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“I really don't understand what difference this would make,” Bilbo told Olórin some time later, after the Maia had seen to Shadowfax — who had, predictably, been doing quite well, and, also predictably, had been in a mood to play after his own fashion, being glad to see his master again. The Great Meadow was a peaceful place, and in a shady glen beside a stream that ran through a copse of rowans, Olórin had settled down to enjoy the quiet, the cool breeze, and take care of his business with Bilbo. Being unfamiliar with the house Celebrían had prepared for her husband and the rest of their household, he had gone to Elrond first, not physically, but in a kind of phantom state that his people were able send to a place where they wished to be, without the need to physically cross the distance, in any way. Saruman had done such a thing the night before Gandalf had rejoined Aragorn and the others in Fangorn Forest; the three companions had spotted the fallen wizard's ghostly self furtively moving through the battlefield where his orcs had been defeated by the Riders. Such a projection was capable of speech, though Saruman's had not spoken, and Olórin had felt this would be the best and most expedient way to communicate with Bilbo.

He had not, however, reckoned with the old hobbit's surprising reactions. Elrond had led him to Bilbo's rooms, which were very much like the quarters he had used in Rivendell. Celebrían had terribly missed her home in Middle-earth, and in her certainty that her husband would someday join her, coming to Aman in bittersweet victory, she had built a house on the eastern edge of Tirion as like to the mansion of Imladris as could be managed. Many of its windows faced the sea, as she looked out across it in hope to see each new dawn and wait patiently for Elrond's arrival. After escorting Olórin to Bilbo's chambers, Elrond had stayed to hear the Maia's explanation of what Lord Irmo had said about Frodo's condition, how it could best be examined and his healing begun if he remained in Lórien for a time, how the dream master felt Frodo would improve more quickly with his kinsman closer by, and how such a stay would also help Bilbo himself. Bilbo had listened politely, as had Elrond; the Elf had offered his opinion of the plan's merit, which he felt was good, then looked to Bilbo for his response.

The hobbit had cleared his throat, hedged for a minute, cleared his throat again, and then gave his startlingly negative reply. “If being around family or other hobbits or such is good for him, what difference does it make, here or there? I'm sure Elrond would be happy to find rooms for the lad....”

“I'm sure he would, too, but that is not the issue,” Olórin answered, puzzled by his old friend's apparent resistance to the notion. “Doubtless you have heard more than enough about what is actually troubling Frodo, and what caused it. Elrond certainly has told you that it is far beyond his skill to heal; those of my people who have such gifts live in the part of Aman called Lórien, where my home is. If you were back in the Shire and Frodo was sick, would you refuse to allow him to be taken to a healer and spend time there if that was the best place for him to be?”

“Of course I wouldn't! But in the Shire, the healers are not miles upon miles away, and more often than not, the healers recommend the sick person stay in their own home and sleep in their own bed. They come to their patients, not the other way around!”

Bilbo's agitation was as unexpected as it was obvious. Olórin and Elrond exchanged puzzled glances; the Elf shrugged, the Maia sighed. “Then would you have preferred if Frodo had not gone with me, after all?” the latter asked in as neutral a tone as any living creature could muster.

“No!” Bilbo insisted; one could fairly hear the air whistling through his hair, so vigorously did he shake his head. “I'm saying that I just don't... that is, I can't see... or rather, I don't think....”

His voice trailed away as he seemed to shrink under the two patient gazes fixed on him. He sighed, considerably more heavily than had Olórin. “Oh, I don't know what I'm saying, Gandalf, there's just been too much for an old hobbit like me to soak up properly, if you take my meaning. Like... why do you have to look so different, now? I'd long since gotten used to the way you always were back home, and I know things aren't the same for your people, you can choose whatever way you want to look — so why did you have to choose this?”

The Maia smiled faintly, amused by his friend's quandary, which he knew quite well to be a feint to hide what was actually causing his current ill temper. He prudently did not laugh when he answered. “Perhaps you don't recall, but I did not choose this fana. That was done by the Valar, and what they chose is the form in which they knew me best, for it has changed very little over the many thousands of years of our residence in Arda. But if it will make you more comfortable, at least for the moment....” In the blink of an eye, his already illusory appearance shifted to that which he had worn for many years before their recent arrival in Aman. It was all but instantaneous, and the suddenness of it made both the hobbit and the Elf start.

