There were none yet remaining in Middle-earth who could remember a time when Círdan, lord of the Falathrim-of whom it was said by some that he had seen Cuiviénen-had not dwelt on the western-most shores of the land. For four and a half thousand years he had lived and worked in the Mithlond, the Grey Havens of the North he had helped found in the first years of the Second Age, after Beleriand was broken asunder.
Hundreds of ships of white and grey had there been crafted by the skilled and loving hands of Círdan and the other Shipwrights, and he had watched as many a vessel set sail never to return, bearing away load after load of Eldar who fled the evils of the East or simply grew weary of the world.

Círdan, however, had not departed in the tumults of the First Age and darkness of the Second, and through the apparent peace of the Third he still tarried, for great wisdom was his, and in his heart he divined that many great deeds must yet come to pass ere he finished the journey he had begun ten thousand years before.
In the great forges of Ost-in-Edhil Celebrimbor, most skilled of all smiths save Fëanor before him, had crafted Narya, the great Ring of Fire, along with its two brethren. In the Dark Years that followed it had been entrusted to Círdan, though few knew of its bestowing.
Long had it lain concealed against his heart but now, as the Ship-Kings ruled in Gondor and tidings began to arrive from East and South of trouble stirring once more, its small weight seemed a burden and its presence caused his spirit great unease. Here upon the West-shores it was idle, for the quiet folk of the Havens had little use for its power, yet there were few of the inhabitants of Middle-earth to whom the Ring could be assigned without danger: only the mightiest of the Eldar of old had the strength to wear and wield a Ring of Power, and of those who remained, the two greatest already bore their own bands of mithril and of gold. With Círdan, therefore, it must stay, despite his misgivings.

"This is not the end for which it was fashioned," he murmured as he ran his hands slowly over the high prow of a proud white ship. Círdan had stood beside Elrond as they wept over their fallen king Gil-galad, whom he had loved as a son, and he had watched in increasing fear and foreboding as Isildur took the ruling Ring and claimed it as his own, for he knew that with this deed, the doom was set upon Middle-earth that Sauron would return.
Now, as fingers of darkness crept insidiously back into the world, a shadow fell over the hearts of the Wise, for they perceived that ere long those fingers would grasp the world in a crueller grip. This was, perhaps, the fate that Celebrimbor foresaw and the purpose behind his design, for in days of evil the waning power of the Elves would benefit greatly from the potent influence of the Rings.

His musings did not ease Círdan's concern and so he waited. Waited for he knew not what...for the inevitable return of the malignant force of the East, for his time to depart, for the advent of some mightier being to whom he could deliver the combined power and responsibility inherent in the Ring of Fire...perhaps.

The departing forever of ships into the West was a sight not uncommon to those who dwelt by the Sea, but in all the years he had been Master of the Havens Círdan had witnessed the opposite phenomenon only rarely: since the Drowning of Númenor the approach of a ship out of the West was a thing almost unheard of.

On a night of cold, grey drizzle, he stood by the quays as he oft-times did, his cloak wrapped close about him and his gaze fixed on the last glimmers of light in the West, his ears listening to the music of the drops falling upon the gently lapping waves. There was no wind and all else was silent, for the rest of the Elves had retired to the warmth of their halls. After a time, however, a new sound crept into his mind, familiar and yet incongruous. It was with a measure of astonishment that Círdan recognised the soft, rhythmic splash and pull of oars carrying a ship forwards. The lords of Gondor were more concerned with the Southern lands than with their kin in the North, and the boats that put out from the little coastal villages of the Men of Middle-earth were not large enough to travel this far to the North.

As he watched, the form of a great vessel gradually rose up out of the blurred horizon. She was high and proud, white with wings of gold, and fairer than any ship of Middle-earth...lovelier in design even than those ships of the Teleri that had borne the host of the Valar from Aman. With caught breath and a sense of increasing wonder in his mind, Círdan followed the majestic progress of the ship as she approached the harbour.
From whence does she come? Whom does she bear? he questioned himself, but in his heart he knew the answer, and he trembled.

