Summer Dreams, in Winter [December 3009] {One-shot} (CW)
Jun 1, 2018 12:49:49 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on Jun 1, 2018 12:49:49 GMT -5
(Content warning: suicide references)
Evendim was gleaming in the cold night air; the sky a velvet purple with the coming dawn stretching forward. Stars still glimmered in the sky before morning, fading pinpricks of let set amidst the thousands of snowflakes which fell lazily to earth. Hard freezes had come in the past nights and the sheet of ice atop the lake was clear; spiraled with great white streaks which were the only sign to remind one that they were not walking upon liquid water.
The day of Tanfui was upon them; the first Ruivo had missed in Elrond's homely house in years; in a hundred years, since the fell winter had kept him busy serving the northlands in the ways that he could. Though the music and laughter did not suit him; Ruivo cherished the stories of old told in the great Hall of Fire. He would listen to them year by year, and though he had no great deeds to speak of, he would recant the tales of others whom he had known, whom he had lived beside and fought beside; that the young elves would know their histories and hear word of their grandsires. Much in the same way that Ruivo had considered the old tales of Annúminas and the rest of Arnor as he sat alongside the shores of Evendim this autumn and winter.
Hidden in Ruivo's heart was memory; memory of the great deeds and also... memory of the small pieces which had been fitted together to make his life what it was. Small pieces which shown for him, though there would be nothing fair to speak of him on next year's Tanfui. No words would pass by the lips of those who dwelled in Rivendell of Ruivo, son of Ñaltanáro.
Only memories would he keep to himself, would he take with him to Mandos. Memories of the places he had been. The places he had loved. Here; the Lake Nenuial among one of his favorites; for he had lived here when he was younger and the days had been fairer. When the trauma of the loss of what had been Beleriand had passed; the lands around Evendim had been blessed. Great dwellings had been carved into the limestone escarpments. Never to rival the beauties he had seen of Nargothrond, though the usefulness of the caves had endured, and here had Ruivo dwelled long ago. He had many fair memories of the caves, of the lake and the hills, in days when his heart had slowly began to come to ease.
Many times over the years had Ruivo complimented her work with Celebrian; he had often told her she was well blessed to have a Vanyar to teach her of the Valar; well blessed to have someone to teach her in the ways of court; in the ways of art, and of music, and of beauty. There were many elfings in those days, and Mithiel was gentle and loving with all of them. Celebrian moved him most though; be it simply the similarities in appearance to his own kin, or the Telerin temperament she bore which was contrast to Lady Galadriel's Noldorin.
Long years had passed until Ruivo had seen Mithiel, again with elfling in arms which had caused his heart to nearly stand still; this time red of hair. Fair skinned Norochil, the son of his cousin, whom often she would look after and teach in those days when both Celleth and her husband worked long hours by their own will in the deep forges of Celebrimbor. One day he had found her seated upon a bench with him in the gardens outside of the House of the Mírdain, still a new infant.
Summer now was mere memory. It almost seemed false. The wind gusted; reminding him that it was December, and that Mithiel was far off from him; safe and warm in her bed in Imladris.
He wanted to remember. He closed his eyes against the wind and willed memories to return; and once more came the glorious star-filled summer sky, and his mist maid approaching. The ice turned to smooth marble floor beneath his feet, and Váyasilmë was smiling before him, reaching out her hand.
“Váya,” Ruivo took her extended hand, bowing before her, kissing delicate fingertips. Her smile could melt his heart as if it were the winds of springtime, of summer long awaited, though they stood on frozen glass in the depths of winter. Her neck was circled in pearls, and her dress was velvet grey and billowing around her form in the warm air.
“Dance with me, Ruivo, dance and share in the beauty of Tilion,” she told him, as words that had come from her lips long ago, and Ruivo reached for her. “I will.”
Memory of summers past fading, Ruivo began to imagine that which had never occurred; being taken to a place which was only fantasy. Which only he could imagine and dwell on knowing it would never come to pass.
Ruivo closed his eyes, feeling her warmth against him, tilting his head down to kiss the top of her tawny hair, airy strands against his lips. “Melinyel,” he muttered against her, closing his eyes; soaking in her presence, close against the wind. The winds of winter which slowly began to bite against summer's breeze, against autumn's gusts, until nothing was left but cold and empty; of ice crystals descending.
The thought faded from his mind. Ruivo opened his eyes; the expanse of emptiness before him, snow falling in gusts, his arms holding nothing. He shuddered; visibly shaking, though not for the cold, but the loss.
Alone. It was as it should be. Gone in a shiver of light.
Yet regret filled Ruivo's heart. He should have danced with her one last time before departing. She had asked it of him for years, and for years he had denied the request. He could have given her a last dance beneath the Hunter's Moon of Autumn. It could have been true. It could have been a memory to share with her; and not a simple imagining. Regret.
