Disclaimer: I own nothing of Tolkien's world. I only own the right to express the integrity of his ideas and concepts the greatest I can. The rest is for fun.
A/N: for those of you who don't know, my computer crashed, blasted thing. But, luckily, my cousins (who own their own computer business) managed to take my hard drive and extract all of my personal files, including the docs for the story. Suffice it to say that that made my day. And my many thanks to GreenGreatDragon, Lia Whyteleafe, adorkable123456, Tori of Lorien, and Glory Bee for your reviews. They were very encouraging and helpful, to put it lightly.
Important notice: And for those of you who have studied deeply into Tolkien's works, I'm posting a small warning. A few things in this chapter (and rest of the story), at a first glance, may seem against canon, but I can promise you that it's not. Everything in this story is in accordance with what Tolkien wrote throughout all his books. But all of my sources will be listed at the end of the story should any of you desire to know.
This chapter is a little bit slower than the last chapter, but it's informative, paramount as to the later reason why Círdan is on this voyage. I hope it'll keep you interested! Remember the genre; mystery – got to set the mystery. There's not a lot of dialogue in this chapter, but if you're a fan of dialogue, there will be tons of it in the next; that's a solid promise. Happy reading!
"I spent uncounted hours sitting at the bow looking at the water and the sky, studying each wave, different from the last, seeing how it caught the light, the air, the wind; watching patterns, the sweep of it all, and letting it take me. The sea." ~ Grey Paulsen, Caught by the Sea: My Life on Boats
Chapter 3
Wake, Nówë.
Círdan heard the deep, gentle voice penetrate his subconscious, echoing within his mind as that of a soft lullaby sounding from the end of a tunnel. And his soul stirred as it was gently prodded and touched by that powerful presence. And he began to wake, his deep, steady breaths coming shorter as he began to move his fingers and toes, all whilst absently snuggling deeper into the pillow beneath him. And with half a mind, he discovered that his eyes were tightly closed, but that was not so unusual these days. But as he became awake after hearing those words, the first thing he was becoming aware of was a deep throbbing in the side of his head and he groaned, the headache growing in intensity as his senses became sharper.
Nówë, wake now. Ulmo's voice came yet again, sounding sharper and louder, though containing still that faint trail of an echo.
Círdan groaned again; he did not want to wake. Aside from the headache, which now seemed to be slowly subsiding, his body felt like lead; totally dead weight. He raised his hand to his head, that effort being monumental on its own, and he massaged the headache away, the pain slowly dissipating. But still, his body felt like an exhausted heap and was not inclined to move in the slightest.
A deep, rumbling chuckle sounded right next to his ear, Ulmo's amusement clearly present.
Come now, my child, open your eyes.
Open his eyes? He could do that, he supposed. And so he did, that effort proving to be great, too. His vision was blurred and it was dark; unnaturally dark. Why was it dark? His room was never dark, being constantly illuminated by the night sky through the balcony. But his vision began to clear and, as his eyesight became accustomed to the darkness, he made out some details. Mainly, the thick, long planks of red cedar and the crossbeams above carved with an elegance mirroring that of the Sea. Where on Arda was he? And then, making out the smaller details, such as the narrow door and finely carved chests, he realized that he was in his quarters aboard the Fëagaer. Why was he on his ship?
Remember, child, Ulmo's voice gently encouraged, his voice coming from outside the vessel, emerging from his great Waters.
Not one to disobey, he closed his eyes and thought back and immediately recalled everything. The summons of the Vala in the dead of the night, the assignment given to him and that disastrous storm he was told to sail through all came swarming back to his mind. And lastly he remembered Ossë telling him to lie down, for Irmo had come to 'put him under'.
"Ai, my lord," he groaned again. Never before had he been placed into sleep by the Vala of Dreams, and never again did he want to, if this was what he would have to experience. To call it a deep sleep would be injustice. Indeed, never had he slept as this before and if a dead-weight body and a pounding headache were what he was to awake to each time, he never wanted to sleep like this again.
Now fully awake, he became aware of the soft, cool sheets resting on his skin and was surprised to find that he had been stripped of his clothing. Looking around, he saw them hanging from one of the supporting beams in the corner and his boots resting beside the foot of the bed. Why was he naked? He did not remember undressing.
Ossë cared for you whilst within the Hither Lands, Ulmo explained softly.
Círdan's confusion cleared as he sat up from his low, yet comfortable bed, the thick sheets pooling around his waist. He would have to thank Ossë on his return, for he did remember collapsing to the bed in exhaustion, fully arrayed still in his sodden clothing. Despite being a full Elf, Círdan knew that sleeping in cold, wet garments could have affected his health, if not possibly cause illness to overtake him. And judging by the sheets covering him, Ossë must also have tucked him in, caring for him as though he were a small child.
Hold on, he thought, alarm starting to flood his mind. Ulmo had said that Ossë had cared for him while within the Hither Lands.
"My lord, where are we?" he asked softly, hiding well the trepidation he felt. As a master mariner, he disliked being out of control while sailing the seas and yet have no inkling of his location. And thus far it appeared that that was exactly what had happened.
