Frozen Bones (CW)
Jun 16, 2018 3:24:32 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on Jun 16, 2018 3:24:32 GMT -5
(Content Warning: self harm, attempted suicide)
On the Banks of the Withywindle
Sovallë. The holy week of fasting and purification. Long had Ruivo participated in the tradition, though few remained in Arda who did. It was old; of the days of Valinor. Dwelling there, even then he had not partaken. It was a day of the year which was had been set aside by Vanyar who lived upon the high mountain of Taniquetil, though since long past had it become tradition for Ruivo. Since his days dwelling upon the Isle of Balar, when Váya had begun to teach him in earnest more of the Valar than he had ever known.
The Withywindle flowed before him, bubbling and burbling; snow cast upon the banks, breaking off and joining in the rambling music of it's waters. Never had Ruivo known a small stream such as this; so far north, which not would freeze solid in the wintertime. Also would the Bruinen flow, yet loud and coursing was it's water; dangerous to step within. Yet the Withywindle was held by some enchantment, being the birthplace of the Riverdaughter, who dwelled on the fringes of the Old Forest with her husband. Irwain Ben-adar, he was known to the elves. Oldest and Fatherless. Though to the common folk he was called Tom Bombadil.
Irwain Ben-adar had showed him this place long ago. The dingle, he called it. Where the Withywindle ran from the grassy dell; gathering from underground in the narrow cleft between the hills. The shadows were long on the midwinter morning; the sun would never rise to the brink of the sky on this day, yet longer were days growing, and soon it would be spring. Though the trees were barren, grey-barked, and shuddering in the frigid winds, the tops of their buds would soon begin to swell as they thought of warm weather and sunlight to come.
Mithiel too, far away, would participate Sovallë. Ruivo in the wilds; she in the heated room with fire blazing. She would purify by water and warmth of air, by scented oils, as always she had. The time leading up to the festival spent cleaning living quarters and space. The time of the festival spent purifying body and mind.
Ruivo recalled long ago… an age and more ago. Eregion was at its peak of glory; long ago had he taken to the snowline of Caradhras for Sovallë; to spend the week in cold air and brisk wind, while Váya strayed in the chambers of Ost-in-Edhil. Year after year was it his tradition. His routine. Ruivo thrived on routine. When he returned on the last eve of the holy week; when he saw her again; her hair was wet, and her cheeks and skin tinged pink from the cold water; now warming by the fire. Bundled in her robe, she had let him into her chambers. The white line of the scar upon her neck was bright against her rosy skin.
Hot seemed Váya's skin against his ice cold hand as he traced the scar upon her neck, and frigid was his skin beneath her heated touch as she grazed the scars upon his cheek, almost burning as her touch returned the life to his numbed blood. Ruivo had felt clean; purified; almost whole, and the last eve of Sovallë was spent before her hearthfire, as their eyes, hands, and lips were with relief reacquainted with each other from their week apart. A week had seemed long in those days to be away from her. He had felt blessed by the Valar as he sat with his Váya; in his pocket tinkling every so often were the rings of plain mithril, awaiting the right moment.
Almost whole had he felt, almost pure upon Sovallë, before the turn of the year. Almost as well as in the days of his dwelling in Tirion beneath the light of the trees, though this light came to him not from fluttering leaves upon gold and silver branches, but from the orbs of Arien and Tilion above. From the way they shone and refracted in a pair of grey-green eyes.
The thought of spring's first moon had been in Ruivo's mind. Váya was his springtime, and it only seemed fitting. Only a month. A month could he wait, for what was a month but a blink in the eye of ageless beings; and in a month Ost-in-Edhil would only be the more prosperous by the hands of the craftsman who dwelled there. The nightingales would sing, and he would dance with her, and in the sight of Tilion alone would he slip the ring of truesilver upon her finger. No words even would he need; for he knew she would accept. He knew she loved him; and she knew he loved her, and it had been so since Balar for her, even earlier for him; since a dark night in Sirion when her blood had flowed through his fingertips, had he been connected to her. Finally Ruivo found himself ready.
