All Hues and Honeys by Dawn Felagund  

Abode

Finrod adapts to changing ideas of what it means to make a home. A perfect drabble written for Lockdown Instadrabbling for the prompt: rock, color, carry, abode

Finrod still thought of home in terms of comfort: the warm smell of baking lembas, the halting melody of practice at the harp, blankets and bed for a wife. Carrying chisels amid the winding ways of effulgent rock, he tried to temper his disappointment in the unfailingly cool air, the echoing silence, the fish-belly color of the stone.

He poised his chisel over stone and began to cut. The sound magnified and echoed, until it seemed to him the music of a thousand footfalls and calling voices.

This would be not an abode for a wife but for a people.