Disclaimer: for full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.
A/N: Okay, it's official; there will be 10 chapters in this story. No more, no less. In this chapter, Círdan makes said decision, we find out exactly what happens when those who know of Narya learn that Círdan wants to give it away, Círdan becomes more frustrated than ever and the Istari prove to be no help whatsoever. I would like to thank Lia Whyteleafe, WiseQueen, Zammy, and Sadie Sil for your reviews; very encouraging and very wonderful. So thank you!
"Nothing is more difficult, and therefore more precious, than to be able to decide." ~ Napoleon Bonaparte
Chapter 8
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.
Could he?
Though his body bemoaned leaving the comfort of his chair, Círdan stood and went to the railing of the balcony. And for but a moment, with a weary sigh, Círdan closed his eyes and allowed himself to get lost within the pulsing rhythm of the sea, to go adrift among the breaking of the swells. But such entrancement did little to quell his racing thoughts and, with great reluctance, he pulled away from the temptation to drown in the waters.
He collapsed against the balustrade, alarmed by how his limbs trembled with fatigue, and sat along the smooth flooring, closing his eyes once more. He truly needed to sleep and his body was obviously ready to give way. But his thoughts were awry, and he began to wonder if his clarity and train of thought were now being muddled with exhaustion. What had he been thinking? Why had he even contemplated the thought of giving Narya away, let alone to them? It had been entrusted to him by Gil-galad, and he valued that trust. And at the thought of the long departed Elvenking, an old wound in the Shipwright's heart ached once more.
After entrusted by Fingon with the protection of his only son, the Shipwright had raised Ereinion with as much love and patience as he could give, and never before being neither child nor parent he was not the greatest or most natural at such a task. And as he had grown in knowledge and stature and as a person, he had earned Círdan's respect and trust like others seldom few. Never had Círdan borne Narya with any desire, a sentiment made incontestably clear unto the High King and all present when offered the band. But Gil-galad had met him with arguments valid and undeniable, ones Círdan had been unable to talk his way out of – a situation he was uncertain still with how Gil-galad had managed to do so successfully. But upon his finger still, the steady, subtle beat of Narya went on pulsating without pause. And upon every remembrance of her his mind grew dark with the frustration and everlasting reluctance surfaced to a degree greater each time. For Noldorin craft and beauty Círdan had no fascination – he was far too in love with the Sea for it to be so. Besides, he recognized that it had been the irrational desire for knowledge and perfection on the part of Celebrimbor the whole debacle had started, which had only darkened his mood upon Gil-galad's request to receive Narya. No, never had he wanted Narya, neither then nor now.
But as spoken to Mithrandir, his peace of both mind and soul mattered little to the fate of Middle-earth, and of both he would risk being rent if it meant that Middle-earth should live in light a while longer. But idle Narya was upon these shores, for Círdan never used her. Aye, amidst her layers of power Círdan had taken advantage always of being enabled to detect within his realm any source of evil, for he was no fool, but to naught it always came. So as ever, upon the grey, western shores did Narya remain ineffective and upon his finger useless.
But whether it was that Narya was idle or not was irrelevant; Círdan knew not what he had been thinking, for in no way possible could he give the Red Ring to the Istari. They were Maiar. And the Three, by the hand of Celebrimbor, were crafted to be solely wielded by the Elves. As Curunír had said amid his interrogation with Círdan aboard his ship, all bands set with stone contain power to be envied. Upon discussing the Three nigh on a millennium ago, Elrond had made the peculiar observation to Círdan that Men would more or less be driven into madness should they wear an Elven Ring of Power for a prolonged amount of time. And being Half-elven, Círdan perceived that Elrond understood that better than he. And layers of power could be wielded only by those with the strength to resist their influence. Among all the knowledge was common that of body and spirit, Elves had the greater strength than mortals; thereby, it was logical that those of stronger resistance were able to wield the greater power shorn of falling prey to it.
But were Maiar not stronger?
The unbidden thought entered Círdan's mind. Upon Mithrandir's inquiry of him of why he refused to call the Istari by name, the Shipwright recalled his reply: To all of higher power I am inferior and I accept that. Within the order of the World set by Eru, Elves came under Maiar in all strengths, a fact Círdan knew personally. And that they were stronger was a part of Ilúvatar's Song. Upon that knowledge, that the Istari were capable of wielding Narya as easily as the next, no doubt lay within Círdan's mind. But differentiation loomed large in Círdan's thoughts, for Elves were not Maiar and Maiar were not Elves, and the guess lay with anyone of with what thoughts Celebrimbor crafted the Three.
And upon such skepticism, the ghost of a smile touched the face of Círdan, for he remembered the words of Mithrandir amidst their discussion of what had coaxed Sauron to turn traitor into Morgoth's service, and the gruff voice echoed in his mind. Identical are the tempers of our souls, cloaked only in different origins. Have not Maiar eyes, hands, emotions, senses, passions? If you jest with us, do we not laugh? If you anger us, do we not become enraged? If you sadden us, do we not mourn? If you betray us, do we not hurt? Example upon example Mithrandir had given in proof that Maia and Elf were not so different at all; proof that both were capable (and even susceptible) of loyalty, jealousy, deception, desire, forgiveness, rage, love, sympathy, fear and in between a thousand more. And it was even more so now as such, Círdan construed, for clothed in the bodies of Men the Istari were now more susceptible than ever to the fears and pains of the flesh, and to all limitations lying therein. Mayhap it was that upon the craft of the Three, Celebrimbor meant them to be wielded not by those with Elven blood, but with tantamount qualities.
With a fatigued grunt, Círdan opened his eyes and hauled himself up from the stone floor. And without thought, he entered his room and removed his light robe. Stepping before the water-filled basin set upon a small table, Círdan splashed his face a few times. And bothering not to even take up the towel to dry his face, Círdan went over to his narrow bed and collapsed atop the white sheets, water droplets running down into his hairline as he stared up at the white-washed ceiling, his tired thoughts going in circles.
Very well, let it be the presumption that he would give them Narya, Círdan thought. The question of whether she would be capable of aiding them went unchallenged in his mind, for the Elven Rings, though flawed in their very conception, possessed many layers of power for the better as to resist the growing Shadow of Sauron. For it was as Mithrandir had spoken, that 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 such was true, Círdan knew, for of all tyranny Narya would grant strength to the bearer to resist, and all domination of mind and soul that Sauron would, with little doubt, intend for them. And upon the finger of whichever Istar, Narya would erase all remnants of despair that might befall them. She would smite doubt and instill hope, and enable the senses to further and deeper see and feel than the mundane, whether said senses be mortal or immortal. And, perhaps most importantly, Círdan decided, in all others surrounding her wielder, Narya would invoke hope and courage, for it was as Curunír had spoken: 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. Never had matters of trust crossed the Shipwright's mind, for to question their allegiance to the battle to bring about Sauron's fall would be to question the Valar themselves. Certainly, the Istari did not need Narya, but that she would in some form aid them, little by little, was undeniable.
