The guests and Maiar stepped back to allow the Elder King and Queen to move first to the doors, which opened soundlessly as they approached.  Olórin fell into step behind Manwë, as another Maia — Valinélë, second among Varda's handmaidens — fell into step behind the Valië.  Márandur indicated that the five Eruhíni should follow, and behind them came other Maiar, servants of the king and queen, each in the train of the Vala they served.  As they stepped outside, a ripple of wind flowed out into the city, setting its many bells to ringing, softly at first but growing steadily.  The outer gates opened as the doors had, without sound or a hand to move them, and when they neared, Frodo saw Eönwë and Ilmarë awaiting them, bearing the standards of their lord and lady.

They continued down the broad central road that ran the entire length of Valmar, which was flanked on either side by the mansions of the Valar.  Though all were beautiful and elegant in their own ways, they ranged in appearance from rustic to palatial, as suited the natures of their residents.  In one thing they were all the same: the side that faced the stone-paved avenue had a wall or fence of some sort, with a tall centered gate bearing whatever emblem or emblems were associated with the owners.  The gates were slightly offset, so that none directly faced another.  As the royal entourage passed, each gated opened and those who dwelt within emerged, the Valar preceded by their standard bearers and followed by the guests and people of their house.  Thus the procession grew larger and longer, the numbers of those who walked down the long street increased by the presences of others who went with them unseen, the many Maiar who served each of the Valar.  

They soon reached the open gates of the city, which looked out across a plain filled with thousands of Elves of all kindreds who had come for the celebration.  Just beyond the gates, the standard bearers of the Valar met with those of the three Elven kings and the kings themselves; all knelt in obeisance to the guardians of Arda.  After a warmly smiling Manwë gestured for them to rise, Márandur touched Frodo's shoulder and pointed to where Bilbo was standing with Elrond and Celebrían, beside Galadriel, who stood to the right of and slightly behind her parents, the king and queen of the Noldor.  Márandur smiled and nodded to the Ringbearer, who understood that it was time for him to join Bilbo and the others, even as Finrod and his family went to join his parents and his sister.  Other Elves who had been guests in the mansions of the Valar also joined their kin and friends.  With that small formality completed, the unseen trumpets sounded again, the Elven kings and their companies fell in behind the entourage of the Valar, Ingwë following directly behind Manwë and Varda, Finarfin behind Aulë and Yavanna, Olwë behind Ulmo.  The procession continued on, beyond the gates, past the Máhanaxar, to a green slope near the mound of Ezellohar.  As they moved from the city at the same stately but steady pace, the skies slowly brightened and the stars dimmed, heralding the nearing dawn.

“I see they made sure you looked like a prince of the halflings, too,” Bilbo whispered to his cousin as flocks of birds swooped in from mountain and plain, soaring high above in a procession of their own.  They were supposed to remain silent until after Manwë had offered up the formal prayer of thanks to Eru, but the elderly hobbit could not contain himself.  Frodo glanced at him, and was unable to restrain a grin.  Bilbo was bedecked in Elf-crafted Hobbit-style finery no less sumptuous than his own, although he had been apparently gifted with attire in the colors of Elrond's house, blue and silver-gray and white.  He did not have a Lórien-made cloak,  but the thick woolen fabric of his new cloak —  dyed a rich midnight blue and edged with silver embroidery of intricately twined vines and leaves — looked quite warm, excellent proof against the early morning chill.  Frodo was delighted that Elrond — and Celebrían as well, no doubt — cared enough for Bilbo to not only make certain he had his own festive attire, but that it would take into account the needs of his aging body.

As if he could read Frodo's thoughts, one corner of the elder hobbit's mouth quirked into a wry smile.  “Elrond still won't believe I'm not as feeble as I was those last years in Rivendell,” he said very softly, no doubt trying to avoid being overheard by sharp Elven ears. “Silly, if you ask me, but I still bless him for thinking so kindly of me.”  The twinkle in his brown eyes was both amused and touched.

Frodo agreed with a small nod, then touched one finger to his lips when he saw Celebrían glance their way.  Being a half-elf, her husband might not have caught the whispers, but she no doubt had, for she showed her approval of Frodo's shushing gesture with a grave nod of her own, which she mitigated a moment later with a bright, fond smile.

Some distance ahead, where the Valar and their servants walked behind the line of standard bearers, Olórin heard Bilbo's whispered words and sensed the responses to them.  A small smile brightened his face, reflecting the much deeper sense of satisfaction he felt within.  So much suffering had been the price of ending Sauron's realm, and that those who had been sorely wounded — Frodo, Bilbo, Celebrían, and yes, himself — could feel mischievous joy in the midst of solemnity was perhaps the greatest gift for which he was thankful this day.  In the ever-moving subvocal ripple that was the flow of emotion and communication between all the Valar and Maiar, he knew that both Manwë and Varda were also aware of what had occurred and were pleased and delighted by it, though they kept it from manifesting in their dignified outer appearance.

At last, they arrived at the appointed place, a spot beyond Valmar where three hills rose at the edge of the broad, open plain. The hill nearest to the city held the Máhanaxar, which from without appeared rather beautiful, a ring of tall and elegant columns of stone surrounded by gardens of graceful trees, thick shrubs, and a profusion of flowers, all in full autumn splendor.  A short distance to the west rose the hill of Ezellohar, a mound that was no longer the lush green place it had been when the Two Trees were alive and thriving.  The dark husks of the long dead trees remained, still standing as a memorial to a lost past and a reminder of what evil could wreak if those who opposed it allowed their vigilance to fail.  

And yet, it was no longer quite so desolate a place as it had once been.  Five years ago, a bier of white and silver and gold had been set between the remains of the Trees, upon which the mortal shell that had been Olórin's burden during his labors in Middle-earth's Third Age had been laid to rest after he had been permitted to release it and resume his natural life as a Maia.  The body did not decay, and it had been placed there both to honor the Istar's achievement, and to remind those who had never tasted mortal life of the sacrifices that had been made to free all of Arda from the evils of Sauron.

The third hill rose to the south of Ezellohar, a green place with neither trees nor shrubs nor structures.  There was nothing to distinguish it from any other hill, but for many years, it had been the center for occasions on which the peoples of Aman gathered on the plain beyond Valmar.  Yet because of its particular position, its summit was the first spot beyond the Calacirya to be touched by the first rays of the dawn, a distinction that gave it special prominence on this day.

