Revels of Austalendë (One-shot) (Summer, 1522 T.A.)(CW)
Aug 13, 2018 16:56:44 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on Aug 13, 2018 16:56:44 GMT -5
(Content warning: self harm)
Revels of Austalendë
He could still hear her tiny voice echoing in his mind. ”Atatar, will you stay with me in the Greenwood? Atatar, will you bring Ama?” Tauriel had been then only two summers of age, her voice ringing bright as the crimson sparks which flew when hammer struck anvil. She had not understood. She could not understand then. Her parents were gone, and he could not raise her. He could not do her the justice of an honorable, safe upbringing. He could not grant the dying request of her Atto.
Ruivo had held her one last night, the small elfling curled up beside him in the guest room he had taken beneath the Elvenking’s halls. ”You will grow strong here. As strong as the roots of the great . As bright as Arien in the sky, Orontënya.” My sunrise, he called her, for her bright spirit, and her hair of early dawn hue. She had been born during the bright days of the year; when summer was at it’s peak, the days long and languid. Her begetting day falling over the elven celebration of the summer solstice. She shone with the light of Arien in his life, as his Váya shone with that of Tilion’s silvery encompassing beams. Together they were his day and night.
And moreso, she was Orontënya for what she had done for them. For their family, which had been closer for the celebration of her gift of life than they had in long years, since before the fall of Ost-in-Edhil. They had all lived together again, in the same elvenhome, in Imladris. Norochil with his Atto and Ammë, his wife and his daughter. There had been promise and future, hopes heightening, until death came instead.
For some years, Ruivo had visited her. Cúnir wrote letters to him from the Greenwood. His once apprentice, among the few smiths who lived after the fall of Eregion. Cúnir could be trusted to tell him of her upbringing. To let him know if there was something that she needed. However as the first year passed, telling tale of her safety and happiness were not enough.
Ruivo needed to see for himself. He began to visit her during the festival of Autstalendë, Midsummer’s Day. Each summer he had ridden into the burly, twisted forest, beneath the dark wood to the carven stone halls which so resembled Nargothrond in Old Beleriand. He had seen her grow taller, fairer. Not informing Mithiel of his passing over the mountains each summer; she knew only that he went to the wilds, for he feared if he took her, she would refuse to return home with him. He could not lose her. She could not be taken from him. All of Arda could be taken from him, but not Mithiel.
On his first visit, when Tauriel was three, she had squealed in delight to see him, proclaiming that her Atatar had returned to her, that he was taking her home to Ama, though such things did not come to pass. Ruivo had been able to distract her, for want of spending some days in the caverns with her; seeing how she fared, watching her with her tiny Telerin bow. The bow he had not taught her how to shoot, but the skill taught to her by those of the woodland realm.
As the years passed by, she would shoot not straightbacked in the Telerin style, but in any position as necessary to do between trees which would wind and distort vision. Between, above, below, the woodelves had a different way with weaponry than those of the old country, and Ruivo saw the way Tauriel changed with them. Her Quenyan had been forgotten by age four. He had greeted her in words he had longed used, and she had only looked at him in confusion. Orontënya alone she remembered, her name by him, and she brightened as ever to hear it.
By her fifth summer, ‘Atatar’ had not passed her lips. She ceased to ask after her Ama, and neither did she know Mithiel’s name, nor his own. He had to reintroduce himself, as Ruivo this time, though the little elleth seemed to remember what they shared, and with jeweled emerald eyes, she had accepted the gift of jadestone necklace which matched the hues of the forest, and her name, Tauriel.
Until she was ten summers of age he had visited her, known only as the smith who had known her Adar; the visit each year shorter. She had cried when he left each time, though he was not sure she knew why, but blood was strong. It had always been strong within his family, perhaps for the heavy iron coursing through the veins of the smiths which came from the line of Mahtan. Iron sharpens iron, and metal has a draw of magnetism. Fire knew fire, and perhaps she had faint memories of him. He wondered what she remembered, though he no longer would ask her those things. Only observe. Only watch how she interacted with those around her; how she now blended amongst the woodelves. The last time he had stayed only two hours. Ruivo had not even passed a night in the Elvenkings halls before he had to depart. It was enough.
She had grown as any elfling, learning to read, and write, and Ruivo had not been able to bear it on the eleventh summer. He had not ridden to the Greenwood, and he would not ride there again. But by post did her simple message arrive. “I waited for you on Austalendë.” Accompanying the note, a watercolor painting of the forest, and the deep, black enchanted stream.
