A fandom event celebrating sexually explicit fanworks based on the The Silmarillion and related legends — now in its fourth year!
September 28 to October 4, 2026 (Monday to Sunday)
The aim of Silm Smut Week is to foster a positive, inclusive, and fun culture around the creation and enjoyment of smut, porn, and erotica.
Themes and Prompts (Mobile) | Event Directory
How to Participate
Create something that narrates, depicts, or considers sexual activity involving the characters of the Silmarillion.
Post it on Tumblr and/or add it to the AO3 Collection and mention this blog (@silmsmutweek) and tag #silmsmutweek2026.
We will reblog posts daily.
If you do not see your post reblogged after 24 hours, please send us an ask or DM mods @polutrope or @ettelene.
The themes and prompts for each day are just suggestions. You can post anything any day of the week and we will reblog it.
Late submissions for the event are welcome and we will try to reblog those as well but cannot guarantee that we will.
Engage with other creators! Enjoy their works!
All genres, tropes, and kinks are welcome, as are all forms of creative of engagement (writing, art, meta, headcanons, playlists, podfics, etc.) with the Silmarillion and the Silmarillion fandom.
Anaire knew when her children died, one after the other, separated by century or decade. She knew when he husband died, the despair that came from him finally replaced by nothingness.
She did not know of her granddaughter, of her nephews and niece. Their fates were lost to her.
Only Arafinwë and Earwen, ever paler in sorrow and despair, told her of their fates. Only Nerdanel, quieter than ever she had been, was able to piece together when their lost family had faced some new horror.
Not an echo of their lamentations. Not a whisper of news for their families.
Not until a boy with Turukano’s nose and Elenwë’s eyes. Not until a girl with Olwë’s bearing. Not until two children cross the Sea bearing news and light.
Their tale hurts. It is cruel, difficult to hear, harder still for them to tell.
Anaire offers what kindness she can to her grandson. He is so young, barely more than a babe, yet speaks of having children of his own.
He left them behind. His Elwing left them behind. Anaire offers what hope she can, Maitimo ever was their first choice of babysitter. If he found the children then they will be safe.
She knows that it is bitter comfort. That were it not for her nephews, the grandchildren of her granddaughter would not have been left at all.
Arafinwë announces, to the relief of many of the Noldor left in Tirion, that they will be marching to Beleriand with the backing of the Valar and Vanyar. Earendil’s Silmaril has bought the Exiles an army.
Too late for most.
Too late for Anaire’s family.
Earwen will not go. She has been left to rule Tirion, to care for Findarato newly released from the Halls and so terribly fragile.
Nerdanel will not go. She fears to see what her sons have become. She fears that her face, so similar to that of her children, will spark distrust among those hurt by her sons.
Anaire does not speak of her choice at first. She returns to the home she has barely entered in centuries. Enters the chamber she had shared with her husband, and looks in the chest at the foot of their bed.
A sword lay within. Wrapped in linen, embellished with a star.
How she had hated it when Nolofinwe had brought it home! How she had despised the very thing! It had been pressed against his throat, been used to threaten his very life, and he had brought it into their bedchamber.
The last sword on the shores of Valinor forged by Fëanaro.
Anaire took it up, admired the gleam of the blade in the pale moonlight, and made her choice.
She would sail to Beleriand with the army. She would avenge her children and husband.
Findarato and Earendil had both spoken of Nolofinwe injuring Morgoth. Seven blows they said the songs spoke of.
With that hated sword in hand, she was sure she could do eight.
(Takes place in the world of the inimitable @chthonion's Your shadow rising to meet you, although I think this snippet actually works without that context. In Aman, in the Fourth Age, Nerdanel processes how her children have changed, and how she relates to them now.)
When Makalaurë is upset, Maedhros calls him “Mags”.
Nerdanel hates it.
It is a coarse, crude epessë, more like the names of Men than of the Eldar; she is sure that is part of why they use it. It is a name that was used when they were less than, when they were cut down into something smaller and more comprehensible and bloodier; it has no place in her house. She bears it. She is determined not to hurt them any more than she has already.
She hates, also, with a crystalline fury, how often her second son is upset. He seems to oscillate between absence and pain. Elrond had said he was tired, but she thinks 'tired' is to have one foot in the waking world and one in sleep, and it is not sleep that her songbird is stepping towards.
She sees the way he orients himself thoughtlessly to Maedhros, much the way Maedhros once had with Fëanáro: an orbit built of habit more than of love. She sees the way he forcibly stops himself when he notices himself doing it; the way he tries to set Elrond as his guiding star instead.
Elrond would make a good guiding star. She supposes it may run in the family.
Hello, everyone! I have a new fic to share, Darkness on the Face of the Deep. You can find the first chapter here.
Summary:
For a long time the only truth the thing is, and the only fact it knows, is that someone has stolen its most precious inner self away from it, and left it with nothing.
*
Somewhere between Life and Death, between the World and the Void, Sauron’s broken spirit dreams that it is Frodo, or Sméagol, or Isildur, or no one at all.
It might have drifted that way forever, on its own; but Maedhros is lost too, and sometimes the lost find each other.
Contains:
The latest in my string of attempts to hit the Maedhros/Sauron notes that my heart craves after writing the Harrowing
Frodo-Sauron identity weirdness, which I am taking to entirely new levels (for me) in this one
So much angst
Disembodied snuggling (later in the fic)
Check the tags and content warnings; they're hefty this time!
A/N: At last, the final piece for the event of this year is out! I wanted to go out with a bang but I didn’t expect to write so much (ノ_･､). Enjoy!
