My Heart is with the Sea, my Heart is with You by chrissystriped

Círdan stared at the thin paper of the letter the dove had brought. The writing, tiny and narrow to make the most of the space, was swimming before his eyes.

Company arrived in Lothlórien. Mithrandir dead. Durin’s Bane = Balrog. Fought it on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. Both fell.

It couldn’t be! He didn’t want to believe it! But he knew in his heart of hearts that it was true. His dreams had been heavy for the last nights. Full of fire and darkness. If Durin’s Bane was indeed a Balrog, he could well imagine that his brave Olórin had sacrificed himself for the Cause — but also for the people in his care.

He sobbed, a tear falling on the paper in his trembling hands. Olórin had always been so focused on the well-being of others. Even in the Time of Waiting, on the shores of the Sea, he’d come to console the Teleri, left behind because they had looked for their missing leader. He had been subtle, back then, not like Ossë who showed up one day and never really left again. You rarely remembered Olórin, but his words stuck in your mind.

~*~*~

It had taken Círdan tides upon tides of careful listening and watching to finally find him. He was subtle and somehow hard to remember, but wherever he went the grumbles stopped. People had been discontent, feeling left behind and ill-treated after such a long road. Some even called themselves now the Eglathrim — the Forsaken. 

Who were the Valar? they said. Maybe the Quendi who’d refused the invitation had the right idea.  

But always , when the voices became too loud , another rose up, quiet yet powerful. 

The Valar cared. It took a long time to pull the island over. What were a few more years after the decades of the journey. Weren’t they happy, here at the shore?  

Círdan was. He'd taken one look at the Sea and fallen in love with it. But he also wished to catch this elusive elf — if he was an elf — and see what to make of him. There had been a darkness in the North, and while he didn’t think its agents would talk well of the Valar, he couldn’t take any risks. And so he found him, sitting at a camp-fire with a few hunters, listening to their stories. Círdan sat down beside him. 

“I’ve been watching you,” he said under his breath. “People seem to barely notice you, but wherever you go , the mood seems to lighten, the voices of discontent fail and there’s laughter and happiness. No one seems to know you, or where you came from. Who are you?” 

The elf smiled at him, his eyes were blue and sparkled in the firelight. “You seem to have noticed me,” he said with a warm, sweet voice. 

“It is my duty,” Círdan answered. “Elwë is missing, Olwë is often gone, looking for him. In their absence they look to me. If a stranger walks among us, I have to know. Won’t you tell me your name?” 

“I’m just a wanderer,” the stranger answered and rose. 

Círdan blinked slowly, looking around at the other elves. Hadn’t he just been talking to someone… He shot up and whirled around. Wanderer, indeed! He’d given him the slip. Círdan smiled wryly. He clearly hadn’t wanted to tell him his name.

~*~*~

He’d seen him again after that. Sometimes from afar, sometimes closer, but he’d never managed to sneak up and talk to him again. The Wanderer had just smiled at him, sometimes accompanied by a mischievous wink. He’d been more playful then, less weighed down by the cares and worries of a task that seemed too big for him in his darker moods. 

Círdan buried his face in his hands. Had he lost him forever? Maiar could regain their fana in time, if they lost it, but Olórin had been much more bound to his body than was usual. He had been incarnated, it had been a hroa, not a fana. 

What would happen to him now? Would he go to Mandos, like an elf? Or was he… No he could not simply be gone! 

The Ring , Círdan thought. Sauron was still alive because he had put a part of himself into his Ring. Narya was nothing like that, of course, but what if… what if Olórin had — facing death — used it to tether himself to the world of the living? Círdan shuddered at the thought of his dear maia lying somewhere in the dreadful dark of Moria, not alive, not dead, waiting for someone to rescue him. 

The paper crumpled when he clenched his fist. He would go there, he would find him. Even… even if he could only retrieve his body. Fresh tears welled up in his eyes and he gave himself over to grief. His fea fluttered against the inside of his hroa. Círdan pulled himself together with difficulty. No, he could grieve when he was sure he’d lost him. 

He stood up, wiped the tears from his eyes and went to find Galdor. 

“Do we have any maps of Moria in our possession?” he asked. 

“I… doubt it.” His counsellor of many years stared at him. “There might be some in Imladris. What do you need it for, if I may ask?” 

“I need to travel there”, Círdan answered. He should tell him that Mithrandir was gone, but he couldn’t. The thought alone made his throat close up. He coughed. “And fast. I can’t wait for someone to ride to Imladris and back.” 

“Maybe the dwarves… Dís seemed fond of you, when she came here for the sea air.” 

Dwarves were notoriously secretive about everything concerning their kind, but it was worth a try. 

“Why do you need to go to Moria, Círdan?” Galdor called after him as he turned toward the dovecote. 

“Something I can’t talk about,” Círdan answered. He couldn’t. Not right now. Not when the thought cut his heart so deeply.

~*~*~

Honoured Lady Dís,

I hope your health has been satisfactory . Feel free to visit Mithlond whenever you like, I enjoyed your company very much. If I might be so bold as to ask a favour of you? Urgent business I can’t talk about makes it necessary for me to travel to Khazad-dûm. As I do not want to get lost in the mighty halls of your ancestors, I hope to acquire a map from your people.

Your servant,

Círdan, Lord of the Havens

Dear Lord Círdan,

Whatever for? Well, you said, you could not talk about it, so I won’t try to wheedle it out of you (but I’m quite tempted to visit just for that reason). Most of our library was lost when the Dragon came to Erebor, but some was saved. There might be a map. If I could find it for you, would you give me a discount of ten percent on all transactions for a year?

Your friend,

Dís, Lady of the Blue Mountains

My dear Dís,

You must be joking. I can give you no more than five percent. I’m sure I can find a map in Imladris, if I must. .

Your friend,

Círdan

Dear Círdan,

If you could get it from Imladris, you wouldn’t have come to me. Seven percent and I’ll see the copy reaches you a week from the arrival of your agreement.

Love,

Dís

Dear Dís,

As always you drive a hard bargain. As the Lord of the Havens I agree to your terms. Make it three days, if you can.

Your friend,

Círdan

Chapter End Notes

This fic was written for TRSB 2022 for Naurrakoiel's artwork: https://rauko-creates.tumblr.com/post/694881731070885888/my-heart-is-with-the-sea-my-heart-is-with-you

Círdan looked down at the maps Dís had sent along with a formal contract — dwarves never did something halfway if it came to business. The maps were insanely complicated, showing the vertical location of the halls as well as the horizontal. He was not sure if he wouldn’t get lost in that dark pit even with them. On the few visits he’d made to the Halls of the Blue Mountains he’d just wanted to get out and see the sky again as soon as possible — not that he’d let the dwarves notice that — but this was for Olórin. He’d have walked into Mordor itself for him. 