Ruivo had tucked away the note, his heart torn. Perhaps the painting of the stream was coincidence, but to Ruivo it was symbolic of something greater. The stream which cast dreams and forgetfulness. He knew in his heart it was better that she forget. He had not kept his promises to Norochil, and now she was now among the woodelves, her kin, as he had wished. She could forget the valley of Imladris. She could forget him. She could forget her Ama who pined away for her year after year, and her loss would not make her heart grow heavy, he told himself. She was doing well in the halls of Thranduil. She did not need them.
I waited for you. The words burned a hole through him, until Ruivo retreated further into himself. He had given up on Tanfui long ago, and now Austalendë too became unbearable. When twelve summers had passed since her birth, Ruivo was home in Imladris yet. The rest of the valley celebrated with fires and celebrations for the festival, Ruivo took to his chambers alone. The pieces of his life scattered, there was only one steady beam remaining. Sweet Váya, who looked for him, and would not let him sit the night in solitude, seating herself beside him on the edge of his bed as he stared out the window waiting for the sunrise.
“Twelve years,” Mithiel said, looking up to him, and Ruivo looked down to her, blue eye meeting her pools of living jade, which were damp around the edges. He said nothing in response, but they both looked down to the plate of cake untouched between them on the bed. The sky had grown dusky purple to red dawn, the watches of the shortest night finished, and Mithiel rose up from the bed, shifting the plate of cake to the windowsill where the twittering birds would soon spy it. Ruivo too stood, crossing to the table beside the bed where sat the framed painting, a wash of blue, with a squiggle for the flying gull, and the sun overhead.
Frame lifted, he stared at it for a moment, before moving it from the table to place back upon the shelf on the wall, beside the painting of the dark river. Ruivo wondered now what her paintings would be of, had she sat beside her Ama these past ten years.
Elves were just now leaving the Hall of Fire. There was singing to be heard on the summer air, rejoicing for Austalendë, for the longest day, for the months of light and warmth, and the festivities which would take place beneath the golden sun this day.
The two elves looked at each other, and Mithiel turned back to the window to draw the curtains, thereafter moving back to his bed, curling onto his pillow, and turning her face away from the light. Ruivo moved his chair aside the bed, and sat. They would share the day together, like this. She had sat the night with him, and Ruivo would stay with her the day. The flame haired elf lifted a hand, brushing his knuckles against the back of Mithiel’s neck, and he saw her sigh.
What he had done to her was a horror, he knew. Her elfling. She had helped to raise already Celebrían, the twins, and Arwen. Norochil she had raised alongside him. He had been their own. There was no fairer mother, Ruivo was certain, in all of Arda, than his Mithiel. He should have given her the chance to raise their granddaughter. It was a horror. An abomination, what he had done to her. Abhorrent what he had done to Tauriel, to leave her an orphan alone, when her Ama resided here and ached for her. It was detestable what he had done in Norochil’s name. Repulsive that he could not grant his son’s dying wish.
He was repugnant, no better than the orcs which had shot his own son in the back. He, having dealt the same blow to his own Atatar. Disgusting, that he was not able to let Mithiel go. He had tried to let her go before. He had walked away. He had left her in Lothlorien, and for twelve hundred years he had avoided her; yet still returned to him. Still came, still followed his lead, still proclaimed in silent ways that she was his. After all he had put her through. Self-loathing clawed up his throat.
Ruivo’s hand brushed lightly against Mithiel’s back, trying to instill what comfort he could give, until he felt her breathing shift to that of sleep. Rest, which she needed after the long night sitting in mourning. She could rest the day away, mind closed for her dreams. At least that way he could no longer cause her harm, and perhaps her dreams would take her to a better place away from him. The pain, Ruivo knew, he should bear on his own. His past was not hers to share; not hers to bear. He had killed. She had not. The decisions that took them to the place they were now had been his own, not hers. She was faultless to him.
Unable to stand it, Ruivo rose quietly and took to his washroom, making silent the door behind him as he glanced through the crack for a moment at her still form, before he pulled it completely and latched it. Quietly he opened the valve above the tub, which sent forth a trickle of water, rolling through this wing of Elrond’s house from the power of the great river outdoors. The boiler unused, he let the tub fill with cold river water which flowed from the melting mountains. Ruivo readied himself, seated on the edge of his tub as he reached for silver blade.
White lined scars were drawn down his thighs, scars from years before, from before the days he had known Mithiel, when his hatred had caused him to seek toward pain. Physical pain could make the rest of him numb in comparison, and help him forget how his soul had ached. He had been foolish to think he was worth enough in those days to stop. His scars were long healed; he had promised himself he would not harm the skin which Mithiel cherished, the skin which she would one day see when they were wed, but it did not seem to matter anymore.