Warnings: modern human reader, fluff, humour, modern reader in Middle Earth, relationship talk
Words: 3.7k
Synopsis: Reflecting on the secrecy of the love you’ve shared with the High King, turned into another romantic and heartwarming moment between you two.
The sun had just begun its slow descent, casting a golden hue over the serene landscape of Rivendell. The air was crisp and cool, carrying with it the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers and the gentle rustle of leaves. The melody of a distant waterfall filled the air, mingling with the song of birds that flitted through the trees. Rivendell was a place of peace, of beauty that seemed untouched by time, and it had become your sanctuary since that fateful day when you had mysteriously appeared in the forests nearby.
It had been months since you found yourself in Middle-earth, a place you had only known from the pages of books and the whispers of legends. One moment, you had been living your life in the modern world, surrounded by the familiar hum of technology and the bustle of city life; the next, you were wandering through a forest that seemed to belong to another time, another world entirely.
The elves who had found you, clad in their silver and green, had been as shocked by your appearance as you were by theirs. You were an anomaly, a puzzle they couldn’t quite piece together. Lord Elrond, the wise and kind ruler of Rivendell, had taken you in, offering you shelter and care as you adjusted to this strange new reality.
Living in Rivendell was like stepping into a dream—everything was so ethereal, so perfect, that you often had to pinch yourself to make sure it was real. Yet, despite the beauty around you, it was hard not to feel out of place. The elves, with their flowing robes, graceful movements, and ancient wisdom, seemed like beings from a different world altogether. Your modern speech, your casual mannerisms, even your sense of humour—things that had been perfectly normal back home—stood out starkly against the elegance of elven customs.
There were times when you caught the elves watching you with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, their ageless faces betraying their thoughts more than they likely realised. You had tried, at first, to conform to their ways, to adopt their formal speech and graceful etiquette. But it was exhausting to maintain, and eventually, you had accepted that you were simply different. You were a visitor in their world, and while you respected their ways, you couldn’t entirely change who you were.
It was during one of these quiet, introspective days that you first met Gil-galad.
The High King of the Noldor had arrived in Rivendell on a visit to consult with his Herald, Lord Elrond. You had heard of him in passing—the Elven king who ruled over Lindon, a figure of great authority and wisdom. But you hadn’t given it much thought, assuming that someone of his stature would have little reason to notice someone like you.
You were wrong.
The meeting had been as unexpected as everything else in Middle-earth. You had been wandering through one of the many gardens of Rivendell, lost in thought, when you nearly collided with someone. Looking up, you found yourself staring into the most striking pair of blue eyes you had ever seen. He was tall—taller than any of the other elves you had met—his presence commanding and regal, yet there was a warmth in his gaze that immediately put you at ease.
“Forgive me,” he had said, his voice smooth and deep, though the amused glint in his eyes told you he wasn’t at all displeased by the encounter.
You had stammered out an apology, feeling flustered and out of place in front of someone so imposing. But the King had only smiled, intrigued by your manner of speech—so different from the formal, melodic tones of the elves. His curiosity was piqued, and instead of continuing on his way, he had engaged you in conversation.
At first, you had been nervous, unsure of how to speak to someone of such high status. But as the conversation flowed, you found yourself relaxing. Gil-galad was different from what you had expected. He was charming and kind, with a sharp wit that matched your own. He seemed genuinely interested in your world, in your experiences, and you found yourself laughing and talking more freely than you had since you arrived in Middle-earth.
Over the course of his stay in Rivendell, you and the High King crossed paths often. Each encounter left you feeling a strange mixture of excitement and confusion. He was a King, after all, and you were… well, you weren’t even sure what you were anymore. Yet, there was no denying the connection that had begun to form between you. It was as though he saw past the strangeness of your situation and was drawn to the very things that made you different.
It was during one of these visits that he had gifted you the music box. A small, intricately carved thing made of mahogany, it played a melody that was hauntingly beautiful. You had been surprised, touched by the gesture, and from that moment on, the music box had become one of your most treasured possessions.
Now, as you sat on the stone bench in one of Rivendell’s many gardens, you found yourself once again lost in thought, the music box cradled in your hands. You had come here to find some peace, to escape the swirling thoughts and emotions that had been troubling you ever since your feelings for Gil-galad began to deepen.
The gardens were quiet, the air cool and filled with the scent of blooming flowers. The sun was low in the sky, casting a soft, golden light over everything. It was a perfect evening, the kind that made you forget, if only for a moment, that you were far from home.
“Does it not trouble you?”
The familiar, smooth voice pulled you from your reverie, and you looked up to see Gil-galad approaching, his expression curious and gentle. He was dressed in his usual attire—garments of silver and royal blue, the colors of his house—his presence as commanding as ever. He sat down beside you on the bench, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, but not so close as to make you uncomfortable.
You blinked, trying to shake off the fog of your thoughts as you focused on him. But your gaze was drawn to his lips, and for a moment, you couldn’t think of anything else. His lips, curved into that familiar teasing smile, held your attention, and your thoughts muddled together into a jumble of emotions.
He noticed your gaze and, with a smirk, leaned closer, his voice laced with amusement. “Is there something on my face, or rather, my lips, my love?” he teased, drawing out the moment, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction.
You felt heat rise to your cheeks, and you quickly looked away, focusing intently on the music box in your hands. Your fingers traced the delicate carvings, desperate for something to distract you from the fluttering in your chest. “Your teasing is going to get you into trouble one day, My King,” you muttered, your voice a mix of shyness and annoyance—though the latter was directed more at yourself than at him.
