The Library, the Journal and the Old Man

Seven Stars and Seven Stones and One White Tree.
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On a quiet end of the Second Cirlce, far from the hustle and bustle of the
Marketplace sits a building tucked away. As you venture up the wide, marble stairs, framed with
white columns, there is a set of thick wooden double doors with brass handles.
The sign above reads: "Library of Minas Tirith."

As you cross over the threshold, the acrid scent of dust stings your eyes and nose. There are rows and
rows of shelves, lined up one after another.. Some contain scrolls and some contain
countless well-worn leather-bound volumes, lined up as far as the eye can see. Step lightly, as
the white-bearded LIBRARIAN is taking his afternoon snooze in a chair behind the desk,
an empty wooden cup nestled in his lap.

At the center of it all on a podium, there lies a massive tome - a blank JOURNAL - where anyone who wishes
can write their deepest thoughts, concerns, or just keep a record of their comings-and-goings that day.

Lined up behind the JOURNAL is a row of inkwells of different colors, each with a
wooden cap and a FEATHER QUILL set in a holder next to each. You may approach
quietly (this IS a Library!), choose a color and begin to write....


Note: Keep it clean. Keep it secret. Keep it safe.
All are welcome to write in the Journal or utilize the Library to RP doing research or heck - even going on an adventure!
Feel free to wake up Meister Peabody and annoy him (he might be grumpy!).
:smiley9:
Last edited by Finduilas Faelivrin on Sun May 17, 2020 9:12 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Findy pulled her cloak tighter around her to avoid the swish of wind that ran straight down the middle of the busy Marketplace. She just needed some peace and quiet for a short while to gather her thoughts. As she hurried past the long row of shops, an ornate building loomed before her. The marble columns and heavy wooden door beckoned her to enter. She leaned on it and gave it a push, but it did not give. "Oh, dear me," she whispered with a self-depreciating snicker. "I need to pull this monster open." She grabbed the brass handles of one side with both hand and leaned her weight back until it finally gave with a creak.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light streaming through the long, slender windows, she sneezed and blinked her eyes. A soft snore to her right introduced her to a sleeping old Librarian, whose soft green pointed cap lay tilted to one side with the tassel blowing a little before settling back over his nostrils. "I see you have not changed an iota, Meister Peabody," she whispered with a grin. He was dressed like a meister, his once elegant clothing now faded and worn. Her first thought was to settle in a comfortable leather settee with a book when she spied the large Journal beckoning. It lay open on the podium with the row of inkwells behind - their stained sides belying the various colors of ink within. "Perfect!" She stepped up, opened one of the caps, chose a quill pen and began to write.

Dear Journal,

I only have a few minutes today, but seeing you is like being introduced to an old friend so I had to pause a moment and write my greetings to you and whoever else might read this. Where shall I begin? I have been away from the White City for a few years, honing my craft, collecting and drying various flowers and leaves in order to reopen the Apothecary. Last time I opened it, there was not much to the old place, but this time I've been stocking my wares, visiting the sick and giving advice and medicine when and where possible. I have even got a wagonload of goods, weights and other supplies to begin my trade on the right foot. That should be here in a few days - sooner, hopefully.

I have seen a few familiar faces, though most folks on the street were hurrying through their shopping duties to rush back into their homes as the clouds grew darker. Come to think of it, I need to make my way back to the other end of the Marketplace before the clouds burst, since I only have this one set of traveling clothes until the wagon arrives.

I promise I will be back soon to fill your welcoming, empathetic pages once again. I plan to stick around longer this time around.

Your old friend, Finduilas Faelivrin

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Balcheth with Thea

The pair had made it from the first to the second circle without major issue. Balcheth stood in front of the library door.

"Welcome to Gondor's library," Balcheth said to Thea, "here you can read all the lies written about us, the clearly biased accounts, but I am getting ahead of ourselves. When you're in, be as quiet as possible. We are to head towards one of the private reading rooms."

Balcheth then grasped the brass handle of the library door. As she placed her fingers around it, Balcheth looked at Thea plainly, "the door is heavy. Stand back."

With that, Balcheth in one pull, creaked open the door just enough to allow the pair in one-by-one. Meister Peabody appeared to be asleep, even so, Balcheth still whispered to Thea,

"This is the Gondorian library, my student. The Gondorian archives house much information, many of which one would deem.... dangerous if in the wrong hands. Let us find a private room. I want you to locate us one so that you can understand the layout of this building."

@Winddancer

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Nerwen Meneldur, dwarf

Ever since Nerwen had heard of the Library of Minas Tirith, her palms had itched to go there. As Leader of the dwarven clan of Kagam Khazad, she had a passing (dedicated) passion for all things books, scrolls, history and the organisation thereof. Now she had finished with her business for the day she finally had the opportunity to go and visit it.

Tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the marketplace Nerwen found the library. The entrance boasted wide, marble stairs, framed with white columns, and a set of thick wooden double doors with brass handles, clearly marking entrance: "Library of Minas Tirith." She paused a moment and ran an expert hand and eye over the workmanship. No dwarven standard but these men knew what they were doing with the materials they had.

Entering and going across the threshold, her eyes and nose welcomed the acrid scent of dust and ancient parchment. She immediately felt her heart beat steady, her shoulders relax, her jaw unclenched. Here, amidst the rows and rows of shelves, she found peace in this heaving city. Behind the ornate desk in front of her, which was groaning under scrolls and volumes, snoozed a man who could only be the librarian. It seemed he had brought liquid into the library as an empty wooden cup nestled in his lap. Nerwen chastised him in her head; unacceptable librarian behaviour in her view.

At the centre of the library rose a podium on which lay a massive tome. Excited by the prospect of reading what ever wonderful secrets were undoubtedly held within it's covers, Nerwen trotted up to it and was disappointed to find a blank journal. She brushed the page with her fingers, thinking of all the stories that could fill it. Lined up behind the journal were a row of inkwells of different colours and quills. Pursing her lips slightly, she chose one and began to write.

Dear Journal,

I write this script for one who will never read it. I write here in a city that is not my own, so my message is safe and persevered within these fine pages. Dearest one, my heart. I need you to know that I miss you. I wish you hadn't left, I wish we had not chosen. To have you even for such a short time was a blessing among blessing. I am sorry I did not follow you. I know the city was too much, the stone too deep, the weight too heavy. I would have followed you across the stars at any other time, but not then. I think of you every time I lift my pen, choose my ink and send a letter. I think of you when I see the brewers come back, smoking their pipes and talking about the hops of the day. I think of you when I sit in our halls, where there is now so little laughter and no children. I will be there, in Kheled ever lets you come back to our home.

Yours,
Nerwenekke.


Nerwen pressed the ink to dry, put her finger to her lips, pressed the kiss over the final two words and left the Library as quietly as she had entered.
Family Stealtharm | Sil's #1 Property | Knowledge of a woman, pride of a dwarf | Khazâd ai-mênu!

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Thea with Balcheth

Stopping in front of the great wooden doors, Thea pulled herself away from the many thoughts that were flitting through her mind, constantly having switched between regretting all of this and wanting to run away and being exited and almost eager to find out more. She had only been to the library on a few occasions, having accompanied her father when he came to write in the great journal. She never did understand why he felt the need to write in that book, always wondering who would be reading it and why would they want to read about her father's life. She loved her father dearly, but as far as she knew, he had never done anything worth writing about, having lived a meagre life as a clay pipe maker. She knew he had been in the army before she was born, but he never spoke of those days and she had always assumed that nothing much had happened. Heck she didnt even know how he came to meet her mother, as he never wanted to talk about her, the grief of her loss when Thea was just a baby still too raw.

Pre-occupied with her own thoughts, Thea managed enough presence of mind to step back when bid, allowing the woman to pull the heavy wooden doors open. Leaving her memories and doubts outside, Thea followed the woman inside, nodding in agreement to keep her voice hushed. The last thing she wanted to do was to wake Meister Peabody, from what she could recall he had a horrible habit of pinching her cheek. Though it had been many years since she had accompained her dad here, she still had a vague memory of the place, often having gone exploring while her father poured his soul into the writing in the journal.

Taking a long moment, her raw red hand quickly rising to her nose to stop the sneeze, she looked around the vast room and all the bookshelves, the memories of this place flooding her mind. She had not been much of a reader herself, not that she did not like it, more that she had worked since she was nine and there just wasn't any time to indulge herself with books. A small smile appeared on her lips and she whispered "This way.." heading off without checking to see if Belcheth was following or not.

She wound her way through several rows of bookshelves, heading in the general direction of the far back to the left and finally made it to the corner. There a small archway led to a door, that opened into a small room lined with even more bookshelves. However this room had a large window, one overlooking a glorious tree with beautiful red leaves, the crown almost perfectly domed. Joy at seeing this tree again made her smile even more, her heart fluttering as she walked quickly to the window, letting out a please sigh when she saw it was still as gorgeous as ever.

Melkor
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Balcheth with Thea

Balcheth kept her eye on her counterpart, while quickly shifting her eyes to note if there were others. Her eyes surveyed at a distance what was on the journal, and her eyes raised briefly in surprise. Then her eyes lowered, a soft smirk appearing on her face as she digested the information. She returned her focus to Thea once she heard: "This way..." Balcheth had a smile smile as she followed through several bookshelves to a corner. She bent her head to enter the archway, entering the opened room with a large window. While Thea was reminiscing about the tree, Balcheth closed the door softly, locking the wooden door.

Balcheth stood next to Thea, the former's shadow invading Thea's sight, "quite the tree I see. A special one, no doubt," Balcheth commented, "very beautiful. Was there a tree before this one at this spot? I wonder how many seasons this tree has seen, whether the soil was as fertile as it was during its childhood as a sapling, how many leaves has this trees produced? How many of them have fallen? What animals take root on the tree? Within the tree? How many have fallen, scavenged by unseen predators as their lives disintegrate back to the earth from whence it came."

With that, she turned her head, looking at Thea, "Thea?" she asked. Balcheth bent her knees so that her eyes locked onto Thea's. Balcheth's eyes strangely reflected light.

"Tell me," Balcheth began, smiling at Thea, "Have you seen a tree die?"

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Thea with Balcheth

The courtyard beyond the large window was quite small and most of the available space was taken up by the gorgeous tree. Beneath the tree was a small wooden bench, one she had often wanted to go sit on, though had yet to find the door that would allow for access to the courtyard. Too focused on her memories, Thea did not hear Belcheth close and lock the door, only aware of the woman's presence when she began speaking. Reluctantly Thea left the memories behind, the yearning to go back to those easier days still clutching her heart.

The barrage of questions made Thea's brows furrow, wondering where the woman was going with them, though to all of them she could answer that she did not know. Death was not really something that played on her mind, be it animals, vegetation or even her parents. They were too sore a topic to think on too often and she had locked them deep in her heart, only bringing them out when she was feeling really sad or upset, then speaking to them as if they could still hear. She knew it was a foolish thing to do and one that could be seen as slightly insane if anyone ever overheard her, but it still comforted her to be able to tell her parents how she was doing, even if it ended with her being even more sad as they were not here to comfort her or give her a reassuring hug.

"Hm?" she answered absentmindedly as the woman said her name, turning to look at Belcheth. However Thea was not prepared for the intensity in the woman's gaze, jumping a little, though finding it impossible to tear her own gaze away. Thea saw that strange light within the woman's eyes again, her brow furrowing even more, though managed to withhold the question that burned on her lips. Her own lips slightly parted, her breath held Thea shook her head slowly though never once moving her gaze from the woman's, breathing out her response under her breath. "No.. I have only seen dead trees, never seen it die. Why?" She didn't even realise she had asked the question, though did find the question the woman had asked odd.
Last edited by Winddancer on Sat May 30, 2020 12:10 am, edited 1 time in total.

Melkor
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Balcheth with Thea

"All trees die," Balcheth responded matter-of-factly, "even the White Tree. I asked you because when I was your age, I saw my favorite trees die."

She broke eye contact with Thea, returning her gaze to the red-leaf tree. Balcheth sighed, and then continued,

"Imagine a time with no Sun and no Moon. Imagine two trees, one silver and one gold. One of the trees looked similar to the White Tree of Gondor, except it shone like the full moon, illuminating my homeland. The other shone like the Sun on a summer's day, also illuminating my homeland. When both shone at the same time... No description can I place on its beauty, its warmth. All who saw these two trees..." Balcheth slowly turned her head to Thea at this, her shadow diminishing. A soft light issued forth from Balcheth's body, and if one looked closely at her eyes, one could see a vague tree-like light on each eye, though there was no tree behind Thea.

"...share their light," Balcheth finished. At this, Balcheth's light diminished, and her shadow slowly grew to normal. But her eyes blazed.

"But this all changed when the Valar failed us," she continued, "it came when we all were away. A giant eldritch abomination. It's shape and shadow conjures the very nightmares in each of our soul, ever shrouding our happiness in eternal darkness. It saw our trees, killed them!" her expression changed, eyes widening and a fierce expression showing on Balcheth's face, "it left our two trees into mere husks! It was as if somebody took every bone, every organ, every single drop of blood, and left only the a barky husk! My trees, our trees! Dead!"

Balcheth exhaled multiple times, her expression softening with each exhale. When her breathing became normal, Balcheth's face bore a sullen frown, her voice becoming softer.

"The jewels that we seek. These jewels are not ordinary, for they have captured the light of the Two Trees. They are the only memory we have left of the days before the elder days, of a time before death and suffering."

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Thea with Balcheth

Thea merely nodded her head in the way to acknowledge that all trees died. She knew nothing lasted forever, though her age did at times lend her the sense of false immortality. The trees that Belcheth began to describe sounded beautiful, thoug her mind wandered to the White Tree here in Minas Tirith. She had only seen it once, a day when her father had taken her to see it, wondering why he had and why he had been so sad and sombre when they were there. She had found the tree striking, but could not see why it had upset her father in the way it had.

Likewise now with Belcheth, though it seemed to transform the woman. Thea's jaw dropped when the light all but shone from the woman and a tree-like shape shone in her bright eyes. Thea had to double check, looking behind her to make sure there wasn't something there creating this illusion. It would have saddened Thea on any given day to hear of someone's treasured trees being killed, but the passion in this woman's voice almost scared her, making her flinch and carefully retreat a step. While she had no intention to, this woman was definitely not someone that Thea ever wanted to cross or anger, a small shiver running up her spine as it settled to an eerie tickly itch at the nape of her neck. Rubbing absentmindedly at her neck, Thea looked on with concern, finally understanding why it was important for this woman to regain the jewels. That the woman was speaking of ancient times was still far beyond her grasp, her mind focussing on what it 'could' fathom.

"Don't worry, we will find them.." she offered as a small consolation, a small smile on her lips, eager to lighten the mood.
Last edited by Winddancer on Sat May 30, 2020 12:09 am, edited 1 time in total.

Melkor
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???

A relatively young short boy, with a hand on a small red wagon cart, approached the doors of the library. He looked at the slightly open door, and said to himself, "my lucky day!"

