XVII

Where water flowed, so too did the awareness of Ulmo, Lord of the Waters. What water touched, Ulmo knew, and when he bent his thought to it, he could perceive almost as much of what passed in Arda as Manwë could at the summit of Taniquetil. At the behest of the Lord of the Air, he turned his thought to the western shores of Aman, seeking one spirit whom he did not know quite as well as many of the other Valar, but who was yet known to him. In all his traveling through the many parts of the world, eager to learn and curious to know, Olórin had come to the sea from time to time, admiring its beauty and appreciating the wonders water itself provided for life in this physical world. He had not served Ulmo often, but he had on several occasions, and the Vala had come to appreciate the unassuming Maia. He saw certain things which Ulmo often thought he alone could see, a comprehension of how what seems small and common and unassuming can be more effective than the powerful and the majestic. The strength of a storm-driven sea pounding against the shores of the world was both terrifying and inspiring of awe, but it was the more gentle trickles of water, dripping over thousands of years in little hollows below the earth that made the incredible glory of caverns and built natural halls of immense beauty where otherwise nothing but overburdened rock would have stood. Some, such as Aulë's Dwarves, appreciated the artistry of these sights, but few appreciated what had actually made them. Olórin did, because he himself understood much of simplicity and humility, and for that alone if nothing else, Ulmo was fond of him.

Now, Manwë and the others had called to him, seeking his help in finding that humble Maia, and Ulmo did not hesitate to agree. He knew of Olórin's skills in avoiding detection when he wished, but if he was still in physical form of any kind, Ulmo would be able to find him so long as he touched water. He would know where Olórin had gone if he stepped into a stream or fell into the ocean, or stood under a shower of rain. If he stooped to drink, Ulmo would sense it; if he shed tears, Ulmo would know it. There were ways to discover where the Maia had gone, and Ulmo called upon all his power over water in all its forms to aid him. The small clouds in the skies over the west of Valinor spread and grew heavy with rain; soon, their showers fell upon all the lands below, not so heavily as to drive those in the open to cover, but gently so that one moving through them would feel no need to avoid them. The waves of the sea itself lifted to greater heights, reaching farther ashore, washing over as much of the land as could be managed without endangering any of the lesser creatures who might be near its edges and would be swept away to their deaths. Ulmo focused all his thought upon what the waters whispered to him, and he examined each murmur with care.

He was not particularly aware of the passage of time; the movements and changes of the sea were endless and unceasing, and in that part of the world, mere hours or days were meaningless. But at length, one faint whisper of the falling rain spoke to him; it was echoed in the rush of a wave over stone and sand. Ulmo listened more closely, and the sounds were heard again as the drops of rain continued to fall and another wave washed upon a rocky shoal on the western shores. The sounds became clearer as he focused on them, and at last, he was able to perceive where they were pointing. Ulmo opened all his senses to the place; at first, it seemed as barren as all that stony shore, but when the waves rolled over it yet again, he noticed a small speck of white, barely visible amid the rocks and rushing waters. His thought touched it, and though it did not respond, he knew it for what and who it was.

The place was not far from the halls of Nienna, and it was to her that Ulmo now called. A little one you know and love has fallen on the shores of your home, the lord of the seas said to her. He needs your help, and quickly, or it may soon be too late. Come, follow my thought and I will bring you to him.

**********

Moments later, Nienna was standing atop a rise of stone that formed a natural sea wall along the shores west and south of her house, which stood near the Doors of Night. A tall figure in black and gray, she seemed almost a part of the desolate shore, but though she stood still, her eyes and her thoughts searched what lay before her, moving unerringly to the place which Ulmo had indicated. She saw that small dot of white amid the dark rocks, and without hesitation went toward it. She moved nimbly over the wet stones, never slipping despite the treacherous footing, and soon stood beside the fallen white bird. Gently, she took it into her hands and returned with it to the land above. As she went, the rain ended, and the sun shone once more. But even as the skies brightened, Nienna wept.

It was her way, her gift, not merely the understanding of sorrow, but the healing that is brought of the expression of grief and pity. Olórin had been her greatest pupil, ever the most willing to learn the lessons of compassion and patience she had to teach. He had acted in haste, taking flight from Taniquetil and depleting his meager store of strength to run from the hurt of betrayal, but she had not come to judge his motives. She wept, not only for the pain she could sense within him, weak as he was, but for the ache she felt in her own heart over all the injustice he had endured. Nienna was called the Weeper, and some thought her distant and cold and heartless, but she was perhaps the most feeling of all the Valar, the one most sensitive to the emotions and physical conditions of those around her. So she had taken to herself no spouse, and lived in the far stony land of the western shores, away from most who dwelt in Aman, yet also close to those who were often most in need of pity and understanding, the spirits of the dead who resided in the halls of her brother Námo. Few truly understood Nienna and her ways and powers and purposes, but one of those few who had made the most remarkable effort was Olórin. He had first come to her in grief, in need of solace and healing for his heart, and had left a much stronger and wiser person, who came back often to learn from her, not only the lessons of pity and patience, but of endurance and hope as well. He was almost as a son to her, one in whom she held great pride, and now, he came back to her lands broken and empty and in despair.

