Disclaimer: For full disclaimer see chapter 1.

A/N: Thank you as ever for your patience and willingness to continue reading. In this chapter, there is more dialogue, but all things start falling into place and Ulmo comes aboard the Fëagaer. And in the next chapter, Círdan finally arrives home and there starts insanity. With that, I would like to give my thanks to Lia Whyteleafe, GreenGreatDragon, adorkable123456, Zammy, and Mia-philosephet for your reviews. And my special thanks to Lia Whyteleafe for giving advice on this chapter. Happy reading!

"If there is anything more poignant than a body agonizing for want of bread, it is a soul which is dying of hunger for light." ~ Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

Chapter 6

A barren wasteland lay stretched before him shrouded in shadow, the marred land rolling and writhing in tumult. The wind whipped his hair wild and scratched at his skin as the fell claws of a savage beast. The sky was black and deafening thunder rumbled without pause while lightning shattered the sky. A red haze screened the horizon and all around the plain rose fumes and poisonous vapors, carrying to Círdan the scent of burning blood. And the air was superheated so fiercely that his throat and lungs burned and scorched as he breathed.

And Círdan cast his gaze around him, his feet planted solidly on the ground, and he took in the horrific sight that lay before him as dismay seized his heart. Afar he could see trees tall and majestic burning, and he could smell their scorched pinewood and oak leaves. Carcasses stretched across in haphazard heaps of different animals, many of them horses and birds, their mutilated bodies providing a feast to the creatures of the dirt as they decomposed. In the furrows of the ground he could see evidence of dried riverbeds. Blood covered the field in spatters and puddles and the air reeked with the scent of corpses.

But amidst all the death, it was not lifeless. Along the Far East there were lined massive machinations of war, shrouded in the shadow of dark mountains. He saw Men running to and fro, their women clutching their children to their breast, their mouths opened in screams inaudible. But also were Men fighting a blurred enemy, their swords heavy and shields strong. And they gave no leeway. Elves, Círdan saw also, fought in another corner; their faces fierce and fell, their bows strong and light, and their blades deadly and swift. And they gave no leeway. But Elves, Círdan saw also, were fleeing, and they fled beyond his sight. Dwarves defended their mountains and Little People hid in their holes, safe-guarding their land. War raged on and darkness encroached.

But amidst all this, Círdan saw a flame in the center. Though not great in size, it radiated pure light in a constant stream. But the fire did not devour; it kindled peace within Círdan and succored his wanhope and distress. He knew not what this flame was, but it remained ever strong, untainted, untouched, and the darkness could not quench it. For amid the battles raging and stench of death, it remained unconquered.

Círdan knew not how many hours he lay in his bed. His grey eyes were cast upon the timber ceiling of his quarters as the dark and troubled vision passed from his field of sight. And his eyes, dilated and dark, cleared as they took hold of his surroundings once more. And he simply lay there in silence afterwards, the moaning and creaking of the wood of his ship as it rocked along the ocean mingled with his breaths being the only sound in the cabin. And upon this vision – or mayhap it was a dream – Círdan placed little thought, for already the Mariner knew what it was he saw with uncanny clarity; the Istari he presumed was the flame, and he saw what they were soon to be surrounded by. And dwelling upon what he further knew was to come would do little to alleviate the weariness of his mind. As pointed out by Mithrandir, Elves were inquisitive creatures and rarely paused in thought when there was a mystery to be solved. But ere the Sun had first traversed the sky he had learned to temper his thoughts to mere ends and leave them at that. What more could be accomplished otherwise?

But though silent he remained, Círdan's thoughts were awry. Of much the Istari had given him to think upon and little respite had been granted to ponder on it as he now had. But he kept silent his thoughts and was content with all the new knowledge he had been granted of this coming resistance against Sauron. And for the first time in years, he felt a glimmer of peace at the hope it stirred, for only with the intervention of the Valar had the rise in power of the Enemy been smitten.

"Amidst the Sea let me dwell."

The whispered words slipped past his lips without his awareness that they did. And such simple words had been uttered long and far over the millennia of Círdan's life that a mellow song had been derived from them over the counting years on the shore. For unto Ulmo it had been his plea, to ever reside amongst the Sea and never be parted from it. He would be deceiving himself if he said that Mithrandir's dredging of the past had not shaken him. For it had, rather immensely. And still, he felt a shudder run through his body every time he recalled their conversation, for every emotion, every doubt and fear, every ounce of turmoil from that day so long ago had been brought to the surface as fresh and shattering as the day when they had first been felt.

Elven memory was not mortal memory, he knew. Mortals, as one of their blessings Círdan presumed, could recall an incident from the past as though simply looking upon a page in a book. But Elven memory was strong and not only did they remember everything, but they felt everything that came with it. And though Mithrandir had practically torn him apart through bringing up that day with Eressëa…he was grateful that he did. For the thought that he had somehow wronged the Valar had forever tormented him. But now knowing what he did, he could help not but to think how foolish he had been. He should have been more trusting of them – more trusting of Ulmo – in that they did nothing without reason. Mithrandir had been right, he thought; he should have asked and was stupid to have not done so. But as he had declared, Aman mattered little to him now, for all he desired was the Sea. But still, knowing that he would not be rejected from Valinor once he did sail…he could breathe again.

A light knock came on the door and Círdan turned to look at the narrow panel of wood. "Come."

With nary a sound, the door opened and Radagast entered with a serene smile. "For hours you have lain and by impatient Tilion the Moon is set to wane," the Istar gently teased in tones quiet and lyrical. Yet with the vaguest hints of worry did his brown eyes glimmer. "Are you well, Shipwright? For your presence we have waited, but faint and far you remain to our sight."

Círdan's face fell in concern as he released a weary sigh. "I apologize; I knew not you and your colleagues wait for me. Allow me to dress and I shall join you."

Radagast inched a little ways further into the cabin, the worry not having deserted his eyes. "Are you well, I ask again? In your eyes I see you are troubled. Yet by the bidding of the Lord of Waters your mind is to not be burdened."

Círdan shook his head as the vaguest hints of a smile touched the corners of his mouth, though his eyes remained tired and heavy. "I am well. Much the Istari have given me to think upon. But only think do I do, for your many words of when I was last awake give me little to worry about." Of the vision he kept silent, for said revelation brought about much concern as they always did. And he hoped that the truth spoken (or rather lack of it) was satisfying to the Maia.

But unfounded was that hope when Círdan saw the knowing gleam in Radagast's eyes. "Let your words be true," he spoke evenly. And then he smiled. "Yet I would that you ready yourself, for Mithrandir bears a gift for you." Only the keenest eyes could have then seen the slightest clenching of his jaw. "And Curunír desires to speak with you."

Círdan's interest was suitably piqued. And though his body bemoaned leaving the comfort of his bed, he dressed swiftly as Radagast awaited him in the crew's cabin. His movements were slow and sluggish and in a brief flash of envy in his tired mind, he really wanted again the rejuvenation of youth. Mayhap he was getting too old, he thought, that such thoughts should be upon him. But he slipped on his boots and, after stepping through the narrow door, Radagast looked upon him with a smile and amusement in his eyes. "My Lord Círdan," he spoke in jest. "Never do I believe have I seen hair so askew."

Círdan knew not whether to grin, for contagious was Radagast's own smile, or to grimace, for he agreed with the astute observation. A Warg probably had hair more pristine, he thought grudgingly. And any earlier attempts in disentangling it had resulted with pain in his scalp. So the Mariner settled for scowling at the Maia for finding humor in his poor hair's demise. "Embark on your journey in the Hither Lands ere you speak such words to me," he grumbled.

And Radagast chuckled, the sound light and clear and warm as the Sun. And Círdan could help not but to grin a little in return, for the Maia's merriment could be felt. "And of our doom you speak the truth I deem," he said. "For without the comfort of Elves we shall traverse Middle-earth. Come, my friend." He held out a nimble hand. "Beneath the stars let us partake of this night." And behind him Círdan followed.

