XVI

Frodo was not even aware that he had started to run after Olórin, madly hoping to stop him from doing the unthinkable without even a thought for where he was headed, until he was caught and held firm by strong arms, not even two full steps from the very brink of the precipice. The determined halfling struggled against that grip, but it did not let him go despite his best efforts. He glared up at his captor in the very moment that Manwë spoke, firmly but gently.

“No, Frodo, do not despair. Behold!” With a nod of his white-maned head, the Vala indicated that the hobbit should look over the edge of that terrible face of sheer icy stone. Ordinarily, Frodo would not have dared, for fear of the incredible height, but something in Manwë's voice calmed that terror and let him do as he had been bid. Already far below, he saw a falling speck of white, barely visible against the snowy slopes of the mountain. Suddenly, there was a flash of light, as of the sun glinting off the sharp edges of fresh ice, and to his amazement, the speck was no longer falling. It had changed shape, still pale, but soaring on the currents of the wind, speeding away from Taniquetil and across the plains of Valinor. Squinting against the brightness, Frodo saw that it had taken the form of a white bird, and was now making use of its wings to hurry itself away from the mountains and a situation it could no longer bear.

As the hobbit marveled at the sight, Manwë spoke again. “Our people can assume whatever forms we wish, or none at all, and still travel about the land as we desire. Olórin had heard more than enough from me, I deem, and wished to hear no more. I cannot blame him for his anger, or his need to be away from me. Never before have I broken faith with one who has served me so well. Were I able to flee my shame as he has fled my presence, I would.”

When that small white form moved beyond his sight, Frodo finally relaxed, no longer resisting the Vala's restraint. As Manwë let him go, he looked up at him, his face a mixture of warring emotions. “Why did you do it, Lord Manwë?” he asked, still unable to fathom such a thing. “Why did you disobey Lord Eru when you knew that someone would be hurt by it?”

As he knelt beside the halfling, Manwë remained placid, but sad. “Why did you put on the Ring below Amon Hen when you knew full well the danger of it, to yourself and your company? Why did you risk drawing the attention of enemies who would have taken you and what you bore, and slain all of your friends and comrades with nary a thought?”

“I had no other choice!” Frodo answered instantly. “Boromir was trying to take the Ring from me, and in his madness, if he had succeeded, all might have been lost! He was so much larger and stronger than I, I had no other way to escape him but to hide as quickly as possible. I did the best I could to protect all my friends, and the quest....”

Something in the way the Vala was regarding him stilled the hobbit's explanation. It was not accusing, but compassionate. “Did you think to call upon the others for help instead? If you had cried out for aid, do you doubt that your comrades would have raced to your side at once? Were you so very far removed from them that such a course of action would not have been possible?”

Frodo's eyes widened at the softly-asked questions. He opened his mouth to speak, but found no words waiting to be uttered. He closed it, then began again, more quietly. “No, I wasn't so far away, and they would have come, certainly — though if I'd raised an alarm, it might have drawn our enemies as well.”

“And did you know that they were so near as pose a threat? Was that risk greater than placing the Ring upon your hand when you knew beyond a doubt that so doing would attract the notice of enemies attuned to its evil?”

“I don't know,” the hobbit said after hesitating for a long moment. “I did what I thought was best at the time. I suppose that in hindsight, I might have acted less rashly, and perhaps spared my companions considerable grief and hardship. But I didn't know that until after I had already done what I did. I truly thought that the only risk was to myself, and to no others. I was trying to help.”

“As was I. As you believed the greatest danger to be to yourself alone, so did I believe that taking an action I had been told was perilous and should be avoided would harm no one but myself, the one who committed the transgression. Had you known that your actions might have contributed, directly or indirectly, to the death of Boromir and the capture of Meriadoc and Peregrin, you would have reconsidered the steps you took. Had I known that Olórin would be the one to suffer for my decision and my pride, I would have done the same. Who can say what might have happened had we both seen our errors and repented of them while perhaps there was still time to undo the wrong? Was the doom invoked at the moment of our choice, or did it come later? We cannot know now, for the time of choices is long past, and we can but live with the consequences of what we have done, and pray we find the strength and means to repair the damage.”

