On Winter Nights (January 3009) {Mithiel}
May 26, 2018 12:14:43 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on May 26, 2018 12:14:43 GMT -5
His eye followed her; watched her every movement. The way her fingers tread over the white cloth. “When was the last time I wore white for you, Isildil?”
Ruivo paused. He remembered specifically the last he had asked her to wear white for him. Again, turning the topic back to Ost-in-Edhil. She would not let him forget. Ruivo truly did not wish to forget those days, yet the memories they drew were painful to him. They left a throbbing which would not subside in his chest.
“It was on the last breaths of winter. I left the House of the Mírdain...”
Ruivo had then not dwelled in the walls of the guild where most of the smiths had lived. To be closer to Mithiel, he had lived among Lady Galadriel's people, instead walking through gardens to the forges daily. Perhaps it was what had saved him from full deceit. It was what had led him not lose his trust in the Lord and Lady when the other smiths were turned against them; what had made him depart with them instead of staying amongst the beautiful walls of Ost-in-Edhil to it's final days. Ruivo would have liked to think it was his trust of the White Lady which had led him to make such decisions, though he knew more his trust of her was due to Mithiel's trust of her. He would have followed Mithiel to whichever land she had determined was best.
“You were there though, in the gardens, and could not contain your excitement for what had been sprouted in the conservatory. The seedlings of Taniquelassë...”
Taniquelassë. The flowering trees which grew upon the Holy Mountain. So few seeds had been brought of the trees of Aman; and so few had remained by the days of Ost-in-Edhil. In Eregion though would the master gardeners cultivate them. They would try to replicate the climate; they would try to help the plants give root in the way they did in Aman, to make Ost-in-Edil of the same glory as Aman.
“Tiny, they were, yet roots growing deep already...”
The seedlings were sure to take hold. To flower white and fragrant as the years would pass; as Tirion remade would be come more beautiful than any realm on Arda. Ruivo said no more on the day, though he looked upon Mithiel, his thoughts wandering to the day.
“When they are grown, the flowers white blossom bearing will be made only lovelier by the sight of my Váya in the branches. My Váya garbed as a flower of the Taniquelassë herself. Perfect in white. Ilvanya seated high aloft the branches, dressed just as you are now.”
“I have never climbed a tree,” Mithiel had replied. “Are you going to help me climb a tree in this dress?"
“I will,” Ruivo had answered, a gleam to his eye.
Mithiel had not seemed entirely convinced on the matter. “I am not sure it would be proper in this dress. Does it look as I am dressed for climbing? I think I should stay on the ground, and leave the climbing to you.”
“Do you?” Ruivo had asked, his brow arching. He stooped to scoop Mithiel around the waist. In a single motion he had grasped her and lifted her off the ground, holding her tightly, face to face with him. “Do you belong on the ground, írima, or here?”
Ruivo had kissed her, before giving her chance to answer, and her white dress became grey around the middle from sooty arms; her bosom stained grey against his dirty tunic. The lips of his Heri mi Mísë so soft and lovely against his that he became lost against her. Neither had given notice to the staining of another dress for some time.
The seedlings of the Taniquelassë had not lasted the downfall of Ost-in-Edhil. Gone were the trees from Arda now. Mithiel had never seen them bloom the way Ruivo once had on Taniquetil.
“I like you best in white,” Ruivo said. He hoped that the new dress would be finished soon, though he could not say it.
He listened, as Mithiel spoke of their time together; of they way they had dreamed of the future. Ruivo looked upon her, his eyes heavy laden though he could not respond. They had always been together. Even to look upon the light of the very first rise of Tilion, though they were not side by side; though they were in different stages of their lives; they had both looked upon the moon together. Past and present were together; yet future, Ruivo was no longer willing to think on. There was no future for him. Only to live day by day.
Yet Mithiel continued on the future; of Aman, of going with him. Ruivo's elbows rested upon his knees now, and he slouched, leaning his forehead upon his hand. His hair fell forward “You have decided...” he sighed eventually, looking upon the floor. Torn, was he, for the world was growing darker day by day; and Ruivo wished her to depart, to be kept safe. Imladris was safe. For now. Yet Ruivo's hope in the safety of the Homely House could not be trusted.
“I too dream of the sea,” Ruivo answered, sitting up again; trying to train his eyes to not give away al within him. She still stood with the chair between them; a barricade. A physical symbol of the line Ruivo had drawn between them.“I always have.” He had never stopped dreaming of it.
She asked after his hair; when he would have it trimmed.
