Disclaimer: See chapter 1 for full disclaimer.

Notice: There are major references to the Silmarillion in here. If you have any questions, please ask! Again, if you've read the book, you won't have a problem. But if you haven't, a lot of things in this chapter may not make sense. In this chapter, a lot discussed may seem unimportant and irrelevant to the plot, but I can promise that it is very important for the purpose of the story.

A/N: I think it's kind of funny that, despite the summary of the story, we've yet to hear anything about Narya, why Círdan is on this voyage, or even Círdan's "insanity". But we will, starting in the next chapter. In this chapter Radagast gets a part, Mithrandir talks, Mithrandir pulls rank, Círdan regrets he ever came on this voyage and wishes he could just go back to sleep. With that, I would like to graciously thank Zammy, "aredhellith", Lia Whyteleafe, GreenGreatDragon, Mia-philosephet, Sadie Sil, and adorkable123456 for your reviews. I love you guys! Happy reading!

"Deep in the ocean I am cast away, where innocence is burned in flames…" ~ Iron, Woodkid

Chapter 5

Without wavering, he looked into Mithrandir's hard gaze. "How do you know?" he asked, his voice just tempered below shouting again. "How do you know that you will fall not in the same trap? How do you know that you will follow not the same path Sauron did once you taste your freedom?"

Mithrandir continued to stare at him, his gaze hard and unrelenting. But Círdan could be just as stubborn, so he took part in this battle of wills, waiting for an answer. But Mithrandir remained silent.

And as the deafening silence of Mithrandir's grew, the red haze clouding the rational part of Círdan's mind gradually faded, as smoke in the wind. And despite the iciness of his gaze, Mithrandir's eyes remained ever patient. Furious, and yet patient, if so possible. And the calm of his façade remained still unflustered. With neither moving nor batting an eyelid, he continued to merely stare at Círdan, the action so simple and yet the gaze so penetrating and intense that it shook Círdan to the core. And Mithrandir's silence spoke more words than any that could have been uttered verbally. And the patient ferocity of his gaze was infused with deep understanding, as though he could see right through Círdan. And he needed not to utter a word to convey his displeasure and challenge to speak more.

But quite clearly, Círdan heard the message unspoken as though it had been shouted in the silence. And swiftly, the sizzling tension in the air melted away, as if it were never there, as Círdan broke the Maia's gaze and looked out to the water. His body, tense with fury to the point of breaking, visibly relaxed as the Mariner closed his eyes and exhaled a deep breath. And though he appeared simply tired, he barely managed to stop the horror he felt within from being seen in his face. And opening his eyes, he stared out to the water unseeing as he studiously avoided the Maia's gaze that lit with both fire and ice. But the horror he felt within was unfathomably great and he thought that it was by a miracle's interaction that he didn't break from it. What had he just done? The question seemed to echo within his mind, questioning the reason for the appalling disrespect he had shown. And shame at his behavior welled up within.

"Círdan."

The soft, rugged voice shook him from his thoughts and he looked into Mithrandir's grey eyes. The ice-chilling anger was gone, now replaced with a solemnity deepened with age, and he gave a tired smile. "Calm down."

Círdan looked at him in what seemed half disbelief and half self-disgust. "Forgive me, Master," he said, barely able to get the words out past a whisper, for still too shaken he was from his atrocious outburst. How dare he do something so deplorable, and unto one he had grown to greatly respect and like at that? And unto one who he knew deserved better at that. Mithrandir had done nothing to deserve his wrath. "Forgive me. I know not what came over me."

"You were angry."

Círdan gave a humorless laugh. That much was obvious. Rather quickly, he switched his gaze back to the ocean, anything but looking into eyes that read him like a book and looked all too calm and forgiving. "It matters not if I was ready to murder," he said, the self-loathing he felt encrusting his words. "Any anger I felt should have been kept within, and dealt with in time once my mind had cleared." Taking a deep breath to slow his racing heart, he closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I spoke out of line and accused you with words ill-chosen. Such disrespect you deserve not, and yet you bore the burden of my loss of temper. For that, I apologize and ask your forgiveness."

His keen ears picked up the faint signs of a silent sigh, one delivered with weariness. But Mithrandir shook his head. "No forgiveness need be asked for, Círdan."

"Aye, it does," Círdan argued, wishing time could go back by nearly five minutes. "Too old am I and set in my ways to lash out in such a way. For millennia I have had no such loss of control."

Mithrandir gave a small chuckle. "It matters not how old you are, Círdan. All beings are prone to sudden fits of fury. And more cleansing is a fiery tongue than a serpent's tongue."

Círdan shook his head. "Still, you deserved it not. Please, forgive me."

Quite adamantly, Mithrandir grabbed hold of Círdan's chin and turned his head towards him, forcing his attention. "Listen, you stubborn Sinda. I will not forgive you," he spoke clearly, "for there is nothing to forgive."

Círdan refrained barely from wincing at the memory of ice-chilling eyes. "I made you angry."

Mithrandir nodded, conceding that point. "Aye, I was angry," he said wryly, "for no one has ever dared to compare me to Sauron before. But," he added before Círdan could go on a further trip of self-loathing, "I know you were angry not at me. And you know that also. You were afraid," he said simply. "Within the fury of your voice, I could hear the fear in your words. Angry you were, not at me, but at the injustice you have long had to live with, from since the dawn of time. And that anger long buried simply blinded you."

As Mithrandir let forth the softly spoken words, Círdan grew even more still, the worry growing in his eyes as his brow furrowed. "How knew you that?" he spoke, his voice scarcely audible. But the fear unfounded at the Maia's words palpitated in the air around him.

Mithrandir smiled sympathetically. "As you spoke, you lost your peace. And as walls mighty and stern, that barrier was cast down, and in your eyes I saw the fear you had long kept within. Besides, though spoken with anger, your words have merit."

Skeptical was then Círdan's gaze. "Do they?"

Mithrandir gave a single nod and his bearing seemed to fall under a heavy weight, the solemnity in his gaze making Círdan wary. "Know I do that your hastily spoken words were not delivered in the hope of proving me wrong, but out of fear that it would all happen again." Despite the indifferent mask upon Círdan's visage, the truth struck home in his grey eyes and Mithrandir gave a sad, little smile. "Blind I am not to see how your fear was stoked from my words. For you are correct; Sauron, in the taste of his independence, relished the freedom beyond the Valar's endorsement. And the Istari, as free agents beyond the duty assigned unto us, have the right to act independently in accordance to our own policies in resistance to Sauron. Whoso can say that we will relish not in freedom as Sauron did once free of the confines of Aman?"

Círdan gave a small wince, and it was only from millennia of congealed temperament that he didn't start to wring his hands or sigh. "You have labeled my fear and have done so with kindness. Believe me though, Master, that I spoke in the trouble of my heart and meant not to insinuate you would follow the same path."

Mithrandir gave a knowing smile. "Yes you did."

Círdan returned the slight smile, wondering if how he felt equated to that of a child when he was caught sneaking sweets. "Not deliberately."

The smile grew. "My friend, how could I blame you for directing condemning words unto me when it was out of simple worry and concern for Middle-earth?" he asked warmly. "Ill-founded would such condemnation have been on my part. Forget not to mention that I would have stooped to the level of an Elf," he gently teased.

