound its way into the grove, but only after spilling down a stony hillside, falling against the smooth stones with gentle music rather than a noisy roar; rays of sunlight sifted through the trembling leaves on the surrounding trees and sparkled upon the moving water. The path they had taken ended at the bottom of the stone and wood steps, but from the look on his face, this was not at all what the Maia had expected to find here.

Frodo thought he understood. “I suppose a great deal would have changed during all the years you were gone,” he speculated. Growing things, after all, had a way of shooting up and developing in ways one did not expect, altering the appearance of a place in only a few scant years. After the passage of several thousand, quite a lot might no longer be the same.

Olórin snorted softly. “I suppose they would, but not like this! This is not my home. I was there when I returned briefly, after Moria, and I am quite certain this wasn't here...!”

“But it is your home,” a pleasantly musical voice said from behind them, almost laughing. Frodo looked up and felt his eyes widen as he beheld a stunningly beautiful woman, pale skinned, raven haired, with eyes the color of a verdant meadow and soft raiment the hue of a butterfly's wing. He did not know her, but she looked very familiar, so familiar that he felt sure he should have known her name. She smiled at him, seeing his reaction to her presence. “You must be Olórin's friend, the hobbit Frodo,” she said in those same wonderfully musical tones. “I am honored to meet you, as I was not able to attend the feast in your honor. Welcome to Lórien, and to the house of Olórin, though he apparently knows it not.”

“Very true, I do not know it,” the Istar agreed, seeming faintly bewildered and annoyed. “Which I am sure you know quite well, Melian, and indeed intended. Was this change your idea?”

The other Maia shook her head, still smiling. Hearing her name, Frodo understood why she seemed so very familiar. She was Melian, once the Queen of Doriath, the mother of Lúthien Tinúviel, and the ancestor of Arwen Undómiel, who walked in her likeness. “No, indeed, I should not have dared to be so bold, knowing how discomfited you are by displays of honor and recognition, even when they are well earned. The idea was suggested by several of your friends and followers among the Eldar, and was supported by Eönwë after your brief return to us less than two years ago. The Valar themselves approved, but it was Yavanna and Aulë who brought it about. After you were sent back to complete the work of the Istari, I believe they felt especially responsible for the fact that you would need to do this task alone, as their emissaries who should have been your greatest support proved to be the greatest disappointment. It is no palace, my old friend, but it is indeed more suitable to one who has earned the favor of the One, and who may, from time to time, have need to see to the comfort of more than just himself.”

She turned her smile to Frodo, who blushed faintly, realizing that she was referring to him. She was indeed more beautiful than any of the Elf ladies he had ever seen, and there was a sadness in her eyes that was also very Elven. Frodo recalled, then, that Melian's husband, the Elf king Elwë Singollo, Thingol of Doriath, had been slain many years ago, much to her heartbreak. And while most Elves could be reborn in new bodies and rejoin their people, those who had committed great crimes or were unrepentant of evil things done in their lives were doomed to remain in the Halls of Mandos. Frodo could not recall that Thingol had done any such terrible thing, but then, so much pain and suffering had come about because of his demand that Beren bring him a Silmaril as the bride-price for his daughter Lúthien, it was possible the Elf lord simply did not have the heart to return, and face the shame of what he had done. That would certainly explain the unquenchable sadness in Melian's eyes, for she had lost everything — her husband and daughter and all they had ever wrought in the world — to Fëanor's curse upon the Silmarils.

And yet, for all that, she still managed to smile graciously upon the hobbit. “The Elves did the work of crafting the furnishings inside,” she continued, “for they are more familiar with the needs and comforts of those who must walk in true flesh, but Vána and I helped attend the gardens without. She felt no place could truly be a home without the beauty of flowers, and I feel much the same about the song of birds. It was meant to be a surprise, and I see that it was indeed — but one, I hope, that has not offended you in its presumptuousness, Olórin. All this was done out of love, of your friends and your followers and the Valar, and Lord Eru. It was well meant.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” the Istar admitted, letting go of any irritation he had felt. “To be truthful, I had given no thought to the matter of bringing any guest into my house.”

Melian laughed, a silvery sound of mirth. “I'm sure you had many more pressing matters to concern you in Endorë, and even had you considered this, there was nothing you could have done from afar. So those of us who love you did it for you, and we beg your pardon if we have erred in our choice.”

“No need, there is never a mistake in a gift so generously and thoughtfully offered. Thank you, Melian, and extend my thanks to the others who contributed to this, since you know who they are and I do not! You have all helped to make my return home far more joyful than I had ever anticipated.”

When Melian had departed, to allow Olórin to discover all of this gift for himself, Frodo watched her go, then turned back to the wizard. “That was very thoughtful of your friends and all the others,” he remarked, marveling anew at the lovely house. “But you seem... I don't know, upset isn't precisely the word I want, but not entirely comfortable with this. Did they offend you, and you simply didn't mention it to spare her feelings?”

