Disclaimer: this is getting tiresome, but lo! It must be everlasting. *sighs* I own nothing of Tolkien's world, save the character Ëarhín. Oh, and Círdan's boat. Can't forget the boat. :) Nothing else though.
A/N: Alright, a little notice must be posted. This chapter didn't exactly go as planned (meaning that it's ending length screwed me over). What was originally going to be chapter 4 is now going to be split into two chapters. Not a big deal, I know, just know that this chapter and the next go hand in hand with each other. And with that, I would like to give my unending thanks to GreenGreatDragon, Glory Bee, Lia Whyteleafe, adorkable123456, and Zammy for their reviews. You guys always make my day. And again, all my sources for all the questionable parts and/or info of this story will be listed at the end of the story.
Notice: Again, quite a few references in this chapter can be found in the Silmarillion. If you've read that book, you'll be fine. But if you haven't and have any questions, please feel free to ask.
And because this chapter was split in half, Radagast won't be able to play his part until Ch. 5. I know, poor Radagast. :) And the significance of Mithrandir knowing Círdan's name will have to wait until then too. This conversation simply became too long – these Maiar seem to love to talk. And Círdan loses his temper.
"Wilt thou learn the lore that was long secret of the Five that came from a far country?" ~ J.R.R. Tolkien, Unfinished Tales
Chapter 4
When next Círdan awoke it was to the most comforting sensation and he smiled in his sleep. His eyes were closed and he bothered not to open them, but that delightful sensation…it felt that there were fingers sweeping across his forehead, their touch light and gentle with an ethereal stream of warmth, brushing his hair away from his eyes. He knew not who performed the act in his muddled sleep, but he turned into the tender touch, sighing in contentment. The ship rocking with the movement of the ocean was so soothing, he could feel and sense the motion of the Waters' current underneath him, and he could hear the deep thrum of the depths. And now, the perfect sleep was completed by those light fingers moving in their ceaseless, repetitive motion.
Open your eyes, Nówë.
And Círdan did, the fingers still sweeping across his forehead, as though coaxing him away from clinging on to his sleepiness. But, after opening his eyes and craning his neck, when he looked behind him, no one was there and that soothing touch ended. Had he imagined it? And then he inwardly shrugged; it was not the first time something mysterious had happened. With another deep sigh, the kind one would release after waking from a profound sleep, Círdan ran a hand across his face, scratching along his beard, and then followed through to rake through his silver hair. But his fingers stopped their raking the moment he felt the many tangles and knots within his hair. With a sense of foreboding, Círdan sat up, swept his hair over his shoulder and stared down at it.
"Great," he murmured, sighing this time in frustration. He briefly wondered how much he had tossed and turned in his sleep, for his mass of hair was truly a web of tangles. Throwing back the sheets, he sat on the side of his bed and began attempting to disentangle it, brushing it untidily with his fingers, briefly cursing the fact that he did not have a brush – for Ulmo had said to bring nothing – and he quickly arrived to the point of trying to pull apart the knots with his fingertips. After a few more tries, he gave up the attempt, resigning himself to having unkempt hair for who knew how long.
He stood from the bed, stretching, and went to his worn clothes and dressed himself. After slipping on his boots, he cast another disdainful look at his messy hair and worn clothes, grudging the fact that he would have to appear as this to the three Maiar when he went above deck, though he cared not for his appearance. But he could not refute that dressing and looking appropriately was at least one of the few ways he had on this voyage to show them his respect. Despite having untidy hair, which being an Elf it caused upmost annoyance, he was grateful that no headache had greeted him on his awakening. Ulmo had kept his word when he had said that he would meet no pain when he wakened, and for that he was thankful. The sleep the Vala of Dreams had placed him in this time seemed fairly normal in comparison to the last.
"Ai!"
The brief cry was ripped from Círdan's lips before he could stop it as he crumpled to the floor, doubled over in pain. His eyes tightly closed, his arms folded across his stomach, he held his breath as he waited for the aching to subside. But it didn't.
He was starving. And the hunger pains came from nowhere, crashing down on him as an unsuspecting wave. For how long had he slept, denying his body nourishment to the point where it now caused him pain? He needed to eat. He knew not how long he had slept this time, but his body was no longer allowing him to ignore the nourishment it needed. Despite being one of the Firstborn, and a hardened one at that, he knew that even an Elf needed sustenance to function normally. Taking a deep breath, Círdan stood from the floor and made for the door, though standing erect seemed to only increase the discomfort. With half a mind, he exited his quarters and crossed the crew's cabin quickly, heading for the compartment where the standard dried meat was stored. Whereas before the thought of it was repulsive, the notion of now consuming something bland and leathery such as that seemed like nectar. He had almost reached the watertight door when a powerfully deep voice interrupted his one-way thoughts.
Partake not of that meat, Nówë.
Círdan stopped in his tracks and, though Ulmo was not physically present, he stared at his surroundings in disbelief. He was not to eat? He had not starved like this in a long time and knew not how much longer he could tolerate it. It was not merely a problem of mind over matter, for there had been plenty a time in ages past when he had been beyond hungry and had managed to ignore it; his body was demanding food and he could not disregard it. What was he to do?
You are to trust me, my child. Though Ulmo's voice was still gentle and patient, it was firm, a firmness that had been instilled deep in his mind, awaking a discipline as any battle hardened warrior would be by a bellow. And that familiar firmness reasserted itself with Círdan and created more of an impact on him than the pangs of starvation did. He would obey, he would always obey. And he would trust his lord in this matter, though tears did sting his eyes at the knowledge that he would have to suffer a while longer. But he squared his shoulders and dismissed his self-pity in disgust; starvation was the least of the things he had suffered in all his life and he refused to allow it to make a whiner of him now. As he had told Mithrandir when last awake, he trusted Ulmo with his life; that had never changed in the direst of circumstances and it wouldn't change now. Besides, he thought with the mindset of one already accepting a very bitter end, Ulmo had repetitively told him "to obey" on this voyage, despite Círdan's blindness on the command. Perhaps now was the start of it.
He would distract himself; keep his mind occupied with something other than food. With that resolution in mind, he composed himself and made his way up the step ladder and through the hatch.
Of all the things amidst the ship, of the ocean, of the wind, of the Maiar at the prow, the first thing he saw was the sky and it was as dark as a night possibly could be. But it was different than the night sky when he was last awake amongst the Shadowy Seas; stars endlessly littered the heavens, scarce to be counted, of course, but now there were faint signs of passing clouds and the half-moon shone brightly down on the deep water. And the water, he saw with a smile, no longer projected that eerie calmness, but crashed and roared with the ever present waves of the Sundering Sea. Leaning over the bulwark, taking a deep, refreshing breath of the salty air in the process, he looked to the sky once more and felt warmed as he spied familiar constellations. Instead of lighting the narrow horizon, the northern latitudes now angled up further across the dome, though still leaning towards the north. And passing the constellations through his analytical mind, he judged that he must have slept, this time, for at least another month. It was no wonder he was starving, he thought grudgingly, trying adamantly to ignore the pain. Where was he now?
