XV

Ever after, Frodo found it difficult to describe the experience of his visit to the home of Manwë and Varda atop Taniquetil. The flight was surprisingly swift, as each stroke of the great eagle's wings carried them much farther than the fastest horse ever born could hope to run in the same span of time. Lórien was soon far behind them as they climbed ever higher in the skies above Aman, so high that even the clouds were left far below, and the very air felt thin and cold. Something, Frodo knew not what, protected them in these surroundings. As they approached the summit of Taniquetil, white with everlasting snows, gleaming with the light of the halls built upon it, the hobbit saw the sky itself seemingly turn to deep blue glass, through which the stars of the heavens could be seen even though to the world below, the sun was near the noon; at this tremendous height, it seemed but the most brilliant and nearest of all the great stars in the firmament. The mighty eagle bore them ever upward, above the halls of Ilmarin, and as he wheeled toward them, gliding in preparation to land, Frodo beheld the legendary mansions of the Elder King and his queen. He saw the domes and the walls of purest white, the pristine courts and gleaming windows that looked out over all of Arda, but what he remembered most was the light, the brilliance that shone through every part of it, as if all had been fashioned of naught but radiance made tangible.

Nothing but the sound of rushing wind could reach his ears while they were in flight, but as the eagle at last slowed and settled, bringing them to a broad court that could easily accommodate its magnificent size, the hobbit heard music, very faint and distant, so soft that he almost thought he was imagining it. All else was silent, save for the breath of the wind and the soft murmur of water flowing in a fountain at the center of the round courtyard. It seemed very strange to him, though he did not know why; but Olórin noticed it as well.

“It seems unusually quiet today,” the wizard observed, the ceaseless wind blowing long strands of his pale hair across his face as he looked up at the white walls and gleaming domes about them. “It has been long since last I was summoned here, but if there is one thing I recall above all else, it was the singing of the Vanyar who dwell here. I remember several occasions on which you and Ilmarë asked if they might be told to be silent for a time so that you could better concentrate upon important tasks. Is something amiss?”

“No,” Eönwë replied, and even to Frodo's ears, the answer seemed to come too quickly. “I was told there had been a birth among the kin of Ingwë who dwell on the lower slopes, a rare thing among his people, these days. Those of the Vanyar who live here in Ilmarin have gone for the day to celebrate this great blessing with their kin.”

“A rare event indeed,” Olórin agreed with a smile. “Is this why I was asked to come, so that I might hear with my own ears what I think has not been heard in Ilmarin since the day the Vanyar came to live among us: peace and quiet?”

“Nothing so simple, I fear,” Eönwë said, sighing. “Though I may not say more, I can tell you that Lord Manwë and Lady Varda have both watched the progress of your healing with keen interest. Whatever else may be said, do not doubt that our master has been concerned for your well-being, and Master Frodo's.”

The wizard's smile faded; he looked at the herald with a puzzled expression as Eönwë led them to a beautiful archway of pearl and adamant, not the most impressive of the many entrances facing the fountain court, but quite lovely nonetheless. “I have never doubted it. Your words do nothing to ease my mind, Eönwë. I may have been forbidden the use of all my abilities as a Maia, but I do not need them to tell that something here is very wrong, and that it somehow concerns me.”

The herald made no answer. They moved through the arch into a well-appointed entrance hall, elegantly embellished with decorations and furnishings of white and silver and many shades of blue. The tiles beneath their feet were glazed in such a way that it looked as if they were walking upon the sky itself, flecked with white clouds; the translucent dome that arched above them shimmered with adornments that made it resemble a star-filled sky at midnight. Several more entrances were set into the walls of the hall, one each at the four compass points; Eönwë led them to the largest, a pair of tall silver and sapphire doors opposite the arch through which they had entered. He laid his hand upon the left of the doors and was about to open it when he paused, and turned to the wizard.

