Fëanor shrugged, studying the contents of his wine glass. “Something must be done about that house. It will fall down eventually.”
“It does not follow that it must be you that tears it down single-handedly. Are you sure you do not want help?”
“It’s not as though I have much else to do. I need to build something new there,” he said after a few moments. “To do that, I must first clear away the old and broken things.”

Decades out of Mandos, too many things in Fëanor's life remain broken. He can't do anything except wait for his sons to come to him, but he can do something about the old and crumbling house where they once lived. 

Passing headlights sweep across the wall, yellow and striped through the blinds. In the distance a siren wails, and in the dark, quiet hotel room they lie facing each other, each curled toward the other like parentheses, with thousands of years of history tucked between them.

Following Maglor as he suffers through captivity in Dol Guldur, and his journey to healing afterward. 

It was only the second time Finwë had come out foraging with them, and of course this would happen—of course the Hunter would come, the Dark Rider on his steed with its terrible, heavy footfalls, and the deep-throated laughter that held no mirth, only malice. 

In the dark woods near the Waters of Awakening, Finwë's brothers are taken.

In Valinor, when the Trees wither, Finwë is slain.

In the Fourth Age, things take place long thought impossible.

a collection of drabbles and mini ficlets in the meanwhile the world goes on 'verse that aren't long enough to stand on their own

“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.

“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. 

“Then,” Frodo said, “if I were able to, I should be thanking him. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for those Rings. And—well, Sam said once recently that we’re really all just part of the same story as the one about you and your brothers, and Beren and Lúthien, and Eärendil, and all the rest. I’ve got this star-glass that Lady Galadriel made for me, and it’s got the light of Eärendil’s star in it, which is the light of the Silmaril that your father made, isn’t it? And Sam and I never would have made it without this glass—so I’ve got Lady Galadriel and Eärendil and Fëanor to thank too."

Frodo speaks with Maglor in Minas Tirith.

Some years later, in Valinor, he meets Celebrimbor.

He turned to find a pair of kittens, one white with black socks and the other black with white-tipped ears, chasing a piece of string around as an elf dragged it across the flagstones. He sat cross-legged on the ground, rather than on the bench beside him; when he looked up his eyes were bright, and his smile was easy. “Good afternoon!” he said. “You must be Master Samwise. Are you lost?”

“I beg your pardon!” Sam said, hurriedly bowing. “I seem to have gotten turned around somewhere.”

Sam meets Maglor, first in Rivendell and again in Minas Tirith.

Princess Findis was resplendent, luminous in a silver gown shimmering with diamonds and pearls, and with diamonds in her long golden hair, so that she seemed to be a living embodiment of the Mingling Trees—an effect only made stronger by the bright emerald of her eyes. No matter where Elemmírë looked over the course of the night she saw the princess, and more than once she found the princess looking back. 

“There’s a goblin hiding in the taters, Dad!” Pippin hefted the pan, which was much too big for him to carry, let alone wield.

Finrod visits the hobbits for a snack. 

"Gather your strength, Daeron. I will get you to the Ford of Bruinen.”
“Will you swear it, kinslayer?” Daeron asked, voice heavy with irony and with something else Maglor couldn’t quite identify. 
He paused for a moment. Then he said, “Yes.” 

"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.

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.

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.”

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. 

"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.

Then Dírhavel sung of Túrin’s flight north after the Fall of Nargothrond, past the defiled waters of Ivrin as he sought for the Princess Finduilas Faelivrin, and Tuor rose suddenly from his seat, passing out of the hall without a word. 

...everyone here seemed to think Daeron should return to them equally unchanged, the same merry minstrel he had been long ago before the Girdle had been breached. He was yet a minstrel, and he was often merry, but he had seen and done so much that so many here could never even imagine. He had come very close to death more than once, and yet survived. He did not care what others might think of him, really—except for a select few—but it would be tiresome to be always catching them off guard, and his love for one of the sons of Fëanor would catch many very much off guard, he knew.

Daeron settles back in among his own people, travels to Tirion--and meets Fëanor.