Children's Game by Elleth

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

"Jump a wave for luck!" cried the girl. Taking a deep breath she pushed herself off the sandy ground and into the air. Her feet brushed the crown of the wave, and shrieking with laughter she plunged down into the surf. All around her sounded similar shrieks as the other children followed suit, one by one going down with a splash, and bobbing back to their feet.

The next cry went up, the next wave rolled in, and the game repeated.

Surely it was the low sun stinging her eyes, or perhaps a grain of sand had caught her in the eye. Mirwain brushed a hand over her face and it came away wet. A speck of spray. And surely it was the briny air that stung her nose.

She bunched up her hands around the folds of the dress in her lap and kept her eyes stubbornly on the children. They were full of energy since a week of ill weather on the heels of a storm had kept them cooped inside, and they had all come to love the sea. They deserved the reprieve after facing days of anxious mothers, before slinking back home to weaving their ways around the empty spaces where fathers and brothers ought to be, but Mirwain had never found it in her heart to trust the water. For all the florid, poetic notions that came with it, it had its risks. Waves and undertows were common, and although there were several children of the Falas among them who had grown up knowing the dangers better than the refugees, not even they were immune to ill chances or sudden capriciousness of the sea.

Steps sounded on the promenade behind her, soft and even, and barely audible had she not been half-listening for footfalls on the wooden planks, as she had the past days. Their presence alone revealed the turmoil at the heart of them, for usually it was not until the later evening that Meril would come to help her herd the children home.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, half-turning to the Queen of Nargothrond. "Tidings from the war?" Meril as one of the few people at the Havens would know. She spent most of her days sitting long in council with Círdan and his other advisors, and the young Noldo prince they were grooming into his expected role. Mirwain's stomach clenched with apprehension when she realized Meril had still failed to answer, and was instead staring out at the playing children. The sun was slipping further toward the horizon, dipping toward sea in a blur of gold and throwing sparks off the wave-crests.

At last Meril said, "There has been no sure word, only Círdan's superstitious murmurings about the storm. He bade the healers make ready after it, even though none of the troops are expected back yet. Sometimes he makes me wonder, wise though he is, but like you, Alphangil has been troubled all of the past week... and she is seeking to hide it from Ereinion. Not that sleeping ill and barely eating is easy to hide. But she is surer than you; she said to me her sight told her Fingon was dead, and if even the King of the Noldor is dead then the war is lost, and although I hate to believe her..."

"... you do. Don't you?" There was something to be said for woman's intuition, even over the divination and portends even of the very wise, Mirwain thought, even though she herself had never experienced any such gift, and sometimes felt she was groping through the dark.

Meril nodded, a sharp, quick movement. "But most of all I am glad that Orodreth refused to fight in the Union, indeed – indeed I am almost glad for the evil Curufin and Celegorm wrought in Nargothrond. Even if the war is lost, then at least I have the certainty that he lives. Finduilas still has her father. If it was such a defeat, sacrificing more of Nargothrond would not have turned the tide of that battle."

"More of Nargothrond... not merely Gwindor and his followers, you mean," Mirwain could hear herself saying, in spite of the rushing of the sea that had suddenly grown so loud over the shouts of the children, and the westering sunlight that had suddenly grown so bright. "But even if Fingon is dead and the war is lost, some must surely have survived, and where there is life...

"... hope follows," Meril finished, long familiar with the Noldorin adage that so many mouths in Nargothrond had prayed since the Sudden Flame. The Sindarin populace of Nargothrond, Mirwain knew, thought otherwise, called it Noldorin obstinacy, and clinging to their own age-old saying: Rather dead than slave.. In light of that, she was not sure she could clutch her friend's attempt at comfort to herself as much as she felt she needed to do to cling to sanity.

"Jump a wave for luck!" cried one of the children still playing in the waves, and another chorus of laughter and splashing followed.

Meril's arms went around her and her hold tightened. "Finduilas will be glad to have her father for comfort, at the least," she said softly.

