"Yes." He answered, head downcast, hands fidgeting with a long stem of grass.
His mother let out a long sigh and turned her head toward the window where the rays of Laurelin is in full bloom.
"I can never understand, my child, why should you be so worried." Why did she end up with such an anxiety-ridden son? Unique, yet perhaps too much so.
He did not answer, because in truth, he feared his answers. So instead, he darted out the door into the light.
"Perhaps," He thought, "It is just because of spring."
His father often told him, and he had often noticed, that living things were restless in spring. Indeed, the enthusiastic chatterings of the birds told him as much.
Along the way, he saw two bears grappling with each other. "Must be spring." He decided, then once again when two small fox cubs crashed into his leg then scurrying off.
Too much excess energy, he once heard Lord Finwe remark of him to his father after he was presented at court. Very vivacious, vivid personality, in possession of great animation, definitely a future for a training into being a healer.
Rumil the Animated! Laughing at the thought, he ran along and then into the forest, hoping that for once, he would sleep as Telperion shone, as the others did. Everyday, he hoped that he would walk along that path of dreams everyone except him sank gratefully into, their eyes sparkling with the light of the stars though elen be not in sight...
Rumil the Insomniac! He reflected with a wry smile. He had came into a wide clearing where several birds were engaged in an odd dance. The dirt were soft loose beneath his light shoes; treading carefully, he came closer, hoping to exert himself in watching, in being still- the most exhausting of all activities he had discovered.
Light feet moved, and left marks, talons, three claws..quite decorative he thought as he became mesmerized with the patterns on the ground.
A twig snapped beneath him. Quicker than sight, he was bereft of the spring dance of the brightly plumaged birds. Rumil did not care by that point, for he was seized with an all consuming thought.
Why did he worry? The Quendi were immortal, they do not die, and they have a perfect memory, able to replay the past into the most minute detail. Yet, he just, does. What happens, if one day, one dies? Their memory would be gone to Mandos along with their fea; and never again shall events, their perspectives be able to be told through tales, or songs..their memories would be...irretriviably lost...
As he watched the marks on the ground, he was aware of a new chord of the Music vibrating within him. Yes, of course! They have artists who drew pictures, who crafted ornaments, they have singers and poets who can conjure up the images the artists drew, or even stranger..scenes inside the audiences' mind so they believed.
Why not? Indeed, why not? There should be a new art? An art more powerful than crafts, more powerful than music, it would remember more than they could.
Through meaning for characters, standing for sound for the speech the Quendi are known for, he could and would enchant and perserve...
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.