Last year, in a fit of ambition, I wrote full-length stories for many of my friends to give as holiday gifts, ending with a total of twenty stories, ranging in length from 500 to 10,000 words. This year, my schedule (and sanity) will not permit me this luxury. Nonetheless, there are so many people in this community to whom I am indebted: people who read my work and offer feedback and encouragement, who listen to my many gripes, who offer inspiration and laughter when I need it the most. Regardless of religious affiliations and personal traditions, I like to use the winter holidays to remember my friends and show my thankfulness for the many gifts that they give the whole year through.

During the month of December, I will write and post thirty-one fixed-length ficlet-series. While real life and travel often will not allow me to post daily, I will do my best to keep up.

Content and ratings will vary quite widely for this project, as I am working based on the requests and preferences of friends, so please read and heed the warnings that precede each series. If you don't like sex or slash or violence in stories, then please be mature and intelligent enough to skip the content that will likely bother you. When primitive organisms lacking a brain can learn a basic avoidance response, then it really says something for those who claim to hate certain types of stories and yet continue to read them anyway. That said, I welcome feedback and constructive criticism from those who are capable of behaving in a civilized manner.

While individual pieces might have been written for particular people, the series as a whole is dedicated to all of those who have read me, reviewed me, helped me, and encouraged me throughout the last year. Thank you!

This first drabble series "Curiosity" was written for Angaloth, who I know fancies Fëanor and Nerdanel above all others. It is a series of three hundred-word drabbles about what might have first inspired their love…and led to their demise.

This series contains some very mild sexuality but should be suitable for teenaged and adult audiences.



As a child, my father said, I was but a pair of wide eyes peering over tabletops. Under tables. Into hidden nooks and corners. My fingernails had crescents of dirt beneath them from putting my hands where they did not belong.. I inspected the lock and built a key and used it to enter my father's forge, curious about the wonders I might find there.

He warned me, "Careful, Nerdanel, for your curiosity will burn you!" catching my small hands reaching for a chunk of coal that—still black on the outside—upon being broken glowed red within, with fire.


Fëanáro served opposite me as an apprentice, and I would watch his hands as he worked: slender and pale and quick as spiders, hypnotizing to watch, making nimble work of the most complex tasks.

But he was careless and would cut or burn himself in his haste—his curiosity—fingers welling in blisters that pained me to see. "But Nerdanel," he told me, "it is worth it!" Lifting a finger to his mouth to cool the pain. I watched his hand. I watched his lips and envied them, for possessing his hand.

And envied his hand, for possessing his lips.


On the day he put light into stone, he pressed it into my palm, and I claimed light.

He folded my hands in his, always warm and no longer scarred, for he was too skilled for that now.

Curiosity: it fluttered inside of me, plunked with a hot and heavy weight into my belly and burned there.

I reached across the space between us, only my father was no longer there to warn me of my curiosity, from unseen fire within the body that I touched in reverence, closed my eyes and kissed.

Stone—light—forgotten, we claimed each other.