|
characters belong to JRR Tolkien. This fan fiction is for entertainment only; there is no profit involved.
2. The Roaring of Bliss
Wings to Taniquetil
The days passed at a crawl. As slowly as a crippled woman crossing a wide desert plain with no hope of any other course. Minas Tirith remained the same as ever; busy and bustling with trade and gossip and quarrels and lovers. Only the King’s House felt the slow turn of hours and the days crawled to four, then to seven, then twelve. The Queen did not lament nor weep when the archer turned at the balcony, his gaze distant and stricken on the thirteenth sunrise. “They have left the shoreline,” he said and took her hand. “The ship is white and the sail bright in sun. The gulls call and dive. The quay is filled with sad hearts, watching.” Arwen did not ask if her Father sent one last message to her. All things had been said. Aragorn did not ask if his foster Father had spoken one last word to him. All things had been accepted. He took Arwen into his arms and simply held her without speaking. It was 3021 of the Third Age, the 8th day of Narqueilë. The day was slower than all previous days. “Send word to all the lands, from north to south. Today marks the closure of the Third Age,” declared King Elessar. “Tomorrow begins the Fourth Age of Middle Earth.” The Queen did not weep, however. There were no moments of complete grief that laid her low, though both Aragorn and Legolas were prepared for such. In a way, it was a greater hardship enduring the silent ache that lingered in the corners of her eyes. She was stronger than Aragorn expected, yet that quiet sorrow broke him in every corner. It was the King who crept away to a silent place and cried for loss and memory. Legolas found him and put his brow against his friend’s in comprehension. His grip around Aragorn’s head was merciless in shared sorrow and not once did the archer attempt to allay any of the King’s tears. Aragorn had lost a father. And beyond that, he had lost the uncanny friendship of Gandalf. He was just as torn as Arwen. So the archer bore the weight of their grief having been himself spared. He carried it carefully, tended them faithfully, for such was the foundation of love. He was strong and he endured and every morning he lifted his face to sunlight and kept the days for them, for one bled into the other without regard or purpose. But on the seventh day after the ship sailed, Aragorn raised his face in eventide and remembered the words of the wizard. He went to the King’s Fountain, where the Eldest of Trees grew gloriously and dismissed all of the guards. The sky was cloudless and so still was the pool that every star lodged in the heavens glimmered a twin atop the water. “I am here,” he said to the silent surface. He searched with his eyes until finding the single white stone against the grey and black of others. “I am here.” Then he could not see, for his eyes watered and spilled over. But something strange occurred with the clearing of his gaze, for an odd mist gradually formed upon the top of the still water. It arose very slowly, mere wisps of white that gradually became more opaque until the entire surface held a second layer and all the stars shown through the added dimension. It was a curious thing to appear when the air temperature had not dropped and the King studied the vapor, puzzled. His eyes deceived him, for inside the mist and stars, he saw the profile of a man’s head. It was unclear and shifted with the mystifying vapor and he blinked several times to clear his sight … but the vision remained. Aragorn stared, wondering, studying the vague profile he was given and determined quickly that he did not know this mysterious person represented in the Fountain of the White Tree. And then the stranger turned his head and looked directly at him. “This cannot be,” whispered Aragorn to himself. “I have been in sorrow and my mind tricks me.” Still, this extraordinary outsider gazed upon him, unsmiling. His face was not hobbit-kind, nor Elven, though there was a strange beauty to the width of his face, the angle of his cheekbones, and the strength along his jaw line. His eyes were sky blue even in darkness, the color of brilliant dawns over endless horizons, with a sense of purpose and authority that unconsciously bade men to follow. He may as well have been a commander in some distance kingdom, for the seriousness of his regard. And Aragorn found he could not look away from the eyes that held his, so clear, so intent, and so direct. And then his supernatural visitor made an infinitesimal movement and his eyebrows quirked along with the corner of his mouth—something so simple and so familiar that the King leaned, astonished, and stared more closely. If the face had been different in shape, in age, in everything, Aragorn could have sworn he was looking at the old wizard, Gandalf the White. “Gandalf?” he said, startled into speaking. The echo of that selfsame smile answered him, but more enlightening, the stranger reached beyond the perspective and then into Aragorn’s line of sight passed the white shaft of the Great Staff and the visitor in his pool leaned against it. The familiar apex of that wand made every uncertainty flee. “Oh!” said the King and he reached without thought to touch him, found his fingers in the water and the vision swirled away. He was crestfallen and halted his futile gesture. It took many minutes for the vapor to settle again … and then the misty picture returned, albeit less clear than before. “Gandalf? Can it really be you?” The wizard nodded without speaking and Aragorn sat down, hard, on the flagstone edge of the pool and simply gazed at him. It became readily apparent that Gandalf could not speak to him, for he did not attempt a single word. He merely looked back into the King’s face and said nothing. His gaze soothed despite the unfamiliarity of his face. His hair was not quite white anymore, though Aragorn found it hard to describe in the waxing and waning image in the pool. Within minutes, the King realized that his friend could not hold his likeness long. The faint look of strain in Gandalf’s eyes was familiar and Aragorn laughed when he saw it, though there was nothing humorous in it. He wiped his eyes and touched the tips of his fingers to his brow—a gesture of respect and love. Gandalf smiled and nodded very slightly. The edges of his face were fading into mist, though the candor of his eyes remained vivid. “Will I see you again?” asked the King. “If I come tomorrow, will you be here?” The vapor swirled and the image vanished completely … but not before Aragorn saw his friend nod assent. He sat gazing into the fountain for another hour, but no vision returned. He would have felt more crestfallen had it not been for the silver throughout his mind, for even a glimpse had soothed his sore heart. He took the steps back to the King’s Room two at a time, but halted at the threshold and considered. “What would my words sound like?” he said sadly. “A sorrowful Man, weighted by the Kingship, seeing things that are not there in his fountain?” And though he knew that of all people in the Guarded City that would believe him, Legolas and Arwen would be the chieftains, still he held his tongue. Gandalf had asked only him to come to the fountain and thus the King spoke nothing of what he had seen amidst stars and water and fog though he longed to share this treasure with his Beloved and his true companion. The next night it was the same, though Aragorn found himself unable to stay away from the fountain even as early as the sunset. He sighed and willed himself to be patient. This time the image of Gandalf was slightly clearer and it was obvious that his features had changed even more from the previous night. His hair was slowly darkening and the lines were fading throughout his countenance. Even the snowy beard was no more and that was the most astonishing of all. “Your eyes remain the same,” said Aragorn to the pool. “You told it to Arwen in my hearing.” He spoke clearly and slowly, for he intuited that the wizard was reading his lips to understand. Gandalf smiled and that was answer enough. Beyond his head, the sky was full of stars and their pattern was unfamiliar. For six nights, Aragorn lingered at the fountain alone and the apparition grew clearer with each successive night. Sometimes he could see his friend for only a few minutes and he had the sense that the wizard was busy guiding the vessel on its way. Other times, Gandalf merely rested against the railing of the boat and the King could sit for nearly a full moonturn in this odd companionship. The visage of Gandalf transformed steadily around his pale eyes and his garments chafed him, for his shoulders changed and the depth of his chest altered. The proud alabaster cloak did not reach the ground anymore. He was vexed by his boots and eventually cast them aside and went barefoot. He was growing young. Aragorn drank in the sight of him as eagerly as his steed drank in rain-touched winds. To all this wonder, Aragorn was privy, but on the seventh night, the King could not refrain and he brought Arwen and Legolas to the Fountain of the White Tree. “Watch the pool,” said the King and he offered nothing more, for though his mind was convinced, he wanted their opinion unfettered by his own. “Tell me what you see in the mist.” The sky of stars did not dim the luminosity of the vapor, nor did the gleam of the moon as it rose this night. And when a night bird chirruped as it coasted past, neither Elf looked aside, for the uncanny mist rolled back and revealed a tall man with broad shoulders framed by stars of his own. His brow was smooth and unfettered by crown or cap and his gaze was full of power and wisdom. His dark hair was fastened back from a regal and imposing beauty, a splendor much akin to the Firstborn only distilled into a stronger essence. Magnificence strained through his skin as if barely contained and his eyes were blue within blue looking back at them, full of story and light and untold pilgrimages. “That is Mithrandir,” whispered Legolas, for he saw the Great Staff in his hand. “Nay,” said Arwen Undómiel, for she recognized the otherworldliness of the person they gazed upon and called to mind every description of her Grandmother. “No longer completely Mithrandir, but also the Maia, Olórin. He is shedding the cloak and garment of an old man and becoming his true self.” “How can this be?” asked the archer and he reached for the pool the selfsame way as Aragorn once had, but the King intercepted his hand. “He cannot hold the vision if you disturb the water. It has grown clearer and stronger each night, though he does not speak. If you talk to him, do so slowly or he cannot discern your words.” “Arwen does not deceive. He is not quite Olórin yet,” said the archer. Delight was a thousand smiles in his voice. “He has tucked me inside his fëa before, to raise and succor me, and it is more brilliant than what we see now, casting out all shadows in unlimited light. He will be lightning wrapped in flesh when he is remade.” Arwen spoke directly and folded her hands across her breasts in a devoted gesture. “Mellon-nîn, Olórin.” He did not answer, but bowed his head fully and the King called to mind Gandalf’s common benediction in regard to Arwen. A pang smote him, for he would never see the wizard bow and kiss her palms again nor see her hair a tumble over his grey in her own answer. “Gandalf,” he said and could not stop the tears that fell. “I believe I miss you the most, though it has been hard to know until now.” The archer settled a strong and steady hand upon Aragorn’s shoulder and the King sank to sit upon the circling stones of the fountain. “Frodo?” asked Legolas, over pronouncing the name. “How is Frodo?” Gandalf closed his eyes and the perspective veered dizzyingly. They blinked to get oriented, realized they were looking down into darkness. The stars had vanished. But then the Great Staff threw its ghostly light more widely and there, sprawled carelessly upon the wooden planking, lay Frodo Baggins sound asleep. His hair was a mop of unruly curls and his shirt and jerkin partially open as if the weather was hot. He lay right between Gandalf’s feet, for the edge of the white cloak was in their sight and they saw the wizard’s hands, each finger slender and strong, reach and turn the little hobbit gently. Frodo murmured sleepily, but did not wake and his face was beautiful as a child’s. How their hearts yearned to see him open his eyes, but he slumbered on unaware of their longing. From beneath his cream-colored shirt, a slender chain spiraled out and something glittered at the apex. “What is that?” suddenly asked the King. A terrible fear smote him upon seeing the chain about Frodo’s neck. “What hangs upon that chain he wears?” As if hearing Aragorn’s horror, Gandalf turned the chain and spilled the tokens into the palm of his hand and therein they glittered: blue and red and crystal, golden and brilliant silver. “Ahh,” said Arwen, understanding. “He is wearing the Three Rings, though I do not know why. Their power is naught since the One Ring was destroyed.” “Perhaps they only comfort him, for Gandalf said that healing would be found in the Undying Lands,” said Aragorn. Gandalf scooped Frodo into his lap with little effort and gathered him against a shoulder. So peaceful was the hobbit that he barely stirred; he murmured something softly and nestled his head into the crook of the Maia’s shoulder. He did not fuss when the wizard pulled back his shirt and where once Aragorn had tended a fearful wound, there was naught a mark to be seen. “Ahh,” said the King and his joy was restored. A moment later the mist swirled and erased every sight. And though they lingered, the vapor failed, then dispersed, and the pool remained as it ever had: still and calm and dark with only the reflection of stars overhead looking back at them. “Tomorrow,” said Aragorn, but then he added warningly, “but though we long to see all things, we must be careful in our choosing, for Gandalf has not the strength for what he does. We must not demand of him what he cannot give.” “Better to see him for a moonturn than to waste his strength looking about and see only a moment,” agreed Arwen. Her voice was brighter than they had heard for days. “What an unexpected happiness this is.” The next night, there was no mist upon the reflection pool of the fountain. The companions waited and wondered until Arwen turned back to the King’s room, discerning that Aldarian had awakened unexpectedly and his nurse could not comfort him. But the following night, the fountain clouded and they watched avidly and then worriedly, for the vision they received was the view over a pitching deck railing towards a boiling sea. It was all the more frightening for being completely soundless, though they could see Gandalf’s left hand extended urgently over the churning water. The mage light of the staff was swallowed into black waves as the Maia fought the storm. “Go!” said Aragorn. “Heed us not!” and he waved away the fog of the fountain. This time, the three companions did not linger at the Fountain of the White tree for four days. Verily, they watched from a distance just to see if the wizard would summon them himself, but the water of the reflecting pool remained as it ever had. But Aragorn and Arwen found their grief a lesser burden for the glimpses they had been given; of Frodo sleeping peacefully and the Istari transforming into the powerful being he truly was. Their hearts were comforted despite loss for they knew happiness would return as a wren returns to the familiar hollow of an oak in the spring. Everything revealed within the Fountain of the White Tree became clear when the White Ship found the straight road and left the circle of the World, for it passed from the boundary of Arda into the powerful domain of the Valar and all that hindered was lifted. To their ears came the sound of waves lapping wood, the creak of the mast as it turned, and the barest flap of heavy sail. The sea billowed around the prow in a great white arc, so quickly did the White Ship fly beneath a sky of pure blue. The day had dawned while it was still darkness in Minas Tirith. The three watchers of the pool stared in astonishment, all their senses alive to the scene. But though one spoke, none to whom they spoke seemed to hear, as if the price to be paid for the fullness of vision was that they themselves ceased to be discerned … and none of their hearts chided this fact. Thus it was that Galadriel, with her golden hair unbound in a swift sea breeze, was as real and true as standing before them when she stepped from below onto the deck of the ship. Her gown of soft yellow was encircled with a net of golden threads that threw glitter as the sun caught it. She was barefoot and noiseless, her wise eyes tranquil, and in her right hand she carried a parcel wrapped in oiled paper to keep it dry. And the last of the High-elven Kings, Elrond, was just as potent a vision in his hues of soft brown and blue as he stepped forth from the cabin below. His face was stern and calm and he carried a small wooden box in both hands. He alone wore his crown and it burned upon his brow when the sun touched it and Arwen folded her hands upon her throat to see him. Bilbo Baggins, with a wedge of cheese in one hand and a tin cup in the other, appeared. His shirt was in order, but his vest was buttoned crookedly and speckled with a few crumbs. An end crust of bread was stuffed partway in a pocket. The wind made his grey hair fly and his eyes were jolly. Frodo was with him, bright with life and laughing, scrambling across coiled rope and tack. There was a smudge of dirt above one eye and a knee torn upon his short breeches. Yet the health shining so sweetly through him made everything that glimmered fade before delight and the Elves lifted the small folk atop the low cabin roof where they perched with their bare feet swinging like mischievous children. The Elves waited where they stood, wrapped in the still and tranquil peace that is the foundation of all Firstborn, and these two the finest representation of the Eldar. And the hobbits, one munching happily and one fidgeting, caught their sense of stateliness and they calmed respectfully, as if some event was at hand. No gull called above the flying water. No creature leapt in the rushing sea. The sunlight streamed sidelong and the deck of the ship was radiant white, without a single nail marking how the planks were fastened; a master ship built by a Master Shipwright. Then a third person swept around the turn of the prow and though he was clothed in the garb of Gandalf the White, he bore little likeness to the Istari they knew and loved. For now he donned his true image, created in him before the founding of the World. Olórin, he had become, the Maia spirit who dwelled in Aman, and from his dark hair to the sure tread of his bare feet, his was a fierce and compelling beauty. Glory crowned his brow and the very bones of his face reflected the touch of Ilúvatar’s singular craftsmanship. The mantle of divinity rested upon his shoulders and the instinct to give homage, to kneel and expose the back of the neck, rose and overwhelmed them. The Elves did not resist such compulsion, though Olórin frowned slightly when they bowed. And the King and his companions did not resist either, though their worship went unseen. Then Lord Elrond placed his hands upon the Maia and swift were his fingers upon the ties of first the ill-fitting cloak, then the shirt. He had both garments off before Olórin halted him with a grip that could not be broken. The Elf Lord was unable to meet the grandeur of the gaze that weighed upon him; he stared instead at the sunlight that touched the bare skin before his face and listened to it sigh gently. “Permit me?” asked Elrond softly. “As your friend, your ally, as a Keeper … permit me this duty.” And Olórin let him go, though the tranquility of his face was troubled. He said naught as Elrond stripped him of every garment, including kneeling to slide off his breeches. At the last, standing eye to eye, Elrond reached and unbound Olórin’s hair and it fell loose and streaming about his shoulders, full of its own reckless beauty. Naked, Olórin stood upon the white deck and his splendor was a weight in the mind, which struggled to hold him whole and entire. To touch him was beyond comprehension and holiness swept across the deck as palpable as any wave. Every eye worshiped, as if a fragment of the heavens had fallen and alit upon the humble deck, and Frodo wept softly, overcome, for this was the magnificence of the Creator in flesh before him. “Maiar translates as ‘the beautiful’,” eventually said Galadriel. Her voice was the sound of crystal bells. “The Earth could not bear your grandeur; this I remember from the Blessed Realm. The Elder King was wise to send you shapeless and broken, though the quick flame of the love in your heart still found its way through your disguise.” Olórin did not answer her, for he perceived Frodo’s tears and, stretching forth his left arm, he called a word into the rush of wind. The power of it drew the hobbit’s gaze and all looked to see three great sleek creatures leap from the sea in answer. They landed with a slap of salty spray, disappeared, and then leaped once more, frolicking beside the rushing ship in a playful race. Frodo’s tears ended in surprised laughter, but sunlight was a shadow compared to Olórin’s smile toward him. Then Galadriel drew forth a set of garments from the wrapping she held. They spilled out across her hands in hues of cream and deep blue. Every edge was lined with silver cording that flashed like a sword edge. From the very bottom, she produced a pair of soft boots without a single tie or seam upon them. Elrond girded the Maiar as if he were simply a King’s battle page about his duty and Olórin smiled as each garment was applied. Galadriel had remembered well the stature, the depth of chest, and the breadth of shoulder of Olórin, the Maia. The blue cloak with its mantle of soft ermine swept just clear of the ground. Galadriel searched the pockets of the discarded white cape until she found the silver scarf that Gandalf had always carried with him. She held it trailing aloft from her fingers and the wind untied each knot and smoothed every crease until it waved like a freshly pressed banner. Elrond hung it about Olórin’s neck and regarded him solemnly. His eyes bowed even if he did not. Then he reached and took up the small box of unadorned wood and opened it. Olórin started when he saw the contents. Wonder and joy and some tragic grief marched through his expression. “The Rings. How did you find the Rings?” he said, and he put the long fingers of his hands across his eyes as if he was pained. “Cirdan found one on the ship that brought you to Middle Earth … then another caught in the rudder housing. He drew the ship onto the dry land and dismantled the entire boat, every board, to be sure he had found them all. He sent them North to me and I have protected them the thousands of years to this day,” said Elrond gently. “He wondered why you discarded them.” “I did not discard them. As my hands changed, the Seven hurt me and I took them off,” said Olórin. His eyes glittered and if a tear had fallen, it would have sundered everyone who stood witness, so potent was his face. “I did not drop them deliberately … yet I abandoned them all in the pain of the voyage.” But when Galadriel lifted the first ring and it winked silver in the sight of all, Olórin held up his hand in refusal. “I can no longer bear those Rings. They represent a perfection I no longer have. My sojourn and trials have changed me in every weft and weave; the Seven cannot abide my fëa now, for I am not the same,” Olórin said sadly. “I am a broken creation.” Then Galadriel spoke and her voice held the authority granted by her years and travail. “It is not up to us to judge your worthiness to bear the Seven, nor are you granted the right to disavow what was bestowed by the High King. He judges the heart and soul and mind and only He may find you undeserving. You will return as you were sent; in the raiment of your station and wearing the honor of your labor.” Olórin spoke no more. And she who had come in the beginning of the Ages took up each ring in its proper order, and spoke its character, each to its own. Some slid all the way to his hand, others but past the first joint, where they held fast as if recognizing their true place. And Olórin submitted and lifted each finger to accept the proper ring, though his emotions stretched in his face and with three of the rings, his fingers trembled when they received them. “Valaina, for from the very first breath, you belonged to the Valar,” said Galadriel. “Arandur, set with the Sapphire of Heaven, for you desired to serve Manwë Súlimo instead of his elder brother Melkor, for you perceived the holiness of his soul and chose to serve purity over power. Ñóla, the First of four Rings of Honor, when you surpassed the wisdom of all the Maiar of Aman. Handë, the Second, the Circle of Knowledge, crafted by Aulë alone when you gave your entire mind to the Counsel during the imprisoning of Melkor. Eldameldo, the Elf-Lover, for your care and mindfulness of the Eldar. Faila, the Third, for your generosity when you petitioned for compassion towards the prodigal sons who forsook the Undying Lands in their pride. And Tiutalë, the Fourth Ring of Honor, the band of consolation and comfort, which you earned at the feet of Nienna, the Lady of Mercy.” Then Olórin turned his hands in the sight of all and held them open as if to catch the sky and brilliance glinted across his fingers as each silver ring smote the sunlight back. For one glorious instant, the full mantle of his status rested upon him and the blue and cream garments merely accented the majesty of his person. A glimpse of sacred Aman standing amidst a fragile ship on the sea. The love of the Gods with tousled hair. Elrond bowed, because he could not refuse what his soul understood. And Galadriel bowed, because she would give honor. And Aragorn and Arwen and Legolas bowed, out of homage and awe and a deep sense of reverence to what they had witnessed. And with his face downcast, Aragorn wondered if beauty such as Olórin’s descended to draw away the souls when they died. Of a surety, he could gaze upon his friend and no fear could overtake him, though his death be desperate and full of terrors at the end. Then Olórin spoke with a great and formidable voice, a swift swirl of words that took every sound from the sky as they fell. “Nothing by my might, or for my name or glory—but for you, Lord of the Breath of Arda. Násië.” The aura of worship was dispelled a moment later, for he who had once been Gandalf took the Great Staff in his right hand and caught Frodo Baggins up upon his hip and shouted a word and the white ship sprang forward more eagerly, as a hound to the scent. If the Maia had not moved the little hobbit, the flash of the first wave would have wetted him thoroughly. And Frodo clung like a burr, laughing wildly, his riot of curls mingling with Olórin’s own dark brown locks. So it was revealed that the Maia, Olórin, was not a divine being incapable of being touched, or handled. He kept himself not apart from the lesser creations, for he loved them and would comfort them. They faced forward together into sea spray, Frodo searching the horizon and smiling, and Olórin, navigating with the White Staff a beacon of shimmering light.
2. The Roaring of Bliss
The White Ship passed the isle of Tol Eressëa and reached the shimmer sands of Aman within two days. Tall and beautiful, the Vanyar and Teleri and what remained of the Noldor, stood in a throng to greet them and their voices sang sweetly upon the winds. The ship coasted softly to the quay, but Elrond did not tarry—he vaulted the low railing with his cloak billowing and waded through waters clear as glass.
There was a hush of the melody, a pause to let a solitary glad cry emerge, and then he met the beautiful Elven woman waiting for him with her feet in the water. He swept her into his arms and carried her above the waterline with his brow pressed to hers.
“So begins the story of Celebrían and Elrond anew,” whispered Legolas, for Arwen was unable to speak the joy in her heart.
Every face bowed as first Bilbo, then Frodo, was handed ashore. All fell back before the beauty of Galadriel. Every soul dropped to a knee when the Maia, Olórin, set foot upon the quay.
Then the singing of Elves ceased and the land was silent, for the great horse, Shadowfax, trod the pier and his hooves were ponderous and uncertain. Olórin steadied his head and spoke quietly, soothing until they reached the sand. The stallion nickered, irritable and stressed. A hundred steeds answered and from every shady tree and grassy knoll, the mearas of the Blessed Realm reared and pawed.
Then Shadowfax huffed a great breathy sigh and shook off the memory of the turbulent and tight deck of the ship and nudged Olórin, willing. There was no need now to kneel for an old man, for the Maia sprang upon his back easily and Olórin looked neither left, nor right, as he rode away.
All was quiet and orderly as every Elf caught a horse, for each steed came willingly.
Elrond put Bilbo into a sleek wagon drawn by two gleaming mares. Galadriel’s mount tossed a bridle tinkling with bells. Frodo was handed up to Lord Elrond, who rode so close to his Beloved that their toes touched. Of one accord, the mighty throng followed.
Away, away, and up, and farther in, the swift rise of island green pierced a sky of endless blue and beyond, with feet shrouded in mist, raised the snow peak of Amon Uilos, the Mountain of Manwë.
The alabaster steed in the lead first walked, then, as he steadied from his sea journey, trotted. Eventually, Shadowfax cantered, settling to his ground consuming inexhaustible gait, and lifted his gaze toward the tallest mountain of the world, Taniquetil. Behind, the stalwart horses of Aman kept the pace evenly.
The road curled as it climbed, cutting through snows that had not melted in seven thousand years and eventually spilling out atop a mountain that defied every tree and grass. And upon the highest peak of the Pelóri, raised by the Powers during the Spring of Arda, stood the Mansion of High Airs.
The roof of the palace was spun thread that looked upon the everlasting sky and a thousand, thousand stars hung there both night and day. The courtyard stretched away, a floor of glittering white marble with a single line of blue framing an inner court. The sound of waters laughed in fountains and the winds played a melody never repeating.
Here, he who had once been Gandalf, dismounted and drew off his soft boots and went on bare feet across the white marble. But when Olórin reached the Fountain of the High King, he halted at the boundary of deep blue that framed the inner court. There he knelt and took off seven rings of silver and placed them aside. Then he put his brow against the cool stones and laid his hands open upon that line of holiness, prostrate.
The Elves following did not speak, nor did they pass that forlorn figure. They stood in their long cloaks and were utterly still. And Elrond stood with Frodo and restrained his tumult of words, for the hobbit was anxious and distressed. All was silent and breathless and they waited.
Then Manwë descended from His temple clothed in majesty and every living thing as far as the eye could see knelt in a great wave before His presence.
No crown adorned His brow, no scepter did he carry, and of imposing physical might, He had little … yet a daunting sense of potency moved with His stride; the easy unconscious grace of one born to rule. It radiated from within, an unassailable charisma that all creatures would follow simply by instinct. The entitlement lay upon Him: a dominion and supremacy bestowed by The One and the splendor of Him made the shadows tremble and hide.
He who stood above every throne, every kingdom, every empire of Men and Elves, came walking barefoot through the holy court and the sun lit His path gloriously.
He was clad in blue, the color of sky and sea and still pools, and the rings upon His fingers were golden fire. His visage was kind, but stern, and imbued with compelling beauty. As Olórin was, so was Manwë, only doubly intoxicating. A radiant presence that garnered trust and adoration without requiring a single act to evoke such worship.
His eyes were the color of the heavens and when He gazed aside once, as if looking through a pool a world away, the amazing clearness and intensity of that single glance stunned. It was like being looked at by lightning, and Aragorn dropped his eyes before it without volition, staggered.
The Elder King, wrapped in light, came and stood before the fallen Olórin.
“Why do you come with trembling and fear to the Court of the High King?” asked Manwë. Though His voice was gentle, hidden in it was the sound of Earth and wind and unconquered strength.
“Search me in all my inward being, Manwë Súlimo, for my trials have been harsh and my soul has been rent. Find the dross in me, judge me, and discover if I am worthy to pass into Your holy court,” pleaded Olórin.
“Stand and face me.”
But Olórin would not, or could not, obey and the Elder King looked aside and His eyes reached across the wide courtyard, summoning without a word.
Aulë appeared, bearded and mighty and clothed in rich brown. Intricate filigree chains and jewels fastened his great cloak and hung around his neck, each defining his skill as befitted his title, The Smith.
Oromë, the Huntsman of the Valar, clad in green with a great horn upon his hip, came with a goblet of wine in one hand. He placed it carefully aside upon the low rim of the Great Fountain and stood at Manwë’s left hand.
“Do my bidding, my brothers, for rarely have I called upon your obedience,” said Manwë. “Raise the Maia, Olórin.”
The Vala drew Olórin to his feet, though he did not lift his eyes.
“Search you? Judge you?” said Manwë. “What deems you unworthy to enter my gate with joy and thanksgiving?”
“I was not always diligent to my mission,” admitted Olórin. And then, painfully, “At times I grumbled against the task appointed me and was slow to obey. I was … not always respectful or dutiful. I grew tired and turned aside and went my own way.”
“Will you conceal the truth with simple language?” Manwë’s voice grew strong and direct. “Have you forgotten who built this house and who stretched the lands? I am the High King of Arda and I know every word you have whispered, every thought in your heart, every instance of weakness and stubbornness—every murky purpose in every decision, great or small. Speak your misdeeds openly for all to hear!”
And Olórin groaned with a terrible sound and hid his face before the sword of the High King’s words.
“I knowingly and willfully shed the sanctified mantle of my status. I rejected your clear command and refused Your summons to return.” He gasped as if the revealing of it tore him, though no hand touched him. And then, with a wounded voice, he added, “I sang the Great Song, which has been forbidden since the World was made.”
Oromë, Lord of the Forests, frowned and anger buckled up within his brows, but Aulë revealed nothing of his thoughts.
“You sang the Music of the Ainur not once, but twice,” said Manwë and his voice rang clear and stern as an iron bell. “Who are you, simple Maia, to wield the Holy Power of Eru? It was forbidden because of the wicked deceit of Melkor, who altered the melody of the Song in The Beginning and nearly destroyed the World!”
Olórin sank back to his knees and put his hands flat upon the cold marble as if it would sustain him, hiding his face as if dealt a fatal cut. The silver rings scattered and two rolled in a circle where he disturbed them.
And Aragorn spoke, though he knew not why. It was compelled out of his soul, aghast by this witness of events. He spoke knowing it was futile, for what words a world away would have sway over the authority of this King on High? What power did he have as a mere Man to change the mind of a Vala? Yet he pleaded, for his heart would not be silent.
“He sang to raise the last of the Elves of Eregion, for his plight was desperate, and then only a snatch of a verse—just enough to save him. He lent him the power of his order to overcome one final device of Sauron, the Great Deceiver. And he lingered in Arda to bring the Ring Bearer of his own free will to Aman instead of commanding him to leave. Each decision made without selfish gain or ambition, but to save another and give them everlasting peace.”
He may have well spoken into darkness.
“Judge you. Search, and find the dross in you,” said Manwë and His voice was deep and dark and the light vanished from His countenance. He looked at Aulë and Oromë silently, each Vala waiting upon His word.
Then Manwë said calmly, “Drown him in the Fountain of the High King.”
And they laid hands upon Olórin and removed the cloak of blue and the Maia lifted no word of objection, nor did he struggle. He closed his eyes upon the world and gave himself up.
Frodo Baggins struggled, but Elrond was adroit and held the hobbit fast and he whispered something fierce and low … and Frodo ceased thrashing, though his eyes started out of his face.
The Elder King did not watch or glance aside, not even when Olórin was thrust over the side of the low wall into the water with a splash. He gazed out amongst the crowd of silent Elves and studied their faces.
The winds whispered.
