“Fly, you fools!”

The words seemed to echo endlessly in the huge cavern surrounding Durin's Bridge, only to be snatched away, dwindling as they were pulled off into some immeasurable distance.  But the echo was not moving away.  He was the one moving, falling down into the abyss, the whip of the Balrog still tangled tight about his legs just as the fire of the Balrog streamed all about him.  The fallen Maia was also falling below him, no farther away than the length of its terrible whip.  Even more terrible was its fire, for the wizard had not the hide of the demon to resist the effects of the flame.  He tried to divorce his thoughts from the pain and the smell of it, for the scent of his own singed hair and flesh was stronger in his nostrils than the sulphurous stench of the Balrog.   If he could only disentangle himself from the whip, or somehow manage to sever it....

As the fall continued, Olórin managed to clear his mind enough to consider some sort of action, and only then realized that he still held Glamdring in his right hand.  He wasted neither time nor energy contemplating how this miracle had come to be, for he already knew the answer.  During their escape and battle, he had kept a tight grip on his weapon, for he could not afford to lose it.  Perhaps he would have done better in avoiding the fall if he had let it go... but no.  The whip was as tight about him as a noose, and he would have been pulled down, regardless.  Now, he had a blade in hand, and a means perhaps to cut himself free and do battle against his enemy.

He tried to twist his body so as to be able to reach the thongs that kept him connected to the Balrog, but such a movement was difficult, as the speed of their fall caused more resistance than he had anticipated.  With considerable effort, he managed to turn and face his foe, whose flame grew stronger and hotter in its throes of anger against the Maia who had caused its fall.  The wizard smiled to himself, grimly.  Those huge, terrible wings of demonic flesh and smoldering shadow were of no use.  They made the Balrog seem bigger and more horrifying to its foes — and even to allies it wished to intimidate — but they were ill-suited for actual flight.  They could not even be used to control the demon's descent, which gave the wizard strange satisfaction.  How little Morgoth and his minions had truly understood the world they wished to conquer!  A peculiar thought flitted through his mind, wondering if this particular Valarauka had ever paid attention to the means by which flight was actually achieved in the physical world.  Probably not, for in the early ages of Arda, its strength had no doubt been greater, and it had had more of the power of the Ainur still at its command.  More than two full ages spent shackled to its monstrous flesh had no doubt sapped its strength so that it could no longer achieve flight in any way.

All this flashed in and out of the wizard's mind, ending with the bitter thought that now, he was in no better condition than his enemy — worse, for his was the flesh of a Man, not a demon of fire.  The searing heat of the Balrog's flame now fully enveloped him, and the pain of it was beginning to erode his efforts to keep it at bay.  With all his might, he focused on the matter of the whip binding him to the Balrog.  He could not pull himself free of it, not so long as he trailed above the creature, so instead he turned and twisted until his free hand was able to get a firm grip on the thongs about his knees. He was able to pull them away just enough to create a space into which he could slip the point of Glamdring.  A moment later, the ancient blade sliced through the thick bands of hide as easily as if cutting through thin air, and he was free.

For a blessed instant after their connection was severed, the gap between wizard and Balrog lengthened so that Olórin was no longer wrapped in its flame, but the reprieve passed all too briefly.  The Balrog roared in anger to see its whip now destroyed, and with its bellow, its fire flared all the more.  The Istar was once again enveloped by fire, as if the demon were determined to see him reduced to ash before they reached whatever bottom was inevitably below the span of Durin's Bridge.

The pain was intense and the stench of singed hair, smoldering wool, and burnt flesh even more so.  Olórin grit his teeth and kept his eyes tightly closed, wishing for some better protection against the Balrog's most deadly weapon, fire.  His right hand, which still clutched the sword-hilt, throbbed as if with liquid flame; when it did so again an instant later, he suddenly remembered Narya — the Ring of Fire.  It was powerful in many ways, not enough to defeat Sauron or any being with the strength of an Ainu — for that was not its purpose — but strong enough perhaps to provide him with some protection against his flaming foe.  He concentrated on the ring, envisioning its pure fire countering the dark flame of the Balrog.  A ripple of warmth radiated from it to cover all his skin, and he felt a lessening of the searing heart.  It was not enough to completely spare him the effects of his adversary's fire, but was enough to provide some temporary relief.  

Grateful for even that small reprieve, he opened his eyes, just in time to see the light of the red fire below him suddenly ripple out in all directions.  Olórin braced himself for another onslaught of heat and flame, only to realize an instant later that the ripple was one in truth and not in seeming, the light of the Balrog's flame reflecting off a huge basin of black water.  He did not even have time to wonder how far away it might be before the demon struck the surface, sending up huge gouts of steam and spray a split second before the wizard himself made contact.

