On the Breath of Ossë {Sirion, Summer 538 F.A.} [Mithiel]

“Of course an elf of his breeding, of the fair land of Aman, would speak to your Lord. He would not dismiss such honor to seek for blessings. Ruivo has always been fair of tongue,” Niphrechil answered, her words having more than one meaning as she considered days long ago in Tirion, and the way Ruivo had worked both his smooth manner of speech.

“I should say he uses it just as well as you,” Niphrechil added, her tone suddenly warm, as Vercano turned for some moments, with sudden acute interest on empty anvil behind him.

“It is likely he merely wishes to show her the pearls he has collected during his stay here. I do not doubt that the both of them will be returning to the Isle with you come fairer weather. Pity, I doubt we would be able to find a finer smith to take his place. Come Conall,” she spoke slyly, a wave of her hand behind her as she ignored his question as to where her cousin would be residing in the city. For Ossë’s sake, she had not seen her cousin behave himself since he had set foot in Sirion. If the elleth could put a fire in his eye again as she had, Niphrechil was going to allow him his privacy with his vellyn. She was quite sure the little Vanyar with the sharp tongue would agree with her.

“I think I need more of that tongue of yours, Conall. On behalf of my cousin, and your Lady Mithiel, let me show you his craft. Ruivo is modest these days when it comes to describing his skill… he was not always, but of course he is not so young anymore. Someone such as you should surely have some sway to give word for his talent on Balar. Círdan should know he is worth more than his weight in gold when it comes to skill. In Tirion he once crafted fine works of gem and jewel for the very Lords and Ladies spoken of; the houses of the High King, and the Lady, the courtiers. I would not be surprised if your own Ammë did not have some trinket crafted by the hands of Ruivo or his Atto, and moreso, he knows the workings of steel. A pity we should lose that skill here, but what will be will be, and I would not part on poor terms with him. We may yet work together...” she trailed off as she led Conall to observe all manner of work in iron and steel, Leptafinyo and Vercano grinning behind her, blocking Conall’s escape.




***


Ruivo paused, shock still he sat on the cold stone, the wind whipping and rattling the branches of the willow above. The rain leaking and dripping. “I will,” he answered. He could barely speak the words with the state of passion burning in his blood, making him shift his hips upon his seat for want of pressure against them. He could feel the desire pulsing through her, as it was through him as she spoke her words, as she kissed and moved against him. Oh, but the way she moved over him caused him to pull in his breath, and when she teased against his lips, he captured her there, not allowing her game to to continue. He kissed her, covering her mouth with his own, an arm around her shoulders squeezing her near, as his hand shifted between them, grazing her with a single agonizingly slow brush of his finger, in a way he had never touched an elleth before, and never would consider another. He would give her exactly what she wished for, but not here.

He slipped his hand from the warmth of Mithiel’s skin beneath her gown. Ruivo cupped her cheeks between his palms. “I will give you everything you desire. As Tilion ever rises, you shall be happy with me.” It came as a whisper, and his breath was heavy in his chest. Arms slid down around the elleth, one around her waist, and the other around her back, embracing her close with his head over her shoulder, as he squeezed shut his eyes. How could this be reality?

A minute passed this way, holding her close. He could feel the beating of her heart against his and then he muttered. “Let me take you home.”

Shifting her from his lap, Ruivo stood, looking down, brushing the wet hair back from her face, bending down for another quick lips and a murmured, “I adore you,” against her lips. He grasped her hand thereafter and led her, parting the dripping willow curtain, as they set off up the river bank, further upstream toward the place where he was boarding for the time being. For the short time being, it seemed now, for he knew he would return to Balar. He would not part from her.

Even as he walked he felt as if he were in a dream, her warm hand, her fingers laced within his as he helped her along the slick rock and steered her around the sinking mud. While the river flowed beside them and the sky poured above, until he found a place where the roots jutted out enough to make an easier climb to the shore path. Ruivo helped her up, one branch at a time that she not need cling to the muddy shore. First his hands upon her waist, and then her hips, and her calves. He pressed his lips against the small of her back when she was at the height upon the tree roots, unable to resist. “I shall kiss every inch of you,” he muttered in the rain. “A thousand times and again.”

Grasping branches and roots, he made way back to the sodden path, while the sky darkened and lightening flickered, and Mithiel was scooped up into his embrace, an arm beneath her shoulders, and one wrapped ‘round her knees; a riant smile pressed against her heated lips as he carried her the last short way down slippery path, her body a strange mix of hot and cold against him. Heat of fire and cooling water.

