Character of the Month: Eönwë
This month's biography focuses on Eönwë, who started with a variety of identities but settled into the role of Manwë's herald, exemplifying the values of strong leadership and justice.

Even under the renewed Light of the Trees, after the Last Battle has been fought, Darkness has not fully passed from this world.

“Are you not warmer than you’ve ever been, right here?”

In the library of Imladris, Erestor copies a manuscript and has thoughts about the Valacirca, the Sickle of the Valar.

Lalwen after the Dagor Bragollach.

Indis visits Formenos in the aftermath of the Darkening

A lament for Nargothrond, in the aftermath of the Battle of Tumhalad. (Prose poem, also an exact drabble according to MS Word.)

Nienor contemplates the ephemerality of green things.

Miriel makes a dress for Indis.

The Helcaraxë is an awful place to be.

She had not intended to be a mother.

Mairon sets his plan in motion.

Melkor demands an account of Mairon’s failures.

It was easier than he had thought it would be to leave his name behind—to put on a new one when needed, like changing one set of clothes for another.

He’d ventured into the little fishing village in search of food and maybe a dry place to sleep for a night of rain and wind—he hadn’t expected this, to be bullied into a hot meal and a healer’s attention.

Galadriel finally has room to breathe.

A princess and her sheepdog. (Drabble featuring a young Ancalime.)

“What did you do to your hair?”

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.

Ereinion Gil-galad wants desperately to sail. Being king gets in the way.

An exchange is made during the Great Journey

The Hall of the Glass-cutters in Ost-in-Edhil had four panes of stained glass set in its front. (Drabble.)

There on the shores of the Lonely Isle we abode under the stars, and yet within sight of the radiance of the Blessed Realm.

Even in blissful Aman, Celebrimbor makes swords. (Drabble.)