So Nienna held the still white body in her hands and wept, her tears falling upon him like the rain that had passed. In her tears were comfort and strength, which she poured into him as one pours water into a vessel of clear crystal. As she held him and her tears fell, he finally stirred, very weakly. She bent to lay the gentlest touch of a kiss atop the tiny head, and an instant later, the shape of what she held shifted, became for a moment a bare gleam of white light, then was cradled in her arms as a small man of pale hair and snowy garb, Olórin once again. He was not conscious, but neither had he dwindled beyond recall. She gave him more of her power to strengthen him, and as she did so, Ulmo, still near at hand in the seas, lent his aid to her effort by offering a measure of his own strength, cascading down from the heavens as a sudden rush of rain. It stopped when finally, the Maia stirred, his eyes slowly blinking open to regard Nienna. He was too weak to speak or move, but he remained himself, not yet diminished into nothingness.

“Do not despair, Olórin,” she said, her voice filled with compassion even as tears still slipped down her pale cheeks. “Hope is not yet lost. We have been too idle, thinking not that your need required great attention now, and that is the greatest of our failures. For too often have we chosen to wait rather than act, out of prudence, out of fear, and yes, out of cowardice. We of the Valar have power, but not all wisdom — indeed, too often we are woefully unwise, and thus poor governors of Arda, ill-chosen leaders of our own servants. If you cannot forgive Manwë his misguided choice, please forgive us our ignorance. For though we knew there would be terrible repercussions stemming from his error, we did not even dare to dream that they would bring harm to you, and in our fearful lack of courage, we could not summon the strength to act. We let too much of the burden of your troubles fall to Estë and Irmo and to your friends; we delayed overmuch. This should not be, and though I suspected it from the beginning, the others have come to see this now as well. All of us will help you, and we will not rest until we have found a way to obtain lasting healing for you. They and your friends await you at your home. Will you let me take you there, or do you wish to remain here and seek your own ending?”

He could scarcely move, but instead reached out with the faintest of thoughts. I will come with you. But I fear there is no hope left for me.

“You live,” Nienna said as she stood, and with no effort at all lifted the smaller Maia into her arms. “And life itself is an affirmation of hope. You know that lesson well, for I taught it to you long ago, when you first were made to suffer because your trust had been broken. But Manwë is not Aránayel, no matter what he may have done. He lost faith because of fear, and on you fell the price of his transgression, which he rues more greatly than you can see in your anger with him. He loves you, as ever he has. He grieves for the wrong he did to you, and wishes not to buy your forgiveness with acts of penitence, but to pay whatever price is needed to obtain your healing. Has your heart become so bitter that it cannot allow him, or any of us, to try?”

Olórin did not need to speak or move or do more than think the thoughts; Nienna perceived his answer with ease. No. And I forgive you, my lady, for you have never done me harm.

“Then let us go,” she said, glad that he had found at least the strength to forgive again. “There is much to be done.”

**********

With the swiftness of a thought, Nienna returned Olórin to his home. In spite of the help she and Ulmo had given him, he was still incredibly weak. He had lost more than power, she perceived; he had lost much of the hope that had long been one of his most defining traits, and had given him the strength to fight against impossible odds and come out the victor time and again in the past. For all their efforts thus far, no hope had been found to support the belief that he would yet be healed, and in light of all that had happened, it was not surprising to Nienna that as he was losing his ability to hold and keep other things, his grasp of ever elusive hope was all but gone as well. She took him not to the hall but to his own bed, where he could at least rest in comfort. The others had shown the wisdom to not appear in their usual fanar; their presence could be felt in the little house, but they did not physically manifest, save for Irmo and Estë and herself. Others there were as well, Eönwë and Ványalos and the two halflings, the elder brought back by Glorfindel, who had stayed on out of worry after he had returned Bilbo in answer to the summons.

Frodo had returned to Lórien with Eönwë on eagle-back while the Valar searched for Olórin; it had taken almost two days for Ulmo and Nienna to find him, such had been his desire to remain undiscovered, and that had also been time enough for Bilbo to be brought home. As the Elf lord stayed out of concern, so too had Eönwë, and Ványalos.

The usually impudent Maia had sobered considerably once he became aware of what had happened, and Frodo was touched to see him shed tears when at last Nienna brought her favored pupil home, weak and much faded. He understood Ványalos' reaction, for he felt it just as keenly. The friend who had seemed always full of life and light was now so dimmed and diminished, it did not surprise Frodo to see Nienna carry him to his bed with such ease. She was tall and strong, yes, but Olórin was so pale, he seemed transparent to the hobbit's eyes, so frail and insubstantial, Frodo felt certain he could have lifted the Maia himself, despite his greater size. When she had settled Olórin where he could be comfortable, she and all the others whose presence filled the house set about their work at once.