Olórin went beneath the waters with Aulë’s hand upon his neck and he sank without plea or resistance in the Smith’s powerful grip, but Oromë held one of the Maia’s hands aloft and though the seconds passed, that hand flailed not, nor did it wrench at its captors.
“Behold the Maia, Olórin, who will submit to the will and judgment of the High King … even to death,” said Manwë and his voice rolled through the open courtyard and reached every listener. “What servant of the Valar will do as much without defense, or protest, or struggle?”
And then Manwë turned His gaze and beheld the tremble of Olórin’s fingers as desperation began, and yet he waited a count or three before saying, “Bring him up and put him before me.”
Aulë and Oromë jerked the Maia from beneath the water with a gasp and propelled him sagging and stumbling out of the Fountain. He came dripping and breathless before Manwë and the two Vala supported him a moment, for he trembled greatly and would have fallen.
Once he steadied, Aulë and Oromë released him and the Huntsman of the Valar retrieved his wine and sipped it. His eyes were golden flecked and he measured the scene gravely.
But despite all that had transpired, Olórin did not raise his face to the Elder King; he stared down at the marble between his feet as a penitent, shivering in the soft wind.
A look of pity crossed the face of Manwë and he lifted a finger. The light wind ceased. The sun drew closer and beat down and Olórin’s trembling ceased. For a time, nothing was spoken and nothing was done. The silent Elves remained patiently still, witness to all.
“Olórin,” said Manwë. “Look upon me.”
And there was such richness within His voice that it compelled beyond present circumstances of heart or mind or soul—and Olórin looked into the face of the High King and was transfixed by the same charisma that held every eye of the court. And though he remained wordless, the devotion and adoration of a lifetime took form in his eyes and he was sundered with it and wept.
The Elder King caught each tear with His thumbs and His voice was grave.
“No tears within the Courtyard of the King. Have you forgotten in the years? No tears may fall in this place, it is holy.”
He waited until Olórin regained himself and then, astonishingly, He took off His own cloak and laid it upon Olórin’s shoulders. He picked up the silver rings discarded upon the stones and slid each one upon the proper finger without a word. Then He framed the Maia’s face with both hands and kissed him upon the mouth and Olórin sagged in his hands. Manwë supported him with His strength.
“Speak your heart, for I know it already,” said the King.
“I have sinned against You and the Laws of Ilúvatar.”
“Yes, you have. And darkness lingers over your spirit, despoiling its beauty.”
“You cannot forgive my crimes,” whispered Olórin. “I am unclean.”
“Have I not judged you as you asked?” Manwë demanded with the voice of the winds: the wild gale over the plains and the raw power of the mountain eddies. “And have I not washed you in the Fountain of the High King? Have I not clothed you with my own raiment, the mantle of the King, and have I not restored all that is yours?”
With every assertion, the Maia flinched and shrank, but Manwë did not relent his stern words or unyielding voice and He held him with a grip that did not falter.
“And have I not kissed you, purging every sin in you with my holiness and shutting the entrance of your soul, sealing it against evil forever?” Manwë put one finger upon Olórin’s lips in emphasis. “Is there a power in the world that can overcome the Word I have written on that door?”
Far away, as if looking down a well, Aragorn’s eyes filled with tears for now he understood Gandalf’s final benediction and was overwhelmed.
Manwë took Olórin’s face within His palms, forcing him to look in His eyes.
“What I have washed is cleansed eternally and what I have sealed remains without sin, for my authority gives me the right. Shall you dare speak otherwise?”
Olórin held his tongue, but it was less for wisdom and more that he could not speak. The High King caught more tears before they fell and the Maia hung his head haggardly.
“Speak all your heart, Olórin,” encouraged the High King once more. “I know every fear you hold, every sorrow that binds you—give them over as you know you must. I will be patient a little longer.”
“I disobeyed You.”
Manwë lifted Olórin’s face and two sets of azure eyes met fully and they nearly matched.
“Olórin,” He said gently. “You fear that your disobedience has robbed your place in my court—but I say, your place in my court was sealed perpetually on the day you set foot upon the ship to Middle Earth.”
“But,” and Olórin looked bewildered. “What if I had failed?”
“Do you think I am an unjust ruler? Do I demand excellence from creatures unable to see a full day and be holy in it? I sent you imperiled and shorn of might, beset by fear and weakness and the shadowing of your wisdom.” He spoke tenderly, as a father to a beloved child. “I knew you would falter and sometimes fail, even at times defiantly go your own path, but I also knew you would right yourself and turn again to truth and duty and submission, for you are tenacious and determined.
“That is why your place in my court has waited the days until your homecoming, because you obeyed and went, and once there, you refused to give up and returned again and again to the goal despite pain and grief and loss.
“Olórin, wise Olórin—does your wisdom extend to every creature save yourself? It was never about being perfect, nor entirely about winning … it was that you were willing to go and did not stop trying.”
And then Olórin laid his brow against the Elder King and he was weak through every bone.
“Give me your full heart, Olórin,” and it was thrice that the King had spoken such. “Do not veil your deepest fear from the one who knows you.”
“I am not the same as I once was. I have been torn and unmade; my soul is no longer perfect as You once knew and took delight in,” he whispered, anguished. “You will look inside my fëa and turn away, for I am broken and dark. What place have I amidst the perfect light of You?”
The patience of Manwë was a thing of marvelous beauty. He lifted Olórin’s chin once more, with just as much care, and looked in his face.
“You were a sword of shining steel, set with midnight sapphires and diamonds clear as spring waters. Not the most powerful of my weapons, but a thing of balance and perfection. I carried you by my side through countless ages, a rare and cherished possession.”
Then he said slowly and heavily, “I have only had to draw you once and send you into battle, and that against a stronger and greater foe, one whom you feared to face.
“Now you come back to me … and the edge of the fine blade is nicked and the cross guard is wrenched and the sapphires have been cracked. The great gem set in the pommel is missing entirely.
“Shall I put you away in shame, out of sight? A marred creation unable to be mended? Or shall I place you upon the Altar of The High King for all to see and give witness, a treasure beyond price and measure?
“You cannot be remade to the likeness breathed into you by The Most High God. Only Ilúvatar can draw the perfect pattern of your soul, burning blue and crimson and gold within your frame. But all who dwell upon these shores shall not forget that you sacrificed your perfection to save the imperfect … and you did so for love.
“And I,” Manwë’s voice grew strong, the voice of The King of Arda, “persistent and relentless, unfailing in kindness and in forgiveness, in pity and in patience … I have watched this road, waiting to receive you back. Love taught you, love sent you, love has hung over you like a standard, leading you onward, ever forward. Did you think my love would fail to bring you home?”
At last, Olórin said nothing more, but his eyes were dim, as if quietly stunned. He did not quite look in the Elder King’s face and did not quite look away. Every impression of his strength had vanished and he stood empty and silent. A single word would fell him where he stood.
The High King turned His head and lifted a call into the winds. In an instant, a glorious woman gowned in soft grey appeared and she threw back her hood to reveal a face of tranquil beauty. Her eyes were striking, yet sad, and she wore nothing of brightness or decoration.
“Gentle Nienna,” said Manwë. “Sorrow is a scarlet thread coiled round and round and through Olórin’s heart until it is bound and snared fast. He bleeds from a million cuts so fine that they have no end and no beginning.”
“I know,” she answered, and Olórin trembled, recognizing her voice. “He has carried hurt and woe for each soul lost carelessly during his sojourn, refusing to relinquish them to me.”
Manwë was silent a moment, studying the far horizon.
Then he said gently, “Take him to the Fountain of Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, and drain the pain from him into the sea. And this cup of tears he holds … pour it out to the bottom. Wash his limbs and dress him and then bring him back to me.”
So Nienna took Olórin away and she led him by the hands, dazed and staggering.
Then the High King stepped across the boundary from the inner court to the outer court and He called in a great voice, “Where is the Ring Bearer, Frodo Baggins?”
Lord Elrond stood with Frodo and though the hobbit was overwhelmed, he could not retreat, for Elrond’s grip was sure upon his shoulders. The Elder King strode to them and eminence preceded His steps.
But when Frodo instinctively bowed, Manwë reached swift as wind and caught his chin to halt him.
“I will accept no obeisance from you, Frodo Baggins. You do not bow in any corner of the world, for any being save Ilúvatar, Himself.”
And then, marvelously, the King of Arda knelt upon one knee and lowered His regal brow and they were face to face.
The little hobbit did not meet Manwë’s formidable gaze; he looked aside and a stern emotion rested upon his usually peaceful face.
“Speak the truth,” softly said Manwë, “for I know everything within your troubled heart before your words.”
“I do not like the way you treated Gandalf,” said Frodo in a great rush of words and his eyes were fierce.
Manwë looked perplexed, but only a moment.
“He has always been Olórin to us,” he said and the glint of humor in His remarkable eyes nearly dispelled Frodo’s anger without explanation. But then the Elder King grew serious and every ear strained to catch His words, for the very fact that Manwë spoke them made them the most important of all.
“The one you know as Gandalf is accounted the wisest of all Maiar and of his compassion, there is no equal amongst his peers. Yet of all those he extends his sympathy and kindness and forgiveness to: the Eldar, Men, hobbits, the trees and tree herders, it is himself that he does not excuse, nor give clemency. He knew his trespasses and he also knew the penalty for each of them, regardless of circumstances. Shall he escape the judgment that holds Melkor guilty? Nay, the penalty rests upon him the same as it rests upon every soul that willfully disobeys.
“Yet forgiveness is not beyond reach to those who confess their shortcomings and trespasses, who place themselves at the feet of a greater power than they, without strife and dispute and protest. Pride and justification for wrongdoing avails nothing against the Laws of The One … only humbleness and a contrite spirit delivers a soul into the place of forgiveness.
“But here is the revelation you seek, Frodo Baggins … Olórin would not have believed me had I simply told him he was forgiven for his missteps and failings in Middle Earth,” said Manwë gravely. “He would have heard my words and put no faith in them. He would dwell in the Blessed Realm with his eyes to the ground and his feet never crossing the line of my court, believing his soul tainted—an eternity of longing and sorrow instead of the joy that should be the inheritance of all who dwell in Aman.
“An object lesson was required—one that shook him and stripped his self condemnation from him. If I had not judged him, then plunged him into the fountain, then saved him again, he would never have been able to grasp the mercy I extended so freely. And even then, he could not grasp my grace—I had to remind him of my deity, my capacity as the Firstborn of Ilúvatar, my right to condemn or pardon separate from any act by any person.”
Manwë sighed and shook His head, a startling expression of enduring patience.
“I knew when he deemed himself fallen from grace, he would be difficult to bring to absolution and forgiveness. He can be resolute and determined, even to his death. Eru has never crafted a more willful and obstinate Maiar and he chose to serve me. Ultimately a wise choice, for only the authority of the King of Arda can shepherd his soul into perfect worship.”
Frodo pondered all that was said and, finally, a wry smile caught his mouth.
“Gandalf was a stubborn wizard when he walked amongst us,” he said.
The radiance of the day dimmed before the generosity of the High King’s smile.
“Stubborn and irritable, baffled by the pain and woes of a mortal’s fragile body, tempted and led astray by mischief and ale and pipe weed, if I recall,” said Manwë. “The inability to be sinless, abiding in harmony with every law of The One … a harmful blow for him to bear. He spent many thousands of nights grieving for his inability to be perfect.”
“We couldn’t have—I couldn’t have done it without him,” said Frodo passionately.
“I know. I sent him because of that stubborn love, counted upon the fire in his heart to drive him when his own will was weak.” Then Manwë’s visage grew serious. “Now, let me see your wounded shoulder.”
“It is not wounded, but healed,” returned Frodo.
But the Elder King’s face grew more serious and the little hobbit pulled back his shirt and tunic, baring his shoulder for scrutiny. There was no mark upon his fair skin and Manwë’s face became grim.
“Olórin has not the power to heal a wound such as this; he is only Maiar,” He said thoughtfully.
“But it does not hurt anymore, nor does it feel like a creeping coldness within me,” said Frodo. “He put his hands upon it and spoke and all was taken away in an instant. I have felt well ever since.”
But Manwë looked up into the heavens with a stare of great intensity and a bird descended from high above and landed with a whirr of wings. Its fierce eyes blinked.
“Fly to the Fount of the King of The Sea and there find Nienna, Lady of Sorrows. Olórin bears the dark enchantment of a Morgul blade and she must be warned,” said Manwë and the light falcon was away.
He turned back to Frodo and looked upon the hobbit’s anxious face.
“Fear not, gentle hobbit, for Nienna is skilled and perhaps has already glimpse the evil that pools beneath Olórin’s torn fëa. He has not the strength to heal you, but he took it upon himself and freed you from distress. Only the power of the Vala may overcome this taint conjured by Morgoth in the dark beginnings.”
Then the Elder King placed His palm upon Frodo’s skin and brightness flashed where they touched, though Frodo did not start in pain.
“Now you are whole and shall remain so all your days,” said Manwë.
“Thank you,” said the little hobbit, but there was sorrow behind the blue of his eyes and the High King perceived it.
“Speak your sadness, for I know of it and will comfort as I can.”
But Frodo spoke not and there was loneliness in his gaze that looked beyond the King and over the Blessed Realm.
“Do you miss your friends?” gently asked Manwë, for all voices throughout Arda were revealed to him. Above all, His was the mightiest of minds.
“Yes,” admitted Frodo and he could say no more.
“Perigrin Took and Meridoc Brandybuck will not see you again. Their life belongs in Middle Earth,” gently said Manwë. “But you shall see Samwise Gamgee again.”
“My Sam?” And Frodo brightened as dawn, incredulous and joyous. “I shall see him again?”
“Your Sam carried the Ring of Power for nearly two days near the Tower of Cirith Ungol and passage has been granted to the Blessed Realm for his courage and steadiness.”
“Oh!” and Frodo bit his lips to keep from weeping, for he remembered that tears were forbidden in the Court of the King. “But it will not be soon,” he suddenly pleaded. “He has just married and has much life to live in peace.”
“Not soon.” The Elder King smiled. “Samwise Gamgee has a veritable pack of hobbit children to raise first. But he will eventually sail and there is one who will wait and bring him across the seas safely. He will come to these white shores and you will stand upon the sands to greet him.”
Then Frodo sighed as if his whole world had righted and the splendor and harmony of Aman pierced through his fear and pain and rendered peace throughout his soul. As a shabby house transformed, the little hobbit was renewed and the spark of it shown in his eyes.
But as the Elder King rose back to his feet, Frodo looked up at His magnificence and asked, “Will Gandalf—I mean, Olórin, be well?”
“Yes, and you may continue to call him Gandalf,” said Manwë, “but do not be surprised if we look perplexed a moment at the name. Inquire of him and search him out, for you are beloved and he will receive you gladly. No line of this court will refuse to admit you.”
Then a voice spoke musically from the hitherto silent Elves and it was shot through with eagerness.
“Can he come now?”
All turned to see a throng of younger Elves and they fidgeted slightly beneath the High King’s study. Frodo regarded them, amazed, and they looked back, delighted.
“The Elven children of Aman have been waiting for your arrival with much anticipation, Frodo Baggins, for they have been told stories of your adventures and of the Great Quest of The Ring,” solemnly said Manwë. His eyes shown with humor. “But most alluring of all, they have heard rumor that hobbits are particularly fond of mischief, something they have only partial acquaintance with.”
“Oh?” said Frodo and his face worked to hold itself serious.
“Do not dismantle anything you cannot mend,” said Manwë and the blue of His eyes shown gloriously. He gave the hobbit a little push to get him started.
So Frodo took the hand of the Elf who came to greet him and was quickly surrounded and they wandered off upon the Holy Mountain.
Then the King of Arda looked upon Elrond and His greeting was in His face. Elrond bowed low, with his fingers upon his eyelids.
“Why does the descendant of Arda’s Elves linger here?” asked Manwë.
“I had to see You,” replied Elrond and the Elder King accepted his words.
“Peace and respite you will find here,” said Manwë. “Lay aside the grief for the one you have left behind. Her choice has purchased peace for thousands of years upon a land rent as a spider’s web. It was her destiny, even as Lúthien’s.”
Then Manwë touched Elrond upon the brow with one finger and the traces of grief that had lingered about the Elven King’s eyes was removed.
“Joy you shall have here, overflowing and pressed out.”
“I do not want to forget her,” said Elrond.
“You shall not. Come to the Fountain of Memory when you have need, for the light of the Evenstar will be revealed to you and your mind will not fade of her beauty. She will pass away and be forgotten in Middle Earth, but none shall forget her in the Blessed Realm.”
And Lord Elrond looked upon the High King of Arda and saw within His quiet gaze the compassion that made His rule supreme. And though meeting for the first time as strangers, the love and understanding of Manwë shown brightly.
“You have known my grief and sorrow,” said Elrond. “It was your mighty spirit that held me when I could not bear it.”
“Yes.” His voice of many winds, so gentle. “It is the same pain as watching my beloved brother choose evil against the Most High God … and being forced to cast he who is nearly my perfect image into outer darkness forever. Now go, be joined with your Beloved, for she has waited as patiently as a flower for a spring that has not come for five hundred years.”
Galadriel came next before the Elder King and her beauty and Manwë’s majesty made every eye sting, every breath catch. She bowed without a word and kissed the hem of the long blue tunic.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for permitting me to return.”
“I have waited and watched centuries for this day,” said Manwë, drawing her up. “Welcome home, Alatáriel.”
Galadriel rested her brow against Him an instant and none saw the emotions of her face.
“Your love was stronger than my foolish pride,” she whispered.
“Pride kept you from us, but your will and strength ultimately had its place in the renewing of Arda. A high price … yet you were able to bear it. Enter into your rest, Queen of Elves.”
“No longer Queen,” she said. “Is there a quiet corner of Aman, where none dwell, that I may live quietly?”
“Nay,” said the Elder King. “You may live quietly, but all will seek for your counsel and calm and splendor. And though you claim no authority here, you will find respect and adoration and deference. Irmo, dwelling in his gardens in Valinor, will summon you to visit and walk with him, for he has ever noticed the beauty of Lothlórien. And Nessa, the Young, will dance with you on all the grasses of the land as you once danced with her.” Then He looked over the faces of the Elves standing with them. “Take your rest amongst your kin, for they have hungered for you and will care for your spirit.”
Bilbo Baggins had fallen asleep on the journey up to the Mansion of High Airs and the High King did not wake him. He looked upon the sleeping hobbit curled amongst the cushions of the little coach and touched first his brow, then his heart, and the lines of age and hardship lessened faintly.
“Brave Bilbo,” said Manwë. “Take him below the snows, to a green valley and fair weather, and there make a place for him amongst you. Take him often to his friends and to me, for I will listen to his stories until his soul departs his frame. Care for him kindly, for he is innocent and gave up the Ring of Power freely.
Then Nienna returned with the Maia, Olórin, and though his gait was steady and he was clothed in dry garments, he halted once more at the boundary of the innermost court as if there was a wall before him he could not surmount.
The Elder King took the Maia’s face within his hands and felt him trembling. A tear fell, then another, and Manwë caught them just as he had before.
“Did I not ask you to take the grief from this one?” asked Manwë of the Lady of Sorrows. His frown made the sun fade.
“So you did and so I have.” Nienna regarded Him and her eyes were tranquil and knowing. She spoke plainly and without umbrage. “This pain can only be removed by You, Manwë Súlimo. It is the presence of the Elder King alone that will heal it, for he has longed for the perfect light of his Lord amidst darkness and travail. His soul lies abandoned, sundered with misery and lamentation and the terror of separation. He has been hidden from Your face for a hundred lifetimes. No art or craft of mine will avail this grief.”
Compassion trod the Elder King’s countenance and He pressed Olórin’s head against Him and let him sag against His strength. The rings of gold upon His fingers threw ethereal light of their own amidst the Maia’s dark locks. For a moment they stood, Lord and servant, and then Manwë held Olórin apart.
“Do you remember the rings upon my hands?” asked Manwë. “Name them for all to hear.”
Olórin struggled to find his voice and eventually focused on the fingers of the High King of Arda. Memory wrestled to the top.
“Manquenta, for above all of creation, You are blessed and free from evil. Ná, Nar, and Nauva—Is, Are, and Will Be.” Olórin found his voice and became steady, reciting as if he had ever done so. “Is; Eru Ilúvatar, who is The One God. Are; Arda and all life within it, the creation brought forth for Eru’s purpose. Will Be; the promise of Ilúvatar who will guide the Music of the Ainur once again and remake the World—this time in perfection, for all evil will be subdued and put beneath His feet. Axan, the Rule of Eru’s Laws, which You understand above all other Vala.”
Then he paused, troubled, studying one final ring. “I do not remember this.”
“No, you do not,” solemnly said Manwë. He held the circle up and it caught the sun like fire, a plain band without an ornamental stone. “It is called Harwë, for it represents treasure. A simple ring, without pretense or gemstone or lettering—Aulë remade it six times until he understood that I desired it unadorned and without finery. It is not meant to draw attention to itself, but to the bearer, for the one who wears this ring is the prize of the King of Arda.”
And then Manwë took up the left hand of Olórin, the hand of worship and love, and placed the ring upon his smallest finger, the finger of submission and sacrifice. The Maia trembled as if his bones had unknit and they struggled to hold him upright.
“A solemn promise I make now.” The Elder King’s voice reached across the courtyard with authority. “Before the Eldar of the Holy Mountain, and Nienna who has schooled you, Aulë and Oromë, who have stood witness to the cleansing of your temple and the restoration of your faith, and in the sight of The One, Ilúvatar, who sees all.
“The House of Olórin has stood abandoned for two thousand springs and it shall remain abandoned or be given to another,” pronounced He and the air trembled. “For from this day forth, Olórin shall abide within Ilmarin, the Mansion of the High King. He will dwell in the shadow of the Lord all the length of his days, even to eternity.”
He looked directly into the Maia’s face and spoke with firmness, “You shall never leave this court again … unless it be by your own free will. And I will never break my promise, though the stars should break faith with the sky and the seas rise up to conquer this Holy Mountain.”
And he who had once been called Gandalf gazed into the face of his Lord with a reverence that silenced every thought before the power of it. There were no longer any tears, no words, nor any gestures. He was completely rapturous, held beneath the hand of mercy and love.
“Now,” said Manwë with the same great voice that had shaped Arda in the beginning. “Whom do you serve?”
Olórin answered from a soul sundered open and every truth revealed.
“I belong to the High King.”
Manwë stepped back and His voice grew tender. “By the bond you bear and the words engraved upon the foundation of your fëa—I bid you come.”
And Olórin stepped across the boundary of the Holy Court and fell into the arms of the High King. He wept, shattered, but Manwë said no word of remonstration. The blue tunic of the King soaked up every tear and let none of them fall.
“Depart from us,” Manwë said to the Elves. “Go in peace and health.” Then He looked upon Aulë, standing nearby. “Take Olórin to the King’s Chamber. Lay a board of bread and meat before him, but only one sip of wine, for he is frail and fainting from the voyage. He drove the ship here of his own strength instead of allowing me to draw him peacefully across the seas.”
But Olórin looked up and spoke, “I will wait for you.”
“No, you will go. I will return to you in a moment and see to your rest and healing.”
“I will wait—”
“You must obey,” Manwë rebuked. “Middle Earth taught you argumentativeness, but you will not dispute with me.” And then, for He understood the desperation that drove such folly before the King, “Go with Aulë and be cared for. You will be without me only a moment.”
Olórin followed Aulë away, chastised and tremulous.
“He has not surrendered all,” said Oromë. His eyes were calm across the rim of the wine goblet. “He balks at yielding his tattered fëa to the perfection and dominion of Yours. Was there ever such a wise and yet stubborn Maiar created? To argue with the King of The West?” He drained his glass to the end and regarded the Elder King. “I am grateful he belongs to You.”
“He has died,” offered Manwë. “His fëa was ripped from its moorings, unhoused, and dispersed upon the winds until Ilúvatar took pity and restored him enough to continue. There is no dread left; he has been killed.”
“Did you know he would be destroyed?” curiously asked Oromë.
“I knew he would be changed, even come to great harm,” answered Manwë quietly. “But I did not expect him to die; I expected him to flee Morgoth’s ancient creatures.”
Oromë smiled. “Love stands its ground when threatened. It was why you sent him.”
The Lord of the Forests walked away dangling the wine goblet from his fingers.
Then Manwë looked through the reflecting pool and Aragorn Elessar felt his soul tremble beneath the weight of that regard. Every thought fled before grandeur. Every praise spoken of him or fealty granted to him, paled before the authority of the King of Arda. There was only one light to see and it rested in the benevolent gaze within the Fountain of the White Tree.
“Do you think He sees us?” whispered Aragorn. “Can he—”
“Aragorn Elessar, King of the Reunited Kingdom, Lord of the White Tree,” said Manwë.
Aragorn knelt and bowed his head and both Legolas and Arwen knelt with him.
“Laiqualassë, last and yet first of the Singers of Eregion. Arwen Undómiel, Elrond’s Daughter, Queen of all Men,” said the Elder King, and each of their souls danced with His recognition. “Stand before me, Founder of the House of Telcontar.”
Aragorn stood, for no act of will could thwart the command set upon him, nor would he desire to do otherwise. He thought of all the prayers over his years that he had sent to this one personage and his heart was humble.
“The one you know as Gandalf placed a stone in the fountain of your courtyard.”
Aragorn searched past the image of the King of Arda to see the white stone and discovered he could not; his eyes refused to focus past the Master of Winds and he closed them, dizzy.
“He did, Lord,” he answered, willing his racing heart to calm.
“Peace, King,” softly said Manwë. “You have done no wrong and your eyes can bear my likeness. Look upon me and speak face to face.”
Glory faced him within the simple pool of the court. Heaven’s King upon the water.
“The stone within your pool is named the Eye of the Valar,” said Manwë. “The Mirror of Galadriel, which she governed in her enchanted wood, is a similar, yet lesser, entity. I gave it to Olórin on the shore of Aman so that if his spirit failed in Middle Earth, he could hold it in his palms and conjure my face before him, to raise and succor him. But in all the hundreds of your years, not once did he look upon me. This is a mystery.”
“I perhaps know the answer to that mystery,” said Legolas quietly. He bowed his face a moment before continuing. “He could not bear to see You and not be able to reach Your glory, for never before has he been sundered from Your presence. He dared not look, for he feared to be crippled with longing.”
The Elder King was silent a moment.
“I did not know he left it behind until the ship was upon the straight road. It was only then that I saw his mind looking backwards into this quiet pool and his power failing and realized what he had done. Olórin does not have the strength to wield the Eye of the Valar; it was fashioned for my authority and thus you saw through a cloudy glass until I took control of the Eye.” His face grew serious. “But it is a tool not meant for your world and he should not have left it amongst Men so casually.”
“I will take it from the pool if you wish,” offered Aragorn. “I will do whatever You command.”
“No,” said Manwë after a moment of thought. “Olórin left it to comfort you, whom he loves, and I will not thwart his act. Compassion has compelled him beyond his limits at every turn and this I will grant him.”
He looked kindly into each of their faces and they shook with the wonder of it.
“Come to the Eye when your heart is heavy and needs rest and you will find him … but only when you have need. You must grow strong and let the farewell take its rightful place.”
“We will not trouble You,” said Aragorn.
“No trouble shall you be,” said Manwë gently. “However, Men’s hearts heal with clean cuts, not goodbyes that never finish. But come not again soon … let Olórin have a time of rest and renewal before you seek his face. I would have you see him in steadiness and not in the dark night of his soul.”
“We will remember,” said Legolas.
“One thing I ask,” continued the Elder King solemnly. “On the day when you lay down your long life, Aragorn Elessar, take the Eye of the Valar from the pool and hold it in your hand when you depart. It must leave the world when you do.”
“I will not forget.” And then Aragorn dared a question, though he had already heard the answer once. “Will Gandalf be well?”
So it was that the Elder King had patience even for the worries of simple Man, for Manwë spoke kindly, if sadly.
“The beauty of his soul can not be restored by the Valar. He spoke the truth: his fëa has been shattered foundation to peak and the illumination within him darkened. A book, consumed twice by fire and then ground by a millstone into dust. He is the apparition of one who once lived. Yet only the eyes of the Ainur can see this … to you, he will be well.”
“But,” Aragorn found himself daring to question further, “will he know he remains shattered and darkened? A broken creation as he himself has lamented? Is he to live marginally in Aman, without fullness or joy within?”
There was a single instant where Manwë’s gaze sharpened as that of an eagle, piercing and terrifying, and then it faded to warmth.
“Let morning dawn in your worried heart, Aragorn Elessar,” He said and His voice held the riches of the World. “In my house, the Winds of Heaven never cease. The rush of life does not ebb. The Fountain of Forgiveness has no bottom. Darkness has no place in my presence and doubt and pain flee. I will turn his sight from sorrow and weariness and raise him, for my mercy is wide. The glory of my soul will stream through him and consume every shadow and mist. He will perceive nothing beyond the light of my face, nor will he ever look away from me—not even to glimpse himself. Everywhere he goes he will see me and that sun shall never set.”
And then He looked upon each of them in turn, speaking directly to their hearts, and fear and sorrows fled.
“The love of God does not fail. From age to age it remains an unbroken hoop. Stay the course and hold fast to this one truth.”
The High King said no farewell, nor did He linger. He strode away across the courtyard and none of them could look away from His commanding figure, not even to blink at the wonder of the Mansion of High Airs, most glorious of all Aman’s palaces. Through magnificent hallways lined with paintings and tapestries and through expansive and opulent rooms He passed, looking neither right nor left until He came to a single door gilded with gold.
Aulë stood without and the finely crafted jewelry he wore glimmered.
“He cannot eat, nor will he rest. I gave him no commands, lest he be found disobedient to the word of a Vala,” said The Smith. “He wept and was torn with it. I reminded him that tears are only forbidden in the holy court, not in the House of the High King.”
“You are ever wise, Aulë, finest of Craftsmen,” said Manwë, and he pressed a palm upon The Smiths’ shoulder.
No chastisement did Manwë give Olórin when He entered; He took him in a sure grip and sat him down upon a great bed and gave him the sip of the poured wine with His own hand. Then He laid him down and sat beside him, opened Olórin’s left hand with His own and put their palms together.
Olórin said nothing, for every word was lost. He stared up at Manwë, helpless and hollow, his lively eyes remote and stunned. His chest labored for breath as if he wrestled something within. One golden ring glinted amongst seven of silver.
For many minutes, the Lord of Arda gazed down upon him and spoke nothing, as if waiting for some utterance or act.
At last, the Maia heaved a sigh and turned his head, resting it against the knee of the Elder King.
“Master,” he whispered and closed his eyes.
“Finally,” said Manwë softly and he placed His free hand upon the Maia’s temple. “Beautiful Olórin, you are home.”
Time passed. How much they could not decipher. And though the thought that they should leave the enchanted pool passed through their minds, none could bear to turn away from the sight of Olórin asleep beside the magnificence of Manwë Súlimo. Even the splendor of the sumptuous King’s Room faded before this silent tableau.