“Do you fancy yourself Fingon now?” he muttered to himself. “You are too old for this.” 

But he couldn’t bear the thought of his loved one’s body lying there in the dark, unprotected from defilement. His things were packed, a ship and crew ready, he’d only waited for Dís’s answer, now he rolled up the maps and stowed them away securely.  

“I wish you would tell me, what is going on ,” Galdor said when he left his office. “You haven’t gone on a journey like this  since the Last Alliance. Is it something to do with the…,” his voice fell to a whisper, “the Ring?” 

“Yes and no,” Círdan answered. He hadn’t had the strength to talk to anyone yet, but Galdor was his steward, it would be wrong to keep it from him. “Mithrandir fell in Moria. The company encountered Durin’s Bane, a Balrog, and he fought it.” 

Galdor paled. He’d seen Balrogs at the Fall of Gondolin. 

“He’s dead . ” Círdan’s voice broke. It took all his self-command not to start crying. “He fell. I need to find his body.” 

Galdor opened and closed his mouth a few times, grief plain in his face. “Of course,” he finally said and squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. “Of course you do. I’m so sorry, Círdan.” 

Círdan nodded, his throat tight, and closed his eyes. “Thank you. I need to go now.” 

He walked down to the shore where his own ship lay ready to sail. Vaima, his first officer, nodded at him when he came on deck. 

“We can sail with the next flood if you want, Captain,” she said. 

“Good.” It was about two hours till then. “I’ll be in my cabin.” 

He wanted to pore over the maps a bit more. And also acquaint himself with the Gwathló. He knew the waters close to the shores of the northern sea well, but it had been a long time since he’d had cause to sail up the river. Círdan sat on his chair and looked out the large aft-windows. It was a beautiful day, the wind blowing just right. His heart should be happy with being out to sea but it was too heavy with grief. He rubbed his cheek, feeling the rasp of the stubble there. It had started to grow in the last few days. He was old and the grief weakened him, his body had started to age.

~*~*~

The Wanderer was gone for long stretches of time, Círdan noticed, but he always came back, even after he and the other Falathrim had decided to stay on the shores of Middle-earth instead of following their brethren to Aman. Círdan loved the life here, he loved the sea and the shore. 

The Wanderer had never sought him out after their conversation years ago, had in fact seemed to avoid him, and Círdan was startled , when he found, on a morning he had set out alone in his small boat, that he was not alone in his boat after all. He’d lifted his spear and almost skewered the Wanderer before he realised who it was. 

“What are you doing here?” he snapped, not enjoying being sneaked up on on his own boat. “Where have you been hiding?” 

“I’m not hiding,” the Wanderer said with a teasing smile. “You just didn’t notice me, which surprised me to be truthful. You are usually much better at noticing me than others. I wanted to ask you a question.” 

Círdan leaned his spear against the gunwale. “Oh? Am I allowed to be as evasive as you about it?” 

The Wanderer laughed. “If I am, I have my reasons. Why did you stay?” 

Círdan lifted his eyebrows. “That’s your question?” 

The Wanderer nodded. “You crossed the world and climbed two mountain ranges in order to be ferried to Aman. Why did you change your mind?” 

Círdan leaned against the mast and looked out at the dark waves, only lighted here and there by the glint of a star. “I wanted to go. I wanted to see what Elwë saw and was so eager to go back to. But… this world is beautiful too, and it would have broken my heart to leave it forever. Someone should enjoy this world — it would be lonely without us. And… there’s something to do for me here. I’m not sure what yet, but I feel it. I need to be at the shore, by the sea. This is my place.” 

The Wanderer looked at him with serious eyes. Círdan squirmed as the silence stretched on. Then a smile broke out on the Wanderer’s face, not teasing, just happy, honest. Círdan’s heart beat faster for some reason — that smile, he wanted to earn it. 

“I like you,” the Wanderer said. “Your heart is in the right place.”

~*~*~

They sailed down the coast to the mouth of the Gwathló and then up the river until it branched out into the Nîn-in-Eilph where it was no longer navigable. It had taken them six days, making as much speed as they could. He’d driven them on. He needed to find Olórin, even if he could only mourn over his body. 

He’d left his crew there, at the marshland. They hadn’t been happy about that, but he needed to make this journey alone. He did not want anyone to be there when he found him — if he found him. Moria was huge. Círdan shook his head as he scrambled wearily up a rocky slope. He would think not about failure now. He needed to find him. All his mind was set on finding him. 

His crew would wait for him for as long as their supplies held, Vaima had assured him of that. She’d been trying to convince him to let her come with him and he’d actually had to order her to stay. He wouldn’t have abandoned them like this under normal circumstances, but nothing was normal anymore. He’d rarely felt as rudderless, as lost, as with the thought that Olórin was no more. 

The mountains were coming steadily closer. He barely rested. He was old, he needed less sleep than he used to — he knew that meant his body would eventually succumb and leave his fea houseless. It had scared him in the past, but now? What use was living on if Olórin was not there with him? No! No, he would be there with him. He would find him. He had to.

~*~*~

His arrows had run out — and he wasn’t the best shot anyway — he fought on with a short sword. It was a fine weapon, gifted to him by Finrod, as was the chainmail he wore. His eyes burned, tears running down his cheeks, from the fires burning in his city. The orcs had come to destroy and after the Nirnaeth nothing stood in their way until they reached the coast. 

They had been watchful but still the quickness of the attack had surprised them. Now they were trying to save as many lives as possible, getting people on the ships and sailing south. There was an island close to the mouths of Sirion, it had a freshwater well and was large enough to house the people of Eglarest and Brithombar — he didn’t know how Brithombar fared but Círdan surmised that they had been both attacked this night. 

He was one of the last people on the shore. He wasn’t a warrior, but he would not save himself while people stayed behind. His sword arm grew heavy and the press of the enemy didn’t seem to lessen at all — if anything the orcs became bolder with each fallen defender. Círdan looked over his shoulder and saw that only one ship was left. 

He sighed with relief. They’d done it. His people would be safe. For a while longer. The sword that was aimed at his head was stopped when the orc stumbled, its eyes drooping. The press of the enemy suddenly lessened, they swayed, yawned and fell over one by one, sleeping. There was a sweet smell of night-blooming flowers in the air and Círdan thought he heard a nightingale sing. 

“Run, ” a voice said in his ear and Círdan turned to see the Wanderer standing beside him. His face was serious for once. 

“Run,” he said again. “I already went far beyond what I am allowed to do. They won’t sleep for long. Run ! ” 

Círdan obeyed without question, although his thoughts reeled. He wanted to throw his arms around the Wanderer ’ s neck and kiss him, so relieved was he. He’d come to save them! The ship set sail as soon as the last of the defenders were safely on board. The first orcs were already starting to move again by then. Círdan was surprised when he realised that the Wanderer had followed him. 