Then he realized that his wagon cart was too big to fit through the open space between the library doors. The boy walked closer to the door, reached his tippy-toes, and grunted. His hand could barely reach the handles. After trying a few times, he pouted, folding his arms across his child-like body. Shaking his head, he left the library area with his red wagon cart in tow.

~~~

Balcheth with Thea

Balcheth's twitched a little, then she sighed in response to Thea's reassurance. The former blinked a few times as a couple of tears quickly fell from her eyes, and a small smile returned to her face. Balcheth's eyes now shone brighter, as the water amplified the glints in her eyes.

"Speaking of that, I believe we were in here to formally induct you within our organization, Thea" Balcheth said, pulling out the folded parchment and the small bag of Eregion currency. After that she pulled out another piece of parchment, this one blank, as well as a covered red inkwell and a quill.

"This is a blood oath," she commented off-handedly, "if human blood were as long-lasting as ink, then you would have to write out the entire oath in blood, and sign it in blood. But because your blood can easily be removed, I want you to first write the entire oath in this red ink, then sign it. I will take your written oath from you, and you are to recite it from memory. I will then hand the written oath back to you. Then, trace your blood on the red ink signature. A blood signature, in other words."

Balcheth unfolded the parchment containing the oath and handed it to Thea. The oath was the following:


"Be they foe or friend, be they foul or clean,
be they loyal servant or despicable traitor,
brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,
or Humans upon Middle-earth,
neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,
dread nor danger, not Doom itself,
shall defend them from the Sons of Fëanor,
whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,
finding keepeth or afar casteth
a Silmaril. This swear we all:
death we will deal them ere Day's ending,
woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting
Darkness doom us if our deed faileth.
On the holy mountain hear in witness
and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!"


"Any questions?" Balcheth asked in a business-like manner, "Take your time. Do not worry about pronounciation; the people and entities you will reference will know your intention regardless of how you pronounciate their names."

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Thea with Balcheth

Thea nodded in agreement when Belcheth reminded her that they were here to do the vow. Taking a deep breath, she listened carefully to the instructions, her nerves starting to jitter at the thought of having to recite the oath by heart. Thea was far from stupid, but she had only done the basic shooling, as her time had quickly gone to the jobs she had as it had been more important for her to suppliment her father's income than to spend it studying. She swallowed hard when it was explained that she would have to sign this oath in her own blood, which undoubtedly meant there would be some cutting involved to get to it. Suddenly she thought that having the cold stew had been a bad call as her stomach rumbled it's dissent.

Mumbling an apology under her breath, she took the parchment, her hands already shaking slightly. At least the woman had said that she could take her time, which she would need to be able to recite this oath correctly. She did not want to seem a fool in front of this strange woman, but she also felt that this woman was passionate enough about the oath to take it as a slight if she did say it wrong. And she did not want to anger this woman.

Thea read the oth over and over, at first pacing back and forth in the small room, but eventually taking a seat on the windowseat overlooking the gorgeous red tree. She was becoming desperate as each time she closed her eyes to test whether she could remember it or not, she had forgotten a verse or skipped a word. Closing her eyes once more, she tried to calm herself, drawing in a deep breath slowly. "I can do this.." she muttered under her breath, "I can do this.."

Suddenly she smiled, realising there was a way she could learn this correctly. Make it into a song! It was a trick her father had used when she was having trouble with the alphabet, but also with her times tables. Reading the oath once more, she found a tune that sort of fit and used that as she sung that to herself. Another fifteen minutes passed where Thea sung the oath beneath her breath and finally she looked up at the woman, pretty certain she could do this.

Taking the blank parchment to a nearby small standing desk, she then fetched the inkwell and quill and meticuously in a tight neat handwriting wrote out the oath in the red ink,

"Be they foe or friend, be they foul or clean,
be they loyal servant or despicable traitor,
brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,
or Humans upon Middle-earth,
neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,
dread nor danger, not Doom itself,
shall defend them from the Sons of Fëanor,
whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,
finding keepeth or afar casteth
a Silmaril. This swear we all:
death we will deal them ere Day's ending,
woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting
Darkness doom us if our deed faileth.
On the holy mountain hear in witness
and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!"

Thea, daughter of Belion

Thea then handed the parchment to the woman, before swallowing hard and taking a deep breath with closed eyes. Opening them again, she looked the woman in the eyes as she recited the oath word for word, this time not singing it, though the tune still played in her mind. She breathed a sigh of relief when she finished, unable to hide a satisfied smile, though that soon faded as she realised they had come to the part where she had to sign in her own blood.

"I.. I don't have anything sharp.." she looked at the woman apologetically.
Last edited by Winddancer on Sat May 30, 2020 12:09 am, edited 1 time in total.

Melkor
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???

The boy returned to the library, albeit with a small look of disappointment on his face. He did not have his red wagon cart with him, but he was able to slide into the open library door. His footsteps were quiet, though that did not take much trying, as he was careful not to wake up the Librarian. He went off somewhere within the library...

~~~

Balcheth with Thea

A quirk of amusement graced Balcheth's features as she heard Thea softly singing to herself the oath. Though time had gone by, to Balcheth it felt like only a second went by. So it was that when the woman was ready to recite the oath from memory, Balcheth accepted the parchment, inspected its words, then returned her gaze to Thea's eyes. The stood still with a neutral expression, appearing as stoic as a statue; the latter recited the oath without singing, breathing a sigh of relief and smiling.

But the smile was gone when Thea said "I.. I don't have anything sharp.."

Balcheth just looked at her for a few seconds, letting a silence ensue as a response. She then raised one of her eyebrows, and commented, "Fool, perhaps if you did, your life would be better. But..." she paused and a small smile appeared on Balcheth's face, "because you did not, fate as woven by Vairë brought you to me. It is a blessing, and you should count it."

She unattached from her belt a sheathed dagger. "This is a dagger I bought in Minas Tirith. This should be sharp enough," Balcheth said, offering it to Thea, "It is yours now."

But a quick moment later before Thea would have the time to retrieve it, Balcheth spoke again.

"Shall you do the honors? Or would you like me to stab you?"

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Thea with Balcheth

Thea's heart dropped when the woman merely stared at her silently, feeling her cheeks warm with embarassment. It had never occured to her to arm herself in any kind of way, seeing as Minas Tirith had become quite safe after the war. Not like she would know what to do with a dagger anyways, likely ending up stabbing herself if she were to try and defend herself with one. However she did feel like she had failed a test somehow and her shoulders slumped much like they did when she received a scolding for doing something wrong as a child.

Being called a fool only added to the humiliation and she felt close to tears, angry with herself that they would come so quickly and was too focussed on trying not to let them spill by blinking quickly to realise that the woman was smiling. A blessing? Did the woman just say that it was a blessing that they had met? Thea dearly hoped so, once more worrying that she was making the biggest mistake of her life.

However it was too late to turn back now, Thea's eyes dropping to look at the dagger offered, that was now hers. "Thank you" she mumbled with gratitude, though her cheeks were still warm. The thought of having to slice her skin open was not something she was looking forward to, however she did not want to further disappoint the woman by not being able to do it herself. Shaking her head, she reached out for the dagger, as she could at least control how much she had to 'stab' herself to draw blood.

"I can do it, thank you.."

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Balcheth

"Very well," Balcheth responded handing the sheathed dagger to Thea, a light glare briefly glossing over Balcheth's eyes, "Do not overdo it. We do not want to leave blood here and draw attention."

With that, she kept her eyes to Thea, looking intently at Thea's future actions. Balcheth attempted to give a smile at her, as if trying to reassure the woman.

~~~

???

"Ooh, they have scrolls of the Fifth Battle!" the boy whispered excitedly. Luckily for him, he was able to reach up and grabbed some of them. With that, he looked for a private space to inspect the scrolls and gain more knowledge on topics he yearned to learn more about.

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Thea with Balcheth

Thea nodded in achnowledgement, temporarily silenced by a disconcerning glare that crossed the woman's eyes. She caught herself staring with a half open mouth and coughed slighty with embarassment, quickly reaching out and taking the offered dagger. She also took the parchment and with both she headed back to the desk she had used to write the oath on.

Placing the parchment on the desk, she took a long moment to look at the dagger, wondering what it was that she was about to do. She had never in her young life caused herself any deliberate pain, her fingers nervously fiddling with the dagger. Swallowing hard, she finally drew the dagger out of it's sheath, wincing at the sharp sound it made.

"Just a little cut.. I will only need to make a little cut.." she whispered to herself, trying to find the courage to cut her own finger. The whole time she felt the woman's eyes on her, though at no point did the woman speak and while the woman did not display annoyance at having to wait, Thea still did not want to take too long. Drawing in a deep breath and swallowing hard to push back the butterflies in her stomach, Thea grabbed the dagger with her left hand and quickly before she could change her mind, she cut the tip of her forefinger just long enough that it would not seal up too quickly. Hissing with pain as the blade cut through her flesh, she clenched her jaw and quickly moved to trace her name with the blood, only dripping one drop of blood on her way to the name.

By the time she had written her full name, the cut had stopped bleeding and she quickly put the finger in her mouth to clean it, before taking up the parchment and handing it to the woman again, her finger sticking out so that it did not aggravate the cut. Thea looked at the woman silently, hoping that she had done it correctly, biting on her lip to distract from her stinging finger.

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"Good," Balcheth commented, giving a reassuring smile to Thea. She took the parchment, folded it up, and placed it within a pocket. Balcheth grinned, narrowing her eyes in mirth as she looked into Thea's eyes, "if you were unable to sign it blood, you would have needed to hold the parchment as I lit it on fire and then when you were done reciting the oath, then you could be able to relinquish the burning parchment. That represents how even with Fëanor's fiery demise, his oath still remained to his sons.

But you shed your blood and signed the oath! I am proud of you, Thea."

With that, Balcheth stood, moving as if to go to the door. But her features hardened, her eyebrows furrowed and her voice become terse, "somebody is outside. Follow my lead."

~~~

???

