Mountains Between Us [One-shot] {Summer 1512 T.A}
Jul 27, 2018 15:05:56 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on Jul 27, 2018 15:05:56 GMT -5
Sitting upon the end of the couch in the dark of night, Ruivo had still been in shock when he had stolen into Mithiel's chambers and brushed her cheek with his knuckles until she had awakened to his touch. She had looked so peaceful, and smiled at the manner of rousing. Her eyes were bright in the dim moonlight that shone into the room, at least, they were bright until they had spotted the grief painted across Ruivo's face. Drawing her in her nightdress out to the sitting room at the front of her chambers, he had made her sit, and sat beside her, as he told Mithiel of the death of Norochil, how he had fallen in valor when orcs had sprung upon them, north in the trollshaws.
The russet haired elf they had called son had fallen even while casting a fatal blow to the last of the orcs that had sprung upon them in surprise after they had emptied the troll's den of its large occupant. They had not expected the orcs. Careless. They should have been on guard. A troll was no difficulty to a pair of battle hardy elves. The grey skinned creatures were stupid, their brains no bigger than a walnut, for the size of their great bodies, and always fell for the same tricks. They had only to lure it out and create a distraction. Enough of a distraction to cause it to protest with it's half-hewn words. A skilled archer could take it down in one shot, which was what Norochil had done, as Ruivo had perched in a tree and insulted it's eyesight, causing the troll to lift it's head and protest. It had been the perfect shot. Norochil had been excellent with a bow.
They had not expected the orcs. They had not smelled them over the reek of the troll's den. There had only been three, but that first shot through the back, bearing straight to his lungs, was what had come fatal to his son.
Ruivo had labored to build a pyre for Norochil. He could have carried him back to Imladris. He would have labored to carry him all the way, though he did not wish Mithiel to see his body torn. He did not wish Mithiel to see lifeless the life she had nourished from his infancy when Celleth had handed his care over to them. He burned his son's body alone, and instead of allowing himself to cry, he had destroyed his own sword in his fury, hacking and renting it against a boulder on the side of the troll's den, sparks flying with the force behind the arm of the smith, until it was chipped and dulled, scratched and bent, and Ruivo's arm was numb with ache.
Ruivo had arrived in the night, his clothes still bearing the blood of their son. Hours had passed since he had given her the news, and he had comforted Mithiel to the extent he was able, holding her to his chest, letting her sink into him, as she sobbed for both their losses, as Ruivo sat stoic and silent. Young Tauriel was asleep upon Mithiel's bed, not yet knowing what loss had just befallen her as the two elves had clung to each other in the other room. Her Naneth had passed to Namo not many months past, and now both her parents gone, she was an orphan.
As morning dawned, Ruivo had left Mithiel alone to bear the news to Lord Elrond and the others, and when he had returned to Mithiel's room to seek her again, she was vanished. Guessing where she had gone, Ruivo had hastened to his own chambers, where Mithiel was curled on his bed, her eyes red rimmed and face ashen. Tucked against her, the lively child of Norochil, now well awake as she played on the sheets with her little doll. Only two years of age, leaping up in her nightdress at the sight of her family returned.
“Atatar!” the auburn haired child had exclaimed in Quenyan, calling him Grandfather in her tiny voice. “Ama is tired! Her eyes are red. Red and green, like Tanfui holly. Where is Ata? Did you kill trolls?” Mithiel turned her face into the pillow, and Ruivo heard a muffled sob within, as he took to the bed and lifted the tiny elfing to his arms, squeezing her in his embrace, though he was not smiling. She smelled of apples and honey, just like Mithiel, her hair clean and fresh bathed the night before. Before he had returned.
“Your Ata killed a big one,” he told her, his voice clenching, feeling the restriction in his throat. “Shot an arrow right through his mouth.” Ruivo opened his mouth and gave a motion with his finger, toward the roof of his mouth, which caused the little elleth to giggle. At any other time, he would have heard Mithiel's chastisement for speaking of such stunts to an elfling, though Tauriel, from her earliest speech, had always been interested in stories of valor, never disturbed by it, trailing after Norochil and himself to the archery range and pining for her third year to arrive, when Atatar had promised he would make a small bow for her, and her first practice arrows.