In after times, what Frodo recalled most about the days that followed was a personal feeling of helplessness. The greatest powers in Arda had all come to Olórin's house to do all they could to heal him, and there was nothing a mere hobbit could do but watch and wait. At the times when the great ones needed to consult with each other about what they had learned and what new method to attempt, or to rest — for they, too, wearied, especially when the labor was long and difficult and required them to spend much of themselves — Frodo and Bilbo would sit with their old friend, sometimes with the other Maiar and Glorfindel, sometimes not. His condition fluctuated greatly, for though the Valar attempted to sustain him with their own strength, he had become like a sieve to it, unable to hold any power for long before fading back into debilitating weakness. Whether he had done himself great damage in his deliberate and long use of his Maia abilities or whether he was making no effort to hold on to the strength he was given was impossible to say, for though he allowed the great ones to do what they would, he seldom spoke to them or revealed his heart.

Though this disturbed most of the Valar, it actually gave Frodo some measure of hope that all was not yet lost, and they were not fighting a battle doomed to defeat. The friend he had known both here and in Middle-earth had ever been stubborn, and though he appeared not to care what became of him, that he kept a part of himself private, beyond the poking and prodding of those above him, said to Frodo that he was being stubborn still. He had not given up, not entirely, and where even a single ember still burned, a fire could yet be reawakened.

But he did need help, that was plain to both of the worried hobbits as they kept him company while the others were busy with greater matters. Bilbo did more talking than Frodo, telling Olórin tales of the days he had spent with the local Elves. The wizard did not often respond to them, but on occasion he did, with a faint smile or a whispered word, and that was more than he gave the Valar on most days, so it was encouraging, at least to Frodo. But still, no answers were to be found.

Hours became days, days became weeks, and Frodo at last lost count of how much time passed while Olórin's condition failed to improve, despite the concerted efforts of the Valar and their servants to find the cure for his illness. Neither Frodo nor Bilbo nor any other of the wizard's friends could fault them for giving less than their all to the effort. Irmo, Estë, and Nienna seldom left the house, and always, Frodo could somehow sense — in ways Bilbo could not — that many of the Valar spirits were present, sometimes all, sometimes only several, as some would depart from time to time to search elsewhere for information that might provide a clue to guide them. Frodo knew that they had called to Lord Eru for help, but He was strangely silent. At first, this annoyed Frodo, but as the days slipped by, he began to realize that there was a purpose behind this as well. Had they called to Him for aid and He simply stepped in to right the harm they had caused, not only would He then raise the question, “Why did you not help in ages past when the world was marred and broken?” but He would also have done the work for those who had made this error, requiring nothing of them to make the most necessary reparation. It was a punishment they had earned, for in struggling and failing to help one of their own for whom they cared, they were learning much of what was common life for the mortals who had inherited Middle-earth.

It was bittersweet to Frodo, for they did deserve to learn this harsh lesson, they who had so often held themselves apart and aloof and cold when the world they supposedly governed was crying out for help. Frodo especially remembered the tales of the First Age, when great sorrow and suffering was occurring in Middle-earth because of Melkor and his evil, but the Valar did little to help, remaining apart because they felt that doom had decreed that they could not intervene until one person found Valinor and came to plead for help on behalf of both Elves and Men. Frodo had never understood why they had not acted earlier, why so many people had to suffer and die because ultimately, one person, Fëanor, had brought a kind of madness to his people, and some had been foolish enough to follow his wicked lead. Perhaps they deserved punishment, for they had killed innocents in the name of vengeance against another and for the desire of what amounted to baubles, but the Elves and Men of Middle-earth who had had no part in that insanity had done nothing to merit sharing in that fate.

Frodo had never understood how the suffering of so many could be justified by the acts of a few, nor had he ever truly grasped why the Valar had felt so constrained by a prophecy one of their own had uttered. They might say that it was Eru's will, a part of Eru's plan already written in the Music, but if others, through the exertion of their own will, could change what was foreseen for evil's sake, why could no one ever act to change a fate already caused by evil toward the sake of good? Perhaps this had been a large part of his hesitance to meet the Valar when he had first arrived in Aman. He did not know how to think of persons who had sat by for hundreds of years and let innocents die all for the sake of prophecy. It made no sense to him, and he could not imagine that he would be able to understand beings to whom it apparently did make sense.

But now, he better understood the truth of the matter. The Valar did occasionally act of their own wills, and not always to a bad end, but they had become afraid. Their actions in the First Age had been disastrous for the world they had been charged to protect and nurture, as had been their inactions in the Second Age when they failed to move more decisively against Sauron before he had tricked his way to Númenor and corrupted most of its people. Even though new evils were always waiting to come forth in the world, had they acted sooner in dealing with Sauron, the woes of the Third Age might never have been.

