Blessed Tuilë [Year 2, Fourth Age] [Estel]
Mar 20, 2019 13:28:20 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on Mar 20, 2019 13:28:20 GMT -5
Blessed Tuilë. There was no day fairer in the year for Ruivo. Gone were the mourning days. Gone the days of uncertainty in Arda, and the white tree blossomed, full and thick for a King was once again upon the throne.
First had come Telperion. Each of the eldar had known the name of the eldest White Tree, and those in the reunited Kingdom who called Eru Illuvatar the creator. Telperion was one of two, the twin of Laurelin. Where Laurelin was akin to the golden light of the sun, Telperion had been the moon, filling the blessed realm of Aman with silver light. Dark green leaves and silver blossoms dripped with dew, and after the darkening of Valinor a single flower remained.
That blossom was set upon the sky, the crafting of the moon, which was called Tilion, and dear to Ruivo’s heart. Tilion rose first on the day his love had been brought unto the world. Though she had been born into the harshsness of the world grinding ice, the first moon shone in her eyes, and she had always dripped with the light of Telperion. His wife, his vessë, dripped with the healing silver dew.
In the first age, the elves had mourned the loss of Telperion, even with Tilion in the sky, for they cherished silver greater than gold. Tilion had shown above when Yavanna crafted anew the beautiful White Tree which stood in Valinor after the exile, beneath Mindon Eldaliéva, the home of his wife’s kin. In all fair likeness to the first tree, though this time bearing no light. Ruivo had never seen the tree called Galathilion, though it still stood there he imagined, and one day when they crossed the sea it would be before their eyes.
From Galathilion came the seedling Celeborn, the White Tree of Tol Eressëa, and from Celeborn descended Nimloth, the fair White Tree of Númenor. By Sauron’s hand in the second age, Númenor was ravaged, and the tree chopped down, but one fruit remained. One fruit which traveled the sea and came to Arda, planted here in this courtyard by Isildur, and guarded through the years. Near death for long, but the King had returned and ere shown the blossoms. White, brilliant, and reminiscent of elvenhome.
Elvenhome on Tuilë, the first of spring, the most blessed day in the turn of the year to the aged elf. The day Ruivo had wed his Telpëhísimë. She in her white gown with blossoms in her hair. Each year hence he had crowned her with blossoms, and this day Ruivo would do so again. There were gardens in the city. There were flowers to choose from. Many fragrant varieties, and tended by the groundskeepers. All Ruivo had to do was ask, for he was the Smith of the North. The Smith who had learned craft from the Valar Aulë himself; who worked mithril, and ithildin, and the finest gems for the Queen, who had once been an elfling in his arms.
Yet no blossom was fair enough, than that which had dripped from Telperion itself. Whether the guards of the White Tower willed it or not, Ruivo would crown his wife in the blossoms of the moon this day. For now he stood back against the wall of the courtyard, watching, and deciding just how he would go about doing it.
A slight pressure on his boot, and Ruivo looked down, frowning to see Pityapilu coasting down around his heel. Pilu, who lived in the form of a small, white ermine with a black tip upon the tail. The creature was supposed to stay in their chambers, but so often it slipped out after one or the other and made it’s own mischief, blending into the stonework. A little nuisance who had come down with them from the north; Mithiel’s pet. Still wearing his winter coat, as in the north the snows would only just be melting, but soon his brown fur would grow in and he would be easier to spot when up to no good.
“Thief...” Ruivo murmured, as the ermine skittered away toward the very tree the elf was observing. “If only you would steal what it was I asked, you would make yourself quite useful.” There he stood, talking nonsense to an ermine and plotting, and Ruivo heard footsteps coming his way, his blind side cursed for lack of vision, though sensitive to sound, and he did not need to turn his face to know the footsteps of the King. High King Elessar to most. Aragorn to others. But to Ruivo simply;
“Estel.”
As always he had been. The smith turned partway in greeting, though he realized the mistake in doing so, and Pityapilu had been lost from his sight. Sighing, the first thing that came beyond the greeting. “Do you see my wife’s weasel?” Ruivo’s hand rose to run through his flame red hair. Nothing would console his wife if something happened to Pilu on this day. It would be ever forgotten their anniversary, and remembered as the day Pityapilu came to harm.
