Disclaimer: For full disclaimer, please see Chapter 1.
A/N: I'm sorry this came over a week late. No excuse, I just haven't been in the mood to write, which was not helped by a severe case of writer's block. For all reading this story, I thank you for your wonderful patience with this. I know that the chapters are long with a seemingly slow plot, and it certainly has been a challenge to write. But at least the story will now start to be concluded (finally! right?) and come to what this whole story is supposed to be about; namely Círdan making a crucial decision. With that, I would also like to give my unending thanks to Lia Whyteleafe, GreenGreatDragon, Sadie Sil, and Zammy for your wonderful reviews. I don't get many for this story, so I sincerely mean it when I say that every word you write means so much to me. And on a sad note, for any readers who are Ulmo fans, the last chapter was Ulmo's last appearance, whether by voice or body. BUT, he still has a major part to play in the story, never fear. Alright, enough of this chatter. I hope you enjoy!
"O! let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!"
~ William Shakespeare, King Lear
Chapter 7
Círdan was robbed of his slumber as his mind registered the repetitive knocks, curt and loud, sounding on the door with the obvious intent to wake him. He shook his head, his mind still clouded with sleep, and from under the covers rolled out, without the realization that he did so.
"What is it?" he called, hearing the urgency behind the knocks.
And the muffled voice of Radagast came through the door. "Master Mariner, I would that you would rise from your slumber and captain the Fëagaer, for alas, now such mastery is beyond the limits of our skill."
His mind still muddled from sleep, Círdan had seldom few seconds to register what it was that Radagast was implying ere his instinctive helmsman skills and sea-faring senses came to the fore. And he then understood the Istar's urgency, for amidst the endless rocking of the ship's hull he could feel her strain and shudder as she combated the fierce, ocean swells on her own, without any hand to guide her. And though beneath deck, he could hear the strong roar of wind outside and the crashing waves. And before Círdan was aware of it, he was out of his bed and quickly throwing on his apparel and boots, knowing he had a few minutes at most before she veered severely off course.
"I am on my way," he called through the door.
"Very good."
Ere he could react to the words, the Fëagaer suddenly jolted, sending Círdan staggering against the bed posts as he attempted to maintain balance, and Círdan knew that the ship's prow must have just collided headlong into the trough of an approaching wave. He had to get above deck now; he knew not where they were, but the deep water apparently had a mind of its own.
Leaving his hair unbound, Círdan left his quarters, rushed across the crew's cabin and practically flew up the step ladder, instinctively pushing up the hatch as he went. And not a second later after surfacing the deck, Círdan tightly closed his eyes against the bright array of light that suddenly blinded him. He staggered, feeling his way out of the hatch, and only when he grabbed hold of one of the nearby shrouds did he slowly open his eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the sudden light. He hadn't seen sunshine since before the voyage had begun, after all.
And the day was pristine and beautiful with the noon Sun blazing high and bright. And wisps of Círdan's silver hair blew across his face as he cast his gaze up at the heavens, perusing the patterns caused by the crosswinds of the high altitudes that blew the white clouds across the skies. A thrilling sense of exhilaration overcame him, as it always did when he sailed a vessel across the seas. But feeling the ship again shudder under his feet, all while the deck was plunging and shifting several meters at a time, he tore his thoughts away from the elements and headed towards the stern, where he could see the wooden tiller fanning rapidly back and forth from the force of the water.
He rushed past the Istari, barely sparing them a passing glance, as they stood alongside the port gunwale, each with a firm hold on one of the shrouds in an obvious attempt to maintain the balance that only sea-farers of great familiarity could maintain with little effort. And with an ease born of long experience, Círdan took hold of the tiller in both hands, forcing it to do as he commanded.
His feet sturdily braced apart, he dragged on the wooden bar, heaving the Fëagaer's prow upwind against the thrust on the mainsail, thereby compensating the force of the waves as they slammed against her. And Círdan glanced up at the stretch of sheen, white canvas; the rigging of the sail, still set at an angle on the starboard side of the mast, hummed with the wind of their passage and the deck slightly vibrated underfoot.
And Círdan inwardly smiled; this was a perfect day for a perfect voyage and he was enjoying every second of it.
The Fëagaer, with her curving, triangular sail, whose boom was set at a steep angle to the vertical mast, was swooping eagerly over the small waves, with the wind on her port beam. With this wind and speed, there was no need for rowers, despite how much Círdan knew the presence of oarsmen would make the passage along the water swifter, for the whole ship was in a delicate state of balance; wind, power of the waves, and steering oar created a triangle of conflicting forces that resulted in the ship holding its present headway. Disturb one of those elements, thereby allowing the remaining forces to war with each other, and the result would be some moments of ensuing chaos until order was restored.
And it was at that moment Círdan realized that Ulmo was gone.
The realization came from nowhere, prompted by no thought. A small part in the back of his mind registered the absence of the power-indwelt King of the Seas, of his comforting and intimidating presence, of his majestic essence and aura that made it feel as though time had stopped. And likewise, the peace he had long enjoyed and partaken in during this voyage…it also was gone, leaving him once more feeling every single one of his years. Ulmo's hand was no longer guiding his ship, which explained Radagast's request, more so command, to come on deck and captain his vessel. But he still detected a foreign presence amongst the air and instinctively knew who it was; Ossë might not be driving the ship as Ulmo had been, but Círdan was convinced that he certainly was in command of the wind at the moment. As well as the temperament of the waves, he guessed. Keeping the rolling swells small and endurable all the while sending the wind from astern along the port beam made Círdan's job of guiding the ship much easier.
Yes, it was Ossë, for Ulmo had said that Círdan would not man the ship alone. But he couldn't deny that he missed Ulmo greatly. And his heart became heavy and dismayed, aching at his absence; only the Valar knew whether a day or millennia would pass by until he saw or spoke with him again.