“I do not know how matters will settle in the end, Olórin,” he said, his voice quiet but intense. “But whate'er betides, please remember that I will ever be your friend, as will the many others of our people and the Eldar — and the Atani,” he added, nodding briefly toward Frodo, “who both respect and love you.”

Olórin regarded him, his face full of grave perplexity. “I do not doubt this, either. You do not encourage me — indeed, your words darken my heart. I think it best that you say no more, if you cannot speak plainly. Whatever lies before me, let it be revealed as it will.”

Frodo could not have agreed more, as he also found Eönwë's remarks troubling. The herald nodded his acquiescence to his fellow Maia's request, and laid his hands against the double doors. They opened both effortlessly and soundlessly, and through their high arching entrance, Eönwë led them.

Frodo had not known what to expect upon the other side; what he saw as they entered seemed both surprising and appropriate. As with all else he had seen here, everything was made of white and blue and silver and crystal and all the things that spoke of the skies and the stars and all the heavens above the world. The room was quite large by hobbit standards, but remarkably conservative by those of the Big Folk, especially what Frodo had seen of kings and queens and other nobility. The nearer portion of the room reminded Frodo very strongly of some he had seen in Rivendell, an inner chamber appointed for the comfort of one or two persons, not a sleeping room, but rather a parlor where one spent private time in study or reading or conversing with kin or close friends. The wall opposite the door was scarcely a wall at all, being instead a series of archways that opened onto a broad terrace with no roof and — to Frodo's astonishment — no rail. Nothing stood between the marble and crystal balcony and what lay beyond: a sheer drop of what appeared to be many thousands of feet, straight down the most precipitous rise of the snow-covered stone of Taniquetil itself. Though he had grown somewhat accustomed to heights in his travels, and had not been too badly disturbed by the flight on the eagle's back, this was more than Frodo's hobbit instincts could manage, and he made a point to stay well clear of it.

Fortunately, it did not appear as if they would need to step out onto that lofty terrace. As they entered the room, Frodo noted that Manwë was already waiting for them, standing before the arch farthest to the right, looking out at the skies above and beyond the treacherous balcony. The wind moved constantly through the chamber, not strongly, but as gentle breezes that move the air and keep it forever clean and fresh. It stirred the Vala's white hair and blue robes, the latter of which were surprisingly simple, the garb of someone at ease in their home and not presenting an image of majesty before the rest of the world. He did not turn or move in any way when they entered, but he nonetheless knew that they were there.

“You may leave us now, Eönwë,” the king said quietly, his tone very much akin to that of the herald's when he had arrived in Lórien: subdued, threaded with some indefinable sadness. “I thank you for bringing my guests.”

Eönwë hesitated before acknowledging his master's words with a bow. To Frodo, it seemed that there was something he wanted to say, but thought better of it before uttering a sound. “I am ever at your service, my lord,” he said as he bowed, then paused to glance at those he had brought before departing. His steps made only the faintest sound, as did the closing of the doors behind him.

Since they had not been given leave to speak or to sit, Frodo followed Olórin's example in remaining where they were, awaiting some indication from Manwë as to what they should do next. The Vala continued to gaze beyond the terrace for more than a minute, silent, then at last turned to his guests. It was the same face Frodo remembered from the day of their arrival, but without the easy cheer and geniality he had shown that day. Manwë looked troubled — almost, Frodo thought, like a young hobbit who knows he has neglected his chores and feels both the guilt and the fear of punishment inevitably to come. Why he might be in such a mood, Frodo could not begin to imagine; briefly, he hoped that he was not misreading that expression, and that they, not Manwë, should be the ones in fear of punishment.

But there was no rebuke or hint of it in his voice when he spoke. “I am glad you chose to come, Olórin — and you as well, Master Frodo. I have no doubt that both of you are at a loss to understand why I extended such an invitation.”