Come above, Nówë, Ulmo instructed, and I shall ease your distress.
Círdan swung his legs out from the sheets and was just about to stand when Ulmo's voice stopped him.
Fear not, Nówë.
Círdan's brow furrowed, not understanding. "My lord?"
When you come above, let not fear take hold of you at the sight you will see. Ulmo's voice was grave, Círdan could hear, as though he already knew how the Shipwright would react when he stepped on deck.
But Círdan stood and dressed, his movements slow, as he thought over what his lord had just spoken; he could not deny that it unraveled a hint of concern within him. Why should he fear going above deck? The Sea was his love and only at sea did he truly feel at home; no other place on Arda, no land of unimaginable beauty and majesty, not even Aman, he believed, could capture his admiration and desire as Ulmo's Waters did. And Ulmo knew that. It was he and Ossë, after all, who had instilled it. There was no place he would rather be, so why should he fear the sight of it?
But staying in the helmsman's quarters would not answer that. Opening one of the chests, he withdrew a delicate lantern crafted with silver, lit its wick and waited for its soft, silvery light to illuminate the room.
As he left his quarters, he became aware of something further; he was rather ravenous, though not quite to the point where the hunger was causing him pain. As he crossed the crew's cabin he glanced at the door of the right compartment under the stern and shook his head; even the hunger he felt now was quelled by the mere thought of eating that tasteless meat. But he continued and made his way up the steep, nailed-down step ladder. Above deck, Círdan closed the hatch and looked around at his, supposedly, fearful location.
And he froze.
He froze and stared.
He froze and stared in growing horror, that fear Ulmo warned him of slowly coming awake.
Where was he? Círdan moved forward, circling around, staring at his surroundings in bewilderment as he absently set the lantern on the forepeak. Was he in a dream? The ship still swayed with that gentle, rocking motion and the water of the Sea extended beyond eyesight in all directions. But these waters were unlike any he had seen. They were as a millpond, eerily calm and barely disturbed by his moving ship. The only evidence that she was moving was the widening wake from the stern and the gentle ripples of water. But the water was shady, almost black despite the night sky, and it looked evil. They did not feel sinister, they only looked so. There was only the lightest touch of wind, one that he knew was not strong enough to drive the mainsail, which was proof that she was, as Ulmo had said, being guided by the Vala's hand. And she was running at a leisurely pace, not sailing even half the speed that Círdan knew she could. And he could scarcely smell evidence of salt in the air. The sky itself was as dark as could be, making the day seem as one of the blackest nights. No Moon shone in the cloudless sky and everything was eerily quiet, save for the soft breaking of water at the prow; no crashing of waves, no deep rumble of the underwater current, for all was still. And the silence was deafening.
But that was not what caused Círdan to be fearful. It was not the lack of wind, the lack of motion on the water or the lack of Moon. Not the lack of life even on the dark seawater unnerved him to a great degree, for he had seen many things in ancient days. No, what scared him was something far different.
The stars littering the sky.
And they scared him beyond imagine.
Endlessly planted across the sky, they were perfectly mirrored in the dark water of the Sea, shining brightly as all stars did. But Círdan could not recognize any of the constellations he now saw. Constellations were a required tool in a sailor's life, the mapped stars in the sky being their written map for the seas. No compass, no hand-drawn charts could guide mariners across the seas more accurately and swiftly than the constellations. And having sailed the seas for countless millennia, traveling distances further than most, he was familiar with all the constellations of the sky. Always, the stars of Elbereth were a warm, comforting sight to him, but not now, for he recognized none of them. They were strangers to him, cold and pitiless, and they told him only one thing:
He was no longer anywhere near Middle-earth.
He might have been on the other side of the World, for all he knew. His heart beat a little quicker. For the first time in his life, he felt lost, his ship abandoned at sea with no source of direction to find his way home. Looking around the vast dome of stars again, he could see not even the Star of Eärendil, and that was unnatural in itself. Absently, he felt his hands begin to shake and his mouth go dry. There were very few things that could scare him in this World, but being lost at sea as such with no means to solve it was one of them.
I said to fear not, Nówë, Ulmo spoke gently, and Círdan could hear the sympathy in his voice.
"How can I fear not?" Círdan whispered as he sat himself on the bench along the bulwark, staring still up at the foreign sky. Shock had flooded his system; he was lost and had no idea of which direction to travel to get back home...He was lost.
Lost, you are not, Nówë, Ulmo spoke soothingly, trying to douse the growing fear in the old Mariner, for said fear practically radiated from him as his inner light. Nówë, he commanded softly, look at me and listen.
With half a heart, for it seemed that he had to rip his gaze away from the foreign stars, Círdan looked down into the gentle water beside him and listened. Right away, his fear was calmed as he heard the soothing echo of the Great Music once again, his spirit becoming entwined with Ilúvatar's Song.
You are not lost, Nówë, Ulmo repeated softly and Círdan reached down to let his hand be gently enwrapped within the cold water. For if you cast your gaze north, you will see your way.
