Author's Note: This story takes place five years after the last of my previous stories, the still unfinished "Twice Blessed."  Any references to that story are minor.

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“I don't understand,” Frodo said, feeling ill at ease even as he straightened the festive clothing he wasn't quite comfortable wearing, not since the news he'd received the night before.  “If this is as unimportant an event as you say, why is such a fuss being made over it?  And why did someone give it such a hideously ominous name?”

Olórin smiled, as much as he dared without risking insult to the hobbit, who had now spent a full five years in the bliss of Aman, and yet encountered new sights and new ideas — not to mention new customs and traditions — almost every day. He understood the now-healed Ringbearer's puzzlement, and though he did not wish to make light of his feelings, Frodo's discoveries were to the Maia a constant source of private delight. He had once deeply feared that the halfling might never again know anything but pain and suffering; by comparison, confusion over a rarely employed tradition was a blessing.  “I have already explained, my dear Frodo,” he said, calmly and smoothly, “that calling this particular event a Day of Reckoning is a far too limited interpretation of the Valarin phrase.”

The halfling sniffed softly, needlessly burnishing the buttons of his new waistcoat with the soft cuff of one sleeve.  His outfit had been a birthday gift from the Elven weaver Mirimë, a resident of Lórien's hill country with whom he had become quite friendly during his time in the Blessed Realm.  Frodo had tried to explain to his new friends of that land about Hobbit birthday customs, that it was traditional for the celebrant to give gifts to friends and family on the day rather than the reverse, and while most had honored his ways, Mirimë had made an exception this year.  His birthday, and Bilbo's, fell a fortnight before the local celebration of Eruhantalë, the harvest season feast of thanksgiving.  Since they would be journeying to Valmar for the occasion, Mirimë had wanted to gift him with a set of new garments she had fashioned for him so that he might have something special to wear for the celebration.

It was made after the fashion of the Hobbit clothing Frodo had brought with him to Aman: breeches, a long-sleeved shirt, a waistcoat, and a belt, without shoes or stockings or a coat, since Frodo still had and used the grey Elven cloak with which Galadriel had gifted him, almost nine years before.  All the fabric was beautifully made, of fibers Mirimë had spun, dyed, and woven with her own hands.  The russet-brown breeches were of a corded woolen twill, appropriate to the cooling days of autumn, sturdy yet soft with a slight velvet-like sheen.  The shirt was of a fine cream colored linen, fashioned in a slightly more Elven style with fuller sleeves gathered into longer cuffs; the cuffs, collar, and the front placket closed with simple buttons of lustrous pearl, and all their edges were finished with a fine piping of soft twisted cord.  The waistcoat was more elaborate, made of a rich silk brocade woven in a subtle pattern of tiny golden leaves and silver vines against a deep forest green.  Its pockets were edged in a plain matching green silk, and the front closed with buttons of mithril and gold embossed in a complementary leaf motif.  The belt, made of subtly tooled leather that had been dyed to precisely match his breeches, had a buckle of the same fine workmanship as the buttons that incorporated both the leaf and vine design of the brocade.  It was some of the most beautiful clothing Frodo had ever owned, and he had been too delighted by the weaver's thoughtfulness to refuse the gift — though he now wondered if perhaps Mirimë had known there would be more to this annual observance than the norm.  

He and Olórin had journeyed with a group of Elves from Lórien, a merry if leisurely trip that had taken six days, arriving in Valmar two days before the autumnal feast of thanksgiving.  While he was making his preparations for the journey, Frodo had expected that when they reached Valmar, they would camp outside the city as they had done in previous years, on the open plain to the west where the celebration was usually held.  During the journey, he began to suspect that they might find lodgings in one of the inns along the road than ran between Valmar and the Elven cities of Tirion and Calanomë.  Glorfindel had told the halfling that he planned to meet friends who were coming from throughout Eldamar, and that they would stay at the inn nearest to the city of the Valar, as it was well known for its exceptional accommodations and hospitality.

