Bound to These Shores by Isilme_among_the_stars  

The sea king rose towering from the waves, dreadful in his magnificence. Clothed in tempest, swirling waters clung as seafoam to his aquamarine skin. Air broke thunder-loud as storm-whipped waves when he spoke. They say of all the Valar, Ulmo’s form is most terrifying, surpassing even Manwë in his salt-crusted magnificence.

Nōwē remained undaunted. Perched on the prow he rose to his own not insignificant height, eyes bright with fervent hope.

“I would follow that light!”

“And you will!” the sea king declared, sealing a fate as high as the stars and as inevitable as the tides. “Yet not this night. Nay, not this age, nor for many to come.”

Poised as a harpoon in flight, course set by determination and might, Nōwē reached bodily for the vanishing island, for the harsh lines of longing do not easily change course. An echo of the call stranding him on these shores passed his lips, quiet as bream slipping between blades of seagrass.

“Olwë…”

A vow was made in his heart: no longer “Elwë” I will find you, but “Olwë” we will meet again, in the end.

“This vessel will not reach the western shore,” came the sea king’s damnation of confidence placed in this painstaking work of his hands. Foundering ships littered his thoughts, like wrecks adorning a vast desolate seabed. Ulmo would not have his pearl drowned untimely in the lonely depths of his watery domain. A moment of foreshadowing crept upon the lone elf then, dark and startling with the menace of a tumultuous future.

“My eyes will not see the trees of light,” spoke Nōwē, his starlit gaze widening in unhappy surprise. Weighed heavy with griefs yet to come, Nōwē’s proud head bowed. A defeat, then.

“And yet,” Ulmo rumbled like sails worried by the breeze, full of promise, “your part will guide one to raise up their light for the hope of all. Círdan you will be. Maker of ships that will cheat the treacherous seas.”

A death and a rebirth. Proud Nōwē sunk to the depths as the Shipwright rose, foresighted and wise beyond all else on these shores. And his name was refuge, steadfast friendship and succour in time of need. A cry died unvoiced in his throat, the death knell of the brave and daring young Nōwē. Círdan would have to be so much more.

Visions sprang to his mind of spindrift and swooping gulls as the sea king extended a great shimmering hand to lift his head. Through the long years he, the Shipwright, was a constant; a promise that could not be defeated by the ravages of war, nor the treachery of kin. A shepherd of the seas would he be, with a piebald flock ever on his decks looking to his guidance on the long and convoluted path home. His steady hand at the tiller would not fail. And from the midst of these visions there rose a ship gleaming like a star. So bright it was, as it roamed the un-charted tides of the firmament that its light cast shadows over the decks of lesser boats bound to earthly seas. Not his, Círdan perceived, but a hallowed vessel that bore his fingerprints even so.

“Abide on these shores, awaiting that time, for when it comes then will your work be of utmost worth. It will be remembered in song for many ages after.”

The sea king spoke not of the ships that he would build, for they were only tools in the end, but souls he would ferry. Not a single one of the Quendi would he forsake, doomed to fade on these shores. That was his legacy. Not ships, but the gathering of a people, safe and whole.

Eyes fierce as a leviathan, determined as a clam and patient as lapping waves smoothing sharp rocks rose to meet the wine-dark fathom-deep timeless orbs of the sea king. And Círdan spoke his first words.

“I obey.”

Chapter End Notes

Before he was named for his shipbuilding, Círdan was known as Nōwē, an archaic name form for which the meaning is lost. This little factoid that is hidden in the notes of Last Writings, from The Peoples of Middle Earth. I've drawn on this version, which paints a gorgeous portrait of Círdan including information not given in the published Silmarillion.

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