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*

10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: for full disclaimer, please see Chapter 1.

A/N: And here it is; the final chapter…and over three months later. *shakes head* I don't know if I should even try to apologize, simply because of how stupid and empty it would sound. But for the sake of courtesy, I will apologize for the ridiculously long wait – I am very sorry. No outrageous excuse, since I hate reading such excuses, but I am sorry. But at least this is the last chapter (and longest). And I would be very honored if you would stick with it a while longer to read it. Words can't express how much I would appreciate it. I would like to thank Lia Whyteleafe, GreenGreatDragon, WiseQueen, Zammy, Sadie Sil – English Stories, and Certh for all your wonderful reviews.

Notice: Don't try to figure out what I'm talking about because you'll only confuse yourself, just know that, when you come to it in the story, the location of "Ulmonan" is not my own invention; it is a real, canonical place and is listed in the Sources. And remember, the flashback has ended and we are now back in the present.

---

"People tend to believe that a preposterous story must be true – precisely because it is so unlikely." ~ John Flanagan, Ranger's Apprentice

Chapter 10

Mithlond, 1001 TA

Círdan let go a small sigh and peered for a long, hard moment at both of his companions before him. "Now you have heard my words," he finished quietly. "Draw from it as you will, though I pray, leave me be on if my mind and spirit were laid to rest, but for a day amid my ship, whilst she drifted out amongst the Sea."

A deafening silence fell amid the ship, a silence that impressed far more significance than any jumble of words could have. Not even a word was uttered, and all to be heard was the soft creaking of the Fëagaer's hull as she swayed to the gentle current of the rolling waves. The bright Moon had long ago set, and the full glory of the multitude of stars was veiled by the heavy clouds that had gathered, signifying the coming storm, for rolling thunder could be heard off in the far distance. Their source of light solely emitted from the silver glow their delicate lanterns casted, making the atmosphere on the ship seem eerily ethereal; a rather appropriate conjecture after all they had discussed.

But the thoughts of Elrond's mind were rampant, and he truly had no notion of what to say. The wonder he had felt at hearing Círdan's words still remained immense and prominent, leaving him speechless. Several times he exchanged a fleeting glance with Glorfindel, only to find the same tumble of emotions and thoughts in the Elda's eyes. But the Half-elf looked back to Círdan, making an effort to think of something, anything, to say. But Círdan, with his admirable patience, merely sat there, waiting, looking between the two of them and the bay surrounding them. And for several moments, Elrond could do naught but stare at the gunwale, though his eyes were focused on anything but.

"Say something."

Elrond's attention snapped back to Círdan, and he regarded the Shipwright in a manner of sympathy and self-annoyance, for his healer's eyes took notice of how his elder more and more often blinked with evident weariness. Hours had passed and Elrond could only imagine just how exhausted Círdan had to be by now.

But Glorfindel took care of the matter, leaning back with an astounded sigh, letting fall a hand on each leg. He smiled at Círdan, bright and merry, though he shook his head in disbelief. "Such a tale seems to have raised more a question than it did answer," he spoke, a smile still lurking.

But Círdan only nodded, albeit grudgingly, as though he had had that thought many a time already. "I know," he spoke in his familiar, rurally idyllic way. "A year has since passed, and this night I sit speaking myself hoarse, only to be no nearer to answering that I remain lost to."

Elrond had to inwardly smile at that. For as far back as he could recall Círdan had never been the most loquacious of persons, for he was always quite the opposite on all occasions. But upon the infrequent occurrence when the old Elf did speak for hours on end, he reminded the Half-elf of when the Shipwright had used to tell tales to his brother and he as children, one child snuggled on each leg, and turning swiftly and unknowingly into what he had heard humans call a 'grandfatherly' figure; speaking in words rugged and solemn, yet warm and soft.

"What wish you us to say?" Elrond deigned finally to ask, releasing a deep breath as though to shake himself out of his own wonder. "Such a tale incurs not many words to speak about it."

Círdan turned a long stare on first Glorfindel and then Elrond, his face inscrutable. "Believe you I erred in giving Narya away?"

Elrond raised an eyebrow, not bothering to smother his surprise at the question. "Believe you that you were?"

Círdan gave a slight, noncommittal tilt of his head. "None know everything," he spoke. "Taking action means not you are without doubt. Both of you know well I trust your counsel, such is why I seek it." He paused, deep in thought, oblivious to the two expectant gazes on him. But Círdan was nodding slow affirmation, as though answering a quandary deep in his own mind. "In the end, nevertheless, I judge I acted for the good, for the Song has changed. In my blood I can feel it, and in the waves hear it. Ever since first the Istari walked this hither land and over it traversed now for a year, I can so sense a different resonance within the Tune, one unmarked but manifest; a change within the Song entirely, though for the better I deem."

Elrond did his best to let not one emotion shine through his countenance. As an Elf, he was as much attuned to the Song of Ilúvatar as the next, able to sense it in the life around him and, on the rare occasion, hear it with a pristine clarity, whether within the waterfalls about Imladris or in the occasional tree-song. Bound to Arda as all Elves were, Elrond was more attuned to the World than any mortal could be, and Glorfindel even more so, for in his rebirth he was divinely manifest, more so than any other Elf in Middle-earth to this day. And that on top of being blessed through witnessing the Light of the Two Trees amid their full glory empowered him to take notice and be cognizant with the Song far better than Elrond and a majority of Elves. And such a gift had its great uses.

But Círdan was of a different matter entirely. He had never seen the Light of the Two Trees, never set foot on the shores of the Uttermost West, living his life as ordinarily as the next. And yet he could hear the Song with pure clarity – not occasionally, but constantly – better than any living Elf possibly could. And it was not only that, for he also understood it; understood the story it unraveled and the messages it carried, a language foreign to him. At some points Elrond was uncertain whether to feel more awed by the manifestation or disturbed by it. If Círdan declared that the tune of the Song had changed since the Istari's arrival, then it was certain that it most probably had. Elrond himself was incapable of detecting such a happenstance, and judging by Glorfindel's lightly bewildered expression, the same could be said of him. Elrond could neither sense nor hear anything. But then again, Círdan had been so bound to the World far longer than any other, and Elrond deduced that such a bond grew and strengthened over time akin to how his own bond with Celebrían grew and deepened over the centuries. But the walking display Círdan made of a surreal mind and spirit trapped in a body sometimes made him a tad envious.

Saving himself from looking as a mute idiot, he collected himself and finally responded. "If you so speak that a note in the Song has changed, I believe you. And in answer to your question, I say as before; aye, my friend. I am content with you giving Narya to this Mithrandir, and I believe it a decision wisely made." He gave a soft smile. "Little time though I spent with him, I could feel the warmth and eagerness of his spirit. And despite my lack of understanding, I sense within my being that he will come to make a great enemy of Sauron."

Glorfindel nodded at the words, a light chuckle emerging from deep in his chest. "How appropriate to give him the Ring of Fire, for you can easily sense the flame that burns bright within him."

Círdan studied them both for a while longer before briefly closing his eyes. "Then I am content."

But Elrond cocked his head, his eyes narrowed in something of amused curiosity. "And still, you elect not to speak of all the conversation we all know you left out of the telling? Indeed, I find it greatly difficult to believe that you four would remain silent on so long a journey. You and those three Men must have discussed something of interest."

The amusement returned as a glimpse of humor, for a brief moment, shone bright in Círdan's primordial eyes. "I so still elect," he spoke lightly with a hint of a smile. "As much as I deign to do otherwise, I have my orders to be silent, as you well know, and to such words none can countermand."

Elrond let go another sigh as he absently began to shake his head once more in disbelief, leaning along the bulwark beside him. "I know, and I would not have you go against it. But still…."

Círdan cocked his head to the side, soft strands of silver hair wafting about his face and his eyes narrowing in a familiar look of interest and amused confusion. "You seem struck with wonder, young one. Why, I ask? Surely, my tale was not so wondrous in the telling that it leaves you searching for words."

Elrond just looked at him, uncertain as to whether regard him with incredulous disbelief or to start laughing. Another glance was exchanged with the golden-haired Elda and Glorfindel merely waved a mockingly imperious hand in Elrond's direction, clearly electing him as the spokesman. Elrond lightly scowled at him before turning back to face Círdan's questioning and expectant eyes, their sharpness and intensity once more piercing him.

Elrond sighed, working vainly to organize his wayward thoughts. "Círdan, it is not your tale that leaves me in shock," he began, slowly and with extra caution in choosing his words. "Indeed so, it is unlike anything I have heard, yet I believe you. Have no doubt in that. Many strange things have happened in the World and such as you described is no exception." He smiled at Círdan's unreadable gaze that remained patiently trained on him. Such would make it seem that he did not care or was skeptical of all he heard, but Elrond knew better, for Círdan was family to him in every way but blood. "You are mighty among the Wise, and never does one discount that. If you know well in your heart that the voyage happened, nothing could make me believe otherwise. Aye, questions remain and some may never be answered, yet long ago you told me that some things are meant to remain hidden."

Círdan gave a good-natured roll of his eyes in apparent exasperation. "I wish people would stop reminding me of what I say," he grumbled. He looked back at Elrond, locking his gaze with his own. "What so then bothers you, Elrond? You seem disturbed."

Elrond inwardly grimaced, though some sign of his disquiet must have shown through his countenance, for he caught sight of the slight furrowing of Círdan's brow, concern alight in his eyes. "Ulmo," he spoke, the one word speaking more of his thoughts than any multitude of words. And Elrond slowly shook his head in amazement, that wonder coming to gradually engulf him once more. "Valar, Círdan," he breathed in incredulity. "You only told me that you sometimes communicate with him. I recall well my youth on Balar and how, every so often, you would leave alone to walk about the Isle, only to return with some further knowledge and message from the Sea. But never did you indicate just how deep….Never could I have conceived…."

Elrond fell silent while abandoning all attempts to explain how he felt through words alone, for the Shipwright's account had gone beyond his expectations into incredulous disbelief. Indeed, he was unable to, for never before had he known any of all that had transpired between him and the King of the Seas, of all beings. And Círdan's descriptions of their interaction, all detailed aplenty, went entirely against the renowned character of the Mariner Elrond had always known, for his mind was incapable of conceiving Círdan being so willingly submissive to anyone, be he a Vala or no, as the Shipwright had obtained all but the coldness of a hard heart over the Ages.

Now, he might as well have stood as a stranger before the Half-elf, mind and personality unknown in place of his graceful, abnormal sense of quiet composure and calm that belied the unyielding resolve beheld in his keen, ancient eyes. There were seldom few he might have respected and admired as he did Círdan; the Elf had lived to witness nigh on every kingdom rise and fall. Alive before history, words of the historical books were Círdan's experiences, his memories extending fathoms deeper beyond that of any Elf in Middle-earth, and that age of longevity was what differentiated him from all kin. It was the same differentiation made between Elves and Men, the born and the unborn, the dead and the living; a line impossible to cross. The passing Ages had brought devastation, new paths to tread, and more experiences to live. But always, to Elrond's knowledge, in a changing world Círdan was constant; firm in resolve, lenient when appropriate, his heart hardened beyond belief against the sorrow and painful blows, mighty in wisdom, abundant in strength, and unconquerable in spirit. Any who knew well the Shipwright knew that he was unchanging. But all that Círdan now described went fully against Elrond's understanding of the bearded Elf. Yes, he had known as most others that the only King indefinite who reigned in Círdan's life was Ulmo, and such unwavering loyalty had been admirable and aweing to witness. But Valar, he had thought that had been all! No more surely than how Míriel weaved her tapestries in the domain of Vairë, or Ingwë with Manwë, for Círdan being so submissive to Ulmo made the image of a child appear in Elrond's mind.

The silence passed as Círdan gave a little, offhanded shrug to Elrond's rather dazed observation. "You never asked."

Elrond raised an eyebrow, a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. "I knew not I would have to." He looked at Círdan for a long moment, attempting to see through the mask of calm indifference always erected both in his countenance and eyes, but to no avail. For all the millennia he had known Círdan, he briefly felt, after tonight, that he might not have known him at all. "How long has such been happening?" he finally inquired.

Círdan remained silent as he looked down to the deck, a slight furrow at his brow as he thought about the question. "Indefinitely, I have no say," he spoke in time, slowly as though weighing his words. "It remains beyond my memory when the bond grew as steel, though indeed long ere your kin came to our lands." Círdan lifted his eyes, an elegant eyebrow slightly raised in a show of slight wonder. "Mayhap even ere Menegroth stood finished in all its glory. One never marks the moment a relationship grows deeper, for it long had since happened when first you realize it. Yet," he added, resolve heard well in his voice, "my deigning to obey has remained constant and ever sure since the day Ulmo first spoke to me. Still, I will deny not having been changed in heart and thought since that night on the shore, for I felt it, felt it as clearly as East is from the West. Though what it was exactly I felt I fail to describe."

"Do any others know?" Glorfindel asked the question in words quiet and soft. And for that, Elrond could not blame him, for he too understood that the topic they now discussed was conversed very seldom with anyone. For that, Elrond was beyond honored, and Glorfindel also, undeniably. But Elrond came also to quickly realize they now talked about the one thing that held the deepest place in Círdan's heart. A piercing at sword point could not have reached further, nor could any mind or power have delved deeper. This was it. And Elrond heard the underlying caution and even hesitancy in Glorfindel's words, for he felt the very same discomfort himself. Despite how well they knew the Lord of Shipwrights, neither could predict just how Círdan might react to their questions, or even the fact that they opted to press him on the whole matter, for it was beyond obvious that this was the one area of his heart and soul that Círdan had never felt any obligation – or had any will – to speak of before, had never had any desire for someone else to know of something so personal.

Círdan turned to look at the golden-haired Elda and Elrond felt that familiar, albeit amiable, frustration with the Sea-elf well up once more when he could perceive no thought in his face. "They only could guess, of which they do aplenty," he answered. "None, I deem, know me today better than Ëarhín, and not even he is aware of all I have now told you." There was a pause before a benevolent smile touched his mouth and shone bright in his eyes as he studied Elrond's faintly despondent figure, not that the Half-elf was attempting to even hide any despondency. "Elrond," he added sympathetically, "and Glorfindel, for most of your lives you have so known that my being is entwined with the Song of the Waters. That truth is one I never felt ashamed to conceal. Long have my thoughts been bent to it, my soul bound, and in no other way would I have it. Truly, so astonished are both of you by what I have spoken concerning the Vala Ulmo in my life?"

Elrond sighed, his brow furrowed as he, in turn, studied the infuriatingly deadpan Elf clad in white. "I knew you loved the waters, Círdan. Indeed, everyone knew so, for why else would you live by the sea? As I said, I knew you had periodically spoken with Ulmo, but –"

"My heart is claimed by the Sea," Círdan further elaborated, "as Ulmo has taken existence in my life. Thus, when I am called by the Sea, I go to its King. It is simple."

