The Rise of Tilion {Balar, Winter 538 F.A.} [Mithiel]

The clouds had parted enough for the moon to take shape before them, rising like a shimmering pearl on a sea of stars. Mithiel commented on war and peace. Her hope was optimistic, and he was not certain of it, though he said nothing to argue. Perhaps it was that she could no longer dwell.

She spoke on his craft; that he would take to it again. Indeed he would craft; yet to sing, it was folly. What song was there left in a world which had borne such grief and destruction? There was no music left which would settle Ruivo's heart; only that which would remind him what had been lost.

“I went to Nargothrond, often with the Lady Galadriel when she went to see her Kingly brother. Our paths did not cross then, as it would seem. I would have remembered seeing a face as arrestingly handsome as yours.”

He regretted mentioning Nargothrond; he should have stayed silent for it, for she too had been there, and frequent, it sounded. No, they did not cross paths; for who knew if she had graced those halls in the mere ten years he dwelled within. What was spoken next gave Ruivo a prickle upon his neck. He willed it away; the mention of his appearance. Surely she jested with him, for he was not comely, nor did he longer wish to be. Each scar was a mar upon him; showing outwardly what he was inwardly.

In Tirion there had been those ellith who had admired him, and in those days he would seek their attention in his own way; never boisterous about it, yet open. It was not that he had never been given compliment before; but not since Formenos. Now, what was he, but scarred and half blind? He felt a warm rush to his ears, and grateful was he that she carried on with her speech; that she had said it without looking upon him. His eye sought Tilion, as he pressed back his discomfort. Was it discomfort? Or something else.

She spoke of Menegroth. Of the Lords and Lady served. Suited to the court, she was, by birth and by commitment it seemed. So it was that she spoke of her devotion towards the lords of the houses, and Ruivo decided to stay silent on these matters, for surely, should he speak; she would understand. She spoke of the deaths of Aegnor and Angrod, a sad note ringing to her words at the loss of the sons of Finarfin.

“And Finrod as well was a great loss,” Ruivo thought to add. Indeed, his short years in Nargothrond had shown him well where he should have earlier set his allegiance. If to leave Aman, he should have traveled beneath the banners of Fingolfin, and the sons and daughter of Finarfin. He should have crossed upon the grinding ice, and watched Tilion rise for the first time in the place that Mithiel had. Never could he take back his wrongs.

“...I have seen more death than I care to see again in my life, after Menegroth and Sirion.”

“You have seen enough, as have I,” he finally spoke, and he felt an urge that Mithiel should never see these the horrors wrought by death again. He paused, staring out to the sea; to the moon, and then back to the lady. “We have spoken enough of death; tell me, who now do you have? I have seen the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel whom you serve, but whom else of your family has come to visit?” he asked, though it was perhaps not his place, Ruivo felt he should make it his place, to know and understand how she would be cared for. It was not his place to save her from choking on blood, to then bring her here to be alone.

It was not long until the mists rolled in thicker; though the lightening had ceased, and Mithiel stood to make way for the sandy shore below. Ruivo stayed where he was, and watched.

Silver beams painted her, creating a world of grey shadows, and Ruivo watched as Mithiel began to spin and dance, his face emotionless even as she smiled upon him. The only hint that something had changed for Ruivo would be to one who knew him well; and here in Arda there was no one. For something to have drawn his gaze from the sight which had been his favorite for more than five hundred years. To let his eyes drift from the gleaming Tilion, and rest elsewhere was unheard of.

Silently did he watch her dance, and watch her still when she had stopped. Only her hair and dress were ruffled in the breeze, for she stood calm and still.

“Mithiel,” Ruivo said softly, after a time of simply watching her, taking in the sight of her basking in silver moonlight upon clouds of white mist. In the weeks he had visited her; he had not yet said her name; simply called her my lady. Yet it seemed a shame to watch her dance in the mists and not speak the name which was so properly given to her.

He sat upon the stone steps, and stared a her some moments longer, blue eye fixed, before dropping his gaze. “Ánillo avatyare, my Lady.” Forgive me. He had not meant to go beyond his bounds; to speak to a lady of the court in so familiar a way; yet to see her spinning in the mist with her hair down reminded him of a time and place long ago.

“I have you.”

His chest stiffened, though he said nothing in response. How she did not know him… so very different they were, as she had said. He was as good as no-one, and he wondered if he should have left her once they had reached Balar. Not come back to burden her life… though each time he had thought of doing so; each day even, before he would come to meet her, he had felt too strong a tug to truly abandon his missive.

“None will come. They are all gone. What was left of my fathers kin after the crossing was lost to the kinslaying. I am alone. My mothers kin dwell in Taniquetil.”