You just have passed the ruins of the fallen Númenor.
Círdan self-consciously nodded as he heard the words spoken within his mind. Judging by the constellations and his own mental map, and also by Ulmo's words, he had a fairly accurate theory on where his ship was located. And it all proved that, indeed, he was heading home to Mithlond. And with that, he was satisfied…more than satisfied.
Peering towards the prow of the ship, he once again found the three unwavering stares of the Maiar trained on him. The three still sat, their staffs resting against their shoulders, and Radagast sat on one of the nearest rowing benches. And they yet still eerily scrutinized him in stony silence, eyes as bright as the Sun, their faces inscrutable. And though remaining unflustered and calm, Círdan just managed to refrain from grinding his teeth at the frustration he felt with these beings. Yes, he already greatly respected them, but that meant not that he had to like being dwarfed by their piercing stares, which, after a while, became rather uncomfortable. But he dismissed that discomfort and bowed deeply towards them and they nodded in return before he went once more to the stern, resting against the bulwark, believing that they desired to remain alone.
At feeling a light spray of mist wisp against his face, he gave a contented smile. He was so happy, just simply so, so happy. He was still beyond astounded just how tranquil this voyage was, how the peace seemed to fill his bloodstream. Yes, a large part of it had to do with him being amongst the Sea, doing what his heart and soul loved best, but it was so much more, something unexplainable. But Círdan didn't care, for he desired still to spend eternity simply as this.
A short while after allowing his mind to become entranced by the power of the Waters, Círdan heard light footsteps behind him and felt that ever-present suppressing feeling of power grow as the footsteps neared. And he turned to find not Mithrandir, whom he had expected, but Curunír approaching him, his white hair and robes gently billowing in the light breeze of salty air and his bearing strong and regal. Standing straight, Círdan nodded his head in greeting as the Maia joined him at the helm.
"Are you well, Master Mariner?" Curunír asked, the deep timbre of his voice still sounding with a powerful resonation.
Círdan gave a single nod, hiding the meager surprise he felt at the Maia's concern for his health. He may be powerful and wise, Círdan thought, but he was neither cold nor haughty. He cared, no matter the irrelevance, and that earned him more of Círdan's growing respect. "I am well, Master. My sleep was uninterrupted and I am joyous to be out amongst the Vala Ulmo's Waters." Curunír slowly nodded, his deep eyes never leaving Círdan's, and the Mariner perceived that Curunír knew something concerning what he had just said that he didn't. But he dismissed it; all Maiar were vague in his opinion. "Is there something you bid me do, Master?"
"Nay," Curunír said. Círdan could read the hesitance in his eyes, but then it was covered by firm resolution. "Last when you were awake, you inquired of me our purpose. Yet I spoke that silence must be kept on this journey. What say you?"
"And so it shall be, my lord," Círdan reassured. "If you confide in me any words, know that I will keep them secret if you so decree it."
Curunír nodded, a mysterious light in his gaze that Círdan could not interpret, as he peered deeply into the Mariner's eyes. And Círdan opened his mind to him, felling all barriers, for he had nothing to hide, and he trusted this Curunír despite his limited knowledge of him. Though seeing resolve light the old being's dark eyes, he felt that he had just earned a glimmer of trust from this Maia. And his next words proved it.
"Yes, you will," Curunír said, almost to himself. "As you have perceived, Mithrandir had indeed tested you. I have received reassurance from both higher power and now by you; therefore, I shall hold you to your word. Hear my words, Master Mariner, for they shall be repeated not on the Hither Shores to anyone."
Círdan nodded, feeling a glimmer of delight at knowing that his inquiry was to be answered after all; he had already accepted it to be otherwise. And Curunír rested his staff against his shoulder, speaking in calm, deep tones. "You know us to be Maiar, but it shall be not so in Middle-earth. All Races will come to know us as the Wizards; this I have seen, and I request that you refer to us as the same.
"We come from over the Sea, for emissaries we are from the Lords of the Uttermost West, the Valar, of whom you serve, and who gather still together in counsel for the governance of Middle-earth. The Valar have decided to take means of resisting the growing Shadow of Sauron."
Círdan felt hope blossom in his chest at the words of Curunír. Though ever practical and wary of that what hope could bring, Círdan could help not but wonder if it would be as in the Elder Days, when the World had been young and Beleriand had yet to exist. When the Valar had come in defense of the Elves, to smite the evil of Melkor and free them of his torment. Was it that they come again?
"Nay, Círdan," Curunír spoke, and compassion and sympathy were heard in his voice. "It will be not as the War of Powers, for though great power we Maiar possess, we are forbidden, under decree of the Valar, to match Sauron's power with power or to seek to dominate or sway the Free Peoples by force or fear."
Círdan felt his heart begin to sink, but Curunír gained his attention once more. "Lose not hope, Círdan, for injustice never rules forever. Hear my words; the Valar have chosen us, for we possess eminent knowledge of the history and nature of the World," he tapped his forehead, "and of the mind and ways of Sauron. The Dark Lord ever grows in might, though with the consent of Eru, the Valar elected to send members of their own high power to contest it; us, but clad in bodies as of Men, as you had observed.
"Our objective in Middle-earth is simple, though no challenge we foresee will ever be so great; to always contest the growth of the Shadow and to move Elves and Men to beware of their peril. For long we shall go about in this simple guise, appearing as of Men already old in years, but hale in body. Among all people, we shall be received as travelers and wanderers, gaining knowledge of Middle-earth and all who dwell therein. And to none we shall reveal our powers or purposes, for it is our strategy that both Man and Elf alike will see us seldom and heed us little. Only you, of all people in both Middle-earth and Aman, are permitted to know of our true purpose, our true mission. Do you now understand?"
Círdan slowly nodded, his eyes alight with thought and understanding, his mind taking in still all he had just heard. "I do indeed, my lord. You have my word that I will be silent on all that you have told me."
"Good, for I do trust you." And then he smiled a warm smile. "And I like you, for you are unlike any Elf I have ever met." He then stood straight and planted his staff firmly on the ground. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have an inquisitive mind to put at ease."
As Curunír left him at the stern, Círdan was dwarfed by a sudden doubt. It was not Curunír's words he doubted, not at all. If anything, they relieved him beyond imagine and gave him hope, a hope that had last been present when he had seen the Star of Eärendil light the sky for the first time, signifying the Valar's coming to their aid against Morgoth. No, what worried him was the possibility of other people managing to do what he had done; marking that power for what it was, identifying them as Maiar. If he had done so within a short matter of minutes, who was to say that someone else would not be able to? Based on what Curunír told him, the three desired to remain incognito. How would that work when he, an Elf, could so easily recognize that power? What would happen should Sauron's servants, more attuned to the powers of the World, come across it?
Be not doubtful of his words.