Of course, Frodo knew that one could never go back and undo what had already been done, but at the very least, he would have expected them to learn more from their mistakes than fear of continued failure. But then, those failures had never truly touched them directly, until now. Now, they had failed and that failure was threatening the very existence of one of their own people, and if he was lost, it would not be something they could brush aside as a cost of war, an act of the Enemy. They bore the responsibility for this, and thus they had become the Enemy. They understood it now, all too clearly, and Frodo acknowledged that they were at least trying to make amends by doing and giving all they could. If Lord Eru did not require this of them, they would go on as always, and nothing would be learned, leading eventually to even more mistakes. Frodo knew, somehow, that if this was to be his end, it was at least an end which Olórin could accept because it would contribute significantly to a far greater good.

Even so, the hobbit still did not believe that this would be the wizard's end; it seemed unthinkable to him, for reasons he could not quite grasp. What little he could do to help, he did, and always he searched in his own ways for the answer no one could find. He begrudged the needs of his mortal body that required him to lay aside that search to eat and sleep and do the things all mortals must to sustain life and health. Yet from time to time, when the Valar themselves required a least a few hours of rest, Bilbo and the others would rest as well, and Frodo would volunteer to spend that time with Olórin so that he would not be alone. The hobbit could think of nothing more horrible than to be so weak and helpless and to be left with no companionship, abandoned to the darkness of what must be painful and brooding thoughts, unlightened by the presence of even one other. So he took that watch gladly, and even if he could think of nothing to say to his old friend, he could at least be there to let him know that he was not forgotten.

One day — Frodo knew not how many weeks after all this had begun, only that the world beyond the windows looked to be changing seasons yet again — he had been told that such a rest period was nigh, and had gone to wash himself a bit and change into fresh clothes before he took up the vigil. While sifting through the contents of a small chest in search of a particular belt, he came across Arwen's jewel, which Estë had asked him to set aside at the outset of his own healing process.

The hobbit saw it lying where he had put it safe by in a corner of the small chest, which he seldom used. It was still as bright and beautiful as the day on which he had first seen it, worn about Arwen's neck with a beauty almost the equal of her own. As he lifted it by its silver chain, he remembered the comfort it had so often brought him during the long and difficult months between the time he had left Minas Tirith and his departure from the Grey Havens. Although the Healer's efforts were now wholly focused on another patient who needed her most desperately, Frodo had not felt any urge to take to wearing the jewel again. He had felt no twinge or ache of pain from any of his old wounds since the dawn of the day after the white ship's landing in Valinor; truth be told, he almost never thought of those horrors and agonies, for his concern was completely involved in the worry and care he felt for Olórin. Those aches in his heart and spirit, the dreadful fear that he might lose his dear friend to a fate literally worse than death had taken the place of those he had felt for himself and what he had endured. As he studied the jewel and remembered its gift to bring ease to an overburdened heart in despair, he did not for one moment think that he might use it to comfort himself. Now, he wondered only if it might be able to provide some small portion of much needed comfort for another.

He held it up to the early afternoon light that streamed into his sleeping room, marveled at the way it glittered like all the stars of the heavens, and made a decision. He took it, put it in his pocket, and finished dressing just as he heard someone call for him.

“Ah, Frodo my lad,” Bilbo greeted when he reached the hall outside Olórin's room. The elder hobbit had been bearing up under all the strain remarkably well, but he, like the Valar who had been pouring their efforts and energy into the aid of their servant, looked exhausted, and very much in need of rest. Glorfindel had gone off with Ványalos perhaps an hour ago, to see to collecting fresh provisions for the house and to take care of other necessary matters which its occupants had not the time to bother with. Eönwë came and went on errands for the Valar, and had left early that morning on such a task. For now, only Frodo and Bilbo remained in the house, and it seemed strangely quiet.

Bilbo managed a smile for his ersatz nephew. “They've gone for now, but they promised to be back before suppertime. Will you mind sitting alone with him for a bit? I simply can't keep my eyes open much longer, but I won't need more than a good nap, and Ványalos said he'd be back soon.”

“It's all right, Bilbo,” Frodo assured him, answering with his own brave smile. “I don't mind sitting alone, and you definitely do need the sleep. Rest as long as you like, I'll manage just fine, especially if Ványalos returns soon. He'll keep both of us company, I'm sure, and even help ready tea for you before you wake.”

His cousin sighed with gratitude. “Thank you, dear boy. I've lived through many a difficult time in all my days, but it breaks my heart to see poor Gandalf fading away like this. He's just not the sort to give up without a struggle, but he hardly has the strength left to him now to fight a bare breath of air. I can't help but think that the answer to his troubles is right in front of all our noses, but we're just not seeing it because we're looking at it the wrong way or some such.”