Frodo had been quite startled when Olórin told him that he and the Maia had been invited to stay in the mansion of Manwë and Varda in Valmar, using the small quarters that had once been occupied by Olórin, before he had taken up residence in Lórien.  Frodo already knew the tale of how the Maia had come to live in the realm of Irmo and Estë, but he had been unaware that the Elder King and his queen still kept a place in their home for their youngest servant.  

The mansion itself was stunningly beautiful, a smaller version of Ilmarin, but rendered in varying shades of blue and white rather than the pure white of the palace atop the great mountain of Taniquetil.  Its windows and topmost dome were of glittering crystal, its gates and doors and intricately wrought shutters were of silver and gold and mithril, save for the pair of doors that were the main entrance to the house.  These had been fashioned of carved sapphire and diamond, the stones set in elaborate mosaics that depicted eagles and other birds flying amid wisps of cloud below brightly starry skies.  The grounds were lush with tall trees, neatly tended shrubs, and many beds of flowers, though all were now in their autumn finery, the blooms of fall crowding out the last few flowers of summer.  The gentle sound of garden fountains mingled with a more distant chime of many tiny bells that rose and fell with the sighing of the wind.  Frodo had been suitably impressed by the beautiful place as he walked the gem-studded path of white marble that led from the front gate to the main doors.  He was even more impressed by the simple elegance of its interior.  It reminded him of what he had seen of Ilmarin during his one visit to the palace atop Taniquetil, a place of beauty but not one of obvious, showy wealth or power.  Though he felt a bit overwhelmed by his first sight of it, it did not take long before he began to feel comfortable within its walls, if not precisely at home.

As he could have expected, Olórin's quarters were modest and remarkably cozy, consisting of a small, simply furnished chamber for rest or meditation and an equally small but nicely appointed study.  Both rooms overlooked a garden that filled an inner courtyard of the mansion.  This particular garden was unique not for its profusion of flowers and decorative shrubbery, but for the myriad wind chimes that hung from the many branches of the graceful mallorn and birch trees which grew at the garden's center.  The ever-moving breezes that caressed the wind-lord's dwelling made the thousands of tiny bells ring without stop, but their tones were marvelously soothing, never intrusive to the peace of those within.  Frodo had found them singularly delightful the moment he first heard them, and that he would be invited to stay even a few days in such a wonderful place was an honor he scarcely thought he deserved — until he was told about this business of Reckoning while talking to one of the other guests in the house yesterday evening.

“I understand that it isn't a trial,” the hobbit allowed, idly fingering the buttons of the cuff he had just used as a polishing cloth, “or an investigation — but it certainly sounds that way!  Why do the Valar consider it necessary to have you give yet another accounting of what you did during your time in Middle-earth?  By now, I would think that you've accounted for nearly every single day you spent there!”

“I completely agree,” Olórin said with a bright smile as he watched his mortal friend finish his preparations for the feast, carefully brushing the hair of both his head and his feet.  The Maia stood beside the room's tall open window to enjoy the sounds and scents from the garden.  His own preparations had taken only a moment, as he was now all but fully recovered from his long ordeals during the past age.  The pure white of his silk damask robe was softened by its subtle trimmings of blue and silver and gold, as well as a mithril belt set with carved sapphire and crystal that Frodo had found during his visit to Tirion three years ago.  He had given it to the Istar as a gift when he and Bilbo had celebrated their birthdays that autumn.  

Olórin had been tremendously touched by the gift, partly because it was the first that Frodo had given him for his birthday since their return to the Blessed Realm, but even more because it was the first thing of any significance the Maia had been able to accept from any Hobbit.  Because of the nature of his mission in Middle-earth, he had had no permanent home, and had owned little more than the few things he could carry with him during his long, near-constant journeys.  Those halflings who had become his friends had always been disappointed when the wizard would accept no birthday gifts that were much larger than a pouch of weed, perhaps a new pipe, or on occasion a scarf or blanket to keep him warm in the wilds.  After enduring his refusals for a few years, the hobbits finally came to understand that the wizard could not afford to bear excessive burdens in his travels, nor could his heart long bear the weight of too many physical reminders of mortal friends inevitably doomed to die.

