Peculiar by Ada Kensington

---

Reconciliation

---

Peculiar

 

 

 

When king Finwë’s summons first arrived in the form of a surly stable hand, he had no time to spare, and so begged to postpone the requested meeting. 

 

There had been so much do to. 

 

For the younger students of the School, there had been the diet of examinations. Questions in ancient history, in middle history, in various languages and literatures in which he was expert, had to be formulated to test the students’ knowledge – to provide them with an opportunity to show they could do more than merely regurgitate names and dates and events. 

 

Unfortunately, he had spent most of the prior academic year passing his teaching duties onto younger colleagues, and therefore did not know exactly what the students had been taught (since the disciplines were changing so very quickly these days.)  This meant he had been forced to skim screeds upon screeds of lecture notes, and, consequently, a trivial task lost its blessed, blessed triviality.

 

His work as Loremaster was important.  King Finwë, he knew, was sympathetic to his aims, and would – he hoped – grant him a period of grace.  The king’s surly messenger left with his polite reply, and all was well.

 

 

When king Finwë’s second summons arrived not long after in the form of a fidgety young man – whose neck creaked and groaned as he craned it round to gape in awe at the rows of beautifully bound books in the shelves of his study – time, if possible, was even more scarce. 

 

The older students of the School, those very few who had proven themselves worthy and wished to be named master in this or that, would take part in their Debates: a challenging exchange of indefinite length in front of an audience of their peers.  As if this alone was not terrifying enough, their Debate was against a Loremaster, already named and honoured in their chosen subject.

 

This year, he had three anxious, potential young Loremasters, and would therefore have to counsel and soothe varying degrees of frayed nerves, and would also have to perform in three lengthy, scholarly debates (not to mention watch twenty-four more from other disciplines.)  The carnival and the pomp and ceremony of the occasion would see him occupied at least until the turn of the month, and it really was a very busy time.

 

The Debates were important. 

 

He could not be expected to simply abandon his duty on the whim of the king.

 

Once again, he begged pardon and postponed, sending back with the fidgety young messenger Master Quennar’s own carefully copied book of verse from the Great Journey. It was his preferred method of avoiding the king’s attention, and it usually worked.  Hopefully, Quennar would not find out he had let it leave the School.  

 

 

When king Finwë’s third summons arrived on the first morning of the new month, he began to suspect something was amiss. 

 

The third messenger was of quite a different calibre to the first and second.  He was older, and stern, and taciturn, with dark-brown hair braided with a grim efficiency.  The messenger was also punctual, insisting on being shown into his study at precisely four hours to the zenith of Laurelin.  But more than anything, the messenger was unyielding, saying only, “The king commands your presence, Master Rúmil,” as he practically dragged him out of the building. 

 

There was no explanation, no word of reply, given to Rúmil’s increasingly urgent requests for information.  Only the repetition of that tiresome refrain:  “The king commands your presence.”

 

A few students were by then milling around in the square outside, and their eyes followed him curiously as he was marched down the white steps by the brusque messenger and bundled into the awaiting carriage.  No doubt within minutes of his departure, rumours would be flying around the school about how Master Rúmil was taken away in a carriage like a belligerent drunk by one of king Finwë’s guards.

 

Damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him...

 

The carriage door shut behind him with a bang. There was a whip-crack, and the wheels began to turn.  Evidently, they had no time to spare.

 

In the back of the carriage, alone and unwatched as it pulled away from the building, he curled his hand into a fist and struck out, connecting with the thin walls and making a satisfying hollow sound. The humiliation stung him.  How dare the king treat him so?  How dare he abuse his authority?  And in such an outrageous manner!

 

(Though a hot and spiteful little corner of his mind reminded him that it was not the first time it had happened, and that, therefore, he should not be surprised that the king took such liberties with custom.

 

That same part also took pride that it had come to this.  He would not go bowing and scraping to a flawed monarch – a man just like any other, and inconstant as the roaring falls that plunged from the steep-walled valleys of the Calacirya.)

 

Frustrated, and a little nervous despite his spirit of defiance, the carriage made its ponderous journey along the streets of Tirion.

 

Dominating the landscape, in the distance, he could see clearly the steep, winding hill that led to the dizzying height of the Mindon Eldaliéva, the white tower, visible even at the farthest-flung corners of their great city.  At its foot, however – and a more imposing structure, at least to Rúmil in that hour – stood the House of Finwë, Noldóran.  The leader of his people.  His lord.  His king.