“Why?” he asked bluntly, feeling too tired for politeness. “All your brethren abandoned us — well, except Ossë, but he can’t do much on land. Why help us like this and risk the Valar’s ire?” 

“Because I care for you,” the Wanderer answered and touched his cheek. “For your people, but also for you personally.” 

His fingers were cool on Círdan’s heated, singed skin and he leaned into them before he could catch himself. 

“Thank you,” he croaked, kissing him impulsively, hoping that his blush wasn’t visible under the soot on his face. “Thank you for saving my people.” 

Exhaustion crashed over him like a wave as the alertness of battle left him and he swayed. The Wanderer caught him before he could fall and led him into his cabin. No one hindered them. Círdan wanted to protest, he needed to lead his people, but he was too tired. 

“Sleep,” the Wanderer said gently and helped him lie down. “You have capable officers. Rest.”

The Wanderer sat still beside him. W hen he woke , Círdan blinked in surprise. 

“I thought you would be gone,” he mumbled, his voice rough from sleep. 

The Wanderer slowly shook his head. “Do your kind not kiss when you are in love?” he said with a puzzled look on his face. 

“Well… yes.” Círdan fought the urge to hide his face under the blanket. 

“You kissed me,” the Wanderer stated, holding his gaze. “Does that mean you love me?” 

The question was put so innocently that Círdan felt his heart ache with love. 

“Yes,” he whispered. “I think I do. I think I have for a while.” 

And even more now that he had protected them. It was foolish, of course. He was a maia, they did not fall in love with elves. 

“I’m in so much trouble,” the Wanderer said, but there was a smile on his lips. 

“Are you?” Círdan felt his heart beat quicker. 

“Yes, because I am not supposed to love one of the Children above the others. But I do. May I kiss you?” 

“Yes,” Círdan croaked and shivered as the Wanderer bowed over him and pressed his lips chastely against his. 

The Wanderer blinked slowly down at him. “I never kissed anyone,” he said. “I like it.” 

Círdan smiled. “I still don’t know your name.” 

“Do you need to? I like it when you call me Randir.” 

Círdan decided to let him have his secret for a while longer. “As you wish, Randir.” He longed to kiss him again, and more, but he’d been out for a few hours and he needed to see to his people. “Stay?” he said as he rose and dressed in fresh clothes. 

The Wanderer shook his head. “I can’t. I wish I could. But I’m in enough trouble as it is. My Lord will have seen what I did and it went well beyond what I’m allowed — even without my feelings for you. But I will return.” 

“Promise?” 

“No oaths,” the Wanderer said and Círdan smiled weakly. “Agreed. But still…” 

“I will return, if and when it is in my power.”

Círdan stood on the narrow strip of dry land between the walls of Moria and the lake that had been dammed in the valley — it made him feel very uneasy — and stared at the destruction of what had been the Doors of Dúrin. 

“Oh, Celebrimbor,” he whispered. He had always meant well and still had come to a tragic end — like all Feanorians — and now even this monument of his greatest success, true friendship between Quendi and Khazâd, was gone from this world. 

And it blocked his way. Boulders lay tumbled over each other, two tall holly trees thrown across it. Círdan shuddered to think of the size of the thing that had done this, he hoped he didn’t meet it. But how was he to get into Moria now? 

He tried to scale the hill of rubble to see if there was a gap at the top where he could squeeze through, but the boulders started to move and roll and after he nearly got his foot wedged between two stones, he gave up, sitting down on a large one. He wrapped his arms around his legs, rested his forehead on his knees and cried a bit. 

Was this already the end of his journey? It was too early in the year to even try the Redhorn pass. Should he dare the Gap of Rohan? That would mean walking back to his ship, sailing down the Gwathló and further south along the coast until he found the Isen. And he didn’t even know how far upstream the Isen was navigable. And that didn’t yet take into account that Saruman had betrayed them. What would he do if he found him so close to his home? 

A frightened squeak made him look up. On his left stood an orc. The creature was small, with bulging eyes and ill fitting armour. It seemed rooted to the spot but when Círdan moved, it darted away. Círdan ran after it. He needed to get it before it could alert its tribe, or his journey would end here in truth! His legs were much longer and he outran it in a few strides, tripping it and ripping his sword out of its sheath to strike the vile thing down. 

The orc looked at him with frightened eyes. “Please,” it squeaked in mangled Sindarin. “Don’t kill poor old Snaga, mighty elf-lord. Please!” 

Mercy. 

Círdan let his sword sink but still held it pointed at the orc. Olórin had so often spoken about pity. Was this not a pitiable creature? Wouldn’t Olórin have wanted him to show the mercy it begged of him? 

They were elves once, he heard him say in his mind. They deserve your pity.  

The thought crossed Círdan’s mind that the orc might know another way into Moria. 

“I need to get in there,” he said, moving his head in the direction of the former Doors. “Show me a way and I might let you live.” 

He couldn’t let it go, of course, but he had a rope and tying it up for its tribe to find it would give him enough time to get away. 

“Yes, yes! Snaga will show you a way in.” The orc slowly rose to its feet, trembling and not letting the sword out of its sight. 

“I’m not putting that away,” Círdan growled. He didn’t trust the creature one bit. “Go on, and not too quickly. If I think you are trying to run away, I won’t hesitate to kill you.” 

“Snaga is not going to run, he swears!” the orc squeaked. “Follow, scary elf-lord.” 

Círdan walked after the orc, keeping all his senses alert. He was led away from the ruins of the door and the creepy lake and up a slope. Soon the orc was wading through knee-high snow, Círdan walked lightly on top of it and could see where the snow was already churned up. Maybe he could find the way himself now, but… He did not want to leave the orc tied up out here, it would freeze to death and he had given his word to not kill it. 

The mouth of the cave opened so suddenly before him that Círdan startled. He’d have never found it without the orc’s help. It was a narrow crack, he had to bow low and contort his body to get through. For a moment he thought he was stuck. His heart raced in the darkness under the earth, the weight of the stone heavy on his shoulders. 

He jumped when the orc suddenly asked, “What do you want here, anyway? First there’s no one visiting in ages and then we have dwarves, a weird group of people who kill the Big Fire and now you — all in a matter of years. What’s going on?” 

It seemed to feel much more secure now that they were in the dark and its home. 

“I’m looking for someone.” 

Kill the Big Fire. Did that mean the Balrog was dead? Did that mean Olórin had survived — somehow — the fall? No. Círdan quashed that hope. The Balrog had fallen too. They both must have died. Círdan hesitated. If he wanted to tie the orc up it had to be now, but he had no idea where or even on which level they were. Círdan took a deep breath. He did not trust it but it might lead him to the place of the battle much quicker — or into a dark pit where he would die. 

