XIII

Frodo held fast to his promise to do whatever he could to help find the answer for Olórin's predicament, as well as his own, but by the day Bilbo was due to arrive in the company of Elrond and Celebrían, he had not discovered anything particularly useful. Estë had given Olórin an injunction to sleep at night whether or not he felt the need of it, but it was an unnecessary order, for by the end of each day, the wizard admitted that he was more than ready to rest. To Frodo's eyes, he looked it, as if he himself were fading with the sunset, a little more with each passing day. Olórin did not even object when Frodo fairly tucked him in every night, lingering at the doorway to his sleeping chamber until he was certain his friend was indeed following the Healer's command. The hobbit generally woke first, not long after dawn, and though each morning Olórin appeared considerably refreshed and much stronger than the night before, very nearly his old self again, it seemed to Frodo no different than the vigor any human felt after a good night's sleep, and it diminished ever more quickly as each day progressed.

And though Olórin did not complain about his restrictions, nor over Ványalos' daily visits — which always came with fresh supplies of those provisions that did not easily store from day to day — there was no denying that the wizard did indeed feel confined by those strictures, like a falcon hooded and jessed to prevent it from taking wing. But Ványalos also held to Irmo's promise that Olórin would not be literally confined so long as his condition did not warrant it, so each morning after breakfast, he went out to the Meadow to visit Shadowfax and for a little while ride farther than he was allowed to go on his own. Frodo went with him most mornings, not as a keeper, but because he enjoyed the company and wanted to become acquainted with more of the country and its inhabitants. Lórien was much vaster than he had first thought, larger than the Golden Wood of Middle-earth, encompassing the hill country and meadowlands that were so reminiscent of the Shire, a beautiful forest where the Lord and Lady dwelt, and other regions that awakened memories of the fairer parts of Middle-earth Frodo had seen in his travels. And everywhere, the land was threaded by silver streams, cooled by still pools, refreshed by glittering fountains. Frodo was quite taken by it, and the people they met along the way.

No, it was not Olórin's complaints that were troubling Frodo on the morning of the day of Bilbo's arrival; it was his silences, which were growing longer and more frequent. He had asked about them at first, but he gave up when he saw that he would always receive the same answer. Nothing was wrong, nothing was bothering the wizard, and Frodo finally had to conclude that whatever was on his mind was not something he was about to share. The hobbit had long since learned the futility of trying to press his friend for answers when he had decided to be close about a subject, and he knew that this was yet another of those times. So he stopped asking, although he did tell Ványalos, who thanked him for his observations, but was unable to assuage Frodo's worries. Apparently, when Olórin chose to keep something to himself, he was usually able to prevent even his own people from prying. That, Frodo supposed, was doubtless a part of how he had earned himself a reputation for stubbornness here in Aman, one that seemed to be well-earned.

Since the last message they had received from Bilbo's party indicated that they would likely reach their destination at midday, Frodo decided to remain behind for the morning trip to the Meadow so that the noon meal would be ready for Bilbo when he arrived, his hobbit appetite having revived along with the rest of him. That Olórin did not gainsay his choice told Frodo that he had been correct in thinking the Maia might want some time alone before their guests arrived. The halfling was unsure if anything had been said to them about Olórin's situation; if not, he would doubtless want an opportunity to reflect upon the best way to give them the news, which was still unpleasant, as no progress had been made in the efforts to resolve it. And if they had been told, he quite likely needed that time to prepare himself for what might be an uncomfortably solicitous welcome.

Frodo kept himself busy in the kitchen and did his best not to fret. He was reasonably successful, until he finished his work, glanced out the window to see the position of the sun, and noticed it was nearing the time when Bilbo and the others were due to arrive. He was leaning on the sill, looking out to see if he might hear or spot anything to indicate the approach of either the guests or the owner of the house, and instead saw Ványalos coming across the grass, a basket in hand.

He smiled as he stepped up to the window. “Not yet, little one,” he told the hobbit, lifting up the provender he had brought for the day so that Frodo might take it. “Your kinsman and his Elf friends are making good time, so I am told, but they have just reached the hill country, and it will be a while yet before they arrive, perhaps an hour or so. Possibly two; I must admit, I have never been very good at counting time this way. I tend to think more of dawn and dusk, and noon and midnight, which are the most notable events of each day, here in Aman. Alas, I have never been to Endorë to learn how to mark the passing hours as do the Eruhíni.”

“I can assure you, you have missed very little. My people are not all that different, since we mark the times of day mostly by the meals that come with them. But thank you for the news, and this,” the hobbit said as he took the basket. “I didn't think it was quite time, and I was looking to see if Olórin was on his way back from the Meadow.”