The fourteen standard bearers of the Valar came first to the hill.  There, they moved halfway up the slope and spread out into a perfect circle, ringing the entire hill, where they planted their pennants and remained standing beside them.  The bearers for the three Elven kings went no higher than the foot, but moved to three compass points, the Teleri to the east, the Vanyar to the south, and the Noldor to the west.  The northern point was traditionally left empty, in remembrance of those of the Elves who had refused the Great Journey to Aman, and were considered by some a missing realm.  Each of the kings and their chosen court stood behind their standard, facing the hill, while the Valar and their attendant Maiar moved up the hillside.  The Maiar remained below the fluttering standards, while the Valar themselves stood before them, facing the hilltop.  Manwë ascended to the summit alone.  There, he bowed to each point of the compass, beginning with the north, and when he ended with a bow to the east, he stood straight, still facing the brightening sky, and lifted up his hands.

The only sound was the movement of the wind upon the grass and the gentle rustle of the silk banners; even the birds had stilled their song, as if in reverence to the moment.  Time seemed to have stopped as Manwë remained silent, unmoving; then, answering some call he alone could sense, he raised his face to the skies above and began the prayer of thanksgiving to Eru.  Much of it remained the same from year to year, traditional phrases that were eternal truths which gave comfort to those who heard them.  Yet there were always changes, as with each turning of the seasons and the world, there were ever new reasons for which to be thankful.

One thing was constant: the prayer was sung, not spoken, in the Elder King's clear, magnificent voice.  All who heard it heard the same words, but in whatever language was their own mother tongue.  For the Elves the words were Sindarin or Quenya, even very ancient versions of the latter for those who had awakened at Cuiviénen.  Frodo and Bilbo, the only mortals present, heard it in the dialect of Westron that was spoken among the Hobbits of the Shire.  The Ainur heard it twice over, audibly in Valarin, and in their hearts and minds as they had heard all forms of communication before they had first known the wonder of incarnate existence.  And as Manwë sang aloud the ritual phrases and the expressions of gratitude for things that were public knowledge among all the residents of Aman, those who had private thanks to offer did so in the silence of their thoughts.

When at last he sang the final word, “Násië” — may it be so — the dawn broke over the eastern horizon, and the first rays of the sun pouring through the Calacirya fell upon Manwë.  For a moment it turned him to a brilliant, glowing figure of living flame.  The voices of all present echoed his final word, and then rose up in songs of joy and praise to the One.  The light of morning flooded the lands west of the mountains, the brilliant blue autumn sky flecked with only a few small clouds that shone golden in the rays of dawn before turning to purest white.  Still smiling as the singing went on, Manwë lowered his arms and walked serenely down the hillside toward Eönwë.  The herald lifted up the standard again, as did the other bearers; the breeze freshened as the Elder King reached him.  He nodded for Eönwë to precede him, and they continued on.  The other Valar followed in the same fashion, the remainder of their peoples coming behind them.  They moved on to a place that had been prepared for them, a flattened part of the southern slope of the hill that was much like a broad step between the summit and the plain.

Upon this open site, which was clearly visible to the various encampments, fourteen carved wooden chairs had been set, each cushioned in the color appropriate to the Vala for whom it was intended.  They were placed in a semi-circle set back from the step's edge with a wide space between them, open to the south.   Between the chairs were low tables bearing an array of refreshments.  When the bearers arrived, they placed their standards behind the seats readied for those they served.  Manwë's banner was placed on the western end of the semi-circle, facing east, toward the dawn, with Varda's to his left.  The others continued thus, with the Fëanturi and their sister Nienna along the northern curve of the crescent, and the seat of Ulmo directly opposite Manwë's.  The overall effect was that of a gallery rather than a court, a place for observation, not judgment.  When the Valar arrived, they went to stand before their seats while their banners were set in place.   They remained standing until Eönwë came to the center of the open space, bowing to the kings and queens.  The herald then gestured to Olórin, who came forward to stand beside him, giving his own obeisance to the Elder King and his queen.

“Are you prepared for this, my friend?” Manwë asked his youngest servant.

If he was not, there was no trace of it in Olórin's expression or his manner.  “I am, my lord,” he said, his voice clear and firm.

“Then let this be finished,” the wind-lord declared.  By an unspoken cue, all of the Valar took their seats.

Eönwë turned to face the open southern side of the gallery, beyond which the pavilions of the Elven kings and thousands of others had been erected.  The Eruhíni remained standing; many of the Maiar withdrew to give the incarnates a better view of the gallery, some came to attend their lords and ladies, others stayed for reasons of their own.  All talk and singing came to an end when the herald raised one hand.

When the only sounds to be heard were the distant bells of Valmar still ringing in the morning wind and the nearer trills of now wakened birds, Eönwë spoke, his voice not loud, but still powerful enough to be heard by all on the plain.  “People of Aman!” he announced, gaining the attention of all.  “We have gathered here to give thanks to Eru Ilúvatar and to celebrate the bounty and beauty of all He has given us.  Yet before we join in feasting, it is time for the final Reckoning of the Third Age to be heard.  Five years ago, we gave thanks for the defeat of Sauron on a day which saw the return to Aman of Olórin, servant of Manwë, known to the Elves of Endorë as the Istar Mithrandir, named Gandalf by the Secondborn, Tharkûn by the children of Aulë.  Two millennia past, he was charged by the Valar to accept the body of a mortal Man and sent to Endorë as the ambassador of the Elder King, to act as a steward of Middle-earth and there guide and instruct the free peoples of that land so that they might accomplish the overthrow of the Dark Lord.  Of all his order, he alone completed his tasks and returned.  Your leaders have heard his accounting of his stewardship, and have been given the opportunity to ask of him any questions they might have in regards to his performance of those duties.  He now comes before all the people of Aman assembled to submit to this final Reckoning, so that any person of any rank may address to him any matter they feel was not asked, or was insufficiently answered.  This is done in the name of justice, so that the accounting of the Embassy of the Uttermost West in the Third Age may at last be closed, to the satisfaction of all.  Let those who wish to be heard come forward.”

His task completed, the herald withdrew to stand behind Manwë.  Olórin serenely moved forward to face the assembly, standing at the edge of the hill in a place clearly visible to all.  He bowed deeply to the throngs, acknowledging that they, the people of Aman, would decide what happened next, not the Valar.  

As if in answer, Ingwë, Olwë, and Finarfin came forward.  Ingwë, the king of the Vanyar and High King of all Elves, was among the oldest of all the Firstborn, as was Olwë, the king of the Teleri; as such, they were among a very small number of the male Elves who had a beard.  The blond Vanya wore his neatly trimmed and considerably shorter than did Olwë, whose silky silver beard was long, and plaited with white pearls and silvery-blue shell beads.  Finarfin — Arafinwë, as he was called in Quenya-speaking Aman — was considerably younger than his royal peers, and though beardless was nonetheless held in high regard as the king of the Noldor. All three were attired as befitted their stations, Finarfin in the deep blue and silver of the Noldorin royal house, Olwë in the sea-green and silver of the Teleri, and Ingwë in the white and gold of the Vanyar.  All were tall and of noble bearing, though Ingwë was the tallest of the three, an imposing figure who nonetheless wore a pleasant, if dignified, smile on his fair face.  As one, they bowed to the Istar in a gesture of respect.  Ingwë spoke for them all, his voice strong and clear.

