This is original fan work, intended solely for the entertainment of the readers, and in no way intends any infringement on any copyrights, trademarks, or licenses held by The Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, Tolkien Enterprises, George Allen and Unwin Publishers, Houghton-Mifflin, Ballantine Books, or the holders of any other legal rights or licenses pertaining to the works of J.R.R. Tolkien.

The quality of mercy is not strained,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act IV, scene 1

I

Until that evening, Frodo had wondered if it ever rained in Valinor.

Common sense told him that it must; the air was not overly heavy with moisture from day to day, and when he woke near the dawn, he saw dew on the trees and flowers and other growth that surrounded Olórin’s little house in Lórien, which he had shared with the Maia for most of the almost nine months he had now lived in Aman.  And all those plants, from the greatest of the trees to the smallest blade of grass were green and strong, all the pools and streams and fountains of Lórien forever flowing with clear water.  But since his last night aboard the ship that had borne the Ring-bearers from Middle-earth, when he had fallen asleep to the gentle sound of rain on the decks above, he could not recall a single day without sunshine, nor an evening in which the clouds thickened and let loose showers that lulled the world into peaceful slumber.

Yet whenever he thought to mention this peculiarity, all the locals who heard him chuckled softly and said of course it rained.  Even here in the Blessed Realm, growing things had certain requirements which needed to be met so that they might live and thrive, just as he and the Bilbo and the Elves needed food and drink to sustain them.  Their nearest neighbor, Ványalos — a Maia who served as a messenger for Lord Irmo — regaled him with amusing tales of remembered rainstorms that Frodo was certain were, if not wholly a product of the red-haired Maia’s abundantly active and impish imagination, at least quite heavily embellished for both the halfling’s sake and his entertainment.  Frodo might not have believed him had Olórin not confirmed his claim that yes, it did indeed rain in the Undying Lands. 

He had been further supported by Eäron, a Maia servant of Ulmo, the Vala Lord of the Waters.  Eäron made his home in Lórien to serve his master by helping attend its many waters, and Frodo supposed that if anyone would know such a thing for certain, it would be one Ulmo’s people.  It did indeed rain, Eäron had told him, for all living things of Arda needed water, and Ulmo took great joy in the beauty of rain and snow.  But depending on the needs of the land and the whims of both Ulmo and Manwë, who was master of the winds and the skies, it fell at odd intervals.  Sometimes, for many days, the rains would come at different hours, in the morning or afternoon or night; at other times, it would fall without stop for several days, then not at all for several more; and at still other times, for months at a stretch it would fall briefly but at the same hour each day.  Since Frodo’s arrival, Lórien’s rains had fallen briefly, for but an hour or two in the deep of night, swallowed up quickly by the soil and plants and streams so that come morning, only a glistening sheen of dew remained in the dawn sunshine to tell of its passing.

Politely, Frodo had said that he believed the Sea Lord’s servant, but privately, he continued to wonder.  On several nights, he had tried to sit up as late as was necessary to see the proof for himself, but even focusing on the sounds of the local residents who gathered somewhere in the area each evening to share food and song and story was not enough to keep him awake.  Sooner or later, the healing peace of Lórien crept over him, and he surrendered to the lure of sleep.

When, by the nearest he was able to reckon, the truly magnificent blossoming of spring passed and the month of June came in, he began to think all the folk of Aman were having some little joke at his expense.  Both spring and summer without at least a few days of rain seemed utterly unnatural to him, no matter what the various Maiar and Elves insisted — and then, as Eäron had told him, something in the air changed.  Several weeks before midsummer, on the afternoon of a day as pleasant as every other day he had spent in Valinor, Frodo and Olórin were tending the vegetable and herb patch behind the little house when the halfling felt a shadow fall upon them.  For a moment, he remembered the last time such a thing had occurred when they were at work in the garden; the shadow had been caused by the passage of a Great Eagle who had brought Manwë’s herald, Eönwë, to ask if they would come with him to Ilmarin.  Shivering faintly, for the later events of that day had not been pleasant, he looked up, saw that it was only a passing cloud, and noticed that those to the west were thickening.  As he took a deep breath of relief, he realized that he could catch just the barest scent of moisture on the air.

