Mischief Un-managed [Winter 3009-3010][Fenion]
May 2, 2018 17:16:14 GMT -5
Post by MITHIEL on May 2, 2018 17:16:14 GMT -5
Of all the elflings in Imladris, Mithiel found Fenion to be one of the most unsettling ones. While the twin lords might have nearly scared her to death a time or three with their antics. Fenion, he unsettled her in a way that she found she did not like to be around. Perhaps it was his prying nature and the way he spoke of things concerning Ruivo for it made Mithiel quite unnerved. “Perhaps you are correct… he would not argue, not our Ruivo. He does not argue. Yet you cannot say he has no desire in his mind. It is no smudge of the name to admit to looking upon beauty; it is no frivolity to adore that which we were created to be, and that which was created for us by music. I do not criticize Ruivo for the way I have seen his eye wander and linger upon you. Perhaps he is too quick to look away for you to notice...”
Fenion grinned in a way that made Mithiel narrow her eyes. “Ruivo once, in an age past might have looked upon me such, but that way is closed. Those doors closed with the destruction of Eregion and the loss of Celebrimbor.” Mithiel replied with a tone that whispered of happier times, long ago. Of days when she would be in her chambers and Ruivo would come from behind her, still smelling of soot and sweat from the forge and whisper of beauty and place jewels upon her. Of waking from dream sleep with beautiful gemstone bracelets on her wrists. Days when Mithiel would find gifts neatly left wrapped, sitting on her writing desk with Ruivo’s notes for what he made the item with, what stones he used. Her whisper spoke of memory: Of getting ready for the spring festival and the noldorian blood smith of the north placing a tiara he had just recently made upon her. Days when his affection, that while not declared; was evident that he silently courted and favored her. Days when things were fair and he worked his craft in pleasure. Mithiel in those days returned Ruivo’s sentiment. For her lady was no longer a child and she had many hours to spend walking with him when he was not enthralled of gems, metal, fire. For Mithiel allowed no other smith to shower her in gifts of the trade, her affection was known. Until...things changed and the elves once more were betrayed. Till war once more came and Ruivo pulled away from her. What had been...was lost between them. They now lived in a precarious balance of friendship that teetered on possession of one another.
”For what a joy to life is there, if things remain always stagnant. Tell me, what would it be to live without the change of seasons, without the buds upon the trees in late winter, the birds returning and building their nests, the gentle rise of the streams in summer as the snows melt off the mountains, the colors of autumn, and the soft fall of snow. What is and has always been is one thing, but what always will be is nothing we can say for sure now.”
Mithiel mouth would twitch. He had not been to the north as Ruivo had. Had not stood where seasons never came. “There is no joy. Not for Ruivo and not for me” Mithiel replied. Fenion was no yokel, Mithiel had spent years in hope that the vermilion haired smith with hands that she loved so well would eventuate. Hope was fading and she saw that. She had accepted what her fate would be. With grace did she accept and try to bare her pain in silence. Mithiel knew what she did was not healthy, she knew that normal relationships did not function on the affection-starved level that Ruivo and herself lived in. Mithiel had seen enough functioning elven marriages over her lifetime to know. But still she chose this, she chose him. Every time as she had done for an age and a half.
Fenion implored to her listen to him, that he had things to tell her and she struggled with a pain that gave the youngling pause, pause enough to see that something was wrong. So very wrong. Silver tendrils reached out, cried out and when they found not Ruivo those tendrils had snapped back and the pain came. “Nay, I doubt it is but one of you,”. Through tear-blurred eyes she said nothing controlling herself, vehement in trying to control the tears still wept from sea glass eyes. Fenion helped her to a chair near the hearth, a chair that had been artfully arranged by her for the room. Fenion took a seat on the low foot stoop and in her fingers was the necklace. Once stiff leather now softened from daily wear. Always well oiled to keep the leather hydrated, supple and in lasting condition. As Fenion spoke, she put the necklace back on. Bringing the love that Ruivo had poured into the gift closer to her. Love that his heart had silently sung, that his hands crafted and his dedication never wavered. Sitting at the center of her throat, beautiful as always and just as resplendent was the metal as the day he had first crafted the necklace. How she wanted to know, how he knew things. Knew of Ruivo’s leaving plans.
Trees he said. “This is how I learn things. You should sit a time or two in the trees and try
she frowned at the thought of such a thing. Scaling tree bark, climbing up limbs. Thinking of how it would hardly be possible for her to climb trees in the elegant dresses so often donned about her figure. Nearly impossible for Mithiel did not even own a pair of leggings. She was a lady and ladies did not wear pants.