Here in Aman, however, things were different.  Olórin had a small but lovely home of his own, and Eru Ilúvatar had granted him — and the hobbits — the gift of an untroubled life in Valinor that would last until they were all ready to part.  He knew that even though he now ached to think of losing Frodo and Bilbo, when the time came for them to accept the Gift of their mortality, his joy in knowing what awaited them after death would far outweigh the sadness of his loss.  Thus, he had accepted Frodo's gift with gladness, and the sure knowledge that whenever he wore it, it would always remind him of the happiness he had felt in seeing the healed Ringbearer able to once again enjoy fully the celebrations of his own people.  

The belt, though not ostentatious, was more elaborate than Olórin's everyday garb, of fine Elven design and craft, fashioned by one of the most gifted artisans in Tirion who often took commissions for King Finarfin and his court.  Its elegance was appropriate to the both the solemn and the festive business of the day.  As ever, he continued to wear the crystal circlet that had been gifted him by Eru Ilúvatar on the day of his return from the Hither Shores, for he had not yet been told that he could safely remove it.  Perhaps the most peculiar aspect of his chosen attire was the fact that he had elected to go without shoes or boots, a habit he had acquired during the years since his return to Aman. Though some of the Elves looked upon it as most peculiar, the other Ainur recognized it as a gesture of respect for the Hobbits, as both individuals and a race, without whom his own labors in Endorë would have come to naught.  

Now, as he considered a more specific response to Frodo's question, the thumb of his right hand idly traced a curve of one of the belt's sapphire links.  “I have given more than sufficient accounting of my years of stewardship in Middle-earth, but it is customary to hold this final reckoning in a public setting.”

The halfling paled, his brown eyes widening as he looked directly at the Maia.  “Not... not in the Máhanaxar?” he near whispered.  Though he had not been there during an actual trial or judgment, just the name and the knowledge of its history made him shiver.  He had seen the place, of course, as the Valar had gathered there to greet him and his companions when he first arrived in Valinor, but he was glad that he had been too overwhelmed by all the new sights and experiences of that day to recall any of the more terrible history involved with the Ring of Doom while he himself stood within its circle.

The timbre of Olórin's reply was more reassuring.  “No, there's no need for that.  This is actually quite informal.  When my people undertake tasks that are intended to be for the benefit of the Eruhíni — major tasks, such as Eönwë's mission to help in the establishment of Númenor, Arien's and Tilion's work in aiding with the formation and proper guidance of the Sun and Moon, or the embassy of the Istari — we give an accounting of our actions to the Valar in private as soon after the work is complete as is feasible.  I was allowed a year's grace before I gave them mine because of the state in which I returned, and I will readily admit that some parts of that interview were as uncomfortable for me as you imagine!  Not because they were displeased or angered with me, mind you, but because I felt responsible for certain things that were not accomplished — the failures of Aiwendil and Curumo in particular.  I know, their choices were not my fault,” he said with a wave of one hand, dismissing Frodo's protest before he could do more than open his mouth to utter it.  “But neither was it your fault that the Ring was evil, and that others suffered because it could not be destroyed as quickly as you might have wished.  We all bear our own burdens of wondering what might have been if circumstances had been different — if we had been different — but in the end, all that matters is what came to pass, since we cannot alter the past.”

Frodo sighed.  “I know.  But you went through that four years ago, and from what I have been told by you and others, the Valar were more than pleased with all you accomplished.  What is the point of bringing it up again?”

The Maia's dark blue eyes sparkled, catching the soft glow of  pre-dawn starlight that spilled through the window like the gentle music of the garden chimes.  “For the sake of those who were not there to experience the events, or hear my earlier reports.  Oh, they know most all of what was said — in some ways, my people are worse gossips than Hobbits like Lobelia, as are many of the Eldar who have never seen Middle-earth.  But there are often questions that are left unanswered, simply because no one thought to ask them.”

The mortal's brow furrowed with thought.  “But it's been five years.  What questions could anyone still have?”