He glanced at Olórin, who had been deftly bundling up some of the overgrowth of herbs he had just trimmed from the plants edging the garden. As he watched him work, Frodo was once again amazed to realize how quickly he had grown accustomed to his friend’s markedly changed appearance, which seemed much more that of an ageless, fair-haired half-Elf of unremarkable height than the old gray Man he had seemed to be when he had dwelt in Middle-earth as Gandalf.  As in all his Maia people, he possessed a kind of unassuming grace and beauty that was less lofty than that of the Valar, but far more than the fairest of Elves or Men.  Yet Olórin had chosen no part of his current appearance, save his simple pale blue and white clothing; his fana manifested simply as an expression of what he was in the truest essence of his being.  He was proud neither at heart nor in his outer manifestation, the single exception being the narrow circlet of twined crystal threads that ceaselessly graced his head.  A gift from Lord Eru, it was also the means by which the Maia was slowly being healed of the unexpectedly serious hurts his spirit had suffered from two thousand years of life bound to mortal flesh in the lands most poisoned by the hate of Melkor.  For a time after he had been told to wear it always until he was otherwise instructed, the Istar had felt self-conscious about it, and had gone so far as to attempt to conceal in under his hair. But the effort had been wasted, for the more he tried to hide it, the more it seemed to catch every glimmer of light and shine even more brightly and noticeably.  So he had given up and taken to wearing it openly, as the One clearly wished, which somehow made it far less obvious, little more than a thin line of flickering white light against the brightness of his pale hair.

Perhaps, Frodo often thought, it was this simplicity and Olórin’s attempts to maintain it that had allowed him to so swiftly grow accustomed to the Istar’s appearance here in the land that was his home.  He gave and shared what he had and what he was without thought for personal cost or personal gain.  It was all so much the very essence of Gandalf as Frodo had known him, how he looked no longer mattered.  The hobbit saw the same friend in his heart, and always would, no matter what his outer appearance.

If he noticed that Frodo was staring at him, Olórin showed no sign of it.  Relieved, the hobbit scanned the skies again, then made a small, curious sound.  “Is it my imagination,” he wondered aloud, “or is actually going to rain?”

Olórin took the bundle of sage leaves he had finished tying and set it into a gathering basket as he spared a glance to the west.  After taking his own measure of what he saw, he nodded.  “Not soon, but by this evening.  Eäron mentioned it to me this morning, when you were off collecting your daily provender from Ványalos.  He thought you might like to know.”

Frodo sniffed.  “Then why didn’t you tell me?  I won’t believe you forgot....”

The Istar smiled as he returned to his task with the herbs.  “No, but I thought you might enjoy the surprise of discovering it for yourself, after so many months spent wondering if such things ever happen here.”

Color rose faintly in the hobbit’s cheeks, yet he laughed.  “I do suppose I was being rather thick-headed about it,” he admitted, adding the young leafy greens he had collected to the other things in the basket.  “But truly, I never saw or heard as much as a single drop, not in all this time!  Though I do grant I wouldn’t have noticed if a storm had come and ripped the house down about my ears during the months when you were sick.  I’m so glad you’re well again.”

“As I am pleased to see you whole once more,” Olórin replied, meaning both his small friend’s wounded spirit, which time and care had healed, as well as his injured body, which the skills of Estë and the power of Eru Ilúvatar had fully restored, from his pierced shoulder to his lost finger.  Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Eäron also mentioned that the rain would arrive before sunset.”

What more was implied by that statement struck Frodo after a moment or two.  “We won’t be able to share the evening meal with the others, then?  I’m sorry to hear that.  I’ve come to look forward to that part of the day more than any other.  It’s not the same as sitting down to a big Hobbit supper, but there’s so much more to it than just the food.  I think I’m finally beginning to tolerate the sound of Valarin, you know, and I’m afraid that if I spend too many days without hearing it at all, I might backslide and have to start over again.”

