~ The Thread Spinner ~ by Spiced Wine

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Chapter 5 ~ Words Over Wine ~

Map used from the Lindëfirion site.

http://lindefirion.net/maps/north-western_middle-earth.jpg

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~ Words Over Wine ~

After the simple fare of travel, adequate though it was, the supper Mélamírë sat down to was a feast. No doubt the cooks had bustled about to prepare their noble guest the best the caravansary could offer. After the bath and massage, her hunger sated, Mélamírë, a fiery star of brandy glowing in her stomach felt better, at least in body, than she had for a long while. The gown she had changed into was cool and heavy against her clean body. She had allowed her hair to fall free down her back.
After she had dressed slave had opened a little casket, showing her a golden circlet from which depended a diamond the shape of a teardrop. The stone was flawless, blazing blue-white fire.
‘For you to wear, my Lady, from the Prince.’ A look of awe and envy was in the black eyes.

‘Where would he get this?’ she wondered, not imagining that he just happened to have it laying around, but tried it on nevertheless. It was not fashioned like the circlet Elven nobility occasionally wore, neither was it as fine, but it was beautiful in its simplicity and the gem itself was superb. She looked at her reflection in the polished bronze mirror. The diamond shone above her brows. It made her eyes look exotic, the silver stars in them burning back in challenge to the stone.

‘May I ask you something?’

‘Of course, Istyanis.’ Vanimórë smiled.

The fretted lamps cast starry patterns on ceiling and wall. The doors were shut against the night, although now and then she could hear a strain of music, the bellow of a camel or restive mule.
‘Do I remind you,’ she asked slowly, carefully, ‘of your sister?’

He regarded her for a moment in silence. ‘Only that thou art dark and lovely as she was. Her eyes were a darker grey.’

‘What was she like?’ She let the compliment go; not considering herself beautiful by the standards of her people.

He smiled as if at a memory. ‘She was kind,’ he said, slowly. ‘In Tol-in-Gaurhoth, even in Angband, there was a light about her, like some lost star dropped into the darkness, but still shining.’ He linked his hands about one knee. ‘I wish I could know what she might have grown to be, had she lived. But it was a cruel fate she was born to, a cruel Age. She was gentle of heart.’

Some stray finger of wind stirred, send a candle-flame dancing. Mélamírë glanced at it.

‘I thought he ignored her,’ Vanimórë said with a slight shake of his head. ‘that they both did, I hoped so, for that was her safety. There were Elven thralls in Angband, and they...’ He stopped.

‘I know.’ Or at least she had heard tales.

‘And then...one day, there she was, dressed like a princess in plundered finery, her hair falling about her, and said she was summoned to Melkor, asked me if I knew why. Gods help her! though they never did. I knew. Of course.’

Mélamírë had not touched him save for that short, angry burst of tears in Saikan when she had beaten her fist against his unyielding shoulder. He was hard, hard as beaten metal, for all his charm, but there was a reason for that. More than one reason. She moved across to him, settled a hand on his. His skin burned as if with a fever. No. That is Sauron’s blood, like a forge fire.
‘Enough.’ I’m sorry.

‘There is little more to tell. I had been training since we came to Angband. I could snap an orcs neck with ease. The large breeds have very thick necks. Hers was slender, like thine.’

She could not control the flinch, the jerk of her hand. She closed it into a fist.
‘That is appalling,’ she managed.

‘There was no other way.’ There was that ice again, ice and steel, the withdrawal.

‘I meant that you had to do such a thing!’

‘She did not feel anything. I know that. Our minds were so close.’

But you did. You felt it then and you feel it now.
‘What did he do to you, Sauron?’

He said, as if it did not matter at all: ‘He gave me to Melkor in Vanya’s stead.’

She came to her feet, looked down at him. Dark light blazed at the back on these purple eyes, hate like acid, and all directed inward. Turning away from it, she paced the room until she came to where he had hung his sword harness. What could one say to that? And would her father have done the same to her? Offered me to Melkor? The thought could not be borne; that was a path she did not want to tread, even in speculation. She curled her finger’s around one of the sword-hilts, the leather grip indented by the pressure of his hand.
‘May I?’

‘Only if I have thy promise not to cut my head off,’ he said, straight-faced. ‘I admit I did take pleasure in looking at thee in the baths, but I did not know thou wouldst come in.’