And that was another factor, he thought wryly. These Maiar were the emissaries, meaning that this whole plan was not of their conception, for they were only carrying it out. This was the plan of the Valar, and Círdan had no shred of doubt that Ulmo had been a part of the decision making. So, by being doubtful of Curunír's words, he would be being doubtful of the Valar's wisdom, including Ulmo's. And that just did not sit well with the Mariner. And it all came back to the simple question if he trusted Ulmo or not. And he did, so he endeavored to not be doubtful, but he had still many questions unanswered.
But Curunír had wandered back to the prow where he immediately began conversing with Radagast in quiet, curt words. Círdan thought Radagast looked unusually frustrated about something, though Curunír appeared equally impatient. But he could hear none of their words or perceive any of their thoughts. Though he couldn't help but wonder.
"You are staring."
Círdan startled and turned to look cynically into Mithrandir's twinkling eyes. Where had he come from? Círdan sighed, once again cursing his inattention, for he had not heard the Maia approach, or had seen him for that matter. He really needed to stop drifting off at inopportune times.
Opting to ignore Mithrandir's amusement, Círdan cocked his head, his inquisitive mind once again turning as his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Master Curunír told me that you had indeed tested me the other night. Why? And how? First you refuse to speak to me of anything and then you tell all. I mean no disrespect, yet still, the confusion is frustrating."
Mithrandir chuckled. "I love you Sindar. Unlike the Noldor, you opt not to beat around the bush with empty words." And then he sighed. "Why I tested you is very simple. It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without gaining the answer to it." Though a smile was still present, Círdan could see the gravity in his eyes. "And by accepting not knowing why you are on this voyage, you told me that you care not for personal gain in matters of knowledge. Therefore, you would not seek others to gloat that you know of something that no other does. And through that, aside from the reassurance of the Valar, we knew to trust you."
Círdan sighed and leaned against the railing of his ship, his fingers straying to his hair as he absently began to try and untangle it again. It made sense. It truly did. After all his long years of living, he rarely placed his trust in any, and those that did earn his trust had to go through many years of trial and effort. Why should he have expected the Maiar to treat him in a different manner, to trust him without testing him? That would have been abominably stupid in Círdan's opinion. At least that proved that the Maiar – the Istari, he corrected himself – were not walking into this dangerous task with ignorance and overconfidence. They were cautious and wary of all things. And if the three of them had not trusted Círdan prior to testing him, even after the Valar's reassurance…well, that spoke volumes of their prudence. And Círdan felt content at knowing that that particular wisdom would shine through their actions once in Middle-earth. He looked to the prow of the ship, where Curunír and Radagast still appeared to be arguing, and murmured, "You make it sound all too simple."
Mithrandir chuckled, and there was a short pause before he muttered teasingly, "You are fighting a losing battle with that hair of yours."
Círdan grunted and tossed the hair angrily over his shoulder, crossing his arms in front of him, though his brow furrowed in confusion as he continued to observe the other two Maiar. "If I may ask, Master, what is the dispute between lords Curunír and Radagast? They look not to be on friendly terms."
Mithrandir chuckled again and shook his head in what looked like half amusement and half exasperation. "To say they are not on friendly terms is putting it lightly. In the short time I have travelled with them, never have they been pleasant to one another and, by the looks of it, they are sorting their differences still."
Círdan looked at him in no small amount of surprise. "Dare I ask why?"
Mithrandir shook his head in this time what he knew to be tolerance. "On the deciding of whom the emissaries of the Valar should be, the Valie Yavanna – you know of her?"
Círdan nodded. "I have heard of her kindness and greatness of the earth."
"Very good, but be aware, the Queen of the Earth commanded my friend Curunír that he had to accept Aiwendil, Radagast as you know him, as a companion. Safe I am to say that he grudges it greatly, since they can tolerate not even the air the other breathes. Though I have a theory, and I plead you to speak not of it to Curunír." He leaned over and spoke in a whisper, as though preparing to share a deep secret. "I believe that he accepted Radagast simply to please the sweet Yavanna, for she is the spouse of his Master, Aulë. And at denying her, he would have, more or less, had to have answered to him."
Círdan fought valiantly to keep the smile off his face at hearing the mocking amusement in Mithrandir's voice. "Therefore, Master Radagast is a student of the Valie Yavanna?"
"Aye, the greatest Maia of earth and beast I ever have met. And his love for them is nearly as great as Yavanna's. Though," Mithrandir continued, seemingly oblivious of Círdan's amused reaction, "it has been very amusing indeed journeying alongside them to the Tower of Pearl, for never have I heard two Maiar, wise and powerful as they are, quarrel as two bickering children."
Círdan could not stop the chuckle from emerging then. At any other time, he would have not believed Mithrandir, but seeing the two Maiar argue before him now in low tones, he believed it quite readily. But despite the humor of it, he could not help but to worry.
"Is it not perilous to their duty that they are not getting along well?" he asked.
Mithrandir cocked his head; his eyes alight with concern at the worry in Círdan's voice. "How do you mean?"
Círdan hesitated, but at Mithrandir's encouraging gaze, he spoke. "Lord Curunír spoke that you will contest the might of Sauron upon arrival, and every day in Middle-earth thereafter. Will not friendship between the three of you be the wisest course?"
Mithrandir shook his head patiently. "Nay, Círdan, for though we shall travel yet together for a while, we shall take our separate paths once in Middle-earth. As Curunír spoke to you, we are forbidden to match Sauron's power with our own." He gave a nod, conceding an unspoken element. "Aye, some may argue that overthrowing Sauron's power with greater might is the wiser course of action, but you have to know the mind of your enemy. And the Valar know that neither is Sauron foolish nor ignorant. He is clever by far and wise. He will fall not for the same trap twice. You are wise, Círdan, and you know that should Sauron discover and remember who we are, that we are peers of his, all of this might turn for the worst." He held up a finger. "Remember this always; an enemy hidden is far more dangerous than an enemy known."
Círdan thought about that and recognized the truth of it, beginning to see just what the Valar had in mind. They were sending Maiar, beings of their own high power, to fight Sauron, and what better way to fight the enemy behind his lines without him knowing one was there? And none would be able to report to the Dark Lord that they were Maiar, for as Curunír said, he had foreseen that all beings would come to call them the Istari. They were to act as an enemy in disguise. Understanding of the Valar's decision dawned in his eyes, and he nodded as he saw the wisdom of it. "I begin to understand."
"Yes, you do," Mithrandir smiled. "Sauron must be blind to our presence. And to see it done, the Valar clad us in the bodies of Men, bodies real and not feigned, but subject to the fears and pains and weariness of earth, able to hunger and thirst and be slain. And we will age only by the cares and labors of many long years. And thus, it is our fervent hope that any enemy spies will report only our guise of aged Men."
Círdan narrowed his eyes in thought. "If you will permit my curiosity, Master," he said, "why only three Maiar? If you shall be incognito, will it be not more effective to have a larger force?"