Eyes glittering with mischief, the Maia said something Frodo could not understand, but immediately recognized as being in the ancient tongue of the Ainur.  The halfling immediately winced at the sound, which was not precisely unpleasant, but fell so strangely upon the ears of any of the Eruhíni, its alien beauty pierced one straight to the heart.  When he hissed softly, Olórin relented, and laughed.  “Is that enough to fulfill your daily requirement?” he asked.

Frodo knew well that he was teasing, and so answered in kind.  “More than enough, thank you.  I can quite understand why the Elves preferred to fashion their own language rather than attempt to use yours.  I cannot believe that the throat of any living creature was ever meant to make such sounds!  What did you say, anyway?”

“That those things in life which are most worth having and experiencing can only be properly appreciated if one must devote some effort to attain them.  But you need not be deprived entirely of those daily customs.  Eäron also came to ask if we might enjoy the company of some of those who would also miss the nightly sharing of song and story.  There have been many visitors to this house since I returned home, but there has never been such a gathering under this new roof.  Perhaps it is well past time for it, and with the rain due, tonight would indeed seem appropriate.”

As he added another handful of tender greens to the basket, the hobbit’s whole face lit with delight.  “That would be splendid!  I’d wondered if you would ever think of entertaining guests here, since your friends made you this lovely home with that in mind, but thus far, the most who have ever been here at once for pleasant reasons was when Elrond and Celebrían brought Bilbo to stay for a time.  But I wish the weather had changed a week sooner, then, so Bilbo might have been here to enjoy it as well.”

“I’m sure Bilbo will be back to visit again,” Olórin said as he tied up the last of the cooking herbs, twigs of thyme and savory and mint that had escaped from larger cuttings.  “And there will be other opportunities.  For now, I think he will be much happier settling in to his rooms in Elrond’s house in Tirion and becoming acquainted with all the good people there.  You should have more chances to do the same with those who live here in Lórien, since you made the choice to live here rather than with Bilbo.  I fear that thus far, too much of your time in Aman has been spent entangled with my problems rather than seeing to your own happiness.”

Frodo dismissed that with an easy wave of one hand.  “I doubt that I could have been happy if I hadn’t done what I could to help you.  But that’s over and done with, thank goodness.”

“For the most part,” the Istar agreed.

Frodo looked up from his work, frowning at the peculiarly flat tone of those words.  He knew what Olórin meant, and as with the question of rain, he wondered how long this matter would linger before seeing resolution.  As he reflected upon how and if he should react, he tugged up one of the larger root vegetables to see how well the crop was faring.  The radish he selected was on the smallish side for one that might be considered fully mature, but for the apparent time of year, it was quite respectably grown, so he added it to the other things in the basket.  He continued to think while he selected two more likely-looking radishes, then exhaled in a sigh.

“Do you ever plan to accept his apology?” he asked in the best nonchalant manner he could affect, knowing that Olórin would be well aware of what he was speaking.

The Maia shrugged with an equally casual mien, picking up the radishes as Frodo put them in the basket, to brush off the heavier soil.  “I already have.”

The hobbit snorted. “Really?  When?  I don’t recall hearing it....”

“And do you hear every word I utter or thought I think?”

“Of course not, but I know he hasn’t been here since... well, since the day you finally got better, and I know you haven’t been to see him, summoned or otherwise.  I suppose you might have other ways of communicating with each other that I couldn’t possibly be aware of, but something tells me neither of you have availed yourselves of them.  So if you’ve given him the forgiveness he asked for, you must have posted him a letter.  And so far as I can tell, Valinor doesn’t have a post service, unless you sent it with Ványalos when he went off on one of his errands. You haven’t left the hill country to go farther than the edge of the plains since that day in March.”

