In Tirion, science advances one departure across an ice bridge at a time.

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
Eru Ilúvatar made them all.

For an Age of the world, Valinorean readers have devoured Doctor Heriel's bestselling tales of animal leeching in the beautiful environs of the Elf-city of Alqualondë. This new translation into Westron will introduce a generation of readers in the Eastern Lands to the gentleness of spirit, warm humor, and love for the animal world that have secured Doctor Heriel's literary reputation across the Sea.

The tide played around the horizon, only beginning to consider its daily sweep up the beach to the toes of Alqualondë. Eärwen waved to the far-off breakers and slid down to the wet sand, then turned and lifted Anaïre down. Anaïre pecked her on the cheek in thanks, and they started up the beach to the strand and the woman lying there sobbing for breath.

She did look young, close-up. That is, she looked like an Elf who had just reached full maturity, except where she did not. Around the eyes she bore little crinkles like the seafarers did, on her heaving belly the lightning-marks of pregnancy, and two fascinating rivers of silver ran into the light-gulping blackness of her hair from the temples. And, of course, there were the feathers

As the bells began to ring alarms at another five black-sailed Corsair ships hoving into view, Ulloth’s mind and pen alighted upon the pelargoloth, her namesake, the common and beloved flower of the city’s balconies and courtyards, just opening its scarlet petals with the dawn of the the Second Siege of Pelargir.

Rúmil invents writing only half on purpose.

Elwing weaves for her children.

Ways of smiling at grief.

One hungry year after the first fleet of Edain landed on Númenor's shores, still wet with seawater, ships arrive in Rómenna from the west.

A brief interlude in the life of a fox with a job to do.

A letter comes to the Lonely Mountain from Bag End, requesting a large number of birthday gifts for Bilbo's upcoming eleventy-first birthday. The Mountain gets to work immediately.

Elanor sits down to make a copy of the Red Book.

Follow the blue roads of Arda.

Goldberry has a song for each season.

Lothíriel finds many things in Rohan unsettling, but none so much as her future sister-in-law.

Nori's not really a protest sort of person. Dwalin, apparently, is.

The ship diminishes against the horizon, the sun rising to brighten the waves, the curve of Eärendil’s arm falling as his figure becomes smaller, turning away.

Uinen’s mercy, Elwing thinks, and bites her tongue rather than pray.

A podfic of a story by Simaetha. 

Dwalin has the mountains under her skin.

The light enters the room before Éowyn does, a rolling dry heat with it; just enough warning for Faramir to close one book and open another. She enters hard on its heels. 'Hail, Steward, from the south fair tidings,' she says, pulling off her helm halfway through, so the words are muffled. 'I can’t stay long. I came to give you word of Harad and your brother.' (A Galadriel-accepts-the-ring AU.)

“We can’t all be as pleasant as hobbits,” Dis said. The hobbit in question tossed her head back, black curls bouncing and glinting in the late afternoon light, and laughed.

“You’ve met few hobbits then,” she replied, still smiling. “I’ve often thought we’re the most contentious race in all the lands.”

“You’ve met few dwarves then." Dis was rewarded with more laughter, and then all of a sudden, the hobbit was plopping herself down on the bench beside Dis, fishing out her own pipe.

Dis meets an unexpected companion as she waits in Rivendell.

Nerdanel crafts her first sculpture of strange but beautiful shape.