Above deck night certainly reigned, which brought little wonder to Círdan. Right when cleared of the hatch, he was bombarded with the southern gales. And the wind tugged at his attire and hair ferociously. But Círdan's eyes went to the starry dome above, clear of any wisp of a cloud. As ever, innumerable stars, faint and far, littered the heavens of Arda with fire as in the dawn of days. The Moon, driven high in the sky, shone brightly down on the shimmering ocean. But as Círdan studied the stars and the constellations therein, he knew that not even three days remained ere they reached the Gulf of Lhûn, and beyond her, Mithlond. The wind blew from astern, the boom of the mainsail stretching to its fully capacity, the telltale of wool at the masthead fluttering madly. And the strong wind sent the Fëagaer running elegantly over the rolling swells and Círdan, with swiftness granted only unto experienced mariners, remained gracefully balanced on the moving deck of the ship as he followed Radagast to the stern.

And at the stern stood Curunír and Mithrandir, speaking in words quiet and curt. Their hair and raiment whipped about them, and both flustered and energetic they seemed to be, which encouraged Círdan to absently wonder if the Istari have had need to rest over the voyage. But for a long duration they must have stood there speaking, Círdan deduced with amusement, for both their beards showed the first signs of the white crust that formed in the hairs after standing for so long against the salty wind. But as they approached the two Istari Círdan's eye was caught by another movement as they walked down the aisle of rowing benches.

That accursed oyster shell.

In the hours he had laid awake in bed Círdan had attempted to place little thought on the seashell that now rocked in a rolling rhythm on the bench, reflecting the pure moonlight on its sheen surface. Mithrandir had made him give his word to not touch the shell and after such insistence to leave it be, Círdan now had the strongest and irrational desire to touch it. And though a step away it seemed now tantalizingly out of reach.

"How by the greatest desire beyond our reach is such temptation stirred," a teasing voice spoke.

Círdan turned his glowering gaze unto Mithrandir's twinkling eyes and said nothing. The fault lay with Mithrandir, after all, that such temptation existed, he rationalized. Curunír looked upon the scene with a slight smile, though grave did his eyes remain. And Círdan looked into Curunír's fiery eyes and collected himself.

"I apologize for making you wait, my lord. Is it that you would speak with me?" he asked evenly, hiding well the nervousness he felt. For Círdan indeed felt a sense of trepidation at speaking once more with Curunír the White, not out of any sense of fear, but out of seeing in him something the other Maiar too contained in a lesser degree. For the Maiar were not just parts of Ilúvatar's Song; they were Ilúvatar's Song. And Curunír, whether by way of his knowledge of the World and its wonders that he emanated so thoroughly, or through the knowledge that he was the Head of the Istari, he simply seemed to breathe and speak and walk in that greatness of the Song more than the others. And though he would not admit it aloud, Círdan could not deny that his presence was intimidating to be sure.

Curunír gave a single nod, the meager smile swiftly disappearing as his countenance became grave. And his hands wringed along his fine staff, though his eyes and bearing remained sure. "Aye, Master Mariner, it is," he spoke. "As Mithrandir had hitherto spoken, in certain ways our eyes are shrouded."

Círdan slightly raised an eyebrow as he heard the tautness of the words, as though they had been voiced against Curunír's will. But ere he could think of questioning such obvious disparage, he heard a barely smothered snicker from his right and turned to look into Mithrandir's smiling face. "Such admittance touched upon your pride, I do see," the grey-clad Istar spoke in jest, laughter alight in his eyes. "That the knowledgeable be bereft of knowledge…what torment it must be."

"Go play with your fire," Curunír grumbled back, though a smile lurked at the corner of his mouth. Círdan inwardly grinned at the good-natured byplay between the two, but all too soon Curunír's grave focus was once more upon him. "Nonetheless, it is as I spoke, and yet I tell you that in one matter my eyes are shrouded still. To it I seek an answer, if you will give it."

Círdan gave a nod. "My knowledge will not be kept from you, my lord," he spoke. "If through it I am able to help, I will answer the best I can."

Once more, Círdan caught the faintest glint of approval in Curunír's dark eyes, as well as the deference that came with it. "Good," he said. "Upon Taniquetil of Manwë's mountain and amidst the debriefing of the Valar we had been told much of the Sauron's Ring, for within it lays dormant his power and will. And amidst the era he forged in secret this Ring, we were told other rings by the hands of the Mírdain were made, and of them there were many. We were told that in the making of the rings, Celebrimbor was instrumental."

Against his comprehension, Círdan felt within a flood of apprehension and warning, and kept his countenance a careful mask of neutrality. Though it seemed that he had to will his eyes to maintain contact with Curunír's, for he felt great temptation to look down towards where he felt the pulse of Narya, invisible upon his finger. In a fleeting glance, Círdan looked to Mithrandir, but his face too was a composed mask, one of simple curiosity. But Círdan was not ignorant of the growing air of unease between them. He felt that they were waiting for an answer, some acknowledgement of some kind, and Círdan knew not what to think.

So Círdan simply nodded again. "Aye, it is true. What of it?"

Curunír cocked his head to the side in curiosity, ignoring completely the wisps of hair blowing across his face. "What happened when Sauron put on his Ring?" he asked.

Círdan was speechless, plain and simple. Perhaps a question pertaining to the location of any or all rings or to the power indwelling them he might have expected, but not this. Círdan's thoughts were awry and muddled now with confusion and could not prevent such quandary from lighting his eyes. He peered around to find all three Istari waiting for an answer, standing still in patient expectation.

He looked back into Curunír's unblinking stare. "What happened?" he repeated weakly.

Curunír nodded.

Círdan searched through his vault of memories afore recalling that fate-altering day long ago. And with the recollection there came to him the deep anger and despair he had felt that day; in his eyes the Istari saw the long-past emotions shadow them. But Círdan spoke evenly, thereby belying the mixed sentiments swimming in his eyes. "Being that you speak of the rings forged by the smiths of Celebrimbor….All who wore a ring crafted through Sauron's aid of hand removed them, for they had then realized they had been deceived when Sauron's placed upon his finger the Ring, for they could feel his presence within the rings they wore."

Curunír raised an eyebrow. "And?" he asked. "What did he do?"

Círdan gave a helpless shrug, believing that the Istari must already know this. "He returned to Eregion, demanding the surrender of all Rings of Power. When it was not so, when he had received not all of them, he had tortured and slaughtered Celebrimbor, bearing his corpse on a spear as his banner. War had erupted and Eregion lain to waste."

Curunír nodded again, his voice abnormally calm even as he spoke, and Círdan sensed an underlying impatience. "Of this we know, for of all rings pertaining to all Races the Valar saw fit to inform us. That Celebrimbor denied him only the location of the Elven Rings we also know. And I ask again; what did Sauron do?"

There was a pause. "He scoured Eriador in search of them." Círdan's voice was tight, his throat constricted with some suppressed emotion attached to the memory, though whether it would be rage or sorrow, none knew.

Finally, a hint of the impatience broke through Curunír's words. "And how did he scour for them?"

Círdan furrowed his brow. "He raged war on Eriador," he said simply. "None were safe from either his wrath or hand."

"Yes, yes," he replied, the impatience finally breaking through to a respectable degree. "But he scoured for them how? Was he urgent?"

Círdan blinked. And all that could be heard was the groaning of wood, the deep roar of ocean waves, and wind-whipped canvas. Yet the Mariner had deduced that this was what the two Istari had previously been arguing about. "Aye, by my reckoning he was urgent," he said carefully, fully uncertain as to what answer Curunír was looking for. Yet he spoke the truth; with swiftness and unmatched resolve, Sauron had swept across Eriador in searched of the Elven Rings, without mercy and without pause. The massacre and ruin of Eregion had been destined to be the fate of all people west of the Hithaeglir. "No land was safe. If but for the timely aid of the Númenórean Fleet, to the furthest corner of Middle-earth would Sauron's reach have extended. I apologize, Master," he added sincerely at the slight glimmer of disappointment in Curunír's eyes. "I would that I could tell you more, but present I was not at neither the forging of the Elven Rings nor when Sauron came to collect them. Unless in Mithlond, I had been in the company of Elvenking Gil-galad. Of his urgency, I can tell you no more outside of sheer guesswork and hearsay."

Curunír gave a slow nod in the ensuing silence, his disappointment laid bare for any to see. Mithrandir and Radagast looked upon him expectantly, waiting for further word or question to be spoken. And Curunír remained deep in thought, his eyes calculating and shrouded in contemplation, all the while Círdan stood before him in patience. And afore much time had passed, Curunír once again looked at Círdan, the familiar mask of indifference firmly in place.