Olórin made a disgruntled noise, then chuckled at Frodo’s very astute observations.  He was indeed aware of the subject under discussion without any names being mentioned:  the state of affairs between the Maia and the Vala he served, Manwë, the Elder King of all Arda.  They both remembered all too clearly the day in late January when they had been summoned to Ilmarin so that Olórin could hear the truth about why he had been suffering from a strange yet increasingly debilitating weakness since his return to Aman — the truth being that the circumstances leading to his deteriorating condition had been caused by Manwë himself when he had ignored the direct advice of Eru Ilúvatar in ordering his servant to go on the errand to Middle-earth as one of the Istari, rather than explain himself openly to garner Olórin’s fully willing cooperation.  Frodo had never seen his friend so furious and upset, but then, he had never before seen him at the moment he perceived that he had been betrayed by one he had long served and admired and loved.  Manwë had asked for forgiveness that day, but Olórin had not given it, nor had a word been spoken between them in all the days of his illness, nor since the Maia’s recovery.  The latter had come on the twenty-fifth of March, by Shire reckoning.  It was now full summer, approaching the Hobbit mid-year festival, and still, there had been no communication between the two of which Frodo was aware.

And he was aware of quite a bit.  Ványalos had told the halfling that there had indeed been no word passed between Ilmarin and the little glade in Lórien which held Olórin’s home, not since the day the latter had been blessed by a semblance of the presence of Lord Eru Himself.  The red-haired Maia did not know if this was deliberate or merely a coincidence, but he was not the only person who suspected it was no accident.  Olórin was of Manwë’s people, and though the Elder King did not often call upon his services, in the past he had been in frequent contact with Olórin, who was often out and about the land, and was able to provide his lord with information about the state of Aman’s inhabitants which Manwë could not perceive as clearly from his mansions atop Taniquetil.  But those around them who would be aware of such exchanges, if not what was said, had felt nothing but silence between the two.

Given how much time had passed, Frodo had begun to feel that something was not right, but he had not been able to think of a way to broach his concerns subtly, so he availed himself of any opportunity his host provided to at least attempt to discuss the matter.  “I don’t mean to meddle, Olórin, truly,” he told his friend.  “But I can’t help but feel that this isn’t a good thing, especially for you.  I’ve never known you to be spiteful or vindictive or the sort to carry grudges, even back in Middle-earth.  Snappish sometimes, yes, a bit brusque and impatient, especially with foolishness, but always much quicker to forgive than most people.  Did Lord Manwë really hurt you so badly that you cannot let go of it?”

Again, the Maia shrugged, setting aside the semi-cleaned radishes as he nibbled on one of the tender mint leaves that had fallen during the cutting and gathering process.  As ever, he had no actual physical need to eat or drink, but he enjoyed some of the little reminders of his life as a mortal, especially when it was something he did by choice, not by painful necessity. “If you want an honest answer, I don’t know.  Of all the pains I have endured throughout my life, none felt as terrible as this.  I have always respected and admired and loved him, Frodo, not just as my lord but as someone I had long felt was truly a friend.  I trusted him and his leadership, and never opposed him because I knew there was no reason.  My relationship with him was not like that which I shared with any of the others who have betrayed me over the years; I was not close to them as I was close to him.  Discovering that he had not trusted and respected me in such an important matter was a dreadful blow.  In time, I am sure I will find it in me to forgive him, but for now, the wounds are still too new, too deep.”

He had been staring at the greenery in the basket as he spoke; he now looked up, directly into Frodo’s eyes, and the hobbit was struck anew by how brilliant a blue those of the Istar could be when they caught the light just so, not dark as they often appeared, but luminous and intense as blue fire.  There was a slight glitter like a haze over them at the moment, bright as sharp points of clear sunlight on the ripples of a pond.  Frodo sighed.  "I can understand that," he admitted.  "But wouldn't it be better to try to put it behind you?"