Elrond cocked an eyebrow in question. "How know you it is to the Vala you must go, let alone where? Speak the waters actual words?" The last was asked in skepticism, yet not unkindly, though a teasing smile did lurk near the corners of Elrond's mouth.

But Círdan seemed not to even take notice of the humor as a fond smile, a real smile, touched his face and his eyes sparked with an admiring light. "Every swift movement on Ulmo's part is the mist spraying atop the waves from his passage," he spoke reverently, the smile of awe still present. "As he inhales the tide falls and as he exhales it rises. His eyes look from the deepest depths of the Seas and the thunder of his voice is the constant rolling currents of the swells. The resonance of the sea-floor foundations come when he speaks and the melody of his song is heard in the sound of the waves, a part of and entwined with the Song of Ilúvatar." He gave a dismissive shrug. "I may see him before me clad in a form akin to my own, but in all ends, in a body Ulmo stands as the mere embodiment of all that the Waters are, for they are the creation of his hand. Ulmo is not a part of the Sea or merely its governor; he is the Sea."

Círdan then looked out to the Gulf, his eyes unseeing as the waves, in their unique beauty, crashed and rolled, for he simply listened. And as he spoke, his words grew ever quieter, as though he had temporarily forgotten that two other Elves were still aboard the ship. "All waters are under his government, for he lives in the very veins of the World. It is he who creates the greatest versatility on Arda, for the water goes blending with air to form clouds, to return upon life in rain, to freeze in Winter, to run in rivers and to mingle with all parts of life and land. Nothing is left untouched by him, not even the Free Peoples. For we of the wave-folk, at least, owe our skill in music and craft of boat-making to the early teachings of Ulmo and his vassal. And so we recognize his melodies in all running waters, as well as the beating of the waves upon the sea." He seemed to snap out of his abstraction and returned his gaze to the two other Elves. "Understand you now? It is no correlation, for they are one."

Elrond bit back the smile that wanted to come forth, but he failed to keep it out of his voice. "So upon saying you are in love with the Sea, say you that you are in love with Ulmo?" He knew the half-hearted jest was as ridiculous as it sounded, but it was not so often he was able to poke fun at the Shipwright. No, he could not fully understand everything as he would like, but this opportunity was too good to resist. And he could feel Glorfindel smiling beside him.

And Círdan scowled at him, a spark of amusement in his eyes that Elrond was all too pleased to see, though the Mariner shook his head in wistful resignation. "Indeed not, as you well know, my friend," he admonished in equal jest. "But if it is that you scarcely understand, I cannot confess to being surprised. Ulmo is the Sea, but not necessarily is the Sea Ulmo, for the King is more than his Waters. Surely, the Sea mirrors his spirit and nature like no other and bends under his thought and will. But Ulmo is also a Vala, second greatest in might. As such, Ulmo is more in ways I still know not, but the Sea is indeed nothing else than him." He gave a little, dismissive gesture of his hand. "I deny not that Ulmo has my love and blind obedience, but the Sea has always been and always will be my first and only love, for you both knew long ago that I would never wed a maiden."

Glorfindel was slowly nodding and, in a fleeting glance, looked out at the bay, a curious light in his eyes. "Never before had I thought of the Waters in such a way," he murmured. "Thus, mayhap it is the same thing with Yavanna and Aulë." He looked to Círdan. "It makes sense, certainly. It is a sad thing it is not more commonly known, that the Song of Ilúvatar is more than just a song."

Elrond was nodding along with him. "Indeed so," he spoke. "I knew you would follow Ulmo's command should ever he issue it, but I cannot say I was aware that it was blind obedience you displayed."

"I obey," Círdan recited in amusement, though more so to himself. "I cannot number the countless times I had uttered those words. But they remain true."

"And truly, you would stay unto the ending of the World if Ulmo demanded it of you?" Elrond asked further, polite disbelief in his voice. "You would indeed obey even that, so far does your loyalty to him go?"

Círdan looked at him for a long moment, a calculating glint in his eyes that all too swiftly disappeared. "Speak your Noldorin lore of how at the feet of the King of Arda Ingwë sits?" Elrond nodded. "So I would be with the King of the Seas, if I had my way."

And that was obviously enough to be said. Thus, neither of them bothered to speak on it further, though Elrond and Glorfindel did exchange another meaningful glance, one that spoke more words than could be uttered verbally. "You are right, Círdan," Elrond continued. "I fail to fully comprehend what you speak. I believe I understand it well enough, but to fully grasp what it means to you personally…." Elrond shook his head in a negative affirmation, a slight smile playing on his features. "You once spoke long ago to me that you could not fathom the burden such an irrevocable choice between mortality and immortality placed upon me was like. Now, I reason, I sit on the other side of the table, so as such we would fail to fathom what it means for Glorfindel here to be reborn, let alone dead."

Glorfindel smiled again, a spark of amusement in his eyes. "Not all things are meant to be understood," he spoke in that wise undertone of his. "Only the foolish go to pretend they can."

A long silence reigned on the ship, neither one of the company deigning to speak next, and Elrond watched in some interest as Círdan seemed to finally commit to some decision on his part, starting with taking a deep breath. Círdan, by now, appeared beyond tired, exhaustion looking to create even a shadowy haze over his eyes, lessening by a little just how star-bright they often were. The soft creases about his eyes and mouth seemed to deepen under the night, and Elrond once again pondered how it must feel to be at so old an age that one no longer looked that youthful part of an Elf.

But Círdan then spoke, and Elrond felt an alarm flood his system when he heard an uncertainty in his voice that he had never heard before. "Believe you that it was a dream?" he asked, and though his words were quiet, both Elves could scarcely make out the nigh on desperate note in his voice. It was more than obvious that this matter was what bothered Círdan more than any other, one that might have even frightened him. The Shipwright's mien was as impassive as could be, but Elrond could sense the fear as well as anything.

Elrond and Glorfindel both furrowed their brows, exchanging other swift glance that Círdan did not even go to question. "We spoke that we believe you, Círdan," Glorfindel reassured. "We believe not you spoke any lie. You never would."

Círdan gave a slight huff in either empty amusement or biting sarcasm. "For that I am grateful. But such is not what I refer to. I know Mithrandir declared it was no dream, yet…I am weary to still believe his words. I am not crass enough to believe he was lying, but…." He sighed, looking out to the sea with a brief clench of his jaw, bitter disappointment shadowing his eyes. "For over a year now I have thought upon it, but to no avail. I recall nothing that would bring some measure of sense to this riddle. In all ends, it seems to be as Ëarhín had spoken, that everything about the voyage goes against its possibility of happening."

"It would seem so," Elrond said, feeling a hint of defeat within. Likewise, he could make no sense over how a journey across the Sundering Sea could have happened in only more than a day. And if he himself felt this amount of frustration, he could only imagine how Círdan felt. "I pretend not to even have an inkling of the power to be beheld in the Vala of Dreams, though I believe it not to be beyond him. I mark your fear, Círdan, for I understand it," he added kindly. "I know of no Elf who could differentiate between dream and vision better than you, for it was by your aid and counsel I came to better undergo and comprehend the Sight when it initially came upon me. As much as it counts, I do believe it happened as you say, though of how, I am in the same dark as you."

Círdan gave no reaction to Elrond's words, neither by voice nor expression. In the end, though, he did nod, giving sign that he had heard and considered the words, as much as they were worth. "Your insight grants me some ease, at any rate. If this is madness, at least I am not alone in it," he spoke, ill-humored. "What say you, Glorfindel, if you have words at all to say? You are rather quiet."

Glorfindel glanced up at Círdan at the question, and there was an air about him, one of intense concentration. He seemed distracted as he answered, his brow furrowed deep in thought. "I second the words of Elrond, for I too reflect the same. I have also never experienced the power wielded by Lórien, nor have I ever heard it described. But if all this was, indeed, a dream, then it would have been certainly done by the work of the Vala of Dreams, for I doubt any imagination alone could have conjured what you described, even in sleep."

Glorfindel leaned forward with his fingers steepled and that intense light still shining in his eyes. "Upon my return to Middle-earth, I had to pass through the barrier of Enchanted Isles and I remember well how the Tower of Pearl appeared to the naked eye, as well as the wonders felt upon seeing the Shadowy Seas. Your descriptions were very accurate, so much so that they stirred memories long forgotten of my own. I find it hard to believe anyone, even you, could envisage such images all on your own."

"Such seems to only emphasize the impression that it was a dream." Círdan slightly shook his head, that disconcerting air about him becoming even more prominent. "Mayhap it was," he spoke with a note of finality, a dull tone of resignation. "Despite Mithrandir's claim, mayhap it was, and I know not my own mind anymore. Ëarhín's words remain true to the letter, for it is impossible to sail the Sundering Sea in only a day. As bidden, I have searched my vault of memories for now a year, and still no answer comes forth on that."

"Actually…."

Both Elrond's and Círdan's attention snapped over to Glorfindel, hearing the undeniably positive note of doubt in the one word. But he was now looking directly at Círdan, that intense light now replaced by one of resolve. He looked to be still a tad uncertain, but he was determined. "When initially you spoke of the Lord of Waters, it first reminded me of Tuor when he arrived in Gondolin with Voronwë." But then he waved the words away, coming to as though shaking himself from his train of thought. "It is but a memory and may hold to nothing."

"Speak it," encouraged Círdan. "Though your face is full of joy, wisdom is on your brow. Some insight may be leant. And if not so, then at least it shall distract me from my worries a while longer."

Glorfindel smiled at that, but nonetheless spoke, his eyes clouded over in reminiscence. "As I spoke, it may hold to nothing, but something in your tale stirs in my memory something similar Tuor described. Upon his arrival and in the King's company, all chiefs of the Houses were present to hear the words he had been bidden to deliver by Ulmo." Círdan surreptitiously nodded, memory alight in his eye as he recalled that moment in olden times. He had obviously heard of it through the waters himself. "We all know well what was spoken of it and by whom, so on that I remain silent. But at Tuor's tale, much interest was stirred, indeed on my part and, indeed, on many of the Noldor who had crossed the Helcaraxë. Though some Valar walked among Elves in the Uttermost West, it was never known that Ulmo did. Despite our defiance and will to distance ourselves from the Valar in the Age, any knowledge of Ulmo had remained long and far from us." He smiled briefly with an amused spark in his eyes. "No attempts prevailed in prying open Sea-elven lips," he teased and was rewarded with a brief smile of amusement in return, and one that was clearly somewhat prideful on Círdan's part.

"Some of us were interested, and sooner than later opportunity came to sate it," he continued. "Ere midnight struck during The Gates of Summer – Tuor's first – many lords were gathered to initiate the vigil, and with me were Duilin, Egalmoth and Galdor. Tuor came to join us, in then which we relatively cornered him. He made some jest towards Duilin's attire; of how he could be mistaken for a water-bird Tuor spied while at the sea." A fond smile creased Glorfindel's face at the memory, mellow merriment alight in his blue eyes, all of which faded swiftly back into the tense concentration that had now creased his visage for several minutes. "Such was prompting enough. So at our request and with no less awe, he spoke his tale in full. And a great amount of time was spent on how terrified he was of Ulmo."

Círdan's slight smile grew as he shook his head ruefully. "Ulmo does tend to have such an effect, for he comes as a mounting wave that strides to the land. To this day, even I must remind myself that there is no cause for fear."

Glorfindel chuckled. "Well, Tuor spoke he had never been so petrified in his life. Though he did claim to be calmed when hearing…." He snapped his fingers in irritation. "What is the thing called?"

Círdan was shrewdly nodding. "I know of what you speak, though I know not its name." He must have notice Elrond's slight expression of downright bewilderment, for he went to explain. "At times, Ulmo has borne an instrument of music, one different from the Ulumúri, and it is great. Though few times in number, he has before played it for my ears to hear alone, and I never asked its name." Círdan narrowed his eyes in thought, a light of mystified wonder entering them. "It is of a strange design, for it seems to be made of many long, twisted shells pierced with holes, if you could so imagine. It was treated as a flute, blown therein and played by long fingers." Círdan shook his head, the wonder evidently growing as he appeared to recall such a time when he had heard it. "But on it, Ulmo had made deep melodies of a magic greater than any other musicians could create on harp or lute, on lyre or pipe, or on instruments of the bow. Upon hearing it, never will you fail to recall it."

"And such is what you hear in the Music of the Sea?" Elrond asked, somewhat amazed, for never had he heard of such a thing.

"It is a part of it, more as a distant echo behind his voice." Círdan looked back to Glorfindel. "I apologize for interrupting, but that I suspect Tuor heard has no name."

Glorfindel shrugged. "Well, your descriptions are of the same hue, though Tuor's were much less vivid. But Tuor spoke of being entranced by this thing of shells and heeded it, though he said he was stricken dumb by the greatness of the sea. As I spoke, Tuor described to having felt terrified to the core upon laying sight on the Vala when he emerged from the waters, and thought he had come near death when Ulmo finally spoke. And after the message was delivered, Tuor spoke of Ulmo being wrapped in a mist, almost as if it emerged from the sea itself."

Círdan nodded, unsurprised by the words. "Such was how he appeared to me when he came to summon me to the sea. But all this is known, Glorfindel. In what way had my tale reminded you of his?"

He furrowed his brow, cocking slightly his head to the side in thought. "Tuor also described feeling as though time had stopped. He inquired us if such was with all Valar, being that he had only met one, and we had told him indeed it was so, for the concept of Time 'standing still' was present in Aman." He grinned and gave a brief chuckle. "Tuor came across as relieved, however, much to our amusement. For he went on to describe how he had spent many a night pondering on the sensation, fearing that he might have had a brief spell of madness. He had no idea whether his own mind was lost, or whether Ulmo meddled with his own way of measuring time simply for his amusement, but –"

His words were cut off as Círdan, out of nowhere, suddenly inhaled a sharp breath, his eyes slightly widening in astonishment. "How could I have failed to remember that?" he breathed in obvious disbelief.

Elrond and Glorfindel exchanged another glance, this time of confusion. "Forgotten what?" Elrond asked.

"Meddling," Círdan went on to himself, that incredulous disbelief still smothering his voice. "Ulmo meddling with time."

"What do you speak of?" Glorfindel then asked, his brow furrowing deeper as he stared at Círdan in no small amount of bafflement.

Círdan looked between them both, though it could be seen through his eyes that his thoughts were flying. "In quiet ways, the Vala Ulmo has the power to transform time, to turn years into days."

Elrond raised a skeptical eyebrow. "He does?"