The arching stone columns which followed the path of the river soon swept into view. Rain dropping upon them suddenly diminished, and though it could be heard tapping upon the stone the top of the covered terrace, it seemed suddenly quieter. None were out in the weather to disturb him as they passed by other rooms, past the communal dining hall and the caretakers station. In truth, the boarding house had few to live within it’s walls, for the Havens of Sirion were sparse. Most of the refugees remaining, those who had not been slain, lived upon the Island, and others had traveled to the far East, past Beleriand to lands unknown to the Noldor and the Sindar.

So much had been lost, in over five hundred years of warfare. Mithiel had never known days of peace in the way he had seen them, when sea waves lapped and the glow of Laurelin and Telperion shone over star studded lands. She had always known war, from when she was brought onto the world. The war of jewels had already begun when she breathed in the sea mist. Jewels which had been crafted in the fair days of Tirion, which Ruivo had seen with his own eyes. Yet he found no jewel fairer than that which he held in his arms.

His Atto had named his Ammë, as was the custom among elves to give the gift of name when they bound they were bound in fëar. Ruivo knew what it was he would call her. Mirë; his jewel. His treasure he had found first upon the shores of the sea. No, it was not lovely enough for her. Airmirë, she could be, his sea jewel, with her sea glass eyes.

Yet still, the name was not for her. She was more than the sea, she was the moving sea. The dancing sea as he had seen her on the Isle of Balar dancing in the mists, dancing even in her sorrow. Váyamirë, he would call her, when they were wed. His jewel of the moving waters, the dancing sea. He would make her to laugh and dance again for him. He would never see her cry. He would see her smile, and the water dripping down her face would only be that of the rain, when he danced with her in it.

But what were they, without the ever watchful Tilion, which had always drawn them together. The first rise of Tilion they had watched together Tilion which had been watching over the searchers in the forest after the sacking of Menegroth. Tilion which had been above them, shining the light of which he had saved her when Sirion had been overrun by the armies of Maedhros and Maglor. Tilion, which had ridden above the clouds as they rocked on the stormy seas, on the ship which had brought them to Balar, and Tilion which had shone through the stone arched window, moonlight across her features while she lay only half alive. Ruivo clung to her hand beneath Tilion’s light, willing that Námo leave her here with him, as if a part of him had slipped within her, thrashing and burning within her veins, refusing to let her forget life, refusing to let her slip away; and a part of she within him, stroking him from the inside, cooling him, bidding him calm and settle and wait. I am here. I am still with you. You are no longer alone.

He felt Mithiel’s arms squeezing around his neck, and he tightened his grip on her, shifting her higher in his arms so he could reach her lips as the rain fell in sheets from the roof, and his boots made puddles across the long terrace. Tilion soon would rise again, rise behind the storm, and blanket the sky in its beams of silver light above black clouds, while Ruivo stripped her bare and warmed her skin against his lips. Yet he needed not Tilion, it was only she. She was his light, his moonbeams, as if the last flower of Telperion had dripped it’s sweet nectar upon her in her infancy. Sweet dewdrop of Silpion, the greatest jewel in the sky, greater than the silmarils themselves. “Silmë,” Ruivo muttered against the sound of thunder crack, as he reached his door, lowering Mithiel back to her feet in her tangled dress. The word almost inaudible as he looked out into the storm, as he felt her dripping wet hair against his his fingers, looking away from her to gaze a moment longer at the storm. Remembering the moment, for he would no longer be his own, but hers. “Váyasilmë,” he mouthed the word, making barely a sound, but feeling it on his tongue to find that it was true, at the rain and rolling thunder. It felt perfect on his lips. That was her name. His Váyasilmë, his moonbeams on dancing waters.

The door to his room swung open, soundlessly, and Ruivo grasping Mithiel by the hand drew her over the threshold. It was not much, a simple room. A bed with one pillow, and one grey blanket. A chair and table in the corner which held his small tool kit; the jewelworking tools he had managed to scrounge. A bowl on the table filled with pearls he had gathered since the beginning of his stay here. His one remaining tunic cast over the back of the chair, and the archway which led into a washroom. For an elleth of the court it would seem as nothing, he was certain, though he believed Mithiel when she told him she cared not for pedigree. She had words of truth upon her lips when she had stated it to him. Ruivo knew her words were true; had she minded pedigree, she would not have spoken so openly of her desires beneath the willow.