The answering smile was sad.  "Oh, certainly.  I would forgive him, if only I knew how in such a situation.  Forgiveness means nothing to either the one who gives it or the one who receives it if it is naught but rote words, spoken as a ritual without sincere thought for what is being said and offered."

Frodo considered that for a few moments, then nodded.  "I suppose you're right. Empty words make for empty forgiveness.  Although I do think Manwë's apology was sincere."

"I have no doubt of that," Olórin said with a soft sigh.  "But I don't think he quite comprehends why I became so angry and felt so deeply hurt.  He knows that I was harmed, but it seems to me that he does not see how his choice shook the very foundations of trust between us.  How would you have felt in similar circumstances?  From the beginning, I told you all I knew and could tell you of the Ring and its perils, and the dangers of the road ahead of you.  I did not deliberately keep anything from you once I knew the truth; I did not lie and tell you it would be an easy task when I knew it would not, nor did I ignore your concerns.  I did not say, ‘You will go, Frodo, no matter what you fear, because I command it, and because your worries are of no consequence.’  I allowed you to choose for yourself,  even though I would much sooner have said, ‘Stay at home in peace and safety, and let others take up this burden.’  Had I done that, you would have known no peace or safety anywhere, I would have broken faith with the promise I had made not to force the decisions and acts of the Eruhíni, and I would not have been at all a good and true friend and teacher to you.  I would have tarnished our friendship and the respect between us; indeed, I would have destroyed it.  Would you have found it so easy to forgive me, especially if after ordering you to undertake this quest, I had remained somewhere safe and distant and did little or nothing to offer you any assistance in accomplishing your mission, even from afar, and knew long before the end that the tragedy I had set in motion would be borne by you alone?”

The hobbit shook his head, able to imagine what Olórin was describing.  “No.  Whenever I was feeling sorry for myself over what had happened during the journey to Mordor, I had only to remember that I hadn’t been the only one who had been hurt to stop feeling quite so much self-pity.  Sam went through a terrible time, both Merry and Pippin were badly injured, Boromir died, everyone lost friends and family....  You might have been sent back stronger than you had been before, but you still had to suffer before that, and still you never stood back and let other people take the risks for you if there was any way you could take them yourself.  I know you would have gone with me to Mordor, and you would have taken the Ring there yourself, if it had been possible.  You wouldn’t’ve let anyone else be hurt if you could’ve done something to prevent it.  But if you’d ordered me to go when you knew I was afraid, and had yourself stayed behind in Rivendell, safe and sound, I would’ve resented it, I’m sure.  And I would have wondered if all your talk about the Ring being a danger to you was only a way to avoid an unpleasant job you simply didn’t want to do.  I don’t think I could have been your friend anymore if you’d done that.  And if you’d told me that you had a notion of the precise dangers I needed to avoid but hadn’t mentioned them to me because you thought it would make you look bad, I would’ve felt that you considered me ignorant and untrustworthy.  I do understand.”

He sighed, rubbing away the dirt from the last of the radishes before placing it in the basket and climbing to his feet.  “But I’m not you, Olórin, nor are you Lord Manwë.  He isn’t perfect; he makes mistakes, as you did when you lived in Middle-earth.  Some of your mistakes affected me, and I forgave you for them.  I can see that your situation is something more difficult to come to terms with, for even though I was hurt because of your errors, I never felt betrayed by you.  But won’t you at least try to forgive him?  It would be one less unhappiness you’d have to carry with you.”

It was the Maia’s turn to sigh as he picked up the now-full basket to carry it into the house.  “I do want to,” he admitted at length, when Frodo moved ahead to hold open the door for him.  “And I have truly tried to find the appropriate words within me.  But for some reason, I cannot.  Never have I had such difficulty doing this, and I am at a loss to understand why it eludes me now.  It almost feels like....”  His voice trailed off to nothing.