First had come Telperion. Each of the eldar had known the name of the eldest White Tree, and those in the reunited Kingdom who called Eru Illuvatar the creator. Telperion was one of two, the twin of Laurelin. Where Laurelin was akin to the golden light of the sun, Telperion had been the moon, filling the blessed realm of Aman with silver light. Dark green leaves and silver blossoms dripped with dew, and after the darkening of Valinor a single flower remained.
That blossom was set upon the sky, the crafting of the moon, which was called Tilion, and dear to Ruivo’s heart. Tilion rose first on the day his love had been brought unto the world. Though she had been born into the harshsness of the world grinding ice, the first moon shone in her eyes, and she had always dripped with the light of Telperion. His wife, his vessë, dripped with the healing silver dew.
In the first age, the elves had mourned the loss of Telperion, even with Tilion in the sky, for they cherished silver greater than gold. Tilion had shown above when Yavanna crafted anew the beautiful White Tree which stood in Valinor after the exile, beneath Mindon Eldaliéva, the home of his wife’s kin. In all fair likeness to the first tree, though this time bearing no light. Ruivo had never seen the tree called Galathilion, though it still stood there he imagined, and one day when they crossed the sea it would be before their eyes.
From Galathilion came the seedling Celeborn, the White Tree of Tol Eressëa, and from Celeborn descended Nimloth, the fair White Tree of Númenor. By Sauron’s hand in the second age, Númenor was ravaged, and the tree chopped down, but one fruit remained. One fruit which traveled the sea and came to Arda, planted here in this courtyard by Isildur, and guarded through the years. Near death for long, but the King had returned and ere shown the blossoms. White, brilliant, and reminiscent of elvenhome.
Elvenhome on Tuilë, the first of spring, the most blessed day in the turn of the year to the aged elf. The day Ruivo had wed his Telpëhísimë. She in her white gown with blossoms in her hair. Each year hence he had crowned her with blossoms, and this day Ruivo would do so again. There were gardens in the city. There were flowers to choose from. Many fragrant varieties, and tended by the groundskeepers. All Ruivo had to do was ask, for he was the Smith of the North. The Smith who had learned craft from the Valar Aulë himself; who worked mithril, and ithildin, and the finest gems for the Queen, who had once been an elfling in his arms.
Yet no blossom was fair enough, than that which had dripped from Telperion itself. Whether the guards of the White Tower willed it or not, Ruivo would crown his wife in the blossoms of the moon this day. For now he stood back against the wall of the courtyard, watching, and deciding just how he would go about doing it.
A slight pressure on his boot, and Ruivo looked down, frowning to see Pityapilu coasting down around his heel. Pilu, who lived in the form of a small, white ermine with a black tip upon the tail. The creature was supposed to stay in their chambers, but so often it slipped out after one or the other and made it’s own mischief, blending into the stonework. A little nuisance who had come down with them from the north; Mithiel’s pet. Still wearing his winter coat, as in the north the snows would only just be melting, but soon his brown fur would grow in and he would be easier to spot when up to no good.
“Thief...” Ruivo murmured, as the ermine skittered away toward the very tree the elf was observing. “If only you would steal what it was I asked, you would make yourself quite useful.” There he stood, talking nonsense to an ermine and plotting, and Ruivo heard footsteps coming his way, his blind side cursed for lack of vision, though sensitive to sound, and he did not need to turn his face to know the footsteps of the King. High King Elessar to most. Aragorn to others. But to Ruivo simply;
“Estel.”
As always he had been. The smith turned partway in greeting, though he realized the mistake in doing so, and Pityapilu had been lost from his sight. Sighing, the first thing that came beyond the greeting. “Do you see my wife’s weasel?” Ruivo’s hand rose to run through his flame red hair. Nothing would console his wife if something happened to Pilu on this day. It would be ever forgotten their anniversary, and remembered as the day Pityapilu came to harm.