Something flickered in Mithrandir's eyes, something Círdan could not place. And the Istar answered slowly with underlying caution. "I will not limit the number to three and I perceive not to know all the thoughts of my King, but I will confide in you of that I believe.
"We are the three emissaries sent from the West, and this the Valar did in their desire to mend the errors of old, especially that they had attempted to guard and seclude the Eldar by their own might and glory fully revealed, as such a time as you recalled from hearing Curunír's words." His eyes glazed over and Círdan knew that Mithrandir was remembering such a time, when the protection of the Eldar from the power of the Enemy could be wrought through the simplest means of their full might and power. Mithrandir shook his head, seeming to shake himself from such memories. "But now," he went on, "we are forbidden to reveal ourselves in forms of majesty or to seek to rule the wills of Men or Elves by open display of power, but coming in shapes weak and humble. We are instead bidden to advise and persuade Elves and Men to do well, and to seek to unite in love and understanding all those whom Sauron, should he come again, would endeavor to dominate and corrupt."
Círdan pursed his lips, his thoughts flying. "The opposite of Sauron's tactics," he murmured, almost to himself. And Círdan was astounded by just how opposite these tactics were – like black and white. Sauron, in his sleek guise of Annatar, had come forth as the Lord of Gifts. But the Istari would come forth while bearing nothing, carrying no form of bribery. Whereas Annatar came forth in a beautifully beguiling body, the Istari were coming in the forms of old, helpless Men. Whereas Annatar, with his deceptive tongue, sought to be in control without seeming to be, the Istari would simply advise when words of wisdom were sought or needed. Whereas Annatar used his skill and power – however subtly – to achieve his goals, the Istari could use nothing to fulfill their purpose. Círdan shook his head again. Complete opposites indeed, he thought.
"Aye," Mithrandir said, unaware of Círdan's thoughts. "As Curunír had spoken, Eru provided his counsel in this matter." He then suddenly sighed and looked to the sky and appeared to Círdan the age he truly was, beyond that of the age of Arda.
"I remember Manwë's words clearly," he said quietly, remembering the incident as he spoke. "Amidst the counsel of aiding Middle-earth, my King spoke, 'Who would go? For they must be mighty, peers of Sauron, but must forgo might, and clothe themselves in flesh so as to treat on equality and win the trust of Elves and Men. But this would imperil them, dimming their wisdom and knowledge – confusing them with fears, cares, and weariness coming from the flesh.' And yet, Círdan, here I tell you, only two came forward. Curunír was one of them, and wisely so, for great skill he has in works of hand and was regarded by well-nigh all, even by the Eldar, as Chief of my Order. He is both knowledgeable and wise and has the greatest of both in knowing the ways and workings of Sauron.
"But during all this, Manwë asked, 'Where is Olórin?'" Mithrandir smiled at Círdan. "Rare it is for my King to become flustered, but so he did at my absence. I had just entered from a long journey and seated myself at the edge of the council. And I was therefore uncertain of all that had been discussed. So I asked my King what he would have of me, for he called my name."
Mithrandir sighed, or at least Círdan thought it was a sigh. "My King said that he wished for me to go as the third messenger," the Maia spoke in quiet tones. "Never would I defy him amidst his counsel, but spoke nonetheless that I was too weak for such a task and that I feared Sauron. And then Manwë said that that was all the more reason why I should go. And then, at signs of my hesitation still, he commanded me to go." He looked at Círdan and quirked an eyebrow. "I could hardly refuse."
Círdan was fascinated and he let his wonder at hearing Mithrandir's words shine bright in his eyes. His heart warmed at the knowledge that the Valar in the West still gathered in counsel together concerning the welfare of Middle-earth. For too many long years of ages past he had pondered if the Valar had forsaken the Hither Lands to chance, to its own strength (or lack of it) to defy and defeat the Shadow of Sauron when it had never been thusly conquered before. Now Mithrandir's words of the Valar's concern, of the Lords sending aid through stealth and prudence, caused a hope unfounded to blossom in his chest. Yes, Círdan had never met the Vala Manwë, King of Arda, and had no concrete reason to trust him or to believe in him or to follow him. But Ulmo, the most independent of the Valar, spoke very highly of his King when the rare subject was brought up. And Círdan saw the depth of loyalty Ulmo held for him whenever he spoke with him. And, as he would declare countless times, Círdan trusted Ulmo unconditionally. Therefore, if Ulmo trusted Manwë, then so would Círdan.
Círdan looked at Mithrandir curiously. "I must inquire you of something, Master."
"Yes?"
"I understand your hesitation of being one of the emissaries, for I too have experienced that choice. And, despite how little I know of you and your fellow emissaries, I believe not that you and Maiar Curunír and Radagast would be so foolish as to walk this journey half committed. What took it for you to believe in the wisdom of your King's decision?"
Despite the innocence of the question, Círdan did his best to hide his suspicion and, he would admit, growing worry. He liked this Mithrandir, but "like" had nothing to do with trust, he knew. But with every word that came out of this old being's mouth, his respect grew as well as his trust. But his worry unraveled from something the Maia had said. He had no doubt that Mithrandir was fully committed to this mission, or that he was fully capable of taking on such a daunting task. But did he have to be convinced of Manwë's words, that the emissaries had to be mighty, despite that they must forego that might? He wanted to believe in this Maia, he truly did. And he was surprised to find out just how humble Mithrandir was in the confidence of his own strength and value. That, to Círdan, spoke volumes of his honesty and clarity, for he had seen that humility was the solid foundation of all virtues. And he knew that Mithrandir had the strength and power for this mission; it practically radiated off of him. But, Círdan thought, was Mithrandir's humility hypocritical? Did he know that he was being humble, simply waiting for words to make sure of his self-confidence and to increase it? He didn't want to believe it. It was the last thing he wanted to believe. But one never knew.
Mithrandir was studying him in silence and Círdan was unsure if the Maia – Istar, he corrected himself again – knew of his thoughts. But his gaze was considerate, as if he was truly giving serious thought to Círdan's question.
"What took it for me to believe that?" he asked with a smile. "Merely a minute or two of isolation. Despite that Manwë commanded me, thereby which I hardly had a choice, he permitted me to give it thought, to see the wisdom of it." The gravity of his gaze bore into Círdan's eyes as he spoke solemnly, "And still, I have yet to see the wisdom of it." He crossed his arms and Círdan, to his amazement, saw the all too obvious uncertainty in his posture. "My King spoke the truth that we, their emissaries, would have to forgo any might and power we possess, for, if we were to fight with might and power, he would have undoubtedly sent his herald and my friend, Eönwë. In strength and might, no Maia can contest him, save Sauron himself. Therefore, I thought, what was it we were to battle with if not with our power and might?