The boy reached up in order to open door when suddenly he heard an unlocking sound inside. Before he could move out of the way, the door slammed into his side, and the boy was forced to the wall, the back of his head colliding with the hard surface. He was out before he could emit a yell. The scrolls had burst from his hands and lay rolling towards the opening.

~~~

"Hmm," Balcheth said to Thea frowning, then she gave a soft smirk that quickly turned into a smile, "What should we do with this little boy, Thea?"

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Thea with Balcheth

Thea's stomach did an uncomfortable somersault at the thought of having to hold onto the paper while it burned. While she had memorised the oath, she doubted she could say it quicker than the fire comsuming the dry parchment. Drawing in a deep breath in relief, a small smile appeared on her lips as she accepted the praise, an long forgotten feeling burning in her heart. It felt good to make someone proud of her again, even though it was a slightly creep and very scary woman whom she did not even know the name of. That sprang to her mind and she was just about to ask the woman what her name was when the woman rose and headed towards the door. The question died on her lips at the thought of someone being outside, unsure why she was suddenly feeling like she was doing something wrong. Maybe it was how the woman was reacting, and in response her hand flew to the dagger that she had put on her belt, though she did not draw it.

Thea watched with her heart in her mouth as Balcheth quickly unlocked the door and immediately pushed it open with force, obviously intent on catching whoever was outside by surprise. Too late it occured to her that it might just be the librarian and she managed to raise her hand to stop the women, though the words did not make it out of her mouth before she heard the hard thumping sound.

Feeling the panic rise, Thea was unable to move for several seconds, still not knowing who it was that had been on the other side of the door, though hearing the woman's words she let out a worried cry as she finally forced her limbs to move. "Oh Eru! It's just a little boy!" Rushing past the woman, Thea knelt next to the boy, her shaking hands running over the small boy's body before coming to rest on his head. Leaning down, she listened for his breathing and almost cried with relief when she heard his faint breaths. "We need to take him to the Houses of Healing!" Thea looked up at the woman with panic, before her eyes returned to the boy, unsure of whether it would be best to lift the boy and take him there, or run to the Houses of Healing and get someone to come and help.

Melkor
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Balcheth with Thea

The smile quickly turn into a look of disgust. "Be silent!" hissed Balcheth, her eyes momentarily glinting, "know where you are; know your surroundings!"

With that, Balcheth grabbed the boy by the scruff of his collar, "do not just stand there. Grab the scrolls; head back to the private room with me" Balcheth whispered quickly. She then dragged the boy across the threshold of the open door, placing the boy haphazardly on a seat. If Thea followed, Balcheth would once again close and lock the door.

"Now think again," Balcheth said more calmly, her look of disgusted being replaced by a neutral gaze to Thea, "they will ask questions in the Houses of Healing. Questions that could lead us to discovery and danger. I will ask once again: What shall we do with this boy?"

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Thea with Balcheth

Thea gasped in surprise and fell back onto her bottom at the woman's hissed command, not expecting that reaction. Mouth agape and eyes wide, Thea watched as the woman manhandled the young boy and dragged him into the room they had been in. Thousands of thoughts and feeling whirled crazily in her mind, trying to make sense of why the woman had reacted the way she had, though coming up short with a reasonable explanation. They had not been doing anything wrong, had they?

Blinking furiously, Thea looked around and saw the scattered scrolls, taking a few more long moments before she crawled around on the floor to gather them. Tucking them under one arm, she grabbed her skirt so that she would not step on it and rose, waiting a long moment before following the woman into the room.

Clutching at the scrolls in her arms, she shook her head, unawares of her eyes filling with tears. "I.. I don't understand.. why can't we help him, we haven't done anything wrong.. have we?" The last words came out in almost a plea, her wet eyes flicking from the woman to the boy and back again.

"Can't we just say it was an accident??" The question took hold and Thea started breathing quicker, her words coming out in a rush. "Yes! We can just say he walked into the door as we opened it, that it was an accident, that we did not see him before it was too late!"

Melkor
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Balcheth with Thea

Balcheth opened her mouth, closed her eyes, and shook her head as if a skunk had released its gas, "Aah yes. Two people with an unconscious boy enter the Houses of Healing and no one will report this to the City Guard?" she responded in a higher register with more than a hint of sarcasm. Balcheth focused her full attention on Thea, a bright glare in both her eyes gleaming briefly,

"I thought you would not want to be sent to the dungeons, girl!" she tersely said, placing an index finger under her chin, mockingly asking, "that and they will find the small sack of Eregion coins that conveniently came into the possession of a pauper? I wonder how that would look?"

Balcheth exhaled deeply, looking at Thea with a more patient gaze, "it could be as simple as placing the boy on the chair, moving his body to a sleeping position on the table, and placing an open scroll in front of him."

Quickly, however, Balcheth's eyes turned sharper, and her speaking quickened, "Or. if you are willing to return the bag of Eregion coins to me, you may send the boy to the Houses of Healing. But I will not come with! Do not expect to hear from me until the next moon, where I will exchange the small bag for whatever information you have collected. If your information is lackluster, then by the next moon you will be in a dungeon."

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Thea with Balcheth

Thea flinched back at the mocking words, though her flushed cheeks dried the tears that had been forming in her eyes. Her heart was racing so fast that she felt sick and it was all she could do not to turn and throw up all over the floor. Closing her own eyes for a moment, she drew in a ragged breath, her own head starting to shake from side to side.

"No I do not want to go to the dungeons." She said, her voice low and wavering, however it was growing stronger as she spoke. "I do not see why anyone would ask about any coins I would have on me, but regardless, I will NOT take part in harming children. It was an accident. And I cannot give you back what you haven't given me yet.." Thea said, her eyes dropping to the bag still tied to the woman's belt.

"But I am taking him to the Houses of Healing. He is still unconcious, so obviously that was a really bad hit to the head and he needs help!" Steel shone in her emerald eyes as she looked at the woman, her heart still beating furiously with fear.

"I will do as you say and try and gather enough information for you as I will honour the oath I made. Even though I have no clue what kind of information it is that you seek."

A small tear slid from her eye, resigning herself to having to go to the dungeons by the next moon and with a heavy heart she walked over to the boy and carefully collected him into her arms. Shifting him carefully so that she had a good grip on him, she turned to the woman, trying not to sound too afraid. "Please, open the door."

Melkor
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Balcheth with Thea

"Open the door?" Balcheth repeated as she slowly walked closer to Thea, the frown on her face underscoring the gleaming narrowed eyes, "Know your place!"

With that, Balcheth quickly clenched her right hand into a fist, rapidly moving it through the air in front of Thea's bridge of the nose. But unless Thea moved her face in front, the former's fist would stop mere millimeters from touching the skin.

"Ever had your nose broken before? Your face fractured? Forced to wear a mask for years?" Balcheth asked, her fist still so close, "Perhaps I should let you experience the pain I endured in my long life. Know this, Thea, that there are worse things in the world than a dungeon, for you are treading on such ground."

With that, she unclenched her fist to reveal a palm in front of Thea, then moved the palm up to softly pat the girl on the head, Balcheth then detached the large bag of Gondorian coins from her belt with her other hand, offering it to the girl.

"You are a kind one. But oaths take precedence beyond what you desire. Take this large bag of Gondorian coins, it should be enough for a moon."

Regardless whether Thea accepted or not, Balcheth would then say, "Leave my sight. Lest I give you a painful reason to go to the Houses of Healing too."

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Thea with Balcheth

If looks could kill, Thea would have dropped dead on the spot with the glare that the woman was giving her right now. It almost liquified her stomach and she felt a sudden horrible need to go to the outhouse. Thea let out a terrified squeak, stumbling back and almost dropping the young boy as the woman feigned punching her in the face, her whole body shaking with fear. What had she gotten herself into!

Thea flinched once more, though this time the woman merely patted her on the head, unaware that she had let out a whimper. Trying to stop her legs from shaking too much, Thea hitched the boy up into a firmer grasp, wanting desperately to run out of this room immediately.

Thea would never have declined taking the offered bag of coins, grabbing it quickly and giving a small nod to indicate that she had heard and understood and as soon as the woman opened the door for her, she ran through it as best she could with the boy in her arms, not stopping in case the woman changed her mind, tears streaming freely down her face now.

"What have I done.."

Éowyn
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The Queen's Quest (@Durien)
Kaylin

Lothwen's request was a bit strange, perhaps. As she walked up the marble steps leading to the library's thick wooden double doors, Kaylin had no idea what kind of books King Elessar enjoyed. All she really knew about him was that he was a Dunedain, he'd been a Ranger of the North, he'd played a vital role in the War of the Ring and the final battle at the Pelennor and at the Black Gate... She'd admired him then, but after his decision to disband Gondor's larger military structures, she wasn't so sure about him anymore... Her hands closed around the brass handles. She walked in, and realized she didn't visit this place enough. Though she was widely considered to be more of a woman of action than of thought, Kaylin definitely enjoyed a nice read by the fire from time to time. Or out in the garden, on a blanket in the sun... Hmm. She smiled as she stepped between the endless rows of shelves.

It took a few minutes of just wandering around the library before she remembered why she was here in the first place! When she did, however, her mood darkened again. She didn't like how her initial judgement of the Lord Aragorn might have been off base, and she liked it even less that - if her initial judgment was indeed off - that they had him for a King. The dispersal just seemed so wrong to her. She sighed. At least she could still maintain her chosen profession... As a Ranger... Kaylin rolled her eyes. She'd rather remained a soldier. That's what she was. Regardless, she was one of the lucky ones to have received any kind of offer.

Maybe the Lord Aragorn could stand to read a book on the psychology of war veterans and the difficulties they face in life once they are no longer in the army? That way perhaps he could understand how many would feel cast aside. Yes. An excellent idea!

It took her quite a while to find the right section, because she didn't want to wake the snoozing librarian. Once she did, she scanned the volumes for an appropriate one, until her grey-blue eyes landed on "The Psychological and Financial Impact of War and Subsequent Dismissal on Veterans and Their Families". Kaylin blinked in surprise. How... specific. She searched the first and last pages of the book for a date, but couldn't find one. It didn't look particularly old or particularly new. Well, no matter - she'd found what she'd been looking for!

Her fingers tapped the book thoughtfully. Something was missing.

She had to place some kind of different cover over it, so Lothwen wouldn't discard it on sight.

Such a book didn't exactly offer King Elessar a reprieve of his responsibilities, after all. Yet, if the King was as wise and magnanimous as he was said to be, then he would still recognize it for the useful information it was and read it. He might give the Queen a weird look, sure, but Kaylin knew that much could be forgiven in a loving relationship. The royal couple would be just fine!

In a different section of the library, Kaylin 'borrowed' the cover of an altogether different book: "Songs and Poetry of Ithilien", and slapped it onto "The Psychological and Financial Impact of War and Subsequent Dismissal on Veterans and Their Families".

Quite pleased with herself, she marched right out of the library, with the disguised book of her choice tucked under her arm - and whistling.
Arnyn ~ Honor & Valor
Kaylin ~ Joy & Strength

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Lanneth (@Nen)

Lanneth stepped slowly up the sloped pathway leading to the library entrance, allowing herself the time to pause and admire the flowers adorning doorways and windowsills, greeting those passing with warm blessings of the day. She was dressed in well-fitted, practical clothes that were all the same of complimentary cut and cloth. A navy blue dress with fine, white embroidery detailing the hems, dismissing flair and arrogant showiness in preference to being subtle, elegant and understated in likeness to her character. Her shoes were light and of soft, comfortable suede, a worn wicker-basket tucked under her arm with a leather-bound book peeking out from under the cloth covering. Her gold-browne hair betrayed a few strands of grey and her face wrinkled as she smiled, giving the perception of one grown old enough now to have grown children of her own. But the twinkle in her striking blue eyes and the litheness of her step still retained the alacrity of her youth.

Observant of all around her, she was clearly at liberty with her time and had no need to rush. Her eyes took in all the details about her, but it was not the open-eyed wonder of one unfamiliar with the White City. Instead she bore an air of confident curiosity, the keenness of perception that suggested she was interested in the goings on around her, or perhaps seeking an escape from boredom.

A quick movement caught her eye near one of the library’s side-entrances and further up the pathway she saw a figure (@Winddancer) emerge and move swiftly through side-passages and paths, away from the library. They were carrying someone, a youngster from their size, and Lanneth’s attention was caught by the look of concern and upset on their face. A moment later and they were already rushing away before Lanneth could react. She hesitated a moment, wondering if perhaps she should follow and offer help, but a moment’s more quick thinking and mental-calculation told her the figure looked to be heading directly to the Houses of Healing by the quickest route possible; they were sure to find all the help they needed there.

She shook her head and sighed to herself, turning back to the library entrance and once again pushing the feeling of redundancy to the back of her mind. She had the time to meddle in other’s affairs, but she was hardly likely to be welcome or necessary with people she did not know.

In fact she seemed to have so much time to herself these days that she was struggling to fill it. It wasn’t so much that she lacked enriching activities, keeping her home to a respectable standard kept her busy a few hours a day, and her craft-table back home was an array of half-finished projects that could easily have filled her days were she able to muster the motivation. It was just that... the house was so quiet now that Hirluin had joined the Ranger Corp, and the twins were as often out as they were home these days. She didn’t mind; they were all grown and had lives of their own. She was in fact proud to see them going off and seeking out new experiences and adventures without her, despite her silent concern for their safety. It was just that... she didn’t really know what to do with herself when they were all absent.

Take today for example. She had decided to take advantage of the peace and quiet to finish reading one of her favourite books, safe in confidence she would not be disturbed for a few hours. But the longer she sat comfortably with pages open before her, the more her traitorous eyes strayed from the page and she found herself staring out the window wondering how Hirluin was doing, where he might be, what challenges he might be facing. Even when she tried to drive her focus off such thoughts and back to her book, she was distracted by the quiet around her. The silent emptiness of the house had become so, well... loud. So much so that it felt like an empty presence looming over her, repeatedly distracting her with its lack of familiar background noise. As much as she was enjoying the peace, she was simultaneously yearning for the passive shifting of another’s presence, the offhanded comments often shared between tasks, the occasional glances or greetings or not-quite-conversations. It was odd how the interruptions she had so often lamented were now the very things she sorely missed.

Eventually her restlessness had overcome her and, frustrated into action but not yet surrendering the idea of finishing her book, she had found her feet carrying her towards the library. The walk, always brisk with the effort of moving between the city levels and gates, had helped clear her head, and seeing people’s faces as she passed them in the street had staved off some of the feeling of isolation and loneliness. As she neared the doorway into the library building, she had to step aside as a lady (Kaylin) exiting with a poetry book under one arm. Lanneth nodded respectfully as she moved aside to allow the woman to pass before heading within.

As she stepped inside, she grew instantaneously more contented in the quiet space that was all the same still busy enough to avoid the unearthly silence presently haunting her own home. Stepping nimbly up to the librarian Master Peabody, she reached into her basket and without disturbing his slumber, deposited a small cup-cake beside him for him to discover on waking. It wasn’t quite iced the way he preferred it, being one of this morning’s bake when she hadn’t planned to visit the library, but she knew he would appreciate it all the same. She then stepped away and into the library proper, slipping quietly between the tall bookcases, searching for one of the seating areas nestled between the ranks of books, looking for a vacant space where one might sequester herself to disappear between pages for a few hours.

Forester of Lothlorien
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Lalaith @Allafyrefleorhtlig (Hi, Allacan! I'm sorry for the late response. I started working again this week, and it has been extremely busy. Didn't realise how busy it would get! Just so you know, I'm free to play for about an hour on Saturdays and Sundays. I hope that works fine for you. If not, please do tell me.)

Lalaith stood outside upon the marble stairs leading up to the big brown doors of, "The Library of Minas Tirith!" she said on a breath of excitement. This was the place she had wanted so much to visit, to further her learning. This, and perhaps the famed Healing Houses. Here, in this beautiful library, she was sure to have enough and more to last her a lifetime of knowledge-gathering. She slowly and reverently opened one of the doors into the library. All sound seemed to be swept into a solemn hush, the moment she stepped in. She closed the door as gently as she had opened it, and then turned around to gaze into the vast depths of the hall, her large, grey eyes trying to get accustomed to the dimness within. She took in a few deep breaths, and all she wanted to do was sink into the aroma of musty books and paper. But, as her senses accustomed themselves to the sights, soft murmured sounds and smells, she felt her first heady moments recede into quiet wonder and awe. She took in shelves upon shelves of knowledge. So much knowledge. Could she possibly ever read all of these parchments, and scrolls and books even has she a cat's nine lives? "Even if I were to live in here, and read during meal times, I would barely make a dent in this library by the time I am old and grey with several grandchildren," she murmured, and then paused on the last thought, "Grandchildren?" A corner of her lip quirked into a humorous smile, "No. I wouldn't have time to get anywhere close to having those if I were to live here."

