For @swanmaids, whose oc Ruindis lives rent free in my brain!
Ruindis sits beside her husband at his dressing-table and sets her head upon his shoulder. She does not miss how Curufin tenses, how his hooded eyes are slow to find hers in the looking-glass.
They look so alike. That was a joke once—of course the spit of Fëanáro would choose one black of hair and eye. But those fools never knew how they called to one another long ago, in their own private darkness. How little their likeness has to do with looks at all.
Ruindis wears nothing but a heavy necklace of Celebrimbor’s make. He has been experimenting in Nargothrond; the vast cavern brings to his mind new concepts of shape and form. Colors here are muted, stained in tones of deepest blue and wine and umber. The stone settled at Ruindis’ throat is like a smear of old blood.
“Do you think he’s happy?” she asks Curufin.
“His happiness is no longer my affair,” he says. “He is a man grown, not a child whose moods are plain upon his face.”
Even as a boy Celebrimbor had not always been readable the way other children were. Ruindis pitied other mothers their squalling, shrieking babes, but there were times she wished for the simplicity of demand. Celebrimbor seemed always to be working something out for himself. Any offering--her breast or her kiss or some toy or treasure--would be met with blunt disappointment at her inability to provide the answer. He has long since stopped expecting anything of Ruindis. It pricks at her, laden though she is with his gifts, his tokens.
She turns Curufin’s face toward her and kisses his mouth.
“What nonsense, wife? I am due to meet with the king.”
Ruindis bites him, quick as an adder. Curufin curses. So many years and still he has not learned her. That, or he defies her deliberately. She does not know which infuriates her more.
“Go to him, then. Let him see how you are mastered.”
Curufin touches his bleeding mouth. He spits at her. Ruindis laughs.
“I want another child,” she says.
He snorts. “You truly have run mad.”
“I mean it,” she says. “Go and see your king. Then come back and put a child in me.” She takes his hands, guides them to her body. Her quick and living flesh, the heat of it. She simmers here in Nargothrond. No one ever asks if she is happy.
Curufin groans. Ruindis feels a flare of triumph. She moves to straddle him upon the bench, the silk of his robes cool and smooth against her. She imagines steam arising where they touch. In the Dagor Bragollach she saw molten rock meet a broad and churning river. She had never before seen water fail to quench a fire. But that day she saw fire and water become something else entirely, a fervent ruinous searing.
Curufin grows hard beneath her. How easily she could move his robes aside and take him! She aches for it. But she would rather see him go to Finrod glazed with lust, his blood up and his mind full of her. Curufin would call her foolish; he is always talking now of needing their wits about them, and he does not mean they two, but himself and Celegorm. She can see nothing but red in the face of such oversight. Red and blue as rare meat, as a veinous slab of afterbirth. She has run mad, perhaps. But so help her, she will not run mad alone.
“Go to him,” she says again. “Give Tyelko my regards, as well.”
Curufin buries his face in her neck. He worries her necklace with his teeth. Between her legs Ruindis glistens. He will return to her, and she can wait.
best beloved @matrose surprised me with this STUNNING illustration from my fic the salt in the wound (e). luthien and curufin's wife and a ~charged~ encounter in nargothrond's dungeons. i'm seriously in love with this piece, mina i can't thank you enough!
Nobody cares about this except me because it’s based on like five of my headcanons stacked on top of each other but it’s a very important headcanon to me that Ruindis Celebrimbor’s mother permanently marred the tapestry of Vaire in two places.
A depiction of Sauron with the threads loose and unraveling, where she clawed and tore in her rage at her child’s tormentor
A depiction of Celebrimbor permanently stained with rusted dried blood, where she stroked the image of her son with her bloodied fingertips - like all kinslayers, her hands are bloodstained in death - in a futile attempt to offer comfort in his last moments
luthien/curufin’s wife: a jailer, her prisoner, and a knife. rated m for violence and knifeplay.
The second time she visits the prisoner, Ruindis brings her husband’s knife.
Angrist is cold and unforgiving, and cuts through iron like butter. The Princess of Doriath is not an ordinary elf, but nor is she made of iron. With Angrist at her hip, Ruindis will not cower.
She lights a torch, and walks down into the dark.
Outside the cell, Huan growls, and bares his fangs at her. Bloody awful mutt, she thinks, you used to love me. Back when I was pregnant, I couldn’t get rid of you. Perhaps it was only the spark of her son in her womb that the dog- who is not really a dog- had ever loved. Well, love of her son is what brings her down to Nargothrond’s cells now, so she ignores him as she sheathes her torch on a sconce and unlocks the door.
