Within the slope of the manicured hill which rose across the way sat a door – and not just any door. It was a round door, painted green with a golden knob in the center. Around it, in workings of stone and gold, ran a narrow frame which depicted scenes so familiar to him that he need not guess at what the figures represented. Well did he know this tale. Upon either side of the door was sunk a round window, and each was boxed with a riot of flowers far nearer to his mind and heart than any he had yet seen upon these shores – daffodils and hyacinths and bluebells and, scattered all throughout, the bright starburst of elanor.

Hardly had he taken in this incongruous scene when the door opened and a voice, warm and welcoming and amused, bid him enter. “Lord Celeborn! Lady. Please, our hole is yours.”

Frodo Baggins stood in the doorway.

Frodo Baggins. But how …

“Come, my Lord husband. Let us not stand gawping as though a mûmak itself had invited us to dine.” His wife’s voice, trembling with suppressed laughter, jolted him from his reverie. He cast her a quelling scowl which redoubled her mirth, then strode across the wide paved way. He dropped gracefully to one knee as he approached the doorway, reluctant to tower above his host during this most unexpected meeting.

“Well met, Ringbearer, and please forgive me. I fear I am not myself.”

“There is no need, my Lord.”  Frodo’s lips curled with gentle amusement, and the profound understanding he saw upon the Hobbit’s countenance put him immediately at ease. “Arrival upon Tol Eressëa is an overwhelming time. Even your lady wife,” and here the bright eyes twinkled, “required more time to adjust than she might perhaps admit.”

“Frodo Baggins,” his wife chided, sweeping around them toward the round doorway. “There is surely no need to tell tales.”

The Hobbit’s eyes lowered in plainly feigned submission. “Apologies, dear Lady.”

His wife’s friendship with the Ringbearer was obviously warm and longstanding. The thought cheered him, as did the thought of this little enclave of the Shire within the Undying Lands. He rose, bowing slightly to his host. “I thank you for your generous invitation. I am weary, as you see, but would not have missed this visit for an entire month of slumber.” He hesitated, then decided that the Hobbit would not take his next words amiss. “I admit that I had not expected to find you yet abiding upon these shores. I have been nearly two centuries in coming.” Frodo began to nod, but another voice just inside the doorway quelled any response the Ringbearer might have made.

“I wouldn’t never speak no word against the Valar – they’ve been that good to us – but they do like to muck about with people’s years, don’t they?” Samwise Gamgee Gardner appeared upon the stoop, shaking his head. “Not that I mind it too much, this is a grand place and no mistake, but they might ask first next time.”

He very nearly laughed in the face of the Ringbearer’s companion, so practical and welcome and patently absurd (next time?) were the words and tone. This, truly, he had feared to lose in a place filled with naught but divine and immortal beings. He had not spent so very many years in company with mortals, but in the time since his granddaughter had wed Elessar, he had come to appreciate much about their outlook.

“Samwise.” He had known this Hobbit far longer than Frodo, even if they had not often had opportunity to converse on a personal level, and offered now the nod of one friend to another. “I find I cannot regret the Valar’s generosity, as it has provided me an opportunity to meet with you both again here on the other side of our troubles.”

“And he does not regret it either, much as he grouses.” That voice, too, was familiar, though he could locate no wizard to match it. “Our dear Frodo needed the time, and Sam would not be parted from him now that they have been reunited, given the choice or no.”

Sam snorted toward the rock bed at one side of the entrance, where a blur and rush of color was beginning to stir, wrapping itself out and around and back together in a way that left the newcomer gaping anew. “Eavesdroppin’ again?”

The rushing colors solidified into the form of the white wizard, leaning against the bulk of the hill behind him. He had seen much throughout his long life, but he had not seen this. It was Mithrandir as he remembered, and yet … somehow not. The form before them appeared more raiment than solid flesh.

“A maia does not eavesdrop, Samwise Gamgee. Especially in a place without eaves.”

The Hobbit crossed his arms, grumbling. “You didn’t think much of that answer from me, if I remember right.”

The wizard (maia – though he had long known Mithrandir’s origins, knowing was utterly different than seeing the form of a Man build itself from the air before him) laughed suddenly. “I didn’t, did I?” Mithrandir pushed away from the hill, sketching a bow, and it seemed that his movements were easier than they had been for many long years in Middle-Earth. “Very well, Samwise. Your rebuke is well taken, though in my own defense I will protest that I have been here only a few scant minutes.” The ancient eyes turned then toward the newcomer, studying him with startling speed and depth. “Apologies, my Lord Celeborn. I have no wish to add to these days of initial confusion. I only wished to greet you and assure myself of your well-being.”

“Mithrandir.” He began to nod, then stopped himself. “Or …”

The white head shook firmly. “You need not fumble for some other name – Mithrandir and Gandalf belong to me as well, and they are sweet from the lips of those I call friend.”

Friend. He had known that his family would await him upon arrival, but he had not truly managed to think beyond that. The wizard’s – maia’s – concern touched him deeply. “Very well, and I thank you. It is good to see you, Mithrandir.”

And it was. Indeed, it was. His wife’s hand slid into his elbow, her touch encouraging and supporting.  Yes. Perhaps with such solid memories of his beloved homeland as these around him, the transition would not be quite so painful or long as he had feared.

Samwise was fading back into the hole. “Well, as long as you’re here, Gandalf, you may as well stay. There’s plenty enough for another. Come on through to the back, we’re set up in the garden.”

“I would not wish to intrude.”

Mithrandir was already halfway to the stoop. Frodo snickered.

“Nor would you wish to miss an old-fashioned Hobbit feast, I’ll wager.”

Mithrandir winked, and pulled a pipe out from somewhere in the folds of his robe – apparently, the wizard’s (maia’s) form was more solid than he had thought – and disappeared through the door. Frodo turned back to them.

“I know it’s one more, Lord Celeborn. Lady. I hope–”

“Think nothing of it, Ringbearer. Indeed, I am glad he showed himself.”

Frodo smiled, gesturing for them to enter. He gripped his wife’s hand, offered her a smile of genuine pleasure, and drew them both toward the round green door, comforted and cheered by the unique company which awaited them inside.