What came beyond that Sovallë was the longest month in Ruivo's life, for spring's moon had never come. When it rose, it was through rock and stone that Ruivo did not see it. The first full moon missed by them in an age; shielded from their eyes by more than simple cloud or storm, as they tread across stone bridges in caverns where the delving reached far deeper than Nargothrond. Through Hadhodrond had they traveled, known to the Naugrim as Khazad-dûm. The last of the elves to enter in peace through the western gate. After the peaceful years of Ost-in-Edhil, the deception of Annatar was a reminder as to why he had waited so long to ask for Váya's hand in the first place. A reminder of his earlier sins; of the deception he had come under by Morgoth; of the kinslaying. Of his heart and mind which were too broken and convoluted to make right decisions even in peaceful times. Too feeble-minded to know what was best for his Váyasilmë. He only had known that he was certainly not what she needed.
The sun had not yet risen this day, and the ground was hard iron beneath the snow as Ruivo stood on the banks of the Withywindle, staring down. Staring into the bubbles and foam which blanketed the stony bottom of the stream. The rocks were glistening in the dim light which would soon rise fully through the forest and the song of one bird was humming in a tree. Ruivo looked up to spot the silhouette of a snowy owl; it's eyes upon him.
Ruivo slipped from his garments, one by one, wading into the hollow of the river. The water lilies and lotus which bloomed here in summertime were gone; their foliage sparse. A tinge of pink began to ride up Ruivo's bared legs as the numbness began to set over his feet; then his ankles, his calves, and his knees.
Wading past the floating brown mats; all that was left of the river-daughter's blooms, of those she had not taken to her home for the winter to float in her bowls of water. Ruivo grasped hold of the roots of a willow, leaning against it as he sucked in his breath. His knife was in hand; sharpened the night before aside the fire as Irwain told tales of the forest, of the otter families and the robins, of the trees which bore thoughts of their own.
Ruivo clenched his fingers upon the knife as the owl watched. For a moment did his heart rate and breaths quicken in anticipation, and then finally he held his lungs empty and pressed the tip of blade against the pale, exposed flesh of his thigh. Teeth clenched against the pain, Ruivo dragged the knife over old scars. Some pink, some white, spaced evenly down his thighs, tearing each of them open again. Slow was his work; minute by minute, and his hand was kept steady that he would feel each slice of knife.
He groaned, and the owl flew, as Ruivo breathed through the pain, willing more, cutting deeper. When each old scar had been traced, Ruivo began to create new ones. His mouth was open in agony as streaks of red dripped down his legs into the bubbling waters where they washed away; the clear river almost singing in the winter air.
There was no relief. It was pain upon pain; yet all pain Ruivo knew he deserved. He threw his knife onto the shore where it landed in the snow, lowering himself quickly into the water; water which flowed bubbling over his pale marred, throbbing skin, over all of him, a fraction of a degree above freezing as it came from underground springs.
Ruivo's breath was taken from him by the sudden chill and he gasped unwillingly. Though used to it, it always shocked him at first. Inward did his breaths pull and his lungs contracted, sucking in his stomach as his body rebelled against the sudden drop in temperature. The willow boughs hung low, creaking, laden by the weight of snow upon them, and he grasped a root with white knuckles. He groaned; his legs wishing to writhe beneath and pull his body from the icy grasps, though allowed it not.
Inwardly his minds struggled. Nothing was more pure, more fresh, than water filtering straight from the earth. Nothing better than frigid water; than blistering wind; to numb and destroy what iniquity there was within the body. To cleanse the blood still pulsing from his legs, and wash the impurities away.
Save fire. Fire too was pure. A vision of flames was cast before his eyes; the warm chambers; the winter he was missing in Imladris. Few would partake in Solvallë, for it had long ago passed from history in tradition; only those few who carried the blood of the Vanyar on Arda would partake.
Mithiel too would purify herself in water… yet also by the heat of fire. Steaming water, heat rising upward after the cold, to restore the warmth to bones. When they had lived upon the shores of Evendim, in days of more meager abode than that of the Homely House, Ruivo would break through the ice. He would bring the clear, cold waters of the lake in for her in buckets. Steam would rise as the great buckets would be heated over refining fires, then splashed within the basin. Steaming hot, how she preferred. She would speak to him of the Valar, speak in reverence, and his mind would listen, taking it in, though also wandering in his youth. Wandering far away to thoughts of the swirling oils that were stirred into the waters; to thoughts of oils which would glisten upon fair skin. To thoughts of how warm she would feel to his fingertips afterward.