Bilbo nearly jumped out of his chair. “You might have given me a bit more warning than that!” he scolded. “Bless me, but my heart nearly stopped!”

Olórin acknowledged his reprimand. “I beg your pardon, I hadn't intended to give you a fright. But I cannot believe you would not wish to come to Lórien simply because I no longer look as you think I ought. I have never known you to be so concerned over something as meaningless as mere appearance.”

Bilbo looked away, uncomfortable under the piercing gaze so intently watching him, searching for some clue to explain this inexplicable behavior. “That isn't it at all,” the hobbit admitted, turning back to address the Maia more politely. “It's just — I know you've already refused any refreshment, but can't you at least sit down and stop towering over me? You used to be more polite about such things, you know.”

Olórin was not deceived by the abrupt change of topic, though he did his best to comply with the request. “You're deliberately trying to put me off, Bilbo,” the wizard said as he affected a semblance of sitting. “I've already explained that what you are seeing of me cannot eat or drink or touch anything physical, because it is only an illusion. I know perfectly well that you understand what that means, even if you haven't ever dealt with anyone in this fashion before. I can understand how you might be unsettled by it, and by the fact that my fana does not look very much at all as you have known me all your life. But you are making far too much of what both of us know are trivial matters, only to avoid giving me a direct and honest answer. I am not asking this of you due to some frivolous whim. It is the belief of the Valar who are most skilled and most powerful in all the arts of healing that Frodo should remain in Lórien until his recovery is well underway. The land itself has restorative virtue to it; simply being there for a time can renew and revive the strength of both body and spirit, even for the Ainur. Thus, your presence there would not only help Frodo, but would be of benefit to yourself as well. I would be happy to have you as my guests, as would any of the Elves and Maiar who make their homes there. Why do you not wish to come? Did Frodo offend you by asking to accompany me to Lórien rather than come here, with you? Have I somehow offended you?”

From his tone of voice, Olórin was genuinely perplexed by the hobbit's behavior; Bilbo turned away again to hide a sudden welling of shame. For some long moments, he looked out the window over the desk at which he was sitting in the very comfortable and beautifully appointed study that had been put at his disposal. Beyond it, he had a lovely view of the part of the city that spread out east of the watchtower, and beyond that the green country and white shores that led to the sea. “No,” he finally said very quietly, turning back to his guests. “You haven't offended me, nor has Frodo. I... well, if you must know the truth, I'm afraid. It's that simple.”

Even Elrond was taken aback by that admission. “Afraid?” he echoed, incredulous. “What is there to be afraid of here in Aman, Bilbo? You have faced ravenous trolls, terrible giants, the terrors and hideous spiders of darkest Mirkwood, blood-thirsty orcs, angry Dwarves, and even a dragon! What could possibly be left for you to fear?”

The hobbit's voice was small. “Death,” he said.

Both Elrond and Olórin were silent for a time; the Maia spoke first, gently. “While it is true that the Undying Lands cannot take the Gift of Ilúvatar from a mortal, you will not die until you are ready to surrender life, Bilbo. Have you not already felt the power of this land giving you strength to sustain you? I have not seen you this awake and alive in many a year....”

“Yes, that's true, I do feel much better, and I am aware that just being here can't prevent us mortals from dying. I know that. But....”

He was quiet again for several moments, then made a remarkably frustrated sound. “I read and learned a great deal about ancient history while I was in Rivendell, and there were two things that seemed quite perfectly clear: when the Noldor rebels were allowed to come back to Aman after their exile in Middle-earth, they were only allowed to come as far as Tol Eressëa, not back to Valinor itself. And mortals were forbidden to set foot in the lands of the immortals; if they did, they would be struck dead where they stood. They made an exception for Eärendil because his coming fulfilled his destiny, but why should they make an exception for me? Oh, I'm willing to allow that I've been permitted to live here in Tirion because I've been living in Elrond's house for years and he isn't a Noldorin Elf -- not entirely, anyway, and he was born in Middle-earth long after the Revolt took place. And this is a part of Eldamar, Elven Home, not Valinor proper. And I can understand why they would make an exception for Frodo after all he did to help destroy the Ring and end that terrible war, and for Elrond as well. But why should the Valar be willing to make an exception for me?”