Before he had been slain, he had sent the final arrow on that troll's life. Ruivo's insides twisted at the thought. They had been careless afterward, the danger of the troll having past, they had not guessed upon the orcs. Norochil's fatal wound had come in the first arrow, though he had fought through the pain til the end. He would not be brought down until each orc had come with him. Ruivo should not have agreed to go. The excursion had been his son's idea, to draw his Ata from the distraction of the forge and spend a week talking to him, trying to convince the older elf of what was best.
Words that Ruivo had shrugged off… and words he still could not dwell upon. Not now. Not after failure after failure had dotted his life, and now his son was gone to Namo's halls without him. He had never been worthy to raise his foster-son, he was not worthy now to raise Norochil's daughter. He was not worthy to raise another child alongside Mithiel, though Norochil had requested it of him before his last breath had left him.
“Marry Ammë, and raise Tauriel, as you did for me. Do it the right way this time. Raise my daughter, so that she knows a proper family. I want you and Ammë to raise her, but if you mean only to play games with Ammë, then take Tauriel back to the Greenwood and let her Naneth's kin take her. Promise me, Ata.”
Norochil had died, assured by his Atar that things would be made right, that Tauriel would be raised to adulthood. He had promised his son that Mithiel would be his wife, that they would meet him one day in Aman together, that Tauriel would be with them. She would not live as an orphan, but in love, with her family.
The promise laid, Norochil had squeezed his Ata's hand, and the stars in his eyes faded to nothingness. The light left him. Ruivo could almost feel the breeze lift as his son's fëa was whisked away to join his young wife who had been taken not a year ago. His hröa, now barren. Empty.
Ruivo stared now at Mithiel upon the bed, past the silken haired elfling in his hands, and his heart tightened.
“I promised him...” he began, his voice now heavy, while he delivered the rest of the news. The words he had left unspoken the night before. “Promised him I would take her to her Naneth's kin in the Greenwood. The last thing he asked of me.”
It was only half a lie, Ruivo told himself. Mithiel's face was still pressed into the pillow, her sobbing ceased, and he saw her shoulders tighten.
“Promised Ata?” Tauriel asked, her voice high and excited at the thought of adventure. At the thought of the Greenwood, which her Ata would sing to her of, and had promised to visit with her soon. “We will go to the Greenwood?”
Ruivo did not answer her beyond a, “Yes.” Then stared at Mithiel, where she lay rigid, her back to him.
“You need to get up, and pack what she will need for the ride,” he urged. The instruction upon his voice drawing Mithiel to rise and look at him, even in her stupor of grief. “I… cannot help… Norochil's choice...” he managed to stutter out.
“I will go with her,” Mithiel voiced low, dropping her eyes as she rose from the bed. Unable to meet Ruivo's eyes, she breezed past him on her way to the door to gather Tauriel's things, and her own.
Ruivo's heart began to beat, rampant, wishing to argue with her. Not with the little one here. Not with Tauriel in his arms, he could not start an argument, though he hastened in step to follow after Mithiel, to grasp her upper arm before she was able to open the door.
“He asked for… her Naneth's kin. Not us,” Ruivo whispered. He could see the hurt flicker across Mithel's face, and Ruivo drew nearer her, bending slightly to release the wiggling elfling to the floor. Tauriel bolted across the room as she caught sight of her Ama's easel, and the small table beside it where her own paints and papers rested.
“She does not know them. We are her family,” Mithiel protested, the snip in her voice which had been long subdued to him, now showing itself again. The tone of voice he had once loved to hear from her making itself known.
“Look what I painted, Ata!” the little elfling was pronouncing as she scrambled lift her papers. “It's the sea, do you see the gull flying?” Tauriel asked as she lifted the blue and grey smudges up for him to see, and Ruivo looked down and forced a smile for her before turning his eyes back to Mithiel.