 

The king commands: his authority is absolute, Rúmil thought gloomily, as he wrung his hands and stared fixedly at the floor, trying to pretend the shuddering, irregular motion of the carriage was causing his sudden nausea. 

 

At least there was one consolation.  The meeting to discuss the formation of next year’s curriculum was scheduled for tomorrow, two hours after the zenith of Laurelin, and he was supposed to chair the discussion.  What was not scheduled, however, but taken as a given, were the inevitable histrionics and malicious back-biting as his colleagues fought for academic supremacy.

 

Last year, a chair had been thrown...

 

He grimaced at the recollection.

 

Alas, he would likely not be back in time. Too busy defying the king.  Again. Though, of course, they would understand, and he would send his apologies.  Via that wretched messenger, perhaps?  The one who elected to ride with the driver and deliberately ignored his inquiries as to the nature of this most irregular, royal kidnap.

 

Abduction and abuses of power aside, a rueful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

 

Whatever designs the king had on him, it probably would not involve furniture.

 

For some reason, that thought did not console him.

 

 

 

***    ***    ***

 

 

He was given but a moment to prepare.  Enough time to dust himself down in an antechamber, straighten out the countless creases his robes had mysteriously acquired during the journey, and tease a few flyaway hairs back into place with trembling hands.  Then the stern, efficient messenger propelled him out of the room, along a corridor, and halted abruptly in front of a door halfway down.  Standing there, facing it, the king likely only feet away from him, Rúmil’s heart began to race in his chest and he fought to calm himself.

 

Breathe...

 

The messenger knocked briskly – once, twice, three times – and then in clipped tones announced his arrival.

 

“Master Rúmil, my lord.”

 

A familiar voice, the king’s voice, answered – deep, rich and sonorous.

 

“Wonderful!  Thank you, Erdacundo.  Please, show him in!”

 

The messenger, Erdacundo, opened the door, and a waft of frankincense assailed Rúmil, its spicy, woody aroma catching the back of his throat and making him cough. The shadows of a fire lit from somewhere within flickered and danced, which was strange, as it was only the middle of the day.

 

He stepped inside, and the door closed behind him.

 

The king was waiting for him at the end of a short, narrow corridor - standing by a window obscured by heavy velvet curtains – his sharp features and long black hair caught momentarily in the bright day-light of Laurelin as he took a deep breath and enjoyed a no doubt welcome stream of fresh air.  The king must have opened the window a little, Rúmil thought.  And no wonder!  It smelled like a Vanyarin temple in here.  Probably the influence of his new wife.

 

Disgusting...

 

When the king spotted him lurking in the doorway, his eyes lit up.

 

“Rúmil!” the king exclaimed, his voice warm in welcome as he had always remembered.  The king’s voice was always warm in welcome, even if you were the last person in the world he wanted to see.

 

“At last you deign to grace me with your presence.  You have grown elusive.  I feared you would find excuses to avoid me until the end of Arda!”  The king laughed, but Rúmil did not find it funny in the least.

 

“They were not excuses, my lord,” he replied. “Truly, I was very busy.”

 

It was difficult to keep the hint of reproach from colouring his tone, but the king took it with equanimity. 

 

“True, but now you are no longer busy,” the king countered.  “I know. I have checked. Therefore, you are free to be here, a guest in my home, to speak with me.”

 

“You checked, my lord?”

 

“Quennar is an old friend,” the king replied casually. “As you know, he recorded many things that happened during the Great Journey, and we walked often together under starlight.”

 

Then the king turned again to face the sliver of light in the open window and added, “I saw him only last week, for he is not so possessive of his time.  Does not begrudge it to those who would seek him out.  Rather, he would share it freely with all, and since he had so kindly agreed to visit – as I cannot get out of the palace much these days with my lady Indis expecting our first child – I appreciated Quennar’s sacrifice, and therefore took the liberty of returning to him his beautiful book...”

 

The king trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.  The meaning was not lost on Rúmil – not at all – and he felt a twist of indignation at having been outwitted by the king.  He must’ve known Quennar was covetous as a magpie when it came to his books, and that he grudged lending them to anyone.  The old bastard must’ve had a fit when he called on the king and found one of his precious volumes in his possession, and once the king had casually dropped the name Rúmil into the conversation, the king would’ve played him like a fiddle for information.  And there was, too, the not-so-subtle reminder of his own failure.  The old resentment bubbled up inside him, and he fought to keep it at bay.