But Círdan shook his head, keeping on with a firm grasp on the tiller, refusing to allow any disappointment divert him from the task at hand. There were lives on board and, thereby, in his care, and he would be damned if he allowed something so selfish and pitiful as his disappointment to risk danger to them. His mind kept sharp, Círdan continued to ride the waves in smooth and perfect rapture. And leaving the ship to sail her course alone for only a moment, Círdan went to the portside and leaned over the gunwale with a firm hold on the backstay. And doing so, he cast his gaze far across the waters in effort to see their destination. And all too soon, he saw it; in the distance he could see the towering spires and elegant stone structure of his Havens, their western walls white-crusted from the endless bombardment of salty air. The aged city was a blur on the horizon, appearing when the Fëagaer rode the crest of a wave and then disappearing as she cleaved to the trough.
And the distance rapidly closed. Peering along the scarcely visible shore, Círdan, once more at the tiller, could just make out the peaked watchtower set in the lower reaches of the Ered Luin that was mapped as the northern arm of the narrowest harbor mouth of the Gulf of Lhûn. And suddenly, at its summit, Círdan saw a bright flash of light erupt, only to remain a blazing dance of flickering fire, and the Shipwright furrowed his brow; what had possessed the Elves on duty to light the beacon? It was only ever lit at night to signify the northern breakwater to any incoming vessels. Not a second after the thought, his keen eyes caught the equally bright flash of another light on the opposite shore, the oil-coated lumber of the beacon now intensely ablaze. And Círdan allowed a small, touched smile to upturn the corners of his mouth, for he realized that the unusual igniting of both beacons must have been the signal to the Sea-elves that their lord's ship had been spotted coming into port. Humbled as he was by his people's expectancy of his return, he hoped that they hadn't worried or doubted his survival.
A long time four months was to be gone, after all, and with no guarantee that he would be coming back at that.
And in little to no time, the Fëagaer passed through the harbor mouth, and Círdan eyes alit with a smile as he made out the silhouettes of Elves leaning over the stone railings of the watchtowers, peering down at his ship with obvious eagerness lining their postures and bright smiles lighting their faces. The blur of the Havens became a clear outline, their smooth granites reflecting the bright sunlight. And the forest of towering masts and reefed sails of the fleet came into sight, looming high and bobbing with the motion of the water.
And she sailed pass his own home, the house of stone looking as normal as could be at the peak of the narrow buttress of rock and earth. And the remaining few miles of travel were swiftly eaten up as the ship crossed over the harbor line. And Círdan, peering along the northern and southern jetties, could see the milling crowds of people lining the docks behind the ships.
And as his gaze was cast towards the butt of the southern jetty, Círdan felt a true smile touch his face. Though just shy of a league away, with his keen eyes Círdan could see Ëarhín leaning against the last bollard of the dock, unflustered by the considerable drop to the water before him. And though far away, the bright smile on the face of his first mate was evident.
And behind the Captain of the Shipyard Círdan could spy, standing with a stillness only possessed by an Elf, a handful of his own crewmen, sleeves rolled up and leather jerkins worn as they had evidently halted in their work. And behind them on the dock stood quite a few of his councilmen, their robes of whites, greys, and blues all wafting in the sea breeze that blew against them. Always it amazed him, Círdan thought, how swiftly word traveled. Not with any gesture could it have been more obvious that all the people – his beloved citizens lining the docks and his own inner cluster of both crew and councilmen – were waiting for his impending arrival. They were not jumping up and down in cheer and waving hands, as Círdan had heard was rumored to be done in busy human ports, such as Harlond of Gondor. The Elves, in their own quiet way with enlightening smiles and gathered masses and endless murmurs of words, provided their own welcome home. And the Fëagaer drifted towards the southern dock, skimming the sea like a low-flying seabird.
Círdan raised a narrow eyebrow in thought; this was going to be a rough landing. Due to the northwestern wind the Fëagaer had gradually migrated towards the southern jetty, the dock now coming into sight in sharpened detail. Normally, at this point, the Shipwright would have already called his crewmen to douse the canvas and reef the mainsail against its boom, or to at least trim the sail to minimize the speed of the Fëagaer's running, thereby slowing her down to a placid drift. But alas, he had no crew (he had not much confidence in the Istari's abilities to be hands on deck), he had no oarsmen to back water, and he had no control of the wind. She went fully ahead, the wind forcefully thrusting against the stretched canvas, moving her as fast as any ship in his fleet. Maybe faster. This was going to be a rough landing.
Please ease up, he thought disparagingly.
As if in answer to his silent plea, the wind actually did ease up, to Círdan's wonder. And a hundred meters off the power of the wind simmered to such minimal force that the previous momentum of her running carried the ship across the remaining distance. And Círdan angled the steering oar towards the left, gradually bringing the hull of the ship parallel to the dock, trying to get it directly behind the two-masted ship already moored. And as she neared, the crewmen stepped closer to the edge of the dock and Ëarhín did the same who, being a helmsman himself, was obviously contemplating the same situation that went through Círdan's mind on how to bring the ship to a stop.
And twenty meters off, Círdan released the tiller and let the Fëagaer run her own course as he ran towards the prow and hauled up the wound mooring line. And not a second later, as soon as the peak of her keel passed the first bollard, he tossed the line to the crewmen on deck. And he ran back to the stern and did the same with the last mooring line. And immediately, as the ship drifted fast alongside the dock, the Elves hauled her in until she grated against the wickerwork fenders lining the dock's edge, and wound her mooring lines around their respective bollards. And as she was hauled in, Círdan went along the starboard and tossed the remaining five lines to Ëarhín and the other crewmen waiting. And he leaned on the gunwale, watching as they performed their tasks. None spoke to him, but he could hear the eager murmurings of the crowds nearby.
"Lord Círdan, if you could direct us to some form of a guesthouse, we would greatly appreciate it."
The quietly spoken words from behind startled the Mariner considerably, and from jumping around he barely refrained. But he turned, only to be surprised to see Radagast before him, for he had heard no sound of approaching footsteps. But Radagast met neither his gaze nor those of any other, and instead kept his eyes lowered at the deck.