The Elder King did not look up from His quiet study of Olórin, but He smiled … and then Beauty entered the luxurious room and all things bright and marvelous vanished before a radiant woman dressed in pale blue. Her hair was the color of sunrise and wheat and pale fire; her eyes a piercing chip of the skies in a face beyond all the fair dreams of Men and Elves. A pale light sprang from her skin, as if she was bathed in starlight amidst the day.
“Elbereth,” said Arwen and her voice caught slightly. “Glorious High Queen of Arda.”
Varda leaned to kiss Manwë very lightly and the Elder King’s own splendor seemed to magnify in her presence.
“I was south, in Valimar, and came as quickly as I could,” she said softly, and knelt to look upon the Maia.
“Beloved Elentári,” said Manwë. “Tell me what your vision sees within the soul of this one.”
Heaven’s Queen regarded the Maia an instant and then she closed her eyes. A single tear crept down her face and the High King leaned to kiss it before it fell and took her head into His left palm in comfort.
“Beloved Kindler…” He whispered. “Speak your grief, for I will not permit another day when it may be spoken again.”
“I remember his beauty,” she said mournfully. “Did you and I not stand at the edge of our balcony and watch him idling at the King’s Fountain, knowing the perfection of his soul would be marred by this task?”
“And for one instant, did I not repent of sending him?” said Manwë.
“Yes, but you remembered the cries of Middle Earth. A million, million souls in grief from the evil of one of our own kind who meant them harm.”
“And did you not ask, in your voice so terrible and tender, would we face Ilúvatar and report that Arda was lost because we selfishly kept wisdom and love with us, fearful that he, too, would fall in the furnace of Melkor and Sauron’s evil?” Manwë smiled affectionately at her. “We sent him plain and unadorned, with wonders in his soul. He comes back now, bearing the Staff of the White Tree and his pockets full of tokens representing the lives of Middle Earth.”
“Now it is his fëa that is plain and unadorned.” She sighed sadly.
“Speak what your discerning eyes see.”
“I sent him with the light of two thousand stars within his soul,” said Varda. “When the Valaraukar destroyed him, a thousand of the lights failed forever. Eru set a flame burning upon the altar of his heart to sustain him, but the stars continued to fall one by one. There are but a handful remaining, and they dim and cold. I can not conjure the rest from the nothingness where they have plummeted; he has been gone too long and the harm is too deep.” She looked directly at Manwë. “His soul has been unwoven and his spirit broken. The darkness of the Void calls to him and he hears its summons.”
“I know. I hear it within his emptiness,” said Manwë softly. “But he will not follow until every light within him goes out. What we can mend, we will and we will anchor him with our own light. You shall rekindle the stars remaining to him and I will illuminate his broken vessel with my spirit.”
“Be mindful, Manwë,” she warned. “For the fëa of a Maiar cannot endure the luminosity of a Valar’s, and you, the most potent of all Vala. You will destroy him in the richness of your own flame.”
The High King smiled gently at her and love was a caress in His eyes.
“His soul already lies dreaming inside my own, for he leaped into my fëa without terror almost a sunturn ago. He lies now upon the crest, where every line breathed into my being by Ilúvatar is anchored, and I hold him by threads so fine they cannot be perceived. In love there is no fear at all.” He reached and took her hand within his. “I waited for you, for when we work together, our skill is the greatest.”
Then the High King of Arda looked aside. “You must depart now, for no eyes unchanged by the passage to Aman can endure this.”
And Varda looked upon them and her beauty smote them fully. When she smiled, it was for each of them alone, as if they were the dearest thought of her mind—and then everything faded into wisps of fog and the reflecting pool of the Fountain of the White Tree lay empty.
Their last glorious sight was the Lady of the Stars and it lay behind their eyes like a kiss for many days.
3. Sun Gate
The wonders of the Valar are further than the vision of Men. Gold and silver cannot buy their favor, nor the might of any kingdom threaten them. Slow with the sword of vengeance and attentive to the smallest worshiper, they alone govern the Blessed Realm and watch over Arda.
Heed the tenets of the Holy Ones, Younger Children of Ilúvatar, for in perseverance and dutifulness is the spirit tested and the heart made pure. On the Day of Judgment, all that you store up will be scattered. All your secret treasures and concealed evils shall be spilled out. Wind and flame will search through both worth and dross and reveal the foundation upon which you built.
So come with a willing heart, you who tread Arda’s turbulent shores, for beyond the Circle of The World there is only one truth. Násië
River
The fountains within the Elder King’s court sprang from a single waterway beneath the ground that circled the courtyard just once before plunging off the south face of Amon Uilos, highest in the World. The cataract could be seen for a hundred leagues and heard from every point in Aman, save the deep Hall of Mandos to the north.
Aulë made the subterranean river at Manwë’s request, for Ulmo, King of the Sea, was second in greatness and his strength prodigious. The ocean was the foundation upon which all creation rode, so the great pools of the court reflected the same.
There were fourteen fountains; glorious creations carved by the hand of The Smith. A thousand years was too little time to devote engraving one and they exceeded the glory of every other carven image, each reflecting the character of the Vala they represented.
Thus Varda’s was nearly too beautiful to behold clearly, and Vána and Lórien’s were covered with green and flowering things that drew buzzing hummers and bright birds by the score. Oromë’s fount was noisy and swift were its waters. The waters of Tulkas Astaldo, warrior of the Vala, chased after each other with vigor and were turbulent night and day. Ulmo’s fountain was never the same twice in a week; full of raging whirls, then placid as glass, then dappled and dancing and whispering with the voice of a million waterfalls.
But amongst all the myriad carvings and different waters, there was one thing common to every fountain.
These were the sparkling fishes that knew every bend of the waterway beneath the High King’s court and swam freely from fountain to fountain, spray to spray, at whim. They were golden and ebony and silver and bronze. Speckled and spotted and striped. Some with bulging eyes, and some that looked only upwards, and some with high heads as if they wore hats.
Their minds were simple and they were terrible gossips.
They quibbled with each other over which of them entered the High King’s Fountain first. They fought over who left the pool last. They told lies about the Elves. On the morrow, the lie was more elaborate though the participants had all changed. The next hour, it was a new deceit told enthusiastically. They told scandals about the Valar and their Queens and then denied ever speaking such disloyal things. They made up stories of the Maiar and their lovers and never kept any of them straight. They ate bugs and ferns and nibbled at fingers and all the while they told more alarming falsehoods.
Entire days were swept up in argument between the sparkling fish as to who had the right tale.
None of them ever had the right tale.
The Valar and Maiar ignored the golden fishes as a rule, considering them a nuisance. But they kept the mosses from overtaking the waters, and they were brilliant when viewed from Manwë’s myriad high balconies, and the Vala did not banish them from the waters.
Silent Olórin sat daily at the Fountain of the High King and trailed his hands in the waters, listening to the fish tittle-tattle, and no one said a word of chiding.
Servant
The Valar met outside the western gates of Valmar in the Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom, when the significant decisions of Arda were considered. No Maiar were permitted to sit at that council and verily, even the Elves kept themselves distant from the sacred assembly.
The Valar often drew together at Ilmarin, the Mansion of High Airs, as well.
They came robed and crowned with the light of Eru within their eyes. It was a solemn assembly, for they oft were sad and weighted because of the marring of Arda. The Vala needed no words amongst themselves, preferring the sweet flow of their mind speech to reveal every nuance of their thoughts.
The Maiar attended these gatherings to see to any request of the Vala they served, but they lingered outside the Hall of Manwë awaiting a summons so the pattern of their own thoughts would not disturb the Holy Ones.
It was neither a somber, nor a cheerful assembly when the Maia, Olórin, came through the eastern door without being summoned. He was a full quarter through the sunburst upon the floor, just to the left of The Sickle of the Valar set with diamonds, before he was noticed, for the silence inside him was so absolute that the mind speech of the Valar passed through his being without hindrance.
No Vala checked his progress.
Manwë Súlimo rose from His chair and His flowing robes swirled a moment after He stepped down from the dais. The Maia came directly to the Elder King and stood before Him. All noticed that he forgot to bow; yet none chided, for he was fragile as a Man with every bone broken.
The Maia was silent.
Then Olórin spoke and all heard, for they attended his words.
“I am ready.”
“For what are you ready?” softly asked Manwë.
“I am ready to return to Your service.” He seemed to grope for words. “I am sorry it has taken me so long to be ready. I have … been lost.”
“You have not been lost,” said the Elder King. “I have always known exactly where you are.”
“Yet … I have been lost.” Olórin blinked a moment, then found the thread of his thoughts once more. “What duties would You have of me?”
“I have no duties for you, beautiful Olórin.”
He pondered this as a child mystified by a puddle appearing abruptly in a desert.
“But I have always served You.” He looked into the face of the King, bewildered. “I was created for this purpose … I must have a duty.”
“Then I will give you one.” He framed the Maia’s face with one hand. All the golden rings threw fire. “Abide,” said Manwë gently. “Abide in the light.”
Olórin gazed at the High King a moment, bereft of anchor. His eyes were troubled and somewhat haunted.
Manwë took pity and the Holy Ones were witness to His kindness.
“One day,” said the High King of Arda. “One day I will have a duty for you, but until that day comes, you shall shelter in my light and abide in peace. Will you wait for that day to serve?”
“I will wait,” said the Maia obediently.
Thus the Valar heard the edict of the Elder King towards His Maia and they honored His pronouncement. In the eternity to follow, not one of the Powers gave any duty to Olórin, though he asked them one by one if he might serve them in some way. Their answer was always the same.
“Abide in the Light of the Lord.”
It was the first time Olórin had spoken since the day he returned to Aman.
Cumulus
Dutiful. Obedient. Flawless. Patient. Beautiful. Faithful.
Such were the Maiar who served Manwë and Varda. Each held jurisdiction over part of the Mansion of High Airs and they were revered and honored amongst their peers. Not one bragged of their place of service. Varda could not abide arrogance and those who thought to speak or act so found themselves released from Ilmarin.
A Maia had not been dismissed from the Elder King’s court for eighty-seven thousand years.
But of the ten and four who served the Master of Winds, none were more devoted than Olórin. From Manwë’s rising and going forth, to the evening when He retired and slipped off the indigo robes, Olórin followed.
He sat outside the King’s Study. He stood in the outer court when the Vanyar came to visit. He lingered near balconies and doorways, coasted quietly down hallways after the Elder King. He was always there, always listening, always silent.
And though the other Maia puzzled and wondered, neither the Elder King nor Varda Elentári rebuked him. If anything, Manwë whispered a summons or stretched a hand to take Olórin’s fingers when He departed a room.
Manwë commanded a place to be sat for him at the Table of the King. Varda moved her dressing room and installed the Maia across the hall from the King’s Room. And though the Master of Winds kept the long hours of which a Valar could endure, Olórin never failed to hear his Lord and rise—stepping into the hallway as Manwë passed in the dawn. There was a footstool just inside the door where the Valar sat counsel in Ilmarin and no Vala thought it odd.
But there was one room where Olórin did not enter: the Sanctuary of Eru Ilúvatar.
Here, amidst nothingness, Manwë Súlimo entered alone. He came bareheaded and barefoot, His long hair unbound and His magnificent cloak discarded in the antechamber. There were stars circling above and below His feet and they glinted flick-silver amidst blackness, dancing. The Elder King looked common, shorn of every trapping of power and status, bereft of crown and scepter, sapphires and diamonds and golden rings.
In this place, He was simple.
Time flowed around the Sanctuary; Manwë could spend two days herein and return to the hall in minutes. Once, on the brink of the final cataclysmic war with Melkor, the Elder King spent seventeen days herein, but emerged in two days.
There was no floor in the Holy Place, but the Elder King stepped out amidst shadows and mist and did not fall. The wheeling stars touched His creamy inner tunic and threw pinpoint lights in His eyes. The air was alive with voices that no other could hear. One amidst the rest was all Manwë listened to and He walked neither slow, nor fast, until that One Voice was heard clearly and there He stopped.
Time ceased.
Olórin looked around the doorframe with one eye and saw Him there, rapt.
“Beautiful Olórin,” said Manwë without turning. “Come here.”
“I cannot,” whispered the Maia. “Only You may enter where Ilúvatar watches and speaks.”
Manwë turned His head. Blue eyes held the Maia shock-still.
“Am I not your Lord?” He inquired.
“You are.” Olórin dropped his gaze. “But no Maia of any status and no Vala save Yourself is permitted to step before the Altar of the Most High God. I will fall into the shadows between the stars.”
“Who is the authority here?” said Manwë just as softly. “Do you not call me ‘Master’ and am I not so? Or did you give over only your fëa and body, and kept your mind and will from my rule?”
He looked away in dismissal, listened to Olórin wrestle fear and uncertainty.
“I am afraid,” he admitted from the doorway. His voice was fragile and thin, hiding tears.
“And you should be,” gently said the Elder King. “You were afraid to go to Middle Earth and face Sauron, afraid your efforts in Middle Earth would fail, afraid to give over your shattered soul to me … why would you not be afraid now?” He held forth His right hand. “Come to me, faithful Olórin, and look neither right, nor left. Look in my face and come.”
The Maia came and though there was nothing beneath his feet, he did not plummet. He walked slowly, without looking away, and took the hand of the High King.
“See? You did not fall.” He could hear the gallop of the Maia’s heart from three handspans away. He did not let go of his fingers. “Gaze only upon my face.”
“How can this be?” Olórin whispered.
“It is not forbidden for the Vala to enter this room, but their souls must be prepared to face the All High,” said Manwë. “Varda has entered this room in need before and come forth without harm. But there are no Maiar with the courage to put the purity of their souls before Ilúvatar and only a Vala in extremis dares.”
Olórin’s eyes shifted from bewilderment to adoration. His shoulders straightened.
“And You come here anytime and stay as long as You wish.” He bowed over Manwë’s fingers and kissed them. “Eruanna, the Gift of God, and Your soul is righteous at all times, without blemish or stain. Though I doubt and fail, Your holiness remains.”
The Elder King smiled.
“You stepped out on the air and came. That faith did not fail.”
“If You will me to die, I will die,” returned he who had once been Gandalf.
“I do not wish your death.”
Manwë listened to the millions of voices and the One Voice a moment. The Maia’s pulse ran like a bushel of apples overturned down a hillside. His fingers were trembling in the Elder King’s grip.
“What do you see out of the corners of your eyes, beautiful Olórin?” whispered the High King.
“Stars, many stars, all of them swirling.” The Maia paused. “Something … bright, like a cloud of white fire. It lingers, ablaze without heat. It should burn the Mansion of Airs down, it is so brilliant.” Olórin peered at Him, perplexed. “What is it?”
“The Altar of Ilúvatar,” He replied, unsurprised that Olórin closed his eyes with a snap. “You cannot endure the fullness of it so Eru withheld the majority from your vision.”
“Is He watching?” Olórin seemed to have misplaced this fact. His grip tightened enough to hurt, but Manwë did not attempt to wrest free.
“He is always watching,” said the Elder King gently. “But because you dwell in my light, because you serve empty of yourself, because you love me with all your being—my holiness streams through you without limit.” He touched the Maia upon the forehead, the lips, and then over his heart. “The Most High God looks within this chamber and sees only me.”
Olórin said nothing. He hung his head, for the endurance of this room was beyond his ability. His breaths came faster. His clarity of mind was becoming vague.
“Lie here at my feet and slumber, for the might of this room drains you to stupor,” said the Elder King and he tugged Olórin downward where he curled about his feet as a favorite hound. “Rest while I worship. I will wake you to leave.”
So Olórin slept, one hand fastened around Manwë’s ankle as if to comfort him. His heart slowed from its terror. The harmonious voices soothed with a million songs that held a single great melody as underpinning. He had no dreams. The surface beneath him felt soft, yielding to his shoulder and hip like a floor of cushions.
But there was no floor. Olórin could not see, but his cloak draped loosely down into the wheeling stars, moving as if their passing raised a breeze.
And Manwë did not mention that Eru Ilúvatar did not merely look into this Holy Place. It was the Glory of His robes that Olórin had seen from the corners of his eyes, for the Father of All sat upon the Altar.
“Benevolent and merciful God,” whispered the Elder King. “You are in me, and I in you.”
Illuminati
Three stood at the reflecting pool of the White Tree and the mist rolled back the stars and the surface was crystal glass.
Glory was Manwë Súlimo, robed in splendor, writing at a gilded desk. The chair back was engraved with stars and a rayed sun. A crown of brilliant light that he seldom wore lay upon the desktop. A scepter of sapphires that sent shafts of light to every corner of the room leaned near His right hand. Five rings, golden as dragon’s eyes. Grandeur all around, yet nothing equaled the majesty of His face.
He lifted a finger as if a warning and they shrank, reproved.
“Stay,” He said, voice soft as summer breeze, and continued writing. Two, three, five minutes passed. The ancient symbols were flawless, pouring from His quill.
They remained, for no will existed to resist His word.
“I did not chastise,” said the Elder King, putting aside the document. “I merely needed to finish what I was writing. The duties of a whole World are just as complicated as being King of two realms.”
The Lord of the White Tree laughed despite decorum. Then he bowed, fingers upon his eyelids, humble and devout.
“We waited ten days before seeking for our friend,” Aragorn said meekly. “We would not trouble you, but memory haunts and we would see him made well.”
“Time moves differently here,” said Manwë. “Sometimes slower, sometimes faster. It has been eleven months since you have come to the Eye of the Valar. Now, look upon he who was Gandalf, and let your hearts be comforted.”
The High King spoke a word softly and Olórin entered and the glory and radiance that should by right be his, was.
He was serene and noiseless, barefoot, robed in pale blue and silver. He came directly to where Manwë sat and knelt, placing his palms flat upon the knees of the Elder King. Seven silver rings and one golden adorned his fingers.
He did not bow his head, but looked directly into the face of his Lord and his alert eyes were brilliant sky. All fear was gone, every hardship vanished, every pain stilled. The love of the High King transcended all misery. Adoration was the fire of a thousand suns in his face.
And Manwë leaned, framed the Maia’s face with His fingers, and kissed him atop the brow where his hair spilled loose like a live thing.
“Beautiful Olórin,” said the High King and nothing more.
“What would you have of me?” asked the Maia.
“No duty have I for you,” and then He pointed. “Look.”
The air shimmered like melting glass before the delight of that familiar smile. Elation erased every fear and sorrow they secretly held as Olórin rose to gaze upon them. All words they would have spoken were left unsaid.
“I left the Eye of the Valar in the Fountain of the White Tree,” said Olórin softly. He did not turn his head. “I think I failed to tell you that.”
“I found it,” said the Elder King. He resumed writing.
“I can explain…” whispered the Maia.
“I need no explanation.” Manwë did not even turn His head. “Do I not know every strand of your being?”
Joy was a whisper that never repeated.
Meadow
Summertime and harvest. Manwë stood with his hair unbound and blowing upon the uppermost balcony. His eyes were that of Eagles, dividing clouds and distance, discerning the ends of the World.
“I am glad you have come,” He said. His voice held the reins of the winds. “Olórin has left the Court of the High King for the first time today. It has taken eight of your years for his heart to step away from mine.”
Perspective shifted, slid sickeningly, settled to a field of growing green where Olórin walked, his hands open and brushing the tops of grasses. He gazed somewhere ahead, searching, and his face was wistful, straining as if seeing something not there.
“Do not speak,” said the Elder King. “I wish him freedom and confidence and he must find it on his own.”
Laughing voices drew notice. The trees ahead harbored dozens of youths, playing. They swooped and climbed, chasing.
But one, smaller than the rest and topped with a mop of brown curls above startling blue eyes … he turned and came running through the glade, which swallowed him up completely save for the wave of grasses as he passed through.
Elation was a white bird taking flight, as Olórin scooped Frodo Baggins into his arms and held him tight. And though the little hobbit wept, the Maia did not. He kissed his brow and wiped away his tears with the hem of his long robe, carrying him onwards to the merry trees.
“You have seen me many times since you arrived, my dear hobbit.”
“Yes, but you’re outside! You are outside this time!”
The young Elves pulled at his fingers and busied him with questions, showed him every hiding hole they had made with branches until the Maia laughed and reclined in the soft grass, refusing to be tugged along with them anymore.
Beauty sat in dappled sunlight, watching the children of Aman walking in treetops.
The children ringed the sleeping Maia with flowers, each one white as hoarfrost.
Equidae
Shadowfax was no longer the Lord of Horses and he roamed freely through forest and glades, along the sheer peaks of the cliffs overlooking the sea. His mane grew long and his tail swept the ground. His forelock hung in his eyes. He breathed seawinds and called, pawing the ground.
No one could catch him amongst the Eldar, not even the Vanyar, highest of the High Elves. He quarreled with their summons and took the road to where the mountains began. There was restless fury in his hooves and none stood in his way.
Mighty Oromë, Lord of the Forest, brought him apples from the High Grove and Manwë came once and gazed long into his eyes. And though the Valar could ride him and some did, they perceived that his great heart was distressed and they let him in peace.
Then Olórin came and Varda laughed from high Taniquetil, for she heard his glad whistle and the shriek of the stallion in answer.
They galloped the length and breadth of Aman and the steed’s hooves threw sparks when they crossed the diamond sands to the south. They swam every river, sped as a streak across the flats, and rode the mountains down. The Maia did not return until nightfall, when all the stars danced.
The seven stars remaining in his soul danced as well.
From then on, the Stallion of Middle Earth permitted riders, though children did not dare his strength. Frodo could canter in circles, though his grip was over tight and he had to be coaxed before he would permit Olórin to lift him to the steed’s back.
Shadowfax was the only horse that could come to the very edge of the Court of the Elder King without chastisement.
His hooves tore up the tender soil. He pestered attention from every soul who passed. He drank out of the nearest fountain and made all the golden fish flee. He jerked on the branches of the High King’s apple tree and robbed all the fruits. He cropped the astilbe and myrtles, nipped off all the blooms of the bellflowers, and shook the petals off every rose.
Varda laughed and commanded more to be planted.
There were twelve foals expected with the lineage of a Middle Earth mearas.
Transmutation
The Elves came, because their songs soothed and they sat without the cottage and sang with splendor. They did not cease, night or day. Their ranks changed as they tired, for all wished to sing for this occasion.
The Powers of Arda came one by one, if only to peer into the little room and look a moment.
Manwë Súlimo came from His temple and sat vigil in a great chair. Frodo Baggins cried himself to sleep upon the knee of the High King and Manwë said no word of chiding.
Olórin came as well … but Bilbo Baggins had never quite adjusted to the voice and visage of the Maia since he arrived in the Blessed Realm. Now he did not recognize him at all and Olórin’s heart was sad.
The Elder King lifted a single finger and poured the Maia into the wizened form of Gandalf the Grey and then when he spoke, frail Bilbo knew him.
The bed was small, but the wizard lay down and curled around the back of the hobbit.
“Are you keeping me warm, Gandalf?” said Bilbo.
“Yes,” said he. His voice rumbled comfortingly.
“I am rather cold. Always cold these last weeks,” whispered Bilbo. “And I am sorry … I am too tired to make you any tea today.”
“I did not want any tea anyway, dear Bilbo,” softly said Gandalf.
Silence. The hobbit’s breath and pulse were too slow and then too fast.
“I hear the Elves,” said Bilbo. “I have always liked the Elves.”
“They like you,” said Gandalf. “As do I.”
“You haven’t visited much, Gandalf. Why didn’t you come to see me more often?” chided Bilbo. “I should have liked to have you visit.”
Gandalf said nothing. A tear leaked around the corner of his eye and across the bridge of his nose sideways, for he had visited every day.
“Why am I so cold?” asked the hobbit. He closed his eyes tiredly. “The sun is out today.”
“You are dying, dear Bilbo,” eventually whispered Gandalf.
The hobbit opened his eyes, dimly saw the glory of Manwë beside his bed.
“Yes, I think I am,” he returned.
“Do not be afraid.”
“I’m a Baggins!” he protested feebly. “I’m not afraid of death. Just afraid of being cooked by Goblins!”
He heaved an exhausted sigh. It was a longer interval before the next breath.
“Bilbo,” said Gandalf gently. “I have told you that I love you many times, do you remember?”
“Yes, and I feel the same about you,” eventually came his wispy voice. “Now let a tired hobbit sleep. When I wake up, then perhaps I will be ready to make you some tea…”
“Sleep then, dear hobbit,” whispered Gandalf. “I will wait for tea.”
There would be no tea.
Olórin was perfectly still while his tears ran.
Bilbo Baggins was the first death for many years in the Undying Lands, but it would not be the last. Gandalf the Grey would be there for each one.
Seabird
The gulls were bright, but not as bright as the smile of Samwise Gamgee.
Cirdan drove the last ship into the sand, for he wisely perceived that his charge would go over the side and he could not swim. All on the shore heard the Shipwright’s laughter when he was proved right.
There were hobbits dancing on the beach of Aman.
Vanya
“I do not puzzle the decades I have waited to serve You. I do not question my place in Your dwelling. I question none of Your actions or thoughts. I listen as I ever have listened for Your call, I wait upon You as diligently as of old, when I was young. I consider nothing outside of my obedience to You.” He paused, and then said solemnly. “There is nothing outside of the glory of You.”
“Yet, at times there is trouble in the corners of your mind, beautiful Olórin.”
The Maia studied Manwë’s face. As ever, completely lost in the wonder of it. Especially here in the Temple of the Elder King, where the stars held in the airy ceiling of the Mansion of High Airs rained soft light down upon the Alter of Manwë and He stood so calmly amidst braziers and incense and the prayers of those forgotten by all save Him.
“Why do you call me ‘beautiful’ when I of a certainty know I am no longer beautiful?” eventually said the Maia. “I am fair to look upon, but You look with the inward eye, revealing the soul of the living … and my fëa is a tomb.”
“Did you ever see me fail to beckon the morning light?” asked Manwë instead. “Have I once forgotten how to weave the winds or to pile the clouds so they give rain at the proper time?”
“Nay, Lord, You have never failed.”
Olórin leaned from where he knelt and kissed the fingers of the Elder King’s right hand, the hand of might and majesty.
Manwë Súlimo cupped Olórin’s chin and drew the Maia to his feet, made him stand face to face.
“Only one thing have I failed in all my wisdom to do,” He said softly. The wind whispered through the stars and they voiced like hundreds of finely tuned chimes. “In all your worship here in the Halls of Ilmarin before you were sent to Middle Earth, not once did I speak of the beauty in your soul.
“Varda placed the stars in your fëa on Creation Day because you were a simple pattern … none of us realized that your plain motif was designed to grow on its own; a tender shoot that springs up and eventually holds the rooftop of the forest overhead. Her stars ultimately became ornaments upon the tapestry of your fëa; embellishments only. And you never knew, because you did not look. Your every thought was captive to me alone.”
“I am your bondservant,” said Olórin, as if it should be obvious. “All outward things pass away save my love for the High King.”
Manwë smiled into his face.
“Beautiful Olórin,” He said softly. “You speak the truth; your fëa is a tomb, empty and dark. But you forget that in emptiness and darkness, my light shines more perfectly. You are beautiful as you ever were; the delight of Varda and the worshipper of my heart. And in your trusting darkness, I navigate your soul to the proper shore. Remember … remain in my light, Olórin, for then you are whole.”
“Remember?” he answered. “How could I forget? You have always been my hiding place.”
Smoke
Manwë needed no words to know, for all things of Arda were revealed to His sight. He found Olórin on the uppermost balcony and pain was a flinching blade as He stepped into the wind. He put his hand upon the Maia’s back, just between his shoulders.
“Beautiful Olórin,” said the Elder King kindly. “You knew this day would come.”
“Yes,” he returned. “You told me the day and the hour, yet still I am not ready to lay down Gondor’s King.”
Manwë turned Olórin in His arms and held him, wormed His fingers through his mane of hair until He reached the skin.
“You are ready. And he is ready. He has waited for this day, choosing his own time, in his strength and clarity of mind. You would not rob his choice,” said the Elder King gently.
“No.” Olórin’s voice was empty of all light.
Varda came and the sky bowed before her beauty. She took Olórin’s hand and her husband’s. They faced the hour together and only one wept.
Cinder
Aragorn Elessar of the House Telcontar did not fail his promise. He stepped into the reflection pool of the Fountain of the White Tree and retrieved a white stone. It became translucent in his hand and he carried it with him to the Silent Street, to the place prepared for him.
The goodbyes to the White City had been said.
Only Arwen Undómiel remained, she who was first and should be last.
And he laid himself in the place meant for him, with the Eye of the Valar in one hand, and looked upon she who had been his whole life. There were no more tears to spend, for death waited quietly and he would not struggle now with the choice he had made.
He said his words. He said goodbye to what was dearest and best. He closed his eyes upon the beauty of her face and everything swirled into darkness.
For a measureless moment he waited, wondering in this place of silence and gloom. He did not open his eyes; he strained to hold in his mind the visage of his Beloved and felt even that slide away from him. Only inky blackness remained and it was a vast void on all sides.
Lost.
“Estel.”
The voice was slightly different, but the manner it spoke that name was familiar. Azure eyes looked solemnly into his, though everything else remained in darkness.
“Gandalf?” he whispered, for his voice was frail with sorrow and loss. A bewildering rending this was … to leave her and lose his grip upon her face, yet behold these eyes.
“Did I not say to you, ‘do not swerve when you walk in the darkness, for I am right ahead of you. Reach forth your hand and find me there’?”
He could not speak, could not even extend a hand. He gazed back, empty of will, into the eyes of the only person he trusted beyond death.
“Hold the stone in both hands.” He obeyed without question. “Now, I want you to stay right here. Do not move, do not lie down, do not listen to any voices, nor obey any summons. You will be alone in darkness and it will seem forever—but do not move from this place. I have bound your soul with a strand of my own; it will hold you from fate if you will it.”
Those pale blue eyes drifted closer, but no breath was behind them. He felt a ribbon of fear and then thrust it aside. There was only one anchor here.
“Do you trust me, Estel?”
This he knew. “Yes.”
“I have spent a lifetime teaching you trust. Stay right here.”
Then blue eyes and voice were gone and he stood in limitless darkness … and it was forever. And sometimes he cried, alone and empty and full of desolation, but he never moved.
Ashes
She went finally to the hill of Cerin Amroth, where true love began, and there she laid her beauty amongst the fading trees. All was silent, save the beat of her heart.
And the Evenstar of Elves said farewell to her land and to the sky above, the chirp of birds that no longer could hear her thoughts. The magic of the Firstborn was lost to her, lost as a jewel amidst washing sands.
But at the very last, when the world faded from her gaze, Legolas came and took her into his arms. His breath was as warm as life and memory, the Warden of her soul. She had no words left to give him, for comfort or for peace.
He asked none.
“Search for him,” said the archer and his tears fell freely, though she could not feel them. ‘Beyond the Circle of the World; search for him.”
Arwen Undómiel looked ahead, beyond the wall of the living and dead and she went quietly there, with the memory of the archer’s blue eyes burned across the back of her mind.
He could not put her down for three sunturns, though her body grew cool.
But his soul was not quiet and every leaf fell from above, dying in the misery of his melody. Earth Power groaned and every song hidden in the bones of the world remembered sorrow.
