Runes by StarSpray

Runes

“In those days, it is said, Daeron the Minstrel, chief loremaster of the kingdom of Thingol, devised his Runes; and the Naugrim that came to Thingol learned them, and were well-pleased with the device, esteeming Daeron’s skill higher than did the Sindar, his own people.” - The Silmarillion, ‘Of the Sindar’

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It was fascinating, watching the Naugrim at work in the forges and workshops that had been set aside for them in Menegroth. Lúthien perched on a bench well out of their way, watching the way they moved between tasks, sharing the work and speaking together in low voices in their own tongue. It was like watching a dance, each step perfectly timed to all the others.

Many thought the language of the Naugrim unlovely, but Lúthien enjoyed listening to them, even if she couldn’t understand what they were saying. There was a rhythm to it as of their hammers at work, or of feet stomping in time to the heartbeat of the earth.

As she was contemplating the heartbeat of the world, there was a break in the rhythm as a squabble broke out between a few of the dwarves. “What is the matter?” she asked the dwarf nearest to her, who had paused in his work to watch the argument.

“Bruni misremembered the directions and made the wrong thing,” said the dwarf, “and now they must start all over again, and there will be a delay in the flutes and harps that your honored father has requested of us.”

“Oh, that is of little matter,” said Lúthien. “We will survive a little longer without them.” She smiled, and the dwarf smiled back, the lines around his eyes lessening a little.

The thought flitted through her mind that the lines on the older dwarves’ faces looked a little like the lines of Daeron’s Cirth that he had been working on for so long, and nearly perfected. And that thought brought on its tail another. “Please excuse me, Nali. There is someone I think you will all very much like to meet!”

She found Daeron some distance from Menegroth, high up in a tree with his flute, composing a new song. “Daeron!” she called. “Daeron come down! I want to talk to you.”

The music stopped abruptly, and a moment later Daeron swung down out of the branches, hanging from his knees so that his hair tumbled down to brush the grass. “What is it?” he asked. “I’m so close to solving the puzzle of that song—”

“I think,” Lúthien said, “that the Naugrim would like to see your writings.”

This made Daeron pause, and blink. “My Cirth?” he asked. “Why?”

“I believe they have more need of it than we do,” she said, “and I have been watching them work—they could do truly lovely things with your letters! Won’t you come talk to them?”

No one had spoken ill of Daeron or his letters—those who needed to keep track of things like food or cloth or textiles had taken to them like fish to water, and sang their praises often—but Lúthien knew that Daeron wished more for his letters than only tabulations and dry records.

“All right,” he said after a moment, and dropped to the ground, rolling through the grass and the niphredil before rising to his feet. Lúthien laughed at him as he picked leaves and petals out of his dark hair. “But must I go down to their forges? It stinks of hot metal.”

“Yes, you must,” said Lúthien, “and you must be courteous.”

“I am always courteous!” Daeron protested, as he let Lúthien take his hand and drag him back to the caves. “It’s only that I can never get the stink out of my hair afterward—”

Back at the forges there was little smell of hot metal, as the dwarves were still debating how now to complete their commission in good time. They stopped and bowed when Lúthien reentered the room. “This is Daeron, our loremaster and my father’s favored minstrel,” she said, and Daeron bowed in his turn. “But he has also created something that I think you shall find both useful and interesting—it is a form of writing. Daeron will explain.” And she stepped back and sat back on her bench.

Once the Naugrim had introduced themselves, Daeron found some writing materials and began to show them his runes, explaining how each symbol corresponded to a sound, and how putting them together made words—and words into sentences, and so on. And they could be written or carved into stone or etched into metal, or whatever the writer wished to do.

The Naugrim, as Lúthien had thought, were skeptical at first, until Daeron showed them just what he meant. Then their eyes gleamed with the fire of new learning, and they clustered around, already talking of all of the things they could write down and do, and Daeron was lit up with the excitement of sharing his works and of finding an audience who truly understood its potential.

Lúthien did not understand half of what they spoke of, but she sat back and listened, smiling, to the friendships being forged.