New Challenge: Scavenger Hunt
In this Matryoshka-with-a-twist, you will solve clues that point you to the challenge prompts.

The thing about forgiveness, he thought, was that it was so much easier when the object of it was far away—or dead. It was so much easier to let it all go when those responsible were far away and unable to do any more harm.

Turgon yearns for happier days, days before he knew cold. But he knows in his heart that some things are forever lost, and wonders if he, too, is merely a remnant of the departed, a spent husk to be cleared if spring should ever bloom again.

The Eagles find a woman in the wilderness and bring her to Gondolin, and Maeglin's feelings are thrown into confusion.

Turgon cannot be above the law.

Argon falls, and Turgon screams.

One drabble per Finwëan. Currently on first and second generations.

Instadrabbling prompts that took the shape of a few perspectives on Turgon's great city.

Two years after Eöl's death, Maeglin reflects, and Rog tries to be supportive.
For Scribbles and Drabbles Slide 25 Maeglin looks over Caragdûr by Myrtaceaae

It was Írissë who caught Elenwë’s final breath.
Aredhel tries to save Elenwë.

Idril begins her courtship of Tuor with food.

His brother has returned for the first time in four hundred years, and Fingon does not want to start a fight. He is glad; he is. It has been so long since there was anyone he called family to lean on. It has been so long since he heard Turgon’s booming laughter, his haughty commentary from beneath his breath that he would deny uttering to anyone but his siblings. Since Fingon thought of his younger brother and felt anything that was simple and fond, rather than complicated, threaded through with resentment, and guilt, and anger that tastes a little too much like regret.
“Findekáno,” Turgon says, and this is the lesson his father never finished teaching—how to swallow the words, and how to keep them off his face, too.
Fingon and Turgon, and their long-awaited reunion at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

A sound came, then, that was not sleet or wind or the heavy breathing of one who slept. It was footsteps, crunching in the ice outside. They stopped for a moment, and the tent flap opened, granting entrance to both Ingoldo and a cold gust of air. His face was red with cold.
“How did it go?” he asked in a low voice as Ingoldo turned to secure the flap once more.
“As well as can be expected.”

For this month’s ‘The Only Thing To Fear’-challenge, I tried something a little different- which was to write short ficlets for as many prompts as possible. (Admittedly, I wanted them to be drabbles at first, but I just couldn’t manage).
Some of these turned more into PTSD-stories than phobias, but I think it still fits the challenge.

Those who survive do so by cutting parts of themselves off; their innocence, sacrificed to the altar of devouring hunger. Their faith, drowned alongside their children. Their fingers, toes, limbs, coin the Ice demands in exchange for passage.
Those who survive do so in despite; they do not know yet that this will be true for centuries to come.
The House of Nolofinwë, and their time on the Ice. A deed of great renown and endurance, told in an assortment of loosely connected drabbles.

“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.

On the day of Tuor and Idril's wedding, Maeglin and Voronwë find some common, unstable ground.

Before the destruction of Gondolin, Glorfindel was forced to keep many parts of his life a secret. Much of this changed after his second coming to Middle Earth.
Featuring: Glorthelion, intersex!Glorfindel, mpreg, and queerplatonic Glorestor.

"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.

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.

It happens - as always - with no semblance of warning. The ice groans, then shifts, and a channel of dark, swiftly-churning water cleaves open beneath their feet.

“He is my brother,” Ñolofinwë says once more, willing her to understand. “He is half of me. What is a fëa worth if half of itself is gone?”
Ñolofinwë is scared that if he takes all that his brother is, and unravels the braid, takes out all of the love, winds what’s left back together — he is so terribly afraid that it will turn into a bitter hatred so dark and violent it may finally rival his brother’s.
He cannot risk that. He cannot. Better to die with love in his heart than live and become an angry, bitter version of himself.
Or: Ñolofinwë begins coughing up flowers and Fëanáro learns that hatred does not erase the duties of a brother.

Finarfin makes it a rule for his life to stay as far from Tirion and the mess that is his brothers, but during an important festival the house of Finwë gathers to celebrate together. As he tries to cope with the resulting headache, he helps Finrod make a new friend.

On the night after the coronation, the wind was cold. Fires still burned in the north; their light could be seen, flickering on the far reaches of the horizon, but they provided no warmth. A figure stood on the ramparts of the keep at Hithlum, where the ceremony had been held, more solemn than joyous. The wisdom of having so many of the rulers so near the great darkness to the north, given what had happened– what was happening– was questionable, at best. But their luck held. For now.
A conversation between two kings of the Noldor.