Frodo nodded, understanding the feeling well indeed. “I know what you mean, but I'm beginning to think the problem is that we're all trying so hard and are so tired, we couldn't even see our noses if we tried, much less the answer lying in front of them. Rest, Bilbo, and I promise I will too, as soon as I have the chance. The great ones may not feel they have the time for that, so perhaps if we hobbits rest up well and get our wits about us, we'll be able to find what everyone's been missing.”

“Oh, I do hope so,“ Bilbo sighed as he headed across the hall toward his own room. “Don't hesitate to wake me if you need me,” he reminded his young cousin.

“I won't, if Ványalos is due back soon. Rest well, Bilbo. We'll need both our wits sharp if we're to find what even the Valar cannot.”

When the old hobbit had gone, the door to his room closed behind him, Frodo went to Olórin's chamber. The door was still partly open, and he entered quietly, in case the Maia was asleep. The room had changed little since Nienna had brought him here, but for the addition of two chairs and the removal of some small objects from the surfaces near the bed, put away in safety lest they be accidentally broken. The Istar's head turned slightly toward the faint creak of a door hinge as Frodo stepped inside; the halfling saw that his dark blue eyes were open and appeared to be focused, even though they seemed as transparent and exhausted as the rest of him. Frodo summoned the most heartfelt smile he could manage, his hand wandering into his pocket as he moved to the chair beside the bed, which was usually occupied by Estë or Irmo. It was a bit taller than was comfortable for most hobbits, but after using it for at least a little while each day, Frodo no longer made a bother of it. “You really do need to get better, Olórin,” he said in the lightest tone he could muster. “Or I will simply have to start growing to the size of one of the Big Folk just to use these chairs properly, and Merry and Pippin will never forgive me for having beaten their records.”

He saw a shadow of a smile momentarily lighten the Maia's near-transparent face. “They would indeed,” he answered, his words barely more than a breath. “But I fear that may not be my fate.”

“So do many others,” Frodo said candidly, “but even if they — and you — are growing ready to give up, Bilbo and I have not. What purpose would be served if you faded to nothing, like Saruman and the others of your people who brought themselves to a bad end? Naught that I can see.”

“More than you know,” the wizard said, to the hobbit's surprise. He had grown so very weak, he seldom had more than a few words to say. “Manwë and the others are learning much they have never known about mortals, and life in the world Melkor poisoned. They are learning that some mistakes cannot be amended, and that children cannot always rely on their parents to make right what they made wrong. If that is the role I was meant to play, then I gladly accept it, for I think it will do much to make the Valar better guardians in the future. But I do not want to go, not like this. For I love all of Arda, and the people in it, especially those I have come to call my friends. More difficult than fading from this world is the sorrow I feel at the prospect of leaving behind the people I love and being forever parted from them.”

“I know,” Frodo said softly, nodding his understanding of such feelings even as he marveled at the fact Olórin had managed to say so much without utterly wearying himself. “I don't think I'll ever quite understand why Lord Eru chose to make mortals and immortals, and have them be a part of each others' lives. It was always very hard to think of being friends with an Elf or someone like you, because I couldn't help but know that in time, either they would leave for the West and I would never see them again, or I would die, and they would live on and forever be losing people dear to them. I thought it was sad that Arwen chose to be mortal when she knew Elrond had already made his decision and would have to leave Middle-earth. Now I understand even more what a bitter grief this must be for him, for the longer I stay here in Aman, the more I realize that immortals aren't as aloof and unfeeling as they sometimes seemed to be. And I cannot bear the thought that someday, no matter what happens now, I will leave and cause pain for people like you, who have been and have become my friends.”

As he spoke, he felt dampness welling in his eyes. Determined not to cause further upset for either himself or Olórin, he rubbed away the unshed tears with one hand, then brought out the jewel in his pocket. “I know you told me some time ago that this could not help protect you from the ills that had befallen you, but I was thinking that perhaps it might give you some comfort, as it helped me through the most difficult days after I had returned to the Shire. It isn't much, I know, but if it would help you even a little, I would feel that I have not stood by, completely useless, through all this trouble.”

A dim but warm glow lit the Maia's eyes. “You have never been useless, Frodo,” he said very softly, “not in all the years I have known you. I have made many friends since I entered into Arda, yet it seems quite odd to me that the ones I have come to cherish most are those who came last into my life. I will accept your gift, of course, as you wish. It was given to Arwen to ease her grief over the trials and loss of her mother, and so she gave it to you to ease the burdens you suffered because of the evils of the Enemy. My injuries came upon me more subtly, and I hastened my own decline in my angry reaction to Manwë's confession, yet the source of my affliction was the same, the poisons Melkor and his servants left in Middle-earth. Perhaps the jewel's passing into new hands is a sign that your own griefs are near their end. I would be glad of that, especially now, when mine may be nearing an end of a very different sort.”