“I must do ask he asked of me,” he muttered low to Mithiel, taking another step nearer her. He trembled inwardly. He could not lose both of them. Not Norochil and Mithiel. He could not be separated from her again; so long were the years before. He could not take her to Mirkwood, where the Sindar king lived. He made all manner of excuses in his mind. Arwen needed her here. Celebrían, the twins. She could not leave. He could not let her leave. “He wanted her raised by the Sindar.”
Ruivo wanted them both. He wanted both Mithiel and Tauriel, but he knew he would fail again, just as he had failed Norochil, he would fail his daughter. She would be in safer elsewhere. Far away from him. She would not come to ruin at his side the way her Adar had.
Mithiel had backed into the door, and Ruivo still drew nearer, his hand first upon her shoulder, and then slipping down, around, pulling her into his embrace as he bent slightly to kiss her temple, in a way he had not since the days they had lived together in Lothlorien. The action drawing Mithiel back to tears as she clutched Ruivo's tunic, rubbing her face against him though he was yet filthy, and he continued to speak, against her hair as he squeezed her in his arms. “She will be safe where he desired her to be. She will come to know and love them.”
Ruivo's pressed kisses into Mithiel's hair, dipping his head, he lavished the top of her head in affection, his nose brushing against the tip of her ear. He felt Mithiel gasp, and cleave to him, and he muttered to her, “You will stay in Imladris… I will go swiftly. One week the ride will take, and one week the return. Then I will be back. To you.” A hand brushed down the ridge of Mithiel's spine, back up her side, up the gentle curve of her body until he had cupped her cheek in hand.
“You stay, with me,” he whispered, turning her face up to his. He could see into the depths of her seaglass eyes. He could see Mithiel deep in thought. He could feel her fingers clenched tight against his tunic, pinching his skin beneath their grips, her eyes roving over his face as she debated arguing with him further, putting her foot down and telling him that the elfling came before him.
Yet, great in grief as she was, Mithiel clung to him, and Ruivo leaned down and pressed a kiss to her salty cheek, while his thumb brushed against her bottom lip. At that, she seemed to come to a decision, a flicker of hope in her eyes. Face tearstreaked, Mithiel pressed against him and breathed, “Yes, Ruivo.”
The russet haired elf they had called son had fallen even while casting a fatal blow to the last of the orcs that had sprung upon them in surprise after they had emptied the troll's den of its large occupant. They had not expected the orcs. Careless. They should have been on guard. A troll was no difficulty to a pair of battle hardy elves. The grey skinned creatures were stupid, their brains no bigger than a walnut, for the size of their great bodies, and always fell for the same tricks. They had only to lure it out and create a distraction. Enough of a distraction to cause it to protest with it's half-hewn words. A skilled archer could take it down in one shot, which was what Norochil had done, as Ruivo had perched in a tree and insulted it's eyesight, causing the troll to lift it's head and protest. It had been the perfect shot. Norochil had been excellent with a bow.
They had not expected the orcs. They had not smelled them over the reek of the troll's den. There had only been three, but that first shot through the back, bearing straight to his lungs, was what had come fatal to his son.
Ruivo had labored to build a pyre for Norochil. He could have carried him back to Imladris. He would have labored to carry him all the way, though he did not wish Mithiel to see his body torn. He did not wish Mithiel to see lifeless the life she had nourished from his infancy when Celleth had handed his care over to them. He burned his son's body alone, and instead of allowing himself to cry, he had destroyed his own sword in his fury, hacking and renting it against a boulder on the side of the troll's den, sparks flying with the force behind the arm of the smith, until it was chipped and dulled, scratched and bent, and Ruivo's arm was numb with ache.
Ruivo had arrived in the night, his clothes still bearing the blood of their son. Hours had passed since he had given her the news, and he had comforted Mithiel to the extent he was able, holding her to his chest, letting her sink into him, as she sobbed for both their losses, as Ruivo sat stoic and silent. Young Tauriel was asleep upon Mithiel's bed, not yet knowing what loss had just befallen her as the two elves had clung to each other in the other room. Her Naneth had passed to Namo not many months past, and now both her parents gone, she was an orphan.