Silver blade parting his skin, he gasped outwardly at the first cut, then glanced toward the door, pressing his lips together, holding silent as he watched skin pool red with each slice. This, he could handle. This was relief. He could feel his heart pounding in his legs instead of throbbing through his chest. Mithiel would not understand, and he was glad she could not. Understanding would mean she felt the same pain. He would not have her go through more than she already had. No more pain. He would shield her from it. There were too many things he could never tell her. What was one more?
Allowing the blood to drip from his legs into the bath, he watched as the water tinged pink, swirling, the pain almost unbearable as each slice cut deeper. Deeper than the cuts which had made the old white scars in the first age. Deeper because his pain was now deeper than it had been in those days. Deeper because he deserved the pain. When he had finished tearing at himself, Ruivo sat back in the tub and let the blood flow, doing nothing to still it. It clotted more slowly beneath the water than it would have above; another punishment to himself as he waited, letting the water slowly drain as new fresh water flowed through the tap until eventually, the waters came clear. He shifted, watching the last tufts of pink rise up, and then rose from the tub, dripping, taking up one of the dark dyed towels he insisted on having for after forge work. Patting dry his aching wounds, the dye would hide any stains. His knife was washed clean, and all trace of his own self abuse washed down the drain.
Ruivo’s hair was wet, still dripping, when he stepped fresh and redressed from the washroom. Mithiel was awake, staring at him. Her eyes were questioning, but Ruivo made careful to walk normally, though his legs were now aching and burning. “I needed cold water,” he explained, finally able to speak, now that the burning had moved from his throat, and he slinked back to his chair and sat. She did not question his need for the cold; she had learned long ago that nothing she said against it would turn his mind, save in the depths of winter when she threatened to join him if he did not remove himself. At least the air was warm this time of year. His blind side facing the bed, he heard Mithiel shift to face him, and felt a featherlight finger move silently across the cool skin of his face, tracing its well known path of scar tissue, and nothing more. Her hand dropped to the edge of the bed, and the backs of her fingers rested just touching the edges of his own on the armrest of the chair.
Outside the singing seemed to pick up; the smells of the feast to come were lifting on air from the kitchens, but the two elves sat, in the dim room, only cracks of light shining between curtains, in silence, grieving as others reveled on Austalendë morning.
Revels of Austalendë
Imladris, 1522 of the Third Age
He could still hear her tiny voice echoing in his mind. ”Atatar, will you stay with me in the Greenwood? Atatar, will you bring Ama?” Tauriel had been then only two summers of age, her voice ringing bright as the crimson sparks which flew when hammer struck anvil. She had not understood. She could not understand then. Her parents were gone, and he could not raise her. He could not do her the justice of an honorable, safe upbringing. He could not grant the dying request of her Atto.
Ruivo had held her one last night, the small elfling curled up beside him in the guest room he had taken beneath the Elvenking’s halls. ”You will grow strong here. As strong as the roots of the great . As bright as Arien in the sky, Orontënya.” My sunrise, he called her, for her bright spirit, and her hair of early dawn hue. She had been born during the bright days of the year; when summer was at it’s peak, the days long and languid. Her begetting day falling over the elven celebration of the summer solstice. She shone with the light of Arien in his life, as his Váya shone with that of Tilion’s silvery encompassing beams. Together they were his day and night.
And moreso, she was Orontënya for what she had done for them. For their family, which had been closer for the celebration of her gift of life than they had in long years, since before the fall of Ost-in-Edhil. They had all lived together again, in the same elvenhome, in Imladris. Norochil with his Atto and Ammë, his wife and his daughter. There had been promise and future, hopes heightening, until death came instead.
For some years, Ruivo had visited her. Cúnir wrote letters to him from the Greenwood. His once apprentice, among the few smiths who lived after the fall of Eregion. Cúnir could be trusted to tell him of her upbringing. To let him know if there was something that she needed. However as the first year passed, telling tale of her safety and happiness were not enough.
Ruivo needed to see for himself. He began to visit her during the festival of Autstalendë, Midsummer’s Day. Each summer he had ridden into the burly, twisted forest, beneath the dark wood to the carven stone halls which so resembled Nargothrond in Old Beleriand. He had seen her grow taller, fairer. Not informing Mithiel of his passing over the mountains each summer; she knew only that he went to the wilds, for he feared if he took her, she would refuse to return home with him. He could not lose her. She could not be taken from him. All of Arda could be taken from him, but not Mithiel.