Reflective, Ruivo knew not how he should answer. So quick was Mithiel to acquiesce to his every whim of his, his idea that tonight would be better than morn. Little things, among others. He tried to gain himself; not well certain that he would be able to restrain himself given her fingers in his hair; the way Mithiel would trim the strands. Twice a year he needed to have his hair trimmed. Always had Mithiel done it; since Balar had she seen to it for him Well more than simple grooming; her hands would sift through his hair as they had long ago. “After a time,” he decided. He would draw out his time with her tonight. He would feel her fingertips later, and she would feel his before he departed. He would leave her with that much, hidden, or unhidden behind the duty of unclasping the necklace from her throat. He was almost stolen away by the mere thought of it. His eye drifted to her neck, and then back upward to her face.
Ruivo stood then, swiftly for a look had come over Mithiel's eyes; his brow suddenly creased as he made paces to the chair, looking down at Mithiel's face; her eyes glistening as if in pain. He could not ask of her what was wrong; for inwardly he knew the answer, and what would speaking upon it do but cause her to outpour her emotion in a way that would beckon for him to hold her? If he took Mithiel in arms he would… not relent. He knew, for the way both her fëa and hröa had been beckoning him this day; with more strength over the past months.
Leave. I should leave, he told himself. He was going to worsen it. As it had been growing worse; more difficult; year by year. More pain in her eyes; more often. More restraint on his part. Restraint. Ruivo was reaching to touch her even before he realized what he was doing. Even as he told himself not to do so; her hand upon the back of the chair. In the last instant he grasped the chair instead, frowning and taking a breath. Her sewing chair. With a sudden heave he reached to lift the entire chair from the floor, and leaving Mithiel in her place, he crossed the room with it to the corner where he would work his craft.
Settling the chair to the side of his own, facing his, he looked at her. “Sit near me while we work tonight, írima,” he answered thereafter, hoping to bring light back to her eyes with the word. It was not a question; almost a demand in the way he stated it, knowing she would, though giving her no real option in having already moved her chair. The dress that had been hung over the back of it tumbled down to the seat, and he broke his eye away from Mithiel, looking to the garment as he lifted it up again, letting his fingertips smooth over the embroidery she had been working on, then carefully laying it it upon the backing of the chair again.
Ruivo moved to the doorway for his tools, and taking them to his table, settled himself in the seat; beginning to arrange his desk to suit his needs for the evening. The last time this winter he would sit beside her and work. He wondered how long he would need stay away to fully regain himself; to regain restraint and distance. Even he did not know. The lid to his metal case clicked open, and out came the gems; one by one, Ruivo lined them upon the length of the table to begin his polishing.
Ruivo paused. He remembered specifically the last he had asked her to wear white for him. Again, turning the topic back to Ost-in-Edhil. She would not let him forget. Ruivo truly did not wish to forget those days, yet the memories they drew were painful to him. They left a throbbing which would not subside in his chest.
“It was on the last breaths of winter. I left the House of the Mírdain...”
Ruivo had then not dwelled in the walls of the guild where most of the smiths had lived. To be closer to Mithiel, he had lived among Lady Galadriel's people, instead walking through gardens to the forges daily. Perhaps it was what had saved him from full deceit. It was what had led him not lose his trust in the Lord and Lady when the other smiths were turned against them; what had made him depart with them instead of staying amongst the beautiful walls of Ost-in-Edhil to it's final days. Ruivo would have liked to think it was his trust of the White Lady which had led him to make such decisions, though he knew more his trust of her was due to Mithiel's trust of her. He would have followed Mithiel to whichever land she had determined was best.
“You were there though, in the gardens, and could not contain your excitement for what had been sprouted in the conservatory. The seedlings of Taniquelassë...”
Taniquelassë. The flowering trees which grew upon the Holy Mountain. So few seeds had been brought of the trees of Aman; and so few had remained by the days of Ost-in-Edhil. In Eregion though would the master gardeners cultivate them. They would try to replicate the climate; they would try to help the plants give root in the way they did in Aman, to make Ost-in-Edil of the same glory as Aman.
“Tiny, they were, yet roots growing deep already...”
The seedlings were sure to take hold. To flower white and fragrant as the years would pass; as Tirion remade would be come more beautiful than any realm on Arda. Ruivo said no more on the day, though he looked upon Mithiel, his thoughts wandering to the day.
“When they are grown, the flowers white blossom bearing will be made only lovelier by the sight of my Váya in the branches. My Váya garbed as a flower of the Taniquelassë herself. Perfect in white. Ilvanya seated high aloft the branches, dressed just as you are now.”
“I have never climbed a tree,” Mithiel had replied. “Are you going to help me climb a tree in this dress?"
“I will,” Ruivo had answered, a gleam to his eye.
