A peal of laughter drifted bright and clear up the strand, silvering the breeze more gaily than starlight. And surely, Gandalf thought, we know no lack of starlight here.

Indeed, we do not. His companion raised a delicate, bowl-like cup to her lips, smiling as she dipped past the rim. Her drinking made no sound.

Gandalf raised his own and took a thoughtful swallow. He did not meet the Lady's eyes; his own were distantly occupied, if only by sound.

You are quiet, Olorin.

"Yes," the wizard said. A smile played at his lips, dazzling in its brevity.

"Surely that is not all that you have to say." Yavanna smiled in her turn.

Gandalf chuckled. Surely.

They were silent for a time, speaking once more in glances and faint murmurs. The tea was fine this time of year, harvested with such a care as it had not been in decades. A celebration in misted green, those leaves, and sharp upon the tongue without bitterness. The sweetness lingering beneath was enough to bring tears, whether deathless or mortal the taster be.

The Lady's eyes gleamed a muted indigo through the steam, and with a careful blink, she bent to nestle her cup in the grass. Gandalf followed suit; he knew that this gesture both warranted and requested his utmost attention. He shielded his tea briefly from a wisp of glittering sand stirred up by a fresh wind.

Elbereth?

Her laugh was gentle, but rich with something indeterminate. Because they would say such a thing in their own tongue? Her eyes flicked to follow a shout that was all but swallowed by the sea.

Perhaps, or perhaps not. My names are as many as yours, if not by half. Gandalf reached for his pipe.

My case against you is sealed! Yavanna grinned, then, candid and almost rueful, and took it from him. It sat well upon her lips, somehow: strange and perfect.

Gandalf extended a hand, passed it briefly over the pipe's bowl. Sweetness and smoke of another kind whispered into being, propelled by the pull and release of the Lady's breath. She lowered the pipe to her lap, held gracefully in both hands, nigh as gracefully as a slender twist of smoke passed her pursed lips.

Not tonight! Gandalf shook his head and accepted the pipe with mirthful enmity. I haven't yet perfected--

"Have they?" Yavanna shaped the words in a tone clear and bold, startling him. Sometimes, her moments bordered on the mortal.

"Truth be told, I do not know. Perhaps you'll ask them? Telperion's first glory is challenge enough for even--"

I have not watched him, the oldest one, the Lady sent, sadness cutting and candid in her unblinking gaze.

Gandalf looked away. I had almost forgotten…you have not…

"Those ones," she whispered. I wish to see them. You know this. It is why you have brought me here, and why indeed I have chosen to come.

Your presence will be felt, the wizard cautioned.

Yavanna stared out over the grass, across the whiteness of sand and to the restless shimmer of water. They cannot see us.

You cannot be sure. Gandalf tilted his head: the laughter had returned, closer this time.

"They will not, though they may know."

"They will be the first," Gandalf said gravely, "and only of their kind to do so."

Yavanna could only nod, and reached for her tea.

* * *

It can't hurt you!"

"If hurt ain't fair drenched, I don't know what is. You're already--"

Sam finished with a yelp, no sense in resisting. Frodo had tugged him backwards by the collar, and if it hadn't just landed them in a mire as thick as mud--

"Here it comes," Frodo whispered. His breath clashed with the evening chill against Sam's neck, sending shivers down his spine and into the sand wet beneath them. And there was Frodo's arm braced over him, four fingers buried to the knuckles in pale grit.

Sam tightened his grip on Frodo's shoulder. "It looks too high for…" Sam's breath died: the daunting avalanche of grayish blue spray was nearly upon them, tumbling and white-flecked with foam.

Frodo's breath puffed soft excitement. "It's not so high, once it reaches--"

"Ah!"

The cry belonged to one of them as much as the other, Sam supposed for a fleeting second, that split breath before rolling cold spilled over, washing them further ashore in a thrilling tangle. Sam coughed and spit; he hadn't kept his mouth shut as he'd been told. Frodo was half on top of him, gasping with silent laughter. He leaned low over Sam until their foreheads touched, soaked curls trailing rivulets across Sam's brow. Sam reached up with a hiccup and slicked them back, a tuck still easy with years of practice.

"So long as you like it, I'll never--"

"I just wanted you to see," Frodo gasped, eyes full of fond amusement. "And if I ever--"

"I'd do it a thousand times over, if it pleased you. I may learn to like it yet," Sam said softly, fingers still tangled in strands that he knew would still taste of salt at dawn.

"I shan't make you," Frodo murmured, bending for a kiss.

Mm, but I will, just you wait. Sam wrapped his arms around Frodo's neck and forgot what he was afraid of and what he weren't. He couldn't be afraid, now, could he? Ah, no, not ever--

"Did you hear it?" Frodo spoke in half a whisper, lips poised against Sam's chin.

"I can't say as I heard anythin' else, but I heard y--"

Frodo's breath left him in a hiss: "Oh, listen!"

A tune and a lightness, nothing but that. Sam closed his eyes and did as he was bidden, reveling in this, in simplicity again, in nothing but knowing--

The song. It was fuller all of a sudden, clear and trembling. Sam felt Frodo's arms tighten around him, shaking. He held on, too, not quite understanding: he had heard this…

Oh, long ago. Too long ago, and it would stay thus. Safely behind them, a terror bittersweet. Somehow, it didn't bring him fear--only--longing. Not for more than but what he had in his arms, exactly, but for something--no. It was someone else's longing.

"I wondered when this day would come," Frodo sighed, and in a moment, his panic slackened. And Sam held him close, oh, closer than he ever had, and as close as he would for always.

The Lady had her wish, too, and he weren't about to break it.

* * *

Gandalf retrieved the fallen cup reluctantly, certain of one thing only, that being that he oughtn't speak, not yet. He folded his hands around the piece of pottery and waited with infinite patience.

Yavanna knelt shaking in the sand, arms tight about her elbows, as if to shelter her fragile frame. With power came beauty unsurpassable, and in that lay the grandest of vulnerability. Tears streaked her moonstone cheeks and seeped from the gems of her eyes. Her breath closed the last strain of a song.

Look at them, Olorin. She did not glance over her shoulder to seek Gandalf's face. Oh, look at them!

Gandalf smiled, gentle once more. I have seen them, and for centuries on end, and for many more they shall be. And these two, why--

"Forever," the Lady whispered.

My children.

Here.