“Surprisingly unimportant ones, I imagine,” Olórin said with a laugh.  “And mostly from the Elves.  It is largely for the Eruhíni that these Reckonings are held.  We of the Ainur are, after all, the stewards and guardians of the world that was made to be their home, and the Children deserve a chance to ask what questions they might have in regards to our stewardship.”

Frodo's frown deepened.  “Then you may still be interrogated by the Elven kings....”

But Olórin shook his head, his long, near-white golden hair brushing his broad shoulders with the emphatic notion.  “No.  Shortly after I gave my accounting to the Valar alone, the three Elven kings and a group of nobles from their most prominent houses were given an opportunity to hear my report, and ask their own questions of me.”

The mortal's frown faded as his expression turned to one of perplexed astonishment.  “When?  And where?  I don't recall you mentioning such a meeting.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn't.  I had no wish to trouble you with it.  It was in the early summer of the year after I gave my accounting for the Valar in Ilmarin, when you went to spend some time with Bilbo in Elrond's house.  After I escorted you to Tirion and left you with Bilbo wanting to show you every nook and cranny of the place, I went to Vanyanórë, to Ingwë's city on the slopes of Taniquetil.  Lord Manwë had already made arrangements for Olwë and Finarfin to bring their chosen nobles to the High King's residence there, and I met with them as well as Ingwë and his people so that they might hear a fuller report of what they already knew in part, and present any queries of their own.  There were some points about which they were confused, or wanted greater detail, but very few.  Their own loremasters and minstrels had already written so many tales and sagas and ballads about the Third Age and the defeat of Sauron, they seemed more interested in knowing just how accurate those songs and stories truly were.”

“Then what is the point of this Reckoning today?  Is it just another traditional formality?”

“For the most part, although I would call it more of a traditional informality.  Anyone will be allowed to raise whatever questions they wish, but this is not truly another opportunity for the Valar and the nobility to interrogate me, rather a chance for the common people to exercise that right.  While Fëanor and Sauron and some others have called the Valar petty dictators, despots who would lie to any ‘lesser' beings to achieve their own ends, they all forget that the Ainur entered Eä out of love for the vision they had seen, and the love of the Children who were to come.  They cannot intervene in all the injustices of the world without suborning the free will that all of Eru's Children have been given, but here in their own realm, they want all the residents of Aman to live in peace and harmony.  That is a difficult thing to achieve if they allow the Elven kings and nobles, and themselves, to hold themselves farther above their subjects than their authority truly allows.  The mission of the Istari and the matter of the Rings concerned all of Eru's children in this world, both of the Ainur and the Eruhíni.  Anyone who has even the most trivial of questions to ask me about my time as a steward of Endorë has a right to be heard, and to voice their questions in public.”

For a few moments, Frodo had nothing to say; he blinked several times, as if clearing his eyes to better focus on something he had never quite seen before.  A moment later, he sank down onto a conveniently Hobbit-sized stool beside the dressing table he had been using.  “Goodness,” he finally said softly.  “I hadn't considered things quite that way.  I suppose listening to all you told me about your reports to the Valar, I just assumed that they would have thought of every question imaginable.  But this isn't really about how well you did or didn't do the tasks they gave you, or what questions they asked, is it?  It's about... about fairness of an everyday sort.”

Olórin leaned back against the frame of the window, enjoying the fragrant breeze that wafted in through the lush growth of autumn flowers just below the outer sill.  “Precisely!  The events of this past age were important for those who live both in Aman and in Endorë, and on neither side of the Sea should any person be required to have all information concerning matters of personal and historical significance filtered through announcements from their kings, regardless of how high the station of that king.  Lord Manwë understands this, as he understands how some hurts to Arda might have been prevented, had any person felt free to ask those above them for direct answers to questions of vital significance.  One might say that I am being required to submit to a public inquiry, but I do not begrudge it in the least.  Truthfully, I'm rather looking forward to it.  Oft times, the questions that are raised can be quite... intriguing.”  

