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The waves just continued lapping against the sandy beaches and the rocks and the cliffs. It had always been this way. There may have been times where the sea was more rambunctious or quiet then what is "normal", but such happenings have grown less and less, especially after the fall of Sauron. Now, the tides just rose and fell when Ithil traversed through the heavens.

Some things simply do not change, even if it seems like a change. It was simply a pattern.

A watchful peace had fallen across the Havens and the small settlements surrounding it. The need of it was growing less and less as threats diminished, since said threats had no force or power to band them together. And to mention, more and more elves were leaving Middle-Earth almost every month at this point. It would be less than a year before the Ringbearers would come to leave Middle-Earth as well.

Círdan had heard about the hobbits and their exploits, especially the ones called Baggins. When the ancient elf heard that they were to join the keepers of the two elf-rings, the first thing that came to mind would be that they would be rejected, for the Straight Road permitted only the Eldar. The second thing was maybe it would be possible since, presumably, Tuor, father of Eärendil and grandfather of Elrond, managed to get by the enchanted isles and reach the Blessed Land (and somehow gain immortality), or so the rumors said. But that was before the world was changed, before Valinor was removed from Middle-Earth, and could only be reached through the Straight Road.

But, after hearing that Frodo had Arwen Undómiel's blessing (and of course both he and his uncle had held the One Ring), it could be done.

The Shipwright's next thoughts were how the deviation of strange ideas that come up in the House of Eärendil has passed down through the two generations, and possibly further. Elladan and Elrohir and their pranks, Arwen and her unique quirks…now he was reminded of Elrond's youth, and then Ereinion…

Círdan sighed softly. It has been over three thousand years since the last Noldorin king's demise, and still the wound felt deep at times. But he did not worry too much about it, since at this point, if Eru was merciful, Gil-Galad likely walked in the eaves of Tirion with others of his family. His true family. And, if the winds of Manwë cared to listen, would bring news of the Ringbearers' arrival to the House of Finwë. What a crowd that would be. A very welcome sight, but the Telerin lord could not help but feel some pity towards the periannath. The sight of Valinor would be great for them to endure, and then the splendor of the elves of said land.

Now he could not help but think about how he would react to seeing it all.

Yes, he has seen the splendor of Valinor on a number of occasions: primarily the War of Wrath, but never directly saw it…

Straying back to his first line of thought, Círdan eyed the sprawled letter on his desk from the confines of his study at the Gray Havens. The sound of the water, ships, people, and gulls were heard readily in the progressing evening. The elf's gaze were on a few lines in particular.

'…This may sound preposterous indeed. However, one should consider what the periannath have endured. Yes, you are well versed in the happenings of the land; I know this very well, but think deeply, my lord and friend, what the periannath have experienced and witnessed. Their spirit is burdened with something akin to that of the Eldar, which is beyond what their kind should experience.

Already Frodo Baggins has received my daughter's blessing; to take her place on the White Ship, and I sense the Valar will grant him and his uncle passage into the Undying Lands.

They have done more than enough to prove their worthiness. If there is a chance for one to have solace, then they deserve to be informed of that option.'

Círdan felt there was more to it than meets the eye, he knew it. Yes, he also sensed the Valar's approval of the mortal passengers. As long as they do not burn alive as they come to the Straight Road, then every worry about them was diminished. The sound of footsteps walking across polished floors, and Círdan looked up as the door opened and a watchman entered: all dressed in light blues and light leaf-mail with the heraldry of Lindon on his upper arms.

"An elf has been spotted wandering along the coast, and already three are keeping vigil over him. They sent me to inform you of this, though I do not fully understand why."

…Speak of the void, such…interesting, timing. How many years has it been since the last spotting? Círdan gazed at the watchman with ancient eyes, letting silence fill the room before he spoke, "Send a healer and a couple guards…and four horses." The Teleri stood.

"My lord?"

Círdan presumed this was a younger watchman. Perhaps he should have considered giving newly admitted guards a brief about "the elf", "Our poor visitor comes every once in a while, doing just what you saw, and only that…Now, after centuries: millennia even, I believe it is time that it ends." The Telerin lord moved to the threshold, and the other elf stepped aside, "Gather whom I have bidden quickly, for I fear there is not much time."

Without further question, both lord and guard went on their way. Yes, there is little time…

The sun was setting by the time the small company set out to the faint hills and forests and cliff sides; Círdan saw yet another ship depart the harbor and into the fading light during their minor haste. They did not go into a full out canter or gallop, rather a fast walk or a decently paced trot. Anor had dipped beneath the horizon by the time they arrived at the edge of a forest. The last elf that they encountered said that "he" was somewhere in the general region.

A backdrop was needed, for it was probably better for their occasional visitor (who's mind likely was very unstable (if it was not to begin with) not to detect their presence. This was the only chance they would get…They being Círdan, actually.

A hunched, tattered garbed figure was crouching on a rock, occasionally swaying with the slight breeze and the small bit of water that dashed against the rock. The person's clothing was mostly rags and patches, if it were even considered clothing at this point. As for the remains of a small black cloak, a small silver star could be discerned. But, that was patched on to the makeshift garment; possibly that little star has been ripped and resewn many times over. The skeletal figure had bare skin in some areas since the coverings were so bad. It was horrible and pitiful: the equivalent of Gollum.

