Disclaimer: I own not a thing of Tolkien's amazing world, save the character Ëarhín.

A/N: Finally, something goes to plan! As you can see, this chapter is nicely shorter than the last. This chapter continues directly from Círdan having his flashback, so put yourself in that mindset. I apologize if the beginning seems a tad slow, but remember, this has to build up and there are a lot of explanations that have to be said in order for the entire picture to come across. Keep reading, though, please! Now begins the tale of Círdan's insanity and what lead him to the practically insane decision of giving up Narya. Some knowledge of the Silmarillion may be recommended to read from this point on, but not too much. If you haven't read the book and don't mind being confused over a reference or two, then welcome aboard Ch. 2!
I am very nervous with Círdan's characterization, but I spent over six hours gathering all the info about him out of my books, so I hope it comes across as accurate. And I won't deny that I'm also nervous about this chapter, since it's one of those that you'll either love or hate. But enough of this chatter. Let's get to the point of this chapter. And please review! Happy reading!

Further notices: for chapter one, thank you so much janelover1, GreenGreatDragon, Lia Whyteleafe, Tori of Lorien, and adorkable123456 for your wonderful and very encouraging reviews! You guys are awesome and have no idea how much your words inspired me. You all encouraged me to get chapter two out that much sooner.

"The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace." ~ Kate Chopin, The Awakening

Chapter 2

What did Ulmo want of him?

Círdan could not help but to ponder that question repeatedly in his mind. The old Elf closed his eyes, but his feet went onward, seemingly of their own accord. All was silent in the dead of the night save for the roaring, salt-laden wind whipping ferociously around him, his hair and clothing going awry. If but for a steady foot, the wind would surely have knocked him over. But he looked ahead, his keen eyes peering down the long stretch of beach, his mind and attention focused only on the destination where the voice of the Sea consistently guided him.

Círdan, with his keen ears, could hear the deep, rumbling thrum of the black clouds overhead in the near distance. Thanks to the current of the wind, the raging storm was approaching his Havens quickly. The after effects of the winter gales were truly proving their might and danger. In the back of his mind, Círdan knew that, on his return, he would have to send out an order that no ship was to set sail to either the bay or river. No, he would not permit even one ship to break from the harbor. This storm would be nasty and he could easily foresee that it would rain down with full might and devastation early tomorrow.

But he continued to walk, having no panic of the upcoming weather, knowing that the importance of his destination reigned supreme in comparison to his concern for Mithlond. He knew not how many miles he walked, but only that he had been walking for hours now. He had long passed the northern watchtower and, rounding the bend, he now lost sight of its blazing beacon. And likewise, no one could see him. The white sand, once soft beneath the skin of his feet, had now turned to the rough, coarse shingles of the rocky cliffs he now approached.

Círdan stopped his pacing, drawing in a deep breath as he stared at the dominating sea cliffs and their sheer precipices.

"Where are you?" he whispered faintly. Doubt had begun to enter his mind.

And there it was again. He felt a warmth blossom in his chest as a voice whispered in his ear. Yet he could not make out what that voice was saying; it seemed to be distant, too far away to make out any syllables. But in that whisper, he heard the depth of the Sea come to life and, indeed, the crashing waves seemed to enlarge and grow in might as that whisper was breathed. The doubt now unfounded, he felt that familiar inward tug and kept on walking.

That tug was strange, he noted. It was like a substance, invisible to the eye, but audible to the ear and sensational to the heart. And it kept walking backwards, beckoning him with a forefinger and a patient smile on the corners of his mouth, taking one step back for every one he took forward.

The whisper came again and Círdan inwardly rejoiced as it grew louder in his ear. A few minutes later, the whisper came again, growing stronger and stronger and he approached closer to the raging cliffs. And then, as he stepped into the freezing water that swept the shingles, it came once more.

Nówë.

Círdan stopped and, finally, the smile came to the surface as he closed his eyes, hearing the endearment in that one spoken word. If there had been any doubt in his mind that Ulmo had summoned him, it would have vanished instantly. That name, now whispered, had been forgotten by every being on Arda. Only the Vala Ulmo, to this day, still called him by his true name, his real name, and he felt loved for it.

Nówë, come to me.

"Aye, my lord," he whispered back unnecessarily. Despite his countless millennia of living, he was still astounded and struck with awe by the power that deep, yet gentle, voice carried.

He opened his eyes and studied his surroundings. The wind was still trying to pry his clothing from him, but he ignored it. The towering cliffs protruded out in the water where the waves crashed against the grated rock, white foam spraying high in the air. Círdan took a deep breath, for he knew he would have to round the cliff face and step on the other side of shingles to reach his destination.

Without hesitation, he walked into the water, taking no notice of how he quickly became soaked. Taking hold of the rock to steady himself, he plowed forward, the waves crashing against him, drenching him from head to toe. Despite being a full Elf, he could feel the icy tendrils of the waters to his bones. To a human, he knew, this would cause severe illness. But he pulled himself across the rocks, his muscles straining as he resisted the pull of the waves trying to drag him out. The water weighed heavily as it slammed against him and fell down on him, coming down like a stone wall. His clothing weighing him down and his hair matted against him, he dragged himself across the last of the jagged rocks and took a severe right turn.

