Fanworks Tagged with Original Character(s)

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

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Two dwarves have a special catch in their nets. Old oaths and curses need a solution before the last witnesses of the First Age sail to the West.

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"It was often said (among other families) that long ago one of the Took ancestors must have taken a fairy wife. That was, of course, absurd, but..."

Faramund Took goes wandering through the South Downs, and comes back home with a rather unexpected bride.

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Maglor and the other Elves underestimated the Human Preservation Organization.

Written for Narya in the 2023 GoreSwap exchange.

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Glingaereth meets the crown prince of the Noldor by chance, if chance you call it.

“All the same, sister, be careful.”
“Me?” Glingaereth said. “Careful of what?”
“Of that prince.”
“What, Fingon? If you are worried about the Noldor’s feuds, he is the one who brought them to an end.”
Limbeleth shook her head. “I can’t explain it. It isn’t that you need worry about him, but—I have an uneasy feeling about them all, and I feel also that you will be bound up in their fate somehow.”

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“Let us not perish here in the long darkness,” Balan said softly, crossing back to take one of the waiting wreaths and set it upon his own brow, “these creatures you chose to form. Remember us, here in our frailty.”

It is Yuletide. The Atani and Finrod celebrate throughout the night as they stay awake to greet the dawn after the Longest Night. Balan's people settle into Estolad, Atani traditions abound, and Finrod faces some memories.

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A disabled young man is approached by a mysterious stranger. A triple drabble.

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In that moment he envied for the first time the mortality of Men. He coveted a death that came upon you softly, death that whispered and held out a hand and let you slip into his arms in sleep. Death that passed his fingers over your eyes and left a visage in peace. Balan’s death.

It's the Fen of Serech, more or less. An oath for an oath, blood for blood.

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Finrod felt the other’s panic strike his perception like a blow and was running even before Balan’s cry reached his ear. In a glance, his eyes took in the scene before him: the camp in sudden stillness, one of the Laiquendi staggering through the clearing, a limp body slung in his arms, Balan and Baran sprinting toward him.

It was Belen in his arms.

The Edain and the Laiquendi cross paths in the woods of Ossiriand and are faced with immediate conflict. Finrod and Estreth work to heal the damage, Balan (Bëor) tries to learn the communication of thought, and the Edain choose where their loyalty will abide.

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“My lord!  Excellent news!”

Gil-galad looked up, expectation mixed with mild humor on his face at the eager young scribe who had come to stand before him.

The scribe held up an old, water-damaged tome and declared with absolute assurance, “We finally know who your father is!”

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We spend some time with our friends from Gondolin, learn about Nellas and Galdor's relationship in this universe and do a lot of worldbuilding.

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“I think,” Lúthien said, “that the Naugrim would like to see your writings.”
This made Daeron pause, and blink. “My Cirth?” he asked. “Why?”

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A little thief is caught red-handed in an unexpected encounter.

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A brief moment in the woods between two old people who are more than they seem...

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A translation of a description of a frieze in the antechamber of the Temple of Melkor at Armenelos by Lindir of Rivendell.

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Maglor survives the tsunami that hit the coast of Middle-earth during the Fall of Numenor, in the company of a somewhat unexpected group of fellow survivors.

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A wine-fueled faux pas has left a rift between Gil-galad and Elrond, maybe. If a week out of town and a new wardrobe can't set things right, there's always the sparring ring. 

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There are many who wander in the lands of Middle-Earth. Some of them are lost, sojourners searching without knowing what they seek; some of them are only a little lost, knowing what they search for but not knowing how to find it. A few of them are very fortunate, not being lost at all. Many more are those who search in vain: not understanding the nature of the mirage on the horizon, they lose themselves in its pursuit.

One of many wanderers encounters Death upon a precipice.

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Maglor and Maedhros lead the remnants of their people into Ossiriand to escape the worst of the War of Wrath.

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The world changed when Sauron fell. Orcs have to adapt to survive, and the elves may have to try new things too.

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When Caranthir picks one fight too many with their Arafinwëan cousins, Maedhros drags him east before he single-handedly shatters the Leaguer of Angband.
On their way to Himring the feuding brothers must cross Nan Dungortheb. Not even the mighty Sons of Fëanor will emerge unscathed from the Valley of Dreadful Death.

STORY COMPLETE. Chapter 8: “We cannot kill it, can we?” Carnistir asked, and looked aside to see the scarred lines of Maitimo’s face harden.

A Halloween gift for Dawn Felagund. Many thanks to Anoriath and Grundy for the beta, and to Lyra for her Quenya translation skills!

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An Orc of Morgoth - just one of the many masses that were bred for war and slaughter.  But what happens when an idea of self beyond that of slave begins to form?

7-prompt path for the Matryoshka challenge.

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The Gates of Minas Tirith are broken, but the wind is changing.

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Fragmentary sections of two poems, dealing with the friendship of Fingon and Maedhros, and a brief scholarly introduction thereto. (AKA: a media fic of the most pretentious flavor.)

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Of Yavanna, Melian, birdsong, and birds.

Written for TRSB22, for Grundy's wonderful moodboard.

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