She cast her eyes ceilingward. ‘I’ll try to resist the temptation.’ And drew one of the swords; slim, slightly curved, they bore no runes or other decoration, but their balance was beautiful, their song like ice and swift, clean death.
‘You made these?’

‘I always make my own weapons, yes, but I am no craftsman. I just learned somewhat.’

‘He taught you?’

The collusion of ‘he’, sharing the unsharable.

‘Not at first, it was an Elven thrall, but after, when Melkor was defeated, yes, he did teach me a little.’

Her eyes narrowed over the blade. ‘Did you know about the One Ring?’

‘I knew. I told him it was a stupid idea.’

Surprising herself, she laughed, the gurgle escaping from deep in her belly. ‘Did you now?’

His mouth quirked in response. ‘I did understands his reasons for it, and it was audacious and brilliant, but really? Considering what happened, at least here, there were some definite flaws in his grand design, wouldst thou not agree?’

‘Yes.’ Her humour vanished, leaving an aching emptiness. ‘If that is going to happen in my Middle-earth. But it would never balance the scales, Vanimórë, not as such a cost.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘It did not.’ He refilled each of their glasses with a tot of emberwine. ‘Canst thou wield a blade? Thou art holding that to some purpose.’

‘I’ve not held swords like this, but Golodhren women are trained to use weapons in times of great need.’

He said, ‘I jested a little, but thou wilt not have to use that to protect thyself from me, and I do not think thou wouldst have come here if thou wert afraid I would act ungentlemanly.’

She stared at him. ‘I did not think that at all,’ she refuted fiercely. ‘And you are quite right. I would not have come to your rooms if I believed you would would try to force yourself on me. Anyhow,’ she added candidly, ‘I asked the slave-girl if it was arranged.’

His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘I would not stoop to such stratagems, but after thine experiences in Barad-dûr, thou hast every right to be wary. But I do not,’ he said with complete seriousness and, she thought, honesty, ‘force myself upon women.’

‘Why, what do you do then, woo them with diamonds?’ She lifted her brows at him. ‘Well?’

He sighed. ‘Thou hast been through much trauma, Istyanis. It is only a pretty thing that might have made thee feel a little better. I bought it from Tonda-kai. Brought it back from him in fact; it was made in Sud Sicanna. And I have very little experience — almost none would be more accurate! — in wooing women.’

‘I imagine you don’t need any.’ If she had indeed picked up this sword from a subconscious fear of attack, she was more scarred than she thought. No. I know I am scarred. And he is intimidating. But she was a little ashamed of herself.

‘I doubt any ruler needs to woo women,’ he said cynically.

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘Most of the women I have known are of the South and East,’he explained. ‘And are afraid of me, at least at first. The slave who served thee was frightened of thee, also.’

She twirled the blade in her hand, feeling its balance, feeling also the blood it had drunk, like an ululating moan within the steel. ‘Yes, I saw that. It irritated me, made me feel uncomfortable.’

‘I used to feel the same.’

‘Not now?’ She lifted a brow at him.

‘I am accustomed to it now, but there are still times which anger me,’ he said. ‘When I took the rule of Sud Sicanna I also inherited the boys and women of the seraglio.’

She stilled the sword, lifted her brows. He put up a hand as if to forestall her protest.
‘That bastard — whom I took great pleasure in killing, used to have them herded out of the palace periodically, into the streets. Thou canst guess what happened to them.’ He smiled with no humour at all. ‘They thought I would do the same, and what is more natural they should affect to desire me? That is survival, Istyanis, it is an act of desperation. I would not take advantage of such fear.’

Mélamírë sat down again, balancing the blade across her knees.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Although, with your upbringing, I admit to being a little surprised. What did you do with them?’

‘Nothing,’ he said scornfully. ‘They were free to remain there or to leave, and had the freedom of the palace. I provided them with money, or apprenticed them to trades. Several of the women wed soldiers and guards, of their own will. I am a slave, myself. I am free at the moment, yes, but not for long. In Mordor, and beyond, I am known as the Slave. His slave. It is a title.’

‘You are also called the Dark Prince.’

He lifted one shoulder. ‘It is just a name. I could be called god-emperor of the stars. What I am, is a slave.’

