CÍRDAN
"There is no end to the sky and the waters. How well they accompany sadness!"
The balmy morning found Cirdan, in leggings and boots, standing on the balcony of the Grey Hall, feeling the sun warm his skin. He watched the ship sail toward the docks from the mouth of the bay, with his foot on the stone rail, resting his elbow on his knee. The soft breeze blew small strands of silver hair around his face, and his fingers scratched at his beard, a rare adornment indeed, for any elf. The beard lay in sharp contrast to his features, which were yet fair and strong. It was in his beard alone that the ages first began to tell on him, there and in the sadness of his heart, which haunted his grey eyes.
He cut a magnificent portrait standing on the balcony above the harbor, his thoughts far west beyond the horizon. Anyone looking at him could tell that Círdan was a singular being, for few others bore the history that Círdan did. An elf lord of wisdom beyond reckoning; his knowledge and foresight rivaled that of Elrond, and Celeborn. His thoughts drifted as his grey eyes scanned the water.
"Abide now that time, for when it comes then your work will be of utmost worth"
As they had throughout the years, whenever there was need, the waves whispered to Círdan that he should make his way to the palantir in the white tower of Elostirion. As bidden by Ulmo, Cirdan had traveled there to seek the wisdom of the Valar.
The stone of Elendil came into Círdan's guardianship through Elendil who had placed it in the tower of Elostirion, north of Mithlond. Though often no more than cryptic visions of the past or future, Círdan had a connection with the Valar that surpassed any others' in Middle Earth.
The palantir sat on a pedestal of white stone, near a window overlooking the sea. As Cirdan waited impatiently, he watched the breathtaking view of the ocean from the window. But Círdan felt he had little time for enjoying the landscape. He turned his gaze to the stone, the only one palantir that was not in accord with the others, and looked solely to the master stone in the tower of Avallónë on Tol Eressëa. After some time, the stone began to weave its song for him, The Valar putting a lyric to the message.
The song of the Valar brought visions to Círdan from within the depths of the palantir. The first of those visions had been of the Istari who had been arriving in Mithlond over the weeks. Each had arrived alone, with the exception of the Blue Istari, barely raising an eyebrow among the inhabitants of the bustling fishing village on the Firth of Lhún. Círdan had sensed the power of the wise ones, and as awed by it as he had been, he had let them pass without a word, in accord with the wishes of the Valar.
The image in the stone became cloudy and began to fade. Círdan was confused, wondering if he were to receive no more. He shifted his weight as if to rise when the stone bid him to look again. He heard the voice of the Valar singing to his heart a song of great lament, beckoning him back through the years of his life in Middle Earth. Círdan felt reluctant, for he knew all too well that there could only be sorrow in that bidding, and he was in no mood for remembering things lost to him forever.
He had lived through the long history of Arda suffering many sorrows, feeling at times as if he might drown in them. Círdan could not count the years since his beginning in Middle Earth and he did not care to. The elves of Mithlond proclaimed him to be the oldest elf remaining in Arda. If this were true, he had never said so himself. He did not tally the passing of his days. He remained bound to the havens by a promise, and until he met that promise, he would not leave.
Bidden by Ulmo to stay his passing when so many of his kin had sailed into the west, he had assented, as was his way. Of all the Valar, Ulmo had been the one who had cared most for the elves of Middle Earth. He had kept close watch over the Eldar even when all other Valar remained in Aman. Ulmo never abandoned the elves during the black days of Morgoth, lending them courage and strength in their battle against the Dark Lord.
When Ulmo set him the task of building the ships that would carry the Eldar to Aman, Círdan could not refuse him. He knew that this would bind him to Arda until the last of the elves had left her shores, and that thought tore at his heart. Though he desperately desired to join his kinsman, Olwë, in the west, Círdan loved Ulmo and felt fiercely loyal to him. He vowed to his Lord that he would remain, no matter how great the pull of the tide or how his heart ached for the passage west, until he fulfilled his pledge to the Singer of the Waters.
Círdan returned his attention to the palantir, which had begun to hearken back through the ages. He saw himself as a beardless youth, searching Beleriand with the Teleri for his lost kinsman, Elwë, as many others of his family, including Olwë, set sail for the ancient west ahead of them. It was while Círdan prepared to join his kinsmen in Valinor that The Lord of the Sea had warned him not to follow into the Blessed Realm. Círdan's fate would be to remain in Arda, alone, separated from family and all whom he loved, offering his services to those of the Quendi who would seek the peace of Aman from the shores of Lindon.