Mithiel had not seemed entirely convinced on the matter. “I am not sure it would be proper in this dress. Does it look as I am dressed for climbing? I think I should stay on the ground, and leave the climbing to you.”
“Do you?” Ruivo had asked, his brow arching. He stooped to scoop Mithiel around the waist. In a single motion he had grasped her and lifted her off the ground, holding her tightly, face to face with him. “Do you belong on the ground, írima, or here?”
Ruivo had kissed her, before giving her chance to answer, and her white dress became grey around the middle from sooty arms; her bosom stained grey against his dirty tunic. The lips of his Heri mi Mísë so soft and lovely against his that he became lost against her. Neither had given notice to the staining of another dress for some time.
The seedlings of the Taniquelassë had not lasted the downfall of Ost-in-Edhil. Gone were the trees from Arda now. Mithiel had never seen them bloom the way Ruivo once had on Taniquetil.
“I like you best in white,” Ruivo said. He hoped that the new dress would be finished soon, though he could not say it.
He listened, as Mithiel spoke of their time together; of they way they had dreamed of the future. Ruivo looked upon her, his eyes heavy laden though he could not respond. They had always been together. Even to look upon the light of the very first rise of Tilion, though they were not side by side; though they were in different stages of their lives; they had both looked upon the moon together. Past and present were together; yet future, Ruivo was no longer willing to think on. There was no future for him. Only to live day by day.
Yet Mithiel continued on the future; of Aman, of going with him. Ruivo's elbows rested upon his knees now, and he slouched, leaning his forehead upon his hand. His hair fell forward “You have decided...” he sighed eventually, looking upon the floor. Torn, was he, for the world was growing darker day by day; and Ruivo wished her to depart, to be kept safe. Imladris was safe. For now. Yet Ruivo's hope in the safety of the Homely House could not be trusted.
“I too dream of the sea,” Ruivo answered, sitting up again; trying to train his eyes to not give away al within him. She still stood with the chair between them; a barricade. A physical symbol of the line Ruivo had drawn between them.“I always have.” He had never stopped dreaming of it.
She asked after his hair; when he would have it trimmed.
Reflective, Ruivo knew not how he should answer. So quick was Mithiel to acquiesce to his every whim of his, his idea that tonight would be better than morn. Little things, among others. He tried to gain himself; not well certain that he would be able to restrain himself given her fingers in his hair; the way Mithiel would trim the strands. Twice a year he needed to have his hair trimmed. Always had Mithiel done it; since Balar had she seen to it for him Well more than simple grooming; her hands would sift through his hair as they had long ago. “After a time,” he decided. He would draw out his time with her tonight. He would feel her fingertips later, and she would feel his before he departed. He would leave her with that much, hidden, or unhidden behind the duty of unclasping the necklace from her throat. He was almost stolen away by the mere thought of it. His eye drifted to her neck, and then back upward to her face.
Ruivo stood then, swiftly for a look had come over Mithiel's eyes; his brow suddenly creased as he made paces to the chair, looking down at Mithiel's face; her eyes glistening as if in pain. He could not ask of her what was wrong; for inwardly he knew the answer, and what would speaking upon it do but cause her to outpour her emotion in a way that would beckon for him to hold her? If he took Mithiel in arms he would… not relent. He knew, for the way both her fëa and hröa had been beckoning him this day; with more strength over the past months.
Leave. I should leave, he told himself. He was going to worsen it. As it had been growing worse; more difficult; year by year. More pain in her eyes; more often. More restraint on his part. Restraint. Ruivo was reaching to touch her even before he realized what he was doing. Even as he told himself not to do so; her hand upon the back of the chair. In the last instant he grasped the chair instead, frowning and taking a breath. Her sewing chair. With a sudden heave he reached to lift the entire chair from the floor, and leaving Mithiel in her place, he crossed the room with it to the corner where he would work his craft.
Settling the chair to the side of his own, facing his, he looked at her. “Sit near me while we work tonight, írima,” he answered thereafter, hoping to bring light back to her eyes with the word. It was not a question; almost a demand in the way he stated it, knowing she would, though giving her no real option in having already moved her chair. The dress that had been hung over the back of it tumbled down to the seat, and he broke his eye away from Mithiel, looking to the garment as he lifted it up again, letting his fingertips smooth over the embroidery she had been working on, then carefully laying it it upon the backing of the chair again.
Ruivo moved to the doorway for his tools, and taking them to his table, settled himself in the seat; beginning to arrange his desk to suit his needs for the evening. The last time this winter he would sit beside her and work. He wondered how long he would need stay away to fully regain himself; to regain restraint and distance. Even he did not know. The lid to his metal case clicked open, and out came the gems; one by one, Ruivo lined them upon the length of the table to begin his polishing.