“Can you lead me to where the… the Big Fire died?” 

The orc sucked in its breath between its teeth. “Looking for the other one?” its voice trembled. “The Bright Flame. He’s terrible! Don’t make me go there! He’s dead, too, anyway.” 

“Then you have nothing to fear from him and all from me,'' Círdan growled. “Lead me there and you are free, don’t and I’ll kill you.” Though he had to admit that with each word he exchanged with the orc, he felt less inclined to just end its life. It felt like a person now. 

“I could just lead you to my people,” it answered. 

“I know,” Círdan said. “And I likely wouldn’t notice before it was too late. But I need to find the one you call the Bright Flame. He’s… my friend. I don’t trust you, but I have to, a bit.” 

He didn’t exactly know why he told it that. In the darkness of the tunnel it felt right somehow. His eyes had started to get used to the lack of light. He’d lived in the deep forest, in the pale star-light before the Sun and Moon and his body remembered it, but all he could see of the orc was a vague outline. It said nothing for so long that Círdan wondered if it was preparing to dart away — he likely wouldn’t be able to catch it this time. 

“Come,” it finally said. “I’ll lead you there. But as I told you, they are both dead.” 

Círdan followed it, hearing it mumble to itself, “I must be mad. What am I doing here?” Círdan was inclined to share the sentiment, he didn’t feel particularly sane either — he hadn’t felt sane since he’d gotten the message.

~*~*~

Círdan stood at the entrance to his tent and enjoyed the last rays of the sun. He’d spent hours in meetings these past days. Eonwë had broken it to them that Beleriand was sinking. It was slow, they’d have enough time to sail across the sea or leave for the lands behind the Ered Lindon. The Noldor were pardoned and asked — if not ordered — to come back to Valinor and Eonwë had told him that the Teleri who had stayed behind all those millennia ago were welcome too. 

Círdan was torn. Gil-galad had told him that he had a mind to stay. Not all Noldor would leave these lands they had fought so hard for, and a king didn’t leave his people. Círdan had never called himself King, but he was a leader and most of his people still loved these hither shores — whatever they might look like in the future when Beleriand was no more. 

But there was also a maia he cared about. He smiled when he saw the Wanderer come towards him, but when he saw the serious look on his face he felt his heart sink. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and motioned for him to go into the tent. He let the flap fall shut. 

“I have to tell you goodbye,” the Wanderer said. There was a sadness in his eyes that made Círdan want to embrace him. 

“Goodbye?” he asked. “Are you going wandering again?” 

The Wanderer shook his head. “The Valar decided that we will no longer interact with the Children who remain on Middle-earth. You are welcome to come to Aman any time but we will not meddle in your affairs here — you are on your own now. But that also means that I am not allowed to go among you any longer.” 

“You are sure I will stay,” Círdan noted, his sight misting over as he tried hard to blink away the tears. 

“I do not ask you to come back with me. I know your heart is still with these lands and your people.” The Wanderer leaned forward and captured his lips in a sweet kiss. “You have touched my heart as no one before. Enjoy your life on this side of the sea, and when you are ready you will find me on the other side.” 

Círdan laid his hand on Randir’s  neck and gave him his kiss back. A tear escaped his closed lids. “My heart is torn in two,” he whispered. “I did not know the Valar were so cruel.” 

The Wanderer caressed his cheek. “Do not say that. They do what they think is best for all the Children. I’m sorry that it hurts you so. Maybe it is all my fault. I should have never come so close to you.” 

“No!” Círdan shook his head violently. “I will miss you — terribly. But I cannot wish to not have known you at all. I have to stay. You are right, my heart is still rooted to this world and I have a task. The people who will leave are going to need many ships. But I will come. One day, I will come.” 

He kissed the Wanderer again, wondering if he should invite him to stay the night. They had never gotten beyond kissing. But before he could offer, the Wanderer stepped back. 

“I will leave now,” he said, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “I do not wish to draw this out too long. Goodbye, Círdan, fare thee well.” 

“Goodbye,” Círdan whispered, and the tent was empty. 

Only then did he remember that the maia had never told him his name. It had ceased to feel important after a while, but now he wished he had asked again.

~*~*~

Círdan groped his way through the dark, following the sounds the orc made before him. He had no idea where he was or how long they’d walked. There was a Feanorian lamp in his bag — one of the last ones existing — but he didn’t dare to uncover it. Light might only draw unfriendly eyes to him. 

He cursed under his breath when his foot struck a step and he fell painfully to one knee. He heard the orc snicker before him. It led him upwards, always around and upwards until his thighs burned and his own breath was loud in his ear. Now and then he could feel hallways branch off the stairs, but they didn’t take any of them. 

“How far?” he gasped between steps. 

“Not far now,” the orc answered, sounding a little exhausted itself. “The Endless Stair is not quite endless.” 

The Endless Stair… he’d heard of Dúrin’s tower, but he’d thought it a legend — it did not show up on the plan Dís had sent him. It was only a short while later that Círdan realised he could see, only a bit, barely a greyness around him and a shadow before him where the orc was walking slowly. He almost stumbled over it when it suddenly stopped. 

“I will not go further,” it said. “You can’t miss it now.” 

Círdan nodded and gripped his sword tighter. 

“You promised!” the orc squeaked, seeing his motion. 

Círdan punched him in the head with the pommel and felt guilty. No, he wouldn’t kill it, but he couldn’t let it run back to its tribe either. He walked on, the light getting stronger, the air colder. Broken stones and rubble lay on the stairs now and Círdan concentrated on his footing. Then the stone above him vanished. He stood on the highest peak of Caradhras, looking out over a world shrouded in white. But the snow was churned up and deeper on the slope Círdan could see a large black body, the corpse of the Balrog. 

He halted, trembling. This was the moment of truth, but he did not want to know. Let him hope a bit longer that Olórin had somehow survived. He could not go down there to see his dead body.

The ship making fast on the quay was small. Clearly built  by his telerin brethren in the Blessed Realm but not as grand as the one the two Emissaries had come on. Who could this be now? 

Círdan wondered if another elven hero of old, like Glorfindel, had made the journey. But Glorfindel had come in the Second Age, when the travel had been much easier, if seldom undertaken. He was not sure if anyone but an Ainu could do it now. 

An old man stepped off the boat, a small pack slung over his shoulder and a long staff in his hand. He was clothed completely in shades of grey, a blue-grey hat with a wide brim and long, stiff tip on his head. A long grey beard and bristling eyebrows looked out from under it. 