The princess is sat serenely on the bed, and she does not flinch as Ruindis enters. She who they call Lúthien is pretty, the way a Silmaril is pretty, and something about her speaks of doom, too.
“Back again, kinslayer?” she asks, in a voice like the singing of nightingales in the wood.
Ruindis hates her.
“Not by choice. You forced my hand,” she says, touching the hilt of the knife.
“I? What have I done to you?” she laughs, turning to face Ruindis. Her eyes are dark as the forest under the cover of night. “I am your prisoner.”
“My son.” Ruindis says, fighting the urge to grit her teeth. Lúthien is always, always under her skin. “You need to stop talking to my son. Leave him alone. You’re upsetting him.”
Lúthien’s eyes flash. Ruindis has not seen her angry before now, and while she is satisfied to have made the woman- who is not really a woman- react, she feels her pulse beat faster in her throat. “Upsetting him? Why, by telling him the truth? Am I not your prisoner? Do you not plan to wed me to your brother in law by force? The fault is hardly mine, kinslayer, if your son finds your actions upsetting.” She rises, and takes a step towards Ruindis, who grips Angrist harder.
“Shut up,” she hisses, “Celebrimbor is a good boy, a good son. He is simply sensitive. There are certain things he doesn’t understand. I won’t have you filling his head with poison.”
“Ah, I see. Ever the doting mother, to be sure.”
“What would you know about mothers, Princess? You have no children- though perhaps Celegorm will get a few on you-”
Lúthien grabs her face, forcing her head back against the wall. The princess is much taller than she - because she is not an ordinary elf, Ruindis must remember that- and her fingers dig into her chin. She looks up at her prisoner, and puts as much hate into her glare as she can.
“Now it is you who ought to watch your tongue. I’d sooner lie down with the Enemy than with him.” She digs her fingers in harder.
Ruindis shakes her head to free herself, to no avail. Then Lúthien releases her grip, all at once and steps back. Her head spins. She raises the knife.
“I’m tired of your stupid games, witch,” she says, “leave my son alone, that is all I request”.
“Alright, I shall. I promise to tell him nothing of his mother waving that blade at me. Perhaps in return, you might let me out?” Her voice is unnervingly light again, all anger gone. As if what Ruindis does doesn’t matter - as if Lúthien could simply walk out, if she willed it.
“You know I cannot.”
“I know you will not. You are too content to crawl on your knees for your husband and your brother in law, even when it will cost you your precious little boy-”
This time, Ruindis lunges. Catching the witch-princess off guard, she pushes her back onto the bed and climbs on top of her, thighs bracketing her hips, holding Angrist’s blade to her throat. Her heart beats wildly and her body burns all over. She hates her, she hates her, she actually hates her-
Ruindis leans over her, panting. Having caught Lúthien off guard for once, she is not entirely sure what to do now she actually has her.
“Well done!” Lúthien laughs. “Very good. Are you going to cut me, then?”
“Would you like that?” She asks, wildly. Her head is spinning. “My husband loves it when I do it to him. He’s always begging me to-” what is she doing? What is she saying? She has to get the situation back under her control- it is under her control, she has Lúthien at knifepoint, so why does she feel so wrong? She presses the edge of the blade down the slightest touch to distract herself, and watches three perfect droplets of blood well up on Lúthien’s milk-white skin.
A lazy smile spreads across Lúthien’s face. She reaches up, the blade still at her throat, and presses her her lips against Ruindis’, the lightest touch, the beat of a butterfly’s wings. What is she doing? This is all wrong, Ruindis should go-
Quick as an arrow, Lúthien grabs her wrist, and grips it. There is a sickening crunch, and a flash of agony, and Ruindis rolls off the bed, her broken wrist cradled to her chest.
“You bitch!” She gasps, darting towards the door and fumbling for the handle with her good hand.
“Leaving so soon? Probably for the best,” the witch says casually, “though you should probably take this with you. I think it could be quite useful, don’t you?”
In fitful sleep under the whispering branches, Ruindis dreams of the princess.
She has thought that if she were to dream of her again, Lúthien would be as she remembers her - caged, angry, determined. Thoughts full of her entrapment and her Beren. But it is not to be. Lúthien in her dreams - and there are many dreams - meets her where she is.
Where she is is not where she should be. But that is fitting for these times where nothing is how it once was or ought still to be.
