The Golden Furnace {Summer 3007} {Lossiel}
Mar 12, 2019 23:58:09 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on Mar 12, 2019 23:58:09 GMT -5
Perhaps he should not have been at the forge, but what the little flame haired healer, his young cousin, did not know would not trouble her. He had rested for days. Nigh on fornight since his arrival to the golden wood, he had been released to his own lodging a week past, but Ruivo could never sleep in Lothlorien, and he had lain awake without rest most of the night staring at the open lunette which rose above the arched doorway of his guest lodgings. Nothing in Caras Galathon was enclosed completely, and he could hear Arwen’s handmaiden breathing on the other side of the door. The sound amidst the leaves and gentle breeze of Lothlorien was familiar to him, and it troubled him so that Ruivo had risen before dawn to depart his room down the winding staircase and take to the paths that moved between the roots in search of the forge.
Ruivo was fond of the Lady Galadriel, and she was one of the few in Arda who held his complete devotion and trust. She whom he had known for nearly eight thousand years, since before the sun and moon were in the sky and the world was covered in only starlight. Across the sea in his own homeland, when her name had been only Artanis, and neither had been yet fully grown. Here and there their paths had parted, but of all the houses of the children of Finwë, Ruivo would think fondest upon house Finarfin, and Lady Galadriel was the only person in all of Arda whom Ruivo felt comfortable to speak the name of his homeland, which had burned under his own hand: Alqualondë.
Nonetheless their paths had parted again as now Ruivo dwelled in Imladris, and only visited Lothlorien on occasion when the need arose. The golden wood held such bitter memories of the life he had lived here before. In the second age he had dwelled in this land for three hundred years, coming in with the company of Lady Galadriel when she had first settled here. The wood had looked different then. Like any other wood in Arda, until Galadriel had touched it with her gift. Ruivo’s fingers had moved the earth along with his Lady in those days, as the seeds of Numenor, which had come from Aman before, were planted and had given rise to the very mallorn trees that reached up to the firmament. The trees which now were wound about with grand staircases and talans, leaving many of those who dwelled here to live right within the treetops.
At least by now, Ruivo had been released from the healing talan, and the wound upon his face had ceased it’s festering. No longer was it mottled black and purple, though still long, angry and red. The cut crossed the bridge of his nose, and it would leave a scar, but it hardly troubled Ruivo. No longer was he left with a searing pain which inhibited him from all manner of thought, but only a dull throb that the elf found somewhat of a comfort. Each pulse of his heart created an ache upon his face, and it was a good reminder
Not that he needed reminders to dwell in his melancholy state. Ducking beneath an arched root, Ruivo found the forge some ways off from the main city where the noise would not disturb the tranquility of daily life. His forge, it had once been his forge, built in Noldorin style. He had built it here long ago, though now it was left in hands of Mallendir, who had been one of Ruivo’s pupil’s, long ago. Mallendir had gone on to take other apprentice smiths now, and train them in the same way, passing along the ways of metal work which had come from Ruivo, from Aman, from the great smith Mahtan and the Vala Aule.
When Ruivo’s form shadowed the entry of the smithy, there was no elf present who did not know the Smith of the North, one of the eldest still living in Arda. Though some may have wished to question the state of the injury upon his face, they did not, for his expression was nearly a glower. What greetings were given were curt, and Ruivo had moved on to inspect the workings, and here and there offer his advice, as if he had never left this forge in someone else’s hands.
If there was one place that felt near to home for the elf, it was near the blazing golden furnace; over molten iron and steel, gold and silver, and mithril. The heat singed the wound upon his face, irritating it, and the elf had a faint thought of the protestation and fuss which would emanate from him taking to the forge before it was fully healed. But that would not come from the other smiths. He had been too long without work, and his hands needed to feel steel again.
Ruivo was fond of the Lady Galadriel, and she was one of the few in Arda who held his complete devotion and trust. She whom he had known for nearly eight thousand years, since before the sun and moon were in the sky and the world was covered in only starlight. Across the sea in his own homeland, when her name had been only Artanis, and neither had been yet fully grown. Here and there their paths had parted, but of all the houses of the children of Finwë, Ruivo would think fondest upon house Finarfin, and Lady Galadriel was the only person in all of Arda whom Ruivo felt comfortable to speak the name of his homeland, which had burned under his own hand: Alqualondë.
Nonetheless their paths had parted again as now Ruivo dwelled in Imladris, and only visited Lothlorien on occasion when the need arose. The golden wood held such bitter memories of the life he had lived here before. In the second age he had dwelled in this land for three hundred years, coming in with the company of Lady Galadriel when she had first settled here. The wood had looked different then. Like any other wood in Arda, until Galadriel had touched it with her gift. Ruivo’s fingers had moved the earth along with his Lady in those days, as the seeds of Numenor, which had come from Aman before, were planted and had given rise to the very mallorn trees that reached up to the firmament. The trees which now were wound about with grand staircases and talans, leaving many of those who dwelled here to live right within the treetops.
At least by now, Ruivo had been released from the healing talan, and the wound upon his face had ceased it’s festering. No longer was it mottled black and purple, though still long, angry and red. The cut crossed the bridge of his nose, and it would leave a scar, but it hardly troubled Ruivo. No longer was he left with a searing pain which inhibited him from all manner of thought, but only a dull throb that the elf found somewhat of a comfort. Each pulse of his heart created an ache upon his face, and it was a good reminder
Not that he needed reminders to dwell in his melancholy state. Ducking beneath an arched root, Ruivo found the forge some ways off from the main city where the noise would not disturb the tranquility of daily life. His forge, it had once been his forge, built in Noldorin style. He had built it here long ago, though now it was left in hands of Mallendir, who had been one of Ruivo’s pupil’s, long ago. Mallendir had gone on to take other apprentice smiths now, and train them in the same way, passing along the ways of metal work which had come from Ruivo, from Aman, from the great smith Mahtan and the Vala Aule.
When Ruivo’s form shadowed the entry of the smithy, there was no elf present who did not know the Smith of the North, one of the eldest still living in Arda. Though some may have wished to question the state of the injury upon his face, they did not, for his expression was nearly a glower. What greetings were given were curt, and Ruivo had moved on to inspect the workings, and here and there offer his advice, as if he had never left this forge in someone else’s hands.
If there was one place that felt near to home for the elf, it was near the blazing golden furnace; over molten iron and steel, gold and silver, and mithril. The heat singed the wound upon his face, irritating it, and the elf had a faint thought of the protestation and fuss which would emanate from him taking to the forge before it was fully healed. But that would not come from the other smiths. He had been too long without work, and his hands needed to feel steel again.