Manwë rose, a tall figure of blue and white that towered over the hobbit, yet somehow seemed to be small and bent with sorrow. He sighed. “Know this, Frodo: If I could take upon myself the injuries that were done to Olórin, if I could give to him all my strength and by it make him whole again, I would, without hesitance or regret. He is not, perhaps, the most powerful or brilliant or masterful of my many servants, but his heart is like none other. He has a kind of courage that knows fear yet perseveres in spite of it, and his wisdom is indeed as great as the tales tell. Though he sometimes acts rashly, he is far more patient than he often seems, and his generosity of spirit knows no equal, beyond that of Lord Eru. He is dear to all of us, save to those who are themselves small of heart. He does not deserve this doom, and I would sooner have brought it upon any but him.”

A faint, sad smile touched Frodo's face. “As I would have spared Sam all that he suffered in helping me find my way into Mordor and to the fire. Such faithful service and generous friendship deserves better than that. But Sam, at least, was rewarded in the end. He has his home and his family and his life before him. If I made mistakes, I was the one who was made to carry the pain and punishment of them, in the end. Why can it not be the same for Olórin?”

Manwë answered with a like expression. “Perhaps because your mistakes were not of the same magnitude as mine. You erred in your judgment. I spurned the advice of Eru Himself, out of pride. May He forgive me my faithlessness! For even in his anger, Olórin remained wise. He spoke truly when he said that the one whom I have betrayed most grievously is Lord Eru, for He gave to me the benefit of His counsel to guide me, and I rejected that gift out of the prideful desire to not seem a failure yet again. All I wish now is to do aught that I can and must to make amends for the harm I caused Olórin.”

He lifted his head and looked out across the panorama of the wide world spread around and below them. “I cannot hear him,” he said after a moment, his brow furrowing. “He has closed his thoughts and his heart to me, very likely to all who might thus perceive him. I do not know what he has in mind to do, or where he has fled. I can see far, and perceive the movement of all within Arda, but he is putting forth his power to interfere with my sight, so that he will remain elusive. He learned that skill well two ages ago, when he worked in Endorë in secret opposition to my brother Melkor. Had he not, he would have swiftly been discovered, and destroyed.”

Again, the Vala sighed as he turned away from the edge of the cliff. “Yet his store of strength is sorely depleted, and will dwindle quickly the more he uses it to flee and to hide. I fear very much he will soon exhaust himself, and we will be hard pressed to find him. He was not bearing toward his home, and I do not know where he intended to go, save that I suspect it might be as far from here as possible.”

“And where would that be?” Frodo wondered, shivering slightly at his last sight of the sheer mountain face before he followed Manwë back into the parlor.

“As you reckon distance, either south to the forests of Oromë, or north and west to the Halls of Mandos. Think you that he would seek either of these as a place of refuge?”

The hobbit considered the matter as best he could before shaking his head. “I don't know. He might go to the forests, since he always loved such places even in Middle-earth, but if he's wanting to hide and be alone for a time, I don't think he'd go there. It seems too obvious. And as for the other place...! He's not like that, Lord Manwë, the sort who wants to die when things grow difficult. I panicked when he left because of my instincts, not his. I may not know him as well as you and the others here, but I know he wouldn't try to take his own life.”

Manwë nodded slowly as he acknowledged Frodo's observations. “You speak truly, he is not that way, nor has he ever been. Our people do not seek death because it is beyond our scope of experience, and none invite the sort of diminishment that befell Sauron and Curumo, not unless they are fools enough to expend their all in seeking to dominate and conquer others. Yet Olórin is unique among us, for he has known death, and has returned from it. If the sorrows and pains of life have become too great for him to bear, he may wish to find that path again, though it is now closed to him.”

“He wouldn't,” Frodo insisted as he watched the Vala move to an archway to the left of the main entrance. He gestured for Frodo to follow, and the hobbit complied. “He loves life too much, I think, though....” He hesitated, remembering something the wizard had said to him on the day of their arrival.