A smile touched the corners of Círdan's mouth, for he appreciated the jest to try and cheer him. He really did. But the self-disappointment was greatly prominent within. "Yet still, my outburst was inexcusable."

Mithrandir gave him a quizzical look with a curious smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Why deem I that, through your anger, I had seen a glimpse of who you once were?" he murmured in something akin to wonder, so quietly that it might have been spoken to himself.

Círdan heard the question and felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. But the Mariner didn't answer the question; he needed not to, for Mithrandir had hit the nail on the head and Círdan knew it. The Maia had indeed seen a glimpse of who he had been, for Círdan remembered a time when he had been more fierce, more quickly prone to action and reaction, more participating and more aware of the beauty around him. More alive. Círdan was drained and draining, and he was frightened since he knew not what from. The only thing that had ever grown more alive was his deep love and longing to be amongst the Sea. All else dimmed and was dimming. It was not that he no longer cared for Middle-earth, for he loved her and would serve and reside within her unto the ending of the World if so needed. He felt to simply lack the energy, the motivation and strength to simply move, to even keep his eyes open. He knew it not to be his age, for Elves did not age as Men, but he still did not know why he felt like this. And as Mithrandir had said, he used to be different, but no more.

"Círdan." The Maia's gruff voice snapped the Mariner out of his gloomy thoughts and he, again, berated himself for drifting off so easily. But Mithrandir looked at him, eyes calm as a millpond but firm with determination, their fiery ferocity willing the Mariner to know he spoke the truth. "You doubt me no longer, I know, but still I will answer your question. How know I that I shall not follow Sauron's example? The answer is simple." He shrugged helplessly. "I know not. However, I believe that I will not. Understand this, Círdan. Bound by the Valar I am not, for I serve them willingly; conversely, Sauron did not. Sauron respected not the restrictions the Valar placed upon him, but I do. Sauron relished not the thought of returning to the Valar and serving them as he was bidden to. But I," he said with a yearning, anticipatory smile, "look forward to doing so, for once I have accomplished the task given to me, that day unto me their arms will be open in homecoming."

Círdan couldn't help but grin at hearing the barely concealed excitement and compassion in his voice. And Círdan felt any sliver of fear of Mithrandir turning to evil be snuffed out, like the flame of a candle, for Mithrandir had just spoke of the most significant difference between him and the Dark Lord. Loyalty was the deepest foundation in the unraveling of the World and Mithrandir had made clear how the smallest change of loyalty could askew one's path. And Mithrandir loved the Valar and served them with love in his heart. Mithrandir fought for them; Sauron fought for himself, and the motivation behind the actions proved to be the greatest difference. Firm would Mithrandir stay in his decisions, but flexible in his approach to them.

"As you spoke, Sauron rebelled against the Valar," Mithrandir went on, "for his corruption was beyond grace and correction." He held up a finger. "And corruption is the key word, for his corruption ensued before we sang Arda into existence, and so was done from the influence of Morgoth." He slowly shook his head, his eyes seeing so far away into distant memory unfathomable to Círdan. "It was subtle, Círdan, so subtle that none knew of Sauron's corruption until it was too late. Perhaps, if we had seen it sooner within Eä, proper measures might have been taken to stop it."

Círdan furrowed his brow, peering at him curiously. "When was it you knew that Sauron turned traitor?" This was a tale he had yet to hear, one only derived from counting lore and rumors whispered as ages passed. Never had he heard one of higher order so willingly speak of it.

As a question unimportant Mithrandir waved it aside. And in the recesses of the mind Círdan knew he had misjudged; reluctant and too wounded still was Mithrandir to speak of such betrayal in light ease. "Gone is the relevance of when we knew," he said, "for in error we were too late in coming and nigh on despaired when we did. Already his influence had reached past his own Maiar. And in secret those subtle words were whispered into Sauron's ear, for too perceptive and intelligent he was to be deceived through any other means. And afore we were bidden to put forth Ilúvatar's Song into the creation of Arda, Sauron had already passed the point of recovery."

Círdan thought upon what was spoken and felt a glimmer of surprise at the simplicity of Sauron's fall. "Pardon me for saying so, but I am rather amazed at how simple it was."

Mithrandir shrugged. "Be not so, for as sweet words whispered in Fëanor's ear kindled great fire and desires within his heart unfounded, so Sauron had learned to spend his spirit in envy and hate, coveting the flame and youth of Arda, taking part in all vast works of Morgoth and in the deceits of his cunning." Mithrandir looked at him wryly, though the depth of his gaze was as solemn and sorrowful as ever. "All starting from a few subtly whispered words."

Círdan smiled satirically at him, though the smile was genuine in his eyes. Never had he thought of it as so, that all minds could be deceived in similar fashion. "Are Maiar and Elves that similar?" he asked, almost jestingly so.

Mithrandir chuckled warmly. "Aye; so different in appearance and origin we are, and yet so alike. Though strong minded and strong-willed, of feeling every emotion are Elves capable." He gave a wan smile. "As are Maiar. Take, for example, you and me. You possess loyalty I see, astounding loyalty – first to Ulmo, then to Middle-earth and your people that dwell therein. And I; I am loyal to my King first and foremost. Loyal I am not to the Elves, but to my love for them, for nothing shall make me desire to befriend the Elves greater. With jealousy, the Valar and Maiar became covetous of the Silmarils' light after Morgoth destroyed the Two Trees, and Fëanor became jealous of the Silmarils after Morgoth took them. Likewise, Ossë, your friend, is unfathomably jealous of the Elves of Middle-earth, for enraged he does become should any leave his domain."

Círdan gave a warm smile at that, his mind turning thoughtfully towards his irrepressible friend on the Hither Shores. He briefly hoped that the Maia was withholding his rage from his Havens in his absence. He didn't want to arrive home to find that his graceful ships had been damaged.

"Elves are prone to deception, as Celebrimbor and the smiths of Eregion were," Mithrandir continued. "Maiar too are prone to deception, such as when Morgoth had convinced us all he had a change of heart after released from the Fastness of Mandos. Some Elves desire power, as the daughter of Finarfin thirsts for power. And it was because of Sauron's desire for power, for control that he in might grew. The Maia Ossë, too, in the beginning, sought after power, for he had joined Morgoth in his rebellion against the Valar."

Círdan's eyes snapped over to him in astonishment, alit heavily with shock unconcealed. "What?" It was all he could say.

Mithrandir gave a knowing smile. "Aye; in the days of old, to Darkness did Ossë turn, but he turned back, for too wise and intelligent he was to be deceived."

Círdan minutely shook his head in profound astonishment. "Never had I heard the merest whisper that he had done so," he murmured. And he spoke again to Mithrandir. "Why did he succumb to darkness? For too long in him have I seen unfathomable loyalty to Ulmo and to your King."

