Farseer

by Eruanna

… for Círdan saw further and deeper than any other in Middle-earth…

~Unfinished Tales

He sees the sea and the stars in the days when the world was made. He sees the awakening of the Elves, and their coming to the land of the Valar, and he wonders. He sees the advent of Morgoth, and the darkening of the world, and he weeps. He sees the great and terrible wars of the past, and those that have yet to be. He sees the rise and fall of worlds, and the return of the darkness, and he grows sorrowful. And over the long years he abides unchanging through all the tides of the world, and at last his sadness is turned to wisdom.

He sees a glimmer of light in the ever-gathering shadow. The light comes from the West, as it must, sailing over sea, a faint flickering thing, bowed beneath a wind from the East. He sees it afar off, and it is long in coming, at last resolving itself into three smaller lights. One is the strongest flame, but it shudders most in that dark wind, and he doubts if it can remain alight. Beside it is a paler light, warm but distant—it quails before the darkness and turns away. The last is much weaker than the first, and it stands aside, pale and bent beneath the shadow. But it does not waver.

He smiles, and the water washes over the stones in an age-old music. They will come, the lights out of the West. Whether the first two will endure, he does not know. But the last will stand: old, bent and broken, but never overcome. And so it must be. He looks at the pebbles as they roll in the surf, and thinks that it is always the small things which shape the worlds.

For there will be other lights, and they will shine not out of the holy West, but from the hither shores of Middle-earth. He sees the stars of Elbereth shining upon the brow of a mortal man with the light of the Eldar in his eyes. The light from the West will descend into blackness and is reborn, and in the cry of a gull he hears the horns of a people fierce and free, heralding the dawn. The waves wash gently among the smooth rocks of the shore, and they whisper to him of sorrows, and burdens, and the little one who will carry the weight of the world, as it must always be. There is wisdom in the waves, and in the sea-grey eyes of the one who will bear the burden. And he knows, when the darkness has passed and all is completed, that the sea will take him back, and the light will cross again over the grey waves, not three, but five.

But he will not be among them. He sees it clearly, knows the meaning of his life—he has seen it in the dancing surf that calls to him ceaselessly, and will not let him rest. But he has found peace in his wanderings. And he knows it is the sea that brings him these visions.

So he waits through the long years as the darkness grows and the leaves wither, keeping his harbour, ever watchful. The first two come from out of the West, but he speaks only words of greeting to them, and no more, and they go on their way, thinking little of him. He hopes that they will not flicker and die in the bitter wind from the East, but his heart is heavy in him. And still he waits.

Until the last comes. An old man, bowed, and clad all in grey, but with a twinkle of mirth in his eye that speaks of a simple wisdom. And to this one, at last, he speaks.

‘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. For this is the Ring of Fire, and herewith, maybe, thou shalt rekindle hearts to the valour of old in a world that grows chill. 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.’

~ ‘Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age,’ The Silmarillion