A Crucial Decision

by chiliadicorum

*canonical gap-filler* Elrond seeks out Círdan to find out why the Shipwright decided to give Gandalf the Elven Ring Narya. After all, the Three Rings were made for the Elven race, so by what reason should a Maia possess it? Will Elrond believe what happened? *full summary inside* *needs revision*

9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: for full disclaimer, see Chapter 1.

A/N: I apologize endlessly that this came extensively past my usual two weeks. In this chapter comes the essential point of this story and Círdan, for one last time, attempts to find out what in the world happened with that voyage. And a whole lot of other stuff. And once more, I would like to give my unending thanks to Irkeyshn, Lia Whyteleafe, Sadie Sil – English stories, GreenGreatDragon, Zammy, and WiseQueen for your reviews. As always, they were more than wonderful.

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"The Red Ring of Fire. At first that Ring had been entrusted to Círdan, Lord of the Havens; but he had surrendered it to Mithrandir, for he knew whence he came and whither at last he would return." ~ J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion

Chapter 9

Círdan and Mithrandir took leisurely steps along the cobblestoned streets of the ancient city, gradually making their way towards the stretch of beach just in sight. Scarce light of the Sun remained, and only as streaks bold and thin across the western skyline, in hues of red and orange. The Moon, already arched high in the heavens, shone pure and bright and illuminated the midnight, inland waters in a silvery sheen. And all clusters of stars were already visible in the cloudless sky. Along with the deepening twilight hours, the city of Mithlond fell ever more silent as its inhabitants made their ways to their beds. And if but for the breaking of the swells upon the shore, all that might have been heard was the light tap of the Istar's gnarled staff.

And Mithrandir looked around him with an observant eye, the tap of said staff lightly echoing on the cobblestones as their raiment fluttered about them in the light wind. "It is so quiet," he softly spoke. "Few people are still about, and yet such a silence is peculiar."

It was not that the silence was in any way deafening, but more so that it felt to be a tangible entity. One could help not but to be aware of it, as though it were not normal, but an exceptional splendor, unfurling as the night deepened. And it was true that very few people were still about. And those that were so were as silent as the city, inconspicuously moving through the narrow streets, as though fearful that their own actions would disturb the silence that Mithrandir now observed.

Círdan heard the words and looked around him. "I know," he quietly answered. "Always, to me, it seemed that my people shared the unspoken agreement to partake in the music of the night. Or," he amended, "more accurately, the silence of the night."

Mithrandir sent a curious glance his way. "You enjoy it."

Círdan nodded in acknowledgement. "It is why I spend many hours beneath the stars walking along the shore. The sound of the waves is a balm to the people, even in their sleep. But those among the wave-folk of the Falas and Isle of Balar are wont to attain profounder comfort and harmony in the greatness of the sea, for as you age, so it would be."

Mithrandir gave an absentminded grunt. "Ere I fail to recall my manners, I must thank you for your hospitality," he continued. "In all they had done for us, your people were very kind, even in the way a few gawked at us."

Círdan glanced at Mithrandir ere setting out his gaze to once more again observe how the meager light of the Sun set the distant water on fire. "Did you expect otherwise?"

Mithrandir shook his head and answered in his leisure. "Quite the contrary. To be truthful, I cannot say with certainty what exactly I had expected upon arriving in your olden city of Havens." He gave a wry chuckle and tilted his head in wonder. "Mayhap a part of me expected your people to be akin to those upon Tol Eressëa."

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "Are we not, then?"

Mithrandir shook his head. "Neither better nor worse, only…different. These Havens…there is a sensation about them, a spirit about the people that is uplifting in a most peculiar way. It is as a mystery." Mithrandir glanced to his companion and, with no change in nonchalance, inquired, "By chance, to you did Radagast bid farewell?"

Círdan nodded, guiding the Wizard towards a leftward alley that would take them to an unobtrusive pathway, strewn with dried verdure, to the shore. "He did, in the courtyard of the guesthouse." He returned the glance, a spark of amusement in his eyes. "In leaving, he was rather adamant, for he spoke it was due to a 'certain companion'."

Mithrandir chuckled. "That was beyond entertaining to watch."

Curiosity bit at Círdan now harder than ever, and for just a moment, he was on the verge of questioning just what the two Wizards, White and Brown, had disputed over now. So badly, one might add, that it had broken Radagast's patience and tolerance. But again, he smothered the temptation; it was no right of his to know and, should it have been of any importance, Mithrandir would not have remained silent on the matter. "I am sure. Yet as ever, Master Radagast was kind in all the words he spoke." He shook his head in bemusement. "His last words of counsel to me, of all things, were to smile more."

Mithrandir chuckled again. "And right he is, my friend. Smiling makes you look beyond younger, and does remove millennia of burden and gravity from your eyes."

"Wonderful," Círdan retorted dryly. "When it comes time again that I will worry over how I appear, I shall remember it."

"Good. But all jollity aside, Círdan," he added, now grave in manner, "Radagast is correct still. Aye, your spirit consumes you, and though such consumption will never stop, smiling will help ease it, at least by a little."

Círdan did not respond to his words, for it was a subject he had no desire at all to discuss. And though it was not disconcerting, hearing such words not once, but twice, and from two different people, still made his spirit feel heavier. Though such a possibility might have been born from Círdan's reluctance to respond in the first place, he knew. And it appeared not that Mithrandir expected any answer, anyway. For that, Círdan was glad; he had ever been polite with his words and ever responsive to the Istari, but he was uncertain that he would have replied even if Mithrandir had requested it. Furthermore, it was too personal to even speak of, at least for him.

Only after they had descended the last few steps of the pathway and onto the shoreline itself did Mithrandir deign to speak. As Círdan had predicted, no person was present on the shore, and those that were in sight were but the guards on watch, and they remained at too far a distance to hear any words, besides. As a result of the cloudless night, the wind roared with life in no particular direction, carrying some of the ocean mist to where they stood. The sand underfoot, ranging from the soft dust to the shingles of countless shattered shells, ordinarily a color of light gold under the Sun, was now a cool white under the Moon.

Mithrandir gestured around them. "Very well, Círdan," he said. "Alas, the coast, per your request. Now, what is it you request to speak of?"

Círdan hesitated, his eyes grave as he studied Mithrandir's own. Though it seemed that the Maia had fully awoken – in both spirit and body – and was enjoying the lightness of the conversation, he was serious now and seemed to know that Círdan would have dragged him not out here for no reason. So, he gestured for Mithrandir to follow and they began walking south along the shore. And Círdan was certain to guide him high away from the waterline, for the tide was coming in and would not begin to recede, Círdan knew, until it had inched up along the shore by at least a dozen meters. And that moment was hours away.

"Nothing in particular," Círdan nonchalantly replied to the question. "Upon my balcony I was deep in thought upon all that had happened, trying to figure it out, as you can imagine. And upon recalling all that was said, my curiosity was piqued with a few matters."

"Oh?" he grunted. "About what?"

"The first is ridiculous," Círdan began, truly uncertain if he should even bother asking. "But I remembered when you jested with Curunír, how torturous it must be for the 'knowledgeable to be bereft of knowledge'. And to such he replied to go play with your fire."

Mithrandir waited. "Yes?"

Círdan shrugged, his brow furrowing. "Why fire?" he asked. "Does it hold some significance?"

Mithrandir smiled, his confusion fading. "Mayhap not for you," he spoke, his voice rustic and warm, "but for me it does. I am fascinated with the beauty of fire and Curunír knows it. Upon seeing it, it shall rivet my attention. Days I can spend just looking at it. No offense to you," Mithrandir added with a mischievous smile, "but of what is so fascinating about water, I fail to see."

"Mayhap I shall educate you one day," Círdan retorted, deadpan. "Does the Vala Ulmo know of your lack of captivation of his Waters?"

The smile grew. "Most probably," he spoke. "But never will tell him, for as I spoke before I now speak again; never would I endeavor to obtain the ire of Ulmo."

"It is said the Istari are wise for a reason," Círdan returned. "But, aye, you have quelled my confusion."

"Good," he grunted. "What else?"

Círdan hesitated, grimacing in the uncertainty of it. "Truly, the next taxed my understanding," he murmured. "By under decree of the Valar, you are forbidden to contest the power of Sauron with your own."

"Yes?"

There was another pause, but Círdan abandoned the hesitancy and plowed ahead. "But what shall come of the time should the Istari have need of it to fight?" he asked. "And both you and I know that many a time will come."

"Then we shall fight bereft of power," Mithrandir spoke, the answer simple. "Recall, my friend, that our duty lay not in the opposition of Sauron by force, unless in a time of combat, for such is the exception. Remember, to bring about the fall of Sauron, we are to move the Free Peoples to beware of their peril, to unite them in love and understanding, and to bring them together in unity, eradicating all hostilities, through their mutual need to see Sauron defeated. Not to fight Sauron or his minions directly, lest there should be need to."

Círdan gave a placating gesture. "I understand so, Master," he amended, "and forgive me for my lack of clarity. But the exception you speak of is what I now refer to. The minions of the Dark Lord, be they great or small, grow stronger and larger in number through the passing years. This, I am certain, we both have seen. That you shall have to combat them time and again is inevitable. And so I ask; when such a time comes, and the strength of your body fails you, what shall you do?"

"If my life depends on it, or that of another, then I shall use power," he said simply.

Círdan's brow furrowed. "But you cannot. Both you and Master Curunír spoke that you cannot."

Mithrandir grinned, understanding now where the complication lay. "I see now where you were misled, my friend. Allow me to place before you an example. Upon my travels, if I need light and have no other resort, I shall summon light. We were endowed not with these staffs for no reason." He gestured to his gnarled length of wood as he spoke the words, and Círdan then realized that he had never given thought as to why the Istari all bore staffs to begin with. "It would be rather ridiculous to trip into a crevice because I could not see, not to mention embarrassing."

Círdan gave a reluctant smile, for that would be embarrassing.

"You see, my friend," he continued, his words ever calm and patient, "when the Valar forbade us the use of power, they spoke in reference to the revealing of our might and glory. But if tapping into our reserves of power will prevent us from being slain, then so be it. But of that we are trusted by the Valar to have the wisdom to use the most marginal amount, and only as a very last resort. A further illustration: If I have need of a shield to stop a rain of Orcish arrows from piercing me, and bore none upon my arm and there is no place to seek cover, I shall summon a shield, strong enough only to evade the arrows. Do you now understand?"