"Tell me of the Elven Rings," he said. "What knowledge of them is to all generally known?"

Círdan was uncertain as to whether to look more alarmed or surprised. "Would this be another area where your eyes are shrouded?"

Curunír grinned, his eyes shining in amusement. "Nay, Master Mariner. The Valar see and know all Ilúvatar bids them to, and of the Three Rings the Valar confided in us. That they remain hidden we know, though of where and by whom we are ignorant. Greatly limited is our knowledge of them, though we know Vilya is the mightiest of the Rings and that all bands set with stone contain power to be envied." He cocked his head and added meaningfully, "I would that I could know simply what the common understanding of them is; what any Elf may presume of them; what Sauron may have heard whether by word of hearsay or fact from Elves who could not uphold their silence under his cruelty."

Círdan's eyes alit with sudden comprehension of the purpose behind Curunír's question, and he inwardly sighed in relief. For so long had such secrecy been kept that the Mariner became unnaturally guarded when the Three Rings were discussed. Even if said discussion were with Maiar sent as trusted emissaries of the Valar, he realized with a growing sense of shame. "I now understand and will speak what I know," he said. "It is reckoned that the Rings possess the power of preservation, to resist the weariness of Time; this is generally rumored and presumed by all." Of course, he knew far more, but he kept silent on all else, for Curunír had only asked what common rumor of the Elven Rings was.

Curunír stared at him. "And?"

Curunír already knew this, Círdan deduced, and he could help not but wonder what specific words the Wizard was waiting for. Rapidly, he attempted to recall any and all of the whispered words he had occasionally heard in his Havens pertaining to the Rings. "And…only the Three were forged without the touch of Sauron's hand. But this is a fact and is widely known."

Curunír gave a knowing nod. "Forgive my lack of clarity. What of domination?" he asked. "Do the Rings possess the power to dominate?"

Rather adamantly, Círdan shook his head. "No, my lord, for it is rather the opposite; to resist dominance."

Once more, Círdan saw the obvious disappointment grow in Curunír's eyes. What thoughts that must have gone through his mind remained unknown, but Círdan could help not but to think that he had missed a large step somewhere; despite the clear answers he had given to equally clear questions, they were obviously not the answers Curunír had been looking for.

"Master," Círdan began, and then he hesitated. "May I inquire as to why you seek such information?"

Curunír peered deeply into Círdan's eyes with an intensity that would have put the greatest Elven stare to shame. And Círdan held firm; though unnerved by the Wizard's probing glare, he wanted this Curunír the White to trust him, to know that he inquired such an answer without guile. In a fleeting glance, Curunír's gaze broke from his and looked to his right, where the Mariner knew Mithrandir stood. Yet it was but a moment before their eyes met once again. And a mysterious light then entered Curunír's dark scrutiny, a light Círdan could not interpret, but he saw the deep, genuine respect within it.

"Why I hesitate to confide in you, I know not, Círdan," he murmured in something akin to wonder. "For in the Hither Lands, our only link to the integrity of our place in this Age you shall be, for only you will know what we do. And times there may arise where we may seek upon wisdom and counsel pertaining to our duty among a foreign people, and only you would be capable of providing it. Or to even merely discuss it." And then he sighed, the first slip of his firm rein on control Círdan had seen yet. "Why I asked of you such inquiries is very simple; there are pieces of the puzzle that must be put into place.

"For the domination of will does Sauron strive," he went on to explain. "And it is for that reason it has been assigned unto us to unite the Free Peoples against their common foe, to unite all those Sauron would seek to corrupt, and of who there are many. In evil Sauron is only less so than his master, Morgoth, in that he served another longer than he served himself. And just as Morgoth strove to bend the minds of the Elves he captured to do his bidding, so Sauron now strives to do the same."

The slightest smile could be detected on Círdan's lips. "When last I was awake we spoke of the subtlety in the tactics of both Morgoth and Sauron, how the deception of minds proved to be their greatest asset."

Curunír gave a little, offhand shrug. "When you control the thinking of a person, you need not have to worry about his actions," he said. "And despite your absence in the day, you know that Sauron had forged those many rings for precisely that purpose; to control the will of those that wore them. And the Elves who had borne them immediately felt his presence when he placed on his Ring." He then sighed in obvious frustration and his voice was tight as he spoke further. "And now your words are a hindrance, for to hear now the properties of the Elven Rings of Power and how they were forged in Sauron's absence….excuse me. I can speak no further."

And Círdan watched in bafflement as Curunír left the three of them at the stern. When one asked a question, it was to clear confusion, he knew, but now he was more confused than ever. And he fleetingly pondered if ever a day would come when higher beings of power would seize to flummox him. The miens of Mithrandir and Radagast provided no answer, so Círdan remained silent.

And across the vaulting deck to the prow Curunír walked with the swift, inbred gate of an experienced seafarer, his white hair and raiment whipping wildly about him in the opposing winds. Between two rope-entwined shrouds he rested his staff and gripped with both hands the sheen wood of the gunwale. And still and a statue he stood, looking out to the midnight horizon, ignoring completely the repetitive bursts of mist erupting from atop the waves to the deck as the keel cleaved through the crests of the rolling swells. And at this odd behavior of a looming character Círdan had come to respect as well as be intimidated by, the Mariner turned an inquiring eye on Mithrandir, only to find the grey-clad Istar looking upon his Chief in obvious worry. Radagast, Círdan noted with wry amusement, bore simply a vacant expression, his thoughts ostensibly on the other side of Arda. And knowing just how mysterious and unpredictable this particular Maia was, Círdan would not have doubted that that was just where they might have been.

But Círdan turned back to Mithrandir and gestured behind him to the prow, agitatedly moving his wildly blowing hair out of his eyes. "Was Master Curunír angered by way of some hastily spoken word on my part?" he asked, concern lining his voice. "If so, I meant not to do so and will apologize."

As Radagast shook his head with a tender smile, Mithrandir held up a hand to halt the Mariner ere more words could be spoken. "Peace, Círdan," he said. "Take not his impatience as ire, for my friend Curunír is simply worried, though he tries greatly to hide it."

Círdan looked upon him in no small amount of surprise. "Worried?"

Mithrandir nodded, his countenance solemn. "Though in bearing he is strong and confident, and though he showcases his excessive knowledge wisely, great burden does he carry on his shoulders. Understand, Círdan, that Sauron is the mightiest of Maiar. And as Curunír hitherto spoke for you alone, we are forbidden to match that might with our own; thus, by other means must we seek to bring about Sauron's fall, no matter how complex they might be." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "It is my belief that Curunír is trying to find a chink in Sauron's armor; a weakness, however small, that we could use to our advantage, which was what we had been discussing ere you joined us."

Círdan subconsciously nodded, recognizing the logic in that. "But what has that to do with the questions he asked of me?"

Mithrandir exchanged an indecipherable glance with Radagast before answering. "Sauron wanted the Elven Rings; something about them drove him to desire them. As you spoke, he swept across Eriador in search of them with urgency. To the sway of the Shadow the Three are unconquerable; save from Sauron himself, thereby meaning that there is something about the Rings that stands in resistance to the workings of Sauron. And that, I gather, is what Curunír is trying to discover. And perchance through that discovery, should it be found, we would further be enabled to counsel the Free Peoples in greater knowledge and wisdom." And Mithrandir sighed, unhappy at their eyes being shrouded in such a crucial area, but resigned to it nonetheless. "Mayhap if the Three Rings had possessed the power to dominate the minds of Elves, Sauron's desire may have been clear, for obtaining them would have been the solution to controlling and governing the Firstborn. But by hearing your words that it is not so….his motive for hunting them may forever remain closed from us."

Círdan looked again at the still figure of Curunír and a sense of sympathy stirred within his chest. Though all Istari were assigned with the same severity and gravity by which to execute their duty, as Head of the Order, Curunír was taking on that extra step that came with leadership; that greater burden of being right, that greater weight of responsibility. And having been a lord himself most of his life, Círdan really could sympathize with Curunír's worry; people expecting one to always be right could be a heavy burden. And he felt a sense of guilt from not be able to relieve that stress through his words, for further words he could have spoken, and yet he could not.