 

The king was observing him, his expression a perfect mask, save his eyes – his brilliant, sharp, grey-blue eyes that glittered with the tiniest hint of satisfaction and betrayed his cunning.

 

“I am duly chastised, my lord,” Rúmil replied dully.  “You go to great lengths in order to snare me in your web.  This must be a matter of grave importance.”

 

“It is.”

 

“And you could not have consulted master Quennar?”

 

“Quennar does not have the... temperament for the task I would bestow upon you.”

 

Temperament?  Task?  Rúmil felt his grip upon the situation slip further. The only thing keeping him steady was his enduring bitterness against the king and his mysteries. 

 

“My lord,” he begged, his voice high with agitation.  “Please, if you would but tell me why you have summoned me—”

 

He faltered into silence as the king raised his hand.  There was a moment’s pause in which the king sighed and appeared to collect himself.

 

“Forgive me and my secrets, Rúmil,” he said quietly, “but I’m afraid they are necessary. This is not a matter I would want broadcast.” 

 

Another pause, during which the king pinched the bridge of his nose, as though he were reluctant to broadcast those secrets even to Rúmil. A moment later, though, he was recovered and gestured towards the small door leading to the chamber proper.

 

“Please do come in,” he said, smiling, “and I shall explain all.”

 

Dumbfounded, thoroughly, thoroughly intrigued (and a little mystified at having been taken into the king’s confidence over old Quennar, over any of his more obedient colleagues, even), Rúmil followed, closing the door behind him.

 

The room into which he emerged was low-ceilinged, and unexpectedly compact, containing but a round table of dark wood and two chairs carved in a similar fashion. Upon the table sat a tray, holding two small glasses and a bottle of clear spirits.

 

In this room, there were no windows.  Instead, luxurious tapestries covered every inch of the walls, their designs swirling and abstract. As he had suspected, a fire had indeed been lit, and its warm, orange glow caught accent threads of bronze and gold, and the tapestries glittered like precious seams of metalliferous ore. In the corner, near the fire, hung a small, brass thurible, spewing out heavily scented smoke. So that’s where the frankincense was coming from.  It really was very strong...

 

“Please, Rúmil, do sit,” the king offered, indicating the chair nearest the fire.

 

Rúmil sat and stared warily at the king, who took the other chair, and before Rúmil could protest, the king reached for the tall glass bottle, and began to pour.

 

“My lord!” he exclaimed, angrily.  “You should not serve me!  Why do you serve me?”

 

A small, wry smile touched the corners of the king’s mouth.  “Do not worry, Rúmil,” he replied. “There are no others here to observe my transgression, or to sully your reputation as something of a dissident.  And besides, since I hope you will do me a service, it is only fitting I serve you in kind. 

 

He presented the small glass to Rúmil, who took it up grudgingly, unable to argue with the king’s logic. As custom dictated, Rúmil raised his glass and bowed slightly to pay respect to his sovereign.

 

“Almien,” he said, shortly.

 

“Almien!” the king exclaimed, reciprocating, as their glasses touched.

 

Rúmil took a sip of the clear liquid within.  It was much stronger than he expected, and had an overpowering flavour of aniseed.  Very potent, and, as far as he could tell, extremely alcoholic.

 

His head was already swimming from the copious fumes of frankincense.  This — he thought to himself as he peered suspiciously at his glass — would not help.  It did not escape his notice that the king took an extra sip from his.  Or, more accurately, a swig, as the contents went down in one.  Then, carefully, the king set down his glass.

 

With nothing to divert their attention from the matter at hand, a long silence fell, in which Rúmil began to feel increasingly awkward as the king of the Noldor sat before him, wringing his hands and staring at the table-top as though lost for words.  Never before had Finwë, Noldóran, been lost for words. Certainly not during that awful night in the Máhanaxar when he and the king had been at each others’ throats.  Something was clearly wrong.

 

“My lord...” Rúmil said eventually, putting the king out of his misery – a charitable act, he thought, considering the circumstances – “...whatever is troubling you, I will do my best to help you in any way I can.”

 

He was rewarded a flash of a brittle smile.  The king was now staring at the low ceiling, and Rúmil could hear his foot tapping under the desk. Was it possible the king was more nervous that he was?