Círdan nodded, his eyes still distant with that disbelieving wonder. "Ossë once told me that Ulmo's chariot is driven by narwhal and sealion, and that sometimes his urgency and speed of his coming was so great that years of traversing his Waters were accomplished in mere days. For all things sacred," he self-berated in a tight voice, "how could I have forgotten that? It was one of the first revelations given of the Vala to me."

Elrond grinned, raising an eyebrow, this time in amusement. "I deem you have finally remembered what you were bidden to?"

Círdan nodded. "And now I feel as a fool."

But Glorfindel was staring at him in downright skepticism, though not impolitely. "Speed?" he spoke, disbelief in his voice. "Valar, with how much this confused everyone, I was anticipating some great mystic feat to see it done. But it was all made possible by speed?"

Círdan gave a slight shrug, certainly nowhere as surprised as Glorfindel was. "Only the slightest fault in technique can make awry an arrow's course. Through one variable, Ulmo is empowered to change our perception of time without our realizing it. And in caution for what happened to Tuor and now me, of how we questioned our sanity, he seldom does. As I spoke, Ulmo's ways are quiet, save to garner attention when needed."

"But why insist you stay asleep, though, when already you knew of it?" Elrond pursued.

Círdan shrugged. "I know not, though I know well he had his reasons, for I recall how drained I felt upon waking each time. Perchance such traversing across the Sea might have caused me harm while fully awake. Or possibly I might have panicked. I simply know not. Mayhap if ever I see him again, I shall ask." He shook his head again in self-condemnation. "But by grace, I should have known. Every day the Song sounds in my ear, and here I was deaf to it when possibly therein laid the answer."

"Sometimes the Song is meant only to be heard," Glorfindel suggested.

"Always heard, aye," Círdan agreed. "Yet in time of knowledge or strength, only those who have grown by the ages of the World are able to wield that they draw from the Song; thereby, I have no excuse."

Elrond regarded Círdan curiously. "Is that how you crafted this ship?"

Círdan cast his gaze around the Fëagaer at that, his eyes moving from the bulwark of the hull, up the mast, across the spars and back down yardarm and mainsail. "I used the Music of the Waters," he confessed. "Aside from the Song, there also resides the song of Ulmo, and it was that I worked to draw upon the most."

"Well," Glorfindel concluded, his words full with contentment, "now at least your mind may be at ease, now that you have remembered."

Círdan shook his head in disgust. "There goes by a year, wasted away in folly," he murmured.

Elrond felt they had returned well enough back onto safe ground for him to voice something further and of a completely different topic. "I have a question about the pearl…."

Elrond's words trailed off as he took swift notice of the unnaturally guarded expression that came as a curtain over Círdan's countenance. Though his face remained impenetrable as ever, the hard light was easily discernible in his eyes. "What of it?" he asked, the kindness in his voice an eerie foil to the dangerous sparkle in his eye.

"Nothing too deep to worry over," Elrond slowly reassured, inwardly unnerved by what he was seeing. But he was no Elf to back down, particularly when he, at times, had to put up with Gil-galad when the High King had been in a snappish mood, or even with an irate father-in-law. Though Círdan could be just as bad, if not more eerily startling in how he went about it, particularly when he intensely regarded one as such. "However, how you described what it did to you greatly unnerved me."

"And?"

Elrond raised an eyebrow. "Are you well?"

The briefest hint of a wan, almost invisible smile was seen as Círdan, in an uncharacteristic way, turned away his eyes to look out at the water. "And so come forth your healer's instincts," he murmured with an appreciative undertone. "I elected almost to speak naught of the pearl to you, no matter the place you hold in my heart." He looked back to Elrond and Glorfindel, unblinking and all too grave. "Such was too personal, for still it remains ever close to my soul. But for the sake of making sense of that I fail to comprehend, I deemed it wise to speak of it."

Glorfindel cocked his head to the side. "What fail you to comprehend?"

"What it meant," he clarified, briefly suppressing a yawn. "I felt a calling unheard of be stirred in my being, and it has not yet died." He missed the fleeting glance Elrond and Glorfindel again exchanged. "I simply wish to know what calling it is if not to the Undying Lands."

Elrond was cautious with his words. "For that I have no answer. But Círdan, would not seeking answers from your own people be wiser? Many are far more adept at understanding the workings of the Waters than either of us."

Círdan looked at him for a long moment, rueful in his gaze. "Your wife is of the closest treasures to your heart. Would you walk about with her upon your arm simply as proof to show others that you are bonded? Or would you walk with Celebrían close to your side because of the deeper place she holds in you?"

Elrond gave a little, endearing smile, a sympathetic light entering his eye. "It means that much to you?"

Círdan looked between them both, his visage grave and weary, and his eyes darkened by some emotion that Elrond could not mark. "You both know the place pearls hold in my heart and of the countless searches for them. This pearl is a firebrand upon me, as much as it is tangible. Words could give no justice on what this gift means to me. Furthermore, it is no random sea-gem found strewn about on the sea floor; it is his pearl." Círdan shook his head in an appearance of being simply overwhelmed, conveying his inability to express what he meant through words alone. "You could not fathom it. No gift greater could have been given."

The endearing smile grew with a hint of merriment. "I have no doubt of that, for as it was inferred many a time in your tale, there are none who know you better than Ulmo," Elrond spoke. "You are certain you are well?"

Círdan looked down in his lap, grey irises serene and unbothered, and Elrond could not resist observing, in that moment during that particular night, how the creases and weathered lines of old age made the Mariner appear rather…fragile, particularly with the way the silver lighting from the lanterns was cast. It made the hardhearted Elf, former lieutenant of the High King, and a Lord and king in his own right, come across as delicate, of all things. Elrond knew that he would sorely regret his particular choice of words should they ever be uttered aloud, and most likely for several decades (though Círdan did certainly have a soft spot for the Half-elf, Elrond doubted that his compassion would go that far), but in that brief moment, Elrond thought he might have seen a glimpse of the Shipwright described in Círdan's tale. Fleetingly seeing Círdan in that frame of light, mayhap it was possible to visualize the primitive Sea-elf kneeling at Ulmo's feet, head bowed, visibly subservient, and positively obedient to any command. Elrond surely, in his wildest imaginations, could not envisage Círdan doing that for anybody else, Vala or no.

But the moment passed as the dark clouds shifted overhead and cast the shadows to play differently on all those aboard the ship. The foreign image passed from Elrond's sight and he had to force his attention to come to, resorting back to patiently waiting for an answer to his inquiry.

"You know what happened when I took hold of his pearl," Círdan spoke, his voice coarse and quiet. "Every night ere I lay down to rest I hold it again, and every time the power of the sensations then stirred within are as mighty and deep as when first they were felt. Mayhap even more so, I would dare say. And every time it is as new, for now four seasons later, I still have not grown accustomed to it, even by a little." He looked keenly to Elrond, that soft smile surfacing once more on his reserved face that erased millennia of age and burdens and hardships from his visage. And though his eyes remained ever grave in their intense light, no pain or evidence of suffering from the pearl's effects could be seen, and such was an answer enough. But then again, Elrond amended grudgingly a moment later, any relief he might have felt vanishing, Círdan had ever been a master at concealing how he truly felt.

"Aye," Círdan conceded, weariness seeping into his voice, "my yearning for the Waters and their creator is made so deep and powerful during any time his pearl rests in my hand. So much so that, amid the night, my every thought and dream is bent upon that yearning. And during the day, I feel the residual ache left from craving for something that is just beyond your reach." Círdan shrugged in an indifferent sense of resignation. "My desire and love for the Sea had been ever great before, beyond logic so I am told. But now it might even be more so. It is not the yearning that is greater, but rather that the sensations of it are sharper and less possible to ignore. It is…painful, sometimes. But it is a pain I welcome, for it is as though you walk a long, chosen journey and yet ache to be home." This time, the smile was certain to be seen, as a light entered the Shipwright's eyes that was a mix of slight amusement and endearing exasperation. "In answer to your question, aye; I am well. There is nothing I would have different."

Elrond shook his head in mind self-rebuke, uncertain as to why he had been so concerned in the first place. Círdan was very dear to him, of course, really family in all ways that counted, save by blood, as much as Glorfindel was. Naturally, he would always be concerned and ever watchful of the old Sea-elf when it came to anything that might harm his wellbeing, be it physically, mentally, or emotionally. He knew well enough that Círdan could take care of himself better than most; after all, he had survived really every Elf that there was to survive, managed to escape the countless battles and skirmishes with his life intact, and had never fully succumbed to the death by grief. By some unexplained blessing or downright luck, the primordial Shipwright had managed to stay alive since he had awoken at Cuiviénen, and that was something Elrond considered quite an accomplishment – an admirable accomplishment at that. Being that he had never yet died, he was obviously doing something right in the means of looking after himself. Rationally, Elrond could have no concern for the wellbeing of the silver-haired Elf. Rationally, he knew there was no reason to worry. But rationality had little significance when it came to the deep love and respect Elrond held for the Sea-elf. Irrationally, he would fret, but even with the groundless reasons behind it, Elrond knew that there was no need to do so now.

Despite the phrasing and language Círdan had used to describe all the interactions with the Vala, which conveyed beyond words how deeply said Vala was held in awe by Círdan, it was all too evident that Ulmo cared for the Shipwright, and cared for him deeply, no matter how Círdan opted to speak on the matter. And based on what he had heard, Elrond was firmly convinced that Ulmo would never do or give anything to the Sea-elf that would harm him in any fashion. It was just not possible. And aside from that, Círdan was probably one of the only Elves Elrond knew that would never lie about his state of health, particularly to him. If he had no desire for a healer to know, he would simply answer the inquiry with silence. But Círdan never had lied in a matter of such gravity, and he certainly was not now.

"Never mind," Elrond finally came to speak with a reluctant smile. "I believe you."

But Glorfindel, it seemed, was not so easily convinced. A furrow could be seen on his brow and his eyes were narrowed in either confusion or concern. "You speak as though you no longer desire to linger in Middle-earth," Glorfindel spoke, implicit as could be. "It sounds as if you crave for something more, something to remain unfounded in these lands." The words were so full of meaning that the unspoken message could not have been more clearly conveyed even if it had been shouted.

Círdan raised an eyebrow, his piercing stare locked with Glorfindel's in ill-humored amusement, and Elrond suppressed a smile. He recognized that look and knew that Círdan was not about to allow himself to be cornered in an exchange of cryptic words. But as ever, he offered no smile and his grey eyes remained calm and grave, once more allowing Elrond to subconsciously reflect that, though Círdan had a quiet sense of humor, it was so seldom shown, if not at all.

"By intention or no, you misunderstand me, my old friend," he began. "For all that my heart wishes, I have all I could ever have, and I could ask no more. I have lived my life, a good life, among the lands of Ennor and have given both my service and blood to see that they remain unconquered by the Shadow a while longer. In Middle-earth I reside, and with my people I am merry – in my own way," he added in wry sarcasm at Elrond's skeptical look. "No, there is no further blessing I could ask for. And that I truly yearn for remains far beyond the reach of any. Besides…." The words trailed off. And the natural mask of indifference must have slipped for but a moment, for a solemn frown of what seemed to be sorrow flashed across Círdan's face, all too quickly to disappear and go to settle in his eyes.

"Besides," Círdan tried once more, "long has it been known and known well among our people that Elves are bound to Arda, thus bound to walk the lands therein forevermore until whatever end….And the Sea is not land, when on land I must remain. Yearning for the impossible, along with guilt, may just be the greatest of self-tortures." The brief flash of a resigned, pitiful smile was seen before Círdan rid himself of it and shook himself, releasing a deep breath as though to dispel of the forlorn thoughts within. "But I digress and ask you to dismiss my self-pity," he went on, his quiet voice once more strong and firm, and through his eyes he turned a challenge on Glorfindel, their light keen. "I have heard many an account by High-elf and tale alike. Great healing is spoken to be found in the West, a rest and release from all weariness and pain obtained while in the Hither Lands, be they great or small. But long have I learned to endure such burdens, so now that the burden of bearing them is a burden no longer. As I declared, I have no desire to see Aman, let alone thereafter reside there. My heart is with the Sea, and I doubt the lands beyond it shall hold much fascination for me. Thus, if you are asking why I bother not to sail, you waste your breath."

"You can hardly judge that you have never seen," Glorfindel admonished, a teasing smile on his lips.

"What I have not seen…." Círdan repeated softly, his eyes thoughtfully clouded over in piqued interest. "Your words are wise, and if judging that I have naught but heard of makes me unwise, then unwise I am. I discredit not the worth the Undying Lands are to the Elves. Indeed, I never would, for the Elvenhome is our greatest gift from the Valar. But though I will neither eschew nor scorn it when I finally do sail, I will be sure to mark that moment for countless centuries yet. Trust me when I speak I have seen enough."

There was naught more to be said on that, Elrond quickly deduced, not that there was any more that could be said in the first place. Even Glorfindel gracefully retreated when he promptly construed the meaning behind Círdan's words, and Elrond could not blame him. In a span of only ten years, Círdan had seen more lands than either of them could ever hope to see added together. And such travels were swiftly followed by over ten millennia of dwelling in Beleriand, firstly journeying whereto the lands his curiosity and youthful thirst for adventure led him, ere to thereafter settle with the lordship over Brithombar and Eglarest amid the broad capes of the Falas. And when the westernmost lands were forever submerged beneath the Waters, then came next nearly five more millennia of traveling and dwelling in Middle-earth once more, let alone to where the myriad of expeditions by sea took him. Under that speculation, Elrond could not help but to agree that Círdan had seen enough and that any thirst to lay sight on new lands, be they blessed by the Valar or no, had undoubtedly died long before Elrond or Glorfindel had ever been born. And probably long before the deepest caves of Menegroth had been completed.

Círdan was content with his ships while residing with his Sea-elven people. And living on the shores of the sea provided him all the elation and harmony he needed.

"That you appear to be in the mood to answer questions, I have another to ask of you, and it is one I have wondered upon for a while this night," Elrond spoke up, realizing that the other two were less enthused to keep alive the conversation. "If now you have a pearl, then why continue searching for more? You returned from such a journey today."

Círdan studied Elrond with no thought upon his face, and Elrond felt that familiar frustration surface when he saw that indecipherable light enter his gaze once more. Just for once, he would like to deduce what that certain look of Círdan's meant.

"I was looking not for pearls," he answered, sounding ever slightly cautious with his words.

"Then what were you looking for?"

"Answers."

"What kind of answers?" This time, a faint light of a different kind entered Círdan's keen eyes, so swift and abruptly veiled that Elrond knew he would have missed it had he not been looking for it. And immediately, Elrond knew that the Shipwright was about to lie through his teeth.