Between the heat of the steam and speed with which they had been falling, the impact was painful.  The Balrog, much bigger and heavier than the wizard, plunged far deeper into the icy depths of the underground lake.  All around it, the waters boiled as the demon's fire was extinguished, but the iciness of the water returned swiftly.  With the fire doused, the only light was that of Glamdring, shining fiercely in the presence of its terrible enemy.  Though his eyesight was sharper than that of a Man, Olórin could not truly see the dark bulk of his foe; unfortunately, it could see him only too clearly, between having eyes long accustomed to the dark, and the veritable beacon of the bright blade.  It attacked just as the wizard broke the surface to gasp for air, and it was now a powerful thing of disgusting slime, more horrible for being a creature of darkest shadows, elusive and terrifying.  Its massive paws wrapped around the other Maia, the fingers like great snakes winding about a victim to crush it to death.  

Somehow, Olórin managed to keep his sword-arm free; despite the hampering water, he slashed at his foe.  The Balrog howled in pain and anger, reaching again for its prey only to have the blade of Gondolin hew it again.  Glamdring burned brighter each time it bit the Balrog's flesh, as if reveling in the chance to be used against one of the demons it had been forged to fight.  Their struggle continued far from any light of the world above to mark the long minutes — perhaps hours, perhaps days.  Ignoring the pain of his burns and other wounds, the wizard doggedly answered every attack with counterattack.  The cold of the water seared like fire, but as time passed, it became numbing, and thus allowed him to carry on the fight.  Finally, the Balrog attempted to withdraw, but Olórin pursued.  So long as he was able, he would not, could not allow this foe a chance to escape, to lick its wounds and eventually emerge in the outer world.

At last, the numbing cold of the water became more than either of them could bear.  The Balrog slithered out of the Istar's reach and lurched toward some dark and distant shore.  Olórin followed, just barely able to keep the demon in sight.  It hauled itself from the water not far from where the wizard reached land — rock, actually, black and cold but not so bitter as the icy lake.  In Glamdring's pale light, he could see the Balrog lying against the stone, for the moment unmoving.  It was not dead; Olórin was certain of that.  It was injured from their battle, but its breath was still strong, and the Istar could fairly feel the pounding of its heart through the fabric of the stone beneath them.  It was resting for a moment, catching its breath, marshaling its strength, preparing to strike again.

It was possibly the best chance Olórin would get to strike it down, ending their fight while it was recovering from exhaustion, but  he could not take it.  He was at least as weary as his foe, probably more so.  The running battle with the orcs and the need to use his power to seal the door to the Chamber of Records and to break the bridge had sapped his strength considerably.  Worse, he was already gravely injured by the long fall enveloped by the Balrog's fire.  It was a miracle that he was still alive, and as he took the brief respite to gather his own strength, he could already feel it failing him.

He closed his eyes, searching within him to see if it might be possible for him to overcome the limitations that had been imposed on him nearly two thousand years before.  He had a vague memory of being told that, when his mission was complete, he would be able to return to the West, lay down the shackles of mortal flesh, and regain all that he had once been.  The memories of his life before his arrival in Mithlond were dim, but he knew what he was, if not all he had been.  He was a Maia, and somewhere, the abilities of his heritage should still exist.

But the weight of his mortal body was too heavy, the ties to it too strong.  He was what he had been made to be for the purposes of his tasks here in mortal lands, and the means to unmake those burdens was denied him.  However this conflict ended, it would do so with him trapped in this prison of flesh, weakened, limited, restrained.  The cold stone pressing against his burned cheek scraped at the cracked skin, underscoring the tremendous disadvantage he now faced.  If his heat blasted eyes could have summoned enough moisture to do so, he would have wept.

Oh, Eru Ilúvatar! his entire mind and spirit cried out.   What am I to do?!

In the silence, the breathing of the Balrog deepened.  It would not be long, he knew, before it rose and resumed the fight.

Ignoring the pain in his body as best he could, Olórin's mind raced, considering all the options open to him.  Very soon, he understood that there was only one.

He would die.  His mortal shell, hardy though it had been fashioned to be, was no match for the beastly Balrog.  His mission as such was no longer important, for with his death, that mission would fail.  All that was left to him was to fight to his last breath, doing all that he could to bring down a foe who had no place in this world, in this age.  He had to try to defeat it, though the chance was slim, to at least buy enough time for the Company of the Ring to get as far away as possible — hopefully to the safety of Lothlórien, where they could warn Galadriel and Celeborn.  When the Balrog came forth, the Galadhrim would be prepared, and without the armies of Morgoth behind it, it would somehow be slain.  That was his only choice, to do all that he could so that even in his personal failure, others would be able to carry on.  He accepted this, and felt a strange peace wash through him.

He knew what he had to do.

Lord Eru, he whispered in that place within him that was ever closest to his Creator.  Father, hear my pledge.  I give into Your keeping all that is mine to give: what has been, was is, and what might be.  I surrender to my failure in hope for others to succeed.  All I ask is to use what strength has been allowed me as best I can, for as long as I am able.

