#silmfic

[annarobots]

Dibbly Fresh, an Elfling-Sitters Club Story

Need an elfling-sitter? Save time! Call The Elfling-Sitters Club and reach seven six experienced sitters. Fingon, President Daeron, Vice-President Pengolodh, Secretary Finrod, Treasurer Maglor, Alternate Officer Salgant, Snack Officer Daeron has an important question to ask Maglor. And no, it’s not “can I get some more art supplies for my Kid-Kit?”

Written for the @silmarillionwritersguild June 2026 Epic 80s challenge. Daeron/Maglor, General, 1.8k, No Archive Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Baby-Sitters Club Fusion, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Teen Romance, Fluff and Humor.

read on ao3 | read on swg

[leucisticpuffin]

Apple Pips

There was no home after Sirion: no gentle garden of fruit trees, no guarding walls, no shutters bolted against the dark. Maedhros’ flag hung ragged over huddled tents, stubborn red fading in the wild woods, a new tear in the cloth each time they broke camp. Tangled treelimbs gave shelter and choked out the stars. Fires flared briefly and were stamped out. At midnight the twins were hoisted onto horseback, wide-awake captives in nightclothes and blankets, held close to Maglor’s chest as they outran Morgoth’s searching hands. 

Bedtime after bedtime Elros threatened to run away. There was nowhere to run. 

At their first camp they left behind a crab-apple tree. A small, twisted thing, branches reaching out for lost friends, unhappy roots pushing out of mossy earth; the fruits would be small and sour, Maglor said, good only for preserves. Elros cared not. He climbed it every day, barefoot-balancing on wobbly branches, bark rough under tender toes. Keen-eyed guards forbade him climbing taller trees, but the crab-apple was his: he hauled his small body skyward, perched in the crown of branches like a throne. Scraps of sunlight coaxed tightcurled leafbuds from bare twigs. Elrond counted the days, waiting for blossom. 

The tree burned, the night they left. Orcs found the tents uprooted, the Elves escaped, and set their torches to the trees. Through left-behind shadows Elros saw the blaze. He howled and kicked and pummelled Maglor’s breastplate, yelling stop! Stop, we have to save it!, while horses galloped and arrows flew and new leaves shrivelled and charred. Maglor rode one-handed, gripping Elros tight, soothing words useless to the boy whose home he burned. 

“This land is dying,” he said, in the grey morning of a camp with no apple trees. “Nowhere is safe long. You must be each other’s home.” 

Still Elros loved – skittering lizards, hollow-tree hideaways, secret waterfalls – and wept over every Left Behind. Clinging to Elrond could not steady him, not when the slow death of Beleriand crawled behind them inch by inch. In Elros’ nightmares the animals fled, the trees wrenched free their roots, and floodwater shattered the earth underfoot. 

“Are we to die running?” he whispered, shivering under Elrond’s blanket. Elbows and knees knocked together, growing too fast to fit. Training swords waited, unready, beside the bed. Anything could happen in darkness.

Elrond grasped his hand. “Perhaps our task is only to save what we can.”

They kept whatever fit their pockets. Apple pips, a furious kitten, a three-legged lizard. The lizard scuttled quietly into death; the kitten grew into a snarling wildcat, beheading Morgoth's bats, buried in a warrior's grave; the pips hid in Elros' pocket, waiting for earth they could grow in.

He planted them in Numenor, in a blanket of soft new earth, overlooked by the shining stones of a home he never need lose. Sturdy garden walls sheltered his fragile saplings. Elros watched their leaves unfurl and their first blossoms swell into tart red apples.

King Tar-Minyatur never saw his orchard die. 

500 words | @kidnapfamweek

[belforte]

Dropping here a cut scene that should've been in May This Flesh Breathe next chapter (it's so out of place I swear my crack humor slipped in randomly while writing 💀💀) but I find it extremely hilarious to be left in my drafts so enjoy it lmao

No tws, just Tyelpë acting as a gremlin

"Tyelpë-beloved," the maia cooed as he leaned over the elf to give him a tender caress, "I see we've slept a lot today, haven't we?"

Celebrimbor felt his lips dry and sticking together uncomfortably, so he tried to sit up using his arms to prop himself up. "How much... What time is it?"

"It's past dinnertime," Mairon caressed his face while still smiling. "I didn't mean to wake you, you know? The servants told me you've been sleeping like a log all afternoon."

Right. The servants.

"I told you I don't like those masked guys coming to watch me while I'm sleeping," Celebrimbor grunted as he continued to rub his eyes, "Or while I'm awake. Or... just them being in my room."

Mairon sat down on the couch and sighed, "Tyelpë..."

"You can send Coviél to keep an eye on me if you're worried I'm unwell, there's no need to assemble a whole spy team." Celebrimbor threw off the covers with a huff and crawled around looking for the plushie, which had once again become lost in the sea of pillows. "And besides, why the hell does everyone wear a mask? I never know which poor wretch is forced to stare at me while I pick my nose and watch them in the eyes."