A loud, gurgling snore to her left startled Lalaith out of her thoughts. She blinked in some astonishment at the sight of bearded old man seated behind what must be the reception desk. Lalaith tilted her head slightly to the right and considered what she saw before her. Her grey eyes twinkled as though it were alive with so many funny thoughts. Which it was. It struck her as mighty amusing if she were to be sitting there, one day, all old and grey and snoring away in welcome of guests to the library! Her lips quivering from the thought, the woman made her way to the reception desk. As she was new to the library, any public library for that matter, she would need some guidance, and while she was a little loath to disturb the old librarian, she did wonder why there was no one younger in charge. Lalaith herself had never taken to excuses from her workers when they were caught sleeping on the job.

She noted the little blue cupcake sitting on the desk. It did looked delicious. She then noted the name printed on the desk plaque - MR. PEABODY. She choked down a laugh and began to cough instead. "Well, that worked," she thought drily as Mr. Peabody twitched ever so slightly but did nothing else. Giving up for the moment, Lalaith decided to tread her way through the library and discover, for herself, what it offered.

She had ever only seen a library once. But it had been a private library. Well. It had not really been a library, more like a home study with three tall cupboards full of books. She had thought it immense then, as she was introduced to the world of letters for the first time. But kind, old, knowledgable Acron had passed away when she was still quite a young and eager learner, and with him had gone her chance to satisfy her thirst to know. But now, here she was in the library of Minas Tirith! Why was this place not full? She glanced around she saw a person or two, but knew there were others around. Soft murmurs floated up to meat her delicate ears. Her eyes fell upon the large book on a podium, and watched with some curiosity as someone appeared to be...writing in the book! Lalaith's eyes widened. What was this?

Once the person at the book had moved, Lalaith stepped in to take her place. She looked into its pages and regarded the writings scribbled across them. A journal? A live, public journal for all and sundry to come and pour out their thoughts. "To filter their minds," whispered Lalaith in quite wonder and appreciation. "But what a lovely idea this is! I must make my mark. I must!" And with that, Lalaith picked up a black feathered quill and dipped it into equally black ink. Her soft voice murmured the words as she wrote them down in a painstakingly neat script:

Hello, Minas Tirith! It is my first day within your white walls and city streets. I have as yet to assimilate it all! There is so much to see, to hear, to discover, that I barely know where to start! No. That is not true. I think it best to start within your solemn library - broad, tall, majestic, like a siren to all lovers of knowledge. I hope to make your further acquaintance and deepen my understanding of this great city and our people. Until I seek you out again - A Happy Newcomer.

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@Allafyrefleorhtlig ( Hi Allacan! I was wondering, if you're up to posting in here... If not, please don't worry about it. I wouldn't mind taking back Lanneth, if you're fine with that. :grin: )

Having dotted her last full stop, Lalaith put her quill back in its stand, and took a little bit longer to admire her first entry into the common journal. "I'll fill you in as often as I can," she whispered, "just you wait and see!" Then gently patting the open page, she turned about and stepped off the platform carefully. Her glance strayed back to the reception desk to see if Mr. Peabody might have finally awakened. A chuckle escaped her when she saw that the old librarian had not only awoken but was half through his little cup cake, and it was disappearing fast. Making her way back to the desk, the young woman noted that flecks of blue icing stuck to the grey-beard, nestling like confetti on a joyous occasion. "And this is definitely a joyous occasion," she murmured as she stood before Mr. Peabody.

"Eh?" That illustrious librarian started in his seat. He fumbled with his little round frames as it tipped off his nose, and grabbed it with his icing-covered fingers that he was apparently loath to leave without a good long lick. After a bit of juggling and fumbling, Mr. Peabody had managed to get his spectacles back onto his nose, and his hands cleaned. Then he blinked up at Lalaith, big, round, baby blue eyes gazing out at her enquiringly. "Ahem! What can I do for you little lady?" For some reason Lalaith warmed up to the old man at once. His blue gaze was gentle and kind and wise, and of a sudden she thought that surely he deserved his nap in the middle of the day. She wondered if he had any grandchildren. She imagined any little child would be happy to be riddled with stories by that deep, gruff but friendly voice.

"This is my first time here, Mr. Peabody. And I was just wondering what I might, as a newcomer, start looking at." Lalaith smiled sweetly at the librarian.

He blinked again, and peered at her more keenly through his glasses. He took note of the tall, slender form before him dressed in a smoky black dress, with black ruffles across the neckline and at the sleeves. A long rope of jet black hair lay over one shoulder, and a slender, white face peeked out at him from all the black. Grey eyes twinkled with the light amusement, and the almost invisible laughter lines about the eyes told their own tale. Mr. Peabody glanced down at the white hands that rested upon the table-top. One of them was stained with fresh ink. The old man grunted, "I see you have already been at the journal, lass."

She laughed with delight, "Yes, I have, dear sir!"

"Well then!" He moved his bulk out of the chair. Lalaith stiffled a gasp. He was large! He looked at her, one beetled eyebrow rising into his hairline. "It is time to take a walk through the library, little lady."

Lalaith nodded meekly and followed Mr. Peabody, her slender hands folded primly in front of her. Her eyes, however, were alive and darted across to the bookshelves in eager anticipation.

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Lanneth, human, she/her, sitting in one of the reading books and creating a small commotion

Lanneth sat staring out of the window. It would take her some time and considerable more self-discipline to gather her thoughts long enough to realise that obviously she could leave the house and the heavy, empty quiet behind, but even here in the grand library of Minas Tirith her own pensive mood would persevere. The beloved book sat open on her lap only a few pages on from the page she had struggled to finish in her own home. Though the view out of the window here was quite different, the outcome remained the same. Her mind was filled with thought of her son, Hirluin, and where he might be in that very moment. At the very least, she pondered as she eyed the sunlight bathing the street outside, the skies were blue and clear, so weather was hopefully not something he would have to concern himself with.

She was recalled to herself by the rumbling of a stomach. Her stomach. Rules about food and drink within the library had become more relaxed as of late, especially for those who had visited as loyally as Lanneth. Unlike in her youth when she had regularly come to the library for schooling, on her less frequent adult visitations she did not visit to peruse it’s shelves or read its materials, at least not these days. She would more often than not bring her own reading material and visited the building predominantly for the atmosphere, and so she had been forgiven for often sneaking in a flask of juice and a few small pastries, as long as she made offering with the librarian Mr Peabody on each such occasion. Whether or not she would be permitted to continue such a habit however, would depend largely upon the outcome of the incident which was to occur imminently.

She had reached down to her small basket and had lifted up a cupcake in one had and the flask in the other. She was opening the latter still half staring out the window, when she uncrossed her legs and in doing so unintentionally dislodging the book she had forgotten rested there. It fell to the floor with a loud thud, causing her to jump in surprise. In the moment of her startlement, her traitorous hand lost grip with the flask. Only a second after the book it too landed on the wooden floor, awkwardly on a corner that projected its juicy contents simultaneously over the lower folds of her skirt and across the book where it had come to rest on the floor. Thanks to the bright red fluid, at first glance the visual affect would appear far more dramatic than the truth of the situation, albeit spilling red Cranberry juice over any book in such an esteemed library as this would be viewed by most as bordering on criminal behaviour.

“Oh bother” she exclaimed quietly to herself in a voice that nevertheless carried through the quiet library. She dropped to her knees, accidentally knocking her basket over in her haste, automatically opting to sacrifice her neatly embroidered navy dress in favour of attempting to rescue her beloved novel from a cranberry-dousing of doom. Righting the flask on the floor. she successfully retrieved the dripping tome before it was too thoroughly drenched, and hastily mopped up the mess with her skirts before any of the resident books were even at risk of being damaged. But the leather binding of her own book dripped threateningly with juice, and she pressed it to her chest in a hasty attempt to draw out the liquid before it sunk deeper into the pages, and then with an edge of desperation resorted to sucking as much of the liquid out of the bindings as she could with her mouth.

Anyone rounding the corner in that moment would be met with the quite astonishing sight of an attractive dark-haired woman nearing her later years dressed in a fine, tasteful dark-blue dress that was now coated in dark red stains, on her knees and clutching a book to her mouth, sucking liquid noisily from between the pages with a look of mild panic on her face. As though this image were not absurd enough it was framed by the basket that had been knocked asunder in her haste having spilled its contents hap hazardously over the floor; two more iced cupcakes, a small purse, a still open flask propped upright in the middle of the floor and an apple that was still rolling about and threatened to lodge itself under a nearby bookcase if not hastily intercepted.

Forester of Lothlorien
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Lalaith stumbles upon a strange sight

"The outer shelves you see here, little lady, are what folk around here commonly come in here to read or borrow. Journals, memoirs, the latest fanaticism on fancy made-up stories that young ladies like you appear to have a passion for."

Mr. Peabody turned to look at Lalaith at that last remark, and she had to stifle a look of indignation that had leapt into her face at the librarian's assumption. It was not so much that she knew what exactly he was talking about, but his look and tone had been rather condescending and she had disliked that very much. She said cooly, "My interests, dear sir, lie in the histories. And I would never say no to diving into old journals and memoirs." She said no more, but Lalaith was ever curious and knew she would be diving into these 'fancy made-up stories' to understand what exactly these might be.

The old librarian did not take her far into the library, but at the mouth of the open aisles told her where she might go for the histories she was interested in. With a vague hand gesture in the general direction of the area behind the shelves he indicated to her where she might find comfortable reading space. Eager to begin her exploration on her own, Lalaith bobbed her head in a little action of courtesy towards the him saying, "Thank you, Mr. Peabody, for taking the time to show me around. I know you must be eager to get back to the reception desk, where others might need your help." It was an ever subtle dismissal that she was not wholly conscious of doing. It was her custom.

The old man looked towards her in some surprise, taking stalk of her once more and realising that she was probably of noble blood. He could not have said so when she first spoke to him, for it was her eyes and friendly manner that generally made an impression, but in her words delivered to him now was revealed a young woman accustomed to command. Mr. Peabody made a gruff little sound at the back of throat and then said, "Aye. I'll be heading back to my post, little lady, before you start pulling on me more of your airs and graces!" And with that he turned on his heel and lumbered back to his desk.

Lalaith gazed after him in startlement, and wondered what it was she had said that made him think she was putting on 'airs and graces'. He delicate brows furrowed. Had he been offended that she had said she would look around on her own? But surely he did not go about as a tour guide for every customer that came in! She sighed. Whatever it was, it must have been something she had said. She cast her eyes upon the book shelves again, and her frown turned into a smile that started from deep within her eyes. "Books!" she murmured! She chose an aisle, and began to walk down it slowly, gently unsheathing a book from its nestling place, every now and then, and reverently turning the pages. Lalaith made mental notes, murmuring the names of some the titles - The Memoirs of Darion, The Journal of Merry the Spy, Little Things and Big Things: a Look into the Life of the Gondorion Farmer. She was just pulling out a book with a red jacket when she heard a commotion of things falling. She started an looked about her. She was nearly at the end of her chose aisle. The sound of something rolling reached her ears, and she glanced down to find a shiny red apple coming to a wobbly stop at her soft-booted feet.

Quickly slipping back the book into its place, Lalaith grabbed the fallen apple, and made her way around the shelf. She stopped short and blinked. A strange sight met her eyes.

Dressed all in deep blue, was a lady, who had to be several years older than she was, on her knees, sucking desperately on ... a book!

"Erm..." said Lalaith softly and glanced about her quickly to see if there was anyone nearby to help. There was no one. She wondered if she was here with a lunatic. Thoughts about stories of a wild woman in the attic came to her mind, and she wondered if she was seeing one of that sort, and if perhaps she had escaped from somewhere, and... "Oh bother!" she exclaimed under her breath. "How much more ridiculous can you get, Lalaith!" She noted then the other things about the woman - an open flask bleeding what had to be cranberry juice. The sweet, tangy scent of it was filling the air. Lalaith came forward, and picked up the flask in her free hand. She came toward the lady, the apple in her left hand, and the flask in the other. "Erm...Excuse me. But are you sucking on that book because you like cranberry juice that much?" She was not as yet sure if she ought to be puzzled or highly amused.

Thain of The Mark
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Lanneth, human, she/her, feeling like a numpty @Nen

Lanneth visibly startled in surprise at the sight of Lalaith standing over her. She hurriedly pulled the book out of her mouth and went to stand, having to awkwardly hesitate mid-rise to re-arrange her skirts as she did so, for she had caught one fold of skirt under her left foot in her filed attempts to minimise the mayhem. “Oh bother... there now. Apologies, but I do not like cranberry juice. At least not after *this* messy betrayal.” She said in the tone of someone who long ago learned to control their emotions and almost never got angry, but was nevertheless uncharacteristically frustrated in that moment.

She instinctively tried to wipe down her front and then lifted up and dropped back down her skirts in an expression of mild defeat. “Oh bother!” She said again, gently like a sigh. “Lanneth you numpty, look at the state of you.” She regarded again the stained book in her hands, and a particularly keen and insightful person might realise that she was trying to subdue and control her emotion over it’s unfortunate state. She looked up at Lalaith with eyes that seemed for an instant just a little brighter and shinier than normal, before she visibly relaxed and her face creased into a warm smile.

“I am so very sorry, my dear, I must have caused you such a fright, wallowing around in cranberry juice in the middle of a library of all places, and sucking on a book as well, for Arda’s sake! I am well, I assure you, I just had an unfortunate accident with some mischievous cranberry juice and my favourite book.” She looked down ruefully at the book in her hand, the apple in Lalaith’s, the mess of her skirts and for the first time fully reflected on the absurd picture she must have painted to this poor young woman. “Oh dear!” She said, instinctively lifting a hand as though to cover her mouth in embarrassment, shaking her head slightly at her own silliness. “Oh deary me, I must look like a court-room fool! Oh, I DO beg your pardon, I am SO very sorry, I...” The longer she spoke, the more she blushed and the larger a smile crept up onto her face. It seemed the more she considered her predicament, the harder she seemed to find it to stop herself from giggling.

“I knocked over my flask and... the cranberry juice got everywhere, and I... the book... my favourite book... I can’t believe I was *sucking* it... from the pages! What *was* I thinking? Oh my poor sweet, whatever must you think of me?! I must look as batty as a buffoon!” And with this she finally laughed, a high, tinkling, sweet sound like the chiming of festival bells. It was the light-hearted, pleasant laughter of someone who - despite an upbringing that values modesty and proprietary, and being weighted with the burden of running a household - still knew the value of good humour.

She sat slowly down on the chair behind her, legs together and turned to once side in the manner of a noblewoman, a hand pressed to her chest as though trying to compose herself. She glanced up at Lalaith and should the other women even for a moment look fit to join her in similar giggles, she would surely break into yet more laughter in response, having to take a few deep breaths to compose herself once more after both of them had gotten the worst of it out of their system.

At last she lifted the book, her good humour only a little tainted with regret and melancholy. “Ah well, I guess I’ll have to keep my eyes open for another copy of Trent’s ‘Of the Lost Peoples’, though I’ve no idea where I might find one. Still, don’t cry over spilt milk. Or should I say cranberry juice!” she said, giggling a little once again and shrugging at the other woman. “My name is Lanneth. I’d offer you a hand, but I’d hate to impose my sticky cranberry doom upon you. Please forgive my disarray, I fear I have already disturbed your quiet morning enough.” She said, in a polite attempt to demonstrate to the woman that she would not be offended if the younger lady diplomatically took her leave of the older, less stable-appearing (but in truth only unlucky) woman.

High Warden of Tower
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Her booted feet made no noise as she slipped in through the door as if in an attempt not to be noticed; Pele loved reading, and yet she found herself mostly engrossed in writings that could be found either at the Houses of Healing or in the Barracks. This time though, she did not look for the reading material. Slowly, as if uncertain, she made her way to the journal; selecting an inkwell and a quill, she sat down and opened the book that was said to be the keeper of the secrets. For what seemed an eternity she stared at an empty page as if searching for words - or for courage to express her deepest thoughts into writing.

Eventually she took a deep breath and then let it out slowly, dipped the tip of the quill into the ink and began writing:

"My dearest, beloved Maldir,"

Pele was forced to take a break from the activity almost as soon as she had started since she felt a knot forming in her throat and tears stinging her eyes. She took a few moments to compose herself unwilling to draw attention from anyone else who might be somewhere nearby looking through scrolls and books should her grief find a vocal means of expression.

"Linaiwe kept bothering me incessantly and telling me that I should write to you, and you know how she is... Never-ending nagging until her will is done. But perhaps she is right... It feels strange to write to you knowing that you will never read these words, and yet... it simply feels right.

It has been so much time since you are gone, and oh how I still miss you! In fact, I'm not even sure how to live without you... I had filled my days with duties to keep myself from thinking too deeply of these matters. I could not forgive myself that I had not somehow saved you. Ah, it is still hard..."


Pele's hand stilled, and she closed her eyes for a while, thinking. Then, a dip of the quill into inkwell and more words followed.

"I am not even sure whether anything I would have done would even change the outcome. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Had I known that you were in danger and had there been a way for me to come to your rescue, you know I would have! And yet I am so sorry that I did not find a way...

You know, now that I think of it, Maldir, I am sure that you would not have me wither away in eternal regrets and stop living; that would be totally against your heart. And yet now that I would want to finally release you and allow myself to live, there's an obstacle.

Relic. That sneaky little beast... I wouldn't even dare tell you what she put me through. No, on second thoughts - I would definitely tell you, I would tell you every little thing. But alas...