As he listened to Bilbo rattle on, clearly agitated, Olórin tried to restrain himself from smiling, but could not. When the halfling asked his question, the Maia answered with bright laughter, which won him the blackest scowl he had ever seen on his old friend's face. “I was not making a jest, Gandalf,” he grumbled testily. “I meant every word I said!”

“I know you did,” Olórin said, doing his best to rein his amusement. “And I know you were quite serious. But answer me this, Bilbo: Why should they not make an exception for you?”

“Because I didn't do anything to earn it!” came the exasperated reply, accompanied by a broad gesture that sent several papers skittering from the desk like leaves in autumn. “You know precisely what I contributed to that beastly War, which was all but nothing! Oh, yes, I know the Valar said what I did was important — important enough to warrant allowing me to come here and live in my little rooms in Elrond's house, but important enough to be given the freedom to roam the whole countryside when even some of the greatest of the Elves haven't been permitted that? You will have to forgive me if I find it difficult to believe that's so!”

Both Olórin and Elrond saw his error in the same moment. This time, Elrond spoke first. “You believe the Noldor are still confined to Tol Eressëa?”

The hobbit snorted. “Well, aren't they? I haven't heard anything to the contrary....”

“And apparently you haven't seen it, either,” Olórin remarked, still smiling. “Celebrían, who is of the Noldor through her mother, lives here in Tirion, and has since she arrived in Aman. Galadriel's father's kin live here as well, while her mother's reside in Alqualondë, farther up the coast. Glorfindel also has high standing among the Noldor, and he lives perhaps a mile or so, as you measure it, from my own home in Lórien, along with a group of Elves from all the Kindreds here in the Blessed Realm. He and the parcels he was asked to carry arrived safely early this morning, shortly before dawn,” the Maia added as an aside to Elrond, who had received a message concerning Frodo's belongings before Glorfindel had departed for Lórien to rejoin the friends and family with whom he had lived of old.

Elrond nodded sagely, having hidden his own amusement at Bilbo's quandary. “Ah, good, I was wondering if he had yet arrived. The horses that were put at his disposal looked to be fine beasts, but not of Shadowfax's ability. He thought he might arrive by morning, and it would seem he is a better judge of how long it takes to travel between one place and another in this land.”

From the way Bilbo's face was reddening, he was being sorely torn between anger at what appeared to be teasing and chagrin. The wizard relented. “It was the Valar who placed these restrictions upon both the Noldor and mortals, Bilbo,” he explained gently, “not a decree from Eru Ilúvatar. This is their land, their home; they are its governors, and they the have the right to forbid or permit entry to whomsoever they choose. When they called upon Lord Eru to intervene after Sauron convinced the last king of Númenor that by conquering the Undying Lands, he could gain immortality for himself and his people, Ar-Pharazôn and his army perished because they had broken many laws in making that attempt, and had rejected not just the authority of the Valar, but that of Eru Himself. What happened was terrible, but they earned the punishment they received, as did, to a lesser extent, the Noldor who defied the Valar and slew their own kin.

“But all of those things happened long, long ago, and in that much time, even the minds of the most obstinate people can change. The Valar could feel the sadness and sorrow of the exiled Noldor who were not permitted beyond the Lonely Isle, and eventually, they were moved by it to compassion. They lifted the ban completely, so that those who had been sundered from kin who had not participated in the rebellion or who had been forgiven their crimes could be reunited in the lands they had all once known so well. And as for the injunction against mortals setting foot on Valinor, that became a moot point after Aman was removed beyond the reach of any who might think to assail it. No ship can come here without the knowledge and approval of the Valar, and all who come are welcome — in full, Bilbo, not just to a few rooms in one house in a single city. If you truly fear to travel farther into the lands of Aman, then you need not do so, but I promise you, you will not be struck dead if you go. I have not exaggerated when I said that it would be best for Frodo if he remains in Lórien for a time, and he very much would like to share with you all that he has already found there. If that is not enough to persuade you to come, the others who dwell there would also be delighted to have you, for they have been hearing tales of you and your exploits ever since the first ship sailed West after the Battle of the Five Armies. They would like to know in person the brave little adventurer of whom they have only heard in song.”