Círdan did as suggested and was, for a moment, nonplussed. And then, keenly peering on the northern horizon, he gave a small smile of relief as he barely saw them; familiar constellations. Except these constellations, now only just visible on the northern horizon, were, when in Mithlond, the constellations he scarcely saw light the southern horizon. That they appeared now on the opposite end of the star dome alone gave him an idea of how far he must have traveled. But that did not answer still his quandary over why the water was so shady, so seemingly evil.
His thoughts interpreted, Ulmo spoke gently, Be at peace, my child, for the touch of Evil has never come here. The darkness is natural, for you sail my Shadowy Seas.
Shadowy Seas…where had he heard that name? "Please, my lord, where am I?" he asked, wishing his voice would not shake so.
Not long ago, in your sleep, Ulmo said, you have long sailed past the ruins of the Island of Númenor and now approach the Girdle of Arda. You are hours away from reaching your destination.
Though his countenance remained calm and unflustered, Círdan was astounded at those words. He had sailed beyond Númenor, despite said island being submerge beneath the Waters? From his knowledge and wisdom of the works of the World, he knew that he must have been asleep for at least two whole months if that were the case. It was no wonder Lórien had been needed, he thought absently. Two whole months!
And now Ulmo was telling him that, already bypassing Númenor, he now approached a location he had only ever heard tales of; the Girdle of Arda. And he was now only hours away from reaching wherever it was he was destined to travel to. Though his knowledge of this part of the World was limited, he knew that he must have had long ago passed the location of the Elven city of Alqualondë. And that thought created a wedge of uncertainty. Before he had set sail, had he lied to Ëarhín? Was he, in fact, sailing to Aman?
Nay, Nówë, Ulmo said. You shall not lay sight on my King's land, for you approach only the Enchanted Isles.
Círdan was silent at those words as he looked southwest, remembering the tales he had heard from Elves in the First Age. Of course; the Shadowy Seas embraced the Enchanted Isles as the stars embraced the Moon, only exemplifying the eerie mystery surrounding the many islands. He sighed, again wondering what purpose he would serve there that the many Elves of Aman could not, being that they were far closer. Curiously, he looked down into the water suckling the hull of his ship once again.
"What do you bid me to do at the Enchanted Isles?" he asked.
There was silence, save for the gentle flow of water as he waited patiently for an answer, knowing that the Vala might just not give one anyway. And then, right before Círdan allowed his mind to drift away in the peace of the Sea, he answered.
To obey.
And Círdan could hear the smile in his voice.
O = O = O
The hours had passed and Círdan had spent most of them sitting on that bench, bent over with his head resting on the gunwale. His eyes went from gazing up at the starry dome to resting lovingly on the waters flowing beneath him to softly closing in their contentment. As he had observed to Ulmo, this was the perfect image of the only life he ever needed or desired; to be alone, ever adrift on the Sea in his beloved ship with only Ulmo and his vassal for company. To have beautifully majestic Waters surround him and capture the love of his heart all day long. To hear the soft waves, the under flowing current…to hear the echoes of the Great Music on Ulmo's unsurpassable creation and to feel the resultant contentment flood his veins. It was like nectar, like water in a desert. To him, this voyage was a glimpse of a perfect life, the perfect way to spend eternity, for this was a touch of the greatest homecoming he ever could imagine. What more could he need?
And in those few hours he finally had the time to examine the events of what had happened over the past few days, or the past couple months, evidently. Though Ulmo had scolded him for it, he thought back to that storm he had sailed and pondered on what he would have done had his ship been sunk. He knew that he would have tried to swim back to the harbor, even though it had been at least six miles away. But the chance of making it back would have been slim, he knew, for the icy chill of the water could well have killed him first.
His ship…at the remembrance of that tidal wave, he had remembered the heart-stopping moment when he had heard the resounding crack of her mast splintering. And not a moment later, he had rushed from his seat to observe the damage.
And he had felt tears sting his eyes as he observed the splintered mast of his precious ship. As he had predicted, the damage was horrendous. Needling a meter from the deck, it extended in a diagonal, misshaped line three meters high. As wide as his fist, his fingers were able to reach into its depth their full length and he had done so almost tentatively, as though fearful that touching it would only inflict more damage. With a despairing shake of his head, Círdan had known then and there that there was no way he would be able to repair it, no way to heal her crippling injury. She was warped and, when he returned home, he knew that he could plaster it with resin, but she would never sail as smoothly as she once did before this all happened, not unless he replaced the mast with a new one. And the thought of tearing her apart to rebuild a section of her was as heartbreak to him. But then it was also heartbreak should she remain crippled from then on. With a resigned sigh, he had known that he would have to replace it. But he also knew that it was by the hand of Ulmo that she had not damaged further, and he thanked his protector and lord for doing so.
He had also wondered how Ëarhín was faring. He knew that the Sea-elf must be worrying about him, but he couldn't change that. He thought of his people, wishing them well, thought of his councilors that ruled in his stead and thought of Middle-earth's unraveling in general.