And Círdan's thoughts plundered, for to whom would he give the Ring of Fire? Only one bearer there could be and he had three candidates, all assigned and entrusted by the Valar, burdened with the same task, and limited by the same restrictions. To any one of them he could give her, for, logically, their purpose and goal were the same.
But no, for amid the Fëagaer and the little time he had spent with each Istar, Círdan saw already the subtle yet extreme differences between the three. And already, the Shipwright knew he could not grant the Ring of Fire to Radagast. Truly, nothing was there that Círdan held against him, for he had become endeared of him; of all Maiar Círdan had met, Radagast had been one of the gentlest (a true foil to Ossë), and to all life he possessed such a warm and giving heart that it was positively admirable to any who witnessed it.
But the first precedence lay in their mission, and already Círdan could see that Radagast was not fully committed to it as the others were. In other paths there lie ways to thwart the Enemy. While what Radagast had spoken was true, and to the Free People such wisdom would be imparted by the Istari, Radagast had made it plain unto Círdan that his heart and dedication lay in those other ways, for he had so purely spoken; 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. Though that Radagast would succeed with such an endeavor the Shipwright hoped to the fullest, Círdan knew the importance of duty. And though Radagast did truly desire to fight the growth of the Shadow in whichever way he might, in how to go about that his mind was divided; to strictly obey the orders of the Valar or to act in accordance with his own strength and skill. For Radagast had spoken to Círdan that of the greatest strength, love is the foundation. As your heart lay with the Sea and your ships, so there your hands are Master, as are mine in the life of earth and beast. And it was that Círdan sensed, even feared, that as time of the Age waned, Radagast would stray from his duty and instead follow his heart. A deep respect for the Brown Wizard had grown within Círdan, for he admired his gentleness and deep love for life like few others. But though he believed still that Radagast's presence would benefit Middle-earth's healing, in all Círdan could trust was the Valar and those that were committed to their orders fully – no doubt could be present when deciding who should be granted power of any kind.
Which left Curunír and Mithrandir, and upon whom he should choose Círdan's mind was truly divided. And if he were honest, his initial thoughts leant more towards Curunír.
That Curunír knew what he was doing was clear, and he was said by Mithrandir to be regarded by well-nigh all, even by the Eldar, as Chief of my Order. The average person might deduce that, as Curunír was the Head of the Istari, the leader, he should be granted the Ring of Fire. But of who should be given what, Círdan knew that leadership should never sway the decision. And it both saddened and infuriated the Shipwright that many people, of Men and Elves alike, immediately and so inanely bowed down to foreign leadership without thought upon deciding who should be given power or authority. Not that any and all leaders were unworthy of it (quite the contrary), but some intelligent thought should be put behind such decisions.
But Curunír knew what he was doing and had proven it every time he had felt obligated to speak to Círdan. Even Mithrandir acknowledged him, and of his memory the Grey Wizard's words came to the forefront: He is both knowledgeable and wise and has the greatest of both in knowing the ways and workings of Sauron. And Mithrandir respected him and submitted to his authority willingly, and such acquiescence spoke volumes unto Círdan's mind. Furthermore, Mithrandir had spoken that though in bearing he is strong and confident, and though he showcases his excessive knowledge wisely, great burden does he carry on his shoulders. Curunír did carry that extra burden and mayhap he would benefit the most if given the aid of Narya.
But was Mithrandir's burden not just as great?
Mayhap it was all the time Círdan had spent in his company, for Mithrandir came forth as so vastly different. The Maia of Manwë was so shockingly humble, for of all time amidst the Fëagaer when he could have exalted his superior knowledge, wisdom, power – whatever it may have been – he never did. And of recognizing and admitting his weaknesses he held no shame, for he knew imperfection was not a personal problem, but a part of existing. In the course of their discussion on the Valar choosing the emissaries, Mithrandir had spoken that he had told the King of Arda that he was too weak for such a task and that he feared Sauron. And how had Manwë responded? That was all the more reason why he should go. And though commanded by Manwë to go as an emissary, he seemed to be doing so less because he was ordered to and more because he wanted to. Círdan recalled that, while trying to encourage the Wizard to go as an ardent emissary, Eönwë had revealed his "trump", that you will do this, for you love them too much, you fool.
As Radagast had hitherto clarified, love was the foundation of the greatest strength. And Círdan realized that, constantly, Mithrandir had spoken of his love. And he remembered. If my love for the Elves can be called a weakness, then it is one weakness I am grateful for. Doubt me not, Círdan, when I say that love recognizes no barriers. If there is anything that would strengthen my resolve, to absolve my hesitancy, and fortify my yearning to defeat the Shadow, it is my love for the Free People, to see them released from bondage. And he had further spoken that he held within his mind no doubt that, upon his traversing the Hither Lands, he would come to love Men and the other Free Peoples just as greatly as he did the Elves. Upon Círdan's inquiry – or accusation, more correctly – that Mithrandir would follow the same path Sauron did, Mithrandir had spoken of his respect for the Valar and his love for them, of his anticipation of returning home to them once all was done. Mithrandir had expressed his love for the Valar and Free Peoples as clearly as Radagast had spoken of his love for earth and beast, and in excessive knowledge Curunír's love and pride had needed not to be spoken of.
But Mithrandir…he had proven to be warm, and eager was his spirit. And his concrete dedication to aid the Free Peoples and release them from bondage would, Círdan could foresee, make him a great enemy of Sauron. And he appeared to have the tendency to fell all barriers of those he spoke to, opposing the fire that devoured and wasted with instead the fire that kindled. From what Círdan knew, Mithrandir succored in wanhope and distress; but his joy, his swift wrath were veiled in garments grey as ash, and Círdan perceived that only those who knew him well would be able glimpse the flame that was within.
Both Curunír and Mithrandir were wise, yet in Mithrandir Círdan perceived that such wisdom was greater. Curunír had both knowledge and wisdom and had the greatest of both in knowing the ways and workings of Sauron, as par the words of Mithrandir. And mayhap said insight was essentially born from his excessive knowledge. Though in that he may be the greatest, in Mithrandir Círdan sensed a wisdom deeper and far different. It was the wisdom obtained from a personal level, obtained from knowing the ways and workings of not only Sauron, but of all the Free People, derived from dedication to have such knowledge learnt. And Mithrandir had something Curunír did not, for Manwë had sent specifically him for an unspoken reason.
And though ordered to forgo might and power, Mithrandir not only adhered to the command, but understood why it had to be so; the grey-clad Istar saw the benefits of not using power, for he had told Círdan that there are ways more subtle and effective to conquest the Shadow. Not all can be done – or should be done – through power alone. And there was where the concern of Círdan lay. Curunír had put Círdan through the fire in his inquiry of the power of the Three, or at least what powers the Three were rumored to possess. Mithrandir later had clarified that Sauron wanted the Elven Rings, that something about them drove him to desire them. And it was unto Círdan's mind that Curunír was trying to deduce what exact "power" of the Three it was that stood in resistance to Sauron.
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; that was what Mithrandir had concluded about his Chief. And Círdan could help not but to wonder if Curunír believed still that power must be used to defeat Sauron. Círdan knew not, and such simple ignorance was vexing. For in that he was torn, as the differences between the Wizards White and Grey were blatant upon inspection.