Bilbo perked up visibly at those words. “They've written songs about me? Here? What kind of songs?”

“Oh, many kinds,” the wizard said distractedly, having counted on Bilbo's curiosity about such things to pique his interest. “I cannot repeat them for you; I was not here when they were written, and I have not had time enough to hear and learn them all. If you want to know more, you should ask those who wrote them.”

“Which means traveling all the way to Lórien.” The hobbit sighed, his spirits deflating. He toyed with a reed pen on his desktop, rolling it back and forth for a bit while he considered all he had been told. “It's not that I don't want to go, Gandalf,” he said at last, honestly, “especially if it would do Frodo good, and me as well. But I'm still not as spry as I once was, and the journey from Middle-earth was long. I've only had a day or so to start settling in here, and if I'm to stay in Lórien for more than a week or two, it's going to take a lot of fuss and bother and more tiring travel to get there. Are you sure there is no other way?”

Olórin sighed sympathetically. “For you, I am afraid not. You cannot shed your physical reality and cross great distances with a thought, as my people can. But Lord Irmo did not say that you must come as quickly as possible, and Frodo certainly would understand if you wished to make the journey at whatever pace is comfortable for you.”

“And I have not heard that you must make that journey alone,” Elrond added. An idea had grown in his thoughts as he listened to the others talk. Bilbo looked to him, his expression one of mingled hope and puzzlement. The Elf explained. “When Celebrían first came to Aman seeking relief and healing from the harm she had taken at the hands of the orcs, she was given the best of care, and that can be found with the Lord and Lady of Lórien. She spent a very long time there, and she came to love that land dearly. I would like to see this place and its people with my own eyes, to offer my thanks to any who helped my wife in her time of need, and Celebrían has mentioned that she would very much like to go with me, to visit old friends and places she has long come to love. If you wish, Bilbo, we could travel together, in whatever way you please. There is but one pass through the great mountains, so we cannot avail ourselves of sail by ship or boat, but there are other ways that would be less tiring for all of us, if not as swift. If you do not object to my wife and I as traveling companions, that is.”

“Object!” the hobbit exclaimed, his face brightening. “Gracious, no, Elrond! I could hope for no better company, but I hadn't dared to think it possible! Are you certain Lady Celebrían will agree to this?”

Elrond chuckled, his gray eyes glinting with his humor. “Quite certain. When she introduced me to the Lord and Lady at the welcoming feast, she mentioned how she hoped we could visit Lórien soon. I am as eager to see it as she is to show it to me, and if our journey can be fortunately combined with your own, so much the better. I know she does not intend for us to remain there indefinitely, and if you should find the place not to your liking, you can return here with us. So in no case must you choose to stay there permanently.”

“An excellent plan,” Olórin approved. “Well, Bilbo, now the decision rests with you. Shall I tell Frodo that you will be paying him a visit soon, or must I find a way to break the news that his cousin does not wish to see him?”

Bilbo wrinkled his nose at the wizard. “That has never been the case, and you know it well, Gandalf. But I take the point. It's bad enough that the poor lad has had to suffer at all just because he tried to help Middle-earth avoid disaster. If he can brave the fires of Mount Doom and all those leagues between the Shire and the Land of Shadow, I can brave venturing a little farther into the Blessed Realm. Never let it be said that a Baggins refused to face up to a challenge! It might do me some good after all.”

“It might indeed.” As Olórin's illusory self rose from the chair, it changed back to the appearance of his current fana.

Bilbo stifled a small sound of surprise under a cough. “If you insist on doing things like that, you might at least have the decency to give me a moment's warning!” he chided.

The Maia's half-smile was faint. “I shall try in the future,” Olórin said placidly, “so long as you try to become accustomed with the fact that even though I care little about my appearance, this is how people here have grown used to seeing me, for far more years than I lived in Middle-earth.”

