Frozen Hearts {Tanfui : December 3008} {One-shot}
Dec 6, 2018 23:36:31 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on Dec 6, 2018 23:36:31 GMT -5
Fires burned in every hearth; and this hearth too, that came no different, for the warmest woods were layered in this room, stacked in the grate were Hawthorn and Yew, and Apple for the aroma. Fire the smell of the chambers, as a gust would course down the chimney and damper and then fan the flames. Orange and gold would leap again to drive the winter away. Yet above there dried not a sprig of green; no boughs had been hauled inwards; no holly green nor mistletoe decked the mantle above the fireplace. Here there was no cinnamon scent of mulled wine filling the air with sweetness, nor the fresh zest of apple wine. No tables laden with sweets, fruits, and nuts of the bountiful harvest. No song nor story, nor music of the piping flute, and no gifts to be exchanged. Long had the sound of elfling voices gleeful diminished from elvenhome.
Ruivo sat in his chair, at the desk with his craft before him, diamonds gleaming, but his eyes were closed and he was unmoving, his hands resting upon his lap as sweet singing drifted from the stone hall where the Tanfui fires burned hot and the rest of Elrond’s house told great tales of yore and participated in the feasts without him, biding the return of the sun, the elves would sing and tell stories all through the longest night of the year as winter flooded around them.
He had not taken to the Hall of Fire. There was little celebration of the great deeds of elves and men these days for Ruivo; for he held no deeds were great enough than those which made his heart twinge, and each deed spoken only turned his heart to his faults. Great feats came each with the blight of Morgoth, none was untainted. None was fit to celebrate; not within Ruivo’s heart. Cities would rise and the Darkness would devour them. The finest, most beautiful of gems could be crafted, and evil magic could ensare them.
Good men and elves could be corrupted and consumed.
Long years had passed since Ruivo had sat aside the Tanfui fires, and as his seat had emptied, so too had Mithiel’s, for where he went, she followed in her own way. Ruivo listened not to the sound of ancient carols, but the breaths behind him. His chair was turned, just slightly, that he could catch a glimpse of needle flickering in the firelight while Mithiel embroidered across the room near the hearth, though the faint glint of metal had stilled and too her hands were silent as his own.
Ruivo turned his face, and his hair fell over his eyes, but as he moved it he caught a new gleam, a glint, pooling in the corner of her own eye, and he turned away, puffing out his cheeks the elf reached for the diamonds he had meant to polish, instead returning them to their case. These he would work another night; he had not the patience for the craft this day, and things were set back to place. Stilled in place, the longing filled him. When Ruivo had turned again, and risen slowly from his seat to look at her, Mithiel’s eyes were on him and the glint of tear had been wiped away. He released his breath and took to the hearth to stir the hot coals in the fire.
“I… must go,” Ruivo said, when he had turned to look at her. The light sleek of damp in the corner of her eye, though pool vanished was still glinting at him, and his hand twitched at his side, wishing to brush at it himself. Finger’s clutched at the hem of his tunic instead, and he said nothing more, turning to go.
“You retire early,” Mithiel commented quickly a note of confusion on her voice, and Ruivo paused in the doorway.
“Yes, I retire early.” The answer a lie. He would not rest this night; he would keep the watches of the darkest night of the year as always he had. Ruivo would keep the watches from the place where the Bruinen pooled further down stream; where he could let his skin grow frigid and numb in the waters.
When the footsteps diminished down the hall, Mithiel moved away from the fire. She moved to the window seat where on summer days she would take in the air in breeze, and the sunshine cast through, and on short winter days she would paint or write. The iron hinges now bolted shut for the winter, Mithiel looked out, and taking herself to Ruivo’s desk, she took up the wrench, small hands loosing the bolt, and smooth it came from it’s casing.
The first breath of winter air, cold and invigorating seeped through the crack with a hiss and a whistle, and then the bar was removed, the window cast open completely to the cloudless sky where diamonds twinkled and crystal snowflakes swirled in, landing upon her face. The sound of singing less muffled and clearer now in the night as it drifted from the Hall of Fire. Mithiel’s robe dropped from her shoulders, and she sat on the window seat, watching the Bruinen roar, as the fire burned out behind her and the room was allowed to make dark and cold as dead.
