Candles and Confidences by grey_gazania

Candles and Confidences

Read Candles and Confidences

Sitting on the floor and talking till dawn
Candles and confidences
Trading old beliefs and humming old songs
And lowering old defenses

 

– “Love Song” from Pippin by Stephen Schwartz

 

***********

 

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand this game,” Elrond sighed, looking down at the black and white stones that covered the board in front of him. More white than black, but that was hardly surprising; despite the best efforts of Ereiniel Gil-galad and Círdan the Shipwright, Elrond had yet to win a single game of gleinad against either of them, and right now Gil-galad was, as usual, defeating him handily.

 

“You just need more practice,” Gil-galad said soothingly. “It took me about twenty-five years to win my first game against Círdan, and my grandfather started playing this with me as soon as I could talk. You only began learning three weeks ago.”

 

“Fingolfin taught you to play?” Elrond asked, surprised. He hadn’t thought that the game had ever been terribly popular among the Amanyar. His foster-fathers and their people had certainly never played it; in fact, Elrond had never even heard of gleinad before he and Elros had arrived on Balar. But it seemed to be the game of choice for most of the people here, both among the Edain and the Elves. Elrond had been drawn in by its deceptively simple rules, but he’d soon found that it was more complicated than it seemed.

 

Gil-galad shook her head. “Annael,” she clarified. “Nana’s father. He’s a gleinad fiend. He and Círdan once played a game that lasted over four hundred moves.” Placing another stone on the board, she said, “I don’t know if Haru ever learned how to play this. He played chess. I used to watch him and my father play, when I was small.” She hesitated, and then, a little clumsily, added, “I think he used to play by letter with Caranthir and…and Maedhros, back when things were peaceful. Ada used to play chess with Maedhros as well.”

 

It was an awkward statement, but over the past two years, as he’d settled into his new home, Elrond had come to appreciate that Gil-galad’s occasional attempts at neutral comments about his foster fathers were a sort of peace offering – sometimes ungainly, but ultimately well-intentioned. He knew that she hated the Sons of Fëanor, just like nearly every elf on this island, and that she especially hated Maedhros and Maglor. And, in turn, she knew that Elrond didn’t. That he couldn’t. His feelings towards his foster fathers were complicated, and sometimes shaded into anger, but hatred wasn’t among them. How could he hate the men who had raised him, the men who had cared for him and even loved him?

 

Elrond and Gil-galad would never see eye-to-eye on the matter, but they could have a truce rather than an argument.

 

“I’m not surprised,” Elrond said, setting down a stone of his own. “Elros and I played a lot of chess, growing up. It seems to be the most popular game among the Noldor.”

 

Gil-galad nodded as she matched his move, capturing two of his stones. “It is. And I like chess. I play it with Hennthael and Celebrimbor quite often. But, you know…” She shrugged. “I’m like you. I’m not of one single Kindred. My mother’s people are the Sindar of Mithrim. I should know how to play their games, too, not just the games of the Noldor.”

 

It was, Elrond had to admit, a reasonable point. And, after some urging from his twin, Elrond had begun to make a sincere effort to get to know Elwing and Eärendil’s people.

 

They’re our parents, Elrond, Elros had said. We should learn where we come from.

 

“So Annael taught you to play gleinad,” Elrond said, setting down another stone. “And Fingolfin taught you to play chess?”

 

Gil-galad shook her head. “I used to watch Haru and Ada play, but I didn’t really learn the game till I was older. Ada used to teach me when he came to visit.” She paused, and then said, “The truth is that I don’t remember Haru very well.”

 

“Really?”

 

She raised her eyebrows at Elrond, as though his surprise had surprised her in turn. “I was only eleven when he was killed,” she pointed out.

 

“I know,” Elrond said. “It’s just that you--” He paused, trying to marshal his thoughts and muster the right words. “You emphasize that you’re from the House of Fingolfin,” he finally said. “That you’re Fingolfin’s granddaughter. And you do it in a way that...omits Fingon, I guess, is what I’m trying to say. I assumed that you and Fingolfin must have been very close.”