Frodo tried not to frown as he leaned forward and set the jewel in Olórin's hand, helping him as he attempted to close his fingers about it. “I do wish you wouldn't say such things, or even think them. Yes, I know we cannot deny the inevitable, but if you accept that it is inevitable before we know for certain, you might make it so when it needn't be. The only persons I ever knew who could somehow manage to find hope in what seemed like hopeless circumstances were Sam, and you. Please, Olórin, don't give up yet. I know in my heart that this isn't the way things are meant to be. I cannot tell you how I know this, but I do. Please, don't leave us before we've tried all we can.”

Olórin closed his eyes for a moment, an easier way to signal his acquiescence than moving his head. “I will do my best, I promise. Thank you for the gift, Frodo. It is very much appreciated.”

“It's the least I can do. And thank you for telling me about it. I never knew how it came to Arwen, and with all that has happened since she gave it to me, I never remembered to ask. I'm glad it was you who told me, because now I can remind you that if you can still tell tales even now, there surely must be hope remaining.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Olórin admitted after a moment's consideration. “Ever since I relinquished my mortal body, I have felt as if some shadow lay between my eyes and the world around me. As my condition grew worse, it grew thicker and darker, and now, the world seems forever in twilight. When my fingers closed around the jewel, the shadows seemed to lighten, if only a bit. If it can do this, small as it is, there must be some way, some thing that can help even more. I will hold onto my hope as best I can.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly about the gem.

To Frodo's eyes, he looked perhaps the smallest bit less pale, but more weary than ever. The hobbit sighed softly. “I am glad you felt up to talking with me for a while, for I have sorely missed our conversations, but I would rather you hadn't if I had known it would tire you so. I think you need to rest, now....”

“As do you,” another voice said, unexpectedly. Frodo looked toward the door and saw Ványalos just entering; Olórin recognized his neighbor's voice and did not bother to open his eyes. “You will help no one if you tax yourself too heavily, Frodo.”

“Let him be,” the wizard suggested, cracking open one eye ever so slightly. “I do not begrudge him this. It was strength well spent.”

“Not if it hastens an end that might otherwise be avoided. The others are using this time to rest, as should you, pityandil. Or would you prefer to ignore the advice of your healers?”

Olórin's snort was soft but ever so clear. “It was the ignoring of advice that brought this upon me, and thus far, I have not noticed any especial healing that has occurred on my behalf. But before you take me to task for sounding bitter, I will rest. Sleep is far preferable to yet another pointless debate.”

“Then I will keep watch for a while so Frodo might do the same.” The tall Maia made a sweeping gesture, indicating that Frodo could relinquish his task for a while. The hobbit reluctantly agreed to the suggestion, and climbed down from the chair.

“Rest well, old friend,” he said before leaving the bedside, and was gratified to see a small but sincere smile in answer. Reassured by it and the way Olórin kept his fingers closed about the jewel, he stepped out of the room.

Ványalos followed him into the hall, just far enough to make certain he headed off to his own bed. But tired though he was in heart, Frodo knew he would not sleep even if he tried, so agitated did he feel inside. He looked up at the watching Maia and spoke quietly, not wanting Olórin to hear. “He's much worse than he was yesterday, Ványalos, and say what we might, I can't help but fear that we are going to lose him soon, despite all that has been tried. He said he wants to stay, but I don't think he has the strength and enough will to manage it, anymore. Is there truly nothing that can be done?”

The red-haired Maia glanced into the bedroom, saw that Olórin had already drifted off to sleep, and pulled shut the door to keep their soft words from reaching his ears. “Some of the Valar have begun to believe so, for their own skills are not of use in this task, and the power they have to lend has done little to do more than alleviate Olórin's weakness for a brief while. They feel as if they have attempted again and again to throw a life line to someone in greatest peril, but that rope is covered with oil and try as he might, Olórin cannot hold fast to it for more than a few moments.”

“But do you believe they're right? Do you think we should give up and let him go, so he won't suffer any longer?” It hurt simply to say the words, but for all that he knew or felt that he knew, this was a possibility Frodo could not deny.

Ványalos' answer was perhaps the most serious he had given in his entire life. “No. Perhaps the Valar know more of power and strength and healing than I, but I know Olórin better than they. He will only let go when he has utterly no strength left to hold on, or if Lord Eru Himself steps in and bids him to do so. All of Aman calls him stubborn, and that he is, Frodo, make no mistake of it. It is a reputation well earned, and he will hold onto this life with all that is in him until no other choice is possible. He is weak now, yes, very weak, but that stubbornness is still there, and it is strong. He has some time left to him, I deem, and if the Valar cannot find the cure he needs, then it is up to us who are closer to him to finish the task. Is that not appropriate, my little friend? For it was not the Valar but the humblest of their servants who at last found the means to achieve the impossible, to defeat Sauron. And Olórin himself was able to accomplish it only through the unflagging efforts of the smallest of Lord Eru's children.”

