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“It is called having friends, Fëanáro; you should try it sometime,” Nolofinwë spits, and it comes out sharper than he means it to, but he is—

Lord, he is tired; of Fëanáro’s vitriol, of how easily he himself still unravels at the slightest push. How effortlessly Fëanáro slides beneath his skin, and Nolofinwë wants to dig his finger into the unmarked flesh, wants to hurt, wants—

He wants; that is perhaps the most terrible part about it all.

---

Ever has the House of Finwë been renowned for its sense of competition. This, though, Nolofinwë knows, must put even the worst of it to shame.

Or: Fingolfin and Fëanor will turn even brother-fucking into a contest. Who could have guessed.

He wants—oh, Fingon wants so many things. To flee the bathhouse, first and foremost. To meet Maedhros halfway, forget about the ruin they have made of each other—slowly, meticulously, over centuries—and kiss him until their lips are bruised and their lungs empty of breath. Wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all, and perhaps wrap his hands around Maedhros’ throat, ask if he still prefer that Fingon kill him, bloody his own hands once more in ways that can never come off, if only it will bring Maedhros his much-sought salvation.

Fingon wants; ever has it been his greatest vice, that hunger that gnaws through him, makes him reckless, selfish, rapacious.

---

Fingon merely needed a bath. Maedhros, as ever, complicates things.

Once, in gold-cast days of careless bliss, the three of you used to be—something. A triangular shape, always revolving around each other. Warm hands, late nights, a tangle of limbs in opulent beds. A reprieve, a stolen treasure, and you all thought, then, that it could always be like that; that one day, the world would bend to your folly, and all would be well.

What fools you had been.

---

Fingon, Finrod, the Ice, and the gaping space between them.

And Celegorm? Well, Celegorm simply wants a fight, wants revenge, wants to see his debts repaid. He wants to tear that godforsaken forest apart piece by piece, one step further on the inescapable road to their inevitable end.

He knows of monsters, after all. Knows how to speak their tongue, how to coax them along. His brothers, by then, are hardly any different.

Celegorm wants it all to end. He cares little, now, for how they will achieve such a thing.
 

---

The Fëanorians, the Second Kinslaying, and how they all reached that point—an attempt to trace their fall from grace, from Valinor to Doriath.

“Are they fighting again?” Idril asks, wandering over to the fireplace the moment Fingolfin lets her down.

“It is what you do with siblings,” Fingolfin says, and succeeds at not laughing at the irony.

Oh, how much would be different if it were not so true. She treats him to a look full of sceptical disbelief and sets to restacking the fire.

---

An exploration of the Nolofinwëans in early Beleriand, and the effect that Maedhros' rescue and abdication would have had on the relationships between them, in the wake of the Ice and all its horrors.

"I think something is going to happen soon.”
“Something good or something bad?” Maglor asked.
“Something important,” Elros said, looking suddenly very serious and far older than his years. He and Elrond both looked at Maglor with starlit eyes under shadowy hair, Melian’s children whom the birds and the stars would both love.

Miriel returns quietly, without fanfare.

It is nice, the sunlight and the warmth of a solid body against his. It is nice to be able to think, at least for a little while, that perhaps Curufin had been speaking true when he said he was trying. Nice in a way that means Finrod will miss it terribly when it is gone again.

“You are thinking too loudly,” Curufin mumbles against his shoulder. “Go back to sleep, Ingo.”

The furs slip to Itarillë’s hips as she sits up. Laurefindil cannot help but admire the fall of her pale golden hair, the curve of her spine, how the oil lamp lights her skin as if from within. Underneath it all, there is a heart Laurefindil will do anything to protect.

After the pronouncement of the Doom of the Noldor, Idril has a question for Glorfindel.

Curufin has practiced the words in his head a thousand times, knows what needs to be said to begin to fix this. But what comes out of his mouth instead is, "I'm not sorry." Lie. "I'm not, and I'd do it all again the same way if necessary." Lie. "But I—" and he falters, still unable to push a single truth up his throat. In a way, Finrod is right, he hasn't changed at all.

Finrod is studying him with a resigned air draped about him like a cloak. "Oh, how I hate you," Finrod says softly, fingers loosely curled into fists, and this too sounds like a lie. Neither of them have ever been particularly truthful with each other.

Living in Menegroth, Maeglin is summoned home by his father's wife to visit him. Eöl has never been the same since Aredhel's death in childbirth many years ago, and his mental state may be poisoning the very forest around him.

But for the first time, Maeglin does not have to go alone.
 

