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

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Chapter Four

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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.