"However, afore I could ponder more on it, Eönwë joined me in the gardens and spoke with me, reminding me that imperfection is not our personal problem, but just a natural part of existing. Reminding me that we, alike all others, face many defeats in our lives, but never are we to let ourselves be defeated by that knowledge. He empathized with me, for we remembered time long passed and its bitter trials that always had seemed to foreshadow despair and defeat, and yet had been always conquered." He smiled jestingly at Círdan. "For too long a time he has spent with my King, I do believe. But then he revealed his trump and spoke words to me that I could not refute, words that made me realize that I was already fully committed to carrying out this mission." He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "I accused him of being devious, but he denied it."
Círdan looked at him in a new light, with a new admiration and a new understanding. "What did he say?" he asked quietly.
Mithrandir chuckled. "He spoke, 'You will do this, for you love them too much, you fool'."
Up went Círdan's eyebrow. "Them?"
Mithrandir smiled warmly. "You, the Eldar, the Elves of Aman and Middle-earth. If my love for the Elves can be called a weakness, then it is one weakness I am grateful for. Doubt me not, Círdan, when I say that love recognizes no barriers. If there is anything that would strengthen my resolve, to absolve my hesitancy, and fortify my yearning to defeat the Shadow, it is my love for the Free People, to see them released from bondage. Eönwë knew that. My King knew that. And I knew that the opportunity granted through this difficulty to aid them was too great to deny. And I fully believe that once I become acquainted with the race of Men, I will love them just as greatly. Besides," he added with a bright twinkle in his eyes, "I do believe that Eönwë was ready to hit me over the head for doubting so much."
Círdan grinned at that, not even having to contemplate his relief. Whatever answer he would have expected, it was the best answer he could have received. And from within, a glimmer of deep trust had been born and Círdan professed that his trust for Mithrandir would only grow more. Words, he knew, could be emptier than any other form of commitment could be, but it was the conviction and underlying warmth of the words that convinced Círdan to believe them. The greatness of deception was inconceivable, but Círdan knew not anyone who partook in deception who could look him in the eye and speak such words with such conviction without him perceiving the falsehood; save Morgoth, of course, who had deceived all. Not even Sauron, when he tried, had been able to deceive him, and he knew that Mithrandir was not trying to either. And that created a much larger sense of contentment than he could have imagined.
Suddenly, rather randomly, Círdan's stomach let forth a deep growl. Círdan froze in the moment of silence that followed, growing more awkward by the second. And the Mariner didn't even have to look at the Maia beside him to know that Mithrandir was barely suppressing a chuckle. He could practically feel the amusement radiating off of him. And sure enough, when he turned to Mithrandir, his eyes were dancing with laughter, the corners of his mouth twitching.
"I apologize for that," Círdan murmured, casting his gaze down at the water. Despite his ancient age, he was still amazed with how embarrassing it was when someone heard one's stomach growl.
"I do believe your stomach wants food," Mithrandir said, his mirth all too obvious in his voice.
Círdan gave what he thought was a small smile, though it turned out more to be a grimace. Yes, he could see the amusement of it, but he was still in too much pain to join in with it. Really, he found it difficult just managing to stand erect, to not double over and clutch at his stomach. Yes, the conversations with the Istari did distract him from the pain, but it was still a close thing.
Círdan nodded in answer to Mithrandir's words. "I have eaten nothing on this journey."
Mithrandir looked at him, that indiscernible flicker in his eye once more. "Why ever not?"
Círdan turned narrowed eyes on him suspiciously. That question had been asked a little too innocently, in his opinion. But before he could comment on Mithrandir's irritating ambiguity, another welcoming voice spoke, this time within the depths of his mind.
Draw the net.
Círdan furrowed his brow. The net? The net! Círdan just managed to stop from rolling his eyes, but didn't bother to withhold the sigh of frustration. With a cynical, begrudging gaze, he glanced over to the starboard stern to where the large net had been cast off. Sure enough, its twisted web of braids was straining against its belaying pins. How, with his mind on the state of his stomach, could he have forgotten about the net?
"Círdan?"
Círdan's head snapped back around at the concerned voice, only to find equally concerned eyes looking up at him. He was about to ask what cause there was for concern when he remembered that, when Ulmo now spoke, none of the Istari could hear him.
He gave a wan smile. "I know not, but I think it is time for me to draw the net."
Mithrandir smiled in return, resting his staff between two of the shrouds. "Allow me to help you."
Círdan, with Mithrandir only a step behind him, went over to the starboard gunwale and grabbed hold of the twisted net. He gave it an experimental tug and felt its resistance caused by an incredible weight. He furrowed his brow. What could have a simple fishing net caught? He was too far out in the ocean and over too deep water to catch anything. But after taking a deep breath and bracing his foot against the railing, he heaved on the net. The weight was monstrous, proving to be a match for even his Elven strength. And then, another pair of hands came in as Mithrandir too heaved, and the fishing net quickly surfaced the water, as though all the Maia had done was pick up a package. Círdan glared at him and shook his head. Well, that certainly proved that though Mithrandir looked as an old Man, he definitely didn't bear the weakness of one.
But then he looked down at the fishing net, which was half-way out of the water and felt his eyes widen. To the brim, it was filled with what he knew to be sea urchins and oysters, of a variety of colors and sizes. Quickly, while Mithrandir held the weight of the catch, he twisted the leather-plated ends of the net and wrapped them around and through two belaying pins, the weight of the net allowing the complex knot to hold.
Mithrandir chuckled as he looked down into the vast overflow of shellfish. "Well, it certainly appears that Ulmo has kept your stomach in mind."
Círdan simply shook his head, staring still at the shellfish in shock. This blessing of food was, without a doubt, from the intervention of Ulmo. Such shellfish could only be found within the bay, on ocean floor so shallow that he could swim the depth to fetch them. But now he was so hungry that he cared not how he obtained them, only that he could eat them. Moving quickly, he took one of the buckets stored beneath each rowing bench, which was standardly used to bail water by the relief crew, and hung it from its rope handle on one of the many belaying pins. Mithrandir, who had sidled back over to rest against the stern, had completely passed from his thoughts and he pried back one of the air tight lids of one of the two large barrels of water roped and secured to the deck, revealing fresh, salt-extracted drinking water.
Reaching within the net, he removed an oyster as large as his palm, all the while withdrawing the short, one-edged blade from his boot. Leaning over the bulwark, he inserted the flat of the blade between the compressed shells and worked the knife around to the hinge muscles, cutting through the excess tissue. It was not a pleasant process, he knew, but it was easy. Immediately, as he loosened the oyster with his fingers, the murky liquid spilled out and into the ocean. Normally, for an average seaman, to shuck an oyster would take half a minute at least. But Círdan, with experienced hands, did it within a matter of seconds. Pealing out the meat, he discarded the remains of the oyster into the ocean, quickly rinsed it out in the barrel of water, and popped it into his mouth. It may have not been much, but he savored the taste of it, deliberately ignoring the chuckling he heard behind him. He repeated the process a few more times, allowing the raw meat to quell his hunger to the point of tolerance, before he began to drop the meat into the bailing bucket while discarding the oyster shells into the water.