“You cannot mean to go after him!” Celegorm exclaims, laughing wildly. “After what we did? You cannot truly mean to go after him.”

"If you would move, then I suppose we would find out."

“What is wrong with you? What about the oath, Curvo?" Celegorm asks, voice low and furious, eyes blazing so much like their father's. "You cannot go after him."

And Curufin — who has seen the endpoint of what that oath cost them, who has reunited with their father, who has listened to their father curse himself for what the oath brought upon them all — finds it the easiest thing in the world to bare his teeth and snarl, "Fuck that god forsaken oath.”

On a sunny day in spring, Frodo got the urge to go north and west, up into Arnor, which was still quite wild and uninhabited outside of newly-built Annúminas, and the slow trickle of work happening around the ruins of Fornost, which even the Dúnedain were still sometimes reluctant to visit. When he spoke of his plan, his dad told him to remember to pack enough food and not to forget a bit of rope, and his mother said not to forget his cloak. Most of his siblings were too young yet to be permitted to go along, but Elanor immediately asked if he wanted company.

Argon falls.

"But you will not persuade me to love the Elves, Felakgundu; not though you had all the years of the world to try."

"If you will let me try a little longer," answers Finrod, "that is all I ask.”

On the deeply unlikely friendship of Mîm, Petty-dwarf of Nulukkhizdîn, and the wandering Elf-king who set up camp on his doorstep. 

For TRSB Slide #21 by Huorinde.

"Dior shall he be called, and you shall be a comfort to each other: that though he be fatherless and motherless, and you childless, you shall not be bereft of kin."

On the lives and deaths of two kings of Doriath: Elwë of Cuiviénen, wisest and noblest of Elves, who ruled in peace ere ever the Sun rose; and Dior Eluchíl, at whose feet the realm crumbled.

Pallando the Blue Wizard arrives in Middle Earth in the Middle of the Second Age to aid the Elves of Lindon and Eregion in their war against Sauron. Almost at once, he abandons his post, leaving the war effort to Alatar his partner, and travels East. Some force compels him to go to the Red Mountains, his feet drawing him ever on towards the Gates of the Sun at Kalorme. Along the way he will go to the ruins of Belegost, encounter Daeron the Loremaster lingering on the shores of Lake Nenuial, and travel the Old Dwarf Road to Gundabad to council the Longbeards on the war in Eregion. But he is drawn thence to the Eastern shores of Rhun, where an ancient mystery from a lost realm of the Avari awaits him: the realm of Palisor. It is King Tu, last King of the Wild Elves, who from his seat in the underground lake on the Eastern Shores of Rhun, holds the key that will save the Men of the East — or put them under the Shadow forever. 

In the Third Age, a stranger arrives in the area between the Long Lake and the Lonely Mountain. He is not quite what he seems...

The land of Dor-Lómin welcomes a displaced Easterling woman after Nírnaeth Arnoediad. Theirs is a short-lived yet reverent kinship.

Written for the SWG Jumble Sale Challenge September 2025. Sold! One Headstrong rake!

The challenge was to have a character with an identity from Middle Earth is Multitudes interact with the setting-as-character as in Living Lands, in a way that explores nature vs civilization. 

"You would be better off on your knees doing something useful with your mouth than using it to criticize me," Finarfin snaps, eyes hard as he watches Fëanor. "I have ruled Tirion far longer than you ever did. I do not want nor need your advice."

Fëanor stops pacing, raising an eyebrow and refusing to let his shock at the statement show. Of all the crass things he might have expected to come from Finarfin's mouth, that would never have been one of them. "Bold words," he says after a moment, tilting his head in consideration. "Whatever must the guards think of you saying such a thing to your own brother?"

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

Voronwe haunted by the Sea after meeting Tuor in Nevrast: two drabbles.

“We are going to get caught,” Fingolfin hisses, though he makes no move to actually push Fëanor away from where he’s sucking a bruise onto Fingolfin’s collarbone. Fëanor hums, shoving a knee between Fingolfin’s legs and smirking against his skin when he’s forced to bite back a moan, hips jerking up.

“Do you want me to stop then?” he asks, voice rich with amusement as he kisses his way up Fingolfin’s neck. “Tell me,” he whispers, mouth hovering over Fingolfin’s. “Tell me you want me to stop.”

Fingolfin is genuinely worried they are going to get caught. It does not stop him from cursing quietly and kissing Fëanor to shut him up.

"The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.”

-The Fellowship of the Ring, Book 2, Chapter 6 "Lothlórien"

A collection of drabbles exploring the beauty of mingled joy, hope and sorrow in Tolkien's world. 

Haleth is hungry