Sauron sighed deeply as he helped him down from the couch. "Tyelpë, I've been told you torment them to make them go away."

"Don't I have the right to pick my nose?"

"You've never been in the habit of picking your nose."

Celebrimbor squeezed the rabbit angrily against his chest. "I think I have a bit of an allergy."

"Is throwing boogers at the servants one of the symptoms?"

Celebrimbor let go of Mairon's hand and sat down at the table. "...there could have been an accident."

Mairon raised an eyebrow. "Like the vomiting incident?"

The elf became extremely interested in the soup on his plate.

"Tyelpë, the servants draw straws to decide whose turn it is to guard you when I'm not around."

But Celebrimbor's mouth was too busy eating to give him an answer.

[a-tehta]

Look at this! I finally wrote something!

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, J. R. R. Tolkien's Middle-earth Legendarium & Related Fandoms Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Ecthelion of the Fountain/Glorfindel (Tolkien) Characters: Ecthelion of the Fountain (Tolkien), Glorfindel (Tolkien), Sexual Tension - Character Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Humour, Sexual Tension, Pre-Slash, First Aid, Catchy First Aid Rhymes, TW: Wound Care Summary:

“Well then,” said Glorfindel, “can you tell me more about this very minor injury that you fear may keep you out of battle? As in, what is it, and how did you come by it?”

“It was an accident. A ridiculous one.” The corners of Ecthelion’s mouth turned downwards. “I was walking past the archery butts when, quite suddenly, I was struck by a stray arrow.”

“Where?”

“In the northern corner, just past the Balrog-shaped targets.”

“No, where on your body?”

 “In the… lower back.”

[jaz-the-bard]

Unremembered, Unforgotten

My latest fic! Prologue and first main chapter are up :)

Summary:

Maeglin is a young lady residing in the household of her aunt Elenwë and uncle Turgon, who act as her guardians in the wake of some terrible incident that caused her to forget everything she knows. Her mother Aredhel visits her regularly, the Maia Olórin tends to her recovery, and she meets her other kinfolk at the palace in Tirion.

It would be a pleasant life, however she chafes at the restriction that she must stay in the house and only go out veiled and chaperoned, if it were not for the growing suspicion that those she loves are hiding something from her.

Read on ao3!

[laerthel]

Massive spoilers for 'The Seven Gates' but I don't care, because I'm finally here and I CAN'T 😭🥺

"A word of advice," he said, his voice suddenly light, almost playful, "if one day you - any of you - happen to capture your worst enemy, practice the art of self-restraint. Do not drag them along your secret halls; do not let them learn the speech of your slaves; and most of all, do not hang them from a cliff above your lands so they may clearly see the roads to your mines and barracks and supplies - unless you are absolutely sure that they are dead. For otherwise, my friends, this happens." With that, he grabbed the only scroll of parchment at the edge of the table that had not been opened yet, and shook it out with a flourish. It was another map: smaller than the others and less detailed, but a map nevertheless. A map with dimensions, lands, hills, mines, roads, traps, walls, towers, barracks, dungeons, corridors, rooms and halls. A map of the Iron Prison, and its surroundings, in such detail as it lived in his memories. Some of the surrounding lands were drawn in Fingon's hand, and here and there, the lines did not match; but no one seemed to notice those imperfections. Men, Dwarves and Elves all stared at the map in frightened awe, the flame of incredulous, unbridled joy lighting up in their eyes. "Nelyo, you did not -" Celegorm drew a sharp breath. "Of course he did," said Curufin. "Of course he would." "And you never showed us!" Maglor exclaimed. "Is that -" Húrin tried. "I believe it is," said Gwindor. His eyes were bright with hope as he looked up at Maedhros. "And if we know what lies inside -" "We have a chance," said Beleg of Doriath. He kept his pale eyes on the parchment, his face suddenly white; and his features were set in stone. "You remember it all!" Azaghâl clapped his hands. "You mad, mad Elf! My dear friend! I did not think you could surprise me still; but of course you can, and you will." His laughter reverberated from the walls, and faded into the growing feeling of warmth in Maedhros's chest. "Of course you can! Anything you set your mind to, you accomplish." "I cannot do it without you," said Maedhros. "Any of you. Never before have Men from the East and West, Noldor, Sindar and Dwarves fought together like this: as equals. As close allies, willing to set the foundations of a new world should we be victorious... and that gives me hope. I have sworn a terrible Oath to reclaim my father's Jewels; but that is not what I wage this war for. This is a fight for our freedom, and our lives as we know it; and we must now rise to new heights, or perish, and fade into the Shadow. And I do believe, in my heart of hearts, that if our cause is just, if our loyalty to each other is true and intact, than we shall rise victorious. Keep that in mind when the day comes." "And keep in mind also," said Fingon, "that Morgoth has slaves, and thralls, and prisoners. We, my friends, have a Union."