“For myself, all my questions concerning your tasks were answered long ago, Lord Olórin,” he said, his blue-gray eyes bright and warm.  “Speaking for my kin and those of my court, they are also satisfied and require no additional inquiry.  In this, Arafinwë of the Noldor and Olwë of the Teleri are in full agreement.  However, we wish to make it clear to all our peoples that though we, our families, and those of our courts are content, they should feel no shame or hesitance in seeking answers to their own questions, if they so desire.”

Olórin inclined his head in polite acknowledgment of this courtesy.  “You are gracious, my lords, and wise.  I am pleased to know that I have sated your curiosity, as I am gratified to hear you encourage others so that they may also be satisfied in the name of justice.”

The kings bowed once again, then returned to stand with their families.  For a perhaps a minute, nothing happened save for the sound of soft murmurs flitting through the watching throngs.  Manwë was about to ask Eönwë to give a formal summons again when one of the Elves came forward to stand where the kings had stood a few moments before.  He was of the Noldor, tall and dark of hair, and though he was finely dressed, he did not display the opulence of a noble.  Olórin recognized him, and smiled.

“Rautanáro Alarion,” the Maia said in greeting as the Noldo bowed.  Olórin fervently wished he could tell everyone to do away with such formalities as bowing, but he knew the solemnity of the occasion would not permit it.  “I understand that I have you to thank for this beautiful gift I was given by my friend, Frodo Baggins.”  He touched his belt as he spoke, knowing that it was a product of this smith's skilled hands.  “I have long admired your work, for few have your fine talent in combining art with functionality.”

“I am honored by your praise, my lord,” Rautanáro replied.  “And I am also pleased to know that you took pleasure in the gift.  I have heard much concerning the work you performed in Endorë during the past Age.  Before coming to Valmar, there was no question I could have thought to ask of you.  But it has been many years since I have been to Valmar, and when my wife and I went to Ezellohar yestreve, to pay our respects to the place of the Trees, I saw the hröa that had been yours upon the hill, and the ring still upon the hand.  I recognized at once the work of a Fëanorian, and I was told that it was one of the Three Great Rings fashioned by Celebrimbor for the leaders of the Eldar of Endorë.”

Olórin nodded.  “It was indeed, Narya, the Ring of Fire.  It was given into my keeping a short time after my arrival in the Havens of Mithlond, by Lord Círdan, to whom it had been given by Ereinion Gil-galad, then High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth.”

For a moment, Rautanáro's brow furrowed as he paused to phrase his next words.  “I do not mean to imply wrongdoing on your part,” he explained, “but it is my understanding that the Istari were sent to Endorë to be guides and teachers to the peoples who inhabit those lands, to aid them in their struggles against the so-called Dark Lord Sauron.”

“That is so.”

“Yet was not the greatest threat posed by Sauron due to the Master Ring he had made to control the others?  Was it not an unconscionable risk for one of your order to take possession of one of the Three?  It was a thing of power that might have tempted a bearer to desire even greater power, something that could have made anyone who carried it terribly vulnerable, should Sauron regain his Ring.  How could you have taken it?”

Even before the last question was asked, a sad smile shadowed Olórin's fair face.  “Narya was indeed all that you have said, Rautanáro, although its own power was not of a kind that would generally lead one to desire a path for domination, unless such a desire was already within them.  I have never sought that kind of power or control, and even so, the One Ring did indeed tempt me to desire greater power for good.  I am relieved to say that I did not succumb to its lure!  But to answer what I believe is your ultimate question: I took it because at the time it was offered to me, I did not know any better.”

Rautanáro blinked, startled; he was not to the only person to react with surprise.  “I — I beg your pardon?” was all he could manage to say.

Olórin understood his confusion.  “I know that sounds quite impossible, but I assure you, it was not.  You are aware that when we were sent to Middle-earth as the emissaries of the Valar, all of the Istari were embodied in true flesh and blood, not merely in fanar such as we wear here in Aman.”

The smith nodded.  “I had heard as much, and saw the proof of it last evening upon Ezellohar.  Before Master Baggins came to my shop in Tirion, I had never met one of the Secondborn, and until yesterday, I had not seen even a body of a Man.  Had you been sent in a fana, I presume there would not have been a shell of flesh for you to leave behind.”

“Just so.  And before I was sent, I had never before inhabited a body of true flesh.  It was... a disconcerting experience.  Between the time that I was given that incarnation and the time I landed on the shores of Endorë, less than a month had passed.  When I arrived in Círdan's havens, I was far from acclimated to that change of being, which was so profoundly different from anything I had ever known, I have never truly been able to describe it.  Those of the Eldar who have been returned from death have told me that from my descriptions of the experience, it was very similar to their rebirth.”

“That is true,” Glorfindel said as he emerged from a group not far from the place where Elrond's household was gathered.  He moved to stand beside Rautanáro, giving the Maia a half-bow of both greeting and apology.  “If I may?” he asked.  Olórin nodded permission, and he continued.  “What Olórin says is quite accurate,” he told Rautanáro.  “I myself have been reborn.  After my release from Mandos, I spent many months in the house of the Lady Nienna, where I was aided in my adjustment from existence as an unhoused fëa to life in hröa.  In the early days, I scarcely remembered who or what I was, and I fear that my wisdom of greater matters was little better than that of a child.  As he and I are friends, Olórin and I have spoken of this; in ósanwë, I was able to perceive that his circumstances upon his arrival in Middle-earth were very similar.  I would, in fact, say that his situation was considerably worse than mine.  I was restored to what I had been, one of the Eldar, but he was placed in the body of a Mortal Man.  The Atani, admirable and noble as they are, exist in ways we cannot fully comprehend.  Even the least of the Elves is able to experience communion with another's mind and spirit, to some degree, while to the greatest of the Atani, this is, with very few exceptions, unknown.”