Slowly, she moved to the sword-sheath, pushed the blade home. He could be any or all of those things, but he was also a little blind, a slave who added more chains to himself. But perhaps that is because he is Sauron’s son and trying not to be. She knew how that felt! She thought of the self-mockery that lilted in his words, mockery that dipped into self-hatred. It alarmed her because she could see it would be so easy to follow that path herself. She had already trodden the first steps.
‘I’ll make you a pair of swords.’ It was not what she had meant to say, but perhaps it was what she had been thinking.

He looked faintly surprised. ‘I thought thou wouldst be working on the scrying device?’

‘That too, of course. Making the swords will be—‘ She showed her teeth. ‘relaxing for me. The calculations for the device were excruciating. I remember them, but it will still require intense concentration.’

‘Then I thank thee, Istyanis.’ There was a smile in his eyes.

‘Call them a gift,’ she said briskly, pulling her mental musings into order. ‘Now, let us talk of him. There is something that plays on my mind.’

He raised his brows. ‘Yes? Only one thing?’

She flicked a hand in his direction. ‘Hush!’ His eyes widened with a spark of internal laughter. ‘One thing in particular at this moment.’ He was giving her such a look of innocent obedience her mouth pulled into a smile. ‘Careful.’

‘Yes, Istyanis.’

‘Did you wink at me?’ she demanded.

His eyes danced. ‘I would never so presume, Istyanis. I have a...nervous tic.

‘Of course you do.’ She shook her head at him. ‘Seriously now...You said that after the Ring was cut from his hand that you could barely feel Sauron, that he was...reduced. That was your word.’

‘Yes. There was nothing left of his form. I was there. The explosion of power knocked me unconscious. I would have thought him dead save that I knew he was not. I could still feel him, if faintly.’ His eyes searched her face, all laughter gone. ‘What art thou thinking?’

‘I am not sure.’ Her fingers tightened on the cushion. ‘If he was that weak...then his spirit could be captured...maybe.’*

‘Like the tribesmen tell of capturing a Jinn in a magical bottle?’ She glared at him but he was not smiling, and said, ‘Something like that.’

He hummed. ‘Thou wouldst have to lure him into such a trap. And perhaps thou couldst, while he was still weak.’ He had stressed the ‘thou’.

She stared into a time and place far beyond the room, this manifestation of Middle-earth. ‘I must think about it.’ Her eyes focussed again, fingers rubbing over her mithril ring. ‘But first to return to my own world.’

‘I cannot imagine how thou must feel,’ he said gently, with that deep kindness that somehow existed very near the core of him. But my father was kind too. Or was that all pretence as he watched from somewhere behind his eyes, and laughed at us for being gullible fools? Was it? Would she ever know? She pulled herself away from that thought, turned toward another, one of hope, moulded out of gold, with that mass of burnished hair and starlit grey eyes, the aura of power and intelligence that drew eyes like a magnet.
‘You said you were captured by the...Last Alliance?’ Even the name spoke of endings, of a world that would never return.

‘Yes. I was their prisoner of war for the years of the siege of Barad-dûr.’

‘Why were you put into Glorfindel’s charge?’

‘He came to the tent where I was guarded. He asked me what I was, whom I was. He knew something.’ The most infinitesimal of smiles hovered.

It was all there to read; she had seen the backward look he gave the memory when they spoke in Saikan. ‘You were lovers. Weren’t you?’

He was unperturbed. ‘I would not name it thus. The word implies some kind of romantic connection.’ Then he laughed, white teeth gleaming. ‘And I would give half my wealth to see the reaction of both Glorfindel’s if they knew that they were the ‘lover’ of the son of Sauron in one Middle-earth and the daughter of Sauron in another.’

Part of her could admit it was amusing.

‘They are not the same person,’ he reassured her. ‘And it was war, Lady, a siege, a dragging, brutal siege. He was not unfaithful to thee.’

‘No of course not,’ she said irritably. ‘How could he be? That was just a...reflex.’ Not the same Glorfindel, but love and logic were not natural bedfellows.

‘A perfectly normal one.’ He wagged a finger, quoting her own words back, mischief glinting in his eyes.

‘We were going to marry.’ She smothered the jealousy. ‘But Elves do not marry in times of war.’ He had drawn away from her, cooling, cleaving to his high ideals, to the Laws and Customs. She had sent him back the betrothal ring, melted.

‘Thou art speaking of those hoary old Eldarin Laws?’ He was so contemptuous that she started out of her preoccupation. ‘The ones imposed on the Elves of Aman by the Valar? Who punish those who love their own gender.’

