Mind the Years [October 3009] (One-shot) (CW)
Aug 6, 2018 0:58:40 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on Aug 6, 2018 0:58:40 GMT -5
(Content Warning: suicide references)
The door to his room slammed shut in the night, and Ruivo leaned against it, exhaling heavily; as if the deep feeling riding his chest could be cast away on his breath. A glimmer of cold, white moonlight shone through his window. Tilion had been in the sky now for hours, shining down down upon the dewdrops of Silpion. The same blossoms of which he had seen long years, long ages ago, bright silver flooding open, the ghostly essence of Telperion, the eldest among the trees of the Valar.
Ruivo eyed the stone cold hearth for an instant, and then set to work, fumbling upon the mantle for a candle, striking a match to light it. Candle jumping to blaze as the soft, flickering glow filled even the corners of the room with autumnal warmth.
Hours had he sat with her; watching the rise of Tilion. The dying leaves rustling beneath the light of the Hunter's Moon pouring white through the glistening trail of the waterfalls. Bathed in moonlight and autumn winds. The evening had come fresh and crisp after a charming day of mild breeze and faint haze. A day which Ruivo had meant to make memorable.
The trees had been a color palette of their own. Ruby, amber, citrine, and topaz. Glorious fire agate rustling on the sunny afternoon, as Ruivo had seated himself upon the stone wall to watch Mithiel paint away until daylight was golden. They sat, sometimes in silence, sometimes speaking of the long walk they had taken up the river that morning. The words Ruivo had wished to say stood unsaid as he watched Mithiel work. The delicate flick of her wrists as she made quick brushstrokes, and the long smooth maneuvers interspersed. The way her eyes would light on a space in the trees before she mixed her colors. He could almost see the inner workings of her artist’s mind.
And then he joined her at the gentle summons. “Paint with me, Kandó.” Ruivo kneeled beside her stool and easel as he exchanged the polished smooth orangey carnelian stone he had been toying with for her paint brush, seeking to mix a color of matching hue and adding flourishes of it here and there upon the leafy bower she had been painting, upon the undersides of the iridescent leaves. He felt Mithiel's dainty hand sliding up his back as he painted, resting between his shoulderblades, and he could feel her eyes, unsure if she was watching the movements of his brush, or simply the back of his head. The gentle twinge of fingertips against he nape of his neck told him it hardly mattered. It took all his willpower to not cant his head toward her. To not simply lean to the side and rest his head against he curve of her waist as she sat beside him.
Ruivo stared upward at the sky, at the trees murmuring in the brisk air, watching the way the light fell illuminating the underside of the leaves. Mithiel's eyes had followed his own; looking up, up, gleaming a brighter seaglass green than they usually appeared against the sunny orange canopy as she tracked a cardinal singing on a branch; garnet against the clear sapphire sky.
The paintbrush had dipped again to the citrine to darken it as Mithiel stared above. Staring. Watching. He saw the flicker in her eyes as her mind worked texture and hue. Ruivo raised the paintbrush; yet this time, not toward the paper. Mithiel was going to ask for it's return; he knew. She would wish to paint the bright colored bird, and so he offered the brush to her. A crooked half smile curled against the corner of his mouth as he raised the feathered end of the paintbrush silently, wet with carnelian and citrine mixed.
Higher.
Higher.
Until the colored brush was just beneath her lips of rose alabaster. The tiny feathered hairs barely touching her skin. Mithiel's eyes moved from the bird to look down to Ruivo and ask for the return of her brush; but as she turned down, the brush already grazed against her lip, and she gasped as a streak of paint colored her face, trailing an autumn colored line from her chin to the corner of her lips.
“Kandó,” Mithiel had chastised him with a single breathed word, yet he could see the life and glimmer in her eyes, even as she said it. He knew her disapproval was a ruse. She snatched the brush from his fingertips, biting her bottom lip as she cleaned the paint from it, hurried to mix and capture the color of the bird, to add to the autumn jeweled sky on her canvas.
The paint on her lip forgotten, she leaned again for her canvas, and Ruivo watched her as he wetted his thumb, and then used it to reach up and wipe the streak of paint from Mithiel's chin. She froze at the touch, staring ahead to her canvas, yet Ruivo saw the fluttery breath that had pulled in. The slight heave of her chest that had released when his hand drew away. Ruivo watched her face a moment longer, before glancing back to her hands as she finished mixing the dab of paint and began to add the red cardinal to the branches of the yellow beech she had earlier painted. Ruivo watched the flick of her wrist, and the way she whirled the brush in hand to capture the delicate tip of tail and wingfeathers.
“The most beautiful shade of...” Ruivo began. He paused as if the word was lost to his tongue, though he knew very well what he intended to say, and he watched Mithiel's expression.
“Scarlet,” Mithiel hummed to him fluidly, to finish his statement as she continued to make brush strokes. Ruivo let her be for a moment. The flick of her wrist finishing the tuft of feathers on the top of bird's crest.
“Ruby,” Ruivo argued softly as he watched Mithiel pause again and look down to him, her mouth opening and closing as a wry expression fell over her lips. Another game of banter, which had been lost to them over the years.
When she had set back to her work, Ruivo allowed a pause of silence, and then added. “I think it needs a shadow here beneath the tail feather,” he motioned. “A shadow of... garnet...”
Mithiel's eyes rolled back to him. “Of crimson,” she teased lightly.
“Of deepest garnet,” Ruivo countered, his voice smooth and low. He could see the way Mithiel's jaw moved; the way her tongue flicked against her teeth in her mouth. Impatience. Yet… feigned impatience. The expression was close to believable, had the light not been dancing upon her face and flickering through her eyes.
Ruivo stood up. “Your eyes are shining enstatite today. Green star enstatite.” She did not argue with him. They were outside in the daylight, and voices were singing far off. Mithiel looked up at him, as he knew she would. The colors swirling in her seaglass eyes were made even more vivid in the direct sunlight, and Ruivo could see the silent appeal swirling within.
“A fresh canvas,” she breathed.