-- READ ON HERE --

-- OR THE WHOLE STORY HERE --

[happyperle]

Does she look like your wife ,Finwe ?

( suggestions are appreciated !)

[jane-ways]

Great Stories

"I wonder what sort of tale we've fallen into?" asked Sam.

"I wonder," said Frodo. "But I don't know."

Frodo reflects on greatness, and stories, after Galadriel shares a memory.

-

This story was written for Mereth Aderthad 2025, to accompany the presentation "Religious Alienation and Connection in Tolkien and Lewis" by Quente.

Read it on SWG & AO3!

“I wonder what sort of tale we’ve fallen into?” asked Sam.

“I wonder,” said Frodo. “But I don’t know.” His thoughts turned back to Lady Galadriel and the words she had spoken to him at the Mirror.

This task was appointed to you. But who was he, that he should bring the Ring to Mordor? It was as if a voice other than his own had welled up inside him and burst forth, that day at the Council of Elrond. He didn’t know what had inspired him to speak up—he hadn’t really understood it then, and he felt as though he understood less and less as the quest went on.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t care. Of course he did. Buts he had no desire to be recalled in great stories or sung about around the campfire; he was no lord or great hero—nothing like others at the Council. He was only invited because he’d come that far in the first place, he supposed. It was only polite, to his Hobbit thinking, anyways. Surely there were others better suited to this task than him—who would know what to do right now, or at least know better than he did!

But then, Bilbo hadn’t really known what had overcome him, when he ran off on his adventure—only that something Tookish had woken up inside him, and before he’d realized it, he was cavorting through enchanted forests and trading wits with ogres. Bilbo hadn’t really known what he was doing the rest of the time, either, as far as Frodo could perceive. But he had muddled through alright, and it had all turned out in the end.

That was it, Frodo supposed. Like Sam had been saying. I used to think adventures were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for. But that’s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually—their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t. And if they had, we shouldn’t know, because they’d have been forgotten.

Even the Lady Galadriel had said much the same thing, in her own way. I will not give you counsel, saying do this, or do that. For not in doing or contriving, nor in choosing between this course and another, can I avail; but only in knowing what was and is, and in part also what shall be.

Perhaps it was simply that it had to be done. As Sam’s old gaffer used to say, It's the job that's never started as takes longest to finish—and, as Frodo could imagine Sam adding, it might as well be him who’d started it to be the one to finish it.

Once, not long after Frodo’s parents had died, Bilbo had told him an old fairy-story of an Elven king who sought a magical ring, one that could make a sad man happy and a happy man sad. His advisor had sought out the finest jewel-smith, who forged a simple band, and on it were engraved the words, This too shall pass. Bilbo had reminded him, “That applies to the good things, too, don’t you forget, just as well as the bad.”

Frodo’s thoughts turned once again to the Lady Galadriel and the Mirror. That night, in his sleep, he had seen—less a dream than a vision—a waterfall cutting through a mountainside and falling to a clear pool below. Beside the pool stood a young elf-Lord and a young elf-Lady—Galadriel herself, Frodo realized. Frodo could hear Galadriel’s voice, but her lips were still. “I sustained myself through that bitter cold on thoughts of the land of my forebearers. But now that I am here, I find I no longer desire to master them, but only to know them, and be known by them in return.”

The elf-Lord turned to her. He had raven-black hair and steel-silver eyes, and his handsome face bore a huge spray of dark freckles. Although he too remained silent, Frodo perceived the words he spoke in his mind to Galadriel. “That is well enough, cousin. I sense that these lands may have more mastery of us than we have of them, in the end.”

Her gaze turned across the water. “Do you miss home?” she asked suddenly.

He was very still for a moment. “An oath I have sworn, and an oath I must keep. And I perceive that there is yet greater good to be done here, so long as the doing is in my power.”

She turned to him again. “Do you think that will be enough?”

“For what?” he scoffed. “To appease those self-righteous, self-appointed—” He stopped himself, then began again. “No, never. But it is not them to whom I answer, only the One.”

“And your father,” she said.

The Elf-lord scowled. “If they will not hear our vows, then I have no need of them. I seek neither their approval nor their pity. And if the time comes to reckon my accounts with the Lord of Doom, at least I can stand before him and say: I was myself.” His face softened. “If you act, it must be of your own conviction. This is all we have, now. Our doom is what we make of it. I hope you find what it is you seek.”

This was a memory, Frodo had realized upon waking, that the Lady Galadriel had chosen to share with him. He hadn’t understood why, then, nor had he understood the feeling of enormous grief that overcame him. Now, he thought he was beginning to.

Perhaps, Frodo was beginning to suspect, the adventure was coming whether you were ready or not, and the story would always find you, in the end.