“I smell things too. Do you not smell the Yule feasts from the kitchen from here? The apple tarts and plum puddings.”
Mithiel’s frown only deepened. “Redolent is the smell and for it, I take no pleasure in feasts. Not any more” How could she take pleasure in knowing there in the hall of fire would be stories of old, of great battles. Of honoring those warriors that resided in Imladris. Ruivo not being here to take part in such. All the dancing she could not enjoy. Mithiel could recall the last time she had danced. The last person she had danced with. With the golden lord of Gondolin had she danced, skilled was he yet her heart had taken no pleasure in the act of cotillion. An image the two older elves made, whirling about the dance floor, with feet that seemed to float instead of waltz. But there was no mirth in Mithiel’s eyes as she stared up into Glorfindel’s eyes and from that evening onward. Mithiel excused herself to her chambers when dancing and song began for heart she had not to dance.
Hands folded in her lap. Listening to Fenion and her breath caught. Evendim. He went to Evendim. To the lake in the north that an age ago they had lived alongside. To the birthplace of the silver lady of Imladris. Mithiel breathed out “ Evendim”. Repeating out loud where he had gone. She could see the lake, shining in the cold. Clear enough to see to the bottom, deeper than the waters looked from above. Frowning as Ruivo would not return until the full moon of April, it was almost January, April was still four months away. Four months. A deep breath is taken and Fenion continued to speak while she turned over her thoughts. She could survive four more months. Even if the entire time, Mithiel would feel her insides being ripped out. Feel as if someone was taking a hot iron and pressing it into her ribs as if she was being eviscerated with a dull blade.
Some in Imladrs had whispered and others in low voices talked of what ailed Mithiel and Ruivo.
Erestor speculated to Glorfindel the reasoning and the elven lord that was nearly a maiar would just turn pensive eyes on Erestor. Often saying:
"Nothing can be done, he has to acknowledge it."
With Erestor countering, impassioned and eyes blazing. "His stubbornness will take the both of them"
"I can not intervene Erestor! I take no pleasure in watching the suffering of Ruivo and Mithiel"
“I have seen Ruivo, these past years. More than once would he retreat into the forests; and only in my eyes, I am sure it was more. To clutch at himself; to be brought to his knees for the pain. I asked after him when I saw. I thought he needed to seek Lord Elrond for healing, and he forbid me to speak upon it. I risk Ruivo's wrath for telling you this. You know how he is,”
“He is in pain?” she asked. Ruivo was in pain. She was in pain. “If Lord Elrond knows, then nothing can be done for Ruivo’s pain...If my pain could be taken away, I would cut the pain away, only to return to pain if I could take Ruivo’s from him” Pure and selfless. Putting the smith’s soul above her own.
Fenion grinned in a way that made Mithiel narrow her eyes. “Ruivo once, in an age past might have looked upon me such, but that way is closed. Those doors closed with the destruction of Eregion and the loss of Celebrimbor.” Mithiel replied with a tone that whispered of happier times, long ago. Of days when she would be in her chambers and Ruivo would come from behind her, still smelling of soot and sweat from the forge and whisper of beauty and place jewels upon her. Of waking from dream sleep with beautiful gemstone bracelets on her wrists. Days when Mithiel would find gifts neatly left wrapped, sitting on her writing desk with Ruivo’s notes for what he made the item with, what stones he used. Her whisper spoke of memory: Of getting ready for the spring festival and the noldorian blood smith of the north placing a tiara he had just recently made upon her. Days when his affection, that while not declared; was evident that he silently courted and favored her. Days when things were fair and he worked his craft in pleasure. Mithiel in those days returned Ruivo’s sentiment. For her lady was no longer a child and she had many hours to spend walking with him when he was not enthralled of gems, metal, fire. For Mithiel allowed no other smith to shower her in gifts of the trade, her affection was known. Until...things changed and the elves once more were betrayed. Till war once more came and Ruivo pulled away from her. What had been...was lost between them. They now lived in a precarious balance of friendship that teetered on possession of one another.
”For what a joy to life is there, if things remain always stagnant. Tell me, what would it be to live without the change of seasons, without the buds upon the trees in late winter, the birds returning and building their nests, the gentle rise of the streams in summer as the snows melt off the mountains, the colors of autumn, and the soft fall of snow. What is and has always been is one thing, but what always will be is nothing we can say for sure now.”