Círdan nodded, his thoughts awry with this fresh knowledge, but the gravity of said thoughts did not fade. "I do, but with all due respect, Master, we both know that, of all you shall face, Orcs will be of the greatest triviality. But if there should come a time when you would be forced to face a greater foe, one of the Nine, for example…how much power would you deem wise to 'tap into' then?"

Mithrandir's visage seemed to age before Círdan's eyes as he gave a weary sigh. And it was then that Círdan discerned that Mithrandir – and the other Istari most likely, also – sensed and worried that he and such a high probability were already destined to cross on his journeys, and that it was only a matter of time that now remained. But he slowed not in his stride across the sand.

"If I were to face one of the Nine," he answered with an uncharacteristic sense of fatalism, "I would have to face him as Mithrandir, not Olórin." A small smile, wan as they came, was seen as he glanced at Círdan. "Always, upon the Hither Lands as I walk, I shall remain as Mithrandir. As Olórin, I have confidence that I could defeat one of the Nine. And I speak that out of no sense of pride, but an understanding of what I, as Olórin, am capable of doing. But alas, as Mithrandir, clad in a body of Man, I am now but a shell of him. And as thus, so I must face any servant of Sauron, be he great or small."

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "Then what shall you do?"

The grim smile grew. "Pray to Eru." He shook his head, the smile vanishing. "Of such an incident I have no desire to think upon, at least not now, for it is a concern I shall have plenty of time to worry about. But do you now understand the decree the Valar placed upon us?"

Círdan nodded again. Indeed, he did, for he had realized not just how dependent the Istari would have to be on their prudency, how much the Valar actually trusted them to be wise beyond any others. "You shall be reliant upon your own judgment," he said. "But therein lays temptation, does it not? For since the Valar leave you – the Istari – to your own judgment, you would be enabled to cut corners with your duty and know that no retaliation will come from the Lords of the West."

Mithrandir gave a nod, slow and reluctant. "Such is true. In the end, the Istari can do as we please with power, use it when we deem it wise, even if a time when we use it is not as wise as we would like to think. As you spoke, it is a temptation, and one I believe we always shall have to battle."

Círdan glanced at him again. "And you would succumb not to the temptation?"

Mithrandir shook his head with no shred of doubt in his eyes. "No."

"How can you know that?"

"Manwë sees all, my friend," he spoke with a smile. "Always, the actions of the Istari will be under his observation; there is nothing we could do or say that he could know not about. And I have no doubt that he will look upon us from Taniquetil, time and time again." He sighed. "But it is more than that. To abuse the trust the Valar and my King have placed in me, by word of their decree and of my duty…to abuse such trust, I would dishonor myself and would be a disgrace upon my return home, whether by ship or by death." He looked at Círdan, a hint of horror in his eyes as he obviously imagined such a situation. "I could live not eternally with such shame."

And Círdan knew, with no shred of doubt, that he was speaking the truth. Amid the nightly voyage across the Sea, Mithrandir had spoken endlessly of his love and loyalty to his King. And Círdan knew immediately that he could relate to the situation he now spoke of, for the Shipwright equated it to how he would feel if he committed such betrayal to Ulmo. Círdan could only imagine the dishonor and shame and self-hatred he would be dwarfed by, day in and day out, and knew that Mithrandir would feel the same with Manwë.

"I believe you," he finally responded. And then inspiration struck. "But what if another source of power were present? After all, of the use of your own power the Valar forbade you. There was no mention if you found another."

Mithrandir turned to look at him, deliberately slow, and skeptical in his gaze. "Humor me; where would I find another source of power?"

Círdan huffed in bemusement. "I insinuate not that it shall be only just laying about somewhere. No being is that lucky. Long ago I have learned that the powers of the World reside not only in the West, as so many of the Noldor like to declare. The World is old beyond Elven memory, and in ways beyond our understanding. But allow me to use Mirkwood as an example. As I had spoken, the Greenwood has no Ring of Power, but there has always been the magic of the old forest. At least, such is what Men refer to it as. There is the Enchanted River, and then the gates of Thranduil's Halls can be not opened by anything save the words of the Elvenking."

Mithrandir furrowed his brow. "What is your point?"

"I apologize," he said. And then he looked to the sky, thinking carefully upon the wording of his question. "If you, by chance, came across a source of power and were able to wield it, would you, since the Valar spoke not of such a happenstance?"

Mithrandir grimaced. "I see why you would ask such a probing question," he spoke. "And it is, indeed, a good question. It is also a question I know not if I have an answer to. And again, it is just as great a temptation, mayhap even more so, for as you spoke, the Valar acknowledged not of it." Ever so slightly, he tilted his head to the right, deep in thought. "But such reason to resist the lure would be the same, no? For such an abuse of power, no matter its origin, would go against my duty. The Istari are not, under any circumstances, be they trivial or desperate, allowed to match the power of Sauron with our own." He shrugged. "To be honest, I believe not that my King, should I put what you spoke to him, would alter his decree in any way. For alas, in the end, power is still power. And in that end, still set is our forbiddance and duty."

Círdan fell silent, uncertain of what to speak next, not even certain that there was anything further to speak. Círdan had asked and Mithrandir had answered, honestly and bereft of doubt in his answers. He wracked his mind for many a minute and conjured not any answer he thought would have been greater to that last question than the one Mithrandir had given. But now the Shipwright grew wary, for he searched within himself for some shred of doubt, some shred of hesitancy towards the Grey Wizard. And he searched for such almost desperately, for it to be otherwise was just too good to be real. For as the Istar had spoken, Círdan's admiration and respect for him had only grown, as had his trust. Amid the topics of the conversation, Círdan had come to learn more of not only the Istari and their purpose, but the challenge for them that lay ahead, and the many temptations they would have to conquer also.

Círdan had spoken, whether brief or prolonged, with many Valar before in his elongated life, as well as Maiar. There was very little this day that could surprise Círdan or strike a bout of awe within – he was simply too old for such to be so. But Mithrandir did so now, quite successfully, too, for there was a humble wisdom about him that Círdan had never before seen the likes of in Maiar. Save for Ulmo, Mithrandir – the Maia Olórin, more correctly – was quickly becoming the wisest being he had ever known. And that was saying something. And despite how unwaveringly Círdan searched for some misgiving within, there just seemed to be nothing that he could admire not in Mithrandir, nothing that he could criticize or question. Save for his dislike of water; that was simply unforgiveable. But he remembered his words spoken to Galdor, and it was time to keep them.

"Círdan?"

Círdan returned from his muse with a start, realizing that they had been walking in silence for several minutes now and he had still responded not to what Mithrandir had said.

And after taking a deep breath, Círdan held out his hand in a gesture for Mithrandir to halt in his step. And Mithrandir did so, looking inquiringly at the Shipwright as the Elf stepped around to stand before him, his footfalls barely audible as they compressed the soft sand underfoot. And for a moment, silence reigned. But while Mithrandir waited expectantly for his companion to speak, Círdan lowered his eyes, such an action as well as his calm demeanor ensuring to mask the whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and fears that now flooded his mind. To Mithrandir, he looked to be only in idle thought, but nothing could be further from the truth.

This was it. This was the moment he had spent so many hours fretting over, the moment he had never once considered a possibility that would ever come. He was afraid, and Círdan held no shame in admitting that. Should all his foreknowledge and insight have been wrong and his wisdom misled, thus resulting in the abuse of Narya (whether immediate or eventual mattered little), all would take a turn for the worst, and in ways he had no desire to contemplate. But to smite any doubt, he had only to, once more, recollect what he had seen in Mithrandir, the knowledge and judgment he had gained upon such insight, to once more believe the wisdom behind the decision. For in all the times he had laid sight on what was to come upon the Hither Lands, never did he foresee the abuse of the power of the Three. And the Sight, as with the Palantíri, never lied. So, for a moment, Círdan absorbed the peace offered as he heard the sweeping waves upon the shingles and the breaking swells further out at sea. And when a wave of weariness overcame him, as his body impressed upon him just how late into the evening it now was, he looked again into Mithrandir's grey, patient gaze, whose eyebrows rose in an unspoken question.

"You were correct, Master; I did lie to you," Círdan spoke, the tense timbre of his voice briefly hinting at his enervation. "Or at least," he amended, "I did not confide in you honestly."

If he had not been so self-conscious of the possible error he was now committing to, he would probably have found Mithrandir's look of downright bafflement rather amusing. "I see," he slowly replied, his words smothered with the fact that he had no notion of where this conversation was going. "And you lied about what, exactly?"

"Aboard the Fëagaer, during the time of Master Curunír's inquiring of my knowledge of the Elven Rings of Power," Círdan said. "You were correct; I knew far more than I had revealed to Master Curunír."

Mithrandir gave a warm chuckle. "That was no lie," he said with a dismissive gesture. "I knew you had not, for I had even later confessed, if you recall, that I had a suspicion you knew more, to which you thusly replied that your silence is kept." Mithrandir paused and then spoke with a calm reassurance, "Maintaining a silence that you swore to keep is never a lie."

Círdan gave a minute shrug. "I took no exact oath, per se, but very well." He drew in a deep breath that foreboded a much-needed preparation for some exhaustive feat and turned his gaze away from that of Mithrandir's, instead looking out to the bay to admire the pure swells alit by the Moon. And when he spoke his voice was low in pitch and even, containing not even a sliver of emotion.

"As I am sure you know," Círdan began, "all Rings of Power were crafted by the smith Celebrimbor, son of Curufín, son of Fëanor, with the aid of Sauron; only the Elven Rings were crafted independently of the Dark Lord. But lo and behold, the Three still were crafted using the skills taught by Sauron, and were thereby all subjected to the power of the One Ring. But in the absence of the One Ring, the Three were crafted and wielded by the Elves for purposes of good."

He could sense Mithrandir's look of wary confusion beside him, but still refused to turn away from the shimmering sea. He had the need to speak it all afore turning back, for he was wary that Mithrandir might opt to interrupt him a moment too soon. "Know this, Master," Círdan continued. "The Three do not enhance the strengths of their individual bearers – that was not the purpose for which they were made, but rather to collectively preserve life – as I had told Master Curunír – and to provide concealment from evil. No source of evil can pass the borders of the Keeper's realm shorn of being detected by its Keeper; thus, the Keeper of whichever Ring is able to foresee the threat and forewarn others to dispel of it. But that is all; the Three possess no power to enforce retaliation, for such destruction would go against the very reason of their conception. Though, at the will of the bearer, the Three are enabled to control elements in their vicinity." He shook his head in minor disgust. "For me, it is a disappointment that Elves today have the tendency to embalm the past and regard change as evil. In my eyes, the Three Elven Rings were a mistaken attempt to forestall the natural fading of the Elves, crafted as an act of denial. In that way, the Three are so flawed in their very conception."

