Fanworks Tagged with General

In which Salgant expresses his love with food.

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Celebrían will not stand among the crowd when Elrond arrives in Valinor, for their private griefs are theirs alone to share.

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In which Celebrían encounters a satsuma plum, the piercing insight of Finrod Felagund, and the two decide to paint each other’s skin. Or, Celebrían and Finrod do trauma recovery in their own unique way.

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Old age creeps upon Tuor, insistent and unsettling, and as sea-longing grows in his heart, Annael guides him on his way.

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Elros recalls the journey from Sirion to Ossiriand and the early days with Maedhros and Maglor. He and Elrond struggle to cope, yet there are new discoveries and small joys still to be found.

Written for the SWG's Great Beleriand Bakeoff Challenge: Olive Bread (19th Dec) Prompt.

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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.

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In the war camps of Beleriand, Finarfin assembles the missing pieces of his family’s history; assembles the bits and pieces that make not-regret calcify into something jagged and uncomfortable, where it makes a home beneath his breastbone.

He meets men whose ancestors used to march beneath his son’s banner. Most of their house, too, is decimated now, a strange, hollow kinship that Finarfin wants to flinch from, and that they weather as they bend their knees to him, seeing someone other than Finarfin. He meets victims of his nephews’ terror; meets those who are left of Fingolfin’s people, of Fingon’s, of Turgon’s. Learns how they passed, each of them falling to blazing heroics and bristling despair, and wonders how any of them are ever meant to return from this. How these serrated, brittle remains of a devastated land are meant to be spit out into Aman’s idle serenity, and not break the world all over.

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Finarfin, the War of Wrath, and the price it demands.

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Maedhros stands at the battlements of Himring and faces Thangorodrim.

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It is a night of joy and anticipation for the royal family of Eglador, for Galadhon and his wife are about to welcome their second child. So while all the family is busy preparing for the new baby's arrival, it falls upon the king himself to put his daughter to bed- his daughter who is adamant that she is not tired at all.
(A friendly nod here to all my German-speaking readers: this story was heavily inspired by one of my favourite children's books "Valerie und die Gute-Nacht-Schaukel" by Mira Lobe. If you know, you know. If not, it is really worth checking out)

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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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Drawing of Finrod discovering a new friend while exploring Beleriand.

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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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He burnt himself to ashes, Makalaurë had told them, voice remarkably steady for one who clearly did not want to speak of it. It had taken several back-and-forths of clarification for Ñolofinwë to realize this was meant in the most literal manner possible. His brother had managed to outshine everyone else even on the matter of death itself, and he had been forced to close his eyes for a long minute for fear that he would start crying or laughing, or worse, both.

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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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