The sensation of peace rippled through him once more, washing away any vestiges of fear.  What is is what must be, he told himself as he summoned the strength to push away from the stone and staggered to his feet.  Deep inside, he found the reserves of strength he needed, not in the magical might of a Maia, not even in the lifeblood that flowed through his veins.  He found it in his very existence, his own small flicker of the Flame Imperishable that gave him being.  He called upon it, knowing even as he did so that to expend it meant to expend his own existence, but having surrendered himself to the inevitable, he spent it gladly.  In Glamdring's pale light, he saw the Balrog stir, and did not wait to see what he already knew the beast might do next.  He attacked.

There was some grim satisfaction to be had in the fact that the wizard managed to strike the first blow, solidly.  Even though he had not the sheer physical power of the Balrog, his assault made it clear that he was not a foe to be easily dismissed.  The fallen Maia howled in pain and lashed out with one huge arm in an attempt to knock his enemy off his feet.  Despite his injuries and the hampering weight of his wet clothing, Olórin was still quick enough to avoid the blow, answering it with a deep slash to the thick-hided arm.  Hissing, the Balrog half-lifted itself from the stone to swing its no longer fiery whip.

But the thongs had already been shortened considerably when the wizard had sliced them away during their fall.  Now, Glamdring's keen edge cut through the remaining length so easily, the blade was not slowed in the slightest by the contact.  The sword again hewed at the demon, and the Balrog bellowed in frustration.  Weaponless, it reached out with its paws, hoping to wrap its mighty fingers around its opponent, to crush and strangle him, but Olórin continued to fight.  Glamdring was a blur of deadly light, hacking and piercing whatever it touched, striking the Balrog so often, the demon finally realized that it was at a serious disadvantage.  Faced with an unrelenting foe in this place of cold and wet, it had neither weapon nor fire nor even terror to use against his grimly determined opponent.  Enraged, it did the only thing it could: it fled.

Under any other circumstances, Olórin would have welcomed the turn of events, but he had already realized that he was nowhere near even the deepest delvings of the Dwarves.  While he had lain on the shore of the icy lake, he had been able to see something of the stone walls about him, and he knew that they had not been carved by the hands of any of the Eruhíni.  Even the cold water had had a foul feel to it, not unlike the pool from which the Watcher had spied upon the west gate of Moria.   Things for which he had no names lived in these deeps, born and bred to a life without the light of star or sun or moon.  He did not know if they were things of Morgoth's making, creatures he had twisted to evil form like the orcs and trolls, or things that had simply lived so long in the bowels of the earth, they no longer held any love for beings that walked the world above.  Truthfully, he did not wish to know.  All that mattered was that if the Balrog was fleeing, that it very likely knew something of this place and how to return from it to the Dwarf realm above.  Taking a deep breath, Olórin ran after his foe, unwilling to let it out of his sight.  If he did, he would likely become lost, while the Balrog could find some hole in which to hide, nurse its wounds, and eventually return to the upper world to wreak havoc.  He could not allow that to happen.

The wizard's suspicion concerning the origins of the tunnel down which the Balrog fled were confirmed as he continued the pursuit.  The floor was not smooth or even, as it would have been had it been hewn by two-legged beings who planned to use it as a path.  While the ridges and shallow pitting caused him to occasionally stumble, it was also an impediment to the Balrog.  When it had difficulties with the tunnel's uneven surface, it gave the smaller and more nimble Istar a chance to come at it from behind, the flashing Elven blade glad for any opportunity to pierce its ancient foe.  Each time, the Balrog either attempted to swat away its annoying adversary, or it did its best to put greater distance between them.  When the fallen Maia surged ahead, Olórin summoned more of his own strength of being to increase his speed so that the Balrog could not escape him.

The pursuit continued for what seemed an eternity.  From time to time as they raced through the twisted tunnels of the underworld, Olórin caught brief glimpses of things half-hidden in the shadows of connected caverns and cross-passages.  Even a momentary sight of the creatures sent chills up the wizard's already chilly spine, memories that were more primal feelings than images.  He might have known what they were, if his knowledge had not been so diminished by his incarnate life, and for once, he was glad of the limitations.  He hurried on, intent on his quarry, praying that his strength would last long enough so that he would not die here in this strange world beyond all light and memory.

After what felt like days of running, fighting, stumbling, only to rise and run again, their surroundings began to change.  The rough and convoluted tunnels gnawed in the deepest earth gave way to hewn passages, the tunnels of miners carefully digging into the rock in search of veins of precious metals and minerals.  These too were rough at first, but they were far better than the immense worm-holes through which they had come.  The Balrog was able to move more swiftly here, forcing Olórin to call upon his reserves of strength, further depleting them.  Periodically, they came to more open chambers were mine shafts crossed, and the Balrog would turn to attack its enemy.  After the first such attack surprised him, Olórin was prepared for others, and he never allowed his foe to gain that element again.  Whenever they encountered a widening of the shafts, he surged forward to bring the battle to the demon before it had a chance to strike first.  Glamdring remained just as keen and deadly no matter how often it struck, infuriating the Balrog.  The wizard did not know why the beast had not summoned back its powers of flame; it surely had been days since they had left the wettest regions of the underworld.  He did not care.  He was grateful for it, as his already seared flesh made every step and every move a stab of agony.  He did not think he could long endure another fiery assault.