"Círdan –"

"For Nenya," Círdan deliberately continued, "her band was crafted with mithril and set with a white stone, an adamant. And thus, she is distinctively called the White Ring or the Ring of Water. Her Keeper is Galadriel, a Lady of the Noldor and wife of Lord Celeborn, and has been so since Celebrimbor gave Nenya to her in Lórinand after he had taken a short leave from Eregion. When in time the two of you may cross roads, inquire Galadriel of Nenya's exclusive properties, and if she is wise she will tell you."

"Círdan –"

"Vilya is the mightiest of the Three," he went on. "She contains a great blue stone, a sapphire, set in a gold band. And in turn, she is distinctively called the Blue Ring or the Ring of Air, a title that sets her precedence over her sisters. Ere the fall of Eregion, Celebrimbor sent the Ring of Sapphire to Gil-galad, who bore it upon his finger until the day he was cast down by Sauron. Ere the final battle before Barad-dûr, however, he had passed on Vilya to Lord Elrond, who is her Keeper still today in Imladris. And likewise, when you travel to the Last Homely House, inquire Elrond of Vilya's own exclusive properties and he will tell you."

"Círdan!"

And finally, Círdan turned his attention back to Mithrandir, calm in composure despite being under the full force of Mithrandir's rather impatient glare. "Aye, Master? I am now finished. What is it?" The innocence coating his words was far too evident to be authentic.

Mithrandir stared at him for a good moment before he spoke, rather dryly, "You forgot one."

This time, the small smile Círdan gave was genuine, but his eyes could not have shone more forlorn. Instead of speaking, Círdan lifted his right hand and gestured to Mithrandir an unspoken message to turn his attention to it. And with little effort, Círdan put forth the will of his mind to the band on his middle finger for the second time that day, and in a quick flash startling to the eye, Narya became visible once more.

And Mithrandir stared down at Círdan's ringed finger for a long moment in silence, unable to conceal the growing shock in his eyes as he registered just what it was the Shipwright bore. Círdan was not certain as to what Mithrandir had expected, but it was all too obvious that it had indeed not been this. And now the Grey Wizard was shaking his head. With what looked like a deliberate slowness, Mithrandir raised his eyes back to those of Círdan's, an eyebrow slightly raised, and a hint of his old humor was seen as he gave a wry smile.

"I did not expect this," he spoke, the crooked grin conveying all the irony he felt with the whole situation, not to mention his obvious surprise.

Círdan, in turn, raised an eyebrow. "For as you see her, behold Narya the Great," he announced. Círdan again looked down at Narya, and as though aligned with his parting thoughts, with a premonition of what was to come, it began to beat against his finger harder, as a pulse slowly quickening. "As you can see," he continued, his voice faltering at Narya's slight change in behavior, "the band is of gold, and is set with a great stone of ruby. With Vilya, it went into the safekeeping of Gil-galad by the will of Celebrimbor. And only had a short passage of time passed ere the High King had summoned me to his study in the mid of night. Present with us were only three others: lords Elrond, Celeborn, and Glorfindel."

Círdan's eyes took on a distant glaze as he recalled that very night, and clear as the Sight, he could see the moment present before him now. "Vilya and Narya had lain exposed on his desk, looking all the more potent and ominous as they reflected the low candlelight." He gave a humorless laugh. "My exchange of words with Gil-galad had not exactly been pleasant, for Elrond and Glorfindel had seemed to desire for nothing but to blend in with the walls and disappear. Celeborn had looked hardly any better.

"But nonetheless," he concluded, "within the hour the stalemate had been absolved, and from that night I have ever borne Narya the Great." Círdan gave a weary sigh, suddenly looking every year of his great age. "Never had I any desire to bear Narya and today still, I am its Keeper."

If Mithrandir took notice of how Círdan prudently avoided speaking about Gil-galad for not a moment longer than he had to, he made no mention of it. But he had continued to occasionally nod as Círdan had spoken about the Red Ring, in the polite manner to signify that he was listening. But now, Mithrandir looked at him in unclouded suspicion and, one would easily go so far to say, in downright concern. "Círdan, why are you telling me this?" he cautiously inquired. "As you were entrusted with her, so also were you entrusted with her secrecy. And though I thank you for the trust you so evidently place in me, how can you feel so at ease to enlighten a stranger with that you have kept silent for millennia? Tell me a reason is there, please," he insisted, "for I desire not to think ill of you."

And at the question, Círdan was granted the sensation of a calm sense of resolution. Círdan looked back down at Narya, which was still tangibly pulsing against his skin, and, for the first time, was able to feel a sense of peace as he studied the Ring of Ruby. Not a sense of loathing, not a sense of deeply ingrained reluctance, but a long-awaited sense of peace. It was over. It was finally, actually, over. And as Círdan looked at the gold band upon his finger, looked at the distorted reflection of the stars littering the sky in the cut ruby set upon it, he felt his heart grow heavy, and felt his chest compress under the moment he had once thought would never come.

"Upon my finger you have laid, and sent me your life through the beat of your stone," he murmured with words so soft that they broke upon the crashes of the tide. And he looked to the tide now, his keen gaze sweeping over the endless rolling swells, the moonlight and reflection of the stars that glistened on their crests breaking and shimmering. "And with the Sea my spirit shall now be bound in full, for it shall take to the waves and from all burdens be free." And Círdan looked from the pure water of the sea back down to the crystalline red stone on his finger, taking no notice of the look of concern Mithrandir sent him, since he was talking to an inanimate object. "And words spoken only once before I now speak again, first to the Unwilling and now to the craft of the Elven-deep: Farewell to you, I say, for bound to my spirit you never again shall be."

And with his other hand, he took hold of the Red Ring and removed it from his finger.

And immediately, his breath was taken away and he staggered where he stood, and only the ready hand of Mithrandir caught his arm before he could fall. But as Círdan looked about him (after regaining his breath), he was rendered speechless. And not even Mithrandir's repetitive calling of his name could penetrate the shock and wonder that now dwarfed Círdan's mind. Valar, Círdan thought with incredulity, what had Narya done to him?

It was as though a shroud had been lifted from his eyes; the stars shone more bright and great, the waves breaking upon the shore and distant sea roared with the life of the ocean and sang with the music of Ulmo upon each break. He could smell the salt on the air and the scent of the fishing nets and wood-smoke carried downwind from the harbor. He could feel the grumblings of the earth through the sole of his footwear and could feel the breeze slither across every inch of his exposed skin, blowing the loose strands of his hair across his face and neck. Valar, even his ability to breathe came easier. He could feel the fire of his fëa soar with the full force of its livelihood. And Círdan could help not but to wonder again; just what had Narya done to him?

"Círdan!"

He snapped out of his daze, Mithrandir's tempered shout of fully-blown worry finally penetrating his mind and reeling thoughts. Círdan turned back to him, taking notice now of how Mithrandir watched him warily, his hand still half-raised in the preparation to catch him again should he stumble.

"Are you well?" he finally asked.

Círdan closed his eyes and gave a wry grin. This time, when he sighed, it was one fully of contentment. "Rather ironically," he answered, opening his eyes, "I am better than I have been in a long time."

Mithrandir continued to look at him warily for a moment longer ere he was convinced to let his worry settle. "I am glad of that," he said, seemingly for the sake of saying something. "What happened there? You looked to have been seeing the world for the first time."

Círdan glanced down at the Ring held between his fingers. It was rather strange to no longer feel the constant beat of the ruby. "In a way, I did," he murmured. "I had never once removed Narya from my finger until now, lest it might have been discovered. Thus, I had no expectation of what would happen."

Mithrandir raised an eyebrow. "And you feel content to do so now, of all times?"

Only a moment of silence passed ere Círdan held out Narya the Great to the Grey Wizard, the red of the ruby glimmering bright. The Shipwright watched in careful scrutiny, speaking no words, as Mithrandir seemed to absently study the Ring he held between forefinger and thumb, a few strands of the grey hair wafting across his face. And only a silent moment passed ere his grey eyes dawned in understanding, the message Círdan conveyed in his silence shining clear in their depths. And Mithrandir looked up at Círdan in a mixture of something akin to disbelief and dismay, as he gave a slow shake of his head. "Círdan…."

But before any further protestations of Mithrandir's could be made, Círdan spoke: "Take this ring, Master, for your labors will be heavy; but it will support you in the weariness that you have taken upon yourself." He nodded down towards Narya, briefly directing both of their gazes to the object of their discussion once more. "For this is the Ring of Fire, and with it you may rekindle hearts in a world that grows chill." To the rolling swells Círdan looked out, and felt his heart ache at hearing their beating rhythm. "But as for me," he softly continued, "my heart is with the Sea, and I will dwell by the grey shores until the last ship sails. I will await you."

And with the closing words, he extended the reach of his right hand further towards Mithrandir in the silent urge for him to take hold of the Ring. But Mithrandir seemed to be only one step away from retreating from the rather simplistic piece of jewelry, for, by the gravity of his gaze, he seemed to loathe the mere sight of it. And Círdan found himself strangely glad with the fact; if Mithrandir had attained an air of nonchalance at the sudden proximity of a Ring of Power, it was probable that it would have been a cause for concern. To put it plainly, Mithrandir's initial reaction, so far, pleased him – he did not want it. In fact, he appeared to be repulsed by the mere notion that Círdan wanted him to have it. And his next words proved Círdan's assumption correct.

"Círdan," Mithrandir again began with another despairing shake of his head before, again, falling silent. He continued with the absent shaking of his head as he studied the deceptive simplicity of Narya, a temptation that Círdan knew was hard to resist, for he, too, upon first bearing her, had been entranced by her red depths. Not out of any sense of being overwhelmed, no; but rather from the fact that Narya contained an elemental power and substance that he had never lain sight on before, even in the Silmarils. For Círdan, being entranced by Narya had been tantamount to first seeing the Star of Eärendil – one just could not take their eyes away from it, so captivated were they. But through the passage of time, one grew used to it and was able to contain their wonder.

But the keen light in Mithrandir's eyes was not one of awe – how could it be, Círdan wryly thought, for Mithrandir originated from a place where the wonder of Narya must pale incredibly in comparison. It was one of just mere curiosity, and Círdan pondered what thoughts were passing through the Istar's head as he continued to study the Ring. Perhaps he was curious at just what powers the small stone contained, and Círdan's thoughts went through all her layers once more. And at the – rather accidental – touch of his mind, the stone of Narya flared in a bright flash of red, the revolving rays of light emerging from her infinite depths.