"I know not," he spoke evasively. "I will know when I find them." He grinned at Elrond's mild look of exasperation. "Concern yourself not with my searches, young one. They are my own. Besides, Ulmo gifted me with one of his own mighty pearls. I would not insult him so by endeavoring to find another."

On Glorfindel's face, a glimpse of that signature smile of his was seen. "So you will not show us it?" he asked, the look in his bright eyes signifying that he knew already the answer, but voiced the question nevertheless merely for the purpose of saying something.

And Círdan shot a look of gravely coated sympathy towards him, his eyes apologetic, yet unyielding. "No, my lord," he refused, though not unkindly. "Never would I deign to infringe that held closest to your heart, and neither would you so willingly allow me. As I spoke, I nearly opted to keep the pearl secret from you. Mayhap my heart grows colder over the passing Ages, or mayhap more hollow in compassion, but no matter my love for you, I will grant neither of you this." There was a brief show of the muscle flexing along his jaw. "I cannot, for how can I permit you to lay sight on his pearl when I scarce have the courage to do so myself?"

Though Elrond had expected none, he needed no further explanation and he was sure that Círdan knew it, also. And he could help not but to smile and shake his head at his elder in affectionate exasperation. The Half-elf's thoughts were aligned and the perceptions of his spirit in tune with those of the others aboard the Fëagaer. And though Círdan's face remained, as always, emotionless and his eyes scrupulously blank, if a tad vacant in his thoughts, Elrond could easily feel the wonder and overwhelming sense of shame that so clearly radiated off of the Mariner. And the Half-elf did not even have to question why the Sea-elf felt shame, of all preposterous things, when Círdan's thoughts were so bent on the sea-gem from Ulmo's girdle. Elrond had known Círdan his whole life. He had been practically raised by him and Gil-galad, another noble Elf raised from childhood into adulthood by the Shipwright. Thus, he knew and understood Círdan far better than most, recognized that he was one of the few people in Middle-earth who could claim that he actually knew him. And Elrond was aware that, no matter the words spoken to him, Círdan would always feel greatly unworthy of such a gift. And apparently, Ulmo's pearl had been the greatest gift Círdan could have ever received.

"All is well." Glorfindel broke the despondent silence in his merry way, looking between the two of them, his face alight with joy. "Your descriptions of it gave an ample impression on how it looks."

Círdan lightly pursed his lips, his brow furrowing. "It now looks different," he muttered, thoughtful curiosity in his voice. "Thinking back upon it, the pearl has much changed over the year."

Elrond and Glorfindel exchanged another glance, simultaneously raising an eyebrow. "How so?" they both voiced.

Círdan shrugged, his eyes carrying a heavy amount of uncertainty. "In hue and dimension, it is no different. In what it does to me, it is no different. But it shines now brighter, as an Elf would grow more alive in spirit over time. The glow it once emitted was as the brightness of the Moon. Now, if held in hand, it can disperse shadows upon walls as if it were candlelight shining through crystal. Long have I learnt not to gaze upon it for a great length of time, for it will blind me so that I may as well be staring at the Sun. Yet still, peace is brought to my days by it, and I know the dreams dreamt at night are caused by it."

"What sort of dreams?" Elrond never failed to ask such when the old Elf mentioned he had a dream, however trivial sounding, for as much as Círdan was plagued with the Sight, one could never be too sure when a dream could be considered as insignificant, save by Círdan himself. And Elrond did try – he really did try – to picture the pearl as Círdan now described. It was not that he failed to visualize it as such, but that it went beyond his wonder than any pearl could look so. He had seen and kept many fair pearls in his youth that Círdan had collected about the Isle of Balar. Of many proportions, many contours and many hues they had been. But this one now sounded truly unlike any he had laid sight on before, encouraging him to wholly believe Círdan when he professed that it was far greater than even Nimphelos. He respected and understood well Círdan's refusal at permitting them to see the pearl, but all the same…he was simply itching to see it with every fiber of his being.

Círdan shrugged again, conveying the obvious thought that he believed the question trifling. "When the Sight is dormant, I often dream of the Sea, and in so many kinds that I dare not describe them here," he spoke. "But though still upon the Sea, the dreams are altered somehow and more focused." His eyes clouded over, looking into a faraway world neither he nor Glorfindel could see, and Elrond surmised that he must have then been recalling that he had namely dreamt. "I smell the sea air. I hear the sounds of great conches, the cry of the whale, the rhythm of a swelling tide, no high words or concourse of folk, and the music of Ulmo's instrument. I see doorways of sea-wrought stone, tall and broad in majesty; diving cormorants and cranes about coastal cliffs, seawater red as wine, moveless and empty waters flowing as that of a dark keel, night with stars aloft, and wonders beyond my understanding that enrapture me by an awe that not even the Silmarils inspired." There was a wonder in his voice as he spoke and an enthusiasm so seldom heard that it was a mark of significance that it was distinct now. And after a moment, his grey eyes cleared of whatever daydream that had lain before him as he visibly brought his attention back to the present. "Strange indeed, and yet welcome. I know why you ask, Elrond, and it is not of the Sight."

Elrond arched a speculative eyebrow and quirked his mouth in amusement. "You surely make the Sea sound far more interesting than I ever could. I believe I will send my children to you to learn with accuracy all there is to know about it, no matter their age. They seemed to lose interest in it under my tutelage. And next to you, I sound as a foolish amateur."

Elrond felt his heart warm as he caught sight of the smile that Círdan tried so valiantly to suppress, though he failed to conceal the spark of laughter in his eyes. Glorfindel, however, had no such qualms and chuckled away.

"An unwise suggestion, my lord," Glorfindel teased. "Give Círdan free reign to teach as he pleases and soon enough, you shall be cursed by having three new Sea-elves running about Imladris, more or less living along the banks of the Bruinen."

"I resent that," Círdan grunted.

"Good."

Elrond rolled his eyes. "Truly, though, I would wish my children to spend some amount of time here, to learn all that the Sea-elves had taught me. Let them be educated in the ways of the wave-folk, for there is much here to be learnt."

Círdan slowly nodded. "Such as how to weave a net out of water," he mused.

Elrond stared at him in a mixture of blatant disbelief and surprise, looking for some sign that the Shipwright was being lighthearted. He hoped he was. He could number the amount of times Círdan had, in past, jested with him, and he was wondering if this moment could be counted as another. But it was not often he could determine whether the Sea-elf was jesting or if he was truly serious, and this appeared to be no exception. Círdan's visage remained so vexingly blank. Elrond half believed the words to be a jest because of the mere impossibility of what Círdan had described. But no sign of humor could be seen on his face and Elrond was again reminded that Círdan seldom, if not ever, revealed anything he learned periodically from the Powers of the Waters. Yet still, weaving a net out of water was a little too farfetched, even for the Sea-elf's standards. Círdan had to be poking fun at him. He had to be, yet he just could not tell.

"I see," Elrond spoke carefully. "In any case, such can be discussed later. Returning to your tale, I am certain you endeavored to distract us, but I indeed took note of how you so carefully refrained from telling us what these three beings exactly were." Elrond cocked his head to the side, the same, knowing light entering his gaze. "And so I ask again; Mithrandir is no Man, is he?"

Círdan mirrored the gesture and arched an eyebrow. "Thus, I say again; if he saw it essential to inform you not of his origin, neither shall I. I gave my word and to none shall I break it. I would that it could be otherwise, Elrond," he added with an apologetic gaze as he glimpsed the Half-elf's disappointment and borderline frustration. "I truly do, yet that choice is not given for me to make."

Elrond passed a weary hand over his face, suppressing a grimace as he felt the beginnings of fatigue start to take their toll on his body. "I understand, Círdan, and I bear no bitterness towards you." He clenched his jaw, his brow furrowing in the ever-present maddening confusion. "I only wish to know what he is. I know Mithrandir is no Man, and you all but confess so. He acts very little as one either, for he reminds me too far well of Eönwë, for reasons I cannot fathom, a task no Man had yet to achieve."

Círdan looked long and hard at Elrond, his eyes betraying no thought and the gravity of his gaze ever keen. Though Elrond was taken by little surprise, no response was forthcoming, for instead Círdan turned his attention to that of Glorfindel's, and the two elder Eldar locked their eyes for several moments, intense concentration alight in both pairs and neither shifting nor blinking. Both were silent, taking no notice of how tendrils of their hair, golden and silver, softly wafted in the ocean breeze, leading Elrond to swiftly and rightly conclude that the two of them were mind-speaking. The Half-elf took no offense and instead gave a mere shake of his head in mock exasperation, an easy smile on his face, briefly wondering why, at that moment, he felt as an Elf-child once again who had walked upon two adults, only to interrupt a grave and discreet discussion. Elrond shook his head again; only Círdan and Glorfindel, of all people, could make him feel as such.

The unnatural silence persisted, enabling the clear water chuckling along the ship's hull and sweeping along the shoreline come to sound all the more numinous and strident. And in the far distance to the north, the beginning rumbles of thunder sounded. More and more time passed by and yet still, Círdan and Glorfindel had not made even the smallest change in position, by his observation, and both pairs of eyes – both capable of being fierce and fell or merry and warm – both pairs remained locked. To the ignorant observer, it might have appeared that the two were in a contest of wills. But, though Elrond was conscious that he himself possessed massive reserves of patience, said patience was reaching the initial stages of starting to wear thin. For how much longer would they converse? Elrond was very well aware – and unbothered – of the fact that Glorfindel knew something about this Mithrandir that he himself did not, but surely that little something did not merit this long a conversation by mind?

Elrond was not so crass or discourteous to go to break their eye-contact by some means, but even while he was pondering on how to garner their attention once more, they took care of the slight impasse for him. With a rather sudden and unanticipated abruptness, the two Elves simultaneously turned to look at him, expectancy in both gazes.

And Elrond looked from Círdan, to Glorfindel, and back again, trying his upmost best to smother the sense of discomfort growing within. "What?" he finally spoke, a tad more forcefully than he had intended.

Glorfindel shrugged in a manner that absolved him of any guilt whatsoever and looked to Círdan in question. The Shipwright, in turn, took a moment to glower at him and then turned a faint smile on Elrond.

"When next you meet Mithrandir," Círdan advised, his eyes deep with thought, "tell him that. It would be interesting to witness his reaction at being compared to a Maia." And then any lightheartedness that might have been present vanished in an instant. "If you would so please, speak, Elrond, what Mithrandir said when he spoke to you of now being the Keeper of Narya. I knew the day would come, and for it, my mind has not rested."

Elrond gestured vaguely with one hand, unable to perceive the relevance behind the question. "Nothing to mark as significant, by my reckoning. He essentially reiterated most of what you spoke to us tonight; of how his need is greater and use will come of it at last while about on his journeys." He looked over at Glorfindel. "Am I correct?"

Glorfindel nodded and went to speak, but then stopped. A strange glimmer shone in his eyes just then, as though, out of nowhere and prompted by nothing, he had just remembered something peculiar and somewhat confusing. Glorfindel turned a puzzling glare on Círdan and deafly pointed an accusing finger at him. "Elrond is correct, yet I just recalled. He, too, told us of how you seemed to see the world for the first time upon removing the Ring. And when we questioned him, he spoke, 'If, in this, any weakness of his could be named, it is the strength of his spirit. And of whereto it resides, the Ring of Ruby neither could prevail nor sustain. Thus, to of it be free, he was wholly keen.'" Glorfindel paused with his eyebrows raised in query, his hands open in an unperturbed gesture of expectation. "What had he meant?"

Elrond was uncertain whether he should feel more wry amusement or concern at how Círdan appeared to become a little more alert at the words. And his silvery gaze seemed to bore into Glorfindel's, the intensity of it being a clear reminder of just how ancient and mighty a Sinda Círdan had long been. But Glorfindel, in his unique manner, was not cowed even in the slightest, a rueful smile visibly being suppressed from quirking the corners of his mouth. Of course he was not cowed, Elrond thought. Any other sensible being would have shaken under that particular intent look of the Shipwright's. But Glorfindel had faced down a Balrog and prevailed, in a manner of speaking. It would probably take nothing short of a Vala to terrify him.

"That," Círdan emphasized, the chill of the quietness of his voice bordering on artic, "is wholly none of your concern. Indeed, I know whether not to be unsurprised or indignant that he spoke of such to you." His eyes were hard as chips of ice, penetrating with displeasure and his countenance was the furthest from being congenial. The aging creases along his face and bright tresses framing it seemed to all the more enforce the grim resolve he now regarded Glorfindel with. All things considered, the expression he bore was still quite unreadable, and rather disconcerting. And the sight, not so common with the Shipwright these days, briefly brought back to Elrond's mind the uncanny remembrance of the Círdan who had served as Gil-galad's lieutenant and consultant for the whole of the Second Age. Elrond suppressed a shiver. In those bygone eras and beyond, Círdan had been even more difficult and intimidating to approach.

"He is only concerned for you," Glorfindel responded. A small, soft smile played at his lips but did not reach his eyes. They shone as grave as Círdan's. And if Glorfindel was in any way perturbed by the glimpses of ire that bristled as sparks of fire in Círdan's eyes, he did not show it, remaining as calm and unflappable as he always had proven to be.

Círdan's glower darkened. "I know he is, and I do not begrudge it. Yet, what wish you for me to say? How would you I answer? My spirit is consuming me; this I cannot hide, nor could any other." The ire gradually faded from his eyes, as though it had been too heavy to uphold, and he slumped against the elegant woodwork of the bulwark with a somnolent sigh, strands of his hair blowing to hang over the gunwale. "Living with such has made life far more difficult to live, more than I could have foreseen. Alas, dying is indeed easier than living. First Radagast, then Mithrandir, and now you. And so I request; push me not to beg of you to leave me be with this."

Elrond had to subdue the nearly unbearable desire to reach out and comfort him. The sheer audacious folly of such an action notwithstanding, no matter its sincerity (for Círdan would predictably not appreciate the gesture), the heartache Elrond felt for the Sea-elf in that moment did not diminish. Círdan looked drained before him, as he never had before, such lassitude and vulnerability in his eyes he did not even bother to conceal. It was a display so very unlike him that it struck Elrond to the core. And judging by the concerned furrow of Glorfindel's brow, it was as with him, also. In that moment, Elrond was all too willing to allow the conversation to be ended, for it was obvious by far that it was the one Círdan had neither the will nor the strength to discuss.

"Círdan," Elrond began slowly, and then he stopped, hesitant. He thought firstly of the things to say with caution, as though one wrong word would send the Shipwright into an even more despondent mood and into deeper ire from being pressed on it. The last place Elrond wanted to be was on the wrong side of Círdan's tongue. Though rare it ever happened he allowed his dormant temper to lift its head, let alone roar…when it did happen, it was a sight to behold. It had been very seldom Elrond had seen Círdan in a righteous fury, but not one of them was a comfortable memory to dredge. But all the same, any willingness in Elrond to let end this discussion was still swiftly overruled by the sight of Círdan appearing so…broken before his eyes. There was no other word for it, and that frightened Elrond all the more, for Círdan possessed the strength of whipcord, a resolve of steel….Círdan could never be broken.

