The Rise of Tilion {Balar, Winter 538 F.A.} [Mithiel]
May 9, 2018 20:31:42 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on May 9, 2018 20:31:42 GMT -5
Mithiel asked him upon the Valar; on what he thought, and what he would do would forgiveness be offered.
Ruivo paused for some moments, in thought. He had considered before; though never was he certain that this forgiveness would come to anyone like him. He knew he was not worth forgiveness. He would never be able to do enough to earn a place in Aman. He could not speak his answer; for neither should those words leave his lips and fall upon her. Not when she had been so recently broken down by the loss and grief of her parents would he let his own dour thoughts out to her.
And what grace would the Valar give to someone who has willingly left the lands of the Valar? Willingly forsaken? Ruivo could not hope for it for himself. But for her. She only a tiny baby; she did not make that decision to leave.
Hope. He had hope in the Valar, as he did not then; but the hope was not for his own; it was for those such as her. Those born here in Arda, who made not the choice. Surely the Valar would intercede, and she would sail west and see the great cities, and the place where the trees once stood; now under the lights of Tilion, and Arien.
Yet the thought wast there now. There placed. What should he do if the choice were given him? Was there hope? For him? For Mithiel indeed; she would go. Eventually the Valar would not hold their anger upon the innocents, and Ruivo would remain with her until that day came. He had promised her. He would keep his promise; and he would do whatever deed needed to to help ensure her way. Help to build ships. Bear his sword and defend the Isle if the need came.
Never would blade touch her throat again. Her sweet, skin.
Ruivo's thoughts on hope and mercy faded away while Mithiel was in his arms; and the long lost feelings of pleasure; of bliss warmed through him. Warmed him to the core until finally their lips had broken, and again they sat; nearly as close as they had been, though only far enough that Mithiel could voice to him of the kinslayers. Her blessed soul holding no grudge. Ruivo could not understand it.
“I am not to judge a kinslayer for their redemption comes by the grace of the Valar, through repentance for their deeds. They can be whole once more but never unmarred. We must hope for them, I pray for them.”
“You pray for them,” he muttered. Ruivo could feel her breath upon his lips. Her eye; that muted green-grey sea water looking back at him so near. Everything within her seemed of truth and honesty. That she could pray and hope for those… those who had killed their own. For him. She was a Vanyar, true of heart he could see it; he remembered those who dwelled upon the holy mountain; who would come to Tirion. Those who were so high above the others yet still kind and gentle, and speaking words of the Valar and of the blessings of life.
“I want to know you.”
How could she stand to stare at him, so closely? He saw only one side of her face, pressed so close against her, his forehead resting upon his, but he knew her other eye was open and looking too upon the blind side. She was near enough to see every flaw, and for a moment he searched her eye, trying to see a hidden trace of fear or rejection floating within; though he came up with nothing. She would not condemn, she would not reject? What was this elleth but an emissary of the Valar herself?
Ruivo closed his eyes. He shifted and let out a sigh as he leaned and let his cheek press against the side of Mithiel's, his face sliding forward until it nestled right against the softness of her hair. Her hair smelled of not only the sea breeze; but of apples and honey and something floral, and he turned his face, letting his breath pass over her ear, and his lips press against the tawny strands. He kissed them. How much he would love to know her well too; to let someone else see into him. He had a temptation, an inward feeling, to share everything with her. To sit here with his cheek pressed to hers and whisper his secrets. To hold her until they had all passed from his lips, and see then her thoughts. She was forgiving; he could see already, from every word she had said; she was forgiving. He was silent, in thought.
“I want to...kiss you again.”
Ruivo's breath was held tight within his chest; emotion piercing him, wishing to escape. She desired him, and he her, and he wanted nothing more than to take pull her into his chest, to draw her fully against him and return to that blissful kiss. It had felt as a balm to his tortured soul. He needed her. He needed her. He was not certain he had felt such a need before; for food or drink or companionship. He was alone as she, and she was there, and she had wanted him there… He could take her lips again and she wanted them; he could feel her trembling energy escaping and trying to draw him nearer.
Yet no. There was a line. A boundary. He could not cross it. That was it. This was it; already, had gone too far. Mithiel was beauty. The enveloping mists and the moonbeams personified, and she deserved someone kind. Someone gentle. Ruivo was worn through completely. His life choices made and spent already. Marred. A s she had said; he would be always marred. She deserved someone pure. Someone who could take her to the heights of Taniquetil and stay there blameless.
No. He broke apart from her. After so much touch and warmth and feeling; he removed the connection, and he felt his soul mourn for her; felt the deep meaninglessness of his existence returning to him.
“I regret that you must.”
Ruivo regretted many things; and at the moment, taking Mithiel back to her room seemed to fall just below the regret of what had happened at Alqualondë. He could sense that as he stood there watching the moon, Mithiel was looking upon him.
He closed his eyes in thought, and still he could feel her gaze. He knew he could turn to her again, and put his arms around her; and she would sink into him. Ruivo could imagine how it would feel. Surely this would not be looked down upon; to stand and embrace was not so compromising as they had been together minutes earlier, and for a moment he wondered upon who even he could ask after. She had no father; no family. If he wished to seek her, who would need give him permission? None now, but herself. And he had the permission already granted.
