Fanworks Tagged with Eärendil

"Whatever the songs say, I am still only myself, and I miss my grandfather.”

Five times Eärendil asks for news of Turgon, and one time he does not have to.

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Hope is a weapon. Hope is a skill.

or, the art of not giving up in the face of the impossible, as seen through the eyes of fifteen people living in First Age Beleriand.

16 perfect 100 words drabbles, exploring this concept.

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The third kinslaying and its aftermath, from the perspective of Maedhros and Elwing: a shape poem.

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Now a great crowd of spirits, both Elves and lingering Men, were gathered before the newest tapestry as it fell open down the wall, luminous, gold and silver threads glittering in the pale light of Mandos.

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Eärendil on Vingilótë arrives in the Bay of Eldamar; in the bottom right corner it says: "Vingilótë" and "Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima!" 

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Egalmoth has his fears, when Earendil sets sail, but also pins his hope on him.

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Eärendil has to find his way in this unfamiliar land. Luckily (or unluckily, depending on your point of view) for him, it's a time of festival in Valimar...

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They passed out of Lhûn and the wider coastline of Middle-earth opened up before his eyes. He had wandered those shores for centuries, and even now he felt the pull of that same wanderlust, and knew he would miss them for the rest of his life. Their wildness, the untamed waves, the rocky shores and the cliffs and the sandy beaches. The gulls, and the dunes, and the tide pools with their ever-changing denizens. Someone began to sing a song of farewell, and other voices took it up. He did not join them. 

Maglor keeps a promise, and comes to Valinor, only to find the ghosts he thought he'd left behind are alive and waiting for him. 

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Eärendil comes to the Ring of Doom to plead before the Valar. 

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A reworking of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star

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In a mostly-starless void, the Star of Earendil is shown glowing within reach of a silver full Moon with the last flower of Telperion upon it. Drawn using MS Paint. A poem called "Connection" is also shown:

As Earendil 
rises for the first 
time

He sees Tilion

And knows that
he is not the 
Only watcher
over Arda.

There is a
connection
forged.
 

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She sits alone in her room and pulls the silmaril out. Stares at it in the dark until the light makes her cry. Weighs the blood of her kin staining the Fëanorians hands against the yet unspilled blood of the people she’s been told are her responsibility. Holds the question she’s never been able to answer in her hands and makes herself think — what makes a monster? She knows what her advisors say. She knows what her people whisper. She knows their blood will run red regardless of which set of monsters end up finally coming for them.

or: Elwing is sixteen when she finally comprehends the brutality of the war ravaging Beleriand, when she realizes what it means to be told the people of Sirion are hers to protect. She is sixteen and helplessly in love and her advisor tells her that she is safe in Sirion and she cannot believe him. She comes up with a plan to fix it.

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Just a few of my favourite podfics that I've found soothing for bedtime (or middle of the night, or any time really) listening.

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After a few minutes, though, he heard an answering voice. He looked up, falling silent. That had sounded like—but no, it couldn’t be. Eärendil saw movement on the path again, just the top of someone’s dark head coming up the last slope toward the tower. As whoever it was drew farther up the hill, more became visible, and Eärendil abandoned his flower weaving and scrambled upright, bare feet slipping over the stones as the grass and daisies tumbled over the cliff side down into the water below. 

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Four true drabbles from the perspectives of Maglor, Eärendil, Elwing and Elrond, vaguely connected by the state of being six (years old). 

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This is a collection of true drabbles completed for the 'Four Words' drabble bingo card.

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Eärendil found not Tuor nor Idril, nor came he ever on that journey to the shores of Valinor, defeated by shadows and enchantment, driven by repelling winds, until in longing for Elwing he turned homeward toward the coast of Beleriand. And his heart bade him haste, for a sudden fear had fallen on him out of dreams; and the winds that before had striven with might not now bear him back as swift as his desire.
The Silmarillion

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Dior did not see the arrow until it pierced his own flesh, a hard thrust of a point entering his back and blossoming out of his heart. The pain of the wound, and the feeling of his body in uncertain panic around it, was almost secondary to his curiosity.

Now what?

Dior felt strangely detached, as if he had stepped out of his body. He watched himself fall over the body of the Golodh he’d slain. Dior had worn no helm nor armor that day – and he saw his hair fan out to cover them both. They died together in the dark cloak of it.

Dior’s eyes closed, and all was dark.

~

And then Dior opened his eyes.

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Morgoth has been defeated and the War of Wrath is over. Eärendil has to return to his task of sailing the Void beyond the world, but first he wants to see his sons again. Hugs and talking happen

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Carrying the Silmaril for millennia has consequences.

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Elrond and Celebrían celebrate their anniversary with their family.

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Morgoth lost the Silmaril. Elrond lost his parents because of the Silmaril (and that was just to start with). Sauron lost the One Ring. All have lost something, or someone precious to them.

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Humanity took to the skies. Eärendil and Ilmarë adjust.

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A horrid cacophony of cries erupts ahead of them, as orcs appear—up the cliff on hidden ledges, on the path, with bows and swords. And behind them rises a figure of darkness and flame. The heat rolls down the path over them, bringing the smell of burning flesh and bitter fear with it. Someone screams.

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The three atmospheres of Arda celebrated in three drabbles and three photos...

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