Once in a Fair Green Country….
III
Olórin thought about his plan for a long time, debating every aspect of it until he knew each intricate detail by heart, and still he did not feel entirely sure. The mechanics of it were no hardship for him. To take the form of one of the Firstborn would be no difficult feat for one of his race. A body was a raiment, that could be worn or discarded just as the Children wore silks and velvets. Only when one became too accustomed to such bodily form could it be a problem, and Olórin did not intend to stay ‘Elven’ for too long. Just for a moment, he told himself. Just to see how it would feel to speak with Irimien as one of her kin, as her equal perhaps. The idea of that precious moment stifled any doubts that lingered and helped Olórin ignore the uneasiness.
He crouched by the edge of one of the silvery pools beneath the trees of Lórien and poured over his reflection in the still waters. He did not look too different from his usual ‘physical’ manifestation, save that his ears now tapered subtly to a point, and his features were a little more polished than usual, a little narrower perhaps. He had tried to model himself on some of the ellyn he had seen over the years, to pick out the qualities he had admired most in them; recreating, for example, Fëanor’s dark hair. Strange how a change of hair colour could alter him, he mused.
And then for the first time he wondered if his appearance was pleasing, though he had no idea why that should worry him. All beings were beautiful in their own way, and were filled with the love of Eru, with some small portion of His Light, so it should not matter what, specifically, he looked like. Yet it concerned him. Perhaps, he thought, he would learn more from this short conversation than he had anticipated. It seemed as if his being was erupting with new sensations and thoughts he had not experienced before in all his long years. And it had all started with the sight of her.
Choosing to appear in clothing that felt suitable for an ellon of Tirion, Olórin took one final moment to inspect himself in the pool. Then when he was certain he could create a believable elven form, he let this new body dissolve again, so that he might travel to Tirion quickly and unseen.
~*~
It took an eternity to find a quiet enough corner to take form. Nowhere seemed quite out of sight, and each time Olórin settled, steeling himself to make the transformation, one of the Elves inevitably would walk by, or the flurry of voices on the wind would startle him out of the endeavour. Even when he came to the most isolated and solitary place upon the hill, the gardens at Finwë’s hall that had been Miriel’s favourite, where none had walked since her spirit departed, he could find no peace. He had barely breathed out the last of his reservations when Fëanor appeared in the rose-swathed gateway, his fine features contorted as he held back all manner of emotions. Olórin would generally have paused and observed the young prince, but despite himself, Olórin felt irritated and quickly fled. Why and how often the prince visited his mother’s gardens would have to remain a mystery until Olórin had finished this self-appointed task.
But finally he found an empty pavilion amongst the trees, where the light fell in dappled pools upon the faded flagstones, and there, after pausing for a long while, he gathered up the courage to change. None disturbed him this time, and with a sigh no louder than a whisper, he stepped out of the pavilion onto the sweet, damp grass with his long robes slipping coolly past his newly formed limbs.
He watched the other Elves as he passed through the gardens, and paid attention to their eyes, waiting for some flicker of confusion or intrigue, but most merely smiled if they acknowledged him at all. At first he felt like the Great Trees against the black night sky, so bright and so contrasting that none could fail to miss him, but soon the feeling dissipated. No one treated him strangely. No one even seemed to notice him much, other than to glance at his face with a look that said ‘oh, I do not know you’. It suddenly occurred to him though that he might need some story to explain his being there.
Despite his uneasiness, Olórin’s mind still worked quickly and reliably. He would tell them he was of the Teleri, he decided, of Alqualondë, here to see the city and visit his distant kin. He disliked the idea of speaking untrue words, however, and so decided not to resort to this story unless it was absolutely necessary.
He searched around the gardens for a long while, not noticing the changing of the light above him, for he was intent solely on finding Irimien. He thought of nothing but the moment when she would see him. Of course, she would not know who he was or that he had watched her in secret. She would not know that she enthralled him. He could not explain it to her either, for he still did not understand it himself. But to speak with her…what would that be like? he wondered again and again. To hear her laughter intermingled with the sounds of his voice, like two melodies dancing and intertwining in a song.
In fact, Olórin thought on this so intensely that he did not notice Irimien ahead of him, walking slowly and distractedly his way, until at last they collided. They walked into each other without much force and roused one another from their reverie.
"Forgive me," said Irimien, smiling. "I was not watching my path."
She nodded then passed him, falling back into her pensive mood as she went on her way.
The moment passed in the blink of an eye and Olórin was left standing on the path, staring into the flowers while he fought to order his thoughts. Only after a second did he realise she was headed away from him and that his opportunity was slipping by, like sand through his fingers. He turned quickly and watched her walk off for a moment before he hurried after her, reaching out to touch her arm and attract her attention.
Only as she paused and came to face him, he realised he did not know what to say.
"Is something wrong?" Irimien asked him, her eyes scanning his face, trying to fathom who he was.
Olórin stared. "No," he replied. How could he explain what he really wanted, and not overwhelm the elleth? How could he explain to her that he could think of nothing else but her smile, when he did not know why this was the case? What if they thought him strange or corrupted like the ones who followed Melkor? What if they thought he had lost his way like them?
"Then," Irimien went on, stepping back from this strange ‘ellon’ very slowly and cautiously, "what can I do for you?"
"I do not know," replied Olórin candidly.
"Are you lost?"
He shook his head quickly. "No, I am not lost. Irimien…"
"You know my name?" she asked, cocking her head to one side. As she grew concerned and confused, Olórin watched her smile fade. This was not how he had wanted their meeting to progress. It was a foolish thing to say. How could he explain how he came to know her?
"Yet I have not seen you before," Irimien continued. "Have we met before?"
"Not as such," he replied. "Forgive me…"
Irimien drew in a slow breath, then buried her hands in the sleeves of her robes.
"Good day," she said with a smile tainted with bemusement. She left him there, glancing over her shoulder a few times as if to check he was not following, still frowning as she tried to remember who he was. She was soon gone, and Olórin, without caring if anyone saw, let his physical form dissipate.
~*~
Elrond glanced towards the doorway at the sound of footsteps outside. Two of the dwarves wandered past, groaning slightly as they moved, or perhaps they were trying to sing. Whatever noise they were trying to create, they soon disappeared again along the corridor and the study fell quiet once more. Elrond turned his attention back to Gandalf, noticing though how heavy his eyes felt, and how many empty wine bottles now sat on the desk.
"Irimien?" he said, echoing Gandalf. "That name would make me think either of Númenor, or of one of the High Elves."
"Indeed," mused Gandalf, revealing nothing more.
"I know so little of you," Elrond went on. "I could not even guess at your history. If you say nothing more, I cannot work out for myself what happened."
Gandalf sighed deeply, and this time the wizard reached over to pour more wine. "Some things occur so long ago that they seem more like a dream than a memory. Soon it becomes hard to tell if she was real, or just some figment of my imagination."
"Since you are being evasive," muttered Elrond, sitting back in his chair, "then she must have touched your heart."
"She did," Gandalf admitted, nodding. "She did indeed. Though many people touch our hearts each day, and doubtless we do the same in turn. The trick is to find someone whom you can affect in equal proportion. And that is often the stumbling block of many a lover’s tale."