Now free to speak, the wizard did not hesitate. “Completely, my lord, especially since Eönwë mentioned that you had forbidden him to explain it to us, yet what little he was able to say left me feeling quite uneasy. I can think of nothing either of us have done to warrant your displeasure, so I can but assume that the disquiet I sense is somehow related to the matter of healing which both Frodo and I share. I am certain you have held council with Lord Irmo and Ladies Estë and Nienna, so am I wrong in concluding that this visit might involve some unpleasant news concerning what they might have discovered about it?”

To Frodo's great relief, Manwë shook his head. “No. They have kept all of us abreast of this situation, and we are pleased to know that Frodo's condition has been steadily improving, as has that of his kinsman. They have, in fact, improved more quickly than we had anticipated. But perhaps you are not entirely in error, for we have also been distressed to hear that no progress has been made on your account, and that while it is not happening as swiftly as the hobbits' healing, your condition nonetheless continues to deteriorate, with no solution yet in sight. This does trouble us, and it especially troubles me, for I am the one wholly to blame for what has happened to you.”

It did not take more than a moment for the implications of those softly-spoken words to register on both the hobbit and the Maia. Frodo's expression became one of confusion, suspecting that he must have heard wrong or misunderstood what had been said; Olórin's went quite still, changing little but for an impression of utter disbelief in his eyes. “That cannot be possible, my lord,” the latter answered, certain this must be so. “What happened to me was the result of dwelling too long amid the evils of our Enemies in a form too vulnerable to their more devious attacks. How could you have done aught to be blamed for this harm I suffered?”

Manwë took a very deep breath, and again released it in a sigh. “It is not as long a tale as one might think, and I had very much hoped that it would never be necessary for you to hear it. But as time passes and Irmo and Estë can only report that you grow weaker, not stronger, I know that I cannot keep silent. Irmo advised me against this, saying it might only make matters worse, yet there is also the possibility that if you know all of what brought you to this pass, you who have actually lived through it and not merely viewed it from afar might see in this the answer that eludes those of us who are trying to help. As the halflings are themselves a part of the mortal race, I felt it might be wise to let them share in this, for they have unique insights into such things that we do not. But I also thought it would be kind to spare the elder Master Baggins this burden, for even here in Aman, his years will not be many, and they should not be dimmed if at all possible.”

He turned to Frodo. “If you wish to leave now before you hear aught that might distress you, you are free to do so. The choice is yours.”

The hobbit sniffed softly. “If you think I might be able to help if I know what you're about to say, then I certainly want to stay, Lord Manwë. Olórin has been my friend all my life, and I have promised to do anything I can to help him now. But I don't understand. Everything I've heard thus far about why he is in such difficulty said that it was the forces of evil in Middle-earth that hurt him. As far as I am aware, you have not set foot there since the end of the First Age. How could you possibly be responsible for what happened?”

The sadness that filled the Vala's face was so deep, Frodo had to blink to hold back unbidden tears. “By being responsible for sending Olórin when I knew I should not.”

The wizard made a skeptical sound. “Lord Irmo has spoken of such things, that I should not have been sent to Endorë because of my feelings toward the Eruhíni, but you are certainly not to blame for that, my lord. They are not a part of what caused my troubles, and you did not use them to persuade me to go as one of your messengers....”

“No, I did not,” Manwë agreed. “I commanded you to go instead — and therein lies my fault.”

“That is still not a reason to blame yourself for this. I am your servant; you asked me to do something that clearly needed to be done. I should have accepted the task and not refused it, out of loyalty to you, if naught else. If anything, I am to blame for my circumstances, for it is a faithless servant who shrinks from a task out of personal fear, wishing instead to leave it to another so that he need not take the risk and remain safe while others walk into peril.”

But the sadness in the Vala's expression deepened, and mingled with pain. “Oh, Olórin, you do not understand. I am grateful to you for attempting to exonerate me, but you have not allowed me to explain more fully. Sit, and hear me out before you say another word.”