“What now will you paint?” Ruivo asked, a brow raised that she had not finished her bird, though complying to the silent request. Her autumn landscape was plucked from the easel and leaned against the wall.
“I have not decided,” Mithiel answered him, staring ahead, and Ruivo's gaze followed her own before he turned to take up the last blank canvas he had carried outside for her earlier in the day. Her voice was so flat that he knew she had decided. What she had not yet decided was if she was going to tell him. She was shifting on the stool, cleaning her brush, though not truly looking upon it. Her mind seemed far away.
“The bridge looks nice in this lighting, with the leaves dancing down on the breeze,” Ruivo suggested after a moment of silence.
Mithiel's eyes snapped to his, in a sudden flurry, words short and punctuated. “I have painted enough of the bridge...”
No, indeed. It seemed the bridge was far from what she had intended. Ruivo had guessed wrong, from her tone of voice, her mind had been lost somewhere that he could not imagine, nor delve, and Mithiel had hesitated so long, her face growing peaked. “Mithi-” he began, almost ready to ask if she was well. If she would prefer to be finished.
“Cantacarmë...” she whispered hurriedly, before he had finished.
She said the word, and Ruivo's hand slipped to her right shoulder immediately as he stood beside her, resting gently; his fingers splayed over it. He could feel Mithiel nearly trembling beneath his palm. “By all means,” he uttered low, a sweeping lilt to his voice, and Mithiel seemed to let out a breath of relief.
Cantacarmë... A term which meant art in abstract shape. The word brought to mind paintings which were left leaning against the wall in Ost-in-Edhil. Splashes of color, circles, and whirls and lines. Shapes of all contortions, and colors weaving over and around others, conceptional in form.
“Lapis,” Ruivo hummed soothingly as she dipped her brush into the blue, yet she did not argue with him. She did not seem able. Ruivo's fingertips stirred against her collarbone and it seemed to still her as if in a trance. All Ruivo could feel was the way her bone jutted beneath his touch. It cast another shade of sorrow over him; yet he would not let it show upon his face.
The brush finally met the page in the upper right corner, and Ruivo's thumb pressed against the back of Mithiel's shoulder. He watched as she began to paint a slow circle. His thumb followed in time, brushing a gentle circle of his own against her gown. Her paintbrush had stilled, and Ruivo continued his circling for a few more strokes before pausing, leaning to peer around and seeing that her eyes were closed.
Long had it been since they had played this game, mapping the trails of loving touch; one or the other giving directive. Pausing a moment, he muttered, “Keep going.” Mithiel's eyes open and she cast a glance over her shoulder, coy as she dipped her brush and started from the top center. Ruivo's knuckles lifted to the ridge of her spine. Down trailed the brush, and down followed his hand. Her spine gently caressed beneath his fingertip, and a sigh came from her lips as the back up the brush moved, resting again at the top of the page, and Ruivo's fingers caressed the back of her neck while she paused again.
“I have two hands,” Ruivo hinted, stepping fully behind Mithiel now, as he saw her head turn to look at the brushes resting on her paint tray. She bit her lip, reaching for a second in her left hand, and hesitating, as Ruivo laid a hand now on each of her shoulders, leaning slightly forward, putting a slight pressure on the elleth, enough that she seemed stilled from her motions again.
“Try emerald,” he added with a grin. The brushes moved to dip into their respective paints, and Ruivo watched, his hands following the slow strokes which came from the corners. Following her directive, Ruivo's hands rode over Mithiel's sides, up and down her ribs, across her back. Caressing and massaging as he moved over the fabric of her dress. She had a dress in Ost-in-Edhil, grey green, like her eyes, though it had once been white. An open backed summer dress, which he never wished her to wear outside the balcony of their own chambers, the deep triangle in the back baring pale skin to his eyes. His hands craved to touch her when she wore that dress, and once Mithiel realized Ruivo's weakness to it, she would wear it with purpose. Often while painting, as he sat behind her on his own stool, playing the very same game above the city.
Once she had jested with him by lifting three brushes, two spaced in one hand, he had needed to find a way to make third contact, and when the third brush swiped the page, Ruivo had leaned to kiss her, right between her shoulder blades in that dress. The game of painting had ended there, Mithiel's paints drying on the tray, as Ruivo's arms would slip around her, as he would pluck her straight from her seat and carry her into their chambers, shared in those days. High above the city in the towers, he would lavish his Váyasilmë with every manner of affection she craved. In every way but… one way.
Mithiel’s brushes moved across the paper, sliding their bold lines of color and shape, as Ruivo’s fingers followed, gliding across her back, and feeling every touch come with a sigh from her lips. Feeling every rib beneath her dress; letting her gain more touch than she had received the month over that he had been home. Letting her direct how she wished to receive it. It was almost too much for Ruivo himself, his reserve growing weak with each passing moment, and his mind drifted away to the distance there was from this courtyard to his bedchambers.
He thought of leaving everything behind here, and simply lifting her to his arms. Carrying her with him, and finishing their sport without paint and paper on silk and furs, with the autumn breeze blowing through the window. The way they once would enjoy each other in Ost-in-Edhil, nay, even moreso. He could forgo all his plans. How would it have felt to her if he had reached around her, flicked the brush from her hand, and set the golden ring which was nestled within his pocket right upon her finger? To surprise her as he once would, in setting gems upon her from behind while she gazed into her mirror. This time a gem upon her finger, a band of woven gold and mithril, which meant more than any gem he had before gifted.
“Kandó...” Mithiel breathed, and Ruivo opened his eyes.