Finally, the shafts became smoother and wider, connecting with others, twisting and turning in ways that the Istar could not follow.  The Balrog moved more swiftly here, for they had at last reached paths through the mines that it apparently knew very well indeed.  Olórin pressed on behind him, keeping him within sight and occasionally within reach of Glamdring's shining edge.   At last, the well-worn paths of the shafts became a long, dark passage that gave access to deep dungeons, and the passage took them to a broad, winding stair carved in solid rock.  Up and up it went, without break, a great spiral that pierced the stone that was the very spine of the mountain.  Even as he continued the pursuit, a name came to Olórin's mind: the Endless Stair.  He had heard of it, the great passage of thousands of steps which took one from the deepest depths of Moria to its highest peak, Durin's Tower atop Zirak-zigil.  The wizard wondered if he would have the strength to complete such a climb, and do it swiftly enough to keep the Balrog in sight.  Why his enemy had chosen this particular path he did not know, and he did not have the energy to ponder it.  He needed all he had to keep up the chase, and hopefully engage in battle when at last the climb was ended.  The Balrog must be stopped; nothing else mattered.

As he ran, Olórin felt the first flickers of despair.  The journey through the underworld and the abandoned mines had been long, and his struggles with the Balrog frequent, the pursuit unrelenting.  He had no real notion of how much time had passed in that realm beyond the reach of any light, but he was fairly certain it had been several days at least.  In his previous visit to the Dwarrowdelf, searching for Thráin, he had explored much of the Dwarf realm — enough to know that the distance from the dungeons to the summit was great, greater perhaps than he had the strength to manage.  He paused for a moment to catch his breath — a risk, but not too large a risk if they were indeed upon the Endless Stair and he did not stop for long.  Glamdring's blade continued to burn bright, assuring him that the Balrog was not moving too far ahead.  

As he breathed deeply, he rubbed Narya's great red stone with the palm of his left hand.  That flesh, at least, was not burned from the Balrog's fire, and the great ring's power warmed him in a very profound way.  He closed his eyes for a moment, and an image came to his mind of a beautiful land filled with trees and sweet grass and fragrant flowers, its waters cool and refreshing, glinting brightly under a sunny blue sky.  All around, there was music: the song of birds, of the wind, of voices speaking and laughing and singing.  It was a scene of pure joy that was more than a mere image in imagination.  It was a memory, a very precious memory, of a place he had not seen in two thousand years — his home.  He heard the singing, and a smile touched his cracked lips.  He had been seeking a source of renewed strength, and it had been with him all along.  He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and charged on up the stairs, still smiling.

But this time, he started to sing, anything that came to mind: beautiful Elven ballads, stern and haunting tunes of the Dwarves, bold and fierce songs of Men, light and cheerful and laughing ditties of the Shire.  He sang, his voice growing stronger as he pursued the Balrog, and the notes rang off the stone walls like great tolling bells in Valmar.  The sound pursued the fallen Maia as well, and it screamed in anger, trying to drown out the strains of joy and life and love with its tuneless, bestial bellows.  The music gave the wizard new vigor drawn from the depths of his own being, and he spent it with a strange and fiercely joyful determination.

After long hours of running and climbing up the steep spiral stairs, Olórin saw something he had not seen for many weary days:  sunlight.  They had reached Durin's Tower, an exit to the outer world that reached only as far as a narrow place beyond the door high above the lesser mountains and plains below.  Even as he followed the Balrog out into the blazing sunshine, the wizard caught the scent of his enemy's sulphurous stench.  A moment later, he felt the blistering heat as the Valarauka burst back into flame, turning to pounce now that its power of fire had been rekindled.

But Olórin did not flinch.  In his long pursuit, he had come to know that this final stand would be a fight from which there would be no retreat, no possibility of escape or even a minute's rest.  If he did not give his all to this battle, to doing what he could to cripple this demon, then he truly would have failed, not only in his mission but in his very beliefs and reasons for being.  He lunged at the Balrog, using Glamdring as one might wield a scythe or an axe, to cut down some poisoned and perilous growth that could not be suffered to live.  He continued to sing, drawing some added strength from the fact that the Balrog hated it.  When he could not recall any words to torment his adversary and warm his own heart, he sang without words, drawing the song from the deepest parts of his being.  It was his song, his Music, the notes that he had sung before Eru in the Timeless Halls, the Song that had given him his own life.  The sound of it was like the piercing of knives to the Balrog, who had long since forgotten its own Music.  