And at the brief flash of light, Mithrandir finally seemed to manage to pull his gaze away from the ruby and, instead, looked at Círdan with an apologetic gaze, with a sigh and another shake of his head. "Círdan," he began again, weariness entering his tone. "You cannot give me this Ring."

"I can," Círdan insisted, "and I am." Again, he extended Narya closer to Mithrandir, and this time, he did take a step back.

He held up a hand, the gesture counseling against any further words of persuasion. "No, Círdan, you cannot," he repeated, his voice firm and unyielding, and eyes hard. "Please, believe not that your people can afford to be bereft of her."

"Such judgment is mine to make," Círdan replied, his own voice a foil to his companion's, for it was calm and soft spoken. But his eyes, rather ironically, were just as unyielding as the other's. But they softened as Círdan gave way to a small sigh, though he did not retract his hand. "I know you stand against this, Master, but you may hold me to my word when I speak that the powers borne in Narya will aid you in all you do.

"You and Masters Curunír and Radagast told me, in detail explicit and full, of what duty you are so bound to here in Middle-earth," he continued, the insistence growing in his voice as the reluctance in Mithrandir's being visibly increased. "As I had spoken, Narya, like her sisters Vilya and Nenya, is chiefly prevalent in the giving of resistance to the weariness of Time. But such power will concern your journeys little, if not at all." Mithrandir went to speak, but Círdan would not allow it. "But aside from the other powers I had spoken that the Three chiefly possess, Narya, uniquely on her own, has the power to invoke hope in others around her wielder, in those around her Keeper." He gestured a question with the other hand. "And is such an endeavor not what Istari are duty-bound to achieve? For par your words, the Istari are bidden to advise the Free Peoples to do well, to seek to unite them in love and understanding, and to persuade them to resist the domination and corruption of Sauron. And furthermore," Círdan added, "Narya will, both with and without your will and control, she will inspire others to resist all tyranny, domination, and despair, be it of Sauron or no. And as I had hitherto spoken, she will alert you to any and all evil that may approach you, in any form, long ere you will sense it yourself."

Taking advantage of Mithrandir's silence, Círdan grabbed hold of Maia's lax hand and rested the gold band set with ruby into his palm, and the red stone briefly flashed in its brilliant light once more as she met the touch of a new hand. "Please, Master," Círdan nearly pled, incapable of removing his eyes from Narya the Great as he, with a sense of foreboding, came to accept that he would lay sight on her no longer. "Take the Ring of Fire, and allow her to aid you in all you do, in ways she could never aid me; for with you as her Keeper, good shall come of her making at last."

Silence reigned once more, only this time it was anything but tranquil. And Mithrandir just scrutinized the Ring resting in his palm, his thoughts undoubtedly in a whirlwind, as Círdan, in turn, studied him. Mithrandir's reluctance was still present. Though, to Círdan's eyes, it appeared to be more of indecision than downright refusal. Círdan was able to discern, with great ease, in fact, that he had tempted Mithrandir, and had tempted him greatly. Middle-earth was, essentially, now no more than an unraveling shadow. Sure, times of light and peace occasionally prevailed, but the conquest of the Shadow remained unattainable as the growing evil, year after year, slowly took hold of the life of the Hither Lands. On Mithrandir's soon-to-be arduous journey, one problem after another was to be expected, and with no reprieve at that. Such was the burden of the Istari and the sacrifice that they had willingly committed to. But now, Círdan had offered him an aid to that burden that seemed too good to be true, that was too perfect and too aligned with his own duties to be real. But it was, and the fact that so great an aid was now being so freely offered was a powerful temptation to resist. And at Mithrandir's continued reluctance and wavering, Círdan came to realize that the Maia knew just what weariness lay ahead of him. And that it was that knowledge that stopped him from downright refusing Narya now.

Mithrandir sighed again and looked up into Círdan's waiting and steadfast gaze. "Círdan, I will not deny that you tempt me greatly with this offer," he said. "But why?"

"As I have spoken," Círdan replied, "I have foreseen the weariness you will have taken upon yourself when you commence your journey, come dawn. Bound now in body and thereby limited, you will be tired and your feet raw from cross-country. And your spirit, as fiery as it is, will be weighed by the burdens of Middle-earth you have taken upon your shoulders. No, from such weariness you cannot fully be spared, but Narya will, at least, alleviate it and grant you strength and the hope that it will in others also."

Mithrandir sighed once more, this time sounding as old as he looked, which was rather impressive. "That I understand, and believe me not ungrateful, because I am. But why? I am no Elf to bear and Elven Ring and am enabled to go without her. Why would you risk such a feat of giving her away?"

Círdan gave a ghost of a smile as he came to understand what he meant and took a cautious step back, wary of the fact that Mithrandir just might be inspired to pass Narya back to him in some manner, devious as he was. "I am obligated to," he answered him. "It remains true that you are no Elf, but it was you who taught me that Elves and Maiar are not so different at all, save only in origin." The wan smile grew. "Believe not that such differentiation was not a large element in my contemplations of gifting her to you."

But Mithrandir seemed to have taken notice of only the first words Círdan had spoken. "Why do you feel obligated?" he asked, or rather demanded, his tone of voice unrelenting. "The duty of the Istari is not yours to take any part in. The only duty to which you are bound to is that which you swore to – to keep your silence to all on our real identity and purpose, for you will be the only one to know. Your duty stops there."

Another short silence fell, where only the light ocean gale and breaking waves could be heard, as Círdan studied Mithrandir. With the words he had spoken, his grey orbs remained hard and unwavering, unwilling to back down on what he believed Círdan was mistaken with. And they were bright, authoritative, and offered not one sliver of compromise. The cloak of Mithrandir, the elderly body in garbs of grey that shuffled along as though he were weak, could not conceal the fact that the Maia Olórin looked fully out from those eyes, for Círdan knew of no gaze that could tempt him to want to retreat and give up his argument by only one look, save the gaze of the Maiar and Valar. That was so typical, Círdan mordantly thought, that Mithrandir would use such an advantage on him that he would be incapable of using on all others.

But time and time again, Círdan had raised a question and even a disagreement with the Vala Ulmo, who terrified all Elves by just his mere presence. Mithrandir's potent gaze, with all due respect, of course, paled just a little bit in comparison. And, for the very true fact that Mithrandir's words were, indeed, valid and correct, Círdan would have ended the disagreement then and there. But nonetheless, for the sake of what he believed was at stake, he held firm and shook his head.

"With all due respect, Master, but I believe it does not," he finally responded, his voice quiet and deferential. "I do not declare you are in the wrong, for you are not, but hear why I feel obligated. I, again, am honored by the trust the Istari have placed in me by with that you have confided in me. Aye, I have sworn my silence, of which I will keep, but you did confide in me, whether by mandate of the Valar or no. And by no means possible can I foresee being able to forget all that you three have spoken. I have found a decent way, I believe, to aid you through gifting you Narya, and I would dishonor myself by deliberately ignoring such an opportunity."

"And what of Mithlond, Círdan?" Mithrandir insisted with no lack of gravity – or urgency, for that matter. His voice was low in pitch and his eyes gleamed with unease. "Of the Havens you have so guarded and lorded from the moment of their conception? Of her people that only the blind would not see that you would die for? Be not so lax in giving away her shield."

Though such words, born of the Istar's disquiet, bordered on an insult of negligence, Círdan gave no sign that he took any offense, for there was no offense to be hinted as the Shipwright heard the words. He nodded at Mithrandir's question, for it was a good one, but felt the barest hint of exasperation within; how foolish he had been to presume Mithrandir would be easy to convince to uptake the burden of Narya. But then again, he amended, in the Maia's defense, Mithrandir and his companions were entrusted with the mandate of the Valar to, in the end, ensure and see that the protection of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth from the evil of Sauron was wrought and contained at every expense, even unto their dying breath. To so crassly strip an Elven population of what might be her "shield" would be rather counterproductive.

"I understand your worry," Círdan steadily reassured. "But know that, for the most part, it is unfounded." He gave a small shake of his head in dismissal. "But by the son of Fingon, it was entrusted to me only to keep secret, to be candid, for here upon the West-shores she is idle." He glanced at the ruby-set band of gold still resting lax in Mithrandir's open palm. "But I deem that in days ere long to come, it should be in nobler hands than mine that may wield it for the kindling of all hearts to courage."

Mithrandir went to speak, but Círdan pressed on ere he could do so.

"Narya provides Mithlond safekeeping from danger, it is true," Círdan continued with a nod. "I may have had no love in its bearing, but for the sake of the people of the Havens, I had summoned forth the powers of Narya to detect evil and deliver concealment from it."

Mithrandir nodded. "I am glad to hear it, for I would imagine not you allowing your judgment to be effected by hesitancy."

Círdan shrugged and then his eyes hardened, hardened in the way that a parent's would when talking about the wellbeing of their child. "Never has the hand of Sauron conquered my Havens," he spoke. "Whether by the intervention of the Vala Ulmo it is so, or by sheer luck, I know not. But in the protection of my Havens, it has not failed yet. So thereby, I shall trust in that intervention a while longer."

Mithrandir gave a despairing shake of his head. "My friend, you depend now on chance. For the sake of Mithlond, you must be the Keeper of Narya still."

And Círdan matched the negative shake of the head with one of his own. "More grave is your task and more great is your need," he said. "I have need of it no longer, for if my Havens are destined to fall into ruin, nothing shall prevent it from happening, not even all the Rings of Power combined."

"And your people?" Mithrandir insisted urgently, nigh on desperately, willing for the Elf to see sense. "Long have we spoken of how you would infringe not upon a greater matter with your own heart, lest the outcome turn for the worse." He took hold of Círdan's arm in a firm grip. "But Narya concerns not you alone; not only is it about your safety. Your people, the Sea-elves, shall be affected by this decision." Mithrandir sent him a long look of forlorn and severity. "Would you sacrifice your people?"

A great pain grew in Círdan's eyes, and they seemed to dilate with the hurt he could not conceal. His breathing distinctly hitched and his throat constricted as he spoke the words, barely audible, "You ask a harsh question."

Mithrandir gave a single nod. "So I did," he said, his gaze apologetic and yet still, unyielding. "Yet, in the end, it may be just so. So I ask again, would you sacrifice your people?"

The silence that followed could be not more uncomfortable. Círdan knew what it was that Mithrandir asked, that it was strictly a hypothetical question, but still, he could not quench the uncertainty that now dwarfed him that he had not felt for millennia. It was a harsh question, one that he could not answer, even to himself. "I know not," he murmured. And his eyes were averted as he shook his head, looking out into the distance. "I am a coward. How can I not answer so simple a question? If fully reliant upon Narya my people were for their safety….I truly know not if I would give her to you." He shook his head in self-disgust. "As I said, a coward I must be, for I believe I would not even possess the courage to make that decision, let alone act upon it."

