Fanworks Tagged with Drama

She had considered, for a brief while, volunteering to take her mother’s place. To run and hide the two of them away on the coast, well away from the dangers of the north. But her brother deserved better than that. If he could not have both parents, then he should at least have one, and not just an older sister who knew nothing of raising children. And besides, her father needed her here. She was still his heir apparent. The first resort and line of defense. It was her who had the training and the knowledge to lead their people if anything should happen to their lord, and the lineage to reinforce her claim. But something deep in her chest, sitting somewhere behind her still-beating heart, went sharp at the thought. If she did take her father’s place, she feared it would not be for long.

Sighing, she lifted her baby brother up and kissed his forehead. His skin was still soft, the way that infants’ was. This might be the last time she would ever see him.

What a burden to place on the shoulders of a child who was only just seeing his first winter

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Curufin lets Finrod say goodbye.

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Aegnor cut him off, eyes blazing in self-defense as he slipped into the half-forbidden tongue of their mother’s people. “I did not know that you knew each other when—”

“That does not matter!” Finrod said, also dropping Sindarin in favor of Telerin. It was easier to argue in the language of their childhood rather than diplomacy. Besides, it afforded them some privacy. “It shouldn’t matter whether she knew me or not! You should not have done this!”

or: Aegnor panics, makes a decision, and goes to his oldest brother for validation. It does not end well.

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Galadriel could never have been expected to take the news of Finrod's death well.

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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.”

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As a very young elfling, Mablung's heart chooses its companion, and Mablung stays true to this love until the end of his life in Middle-Earth.

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On the day I became a god the darkness of the night sky shone as bright as the future ahead of me - swallowing whole what shan't have been for alms were a currency owned by the rich...

...or a gift too many during the crossing of the Helcaraxë.

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There is a creaking in his ear, a rumble born low to rise above and beyond and the sound of glass shattering. There is blood on his lips - and shards in his eyes.

His heart 𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠 .

“I 𝑎𝑚 sorry, Atya.”

Maglor still doesn’t know - and it’s 𝑘𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 him.

“I am 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦."

...or another world slowly falling apart as Maglor struggles to Forget-Me-N̶o̶t̶s̶.

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With any luck, he will simply be able to keep Finrod alive until Beren gets himself killed as he is destined to do, and then he can drag Finrod back to Nargothrond alive and well. It will not be an end that leaves Finrod once more in Curufin’s bed, but it will be an end that he can live with. Curufin needs Finrod to live, every other ending leaving him with bile on his tongue and nausea haunting him. He knows this is foolish. He knows he is ruining the carefully crafted plans he’s been building for years, cutting all the strings he’d been ready to carefully pull, but when he closes his eyes—

When he closes his eyes, he sees blood caught in the dulled yellow of Finrod’s hair, blood on his mouth, his cheeks, blood weeping from his throat. Curufin closes his eyes and cannot bear to keep them closed.

“We are going with you,” he says simply, the words like ash in his mouth.

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Pengolodh interviews a kinslayer.

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Scenes (often domestic, sometimes intimate) from life in Mordor from the fall of Númenor to the Last Alliance.

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The Darkest Timeline AU for my Steampunk Númenor series.

In which the Mouth of Sauron is originally a Númenorean chemister rescued from Ar-Pharazôn's intimate attentions by Sauron himself.

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Before Círdan can sail West he has one last task to complete: find Maglor Fëanorion and bring him home. Aided by the capricious maia of the sea, Ossë, it does not prove difficult to find him. The trouble is, Maglor does not want to come.

Written for Scribbles and Drabbles 2025 Prompt #89: Guided by the Lonely Star by Maglor My Beloved, whose artwork can be found here.

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In the wake of the Final Battle of the Last Alliance, Erestor struggles to keep moving and to reach out to friends and family.

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The elves of Beleriand lose the first battle against Morgoth. The Noldor find the free lands they'd been looking for. Lúthien is on the warpath.
And the First Age still is as bloody as it is in canon.
(Please read the author's notes, there will reading-instructions, as this is my first attempt at a deconstructed fic)

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Elured and Elurin watch their world burn.

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“What if,” said Manwë, regarding Maedhros with star-bright eyes, blue as sapphires and piercing as blades, “you were sent from these Halls for a purpose, son of Fëanáro?”
“I suppose, my lord,” Maedhros said slowly, “that would depend upon the purpose.”

Maedhros is sent back to Middle-earth, in the company of the Maia Olórin. 

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Taking my boys out of Doriath and into a modern AU, so they can be sweethearts without me tearing the relationship between Elu and Melian apart.
On their last day of term, Elu comes home from uni sick. Mablung knows how to make him better.

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The day Melkor was almost overcome by the only creature more vile than himself.

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Finrod is not fool enough to have missed the way Curufin, too, at times looks at him. Is not fool enough to make himself believe that his own attraction is some new thing, something only pushing to the surface now that they are trapped together like this, the undeniable way Curufin had saved Finrod from a worse fate, tonight.

Not that Finrod will ever thank him for it; he cannot. But he knows Curufin’s sharp-tongued, bristling demeanour for what it is, and it does not change that the two of them, whatever lies between them, are a cataclysm waiting to happen. Does not change that, in truth, Finrod should be careful to turn his back, lest he find a knife in it.

And yet.

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Curufin and Finrod get snowed in. It goes about as well as can be expected.

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In the corner of his eye, Finrod’s form morphs and twists, dark spots against the flickering light like gore and blood on sun-kissed skin.

Is this what he did to you? Curufin had asked once, one of the first times—drunk, not-grieving, his mind a war zone. Finrod had smiled at him then, almost tenderly. It revealed the gorge within his well-loved cheek, and Curufin would have flinched if not for the memory of pressing his fingers there, a coward’s imitation of intimacy.

“Worse,” Finrod’s ghost had said, and then had vanished, leaving Curufin to the rolling nausea of sour wine on an empty stomach.

---

On the eve of the battle for Doriath, Finrod pays a visit—or rather, whatever is left of him does.

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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.

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

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"Gather your strength, Daeron. I will get you to the Ford of Bruinen.”
“Will you swear it, kinslayer?” Daeron asked, voice heavy with irony and with something else Maglor couldn’t quite identify. 
He paused for a moment. Then he said, “Yes.” 

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Argon falls.

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"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.

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