Frodo, however, did not let the silence linger.  “Like what?” he prompted, not even attempting to offer a speculation of his own.  In the months that he had resided here in Aman, he had come to know Olórin better than he could have known him when he lived in Middle-earth as the wizard Gandalf, but he had also come to know that there were some things about the Maia that he would never fully comprehend.  There was a fundamental difference between their peoples more profound than the differences between the small and mortal Hobbits and the tall and immortal Elves.  There were some things that any naturally incarnate being looked at and thought about differently than any of the Maiar or Valar, who were by their own natures only temporarily self-incarnate, beings of spirit rather than of true flesh.  Having lived as a mortal Man for two thousand years, Olórin had a far deeper understanding of what it meant to live a genuinely mortal life than any other of his people, but he still was what he was at heart, and at times, Frodo had difficulty grasping how and why he reacted to certain things in certain ways.  The hobbit was quite sure that this was due to his greater range of experience, parts of which Frodo could scarcely begin to imagine, and though he could not truly understand, he did at least try to show acceptance of their differences, and compassion toward those that brought his friend distress.

This was without a doubt the most distressing matter left unresolved in Olórin’s life at the moment, for in spite of all that had happened, he still loved the Vala he had faithfully served since before the beginning of Time.  Frodo could see that, but he could not see why Olórin was having such difficulty forgiving him a betrayal that had been intentional yet accidental.  The Istar moved into the cool shade of the inner house, taking his burden into the kitchen where its contents could be sorted and prepared for storage.  He exhaled softly as he set the basket on the board beside the sink.  “Like the shadow that had fallen on me and brought me to such great harm before Lord Eru acted to help save me from it,” he finally answered the prompt.  “I have seen enough of spite and vengeance and malice during all the years I opposed both Sauron and Melkor and even Saruman; I know the signs of it only too well.  I do not think that I feel any of those things toward Lord Manwë, but perhaps I am wrong.  It was the poisons of evil that injured me during my incarnate life in Middle-earth, and I know I am not yet fully healed of those wounds upon my spirit.  I fear that I have been poisoned so badly, my inability to find forgiveness in my heart is because the scars left behind by evil have changed it, as the shadow stole away my life.”

Frodo abruptly understood what he was trying to say, and answered at once, quite firmly.  “You are not evil, Olórin.”

The Maia snorted.  “Nor am I perfect.  And Lord Eru did say that my life as a mortal had left me irrevocably changed.  Perhaps this was what He meant, that some things I was once able to do with comparative ease have now become strangely more... complicated.”

The hobbit disagreed.  “Perhaps, but changed by evil things that were done to you does not mean you yourself became evil.  You were touched by it, yes, as I was, for both of us had tasks to fulfill that would not allow us to run from it, but because a cup is touched and even stained by the tea it is required to hold does not mean it is the tea, and even stains can be removed, in time.  I think that all those years you spent living as a Man left you more confused than changed, at least in this way.  Could anyone have really prepared you for all you would encounter and experience as a mortal?  No, because no one in Aman had any greater understanding of all that it meant than you did.  How many mortals had come here, before you left?  Two?  And who of them knew what it was like to be both a human and an Ainu?”

He shook his head.  “It seems to me as if you lost some of the perspective you had before you were sent on a mission that took many turns no one could have predicted, some very dark and tragic.  I don’t mean to be presumptuous, and I beg your pardon if you find this so, but do you think that perhaps the reason you cannot find it in you to forgive Lord Manwë’s betrayal is because you still have not come to terms with Saruman’s?”

For some moments, the Istar contemplated this, his eyes focused on the things they were removing from the basket; when it was empty and its contents sorted atop the sideboard, he looked at Frodo.  “I must confess, that had not occurred to me,” he said, his tone showing not the slightest hint of offense.  “Personal betrayal is not something I have often had cause to deal with.  Before Saruman turned against me and all Middle-earth, it had been more years than you can imagine since I had needed to deal with such treatment from one I had trusted.  Aránayel had been my first experience with it, and before Saruman’s my last, of any true significance.  Through Nienna’s teachings I learned how to contend with the ways I reacted to treachery, a skill I had never had cause to develop before Aránayel turned on me.”