Without any consideration, Círdan would give Narya to Mithrandir, for with he laid his greater familiarity. Mayhap he just knew not enough of Curunír, but each and every time when Círdan had spoken with the Head of the Order, it had been nothing but formal. And Curunír had never gone out of his way to speak with Círdan unless it concerned something of importance, unlike Mithrandir, who had not let Círdan remain alone, even in thought and memory. But Círdan had identified also a touch of pride in Curunír, and that triggered the Shipwright to hesitate further. Curunír was prideful, and Círdan knew that the greatest asset in wisdom, of any kind, was humility, something both Gil-galad and Elrond had proven upon their wielding of Vilya, mightiest of the Three. But Curunír was a bit prideful under keen eyes, for when discussing the Rings of Power, Curunír had admitted his lack of knowledge, to which Mithrandir had playfully mocked him of. And Círdan's flying thoughts came to an immediate halt, for he suddenly recalled how Curunír had replied to the jest.
Go play with your fire.
The vision…within it he had seen a flame, a flame that, amid the battles raging of stench and death, had remained ever strong, untainted, untouched, and unconquered. By no darkness, it had appeared, could it have been quenched. As countless times before, Círdan had known what the vision had foretold, and had presumed that the flame was the Istari, the light of the Valar that would contest the darkness of the Shadow. Had he been wrong? Was the flame not all of the Istari, but only one of them? Why had Curunír said fire, of all things, otherwise? But as Círdan continued to think upon it, the more he began to believe that the flame was Mithrandir and he alone, for it had been amongst all the Free Peoples, and only he was the one most likely to do just that. And an unbidden – rather random – thought came unto his mind; Narya was called the Ring of Fire, and though Círdan was an Elf that trusted more in the Sight placed upon him and concrete fact otherwise, he was not beyond believing that fate intervened when it was destined to in the unraveling of the World. In all his time spent with Ulmo and Ossë, it was impossible that he could not have gone living on without believing that.
It would have to be Mithrandir, if but for the smallest reason that he knew not enough about Curunír yet. But he was not so foolish as to do so blindly; he would speak with Mithrandir first, and if one misgiving further entered his mind amidst the conversation, all consideration of giving Narya to him, or any other, would come to a stop, for by no means would he risk Narya being misused or revealed.
With another weary sigh, Círdan abandoned the comfort of his bed and removed his attire, draping it over the edge of the headboard. He let loose his hair and robed himself in his formal raiment of white and grey, absently wiping the remaining dampness on his face away. Though doubts remained, his mind was made, and it was time to act upon it ere any more misgivings came to bend his train of thought. And slipping on his footwear, he headed for the main door of his house.
"Valar forgive me should my thoughts have led me astray," he murmured quietly.
O = O = O
In his study Galdor sat at his desk before the spacious window wide open, of which provided him the view cherished by every Sea-elf. And with the sight of the bay and the docked fleet to the far right came also the invigorating scent of the ocean. And with the light of the dying Sun and the few lit candles upon his desk, his eyes skimmed across the small written words along the parchment.
It was nothing but the work of lesser importance he hoped to finish ere sitting upon his balcony with a glass of wine and retiring for the evening. And upon a moment when he glanced up from his work at hearing the distant squawking of seagulls skimming low over the bay, he spotted a lone figure along the distant shore. And though it could have been any Elf clad in grey and white, Galdor knew of no other Elf in the Havens that stood at such a height or whose silver hair shone so white under the light of the scarcely visible Sun. And a small, amused smile touched his lips, for Galdor presumed that, despite his undeniable fatigue, Círdan had elected his mind and being to once more go adrift among the sound of the waves and to get lost within the Music of the Sea, as was his wont. All knew that such strange behavior was normal for their lord and let him go about it without attempting to even understand the fascination behind it.
But he had been mistaken, for Círdan not a moment later turned to walk back up the shoreline to the cobblestones of the city roads. And within a hundred steps he was lost from sight in the haphazard maze of stone architecture. But though Galdor returned to reading the parchment, not ten minutes had passed ere the sound of soft footfalls ascending the granite steps to the studies of various councilmen. And, not in the least bit surprised, Galdor set aside his work, closed shut the inkwell, and was just standing from his desk in greeting when a light knock came on his door followed swiftly by Círdan's entrance.
"My lord," he greeted with a nod. "How are you?"
Círdan glanced at him before closing shut the door and Galdor saw a glimpse of the deep exhaustion in his eyes that he could obviously no longer hide. But Círdan gave only a wan smile and went to stand before the large window. "It is good to be home."
"I am sure," he returned civically, going to sit along the cushioned sill with him. "Though the question remains of why you are awake still."
An eyebrow raised slightly, the only sign of possible amusement. "Does reason exist for you to believe I should be asleep?" he asked softly.
Galdor shook his head, and the air around him grew solemn. "Ëarhín spoke with me not an hour prior," he said, concern lining his voice. "He spoke of your exhaustion and leaving you to your rest. And after seeing such weariness in your eyes, I can help not but to agree with him."
Círdan looked out to the bay, his face a mask of calm composure. But such emotionless expression to be seen on his lord's face was a commonality, therefore Galdor spoke nothing of it. "I thank you for your concern, for you worry not needlessly," the Shipwright spoke evenly. "Yet energy I do have to stay awake a while longer. Though," he added with no trace of satire, "if Ëarhín indeed had spoken with you, I deem that he not only informed you of my fatigue."
Galdor inwardly winced. Yes, both Ëarhín and he were trusted companions of Círdan, but still, speaking of someone without their knowledge was not the most courteous thing to do. "No, my lord, he did not," he said, knowing he needed not to elaborate. "Are you angry with him?"
Círdan slowly shook his head, his gaze still cast out to the bay. "No, for I would be surprised if he had not spoken of our conversation to you; I know he cares and is concerned."
Galdor raised an eyebrow. "I cannot blame him."
Finally, Círdan's eyes swiveled back to peer into Galdor's gaze. And a light shone in them that Galdor could not interpret. "Nor can I."
Galdor sighed, not even desiring to waste the effort to conform to his lord's quiet manner in attempt to communicate effectively. Even after all these millennia, Círdan's detached nature remained as a foreign concept to him that he still could not fully understand. On normal days, it both sometimes amused and amazed him, but right now, after such a long day and all the disturbing things Ëarhín had told him…it was just not worth the effort.
"Then let us speak not of it, my lord, until we all have rested and regained our wits about us," he said. And he leaned back against the frame of the window. "What keeps you awake, my lord? Why have you sought me?"
A long moment of silence passed, during which Galdor saw no indication that Círdan had even heard the question. But then he answered. "The three I requested you to escort…how are they?"
He gave a nonchalant shrug. "As well as can be expected, I presume," he said. "They spoke nothing on the way, though it was no surprise, for they looked to be weary beyond endurance. I am sure they are now asleep, for after entering the guesthouse they thanked me, and then the one clad in white went swiftly to his chambers."