Manwë paused, his hand upon the door, to glance at the hobbit. “Though?” he prompted.

Frodo shrugged, reluctant to say more, but aware that he should not withhold what might be valuable information. “When he told me about his death, he said that after he had died, he didn't come here first, but returned to wherever it is Lord Eru and the other Ainur live. He thought it was a very precious experience. Perhaps that is what he wants to find.”

“He cannot,” Manwë said, not without regret. “What happened to him then was a part of the mortal life imposed upon him, and a choice of Lord Eru's, not ours. We are all bound by an agreement we made to remain here within Arda until the End. There is no path for us to return to Him, unless He wills it. Even Melkor could not be wholly banished from the world; he yet lives, though bound, within the Void, where he will stay until the Dagor Dagorath. Though he may dwindle to but a flicker of what he has been, Olórin cannot leave these shores.” He exhaled deeply. “Perhaps it would have been best if he had remained with Lord Eru, then. He would be free of this danger, and living the greatest reward any of us can hope to earn.”

He opened the door, which swung aside with only the lightest of touches. He led Frodo down an unlit passage, into a large, round room through which the air moved in silent but unending motion. The chamber was dark, but as Manwë lifted his hands and spoke a word, all above them suddenly filled with light. Frodo saw that the roof, which was lofty indeed, was a huge dome that seemed to have been made of a web of crystal and light. In it, the hobbit saw beautiful shifting colors and the barest glimpses of images that would come into focus for only an instant, then change to something new. He found the sight both compelling and dizzying, and after a short time looked away, lest he grow faint from the spinning reflections of all he could not quite see before his eyes and in his mind.

Again, Manwë spoke in a language Frodo did not understand, but was coming to recognize as Valarin, the tongue which the Ainur had made for themselves even before the awakening of the Elves. In it, a single word could hold immense power; many could draw forth enough power to reshape half the world. The more he heard of it, the more he realized that he had heard a few words of this language long ago, uttered on rare occasion by Gandalf in times of great danger. He did not know if he would ever grow fully accustomed to the sound of it, but as he understood it better, he appreciated it more.

Whatever Manwë had said just now caused the dome above to fill with many images of Valinor itself, flickering by too quickly for Frodo to recognize more than small bits and pieces of the few places he had actually been. He murmured another word after a time, and though the images did not cease, there was another almost immediate response. A calm voice spoke, one Frodo had grown to know quite well indeed.

“You search in vain, Manwë,” Irmo said, the sound of his voice preceding his appearance near the outer edge of the circle, facing the Elder King. “I advised you against informing Olórin of what you had done long ago, and if now he seeks refuge from his feelings of betrayal, you will not find him, though you search beneath every stone and tree and blade of grass in Aman. This gift he learned to evade the most powerful of our kind, at our behest, and he learned it well indeed. You will not find him so easily, nor will any of us, until he either wishes to be found or has so drained himself of strength, he can no longer maintain his disguise. Was it worth this end to have unburdened yourself so? Might you not have waited, until some answer to his predicament was found?”

“We will not find that answer easily,” yet another voice declared, quietly but with firm conviction. Frodo looked in the direction from which it had come, and saw Varda entering the chamber through a door opposite the one Frodo and Manwë had used. “As the source of the trouble eludes us because we have never lived the life of a true mortal, with all its cares and sorrows and joys, so too is this beyond us. How can we discover a thing which is so foreign to our understanding, we could not see it were it set before us, unhidden?”

“Varda speaks truly,” said a deeply resonant voice as Aulë appeared, not far from where Irmo stood. “You may have been the one to make the mistake by which these sad circumstances came about, Manwë, but we knew of those things the One said to you in counsel, yet none of us uttered so much as a word to make you reconsider your actions. We might have stopped this tragedy ere it began, but we did not.”