 

“Forgive me, Rúmil,” he said.  “It is difficult to find the words.”

 

“No matter.  Take your time.”

 

Another silence.  His hands clasped tightly together, the king took a deep, galvanising breath and said, quietly but clearly, “It is my son, Curufinwë.”

 

Whatever, Rúmil had expected, it was not that.  His mind ground to a halt, already a little sluggish from the clouds of frankincense that swirled about the small room, and left him momentarily bereft of any eloquence he hitherto possessed.

 

“Your son, my lord?” he repeated, lamely.

 

“My son.”

 

“Is... something the matter?”

 

“Not as such...  I —”

 

“Has he injured himself doing something foolish?”

 

“No... nothing like that—”

 

“Has he become illicitly involved with a young woman?”

 

“No—”

 

“A young man?”

 

“No—!”

 

“Has he inadvertently slain another?”

 

“I should hope not!”

 

“Well then, my lord, it cannot be all that bad.  What is it that is worrying you so?”

 

The king – whose distress had visibly heightened with each flippant exchange, his patience stretched taut like a lute string wound too tight – finally snapped.

 

“My son is peculiar” he exploded, gesticulating wildly.  “My son – my Curufinwë –is peculiar, Rúmil!  Damned, damned peculiar – and I have not the faintest idea what to do about it!” 

 

“Peculiar?” Rúmil said cautiously, careful not to ire the king by letting his scepticism show on his face.  After all, he did work at the School, and therefore knew a fair few peculiar individuals.  “In what way?”

 

“Would you like an essay, Rúmil?” the king retorted, with a flash of hauteur.  “I know how you prefer them.  Since there are many reasons, I would wager they’d favour the format.  I do not relish this encounter, you know.”

 

There it was.  A flash of that less noble side of the king displayed with such spectacular abandon not so long ago at the debate in Valmar. Old habits died hard, apparently.

 

“I apologise, my lord,” Rúmil replied, careful to keep his tone as neutral as possible. “Please, do go on.”

 

The king did go on.  His words came out in an almost feverish rush, as though the effort to restrain them had become too much to bear, and the resulting relief he found in expressing them stirred his emotions into turmoil.

 

“I love my son,” he said.  “My firstborn, my wonderful, clever and able Curufinwë... but there is no getting away from the fact that he is... intensely peculiar, and I worry, Rúmil, truly I do.

 

“He has temper tantrums, vicious fits of pique, that are becoming ever harder to restrain now that he is twenty-one years of age and is early coming into his height and strength.  You are aware, Rúmil, that he did not attend my wedding?”

 

Vaguely recollecting the snatches of gossip that had circulated around the School in the days following the king’s wedding to Lady Indis, which he also did not attend, Rúmil nodded.

 

“He was supposed to – and I would have dearly loved to have had him present – but on the morning before the ceremony, he was hysterical. Insensible. None could restrain him.  So consumed was he by his temper, I could not run the risk of letting him loose upon the congregation, and I — Eru forgive me! — I had him locked in my chambers until the day was done.

 

“It broke my heart to do it.  When I returned home with my lady wife early the next morning, I unlocked the doors again to find him lying on the floor, weeping.  He would not accept my comfort, would not meet my eye, and did not speak a word to me for weeks afterwards.

 

“Ever since then, Curufinwë has grown more peculiar by the day.  He shuts himself in his rooms for weeks – the rooms he will let none clear of clutter – does not sleep for days on end, frequently misses meals, neglects his duties, will not sit in council with me, cares not for what I do, is impulsive, restless, downright insolent on occasion, lashes out frequently with his sharp tongue, and has had my staff – and my wife – in tears.

 

“I thought it may have been caused by boredom, so I arranged a few meetings with the sons of some of my lords.”

 

The king rolled his eyes and laughed wryly.  “That was a mistake I shall not repeat in a hurry.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“From what I could piece together from each of the boys’ stories, Curufinwë was engaged in a skirmish of wits with young Tulcaranco.  As Curufinwë is possessed of an acerbic wit, he can be unkind on occasions, and he apparently said something rather rude to Tulcaranco – something about the boy taking after his father in ignorance.  Stung and humiliated, Tulcaranco’s riposte was rather severe, as I was told that Curufinwë promptly launched himself at the boy, and that within seconds they were on the floor, rolling around and beating lumps out of one other.”