A shadow passed over Mithrandir as he seemed to withdraw into a subtle gloom. "Such a time as that is of what I spoke to you, the Valar's fear at knowing Morgoth's hand passed beyond the servants of his will. Amidst the creation of Arda, Morgoth could not subdue the Sea, and hated it thereafter. So, as an attempt to obtain control, he endeavored to reel Ossë into his allegiance with the promise of all the realm and power of Ulmo as a reward, should he serve him. And a great reward it would have been, for the spirit of Ulmo runs in the veins of the World. And at Ossë's hands, great tumults arose from the sea and wrought ruin to the lands, and Ossë laughed amid the terror of his storms. But Aulë the Smith feared for the wellbeing of Ossë and called for him to stand before his lord. And through the words of Ulmo, his eyes were opened and crimes pardoned and he returned to his allegiance, remaining faithful thereafter." He looked into Círdan's shocked, nearly horrified gaze and smiled reassuringly. "All is now well, though speak not of it to him," he warned. "As most Maiar, he is enraged and unforgiving still of the crimes Morgoth committed."

Círdan looked down into the wake of his ship that continued to break within the flouncing of waves, his mind disturbed. "Never would have I imagined, though that does explain his delight in violence and why he will rage in accordance to his own will."

Mithrandir nodded. "Aye; his delight in violence has never truly departed from him since that day." And then he gave a warm smile. "But Ulmo was forgiving, which brings me back to my point of how we are alike, for some Elves are also forgiving, just as my dear friend and fellow Maia Eönwë declared forgiveness of the Noldor. Elves can become enraged, as Fingolfin did when he challenged Morgoth, and need I speak more of Ossë's rage? And that the Valar and Maiar sent us as emissaries show they are capable of love, sympathy, and fear. Need I go on, Círdan?" he teased. "Identical are the tempers of our souls, cloaked only in different origins. Have not Maiar eyes, hands, emotions, senses, passions? If you jest with us, do we not laugh? If you anger us, do we not become enraged? If you sadden us, do we not mourn? If you betray us, do we not hurt?"

Círdan smiled appreciatively. "When showcased as such, I suppose that Elves and Maiar are not really different at all."

But though he enjoyed the conversation with Mithrandir and felt a sliver of peace and wonder within, he could deny not that, in his mind, a part was still disturbed with this new knowledge of Ossë. If Mithrandir were anything but a Maia, a being knowledgeable in the history of the World of which Elves could not even begin to guess, Círdan would not have believed him. But in his heart, Círdan knew it to be true, no matter whom the words came from, for Ossë's violence renowned he had always pondered on, on how it was kindled. A place in his heart Ossë still had, but Círdan knew not if he would ever be able to look at Ossë in the same light again.

He sensed more than saw movement behind him. And when he turned, there before the cloven mast of the ship stood the one they called Radagast. And as the earthly Maia looked upon the rent wood, his fingers flitted light and soft over the impairment. And the beat of Círdan's heart quickened as he saw him do this. And ere he could hinder his feet, they carried him with swiftness granted only unto the Elven race to the Brown Wizard. Though he would lay not a hand on such a being, they went before him in helplessness as worry creased his brow.

"Please, Master," he spoke as he stood alongside him. "Touch not the mast, for a wound it is still upon my heart." Irrational he knew this demand was, but the fear indwelled him that further damage would only be rent at the smallest touch by any hand.

And Radagast smiled, keen to douse Círdan's fear and withdrew his hand from the wood marred and splintered. "Be calm, Master Shipwright," he spoke, his voice pure as mountain-air and smooth as a wild-wood stream. "Keen I am not for your wroth. And the fear of your heart is warranted, for mine own soul wails and weeps bitter and far at such wounds inflicted on life of the earth." He then stood tall and bowed his head. "But you, Captain, are master of this ship, and in accordance to your will I would heal her of the death blow dealt upon her."

Wide wonder shone in Círdan's eyes, mingled with greater disbelief. "How is it that you could heal her?" he asked, his voice straining with hope barely concealed.

The smile upon Radagast's face grew. "Of such wonders I am bestowed," he said. "Of the greatest strength, love is the foundation. As your heart lay with the Sea and your ships, so there your hands are Master, as are mine in the life of earth and beast."

Círdan cast his gaze upon the great splinter once more and his fingers trembled as he touched it, light and tentative, for he remembered the heart-stopping moment as he came to accept that he would have to build the mast anew. He then turned back to Radagast. "Please, Master," he spoke, uncaring of the pleading of his tone. "Whatever price you demand I will pay. Just let her be crippled no longer."

Radagast rested a comforting hand on Círdan's shoulder. "I will heal her, Círdan," he promised, "and no price will I demand." He looked to the prow and then to the rolling swells around him, his gaze unfocused and absent, and still he stood as, in the breeze, his hair wafted. And after a moment long and intense, he looked back at Círdan, that surreal mystery alight in his eyes once more. "Be at peace, Shipwright, and no further let your mind muse on her hewn mast. Afore you step upon the shore, she will be healed."

To heart Círdan took Radagast's words, and he felt the first glimmers of peace concerning the end fate of his ship, peace not felt since before he set sail into that storm. But ere the Mariner could utter any words of thanks, Radagast the Brown had left him at the mast and stood alongside the gunwale of the entry port. And as a statue, he stood looking out to the endless swells and did not return to Curunír's side. And Círdan turned his focus to the White Wizard that stood at the prow, with such an intense aura that he might have been bearing the ship along its course by willpower alone. But stiff was his spine and tense his shoulders and, though calmness he radiated as did his peer clad in brown, enmity hung in the air above his white head. All this Círdan saw and rightly deduced that anger existed between them still and Círdan deemed it wise to not intrude, even in thought.

"This ship in indeed beautiful, Círdan," Mithrandir spoke as the Mariner joined him once more along the stern. The Maia's gaze was cast up at the sheen sail, alight with thought and wonder. "I believe not even the white ships of Alqualondë could surpass her in beauty and grace." He gave a teasing smile. "King Olwë, I deem, would be jealous."

"I thank you, Master, for such kind words," Círdan said. "But beauty is beheld differently through each eye. The Fëagaer was built only when my heart could endure the ache no longer of not building her. And with song and my hands she was built. And my hands were taught by the teachings of the Vala Ulmo and Master Ossë. If any deserve your praise, it is not I, but they, for they taught me well."

Mithrandir shook his head with a chuckle. "Your modesty may just be your downfall one day." The smile then became solemn and sincerity shown in his eyes. "Though I am neither mariner nor master of ships, I am not blind, my friend. My eyes are as keen as ever, and I deem this ship more beautiful than even Vingilot." He then gave another smile full of jest and pride. "Of you the Valar speak often. And well known are you even in Aman for your craft, for those that sail to the Undying Lands fail not to speak highly of the ships that had borne them."

If Mithrandir saw the naked trepidation light Círdan's eyes at the mention of the Valar speaking of him, which he did, he did not mention it. For Círdan's shoulders had tensed at those spoken words and for all his millennia of living, he was incapable of hiding the worry it stirred within. But, with practiced ease, Círdan kept the conversation veered away from it.

"Again, I thank you," he said, his voice unnaturally even. "I took great pleasure in aiding Eärendil in the craft of Vingilot. For so long I had placed thought on the design and scale of the ship that youthful excitement flooded me when finally it could be crafted."