Ah, Vanyar. The fairest, among those of Aman. Those who had not turned their backs on the Valar; those who had listened not to Morgoth, or Melkor, as he had been called in those times. Then it was that her mother was of Vanyar descent, and her Father must have been of Noldor to have crossed the Helcaraxe with his kin.

Blended, like he, though he could not say it. He could not admit his Telerin blood, for then he would have to admit that his family too were killed in the kinslaying, and should he say that much he would not be able to hide who had done the murderous deeds.

The moonlight beaming down on them; giving off rays of it's light, an energy which strengthened Ruivo, combined with the vigour which had come off the passing storm. Mithiel had turned from her moon gazing to smile at him. A smile so unexpectedly sweet that he felt warmth rush to his ears, and he could feel the pounding of blood within them.

“You know my name.” Her smile so demure, and the way she looked upon him almost summery, despite woe and the turmoil she had so recently gone through. He could not look away; not until her smile had faced at his apology.

“Qui merilyes, my name is yours to use.”

Ruivo looked back up. “Merinyes,” Ruivo answered. I desire it. He felt a tinge of prickle upon his skin even as he stated the words; and wondered at the sudden chill, despite the warmth of his ears, for Ruivo was not one to grow cold easily. Her face was half shadowed for the moon at her back, and he knew his was in the full light.

“And you,” he added. “You may use mine.” Ruivo she would use. Famaráto he would not speak of.

“Yet still your dancing, just for now. There will be many more moons for that, and the healers told me the stitches have only just been withdrawn. Come, it is not long until I should take you indoors, or they will be cross, Come.” Ruivo extended a hand to her from where he sat bidding her join him. Though, soon the hand was slowly recoiled, and instead he patted the cold stone beside him.

“Still you will be, until you are healed, and then will you dance for Tilion. Tilion will wait; he always rises. For over five hundred years he rises, though he does not always show his face, yet if you look closely on nights he is dark; still his shadow remains in the sky, for the stars do not shine through him. He is patient, always there.”

“You are woven of two kinds,” Ruivo added. “Vanyar. Noldor. I have found that alloys are stronger than metals in their pure form.” Then he paused. It was a compliment, in his own way, for she was strong, to be here; as she was, and to look upon the future and think of peace, so fresh from trauma herself. To smile at him, when she knew not his deeds.

“I will not let you be alone,” he promised. The words felt as both relief, and leaden, in the same moment.

“Beautiful.” She was looking at him, her whispered word falling away into the mist, but he had heard it. Indeed Tilion was beautiful tonight; perhaps more beautiful than he had noticed it to be for some time.

“I shall only... I shall dance on the first full moon of spring's breath.”

“It seems the timing should be sufficient,” Ruivo answered, satisfied. He would not wish her to cause further harm to that skin beneath the red scarf at her neck. He wished to ask her that he might see it; to unravel the cloth and let the moonlight shine on tender, healing skin, and let his eyes see how far she had come, to his own relief. His last recall of her neck was in torn flesh, dripping blood. Over her; over his hands. He had watched as every single stitch was set in place.

Mithiel came to him, to the stone steps, and she seated herself much nearer than they had previously been seated. He looked down to his boots, and her bare feet were nestled beside; toes white in the moonlight, knees touching. The hem of her white dress ruffled in the breeze. So close she was; the whole breadth of the wide stone stair beside them, and here she had come, squeezed in with only a hand's space between, as if there were people pressing around, trying to pass by, though they were alone in the damp moonbeams. His breath was stolen.

“When I dance again, dance with me Ruivo, dance and share in the beauty of Tilion.”

Figures spun and danced gracefully through his mind. A memory of long ago; music and laughter, voices ringing. Spinning and spinning, unstopping until the last note of the flute had stilled. His auburn hair falling in waves over his shoulders as he laughed and bowed to his partner; a tall graceful elleth, of black hair and piercing grey eyes. Soft lips, which he had taken to his at impulse as the music stilled, and the way she had melded into his embrace afterwards, as he looked over her shoulder to cast a glance of victory upon Celevondir. His fair haired friend had earlier claimed the elleth by word; though it appeared that Ruivo's graces would claim her first by touch.

The dance had been his delight in those days; both the dance of graceful feet, and the dance of warm lips. Like licking flames would he flit between one elleth and the next; would they dance at the feasts and festivals, in the Great Halls of Formenos. Time was fluid then. A year was ten years in that land.

Celevondir's gaze had been cold upon him, however. Chilled, as if by darkness itself; the way he came to him in the dreams he would have of Alqualondë, looking down through his sister's eyes, straight into Ruivo's soul, the way he had looked at him when Ruivo had struggled to throw him off of Mithiel with his gleaming blade just a few weeks past.

