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With any luck, he will simply be able to keep Finrod alive until Beren gets himself killed as he is destined to do, and then he can drag Finrod back to Nargothrond alive and well. It will not be an end that leaves Finrod once more in Curufin’s bed, but it will be an end that he can live with. Curufin needs Finrod to live, every other ending leaving him with bile on his tongue and nausea haunting him. He knows this is foolish. He knows he is ruining the carefully crafted plans he’s been building for years, cutting all the strings he’d been ready to carefully pull, but when he closes his eyes—

When he closes his eyes, he sees blood caught in the dulled yellow of Finrod’s hair, blood on his mouth, his cheeks, blood weeping from his throat. Curufin closes his eyes and cannot bear to keep them closed.

“We are going with you,” he says simply, the words like ash in his mouth.

“When we get out of this bedamned frozen wasteland,” he murmurs, pleasure pooling in his stomach and leaving everything glowing golden, “I am going to strip you bare and fuck you until you stop having ambitions higher than you should.”

“And if I do not stop,” Ñolofinwë returns, voice rough and cracking across the words, “if I keep trying to take the crown you do not even enjoy having, what will you do then, brother?”

He burnt himself to ashes, Makalaurë had told them, voice remarkably steady for one who clearly did not want to speak of it. It had taken several back-and-forths of clarification for Ñolofinwë to realize this was meant in the most literal manner possible. His brother had managed to outshine everyone else even on the matter of death itself, and he had been forced to close his eyes for a long minute for fear that he would start crying or laughing, or worse, both.

“What did you do to your hair?”

The crown on Melkor's head is slanted without the stolen Silmaril, and the only thing Sauron feels is contempt.

A new star shines in the sky. They claim it brings hope.

It occurred to Elwing that she had made a mistake, coming along with these strange, fair folk, when Eärendil asked her, in a voice of such heartfelt earnestness that she nearly pushed him down and rubbed his face in the mud, if she wanted to meet Ulmo.
“Er,” she said, instead of enacting violence, “I don’t know. I’m not wild about strangers.”
Eärendil, who was not so easily dissuaded once he had set his course, did not laugh. “But he knows you already. It is only your heart that is estranged.”

Elwing, Eärendil, and the gifts of the River.

“What if,” said Manwë, regarding Maedhros with star-bright eyes, blue as sapphires and piercing as blades, “you were sent from these Halls for a purpose, son of Fëanáro?”
“I suppose, my lord,” Maedhros said slowly, “that would depend upon the purpose.”

Maedhros is sent back to Middle-earth, in the company of the Maia Olórin. 

When Finwë's wife Miriel died, leaving behind their young daughter Fëanor, Finwë petitioned the Valar for permission to remarry. Although he loved his daughter dearly, he said, he needed a son who could be his heir.

Or: Genderswapped Noldor politics, from Fëanor daughter of Finwë to Gil-galad daughter of Orodreth. 

This is basically the background smut for ‘Yet We’re It’s Making Good, For This’ 😅

During the great journey, there was a lot of trying out amongst the Quendi. And from some trying out, there came more…

(Written for Silmsmutweek 2023)

I made a project out of this year’s Silmsmutweek, to accompany the line of the Peredhel through the Ages.

1) Spring; prompts: ritual sex, bathing and washing. Melian and Elu beget their daughters.

2) Summer; prompts: sport and competition. Finally allowed to live their love makes Arwen and Aragorn light-headed with bliss. That, and a little too much wine for the newly crowned King of Gondor. (Not explicit)

3) Autumn; prompts: canon ships, blanket; my first drabble. On a chill afternoon in autumn, Celebrían finds her husband dozing, and finds that something has to be done about it (Not explicit)

4)Fading; prompts: water sports. Elwing can’t have what she wants, and Eärendil has to suffer for it. (He loves every moment of it, though)

5) Winter; prompts: throne sex. Dior has doubts whether he will ever see himself as the King of Doriath. Nimloth finds that it is time for him to truly claim the throne.

6) Stirring; prompts: erotic dance and acrobatics. Ficlet. Beren watches Lúthien dance, and feels life stir in him again. And other things.

7) Dark; prompts borrowed from another day: rare-pair. This one is weird. No more needs to be said

Roverandom and the Sea Rover find a crab on the beach--not unusual in itself, except this one smells like magic. 

But how could they ever think to sleep on a night such as this? Their hours together are already so short, and in these days of encroaching darkness they only grow shorter. Tonight Fingon’s bed is warm, and Fingon is also, and Maedhros is loath to close his eyes even long enough to blink.

***

Maedhros, Fingon, and their final night together before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

In the last days of Númenor, two very different men meet in Umbar and fall in love.

(Please note that while this work is heavily inspired by Disco Elysium, no knowledge of the game is necessary to read the fic!)

Concerned by his responses to the paraphernalia of healing, Fingon steals Maedhros from his room for an impromptu garden excursion. Maedhros battles with dark thoughts.

On the night before the battle, Caranthir and his ally share thoughts about their peoples' traditions:

Burning bones ward off evil.

A March-Warden assists the last of the refugees from Doriath to the Falls of Sirion after the sons of Feanor assail Menegroth.
 

Melkor has himself a bad time in the Void. 

The Halls of Nienna are infinite, for so is grief. Within it lie the waters of the Ekkaia, the sea that surrounds the world, fed by Nienna's tears and the tears of her children. Finarfin is not like his brothers, not wise or brave or clever, but when he cried the Valar did not shut him out.

Reembodied in Aman, Celebrimbor decides to return to Middle earth to help heal the darkness and hurt wrought by the ring. 

Aerin is miserable and bitter under the domination of Brodda and his people.
A horrible ficlet.

In his old age, Isildur's former esquire Ruinamacil, known to later histories only as Ohtar, writes his own account of his escape from the ambush at Gladden Fields and journey to Imladris, and the history of his friend whom Isildur ordered to flee with him.

...everyone here seemed to think Daeron should return to them equally unchanged, the same merry minstrel he had been long ago before the Girdle had been breached. He was yet a minstrel, and he was often merry, but he had seen and done so much that so many here could never even imagine. He had come very close to death more than once, and yet survived. He did not care what others might think of him, really—except for a select few—but it would be tiresome to be always catching them off guard, and his love for one of the sons of Fëanor would catch many very much off guard, he knew.

Daeron settles back in among his own people, travels to Tirion--and meets Fëanor.

Elwing waits.

In Tol Eressea, in the late Second Age, Voronwe looks back on his shared past with Numenor.