He turned back to Mithrandir, shame mingled with sorrow upon his brow, yet still, that unbreakable sternness he had always carried with him shone through once more. "But alas, no such decision is before me, for the Elves of the Grey Havens rely upon Narya not at all," he said. "I believe fully that the Vala Ulmo is here, and that Master Ossë remains always present on these shores." He gave an absent, helpless shrug. "And should the hand of Sauron, by some misfortune, reach my Havens and conquer, my people ever have an exit; for always our ships are ready to cast off and fend."

There was a pause where nothing but the breaking of the shore was heard. "And under these terms, I answer yes," Círdan said, agony of fathoms deep palpable in his eyes. But his answer was sure, unadorned with the slightest hesitation. "I would sacrifice my people. And if death falls upon them as a result of my decision, if torture should befall them ere the death blow dealt…so be it." A noticeable tremor went through his frame as he foretold the possible doom. "Their deaths will be on my head, and I will submit to whatever justice the Valar would condemn me to."

Mithrandir looked upon him, his gaze troubled. "Círdan…."

"I believe in you," Círdan continued in a voice quiet, but sure. "I have to. For if you fail all of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth may be doomed." He gestured towards the Red Ring. "And if Narya will aid you in any way, then I gladly give it to you. For if there would ever come a time when you were in need of her aid and did not have her…that is a guilt I wish not to ever bear. I would rather you have her and not need her than need her and not have her." He gestured again towards Narya. "Please, Master, take it."

Mithrandir heard the near-beseeching tone in the Shipwright's voice and gave a small laugh, shaking his head this time in bemusement. "You are a difficult Elf to argue with."

Círdan raised an incredulous eyebrow. "That, I believe, is the pot calling the kettle black," he retorted, a hint of his old humor coming to the surface. And then he took a deep, wary breath. "So you will take it?"

Mithrandir nodded, studying the Ring as he turned it about with his fingers. "Be at peace, my friend; I will. As I had spoken, you tempt me greatly with what aid the Ring of Fire has to offer. For me, I know what lies ahead, and now a small part of me may be at ease." He looked up in question. "What am I to expect?"

"Upon placing it on your finger," he said, "Narya will become invisible, and shall remain so unless by your will." He gestured uncertainly with his hand. "Understanding the Elven Rings is not an exact art. Only by four people they have been borne, and upon my exchange of words with both Gil-galad and Elrond, they each had a different account as to when they first placed Vilya upon their finger. Based on such vague knowledge, it would appear that the Rings react differently with each Guardian.

"But for now…." Círdan paused, searching for the right words. "Allow a moment for Narya to feel you, to know her new Keeper. At first, you should feel a pulse, as a heartbeat, against your skin, of which will fade away as a short time passes. For me, Narya had remained always a subtle presence in the back of my mind. It was no distraction, yet when I thought of her, Narya was there. Mayhap you know already of it, but just take the time to be accustomed to another presence."

Mithrandir grunted, and after turning the Red Ring this way and that a few more times, he slipped it on his finger. And sure enough, Narya vanished without a trace, leaving behind no sign of her presence. But Mithrandir continued to stare where Narya passed from sight, for moments long after what would be considered normal, and Círdan then knew that the Grey Wizard was, indeed, feeling the sensations that he had described. And mayhap more so, for the Shipwright recalled clearly how it had felt when Narya had made a home in the recesses of his mind, ever warm, ever present, and ever subtle. And at the calculating glint in the Istar's eye, Círdan discerned that some transition, be he familiar with it or no, must be taking place.

And finally, Mithrandir looked to come to from his daze, venting a large sigh. "Correct you were, Master Mariner," he spoke, his eyes still riveted on his seemingly bare finger. "It is felt in ways more than one, as well as the beat you had described." He cocked his head, his brow furrowing. "Of all things strange in this World, the Three can be accounted; so small and simple is the stone, and yet it feels to have a life of its own."

"I know," Círdan murmured in baleful agreement. And he did know; Narya was inanimate as they came, at the complete control of the will of its bearer. Yet she drove in accordance with thoughts and emotions, in times few and far between shorn of prompting. Yet inanimate she remained. But as it was spoken, there was no concrete answer, only that it was strange. "Narya keeps its presence always on the hindmost. Never had I realized just how much of me she had drained till I had removed her this night."

Up went a quizzical brow. "Is such what I am to expect?"

Círdan shook his head. "I doubt it, Master, for I bore it with great reluctance. It is most probable that one must bear a Ring willingly to coexist well with the presence of its powers. And the thought had long lived with me of having to bear Narya for all my remaining years upon the Hither Shores, which helped little."

Mithrandir grunted again, deep in thought, as he peered keenly at the Mariner. "And what is this you speak of, dwelling upon the grey shores forevermore?"

Círdan shrugged in a gesture of calm and ease once more. "I told you," he spoke. "My heart is with the Sea, and to Eldamar all Elves shall go before me; with such resolve I have long ago made peace. Thus, my end is simple to be told, for I will sail the last ship across the Sundering Sea."

Mithrandir's eyes seemed to be overcome by some realization. "Sailing will be agony for you."

As a statement he spoke it, for it was undeniable. But it was the understatement of the century and both knew so. Yet even so, Círdan still responded. "Aye, it shall be," he said, unflustered by such truth. "The lands on this side of the Sea are all I have known. Never could I forget how I have walked all the land flanked by the Seas Sundering and East, the Sea of which beyond no person can walk, for there lay the Walls of the Sun. Every step…." He gave a humorless chuckle. "I remember every step taken from Cuiviénen, through the Wild Wood, through the south of the Northern Waste, about the Inland Sea of Helcar, through Rhûn, through Middle-earth, and all through the land of Beleriand until the Great Sea was at my feet."

Mithrandir spoke no words to the recounting of the Great March, not that Círdan expected him to. Both knew that, for the Shipwright, there were none left with to remember such times, and neither would there ever be any again to speak of it with until he did, in fact, sail to Eldamar. And so, Mithrandir let such melancholy be – there had been more than enough this night, anyway.

"Well," he said in a lighter tone, "though such words seem empty in light of all we had discussed…thank you, my friend, for the giving of Narya."

Círdan gave a single nod. "Though it goes unspoken, I must still beseech of you to keep it secret."

Mithrandir was already nodding. "You have trusted me thus far, and you may trust me with her secrecy. None shall know of it and no other shall have it." He smiled. "I promise; I shall see it is I who still bears the Ring of Fire when I at last return home."

And finally, Círdan felt the desire to return the smile, for as he heard the words his heart warmed. It was not that he ever doubted Mithrandir, no, but hearing the words still brought about a whole new sense of relief. "I can only imagine how much you anticipate the day of your homecoming," he spoke, the slight smile present still. "And for you I will build a ship, when your heart is set to depart from this land and your duty fulfilled."

Mithrandir stared at him, brow raised, in a rare glimpse of being caught off guard. "What?" he asked, a tad incredulously. "Why would you do such a thing?"

The slender smile grew. "I want to," he answered simply. "I know whither at last you will return, and will see to it that you behold a ship awaiting your arrival to bear you back across so great a sea." He looked up at the stars clustered in droves, his mariner's mind reeling already with designs and calculations as to construct such a masterpiece. "She shall be white," he spoke, his voice soft in longing as he saw her before mind's eye. "So white, so that all planks under the Sun will shine with the light of the Moon. And as a swan her keel will be, narrow in the beam, moored as a gull at the quay with no cast colors, and her trestles about the helm crafted akin to feathers. The rigging should be held on the port, with no reefs. And she shall have one mast, but her sail as of woven tarpaulin, also of white…." Círdan finally seemed to take notice of Mithrandir's amused look, his hidden smile and shook himself, realizing that he had been rambling in quiet words for some moments.

"I apologize," he added, and Mithrandir could contain his laugh no longer. "To be plain, a white ship will be waiting for you. And as for the 'why'…." He gave an absent gesture with his hands. "Accept it as a token of my gratitude, Master, for all you will have then done for Middle-earth. Inadequate as it may be, it is the only show of thanks I could offer, for words would be truly poor."

Mithrandir only studied him in silence, and there was no smile lighting his face. Yet his eyes gleamed with a certain light that took a moment for Círdan to place where he had last seen it; when he had expressed his concern for the Istar's wellbeing aboard his ship. He had been touched, and in his eyes had shone the same heartfelt sentiment. And now his visage was alit with a smile of warmth, and in his eyes was conveyed a sentiment of endearment that could be put into no words.

"Círdan," he then spoke, "no gift you give me could be greater, for I know this gift comes by the love of the furthest depths of your heart and the greatest skill of your hands. And for it, I am honored."

Círdan waved aside the praise. "Be not so, Master, for long has it been since my hands were soft."

Mithrandir smiled and took up his staff once more, planting it firmly to the shingle. "Let us proceed on our walk ere the prints of our feet become permanent."

And so they went forth on their walk south along the shore once more, and the silence between them was once again comfortable and companionable. They trod at leisure on the soft sand of the high watermark, the rim of the high tide sweeping the sand again and again not three meters away. And such was the walk Círdan took every morning ere the Sun rose over the golden city, and as on the times before, he lost himself amid his own thoughts. He knew not how long they continued to walk in their silence, but only when he saw a low-lying buttress of boulders in varying sizes of claystone and siltstone, a hundred meters or so off down the shore, did he realize how far they had gone from the city. Círdan glanced to Mithrandir and saw the fingers of his left hand absently flitting over those of his right. He had done that from time to time, Círdan noticed, and the Shipwright knew that it was just a matter of becoming accustomed to the presence of Narya; he had experienced the same, after all. Though Mithrandir would, with little doubt, overcome the discomfort of a foreign presence far sooner than Círdan did, he doubted that any being aside from the Valar could dismiss Narya's existence so easily. And at the thought of the higher beings, Círdan found the need to speak once more.

"Master Curunír will ever be angered with me for giving you this Ring," he spoke, his voice solemn and low in pitch. "And part of me is wary of his reaction."

Mithrandir glanced up at him, obviously returning from his own thoughts as well. "I will keep it secret, Círdan," he reassured. "None shall know of it, save only those you entrust the knowledge of my bearing her."

And though a little reassured by his words, Círdan still shook his head. "Master Curunír is neither foolish nor blind," he continued wearily. "And I, deep in my being, foresee that he will learn of my giving Narya to you." He shook his head in a rare show of helplessness, dreading the enmity that he knew was to come. "Wise and powerful he is, and my deepest respect and service he has, but whatever friendship I have gained with him will be lost when he learns of my gift."