His eyes blinked in the biting wind as he looked at the ice of Evendim beneath him; at the stones far off below, and at the sky. Velvet was turning to pinks around the edges and only the brightest stars yet shone overhead. Ruivo felt at tingle in his fingers, a tingle he knew was coming, for when he thought so deeply of her it was the same as if he had touched and released her. The pain would come over him in a wave as his fëa cried out it's loss; as it brought him to his knees upon the ice, and he let it ride over him; and trample him.
Ruivo picked up the staff by his feet; a branch he had pulled from the forest at the foothills of Evendim not long past, and he cracked it upon the ice before him, using the force of the hammer against an anvil. First a thud, then the ringing crack as that of a whip sang out, and the ice vibrated beneath him, but it was too thick to break.
Now frozen was the lake and long it would be before the ice thawed. Frozen is how Ruivo would last see Evendim.
His camp was waiting for him; waiting cold in one of the barren caves in the hills of Emyn Uial, where after the drowning of Beleriand they had dwelled. Fast the old caverns were against the biting winds of winter, but there were other things to do before the end. Nenuil was frozen and though the colder weather bothered Ruivo not, he would depart this morning once more, to have a last talk with an old friend. Irwain Ben-Adar would be expecting him. If he carried through with his plans, he would not see this place again.
The last twilight on Evendim.
Poem:
June Dreams, in January
by Sidney Lanier
Summer Dreams, in Winter
Late December 3009
Twilight before Tanfui
Late December 3009
Twilight before Tanfui
Evendim was gleaming in the cold night air; the sky a velvet purple with the coming dawn stretching forward. Stars still glimmered in the sky before morning, fading pinpricks of let set amidst the thousands of snowflakes which fell lazily to earth. Hard freezes had come in the past nights and the sheet of ice atop the lake was clear; spiraled with great white streaks which were the only sign to remind one that they were not walking upon liquid water.
The day of Tanfui was upon them; the first Ruivo had missed in Elrond's homely house in years; in a hundred years, since the fell winter had kept him busy serving the northlands in the ways that he could. Though the music and laughter did not suit him; Ruivo cherished the stories of old told in the great Hall of Fire. He would listen to them year by year, and though he had no great deeds to speak of, he would recant the tales of others whom he had known, whom he had lived beside and fought beside; that the young elves would know their histories and hear word of their grandsires. Much in the same way that Ruivo had considered the old tales of Annúminas and the rest of Arnor as he sat alongside the shores of Evendim this autumn and winter.
Hidden in Ruivo's heart was memory; memory of the great deeds and also... memory of the small pieces which had been fitted together to make his life what it was. Small pieces which shown for him, though there would be nothing fair to speak of him on next year's Tanfui. No words would pass by the lips of those who dwelled in Rivendell of Ruivo, son of Ñaltanáro.
Only memories would he keep to himself, would he take with him to Mandos. Memories of the places he had been. The places he had loved. Here; the Lake Nenuial among one of his favorites; for he had lived here when he was younger and the days had been fairer. When the trauma of the loss of what had been Beleriand had passed; the lands around Evendim had been blessed. Great dwellings had been carved into the limestone escarpments. Never to rival the beauties he had seen of Nargothrond, though the usefulness of the caves had endured, and here had Ruivo dwelled long ago. He had many fair memories of the caves, of the lake and the hills, in days when his heart had slowly began to come to ease.
Of course, his thoughts had been misguided then, but nevertheless, he had not ached so often; and when he had, it had it had taken only a touch of the hand by lovely Váyasilmë to ease him, for Váya she had been to him already when they resided here together, though he had not yet called her by her name. She was springtime, and summer, and the beautiful colors of autumn all wrapped together. Even in the depths of winter when he had held her hand upon the ice; upon this very place, and danced with her under moonlight, it had not been winter in his heart. Slowly she had worked over years to thaw him, and by the shores of Evendim, his winter had nearly vanished. He had been able to see beyond it then.
So pulse, and pulse, thou rhythmic-hearted Noon
That liest, large-limbed, curved along the hills,
In languid palpitation, half a-swoon
With ardors and sun-loves and subtle thrills;
That liest, large-limbed, curved along the hills,
In languid palpitation, half a-swoon
With ardors and sun-loves and subtle thrills;
The light was growing slowly, and Ruivo had walked far out along the ice; feet stepping carefully over the slick surface as he looked below. So clear was the ice; so clear the water, that he could see the very bottom of the lake gleaming through. It looked as if multicolored pebbles rested upon the bottom; though Ruivo knew well that they were great boulders; some as large as a dwellings; some as large as the bases of mallorn trees. Evendim was a thousand feet deep, though the clarity of waters played tricks to the eye to make one think it was much shallower. He had remembered telling the very same to his Váya in years past; having rowed her out this far. Watching as she held tiny, silver haired Celebrian, while the elfling peered into the deep waters. Ruivo had thought of his kin, his Telerin kin, and wished to tell Mithiel how fair she had looked with a silver-haired elfling in arms. He had not spoken, but he had met her eyes.