On his first visit, when Tauriel was three, she had squealed in delight to see him, proclaiming that her Atatar had returned to her, that he was taking her home to Ama, though such things did not come to pass. Ruivo had been able to distract her, for want of spending some days in the caverns with her; seeing how she fared, watching her with her tiny Telerin bow. The bow he had not taught her how to shoot, but the skill taught to her by those of the woodland realm.
As the years passed by, she would shoot not straightbacked in the Telerin style, but in any position as necessary to do between trees which would wind and distort vision. Between, above, below, the woodelves had a different way with weaponry than those of the old country, and Ruivo saw the way Tauriel changed with them. Her Quenyan had been forgotten by age four. He had greeted her in words he had longed used, and she had only looked at him in confusion. Orontënya alone she remembered, her name by him, and she brightened as ever to hear it.
By her fifth summer, ‘Atatar’ had not passed her lips. She ceased to ask after her Ama, and neither did she know Mithiel’s name, nor his own. He had to reintroduce himself, as Ruivo this time, though the little elleth seemed to remember what they shared, and with jeweled emerald eyes, she had accepted the gift of jadestone necklace which matched the hues of the forest, and her name, Tauriel.
Until she was ten summers of age he had visited her, known only as the smith who had known her Adar; the visit each year shorter. She had cried when he left each time, though he was not sure she knew why, but blood was strong. It had always been strong within his family, perhaps for the heavy iron coursing through the veins of the smiths which came from the line of Mahtan. Iron sharpens iron, and metal has a draw of magnetism. Fire knew fire, and perhaps she had faint memories of him. He wondered what she remembered, though he no longer would ask her those things. Only observe. Only watch how she interacted with those around her; how she now blended amongst the woodelves. The last time he had stayed only two hours. Ruivo had not even passed a night in the Elvenkings halls before he had to depart. It was enough.
She had grown as any elfling, learning to read, and write, and Ruivo had not been able to bear it on the eleventh summer. He had not ridden to the Greenwood, and he would not ride there again. But by post did her simple message arrive. “I waited for you on Austalendë.” Accompanying the note, a watercolor painting of the forest, and the deep, black enchanted stream.
Ruivo had tucked away the note, his heart torn. Perhaps the painting of the stream was coincidence, but to Ruivo it was symbolic of something greater. The stream which cast dreams and forgetfulness. He knew in his heart it was better that she forget. He had not kept his promises to Norochil, and now she was now among the woodelves, her kin, as he had wished. She could forget the valley of Imladris. She could forget him. She could forget her Ama who pined away for her year after year, and her loss would not make her heart grow heavy, he told himself. She was doing well in the halls of Thranduil. She did not need them.
I waited for you. The words burned a hole through him, until Ruivo retreated further into himself. He had given up on Tanfui long ago, and now Austalendë too became unbearable. When twelve summers had passed since her birth, Ruivo was home in Imladris yet. The rest of the valley celebrated with fires and celebrations for the festival, Ruivo took to his chambers alone. The pieces of his life scattered, there was only one steady beam remaining. Sweet Váya, who looked for him, and would not let him sit the night in solitude, seating herself beside him on the edge of his bed as he stared out the window waiting for the sunrise.
“Twelve years,” Mithiel said, looking up to him, and Ruivo looked down to her, blue eye meeting her pools of living jade, which were damp around the edges. He said nothing in response, but they both looked down to the plate of cake untouched between them on the bed. The sky had grown dusky purple to red dawn, the watches of the shortest night finished, and Mithiel rose up from the bed, shifting the plate of cake to the windowsill where the twittering birds would soon spy it. Ruivo too stood, crossing to the table beside the bed where sat the framed painting, a wash of blue, with a squiggle for the flying gull, and the sun overhead.
Frame lifted, he stared at it for a moment, before moving it from the table to place back upon the shelf on the wall, beside the painting of the dark river. Ruivo wondered now what her paintings would be of, had she sat beside her Ama these past ten years.
Elves were just now leaving the Hall of Fire. There was singing to be heard on the summer air, rejoicing for Austalendë, for the longest day, for the months of light and warmth, and the festivities which would take place beneath the golden sun this day.
The two elves looked at each other, and Mithiel turned back to the window to draw the curtains, thereafter moving back to his bed, curling onto his pillow, and turning her face away from the light. Ruivo moved his chair aside the bed, and sat. They would share the day together, like this. She had sat the night with him, and Ruivo would stay with her the day. The flame haired elf lifted a hand, brushing his knuckles against the back of Mithiel’s neck, and he saw her sigh.