"You know that not."

Círdan paused and cast Mithrandir a look of forlorn. "No disrespect meant, Master, but I do."

Mithrandir grunted. "And you are willing also to sacrifice such a friendship? Trust me, my friend. Curunír has a soft spot for you and will not dismiss you so readily."

"I am honored for it," Círdan replied, and he truly was. "But this sense of foreboding is not foreign to me. And as I told you once before, Master, my personal peace is irrelevant for the fate Middle-earth."

Mithrandir rolled his eyes skyward, though the slight smile took any sting from the action. "Do you not trust Curunír?"

Círdan nodded without hesitation. "There are few who have my greater trust akin to that I place in Master Curunír. It is greatly evident that he cares for the Hither Lands and worries for the wellbeing of the Free Peoples. And it remains obvious that he will do everything to see the conquest of the Shadow. To put it plainly, I trust him greatly, and will accept his counsel should he ever offer it."

"If you trust him," Mithrandir inquired, "then why did you go out of your way to see that he remains far from our exchange of words this night?"

Círdan flashed him a wry grin, though it never reached his eyes. "I spoke that I trust him greatly, not completely. Long enough I have lived to know that to do so would be foolish, for of him I know little." He grunted. "I can count on one hand the Elves I trust completely."

Mithrandir smiled. "But Curunír is no Elf."

Círdan nodded in consent to the fact. "True, but the Vala Ulmo is really the only one I go to blindly trust."

"A wise choice," Mithrandir murmured, "for not all Maiar can be trusted."

Círdan nodded. "And the truth of such words will be revealed at the end of all things."

Mithrandir rolled his eyes once more. "You are too fatalistic by far."

A ghost of a smile was seen. "Lord Thranduil has accused me of such on more than one occasion, usually accompanied by an annoyed shake of his head. But then," he amended, "he is king of a people who engage in merrymaking at even the smallest of reasons to be joyous, just because they can."

Mithrandir gave a single nod that was too exaggerated to be sincere as a smile played at his lips. "Ah, yes, celebrating at any reason to celebrate. Tantamount that sounds to laugh when there is cause for laughter, and to smile when there is cause to smile, as I believe a certain person advised you of in the not-so-distant past."

To that, Círdan spoke nothing, for he knew he had walked right in to such an opening. But he was drawn from his muse as Mithrandir took hold of his arm and guided him to stand before him. And Círdan was taken aback by the solemn look in Mithrandir's eyes.

"My friend," he spoke, heartfelt in his words, "that the Sight has subdued your joy I know, for which you have no fault. And I understand why, for the Sight, in the end, makes solemn all those who have it. And there are none who can live with it better than you. But take into account the words of Radagast." He gave a short laugh. "I insinuate not that you have done anything wrong, for you have not, but you do need to smile more."

Círdan gave a grudging nod. "I know. Ëarhín loves attempting to amend it."

Mithrandir went to speak and then stopped, for in a quick flash, his eyes flitted over to the right and back again. And a slow smile steadily grew as he took a pace back. "I have outstayed my welcome and to the guesthouse shall return, for I have the need to obtain rest ere the coming of dawn."

Círdan furrowed his brow, his confusion evident. "What do you speak? You have not outstayed your welcome."

Mithrandir shook his head good-naturedly and gestured with his staff over Círdan's shoulder.

And the most peaceful sense of déjà vu overcame Círdan in the moment that he turned at Mithrandir's bidding, for along the distant shore amongst the siltstone boulders was the shadow of a figure, tall and broad, and from him emanated a light so ethereal that it could only be from one of the higher power. And upon perusing the shadow, Círdan began to make out more detail under the light of the stars and Moon, and the Shipwright felt a small smile crease his face as he recognized Ossë, clad in his translucent raiment of hues of blue, with his hair, dark as midnight, wafting around his shoulders in the ocean breeze.

But the sense of déjà vu came not from the welcoming sight of the vassal of Ulmo, but rather that the Maia was sitting upon a rock, an arm resting on his knee as he was casually anchored back on the smooth boulder on which he sat. For in the time of his youth, Círdan and the Falmari had flocked towards Ossë as sheep towards their shepherd, eager to learn all the more sea-lore and sea-music that the Master of the Seas had to offer in the hundred years that they had waited upon the shore. And as silent students, beneath the countless stars in the heavens, they had listened in delight as Ossë had taught them all manner of their craft. And always when he had spoken or sung, he had ever sat upon his rock.

In the same manner as he was doing now, much to Círdan's amusement, for he wondered if the Maia chose that position on purpose, and a moment later decided that he did. And in that moment, Círdan knew that Mithrandir was correct; their time was up, for Ossë came never upon the shores of the Havens without a purpose. And so, Círdan turned back to Mithrandir and bowed to him in the exact manner as he had when the Istari had first boarded the Fëagaer.

"I bid you a good evening, Master, and will see you come morning ere you depart."

Mithrandir returned the slight bow and simply grasped Círdan's shoulder for a long moment. "One more thing, Círdan. And I have little time to tell you, so I will be blunt," he spoke gravely. "More Istari are coming. We three are but chiefs among them, and Curunír is our Chieftain. Two more Istari, both clad in blue, shall arrive soon, also chiefs. More Istari besides will come also, but keep an eye on the horizon for those two clad in blue, for they will wish to speak with you ere they depart."

Círdan nodded. "I will do so. Do I know them?"

Mithrandir smiled. "You do, from long ago, I believe. Do you remember Alatar and Pallando?"

Círdan stared at him, a delighted smile slowly lighting his face. "Are you serious?" he murmured.

Mithrandir chuckled at the mixed look of surprise and joy in Círdan's eyes. "Aye, I am serious, my friend. So keep an eye out for them, for as I spoke, they wish to speak with you again."

"I shall," Círdan absently said. A sense of exhilaration raced through him, as well as disbelief. He had not laid sight on those two Maiar since the dawn of his youth, for Alatar and Pallando were the servants of the Vala Oromë. And during some of the times the Lord of Forests had come to visit the Quendi in their home of the Wild Wood about the Waters of Cuiviénen, his two Maiar had accompanied him. And since the Elves' journey of the Great March after Melkor's imprisonment, Círdan had seen neither hide nor hair of them, to his sorrow. And now they were coming as the final two chiefs of the Istari, bound with the same duty. To say that he was now excited that he would see them again, after all these Ages, was a gross understatement.

Realizing that his mind had drifted off again, this time into good memories, Círdan looked back into Mithrandir's amused gaze and bowed his head once more. "I shall," he repeated. "Good night, Master."

Mithrandir glanced at Ossë. "Good luck," he whispered in jest, and then he turned to amble back down the long stretch of coastline.

Círdan watched him go for only a moment before he turned and approached Ossë, who simply watched him come forth, fiddling a long shred of abalone shell between his fingers.

"My lord," he greeted as he came to stand a meter from the rock. "Have you something new to teach me?" he added in amusement.

Ossë gracefully stood from the rock, tossing the shell into the water that swept about their feet, and his raiment seemed to float around him instead of being lifted by the breeze. "Always there is something more to learn, Círdan, no matter how old one may be."

Círdan nodded, but he recognized that Ossë was stalling. Even more, to Círdan's alarm, Ossë would not meet his eyes, and instead kept their lightning hue cast out to the sea. And he was grave, not that he wasn't grave in time passed, Círdan amended, but a solemn – almost sad – air seemed to hang about him. Aye, Ossë was a sporadic figure and the most unpredictable being he had ever met, but this was unusual, even for him.

"My lord," he asked, cautious with his words. "What is wrong? Why have you come?"

And now Ossë did look at him, and Círdan had to force himself not to retreat from the ferocity of the gaze. That his eyes blazed as lightning helped not, either. But when he spoke, his voice, which could rise to the tremor of thunder, was as placid as the water of a pond.

"I know what is wrong," Ossë calmly spoke. "But do you know what is wrong? For I sense that you evade the thoughts, even fears, that insist on emerging to the forefront of your mind." He cocked his head ever so slightly to the side, strands of dark hair wafting languorously about his face, but his eyes did not leave Círdan's. "Tell me, Círdan; what is wrong?"

And Círdan closed his eyes, knowing that Ossë had struck the truth, and had struck it hard. It was seldom often that Ossë could interpret Círdan's thoughts so easily as Ulmo. But then, he had ever granted Ulmo access to his mind and being, leaving nothing hidden. Only a few times in the past he had allowed the same of Ossë, but granted such personal permission seldom. It was not that he did not trust Ossë, for he did, but as he had told Mithrandir, Ulmo was the only one he trusted blindly and completely with everything, for there was nothing of or about him that the Vala knew not. But Ossë had known him well for over fourteen millennia; therefore, it was unsurprising that he could guess Círdan's thoughts now. But what was a surprise was that he knew them so accurately.

And Círdan felt a shame well up inside him, and why he felt shame, of all things, he knew not. It felt as a betrayal to Ossë, in a large way, for upon speaking to the Maia once more, Círdan could not help but to recall everything, every single word, that Mithrandir had spoken aboard the Fëagaer about him; that he had turned to darkness, to the allegiance of Morgoth, in the desire for power. Círdan had always had a kindred love for Ossë, and did still this moment, but now, in the worst of ways, it felt to be tainted by all he now knew. And he hated himself for thinking such, for as he had expressed to Mithrandir, Ossë was loyal beyond understanding, to Ulmo and to everything the Valar stood for.

Realizing that Ossë still waited in patience for an answer, Círdan bowed his head and spoke. "Amid the voyage, Mithrandir spoke of the creation of Arda. And in his words, he mentioned of how you had once turned to darkness."

He dared not to speak more, but in the silence that followed, Círdan looked up to find Ossë nodding, his solemn gaze once more cast out at the sea.

"I know," he finally spoke. "Upon the passage of the waves, Ulmo had sent word to me of what was spoken, not a moment after Olórin had told you. And amid the boundaries of the Hither Shores I dwelt, hearing every detail of just how much he told you: of how I desired for power, what was promised as my reward, how that traitor deceived me, and how I was summoned to my King. How the hand of Morgoth 'passed beyond the servants of his will.'" Ossë glanced at him. "Have I forgotten anything?"

Círdan grimaced, shaking his head. Ossë's recounting of all that had been said (word for word, to his dismay) made him a tad more nervous – Ossë had an unpredictable, wild temper, after all, that could rage uncontrolled to a terrifying level. But Círdan could not decipher what it was that Ossë now thought. No expression could be seen on his visage, no emotion of anger or resentment. There was simply nothing, and Círdan wondered if Ossë maintained such a mask deliberately.

