A long ripple of notes by Himring

A long ripple of notes

Read A long ripple of notes

Emlinn knew the woman, of course, and not only from Himring. Their paths had crossed in Lindon, later, and again here in Eregion. However, they had never exchanged words much beyond the immediate needs of the moment. That was not entirely by design, Emlinn felt, now that she came to think about it, but not exactly an accident either.

Thus, she had not expected Maedhros’s housekeeper, the woman Maglor used to call Narye, to turn up in the square where Emlinn was entertaining a mixed audience in a nook in front of a tavern, at least not in this way. The woman had arrived unobtrusively, in the middle of a session, but then she had sat down alone at a table, slowly sipping a single drink, apparently listening intently and waiting. Emlinn was too experienced a performer, now, to be distracted, but remained acutely conscious of this listener throughout.

The explanation, at the end of the session, sounded straightforward, but left Emlinn unsettled and anxious nevertheless.

‘I have spoken to Celebrimbor of the music you made, Maglor and you, in Himring,’ Narye informed her, after a few polite words. ‘He would like to hear you play some of those songs. I am here to invite you to play them in the Hall of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain tomorrow evening, or another day, if it suits you better.’

She had, of course, assured Narye that it was an honour to be asked and said she was free the following evening. But it was the first time she had been asked to play Maglor’s music on those terms, and she wondered what Narye had told Celebrimbor—and why now? She had not known Narye and Celebrimbor ever talked about his notorious uncles, even though she was aware of Narye’s association with the Gwaith-i-Mirdain.

As she was setting up to play in the middle of the impressively large space the following evening, things had already become clearer to her. The craft hall of the Jewel-smiths did not look much like the great hall of Himring, at all, except for being distinctly Noldorin, of course, and it was many degrees warmer than the bone-chilling cold she remembered, but there was something about the hushed mood in the room that distinctly recalled that winter of the Dagor Bragollach, when Himring was under siege.

These are those who worked with Annatar and know his skills well, Emlinn thought. Many of them also are from Nargothrond; they remember only too clearly what Sauron did in Dorthonion and Tol Sirion. They have spent all their time and art for months on end transforming Ost-in-Edhil into a defensible city. The last bits of strong masonry on the walls are being put in place. Newly forged swords and all kinds of other weapons have been piling up in the armouries. They have been training for warfare in all the squares of the city. And now the first rumours of Sauron’s oncoming army have reached us from the South, they nevertheless fear it is not enough. And their nerves are already wrung out with waiting all that time for the other shoe to drop…

She remembered exactly what they had played, she and Maglor, on those winter nights, although she did not, of course, have his voice. She would have to leave out only very little, this time. She was nevertheless glad that Celeborn was not there.

Any desultory conversation in the corners died quickly. Uncertain frowns on the face of some of the Finarfinians smoothed out. They listened, silent and rapt, the master jewel smiths where they sat, Celebrimbor among them, his face half hidden in the shadows, and the others, apprentices, servants, friends. She thought this might be her strongest performance yet, as if Maglor had indeed reached out from the past or from wherever he wandered to lend her a little of the quality of his voice for this evening. Or maybe it was just his words and his music that she knew so well and that, for once, she was holding nothing at all back for fear of causing offence.

When she came to the end, resting her hand on the harp strings, there was silence, but she sensed, even without studying individual faces, that the mood in the room had shifted. Maybe they were remembering that that winter the walls had held, even if they had not continued to do so, later on...

‘If you will, lords and masters,’ she said, ‘there is one more song. It is not by Maglor himself, and indeed I do not know for certain whose it is, but I remember them singing it in Himring that winter, in the courts and on the walls. Shall I sing it?’

‘Yes, please do, Emlinn’, said Celebrimbor.

He had spoken little this evening and, of all the audience, she was least sure of his reactions.

So Emlinn, fingers plucking a simple accompaniment, began:

Do not ask who we are
or where we came from,
not tonight,
for we have fed ourselves to the fire,
to the great bonfire,
the bane-fire
against the encroaching Dark.
They shall not pass!
None shall pass here,
while we yet breathe,
while we yet burn…

‘Ah, yes,’ murmured Narye, leaning in the doorway.

In the big fireplace, the logs hissed and crackled.

‘Thank you, Emlinn,’ said Celebrimbor, quietly.

---

Chapter End Notes

The title is taken from this drabble series, from a description of one of the performances given by Maglor and Emlinn, from her husband's point of view: A Woodcarver from Brithombar

More on Emlinn and Maglor here: The West Wind Quartet

More on Narye/Naurthoniel here: Feanorian Housekeeping