“Lord Glorfindel is correct,” came the voice of Finrod, from where he stood between his parents and his sister, Galadriel.  He stepped forward so that he might be seen more clearly.  “I too have been reborn, and my experience was much the same, as was that of my cousin Ereinion.  It is the natural state of our kind to live with both fëa and hröa joined, yet being restored to a physical body was incredibly disturbing.  And during my life in Middle-earth, I was friend and sword-brother to some of the most noble of the Atani, yet even with them, I was unable to share the closeness of thought and spirit that I knew with all of Elven-kind.  Some few of the Edain were able to perceive the thoughts I directed to them in ósanwë, but none could reply in the same fashion.  The Secondborn live their lives sundered from one another, able to communicate only by the means of spoken or written word.  I held them in the greatest of esteem, and at the same time, I grieved for them, for their aloneness.”

Rautanáro's confusion turned to shock, a reaction that again was mirrored in other faces among the watching Elves.  His gray-green eyes turned from Glorfindel to Olórin.  “Is this so?” he asked, not able to speak much above a whisper.  “The Secondborn are so... isolated from one another?”

Intense sadness darkened Maia's expression as he nodded.  “It is.  I had known of this long ago, during my work in Endorë of the First Age, but I never fully understood it until I awakened in that human body.  The utter loneliness....”

His voice trailed off as for a moment, he was overwhelmed with memories that were disturbingly painful in their clarity.  He bowed his head for a several moments more, until he had collected himself, his voice on the brittle edge of cracking.  When he raised his head again, the sparkle of unshed tears in his deep blue eyes was plainly visible, though his light baritone was once again steady.  “I had never known anything like it.  From the moment Eru Ilúvatar called me into being, I had never been alone.  Always, I could feel His presence, and the presence of my people.  Even after I came with the others into Eä, I was alone only if I chose to be.  Never was I more than a thought away from the comfort and support of others.  I believe you are somewhat familiar with this, Rautanáro.  Your people are sensitive to the thoughts and emotions of one another, even though not all have the full gift ofósanwë.”

“Yes,” the smith agreed, still speaking softly.  “It is why I, and all I know, could not understand how any Elda could become a kinslayer.”

Olórin sighed.  “Evil is ever beyond the full comprehension of those who do not harbor in their hearts.  In general, the Secondborn do not have such gifts as speaking mind to mind, nor of literally feeling what another feels.  Oh, they are not heartless and cruel, as some would say.  Indeed, many Mortals I have known have greater hearts and compassion than some who are held in high esteem among the Eldalië — even some among my own kind.  But they are each alone and separate, trapped within their flesh, unable by their nature to be close in their thoughts as the Ainur and Eldar are blessed.  Some few, by the grace of the One, are occasionally able to perceive glimpses of such contact—” He smiled wistfully at Frodo.  “—but it is, sadly, a pale reflection of what I had known all my life.  When I was put into the incarnate body of a Man, I experienced what it is to exist as they exist.  Alone on the ship that bore me to Middle-earth, I felt as if I had been flung into the Void.  I was greatly relieved when I arrived in Mithlond, for there I would have the company of others, but I remained very confused and disoriented.  During the time I spent with Círdan and his people, I began to regain some sense of myself, and of the fact that I would not be forever denied the touch of another's mind and spirit, yet I also knew that so long as I remained bound to mortal flesh, the experience would be greatly diminished.  It was a part of the burden that had been laid upon the Istari, not to know our full power and knowledge and wisdom, lest we be tempted to use it in ways that had been forbidden to us.  So, Rautanáro, when I say that I did not know any better than to take Narya when Círdan offered it to me, I mean it in truth.  At that time, I had not yet settled into my new existence enough to know the full ramifications of taking the Ring of Fire.”

Círdan, clad in the grey and silver-blue of Mithlond and standing near his kinsman Olwë, snorted — a rather indelicate sound, but perfectly expressive of his attitude.  “You knew enough,” he said staunchly.  “As I recall, you and I spent the better part of a month ‘discussing' the matter, most of your arguments being to the effect that you were unworthy or some such nonsense.  By the time you finally accepted, I was even more certain that I was doing the correct thing in surrendering Narya into your keeping.  One who would have taken the ring without question or hesitance would, I fear, have been totally unsuited to bear it.”

Olórin smiled at the shipwright.  “You are right, my old friend, and I am grateful that your wisdom at the time was greater than mine.  You did not give me Narya to wield over others; you gave it to me for comfort and support, which I did not know would be so sorely needed during the long years of my tasks.  Yet you foresaw this, and I cannot repay you for your generous gift.  Narya eased the coldness in my heart and spirit and allowed me to do better what I had been sent to do.  It was no more than I needed, and never did it tempt me to desire more.  Indeed, I believe the strength it gave me actually helped me to resist the temptation of the One Ring better than I might have done alone.”

“All that Olórin has said is true, Rautanáro,” came the voice of Galadriel.  Clad in a simple white gown with a kirtle of golden leaves and a circlet of twisted gold and silver, she stepped out from the throng of the Noldor, followed by Gil-galad and Elrond.  “We three can attest to what both he and Círdan have said of the nature of the rings.  Lord Elrond and I also worked closely with Olórin from the time of his arrival in our realms, not long after he first came to Middle-earth.  If he was unwise to take Narya, then I was far more guilty of that sin than he, for I did see it as a means to gain greater power and control, and took the ring which I was offered all too gladly.  But that failing came from within me, not through Nenya.”

Elrond, garbed in the grey and blue and silver of his house, agreed.  “I was the second bearer of Vilya, and did not have any desire to rule a larger realm, but I understand what the Lady Galadriel has said.  The Three were not meant to give mastery or power of a political kind; they were meant for healing, preservation, and understanding.  Whether or not he knew it at the time he was offered Narya, Olórin clearly understood its true nature in his heart.  He always counseled us to caution in regards to our rings, and for myself, I tried to follow his advice as best I could.”

Ereinion — resplendent in the midnight blue and silver of the high kings of Middle-earth — nodded.  “It was sound counsel.  When I possessed Vilya, never did it tempt me to desire the One.  The Three were never touched by Sauron, and though he would have used them as a means to corrupt us, I believe that because they were fashioned for more noble purposes, they gave their bearers some  degree of resistance to the lure of the One.  I know that Círdan agreed with me in this matter, and if it is so, then his gift to Lord Olórin was a wise and compassionate one.”

As a murmur rippled through the onlookers, another Elf stepped forward, this a maid of the Vanyar, whose attire indicated that she followed the people of Yavanna.  “But if this was so,” she said, confusion plainly written upon her face, “then why was no such aid given to the other messengers?  Was this done as a mark of favoritism?”