One vision faded into the next and Círdan saw Celebrimbor and the Elven smiths of Eregion, craft rings of power for the dwarves and the kings of men. He watched as the elves made in secret, three more rings, the Elven Rings of Power. Círdan grew cold as he saw the foul hand of the vile enemy of the people of Middle Earth, wearing the One Ring; the elves becoming aware of him, realizing that they were deceived.
At the sight of Sauron in the palantir, Círdan felt his long quelled loathing for the murderous fiend, tugging at the memories of those who had sacrificed themselves to rid Arda of the dark foe's malice. Courageous warriors whom Círdan loved; warriors whose passing afflicted him greatly. The thought of Sauron filled him with so much anguish that even now he could taste his own hatred of the malignant neophyte of Morgoth.
Círdan had to look away from the stone in order to balance himself. When he looked back, the stone revealed to him Galadriel, advising Celebrimbor to hide the Three Rings, guarding against their use for as long as the One Ring remained in Sauron's possession. Celebrimbor entrusted the keeping of Nenya, the Ring of Water, to Galadriel herself. The other two he gave to Gil-galad, last King of the Eldar, who passed them on to those he trusted most.
As his history continued to emerge from within the stone, Círdan felt for the ring on his own finger. Narya, the Ring of Fire, had been given to him by Gil-galad, his cherished friend, before his death.
Círdan saw himself building the ships that had carried Eärendil, father of Elrond of Imladris, into the Undying Lands, and the Edain into Númenor. He wept as he witnessed anew the deaths of Elendil and his beloved friend, Gil-galad, in Mordor during the War of the Last Alliance. He watched as Isildur, son of Elendil, cut the ring of power from the hand of Sauron.
The stone showed Círdan meeting with Elrond after the hard won battle was over. Together, they had counseled Isildur to be rid of the One Ring. Elrond and Círdan were devastated when Isildur, having fallen victim to the seductive pull of the Ring of Power, refused to destroy it. Gil-galad, Elendil and so many others had died fighting to free Middle Earth of Sauron, and still the One Ring, the seat of Sauron's control, remained.
Círdan watched in horror as the stone showed him how Isildur fell, during an orc attack at Gladden Fields. Though he had known the circumstances of Isildur's death, he was yet horrified by the scene; once more looking away from the stone in order to compose himself. He looked back to see the One Ring lost in the current of the River Anduin.
The stone moved on, and he saw himself as Lord of the Teleri, coming to the havens of Mithlond at the dawning of the third age. He lived a life of relative contentment in his home by the sea; craftsman of the great ships that carry the elves westward. Many whom he cared for had sailed away on those ships never to return. Time and again the stone counted the passing of friends and loved ones until Círdan's heart grew weary beyond endurance, and he felt he could bear it no longer.
Mercifully, the stone faded into the present. He saw a ship sailing through the high cliffs that guard the mouth of the Bay of Lhún. The stone began to speak again to his heart, telling him of a new arrival, the last Istar. Though he could not see him, Círdan felt the power of this final wizard radiate from the stone and engulf him with a shrewd wisdom that surpassed any he had sensed in the others. He had assumed, as many others after him would, that the white wizard with the regal bearing had been the superior of the Istar. He knew now that this was not so, this grey sage was different, and would lead many down great paths toward their destiny, shaping the future of Middle Earth.
There was something else, something the wise one brought with him that Círdan could not understand. He felt a sudden surge of anticipation that awoke in him the long-standing promise to Ulmo. Confusion surrounded him as he strained to explore deeper the meaning of this last, vague premonition. The stone went dark and Círdan breathed a sigh of frustration. Standing to look out the window, he struggled to understand all that he had seen.
"Misty morning, clouds in the sky, without warning the wizard walks by."
He turned his gaze away from the harbor as he heard someone coming out onto the balcony from the Grey Hall. A tall, angular young elf stood in the doorway.
"Lord Círdan, the ship will be docking soon, will you be going down to meet her?"
"Yes, I suppose I should, Galdor," answered the shipwright.
