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

---

Chapter Three

---

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.