By Berzerker_prime
Note: Special thanks to Stargazer_Nataku whose plot bunny escaped her pen and came bounding right into me, evading her sight the whole time while she was distracted with others. Slippery little devils! ^_~
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The Lord of Mithlond. That was what his
people called him. He was the lord of what was to be the final place
on Middle Earth that would see Elves. The last of them would come
here and then...
Cirdan the Shipwright didn't even need to
look at his work any more. In a strange way, he took both comfort
and despair in the rhythmic movement of his planer across the surface of
the wooden hull. These were his masterpieces and Middle Earth would
never see their like again. But Middle Earth would also only see
each of them for but a short time. The grace of these ships belonged
to the Undying Lands of Valinor.
As his hands worked with the confidence born
of immortal experience, Cirdan watched the horizon over the Sundering Sea,
his eyes moving to the Straight Way without preamble. One of his
ships was there, sailing westward, leaving the bent paths all around it.
He could just barely see it, a tiny shape amid a passing flock of gulls
whirling through the air much closer to his pier. One of the birds
passed in front of the dot that was his ship and it was gone. Another
end had come to this long history.
He sighed, his hands dropping away from the
hull he was crafting and his planer falling to the grass below. He
had tried, nearly an age ago, to tell himself that his thoughts were simply
troubled, that what he saw was not what was. But the slow pass of
time was proving him wrong.
Elvendom was facing a long, dark defeat.
The darkness was growing again in the East.
He could feel the Enemy beginning to pull on the consciousness of all who
would listen or dare to stand against him. Whether by the Dark Lord's
sword or by the slow change that time brought, all the world would change
and that which Cirdan's people knew would disappear.
And yet, Cirdan did not wish to leave; at
least, not yet. He had been there in the beginning, when Illuvatar
had first awoken the Elves. He had heard the horn of Oromë the
Valar, leading his people into the west for the first time, to defend the
infant race from Morgoth Bauglir. He had been there when Fëanor
had returned in the White Ships of Cirdan's kin, the Teleri, and had burned
them in scorn. And he had seen the western lands of Middle Earth,
the great kingdoms of Beleriand, sink beneath the waves when the Valar
had swept out of the west to destroy the wicked Ainur betrayer. His
eyes had seen the truth of change; all the world was already changed.
There were younger Elves that didn't understand yet. They would soon.
He knew where his dark thoughts were coming
from, what they were feeding.
Not for the first time, Cirdan felt his hand
grow heavy. The tiny band of gold and stone of red pulled a great
weight on his finger and on his mind. The pull was eastward while
his consciousness was repulsed westward. And he was caught in the
middle.
"You are troubled, my old friend," a voice
cut through his thoughts. Cirdan turned and found the grey form of
Mithrandir standing close at hand. His blue hat had faded somewhat
since last they met, but it seemed to Cirdan that the crystalline miracle
on top of his staff glimmered more brilliantly.
"I am trapped between the home of my birth
and the home of my future," the old Elf replied, "every day, more of my
people give in to the growing darkness and leave these shores. The
long defeat is hardest on those who watch it."
"You do not simply watch," said the wizard,
strolling over to stand next to Cirdan. He picked up the dropped
planer and handed it back to the Elf who took it reluctantly. "You
have your part in this world, your hand in the powers that swirl throughout
the history of this age."
"Yes," said Cirdan, gazing at the ring on
his hand, "I certainly do, at that. Curse the foul betrayer.
I took up Narya in the hopes that something on this shore would remain
to us Elves, that someplace would be a haven here that would always belong
to us. And now, it is the vessel through which the darkness creeps."
Mithrandir sighed a knowing and dismal sigh.
"It is the Enemy that troubles you, then."
"His shadow grows," Cirdan affirmed, "and
though the mountains and the lands block my eyes from his miasma, my mind
is nearly laid bare to him." He shook his head and looked to the
half-finished hull of his ship, resting a hand on the smoothed, unfinished
wood. "Gil-Galad entrusted me with this burden. Narya is the
furthest of the Three from the Enemy and yet I fear it shall be the first
he gathers to his will."
"It is not wrong to love these lands," replied
the wizard, "you know much of them. You were here in the beginning
and have never left when others of your kind stole away beyond the seas."
"And that is the rub," said Cirdan, "I have
heard that your beloved Hobbits like to say that old men are set in their
ways?"