I thought I would attempt my best to return to some sort of normal life, and now she writes me threatening notes. I might just have to figure out a way to get back at her, though must be careful not to endanger anyone else in the process.

Ah, Maldir, there was a time when I thought I did not even want to continue living, not without you, especially after escaping from Umbar. But it isn't right, is it? I should find a way to live... to become myself again... so I could honour you by it too, yes?

Well, I do have friends to ask some advice and support from, and... I promise you that I will find a way.

Still missing you...
Pele"


Writing finished, the blue-eyed Ranger leaned against the back of the chair, a shadow of a smile appearing on her lips. But then a thought occurred to her: would it even be wise to leave this in the journal? Perhaps she should tear out the page... Though then again it was best to leave it here, so she wouldn't reread it. It was now time to turn a new page in her life. Somehow.

"I will find a way..." she whispered under her breath, stood and put away the chair, closed the journal and set the writing utensils in their proper place. Then, with a newfound sense of purpose and determination, she walked out the door.
Image

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Hathaldir
There was one place in the White City that called to Hathaldir since his arrival but he took his time in going. There was no hurry, no reason urging him on other than his own interests. If he was hesitant or uncertain about it, no part of him recognised it or if it did, he refused to acknowledge it. On a quiet afternoon, he made his way to the Second Circle, passed the Marketplace with barely a glance at any of the shops or stalls, nor the people therein. His mind and his dark gaze were fixed on one thing only: his destination.

An indistinct grey cloak mantled his broad shoulders and covered his old travelling clothes beneath. It was a relief to shed his Tower Guard uniform and walk unaffiliated, freely, through the streets with no one to address him nor make demands. No. Today, he was just Hathaldir again, no one of any importance, content to fade in the background.

His sure steps slowed as the Library came into view. The white columns towered overhead, the marble clean and bright, and the grandeur of it all made him pause. There he stood on the threshold of a place unknown. Was it a mistake to come here? To both the Library and to Minas Tirith? Before he resolved to enter, a chill prickle crawled down his spine.

As he lumbered inside, his booted feet echoing noisily to his own ears, he was keenly aware that this was not a place where someone like him belonged. This was a place of knowledge and wisdom. Refined folk spent their days surrounded by relics and records of the past, seeking knowledge, driven on by something he could never understand. Yes, Hathaldr had come to the city seeking knowledge but it was not the kind you could find here.

Spying the man asleep at his desk, he tried to soften his footfalls as he passed. Knowing he would do the same in his place, he could not blame him. In fact, it came as a relief not to be immediately set upon by someone greeting him and asking inane questions or offering to help. He had no wish to explain his presence here.

All around him were stacks and stacks of books and parchments, scrolls rolled out upon tables and ink pots and quills waiting to be lifted by deft hands. He paced around taking it all in with slow, measured steps. How could anyone spend their life in a place like this, day in and day out? He tried to imagine it. Sitting in one place, surrounded by dust, suffocating inside this stagnant place with nothing but your own thoughts and the words written in ink for company. The silence grated on him even as it was punctuated by the soft whisper of a page being turned, the scratch of a quill on parchment, the gentle creak of a chair as a scholar shifted, the occasional shuffle of soft-soled feet.

He ran his fingers across the spines of a row of books, some written in languages he had never seen nor understood. In truth, there was much he did not understand; it seemed to dawn on him as he stood there, peering at the swirling letters in some strange tongue of old.

A memory assailed him: a child holding up a heavy leather-bound book in delicate hands that only served to exaggerate his small stature. There was a bright smile on the child’s face as if he knew, even then, what his calling would be as he cradled it in his embrace. Beneath a crown of dark curls, his green eyes sparkled with joy. A love of knowledge had always been there, perhaps from the start. Swiftly, he pulled his hand back from the book as if it stung and his attention returned to the library, to the present day. A stifling heat wrapped close about him and he felt more clumsy and out of place than before. There was nothing to find here and suddenly he did not know why he had come.

When he retreated outside, he found he could breathe more easily and autumn’s cool touch was a welcome reprieve. Though he was surrounded by stone walls and paved city streets, a landscape as hard as his heart had become, the golden rays of the late afternoon sun and the clear sky overhead were familiar things ever present in this world. North or south, in wilderness or the King’s city, in life or death, these things would go on unending and uncaring, barely observing the fleeting little lives of Men.

Hathaldir had gone to the library looking to find something; a thread of a connection, a feeling or a hint. Instead, only a distant memory had surfaced and he felt further and further away from what he sought.

He knew one thing for certain. When he did find what he was looking for - who he was looking for, no matter how long it took, no matter what it took, if he had to travel to the ends of Middle-earth, he would make them sorry for what they had done.

They would pay with breath and blood. A life for a life. Hathaldir would see that justice was served. He rather hoped it would be dealt by his own hand.

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
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Note: this is a repost, which was previously discarded for timing. And has since had additions made to the initial content.


Gael Thavron and Airëlen


She might as well have screamed for sanctuary in the very moments that her back pressed the great doors to a close in her wake. The city had affected her more than she had wanted to believe. The want to stall and stare pressed unto a need to hasten. A fear to linger. So many eyes. So many ears. So many … people ! Gael had wished to find her way to the White City for now the longest time, and as so many things found the experience now marred by past … experiences.

Her daughter glanced up, wide eyed red-cheeked, and knew better than to seek freedom from her mother’s firm grasp.

That was fun, was it not ?” the lady of Belfalas smiled, painting on the reassurance as she had so many times. ‘I’m fine’. ‘Its nothing’. The game, at least made sense of it in her small child’s mind. The truth of it, she would keep to herself. If she were entirely honest, there was some sense of preservation come from inventing the game. Running whenever mother said ‘run’. Setting a single finger to lock up lips, and speak with silence. She did not know whether these practices would ever breed need beyond her own sense of preparedness. But she had been taken unawares and she would not have the same for her child.

The little girl glanced at her hand, and then to the avenues of study that abounded. Slowly Gael’s heart slowed that she could no longer hear it over the serenity of the great hall-ed establishment.

Stay close, keep in sight,” she whispered, hands placed upon knees to impress the instruction in a meet of eyes straight to eyes. Then righting the silk veil which obscured her ruined face, Gael allowed herself breath, and the first of many moments to bask in the tranquil contemplation. Of a place so far removed from all she feared. Here, she knew, with astounding certainty, she was safe. And her child also. Though she startled when little Airëlen tugged at her mother’s sleeve and pointed. Only when she recognised her husband, did Gael relax.

Although what he was doing, she had no idea. Only that it involved the Lady Ilisys. So it was best, she had learned, really that she didn’t ask.



Ilisys Azrubêl and Anardil ‘Warder’ Thavron
Speaking through the stacks


You know what to do,” the noblewoman decided, and watched her squire until he nodded, wearily.

Is this really necessary ?” the tall man raked a hand through his dark brown, flat hair, and glanced about them, hesitating when he saw his wife and daughter had arrived.

You know what. You know why,” the enigmatic Lady tapped one side of her nose, spun her long hair so that even more of what had once been a beautiful style fell to resemble a lopsided birds nest. If there had come to rest an actual birds nest in there, her friend would not have blinked to see so. Shaking his head as he watched her leave the library, he drew over to Gael and Airëlen.


Are you alright here a time ?” he doubted, concerned. “I can stay ..

A trembling pale hand patted his coarser palm and tore remorsefully away again. “We are going to take a tour of the library,” she assured him. And her daughter. And herself.

Four miles, two circles and a host of soldiers,” he reminded the nervous lady of how far she stood from Harlond. They had taken twice as long to arrive in the White City from Lond Col, because Gael did not dare now to travel by ship. It had been a long road, and that was something of an understatement. “I’m staying in this circle,” he assured her further. As if it would make any difference. She had only come at all because staying even amidst the safety of their fine home in Belfalas meant being apart from him.

Four miles, two circles and a hole of soldiers,” their daughter piped up, glancing back from staring after Ilisys, so that her sight could ascend the height of one parent, and then the other.

A whole host of soldiers,Warder smiled as Gael sifted her free hand through the child’s dark hair. Airëlen tried to mirror the man’s smile back to him, as a lake shines for the moon. But her smile would never be his smile, no more than she was really his daughter, not by blood. And it was that blood which terrified her mother. Gael knew that if Uhta found out where they were, he would have them back. ‘By the blood’, as the Corsair saying went.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

Ent Ancient
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Hathaldir
At long last, Hathaldir had a day off from his duty as Tower Guard and he did not intend to waste it. He rose early, threw on his faded black clothes and marched outside after a hasty breakfast. His appearance was tidier than usual; his beard had been shaved and his hair combed and tied back all of which made him feel strangely exposed. It was not that he cared what he looked like but he hoped to separate himself from the man he had been before he came to the city.

Here he was, weeks later, and no closer to finding any hints or information than he’d been on his first day. Minas Tirith was somehow bigger than he remembered and it was brimming with people; they were everywhere and he could not get away from them. Any one of them might know something useful but there was one place he thought he might start and his feet led him there almost of their volition.

This time, he did not hesitate on the threshold of the library’s entrance but walked right in as if he belonged there. He slowed his steps as he paced up and down rows and rows of books, scanning the aisles with a careful eye.

After what felt like a frustratingly long time of wandering around driving him to consider giving up, he finally found her. Or hoped he had. He’d been told her beauty surpassed that of the Queen Evenstar herself. Hathaldir had his doubts. No mortal woman could ever compare to the ethereal beauty of an elf. This woman’s raven hair was knotted at the nape of her neck and she was perched at a dizzying height up a ladder where she was shelving books she scooped from a satchel slung over her shoulder.

He approached but she did not stir at the sound of his footsteps focused as she was on her task. From the foot of the ladder, he called up to her. “Do you work here? I’d like some help if you don’t mind.”

When she turned to look at him with disinterest in her blue eyes, he saw she was young; perhaps not yet twenty-five. He was sure now this was her. “I’m just a clerk, sir. If you need help finding something, you should ask the librarian.” She returned her attention to her work.

He cleared his throat. “The librarian is asleep. I would like your help, Falaneth.”

The only sign that she was surprised to hear her name was the way her hand froze on the leather binding of the book tucked halfway onto the shelf. “How do you know my name?”

Ah, he had guessed rightly that this was her. It wasn’t very hard to pick out the one clerk who was a fine looking young woman. “I know more about you than your name,” he answered. “Will you help me or not?”

She shoved the book onto the shelf with such force a cloud of dust puffed up in her face and she waved her hand in front of her nose to clear it. Clearly, she was not impressed. “Fine.” She climbed down the ladder with deft steps all while managing a handful of blue-grey skirts and the satchel of books to throw off her balance.“What do you need help with?”

“I am looking for the complete works of Tandarion Thindlorn.” He waited a breath to see her reaction. “He was a scholar here, no?”

Falaneth sighed and a frown creased her youthful brow. “Yes. That’s right,” she muttered. “But as I said this is really a job for the librarian. I just shelve books and keep things tidy, you know.”

“Then you must know where everything is in here so it is safe to assume you know where to find them,” he pressed her.

“I don’t know where everything is...but I can find them if you like. It will take some time to collect them all.” She rested a hand on a rung of the ladder and glanced up at the tall shelves of books surrounding them as if already imagining how much work it would be. “Is there something more specific I could look for so that you do not have to wade through it all yourself?”

“Thank you but I would like the collection. Is it possible to have them delivered within the city?”

“Well, I’m really not authorized to-” she began.

“I can pay you for the extra trouble,” he murmured and unfolded his fist to reveal more coins than she probably made in a week.

He detected a little longing in the way she stared at the coins before her expression hardened and her eyes slitted in suspicion. She looked left and right searching for any witnesses to his unusual offer. The aisles were empty and there was no one there to hear their exchange but she lowered her voice anyway. “What do you really want?”

“As I said, I only want Tandarion’s works sent to me though I also wondered...if you have worked in the library long? Did you know him?” Point made, he pocketed the coins again and took a step closer to her.

“Yes...I knew him.” Falaneth reached for the strap of the satchel and pulled it over her head, letting it fall to the floor as if it suddenly weighed too much even though she likely clambered up and down ladders with it all long.

“How well did you know him? I wonder...” he hesitated before asking the question he most wanted answered. “What did you think about the circumstances of his untimely death?”

Falaneth paled even as he saw her eyes moisten with tears. But she didn’t cry out or start keening or crumple into herself. Instead, she demanded with a ferocity that outmatched her petite stature, “who are you? Who put you up to this?”

“No one!” He said quickly and held his hands out in a placating gesture. “I am here to find the truth! To put things right. Can you believe that? Can you believe that more than you believe in the story they tried to tell about him? Tell me that you think it is not true.”

“I don’t know what to believe....” She whispered and shook her head.

“I am not here to get you in trouble, Falaneth. I want to find justice for Tandarion. And to do that, I would like access to all of his works. So what do you say? Can you do it?”

“I can...” she answered skeptically. “But I don’t see how it will do any good.”

“Let me worry about that. Will you do it?” He had to force himself to stand still, not to rock forward on his feet, lest she see his desperation.

She drew in a deep breath and released it. It was agony waiting for her to decide and she took her time about it. He thought he could see her calculating and weighing her options behind those eyes so like the sea in color and character. Who knew what lurked beneath the calm surface of her countenance. Say yes, say yes, he willed her…

“Yes,” she answered quietly.

Hathaldir barely managed to bite back a grin. “Good. Deliver them to the Blind Raven Inn. Room twelve.”

“To whom am I delivering this all to?”

“It is better for you that you do not know. Leave it with the innkeeper and they will pass it to me. I will pay you some now and I will get the rest to you after I receive the materials.” He held out a few coins to her. “Do you agree?”

Falaneth reached forward and took the coins with small pale fingers, peering at him curiously. He did not like the way it made him feel like she was trying to stare right into his soul. As if she already knew there was more to this than he had said. “Room twelve at the Blind Raven Inn,” she repeated. “I will see it done.”

This time when Hathaldir left the library, it was with a sense of accomplishment. Things were finally proceeding, and better than he hoped.

Ent Ancient
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Falaneth
This day felt like it would never end. And that was all this library clerk wanted. For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Falaneth tugged another book from the shelf and added it to her bin of volumes with crinkled water stains, covers that looked almost like the edges were chewed off or those with cracked and splintered binding leaving the pages to fall out and get lost forever. But that was why she was here. And normally, she found purpose, peace and contentment in the repetitive and quiet nature of her work. It was important. She ensured things were where they ought to be so the people could find what they were looking for. Today...she could only feel mild disinterest.

Letting out a soft sigh, she ran her fingers idly over a neat row of leather-bound books as her thoughts drifted ahead, to what lay down her path. She nearly missed something that would have caught her eye immediately any other day: the “Songs and Poetry of Ithilien” was missing its cover. She pulled the volume from the shelf with a small frown at the disrespect shown both to the book and the Library itself before she tossed it on the growing pile of books in need of mending. Given what she was about to do, and had already done, she supposed she was in no place to judge.

Rule breaking was nothing new to her but she was used to being on the other side. Half her time was spent rounding up mislaid or abused items, cleaning up crumbs and other debris, and of course, her least favourite duty of all: asking amorous couples to find somewhere else to express their feelings. Whatever time was left involved more typical duties one expected like organising and cataloguing items and ensuring all was in order.

Falaneth never thought she’d see the day she broke one of the library’s cardinal rules she lived and breathed by. But then, she never thought anyone would ever share her skepticism about the nature of Tandarion’s death, as the stranger phrased it. In the wake of his death and the ensuing investigation, no one else had believed her. She tried to argue and fight it, but her efforts were for nothing. No one would listen to her grief-stricken as she was. You’re in denial, they told her, you’ll understand someday, you’re looking for a way to clear your conscience. Falaneth had heard it all and never felt more alone.

Until the day the strange man appeared. He knew her name. What else might he know? She should have declined his request, sent him away and gone on with her day...but instead, that very afternoon, she brought home the first of Tandarion’s scrolls. That act was like the first strike to fell a tree; one by one, until a whole forest was nothing but a field of stumps.

And now almost the entirety of Tandarion’s work was at her house in a stack of mismatched books and parchment sitting on her table. Just looking at them made her heart ache in a way she hadn’t felt for months. There were times she stared at them and lost track of time while she considered losing herself in the words written in his careful hand. Those neat and sloping letters she knew almost as well as her own. The longer they sat there, the harder it was to ignore their lure and yet, she had not opened a single one. She did not have the strength. It would not bring him back. The sooner she got rid of them, the better.

Tonight, she would bring them to the Blind Raven Inn. Tonight, she would leave them in someone else’s hands knowing she might never see them again. She could lose her job if anyone found out. This meager job at the library was all she had left now. It kept a warm roof over her head, food in her belly and occasionally afforded her time to peruse the contents of the great library. She could not ask for more...at least until the minuscule wisp of hope arose within her that she might be able to uncover the truth if this man’s intentions were as he said.

The sky was darkening as the end of her shift neared and the more she looked forward to it, the slower the minutes seemed to pass. How unfair it was that time moved with painful sluggishness when you wanted something to be over but all the best moments ended in the blink of an eye or the space of a breath. How many moments had she lived without truly appreciating what she had? Far too many and now all that remained were memories as murky as fog on glass.