"Círdan," he tried again, that deep worry still alight in his eyes, "with some measure of wisdom and understanding, any Elf whoso looks upon you would discern that your spirit is, indeed, consuming you; though your body is hale, your face has grown old with the ages of the World seen in your eyes, as would the face of a Man. Though young to your eyes, Glorfindel and I are far from young in age and we have both witnessed and experienced a taste of what you endure. We would understand more than most that you wish not to speak of this. Discredit us not, my friend," he added consolingly. "You need not fear us – or Mithrandir – undermining the consumption."

Elrond so wished he could have more experience in this area. It was as walking onto foreign territory. How could he help or console Círdan in this when his experience or understanding of it paled so greatly in comparison? For in an Elf, the body and spirit were coherent, not separate. But at his ancient age, both of Círdan's achieved a coherency that Elrond – or any other Elf in Middle-earth, he discerned – could not fathom. Círdan had once borne a visage of youth, as any other Elf, Elrond knew, though he had a difficult time visualizing that. But never having experienced the bliss and healing of Eldamar, after living through every millennia – every year and day – that could ever be possibly lived in the Hither Lands, his spirit had grown old and weary as the World did; it had grown dominant over his body. And because his body and spirit were connected so mightily, so his body had aged the same.

Glorfindel was nodding in firm agreement, but Círdan shook his head, the fatigue lining his body and heavy in his eyes becoming even plainer. But that familiar, impregnable wall was once more beginning to lay itself over the exposure of emotions Círdan had shone, as though the mask had briefly slipped.

"You could conceive not of its greatness, Elrond," he spoke. "Nor could you, Glorfindel, for though in death and rebirth I dare not even imagine what you have experienced, you told me yourself you had been healed. I can feel the fire burning within me, burning as brightly as the Sun would in the Night. Through the Ages, there were times of great trouble and many griefs and evil and chances. And Time goes to press upon me till I am houseless, held as mere memory. The old grow older; let it be that people vie away from them."

A small, amused smile touched Elrond's mouth, for he was ever humored at the mock disgust and quips Círdan tended to make towards his old age. But the smile soon promptly disappeared. "Círdan, you do not have to speak of it," he spoke again. "Truly, we understand and, deep down, you know we do. Mayhap Ëarhín or some other knows of it better than I, but in this matter we are not ignorant. I think what Glorfindel asked about was when Mithrandir spoke of how Narya was unable to prevail or sustain. What meant he by that?"

It was not often Círdan was embarrassed (Elrond could not, in fact, ever recall such a time), but the Half-elf was treated to such a sight now. Nothing visibly changed upon his countenance or posture, but a small glimmer of uncertainty shone in his eyes as he realized how wrongly he had interpreted the question.

"Oh," he mumbled rather sourly. "I apologize then, Glorfindel, for becoming angry."

Glorfindel smiled that bright smile of his. "All is well, my lord," he reassured. "Such is a sensitive thing for you to discuss. I could hardly blame you for being short-tempered, as I would undoubtedly be the same. But yes, Elrond is correct; I was asking after the Red Ring, not after how or by what manner your spirit consumes. So I, in turn, apologize for not making the question clearer. Thinking back on my wording, I can see how it could be easily misjudged."

Elrond suppressed a chuckle as Círdan all but rolled his eyes skyward. He instead glowered at Glorfindel, his eyes bright. But that dark and somber mood Círdan had previously emitted could no longer be sensed. "Be quiet, Glorfindel," he patronized with no hint of a smile. "Your charm works not on me."

Glorfindel's smile widened. "Give it time."

Círdan took a deep, steady breath, as though trying to summon back his quickly dissolving patience. "In answer to your question," he spoke deliberately, dividing his grave attention between the two of them, "it is simple. My soul is entwined with the Sea, as it was destined to be ever since I awoke upon the mere's watery shores of Cuiviénen." A soft, warm smile touched his face and eyes. "It is a bond I would trade in not for anything. You know this as well as anyone could."

Elrond furrowed his brow in downright perplexity. That answer seemed to only raise more questions. "I am afraid I fail to understand, Círdan. What has that to do with anything?"

"The bond." Elrond heard the murmured words and looked over to Glorfindel. A look of intense focus was in his eyes as he regarded the Shipwright with a puzzling stare. "Your heart is with the Sea, as you said. But it has naught to do with that bond as it has to do with the greatness of it, am I right?"

Elrond began to understand as Círdan nodded. "You both know well I never wanted the Ring." He briefly smiled as they both warily nodded in memory of that particular day. "The abuse of power was the downfall of many, and the lust of it is still the darkness in many hearts, of both Elf and Man alike. Really, only the Valar are wise and right in their usage of it. Yet still, the thirst for power has become the currency of our world. To me, Narya was nothing but the embodiment of power, no matter if it was to be wielded for purposes of good; thus, I hated it."

Elrond raised an eyebrow. "I know you had great reluctance to uptake the bearing of Narya. But why could she neither prevail nor sustain where your heart resides, as Mithrandir so spoke? I know your love for the Sea is greater than your willingness to wield a Ring of Power, but…."

Elrond let the question hang in the air and Círdan shook his head. "It is not that my love for the Sea is greater," he corrected. "It is that my love for the Sea is my only love. The might and beauty of the Sea is greater than that of a mere Elven Ring, and it is with the Sea my heart beats as one."

At the words, Círdan once more looked out to the bay, his jaw clenching as he listened to what Elrond had heard Círdan repeatedly refer to as the 'life' of the water. To this day, Elrond could still not understand how such was possible. Water was inanimate as snow or rain might be, simply a part of life as a mountain range. Though he knew it was whereto Ulmo resided and governed, Elrond could never make sense of how one could even hear the rhythm of the Depths or the song on the waves. And Elrond, as with the vast majority of Elves, had yet to hear the echoes of the Great Music that Círdan and other Sea-elves proclaimed were carried in the Waters.

But Círdan was speaking again. "During my time of bearing Narya, she resided as ever in the back of my mind, and I could feel her presence. But I hated the power she possessed, despite its decency, and did not welcome it." His words were still ever soft-spoken, but a hard note had crept up into them. "But during that residence, no matter her good and praiseworthy purposes, she tried to claim a part of me that she had no business in claiming. My heart had belonged fully with the Sea long before the Elven Rings began as a mere thought in Celebrimbor's mind. And as you recognized, Glorfindel," he went on with a nod in the golden-haired Elf's direction, "that bond was too great for Narya to invade. She tried." He gave a humorless chuckle. "Ai Lord of Night, how she tried. I could feel her clinging onto me, as a person would cling to driftwood in the rapids of a river. But I refused to allow the bond my heart had with the Waters to be severed…for my heart to be claimed by something other than the Sea, which was precisely what Narya was working to do. Yet still, no matter my efforts, Narya managed to bind herself to me instead of with me. I would that it could have been otherwise, but the power of the Elven Rings is great."

Elrond caught his breath in sudden comprehension, the sense of awe he felt for this Elf doubling. "And thus, your final words to Narya," he finished. "That bound to your spirit she never again would be."

Círdan slowly nodded, Glorfindel sat back and, in his eyes, Elrond saw the same wonder and incredulity that he himself felt. "Such was what Mithrandir meant," his Seneschal spoke in revelation. "Your spirit resides with the Sea and, as you said, the Sea itself was too great for the power of Narya to defeat, let alone linger there with you, particularly since you never welcomed her presence."

Círdan nodded again. "Thus, the presence of Narya never coexisted well with me. And due to that constant battle of wills, I am amazed by how much it drained me. Though I had never realized that it was the Ring's doing until I had finally removed her last year, for a veil had been lifted from my eyes."

Elrond raised his eyebrow again, though this time in pure incredulity. "You mean to say that Narya was the reason you seemed so exhausted this past age? Why you failed to even sleep with your eyes open?"

Círdan looked good and long at him. "Yes," he answered with a simple shrug.

Elrond exchanged a wary glance with Glorfindel. "Just what says that for all other Ring-bearers, then?" Elrond unconsciously felt the beat of Vilya upon his own finger at that, and worked to dismiss the sense of cataclysm that suddenly washed over him.

An endearing smile lit up Círdan's face. "Worry not over that, Elrond," he consoled. "You were and are far more willing to bear Vilya than I Narya. As I spoke to Mithrandir, the bearing of Rings is not an exact art. To each who wields one receives a different – and mayhap kinder – fate than I. You, young one, are strong of spirit and mind and possess a far greater tolerance for power than I could ever claim. In that, you are stronger than me." He gave a resigned shrug. "Surely, you are bound to Vilya in some way, and no doubt that will have some effect on you in the end. But you welcomed the Blue Ring, and allowed her a peaceful home in your mind. The Three are not evil in any form, but they are not made for everyone. For, if Narya were a person, she would have wept with joy at finally being parted from me."

Both Elrond and Glorfindel chuckled at that. "Then upon this revelation, it is well you no longer bear the Red Ring," Glorfindel spoke, a smile in his voice.

Círdan shook his head, the look in his eyes forlorn. "True such may be, but I cannot convey the fear I had lived with this past year, that my decision to give Narya to Mithrandir might have been swayed by my own desire to be rid of it."

Elrond waved the words aside. "I doubt so, Círdan. The fact you had never before allowed such a thing to happen notwithstanding, the fact remains that you never would allow it. Gil-galad knew you better than I, and never would he have entrusted Narya to you if it had been so."

Círdan released a deep sigh, closed shut his eyes, and spoke nothing. He remained that way for several heartbeats before he, again, opened his eyes and a whole world of satisfaction was seen within them. "Then it is done," he spoke blithely. "Alas, it felt to have deprived me of all energy having to make a decision so crucial."

Elrond slowly nodded. "It was a crucial decision," he said. "But it was a good decision. So let your mind be at peace with that."

"What would have you done had Mithrandir rejected the offer?" Glorfindel asked in a tone of pure curiosity. "From what you told us, he accepted the Ring not lightly."

That was a very good and valid question, Elrond thought, and he looked to Círdan in interest. What would the Shipwright have done? By his parting words, it had been clear that Círdan would have placed the Ring upon his finger never again, as long as he had a say. And he had been all too ready to forever part from it. Elrond wondered if Círdan himself knew the answer, for mayhap he had not been considering the fact that Mithrandir, in the end, might have turned the offer down.

But apparently, Círdan did know the answer, for a knowing and determined light entered his eyes. "I would have rid myself of it," he answered smoothly, his voice betraying none of the thoughts that could practically be seen going through his mind. "On these shores, Narya had always been idle and always would be. Why allow myself to suffer when my people will not benefit from it, or when they would benefit more with my mind clear?"

Glorfindel raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And how would you have been rid of it?" he asked. "The Three were made to endure and by no means can be destroyed, unless the means be of Celebrimbor."

"I would have mirrored the actions of Maglor," he firmly declared, and no doubt or hesitation accompanied the words. "Some may proclaim that it was with haste or ill thought, but it was with wisdom Maglor cast the Silmaril into the sea, whereto it would thereafter remain. There the Shadow holds no sway and not even Morgoth, in all his might and power, could subdue the Waters. And Maglor knew that the one place where Evil could never pass through to retrieve the Silmaril was in the Waters of Ulmo. In that course, Maglor was wise." He raised his hands in question, as though waiting for one of them to speak against his words. And a mocking, slightly disgusted lilt entered his tone. "So one would ask, how different is it with the Ring of Fire, or of Water, or of Air? Greatest of the Great Rings, jewels unsullied, crafted by the blood of Fëanor, unmatched, undefeated, mighty in beauty and Power, and when therein lies the absence of Time; the envy of many a race great and small, and the lust of Gorthaur."

He lowered his hands when he finished, but Elrond and Glorfindel remained silent. They knew well that Círdan held no fascination for the Elven Rings, or for any Noldorin craft, for that matter. But the last time when they had heard him speak such ill, mocking words towards them had been that night in Gil-galad's study, nearly an Age ago. And as he had done on that night when Narya had been given a Guardian, when Círdan had no compunction of just letting all witness his fiery malcontent, Elrond did again; namely, not saying a word until he knew Círdan had calmed, for that night was one he had no desire to remember. Yes, Círdan's anger this night paled greatly in comparison to that other night, but still…even a glimpse of it was unsettling. He glanced at Glorfindel and saw the same thoughts shining in his eyes. Sure enough, Elrond caught the warning, minute shake of his golden head.

But as expected, Círdan did calm down and quickly at that. The ire in his eyes was visibly smothered, and yet, though he shared a rueful smile with both of them, it was still evident that he was disgruntled.

"I apologize for my ill words," Círdan continued, his voice far more calm and congenial, "particularly when I see they have brought you discomfort. You two and I have differing opinions on the Three, and mayhap I am unwise in my own. But doubt me not when I say that I would have cast Narya fully and with great pleasure far into the sea had Mithrandir rejected it." He gaze briefly hardened once more and he spoke in a tone that brooked no argument. "As you will recall, Gil-galad entrusted me with Narya to keep her safe and secret. And I swore upon my own life that I would. Sauron could not travel about the Waters and therein search without having to contest the wrath and might of Ulmo, something not even Morgoth could endure, let alone defeat. Trust me when I say that I would have broken no oath should I have done what Maglor did, for Narya would have been very safe and secret while in the confines of Ulmo's Waters."

Elrond smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes. "Be calm, Círdan, and let us speak of it no further. Following that line of logic, I believe you and cannot help but to agree."

Glorfindel nodded. "The deed is done, and I can conceive of no reason why one would say you were wrong to give Mithrandir Narya. For as you said; here she was idle, and mayhap now some good might come of her existence."

Pure relief then shone in Círdan's eyes and a heavy curtain seemed to be lifted. "Then I am content. Your words bring me great relief."

"I am still amazed at what Narya did to you," Elrond said, "for it makes little sense. The Three were crafted to impart healing; it should not have drained you so."

Círdan merely shrugged, nonchalant. "I never welcomed Narya, Elrond, or anything that came with her," he offered as an explanation, though it was clear he knew not the definite answer himself. "And if the healing you speak of was one of them, then I shunned it also. As I spoke, I refused to allow anything to interfere with my love for the Sea."

"Well then," Elrond concluded with a sigh, "it seems that the purpose of our visit has been met."

Círdan huffed in ill-humored amusement. "You reacted far better than Galdor did."