Now out of the severe waves, he stopped, still waist deep in water, and took several deep breaths before looking around him. It was a small cove in the face of the massive cliff, one that projected serenity and calm. The water, though gently rippling and suckling the base of the rocks and narrow shingles, was still. And the very air he breathed made it feel as though Time had stopped. The wind had calmed to a gentle breeze, though he could still hear it raging behind him.

Nówë, come to me.

Shaking out of his daze, Círdan slowly waded through the freezing water, making his way for the grey shingles. He could already feel the sharpness of broken shells beneath his feet. The shore was ten meters away and still, he approached it.

His heart pounded in his chest, as it always did when he approached the power-indwelt King of the Seas, and he stepped out of the water and onto the shingles, turning around to face the calm water of the cove. He didn't speak and his breaths came out shuddering. He wasn't afraid. He was simply respectfully awed, but it was an awe that was ingrained deep in his being, one that grew as the countless years passed. And it was because of this respect, this awe that he now kneeled down on the wet sand, his pose offering no resistance or defiance.

Nówë.

He felt comfort as that whisper came again, this time accompanied by a deep rumble of a powerful voice. His name was spoken with such a gentleness that it belied the Vala's great majesty, but it always reminded him that he was a friend to the Vala, as close as such a friend could be.

"My lord," he spoke softly, knowing that Ulmo could hear him through the water brushing his knees, "what do you request of me?"

Immediately, the calm pond of the cove erupted into a torrent of wind and rampant waves. The wind whipped ferociously at him, stinging his skin and Círdan cowered, bowing over, his face nearly in the sand, as he waited for this incredible display of power and authority to end. He could hear the thunder in the waves, the might of the Sea, as they towered above him, their white mist showering down on him in heavy sprays. The noise and intensifying grumbling of the earth grew as his heart beat faster.

And then it stopped.

His eyes closed, head still bowed near the sand, he heard nothing but the calm wisp of air circling around him. He stayed still, not daring to move. Though fear certainly played in as a significant factor, he was simply overly awed, too humbled to lift his face to the most powerful Vala, second only to Manwë. Though Círdan had spoken, seen, and walked with Ulmo many times before, the respect he held for his friend never dimmed, only strengthened, hence his submission.

He was unsure how many seconds had passed, but he became aware of a soothing motion around his legs and opened his eyes. It was the water of the cove – it was gently circling him and, immediately, his soul was soothed as he heard the echo of the Great Music that the water carried, the great song of the Ainur sung at the beginning of Time, a time he knew not, for it had been during Arda's creation.

A deep, grumbling laugh, seemingly from the bottom of the ocean, met his ears.

Nówë, lift your eyes, Ulmo said gently.

Círdan did as instructed and lifted his eyes to the sight before him. Cutting off the exit from the cove, an immense wall of water surrounded him, towering high above him, and he could see the white mist at the peaks of the waves breaking free and raining down. But on that wall of moving water, of the deepest blue and majestic rumbling, he saw a familiar face.

And Ulmo was smiling a small smile that touched the corners of his mouth of his fierce countenance. In his, supposedly, incorporeal form, Círdan always found it interesting how Ulmo's appearance was shaped by the water. His beard and hair were flowing ragingly with blue and white spray, his body molding with the twisting of the deep, sea green waves and then deforming, for the water moved constantly. But his eyes, dark as the bottom of the ocean and yet as bright as the stars of Elbereth, stared down at Círdan. They were keen, piercing, commanding, and yet friendly – as friendly as can be.

And Círdan smiled as he looked into Ulmo's bright eyes, as he had done many times before.

"My lord?" he asked, no trace of fear or hesitation in his voice. "Why did you call me?"

There was a pause as Ulmo's countenance became grave. Nówë, he spoke again, his deep voice sounding out all the greatness of the Sundering Sea. He lifted a hand, the fingers seeming to be rivulets of water, and traced the side of Círdan's face, getting the Mariner wet in the process, but he cared not – he was already wet, anyway – for the action was endearing. And then he spoke, his mouth not moving at all and it seemed that his words came from the water itself. And Círdan knew that if any others were present, they would not have heard him.

Be still, Nówë, Ulmo said, and hear me. A task you have been assigned and awaits your acceptance.

"I will accept any task you bestow upon me, my lord," he replied immediately. "You know I will deny you not anything that is within my power to do."

Of that I know, he said gently, but you must bear your silence and keep it thereafter to all.

Círdan pondered those words for a moment. Though he had carried out the few assignments designated to him in time past, none had required absolute secrecy. It was not as though he spoke about them to anyone – quite the contrary, for he always kept his silence – but that the silence was now required unraveled a worm of concern within him.

"My lord, what is this task you speak of?" he asked, not bothering to hide his uncertainty.