"Of course, m-…Radagast," he spoke, at the last moment remembering to do as requested and call them by name, all the while fervently trying to ignore the warning bells in the back of his mind that practically screamed that something disturbing was afoot. "Is there something amiss?"
Radagast minutely shook his head, his eyes remaining downcast, and Círdan felt that worm of misgiving grow. "It is not so, Master Mariner," he spoke quietly. "It is that we simply desire not to garner attention as to our purpose and have the need to acquire rest, for we all are weary from our travels."
Círdan nodded in consent and inquired no further, though on the Istar he kept a curious eye as he wandered back to wait alongside his companions standing at the port. Instead, he went and unlatched the entry port, stepping onto the quay with a contented sigh, absently aware of how his crew and counselors maintained a respectful distance until he signaled otherwise.
"Your orders, my lord?" one of crew called.
He gestured behind him. "Dress her down," Círdan said, his tone casual and non-expectant. His crew knew already what to do. "Douse all canvas and reef. Secure the tiller, cast loose the sheets, and lower and stow away the yardarm. And bring about the oars beneath deck to the centerline."
Before all the words passed his lips, already his crew was in action, some going to take hold of the sheets and rigging and some heading for the hatch to go beneath deck. And while the carried out their duties, the three Istari, Curunír once more at the head followed by Mithrandir and Radagast, stepped onto the quay and immediately went to stand at the end of the dock, remaining as silent and elusive as could be. And at the sight of them, Círdan turned and called towards one of the councilmen waiting more inward on the wharf.
"Galdor!" he called. "Please, come near, for I have need of your aid. Ëarhín," he added as the grey clad Elf stepped forward. Ëarhín did the same, unable to take the expectant smile off his face. Enjoyment was alight in his eyes at seeing his lord once more, but Círdan had not the mind to register it. "My friend, please, dismiss the crowd."
Ëarhín raised a questioning eyebrow, but spoke nothing, instead nodding with that grin still plastered on his face. He wanted to speak; that Círdan could tell, but more important matters were at hand and Ëarhín, knowing his overlord's dislike of informality before the masses, remained as silent as the councilmen. But his first mate turned on his heel and walked towards the specters gathered upward on the dock.
"What is left to garner your fascination?" he yelled out to them. "She has returned in one piece and your lord is safe. Now, do you not all have toil to be done or lives to go about living?" Rather quickly, the assembled mass remembered their manners and dissolved swiftly as they dispersed. And after receiving a promising nod from Círdan that words would be exchanged, the councilmen did the same.
Galdor glanced in amusement at the captain behind him as he came to stand before Círdan and gave a slight bow, returning to full height with a smile. "My lord, welcome home," he greeted calmly, but the relief was evident in his eyes. "Please, my lord, do not do so again," he added in exasperation. "Many had started to lose composure at your sudden disappearance. And many, I say, many panicked at your decision to uptake an action that not even juvenile seamen would commit to."
Círdan raised a cynical eyebrow jestingly; Galdor was one of the few comfortable and familiar enough with him to know how and when to jest with him. "Do you question my judgment of in which storms to sail?"
Galdor cast his grey eyes to the sky, as if in thought. "Nay, just your nerve to do so."
"You are not the only one," Círdan murmured, for he too had questioned both his nerve and sanity for sailing out into that wreckage of a storm four months ago. He gestured behind him to the Istari crowded by the last bollard. "Will you escort these three to the guesthouse for me? For they are weary and are in need of rest, and have not the energy to toil in conversation." Never would he normally request such a simplistic task of a High-elf such as Galdor, for he was a lord in his own right, being the former chief of the House of the Tree of Gondolin. And Círdan respected that, having never sought to undermine the honor the Noldo had earned.
But Galdor nodded, glancing at the three strangers curiously. "Of course, my lord. If I may ask, who are they? Did you sail up near Forlindon?"
Círdan gave a noncommittal shrug. "I found them standing upon the shore of the Sundering Sea." In that it was not an exact lie he consoled himself, for he specified simply not which shore they had stood upon. And then Círdan took a step forward to address the Istari ere further Galdor could inquire about them. "Welcome to Mithlond, Masters. With me is Lord Galdor, who will escort you to the guesthouse where you may acquire rest. You are welcome to Mithlond, and to anywhere you may venture."
The Istari said not a word and only gave a slight bow of gratitude in the direction of Círdan, and stepped forward to follow Galdor in silence. And Círdan wondered at this, for though appreciative that Galdor inquired nothing of them as he led them away, the Mariner was left with the impression that the Istari were prudently avoiding him. Not ignoring him, only avoiding him, and he could fathom not of any reason why.
But Galdor led them away and Círdan took a moment to appreciate just how old the Istari were managing to appear; hobbled and shuffled they did, their use of their staffs to support their weight evident, and their listless postures radiated a weariness beyond their years. And perhaps the fatigue was real, Círdan surmised, for they were now clothed in bodies real and not feigned, and aided and burdened now with both the strengths and weaknesses that came with them.
And Círdan stood alongside the last bollard in silence, glancing occasionally to Ëarhín who had mirrored his posture a respectful distance away, and both watched and waited for the crew to finish their work. And as they jostled the halyard to lower the yardarm, Círdan wondered at Ëarhín's silence, not even denying that it caused him a little worry. Yes, that smile of both relief and elation upturned the corners of his mouth still, but Círdan had half-expected him to speak to him by this time, or to voice some sarcastic comment in his relief at Círdan's return from being absent for four months. But nothing did Ëarhín speak, and his lord's gaze he did avoid, all the while seeming to withhold a large, knowing grin. Far too obviously, in fact. To the Shipwright it seemed that his first mate was doing such a swell job of hiding that grin precisely so that Círdan realized that he was hiding it.
But not a few minutes later the crewmen finished their tasks and, one by one, left the Fëagaer, each giving a slight bow to their lord ere the went on their way. None spoke, for their lord required nothing, and Ëarhín meaningfully turned his head to watch his fellow seamen leave up the dock. And once out of hearing range – which was not far, for amidst the mooring lines of the docked ships creaking and the breaking waves against the wharf and open bay, voices were carried little distance on the wind – Ëarhín spun on his heel and ran to Círdan. And ere the Shipwright could react, Ëarhín had him enwrapped in a crushing bear-hug.
