On the Breath of Ossë {Sirion, Summer 538 F.A.} [Mithiel]
Oct 29, 2018 14:57:48 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on Oct 29, 2018 14:57:48 GMT -5
When Conall’s boot hit the door, Ruivo growled aloud. He had not expected the intrusion and thus his grasp upon the close of the door had not been firm. The shorter elf pressed past him, and Ruivo’s face was set in frustration, breathing heavy through his nostrils and fists clenched at his sides. Were Conall to touch Mithiel, Ruvio’s barricade would have fallen, but he merely conversed, and Mithiel spoke softly. He chastised them, speaking that the eldar did not wed in time of war, and Ruivo was impatient; ready to question when then would time of war diminish. They had been at war for an age and longer. Had no elflings been born in that time? The house of Thingol had seen four generations. Had not Conall’s own Lord wed when there was strife upon the land? Yet Mithiel’s gentle voice turned the conversation, and Ruivo stood silent, waiting, letting her guide the direction she wished the conversation to move. It was well that she began to spoke before he; for Ruivo’s words would not have been gentle.
The smith’s face was long. Mithiel would have been comfortable here. She would be warm and safe within his arms. He would have eventually come around to building a fire. He would have made certain her dress was dry before they parted from his quarters. Had some fell force invaded the city Ruivo would have died before the stroke of any knife was allowed to graze Mithiel.
Ruivo turned to look at his Váyasilmë in dim candlelight on the bed. Everything within him wanted to force the other elf out of his room and tell him to take the matter up with the Lord and Lady on the isle. Things could be well situated with his wife by the time of his return; in fact should Conall wish to seek higher authority in Sirion, Ruivo and Mithiel could have their marriage taken into account before the eyes of the Valar in no more than a few minutes. Conall could not argue against a union blessed by the Valar.
He huffed, looking down at his mist maid, as he stepped nearer the bed. Why should he not take a wife in times such as this? What was there but her who could encourage him to work harder and serve in the Master Shipwright’s forges better than she? Who better would there be to encourage his defenses should they come under attack again? Had he not saved her life once? Nobody else had been there upon the street in the night. Nobody but he had been drawn to that place and time. None other had stilled the blood and carried her to safety.
Perhaps this elf did not understand; perhaps he was unwed, and there were no silver threads drawing him to someone. He did not feel the tension within his being urging him to make whole. “We will walk on Balar, beneath Tilion,” Ruivo voiced low to Mithiel. He could not make a scene before her; as much as he wished to throw this elf back upon the street and tell him to leave him in peace. Mithiel was cordial with him, and Ruivo was not going to make her seem foolish before the eyes of one she knew. Nor would he make a fool of himself when Conall was affable in a situation where, Ruivo could imagine, he had not expected to find himself.
Conall was simply doing his duty. He meant no harm; Ruivo too would have been dutiful given a task by the Lord and Lady. He repeated the thought to himself. Mulling the words in his mind. The evening he had promised Mithiel was surely not to happen, and the elf closed his eyes for a moment, bidding himself let go the thoughts. They had time.
“I will do your Lord and Lady honor. One who cares for Lady Mithiel is one whom I should trust,” Ruivo said low, after some moments had passed. He gave a glance to Conall, attempting a face of solemn courtesy, then leaning down toward Mithiel upon the bed, he grasped her hand holding it lightly, fingers tracing beneath Mithiel’s palm, and he leaned nearer to speak to her. A side eye given to the Sindarin Conall, before he spoke in Quenyan to Mithiel.
“Yéva, lómelmo nauva anda.” A smirk tugged at the corner of Ruivo’s lip. When it comes, our night will be long. Ruivo’s finger circled on her palm, and he pulled in a breath and held it, trying to calm himself. He would not be upset; he could not grow upset for Conall’s interruption. It was true, Ruivo should do nothing to bring Mithiel shame. He would not make anymore mistakes. He would do right by her; and by the household to which she belonged. The sunbursts of Finarfin in which her waist had been girdled. Ruivo’s eye caressed her in the way his hand at given moment could not.