Círdan gave a slow nod and spoke no words, and at this rather ambiguous manner of silence, Galdor felt a sense of apprehension within. "My lord, what is it?" Galdor saw Círdan's grey eyes darken as he stood from the sill. And with a sense of foreboding, he immediately knew that, whatever it was, it was not good.
"Close the windows," Círdan spoke.
And Galdor did so with Círdan, snapping shut the shutters and drawing close the heavy drapes, cutting off any remaining light in the room. And after lighting two of the oil lanterns to disperse the deep shadows, Galdor surrendered his full attention to Círdan, for he could see that whatever had to be spoken of was grave indeed.
"What is it, my lord?" he asked again. "You make me uneasy."
Círdan turned and looked to him evenly, and no thought could be read in his face. "I am going to give Narya to the one clad in grey, whose name is Mithrandir."
The silence was deafening as Galdor just stared at him, his eyes slightly wide with alarm unconcealed. And then he shook his head, his brow furrowed, for he was certain that he had heard incorrectly. "What?" he asked weakly.
And Círdan spoke calmly once more, "I have decided to give Narya away."
Silence once more. Galdor looked desperately for some sign of jesting – however cruel – in his grey eyes, but found none. And Galdor knew that he was serious, for his lord possessed a quiet sense of humor, one that rarely shown and was hard to recognize when it did. And he certainly was not jesting now. And Galdor's mind came to a stop, uncertain whether to be more horrified or flabbergasted.
"Círdan," Galdor slowly spoke, his eyes grave and alit with a spark akin to being horror-struck. "No…."
Círdan returned the look evenly, a somewhat calm glimmer of detachment alight in his eyes that Galdor had long been accustomed to seeing. But the Shipwright stood in silence, speaking no words, and waited for his counselor to speak further. And Galdor felt his heart beat a little faster and harder when the realization of what his lord had just said sunk further in.
"You cannot be serious," he breathed, for the sake of saying something – anything.
"I am."
"You cannot be serious!" he repeated, his voice hitched with incredulity. And he stared at his far-too-calm lord in equal disbelief. "Have you gone mad?"
Círdan gave a placating gesture. "I know this comes as a surprise, but you need not panic," he spoke calmly – a little too calmly, in Galdor's opinion. "I have put much thought behind this decision and deem it to be necessary."
"You are mad!" Galdor shouted. And after realizing just how loud his voice had risen, he lowered it and spoke harshly, "How could you even contemplate giving away Narya, let alone to them?"
But Círdan was unrelenting, and his infuriating expression remained inscrutable and gave nothing away. "I know what it is I do."
And Galdor felt himself begin to panic. His lord was truly serious! "No, you do not know what you do," he insisted coldly. "My lord, what lunacy is this? They are not even Elves! Aye, they are the strangest Men I have ever met, but this is just ridiculous!" He saw that he might have had more success talking to a chair and gestured with both hands in exasperation. "Why, my lord? Why? Just tell me why! Of what reason is there that you would even risk such folly?"
And in his eyes, Galdor saw a flash of regret before Círdan released a weary sigh and shrugged helplessly. "As much as I want to, the 'why' is what I cannot tell you. All I can tell you is that Narya should no longer be within my bearing and that she was never meant to be."
"Never meant to be?" Galdor repeated incredulously. "It was entrusted to you by King Gil-galad and only to you. And you have borne her with great wisdom and have proven worthy of the trust placed in you by all those who know you bear her."
Círdan shook his head. "That means not that she was meant to be. I would not be giving her away if I was not convinced that giving her to Mithrandir is the wisest course."
"The wisest course?" Galdor repeated yet again, starting to feel like a mockingbird. "Are you out of what is left of your mind? This is ludicrous!"
Círdan raised an amused eyebrow. "Left of my mind?"
Galdor fell silent and drew in a deep breath, trying to compose himself and muster the last of his patience. Just why was this so difficult for his lord to see? "My lord, forgive my harshness, but you cannot believe yourself to be in the right state of mind to be making such a decision. After everything that Ëarhín told me…." He trailed off, seeing the deep hurt in his eyes that Círdan tried valiantly to mask, and bowed his head. "I apologize for my words, my lord, but after everything you claim to have happened on that voyage yesterday, can you truly believe to be healthy of mind right now?"
Círdan sighed, whether of disappointment or anger Galdor knew not. "There was a time when you trusted my judgment, Galdor. I have claimed many things in the past beyond credibility and they have never stopped you."
"I do trust you, Círdan," he replied, his voice overflowing with sincerity. "I do, and I trust that you have reason for trusting this Mithrandir now. But some of the things you claimed in the past have never been this bizarre." He absently shook his head. "Honestly, my lord, four months?"
Círdan bowed his head and Galdor felt he would have given anything to know what he was thinking at that moment. "I know many things remain unclear, and I pretend not to understand all of them," he said. "I am confused more than you could imagine and honestly know not what to tell you. After all you have heard by Ëarhín, I cannot fault you for lacking confidence in my ability to think straight. But you may trust me when I say that, in this matter, I know what I am doing."
And Galdor looked at him. There was no pleading behind the words, just the hope that Galdor would trust him enough, only enough, as to not fear about him giving Narya away. But he couldn't; he was worried to the point of having a mental breakdown. Narya was too important – too dangerous – to be handed over so swiftly as this. If she should fall into the wrong hands, should come within the grasp of the Dark Lord….Valar, there was a reason why Sauron had hunted the Three so desperately for over a century!
"My lord, please, make no decision now," Galdor practically pleaded. "You are beyond tired, for I can see the weariness in your eyes and the fatigue lining your body. Please, obtain some rest afore thinking upon a subject so imperative and dangerous."
Círdan gave a wan smile. "No offense intended, but I have not come for your advice, only to tell you of my decision."
"None taken," he retorted wryly, but it was a poor attempt, for he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. "My lord, please reconsider," he tried one more time. "Should you deem that Narya must be handed on, I would question not your logic or wisdom behind it. But they were made by and for the Elves for a reason. To give her to this Mithrandir –"
"Galdor," Círdan quietly interrupted, a rather uncharacteristic thing for him to do. "I understand your fear; Mithrandir is no Elf, that is true, and that fact remained long in my thoughts upon deciding this." He hesitated and then pressed on, and Galdor saw the firm resolution in his visage. "There is something I know about Mithrandir and the others that I have sworn to keep silent. And it is by that knowledge I have chosen him. I know you are worried and cannot comprehend this, but know that this decision is not based only on what you and Ëarhín know about those Men."
Despite that his interest was piqued, his worry and full-blown confusion were far from doused. He no longer knew what to say to convince Círdan that this was madness by tenfold. Valar, where was Elrond when one needed him? If there were anyone who could impart sense into a grim and ancient figure such as Círdan it was Elrond, whom the Shipwright has such a soft spot for. He was the only one capable of making Círdan see sense concerning an Elven Ring, should it be needed (and it never was, if Galdor recalled correctly).
