[*Varda*]

Olo lay on the shore, panting heavily, his clothes and hair dripping. It could only have been late afternoon, early evening by this time, but the sky was so heavily cast by shadow it could have been the middle of the night. The storm hadn’t died down, although the winds were less strong. Olo prayed everyone else was all right – if they weren’t, how could he ever forgive himself? He had brought them all along on this trip. He had told them everything would be fine. And he had told them they would be home before nightfall – that would never happen now. He barely even knew where they were.

Standing up on his weary feet, he called out to the others, wherever they might be. He heard some form of answer, quiet, but clearly some of them weren’t too far away. Walking slowly along the river, he saw a light nearby, and it seemed some of the hobbits had had the common sense to make a fire, perhaps dry out some of their sodden clothes and warm themselves up. Otherwise, they would all catch chills, and then where would they be?

He stumbled into the ring of light created by the flickering flames, and saw four of the hobbits, gathered together around it. On their faces was a mixture of relief, but in their eyes, Olo felt they blamed him.