‘But that’s outrageous,’ she exclaimed scornfully. ‘And absurd besides.’

‘I agree. So thou canst see why I would never go to Valinor.’

She thought of her own explorations of sex, ones she did not regret in the slightest and later, dear Dísa,** the dwarf-woman, whose deathbed she had attended, and found herself suddenly burning with a sense of injustice.
‘I would not go, myself,’ she said. ‘I definitely don’t think I would fit their spotless ideal. But they are not the same in my world, Vanimórë.’

‘I wish they were not the same in any world, but I suppose anything that is possible must exist somewhere. Unfortunately, that ‘somewhere’ is here.’

‘Yet Glorfindel and you...?’

‘What would either of us care? He had already died once, and his fate is in his own hands. As is mine.’

‘I think I would like to talk to your Glorfindel.’

‘I am sure he would not like to be called that.’ His eyes were sparkling with mirth. ‘I think he should speak to thine own Glorfindel, perhaps punch him in the face for being a fool.’

‘Leave that to me,’ she said grimly. You and I, Glorfindel, are going to have a long talk, one day. ‘He tried to persuade me to leave the city, but why should I? Why should I leave my home, my craft, everything — everyone — I knew and loved, for fear of Sauron.’ She spat the name.

‘I would feel the same,’ he said. ‘I could speak to Glofindel.’ He tapped a finger to his head. ‘Mind-to-mind. We do have a connection. I never have, but—‘

Mélamírë said, vehemently, ‘No.’ But she folded the idea away for later perusal.

‘I do not doubt thou canst create the scrying device alone,’ he assured her. ‘But there may be some way in which he can help. he is Aman-born and has dwelt in the Halls of the Dead which are beyond Time.’

She stared at her ring, thinking. It was too complex, although she had ever thrived on complexity; it was challenge. She had a vision of Glorfindel after Glorfindel in world after world, of herself, of her father. It was dizzying.
‘It’s not Glorfindel I want to reach,’ she said unwillingly, because it was not altogether true. ‘You see, I created the device for Galadriel of Laurelindórand. It is she I want to reach with mine.’

‘Galadriel.’ He seemed to consider. ‘What if thou doth reach the Galadriel in this one — assuming she has a similar device, and I do not know that. My father thinks she has one of the Three Elven Rings of Eregion.’ He threw her a tight smile.

She slammed her mind shut, looked at him without blinking. ‘Of course I wouldn’t know. As to your question: I might, but the Threads weave through Time and Space. I can only hope...and experiment.’ Though seeing through the Threads was one thing, moving through them another. But I have done it, so it’s possible. Hold to that.
‘You might want to return with me.’ She was not altogether jesting. ‘If my father cannot follow me here, then yours could not follow you, either, and although I believe that the Valar are...shall we say, flawed? I cannot imagine they would be even half as terrible as the ones you speak of.’

‘Tempting,’ he said. ‘But I would have no place there.’

‘Don’t be a fool.’ she said sharply. ‘I have to make a place for myself here, at least temporarily. You have skills, experience, you could put them to use without him binding you. The Elves there don’t know you.’

Slowly, he shook his head. The simple gesture held a world of decision. ‘Istyanis, neither of us know that Sauron cannot follow thee here, though I hope he cannot. I could not risk him seeking me out. I would not like to be the reason he came to thine own world. One is more than enough.’

‘Would he follow you, if he could?’ she wondered.

Vanimórë crooked his brows. ‘Who knows? I am not irreplaceable,’ he said slowly. ‘I think he would be angry, but whether he would bother to try and follow me...? Anyhow, I could not risk it.’

Mélamírë felt the burn of his mind, let her own reach to enmesh with it. He retreated behind those steel doors, but what she felt, shook her. Star’s Blood! He wouldn’t know how to live without Sauron, for all his words. He does hate his father, but he would be like a ship unmoored without him. All he’s done is wait for Sauron to call him back.

‘Very well,’ she said, and tossed back the brandy. ‘Enough of that for now. Can we go back to the time after the War of Wrath? I want to know what happened between then and Ost-in-Edhil.’

‘Of course,’ Vanimórë said. ‘But why?’

‘I want to judge how similar both histories are.’ It was important, she felt, although she was unsure how useful it would be. But knowledge is never wasted.

‘It will be necessarily tilted toward my own experiences, what he told me, news I gleaned,’ he warned her.