But how much could he speak? The only person, after all, who could have had greater understanding and have known more about the Elven Rings was Celebrimbor himself, for he had crafted them alone. But par all the words the Istari had confided in him, Círdan had deduced that the Valar saw fit to limit the knowledge of the Istari in certain places, of which were seldom few. But even in the areas where their sight was limited, such as with the Elven Rings, they still knew a great deal. In fact, Círdan added satirically, it appeared that the only real thing the Istari were unaware of concerning the Three was where they were located, for Curunír's questions had pertained only to what was rumored and whispered among the Free People about the Rings. He wanted to help Curunír and the Istari, he truly did. For as one of the Ring-bearers who had borne Narya for nigh on three millennia….How much could he speak?

"May I speak, Masters?" he asked.

Mithrandir and Radagast both raised a cynical eyebrow. "Of course," they both enunciated slowly.

Círdan gave a wan, embarrassed smile. "Amongst my people it is widely known that Sauron wants the Three Rings. True, they possess no power of domination, but a great source of protection to some Elves they provide. A theory it only is on my part, but I believe that Sauron would endeavor to take the Rings and thereby weaken the Elves – and realms – whose protection depends upon them."

Mithrandir and Radagast stared at him in silence. And so long the silence lasted that Círdan once more began to feel discomforted. But then Mithrandir began to chuckle as a full smile surfaced on Radagast's visage as he shook his head disparagingly. "Ah, how the most sensible proves to be the simplest answer," he said.

"Yes indeed," Mithrandir agreed. "I will speak with Curunír. The folly of the wise it is sometimes to contemplate too deeply upon the darkest of things."

"Curunír qualms too far," Radagast spoke lightly, and Círdan looked upon this sudden chirpier attitude in amused interest. "In other paths there lie ways to thwart the Enemy."

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "May I ask what?" A voice in the back of his mind was telling him that this was what he and Curunír had been arguing over since the voyage began, over what had made them quarrel as bickering children.

Once more, that vacant expression overcame Radagast's brown orbs as they alit with a mystical radiance akin to the Sun. Or perhaps the Moon. Or perhaps the stars mirrored in the shimmering Waters, twisting and shifting with the motions of the rolling swells. "Healing the land," he spoke in wistful longing with an underlying sorrow. "The cruelty of Sauron's hand extends beyond the boundaries of the Free People. For ages past has the Shadow destroyed the life and mocked the beauty of both plant and tree my Lady put forth so much love in making. And upon the remembrance of their death I long to weep. To encourage life to flourish would be to set back the growth of Shadow. Thus, alongside the duty assigned unto us, so also would I aspire to heal the land and life therein that was darkened."

Finally, a genuine smile creased Círdan's old face. Radagast's words had immediately reminded him of the darkening of Greenwood the Great. And from afar the Shipwright could foresee Radagast forming a great friendship with the Wood-elves and their valiant Elvenking. And though he could only imagine what the Valar had confided in the Istari, his smile grew at the knowledge that Radagast would be residing in Mirkwood for a time. "My heart is uplifted by your words," he said. "I truly hope you will be able to do what you say."

Radagast gave a gentle smile in return. "As do I, Círdan," he said, resting a light hand on his shoulder. "As do I."

And then Radagast left them at the stern, and Círdan turned to watch him amble up along the aisle of rowing benches. And once more he stood in front of the hewn mast, an impairment Círdan no longer looked upon with despair, for Radagast's promise of healing her had revived a sense of wellbeing within. And across the great splinter he ran his nimble fingers, tracing the deep grains of wood. But Círdan let the strange Maia be; he was an odd one and sometimes, he knew, it was just better to not attempt to understand the odd ones.

"Círdan," Mithrandir spoke, and once more his grey eyes were met with Círdan's tired gaze. And then he smiled a bright smile. "Did Radagast fail to tell you that for you I have a gift?"

Círdan stared at him for a long moment before a slight smile lit his face. "I had forgotten."

"Well, now you remember," Mithrandir jested. And then he pointed towards the nearest rowing bench. "Sit there next to the shell."

Círdan twisted his jaw and looked cynically at said location. The shell was still wafting hither and thither, so simple and yet so tempting as ever. He turned a questioning gaze on the innocent looking Istar, wondering sardonically if this order to sit was but a mockery or jest at his expense. But at the expectant – and meaningful – glare of Mithrandir, he did as told and sat on the rowing bench, very deliberately keeping the direction of his gaze away from the oyster shell, trying to ignore it. He heard Mithrandir chuckle overhead. He ignored that, too.

"Círdan," Mithrandir spoke as he leaned on his staff, "as Radagast told you, you are to be given a gift." There was a pause as Círdan looked up into Mithrandir's tender gaze. "But this gift is not from me, nor from the Istari. It was simply handed to me to carry, until such a time to pass it unto you arrived."

Círdan's interest was now very piqued, though he concealed it behind a slightly raised eyebrow. And instead, he asked the question he knew Mithrandir was waiting for. "And who is it from?"

Mithrandir smiled. "From Ulmo." Círdan's attention snapped back in surprise and Mithrandir spoke further lest the Mariner interrupt. "Ere this voyage began, Ulmo assigned unto me the keeping of this gift as we stood upon the Enchanted Isles. And as you slept, he bid me to now give it to you. Now," he said as he reached in his robe, "hold out your hand."

Rather hesitantly, Círdan put forth his open hand, uncertain as to what to expect. Mithrandir's hand was closed in a fist as he withdrew it from his grey raiment. And said fist hovered over Círdan's open palm for only a moment before he released whatever it was he was holding. Círdan felt a heavy weight drop into his palm, its surface smooth as a marble floor. Then Mithrandir withdrew his hand, enabling Círdan to finally see what it was he held. And the Mariner's breath caught and his eyes widened when he saw what it was.

A pearl.

But unlike any pearl he had ever seen in the long years of his life, even in ancient days. For it was even grander than Nimphelos, a pearl as great as a dove's egg that he had given to Thingol, who in turn had gifted it to the Dwarves. And the chieftain of the Dwarves had prized it above a mountain of wealth. For in the shallow waters about the Isle of Balar Círdan had found many fair pearls in great number, of which to Thingol he had gifted many. And the Dwarves, when given to them by Thingol, had held them dear to their heart akin as they would mithril. For the pearls had been the treasure of the Falmari, the wave-folk, and had been held in awe and wonder by all Races and people thereof. But Nimphelos had been the greatest of them all, in both beauty and size.

But this pearl…this pearl was so much greater, and Círdan felt tears line his eyes as he studied it in no small amount of amazement. Like Nimphelos, the pearl's sheen was as starlight on the foam of the sea. And its ethereal white shone with the brightness of the Moon, and upon deeply scrutinizing it, he could see within it the warm, white-hued colors of a setting Sun. And whereas Nimphelos had grown to the size of a dove's egg, this sea-gem was nigh on the length of his smallest finger. And he had long fingers. And with those now shaking fingers, Círdan traced the elegant grooves of the mighty pearl with touches hesitant and soft. At a meaningful cough from above, Círdan tore his gaze away from his gift and looked up at Mithrandir through blurred vision.

And Mithrandir looked down at him in amusement. "I take it this gift meets your approval?"

Círdan spoke nothing; he couldn't. For so long it had been the only desire of his heart to lay sight on a pearl of old, to lay sight on the precious gems the Sea-elves had treasured as much as the Dwarves did their mithril. And for millennia he had taken the occasional trip up the coast of Forlindon, even almost so far north as Himling, in the hope that perhaps a few pearls inside their shells might have washed up through the currents of the Waters to the shallows of Middle-earth's coast. And so far, it had all been for naught. And now to be presented with a pearl more beautiful and far greater than he had ever lain sight on before…what could he possibly say to that?

Mithrandir cocked his head, a glimmer of worry growing as he heard the Mariner's trembling breaths and saw the heavily tear-lined eyes. Círdan, he had come to learn, was not an Elf that cried. He was not even an Elf who thought about crying, from what he knew. "Are you well?"