“We are all guilty of silence,” said yet another voice, deeper than Aulë's yet even more piercingly clear. Frodo looked to the speaker, who stood near Varda, and was startled to see Námo. He had heard it said that the lord of Mandos never spoke, save at Manwë's command, to pronounce doom. Olórin and other Maiar had assured him that this was not true, but as Námo was seldom seen by the Elves outside his halls, the legend persisted. Today, Frodo could not help but wonder if Námo needed no command from the Elder King because the doom to be pronounced would be Manwë's own. “We all felt the stinging fear of failure, and could not bear the thought of failing yet again, when the price would be all of Middle-earth. What should we have done to end the menace of Sauron without risking further destruction of the world the Atani were to inherit? Should we have marched forth ourselves directly, come as a host of might and majesty to collect one truant child who had gone woefully astray? Should we have said to our servants, go in our stead, and use whatever means are necessary to end this matter as quickly as possible, no matter the terrible cost to Endorë? No. What should have been said was that doing right sometimes entails great risks, and requires the skills of those willing to forego power and pride and praise for the sake of those they love. Varda spoke of this indirectly when she said that Olórin would not be third among our messengers, but she spoke not plainly enough. None of us did. You commanded rather than persuaded, Manwë, and we allowed it when we should not have. All of us stand in equal blame, and for the sake of Olórin, whom we all betrayed in our silence, there is much that requires redress on our part, if we can but find the means.”

“Yet what means will avail us?” still another voice asked, this a woman's. Frodo glanced toward her, a tall woman in green standing near Aulë, and recognized Yavanna. “Evil has poisoned him, as evil poisoned the Two Trees. Not all our song and weeping and power could bring them back; they were sickened beyond our abilities to heal. Can we now find some new means to draw the poisons from Olórin's spirit and repair what harm they have wrought? I have seen no way to do this.”

“Nor I,” Irmo agreed, “or my wife Estë. Yet even in their last throes of death, the Trees were able to put forth fruit and flower that allowed their life to carry on. It may not be possible for Olórin to continue his life as he once knew it, but that does not mean he cannot continue at all. Perhaps we are not finding the answers we seek because we are asking the wrong questions. Should we be searching for a cure to restore Olórin to the life he knew before, or should we be seeking ways to help him move from it into a new life?”

“This may indeed be what is required,” Námo said, nodding to his brother. “What we must seek to find and understand is Lord Eru's will in this matter. Olórin's fate is not known to us, for he was removed from this world and the Music for a time, and returned to it by the will of Eru Ilúvatar. He alone knows what plans He had made for Olórin's future when He decided this. He has not revealed that fate to me, nor, I perceive, to you, Manwë.”

“He has not,” the Elder King confirmed. “Yet I cannot believe He meant for us to do naught but stand silent once again and watch Olórin dwindle into nothingness. Though Lord Eru's judgements may seem harsh at times, they are always just, meet to the crime of the transgressor. It would be less than fair and more than cruel to Olórin to have sent him back to complete a task after such long and hard labors, only so that he might return to us and let us stand witness to the pain of our mistakes as they are visited upon him, who had done no wrong.”

Aulë sighed. “Even so, it would appear to be the case indeed, so long as we can find no means to help him. I regret this as bitterly as you, Manwë Súlimo, for had I but considered that my servant Curumo's pride was as great as his skill, I would have known from the first that he was ill-suited to this embassy. But never have I been a good judge of others' hearts. I have also been too quick to act without considering all that might come of my deeds. Yet even when I disobeyed the will of Lord Eru, He was swift to grant me forgiveness when I showed repentance, and did not make the innocent to suffer for my error. Surely He will not do otherwise for one of His own servants who has done well indeed.”

“I cannot believe He would allow this to continue to a tragic end,” Yavanna agreed.

Námo sighed, a heavy sound like the trembling of the deepest roots of the earth itself. “Yet so He forewarned us,” the dark Vala reminded the others. “Tragedy was the end He foretold, and thus would it be, were Olórin's life to end this way, poisoned by evils from which he had asked to be spared, diminished in strength and power until he joins the nothingness into which his own enemies have fallen. What end more bitter and tragic could any of us imagine? It may indeed be Olórin's fate, much though all of us would wish to change it. We brought it upon him through our words and our silence, even as Melkor brought pain into the world through his defiance of Lord Eru. Now we know how easily he fell into evil, for we ourselves have most surely fallen as well.”

