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

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Chapter Five

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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.