So tempting; but his mind fought with him, and quiet he stood while he pressed back the urge. Then, slipping into memory. It was that he recalled;
To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well.
The doom placed upon him, upon the kinslayers, by Mandos rang true. He had shed blood; the blood of his own kin, his family, and Mithiel too knew he would be always marred for it. She did not know of his deeds; she could not know his deeds. He could not touch her again. He could not drag her into the mess and danger that was his own life; the betraya; the treachery; the terrible sins he had commited agianst his own people. This was nothing for someone so close to holiness. Her eyes; he could feel them.
Mithiel was duty now. He had promised her; he would not let her be alone. Her parents were taken from her unjustly; she was brought into this marred country which was shrinking smaller and smaller by day. What was left of peace and freedom? This island alone? Evil had spreads so far both by the workings of Morgoth and by the hands of the followers of Fëanor, Ruivo did not know even
“I too regret,” he said softly, looking out over the reflecting mists rising. The words were finality. It was all he could say. The sound of the waves rolling one by one he listened to, taking in a deep breath; counting them to steady his mind, until he reached twenty after a minute, and drew a veil over his eye, turning back to Mithiel.
For a moment, Ruivo raised a hand to touch her windswept hair; grateful that the winds coming off the sea itself had left them already discomposed enough; that the way his fingers had tangled within it would remain unnoticeable. This time his fingers delved not; only brushed across the surface; lightly. Then, he offered his arm. He would take her back.
To sit for hours beneath the moon; surely the healers would not have objected to Mithiel's fresh air, yet what temptation she offered, Ruivo knew his heart could not handle. Already his resolve had felt weakened; he had given in to something far more beautiful and sweet than he could ever deserve, and it was a wrong to her. He had to leave. He had to go, before he marred her with his own presence. Before evil came upon her due to his own choices.
Yet also, he could not. He had promised she would not be alone. He had sworn under the light of Tilion that he would not forsake her here to her loneliness and he knew he could not break that promise. She was not the type who should be left alone. It was as an Oath laid upon his heart; not an oath to the Valar, for he would not make that mistake again, but an oath to her.
“Tilion will rise again tomorrow,” he told Mithiel, as he began to lead her back up the stone stair, through the archway and beyond. It was a reminder of his promise. Surely, as Tilion rose, he too would come to her, and meet her again. He would need to hold his resolve; yet he knew he could be a steady companion. Someone to keep her from being alone; someone to protect her. Without letting her too near. She need not learn his terrible secrets.
Ruivo paused for some moments, in thought. He had considered before; though never was he certain that this forgiveness would come to anyone like him. He knew he was not worth forgiveness. He would never be able to do enough to earn a place in Aman. He could not speak his answer; for neither should those words leave his lips and fall upon her. Not when she had been so recently broken down by the loss and grief of her parents would he let his own dour thoughts out to her.
And what grace would the Valar give to someone who has willingly left the lands of the Valar? Willingly forsaken? Ruivo could not hope for it for himself. But for her. She only a tiny baby; she did not make that decision to leave.
Hope. He had hope in the Valar, as he did not then; but the hope was not for his own; it was for those such as her. Those born here in Arda, who made not the choice. Surely the Valar would intercede, and she would sail west and see the great cities, and the place where the trees once stood; now under the lights of Tilion, and Arien.
Yet the thought wast there now. There placed. What should he do if the choice were given him? Was there hope? For him? For Mithiel indeed; she would go. Eventually the Valar would not hold their anger upon the innocents, and Ruivo would remain with her until that day came. He had promised her. He would keep his promise; and he would do whatever deed needed to to help ensure her way. Help to build ships. Bear his sword and defend the Isle if the need came.
Never would blade touch her throat again. Her sweet, skin.
Ruivo's thoughts on hope and mercy faded away while Mithiel was in his arms; and the long lost feelings of pleasure; of bliss warmed through him. Warmed him to the core until finally their lips had broken, and again they sat; nearly as close as they had been, though only far enough that Mithiel could voice to him of the kinslayers. Her blessed soul holding no grudge. Ruivo could not understand it.
“I am not to judge a kinslayer for their redemption comes by the grace of the Valar, through repentance for their deeds. They can be whole once more but never unmarred. We must hope for them, I pray for them.”
“You pray for them,” he muttered. Ruivo could feel her breath upon his lips. Her eye; that muted green-grey sea water looking back at him so near. Everything within her seemed of truth and honesty. That she could pray and hope for those… those who had killed their own. For him. She was a Vanyar, true of heart he could see it; he remembered those who dwelled upon the holy mountain; who would come to Tirion. Those who were so high above the others yet still kind and gentle, and speaking words of the Valar and of the blessings of life.
“I want to know you.”