“Oh, very well, I shan't insist on having everything my own way,” Bilbo replied affably. “You can go tell Frodo and anyone else who enquired that I shall be along in a few days, or however long it takes Elrond and Lady Celebrían to escort a doddering old hobbit across however many miles lie between here and Lórien. And tell Frodo not to make a fuss!”

“I most certainly will not!” the wizard said with a gentle laugh. “I and others are counting on the anticipation of your visit to provide Frodo with enough distractions so that for once in far too long a time, he can take the proper hobbitish joy in preparing to receive and entertain friends and family. He had little opportunity to do so once he returned to the Shire, with all that needed to be done to put things in order again, and then knowing that Sam and his other friends were forever worrying about him and fretting over their inability to provide the help Frodo truly needed. I and others in Lórien are concerned for his well-being, but we are able to help him find some relief while he is being healed. That will speed his recovery greatly, I should think, as will your visit, however long that might be.” Mischief glittered through the blue eyes like dappled sunlight over the ripples of a clear stream. “I suspect you'll find Lórien more to your liking than you may be anticipating, Bilbo. Has anyone told you of it?”

The hobbit shrugged. “Lady Celebrían and Lady Galadriel said some things about it when we were traveling back to Tirion, after you and Frodo had left the feast in Valimar. They said the Golden Wood that used to be their home in Middle-earth was similar to it, though not nearly as large and beautiful. Having never seen Lothlórien, I'm not certain I have a very good notion of what that might be like. The largest forest I ever knew was Mirkwood, and beautiful is the last word I would ever use to describe it!”

“Yet even Mirkwood was once a place of beauty, before Sauron and his creatures darkened it. Lórien is not like that at all, I assure you, but I think it would be best to allow you to make your own judgements of it after you have seen it, and not spoil the anticipation with an inadequate attempt to describe it.”

Elrond spoke, thoughtfully. “Before he left, Glorfindel told me that given ordinary horses and no need for haste, the journey between Tirion and Lórien takes two days, with pauses for rest. Given Bilbo's desire for comfort, we will doubtless move more gently and pause more often. And it will take time to prepare before departure.”

“Then I will tell Frodo not to expect you for at least five days, possibly a week, depending on how much Bilbo dawdles in making ready,” Olórin said with a sly glance at the old hobbit, remembering the first time he had set out on a journey beyond the bounds of the Shire.

Bilbo was thinking of it, too, and laughed. “If dawdling means being visited by you in this ghostly manner to nag at me, I promise I will make ready in all haste! But I suppose you're right, Gandalf, this will be good for me. Forgive an old hobbit for being so stubborn. I set out on an adventure once when I knew there would be a dragon at its end; even the worst of fears should not have made me think even for a moment of anything but Frodo's welfare. Tell him I'll come, of course, and please don't mention I said anything to the contrary.”

“Since it would only upset him and the whole purpose of bringing the two of you to Aman was to help you find peace and healing, I won't breathe a word of it.” And with that promise and a gracious word of farewell, the Maia departed.

**********

Back in the shady glen where he had been sitting while he sent out his illusory self to converse with those in Tirion, Olórin remained seated on the thick grasses, his eyes closed while he concentrated on refocusing himself fully within his fana. It was much more difficult than he remembered it should be, yet another manifestation of his current weakened state. He had not anticipated Bilbo's initial unfavorable reactions, and such emotional stress always took its own toll in the energy expended to resolve the situation. Perhaps he should have made things easier on himself by mentioning the hill country's coincidental similarity to the Shire; but Frodo had wanted to surprise the old hobbit, so he had chosen to hold his peace on the matter unless there had been no other way to persuade Bilbo to come. He was glad that Bilbo had agreed and would help look after Frodo as much as he was able, but he was even more relieved that Ványalos had taken such an immediate liking to the younger hobbit, and was more than willing to offer what assistance he could. The Istar was beginning to doubt whether or not he himself would be able to contribute as much to Frodo's recovery as Lord Irmo had planned, for he did not know if he yet had the strength to do it. Yesterday's efforts had clearly depleted him far more than anticipated; speaking with Bilbo and Elrond had drained still more.