Mithiel would be disappointed in him for such thoughts. Then she would have been disappointed; and now even moreso. He was no elfling, to not restrain himself. He knew better; and he tried to press the vision from his thoughts. Shortly his mind wandered to musings on one of the twin sons of Elrond. Elrohir too could use a lesson in purification. He could do well to participate in Sovallë. Even so, this was not the time to think of the faults of others; but to purify himself, and Ruivo knew he was doing a poor job.
Light came into the sky, as Ruivo sat in the waters, numbing himself from all, until his skin was red from exposure, and his lips were blue. He shivered, and sat still as the sun moved in the sky, up, up, peaking midway. Ruivo's arm was wrapped around a willow root, holding himself steady. His skin was wrinkled from the water and he shivered, as he dwelled upon his faults, upon his misses. Upon the life he should have tried to better live. Each inward marr piercing though him; the scar tissue built up over years, until he felt as if his whole world was scarred. He groaned, shifting in the water as he stared upward the sky, as day waned to evening. He heard the far off hooting of the owl begin again, and a muttering on the breeze, as if a song were being sung far off.
He had been waiting. For months since October he had been waiting for the right moment. His mind had been made up clear, over and over again. Not long in Irwain's house now, Alagoniel was safe, and Tom would see to her. It was his last missive.
Holding his breath did he push his face beneath the waters. His mouth wished to open and gasp for the shock, and a part of him willed himself to do so; to let his lungs fill with the purifying liquid. He had wondered long ago if given life would make up for taken life, though never had he let those thoughts take over him fully since the day he had stilled the flow of blood upon Mithiel's neck in the Havens of Sirion. Ruivo stayed beneath, watching the crystal waters flow past; the bubbles and the ripples from below; the wavering of the dead stems of lilies as the Withywindle tugged at them. He stayed beneath until his lungs burned with pure fire and no longer could he hold his breath.
His Váyasilmë was pure within; pure of heart, cleansed inwardly by the refining fire; as gold and precious silver. Holy enough to dwell upon the mountain of Taniquetil with her kin. One day she would; Ruivo knew. Set apart she was. Forgiveness had been gifted to those such as she, an open invitation to Aman, where she would one day live. Ruivo knew if he left; thus would she. She had promised to take the ship with him oversea; but to take her with him he could not do. Ruivo could not enter Aman; could not come to see there the family which he had betrayed. Only one entry could he accept for himself to Aman. The Halls of Mandos. If he left Arda, so too would his Váya by the swanships. He was certain of it.
Ruivo gripped upon the willow root now with both hands. The feeling had gone from his fingers, from his toes; from his skin. Only deep feeling did he have now, an ache within him which he could not still; the burning of his lungs. His jaw wished to go slack, to open and breathe deep. The water was crystal clear around him and he could see the current and bubbles. It reminded him of the clear sea Belagaer. Of diving for pearls in his youth, with his Ammë swimming in the water before and below him. Gesturing to him beneath the waves when she would spot a cluster of oysters for them to gather. Smiling even while she swam and brought forth the treasures of the sea. Her silver hair would flow in the currents behind her.
Ruivo could see his own hair loose and waving in front of his eyes beneath the water. Moving where the current took it. It was growing long again; a year since it had been trimmed by Váya in her chambers. Flowing like it used to in Belagaer. Where he used to swim with her. Where he used to swim with his Ammë an ocean away.
Now was the time, he thought to himself. He watched bubbles escape from his mouth, the last air from his lungs, and he felt a strange ache in his chest, pulling on him. Ruivo had left the note behind for her; he had left the explanation behind for his Váyasilmë. It was the last he could do for her. Apologies were not enough. She could not handle his apologies. She could not handle his explanations. She too knew such things were worthlessly placed at her feet, when his words of regret and sorrow should be placed at the feet of the Valar. At the feet of the Fëanturi. The guardians of spirits, of dreams and visions, of wisdom. He would leave now, and come back whole for her, purified. His thoughts wavered, as he forced his lips shut. As he forced the water to hold back from his lungs, trying to gain control. He would open. He would open and let it in, and feel what it was like for those upon the Helcaraxë. Those who had fallen in and died in the waters as they crossed the grinding ice while he was safely upon the Swan ships.