Círdan went forward to greet the newcomer and stopped short when their eyes met. He knew those soft blue eyes — and although the face was that of an old human it held the memory of a face he’d known. 

“Randir,” he whispered. 

The maia smiled shyly. “Yes, I remember that’s what you called me. Well met, Círdan of the Havens.” 

Círdan searched his features, he had wondered at the guise of the two who had come before him and was even more curious now. He knew this maia and he felt different somehow, he felt… mortal. 

What happened? was what he wanted to ask, but he caught himself. That was not a conversation for a public place. 

“Will you come to my house? Rest and refresh yourself a bit before you move on. It must have been a long journey.” 

“It was. Thank you for your kind offer.” 

They didn’t have to walk far, Círdan lived at the harbour square. 

“You recognised me,” the Wanderer said softly as he followed him into the living room. “I did not expect that.” 

“We were friends — more than friends by the end I’d like to think,” Círdan answered. “I did not forget you. Come, sit. Have a glass of wine. It’s from Gondor, very fine.” 

The Wanderer leaned his staff into a corner and took his hat off before he sat down. “You must be… disappointed at my new attire then.” Was that a touch of insecurity Círdan was hearing? 

“No. I’m just wondering what happened. It is not just an attire, is it?” 

“No, it is more. The Valar have learned their lesson. They will not come themselves to deal with the Darkness that remains and take away the choices of the Children. But they do not want to abandon you completely. They sent us to help, but we are not supposed to lead you or put you in awe with our power, so we were sent here incarnate. You are right, this is not just attire, it is as much my body now as yours is yours.” 

“But why…” Círdan didn’t know how to phrase it politely. 

The Wanderer chuckled, sensing his discomfort. “Why an old man? To fit in with Men, to move among them undetected and to come to understand them better. There are not that many Quendi left. It is Men who will have to fight the Darkness and Men who are so easily swayed by the allure of the power of Evil. I will not fight myself, I will not lead. I am here as an advisor and a guide.” 

Círdan shuddered. “You sound as if… but Sauron was thrown down.” 

“Maybe and maybe not. He is one of my kind. And there are others who were under his sway.” The Wanderer put down his empty glass. “I thank you for your hospitality. You do not have to tell me sweet lies, I knew you would not be able to love me in this body. That was a price I was and am willing to pay in order to help the Children. I will leave now.” 

“You fool,” Círdan said gently, touching his lined cheek. “I won’t let you leave. And I still love you. You are still beautiful.” 

He leaned forward and kissed him, the Wanderer’s whiskers prickling on his lips. 

“I have missed you. I have often wondered, if leaving these shores would be a price well paid, if it meant seeing you again. And now you are here! You have shouldered such a heavy burden for the love of all of us and I will help you to carry it as well as I may. You will always have a place here, to rest and be happy for a while.” 

A tear was rolling down the Wanderer’s cheek. “I do not know what to say. I misjudged you, I’m sorry.” 

“Then say nothing,” Círdan answered gently and kissed him again. An idea came to him and he moved back. “I might have something to aid you with your task,” he said. “Do you know of the rings?” 

“How Sauron deceived Celebrimbor and made the One Ring? Yes, that has reached us.” 

“There were also three rings made that Celebrimbor gave to people he trusted. Sauron had no part in making them, Sauron never found out the identity of their keepers. They could not be used while he held the One, but since he was thrown down, we can. Gil-galad gave one of them to me before he died, but I have never felt quite comfortable with it. It is the Ring of Fire and I am too much linked to water.” Círdan pulled the ring, a wide golden band with a diamond-shaped ruby, from his finger and laid it in the Wanderer’s hand. “Take it and kindle the hearts of Men with it.” 

The Wanderer lifted Círdan’s hand to his lips. “This is a mighty gift,” he said. “And yet not the gift I will cherish the most. I will be on the road and often in places far away, but I will come back as often as I may.” 

“And I will wait here for you. Always.” Círdan embraced him, feeling the Wanderer lean into him. 

“My name is Olórin,” he whispered into Círdan’s ear. “That is my true name. Keep it safe for me.” 

Círdan leaned his cheek against the maia’s grey hair. “Olórin,” he said gently. “You will always be in my heart.”

~*~*~

Círdan felt the cold seep through his body. It had been around midday when he’d arrived here, now the moon was rising and he still hadn’t made up his courage. He couldn’t wait here much longer. The cold wouldn’t kill him — maybe — but it was starting to get uncomfortable and the orc surely had woken long ago and run to fetch his tribe. 

He trembled as he stepped out onto the snowy mountainside. He’d sometimes wondered how it must have been for the Noldor to cross the Helcaraxe with only the light of the stars to guide them. He at least had the moon. The snow glinted silvery and the broken stones that lay all around were clearly visible. 

Círdan moved slowly downwards, walking in wide loops to ease the incline. The dead balrog was a hulking shape but not frightening anymore. Its fires had been quenched, its shadows dissipated, it was only a dead body now. A piece of cloth, silvery-grey in the moonlight, moved in a gust of wind and Círdan felt his heart stop for a moment. 

Then he was running, almost falling, losing his footing and sliding the last few yards down. 

Olórin lay on his back, his sword beside him, just a few steps away from the formidable foe he’d killed. His clothes were in tatters, his skin blistered and red with burns. His eyes were closed and he looked peaceful — and Círdan could see that he was not breathing. 

“No,” he whispered. “No no no no!” 

He fell to his knees beside him and cradled his head in his lap, trying desperately to find a heartbeat, but Olórin’s skin was so cold. 

“No!” Círdan started to cry, the tears leaving his cheeks numb with cold. “Please,” he whispered. “Oh, Lord Manwe and Lady Nienna and my Lord Ulmo. Please don’t take him from me. He served you so faithfully. He brought a light to all the places he visited and we still need him. I need him. Have I not done everything you asked of me? Have I not waited on these Hither Shores for millennia until the one, who is now a star, came to my haven? I ask only one thing of you. Give me back my love. Please!” 

There was no answer. Círdan stroked Olórin’s hair, his tears falling down on his lover’s cheeks. 

“My heart is broken. I love you and my heart is broken because you are gone,” he whispered.

He was floating in nothingness, time a non-existent thing. There’d been a task, he knew, though he didn’t remember what it had been. Something urgent. But now all urgency was gone. All cares, all worries. The aches of a mortal body: gone. He was home. Truly home. A home before time that had faded with his time in Ea. 

And yet, where there should only be elation he felt a sorrow stab at his soul. 

Be at peace , a voice spoke inside him. Be at peace, child. You are safe. 

‘Father,’ he thought. ‘I am with you.’ 

It felt good to be in the presence of his Maker again. Warm and wholesome. 

‘But…’ There was something left behind. 

Others will carry on your task. You have done enough. 