“Throb, Beautiful! while the fervent hours exhale
As kisses faint-blown from thy finger-tips
Up to the sun, that turn him passion-pale
And then as red as any virgin’s lips.
As kisses faint-blown from thy finger-tips
Up to the sun, that turn him passion-pale
And then as red as any virgin’s lips.
Many times over the years had Ruivo complimented her work with Celebrian; he had often told her she was well blessed to have a Vanyar to teach her of the Valar; well blessed to have someone to teach her in the ways of court; in the ways of art, and of music, and of beauty. There were many elfings in those days, and Mithiel was gentle and loving with all of them. Celebrian moved him most though; be it simply the similarities in appearance to his own kin, or the Telerin temperament she bore which was contrast to Lady Galadriel's Noldorin.
Long years had passed until Ruivo had seen Mithiel, again with elfling in arms which had caused his heart to nearly stand still; this time red of hair. Fair skinned Norochil, the son of his cousin, whom often she would look after and teach in those days when both Celleth and her husband worked long hours by their own will in the deep forges of Celebrimbor. One day he had found her seated upon a bench with him in the gardens outside of the House of the Mírdain, still a new infant.
Ruivo had not been so shy in his words with Mithiel in those days. “You are beautiful with him. One day you should have your own,” Ruivo had then hinted, kissing her while the elfling slept yet in her arms. Ruivo's winter had been vanquished in those days. Only fleeting memories would come to him on occasion. Hurts of the past fading beneath Mithiel's eyes. Summer in full bloom.
O tender Darkness, when June-day hath ceased,
—Faint Odor from the day-flower’s crushing born,
—Dim, visible Sigh out of the mournful East
That cannot see her lord again till morn:
—Faint Odor from the day-flower’s crushing born,
—Dim, visible Sigh out of the mournful East
That cannot see her lord again till morn:
Summer now was mere memory. It almost seemed false. The wind gusted; reminding him that it was December, and that Mithiel was far off from him; safe and warm in her bed in Imladris.
He wanted to remember. He closed his eyes against the wind and willed memories to return; and once more came the glorious star-filled summer sky, and his mist maid approaching. The ice turned to smooth marble floor beneath his feet, and Váyasilmë was smiling before him, reaching out her hand.
“Váya,” Ruivo took her extended hand, bowing before her, kissing delicate fingertips. Her smile could melt his heart as if it were the winds of springtime, of summer long awaited, though they stood on frozen glass in the depths of winter. Her neck was circled in pearls, and her dress was velvet grey and billowing around her form in the warm air.
“Dance with me, Ruivo, dance and share in the beauty of Tilion,” she told him, as words that had come from her lips long ago, and Ruivo reached for her. “I will.”
And many leaves, broad-palmed towards the sky
To catch the sacred raining of star-light:
And pallid petals, fain, all fain to die,
Soul-stung by too keen passion of the night:
To catch the sacred raining of star-light:
And pallid petals, fain, all fain to die,
Soul-stung by too keen passion of the night:
The music came to them; first as a hum from her lips, and joining with his own deeper melody. Eventually the tune faded away to the sound of strings and flutes in the great open skied dance floor of Ost-in-Edhil, on a Midsummer's eve. Ruivo heard the swish of skirts and silk; the tinkling sound of bells and crystal raiment that the ladies wore. He saw mists moving around him; the forms of the other dancers, though Mithiel's form was true and perfect as it had once been. His eyes had been only for her. None other could turn his head and hold his gaze in the same way that she could.
And short-breath’d winds, under yon gracious moon
Doing mild errands for mild violets,
Or carrying sighs from the red lips of June
What aimless way the odor-current sets:
Doing mild errands for mild violets,
Or carrying sighs from the red lips of June
What aimless way the odor-current sets:
He spun her in delicate circles before him, smiling as she laughed and her gown inlayed with stars, with thousands of beads that shone in the light of the setting sun. Crystal and opal. Mother of pearl and silver. All reflecting in the shimmering rays as she moved with the music. Her eyes gleamed and her hair flew around her.
And stars, ringed glittering in whorls and bells,
Or bent along the sky in looped star-sprays,
Or vine-wound, with bright grapes in panicles,
Or bramble-tangled in a sweetest maze,
Or bent along the sky in looped star-sprays,
Or vine-wound, with bright grapes in panicles,
Or bramble-tangled in a sweetest maze,
As the tempo swung fluid, Ruivo's hands encircled her waist and lifted her, Mithiel's laughter falling in silver tendrils. On the ground she stepped again in grace, the light reflecting iridescent through the stained glass circlet about her waist. Purple and sea green moons, with a moonstone set between each; the beads swaying and tinkling like glass along with the music. Until the music had ended they had not stilled themselves; and Ruivo could see the rise and fall of Mithiel's chest at the end; though her face had shown of nothing but joy.