Ruivo took control. He could control. He would open his mouth and let the rush in. He could let it end him. He willed a thought of her to mind. Of his lovely mistmaid, his írima curled upon the bed; a flame haired Norochil laying against her in rest. Ruivo had covered them with blankets against the cool winter air. He had slipped into his bed behind her, she rousing at his touch, curling back into him, as he wrapped his arms around her, his hand briefly caressing the silken hair of the child, their son, before he tucked it against her. “Melinyel,” whispered from her lips. His own lips were too busy against the back of her neck to answer, but he heard Váya sigh, and felt her relax against him. Ruivo too would relax. He would relax now; open his mouth to the pressing currents, to the waters like those he had played in as a child.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
His neck pinched, biting metal. Truesilver digging into the flesh of his neck. Ruivo's fingers clenched and lost their grasp on the underside of the willow root as he was dragged upward.
“Váyasilmë wishes your head remain above the waters. Above the flowing currents. Tom will pull you out,” a voice was speaking, almost singing and ringing in the morning air.
Ruivo clutched the willow root, and breathed deeply of the frigid air; lungs which burned with heat now burned with ice. Ruivo sat gasping, again clutching the knotted willow roots, clutching at his throat where the chain had pinched against his skin. The chain. Gone. Ruivo coughed again, gasping as he looked upward, seeing only the snowy owl perched above. He grasped at the tree root in the water, floundering in his numbness, his eye glaring up at the face of Irwain Ben-adar standing beside where he was sitting in the stream.
“Ha, Tom Bombadil! What be you a-thinking,
peeping on my frost bound day, watching me a-sinking
deep in my sparkling rush, bubbling all around me,
dripping wet down my face like the waves at sea?'
“You are slippery as a fish with nothing to grasp,” Irwain Ben-adar laughed, and flipped the jewel; the amulet with it's chain, now broken, in his hand.
“You broke the chain,” Ruivo whispered raggedly, his throat pained, his face contorted as he continued to gasp.
“Nothing the smith cannot fix by a roaring fire. Soup filling frozen bones, and Goldberry singing,” Irwain answered, climbing out of the water, his yellow boots dripping, before looking down and plucking up the knife that had been left on the bank, then singing further as he tucked it into an empty sheath at his belt. Ruivo's sheath on his own belt. Ruivo had not even seen him pick it up.
“Flaming elf spooked up when he heard him speaking;
Wrung out his frozen bones, muttering and creaking,
Whispering inside the flow. Out from willow-dingle
Elf went walking on up the Withywindle.
Under the leafless trees he sat a while a-listening:
on the boughs winter birds were chirruping and whistling.
Naked trees about his head went quivering and plinking,
until blizzard clouds came up, as the sun was sinking.”
Ruivo frowned, stumbling onto the riverbank. He collapsed onto his knees on the snow, unable to feel his feet, groaning and coughing, gagging, reaching. “Give me...” he rasped, and it took no more than that for Irwain to bend down and hand the elf gem on it's chain. Ruivo turned, sitting on the snow. The angry wounds on his legs glaring up to the sky as he clutched the ruby against his chest. Held the briars against his skin where they dug in. Ruivo clutched his head in a hand, leaning down against his knees, trembling in the air. Gasping in the air.
The air seemed to stand still, the trees mumbling and whispering to each other, to themselves, and Ruivo found his tunic being thrust over his head. He sat rigid, though soon ripped it from Irwain and began to dress himself. Tunic, breeches, boots. Still clutching the amulet. The closest thing he had to his Váya was simply her gift, cold metal and mineral.
“Then Flame hurried on. Snow, began to shiver,
White flakes glistening in the running river;
a wind blew, shaken hair frigid drops were dripping;
Off to a sheltering home Fire went a licking.”
“Snow will pass. Sky will clear, later springtide be blooming
For now, Goldberry's glowing hearth will keep ye homing,
Unlocked his door again, wandering girl-child grumbling.
Dripping to the kitchen hearth, Fire elfling mumbling:
Tom through the window saw waking stars come winking,
and the new slender moon early westward sinking.”
“Lamps gleamed within his house, and white was the bedding;
In the bright stormy-moon elf and girl came treading,
Traipsed warm in the home, and Old Man Willow
tapped, tapped at window-pane, as they slept on the pillow,
Back in the valley dell Mist-maiden sighing
Heard far off and sound, in her chambers crying.”
Ruivo staggered to his feet, following the singing Irwain, being led through the forest, as he heard the soft feathers ruffling of the owl flying overhead. The briars bit in the palm of his hand. He wished to feel them; to feel her. Irwain's song wove about between the branches of the bare trees, and Ruivo wished to tell him to stop. To hush, until he finally opened his frigid ears and listened, to the words, and then he walked in wonder, for never had he spoken to Irwain tiding of his Váyasilmë. His life which dwelled in Imladris.
