Fanworks Tagged with Folktales/Myths/Legends

In which one Fourth Age historian sets out to chart the complete history of the events and writing of the Lay of Leithian and ends up with an oral history of First Age politics, the Fall of Nargothrond, the Second Kinslaying, the Third Kinslaying, and one elf’s commentary on Second Age repertory theater.

OR “The Lay of Leithian: a Historiographical Approach” by Líwë Ríniel of the University of Tirion

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A mortal traveller begs his strange companion to hide from the storm. He won’t. The Wild Hunt is riding.

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Nienor, having survived the fall, haunts the Taeglin at the point where she once leapt.

Written for Whumptober No. 18 - Suicide Attempt.

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A young Orc is lost in the mountains of Mordor. Someone unexpected helps her home.

written for Tolkien Horror Week 2026 day 3

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

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At the end of time, Beleg sets out on a search for Túrin once more. Menelmacar shines brightly in the sky.

Accompanied by additional snippets of the lore Beleg studied in the Library of Alqualondë.

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On Tides of Light, Antariëarcalindalë, begins with Elwing's arrival upon the shores of Eldamar after her flight from the ruins of Sirion. After Eärendil goes alone into Valinor, Elwing is brought to Alqualondë. Rather than hurrying toward the celestial ascent of Vingilot, the core of the narrative is the salt-crusted halls of Alqualondë, where the Falmari must finally confront the devastating history of Beleriand's three kinslayings. 

Elwing must plead the Teleri to bear the Host of the West across the Sea. Despite a mother, survivor and also bearer of a Silmaril - the First Age converged on her: the weight of its sins, its accumulated grief, and the grace through which salvation may yet enter history.

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Eventually they arrived, and Echeleb and Dernodhos ushered Anniavas in.  Dernodhos found an old thin pallet somewhere and unrolled it on the floor, made him lie down with Limral—who had immediately perked up and started sniffing the air—and went and found them a heavy piece of cloth to use as a blanket.  The frayed and ragged edges and complex, cut-off pattern made it look as if it had once been part of a larger tapestry.  It was beautifully woven, but singed dark in places, where fire must have touched it.
    “What’s this?” Anniavas asked, sleepy and curious—at least it was something to focus on other than his current fears.
    Dernodhos paused, running her fingers along it, with an expression on her face he hadn’t seen before.  “A memory,” she said.“Of a story from long ago.”  She ruffled his hair gently.  “I’ll tell you about it another time.”

-- The Mirror Crack'd, Chapter Seven, Without the Hands of a Healer

A series of perfect drabbles about Dernodhos's blanket.

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Narvi adorns Celebrimbor with jewelry while telling him a story about the creation of mithril.

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Narvi shows Celebrimbor the Crown of Durin in the Mirrormere and tells him the story of how it came there.

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Melian chooses a home for the first birds in Middle-earth.

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A fragment from a Dwarvish version of their creation story. (Drabble.)

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The departure from Dorthonion, as seen through the eyes of the child Rían.

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Gimli sipped at his tea. “Knowledge, Master Elrond, for your library is known far and wide for its vast collection of works dating to the the time before Sun and Moon, and all that came after.” Gimli smiled. “Alas, I seek even older knowledge.”

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A death and a rebirth. Proud Nōwē sunk to the depths as the Shipwright rose, foresighted and wise beyond all else on these shores. And his name was refuge, steadfast friendship and succour in time of need. A cry died unvoiced in his throat, the death knell of the brave and daring young Nōwē. Círdan would have to be so much more.

Written for Scribbles & Drabbles 2025 Art Prompt #85: There is No Ship by Shadow, which can be found here.

The title is taken from lyrics of There Is No Ship by Rose Betts.

Listen to an audio recording of this work here.

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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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A Tolkien of colour sketch if Varda.

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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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What then, auntie, separates us from the ones who left them here, save for the reasons behind our cruelty?

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What is it to be made for a kinder world?

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Elwing was her name — an odd name, to go with certainly the oddest person we had ever met. The tower she dwelt in was tall and white, and lay some miles to the north of our village: barely more than an hour’s walk, for two bored children in search of adventure, and yet certainly more isolated than anyone else we knew. We liked to stand one at each end of the narrow, winding staircase, and listen to the echoes of our voices ringing against the stone. At the top of the tower the stairs opened up into a little turret room, bare and simple, with a neatly made bed tucked against one wall and a small clay oven beside the other. That was, at first, the main draw: for Elwing was a prodigious baker, and generous with the fruits of her labour. When first she sighted us playing on the cliffside she gave us warm sweet pastries flecked with nuts, and many times after a loaf or two of fresh bread — to carry home to our mother, she said, although more often than not it had disappeared by the time we arrived.

In the Second Age, Elwing tells two Telerin children a fairytale.

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Fëanor, newly apprenticed in Mahtan’s halls, does not care that Nerdanel does not like him. Her statues are nice enough, but he has far more important things to concern himself with than her approval. And he doesn’t think she’s pretty. 

A story about art, mythology, and learning what exactly you were made for.

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Once upon a time, JRR Tolkien wrote a fairy-tale retelling, an attempt to reconstruct an alternative version of the ancient poem called Beowulf, and he called it Sellic Spell: 'strange tale' or 'wondrous tale'.

Once upon a time, on the long road home from the Lonely Mountain, Bilbo Baggins and Gandalf travelled with Beorn to his home and spent the winter with him before they crossed the mountains. On a winter's night while the snow fell, Beorn told a tale of his forebears.

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If you ever wanted a longer than necessary slow burn of Finrod and Bëor trailblazing the elf-mortal love tragedy, I've got you covered.

(Originally posted as a series, but combined now into a chaptered fic here.)

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