The Maia's gray eyes unfocused for a moment, as if he were looking at something far too distant for mortal eyes to discern. “Not quite yet,” he said presently. “He and Shadowfax are coming through the southern woodland, returning from plains beyond the river country.”

Frodo made a soft sound of worry as he set the basket onto the table nearest the window. He had ridden with the wizard to the river that flowed through the south of Lórien, and he had seen the vast plains that stretched beyond it, a beautiful grassland that lay between Lórien and the southern reaches of Valinor where the forests of Oromë were located. The plains were not a part of Irmo's and Estë's realm, and thus lay beyond their influence. “Is it safe for him to leave Lórien, Ványalos?” he asked, not needing to mention the subject of his inquiry. “When I ride with him, we go a little farther every day, and when he rides alone, it always takes longer for him to return. Can he go too far, and hurt himself?”

Ványalos shook his head, hoisting himself up to sit on the sill while Frodo unpacked the basket. “So long as he keeps to his promise to behave as a mortal, no — and before you ask, yes, he has kept his promise, quite diligently. But the restriction chafes him, even though I think he tries very hard not to let you see his discomfort.”

Frodo snorted. “Oh, yes, he tries so hard that I know that's exactly what he's doing. He doesn't want me to worry about him, and I think he's uncomfortable with the thought of lying constantly to spare my feelings, so he says nothing rather than tell me what's bothering him. The silences worry me more than anything I can imagine he could say.”

“I know,” the visiting Maia said, sympathetic. “He's frightened, with good reason, and he's searching for answers he does not know how to find. You have known him long enough to realize how poorly he would suffer such circumstances. He is not the sort to feel superior to others because of his knowledge, but he has long taken satisfaction from the quest for it, and his ability to find answers when he needs them. Now, he cannot, and it both disturbs him and makes him feel more keenly the bondage of the limits placed upon him.”

“Like a prisoner,” Frodo said softly. “Watching him, I think I must know how some of the Noldor like Galadriel felt, long ago, when they wanted to go to Middle-earth because they felt too restricted here. Even the most beautiful cage is still a cage.”

“As we also are beginning to understand, now that our part in the Music is done, yet we cannot leave Arda to return to our true home in the Timeless Halls. Try not to worry, Frodo. My Lord and Lady are certain there is a remedy to this situation, and if you wish to do something to prevent Olórin from brooding so, employ some of your own stubbornness.”

The sound the hobbit made was exquisitely frustrated. “How, when all I get from him other than polite everyday nonsense is silence?”

Ványalos' grin was impishly impudent. “Fill the silence with noise. You are his guest, and the custom of this land is for the host to provide whatever the guest needs, from food and drink to conversation. If he attempts to avoid you, remind him that this is his duty as your host. Require him to listen to you, and to answer you; the subject matters not, and do not relent. If he does as courtesy requires of him, sooner or later, he will either slip and speak of what he had meant to keep secret, or he will remember that troubles kept buried inevitably lead to even greater pain for more than just the one maintaining that silence.”

As Frodo listened to the Maia's plan, he saw a connection he had not anticipated. “Is this how you and Lindarinë supposedly helped him after he first came to live in Lórien?”

The redhead nodded. “Yes. We drove him first to distraction and then to the brink of anger with our persistence, involving him in life when he would have sooner withdrawn, but ere he turned his wrath on us, he understood what we were doing, and why. He is wiser now than he was then, my little friend. It should not take him quite as long to see reason, especially not if your kinsman also possesses this unique obstinacy. It was a much easier task when there were two of us to see to it.”

Frodo tried to imagine attempting such a thing; he grimaced. “I think we would stand a much better chance of prodding him into forgetting his promise to forego using his abilities so that he could turn us into toads. Even Bilbo and I together are not that stubborn.”

Ványalos chuckled. “And I think you are underestimating your ability. Olórin values your friendship more than his stiff-necked need for privacy in a matter he knows well indeed concerns you, not only himself. He may resist, but he will back down if you insist. And what you must insist upon is that he not continue to take himself off alone to brood. I will give what assistance I can in this, but ultimately, I believe it is you he will heed, not me. Your fates are bound together in ways he cannot ignore or deny.”

“Perhaps not,” the hobbit allowed as he returned the now-empty basket. “But I would rather make the journey to Mordor again than deliberately provoke him. His temper may cool quickly, but while it is still hot, it is something I would prefer to avoid.”

The Maia laughed as he swung his legs over the sill and dropped down to the ground again. “I cannot say that I blame you, but do keep it in mind. Olórin's stubbornness has occasionally done him credit, as has yours, but at times, it is necessary to push and prod a bit to encourage such a person to be stubborn about the right things.”