Finally, when she thought she might burst with anticipation and nervous energy, the day was at an end. She tried, and failed, to stifle a yawn as she gathered her things and pulled on her cloak. Her eyes were dry and tired and she rubbed some life back into them. There was still much to be done this night.

Bound for home, Falaneth left the library with the last of Tandarion’s scrolls tucked into her bag. The first step was done. Now there was no turning back. There was only forward. Go home, retrieve the collection, head to the inn. And hope the stranger would ensure every last scroll was returned when he finished with them. If not, it was not just the library’s wrath she might face - she knew Tandarion would never forgive her, even in death, and that was a curse she did not want to bear.

Esquire of The Mark
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Boriel, Scholar of Dol Amroth
Library of Minas Tirith:
Searching for the Truth

The library of Dol Amroth was beautiful, as indeed was the entire city. Boriel spent her days there pouring over scrolls and old tomes, breathing in dusty air, and exhaling knowledge. She had studied so many topics over the last thirty-three years, having practically lived in the library since she was twelve. Herb-lore and the arcane, ancient history and the line of Kings, battles won and lost, and more so than anything else, the history of Sauron the Deceiver. Why he fascinated her so she could not say, for he was evil wasn't he? The greatest evil that Gondor had ever faced right? She had lost family members over the years to the servants of the enemy and known many a neighbor who could say the same. His wars on their lands were the stuff of legends as much as they were of history, and deciphering the myth from the truth was a project of passion for her. She had slowly been compiling her findings and notes together into a small brown journal, one she always kept hidden deep within her bag that never left her side. Studying Sauron was enough to raise the eyebrows of her fellow scholars, but if they knew the depth to which she delved they might grow greatly concerned. She did however have a plan if ever she was found out and confronted about it, as she could always claim that she was studying the enemy to find some weakness, some error in his planning that would aid the kingdom of Gondor. And though that would be a lie, it was hopefully a lie that would buy her time and space to study him more.

The horror that she felt when the tower of Barad-Dur fell and Sauron was defeated was unimaginable. She closed herself away in her bedroom and wept, believing that all hope was gone from the world and that she had lost any chance of meeting him, of aiding him in his goals. It wasn't until while rereading her notes, that she realized there might be some hope for her. Sauron had been defeated before yes, by the Last Alliance, but he returned, didn't he? It took time, many, many centuries, but he returned. The orcs had remained even after his defeat, and surely they would be searching for ways to bring him back as well. The Ringwraiths too, if they had survived too. She made up her mind then to do whatever it took to help bring back the Dark Lord from wherever he now was. But she could no more here in Dol Amroth. She had read every scroll and book that had the slightest mention or tiniest bit of information on Sauron or his allies and ways. Minas Tirith held the greatest library in the world, except perhaps for Imladris, but there was no way that she could travel that far north alone, nor did she think she could gain entry to that home of Elves. Even if she could, the Elves were far more likely to suspect her intentions when she began to search for scrolls about Sauron, as whoever guarded their trove of knowledge was likely to have read everything there over the millennia. So Minas Tirith it was then

There was little of note on her journey there, sailing down the coast to Pelargir and then joining a caravan to the city. She was welcomed by some of the others studying in the library, as she had taken a few scrolls and tomes from the library at Dol Amroth, and gifted them to the scholars here. A fellow scholar and sister from the shining gem of western Gondor, she had little trouble explaining her presence there. It was not strange for the scholars and lore-masters of Gondor to travel to gain knowledge, and where better to study than the capital city? It was almost too easy. Soon she was left alone to wander the tall shelves and take what she wanted. She gathered unto her dozens and dozens of ancient works and hoarded them in a small, secluded room. Lit by only a few candles, she hunched over them, hungrily devouring the knowledge they gave her while scratching notes quickly in her journal. She rarely ate, leaving only when her stomach began to rumble or when she desperately needed to use the restroom. And even during those quick breaks her mind was racing, laying out what she would read next, what information she hoped to find in the next piece of written work.

It was by chance that she found a scroll entitled, The Moste Evile of Spirites, Gorthaur the Deceiv'r. A scholar, some ancient and wrinkled man with a beard down to his belt, saw that she was studying their old foe. On the fourth day of her stay in Minas Tirith, he approached her and croaked raspily, "I saw that you study the great enemy in the east. A wise subject of study, as we all must be aware of such evil. We cannot let another such as he rise again, and it falls to us, the wisest of our people to ensure that that does not happen. This scroll is from the start of the Third Age my dear, written in Sindarin, which I'm sure you read. It is rather informative of the motives and methods of the Dark Lord. You might find it helpful in your research. If I can be of any assistance, don't hesitate to..." He was not able to finish his sentence before she snatched the scroll from him and pushed him away through the doorway. "Very well," she heard from the other side of the door, "I understand that insatiable quest for knowledge well. Forgive me for intruding so long."

She seated herself back down on the stool in the corner of the room and unfurled the scroll. It was long, nearly five feet of cracked and decaying paper, but the words were minuscule and difficult to read. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small piece of glass encased in a ring of metal and held it to the scroll, magnifying the text and allowing her to read it with some ease. It was fascinating. It was written by an old lore-master who had lived through the end of the Second Age and well into the Third. He had been present for much of the existence of the Last Alliance and had even seen the siege of Barad-dur firsthand, at least part of it. Firsthand knowledge was always the most valuable, and this was the gold mine that she had been searching for. She lit two more candles to give herself more light and set about reading the rest of the scroll.

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The Vestige

At first, there was nothing. At first there was darkness, darkness separated from themselves. They were floating in a void of nothingness, something wholly separate from the mundane darkness of night or the underground. It took what felt like countless aeons to form a single thought. It was more than a struggle through the mire. It was nearly an impossibility. It was a humiliating process. To have once been so might, the have shaped the very fabric of this earth only to be brought low in an instant, a chance so miniscule and so useless that they had not even considered it. And yet, here they were. They felt weak. Weaker than they had ever felt before. Through years and ages beyond count they had been more powerful than any that walked the land, had required absolute loyalty and subjection. They had been the dominant force, turning the wheels of the world in whatever way suited them. Now a single thought was a struggle. But that struggle, that thought, would be a powerful one. All they had to do is hold on. It enraged them to be brought so low, so low that the worms of the earth (being barely above men and elves) would crawl over and through their form, blind hunger driving them forward without thought or will. The worm took from them as well, each movement caused them to shudder and convulse. How long would they have to exist like this, a mewling kitten, a vestige of what they had been?

Then they heard something. Something calling out to them. It was not an orc, all their daemonical hordes had been driven from the land or were forced to hide in small bands that were worse than useless. No, this call was something else. They found moving toward this call was easy. It did not even require a thought for them to filter through the air, to glide against the power of the wind. Yet, they did not know where this call was taking them. Far beyond the walls of sleep they felt themselves tugged away, through perdition and maelstrom until they were met with the blinding, unbearable light of being. They were not solid again, they might never be solid again, yet they existed. For now, patience dictated that that must be enough.

They crawled through thought and time and came to a city. The city. A hatred burned within them. A black fire that would consume the whole of the world if it were to be set loose. They could feel their form being ripped and torn asunder just at the sight of this wretched place. Yet they moved on. The calling, the desperate longing that had rebirthed them into the world of physical matter had come from there. So it was there they must go.

They passed through stone and wood and flesh as if they were mist, barely even registering the sensation of earth and light. They came to a vast structure, architecture that clawed up to the heavens in a mistaken grasp for power and knowledge.

I am here…” they managed to think, projecting that thought into the supplicant.

Wouldst thou like the taste of butter? A pretty dress? Wouldst thou like to live deliciously? Wouldst thou like to see the world?”*

Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance. Too long you've wandered in winter far from my far-reaching gaze, yet your obeys.”**

Their form swirled like translucent smoke around the child, incorporeal as morning dew. Unseen, unfelt. They sent out tendrils of ethereal nothing, clawing, grasping, reaching. While they did not understand what this being was, or what it wanted, they would use it to regain their former self.

Open your mind, youngling, and allow me to enter in and show you the pathways and forgotten corridors. Give succor to the darkness inside of you and let it nourish you. Be the tumor in the very home of light. Become malignant and beautiful…”

OOC:( *- Line taken from "The VVItch", **- Lines taken from "Phantom of the Opera")
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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He felt haunted. He wandered the city aimless for hours. The city, once bright and pearly white, now felt a strange shade of grey. Once full of joy and sound, the city felt muted and empty. He had left behind his escort and guard at the royal apartments. He had nothing to fear here, in the city he was destined to rule. He often walked the city, memorizing the streets and alleyways, the faces of the bakers, masons, and carpenters; he tasted the fruit vendors wares, bought clay pots earnestly peddled by widowed grandmothers. He knew this city. At least, that’s what he had thought. Now, the morning light seemed to cast shadows from buildings he’d seen all his life that felt utterly alien to him. The air was cold and stale. It was summer, it should not be cold and stale, it should warm and lively. The world seemed to have turned upside down. He found his way to the Great Library. Somehow this place felt more real, more corporeal than the rest of the city. Whatever solace, closure, or answer he sought would be found there. He strode through the halls, moving on swift quiet feet. He didn’t want to be disturbed; he knew exactly where he was going. He had not been to that corner of the library in years, had not written his thoughts and dreams since he was a child. It was time to recommence an old custom.

---

The world is a strange place. It is full of wander and colors, full of visions of loveliness. Yet, at the same time, it is a place full of shadows and darkness, full of bleak hopelessness and cold weariness. Yet it is all real. Dreams though, dreams I was taught were just the mind’s way of expressing things we could not process in a wakened state. Dreams were not real. Yet, yet they are. They are real. Imagination is real, inspiration is real, fears are real. They all need strength of will and perseverance to bring them into the fullness of reality. Dreams are the same. But what are dreams? Are they our hidden desires? Our repressed fears? Are they images of another world and plane of existence? Can we walk in
our dreams the way we walk under the golden light of the sun? Can we see others in our dreams? Could we recognize them if we did? I have had a dream that makes me question everything I once knew and understood about dreams. I am in awe and in horror at it. There was something awesome at the heart of it. And I use that word in the older way, meaning something both wonderous and terrifying at once. I cannot find another word to describe it. I do not remember everything about this dream. Much of it has spilled from my head like sand slipping through fingers. I write here and now, hoping to catch a few grains and see if I can construct a meaning out of all this.

I went to sleep late last night. I go to sleep late much more often than I did before. My father, the king, has granted me more and more responsibility, telling me that I must learn how to rule by ruling. He is not old as of yet, but his years are beginning to lengthen. His shade seems to lengthen each day in the light of the noon day sun. He often looks northward, nostalgia perhaps for days long gone? I have not seen my mother in nearly a full cycle of the moon. She closets herself high in the White Tower. I cannot tell what she does there. She will not tell me. I fear the light in her eyes sometimes.

My dream last night, I was climbing through the streets as I do once in a while, speaking to vendors and merchants of all sorts, from far away Khand to Pelargir and Dol Amroth. I was about to buy something called a pitaya when he appeared. A man dressed all in black who cast a shadow that stretched in all the wrong directions. When I saw him, the entire world melted away. The busy streets suddenly became completely empty, devoid of the cacophony of the market. The absence of sound felt so loud in my ears. How is that possible, that a lack of sound should feel so painful and deafening? I knew I should fear him. I knew there was something wrong about him. I could not see his face, only his deep ocean blue eyes. They sparkled like distant stars.

“Won’t you have tea with me?” he asked.

I didn’t want to. But I did. I wanted tea with this man. My feet moved of their own accord. I followed him through the empty streets. They were alien to me. We walked through parts of the city I have never seen, never even heard of. Minas Tirith is so vast. I was soon lost, bewildered, and panicked. Yet the Man in Black (why did I capitalize that?) never wavered, never turned around, never spoke to me.

Until we came to a manse in the first circle. The style of the building. I can’t remember most of it, I can’t remember the words to describe it. It was large, dark, full of shadows, but strangely full of bright white light. I do not understand the dichotomy of it all. The house was impossibly large on the inside. How was that possible?

Once we reached a room with golden sunlight placed on the walls. He was still robed in black and all I could see were his eyes. I saw spiders crawling in the corners of the walls. I do not like spiders. I wanted to look away, wanted to run and hide from them. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay. I wanted to have tea with him.

“Pour the tea, Eldarion,” he said.

But there was no tea to pour.

“Pour the tea.”

Still, there was no tea.

“Pour. The. Tea.”

I looked down the final time and lo, a cast iron tea pot was sitting in the middle of the table. I reached for it, wanted to do as he bade me do, to pour the tea. I reached and reach and reached but I could not touch the tea pot.

Then I awoke.

What does this all mean? What was that place? Who was that man? Why did I want to pour the tea so badly, so badly that I would have done anything to do it?

Was it real? I hope to see him again. But it was a dream. Dreams... dreams are real, but how real are they?

Eldarion
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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The prince walked absently through the cold stone streets of Minas Tirith. He had been to the library quite recently, and his feet knew the way. It was this way with any destination in the city: Eldarion had walked among the people since he had been a boy, and he knew every nook and cranny of the city he would someday rule. “Know the people and know the place, and you will keep their faith,” his father always reminded him. Ever dutiful, Eldarion had done just that. So it was that he could make his way to the library only half-seeing the people and half-hearing the words they hurled at him. They were kind words, words of reverence and respect, yet today they rang hollow in his ears. He gave a slight wave or a nod as he passed, but he said nothing. He had to focus. He had something to write down, and it would not do to forget the details.

* * *

It has been a week since the dream I last recorded here, and I had another strange dream last night. This time, I was standing at the city gate, holding my horse’s reins and gazing out across the Pelennor. The sun had just begun to set. The fields were vast, barren, and dry: the lush green grasses I know so well were brittle and brown, the roads cracked and overrun with creeping weeds. Osgiliath, a crumbling ruin, stood out bone-white against the line of the river. As the sun sank just below the mountains behind me, a burst of light flared across the plain, and the grass seemed momentarily to be aflame. I wondered if the lands remembered the fights and fires that had ravaged them not so long ago. It was a sad thought and a lonely sight.

I was bound out of the city on a hunt. Not the noisy, social affairs that Gondorian royalty usually join. Instead, I hunted alone - no dogs, no companions, no heralds with flags snapping in the wind. Just me and my horse, and my quarry far afield. What that quarry was, I could not say, but I knew where it lay hidden. How did I know this? I’m not quite sure where the notion came from, but my dream-self was as sure of it as I am that I am the heir to the throne. It was simply predestined.

The ride was long and slow. Dust flew from my horse’s hooves as she trotted across the waste of the Pelennor. Far off, a cluster of trees rose from the horizon; it was there we were bound. As night fell, the mountains’ shadows reached ever longer like grasping, greedy hands to seize me in their unlight. Run as my horse might, she could not outpace them. Darkness enveloped us, but no stars came out. Something had scared the moon out of the sky, too. In their place, a pale green light rose from the land itself, illuminating the nightly mists rolling across the ever-narrowing space between myself and the trees. Besides my horse’s now-slow footfalls, the only noises were the rustling of leaves and the distant hooting of an owl. They were lonely sounds.

We reached the edge of the woods. The trees were all birches, judging by the ghostly hue of their bark. My horse refused to walk in among them. As I dismounted, I heard a voice whisper,

“Seven stars and seven stones
And one white tree.”

But here were many white trees. Were any of them descendants of Nimloth? I wondered. No, no. Nimloth was no birch. These were pale imitations. I walked into their midst and remembered why I was here: for a hunt. I went back to my horse and retrieved my bow and quiver. The moment I reentered the grove, I heard another whisper.

“Eldarion.”

Sometimes, when my dreams turn dark, I wish I could wake and return to the world of light and sun and safety. This has happened since I was a child. In these moments I know, somehow, that I am dreaming, and I know that things will be better when I open my eyes. When I heard that whisper, my conscious thought cried out, “Awake! Awaken!” Nothing emerged from among the trees, but I was gripped with cold dread nonetheless. My heart began to race, and I longed to close my eyes and reopen them onto the waking world. But I could not look away from the trees, and I could not turn to flee. All I could do was stare, unblinking, at the trees and the blank voids between them.

A cool wind blew over me. The leaves rustled, and two red eyes appeared where before there had been only darkness. Suddenly, I could move again, so I stepped forward. The eyes blinked slowly, contemplating me, then receded into darkness. My quarry was getting away. “No!” I cried, and stumbled onward amidst the trees. I caught fleeting glimpses of the eyes several more times as I raced deeper into the wood, and then I heard a woman laugh.

“Who’s there?” Even in my dream, I was ashamed that my voice cracked with fright.

A tall woman all in black stepped out from the trees. Dark as it was, I could not make out the color of her eyes, but they were not red. Where had she come from? We were deep in the woods now. There were no houses here - no villages for miles and miles. And where had my quarry gone? The woman walked toward me. The eerie green light rising off the ground caught the rubies she wore on her ears, and she smiled. She had a beautiful smile.