They fought, and the cold winds howled about them; they fought, and the clouds below rose up to blot out the sun and send down sheets of rain as frigid and harsh as needles of ice.  The Balrog used anything it could find as a weapon against its foe.  Rocks were hurled at the wizard, who managed to evade most of them.  It fell upon him as a wrestler might, trying to choke and beat and physically overwhelm him, which it did best with the scorching heat of its fiery body.  But again and again, Olórin managed to free himself, and Glamdring again reveled in slashing at its ancient foe.  

For three days, their battle continued, until at last the blade of Gondolin found the place on the Balrog's hideous body in which it was most vulnerable.  In its death throes, the Balrog sent forth all the flame and heat that it had at its command, but to no avail.  Olórin withdrew the sword, only to strike again, piercing the demon's throat and cutting down to its blackened heart.  The Istar put all his remaining strength into one last mighty push, and the Balrog stumbled backward, slid off the shining blade even as it slipped on the wet and icy rocks behind it.  It fell, plunging down the sharp fingers of stone thrust up from the mountainside, crushing many upon impact until finally, it met one great flinty spear that tore its broken body in two.  It howled its rage one last time, then lay still, silent.

Olórin looked down the precipice only long enough to be certain that the Balrog was truly dead.  When he felt reassured that its threat was ended, he staggered backward and fell to his knees.  He saw that the entrance to Durin's Tower was now destroyed, though he could not remember how it had happened.  But it did not matter.  The Balrog would never again trouble this world, and he had the satisfaction of knowing that at least in this, he had met with success.

He had no strength to do anything more.  Utterly spent and exhausted, battered and burned and in agony, he collapsed onto the stone ledge.  He somehow had managed to fall so that he lay upon his back; as he looked up to the clearing skies above him, he smiled.  “Thank you,” he whispered, and let go of his tenuous connection to life, to existence.

*********

At the time, he had not known if what followed had been the last imaginings of a dissolving spirit or reality; only in hindsight did he know that it had been real.  He found himself alone — so utterly alone that he knew he was in no physical place, nor in any place which other beings inhabited.  It was the Void in its truest sense.  

In his isolation, all he had was the company of his own thoughts, which suddenly became a procession of memories and images that encompassed his entire life, from the moment of his creation.  There was a startling clarity to it that frightened him, but he could not stop what was happening.  There could be no illusions here, no excuses, no denial or distortion of truth, no lies.  He knew all that he had done, for good or ill, and could see how it had affected others, also for good or ill.  It was terrifying, more terrifying than any trial he might have undergone.  His own judgment, unclouded in a way he had never known, was more adamant than Lord Námo when pronouncing Doom.  He knew that he had done much wrong — and yet, he also knew that he had done much that was right.  He went through this labyrinth of self-examination for what seemed a full age, but in time, he reached the center, and found there a single word:

Choose.

Choose?  Choose what?  Whether he should live or die?  Whether or not he should return to Aman?  Whether or not he should have fought the Balrog?  Whether or not he should have accepted the mission of the Istari?  Whether or not he should have submitted meekly to Curumo's leadership?  Whether or not he should have followed him into betrayal in hopes of finding his redemption?  Whether or not he should have insisted that Frodo not be made to carry the burden of the Ring, even though his heart told him that this was meant to be? Whether or not he should have even entered Eä, become a follower of Manwë, allowed his curiosity to lead him into occasional service to the other Valar?  Whether or not he deserved to continue to exist?

A massive wave of confusion engulfed Olórin, a chaos so profound that no escape was possible.  He felt as if his entire being was now a miasma of conflicting thoughts and emotions, causing him to become untethered from any mooring, even the sensation of being lost in the Void.  Perhaps he had chosen, then.  He was about to fly apart, and there would soon be nothing left of him, no thoughts, no memories, no life nor death nor existence....

“No, child.”

The voice was warm, as warm as the sudden sensation of a greater presence enfolding him, restoring him, pulling together his scattered thoughts and emotions.  He was so startled by this change in perception, he felt as if he wanted to cry out in terror — but in all that was happening to him, there was nothing to be feared.  He surrendered to it instead, and in that instant, the darkness vanished, to be replaced by pure Light.  He reveled in it, in the warmth and the joy and, above all, the limitless love.  The confusion was gone, replaced by wondrous peace.  He knew precisely where he was.

He was Home.

There was no physicality as such in the Timeless Halls, but as he had lived for so long within the confines of Eä, where so much was defined by the boundaries of substance and incarnation, his mind instinctively equated existence here in terms of the physical.  He felt the smile of the One Who had saved him from the Void, and was deeply grateful to once again know and behold the Love that had made him so directly, so intimately.

“To me, it has been but a flicker of a moment since last you were here, but I understand your feelings, little one.”  It was the same deep, infinitely caring voice that had called him back, and he knew it well.

“Father.”  The word was full of relief, for the Maia knew it was so.