 

“What did they boy say?”

 

“None would tell me, not even Curufinwë, or young Luiniar, whose account of the incident was the most sensible, as he was a little older and not so prone to childish outbursts.  In the end, both Tulcaranco and Curufinwë were punished, and my foolish experiment came to an ignominious end, although Curufinwë still writes to Luiniar fairly often since the boy took his apprenticeship with Master Mahtan.  And that is well, for writing is probably safest for Curufinwë at the moment.

 

“He cannot socialise with others of his age, you see, because he does not think in the same way as they do – has not their concerns, and they have not his cares.  Therefore he spends much of his time in his rooms, alone, and the time he spends out of them, he spends out of our home, wandering the northern wilds outside Tirion, where he meets all sorts of strange folk and comes back with foul habits and worse language.  And he gives no notice to anyone of his intentions.  He simply ups and leaves without a word.  The first I know of it is usually when the note is pressed into my hands by a member of my household...”

 

With a sigh, the king sagged visibly, letting his head fall into his hands.

 

“I have tried my hardest to talk to him myself, Rúmil, to find out what he wants.  But inevitably, I am met with the same refrain—”  at which point the king sat up, placed his hands on his hips and adopted a slightly impatient tone Rúmil suspected was an approximation of his son’s, “— I am fine, Atar. Quite well.  Please hand me those cutters— no, not those ones!  Honestly, Atar, can’t you tell the difference?  Here, let be.  I will fetch them myself. And be careful of those saw blades behind you!”

 

“Cutters?”  Rúmil asked, intrigued by the mention of craft tools more commonly used by elves a little older than prince Curufinwë.  “He practises a craft?”

 

“Oh yes,” the king replied, smiling now.  “My son has a talent for gemcraft.  He made the ring I wear now.  The stone is cushion-cut, or so I am told by Curufinwë...”

 

The king paused to offer his hand to Rúmil, revealing a gold ring of intricate design, swirling knot-work engraved upon the shoulders – impossibly tiny, yet beautiful and clear.  It was set with a rather large, faceted ruby, fiery-red and flawless.

 

“It is beautiful,” Rúmil said, truthfully.  “From whom did he learn his craft?”

 

“I do not know,” the king answered.  “I remember once making arrangements to visit a few of the jewel mines near Formenos. Curufinwë pestered me ceaselessly, wanting to come along, and I was so cheered by his enthusiasm that I let him.  He came back to Tirion with all sorts of ideas, and for days afterward, I was bombarded with demands for this tool, and that tool, and books on the qualities of metals and gemstones, and scraps of metal for him to practise on.”

 

“He taught himself?” Rúmil said, not bothering to conceal his astonishment.

 

The king nodded.  “Curufinwë has had tutors, of course, but he has long since outgrown them.  Therefore, he has taught himself many things.  He loves to draw and paint, and his hand is beautiful, and he has copied a few books for me as gifts – and occasionally as punishment for misdeeds.  He also loves those arts which involve great skill of hand, and he has begun to carve wood and stone as well as crafting his metal and gems.  And lately, he has developed a keen interest in language and history, and he is often badgering me for books.”

 

“And I suspect that prince Curufinwë’s latest interest is why you have called me here?”

 

“Yes,” the king said, frankly. “You are one of the best in the School, Rúmil – and definitely most subtle in the finer points of language. You are also, blessedly, one of the more easy-going, and would hopefully not rise to my son’s bait – even though I know by unfortunate experience that you can be perfectly fiery on rare occasions.”

 

“You mean I would be the least likely to explode in the boy’s face when the inevitable back-chat rears its ugly head,” Rúmil retorted.

 

Sighing, Rúmil paused for a long moment, in which he took the time to massage his aching temples.  That wretched incense was causing quite the headache to build behind his eyes.  Or perhaps it was the glass of spirits he had not long drained of its last drop. Or it could have been the dull light of the fire.  Or equally this ridiculous situation the king had put him in.

 

Really, he wondered, irritated.  What exactly did the king expect of him?  He had been told all of this highly personal information – but to what end?  Was this a belated punishment for his opposition at the Máhanaxar?  Would he be doomed to baby-sit the errant prince Curufinwë until the his majority? Tutor a head-strong boy, fast becoming a young man, who obviously did not need his help?  Perish the thought...