Once, Ruindis was a Lady. Once, she lived in a great keep, and had jewels and her pick of maids and companions. Once, she had a son.
Now...
The terrible battle has left everyone all apart. Curufin's brothers can barely look at one another in the aftermath; and one by one they have scattered, pulled apart like branches in a gale. She and Curufin cleave to one another as something that feels familiar, but even him she can no longer count on. Not when he is so often drunk, or folorn, or ruminating on how so much could have gone wrong. He was my son too, she sometimes wants to shout when Curufin gets into such a state, when do I get to mourn?
She does not dream of her husband.
But in her dreams, Lúthien meets her where she is. Fussing with the tent, prodding at a watchfire, curled up with her on the bedroll - Ruindis is struck by how mundane it all is. The witch-princess who fled from her father's cage in Doriath was the furthest thing from ordinary.
The whispers of the Laegrim say she is a Woman now. They say that she is a mother. Ruindis' dreams claim it true. There are creases around her eyes and the occasional strand of silver in her hair. When she takes off her dress and lies down beside her, the pale marks on their breasts and bodies are the same.
A child will not leave you unchanged, she had told Lúthien back in Celegorm's short-lived kingdom, and in this at least it seems she was right.
She wonders if her strange mortal life is all that Lúthien hoped it would be. She wonders why she cares about such a thing.
Sometimes when they lie down together they kiss. Ruindis remembers wanting to kiss Lúthien in Nargothrond - remembers her shouting, pink mouth wide in anger, you can't keep me here, I'll never marry any of you, and wanting to cover her mouth with her own just to silence her. When they kiss now, it is slower, softer. Mouths and mouths and flesh on flesh, until she almost feels that they share one body.
Why? She asks Lúthien once afterwards, her lips still tingling.
Because I feel sorry for you, the other woman says, and Ruindis awakens with a start.
written for the prompts “diplomacy” and “second age” for day 2 of khazad week. no warnings.
friendship and gift exchange between elves and dwarves, over two ages.
i do not speak khuzdul. all credit is to the dwarrow scholar, and any mistakes are my own.
Nogrod, First Age
When the Elf first arrived in Tumunzahar, Mazarzûna was eager to make a good impression on her - and a good trade deal with her - but three days into the visit, she was still not quite sure what to make of her. The Elf, who introduced herself as Ruindis, arrived at the head of the small delegation from Kallâ-buzrû beside her Lord husband, clad in all red and furs and taller than even many of her Elven companions. And when Lord Curufin helped her down from her horse- an oversized beast which Mazarzûna tried to avoid looking at- Mazarzûna saw that she was clearly pregnant.
That, she had not expected. Khazad women did not leave their halls at all once they were with child- a fact that she remembered well from her own two pregnancies- and though she had already agreed to house Ruindis during the negotiations, she was unsure that her home could safely provide for a bearing woman. And then there was the problem of her daughters.
“I didn’t even know their lot could get pregnant”, whispered Talmûna that night after the welcome feast, “I thought they grew their babies like potatoes in the ground!”
“You’re so stupid”, Kadzûna hissed back, “where were you when Mahal was handing out wisdom, in the toilet?”
“Girls!” Mazarzûna cried, narrowly resisting the urge to tug on her sideburns in frustration. The visit was stressful enough without her daughters’ nonsense.
Three days later, Mazarzûna still felt she knew very little about her guest. Ruindis had travelled in order to trade some of the Mahal-taught gemcraft she had wrought on the other side of the Sea with Mazarzûna’s own renowned goldwork while Lord Curufin her husband shared weaponry with Telchar, but so far she had spoken little and asked to see no works, and Mazarzûna was growing concerned. So on the third day, she resolved to reach out. She sat the Elf down in her kitchen that morning, and began somewhat bluntly.
“Are you quite well, my Lady?”
“Oh, yes”, Ruindis replied, a little startled, “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’ve been a little out of sorts whilst I’ve been here. It is only…ah, it’s certainly odd to have everyone’s eyes on you as though you are some strange thing!”
Mazarzûna felt embarrassment hit her like a brick to the face. “Lady, I’m sorry! I had no wish to make you feel unwelcome here. Many of us have never seen a woman of your kind before- especially in your condition- but that is no excuse!”, she said, stumbling over her words. Her face flamed- she wondered if she could blame it on the heated stove.
“Ah, don’t apologise. I’m sure we’ll all have to get used to such interactions, rubbing shoulders with each other in this Middle Earth!” Ruindis smiled slowly, “And as for my condition- I think this will be my last adventure for a while. Not much longer until my little boy’ll be here!”