And Círdan could help not but to chuckle. "I had wondered when you would break your silence."
"Never again do this to me, my lord," Ëarhín murmured in evident relief. "Be it far easier and swifter to add an Age on my life." From the embrace he stepped back and sent a mocking glare up to Círdan's amused gaze. "And be it far easier to behead me than deal with both frantic councilman and mariner."
A ghost of a smile touched Círdan's face. "Prone you are to exaggeration, my friend. And this recounting I deem is no exception to the embellishment."
Slowly Ëarhín shook his head, as though overcome, but the smile was still there. "No word is embellished, my lord," he assured. "Your disappearance did cause a considerable amount of havoc and chaos."
"I promised you I would return," Círdan reminded. "And I have."
"Yes," Ëarhín spoke, glancing behind him up the dock and he gestured in the same direction. "Who were those Men with you that came ashore? Do they come from Forlindon?"
Again, he gave a noncommittal shrug. "I found them on the coast of the Sundering Sea," he said, opting to relay the vague elucidation to any who asked in the future. "They were far from civilization, for I could see none near, and at my inquiry they requested that I bear them back to such a place." He, too, glanced into their direction. "As you could see, they are very weary."
Ëarhín nodded. "Aye; it is strange indeed how the bodies of Men age and die. I am glad for them that they may acquire rest in their ending years, free of danger." He looked at Círdan curiously. "But why were they so far from a human settlement that they asked to be borne across the Gulf? Are they ill in the mind?"
Círdan shook his head. "No, they only prefer to keep their silence – even to me."
Ëarhín nodded and pressed him no further, for the answer was logical in his mind. He instead released a deep breath and smiled openly. "So tell me, of what need so valiant was there for you to uptake that suicidal voyage? Or did the Vala Ulmo simply desire to test the Fëagaer against the roughest waters?" he added jestingly.
Círdan sighed and glanced at the seagulls flying overhead. "It is a strange tale to be told. And I apologize for my long absence," he added, "for I speak honestly when I say that I expected not to be gone for four months."
Silence. Ëarhín stared at him with confusion unhidden. And then he smiled and gave a nervous laugh. "Very funny, my lord. I have not heard you jest in a long time. Now come, let us get you settled back in."
Ëarhín turned to walk away, but Círdan grabbed hold his forearm and turned him back, his brow furrowed as he stared piercingly at his long-time friend. "What jest did I speak, Ëarhín? All I spoke was my being gone for four months."
Ëarhín laughed again and nodded. "I know. And as I said, it was funny. Now come, my lord," he continued, gesturing for him to follow, "let us get you home."
Once more, Círdan reached out and stopped him from walking away. And long moments of silence passed as Círdan peered deeply into Ëarhín's eyes. The grey orbs were without guile or any evidence of leg pulling. And though relaxed with his usual merry disposition, Ëarhín looked only vaguely worried at his lord's odd behavior. But he met the gaze evenly and wondered at his lord's look of alarm.
"What is it, Círdan?" he asked, willing to say anything to break the uncomfortable silence.
Suddenly, and understanding light dawned in the old Mariner's eyes. And in a low voice, he spoke gravely, "Ëarhín, how long was I absent?"
Ëarhín shrugged, failing to find the significance of it. "Just over a day, why?"
Círdan stared at him in silence, his blatant confusion now being overcome by a growing sense of worry and his eyes visibly darkened. "A day, Ëarhín?" he asked incredulously. "I was gone for over four months. How could you equate that to a day?"
Ëarhín spoke nothing and peered instead closely at Círdan, his own eyes narrowed. Now bothering not to hide his own worry, he reached out and rested his fingers against his lord's forehead. "Are you well, my lord? You are not ill, are you?"
Barely refraining from smacking the hand away, he took it in fraying tolerance and lowered it, and then spoke with as much patience as he could muster. "I am not ill, Ëarhín. Are you attempting to pull some jest on me? If so, it is far from funny."
Ëarhín retraced a step back, wary, and in his eyes clouded with doubt Círdan could see anything but evidence of mischief. And Ëarhín bothered not to hide his worry as he openly frowned. "My friend, I am being serious. I can help not but to question your health," he assured, feeling his alarm grow as he saw Círdan's glare intensify with confusion and even the smallest hints of fear.
"You think me mad?" Though spoken calmly, the words came out scarcely past a whisper.
"I would not be so callous," he retorted, though not impolitely. And prompted by nothing, something sparked in his memory. "Oh, and ere I become forgetful to report it, in the storm yesterday four of the fleet were damaged, though not irreparably, for they should be able to break harbor once more in a fortnight or so."
"Storm?" Círdan stared at him, his face composed into a careful mask of indifference.
But Ëarhín saw through the mask, and his worry grew. "Yes, my lord," he said carefully, inadvertently speaking as if to a slow-witted person. "That storm yesterday you so adamantly insisted on voyaging without any to stand alongside you? The one that I implying argued would kill you after dismasting your ship? Do you not remember?"
"Of course I remember," Círdan insisted, his grasp on his shredding patience slipping. "And almost it did, for when the mast splintered and –"
And Círdan fell silent, for when he gestured towards the subject of his words, his words caught in his throat and he stared in unblinking incredulity. And absently, his mind only focused upon what lay before him, his feet carried him back across the quay.
And in unconcealed bafflement did Ëarhín watch, his mind a whirlwind of growing worry at the strange behavior of his lord. For without any words Círdan had walked back through the entry port, stepping aboard his ship, moving in silence like a wraith. But Ëarhín shook his head. What was his lord doing? For Círdan stood now before the mast, his awe-struck gaze cast upon it as though it were a Silmaril in disguise. Ëarhín finally moved and followed him onto the deck, studying his lord in confusion.
