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Imagine, for a moment, a person who can easily ask questions of gods and dead folk alike.
This person is quite a curious fellow, and one day finds themself wondering about the workings of these great rings they keep hearing about — rings which ensnare the tongues of bards across all of Middle Earth.
If this person were to go up and ask Celebrimbor what
really
makes a ring of power, he would shrug and say, “The will of the Valar.”
Intrigued, this person might seek out another craftsman of powerful rings — a Maia of Aule’s tutelage, perhaps, whose purpose in Middle Earth has only ever been the return of his dark lord and the flourishing of said lord’s vision. If this person were to ask this Maia what
really
makes a ring of power, the Maia would turn up his nose and say, “The will of an Ainu, of course.”
If this person was then bold enough to approach an Ainu — probably a Vala, you imagine, considering the rest of the Ainur reside beyond the walls of the world — and ask the same, the Ainu would likely say, “The will of the craftsman.”
This is, of course, a rather puzzling conundrum for the questioner. Whose will is truly imposed upon the ring? Should one listen to the god or the craftsman? Are any of them actually correct?
Such a line of thought would then send this person spiraling into a philosophical crisis regarding objective truth and paradoxes beyond comprehension in this reality.
But this person will have forgotten to ask the most relevant being.
After all, who could know the will of a ring better than the ring itself?
###
At the dawn of the Fourth Age, three incredibly wise, incredibly powerful beings stepped off the shores of Middle Earth forever.
Before they did, however, one of them took Círdan aside and told him, “I believe this is yours.”
Círdan looked down at the simple gold-and-ruby band resting in Mithrandir’s aged palm. “It was a gift.”
Mithrandir shook his head. To another, he might have seemed sagely and wise under those heavy brows — but to Círdan’s knowing eyes, Mithrandir was as confused by the mystery of his actions as Círdan. “It is not to see the white shores for a while yet.”
Círdan accepted the ring, and Narya fit him as easily as ever. Mithrandir’s words worsened Círdan’s already-dour mood — the Istar clearly meant to warn Círdan of his duty to the Grey Havens, the doubly-prophetic words in reference to the ring and bearer both.
But Círdan knew his lot. He didn’t need reminding.
“Of course.”
And so Mithrandir, Galadriel, Elrond, and two of Celebrimbor’s rings departed on the fairest craft Círdan had to offer. It was a great deal more advanced and magnificent than Vingilot, as time was ever wont to push the world into greater and wiser technologies — but Earendil was a star, now, and thus would never know to be offended.
Narya glittered on Círdan’s finger, rekindling his simmering longing for the light of the West into a stronger, steadier flame. After these many long years spent crafting and sailing and yearning, his time was so, so close now, close enough he could see it in the setting sun behind distant sails…
Círdan shook himself and glared southeastward. He began preparing an argument to spark Celeborn into motion.
###
By F.A. 117, even Celeborn was sick enough of the ways of mortals to be convinced to sail.
“They asked if I was to leave behind a stewardship. A
stewardship
, Círdan. What in the world would a
steward
be
stewarding
in Lothlórien, with no people in it?”
“I believe they mean to inhabit the golden wood, my friend.”
Celeborn looked aghast.
“King Elessar would never —!”
“It was his son who asked you, no? Prince Eldarion?”
Celeborn was silent.
Círdan sighed. “Perhaps it is time to reunite with your wife.”
“Perhaps it is.”
Círdan would leave his legacy behind in the great and empty halls of the Haven in the form of ship-building instructions — all the millennia of his craft, condensed into a small room of books and scrolls.
“Why leave them?” Celeborn asked from the entrance to the room, where he stood watching Círdan ensure the miniature library was in order. Out the window they could glimpse the last ship crafted by Círdan’s hands to exist on Arda’s waters, where it bobbed on the waves as if eager for departure. “I’m sure your long-separated kin would take great joy in your works.”
“But I am coming to them,” said Círdan. “My kin are not the ones with the greatest need for these books.”
The vision of a fair-haired elf alongside a fire-bearded dwarf discovering this very room resounded in his mind’s eye, making him smile to himself. Celeborn, who was cognizant of Círdan’s foreknowledge, simply accepted the knowing look for what it was and left him to his work.
When Círdan at last felt certain that future visitors would have all they needed in order to make a sea-worthy vessel, he paused. Narya glinted in the light of the setting sun.
Círdan frowned down at the ring. “Truly?”
The ring did not respond, but Círdan
saw
. He slipped the ring off his finger, and laid it gently on the round stone table at the center of the room with a sense of finality.
Then, finally, Círdan the Shipwright sailed into the West.
###
One autumn day, a gray-bearded dwarf and a seemingly-youthful elf stumbled upon Círdan’s library. In their perusal of the books, which were impeccably indexed and, remarkably, highly relevant to the quest at hand, the elf discovered something else entirely.
“Look, Gimli! This ring is surely of the finest design!” The elf was bent over the table, peering down at the little gold circle.
“Bah!” Gimli replied, hefting a dusty tome
On the Patterns of Stars
. “I’ve had enough of rings for two lifetimes, I think.”
The elf straightened. “A fair point.”
They sailed a year hence.