Ulmo stared at him for a hard moment. Will you keep your silence? he asked firmly.

"My silence will be kept without question, my lord," he answered firmly in return. "That I swear."

Good, Ulmo said, the deep timbre of his voice resounding off the rocks. You are to come out to my Sea. None shall stand by your side, for you shall go forth in your silence and abide of this yoke alone amongst my domain.

Círdan absently nodded, understanding the gravity of the task that Ulmo was assigning him. When he set sail, most likely on the Fëagaer, his crew would remain behind. And he would not even be able to explain to them why. That already caused some discomfort within him. Wait. He was to go out to sea? In this weather?

"When, my lord?" he asked. "When do you wish me to set sail?"

Ulmo stared at him with a piercing gaze, shining with intensity, but Círdan thought he could detect a hint of sympathy deep within them. And finally, his voice came forth.

Firmly, he said, Bring about the Spirit of the Sea at dawn on the morrow.

Círdan's eyes widened as he stared at the Vala in disbelief. Though the wall of water blocked his view of the tumult of the sea, he could see the sky and it was black with angry clouds just waiting to release their rage. Already, he could hear the ear-ringing thunder.

A bit hesitant, though his face was as calm as can be, he looked back to the Vala and spoke in a steady voice, "Master, may I trust that you will calm the storm?"

Ulmo slowly shook his head, the wall of water churning as he did. Nay, Nówë, he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. Ere you set sail the waters and thunder will fume with their own accord, for my hand shall be lifted and my vassal unrestricted, for I will permit his renown rage to come forth inland. You know this, Nówë. The storm will come. Thunder and lightning and all raging winds shall befall the Havens ere you come to my Sea.

As he spoke, Círdan's heart slowly beat faster as a very real, very prominent fear began to grow in his chest. He was an experienced Mariner, the most experienced and educated than all who lived; therefore, he knew of the devastation this storm would cause. And now, Círdan was horrified – Ulmo wanted him to sail in it. Yes, his ship was strong and made for the Sea, but no matter how strong the ship might be, none could stand against this coming storm! This storm, he could see, would easily dismast any ship and shred the hull from the keel. To sail out in this storm would be suicide! Even he, the eldest of all mariners, knew it would be folly.

Círdan bowed his head, trying to douse this fear. "Please, my lord," he pleaded quietly. "Do not command me to sail such a trap."

Ulmo was silent and, in that silence, the fear in Círdan's chest slowly grew as he imagined all the possibilities this storm, one of the worst he had ever seen, could do to his fleet of ships.

Nówë, Ulmo whispered in a gentle voice.

Círdan lifted his head and again felt the water circling him. He looked at Ulmo, who was smiling gently at him and realized that the water was encompassing his entire figure. But it was strange; though it drenched him, the water was warm, as warm as Summer. And looking back up at the Lord of the Waters, he realized that the Vala was embracing him, gently holding him as he would a babe.

Fear not, Nówë, Ulmo spoke softly and Círdan was once again reminded of the friendly love the Vala held for him. I see the troubles of your heart. Again, Círdan felt the water encompassing him with more pressure. I feel the fear in your being. State your mind, friend of mine, and allow your spirit to be at rest.

Círdan nodded in understanding, realizing once more that, not only could he not hide from the Vala, but that he didn't have to. His long standing companionship with the Vala saw to that. And so, he did as commanded.

"My lord, I deny not the fear I have," he said. "Though the Fëagaer was crafted with the Music of your Waters, it will not withhold dismastment once on the waves. And then my people," he continued. "You speak that the storm will befall on them. How could I abandon them in such a disaster?"

Abandonment is not your course, Nówë, he said. Your people will be safe in accordance that I will it so.

Círdan nodded, feeling a little better. And then another thought occurred to him. "My lord, as much as you and your vassal have educated me and as much as I have learned in all the millennia I have lived, so ignorant I am not as to say I can sail that ship on my own." He paused and sighed. "My lord, to battle such a storm, I shall need a crew. I cannot man the ship in this storm by my own hand."

Your ship shall be guided by mine, he assured softly. Your course is set, for by my hand your ship shall be directed across my Sea.

Círdan paused, realizing that Ulmo had this all planned out. Of course he did, he thought. Why was he even arguing? He had already given his word that he would do whatever was required of him. Therefore, trusting in the Vala as he had done many times in the past, he took a deep breath and looked into Ulmo's eyes.

"Tell me what to do, my lord," he said, "and I will obey."

Ulmo nodded, a hint of approval in his bright eyes. Be at peace, Nówë, he first assured. No fear or doubt need assail you in this time. You will make your way out to my Waters come morn. To no one you shall speak my instruction, for none will be permitted to stand by your side. Aside from what is now present, you shall take nothing with you, for you will need it not. You will set sail ere you receive further instruction. Do not tarry, for those are my words and I bid you to carry them out.

With that, another thunderous eruption of noise sounded as the towering wall of water caved in. The waves swept back and forth, slamming into the walls of the cove and crashing against each other, sending more of the spray on and around the Mariner. And quite quickly, the noise died down and the waves settled to little rolls of motion until all in the cove was as it had been when he had entered.