‘But…’ Someone. A soul close to his. Laughing eyes that had seen so much sorrow. Silver hair. The smell of the sea. 

Is it your task that calls you back, or him?, his father asked. 

He saw himself lie in the arms of… Círdan, that was his name. Saw himself give his love to him while the rest of Middle-earth was at war around them. 

‘No,’ he thought. No, he could not do that. ‘Frodo…’ He’d left the Hobbit in mortal peril. He knew Aragorn would do everything in his power to protect him. Others would carry on his task, but that didn’t mean he was not needed. He wanted to be with Círdan — after. ‘If I am deserving of reward.’ 

His Father smiled sadly. If I send you back, there will be pain and suffering for you again, my son. 

‘Please,’ he answered. ‘Let me help my friends.’ 

It was not only his duty. It was what he wished with all his soul. He had sacrificed himself for them and he would do so again, if it meant they’d survive. And he wished for one last time to try and save his fallen brother. 

‘Let me be there for them.’ 

I honour your wish. You shall be what he was not, my faithful son. I also have a message for the Lady of the Golden Wood. Tell her she can go home now, if she wishes to.

The thunder of his heart was loud in his ears. He steeled himself for the pain, but his body was whole. An icy gust made him gasp for air and he remembered that he needed to breathe. He heard sobs and whimpering and realised he was not alone. He blinked his eyes open and looked into the grief-stricken face of his love. 

“Círdan,” he croaked, his vocal cords remembering how they worked. 

Círdan froze, wiping his eyes and staring at him. His hand trembled as he reached out to touch his cheek. He was staring at him in wonder. 

“You are warm!” he cried. “You are alive. Oh, Olórin!” 

Olórin held him tight as he wrapped his arms around him, holding him like he never wanted to let go. 

“I thought you were dead,” he sobbed. 

“I was,” Olórin answered. “But I was allowed to come back and continue my task.” He kissed Círdan gently. “And maybe be with you afterwards.” 

He shivered when the wind blew snow in his face and Círdan undid his own cloak and wrapped it around him. Olórin realised his own clothes were burned and in tatters, he realised they were sitting in the snow, he realised… 

“You came for me.” 

He felt tears prick at his eyes at the realisation that Círdan had left his beloved sea to search for him. 

“When I heard you’d fallen…” Círdan shook his head, his voice failing him. “I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you here in the wilderness. I love you.” 

Olórin clung to him. “I love you, too,” he answered, but also remembered his other friends. His duty. “Help me up? I need to look.” 

“Look where?” 

“East.”

~*~*~

“Lord Círdan, Mithrandir is here.” 

Círdan saw Galdor smirk when he threw his pen onto the desk and stood up so quickly that the chair skidded backwards. “I’ll be not available for the rest of the day,” he told him, acting as if he hadn’t noticed. 

Olórin hadn’t visited in a few years and his fea suddenly ached to see him. He hurried from his office up the stairs to his living room, where the maia waited. 

The smile he had on his lips vanished when he saw him. Olórin sat on the sofa, sunken into himself, still wearing his cloak and hat. 

‘He looks old,’ he thought, worried. He’d always looked like an old human, of course, but now… ‘Tired,’ Círdan realised. ‘That’s what he looks like. Tired and hopeless.’ 

“Olórin,” he said gently. “What happened?” 

“Círdan.” Olórin looked up to him. “Oh, how I needed to see you. Sit down with me, please.” 

Círdan quickly sat down beside him and laid his hand on his cheek. “I can see something awful has occurred. Can you talk about it?” 

“In a moment.” 

Olórin leaned into his hand and closed his eyes. Círdan stroked his thumb over his cheekbone and after a while Olórin lifted his own hand to weave their fingers together, clinging to him like he was drowning in some emotion. 

“I needed you so much, my dearest. For a while I thought I might not see you again.” 

Círdan shivered and bit his lip to stop himself from asking again. 

“It was a catastrophe,” Olórin rasped, his voice rough. “Alatar, one of my kin, sent me a desperate message that he feared for his friend Pallando. He’d changed and he had secrets, Alatar said. He feared he’d been seduced by the Cults in the East that still worship Morgoth. So I went to meet with Alatar and see what we could do for Pallando. It was too late.” 

He sobbed, tears starting to flow down his cheeks. Círdan gently lifted the hat from his head and cradled him so his head lay against his shoulder. Olórin still clung to one of his hands but Círdan stroked his long grey hair with the other. He wasn’t sure but he thought there was more white in it than had been there before. 

“We tried so hard to change his mind, but he’d already made his choice. We were outnumbered in enemy territory, we barely got out. The East is now lost to us — as is Pallando. And may Eru forgive me that I grieve more for my friend than for the Men of the East.” 

Círdan held him, letting him cry against his shoulder. He said no word, for what could he say? ‘I’m sorry,’ seemed horribly inadequate, and although he wondered about the implication this would have for all of them, it was hardly the time for talking politics. His heart ached for his Wanderer. 

Olórin took a deep breath and relaxed into him. “Thank you,” he said so softly that Círdan almost didn’t hear him. “I shouldn’t burden you with my troubles. I should have been here to help the Dunedain against the Witch-king.” 

Círdan kissed his forehead. “You can’t be everywhere. And of course you should share your troubles. What kind of partner would I be if I didn’t share your burdens? You carry so much on your shoulders, let me help you.” 

Olórin looked up to him. “Partner?” he asked. 

“Well, what else?” Círdan asked, blushing. They’d never discussed it exactly, but “Didn’t we promise each other to share our lives — as much as that is possible under the circumstances?” 

“We did. I… forgive me. I’ve loved you for so long and yet I somehow never thought the customs of the elves would apply to me.” 

Círdan kissed him gently and let his hand slide under his cloak. 

“Your neck is like wood,” he noted, rubbing the skin. “Let me ease your body’s pain.” 

Olórin squirmed. “I should wash first.” 

Círdan took his hands and kissed each knuckle, one after the other. “Then wait here for a moment and let me draw you a bath. Let me take care of you.” 

Thanks to the inventiveness of the Noldor and the close connection he’d had to Gil-galad, most of the houses in Mithlond had running water. He stoked the fire to heat the water and went back to Olórin, who still sat in the living room, a puzzled look on his face. 

“You look like I’m the first person to do something nice for you,” Círdan said. 

Olórin cocked his head. “It is usually me who gives consolation and help,” he answered after a while. “I am not used to it being done for me.” 

Círdan pulled him to his feet and hugged his slight form. He felt frail under his robes. “You are giving so much of yourself,” he said softly and rubbed his back with long, firm strokes. “You deserve to be coddled for a while and let go of your burden.” 

Círdan led him to the bathroom and drew the bath, making sure it was neither too hot nor too cold. 