Or lying like young lilies in a lake
About the great white Lotus of the moon,
Or blown and drifted, as if winds should shake
Star blossoms down from silver stems too soon,
About the great white Lotus of the moon,
Or blown and drifted, as if winds should shake
Star blossoms down from silver stems too soon,
“Á tule ninna.” Come to me. He bid her near, her laughter ringing in the air. He could smell the fragrance of summer in her hair; sweet apples and honey, a scent that had always been upon her; since his earliest recall, and then that of the deep cedars which grew along the Bruinen; the plums with their abundant branches drooping over the small streams which fed into the greater; and the soft floral of lily of the valley, the May bells which grew in the woodlands surrounding Imladris.
Or budding thick about full open stars,
Or clambering shyly up cloud-lattices,
Or trampled pale in the red path of Mars,
Or trim-set in quaint gardener’s fantasies.
Or clambering shyly up cloud-lattices,
Or trampled pale in the red path of Mars,
Or trim-set in quaint gardener’s fantasies.
Memory of summers past fading, Ruivo began to imagine that which had never occurred; being taken to a place which was only fantasy. Which only he could imagine and dwell on knowing it would never come to pass.
“Merinyes. Munta imbë met,” he whispered, drawing Mithiel's lithe frame against him. I desire you. Nothing between you and I. She was petite compared to him, and so perfectly did she fit in his arms; so perfectly had she always, since the rocking waves of Belagaer drew their ship over the sea to the Isle of Balar. The marble beneath their feet had faded away into the slick stone floor of Imladris. Summer was fading, and it was autumn; the cool air moving and winding through the passageway as they stood behind the spray of the waterfall in the moon cave, dancing now slowly and pressed together against the chill of the season and the brisk air. The music of summer had left, but he still hummed to her; only the sound of his own voice beyond the falling waters of the cave; a melody of the sea, of Alqualondë, coming from his lips.
And long June night-sounds crooned among the leaves,
And whispered confidence of dark and green,
And murmurs in old moss about old eaves,
And tinklings floating over water-sheen!
And whispered confidence of dark and green,
And murmurs in old moss about old eaves,
And tinklings floating over water-sheen!
Ruivo closed his eyes, feeling her warmth against him, tilting his head down to kiss the top of her tawny hair, airy strands against his lips. “Melinyel,” he muttered against her, closing his eyes; soaking in her presence, close against the wind. The winds of winter which slowly began to bite against summer's breeze, against autumn's gusts, until nothing was left but cold and empty; of ice crystals descending.
The thought faded from his mind. Ruivo opened his eyes; the expanse of emptiness before him, snow falling in gusts, his arms holding nothing. He shuddered; visibly shaking, though not for the cold, but the loss.
Alone. It was as it should be. Gone in a shiver of light.
Yet regret filled Ruivo's heart. He should have danced with her one last time before departing. She had asked it of him for years, and for years he had denied the request. He could have given her a last dance beneath the Hunter's Moon of Autumn. It could have been true. It could have been a memory to share with her; and not a simple imagining. Regret.
His eyes blinked in the biting wind as he looked at the ice of Evendim beneath him; at the stones far off below, and at the sky. Velvet was turning to pinks around the edges and only the brightest stars yet shone overhead. Ruivo felt at tingle in his fingers, a tingle he knew was coming, for when he thought so deeply of her it was the same as if he had touched and released her. The pain would come over him in a wave as his fëa cried out it's loss; as it brought him to his knees upon the ice, and he let it ride over him; and trample him.
Ruivo picked up the staff by his feet; a branch he had pulled from the forest at the foothills of Evendim not long past, and he cracked it upon the ice before him, using the force of the hammer against an anvil. First a thud, then the ringing crack as that of a whip sang out, and the ice vibrated beneath him, but it was too thick to break.
Now frozen was the lake and long it would be before the ice thawed. Frozen is how Ruivo would last see Evendim.
His camp was waiting for him; waiting cold in one of the barren caves in the hills of Emyn Uial, where after the drowning of Beleriand they had dwelled. Fast the old caverns were against the biting winds of winter, but there were other things to do before the end. Nenuil was frozen and though the colder weather bothered Ruivo not, he would depart this morning once more, to have a last talk with an old friend. Irwain Ben-Adar would be expecting him. If he carried through with his plans, he would not see this place again.
The last twilight on Evendim.
Poem:
June Dreams, in January
by Sidney Lanier