Mirwain felt immensely tired suddenly, and on the verge of tears that refused to spill. She could not begrudge Meril thinking of her own family first, and Finduilas especially loved – had loved she supposed she must say now, although she could with no certainty say whether her son lived or had died, or whether Alphangil's premonition was even true - Gwindor dearly, the brave, strong girl. But it was always Meril's family that was first on her mind, selfishly so, sometimes recklessly flaunting the bonds that survived even the separation of Meril dwelling at the Havens as distant kinswoman to Círdan himself and Orodreth's highest envoy, and Orodreth in Nargothrond... while Mirwain's bed and Guilin's affection had been cold for what felt like a yén or more.

"Will you do me a favour?" she asked, instead of commenting on Finduilas. "I do not think that I can watch the children any longer – I do not even know why they play this game, but... I would not make... a very good audience with these tidings."

"Go home," Meril said. "Rest a while. I will watch them, and once I have taken them home, we will open a bottle of wine and try to drink the rest of the night away."

Mirwain could not muster a smile or taunt as she usually might at such an offer, that it was ill-befitting the queen of Nargothrond to get drunk with her lady-in-waiting, disregarding that they had been friends for far longer than that, and that this was hardly the first time they would open a deep, sweet red together, either to celebrate – or to mourn, or sometimes for no reason at all. She merely rose, willed her feet into movement and was startled out of a numb, sleep-walking blur through the town only when the door shut behind her and the dim interior of the house awaited her.

Mirwain sat in her rocking chair by the cold fireplace and dozed, and dreamt of Gwindor and Gelmir in their youth, and Finduilas, still nearly a toddler then, teetering after them through the long grass of Talath Dirnen as swift as her short legs might carry her. Into the dream intruded a rush of the sea, and the cries of the children, and black wave after wave rushed from the north. Her sons jumped and jumped, but Gelmir stumbled and drowned first, and Gwindor followed. Mirwain startled awake when the wave burst over his head, and kept herself awake by force of will afterward.

Meril did not come in until far after nightfall, and she did not come alone. Even from the front door Mirwain could hear the tears in her voice, and the reply carried the lilt of Northern Sindarin rather than the noble enunciation of Falathrim. For all that, Alphangil's voice sounded as dull and leaden as Mirwain felt.

"- a night's reprieve, for the messenger, and Ereinion, and myself. We will make the announcement at noon."

Mirwain pulled herself up straighter and concentrated on the words in the kitchen. The tears, and the apprehension, and the exhaustion would surely have given way to giddy joy if the news from the battle were good. There would need to be no reprieve; indeed the folk of Eglarest were fond of celebrations and the late hour would be no impediment if the war were won.

She felt that she ought to go and ask, but the impulse to speak with her friends was not strong enough to push her into movement, and apprehension kept her rooted to her chair even though she knew there would be no resolution to it unless she moved.

"I am not objecting, not that it is my place," said Meril. "You outrank me – I am Queen of Nargothrond, you are now the sole ruler of the Noldor, High Queen... although that ought not sway me, but you are also the daughter of Annael and Rhovanglin, and that does." The two women closed the front door and moved to the kitchen, and soon enough the glow of a fire in the kitchen hearth spilled from the room. The sound of the water kettle beginning to rumble obscured most of their words for a while, before building into a shrill hiss that died when it was pulled from the fire.

"... ngon knew. We kept writing so he could involve me in his councils and teach me, not to carry on our dispute over Maedhros – that all three of us... settled in priva-"

" - quiet; do you think we woke her?" said Meril, who seemed to be handling the kettle to pour tea, and paused a moment to listen. Mirwain said nothing that might alert them, no longer even wanting to hear more of the war, and although the conversation in the kitchen failed to pick up again after the interruption, it did not quiet the growing fear in Mirwain, the hammering of her son's name on her mind. Alphangil and Meril drank their tea in silence, until Alphangil eventually said, "I would not mind the wine so much now. Let us take it to the beach; I would rather be outside."

"Of course." Meril's voice had calmed somewhat, no longer quite so close to tears. Soon enough, the door clapped. Mirwain rose and followed, groped her way to the door and brushed the sleep from her eyes as she walked. The night – nearly halfway past, going by the stars – remained warm and pleasant, and Eglarest lay dark with its population asleep, except for noises from the harbour further up near the mouth of the River Nennning, where the fishermen made their cutters ready to set out with the high tide. West away on the other shore of the bay, the light of Barad Nimras was circling to guide them to sea. When it passed over the walkers before her, she saw that instead of Alphangil's long, dark braid, only a shorn end of short hair remained, a sign of grief among the Sindar of Mithrim.