“I want you too. Be the father of my children.” The door shut behind them and the sound of wind and rain was further muffled, as Ruivo dipped down to kiss her; hungrily, deeply. A low groan of pleasure coming from his throat, as his fingers dipped down, running along the back of her dress, moving over the neckline. How to release her from it? He could not fathom elleth’s designs, and he merely managed to pull the fabric of her dress to the side to bare a white shoulder to his eye. His lips upon her skin thereafter, tasting the fresh rain which dripped and pooled on her. The droplets a challenge to him; each one resting upon a place which needed his touch and caress. He would cover them all. Mist and flame would make steam, and it was going to take him hours; the whole night, to kiss every space upon her body, though he was sure he would find himself lingering longer in some places than others. “There will not be enough hours in one night,” he muttered against her. What he would start here, would not finish til they returned to Balar, and even then he wondered if there was a way to get a solitary room upon the ship. How pleasant it would feel to have her skin against his and the rocking of the waves beneath them.

Ruivo pulled back, but it would not be for long. Only long enough to pass through the room, and pull shut the curtains. Yet on the far end he cracked the window overlooking the river Sirion, orchids blooming along the bank, letting the breeze drift inside and the sound of rolling water and rainstorm. Dim turned the room at the closing of the curtains, and Ruivo turned to his desk to light a candle, the small flame beginning to flicker as he turned back to Mithiel.

As Ruivo turned to Mithiel, he was stilled in footstep, watching her. Her glinting seaglass eyes caught his in the flicker of his candlelight as he stood shock stick, watching as the wet dress parted from her form. Slowly, inching it’s way down, Ruivo longed to touch her, but his feet were as if they were attached to the stone floor, until she spoke again, summoning him.

“Ruivo, you are too far away…”

It was then that he made quick paces across the floor, slowing in step again as he reached the lithe maid. Her skin was glowing in candlelight, her back bare to the waist, and he admired her. A sculpted work of art, crafted by Eru to be his. Residing in his dreams for centuries, until brought together by cruel fates, by war and grief. Though no longer grieving, they could not grieve the same way when they were not alone; when they had each other, and now here before him, ready to join him both fëa and hröa.

Ruivo reached out first with one hand, trailing tentative fingers up her back. First one hand, then a second, and then stepping forward, his palms fell against her skin, following the ridge of her spine up, and down again; her frame slight, though hale. Soft and firm in all the right places. Perfection to his eye. “Vanimalda,” Ruivo breathed near her, then silence again, and she began to speak; to invoke the blessing of Eru on their union which would take place. Ruivo listened, standing thus, his hands stilling themselves, and his form sober in observance of the custom. The tradition in which blessings should have been spoken by their parents, in front of a feast hall. Though in war torn country, it was not to be. Only they, two elves who seen much. Who had lost, and now gained.

"Eru on high, giver and creator of all life upon Arda. Singer of creation, Father of all. I ask for your eternal blessing. With purity of heart and desire for your child. With freedom of mind and body. I seek your blessing of this holiest of union. Binding myself to Ruivo."

No sooner had Mithiel’s words stilled, than did Ruivo’s hands rest upon her shoulders. The humid, summer air drawn on his lungs, and he looked down at his bride, at the bodily form wherin the second half of his fëa dwelled… dwelled already? Or would dwell? He was uncertain; he felt so close to her already; so connected. It would be folly to say that something of him did not already live within her, and something of her within him. His voice came low and soft; though it mattered not the level of speech, for Eru could have heard of them the faintest whispers.

“Eru Ilúvatar, I beseech blessing that I, Ruivo Ñaltanárion, may bind myself eternal to my Telpëhísimë. May Manwe Súlimo, Lord of Winds watch over us, and may Varda Tintalle hear our prayers and offer solace in these days, and in all days eternal.”

Ruivo breathed, and stepped nearer, feeling the silver cords which bound them drawing them nearer together; their union blessed in the sight of Eru, two fëa made one in the sight of the Valar. Nothing now to keep them from sharing the years of their lives together. Ruivo felt light; he could almost sing, and he nearly did, beginning what was a song of the sea, humming, as he gently kissed the tip of Mithiel’s ear.

“Let us make it true,” Ruivo paused in tune to whisper, as his hands slid down over her shoulders, down to her hand which clutched the sodden gown to her chest, urging her to release the fabric as the dulcet tones of his wordless Telerin melody passed his lips. Ruivo’s eyes were closed, and his lips against her golden streaked hair as his hands glided across what was to be his. Soft skin beneath his fingertips, tracing the curves of his elleth in elation and enchantment. Loving her deeply as she stood before him.

