Fanworks Tagged with General

Finrod visits the hobbits for a snack. 

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Various short pieces for the Great Beleriand Bake-Off PLUS! Instadrabbling session that Himring and I cohosted on the SWG's Discord. Maglor learns perfectionism from his father. Nerdanel becomes of the subject of the national epic of ugly girls. 1980s!Maglor discovers Lúthien as a calendar girl, and medieval!Maglor gets paid in gold. Tilion muses on the end of the world and his prophesied violent death.

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On a cold winter day in the Havens of Sirion, Elwing meets two sparrows.

English translation of my fic "En mä ole, lapseni, lintu tästä maasta"

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Eräänä kylmänä talviaamuna Sirionin satamissa Elwing kohtaa kaksi varpusta

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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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The Great Journey viewed from Elwë’s eyes, from the morning of their leaving to the very last Finwë ever heard from him.
(And don’t come at me for the title, I can explain xD I’ve never watched RoP and never will, but I love that song, because to me, that’s totally Elmo’s song. Not guilty at all of fitting everything in my headcanons at all, nooooooo, never.)

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When Maedhros returns from Mandos, re-connecting does not prove easy. Nerdanel is determined to care for her son and finds that she must confront grief along the way.

In my dreams my sons wander at length, lost in pathless woods, ancient, sunless and foreboding. In the waking world, Maedhros breathes and moves before me, but is rarely truly there. I see the dream-wraith Maedhros superimposed over my living son, and am sure he never found a path out of that desolate place. The whispers in my dreams insist he never will.

Written for Scribbles and Drabbles 2025 Prompt #53: Night Watch by Zhie, to whom credit belongs for the artwork below (which can also found here).

Many thanks to Elronds_Library and timelessutterances for beta reading, and Double_Sharp for the conversations on equatorial climate.

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Tilion has always been a dreamer. After a long night wandering star-strewn paths Tilion dreams himself back to Irmo's domain and rests in the gardens.

Written for Scribbles and Drabbles 2025 Prompt #197: Tilion Dreams by Lingwiloke.

Many thanks to Double_sharp for the stimulating conversations and beta reading this one for me!

You can listen to an audio recording of this work here.

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War is never quiet. Not like this. Tonight, there is a hush in which the grass whispers, birds sing undisturbed and brooks murmur gaily, wending their way between the trees, heeding no danger, anticipating no pain. This apparently, is peace. I find it unsettling.

Elrond has never known anything but conflict. As peace settles over the land he must reckon with the unknowns it brings and his place within the future, all while facing the biggest decision of his life.

Written for Scribbles and Drabbles 2025 Prompt #170: Small Birds, Dry Grass by Vinyatar. Their beautiful artwork can be found here.

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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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“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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His life in Valinor.

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Bad dreams?” I ask, and Elrond nods. When I brush against his mind it laps like the tide against some desolate shore, and he stands alone in the washed out landscape. Young eyes rove over a heartless sea where the horizon is empty of all but tossing waves. White cliffs are at his back, reeds peek over sandy dunes southward along the shore, and Elrond’s heart fills with the hollow echo: no longer my home, no longer my home.

There is a new star in the sky and and old fears surface. Maedhros supports through Elrond and Elros through their ensuing emotional turmoil as he battles his own.

Written for the SWG October Challenge 2025: The Only Thing to Fear using the prompt: fear of being alone.

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Cirdan has never felt so old.

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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.

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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.

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Finarfin wishes for a simple end

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And Celegorm? Well, Celegorm simply wants a fight, wants revenge, wants to see his debts repaid. He wants to tear that godforsaken forest apart piece by piece, one step further on the inescapable road to their inevitable end.

He knows of monsters, after all. Knows how to speak their tongue, how to coax them along. His brothers, by then, are hardly any different.

Celegorm wants it all to end. He cares little, now, for how they will achieve such a thing.
 

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The Fëanorians, the Second Kinslaying, and how they all reached that point—an attempt to trace their fall from grace, from Valinor to Doriath.

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“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.

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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.

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"I think something is going to happen soon.”
“Something good or something bad?” Maglor asked.
“Something important,” Elros said, looking suddenly very serious and far older than his years. He and Elrond both looked at Maglor with starlit eyes under shadowy hair, Melian’s children whom the birds and the stars would both love.

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On a sunny day in spring, Frodo got the urge to go north and west, up into Arnor, which was still quite wild and uninhabited outside of newly-built Annúminas, and the slow trickle of work happening around the ruins of Fornost, which even the Dúnedain were still sometimes reluctant to visit. When he spoke of his plan, his dad told him to remember to pack enough food and not to forget a bit of rope, and his mother said not to forget his cloak. Most of his siblings were too young yet to be permitted to go along, but Elanor immediately asked if he wanted company.

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The land of Dor-Lómin welcomes a displaced Easterling woman after Nírnaeth Arnoediad. Theirs is a short-lived yet reverent kinship.

Written for the SWG Jumble Sale Challenge September 2025. Sold! One Headstrong rake!

The challenge was to have a character with an identity from Middle Earth is Multitudes interact with the setting-as-character as in Living Lands, in a way that explores nature vs civilization. 

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As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Galadriel looked up to find Celeborn following. “What is it you seek?” he asked as she filled the silver ewer from the clear and cold waters of the stream.
“My cousin,” she said as she turned to the silver basin. “It is a new Age; if he lives still, I would find him and bring an end to his long exile.”

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Fëanor did not know how to explain the ill-defined uneasiness and the almost instinctual dislike he felt, how impossible it was to reconcile the impression he had gotten from the tapestry in Mandos to the reality of Daeron in person, in life. “He seems careless,” he said, because he did not know how else to explain. 

“That is certainly not true,” said Nerdanel, “though I know well that I cannot expect you to take my word for it. It is long since you placed any trust in anyone’s judgment aside from your own, flawed though it is.”

Midwinter is meant to be a time of feasting and merriment, but Fëanor does not find it so, especially with Daeron of Doriath in attendance. 

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"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.

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Hador has been granted the lordship of Dor-lomin. Persuading his father to relocate there from the southern slopes of Ered Wethrin will not be easy, though.

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