The person was obviously shaking, from cold and emotional stress, and tired, glazed, lifeless eyes scoured the horizon. Wordless, soundless. Matted and tattered black hair billowed across the person's extremely gaunt face, obscuring things that are best left unseen. A burnt, withered, and scarred hand held the cloak as tight as one could manage while being partly crippled.

The elf company at the forest simply watched in silence, pitying and grieving for the lost legend, while Círdan kept his peace in his expression. Before, he had many reasons to hate and despise the person that this creature used to be. Kinslayings, treachery…Now, he truly was the equivalent of an elf version of Gollum. Isolated and obsessed with one thing. If he once feared becoming mad, the Teler only saw that it had finally manifested, likely centuries or even millennia ago. Alas that the poor Noldo did not see what it was he was getting himself into.

Círdan had cast his grudges aside years ago, and any sensible elf did as well. Instead of hate and anger, it was turned to pity and even compassion.

No one could get close, for while weak with great heart ache and physical ailments, the elf always kept away, and vanished for another period of years. Here, now, the Teler doubted he could manage that now. Fading involved a great amount of body and mental deterioration. He may have convinced himself he could escape fading and continue to roam the lands of Middle-Earth for eternity, fearing the everlasting dark, but nay, it is not possible. Not one soul can escape what must come to pass. But that is how that household operated in the past: in defiance of the Powers.

'I wonder if you even remember why you do this to begin with…' Círdan mused.

The healer-elleth seemed very watchful of their pursuit, trying to examine the withered elf from a distance. Abruptly said elf snapped his neck towards their direction, albeit unseeing. The elves of the Havens pulled back a little at the abruptness though, not desiring to take any chances. Eventually, the elf looked towards the other direction, before shakenly standing up and leaping down to the sand. The weakness in his legs was apparent, for he fell onto his face as soon as he landed, but determinedly got up again. The small bit of momentum from his weight (being hunched over) got him moving northwards.

"Back to the forest…" Círdan said quietly.

"He will not get far, my lord…he is so far gone at this point." The healer said with sadness, "Is he worth our time?"

Círdan turned his silver mount to the side, "There are no other pressing matters save the arrival of the Ringbearers, which is still many months away. We have come this far, and so has he…"

Vanishing into the thin forest, they kept a slow walk, for their soon-to-be charge was not making much progress from the rock he had been seated on. Eventually, the riders simply dismounted and continued watching while on foot. The horses just started to graze on what little grass was present.

The decrepit elf ended up wandering closer and closer to the water, whether intentionally or not, it was not certain. Eventually he just stopped and ended up staring at the now moonlit water; the waters washing over his tattered shoes. They continued to make him sway. Eventually he collapsed to his knees and fell over onto his side, the sea now waving over his entire body.

At that collapse the healer and one guard immediately ran to drag the body away from the unforgiving water in both force and temperature. The lord of the Havens and the other remaining elf walked faster than what is normal, but did not run. The first two that got to the fading elf threw their cloaks over him, and even beneath the coverings they could still see the quakes from cold, and possibly many odd sensations that they did not understand. The elleth withdrew a flint and small stick from her satchel and lit it, and the guard brushed some of the tattered clothing away, and held a boney arm up. The healer held the light close to the skin, and did not appear overly surprised that she could almost see right through the thin skin; even a slow beating artery and the bone.

"He is too far gone." She repeated, and looked at her approaching lord, "Are you sure…?"

"Why should we treat him differently? Is he not like any other fading elf?" Círdan questioned readily, "While he and others may cling to it, the history of those sorrowful days shall be forgotten eventually; very few now even remember it. Many even now have forgiven him of his misdeeds." A look of protest crossed everyone's features (save the likely unconscious Noldo), and the Teler frowned, "If you can stop behaving like petulant children that will be bitter to someone for pushing you over, especially after many ages, then please see to a dying soul and make him as comfortable as possible."

That shut every one up, and they wrapped the weightless Noldo up in the cloaks. One guard picked him up carefully, and silver eyes opened. Círdan caught their unfocused gaze with his own. The Teler did not even care if the elf was coherent or if he could even understand language anymore, and Círdan put on a look of pity, yet at the same a look that meant no argument for what needed to be done.

"This has gone for far too long, calaquendë. You have sought escape, even though there is none…Now, it is time for you to decide your fate, Maglor Fëanorion."

The ancient elf's voice was firm and unwavering, and Maglor's dullness faded to something akin to fear and horror. At least he could still comprehend words. In truth, it would not be too bad. Mere discussions…but to one of a house of destructive nature, and fearing the consequences of their actions, it would seem to them as if they were facing Námo. They had what was coming to them.

The guard bore Maglor away back to where the horses were grazing. Círdan followed everyone back, while silently lifting a prayer to Eru to give Maglor sense enough to seek forgiveness, before he would be eternally damned.

Ithil = moon.

Anor = sun.

Calaquende = light elf.

Elleth = female elf.