They buried her body in a shallow grave, where sunlight and rain would touch her. Candleflowers and lilies and jasmines grew there every year in remembrance.
The last Singer of Middle Earth needed no reminders where she was laid, but he never went there again.
Dreaming
“Daughter of the Twilight.”
Arwen turned, for even in this sense of obscurity, she recognized the only soul who used that title for her. The memory of deep grief, of Legolas’ last tears, faded. Blue eyes looked into hers.
“Come with me,” he said, and led her away into darkness.
The soul of the Man stood exactly where he had left him and there was a sweet rush of recognition when they all met. Then Olórin took them away.
They had no fear, though the Maia took them west and beneath the cold mountains of Valinor. The caverns were dark and full of echoes and they clung to the warmth of Olórin and he did not forbid. He passed the deep hall of Nienna, called Fui, and took them silent as air into the Hall of Mandos, where the floors were jet black and all the walls were draped with vapor.
And there he found a place near a corner, where the steep pitch of the chamber came low, and he faced their spirits one to the other. So he who was Aragorn beheld the fëa of she who was Arwen for the first time, whole and not in part, and she was radiant. His soul was a hopelessly tangled string and she loved every strand of it.
“Hold each other,” whispered Olórin, taking the Eye of the Valar, and they did so instinctively, tucking their essence around each other. “Look into each others soul.”
Then he took the silver scarf, which long he had worn and carried through Aman and then through Middle Earth, yet none of its threads were broken and its brightness undimmed. It glittered like a silver string and he fastened it about them and tied the ends in a knot.
“Will you be content?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” said he.
“Always,” said she.
And then he left them with no farewell or lingering look and neither noticed, spellbound in each other.
But a voice more powerful than the depths of the mountain called to Olórin as he crept away and he halted instantly and knelt, face to the floor, palms flat.
“What hast thou done, Olórin, Treasure of Manwë?” said the Lord of the House of the Dead. “The souls of Men go to Nienna to think upon their deeds in life and be judged, then sail upon the black ship, Mournië, to the destination of Eru. Only the soul of the Elf may remain here in silent contemplation before choosing her final destiny; that of Men or Elves.”
“These may contemplate here, or there, but they will repent nothing of their deeds,” replied the prostrate Maia. “All their great choices remain sound and the small ones matter little.”
“Have you appointed yourself Judge? No dominion do the Maiar have in the Hall of Mandos.” He towered over the humble Olórin.
“I do not judge, mighty Námo. You alone keep the slain and know all deeds of the living and the dead. Did you see any arrogance in my fëa when I came here bearing the wounds of the Valaraukar?”
“No,” eventually said Mandos. “And Eru Ilúvatar spoke and I did His bidding freely and with joy and let you go.”
“And did you not listen to the most grievous song in all of Arda, one that continues to be sung in Valinor and listened to by the Valar, sung by Lúthien who watered your feet with her tears of petition?” said Olórin. “Were you not moved to pity for her sorrow?”
“I will not be so moved for these,” sternly said Mandos. He was unsurprised that the Maia cowered further. He was surprised to see Manwë Súlimo standing beside a black column, but the High King of Arda made no move to intercede. “I will not grant them life again.”
“I do not petition for their lives. They are dead. Only … let them remain together. They will stand just as they are for eternity and cause no harm.”
Mandos searched the fëa of those who remained silently spellbound in each other and saw that Olórin’s words were true. He looked upon the pleading Maia.
“Why should I grant your appeal?” he challenged.
“For surely you are wise and would not wish me to sing. I would erase what memory you retain of beautiful Lúthien.”
The Doomsman of the Valar looked at Manwë and saw the quirk of the Elder King’s smile. He raised an eyebrow in return, for He had heard that the Maia, Olórin, had retained both the humor and argumentativeness he had learned in Middle Earth.
“I am glad he belongs to You,” said Mandos gruffly. Olórin wisely did not move, even to raise his face to see to whom the Vala spoke. “Yet I cannot permit what he asks without The One’s permission.”
“I have already asked, Master of Spirits, for nothing of Olórin’s thoughts or actions goes unnoted by me,” softly said Manwë. “Eru has seen their souls and has granted that they may abide together, for their days were full of trial and they were instrumental in the downfall of Sauron.” He looked upon the Lord of the House of the Dead. “You may choose their place, wither they stay or go from your domain.”
Mandos turned, for his sister, Nienna, entered the Timeless Hall from her own upon hearing voices.
“Did you teach him this?” asked Mandos, gesturing.
“I do not teach dissent or laughter,” she replied gravely. “But if he pleads for pity or compassion, then he learned it at my knee.”
She was very still and the single light of the House of the Dead made her shadow giant against the wall. The mist of the floor rose, concealing her to the ankles.
For a time, all was silent, and then Mandos spoke with a voice of might and his words were absolute.
“They may stay where you have placed them, bound together, until the World is unmade. But you must never come here again, not to look upon them or speak, for I will not have the House of the Dead disrupted.”
Olórin raised his face from the floor. “I will not come here again,” he whispered and then he wept silently, for he had dared against the might of Mandos. Nienna raised him and took him out of the depths of the mountains and dried his tears.
“The heart of Námo has learned compassion,” said Manwë.
“Surely my sister’s fault,” returned he. His deep eyes were fond.
But Manwë Súlimo smiled and took his mighty arm with His own.
“You have always had compassion, Mandos. You only require a great cause to exercise it.”
Olórin never went again to the Halls of Waiting, nor did he mourn.
Shoreline
A sea of glittering silver.
Olórin walked along the shoreline to meet them and Legolas sprang lightly onto the quay and ran. His eyes had been transformed by the journey; he saw the fullness and splendor of the Maia and his laugh was wondrous.
“I shed no tears for you—not one!” he said.
“I watched to be sure!” said he who was once Mithrandir.
It was only then that the archer wept, for those he loved had passed from life and he leaned his head and heart against the Maia where they stood near the sea. Olórin held him and let his tears fall.
“The Lord of the Breath of Arda hears every cry and lament,” said Olórin gravely into the archer’s sea tossed hair. “He saves every tear in a vial, waiting for the day when they shall be poured out in accusation against those that caused them and against Death itself. None of them are lost, for His hand is mighty and His grip sure. There will come a great day of judgment for the woes of Middle Earth’s people and you shall live to see it.”
Then Olórin took Gimli, Elf-friend, from the ship amidst complaining and irritability, but every word of protest failed once he looked up. Galadriel stood upon the shoreline to receive him and she was glorious. When she bent to kiss him, every Noldor upon the shore bowed, but Gimli noticed nothing beyond the Lady of the Woods.
Then Aulë, The Smith, descended from his house with a mighty hammer across his shoulder and seven braids in his beard. Gimli made an odd sound and bowed as best he could without letting go of Galadriel’s hand or dropping his own axe and hammer. Aulë roared in laughter to witness it.
“Up, Master of the Aglarond, first to trod Aman’s shores!” he boomed. “I left a hill uncarved and you must plan the shape of its heart. And then I must take you to see the metal of the south mountains, for it is black as night and makes axeblades sharper than dragon’s teeth! Much to do! Much to do, now that you are here!” And The Smith strode away with Gimli dogging his heels, rapturous.
Legolas placed his hands upon Bilbo’s grave a moment when they passed, for he was the Ring Finder. Frodo yet lived, though his youthfulness was fading, and he both laughed and cried upon seeing the archer. Samwise came from the garden, his hands dirty and a leaf in his hair. Gimli was delivered back to them, but only for an evening warned Aulë.
“You have had him for ever so much time compared to me, for no Dwarves dwell in the Blessed Realm!” he said with his booming voice. “Feast him well, for I will not share him again for at least a week!”
So they were five, sitting close about a table and remembering absent friends and journeys taken. No one minded tears and no one minded the familiar jokes. The hobbits danced and Legolas sang and Olórin spoke of the compassion of Mandos. So their hearts were made glad and laughter gradually took them over and the peace of Aman dispelled all sorrows.
And Manwë Súlimo stood at His loftiest balcony, listening to the raucous merrymakers until the evening star rose, the fairest of winds whispering through His fingers.
“Soon,” He said. “All has been prepared. Soon.”
4. The Dancing Wounded
He had gazed into the beauty of her soul for so many ages, yet it was only seconds.
Enough for a single breath.
Then he was awake, startled by the beauty of Arwen Undómiel, and she was solid and warm in his arms. The breath and beat of his heart was a lesser surprise than beholding the Lady of Imladris and he did the first thing that came to mind. He kissed her and then just gazed silently, unable to look away.
She could not look away either, but eventually her eyes drifted over his shoulder and Aragorn Elessar turned.
Mandos stood silently and the ebony walls behind him swallowed every light. He was as big as his voice and twice as powerful, with great dark brows and a heavy face. Might sang through his broad frame, even through the tendons of his neck. Across his shoulders hung a cape black as a cave. He regarded them without malice a moment.
Aragorn drew from confusion, bowed, fingers over his eyes and only then did Mandos speak.
“Shake from slumber, Aragorn, founder of the House of Telcontar,” he said. The walls threw his voice back upon them. “It is time.”
“Time?” Aragorn’s voice was gravel and dust.
Mandos smiled. A dark flame leapt in his eyes and it would have been terrifying, save for that pleased expression. He held out an object and it was a moment before Aragorn could tear his gaze away from the Doomsman of the Valar.
The pommel of Andúril glinted golden even in twilight.
“Come. It is the last battle and every soul has a role to play.”
Battle.
But the hilt of the Great Sword in his hand remembered everything and spoke clearly.
They emerged from the Hall of Waiting into glorious day. The Man staggered, blinded and blinking and a hand caught his arm to steady him. The grip was achingly familiar. He did not need to look to know.
“Legolas,” he whispered.
“Aragorn.” His voice was dazzling.
The day was not too bright, it was just his heart. He pulled the archer’s head against his own, let his soul turn over. Only the uncanny strength of the Elf kept him upright.
Then Arwen ducked out of the dark caverns and Legolas raised his head, quick as a stag. Aragorn felt the snap of Legolas’ spirit and though they stood ten feet away, the Elves touched, circled, knew each other home. Not a word was spoken.
“Come, come,” said the Vala. He gazed off toward towering peaks far in the distance. “The storm is coming and we must be there before the sky is taken.”
Only then did Aragorn look around … and the mountain was filled with people, great and small, noble and plain. In every hand was a blade. On every shoulder, a shield. Spears and bows were as far as the eye could see. A mighty host of arms stood shoulder to shoulder.
Námo, Master of Spirits, stood central amidst the multitude for he had raised them. He looked upon the living dead in one sweeping gaze and lifted his arms, broad as beams.
“We must go. Close your eyes.”
And they were gone.
They were set with another great host and there were many to be astonished at. No soul could endure the joy greeting every old friend and kin.
For King Théoden was dressed in battle armor and Elrond and Gil-galad stood side by side. The spear of Gil-galad, Aiglos, was four feet above their heads. Arwen joined them and Hadhafang shown fire. Elrond took the face of his daughter in his hands and looked upon her for a long moment.
Éomer was in his helm, laughing with Éowyn. Celeborn held a sword white as frost. Gimli stood with his axe and cudgel. Elrohir, Thingol, Faramir, buckling on a second sword. Galadriel held a bow of silver and her arrows were white fire. The Great Mariner Eärendil, with a star upon his brow that held lightning—one of the Silmarils.
Kar, the Eldest, testing the edge of his axe. Echthelion, Slayer of the Lord of Balrogs. Haldir, Elendil, Beren, beloved of Lúthien. Tragic Túrin and Ferin Bloodhammer and Degnar of Barrindar Pass. Glorfindel, with a sword as deadly as his beauty. Elros, brother of Elrond, First King of Númenor.
Lúthien came in her cloak of shifting shadows and Men staggered at her beauty, save one, who kissed her. Oláin Ironshield and Durin the Deathless, to whom every Dwarf bowed instinctively. Ar-Pharazôn, last King of Númenor and with him, the host of Númenóreans who had repented their treacherous landing upon Aman’s shores. They stood as a glorious army themselves, tall and strong and fearless.
It was a perfectly deadly, raucous force of arms and they covered the mountain and hills overlooking the vast plain of Valinor.
And then, winding their way through the boisterous and armored citizens came the mightiest of the Valar, the Arator. The only Vala outside the seven of Aman’s mightiest was Tulkas Alstado, The Valiant.
Aulë, the Smith, came down with a great axe across the beam of his shoulders. The hammerhead at his belt surely weighed a hundred pounds. His steps were ponderous and the ground shivered with his passing. His black beard was divided into two braids and bound with golden thread looking ever so much as a girls pigtails … and not a single being upon the field dared laugh, for the Father of Dwarves was deep through the chest and the thick thatch of hair that ran down his torso did little to conceal the roll of muscles beneath.
The Dwarves gravitated his direction, drawn by the might of his spirit, each of them a smaller version of The Smith.
Yavanna Kementári came with Aulë for they were wed. She was tall and full-bodied and curvaceous; the image of fertile earth, and her dark hair fell loose down her back. She wore a cloak of shifting iridescent colors and when she extended a hand, it moved along her arm as if a living. The garment sang with a million small voices, each sweet and high as struck metal.
The Dwarves stared, agog, for the cloak was spun steel and each thread had its own strength and thought—an intricate weave of protection crafted by Aulë. And if he was their Father, then Yavanna, Queen of Earth, was the embodiment of their Mother and they bowed in a wave across the hillside, beards touching the ground.
She carried no weapon that could be seen, but the grass parted before her and she leaned, picked up a quickly sprouting vine with thorns long and black. She picked another, then another as they grew at her commandment until she carried a whip of deadly nettles that would strip the flesh from bones.
Oromë, garbed in browns and greens, carried his great war horn, Valaroma. And when he blew a single note, every Elf turned at that call and answered with a shout. He wore an emerald belt, glittering as jade fire. He was tall and sinewy and lean, elegant as a hunting hound, with eyes thrice as cunning. The bow he carried was taller than he, carved of a single heart of yew, and no Man or Elf could string it. The tips of his arrows were blood red.
Youthful and blonde, Tulkas, the most warlike of the Valar, came bareheaded and barehanded. He was brawny and brazen and stripped to the waist and his musculature made the army stare in awe. But he laughed and sported with those he passed, wrestling Dwarves and jostling Men as if the fight ahead was some game to be tussled with. All hearts were lifted just to behold his vibrancy towards the coming brawl.
Námo, the Doomsman of the Valar was stern and silent, his thunderous brows a single line beneath a riot of black locks that fell jaggedly in his eyes. The waiting host fell back before his grimness and no one met his eyes. Sunlight vanished into his dark clothing and the ebony cape fluttered and seemed to move under its own will. His sword nearly cut a furrow as he strode down the hillside.
Only one dared to intercept Mandos.
Tulkas encountered him along the way and they met with a roar and crashed their chests together as if in contest. There was a shove, a slap, a cuff about the ears, and a welter of rough words exchanged before they broke. Tulkas hooted and catcalled and Mandos propelled him away with a laugh. The ground shuddered a few instances past their friendly wrestle.
Then the Judge of the Dead sobered once more and his face grew dispassionate as he continued to the front of the massed army of races.
Nienna, Lady of Sorrows, came clothed in grey the color of ashes. She was solemn and beautiful, her skin pale as washed sand. And though she shed no tears, when she glanced aside once, Men and Dwarves winced. Grief and sorrow was an invisible dagger and of such, she was the Mistress. Every lament and misery that dwelled in the deep places of Earth came to her, powerful as a thousand knives. She walked behind Mandos and took up the corner of his black cape to be towed along and he did not dissuade her, for they were kindred, brother and sister.
Varda Elentári did not descend with the rest of the Arator; she remained on the brow of the hill overlooking the Plain of Valinor. She stood still and tall and glorious, Aman’s most potent Queen and her hands held no weapon of any kind.
Most fearsome of all, Ulmo, King of the Seas, rose from beyond the range of the Pelóri, towering in his glittering green armor. He blew a strident note from his horn, Ulumuri, and the sound of every hurricane and typhoon gave voice within it. The entire army cowered, terrified.
And then the Lord of Waters laughed, and every stream and brook and fountain danced musically in his voice and the myriad races forgot their fears. Around the island of Aman, he raised the sea in a towering tidal wave that crested above the peaks of the mountains in white foam … then held it there, a ring of formidable power.
Behind each Vala came the Maia of their order and they stood together, save one, for Olórin left the company and came to Aragorn and Legolas and Arwen. He carried his White Staff of old, without a single knot marking the wood. On his way, he drew Gimli and Ráne and Boramir, who had redeemed his soul at the end. Faramir beheld his brother and took his arm and they could not be parted.
Aragorn and Arwen greeted Olórin with joy and would not release him for many minutes. He laughed in their ears and held them both tightly, then bowed and kissed Arwen’s hands and drew his right thumb down the center of Aragorn’s forehead.
Joy made their eyes weep and he who once was Gandalf brushed away their tears.
“All things move in circles,” said the Maia. His eyes were the blue of heaven.
Aragorn Elessar looked out amongst the mass of valiant souls.
“Who will lead this war?” he asked of Olórin, for the magnitude of command was overwhelming to contemplate.
“Only one shall command,” said the Maia, “for He is our vanguard.”
Then every eye beheld Manwë Súlimo striding through the ranks. He wore no armor and no crown, carried no dagger or sword or scepter. His power was within, illuminate through His skin. And as He passed, barefoot and gentle, silence fell.
When he turned at the foremost line of warriors, glory sat His brow and every Man and Elf and Dwarf, every Valar and Maiar, bowed. He raised them with a single lift of His hand.
“You are those who love right,” said He and the wind carried His voice to every ear. “Who know justice and mercy and uprightness. You need no lofty speech to rouse you to fight evil and I will give you none. I stand on the side of Ilúvatar and those who love Him will follow. You are the Army of Righteousness and to you has been trusted this fateful day.”
Then He looked clear to the back, where a host of hobbits sat up high and safe on the brow of the hill.
“Be not afraid, for I go before you. Though wickedness gather and the sky fail, a greater power is within you than is in the World.”
And Manwë held up His right hand and strode down toward the plain of green and every soul followed in a great march, sliding silver and black and golden down the hillsides. Not a word was shouted. No one faltered or fell. And when the Elder King closed his fist, every soldier halted where he stood, obedient. They were millions strong.
There was silence.
Then came a terrible sound.
And then the sky above ripped like fabric and the sun wavered where it was pinned and every warrior felt terror take his heart, despite the Valar in their midst. Manwë did not move, but far behind where the gentle hobbits wailed in fright, Varda, mightiest of Valar’s Queens lifted a hand and steadied the sun and it did not fall.
And through a monstrous tear in the Door of the Night, came blackness. It oozed and slid down the curve of sky as if the Heavens were wounded and bled. Gouts of shapes disgorged from that horrifying rent, twisted and malevolent, clotted and foul, and dropped to the far plain. They heaved about, rashly birthed and misshapen, things consumed and disgorged. Revulsion made Men and Dwarves clear their mouth and spit.
But one form sprang out entire and discernable in the likeness of a magnificent and dread King. He strode forward and his eyes blazed with fury. Where his feet stepped, the grasses died and turned black and the plain shriveled behind him in a great wake of death.
This was Melkor, brother of Manwë, the dark deceiver of the world in the beginning of time and he struck his first blow from far away without preamble, for his rage had seethed for countless millennia. He cast an arc of the blackness from the Void towards the waiting army and it came quickly, roaring, an immense semicircle of evil and the conflagration wavering behind the curve of its blade streamed a half league behind.
Manwë Súlimo shouted no order, but He lifted again His right hand and gave a single gesture; palm down, fingers straight—the sign of the belly. Every person behind Him, great and small, fell flat in answer. Even mighty Ulmo sank into the sea, though his towering tsunami ringing Valinor remained just as he had placed it.
The scythe of Melkor came swiftly, more swiftly than the air could move from its path, and the sky became an inferno as friction ignited just ahead of the edge.
Manwë lifted His left hand, held it vertically before His face and spoke one word—and the winds came screaming from every corner of Arda. The steady breeze of plains, the dancing puffs of forests, the tumultuous warring mountain eddies, the high frozen streams where not even the clouds could endure; all came to the Master of Winds in a great torrent and streamed their power past the flat of His hand.
The wedge of wind rammed Melkor’s blade of darkness as if Manwë had struck it with the edge of His hand and the black curl of the Void bent around the High King’s face and went sailing over the heads of His people as a thousand howling wolves.
The collision was tremendous.
The sun fell. The heavens plunged into darkness. Pinpoint stars emerged, but the rage of potent magic consuming the sky sundered their grip and they cascaded down in streaks until none remained. Varda reached and caught Valacirca, the Sickle of the Valar, as it fell lest it pierce the land. The moon sagged like molten slag and then fled away as if vaporized. Men could not shout through their terror and the hobbits had long since closed their eyes. Every Elf cried out at once and it was the same voice and word.
Only the Dwarves were unafraid, for darkness was their friend, and they watched the encounter of wind and shadowy flame and were witness to Melkor’s swirling half circle break in half and then be cut into pieces by the tempest winds that hounded it.
When it fell quiet, Varda lifted a light into the sky so all could see, but it was not the quality of the destroyed sun. Nienna shed a single tear, but Mandos, her brother, caught it before it fell and kissed it from his fingers.
Manwë turned to look upon the Army of Righteousness as they stirred to their feet, shaken and faltering. Compassion and tenderness was His crown. Their hearts took hope even as they cringed back from the dread of Melkor who continued to stride ever closer.
And to their dismay and trepidation, behind the wicked Melkor, the shapes that had fallen found their order and advanced.
Sauron came and his visage was terrible and menacing. Balrogs and wargs, werewolves and Haunts and ominous shapes that had no name. Seventeen thousand marching Men who stood for the side of evil. The great black wolfhounds of Barad-dûr, who could seize a Mumakil and bring it down if so ordered. Orcs and Trolls and Manges. Sauruman, tall and bitter and his staff bleeding black blood. Vampires and Wights and the Black Walkers of the Swamps. Murazor, the Witch King, who needed no helm now to define whom he was. And Dragons came, one black and scarred and his eyes aflame.
It was a daunting and immense army and the power of their evil will reached across the plain, touching every soul of light. There was a smear of something foul in the air.
The Lord of Arda spoke no courage, no hope, and no word of comfort. But as He turned away from them, compassion faded from His countenance and His regal face became stern and hard. No soul could endure the sight of it and they were glad He faced away. A stalwart commander stood before them and his long hair blew sidelong before a breeze that cleared the air of acrid smoke and dust.
Manwë rolled up His right sleeve and stood waiting.
“Behold,” said Olórin with reverence. “The Lord has bared His Holy arm.”
Two souls with him blinked and nodded, remembering those words from a lifetime ago.
The King of Arda waited and Melkor strode up to within twenty feet and halted. Their eyes were the same color, the features of their face similar. Melkor had the same bewitching beauty as that of the Lord of the Breath of Arda and Men’s eyes smarted to look upon them together.
“Brother,” said the Dark Lord, his voice ancient and sinister.
“Brother,” said Manwë without malice. “Repent of your wickedness.”
“Repent?” mocked Melkor and those behind laughed in derision. “You come with your feeble Men and Elves, your Valar who have a lesser measure of power than I and expect me to repent? A pitiful war this shall be.” He exhaled a gust of foul air. “I have placed my power in the foundation song of Arda and it will fight for its Master.”
Legolas, Songmaster of Middle Earth, said nothing, but he raised an eyebrow. Aragorn smiled.
“I will bargain for your army,” said Melkor. He pointed with his finger and the grass died as if he had touched it across the wide plain where he stood with his foul demons. “Come across the line, brother, and fight for your cause. If I prevail, you go into shadows as I once was forced and perhaps I will let them live.”
“A hideous life,” demurred Manwë.
“But life nonetheless. Would you not save them as you have ever tried to save them? Do you not realize I have the power to send them to the abyss?” He was all the more terrifying for the calmness in which he spoke; the absolute authority of a ruler. “I control the Door of Night, for which they are not designed. What shall become of their souls if I cast them into the endless Void and they fall forever?”
“You should forgive them, for compassion is the hallmark of a just leader.”
“I am no just leader,” Melkor returned sternly. The ground trembled and Varda’s meager light faded. “You will die along with the rest of the Valar and I will sweep the small vermin away; the simple halflings and the stumpy Dwarves, the lesser beings who have been miscast since creation. The rest who follow you shall repent and serve me, or be sacrificed.”
“None will choose to repent righteousness.”
“I can make them choose to live in my shadow,” coolly said Melkor. “I have the will and I have stored my strength for millennia awaiting this day. Men and Elves have come to the power of my authority since they took their first breath.” He tilted his head as if taunting. “The Vala will die, yet perhaps I shall keep your Queen, for she is desirable. Step onto the field, brother, and face me!”
Manwë did not respond to the taunt or the dire threats … he merely sighed and all heard the woe in His breath. He looked down at His feet and this apparent faltering stunned even Melkor. For a moment, all was still.
“I will not cross into the death of the plain, for you have cursed the ground of the battlefield and I am holy,” said Manwë solemnly. “But another will go in my place.”
“Send your great warrior to face me, then,” challenged Melkor. Sauron sidled up beside the dark Vala and was shoved aside. “Give me room.”
“Olórin, lay aside your staff,” said the Elder King. His voice was gentle, but the Maia heard the command in His tone. “Step onto the battlefield.”
And though Aragorn stretched a hand in warning and Legolas spoke his name, he who had once been Gandalf obeyed the authority of his Lord. He handed the White Staff to the nearest Vala and went without a word to step onto the ruined plain of Valinor. He was pale and frightened, but obedient, having waited countless ages for the Elder King to give him duty.
“A Maia?” demanded the potent Vala. “You send a simple Maia to overpower me? Have you forgotten I can kill him without even touching him?”
“You may kill him.” Manwë’s voice was completely serene and those hearing it felt as if they stood upon a precipice. “It will do little service to you. He is already dead.”
Then Melkor, mighty of old, looked fully at the being upon the blackened field and saw the ghost where the light of his soul once had dwelled. Death had come before him, unweaving every thread and there were none left to rend or use for terror. He was an apparition and empty, illuminated only faintly.
“He was unmade long ago,” said Manwë softly. “He dances now at my will, for he is content within my spirit. There is no trial or fear greater than that which he has fallen through already.”
“Why did you keep this alive? It is worse than the Raavhar, The Bodiless,” said Melkor with scorn. He made a rough gesture that did not touch the Maia, but Olórin jerked as if a blade grazed him. “This does not even have a soul. It is an abomination.”
“You put your power in dead things and taught your followers the same. You gave dirt and rocks, crowns and rings your spirit and will.” Manwë smiled and the light of it turned Olórin to face him like a cat turns to warmth. “I put my power in the living and they are holy.”
Melkor said nothing to this truth, but those behind him murmured sullenly.
“What would You have of me?” whispered Olórin.
“I need seven stars,” said Manwë very solemnly.
“You may have mine.”
“There are but seven stars left dwindling in your fëa, Olórin,” warned the Elder King gently. “Darkness will take you, and the Void will draw you, and I cannot raise you from that depth. You will have fallen beyond the grasp of even I.”
But the Maia looked into the face of the only Lord he had ever served and the death of the plain, the tear in the sky, the murmuring wraiths just past his vision, the horror and frightening power of Melkor, and the silent armies passed from his thoughts.
There was only Manwë Súlimo standing upon the plain. His sole Master.
“Varda placed these stars in my soul,” he replied solemnly. “They have always belonged to You.”
So Manwë lifted seven stars from the Maia and they hung circling slowly just above their heads.
Olórin closed his eyes, staggered despite his steadiness, at the empty cold that remained. Eternal night had fallen, from whence there was no returning. It was so bleak that it robbed the anguished cry he would have uttered.
…yet … all was not completely dark…
“Did I forget to tell you about Ioreth?” said the Maia, for he recognized this precious stone.
“Yes,” said the Elder King. Humor glinted in his eyes. “But now is not the time.”
Olórin drew hazily from the dark deeps and blinked at Manwë.
“What are you doing?” demanded Melkor. He stared suspiciously at the slowly turning stars.
Manwë did not answer. He looked only at Olórin.
“Seven stones,” he said conversationally.
Behind the Elder King, Aragorn Elessar looked aside to Legolas, questioning, but the Elf had no words of illumination. The White Staff that had once belonged to an Istari was being passed hand to hand, Vala to Vala, below the level of sight. The last one to hold it was Yvanna, Queen of Earth, and she laid it across her open palms, whispering some litany.
Olórin went through the pockets of his robe and it took a few moments, for there were many. Some of them held various flotsom, which he tossed aside, and others held nothing and he turned them inside out so he would not forget he had searched them.
“You did not learn that here,” gravely said the High King.
“I like my pockets,” said Olórin. His voice was defensive as a child and he did not even look up.
Legolas laughed beneath his breath, but no one heard save those who stood near him. Aragorn rubbed a thumb, hard, across the bridge of his nose.
“Do you think he has a flask of Dwarf rum in there?” hissed Gimli. “I miss the rum.”
“If he does, you’ll be sharing.” Mighty Tulkas leaned upon Gimli and Aragorn and his eyes were merry. The energy within him vibrated, barely contained.
“What are they doing?” whispered Aragorn. “Seven stars, seven stones … that is the Sickle of the Valar and the seven palantiri of Middle Earth. The verse is engraved on the floor of the Citadel of Minas Tirith.”
“Watch,” said Tulkas, he of the rapturous heart. “All creation being joined. It is a binding together of Sky and Earth—the Eldar, People of the Stars, and Edain, People of the Earth. The Children of Ilúvatar shall be a temple, fit for the Spirit of The One, having one heart and one mind. Then all Manwë needs to add is absolute power; the power of the Ainur and through us, the authority of Ilúvatar.” He shook their shoulders expressively. “Watch, for this is a mighty Making!”
Eventually Olórin discovered and dropped seven stones, one by one.
A rock shot through with purple lightning.
He counted again to be sure.
“Seven stones,” he said.
“Stop what you are doing and I shall spare you,” ordered Melkor.
He took one prodigious step toward Olórin, but the Maia had eyes only for Manwë Súlimo, who nudged each stone into a rough circle with his foot. The wheel of stars overhead spun neither fast nor slow. Above, unnoticed, the air itself turned as a cog, dancing.
“I can remake your soul, darkened one. You can be whole and new, your fëa restored to the glorious pattern created in the beginning,” said Melkor.
Olórin did not answer, nor did he look away. He held the face of Manwë as if a lifeline in a turbulent storm.
“Do you not understand my strength, greater than that of the one you serve?” demanded Melkor. His visage grew more fearsome and those who looked upon it quailed back without volition. Even Sauron took a step away. “I can make you greater than all of these, as if a Vala yourself.”
“Not for my name or glory, but for You, Lord of the Breath of Arda. Násië,” whispered the Maia. He did not turn, though the hot breath of treacherous Melkor bathed his neck.
“Power,” whispered Tulkas. “From beyond the boundary of the World.”
“One White Tree,” said Manwë.
Olórin hesitated not; he stretched his hand for the Great Staff … but authority was lost to him now, for his spirit was dark and cut off from the magic and life of Aman. But wise Yvannan knew and she tossed the rod over the heads of those who hid it from view and her aim was true. The Maia snatched it out of mid-flight and curled his long fingers about it in familiarity.