His distress must have shown (he was really not doing anything to exactly hide it), for he heard the quietly spoken words of the Shipwright once more. "If it will ease your distress, know that my decision is not yet binding," Círdan spoke reassuringly. "I shall speak with Mithrandir. And should his final words stir the slightest misgiving, you will see my return with Narya upon my finger still."
Galdor stared at him a moment longer and shook his head. "It appears I have no choice, and with that I must be content," he murmured, still far from pleased. And then he sighed in outright worry. "Please, my lord, what will it take to convince you to at least postpone this decision until the morn?"
Círdan only looked at him – Galdor hated that look, not because it had the tendency to make those under it want to squirm (which was quite a common effect on the younger lads), but because he could never tell what Círdan was thinking when his expression and eyes remained so vexingly blank. But he smothered his frustration and spoke nothing of it, for he knew the Shipwright never did it on purpose.
"My mind is made."
The words were spoken and Galdor did nothing more to contend them, for though he believed his lord to have lost his mind this day, it was because of the deeply instilled respect and trust he held for Círdan that stopped him from speaking out against his decision further. There was something afoot that Galdor apparently knew nothing about, though Círdan obviously did. All that truly remained in question was the wisdom or folly of who should bear Narya, come tomorrow. But he watched forlorn in silence as Círdan made for the door without a word.
But after opening the door and before stepping over the threshold, Círdan turned to Galdor and gave a wry grin. "I knew I should have told you of this after the deed was done," he spoke jestingly.
And Galdor returned the smile with a rather pathetic one of his own while he morosely watched as the door clicked shut. Absently, he wandered over to his chair and collapsed onto it, feeling as though the exhaustion of the day had just doubled.
When he had first joined the Shipwright after fleeing to Sirion, as most of the survivors had after the fall of Gondolin, he knew he had been skeptical of the Lord of Balar, if only because of the rumors that had flown of him. At first, the Lord of Shipwrights had unnerved him, but he could understand not why he had been unnerved so until centuries later, for throughout the passage of time Galdor had witnessed how Círdan had basked in the sound of Ilúvatar's Song. The Sea-elves were at first a queer folk unto Galdor's eyes (and in most other eyes of both Sindar and Noldor alike), for they reveled in the Music of the Waters and their voices carried the sound of the waves as they sang. At first, he had been a little deterred by it, even awed, but then he had been filled with envy for it, for it was a sound he had never been able to hear and probably never would. But Círdan, he had been told by others, could hear the Music of the Ainur as clearly as the bird-song in the trees.
It was then that Galdor had come to understand – after having it explained unto him by many people – that Círdan had fallen in love with the Sea, had fallen so in love with it over a period longer than ten thousand years by the end of the First Age that his life could no longer be lived without it. Perhaps he was being corrupted by the Sea-elves after so long a time spent among them, but as the centuries had passed, Galdor had slowly begun to understand just why the Shipwright loved and feared the Waters so, for it was alive with the Song of higher power and the Sea-elves had adapted to live and respect that said power that surrounded them in droves. It was a concept Galdor, at the time, had been incapable of understanding, for the wave folk had been attracted to the power of the Sea and, ultimately, the spirit of Ulmo, and the Noldor had gone to the greatest lengths to achieve the opposite; to get away from the Valar and remain as far from them in activity as possible.
He remembered his uncertainty of whether or not he should have returned to Aman after forgiveness of the Noldor had been granted and their Curse renounced. Galdor had sought out the counsel of many, for he had truly been torn. Most had replied that it was a decision none could make for him, for it would affect none but his own being. In the end he had sought out Círdan's advice, and even when he did he was still unsure that Círdan could help him, for it was an area the Shipwright had no knowledge of. The prideful bit of him had thought that Círdan would laud that he knew something the Sindar had no business of knowing over him, if indeed he had known anything, but Galdor would never forget what Círdan had told him when he had asked what he should do.
"The two shores of the Great Sea are not the matter of better or worse," he had spoken. "By darkness and evil both have been touched and are now both alit by Sun and Moon and the stars of the heavens, for no Light of any Tree now shines. By the Music of the Ainur both shores were sung into existence and the Song of Ilúvatar echoes in their every root, every stream, and every blade of grass. What you need to decide is not what land is greater, for by the decree of Eru both in greatness are equal, but what you desire within your heart; to return to the land of your birth and live in bliss without fear or cause for worry and let it be so everafter, or to reside in the unknown of the Hither Lands a while longer."
Ever since he had first met the Shipwright Galdor had felt a commendable amount of respect towards Círdan, mainly for who he was and the skill he so greatly mastered. But it was then Galdor had realized that Círdan had evolved to being beyond partial thought; he saw too far and too deep into the World to ever again make personal desires and opinions the priority. And that rather depressing fact had not changed all these millennia later, which was why half the population of Mithlond thought their lord rather strange and a little detached from the world around him. But despite the rather humorous perceptions of the Shipwright, everyone still blindly trusted him and trusted in his wisdom to always know what to do. It was rather admirable and astounding at the blind faith the Elves placed in him. Besides the fact that Círdan had experienced life more than all of them, he had also experienced and understood more than Elven perception ever could. There were many Elves of Aman who had been under the tutelage of several Valar, but while Círdan had only been a student under one Vala (excluding the familiarity with many others and their Maiar), he still comprehended what those many Elves could not.
And that was why Galdor let him go about this madness with Narya. Though Círdan always sought the counsel of those he trusted (only the arrogant and unwise of the knowledgeable were stupid enough to do otherwise), Galdor was not ashamed to admit that Círdan comprehended far more than he ever could. Perhaps he had been plagued by another bout of the Sight, thus leading him to this decision. Perhaps he had foreseen or sensed something that was so desperate that it was demanded Narya be given to another bearer. Perhaps he had received word from Ulmo once more. Perhaps this, perhaps that. Galdor trusted Círdan, he really did, but to give away Narya so readily and abruptly….Valar, where was Elrond when one needed him?
O = O = O
Círdan made for the guesthouse, and though his pace was leisurely in the eyes of the people still meandering about the cobblestone streets, it remained obvious that he walked with a purpose and had a destination in mind. Most Sea-elves still about the stone city were either finishing their day or already heading to their various homes, for only the narrow top of the disk of the Sun remained to be seen and the first bright glimmers of the arched latitudes of stars were already faintly visible in the evening sky. And those the Shipwright passed nodded in his direction as a small show of respect, but their lord seemed to take no notice of the deference, a fact that surprised them little. It was not uncommon, after all, for them to see their lord's eyes distant and air far away in the times he walked the city in the peaceful twilight hours; if he had actually appeared to the average eye to be aware of where he was and knew where he was going with a visible sense of vigilance, that would have been a cause for concern, or at least of interest.
But his feet carried Círdan through the maze until he arrived at the three-story crescent structure of the guesthouse and across the rather simplistic courtyard, in where a few of the keepers were walking about. But before he could enter through the double doors, Círdan halted in his steps when they were briskly opened and none other than Radagast stepped out unaccompanied.
And Círdan cocked his head, surprised, as he stepped forward again. "Radagast, I had expected you to be resting. Is everything well?"