He shook his head at the memories of that time long ago, his pale bright hair brushing against his shoulders with the motion.  “I was dreadfully naive when I told Aránayel I loved her, so utterly foolish and blind to the less noble aspects of the world that even Pippin was more mature in such ways than I.  Never think that we Ainur are immune to or above such things!  Mortals quickly learn to protect themselves from the harshness of the world in which they live, but ours began as a very sheltered life, in the presence of Lord Eru, where no evil can endure.  After we entered Eä, I knew of Melkor and the existence of evil, but I had never confronted it directly, nor personally, until the day when I spoke my heart and Aránayel broke it.   Only then did I truly understand what it meant to be hurt.”

A frown darkened his fair features as he thought back to times now long gone, but not forgotten. “Then, I only knew of betrayal as something that happens in the world, but not as something I had ever experienced; now, I have been betrayed many times, though few as grievous and intimate as these three.  Because of that, there may be truth in what you say.  I had little time to assimilate the full scope of Saruman’s treachery before I was required to deal with it, and since the remainder of my time in Middle-earth was quite busy, I suppose I simply pushed away the more personal aspects of it because I truly had no opportunity to reflect upon them.  It may have been sitting in some dim corner of my mind like a spider in a web, and when I learned of what Manwë had done, I stumbled into it, set it loose, and now have not been able to properly deal with either.”

He sighed yet again, taking the roots and leafy vegetables Frodo gave him and setting them in the sink while the hobbit went to fetch a bowl to hold the greens they would eat with their supper.  “But Saruman truly is no longer an issue.  He is so diminished that even were he permitted to return hither, his presence would be of no consequence to me, or anyone else.”

“But Lord Manwë is of consequence,” Frodo pointed out while he rummaged through one of the lower cupboards.  “He is here, and he is not diminished, and you are still in his service.  Or have you considered leaving it?”

Olórin shrugged, lifting the lever over the basin to fill the sink with cold water.  “I have both considered it and dismissed it as a possibility.  It would not solve the problem, only push it away again.  I have known no other master save Lord Eru, for though I have given service to others of the Valar, that has ever been done simply because I cannot refuse to help when help is needed.  I am loyal to all of them, and I have great respect for them, but it has always been different with Manwë.  And I imagine that is why I am having such difficulty finding the proper way to forgive him.  I know the facts as they stand, but I simply cannot comprehend how he could have ever believed it was right to go against the will of Lord Eru.  To me, such a thing is inconceivable.”

Frodo smiled crookedly as he brought a carved wooden bowl and set it on the board.  “I used to think that there was nothing in the world that you couldn’t do or understand better than I, but I can see now that I was wrong.  From all you’ve told me about how you reacted to these betrayals, it seems to me that what puzzles you so terribly about them is that you cannot see how or why someone could give their trust to another, and then willfully break it.  You never did give your trust to anyone lightly, probably because all those years ago, you gave it to someone you loved who did not love you in return, and instead hurt you for having done so.”

“And would you not do the same thing?  Is it not prudent to be cautious of fire after you have been badly burned by it?"

"Oh, yes, indeed it is.  But we mortals get singed and scorched and burned so often by such things, we learn to develop a thick skin just to protect ourselves.  You never really did, it seems.  You once told me that many people in whom you had placed your trust failed you, but none, I think, did so as personally as these three of your own people.  Perhaps you could dismiss what Saruman did more easily than the others because you were not so close to him, despite your common mission, but I should think that your relationship with Lord Manwë was much closer, and therefore the hurt much harder to accept.  I know how I would feel if Bilbo had deliberately done something wrong to me, without considering my feelings.  I would not be able to put it behind me without considerable difficulty — which is why I am concerned for you now.  If you cannot move past this and let it go in your heart, your relationship with Manwë can never be the same, and losing that would be a terrible thing, I think.”