“I destroyed that staff,” growled Murazor. “I shattered it and his power at the Gate of the White City! I destroyed that staff!”
Olórin turned his head and spoke caustically. “Ilúvatar would like to speak to you about that.”
His rebuke made the Witch King flinch.
“Stop!” commanded Melkor and he drew back a hand and the darkness of the dead ground beneath his feet streamed up into his palm. “I will strike you down where you stand! Stop and we shall confer—perhaps I will spare you!”
But Olórin placed his staff into the open palms of Manwë Súlimo and then everything moved swiftly, for the Elder King tipped the crown into the stars spinning above and stabbed the heel into the soil within the ring of stones and spoke a single ancient Word.
The ornate apex of the Great Staff cracked along imperceptible seams and every tendril came loose like branches. A concussion shook the ground clear to bedrock and tumbled the unwary sidelong. The air shifted, became heated, rippled as if shaken from one corner of the world to the other…
…And then the White Tree took hold of ground and rocks and the bones of Earth, sinking roots deep, scattering light and life, drawing power of its own. And spreading from that luminous sapling, the tainted ground fell back as evil was cast off by purity.
Waves of green grass spread like a pool…
The High King of Arda stepped upon the battlefield.
“Telperion,” Yavanna Kementári said in greeting and every voice heard from near and far. “Shedder of silver light.”
“NO!” and Melkor leaped at the young tree with a black blade in his hand.
Manwë snatched Olórin aside and met his brother, hand upon the hilt of that vile weapon and there they locked in a contest of dominance and will, neither looking away, nor giving ground. The roots of the world groaned, for these were the two mightiest spirits of the Valar and their titanic struggle was unseen, deep in the formative powers of Arda and not where naked eyes could behold it.
Legolas staggered, gripped the shoulder of Aragorn to keep his footing, for he felt that black blade sliding like a flat note through the underbelly of Earth power. He responded by reflex, instinctively, and sang an unharmonious melody with what breath was left to him. It wove like thread about the discord of Melkor’s mage blade and drew it into the tune along with every other sharp and flat note.
It was a childhood ditty sung to infants to amuse them, nothing more. But the bones of the mountains ceased writhing and the skin of the plain ceased its screams, for the blade no longer ran separate from the songs buried in the bedrock; it was wreathed in a simple discordant tune and carried along harmlessly. No one heard, save the Singer and the Lord of Arda, who perceived all.
There was a shining sound, like silver sliding, as the Arator upon the field drew their weapons.
“Now,” said Tulkas, delighted. “The fun part. Watch out for the Balrogs, their breath is foul. And the werewolves tend to spit and it will not wash off for a week.”
“Less talk, Tulkas,” said Eönwë, Herald of Manwë. “The King is busy with Melkor; we must protect the tree until it gains its full authority!”
“Is that all?” but the gladness of Valinor’s mightiest warrior fled before the flash of his spirit and he launched barehanded into battle with Eönwë at his side.
5. Dagor Dagorath
It was chaos.
Six hundred thousand Orc spawn.
Yet the army of free people did not flinch or hold back.
Andúril was silver flame. Gimli’s war axe was black as coal. Legolas was a blur of green and gold and white knives. The shaft of Gil-galad’s spear hummed a single note when it struck. Arwen fought with deadly skill not seven steps away and Hadhafang was sun-kissed without any sun at all.
Glory was catching a glimpse of Elrond, his brother Elros, and their sire, Eärendil, standing back against back in the fray. Their grey eyes matched, looking out from the foe they were slaying to the one yet to come. They fought in deadly silence, every blade a blur, and nothing broke through their ring, nor survived its focus.
In the midst of skirmish and shouts and curses, Yvanna sang to the slender tree fighting back the evil of tainted ground. Varda lifted a hand from the hill of the small folk and light flowed from her fingertips, lending strength to the sapling.
“Nienna!” called Tulkas. He had one foe in a grip of iron and his heel lashed out and killed another on approach. Olórin lay crumpled between his feet. “Get the Maia out of here! There is no return if death finds him—his soul is lost!”
The Lady of Sorrows came and lifted him, broken and dazed, and led him away. Vána, the Ever-young, took him and laid him amidst the hobbits and he stared up at the shadowy sky unseeing. Frodo wept and kissed his face.
“He will endure,” said Varda Elentári. “There is one light left to hold him against the darkness. He will endure.” But in her heart she whispered, Beautiful Olórin, you must endure!
Mandos, in his cloak of ebony, strode through men and demons and they quailed before the might of his spirit, for when he gazed into their souls, all of their foul deeds became evident and their hearts wilted. He wielded a black blade that drank in the blood of those it slew and grew darker with every sip.
Nienna passed with him and her gaze checked every opponent. Many simply died. The wolfhounds bayed and fled.
“Ulmo,” said dark Mandos from the section of the plain he had just trod. “Can you clear this field? I can hardly move without stumbling and none of these shall turn from wickedness. I have searched them and Nienna has looked in their hearts.”
The Lord of Waters stepped forth and there was a check in the fighting, for the God of the Sea did not like to walk upon the land. He carried a great anchor in each hand and they were laden with barnacles and crustaceans. With them, he swept the field free of dark Men and Orcs and any other evil that chanced in his path. He hurled them up and over the towering wall of the sea and there was chaos in the water as the creatures of his kingdom feasted.
“Better?” he roared with his voice of many waters. He did not wait for an answer; he turned and strode ponderously back towards the sea.
But two Balrogs challenged his might and he jerked the whips out of their hands in fury. Three welts remained burning on his green armor. He seized them by the necks and crashed their skulls together, twisted until their great horns locked.
“Will you test fire against water? Will you dare?” he demanded. The fury of the ocean roared in his voice and the army of dark as well as the army of light crouched and held their ears. Then, with a prodigious effort, Ulmo threw them up and over the standing wall of the sea and there was a hiss and boiling when they landed out of sight.
“Great,” said Oromë. “Now he is angry. We are not going to finish this war without getting very wet.”
Olórin woke from his daze and would not stay upon the hillock with the hobbits. He came down with his old sword Glamdring shining and joined the contest. Legolas found him and laughed.
“Your face is dirty,” he said to the Maia. “You’ve been napping.”
“I did … not … nap,” he replied between sword strokes. “I merely … had … tea with … the … hobbits.”
But the Elf discerned the Maia’s wavering vigor and he ceased joking. He spotted Aragorn and drew him with a jerk of his head. They remained close, for Olórin’s turns were slow and his speed uncertain and the light in his eyes extinguished. Some evil had been done to him, though they could not discern the pattern of it. The blade of Turgon remained faithful, but Aragorn and Legolas did not leave him.
“Balrog!” shouted Ecthelion, the Great Slayer. His sword had curves like water and glittered like molten glass. “Fall back!”
The combatants heaved, parted, scattering to give the Elf room to maneuver. It was a protracted battle, for the Balrog came not alone. Swirls of some shadowy creature shifted near its feet and any that chanced too close simply vanished. It sprang out after Ecthelion to snare him when he struck.
Then Eärendil came and held the Silmaril high and it smote glory brighter than the sun, piercing gloom and shade. The wraith howled and burned beneath the bulk of its host. Glorfindel joined the Elf dancing with the glass blade and they hewed and sawed until the Balrog fell.
“Pity that,” said The Smith. “Save the next one for the Dwarfs!”
The Black Walkers of the Swamps could only be mastered by fire. Elven archers sent a steady stream of flaming arrows into the dark ranks to combat them. The Dwarves came in low, tenacious as the bullish fighting dogs of the Misty Mountains, and hewed them down. Their beards caught fire and burned clear to the skin, but grief was lost in rage and the swing of war axes.
Aragorn encountered the Lord of the Nazgúl and wisely gave ground, for his bewitchment was strong. The curved blade Murazor wielded was cloyed with shadows that moved with it. He scrambled over dead and dying, blocking every sword stroke, retreating.
“Gandalf!” he shouted, reverting to the name most familiar to his mind. “Gandalf!”
Nienna heard his desperate shout and spun.
“No!” she called to Aragorn. “Olórin’s fëa is unmade—he is no longer The White, nor your wizard of old! He will fall! Call upon your own kin, your own blood, for they shall not fail the task!”
“Dúnedain?” he replied.
“Older!” called Legolas, drawing the whirl of the Black Hand’s sword away an instant. “The Lost Kingdom!”
“Men of the West!” called Aragorn with a loud voice. “To me!”
Instantly, the mighty host of Númenóreans turned upon the bloody plains and the crest of their helms flashed. Ar-Pharazôn, last King of Númenor, lifted a loud voice.
“We come!”
Thus the army of Númenóreans, confined for ages in the Caves of the Forgotten for their sin against Aman, set their might against the Captain of Despair and his dark host. Only valor lived on in their hearts and their hunger for the restoration of their honor drove them. The Lords of Númenor fought their corrupted kinsman of old and it was a protracted and fierce conflict.
To their ranks, a sword was delivered and the inscription was in Valarian, which no Man could read. The letters floated atop the steel as if engraved; yet not engraved. Aragorn, fighting the dark Men aligned with the Witch King, passed the blade ahead to the heart of the skirmish and when it finally struck true, there was a whistle and cry and the battle unraveled around him.
The Witch King was no more.
Aragorn leaned tiredly upon his sword an instant, then shook off weariness. Legolas took his arm and pointed; a mix of werewolves and vampires and trolls had formed ranks and were advancing. Olórin turned to view them as well and sighed, wiped the length of Glamdring upon a downed foe and straightened with a jerk.
Gimli lurched into the three companions. His helmet was crooked and he straightened it with a slap.
“Big bats!” he said cheerily of the vampires. “Those will be fun to kill!”
“I will leave you some!” said Legolas and then they were away.
“Balrog!” came a shout from the left flank. “Two of them!”
Mandos wheeled and looked.
Tulkas glanced from the six-handed monstrosity that he fought near the sapling, a wrestle that he had nearly won. While he was distracted, Eönwë slipped a daggar in and ended the fray. He sped away to the next foe before Tulkas discovered his sport was ended.
“Aulë?” shouted the Doomsman of the Valar. “Did you not say the Dwarves wanted one?”
“Only one,” he roared back. “Give the other away!” His axe was red halfway up the handle and the head of his mighty hammer dripped gore.
“Oh, very well,” grumbled Mandos, but his smile belayed his ire.
He shook off his cloak and shifted his grip upon his great sword. Nienna came softly and tucked herself beneath his left arm and so they stood, brother and sister, facing the horrifying beasts approaching. Terror took hold of the field and combatants shrank and scattered from the coming conflict, but the fortitude of the two silent Vala did not waver.
“Let us have the one with the mace,” said Mandos.
The Lady of Sorrows shed a single tear and Námo caught it upon a finger. When he dropped it upon the point of his sword, the holy water made the blood upon the blade sizzle and escape.
“Now,” said Nienna and she turned her gaze upon their quarry at the same moment that her brother thrust his blade forward and threw the teardrop in a long arc.
There was a guttural roar of pain and rage … then one of the Balrogs staggered from his companion and the shadows leapt higher about him. The mace whipped around and both Vala ducked beneath that murderous swing. The woeful whip with six thongs of fire came next and Nienna escaped, but Mandos took the quirt across the back of his shoulders and he spat a curse in Valarian that checked every Ainur within hearing.
It checked the Balrog as well and Námo cleaved into the skull with a single stroke. The sword burst into flames, lodged fast. The Vala stood upon one horn and wrapped his fists about the other and pulled with all his strength until there was a horrible grinding sound and the inferno leapt so high that Mandos disappeared. The fearsome roar of the Balrog became a shriek and then the Doomsman of the Valar strode back out of the furnace with his sword ablaze in fire.
The demon thrashed, squalling, and none approached the death throes. Námo stamped his weapon out upon the ground. A great cut was open and bleeding upon his back, but Nienna caught him amidst his muttering ire and patted it closed with a word or two.
“You must not throw such curses about,” she chided. “You will teach the Children profanities far beyond their skill in handling!”
“Yes, sister,” he said, both humored and contrite, and kissed her atop the brow.
The other Balrog went roaring towards Aulë and this one was a powerful and cunning fighter, wielding a great black axe nearly on par with The Smith’s. They met in a collision that threw combatants off their feet for half a league.
Manwë fell as well, but His grip upon Melkor did not fail. The foul dagger bit dirt and the ground screamed and buckled. The White Tree shivered as if wounded. Legolas coughed and wheeled as if the blade had stabbed him. Gimli stepped into the path of the foe intent on the kneeling Elf and vanquished him in two strikes.
Then the High King lunged back on His feet and drove His brother back with indignation for the sin against Aman’s soil. Fury became His thunderous crown, yet he did not prevail. The air shuddered and shrank, wavering where the two mightiest of Valar fought their unseen battle.
Strong Aulë and his foe were evenly matched and iron rang upon iron as they hammered at each other. The Smith could bear every blow and did, raining death with every return sweep—yet this Balrog, most potent of all, failed not.
The contest became extreme and the Vala bled from twenty strikes. The Balrog bared fangs of steel, confident of the kill, and the battle drifted into the skirmish of vampires and Men and werewolves. It was a maelstrom of viciousness and the fiery demon of the underworld cast a cloak of fear over every brave soul that fought.
Then Tulkas Astaldo turned from the skirmish at the White Tree and ran, faster than any mearas could gallop, and as he passed the Balrog, he reached and fouled a wingtip and it staggered.
Aulë smote with his hammer, quick as a striking snake, and there was a crunch of bone and the flames leapt as it fell. Degnar’s axe landed with a snack, Kar’s with a snick, and then both hooves were cleaved. The Dwarves descended upon the thrashing creature and seven hewed until the head was off.
“How many points is a Balrog?” demanded Gimli.
“Are we counting?” said Legolas. “Surely I am at seventy-four!”
“That head will be a mighty pot for their soup,” said Aragorn. He caught his breath from an encounter with a troll.
“Ha!” said Gimli. “We can feast the whole army!” Then he considered the size of the army in question. “But first, we need to kill a few more Balrogs!”
“More Balrogs?” said Aragorn. “You are insane.”
“Of course,” said Aulë thunderously from behind them. “I made them that way.”
There was a sound of fury and rage near the White Tree where Manwë and Melkor remained locked eye-to-eye in contest. Yvanna had come through the combatants for she discerned the swift slide of wolves through the midst of the ring guarding it. Each creature encountered her whip of thorns and a single flogging took their hide off to the bone.
Húan was with her and he took them down two at a time and tore out their throats. The great Hound of Oromë was bloody clear past his shoulders. He bounded away, vigor undimmed, chasing after the wolfhounds of Mordor that fought beside the Orcs and Cave Trolls. The army of light could hear his ferocious snarls beneath their feet as they fought.
Behind the front ranks where the din was terrific, the White Tree fought to bring forth the first leaf … then the second … a single flower emerged and opened. Silver rain began to fall beneath its boughs.
A great swath of dark Men had formed ranks against the righteous and their shields were locked top to bottom, preventing any sword strokes from felling them. Something dark and shapeless drove and empowered them, yet it could not be named.
Oromë shrilled his War Horn and every Elf whipped around at his summons.
“Archers,” he commanded, pointing, and five thousand arrows took flight. None of the approaching menace fell. The moving mist came with them, cloaking the rear flank and the Lord of the Forest glowered at it.
Then Húan joined his Vala and his gleaming eyes pierced through the shadows, discerning the creature empowering the ranks.
“Shade,” he said. One of his ears was torn and dripped blood.
“We need the wind!” called Oromë, but one glance showed him that Manwë was desperately occupied with Melkor.
The King of the Sea heard and he raised a hand and circled a single finger. Beyond the World’s end, the water exploded upwards with a boom … turned idly, then faster and faster, drawing more vapor and water into the funnel. In minutes, a great whirl of water and air was on the move and Ulmo brought it howling to the standing sea.
“Wind,” he said. His voice drowned the roar of the storm. “I will miss the tree, but you are in the way.”
“Everybody down!” shouted Oromë and then the hurricane was upon them.
An unparalleled assault of rain and wind bombarded the land and though it lasted only a moment, everyone staggered when they rose. The Dwarves wrung their beards out and Aragorn shook his wet head. Legolas laughed at their drowned appearance, though he looked just as unkempt. The Shade was gone and the Men it had compelled fell easy prey to fear and confusion.
Aragorn’s sword arm was tired, yet he went on.
Then Sauron pulled from where he had hidden himself until now and he strode forth with the One Ring in his hand. Here he had every power he had ever wielded and he changed shape as he came, from a coiling serpent to an immense werewolf with fangs like needles to a beautiful fair form that made every eye weep. He came to the field of weary combatants having not lifted a single offense or defense and his energy was vibrant.
And when he donned the Ring, every heart quailed.
But beyond them upon the hillock, Frodo Baggins sprang up with a cry and every eye turned to see him. He pulled open his shirt and there, the three Elven Rings of Power dangled. They glittered against his pale skin, potent and authoritative, for Sauron had donned the Master Ring and all the Rings woke to their pure strength. And the Three that had been crafted and consecrated together now hung side by side and their power was one stunning voice. There was a nimbus of golden light around the little hobbit.
“Naya-naya!” he shouted. “You never took the One Ring from me and you shall never have these!”
“But we’ll give you this!” shouted Peregrin Took, and he heaved a stone with all his might at Sauron.
It did not go far for he was only a hobbit, but Varda gave it lift with her fingers and Ulmo, humored by the ferocity of the smallest of peoples, blew a puff from his sea wall. The rock stuck Sauron on the shoulder and all the small folk cheered.
Sauron’s wrath despoiled his fair visage and it became dreadful; so abhorred that the minions about his flanks drew back and covered their faces. He drew darkness into his hand the selfsame way as his Master, Melkor, had done and infused it with power from the malignant Ring—then he hurled it at the hillock of hobbits and the air screamed as it passed.
But Varda Elentári stood upon that knoll of hobbits; she who had fashioned a million million stars and held every burning nova in her palm. And the same fingers that placed the Sickle of the Valar in the Heavens as a warning to Melkor and his servants reached and caught the Hellfire thrown by Sauron.
She blew upon it and it leaped into more brilliance than the eye could endure—then she hurled it out over the battleplain and it flew high and far, so far that it struck the end of Ulmo’s standing sea and bounced into the mass of the Army of Darkness. It exploded with a concussion that hurled the land forward and then sucked it back violently.
Sauron was undaunted, though countless creatures from his faction had died instantly from the subverting of his weapon. He drew his black sword with the spike upon the end and darkness seemed to pour into it. All the legions remaining took strength and reformed their ranks.
“Did you teach the hobbits that?” asked Aragorn of Olórin. He did not even look at the Maia to inquire.
“I did not,” replied Olórin huffily. “I only lead hobbits astray. I do not teach them to taunt others. They threw stones before they met Gandalf and if anything, they taught me to throw rocks!”
Varda knelt to look upon the Great Rings and wisdom was in her eyes. She asked nothing, but Frodo took the chain from about his neck and delivered them freely into her hands.
“I can destroy you,” said Sauron, for he thought she would don them to make war.
But the Queen of the Valar did not put on any of the Rings and as she held them, the light of Ilúvatar that habitually rested upon her face kindled as the heart of the sun. She looked ahead through the surge of warriors and Yvanna turned where she stood near the struggling White Tree.
Aman’s two most powerful Queens shared a single thought and Yvanna held out her hands to catch the Elven Rings, though both knew the distance was too great.
“Fly,” said Manwë Súlimo, straining against the might of Melkor.
High above, circling and waiting for this single word, the Eagles came. Down swept Gwaihir, and Landroval, his brother. Thorondor was with them, King of Eagles, whose wings spanned thirty fathoms tip to tip. And behind, yet more swiftly, Meneldor, who could out fly the Nazgúl.
They dropped so silently that none heard and no eye saw, yet Varda heard and she threw the slender chain into the air with all her strength and Thorondor snatched it with a snap of his beak. The four broke their dive directly overhead and had they not tucked their razor claws, they would have cleaved every Valar and tall Elf from spine to skull.
Gwaihir and Landroval broke from formation and flanked Thorondor. The young Meneldor took the lead and he carved the air for all of them and their speed increased over the flat of the plain. The far mountain jet stream lifted them so quickly that they seemingly vanished out of sight.
“Dragons!” shouted Ulmo, for he had been watching the back flank where the great worms lingered and all three had taken to wing and even in the distance, he perceived them. “One cold-drake and two fire-drakes. They are after the Eagles.”
“This is not the fun part,” announced Tulkas. He threw his shoulders and cricked his neck, shook out his long legs.
The Dragonslayers, Eärendil and Túrin stepped forth from the throng who stared upwards. Bard, Lord of the Dale, stood clear and his bow was golden yarrow. Legolas came with the Great Bow of the Galadhrim. Haldir, whose aim could pick an acorn from squirrels’ paws without harm, stood beside him.
“They fly with their eyes open only a slit,” said Haldir. “You have to face them dead on and not release until you see the diamond of their eye.”
“They will catch them,” boasted Sauron. “I have enchanted them with speed and stamina. They can out fly the birds no matter if they flee to the end of the Earth. I will have command of all of the Great Rings!”
“They are not running,” whispered Olórin. “Gwaihir has never fled a battle, nor has Thorondor.”
Legolas smiled and rechecked his bow, picked a perfect arrow. He pondered the fact that all of his arrows were perfect in Aman, but only for a moment, for the Dragons were nearing, their wings heavy as they labored at the sky.
“Wait,” said Varda and every bowman stood fast. She listened to the roar of Dragons and the whistle of wind, the faint sounds of skirmish scattered across points of the plain. “Hold your arrows, for the Eagles of Manwë must not fail their mission.”
They waited.
Then there was a shrill sound midair and every head ducked, including Varda, for the four great birds came diving straight down out of the sky and only one pulled up, Thorondor, who carried the Great Rings.
Meneldor, agile and young, came talons outstretched upon the back of the middle Dragon and snapped it out of the sky with his momentum. The beast spun as it fell and bit at the bird, but Meneldor took off from the falling body of his foe as if it was stationary and catapulted away.
“That was sassy,” roared Aulë, then he added, “If hits the ground, it belongs to the Dwarves!”
But the cold-drake was not injured, only roused to wrath. It came propelled by both Meneldor’s momentum and its own, claws outstretched, and spiraling so swiftly that no bowman could fix his aim truly. Two hundred thirty Men died in its single strafe over the battlefield and it wheeled at the seawall and came hurtling back, a tangle of spinning claws and coiling neck. The Elves cried out in fury and loss, for all their skill was naught against the speed and tumble of this terrible foe.
Only one stood to his weapon, Oromë, Huntsman of the Valar and the emerald belt about his hips glittered as he set his stance; body parallel, shoulders squared with knees, his eyes open and fixed upon the goal. Every gaze came to the Archer of the World, hoping.
He drew the great bow to its extreme, holding the straining string with his fingertips. The wood sang power and the string sang speed and the arrow snapped faster than light. It took the dragon through the eye and out the side of its skull and the arrow sang death death death as it brought the beast down with a crash. Every Elf, near and far, heard the bowstring of the Lord of Forests sing and they bowed once and their hearts were his.
Oromë smiled back, for he loved them as well.
Gwaihir and Landroval were not as agile with their dragons as Meneldor, but when Landroval checked his enormous wings, he jerked the gilded plates of his foe loose for he seized them by the edges and dug his talons in tight. The fire in the belly of the beast scorched his feathers as it sprang out of the wounds.
“Archers!” shouted Oromë and he needed no horn, for every bowman stood ready. “Watch the bird!”
Arrows filled the sky and the Dragon fell, pierced through the dislodged scales.
“Axes!” called Aulë, “and mind the tail. They can stave your ribs through your spine!”
The mightiest came to his claxon call, Oláin Ironshield with ninety from the Iron Mountains. Fire proved worthless against a crew helmeted and armored with plating an inch thick. Especially these Dwarves hardened by years carving in the molten slag in the deepest pits of the world. Oláin barked tempo just as he had for his shovel crew and the beast never regained its feet beneath the swing of their deadly blades.
Gwaihir’s target roared and spewed fire and the Eagle screamed back and stabbed for an eye. By the time they broke, the Dragon’s blood dripped from its ruined socket and smoked when it struck the ground. Men wailed when it hit them, for it burned as acid.
But the enormous fire-drake flew on and circled, coming back with more speed and its breath was a vapor of scorching heat.
Gwairhir landed heavily, a wing fouled and the feathers twisted and singed. He seized the nearest creature that raised a blade against him and tore the head off. Blood oozed between his enormous talons. Then he spread his one good wing wide and screamed at the advancing hoard, hopped to meet them with his curved beak snapping.
Four hundred Men lunged in unison with him, forming a wedge of whirling steel with the strength of the Eagle at the apex. Aragorn fought on the side of the broken wing and Faramir was to his right hand, Boramir to his left. The Stewards of Gondor.
The fire Dragon flew low and his talons seized any unfortunates in its path. The swords that attempted to strike it were simply torn out of the grasp of the one wielding it.
“Flying blind!” shouted Gil-galad from his vantage. There was a cut across the brow of his skull and the flesh was peeled back to the bone. “Its eyes are closed; it is flying by sound alone!”
“We cannot kill it if we cannot hit an open eye,” said Haldir despairingly.
Through the midair fight of Eagles and Dragons, through fiery breath and clutching claws, Thorondor sailed low and dropped the slender chain near the sapling of the White Tree. He shrieked at Melkor as he passed, for they had clashed before and the battle had left a mark. The Dark Lord looked up in recognition of that sound and Manwë Súlimo drove him back one step.
Yvanna snatched up the twinkling Rings and ran, hair streaming, for the sapling of the White Tree. The righteous saw and flanked her, for every evil remaining on the field came to intercept at Sauron’s command. Aulë shouted stridently, for she was his wife and too far for him to protect. Every soul who stood for justice put on speed to ward her. Bloodshed was a wave along the forward lines and the fire-drake set the air ablaze over their heads. The inferno consumed the sky.
Then Legolas forsook the chance to slay a dragon and he lowered the Great Bow, though it grieved his heart.
He opened his fingers and sang, raising a melody of treasure and riches into the air. So fine was his tenor and so clear his voice, that it found its way through the din of shouting and bloodshed and pricked the Dragon winging overhead … and it turned his scaly neck and looked, for surely the fortune lay right below.
In an instant, three fletches were a-wing and so true was the aim of the archers that all three smote directly through the open eye socket. There was a hideous sound and the Dragon crashed blistering and black from the sky and the battlefield caught fire where it fell. A flurry of Elves and Men and Dwarves descended to end the creature’s life.
Legolas turned away sadly, but Varda was witness to his decision and she looked favor upon him and the Elf staggered and then bowed, for the praise of Elbereth was a fortunate thing.
Ulmo heard the cry of Aulë and saw the firmament on fire. He gathered water into a mighty bowl and blew across the surface of it. A curtain of water-laden wind extinguished the scorching air, but every soul gasped for breath, unable to go on. Their eyes were streaming and their lungs burned.
But the Queen of Earth did not fail. She fell at the tender sapling, but not before she cast the chain holding the Elven Rings of Power upon the nearest branch of the White Tree.
There was a concussion of energy that swept through the battlefield and every living thing was swept off their feet by a mighty hand. Manwë and Melkor stumbled, but the Elder King’s grip upon the blade of Death failed not. Sauron gave a cry of rage as the Earth power of the Elven Rings sensed the Holy power of the White Tree.
In an instant, the potent fëa given freely and willingly to the Rings by Celebrimbor left the dead host of the rings and leapt to the heart of Telperion … and the tree awoke into startling clarity. He took authority of the ground, of the high mountains, of the sky itself, and glorious light exploded from every tiny branch and leaf. From north to south, from east to uttermost west, the darkness was thrown back. The Door of the Night closed with a tremendous crash that shook the island.
Deep in the core of Arda, the Old Powers that had slept since the Doom of Eregion roused to awareness as Earth power met Aman’s power in the heart of Telperion. The Spirit of Eru turned from dreamless sleep, listening, searching.
The Children had called and they were One Voice.
The air held a single crystal note, though for summons or warning, none could tell.
Legolas halted and the white knives slipped and fell. He spread his hands wide as if that single note could be captured in his fingers. Aragorn leaped to intercept the foe that swung at the stunned Singer.
“It is finished,” whispered Legolas. “The Heart of the World is awake.”
Aragorn jostled into him, parrying hard, then swung the archer behind him and out of reach. The Goblin that faced him fought with two swords. Andúril was a blur, moving so instinctively that Aragorn dimly thought the sword was leading the fight.
Then the tortured souls of four brothers that Sauron had forced into the One Ring during its Making heard the music of Telperion’s living soul. They fought their vile confinement and Legolas heard their cry. He needed but a single note, sharp and high, and it struck the binding of music within the band of gold, piercing the dark melody that held them prisoner.
Instantly, the One Ring’s connection with Earth power failed and with it went Sauron’s supremacy, for his fortitude was locked into the band of gold and not in his physical form. He was felled by a single sword stroke and his blighted life ended. It was so quick in the heat of thick battle that no one rightfully knew exactly whose blade ended him. Even the puff of dark smoke that was his fëa was scuffled about by the struggle and dispersed without consideration.
The army of light only knew him gone when they paused to reconnoiter and searched for where he had run. They found his corpse hacked and trodden in the mud.
Fully alive, the White Tree would endure no taint in his presence. The staggering symphony of the Ainulindalë rose through bedrock and a consuming fire erupted with a concussion that temporarily made every ear deaf. The flames leaped twenty feet high, crimson silver at the heart and fading to blue and purple-black at its zenith. It ringed Telperion as a crown and the dark minions within that halo of fire burst into flame, for holiness could not abide iniquity.
From there it spread outward, a moving corona burning through the ranks of evil in a progressively enlarging ring. And where the righteous stood, the flame leapt their helms and passed over them, leaving them unscathed. Bodies disintegrated, cinders swirled, settled and then dispersed into dust. The vast demonic host disappeared.
Only one remained.
Melkor gave a horrifying cry and leapt free of his brother. He fled to the sky as a wraith and searched for the Door of the Night as if he would vanish into the Void.
But Varda Elentári, she whom Melkor feared highest amongst the Holy Ones, she took up Valacirca from where it had fallen and the stars glinted like steel. In her dwelled the rage of every watching mother whom had witnessed Melkor’s evil destroying sons and daughters. Her passion hurled the glittering scythe across the curve of the sky and pinned the Door of Night shut.
The Dark Lord whirled, raced towards the edge of sky as if he could tear the fabric at the seam.
“Do not let him escape,” called Manwë. He knelt where He had fallen near the tree and profound weariness was written upon Him.
The King of the Sea extended his might. The towering walls of the waves he had held through the long hours rose higher, thinning, shimmering translucent. He summoned every ocean, every river, every brook and every hidden spring from the corners of Arda. The ocean drained with a roar as he opened the fount of the deeps. Vast and powerful, glittering as diamonds, the tidal wave encircling Aman rose until the crest touched the limit of the sky and sealed them in.
And there he held the waters, with his mighty hands outstretched and trembling with the strain.