Círdan continued with the shucking, dropping the meat into the bucket, his hands executing the movements on their own without any thought of his. Such a small feat was so natural to him that he needed not to even think about it. He looked up at Mithrandir's silent figure as he worked, who was watching him work with a thoughtful interest, and Círdan decided that the lull in their conversation was the best place for him to voice the doubt that had previously dwarfed his mind. "I have a question, Master."
"Yes?"
"When Master Curunír spoke with me, he told of your desire to remain incognito. I recognize the wisdom of your guise and your method of how you will fight Sauron. Yet both Curunír and you spoke repeatedly of your objective to remain hidden, that all beings be blind to your true origin. When you came aboard, I recognized that power for what it is. What will happen should other people identify that power as I did? What then?"
Mithrandir shook his head, confidence in his eyes. "Worry not of it, Círdan, for the perceptions of the race of Men are inept to such things. Though yes, the Firstborn may do as you suspect, for Elves are bound to Arda and therefore are somewhat entwined with the powers indwelling it. But they shall place it not."
Despite the reassurance in his voice, Círdan was still doubtful. He was uncertain if the Maia was aware of it, but the raw power the Istari radiated he could almost physically feel. And it was so foreign and inconceivable that he knew of nothing else an Elf would be able to compare it to. Círdan thought his doubt must have been seen, for Mithrandir shuffled over and stood next to him, smiling reassuringly. "Worry not, Círdan, for when our power is felt in Middle-earth by those who dwell therein, even amongst Elves, scarce few will be able to tell. Though valid it is, you base this concern on your own experience. Over the many millennia of your life, you have dealt and interacted with both Vala and Maia. And such sensation you have become accustomed to, as greatly as you are used to the smell of the ocean. It would be a concern if you were not able to place our power for what it is."
Círdan shook his head, his concern only growing. "You speak the truth, Master. But I am not the only one to have dealt with Ainur."
Mithrandir smiled gently, sweeping Círdan's wayward hair back over his shoulder and rested a hand on said shoulder. "Touched I am by your concern, Círdan," he said softly. "Never has an Elf been concerned for me. Yet it is not from only your experience you are able to recognize higher power of Maiar and Valar. Even amongst Elves are you ancient and old. Things unimaginable you have seen and you know of power unconceivable. You are wise and insightful, and your senses have grown to being beyond the mundane. This I know you know."
Círdan spoke nothing and his discomfort could not be hidden as he scrupulously avoided the Maia's gaze. But Mithrandir squeezed his shoulder and Círdan could feel his comforting warmth enter into his being, quelling his distress.
"Trust me when I say, Círdan," Mithrandir continued calmly, "that you are the only one who will be able to place it." He looked up and furrowed his brow. "Save for Glorfindel, mayhap, for he has met me and knows me well. But the few Elves who feel this power will wonder at it, but not be able to name it, unless we tell them. Do you remember that Curunír spoke that he had foreseen that all will come to know us as the Istari?"
Círdan nodded, reaching down into the net and extracting this time a sea urchin, cutting a round opening into the top and scooping out their tongues before rinsing them and placing them in the bucket. "Aye, I do recall him speaking that. What has this to do with your guise?"
"As I spoke, all shall feel our power." He lightly shook his head. "But they shall understand it not. Though cloaked we are in the bodies of Men, it is from that feeling they shall know that simple Men, we are not. In all eyes, ever will we remain a mystery to them; thereby they shall call us the 'Wizards', for no other explanation will come to them. No other word to explain the mystery and seemingly 'magical' properties that will cloak us wherever we go." He squeezed the shoulder again. "Aye, they will know we are different, yet they will know not why."
With a short sigh, Círdan went back to shucking oysters. "Your words do grant me some relief. Believe me, Master, I doubted you not. And your words have quelled my concern. But forgive me when I say that I believe you are wrong, for I believe that some Elves, aside from Glorfindel, shall eventually realize of what origin you are."
Mithrandir quirked an eyebrow. "Oh? What Elves would they be?"
"I have confidence you know their names," Círdan said. "One is the Lord Celeborn, who at times dwells in the forests of Lórinand beyond the Hithaeglir, realm of King Amroth. He is the same Celeborn of Doriath, a great Prince of the Sindar, and the wisest Elf I have ever known or met, and of those there are many. Another is Celeborn's wife, Lady Galadriel, of whom you know I am sure, for she did live in Aman. And where her husband travels, so does she go also. Another is King Thranduil of Mirkwood, son of the late Oropher, once a lord of Doriath." He furrowed his brow in thought. "Another whom I believe will realize who you are is Elrond Half-elven."
"Son of Eärendil?" Mithrandir asked with a knowing smile.
Círdan returned the small smile. "How did you know?" He had an inkling of what the answer was anyway, but it never hurt to ask.
Mithrandir's smile grew, a smile born from a good memory. "In the short time I spoke with Eärendil, all he would speak of was his children." He shook his head in amusement. "After speaking with him, or listening to him speak, more correctly, I feel I know his twin sons as well as he does." He looked curiously into Círdan's eyes. "Why think you that said Elves will know I am a Maia?"
He gave an uncertain shrug. "It is a suspicion, nothing more, for Celeborn, Galadriel and Thranduil all once lived in Doriath, and were therefore acquainted and familiar with the Maia Melian. It is my presumption that not will they only feel your presence, but also remember it."
Mithrandir nodded thoughtfully. "And Elrond?"
Círdan fell silent, his eyes clouding over with a dark memory. "No, he met not Thingol's Queen, but he did meet the Maia Eönwë when he and his brother were summoned to make their eternal choice." No matter how many years passed, Círdan believed not that he would ever forget the darkness and heartbreaking despair that had filled Elrond's eyes and hung as a dark cloud over his being when he had come to terms with the fact that he would never see his brother again, in this life or the next. And the blatant pain that Elrond had not been able to hide had struck Círdan to the core, making him grieve the eternal separation of the twins.
Mithrandir gave another thoughtful nod, running his fingers over his beard, and the Shipwright was grateful that he would not discuss the dark memories he knew the Maia saw in him. Instead, Mithrandir carried on with the conversation, as though nothing else had been conjured. "You theory has validity, Círdan. Yet still, worry not. Though the Elves you speak of may well guess we are Maiar and believe in that thought with all their might, never will it be confirmed." He looked gravely at Círdan. "As Curunír spoke, only you shall know who we are and of our purpose."
Círdan studied him for a moment and gave a single nod of his head. "Then I shall trust your judgment, for your insight is greater than mine."
"Stop."
The command came suddenly and Círdan looked over at Mithrandir in confusion. The old being was looking at his hands, or more so the oyster shell as large as his hand in them that he had just been about to discard.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Give me that."