Gil-galad’s expression softened as he leaned back slightly, giving you a bit more space. “How many times must I remind you? You may call me Ereinion,” he said gently, though there was a hint of playful reproach in his tone.
You kept your eyes on the music box, refusing to look up and meet his gaze. “Once more…I suppose,” you replied quietly.
Silence settled between you as he continued to watch you, his eyes tracing the movements of your hands and the way you muttered softly to yourself in a language he couldn’t fully understand. Your mother tongue, ancient and melodic, was a lexicon from a world and age far removed from his own. Yet, despite the differences, he found comfort in these moments, in simply observing you in your element, even when the words escaped him.
“You are unhappy, are you not?” he asked, his voice gentle but laced with an undertone of certainty.
A smile tugged at your lips, as though his statement amused you, and for a brief moment, a crackle of energy filled the air, as if the very atmosphere responded to your unspoken thoughts. Setting the music box aside, you turned to face him, giving him the full weight of your attention. “Why would you come to such a conclusion, or rather, how?” you asked, disbelief coloring your tone. “I don’t recall ever giving the impression that I was.”
His expression softened, though there was a shadow of hurt in his eyes. “You do not address me by my name as lovers do,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with a sadness that pained you to hear. “It is almost as if you were embarrassed or uninterested in being with me. Is it because of our secrecy?”
And as the question hung in the air between you, you realised that this was a moment of truth, a moment when the feelings you had been trying to ignore could no longer be denied.
The weight of his words hung in the air, pressing against your chest like a heavy stone. Gil-galad’s expression, so often the picture of composed regality, was softened by the sadness in his eyes, a sadness that you had never intended to cause. But the truth, like the stone in your chest, was complicated and unyielding.
You reached out, your fingers brushing against his hand, warm and comforting as always. “Ereinion,” you began, the use of his name deliberate, a balm for the hurt you had unknowingly inflicted. “It’s not that I’m embarrassed or uninterested in being with you. Far from it.”
He turned his hand over to grasp yours, his thumb gently tracing circles on your palm. The simple gesture was comforting, grounding you in the moment as you searched for the right words. Words that would explain what you felt without causing him more pain.
“You have to understand,” you continued, your voice soft but steady, “I’m a human, Ereinion. A mortal. And that means…well, it means that I’m different from the people you’ve ruled and loved for centuries. I’ve seen how some of the elves speak about humans—like we’re nothing more than a fleeting thought in their minds. I know that not all of them feel that way, but enough do that it will make our relationship…complicated.”
His brows furrowed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt, simply listening as you voiced the thoughts you had kept buried for so long.
“You’re their High King, their leader, and their symbol of everything that is strong and eternal about the Eldar. And if they knew that you had chosen a human, someone who will live for only a blink of an eye compared to their long lives, to stand by your side…” You trailed off, shaking your head slightly. “I don’t think they would accept it. Not easily, anyway.”
He started to speak, but you held up your hand, a small smile playing on your lips as you looked at him, your heart swelling with affection. “It’s not just that, Ereinion. It’s also…well, I’m happy with things the way they are. Keeping our relationship a secret, it means I don’t have to deal with the expectations and judgments that would come if I were known as your chosen one. It’s a relief, honestly.”
You shifted slightly on the bench, feeling the smooth, cool wood beneath you as you gathered your thoughts. “When I first arrived in Middle-earth—when I was suddenly…here—I was lost. Confused. I didn’t understand your world or its customs. And despite the kindness I’ve been shown, especially by Lord Elrond, I still struggle with it. I’m not like the others. My behaviour, my speech, even the way I think, it’s all…different. I’ve spent over a year in Rivendell, learning and adapting as best I can, but there are times when I still feel like an outsider, like I don’t quite belong.”
The grip he held on your hand tightened slightly, a silent reassurance that he was there, that he understood. His eyes, so often filled with the weight of his responsibilities, now held only concern for you, his secret love.
“I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty,” you added quickly, seeing the flicker of guilt cross his features. “In fact, it’s the opposite. I’m grateful that we can keep our relationship private. It means I don’t have to deal with the pressure of being a ruler, of trying to prove my worth to people who might never accept me. I’ve heard how some of the elves speak of humans—how we’re seen as lesser, as irrelevant. I’ve witnessed the way they look down on us, dismiss us.”
You paused, meeting his gaze with a steady look. “There’s no way they would accept me as their leader. And that’s okay. I don’t need them to. I’m happy with my freedom, with not having to live up to impossible expectations or navigate the treacherous waters of court politics and finding myself crying in a corner every day of the week, anxiously. I’m content being your secret lover, someone who can love you without the weight of a crown on my head.”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, making his expression softened further, the sadness giving way to a deep, abiding affection. “You are remarkable,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a kind of awe that made your heart skip a beat. “To find contentment in such circumstances…it’s not something many could do.”
You chuckled softly, the sound breaking the tension that had built between you. “Well, I’ve always been one to adapt, but not this time. Maybe if it was another human instead of me, they might enjoy the idea of being a royal more than the problems it bring,” you teased lightly. “Besides, I’ve never been one for grand titles or public adoration. I prefer the quiet moments, like this one, where I can just be myself with you.”
He nodded, a small, grateful smile crossing his lips. “It’s those quiet moments that I cherish most as well,” he admitted. “In all my years, with all the burdens of leadership, it’s rare to find someone who sees me not as the High King, but as Ereinion—just an elf who loves and is loved in return.”
Your heart warmed at his words, and you squeezed his hand gently. “And that’s exactly how I see you,” you said softly. “I fell in love with you, not for your title or your power, but for who you are—the elf who listens to my ramblings, who teases me when I’m being too serious, who finds joy in the small things.”