Mithrandir cocked an eyebrow. "For so long you had placed thought on the design and scale of the ship?" he repeated in confusion. "How is it that you knew you would have to build her?" Afore Círdan could speak to explain the error of his casually spoken words (in his mind, anyway), comprehension dawned in Mithrandir's grey eyes and the Mariner knew it was too late. "You possess the ability to foresee?"

With a sense of dull resignation, Círdan gave a nod, one small and absent. In emphasis of the stillness of the night, a solemn silence passed and Círdan believed his wordless answer to be the end of the conversation. But it was not to be, for when he looked over into the aged mask of Mithrandir, he was surprised to see something akin to sadness swimming in his eyes.

"For what length of time has such a curse been burdened to you?" he asked quietly.

A small, morose smile touched Círdan's mouth despite his darkened mood. And he rested along the gunwale, leaning on his forearms overboard to let his hair stream out in the salty breeze, as he contemplated what Mithrandir had just said. Of those who knew he had the Sight, few and far of Men and many among Elves (for rumors and beliefs traveled past his reach), a gift of great blessing they described it as always. Even among the common folk of all races the Sight was equated as a great gift when such fore-knowledge was brought into discussion. A deep inkling passed through Círdan's mind on the depth of wisdom he perceived this Maia possessed, for Mithrandir had known how to equate the Sight perfectly; a curse...he could not describe his foresight as anything but. Foreseeing a comeuppance of greatness, weariness, horror or devastation, knowing it was to come no matter one's interaction…how any sane being believed that to be a gift, Círdan knew not. To spare innocent lives of impending disaster or doom, action could be taken. But it only tempered the end that was to come, for all foreseen came to pass. Perhaps Elrond and Galadriel and those of equally younger age saw it sometimes as a gift since they were innocent of all he had seen and experienced, unacquainted with the true burden of the Sight. But he also knew that such naivety was born from the fact that they foresaw nothing in comparison to the revelations delivered unto him every day. True, not every vision foretold death and despair, but they could all be connected, with the result being the darkening growth of the Hither Shores. Never did he despair himself, accepting fate as philosophically as the next. But in comparison to the glory of what it once was Middle-earth was now chilled and shadowed. And having to foresee it and then see it come to pass, knowing that it was doomed to, was draining.

He was weary and oh so very tired.

Mithrandir cocked his head to the side, a slight worry in his gaze. Minutes had passed in melancholic silence, and his Elven friend had not yet answered him. "Penneth?"

Before Círdan could stop it, a snort had burst from him and he chuckled helplessly at the absurdity of that word. And he doubled over the gunwale, burying his head in the crook of his arm.

Mithrandir watched as the Elf before him dissolved into chuckles with something of bemused enjoyment. "Did I speak something amusing?"

Finally regaining control of himself, he looked up to the stars and slightly shook his head. "Yes, Master, you did." A sense of curious wonder overtook his voice, as though marveling at something he had never realized before. "Never in all my days of living have I been called that."

A sense of grief seemed to overcome Mithrandir at the words before his eyes dawned with understanding. "You awoke at Cuiviénen." For if indeed he had, there were none to look upon him as young.

It was not a question, it was a statement. And Círdan saw no need to confirm it with anything other than a nod. "Of the first few to awake," he murmured absently, seemingly to himself. He snapped out of his daze and turned an appreciative eye on Mithrandir. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"For what, Mariner?"

A wistful longing glazed his eyes. "For making me laugh," he said gravely. He shook his head. "I can remember not the last time I had laughed with such triviality. To feel such carefree delight is a balm to my soul."

Mithrandir gave a smile of warm delight as the amused twinkle returned to his eyes. "Either way, penneth, you have yet to answer my question."

Círdan gave a small grin. "For how long have I had the Sight?" he asked. "Since the Great March of the Elves in the Years of the Trees." He looked up at the stars filling the darkness, silent and sure, their bright fire mirrored in the depthless ocean. "Never has one asked me this," he said, his eyes flitting with grey emotion as his memory sought the depths of the hoard, "and with much effort it takes to recall. But par your request, I will answer. I trust you know of how came Thingol to meet his wife?" Mithrandir nodded. "Well, the Vanyar and Noldor had gone on with the March after Thingol had disappeared, for he had gone to speak with Finwë ere he did. The Teleri halted their journey in effort to find him and both Thingol's brothers and I led the searches, but in all for naught. Amidst the Teleri waiting on the shore at our bidding, the floating isle had been raised from the depths and the Vanyar and Noldor transported across the Great Sea."

Círdan let loose a sigh mingled with both regret and sorrow. "Long was it in waiting for the Teleri for the return of the floating isle to then bear us to Eldamar. And in that time we were joyous, for Ossë had then befriended us and sat upon his rock every day, teaching us all manner of sea-lore and sea-music." He shook his head at the memory. "But never did the island return, and in our impatience we returned our thought and skill back to the making of ships. And amidst our waiting, we continued to look for our Chieftain." Indeed, he added within his mind, their hands had been itching to craft their ships once again. For long ere Círdan and the Teleri had come to Beleriand they had developed a craft in boat-making; first as rafts, and soon as light boats with paddles made in imitation of the water-birds upon the lakes near the first homes at Cuiviénen. And later along the Great Journey, their ships had become larger and stronger, he himself taking the greatest lead in their invention and skill, thereby earning his name of "Shipwright". And only upon the shores of the Falas had they learned the making of the greatest ships through Ulmo and Ossë.

Círdan shook his head once more; he had to stop drifting off in the middle of conversations. "Thingol's brother Olwë eventually gave up the search," he continued. "But I went on searching, for I loved him too greatly to bear losing him. Indeed, all the Teleri had been reluctant to cross to Eldamar without him." He gave a weary sigh. "And it was then doom fell upon me, for amidst my latest search Ulmo had finally come again for the Teleri, after a hundred years in waiting. The island of Eressëa was raised and Olwë and the Teleri boarded it. And the Teleri that remained on the shores were the ones Ossë had persuaded to stay. When I finally returned with the Elves who had searched alongside me, Tol Eressëa was already being borne across the Sea."

And Círdan looked out to the Sea now, his eyes seeing in the past to that day and he spoke low in monotone, his voice eerily quiet. "On the shore I had stood, looking forlorn out at the Sea during the night, and though far away, I had seen a glimmer of light upon Eressëa ere it vanished into the West." Círdan stopped his words with suddenness and caught his breath, but he continued before Mithrandir could question his hesitation. "It was then that I saw, in a vision perhaps, a shape like a white boat, shining above me, that sailed west through the air, and as it dwindled in the distance it looked like a star of so great a brilliance that it cast my shadow upon the strand where I had stood." Wonder had entered his voice as he saw again the brightness of that star and he smiled at the memory. "And when Eärendil sought my help to build him a ship to sail into the West, it was then that I knew I had foreseen the flight of Vingilot. And a childlike excitement had driven me. From that night on the shore as I watched Eressëa vanish, my Sight has been never-ending."

"In my sympathy for your plight, these are ill-tidings. Incredible your story is, but," Mithrandir said, and his eyes narrowed, for he had marked the hesitation, "not all you have told me."

"I spoke enough," he retorted severely. He then bowed his bowed with a sigh. "I ask your forgiveness once more. Thin is my restraint and quick my temper this night it so appears."