The vessel docked at last, quietly and with perfect grace, as though the mariner who steered her had known this port through all of his life. The gangplank was lowered and Círdan waited, his heart filled with hope and awe. Only two figures descended at last, and as they turned to him, he saw that they were not lords of terrible beauty as he had long ago seen: they appeared in form as two Men, old in body but firm in step. The first and taller was clad in white, the second, who was clearly considered by both as the inferior, wore robes of brown; each carried in his hand a staff. They approached Círdan as he stood there, and as he looked upon them he recognised the power that was concealed within, and bowed his head before them. As he looked up into the face of the first, however, the reverence he felt was suddenly mingled with cold foreboding. The face was stern and proud, the grey eyes wise but merciless...that a spirit of great strength was in the man before him, Círdan had no doubt, but he possessed no compassion, and power without pity is a dangerous thing.

He did not know how much time passed before the white-clad figure spoke, greeting Círdan in the tongue of the Sindar. His voice was deep and rich, and carried great authority: it was a voice that could persuade Men to any cause, if the speaker so desired. His words now were commonplace enough, creating an extraordinary juxtaposition with the manner of his arrival.
"Will you provide me with provisions for myself and my...companion?" he asked, his tone making it seem a command.
"Yes...you may come with me, lords, if that is your desire," Círdan replied.
"That is well," the other answered. "We have travelled far and have yet far to go."
Turning to lead them to his house, the Elf noted with some surprise that the ship that had carried them was gone, having disappeared silently back into the West.
"You shall abide here?" he asked tentatively. The second man made as though to speak, but the other prevented him with a gesture.
"We shall remain for a time in this place, but all the world is before us," he answered, looking into the East.

As they walked, Círdan reached up and touched the place where Narya lay, but made no attempt to remove it. Come from out of the West they might be, but he knew that he would not rest contented if he resigned the Ring into the care of either. Disappointment filled his heart, for whom else with sufficient power to carry such responsibility could he hope to meet?

In Círdan's house they spent the remainder of the night, eating and asking many questions, although it was ever the first who spoke most, discovering much and revealing nothing. At dawn they left once more, walking into the East, and none save Círdan marked their departure. He stood at the edge of the town, watching them leave with a strange fear in his heart that could not be dispelled, whatever his mind might tell him...he would listen with great care for tidings of these strange men.

During the days that followed, Círdan mused much on the two, their advent and their departure, and what these things signified. If indeed they came as messengers from those in the West, what tidings had they been sent to carry, and to whom had they been instructed to bear them? He shared his thoughts with no-one, but spent more time even than had been his wont in solitary wanderings upon the shore.

It was in one of these times, as the Sun sank to rest in a blaze of fiery colour, that he beheld for the second time in as many weeks the silhouette of a ship outlined against the skyline. His blood raced as he walked to the dock and watched as the vessel was guided into harbour. Even had he not seen her approach from the West, he would have recognised her anywhere as the sister of the earlier ship: smaller, but with the same high prow delicately carven and the same gilded wings tapering back on either side.

As before, two figures stepped ashore: this time Men of similar height, each wrapped in a cloak of deep blue and evidently friends in a relationship of equals, closer companions by far than the twain who had preceded them . They spoke to Círdan with many fair words and like the others requested his aid. Again he felt the sense of power that surrounded them, though there was little in their appearance to distinguish them from the folk of the Dúnedain who at times strayed into the ken of the Falathrim. Once more the strangers passed some time in the house of Círdan, but their cares and concern for the happenings of Middle-earth seemed less weighty and when at length they took their leave on a noon of dazzling sunshine, they passed into the East singing, with nary a glance to left or right. Neither did they heed the tall Elf who stood watching them, until their short shadows had long vanished from the sight of mortal eyes. Many things had he left unspoken, but he would not have wished it otherwise.

For weeks Círdan pondered the things he had seen, while his kindred observed him with increasing disquiet: he barely ate or spoke, and even his beloved ships carried little allure. All his thought was occupied with wondering what doom the arrival of the Men from the West portended, yet not even to Galadriel did he reveal what lay upon his heart.

Dawn was approaching, heralded by veins of gold and pink that spanned the distant horizon. The air was cool and damp, but there was a sweetness in it that was rarely to be breathed so close to the shore. Círdan sat on a great rock, smoothed by the caressing of a thousand thousand waves and gazed into the dimness of the West with a long-familiar longing that was suddenly mingled with a feeling much less common.
Slowly but purposefully, a small grey ship made her way towards Lindon, accompanied by a haze of spray. As she drew near, it could be seen that this vessel was more modest by far than either that had preceded her, but to the eyes of Círdan the Shipwright, the simple grace of her lines was even more beautiful than the proud elegance they possessed. He rose from his seat and walked to the harbour, strangely dazed and yet in a thrill of anticipation.