“Bring the wicked one back down,” ordered Manwë Súlimo. He staggered back to His feet and stood wavering.
Only one soul had the rule and jurisdiction of the open sky and Eärendil stepped forth and summoned his ship, Vingilot. He took to the heavens as a searing flame and drove Melkor from the heights and he fell as a shapeless shadow back to the plain.
Then Melkor, the great serpent of old, took his final form.
As Morgoth he came and his likeness was terrible and every Man and Elf and Dwarf hid their faces. The Valar alone had the will to look upon the dark evil of the beginning and the hobbits fell and covered their heads, wailing, and Varda could not comfort them.
A wretched thing with eyes of black flame came before Manwë Súlimo and his voice was Death and Terror. He held a serpentine sword in one hand, point down, and a dark curse marched down the length of it in old runes.
“So, do you intend to kill me, brother?” Morgoth mocked and his voice was slick and murky as dank water. “Shall holiness remain in you even as a kinslayer?”
“No,” said Manwë. “I have taken the Song of the Anuir from your memory and unwoven the blessed thoughts of Eru from whence came your being. With such, the underpinning of your soul is bereft of anchors; only the body remains. Yet not by my hand will your blood be shed.”
“Alas, my hand is not so stayed!” and Morgoth leapt at the weary Elder King.
But the mightiest of the Valar intercepted that stealthy leap and slapped the vile blade aside.
Tulkas Astaldo seized Morgoth barehanded, roaring, and brought him down sidelong. They went over in a whirling struggle and bounded back to their feet, for Morgoth was desperate and Tulkas enraged, and the steadfast warrior of The Powers fastened his steely fingers around the wrist of Morgoth, preventing him from wielding the sword.
Thus, each with one hand free, they stood toe-to-toe and fought, and for every two blows that Morgoth landed, Tulkas landed one—but they were bone rattling strikes and the ground shuddered beneath his fortitude. With every blow, Tulkas named an iniquity and injustice of old and for every transgression, Morgoth howled as if burned by unseen tongs.
So a Vala judged him and spoke in the hearing of all and it was a lengthy pronouncement of his sins and Tulkas Astaldo forgot none.
Then Túrin Turambar came from the field of Men, he who was named The Wronged, and written upon his soul were all the evils done unto him by the curse of Morgoth. His handsomeness was beyond measure and his stature mighty, but tragedy rode his brow as a thorny crown and grief marred the splendor of his eyes. In his right hand, he carried an immense sword, Gurthang, Iron of Death.
Tulkas saw him and yielded the field of combat, for he saw the rightness of retribution for a life ruined by Melkor’s hideous treachery.
So Túrin, the doomed son of Húrin Thalion, fought with Morgoth on the plain of Valinor and it was the last battle, for all else was defeated. And iron rang upon iron and Morgoth shouted and mocked and eventually pleaded in terror, but Túrin spoke nothing amidst the hail of death he rained upon his adversary. And Morgoth gave way before the righteous vengeance of the son of Húrin, for his arm did not fail, nor did his commitment flag, and no compassion overtook him.
At the last, Manwë Súlimo turned His face of glory, for He could not witness this.
And Túrin Turambar clubbed Morgoth to a knee and thrust the black blade through his heart and thus avenged the children of his father, Húrin. The spirit of Melkor rose like vapor from the ruined corpse and wavered, then a soft breeze blew and it dispersed and vanished forever.
Silence was a cloak over the ruined plain of Valinor for a moment … and then the jubilant cries of the victorious rose and helms were thrown aloft and Dwarves chanted their booming songs of triumph and Men clasped arms. The hobbits were dancing to several songs at the same time and the Elves sang sweetly of avenging old evils, and none sang more gloriously than Legolas, Last of the Singers.
The combatant’s enthusiasm and adrenalin dropped them in minutes, for they were utterly spent and the wounded were faint. Then and only then did they hear a noise they did not expect and when they looked for the source, every person knelt in respect and bowed their heads.
For amidst the wonder of the newborn White Tree, Manwë Súlimo knelt at the body of Melkor and wept for the ruin of a soul both bright and beautiful and the glory that should have been his brothers.
6. The Shape of the Land
Weight and weariness and pain crept in upon the army of righteousness. The vigor that had unnaturally sustained them through the protracted battle vanished. Their wounds and agonies were grievous. Many laid down where they stood and stared up at the sky. Death came so softly that their comrades did not notice at first.
Gil-galad held the body of Elrond. Faramir and Boramir lay side-by-side, unseeing. Elrohir, Éomer and Balan were fallen. Lúthien and Beren, faithful lovers, crawled to each other before surrendering to death. All across the battlefield, the mighty were cast down.
There was silence as the wounded and battered looked upon the slain and remembered the aftermath of wars lifetimes ago. Their hearts were dejected despite victory.
Aragorn Elessar lay down, but not for a fatal wound. His right hand would not open to release the grip of Andúril, yet it ached with a fire that consumed his bones. His left arm was missing below the elbow and only the tightly tied strap of the sword scabbard kept him from bleeding to death.
He was too weary to weep for the slain, too numb to call Arwen’s name, too frail to do anything but look at the sky. He did not know that the Evenstar lay dead two leagues away, her grip still fastened around Hadhafang.
The Maia, Olórin, also lay silently. So diligently had his companions shepherded him that not a single mark marred him. Yet he, too, stared at the sky and his breaths were labored.
Nienna, the Lady of Sorrows, stood over his body and watched as a strange darkness crept slowly into his eyes. She did not look away.
Legolas sat to remove his soft boots. He hung his head over his knees, exhausted. His hair was clotted with blood and his bow was cracked and the great quiver missing. The gash in his side was not fatal, but it gaped and exposed the bones. He feared if he lay down, he would not regain his feet without aid. There was a sound of pain in each breath that he could not contain.
Gimli was near him, his right leg slowly turning black, but he lent the archer no word of encouragement. He leaned upon his axe and wept, for Galadriel lay near his boots, torn nearly in half by a Mange. She had turned it from the flank of his company of Dwarves, alone, while they battled a Balrog.
Then Estë, the Gentle, with her cloak of green and lavender and her spouse, Irmo, Master of Dreams and Gardens, descended to the theatre of war from where they had watched. And she who was the Healer of Wounds extended her fingers over the broken and they were whole. The King of the Seas sent a soft and warm rain that tenderly bathed every warrior and their blood washed away in a million rivulets of red.
Irmo put his fingers against his brow and closed his eyes. In a moment, the Fëanturi vanquished the dread and pain from every mind and then there remained nothing but the fatigue of protracted battle and the grief for the dead.
Dark Námo strode the battlefield wearily. The tip of his sword dug a furrow and he dropped it once and had to retrieve it. Along the way, he heard the lament of Gimli, Elf-friend, and turned his steps.
He came to the fallen Galadriel and summoned her fëa from the Hall of Waiting and she was restored. She blinked up with a gasp as if she had been holding her breath and the Vala pulled her to her feet.
Those who were witness stared, beyond words, stunned, their hopes taking to wing. Every valiant warrior turned with one heart and one wish and Mandos stood upon the plain with his black cape and extended his hands and raised the thousands. He sat down when it was accomplished, for never had the Doomsman of the Valar resurrected such a company at one time.
Vairë, the Weaver, came to him for she was his wife and tipped his shaggy head against her hip. Her eyes gravely observed the ruined plain and her fingers twitched, already planning the magnificent tapestry to tell the tale.
Only one thing remained unhealed and unaided … the multitude of Dwarves whose beards had burned to the quick in the contest with the Black Walkers of the Swamps. They hung their heads, ashamed at their terrible appearance.
But Aulë, Father of Dwarves, strode down to where they had tucked themselves behind the rest of their kindred and he took a knife from the ground and sheared off first one braid and then its twin hanging from his chin. He did it calmly and with solemn care and all races watched while he shaved his face to the quick until it welled blood.
So The Smith was likewise shorn and his eyes glittered as he stood and none laughed. Thus their dignity was restored and the hundreds were called the Burnt Axes from thenceforward and they had a particular honor amongst their own kind.
Then Manwë Súlimo arose from His grief and summoned a swift whirl of wind that bore the body of Melkor away from their vision. Weariness and pain warred with the majesty of His countenance and there was a tint at the corner of his mouth, crimson as a blood flower. He opened His tired hands and there were wounds therein, but from what cause no Man could decipher.
Every soul upon the field waited silently upon His authority, as if the war was only the beginning of service and He looked upon the host of light for a long moment, sweeping through the crowd of Men and Elves, Dwarves and Valar, Maiar and hobbits.
No word of thanks for their bravery did He offer, but the smile that eventually crept upon His face was worth every blessing of Aman. He gave a single hand signal and commanded the ranks to sit upon the field. They obeyed without question.
Nienna approached the weary High King and brought Olórin with her, supporting with his arm around her neck. Aragorn and Legolas followed, for the Maia swayed as if wounded grievously and as soon as she released him, he sagged to his knees as a discarded puppet. He was unable to raise his head and Manwë tipped his face with both hands.
“Abide, beautiful Olórin,” said the Master of the Winds softly, fiercely. “Do not listen to the song of the Void. Abide with us!”
But Olórin’s sapphire eyes had gone black. He stared into the Beyond and his vision was unseeing, his ears, unhearing.
Manwë wept.
“He is outside my vision, past the call of the World,” He whispered, pressing His head against the Maia’s. “I cannot halt this dark plunge. I spent my strength in the contest with Melkor. The last light within his soul has finally failed. He cannot see me or hear anything over the dread summons of the Void.” He looked up at the Singer of the Noldor. “Save him—he is falling.”
Then Legolas looked across the battlefield and Áriel turned, for their souls were a single song, having no beginning and no ending. And where Cerediron, Songmaster of old, had demanded access to the full power of the storehouse, Legolas asked permission and waited for her consent, for he perceived now a task that required the potency of the Song of Songs and she was the counterbalance of his authority. Uncertainty dogged him, for he knew the force of the Ainulindalë was fearsome and he was afraid.
Áriel perceived both his cause for this request and his fear. And she who had learned the cadence, the knit of voices, every tendril of a million themes that interlocked around the Song of the Ainur in her youth, she threw open the doorway to the deep magic and stood amongst the anchoring theme of the melody. Around her and through her it flowed and the Old Powers came into the temple of her soul as in the younger days and streamed through her fëa.
Seldë it spoke. Daughter.
Thus Legolas saw his Beloved and the music was in her, and the music was her, and he understood the balance of the Founders. While he had the ability to use such magic, it was a woman who had to contain and channel it for him. So she was a bow designed for enormous power and he was the archer who drew and aimed.
Legolas summoned every note at once and the Ainulindalë turned from a million separate melodies, each with their own nuance and tempo and rhythm and came to his call. The authority was immense, waiting just beyond his ability to hear, and he trembled with the effort to hold it steady; the greatest summoning of raw magic he had ever attempted.
Yet in the maelstrom of melody, he heard nothing of Olórin … not even the anthem of Mithrandir’s song.
“How do I find him—I cannot discern him at all,” said Legolas.
“In the beginning, it was Eru alone,” said Manwë Súlimo. “From His light and music sprang everything else. Find the place that is darkness and silence and you will find Olórin; he is a blemish of soundlessness in the melody of the World.”
So the archer searched, as one who hunts for the precise target and his sight was keen and his skill legendary. Song was both his vision and thought, yet wherever he looked, behold, there was no dim hollow or space of quietness within the boundaries of the World. The loftiest notes pierced every thin space and the deep melodies drug through the bones of the earth and turned a hundred forgotten notes over.
“He is not here,” whispered Legolas. “He is beyond the living world, falling between the stars. He is silence amidst silence. How can I find him?”
The Elder King looked up from where He knelt. “The Father of All has written His name twice upon Olórin’s bones. Find the Name of Names. It will be the last to vanish as he is unmade.”
High.
He heard Áriel speak a word within his soul.
Trust
Trust.
He sent every melody of the living world streaming into blackness; the fine high song of trumpets, the stringed lyre and tam, the brassy oello and round arvinna. Every voice of every tree. A billion billion blades of grass. Endless patterns of raindrops, all of them repeating. Bloodstains that cried and tears that rejoiced. The voices of wolves. The whicker of horses. The harmony of many voices together. The pop of crickets and hiss of moths and whine of beetles.
High.
And far away in dimness, Legolas discerned tangled letters of crimson spinning slowly and he fixed his soul upon the mark. The Ainulindalë thinned, melodies peeling away as the boundary of Arda was breached, yet still he stretched for the target, his heart yearning, calling, speaking the Name written in blood red.
Word of the Father, Eru Ilúvatar
In nothingness, it was a single song that had the velocity to catch the fading soul of Olórin—the magic that gave life to the Shil-pipers. The essence that could out fly the fastest bowman of the archers endured and the high note of its melody struck through Olórin’s fëa, snagging upon the curling script written upon the Maia’s essence.
It came back, fast as a blink.
The tune pierced back through the tumult of the Ainulindalë and the Song of Songs warped and wrung itself inside out. It was a terrifying plunge and the anthem twisted and tangled as it fell, carrying Olórin soundless and dark along with it. And Legolas saw the Old Powers plummet en masse and had no power or ability to unravel the millions of melodies and bring it into proper order. It descended fast as a snapping whip, wildly uncontrolled.
“Trust,” said Aragorn, for he saw Áriel shift her stance and set her feet, the smooth pivoting posture of a spear dancer.
“House Maglor,” she called through the howl of magic and sound and every Elf of the lineage stood.
“Valar,” called the Elder King and from every point on the battlefield, the Holy Ones stood.
So the Powers of the West caught the crash of the Great Song and the tangle came apart in ribbons overhead. Nienna sought out the essence of Olórin and the Songkeepers drew the myriad melodies to the devotion of their fëa.
The basso song of granite was caught. The chime of gold was ordered like beads upon a string. Aulë seized the hum of the mountains and set it in proper sequence. The rattle of raindrops and ping of hail was gathered and separated. The drone of bees and staccato melody of hummingbirds was found. The fine high tune of the falcons and the slow beat of turtles. The murmur of grasses and leaves and ants and pebbles that endlessly sang in riverbeds. Varda caught the song of the stars and Ulmo, the sea, and Oromë, the forests. The air trembled with billons of separate melodies.
And Áriel called the anthems to her, she who in silence as a child had memorized the vast and ever-changing symphony of the Old Powers. It came thunderously, a cacophony of sound, and she wrapped it upon her soul as a spear catches a whip until every beat and rest and note was gathered. There it swirled until the cadence and ceaselessly changing melody matched her memory and then she let it pass out of her and closed the doorway.
Thus Olórin was retrieved with no small effort and his eyes cleared. Aragorn took his left arm and Legolas his right and the High King placed a finger upon the Maia’s forehead.
“Stay,” He commanded.
Aragorn thought He sounded similar to a wizard of long ago, ordering a staff to obey.
Then the birds of Aman came, both large and small, and they brought a morsel of bread and a vial of water to those upon the plains and hills. It was only a bite and a sip, yet every race ate and drank until they were full and strength flowed into their limbs. Their vigor was restored for the nourishment was consecrated for them and each wondered at the refreshing and studied the vial that never seemed to empty.
While they wondered, Fëanor, son of Finwë, came to Manwë, High King of Arda and presented himself. He bowed low and remained so and the Greatest of the Valar considered him for a time, there where both were bathed in the light of the White Tree.
Eärendil came and took the Morning Star from his brow. Ulmo retrieved the Silmaril from the seabed and Aulë reached beneath the fire of the World and brought forth the unmarred Silmaril that had been cast down the fiery chasm by Maedhros.
They placed the Great Jewels at the feet of Fëanor, their Maker, and he was wholly repentant. He took the Silmarils and delivered them into the hands of Yvanna, Queen of Earth; a choice he should have made countless years before.
Beside Telperion, Yvanna threw down the three Great Jewels and she broke them with a word of power and the captured light sprang forth. Two shafts of brilliance went unto the White Tree and it shifted bands of radiance, renewed. But the light of one remained fiery upon the ground and she sang over it. A tendril sprang up, yellow and fine as spun web.
“Laurelin, The Golden,” Yavanna Kementári said in greeting and every voice heard from near and far. “Younger thou wert and younger thou art again.”
The little tree grew fast amidst peaceful soil and brought forth three pale leaves with golden edges. A single flower of soft yellow appeared and spilled a drop of shimmering dew forth.
And Manwë Súlimo stood in the hallowed place and the light illuminated His calm face, His wise eyes, the holiness written within His bones. None wished to ever look away from the splendor that was the Elder King or the magnificence of the Two Trees of the Valar. There was sweet music drifting upon the air; all the tiny leaves were singing.
But upon the far hillock, Frodo Baggins dared to look away and he stared through the glass of the raised sea. He alone beheld what Manwë Súlimo had diverted every eye from.
The sky was on fire beyond the Lord of Water’s titanic standing wave.
Middle Earth was burning.
The mountains hissed steaming snow, then melted soft as slag. The land buckled and the plains liquefied and the forests burst into towering infernos. Every lake bubbled like a cauldron and vanished and their mist scorched to nothing in the fiery air. Eventually the firmaments curled up around the edges as a burning scroll. The sea boiled as Arda fell and it swallowed the land entire and it was no more.
And Frodo realized Middle Earth had been utterly destroyed and with it, the beautiful Shire and all that he had seen and loved in the world, and he wept silently, for his distress was too deep to utter a sound.
Varda Elentári, mightiest of Valar’s Queens, took him in her arms and tucked his face into her neck so he could no longer see for she had perceived that one would look and she had remained to save him. Beyond her, the ocean evaporated to the craggy bedrock, scarred and black and lifeless, and the fire in the heart of the world went out with a hiss. Only the curtain of water held aloft by Ulmo remained and he held it with all his strength.
Varda whispered to the weeping hobbit and spoke a spell upon him, quelling his agony and bidding him sleep. He closed his eyes beneath her gentle hand, lolling upon her shoulder, and she drew back that last terrible vision and removed it from his memory. There she kept him, dreaming, curled as a child in her arms.
Thus it was the High King of Arda alone who witnessed the destruction of the World and He watched to its full completion and wept not for the Ainulindalë retreated into Aman’s holy soil, beneath the feet of the Children of Ilúvatar and the Old Powers murmured there, incorruptible and imperishable. He reached beneath the shining White Tree and Telperion gave Him a single drop of dew and He took it and consumed it and was restored to vitality.
“Close your eyes and bow your heads,” he commanded the legions and they needed no compulsion to obey. Valar and Maiar and every race upon the field complied, even Ulmo, second in strength to the Elder King.
Far above, a fissure in the sky opened and the light that streamed through that aperture burned with a brilliance that made all other radiance become shadow. Even the glorious Trees of Silver and Gold hazed out of view and had any soul watched, their eyes would have burned in their faces with a single glimpse.
Then the Father of All stepped through the Door of Heaven and the ground stretched to hold Him and deep cried to deep. The shape of the air changed and time ceased and the standing sea roared before the presence of Eru Ilúvatar.
The All High came striding to Manwë Súlimo and the vast timelessness of eternity came with Him. The rings on his fingers were three, Ilucara, Iluvala and Iluisa; Omnificent, Omnipotent, and Omniscient, and the High King of Arda knelt to kiss them.
And Eru raised Manwë, spoke to Him as to a beloved son, face-to-face, and the King of Arda was able to bear the full glory of the Most High God. For a moment, they abided in the heart of staggering intensity and no eye was witness.
Then The One dimmed His radiance and took on a quieter form so all might endure and Manwë commanded them to look—thus the nations beheld the All High and they were mute before the tower of His strength and holiness.
“Are they ready?” asked Ilúvatar. His voice was absolutely gentle and it sounded within their heads as the whisper of a million heads of ripe wheat.
“They are,” answered Manwë, “for the dross has been purged and the evil cast out. These are the faithful, tested and purified and sworn to only Your heart. I have fought and been wounded for them and they for me. I will vouch for them, for I have purchased them with my blood.”
“Come, my Valar,” said Ilúvatar, holding forth His hands.
Ulmo lowered the sea wall and trod the land, for no eye could turn away from the radiance of Eru to look upon the ruin of Middle Earth. Nienna and Yvanna and Irmo, Aulë and Vána and Oromë came. Tulkas Astaldo, with his light hair gloriously free, and Irmo and Nessa and Vairë presented themselves. Mandos came, throwing off his black cloak and Estë was with him.
Twelve came to Him and stood in a semicircle with Manwë, but Varda held Frodo, fast asleep and the All High looked to the hillock where she stood and said, “Bring the little ones to me.” He did not move them with His power, for He knew they would be terrified.
So Varda led the hobbits through the mighty host and they parted and made an open lane for them to tread. Ilúvatar smiled upon them and all fear and doubt fled. When He placed his hand on the head of the nearest, it was as if He touched each of them. Frodo slept on and Eru did not wake him.
“The Faithful are consecrated. The Holy Ones are here. Shall we sing?” asked Ilúvatar, but then He looked upon the circle of Vala and studied them.
“The foundation of The Great Music is sung best with fifteen voices.”
“Yes,” agreed Manwë. He waited upon the Word of the Most High.
“Is there another who can sing the Ainulindalë?” asked Eru perceptively.
“Perhaps,” softly said Manwë and He turned His head. “Olórin.”
And he who was one called Gandalf pulled from the supporting arms of Aragorn and Legolas and came to the Circle of Power, though he trembled and did not look upon them. He knelt at the feet of Manwë Súlimo as he had always done and he was troubled. Varda reached without looking and put a hand in his dark locks comfortingly.
“This one has sung the Song of the Ainur before, though he did so without permission.”
Ilúvatar raised Olórin and looked upon him a moment.
“I know you,” He said, His voice deep as a gong. “I caught you in my hand as you plummeted, for I heard the anguish of Manwë who saw you fall from afar. You descended with the fire of Anor extinguished and the Flame Imperishable guttering as beneath a pot.”
“Yes,” said Olórin and nothing more. He could not raise his face, for his soul was unmade and dark and he cleaved to the bottom, unable to leave the one meager light lodged in the foundation. It was his sole anchor against the Void that called.
“Yet, you cannot sing the Ainulindalë with this unmade fëa,” said Eru and He raised the Maia’s face and drew down the center of Olórin’s brow with one finger.
And with that single gesture, every line of white gold that the All High had whispered into being in the Beginning was drawn anew within Olórin’s soul. The Master etched every curve, every angle, every whorl, and every straight line in perfection. It was a magnificent weaving fashioned of a single thread, without an edge or seam or flaw. It circled upon itself in an extraordinarily intricate pattern, a helix spun with the Flame Imperishable, having no beginning and no ending.
Then Ilúvatar whispered, “Be thou the vision of thy Maker.”
Radiance illuminated Olórin’s reborn fëa with the fire of Heaven; a shattering, scattering light. The Maia exhaled gustily and staggered and the Elder King caught him, held him fast.
Manwë Súlimo shed a single teardrop and the Father of All caught it before it fell.
“What have you learned?” asked Ilúvatar. He spoke directly to Manwë.
“You created him not the most powerful and not the most brave and seemingly ungifted of arts,” replied He. “You placed only love in his fëa and gave him to us. He was unremarkable and had no specific skill and he chose duty in my court. I had no heart to refuse him.
“Yet over the eons that he served my will, the pattern of his essence grew more brilliant, as if light fed upon light. And that simple love grew into radiance unmatched by any Maiar of Aman and I treasured him, both for his beauty and his perfect obedience. There was none like him in the whole of the Blessed Realm, for the pattern You wrote within became more complex as his affection grew wider and deeper.” Manwë’s hands rested upon the Maia’s dark hair. Five golden rings glittered like fire. “He transcended all other orders, all other gifts, and I loved him.
“Yet Arda was marred and the groans and cries of the people remained in the heart of the world. Your children suffered and their cause strained my heart at all times. I sent him away into the darkness to aid them, knowing he would be broken and torn, that he would face hardship and harm I could not protect him from. And if he returned at all, his splendor would be lost to me. It was a heavy price to free the Children of Eru, but I would save them for You.”
“Beloved Son,” said Eru. “You have learned exactly what I wished. Should you take on the healing of the World without sacrificing something of yourself? So you gave up what you held dear, and he learned from you to give what he treasured, and he taught others to yield what they prized for a higher purpose. So, through surrender, they have saved themselves. Pride and love for power corrupts the world, but love and sacrifice overcomes all treachery in the end.”
Then the Most High looked upon Nienna and drew her close and looked in her tranquil face.
“Are you ready to sing joy, Lady of Sorrows?” He asked.
“I have waited an eternity to sing Your joy,” she answered.
“Then you shall sing joy and it will be your voice alone for you have earned the right.” Ilúvatar looked upon the Valar and the multitude that stood all around. “The Ainur must sing first, but each in their proper place, all of you will sing the Creation this time. The Elder King has sealed you and He has vouched for your worthiness. So you are worthy.”
But Olórin looked troubled and Manwë took pity for his fears.
“Speak your heart, Olórin.”
“What if I falter? I am not a Vala, with such strength of mind and purpose,” he admitted. “I cannot sing the Ainulindalë perfectly—I will mar the new creation in the founding of it.”
Varda answered, for she was wise.
“Do you remember the Eldar?” she asked. “Do you remember what you have loved in them; the glory of their songs, their strength of will, the perfection within their souls? Do you remember your years of walking unseen in their dreams, giving them fair visions to encourage their hearts in the dark world?”
Olórin looked upon Legolas who stood nearest, beheld him fully. Past the Singer stood Elrond and Arwen, Ráne and Galadriel and Celeborn, the wisdom and heart and steadfastness of their entire race represented in just these six. His affection for them sprang into his eyes swift as tears.
“Olórin, beautiful Olórin,” she said softly, “How you loved them, even before you were sent to them.”
“And do you remember the best of the Edain?” continued Manwë. “Their bravery in trial, their fierce devotion, the strange mystery of their finite souls? Have you not held them dearly in your heart? Consider Aragorn, whom you sealed with the final threads of your own fëa, preserving him from the lonely fate of Men because of your great love for him?”
Aragorn Elessar met Olórin’s eyes fully, saw him blink. When the Maia unconsciously reached a hand out, Aragorn took his fingers without hesitation, remembering that hand of guidance as a boy clear through his own death. Beren and Faramir, Éowyn and Théoden stood with him as well, all representatives of the best in Men’s hearts.
“Each of these you have loved in Middle Earth,” Varda said softly so as to not break the Maia’s consideration. “The Dwarves, with their stout and unwavering hearts, the hobbits, with their pure simplicity—have you not witnessed the finest of each?”
She turned his face with a hand and he looked upon her.
“Sing of what you treasure in each of them, be it strength, devotion, patience, mercy, love, truth, goodness, kindness, faithfulness, joy, righteousness or compassion. Set your mind upon the purest and the best and your voice will not falter.”
“Let us begin and Arda shall be healed,” said Eru, and He set a Theme in the minds of the Valar. It was different from the Themes of long ago, yet similar, for all Themes of Creation sprang from the mind of The One and His was a singular vision. Through the ages, the grand symphony of His purpose had not changed.
Manwë Súlimo was first to sing and He sounded and held His first note with perfect pitch, summoning a single melody of the Old Powers. His rich baritone filled the air and He held forth His hands. Ulmo next, with a voice of many waters yet a single sound. He reached and took the hand of Manwë. Varda joined them in counterpoint, then Aulë, and then each of the Valar in turn joined their hands in a widening circle around The Father of All.
At the very last, almost timidly, Olórin’s voice joined the theme of the song, not in the rough voice of a wizard, but in the light quick voice of his healed strength. Manwë took his hand on one side and Ulmo on the other, for they were most potent and would aid if he faltered. But he faltered not.
This time, there was no dissenter in the midst of the Vala as had been with treacherous Melkor. Of one mind and each according to the gift given by The One, the Valar gave glorious voice. And like a sweet flame burning with worship, the Great Song took shape midair. In it was the sound of every flute and harp, tamber and chimes, the lyre and vio and picolli. A harmony of holiness, rushing like wind and tumbling like clouds, and it swirled about the plain until it fully took shape. The Valar smoothed and circled it until the melody held steady beneath the reins of their hands.
So the Ainulindalë was woven anew, line-by-line by the voices of the Valar, and the army of light stood rapt by its beauty. The One listened for a time, searching through it for any note out of place, any pause too long, any strand loose, and found none. It was perfect.
“Eä.”
And with that single Word, Ilúvatar ignited the Flame Imperishable and set it burning as the heart of the world again.
Manwë and Varda, with a hobbit asleep upon her shoulder, left the main melody and brought the land into being and it hovered without touching the bedrock of the World. They held it preciously; Aman’s mightiest King and Queen, and Nienna bathed it in happiness so sublime that it trembled in the grip of the Valar who sustained it.
Ulmo sang the ocean forth with a basso voice and set the pattern of the waves. He spent much time rearranging the waters and stocking teeming life and the Music sang around him while they waited, for the seas ruled the World.
Nienna stole slyly into his melody and the porpoises danced with waves, the whales breeched to compare splashes, and the squid played tag in the deeps.
At last, the Earth was placed floating upon the waters and Manwë carved shape of the land with a voice so majestic that Men wept and Elves held their hands forth as if they could catch it. The Singer took a step and nearly entered the sacred circle, but Aragorn broke from reverie and detained him.
Aulë and Yavanna left the main theme next and The Smith set the ore in the ground and carved out the valleys and raised the mountains. Yavanna conjured life into the ground and grasses sprang up as quick as wildfires. Vána could not be restrained and together the sisters brought every flower and plant and tree upon the land while Aulë was still stretching the ground. He did not depart his task; he bent his craft around their skill and splendorous growth rose with the peaks. Hidden meadows were tucked away in sheltered valleys and many a rare flower bloomed in the bleakest cave where he made one aperture to let the light and rain in upon it.
Nienna crept into their midst and set music in the petals of the flowers and whispers in the grasses. The trees stretched their limbs skyward, praising. The willows no longer wept, they danced with their long skirts. Every emerald and diamond and vein of precious metal hummed elation when she passed and deep Earth sang.
One by one, each Vala swirled their voice out of the main melody and crafted, each to his own and after his order.
Oromë and his beloved Nessa rushed through with voices of pure delight. Swift deer and heavy bison and wild steeds sped from their breath. Every fleet creature that bounded or hopped or flew sprang forth. Nessa slowed for the creeping things and the watchful night creatures, tucking each away in hidden places.
Nienna skirted through their voices and gave all the crickets a song and the frogs another. The fireflies learned to dance. She sped the wings of the hummingbirds until they buzzed like hornets and touched the Shil-pipers so they were the fastest creatures awing. The monkeys chased wildly and swung from their tails. She made fuzzy bees too large and unwieldy to fly—then gave them the power of flight anyway.
Tulkas Astaldo added contest to the blissful world and the Vala indulged his whim. The bears wrestled and the lions stalked and the stags grappled. The swift hawks raced the horses. The wolves howled competitively and pursued each other. Even the prairie dogs shoved for who would perch highest. Vigor shook through the firmament.
Nienna made all the jackals laugh and the owls call back and forth endless questions. She painted giant eyes on the moths to startle and put horns on harmless caterpillars. There were rainbows on the sides of the fishes and glitter on the butterflies. She taught the squirrels to fly.