Blithe by nature, Círdan was always quick to laugh, and his smile lit up his face as if a light radiated from within his soul. However, just as his smile illuminated his face, his grief could darken him, clouding his countenance without warning. At times, his sorrow was painfully evident in the look of far-away longing, deep within his eyes. That look shrouded his features as he took the stairs up to his rooms.
He dressed quickly, heading out of the Grey Hall toward the road that led to the docks. As he walked, two young elves ran up to accompany him.
"Lord Círdan," the younger of the two began, "A ship is coming in to dock at the harbor, and it is magnificent." The young elf's eyes danced with delight.
"Magnificent you say, Tirin? Surely it must be a vessel of my crafting then," teased Círdan.
"Someday, I shall build boats of such superb skill," said Olossë, the older ellon.
Círdan laughed. "Neither of you will be building much of anything if you do not pay more attention to your studies. There are many important things to learn along with the art of shipbuilding."
His face grew serious as he tried to impress the importance of learning where they had come from and the sacrifices made by the Eldar throughout history.
"You must learn of the finer things in life, the history of the elves, and the poetry and music of your people."
"Yes, my lord," Olossë spoke, "but that is all they want to teach us, history, and music." He made a face. "What good is that to a future master ship builder?"
A mischievous smile suddenly lit his eyes.
"What if a pretty young elleth should ask me how we master craftsmen build our ships? I should have to answer, 'I do not know, but I can sing you a song about how your great grandfather would have done it,'" he grinned.
The three elves laughed together as they walked to the harbor. They talked of all the things they loved, ships, the sea and everything to do with the two. Well loved by the children of Mithlond, one of Círdan's greatest joys came from spending time with them, teaching them of sailing; telling tales of adventure and peril. They sat with him for as long as he would abide them, listening in awe as he wove his stories.
As the trio arrived at the docks, Círdan sent them to assist the mariners in tying off the ship as he waited near the gangway, anxious to meet his mysterious visitors. It was indeed a magnificent vessel, the sound of its sheets snapping in the wind tugged at Círdan's heart. He stood waiting to see what the ship carried from the shores of Aman. The anticipation made him edgy and he bit his lower lip in irritation.
Suddenly, appearing on the dock stood an old man dressed in a worn, grey cloak. His nose was large and rather elongated and his hair and beard were completely white. He wore a wide brimmed hat with a pointed tip that hid the rest of his face completely in shadow. He walked with tired gait and, from where Círdan stood, he looked disheveled and frail, and much older than the shipwright had expected. This could not possibly be the one he had been awaiting.
Círdan was about to turn away when the old man looked up, allowing the morning light to illuminate his features. Círdan's breath caught in his throat. The old man walked up to meet him, and now stood just inches away. Círdan found himself looking into a pair of eyes so wise he felt as if they contained the answers to all the mysteries of Eä, if one could only decipher their language. Yet, they seemed kind and benevolent, creased from laughter with a sparkle of secret mischief that Círdan found enchanting. Suddenly Círdan remembered himself and, quickly greeted the Istar.
"Welcome, my lord," he said. "I trust your journey was not too uncomfortable?"
"Thank you, Círdan, my boy," the old man smiled, magically appearing to lose years from his face. "The trip was quite pleasant for the most part, save for those moments that were disturbed by your little gift." He let out a conspiratorial chuckle.
'My boy?' Círdan, utterly taken aback, stared at the wise one with many questions in his eyes. The Istar new his name where the others had barely given him a second glance, but he was most intrigued by the mention of this mysterious 'gift'.
"Forgive me, my lord, it is only that I have received a strange message regarding your arrival, and since then, I have been confused about my part."
The old wizard smiled warmly at the shipwright. "My name is Mithrandir," he said with a sly smile and a wink. Círdan nodded knowingly as he continued.
"I bring you messages from your Lord Ulmo and his vassal Ossë," the Istar said. "Messages and a little…something more. Let us seek a comfortable spot to sit and talk, Master Círdan." He chuckled again.
As they turned to walk away from the harbor, there was a sudden commotion on the dock. Círdan turned back and saw Olossë and Tirin walking carefully down the gangway, carrying a large woven basket between them. They were arguing heatedly when they spied Círdan, and immediately, they fell silent. Olossë looked at Círdan with what seemed to be horror in his eyes. Círdan tilted his head, silently questioning the young ellon when Mithrandir spoke to the two elves.