Worst of all, he did not understand why. Although he had not spent as much time in Middle-earth during the years of the struggle against Melkor, Olórin knew for a fact that what he had done then had required far more energy and strength than the two millennia in which he had lived there as a human. Yet now, he found himself noticeably weakened from the effort of doing something that should not have troubled him at all. Even regaining his focus was not as simple a task as it would have been only yesterday, and this apparent deterioration disturbed him. A cold fear was gathering deep inside him, a possibility he was afraid to acknowledge but unable to deny:

What if the Valar had fashioned his fana for him not merely to spare him the effort, but because they already had known that he would not be able to do so himself?

He had only been here two days, and already he could see distressing evidence to support this notion. The little things he had done in expending power had caused him noticeable, if not yet severe, weariness. Lord Irmo had insisted on coming to visit Olórin to discuss Frodo's condition when in the past, he had relied on the Maia's memories and powers of observation to bring him such information. Ványalos, one of Irmo's more trusted servants, had been exceptionally helpful and attentive — perhaps no more so than might be attributed to someone glad to see a long-absent friend, but perhaps for more profound reasons as well. During both the festival in Valmar and the welcoming meal last night, none of his people had allowed Olórin to expend even the slightest bit of real effort. Their repeated remarks that he was in need of rest had seemed to be light-hearted banter and teasing, but in reflection, he could not help but wonder if there was much more to it than that. Even the beautiful house with which he had been gifted was no longer so seemingly innocent. It had been provided with facilities for guests who lived their lives bound to flesh, who needed food and rest beyond restorative meditation — yet a part of those things had clearly been designed and meant for him. Certainly, he had long since come to understand and appreciate the unique properties and benefits of sleep, as Estë did, but was this an acknowledgment of his appreciation or an understanding that he would require it as the Eruhíni did, once he returned home?

His darkening thoughts were interrupted by a gentle nudge on his right shoulder. Olórin looked up at Shadowfax, marveling anew at the great creature's intelligence, then chuckled wanly as he sighed. “You have a perfect fool for a master, Shadowfax,” he said as he reached up to stroke the smooth soft nose that had so effectively garnered his attention. “I brought Frodo across unchartable seas because I was worried for his welfare and wanted to see him whole again, and here I sit, fretting about myself instead! Given all the talk I've heard down the years about the uniqueness of my imagination, I should know well enough that applying too much of it to the wrong subjects will create phantom dangers where none exist. If I would only listen to what all my friends have been saying and stop attempting to read between their words, I would be far better off. Perhaps Ványalos was right after all, and all those years in Middle-earth have made me overly suspicious. I should just go home, rest, and let the power of this land restore me as well as it is plainly restoring Frodo. What do you think?”

The horse tossed his head in what was clearly a nod of agreement. The Maia laughed. “See, even you have more sense than I! Very well, then, I shall go back to my house, let Frodo and Ványalos fuss over how much longer I was gone than I had said I would be, and start trying to follow all the advice I have been given about my own need to heal.” Gracefully, he rose to his feet...

...and just as gracefully sagged back against the gray horse, suddenly overcome with weariness. It was not a strange feeling to Olórin — he had felt it often during the last two thousand years — but it was one he had expected he would never feel again, now that he was shed of his mortal body. He attempted to remain on his feet, but the exhaustion would not allow it. Instead, he sank back onto the thick grass, struggling to push down a rising fear. Shadowfax nuzzled his neck, concerned. “I'll be all right, my friend,” the wizard said with as much assurance as he could muster. “But I think perhaps it would be best if I rested here for a little while before returning home.”

So saying, he lay back on the grass and at once fell so deeply asleep, Shadowfax had to bend close to tell if he was still alive, if such could be discerned with the assumed forms of the Ainur. As near as could be told, he was not dead, but he remained utterly still.

The great silver horse stood watch as the sun crossed high overhead; when it began to sink into the West and still his master did not stir, he nudged Olórin gently. When he received no response, he nudged him again, more firmly, and repeated the motion with increasing urgency until the Maia answered with an incoherent mumble and the slightest of movements. Shadowfax waited a few minutes more to see if he would waken fully. He did not, and seemed, in fact, to fall back into a sleep even deeper than before. The horse then did the only thing he could under the circumstances: he left the glen and sped off across the meadow more swiftly than the wind, in search of help.