And then Círdan laughed. Albeit the laugh was choked by a swell of emotion and tempered to barely a chuckle, but it was a laugh nonetheless. And Círdan continued to study the pearl in reverence, unable to take his eyes away. "Of course I am well," he spoke quietly. "I am simply overwhelmed. Why would he bequeath me with such a gift? I have done nothing to earn so great a treasure."

Mithrandir rolled his eyes and, with a tolerant smile, ambled over to the low rowing bench and sat down alongside him, resting the gnarled staff against his shoulders. "What reason would he need to give it to you? Very dear to him you are; is that not enough reason? Besides, Ulmo spoke no words to me of why he gives it to you, only to be sure that you receive it." He held out his hand. "Hand it to me, please."

In obvious reluctance, Círdan surrendered the pearl and placed it in Mithrandir's palm. And he watched as the Istar leaned across him and gently placed it in the upturned oyster shell, creating a perfect picture of the harmony of the Sea with that one swift action. And both Círdan and Mithrandir watched the two objects from the Waters, one a gem and one a silver plate, gently rock with the sway of the ship. And as they watched, Mithrandir spoke.

"Ere you inquire it of me, I will tell you that you are to touch neither shell nor pearl, not until I am no longer aboard the Fëagaer." Círdan raised a questioning brow and Mithrandir smiled. "Nay, I will attempt not to explain, but I know you will honor the request and touch neither of them until this voyage has ended."

Círdan nodded, not exactly caring what requests were made, for still greatly enamored by the pearl he was. "Thank you," he murmured.

Mithrandir shook his head. "Thank me not for the pearl, Círdan," he said. "Thank Ulmo for it. He simply tasked me with bearing and giving it to you for him. And I could not exactly refuse," he added with a hint of comicality. "The ire of Ulmo is something I never would endeavor to obtain."

A hint of a smile was once more seen. "I shall thank him," he said, "though I would argue he should give me naught, for the Vala Ulmo has given much to my people and me; far more than we are deserving of." He glanced back to the figure at the mast. "If Master Radagast will give even a sliver of the amount of attention to Mirkwood as the Vala Ulmo has given to us, mayhap some good will come of it."

Mithrandir too looked back at his colleague. "Good will come of it," he said, "for Radagast is correct; there are ways more subtle and effective to conquest the Shadow. Not all can be done – or should be done – through power alone."

"The Greenwood has no Ring of Power," Círdan interjected, for he was uncertain if the Maia was implying that Mirkwood used power to fight the evil of Dol Guldur, power that they did not even have. Or that they even needed it.

Mithrandir looked upon him with unhidden interest. "It is as I thought," he said, his tone of voice suggesting a victory. "You do know more about the Elven Rings than what you lead us to believe. Being that you say the Greenwood is bereft of a Ring, does that then mean you know where the Three are located?"

Círdan turned to him suspiciously, sensing the mischievous air in the question. And with an enigmatic grin that he could not withhold, he spoke, "My silence is kept."

Mithrandir pursed his lips, though his eyes twinkled fervently. "You trust me not."

Círdan shook his head, a tolerant grin still in place. "I do indeed trust you, which in itself is rare, for the trust I place in others only comes with the passage of time. And indeed, they are few in whom my trust has been placed. But though I trust you, the tongue is most deceptive and persuasive to loosen the tongues of others. But my silence is kept, and my silence is one of the reasons I can be trusted."

Gandalf nodded in consent of the fact. "Indeed that is so, for otherwise you would not be on this voyage." He then leaned over and, in a teasing whisper, he spoke, "Yet some may say that silence does not always suggest wisdom."

Círdan slowly looked over at him, cynical humor alight in his eyes and a knowing grin touching the corner of his mouth. He recognized the not-so-subtle jest of bringing up the matter of wisdom once more. "Yet, learned I have long ago that the beginning of wisdom is silence, followed by listening in your silence, followed by committing to memory of that what you listened to, followed by practicing that which you had committed to memory, followed by mastering that which you practiced, and lastly teaching that which you have mastered."

Mithrandir stared at him for a long, hard moment before the smile finally broke through. And at Círdan's challenging stare for him to debate further, he chuckled warmly. "You do think like a Maia, Círdan, for I was not expecting that answer to come from an Elf." He then furrowed his brow and sighed mirthlessly. He raised a gentle hand and held Círdan's face, and the Mariner looked at him with a question in his eyes. "But then you are old, and the Ages of the World are sketched upon your visage and you have seen more than the elderly of Middle-earth have seen. Nay, not even Elves of Aman could claim to have seen that which your eyes have witnessed." He dropped his hand and smiled. "But let that be enough of this melancholy. I will allow your silence concerning the Elven Rings, for it is indeed wise to keep such secrecy." A thoughtful haze passed over his visage. "Yet deduced, I should have, that the darkening Greenwood had no Ring of Power, for the Three warn of the growth of the Shadow and thereby enable the Elves in their strength to resist it. Alas, the tree-song is dying under the Shadow and passage of time."

"The Wood-elves have no need of a Ring," Círdan interjected with considerable spirit. "In my eyes, their strength of arms and dedication to protect their homeland is matched by no other. Aye, the reach of the Shadow lengthens in the Woodland Realm bit by bit every year, but the Elves are strong in spirit and mind, and none are encouraged to leave their Wood. Ever since the Battle of the Last Alliance, Thranduil has driven them endlessly with a military discipline foreign to the other Elven realms. At the cost of even his own life he would see his people remain unconquered." A fond smile creased his face as he thought of him. "It is no wonder that the Elves show such loyalty to him."

"Yes," Mithrandir said thoughtfully, drumming his fingers along his staff. "Indeed, I know Thranduil is a great Elvenking."

Círdan looked at him a tad skeptically as a fine eyebrow rose in question. "Of that, how could you possibly know?"

"You mean aside from the words of the Valar?" he asked with a warm smile. Círdan nodded and Mithrandir chuckled. "How I know is very simple; if Thranduil is anything like his father, he is a good king. There need not be any other reason."

At a loss Círdan remained for only a moment ere his eyes dawned in understanding. And this time, he could not stop the thrilled smile from breaking through. "Oropher has been reborn?"

Mithrandir smiled at the wonder and delight unconcealed in Círdan's eyes. "Aye, he has, along with many of the Woodland Elves once slain." And then he chuckled. "When first I met him, his fierce valiance and strength of spirit and mind rather shocked me, despite him now living in Valinor. Not all Elves I have met, but the only Elf I can now name who superseded him in valiance is Fingolfin."

Círdan nodded, able to concur with that. "Only the bravest – or perhaps the most foolhardy – were able to stand against him when involving the safety of his people."

Mithrandir's smile grew. "Exactly; thus, if Thranduil is anything like his father, he is a great king."

"Greater," Círdan corrected. "For within the music of the rivers and streams and amidst the whispered tales among the Elves, it is told that Thranduil is the greatest king the Silvan Elves had ever known."

Mithrandir grunted in something akin to amusement. "I would dare not to question that, for his Woodland kin who have been reborn also stick to him as sap to a tree." He chortled. "Fiercely loyal they remain in a land where Oropher claims no kingship. Though due to this, it is rumored that Oropher is starting a small colony for his people, alongside the Woods of Oromë."

"Your words bring me great delight to hear he is at peace," Círdan spoke softly. "Even amidst the Greenwood's prosperity, Oropher had remained ever defiant of Sauron, as he proved in the Last Alliance. And now Thranduil is doing the same." He looked to the stars in curiosity. "It is beyond my sight why Sauron is targeting the Greenwood so much more than any other realm."

"It goes back to the domination of will that Curunír spoke of," Mithrandir answered. "Either that or death. But is it that you could imagine the strength Sauron would possess if he had the Elves of Mirkwood at his command?"

Despite the calm and serenity surrounding them, Círdan felt a shiver run down his spine at the thought.

"But yes, he is at peace, though he denies not missing his son greatly," Mithrandir continued. "From any weariness and hurt he has healed in the Halls of Mandos. And though he has proclaimed to have had no devotion – or love even – for the Valar, he is grateful that they offer such healing in their land untouched by darkness." He sighed and in his eyes Círdan could see the bitter disappointment. "Through his words I had seen something many Elves today now take advantage of; a great gift so many had been doomed to remain without, for at their corruption at the hands of Morgoth their souls were condemned to wander endlessly in Ennor for time without end."