Mithrandir rested a hand on his shoulder. "All is well, Shipwright. Long have such events been buried and such memories do not bring the greatest remembrance to light." He then cocked his head. "And yet, I have just realized something. As we spoke of the darkening of Greenwood the Great as you broke your fast, you spoke that evil took up residence in Dol Guldur."

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Mithrandir mirrored the facial expression. "You spoke you know not what it is; only that the evil is real. You then said that you spoke in person with Thranduil, who in turn heeded your warning. He heeded you, not the contrary. You foresaw the residence of evil, did you not? And alas, you sought to warn the king."

Círdan nodded, his reluctance to continue such solemn talk obvious and Mithrandir heeded the silent plea of doing so in his eyes. And the Maia nodded also as he murmured, "And do behold the rising of the Sun, for all pieces shall fall in place ere the end." Círdan looked at him in question and Mithrandir flashed a dim smile, but spoke no more of the cryptic words. "How did Thranduil receive your words? For I know the Sight, even amongst Elves, causes uncertainty and foreboding."

Círdan eyes alit with something akin to pride. "Thranduil is no fool," he said, the confidence in his voice the greatest Mithrandir had heard from him yet. "Impeccably stubborn and fierce, aye, but no fool. He possesses great wisdom and had already taken heed of my warning ere all the words left my mouth. I know he places no delight in the Sight, but never has he placed his own interest before the safety of his kingdom. Unlike some Elves I know," he added with a touch of asperity, "Thranduil takes heed of the hard lessons of history and therefore sought to remember my words, however farfetched they may have sounded."

Mithrandir ran his fingers through his beard and grunted. "What do you mean he had taken 'heed of the hard lessons of history'? I deem these are tidings I have yet to hear."

Círdan flashed him a begrudging look; despite his respect for the Maia and enjoyment in conversing with him, he was reluctant to keep digging up memories from a past he'd rather forget. And the Istar was too perceptive for his own good. "In many times passed," he spoke quietly, "I had sent warning that was never heeded. As an example, I sent word by my friend Gelmir to Orodreth of Nargothrond ere its fall in the First Age. For as I stood alone on the shore, to me my lord Ulmo had appeared and spoken; 'the Evil of the North has defiled the springs of Sirion, and my power withdraws from the fingers of the flowing waters. But a worse thing is yet to come forth. Say therefore to the Lord of Nargothrond: Shut the doors of the fortress and go not abroad. Cast the stones of your pride into the loud river, that the creeping evil may not find the gate.'" Círdan glanced at Mithrandir, who in turn saw a sliver of ire pass over the Mariner's face under the moonlight. "On Gelmir's return I was told that Orodreth had been shaken by my message, and in his worry he sought the counsel of Túrin Turambar." He gave a humorless laugh. "According to Gelmir, Túrin had scorned me, saying that if my message had any purpose it would have come sooner. And then he had mocked me, declaring that I knew nothing of the wars, to leave them be and to go and play with my ships. And the warning went unheeded."

Both brows of Mithrandir went up. "That was a tale unknown to me. And look what good their dismissal did for Nargothrond; it fell into ruin."

Círdan nodded. "And that example is but one of many."

"Hm…much anger it caused you I would suspect," he spoke.

Círdan shook his head. "No, I was not angered, save for Túrin's and any other's mockery of me and my people. Those who took no heed rejected only the visions and dreams placed upon me, and any words spoken unto me by the Vala Ulmo. Just as Gondolin fell due to King Turgon's shunning of the Vala's warning, so did Nargothrond fall at Orodreth's dismissal." Círdan closed his eyes and ran a hand wearily over his face. "Aye, a curse the Sight is upon me as you stated, but let it be at least a gift unto them."

An amused smile reached to Mithrandir's eyes. "Truly, you think with the mind of a Maia. Tell me, for my own humor; how, in the mind of an Elf, is a gift a curse and a curse a gift? For, indeed, as such it is to the Maiar, but never have I heard an Elf speak so."

Círdan let forth a weary sigh and his mind seemed to drift away, his eyes clouding over with some calculated thought. "Two I know possess the ability to foresee," he spoke, his voice quiet, "and they are Elrond Half-elven and Galadriel from the West." He then bowed his head and entwined his fingers, the passive aura changing with suddenness from being unperturbed to concern, almost worry. "It is for them my fervent wish that they may come to the knowledge and wisdom that I had unpredictably gained concerning foresight, a wisdom I had not foreseen." He gave a small chuckle at the ridiculous irony of it.

"And what is that?" Mithrandir asked quietly.

Círdan looked at him in somewhat surprise, for he thought Mithrandir already knew. But perhaps he was simply testing him again, so he went forth and answered.

"What took me millennia to understand; that foresight is not a power. As nothing but a messenger you are being used, a vessel to pass words and knowledge from the Valar unto the First and Secondborn they love. The Sight is a gift unto all peoples, truly, whom do not have it, but accursed are you for being that vessel; but with dignity and humility it should be accepted, for it is one way of seldom few you can serve your fellow Elves without opportunity to revel, for no power is granted unto you from receiving visions of the future, for there is no power to be had in it and no room to stroke pride. Wisdom is gained from the Sight, aye, but the true wise would never seek to make their wisdom known, but rather to always question it." Círdan words faded into silence and Mithrandir saw a great pain shadow Círdan's eyes. "Foresight is a gift to all Children of Ilúvatar from the Valar, save for those unto whom the Valar assign to bear it, who then must accept the burden of weariness bound with the Sight." Círdan attempted to give a wry smile but failed miserably. "Thereby as spoken; a curse is their gift to me and a gift is my curse to them. That lesson, hard and painful, I have learned."

"Though wearied by it, be grateful you have learned that lesson," Mithrandir said kindly. "And yet, if it so is with Elrond and Galadriel as you said, why do you not just tell them?"

There was a thoughtful silence before Círdan spoke. "Does an archer become a master through the instruction of the teacher? Nay, for the teacher can only teach the necessities for becoming a master. The journey to reach the summit can be only achieved on one's own, for no amount of guidance or knowledge given unto them by you can reach it for them. It is a realization that both shall have to come to learn on their own, no matter what words I have spoken."

Mithrandir leaned over and whispers in his ear, "Yet sometimes, the wisdom of the teacher lends aid to the archer to becoming a master."

A hint of amusement shone through Círdan's countenance. "You speak wisely, and mayhap I should do so. Yet I am weary to do it. And both of them are strong in spirit; thus for now, I deem it unneeded."

Mithrandir shrugged a shoulder. "In many forms wisdom shines forth. Perhaps your decision of keeping silence is the greater, for the Valar dismiss not your wisdom as folly." Again, a hint of trepidation flashed in Círdan's eyes, so quickly that only sharp eyes could have caught it, and Mithrandir spoke further, lest Círdan attempted to change the subject once more. "Enough, Círdan. Answer me fully; why does such trepidation overcome you when I say the Valar speak of you?"

To say Círdan was beyond discomforted was to say rain was wet. And his voice was eerily deadened when he spoke. "I simply knew not that they did."