The smile of the One brightened as he embraced the Istar.  “Yes, Olórin, and you are correct: you are home.  Let your mind and spirit be at ease.  Here, there is no time, and thus there is all you need.  Rest and be refreshed.  I will remain with you, and call you when I wish to speak with you again.”

The Maia smiled back, reflecting the great love that his Creator gave to him, and for a time that could not be measured, he closed his eyes and slept.

When he heard his voice spoken again, in gentle affection, it seemed to Olórin that no time had passed — for it had not, as his Home was beyond the effects of time, which was something wholly of the physical world.  But he no longer felt disoriented and exhausted; indeed, he felt refreshed and alive in a way that he had almost forgotten was possible.  This was existence as he had known it in his very beginnings, and it was magnificent in every way imaginable.  He opened his thoughts to awareness of things outside himself, and shivered in joy to sense the One smiling upon him once again.  “Yes, Father?” he said as he opened his nonphysical eyes, humble before his maker, but reveling in the wonder of simply being in His presence.

“Are you feeling better, now?”

It was a needless question, for Olórin well knew that there was nothing of which Eru was unaware, but the compassion and consideration He showed in the asking was in itself a gift.  “Oh, yes, much better, my Lord.  I knew that living as a Mortal Man was a great burden, but I had not realized how much my spirit had been wearied by simply living within Eä.  Does this afflict all of us who dwell there?”

“To differing degrees, yes.  Those who seldom incarnate feel it less, those whose tasks are light are little afflicted by it.  You and the others of your Order bore a heavy burden, partly because of the means by which it was decided you should carry out your mission, in true flesh.  None of your kind have ever been so sorely weighted by it, save for those like Melkor and Sauron who used incarnation as a means to attempt to gain dominion over Arda and all within it.”

A feeling of discomfort rippled through the Maia like a chill wind.  “Is what I experienced what happens to the Atani when their bodies die?  Would the other Istari experience what I did, if their bodies were slain?”

The One's smile grew sad.  “It is much like it, yes, at least for those Men who die and do not hear or heed the call to Mandos.  For true Mortals, the paths they follow afterward are different, for they are not my Children of Thought, as you are.  Two of your Order have indeed already passed beyond the part of the transition you experienced.”

Olórin knew he spoke of Alatar and Pallando.  He pondered this, and the sadness it caused the One.  Finally, he managed to form a question.  “Were they also asked to choose?”

“They were,” Eru confirmed.  “As you did, they saw all the days of their existence with clear eyes, were allowed to consider it without any lies or illusions, and they were offered the choice: to forgive themselves and accept the love for them that I offered, or to reject both.  I will not tell you how they chose, nor what became of them after.”

“I would not ask it,” Olórin admitted, for he truly did not wish to know.  The One did not punish mistakes, no matter how egregious and willful they might be, but all His children had the choice to accept or deny the consequences of their actions.  It was the inevitable burden of the gift of free will.  Something else weighed more heavily in his mind.  “But... I did not choose.  You asked me to do so, and I did not know what to do.”

Eru's laughter was bright and joyful, not at all mocking.  “I did not expect that you would, little one.  How could you?  The transition from life in hröa to what lies beyond for mortals was not for you to know.  It was not a Gift meant for your kind.  But when you became bound to a body in the way that Men are bound to theirs, I allowed some of their fate to become a part of your own, after a fashion, so that you might better understand my younger Children.  It resulted in many pains and sorrows and difficulties during your life in Middle-earth, but it also brought with it many pleasures and joys you would otherwise never have fully been able to experience or understand.  That knowledge is precious, especially for those of the Ainur who love my Children of Eä.  Would you not agree?”

“With all my heart, Father,” Olórin replied.  “I am honored to know that You were willing to share this with me, and the other Istari.”

The earlier sadness was now gone from the One's smile.  “For whatever reasons each of you held at the time, you took a tremendous risk.  I felt there should also be some gain to be had as well.”

The Maia saw His point.  “I expected no personal gain or reward for my work, but I thank You for the experience, Father, and the gift of understanding.  I took on the onus out of love for Your Children, nothing more.”

A sudden dimming of Eru's countenance caused Olórin to wonder if he had said something wrong, but the brightness returned quickly.  “I am pleased to hear you say that, child.  It is further proof of what I have always known, that you have a heart greater than many are willing or able to recognize, and you give your love unconditionally.  If you sensed displeasure from me, it was not directed toward you.  There are things concerning the embassy of the Istari of which you are unaware, and I will not tarnish your joy by telling you of them.  You will find out the truth when it is time; do not spoil these moments by hastening to learn of something that cannot change what has been, but might become a hindrance to you if discovered too soon.”

Olórin knew that the One always wanted what was best for him, and graciously submitted to His advice.  “Then I shall say nothing of it.”

“That is wise.  Now, it is time again to ask you to choose.”