Before the other bearers could formulate a response, Olórin spoke.  “No, Lady Tuilindë,” he said, his tone both gentle and sad.  “Lord Círdan's gift came as a prompting of his heart, which may have been moved by the inspiration of Eru Ilúvatar.  Why this should be so, none of us can say, though if this was bestowed upon me as a special blessing from the One, then I shall forever be grateful for it.  Yet even if all the Three had been surrendered to the Istari, there would not have been enough to protect us, for we were an embassy of five.  It is not my place to speak for the motives or reasoning of others, nor to speculate upon what might have happened had events of the past been different.  I can say that an embodied life was a great burden to all of us, and each of us carried that burden in his own way — as each of us failed, in his own way.  As one devoted to Lady Yavanna, I know that you speak from concern over the fate of Aiwendil, who did not return to Aman.  I can only tell you that this was his own choice.  I attempted to persuade him to accompany me, for it seemed to me that he had become confused by his long life as an incarnate and had forgotten too much of his own nature.  When last I spoke with him, he did not even recall that he was a Maia.  This troubled me greatly, and if I had had the power and the right to compel him to take ship, I would have done so, for I believe that once returned to Aman, his memory would be healed.  But I had not been given that authority.  Perhaps in the future, his memories will become clear, or the Valar may choose to intervene directly; I do not know.  Whatever the case, I do know that he was happy in the life that he had chosen.  I believe that is the greatest gift one can wish for a friend, that they be happy, whatever path they choose to follow.”

As Tuilindë listened, her stricken expression softened somewhat, but some of her confusion remained.  Yavanna was about to speak up when another Maia appeared at the elf maid's side.  Olórin recognized him at once: Ornedil, the brother of Aiwendil.  He favored the Istar with an inquisitive glance, to which Olórin answered with a slight nod.  “I understand your feelings, young one,” he said softly to Tuilindë, “for I once shared them.  Olórin bears no blame for what became of my brother.  I fear his choice was ill-considered from the start.  Aiwendil's eagerness to do good has ever been complicated by his impulsiveness, his tendency to act without thinking through all the consequences of his actions.  Even here in Aman, he would become so fascinated with certain aspects of his tasks that he would lose sight of what needed to be accomplished.  It was not an act of rebellion, nor of selfishness, which I believe is why he was spared the more terrible ends of the other messengers who fell away from their purpose.  Olórin did not lie when he said that my brother is happy in his life, for now.  I was allowed to watch him as he is for a time, and though it pains me to know that he does not remember me or any he loved here in the West, he is living a choice that he made of his own free will.”

Tuilindë looked up at the tall, brown-haired Maia; she appeared to be trembling on a brink between tears and acceptance.  Ornedil smiled, gently.  “If you wish, we will talk of this later, you and I.  I would be glad to share memories of my brother with you.”

She hesitated for a moment more, then nodded her acceptance, managing a small smile of her own.  She turned and bowed to Olórin.  “Forgive me, my lord,” she said, her voice steadier than before.  “I spoke out of turn.”

“No forgiveness is necessary,” the Istar replied kindly.  “This Reckoning is for the answering of questions concerning my mission, and Aiwendil was a part of it.  I hope that someday, he will return to us, for it pained me greatly to leave him behind.”

Tuilindë agreed, and bowing again, withdrew into the crowd of onlookers, Ornedil still beside her.

Rautanáro also bowed, his shock having dissolved into something closer to sympathy.  “Thank you, my lord,” he said.  “My question has been answered — indeed, I now have answers to questions I had not considered, but should have.  I see now that the mission with which you were charged was more complex than I had ever imagined.”

Olórin smiled.  “Do not regret your inquiry, Rautanáro.  In the end, it turned out to be far more complex than even the Valar had imagined, so you are in excellent company.”  A rustle of laughter from the watching Powers assured the observers that they were in full agreement with their servant.  Understanding that he was not being mocked, a tentative smile tugged at Rautanáro's lips.  He gave his obeisance to the Valar, then withdrew into the throng.

Before any other Elves came forward, the Istar heard an odd sound off to his right.  “Yes, Bilbo?” he asked, seeing the elderly hobbit fidgeting, a strangely thoughtful crease on his brow.

Bilbo cleared his throat again.  He glanced the way Rautanáro had gone, then let his gaze touch upon Glorfindel and Finrod before turning to his old friend.  “Is what you said true, Gandalf?  I mean, of course, I know you wouldn't lie, but... I suppose I always knew that wizards weren't like other folk — not like Elves, but living much longer than any Man or Dwarf or Hobbit, nobody ever recalling a time when they were young.  Frodo figured out the truth before I did, smart lad, but I just never gave it as much thought as he did.  Head too full of tales and songs and stories to want to ponder weightier matters, I guess.  Other than not growing old — or older — and passing on from old age, if you were in the body of Man, does that mean when you... when you fought that creature, the Balrog... did you really... die?”  His volume had diminished such that the last word almost came out as a squeak.

Olórin caught his eye before the hobbit could look away, his own eyes filled with such fond compassion, Bilbo knew that the Maia had understood what he could not quite bring himself to say aloud.  “Yes, my old friend,” he said ever so gently.  “I really died.  There in Middle-earth, with my own mission incomplete — failed, in truth — I could not have escaped the body in which I lived in any other way.  I had been blessed with stamina and strength somewhat greater than that of an ordinary Man so that I might endure the long trials I faced, but it was still human flesh, subject to all the weaknesses and frailties a mortal might know.  You remember the Battle of the Five Armies, and the broken arm I received as a result of my participation?”  Bilbo nodded, and the Istar chuckled at his intensely thoughtful expression, but even more at his own memories.  “And do you recall the autumn I came to visit for your birthday, and you ended up nursing me through a rather annoying illness?”

The halfling gave a snort of laughter.  “Oh, yes, I recall it well!  I think that was why it took so long for me to understand what you were.  I didn't know immortal beings could come down with such a nasty cold!”

The Maia laughed fully.  “Neither did I, and if I had dared to think myself immune despite my human body, I was taught a lesson I would not soon forget!”  He continued to chuckle for several moments, then sighed, becoming more serious.  “It was a truth I knew very well by the time I faced the Balrog.  I had powers that an ordinary Man did not, but they were severely diminished and limited by that incarnate body.  The Balrog was originally of my own kind, a Maia, and though it had suffered its own weakening of power by a long life in that hideous body it had chosen, it was much more powerful, and under no restraints.  Whatever might it had, it was free to use against me, where I was not.  Once we engaged in battle, I knew there could be only one end for me.  I would die, but if I was fortunate, the Balrog would die first, or would die with me.  There was no other choice, and I am forever grateful that I was able to prevail so that one terrible enemy would not go on to cause more death and destruction in Middle-earth.”

Bilbo's expression had become thoughtful again, but less intense.  “So if you actually died, as we mortals die, did...”  He paused to collect his thoughts.  “Afterward — did that happen as it happens for mortals, too?”