And throughout thinking all of his thoughts, Ulmo was there beside him, guiding his ship with his hand, his safe, power-laden aura and presence ever cloaking him, all the while gently singing. Or at least the Elf thought he was singing. All Círdan knew was that the Great Music carried through his Waters became louder, clearer, more prominent, no longer coming through as an echo but as a powerful resonation. And it was beautiful; sung in a language he could scarcely pronounce, it was indescribable. The voice of the Sea-elves could not even compare to its majesty, nor could Lúthien's voice, not in the slightest. No sound in Arda could mirror its beauty, nor could any sight, power, or serenity ever match the peace it created. For this was Ilúvatar's Song. And at one point, Ulmo had told him the story of Uin, the giant whale, most likely to stave off any boredom, though it had not been present, and Círdan had briefly wondered if this was what a child felt like during a story-telling. But Círdan listened in earnest, for he loved the sound of Ulmo's voice. For it was wise and deep and carried the depth of the Sea and ever made him feel free from the burden of Time. And his deep respect, fear he'd dare say, and love for the Vala, already beyond comprehension, grew ever greater.
Never, in Círdan's memory, had his soul felt so at peace and his heart so at home. He felt his mind drift away, his other senses dimming to being practically unfelt. His soul seemed to sing in tune, to blend in with Ilúvatar's Song. And his heart, he felt, beat with the rhythm of the Sea in perfect harmony, his mind enwrapped by its powerful presence. He could no longer feel the environment around him, his corporeal senses all but inept. And even if this journey came to nothing, even if it became something he wished he would never have done, it would all be worth it because of this.
Wake, Nówë.
Círdan opened his eyes, his mind snapping back to reality and looked cynically down at the dark water. "I was not asleep," he complained, feeling disgruntled at the interruption of his detachment from reality, not even realizing that he had entered into the spiritual realm as closely as any living Elf possibly could.
Ulmo chuckled. You nearly were.
Círdan had to smile at that; despite being fully refreshed after that aberrant sleep Lórien had placed him in, he would be lying if he said that he was not drifting off. He wondered how much time had passed and then dismissed the unimportant thought.
Focusing once more on the water, he gave a deep sigh. "Thank you," he said softly.
For what?
Círdan gave another small smile, one of contentment. "For making me happy."
You are very dear to me, Nówë, he said, and Círdan could hear by the tone of his voice that he meant every word. But, to his confusion, he had heard also pain in the Vala's voice, as though he desired to speak more but knew that he could not.
Do not ponder that, child, he said firmly, for it is not yours to think upon.
"Aye, my lord," Círdan said, giving a tolerant shake of his head. It sometimes amazed him still how well Ulmo knew his every thought.
You present your mind and heart to me as an open book, he said, a touch of amusement lining his voice.
"Aye, my lord," he said again, the smile widening. "It is only to you I do so."
Compose yourself, he instructed. We are here. Fear not the enchantment of the Isles, Nówë, for you are safe in my care.
Círdan raised his head, his neck snapping at the change of movement and he rolled it back and forth, mentally berating himself for staying in that position for so many hours. He then stood and looked over the prow of his ship into the distance beyond.
It was shrouded in white fog; a deep, clogging fog that cut off further view only a few miles out. But, when staring at one spot long enough, an invisible substance seemed to weave through the air, churning and shimmering before disappearing. Turning around, he saw that the fog went as far as the eye could see, realizing that his mind had been away from reality for some time. He might as well be sailing in a cloud. Looking southwest once more, he narrowed his eyes and saw a shadowy form begin to take shape not five miles away.
The Enchanted Isles. Or at least one of them, he thought, for one was all he could see. And it certainly did not look magical, as far as he was concerned, the Fëagaer rapidly minimizing the distance from it. From this distance, even in the dark, it looked like a barren land of rock, devoid of any greenery or life, stretching for miles across his vision. But he was looking only at a stretch of massive shoreline and knew that, further inland, it was probably alive with the life of Aman.
But out in the distance, through the heavy fog, he saw a narrow, elegant peak soaring high into the sky. And though partially blinded, he could see it glimmering with multiple hues all the while seeming to reflect the starlight.
"What is that?" he asked.
The Tower of Pearl.
His interest was caught, but he had not the time to wonder about it, for now, almost at the shore, he saw a person standing on it, or rather three persons, all of different height and all waiting for him, apparently. And as he came closer, he made out more details.
The one on the left was clad in white, bearing a long face and a high forehead with his strong figure set off by his deep, dark eyes. His hair and beard were long and white, but strands of black still showed around his lips and ears. In his right hand he carried a long, finely crafted staff. At first glance, it seemed to aid him in his walking, for he bore the appearance of an old Man. But he stood on the shore like a silent statue, strong and tall in bearing, and stared at Círdan as he waited.
The one in the middle was the least tall of the three, and he was clothed in raiment grey as ash. His hair and beard were long and thick and as grey as his clothing. In his right hand he too bore a staff, of which he leaned on. But unlike its neighbor's, the staff was brown and gnarled as an earthly wood. Also bearing the appearance of an incredibly old Man, he looked far more aged than the others. But he also stood silently on the shore, his eyes, deep yet gentle, staring at Círdan as he waited.
The one on the right was clad in an earthly brown and, indeed, looked the youngest of the three, though bearing still a great age of Man. His hair and beard bore the hues more of auburn rather than grey. His eyes matched the color of his raiment and were alight with enchantment and mystery. In his right hand he too carried a staff much alike its neighbor's, resting against his shoulder, only it bore the smoothness and deep-set brown as that of a matured tree. And he stood on the shoreline, staring in silence at Círdan as he waited.