Radagast smiled and approached him, a wave of weary exasperation crossing his face. "All is as well as can be, Lord Círdan," he said, and Círdan was impressed by how fluently he managed to hobble along with his staff. "There is no cause for worry."
"Then why are you not sleeping?" Círdan inquired. "For you spoke personally of being weary and in need of rest."
He nodded to that. "I am tired and look forward to when I can sleep. But do to…undesired circumstances I have decided to go in search of you to bid you my farewell, for I wish not to wait until the dawn."
An eyebrow slightly rose. "You are leaving now?" Círdan asked, the meager amount of surprise growing. "I hope no lack of courtesy on our part has offended you."
Radagast's smile widened. "No, my lord," he spoke softly. "Your people are very generous, and the warmth of their hearts has shone through in all for us they have done. It is only do to a…certain companion of mine that to leave early I have opted."
Círdan inwardly smiled as he heard the barely suppressed exasperation behind the words, and needed not to truly think to figure out who exactly said companion was that had obviously driven Radagast to enough frustration that he now opted to part from him. But before he could comment on it, Radagast continued, his smile fading by a little.
"It is as you had been told, my lord," he added quietly. "On the journey we shall not traverse together, for there lay separate paths before us to do as we were bidden. And my time is now." His smile grew once more. "Worry not for me, my lord, for though seldom will our paths be peaceful, we have the strength to fight it."
Círdan bowed his head, dismissing the awkwardness he felt at being called "my lord" by one whom he had submitted and deferred to with the same title. But though he saw the spark of laughter in his eyes, Círdan knew that Radagast did not do so mockingly, for there were people about, even in the courtyard around them, and as Lord of the Havens he was the first authority to all, including all guests. But it mattered not, for though it conjured unease within, Círdan was ever now self-conscious about their necessity of being incognito.
But there were so many questions left to be answered, questions he intended to ask of the Istari this night. Namely just why the Istari found it so important to shun him before his people, to act as though the four of them were strangers just scarcely tolerating each other's company. Círdan was wise enough to recognize that any lack of familiarity would aid the theory that they came from Forlindon, a short enough voyage across the Gulf. But still…everything could be not further from the truth, from reality, at least unto what Círdan knew to be real. He wished to demand no apology, no reparation, just an explanation, for Ëarhín already thought him mad. And by the words of Galdor, Ëarhín was apparently not the only being who felt that sentiment.
And Círdan felt that deep, confusing frustration well up within once more. To any of whom he told what he believed to have happened, he was not so arrogant as to demand (or expect) that they believe him. He was aware of the common opinion among his people that he was odd in their eyes on the normal day, and that his state of mind was far removed from the world around him, something he could deny not fully even to himself. It was one thing to tell a companion something and have them believe him insane, but it was another to actually wonder if their judgment was correct, for Círdan had never been more confused with a voyage across the seas. There was nothing he could be certain of anymore, save for the fact that he had truly sailed to the Enchanted Isles; the Istari were proof of that, even if the truth were to remain hidden from all in Middle-earth. But it was also true that not two days had passed. And the only beings who could provide an enlightenment would all be gone by tomorrow. Yet his peace of mind was no problem of Radagast's, Círdan knew, and so he raised his head again.
"I will not keep you," he said, the calm of his tone belying his discontent.
But too keen was Radagast to be deceived. "I sense your disquiet. What is your quarrel with my leaving this night?"
Círdan shook his head with a dismissive shrug. "Concern not yourself with it, for it matters little." He gestured absently to the city about them. "Is there anything we could grant you ere you depart to aid you on your journey?"
He shook his head. "I will be well for the few maiden days," he assured. He gave a wry smile. "I may look old and feeble, but I know how to survive."
The corner of Círdan's mouth quirked. "I never doubted it. Well," he added with a small sigh, glancing up at the evening sky, "the Sun has almost set, and I will hinder not your departure any longer."
Radagast gave a deep nod and went to step forward, only to halt when Círdan spoke up once more.
"Radagast?" The name was softly spoken, but in his eyes Círdan made certain to convey the full depth of gratitude he felt towards this Istar. "Thank you," he said meaningfully. And no two words, no matter their simplicity in meaning, could have been spoken with neither more sincerity nor gravity.
And Radagast's genuine smile grew. "You are very welcome, Master Elf," he said. "I partook in far too much joy in doing it, but far too beautiful and precious is your ship to be so marred." His smile grew. "And the swells of the sea she sailed flawlessly today, I believe."
Círdan absently nodded, unable to deny the claim, for she had been positively thrumming with liveliness out on the water. But he stepped closer and lowered his voice even more so that it sounded out just above a whisper. "I know that, for your kindness, you demanded no payment, but I will speak both in my gratitude and as to your purpose of walking Middle-earth." He paused as he looked gravely into Radagast's brown eyes. "If ever you need anything, hesitate not to call on me. I know not if I will be able to help you, but I will not refuse you."
He met Círdan's steady gaze for several seconds in silence and nodded once. "I shall remember it."
Círdan stepped aside and bowed towards him, uncaring of whether there were observing eyes on him or not, and gestured towards the esplanade that led to the greater core street of the southern city. "Then I bid you farewell, Master. May the Kindler light your path and Ilúvatar grant you comfort on your journey." The smallest hints of what might have been a smile touched his eyes. "Though I foresee your expedition will lead you to the furthest corners of Middle-earth, I hope to see you one day again."
Radagast flashed a smile. "You will," he spoke serenely, almost teasingly. "Mithlond, after all, is just south of one of said corners."
Radagast stepped forward once more, shuffling along in his worn, brown attire, and rested a hand on Círdan's shoulder as he passed. But he walked not half a dozen steps when he turned back around, looking upon the Shipwright in amused tolerance.
"May I speak words of counsel to you, my lord?" he quietly called, leaning on his staff.
Círdan raised a doubtful eyebrow that conveyed his disbelief that he needed to ask such a question. "Of course, Master Human," he retorted, mock sarcasm lining his words.
Radagast smiled, shaking his head in exasperation. "Learn to smile again," he insisted, though not impolitely. "Though your ancient age could have the tendency to make dirt look young, far too pure are you to be blinded to the delight about you." The smile faded a little. "Though your body fades, I see in your eyes and in the air about you that your spirit remains as ever as fire. And though it is evident that your spirit consumes you, to my alarm, look about you and when you see happiness, smile for it. Just smile again." His own smile grew once more. "You have become dangerously entwined with the Song of Ilúvatar and the Music of Ulmo's Waters, yes, but let not such detachment blind you from the joy and peace around you." A mischievous light entered his eyes. "If not, I may find the sudden urge to speak a few words with Ulmo in the time I next pass along a river."
And a small, genuine smile did crease Círdan's elderly face at that. "You do not play fair," he quietly jested. "But I hear the wisdom of you words, and will deny not that mayhap I have taken advantage of the blessings of peace given unto my people."
"Not taken advantage of, Círdan," Radagast corrected. "Only just walked by it without realizing so."
Círdan's smile widened, though partly in a grimace. "I promise to try."