Mithrandir gave a kindly smile, a measure
of sorrow still showing through; he knew what Cirdan was about to say.
"Yes, they do indeed."
"I am set in my ways, Mithrandir. This
world is changed. And yet to leave would be the biggest change of
all. Is there a ship that could bear me to the peace promised in
Valinor? Could I ever build such a vessel?"
"Perhaps not yet. But one day, there
will be such a ship."
"I see not this vision that you see."
"I know that you see much. You have
always seen further than most. But, it is no vision that I see.
I see you, Nowë. And I know that one who seeks peace as feverishly
as you do is destined to find it."
Cirdan once again looked to the ring on his
finger. "Perhaps it is the Enemy who blocks my way."
Mithrandir perceived a new light in the old
Elf's eyes. Cirdan took the ring from his finger and looked upon
it with equal measures of scorn and love. "The Ring of Fire shall
not burn my mind like dry wood. If the world's path is one of dark
and desolate change, it will not trample its way through me, nor through
the Grey Havens of Mithlond." He cast his gaze eastward and grew
silent for a time. "And yet, it shall be needed in these times of
growing darkness. It shall go to the Istari." The old Elf began
to pace back and forth, anxiously, plans lighting in his mind one after
another. "I will take this thing to Isengard. It shall go to
Saruman." He stopped short, his eyes once again resting upon Mithrandir.
"And yet, providence sends a member of the Istari here, this day when I
make this choice."
Another thing pulled at his mind. Cirdan's
gaze moved to the highest tower of his city, a spire of white whose very
essence seemed to lean ever westward. A light glimmered forth from
the window of the tallest chamber, sending a ray of dazzling light to Cirdan's
eyes.
"No," he said slowly, "this thing must not
go to Saruman." Slowly, almost hesitantly, he turned back to Mithrandir
and held Narya out to him. "You were meant to take it. It was
meant to pass to you, Mithrandir."
The wizard sighed. After a silent moment,
he reached a hand out and took it. "Now, it is you who is having
the vision that I cannot see."
"Perhaps," Cirdan answered, "or perhaps I
simply see you, Olorin. If you care for a piece of advice from a
foolish old Elf, I'd advise only the following; keep it secret, keep it
safe."
Mithrandir clenched the ring into his hand.
"I take your faith in me and your advice readily. For that which
comes from the mouths of the experienced should never be disregarded."
For the first time since their conversation
began, Cirdan smiled a genuine smile. Again, his gaze was pulled,
but this time it was toward the sea. "The path is opening to me once
again," he said, "I have taken a step upon it. Nothing holds me here.
Now, something must call me there."
Mithrandir nodded, knowingly. "Give
it time, my old friend. There is time enough to break out of your
set ways. And there will be more, very soon. I've just come
from Bree where I have had a most interesting conversation with the Dwarf,
Thorin Oakenshield. His thoughts and mine have both turned to the
Dragon of the Lonely Mountain. We are resolved to do something about
the beast."
"I wish you luck. Smaug is the greatest
of the wyrms that remain in Middle Earth. A more formidable opponent
is hard to find, unless you count the Enemy." Once more, he rested
a hand on the half-finished ship he had been working on. "This shall
be a masterpiece of a ship," he stated, "one day, I shall see it sail into
the west bearing the tired and the wounded of mind and it will be the vessel
that brings peace to those who had thought it lost. It shall be a
glorious ship and my gift to those who sail in it. It will rival
the white ships of my kin which were burned by Fëanor."
With a new fervor, Cirdan took his planer
back to the wooden surface of the hull. He took up the rhythm once
again and Mithrandir saw a star lighting the Elf's vision.
"I shall look forward to seeing it," said
the wizard, "and until it sails, my task will remain unfinished.
Which is simply a means of saying that I must bid you farewell for now,
my old friend."
"Go then," said Cirdan, "parley with our Enemy.
He cannot have nearly so many words as you. It's high time your idle
talk was put to use. Namarië, Gandalf."
"Namarië." The wizard replied
with a slight bow. And then, as silently as he had come, he left.
Cirdan remained there well into the night,
crafting his great ship, aided by the light of Eärendil. The
star shown all the brighter this night and Cirdan perceived another old
friend looking down upon him with fondness. He took a moment to send
it his thanks on his breath, then turned back to his work, the rhythm of
his tools bringing him pure comfort for the first time in dozens of lives
of men.