Olórin shook his head. “No, not at all. I wouldn't lie about such a thing to an old friend, even if there were any point in so doing, since Melian is quite perceptive in her own right. I was merely... surprised, and perhaps yes, a little uncomfortable. I have never really owned much of anything, neither here nor in Middle-earth. What few things I had were given to me by others, or things I found and made use of for a time, like Glamdring. My own creativity has always been in imagination, not in craft, and though I greatly appreciate the artistry of those who pursue such trades, I have never attempted to fashion anything of my own. What little I have made has been for others, not for myself. To be the recipient of so much unstinting generosity in one day makes me feel almost like a thief. But I know in my heart all of this has been done with the best of intentions, and I fancy I shall appreciate it more when I come to know it better.”

“Well, if the inside is as lovely as the outside, then I think you may have just been given the most wonderful home in existence, at least from a humble hobbit's point of view. Can we go in? Even if you are not curious to see it, I am.”

The Maia laughed merrily, understanding very well the hobbitish fondness for home and hearth, and led the way across the clearing to the sun drenched steps and porch. Closer inspection showed just how lovingly they and everything else had been designed and crafted, not only to meld with the world around them but to delight all the physical senses with their artistry.

The same could be said for all they found within. Inside, the house was roomier than it seemed from without, though it lost none of its comfort and coziness. A large central chamber reached from the porch at the front to another veranda at the back, with an open central hearth that, though currently unlit, would provide light and warmth and cheer without the annoyance of bitter smoke. The ceiling that arched above it twisted into a tall and cunning chimney of sorts, the draught through which any smoke and fumes would be quickly and easily guided away. The floor nearest the hearth was of silver-flecked white stone, the rest of polished ash wood with decorative rugs of Elvish craft and colors. Other furnishings of similar workmanship provided seating, surfaces, storage, and whatever else one could want. There were several rooms on either side of the central hall, chambers for study or sleep on the right, simple kitchen and dining and bathing facilities on the left. Frodo noted the latter with interest.

“Do you normally need such things?” he wondered, thinking that immortal spirits who took on substance as a convenience for others would not be troubled by needs to wash and eat and sleep.

“After a fashion,” Olórin admitted while the hobbit made a thorough examination of the kitchen. “The forms we assume may be but temporary, as we so wish, but they are nonetheless real. If we do not attend them as what they are in their appearance, we do not appreciate them properly, which is a sure path to arrogance, something most of my people honestly wish to avoid. Before my departure to help the resistance against Sauron, I often had Elvish guests, friends and students who had more need of such things than I, though my old home was not as well equipped to accommodate them. I cannot help but think that when this place was made, someone had it in mind that I might be entertaining hobbits in the future.”

Frodo chuckled. “Perhaps they did. This is almost as familiar to me as my own kitchen at Bag End. Though when I asked to see your home, it wasn't with the expectation that I would be invited to stay for more than the day.”

The Maia sighed softly as he settled into a chair near the cupboard into which the halfling had been peering. “You may stay for as long as you like, my dear Frodo, for as long as you are happy here,” he said, better able to address his friend directly, now that they were on a more comfortable level to look eye to eye. “I will be glad to have you, and there truly is no place in Aman that can offer greater healing for the body and spirit than Lórien. You have suffered so very much, and offering to share my home is the least I can do to help you find peace and happiness again.”

“You've already helped me in that way, more than I think you know, but if your offer is in earnest, I would be delighted to accept, for a little while, at least.”

“Of course I spoke in earnest. I have many friends here in Aman, but of a different kind. Those of my own people are more like cousins I have known all my life; we did not choose to become acquainted with one another, we were simply thrown together by the circumstance of our creation. Many I know of the Eldar are followers more than friends, pupils I have taught down the years. You and I began our acquaintance on a similar path, as I did with Bilbo, but we ended our time in Middle-earth on a different one. You learned from me and I from you, and our experiences have been both alike and quite different. We understand one another, for we each fought the same struggle in our own ways, and that is something I have shared with no one else in quite the same fashion. Our labors have ended well, and now, I will do all I can to make certain you know at least as much happiness as I in the time left before you.”

Frodo understood what he was saying, in both greater and lesser ways. His face dimmed as he considered the last of his friend's words. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I suppose I never really gave any great thought to such a thing when I agreed to come here. I know that some of the Elves I've spoken with have said that living with mortals is painful for them, because when they finally have grown accustomed to having us about, we die and leave them forever. I shouldn't want to cause that kind of pain for you.”