"That is all I ask." Radagast bowed towards him and raised a hand in farewell and turned to go on his way. And Círdan watched him go, impressed once more by how the "Man" clad in brown managed to shuffle along so convincingly. And softly, he began to whistle, and it sounded as the song of birds. And after a few moments, he was then lost from sight in the maze of stone and Elves still walking about.
But the Shipwright wasted not a moment to sulk and turned back to the double doors with a purpose. He went through, quietly dismissing those who inquired if their lord needed assistance after inquiring the rooms designated to the Istari, and ascended up two sets of impressive staircases. And only a few turns and swift walks down several carpeted hallways brought him to one of the more insignificant homely parts of the house. And at the end of a dimly lit corridor, Círdan knocked on the single, smooth wooden door and waited.
There was no answer, which offered little surprised to the Shipwright. And he ended up delivering three more knocks ere the door was opened by a tired-looking Mithrandir, his outer grey garment removed and hair slightly tousled.
"Círdan," he greeted with no lack of surprise. "This was unexpected. I was led to believe you would be sleeping by now."
"So was I," he murmured, but then straightened and masked the frustration that started growing once more. "May I enter?"
A knowing light entered the Istar's eyes. "Of course," he spoke, stepping aside, "for I can tell that you are angry."
Círdan's eyes briefly hardened as he closed shut the door behind him. "Can you fault me for it?"
Mithrandir gave a wry grimace and shook his head. "No." And then he let forth a weary sigh and looked expectantly up and Círdan. "At me alone do you aspire to yell or is there need to wake Curunír?"
If there was any amusement present, Círdan failed to see it, for too overwhelmed was he with the frustration that now refused to be quelled. But looking into Mithrandir's compassionate – and knowing – eyes, he let out a small sigh as a wave of regret crossed over his features. "If you would, Master, please wake him. I truly apologize for interrupting your sleep, for I know you are weary and in need of the rest." He straightened and committed himself to what he came here for, no matter how discourteous it might be. "But also I know that you shall leave on the morrow, and I trust not my body to wake early enough to have this conversation. So please," he repeated, "I apologize for the inconvenience, but I would that Curunír would awake."
Mithrandir chuckled with a shake of his head and strode into the direction of one of the rooms. "It is no inconvenience, for we knew it was coming," he murmured good-naturedly. "Amazed we were, actually, that you had come not sooner."
Círdan waited in silence in the comfortably furbished sitting room, absently peering around at the heavily shadowed walls. And only mere seconds passed before Mithrandir returned followed by an equally tired Curunír who had obviously just been pulled from slumber. And Círdan took a moment to be impressed with how regal in bearing Curunír managed still to look, even after waking.
And he nodded his head towards the Shipwright. "Lord Círdan," he greeted, his voice as deep as ever. "I know you enjoy not the wasting of words, so speak plainly."
Círdan bowed his head and took a moment to gather his patience and smother his bothersome crossness, but when he looked back upon the two Istari his eyes had hardened in a brief – and rare – slip of his firm rein on his impatience and dormant temper, a temper that was so seldom roused that it was a terribly startling sight to behold when it was.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he asked sternly, but was unable to conceal the barest hints of desperation in his voice.
Curunír and Mithrandir exchanged an unreadable glance ere the former stepped forward. "Think you that we have reason to place upon you torment?" he asked calmly.
Círdan raised an eyebrow, forcing his fraying patience to mend. "And the answer lay within the question, does it not?" he asked rhetorically. "You have no reason to place torment upon me, for never have you placed torment upon me to begin with." He then sighed, any and all anger and resentment flooding out of him until he was left with only the heavy weariness. "Forgive my words, for I meant not to accuse you of such unkind acts. I know that any frustration I obtained was from my own doing, for I insisted on speaking of the details of the voyage, something you knew not with certainty that I would do.
"However," he added, his eyes faintly flashing once more, "I was unaware that you would feign such ignorance. Whatever madness I may be perceived to have is from my own doing, but why did you not inform me of this belief to be rumored that you came from Forlindon? For such confidence may have led me to keep my silence instead."
Mithrandir cocked his head, a light of concern in his eyes. "Had I misjudged you, Círdan? Remember you do, as well as I, that on the night we first met I had tested you. Had I deduced wrongly?"
Círdan shook his head. There may be yet many things of which he remained unclear, but to endeavor to disappoint the Istari in what they had concluded about him, in how they had trusted him, was something he never wanted to do. As Ulmo had stated, they needed someone to trust and confide in on this side of the Sea (and why he had been elected as said someone only the Valar knew why), and he would not encourage them to question that trust now. "No Masters," he insisted, "you have not misjudged, and I speak that not out of any sense of pride. Though I hope to never disappoint the people who place their trust and loyalty in me so, I have never allowed what is thought about me to rule into any thought or action I take. Besides," he added with a hint of the wry humor so rarely shown that it was more or less thought to be nonexistent, "many of the Sea-elves and people beyond Mithlond believe me to be already strange, or at least that my state of mind and soul has aged too much to be capable any longer of sensing the world around me. And to some extent," he added, "I cannot dismiss that, for at times most random, even in the midst of conversations, my mind will go adrift for no reason and not return until it decides to."
"Aye, I have noticed that," Mithrandir interrupted with a wry grin.
Círdan returned what he thought to be a smile, though it turned out to be more of a grimace. "Yes; so you can believe my words that any lunacy I am perceived to have from the tale of this voyage would only embellish the rumors, much to their enjoyment. I would never intrude on what people believe concerning what I know to be fact, even if they believe it to be folly." He drew in a deep breath and released it, wishing the weariness would drain out of him as the frustration had. "But therein lies the problem; I know not myself what to believe anymore. Of the times when I have been more confused than now there were only a few. I just wish for clarity on what happened ere I start to believe myself that I have gone mad."
If Curunír and Mithrandir registered the faintly desperate note lining the Shipwright's words or the near-pleading light in his eyes, they gave no indication. Instead, Curunír raised an eyebrow, the only sign of his slight surprise. "You wish not to know why we treated you as a common stranger?"
Círdan shook his head again. "Of course I wish to know," he corrected, "but what I wish to know and what I am entitled to know are two very different concepts. Besides, I sense I already know, for it aided you in the impression of being insignificant. And already I have been driven to the brink of madness by the ambiguity of you three, so why should I expect that to change now?" he added with a small smile to take any accusation out of his words. But then the smile faded to be replaced by the solemn, almost frightened light once more. "But what happened out there?"
Curunír and Mithrandir exchanged another inscrutable look. "What do you think happened out there?" Curunír asked with a light in his eyes and Círdan could not discern if it was either one of calculation or confusion. "After all, not even two days have passed and Forlindon is a logical place to voyage to in such a short time."
Círdan glared at him, for once forgetting the respect and admiration he held for this being. "Do not play with me, my lord," he said curtly. "I know my ship was carried to the Enchanted Isles. Despite all I have seen and witnessed in my life, my imagination could never conceive of such images I had seen on this voyage."
This time, Círdan was positive he had seen the calculating glint in Curunír's eyes. "But was it not true that ere you had truly began to sail the Gulf the Vala Irmo had come to put you to sleep?"