"Why did you not come to capture Morgoth sooner?" Círdan asked in monotone. He remembered. Oh Valar, how he remembered the centuries of fear the Elves of Cuiviénen had to endure with no hope of reprieve. He remembered the terror instilled deep in every mind as Elves had continued to disappear and never return. He remembered the horror palpable in the air when shadow-shapes had been seen walking in the hills above Cuiviénen, or would be passing suddenly over the stars; and of the dark Rider upon his wild horse that had pursued those that wandered to take them and devour them. He remembered the despair felt in every spirit at having known that there were no means by which to defeat that. And for an endless time, he had wondered why Oromë had not come sooner, why the Valar had only come to wage war on Morgoth after centuries of his abuse. Why not sooner?

A compressing silence fell and Mithrandir studied the Mariner with a piercing eye. And only when they sat long in silence did Círdan start to grow wary of it.

"We did not know," he said simply, though not without an apologetic note. "When first you had seen Oromë was when first the Valar had known that the Quendi had awoken; Morgoth knew from the beginning. And long centuries had passed ere we first beheld in wonder the Elves on the shores. Sooner we would have come had we found you earlier. We simply did not know."

Círdan slowly nodded; though by the answer he looked unhappy, he was resigned to it. "Once more, the simplest answers prevail."

"Círdan," he said, concern evident in his voice. "Long have such questions haunted you, albeit never have you let them torment you. Why is it that you never have inquired Ulmo of these things?"

Círdan gave a small shrug, his thoughts troubled. "I thought to, but too greatly do I respect and love him to ask such trivial questions. No other on Arda has my devotion and admiration as he does, and I wanted not such questions to sound as accusations."

Mithrandir gave a wry grin. "How wonderful to know that you respect me less," he lightly murmured. And then he grew serious. "Believe you that such questions are accusations?"

Círdan shook his head. "No," he said. "But how words are received make all the change in the world and amidst my confusion and anger, only the Valar know how the words would have sounded."

"Exactly," Mithrandir emphasized and Círdan looked at him in question. "Ulmo knows your mind, Mariner, more so than any other being." He shook his head, almost in sympathetic amazement. "He needs not words from your mouth to know of the turmoil of your heart."

Círdan nodded, his gaze cast down to the water. "I know," he murmured. He looked down into the water and said again, "I know," with more conviction, for he could feel the eyes of Ulmo on him. He looked back at Mithrandir, remaining ever conscious of Ulmo's presence. "But the Vala Ulmo is ever busy. Know you that I am aware of that more than most, and therefore his time need not be taken up by such trivial questions."

Mithrandir shook his head, marveled. "There you go again." He leaned forward on his staff and cocked his head. "For what reason could you believe that those specific questions are trivial?" He looked at Círdan incredulously. "Aye, long past are such events, but Elven memory is strong. And ever, it remained unto you as turmoil. And all the while such ponderings could have been put at rest if but answered. Given, you may not have healed from such memories, but it would have been at least the start of peace. How can the turmoil within you caused by such questions be trivial?"

Círdan looked at the Maia and gave a small, tender smile. "You already said it, Master," he said calmly, not at all shaken by the truths he just spoke. "It was the turmoil within me. The Vala Ulmo is the greatest aid to the Elves of Middle-earth and my love for Middle-earth is greater than my desire to know answers of trivial questions." He added the emphasis as though almost daring the Maia to argue differently. "As you spoke, such events are long past and deeds done. All that could be salvaged from the answers of said questions is my peace of mind. And my peace is of no great importance to the fate of Middle-earth."

Mithrandir shook his head, staring at Círdan in disbelief and with a tolerant grin. "A Sinda you certainly are, stubborn as can be."

Círdan grinned. "I will not deny being set in my ways, Master." He then sighed and shook himself, as though to disperse the cloud of melancholy that had come over them.

Mithrandir raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Círdan, why do you not call me by my name, 'Mithrandir'? Furthermore, you seem to have rejected the offer given by the Istari to call us by name, as you seem to have done with Ulmo and Ossë. Always you place a title before the name, calling us 'Master' or 'my lord'. Why?"

Círdan shrugged. "Why should I not? To all of higher power I am inferior and I accept that. And calling you as such is one of the ways seldom I have to show my respect. Callous I am not to call you otherwise."

A mischievous light shone in his eyes. "What if being formal with us offends us?"

Though remaining impassive, Círdan could not quite hide the alarm he felt at such a notion. "If so, then I shall apologize and do as you ask; to offend is not my intention."

"Be calm, my friend," he said in exasperation. "Offended we are not, but I do suggest you become used to calling us by name. For on the Hither Shores we must remain incognito, appearing as forms humble and insignificant. Suffice it to say that being called 'master' or 'my lord' will achieve the opposite."

For only a moment did he remain in thought ere Círdan nodded his head. "You speak with logic, thus I shall do as you say…Mithrandir." The word tasted foreign on his tongue, but Mithrandir's bright smile dissolved any discomfort.

Nówë, come below.

Círdan heard the command and swiftly stood. Mithrandir stood with him and to him, Círdan lightly bowed. "I apologize, but I must go."

"I know," he said with a grin, keeping no longer the pretext of being unaware of the Vala's presence. "Go, my friend, and I will see you soon."

Círdan nodded, and with one last reverent look at the pearl resting along the low bench, he made for the open hatch. But Mithrandir's quick words stopped him ere he could enter the crew's cabin.

"The net, Círdan; where does it go?"

Círdan looked back at the fishing net still hanging against the hull from its belaying pins and gestured towards the rowing bench where the shell and pearl rested. "Underneath there against the beam. Why?"

He looked at said location. "I would store it away if you permit it."

Nówë.

Círdan looked again to the hatch, painfully aware that his lord should not be kept waiting. And towards the net tied off he waved a hand in dismissal. "Do what you want." With that, Círdan slipped through the hatch and down the steep step ladder. And amidst the dark, down the crewman's passage he began to walk.

And Círdan halted his steps, staring with eyes unblinking at the closed door to the helmsman's quarters. The crew's cabin was dark as night and the vicinity of his helmsman's quarters were doused in shadow. But through the minimal space between door and frame, and through each miniscule sliver of the door itself, light so bright and powerful forced its way through, shining brighter and more blinding than anything Círdan had seen, including all the Silmarils' light together combined. It was as though on the opposite side of that door, the space within was too small to contain such light, such colorless fire shining through a thousand crystals and emanating brighter than the Stars of Varda. Such ethereal light looked to burst forth from the room, as though the door was all that stopped it from flooding outward. And he felt wonder and delight flood his system as he saw it, for even the Sun was shadowed in it. And though he knew it to be his imagination, Círdan thought he could hear the strain of the wood as it tried to contain his light.

His light. Not a light or the light…his light. For within his heart (and based on past experience), he knew that Ulmo was here, and not just in spirit. And though blinded and taken of breath by such radiance, it was not that which halted Círdan's steps, tempting him to stagger backwards. No, it was the raw power that came at him like a blow, crashing against him as a wave of stone, bending his desire to drop to his knees. Even all the power the three Istari projected together dimmed in comparison. And with a thin thread of restraint he managed to stop his hand from clutching his chest.

But, feeling his heart pound a little harder, he walked towards that door. And the Music of the Sea grew louder with each step, so loud that he could no longer hear his own breathing, or the breaking waves of the ocean. And the peace from the Great Music entered his heart with sharp contrast to the fear that also indwelled it. So strange was it that now, with each step, the fear within his heart grew, but so also did his yearning to see his lord; a healthy fear instilled in his mind entwined with a friendship engraved on his heart. But Círdan stepped up to the door and his hand hovered over the latch for only a second before he grabbed hold of it and entered.

And the light emerged like a river through a burst dam.

Not even three seconds passed after the door shut behind him. And in those three seconds, after his eyesight adjusted to the light – after squinting nearly shut in the brightness of it – Círdan cast around his gaze. And there on his bed sat the Vala Ulmo. And at the sight of the majestic being, Círdan felt his knees weaken and, on the third second, he fell to his knees, his body's weight pressing on his heels, and bowed his head, for the sight of the Vala's form was too terrible to look upon, and yet so wondrous. And Círdan had not the courage to stand before him without humbling himself first.

