Pass the Wine [Winter 2711] {Legolas}
May 29, 2019 13:53:55 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on May 29, 2019 13:53:55 GMT -5
Ruivo’s eyes were closed as he slumped in his seat. “Yes. Let her be happy. Oh, Orontënya,” he said aloud, his voice distressed as he spoke the name he had once called Tauriel long ago, when she had been a small elfling, and had called him Atatar. His thoughts trailed from Tauriel, to Mithiel, and he blurred them in his mind. He could not stop picturing the black dress. The black dress that Mithiel had worn, though upon his granddaughter, and his mind’s eye could not decipher the meaning of it.
Elrohir had always been the most difficult of all the children of Elrond; and moreso of any of his line before, but if his Orontënya was happy with him, it was for the best, was it not? They were not… too close of cousins. Several times removed. More than his liking, but it perhaps was that Noldorin spirit of steel and stone he saw within Elrohir which would withstand the fire in Tauriel’s blood. And perhaps it was her fire which could temper Elrohir’s stubborn nature. Ruivo swallowed, in thought of it all, and he looked up as Legolas stated that he had taken enough wine.
A blurry glance toward the bottles on the table, but Ruivo could not count how many they had emptied together. He tried to count, but they wound about in his sight, and he merely answered, “Hn.” He too had taken enough. More than enough.
“Ruivo, let us speak on something lighter. Today is a day of celebration. You deserve to enjoy yourself than to hear the woes of a young prince.”
“Enjoy myself...” Ruivo muttered, and he clutched his head and winced as he tried to sit up straight again. “Enjoy. There is only one thing in this world which would bring me enjoyment,” he mused, and he pressed his lips together, and then he grabbed at the back of the chair he sat on, and one hand went to the table, and he moved, attempting to stand.
“I shall… I shall… oh, that black dress. You are right, this is a celebration. She should not wear the black dress. I am going to tell her...” Ruivo managed to pull himself upright on the snowy balcony, and he pressed a hand against the stone wall. “She must remove that dress. Black. No black on this day. Not for Orontënya’s day. I must go inform Lady Mithiel. It does no honor to wear black. She should not harbor such a shade, she is fairer in rose… or silver or… nothing. Oh, I must not let her mourn. I will go comfort her.” Ruivo looked upon the Prince as he tried to steady himself against the wall, and then he turned and glanced toward the lit Hall of Fire, and the wings beyond where her chambers would be.
“I must go, you understand,” Ruivo nodded, as he took a stumbling step back toward the kitchen.
Elrohir had always been the most difficult of all the children of Elrond; and moreso of any of his line before, but if his Orontënya was happy with him, it was for the best, was it not? They were not… too close of cousins. Several times removed. More than his liking, but it perhaps was that Noldorin spirit of steel and stone he saw within Elrohir which would withstand the fire in Tauriel’s blood. And perhaps it was her fire which could temper Elrohir’s stubborn nature. Ruivo swallowed, in thought of it all, and he looked up as Legolas stated that he had taken enough wine.
A blurry glance toward the bottles on the table, but Ruivo could not count how many they had emptied together. He tried to count, but they wound about in his sight, and he merely answered, “Hn.” He too had taken enough. More than enough.
“Ruivo, let us speak on something lighter. Today is a day of celebration. You deserve to enjoy yourself than to hear the woes of a young prince.”
“Enjoy myself...” Ruivo muttered, and he clutched his head and winced as he tried to sit up straight again. “Enjoy. There is only one thing in this world which would bring me enjoyment,” he mused, and he pressed his lips together, and then he grabbed at the back of the chair he sat on, and one hand went to the table, and he moved, attempting to stand.
“I shall… I shall… oh, that black dress. You are right, this is a celebration. She should not wear the black dress. I am going to tell her...” Ruivo managed to pull himself upright on the snowy balcony, and he pressed a hand against the stone wall. “She must remove that dress. Black. No black on this day. Not for Orontënya’s day. I must go inform Lady Mithiel. It does no honor to wear black. She should not harbor such a shade, she is fairer in rose… or silver or… nothing. Oh, I must not let her mourn. I will go comfort her.” Ruivo looked upon the Prince as he tried to steady himself against the wall, and then he turned and glanced toward the lit Hall of Fire, and the wings beyond where her chambers would be.
“I must go, you understand,” Ruivo nodded, as he took a stumbling step back toward the kitchen.