On this occasion it was a lone figure that stepped down the narrow plank and walked across the cobbles to where Círdan stood awaiting him. This final wayfarer was less tall than the first, was robed and cloaked all in grey and wore a high blue hat and long grey beard, but to his eccentric external appearance the Elf bore little heed, for it was the eyes that captured all his notice. Grey as the sea on a stormy night, sharp as a blade of the Noldor, deep as the waters of Lórellin, bright as the stars of Elbereth new-kindled. In them was strength and wisdom born from years uncounted, but humility was there also, compassion and patience and a knowledge of both great sorrow and unfathomable joy.
In this worn form Círdan recognised a spirit more noble than any he had encountered, save for some among the mightiest of the Ainur, and he bowed low before him, unable to speak.

"Rise, my friend," the old man said gently, placing a hand on the Elf's shoulder.
"My lord," Círdan answered reverently, daring to look into the kindly smiling face above him. The other only shook his head and asked,
"Have you perhaps a place where I could rest for a time?"
"Anything that I can give you, lord, is yours," Círdan replied, but his words carried more meaning than most could have discerned, for as soon as he had seen this grey pilgrim, he knew.

The man remained among the Elves of the Mithlond some weeks, but as the others, he revealed neither his name nor his purpose, spending his time rather aiding them as he could and receiving what news they could give him of their kin in the East and South. Círdan, however, was content, for there was a peace and assurance in his heart that had been absent for many years. To him the stranger spoke most often and from his words-yet more so from what was left unsaid-Círdan discovered much of his intent.

At last their guest prepared to depart and one morning as Spring hesitated on the threshold of Middle-earth, he set off towards the Downs upon which Gil-galad had long ago set his towers, taking with him only his staff and a small bag, containing all that the Elves had prevailed upon him to accept. Círdan accompanied him some distance along the path, but when they came to a parting of the ways he halted. His companion did the same, looking at him with a keenly questioning glance.

Reaching inside his tunic, Círdan withdrew Narya from its place of concealment and extended the Ring towards the old man. The early morning light caught in the great crimson jewel, setting it aglow with a heart of flame. He felt no need to describe the Ring's origins, for rumours of the Three had doubtless reached the ears of those who dwelt in the West, and he knew somehow that the other would understand.
"Take now this Ring," he said, "for thy labours and thy cares will be heavy, but in all it will support thee and defend thee from weariness."

In thirty centuries Círdan had learned much of the power of the Ring, but he knew that this man would wield it to far greater avail than he could ever hope to, and would have far greater need of it, also.
"This is the Ring of Fire, and herewith, maybe, thou shalt rekindle hearts to the valour of old in a world that grows chill." Looking back into the West and listening to the echoes of the waves that were ever present in his mind, he finished quietly,
"But as for me, my heart is with the Sea, and I will dwell by the grey shores, guarding the Havens until the last ship sails. Then I shall await thee."
Círdan knew in his heart that when his task was done, this messenger of the West would return from whence he came-and then, perhaps, his own time would have come also.

In silence the old man reached out an open hand to receive the treasure, and as the soft wind whispered in the grasses, Círdan relinquished at last the great power that had been entrusted to him.
"I do not refuse this honour," the man said quietly, "for I comprehend the spirit in which it is bestowed. With its aid I may achieve great good in Middle-earth that could not otherwise be accomplished, and so I thank you, for this and all else that you have given me."

Holding the jewel aloft, the man spoke words in a strange tongue. Círdan could not have rendered them into any other form, yet they seemed at the time familiar to his ears. He gazed in awe at the figure before him, for seeming to glow in the reflected light of the Ring, the wizened form stood straight, and for an instant the Elf saw him revealed as a mighty lord, proud and tall and fair. Then the vision passed, and he smiled: kindly and powerless as a grandfather of Men in latter days he seemed, yet Círdan knew he was not so.

With that final smile the old man turned and departed into the blue haze of Eriador. As he watched him go, Círdan murmured a prayer of thanks to the Valar, for he knew that the bent shoulders would carry great responsibility and the lined hands would bring to pass mighty deeds.
As the figure dwindled and disappeared, the Elf turned and strode back to his quays, for a ship was to be crafted: white would its sails be and long would it be in the making, but use it would not know until all things foreseen had known fulfilment and the Wise took ship at last and sailed into the West.