 

“And what do you want me to do, my lord?” Rúmil asked, quite firmly, meeting the king’s eye. “I cannot contain him.  I cannot forbid him to do this or that.  If he will not listen to you, he will most certainly not listen to me.”

 

“I do not ask you to discipline him, Rúmil.  All I ask is that you speak with him.  Speak with him, and... perhaps... find out why he does this... why—”

 

“Why he is the way he is?”

 

“Yes!  That is exactly right. To perhaps find out why he is the way he is, so that... even if I cannot change him... I may at least come to understand him.”

 

“You would seek to change him?”

 

“No,” the king said, after a moment’s hesitation.  “However awful my account of him may seem, I would not change him.  Not for anything.  To me, he is the dearest, most precious thing in all of our world and beyond, and he brings me so much joy.  I just wish I could give him the same.  I simply want to know what I could do to make him happy.  He has suffered so much...”

 

The king’s voice grew faint then, and his eyes drifted upward slightly as though compelled by a force beyond his control, to stare at a distant point behind Rúmil’s shoulder.

 

Instinctively, Rúmil turned.  Then he wondered what on earth had captured the king’s attention so and held it, rapt, in almost-reverence. He could see only the fine tapestries, the shadows of the fire flickering and dancing across their surface, bringing them to life.  They were so beautiful, so very fine.

 

With a sickening jolt, he suddenly understood.

 

They could have been made by only one hand.

 

Lady Míriel...

 

His face flushing hot, he turned to the king, his mouth open and ready to plead his case.  But the king smiled sadly and shook his head, waving Rúmil into silence.

 

“You opposed my re-marriage,” the king said quietly. “That was your right, and it was a brave thing to do, when all around you argued the opposite.  I do not grudge you your opinion, Rúmil.  Far, far from it. I know you believe I committed a grave error in choosing to wed my lady Indis, named it unlawful, and perhaps there is a part of you that will remember forever the harsh words spoken between us and resent me for them.  But I have made my decision, and I must abide by it, no matter how much it pains me – and it pains me still, Rúmil, you may be assured of it. I did not make my decision lightly.”

 

A pause, and then...

 

“Rúmil, look at me.”

 

He looked, and what he saw written there as plain as day in the king’s eyes made him shudder.

 

Grief.  It was the pain of grief, of incomparable loss.

 

Overcome with sudden emotion and unable to look the king in the eye, he averted his gaze.

 

How could the king have endured it?  Lady Indis was obviously a balm – a warm, golden presence that soothed his injured soul – and the king loved her, he could see that written there too.  But greater than all, was his love for Curufinwë, son of Míriel Þerindë – a source of immeasurable joy, but also a reminder of terrible pain...

 

The words leaked out, even though it pained him greatly to say it.

 

“There is no ill-will on my part, my lord,” he said hoarsely.  “Not anymore.”

 

“Thank you, Rúmil.”

 

“And the exams, the Debates, they were not so important—”

 

“I know.  Do not concern yourself with that.  What’s done is done.”

 

“I am sorry, truly sorry, for my ignorance and my insolence.  I had no idea—  absolutely none— oh, the Darkness take me for being such a fool!  A young upstart filled with philosophical polemics and preaching and posturing on matters I did not, and hope never to understand—!”

 

“Then will you speak to my son, my Curufinwë?” he king asked, almost pleading.  The mingled hope and despair in the king’s voice tore at Rúmil’s heart.  “I think that in you, he will find much to relate to.”

 

And there, in that strange, windowless room, filled with the flicker of flames and the warm scent of frankincense that pervaded the temples of Lórien in Valmar – a shrine to the memory of Míriel Þerindë – Rúmil made a decision that would change his life.

 

“I shall, my king.”

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Names:

Curufinwë - Fëanor's father name.

Quennar - Quennar i Onotimo was an elf of Valinor and appears to have been of considerable age by the time he arrived in Aman. He composed two important works: Of the Beginning of Time and its Reckoning and Yenonotie (On the Reckoning of Years.) There is no head of the arts school in Tirion (which I made up to give Rúmil an occupation) but if there was, Quennar would be it.

Erdacundo - formed by the fantastic Quenya Name Generator. It means 'solitary guardian'.

Tulcaranco - also courtesy of the Quenya Name Generator. It means 'strong arm'.

Luiniar - another from the Quenya Name Generator. It means 'blue-blood'.