As morning dawned, Ruivo had left Mithiel alone to bear the news to Lord Elrond and the others, and when he had returned to Mithiel's room to seek her again, she was vanished. Guessing where she had gone, Ruivo had hastened to his own chambers, where Mithiel was curled on his bed, her eyes red rimmed and face ashen. Tucked against her, the lively child of Norochil, now well awake as she played on the sheets with her little doll. Only two years of age, leaping up in her nightdress at the sight of her family returned.
“Atatar!” the auburn haired child had exclaimed in Quenyan, calling him Grandfather in her tiny voice. “Ama is tired! Her eyes are red. Red and green, like Tanfui holly. Where is Ata? Did you kill trolls?” Mithiel turned her face into the pillow, and Ruivo heard a muffled sob within, as he took to the bed and lifted the tiny elfing to his arms, squeezing her in his embrace, though he was not smiling. She smelled of apples and honey, just like Mithiel, her hair clean and fresh bathed the night before. Before he had returned.
“Your Ata killed a big one,” he told her, his voice clenching, feeling the restriction in his throat. “Shot an arrow right through his mouth.” Ruivo opened his mouth and gave a motion with his finger, toward the roof of his mouth, which caused the little elleth to giggle. At any other time, he would have heard Mithiel's chastisement for speaking of such stunts to an elfling, though Tauriel, from her earliest speech, had always been interested in stories of valor, never disturbed by it, trailing after Norochil and himself to the archery range and pining for her third year to arrive, when Atatar had promised he would make a small bow for her, and her first practice arrows.
Before he had been slain, he had sent the final arrow on that troll's life. Ruivo's insides twisted at the thought. They had been careless afterward, the danger of the troll having past, they had not guessed upon the orcs. Norochil's fatal wound had come in the first arrow, though he had fought through the pain til the end. He would not be brought down until each orc had come with him. Ruivo should not have agreed to go. The excursion had been his son's idea, to draw his Ata from the distraction of the forge and spend a week talking to him, trying to convince the older elf of what was best.
Words that Ruivo had shrugged off… and words he still could not dwell upon. Not now. Not after failure after failure had dotted his life, and now his son was gone to Namo's halls without him. He had never been worthy to raise his foster-son, he was not worthy now to raise Norochil's daughter. He was not worthy to raise another child alongside Mithiel, though Norochil had requested it of him before his last breath had left him.
“Marry Ammë, and raise Tauriel, as you did for me. Do it the right way this time. Raise my daughter, so that she knows a proper family. I want you and Ammë to raise her, but if you mean only to play games with Ammë, then take Tauriel back to the Greenwood and let her Naneth's kin take her. Promise me, Ata.”
Norochil had died, assured by his Atar that things would be made right, that Tauriel would be raised to adulthood. He had promised his son that Mithiel would be his wife, that they would meet him one day in Aman together, that Tauriel would be with them. She would not live as an orphan, but in love, with her family.
The promise laid, Norochil had squeezed his Ata's hand, and the stars in his eyes faded to nothingness. The light left him. Ruivo could almost feel the breeze lift as his son's fëa was whisked away to join his young wife who had been taken not a year ago. His hröa, now barren. Empty.
Ruivo stared now at Mithiel upon the bed, past the silken haired elfling in his hands, and his heart tightened.
“I promised him...” he began, his voice now heavy, while he delivered the rest of the news. The words he had left unspoken the night before. “Promised him I would take her to her Naneth's kin in the Greenwood. The last thing he asked of me.”
It was only half a lie, Ruivo told himself. Mithiel's face was still pressed into the pillow, her sobbing ceased, and he saw her shoulders tighten.
“Promised Ata?” Tauriel asked, her voice high and excited at the thought of adventure. At the thought of the Greenwood, which her Ata would sing to her of, and had promised to visit with her soon. “We will go to the Greenwood?”
Ruivo did not answer her beyond a, “Yes.” Then stared at Mithiel, where she lay rigid, her back to him.
“You need to get up, and pack what she will need for the ride,” he urged. The instruction upon his voice drawing Mithiel to rise and look at him, even in her stupor of grief. “I… cannot help… Norochil's choice...” he managed to stutter out.