As he walked off, Frodo considered what he had just said, and his own recent tendencies to be stubborn about the wrong things, such as his supposed failure in Mount Doom, and his unworthiness to be accorded honor and privilege for all he had done. Many people had been attempting to persuade him the reconsider those notions, and he had resisted, not because they were wrong, but simply because he was being obstinate. As all of them had a point in insisting otherwise, so did Ványalos. Perhaps there was a way to begin this campaign of nudging that might work, after all, and he was certain Ványalos, and Bilbo, would help him implement it.

**********

Given that Shadowfax could run far more swiftly than any ordinary horses that would have been put at the disposal of Bilbo and his companions, Olórin managed to return before they arrived. After Ványalos had departed, Frodo had tidied up the kitchen and himself, then had settled himself on the front porch, ostensibly to read a book while he waited to see who arrived first. As he watched the great silver horse crossing the clearing at a gentle pace — he had taken to spending his time close to the house, understanding as he did that his master had greater need of him than before — Frodo did his best to appear distracted, more interested in his book than anything else.

“Did Shadowfax enjoy his run across the grasslands?” the hobbit asked casually after the wizard had dismounted and sent the Meara off to graze. He turned to favor Frodo with a curious glance.

“Yes, I suppose he did. How... ah, never mind, I should know by now that Ványalos is constantly keeping watch over me.”

“He is, and he also told me that Bilbo and the others will be arriving soon. If Ványalos hadn't told me that you were already on your way back, I might have thought you had gone so far so as to deliberately avoid being here when they came.”

“That was not my intent,” Olórin said, his tone such that it seemed he was torn between feeling offended or chagrined. “It may be some time before Shadowfax and I will have another opportunity to ride so far. He wished to see some part of the lands in which the oldest of his ancient ancestors were born, and I saw no harm in indulging him. But this is my home, and it would have been unconscionably rude of me not to be here when I know guests are due.”

“Yes, Ványalos told me something about the local customs concerning the duties of a host,” Frodo said with deliberate nonchalance. “I had thought you wouldn't forget them, but lately, it's difficult to be sure, since you aren't terribly inclined to talk of anything but trivialities. I hope you'll be in a more agreeable mood, once they've arrived. I cannot say I fancy the thought of spending however long this healing process takes with someone whose preferred topics of conversation are either not very meaningful, or nothing at all.”

The oddest of expressions twitched across the wizard's face; he cleared his throat as if preparing to make some response, then very clearly changed his mind. “If Bilbo and the others are due to arrive soon, I should go make certain I'm presentable to receive guests.”

Frodo sniffed. “Yes, you should. And do try to remember that the whole point of having him come to visit is to persuade him that staying here for a time is a good idea. He's not going to think that if you spend day after day being peevish and broody.”

As he passed by on his way into the house, Olórin paused to glance at Frodo again, this time with a faint frown. “I have not been peevish!”

The hobbit shrugged without looking up. “No, I wouldn't suppose you'd call it that, it's rather unflattering. You haven't been going about snapping people's heads off, you've just been gloomy enough to make me want to do it to myself. Peevish was the wrong word, then. When I think of what the right word is, I'll let you know.”

The Istar had begun to move on, but stopped again on the threshold. “That's a bit of an odd tone, coming from you,” he noted. “I don't believe I've ever heard it before, not even when you were still a child.”

There was blithe indifference in Frodo's reply. “Oh? Well, perhaps it's catching. There are certain tones I've been hearing from you of late that I've never heard before — or, I should say, haven't heard, since these last few days, the only time you've said much more than please and thank you has been when we're riding and there was something about the countryside or the people or the local customs or some impersonal thing to talk about. I don't suppose Bilbo or even Elrond will mind that, since they're both as new here as I am, but it might bore poor Lady Celebrían to tears, especially since she's been about these parts of Valinor a good deal more than you, these past five hundred years. You might want to keep that in mind, or you might find her correcting you over things you thought you once knew but don't, anymore.”

Frodo had to struggle not to look up to see what he felt certain must be the most peculiar of expressions flit across the Maia's face. He heard Olórin take a breath, the sound of one about to speak, but he exhaled it a moment later, said nothing, and continued on into the house. Only after the door had closed did Frodo look up, glancing in the direction Olórin had gone.