“Really? How much longer do you have?”
“I’m just over the halfway mark, so only five months left now!”, she said, laying a hand over her stomach.
Mazarzûna paused, unsure how to phrase it tactfully. “Five months- Lady, are you sure you know when you and your Lord husband-”
“Yes, five months! It takes us women of the Eldar a full year to grow a child- is it not the same for your people?”
“A year!” Mazarzûna forgot herself completely. “Mahal Almighty- I wouldn’t be you!”
Then her face turned scarlet as she realised what she’d said. To think she’d been worried about her girls- now she’d probably wrecked the negotiations herself, with her big mouth-
Ruindis was grinning. “Isn’t it true that you aren’t allowed to journey at all when you’re carrying? Perhaps I wouldn’t be you!”
Slowly, Mazarzûna started to laugh, and soon Ruindis was laughing with her. “Motherhood, eh! Who’d do it!”
—
The week drew to a close, and Mazarzûna was mightily pleased with herself. She’d managed to offload some very fine pieces of jewellery, and in turn received sapphires and diamonds cut in a way that she had never before seen, and was already considering how to use in her craft. And even better- she’d made a friend. As they’d worked together, she’d come to appreciate Ruindis’ odd sense of humour, and respect her obvious intelligence. Their new-forged friendship had even survived Kadzûna absurdly asking Ruindis if she was a witch. She’d be sorry to see her go.
As Ruindis stood at the gates of Tumunzahar, reunited with her Lord husband, Mazarzûna approached her once more, holding a small box which she knelt down to receive. She opened it to find a gold bangle sized perfectly for a baby’s wrist, engraved with Khuzdul protective runes and embedded with tiny, winking diamonds.
“For your little one”, Mazarzûna said shyly, “may it bring him luck”.
Ruindis clasped the box to her chest and grinned. “A symbol of lasting friendship between our houses!”
—
Second Age, Khazad-Dum
“It’s beautiful indeed”, Narvi mused, turning the baby bracelet over in his hands. “You said it was a gift to you?”
“That’s right!”, his strange new friend Celebrimbor said, “wrought for me as an infant. I always thought I’d pass it along to a child of my own- but I don’t suppose that’ll happen now. I had to show it to you, though, Friend Narvi.”
“You’re right about the Nogrod origin- this is classic Nogrod Firebeard style, though I’ve never seen diamonds incorporated quite like this…ah, so much was lost when Nogrod fell to ruin! Not least the great lore and arts that were wrought by our forebears!”
Celebrimbor nodded. “The friendship of our peoples too was sadly broken, even before Beleriand sank beneath the sea. That, among much else, I would see repaired and reforged, made bright and new again.”
Something rose in Narvi’s chest, and he nodded. “And in that quest, my friend, I am with you”.
A survivor of the Second Kinslaying conducts an examination on four Fëanorian corpses and makes some interesting discoveries. Or, in which part-maia Dior is eldritch and terrifying, Nimloth refuses to go down without a fight, and the conspicuous absence of Celebrimbor is pretty much a character in itself.
warnings: lots of description of corpses and wounds, self-harm
1.2k words
To whom it may concern,
Here follows my report on the bodies of the four invading Fëanorians discovered in the throne room of the palace of Menegroth following the ruin of Doriath, alongside the bodies of the King and Queen, which I have reported on separately. I expect much more information to come to light within the coming days concerning the identification of these four individuals, and I hope that my early findings will be found useful in this endeavour. I have chosen to undertake this task in order that those who remain of the Iathrim may gain a greater understanding of our enemies to help protect the remainder of our people. Once this task is complete, the corpses will be laid in unmarked graves, and I hope then to join my kin at the Mouth of Sirion.
Long live the line of Elu Thingol!
Istuieth Sadriel, scholar of the court of King Dior.
Note: Bodies are listed in order of their physical distance from the King, with the closest listed first.
Male 1
Physical description: This is the body of a male adult Noldo. The body is of a tall Noldo, at 7’3’’, who was in healthy physical condition before death. Male 1 was well developed and well nourished with a heavy muscular build. Male 1 is light skinned with silver hair and brown eyes.
Cause of death: Death certainly occurred as a result of complete severing of the head from the body. Male 1 would have died almost instantaneously. As the other bodies in the throne room, including the King and Queen, were found intact, matching the head to the body was a simple task. The condition of the wounds to the neck suggest that rather than having been severed by a blade, decapitation occurred due to the head having been physically torn from the neck.
