A Year Richer (December S.A. 1150, Tanfui) {One-Shot}
Dec 11, 2018 22:34:42 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on Dec 11, 2018 22:34:42 GMT -5
Ost-in-Edhil, Eregion
Tanfui, the Winter Solstice
Year 1150 of the Second Age
“Oh, who will notice?” Ruivo smirked as he lifted his lips from Mithiel’s neck in pause. He was leaning back in an armchair near the window which overlooked the river and mountains; only shadows now in the starlight, but soon the moon would rise over the land and blanket everything in white. Ruivo was dressed in silk and finery, regalia embroidered just for the occasion, and his vellyn was seated over his lap; nearly dressed. She was missing yet the collar necklace she would wear to conceal the scar upon her neck, but when she had stepped from the dressing chamber in a gown which so exquisitely matched the silk of his own shirt and complimented her elegant form, Ruivo had not been able to wait for her to put on that necklace. He’d led her away from it, across their shared chambers, where he had found himself as they were now. The choker had been in her hand, but fallen to her lap for the time being.
Truthfully, he hadn’t intended for her to wear it at all, and the minutes passed by them. Careful not to disturb her hair, Ruivo’s lips made way over the slender curve of her neck, bringing forth sighs and an end to protestations. That was, at least until his tongue grazed the curve of her ear and then tip.
“Kando,” Mithiel half hissed, and half gasped, drawing out the latter vowel, but there was a smile upon her lips. “Your cousins will take notice. They always do.”
“Let them notice,” Ruivo answered. His nose was against Mithiel’s cheek before he found her lips and protests yet against stilled, letting the love of his heart melt against him as the moon began to peek over the horizon. The room began to brighten, though orange flickers still cast their glow before Tilion’s luminescence.
Ruivo’s affections slowed, and eventually stilled, as he found the elleth’s head resting against his shoulder, and he simply caressing her arm. He tried not to move so as to disturb her hair, which she’d taken time to artistically weave and pin up. Ruivo had suggested the style, and she’d gone along with it and had not asked why he wished it a certain way. She only meant to please him, and please she did.
“I want to give you your gift before we go,” Ruivo finally stated, and Mithiel had simply nodded to him, a soft smile on her lips. She had long since given up protesting the necessity of his gifts, and Ruivo was in the prime of his craft; his work had never been better. He was thrilled to dress her in his wonders, and Ruivo would not have had it any other way. His craft and the lovely Vanyar were both his livelihood, and it was only suited that they roll together. Mithiel had moved to let him stand, and waiting where he told her, he was gone several minutes. Gone to the room which was reserved for his work desk and her painting easel. A most comfortable room with a balcony overlooking the great city of elves, where much of their indoor time was spent, where both sets of their hands could be busy, yet they would be together as they worked. Mithiel had put on the necklace as she waited, leather for the sturdiness, that it would not slip, wrapped in silk, and just plain enough that it should not draw attention from others to the space of which she was most concious.
“A year older, and a year richer,” Ruivo said as his back was turned near the doorway again. “The forge has been so busy this season, I had not the time to craft two gifts this year. This gift should mark your begetting day as well. Close your eyes, Váya.” There was gladness upon his voice.
“I care not for wealth. Your time is enough, you know this,” Mithiel told him, but Ruivo said nothing as her eyes of sea were closed and he crossed the room to her. The weight of the circlet in hand was arranged upon her hair, silver and a hundred diamonds reflecting in the firelight. The mithril worked into small flowerpetals, and each had a heart of diamond, while larger carved diamonds sung above the others. It was more work and time than Ruivo had put into any for her before, and lovelier than any craft he had had made even for the Lady Galadriel. A jewel which would be fitting for Indis, who had been the wife of the High King of the Noldor in Aman.
“Keep them closed,” Ruivo told her, excitement hinged on his breath as he looked at her, and he grasped her by the hands to pull her from the chair, grinning, and then led her by the shoulder to stand in front of her mirror, making a light hop on his feet to stand behind her and observe. “Open,” he breathed in adoration, while his hands settled on her shoulders and diamonds gleamed in the darkness..
Ruivo watched through the mirror as grey-green almond eyes flashed open, bright and her mouth turned in delight. She never asked for a thing from him but his time, and that was half the reason that the elf adored to lavish her in the gifts of his craft. Ruivo leaned down over her shoulder, a brush of lips to the tip of her ear, and then he whispered. “I would give you moon and stars if I could reach them.”
“So you have said, Kando this is-”
“Shh,” the elf hushed her. The elleth had begun to turn around to face him, but Ruivo urged her still and she looked upon him, her eyes watching through the mirror confused as he moved unlatched the choker she wore. A hand rose to her neck to cover over the thin white scar, and Ruivo saw the look in her eyes, the fret that he would ask her to go without before others, but it was not his intention. He laid the choker to rest upon the table, but his fingers were already moving to open the box beside it.