That comparison had never occurred to Frodo, and though he was not sure it was entirely applicable, it was at the very least food for thought. Ványalos smiled at him and gently ruffled his dark curls. “Rest then for a while, my friend. It will do you good.”

Frodo nodded, but still, he knew he would only toss and turn if he went to his bed. “If you don't mind, I think I would find much more rest in taking a walk than in trying to sleep when I know I cannot. I can't remember the last time I left this house, and perhaps seeing more of the world outside would clear my mind and help me relax enough to rest a little later.”

Ványalos agreed. “There is sense in what you say, and I will admit, I have not seen you set even a foot outdoors since you returned from Ilmarin. I will keep watch for you as long as you like, and I vow I will not allow Olórin to come to further harm.”

Frodo's smile was watery, but genuine. “I know. I know the Valar care for him in their own ways, but at times, I think they cannot care as much as those of us who are not quite so powerful. They are so used to carrying burdens as large as the world that it seems they cannot quite understand how to deal with smaller ones.”

“Just so. I am very used to carrying burdens much smaller, and I will let you know at once if there is any change, for the better or the worse.”

“Thank you,” the hobbit said with a small bow, then headed off to see what changes had come to the world outside.

**********

He did not intend to go far, no farther than the small commons where local residents were often wont to gather, but his feet carried him into the western meadow, and before his distracted mind was aware of it, he found himself in the little green glen where Shadowfax had brought them to help his master, what now seemed many years ago. The afternoon sunlight fell in fingers of radiance through the branches overhead, which Frodo noticed were not only thick with new leaves, but also in what could only be spring flower. The grasses below were still littered with a few of the old fallen leaves that had not been carried away by the wind, and all about was strewn with delicate and fragrant flowers, as beautiful as those in the meadows and vales of the Shire in spring. He somehow found the spot where Olórin had fallen, and there he settled himself to lie back and look up at the skies and listen to the murmur of the nearby stream as it flowed over its bed of silver and white stones.

He lay there for a while, several hours at least, not truly aware of time's passage, thinking of all that had happened since his arrival in Aman. Finally, when he noticed that the sun had fallen past mid-afternoon, he sat up, let his eyes follow the flowing water of the stream, and sighed. “It's not fair,” he said to the world around him, confident that it at least would not be so bold as to argue with him. “It's just not fair. This never should have happened.”

“That is certainly true,” came an unexpected answer. Frodo started, glanced about wildly to see who had spoken, and saw Ványalos coming down the gentle slope into the glen. The halfling frowned.

“I thought you said you'd stay and look after Olórin,” he scolded. “How could you leave him alone? Unless....”

The Maia shook his head as he gracefully lowered himself to sit on the grass beside the hobbit. “He is not alone,” the redhead assured him, “and I have not come with news of woe. You have been gone for some time; I am concerned for your welfare, and thought you might need to talk. Your cousin listens, but he does not always hear.”

Frodo sighed, both at the truth in that remark and in relief that the situation had not taken a turn for the worse. “That is true, most of the time. Bilbo can be very sympathetic when he pays attention and listens to what others have to say, but much of the time, his head is too full of other things to manage it for more than a few minutes. I love him dearly, but it is the truth.”

“As you also love Olórin dearly, in spite of his flaws. Nothing in the world is without them, and at times, it is the imperfections that make something, or someone, precious.”

Frodo sniffed. “Sometimes, though some people's imperfections seem much more... imperfect than others'.”

Ványalos chuckled. “You are referring to the Valar, of course, and at times I have felt much the same toward them. Greatness is its own burden, and where power is great, very often fault is equally great. I cannot blame the Valar for their intentions, for they have ever been motivated by what they perceived as good, but they have often failed to look beyond the result they wish to achieve. They found the Elves in the twilight of Cuiviénen, and in their delight of them and their knowledge of Melkor's threat, they wished to protect them. That was not an ill motive, for many things could Melkor have done to them had they been given no guidance whatsoever. They saw those needs, and that the Elves could best be guarded if they were not left to fend for themselves in a land far too close to the fortress Melkor had built for himself. So they took them as far away as they possibly could, to Aman itself, where it was most convenient for them to be teachers and protectors. They did not stop to think that they need not have taken them so far, nor that removing them entirely from Endorë might indeed cause more harm than good. They did not look far enough to consider those possibilities; they devised a plan that seemed good to them, and they did not consider its possible repercussions. They have done this so often, I am moved to wonder if they have not gone blind, in some ways. Their fear of evil too often makes them avoid rather than confront it.”

“Perhaps they have,” Frodo said, plucking a small blue flower from the grass beside his maimed right hand, to study it without truly seeing it. “I can understand why Olórin became so angry and upset with Manwë when he finally told him the truth about why he had fallen ill and was not getting better. Kings and rulers and other people with very large responsibilities make mistakes when it comes to governing those things over which they have authority, but to do something you have been told is wrong, and hurt someone who is essentially a member of your own family...!”

