The Future of the Flameborn Multiverse
[written October 2025]
Between 2020 and 2024, I endured some of the worst harassment and cruelty I’ve ever faced online—much of it from a corner of Tolkien fandom that styled itself as inclusive, progressive, and artistically elevated… but is actually vicious. Led by Spiced Wine and her circle, the attacks I received weren’t just criticism of my writing or aesthetics; they were personal, targeted, and relentless. They made me feel like I had no right to belong in the fandom at all.
But I did not disappear. I kept going, even when it felt like shouting into a void. I wasn't going to give my haters the satisfaction of making me pack up and go away.
As importantly, my characters—Sören, Anthony, Nicholas, Maglor, and later Eiliv—were lifelines. I returned to them not because fandom was safe, but because they were. They held the truths I was too scared to say out loud. They gave me a place to pour the feelings that had nowhere else to go. Every time I wrote Sören refusing to give up, I was telling myself: you don’t have to either. Every time I gave Anthony a voice full of kindness, or Nicholas a quiet moment of dignity, or Maglor a chance at redemption, I was trying to believe those things could exist for me too. The Flameborn Multiverse became my anchor in the storm. While others tried to erase me, I wrote myself louder. While they tried to invalidate me, I gave my characters the kinds of truths that couldn’t be argued with: tenderness, resilience, joy. I didn’t write to prove anything to them. I wrote to stay alive. To hold onto something good, something mine. In a landscape that turned hostile overnight, my characters reminded me who I was.
And in the years I was still single, these stories were how I made sense of grief and longing. They were conversations with the parts of myself that felt lost, unwanted, invisible. They let me believe in love—not just romantic love, but love that sees you. Love that looks at your flaws and your fire, your aching need and your sharp edges, and stays. Writing Sören finding his way back to his beloveds across lifetimes wasn’t just escapism. It was prayer. Spellwork. Tikkun olam, queer and defiant and holy in its mess.
But it was more than that. I’m a rape and CSA survivor. Writing smut—loving, consensual, filthy, joyful smut—was how I began to reclaim my body and my desires. I wasn’t just telling stories; I was doing healing magic, rewriting the narrative of what sex could be. Writing erotic scenes centered on transmasc guys like me helped me feel pride in being trans, helped me stop seeing myself as broken or wrong. For the first time, I saw my body as worthy of love, pleasure, worship. And in doing all that work—in crafting these stories, in giving voice to longing and hope—I think I unintentionally cast a real spell. I built a home inside myself where love could land. I wrote myself into being lovable. And eventually, I found Andy. Or maybe… the magic led us to each other.
I told myself I wouldn’t let bullies take that away from me. I still won’t. But the truth is… I’ve changed.
I’m getting closer to fifty, and I have a partner—Andy—who loves me in all the ways I used to write into fiction, hoping it could someday be true. He sees me. He calls me Cubby and writes smut and poetry and love letters and makes art for me and sends memes when I’m sad. I don’t need to write about distant men loving a younger version of me anymore to feel worthy of being loved. I am loved. Every day. That changes things.
As I get older, writing takes more out of me than it used to. Chronic health issues have a way of draining the body and the mind—you don’t realize how much energy it takes just to feel okay until you don’t have it anymore. Add to that the fog and friction of neurodivergence, and sometimes even opening the document feels like pushing a boulder uphill. I used to be able to write through anything—pain, grief, exhaustion—but now I have to choose where my limited spoons go. Every story costs something. And I’m learning, slowly, to spend that cost with intention.
Once Andy moves here from New Zealand, I know I’ll have even less time to write. So when I do write, I want it to matter—to feel good, to feed something in both of us.
And if I’m being honest, I don’t want to keep writing Sören as a twentysomething or even thirtysomething anymore—but I don’t want to write him at my age either. Sören was always a self-insert, yes, but not a one-to-one mirror. I made him younger on purpose. Writing him was therapeutic, but it was also escapism: a way to take the sharpest pieces of myself—my trauma, my fire, my yearning—and pour them into someone who still had time, who still believed he might burn bright enough to outrun the past. That was fine in my thirties and early forties, and now I'm old enough that it feels completely ridiculous to be writing a twentysomething self-insert, even if part of my brain is convinced 2002 was like five years ago. Making Sören middle-aged now, saddling him with my current reality—fatigue that lives in my bones, the slow grief of aging in a trans body, the frustrations and fears that don't make for sexy fanfic—that’s not escapism. That’s just… me, raw and unfiltered, and that’s not what I need Sören to be. And let’s be real: fandom doesn’t exactly line up to devour stories about a bunch of grumpy middle-aged guys dealing with joint pain, cancer screenings, and existential dread. I don’t want to write middle-aged Sören AU just because I got older. I want to let him stay who he is in the universes I built—messy, brilliant, bleeding stardust, and still young enough to believe he can start over.