“Rui, you just said one. This is enough...”
“Never enough, “Ruivo muttered as he came behind her; and he did not bother to ask her shut her eyes this time as he moved to set around Mithiel’s throat a new choker which glimmered as the firmament. Set row upon row the glimmer of diamonds. Five hundred diamonds had gone into the work, and strung upon mithril filament they formed a choker to fit perfectly around Mithiel’s slender throat. To cover the space she preferred to cover, and gleam as starlight and moonlight upon snowflakes.
Time he had, and each diamond had been polished in her presence. One or two evenings to cut each jewel, spaced over time, and he could polish several in a night. Nonetheless combined in the processing of stones to the perfect shape and size had come over the course of a decade. Words were taken from the talkative elleth, as Ruivo turned her to him, to look at her in the splendor his hands had wrought for a decade, and the scar on the corner of his mouth tugged his smile crooked as he brushed her cheek with his finger tips.
“I once thought Elu Thingol a fool to stand still in trance for two hundred years while the world moved around and the trees grew above, but I understand him now. All these years and I understand his purpose. The same I could do with you. I could polish one diamond for every star in the sky. Countless, yet the mass of them would not shine as clear and bright as your eyes.”
Ruivo looked down, and Mithiel up at him, and together they stood as they forgot about the draw of the feast halls and the Tanfui fires. It was only a shrill cry from the hallway outside their chambers which caused Mithiel to gasp and their eyes to break from each other. Ruivo recognized the sound as quickly as she, and when the knock set upon the door, the elves knew already who was there.
The two elves clad in silk and gem opened the door to one, her dark hair falling down and her face straight and unreadable. “You haven’t left yet,” Celleth said flatly; the bundle in her arms wiggling and fussing. Her statement was almost in surprise, but then she shook her head, as if she should have known better. If they had not been here, she knew she would have returned later.
Mithiel was already reaching for the infant Norochil, pulling him to her chest and cooing at him. The child took only a moment to settle, staring up at the Vanyar glistening with diamonds, who so often was his nursemaid. Mithiel would watch Norochil throughout the days while his mother worked the forges. Celleth had only been able to still her hands for a few days after the child’s delivery; an obsessive urge to keep working her craft. The babe had been born in autumn and not quite three months old, though making gains day by day as elflings did. Yet for the day of the festival, Celleth had stilled the labor of her hands and kept the child with her. Both Ruivo and Celleth could see how Mithiel cleaved to the child again instantly after a day apart. She held already a strong bond for him; she held a mother’s heart.
“I thought you wished to have him this night,” Ruivo said, mere question, not condemnation, though Celleth shook her head, and looked back down the hallway. She behaved strangely to Ruivo’s eye.
“He doesn’t like the forge,” Celleth said, her fingers moving by her side.
“Of course not, he is an infant, cousin,” Ruivo noted, and Celleth breathed out so heavily that her breath hissed between her teeth. “Give him a few years, and he shall be a smith as all the family.”
“I know,” Celleth said. “But I can’t… I can’t do this for a hundred years. I’m not good at this, you’re more suited for mothering.” Her voice trailed off as she said the last portion to Mithiel with the baby; both ladies looking upon each other, and then Celleth’s eyes turned back up to Ruivo, a frown set on her lips.
“He should have been yours,” Celleth remarked low at her cousin, her face hard as iron and a strange glimmer Ruivo had never seen in her eye as he looked at her. Ruivo touched Mithiel’s shoulder, frustrated that Celleth would bring this up again in front of his vellyn.
“We are cousins,” Ruivo reminded shortly as he always did, as Mithiel touched his side, handing the infant into Ruivo’s arms while she retreated back into their chambers. Always having left Ruivo to himself to handle the relationship he held with Celleth.
“Far enough removed that we are barely related,” Celleth reminded him, for the thousandth time as she watched Mithiel walk away, and Ruivo lifted the baby up before his eye to inspect him. The tiny nose poking out of his wrappings. His blue eyes and his cinnamon colored tufts of hair. Without thinking, the baby was drawn to his face, cradling him near he kissed the locks of red, as Celleth watched. “He should have been yours. Keep him,” she told him.
“You have Maelion, and this is Maelion’s son,” Ruivo stated, a dry look upon his face, as he heard the gurgled happiness of the elfling and Mithiel’s silence behind him. Speaking the name of Celleth’s husband, another fine smith who worked amongst them in the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.
Celleth seemed to firm up her expression and resolution, as she watched her cousin with her infant son. “He loves too well the work of his hands to take time for an elfling, and he praises my work above others; I will craft at Maelion’s side. All we ask is that Norochil too is taught the craft in time. That he is taught the trade by the Smith of Tirion, and allowed to apprentice beneath Annatar, if he is still he still dwells here and shares his gifts. With his blood, and his tutors, he could rival the Smiths of Valinor.” A coy smirk on Celleth’s lips and she added, “Perhaps rival your own skill.”