What was so fascinating about the mast? Unto Ëarhín's eyes, it looked fairly normal. And absently, the captain went through a mental checklist: aye, vertical to the hull it stood; aye, each splinter was in perfect place; aye, the dark wood was beautifully enhanced all round by the sheen of oil, making the mast look like a long needle smooth and straight of dark hue. All in all, good as could be. Yet to Ëarhín's bewilderment, tears had lined Círdan's eyes. And Ëarhín saw the nigh on imperceptible tremble of his fingers as the Shipwright ran the digits across the timber, their touch soft and gentle, almost hesitant. He looked torn between joy and shock, and Ëarhín sorely resisted the temptation to scratch his head.
"My lord?" He spoke warily once more, coming to stand alongside his lord. And he weighed each word carefully ere he spoke them, fully uncertain as to how Círdan should react in his strange behavior. "My lord, what is it?"
"The mast," Círdan whispered, looking up and down the timber, still in amazement.
Ëarhín forced a smile. "What about the mast? Is something wrong with it?"
"No."
The smile disappeared. "My lord, please, you are scaring me," he spoke. "Of what fascination does the mast hold for you?"
"It is healed," he said contentedly. In his sight Círdan caught of glimpse of Ëarhín's confusion, even fear, and elaborated. "While amidst that storm you declared me insane to traverse, it had been as we had foretold; the combating forces had proven too much, and she splintered in height of three meters. Any further, I deem, it would have cleaved in two." He gave a small sigh. "Alas, so irreparable was it that I had fully accepted the fact that I would have to replace her."
Clarity muddled, Ëarhín looked from Círdan, to the mast, and back again, frowning. "In that darkness you saw her splinter?" he asked, genuinely surprised.
Círdan shook his head. "No," he replied, looking still at the mast with content. "I heard it. Even amidst the thunder and swells, you would have had to have been deaf to not have heard it."
Ëarhín gave a short laugh. "My lord, I saw everything. If she had truly splintered at the mast, there is no way by any force on Arda you would have been able to sail the crest."
"Wrong again you are, my friend," he retorted in jest with the smallest hint of a smile. "The Vala Ulmo took command and carried her over the wave."
"Ulmo," Ëarhín mouthed, feeling more out of the loop than ever. The helmsman shook his head; this was going to be a long day. And then Ëarhín let loose a sigh and gave a compensating gesture. "My lord, I deny not my confusion, and I sense there is much I know not, one being what the Vala Ulmo ever had to do with this voyage." He gestured towards the opposite shore. "May I suggest we get you home and comfortable? You must be as weary as the Men. And should you decide to speak, I will listen, for I deem we have much to discuss."
Círdan peered deeply into Ëarhín's eyes, searching the grey orbs for several seconds, and the younger Elf knew that his lord had seen his doubt and even skepticism. But Ëarhín was confused and did not apologize. Though he did apologize through his gaze for the fact that he would not apologize for his doubt.
"Yes," Círdan spoke gravely. "It seems we do."
O = O = O
"To the Enchanted Isles?"
"Yes."
"I see."
An eyebrow raised slightly, the only evidence of Círdan's slowly growing frustration. "You do not believe me?"
Both Círdan and Ëarhín sat on the private balcony of the Shipwright's home, facing the warm sunset and deep blue of the open sea. After a brief consultation with his councilmen and an inspection on the ships that had been impaired, they had ascended the foliaged esplanade in silence, each step bringing about only more exhaustion on Círdan's already fatigued body. And while Círdan had left to change from his rumpled apparel Ëarhín had went to await him on the private balcony with two servings of wine. And Círdan had joined him, dressed for slumber and in a light robe, his silver hair braided in a loose plait. And in companionable silence both had partaken of their wine as they took the precious few moments to admire the seagulls skimming low over the bay and the sunset that illuminated in golden light their chiseled features, one youthful and one elderly.
Ëarhín had initially offered to speak with him come the morn, for in the eyes of the captain Círdan had appeared laden with exhaustion and his eyes heavy with weariness. But Círdan had bluntly refused and began to speak ere Ëarhín could express his offer further. And Círdan spoke of all he had been enabled to, which, he soon came to realize, was not much at all.
And now Ëarhín looked at him, polite disbelief in his eyes. "I spoke not those words."
"You may as well have."
Ëarhín fell silent as he stared at his depleted wine glass, running his finger around the rim, hesitant with his words. "I want to believe you. Truly, I do. But unto my ears it makes little sense." His lord raised an inquiring eyebrow and he elaborated. "Hear me; to dismiss what you say is the last thing I desire. In your company my whole life has been spent, which has led me to witness things conceivable only through the imagination. In time past, you have told me things beyond inexplicable and unnatural, and without hesitation I believed you. And I desire to do so again."
He leaned forward, peering into Círdan's calm gaze. "If you had told me that you had been borne across the wind on the back of Thorondor, I would believe you, without thought. If you had told me that the Úlairi had somehow found the power to break free from the hold of Sauron and turned against him, I would believe you. If you had told me that while amidst this voyage you had witnessed Númenor raised back from the depths, I would believe you. The only thing to stop impossibility from being possible is people believing it to be improbable; you taught me that. And what you tell me now offers little clarity.
"Yes, no doubt rests in my mind that Ulmo summoned you out to the Great Sea, granting you no knowledge as to where or why. But that you sailed all the way to Aman and back…so many factors of what you inform me go against it."
Círdan rested his head against the wood of the chair, gazing out absently at the dying Sun. "I have not told you everything," he spoke softly. "Speak your doubts and allow me the chance to quell them."
Ëarhín sat back as well, calmed by his lord's passive manner, for though his lord was not one to become quick to anger, he was relieved that he had not yet lost all patience with making sense of this tale. "Very well…for one, you say that the only place where the Fëagaer ran aground was the Enchanted Isles. Through that, do you imply that it was where those three Men came aboard? That they came from a land where the race of Men is forbidden to step upon? Or have the higher beings of power and authority suddenly withdrawn that forbiddance?"