She raised her hand and touched my cheek. At her touch, I felt as if I had plunged through ice into the coldest waters of the north. At the same time, I felt as if I was being burned alive. Somehow, though, I did not scream. To my surprise, I enjoyed the feeling of burning and freezing. An odd stasis settled over me, and I looked into the woman’s eyes. I could see them now: they were grey.

The woman withdrew her hand and turned to walk away. Because I wanted to feel that strange duality of extremes again, I pursued her. She melted into the shadows before I could find her again, though, and then suddenly I was standing on the edge of the woods next to my horse once more. Then I awoke, covered in sweat and tears.

This dream was so different from the dream with the man in black. However, some things were the same: both dreams were more vivid than any other dream I can remember. In both dreams, I chanced to meet someone I’d like to meet again, even though they have given me no real reason to desire this. Why would I wish to see someone who appeared to me in the ruins of my kingdom? That is what I saw before I saw the woman last night. I have no idea what to think. I wonder if dreams become stranger as you grow older. I would ask my parents if it didn’t sound like such a foolish question. I shall content myself with hoping I see the man or the woman again.


Eldarion
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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The listlessness had increased. Often he awoke and felt more tired than when he had gone to sleep. He would watch the clouds and the sun as it strove through the sky each day. But the clouds were formless and grey, and the sun was bereft of warmth. These dreams, these dreams had begun to change him. He went to sleep dreading what they might be and awoke in the darkness before sunrise disappointed that he had not been visited again. What was to be made of these dreams? What was to be made of the people in them? The Man in Black? The Grey-Eyed Lady? Who were they? Were they citizens of his realm? Echoes of a long-forgotten past? Premonitions of a possible future? They were not simply dreaming, he refused to believe that. If they had just been dreams then he would have told his tutors, his father, his mother. Yet he had told no one but that book in the Library. What were they? Who were they? He wanted to know. Needed to know. The days following these two dreams had been a long, frantic, and hidden search. He looked through a thousand images of people from the past, artist renditions of the kings and queens of Númenor, of Arnor and Gondor, of the Edain and they who were before the Edain. Yet no faces looked to match those he’d seen. Those faces were so etched in his mind that no amount of daydreaming would dispel them. He took to drawing them, the Man in Black with his deep ocean blue eyes, sinister countenance, dark words, and the Grey-Eyed Lady with her fiery touch, her lithe form, and her seductive voice. He wanted to find them. Needed to find them. They knew something. They were going to tell him something important. Why, then, had they not come to him in nearly three weeks? Why had he been left in dreadful anticipation?

---

I dreamed of him again. The Man in Black. Yet, this time when I came to his house, all shadows and eerie light, I was not welcomed inside. I had found my way there on my own, drifting through the empty folds of streets and alleys and corners. I found the house, I recognized it like I recognize my own name. Yet he would not allow me entry. I became frantic, despondent. Why, why would he come to me in dreams again yet not speak with me? If he had found me unworthy of him, of the tea, then why was I here now? I knocked upon the door, yet I was not greeted as I should be. I am the future king, yet I am denied entrance?

Then a woman appeared behind me. She was wrapped in shadows. Her eyes were his eyes. Yet she was not him. But she was. I cannot explain it with accurate words. This woman that appeared behind me, tall and lithe with talons like an eagle, was the Man in Black. How was this possible? I did not understand, but I knew it to be true so I accepted this new revelation.

“Come with me,” her voice was slow and seductive, rich with power. That power drew me to her. I followed her.

We went to a new place within the walls of the city. I followed her for so long that I could no longer tell which circle we had entered when we finally arrived. It was not a magnificent mansion. It was no house at all. It was a door into the side of the mountain. Shadows poured out of that door like smoke. I did not want to enter. But she went through, bold and unafraid. I was shamed. If this was truly to be my kingdom, I must show no fear of any place within.

“Come with me,” I heard her voice echo in my mind as much as I heard it with my ears. She was ahead of me and all around me. Of course, I would come with her. Of course. She had such things to show me.

“Are you ready to see the truth?” She asked.

We had come to a large room within the shadow ensconced tunnel. There was a light coming from above. It was not the sun. It was stronger, filled with more energy. I saw what it illuminated.

A book. Huge and bound with human skin. I should have been repelled and repulsed, but I was not. I was not horrified or disgusted. I simply accepted it. She stood in front of me, behind to book so I could have a clear view of it. She pointed to it and lo, the pages began to open and fly by me.

“The truth...” my voice was sluggish and slow, as if I were speaking through a mouthful of honey. “What is... the truth?”

She smiled, the Woman in Black, but said no more words to me.

I looked down to the book once more. The pages had stopped turning. On the page was a picture of me. And was noted “King Eldarion.”

But what of it, I wanted to ask. Of course, I would be king. It was my destiny, my birthright. This was not some mysterious truth; this was simply fact. Then I looked closer. The eyes were not mine, one was grey and the other blue.

“Will you sit with me now?”

Then I awoke, before I could sit and learn from this woman. I must find this book. I must learn the great truth it had to show me.


Eldarion
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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“Is that the prince?”

“Yes.”

“He looks older. When did he last tour the city?”

“The prince looks so very tired. Do all the cares of the realm already sit upon his shoulders?”

These whispers and more dogged Eldarion’s next trip to the library. It had been only a week since his last dream of the Man in Black - or was it the Woman in Black now? He could not say. The night prior, the Grey-Eyed Lady had visited him again. He had started awake, taking deep, shuddering breaths, just as rosy-fingered dawn crept over the city. He had not been able to drift off to sleep after that, and so he made his way toward the library at the hour when most were preparing their daily toils.

* * *

The Grey-Eyed Lady comes to me a week after the Man in Black. That is, she does if two instances of the same thing are enough to add up to a pattern. I have to admit that I blush to write this dream down. Doubtless there are those in this city who would be shocked to learn what I am about to reveal. But who among us can be faulted for their dreams? Especially if they are prophetic in some way? We cannot be held responsible for the things we dream. They are only dreams: substantive as smoke on the wind. It may seem that, in writing them down, I give them body and life, but I merely wish to untangle the cascade of thoughts that follows each of these strange visions. Why is this happening to me? Are these dreams prophetic? If so, what do they prophesy? I awake from these dreams with more questions than ever. I cannot deny that I enjoy them, but the pleasure is fleeting and confined to my dreaming hours. My days are filled with wondering and worry. This latest dream has filled me with a strange guilt that I cannot quite explain - not for what I did, but for what I did not do.

In last night’s dream, I sat alone in my chamber, looking down upon the city below me. I heard a soft knock upon the door and went to answer it. Before me stood my mother, dressed in black and red. Sorrow was etched into every line of her dear, beautiful face.

“Mother,” I said, a thousand questions upon my tongue. “What . . . ?”

Wordlessly, she moved past me and into my room. She sat upon the chair beside my bed and rested her forehead in her hands. In my youth, she would sit in that chair and read to me, my father standing proudly behind her. Together, they raised and educated a future king. I know that I was once but a dream for them: an unlikely seed of hope planted in days long past and before the fall of the shadow. All of it, of course, became real thanks to my mother's impossible choice.

“Mother,” I repeated, turning to look upon her. I was startled to see that she was dressed all in black now. A dark veil now fell over her face. I went to her and knelt before her. “What is the matter? What has happened?”

The voice that answered was not my mother’s. Mother’s voice is low and slow and solemn; this voice was light and sweet with forbidden honey. When I heard that voice, a shiver of fire and ice went down my spine and I knew, in that moment, that it was the Grey-Eyed Lady.

“Your father is dead,” she said. “Will you mourn him?”

I stood and stepped back. Dead? How? When? Why? All these deceptively simple questions flew through my mind. My heart began to race, and I returned to the window to breathe in the fresh air. Osgiliath glinted in the distance, and the city was vibrant beneath me. Unlike the last time I’d come across this woman, the Pelennor was lush and green as usual. I stood there for a long time, and old memories of my father seemed to pass before my eyes. He should not be dead. He could not be dead. This woman, whoever she was, was lying. She was wrong. She had made her way into my chamber to fill my head with lies. Rage rose in me.

I turned to confront her and was startled to see that she had moved silently to stand behind me. She wore no veil now. Her hair fell, as it had before, in shining loose curls about her lovely face. I looked into those eyes, and then she took my hand. She placed it upon her waist and drew close to me, so close that I could feel the heat of her flesh. Was this an invitation to dance? I found that all the steps to all the dances I’d ever learned had vanished from my memory. All I knew was her, her eyes, and that voice.

“Will you mourn him?” she asked again. I heard a mocking note in her voice this time. I found her gown had become a flowing robe, and I held the end of its silken belt in my hand. She laughed and spun away, and her robe unwound and fell to the ground. She returned to me and kissed me before I could object.

“Mourn him with me,” she insisted, and I could not say no.


Eldarion
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Balrog
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He wasn’t interested in court. He wasn’t interested in the feast. He wasn’t interested in the speeches his father and his courtiers gave or the applause of the people. Everything was boring, gray, and tasteless. Today was yet another celebration of the defeat of Sauron, a day of reflection, jubilation, and happiness. Yet all he felt was tired, short-tempered, and combative. All these people wearing bright colors with streamer trailing behind them, sparkling fireworks, and cheery smiles made him want to tear his hair out. He couldn’t find the source of his agitation, rather he did not want to find the source of his agitation. He left the feast early, before his mother had given him leave. She would be upset at his lack of decorum, at his lack of propriety and genteelness. He drained his cup, the wine going to his head, and found himself wandering the streets once more. No one paid him any mind, everyone too focused on one of a dozen celebrations taking place in the city. His feet lead him, once again, to the imposing doors of the library. He sighed. He had battled with himself the entire length of his path. Should he keep coming here and recording his dreams? What if someone should find his writing? What would happen? Would he feel shame for what he experienced in his dreams? Who could blame him for seeking color in dreams when the waking world was so full of muted, drab colors? He craved the excitement, the ecstasy, of his dreams and those that inhabited them.

---

I saw him against last night, the Man in Black. How long has it been since I saw him? I was alone in the throne room, watching the moonlight filter down on the ancient seat of my forefathers. It seemed so large, larger than when I was a child and thought it would swallow me whole. It cast a long shadow on the walls. It looked like the monsters I used to draw when I didn’t want to listen to my tutors. They never scared me when I was younger, but something in those shapes scared me that night. I ran, but the hall stretched and stretched and refused to allow me to leave. I couldn’t run, as if I were trying to move through quicksand.

“Take me hand.” It was the Man in Black. He appeared above me, floating, hung on nothing. Again, I could see nothing of his face save his deep ocean blue eyes. This was the third time I’d seen them, but they were no less mesmerizing. They radiated strength, trust, and stability. I could have stared into those eyes for hours. “Take my hand.” He said again. He reached out to me. I took his hand and found myself floating with him. I could move again. He’d rescued me from the monstrous shapes of my youth.

He beckoned me forward and flew out the window. I followed. I had never flown before, but I flew in the dream as though I had been doing it all my life. I was so overwhelmed with a sense of freedom, leaving the earth and all its problems behind me.

“They do not deserve you, Eldarion.” His voice was rumbling thunder, hypnotic and ominous. “You are beyond them and they know it.”

I asked him what he meant, tried to reach out and touch him, but he was always just out of reach, my fingers only able to brush the hem of his midnight shrouded cloak. “They are small minded, mere reptiles following atavistic instincts. They are two dimensional shapes that cannot conceive of objects alien to them. They will reject you. They rejected me.”

No. That was impossible. Who could reject the Man in Black? No matter how dangerous he was no matter how terrifying he made me feel, I never wanted to be anywhere but his side. He was beautiful and dreadful, yet his allure was so strong. My words fail me now as I try to describe him, yet I must keep trying, I must express how much I wanted him, needed him.

I asked him who he was, and who had rejected him.

“I am that is.”

He touched my cheek. His fingers were covered in frost. It burned, but I felt something stir within me at that touch. I did not pull away. He took me to the top of Mount Mindolluin and we surveyed all that we could see.

“All this will be yours. Will you take it? Will you reap the rewards? I would give it all to you. Call on me, Eldarion, call on the dark.”

I felt something, I did not understand the stirrings within me before. I had been taught that such stirrings had been a sign of depravity and malignance. My tutors told me that purity of spirit, thought, and body were of the utmost importance. I was told that tales of Beren and Lúthien of Tuor and Idril were the greatest examples of love and were the only examples worthy of following. But, there on the mountain, crowned in wispy cloud, I knew that they were wrong. I kissed the Man in Black and he did not pull away. I felt his darkness enwrap me; I felt the shivering cold of his bare skin on mine. I did not shrink away. I touched his shoulders, his neck, his chest and filled myself with the icy doom. I feared he would consume me with his gelid hands, yet I felt as if I were on fire.

He returned me to the throne room and we both stood before the seat of my future power. He cast a much longer shadow than the throne, the monsters of my youth, the ill-gotten lessons melted like morning dew. He cast away the shadows like the light of the morning star. He was terrible and wonderful to behold.


Eldarion
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Falaneth
(with Tarawen)

At a sturdy oak desk hidden in a dimly-lit corner, Falaneth sat bent over a large tome and a sheaf of parchment. A well of ink sat on a raised shelf to prevent careless hands from spilling a tide of black liquid over delicate manuscripts and historic texts. Her quill scritched and scratched across the parchment and the world around her faded until there was only herself, the book, the parchment. Arriving before her shift began allowed her the time to bury herself in this task, letting it absorb every fiber of her being. The quiet space lulled the whirring cycle of her thoughts to a slow crawl, focusing on this one thing soothed her that chased off the raw emotions she held inside.

She copied from the book, word for word, taking them in with her eyes and setting them down with fingers, quill and ink. The words were vaguely familiar, having read the book once cover to cover before, but she wanted to search them for more. For something she had missed. Once she finished her duplication, she would have the luxury of being able to pore over it as long as she liked in search of something to set her mind at ease. To know what lay beyond the dark veil of death. She wanted answers to all the infinite unknowns and the crux of them was why. Why, why, why. The word wandered in a ceaseless circle, wrapping around and around her heart and mind. Why did this have to happen? Why did he die? Why could such a tragedy be considered a Gift? What exactly happened to a Man’s fëa upon death?

When the distant tolling of the bell sounded the hour and the start of her shift, she shuffled her parchment into a neat pile, gathered her things and slid the book shut. The spine read Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth or The Debate of Finrod and Andreth. Finrod claimed that death was not a curse, and death and shadow were not the same, yet it felt so to her. It would take hours of study to untangle the words and their meaning and still, she knew she may be no closer to understanding. It was time to put it aside for now and lose herself in the tedium of sorting, shelving and stacking.

With the large leather-bound book in her arms held like a shield against her chest that seemed to accentuate her small stature, she waded through the maze of aisles. Her footsteps were silent, practiced over years of padding around the scholars who despised disruptions, even the slightest sounds. After a particularly cantankerous old man threatened to have her sacked for sneezing too loud, she had learned how to move through her favourite haunt like a ghost. At times, she wished she could disappear from sight if only to escape the pitying or scornful looks that some still sent her way. There was one now from an unfriendly middle-aged woman who frequented the Military section.

Falaneth clutched the book tighter, turned her gaze away, and skirted down the nearest aisle in order to avoid her scrutiny. Halfway down, she stopped and stared at the books’ titles without really reading them. She just needed a moment to herself and she’d be ready to move along, return her book where it belonged and start her work.

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Tarawen
(with Falaneth)

Tarawen stopped outside the library. She glanced down at the slip of paper in her hands, then lifted her gaze to the imposing structure before her. Sprawling stairs, massive columns, and doors meant to secure the city’s treasured tomes against the elements . . . it all made her wonder how the city’s very bones might guard more stereotypical treasures like gold and jewels. She had not had reason to visit any such place, and this was the first time she’d approached the library. Amdirthir had promised to serve as her tutor as well as her employer, and she’d proven ready to advance to her next lessons.

She ascended the steps and pulled open one of the great doors. A nearly-palpable silence from within met the bustle of the streets and the Marketplace behind her and nearly beat it back. As Tarawen stepped over the threshold and let the door swing shut behind her, she felt herself enveloped in the stillness. She inhaled the cool dry air and, along with it, the musty scent of old parchment. It was a strange and utterly man-made place filled with men’s words and tales and books, a stark contrast to the mountainside woods of the north. Still, she found that her breathing slowed and her shoulders relaxed in the blessed quiet. Light streamed through long, thin windows and flickered from candles and torches; all of these drove back the shadows that gathered between shelves, but could not beat back the darkness which accompanied the stillness of the library.

Tara smiled when her eyes fell on the snoozing librarian. A sleeping man would not be of much help in guiding her toward the books she sought, but she did not wish to disturb him. He looked peaceful and happy dreaming whatever dream had visited him this afternoon. Dust motes floated serenely in the light falling from a nearby window, and she passed through them to wander through the maze of shelves.