And Círdan stood at the prow, staring back as they all waited for the ship to be beached. Though outwardly remaining calm and unflustered as only an Elf could, Círdan became uncomfortable at the three piercing stares that remained focused on him. They did not unnerve him, they only made him uncomfortable. The grey one, he noticed, was watching him with unhidden curiosity. Círdan met the gaze, raising an elegant eyebrow in question, and the old being smiled, his amusement obvious. Though Círdan did remain unsure what three Men, mysterious as they were, were doing on the borders of Aman, for he knew that the rite of passage to the Undying Lands was barred from the race of Men. He inwardly sighed; perhaps Ulmo would relent in his amusement of keeping Círdan in the dark and answer that simple question.
Be at peace, Nówë, Ulmo counseled him. Do not be discomforted, for they mean you no harm.
Círdan minutely nodded his head at the voice he heard within his mind, feeling comforted at those words alone that touched his thoughts. He trusted Ulmo unconditionally, more so than any other being he knew. The Vala had never misplaced that trust in the past, only proving to be worthy of it, and Círdan knew that he would do so again.
As his ship gently waded in closer to the shoreline, Círdan became aware of a very unnerving sensation, a physical sensation and yet mental. It seemed to compress him, intimidate him, tempting him to cower in submission. He recognized it, for he had felt it before he knew, but he could not place his finger on it. He peered curiously at the Men – if they were Men – standing eerily still on the shore, and then he looked around at the ambiguous island and her raging cliffs. Interesting, he thought. He knew not what that feeling was that continued to grow stronger with each meter he arrived closer, but he could only equate it to the enchanted properties of the isle. The Enchanted Isles were indeed a mysterious place, and the Shadowy Seas cloaked them perfectly.
The Men on the shore, Círdan noticed, never wavered in their gaze, still trained on him, or in their stance. And they all seemed to radiate authority and knowledge. It was not until the keel of the ship grated into the shingles and smoothly slid up the beach that the three Men on the shore moved forward, the white one leading them, as they stepped into the shallow water, the ripples from their footsteps being the only thing that disturbed it.
The three of them, all silent, were walking along the portside of the hull and Círdan, seeing where they were heading, went to her waist and unlatched the entry port in the ship's rail. The Mariner stepped back to the prow and watched the one clad in white begin to haul his way up, that intense feeling he had felt growing to the point to where he could physically feel it. And it seemed to squeeze him. With the prow canted up as it had slid up the beach, there was a considerable drop to the shingles, even at the waist, so some climbing was involved for the three to get aboard.
Cast the net.
Círdan almost started at the unsuspecting words, so riveted was he on these three, strange people. But he did as commanded and walked his way down the ship to the starboard stern. Taking the neatly folded net hidden beneath the bench, already tied off, he hauled the heavy mass over the bulwark, watching it plop with a loud splash into the water below, disappearing instantly in its darkness. Círdan wondered at the absurdity of why he had to cast the net, but he had a pretty positive inkling that Ulmo would answer that neither, so he kept silent.
When he turned back around, the three were aboard, huddled against the mast, all looking at him once again with their fire-piercing eyes and this time, he was unnerved by it, but allowed none of that discomfort to show through his countenance.
An awkward silence grew as they continued to stare at each other and, to Círdan's slowly growing annoyance, the grey clad one was still inspecting him with unhidden curiosity. What was he to say? Welcome aboard? It certainly did not seem appropriate in the Mariner's mind. And the three of them certainly did not seem like they were about to speak any time soon.
Opting to break the stalemate of the awkward silence, Círdan let go a small breath, the only outward sign of his exasperation, and he walked over to the entry port and latched it back up, feeling the stares of the three following him as he did so. With another small sigh, he turned around and met their hard gazes for only a moment or two before walking up to them. Though looking old and decrepit, Círdan easily saw the brightness of their eyes that shown like fire. He knew not who they were, but he doubted that they were simple Men, for he perceived the inner greatness they bore. And it was time he greeted them.
Some people might stand tall, their head held high in defiance of submission as a show of their pride, but Círdan had no pride in his being to even contemplate the thought of holding his head high, despite that he stood taller than all of them. Instead, Círdan bowed his head deeply, trying to push aside the weakness and insufficiency he felt in the presence of these beings, and met their three gazes without fear or wavering.
"May I inquire your names, Masters?" he asked quietly, respect evident in his tone.
The one clad in white cocked his head to the side and finally spoke, resting his regal staff against his shoulder.
"Many names I have and yet I have been given the name Curunír, henceforth you shall thusly call me," he spoke, and Círdan took an unconscious step back at the commanding power of his voice, but he felt a glimmer of respect at the wisdom he perceived in this white clad being. This was no Man, Círdan thought, his instincts of sensing the unknown perfectly honed over the long years. But he was wise, and that earned the start of respect.