Trust me, Nówë. Only this time, Ulmo's voice was back down to a gentle whisper and it was then that Círdan knew that the Vala had left, aside from the fact that he couldn't be seen any longer. Besides, that feeling that time had stopped, the feeling of a foreign presence, was gone.

Círdan stood from the sand, finally feeling a tad chilled from the wind and water that soaked him. He took a deep breath, not from exhaustion, but just as something to do as he gathered himself for what he was to do.

Overall, it was easy. On this journey, none were to accompany him and he was to take no supplies, save for what was already aboard the Fëagaer. On top of that, he couldn't inform anyone that Ulmo had given him the instructions to even keep it silent, let alone that he must sail. But the largest surprise, of course, was that he would have to sail out into that storm in the morning.

Círdan let go a small chuckle. He could not wait to hear what Ëarhín would have to say about that.

O = O = O

"What?" Ëarhín shouted incredulously. "Are you insane?"

It was now dawn, though only an experienced sailor could tell. The deep, black clouds had come over his Havens, cutting off all possible sunlight, and the wind whipped westwards as ferociously as it had last eve. Rain was coming down in tumults, thunder shook the ground, and lightning lit the sky as a blazing furnace. And already, the waters were raging, slamming against the turf and crashing down on the many ships, the weight of the water hauling them considerably down beneath sea level. And both Círdan and Ëarhín knew that, once clear of the harbor line, the waves of the sea would come in wickedly fast at several dozens of meters in height, easily three or four times the size of the highest mast. It was a true storm of wreckage and devastation, one that the Elves had to appraise for its might.

And now Círdan was walking down the stretch of beach, dressed is sturdy apparel, heading for his anchorage and the ship that swayed fiercely at its dock, with Ëarhín only half a pace behind him, practically frantic, for all he had told his first mate was that he had to head out to sea and he had spoken none of the words Ulmo had said.

Círdan looked at him now, feeling guilty at the fully blown look of panic that graced his friend's usually merry face. "I am not insane, Ëarhín," he said as they walked up the dock. "I must do this."

As Círdan went to grab one of the mooring lines, Ëarhín snatched at his wrist and yanked him around, nearly wanting to shake the illogic out of him.

"You are insane, Círdan!" he yelled. As a heavily experienced sailor, Ëarhín could see the catastrophic horrors and damages that this raging storm could do, would do to a ship. "Yes, you are the greatest mariner I know, but you and I both know that to sail out into a storm like this would be beyond comprehension!" When he was met with silence and only the steadying, calm gaze of his lord, he released his arms and sighed. "Why not wait until tomorrow?"

"I cannot wait until the morrow," he said. "I must go now." Again, he turned to the mooring lines, but Ëarhín yanked him back.

"What has Ulmo told you?" he demanded, knowing that this ridiculous action must have been instructed by the Vala, for his lord would never carry out an action of such stupidity on his own.

Círdan paused, but his eyes gave away no sign of hesitation. "I will not speak of what he said, for his words are only for me to know. Just know that I must make sail now."

Ëarhín took no offense at his refusal to talk, for Círdan didn't always confide in him of everything concerning the Vala. Instead, he sighed, bowing his head in defeat, realizing that the decision his lord had made was irrevocable and that nothing would make it otherwise.

"Very well," he submitted, praying that his dear friend knew what he was doing. "Allow me a short time to gather the crew and then we will break harbor."

"No," Círdan said firmly. "None shall accompany me, including you."

Now Ëarhín really did believe that Círdan had lost his mind as he stared at him in total disbelief. "Alone? Why?" he begged. Círdan, possessing the greatness of King Thingol himself, was the wisest Elf Ëarhín had ever known. How could he be doing something as stupid as this?

"It will be as it must," Círdan said, though not impolitely. Turning around once again, he began to untie the mooring lines from their respective bollards, calmly waiting for the rebuttal he knew his friend would vehemently declare. But he heard only silence behind him and, despite himself, he turned back around and was alarmed to see Ëarhín looking at him in downright devastation, his eyes lined with tears that were just visible through the sheets of rain.

"Ëarhín, what is it?" he asked, taking a step forward. His friend was made of too rough material to even think of crying, let alone doing it.

"Have you heard the call of the Sea?" he asked in a despairingly quiet voice. "Are you sailing to Aman?"

Círdan's brow furrowed. "No," he said with considerable spirit. "I am not sailing. Nor have I heard the sound of the Vala Ulmo's horn. Where would you obtain an idea like that?"

Ëarhín had let go a pent up breath he had held and forced back the tears that had insisted on surfacing. "How else am I to take this illogical decision, Círdan?" he argued. "You arrive back here not an hour ago and announce that you are sailing as soon as dawn comes. And then you refuse to wait until the storm calms and then you refuse anyone who would come with you! What other conclusion should I have arrived at?"

Círdan gave a small sigh. "My dearest friend, those are not reasons enough to believe I am sailing to the Undying Lands."