"No, he did not," Glorfindel corrected, and a smile as bright as the Sun was on his face, as he deliberately ignored the warning glare Elrond shot him. He did not even look in the Half-elf's direction, a great amount of glee and hilarity shining in his eyes. "If fact," he spoke deliberately, his brow furrowed in mock concentration, and all too evidently enjoying Elrond's displeasure, "if my memory serves me well, Elrond pretty much repeated every word that Galdor spoke to you after he first saw Mithrandir with Narya. Mithrandir seemed quite amused, but then again, Elrond spoke things far worse than Galdor, presumably since you were not able to hear it. Is that not correct, my friend?" he added, turning his bright, thoroughly undaunted smile on Elrond.

And Elrond glared at him with enough force that would make any other sensible Elf cringe or beg for mercy. But Glorfindel, curse his sometimes far too cheerful soul, remained positively merry in the face of such a dark glower. Knowing quite well that his Seneschal would remain blithely unaffected, Elrond turned his wary attention to Círdan, who had raised a quizzical eyebrow at him after hearing Glorfindel's words. And he looked at him in a way that, once again, reminded Elrond of being a child who had been caught, once more, in the midst of trouble. He just suppressed a sigh as Círdan cocked his head in question, obviously waiting for him to speak. Why oh why did Glorfindel have to have his particular sense of humor?

"Glorfindel is exaggerating," he grumbled. Círdan snorted in disbelief and he raised his hands in a manner of downright innocence. "All I did was question your reasoning –"

"In a thoroughly accusatory manner," Glorfindel finished, who was all but chuckling aloud.

Elrond's glare darkened. "I did not," he stressed slowly and clearly. "And I surely accused him of nothing."

"You expressly told Mithrandir and me that Círdan –"

"What I said –"

They were both interrupted by the quiet sound of soft chuckling and turned to look at Círdan in surprise. The Shipwright had his head bowed, visibly working to suppress the laughter heard deep in his chest. But the quiet sounds vanished as quickly as they came, though a small smile still resided as he looked to Elrond and shook his head.

"I care not what you spoke, Elrond," he spoke. "How could I when I questioned my own clarity of mind over this?"

"But no longer," Glorfindel corrected in a quiet manner, his eyes grave. "You remember now how it was possible. Stress over it no further."

Círdan nodded at that, and Elrond saw a brief hint of relief in his gaze once more. "No, it is over; wholly over and done. Indeed, I knew you would come hither to demand answers, but I am truly grateful you did. For now, all feels finished."

"And now, my lord, you need rest," Elrond declared, looking meaningfully at the Shipwright. "One needs not to be a healer to see your fatigue. We have kept you this night long enough. And," he added as he stood from the rowing bench, "I will say to you what you always said to me: To bed with you!"

Círdan gave a small grin that shone more in his eyes than mouth and stood from his own seat. And Elrond knew his assessment had been correct when he caught the Shipwright almost unperceptively sway where he stood, the gentle, repetitive rocking of the ship having nothing to do with it. Círdan grasped Elrond's shoulder in a warm grip, and the Half-elf fleetingly wondered if this was, indeed, a way for the Elf to maintain a steady foot without anyone noticing. But Círdan sighed and squeezed the shoulder. "I pity your children should you ever have become as me. But it is late this night and you both need rest as well."

Such was the final word and, following Círdan's lead, the three took hold of their lanterns, which all had scarce little oil left to be burned, and disembarked the ship. They spoke no words until they had crossed the length of the smooth-wooded dock and onto the white shingles. Elrond could feel the coolness of the soft sand through the material of his footwear; the type of coolness that, upon standing on it long enough, would travel up the legs, seep into the bones and reside there to make them ache. The tide was once more beginning to fall. The warmth in the air had dropped to a chill that bit at the skin and the ferocity of the winds had increased as the storm north drew nearer. Elrond glanced up at the dark sky. The light of a single star seemed to break through the heavy clouds now and again, but the mass of the storm had accumulated greatly while hovering over the Ered Luin. Due to such, not even Elven eyesight was great enough to truly pierce the darkness and see where they were going with absolute clarity. And still in the distance, rolling thunder could be heard. At the pleasant sight, Elrond had no reservation for Círdan's appraisal; the storm would come early in the morn, as wet and majestic as was the wont of the storms nearby the sea and the cliffs. His Seneschal and he just might remain a little longer than planned, Elrond surmised, for this was not ideal weather to travel about in.

Círdan did not end his leisurely steps until their walk enabled the glow cast from their lanterns to illuminate the reeds and sparse underbrush and overly dried verdure. And within said field of reeds, an obscure pathway could be seen, comprised of the soft sand and shattered shells. And Círdan halted in his steps a short distance from it, waiting for Elrond and Glorfindel to come level with him before he gestured towards it with his lantern.

"There is the trail. Be sure of foot, for the sand will have grown slick. And be wary of the crabs." A wry, humored grin touched his mouth. "They enjoy jumping out to play with feet passing by."

"And that would be wholly your doing," Glorfindel muttered, looking as a picture of complete innocence when Elrond turned a mock reproaching glare on him, though he could help not but to agree. Círdan's coexistence with sea-life was just as great, if not greater, as any Elf would be with nature in general. Elrond still recalled the experience of being helped by the old Mariner to come near a dolphin during his few years on the Isle of Balar.

Círdan had also turned the reproachful gaze on the golden-haired Elf. "Crabs are wonderful for things other than food." He spoke no more on that and seared a serious stare through both Elrond and Glorfindel. "Have you any further questions or words to speak ere we part this night?"

Elrond raised a skeptical eyebrow. "'We part'?" he echoed with a challenge in his voice. "And to where think you that you are going?"

Círdan placidly glanced over his shoulder to observe the long strand of white sand behind him and the seawater breaking ever so perfectly along the shoreline. He turned back and no thought could be read upon his face. "I will walk for a short while," he announced. He glanced upwards. "The storm will not come until after I return."

"Círdan," Elrond lightly admonished, absently moving away his hair as to not blow in his face. "You need to sleep. I know you possess the strength and endurance as any Elf does, but your limits have been reached during this day's journey."

But Círdan lightly shook his head, appearing all too unconcerned. "The sand is soft, the air clean, and the sea-music pure. To quell your worries and healer's instincts, such a walk will be good for my health." He flashed a small smile before, again, dividing a questioning look between the two. "So I inquire again; have you any further words to speak?"

Glorfindel shrugged. "Not so. Our questions were answered and our content spoken for you electing to give the Grey stranger the Ring of Ruby." Glorfindel then smiled in pure satisfaction. "And at least you were called 'penneth' as well. Now I feel not so humiliated."

Círdan raised an eyebrow and looked at him as one would regard a pouting child. "Would you rather I call you feeble?"

Glorfindel flashed him a dangerous smile, so thoroughly fake that it hurt to merely look at it. "But you and I both know well that such is far from true."

Círdan flashed a mocking stare towards him at that, as though questioning his intelligence, before, in silence, holding out his lantern for Glorfindel to take. And not a moment after Glorfindel did, Círdan had bowed his head towards both of them. "Then I bid you a good night," he spoke, "and will see you come dawn so that we may all bid our farewell to Ëarhín. But, for now, I must go."

Elrond and Glorfindel scarcely had the time to quickly reciprocate the respective bow before the Shipwright slowly but surely turned on his heel and began walking away. But before he went ten paces, Glorfindel raised his voice.

"Why the urgency, my friend?" he called jestingly, and the smile was heard in his voice. "Does our company offend you that greatly or have you again heard the summons of Ulmo? No, no, I apologize; the call of the Sea?"

Círdan briefly turned back around to give him a quick smile that seemed to be half-enigmatic and half-amused. And a light shone in his eye that neither could interpret. But he spoke nothing and Elrond and Glorfindel merely continued to observe him as he turned about and went on to walk. And the two looked on after him, standing there and watching the Shipwright become a gradually smaller figure in the distance, the wild wind making smooth the ever so slight imprints from his footfalls. Even amidst the blackness of the night and in the absence of the lantern light, his stature could still be clearly sighted. As Elrond had observed ere they had partaken of their meal, the Mariner's glow was much more discernible, stronger than it had been in a long time, for the fire of his fëa burned so brightly that it was an awe-inspiring sight to any mortal eye. His modest robes fluttered about his tall frame, and his hair, as white as his raiment, did the same in the lively winds. But Círdan did not look back and only continued walking, but to where, Elrond and Glorfindel had no notion.

And as Elrond watched him go, he felt a strange sensation within, an emotion he could not exactly label, but it made him appreciate the Shipwright all the more; that Elf had always been there, an integral part in all of Ennor, constant and simply there throughout the changing of the World. Trying to imagine Middle-earth without Círdan was as trying to imagine Middle-earth without the Misty Mountains. It just was not possible. And in that moment, Elrond was glad for Círdan's commitment to be the last Elf to ever sail.

"He has no idea, does he?"

Elrond ripped his attention away from the person of his observation at the solemn words, and turned to Glorfindel. His Seneschal had lost any previous merriment, for as he looked after Círdan's rapidly disappearing figure, his eyes shone with nothing but concern and a gravity that Elrond could only presume Glorfindel had possessed during the bitter trials of the First Age.

But Elrond merely took note of the words. And as he looked back out to Círdan, he could only shake his head in a mixture of worry and surprise. "No," he answered. "It seems he does not."

Glorfindel lifted an inquiring eyebrow as he glanced at him. "Should we have told him?"

Elrond hesitated, catching his breath as he studied the Elf in the distance, before he released his breath and clenched his jaw in something of resignation. "No, my friend," he spoke. "By his testimony, it is clear that Círdan has no notion of what awaits him. It is no place of ours to even hint at it."

Glorfindel cocked his head to the side, his brow furrowed in thought and his eyes still not leaving the Mariner. "He seems more alive, though. Mayhap it will not be needed."

Elrond shook his head. "Aye, such is true; he is more alive." A look of amazement and slight disbelief overcame his visage. "I never truly realized how much he had changed over the past couple millennia. How much more tired and passive and aggrieved and…." The words trailed off as he shook his head again. "Never did I realize it until today. Comparing his will to partake in life, to live…comparing that to as he was in the First and Second Ages is as black and white. And never would I have fathomed that Narya would have such a large part in draining him so." A look of forlorn regret flashed over his eyes. "Indeed, had I known or even deduced such, I know not if I would have supported Gil-galad's – admittedly wise – decision to elect Círdan Guardian."

Glorfindel shrugged. "If Gil-galad himself had had a fleeting notion of what Narya would have done, I doubt he would have even thought of asking Círdan to guard the Ring, too, for Círdan was as a second father to him. But what was done is done and the past cannot be undone."

Elrond's eyes darkened. "But it does not change what is to come." He continued to look down the shoreline, though the Mariner had by then rounded the bend and disappeared from sight.

"But it may not happen, Elrond," Glorfindel spoke again in a reasonable voice. "Círdan spoke himself of how much more alive he feels since he removed the Ring. He is already healing."

"From the Ring, yes," Elrond corrected, and then he turned a questioning look on the Elda. "But from the toils and heartaches from the World, let alone the weariness of Time?" Glorfindel did not answer and Elrond bowed his head. "You have seen more than I, Glorfindel. Can you not see it in his eyes?"

The golden-haired Elf sighed in resignation. "You are right, as always. But still, it means not that I have to like the idea that Círdan being taken down to Ulmonan is the only solution."

And that was the crux of it. Apparently, according to the words spoken to him and Glorfindel, after Círdan had finally sailed into the Uttermost West, he was to be taken down to Ulmonan, down to the Halls of Ulmo to heal. Upon first hearing it, such a concept had passed beyond Elrond's understanding, not to mention his belief of it.

It had first been spoken of by Mithrandir, the very night after he had revealed the Red Ring about his finger. Glorfindel had been called and much deliberation had followed. But sooner than later, as the candles had burned low on their wicks and the fire had all but died in the hearth, making the solemn atmosphere appear even more so, their discussions had moved on to Círdan. It had not taken any amount of time for Mithrandir to give his all too brief account of what had happened, for he seemed to vie away from the subject and focus more on Círdan himself. And all too soon, Mithrandir had spoken words in his quiet, sage voice that neither of them had been prepared to receive. They had been clustered in his study, the door locked, and speaking in hushed tones that they might have instead been conspiring over some ill deed to commit.

"What is this?" Elrond asked in a horrified whisper. "Of what you speak is unheard of in Elven lore."

Mithrandir gave a sympathetic smile, his hunched frame leaning on his gnarled staff. And Glorfindel stood alongside him in stony silence, his face utterly inexpressive after the words Mithrandir had spoken. "Not all things are granted to the sight of the Elves," he spoke softly in his rustic voice. "And not all wonders of the West are prone to be conjured by Elven imagination. And of what I speak is one of them."

"Ulmonan is said to be a myth," Glorfindel murmured, an incredulous light in his eyes. "On Tol Eressëa, only the oldest of Elves spoke of it, and even then the words passing their lips were but a whisper." He shook his head in desperate denial. "The Palace of Ulmo was nothing more than a whispered tale, a myth as Cuivienyarna is and legend of old among the Teleri, conjured from their own love of the Sea and respect for her King. It cannot be real."

Mithrandir shook his head again, a glimmer of sorrow and empathy shining in his eyes. "It is real, Glorfindel. For a hundred years the Teleri of the Lonely Isle were instructed by Ossë on the shore, who mayhap have let the existence of the home of his King slip during his teachings." He looked again in Elrond's eyes, whose complexion had paled in anxiety of what they were hearing. And the Istar spoke gravely, "Ulmonan is the deepest of places, found beneath the Land of Aman in the Outermost Seas that are set beyond the Outer Lands. There Ulmo dwells in his mighty halls of the Deep, a place of so many secret things that have remained always unknown and unconceivable."

But Elrond glanced about his study, as though hoping the answers he sought would be found there. "But why would Círdan be subjected to –"

"Not subjected to," Mithrandir meaningfully corrected. "Never before granted to an Elf, it shall be a gift to Círdan, and a blessing. I have looked upon the Shipwright and have seen his waning, for such is upon the very careworn lines of his face. He is old, and Time amid life in Ennor has not been gentle. And as his own words, he counts the hours ere he can sleep." He paused as the disquiet for the Mariner shining in both Elrond's and Glorfindel's eyes became downright fear. And they looked at Mithrandir, forlorn and waiting.

And so the Grey wanderer spoke further: "Our timeworn friend is in great need of healing, the likes of which remain unfounded in Middle-earth. By his own strength he endures, and will not be conquered so long as he draws breath. With your own eyes you have witnessed the fire within him. But such has an outcome twofold, for upon the time when Círdan would sail, so great will the consumption have been that his fëa shall be quick to flee, should he will it so. And thus, at the happenstance, he will be given into the keeping of Ulmo and taken down to the Halls of the Deep, whereto he may be granted that healing."