The Maia blinked.  “My Lord, if I am to choose to forgive myself and accept Your love, I believe I have already done so.”

The One laughed again at the tenor of the Istar's remark.   “Very true!  I never had any doubt of what choice you would have made, had you not been so disoriented by the transition of death.  Your faithfulness has ever been unwavering, and had I simply asked if you would come, I know you would have flown to my side, full willing.  No, this is another choice, and one only you can make, for only to you is it offered: You have served me and the Powers of Arda well, better than they had hoped, and better than any other could have done.  For all you have accomplished and all you have suffered, you deserve great reward, and you shall choose what that reward shall be.  You may remain here with me in the Timeless Halls, be fully healed of all hurt and weariness, and enjoy a reunion with all your brethren here who have sorely missed you.  You were willing to give your very existence to spare any in Middle-earth from the threat and terror of the Balrog — a sacrifice that has never before been offered by one of the Ainur.  For that, you deserve a rest from your labors, of a degree that cannot be found within the physical world.”

This time, the Maia's eyes widened.   “Truly?”

Eru smiled upon him.   “Truly.  That is one choice.  The second would be for you to return to Aman, healed of all hurt, restored to your fullness of self and power as a Maia, so that you might fulfill the promise you made to remain within the circles of the world until its end.  The burden of guiding events in Middle-earth would no longer be yours; it would fall to others to find a means to bring about Sauron's defeat.  No one would hold it against you for making this choice, for they already know the tremendous weariness you have suffered; they would be loath to burden you with it again.  Finally, as a third choice, you may return to Middle-earth and attempt to complete your task as an Istar.  You would again be bound to a body of true flesh, but a new one of my making, one less fragile than before.  If at last you return to the West, your work complete, then you may shed it without loss to yourself, and resume your true life as a Maia.  But heed these warnings: there are hurts to your fëa that would not be fully healed if you select this path.  The Valar may not see them clearly, and it may be beyond their ability to fully understand and heal them.”

Olórin did not respond at first, taking time to consider all he had been told.  “Would these hurts make it more difficult for me to fulfill my tasks in Endorë?”

The One shook His head.  “No more so than before.  The greatest danger they will pose to you will come if you succeed and return to Aman.  There, that danger will serve a greater purpose, one that I deem is needed very badly for the benefit of the Valar.  If you choose to return to complete the mission that was interrupted by the Balrog, you will take with you the seeds of help for your own people — but they will not bear fruit without bringing pain to you.  I will not allow you to suffer forever, but the matter may not resolve until it has brought considerable grief to you.”

Olórin sighed.  “This would not be the first time.  Many of the Maiar of Arda who fought in the War of Wrath think that because the tasks which I had been appointed during the First Age were performed unseen, they were easy.  They were not.  Trying to support and encourage and inspire people who all too easily ignore what has been offered, and then choose instead actions that end in tragedy...!”  He shook his head.  “To see it happen once is painful.  To watch it happen again and again is agony.  If You believe that the pain of which You speak will help my people, then I trust that it will be worth it, in the end.  It will hurt more to know that You feel such a thing is necessary.”

“Which is why you will not know.  Memory can be a terrible burden, at times.  If you choose to return and take up your mission once again, I will place restraints upon your memories of what occurred after your death.  Some things you will remember easily; others will only come back to you when it is time.  This may trouble you, but it will be better than the kind of despair that can result from knowing too much, too soon.  It will also lessen the grief you might feel, knowing what you gave up for the opportunity of completing your tasks.”

This time, Olórin did not need to ponder things quite as deeply.  He nodded.  “You are kind, Father.  I do not think I could remain in here peace, knowing that my work was left unfinished and none of my fellow Istari will rise to complete it.  But it would indeed grieve me if I also remembered that I had been offered a chance to remain here with You, where my heart longs most to be.  I would not want to be unfit for my tasks because I was crippled by a longing for what I could no longer have.”

A great warmth surrounded him, the tender sensation of the One's loving embrace.  “Someday, all of you will be with me once again.  But I promise you, I will not suffer you to resume your burden without gratitude or reward.  If you decide to return thus, you will be protected from such grief until you are once again in Aman, freed from a life in true flesh.  I will then see to it that you are given a gift that will allow you to always carry with you a connection to the Timeless Halls, and to me.  That will be your reward for having freely given so much of yourself for the safety — and the love — of others.”

For what seemed a very long time, Olórin could not speak.  When he did, it was in an awed whisper.  “I — I am not worthy of such a gift, my Lord...!”

Eru disagreed.  “But you are, if for no other reason than I wish you to have it.  But there are many reasons, Olórin.  You have seen all of your life since your creation, with the clear and honest sight of self-judgment.  Can you now look upon what that sight revealed to you, and still insist that you are not worthy?”