“Young Flame elven-swain heeded not the voices,
Taps, knocks, wandering feet, all the nightly noises;
Ignored them till the sun arose, then sang like a starling:
'Hey! Come derry-dol, merry-dol, my darling!'
Sitting in Ben-adar's house passing time so calmly,
while fair Váya in the dell combed her tresses tawny.”
“The old year is deeply white; the North Wind is calling;
Flame caught a glistening beam from the moon shine falling.
'I've caught a silver thread blown me by the breezes!
Why wait till morrow-year? I'll take it when me pleases.
This day I'll mend my rings and journey as it chances
East past the withy-stream, following my fancies!'”
“Little Bird sat on twig. 'Whillo, elf! I heed you.
I've a guess, I've a guess where your fancies lead you.
Shall I go, shall I go, bring Váya word to meet you?'
'Use not that name, you tell-tale, or I'll pluck and eat you,
babbling in every ear things that don't concern you!
If you tell Váya leave the Homely House, I'll burn you,”
“Roast you on a willow-spit. That'll end your prying!'
Willow-wren cocked her tail, piped as she went flying:
'Catch me first, catch me first! No names are needed.
I'll perch on her hither ear: the message will be heeded.
"Down in the dell", I'll say, "just as the moon is rising"
Hurry up, hurry up! That's the time for prizing!'
Elf thought to himself: 'Maybe then I'll go there.
I might go soon or otherwise, she'll be in woe there.'”
“Wise Flamed elfin-kin, he thinks he seeks redeemer;
When Adar-arrow pierced his eye, left to be a dreamer.
None ever caught that Flame in upland or in dingle,
Walking pearl studded docks, or by the Withywindle,
Or out from the shadowed peaks nor on the river Sirion.
Neither from the crafters halls, nor Black Gates 'neath Arien,
'Til by the sea Flame caught by Mist, dancing was his savior,
On the storming, frothing shore, never heart to waver.”
“She caught him, held him fast! Darkened dreams went scuttering
He thought mayhaps he rescued her, and she, her heart was fluttering.
Said Fire to Mist with opened arms: 'Here's my pretty maiden!
You shall safely stay with me! My heart is heavy laden:
Pearls and rubies, sapphire gems, emerald did adorn her;
All treasure would be cast aside for what could further spur,
Seeking, hopping silver thread to twine and hover.
In the dell and under moon, Flame takes her for a lover!”
“Young Flame and Mist-Maid await a merry wedding,
Lightning flash and thunder roll, rainclouds all a-shedding;
His bride in white and tawny hair with apple blossom lingering
Her eyes wink in silver-green. Fingers come a-mingling,
Lips like a ruby red, his blue-eye a-glancing,
Laughing cheery mist-maid cries, 'Come, take me dancing!'”
Ruivo had not noticed how quickly they came upon the house; the glow of the windows in the evening light. The door to the home swung open, and Irwain Ben-adar's song stilled. The dark haired Dunedain girl stirred across the room; sitting upon her cushion; she had been staring into fire in what had been silence, for Goldberry had gone to gather water from a hidden spring.
“Derry dol, my darling! Old Tom is home again, bringing song and cheer. We'll leave the wailing wind behind, there's nothing now to fear.” Irwain laughed and winked to Alagoniel as clumps of snow fell from his blue jacket, and he tapped his yellow boots on the rug.
Ruivo heard grumbled words from across the room; his sensitive ears heard the coarseness of them though he could not greet the girl himself, so transfixed had his mind been upon the song. His eye was still fixed upon Ben-adar. “What lyric comes next?” he asked of him. “Sing the rest, Irwain.” Ruivo's mind had tuned completely to song, and somehow, he did not remember the river, or the day. His legs had warmed from walking and the only pain he felt was the throb of his skin, which he did not remember cutting.
A muttered curse came from across the room, and Ruivo's eye once more glinted upon Alagoniel, then back to the rosy cheeked face of Irwain, as he leaned his walking stick against the corner.
“Crescent moon is rising now; here's the time for eating! Goldberry cooked a feast, while the snow is sheeting! More singing will we have later; but not this song. You know the ending. That which you must not prolong."