He let loose the breath he himself had been holding. He hadn't expected the wizard to grow angry with him, but he was well aware that he was pushing him in that direction, and that if he was not careful, he might go too far too fast and wind up in an unpleasant situation he would regret. Cheekiness of this kind was something Pippin managed far more skillfully, and though he thought back on that example to help guide him, he knew he could not do this as well as his absent friend could have done with ease. Being a nuisance was not something that came naturally to him, possibly because after his parents had died, he had been terribly frightened of being left alone in the world, and had done all he could to make certain he would not be a bother to the cousin who had adopted him. His parents had left his life unexpectedly, for reasons he had not understood as a child; he had had nightmares about being abandoned, turned out to fend for himself, a threat he had heard other adult hobbits hurl at their children when they misbehaved. That he had never heard of anyone actually doing so had been immaterial; just the thought of such a possible fate had been enough to make him mind his manners, especially until he felt more secure in his life at Bag End. Really, even as an adult, Bilbo himself was much more of scamp than Frodo had ever been as a boy; he would be glad when his Bilbo and the others arrived and could assist him in his inexpert attempts at manipulation.

“Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger,” he muttered to himself, very softly. “Remember that, Frodo, and perhaps you'll survive the day still in one piece!” With that thought in mind, the hobbit closed his book and spent a few minutes collecting his thoughts, preparing himself to continue the assault.

**********

When he had closed the door behind him, Olórin hesitated before continuing on into the house. He closed his eyes, actively suppressing the instinctive desire to use his more esoteric abilities to determine just why Frodo had been acting so strangely. The fact that he had to make such an effort to refrain from doing so disturbed him more than the hobbit's behavior. He was in the process of deciding whether or not to change his mind yet again and step back outside to discuss the matter in an ordinary fashion when the sound of a voice behind him startled him out of the notion.

“Ah, so I see you did have the good manners to return before your guests arrive,” Ványalos said with his usual irrepressible cheer, from where he stood several paces behind his neighbor. “Had you delayed much longer, I would have indeed thought your many years in Endorë had left you with no social graces whatsoever.”

A frown clouded the wizard's expression as he turned to face the taller Maia. “As you have failed to learn any at all in your many years here in Aman,” he answered a bit more testily than he had intended. He was not angry with his friend, but he did not know if Ványalos had already been waiting here in the house before he had entered, or if he had come a but a moment after sensing that his neighbor had returned. The latter thought unsettled him, for reasons he did not care to acknowledge. “I was under the impression that you were going to meet Bilbo and the others to guide them here, since Lady Celebrían has never before visited my home. If I had known you were not, I would have gone myself....”

The redhead curtailed any possible lecture with a broad gesture. “Yes, I know, which is why I said I would see to it myself. Your ride this morning was much longer than usual, and you should take a least a few minutes to rest. I simply stopped by before going to meet your friends to see if there is anything more I can do to help.”

Olórin grunted as he moved on into the house, striding past Ványalos and toward his sleeping chamber. “Yes, you can go and do what you said you would do and leave me to enjoy a minute or two of the peace you insist I should have! I am quite capable of changing clothes and preparing to receive guests without supervision. Were you a mortal, I would think you had appointed yourself to be my mother, or my keeper.”

The smile on Ványalos' face did not fade as he let his fellow Maia pass; his eyes glittered with mischief, though his expression was one of feigned indignation. “Alas, that was not my decision, pityandil. Lord Irmo gave me that assignment, and I am but following his will, as would any faithful servant.”

Olórin's grunt was rather more pronounced and skeptical as he pushed aside the half-open door to his bedroom and entered, Ványalos in his wake. “Then be a good servant and go tell him I am abiding by my promise, and then go abide by yours. I do not require such constant surveillance, and if Lord Irmo has changed his mind on that account, I would sooner move myself into his mansions and let him make the observations directly rather than be constantly followed and reminded and asked the same questions again and again!”

He stalked over to a storage chest near the foot of the bed as he spoke, and punctuated his last words by lifting the lid and throwing it back so forcefully, it slammed hard and loud against the wall behind it. Ványalos, having stopped on the threshold to lounge against the jamb, crossed his arms and clicked his tongue. “Now, now, there is no need to be testy and out of sorts....”

“I am not testy!” the wizard snapped back, focusing his attention on the clothing inside the chest rather than surrender to an impulse to glare at his neighbor. “And if I appear to be out of sorts, it's because I am beginning to grow weary of either being treated like an invalid or a child!”

“No one is treating you like a child, old friend,” Ványalos said quite calmly. “Indeed, I would not truly know how one goes about doing such a thing, as children are not a part of the experience of life we of the Ainur know, and those of the Eldar with whom I am acquainted have had very few. But from what little I have seen, I would not call this a bad way to be treated, for it would appear to me that most parents love their offspring very much and treat them with great kindness and affection....”

This time, Olórin gave in to the whim and did glare at his guest, a look chill enough to freeze an entire lake in high summer heat. “You know very well what I mean,” he said levelly, “and if I concede to your claim that you are not viewing me as a child, then it implies that you are treating me as an invalid. Continue to do so, and you will only prompt me to do something to prove that I am not!”

