A Woodcarver from Brithombar by Himring

Chapter 1

Written for the Woodwork challenge at Tolkien Weekly.

Prompts: Peg, Drill, Sand, Polish, Level, Ruler

Time: some months before the Dagor Bragollach (Battle of Sudden Flame). Place: Maglor's Gap

Tuning the Strings
(Peg)

One of the tuning-pegs is worn out. She needs a new one, at once, for tomorrow is her first lesson with Maglor Feanorion! Normally, she would be capable of whittling it herself, but tonight she’s all thumbs. He takes the knife away and sets about making one for her, while she paces, restlessly.
He’s not seen her like this, ever. It stings but he does his best. He doesn’t ask: Maglor?! Emlinn, what have we got to do with the likes of him?
She takes the whittled peg and kisses him on the mouth.
“Wish me luck!”
And he does.

Time: just before the Dagor Bragollach. Place: Maglor's Gap

Drafted for Duty
(Drill)

This wasn’t how he expected to meet Maglor. He has a connection, he supposes—he wonders whether it will serve him.
‘The Sinda refuses the task…’
‘I’ve paid my dues, all I owe you,’ Oderen argues. ‘I’ve got a commission, urgent, due in three days’ time. And I’m a woodcarver, not a wainwright!’
‘How dare…!’
‘He’s from Brithombar, Turion,’ Maglor says, calmly. ‘But here in the Marches, Oderen, we all do what is required. And those waggons—we need them. Now!’
Grudgingly, he drills axle holes. He’s fully compensated but doesn’t entirely understand—until the day the order comes.
Evacuate.

Time: beginning of the Dagor Bragollach. Place: Between Maglor's Gap and Himring

Amid the Flurry of Battle
(Sand)

He let go of her hand; now he has no idea where Emlinn is. Dragon or no dragon—how could he?

Oderen made his quarterstaff himself, sized to his reach, sanded to a good grip: suitable defence against petty thieves. No match for claws, fangs, scimitars! Five strokes, a slash—the staff goes flying, broken.
Maedhros is a thunder of hooves, a flash of red, a sudden absence of orcs.
‘Well done, Sinda! You survived!’ cries Turion.

‘You stabbed an orc?’ Oderen asks his wife incredulously. Where did she get that dagger?
Emlinn ignores his question.
‘Oh, Oderen, you’re hurt!’

Time: later phase of the Dagor Bragollach. Place: Himring

A Rose for the Fire
(Polish)

They cannot get out.
Oderen mends ladders, replaces spear shafts, makes splints, chops firewood. He takes his turn on the walls and fights, badly…
‘Thank you, Oderen’, says Turion.
…or not as badly as all that?

Amidst a fragmenting world, Maglor and Emlinn go on polishing their music.
‘I have not seen you carving’, remarks Emlinn, frowning.
‘There is no call for it. All wood is for breaking or burning, here.’
‘Carve me a rose tonight—even if it has to go on the fire tomorrow.’
Pointless, clumsy, rough—but his wife praises it as though it were a song.

Time: later phase of the Dagor Bragollach. Place: Himring

Rising Levels
(Level)

Sound Levels

They flock into the hall, pale and exhausted. Some of them sport fresh bandages where a black-shafted arrow grazed them. They huddle together on hard benches in their cloaks, relying on shared body warmth rather than on the meagre flame on the hearth. Nursing single beakers of well-watered wine in stiffened fingers, they toy with their rations and wait, expectantly.
Emlinn mounts the three steps up to the level of the dais and takes her seat. I’ll be playing his harp; it has the greater range. A long ripple of notes...
Maglor raises his voice. The winter dark turns gold.

Anxiety Levels

Oderen didn’t need a Noldo to tell him Emlinn has artistic potential. But to see them —Noldor, Sindar and Edain, nobles and commoners all alike before the levelling power of music—all listening spellbound to Maglor and to his Emlinn!
‘Your wife? You must be proud’, says Turion.
Turion is sincere—other men less so—but Oderen is indeed unreservedly proud. However, where before he merely feared Emlinn would be hurt when the prince dropped her, now he realizes the Feanorion is a brilliant, enthusiastic teacher—yet he is doomed. If they survive the siege, will Maglor let Emlinn go?

Time and Place: (1) after the Dagor Bragolach;  Himring;  (2) Second Age:  Rivendell

No Straight Lines
(Ruler)

A Handful of Splinters

‘I hear you’re leaving’, says Turion.
‘Yes’, says Oderen. Emlinn has made him feel guilty about their departure—but are they not both of the Falathrim?
‘Ah. We don't talk about it anymore amongst ourselves… I killed two at Alqualonde’, says Turion.
Oderen recoils in shock. True, he was muttering behind Noldorin backs about doomed kinslayers, but he was thinking of rulers, nations…
Turion?!
Turion sees his reaction, shrugs proudly, resignedly, and walks away. And just like that, a friendship that had grown up unnoticed dies. Oderen, worrying about his wife, had deluded himself that he had formed no ties.

A Frieze in the Hall of Fire

Emlinn has a mission: Maglor sent her out to carry his songs beyond the reach of Doom. Oderen has none, but when he puts stencil and ruler aside and starts carving, sometimes his memory informs his hands. You cannot see it, but this rider vanishing into foliage is one-handed. Invisibly, this harp bears an eight-pointed star…
‘That’s Turion’s face’, says a voice at the bottom of the ladder.
He had forgotten that somebody here might know.
‘Yes. Have you learned what became of him?’
‘He fell at Sirion.’
‘Which side?’
‘Who knows? We stopped asking and mourned them all together.’

Chapter End Notes

Turion is a character of mine from Maglor Plays for his People after Doriath. Although notionally present during the events of The West Wind Quartet, he appears in the longer story only as a member of Maglor's guard, who are not individually named.