“He is yours, Vanyar,” Celleth raised her voice, calling beyond Ruivo into the room as she leaned against the door frame to watch Mithiel’s silhouette against he window, knowing she heard each word. “Keep him, and keep Ruivo. If he’ll be not mine, then you may as well have him. You, who are inclined to keep house and home with him, while he refuses to wed and offer you your own family. I pity you, I truly do. As I pity myself, and I give you this gift. Treat well my son, and have him call you Ammë, as a proper Vanyar boy should. Let him still call me Naneth when we see each other.”
“Celleth, you cannot just-” Ruivo began, yet Celleth waved her hand to silence him. The baby’s eyes tracked his Naneth’s hands as they moved, and he blinked.
“You have made your choices, as I have made mine. What is will be, and tonight the forges are hot, while the rest of Eregion celebrates, the Gwaith-i-Mírdain works. You could be there with us...” Celleth hinted. Then added. “Yet I know why you are not. I have… business to attend to.” Celleth held up a hand, that Ruivo could see the way she encircled one finger with the other. Rings. Annatar had become obsessed with honing the craft of every smith in ring making, and Celleth was indeed one of his prize pupils.
A quick glance at Norochil, a slight pain upon Celleth’s face, and the elleth shook her head, her dark braid moving with it. “Goodnight, Tanfui blessings. Enjoy playing family.” A strange smile now crossed her lips, and with that Celleth turned to depart down the hall. Hurried footsteps, as Ruivo stood in the doorway and watched her disappear into the shadows beyond the curve of the torchlit tower hall.
After a moment, Ruivo turned, and shut the door to their chambers behind, staring at Mithiel across the way before he walked to her. The infant was wiggling in his arms, and Ruivo lifted the babe to his face once more, looking at him. He had Celleth’s nose. The red hair of the line of Mahtan. Fair blue eyes that matched many of his kin, including Ruivo.” The elfling squeaked, and reached for Ruivo’s nose as his face was near, and Ruivo’s far-off expression faded to a single laugh. He could not help himself, when it came to the young ones. He had been the same with young Celebrian.
Ruivo looked at Mithiel, her expression questioning, and Ruivo could see her thoughts as if through her eyes, somewhat pained as she merely asked, “Will she change her mind?”
“Celleth never does. She is stubborn,” Ruivo shook his head, and he placed the infant back in Mithiel’s arms. The child stared up at her face, in awe, almost smiling the way babies so small have a way of doing, and Ruivo looked up, hearing the sound of bells ringing in the city, as Norochil cooed and gurgled against Mithiel’s kisses to his plump cheeks.
Some time they stood as the moon rose in the sky, as time passed differently for elves, and their feet did not grow weary in the same way as those of the realms of men. Mithiel cradled the babe, who had fallen silent with sleep, and Ruivo held Mithiel’s back to his chest, an arm draped over both of them as he hummed a tune which had been sung on Tanfui’s past in Aman, when all the nights of the year were dark and starlit like this, and when it had ended he spoke, breaking the long silence of words with a whisper. “It is not play. We are family. You and I have been, for an age, and he joins us. None will be alone.” The words came smooth from Ruivo’s mouth, and he smiled down at Mithiel as she turned into him, rubbing her face against the silk of his dancing shirt.
“You wish it?” Mithiel voiced.
“Who would I be to abandon so sweet an elfling?” Ruivo asked. “Celleth has no mother’s heart, but you do. You will make a grand Ammë for him. Have I not told you for years, how fine you will be with your own children, and here one is granted… he is… no alloy.” The last spoken in some trepidation, to mention it, and Ruivo’s joyful heart beat a slight slower. Mithiel had waited long for the promise of elflings. But perhaps Celleth had done some good, some good to ease her wait, while Ruivo decided if he was ready and worthy to give her his own.
Silver threads wove around them, as they always had, reflecting on the glinting of her diamond crown. Ruivo curled down, a kiss to the tip of Mithiel’s ear. “And now we need not rush out. Celleth has crafted a gift far greater than mine, and you should lay your gift upon the bed while he sleeps, and dance with me on the balcony. Tilion is full.”
“Melinyel,” Mithiel said to him, and Ruivo stepped back from her just slightly, enough that he could bend down and reach the lips of his short Vanyar, and mutter, “I know,” against them. She took the baby to their bed to let him rest, and Ruivo followed. When the infant sighed upon the furs, and Mithiel turned to look back, he saw not the light of a thousand stars in her eyes; but he lights of Telperion and Laurelin themselves, and then his mistmaid was in his arms again.