There will always be a corner of my soul that belongs to Sören and Anthony and Nicholas and Maglor (and yes, Eiliv, you too). I’m proud of what I’ve made: the depth, the consistency, the emotional honesty. Dozens of novel-length fics, sprawling across timelines and universes, all spun from the same thread of fire. But lately, when I return to that world, it’s more as a visitor than a resident. The urgency I once felt—to prove myself, to find myself—isn’t there in the same way.
And I’ve written and rewritten Sören’s journey across so many universes. I’ve explored his trauma, his reincarnations, his love stories, his rebirths. I’ve given him endings and beginnings, over and over. There's only so many AUs I can write before it feels like the same thing over and over again; I don’t want to keep cycling through the same narratives just to stay relevant, or to keep up with old expectations. I don’t want to force stories out of habit when my heart is calling me elsewhere.
These days, when I sit down to write, I’d rather pour that energy into the world Andy and I share: Maikafinwë Telperinquarion (Maika) and Aiden, the grumpy tattooed werewolf who loves him. That universe is alive with our banter, our inside jokes, our shared passions. It’s romantic, kinky, chaotic, heartfelt. It’s what I want to write now—not because I’m trying to fill a void, but because I’m overflowing. I’ve spent most of my adult life writing love stories to cope with loneliness. Now I get to write them in celebration.
And sometimes I just want to write filth for Andy. Not layered metaphysical exploration, not epic character arcs, not multi-chapter sagas of longing and rebirth. Just good old-fashioned smut.
So this isn’t a goodbye to the Flameborn Multiverse. But I am, for now, slowing it down. In 2026, I am taking a complete break from writing stories set in the multiverse, for at least a year, though I will continue to do occasional pieces of fanart for Tolkien's canon characters and my OCs. Once I return to writing in the multiverse, my stories about "The Squad" will be fewer and farther between, a rare treat rather than the main event. And I do have ideas for a couple canon-era longfics starring Fëanor, but I need time for my mental batteries to recharge.
And to anyone reading this who’s held these characters close—who saw yourself in Sören’s fire or Anthony’s gentleness or Nicholas’s quiet devotion or Maglor’s haunted eyes—I want to say thank you. You’ve made this multiverse more than I ever imagined. You gave it life beyond my own healing.
And if you, too, are tired—if you’ve burned and burned and burned for your art, and you’re wondering whether it’s okay to rest—I hope you know the answer is yes.
The flame doesn’t die because you take a break.
It just waits, patient and eternal, for the next spark.
But I did not disappear. I kept going, even when it felt like shouting into a void. I wasn't going to give my haters the satisfaction of making me pack up and go away.
As importantly, my characters—Sören, Anthony, Nicholas, Maglor, and later Eiliv—were lifelines. I returned to them not because fandom was safe, but because they were. They held the truths I was too scared to say out loud. They gave me a place to pour the feelings that had nowhere else to go. Every time I wrote Sören refusing to give up, I was telling myself: you don’t have to either. Every time I gave Anthony a voice full of kindness, or Nicholas a quiet moment of dignity, or Maglor a chance at redemption, I was trying to believe those things could exist for me too. The Flameborn Multiverse became my anchor in the storm. While others tried to erase me, I wrote myself louder. While they tried to invalidate me, I gave my characters the kinds of truths that couldn’t be argued with: tenderness, resilience, joy. I didn’t write to prove anything to them. I wrote to stay alive. To hold onto something good, something mine. In a landscape that turned hostile overnight, my characters reminded me who I was.
And in the years I was still single, these stories were how I made sense of grief and longing. They were conversations with the parts of myself that felt lost, unwanted, invisible. They let me believe in love—not just romantic love, but love that sees you. Love that looks at your flaws and your fire, your aching need and your sharp edges, and stays. Writing Sören finding his way back to his beloveds across lifetimes wasn’t just escapism. It was prayer. Spellwork. Tikkun olam, queer and defiant and holy in its mess.
But it was more than that. I’m a rape and CSA survivor. Writing smut—loving, consensual, filthy, joyful smut—was how I began to reclaim my body and my desires. I wasn’t just telling stories; I was doing healing magic, rewriting the narrative of what sex could be. Writing erotic scenes centered on transmasc guys like me helped me feel pride in being trans, helped me stop seeing myself as broken or wrong. For the first time, I saw my body as worthy of love, pleasure, worship. And in doing all that work—in crafting these stories, in giving voice to longing and hope—I think I unintentionally cast a real spell. I built a home inside myself where love could land. I wrote myself into being lovable. And eventually, I found Andy. Or maybe… the magic led us to each other.