Mithrandir shook his head, his brow furrowed. "True that may be, Círdan, but I see your fear as much as feel it. You become scared each time I mention the Valar and you in the same sentence. Why?"

A moment of silence, painful and unbearable, passed before Círdan let out a shaky breath. He swallowed convulsively and closed his eyes. "Please, Master, speak not of it…I cannot."

Mithrandir looked upon him with worry, for he then perceived that he had touched upon a deep wound within the Mariner through his words, a wound long buried, never touched upon before, never surfaced to be quelled and healed. He took hold of the Mariner's hand and held it tight. "My friend, what fear could be conjured at the knowledge that the Valar speak of you? Have you a quarrel with them?"

Círdan dismissed the notion with a small shake of his head. "No, Master," he spoke quietly. "With neither anger nor malcontent do I think upon them, for they have the greatest respect I can offer. And on the Hither Shores I serve them at their command." He shrugged. "I simply knew not that they speak of me."

Mithrandir chuckled at the simplicity of Círdan's answer. "Do you not realize how much Ulmo speaks of you?" he asked, a hint of humored incredulity in his tone. "A task it is sometimes befallen to my King to try and get him to be quiet about you."

"What does my lord speak of me?" Círdan looked at him, but it was a fleeting glance only. Yet nonetheless, Mithrandir caught the way his shoulders had involuntarily stiffened and his fingers flitted across the dark wood of the gunwale. And he indeed caught the uncertainty that lined Círdan's seemingly innocent question and the false casualness of his tone.

The Istar's brow furrowed in confusion and even a hint of worry. "You speak not jestingly," he said, "for I was about to reply thus. Your name is frequently discussed among the Valar, namely my King; why does this cause you doubt?"

Círdan sighed in resignation, for he sensed that the Maia was not going to quit. But it dampened not at all the ache within his chest that grew from the mere memory stirred. "You were correct; I spoke not of everything that happened when I first received the Sight."

Mithrandir waited. "What happened?" There was another silence, this one so long in lasting that the conversation may have ended. But then the Mariner spoke in a quiet voice that belied the age and inner strength the Elf visibly bore.

"The Valar denied me Eldamar."

Despite the patience of his visage, Círdan saw the slight widening of Mithrandir's eyes. "What?" And though calm was his voice, he heard the incredulity beneath it.

Círdan gave a small smile, though void of any delight. "As I spoke, I stood on the shore, looking out to the light I saw upon Eressëa as she went onward to vanish into the West, for in that time, going to Aman was my greatest desire. And it was then forfeit. But ere I saw the white ship shine above me in vision, I wept upon the shore, and did so until Eressëa was almost from sight. And then I cried aloud; 'I will follow that light, alone if none will come with me, for the ship that I have been building is now almost ready.'" Círdan shook his head in seeming remorse. "But even as I declared the words, I heard a message spoken in my heart, in my own tongue." This time the smile was genuine. "That then was the first time I met the Vala Ulmo, the first time he spoke with me. And through his words I learned that the Valar would by no method bear me to the Undying Lands. And at my declaration of sailing on my own, the Vala Ulmo warned me to not attempt that peril, for my strength and skill would not have been able to build any ship able to dare the winds and waves of the Great Sea for many years to come. So upon the Falas I remained, though banned from Aman in all but word."

Mithrandir gazed at him curiously, a flicker in his eyes that led Círdan to believe he knew something he did not. "How answered you to Ulmo's words?"

And there was another small smile, but this time the compassion was seen within it. "I spoke, 'I will obey'," he said simply. "Thinking back on it, a lifetime such words had seemed to presage being uttered."

Mithrandir's gaze was still cast upon him, curiosity mingled with clarity now muddled. "In some tales of old my eyes are shrouded, and now the number is one less. But in your voice I hear neither resentment nor sorrow, merely acceptance…but not fear." The fire in his eyes seem to shine brighter as they pierced Círdan's own, keeping them locked in place. "Hide no longer, Círdan. What was it about that day that brings fear upon your heart by the mere memory of it? For your light visibly darkens when you speak of it."

Círdan winced. "Please, Master, press me no more." He detested pleading, but he knew not anything else he could do to evade answering.

But Mithrandir held steady. "I am pressing you," he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. "And you will answer me this; why does anxiety overcome you when I say the Valar speak of you?" Mithrandir, potent in friendship and kindness to name but a few, resented greatly the authority he pressed that left no leeway for his Elven friend. But, like a shadow, he saw, this memory shrouded Círdan. And any who knew the Mariner well could see his swift obedience under the Vala Ulmo, brought about quicker by said Vala's firmness. And though Mithrandir disliked to abuse such loyalty, he rightly perceived that to do so was the only way for Círdan to answer against his will, for this shadow had to be quenched after so long an existence.

And rightly he did perceive, for the firmness in Mithrandir's tone rang as a small bell in the back of Círdan's mind, reasserting itself and reminding him of his place in the order of the World. As on the shore countless ages ago, it was to Ulmo and his brethren he had sworn to serve, and to Ulmo and his brethren he would obey. And so he did.

And his voice came slow in speaking and low in pitch, as though he hoped fervently that Mithrandir would signal him to speak no more. "You are correct, Master, in that remaining in Middle-earth bothers me no more. Indeed, I am glad that I remained, for there is no land I love greater." Pain was then visibly etched across Círdan's face as all the reluctance in the world shone in his eyes. "No, I am not angered with the Valar, for my service in Middle-earth is greater than it would be in the Undying Lands."

His voice constricted and words never before spoken had to be now forced beyond his lips. "I simply wish to know what I had done to earn the Valar's disfavor. How I had wronged them to be denied the Elvenhome. What word I had spoken or deed I had performed worse than those of the Noldor that brought about their banishment." Círdan closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath in attempt to collect himself. And when he again spoke, his voice was a little more controlled, but only a little. "It is not the notion of desiring to go to Aman, but that the Valar may yet reject me still when I finally sail, as they had done the first time, for it was made clear they would come again for me no more."

Mithrandir stared at him in silence, the tranquility of his visage belying the profound shock deep in his being, the horror and disbelief he felt at the Mariner's words. "As the shroud is lifted then I see," he murmured. Círdan glanced sharply at him, but he ignored it. "And in what I see I lay bare. In being told directly to not sail, with self-doubt you had been plagued in belief of your worth and value. Though by chance you missed the second crossing, to no Elf before you was it told to not sail, and thereby was that fear implanted in you that you had wronged the Valar by some deed unknown, even to yourself. And at my words, you can help not but wonder exactly how the Valar speak of you, whether with words of scorn, resentment, or disappointment, for within the recesses of your mind, in light of that day, it must be one if not all three."

Only through perceptive eyes could it be seen that Círdan was ready to flee. Taut as a bowstring was his body and a frozen mask of indifference his visage. He responded with neither word nor gesture to Mithrandir's appraisal. And from a distance, his posture was still and gave the impression that he did not care. But Mithrandir was neither at a distance nor quick to judge. But keen eyes he did possess, and he saw how Círdan's clasped hands trembled, and heard his shuddering breath as he exhaled. And he saw how the eyes of the Shipwright, shadowed and haunted, stared out at the ocean unseeing and how his countenance paled a shade whiter. Círdan was visibly shaken, and towards him Mithrandir felt sorrow, for he was aware that never before had such words been spoken to the Elf; never before had the walls erected around this memory been cast down and all of Círdan's thoughts and inner turmoil concerning that day lain bare.