There was a long silence, and in Círdan's stoic expression no thought could be read. But the smallest hints of frustration could be seen in his eyes, for the truth to make Ëarhín's confusion clear could not be spoken while shorn of breaking his own oath of silence; therefore, silence, it seemed, was all he could keep.
"No," he answered quietly. "As in the dawn of days, the rite of passage to Aman is forbidden from Men."
"Then how could this be?"
"I cannot answer."
"Cannot or will not?" he asked with a smile to take the challenge out of his words. But his lord did not answer and Ëarhín pushed aside his uncertainty as to why he kept his silence. "And then there is something that I fail to comprehend with the Fëagaer."
That caught Círdan's attention, and he turned his head just enough to peer at his first mate. "Yes?"
He gave a slight smile and shook his head. "That Ulmo bore her across the Sea has left me in awe, only increasing my wonder of the Lord of Waters." He gestured uncertainly. "But why did Ulmo not heal her until after the journey was finished? Why wait so long when the journey may have been aided by her being fully functional?"
"Searching for answers pertaining to that beyond the depth of our understanding is as walking through a forest at night," he said. "It is easy to lose your way, and without a hand to guide you, you will likely never find it." He gave a slight smile as Ëarhín looked upon him in mock exasperation, though the skirl could not keep the adoration from his eyes and smile from his lips. "Attempt not to understand that which is not meant to be understood, my friend. The Vala Ulmo is as vast as his Waters; his reasons go beyond the furthest horizons, and his wisdom behind them reaches beyond the furthest depths. And of both ends, we can see neither. And still, he apparently deems it wise to keep my eyes shut as to the full reason why he sent me on this voyage. Besides," he added, sensing Ëarhín's curious gaze, "the Vala Ulmo did not heal the mast."
Ëarhín cocked his head. "But afore we departed the quay, you told me that she had been splintered ere being healed."
"And it is as I spoke."
Ëarhín looked from Círdan, to the bay, and back again, growing in confusion. "But you now spoke she was healed not by Ulmo."
"And that is true."
Ëarhín gestured helplessly with his hands, this time with real exasperation. "Then by who was she healed?"
"I cannot say."
Ëarhín sat back, twisting his jaw as he briefly looked at the carafe of wine in longing, contemplating if he should have another drink. And then he pushed the ungraceful thought aside. "See you now what I mean, my lord? What you apparently cannot speak of is what is making this all more confusing. Furthermore, on the simplest note, I know you took nothing with you, not even a brush. And if truly you were gone for four months at sea, your hair would look as though it had been dragged through five hedges backwards. And yet every strand is in place."
"I did have a brush," Círdan retorted with the ghost of a smile.
Ëarhín frowned at the ambiguous words, but when it was obvious that no elaboration was forthcoming, he sighed. "Very well, it is as you say. But brush or no brush, if truly you had traversed the greatest body of water, you would have returned with the white crust of salt rimming your hair. And yet I saw none upon your return."
"What you speak is true," Círdan answered, again in that passively soft tone. "But I spent too little time above deck for the bombardment of salt to crust my hair. I stood only fore and aft for no more than a day."
Again, Ëarhín frowned. "If gone for four months, how was the rest of your time spent? Beneath deck?"
"I slept."
The frown was deepened with confusion. "What do you mean you slept?"
"It is as it sounds," Círdan said simply. "I slept."
"How is that possible?" Ëarhín nearly begged, concern and wonder warring within. "Never has it been said of an Elf of good health to sleep for days on end, let alone months. How did you do that?"
"I did not," he said. "Each time I had lain down for slumber, the Vala Lórien had come to aid my rest, sending me into reverie so deep that to wake passed beyond my control. As I had hitherto spoken, when I first awoke I had passed beyond the world of familiarity, for I recognized nothing."
"The Vala Lórien? You had failed to mention him." Ëarhín's mind flew anew with this further piece of knowledge and he leaned forward yet again. "When you speak of how you slept without interval for so long now makes sense, my lord, but have you considered the fact that he is called the Vala of Dreams for a reason? What if all you describe was only a dr–"
Quickly, he snapped his jaw shut, but already the words had been spoken. And Ëarhín had already known it was a mistake ere all the words had left his mouth, for through his ill-chosen words, he was aware that he had just gravely insulted his lord. And though no anger was enthused in Círdan at the unintentional affront, Ëarhín saw a glimpse of deep hurt flash in his eyes. And he bowed his head in obvious regret.
"My lord, forgive me," he spoke quietly. "I spoke without thought."
And that he spoke without thought was true, for Ëarhín, more than any other, was aware that if any Elf could differentiate between dreams and reality, it was Círdan and no other. Constantly, every day, Ëarhín was aware that his lord was plagued with the Sight, both through dreams amidst his reverie and visions amidst his being awake. And the Sight came upon him so regularly that, in a rare time when he had jested with Ëarhín, Círdan had spoken that he knew not if what he saw throughout every day was of the Sight or of his own eyesight. That he had just implied that Círdan was ignorant that all that had happened might have only been a dream was tantamount to declaring to a swordmaster that he knew not how to hold a sword. Or declaring to a Wood-elf that he knew not how to climb a tree.
Ëarhín felt the light touch of long fingers over his hand and he looked up into Círdan's passive gaze. "I took no offense, Ëarhín," he spoke calmly. "I know that by confusion you are plagued and well aware am I that my answer of silence to many a question of yours helps not. I pretend not to know everything and alas, I remain ignorant on many things about this voyage also." The grip tightened, almost beseechingly. "But know that I speak the truth when I say that the ship was beached at the Enchanted Isles. Believe that, if nothing else."
Ëarhín was shaken by the nigh on imploring light in Círdan's eyes, for such insecurity was unbecoming of his lord in the greatest of ways. And it was then that the Sea-elf came to realize that Círdan was fearful, fearful that his mind was going astray with what he did and did not know; he needed the answers even more than Ëarhín did. But Ëarhín could only shake his head with an apologetic sigh.