The weight of your conversation still hung in the air, but with it came a sense of relief—a feeling that you had finally voiced the thoughts that had been swirling in your mind for so long. Gil-galad’s expression had softened, his eyes still holding that deep affection, but now there was an understanding between you that hadn’t existed before.
You broke the silence first, a small smile playing on your lips as you leaned back on the bench, your fingers still intertwined with his. “You know,” you began, your tone lightening, “I never imagined when I first ended up in Middle-earth that I’d be sitting here with the High King of the Elves, having a heart-to-heart in a secret garden.”
He chuckled softly, the sound a deep, warm rumble that you felt as much as heard. “And I never imagined that I’d fall in love with a human from a world I’ve never even heard of,” he replied, a teasing glint in his eyes. “But life has a way of surprising us, doesn’t it?”
You nodded, a laugh escaping your lips as you thought back to the strange journey that had brought you here. “That’s an understatement. I mean, one day I’m sitting in my apartment, minding my own business, and the next thing I know, I’m in Rivendell, surrounded by elves and trying to figure out how not to embarrass myself with every other word I say.”
Gil-galad’s smile widened, and he leaned back beside you, the tension between you dissipating like morning mist. “I remember the first time I heard you speak,” he mused, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “You were trying to explain the concept of a ‘microwave’ to Elrond, and he looked as though he was trying to decipher an ancient riddle.”
You groaned, your cheeks heating at the memory. “Oh, don’t remind me. I must have sounded like a complete lunatic. I’m still not sure he believes that microwaves aren’t some kind of magic.”
“Well,” Gil-galad said, his tone mock-serious, “you have to admit, it does sound rather magical. A box that cooks food in mere moments? Even I have trouble wrapping my head around it.”
You rolled your eyes, unable to keep the grin off your face. “It’s just science,” you replied with a playful nudge. “But then again, in a world where magic is real, I suppose science might seem a little…mystical.”
He chuckled again, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “That’s one of the things I love about you,” he said, his voice warm. “You bring a perspective that’s entirely different from anything I’ve known. You see the world in a way that none of us do, and it’s…refreshing.”
You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at your lips. “So what you’re saying is, you fell for me because I’m weird?”
He laughed, the sound full and genuine, and you couldn’t help but join in. “Well, if by ‘weird,’ you mean unique, then yes,” he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “And besides, I think you’re the only person who can make me laugh like this.”
You tilted your head, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Oh, so I’m your court jester now? Should I start juggling or learn to ride a unicycle?”
Shaking his head, his laughter fading into a soft smile. “No, you’re much more than that. But if you do learn to juggle, I’m sure we could arrange a performance at the next feast.”
You playfully swatted his arm, your heart feeling lighter with each moment you spent in his company. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Only with you, my love.”
The warmth of his breath against your skin sent a pleasant shiver down your spine, and you felt your resolve to keep things light slipping away under the intensity of his gaze. But before you could lose yourself in the moment, you caught yourself and leaned back, a smirk on your lips as you tried to regain the upper hand.
“You know,” you said, your tone teasing, “if this is your way of convincing me to move in with you, you’re going to have to try harder. I’ve grown rather fond of my little room in Rivendell, and I’m not sure I’m ready to give up my bach pad just yet.”
His brow raised and lips quirking into a smile. “Oh? And what would it take to tempt you away from your ‘bach pad,’ as you call it? A private suite in the palace? Endless bouquets of flowers delivered daily? A personal chef to prepare all your meals?”
You pretended to consider his offer, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, those are all tempting…but I’m not sure. I mean, who’s going to teach Elrond about the wonders of modern technology if I’m not around?”
He laughed again, a deep, rumbling sound that made your heart flutter. “You make a good point. I’m not sure he’s ready to tackle the mysteries of the ‘microwave’ on his own.”
“I don’t think he’s even ready for to learn about the internet or the blender. However, he did take learning the TV, fairly,” you laughed.
“When you do, inform me for I would be interested in witnessing his utter confusion,” he replied with equal merriment.
You grinned, pleased with your little victory, but before you could bask in it for too long, Gil-galad leaned in once more, his expression suddenly serious. “But in all seriousness,” he said, his voice gentle, “I want you to know that wherever you are, that’s where I want to be. Whether it’s in Rivendell, here in my palace, or anywhere else…as long as we’re together, I’ll be happy.”
The sincerity in his words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you were at a loss for what to say. You had always known that he cared for you deeply, but hearing it spoken aloud, in such a simple, heartfelt way, made your chest tighten with emotion.
After a beat, you managed a smile, though it was softer now, more vulnerable. “I feel the same way,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “And as much as I joke about it…I know that wherever you are, I’ll always feel at home.”
His hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. “Then that’s all I need,” he said quietly.
The moment stretched out between you, filled with a warmth and understanding that words couldn’t fully capture. It was in the way he looked at you, the way his hand fit perfectly around yours, the way the world seemed to fall away when you were together. Here, in that garden, under the stars of a world you never expected to call home, you found something you never knew you were searching for.
But even as you basked in the comfort of the moment, a flicker of mischief returned to your eyes. “But just so you know,” you added with a grin, “if you ever try to get me to wear one of those elaborate court attires, we might have a problem.”
Launching into another round of laughter, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night, he shook his head. “Noted,” he said, his eyes shining with affection. “I wouldn’t dream of it. But I have to say, I think you’d look stunning.”
You wrinkled your nose playfully. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Your Majesty. I prefer my sweatpants and t-shirts, thank you very much.”
He smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your temple. “And that’s exactly how I like you,” he murmured, his voice filled with a warmth that made your heart grown warmer.
Ages ago, I read a post about Maedhros and Maglor absolutely falling to pieces when Elrond and Elros catch a cold. For the life of me, I can't find it again, but this is my cozy cuddles submission inspired by that. ❤️🩹 @rivendellwatch
Warnings: Mentions vomit...I'm so sorry.
Translations:
Elia de! = Bless you!
Eleninya = My stars
Melin = Dear
Word Count: 2,050
✨ A03 Link ✨
Dividers by zaldritzosrose
It began with a simple sneeze.
“Elia de!” Elros replied, consoling his twin with a gentle pat on the back.
“Thanks…” Elrond responded with a sniffle, wiping his small nose against the sleeve of his tunic.
“Are you gonna finish that?”
“Mm-mm,” Elrond shook his head and nudged the bowl of porridge to his brother, who took it eagerly, and began shoveling heaping spoonfuls into his mouth.
Maglor set down his tea gently and glanced at the boys with furrowed brows. “Elrond, are you- Elros, by the Flame Imperishable, please, you'll choke if you don't slow down.” Their captor-turned-guardian scolded, blinking with disbelief at the lack of manners on full display.
With a heavy sigh, he tried again.
“Elrond, are you well?”
“I'm just a little stuffy…”
“Stuffy?” Maglor turned to Maedhros, who merely shrugged, intently scouring the large stack of correspondence before him.
“Perhaps this is an affliction common among the Secondborn,” Maedhros suggested, his gray eyes continuing to scan the pages before him.
“Does it pass quickly?” Maglor asked gently.
“Mm-hmm,” Elros answered, his cheeks nearly bursting with porridge.
Maglor released a long-suffering sigh, mumbling a prayer for patience in Quenya. Maedhros merely smirked. The scene reminded him of more peaceful days, under the light of Laurelin and Telperion. When seven boisterous brothers ate breakfast all together, caring very little for table manners.
His pleasant reverie didn't last long.
Both Maedhros and Maglor nearly jumped out of their skins as Elros released a violent hiccup, then another, and another. His little body bounced with every spasm. Elrond stifled a laugh as Elros groaned, continuing to hiccup as he threw his head back dramatically against the chair.
“What…in all of Arda..was that?” Maedhros asked, finally lifting his gaze.
“Ugh…I -hic- ate too -hic- fast,”
Maedhros looked to Maglor, who gave an exasperated shrug in response, deciding instead to return to his tea, chalking it up to yet more surprising Peredhel quirks.
By late afternoon, Maedhros and Maglor had carried on with their daily routines, as had Elrond and Elros…or so they thought.
The eldest son of Fëanor moved with masterful precision in the training yard, testing the mobility of a new shield tethered to his right arm. He winced following a particularly punishing blow against a wooden dummy. The design was undoubtedly an improvement, but still chafed against his residual limb.
“The weight distribution is still slightly off,” Maedhros sheathed his sword and turned to one of his master smiths, gesturing to the shield. “But if we adjust the straps here and here, it should reduce friction while still maintaining mobility.”
He unclasped the buckles with his left hand while the smith assisted, lifting the heavy shield into his arms to begin sketching the proposed alterations.
“Have you seen Elrond and Elros? They should have arrived by now.”
“Can't say I have. Perhaps the young masters are still tending to their studies.” The smith suggested mid-notation, before offering a polite bow and departing.
Maedhros grumbled to himself and marched back to the main hall, determined to track down the tardy twins. He stumbled upon Maglor first, reclined in a rare moment of mirth, and engrossed in a heavily annotated book reading: Daeron of Doriath -The Definitive Collection.
“Have you seen Elrond and Elros?”
“Not since breakfast,” Maglor replied coolly, audibly scoffing as he scratched more commentary in the margins. There was a brief pause before his quill stilled and realization dawned. “Shouldn't they be on the training grounds… with you?” he asked, snapping the book shut.
The sons of Fëanor scoured the fortress, searching high and low for any sign of the twins. Just as panic began to seize their hearts, they heard two distinct coughs from the direction of the library. Skidding to a halt, they spotted two small figures huddled together by the hearth, wrapped tightly in their warm woolen traveling cloaks. Maglor approached first and kneeled beside them.
“Eleninya, why are you shaking?”
“It's so cold, how can you stand it?” Elrond asked through chattering teeth. Elros merely nuzzled closer under Elrond's arm, shivering, sniffling, and uncharacteristically quiet.
The flickering light of the fire illuminated the thin sheen of sweat glistening on their brows. Maglor frowned, lifting his hand to rest against Elrond’s forehead before moving to Elros’. They felt wrong, clammy, entirely too warm.
“They’re burning up,” Maglor's voice was tight, torn between wrapping the shivering twins in his arms and drawing them a cold bath.
Maedhros crouched on their other side, using a fire iron to separate the large stack of haphazardly placed logs. His eyes then turned to the twins, brows furrowed with confusion.
“Elros, you're turning…green,”
“Green? What do you mean green?” Maglor leaned in closer, cupping the boy's chin gently to get a better look. “Elros, melin, let me see you,”
Elros met his gaze with watery eyes, his little body lurched, an audible squelch left his throat… and then:
Pure chaos erupted.
The two Fëanoreans stood catatonic.
Together, they had experienced true devastation and seen horrors beyond imagining. Yet what they had just witnessed… completely defied what they believed an incarnate body was capable of.
