New and Updated Fiction

In the Second Age, a historian reviews records excavated from Angband concerning a criminal inquiry.

In the First Age, in the wake of the fall of Gondolin, a pretty captive catches the Lady Thuringwethil's eye.

The Rings have been forged. The armies of Mordor are marching into Eriador. Eregion burns. 

Far away from it all, by the shores of the Sea, Celegorm remembers his name.

Melian dances for Elwë.

Maglor's birthdays in Valinor.

One drabble per Finwëan. Currently finished, ending with Eärendil but excluding Elwing, Elrond, and Elros.

Young Nerdanel and Fëanor’s friendship blossoms. 

An elven prince stands against the looming shadows of Angband. Brother of Galadriel, Aegnor is as beautiful as he is deadly. A fierce warrior with a reputation to match, who commands the respect of all the Noldorin princes and all who look upon him. However, beneath his iron shell, lies a sensitive and haunted soul, crushed by betrayal, guilt and profound loneliness. Little does he know, upon a morning in Dorthonion, a chance encounter with a young and petrified girl will set him on a collision course with a fate, igniting an extraordinary bond wrought with challenge, sacrifice, and a love so intense and consuming, it will unravel his entire world and his very being.

Brace yourself for Part I of this captivating tale, where the power of love and devestating loss will tear worlds apart forever.

Then the door opened. Celebrimbor sat up—and blinked. Whoever he had expected, it was not his cousin Finduilas, who closed the door gently behind her and turned to him with a smile. “Hello, Cousin. Am I intruding?”

“No, of course not.” Celebrimbor rose to take her hand. “I’m always glad to see my favorite cousin."

Eärendil and Elwing have some trouble with a shooting star in the sky

Lamaen, a Sinda of Hithlum and royal messenger, returns to his routine and re-joins his usual companion. (A vignette.)

Erestor lay up against a tree, brown washed to black in the wet of the snow. The black disc of the new moon sailed across the dark sky. Erestor wished it were gone. He had no need to look into dark eyes any longer.

He was dying.

(AKA Erestor unwittingly travels back in time to the days between the Dagor Bragollach and the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, meets the sons of Feanor, Thingol and his ilk, many Laiquendi, many Dwarves, and Men besides, and THEN decides to solve the drowning of Beleriand himself. This has nothing to do with his personal problems. Nope. Not at all. Erestor is having regular feelings.)

Rescued from a brutal Angband hunt, an ex-thrall with a strange and powerful artifact embedded in his spine is brought to Himring, for it is one of the only places in Beleriand which welcomes such folk. Though he has no memories of his life before, Anniavas slowly becomes accustomed to his new life and finds he has a queer connection with Maedhros, Himring's lord. As their intimacy grows, however, so do the dangers surrounding them, both without and within. What secrets are hidden inside the depths of Anniavas's lost memories--and how will those with whom he is forging and deepening bonds react, when those secrets are at last revealed?

Eärendil thought he would have the sky to himself.

Newlywed Indis begins acquainting herself with married life, both its highs and lows. 

Dior tells Elwing a bedtime story.

There on the shores of the Lonely Isle we abode under the stars, and yet within sight of the radiance of the Blessed Realm.

Fëanor shrugged, studying the contents of his wine glass. “Something must be done about that house. It will fall down eventually.”
“It does not follow that it must be you that tears it down single-handedly. Are you sure you do not want help?”
“It’s not as though I have much else to do. I need to build something new there,” he said after a few moments. “To do that, I must first clear away the old and broken things.”

Decades out of Mandos, too many things in Fëanor's life remain broken. He can't do anything except wait for his sons to come to him, but he can do something about the old and crumbling house where they once lived. 

Haleth will break Aredhel’s heart, but not before loving her.

“Do you know what grows on the shores of the southern isles? A trading-merchant might bring many strange specimens to our lands, like nothing I have ever seen. In recent days, I have tasted a ripe fruit with firm flesh that parted beneath my tongue in a burst of liquid sweetness. So moist, so yielding, its juices dripped down my chin like fragrant honey. Have you ever known such succulence?”

Fingon’s wife has arranged a special surprise for the Lord of Himring.

Or: everyone’s cool with a little ethical nonmonogamy until someone throws a temporary sex change into the arrangement. Lord Maedhros loves Fingon with all his heart, that is known. But how will he react to Fingwen?

Glorfindel had been watching Laurelin for weeks.

Círdan and Míruial try out their new telescope.

"It wasn't supposed to end this way."

Maitimo and Findekano sat on hillside and gazed up at the Milky Way.

The Númenórean King Ar-Pharazôn thinks he has won an easy victory when Sauron surrenders to him and becomes his prisoner. But the march back to Umbar with the conniving Dark Lord turns out to have many unanticipated twists and turns through a nest of politics and intrigue, including Sauron's attempted seduction of Ar-Pharazôn's favorite male courtesan.

This is volume I of a planned trilogy. An epic tale of political intrigue, the desire for immortality and love, sorcery, hubris, loyalty, lust, and catastropic amounts of water.

MEFA 2009 First Place winner in Genres: Longer Works: Incomplete  (Vol. I is now complete)

This fic was recommended in USA Today, May 20, 2015! (They have a fanfiction section. Who knew?)  Thank you to Uvatha the Horseman for the rec!

As the Noldor prepare for war, Morgoth devises a new horror against which sword and shield are of no use. The Evil Breath brings death and grief to Hithlum, and neither the Elvish arts of healing nor the authority of the High King can keep the lives of the Edain from being swept away like wafts of mist. Where there was laughter in the summer, mourning remains in winter.