Elrond stared at him in no short amount of amazement and disbelief. "How could you know all this? For never before have likes of it even been thought of."

Mithrandir smiled with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "A little bird," he said. "The sweet creature tells me all there is to know."

Not that Elrond had believed for a heartbeat that a little bird had educated Mithrandir in any of this, but it might as well have been so. It had, on the positive side, been one of the first things that enabled Elrond to truly trust this Mithrandir in being the Guardian of the Red Ring. Ever since the aged being had strode into his Hidden Valley, haggard upon his staff and full of wisdom and intriguing personality, Elrond had been warily conscious that he was no ordinary Man; the wondrous aura he so thoroughly emanated guaranteed such, and his eyes had shone brighter and more piercing than any human's – or Elf's – could ever have. And never mind the fact that he had, with no compunction, spoke of how wayfarers referred to him as a Wizard. But when the elderly figure had begun to speak such knowledgeable words of things beyond that of Elven perception and imagination, Elrond had not known what to say, or what to truly think. All he did know with certainty was that no Man, no matter how great, would have been able to know and understand the things that this Mithrandir did. Deep down within him, Elrond had to believe that he was of some higher power, mayhap even a Maia. But he being a Maia made little to no sense at all, for there was no plausible explanation for any Maiar to show up so randomly in Middle-earth for no reason. Perchance he would solve the mystery later in time, when he had grown to know more who Mithrandir was as a person.

But no matter the awe and respect and growing affection Elrond had for the Istar, what Mithrandir had so quietly spoken of in his study could not be dismissed lightly. Searching his memory, he recalled what Glorfindel had been speaking and, torn between confusion and incredulity, responded, "Even should Ulmonan be the only solution, it passes beyond my understanding. Such is impossible!"

Glorfindel gave a hint of a smile that might have been teasing if not for the forlorn look in his eyes. "Never speak something is impossible," he impishly scolded, though any merriment swiftly faded as he looked back out to the stretch of shoreline and the dark water sweeping it. "Never would you condone wedding another Elf after you bonded with Celebrían, Elrond. To take a second spouse is beyond the nature of Elves, so much that we would declare it is beyond the realm of possibility. And yet, it so happened with Finwë."

Elrond sighed. "Such is different, Glorfindel. That decision was made not lightly and mandated the intervention of the Valar."

"Well," Glorfindel speculated a tad wearily, "concerning the scenario Mithrandir spoke of, it has happened before."

Elrond looked at him. "And when was this?"

Glorfindel's face was drawn deep in thought. "What he spoke of reminded me of Míriel."

Elrond thought about that for a moment and sent his mind through the endless lore and history he had learnt and kept to memory, before his eyes dawned in understanding. Glorfindel must have caught the recognition, for he nodded at some unspoken agreement.

"Exactly," he went on. "She gave to Fëanor so much of her energy and spirit that his birth took too great a toll on her, and she was consumed in spirit and body. She had no yearning to remain with the Living afterwards, for she could find no healing in the Blessed Realm. So, when she lay down to sleep in the gardens of Lórien, she willed her spirit to depart and passed in silence to the Halls of Mandos."

He looked to Elrond and a wan, fatalistic smile touched his mouth. "It is possible; all Círdan would have to do is choose to die, to will his spirit to depart from his body, if he is to so languish with weariness even after sailing. And instead of being taken by Mandos to his Halls, he would be given into the safekeeping of Ulmo." He shrugged, if a bit minutely. "It is rather simple upon inspection."

"Simple," Elrond huffed in sardonic amusement, "but hard." Glorfindel spoke nothing in response to that, though by the forlorn glimmer in his eyes, he clearly agreed. And so Elrond turned fully to him. "Think you that it will truly happen, then?"

Glorfindel hesitated, visibly confused as he contemplated the question. "Yes," he spoke slowly, still looking out towards the direction Círdan had disappeared in. "Yes," he repeated more firmly, if with a bit more resignation. "Círdan's tale this night is proof enough. Recall what Ulmo told him in the helmsman's quarters, when Círdan had asked what it was that he had just experienced; Ulmo spoke that it was but a taste of healing at his hand."

Elrond looked away. "And that Círdan passed the test."

Glorfindel nodded. "It may be a guess only on my part, but I would surmise that Ulmo was making sure that Círdan could be healed by him, lest why would he go to Ulmonan, if there no healing is to be found? Thus, Ulmo had to test him, and he apparently passed that test. That must signify that it will indeed happen."

Elrond's eye was caught by a fiddler crab, red as they came, poking its way through the reeds, and he watched in absent interest as it slowly worked to maneuver its shell of a body through them. "I fail to understand, though," he spoke, tearing his attention away from the creature. "It is to the Halls of Mandos that the spirits of the slain or those that have faded go. In Manwë's name, they are so named the 'Houses of the Dead'! How could Círdan heal when residing outside of Mandos?"

Glorfindel gave an uncertain shrug. "The source of healing is not in the Halls of Mandos themselves," he began slowly, selecting his words with upmost caution as if hesitant of them himself. "The Halls…they are quiet." His brow was lightly furrowed and Glorfindel had cast out his gaze to the dark skyline, as though hoping that the answers he sought would there be found. "Alas, my memory of that time is muddled, as though peering through a glass smeared too greatly. But of all things, I remember mostly the silence, and of how there was little mingling or communing with others.

"I recall a time of Waiting, though I know not how long or little it lasted. In the Halls, there is no Time. But there, I remember being comforted and strengthened, corrected in my wrongs and instructed in any ignorance." Glorfindel quickly shook his head in small shakes, as though snapping himself out of his solemn daze. "Remember you when Círdan described the healing, of how 'no memory remained on the forefront'?" Elrond nodded and Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. "It brought to me memory of my own time spent in the Houses of the Dead, for I could remember nothing of my first life until after I was reborn.

"You see, Elrond," he went on. "It is not dwelling within the Halls of Mandos themselves that heal; it is what the Halls represent: resting in a place untainted, healing without the intrusion of evil or Darkness. It means receiving that comfort, that strength, the renewal of spirit without fear of anything that was or is or is to come. Such is what the Halls of Mandos provide to the spirits of the slain. Such is what the Blessed Realm provides to those of the Living. And, evidently, such is what Ulmonan will provide to Círdan."

Elrond huffed again, this time in genuine amusement. "I cannot count the times Círdan has impressed on me the fact that the Sea is the one place never to be touched by Evil, for the Lands on both shores have borne the scars of Morgoth."

Glorfindel chuckled. "He has said the same to me."

Elrond allowed a rueful, little smile. "I know, for Círdan, I should be glad. But it remains prominent in my mind that, if this should pass, we never would be able to see him."

Glorfindel gave him a sympathetic, almost pitiful look, but the soft smile was present both on his face and in his eyes. "You never would see him should he reside in Mandos, either, my friend," he informed. "As I spoke, it is very quiet there. It is the doom of Mandos that only those who opt to be reborn could commune with those of the Living, even those that had once been dear to them. No words can pass through the veil from the Living to the Dead. And to make matters worse, the fëa is obdurate in its nakedness; to that fact, Círdan is no exception. And Círdan especially would remain long in the bondage of his memory and old commitments."

Elrond lightly pursed his lips, regarding Glorfindel with no lack of suspicion. He sometimes wondered if his Seneschal simply found pleasure in speaking in riddles instead of cutting straight to the point. Of course, Elrond had also heard many a Sinda, including Círdan, say the same thing of Noldor in general. "So," he concluded, managing to draw out the single word considerably, "it can be said that if Círdan wills his spirit to depart his body, no matter where he would then go to heal, he will remain there for a long time."

Glorfindel nodded. "Essentially, yes. A long life he has lived, after all."

"So the 'where' surely matters not," Elrond murmured, speaking his thoughts aloud. "All our words remain as speculation, for it solely depends on whether Círdan will find healing in Aman, which, by all rights, he should." He looked to Glorfindel, his gaze intense – almost desperate. "You spoke so yourself; in Aman, all weariness can find rest. How could Círdan not receive it?"

Glorfindel shrugged again, shifting on his feet before they became buried in the compressed sand. "Míriel did not. It happened once and it could happen again. But," he added before Elrond could speak, his brow drawn in a mixture of deep thought and wonder, "I think we need to recall what Círdan spoke about this night, for I just now realized something…something important, I believe."

Elrond raised an eyebrow in wry amusement. "Which part, exactly? Of all he spoke tonight, there was plenty."

If Glorfindel heard the hints of mocking sarcasm in his lord's voice, he gave no indication. Really, he gave no indication at all that he heard the words. There was an air of intense concentration about him. And rather swiftly, that full intensity was centered upon Elrond. "Humor me, my friend, and answer me this: Where did Círdan say his heart was?"

Elrond regarded him in no amount of confusion and curiosity, fully ignoring the wisps of hair that continued to blow in his face. "With the Sea," he answered warily, uncertain as to his friend's train of thought.

Glorfindel absently nodded. "And how long would you presume his heart has been fully thus?"

Elrond blinked and looked away, silent. "How could I answer that, Glorfindel?" he spoke to the waves. "How could anyone? How could you? Based on his words this night, I know not surely if Círdan even knows."

Glorfindel nodded again. "Aye, I believe so, also; even the deepest of things in us can remain hidden. You know Círdan better than I. How long would you presume it has been so?"

Elrond shrugged helplessly. "Certainly before mine and your births. You heard what Círdan spoke; even before Thingol returned from his long absence in the wilderness, his heart had been divided between Land and Sea. Ulmo had spoken to him and played for him his music, and thereafter on the shores Círdan has always resided. How much longer after that believe you it would have taken for Círdan to fall fully in love with the Waters?" Elrond briefly closed his eyes as he pressed his fingers against his temples. "What has this to do with anything?"

Glorfindel hesitated for a heartbeat before his eyes were overcome by firm resolve. And he plowed ahead. "It is only a theory, but mayhap that is why Círdan will not heal in Valinor, through solely standing and living amongst the peace as other Elves do. Aman is a large stretch of land, but Círdan is in love with the Sea." He glanced down at the white sand. "Mayhap land will not heal him. Mayhap he will reject it in fear of it interfering with his bond of love with the Waters, as he did Narya. Ulmonan is located directly beneath the Undying Lands, and the absence of evil and the presence of the Valar exist in both places."

Elrond slowly nodded as he spoke, unable to find himself to do anything but agree. "No other Elf in existence has this long gone on without experiencing the bliss and rest of the West. With that, what Elf can say what is meant for Círdan?"

Glorfindel heaved a deep breath. "Yet, as you, it remains not fully clear to me. Truly, if there is no healing for him in the Blessed Land, it at least makes sense he would force his spirit to flee. But why is the only solution Ulmonan when the same could be accomplished as it would be in Mandos?"

Elrond gave an affectionate smile. He needed not to think about how to answer that. "Remember you what Círdan said Ulmo spoke, how his 'reward' will exceed the greatest and only desire of his heart?" Glorfindel nodded. "The Sea, Glorfindel," he emphasized. "To dwell amid the Sea. Being taken down to Ulmonan would be not only a place of rest, as Mandos would be; it will be a gift."

Glorfindel lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "And is such his greatest desire, to live within the Halls of Ulmo?"

Elrond gave a halfhearted gesture with his hand. "Mayhap not live with Ulmo himself, for such probably remains beyond even his imagination, impossible as it sounds. But think of what Círdan described, about Ulmo being the Sea. Recall the dreams he described and the wonder shining in his eyes every time he speaks of the Waters. And ask yourself; can you really see him rejecting such an offer?"

Several heartbeats of silence followed, but in the end, Glorfindel had to smile, contrite and wan as the grin was. "No," he came to say, the smile still in place. "I cannot. Círdan's descriptions of Ulmo removing the tangles from his hair reminded me of a mother combing that of her child's. Alas, I would be a fool to deny that Círdan's soul is entwined with the Sea, so much so that he is able to enforce his influence on it. A blind fool."

Elrond shook his head, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Círdan claims to have no power over the waters," he spoke, "but he does. With my own eyes, I have seen him quell a tumult with a shout, make swift the passage of a rampant waterway by way of his will."

Glorfindel looked at him, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Believe you that he would have truly thrown Narya into the sea?"

Elrond nodded with no hesitation. "I do," he spoke firmly, "for I believe there was not one day Círdan was glad to have borne Narya." He turned a meaningful look on his Seneschal. "You were there, Glorfindel, upon his receiving of her. You know how reluctant he was. Valar, you saw how he reacted."

Glorfindel visibly grimaced at the memory. "That is a night I go not to remember," he muttered. "Anyway, I doubt Círdan would have done as he claimed he would. I believe he would have kept Narya at least a while longer, to mayhap consult with the other Guardians and the Wise who know of the Three, to receive counsel. Círdan would have been able to handle the power of Narya the Great for at least that much longer."

Elrond snorted, torn between amusement and exasperation. "Círdan would be capable of wielding the One Ring and supplanting Sauron alone, if he put his mind to it. It would be not beyond him to do as he believed best. And I, in all honesty, cannot deny that it might have been best, under the circumstances."

"Still, it is unlike Círdan to be so bold."

Elrond sighed and grabbed hold of Glorfindel's shoulder, stirring him towards the direction of the vague pathway. "You spoke yourself; you know him not as well as I. And we could debate over this before Círdan himself and never receive an answer. Let us finally rest, for we must rise early."

Glorfindel began to walk with him at a leisurely pace, finding himself having to tread with care as to not step on the few precious crabs about. "We could ask Galdor."

"He has panicked enough over this."

"Or Celeborn; he knows Círdan better than you."

"And so much so that he would not care over the pure futility of it."

"We could ask –"

"Glorfindel, let us just retire in peace."

O = O = O

Along the shore Círdan walked as he had done a thousand times before. His steps were leisurely, his white robes emitting only the smallest of sounds as they fluttered in the mixture of wind and ocean mist. His hair did the same, something he took no notice of. He walked not towards the upper shore, but rather along the hard, wetly compressed sand along the tide. And the water repetitively swept across the sand and over his feet, chilling and numbing his skin, but he cared not. He walked on, on and on down the shore, no destination in mind and no grave purpose to his stride. His grey eyes, keen as ever, were vacant as he listened to the soft melodies of the sea-music; a song so pure in its tune and resounding with the reverberation of the Great Music. And he heard upon it voices and words exotic to his ears, and in him, solace and warmth entered as he absorbed the welcoming sensations.