“Irmoinya úva sinta. Tenna, mánya úva hehtaminti. Avaleryaórenya. Eru na carë indómelya atarmë, írima. Naitie quetë.” My desire will not fade away. Until then, my hands will not forsake remembrance. My heart is made fast. Eru’s will be done for us, lovely. I promise. His finger trailed from her palm to her wrist, and he looked at her, intensity in his one ice blue eye. He turned his head to glance at Celeborn’s servant, almost as if in challenge, and then his eye upon Mithiel again, he kissed her upon the lips. It was chaste, though a claim nonetheless.
“I have a blanket in the closet, which should serve to cloak you until we reach… the guest house where I assume your belongings have been taken.” The statement given, Ruivo set to action, carefully cloaking his bride, that Conall should not set eye upon even the delicate skin of her leg.
The invitation given, Ruivo was not willing to leave Mithiel’s side for the evening. Long after supper and merriment came to pass, when Mithiel was encouraged to rest, Ruivo sat within the drawing room of the home, his eye fixed upon the Sindar. All manner of talk drawn forth from his lips; Ruivo made certain that Conall knew all there was to remember of the forges of Tirion, of the great weaponry forges, and battles fought in the north at the beginnings of the age, of the forges of the shipwrights at Sirion, and on Balar, and as much as he had heard of the dwarf mines of eastern lands where many of their tools and metals came from. Conall’s face had drawn sour upon talk of the dwarves, but Ruivo could speak of dwarves and mining and forges for hours.
Ruivo’s watches over the pass of Aglon for four hundred years had trained him in ways of taking little sleep; and though Conall’s eyes grew heavy and Ruivo took notice of it; he took advantage of his host’s ears, never letting him take rest or even allowing his mind to wander as Ruivo would take pause in his speech to allow the elf to comment, or even offer his own questions, forcing Conall to answer; all of this lasted until morning came upon the land. Until Mithiel rested and dressed came from her chambers, looking fresh, and though Ruivo had some weariness about him he too was ready for the new day. For to gather his things from his own rooms, bid his landlady her farewells; to take back to the forges and face his cousins with news of his departure. Mithiel’s hand was in his all the while, and Conall would not let the two of them alone as promised, thus Ruivo made certain to quicken his steps even as the elf grew wearier. A smirk continued upon the smith’s lips as he enlisted Conall’s assistance in carrying the tools of his trade upon the ship which would sail out with the tides of Ossë. The black soot making a mess of Conall’s robes as the less fit elf struggled with the weight of things.
The smith’s face was long. Mithiel would have been comfortable here. She would be warm and safe within his arms. He would have eventually come around to building a fire. He would have made certain her dress was dry before they parted from his quarters. Had some fell force invaded the city Ruivo would have died before the stroke of any knife was allowed to graze Mithiel.
Ruivo turned to look at his Váyasilmë in dim candlelight on the bed. Everything within him wanted to force the other elf out of his room and tell him to take the matter up with the Lord and Lady on the isle. Things could be well situated with his wife by the time of his return; in fact should Conall wish to seek higher authority in Sirion, Ruivo and Mithiel could have their marriage taken into account before the eyes of the Valar in no more than a few minutes. Conall could not argue against a union blessed by the Valar.
He huffed, looking down at his mist maid, as he stepped nearer the bed. Why should he not take a wife in times such as this? What was there but her who could encourage him to work harder and serve in the Master Shipwright’s forges better than she? Who better would there be to encourage his defenses should they come under attack again? Had he not saved her life once? Nobody else had been there upon the street in the night. Nobody but he had been drawn to that place and time. None other had stilled the blood and carried her to safety.
Perhaps this elf did not understand; perhaps he was unwed, and there were no silver threads drawing him to someone. He did not feel the tension within his being urging him to make whole. “We will walk on Balar, beneath Tilion,” Ruivo voiced low to Mithiel. He could not make a scene before her; as much as he wished to throw this elf back upon the street and tell him to leave him in peace. Mithiel was cordial with him, and Ruivo was not going to make her seem foolish before the eyes of one she knew. Nor would he make a fool of himself when Conall was affable in a situation where, Ruivo could imagine, he had not expected to find himself.