Ványalos' smile turned crooked as it faded slightly. “I am not saying that, either, and you are making this empty threat only to encourage me to let off with my teasing and go away. Very well, I shall do as you wish, since it is nearly time I went to meet your friends, but I hope you will not attempt any such rash act in my absence. I would not want you to suffer simply to prove a point that does not need proving.”

The wizard grumbled as he went back to rummaging through the contents of the chest. “And I would not have made that threat if you had let me be when first I asked! Have you and Frodo formed some kind of conspiracy designed to irritate me? If so, you are succeeding admirably.”

“Not to irritate you, no,” the redhead said quite casually, standing away from the doorframe to take several steps into the room. “But to look after your welfare, yes. For it seems that wise though you may be, you do not always demonstrate common sense when it comes to such things. Are you certain you do not need help with whatever it is you're trying to do?” he added when the Istar stopped his searching with a sound of exquisite frustration. The tall Maia leaned forward and peered into the chest, quickly taking note of the trouble his friend was having. There was very little in the trunk, and what was there was not in what one might call properly presentable condition. Ványalos understood the problem. “Ah, when Frodo asked after laundering facilities, you must have forgotten that you would need them as well for the time being, since you are forbidden to use other abilities to maintain what little you have in the ways our people habitually do. No harm done. It will take but a moment for me to—“

Olórin slammed shut the lid of the chest, punctuating the dark look he gave the taller Maia. “No, thank you, I can manage very well without help.”

Ványalos' expression turned considerably more serious. “You are not thinking to do this on your own, Olórin....” His words promised dire consequences if he was.

But though the wizard had been commanded not to make use of any skill that might sap him of his native strength, he could nonetheless effectively block his neighbor from seeing into his thoughts. “I promised I would not, and I will not,” he said bluntly as he straightened from where he had bent over the trunk. “But it does nothing for my confidence, or my spirits, if you do such things for me in the ways I have been denied. It was my own fault that I forgot I would have need to do this, and my resources are not as meager as you plainly think. I will make do. And you should leave, before Bilbo and the others take a wrong turn and become hopelessly lost!”

Though they had been friends for many thousands of years, Ványalos had never heard a tone such as the one now in Olórin's voice. He did not know quite how to interpret it. “I meant no offense,” he said mildly, understanding that this, at least, was a part of the emotions he could not read. “I thought only that I might be able to provide assistance to make your tasks easier, but if you wish to attend to matters in your own way, of course, I will not interfere. I am concerned for your welfare, but I know you well enough to be certain that you will not forget to look after yourself, even though you have spent the past two thousand years minding the good of others and neglecting your own.”

“Not generally by choice,” the Istar said, still rather frostily, but the chill melted a moment later; his entire demeanor softened. “I know you mean well, Ványalos, and I suppose that I will appreciate it better after I have had more time to adjust to the ways in which my life has changed yet again. You may torment me with your impudence all you wish, but please, do not coddle me like an invalid and do for me things that I can still do for myself. I may be ill after a fashion, but I am not helpless and incompetent.”

“I would never even imply that you are,” the redhead replied, both honestly and ingenuously. “Perhaps I was being too solicitous, and I will endeavor to be somewhat less so in the future — though I am afraid I still must continue to observe, as Lord Irmo requires of me, until he tells me otherwise. I shall do my best to be more subtle in carrying out my duties.”

Olórin made a face of exquisite disbelief, then chuckled softly. “Subtle is a word only in your vocabulary, not in your repertoire of actions. Oh, be off with you, Ványalos, I am not angry. Frustrated, perhaps, but I will deal with that better if I do not feel as if every fumbling motion I make is being watched. And on your way, do tell Frodo that this ploy of yours will not be needed. I am not so lost to common sense that I cannot see what you are doing, now that I know both of you are a part of this plan. I remember quite well how you and Lindarinë once hounded me incessantly to draw me out and make me stop brooding over the ill turns my life had taken, and I would rather capitulate to reason now than suffer another such siege! You do not know the full scope of what you might have unleashed, bringing a hobbit into such a plan as this!”

The mischief returned in full to Ványalos' grin. “Oh, I know it indeed, pityandil, which is why I selected this particular mode of action. Small they might be, but these little ones are more than your match for persistence, else they could not have succeeded in all they did during this past age. I will go, and I will not doubt your word to behave, for I know I am leaving you in good hands.” Still smiling, he bowed with exaggerated courtesy, then strode from the room. His soft footfalls quickly faded.