While winds whirled, Ruivo took to the pools near frozen, and breaking through the crisp sheen of glass ice, he embedded himself in the cold, until he no longer felt his body, and the pain which welled from his heart and washed through him, wishing to escape from his eyes was numbed to nothingness, as the whisp of elvish song resounded from the warm Halls of Elrond.
Ruivo sat in his chair, at the desk with his craft before him, diamonds gleaming, but his eyes were closed and he was unmoving, his hands resting upon his lap as sweet singing drifted from the stone hall where the Tanfui fires burned hot and the rest of Elrond’s house told great tales of yore and participated in the feasts without him, biding the return of the sun, the elves would sing and tell stories all through the longest night of the year as winter flooded around them.
He had not taken to the Hall of Fire. There was little celebration of the great deeds of elves and men these days for Ruivo; for he held no deeds were great enough than those which made his heart twinge, and each deed spoken only turned his heart to his faults. Great feats came each with the blight of Morgoth, none was untainted. None was fit to celebrate; not within Ruivo’s heart. Cities would rise and the Darkness would devour them. The finest, most beautiful of gems could be crafted, and evil magic could ensare them.
Good men and elves could be corrupted and consumed.
Long years had passed since Ruivo had sat aside the Tanfui fires, and as his seat had emptied, so too had Mithiel’s, for where he went, she followed in her own way. Ruivo listened not to the sound of ancient carols, but the breaths behind him. His chair was turned, just slightly, that he could catch a glimpse of needle flickering in the firelight while Mithiel embroidered across the room near the hearth, though the faint glint of metal had stilled and too her hands were silent as his own.
Ruivo turned his face, and his hair fell over his eyes, but as he moved it he caught a new gleam, a glint, pooling in the corner of her own eye, and he turned away, puffing out his cheeks the elf reached for the diamonds he had meant to polish, instead returning them to their case. These he would work another night; he had not the patience for the craft this day, and things were set back to place. Stilled in place, the longing filled him. When Ruivo had turned again, and risen slowly from his seat to look at her, Mithiel’s eyes were on him and the glint of tear had been wiped away. He released his breath and took to the hearth to stir the hot coals in the fire.
“I… must go,” Ruivo said, when he had turned to look at her. The light sleek of damp in the corner of her eye, though pool vanished was still glinting at him, and his hand twitched at his side, wishing to brush at it himself. Finger’s clutched at the hem of his tunic instead, and he said nothing more, turning to go.
“You retire early,” Mithiel commented quickly a note of confusion on her voice, and Ruivo paused in the doorway.
“Yes, I retire early.” The answer a lie. He would not rest this night; he would keep the watches of the darkest night of the year as always he had. Ruivo would keep the watches from the place where the Bruinen pooled further down stream; where he could let his skin grow frigid and numb in the waters.
When the footsteps diminished down the hall, Mithiel moved away from the fire. She moved to the window seat where on summer days she would take in the air in breeze, and the sunshine cast through, and on short winter days she would paint or write. The iron hinges now bolted shut for the winter, Mithiel looked out, and taking herself to Ruivo’s desk, she took up the wrench, small hands loosing the bolt, and smooth it came from it’s casing.
The first breath of winter air, cold and invigorating seeped through the crack with a hiss and a whistle, and then the bar was removed, the window cast open completely to the cloudless sky where diamonds twinkled and crystal snowflakes swirled in, landing upon her face. The sound of singing less muffled and clearer now in the night as it drifted from the Hall of Fire. Mithiel’s robe dropped from her shoulders, and she sat on the window seat, watching the Bruinen roar, as the fire burned out behind her and the room was allowed to make dark and cold as dead.
While winds whirled, Ruivo took to the pools near frozen, and breaking through the crisp sheen of glass ice, he embedded himself in the cold, until he no longer felt his body, and the pain which welled from his heart and washed through him, wishing to escape from his eyes was numbed to nothingness, as the whisp of elvish song resounded from the warm Halls of Elrond.