Conall was simply doing his duty. He meant no harm; Ruivo too would have been dutiful given a task by the Lord and Lady. He repeated the thought to himself. Mulling the words in his mind. The evening he had promised Mithiel was surely not to happen, and the elf closed his eyes for a moment, bidding himself let go the thoughts. They had time.
“I will do your Lord and Lady honor. One who cares for Lady Mithiel is one whom I should trust,” Ruivo said low, after some moments had passed. He gave a glance to Conall, attempting a face of solemn courtesy, then leaning down toward Mithiel upon the bed, he grasped her hand holding it lightly, fingers tracing beneath Mithiel’s palm, and he leaned nearer to speak to her. A side eye given to the Sindarin Conall, before he spoke in Quenyan to Mithiel.
“Yéva, lómelmo nauva anda.” A smirk tugged at the corner of Ruivo’s lip. When it comes, our night will be long. Ruivo’s finger circled on her palm, and he pulled in a breath and held it, trying to calm himself. He would not be upset; he could not grow upset for Conall’s interruption. It was true, Ruivo should do nothing to bring Mithiel shame. He would not make anymore mistakes. He would do right by her; and by the household to which she belonged. The sunbursts of Finarfin in which her waist had been girdled. Ruivo’s eye caressed her in the way his hand at given moment could not.
“Irmoinya úva sinta. Tenna, mánya úva hehtaminti. Avaleryaórenya. Eru na carë indómelya atarmë, írima. Naitie quetë.” My desire will not fade away. Until then, my hands will not forsake remembrance. My heart is made fast. Eru’s will be done for us, lovely. I promise. His finger trailed from her palm to her wrist, and he looked at her, intensity in his one ice blue eye. He turned his head to glance at Celeborn’s servant, almost as if in challenge, and then his eye upon Mithiel again, he kissed her upon the lips. It was chaste, though a claim nonetheless.
“I have a blanket in the closet, which should serve to cloak you until we reach… the guest house where I assume your belongings have been taken.” The statement given, Ruivo set to action, carefully cloaking his bride, that Conall should not set eye upon even the delicate skin of her leg.
The invitation given, Ruivo was not willing to leave Mithiel’s side for the evening. Long after supper and merriment came to pass, when Mithiel was encouraged to rest, Ruivo sat within the drawing room of the home, his eye fixed upon the Sindar. All manner of talk drawn forth from his lips; Ruivo made certain that Conall knew all there was to remember of the forges of Tirion, of the great weaponry forges, and battles fought in the north at the beginnings of the age, of the forges of the shipwrights at Sirion, and on Balar, and as much as he had heard of the dwarf mines of eastern lands where many of their tools and metals came from. Conall’s face had drawn sour upon talk of the dwarves, but Ruivo could speak of dwarves and mining and forges for hours.
Ruivo’s watches over the pass of Aglon for four hundred years had trained him in ways of taking little sleep; and though Conall’s eyes grew heavy and Ruivo took notice of it; he took advantage of his host’s ears, never letting him take rest or even allowing his mind to wander as Ruivo would take pause in his speech to allow the elf to comment, or even offer his own questions, forcing Conall to answer; all of this lasted until morning came upon the land. Until Mithiel rested and dressed came from her chambers, looking fresh, and though Ruivo had some weariness about him he too was ready for the new day. For to gather his things from his own rooms, bid his landlady her farewells; to take back to the forges and face his cousins with news of his departure. Mithiel’s hand was in his all the while, and Conall would not let the two of them alone as promised, thus Ruivo made certain to quicken his steps even as the elf grew wearier. A smirk continued upon the smith’s lips as he enlisted Conall’s assistance in carrying the tools of his trade upon the ship which would sail out with the tides of Ossë. The black soot making a mess of Conall’s robes as the less fit elf struggled with the weight of things.
To Sirion they would bid farewell for now, and Balar Ruivo would call his home. Perhaps the first time they had departed Sirion, Mithiel had regained her life; and this time, it was Ruivo who felt the beating of his heart return. The elleth seemed to hold it in her very hands.
~~Finish!~~