“Hmm...” he hummed, not realizing he had drifted so far in his thoughts that his hands had stilled their motions, resting on her shoulders, and Mithiel was leaning back into him, her head against his abdomen tilting up to look at him, a slender hand lifting to cling to his own. She did not say a word to him then, though her eyes spoke enough, and he remembered her words from the previous winter, “You will always be my lover and I do not care how far we have wandered…I will wait for you. Always.” Her eyes said the same to him now, and he shifted his hand, curling his fingers over he wrist and breathing as he stared down at her. Ruivo’s free hand slid from her shoulder to her neck, brushing over skin which was hidden beneath her chin, adoring the feel of her as his fingers brushed along the edges of the worn, leather collar she wore, the collar with which she covered her scar. The collar which upon was set the metal heart of gold and mithril, the same metals the rings in his pocket were crafted in. Ruivo rubbed her skin; tender skin which was only his to touch, feeling the change in her breathing patterns as she settled further back against him until Ruivo heard the approach of another.
Ruivo pulled his hands from her, releasing Mithiel’s grip upon him, and in one motion was again leaning against the wall, several steps away. His palms came to a white knuckled grasp against the stonework, and Mithiel seemed to look at him in anguish, her lips parted and her breaths coming ragged past beautiful lips.
A moment later, Fenion came through the trees around the curve in the path; silent feet moving like the fox sneaking up on his prey, though Ruivo had heard him from a distance. He was grinning as he approached Mithiel from behind, his eyes drawn to the blue and green lines upon the painting.
“That is more curious than I've seen of your art, my Lady. I do not think Lord Elrond will be hanging that one in the library,” Fenion teased with laughing eyes, looking upon Mithiel's canvas in confusion.
Mithiel gasped suddenly, frowning. “Fenion, this piece is not fated for Lord Elrond's library, nor for thine eyes.” The words were trite.
“Never fear, my Lady, I will soon let it pass from mind,” Fenion almost snorted in laughter, trying to assuage.
Ruivo flashed Fenion a look, as if in warning. It was with difficult measure to not allow his lip to twitch in amusement, though Fenion was still grinning as he side stepped to the back of Mithiel's easel, making a show of averting his eyes.
“There will be singing and feasting in the Hall of Fire tonight,” Fenion added brightly, clapping his hands together. “Will you two be joining? The Hall has missed you all year, Ruivo. I am certain I should not be the only one to be anxious for a tale or two of your travels.”
“Tilion rises full tonight,” Mithiel said, almost a whisper, and both the smith and the bard turned to look at her where she sat rigid, her arms crossed in front of her, looking down upon the stone walkway.
Ruivo had not forgotten that it was the night of the Hunter's Moon, though indeed he had gone all the day without mentioning their tradition. Their tradition, which he had missed with her since the turn of the year. The most longstanding tradition the two elves held to; since their days dwelling upon Balar. Whether they were alone or together, the eve of the full moon was a night to sit beneath the stars; to watch Tilion rise until the late hours of the night. Ruivo had never stopped. Whether through the years they lived apart, or the months he had spent in the wilds. When he was home, it was always their night together.
“We have plans tonight,” Ruivo told Fenion, acknowledging Mithiel's statement. He had not wished to acknowledge it through the day, for this was the night Ruivo had chosen to be their last together. Their last in Arda together, and he did not wish to think upon it. It was why he had let himself go through with this past month, with the small affections, and the undying attention he had given Mithiel this day. That she would have something fair to remember.
“Indeed, it is a night for moon fanciers,” Fenion agreed, looking between the two old elves, an inquiry in his eye harboring his long pause. “Perhaps tomorrow night in the Hall of Fire then?” Fenion had a peaked look upon his face, though his question went unanswered as the wind blew chill, and Arien moved behind the trees.
Ruivo looked at Mithiel, a sadness lingering beneath his gaze. “We should return your easel and paints, and fetch your cloak,” he told her, pausing and looking to Fenion. Staring at the young elf grimly, until the Fenion reached into his pocket and pulled out a ripe apple, beginning to munch upon it. The sound was disharmonious against the gentle rustling of dying leaves and the calls of birds preparing for winter.
“I best go find Aradeth, and get ready for the feast,” Fenion trilled upon noting the look Ruivo was gifting him. Today, it seemed, was not the day to press for the Hall of Fire, though something different Fenion wondered, glancing between Ruivo and Mithiel, watching openly the looks upon their faces as they seemed to forget him for a moment and look at only each other.
“I asked Nenien this morn to set aside our own supper on the kitchen balcony,” Ruivo added to Mithiel. Their tradition for the eve of the full moon to sup together before nightfall.
“You remembered,” she whispered.
“I never forget,” Ruivo answered.
Standing near the mantle in his chambers, Ruivo could still smell the lingering aroma of apples and honey on his clothing; on his hands. He raised his hands to his face, covering it, breathing deeply of it. The abiding scent which had always left a wave of calm washing over him. Ruivo had let her sink against him as they watched the rise of Tilion. So close together, in a way they had not passed such time save in times of turmoil and grief, in over four thousand years. Merely sitting together in silence, and in peace. Ruivo had idly let his fingers through her hair as the hours carried on, his other hand intertwined with her smaller.
His Váyasilmë had been content. He had not said her name aloud, in years, but he had to say it to her once more. To let her know it was still his name for her. She would always be his Váyasilmë, and he wished her to know it. It was why he had come back… why he could not disappear into nothingness as he thought he might be able to. Why he had walked the return journey from Mithlond to meet her again a final time. Ruivo had felt her from afar, aching.
Her promise of leaving for Aman was not enough. He needed… more. Though he did not deserve her, perhaps he could one day, and he needed to make sure she was waiting for him. He had returned to give her peace. To let her know that he still clung to the hope of what they could be one day.
Ruivo had returned to his forge for only one purpose. In the month he had been in Imladris, he had crafted only one thing. The set of gold and mithril rings which were held in the breast pocket of his tunic. Meaning to be given as the watched the moon before his departure. He had meant to explain to her… explain to her of what his plan was… to give her the ring in person, and to wear his also before her. Yet as time passed and Tilion moved across the sky; as she felt so at ease beneath his hands, and he considered what words would pass her lips should he grant her knowledge of his plans, he changed his mind.