 

More than once, Elrond had wondered if not everyone among the Noldor had been happy to see Fingon’s daughter become High King. Perhaps his father or his grandmother Idril had had supporters among the Gondolindrim. Perhaps some people had supported Galadriel, as the eldest of the House of Finwë. Perhaps Celebrimbor had even had supporters, though Elrond couldn’t imagine that being a very popular position, given what Celebrimbor’s father had done in Nargothrond.

 

He did not, however, feel confident enough to ask. Not yet.

 

Gil-galad turned one of the stones over in her fingers, not meeting Elrond’s eyes. “We were close,” she said. “But I was very young. And…well, I learned some things about my father after he died that were rather upsetting.” Her voice was level, almost dispassionate, but Elrond thought, just for a moment, that he could see a hint of vulnerability in her face.

 

“About his part in the First Kinslaying?” Elrond guessed

 

“That was one of them, yes,” Gil-galad said. “My mother tells me that he acted in error, not malice. Maybe that’s true. But I don’t know. I can’t know, because I never had the chance to ask. By the time I learned what my father had done at Alqualondë, he was dead. If I’m honest, though, I don’t think his intentions matter. He killed his neighbors. What was going on in his head when he did the deed can’t bring any of the Falmari back to life.”

 

Elrond didn’t respond right away, because he wasn’t certain how Gil-galad would receive what he wanted to say. But he felt driven to defend Fingon – a man he’d never known, true, but also a man whom Maedhros and Maglor had held in the highest esteem. When Maglor spoke of Fingon, it was with great respect. And when Maedhros spoke of him, it was with respect, a love that Elrond had eventually realized was far more than familial, profound guilt, and – most of all – deep, abiding grief.

 

“Maedhros always blamed himself for your father’s actions at the Swanhaven,” Elrond said quietly, knowing that he was heading out on unsure footing but advancing regardless. “He blamed himself for your father’s death, too. I know you hate him, but he loved your father more than he loved anyone, I think. And he ripped himself up inside over Fingon’s fate, even all those years later.”

 

Gil-galad’s expression had gone stony, and a chill seemed to radiate from her as she said, “Believe me, I know exactly what kind of love lay between Maedhros and my father.”

 

But Maglor always had called Elrond the stubborn one, and Elrond held his ground, living up to the appellation. “I realized years ago that what I knew of Maedhros meant that your father must have betrayed your mother,” he said, keeping his voice even. “And I understand that that must have been painful for you and Lady Ianneth both. But I think you’re giving your father too little credit for the good he did in his life. They called him the Valiant for a reason.”

 

Shaking her head, Gil-galad said, “I don’t want to talk about this, Elrond.” She made her next move, setting her stone down with a sharp click. But then, contrary to what she’d just said, she began speaking again.

 

“He was like the sun when I was little, you know?” she said. “Bright and golden and strong and perfect, lighting up the whole world. But then he died, and I learned about Alqualondë, and I had to accept that he wasn’t perfect. And then I grew up, and my mother told me the truth about him and Maedhros, and I had to adjust again, knowing that he really wasn’t perfect. I don’t like to think about him too much.”

 

Honesty deserved honesty in return, so, after a pensive silence, Elrond said, quietly, “I don’t remember my mother very well. And I don’t remember my father at all. But I know neither of them was perfect, either.”

 

Gil-galad’s face softened, her earlier unhappiness apparently forgotten in the face of Elrond’s own struggles.

 

“Your brother told me the same thing,” she said. “It’s not unexpected. You were quite young when you were…taken, and Eärendil was so often away at sea.” She toyed with another gleinad stone for a moment, and then said, “You know…if you have questions… I mean, I wasn’t the closest confidant of your mother or father, but we were friendly, and your father is my kin. If there’s anything you want to know, you can ask. I’ll do my best to answer.”