What he had done to her was a horror, he knew. Her elfling. She had helped to raise already Celebrían, the twins, and Arwen. Norochil she had raised alongside him. He had been their own. There was no fairer mother, Ruivo was certain, in all of Arda, than his Mithiel. He should have given her the chance to raise their granddaughter. It was a horror. An abomination, what he had done to her. Abhorrent what he had done to Tauriel, to leave her an orphan alone, when her Ama resided here and ached for her. It was detestable what he had done in Norochil’s name. Repulsive that he could not grant his son’s dying wish.
He was repugnant, no better than the orcs which had shot his own son in the back. He, having dealt the same blow to his own Atatar. Disgusting, that he was not able to let Mithiel go. He had tried to let her go before. He had walked away. He had left her in Lothlorien, and for twelve hundred years he had avoided her; yet still returned to him. Still came, still followed his lead, still proclaimed in silent ways that she was his. After all he had put her through. Self-loathing clawed up his throat.
Ruivo’s hand brushed lightly against Mithiel’s back, trying to instill what comfort he could give, until he felt her breathing shift to that of sleep. Rest, which she needed after the long night sitting in mourning. She could rest the day away, mind closed for her dreams. At least that way he could no longer cause her harm, and perhaps her dreams would take her to a better place away from him. The pain, Ruivo knew, he should bear on his own. His past was not hers to share; not hers to bear. He had killed. She had not. The decisions that took them to the place they were now had been his own, not hers. She was faultless to him.
Unable to stand it, Ruivo rose quietly and took to his washroom, making silent the door behind him as he glanced through the crack for a moment at her still form, before he pulled it completely and latched it. Quietly he opened the valve above the tub, which sent forth a trickle of water, rolling through this wing of Elrond’s house from the power of the great river outdoors. The boiler unused, he let the tub fill with cold river water which flowed from the melting mountains. Ruivo readied himself, seated on the edge of his tub as he reached for silver blade.
White lined scars were drawn down his thighs, scars from years before, from before the days he had known Mithiel, when his hatred had caused him to seek toward pain. Physical pain could make the rest of him numb in comparison, and help him forget how his soul had ached. He had been foolish to think he was worth enough in those days to stop. His scars were long healed; he had promised himself he would not harm the skin which Mithiel cherished, the skin which she would one day see when they were wed, but it did not seem to matter anymore.
Silver blade parting his skin, he gasped outwardly at the first cut, then glanced toward the door, pressing his lips together, holding silent as he watched skin pool red with each slice. This, he could handle. This was relief. He could feel his heart pounding in his legs instead of throbbing through his chest. Mithiel would not understand, and he was glad she could not. Understanding would mean she felt the same pain. He would not have her go through more than she already had. No more pain. He would shield her from it. There were too many things he could never tell her. What was one more?
Allowing the blood to drip from his legs into the bath, he watched as the water tinged pink, swirling, the pain almost unbearable as each slice cut deeper. Deeper than the cuts which had made the old white scars in the first age. Deeper because his pain was now deeper than it had been in those days. Deeper because he deserved the pain. When he had finished tearing at himself, Ruivo sat back in the tub and let the blood flow, doing nothing to still it. It clotted more slowly beneath the water than it would have above; another punishment to himself as he waited, letting the water slowly drain as new fresh water flowed through the tap until eventually, the waters came clear. He shifted, watching the last tufts of pink rise up, and then rose from the tub, dripping, taking up one of the dark dyed towels he insisted on having for after forge work. Patting dry his aching wounds, the dye would hide any stains. His knife was washed clean, and all trace of his own self abuse washed down the drain.
Ruivo’s hair was wet, still dripping, when he stepped fresh and redressed from the washroom. Mithiel was awake, staring at him. Her eyes were questioning, but Ruivo made careful to walk normally, though his legs were now aching and burning. “I needed cold water,” he explained, finally able to speak, now that the burning had moved from his throat, and he slinked back to his chair and sat. She did not question his need for the cold; she had learned long ago that nothing she said against it would turn his mind, save in the depths of winter when she threatened to join him if he did not remove himself. At least the air was warm this time of year. His blind side facing the bed, he heard Mithiel shift to face him, and felt a featherlight finger move silently across the cool skin of his face, tracing its well known path of scar tissue, and nothing more. Her hand dropped to the edge of the bed, and the backs of her fingers rested just touching the edges of his own on the armrest of the chair.
Outside the singing seemed to pick up; the smells of the feast to come were lifting on air from the kitchens, but the two elves sat, in the dim room, only cracks of light shining between curtains, in silence, grieving as others reveled on Austalendë morning.