His eyes were still glued fervently on the oyster shell and Círdan handed it over to him in a state of bafflement. Mithrandir took the large shell in both hands, inspecting both the outside and inside, including its slime-coated sheen. Círdan shook his head, his brow furrowed. Just why did Maiar behave so oddly at the most random times? But the Mariner watched in interest as Mithrandir used some water from the barrel and a corner of his robes to scrub the inside of the shell clean. And stepping back, he lowered the shell face-up onto the last rowing bench, treating the shell as though it were a fragile treasure. And Círdan watched the shell, now resting on the bench, gently waft back and forth with the movement of the ship.
"There," Mithrandir said, a whole weight of satisfaction filling his voice, as though he had just accomplished some great, exhausting deed.
And Círdan simply stared at him, completely baffled. Had he just missed something? "What?" he asked.
"Nothing." At Mithrandir's enigmatic smile, Círdan knew then and there that the Maia would never tell him. And he barely refrained from rolling his eyes; did all higher powers find it amusing to keep him in the dark? Ulmo certainly seemed to. But Mithrandir pointed to the shell and spoke gravely, "Do not touch that shell."
Círdan was silent, his brow furrowed as he looked from Mithrandir, to the shell, and back again. "What?" he asked once more with a hint of incredulity.
"Do not touch it," he repeated patiently.
Círdan looked at the shell again; there it sat, as solid as can be, all the while gently rocking. Why wasn't he to touch it? It was a shell. Was it supposed to do something? Or was Mithrandir simply testing him again? The Mariner looked back at Mithrandir, hoping to find some shred of evidence that he was jesting, but Círdan was surprised to find that the Maia's eyes were very serious. Círdan inwardly shook his head; Mithrandir truly did not want him to touch the shell.
Círdan sighed aloud, not even bothering to hide his confusion. "Very well, I will do as you command and touch it not at all." From long experience, he knew it was simply better just to let it go.
Mithrandir smiled. "Good," he said. "Now I wish to inquire you of something you mentioned earlier. Come." He gestured with his hand towards the opposite bench than the one the shell was resting on. "Sit with me and quell your hunger while we speak."
They did so and Círdan took the bucket with him. As soon as he sat, he started eating both sea urchin and oyster, the rich taste that encapsulated the essence of the ocean erupting on his palate. Raw shellfish may not be the most scrumptious thing to eat, but amidst his hunger, it was as a feast.
"When you spoke of Elves who may perceive our origin, you spoke of Mirkwood."
Círdan looked up when he heard the barely concealed concern in Mithrandir's voice. "Aye," he said. "Mirkwood is the realm of the Silvan Elves, and her King, Thranduil."
"Aye, as you spoke," he said. "Yet amidst the council of the Valar, when told we were of the shaping of Middle-earth, it had come to our knowledge that Oropher had led an assemblage of Elves, amongst them his son, across a trek to find the lost kin of the Teleri. Successful, he had been, and his kingdom was thereafter called Greenwood the Great." Mithrandir cocked his head. "If indeed Thranduil took up his father's throne, why is such a majestic place called Mirkwood?"
Círdan closed his eyes as he felt a shadow pass over him, a dark cloud of worry and memory of all evil still that dwelled in Middle-earth, it being most prominent in a forest once majestic and great. "I know of what you speak," he said quietly, "for Thranduil did take up his father's throne. Greenwood the Great it once was, but is now seen and referred to as Mirkwood by all, for darkness has partaken of her life."
Mithrandir's brow furrowed, his eyes glinting with an emotion unknown to Círdan. "Darkness?"
Círdan nodded solemnly as he looked down at the remaining shellfish; the rest no longer looked appetizing amidst their new talk, so he set the bucket aside and tried to push his sorrow for the Greenwood away. "Aye, Master. Darkness. Every day now is a fight for survival for the Wood-elves. Like an inkwell spilt over a map, the darkness is slowly growing and spreading across the vast forest. And just this past decade –" Círdan stopped himself just in time. This Maia made him too comfortable, he thought grudgingly. He spoke to freely. How could he describe this accurately when he knew not how to even describe it to himself?
"What is it, Círdan?" Mithrandir asked softly. "What has happened?"
Círdan stood from the bench and approached the bulwark, leaning on her gunwale, too weary to even try to withhold the uncertainty in his posture. "I know not with certainty," he said. "To this day, my thoughts ever are occupied by it and I am nowhere still closer to solving it." He paused, gathering his thoughts and finally went forth, trying to describe as best as he was able. "Yes, darkness now indwells Greenwood the Great, so horrendously that it is called now Mirkwood. In the fortress of Dol Guldur some great evil has taken residence, only I know not what it is. In person I spoke with Thranduil and he heeded my warning. But yet I have to receive any notice of what has happened, if anything has."
Mithrandir joined him along the railing, leaning on his gnarled staff. "Doubt not your words, Círdan, for I believe they are correct. Only the residence of great evil can emit a force so powerful that it burdens Elves valiant as your Woodland kin to fight for their lives daily." And then he smiled, the reassurance in his eyes affecting Círdan as it was meant to. "If it quells your fear, Círdan, know that upon our arrival in the Hither Lands, once I make my journey to Greenwood the Great and ere I go back again, I will investigate it." His smile grew. "And should it be you remain uncertain, I will tell you what I find."
Círdan gave a wan smile, yet said nothing, for he perceived that Mithrandir knew of his relief at the Maia's reassuring words. He only hoped that the same reassurance and hope of Mithrandir's arrival would subdue the ever present worry that occupied Thranduil's mind. Yes, the Woodland King was potent in both strength and resistance, and ruled with wisdom and a fierce valiance that enabled all his people to be loyal. But the darkness was growing and Thranduil was neither ignorant nor inexperienced to know that the fate of his people was dire. Perhaps Mithrandir's expertise would aid him in that struggle, Círdan thought.
But he would discuss it no further. He knew that fate unraveled with its own will and nothing one endeavored to do could stop it. Besides, he thought with a grudging, inward smile, if he continued with these melancholic thoughts on darkness he or any other Elf had not the power to control, he suspected that Ulmo would berate him once more for his disquiet.
Indeed I would.
The slight smile broke through to the surface; he couldn't help it. Though the merest trace of humor could be detected, the Vala's voice was weighed down with gravity and Círdan knew that he was serious. He wondered still to no end why Ulmo had bidden him to obey his command of being "at peace", but if he had taken the time to question everything the Vala commanded of him, he would have been dead a long time ago. Walking into a situation with blind trust was usually the only thing that would get one out of it.
"Why the smile?"
With a grace born of long practice, he smoothly changed the subject. "My thoughts tend to go astray while amidst the seas. And yet," he continued before Mithrandir could speak, "I ask you to forgive my curiosity again."
Mithrandir shook his head in a tolerated amusement. "No forgiveness need be asked for, Círdan, for never will that day arrive when Elven curiosity dies." He turned to smile warmly at the Mariner. "What is it you desire to know this time?"
"Nothing of relevance," he said. "I perceive that, despite that people will be confused by you, you will be greatly welcomed among all the Free Peoples. If you mind me not asking, what words will you speak to convince them to accept your leadership?"