"Come along you two, you must bring that to Lord Círdan's straight away." He then took Círdan's arm and gently urged him forward. "I will answer all of your questions once we have reached the Grey Hall." Mithrandir assured him.
They came to the door of Círdan's home and Mithrandir immediately instructed Olossë and Tirin to take their cargo to the kitchen. They hesitated as Mithrandir turned to Círdan and spoke.
"Forgive me my familiarity," Mithrandir said. "I would have a word with your cook and then return to join you. We will continue our conversation then."
Círdan, rendered speechless by the Istar's authoritative tone, simply nodded and indicated that he would wait for him in the library of the Grey Hall.
"Very good my boy, I shall have someone lead me there shortly."
Mithrandir lay a hand on each of the young elves shoulders as they walked toward the kitchen.
Círdan sat in stunned silence at his desk. He heard a rather loud commotion and the excited voices of Tirin and Olossë coming from the kitchen. Suddenly he heard the voice of Lirúvia, his cook, raised in agitation. He was slightly concerned, as he knew Lirúvia was not easily unnerved. Someone then shut the door, cutting off all sound, and he sat back in his chair, overwhelmed.
Círdan shook his head and picked up a logbook, trying desperately to concentrate on the writing as his imagination flew in all directions. He tossed the book back down on his desk and pushed his chair away to stand. He began to pace back and forth across the library.
Círdan found this mystery quite vexing, yet he was hesitant to seek out his visitor and request an explanation for what was happening in his own home. He looked down at the stack of books and papers on his desk, smiling in spite of his irritation, a puzzled expression in his eyes. It had been quite a while since anyone had made him feel like a child, yet that was exactly how he felt regarding the old man who stood in his kitchen giving orders to the members of his household.
Olossë suddenly burst through the library door. He was flustered and his hair had come loose from the braid at the back of his neck. He looked as if he had just been in a tussle with someone, and he was agitated and breathing rather hard.
"My Lord Círdan," he said breathlessly. "Tirin and I beg your leave to run an errand for Lord Mithrandir."
Círdan looked up at Olossë from under raised eyebrows.
"Oh, forgive me sir," he said, looking at the door he had just burst through without knocking and then bowing respectfully to the Lord of the Grey Hall. "May I have your leave, my lord?"
"Olossë," Círdan began, "would you mind telling me, what in the name of Eru is going on in there?"
Círdan stood with his arms crossed, motioning with his head in the direction of the kitchen. Olossë simply shrugged, looking equally as horrified as he had on the docks, and begging his lord's pardon with his eyes.
"Very well, Olossë, you have my leave," Círdan said with a sigh.
The young ellon turned as if to run from the room, nearly colliding with Mithrandir who was coming through the door. Tirin followed close behind him, trying to see around the wizard, as if he wanted to get a last look at Círdan's face before leaving.
"You two hurry along now and bring what I have requested," Mithrandir told them, "and be quick, I do not think we have much time before our peace is disturbed again." He laughed.
Olossë grabbed Tirin by the sleeve and left the library, closing the door behind them. They did not leave the hall immediately however, but stood by the door for a short while, straining to hear the conversation within. They heard the two inside talking, but could not make out the words until suddenly, they heard their Lord Círdan roar in his deep voice.
"They've done what?" Then, after a long pause, "no…no, this cannot be."
The two youths looked at each other with eyes wide, they then ran from the Grey Hall, onto the road, and all the way into the village. They were anxious to do their lord's bidding and to tell someone, anyone, of the unbelievable things they had just witnessed at Lord Círdan's home.
Círdan sat in a chair with his head in his hands, the heels of his palms massaging his forehead as he stared at the floor in amazement. Mithrandir stood in front of him, his hands behind his back; a look of amused sympathy on his face.
"What were they thinking?" He asked.
He could not believe what he was hearing. A baby? What did he know about babies, or raising children, or being responsible for another life?
Mithrandir answered, speaking softly, a touching air of compassion in his voice.
"My boy, it is not our place to question the wisdom of the Valar. Some things just are. Ulmo has seen fit to assign the task of caring for this child to you. In light of the sacrifices you have made for him in the past, I daresay he may well see it as compensation for all that you have given up."