‘It will do,’ Mélamírë said. ‘for a beginning.’

OooOooO

She could not sleep.

Vanimórë had opened his mind to her again to show her images that she could not accept. Or rather, she could accept that they had happened here, and hoped to Ilúvatar that they were not going to happen in her own world. But she feared they might; this past was too similar to her own.

Númenor destroyed after its king, thirsting for immortality, fell to her father’s manipulations. Sauron (’Tar-Mairon, he called himself’) spilling blood to the shade of Melkor. Had not he always said that Mortals would never lose their desire for deathlessness, that always, under their friendliness toward the Elves, even their love, lay envy, the feeling they had been robbed of the gift?

But a whole island? Her thoughts ran up against a wall. She could not believe every single person on Númenor had deserved such a fate. That some had escaped the Downfall, as Vanimórë said the survivors named it ’(Akâllabeth, the Downfallen)’ and founded kingdoms in Middle-earth, was little comfort. She was shrewd enough to know that cataclysm, like plagues, like famines, affected the poorest, the weakest, those who could not escape.

She turned over, lay on her stomach, head pillowed on her arms, drawing images in her mind from his words: the building of the kingdoms, Gondor in the South, Arnor in the North, the great cities and citadels of the South-kingdom: Minas Anor, on the last spur of the White Mountains, Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Moon, on the very borders of Mordor. Osgiliath on Anduin, the greatest of them all.

‘And Gil-galad’s kingdom had grown during Sauron’s sojourn in Númenor,’ Vanimórë had said. ’He was threatened. And he hated the men of Westernessë after they came to Gil-galad’s aid in the Wars of Eregion.’

And then...The Last Alliance of Men and Elves. Such a mournful name! The end of an Age.

There was not much to tell after that. Vanimórë had heard that Lindon had virtually collapsed as a kingdom. He assumed, but did not know, that many of its people might have taken ship, or removed to the Grey Havens or Imladris. Gondor, itself weakened, had been subject to attacks from the Easterlings and Southrons. ’Not Sud Sicanna, no,’ he said disinterestedly. ’I have no real quarrel with Gondor.’
Isildur, whom had taken the One Ring, had been killed not long after, ambushed, it was said, by orcs.

So where is the One, now?

Again, she rolled over, looked up at the ceiling. The one lamp she had left alight still burned, small and warm.

What she ought to do was try and find it.

’The Gladden Fields, it is called. At least that is where they know Isildur was ambushed.’

Immediately, a surge of horror spiked through her. The One repelled her, even the thought of it, and it seemed to have had some unholy effect upon Isildur, possessing him to his own destruction. But he is not the Maker’s daughter. What would that shining abomination feel like on her finger? Her own mithril ring seemed to pulse. She closed her other hand over it.

What she wanted to do was go north, to Imladris, to see Glorfindel. Except he was not the same man she had been betrothed to. (But what if he is?) Because, even now, she was not devoid of humour, she toyed with the idea of marrying two Glorfindel’s. Now there was a thought. Her lips quirked, a chuckle escaping. Laughter was an anodyne for grief, the torn edges of sanity.

But ‘should’ and ‘want’ notwithstanding, what she must do was travel to Sud Sicanna and make another Mirror. Perhaps it would ‘entangle’ with Galadriel’s. Perhaps Galadriel — or Glorfindel — or Elrond, or some-one would have the knowledge she needed. And perhaps not. She probably knew as much as anyone on Middle-earth about the Threads of Vairë. Except him and he, thank the Stars, was not in evidence.

Too many damned ‘perhaps’s she thought. Go to sleep.

‘Sleep, Náryen, came that rich, deep memory-voice out of her past. I am here. Sleep.. She twisted away from it.

Náryen. A voice of hot-irons and cruelty. Cursing, she sat up.

Náryen? Softer, distant, like the tiny tap-tap-tap of spider-feet, all cold-tempered malice and curiosity. Her mind swung, startled, toward it.

Shadows hunched, slid across the room.

Just shadows. The night was silent.

Istyanis? Vanimórë’s voice, deep and reassuring as a hand on the shoulder. All will be well. Sleep.

All would be well. It had to be. She had to rebuild her life out of the ruin of betrayal. She had to go home.

She thought of her father’s ambitions for her wondering, with teeth at her heart, how one whom had existed so long, and whom had lived among humans, could yet be so ignorant. Perhaps that would be his downfall in the end, some facet of humanity that he couldn’t comprehend, smaller than the clash of armies, yet greater, would slide past his assurance, his arrogance, his power, and bring him down.