I told myself I wouldn’t let bullies take that away from me. I still won’t. But the truth is… I’ve changed.
I’m getting closer to fifty, and I have a partner—Andy—who loves me in all the ways I used to write into fiction, hoping it could someday be true. He sees me. He calls me Cubby and writes smut and poetry and love letters and makes art for me and sends memes when I’m sad. I don’t need to write about distant men loving a younger version of me anymore to feel worthy of being loved. I am loved. Every day. That changes things.
As I get older, writing takes more out of me than it used to. Chronic health issues have a way of draining the body and the mind—you don’t realize how much energy it takes just to feel okay until you don’t have it anymore. Add to that the fog and friction of neurodivergence, and sometimes even opening the document feels like pushing a boulder uphill. I used to be able to write through anything—pain, grief, exhaustion—but now I have to choose where my limited spoons go. Every story costs something. And I’m learning, slowly, to spend that cost with intention.
Once Andy moves here from New Zealand, I know I’ll have even less time to write. So when I do write, I want it to matter—to feel good, to feed something in both of us.
And if I’m being honest, I don’t want to keep writing Sören as a twentysomething or even thirtysomething anymore—but I don’t want to write him at my age either. Sören was always a self-insert, yes, but not a one-to-one mirror. I made him younger on purpose. Writing him was therapeutic, but it was also escapism: a way to take the sharpest pieces of myself—my trauma, my fire, my yearning—and pour them into someone who still had time, who still believed he might burn bright enough to outrun the past. That was fine in my thirties and early forties, and now I'm old enough that it feels completely ridiculous to be writing a twentysomething self-insert, even if part of my brain is convinced 2002 was like five years ago. Making Sören middle-aged now, saddling him with my current reality—fatigue that lives in my bones, the slow grief of aging in a trans body, the frustrations and fears that don't make for sexy fanfic—that’s not escapism. That’s just… me, raw and unfiltered, and that’s not what I need Sören to be. And let’s be real: fandom doesn’t exactly line up to devour stories about a bunch of grumpy middle-aged guys dealing with joint pain, cancer screenings, and existential dread. I don’t want to write middle-aged Sören AU just because I got older. I want to let him stay who he is in the universes I built—messy, brilliant, bleeding stardust, and still young enough to believe he can start over.
There will always be a corner of my soul that belongs to Sören and Anthony and Nicholas and Maglor (and yes, Eiliv, you too). I’m proud of what I’ve made: the depth, the consistency, the emotional honesty. Dozens of novel-length fics, sprawling across timelines and universes, all spun from the same thread of fire. But lately, when I return to that world, it’s more as a visitor than a resident. The urgency I once felt—to prove myself, to find myself—isn’t there in the same way.
And I’ve written and rewritten Sören’s journey across so many universes. I’ve explored his trauma, his reincarnations, his love stories, his rebirths. I’ve given him endings and beginnings, over and over. There's only so many AUs I can write before it feels like the same thing over and over again; I don’t want to keep cycling through the same narratives just to stay relevant, or to keep up with old expectations. I don’t want to force stories out of habit when my heart is calling me elsewhere.
These days, when I sit down to write, I’d rather pour that energy into the world Andy and I share: Maikafinwë Telperinquarion (Maika) and Aiden, the grumpy tattooed werewolf who loves him. That universe is alive with our banter, our inside jokes, our shared passions. It’s romantic, kinky, chaotic, heartfelt. It’s what I want to write now—not because I’m trying to fill a void, but because I’m overflowing. I’ve spent most of my adult life writing love stories to cope with loneliness. Now I get to write them in celebration.
And sometimes I just want to write filth for Andy. Not layered metaphysical exploration, not epic character arcs, not multi-chapter sagas of longing and rebirth. Just good old-fashioned smut.
So this isn’t a goodbye to the Flameborn Multiverse. But I am, for now, slowing it down. In 2026, I am taking a complete break from writing stories set in the multiverse, for at least a year, though I will continue to do occasional pieces of fanart for Tolkien's canon characters and my OCs. Once I return to writing in the multiverse, my stories about "The Squad" will be fewer and farther between, a rare treat rather than the main event. And I do have ideas for a couple canon-era longfics starring Fëanor, but I need time for my mental batteries to recharge.
And to anyone reading this who’s held these characters close—who saw yourself in Sören’s fire or Anthony’s gentleness or Nicholas’s quiet devotion or Maglor’s haunted eyes—I want to say thank you. You’ve made this multiverse more than I ever imagined. You gave it life beyond my own healing.
And if you, too, are tired—if you’ve burned and burned and burned for your art, and you’re wondering whether it’s okay to rest—I hope you know the answer is yes.
The flame doesn’t die because you take a break.
It just waits, patient and eternal, for the next spark.