Mithiel mouth would twitch. He had not been to the north as Ruivo had. Had not stood where seasons never came. “There is no joy. Not for Ruivo and not for me” Mithiel replied. Fenion was no yokel, Mithiel had spent years in hope that the vermilion haired smith with hands that she loved so well would eventuate. Hope was fading and she saw that. She had accepted what her fate would be. With grace did she accept and try to bare her pain in silence. Mithiel knew what she did was not healthy, she knew that normal relationships did not function on the affection-starved level that Ruivo and herself lived in. Mithiel had seen enough functioning elven marriages over her lifetime to know. But still she chose this, she chose him. Every time as she had done for an age and a half.
Fenion implored to her listen to him, that he had things to tell her and she struggled with a pain that gave the youngling pause, pause enough to see that something was wrong. So very wrong. Silver tendrils reached out, cried out and when they found not Ruivo those tendrils had snapped back and the pain came. “Nay, I doubt it is but one of you,”. Through tear-blurred eyes she said nothing controlling herself, vehement in trying to control the tears still wept from sea glass eyes. Fenion helped her to a chair near the hearth, a chair that had been artfully arranged by her for the room. Fenion took a seat on the low foot stoop and in her fingers was the necklace. Once stiff leather now softened from daily wear. Always well oiled to keep the leather hydrated, supple and in lasting condition. As Fenion spoke, she put the necklace back on. Bringing the love that Ruivo had poured into the gift closer to her. Love that his heart had silently sung, that his hands crafted and his dedication never wavered. Sitting at the center of her throat, beautiful as always and just as resplendent was the metal as the day he had first crafted the necklace. How she wanted to know, how he knew things. Knew of Ruivo’s leaving plans.
Trees he said. “This is how I learn things. You should sit a time or two in the trees and try
she frowned at the thought of such a thing. Scaling tree bark, climbing up limbs. Thinking of how it would hardly be possible for her to climb trees in the elegant dresses so often donned about her figure. Nearly impossible for Mithiel did not even own a pair of leggings. She was a lady and ladies did not wear pants.
“I smell things too. Do you not smell the Yule feasts from the kitchen from here? The apple tarts and plum puddings.”
Mithiel’s frown only deepened. “Redolent is the smell and for it, I take no pleasure in feasts. Not any more” How could she take pleasure in knowing there in the hall of fire would be stories of old, of great battles. Of honoring those warriors that resided in Imladris. Ruivo not being here to take part in such. All the dancing she could not enjoy. Mithiel could recall the last time she had danced. The last person she had danced with. With the golden lord of Gondolin had she danced, skilled was he yet her heart had taken no pleasure in the act of cotillion. An image the two older elves made, whirling about the dance floor, with feet that seemed to float instead of waltz. But there was no mirth in Mithiel’s eyes as she stared up into Glorfindel’s eyes and from that evening onward. Mithiel excused herself to her chambers when dancing and song began for heart she had not to dance.
Hands folded in her lap. Listening to Fenion and her breath caught. Evendim. He went to Evendim. To the lake in the north that an age ago they had lived alongside. To the birthplace of the silver lady of Imladris. Mithiel breathed out “ Evendim”. Repeating out loud where he had gone. She could see the lake, shining in the cold. Clear enough to see to the bottom, deeper than the waters looked from above. Frowning as Ruivo would not return until the full moon of April, it was almost January, April was still four months away. Four months. A deep breath is taken and Fenion continued to speak while she turned over her thoughts. She could survive four more months. Even if the entire time, Mithiel would feel her insides being ripped out. Feel as if someone was taking a hot iron and pressing it into her ribs as if she was being eviscerated with a dull blade.
Some in Imladrs had whispered and others in low voices talked of what ailed Mithiel and Ruivo.
Erestor speculated to Glorfindel the reasoning and the elven lord that was nearly a maiar would just turn pensive eyes on Erestor. Often saying:
"Nothing can be done, he has to acknowledge it."
With Erestor countering, impassioned and eyes blazing. "His stubbornness will take the both of them"
"I can not intervene Erestor! I take no pleasure in watching the suffering of Ruivo and Mithiel"
“I have seen Ruivo, these past years. More than once would he retreat into the forests; and only in my eyes, I am sure it was more. To clutch at himself; to be brought to his knees for the pain. I asked after him when I saw. I thought he needed to seek Lord Elrond for healing, and he forbid me to speak upon it. I risk Ruivo's wrath for telling you this. You know how he is,”
“He is in pain?” she asked. Ruivo was in pain. She was in pain. “If Lord Elrond knows, then nothing can be done for Ruivo’s pain...If my pain could be taken away, I would cut the pain away, only to return to pain if I could take Ruivo’s from him” Pure and selfless. Putting the smith’s soul above her own.