Mithrandir felt the tremors of Círdan's shoulder as he laid a hand on it. And in the hope of instilling a sense of calm that had long departed the Mariner, he held firm the shoulder. "Círdan," he spoke kindly, "that I struck the truth I see in your eyes. My friend…" He took hold of Círdan's cheek and turned his face towards his own. "Ere the Istari went forth on our journey, we were told that your greatness is as high as the first kings of old among the Elves. How could you think this?"

A helpless doubt lit Círdan's eyes. "How could I not?"

Mithrandir gave a nod of consent. "True, in light of what you have told me, I understand how you could not. But doubt me not when I say, Círdan, that you are spoken of with high regard in Valinor and by my King. With Manwë I reside upon his mountain, and never in my hearing has a word been uttered against you. For as you and your brethren were first beheld by the starlit mere of Cuiviénen, still the Valar speak of you and hold you in thought with wonder. And the Valar have forgotten not that, in the beginning, the Elder Children of Ilúvatar were stronger and greater than they have since become. You have done nothing wrong." Mithrandir hesitated, for he was uncertain as to how the Mariner would react to his coming words. "But in your train of thought, you are mistaken with only one thing."

Círdan raised an eyebrow expectantly. "And what is that?"

Mithrandir this time openly winced, for he knew that Círdan was about to be hurt. "It was not the Valar who denied you passage to Aman," he said. "It was not the Valar who forced you to forfeit your greatest desire….It was Ulmo."

Círdan's eyes visibly widened as his eyes clouded with undeniable hurt as the realization of what was said sunk in. "What?" he begged, only his lips more spoke the word than did his voice.

"Think not ill of him, Círdan," Mithrandir said quickly, a pleading urgency alight in his eyes. "Please, think not ill of him. After Eressëa was uplifted from the depths of his Waters, the Valar came together in counsel and spoke of, again, summoning the Teleri a third time, for they wanted you all in their Blessed Realm. But Ulmo spoke against the summons and stated that it were better for the Teleri to remain in Middle-earth, for he knew the hearts of the Teleri better than any. And though ill-pleased by his refusal, the Valar kept silent a third summoning."

Círdan looked helpless. And despite Mithrandir's words, a glimmer of hurt still shone in his eyes. "That indeed explains why the Falathrim and I soon lost the desire to see Eldamar." He cast his desperate gaze on the Maia. "And all Elves who remained on the shore, save myself, did not wish to go to Aman, for they were persuaded by the Maia Ossë to stay. But the Vala Ulmo heard my plea; why did he stop me?"

Mithrandir grieved at hearing how close Círdan was to pleading. Though hurt yet lined the Mariner's voice, the respect and reverence he held for the King of the Seas was still vastly present. Though fear dredged up from his past was now mingled with confusion, he did not yet feel betrayal. And Mithrandir found hope in that. And with a bright smile, he answered. "He stopped you because he saw you for who you were and what you were to become."

Círdan visibly calmed at his words and a sense of amazement fell over Mithrandir; even amidst the sundry accusations and inner turmoil brought and scattered, the Mariner was still released from doubt and despair at simply knowing that Ulmo was there, that he was the invisible hand behind the plow. And all that proved the fact over again to Mithrandir that Círdan did, in fact, trust every aspect of his life to the Vala.

And as he calmed, a hope shone in Círdan's eyes. "He did?"

Mithrandir nodded. "He did. You yourself spoke that you know your worth is greater in Middle-earth than in Aman. And Ulmo foresaw that." He shook his head and chuckled in exasperation. "Doubt me not, Círdan, when I say that he loves you. In the times he sets foot upon the shores of Aman, of which are seldom few, every time Ulmo speaks of you. And as I said, it is a difficult task for Manwë to get him silent. And through Ulmo's words alone, the Valar entrusted you to be their Gatekeeper." He cocked his head in curiosity. "Believe you that the Valar would place an Elf they did not trust and respect as the Gatekeeper to their Blessed Land? Believe you that, unto an Elf accursed by them, they would assign the duty of determining those that will be granted the rite of passage to Aman? Through you, in this day, all Elves are granted the right to cross the Sea. With your judgment it is determined who will sail, when they will sail, or if they must be doomed to remain in Middle-earth a while longer." He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Believe you truly that the Valar, mighty in wisdom, would entrust that explicit duty to an Elf that they curse?"

Círdan clenches his jaw, his discomfort obvious. "I deserve no such praise, for my guidance consistently comes through the voice of the Vala Ulmo. He knows."

Mithrandir smiled in amusement. "Lie to me not, Shipwright. Though the greatest wisdom you have gained through the long years of your life, I know it is by your judgment, that you obtained through your wisdom, that the passage of Elves is determined, save for those who have heard the calling of the Sea."

Círdan looked at him doubtfully, though whether of his words or himself was unclear. "You speak with the Valar. If they entrust me so as you say, how do they know that my heart does not blind my judgment?"

"As we grow in wisdom, we pardon more freely," he said simply. He then raised an eyebrow. "Are you questioning the wisdom of the Valar in making their decisions?"

"Nay, merely the fact of how they know I will not fail them in my purpose on Middle-earth, that I will have the wisdom, if I may use that word again, to fulfill it."

Mithrandir's eyes twinkled in laughter. "I told you, my friend; Ulmo speaks of you very often, and his words are good. And who, in Aman or this side of the Sea, knows you better?"

Círdan could not prevent the smile from surfacing; no greater truth could have been spoken, but the smile quickly faded. "Wise, I think not, for if I were as wise as you name me to be, would I have had those doubts and fears still all these millennia later? Should I not have had the knowledge to understand by now what happened that day Eressëa went into the West?"

Mithrandir chuckled. "Your humility dampens your pride, if you even have any. And that humility has sharpened your mind, opening it to the realities of the World." He saw a sliver of doubt beneath the impassiveness and Mithrandir rested his hand atop of Círdan's. "Listen to me, penneth. The foundation of wisdom is found in doubting; on that day you first possessed the Sight, you doubted the Valar and, even more greatly, yourself. By doubting we come to the question; as I have managed the impossible and persuaded you to voice those questions you have ever kept in your heart. And by seeking their answers we may come upon the truth." He then smiled a gentle smile. "This truth just took a little longer to come to light." A look of confusion lit his face. "Surprised I am, though, that Ulmo never spoke this; that he never spoke to you why you were kept from Aman."

"I never asked."

Mithrandir stared at him in disbelief. "Now that was inaction of true stupidity. Never let it be said that the wise never stop learning. In your case, it is one of the blessings of your friendship with Ulmo that you can afford to be stupid with him."

Círdan chuckled, not offended by the jibe, for he believe it to be true. "My doubt led me astray. And in time, I learned to forget it, though I will deny not the folly of ignoring it." A burst of spray flew up against the hull of the ship and Círdan stared down at the water in amazement; somehow, he could sense Ulmo's exasperation as he listened to the conversation. He turned to Mithrandir. "Thank you."