“Elrond didn't even touch his breakfast… where did this all come from?” Maglor asked, hesitantly lifting a vomit-drenched braid from his shoulder.
“From Utumno itself…” Maedhros replied somberly, brushing thick chunks of porridge from his tunic and onto the equally soiled floor.
“We’re out of our depth Nelyo, for all we know, this could be some kind of plague…they could-”
“No,” Maedhros fixed his eyes on his brother, the fire of the hearth burning in their reflection. “We’re not losing them Kano. I can’t- not again...” his voice choked back a rare sob, and Maglor hesitated only a heartbeat before wrapping his vomit-soaked brother in a tight hug.
“We need an expert, one of the Secondborn, or…” Maglor paused, then snapped his fingers. “Another Peredhel,”
“Erestor?” Maedhros’ brows furrowed. “Would he answer our summons?”
“He may for them,” Maglor replied thoughtfully, nodding toward the corridor where the sounds of sickly coughs and water splashing could be heard.
Maedhros sighed, his boots slopping across the ruined rug towards a lone writing desk. After pressing the parchment flat and dipping a well-worn quill, he began writing the urgent missive:
Erestor Morifinweion, of the House of Haleth,
Nephew, I write to you in desperation. The sons of Eärendil and Elwing have taken ill, a plague set upon them by Morgoth to be sure. They burn to the touch, yet shiver as if gripped by winter's chill. Dreadful coughs rattle their small bodies and the fetid bile they spew…I will spare the details, but trust when I say it would break even the strongest among us.
We among the Firstborn do not fall prey to mortal ailments. Thus, Maglor and I cannot fathom the nature of this illness. But you Erestor, you were raised among the Secondborn, and know more of their ways than any in our House.
I understand your anger and resentment towards us, nephew. Since your father's death, I have abided your wishes and left you in peace, but these boys are innocent of our sins. Please, Erestor, if there is any hope, bring it swiftly to us. I implore you.- Maedhros Fëanorion, Lord of Amon Ereb
Maedhros sealed the letter with a dollop of red wax and the embossing of a star pressed with the firm weight of his ringed knuckle.
“Take this to our swiftest rider, tell them to put this letter directly into Erestor Morifinweion's hands, and to bring him straight here,”
“At once, my Lord.” The servant took the envelope with care and hurried down the hall.
“Should we not send multiple riders, Neylo?” Maglor asked with a furrowed brow. “He could be any number of places within Beleriand.”
Maedhros shook his head in reply and shirked his soiled tunic. “I've kept close tabs on Erestor and Tyelpë for years, one rider is enough.”
Erestor Morifinweion arrived the following evening, red-faced and smoldering with barely contained irritation. Flanked by two attendants, he was brought before his uncles with the utmost haste. He had prepared a lengthy monologue on the arduous journey here, eager to berate his kin and their new-found penchant for abduction…
But the scene before him stalled his wroth.
The ordinarily intimidating sons of Fëanor sat attentively with Elrond and Elros between them. The twins were wrapped under a heavy woolen blanket, cradled within their caretaker’s protective arms. Maedhros gently pressed a cloth to Elros’ nose, who blew into it forcefully with a stuffed-up groan, while Maglor sang to them softly a song of peace and healing.
“You summoned me uncles,” Erestor’s clipped voice cut off Maglor’s song, shifting their attention to him in an instant.
“Erestor,” Maedhros nodded in greeting, shifting slightly to prop up the drowsy twins.
“Please nephew, we are at our wit’s end,” Maglor gestured for him to come closer. “Clear water, cooling cloths, songs of vitality…nothing seems to ease their suffering.”
Erestor kneeled in front of the twins, his expression softening as he met their bleary gaze. “Not feeling very well, huh?”
“Mm-mm…” Elros replied, nuzzling his head further into Maedhros’ arm.
He stifled a laugh and, with a gentle hand, felt their brows. “Well, I have good news and bad news. The good news is, their fevers have broken.”
“And the bad news?” Maglor asked, silently preparing himself for the worst.
“There is no miracle cure for this,” he replied coolly. “It’s a cold, goes away on its own after a few days; chicken soup, plenty of rest, lots of water. In short, you spun yourselves up in a whirlwind of dramatics and abducted me for the common cold…”
“There was nothing common about this…” Maedhros muttered grimly, causing Erestor to roll his eyes.
“Can-can you make us some chicken soup?” Elros asked timidly.
“Please,” Elrond added with large pleading eyes.
“Sure,” Erestor ruffled their hair affectionately and stood. “I’ll make you my mother’s old recipe, she used to say it could cure anything…even my father’s foul moods.”
The smell of warm spices and roasted chicken filled the dining hall as Erestor carefully ladled the soup into five large bowls. Elrond and Elros held their spoons upright in eager anticipation, furiously blowing at the steam as soon as the soup was placed in front of them. Maglor was the first to take a slow sip, his eyes lighting up as he took in the rich flavors of the broth.
“I can see how this would soothe even Moryo’s temper.”
Maedhros partook next, chewing the tender chicken with a pleased hum before going back for more of the broth.
“Moryo was always particularly fond of savory dishes. He used to beg our mother every day for the same dinner, braised elk and-”
“Leek,” Erestor cut in with a wistful smile. “He told us, mother often made it for him when the hunting was good.”
As the dinner progressed, there was a subtle but noticeable shift. The tension between Erestor and his uncles eased little by little as they shared stories of their families during happier times. The lighter mood hit its peak as Maglor animatedly recounted a tale of a particularly humorous hunt, only to be disrupted by a duet of loud slurping. The three older elves turned, stifling their laughter as they found Elrond and Elros hidden from view behind two large bowls, tipping back to enjoy every drop.