He glanced out the window for a moment, then laughed, gently.  “During the Reckoning in which Eönwë  answered questions about the founding of Númenor, there were some very... interesting inquiries as to the nature of the Edain, asked by a group of youngsters who had never set eyes on a Mortal.  Most were perfectly innocent, but several had our good Herald blushing so fiercely, Lady Estë was concerned that his fana might burst into flame, at the very least.”

Frodo couldn't help but laugh at the image.  “You don't expect to be asked things of that nature, do you?”

But the Maia was not concerned.  “No, I shouldn't think so.  After all, I have one great advantage Eönwë did not: there will be two Mortals present who are far better qualified to provide answers than I.”

Suddenly, Frodo found his own cheeks reddening.  “I hope that isn't why Bilbo and I were asked to come!” he retorted after spluttering for a moment or two.

This time, Olórin's laughter was hearty and merry.  “It was not,” he assured his small friend.  “I have considered this advantage, I admit, but I would never put you in such an embarrassing position.  You were invited because this is a time of festival and you are honored guests in this land, and also because as the only Mortals residing in Aman, you should have an opportunity to ask any questions you might have concerning the performance of my duty while I dwelt in Middle-earth.”

“Oh, no,” came the hobbit's instant response.  “I have nothing to ask, for myself.”

The Maia lifted one pale brow.  “Are you certain?  I have heard many more than one person insist that I should have found another bearer for the Ring, rather than force it upon you.”

Frodo bristled with sudden outrage on his friend's behalf.  “You didn't force me, as both you and I know quite well.  And if anyone dares to raise that question today, they will have to answer to me!”

Olórin smiled broadly.  “You, and a number of others.  Glorfindel, for one.  On the journey from Lórien, he told me that there were several questions he fully expects to hear in this Reckoning, and he intends to offer any support and defense he can.  Elrond is of the same opinion, as are many members of his household, Bilbo included.  Galadriel shares those feelings — even Círdan has made it plain to me that he will raise his voice in my defense on certain issues, should they be raised. And I have supporters among my own people who have their own opinions and observations, and will readily speak them, if it should come to that.”  He shook his head in wonder.  “I am tremendously moved to find I have so many staunch friends and allies.”

“You shouldn't be,” Frodo said, quite firmly.  A moment later, his expression turned from determination to bewilderment.  “Are you saying that all of them have known that this Reckoning was coming from the very beginning?  Even Bilbo?”

The Istar waggled one hand in a gesture of ambiguity.  “Some have known for a long time, my folk in particular, since it was decided several weeks before midsummer to hold the reckoning at the autumn festival.  The news was then given to the three Elven kings, who made the announcement to their people months ago, so that those who wished to be on hand for it could plan to make the journey.  Elrond is kin to Finarfin, through his father and also through his wife, as Círdan is kin to Olwë.  Galadriel, of course, is daughter to the king of the Noldor, and was present at the inquiry at Ingwë's palace in his city of Calanomë.  Bilbo no doubt heard of it when Elrond gave the news to those of his house, and Glorfindel has close ties to both Tirion and Calanomë, aside from being a resident of Lórien.”

“Then why did no one tell me?”  There was an echo of hurt in the halfling's voice.

Olórin was sympathetic.  “It wasn't deliberately kept from you, Frodo, I assure you.  I wasn't aware until last night that you had not heard of it.  I assumed that someone had mentioned it to you long before we left Lórien, since everyone else knew and occasionally spoke of it.  It was simply an omission no one noticed, and I do apologize if you feel slighted by it.  No official announcement was made in Lórien because it is primarily an enclave of Ainur, and this Reckoning is not ultimately for their benefit.  The Elves who live there learned about it either from the resident Maiar, or through communication with their kin and friends in Eldamar.  As your host, I should have made sure you were told.”

