Earendil's stories of his voyages are passed down through the years.

Legolas and Gimli pass through Fangorn Forest, and it isn't as bad as Gimli had expected.

Elladan and Elrohir are born at twilight in summer.

In the wake of Melkor’s latest swath of destruction, Aulë found Yavanna kneeling, disconsolate, on the barren ground.

In the wilds, Aragorn dreams one last time of his mother.

What do the Silmarils and the Ring have in common? They are both the titular objects of their respective books around which the major plot turns, it is true. They are both made by powerful individuals, and are desired by many different people, and when they are lost and/or stolen their makers are desperate to retrieve them. Characters die for them, and kill for them. At this extremely surface level reading they do, indeed, seem very similar. But the deeper you look at each object the more glaring differences show themselves, until you realize that they do not parallel, but rather oppose each other.

Whenever he came to visit, or when they were in company together, Elwing was aware of Finrod watching her, searching her face as though he was looking for something. (A double-drabble)

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

On a foggy cold morning Eluréd sits atop Elrond's roof, watching the armies of Lindon and Arnor gather.

of the fate of Eluréd and Elurín no tale tells.

Except these.

A series of fics centered around characters' return from Mandos to Valinor, and other characters' reactions, set primarily after the beginning of the Third Age; the title of the series comes from Mary Oliver's "Starlings in Winter".

Then he heard movement in the bushes. He tensed, hand going to the hilt of his knife, but the next sound to emerge was a small whimper. “Eluréd?” called Elurín from across the camp.
“One moment,” said Eluréd. He crept closer to the sound, and parted a few branches to find a bundle of blankets, tightly wrapped, and something squirming and crying inside them.
“What is it?” Elurín asked from behind him.
“A child.”

Silver light poured through the windows, catching and refracting on the crystals hung about the room, twinkling like tiny stars. The court of Tirion was particularly splendid that evening, Indis thought as she sat upon the dais beside Finwë, watching the dancing. A rare event: all of their children and grandchildren were present, and even Fëanáro seemed to be in good spirits as he twirled about the floor with Ëarwen.

But still Indis felt uneasy.

Elrond and Gandalf chat about Glamdring.

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

Maitimo was crossing the courtyard, thinking of lunch, when his father burst out of his workshop, where he had been holed up for the last several days, neither eating nor, as far as anyone could tell, sleeping. “Maitimo!” he cried, eyes alight with the fire of success. “Come! Come and see!”

‘Alas! there are some wounds that cannot be wholly cured,’ said Gandalf.

‘I fear it may be so with mine,’ said Frodo. ‘There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting, and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?’

Gandalf did not answer.
- The Return of the King, “Homeward Bound”

Something out near the entrance to the bay caught his eye. It was a small, dark shape on the water, slowly growing larger. As it passed into Eldamar out of Belegaer, Eärendil felt his breath catch. “Elwing,” he said.
“I see it.” She leaned farther out of the window, as though those few inches might grant her a better look. She had one hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun’s glare. “It looks like—”
“Yes, but it can’t be.”

Eärendil invites Bilbo aboard Vingilot to sail the skies.

Ereinion sat on his bed holding up a mirror; its frame was ornate and heavy, but he kept it steady as he watched his father’s slender fingers twist his hair into braids befitting a Prince of Noldor. Into the braids Fingon wove ribbons—not golden threads like he wore himself, but yellow silk, bright and sunny.