There was an infinite moment of ponderous stillness in the domed chamber, in which all of the Valar present acknowledged their blame. At length, Varda spoke. “Dark indeed have matters grown, yet even in the deepest darkness, light can fall if but the smallest crack is opened to it. We have all acknowledged our guilt and our shame, but we have not asked Lord Eru to be forgiven. Should we be so proud as to avoid this, when we have so often sought His counsel on other matters? Perhaps this is not so far-reaching as the fate of Endorë, the wars against Melkor and Sauron, and the defiance of Númenor, but it is close to all of us, for it involves the fate of one who has been held dear to us all. Can we never act out of love, but only seek to conquer evil and hate?”

“We can,” Manwë answered, “and we should, but first we must find Olórin and let him know that we will do this. Indeed, I see now that we should have done it long ago, but again we fell victim to pride and our belief that we have power enough to mend any harm in Arda that we so choose. We know full well that we do not. Yet he has skillfully concealed himself. Where should we look to find him?”

An answer suddenly appeared in Frodo's thoughts, so clearly, he almost believed a will other than his own had put it there. But it was only a memory, despite its clarity, prompted by the discussion of those around him. “He said he would sooner cast himself into the Void than suffer what happened to Sauron and the others,” the hobbit said softly, surprisingly uncowed by the presence of these powerful beings, but not wanting to rudely interrupt their discourse. He looked up at Manwë, who was standing nearest him. “Is there a way he could do that?”

“It is not impossible,” the Vala replied after taking a moment to consider what Frodo had said. “But it is not as simple a thing as walking from here to there. The Doors of Night are shut fast and well guarded, to prevent Melkor from returning to Arda. They can be opened now only by our will, or Lord Eru's. We would know at once if Olórin attempted this, and he has not.”

“Yet it disturbs me to hear that he had even considered such an act,” Varda said, her beautiful face dimmed with sorrow. “Such despair is unlike him, who was once a spirit of great joy. Is this the burden of all who have been mortal?”

“At times, yes,” Frodo answered, since the lady had looked upon him when she asked her question. “Especially for those who are sick, or crippled. It can be very difficult to carry on from day to day when your life has nothing more than ordinary mortal hardships, but when you have more heaped upon you by illness and injury, you feel... different, unlike everyone else, a burden to yourself and to others. I felt that way after the War was over and we returned home. I tried to return to a normal life, but I had been hurt too deeply, in ways that would not heal. I wasn't like my friends and neighbors, anymore; I was a stranger to them, an object of pity, or sometimes even scorn. I don't recall that Olórin ever fell ill the way ordinary mortals do, but I know that he had been hurt several times, probably more than I know of for certain. He experienced those feelings as we true mortals do, and I suspect he was hoping that once he returned home and could be himself again, he would be able to put them behind him. I can't imagine it's been an easy time for him. At least in Middle-earth, other people knew what it was like to be sick and hurt. Here, he must feel very out of place, since nothing like this has ever happened to one of your people. If you were gone for many years, my lady, then came home and found that you had become a curiosity, something to be pitied more and more as time went by, could you be happy in spite of it, and not feel that all was indeed hopeless?”

Varda inclined her head in acknowledgment of Frodo's words. Aulë sighed. “Perhaps we ourselves should have gone to the aid of Endorë in such a mortal state, for it seems that though the experience is not an easy one, there is much to be learned from it. Yet we cannot step back in time and unmake what was done, only go forward and make reparations as best we can. Olórin cannot leave us through the Doors of Night, nor do I believe he would sincerely try, but if he is seeking solitude, the shores of the farthest west might provide what he desires, for that is a desolate country, where even the most curious of the Eldar seldom go.”

“Nienna will search, then,” Námo said, his voice still dark and deep. “Our sister knows that land best of all our people, for though others avoid it, she sees in its seeming emptiness things which they cannot perceive.”

“Ulmo will also help,” Manwë added, approving the plan. “As she is familiar with the western lands above the waters, he best knows the those barren shores and the shoals that stretch out from them into the Encircling Sea. Together, they will find him.”