It came down to a simple matter of belief. Mithiel spoke always on his forgiveness, spoke on Manwë’s judgement of forgiveness. Ruivo, however, could not believe it. How was he to believe it? How could he believe there was forgiveness for kinslayers such as himself? A kinslayer, a follower of Annatar. Among all the things he had done, there could be no forgiveness. The rings had weighed heavy in his pocket all the night.
Mithiel had been so serene when he had walked her back to her chambers. He tarried awhile with her until he had built the fire in her hearth, for the night was cool. And she seemed… not to suspect. Mithiel had embraced him before he departed; yet it was not in grief nor sorrow as his departure had been in winter. Her face was soft, and she seemed tranquil. She did not know he was leaving.
He had walked along the river in thought afterward, and when he had passed her rooms again her candle was smothered. Ruivo had entered her chambers silently... the scent of of candle smoke long faded, and she was soundly resting. Her cheek against the pillow, and warm furs pulled close.
He had stepped softly, silently towards her bed, as the dangling crystals twinkled overhead in the faint light from the fire, and white mist of moonbeams shining through her window. Ruivo's feet were leaden; dreading that he must turn and leave. He almost wished her to wake to him. To be roused, see him dressed for travel, and ask him to stay.
A pace nearer the bed, and Ruivo reached out to touch a whisp of her hair, silken air as he wrapped it around his finger, but she did not stir. He tentatively slid his finger against the back of her hand, feather light he trailed a finger from her knuckle to her wrist, and he watched as Mithiel's hands clutched at the blanket, then loosened, and Ruivo wondered what she was dreaming.
Mithiel's head turned on her pillow, a soft moan on her lips, her golden-brown hair twisting behind her in it's mussed braid. Her hand slid across the blanket, toward him, as if searching, and Ruivo contemplated throwing every plan he had made into the fire, and slipping into the barren place beside her on the great bed, feeling the sigh of her soft body melding against his in rest. Watching her wake and smile upon him, and bid him stay with her til morning and always thereafter. Again he thought of the rings in his breastpocket. He thought of how he could take it out, warm the metal in his hand, and slip it on the finger of her searching hand. How he could watch the changing look upon her face as she roused to him and realized what he had given.
Ruivo hesitated near the bed, leaning over, near her ear came the softest whisper. “Melinyel,” yet no response other than a sigh from his Váyasilmë, and he turned to depart before he could change his mind
Crossing his room to his desk, Ruivo had drawn out a sheet of parchment and ink, balancing the paper atop his already open books, and dipping his quill, he began to pen a letter. Not the first of the letters he had written, but one to join the other hundreds. This one was different; however. Beyond declarations of love and desire, this one would offer an explanation.
My Váyasilmë Vanimalda,
I miss you, and I have only just stepped away from you; your sweet face drawn in rest.
Melmenya, my gift from the Valar. I know the time will come in the spring when I do not return, and you will find these letters; you will find those which were always meant for you; words which I desire over the past age I would have been able to speak to you if the circumstances were different. Words I would have spoken to you every day of our lives together. Know that none of what follows is though fault of your own. Never has it been; all of it stems from my life which you do not know; the life I left behind in Aman before you were brought into the world, which even now I cannot bear to write.
When I met you, you opened the place inside which allowed me to feel. I was numb until I knew you, melitse. You showed me how to live again, and I have never been happier than with you. My healing balm, my soft place to fall. I love you more than you can possibly understand. Our fëar irrevocably woven in a way I cannot explain, but I know, you are mine and I have always been yours. Through all my years of silence I have been yours
I am sorry. I never meant to do this to you, to leave you time and again, and need to depart this way. Never have I deserved you, and you do not deserve this. It hurts me more to know what I have put you through; to see your eyes and know what our lives have been like this past age and a half. It hurts not to hold you in my arms every. My limbs ache without you. I wish I could have found a way to strip your love from me. I wish you would have left me barren and alone, and I would have never disappointed you, Mirënya, fairest of the gems in my life.
I am going now, the only way I am able. I pray it is spring before you have found this letter, and you have not long to wait. Depart soon for Círdan’s haven, for his ship which will be finished as we have spoken. He will have a place for you. Meet me in Aman, melinya. I will go by way of Namo, and you take the white ship. I will there atone, and Lady Nienna will hear me and turn my sorrows to wisdom that I may be better for you in second life. When I am well again I will petition Namo to return me, and I will seek you on Taniquetil. When that day comes, I will never part from you again. I promise Then will I be worthy of you. I know you will wait for me, for you have been faithful all these years which I have left you ready and waiting.
Read these letters which I have written for you bearing my love for you. Love which has never left me since I first touched you where you lay on the shores of the Sirion. Let them carry you through the years. Take the token which I have left for you in the letter box beneath the rest; the rings of gold and mithril I leave for you, bound with thoughts of our Tilion and Arien, never failing, always to return even when the shadow is cast for a time. The rings are my last craft. Hold mine for me until we meet again. Please, melitse, wear yours knowing you are mine, knowing that I love you. Wear it and keep my thoughts near for a time until we are together again, and watch Tilion for me. Mind the years until I return. There will our fëa meet and I will bind myself to you eternal, my wife.
Melinyel, always.
Kandóranáro
The letter inked, Ruivo glanced at the script, his hand shaking as he watched the ink drying upon the sheets of paper, and hastily folding the note. He looked at his desk; still a clutter of open books, Telerin songs he had been transcribing. Unfinished, but nonetheless Elrond would use what was given for his libraries. Ruivo squeezed his fists, together, uncertain where he had placed his sealing wax. His mind felt destroyed, convoluted, muddled, and in haste he simply folded the note, inking upon the top of it: Melmenya, Narquelië 3009,
The rings slipped from his pocket into an envelope and tucked near the bottom of the box of letters, he placed everything upon the shelf with the sketchbook he wished for her to find. Ruivo stared for a moment at the portrait of Ost-in-Edhil. The portrait of their old home; the place where they had lived and loved, where they had raised their Norochil together. So many memories. He hoped she would have a few fair ones to keep aside the bitter he was leaving her with.