She felt perfect beneath his hands, and somewhere in the low tune he hummed for her, did he hear the way wet, heavy fabric dropped to the cold stone. His arms enshrouded his mist-maid, soon to be mist-bride; damp skin against damp skin, and his head was lowered to kiss the nape of her neck, his mouth still gifting her tune in gentle tones, a groan of pleasure hovering near the edges, and escaping near the end of the phrase.

Ruivo’s hands slid back up to Mithiel’s shoulders, and then parting way from her, down her back, until the tall ellon had dropped to his knees behind her. He kissed the dimple which hovered above her hips, placed so perfectly, his hands reaching around her to explore what was his with gentle fervor. A large palm pressed against the soft, smooth skin of her abdomen, while Ruivo’s cheek came to rest in the small of her back, his opposite hand finding favor now revealed to it; the hand of the craftsman offering more of what was begun beneath the willow.

“Cenlissënya,” Ruivo murmured against her back as he paused his hums. My sweet sight, he called her, though his hands felt before his eyes had seen; though he was half blind, she would restore him, and Ruvio sought to make her feel the delight he held for her. “Cenlórënya,” muttered next. My dream sight. His mist made tangible, brought to joy beneath his hands and his hum, His hum which became a tune as he had heard sung on shores of Sirion by the joyful Teleri who crafted the ships. A tune he had refrained from singing thus far, but Ruivo’s heart was taken to song, and the words he knew, though it did not rise up into the humid air. He sung merely in smooth clear tone combining his soul’s melody with the roll of the lapping waves.

"I smile over the wrinkled blue­
Lo! the sea is fair,
Smooth as the flow of a maiden's hair;
And Arien’s light shines through
Into mid-sea caverns of beryl hue,
And the little waves they laugh and sing,
And the sea is a beautiful, sinuous thing!

I scowl in sullen guise­
The sea grows dark and dun,
The swift clouds hide the sun
But not the bale-light in my eyes,
And the frightened wind as it flies
Ruffles the billows with stormy wing,
And the sea is a terrible, treacherous thing!

When moonlight glimmers dim
I pass in the path of the mist,
Like a pale spirit by spirits kissed.
At dawn I chant my own light hymn,
And I dabble my hair in the sunset's rim,
And I call to the dwellers along the shore
With a voice of enchantment evermore.

And if one for love of me
Gives to my call an ear,
I will woo her and hold her dear,
And teach her the way of the sea,
And my glamor shall ever over her be;
Though she wander afar from the shore of Aman,
She will come at last to my arms again.”

Ruivo laughed against her skin, pausing, having had enough of the position for the moment,, and wishing to be near her, to warm her and cherish her, adore her; though she was warmed already to his touch.

“Get in bed, Mithiel, and I will do more than adore,” he hummed, dropping his hands from their ministrations, as he sat down on the floor to work the lacings of his boots. Boots which were sodden, covered in mud. Ruivo was panting already himself, his finger brought to his mouth, as his eye roved over the dainty elleth fully for the first time. He had been so close before, that he had not seen her. Had not seen the perfection of his form as he looked at her, flickering in the light the single candle was casting upon the room. Ruivo rushed to rid himself of boots and scrambled back to his feet, almost clumsily; bare feet padding now to the bedside, and he looked at Mithiel, his chest rising and falling heavily. Reaching for her hand first to kiss it, before quickly he rid himself of the last cloth which would come between their marriage, crawling onto the bed aside her.

“Dawn now breaks; sunlight rakes the swollen seas;” Ruivo hummed, immediately drawn to the lips of his Váyasilmë as there she lay for him. Minutes passing as he comfortably drank her in.. Kisses trailed from her lips to the rest.

Finally drawing back, the sea elf grinning contentedly in the flickering light. His smile pulling on the corners of his scarred mouth, his blue eye holding the light of stars; the light of the Eldar who had once seen the two trees of Valinor shining brightly, gleaming. Ruivo saw light and promise upon Mithiel’s own dear face, and he smiled more full. Even his eyes were creased in the corners for his joy, “Ah, alas! It is she! See there, the shadows pass!”

Leaning down over her, Ruivo was shifting his elleth upon the bedding, his lips to her ear, as fingers moved back down her skin, and he whispered, “I will be gentle.”


-----

*poem some modified version of L.M Montgomery "sea spirit"

Mithiel’s lips parted with a gift of song; though her blood of Noldor and Vanyar was her strength, the elleth born upon the sea mists sung as a Falmari in his heart. His own foamsinger with her seagreen eyes. He listened to her song, though his lips barely parted from her; he could not still his hands upon smooth skin, nor his kisses upon her cheeks, her neck, her collar, and all spaces revealed, tucking the song of her safe harbor into his heart, and cherishing her with his .