“And then what?” Frodo's voice sounded small even to his own ears. He felt the eyes of all the Valar turn to him, but with compassion, not scorn.

“We will bring him home,” Varda replied, the pity which filled her face the most touching of all. “And we will do whatever we can, whatever is necessary to help him. He should never have come to such a pass as this.”

“But what if you can't? I don't mean to sound disrespectful, but it doesn't seem as if anyone has been able to think of a single thing to heal him. Will he have to fade into nothing, like the Maiar who turned to wickedness, in spite of it all?”

“I do not know,” Manwë said gently, settling his hands on the hobbit's shoulders. “But if at the last we cannot find the answer he so sorely needs, and indeed nothing can prevent him from that unwarranted end, I will ask Lord Eru to show him mercy, and take Olórin back to the Timeless Halls, as He did after his death in Moria. No work of evil can long endure in the light of Eru Ilúvatar's presence, and there he would be restored to strength and wholeness, as he was in his beginning. The harm Olórin suffered was not healed when last he was there because, I deem, we who had wronged him needed to be shown the full truth of what we had done, to learn its bitter lessons. Naught would have been learned had we not seen for ourselves what had become of him. If we have studied to Lord Eru's satisfaction, and have made every attempt to amend the result of our mistake, He will not allow Olórin to suffer needlessly.”

Manwë's answer both relieved and disturbed Frodo. “So if that is what is needed to make him well, I may never see him again.” It sounded terribly selfish the moment he said it, but again, the hobbit was startled when he was answered not with a rebuke, but with compassion.

“Perhaps not in this life,” Námo replied, his deep voice surprisingly sympathetic. “But in Lord Eru's plans, there will come a time when all His children shall meet again, to sing the Second Music after the last battle. Meager consolation this may be to you, for you will be saddened to lose your friend, as will we, but I see in your words and in your heart that you truly wish what is best for him, as he wishes for you. If this is what must be, we must all bear the parting for his sake, and take what small comfort we can in the knowledge that there will come a time of joyful reunion, when all the world will be healed.”

Somehow, the halfling took more solace from Námo's honesty than he might have from a thousand reassurances that a solution would of course be found, the unwanted end avoided. It was indeed a small comfort, but it was better to know the truth than to be given false hope. Even so, Frodo continued to pray that such extreme measures would not be necessary, though as he looked up at the dome above and its many shifting images, he found himself wishing that in one of these myriad reflections, Olórin would be found, and the much desired answer as well.

**********

In all the long years of his life, Olórin could not recall a time when he had ever wished to flee anything more desperately than he had run from Manwë and the words of betrayal he had spoken. The occasions on which he had fled Sauron in Dol Guldur had not been prompted by fear or upset, merely a prudent realization that he had not the power, nor the authority, to confront the rising Dark Lord alone; better to escape and gain the help of others in so doing, to make victory certain. Had he but known how Saruman would betray them all with words of deliberate misdirection, lulling them to inaction, he perhaps might have done differently. But skilled though he was at seeing and understanding so many other things, Olórin was always shocked and saddened by betrayal when it revealed itself to him, because such an act was so alien to his very nature. He could not consciously betray another; he did not even know that he could do so unconsciously. Yet time and again, his trust in others betrayed him. First Aránayel, then Curumo, now even Manwë himself.

And the last to be recognized was beyond doubt the most terrible of all, not because of what it portended for his future, but because he had so loved and trusted and believed in the goodness of the lord he served. Manwë knew the pains of betrayal well; his own brother had done so to him more than once. He had witnessed the injustice of it countless times in his position as the king of Arda, as he had been made aware of what Aránayel had done to Olórin long years ago. Knowing what he did, how could Manwë have even begun to justify this most cruel betrayal of all — not of his servant, but of Lord Eru? For He was the one Manwë had defied, and such defiance was beyond Olórin's comprehension. Every child chafes against the authority of their parents as they grow, and perform small acts of disobedience which allow them to grow and stand firm on their own as an adult, but this had been no act of childish rebellion. It had been a chosen rejection of a clearly-given instruction, and that was what Olórin could not begin to imagine. He could not have done the same and ever justified it in his own heart, not for a moment. Yes, he had made many mistakes during his life, some with dreadful repercussions, but none of them had entailed breaking faith with Lord Eru's will, in even a small way. As Manwë could not truly comprehend evil, Olórin could not truly comprehend this act of defiance. Betrayal had hurt him too often, too deeply and apparently in ways it had not hurt the king of the Valar.

