The Teler's gaze was still lost upon the horizon, on the West, where the reddish rays of a dying Sun seemed to sing his name and call his heart. They composed a listless and blue singing, but it was somehow insisting; the longing to return to a home he'd never had the chance to know.
But times had changed, and just a handful of Elves remained on the shores of Middle Earth, sheltered them all in Mithlond with Círdan, the Shipwright. One by one, the First Children of Ilúvatar had sailed away in a journey with no return. They went to Aman, to the Undying Lands. To the lands that once, long ago, had seen the light of the Two Trees.
His own sigh took the Shipwright out of his dream state. He noticed that his fingers, long and thin, were crisped around the white wood railing which delimited his own ship's deck, and that his eyes stared no longer at the blood-red waves, but they were looking to Mithlond's outline, trying to keep in his mind all the details of the place that had been his home for far more than six thousand and five hundred years.
Now that his time had come, that he was finally leaving Middle-Earth behind to reach the Western lands, something in his heart refused to get away from the places where he had lived. From the places where he had shed his blood, where he'd tried to keep his people safe, where he had dwelled looking for his kin.
The fact was Círdan still remembered his first steps in Beleriand, when he left Cuiviénen behind and travelled with his people to the west on Oromë's calling. He did remember the fruitless search for Elwë Singollo, one of his relatives and, how when they've finally reached the coast, Ulmo had gone into the West with Olwë's elves. He also remembered his misfortune, the voices of the Valar discouraging him to go on with his plans. Because, they said, it would come one day when his work would be of priceless value, and it would be remembered for many ages. And they had been right.
The sharp eyes of the Teler shone when he remembered his beloved Falas, with Eglarest and Brithombar, and the shelter in the Isle of Balar. There he had brought up Fingon's child, who was sent to him as a kid to escape from the wars which were devastating the north lands. He could offer him a place to call a home while the rest of Beleriand burned with battles, and kept him save as much as he could, watching over his education and his training as a someday-to-be High King of the Noldor in the Exile. Unfortunatelly, that burden fell too soon over a very young Ereinion. And with the Noldo's memory, the Elf he'd come love as one only loves a son, Círdan put his hand on his cheek; he didn't seem surprised when he realized it was wet with tears.
The truth was that, even though with the passing of the ages, the angst he'd felt when he saw Gil-galad's lifeless body at the end of the siege of Barad-dûr had never left his heart. The Shipwright lifted his gaze to the stars that started to shine upon him, trying to calm down.
And there it was, upon his head. The brightest of them all, Eärendil the Sailor on Vingilot. Eärendil, he who had not been afraid to fly. The sad smile of the Shipwright turned into one of longing as he remembered how he had helped a very young Eärendil to make that ship to go to Valinor. Elwing followed him... and many others travelled later.
In the end, everyone went into the West. You will stay, I'll sail away, they would say. I'll sail away to distant shores, the twilight whispers my name. And Círdan's heart seem to shrink anew time one of his ships's sails got lost on the horizon. He never knew if it was fear, or longing. But it was the same melancholy you felt on a grey, cold day.
That night, that cold feeling was broken forever. It was left behind, slowly collapsing in the shores of Middle-Earth. That night, it was Círdan the one who was fearless to fly, and reach for the end.
Notes: All characters belong to Tolkien.
The truth is I wrote this while listening to Sail Away, by The Rasmus, and the lyrics are reflected on Círdan's thoughts. So yes, I think we can call this a songfic.