And Círdan felt a true sense of panic enter him. Ëarhín had very nearly suggested that everything he saw and experienced was nothing but a dream. But his voice remained calm as he spoke, easily belying the fright that continued to grow within. "I may be but an Elf with perceptions not so great, but I have lived long enough to know well enough my own being. And the Sight has taught me how to differentiate between reality and a dream. Have I so truly lost my mind that I lose the understanding of something as simple as that? It cannot be so!"
But no matter his willpower, his voice did betray the panic he felt, and both the Istari lifted a hand in a compensatory gesture as the questioning light in their eyes softened considerably. "Be not alarmed, my friend," Mithrandir spoke warmly. "You are correct, for it was no dream, and the Fëagaer did sail to the Enchanted Isles."
"But how is that possible?" Círdan nearly pleaded. "As you so blatantly stated, not two days have even passed, and by the decree of Eru it is impossible to sail so great a sea is so small a time. It must have taken longer, for by my experience it took four months, and yet it remains obvious that only a day and a half has passed!"
There was a long moment of silence as the two Istari stared at him and, feeling that he had made a fool out of himself enough already, Círdan remained silent, refusing to be the next to speak again. But Curunír stared at him in that unique way of his, his eyes piercing and commanding, but not impolite. And he went to speak and then stopped, and Círdan felt amazed when he realized that the Head of the Order was actually hesitant. But after another grueling minute, he seemed to arrive to a decision and spoke again.
"Lord Círdan," he began, an apologetic note in his voice, "you know how it is possible that four months' travel was accomplished in two days."
Círdan stared at him, slightly incredulous, as he wracked his mind for unbearable moments. And then he shook his head. "No, I do not," he said plainly.
But Curunír was relentless. "Yes, you do," he responded. "In the deep recesses of your memory you know how it was possible."
That sense of frustration was beginning to enter once again into Círdan's being. "No, I do not," he repeated, just refraining from grinding his teeth.
But Curunír just nodded. "Yes, you do. It is for that reason Ulmo insisted that you be put to sleep for most of the voyage."
This time he did clench his jaw, his glare full of frustration intensifying. "I speak truthfully when I say I know not what you speak of! I have no knowledge on something as mad as this."
"Yes, you do."
Círdan had a vague sense of foreboding that they could be here all night. Yes, he was frustrated, but he had no real resentment against the Istari for not telling him what had happened, or even clarifying it. As the Istari had told him amidst the voyage, much had to be kept secret, even with him. And the rather forlorn thought occurred to Círdan that it had been by the orders of the Valar that they must keep their silence, and that they must keep all the details of their mission secret to all, save only to the Shipwright; that was in accordance with the Valar, not them. And Círdan still did not truly know why he had been on the voyage in the first place. Yes, Ulmo had listed some of those reasons, some said reasons being to achieve clarity long needed to the events of your past, but upon his inquiry of why the Istari were not just sent to the Hither Shores by way of the Straight Path on a ship crafted by the Elves of Tol Eressëa, why he personally had to go on that voyage himself, Ulmo's answer had been very brief – he had been being tested. It had essentially been all for being tested, though being tested for what, Círdan remained ignorant.
And as much as that had frustrated him to no end, Ulmo had not elaborated any further. It was obvious to the Shipwright that, mayhap, some things about that voyage were to ever remain in the dark to him. And perhaps how four months became two days was one of them. Círdan remembered Curunír's hesitation not a moment ago, and the unusual reaction for a being like Curunír led the Shipwright to suspect that the Istari had been commanded by a Vala (perchance a certain Vala he knew very well, much to his chagrin) not to tell him. The two had hinted that he already knew the answer to his own question; that he had only to remember it. But no matter how hard Círdan wracked his memory, he could recall nothing of so bizarre a situation of what now frustrated him to no end.
And so Círdan let it be. If the Istari were under orders to leave him confused, he had absolutely no right to try and persuade them to disobey said orders. It was not the first time these Maiar had been vague with him, and he doubted that it would be the last. It was his problem only, and the Istari deserved not to be bothered by it. Perhaps one day he would remember whatever it was that Curunír insisted he knew (and as of now, Círdan doubted that day would ever come), but he had come to the guesthouse for a reason, said reason resting on his finger. And it was time to end this ere the night completely faded away.
Círdan raised his head and looked at the two Istari, whose brows had furrowed as he had stood in silence upon his thought. And he bowed towards them both, the respect and appreciation he felt for the two once more coming to the forefront. "I may not comprehend all that is happening around me, Masters, but I shall respect your decision to remain silent, even if that is something I, too, can understand not." He nodded towards Curunír. "I regret interrupting your slumber and ask that you accept my deepest apologies for being so discourteous, for I knew very well how much you needed it."
Curunír waved aside the apology in an uncharacteristic display of casualness. "All is well, Master Shipwright. Aye, I am weary and wish to return to my bed, but feel not guilty over it." He gave a meager smile. "As I am sure Mithrandir spoke, we are surprised you came not sooner."
Círdan bowed towards him again. "Sleep well, my lord."
"And you," he replied meaningfully before turning away to head back to his small chamber. Mithrandir glanced back and forth between the two for a moment and, in the silence, he smiled and nodded towards Círdan, but before the Grey Wizard could take two steps to his own designated chamber, Círdan spoke once more.
"Master, I need to speak with you alone." His tone was polite, but unrelenting.
Mithrandir halted and turned back to him in mock surprise. "You mean you will let me not return to my slumber also?" he asked jestingly.
Círdan gave a wan smile. "No."
Mithrandir gave a weary sigh, a tinge of amusement contained within, and went to stand alongside Círdan once more. "Very well. Of what do you wish to speak?"
Círdan hesitated and glanced at the chamber door that Curunír had just walked through. "If you please, I would speak where there are no ears to overhear," he spoke, and then added in an undertone, "not even those of your Chief."
Mithrandir only looked at him with those solemn, aged eyes of his and, seeing the gravity within Círdan's own, he gave a slow nod, obvious suspicion emanating from him. "Very well. I know not why you choose not to trust my Chief with what you have to say, but very well. To where do you wish to go?"
He gestured towards the entrance door behind him. "Let us walk along the shore. At this late hour, no person shall be present."
Mithrandir nodded in acquiesce. "Let me fetch my cloak and staff."
And as he shuffled away, Círdan once more prayed to the Valar that he was doing the right thing.
To be continued…
Next chapter: Do we need to guess? Just in case we do, Círdan finally gives Narya to Mithrandir, thus fulfilling the main purpose of the story (again, finally). But…Mithrandir, as we all know, is incredibly modest and humble. He triumphs in the fall of evil and finds merriment when hope grows in the distressed, not power. Will he even want Narya, let alone accept it? In the next chapter, Círdan will soon learn that his frustration isn't over yet. And questions concerning the time issue and why Círdan was tested will soon be answered.
A/N: Two more chapters to go. Just stick with it a little longer – only two more! Review? Please? I'll resort to begging if I have to. :) Any and all words are welcome. And Ch. 9 is on its way! (Valar, I've been waiting for this chapter to arrive for months!)