“I will go with her,” Mithiel voiced low, dropping her eyes as she rose from the bed. Unable to meet Ruivo's eyes, she breezed past him on her way to the door to gather Tauriel's things, and her own.
Ruivo's heart began to beat, rampant, wishing to argue with her. Not with the little one here. Not with Tauriel in his arms, he could not start an argument, though he hastened in step to follow after Mithiel, to grasp her upper arm before she was able to open the door.
“He asked for… her Naneth's kin. Not us,” Ruivo whispered. He could see the hurt flicker across Mithel's face, and Ruivo drew nearer her, bending slightly to release the wiggling elfling to the floor. Tauriel bolted across the room as she caught sight of her Ama's easel, and the small table beside it where her own paints and papers rested.
“She does not know them. We are her family,” Mithiel protested, the snip in her voice which had been long subdued to him, now showing itself again. The tone of voice he had once loved to hear from her making itself known.
“Look what I painted, Ata!” the little elfling was pronouncing as she scrambled lift her papers. “It's the sea, do you see the gull flying?” Tauriel asked as she lifted the blue and grey smudges up for him to see, and Ruivo looked down and forced a smile for her before turning his eyes back to Mithiel.
“I must do ask he asked of me,” he muttered low to Mithiel, taking another step nearer her. He trembled inwardly. He could not lose both of them. Not Norochil and Mithiel. He could not be separated from her again; so long were the years before. He could not take her to Mirkwood, where the Sindar king lived. He made all manner of excuses in his mind. Arwen needed her here. Celebrían, the twins. She could not leave. He could not let her leave. “He wanted her raised by the Sindar.”
Ruivo wanted them both. He wanted both Mithiel and Tauriel, but he knew he would fail again, just as he had failed Norochil, he would fail his daughter. She would be in safer elsewhere. Far away from him. She would not come to ruin at his side the way her Adar had.
Mithiel had backed into the door, and Ruivo still drew nearer, his hand first upon her shoulder, and then slipping down, around, pulling her into his embrace as he bent slightly to kiss her temple, in a way he had not since the days they had lived together in Lothlorien. The action drawing Mithiel back to tears as she clutched Ruivo's tunic, rubbing her face against him though he was yet filthy, and he continued to speak, against her hair as he squeezed her in his arms. “She will be safe where he desired her to be. She will come to know and love them.”
Ruivo's pressed kisses into Mithiel's hair, dipping his head, he lavished the top of her head in affection, his nose brushing against the tip of her ear. He felt Mithiel gasp, and cleave to him, and he muttered to her, “You will stay in Imladris… I will go swiftly. One week the ride will take, and one week the return. Then I will be back. To you.” A hand brushed down the ridge of Mithiel's spine, back up her side, up the gentle curve of her body until he had cupped her cheek in hand.
“You stay, with me,” he whispered, turning her face up to his. He could see into the depths of her seaglass eyes. He could see Mithiel deep in thought. He could feel her fingers clenched tight against his tunic, pinching his skin beneath their grips, her eyes roving over his face as she debated arguing with him further, putting her foot down and telling him that the elfling came before him.
Yet, great in grief as she was, Mithiel clung to him, and Ruivo leaned down and pressed a kiss to her salty cheek, while his thumb brushed against her bottom lip. At that, she seemed to come to a decision, a flicker of hope in her eyes. Face tearstreaked, Mithiel pressed against him and breathed, “Yes, Ruivo.”
Before evening had come, Ruivo had departed on horseback, Tauriel wrapped in his arms, smiling and waving back at Mithiel, calling to her; “Farewell, Ama! Melinyel!”
Ruivo's stomach twisted in guilt and regret as he watched the ache on Mithiel's face, as he saw the way she stepped back, and clung to the tree at the edge of the walk, unable to support herself. Still watching as they crossed over the bridge, and set north toward the high pass to put the whole of the Misty Mountains between his own life and that which was Norochil's legacy. The precious elfling clutched in his arms, smelling of sweet apples and honey. The tiny Telerin bow and arrows he had crafted, and not yet gifted, packed away on the horse's back.