Saedhruin had originally picked up the art in Tirion.
It was a bit of a novelty then, and not much considered by most. To call up a flame was the simplest of stunts, the critics scorned, and a gust of wind merely a party trick.
Nontheless Saedhruin had started, for he had been greatly intrigued by the prince’s new alphabet, and this application for it seemed interesting. Eithruin did not, though she had not yet chosen a craft. She searched still, and said merely that none of them interested her.
He could light a fire, call a wind, perhaps focus a beam of light after long practice, but his father declared that it certainly did not qualify as a proper craft, and soon he was once more searching. He kept at it as a hobby, though, every once in a while.
Its first real use came later, in the dark and cold of Araman after the chaos and fear. They huddled in groups, in hordes, on the freezing shore, still gripped by the grim terror of Mandos’s Doom. Someone had called for matches and fuel, but there was little to be found, and a Noldo in Saedhruin’s group instead called fire to his hands with a word. They all stared in shocked silence.
The Trees of Aman had been the Eldar’s joy, their light, and the source of a great deal of their art. Even the Silmarils now held in the Enemy’s hands came from the Trees, and they said the Valar themselves came to them to rest at times. No Elf could call light into gems now, for their was no light to be had, and none were familiar enough with the cold and distant stars.
It was the work of a mere moment, though, for Saedhruin to speak nárë and call flame to his fingers.
--
Aboard the ships, the king had every Elf who could summon even a breeze taking shifts on the top deck, directing the sail eastward even through the howling gales that plagued them. Lashed by wind and rain, weary hands raised to the black sky, Saedhruin stood with three other Elves muttering through numb lips.
“Súrë.... Súrë....”
With no Trees by which to count the hours, there was no way to know how soon the next shift would arrive. He didn’t mind, for he did not have to think, standing there.
--
After that first glorious day, all the exiled Eldar at last walked once more in the light, and once again the calling of fire was little needed. Over time, they became well-acquainted with the Sun and Moon--- and yes, the stars as well--- and could call down their light at need, to light a torch, or illuminate a gem, or to blind their foes. Saedhruin mastered this method quickly enough, and true-names he kept as a hobby.
Swordplay, on the other hand, was a trial. The blade was long and heavy, the hilt strange in his grip, and his stance had ‘more holes than a rain-cloud’ to quote one of the masters. They all learned quickly enough, though.
--
Thingol had instituted a ban on Quenya, and none of the rune-keepers among the Noldor could practice the art openly. Saedhruin tried, many times, to call the names in Sindarin instead, but only one out of three times did it work, and rarely well.
One of the Falathrim visiting Mithrim, a silver-haired Elf named Sarchon, had suggested the idea when he had learned of the craft. He had grinned when a tiny blue flame flickered up in Saedhruin’s palm and the startled Noldo nearly dropped it. Saedhruin had not expected ‘naur’ to work.
Sarchon had wanted to learn, if possible, and Saedhruin hadn’t had any objections, and so awkwardly ran the Elf through the command and intent lists he still recalled from his first venture into the art, even as he struggled to make each command work himself. To his surprise, Sarchon picked the Sindarin versions up easily, much like Saedhruin had once learned the Quenya ones.
“I think,” Sarchon had said, a small glowing ball cradled in his palm, “It must be related to the language you grew up in, and is the most natural to you.”
Saedhruin concidered this point, and his own light ball in his hand.
--
The art came in small handy at times, in scrapes and for conveniance, but little store was put by it for millenia more, as the war raged on and Beleriand, their land of promise, was ravaged to dust and blood.
At the end of it all, in a new land and a new prince, Saedhruin was once more shocked.
Lord Celebrimbor, upon learning of Saedhruin’s proficiency with the art, had practically dragged him into his workshop with excited eyes lit up. Saedhruin was not extremely familiar with his lord, and could only follow obediantly, the sandwich he had been in the middle of eating still clutched in hand.
Without a word, Celebrimbor picked up a sword set on a side table, holding it up in the firelight. It was a straight blade, and minimally adorned. Only then did Celebrimbor speak, a single phrase:
“Macil ruinë!”
In an instant, Celebrimbor’s sword came alight in a fiery blaze, and Saedhruin swore and stumbled back, dropping his sandwich in the process. Celebrimbor grinned, the light reflected back in his eyes.
--
In Aman, there had been command words, and the rune-keeper could hold the fruit of their efforts in the palm of their hand, or watch it blow through the trees. As far as Saedhruin was aware, Celebrimbor was the first to ask if that was really the limit, and begun far more complicated commands.
The fiery sword had been merely the beginning, as effective as it was in battle. Soon, he was calling for stone to crack and ice to shatter. Every skill and every command came to him as easily as breathing, even as those rune-keepers that flocked to him to learn struggled miles behind. An ever-present fire burned now in his eyes, ready to flare up at the slightest of provocations--- eyes such as Saedhruin recalled another prince of his line bearing.
Saedhruin learned some of the new commands, but the sheer scale of some of them disturbed him more than anything else. He took a border post, and did not return often to the city.
--
He was, as it happened, newly returned to the capital when Celebrimbor raised the alarm, and a new war was declared before the citizens of Eregion were even halfway through lunch. Again he left his sandwich abandoned on the board, as all were called to the city center.
None would ever accuse the Noldor of Eregion of giving up their land freely: in the centuries to come, songs would be sung and tales recounted of the war that raged on for two bloody years in Eriador. Saedhruin remained in the thick of it, and his and others’ runes dealt devestating damage to the legions of foes that marched upon them.
When at last the armies of Mordor breached the high wall of the city itself, Saedhruin stood among the steady ranks of defenders even as ten and twenty times their number swarmed through the ruined gates. Celebrimbor stood with them, fire in his hand and in his eyes. He fought like his grandsire of old, survivors would whisper, and a storm raged atop the city center that wasn’t natural. Rain lashed his enemies, lightning danced and struck around him--- that was new!--- blinding light reflected off every blade and shield nearby--- and Saedhruin watched as Sauron deflected every blow with laughing glee.
Ring-craft was not the only art Antheron had learned from the Elves.
--
The bedraggled, exhausted group of survivors fled the city as dawn lightened the sky, and so confident was Sauron that he did not even give chase. He had his prize, captured in the midnight hours.
Back to Lindon they went, bearing their bitter tale.
--
tyelma
There is little use for runes here, in his small home by the river, or at least no desperately needed uses. With a soft call of nárë he lights his fire each light, and with cálë he finds his misplaced book. Ered Luin is at peace, and he has not lit a sword with fire or called down lightning for nearly fifteen years.