Olórin shrugged.  “That, I'm afraid I cannot say.  In my heart, I believe that some aspects of the experience were precisely those which mortals know after death.  I know that at some point after the death of that hröa, I was taken into the presence of Eru Ilúvatar.  Before I was sent back to Aman, I asked Him if I had died as a mortal truly would. He told me that I had, after a fashion.  If that is so, then I understand why death is called the Gift of Men.  For mortals, death is merely a step in the transition from this world to another, where the fëa is freed from the weight and weariness of the incarnate world.  What the ultimate fate of spirits of the Secondborn might be beyond life I do not know, but I do know that it is not in any way a punishment.  Eru wishes only to love us, and to see us exist in happiness.”

The Maia lowered his head for several moments; when he raised it again, he brushed away tears from his cheeks.  “Today is Eruhantalë, and I give thanks for the mortal death I was privileged to know, for in it, I learned more than I had ever known of the incredible depth of the love which the One offers to us, every day of our existence, be it in life or after life.”

A soft murmur rose throughout the throngs who were watching, all speaking the same word: Násië.  When the last echoes of the sound had faded, Olórin smiled at his two smallest friends, his eyes bright and clear.  “So you see, there is no need for either of you to ever fear death.  No matter what you have done in life, no matter how greatly you fear you have failed, if you can forgive yourself, or at the very least be willing to ask for forgiveness, it not only will be offered, but it has already been given.  Even the rebellion of Melkor, great and terrible as it was, has not diminished Eru's love for him.  It saddens Him, yes, but in the end, it will be Melkor himself who will decide his own fate.  If he can accept love and mercy and forgiveness, then he will have brought himself to a place where all debts for his wrongdoing will be paid.  If he cannot....”  The Maia shook his head.  “That I will not speculate upon.  It is his to decide, and I can but hope that he, like all of our people who fell away from the Light, will someday understand how truly simple it is to return to it.”

Both hobbits nodded, as did many others, especially among the Ainur.  “Thank you for telling us this, Olórin,” Frodo said after a minute or two of respectful silence.  “I confess that I have not been entirely convinced that I do not deserve punishment for my failures, but I understand now that I only punish myself by not accepting the forgiveness I have already been offered.  If you are right, and the fate of mortals after death is indeed a blessing, then I look forward to the time when I am ready to receive the Gift.”

“As do I,” Bilbo echoed.  “And I also thank you.”  Both halflings bowed deeply in Hobbit fashion.

Still smiling, the Istar left his appointed place to join the halflings.  He knelt to embrace them, a gesture of friendship as well as reassurance, especially for Frodo, who had been so concerned about this inquiry only a short time before.  After a few whispered words between them, he returned to the edge of the gallery to await his next question.

When none of the Elves came forward, he began to wonder if this could possibly be the end of the matter, until he heard someone gently clearing their throat.  He turned to look to his right, trying to determine the source of the sound, and was surprised to see Eönwë come forward from behind Manwë.

The herald's face wore a blend of apology and sheepishness. “I would have thought that after all these years, having been present for every inquiry you faced, there could not possibly be any question I could have that you have not already answered at least once.  But as I have been listening today, a puzzle has grown in my thoughts.  If I may be allowed to ask it....”

“Of course, my friend,” Olórin replied without hesitation.  “This is a day of reckoning, and if your riddle has an answer within my power to give, you have but to ask.”

“You are most kind.  I have listened most attentively to all the questions and answers at the previous accountings, and it embarrasses me to realize that it was not until a few minutes ago that I truly understood the limits of human existence and mortality that were imposed upon you and the other Istari.  I have served the Valar most often as a warrior, and I remember only too well the War of Wrath, and all the forces our Enemy sent against us.  The Balrogs were among the most terrible, no doubt because they were others of our kind, given over to evil.  Any of the Eldar who fought them died, and only two succeeded in bringing down their opponent in the process.  None of the Atani were able to withstand them for long.  Even if you were blessed with longevity, and allowed some of the knowledge and wisdom and power that was your heritage as a Maia, how did you manage to survive an encounter with a Balrog — ten days of constant battle and pursuit!  How did you endure it long enough to defeat it?”

Olórin did not answer immediately.  He was carefully considering his reply when Manwë spoke.  “If you do not wish to answer this question, Olórin, you need not,” the Elder King said with great compassion.  “I understand my herald's curiosity, for it speaks to his nature as a warrior, but not only is this inquiry for the sake of the Eruhíni, this also touches upon a matter that does not by necessity address the performance of your duties during the past age.”

The Istar inclined his head in acknowledgment of what Manwë offered.  “Thank you, my lord, but I would like to answer, as best I can.  I believe that of the many choices I made during my time as your messenger, this was one of the most significant in how it affected the outcome of the task for which I had been sent.”

He turned then to Eönwë, one corner of his mouth quirked into an odd half-smile.  “I could avoid it by saying that I have no idea how I managed to survive long enough to defeat the Balrog, but I know that is not true.  I survived because I surrendered.”

The procession of reactions that flowed across the herald's face was fascinating to Olórin, both because of the swiftness with which one transformed into another, and because of their startling clarity.  His expression finally settled into something between shock and disbelief.  His voice, usually strong and clear and ringing, came out soft and strained, as if his tongue refused to form the words.  “You surrendered to a Balrog?”

Olórin smiled at the incredulous tenor of the question.  He took pity on the warrior by shaking his head.  The sun, now climbing into the sky and burning away the morning chill, sparkled off the crystal circlet that was often all but invisible against his pale hair.  “Not to the Balrog, no.  That was not an option.  I surrendered to fate, I suppose you might say.  I acknowledged the inevitable, that in the body of a Man, my flesh was far more vulnerable than a Balrog's.  If I fought him, I would die.  I surrendered to that reality, and to the reality that I must fight him, whatever the outcome.  That required me to accept the failure of my greater mission.  It was painful, but I was not prideful enough to believe that my continued life was more important than the destruction of the Ring and the defeat of Sauron.  The Balrog was an immediate and considerable threat to the safety of the company of the Ring, as well as to all the free peoples of Middle-earth.  Even if my chances of defeating him were poor, I had to try.  If nothing else, by keeping him involved fighting me, I would give the Company time to flee to Lórien, where they would have greater protection and could warn the Galadhrim of the danger.  I knew that Galadriel and Celeborn would do all they could to aid Frodo and the others, and see to it that they were able to continue the quest in what safety could be offered.  But the longer I kept the Balrog engaged with me, the more time they would have to prepare.  If against all odds I managed to defeat it, so much the better.  Thus I determined that I must give all that was mine to give to combat with that ancient foe.  Hoping to do the best I was able, I surrendered, to inevitability, to fate, and to the will of Lord Eru.  I offered to Him all that I was — not in an attempt to strike a bargain for His favor, but because I knew it would take such a sacrifice to carry out the task at hand.  I surrendered to Him the only thing that was truly mine to offer: my very existence, the greatest of all His gifts, and in expending it, I summoned the courage and the strength to do battle with a creature beyond the measure of even the greatest of Mortal Men.”