His regret was so sincere, Frodo could not maintain his indignation.  “No, no, I don't blame you — or anyone else, for that matter.  I hardly seem to be a guest in Lórien.  Everyone has treated me so kindly, I feel very much a part of the community, even like family.  When I take a moment to think about it, I do remember Mirimë saying something about  some kind of special reconciliation being part of this year's festival, but I thought it had something to do with someone who had recently come from Middle-earth, or who was being released from Mandos or some such.  I didn't think to ask more about it, because I was so overwhelmed when she gave me her gift a minute later.”  Suddenly, he laughed.  “It would seem I've been behaving a bit foolishly, thinking this was being kept from me on purpose when it was right in front of my nose all along.”

“Not foolish,” the Maia said quite earnestly as he pushed away from the window's edge to stand straight.  “Well, if you're ready now, we should join the others.  The walk from here to the site of the feast is not long, but we do need to be there before the sun rises.”

Frodo took one last look at himself in the mirror beside the dressing table, gave the hem of his waistcoat a final tug, then nodded his readiness and headed for the door.

Beyond it, a quiet corridor led from the rooms near the wind chime garden to the spacious central greeting hall a few steps below the large main doors of the mansion.  A number of other Maiar and four Elves were already gathered there, talking quietly among themselves as they waited for the arrival of Elder King and Queen.  Frodo had not seen Manwë and Varda since they had reached Valmar, as the presence of the two Valar had been required elsewhere, preparing for the day of thanksgiving, but they and a small group of Elven guests from Tirion had been well cared for by the many Maiar who served in the house.  Both servants and guests offered cheerful greetings to Frodo and Olórin as they joined them.  

One of the Maiar — a tall, slender male clad in the blue livery of the house, with wavy golden-brown hair, startlingly pale blue-green eyes, and the most indefatigable  smile Frodo had ever seen — bowed graciously to the hobbit as he greeted him.  “Was the refreshment I brought yesterday evening to your liking, Master Frodo?” he asked in a quietly musical tenor.

Frodo could not stop himself from laughing; only after the sound had burst from him did he realize that his unintended response might be considered rude.  Then he heard Olórin chuckling behind him, and felt a brief flush of relief that his reflexive reaction had not been inappropriate.  “Refreshment?” he repeated as he reined in his mirth.  “Master Márandur, even by the standards of my people, that ‘refreshment' was enough to qualify as a sumptuous meal — or two!  It was more than to my liking, but I never expected my request for a small bite to eat to result in such a... a banquet!”

“And yet you managed to finish all that was sent,” Olórin noted, his tone one of droll amusement.

The hobbit blushed.  “Well, yes, I suppose I did, but it was all so good, I found it hard to insult whoever prepared it by leaving so much as a crumb!  I don't think I could possibly be hungry again until well after noon.”

Márandur's eyes twinkled brightly as his smile broadened.  He was the steward of both dwellings of Manwë and Varda; directing those who were their household servants was one of his many responsibilities, as was seeing to the comfort and well being of any guests.  “Then the labor was well rewarded, for that was the intention.  We know that all the Eruhíni require regular nourishment, and Mortals more than Elven-kind, but we did not wish for you to suffer any discomfort during the morning's ceremonies.  Tradition requires that no one break their fast until after the formal thanks has been offered to Eru Ilúvatar this day, and I had heard that things did not go well for you during last autumn's ceremonies.”

The red in Frodo's cheeks deepened at the reminder; Olórin rose to his defense.  “Hunger was not precisely to blame, Márandur.  He fainted last year because he spent too much of the night before with Glorfindel, giving some visitors from Alqualondë a sample of songs and stories from the Shire.”

“It wasn't Glorfindel's fault that I wanted to show off how well I've learned to play the little harp I was given,” the hobbit said a trifle sheepishly.  He did not want the Elf lord, to whom he owed much, to take the full blame for the incident.

“No,” Olórin agreed.  “But it was his fault that he gave you more wine than food.  Glorfindel has had many friends among the Secondborn.  He of all the Elves in Aman should have known better.  It's a wonder you merely fainted the next morning.”

Márandur nodded his understanding of that unfortunate event.  “Whatever the case, I did not want you to risk any chance of further embarrassment, Master Frodo.  Today, the ceremony may be longer than it was last year, and though no one would hold it against you if you needed to break with the tradition of fasting, I thought you might prefer if something could be done to avoid either possibility.”