"My lord," he murmured, his voice scarcely audible and yet, in the resounding silence, it sounded like a shout.

And at his mumbled words, the Vala Ulmo stood from the bed with nary a sound, looking down upon his lone subject with fiery eyes. The Dweller of the Deep was robed to the middle in mail like the scales of blue and silver fishes; but his hair was a bluish silver and his beard to his feet was of the same hue, and he bore neither helm nor crown. Beneath his mail fell the skirts of his kirtle of shimmering greens, and of what substance these were woven Círdan knew not, but when he in past had looked into the depths of their subtle colors, the Mariner beheld the faint movements of deep waters shot with stealthy lights of phosphorescent fish that lived in the abyss. Girt was Ulmo with a rope of mighty pearls, and he was shod with mighty shoes of stone.

Seldom was it, Círdan knew, that Ulmo clothed himself in a body. Only thrice had he done so before Círdan, and each time the Mariner was filled with a great dread, his heart positively hammering within his chest with fear inconceivable before he remembered that he had been befriended by the Vala, and had no cause to fear. Seeing him in his incorporeal form, as he had at the start of this journey, was different and easier to bear, for it was but a glimpse amongst the waves of how terrible and strong a figure Ulmo possessed, tempering the reality to but a dream. And having beheld it but thrice before, Círdan had failed to recall the majestic ferocity and fiery spirit he radiated in physical form, the strength and power he wielded with but one hand over all the Waters. But nonetheless, Círdan remained kneeling on the floor with his head bowed, not daring to move without express permission to do so.

Stone-shod feet (and beard) came within the sight of his downcast eyes and, not a second later, Círdan felt powerful hands encase his shoulders, gripping them with iron strength. And Círdan had but a second to feel the warmth from the strong hands suffuse his being before he was hauled up to full height, standing on his own two feet. But still, his gaze and head were cast down and the Mariner absently observed the raiment he saw only three times prior in his life; clothed in these garments, despite them representing the Sea, Círdan knew, he appeared so royal and kingly that even the most ignorant mind would be left with no doubt of who the King of the Seas really was. But cast in astonishment was Círdan's gaze upon Ulmo's girdle of mighty pearls, and he was too shocked and humbled to look away from it.

For amidst the many gems of the Sea, one of the pearls was missing.

And the voice he had heard a thousand times before spoke once again. Nówë, look at me.

The command was soft, but Círdan could not help but shiver as he heard the words spill forth from Ulmo's mouth, now spoken into his ears instead of his mind. And a fine wired shudder ran through him greatly, for the depth of the voice of Ulmo was of the uttermost depth, even as deep as his eyes, which were the deepest of all things. And softly spoken were his thunderous tones, for the Mariner knew, again through past experience, that the full, powerful resonance of his voice could damage the hearing of even an Elf.

But as ever before, Círdan obeyed and looked up into the face of Ulmo, into his eyes that held no color, for too star-bright they were to distinguish any possible hue. Though stern and fierce beyond the point of Elven tolerance, his visage was the epitome of calm and gentle as he peered deeply into Círdan's eyes. And as Círdan looked up into Ulmo's piercing eyes, he beheld the deep love and compassion Ulmo did not hide, the unshakeable friendship and companionship Ulmo had granted him so long ago, unworthy as he was of it. Still, the Vala held him firm and within the depths of Círdan's heart, in the furthest reaches of his fëa, he felt Ulmo touch him and speak to him without the utterance of words, with the strength and dedication of one who knew Círdan better than any other. The Mariner felt the Vala's unconquerable spirit encompass him in warmth and security. And with a small smile upon his mouth, the Vala tempered Círdan's fear until it was but a seed.

And Círdan smiled a smile that shone in his eyes, feeling that foundation of friendship blossom until at its full capacity. Never in the past, Círdan recalled absently, had Ulmo spoken with him until he walked alongside him on the shore or looked upon him without fear. And Círdan recalled all times prior again, for he knew it was Ulmo's intention that he did.

"My lord," he said again, his voice no longer trembling with healthy fear, but with the respect he had long held for this Vala. "What do you bid me to do?"

And once more, Ulmo swept his long fingers along the side of Círdan's face, the touch light and feather soft. Nothing is left, he said, the softness of his voice belying the power of his mien. Of all you were bidden to do, you have done.

For long in silence Círdan looked at him, swarming with uncertainty and bewilderment within. And he bowed his head, barely compressing a sigh. "Forgive my lack of understanding, my lord, but what have I done? I remain ever in the dark."

With his long fingers, Ulmo lifted Círdan's chin until their eyes again met. You obeyed my command to be at peace, he answered. Through your oath of silence you have aided our emissaries and a great abundance that shall be; for many a time ere the Age will wane the Istari shall come to seek counsel with you.

"And they shall have my service should they request it," he added without qualm. "But, lord, I…." His words trailed off in his hesitancy, but Ulmo garnered his attention ere he lost his willingness to speak freely.

Ask it, Ulmo commanded, though not impolitely.

Círdan drew in a deep breath. "Why am I on this voyage?" he asked. "By your hand they could have sailed the Straight Path to the Hither Shores, and yet to send me amongst your Great Sea you elected." He paused and slightly shook his head. "I disparage not your choices made. I only wonder at them."

And with both chiseled hands Ulmo held firm Círdan's face, piercing the Mariner's grey eyes with his own orbs of fire. And within those orbs of fire Círdan was rendered breathless at the sudden swell of passion, the sudden swell of conviction coated in pain unconcealed. Never again, child, he spoke, and Círdan was overwhelmed by the drive in his words. Never again let it go unasked. Never again unto me put forth such silence. Never again let turmoil reign when it may be conquered. For all times you stood amidst my seas I felt your sorrow. And from all streams and rivers are words carried to me, and thereby do I taste the cry of your song. Though it may be indwelt in your mind that your harmony of spirit matters naught to Middle-earth, it matters to me. Unto you I say, Nówë, to never again remain silent.

Círdan attempted not to refute the words, for he deserved such chastisement, however subtle and gentle it be delivered. He cast down his gaze, his desire to bow withheld by the hands holding him firm still. "I am sorry, my lord," he said quietly, willing that Ulmo feel the truth of the words in his mind. "I sought not to give you distress. If you will demand it, I –"

Nówë, he interrupted firmly. And when Círdan looked up he could see in Ulmo's eyes both amusement and exasperation. And then he smiled. Unto you no chastisement will ever be bequeathed, for you are your greatest chastiser.

Círdan gave a wan, embarrassed smile and bowed his head, minutely shaking it in self-condemnation. "I should have asked."

Aye, you should have.

"Is that why you commanded me on this voyage?" he asked. "To obtain answers to questions long buried?"

Under the depths of my Waters on this voyage I placed much thought, he spoke, and the reverberations of his deep voice could be felt. And through the admittance of my King par my counsel you were sent, for the Valar entrust only unto you the secrecy of the Istari, and to no other Elf of either the Lands Hither or Undying shall it be known. But of other reasons more personal and deep you were also sent, among them, aye, achieving clarity long needed to events of your past.

There was a pause as Círdan attempted to regain his wits; he failed miserably. "I am humbled by the trust you and the Valar place in me," he spoke softly. "I know its value and will abuse it never, that I swear. But if I may ask, what other reasons do you speak of as to why I am traversing this voyage?"

Since the dawn of this voyage when I called you from your slumber, you have been tested and are being tested still.

Círdan looked upon the Lord of Waters in alarm. "I am being tested?" he asked in horror, his heart thudding just a little harder in his chest. "Why am I being tested? And how?"

Aye, you are being tested, Ulmo spoke, speaking no further words to Círdan's inquiries. And now I request of you to let me finish the test.

Círdan stared at him in no small amount of apprehension. "What are you going to do?"

Trust me, Nówë.

Long they stood in deafening silence ere Círdan released a pent up breath and nodded his head, briefly pondering why he had hesitated in the first place.

And then the deafening moment of silence passed as Círdan tensed when Ulmo lifted his arms. But, with not a sound, the Vala gathered the Mariner against his chest, his powerful arms encasing him as a cocoon. And at the stiffness still of Círdan's back, Ulmo took a hand and rested it along Círdan's silver head. The beard was silk beneath his cheek and the shimmering mail as pebbles in a stream under his fingers. But still, Círdan was hesitant and unsure.