Even as a girl growing up in the city, she had never set foot in the library. Now that she was here, she wished she’d entered the place sooner. Very little about Minas Tirith was quiet. Even after nightfall, people drank and stumbled through the streets, shouting and laughing. This was the first place she’d found even a hint of the peaceful silence she’d taken for granted in her past life. She had indeed begun to think of it as her past life - seasons had changed since she’d returned to the city, and she had even begun to make something of a life for herself here. She had a job, family with whom to visit, and even a new friend or two. Still, she often craved but rarely found true solitude. Perhaps she could find it here more regularly. Maybe she would show Walpurga the library sometime soon.

She made her way slowly, pausing every now and then to pull a book from its shelf and flick through it. There was something satisfying in the weight of the books: supple leather covers and crackling parchment pages alike made her smile all over again. None of them matched the book she was seeking, though. She turned left, then right, then right again, and found herself looking along a row of shelves at a young woman (Falaneth). The woman was the first person she’d come across in her wanderings, and she had to admit that it might be better to ask for help than to wander aimlessly forever, much as she was enjoying herself. There were more books here than she’d be able to search through in a week, let alone by the time Amdirthir expected her back.

“Excuse me,” she whispered as she approached. “Do you know this library well? I’m afraid I’m a bit out of my depth, and I could use some help.” She held out the slip of parchment on which Amdirthir had shakily scrawled out the title of the book she was to read: True Flight. She considered her boldness for a moment, and blushed.

“I’m sorry. I hope I’m not interrupting you,” she went on, having noticed the book wrapped in the woman’s arms. “But if you’ve got time, I’d be very grateful for your help.”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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Falaneth
(with Tarawen)

Falaneth ran her fingers over the leather spines. Some were soft and fresh, others were cracked and creased with age and use and a few were coated in a thick layer of dust. She breathed them in, the scent of crinkled, decaying parchment and vellum, the smell of comfort. Absently, she straightened the volumes so they were flush and clean in one smooth line, a habitual motion she repeated many times a day. Her fingers came away with a film of grey powder she wiped on her dress where the smudges blended in with the pale fabric. Looking at the books, she wondered whether the authors had known their work would be forgotten and neglected one day, left to sit on a shelf untouched for years. And were they all doomed to fade away to nothing? Sometimes, she thought she even felt herself falling away from the world…

“Excuse me.” A quiet murmur rocked her from her reverie, snatching her from the grim edge that was always waiting to fold her into its embrace, back into reality. Here she was, in the library, surrounded by towering shelves of books and memories and other people, many of whom she would like to avoid. Especially the ones who looked at her with thinly-veiled sympathy or needling looks that pricked at her regret, or maybe worse, the ones with the inane questions who asked for help finding ‘that green book with a tree on it’ or the one with ‘five hundred’ in the name as if she somehow had the entire library catalog memorized down to individual covers and titles.

The woman who approached had none of those looks. She simply looked lost. Falaneth did not recognize her as a regular patron and she certainly looked out of her depth, just as she said. “Yes, it’s fine, I can help…” She whispered back, shifting her book and parchments awkwardly into the crook of one arm so she could take the slip of parchment in her other hand. “True Flight,” she mused. If only everyone came in with such useful pieces of information, her job would be so much easier. The title was not familiar-- it could be about anything from birds or bats to butterflies or a hundred other things. But here was a problem with a straightforward solution, one she could easily solve, and she found a certain satisfaction in that. Not to mention helping would be a good excuse if anyone questioned Falaneth's tardiness, which she was well on her way to achieving.

“If you follow me, I’ll check our registry and pin down where it is for you.” She held out the note to its owner and gestured for her to follow along. “Can you tell me what it’s about? It will make it a bit easier for me to find and it’ll speed things up if you’re in a hurry.” Pausing in her steps, she gave the shelves a second glance and actually read the spines this time before she gave Tarawen a curious look. “Um...unless you expected to find it under maritime expeditions and seafaring navigation? In which case, you’re in the right place already...” The woman didn’t look like a sailor, but then, Falaneth knew very little of mariners or ships or the sea at all even though she had been born near its shores. She supposed it was possible that True Flight could have something to do with ship-building or sailing and perhaps she had been too quick to assume the woman was quite as off-course as she seemed.

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Tarawen
(with Falaneth)

The woman had a distant look in her eyes, which was soon replaced by a keen but not unkind gaze. She seemed to have been startled by Tarawen’s approach, and suddenly it dawned on Tara that she had interrupted a moment of private reflection. She knew what it was to search for peace and finally find it; had their positions been exchanged, she would have taken even longer to respond - and probably not so politely. She bit her lip, wishing she could take back the words she’d uttered and retreat amongst the shelves, but it was too late: whether from kindness or duty, the woman took the proffered parchment from Tarawen’s hand and read it over before Tarawen could flee the scene.

Tara watched the woman while she scanned the book title. She looked close to her own age, but there was a depth in her glance which made her look somehow older - as if she were world-weary and sad. Perhaps she was simply annoyed at being interrupted. The more Tarawen thought about it, the more she realized she had presumed quite a lot in asking a stranger for help. Why had she thought this woman was working here? Or would even want to help her? Perhaps it was the sight of another woman in a place, strict and silent, usually reserved for men. Still, she had jumped to conclusions many times before in her life, and this was no different. She felt her face grow warm with an embarrassed flush, and she shifted slightly from foot to foot with unease. She had just begun to utter the words “I’m sorry” when the woman spoke again. Whether she was a librarian or a scholar or merely a lover of books, she knew her way around the place. Tara took back the little slip of parchment and began to follow along. When her guide stopped, she did so, too.

“I’m afraid it’s got nothing to do with sea voyages. It’s a pity that I didn’t find my way to the right section on my own!” she said softly, turning to inspect the books around them more closely. A large tome bound in black leather caught her eye, and she pulled it off the shelf to take a look. The front cover was embossed with tiny stars and its title: Celestial Navigation. She replaced it hastily on the shelf and smiled sheepishly.

“This actually would be quite an instructive section of the library for me, as I know almost nothing about traveling on water. But I’m working at a fletcher’s, not on a ship, and the book I’m looking for is about arrows.”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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Falaneth
(with Tarawen)

Falaneth did not normally converse much with patrons, or indeed anyone, outside of what was necessary. It was strangely somewhat refreshing, and a little nerve-wracking, to speak to another young woman among the shelves frequently populated by old, whiskered men. It helped that they had not yet descended to small talk or false niceties (at least as far as she could tell).

“It’s all right.” She shook her head slightly. “I’ve worked here for years and I still don’t know where everything is. It would take a lifetime or more to even come close to mastering this place.”

While she idly straightened a few books, from the corner of her eye, she saw Tarawen remove one and looked up in time to see her slide Celestial Navigation back into place. It seemed the woman had a spark of curiosity about the things she did not know about the world, a trait that Falaneth shared and found in far too few people, even scholars with their inflated egos and narrow fields of study who put down those with ideas that were slightly out of the ordinary.

Just mentioning the sea reminded her of promises made and broken, of the summer evening when the sun hung in the sky long past suppertime, when she and Tandarion had agreed to take a ship from Harlond to visit the shore one day. One day that would never come. There was no time or space to dwell on the ceaseless grief that tainted everything in her life now. She managed to push it deep down in the place where it would hover until she had time alone to set it free.

Somehow, she forced a steadiness into her voice as she told Tara, “I don’t know anything about sea voyages, either. I can place that one on reserve for you if you’d like to come back sometime to read it when you’re not busy with your fletching. Go ahead and take it if you like.” A faint smile crossed her lips before it faded once more. “You might find there are plenty of ways to lose track of time around here…I am running a bit late today. Come along and I'll help you.”

Fueled by the mission to find Tarawen’s book, Falaneth led her through the maze of shelves past the private study rooms. When they reached the main desk, Falaneth circled around it, heaved her book down and tucked her scrolls beside it. A calmness came with centering her focus on one thing and it brought out a quiet confidence in her.

“Now then, let’s see about finding your book. If there’s anything you’re looking for, from fletching to Celestial Navigation, you can find it here.” With a hint of pride, she gestured her arms around at the shelves filled with large tomes that served as indices for the library’s catalog. “As long as it’s been properly catalogued,” she continued, as she scanned for the right volume and retrieved it. Flipping it open, she bent over the desk until she landed on the title True Flight and its location under Weaponry, Archery, Bowyery and fletching. She fetched a scrap of parchment and quill and scribbled down where it could be found. “Do you need some assistance finding your way?” she offered, not wanting to assume though rather suspecting the woman would appreciate it.

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Tarawen
(with Falaneth)

A lifetime amongst the books . . . Tara’s mouth nearly fell open at the thought of spending one’s whole life amongst not trees and mountains, but towering shelves and crinkling paper. More than anything, it was with a sense of amazement that she contemplated all the knowledge and all the stories written upon the millions of pages in the thousands of books in this library. A life of study had never called to her, but she thought she could see its appeal. Could you lose yourself in a book the way she lost herself in the woods? Could you find the same sense of calm and peace and wonder?

Perhaps, and perhaps not. Maybe it was only among certain sections that one found solace. At her mention of the sea, she sensed that something was amiss for her companion. Perhaps the woman feared the open water? Or maybe she’d had a bad experience near the coast? Perhaps her ancestors had been victims of the wars with the Corsairs of Umbar, and she bore an old grudge for the treacherous pirates and the whale-road which bore them north to Gondor. Whatever it was, Tarawen did not ask. First meetings with strangers sometimes went well if you shared your whole life story (her meeting with Walpurga had proved that well enough!), but not always - and this tangibly quiet space between the bookshelves was not the place for freely sharing stories.

“Oh, I’m not that keen,” Tara admitted, hoping that her indifference to the sea might assuage whatever concern or sadness she’d seen pass over the woman’s face. “The cover looked pretty, and I’m an admirer of the night sky, but I have no journeys planned by water. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be the one steering the ship.” She was pleased to see a smile cross the woman’s lips, even for the briefest of moments. “Oh, I am sorry to keep you!” she apologized, realizing that she was probably holding up important scholarly work in the library. Despite the lateness of the hour, her new acquaintance seemed willing to help, and so Tara followed obediently through the rows of books.

She marveled at the massive stock of books which served simply as a catalog of the other books that filled the enormous space. Never before had she seen this many books in one place. All the books she had seen in her life combined probably would not equal the count of tomes in this index, come to think of it. She marveled still further at the speed with which her helper pinpointed the book she was looking for. Still more wondrous was the offer to guide Tarawen through the shelves again to find her book. “That would be amazing,” she whispered, not realizing her surprise had muted her voice. “Thank you. I’m Tarawen, by the way. What’s your name? And,” she smiled, “please do tell me how you’ve come to know the inside of this library so well. Do you work here?”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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@Lailsheenbo
(Continued from here)
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Strawberry
(disguised as a boy)

After taking the little slip of paper, Strawberry had swiftly vanished from sight, knowing full-well that her hair was far too noticeable. But she couldn't do much about it, or so she thought. Having never heard of dying one's hair, it never entered her mind to try and change the color of it. Instead, all she could do was conceal it the best she could, being unwilling to cut it, even if it was a pain to get the tangles out at times. Soon after parting from the crooked guard, she had located another hat to replace the one he had ruined, and thus completed her disguise once more.

Now, it was the evening following her encounter with the guard. She had, in this time, found a reasonably safe place to stash her goods. The slip of paper was stashed with them. She had no idea what it might say, and didn't trust anyone around here enough to ask them to read it for her. She could only hope it wasn't anything important. She'd had to ask someone for directions to the library, but now here she stood, looking up at the enormous structure. Why did they need such a huge place for books? She did not understand. Being unable to read, she just could not quite place much value on books, and it seemed silly to her to have such a large place just for keeping them in.

Stepping inside, she felt horribly out of place. This was most definitely not a place for her. There was a feeling in the air of the place, pressing upon her the feeling that she must be ultimately quiet here. She was good at quiet, of course. But the feeling that someone would throw her out if she made the least little noise.. it was quite uncomfortable. If she stayed here too long, she may even begin to feel smothered by it. Shaking her head slightly to try and dispel such thoughts, the thief ventured forward, glancing around warily. She paused to examine a large book on a pedestal, wondering if it might be some sort of valuable display piece. Studying it for a second, she shook her head slightly and moved on. It looked like something for people to write in, but she didn't really know what it might be about.

A soft noise to one side made her spin around toward the sound, one hand instinctively going for the place where her main dagger would normally be. A second later, she relaxed. It was just some old guy, snoring quietly. Strawberry looked around carefully, taking a slow, deep breath. She felt very uneasy here, and it was made worse by the thought that she could be going into a trap. Which was exactly why she planned to scope it out and watch. But to have to stay here all those hours... that was going to be tough. Sighing softly under her breath, she wandered down a few of the nearby aisle, feeling a bit lost as she searched in vain for some sort of room like the guard had mentioned. Maybe she'd have to wake up that sleeping guy to ask for help, but she really hated to do that. With any luck, maybe she'd come across them on her own, and there wouldn't be too many of them.

(tagging Falaneth the librarian for help :) )
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

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Falaneth
(with Tarawen)

Falaneth simply nodded once, listening respectfully, while the young woman explained she had no immediate plans to sail at sea nor learn to navigate by the stars. The idea of it fascinated Falaneth, using faint glimmers of light to chart a course across open water, and part of her already wondered what she might learn from the briefly-glimpsed book. The same curiosity did not seem to touch Tarawen and the woman easily brushed aside the book and its contents. Perhaps the two women were quite different but in that moment, Falaneth felt a small brush of admiration for her. Here was someone who knew what she wanted and focused on it, at least to Falaneth. For so long now, she felt like a leaf upon the wind, meandering this way and that, searching for somewhere safe to settle. The library was the only place where she felt any true sense of calm anymore. Even her home, so often her sanctuary, was riddled with choking memories and sinking regrets.

“Tarawen.” She repeated her name, knowing it was a good method to help her recall it later, and steadied her gaze on the woman’s face. Tarawen the Fletcher. It was a neat and orderly way to file the information in her mind. “I’m Falaneth,” she introduced herself. “Yes, I’ve worked here for a few years now.” The library was such an inherent part of her identity like the seams of her dress, it gave her shape and form and held her together in one piece, that she had forgotten a stranger would not know.

“I started my job here before the War,” she added, somewhat cautiously. In her mind, it was a fact, a telling of the time and nothing more, but she knew mentioning it could be dangerous, bringing shattering sorrow down on some people. To think her reticence was a generous attempt to spare Tarawen’s feelings was a misconstrual. Rather, she simply did not want to feel obligated to comfort someone from the pain.

Like everyone else, Falaneth’s life was split between the time before the War and after it. Despite giving up her studies at the College when grim reality set in, Falaneth felt somehow detached from those memories. Countless dark days had been filled with horror and fear and so many had been lost, it was insurmountable. The recent grief that struck touched her more closely than any war and it was hers alone to battle and bear.

Hoping to flow past the distressful topic, she scrambled for something else to say. “I spend a lot of free time here, too.” She glanced down at the slip of parchment that would guide their steps and recalled the reason for Tarawen’s visit. “Although I don’t know anything about fletching. For all the time I’ve spent here, I can’t say I’ve done much reading on Weaponry.” If Tarawen was a fletcher, then she must also be an archer. Genuinely curious, Falaneth asked the first question that sprang to mind. “What drew you to become interested in fletching? Are you an archer?”

---

Falaneth
(with Strawberry @Purrmonster of Doom)

The young woman paced down the aisle with a slightly unsteady gait. She was weighed down with a satchel full of books that thumped against one hip with every step. Releasing a soft sigh, she readjusted the strap that dug into her shoulder but the relief was short-lived. Half-way down the aisle, Falaneth paused to lean her back against a shelf, easing the strain somewhat. Lugging books was a daily task that did not normally trouble her, but at the noon-meal that day, she had stared at her food and stirred it around her plate, unable to muster an appetite.

Now her stomach was an empty pit and her limbs felt weak and wiry and she wished she’d at least nibbled something. Her eyes felt leaden and heavy and she closed her eyes, letting the darkness swallow her sight. She almost felt like she could fall asleep standing up yet she knew when she got home and laid her head to rest, she would struggle to find her way to sleep.

There was work to be done, always something to find or mend, and these were the tasks that kept her going. Pushing away from the shelf, Falaneth stood up straight and felt the strain on her back anew. Rubbing her eyes, she willed herself to move, knowing she must look ghostly pale with shadows beneath her blue eyes. Her colleagues had murmured about it more than once. At least they had the decency to look abashed when they discovered they had been overheard.

The boy caught her eye when she passed. For some reason, he seemed out of place, like a misshelved book she was adept at spotting with a passing glance. Just last week, a manuscript had been ruined by a boy his age with a hidden sweet roll and sticky fingers. The memory of disrespect was still fresh, so she decided to approach to circumvent any kind of damage she had come to expect from the youthful.

“Do you need some help finding something?” she asked softly, attempting a patient, neutral tone.

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