The twins then sighed, finally finding some semblance of comfort as the steam relieved their congestion and warmed their bones.
“That was so goo-” Maglor and Maedhros froze as Elros’ stomach lurched. Elrond winced, preparing himself for the worst, only to be met with a deafening burp from his brother. Elrond cackled, and not to be outdone, inhaled sharply, forcing a burp of his own. The twins nearly fell out of their chairs in giggles, as they continued to see who could burp the loudest.
Maglor closed his eyes, but said nothing, relieved that the twins seemed to finally be on the mend. Maedhros’ eyes softened as he turned back to Erestor.
“Thank you, nephew.”
“Y-you’re welcome.” Erestor replied, hesitantly optimistic that maybe, just maybe, he still had family after all...
Prompt: Okay so, as a fan of you XIX The Sun, I was wondering if I could ask for a modern girl in middle earth, because I got elves in earth. So Id be content with a little switch. And, I would love the character to fall in love with Caranthir. It would be super funny for her to fall in love with the grumpy elf, and him to fall in love with an skincare obssesed girl that puts on overly dramatic eyeshadow. THANK YOU <333
Requested by: @burnetteofgold
A/n: Hi! Thank you for requesting. It was my first time writing for Caranthir so please excuse some of the characteristics. I hope you like it! ☺️
Warnings: (almost) drowning
It was a beautiful spring day, and you had set out to go on a picnic to a nearby meadow. The park was too busy these days with all the couples, parents and not to mention the little kids screeching at the top of their lungs. You wanted something quiet. Somewhere pretty, quiet and lovely for your picnic.
It didn't take you as long to prepare your basket as it had taken you to decide which eyeshadow look would be the best for the occasion. Green and pink? Yellow with sunflower theme? Baby blue? And the list went on as you sat at your vanity and stared at your reflection. Thinking long and hard about what would be the best combo for today. It was a well know fact to everyone who knew you that you loved colors and everything pretty. A magpie of sorts, attracted to shiny and beautiful things. And there was nothing wrong with that. Though perhaps your extensive collection of skincare would have liked to protest, if it had a voice to do so. Because skincare was another love in your life. Meticulous routines, extensive research on active ingredients and what was the best one for which skinconcern....you knew a lot. A walking skincare encyclopedia.
That same morning you had done everything as usual. Your morning skincare, haircare and all the little odds and ends you enjoyed before starting your day. Your day would however turn out very far from your comfortable routine. You were going to be in for a Rollercoaster and you weren't even remotely aware of it as you grabbed your bike keys and picnic basket. You didn't notice the slightly charged buzz in the atmosphere nor the way everything seemed to be so....on edge. Like something was about to burst, like a can of fruit preserves that's got too much pressure.
You took one last look in the hallway mirror, you had your comfy jeans on and a favorite t-shirt that gave you joy every time you looked at it. The makeup you wore was a pastel pink and green look inspired by the pretty tulips you had seen at the store yesterday. It brought out your eye color and gave you a boost of confidence to tackle the day.
You arrived at the meadow in no time. The sun was already high in the sky, making it pleasantly warm. The flowers of the field bloomed and lifted their fragrance in to the air, making it smell sweet. You had found your spot quickly and sat down. Enjoying your picnic for a long while.
The enjoyment of sitting down didn't last long however. Soon enough your mind began to itch for a little adventure. Getting up from your spot you ventured out further in to the meadow. On the hunt for pretty trinkets. You often found colorful rocks and small trinkets here. There was a river nearby as well. Since it was warm enough today, you decided to venture out to the river. Maybe read a little by the riverbank.
Standing by the riverbank you didn't get any time to recollect your bearings as in a split second the ground beneath you fell away in to the river. Throwing you in to the waters. You had no idea what was happening and panic started to set in. Flailing wildly against a current that you were certain was not so strong just a moment ago. You were dragged under the water roughly and struggled against the current. The temperature of the water suddenly became multiple degrees colder. As if you had jumped in to an icy lake instead of a warm spring stream.
You managed to come up for air and screamed as loud as you could for help. Through bleary eyes you could just about vaguely make out something or someone speeding towards you on what seemed to be a horse? You heard a deep masculine voice call out to you in a language you couldn't possibly understand even if you tried. But the urgency in his voice was universal. Withing moments your freezing, soaked body was hauled out of the waters on to dry land. You were shaking from both the cold and the adrenaline that was still coursing through you. When your eyes finally adjusted you saw to your great horror that you were not in the meadow anymore. But in some vast plains that resembled a winter landscape with an even larger river that was deep and dark. And you were sorely underdressed for the frigid temperatures.
You would later find out that you had nearly drowned in the river Gelion. Close to the border of Thargelion, kingdom of Caranthir the dark. You finally lifted your gaze and were met with a sight that made you freeze up. You were being held up by what looked to be a man who could put models to shame from back home. A long thick mane of unruly pitch black curls cascaded down his back and shoulders. His eyes reminded you of the blueish frost on the windows during a snowstorm. And his skin was soft and even. Aside from one large port wine stain birthmark, marring his beautiful features. But even that, to your half delirious state from nearly drowning, looked more like a peony than an ugly mark.
Caranthir spoke to you in a language you didn't understand. Which did not make any of this easier as he was after all the harshest of his brothers and the quickest to anger. And this man's patience....it grew thin. To Caranthir's great relief you could understand common. Which gave you some leeway in to calming him down. But he was not going to let you off easy. You had nearly drowned on his lands, were severely underdressed for the season and looked completely out of your mind. At least to him.
