Trifles by oshun

Written in response to Tehta's request for "The one where all the sons of Feanor have different superpowers."

Everyone knew that Maglor could reach into the hearts of his listeners and turn cowardice into bravery, or parsimony into generosity, not to mention make the hardest man cry. And, Celegorm’s magics with birds and animals were legendary, but very few had heard of Maedhros’ fire-bending skills, inherited from his father. He was loath to use them even in the direst of circumstances because they were fueled by rage and hatred and he feared to ever lose control.

Written at Rhapsody's request for "The one where Fingon is the best man to Maedhros' wedding and he's happy for his cousin."

The day was beautiful, with azure skies and golden sunshine, the air filled with the scent of lilacs and roses. Fingon had needed to summon more courage than he had believed he owned to wish his cousin well; but the heart is a sturdy vessel and can withstand more battering than one presumes. His flame-haired cousin had never been more handsome and his bride was a lovely, accomplished maid. Of course, he wished them all the best.

This is in response to Jaiden's request for "Celegorm and captive Lúthien."

He wanted to be kind to her, but her attitude could strip paint off metal. Fairest Lúthien, foulest mouth.

After last night, he was not going to be the one to make the next move. He had kissed her and she had kissed him back--taking his breath away, actually--before pushing him away with language that would make a soldier blush.

At the request from Minuial Nuwing for "Maedhros and Fingon in the happy years - how about an evening around a fire with wine and song?"

Findekáno almost fell on his face tripping over Huan and Carnistir to secure a place on the log in front of the fire next to Maitimo. He had thought no one had noticed when out of the corner of his eye he caught Macalaurë shoot a teasing grin at Maitimo, cocking his head in Findekáno’s direction. Maitimo only frowned at his brother, oblivious as ever.

This is at the request of Ladyelleth for "So, how about a Finrod/Curufin snippet?"

Finrod slipped into the forge, deserted except for Curufin. What a picture he made, bare to the waist, sharp, dark shadows defining his beautiful torso in the red and gold light. He stopped behind him and waited until Curufin put down his hammer and tongs. Wrapping his arms around him, he kissed the so familiar well-muscled shoulder tasting of salt and danger.

“I hope I am not unwelcome,” Finrod whispered.

Curufin turned and pulled him into a plundering kiss. When at last they broke apart, his predator’s face softened into an expression of boyish vulnerability. “Do you realize this is the first time since we began that you have sought me out?”

“I do,” Finrod said, with affection and regret. “I cannot fight it anymore.”

Based upon the following quotation from The Children of Húrin, "The Childhood of Túrin."

"At that time all the warmth of his heart was for Lalaith his sister; but he played with her seldom, and liked better to guard her unseen and to watch her going upon grass or under tree, as she sang such songs as the children of the Edain made long ago when the tongue of the Elves was still fresh upon their lips."

This is written for Himring who requested "how about a three sentence fic to go with your bio of Lalaith (any aspect of it)?" 

“Riding on the horsie, the horsie, the horsie,” she prattled, straddling cook’s broom and trotting in a circle, stopping only to chuckle to herself. “Hunting for my Túrin, my Túrin, my Túrin.” She let out a laugh that turned into a squeal of joy. “I know you are there, big brother, hiding behind that bush. Come play with me.”

“You play. I like to watch you.” The sunlight caught her tangled curls and turned them into purest gold.

“I have a silly brother, silly, silly. I have a silly brother, who only likes to watch.”

This request is from Chaotic Binky: "How about Orcs fantasising about what it must feel like to be clean and not smell horrible."

o0o0o0o

It was a dark, cold night. The little Orc girl scooted closer to the camp fire. She loved it when her mother sounded happy, singing while she cooked.

Chop ‘im up.
Chop ‘im up.
Toss ‘im in the pot.
Nothing like a youngin’
To really hit the spot.

The Orkling snatched a tiny jacket and trousers that her mum had thrown to the side and sniffed.

“Watcha doing with those, ya little imp?” Her mother snorted disparagingly, but she didn’t sound angry.

“What are they?”

“Those are human-child clothes.”

“Can I keep ‘em?”

“I don’t know what you’d want ‘em for. They won’t wear worth nothin’ or be warm!”

“But they smell so good.”