"And what say you?" Ossë asked, and no emotion was heard in his voice.

Círdan hesitated, unable to know what words to speak, and he cast out his gaze to the sea as well. "I know not what to say."

"Have you hate for me now?"

Círdan's gaze snapped back over to Ossë, shock he had felt seldom before shooting through him. Was such what Ossë now worried about, now feared? That he hated him, even by a little? Such a concept was so foreign unto Círdan's mind that he could simply not picture Ossë, violent and tempestuous as he was, caring about something as trivial as that. Ossë was sure to be used to such negative thoughts, after all, for nigh on every Elf Círdan knew was positively terrified of the Maia (not that Ossë ever desired to mend that, one should add). The vassal, also, had a rather large tendency to find enjoyment by making sailors' lives miserable while out at sea. As he had told Mithrandir, Círdan had never known why Ossë found such delight in violence until he had learned what a large part Morgoth had played in it. Ossë was generally disliked and greatly feared, and most probably hated by some. So again, one would think he were used to it.

But upon such thoughts, Círdan felt his heart warm as he recalled the words Ëarhín had spoken when he had first set out not so long ago: Out of all here, you are his favorite Elf, Círdan. There is no denying that. While it remained true that Círdan was not the only olden friend of the Maia, all the other Elves Ossë had befriended were gone, either through death or their leaving to Eldamar. Elves he would probably never again be able to see, for he was bound to the waters of the Hither Lands for only the Valar knew how long. And Círdan was touched beyond words that Ossë now feared the Shipwright thought ill of him, that their friendship may have, indeed, been tainted.

"No, Master," he spoke, making certain that the sincerity of the words were heard. "Aye, I was more than surprised at what I heard, but I have no ill thought of you. All beings make mistakes. Besides, you not only turned to darkness – you also turned away from it."

But Ossë only nodded again. "I know, and I have no shame in admitting my error. But I sense your discomfort, my friend. You fear that such betrayal may happen again."

"No," Círdan retorted. "I do not fear such."

"Then what do you fear?" Ossë turned back to look at him, his gaze curious and bright.

Círdan fell silent once more, having no notion of what to speak. Instead he just sighed. "I know not, Master, I truly do not," he said. "Such knowledge rendered me speechless and I believe I am trying to overcome it still. I know in my heart that you shall err not in the same way again, for such is beyond you. It is just…." He shrugged, meek in his conviction. "It is difficult to look at you without remembering, to see you under the same light as before."

His chin was uplifted by Ossë's long fingers and he found himself staring into Ossë's unblinking eyes of a fiery potency. "Too well I know you to be deceived, Círdan, even if you yourself are deceived by your confusion." He released Círdan's chin, but still held fast his gaze, and the Shipwright found it impossible to tear it away.

"I kept it silent from all for two purposes," he spoke, the swell of the ocean waves growing and lessening with the rise and fall of his voice. "It was not of the right of any to know, and two, it was the moment of my existence that I would trade anything to do again. But alas, the past is set and binding to all. As you know, upon my treachery, the Valar intervened, and by Ulmo my judgment was cast."

Círdan had committed to speaking no words when Ossë had first spoken, for he felt that any words he could possibly speak would have been either inadequate or ill-founded. Besides, he knew not what to say, anyway. He heard the subtle agony in the Maia's voice at the abysmal failure he had committed. And Círdan had not a sliver of doubt that Ossë would truly have given anything to again relive that time – that split moment – when he had said yes to Morgoth. To but say a completely different word to Morgoth's offer. And Círdan felt a sense of sympathy towards Ossë; he knew the Maia was as loyal as they came and that the Valar trusted him as any other, but Círdan could begin not to even contemplate the guilt and shame Ossë had to live with still. And Círdan feared that Ossë would probably never recall that, despite turning to darkness, he had actually turned away from it. But now, at Ossë's closing words, he felt his confusion grow.

"Judgment?" he asked. "I was told that your crimes had been pardoned."

"They were," he said calmly, "and I am forever grateful for the mercy bequeathed unto me by Ulmo and Manwë. But I would never have expected of Ulmo to allow me to go about freely after that event."

The confusion grew. "What are you talking about?" Círdan inquired, curious to know. Ossë looked at Círdan for a long moment, his gaze penetrating, and the Shipwright startled as he felt the Maia brush his mind. But Ossë went no further and instead directed Círdan's gaze down to the wrists he now held forward. And after a moment's hesitation, Círdan looked down and studied his wrists. There was nothing different to be noticed; Ossë's hands were strong and well corded, his fingers long, and his wrists were enwrapped in their raiment of shimmering blues. But ere Círdan could comment, Ossë took hold of the raiment and worked with it until, on both wrists, it was slowly folded and rolled back. And Círdan saw what he had never seen the likes of before.

Ossë's wrists were bound, though by what substance Círdan had no idea. The bands that stretched a handbreadth over each wrist looked to be composed of the shattered shells one would find strewn across the shoreline. They were a mess, in a way, a collage of broken pieces, but they still passed beyond the description of beautiful, for they shone with a coat of dust like starlight, and shimmered in an ethereal way under the light of the Moon. But they shone with a blinding brilliance that Círdan had never before seen in his life. The beauty of the bonds was breathtaking, but Círdan could not overcome the fact that they were still bonds.

"Shackles?" Círdan whispered, disbelief coating the single word.

Ossë tilted his head, studying the bonds himself. "In a way, I suppose."

"The Vala Ulmo bound you in shackles?" Círdan was incredulous. He knew that Ulmo was firm and unconquerable in spirit, but he could not believe him capable of an action such as this, as binding his own vassal in manacles. It was just not conceivable.

Ossë appeared to interpret his thoughts, for he said, "Think not ill of him, Círdan, for I asked him to. At first, he refused, but I went to my knees and pled. Ulmo knew I would never again repeat my errors of old, but I in turn had to believe it, also. And such belief I doubted would come unless I were reminded for all time.

"And thus," he continued, "Ulmo put forth his hands and crafted the bonds by shell of the uttermost depth of his Waters. And about the remnants of the shells he cast a light taken from the Lamps of the Valar. And from the words of his mouth, he cast upon the bonds a binding so powerful that none can break it, save him. Then he summoned me hither and commanded me to hold forth my hands. And about my wrists he cast the bonds, sealing them shut with further words from his mouth.

"And bound I have hitherto remained, and henceforth shall remain, until Ulmo removes them by his own hand, for only he is enabled with the power to break the seal of my 'shackles'." Ossë looked down into Círdan's nearly aghast gaze and smiled. "By my King's command, I am entrusted with the governing of the Hither Shores, as you well know."

Círdan nodded.

"I am permitted to travel about the Waters of Ulmo, for all waters are under his government. But to his Waters I am bound so long as these fetters encase my wrists. And his Waters I cannot leave." His smile grew. "Despair not for me, my friend," he reassured. "Of Ulmo I beseeched of this binding, and have never yet regretted it."

Círdan shook his head, feeling himself sway where he stood at this revelation. He did as Ossë said and despaired not, yet he could help not but to feel aghast at what he heard. "But he still bound you in shackles."

Ossë claimed his attention as he took hold of Círdan's chin once more. "No, Círdan," he spoke firmly. "These bonds are not shackles, but a reminder. A reminder of whom I serve, where my allegiance lies, and to never again be swayed by the temptations of the Darkness." The smile returned. "Ulmo granted me a favor and remember always; I begged him for it."

As Círdan thought upon the words of Ossë, the bordering-on-horrified astonishment slowly faded away, for it was then that Círdan realized how much Ossë's crime of treachery must have personally struck him. He had been so terrified of erring in even the smallest way again that he had gone to the last resort and pleaded of Ulmo to confine him to the Waters, meaning that he would ever be under the supervision of his King. Even more so, he had worded his plea exactly so that, not only would he be bound, but that he would remain so until only Ulmo and no other saw fit to release him of it. Ulmo had been doing Ossë a favor, Círdan realized, for by binding him to his Waters, he had freed Ossë of his deeply-instilled fear. It was a pity, Círdan wryly thought, that it had not also freed Ossë of his delight in violence. Or his temper.

And Círdan felt a smile touch his lips, for, without realizing it, Ossë's words had calmed him beyond imagine. He knew not why and knew not if he ever would, but Círdan finally felt a sense of peace about him when he thought of Ossë's "mishap".

And he looked at Ossë now, the smile growing as it reached his eyes. "I know now what I think," he said. "I think you are incredible."

Ossë raised a mischievous eyebrow. "Try not to soften me up," he warned. "It will do you no good. I still say your ship has shortcomings."

Círdan rolled his eyes and found enjoyment in the next few moments of silence. But before long, he spoke once more. "Do you believe I did the right thing?"

"Giving Narya to Olórin?"

Círdan nodded.

"That is not for me to say," Ossë replied ever so helpfully. "Though more than you I know what lays in the coming for Middle-earth, I am permitted not to see all ends. Questions asked may never have an answer. But for what it is worth," he added at Círdan's brief show of disappointment, "I believe you did. Not mainly because it is Olórin who bears the Noldorin craft, but because you have been released of the burden."

Círdan had a sudden flash of inspiration. They were being honest with one another, correct? Círdan had by now given up on the hope of ever knowing, but mayhap it was worth one more attempt. "Master, what happened on that voyage?"

A smile played at the corners of Ossë's mouth. "I know not what you speak of."

Círdan sighed in exasperation. "Please, Ossë, I am at the end of my patience with this."

Ossë studied him for another long moment. "What is it you cannot understand?"

Círdan narrowed his eyes. "You know exactly what I cannot understand: four months, two days, my simply failing to remember why it is possible, being put into a deep sleep, and it not being a dream." He shook his head wearily. "And that is the most confusing for me, for it all appears to point to being a dream."

"Why do you say that?" Ossë asked.

Círdan gestured in a show of frustration. "There is no evidence even present that I had gone on such a voyage in the first place. There was no food, but I had eaten from the supplement that Ulmo had provided. The mast – hewn by your lovely little wave, thank you very much – looks no different than when I first departed. The lantern I had even set upon the forepeak is no longer there, but then, Mithrandir had returned it beneath deck. So much more could be said, but there is just no evidence to my people that I had even left."

Ossë narrowed his eyes and Círdan bore the calculating scrutiny with an air of long-sufferance. "What?"

