Fanworks Tagged with Fëanor

...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.

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Three intrepid stellar explorers witness a crack in the edge of the universe and are guided by an ancient spirit animating an automaton to a strange and unexpected place where they hope to rescue their kidnapped cat. A cat who may hold the future--or its inevitable end--in his far-too-ancient paws.

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Findekáno, son of Fëanáro, and Maitimo, son of Nolofinwë, have always been close. A pity, then, that their fathers' relationship trickles down to them.

A role reversal fic

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The mood in Maitimo's house has been dark these last few years, and his father's eyes have been following him.

Inspired by the fairytale Donkeyskin

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After his exile to Formenos, Feanor locks himself in the vault with the Silmarils. Makalaure goes to him.

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Well, Fëanor frightened him. Fëanor frightened them all, still, in one way or another. 

Fëanor's sons receive letters from him, and try to decide what to do.

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In Aman, no one dies (unless they are related to Fëanor).

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Fëanáro is reembodied as the Fourth Age of the Sun commences, and he has to deal with several things. But there's one thing he cannot quite manage to fix. That is, his relationship with his wife.

Or: five (but more like six) times Nerdanel doesn't reach out, and one time she does.

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Ñolofinwë makes a pained noise and pulls back enough to look him in the face, before his eyes seem to get caught on Fëanáro’s collar, on his chest, his shoulders. “You are in my colors,” Ñolofinwë says softly, traces his finger along Fëanáro’s collarbone and down the front of his tunic. His eyes, when they meet Fëanáro’s once more, are blown out with a disgusting, greedy desire, and understanding strikes Fëanáro.

“Oh,” he breathes, thinking that he should likely have guessed at the reason on his own. He had anticipated that the outfit would garner a reaction from Ñolofinwë, this is true. He cannot say that this was ever one of the reactions he had anticipated. “How shameful of you,” he says quietly, watching the way Ñolofinwë’s eyes drop down to his mouth as he speaks. “Does it not shame you that you should want me in such a way?”

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He knows that he’s supposed to say, if he’d known what would happen, he wouldn’t have done it. That he wouldn’t have paced through the halls, watching the tapestries appear, and seen his brother poised in front of Morgoth, preparing to fight, preparing to die, and gone a bit mad with grief.

He knows he should say he would not again go find a tapestry of where it all went irrevocably wrong and begin shredding it apart.

But he is suddenly standing in the middle of the library, treelight dancing through the windows, and staring at him with open mouthed shock is Ñolofinwë. So no, he finds he does not regret it at all.

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A Noldo follower of Fëanor laments the First Kinslaying and the Flight of the Noldor

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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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Fëanáro thinks of many things during his exile for he has nothing but time and a chest full of fury.

He thinks of his hatred for Melkor. He thinks of his children and the toil the exile is taking on them even if they will not voice it. He thinks of his father and the disappointment he’d just barely been able to see hidden beneath the concern. He thinks of Nerdanel and cannot help but wonder if she saw this coming. More often than not though, he finds his thoughts dwelling on Ñolofinwë.

On how wide and endlessly blue his eyes had gone when Fëanáro had set the point of the sword to his throat.

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"You should tell me to stop," Fëanáro says softly, taking the last step and pressing himself flush against Ñolofinwë.

Ñolofinwë swallows with some difficulty, tilts his head back against the door to meet Fëanáro's eyes. "You are my brother," he says, voice wavering. "We should not."

Fëanáro smiles wryly. "That is not telling me to stop."

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Little moments of connection with Maedhros. A collection of drabbles and other short writings to accompany One in the Fires of the Heart of the World.

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“You said,” Fëanáro says quietly, taking a step forward, “that I shall lead, and you shall follow.”

Ñolofinwë bites down the urge to take a step back as Fëanáro takes another step forward. “I said those words and I meant them. You are my brother and now my king, why should I not follow where you go?”

Fëanáro is regarding him far more seriously than he had that night as they stood in front of Manwë and Ñolofinwë wishes to know what brought this on. “And if I were not your king?” Fëanáro asks. “If I were your half-brother only?”

Or: Fëanáro does not steal away with the ships in the middle of the night, leaving Fingolfin to brave the bitter cold. Whether what he does instead is any better depends on who you ask.

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Fëanor spends more nights than he cares to admit to at Fingolfin’s these days. More time than he cares to admit to thinking about Fingolfin these days. Feels some days though as if Fingolfin is the only bit of this new age that is easy at this point.

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The footsteps come to a stop in front of him and he does not have a moment to wonder at his brother’s intentions before fingers are sliding into his hair and tugging his head back. He glares up at Fëanáro, tears on his cheeks, heart racing like a plea. Fëanáro stares back, expression strangely blank as he studies Ñolofinwë’s face. And despite his thoughts, despite his belief, he still finds himself smiling mirthlessly and asking, “Well, have you come to kill me in truth? Make your exile worth it?”

Something flickers through Fëanáro’s eyes too fast for him to catch and the fingers in his hair tighten painfully. “I would have thought that upon successfully usurping the crown you would be far more pleased,” Fëanáro says darkly, lip curling in disgust.

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Maedhros finds that regret and pain do not end with death. But it does at last bring release from the oath and he can at last embark upon the long, hard road toward redemption. 

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Fëanáro was sitting on the floor, his back against the grave marker his father had had made for his mother when her spirit fully settled into Mandos’ Halls.

He was alone on Estë’s island, deep within Lórien’s gardens. Of course he was. When was he not?

Even his father didn’t bother coming anymore.

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Grief awaits you outside these halls, Fëanáro, Nienna told him, her voice like the gentlest fall of rain upon spring leaves. 

Grief haunts me inside them, Fëanor replied.

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Fingolfin does not look up from his book when he hears footsteps approaching and pays no attention to Fëanor walking into the room. What he emphatically does pay attention to is Fëanor going to his knees in front of the chair he is sprawled sideways across and burying his face against Fingolfin’s stomach, both of his hands clenching tight around Fingolfin’s shirt. He blinks down at Fëanor’s head in confusion and runs a hand over his head, dragging his fingers through Fëanor’s hair. “Náro?” he asks quietly. “Has something happened?”

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A poem for the first born sons in the House of Finwe, each one attributed a season - Summer, Fall, Winter, Spring.

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story for art 68 TRSB 2024 - In every wood in every spring there's a different green by FakeCirilla9

The 'wilds' of Valinor seen through the eyes of Tyelkormo and his family: from Tyelkormo's birth during a long journey, to the introduction of little Telperinquar to the natural wildlife of Valinor.

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This is a story for art 87 - Aromantic and asexual pride by daughterofshadows for Scribbles and Drabbles 2024

Upon his return from his most recent hunt with Oromë’s people, Tyelkormo saw a servant of the house come to him in a hurry.
“Prince Tyelkormo, your father wishes to speak to you at the earliest possibility.”
Tyelkormo snorted at that, faintly amused. His father certainly didn’t word it this way.

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