Ruivo had been thinking, his face set in daze as he looked outward, and he suddenly drew in his breath quickly; the face of Celevondir fading from mind, as he heard once more the lap of waves on shore beneath the mists, and felt the warmth of a knee pressed against his. Warmth radiating through the damp fabric.
“I have not danced since we dwelled only under starlight,” he answered at last. “Never have I danced beneath Tilion.” It was not an acceptance, nor a denial to her request, simply a statement, but his mind could not help but drift to the thought of the spring moon, and what it might be like to hold Mithiel by the hand; to lay a hand upon her waist, and move with her beneath the moonlight.

Embarrassed for his statement, the warmth in Ruivo's face would not depart even against the cool winds. Mithiel's laughter was like ripples on a pool, expanding outward, and Ruivo brushed a knuckle against the scar connected to the corner of his lip, the one which tugged at his skin should he grimace, or if he ever should smile, creating a lopsided expression in either instance.

“Truly you are a smith to compare me to such.”

“Better would it have been had I compared you to a gem,” Ruivo answered, his arms stiff by his side, hands pressed flat against the stone steps. A diamond for strength.” An alloy. He had called her an alloy. An impure metal. What thoughts had been going through his mind? To think how it would have sounded to anyone but himself.

“I'm not alone. I have you, for however long you choose to stay.”

Her smooth palm was suddenly against the back of his hand, as if it were bound there. Nothing could ever compare to the silken feel of it.

“However long,” Ruivo repeated, looking at her, then he looked away again, letting his breath out heavily. He felt that his breaths came oddly, and he felt the tightening in his chest, bidding him not to speak further. “However long you wish,” he added anyway. The words had come quickly.

“Círdan will want for help in his forges here. It is said he wishes to build more ships, for what voyage, I know not, but it is the least I can do in repayment for bearing us...” He swallowed, as if stating the words while her hand was pressed against his, her fingers slipping into the spaces between his fingers... as if 'us' came with some greater meaning. “For bearing us to Balar in need.”

Quiet Ruivo sat for a time, looking out to see, feeling Mithiel beside him; his mind a tumult of thoughts and memories and feeling.

“A ruby,” Ruivo noted abruptly, though quietly. “I should have compared you to a ruby, for beauty.” Rubies for Tirion. Pearls for Alqualondë... Diamonds, gold, and silver for the mount of Taniquetil. Any gem would have done; would have been a better comparison than an alloy.

He finally turned to study Mithiel's face; looking long upon it. Longer than he had before, at least since her eyes had been opened again to him again. Her eyes, cheeks, the fair skin of her nose, her ears, and down to her chin; her lips. A moment longer did Ruivo's eye linger there upon lips, before he grazed down to her throat; to the red scarf tied about her, and he lifted his free hand and touched just the edge of the cloth, releasing his breath. His jaw stiffened, and he frowned.

“He had no right,” he stated. No right to hurt her; one so pure. Celevondir should not have touched her. He let a single finger brush along her neck beneath the red sash, a silver line following it, bidding him reach around her; pull her into an embrace. His inner thoughts telling him that she would accept it from him. His arms had not been around her since the ship.

“How ever long you will have me.” It seemed endless were the circles of this remark, back and forth they flitted, and Ruivo's breaths felt strange within him. “Is that what you desire?” he asked. He was quiet for a pause, as he listened to the waves lapping on the shore; watched the moon shining down on the mist, and his eye could not help but glance back to her. Mithiel was smiling. He could see the smirk upon her lip, and he wondered how strongly the Noldor blood held her; for one moment she seemed as proper as any elleth of the Vanyar; and then another moment would pass, and he would see the wildfire of the Noldor blazing through her; twinkling in her eyes. “As Tilion is here; so shall I be.”

“You should help him then, for his kindness. Expand what you know, past gems. Perhaps you too could become a great shipwright and someday build a ship to bear us back to Aman.”

Ruivo's knowledge in metal work; beyond gems, was vast, though he did not wish to tell her of the ship fittings he had crafted in his youth alongside his father in Alqualonde. Which swords and armor he had crafted in Formenos. The armory of Celegorm and Curufin, which he had helped to build in his four hundred years in Aglond. He could not speak of these things. Sirion though; in Sirion had he helped Círdan with his craft, in the years since the Nirnaeth, when the forests of Tasarinan were overrun, when had fled to the Havens.

“I know the work of ships,” Ruivo answered, almost too quickly for his own liking, as if he were trying to cover over his own thoughts of the forges he had kept to and the fires he had tended. “Círdan's forges are where my hands had been since I too fled to Sirion.”