Mirwain bit her lip and caught up with the two women, who accepted her into their middle wordlessly, an arm slung around her from left and right.

"There was a messenger?" she asked.

"Yes," Alphangil said at length. "A man of Fingon's guard. The enemy must have presumed him dead on the battlefield, and he... brought back... Fingon's standard, and his helmet. The war is lost. He is dead, and just – just as I saw, just as I understood it happened. The lord of the Balrog host hewed his head with his black axe and clove his helm... and they trod his banner into the mire of his blood." Alphangil fell silent but kept walking with stiff motions. Meril's mouth worked soundlessly.

Mirwain wanted to spell out comfort, but the most pressing question needed out before her brain could hope to grasp the situation fully. "And Gwindor, did he know about Gwindor?"

Silence. They came around a corner, and the view of the sea lay before them, dark under the stars. The stars were numerous and the moon sickle-thin, and neither cast much light onto the expanse of water.

"Mirwain..." said Alphangil, "... the messenger reported that Gelmir died before the battle even began, and --"

"Gelmir?" she echoed. "Gelmir died years ago, he died in the Sudden Flame, he --- I want to talk to your messenger. He must be mistaken."

"He is not – he only arrived after dark, running hard and swift despite his wounds. He is unwell, and the healers would not let even me speak to him for longer than necessary. But Gelmir... he must have lain captive. They... used him to draw forth the host into attack before its time. Gwindor saw. He spear-headed the onslaught and – that is all we know. They drew near to Angband. They may even have forced the doors. The main host never... there was no sign of any of the Nargothrondim after..." Alphangil's voice vanished into silence. Meril looked away.

Gelmir alive... it went against any of the images Mirwain had so carefully nurtured in her head to cope with the loss of her younger son, always bright-eyed and laughing, standing up against the fire and the foes that came with it, laughing as they fell before him before he was overmastered at last. Never anything but. Never captive, never that. And Gwindor – what would she write Guilin?

She felt Meril and Alphangil's hands link behind her back, to catch her if she fell, but no. Mirwain kept walking, kept walking. She passed the last houses, and now the sea was only a stretch of beach away, shining dimly in the night. Her feet sank into the sand, and still Meril and Alphangil were beside her. Meril laid the wine bottle she had been carrying aside, they kicked off their shoes, and each of them took one of her hands, left and right.

"My mother's mother claimed that all the blood and all the stories of the wars would trickle from the battlefields in the north, and into the sea. Listen. Perhaps the sea has comfort for you, Mirwain," said Alphangil.

Their feet were in the surf now. The water licked at the hem of her dress.

"Perhaps for all of us," said Meril. "Perhaps." She did not sound as though she believed it.

Mirwain said, reminded of her own childhood tales, "There will be. There has to be. They say the Ainulindalë lives in the sea forever. All the fates of the Children."

The water was up to her knees now, cool and refreshing, and it seemed she was able to take the first clear thought away from the war since she had left the beach at Meril's coming. She thought of the children jumping over the waves, careless and joyful, into the slant of the late sunlight. A moment's reprieve, relief, release before they would need to confront reality again come morning. They could all three use it.

Mirwain dug her heels into the sandy ground and tightened her muscles.

"Jump a wave for luck," she mouthed, and launched herself up, over the oncoming wave and the sea and the Song and it all, with Meril and Alphangil to her left and right jumping in a shower of spray, before they plunged down again into the dark, shallow surf. The salt burned in her eyes and the water gurgled in her ears.

Their heads broke the surface and they climbed back to their feet. "Jump a wave for luck," they cried, all three, and jumped again.

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Chapter End Notes

Some wording was taken almost directly from the Silmarillion; this was done on purpose. Many thanks to Giulia for inspiring an important element of this fic, and to the mods for being far more patient and accomodating than I deserve. Indy, thank you for the beta.