Olórin sighed when he was gone, relieved that Ványalos had had the presence of mind to eschew simply disappearing in front of him, which even the rogue had to realize would have been intolerably rude. He then glanced back at the closed chest, silently scolding himself for not paying attention to the fact that he had not tended to his own clothing as he ought. But in Middle-earth, he had owned very little, and though he had tried to keep as clean as possible, far too often his clothing had been washed by driving rains while it was still on his back. He had grown accustomed to washing both himself and his garb in cold streams and rivers, but it had been a necessity, seldom a pleasure. The times he spent in places like Rivendell and Lothlórien, where his hosts had been able and more than willing to provide better attire and more useful facilities for bathing and cleaning had been luxuries, very much appreciated, but not something on which he could rely on a regular basis. The nature of his work and his constant travel about the lands had precluded that. Before his life as a mortal, such things, especially the maintenance of one's clothing, had not been an issue. When one was capable of altering shapes and forms at will, it took only a thought to change one's attire in such a way that it shed any dirt upon it like water slipping away from oil. The more careful tending of the body, after the fashion of the Eruhíni, was also not a necessity, but was actually a daily ritual of understanding to those Ainur who adopted such forms, as for a few moments, it brought them closer to the peoples of Arda whose physical nature they chose to imitate. He had heard Frodo's question about laundering facilities, of course, but Ványalos was right: he had not realized that the question pertained to himself until just now. And it was that lapse of understanding that had frustrated the Maia just as much as the restrictions which forbad him from remedying the situation as he would have of old.

As he made a singular effort to not think about such disheartening things, the wizard bent and lifted the lid of the chest to peer at its contents once again. It truly had been very short-sighted of him, he admitted, to merely toss things aside after he changed out of them without giving a thought to whether or not they needed to be cleaned. He hadn't been involved in strenuous physical labor of any kind during the past days, but he had ridden as much as he was allowed and had tended the garden that had been planted to provide vegetables and herbs for the occupants. Given the size of his wardrobe, which was quite small, he should have paid more attention to its condition. Still, he was not without recourse, as he had told Ványalos. The clothing that had been made for him on the day of his return had remained untouched since his arrival in Lórien, and though it was less simple than his general preference, it would suffice. It was not, after all, wholly inappropriate for the occasion of receiving honored friends.

He had taken the things with him to the washroom and was in the process of making himself suitably presentable when he caught the shuffle and clatter of someone moving about in the kitchen, Frodo in the process of making tea, from the sound of it. He was attempting to think of some way to persuade the hobbit to forego participating in Ványalos' methods of “help” and was just about to collect his soiled clothing and leave the room when there was a soft tap at the door. It cracked open a moment later, and a hesitant Frodo peered through the opening.

The hobbit loosed a quiet sigh. “Oh, good, you really were able to take care of matters on your own. Ványalos said some things to me before he left,” he explained in answer to Olórin's curious expression. “And I must admit, I'm glad he changed his mind about trying to help you by annoying you. I was willing to try, if he thought it really would do some good, but I'm afraid I've never had any talent for that sort of thing, not even when I was a boy.”

The Maia smiled crookedly as he finished collecting his things. “No, that was never a skill of any Baggins I ever knew. That talent was more a true gift of the Tooks, and of your generation, Pippin seems to have taken the greatest share of it, leaving precious little for his siblings and more distant cousins.”

Frodo laughed more easily than he might have only a week ago at the mention of a friend he would not see again in this life. If there was any positive side-effect to his unexpected condition, Olórin reflected, it was that it had given Frodo something to worry about outside of himself, opening him more fully to the healing nature of Lórien. That his concerns for Frodo were not having similar results meant, so the wizard suspected, that either Frodo's condition was already improving enough to be less worrisome, or that Olórin was spending too much of his time looking inward, trying to find the answers to his own problem and thus interfering with any possible recovery. Unhappily, he suspected it was more the result of the latter.

Frodo spoke, interrupting his reverie. “Yes, and Ványalos is much more like him than I. He may be able to attempt such mischief and get away with it, but the most I could ever manage were harmless boyish pranks, like stealing mushrooms from Farmer Maggot, or hiding Bilbo's favorite pipe. I never could even tease people the way some of the other lads did and not feel terrible afterward. I only agreed to this because I couldn't think of another way to make you stop trying to pretend nothing's wrong when we all know very well that there is.”