“May I help you?” he asked as he saw Olórin start to stiffly undress, and he slid the long grey robes from the maia’s shoulders when he nodded. 

He tried hard to not look at him in an indecent way. For all the love that was between them, Olórin had never shown any interest in it getting more physical than kisses and Círdan didn’t want to press him. He put the clothes away to be washed and laid one of his own robes ready — it would be a little too big, but it was only for a while. 

Olórin sighed in relief when he sank into the hot water and relaxed visibly. Círdan put the soap beside him on a tray. 

“If you want some time for yourself, I can leave you. Or I could wash your hair if you like.” 

Olórin looked up at him and Círdan could see him fighting with himself. 

“You can let yourself go,” he encouraged him. “Just for this evening. You need it. I can see it.” 

Olórin took a shuddering breath. “You’d wash my hair?” 

“Of course.” Círdan knelt down behind him and reached for a pitcher with warm water. “Lean your head back,” he said gently, laying a hand on Olórin’s forehead. 

He soaked his grey hair gently before lathering it with soap. It was different from his own silver hair, the colours more varied. White strands mixing with black and hues of silver. Círdan massaged Olórin’s scalp with his fingertips and heard him moan as his tight muscles relaxed. 

‘My poor dear,’ he thought. ‘What you must have gone through.’ 

He washed the soap out and reached for a wide-toothed comb, gently untangling the knots. Olórin had closed his eyes, his breath evening out and getting deeper. Círdan wondered if he’d fallen asleep and worked silently, careful not to pull on his hair. 

Olórin started to hum softly and he sounded more content than he’d been. They did not talk. Círdan continued quietly to comb his hair, sending out his feelings of love and tenderness. After a while he put the comb aside and pinned up his hair. 

“Let me fetch the oil,” he said and stood up. 

Olórin moaned softly when he massaged the lavender-scented oil into his shoulders and blushed. 

“Feels good?” Círdan asked with a smile. 

“Yes,” Olórin answered. “Very much. Thank you.” 

Círdan bowed forward and kissed the damp crown of his head. ‘Everything for you,’ he thought.

When the water grew cold, Círdan wrapped him in a towel and dried him off. Olórin’s lids were drooping. 

“I’m so tired. I shouldn’t be this tired,” he mumbled. 

Círdan pulled him into an embrace. “Grief takes a lot of strength,” he said. “Come.” 

He led him to his own bed and they lay down together, Círdan still holding him. He let his hand wander up and down his back in long, firm caresses and felt Olórin relax into him. His breath evening out as he fell asleep. 

He held him through the night and hoped he was doing him some good. He wished he could have been there for him earlier, when his fellow maia had betrayed him. His Olórin was doing so much for everyone but himself and he had so little comfort in his life. Círdan promised himself for the future to pamper him whenever he visited.

~*~*~

Círdan watched his love as his gaze went into the distance. He’d given him his cloak, but he wasn’t cold. A warm fire of happiness burned inside his heart and warmed him from within. 

He was alive. Somehow his Olórin was alive again. Had his prayers been answered? He looked… not exactly younger, but less bowed down by cares and he radiated a power Círdan hadn’t felt from him since they’d parted ways at the end of the First Age. 

Olórin sighed deeply. “Well,” he murmured. “I feared for Boromir and I still cannot see what will become of him. They are out of my immediate reach now.” He turned to Círdan and smiled at him. “Let us find a way down this mountain, dearest.” 

Círdan suddenly remembered the orc he’d left behind on the stairs. “Yes, we… might want to hurry, there could be an attack soon.” 

He was surprised there hadn’t been, yet. He’d stood frozen in indecision for a long time. Círdan felt the air move around him. He’d have thought it the wind except Olórin was looking up, a smile on his face. 

“Hail, Lord of Winds,” he called and Círdan stumbled back when a giant eagle alighted on top of the fallen Balrog, the snow flying up around him. 

“Hail, Beloved of Manwe,” the Eagle answered.  “Hail, Ship-wright. You have been heard.” 

Círdan blushed, not sure what to answer. 

“I have carried you twice before, let me bear you to safety a third time,” the Eagle said to Olórin. 

Círdan hesitantly climbed onto the Eagle’s back behind his love, clinging tight to his waist as the Eagle rose into the air. His heart beat so loudly in his ears he did not hear what Olórin was saying to the Eagle. They flew east and soon Círdan could see a golden glimmer in the air that came from Lothlórien’s trees. The Eagle started to circle down.

Círdan had a hard time hiding his satisfaction at the surprised look Galadriel gave him. It was hard to surprise her. 

“My Lady,” he said and bowed to her. 

“Círdan.” 

He could almost see her thoughts circle through her brain. 

“When I heard about Mithrandir’s fall, I had to go and search for him,” he said. 

“Ah,” understanding came to her eyes and she smiled at him. “I’m glad for you.” 

It had never been exactly a secret that Olórin and he were close, but they hadn’t flaunted their relationship either. She hadn’t known. 

“What about the company?” Olórin asked, a sense of urgency in his stance. “What about Frodo?” 

“They were well when they left us a few days ago,” Galadriel answered. “Or as well as might be expected. Let us talk later. You will want new clothes and something to eat.” Something in Olórin’s face let her add: “You would not catch them, even if you followed immediately. Frodo is out of your reach now. And you know it.” 

Olórin lowered his head. “Yes, I know it,” he sighed. “I just wish it were not so.” 

“Rest a bit, Mithrandir,” Galadriel laid her hand on his arm and squeezed it gently. “It is not every day that someone returns from the dead, even for your kin.” 

Olórin smiled at that. “Thank you, my Lady.” 

They were led down the stairs along the tree trunk to a talan lower on its boughs where a room had been made ready for them. There were ewers with hot and cold water and fresh clothes for both of them. Olórin laughed when he saw the white robes set down for him. 

“The Lady of the Golden Wood sees many things,” he said as he donned them. 

Círdan noticed that his hair had almost the same colour as the robes, but it didn’t make him look older. Somehow he looked younger, more vigorous than he’d seemed in many long years. 

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“That it is time to show myself more openly than I have ever done before,” Olórin answered. He stepped closer and took Círdan’s hands between his own. “How much I wish I could go with you to your beloved seashore, but I fear we’ll have to part again, my love.” 

Círdan gulped down tears as he heard the endearment come from Olórin’s lips. “I know,” he croaked. “You wouldn’t be who I know and love if you turned your back on those who have need of you, my love.” 

Their lips met in a soft kiss. They’d shared many kisses, but this time Olórin didn’t draw back and let it become more passionate. Círdan leaned into the hand that cradled his nape. 

“Olórin,” he whispered when they stopped for a moment. 