“That is very kind of you,” the hobbit said with a deep bow of gratitude.  “I confess that I had misgivings on that account because of what happened last year, which is why I thought that a snack before retiring might be wise.  You did a splendid job of anticipating my needs, even better than I.  I was afraid that I would experience some troubles from my... well, to put politely, greed of last night, but however you managed to choose my ‘refreshment,' it left me thoroughly sated without the slightest bit of upset.  Not even the best cooks of my people could have managed that.”

Márandur acknowledged the praise with a gracious nod.  “I am pleased.  You may be happy to know that I spoke of this to one of our people who accompanied those traveling from Tirion, and she made certain that Master Bilbo would also be similarly — refreshed.”

“Hmm, yes,” Olórin said, his eyes sparkling with amusement.  “It wouldn't do to spare the stomach of one hobbit from undignified hunger pangs only to have the entire ceremony disrupted by the untoward growlings of another's.”

Frodo couldn't help but laugh, though it was tempered by the knowledge that his humor was at Bilbo's expense — however merited it might be.  For many years, he had teased his ersatz uncle over the surprisingly loud sounds his stomach could make when he was hungry, though Bilbo had always taken it in good humor.  Márandur regarded him with a querulous expression, but he was spared the need to formulate a polite response by the arrival of the Elder King and his queen.

Manwë and Varda entered the hall, descending a long curved staircase that led to galleries and their private chambers on the upper floor.  They both appeared serene and in a pleasant mood, which for Frodo was always a delight to see.  He remembered the sad days of his first year in Valinor, and how much of it had touched the royal couple with deep sorrow.  To see them, and Olórin, know unhindered joy once again was a balm to the hobbit's own spirit.

Today, the two Valar were arrayed in finery befitting the autumn feast of thanksgiving, Manwë's long outer robe was made of heavy silk in a deep sky blue, and was embroidered with elaborate patterns of swirling leaves in the fire and earth tones of the fall.  He wore not his crown, but instead a simpler circlet of gold fashioned in graceful intertwining curls like streaming clouds, set with fourteen bright sapphires.  Varda had eschewed her habitual white formal garb for a gown of midnight blue, embroidered at the lower hem and up the full skirts with thousands of leaves in red and russet and gold. The neckline was embellished with a pattern of stars beset with pure white jewels, and the golden net in which her glossy black tresses were caught sparkled with myriad diamonds that glittered like the starry heavens above an autumn sunset.  

Frodo had seen the Elder King both bearded and clean-shaven, depending on his mood and his business of the day, and today, no whiskers hid the elegant planes of his face so that his smile shone forth, completely unobscured.  It had taken the halfling some time to become accustomed to these apparently whimsical changes in Manwë's appearance, thinking at first that he did not care for it when he had no beard.  In time, however, he realized that he had been equating it with an attempt to imagine how Gandalf — the wizard of Middle-earth rather than his Maia self — might have looked without his sweeping silver beard, and he saw that the effort was truly silly.  As Olórin was still his beloved friend, no matter what his outer appearance, so too was Manwë the same admirable being, whether he chose to sport whiskers or not.  Today he had not, and somehow, it gave his thick, rippling white hair an even stronger resemblance to the clouds in the skies that were a part of his personal domain.

Everyone in the hall, Frodo included, bowed deeply as the couple reached the bottom of the staircase; after only a moment, Manwë gestured his acceptance of their homage.  He greeted the Elves who were his guests:  Finrod, his wife Amarië, and their twin son and daughter, Arcalimon and Amaurea, who had come of age only a few days before.  Frodo did not hear their quiet conversation, but something Varda said to them made the two young Elves laugh softly.  The happy looks on their faces was infectious, so much so that the hobbit found he could not be irritated with Arcalimon for offering his erroneous information about the Reckoning the night before.  After a few more words, the Elves gave their thanks to the Valar, who then moved on.