Ëarhín clenched his jaw. "I said not that those were the only reasons."

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "What other reasons are there?"

"Look at the sea!" he shouted incredulously, gesturing towards it with both hands. "You know only too well how enraged Ossë gets when an Elf forever departs from these shores! Out of all here, you are his favorite Elf, Círdan. There is no denying that. And at the sight of how his wrath is not being contained only convinces me more that you will not be returning to these shores!"

Círdan could not argue that, no matter how much he wanted to, for Ëarhín did have a point – a very good point at that. Ossë did tend to be rather terrifying and unpredictably dangerous when he found out that an Elf was leaving his domain of the Hither Lands. And Círdan was not beyond believing that if he were to be truly sailing to Aman, then Ossë would have a fit unimaginable, one that would make the tumult of the sea occuring right now seem mild in comparison. Like he always told his sailors; do not mess with that Maia.

Círdan sighed again. "I understand your reasoning, for it does bear great merit. But you may trust my words, my friend, when I say that I will be returning. When, I know not, but I will be," he said. Despite how much he wanted to, he couldn't tell Ëarhín that Ulmo had said that he was allowing Ossë free reign with his rage, rage that had been probably been built up from the countless times that his spouse Uinen had calmed him. "Aside from that, if I were sailing, I would never be so cruel to my people and Havens as to leave them without instruction."

Ëarhín nodded, recognizing the truth of that. "Speaking of Mithlond, why are you not leaving them instruction?"

Círdan gave a small smile and rested his hand on Ëarhín's shoulder. "I leave that duty to you, Ëarhín. As I spoke, I must leave now and have not the time to do so otherwise." No, Ëarhín was not an officiated advisor of Mithlond, for, though not the smartest Elf concerning his age, his passion and love lie with the seas and craft of their ships, but he did know how to fluently delegate Círdan's instructions to the advisors that would rule in his place.

Ëarhín nodded again, accepting that task without question, but he looked miserable; there was only one factor of Círdan's plan that he couldn't see past. "Why must you sail alone? Can there not be any other way?"

Círdan shook his head. "I am sorry, my friend, but no." With that, he turned and continued to untie the mooring lines. Ëarhín watched for a moment, absently moving his soaked hair and rain away from his eyes, before begrudgingly going to help him, his hands moving with only half the enthusiasm as his master's were.

"At least you will let us sail another ship behind you, right?" he asked reasonably.

"No."

Ëarhín threw the untied, wound up mooring line angrily into the ship. "Why?" he asked, shouting once again. "Sail alone if you must, but at least allow another ship to sail beside you! Despite how graceful the Fëagaer is, what if you become dismasted out there? Forget the fact that your ship could well may be shredded apart; what if you become stranded out there with no crew to row you back in? What then?"

Círdan, hauling the third to last mooring line (there were two more at the stern) onto the deck, sighed as he leaned against the gunwale. He had no honest answer to give to Ëarhín, for he could only place his trust in Ulmo that that wouldn't happen. Indeed, Círdan knew, as Ëarhín probably did too, that there really was no 'what if'. Any ship that set sail out there would be dismasted at some point without question, for the wind was roaring in many directions.

He looked at Ëarhín and gently held his face, seeing the anger that lined every contour of his body, but he took no offense, knowing that Ëarhín's anger came from the fact that he could do nothing to stop the possible disaster that awaited a person he cared about greatly.

"You simply have to trust me, Ëarhín," he said soothingly, his eyes begging his friend to do just that. "Trust me as you have many times in the past." He knew that Ëarhín would worry, but Círdan didn't know if he could handle him being in despair.

Ëarhín closed his eyes tightly and was silent for several moments. And Círdan waited, knowing that his friend would have to work this out on his own and that no pressure from him would help. At last, Ëarhín opened his eyes and looked angrily into the Mariner's.

"Fine," he forced out, the faith he just put in Círdan so clearly the size of pea. "But do not make me regret it." Aside from that, he knew that Círdan wouldn't be gone for long at all; he was taking no supplies with him, as he could see. And all that was aboard ship was the average fishing net, two barrels of fresh water and meager dried meat.

Círdan smiled, knowing that Ëarhín would no longer try to change his mind. Stepping back, he gestured towards the ship. "Come aboard and help me store away the oars."

For the next half hour they prepared the ship for Círdan's upcoming journey. They first removed the two dozen oars from their oarlocks – for he would have no crew to row with them – and stored them beneath the deck, fastening them securely against the beam. They then set the belaying pins against the backstay, forestay and shrouds to ensure lesser chance of the heavy, twisted ropes loosening from their holds, despite how rare that was anyway. And then, par Círdan's instructions, Ëarhín climbed his way up to the masthead and trimmed the upper sail, tying its corners securely to its bottom crosspiece. And together, after removing the reefs from the mainsail, they took hold of the sheets and hauled on the rope, hoisting the yardarm up the mast, the sail fluttering in the wind. As Círdan went to secure the corner of the massive triangular sail to the gunwale, Ëarhín went to tie off the bottom end of the yardarm steadily against the opposite bulwark. Now tied off, the sail stretched to its full capacity as the wind bombarded into it. All that kept the ship from running were the two mooring lines still tied off.

