New Challenge: Epic 80s
This month's challenge features hundreds of fresh prompts from the bodacious decade of the 1980s.

“If I did not know better,” he says in a low voice, patience frayed thin, “so close do you insist on being to me, that were you anyone else, I would think you are trying to seduce me.”
Ñolofinwë blinks up at him, eyes hazy and unfocused and so very, very blue. “Would it work if I were?” Ñolofinwë asks in the tone of one who is trying very hard to focus.
Fëanáro stares. Locks his jaw and does not allow his mouth to drop open in shock. "I know you are drunk, but do be serious, Ñolofinwë," he snaps after a tense moment of indecision on how to respond to such an absurd statement. "You cannot seduce those you share blood with, no matter how little it may be."
“Should not,” Ñolofinwë says promptly, one hand coming up to clutch at Fëanáro’s shirt. “You should not seduce kin. But it is possible if one wishes to.”
The apocalypse is upon Bree and Middle-Earth! Strange creatures roam the streets, and a fell light shines on the world. (Art for TRSB 2025) (Warning for some flickering.)

A story about stew and how many people cook the same dish across the years. Spanning all the way from the Adanel and her family to the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen.
Across millennia, people come together to share food and good company.

“Melian had but a moment’s warning ere her entire world was violently turned upside down. Maintaining the Girdle came naturally to her these days, without needing her conscious thought or effort. She kept away whoever had no business being in Doriath, shut out the voices and mental attacks that Mairon would hurl at her, hardly noticing that she was doing it at all.
This, however, was different. Very, very different.”
Or: how things might have gone had Morgoth run out of patience waiting for Doriath’s fall.

Long afterwards, Elemmire speaks to a stranger about his most well-known work, the lament for the Two Trees.

“Come on.” Maedhros grabbed his hand and pulled him along down the path, both of them quickening their pace now, until the trees opened up into a wide meadow filled with flowers, bright yellow celandine and dandelions and sweet-scented pale chamomile mingling with cornflowers and irises. On the other side of it was a larger party than Maglor had ever seen in Lórien—five figures sitting in the grass. Huan barked again, and they all looked up. “It seems everyone has come to fetch us home,” Maedhros said, laughing, as all their brothers scrambled to their feet.
After years in Lórien, Maglor and Maedhros are ready to return to their family and to make something new with their lives--but to move forward, all of Fëanor's sons must decide how, or if, they can ever reconcile with their father.

After his exile to Formenos, Feanor locks himself in the vault with the Silmarils. Makalaure goes to him.

Maglor sings the blues.

Nerdanel and Tinweriel stargaze together and have a lovely little evening.

Hemmoril, Maglor's master of horses, has struck up a tenuous friendship with a new ex-thrall in Himring. He invites her to come to the tea gardens where he works to taste a new blend based on some flowers she harvested for him.

Two years ago, in the Summer, Maglor and his brother took in twin elflings on what was the worst day of the children’s lives. Seventy-six years before that, the solstice had heralded their own living nightmare. As the days grow longer and warmer the four of them find ways to help each other reckon with the ghosts of the past.
Written for the Gates of Summer Challenge prompts: “… cast up exhausted on the shoals of August”, Nirnaeth Arnoediad and Loendë (midsummer).

About the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.

One set of twins meets another. A tragic start to the kidnap family, from Amrod's point of view.

Adaptation of the lyrics of a German song to the Legendarium: Zogen einst fünf wilde Schwäne. (With English translation).

Everyone, including the Valar, are convinced that Fingon and Maedhros are romantically involved no matter how many times they explain that they very much are not. When will they get it through their thick skulls that there are other ways to love? Apparently not soon enough. When the Valar decide to involve Maedhros and Fingon in their meddling, it leads to some interesting circumstances.
A queerplatonic take on Maedhros and Fingon's relationship for Russingon Week, with some Gil-Galad parentage exploration for fun.

Drabbles from the life of Emlinn, Maglor's Sindarin student from Brithombar, who is the narrator of my story "The West Wind Quartet".
Insta-drabbles written on the SWG Discord back in December 2020 (which apparently I did not cross-post here?), with another one written in June 2025.
Warnings for some canon-typical violence and angst, and a bit of internalized body dysphoria and bias.

Moments of reflection with Maglor as he comes to terms with grief. A collection of drabbles and other short writings to accompany One in the Deep Waters.

Maeglin tries his hand at the Beginners' prompts of the Matryoshka Challenge (Total crack)

Egalmoth has his fears, when Earendil sets sail, but also pins his hope on him.

Fëanáro was sitting on the floor, his back against the grave marker his father had had made for his mother when her spirit fully settled into Mandos’ Halls.
He was alone on Estë’s island, deep within Lórien’s gardens. Of course he was. When was he not?
Even his father didn’t bother coming anymore.

Compared to Salgant and Bombur, and even compared to Fredegar Bolger, Forlong seems to have the least problems in the Legendarium with being duly respected despite his girth.
But maybe even he had a less good time of it when he was younger.
Set during Aragorn's time in Gondor as Thorongil.

Valandil, Isildur's fourth son and successor, re-enters Annuminas, some years after the victory of the Last Alliance.

Fingolfin does not look up from his book when he hears footsteps approaching and pays no attention to Fëanor walking into the room. What he emphatically does pay attention to is Fëanor going to his knees in front of the chair he is sprawled sideways across and burying his face against Fingolfin’s stomach, both of his hands clenching tight around Fingolfin’s shirt. He blinks down at Fëanor’s head in confusion and runs a hand over his head, dragging his fingers through Fëanor’s hair. “Náro?” he asks quietly. “Has something happened?”

Celegorm suddenly felt like he was suffocating.
In a moment in Himring, Celegorm felt that Huan was dead.

Three years after Arathorn's death, Gilraen receives a letter.
It contains a short poem and a sprig of rosemary.