He gestured to simple chairs of carved white stone with blue and silver cushions, near one of the arches overlooking the terrace. When his guests were seated, he took yet another deep breath, and continued. “When we Valar first conceived the plan to send our Maia servants as messengers to oppose Sauron, we knew that this could not be done by the means we had used before. In our struggles against our Enemies, each time we have intervened in the affairs of Endorë by traveling to it personally, disaster has followed. Even when we attempted to do so from afar, the use of power to counter the dark powers has only ended in tragedy. How much longer could Endorë endure such upheavals without finally being struck by a cataclysm so tremendous, naught could hope to survive? We feared making such a mistake yet again, so we decided that this time, our intervention must be more subtle, using persuasion rather than might to achieve our ends.

“Yet even if we sent only Maiar to do this, it would be difficult. Those who went could not themselves be weak, for the task of uniting the peoples of Middle-earth through love and persuasion would require great wisdom, intelligence, and the ability to adapt to whatever situations might arise. If such persons were sent unfettered, free to use all the abilities and knowledge at their disposal, in time, frustration alone might prompt them to use those powers to simply have done with subtlety and achieve the end more quickly, to the detriment of the Eruhíni — and very possibly all of Endorë. So it came to us that the solution to this problem was to send our messengers as those whom they were to succor. In the forms of true Men, they would come to know and understand far better the people they were meant to help, and the weight and restrictive nature of that flesh would impose a diminishment of power and knowledge that would prevent them from freely using their native abilities as they would. But although we can rehouse the fëar of the Elves, that is but rebuilding something which was lost after the patterns of the old. To make a wholly new body which is of true flesh, not a fana, requires an act of creation, and that is beyond our power and authority. So we decided to ask the counsel of Lord Eru, to seek guidance, and His aid in constructing these bodies for our messengers, should He approve of our plan.

“All of this, you know, as it was made clear to you before you were sent as one of the Istari. What you do not know is what happened before that council at which those who would go were selected. I was the one who presented our plan to Lord Eru and asked for His help. He told me that the idea had merit, and could indeed succeed without causing calamity to Middle-earth, though because of this diminishment of power, the chances for failure were greater. And, He said, there were perils to inhabiting living flesh that we did not and could not understand; thus, all those who were to go must be warned of the danger before they departed. He would fashion the bodies for our messengers and place their spirits into them, but we were to be extremely careful in our selection, and all should make this choice of their own free will. None, He advised, should be commanded to go, for if such were to be done, tragedy would result, of a kind we would bitterly regret.”

Manwë had been looking directly at Olórin, his gaze fixed upon his servant while he spoke; so it was that he saw the Maia's eyes widen and his face grow ashen. “But... my lord, you ordered me to go....”

The Vala closed his eyes against what he could see growing in that suddenly stricken face, something he could not bear to behold. “I know,” he near-whispered. “And that is wherein lies my blame, Olórin. I was counseled not to do this by Eru Himself, yet I did not heed that counsel, as I ought have done. You need not ask why; the answer is all too plain, for it is what lies at the root of every supposedly well-meant error that harms another: pride. When we held the council to put forth this plan to our servants, we asked for those who were willing to be a part of it to step forward, and only Curumo and Alatar responded. When no others would come forth, I began to feel the rise of fear within me, for I knew both of them well enough to realize that skilled and learned and powerful though they might be, they did not have a sufficient store of the wisdom that would be needed to carry out their mission while living a life in which both their learning and their power would be greatly inhibited. They were also proud after the fashion of those who have great ambition, and desired to be held in reverence; they knew little of how to accept an unassuming role and do a thing only because it must be done, not because it will win them renown or praise.