“I know,” Olórin confessed as he took his collected clothing and carried it back to his sleeping room. Once there, he began to toss it into the chest with his other things, then decided he ought to remove all of them and put them somewhere to remind him that they needed to be cleaned before they were used again. He continued to talk as he worked; Frodo leant his assistance by sorting out smaller items, like belts, that would not require washing, and rearranging them properly for storage. “Both of you meant well, but there is one thing you would do well to remember, Frodo: Ványalos and I have been friends for more years than you can truly imagine, but during these past two millennia, he has changed very little, while I have changed a great deal. It is the natural result of the lives we led during that time. Aman is very much the same as it was when I left, but in Middle-earth, change was an everyday occurrence. Had events here required it, I'm sure Ványalos and many of the others would have also changed to adapt to the circumstances, as I did, but they did not. I am not the same person I was when I left to begin my work in Middle-earth, yet I believe I am a better person now for what I experienced there, living as a mortal. My view and understanding of this vast world Lord Eru created and we helped to shape has been greatly enhanced.”

“That's reassuring to know,” the hobbit said with a small smile. “Sometimes, it feels as if being a mortal is just a lot of fuss and bother that immortals like the Elves don't have to worry about.”

“Not at all. The Elves have their own fuss and bother, and there is value to every kind of existence, else Lord Eru would not have brought it into being. But it is one thing to be aware of the differences, and quite another to have actually experienced them. Ványalos does not yet understand this, not entirely. He remembers our relationship as it was in the past, and though I'm sure he is attempting to comprehend the ways in which I have changed, he cannot know all that happened to me since I last resided here. I do not think he can quite grasp the full nature of the fears that are troubling me now. He does not know what living as a mortal truly means. He can imagine what it would be like to willingly refrain from using his natural abilities, but in the way you can imagine what it is like to be blind by merely closing your eyes. The sensation might be distressing, but all the while your eyes are closed, you know you can open them whenever you wish, and your sight will be restored. My eyes are closed now because I have been told I must do this so as not to injure myself further, but I have no certainty that when and if I am allowed to open them again, my sight will still be there. It is disturbingly possible that it may not.”

Frodo paused in his task of coiling a length of cord to look up sharply at his friend. “Lord Irmo told me you would not die....”

“No,” Olórin agreed. “Not as you think of it. But it seems to me much worse a fate, to lose one's strength of being until they are nothing but a shadow of what they once were, unable to act, unable to do anything but drift aimlessly without direction or purpose or ability, unable to even leave the confines of Arda and move beyond it as do human spirits after death. If what Men experience when they leave this world is what I experienced after I was killed by the Balrog, I would happily choose to be mortal rather than endure such terrible diminishment. I would sooner willingly cast myself out into the Void and spend what is left of my days in utter nothing than become the barest wisp of an utterly powerless wraith in this world, as happened to Saruman and Sauron and the others. I do not think I have the strength or the courage to endure such an existence, much less the heart to stand by and know that with each passing moment, I am growing nearer and nearer to that empty and impotent state. It is a terribly frightening thing, Frodo, and I believe you understand this better than Ványalos, or even Lord Irmo.”

The hobbit nodded, remembering the mist-like shape that had arisen from Saruman's body as it lay dead before the remains of Bag End, already faint and shapeless, to be blown away and scattered before the wind. He shivered, yet at the same time felt his resolve deepen. “Yes,” he said, his voice quiet but his words firm. “I think all mortals do, at some time or in some fashion. We all seem to have known someone who grew infirm with age, or were hurt by sickness or injury in a way that left their body helpless but their mind still alert. We pity them, and at the same time fear that we will become like them, still alive and able to perceive life around us, but unable to participate. I understand perfectly, Olórin, and I am not surprised others of your people like Ványalos and Lord Irmo do not. But that is no reason to give up so soon.”

“I am not giving up,” he was instantly assured. “But it is the reason I have not been myself, lately. I am not a stranger to fear, but I am uneasy with this kind of uncertainty. This situation is something I never anticipated, never even began to imagine. I trust Lord Eru's wisdom, but I can see nothing of my own future clearly, and that is making it more for difficult for me to adjust to the limitations set upon me. If you, at least, will help me to remember the necessities of living as a mortal that I cannot seem to remember on my own, I promise I will not continue to be so rudely distant. You have been trying to help, as I have tried to help you, and it has been worse than impolite of me to refuse to acknowledge your concern, especially since you are my guest.”

“I would be more than happy to do whatever I can, as I have tried to tell you before. I really do not intend to pry when I ask what's wrong, but I have been worried about you. Whenever you were so close about something in Middle-earth, it always turned out to be quite dreadful, in the end. And I have occasionally wondered if perhaps keeping it to yourself was not the wisest thing to do. As Sam's Gaffer used to say, when wolves are prowling ‘round the fences, half an eye is as bad as none.”

Olórin sniffed as he set the more neatly stacked clothing atop the chest after Frodo closed it. “I believe I might actually miss old Hamfast's peculiar words of wisdom. I take it by this he meant that serious situations need to be watched very carefully to keep the danger to a minimum.”

