Fëanorians and their offspring.

Basically fairly random headcanons where Fëanor has nine grandchildren and his line does not die out.

Maedhros and Fingon marry and have baby Ereinion. In this AU, Maedhros does manage to find the twins Eluréd and Elurín, whom he kept under his care; he even baptizes them with names in Quenya.

Maglor adopts (kidnaps) the twins. Following canon, for a change. Although it turns out that Daeron and he fathered a child while they were still married. They divorced after Doriath, so Maglor never knew his husband was in waiting.

After the death of her beloved cousin, Celegorm keeps the only memory of her, baby Maeglin, at her request (Tugorn, who is Turgon?).

After a night of wine without measure, the always neat Caranthir spends hours in bed with Turgon, which results in little Erestor.

Curufin simply disappeared for a year and when he returned he had Telperinquar in his arms.

Amrod and Amras are the uncles who spoil their nephews.

Space is limited, so I did not include the Feanorians' spouses. Husbands, or of course, in this AU they are queer.

These are completely random headcanons that come to mind.

The canon has gone to hell.

Of Ñolofinwë & Curufin.

“That is insufficient.”

His voice sounded broken, and although at any other time that would have been an unprecedented humiliation, the unfolding scenario far outweighed any concern for his own vulnerability.

“Arakáno has been damage permanent, my king, goodwill cannot cure him.”

Ñolofinwë fixed his gaze, hardened by the years, on the elfing, then turned his attention back to the Fëanorian. Curufinwë then pointed to Arakáno, who was still sitting in front of the master, his wound already treated, the vulnerable flesh held together by a thread that had been grafted without any relief, for Fëanáro's favorite was well aware that no amount of silver could ease such pain, and although his youngest son tried to appear brave and proud, his expressions of pain were enough to ignite Curufinwë's indignation at the scene.

“You cannot bring his eye back, Curufinwë.”

The irony in the words exhausted his patience.

He looked for something to lean on and then met the gaze of Tyelkormo, who walked without hesitation toward Arakáno.

Tyelperinquar was at his side, although they could not do much to help the situation.

“Not because it was taken. There is a debt that must be paid, with his son's eye.”

He finally declared, and Findekáno then stood in front of his own son. Erenion found himself hiding behind his Atar's robe, his hands clinging to the fabric as the Crown Prince looked up to face his father's husband, anger beginning to run through his own Fëa. Ñolofinwë then approached Curufin, his hand sought out the wrist of the younger of the two and took it without hesitation, even if the blacksmith struggled for a moment, his attention still fixed on the firstborn and his offspring.

“My dear husband, let not your anger cloud your judgment.”

Curufinwë then looked at the king, his indignation growing even more. His son, the son Ñolofinwë had asked for, had been irreparably damaged. His injured eye still rested on a glass bowl as if it were something trivial, as if the fever would not begin to spread through Arakáno, as if an infection could not take over his body. it was unfair, unjust, and illogical. He was well aware that Ñolofinwë loved his children, but there would always be a clear difference between Arakáno and the children he had with Anairë. He knew the risk when he offered his hand when Maitamo abdicated in favor of his uncle. He made a plan, because that was who he was. Ñolofinwë would marry him, his blood would have a chance at the throne, and that was better than nothing. but now everything was more than uncertain, because this was new. It was his son, wounded by the hand of the offspring of kings.

And there would be no consequences for the child, no consequences for Findekáno, the beloved, the cherished, the damned Findekáno who believed he had the right to walk all over him, over his son, over the blood of the King himself, who in fact seemed simply not to care. He could not bear such humiliation.

“If the king does not demand justice, the Prince will. Tyelkormo, bring me the eye of Erenion Gil-Galad, that he may choose which one he will keep, a privilege that was not granted to my son.”

Tyelkormo watched him then, silent tears running down Curufinwë's cheeks, Arakáno still seated as he was weak from blood loss, his cousin and uncle watching as if nothing had happened, his hand instinctively resting on his dagger.

“You will not do such a thing!”

Findekáno gently pushed Erenion aside before taking up a defensive stance.

“Lower your hand, Turkafinwë!”

Ñolofinwë shouted this time, standing beside his grandson and son, seeking Curufinwë's attention, who began to walk like one of his older brother's hunting dogs when they went too long without running, anxious, fierce.

“He is sworn to me!”

Curufinwë held his husband's gaze, Arakáno approached him and leaned against him, he had endured too much from this thrice-cursed marriage, being “stripped” of his name, of his colors, being called “Fëanaró” during nights when he was expected to do his duty, being called Courtesan, a whore who sought to warm the king's bed to bring some glory to his disreputable family, fine, he could handle that, he really could, but to pass by his son without consequences, that he could not allow, even with the end of the world just around the corner.

Of The Secret

When Tyelkormo is born, everyone is talking about the little tuft of hair on his head.

Because they are at court, and even though Fëanor refused to show his baby until Nerdanel was completely better, the people already know, they know that Fëanor's third prince has Queen Miriel's hair, the secret is out, everyone is whispering, even Ñolofinwë comments on it to Arafinwë, who asks him to keep quiet about the matter.

Finwë, Finwë doesn't know how to take it, because he knows his wife's hair color, and well, it's not silver. Don't get me wrong, he's not accusing anyone of adultery, that's unlikely. Nerdanel and Fëanor love each other in a way that no one really understands, but he is aware that Tyelkormo did not inherit that hair from Miriel, and he is convinced of this when the child begins to run through the gardens and the edges of the forests.

His locks fall tousled most of the time, his waves are wild even when braided, and despite his young age, Tyelkormo already decorates his hairstyles with bird feathers he finds in the garden, hangs from trees with a naturalness that surprises even Oromë himself, who proclaims that the child was born for the forest, that he is worthy of following his horn when the time comes.

Finwë thinks of Elwë when he sees Tyelkormo. He thinks about it when the elfling is born, when he holds him in his arms, when Tyelkormo runs tirelessly, when he searches for the earth, the trees, the forest, when he is a teenager and his features begin to harden, when his eyes take on an icy blue that makes him pause for a moment. If Fëanor did not inherit Elwë's mischief, Tyelkormo certainly did. It was as if the Valar punished that secret. His grandson was, in theory, a copy of his companion, and not only in stature, although perhaps a little less tall. In addition, in Fëa he was quite similar to his grandfather Teleri, so give him some credit for not shouting.

He sees Elwë when Tyelkormo runs through the woods, when he smiles cheekily at the young men and women who flatter him, his heart trembles, he fears that his greatest secret will be discovered, that Fëanor will discover it, and yet there is no way, not really, no one knows Elwë, except perhaps Rumil, and well, he doesn't really say anything.

So he lets them believe, even Fëanor, for all of Tirion, Tyelkormo is the heir to Miriel's beauty, because he prefers that, he prefers Indis's trembling before Tyelkormo to confessing it.

He will not lose his son.