“In my growing alarm, I could think only one thought: that if none but ones such as they took part in this embassy, we would fail yet again, and Endorë itself would be forever lost to Sauron and the shadow of evil, Melkor's evil, which we had tried and failed to fully uproot of old. I could not bear that thought, for we had already inflicted much harm on Arda when in earlier days, we did not consider our actions well enough, or pondered only the immediate results, not those of a much wider scope. Alone, Curumo and Alatar would have certainly failed; the task was greater than any two of your people could manage, least of all two who would swiftly grow impatient to see their goal achieved, by whatever means necessary. What was needed was greater wisdom, humility, and patience, and as I realized this, the answer came to me that you could bring to this mission all those qualities. Yet when I asked, you resisted and refused, and my fear grew all the more. I do not know if it was that fear or some foresight which prompted it, but I felt very strongly that you must go, that I could not allow you to refuse this task or all would come to ruin. So though I attempted to make light of it in my words, saying that your own fear of Sauron was all the more reason why you should oppose him, I did what I knew I should not, and ordered you to go as my messenger.

“Later, after you had acquiesced and all was being made ready to prepare for the effort, I saw my error, but I could not bring myself to revoke my command. Though I clearly recalled what Lord Eru had said, I felt that I could suffer whatever tragedy might befall me if in the end, it allowed this mission to succeed. Only long after you had departed for Endorë did I realize the bitterness of which Lord Eru had spoken: that the tragedy to come would not fall upon me, the one who gave the command, but upon the one to whom it had been given, who did not deserve such a reward for his faithful service.”

Manwë laughed, but the sound was hollow and self-mocking, heavy with grief. “Fool that I was, I thought that the tragedy which was doomed to befall you came when you faced the Balrog of Moria and were slain. I did not even begin to see the horrible truth until you returned to us, and I perceived for myself the scars that mortal life and so many centuries of human exposure to the evil at work in Endorë had left upon your very being. Even then, I did not fully understand your plight; I felt certain you would be quickly healed, now that you were home. It shames me deeply to realize that I was in error yet again.”

Frodo listened to the Vala's quiet but earnest speech with a blend of astonishment and some other emotion he could not define — pity, perhaps, for Manwë's apparent naivete, or trepidation, a fear that there might indeed be no answer to Olórin's predicament. His astonishment came of the realization that this mistake had been made by the king of the Valar himself, whom Frodo had thought was too inherently good and noble to knowingly commit such an act.

He could not tell for certain, but he suspected that Olórin shared in his astonishment, for that was the only thing he could read in the wizard's otherwise blank and pale face. His eyes were fixed on his master as those of someone who beholds, unexpectedly, the shattered fragments of some beautiful and precious thing they had not believed could ever be broken. Frodo could almost feel the churning of thoughts and feelings within him, confused, upset, undecided, aggrieved, aghast — it was impossible to tell if any one was stronger than the others.

At length, Manwë spoke again. “Lord Eru told me naught but the truth when He said it would be bitterly regretted if any of us did this thing He advised me against, and none regret it more bitterly than I. I cannot undo what I have done, yet it eats at my heart to know that if I had been less anxious to succeed and more patient to do what was right, this would not have come to pass. Now, I can only ask your forgiveness for my terrible folly.”

Olórin did not yet look away from his master. He continued to stare at him for what felt a very long time to Frodo, then slowly rose from where he sat and at last turned from the Elder King. He now faced the broad white terrace and the open skies beyond; the wind stirred his pale hair and tugged at his white robes, the only motion about him as he stood with his back to his companions. Finally, he spoke. “You wished for me to go as your messenger because you felt I had wisdom and patience and humility enough to help the work of the Istari succeed, despite the obstacles pitted against us.”

“Yes,” Manwë agreed with a nod as deep as his voice. “I could think of no one better suited to achieve such an impossible task, and I was so certain of this, I knew the mission would fail if you were not a part of it.”