There was undeniable warmth in Olórin's face as he settled one hand on the hobbit's shoulder. “Do not worry on my account. To my people, even the Elves seem as children. You cannot live here forever, it is true, not without going quite mad; the Second-born, of which your people are a part, were meant to move on to a life beyond the circles of the world. This fate cannot be altered, save by Eru Ilúvatar, and to my knowledge, only thrice has He done such a thing, in decreeing the fates of Tuor and Elwing and Eärendil.”

“I am not asking for any such privilege...!” the hobbit began.

The Maia's smile deepened. “Of course not. Still, things do not decay here in Aman, not as they do in mortal lands, and your life will end by your own choice, when you grow weary of the world and wish to pass on. That may be in the normal span of years for a hobbit, it may be much longer, or even shorter if you find you cannot bear living in so strange a world. The choice will be yours. But that does not mean that we shall never meet again. Because I came into Ëa to help with the making of it, I am bound by the pact we made with Lord Eru at the beginning. I must remain here until its end, but when that time comes, all of Lord Eru's children will come together again to make the final Great Music. What will happen after that... I do not know, and I would rather not know until the time comes. Some things should be left as a surprise, and being what I am, I have had few enough of those in my life. For as long as you choose to remain here in Aman, and even after, I will be your friend, Frodo. Though I will miss you greatly when the parting comes, I have every intention of enjoying the time before, and if there is aught I can do so that you might also enjoy it to its fullest, you have but to ask.”

The halfling considered all the Istar had said, and was deeply touched. “You have already done more than enough for me. From things Elrond told me during the voyage, I realized that long before I understood that I could not find healing and peace in Middle-earth, you had already considered the situation, weighed the possibilities, and were prepared to make the offer to allow me to come here, to the West, should what you feared indeed come to pass. Everything you have told me since our arrival makes me see that you would live your life for my sake, on behalf of our friendship. I shouldn't think anyone deserves such loyalty, but I cannot refuse it. I had thought I might be lonely, but now, I know I never will be. So I thank you again, and hope that the time I am allowed to spend here will be as pleasant for you as I'm sure it will be for me.”

“Of that I have no doubt. Well, then, since you asked to come here to see my home, perhaps we should finish that task, since it would seem it is as new and unfamiliar to me as it is to you!” Frodo laughed, and happily agreed.

The remainder of the house was intriguing, both because of its elegant artistry and because it indeed appeared to have taken into consideration the potential presence of guests much smaller than Elves or Men. The only thing Frodo found at all curious was a harp, fairly hidden in a dim corner of the central hall. It was a tall and beautiful thing, taller than the hobbit himself, strung with wires of silver and gold, fashioned of rich warm wood carved with flowing figures and designs and gilding that captured the image of golden leaves being swept along on an autumn wind. In Minas Tirith, Frodo had seen a few such instruments being used by the most accomplished harpers in the city, who could draw music both soft and gentle and powerful as thunder from the strings. This was an even lovelier thing than the Gondorian musicians had used, and it looked older than most everything else he had seen in the house. That uniqueness piqued his curiosity.

“It was something I had before I first left for Middle-earth,” Olórin explained when the hobbit asked about it. “The Ainur tend to be a rather musical people, but I have always had a habit of listening rather than participating. Long ago, one of the Telerin Elves, Lindarinë, was extremely fond of music, and he often visited Lórien. There are many here, like Melian, who are especially gifted in those arts, and the days both begin and end with song. On nights when people would gather to make music in the meadows under the stars, he noticed that though I often came to listen, I never took part. When he asked why, I foolishly attempted to evade him by saying I considered myself a poor singer and had no other instrument, so he promptly went to work to remedy the situation by having this made for me. After that, I was obliged to either participate or be elsewhere during the singing, lest I offend him.” There was such a note of exasperation in his voice, Frodo could not help but chuckle.

“I suppose it would have been embarrassing, to be given a gift like this, if you could not play it,” he speculated.

But the Maia shook his head. “No, that was never the problem. Music is very much a part of all my people, even those of us who choose not to use the gift very often. The problem was that I have always felt uncomfortable being an object of attention, which was why I preferred to listen. The Elves have their own gifts of music, but they have been fascinated by those of the Ainur since the first time they heard a one of us sing. I suppose that in a way, this was my punishment for being less than honest with him, implying that I could not sing. Absurd, really, for any Ainu to claim that. Even Melkor could sing. It was his subject and not his skill that marred the Music.”

“Did you decide to participate or be elsewhere, then?”

“Some of both,” Olórin admitted. “It was probably good for me, since at the time, I had a bad tendency to always listen and seldom interact, and often went on journeys alone. One can acquire great wisdom from such behavior, both by observing others and embracing the quiet of solitude, but one can also develop a terrible inner coldness by forever remaining aloof. I had not felt such a frost creeping upon me, but I believe Lindarinë did. I had gone through some unpleasant times before he came to Lórien, and I suspect he was able to see the shadow chilling my heart more clearly than those who had known me far longer. Lindarinë's gift pushed me into the company of others more often than had been my wont, and in time, it made me realize that I had been moving down a dangerous path that might have ended very badly for me. I was very grateful for what he did. I only wish that I could have helped him as well.”