The work done, Ëarhín stood still, reluctant to remove himself from the ship. And Círdan, seeing his despondent posture, did something he very rarely did; he went to Ëarhín and embraced him.

"Trust me, my friend," he whispered in his ear. "You will find me return in one piece."

"I had better," he murmured. Stepping back, he slightly bowed to his lord. "Farewell, Círdan. May your winds be strong and Ulmo grant you a safe voyage. Return soon."

With that, he vaulted over the hull and onto the deck. As he began to release the last two mooring lines from their bollards, Círdan went to the steering oar at the stern and released the leather thong from its tiller, steering it back and forth experimentally and was pleased with its smoothness.

The last mooring line released, Ëarhín quickly tossed it into the ship and, immediately, the Fëagaer went underway like a wild horse waiting to be released from its stall. Already rapidly putting distance between them, Ëarhín saw Círdan haul the tiller towards the far right and the ship complied, angling out towards the left as she cleared the beach. He watched her go, making her way gracefully over the angry waves, just as he knew she would. But Ëarhín was fearful of what Círdan would meet as soon as he cleared the bay.

The first hundred meters of running were easy for Círdan, who stood feet apart and balanced with both hands constantly on the tiller. These waves, however large, were nothing that he had not handled before. But still, he tried to ride the waves as cleanly as he could, nudging the steering oar in accordance to the opposing direction the wave was traveling against him. As a rolling swell came against his ship, the hull would be vaulted up as the prow cut cleanly through the crest and then sail back down, the wake behind him quickly disappearing in the tumult. This pattern repeated itself for at least half an hour, and the further Círdan made his way out in the bay, the fiercer the rain came pouring down until it got to the point where he could barely see fifty meters ahead of him.

BOOM!

Círdan flinched reflexively as the loud crack of thunder set his ears ringing. He glanced behind him with squinted eyes, pointlessly wiping the rain from his face, and could no longer see the harbor, all thanks to the rain and dark sky he was sure. He truly couldn't see more than fifty meters out in any direction, and that limitation set his pulse racing a little faster; it was one thing to see a wave coming and maneuver the ship through it. It was a whole other thing not being able to see that said wave until it was right on top of you.

And within seconds, the next angry wave came, towering four meters high, and the Mariner compensated the size for speed, sending his ship around to the right side and the prow pitched forward and went plummeting down into the trough. The rolling thunder and roar of a thousand swells nearly deafened him and he peered around for the next wave he would quickly meet.

Boom! More thunder sounded, this time followed by a haphazard web of brilliant lightning. And in the brief moments the lightning lit the sky, he saw the next wave that was approaching him.

"Oh no," he murmured.

For this wasn't one of the waves he had been battling before. This was a wave that he and Ëarhín had known would come; barely a scarce two hundred meters away, the dreadful wave was towering into the sky at least three times the size of his mast, and it was coming quickly. Already, even through all the rain, roaring wind and rolling thunder, he could hear its deep grumble stirred from the bottom of the sea.

Experienced as he was, Círdan knew that there was very little he could do to oppose this. The wind running him wasn't strong enough to take his ship over the wave, not even half way, and it was far too wide for him to even try and steer her in either direction. Perhaps if he could see clearly, he would have had time to avoid it. And he knew that, once the power of the wind failed, the massive wave would treat his precious ship as a river would with driftwood; with total carelessness. And it would be as Ëarhín described – not only would she be dismasted, but his ship would be shredded within a matter of minutes. Let it be unsaid where exactly that left him.

The last time he had felt fear while out at sea had been in his youth. But he was feeling that fear again now, more prominently than ever before, for in his youth he had been innocent of all the workings of the Waters. But now, with all the experience and knowledge he had, that fear was worsened by a tenfold. At the moment, he wondered if his heart could beat any harder in his chest. This was one form of adrenaline that he did not care for.

Another round of thunder and lightning indwelt the sky and Círdan again saw the colossal wave, now less than a hundred meters from him and coming up fast. His ship would not survive this; he knew that with absolute certainty. What was he to do?

The Fëagaer vaulted up over another jolting wave and, her prow raised high, flew midair for a moment before slamming back down on the surface, sending Círdan to his knees and he cursed his inattention. As he stood, wiping the rain from his eyes again, he more felt than saw the next one coming, able to feel the flow of water running beneath his feet through the ship's bottom. And, seeing the lull, he angled the steering oar to the left, and the ship responded, turning to the right and smoothly riding the side of the wave, the prow breaking the crest and sending water aboard to slosh about on the deck. She tilted alarmingly to the right as the mass of the wave soared under her and Círdan grabbed hold of a nearby shroud for balance until she leveled out again. With another wipe of his eyes, he quickly flew over the next wave as another round of thunder and lightning indwelt the clouds.