Olórin remained motionless for several moments more. He then turned to face Manwë, his eyes filled with a sudden fury that even to Frodo felt like a physical blow. Yet despite the blazing anger, his face was damp with tears, anger commingled with anguish. “Then if you knew me so well, my lord, why did you not trust my much-vaunted wisdom enough to tell me the truth? When I said that I feared Sauron and felt myself too weak to oppose him, could you not have explained to me the reasons behind your desire rather than disregard the counsel of Eru Ilúvatar Himself to force my compliance? You knew that harm would come of it. Even if you did not know how or in what way or time it would occur, you had been warned. All of we who are called the Ainur, from the least to the greatest, were brought into the world to serve Him — you above all others! How could you disobey Him to achieve an end which you could have reached by simply telling me why you wished me to go? Did you think so little of me that you could not even trust me to understand your reasoning? Did your pride deem it necessary to force this upon me, when you should have known that I would do whatever was asked of me, no matter how perilous or difficult, if only I was allowed to understand the need? Was it from you, my lord and king, that Aránayel learned how to betray and destroy those who have given naught but faithful service and unwavering devotion?”

His last question was asked with such sharp bitterness, Frodo grimaced even as Manwë lowered his head. “You have every right to be angry with me, Olórin,” the Vala said quietly, “even more than I am angry with myself. But I did not mean to betray your trust....”

“No indeed,” the Maia replied, his calm facade crumbling like a dam of sticks and dust before a raging flood. “I would not think such a thing had entered into your mind, for that is but the smallest of misdeeds when measured beside the betrayal of Lord Eru's will!”

“You do not understand...!”

“Yes, my lord, I do not! Of all of the Ainur, you are the greatest, the one nearest to Eru Himself, the one who knows most clearly and fully His will and His plans for all Arda. We had not yet come to the last notes of our song when the Istari were sent to Middle-earth; your knowledge of what was to be had not reached its end. The One Himself told you Do not do this! and yet you chose to do that very thing. Oh, you say that you thought whatever tragedy was to come would fall upon you, and I will not deny that you spoke the truth as you believed it to be — but why, my lord, why did you not pause to consider that ever in the past, when ills have come as the result of your actions, never did the blow they caused fall upon you? You have known me from well nigh the beginning of our existence, yet did you truly know me so little that you doubted my willingness to help, regardless of the consequences, if only I knew that my help was truly needed? Did your wisdom fail you at last?”

A lesser being might have answered with anger, but Manwë was not of that ilk; he bore the rebuke as just, for he knew too well his own responsibility, and what he had done to cause such merited outrage. “It would seem that it has. I may stand as the regent of Lord Eru here in Arda, but I am not Him, and when I err, it seems always that I do so to my everlasting regret, and the pain of others. Yet even admitting my fault does not mitigate my blame. I have no means to make right what I have done to you by my wrongful choices; I can only ask for your forgiveness, and hope that others will find the way to amend my mistakes.”

Olórin glared at the Vala in silence for the span of several heartbeats, then spoke in a low voice of frighteningly level intensity. “Two thousand years ago, I would have given what you ask, had you but told me what you had done before you sent me away to live a life you could not possibly understand, toiling toward a goal you had scarce hope could be achieved, and at the last drawing ever closer to an end against which you had been warned, but did not heed. I will pay the price of your errors and misjudgments, my lord, for I myself have made many which I deeply regret, and it befits what I am and always have been to make such a sacrifice for another. But I cannot grant you forgiveness to ease your conscience. I am not the one you have most greatly wronged; I am but the one from whom the penalty will be exacted. Let it be so, then, and let it come swiftly. But the forgiveness you seek is not mine to give. All I can offer is my life in payment for your deliberate betrayal of Lord Eru's will.”

Before either of his companions could react in any way, he turned and swiftly strode out onto the terrace, increasing the pace of his stride until he was running across the tiles of adamant and crystal, headed directly and without hesitation toward the edge that was guarded by no kerb or rail.

Frodo saw where he was going, what he was doing, and in utter horror sprang from his seat. He did not think to ask Manwë to intervene, did not even notice whether or not the Vala was reacting at all; he only knew that somehow, he had to stop his friend before it was too late. “Olórin!” he cried, the words torn from his throat in utter anguish. “Gandalf, no...!!!”

But before the cry had time enough to reach Frodo's ears, the Maia raced over the edge of the precipice, fell from sight, and was gone.