"My lord," he began, "it was by the decree of Eru that you could not have sailed to Aman in less than a day, for the West is to be beyond the reaches of Men. But were that factor to be non-existent and you told me that all this happened in one day, I would believe you. But that you insist on having been gone for four months…it is scaring me."
Círdan leant back once more, his inscrutable gaze again cast upon the bay. "Perhaps it did happen in one day. I am not blind to what lays before me amidst my Havens, Ëarhín. The season has lingered and far off does Summer remain, for still I can feel the chill of the winter gales upon my skin. But the decree of Eru you speak of remains firm, and it is because of that decree that we both know I could not have sailed to the Enchanted Isles ere a day had passed."
"And that is why I insist that the Men must have come from Forlindon, for Men are decreed to never set foot upon the Undying Lands and Forlindon is a plausible distance to have traveled in a day," Ëarhín averred. "I despise arguing with you, my lord," he added with a chuckle, "for I always come out looking as the fool. But that you declare that you went to Aman and welcomed aboard Men, and all in one day…it just makes no sense."
And Círdan closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, and Ëarhín was uncertain as to whether it was an attempt to stave of weariness or summon more patience. He desired to know Círdan's thoughts at that moment, but little did he know that Círdan was beyond frustrated, frustrated at the fact that a large portion of this melee would be solved if he merely mentioned that they were not Men.
But he couldn't.
"I honestly am uncertain as to what to tell you," he spoke with his eyes still closed, "but all I can say is that the three in question did not come from Forlindon."
"Why did you not ask them?" Ëarhín asked. "And speaking of the three, despite how odd they are, if you had truly spent so much time with them, why did you seem as a stranger to them after you came into port?"
"Oh worry not, my friend," Círdan spoke darkly. "I will be speaking with them on the morrow about that."
"Círdan," Ëarhín tried once more in tones mild and respective, "I know you are not lying. And I apologize if my words seemed to insinuate that I questioned your integrity. Yet you even have admitted ignorance, that not all of this journey is clear unto your eyes." He looked out to the bay and watched the seagulls fly, taking comfort in their distant squawking. "Perhaps it is as you said, my lord, and this passes beyond the depth of our understanding. Or mine, at least," he amended. "There are many things within your sight that I cannot even fathom to contemplate." A smile creased his face as he turned once more to Círdan. "Do you remember when we first met?"
Círdan's eyes softened at the memory. "It is hard to forget," he said quietly. "You scared the life out of me."
Ëarhín chuckled. "No fault had lain with me, for I had not even been ten years of age. I remember my youth upon the Falas and during those tender years you had always been that figure to be admired to my eyes, beyond the reach of the simplest person." The smile grew. "You were my idol, for I remember no other whose skill I fervently desired to have." He shook his head, the focus of his gaze far away as he lost himself in memory. "When ventured forth I had into the water, I had thought to have judged the depths of the shallows correctly. I knew I had, for I could see the floor with my own eyes. Never would I have expected for an air pocket – quicksand – to be below surface only neck deep in water.
"But there you were," he continued contentedly. "Within seconds after submerged underwater with my feet caught in the sand, there you were hauling me out. And I remember wondering how you could have possibly known that air pocket was there, how you could have known that it would give out under my weight when I barely weighed a thing." He looked back out to the bay. "You understand and know the workings of the Waters far better than I, Círdan. And you can sense far deeper and clearer the world around you than any Elf I believe possibly could. I know that as we simply hear the breaking swells of the sea, you can hear the Music clearly in your ear, whereas I would have to strain my hearing to hear but the echo of Ilúvatar's Song." He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Can you hear it now?"
Círdan returned the expression, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "And what question is that?" he distantly asked. "It is the air I breathe."
"Exactly," Ëarhín smiled. "Your soul and mind are a part of this World and the powers behind it. And to all eyes it is known that your spirit is entwined with the Waters of Ulmo." He let go a deep breath. "And that is why I would fully believe that this 'voyage' is beyond my understanding, that only you could comprehend it; with no qualm I would accept that. Say it, my lord," he insisted with a flourish of his hand. "Say it; it is beyond my understanding, so do act wisely, stay silent and argue with you no further."
Círdan's face creased as the smallest tinges of a smile broke through to the surface as he looked upon his long-time friend in mock tolerance. "Never would I degrade you so," he said, "for every word of insight on your part is as a thousand words to me." He then sighed, the smile disappearing as he once again closed his eyes. "Yet it seems that this voyage has gone beyond even my comprehension, for many things remain in the dark."
Ëarhín reached over and grasped his shoulder. "And all will come to light, my lord," he promised. "As you would say to me, just give it a while, for all things will come in their own time, not ours."
A silent moment passed and, without opening his eyes, Círdan spoke, "You can be unbearably optimistic sometimes."
Ëarhín smiled. "And why do you think I follow you as a dog? For with that accursed Sight you tend to be too fatalistic."
He gave a slight shrug. "That is true, too."
"Are you sure to be well, my lord?" Ëarhín inquired after a second's hesitation. "Despite being only gone for a day, you truly do appear as if, without rest, you have journeyed for four months."
"I am so tired," he uttered, the words so quiet they may have been to himself.
Ëarhín felt a dark premonition overcome him as he heard the words, for through knowing his lord so well he deemed that the claim of tiredness came not from bodily fatigue. But he kept the smile upon his face and stood from his chair. "Then sleep, you old fool," he jestingly berated. "How many more a time must you be told to acquire rest when you need it?"
Círdan open his eyes and gazed sagely up at Ëarhín, a smile in his eyes. "That answer I deem will forever remain beyond my sight." He grasped the hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "You are a good friend, Ëarhín. Thank you for listening to me, if not exactly believing me."
"You have always had my ear," he said, "and mayhap this…situation…will become clearer in the morn, after all have rested. Good night, my lord, and sleep well." He gave a slight bow and left Círdan on the balcony, his soft footfalls scarcely audible as they receded.
