Written and Unwritten by Grundy

Rumil waited long enough to answer that even Curufinwë Fëanáro was shifting uncomfortably in his seat by the time he spoke. He wasn’t sure if the boy had understood himself that he had overstepped both manners and propriety, or if it was only the palpable discomfort of his peers.

He did not doubt the brilliance of the king’s only son, but if the sharp edges of the boy’s mind and tongue were not tempered properly…

“I share your confidence that the letters can be improved upon, young man,” Rumil said at last, keeping his voice as quiet and even as though the question had been posed respectfully, allowing the illusion that this was mere academic debate and not one of his greatest innovations casually consigned to the status of a rough outline. “However, I would suggest that until you understand the motivation behind the development of the Sarati, you should perhaps scoff less and listen more.”

“But…”

“Difficult as I know it to be for you who were begotten in the light of the Trees to imagine, there was a time when the Noldor were not a settled people, or a literate one. In the starlight beyond the Sea, the Tatyar explored a world wider than your current imagination. And in those days, we sang of anything worth knowing. Nothing was written until we began to lose people, and realized the danger that knowledge might also be lost if it was not committed to something more durable than elven minds and tongues.”

He paused, waiting for the boy to reach the conclusion himself that Finwë himself would remember those days – and those lost. Míriel might have been the first and so far only elf to die on this side of the Sea, but she in no way lacked for company in Mandos.

“What’s more,” Rumil finished softly, “not only did some of our number choose to remain in the Lands of Awakening, many of our good friends the Nelyar did also. Should you ever undertake any of the journeys you are fond of planning, it will behoove you not to scoff at those who remained merely because they do not write or build cities as grand as this one. There is wisdom yet on the hither shores for those who are not too proud to see it.”

The prince rose and bowed.

“I shall bear your words in mind, Master Rumil, should I ever reach them,” he said politely, and the closest to humble any instructor had heard from the boy. “I hope I have not given offense. I will speak with greater care in future.”

Rumil inclined his head politely.

“I hope you will. It is in your power to achieve great things, my prince – or ruin great things.”

Curufinwë looked chagrined at that none too subtle warning, and took his seat looking thoughtful.

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