The sadness in that statement puzzled the hobbit. “What happened to him?”

There was a long hesitant pause before he was answered. “He was killed in the Kinslaying. His family were sail-makers at the harbors of Alqualondë, and he was with them on the day Fëanor led the revolt of the Noldor. He did not take up arms against them, but such was the madness upon Fëanor and his followers that they struck down any who offered even passive resistance. Lindarinë was permitted to return to life, of course, having died in innocence, but the grief of what happened saddened him so greatly, he never sang or made music again. He still dwells in Alqualondë, but he is not the person he was before that awful day. Before I was sent with the Istari, I visited him as often as I could, but the joy has gone out of his life. If I knew a way to give it back to him, I would, but this is his own choice, and I cannot change it.”

“How very sad,” Frodo said softly, studying the harp with new respect. “I don't suppose I would ever have the heart to touch it again, after that.”

“I felt the same, for a while, until I realized that it would do more good for others to hear the gift of Lindarinë than for it to remain forever silent. Perhaps in time, the music will reach his ears, and reawaken what has gone dead in his heart. It has been silent for many years now only because I was gone. Eventually, it will sing again — very likely sooner rather than later. I suspect that by tonight, we will have more visitors. There are many I expected to see in Valmar who were not there, even though it was a time of festival, and I have a feeling that my friends were being kind, attempting to avoid being an overwhelming nuisance by showing themselves all at the once. Doubtless I am being given time to settle in again, but I have no delusion that they will wait for long. I fully expect some will show their faces by nightfall.”

The hobbit glanced out the window, and saw that the sun was near the noon. “Well,” he sighed, “since I would like to stay for at least a few days, if I may, is there anything I can do to help prepare for them?”

Olórin turned his eyes from the harp and smiled. “Yes, you would do well to rest for a time, I think. You may not have been paying attention to such trivial things, but I can see your eyes growing heavier with each passing moment. You've been awake for well more than a full day now, and the journey before that was a time of great excitement and stress. Your brief nap during our ride here has helped, but doubtless a longer and more comfortable rest would help even more. In time, you may find that you will not need to sleep as often or as long as you did in Middle-earth, but for now, rest is something your body and spirit will desire greatly. Let yourself be healed, Frodo. It is the best thing for you, at the moment.”

The hobbit did not argue, but even as he headed for the smallest of the sleeping chambers, another matter occurred to him. “I won't be forced to wear the same clothes forever, will I?” he wondered, thinking that nothing of his own had been brought from the ship, and he had no notion of where it had been taken.

The Maia chuckled. “No, not even my people do that, and for us, clothes are simply a matter of appearance, not a necessity. If no one has thought to send your things here, I will see to it that the matter is taken care of. In the meantime, it shouldn't be too difficult to make do with what is at hand.”

“I suppose,” Frodo said with a sigh as he turned down the coverlet on the low bed which, he could not help but suspect, had been designed with the express possibility of accommodating a hobbit-sized guest. “I must confess, I grew rather weary of forever sleeping and living in the same clothes during my journey to Mordor. I had hoped never to endure that again.”

“And so you shall not,” he was assured. Puzzled by the remark, Frodo glanced at his friend, who had opened a chest beneath the window to the left of the bed and from it had drawn out a plain sheet of white silken cloth. Holding it in his hands, Olórin closed his eyes, whispered something that may or may not have been actual words — and suddenly, the cloth changed, not in hue or texture, but in shape. What a moment before had been a piece of bedding was now a simple night-shirt of the kind hobbits preferred, in a perfect hobbit size.

When Frodo gasped, the Maia opened his eyes and chuckled. “Well, I once told you I needed something to work upon in order to do what mortals call ‘magic,' and this is no different. Simple enough, actually, since it was just a matter of altering the shape of it and nothing more, and much easier than it would have been back in Middle-earth. I created nothing, merely refashioned what was here, as a seamstress or blacksmith or woodcrafter takes their materials and makes something new of them. This was how we did our work here in Arda to help shape the world after we first entered it. Are you truly that surprised to find I can do this? If it disturbs you, I shan't do it again in your presence.”

It took a moment before the hobbit was able to find the wit to shake his head. “Oh, no, no, no, I mean, yes, I'm surprised, but not frightened. You never did anything like this back home, and certainly not so casually. But I suppose there were a great many things you couldn't do at all when you were living in Middle-earth that you can do quite easily, now. It was startling, but not unpleasant. Thank you,” he said as he took the proffered gown. “I think I'll sleep much more comfortably, now.”

“Then sleep well, my friend, and dream pleasant dreams. Here, you will never have any cause to know fear."