Curunír continued, gesturing warmly to the grey clad one at his side. "With me is one whom also goes by many names, though, at his will, you shall hereafter know him as Mithrandir." He then gestured to the one clad in brown at his left. "With me also is Radagast, the greatest of us all in the workings of earth and beast."
Círdan bowed his head again, his countenance unreadable, though he did slightly raise his eyebrow at the grey one. So, he thought, it was Mithrandir who was inspecting him as though he were an insect.
Círdan looked to Curunír again, sensing that he was the leader of the three. "May I inquire as to why you are here, Master?" he asked, foregoing the informal route that Curunír had offered. "To my eyes you appear as three aged Men, and yet it is by my knowledge that I know you are barred from the Blessed Land. How can this be?"
Curunír was silent, his eyes peering deeply into Círdan's, seeming to read his every thought, before they hardened, though not impolitely. "Much must be done on our parts, yet silence must be kept on this journey."
Círdan nodded in understanding, hiding his disappointment and stepped aside, lightly bowing his head once more. In the end, it was not his right to know, and Círdan knew that. Curunír walked to the prow of the ship with Radagast only a step behind him. The Mariner met Mithrandir's gaze before the old one too followed behind them, sitting with them on the bench.
The ship jolted alarmingly and Círdan grabbed hold of one of the shrouds, feeling his heart skip a beat. But he realized that the ship, guided by Ulmo's hand, was simply breaking harbor. She continued to glide away from the shoreline, her wake shallow and eerie in the dark water, and when she was a hundred meters out she pivoted until the prow was once more at the fore. Círdan shook his head; never would he get use to another force controlling his ship, whether it'd be Ulmo or not.
But the Mariner was disappointed. Círdan sat down on the bench near the tiller at the stern and sighed. He had no idea what he was doing on this voyage and the three beings, whatever they were, gave no answer. Yes, he trusted Ulmo, for there was no being, mortal or immortal, he trusted greater. And he trusted the Vala on this voyage with every aspect. But still, a few answers would be nice to quell the growing confusion in his mind.
Let your heart be at rest, Nówë, Ulmo whispered to him, and Círdan felt his soothing spirit touch him, it being warm and inviting. Your mind is to not be burdened while in my care. Be at peace.
Círdan tiredly nodded. "Aye, my lord," he murmured, once again berating himself for letting the emotions and fears of his flesh take over his trust in the Vala. He glanced at the three at the prow, wondering if they had heard the Dweller of the Deep speak.
They can hear me not, he whispered further.
And Círdan then realized that Ulmo was no longer speaking through his great Waters, but directly to his mind, hence the gentle whispering he heard. But still, he knew that he had done nothing on this voyage yet save sleep and sit with his mind in another world.
"What do you bid me to do, my lord?" he asked, looking down at the water. Surely there must be something he had to do.
To obey.
Círdan sighed; despite Ulmo's patience with him, he knew not how much longer he could tolerate that particular ambiguity. What must he obey?
I spoke my words, child, he said patiently, the tenderness he felt for the Elf obvious in his powerful, authoritative voice. And I bid you to follow them; be at peace.
Círdan gave another sigh, this one of contentment, for he was satisfied with the Vala's words. He scooted down on the bench and rested his head against the gunwale, once again letting the greatness of the Sea and her Music indwell him and take him to that place only he knew of.
And on the Fëagaer sailed, back through the deep, enchanting fog.
O = O = O
Hours had again passed in which Círdan had briefly wondered how long his mind had been adrift earlier, for they were still sailing through the mystic fog. How wide were these Shadowy Seas? But Círdan was content, feeling the peace of the Waters he ever so loved, and the other three beings were still at the prow of the ship, staying as far away from him as possible. They were talking, he presumed, but he cared not; their business was none of his business and Curunír had made that quite clear. But Círdan's gaze was now cast up to the unnumbered clusters of stars, just visible through the deep mist. With such brilliance they shown and they no longer were as strangers to him, for he had already now kept to memory all of these new constellations. There was no Moon and no clouds still, just the stars. But Ulmo's powerful presence continually touched his mind.
Círdan felt his stomach growl, but again, he was not ravenous to the point where he would chew to no end on that tasteless meat.
His peripheral vision picked up movement to his right and he saw one of the old Men approach the starboard stern where he sat. He noticed that the old Man carried his gnarled staff in hand, though it seemed that the elderly chap could move swiftly at ease without it. But in his core, he perceived that it was not just a stick of great length. But he…what was his name? Mithrandir – that was it, he remembered, the one who apparently thought he was an insect. He seemed to be approaching not just the stern of the ship, but him specifically. But when he was respectably close, Círdan held his breath as his eyes widened, recognizing what that feeling was that he had been bombarded with as soon as his ship had come closer to these three beings.
Power – raw power. That is what he felt. And it surged over him in waves. How could he have not placed it before? It was the same intense, commanding power he had felt when he had first met Ossë in his youth. The same power when he had first met Melian after Elwë returned. The same power when he had first met Eönwë at the War of Wrath, when he had met Uinen, Salmar, Alatar, Pallando, and Sauron in the guise of Annatar. Though nothing in comparison to the power projected by Ulmo and other Valar he had met, he now knew what this supposed "Man" was.