The Fëanturi, Masters of Spirits, left the main melody together.
Irmo extended his vision of tranquility upon the wilds and never was such loveliness seen save perhaps in Galadriel’s kingdom, the poorer reflection of his own in Aman. And Mandos instilled the awareness of the Father of All, His authority and right and excellence, into every created thing.
Thus the valleys and forests and every creature that ran and crept and flew knew of The One and reflected His splendor back. The waters laughed, the stones whispered holy, holy, and the wildlife trusted rain and sun and spring and fall to never fail. The mountains bowed once and then stood tall and proud.
Arda worshipped and it was one voice.
It was a mysterious thing to hold the Ainulindalë steady amidst gladness and not distress.
The first creation took many, many years. The new creation did not, for the Valar had watched how their initial work had grown and changed and they had perfected within their minds this second great Making. And Eru held not from them the full glory of His purpose and the flame of His vision entered fully and they beheld the beginning, the middle, and the end, and it was glorious indeed.
So Arda was built swiftly and not a stone, nor spring, nor tree, nor hillock, nor rose, nor valley, nor creature was out of place. Then it waited, full of life and noise and birdsong, stately elk and purring felines and rustling trees.
There was a rest wherein the Valar crafted nothing.
Then Olórin called to mind all the dim memories of Gandalf and sang his way out of the theme. Every Valar listened carefully, joyfully, none more delighted than Manwë and Varda.
He remembered the Elves first, the dearest and brightest. Cirdan and Ecthelion and Galdriel and Celeborn. Glorfindel, who could face nine ringwraiths and not falter. Legolas, whose arrows never missed; the legacy and birthright that lived on in his clear soul. Eärendil, who fought Ancalogon, Melkor’s mightiest Dragon for a full day and cast him down. The High Elven King, Elrond, in whom every bloodline of the races was represented, from the Eldar and Edain to the Maiar.
He sang of strength and knowledge, of patience and perseverance. Of loyalty and devotion and the purity of spirit that dwelled in the Firstborn of Ilúvatar. And with his final thought, Olórin brought all who listened back around to the Most High God, who gave them shape and being, for without Him was nothing made.
Somewhere in the midst of the Maia’s voice, Oromë lifted his hands from the circle and the Elves joined the song. Their voices were high and sweet and every note in place, for the Huntsman of the Valar had opened their souls fully to the Great Song. They could hear the resonance of the Ainulindalë in their fëa where it had always dwelled, hidden from perception. And Legolas wept while he sang, but it was for ecstasy and Aragorn and Gimli supported him to keep him on his feet.
Olórin next sang of the Edain. Of bravery and valor and honor. He sang of cheerful infants and trusting boys and steady young Men. He sang of dancing little girls and beauty in hallways and courage on uncertain battlefields and old women wiser than a wizard. He sang of hope, of love, of sacrifice, and of duty. He sang lastly of faith in a thing greater than their mortal reach and once more brought focus back to Ilúvatar.
It was Manwë who reached for Aragorn’s hand and took it, summoned every mortal upon the plain to join Him. And they sang, low and high and softly and mightily, and the Elder King watched over their voices and none failed or faltered the Great Song. It rushed as warmth in their bones and they knew it within and without and sang with all their strength.
Thus it was that a Maiar sang his memory of each race, the highest and best of their character. Of the Dwarves, industriousness and creativity and steadfastness. Of the hobbits, purity of heart and happiness and love of life. Of the Ents, their lengthy tales and strength and calm patience.
And as the people heard themselves take shape in Olórin’s words, they joined into the music for Eru quickened every spirit and their souls blazed in answer. Every intonation blended and found its place, even the hobbits that were out of tune. By then, the Ainulindalë was a million voices strong; a magnificent and authoritative melody.
So Arda was healed and the nations restored.
“I hear the waterfalls,” said Ulmo. “Good. For I quite forgot to tell them to pour down.”
“I took care of it for you when I raised the mountains,” replied Aulë, humored. “They would have played havoc with the snow.”
“Did you remember to put the rattles on the ends of the snakes?” asked Oromë.
“I did not make any snakes,” said Yvanna. “I never liked those in the first place.”
“What?” demanded Mandos. “No snakes? What will I torment Lorien with?”
“So it is you who leaves them in his garden!” Nienna spoke through laughter. “Why did I receive such a rascal brother as you?”
“You made me some bats, did you not?” demanded Aulë. “What good is a cave without any bats in it!”
“I made the bats,” said Nessa dryly. “I did not want to listen to you complain for the next eternity about the dearth of bats!”
“Did you make enough for me? I’ve had a cave for an eternity and have never had even one bat in it!” said Mandos. He looked at Aulë sternly. “You must share the bats!”
“Oh!” inspired Tulkas, laughing. “Make him wrestle for them! That would be a sight to see!” He shot a glance at Oromë, pondering. “Have Aulë and Námo wrestled before?”
“No. The last time Aulë wrestled it was with Ulmo and we all got in trouble for flooding the courtyard of the Mansion of High Airs with a tidal wave,” returned Oromë.
“There will be no wrestling over the bats,” said Varda sternly and her voice stirred Frodo asleep on her shoulder. He yawned and blinked and she turned so his first sight would be Middle Earth. “I’m sure there will be enough to share and if there is not, wait a few years and they will have doubled their number.”
No one argued with her. They remembered the scolding over the tidal wave.
Eru Ilúvatar smiled, for the Valar were cheerful, the World was perfect, and all His children were home. They stood before Him of a single piece; the perfect incarnation of His love and beauty and splendor.
“You can finish,” He said to Manwë Súlimo.
“Will You not abide, Lord?”
“Soon.” His voice was soft rain and sunlight. “Soon.”
And then the Most High strode away and His brightness grew until they could not endure and they covered their faces. The longing of every heart followed, but He did not turn. The Door of Heaven opened and then shut and they were alone with the light of the Two Trees spilling over the land and the sweet song of Creation hummed comfortingly within their souls.
7. Just One Truth
Manwë Súlimo looked upon the great company. Every race stood intermixed; Dwarves and Elves, Men and Maia, Ents and hobbits. The call to duty had forged them, the crucible of battle had melted them, and the light of Eru Ilúvatar had sealed every seam together.
“Arda is restored to the beauty intended in the beginning, a place of peace and life for the Children of Ilúvatar and those of their kindred,” said the Elder King. “The land awaits those who will plant and sow and carve and build. Valar, gather the kindred that best serves you and prepare to enter. Leave these that abide with me, for they will choose their own path. And do not move the hobbits,” Manwë cautioned, “for they are tender and frighten easily.”
Ulmo took to himself the great seafarers and mighty Men of the fleets. He identified each of them properly, for he had listened to their songs upon the top of his oceans, knew their footsteps upon wooden decks, and had heard their heartbeats through the murmur of waters. He extended a hand and gathered them to one place, hundreds of thousands strong. They looked up at his towering height unafraid, for the wonder of the sea dwelled in their souls and they knew him.
“A tall ship?” asked one.
“A mighty ship?” said another hopefully.
“Tall and mighty,” rumbled Ulmo. “The likes of which have never sailed the restless ocean.” Then he summoned Cirdan the Shipwright, tall and young and his eyes grey as cloudy skies. “Master Builder, will you come to the sea with us?”
“I will,” said Cirdan. “And when I long for land, I will come to the land.” He reached and touched the face of the King of the Sea, for Ulmo had bent low to speak. “But I will always return to you.”
Oromë and Vána stood aside. The Huntsman of the Valar blew a single note upon Valaroma and the Elves turned with a snap. The Vala waved a hand almost casually and was instantly surrounded by the Eldar. They stood tall and still and stately as stags. Oromë stood exactly the same way. Vána was humming some soft song that wreathed through the company and tendrils of harmony sprang up throughout the Elves as they added to her voice.
Yavanna and Irmo, Master of the Gardens, gathered up all those who loved the green growing things. The tenders of gardens, the planters of forests, and those who sowed seeds were chosen amongst the Eldar and Edain and Ents. All were of the same heart, though their races were far different. Oromë quarreled not that fully a third of his Elves were shifted.
Mandos and Nienna took the rest of the Men, for death was the gift of the Edain and they understood the sorrow and woe of the mortals. The light in Námo’s eyes and Nienna’s smile warmed them. A great host waited with the Keepers of the Dead and no terror touched them.
“Will we build again the great Citadels of Men?” asked one.
“You shall,” said Mandos. “We will borrow any Dwarves and Elves required for the task when we need them and they will heed my call.”
“The best for last!” Aulë laughed and Durin’s Folk roared, already on the march toward him. “To me!” he shouted and he moved them brusquely, for they were Dwarves and unafraid to be jostled. Verily, they pushed and shoved and clanged iron helms together once they were gathered: a boisterous and rowdy people, choppy as dark seas around towering Aulë.
“Who will be first upon the land?” called The Smith with a booming voice.
The Elder King surveyed the races, for they were each worthy and glorious. The Edain, a mystery of strength and honor. The Eldar, perfect of soul and valor. The Dwarves, mighty of fortitude and craft … then He looked upon the small folk, the hobbits, where they had drawn themselves together.
“The children will lead us,” He said.
Though the hobbits looked bewildered, there were cheers throughout the wide plain, for the decision of the High King was just and their hearts were warm.
“Do we have to go on a boat again?” said a timid voice. Samwise Gamgee peered up at the Elder King almost resignedly. “I hate boats. And the waves make me sick, no matter what nasty stuff the Elves give me to make it stop.”
Frodo stood near him, an arm encouragingly thrown about Sam’s shoulders. Their affection was as undeniable as that of Pippin and Merry, who scuffled their way to the front of the throng of hobbits so they could hear better.
Varda laughed from nearby and then hid her smile behind a hand while Manwë considered Sam’s complaint.
“Must they ride the sea, Lord of the Waters?” inquired the Elder King.
“No,” replied Ulmo. He dandled a hand over the range of the Pelori, drawing in the green grass with a finger idly. “Get these mountains out of the way and you shall see.”
So Manwë raised His hands and the mountains were unmade and removed and the host stared in amazement when it was accomplished.
“I nudged those around for nearly five hundred years to get them the way I wanted,” sighed Aulë. He brightened an instant later. “There will be hundreds of crags to carve in Middle Earth. I shall be content.”
“See?” said Ulmo. “They do not have to cross the sea to reach Middle Earth. I brought Middle Earth to them!”
They looked and it was so; the King of the Seas had floated the land nearer and only a small stretch of water remained between the landmasses.
“Aulë,” said the Elder King. “Could you see about a bridge? It needs to be wide, with sides, so they cannot see over the edge to the waters below. And,” He added, “keep it simple, for everyone is impatient and if you exert your full skill, we will still be in Aman a thousand years from now waiting for a bridge!”
“Simple?” said the Craftsman of the Valar with a snort. “I can make simple things—I just do not like to make simple things!” He tied his axe to his side and shouldered his hammer. “Come along, Delvers of the Deep—we build!”
The legions strode away with The Smith and a rough chant sprang quickly up, carried by thousand of low voices. They strode in perfect step and the ground thrummed.
But Varda Elentári fixed her spouse with a level gaze and Aragorn was witness to the steadiness of it, for he stood with Legolas and Gimli exactly where they had remained through the singing of the Great Song. He blinked, wondering, for that look was oddly familier.
“Manwë, what did you do with the mansion?” she asked.
“Ilmarin?”
“Yes, yes, the Palace of High Airs. You just flattened the mountain range it was resting upon.”
The Elder King looked at her a moment, first puzzled and then sly.
“I moved it, Beloved Kindler.”
Her expression was exasperated and Aragorn nearly laughed aloud. Legolas’ grip upon his arm kept his face straight, but Gimli coughed and scrubbed at his face with his beard.
“You are a wise, wise King,” said Varda solemnly, “and I love you.”
“I am a wise, wise King for I never destroy your house when I move the land about.” His eyes were humored. “Only a fool will tempt the wrath of she who wields the Sickle of the Valar.”
Nessa, with glad eyes and a spring in her step, came to the company of hobbits. Tulkas Alstado came with her, for they were wed, and he was swinging hobbits four to an arm in sport.
“We will take the wee ones to their land,” said valiant Tulkas. “I will walk slowly and Nessa will dance the whole way. No fear shall come upon them, for I will guard and protect them from all the savage beasts.”
“We did not put any savage beasts in the path of the hobbits to the Valley of the Shire,” reminded Varda.
“Don’t tell them that!” he said, cheerfully. “How can I pretend to be fierce and full of valor if they know they are merely strolling through a garden?” He scowled at her, the most daring of Vala. “Did you not leave a bear or a single Werecat to wrestle?”
“We did not,” said Varda, smiling. “But if you like, I will call down a pack of wolves for you to chase away a time or two.”
“Wolves? That is all, just wolves?” He looked disappointed and the hobbits giggled and poked each other with elbows. “There is no sport in the wolves—they just scatter and run and are easily caught! That is no contest for a Vala!”
“Tulkas,” said Varda patiently. “Just take the hobbits home without the need to challenge every living thing to a wrestle or a race. You can join the Elves in the North Country when you are through and count all the Mountain Stags in the forest.”
“That will be fun,” he said. He put two hobbits upon his shoulders. “The stags are querulous and full of strength and cunning.”
So the hobbits left the plain of Valinor and Tulkas the Strong led them, whistling and telling old tales of heroism. Aulë and the Dwarves carved a bridge out of a solid block of rock and levered it into place with a shock that rattled the entire island. Nessa fell back partway across and so did her spouse and the hobbits tramped on, singing and shouting and telling their own old stories.
It was the Old Took and Bilbo Baggins who were amongst the first of the small folk to step upon the rebirthed land. They swung their walking sticks and prodded any who got into their way and then walked too slowly. Someone had broken out the cheese and bread … there was a feast on foot crossing Middle Earth.
“The Eldar next, for they were first of Ilúvatar’s Children,” said Manwë. “The Edain right behind them, for they were later born, yet today they will not be much later.”
Manwë waved at hand at the eager multitude. “Go. Look upon the good Earth.”
The races began to vanish and it was uncanny to see.
The Elves disappeared silently, as a wink of the eye. The Men departed with a murmur of sound, for Mandos spoke as he moved them and his voice remained a moment after. Nienna was heard laughing upon the high winds. The Dwarves were mid-chant and it died abruptly as Aulë jerked them out of existence.
So the Blessed Realm was emptied, save for Manwë and Varda and the six; Legolas, Aragorn, Gimli, Arwen, Áriel, and Olórin, who remained exactly where he had laid down.
Aragorn wondered why this was so, that he of all Men should abide with the High King when another was perhaps more worthy, more diligent, more honorable.
Manwë looked fully in his eyes and Aragorn felt the weight of that gaze.
“It is not always about worthiness or honor or even valor,” He said gently. “Sometimes it is nothing greater than hope and faith and love. You remain because you are part of a braided rope that cannot be sundered easily and I have no wish to cause you grief by parting you.” He glanced to where the Maia lay. “And you comforted he who once was Gandalf when I was too busy to comfort him.”
“He is our dear friend,” said Aragorn, as if it was obvious.
Then Varda drew Olórin to his feet and the Maia opened his eyes as if he had slept and reawakened, blinking.
“Am I lost?” he said softly, frowning. “Have I been lost?”
“Only a short while were you lost, but now you are found” replied Manwë and He kissed the Maia upon the brow as He oft had done, left His fingers framing Olórin’s face. “I set your mind dozing for a time simply to rest. Do you remember singing the Ainulindalë with the Host of Light?”
“Was it done well?” Olórin whispered. “Did I do well?” He searched the eyes of the Elder King.
“Beautiful Olórin,” Manwë replied. “You have served well throughout this long day, as did all the upright. Most importantly, you fulfilled the final duty set aside for you, a service for which I have rested you all these eons in preparation. Now you will enter the rest of the faithful even as they.”
Then Manwë turned toward the endless plain of Valinor, stretching muddy and torn and battle trodden into the distance, and lifted a single word of summons. Far away in the heavens, the blue sky rippled like water and something descended. It came quickly and the Elder King strode away to meet it.
The Elves standing with Aragorn blinked and scrutinized the figure, as if their eyes deceived or their minds refused.
“What is it?” asked Aragorn.
“The Stormweaver,” said Olórin reverently. “The Stallion of Manwë Súlimo.”
“Is that his name?” asked Legolas.
“I do not know,” replied Olórin thoughtfully. “Perhaps it is his name, perhaps not … but there is only one Stormweaver.”
Shortly, all understood the Maia’s words, for the steed that came down to the battle scarred plain was unlike any in the world. He was the color of blue sky, with a white mane and tail that billowed as clouds. The sparks rose from his black hooves and a roll of thunder spoke in the ground when he touched the earth and he came swift to the hand of Manwë. His fetlocks were shaggy, his eyes intelligent and untamed, and he nudged the Elder King hard enough to cause Him to lose His balance an instant.
Manwë led the Stallion of Stallions by a forelock and they looked upon him with wonder. None dared touch him, not even Olórin, though the great beast sighed gustily at the Maia as if recognizing him. He was not any larger than the greatest of mearas, but an otherworldly energy permeated his frame, as if imbued with stamina and fortitude beyond that of mere horses.
Manwë regarded the sky colored stallion. “Call them in.”
But the steed shook his mane and lipped at the robe of the High King as if petulant, bobbed his head querulously.
“Not today, they are just getting started,” chided Manwë.
“It is not just today,” Varda laughed from where she stood. “He wonders if storms will ever come upon this new land, for the Vala have made it perfect this time.”
“There are many amongst the races that welcome the fury of the sky,” said the Elder King. “You will still run thunder through the heavens and strike lightning with your hooves as you ever did. You will herd the winds into funnels and swirl them capriciously along the high peaks of the mountains as before. Ulmo would never forgive me if I took you from the heavens; who then would he play with when a tempest grows in his heart?” He tugged the shaggy forelock of the steed. “Now, Ráhaim, call them in.”
The stallion nickered neither loudly nor piercingly, but the quality of it rang far into the distance and seemed to vanish away from them. And dimly, yet growing close, that call was answered. A wash of colored steeds burst over the edge of the plain and spilled down the slope at a gallop to greet them.
“Ashra,” said Legolas. His eyes were very bright.
“Talemon,” said Aragorn, though he could not see because his eyes refused to clear.
Áriel stared, puzzled. “Hitaur was demon spawned,” she said slowly.
“Through no fault of his own,” said Varda. “He was faithful to you because of affection and you mercifully gave him death because of your great love for him. That is always the truth.”
Shadowfax was amongst the horses, running as a blaze of light with the Sons of Thunder, and so was Shalenah, Arwen’s nimble-footed mare from ages past. Arwen caught her as she passed and sprang aloft and they galloped circles in a blur of color that made Aragorn and Legolas laugh. The patient gelding that Gimli once rode was along, though he looked completely bored at the high energy of the other horses. He came to the stout Dwarf and blew into his beard.
“How can this be?” asked Aragorn. He caught Talemon’s muzzle in both hands and held him, breathed his breath.
Varda answered from near his shoulder and her voice was soothing.
“We held the one steed that you loved the most aside. Every champion upon the field today will receive back the one steed, the one faithful hound or feline, that they have held in their hearts the deepest.”
All were mounted and the steeds restless and eager to be away, when the Elder King turned to Varda Elentári.
“The Edain are carving their great cities. The Dwarves are opening the Misty Mountains to their inner glory. The Eldar are singing the trees into cathedrals. The Ents are shifting the great woods and all the forests murmur glad greetings. The Valar and Maiar work alongside the Children of Eru Ilúvatar and I go to give blessing upon their labors.” Manwë looked upon his wife. “What will you do, Beloved?”
Varda contemplated His words. The fingers of an idle wind tied and untied knots in her golden hair, whispering some melody. She looked out across Middle Earth, heard the busy bustle and laughter of millions of souls, and felt their joy lying across the land as a mist.
“I will stay here, for it is quiet and restful,” she said calmly. She looked up and her gaze sharpened. “I will hang all the stars again while Arda is refashioned.”
Manwë did not turn His head; He asked without looking, “And what do you wish to do, beautiful Olórin?”
“I will do what You wish me to do.” His voice was pure worship.
“But I asked what you wished to do.” His voice was patient as sea wind and just as unyielding.
The Maia looked at the Elder King, the company of mounted companions, and then silent Varda. Indecision warred in his countenance. Aragorn said nothing to sway Olórin, intuiting that Manwë had left him free of constraints for some purpose.
“I will stay with Varda Elentári and watch her hang the stars,” eventually said he who was once Gandalf.
Though Olórin could not see, Manwë smiled and His eyes were bright.
“Very well.” He turned the Steed of Heaven toward Middle Earth and every rider followed.
But Aragorn looked upon Arwen, saw the flit of something through her eyes and he pulled Talemon to a halt. Every steed halted with him, though he had spoken not.
“I would like to stay with Elbereth and Mithrandir to see the stars hung,” Arwen said quietly. She bowed her head a moment. “If the Elder King permits.”
“I so permit,” said Manwë. “Come when you are finished. Varda will find us easily.”
They rode away once more, but Aragorn felt his heart lurch and a tendril of fear creep around the edge of his soul. Manwë turned instantly and the sky colored stallion crowded close to Talemon. Aragorn was abashed and dropped his gaze.
“Speak your heart, Aragorn Elessar,” coaxed the High King.
“Will they be safe?” Aragorn asked softly. “Here in the Blessed Realm empty of Your might?” He glanced at the sky, remembering the horrifying tear in the world and the army of darkness. Terror rose like black tears. “Is it safe to leave them?”
“This I promise you,” said Manwë, His voice mighty as the Iron Mountains and vast as the Encircling Sea. “No harm, nor evil, nor woe, nor destruction will come upon them. Nor will such ever enter or overtake Middle Earth again. The wicked one and all that follow him have been cast down forever. The Eldar and Edain and Ainur have been bound together with the Old Power of Arda: seven stars, seven stones and one White Tree.” He lifted a finger into the sky and the light that burned at the tip was bright as Eru’s radiance. “Death is vanquished. Sickness and sorrow are ended. The dawn of Ilúvatar is come and His dominion and peace shall never end.”
“Peace?” whispered Aragorn. His eyes were blurry with tears.
“Everlasting peace,” said the Elder King and He took Aragorn’s head in the bowl of His left hand. Aragorn felt heat rush head to toe and crash back like a wave. “And you, Aragorn Elessar, you have been held apart, for in you is the despair and fear of all Men and I would put it to rest. With your confidence will come theirs.” He spoke tenderly, as to a beloved child. “The old is passed away and the world is reborn. Joy is a sunrise that never ends.”
“No more death, no more sorrow?” Aragorn said it quietly stunned.
“Just one truth,” Manwë whispered, quoting, “As it was in the beginning, so it shall be in the end; the Timeless Halls of Ilúvatar and the Music of the Ainur. Násië.”
“The end of the High Prayer,” replied Aragorn, retrieving it from memory.
But Manwë smiled and released him with a chuckle.
“It is not the end—it is the beginning. The pattern written now will be more glorious than that which came before.”
The sky stallion tossed his head with a snort and the High King patted his arched neck and glanced back to those they had left behind.
“Varda stayed behind to hang the stars when we first made the world,” He said softly. “None of the Ainur understood as Varda and I did, that the stars would steer your ships and guide your travels—the most important landmarks during darkness. And while every other Maiar went to the land to craft mighty works beside their Vala, great important tasks—Olórin sat at Varda’s feet and watched her set the constellations. So it was in the beginning, so it is again: all things move in circles.”
They rode away and thundered across the rough bridge of rock and Manwë neither seemed to lead, nor follow—He rode in their midst and the blessing of His presence made their hearts light.
Varda placed the stars, drawing them from a pouch upon her hip and each one had heft and radiance and specific placement. She knew each one before lifting it and not one was hung carelessly.
Arwen sat side by side with he who was once Gandalf and remembered thousands of nights in the company of the wizard, counting stars, and her heart was content.
Suddenly Arwen spoke. “If we watch Varda placing all the stars, then we shall never spend a night counting to see how many there are,” she warned. “We will already know.”
“True,” said Olórin thoughtfully.
Seventy-six more stars were placed … and then Varda cast a million million burning lights up at once, scattering them in a long arc with the sweep of her hand—a cascade of shimmer upon the canopy of the heavens.
“Oh!” said Arwen, startled.
Olórin laughed and lay back upon the ground, smitten with humor. When he had regained his composure, he looked into Arwen’s face.
“She did that when I first watched her hang the stars,” he said.
“You have never known how many stars there are!” exclaimed Arwen.
“No,” he admitted. “I have never known. You only thought I knew.”
“And you never corrected me,” she chided. She wrapped her arms about his shoulders, put her head against his neck. “A deceitful wizard were you!”
Varda Elentári, laughing.
What Galadriel and Celeborn had fashioned in a thousand years and with the power of the Ring of Adament, Irmo and Yavanna and Vána performed in a single hour. Galadriel knelt amidst greenery and kissed the hem of Yavanna’s gown, was drawn to her feet in an instant.
“We must train all the flowers, Alatáriel,” said the Queen of Earth. “There is not enough room for Nessa to dance. And when Tulkas comes through, he will bowl over the hyacinths and foxgloves with his sporting!”
Námo and Nienna raised the cities; great blocks of granite and stone and quartz. Elendil drew again the plans for the Tower of the Guard, Minas Tirith, and the Tower of the Rising Moon, Minas Ithil. It took the combined might of six Valar to bring the Citadels into being. Meduseld, Hall of the Kings of Rohan, was raised gloriously in Edoras. The Vala trod north and built the hall of the Master of Lake-town once again and the people rejoiced.
Oromë rode through every forest, deep and fair, and assisted in the rebuilding of the First Homely House, Rivendell. He shot one arrow far into the vastlands and where it struck, the Entwash gurgled forth and Wellinghall was restored. Caras Galadhon was raised, ringing the great Mallorn trees.
“No, I will not carve the Dwarrowdelf for you,” said Aulë. He was drawing in the dirt with the tip of his axe. “I have plateaus to flatten and six riverbeds that are not carved quite to my liking. The rest of the Vala will have work requiring my skill and I am certain Varda will have some requests—you will have to carve the Khazad-dúm again yourselves!”
Raised voices.
“If I carve it for you,” said The Maker solemnly, “then what will you do tomorrow?”
Silence.
Durin the Deathless called for counsel and every Stone Master came to his call. Soon all the Dwarves that had beheld Moria in its glory were sketching in the dirt together. The Dwarrowdelf took shape upon the ground and every detail was debated until refined.
Aulë smiled and left them drawing. He trod down to the Heartstones of Minas Ithl and Minas Tirith and saw to their proper seating.
Far out to sea, there was a floating city being constructed and when Ulmo was finished, it rose two thousand feet above the water. The men of the seas need never set foot on land again if they did not wish. There were feast fires upon the water. A thousand carvers were at work building the greatest fleet the world had ever seen.
Far south, nestled in rolling hills and slopes, the Shire was in bloom. Hobbit holes puffed smoke, ale barrels were being made, and crops were being planted. There was a birthday party, though there were doubters that the birthday was legitimate. They came anyway, for Tulkas had watered down some Valarian fire brew and was dipping out cupfuls. When sixty-two hobbits were drunk after their first cup, he wisely watered it down again.
Far to the east, what was once the Black Land of Mordor was utterly changed, for Mandos and Aulë loosened the pins of the mountains and opened pathways into the land from every direction. Nienna soothed the volcano and set it sleeping calmly.
This fertile ground, having known no harm, sprang forth a verdant carpet of plants and trees. Wildlife flourished. Vána counted three thousand red roe deer springing through the grasses. There were turtles in the salt water of Núrnen, their shells wide as the span of a Man’s arms.
To the midst of Middle Earth came the Elder King of Arda and those who rode with Him. They covered the land swiftly, for no law of nature held The Stormweaver and when he set his eye upon a destination, they were there in a short gallop. So they looked upon the great cities of the Elves, the chiseled throat of Moria, and saw the great canopy over Treebeard’s dwelling. Helm’s Deep was restored, though never again would it be a haven against war. Théoden cheered to hear the Horn of Helm Hammerhand sound again.
Finally, their steeds plucking at grass inside the guardian wall of Minas Tirith, Manwë called a halt to their scrutiny of Middle Earth. Aragorn stared dizzily up at the White City, awed and jubilant. He slid off of Talemon and placed a hand upon the Rammas Echor.
“Minas Tirith, the City of Kings,” he said reverently.
“City of Kings,” agreed Manwë.
Aragorn turned to face the Lord of Arda, knelt humbly, fingers upon his eyelids.
“You will rule this city,” he said. “All Men will wish it so.”
“I will not rule Minas Tirith.” His voice was soft as summer breeze and touched just as gently. “This is the Seat of the Kings of the Edain. I have my own palace and throne and will not usurp what is given to Men. Nor will I take any of the great cities of the Elves, or Dwarves, or any other kingdom of Middle Earth for my own.”
All in hearing heard His words. This was the High King of Arda, who by His authority could rule from any place He wished, yet would not.
In a leap of comprehension, Aragorn understood the marvelous sovereignty of Manwë Súlimo. He would take nothing that the hands of the races had built for themselves, yet, by not appropriating what was within His right to have; every nation would intuitively give Him dominion. Every race would bow to His authority. Every throne would belong to Him though He would not sit any of them. Every crown would be His, though He would don none of them. His rule was written in their hearts.
The mystery of Olórin’s complete adoration and worship of this one Lord ceased.
“My God and my King,” whispered Aragorn.
“Yes, I am.” Manwë’s voice held no arrogance. “I have listened to your heart since you were conceived. And not only yours, but that of every soul who truly belongs to Eru Ilúvatar.”
“Where will you dwell?” asked Aragorn. “How will we find You, to seek Your wisdom and guidance? To worship and sit in Your presence?”
“Have you not guessed?” returned Manwë. He looked out upon the green plain of the Pelennor, bordered by the silver Anduin. “I will dwell here, in the heart of the lowlands. As a wise King once said, ‘not near the river, to enjoy its coolness, and not near the White City, to seek shelter within it, and not upon the hillock, to look down upon others—but in the center of the people’.”
He lifted His hands and the golden rings caught fire with midday sun. The air wavered and Ilmarin sprang into being, the towers and balconies, gardens and fountains. The courtyard of marble spread in every direction as if a field of snow.
“Behold—the courtyard of the King of Arda bears no line of holiness to warn away the unclean and impure; there is no forbidden place where mortals may not pass.” He regarded their marveling faces. “The gates to the Mansion of High Air are forever thrown wide.”
Legolas spoke and his voice was spun with mystery and a dawning delight. “You will stay in Middle Earth and not in Aman…”
“Dear children,” Manwë gazed at them in turn, held each with the kindness of His face. “The Powers of the World will dwell with you and you with them. You have no need of prayers to some far away land, to some Holy One out of reach. Look beyond you … we are there.”
The host of the Valar appeared as if stepping through mist; Aulë, Vairë, Oromë and Tulkas, holding a flagon of drink. Nessa and Nienna came together, giggling as sisters. Irmo came with Mandos, brothers in might. Varda appeared, radiant with starlight, and Olórin and Arwen walked with her.