Nówë, hide no longer.

The deep rumbling whisper pierced his mind and Círdan broke, fully and completely, any remnants of strength or willpower deserting him, any reserves of dignity shredding before him, as he collapsed limply against the Vala's form, the strength of his limbs leaving him. For amidst the embrace he was released, his soul reaching and screaming out for some vestige of comfort unfounded in Ennor. Cast down were all barriers and all stones torn apart, and all was lain bare; every fear, every joy, every terror, every assault upon the Elven spirit, every thought forgotten and ignored and every wish and desire hidden even from himself. In darkness his mind and soul laid unclothed to his lord, and he felt Ulmo's spirit possess him, reaching to the furthest corner of his fëa as an almighty wind, leaving no barrier erect, no secret in shadow. And his mind, spirit, and body crumbled under the intensity of the Vala's spirit, of his fiery essence.

And his senses deserted him; the stars wielded overhead and mountains moved, the ground shifting beneath him as he felt fire kindled within. And the Vala's kindling spirit of fire and strength surged through him with the might of a storm until he was given completely, until nothing more remained in his control. And in a gentle vice his fëa was squeezed in a continual pressure, and for but a moment Círdan panicked at the depth of the invasion, but then was soothed when he felt any and all cracks and wounds sealed, any welts and fractures healed. His mind was unbound, suffused with freedom from all burden, all thought and worry piled and long buried. And every second of his ancient life unraveled and was taken, until no memory remained on the forefront. Filth was cleansed and darkness shriveled under the ethereal brightness indwelling him. And as a small, steady stream, weariness dispersed, fatigue seeping from limbs until nonexistent.

The Sea…amidst the Sea he now dwelled. The Sun shown in gentle rays through the pure water. The breath of the Deep resounded in his ear, deep and powerful, summoning the rise and fall of the tide. His heart beat in rhythm with the Sea until they became one and his being surged with the depths of the Waters. It washed over him, enveloping him in comforting warmth, lifting him to heights beyond the reaches of the world and down beneath the depths of the living. Chains were unbound and burdens uplifted. His soul was opened. He was free. He was alive…he was young again. No swell of land, no beechen leaves, no shining snow, no keen mountain-air…the fishes swarmed, the whales cried and the Song of Ilúvatar resounded. He drifted across white sand and gave himself unto the endless glassy swells. He felt a long hand guide him and he was home. By all blessings of the Valar, he was home….

And then it was gone. It was all gone. As though waking from a dream, Círdan slowly opened his eyes as his other senses returned to him. As his vision cleared, he felt the silk-spun beard like a pillow beneath his cheek. He heard the deep breathing and felt the rise and fall of the chest he lay on. He felt the solid floor beneath his feet and the powerful arms holding him still, and the warm hand resting on his crown.

And as though a switch flipped, he started breathing again, slowly and deeply. And though held amidst comfort, the weariness returned unto his spirit, and the fatigue immersed back into his body. And, unable to conceal his disappointment and bitter sadness, he knew then that he was back on his ship, sailing amidst the Sundering Sea, coming ever closer to Mithlond. Gathering his strength, he pushed himself up until standing firmly on his own feet, bracing himself against Ulmo's broad chest, for he was shaking. And he lifted his eyes to those of the Vala's that were gazing at him with a calm gentleness.

"What was that?" he asked quietly, almost fearfully. "A trance I felt to enter, a great healing that carried me home. But no more, for I feel once again the weariness and exhaustion." He paused as he continued to look into Ulmo's compassionate eyes and knew he couldn't hide the sorrow in his. "Was it but a dream?"

And Ulmo grinned, not relinquishing his hold. Nay, a dream it was not, for it was but a taste of healing at my hand. All answers shall be revealed in time, so of it inquire no more, for it is done. And you have passed the test.

Amidst his confusion, Círdan accepted the words and trusted in them, for there were no greater words he could trust. "I pretend not to understand all of what just happened, but I ask your forgiveness of my bitterness from being withdrawn from your healing. Never have I felt so at peace or at home, and amidst my selfishness I only want to go there again. And though the healing was temporary, I thank you for it, for in both body and spirit I feel rejuvenated. And such a blessing I do not believe I deserve."

Círdan meant to once more kneel, but Ulmo held him firm to his feet when he tried. So instead, he went to bow his head, but Ulmo lifted his chin with long fingers. And so, the Mariner was left standing before him, his eyes held in place by the Vala's own. "Thank you," he whispered, and he put all the heartfelt sincerity into the words he could. But it was in error, for as his mind was laid bare, the sincerity was unhidden from the Vala.

And finally, Ulmo relinquished his hold and stepped back, gesturing lightly towards Círdan's rumpled clothing. Prepare yourself for slumber, for ere long after you wake you shall arrive in Mithlond.

And the Mariner did as commanded. And as he undressed, hanging his raiment once more on the beams overhead, Ulmo sat again on his bed, watching and waiting in patience for his subject to finish. And only when the last garment was hung did he gesture for Círdan to sit on the bed alongside him. And, of course, Círdan obeyed, despite the question in his eyes. And once he sat, Ulmo reached with both hands and gently ran his long fingers through Círdan's silver hair.

And immediately, all the knots and tangles yielded to the touch of Ulmo's fingers, unraveling as long grass in a prairie wind. Over and over again did Ulmo brush his fingers through the hair with a tenderness, and he did so until the silver tresses fell forth over his shoulders and against his skin as a sheen waterfall in Lórien's Gardens. And Círdan had closed his eyes against the relaxing hands, unconsciously rocking sleepily with the soothing touch. And as the Vala worked until every strand was laid in perfection, he spoke quietly into Círdan's ear.

Deep in the recesses of your mind I see there a question unanswered, he said. Ask it.

A small smile creased Círdan's elderly face, though he was overwhelmed with humility when the question was brought to the surface. "Why did you gift me with a pearl of your girdle?" he asked in a whisper, for he again felt tears sting his eyes at the mere thought of it. "So kingly was that gift, and I know I have done no great deeds worthy of it."

With another touch feather soft, Ulmo turned Círdan's face towards his own, his eyes boring into the Elf's all the heartfelt sincerity that could ever be conjured. You are deserving of so much more, he spoke softly, for you have ever walked without pride and lowered yourself to the Valar's command, even though you never had laid sight on them or owed them any sense of loyalty. And this I do say; the Valar, once you sail, shall bequeath you with a reward to honor all your selfless acts in our name, and it shall exceed the greatest – and only – desire of your heart.

And in Círdan Ulmo could see that the Elf did not understand, for too distant was he from his own desires to see what lay beneath the words the Vala had spoken. But ere Círdan could once more question him, Ulmo spoke again, running his fingers a few more times through his hair, ensuring all knots were untangled.

But only from me was the pearl gifted, he continued. It is as Olórin spoke; no deeds of valor had earned you my pearl, for I know well your heart and mind and spirit. And only the foolish believe that great deeds are all that define a person. And it is all else but your deeds performed that I saw you have earned it. He then gave a small, rare smile; one of teasing and delight. You are my friend, and par the words of Olórin; need there be any other reason?

And Círdan smiled in return. But there were no words he could speak, no words to express how utterly thankful he was, for the pearl, for his friendship, for everything. But Círdan knew that no words needed to be spoken, for as he felt the swell of raw emotions rage inside, so he also knew that Ulmo felt them within him as well. And Ulmo stood, pushing back the light sheets of the bed.

Come, Nówë, he spoke, pulling Círdan by the hand to his feet. It is time for you to sleep, for the day shall rage with life anew when you awake. Until we speak again, sleep well, my child.

And Círdan slipped under the covers, that familiar haze of drowsiness already overcoming him. And he briefly felt the covers being tucked around him ere his consciousness was blanketed and taken into the wondrous realm of dreams and deep slumber.

To be continued….

Next chapter: Insanity begins.

A/N: If long chapters aren't your taste, I apologize. This chapter simply became longer than I had planned. Again. But please review; I'd greatly appreciate it. I know we now basically see why Círdan is on this voyage, but the true reason and full import of Ulmo's words won't be revealed till the very last chapter (and if all goes to plan, that'll be Ch. 9). Please review!