He had to leave. There was no more waiting. Snuffing the candle, it was no more than a minute before Ruivo had again departed from his chambers, this time intending not to return.
The door to his room slammed shut in the night, and Ruivo leaned against it, exhaling heavily; as if the deep feeling riding his chest could be cast away on his breath. A glimmer of cold, white moonlight shone through his window. Tilion had been in the sky now for hours, shining down down upon the dewdrops of Silpion. The same blossoms of which he had seen long years, long ages ago, bright silver flooding open, the ghostly essence of Telperion, the eldest among the trees of the Valar.
Ruivo eyed the stone cold hearth for an instant, and then set to work, fumbling upon the mantle for a candle, striking a match to light it. Candle jumping to blaze as the soft, flickering glow filled even the corners of the room with autumnal warmth.
Hours had he sat with her; watching the rise of Tilion. The dying leaves rustling beneath the light of the Hunter's Moon pouring white through the glistening trail of the waterfalls. Bathed in moonlight and autumn winds. The evening had come fresh and crisp after a charming day of mild breeze and faint haze. A day which Ruivo had meant to make memorable.
***
The trees had been a color palette of their own. Ruby, amber, citrine, and topaz. Glorious fire agate rustling on the sunny afternoon, as Ruivo had seated himself upon the stone wall to watch Mithiel paint away until daylight was golden. They sat, sometimes in silence, sometimes speaking of the long walk they had taken up the river that morning. The words Ruivo had wished to say stood unsaid as he watched Mithiel work. The delicate flick of her wrists as she made quick brushstrokes, and the long smooth maneuvers interspersed. The way her eyes would light on a space in the trees before she mixed her colors. He could almost see the inner workings of her artist’s mind.
And then he joined her at the gentle summons. “Paint with me, Kandó.” Ruivo kneeled beside her stool and easel as he exchanged the polished smooth orangey carnelian stone he had been toying with for her paint brush, seeking to mix a color of matching hue and adding flourishes of it here and there upon the leafy bower she had been painting, upon the undersides of the iridescent leaves. He felt Mithiel's dainty hand sliding up his back as he painted, resting between his shoulderblades, and he could feel her eyes, unsure if she was watching the movements of his brush, or simply the back of his head. The gentle twinge of fingertips against he nape of his neck told him it hardly mattered. It took all his willpower to not cant his head toward her. To not simply lean to the side and rest his head against he curve of her waist as she sat beside him.
Ruivo stared upward at the sky, at the trees murmuring in the brisk air, watching the way the light fell illuminating the underside of the leaves. Mithiel's eyes had followed his own; looking up, up, gleaming a brighter seaglass green than they usually appeared against the sunny orange canopy as she tracked a cardinal singing on a branch; garnet against the clear sapphire sky.
The paintbrush had dipped again to the citrine to darken it as Mithiel stared above. Staring. Watching. He saw the flicker in her eyes as her mind worked texture and hue. Ruivo raised the paintbrush; yet this time, not toward the paper. Mithiel was going to ask for it's return; he knew. She would wish to paint the bright colored bird, and so he offered the brush to her. A crooked half smile curled against the corner of his mouth as he raised the feathered end of the paintbrush silently, wet with carnelian and citrine mixed.
Higher.
Higher.
Until the colored brush was just beneath her lips of rose alabaster. The tiny feathered hairs barely touching her skin. Mithiel's eyes moved from the bird to look down to Ruivo and ask for the return of her brush; but as she turned down, the brush already grazed against her lip, and she gasped as a streak of paint colored her face, trailing an autumn colored line from her chin to the corner of her lips.
“Kandó,” Mithiel had chastised him with a single breathed word, yet he could see the life and glimmer in her eyes, even as she said it. He knew her disapproval was a ruse. She snatched the brush from his fingertips, biting her bottom lip as she cleaned the paint from it, hurried to mix and capture the color of the bird, to add to the autumn jeweled sky on her canvas.
The paint on her lip forgotten, she leaned again for her canvas, and Ruivo watched her as he wetted his thumb, and then used it to reach up and wipe the streak of paint from Mithiel's chin. She froze at the touch, staring ahead to her canvas, yet Ruivo saw the fluttery breath that had pulled in. The slight heave of her chest that had released when his hand drew away. Ruivo watched her face a moment longer, before glancing back to her hands as she finished mixing the dab of paint and began to add the red cardinal to the branches of the yellow beech she had earlier painted. Ruivo watched the flick of her wrist, and the way she whirled the brush in hand to capture the delicate tip of tail and wingfeathers.
“The most beautiful shade of...” Ruivo began. He paused as if the word was lost to his tongue, though he knew very well what he intended to say, and he watched Mithiel's expression.
“Scarlet,” Mithiel hummed to him fluidly, to finish his statement as she continued to make brush strokes. Ruivo let her be for a moment. The flick of her wrist finishing the tuft of feathers on the top of bird's crest.
“Ruby,” Ruivo argued softly as he watched Mithiel pause again and look down to him, her mouth opening and closing as a wry expression fell over her lips. Another game of banter, which had been lost to them over the years.
When she had set back to her work, Ruivo allowed a pause of silence, and then added. “I think it needs a shadow here beneath the tail feather,” he motioned. “A shadow of... garnet...”
Mithiel's eyes rolled back to him. “Of crimson,” she teased lightly.
“Of deepest garnet,” Ruivo countered, his voice smooth and low. He could see the way Mithiel's jaw moved; the way her tongue flicked against her teeth in her mouth. Impatience. Yet… feigned impatience. The expression was close to believable, had the light not been dancing upon her face and flickering through her eyes.
Ruivo stood up. “Your eyes are shining enstatite today. Green star enstatite.” She did not argue with him. They were outside in the daylight, and voices were singing far off. Mithiel looked up at him, as he knew she would. The colors swirling in her seaglass eyes were made even more vivid in the direct sunlight, and Ruivo could see the silent appeal swirling within.
“A fresh canvas,” she breathed.