Distinguishing marks: Tattoo around left bicep marks this Elf as a member of the hunting-train of Oromë. This is obscured, seemingly intentionally, by several healed scars that appeared to have been self-inflicted with a blade. Tattoo of a large hound on right forearm. Large healed scar bisecting stomach lengthways consistent with wounds inflicted by a tusked beast, such as a boar. Several healed scars across the torso resembling bites from a large canine animal.
Personal effects: large animal tooth braided into hair. Silver and white ribbons braided into hair. Steel alloy hunting knife strapped to right forearm. Steel dagger in left boot.
Male 2
Physical description: This is the body of a male adult Noldo, of thin build and measuring at an average Noldor height of 7’0’’. Male 2 has light brown skin with black hair and brown eyes.
Cause of death: a single stab wound severing a major artery near the groin caused Male 2 to suffer catastrophic blood loss resulting in rapid unconsciousness and death. The unusual positioning of the wound suggests that Male 2 was killed standing over King Dior, who stabbed upwards with his sword (likely the sword of Male 3, see below) as he lay dying and hit this artery potentially by pure luck (see my notes on the condition of the body of King Dior).
Distinguishing marks: A large birth-mark resembling a red wine stain covers most of the left side of the face. Male 2 has a large number of freckles all over the body, especially concentrated on the face and lower arms. Significant scarring from burns on back.
Personal effects: A silver-alloy Edanic style ring, appearing around one hundred years of age, on the fifth finger of the right hand. Ruby-encrusted steel dagger, likely of Dwarven make, in right boot.
Female 1
Physical description: This is the body of a tall female adult Noldo, measuring 7’2’’, of lean muscular build. Female 1 has light skin, black hair and black eyes.
Cause of death: Female 1 has been pierced through the upper torso through a gap in her breastplate with a hunting spear belonging to the Queen. The spear enters Female 1’s chest through the front on the right hand side, becoming lodged within her torso. Judging by the position of the spear and the large volume of blood surrounding this body, including blood from the mouth, it is likely that the spear pierced through Female 1’s right lung, resulting in rapid major exsanguination and difficulty in carrying out respiration that caused her to lose consciousness. Cause of death is judged to be loss of blood resulting from this wound.
The location of Female 1 is worth noting. The smearing of a large amount of blood across the ground suggests Female 1 was initially wounded close to the Queen towards the back of the throne room where the largest amount of her blood is concentrated, and then proceeded to walk and then to crawl towards the front of the room (inferred due to bloodied footprints followed by handprints matching the size of Female 1’s feet and hands) eventually collapsing across the body of Male 3.
Distinguishing marks: Stretch marks on the lower stomach and breasts suggest that this woman has previously given birth. Healed burn scars on both forearms.
Personal effects: A golden ring with a ruby inset on the fourth finger of the right hand identical to that found on Male 3. Steel short sword in belt, which appears to have been newly forged. A pencil drawing on parchment of a young elf boy, found folded in the left breast pocket of the tunic.
Male 3
Physical description: This is the body of a male adult Noldo, of lean muscular build and slightly shorter than average at 6’9’’. Male 3 has light brown skin, black hair and grey eyes.
Cause of death: Male 3’s most significant wound is a wound to the throat, cutting the carotid artery and leading to major high pressure blood loss. This was likely the fatal injury to this Elf, as he could not have survived losing such a high volume of blood without almost immediate medical attention. The wound itself is significant, as it resembles something closer to a bite than an injury caused by a blade. Male 3 has several small wounds caused by a blade, likely his own sword as our King was unarmed at the time of the ambush. However, none of these wounds would have been significant enough to cause Male 3’s death, as he was protected by body armour and as such they did not reach any major arteries. Claw marks on his arms and hands.
Note: several wounds look closer to those inflicted by an animal than an Elf. Must investigate further.
Distinguishing marks: Male 3’s hands are heavily calloused, suggesting a lot of time spent doing manual labour. This would also account for the body type. There are also a number of small burn scars on the hands- perhaps an involvement in some type of smithing? Large healed scar on neck. Large healed burn scars on forearms.
Personal effects: A golden ring with a ruby inset on the fourth finger of the right hand identical to that found on Female 1. Two steel daggers, apparently newly forged, on belt. A child-size iron ring forged somewhat unprofessionally, worn with a leather band around the neck and tucked underneath Male 3’s armour.