The sea was alive this night. But even more so, he felt alive this night. It was finished. It was done. And there was nothing left for the worries of his mind to be focused on. He had done his best to explain to Elrond and Glorfindel everything he could, to provide them the answers they had sought. He could only hope that he had achieved so in the end, for as he had given his solemn word to the Istari and to Ulmo, he had kept his silence on the emissaries' true origin and purpose. Of course, it had resulted in him saying very little on why he so trusted Mithrandir with Narya, let alone why he believed the Grey Wizard should truly be its Guardian. And, sure enough, many a time this night, he had seen the hints of frustration upon both his friends' faces. But in the end, fortunately, it had been enough, and their wonder and need for answers had been sated. For now, that was.

He had also spoken nothing of Ossë and, indeed, had made mention of him only once. The story of the Master of the Seas, that Círdan had been so privileged to learn, was no one else's concern, least of all two Elves that had never spoken with the Maia. But no interest had been shown in him, anyway, for which Círdan was grateful.

But of all things to be thankful for, the most appreciative for Círdan was his mind being truly his own this night, truly and wholly clear. To a degree, he was still amazed that he had not remembered what Curunír had insisted so fervently that he knew. And, looking back, all his fear and worry over it seemed foolish beyond reproach. He would have to enlighten Ëarhín of that small detail about Ulmo come morn, or mayhap another day. As well as Galdor. But all in all, things had returned to solid ground, as they should be in an ever changing world of chaos.

And so on Círdan walked, willing his mind to be lost among the beating rhythm of the waves, and his soul among the flawless tunes of the water. And in little to no time, as on many occasions before, the bond of love he had long developed with the Sea hardened as steel, swiftly enabling his heart to beat as one with the great harmony of the Waters that he could feel pulse through his very veins. And as seldom before, and only on his own, he uplifted his voice in song once more, the words soft and quiet, yet with the enchantment that every Elven voice carried.

"Of infinite walk through timeless passage,
In life lived blent among counting lore,
Of sea-longing unfey unto my heart thirled,
Alas, to dwell I must on sea and shore.
Lo! lo! Unto you of eld I harken!
King of the Seas, Dweller of the Deep,
Veins of the World, Friend of the Quendi!
Unto whom I obey I beseech to hear my plea:

Amidst endless depths and life sea-faring,
Over starlit mere and white sand soft,
Against water-wrought ghyll and shell clad shore,
Under star indwelt dome and crane aloft,
With water-bird sweet and seagull's cry,
Amongst dying Sun and color hued sky,
Across glassy surf and rolling swell,
Amidst the Sea let me dwell."

And as the final words of his song passed his lips, their melody breaking as they went out among the swells, Círdan recalled against his will the words Ulmo had so adamantly spoken to him: For all times you stood amidst my seas I felt your sorrow. And from all streams and rivers are words carried to me, and thereby do I taste the cry of your song.

In the name of all things sacred, how his soul ached to lay sight on him once more! Or to at least catch the sound of his terribly deep voice. He knew not what was more painful to bear; that residual ache Ulmo always left within him, or the knowledge that he will never know when or if he might ever see the Vala again. He knew well for most of his life that the King of the Seas came and went, as mysterious and as vastly unknowable as the Sea itself. He would come when he came, and he would remain away as long as he willed. And besides, it seemed Ulmo had heard always his plea, as he had now heard it again. It would be enough and he would endure. He would stay upon the sea and shore, everlasting, as his love for the Waters were, in how long he would.

"I remain," he murmured, the sound of the words lost on the wild wind. His mind wandered within the mysteries of the Song until he lost all awareness of the reality about him. "Lords of the West, I remain. Eru above, as you called me from my sleep at Dawn, so to the slumber I shall return at Dusk. My Lord Ulmo, hear me! For how long will you keep me thus?"

As expected, only silence and the soft, crystalline sound of the sea-music answered him, and he felt his heart swell with affection for it all over again. The pearl, the pearl…how the most precious of things could be both a blessing and a curse. He would hold it this night while upon his balcony and allow it to quell his distress, even though it meant the return of that deep ache come dawn. But he would remain. Middle-earth approached the throws of turmoil, and his Sight of her future went on unending. Though through it all, victory and defeat alike, he would remain. Ships needed to be crafted and his Grey Havens needed to be governed. And his people…his beloved people he had never deserved would never receive any abandonment on his part. But upon the sea and shore, he would remain.

The End

---

A/N: And finally, it is finished. I can't even describe the deep breath I have now taken. As always, reviews will be greatly cherished and all words of any kind. Please, I ask you, take just a little bit of time to submit a small review, to permit me to know if all the effort and time I put into this story was worth it. But above all, thank you ever so much for reading this piece and giving me great encouragement. I hope you at least found some enjoyment out of it and that Círdan has become at least a tad more interesting for you. I know he certainly has for me. But please review! And thank you for reading. Happy trails.

To come: The next story that I am planning to publish is a companion piece to this one, to be so titled "Three Rings for the Elven Kings". I know the title is a bit tacky and might be changed later if a little inspiration comes, but keep an eye out for the story if you're interested. In it we get to read about just what exactly Elrond and Glorfindel cringe to remember; the night in the study when Círdan had been given Narya to guard by Gil-galad. And as remembered, it wasn't exactly easy to persuade Círdan to take it. This is the next gap-filler to be told.

---

"This text is remarkable in that on the one hand nothing is said of the history and importance of Círdan as it appears elsewhere…" ~ Christopher Tolkien

Sources: Nigh on everything is with canon, but these sources list those facts that people may question. Anything listed with "(BV)" in it indicates that book-verse (minor in most cases) was used directly from the source.

[1] Every minute detail involving the Istari – their duty, restrictions, and powers (BV); "Unfinished Tales", II The Istari/HoME Last Writings – The Five Wizards XII.384-5
[2] Círdan was the only one to ever know of the Istari's origin and purpose; "Unfinished Tales", II The Istari
[3] Sacking of the Shipwrights and that Círdan is one of the few, if not the only ancient friend of Ulmo remaining; "Unfinished Tales", Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin pg. 37 (small theory involved)
[4] Ulmo's corporeal description and of his girdle of mighty pearls (BV); HoME The Fall of Gondolin II.156-157
[5] Location of Ulmonan; HoME Foreword I.[xxii] & II.87
[6] Ulmo has the power to "transform" time, turning years of travel into days; HoME The Fall of Gondolin II.156
[7] Ossë's tale of turning to darkness and back (BV); "Silmarillion" Valaquenta – Of the Maiar pg. 38
[8] Círdan's real name, Nówë; HoME Last Writings – Círdan XII.385 & note #30 (there is some speculation as to whether the letter "o" has an accent over it or not, but I decided that it does)
[9] Círdan's physical description (BV); RotK, "The Grey Havens"
[10] Círdan's silver hair; HoME Quendi and Eldar XI.384
[11] Círdan will dwell in Middle-earth until the last ship sails; RotK, "Appendix A", The Númenórean Kings (iii)
[12] Círdan's tale of Ulmo forbidding him passage to Aman and his greatness akin to Thingol (BV); HoME Last Writings – Círdan XII.385-386
[13] Save when instructed by Ainur, Círdan has absolute command in granting – and denying – permission to Elves who wish to sail to the Uttermost West; The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien No. 246
[14] Círdan foreseeing in a vision the flight of Vingilot (BV); HoME Last Writings – Círdan XII.386
[15] Of Círdan's pearls and Nimphelos (BV); "Silmarillion", Of the Sindar, pg. 92
[16] That Círdan would be capable of wielding the One Ring and supplanting Sauron (BV); The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien No. 246
[17] Círdan's foresight is the greatest of all Elves, second to none but the Ainur. "He is said [source] to have seen further and deeper into the future than anyone else/Círdan received a foresight touching all matters of importance, beyond the measure of all other Elves upon Middle-earth." (BV); HoME Last Writings – Círdan XII.385-6, note 31
[18] Círdan's tale of his fore-knowledge of Nargothrond's fall, of his message and Túrin's scorn of Círdan (BV); "Unfinished Tales", NARN IN HÎN HÚRIN pg.168/"The Children of Húrin" Ch. XI: The Fall of Nargothrond pg. 171-176
[19] Círdan is the kinsman (blood relative) of Elwë; HoME Last Writings – Círdan XII.387/HoME Quendi and Eldar XI.384 & note 15
[20] Círdan's spirit is consuming him; HoME Laws and Customs Among the Eldar X.212.219 (this passage does not directly state that Círdan's body is a victim to the consumption of the fëa, but after reading it, it becomes an incontestable fact.)
[21] Of Saruman's deeply held scorn for Radagast; FotR, "The Council of Elrond"
[22] The Teleri lived on the Falas for 100 years and were taught by Ossë on his rock till Ulmo came for them at the second crossing; HoME The Lhammas V.187
[23] Teleri being in many ways distinct from all other Elves; HoME Last Writings – Círdan XII.385-6/HoME The Later Quenta Silmarillion XI.189, note 57/HoME Quendi and Eldar XI.380/HoME The Later Quenta Silmarillion (I) X.163
[24] Powers of the Elven Rings and their making (BV); The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, No. 144 & 181/RotK, "Appendix B", The Tale of Years
[25] In the beginning at Cuiviénen, the Elder Children of Eru were stronger and greater than they have since become (BV); "Silmarillion", Of the Coming of the Elves, pg. 49
[26] Cuivienyarna (that Glorfindel mentioned in the flashback); HoME Quendi and Eldar XI.420-424: Cuivienyarna is a surviving Elvish fairytale or child's tale, mingling with counting lore, entailing a romanticized version of the Awakening of the Quendi at Cuiviénen, and the legend's "original" language was Quenya. Today, it is commonly mistaken by many people, well-Tolkien versed or not, as the actual way that Elves first Awoke, which is false. Tolkien declared that it was only a mere fairytale told to Elven children and nothing more.
[27] Círdan was one of the original Elves who awoke at Cuiviénen; (Certain canonical information has led me to conclude this; several sources had to be connected. Should you wish to know my reasoning, let me know and I'll inform you. It's pretty hard evidence to dismiss.)

---

Círdan and the Istari: No where in Tolkien's lore does it explicitely state that Círdan voyaged the Belegaer to retrieve the Istari and provide them passage to Middle-earth, but Tolkien's lore also never specifies that he didn't. All JRRT gives us concerning the Istari's arrival in Middle-earth with the Shipwright in the scene is that the Lord of the Havens "welcomed" them to Middle-earth, which Círdan certainly did do in this story. By my studies there was nothing indefinite that described how the Istari arrived in Mithlond, to which I could only resort to Círdan's explanation of when he spoke to Ulmo, that they could have sailed the Straight Path by a ship from Alqualondë, which seems the only other plausible way. If that theory is what you would rather, then by all means...but this story, remember, was not solely about the Istari, but of the learning of Círdan's character in every way possible. All these conversations would have taken place, no matter which theory I chose, either on the beach or on the ship. I chose the more interesting, I think. :) Therefore, we could conclude that, though the very concept of this story could push the limits of plausibility, it could not indefinitely fall under the category of AU. Unless I stated otherwise, everything, at least, falls in accordance with canon. Also, the number of which the Istari arrived was also a decision I had to make solely on my own; when Tolkien spoke of the Istari's arrival in at least four different books (off the top of my head), there had been much debate over who arrived first, last, and in what order. Many of the debates: Saruman arrived first, the Blue Wizards arrived last, the Blue Wizards arrived first, Gandalf arrived last, Radagast arrived with Gandalf, Gandalf arrived first, etc. See why I had to make that decision on my own? But I do believe inconclusively that Saruman arrived first.

Pearls, Ulmonan, and Shackles: The concept of Círdan being gifted with a pearl from Ulmo's girdle of "mighty pearls" was of my own invention. Nothing in Tolkien's works goes either with or against the notion, so in creating the idea I was homefree. If you paid attention, you know of the concepts behind it, and said concepts I chose for it based on the conclusions I made when reading the facts about the amazing relationship between Vala and Elf. So therefore, the gifting of the pearl to the Shipwright still falls safely in with what Tolkien wrote, which brings me to my next point:

Ulmonan. As stated, Ulmonan (or the Palace of Ulmo) is an actual canonical place, located directly beneath Aman in the Outer Seas, as listed in the Sources above. But the entire concept of Círdan being "taken down" to Ulmonan, as described in this chapter by Elrond and Glorfindel, is totally and completely of my invention. I claim that here and now before someone complains. Tolkien never spoke anything about Círdan's end fate, save that he was the very last Elf to ever sail, though when that is we will never know. But Tolkien did state incontrovertibly that Círdan's heart was with the Sea, in more ways than one, and Tolkien also made it clear that Círdan never heard the blow of Ulmo's horn in his heart, which instigates the "sea-longing" (a.k.a. the calling home to the Undying Lands, such as with Legolas). I won't deign to repeat anything I already wrote in this story, for I do believe (I hope) that I managed to convey everything that Tolkien wrote concerning the Shipwright's bond with the Sea (and everything else he wrote about Círdan) in a well-enough and understandable manner. Though the concept of Círdan being taken down to Ulmonan akin to how an Elf would be taken to the Halls of Mandos was never mentioned or signified, the facts of it and by how it would happen, not to mention the possibility of it, does succeed in falling well in line with canon, based on all my studies. So no worries: there is no evidence that would point to the concept being AU, aside from the fact that it has never before happened. Why Elrond and Glorfindel, of all people, would be privy to such personal information about the Shipwright is beyond my knowledge. I apologize if it doesn't make much sense why they were told at all, but I could think of no other way to convey the concept of Ulmonan without it being via A/N or sounding stupid, out of place or simply tacky. It was the best I could come up with, all things considered.

And now the shackles: I refer to the "shackles" described in Ch. 9 that were about Ossë's wrists. That idea was also purely of my invention. By my studies, Tolkien spoke nothing of what happened after Ossë returned to the "good side". Very little can be found on Ossë compared to other characters, but the inclusion of his side of the story was a way for me to tackle another gap-filler I found interesting. I can only hope that it worked out and went well enough with the rest of his story, as well as bring out the type of character Ulmo is.

Dream v. Reality: And finally, we come down to what all this actually was, a dream or not a dream. As you read, there was obviously no dream taking place and the voyage was made canonically possible by Source #6 listed above. Ulmo played a major part in this story and this was a great opportunity to include nigh on everything I could find on him, including his "timing". However, I know some people prefer the contrary, so if you would rather that everything Círdan had witnessed and conversed with other people be a dream, go ahead. Canonically, it is possible both ways since Irmo (Vala of Dreams) was involved, but I opted it not to be a dream because...well, it just wouldn't have been that much impressive to me. Not to mention that it would have personally felt like cheating. Can't fit canonically, just make it a dream! Círdan and Ulmo (and Gandalf, of course) play the most major rolls in the story, and including just how great the power of Irmo is would have detracted from that purpose. But still, it works canonically both ways, so you may change it to dream mode if you're dissatified.