Círdan looked up at Mithrandir, as he raised his eyebrows and his mouth dropped open. He seemed to be struggling to say something, then, thinking better of it, snapped his jaw shut again, returning his gaze to the floor.
"You must understand, Círdan," Mithrandir lay one hand on the old elf's shoulder to comfort him as he continued, "this is a child quite unique in origin, she needs to be where she will be accepted for her differences, and protected from those who would make her suffer for them. What better place for her than with someone who is unique in his own right? You are the wisest of the Eldar in Arda. Ulmo has entrusted you with this task because he knows the loneliness of your heart. He also knows the capacity of it, Círdan; do not think that this decision came without great consideration. This thing that they ask of you should be looked upon as an honor."
"But my lord," Círdan implored, "I am an old elf, set in my ways and completely ignorant of what is required to care for a baby. A baby!" He looked incredulous as he shook his head. "Could they not have sent me a pet or a nice book to read?"
Mithrandir laughed heartily, a rich sound that had a soothing effect on Círdan, easing his discomfort.
"Would you refuse this gift from your Lord Ulmo?" Mithrandir asked him softly.
Círdan looked at the old Istar, and with dawning realization of the futility of objecting, he answered him with a tone of resignation in his voice.
"No, I would not refuse him, my lord," Círdan said, "but I cannot imagine how I am to proceed from here."
Mithrandir held his hand out to Círdan beckoning him to rise.
"You might begin by looking at her. She is quite unique."
Círdan rose and Mithrandir took him by the arm, leading him out of the library, toward the kitchen. The basket sat on a long, careworn table and Lirúvia stood over it cooing softly to the fussing child in an attempt to soothe her. Círdan stood on the other side of the basket, looking down on the baby. He carefully pulled back the blankets to uncover her face. He drew in his breath as he took in the tiny child with hair as black as night.
"She looks like the sea on a cloudy day." Círdan said in wonder.
Mithrandir stood at the shipwright's side as they watched the child. Círdan noticed every feature of the tiny thing: the black hair; tiny fingers, pink cheeks like rose petals; eyelashes as dark as night; the skin perfectly smooth but, unlike the elves, kissed by the sun to a warm sandy tone. Her ears were small and rounded like men's ears, but Mithrandir had already advised him that, like the elves, she was bound to Arda. She looked so helpless and innocent. Círdan felt her fëa and began to understand. This child was alone, completely and utterly without kin in this world. His heart ached for her, and he wondered how sad the realization might be for her one day.
The baby yawned and stretched out her tiny hands. As she relaxed, she took hold of Círdan's finger and grasped it tightly, her lips forming a tiny 'o' as she brought his finger to her cheek, and just as she had taken hold of his hand, she had taken hold of his heart as well. Círdan could not explain why, or even understand it himself, but he knew without question that he would die to protect this gift from the Valar. As he stood gazing into the baby's face, Mithrandir looked at him and knew as well, all would be right with these two.
Olossë and Tirin returned to the Grey Hall with yet another visitor in tow.
"We brought the one you asked for, Lord Mithrandir," Tirin said.
They led a young elleth into the library with them and introduced her to Mithrandir and Círdan.
"This is Merilin," Olossë began, "she is from Lorien but she has come to stay with my family for a while."
"My lords," she bowed her head as she greeted the two older elves.
They both nodded in return and Mithrandir led her over to where the baby lay, sleeping at last. She looked down at the child and a soft smile crossed her lips.
"She is as new to Arda as my son, and yet as different to him as night is to day," she smiled. "My husband and I have come to spend time with my sister and her family, my lord." She looked at Círdan as she spoke. "We will be staying for several months. Olossë has told me of your need, if I may be of service to my lord, I shall speak to my husband. If he is agreed, we may stay here for a time." Círdan's eyebrows shot up and he looked at Mithrandir, who seemed unable to hide his mirth.
"All is well Master Círdan, the child will require a wet nurse. I believe Merilin is willing to stay with you until the child no longer has need of her." Mithrandir looked to the young elleth.
"Yes My Lord," she smiled warmly.
"Well then, we will leave the two of you to get acquainted Merilin, I believe Lord Círdan and I have further matters to discuss in the library. Olossë and Tirin will bring you anything you may need," Mithrandir informed her.