But despite the fatigue he felt in body and weariness in mind, Círdan thoughts remained awry and did not settle. He pondered no further on the frustrating mystery of the voyage, for having been through all mundane avenues with Ëarhín there was nothing new to think upon. But it remained unsolved and ever so infuriating in his mind, for he knew this journey had not been a dream. He knew with crystal clarity the different residue left by dream and reality, and he knew that all he had experienced was real.
For there had been much he had not told Ëarhín.
But Círdan's thoughts were upon another subject entirely; the three Men. Ëarhín had made a very interesting point; they had treated the Shipwright as though he were a stranger to them upon arriving in Mithlond. And he knew not whether to be more amused or offended by it. As he had guaranteed to Ëarhín, he would speak with them on the morrow, for he wanted some answers and only they could provide them. Oh yes, he thought darkly, he would be speaking with them.
But there was one thing he knew with absolute certainty; the Istari were real and their purpose true, for Radagast had asked of Círdan ere they had moored at the quay to be escorted to a guesthouse immediately in the attempt to not garner attention as to their purpose. But Radagast had avoided his eyes when making the request. Why had he avoided his eyes? But already they made certain to obtain the mask of insignificance. And it had worked, for as they had been escorted by Galdor none had spoken to or questioned them, only looked upon them in curiosity. And Círdan was more concerned about them than his own sanity over the impossibilities of this trip.
He knew what was in store for the Istari when they will have started to traverse Middle-earth. That vision he had dreamt while upon the Fëagaer remained clear in his mind. And he grieved at knowing all the horror, the pain, the struggles, and the weariness that awaited them. Yes, their wisdom would be welcome, their counsel sought, but once Sauron learned of their existence they would be hunted without reprieve. And limited by their own restrictions set by the Valar, it would make their mission only harder. Their bodies were masks to inconceivable strength, but their immortal souls would soon be greatly weakened by the mortality of Middle-earth. They would face many obstacles, and though Círdan believed with no doubt that they would emerge victorious, the struggle to do so would sometimes be great.
He wished to help them, but by no means could he. Through sending the Istari the Valar had proven to all that they still cared, that they watched still the transformation, the growth and destruction of Middle-earth. The Istari were to be the double-edged sword of the Valar, but like all swords they would bear the brunt of all retaliation. They would inflict all damage and wounds upon Sauron, but they would also bear the notch in the steel every time Sauron struck back with his darkness and terror. Yes, he would speak with them tomorrow and tell them all they desired to know about Middle-earth, for he knew he saw further and deeper than any other into the land, and he could offer them any knowledge of any place to increase their wariness of the Hither Shores.
And yet, Círdan knew it would be very little.
There was nothing he knew that they eventually would fail to learn, and their knowledge and understanding of Middle-earth was already so great, he deemed, that there was little he could tell them that they knew not already. But did they already know what awaited them? Were they already aware that they would go for years without rest, that their feet would carry them for miles across distant lands without reprieve? He would be unsurprised if they did, for they were neither arrogant nor ignorant. He wished there were some way he could aid them, but there was nothing of material value he could give them, for his craft and trade lay in the making of ships. Besides, the aid of substantial apparatus would only last them for so long a time, or so little a time to be accurate. And what they were fighting was not physical. It was in the realm of the otherworldly, in the place where swords could be thrown to the side in their futility. If there were anything that could possibly, truly aid them, it would have to be something capable of resisting the darkness of Sauron that continuously grew, of staving off the weariness that would soon be brought upon their shoulders, thereby making their job a little bit easier to endure.
At the inadvertent thought Círdan's eyes snapped open as his breath caught. Almost against his will, his eyes slid down to where he felt the almost imperceptible pulsing beat on his finger. And as he gazed at the seemingly bare finger, the pulse grew until he could physically feel it against his skin. And Círdan put forth his mind to that which lay dormant upon his hand as he willed the Ring to show herself.
And she did. Within the blink of an eye after the thought, Narya became visible on his middle finger, the gold band reflecting the light of the dying Sun, and the red ruby resting before his eyes deep and pure. He studied it keenly, sending his mind through her layers of power, recalling all the centuries, the millennia he had borne her and how she remained idle upon the shores for many of them. And the pulsing beat grew more prominent until he could feel it match his own heartbeat.
Suddenly, Círdan wretched his gaze away from the band set with stone, shaking his head and the Ring was sent once more to lay invisible upon his finger. And again, he closed his eyes, resting his head against the chair in exhaustion. He must really be tired, he thought absently. What had he been thinking? To have actually even had the mere thought of giving away Narya –
No, no…no. He wouldn't…He couldn't.
To be continued….
No AU factor: I've received a couple reviews that pointed out that the content of this chapter seemed a lot like Narnia (something I had never considered), concerning the "being gone for four months when it was only a day". There's nothing wrong with thinking that, because it does seem a lot like it. That's why I'm posting this. The only thing I can tell you at this moment was that I wasn't pulling a Narnia. Círdan wasn't gone for four months at all, only for one real day (almost two days, but whatever). That's why everyone's confused. It's impossible to have sailed to Aman within two days because of what Eru decreed (which is why Círdan insists that it was four months, thereby making it more logical), and Ëarhín insists that he was only gone for a day because...well, he was. The whole issue will be clarified and explained in the last chapter (as will a ton of others), because there is actually a loose canonical explanation of how and why Círdan would think one day turned into four months. There was no magic, no time capsuls, no anything. That's all I can say at this time. Círdan's the one who's in the wrong about being gone for four months; he just doesn't realize it yet. Sorry for the confusion!
Next chapter: And finally Círdan makes a rather crucial decision. And he has a rather blunt conversation with three particular Istari, no longer caring if they are offended by his words or not.
A/N: Before anyone asks, everything that happened to Círdan in the past chapters was real. Ëarhín made some valid points about the impossibilities of Círdan's "journey", but it was definitely all real. How it could have been possible despite all the impossible factors remains the question to be answered. Besides, Ulmo could never be so cruel to his favorite Elf. :) After all, Ulmo has a pretty big surprise in store for Círdan. *sighs* Many, many more answers to be obtained…Please, make my day and click on the review button! I'm open to any and all words you have to say.