The wave was now within fifty meters and Círdan watched it come closer with undeniable dread, his eyes rising and head tilting back as it grew and towered high above him. When the base of the wave reached twenty meters ahead, he saw the prow slice into the trough of the giant wave, splitting the swell as water cascaded onto the deck with crushing weight. The only thing keeping her afloat were the four watertight compartments and the water passing through the drains along the bulwark. But Círdan paid no mind as he felt the Fëagaer's hull anchor upwards, the speed of her running already slowing as she met the resistance. And then it hit; the true steep of the wave.

As Círdan had predicted, the wind drove his ship onward up the wave as he, in turn, held the steering oar with both hands while bracing himself against the bulwark as the tiller tried to rip itself from his grasp. Water came overboard as the prow sheered through the wall of water and the spray from atop the wave rained down upon the deck in buckets, and he held his breath as he was quickly submerged beneath the water, only to surface in a matter of seconds.

CRACK!

Círdan glanced up in horror to where the sound that every sailor dreaded came from; the mast. It was still upright and he could not clearly see it, but he knew that it must have splintered and splintered badly. Already, the powerfully opposing forces of water and wind were starting to dismast her! Not a second after the thought, he heard a deep, creaking groan emit from the wood of his ship and felt her shudder as her hull fought her way through the unending water. But he watched the mast and could see the tension that would splinter it all over again. A few more of those and he knew it would be over. She was not even half way up the wave yet! He felt his ship moving slower and slower as he watched the crest of the wave come closer.

And it was now he knew she would never reach it; the force of the water finally overcame the power of the wind and he saw the mainsail flutter and die, whipping uselessly in the opposing winds now hitting it. He felt the Fëagaer come to a stop and the stalemate lasted for only a moment before she faltered and began to slide backwards and downwards. Círdan held on for dear life as she picked up speed, the crashing stern sending spray and water overhead, making all the noise – already painful to the ear – now deafening. The ship gathered further speed as she continued to fall downward towards the trough and Círdan, looking towards the side, could see the water level rising as she fell. And he knew that it would be a matter of seconds before the stern broke the water level. And when that happened, Círdan knew that the ship would quickly summersault, no longer having any control or balance, being at the total mercy of the majestic wave. And from there, it was a quick, repetitive downward spiral to total wreckage. Círdan closed his eyes, unable to watch it happen, as he waited for it to come.

And then it stopped.

The backwards downward motion had stopped and spray and water ceased to come overboard from the stern. Círdan opened his eyes and stared in unfounded amazement as he watched the Fëagaer sail cleanly up towards the crest of the wave, meeting no resistance at all. He looked at the sail, which was still fluttering, being driven by no power whatsoever. But she was still making her way smoothly up the massive slope. How was this possible?

Did I not tell you to trust me? came Ulmo's amused voice.

Círdan took a moment to register those unsuspecting words and then groaned in annoyance as he plopped himself to the deck. Taking several deep breaths, he rested his head in his shaking hands as he waited for his pounding heart to slow down. Once certain that his voice would not come out shaking like a leaf, he spoke.

"When you said that my ship would by guided by your hand, I had thought you only spoke of my journey to where you require I go," he said, a bit harsher than he had planned – his heart still was not calm enough.

He heard a deep chuckle sound from the wave now beneath him. And so it shall be.

Círdan sat there, unable to speak or even think. He just shook his head in disbelief – and profound relief – as he watched the Fëagaer reach the crest and sail smoothly over it in perfect rapture, as though there had been no resistance to battle at all.

O = O = O

Ëarhín stared in openmouthed disbelief as he watched the white sail fly cleanly over the crest of that devastating wave and out of sight. Just a moment ago, he had thought his heart would burst in terror when he had seen the ship begin to fall backwards. Earlier on, he had seen the wave approaching in the distance and, by the time it had reached Círdan, all he could see of the Fëagaer was her sheen, white sail, a small speck in the far distance. His heart had been pounding in his chest as near despair had flooded him, knowing the only possible outcome. And now, seeing her break the crest without any effort, all he could do was stand there and shake his head in total astonishment.

"I will never argue with you again, Círdan," he murmured in awe. Absently, he turned around and began his walk back to the city; he had a task to accomplish. Whatever misgiving he had had before, it was fully gone now, for not a doubt existed in his mind that his lord's ship was the Spirit of the Sea.

O = O = O

Círdan's expression changed to one of immense disbelief at the sight that met him. The Fëagaer had just cleared the crest of the wave and was now gently making her way to the trough. But that was not what shocked him. What had shocked him was the sight of the calm, quiet Gulf – as calm and quiet as the ocean could be, anyway – and the bright blue sky with nary a cloud above him. He stood from the deck and looked behind him. Indeed, the tumult of the sea was still raging and black clouds were still present in the distance, but, like a wall cloud, they were cut off sharply to reveal an endless blue sky.

Now sailing the calm sea itself, Círdan sat down on a rowing bench and looked accusingly at the waters beside him. "Why?"

None were to follow.