“What now will you paint?” Ruivo asked, a brow raised that she had not finished her bird, though complying to the silent request. Her autumn landscape was plucked from the easel and leaned against the wall.
“I have not decided,” Mithiel answered him, staring ahead, and Ruivo's gaze followed her own before he turned to take up the last blank canvas he had carried outside for her earlier in the day. Her voice was so flat that he knew she had decided. What she had not yet decided was if she was going to tell him. She was shifting on the stool, cleaning her brush, though not truly looking upon it. Her mind seemed far away.
“The bridge looks nice in this lighting, with the leaves dancing down on the breeze,” Ruivo suggested after a moment of silence.
Mithiel's eyes snapped to his, in a sudden flurry, words short and punctuated. “I have painted enough of the bridge...”
No, indeed. It seemed the bridge was far from what she had intended. Ruivo had guessed wrong, from her tone of voice, her mind had been lost somewhere that he could not imagine, nor delve, and Mithiel had hesitated so long, her face growing peaked. “Mithi-” he began, almost ready to ask if she was well. If she would prefer to be finished.
“Cantacarmë...” she whispered hurriedly, before he had finished.
She said the word, and Ruivo's hand slipped to her right shoulder immediately as he stood beside her, resting gently; his fingers splayed over it. He could feel Mithiel nearly trembling beneath his palm. “By all means,” he uttered low, a sweeping lilt to his voice, and Mithiel seemed to let out a breath of relief.
Cantacarmë... A term which meant art in abstract shape. The word brought to mind paintings which were left leaning against the wall in Ost-in-Edhil. Splashes of color, circles, and whirls and lines. Shapes of all contortions, and colors weaving over and around others, conceptional in form.
“Lapis,” Ruivo hummed soothingly as she dipped her brush into the blue, yet she did not argue with him. She did not seem able. Ruivo's fingertips stirred against her collarbone and it seemed to still her as if in a trance. All Ruivo could feel was the way her bone jutted beneath his touch. It cast another shade of sorrow over him; yet he would not let it show upon his face.
The brush finally met the page in the upper right corner, and Ruivo's thumb pressed against the back of Mithiel's shoulder. He watched as she began to paint a slow circle. His thumb followed in time, brushing a gentle circle of his own against her gown. Her paintbrush had stilled, and Ruivo continued his circling for a few more strokes before pausing, leaning to peer around and seeing that her eyes were closed.
Long had it been since they had played this game, mapping the trails of loving touch; one or the other giving directive. Pausing a moment, he muttered, “Keep going.” Mithiel's eyes open and she cast a glance over her shoulder, coy as she dipped her brush and started from the top center. Ruivo's knuckles lifted to the ridge of her spine. Down trailed the brush, and down followed his hand. Her spine gently caressed beneath his fingertip, and a sigh came from her lips as the back up the brush moved, resting again at the top of the page, and Ruivo's fingers caressed the back of her neck while she paused again.
“I have two hands,” Ruivo hinted, stepping fully behind Mithiel now, as he saw her head turn to look at the brushes resting on her paint tray. She bit her lip, reaching for a second in her left hand, and hesitating, as Ruivo laid a hand now on each of her shoulders, leaning slightly forward, putting a slight pressure on the elleth, enough that she seemed stilled from her motions again.
“Try emerald,” he added with a grin. The brushes moved to dip into their respective paints, and Ruivo watched, his hands following the slow strokes which came from the corners. Following her directive, Ruivo's hands rode over Mithiel's sides, up and down her ribs, across her back. Caressing and massaging as he moved over the fabric of her dress. She had a dress in Ost-in-Edhil, grey green, like her eyes, though it had once been white. An open backed summer dress, which he never wished her to wear outside the balcony of their own chambers, the deep triangle in the back baring pale skin to his eyes. His hands craved to touch her when she wore that dress, and once Mithiel realized Ruivo's weakness to it, she would wear it with purpose. Often while painting, as he sat behind her on his own stool, playing the very same game above the city.
Once she had jested with him by lifting three brushes, two spaced in one hand, he had needed to find a way to make third contact, and when the third brush swiped the page, Ruivo had leaned to kiss her, right between her shoulder blades in that dress. The game of painting had ended there, Mithiel's paints drying on the tray, as Ruivo's arms would slip around her, as he would pluck her straight from her seat and carry her into their chambers, shared in those days. High above the city in the towers, he would lavish his Váyasilmë with every manner of affection she craved. In every way but… one way.
Mithiel’s brushes moved across the paper, sliding their bold lines of color and shape, as Ruivo’s fingers followed, gliding across her back, and feeling every touch come with a sigh from her lips. Feeling every rib beneath her dress; letting her gain more touch than she had received the month over that he had been home. Letting her direct how she wished to receive it. It was almost too much for Ruivo himself, his reserve growing weak with each passing moment, and his mind drifted away to the distance there was from this courtyard to his bedchambers.
He thought of leaving everything behind here, and simply lifting her to his arms. Carrying her with him, and finishing their sport without paint and paper on silk and furs, with the autumn breeze blowing through the window. The way they once would enjoy each other in Ost-in-Edhil, nay, even moreso. He could forgo all his plans. How would it have felt to her if he had reached around her, flicked the brush from her hand, and set the golden ring which was nestled within his pocket right upon her finger? To surprise her as he once would, in setting gems upon her from behind while she gazed into her mirror. This time a gem upon her finger, a band of woven gold and mithril, which meant more than any gem he had before gifted.
“Kandó...” Mithiel breathed, and Ruivo opened his eyes.
“Hmm...” he hummed, not realizing he had drifted so far in his thoughts that his hands had stilled their motions, resting on her shoulders, and Mithiel was leaning back into him, her head against his abdomen tilting up to look at him, a slender hand lifting to cling to his own. She did not say a word to him then, though her eyes spoke enough, and he remembered her words from the previous winter, “You will always be my lover and I do not care how far we have wandered…I will wait for you. Always.” Her eyes said the same to him now, and he shifted his hand, curling his fingers over he wrist and breathing as he stared down at her. Ruivo’s free hand slid from her shoulder to her neck, brushing over skin which was hidden beneath her chin, adoring the feel of her as his fingers brushed along the edges of the worn, leather collar she wore, the collar with which she covered her scar. The collar which upon was set the metal heart of gold and mithril, the same metals the rings in his pocket were crafted in. Ruivo rubbed her skin; tender skin which was only his to touch, feeling the change in her breathing patterns as she settled further back against him until Ruivo heard the approach of another.