"Who are you and what ails you? Why were you in the river Gelion in this time of year?" Caranthir spoke through gritted teeth. He had to try his best not to kickstart his temper as it was already starting to smolder under the surface. Who in their right mind, dressed as such, would venture out in to an icy river? In the dead of winter! Caranthir was exasperated with you already, but he still had kindness in him. So after you spent 10 minutes explaining your situation he wordlessly hoisted you up and on to his horse. Wrapping his cloak around you to protect you from hypothermia.
The ride to Thargelion was not too long, but it was agonizing in more ways than one. First of all you were still soaked through and freezing. Secondly you were pressed up against what to you was possibly the most handsome man you could imagine. You were definitely not okay. It was unfortunate that this handsome man was also a cactus personified. The whole ride through he kept pestering you with questions and occasional barbs that made you think that perhaps he was entirely made out of poison. Caranthir wasn't too good at holding his tongue.
In the healing wing of Thargelion you were soon warmly accommodated and cared for. A healer was always close by to check on you and a maid kept you company for as long as her schedule allowed. Soon you had learned her name; Lanyarë, and became friends. Though for the most part of your friendship you'd end up calling her Lanya.
After your first encounter with Caranthir you had not expected him to be so generous. He had ordered a room to be prepared for you and for all your needs to be perfectly met. By nightfall you had cozied up in some pajamas after a warm bath and a filling meal. Any wounds you had gotten were treated and were healing quickly.
"What a day...I think I'm slowly going mad." You muttered under your breath. You by some sick twisted fate nearly drowned and ended up in Middle earth. "It might be best if I just go to sleep. Hopefully this is just one really realistic hallucination..." you mumbled before drifting off to sleep, surrounded by the many smells and sounds unfamiliar to you.
Come morning you awoke with the sorest limbs you'd ever had in your life. Not so unexpected after the events of the previous day. The day went by in an uneventful fashion; mostly staying in bed and being treated by healers. And the occasional interrogation from the elf you now knew was Caranthir. "He should have a plaque on his forehead; beware, barbed tongue & volatile." You'd grumble time and time again.
The next few weeks passed by speedily. Much to your surprise you'd come to like your grumpy host more than you'd dare to admit out loud. And after 2 months, it looked a lot like it was mutual. You'd find random flowers on your bedside table at ungodly hours of the morning. Which at first was admittedly creepy, but he was perhaps more emotionally constipated than you had thought. You frequently found yourself lavished with favors and privileges some other guest weren't getting. And the small embroidered squares of fabric here and there with sweets in them were puzzling. Until you one day had come to ask Caranthir for help, finding him in his office. Handling a needle and square of fabric with impressive precision. The silence in his office felt heavy, stifling, almost. He had all but sunk in to the floor. All it had to do was open up beneath him and Caranthir would've jumped straight in. This was by far the most red you'd ever seen the face of the lord of Thargelion. A cherry would be ashamed if it had to compete with him. The needle clattered on to the floor. A sound that was now much louder than it should've been. And a slight tremor could be seen in his hands as he rather abruptly stuffed the embroidered fabric into a pocket of his robes.
"What business do you have in my office at this time mortal? Have you no sense whatsoever?" He barked out. But it lacked conviction. He stubbornly held your gaze, unwilling to show weakness even in the face of being discovered.
"So...you are the one who's been sending me those pretty embroideries? Not Lanyarë?" You asked quietly. A little confused, you hadn't expected it to be him. Of all people.
"Yes. Yes it was me! What of it? Who did you think it was you obtuse creature-" His usual snide remarks started to resurface. It seems like he can't hold his tongue even with those he loves. Perhaps even more so with those he loves. He doesn't like deceit after all.
"I thought it was Lanyarë...you know, her name means weaver in your language, right? So I thought-" you were cut off soon after by an exasperated caranthir.
"No! By illuvatar you obtuse, dense, senseless mouse! It was not my maid. It was ME. How do you not recognize the handiwork of the lord of Thargelion? I sought counsel from my brothers, and asked countless elven ladies!-" Caranthir ranted for five minutes straight about you being denser than celegorm after too much elvish liquor. And you'd be tempted to believe him considering you had almost glossed over the fact that he had just confessed his feelings to you.
"Well at least it's mutual then." Was all you managed to mutter before slamming the office door behind you and walking back to your room with a heart beating faster than that of a mouse. He liked you too. That's all that mattered right now. The rest? You'd figure that out later. Your stay in Middle earth suddenly got a whole lot more fun.
The Lord of the Rings Secret Santa 2025 prompt meme signups are OPEN!
So, it's that time of the year again: time to sign up for the Lord of the Rings Secret Santa exchange! Slash, femslash, het and gen; you can request it all, so why not join in?
Lord of the Rings Secret Santa has been going for twenty-two years, and we'd love to see you join us and keep the tradition going.
Lord of the Rings Secret Santa has been a traditional exchange since its inception, but we continue to adapt and refine the exchange to best serve all participants. The exchange has been in the form of a prompt meme since 2020. If you are new to the format, AO3 has a helpful FAQ here.
This year's timeline (2025):
Prompt Posting: November 5th to 27th.
Claiming: November 28th to December 28th.
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Please note that this is an FPF challenge. (i.e. Fictional, not real people fiction/RPF.) We're always open to all the Peoples and Ages of Middle-earth, which means that characters from The Hobbit and The Rings of Power are welcome too!
The Rules (2025):
You will be able to post up to 2 prompts between November 5th and 27th, and we will do our best to make sure at least one of your prompts is filled.
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