The halfling shook his head. “Lord Manwë explained himself to me, and I do see why he erred, and that he had meant to hurt no one but himself, but it makes the result no easier to accept. Olórin was all but a member of my family when he lived in Middle-earth, Ványalos, like a traveling uncle who came now and again and told wonderful tales and did what things he could to help whenever he visited. If we love him and want what is best for him and will do all we can to help him be healed, why won't Lord Eru? You and Bilbo have both said that if the Valar cannot succeed, then we must, but much though I detest saying it, it's obvious that no one in this world is going to find the answer he needs to be whole and well again, not quickly enough. If Lady Arwen's gift could give me ease from my pain and help me survive until I could come to a place where I could be healed, why can't Lord Eru do something like that for Olórin? He was the one who sent Olórin back to finish his tasks. I think it's terrible that He sent him back still crippled, and won't do a thing to help him even now...!”

Though Frodo was clearly upset, Ványalos remained surprisingly calm, a beneficial side-effect, Frodo supposed, of having served the placid Lord Irmo and Lady Estë for so long. “And why do you think He has not done anything to help?”

“Because Olórin's getting worse, not better!” the hobbit exclaimed, exasperated, hurling the flower into the stream. He watched as it was swiftly carried away, swept away by the rushing water as he was beginning to feel hope be swept away from his own heart. “Everything Olórin's told me about Him makes Him seem like an incredibly wonderful and loving being, but how can someone say they love another and let them hurt when it isn't necessary? Does Olórin have to die, truly die, before the Valar will learn whatever lessons they need to learn? Does he have to sacrifice himself again, and be dead and gone before Eru will be satisfied? Isn't that cruelty, not love?”

Ványalos nodded; his voice remained steady despite the halfling's agitation. “It is, and He would not do such a thing. You and the others believe that all the supplication made on Olórin's behalf has gone unheard, but if it seems so, consider this: Is it because those pleas are not being answered, or is it because they had already been answered before they had even been spoken?”

Frodo blinked, not quite certain he understood that remark. “How can anyone answer any request before it's been made?” he wondered, perplexed.

The Maia smiled wryly. “When one has made all the universe and knows what is to be before it happens, one can easily act before action is demanded. All Eru's children, both of thought and of the incarnate world, have wills of their own. If they were interfered with too often, there would be no point in having given such a gift. But it was music that defined this world, and as many songs can end on the same chord, so can many different themes be woven into a work that will come to its conclusion at that same desired chord. Each of His children sing their own themes in the use of their wills, and He does not hinder them, for He loves their songs, even the sad and harsh ones, but it is His will that shall orchestrate the final shape of the Music. For good or ill, He allows each of His children to fashion their own part of it. But He knows how the Music will play out, and at times, He uses His knowledge for the benefit of His children when it will not conflict with their freedom of choice. Thus, if He is aware of some coming hardship that need not be fully suffered for that theme to be expressed, He can act to minimize the harm even before those who will feel its pain are aware that such succor will be needed. So can a cry for help be answered before it has even been uttered.”

Frodo did not feel especially enlightened by that explanation. “I don't understand what you're trying to say,” he admitted. “If all the prayers asking to help Olórin have already been answered, why is he still fading?”

“Because sometimes, though we have eyes to see, we can look upon something and not understand what it is we truly behold.”

Though he and Bilbo had spoken of the same thing earlier, now, Frodo felt as if he would scream from frustration. He could sense there was something not being said, something he should be able to grasp, but could not. “I still don't understand. What are you saying? Speak plainly, please! What can't anyone see?”

The redhead reached out and gently took the hobbit's maimed right hand between both of his own. “The token you seek has already been given, Frodo. All life is part of a great circle, and this circle remains unbroken.” With a smile, he released the halfling's hand, then stood and swiftly left the glen.

Still confused and frustrated, Frodo started after him. “Ványalos, wait!” he cried, pushing himself up from the ground...

...and as he did so, he gasped. He saw both his hands splayed upon the grass as he prepared to rise, and could not believe his eyes. He fell back on his heels, and held up his right hand in one of the streams of sunlight, touching it with the left to break what was certainly some illusion.

But it was not. Where moments ago there had been but four fingers, there now were five again, whole and real and unharmed.

Frodo nearly fainted from shock as he realized this was no figment of his imagination; when he was able to think somewhat clearly again, he leapt to his feet and raced out of the glen. “Ványalos!!” he cried, but when he reached the meadow, he saw it was empty; the Maia had left in the way of his people, gone as swiftly as a thought. Frodo wished desperately that he too could move about so quickly, but spurred on by all that had been said and what had just happened, he ran as fast as he could, hurrying back to Olórin's house where for once, he hoped to find a direct answer to his questions.