Ruivo pulled his hands from her, releasing Mithiel’s grip upon him, and in one motion was again leaning against the wall, several steps away. His palms came to a white knuckled grasp against the stonework, and Mithiel seemed to look at him in anguish, her lips parted and her breaths coming ragged past beautiful lips.
A moment later, Fenion came through the trees around the curve in the path; silent feet moving like the fox sneaking up on his prey, though Ruivo had heard him from a distance. He was grinning as he approached Mithiel from behind, his eyes drawn to the blue and green lines upon the painting.
“That is more curious than I've seen of your art, my Lady. I do not think Lord Elrond will be hanging that one in the library,” Fenion teased with laughing eyes, looking upon Mithiel's canvas in confusion.
Mithiel gasped suddenly, frowning. “Fenion, this piece is not fated for Lord Elrond's library, nor for thine eyes.” The words were trite.
“Never fear, my Lady, I will soon let it pass from mind,” Fenion almost snorted in laughter, trying to assuage.
Ruivo flashed Fenion a look, as if in warning. It was with difficult measure to not allow his lip to twitch in amusement, though Fenion was still grinning as he side stepped to the back of Mithiel's easel, making a show of averting his eyes.
“There will be singing and feasting in the Hall of Fire tonight,” Fenion added brightly, clapping his hands together. “Will you two be joining? The Hall has missed you all year, Ruivo. I am certain I should not be the only one to be anxious for a tale or two of your travels.”
“Tilion rises full tonight,” Mithiel said, almost a whisper, and both the smith and the bard turned to look at her where she sat rigid, her arms crossed in front of her, looking down upon the stone walkway.
Ruivo had not forgotten that it was the night of the Hunter's Moon, though indeed he had gone all the day without mentioning their tradition. Their tradition, which he had missed with her since the turn of the year. The most longstanding tradition the two elves held to; since their days dwelling upon Balar. Whether they were alone or together, the eve of the full moon was a night to sit beneath the stars; to watch Tilion rise until the late hours of the night. Ruivo had never stopped. Whether through the years they lived apart, or the months he had spent in the wilds. When he was home, it was always their night together.
“We have plans tonight,” Ruivo told Fenion, acknowledging Mithiel's statement. He had not wished to acknowledge it through the day, for this was the night Ruivo had chosen to be their last together. Their last in Arda together, and he did not wish to think upon it. It was why he had let himself go through with this past month, with the small affections, and the undying attention he had given Mithiel this day. That she would have something fair to remember.
“Indeed, it is a night for moon fanciers,” Fenion agreed, looking between the two old elves, an inquiry in his eye harboring his long pause. “Perhaps tomorrow night in the Hall of Fire then?” Fenion had a peaked look upon his face, though his question went unanswered as the wind blew chill, and Arien moved behind the trees.
Ruivo looked at Mithiel, a sadness lingering beneath his gaze. “We should return your easel and paints, and fetch your cloak,” he told her, pausing and looking to Fenion. Staring at the young elf grimly, until the Fenion reached into his pocket and pulled out a ripe apple, beginning to munch upon it. The sound was disharmonious against the gentle rustling of dying leaves and the calls of birds preparing for winter.
“I best go find Aradeth, and get ready for the feast,” Fenion trilled upon noting the look Ruivo was gifting him. Today, it seemed, was not the day to press for the Hall of Fire, though something different Fenion wondered, glancing between Ruivo and Mithiel, watching openly the looks upon their faces as they seemed to forget him for a moment and look at only each other.
“I asked Nenien this morn to set aside our own supper on the kitchen balcony,” Ruivo added to Mithiel. Their tradition for the eve of the full moon to sup together before nightfall.
“You remembered,” she whispered.
“I never forget,” Ruivo answered.
***
Standing near the mantle in his chambers, Ruivo could still smell the lingering aroma of apples and honey on his clothing; on his hands. He raised his hands to his face, covering it, breathing deeply of it. The abiding scent which had always left a wave of calm washing over him. Ruivo had let her sink against him as they watched the rise of Tilion. So close together, in a way they had not passed such time save in times of turmoil and grief, in over four thousand years. Merely sitting together in silence, and in peace. Ruivo had idly let his fingers through her hair as the hours carried on, his other hand intertwined with her smaller.
His Váyasilmë had been content. He had not said her name aloud, in years, but he had to say it to her once more. To let her know it was still his name for her. She would always be his Váyasilmë, and he wished her to know it. It was why he had come back… why he could not disappear into nothingness as he thought he might be able to. Why he had walked the return journey from Mithlond to meet her again a final time. Ruivo had felt her from afar, aching.
Her promise of leaving for Aman was not enough. He needed… more. Though he did not deserve her, perhaps he could one day, and he needed to make sure she was waiting for him. He had returned to give her peace. To let her know that he still clung to the hope of what they could be one day.
Ruivo had returned to his forge for only one purpose. In the month he had been in Imladris, he had crafted only one thing. The set of gold and mithril rings which were held in the breast pocket of his tunic. Meaning to be given as the watched the moon before his departure. He had meant to explain to her… explain to her of what his plan was… to give her the ring in person, and to wear his also before her. Yet as time passed and Tilion moved across the sky; as she felt so at ease beneath his hands, and he considered what words would pass her lips should he grant her knowledge of his plans, he changed his mind.
It came down to a simple matter of belief. Mithiel spoke always on his forgiveness, spoke on Manwë’s judgement of forgiveness. Ruivo, however, could not believe it. How was he to believe it? How could he believe there was forgiveness for kinslayers such as himself? A kinslayer, a follower of Annatar. Among all the things he had done, there could be no forgiveness. The rings had weighed heavy in his pocket all the night.