 

“I don’t always know what to ask,” Elrond said. To avoid looking Gil-galad in the eye, he made his next move on the board. “Your mother’s told me some things, and you’ve told me some things, and Círdan has told me some things, but…it’s like hearing about a character in a story. It doesn’t feel real. Everyone says Elros and I resemble our mother, but I can’t even remember what Elwing’s face looked like. I’ve seen drawings since I’ve come here, but that’s not the same. There’s a disconnect.”

 

Her chin resting in one hand, Gil-galad studied Elrond in silence for a long moment.

 

“You do look like Elwing,” she finally said. “But apart from that, neither of you reminds me of her all that strongly. Your brother reminds me more of Eärendil – what Eärendil might have been like if he’d had less weight on his shoulders, maybe. Elros has that openness, that way of being at ease in all company. But you…well, no offense, but you’re prickly, Elrond. I mean, you’ve warmed up significantly since you came here, but getting to know you at first was like trying to pet a porcupine.”

 

A year ago, Elrond would have been offended, but by now he had to admit that the king had a point. He had been very prickly, as Gil-galad put it, when he’d first arrived on Balar, to the point that he’d been getting into regular spats even with his brother.

 

“I didn’t want to be here,” he admitted. “I wanted to be back– well, back home. Because it was home. It was where I grew up. Where I knew everyone. I didn’t know anyone here, and so many people were treating us like little lost lambs returned to the fold. It made me want to scream. I was happy at Amon Ereb. I wasn’t mistreated or neglected. I know it doesn’t excuse what they did at the Havens of Sirion, but my foster fathers cared for us. They loved us.”

 

“I know,” Gil-galad said. “That’s why they sent you here. They knew you would be safer with me and Círdan than you would be with them.” She fell silent for a moment as she set another stone on the board, and then she said, “He wrote me a letter, you know. Maedhros, I mean. Asking me to watch out for the two of you. I thought there wasn’t a thing in the world that man could beg of me that I’d pay heed to, but that request? That I’ll do without hesitation.”

 

“Because we’ve had enough trouble for a lifetime?” Elrond asked, quoting Gil-galad’s mother. But Gil-galad responded with a snort.

 

“We’ve all had enough trouble for a lifetime,” she said, “and it doesn’t look like things are going to get much better anytime soon. They say there’s a host from Valinor up north, but I haven’t managed to make contact with them. It’s a treacherous journey for a messenger, and the last group I sent never came back. But I don’t dare take a force of my own out without knowing where they are. That would leave Balar poorly defended, and we don’t have enough men to be more than a wasp at Morgoth’s picnic without allies.”

 

She was scowling at the board as though it had personally offended her, but Elrond knew that the scowl was really in response to their current helplessness against Morgoth. Balar’s main protection was its location – out in the sea, it was protected from Morgoth’s orcs, who feared the ocean. But the ocean would pose no barrier to anything that flew, and Morgoth was surely hard at work creating new monstrous creatures to help him wage his war against the Elves and Men. The Dark Power of the North wouldn’t stop until he had wiped out all resistance to his domination of Beleriand.

 

“They must know we’re here,” Elrond said. “I imagine they’ll try to make contact with us.”

 

Gil-galad shrugged. “I hope so,” she said, sounding tired. “I don’t want to send anyone else to their death.”

 

With a feeling of triumph, Elrond captured three of Gil-galad’s stones, hoping that he wasn’t playing into some as-yet-unseen strategy. Then, after a moment, he said, “I’m sorry. For pushing, I mean. I don’t take back what I said about Fingon, but it wasn’t tactful to say it to you.”

 

“It’s okay,” Gil-galad said. “You’re my cousin. You’re family. You’re allowed to say the tough things.”

 

“Maglor always called me the stubborn twin,” Elrond said, and was gratified when Gil-galad laughed.

 

“I figured that out two days after you arrived, but thanks for admitting it,” she said, grinning at him. She made her next move. “Come on,” she urged. “Let’s finish this game.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Gleinad (S.) - encircling or surrounding, from the root gleina-. This is, of course, the game Go or Weiqi, the name of which derives from a similar etymological root in Japanese/Chinese.

Haru (Q.) - grandfather

Ada (S.) - dad

 

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