So now, all he could do was flee his master until he had somehow managed to calm his distraught emotions and at least attempt to find some explanation, some bit of insight that would help him understand how this could have happened in the first place, when it should not have happened at all. One thing he did know: it hurt him far less to know that Manwë's choice had caused him very lasting and serious injury than it did to realize that the Vala he had served so faithfully ever since their entrance into Arda had not known or trusted him enough to make him privy to the true reasons behind his command. He had not had enough faith in Olórin's loyalty to know that there would be no question of his participance, regardless of the personal dangers, so long as he was told why it was needed.

That would have been enough. Manwë need only have spoken his mind plainly, and Olórin would have willingly agreed. He saw the wisdom in not doing so before the others who were to go. Curumo in particular would have taken Manwë's reasons badly; his reaction to Varda's words at the council was sufficient proof of that. But even a concern to avoid dissension among the Istari before their mission was begun was not reason enough for Manwë to have simply ordered Olórin when he had been warned that such an act would bring bitter consequences, especially when he should have known that his servant would do anything to give his aid to any cause that would benefit from it. Did Manwë truly know him so little, or had he himself never truly known the Vala whom he served?

It was a question that could not be answered, not now, and in his heart, he could not help but feel that even were it known, the answer was long since past the time in which knowledge of it would make any difference. They would come looking for him soon, worried that he would exhaust himself beyond the point of no return, but at the moment, he neither wanted to be found nor cared if he did push himself beyond his limits. Olórin had very few illusions left to him; he had lived too long and seen too much for that. But he had held the belief that of all the beings in Arda, Manwë was if not perfect at least incorruptible, understanding so little of evil that he would never fall to it in any significant way. Yet he had, full knowing that his act was one of which Eru disapproved, and now, to Olórin's shock and dismay, the unthinkable had happened. His own diminishment was not so hurtful as the loss of his faith in the Elder King, now shown to be just another illusion that had shattered like a bubble of thinnest glass against a boulder of hardest diamond. No, he had no wish to be found, for once again, he felt as if someone he had admired and loved had reached inside him and torn out his very heart.

So he fled, swifter than the bird he currently appeared to be, clinging to the shape not because it could help him flee faster, but because some part of him still feared that if he wholly abandoned incarnate life, he would never be able to assume any physical form again. He felt the strength draining from him more swiftly with each passing moment as he flew headlong away from the mountains and toward the empty west; he made use of the skills he had learned ages ago to keep himself hidden, as he had once hidden from Melkor to work in secret against him. If he could but fly far enough before his strength was gone, he could conceal himself in simpler ways, and spend the time coming to terms with this most bitter betrayal. He had not the heart to think of sharing this with anyone else, least of all those he counted as his friends. He needed to be alone.

He was all but exhausted when he at last saw the Ekkaia, the outer sea, stretching away from the land to the west beyond West, where only the Void awaited those who would dare travel those dark paths beyond the Doors of Night. Had he retained enough strength, he might have considered attempting that escape from the world, such was his mood, but he did not think it, for he knew he was too exhausted to try. When he could not carry himself farther, he allowed himself to glide down as far as his wings could carry him, and at last came to land on a rocky shore where the rolling surf broke against the bleak dark stones in an endless rhythm like the pulse of Arda itself. He lay where he had fallen, unable to do more, and made no effort at all to alter his form. Perhaps this was fitting, after all, for he had often felt like the tiny bird amid the greater ones of the flock that was all the Ainur. It suited to think that he might meet his end this way, as the smallest of birds whose wings had at last failed, and left him to fall, broken in heart and body and spirit, on the hard, unfeeling rock of a cold and desolate shore.