Círdan bowed his head. Unbelievable, he thought, but understandable. Despite his order that none could accompany him, he knew that there was the high chance that his crew – or anyone else, for that matter – would have sailed out after him to ensure his safety. In the end, it was their right, after all. But only a storm such as that would have put a stopper on any defiance against his order.

Go beneath deck, came Ulmo's deep voice. Your instructions await you.

Galvanized, he went towards the stern and pried back the hatch in the deck, feeling exhausted. Beneath the deck, he stood there as he looked. For what, he did not know. The two watertight compartments behind him offered no answer and neither did the stretch of the ship before him, which was the sleeping quarters for two dozen or so men, with bedding and comfort to suit them. But at the far end, beneath the foredeck of the prow of the ship, a blue light was coming from the underside of the door to the helmsman's quarters.

With quick steps, his booted heels sounding on the floorboards, he grabbed hold of the door handle and entered his living space while at sea. The room, containing a soft bed, several chests and a desk for sailing paraphernalia, was illuminated by a light glow. And turning towards the head of the bed, he could not help the smile that lit his face.

"Círdan," said Ossë with a mischievous grin, "how did you enjoy that little wave of mine?"

Círdan glared at the Maia in mock anger, but Ossë's grin just grew a little wider at the unspoken message.

Círdan studied him with interest. He had never really seen him in his incorporeal form, since he very rarely appeared so before any being, mortal or immortal. Like Ulmo, his body was crafted from the water that seemed to be swirling and moving constantly within the shape it took. His hair, wild and fierce, was as deep and pure as the blue of the Sea. And he had the face of Ulmo, though of a far lesser degree.

But if there was any proof that Ossë had just created that disastrous storm, it was proven by his eyes; for they easily reminded Círdan of the lightning he had seen light the sky. And not just because of their color, but because of their ferocity, their intensity, and their power. Eyes that were now looking at him with unhidden amusement.

"My friend, Ossë," he said lightheartedly. "May I commend you on the affects of your rage?"

Ossë gave a single nod, his face suddenly as straight and serious as ever. "Indeed you may."

Círdan couldn't help but smile. "Very well, my lord; I commend you on the affects of your rage."

Ossë nodded again. "Thank you," he said with great pride of his achievement, voicing the superiority he had over this Elf, but Círdan smiled again, shaking his head; he knew that familiar act when he saw it.

"What are you doing here, my lord?" he asked.

But the Maia ignored him. Ossë peered around the compartment, taking in all the smooth, deep grains of wood of great elegance that mirrored the pattern of the outer hull. Peering around one more time, the Maia nodded in what looked like approval. "This ship is indeed beautiful, Círdan, proving the great craft of your hand, despite its shortcomings."

Círdan's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Shortcomings?" he asked with slight disbelief. Leave it to Ossë to be the first to insult his ship!

Either not hearing the challenging tone in Círdan's voice or ignoring it completely – most likely the latter – Ossë nodded in answer. He reached out and ran the fingertips of his fingers, which looked like long rivulets of a deep blue river, along the wood several times and grimaced in disgust. "I can understand none of you Elves. How could you even tolerate this dryness, let alone like it?"

Círdan rolled his eyes and murmured a small, "Hence, why you live within water," and sat down on his bed in an exhausted heap. "Are you the one to pass on this said instruction?"

Ossë sat down next to him and Círdan was grateful to see that the bed remained dry. The Maia looked at him gravely and, once again, Círdan was reminded of the importance of this assignment, though he had no clue what it was even about yet in the slightest.

"Firstly," he said, "know that you no longer bear the bondage of this assignment."

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "You mean that I may speak of it on my return?"

Ossë nodded. "Indeed, to any you trust to confide in."

Círdan's brow furrowed in slight confusion. "Why could I not speak of it before?"

Ossë did not answer and, instead, stood from the bed, gesturing towards the bedding. "Now, the only instruction to be mindful of is this; lie down and sleep."

Círdan stared at him. "Pardon me?"

"Aside from the exhaustion you undoubtedly feel," he said, "these words do not come from me, but from Ulmo, and he bids you to follow them. And to aid you, Irmo has come to put you under."

Círdan nodded in acceptance, finally realizing that he may not gain answers to his questions for a long time. With a sigh, he lied down, not even bothering to look around, for he knew that the Vala of Dreams could only be seen when he wished to be so. Once fully stretched out on the bed, he believed that he would fall asleep any minute, Vala or no Vala there to help. And, for a moment, he wondered why he even needed aid to sleep when it was so obvious that he would, no matter what. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of sleepiness overcome him.

"Sleep well, Círdan," came Ossë's voice. "We shall soon meet again."

And before he could even register it, like a wick being snuffed, he fell into a deep slumber, unaware of what would await him for when he awoke.

To be continued….

A/N: Well, that chapter certainly caused a headache or two – I hope their pain was worth it. Only one way to find out! Please review and let me know! I'd love to hear your opinions and would greatly appreciate it. Please review! And Chapter 3 will be coming out shortly.