He smiled at Merilin who was lifting the tiny baby from the basket. Círdan found it difficult to break his gaze away from the child, but reluctantly he did so, leading Mithrandir back to the library.
Merilin fed the baby and settled her to sleep. She then instructed the young elves to inform their lords that she would set off to her sisters home and prepare to move her family to the Grey Hall. They saw Merilin off at the door, returning to the kitchen to await further instructions.
They waited for over two hours before Círdan and Mithrandir emerged from the library. Círdan looked much less like a wild animal caught in a trap than someone resigned to his fate. Mithrandir bid farewell to Círdan, and then to Olossë and Tirin. As Tirin took the old man's arm to walk him to the door, he noticed that the he wore Lord Círdan's ring, the one with the fiery red stone. This struck Tirin as odd as he had never seen Lord Círdan without it. He wondered if the old man could be a person of import, but shook the idea off as he looked at his frayed robe and rather disheveled countenance.
The three elves stood on the terrace watching Mithrandir walk down the road. Great events were about to be set in motion due to the arrival of this former Maia, yet only Círdan could sense the power that departed with the wizard and he would tell no one, save Elrond and Celeborn, of the force that sailed into Mithlond this day.
The three elves heard the baby begin to cry. Lirúvia brought the basket back to the library and informed Lord Círdan that she was going into the village to get some things that they would need for the child's care. She also informed him that she had made all the arrangements for the arrival of Merilin and her family, who would be arriving shortly. She then left the library and headed toward the door of the Grey Hall.
Círdan ran after her into the hallway. She turned to ask if he needed something when she saw the look on his face and began to giggle. He looked at her sternly and she put her hand over her mouth to cut off the sound of her laughter. The baby in the library was crying louder now and Círdan thought that she could probably stop the mightiest of sailing vessels dead in the water with the din she created. She sounded so distressed; he was at an utter loss as to how to help her. Círdan's face then softened into one of helpless desperation. He looked at Merilin imploringly.
"What do I do with her?" He asked, raising his voice in order to make himself heard over the wailing of the tiny thing in his library. How could something that small make a sound bigger than the voice of the oldest elf in Arda?
"You take care of her my lord, the best you can. I shall not be long." Lirúvia chuckled softly as his brow furrowed in confusion, and she turned to leave.
Círdan glared at her back as she walked through the doorway. He scratched at his beard as he walked back toward the library door, when he noticed Olossë and Tirin trying to sneak through the hall from the balcony to follow Lirúvia.
"Stop!" He said firmly walking over to the elves. He grabbed each of them by the shoulder and led them into the library.
"You two go nowhere until either Lirúvia or Merilin return," his voice was ominous. Then, switching to a very matter-of-fact tone, he asked the next with the air of calm control.
"Now tell me; what does one do when a baby cries?"
"Well my lord," Olossë began, "You have to pick her up." He gestured with his hands as if speaking to a child.
Círdan looked momentarily relieved. "Of course, pick her up, yes."
His look of relief was very brief however, as another thought crossed his mind.
"And, exactly how does one pick one of these up without breaking it?"
Olossë bit his lip to keep from giggling at the sight of the tall and elegant Lord Círdan reduced to a bundle of uncertain nerves. Being an older brother himself, Olossë did not experience the same discomfort at handling small children. He bent over the basket and carefully picked up the crying baby.
Tirin told Círdan, "You should find a comfortable chair my lord, this soothing of babies can often take a great deal of time." He said knowingly. "And take care my lord, they wiggle a great deal and you must always support the head or it will flop everywhere."
Tirin grinned at the chance to impart all of his knowledge on the art of childcare to the wisest of elves that he knew. Círdan looked at him and made an annoyed face, telling the young elf that his knowledge, though helpful, was nonetheless irritating.
Círdan sat down in a large, red leather chair, rigid and bolt upright, as Olossë handed him the baby. She immediately stopped crying as he held her tiny form against his broad chest. He could feel the warmth of her through his shirt and began to relax. Olossë and Tirin watched as Círdan settled himself in the chair, stretching out one long leg on a footstool that Tirin had brought over to him. When Círdan finally gave them leave to go, he was sitting comfortably with the baby in his arms, both were yawning and looking quite content. Lirúvia found them several hours later, in the same position, fast asleep.