The look upon Eönwë's face was no longer mixed; it was one of a person who has just heard something so profoundly disturbing, he cannot bring himself to believe it.  It took some moments before he could bring himself to speak, and when he did, it was little above a whisper.  “I — I cannot imagine that the One would have allowed such a sacrifice...!”

“Why should He not?” Olórin answered mildly.  “It was mine to give.”

“Yes, but...!”  The normally eloquent herald found himself spluttering, struggling to find words for the miasma of thoughts and feelings that were turning his mind to chaos.  “You were charged to accept the form and life of a Man, that I understand, and if you came to physical death in the execution of your duties, it was no more than might be asked of any warrior who fights for a greater good.  But even in facing the hordes of Morgoth, never was it asked of any of our people that they give up their very existence!  Even the Great Enemy himself was not forced to that fate!  Why did you do this?”

There was a kind of anger in Eönwë's words, but Olórin easily perceived that it was not aimed at him.  Rather, it was for him, for the awful circumstances that had caused such a thing to be.  He sighed softly before offering a reply.  “Because I could see that only in such a choice would I have the opportunity to seize that tiny chance of defeating the Balrog.  If I continued to cling to anything for myself, even my own existence beyond death, I knew I would not have the strength to do what needed to be done.  I held to Hope, that in His infinite wisdom, Lord Eru would take whatever resulted and turn it toward good.”

He paused, searching for a way to better explain his decision to his old friend.  He could see and feel the depths of Eönwë's genuine concern — a concern he could sense was now raised in many observers who were also his friends — and he wanted very much to find some way to put all their minds at ease.  Finally, he turned to Manwë.

The Elder King saw a certain hesitance in the Maia's demeanor that seemed decidedly uncomfortable.  “Olórin,” he said with exquisitely gentle firmness, “I know that you wish to answer every question that is posed you, but some venture beyond anything that I or all the Valar assembled would ask of you.  We did not understand how fully an incarnate life would bind you to the fate of the Secondborn, nor how deeply the taint of our fallen brother would affect your spirit as the years lengthened and the weight of your burden became ever more difficult to bear.  It is enough that we know the outcome of your battle with the Balrog, and the decisions of Eru Ilúvatar concerning your fate that followed.  To ask that you describe any details of that bitter struggle would be unconscionably cruel, and you need say no more of it.”

Eönwë flushed, and was about to apologize to both his master and his fellow Maia, but Olórin shook his head.  “No, my lord,” he said.  “I thank you for your kind consideration, but you misunderstand.  My battle with the Balrog was indeed terrible, and though I have not spoken of it fully to anyone, it is not because I do not wish to.  Truthfully, some of the memories are ones that I would very much like to share, and thus be unburdened of them forever, but until now, I did not feel I could speak of them, even in ósanwë.  Lord Irmo once told me that my memories and understanding of my life in Middle-earth would return to me when Lord Eru deemed I was able to properly deal with them, and I believe that I am now ready.  But there are no words that I can think of to accurately describe what happened; it would be much easier to share my memory, so that the answer will be as clear as possible.  Yet I do not wish for this to be a sharing only between myself and the Ainur, and those of the Eldar who are gifted to mind-speech.  This is meant to be the final reckoning of my stewardship, and I believe that this is perhaps the most important of all the decisions and actions I made in regard to it.  I would like for all present who wish to know to share this as well, but I do not think I have quite enough ability to see this done.  If you are willing, I ask that you and any of the Valar who are also willing to please aid me in this.”

Manwë's eyes touched upon the other Valar, his gaze alone asking the question.  Several of them nodded: Varda, Námo, Nienna, Ulmo, Oromë, Yavanna, Aulë — all of the Aratar.  The others indicated their approval, although they declined to actively participate.  This did not surprise Manwë, for the others either had limited contact with the Children, or by their natures they were not well suited to do as Olórin had asked.  It was best this way, the wind-lord decided, since this would leave some to stand watch in case of difficulties. He then raised his voice to address the watching Children.

“Olórin has agreed to answer the questions Eönwë has raised, but as he feels the explanation would be better shown than described, we will aid him in allowing any who wish to share this experience to do so.  Any who do not wish this have only to refuse our touch in their thoughts, and they will remain undisturbed.  Also, we will not allow this to be communicated to any children, and if we sense that anyone who allowed this contact is becoming distressed by it, we will end their participation, and send one of our people to make certain of their welfare.”  

His bright blue eyes focused directly on Glorfindel and another who was standing not far from him: Ecthelion, the reborn lord of the House of the Fountain of Gondolin, who had perished in the act of slaying Gothmog, the lord of the Balrogs.  Manwë made certain he had their full attention before speaking.  “I will leave this choice to you, but I am inclined to suggest that both of you refrain from this experience,” he said bluntly.  “You have already suffered the consequences of confronting one of the Valaraukar, and I would not have either of you exposed to such a thing again, even images that are echoes of another's past.”

The two lords of Gondolin, who had been well acquainted before falling in the fateful battles of their city's demise, looked at one another.  A silent communication passed between them, and they turned again to Manwë.  “I appreciate your kind concern, my lord,” Glorfindel said with a slight bow of thanks.  “But as I already know firsthand what such a confrontation can entail in terms of pain and suffering, I believe I am better prepared to witness such a memory than most.  Moreover, Olórin has been my friend for many years.  We have discussed this matter before; to see it more clearly will, I think, only serve to make stronger my respect for him.”

Ecthelion — a tall, dark-haired Noldo clad in watery silver-blue and white — agreed.  “I do not have Glorfindel's personal history with Lord Olórin, but I would be honored to witness this memory of which he has spoken.  In this, we are brothers of the sword, with a common past shared by few — thank Eru.”

Manwë accepted their decisions.  His attention then shifted to the two hobbits.  “I know that you have both been blessed with sufficient sensitivity of heart and spirit to perceive when another is speaking to you through ósanwë,” he said gently.  “And I am also aware that you, Frodo, have seen visions of the future that were not sent to you by any of our kind.  These things are not common among your people, as they are rare even among the Edain.  For an ordinary Mortal, it would be difficult to allow them to share in what Olórin has suggested without causing them considerable distress.  Because of your particular gifts, I believe you would not experience such difficulty, but I do not think I would favor it if you wished to make such an attempt.  It would cause all of us great pain if you suffered any hurt because of our actions.”