Mithrandir sat down next to him with a sigh of contentment. A comfortable silence passed between them while both seemed to admire the stars. Círdan decided to break it.
"You are a Maia, are you not?" he asked without preamble.
This…Mithrandir turned to the silver-haired Elf and simply stared at him for several seconds. Though his face was a mask of indifference, Círdan could see a glimpse of profound surprise hidden deep in his eyes. Then, finally, the being spoke, his voice rustic and warm, but lined with genuine curiosity.
"Yes, I am that. How came you to arrive at such a conclusion?"
The Maia's gaze seemed to pierce him, but Círdan was not cowed, too experienced and used to he was in dealing with both Vala and Maia; however, the Maia's striking gaze that seemed to light like a fire did make him, once again, feel his inferiority in comparison to such beings. It was not a fear or uncertainty, just a recognition and acceptance that he was neither as wise nor as great as the being before him.
"The power," Círdan answered simply, his voice quiet. "I became swallowed by it the closer I approached the three of you on the shingle, for its weight and intensity felt to cast me down. I dismissed it, believing it to be a remnant of the ambiguity of the Isles. But not until you had approached me and graced me with your company had I at last placed and remembered what that power was."
Mithrandir gave a small nod. "Your insight is deep, Círdan." A small, amused smile touched his face. "And yet, you have not told me everything. There are many powers in this World, yet dealing or two you must have been bestowed with by a Maia to have recognized this power for what it is, correct?"
Círdan let loose a wistful grin. "Correct, Master, more times than I care to remember. Though whether I believe it to be a blessing or punishment is determined by what mood I currently am in."
Mithrandir chuckled, understanding that sentiment. Then, once again, his curious gaze was upon the Sea-elf. "And you are not fearful of the knowledge that I am a Maia?"
Círdan thought about that for a moment. Intimidated? Probably. Respectfully awed? Certainly. Fearful? He looked at Mithrandir, his face grave, and shook his head. "No."
Mithrandir smiled. "Not even in the slightest?"
Círdan shook his head again with an exhausted sigh. "No." He hesitated and studied the Maia for a moment before proceeding. "But I do have a question, if you will permit me to ask it."
Mithrandir's smile grew with adoration. "Of course I will, Círdan," he said tenderly. "What is it that you desire to know?"
For the first time in millennia, Círdan did not feel compelled to hide his uncertainty. "My experience with Maiar has led me to believe…I mean –" He paused once again, struggling to find the right words to phrase his question respectfully. "If you are indeed a Maia, then why…?" He gestured uncertainly towards the garb the Maia wore, baffled why such a powerful being looked like a decrepit, old Man. Why do you look like this? the gesture asked.
Mithrandir smiled again, this time in understanding, as a bright twinkle shown in his eyes. "I do believe that the Valar have a sense of humor, cloaking us in these disguises."
He had expected the Elf to laugh, or to at least smile, for he did desire to see evidence of the carefree spirit that he knew had been long buried. But Círdan's eyes had slightly widened at his words, recognition quickly dawning in his grey eyes. And suddenly, the awe and admiration Círdan felt for this being intensified by a tenfold as he stared at the aged face with unconcealed curiosity.
"You are Olórin," he whispered, seemingly to himself.
Mithrandir raised an eyebrow. "Again, you are correct, for I will not lie to you, though your insight must be deep indeed if you have the skill to apply such a guess without any prior knowledge such as that."
Círdan shook his head, truly intent on studying every feature of the Maia of Manwë. "Glorfindel has spoken very highly of you in time passed."
Mithrandir tilted his head. "Glorfindel? It brings me delight to hear you speak his name. Tell me, how does he fare?"
"He fares very well," he answered. "He allows no sorrow of his first life to take hold. If you see him, you will be glad to see his strength of heart."
Mithrandir gave a warm, rustic chuckled. "I will see him," he said, "and I look forward to it. But that answers not my question as to how you knew my name."
Círdan gave a small smile. "He had once told me that, when you jest, a spark of laughter always shines bright in your eyes."
Mithrandir chuckled once more, giving an affectionate shake of his head. "As always, the Elves prove to have great acuity and steadfast memories."
Another small silence fell, but this time, it was comfortable, companionable. Círdan continued to study the Maia, letting him now be the insect, even as Mithrandir was graced by a thoughtful look and Círdan could only guess what was going through his mind. But as he studied him, Círdan became increasingly aware of the stares burning into him from the other two Maiar and it took all his self-control and discipline not to turn around and meet their gazes. But it seemed that the more he tried to ignore them, the greater they became more prominent. Círdan changed his mind; it was no longer Mithrandir that had started to get under his skin.
Evident that Mithrandir would remain in his own thoughts, Círdan once again rested his head against the gunwale and closed his eyes, allowing himself to fully relax in the sound of Ilúvatar's Song.
"I would like to ask you a question, Círdan."
Círdan's head snapped up as he registered those words. He really must stop allowing his mind to go adrift so easily, he thought. He looked to Mithrandir, an eyebrow raised.
"I doubt I have the choice but to hear you," he said, almost lightheartedly. "But I am listening and will answer to the best of my knowledge."