Círdan didn’t know if talking would break the spell, but he needed to be sure. His body was reacting to their kisses, his borrowed trousers already feeling uncomfortably tight. He needed to ask this as long as he could still think clearly. 

“Do you really want this?” 

He slid his fingers under the rim of his maia’s robe and stroked the naked skin of his chest. 

“Yes,” Olórin whispered. “I was afraid before of… becoming too tethered, but no longer.” 

Círdan felt his heart leap and kissed him again. “I love you,” he said. And again, “I love you.” 

Olórin kissed him back with feeling. “I love you, too.” Then he added hesitantly, “I’ve never done this before.” 

Círdan smiled and leaned their foreheads together. “Just relax and don’t overthink it. It will be fine.”

Galadriel smiled at them when they met her and Celeborn for dinner and Círdan tried not to blush. He felt like she knew exactly what they had been doing while they ‘rested’. It had been a lot more than ‘fine’ and he was sure he glowed with happiness. They were served boar and heavy red wine that started a warm fire in Círdan’s belly. 

“You have excellent taste in men, Círdan,” Galadriel said, after he’d explained again in more detail how he came to arrive in the company of Olórin and Círdan almost choked on a piece of boar. He coughed, feeling his face heat. 

“Thank you, my Lady,” he wheezed. 

Olórin thumped a hand on his back. “I’d ask you kindly not to choke my beloved, Lady,” he said with a chuckle. “I still need him.” 

He let his hand rest on Círdan’s back, warmth radiating from his skin and Círdan relaxed into it. He felt giddy with the newness of it. 

“I see you do. I’m happy for you.” 

Galadriel looked like she meant it and Círdan felt himself relax a little more. He had not known how worried he’d been about the reactions of his peers.

“Thank you. But I have not come here to discuss my relationship. What can you tell me about Frodo, about the company?” 

“They rested here for a while. I talked to Frodo, and Samwise — you chose a good companion for him.” 

Olórin chuckled. “He rather chose himself.” 

“I’m not surprised.” Galadriel’s face became serious. “Frodo offered me the Ring.” 

“You declined.” 

“Yes.” Galadriel looked suddenly weary and as old as she was. “I declined.” 

“Ah, so that’s what He meant,” Olórin murmured. “I have a message for you, Lady. The ban is lifted, you are allowed to return West.” 

Círdan had the pleasure to see Galadriel’s face light up with happiness, a tear glinting in her eye. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

“I’m only the messenger,” Olórin answered. “But you are welcome and I’m glad for you. I hope you’ll remain to help a while longer.” 

“Oh, I will. I won’t desert you now. What are you going to do?” 

“I don’t know, yet.” Olórin shook his head slowly. “My heart wants to follow Frodo and help him, but it also tells me I might do more harm than good there. There are other places where my help is needed and I must deal with Saruman.” He sighed. “Would you allow me the use of your Mirror?” 

“Of course. Let me bring you there.” 

Círdan remained behind with Celeborn, feeling slightly jealous and overlooked. 

“I know how you feel, kinsman,” Celeborn said with a self-deprecating smile. “Let our mighty spouses deal with the troubles of the world. What say you to another bottle of wine? Thranduil sent me a particularly good vintage.” 

“Oh, why not?” Círdan shrugged and held out the glass when Celeborn had called for the bottle.

He woke to the smell of pipe-smoke. It was still dark, the only light coming from Olórin’s lighted pipe. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, feeling woozy. Too much wine , he thought. But it had been good to talk to Celeborn again. They hadn’t seen each other in a long time.

“What?” Olórin started as if he’d been deep in thought. “Oh, just thinking.” 

“Is something wrong?” 

“No… or, well, it depends. I could not see everything that happened. But there was a fight and I think Frodo is alone now.” Olórin shook his head. “It can’t be helped. I would only draw attention to him, if I followed him now. No. I think I’ll have to go to Rohan. Things are afoot there…” 

“You are leaving me again,” Círdan said softly. He’d known it, of course, but still. His heart hurt. “You are going into danger again.” 

“I have to, don’t you understand?” Olórin said gently. “Don’t think it isn’t hard for me to leave you.” 

“I do understand. I just wish it were not so.” Círdan sighed and reached out with his hand. “Come to bed? I can see we’ll not have much more time together.” 

“For now,” Olórin replied. “Once this is over, once my task is done, I’ll be all yours.” 

Or dead , Círdan thought gloomily. He knew what was at stake but that didn’t make the parting any easier. He tried not to think of it as he settled into Olórin’s embrace. They still had this night and maybe a little more.

Círdan stood at the railing of the ship that would take them across the Sea and watched Olórin saying goodbye to his hobbit-friends. He was nervous and excited — and a little heartbroken. 

Finally he would finish the Great Journey. Finally he would see what was on the other side. But it hurt to leave behind his home of so many years. His house had looked so empty when he’d left it, his belongings already stowed in the hold — and the city was empty too. His people had slowly trickled away over the centuries. 

It was his turn now. He was not sure if he’d have been able to if it wasn’t for his love for Olórin. His Wanderer. He could not let him leave alone again. 

They had spent a lot of time together in the last years. Círdan had been forced to stay in Lothlórien until the news of the fall of Sauron had arrived and then he’d ridden to Minas Tirith with Galadriel and Celeborn for the wedding of their grand-daughter. Olórin had been there, safe and whole and looking as happy and carefree as he’d never seen him since his return to Middle-earth. 

Círdan had been worried about his people. He’d managed to send Galdor a bird, but he felt guilty for leaving Vaima and his crew out in the wild with no news of him. He’d almost made up his mind to take a ship to Pelargir and up the coast, when Galdor himself had arrived, having been invited to the festivities, and told him that his crew had made it home safely. 

Nothing could have stopped him then from staying at Olórin’s side. They’d ridden slowly back home and even though Círdan sometimes missed the sea, he was too happy to miss it for long. 

And then Olórin had stayed. Oh, he visited his friends in the Shire and Rivendell and even down in Gondor now and then, sometimes alone, sometimes with Círdan at his side. But he often stayed now with Círdan. He’d moved in with him, it was common knowledge now that they were a couple. Not married, yet, but maybe… 

Círdan smiled to himself. There were some Noldor on the other side who owed him a favour. Maybe he’d commission a wedding ring once they’d settled in. Olórin came up to him and took his hand. 

“Are we ready?” he asked and Círdan nodded. 

“We are.” He kissed him and leaned into Olórin, who stroked his bearded cheek, fingers playing with the small dwarven ornaments in his still growing beard. (Dís had laughed her ass off when he bought them from her.) 

“Let me give the order to weigh anchor,” he said, reluctantly disentangling himself from his love’s embrace. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” 

“I’ll be right at your side,” Olórin answered. “From now until the world’s end.”