While Bilbo considered this, Frodo looked away, not wanting to chance meeting his cousin's eye. The older hobbit didn't notice, as he was wrapped in his own thoughts.  He spoke first.  “For myself, I would say that you are wise, my lord.  This mind-speech  as you call it... well, I haven't experienced it very much at all, and I will admit that I found it most disconcerting.  I already know all I need to know of what Gandalf did while he was in Middle-earth.  I was never a warrior, even in the one war I happened to be a part of — I was knocked on the head so soon after the battle began, I missed most of it!  I'm too... bookish, I suppose people might say.  I prefer songs and sagas and ballads to the grim reality of history.”  

His gaze slipped to the Istar, full of apology.  “I hope it doesn't offend you, Gandalf.  After our journey to Erebor, I know how brave you can be, and how much you do truly care for people who are under your guardianship.  But I don't think the stuff I'm made of is stern enough to actually see in my head something that already gives me nightmares!”

Olórin regarded the old hobbit with great fondness.  “I understand, Bilbo, and I'm not offended in the least.  To be honest, I agree with Lord Manwë: I cannot say that I would want for either of you to witness what I mean to show Eönwë and the others.  I'm relieved to hear that you would prefer to abstain.”

Bilbo let loose a huge sigh of relief, taking a silk kerchief from his pocket to mop his brow.  Frodo, however, did not do the same.  His mind made up, he turned his face from his study of the grass beyond his toes to Manwë.  “It's very considerate of you, my lord, to want to spare me any discomfort, but unless you forbid it, I would prefer not to be excluded.”  He heard a distressed sound from a number of directions, most notably Bilbo's and Olórin's.  He gave his ersatz uncle a look that clearly said that he had no desire to discuss his decision; Bilbo relented after a moment or two.  Frodo was no child, and as Bilbo could hardly begin to imagine all he had lived through during his last years in Middle-earth, he did not feel he had the right to gainsay him.

Olórin, however, was not so easily convinced.  “Frodo,” he began.

Before he could say more, the hobbit stepped out from his place at the edge of the great mass of observers and strode toward the Maia with determined purpose.  Sighing softly, Olórin met him halfway.  He knelt to spare his friend the need to glare up at him.

“I know what you want to say,” Frodo declared, his voice deliberately kept low so that even the Elves would have difficulty hearing them.  He was aware that any of the Ainur who wished could listen, but he knew them well enough now to know that they would respect his obvious desire for privacy.  “You don't want to burden me with this, just as you didn't want to burden me with the task of taking the Ring to the fire.”

“Very true,” the Istar conceded.  “You have endured so much pain, Frodo.  I have no desire to be the cause for even another moment of discomfort for you.”

The breath Frodo let loose was only half exasperated.  “I appreciate it, Olórin, I assure you.  But I think you already know that because of the Ring, I saw and felt horrors that It forced into my mind.  During the quest, one of the worst lies it fed to me, over and over again, was how it was my fault that you died to save me from the Balrog.”

Olórin's sapphire dark eyes went wide.  “You cannot believe that...!”

But the hobbit remained firm.  “Can't I?  If I hadn't been there and in danger, would you have fought that creature, all alone and exhausted as you were?”

It took little contemplation before Olórin tendered an answer.  “No,” he admitted.  “Alone, I would have done what I could to flee and secure help.  I never was a dedicated warrior, and I would have considered myself the greatest of fools to engage a Balrog singlehandedly.  But it was because of me that you were there to begin with....”

Frodo shook his head, adamant.  “I was there because I volunteered to take the Ring to Mordor.  You may have encouraged Bilbo to let the Ring pass to me, but you did that because you feared for Bilbo, and did not know the truth about the Ring.  I don't blame you for that, and you know it.  Bilbo was already suffering because of the Ring, and if he had kept it longer, it might have done him terrible harm.  You know this, all of this.  I kept the Ring and bore it willingly.  I was in Moria because that was where I was meant to be, as you faced the Balrog because that was what you were meant to do.  I understand that what happened to you was horrible.  But afterward, during all the weeks of carrying the Ring to the mountain of fire, the Ring kept torturing me about it, telling me that you died because I was weak, because I needed your protection, that you wouldn't have died if I hadn't been there, unable to defend myself.  And It taunted me, wanting me to believe that your death would ultimately be a waste because I would fail to destroy It, in the end.”

Profound pity shaded the Maia's fair face.  “You do know that none of that is true,” he said, a statement, not a question.

Frodo nodded.  “Even more, I know that if you hadn't died then, you couldn't have come back stronger and better able to help the peoples of Rohan and Gondor.  Seeing what actually happened would not be a burden, Olórin.  It would help to finally convince me that the Ring was pure deceit, that even if I couldn't throw it into the fire with my own hand, I did the best I could — like you.  I have been nearly slain by a cursed blade of the Nazgûl, stung by a spawn of Ungoliant, taken to her lair as food, imprisoned by orcs, herded halfway across Mordor in foul orc rags, driven mad from thirst and starvation and the relentless pressure of the Ring in my mind, and had a finger bitten off my hand to wrest the Ring from me.  Is there truly anything that you experienced in your fight with the Balrog that can be more horrible than that?”

As he spoke, tears welled in the Istar's eyes that spilled over when Frodo asked his final question.  Olórin did not bother to wipe the dampness away; he touched the hobbit's cheek with one gentle hand even as he shook his head.  “No.  It is compassion that makes me want to spare you any new hurt, but I know that you have more than enough strength to make your own choice.  In my heart, I do believe that you are right.  As I have said that this event was most pivotal to the eventual success of my mission, you more than any other deserve to know the whole of it, if that is what you wish.”

“It is.”

“Then let it be so.”  As he stood, he bent both as a bow of respect and to kiss the hobbit's brow.  He moved back to his place on the hillside as Frodo returned to stand beside Bilbo.  The Maia caught Manwë's querulous gaze when he was once again beside Eönwë.  “This is Frodo's choice, my lord,” he said, “and he has convinced me of the right of it.  Let it be as he wishes.”

“Very well,” the wind-lord conceded, little though he liked it.  He closed his eyes and bowed his head, as did all the Valar.  Long moments passed; then Manwë lifted his head, though his eyes remained closed, and said softly, “When you are ready.”

Olórin understood.  He turned to face Eönwë.  Briefly, his dark blue eyes unfocused, searching for a time and a place made distant not only by the passage of years and long miles, but also by the distance of another life.  His vision sharpened again, to meet and lock with the herald's eyes, which were so similar to his own.  And then, he opened himself to a memory that was more than memory.