His fëa so long fractured being stitched together by her joy, and at the same time, feeling as if it were cut carefully in two, allowing in the space between her own to slip in. The anticipation of joining with her, that their fëar could be one and whole, supporting and loving one another. That perhaps one gift, one gem, remained for him in all of Arda, and it was she. His blessed Váyasilmë who would share with him all the trials and joys which could come. For a moment Ruivo felt there could again be future. He would make sure it was so, for her. Mithiel deserved the best he could give.

Ruivo smiled, feeling the elleth’s toes against his leg, feeling all of her against him, skin against skin, his desired one warm to the touch. For the storm and for the damp in the room her skin was heated, and Ruivo was ready to make their sacred bond, as the elleth’s lips brought him to near trembling with the way her breath moved upon his chest. The elf was lost in the passing moments, until a sharp voice outside the door called, and his eyes thrust open, glancing toward the door. His hand made pause, and even his breath made pause, and Ruivos’ hair fell to the side, his eye fixed upon the door.

“My Lady are you within?” The call came again, and Ruivo looked back down at Mithiel, confused, though the frustration beginning to show upon his expression was not for her, but for the interruptor.

“Who calls upon you?” Ruivo whispered. Breathing out as his eye focused back upon his bride. He dropped down trying to ignore the knocks and calls, as if he had imagined them, his lips working over the elleth’s fair neck in ways to cause her delight, and his hand returning to caress, though knocking continued, and Ruivo huffed against her skin.

“Husband, Oh make him go away.”

“Who dares he to interrupt,” Ruivo growled at their perpetrator, pulling in a long slow breath. In and out, trying to manage his displeasure at the intruder. The sound he made humming against Mithiel, whom in his hands beneath him rested.

The smith pulled up from the bed, though as he did so, he glanced back down to Mithiel, and seeing her so beautifully arrayed upon his blanket he was once again drawn back to her, leaning down, taking her lips against his own in a kiss almost frenzied before the knocking and calling recommenced. The elf pulled back and shut his eyes, his finger scraping along the scar at his lips, and he sighed. He moved for his one spare pair of breeches, pulling them on though they seemed taught against him and he considered the tunic to cover himself further. His room was small and open, however, and it would leave Mithiel with only bedsheet or her wet dress to cover herself. The tunic pressed toward her. “Slip it on,” he grumbled, loathe to see her fair skin disappear beneath it.

“I am coming, a moment’s peace, please,” he called at the door, waiting while his bride covered herself. Wet garments still scattered about the room, and the blanket upon the bed ruffled.

“We are occupied, what is is you need?” Ruivo said as he thrust the door open and saw Conall standing before him, disheveled and wet from the rain.

“I am Conall, The Lady Mithiel is my charge, I am charged with her care and protection. Is she within? You are Ruivo yes? The smiths near the river said I would find my lady with a tall red head.”

Ruivo looked down at the small shoes in Conall’s hand, frowning further at them. He could feel a grumble and a hiss in the back of his throat, and he reached out to the ellon and grabbed them from him.

“The lady Mithiel is cared for and protected.” Ruivo had been in the process of caring for her before Conall had so rudely interrupted. He had been about to care for her further with his lips, and give her more delight than she had surely felt in the age of her life. He would have been in the midst of doing so had his door not been assaulted by knocks, and he distinctively wetted his lips as he thought of the matter.

“I really hope you are Ruivo if not, my apologies.” His impatience was growing.

“I am Ruivo, the smith of Sirion, of Nargothrond, and of...” Aglon and Formenos passed through his thoughts, though he spoke not of them, stilling his words, with a short, “Of Tirion.” He could feel the small shoes dripping on his bare toes against the cold stone, and he could feel more than that, the ache within him, suddenly realizing how exposed he was standing in the doorway, he moved to hold the shoes in a different way. A way in which to shield the desires he had so recently been feeling. Ruivo’s cheek twitched.

“And soon again I will be a smith on the Isle of Balar, where the Lady has convinced me that my duties lay. Lord Cirdan knows me well already, and Lady Mithiel knows me better. We are occupied, as I have mentioned, and we shall see you on the decks when the next ship departs. Lady Mithiel is fine and very well cared for, now let me continue caring. Good evening,” Ruivo answered Conall as he moved to begin shutting the door in his face.