After a moment that was an eternity, the Maia shook his head.  “No, Father.  I know what I have achieved.  I have not always done the best thing, nor the right thing.  I have made mistakes, and I have failed to do things I set out to do, but never did I willfully do wrong.  I have done the best I was able, always, and that is all that You have ever asked of us.  If I have done well enough so that You wish to reward me, then I am worthy of it.  But I do thank You.  To be given a second chance would have been reward enough.”

The One chuckled gently even as His smile broadened.  “Then am I to take it that you have already made your choice?  You will go back and attempt to complete the task that was given you rather than remain here in bliss with me, or in safety in Aman?”

The weight of the three possibilities suddenly pressed heavily upon the Maia, and the imminence of separation made the necessity to choose overwhelmingly sharp and bitter. He found himself weeping, his head bowed low.  “Oh, Father, I do not want to leave You !  But I made a promise to You, to remain in Arda until its end.  And I made another promise to Lord Manwë, to go to Middle-earth as his emissary and do all I could to guide Your Children so that they would be free from the tyranny of Sauron. If I stay here with You, I will break both promises — and more, I will turn my back on the promises I made to Your Children, to help them in their struggles against one of my own kind who would make slaves of them all.  If I remain here, I will suffer nonetheless, from the stinging guilt of knowing I could have chosen to do more, but refused out of selfishness.  What other choice can I make but to return to Endorë?”

Eru did not laugh, but the tenderness of His expression deepened.  “No one would call such a choice selfish, Olórin, certainly not I, nor will any of the Ainur, here or in Eä.  You have earned the right to remain with me in paradise.  But I am proud of you.  To return shows great courage; to want to return when it means giving up such a precious gift shows courage greater than any of your kindred would believe possible.  Many of them, even some of the greatest, would not make such a choice, uncoerced.”

“You did not coerce me, my Lord!” the Maia cried, wanting to make it plain that this had required no persuasion.

The One touched the Istar, a gentle caress of soft fingers upon his cheek, brushing away any vestiges of tears and restoring his spirit.  “Peace, my son, I know that full well.  I will not tell you what future lies before you, for you still have the freedom of will with which I made you.  But I know you, and I know that whatever path lies before you, you will continue to do as you have always done: your very best.  And thus you prove your worthiness, of any reward and any honor.”

Olórin felt faint chagrin at his outburst, but it passed quickly.  “Thank You,” he said softly, calmly.  “It would seem that I have chosen, then.  Will You send me back now?”

“Soon.  As we are beyond the circles of time, there is no need to hurry.  And I do not think I will send you back to the peak of Zirak-zigil.  There are many in Aman who have grieved from the moment they felt your fëa pass beyond their ability to perceive.  They are deeply concerned for you, and I suspect you would want to ease their minds before you resume your tasks.”

The Maia smiled sheepishly.  “You do know me well, Father.  Yes, I think that would be an excellent idea.  But if I return first to Aman, might it not take too long for me to return to Middle-earth, if I am to go there in true flesh once more?”

“It would,” Eru confirmed.  “So I will devise a swifter method to accomplish it.  When it is time for you to be sent, the Valar will know what to do.  I also think it would be wise for you to spend at least a few days in your home in Lórien, enjoying its rest and healing.  When I restrain your memories, I fear you will not enjoy it, and may require some time to come to terms with the condition.  It will not be too unpleasant, but it is preferable to the pangs of grief, as we have agreed.”

Olórin nodded.  “Yes, that would be best.  Will it take until the End until I remember the time I have spent here?”

The One shook his head.  “No.  The memories will not all come swiftly.  Some concerning your death will return within a few hours, others will not come back for several years.  But the time will come, and you will remember all that has happened to you, without sorrow or pain.  And when that time arrives, I have a message that I wish for you to deliver to Manwë.”

Olórin was mildly surprised — for of all the Ainur within Eä, Manwë was closest to the One, and spoke with Him most easily and most often — but he did not question the request.   “Anything, Father.”

“Tell him this: The one who arose in might has fallen, and in his falling broke a precious vessel, seemingly beyond repair.   That which was held within it was lost, and the emptiness of that loss could not be assuaged.  But behold, the time is come for the vessel to be fully restored, and the emptiness to be filled.  For even before all the Ainur were brought into being, that fall was foreseen, and the means to heal that which it most sorely wounded was fashioned.  The marring of Arda is not yet to be undone, but the time to heal the first wound wrought by the fallen has come, delivered not in might, but in humility.”

The Maia listened carefully, committing the message to memory; when Eru's voice stopped, he frowned, puzzled.  “There is nothing more?” he wondered, for it did not seem quite finished.

“Nothing more,” the One replied.  “Manwë will know the rest.  In his heart, he will know all of what is meant, and will understand.”

Olórin considered this, then smiled wistfully.  “Perhaps by then, I will understand it as well.”

Eru laughed softly, kindly.  “When at last you remember this time and this message, I assure you, you will understand it.”  He embraced the Maia, softly kissed him on the brow, and on the waves of bliss bestowed by His infinite love, Olórin was sent back to Aman.