How could she stand to stare at him, so closely? He saw only one side of her face, pressed so close against her, his forehead resting upon his, but he knew her other eye was open and looking too upon the blind side. She was near enough to see every flaw, and for a moment he searched her eye, trying to see a hidden trace of fear or rejection floating within; though he came up with nothing. She would not condemn, she would not reject? What was this elleth but an emissary of the Valar herself?
Ruivo closed his eyes. He shifted and let out a sigh as he leaned and let his cheek press against the side of Mithiel's, his face sliding forward until it nestled right against the softness of her hair. Her hair smelled of not only the sea breeze; but of apples and honey and something floral, and he turned his face, letting his breath pass over her ear, and his lips press against the tawny strands. He kissed them. How much he would love to know her well too; to let someone else see into him. He had a temptation, an inward feeling, to share everything with her. To sit here with his cheek pressed to hers and whisper his secrets. To hold her until they had all passed from his lips, and see then her thoughts. She was forgiving; he could see already, from every word she had said; she was forgiving. He was silent, in thought.
“I want to...kiss you again.”
Ruivo's breath was held tight within his chest; emotion piercing him, wishing to escape. She desired him, and he her, and he wanted nothing more than to take pull her into his chest, to draw her fully against him and return to that blissful kiss. It had felt as a balm to his tortured soul. He needed her. He needed her. He was not certain he had felt such a need before; for food or drink or companionship. He was alone as she, and she was there, and she had wanted him there… He could take her lips again and she wanted them; he could feel her trembling energy escaping and trying to draw him nearer.
Yet no. There was a line. A boundary. He could not cross it. That was it. This was it; already, had gone too far. Mithiel was beauty. The enveloping mists and the moonbeams personified, and she deserved someone kind. Someone gentle. Ruivo was worn through completely. His life choices made and spent already. Marred. A s she had said; he would be always marred. She deserved someone pure. Someone who could take her to the heights of Taniquetil and stay there blameless.
No. He broke apart from her. After so much touch and warmth and feeling; he removed the connection, and he felt his soul mourn for her; felt the deep meaninglessness of his existence returning to him.
“I regret that you must.”
Ruivo regretted many things; and at the moment, taking Mithiel back to her room seemed to fall just below the regret of what had happened at Alqualondë. He could sense that as he stood there watching the moon, Mithiel was looking upon him.
He closed his eyes in thought, and still he could feel her gaze. He knew he could turn to her again, and put his arms around her; and she would sink into him. Ruivo could imagine how it would feel. Surely this would not be looked down upon; to stand and embrace was not so compromising as they had been together minutes earlier, and for a moment he wondered upon who even he could ask after. She had no father; no family. If he wished to seek her, who would need give him permission? None now, but herself. And he had the permission already granted.
So tempting; but his mind fought with him, and quiet he stood while he pressed back the urge. Then, slipping into memory. It was that he recalled;
To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well.
The doom placed upon him, upon the kinslayers, by Mandos rang true. He had shed blood; the blood of his own kin, his family, and Mithiel too knew he would be always marred for it. She did not know of his deeds; she could not know his deeds. He could not touch her again. He could not drag her into the mess and danger that was his own life; the betraya; the treachery; the terrible sins he had commited agianst his own people. This was nothing for someone so close to holiness. Her eyes; he could feel them.
Mithiel was duty now. He had promised her; he would not let her be alone. Her parents were taken from her unjustly; she was brought into this marred country which was shrinking smaller and smaller by day. What was left of peace and freedom? This island alone? Evil had spreads so far both by the workings of Morgoth and by the hands of the followers of Fëanor, Ruivo did not know even
“I too regret,” he said softly, looking out over the reflecting mists rising. The words were finality. It was all he could say. The sound of the waves rolling one by one he listened to, taking in a deep breath; counting them to steady his mind, until he reached twenty after a minute, and drew a veil over his eye, turning back to Mithiel.
For a moment, Ruivo raised a hand to touch her windswept hair; grateful that the winds coming off the sea itself had left them already discomposed enough; that the way his fingers had tangled within it would remain unnoticeable. This time his fingers delved not; only brushed across the surface; lightly. Then, he offered his arm. He would take her back.
To sit for hours beneath the moon; surely the healers would not have objected to Mithiel's fresh air, yet what temptation she offered, Ruivo knew his heart could not handle. Already his resolve had felt weakened; he had given in to something far more beautiful and sweet than he could ever deserve, and it was a wrong to her. He had to leave. He had to go, before he marred her with his own presence. Before evil came upon her due to his own choices.
Yet also, he could not. He had promised she would not be alone. He had sworn under the light of Tilion that he would not forsake her here to her loneliness and he knew he could not break that promise. She was not the type who should be left alone. It was as an Oath laid upon his heart; not an oath to the Valar, for he would not make that mistake again, but an oath to her.
“Tilion will rise again tomorrow,” he told Mithiel, as he began to lead her back up the stone stair, through the archway and beyond. It was a reminder of his promise. Surely, as Tilion rose, he too would come to her, and meet her again. He would need to hold his resolve; yet he knew he could be a steady companion. Someone to keep her from being alone; someone to protect her. Without letting her too near. She need not learn his terrible secrets.