Frodo chuckled. “Or something to that effect. He also said that a sick person makes a bad healer, and he is right about that. A person in pain or fear usually isn't the best judge of how to make things better. I know that was the case for me ever since I returned to the Shire. Other people had to find the best solution to my problems, and I would like to repay some part of that favor, however I may.” He let loose a heavy sigh. “I've said that I want to help so often, these past few days, I may scream instead if I must say it again. Do you not believe me, or do you think I should not, or cannot, be of any use?”

The Maia answered honestly. “Neither. What I believe is that I've been absurdly thickheaded and stubborn, which Lord Manwë warned me against the very first day we arrived. Do forgive me, Frodo, I shan't allow myself to be that obstinate again. There are many other things I am not permitted to do; adding one more restriction of my own choosing will not be a burden, especially if it will make life less unpleasant for both myself and those around me.”

“I could have dealt with it,” the hobbit said, making his tone as confident as possible, “but Bilbo might not have been so patient. And as for my help with matters of mortal living, there is already one thing I can offer. When I asked after matters of laundering, everyone told me to talk to the local Elves, since they attend such things in what I think of as ordinary fashions, whereas your people apparently deal with them in ways we lesser folk cannot. So I did, two days ago, when you showed me the place where the people who live in this area gather to talk and sing and do things I would call going to market. While you were busy with something else, I was directed to a very kind Elf lady who makes the most lovely weavings, Mirimë. She apparently has frequent need to wash cloth and clothing because of her craft, and she said she would be happy to show me where she does it, and how it is managed. Today is one of her regular washing days, and when I told her that it would be difficult for me to come, as we were expecting guests, she offered to come collect my things and take care of them for me. It would be no trouble at all, she said, since she has others to help her and my needs are not great. I cannot imagine she would object if we added your things to the bundle. Your clothing may be larger than mine, but there is considerably less of it.”

Olórin rubbed his chin as he glanced at the pile of cloth; it was an odd motion, as his reflexes had been long accustomed to the presence of a beard that was no longer there. “You're right, she would not object. Mirimë crafted the bedclothes and many of the other fabrics in this house; I recognize her handiwork. She would do this for both of us without a second thought. Thank you for thinking of this. I had begun to wonder if I would need to prevail upon Ványalos to help, after I had already told him I would not need it, since I doubt that Bilbo would have much interest in local laundry customs and I will not be able to wear the same things until he is gone.”

Frodo agreed as he gathered the heap of fabric into his arms. “She said she or one of her assistants would come to collect my things before midday, and that should be any time, now. I'll just put this with the other things I have ready for her.”

He turned, about to bustle out, when a hand firmly laid on one shoulder stopped him. Frodo looked up to see Olórin smiling down at him. “I am not so far beyond hope that I cannot manage to carry my own dirty clothing into the next room,” he told the halfling, a thread of laughter running through his words like veins of silver in stone.

Frodo smiled back and conceded the point as he handed over his burden. “Of course you can, and I shall do my best not to forget that in the future. I should see to the tea, in any case. Bilbo may prefer it brewed strong enough to curl even a hobbit's hair, but I seem to recall Elrond's tastes are somewhat more refined. Are you going to wear that, too?” he asked as they both moved toward the door, his eye happening to fall upon the crystal circlet, still resting on the bedside table where it had been set days before, untouched since Olórin had removed it after their arrival. “It was made to go with that clothing, wasn't it?”

The Maia both shrugged and shook his head. “I have no idea, but no, I was not planning to. This is not a formal occasion, after all, and it would seem rather too ostentatious for greeting guests when they have just arrived after a long journey.”

“True. I remember how I felt after I awoke on the field of Cormallen, and all I had to wear were orc-rags, when everyone but Sam seemed to be dressed for a much more splendid occasion....”

He rambled on, recounting memories of that day while he headed to the kitchen to attend the tea. Olórin listened to his relaxed storytelling while he took a moment to set his clothes atop the pile of those Frodo had set aside for cleaning, in an out-of-the-way corner between the front door and the bathing room. He was glad to hear the hobbit able to speak of that part of his past without pain, and more relieved to know that the notion of a conspiracy to harass him out of his recent reticence had been ended. Perhaps it would be better, after all, to stop searching so hard for the answers that slipped farther away the harder he tried to grasp them, and instead seize each moment as it came. Since he could not see to what end he was bound, there was more wisdom in looking at the road close at hand, within his sight, so that he would not fall into some unforeseen abyss in his haste. He had been patient for two thousand years to finally see the end of his hopes to defeat Sauron; with the aid of the friends who had provided the most help in achieving that goal, he could find the wherewithal to be patient just a little bit longer.