“It would,” Olórin agreed, rinsing off the greens and setting them on a cloth Frodo had laid out for them to drain upon.  Now that he was no longer in danger of fading to nothing the more he used the abilities peculiar to his kind, he might have dealt with this entire cleaning process much more simply and quickly, but he had learned to appreciate the disciplines inherent in the common lifestyles of the Eruhíni, and did not mind attending such little chores in the ways to which Frodo was accustomed.  Arda had been made to be the home of the incarnate Children of Ilúvatar, and living within it was best appreciated in their ways, even for the Ainur.

The Maia glanced at the hobbit as Frodo set the greens in the bowl, once they had been sufficiently drained.  “I know that my heart wishes very much to forgive him, and indeed, I believe I have, save for speaking the words to him.  Yet I simply cannot.  I have thought time and again of going to Ilmarin for that very purpose, but before I can set out, something always makes me hesitate.  I know that if I spoke to him now, the words would not be fully sincere, and I cannot lie merely to have it over and done with, for it would not be over and done with.  And this does not please me in any way.  It either means that there is some hidden hurt I have yet to discover, or that I have grown so petty that I cannot set aside my own injured feelings to grant forgiveness to a person who has done me far more good than harm.”

“You don’t suppose you’re... well, sort of carrying a grudge on behalf of Lord Eru?  You’ve said that what truly shocked you was the fact that Manwë dared to disobey Him.”

Olórin spent a few moments considering the question while he scrubbed away the now-softened dirt in the deeper creases of the radishes that had been soaking in the water. “I don’t believe so.  What would Lord Eru need with my support?  He is the One Who created all that exists; I may be in His favor, but I am only a Maia, and by no means the greatest even of my own people.  I would consider it presumptuous to take offense on His behalf when He is far more than capable of defending Himself than I could ever hope to be.  No, whatever the root of this trouble, it is something wholly within me.  Yet I cannot imagine what that could be.”

“Neither can I,” Frodo said, letting loose a very deep breath while he moved the bowl to the dining table and sorted through some of the herbs to find those he wished to mix with the greens.  The sound of his sigh seemed to continue long after he was done exhaling, prompting him to notice a rise in the normally gentle breezes that moved the air through the house.  It smelled of distant dampness, and reminded him of events to come later in the day.  He looked out the window nearby to see the increased movement of the branches on the trees surrounding the house, and the still thickening clouds in the skies beyond.

“Well, perhaps the change of routine this evening will provide some inspiration for an answer,” he speculated as he finished his task and carried the wooden bowl to a cool storage pantry at the back of the small kitchen.  “I’m not the only person in Lórien who has given thought to this, you know.  Your other friends here are concerned as well.”

Olórin did not even attempt to deny it.  “I know, and I suspect that given time, someone will be able to see the answer I cannot.  I had not realized how very much I missed having a home and being a part of a community where I was not considered either an ill-tolerated outsider or an honored but infrequent guest.  There is much to be said for belonging somewhere, and I had forgotten that during my long stay in Middle-earth.  Which is also why I am more than happy to do anything I can to help you find a place to belong here in Aman.”

Frodo smiled as he came to collect the washed radishes and take them to their storage place in the same pantry.  “For which I am very grateful.  I knew that somehow, I would find healing here, but I was never certain if I would also be able to feel at home.  I already do, even though I’m still learning about the land and the people who live here.  I wish I’d been here when Eäron brought you his news and asked about this evening.  I think I would like to have invited some of your friends I still don’t know very well to share the meal with us.  A few have asked about Hobbit customs, and it would have been a good opportunity to show them a proper Hobbit supper.”

Olórin laughed.  “Only if you had had the entire day to prepare for it.  There will be other times to instruct them in Hobbit dining customs; for now, you can prepare them for the full lesson by showing them your less elaborate ways of offering hospitality to visiting guests.  Quite enough for one evening’s work, I should think.”

Frodo could not deny the truth of that observation, and so the weightier questions they had been discussing were set aside so that he could make ready for the evening ahead.  But though he was distracted for the time being, he did not forget them.