“Already has he sought this… to build ships to entreat west; to gain forgiveness of the Valar; but he will seek again,” Ruivo answered her. “Vingilótë sails yet. I helped to craft her fittings, but bitter will be Eärendil when he hears the news of his waiting wife and children.” None had been accounted for after the slaying at Sirion. Elwing had been seen throwing herself to the sea, clutching the Simaril, and their twin sons were vanished; there was no word nor trace of them.

"The smith compares me to a ruby now for beauty, He must think I am beautiful. Strong and Beautiful. Like he. For he carried me, bleeding in his arms to a ship and his beautiful soul...oh his soul is that of a man I would know more of. Oh man of hair of wildfire and eye of the ice."

Ruivo gave a simple nod to her comment. Strong and beautiful, though he could not say the words again for the manner in which she was smiling at him. In days past he had not been so shy to give compliment to ladies, though now, never would he have expected compliment in return. His jaw felt heavy for the request to know more of him; for what could he offer of himself, but words which would incriminate him? Words he surely deserved; yet she there, sitting so sweetly; smiling in her way; he did not wish her to know. He did not wish to frighten her; to scare her away when she wanted to be near him. Her hand was so warm as her thumb brushed over him.

Her hand was invitation. Sweet invitation for a touch that Ruivo could tell she desired; the way she withheld her breath; and the way she relaxed when he drew her near. Soft she was against him, and it did not surprise him, for he recalled clearly the feel of her in his arms. More surprised was he at the feel of her fingers against his face. No soul had touched him there in years, save to stitch closed wounds which were now lines of scar upon his face. He closed his eyes at the touch, and relished the feel of fingers in his hair. Then soft lips, which were suddenly against his without warning. His heart quickened in a way as if to remind him he was truly alive.

Ruivo felt slight clench of her fingers between his; loathe was he to let those go, but he slid his hand from Mithiel's, running has hand up her arm, then sliding it around her shoulders. Careful was he as his other arm slid up, avoiding her tender injured neck, yet his fingers sought to slip into her hair. Gently, he drew her nearer with that hand, parting his lips to her at her request, in both surprise and rapture at the boldness of her motions. Feeling pleasure ripple through him at the sounds which came from her as he let every wall within his being crash down for moments. He gently encouraged her to enjoy herself, drawing her deeper; returning the attention that she gifted with her beautiful lips.

When Ruivo pulled back, it was slowly, and he looked at Mithiel; feeling as if he had been a lifeless corpse, regenerated by her very touch. For an instant, there was a faint lopsided curl to Ruivo's lip, before his reticent expression returned.

“Mithiel,” he breathed her name. “Jade for her eyes, and rose quartz for her lips,” Ruivo whispered; his face still impassive, but there was a light to his countenance which not existed in many years and his pale cheeks were flushed; never had he been able to hide a blush. The color upon his cheeks only deepened, as he sat and thought about leaning for Mithiel's lips again; and how he desired to kiss her again and for as long as he might; until one of the healers came seeking her. He decided that was not of the greater ways to be discovered, and held himself back; his eyes still seeking her.

As Mithiel began to speak, Ruivo's hands slipped to her cheeks, holding her face near his; watching her closely; which moments later he regretted. So close were their eyes meeting as she began to speak on the kinslayers. He swallowed; reining his thoughts that they would not show upon his face.

“He is a kinslayer, that is what they do. They murder their own kind, there is a poison in their blood. Redemption for them is a long road to seek. But you, oh you are brave and kind to have fought against them. You who saved me. Forgive me for kissing you. I have wanted to all evening. I regret not the circumstances of our meeting.”

“You are right,” Ruivo whispered. “Poisoned blood. There is no redemption for such atrocity.” Still he was for a few breaths silent, regaining himself, trying to press back what openness he had felt just a minute earlier. He did not deserve her. Did not deserve this. As lovely as Mithiel was; even with what adoration had shown in her eyes, and still. The feeling between them was mutual; and Ruivo could well see it. Whatever pull he was feeling toward this elleth, she too felt.

“You have done nothing which requires apology nor forgiveness,” he added honestly; thumb brushing over her cheek. “Though hardly do we know each other. I am not brave. You do not know me.” She should not know him.

He looked over her face a moment longer, then released her from his arms, slowly, letting Mithiel settle back on the stone beside him. Ruivo tuned again to face the sea. His face felt hot and he was being brought to pause by the sudden ache in his arms which did not wish for the embrace to end. Suddenly standing before he was drawn back in by the urge; by her presence there. “I should take you back to your room, my lady.”