***
Mithiel had been so serene when he had walked her back to her chambers. He tarried awhile with her until he had built the fire in her hearth, for the night was cool. And she seemed… not to suspect. Mithiel had embraced him before he departed; yet it was not in grief nor sorrow as his departure had been in winter. Her face was soft, and she seemed tranquil. She did not know he was leaving.
He had walked along the river in thought afterward, and when he had passed her rooms again her candle was smothered. Ruivo had entered her chambers silently... the scent of of candle smoke long faded, and she was soundly resting. Her cheek against the pillow, and warm furs pulled close.
He had stepped softly, silently towards her bed, as the dangling crystals twinkled overhead in the faint light from the fire, and white mist of moonbeams shining through her window. Ruivo's feet were leaden; dreading that he must turn and leave. He almost wished her to wake to him. To be roused, see him dressed for travel, and ask him to stay.
A pace nearer the bed, and Ruivo reached out to touch a whisp of her hair, silken air as he wrapped it around his finger, but she did not stir. He tentatively slid his finger against the back of her hand, feather light he trailed a finger from her knuckle to her wrist, and he watched as Mithiel's hands clutched at the blanket, then loosened, and Ruivo wondered what she was dreaming.
Mithiel's head turned on her pillow, a soft moan on her lips, her golden-brown hair twisting behind her in it's mussed braid. Her hand slid across the blanket, toward him, as if searching, and Ruivo contemplated throwing every plan he had made into the fire, and slipping into the barren place beside her on the great bed, feeling the sigh of her soft body melding against his in rest. Watching her wake and smile upon him, and bid him stay with her til morning and always thereafter. Again he thought of the rings in his breastpocket. He thought of how he could take it out, warm the metal in his hand, and slip it on the finger of her searching hand. How he could watch the changing look upon her face as she roused to him and realized what he had given.
Ruivo hesitated near the bed, leaning over, near her ear came the softest whisper. “Melinyel,” yet no response other than a sigh from his Váyasilmë, and he turned to depart before he could change his mind
***
Crossing his room to his desk, Ruivo had drawn out a sheet of parchment and ink, balancing the paper atop his already open books, and dipping his quill, he began to pen a letter. Not the first of the letters he had written, but one to join the other hundreds. This one was different; however. Beyond declarations of love and desire, this one would offer an explanation.
My Váyasilmë Vanimalda,
I miss you, and I have only just stepped away from you; your sweet face drawn in rest.
Melmenya, my gift from the Valar. I know the time will come in the spring when I do not return, and you will find these letters; you will find those which were always meant for you; words which I desire over the past age I would have been able to speak to you if the circumstances were different. Words I would have spoken to you every day of our lives together. Know that none of what follows is though fault of your own. Never has it been; all of it stems from my life which you do not know; the life I left behind in Aman before you were brought into the world, which even now I cannot bear to write.
When I met you, you opened the place inside which allowed me to feel. I was numb until I knew you, melitse. You showed me how to live again, and I have never been happier than with you. My healing balm, my soft place to fall. I love you more than you can possibly understand. Our fëar irrevocably woven in a way I cannot explain, but I know, you are mine and I have always been yours. Through all my years of silence I have been yours
I am sorry. I never meant to do this to you, to leave you time and again, and need to depart this way. Never have I deserved you, and you do not deserve this. It hurts me more to know what I have put you through; to see your eyes and know what our lives have been like this past age and a half. It hurts not to hold you in my arms every. My limbs ache without you. I wish I could have found a way to strip your love from me. I wish you would have left me barren and alone, and I would have never disappointed you, Mirënya, fairest of the gems in my life.
I am going now, the only way I am able. I pray it is spring before you have found this letter, and you have not long to wait. Depart soon for Círdan’s haven, for his ship which will be finished as we have spoken. He will have a place for you. Meet me in Aman, melinya. I will go by way of Namo, and you take the white ship. I will there atone, and Lady Nienna will hear me and turn my sorrows to wisdom that I may be better for you in second life. When I am well again I will petition Namo to return me, and I will seek you on Taniquetil. When that day comes, I will never part from you again. I promise Then will I be worthy of you. I know you will wait for me, for you have been faithful all these years which I have left you ready and waiting.
Read these letters which I have written for you bearing my love for you. Love which has never left me since I first touched you where you lay on the shores of the Sirion. Let them carry you through the years. Take the token which I have left for you in the letter box beneath the rest; the rings of gold and mithril I leave for you, bound with thoughts of our Tilion and Arien, never failing, always to return even when the shadow is cast for a time. The rings are my last craft. Hold mine for me until we meet again. Please, melitse, wear yours knowing you are mine, knowing that I love you. Wear it and keep my thoughts near for a time until we are together again, and watch Tilion for me. Mind the years until I return. There will our fëa meet and I will bind myself to you eternal, my wife.
Melinyel, always.
Kandóranáro
The letter inked, Ruivo glanced at the script, his hand shaking as he watched the ink drying upon the sheets of paper, and hastily folding the note. He looked at his desk; still a clutter of open books, Telerin songs he had been transcribing. Unfinished, but nonetheless Elrond would use what was given for his libraries. Ruivo squeezed his fists, together, uncertain where he had placed his sealing wax. His mind felt destroyed, convoluted, muddled, and in haste he simply folded the note, inking upon the top of it: Melmenya, Narquelië 3009,
The rings slipped from his pocket into an envelope and tucked near the bottom of the box of letters, he placed everything upon the shelf with the sketchbook he wished for her to find. Ruivo stared for a moment at the portrait of Ost-in-Edhil. The portrait of their old home; the place where they had lived and loved, where they had raised their Norochil together. So many memories. He hoped she would have a few fair ones to keep aside the bitter he was leaving her with.
He had to leave. There was no more waiting. Snuffing the candle, it was no more than a minute before Ruivo had again departed from his chambers, this time intending not to return.