out before his gates. It had been so long since those gates had been walls,
not settled in Mithlond, but West in Falas. As he looked out upon the grassy
hills, a melancholy voice seemed to go over all his life.
Being well over ten thousand years of age, he had much to remember...
the young elf, Elwe, who came running back to Cuivienen, telling tales of
a great light, majestic forests, mountains taller than the clouds. A dream
world. A world he refused to go to. Now, after countless decades, it was
finally time for him to go.
An invisible tear fell from his eye, he had seen so much. So much pain,
yet so much joy. Valinor had been but a fantasy, and now he could and couldn't
wait to be there.
Now five furry hobbits, a gleaming grey wizard, and two familiar ring
bearers strode in, followed by many high elves. Cirdan put on a smile, staring
at the renowned halfing who was already spoken of in song in Tirion and Alqualonde.
"All is ready," announced Cirdan and, as he walked to the port, it felt as
if he were walking to the ship in which he had sailed out of Balar.
A dove flew past and perched itself on the great white ship. "Was
that the same bird I saw in Fornost?" Cirdan asked himself. A ship anchored
in the port reminded Cirdan of the ship sent to save Arvedui, Last King, who
was lost in the North. As he guided Frodo along to the white ship, his hand
fell from the hobbit's back to his own sword hilt, the sword that he
had used as he burst forth into Hithlum to save the Noldor, who had been pushed
back from the Ered Wethrin.
He came to the ship, and as the company passed to board, Cirdan caught
a wink from the old wizard. "We go now to a place of eternal rest, do not
worry," Mithrandir's voice seemed to plunge into his head. "Utulie'n aure,"
Cirdan heard himself whisper, though none of the others seemed to have.
Cirdan Shipwright was the last to board, and he came upon the ship in
silence. He slowly walked to the back of the boat. As he did, he heard
the sounds of the sighs of the waves, and the singing of the Haven elves.
Yet all that was drowned out by what seemed to start as a tiny chirp, a muffled
rustle. It grew louder; the breeze blew the pine trees as it blew into the
Shipwright himself. Each breath of Cirdan was now a sob of longingness,
a silent sob that none but the grass, the trees, the rocks, and the seas
could hear. The September wind grew increasingly louder, as if to answer
the sobs with howls of sorrow. It picked up the sails of the white ship,
and Cirdan's final journey had begun.
Cirdan's invisible tears turned to real ones as the voices died
down a soft sigh. "Namarie
, Cirdan Shipwright, your presence shall be missed,"
Middle-earth whispered, but Cirdan could only reply with a faint, "Namarie