Mithrandir nodded only and spoke no more on the subject. "There is one thing I would like to know, Círdan," he said, "for long I have pondered it and never had it answered."

Círdan's interest was piqued. Of what did he know that the Maia didn't, after all? "Of course. What do you wish to know?"

A moment of silence passed as the Maia studied the Mariner, his grey eyes shimmering with thought. "Of much we have spoken concerning your self-doubt. Was that one of the reasons why you refused the kingship, thus passing it onto Elwë? For long have I wondered why you, as the eldest of the Teleri, abdicated the opportunity to become the first Elvenking of Beleriand."

Círdan gave an offhanded shrug and, with nothing better to do, his fingers strayed once more to his wayward hair in attempt to untangle it. "In the greater reason it is what you named," he said. "Yet not the only one. From the dawn of time, already in my heart I had been enchanted by the Vala Ulmo's Waters, for on the very shores of the mere of Cuiviénen I awoke, the mere's water sweeping about me." A thoughtful frown creased his brow. "Perhaps when breath first entered my body my heart was destined to belong to the Sea. But during those hundred years of our waiting upon the shores of the Falas, I had become enamored with the Sea; not to the degree I am in love with the Sea today, but to the point where my desire for Aman and desire for the Sea began to war with each other. And there came the first in my youth when my heart was divided." Another weary sigh passed his lips. "And then after the whole…situation…of Tol Eressëa, I knew not with clarity my own heart and mind any longer. And amidst my own inner confusion, I dared not to take up the title of High King, for I feared to lead my kin astray.

"Therefore, I settled as an advisor to King Thingol and as Lord of the Falas, and with those duties I was content. And Elwë was a greater leader to our people than I. Besides," he added with a self-conscious smile, "my tutelage under the Vala Ulmo and his vassal had become an integral part of me, so much that the Sea became my only flame of desire."

"Yes," Mithrandir spoke slowly, for he fully believed Círdan's declaration of where the desire of his heart lay; for ere he first met the Mariner, none before him, be he Elf or Man, in the Maia's eyes, had ever professed such a love for Ulmo's Waters. Yet still, the grey clad Istar was shrouded in a sliver of worry and had no qualm to voice his concern. "Are you angry with Ulmo after all I have spoken, my friend?" he asked. "To quell your turmoil was my intention, not to stir resentment against your lord."

And a genuine laugh burst forth from Círdan's chest. "How could I be angry with him? Far wiser is he than I and long ago I entrusted my life to him. If he deemed my place is in Middle-earth - and I believe him correct - then in Middle-earth my place is. And if he deems that I shall remain in Middle-earth, then in Middle-earth I shall remain until the last ship sails." He cast an appraising eye on the water below. "And long ago I sensed he does deem it so, and so it shall be."

Mithrandir's grey brow quirked. "You would stay unto the ending of the World if Ulmo asked it of you?" The question was rhetorical and he expected no answer. "Have you no desire to go to Aman anymore?"

Círdan shook his head, a surreal nature of peace cloaking him, as if he were one in great age ready to lay down in his permanent bed. Neither doubt nor weariness entered his tone as he spoke, "My heart no longer craves to see the Blessed Realm. That flame of desire died long ago. With the Sea, my heart is content and my soul at peace. If so granted, it is there I would lay my spirit to rest…until the ending of the World. I need not the bliss of Aman, only my blessed union with the Sea."

A wholly different sense of worry overcame Mithrandir. "You are ready to rest?"

"I count the hours ere I can sleep."

Silence pressing and foreboding fell after the reconciled words were spoken and Mithrandir had not the will to question Círdan's fatalistic statement. But it caused in him a disturbance nonetheless, for the weariness he perceived in the Mariner was buried too deeply for him to dredge. Instead, the Maia observed him with a warm grin as he fought the losing battle with his silver hair. "Círdan," Mithrandir spoke with a mischievous smile, "ere even I received the Valar's counsel and all words spoken of you, I would still have recognized who you are, even if you bore no name to speak."

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "How?"

Mithrandir reached out and took a strand of Círdan's knotted hair in hand, gently running it between his fingers. "Your hair," he said simply, as though it were the most obvious answer in the world. "Your hair is a large giveaway, for it bears the silver hue of Thingol and yet the white sheen of Olwë. You are the kinsman of the brothers, a true Elf of nobility and no other has hair such as yours." He released the hair as a wave of melancholy seemed to wash over him. "Olwë and Elwë would recognize you not, I fear, for you no longer bear a visage of youth, but rather that of an elderly Man." And then he smiled. "But your hair gives you away easily."

No further words passed the lips that night from any aboard the ship, and the Fëagaer sailed swiftly on amongst the endless glassy swells alit with the arched latitudes of stars, guided as ever by the hand of the Dweller of the Deep. And in the hard black vault above the Moon waned as the night passed, and yet still, it was too early in time for Círdan again to see the rising dawn. For ere the diminishing of the white stars, Ulmo summoned the Mariner once more beneath deck to rest with the aid of Lórien. And he went without word or thought of complaint, for he was beyond weary in both mind and body and looked eagerly towards his bed. With him went Mithrandir, who took from the forepeak the lantern that Círdan had left there, which he had doused after Círdan had last left for sleep. The other two Istari remained on deck in silence, sharing neither company nor word.

And in the helmsman's quarters, Mithrandir had turned away to afford Círdan the privacy to strip from his clothing ere he slipped under the thin covers of his bed. And as his head met the pillow, his eyes heavy and tired had quickly closed; sleep already falling upon him without aid of higher power. But beside him Mithrandir sat. And above, he saw the Vala of Dreams as a wraith appear and place a hand upon the Mariner's head, dousing his sentience and sending him into deep slumber. And with light fingers, Mithrandir moved aside the stray hairs from Círdan's brow as the Mariner's breaths grew long and deep.

And once assured the Mariner would not wake, he leaned back with a sigh. In his hand Mithrandir bowed his head, and he put forth his mind to the other world, the dominion of his incorporeal form. Manwë, my King, how could you sanction such a deserving Elf to be ruined and robbed by weariness and not now call him home to your Blessed Realm? He has done nothing to deserve such chastisement and is in great need of healing.

And in the designated chest Mithrandir placed the lantern ere parting in silence, leaving Círdan to his rest.

To be continued….

A/N: Next chapter – pieces of the puzzle finally start falling into place. Deep topics are discussed, among them the Rings of Power. Ulmo plays his biggest part and Círdan finally finds out why he is on this voyage and also has a vision. And in Ch. 7, he finally arrives home! I know that, in this chapter, there was a lot to make some folk question canonical accuracy, but again, all sources will be listed.

And perhaps it is a bit cheeky to suggest that the beauty and greatness of Círdan's ship surpassed even the white ships of Alqualondë, but there's no reason why it wouldn't. Círdan was given his legacy name "Shipwright" and the title as the "Lord of Shipwrights" long before the Teleri of Tol Eressëa ever crossed the Great Sea. Círdan is the greatest mariner and shipwright of all mariners and shipwrights, and whether they live in Aman or not is irrelevant.

Reviews are more than greatly appreciated and I thank you in advance for them. Expect chapter 6 within the next two weeks. Happy trails, and please review!