One by one, the Lords of the West stepped upon the Pelennor in the light of Ilmarin. Only the King of the Seas was absent … but the fountains of Manwë’s courtyard all sprang gurgling to life with Ulmo’s unseen presence.
“We will remain in the heart of the World from this day forward,” said Varda Elentári. “The Deliverers have come, to free you from fear and doubt.”
Manwë looked directly in Aragorn’s eyes.
“Melkor was in the world, setting fires around your hearts and keeping you in terror. But at the appointed hour, the Deceiver’s soul was unmade and the notes of his song rendered mute and then removed.” His voice grew strong and absolute. “In this world, he has no place. In this world, he has no dominion. In this world, he was never made.” He framed Aragorn’s face within His hands. “In this world there is only one truth you need to free you from fear and doubt.”
His low voice carried with wind, as if to touch the corners of Middle Earth. Aragorn felt with certainty that every ear could hear amongst Dwarves, Elves, hobbits, and Ents.
“The love of God never fails. Age to age, it remains an unbroken hoop,” said the Elder King. “To you who are His, have ever been His since the founding of the World, the love of God never fails.
Fear flies before love, so it is said. These knew of such things.
Aragorn took Arwen’s hand and she took the archer’s. Legolas took Áriel’s and she took Gimli’s. So they stood silent and let the words of the Elder King permeate their souls.
“Let every creature in land and sea, every bird and beast,” said Aragorn. “Let every valley and mountain, every field and river and meadow. Let the wind and rain, the clouds and stars. Let all the people, to the ends of the Earth, give praise and honor and glory to the Father of All. Násië.”
“Násië” said Manwë and the Valar echoed Him.
“Come, First upon Aman,” called Aulë. “They have waited at the Great Hall of the West Gate of Khazad-dúm for you to arrive!”
“They waited?” replied Gimli, astonished.
“Of course they did! Why would they not bring your heart into their joy? But I can not hold them much longer—come!” The Smith shouldered an enormous shovel. “We dig!”
“We dig!” shouted Gimli and no hand could stay him and none tried.
Then there was a sight that made all pause, for Lúthien Tinúviel came from the Guarded City and met Arwen Undómiel face to face upon the field and every voice that spoke fell mute before their splendor. Of the same height they were, and marvelous of eye and rounded cheeks and glossy hair. The exquisiteness of their faces reflected the otherworldly heritage that sprang from the bloodlines of both Eldar and Maiar.
“That…” said Aragorn, but no more words would come.
“Truly,” said Legolas, as if he knew what would have been spoken anyway.
“Almost,” said Manwë Súlimo, His voice was full of humor right behind them. They could not tear their eyes away to even look at the Elder King. “Almost.”
“Ahh,” said the archer, for Varda Elentári joined the two radiant women and turned them into her embrace.
“Now,” said Manwë very solemnly. “That is beauty, thrice in a space scarcely able to contain one!”
“How will we be able to endure all three of them upon this land?” said Aragorn thoughtfully. “We will drop what is in our hands and fail our speech when we see them!”
“Did you want one of them to depart?” humorously inquired Manwë.
“No,” said Aragorn and Legolas nearly in unison.
“Then you will endure,” said the Elder King. “And one day, long in the future … you will become used to seeing them and cease dropping things.”
Varda spoke with each woman and they looked raptly into her face, then she kissed a blessing upon their brow and let them go. She came to Manwë and took His hand. Their magnificence together stopped the eye and power seemed to hum about the two most potent Vala.
“The stars are beautiful,” she said.
“Naturally,” replied Manwë. He twirled a tendril of her long hair up in one finger idly. “You made them. Are there new constellations to name?”
“There are, but I left some familiar ones. They will comfort the races and all the seafarers will rejoice.”
“I will miss the Sickle of the Valar,” said Manwë.
Varda smiled. Her fingers found the bare skin of His wrist, slid beneath His sleeve.
“I put it back.”
“You … did?” He looked puzzled. “We have no more need for that warning in the heavens to evildoers, my Beloved.”
“It will not be called a sickle anymore,” she laughed. “It is a cup for drinking.”
The High King laughed very softly and kissed her. “A cup for drinking it shall be.”
Then Manwë turned and beheld Olórin standing silently. There were stars burning within his fëa once more and He knew with certainty that the Maia was as unaware of them as he had ever been.
“Where will you make your dwelling, beautiful Olórin?” asked the Elder King perceptively. “You are whole now; your soul has been restored to the radiance as when you left Valinor for Middle Earth long, long ago.”
“I do not know.” He stood very still, as if uncertain.
“The City of Kings will welcome you and Aragorn Elessar will make a place for you,” said Manwë. “The House of Elrond will ask for you. Théoden, King of the Mark, will call for you. Celeborn and Galadriel have already raised a veld and draped it with silk and yarrow the color of snow and sky. Bilbo has tea piping and cheese cut and keeps looking out his doorway. Frodo is watching the road from the orchard nearby. Treebeard strides the deeps in Fangorn and all the trees are laughing, designing tricks to play with your hat to keep you with them for a year or three. The Elves of Eregion will want you to dwell with them and sing all their songs with them. Cirdan wants to sail the coastline with you. The Dwarves are plotting a feast involving Dwarf rum and fireworks and twenty roasted boars. They have invited Tulkas to see if he can outwrestle six thousand Stonewrights in a single night and I think you are to be the judge of the contest…”
The High King paused His lengthy speech, regarded the quiet Maia a moment.
“Any nation in Arda can be your dwelling place, for you are much loved.” His eyes were very solemn.
“I know,” softly said he who had once been Gandalf. “I will visit each of them for I love them as they love me.”
But the pleasure in his words seemed not to touch his heart. He stood still and quiet, a weight seemingly pressing upon his thoughts.
Then Manwë extended His right hand, the hand of might and majesty, and Olórin stepped and took it with his left, the hand of worship and love. The Elder King drew him close and did not permit him to bow. His voice held the whisper of winds and the gentleness of clouds when He spoke.
“Beautiful Olórin,” whispered He. “You may dwell with every race of Middle Earth for as long as you wish … but Ilmarin will be always be your home. In my presence, there is a place held for you. At the feet of Varda, your counsel is given. At the altar of the High King, you will serve as you ever have served and the devotion of your spirit will rise as sweet incense throughout the Mansion of High Airs.”
He tilted the Maia’s face, looked in his eyes fully.
“Let all the stars dance in your soul; a dance never repeating and never ending. I spoke only truth to you—you shall abide in Ilmarin, in the shadow of the Lord, all the length of your days, even to eternity. The world turned. The world passed away. The world was remade and still my word stands. Your place has always been at my side, most worthy and obedient of Maiar.”
Then Manwë kissed Olórin upon the brow and held him a moment. When He stood back, the Maia’s eyes were damp.
“It would be you who sheds tears first in the land of eternal hope,” chided the Elder King.
“I am sorry,” said Olórin.
“Deceitful Maia,” said Varda. She took his free hand and her radiance turned his head to her. “You are not the least ashamed of your tears, for love compels them. Did you think we would lay you aside now that you are restored? Do you not bear the ring, Harwë, upon your finger? Is there a power that can wrest that golden band from you?”
Olórin closed his hand almost as a reflex and Varda laughed musically.
“Come now,” she said. “There is something I must show you.” And she led the Maia away toward the courtyard and lofty towers of the Mansion of High Airs, which sparkled dew-struck in afternoon.
Olórin asked nothing of Varda, nor did he release her hand. They crossed the white courtyard and he saw the brilliant fishes in the fountain and smiled. The doors stood open and inviting and the Chamber of Greeting was cool when they each paused and removed their footgear. Past hallways and the Throne Room they trod silently and only when Varda reached the throat of the Hall of Manwë, did she stop and turn.
“Enter here,” she said without preamble. “Stay as long as you will.”
He said nothing; he simply obeyed. His love for Varda was only eclipsed by his love for Manwë.
The door swung noiselessly shut behind him and then there was only the soft sound of his robe trailing the floor. The mosaic tiles were cool beneath his feet. He strode amongst the lush tapestries and the high mirrors, the carvings of each Vala that seemed almost alive, the golden chalice of the King’s Cup set upon the silver tray. Sunlight smote shafts through the high windows and they pierced the interior and illuminated the bones of the vaulted ceilings. All was still. Quiet. Even the dust motes hung suspended and his eyes strained through the darkness.
Ahead, only perceived because she turned, a woman waited. Her hair was bound up behind her head and Olórin nearly stumbled upon a perfectly flat floor when he recognized her. He came straightaway and looked down into her wary eyes.
Ioreth looked up at him.
She was smaller than he remembered, no higher than his chest, but as fair and unbent as in her youth. The white was gone from her hair and the age from her face, but the sharp scrutiny she had ever had picked through his face.
He waited, wondering, pondering what words could capture what he most wanted to say and realized, sadly, that she did not recognize him. She looked at him without greeting, without warmth, though if memory served him at all, Ioreth had never fawned or doted upon Gandalf. If anything, her affection was less a roaring conflagration as it was cool black coals over embers that exploded in the face. Her completely upright posture reminded him of a cornered blackbird; small and stiff and capable of pecking a dog’s eyes out in a blink.
He loved her.
Then Ioreth startled him and stood on tiptoe, caught his chin with a hand steady as iron and insistent as a querulous sparrow. She looked into his eyes without blinking a long moment … then released his chin and took his hand.
“I remember those stars. You were once the wizard, Gandalf.” Her eyes were bright, reflecting some radiance he could not see. “But your rightful form is here; Olórin, the Maia, the Servant of the Elder King.”
“Ioreth,” he said and nothing more. His fingers were too tight upon hers and he softened them.
“The Lady of the Stars told me what happened to you, how they hoped the thread of a mortal soul would hold you against darkness during the Last Battle.” She reported the facts without emotion, the Warden’s Voice. It was a startling authority in such a youthful face. “They permitted your march to save the last Singers of the Noldor, hoping he in turn would keep you from the Void when your endurance failed. You sacrificed all to save us; it was up to us to save you in kind.”
She cocked her head sidelong, insistent and direct, peering at him as if an argument in itself.
His memory retained that same pose from a thousand moments, a million quarrels—his heart turned, restless in joy and in pain.
“Did you know the Vala cherish you so? That they would move levers in hearts and in the world to try to save you?” she said. “No wonder you were an insufferable wizard.”
“I was an insufferable wizard, but not for the cause you accuse,” he said.
Her gaze narrowed to the steady and fierce gaze of old and he who had once been Gandalf knew no argument would change her opinion. When she opened her mouth to protest further, he lifted two fingers and laid them upon her lips and Ioreth held her tongue.
He folded her into his arms and rested his cheek atop her head. There was no softness or curves to this sharp slip of a woman; she had always been muscle and skin over unyielding edges. But she slipped her hands up his chest and laid them palm open upon the velvet and satin. For a moment, they stood together in memory and he felt the tears behind her eyes and it broke his own free.
“No tears are permitted in the Hall of the High King,” her voice ordered and she pulled free of him.
“That is not true,” said Olórin.
“Today, it is true.”
He chuckled despite himself. Only Ioreth would remake the law of the Master of Winds and compel most to believe her. He was not fooled. She blinked too quickly. And Olórin reached for all his strength to steady himself, for Ioreth did not weep easily and to cause such now was a brutality he could not live with.
“Is your husband here?” he asked. “Is he amongst the True?”
“He is, and all of my children. I have a wonderfully sprawling family, each of them part of the true faith.”
“You did well.”
“My husband did well,” she countered. “He taught them the Days and Ages of the Valar. I was busy in the House of Healing—too busy, sadly, to see to my own children’s souls.”
Olórin scowled at her, disapproving, and she did not flinch. If anything, her spine straightened more.
“You were busy shepherding the souls of the dying. Did you think your children too dull to know where your supreme duty lay? Could they mistake where you offered your prayers?”
She smiled and he knew he had been baited into ire.
“The children of Ioreth were never called foolish,” she returned.
He sighed and stepped forward, took her hand in his own. She looked up candid and amused. He remembered the golden flecks in her hazel eyes when she was pleased by an argument with him.
“We cannot be,” he said gently.
“I know,” she answered just as gently. “I always knew we could not be. I just couldn’t let you know that I knew.”
“Stubborn, unyielding, obstinate, willful…” he ran out of epithets rather breathlessly.
“Remind you of someone?” she said charmingly and then she laughed that laugh that sprang startlingly from her seriousness; a small cat pouncing from the shadows, all claws and teeth and fur soft as ermine.
Then she reached for his face, trailed fingers surprisingly gentle down his cheek and took up all his tears.
“I will be all right,” she whispered. “I always knew to hold you loosely, always knew to let you go. I have my husband and children and I will see you sometimes and we will argue as we ever did. I will not hurt.” She was absolutely truthful and he heard it. “I will not suffer. Another Lady, clad in grey with eyes that have known sorrow, came and spoke with me—but I do not think I will need her help. I am strong. Strong enough to let you go.”
“You were always strong enough to let me go,” said he who had once been Gandalf.
He wondered if Nienna would help him with his own pain and knew even as he thought it that he, too, would be strong. Strong enough to walk away as he had always walked away from this querulous and captivating woman.
It was Ioreth who left him this time, however. She caught his chin and kissed him once and there was a lifetime of warmth within that caress … then she pivoted around him and marched down through shadows and shafts of light, the high arch of cathedral ceilings carved of granite and set with gold … and beyond, standing in a single spear of light, stood Manwë Súlimo.
Olórin followed after her as if drawn by a string; the love of his Lord. He watched the diminutive woman stride right up to the High King of Arda and he whispered a word of warning at her that covered the distance.
Manwë looked easily over Ioreth’s head.
“Peace, Olórin,” He said. The Hall picked His voice up in every corner; rich as velvet, strong as steel, gentle as yarrow curtains. “I know this one well. I can endure anything she wishes to say.”
She said nothing for many moments. Olórin was able to cross the distance before he saw her tilt her head and peer up at the Elder King. Her voice was somewhat tempered when it came.
“What is there for a Healer to do in this perfect world You have created?” she asked.
“There will always be the idiocy of Men,” returned Manwë solemnly. “They will injure themselves sporting, and task their bodies beyond their means, and ride into tree limbs. There will be children trying to catch the bees and women who cut vegetables too quickly.” He leaned down, eye to eye, humored by the arched eyebrow as she took in his words. “You will not lack for fools that must be tended, but none of them shall die. You will not shepherd any souls to the wall of the living and the dead, never whisper my name at that moment when they step across, never find your own way back with your soul heavier than before. One of the Powers will sense such an injury and come.”
“No … death…” she whispered.
He touched her forehead, drew His fingers across the eyes she had closed.
“There will be plenty to keep you busy despite the absence of death … or you can retire and enjoy a rest from your long years of labor.”
Her eyes snapped open and narrowed upon the Master of Winds a moment before she remembered her place.
“What would I do with all those hours?” she eventually said. “I am in less trouble when I am busy.”
Olórin stood right behind her, close enough to see Manwë’s eyes sparkle amusement.
“So it is with Ilúvatar’s most cherished children. The Houses of Healing kept your force of will on target.” He took her hands within His and she straightened imperceptivity. “You were the only woman strong enough, stubborn enough, to endure what we asked of you in regards to Gandalf. You were the keeper of a promise in a failing soul, a light shining in the darkness. Peace upon you, peace run upon every strand of your heart—for sacrifice and duty and love beyond the circle of this world. Thank you, Alena.”
He kissed her brow and Ioreth’s own commandment failed, for she wept openly. The Elder King held her as he had once held Olórin and His sapphire robe drank up every tear.
“He was worth saving,” she eventually managed.
“He is,” agreed Manwë. He was amused by Olórin’s uneasiness with their words. “I have been accused of being overly fond of him as well.”
Ioreth turned, eyed the Maia up and down and then looked back at the High King.
“He is beautiful now,” she said and then her voice turned rich, “but you should have seen him as Gandalf; cranky and full of quarrels and aches, torturous as a knotted up tree … and a thousand stars like white fire in his eyes, all of them dancing.” She caught herself back from memory and huffed as if caught in some mischief. “He was more beautiful then; the sum of a hundred sunsets of gold.”
“I know,” said Manwë. “We gave you eyes to see him. And though sometimes Aragorn and Legolas and Arwen caught a glimpse as well, none saw as clearly as you.”
“Then I am blessed amongst women.”
And then she bowed, the old formal obeisance given to Rulers and Monarchs and once to a wizard in white … then she walked down the throat of the Hall of Manwë and the door let in an avalanche of light as she opened and went through it. It shut soundlessly, threw the King of Glory into shadows.
Olórin knelt, for his knees would not hold him. Love was a beautiful warmth and agonizing tumult in his heart. Love for the Elder King, whom he had served all his days, love for a woman he had held only once. One he would keep forever and one he would give away forever.
Manwë reached and put His fingers in the dark locks of the Maia. Five golden rings glinted with their own light.
“We kept her aside during the Dagor Dagorath and hid her during the opening of the land. Varda thought it best to let you meet alone, without the tide of people around.”
“Wise Kindler,” whispered the Maia. He rested his head against the Elder King’s thigh.
“Every final curse of Sauron was laid for you—nothing of my power or art would have halted the hooks he set for your soul,” said the Master of Winds softly. “He knew I loved you above all others and when he saw I had sent you, he bent his will to destroy you, to make you either unfit to return or unable to be saved.
“But I knew the plans for you, the future and the hope. I knew the thread of all the races ran through your love for them and their love for each other. To defeat Melkor utterly, I needed every race knit into one, beyond their angry rivalries and bloody feuds from ages ago. Seven stars, seven stones and one White Tree. You had to survive.
“You needed something mortal hidden within your soul, something not of the Ainu, something Sauron never suspected or thought to look for. You sent a hobbit sneaking past him with the One Ring to be destroyed—and we were sneaking you past his snares to prevent destruction.” Manwë looked down at him. “It never crossed his mind that you would lay aside your True Being and let your fëa be joined to a mortal hröa. Nor could he contemplate that a mortal would give up a portion of their finite soul to an immortal. He never knew you learned such a powerful thing as to put the whole of your power into the rod of the White Tree given to you by Eru.”
“I did not stay with her.” Olórin’s voice was thin. “I left her in the darkness and I never saw her again.”
“You could not,” softly said Manwë. “If you had stayed with her, lived with her, the spies of Sauron would have suspected. They would have discovered what you learned. His ilk would have waited for you to hand the Great Staff to Laiqualassë with all your power bound into it and they would have killed you in your naked vulnerability. Aragorn Elessar would have died in your defense and the Singers slain in their fragility with the seed of life newly planted. The House of Maglor would have failed forever at the shore of the Sea of Núrnen.”
Manwë’s voice grew ominous, fraught with the vision of a terrible future.
“And it would not end there. Gimli would shut the doors of the Aglarond in his grief and Éomer, alone, would not have thrown off the remnant of Mordor’s fell creatures. Middle Earth would plunge back beneath war. The House of Telcontar would suffer and Arwen fail and die before her years. Elrond might not have survived to reach my strength in Aman before she passed. Would Elves and Dwarves and Men have held their friendship without the weaving of this living love between all of you?” He looked down upon the kneeling Maia. “We knew that companionship between the races gave them strength. That it would be so strong between you six, this unassailable unwavering friendship, that was the surprising thing.”
Olórin gathered the High King’s robe into both hands as if to sustain himself and Manwë, astonishingly, knelt and took the Maia into His arms.
“Ioreth knew the price. She was strong enough to pay it. Nienna will watch her soul through eternity, though I suspect Ioreth will prove just as formidable now as she was then.” His voice, so tender and rich. “And I will carry you through your pain, as I have ever carried you, until it fades to dimness.” The Elder King tipped Olórin’s face up, kissed him where the long hair tumbled across his brow. “You could not let Aragorn die, and he could not let Legolas die, and Legolas would not let Gimli or Áriel go. The Evenstar exerted the strength of her soul to hold both her husband and the archer. It stretched on in a magnificent web extending through the races clear down to the lowly hobbits … so we bent the rules and gave you leeway, hoping everyone would survive.”
“The Balrog…” whispered Olórin.
“We saw the Balrog,” said Manwë. “All the Vala agreed you would flee, even Tulkas, who was most impressed with your propensity to argue your way through skirmishes. No one suspected you would conquer your terror with love; that you would halt him on the bridge and then hound him through the labyrinth of the mountain.” The Elder King sounded exasperated. “If I could have reached you…”
“A Balrog would be little trouble for you,” murmured Olórin.
Manwë chuckled into his face. “No, foolish Maia. I would have shaken you back to your senses and turned you aside. I did not send you to openly challenge Sauron and his ilk; did you forget your fear of him?”
He rose and drew the Maia to his feet, led him by a hand towards the alcove that held the Chalice of the High King.
“I did not know how to stop the Balrog. He would have pursued us to the Eastern Gate and perhaps beyond,” offered Olórin in a penitent voice.
“Yes. Only later did I understand the test placed before both you and I,” said Manwë. “Eru Ilúvatar was watching and the All High knew you had to die. He watched to see if I would break my own rules, if I entered Middle Earth in power to save you. Only when I gave you up completely, a sacrifice upon the altar of Arda, did He extend His hand and catch you.” The Elder King eyes were lit from within. “He saw that I did not withhold what I loved most. Only then did He remake your potency and place you into a position of power in Middle Earth. Without His divine intervention, you would have never had the strength to continue to oppose Sauron, let alone pursue Cerediron. Nor would you have survived the assault of a Songmaster when he attempted to sunder your soul from your body there upon the plains of Mordor.”
Olórin touched the sleeve of the Elder King and He turned with that barest of touches.
“You helped me in Mordor,” said the Maia.
“I did not aid you, Olórin. Middle Earth could not endure direct tampering by a Vala after the War of Wrath. I only stirred the clouds into a whorl.” He looked into Olórin’s surprised face. “You thought I aided you. Hope was all you needed to survive such an unmitigated stab into the foundation of your fëa. Eru has never crafted a more resiliently stubborn and tenacious Maia. I think He is rather fond of you as well.”
The Maia said nothing. He was reaching the limit of his endurance. It was a marvelous and confusing thing to be overwhelmed with joy.
“Take up the Chalice of the High King,” softly said Manwë. “Come with me.”
So they emerged from the glittering tower of Ilmarin and Olórin emerged first, blinking in sunlight.
The Pelennor Field was full from the Rammas Echor down to the silver Anduin and members of every race were present. The Dwarves, somewhat dusty and full of cheer. Elves, who stood alert and unworldly still, waiting. Loud and jovial Men. A group of hobbits, identified by a vague cloud of pipeweed dispersed above their position. Here and there, an Ent towered above the heads and their deep rumbles underpinned thousands of voices.
The Valar stood not apart from the throng of the races; Mandos squatted in the dirt watching Men roll dice, Nienna was singing with a company of Elven women, Vairë was debating the merits of various dyes for thread with the old weavers of the Guarded City.
In every hand, great and small, there was a cup. For the hobbits, it was quite small, and for the Ents, it was the size of a waterpot.
Then Manwë Súlimo came forth and His appearance brought every eye as an arrow to him. Breathlessness took the field at the same moment. The silver tray in Olórin’s hands flashed brilliance and the Chalice of the High King was golden fire. Every creature bowed as far as the eye could see and rose again in silence, for some great event was at hand. Even the hobbits quieted and dumped out their pipe coals.
Manwë descended partway down steps of the Mansion of High Airs and stopped, looked out amongst the waiting throng.
“This cup of new wine is first for you, the strength of the nations,” He said. “Take one sip to commemorate this first day in the reborn world, created and destined for you before life began. For you, Children of Ilúvatar, you did not bend your knee to the demons and powers of unrighteousness—you stood your ground and held fast to faith.”
It was a raucous first salute, as the Elder King knew it would be. Dwarves clanked their iron cups, Men shouted and jostled and voiced old war toasts of their own, the Ents cheered and twirled and sloshed everyone standing below them, and the Elves sang before their swallow.
Olórin took up the King’s Cup with both hands and gave a sip first to Varda. Then he kissed the cup and gave a sip to Manwë. His hands trembled, though he had held the Chalice of the Elder King many times.
“Now the cup is for the Powers, the Maiar and Valar, who have guided and governed and gone before you for a million lifetimes.”
It was a more subdued partaking this time, though the Elves still sang. Aragorn and Legolas raised their glasses high, their eyes upon the blue robes of the Maia, Olórin, and the Lord of Arda. They were witness to the pouring of the cup, first to Varda and then Manwë. They were amongst only a handful to see the Elder King dip His finger into the wine and place it upon Olórin’s tongue, hold his head in the bowl of His left hand a moment.
“Peace, be still,” said the Master of Winds and silence fell over the hundreds. “This wine is new, for we drink it in a new kingdom. It was pressed out and given to us by Eru Ilúvatar, who has promised to share it with us.”
Manwë turned on the steps, knelt upon the cascade of glittering granite. Automatically, every knee bowed with His.
Then the Father of All was there, not as a brilliant shaft too terrible to endure, and not with trumpet or fanfare or the staggering timelessness that rippled the world. He came soft as moonlight with a rod of white in His left hand. A golden band bound his dark hair back from eyes that held the wisdom of the ages. Behind Him, the Ilmarin seemed to ripple and three towers that had not been there before appeared, the highest so far overhead that the banner was thin as a pine needle, waving.
Manwë took His fingers, kissed each of the rings.
“Most High God, merciful and patient,” said Manwë. “You who have dwelled in my heart and whispered in my mind. Come now and partake of our feast and of all the fruits of the Earth, which You have designed for our pleasure and comfort. The land lies open as a table and nothing of it is withheld; not its harvest, nor people, nor any living thing.”
Manwë held up the fiery goblet and it was pierced with sunlight from every angle.
“Holy Father, take now this cup of new wine, a devotion from our soul to Yours. And may our hearts be one as You are One.”
So the All High sipped and everyone upon the field sipped and the wine grew potent in their mouth, an explosion of flavor and intoxication of the senses. Applause came spontaneously and sporadically and those who did not cheer raised their hands in some instinctive salute. It was a powerful and moving sense of worship and every eye saw Eru take the cup from Manwë and place it aside, then gather the Elder King into His arms and hold Him.
Varda ascended the marble steps and Eru enfolded her into the circle as well. His voice spoke below the level of hearing. Olórin knelt on a lower step and watched as all the Vala streamed to The One and were received.
“Look up,” said Eru and He touched Olórin on the shoulder with the Rod of Judgment. “Arise and lay aside your slumber. Has no one told you the world is remade and all things remade within it? There is no inner court, where the unholy may not tread. The Sanctuary of Ilúvatar is no more, where Manwë made supplication and petition for the world.” He laid aside the luminous staff, spoke for all to hear. “There is no clean and unclean, sinful and sinless. The shadows are thrown back and your souls stand free. You have struggled ages for purity and righteousness and Manwë Súlimo has purchased you with his blood. The cup of my wine has cleansed anything that remains—you are holy as I am holy.”
He looked with one revealing glance over the whole crowd, lingered on Aragorn Elessar and Legolas, Áriel and Gimli, a moment, then returned to Olórin. The eyes of the All High, able to pierce gloom and darkness, every subterfuge and façade, were unmistakably tender. He spoke as the gentlest breeze, as a million whispering flowers in sunlight.
“The Altar of Eru Ilúvatar is come; He stands before you. Come and place your hands upon me.”
And Olórin came weeping though there was a murmur of jubilation running loud as turbulent waters behind him. There was a ripple of power through his fingers when the Most High God took his hands … then he was falling, falling, falling into limitless light with nothing to catch him—but the hands that held him, held him securely. And though Olórin cried, Eru Ilúvatar laughed.
Surely he was dying…
“You shall not die,” said Manwë Súlimo.
“Dying?” said the Father of All. “No one shall be dying. All the promises of faith are coming alive.” He stood Olórin back on his feet. “Come then, come along with me, for there are thousands I must touch, for I have longed for them as they have longed for me. Come with me, for my presence will revive you.”
So The One descended from Ilmarin and stepped into the crowd of millions.
Aragorn stood still, watching, for no impulse could move his feet either forward or back. He felt calm, or empty, voiceless, a husk where his vibrant will once had dwelled. Eru’s robes glowed of their own light, neither bright nor dim, and He had no particular pattern to His wandering through the crowd.
“Do you know where the Entwives are?”
“Of course,” laughed Eru. “They are in the Hills of Moumantra where the Anduin is birthed. They promised to come back if you have learned not to ignore them.” He studied the Ent. “You have learned to pay more attention?”
“Yes,” rumbled the Ent, abashed and contrite. “We will not ignore them again. We have missed them so.”
“Good,” said Eru. “I would hate to be wrong about something.”
The All High knew every name, even the secret ones of the Dwarves. He understood every tear of every woman, heard every lament they had never uttered, erased each one with a single finger. He knelt to speak with the hobbits and when they touched Him timidly, he gathered three in His arms at once and squeezed until they shouted and laughed and hugged Him with their hearts unrestrained.
“Thank you for letting us live,” said Durin the Deathless. “Back when we were made without your permission.”
Eru leaned close enough to breathe in the Dwarf’s face.
“The Delvers of the Deep were more true to Aulë then the Maiar who learned at his knee,” He said solemnly. “Faithful Dwarves—you kept him from despair when Sauron and Saruman betrayed his craft and skill.”
He turned, put His hand upon Manwë’s shoulder and steered the Elder King from His path.
“Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, High King of Gondor.”
“Eru,” he responded.
He knew what it felt like, this dying and yet not dying. There were spots in his vision … it was only the lights in Eru’s eyes, dazzling. He had searched for words to speak all this time and found nothing of any value. Thankfulness and love and joy and hope and faith were a tumult within him, but love was the most true.
“Yes, you do,” said Ilúvatar and kissed him on the brow. “And I have loved you since before the Founding of the World. Brave Estel. No faith was ever misplaced upon you.”
Then the All High turned to speak with another and Aragorn reached and caught the very edge of His garment. Even with so slight a touch, Ilúvatar turned back, took his hands once more while Aragorn fought for words.
“Will you stay, Lord? Can you stay with us?” His voice pleaded and it was all truth. The answer was fraught with harm.
“Do you not know? Have you not heard?” Eru Ilúvatar replied. His voice tumbled over every sound about the field, fell into every ear. “Let all that draws breath hear; I will dwell with you and you with me. No Void will separate us, nor Door keep us apart. I will be with you forever, even to the end of eternity.” He peered into Aragorn’s serious eyes and His own laughed. “You have always known this … love is an unbroken hoop—and I am its heart. I never fail.”
So the hourglass, with its falling grains of sand, slowed and then froze.
And of the years of Aragorn Elessar and Arwen Undómiel, the archer Legolas and his birthright after the War of the Ring, you now know. You have witnessed the steadiness and formidability of the Dwarves, the unswerving devotion and sacrifice of a wizard. You have seen the Powers of the World fulfill the final edict of Eru’s will and restore Arda to the majesty intended at the founding of the world.
Most of all, dear reader, you have borne witness to love and trust, duty and surrender, faith and worship. In such things, the Father of All is most pleased.
Peace to you. Násië.
|