Ossë straightened and clasped his hands before him, all previous jollity vanishing like smoke in the wind. "Hear my words and obey them, Círdan," he spoke. "Return to the heart of your city and make for the quay where the Fëagaer is moored. Though at this late hour all people should be resting, be certain that there is no person present. And when you are certain, step aboard your ship once more."

Círdan stared at him, waiting for more words, but none came. "Why?"

"Just do it." Ossë nodded towards the stretch of shoreline behind him. "Go now and do as I say."

Círdan looked at Ossë for a moment longer until the Maia gestured for him to leave. And so Círdan did, turning his back to Ossë and walking back along the soft sand towards home, absently thinking once more that Ulmo and Ossë found making him confused as some form of enjoyment. He strode perhaps only twenty meters when he was stopped.

"Círdan!"

Círdan turned back at the sound of Ossë's voice. Upon where Ossë stood, the wind had grown stronger, blowing the sand about the Maia's bare feet and whipping his raiment and hair wildly about him. But Círdan looked only into Ossë's bright eyes, alarmed by the concern he saw within them. "My lord?"

"Círdan," he called again, "prepare your heart, and be sure it is strong ere you step aboard the ship."

And though vague as the words had been, Círdan took them to heart and prepared himself in a way as he had been forced to do many times before; a certain resolve that readied one to accept anything, whether it'd be great or horrendous. As a lone figure, he ambled back along the shore, his footfalls disturbing the soft sand very little, his pace one of leisure and his heart, for the most part, content. And at his closing distance from the city, Círdan took a long moment to be amazed at how more alive in body and mind he felt now that Narya was no longer upon his finger. For the primordial Shipwright, it was, in short, a miracle, and one of which he would never have dreamt.

Upon his entrance, nothing within the city stirred. And Círdan looked out towards the West and caught sight of the ever-present glow of the northern beacon, blazing bright. And, like a white wraith, the Shipwright passed through the southern streets, inaudible on the cobblestones. Despite Ossë's cautioning words, save for the guards stationed on the watch, he met no person on his swift walk to the harbor, the forests of masts swaying to the tide and their timber and cordage creaking and moaning with the wind. The soles of his boots lightly echoed as he walked the length of the southern dock, to where his ship was moored at the last bollard, the mooring lines gently stretching and slacking with the motion of the water. And Círdan stood there for a moment upon the quay, studying his ship, suddenly nervous with the anticipation of what he was supposed to find upon boarding. But he forsook the pointless wait and stepped through the entry port.

And Círdan stood over the centerline towards the bow, casting about his gaze, but expecting to see nothing. What, after all, was there to see? As he had described to Ossë, the Fëagaer looked as if he had never voyaged her at all. At a slow pace, he walked down the centerline, a path made narrower by the oars resting parallel along the rowing benches. The two vats of salt-extracted water for drinking were roped and secured still to the deck, their lids sealed, with no evidence of having been opened. The mast, as he passed it, was as perfect as it could be, something he had no complaint for. The bail bucket he had used as an improvised container to hold his meal of shellfish was back in its rightful place, beneath one of the rowing benches nearby the stern. But it was at that moment as he neared the stern and looked casually towards the last couple starboard-side rear-rowing benches that he saw it, right where Mithrandir had placed it; hidden beneath the dark shadow cast by the bulwark that it was snuggled against rested the sheen oyster shell and, inside it, the pearl from Ulmo's girdle.

Círdan's breath caught at the sight of it, and he found himself capable now of only staring at it. Valar, he had forgotten about the kingly gift completely. And he felt shame well up inside at the fact, for how could that have been so? Rationally, he knew the guilt was unfounded; ever since he had awoken to Radagast's pounding on the helmsman's door, his mind had been set only on safe voyaging. And upon mooring at the quay, his attention had been taken by something far more drastic. But the shell and pearl had rested out of sight, hidden in the shadows cast by the bulwark. Círdan studied the pearl now, that great sense of humility compressing his chest. And, despite the Vala's absence, the Shipwright felt that almost irresistible desire to kneel. But there the pearl sat, plain and unadorned, but never more breathtaking in its beauty and majesty. For this was a pearl from the rope of Ulmo, a gift worthy of a king. And no matter the words spoken by Ulmo, Círdan had still never felt so unworthy of it.

He sat on the bench adjacent to that the shell rested on and hesitated before reaching out to take hold of the pearl, for he recalled Mithrandir's words: I will tell you that you are to touch neither shell nor pearl, not until I am no longer aboard the Fëagaer. And as he had spoken, so it now was. In a bemused sense, he remembered his frustration upon being told to touch not the shell, but now he recognized the truth for what it was. For if he found the restraint against such a temptation – and what a temptation it had been – Mithrandir would have been assured that he would maintain that same restraint with the pearl. Círdan had done as requested and now put it off no longer.

Círdan reached out, clasped his fingers about the pearl and held it close. For only a moment, nothing happened. And all Círdan could register in that time was how warm the pearl was to touch, how it still shone with the brightness of the Moon with its white-hued colors of a setting Sun. But then the moment was over, for something then happened that Círdan had no expectation of.

He felt a jolt shoot through him, making his heart pound harder, as his breath was taken from him once more. His mind became clouded with a sense of opacity as his vision gave way, and he swayed alarmingly where he sat. He closed his eyes tight and clutched the pearl close to his chest. And Círdan barely registered what happened as he collapsed to the deck of the ship, his strength deserting him, for his mind was now far removed from the world of the mundane.

The Great Music in the Waters resonated in his ear, but above the Valarin words Sung in harmony, he heard the music of Ulmo come forth as the greatest. Círdan heard the deep rumble of the ocean and the rolling of the waves, and in little to no time, his heart went to beat in harmony with it once more. But the Shipwright had seldom time to register it, for he was being dwarfed by what he had felt aboard his ship, when Ulmo had embraced him to his chest; healing. Only it was not the same. This was now but a shred, a glimpse of the powerful touch of Ulmo's spirit, of his invasion into the mind and soul, of his healing of all wounds inflicted. No healing now occurred, but every emotion that had raged through him in the helmsman's quarters as he had been held against the Vala's deep chest now soared through him once more, unrelenting and unending. But such pain and euphoria was not all.

The pearl…it was no normal pearl, and not because it came only from Ulmo's mighty girdle. It awoke in him a longing he had felt never before. A longing to once again stand in the presence of the Vala, for Círdan's heart ached miserably at his absence. And he felt the solitude bitterly. Despite his fear and respect of the Vala, Círdan desired to walk with him again, to be on his knees before him. He heard the Sea calling him, to go out and drift amongst the Music. Aye, that was what it was; the calling of the Sea. But not the calling home to Eldamar, no, for he had heard not the blow of Ulmo's horn, the sound that would awake in his heart the longing to cross the Sea to Aman. No. This calling upon his heart was of the Sea alone, summoning him home, though of what home he now desired, he knew not….He was being called home, but not to Valinor. Where was home, then, if not the West? But, above all in that moment, he craved to see the King of the Seas once more while voyaging the seas. And Círdan felt anguish wash over him as he recognized that he would never know when such a time might come again. A day, a year, a century, or several millennia….Círdan would never know if or when Ulmo would come forth to speak with him again.

And the raging swell of emotions finally settled to at least be bearable. And Círdan opened his eyes and looked above, his gaze unseeing and body depleted still of strength. So upon the deck Círdan simply laid, staring up at the stars, his thoughts in turmoil, but he never released the pearl from his hand.

Hours passed. The Moon set. All was silent and, through the cloudless sky, only the light of the stars illuminated Círdan's chiseled, olden visage. And it was then Círdan realized, as he still laid upon the deck, that Ulmo had gifted him with far more than a pearl from his girdle, for the pearl itself was not inanimate, but rather a remnant of Ulmo's spirit. As he held the mighty sea-gem, he heard Ulmo's voice, his song, and he felt an entity within his soul akin to the Vala's presence. As he held the pearl, his mind and soul fell into harmony with the sea by his side. As he held the pearl, he heard within his heart the call of the Sea and the welcoming resonation of the Great Music. As he held the pearl, he felt at peace.

And so it was aboard the ship Círdan remained, lying upon the deck out of the sight of all, and the Shipwright knew not how many hours had passed. But as he gazed up at the stars of Elbereth, he watched the stars wield overhead, far more bright from the absent light of the Moon. And a genuine, actual smile touched his countenance. This night was perfect. Despite all the questions unanswered that he knew not would ever be answered, this night was truly unspoiled. He had been blessed by the Vala Ulmo through the gift of his pearl. He had been granted a promise of peace and an everlasting calling of the Sea. He had not failed the Valar and their task set upon him, to welcome the Istari to Middle-earth. And he had accomplished his own personal goal to provide some sort of aid to the Istari, be it great or small. He had learned all there really was to know of Ossë, Master of the Seas.

But above all, above all the welcoming factors of this night, only one reigned; he had been freed from a burden that he had long ago accepted with dread that he would either take with him across the Sea, or with him to his grave. Narya was safe and secret, and would remain so. And she was with a wise being who shall wield her well and bring about some good of her existence. And, truly more than anything, Narya was no longer upon his finger. In short, it was a miracle. Mayhap this night, he would find the strength within to actually sleep with his eyes open. For once, just maybe. And though upon the rising of the Sun, where the new day would bring about for Círdan more problems and frustrations and confusions, the Shipwright allowed his heart to rest in peace. For in this night, for but a moment, he was content.

To be continued….

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Notice: The next chapter is the last one, and please take note that the end of *this* chapter was the end of the flashback. We'll be going back to the present with Elrond and Glorfindel (remember them from way back when?) at the start of Ch. 10. And for those who have the story on your Alert list (thank you for that), know that, when it gives you the word count of the chapter, it won't be as long as it says. Remember, I'm including all my sources at the very end, so the story itself will be shorter, at least by a little.

A/N: Just really quickly, I want to comment on the bit about Círdan saying that Saruman will hate him for giving Narya to Mithrandir. It said in Unfinished Tales that, when Saruman found out about Narya (Mithrandir said nothing to him, but Saruman was too wise to be deceived), he hated – and I mean hated – Mithrandir for it from there on out, and despised him since he had been given a Ring of Power. So one can only imagine what he felt towards Círdan. And in some accounts, it says that it was at that moment, when Saruman learned of Mithrandir bearing Narya, that Saruman's desire for power for the One Ring began. So in a way, it's all Círdan's fault! :) The next chapter will find us what both Elrond and Glorfindel think of this whole tale, and the remaining questions of why Círdan had been tested and just what he is supposed to remember will be answered (I know, finally). Until then, reviews are very encouraging and helpful. So feel free to hit that little blue link below! :) Until then…au revoir!