Mithrandir blinked. "You presume that I will take a role of authority."
Círdan raised an eyebrow, the only outward sign of his slight surprise. "Will you not?"
Mithrandir shook his head, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully and dimmed with gravity. "Nay, Círdan, I will not. I speak not for Curunír or Radagast, but I will take no head of any association, of any movement of resistance against the Shadow. I will advise them as I am bidden, but I will take no authority."
"Why not?" Círdan asked. "None will refuse you, for as Curunír said, you possess eminent knowledge of the history and nature of the World. They will desire that knowledge, and the wisdom you have long borne." Círdan tilted his head slightly in thought. "In fact, I say with upmost confidence that some people, whether they would be Elf, Man, or Dwarf would request of you to lead."
Mithrandir nodded, conceding the point. "Aye, they most probably will. And I will give them the same answer I give you now, for it is simple; I will be bound by no duty, save what was assigned to me. To nothing I will be bound, no matter the words spoken to me."
For reasons unimaginable to the human mind, Círdan felt something fierce, something red flicker inside him at Mithrandir's words, an anger brewing that he had not felt in a long time.
"You desire to have free reign," Círdan said quietly, a tad gratified with how composed he managed to keep his voice.
"Aye," Mithrandir nodded. "Once in Middle-earth, I will thereafter do what I judge needs to be done to accomplish what I am bidden to do. And I will allow no duty to restrain me in any way from doing so."
"The act of free will," he said in a tight voice.
Mithrandir looked over at him sharply, his brow furrowing at the barely concealed fury in Círdan's voice. "You are correct, yet I have angered you with my words, Círdan. Why?"
Círdan shook his head, clenching his jaw and he tried – he really did try – to push the anger and resentment that had been buried for millennia, to force it back down into the place where it had remained forgotten, ignored at best. But it was in vain; he couldn't stop the fury, not this time, and it boiled over past his control. It had nothing to do with Mithrandir opting to be free from the burden of leadership, but rather the fierce conviction he spoke with when he had said he would be bound by nothing. It was a statement he fully believed, a statement already engraved in stone and that he would follow to the last letter. And that conviction struck a chord deep within Círdan's memory, bringing to surface another being that had said and believed the exact same thing.
He kept his gaze straight forward, not wanting to meet the Istar's piercing gaze. "You speak of the act of free will," he said in a tight voice. "You speak that you refuse to take part of anything in Middle-earth that will restrain your mobility; that will be defined by boundaries."
Mithrandir stared at him in silence, his brow furrowing in what Círdan knew was confusion. "Yes, and you have practically repeated every word I said. But I see in your eyes that you are angry not at my refusal to be bound by duty in Middle-earth. How have my words angered you?"
Círdan gestured hopelessly with his hands, as though wishing that the answer would have been obvious. "Did not Sauron himself rebel against this fact? Did he not have the same idea in mind that you speak of? Did he not despise the boundaries – the restrictions placed upon him by the Valar and thereby opted to defy them openly in order to act upon his own free will? Did he not curse the Valar, denying their wisdom in the forbiddance they set? Rebelling even the boundaries of Middle-earth and the natural order of life, since they would limit him? And yet, you have the same idea in mind; to refuse any boundaries that would restrain you, just as Sauron did."
Mithrandir shook his head, patient as could be, something that infuriated Círdan. "It is not the same," he began.
"Yes it is!" Círdan said firmly. It wasn't quite a shout, but it was close enough. He was furious, and he felt the rage strike him to the bone, erupting after so long a time of being contained. "You speak of free will; that you refuse to be bound by any rules, by anything that would limit you! By anything that would take away your free will to do as you judge best!" Now he was shouting and he cared not in the slightest. And Mithrandir's calm composure amidst his accusations only made him angrier. He opened his mouth to speak, but Círdan continued on, ignoring the minor irrationality he knew his words contained.
"All beings, I have learned, save Eru, are restrained by some boundary. Sauron rebelled against this fact. It matters not the origin that he refused. After leaving the confines of the Valar's vicinity, he relished the freedom he obtained. As had Morgoth. They simply liked not being bound, just as you like it not! Damn all evil, even the Noldor rebelled against this fact! For they trusted in their own cursed pride and limited skill, denying the wisdom and strength of the Valar!"
Mithrandir remained silent as Círdan carried on with his tirade, his countenance calm and unflustered as ever. And seeing this calmness, Círdan took a few deeps breaths and closed his eyes, willing that rage to go away, to go back where it had long been buried. Rare it was for him to lose control of his temper, to let slip his rage, but the redness still colored his mind, blinding him from seeing the irrationality of his words.
He knew the irrationality was there, but he also knew that the validity of his accusations was greater than the irrationality of making them. It mattered not what the duty was; duty was duty and the more duties one burdened himself with, the more limited he became, if he were responsible, of course. And Sauron, he knew with absolute certainty, once he had obtained a glimpse of his freedom, a shred of the endless possibilities when one could do as he pleased, had unleashed his raw power and might. And many others he had known, some even the Elves, had fallen for the same misconception of a promising paradise. And now, to Círdan's ears, Mithrandir was adamant about following the exact same routine, refusing to be bound by any duty, no matter how much one begged it of him, all in order to remain free. But Mithrandir's soft voice drew him out of his thoughts.
"What do you wish to know, Círdan?"
Círdan glanced up into Mithrandir's unruffled façade. Despite how calm he looked, his grey eyes were hard, their light shining brighter than ever, and Círdan knew then that the Maia was angry. Though it appeared that Mithrandir's own control was far stronger than his. But despite how calm and patient he remained to appear, his eyes remained as hard as stone, like chiseled ice, and Círdan found no compromise there; Mithrandir demanded an answer and Círdan was all too happy to give one.
Without wavering, he looked into Mithrandir's hard gaze. "How do you know?" he asked, his voice just tempered below shouting again. "How do you know that you will fall not in the same trap? How do you know that you will follow not the same path Sauron did once you taste your freedom?"
Mithrandir continued to stare at him, his gaze hard and unrelenting. But Círdan could be just as stubborn, so he took part in this battle of wills, waiting for an answer. But Mithrandir remained silent.
To be continued….
A/N: I know that Círdan's moment of outrage might have seemed a little out of character, but stick around for the next chapter to find out how and why it was not. What will Mithrandir's answer be (for we all know he has an answer)? How will he convince Círdan that he won't do as Sauron did? Because remember, he's the only one of the Istari who ended up not doing so. Stick around to find out. And how will Círdan react when he realizes that he just yelled at a Maia he already greatly respects? And in the next chapter, a ton of more matters are discussed, among them being the significance of Mithrandir knowing Círdan's name, the history of Sauron from a Maia's perspective, and much more. And, of course, Radagast gets a part.
Like it? Hate it? Please review! I'd really appreciate it. And the next chapter, remember, is the second part of this one. Please review!