Mithrandir slowly nodded, his eyes narrowed and seeming to see through Círdan and the Mariner was finding it difficult to dismiss that probing gleam in his eye. His uncanny senses, already high, were telling him that the Maia was about to test him.
Finally, he spoke. "Why are you on this voyage, Círdan?"
Círdan simply looked at him, nonplussed for a moment. So much for the best of his knowledge, he thought grudgingly. Out of all the questions that could have been asked, he had to ask the one he knew nothing of, for it ever remained unanswered and thought upon in the back of his mind.
"I know not, Master," he said softly, almost in resignation. "And if it were that I did know I would speak it. But prideful I am not to answer a question with absolute certainty when my knowledge is limited."
Mithrandir pursed his lips. "Hm, very well. With your limited knowledge, why do you presume that you are on this voyage?"
Círdan gave a non committal shrug and this time did not prevent the sigh from being heard. "I presume nothing," he said. "At first I did, and part of me does still, but the Vala Ulmo put my mind to rest and I am content with his command to not ponder it."
Mithrandir gave a knowing smile, that quizzical gleam in his eyes still present. "And yet, Elves are inquisitive creatures and rarely do they stop thinking and theorizing when a question begs an answer."
Círdan furrowed his brow. "True that may be, but what is your point?"
"Are you not bothered by not knowing?"
Círdan shook his head. "I trust the Vala Ulmo, more than I trust myself, I believe. In time past, I have gained the unfortunate wisdom that sometimes not knowing is far better than knowing at all. But more than that, I have placed my life countless times in the Vala Ulmo's hands. If I cannot trust him with the smallest aspect, then in whom can I trust?"
"Hm."
Círdan looked sharply at him at the grunt, but Mithrandir's visage gave nothing away save a thoughtful expression. And Círdan had the growing suspicion that Mithrandir and the others knew exactly what he was doing on this voyage. But he kept his silence; Maiar, he knew, could be just as exasperating as Ulmo when opting to be vague.
Come below, Nówë, Ulmo told him. It is time for you to rest.
At hearing the voice in his head, Círdan calmly stood from the bench and lightly bowed to Mithrandir. "I apologize, Master, but I find myself in need of rest and cannot delay it longer."
Mithrandir stood with him, a knowing twinkle in his eye that told Círdan that he saw right through the encrypted words. "You do need your rest, Master Mariner," he said with a smile. "I look forward to seeing you when you wake."
Círdan watched him go and join the other two Maiar at the prow of the ship. Immediately, as Mithrandir sat, the one called Curunír began to speak to him, the words too quiet for Círdan to interpret. And at Mithrandir's answer, Curunír glanced up at Círdan with an inquisitive look, and it was then that the Mariner knew that he had been tested. How, he knew not, but he knew that he had been. Though he wished to know why as well.
Círdan did not look back as he went beneath deck, leaving the silver lantern on the forepeak. The crew's cabin was incredibly dark, but it only took a few moments for his Elven eyes to adjust before he made his way to his quarters. Once inside, he briefly glanced up at the ceiling, wondering if he would be able to hear them, and they he. He shook his head; of course they could hear him. After looking at his bed, Círdan was a tad surprised to find how exhausted he felt. He stripped down, for this was his only attire and sleeping in it would only wear it more than need be, all the while pondering of the events of the night. When he lay down, he sighed in contentment, the softness of the bed blissful as well as the powerful presence of Ulmo.
But then a wave of worry clouded him. Without opening his eyes, he asked, "Will the Vala Lórien come again?"
Aye, child.
Círdan nearly groaned in displeasure before he felt the trepidation fade away, as though being swept off by a hand. And he felt Ulmo soothe his mind.
Be at peace, Nówë. You are safe in my care and no pain will greet you as you awake.
Círdan vaguely registered the words, they already sounding as though coming from the end of a tunnel. His mind felt to be clouded and heavy, his body utterly relaxed. And he realized that the Vala of Dreams was already putting him under.
But right before he fell into the deep sleep, he became aware of something that he did not take note of before.
Mithrandir had known his name, and never had he introduced himself to them.
To be continued...
Slight AU factor: Saruman is described in Unfinished Tales to have raven hair, but I decided to go with the movie description concerning his hair since we're all more familiar with that. During the progress of the story, I had used Curunír's Mannish name, "Saruman" to identify him. But now, obviously, I have changed every occurance to his proper Elvish name to make the tale more authentic in reference to the integrity of canon.
A/N: All right, I know that the end of this chapter wasn't exactly a cliffhanger. And I know that the last line may not sound significant, but it plays a very prominent part coming up concerning Círdan's characterization. I hope you all stick around, for in the next chapter some questions will finally be answered. As well as why Círdan was tested (and how he was). But certain discussions will be had that do not exactly make Círdan comfortable, for Mithrandir does not fear to bring up that which Círdan has never discussed with anyone before, not even the Vala Ulmo.
I hope that the lack of an exciting ending doesn't put you off and that you'll stick around. But please review! And thank you for having patience with my computer crashing. Goodness knows I didn't have any. And remember that all of my sources for Círdan's characterization and other stuff will be listed at the end of the story. But please review!