As they approached Frodo and Olórin, both bowed in greeting, and were answered with warm smiles.  “Welcome to our home, my friends,” Manwë said warmly.  His intense blue eyes sparkled with an inner light; his rich deep voice was like the sonorous but gentle sound of distant bells swaying in the wind, full of fondness. Varda also drew near to bestow an embrace of greeting, first to the halfling, then to the Maia.  Frodo blushed to be so honored, but Olórin accepted it with remarkable grace, the estrangement between himself and any of the Valar now long since resolved.

After Varda stepped back, the wind-lord turned his smile directly to the hobbit.  “We are glad to hear that you approve of our steward's foresight concerning this morning's traditions, Master Frodo,” he said, good humor in both his expression and his voice.

“Indeed I do,” Frodo replied, not even pausing to question how the Vala knew of a conversation that had taken place only a minute ago, outside his presence.  He had learned long ago that the Ainur were aware of a great deal because they spoke often among themselves via their thoughts — ósanwë, as the Elves called it — not because they were busybodies, but because such easy and frequent communication was a part of their natural state of being. “I have thanked him for it, and for extending that foresight to my kinsman Bilbo.”

Varda laughed gently, a beautiful rippling sound that blended perfectly with the music of the wind chimes in the garden, as it did with her husband's voice.  “Let it not be said that we are unwilling to learn to appreciate new friends when we meet them,” she said, “as we did when we met you and your esteemed cousin.  Observing a hitherto unknown race from afar is not the same as having them be a part of your life, and we take joy in learning your ways.”

Her spouse agreed.  “There is no trouble any of us would refuse to go through for your sake, and Bilbo's.  We will ever be in your debt.”

Hoping to hide yet another flush in his cheeks, Frodo bowed deeply, in proper Hobbit fashion.  “What I did, my lord, was not for my own sake, but rather for the sake of this world that we both love so dearly.  Perhaps like Olórin, I did not begin the task set before me with the most willing of hearts, but neither did I expect to be rewarded.  Please, if you still wish to reward me, I beg you to do so by foregoing any further mention of debt.  I now understand that it was Eru Ilúvatar Who asked me to bear the Ring if I would, and I expect that someday, He and I will have a chance to settle any accounts — if indeed any remain to be settled.”

Manwë glanced at his queen, whose face was brilliant with delight, then turned his eyes to Olórin, who replied with an equally delighted nod before regarding Frodo with proud affection.  One could fairly feel the approval of the other Maiar, as well as the Elves, as a tingling in the air.  The Elder King then returned the hobbit's bow, in respect, not mockery.  “Then it shall henceforth be as you wish, Frodo Baggins.  Indeed, as was once said, were all the Elf-friends of old — all the heroes of Eä assembled, whatever their race or lineage — you would be among them in a place of high honor, for your gracious humility, if naught else.”

Frodo nodded once to indicate his acceptance of this bargain between them, and no more was said.  Outside, the distant notes of a single clear trumpet was heard, joined after a few notes by a second, then a third, creating a joyful harmony that soon ended. When only the echoes of their fanfare remained, Manwë lifted his head, as if listening to some other call from far away.  He then turned again to Frodo.  “It is time for us to depart.  If you will, Prince Findaráto — Finrod, as you call him — and his family would be honored to accompany you to the plain where all will gather.  Today, Olórin will need to take his proper place among my people.”

“I understand,” Frodo assured him, smiling at Finrod and his family as they approached.  “And the honor is all mine.”

“I think it best if we share the honor,” Finrod said, as they had become well acquainted during Frodo's visits to Tirion, being Galadriel's eldest brother.  Without Celeborn at her side, she hungered for the companionship of those family and friends who had known her husband, a distinction both Finrod and Frodo possessed, though neither had known the lord of the Galadhrim as well as they might have liked.  “Since my return from Mandos, I find I prefer the company of equals — and I prefer to believe that we are all equal, in the eyes and heart of the One above us.”

“Truly spoken,” Manwë declared as others nodded their agreement.  His tone was serious but his expression merry.  “Let us go.”