Sleep, her father whispered across the years, from a time that would never come again, lost in the ashes of Ost-in-Edhil, in the shadows of the Barad-dûr. All will be well, meldanya. Sleep.

The mithril ring sighed on her finger, softer now, a drowsy lullaby. Mélamírë lay back down, pulling the covers over herself as it sang to her, drawing her back to childhood, a song he had sung over her cradle.

Will it be well? Will it?

Vanimórë had said, ‘I believe thou wilt return to thine own Middl-earth, Mélamírë because that is thy place.’ He had laced his long fingers together. ‘Everything connects. So he says, and at the moment, there is an imbalance there because of thine absence.’

‘If I was dead, there would be an absence,’ she pointed out.

‘But thine essence, thy spirit would still exist,’ he said. ‘Somewhere. Try to sleep, and not to worry. There is immense balance in the universe.’

So her father had always said.

Sleep.

Softly, Mélamírë surrendered to the gentle undertow, her limbs growing heavy, her mind drifting.

Náryen? The word whispered around the room.

The lone lamp flickered, and went out. ~

OooOooO

.

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Chapter End Notes

I apologise for not being able to create proper click-through linksa. I’m working on an iPad with a keyboard, which is fine, but a touch-screen is useless for this, I need to get a mouse.

* This is actually what did happen to Sauron in the Pandë!verse. When the One Ring was destroyed, Sauron’s spirit was drawn into the mithril ring Mélamírë was wearing. She was, at that time, in Minas Tirith, using her skills in the defence of the city. She gave the ring to Gandalf who took it to Valinor where Sauron was given a new form by the Valar, but imprisoned. While a prisoner, Sauron begins a written correspondence with none other than Bilbo Baggins as is told most wonderfully in the story:
The Prisoner and the Hobbit: (By Pandemonium_213 and Dreamflower).
http://www.lotrgfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=1856

Also, in the Pandë!verse, Mélamírë does marry Glorfindel after she returns from a long absence in Bharat.

** Songs of Stone and Mountain:
http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=2382&chapter=1

Pandë’s links and info:

I don’t know where the idea came from, to attempt something for B2Me with a gift fic, but it did.

Years ago, Pandemonium_213 and I used to occasionally talk about our OC’s, hers Sauron’s daughter and mine his son. I believe we used to sometimes discuss their meeting.
Pandë has not posted for a long time due to her incredibly demanding job, but I just want you to know, Pandë, that I have never forgotten your stories or characters, which are very much alive to me.

I hope you don’t mind my ‘borrowing’ Mélamírë for a little while. And I also hope I did not make any horrible blunders with her or your ‘verse! All the stories I used for reference are listed in the notes at the end of chapter 5.

The B2Me prompts I used from Music of the Waters (hah! This is set in a desert! But considering the time frame I used in Mélamírë’s story and in Vanimórë’s, it was bound to be).

5. Create a fanwork where a character unintentionally gets wet— caught in the rain, falling in a lake, or whatever you like.

14. By hard fate was she born into such days, for she was gentle of heart and loved neither hunting nor war. Her love was given to trees and to the flowers of the wild, and she was a singer and a maker of songs. (Unfinished Tales, “Narn i Hîn Húrin”)

29 http://res.freestockphotos.biz/pictures/16/16665-aquatic-environment-with-trees-pv.jpg

To write this fic I drew on several stories in Pandë’s amazing and comprehensive archive of works. Among them:
Orcling:
http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=1710

The Apprentice:
http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=151

The Writhen Pool:
http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=1785

Songs of Stone and Mountain:
http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=2382&chapter=1

Winter’s Drums:
http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=2176

The Jinn:
http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=996

The Elendilmir:
http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=279

A Rose By Any Other Name:
http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=1280&chapter=1

The Prisoner and the Hobbit: (By Pandemonium_213 and Dreamflower).
http://www.lotrgfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=1856

Abundance:
http://www.lotrgfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=1939&warning=3

The Glitter of Swords: http://www.lotrgfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=1941&textsize=0&chapter=1

My own ‘verse is hosted on AO3 and Faerie, but this time period is set within Dark Prince, the first story.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/10082/chapters/12817

http://faerie-archive.com/viewstory.php?sid=27&index=1