9
Title: "Finding a Jewel"
Author: Darkover
Rating: K
Disclaimer: The characters of "Lord of the Rings" were created by J.R.R. Tolkien, not by me. I am making no money from this. No copyright infringement is intended. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; I believe the good professor would have understood that, and would not have wanted anyone to sue me.
Characters: Gandalf and Faramir.
Summary: While the wizard is visiting the library at Minas Tirith, he and Faramir meet for the first time.
Dedication: This story is written for Linda Hoyland, as thanks for all the excellent stories she has written that feature Faramir as a character.
~oo0oo~
Minas Tirith has the most extensive library in all of Arda, Gandalf reflected as lit three large beeswax candles, each thick as a man's wrist, in order to read the books and scrolls before him. These may be copies for the most part, unlike the original books and scrolls at Rivendell or Lothlorien, but the Library of the Stewards is by far the most extensive. I had better make good use of my time here; Lord Denethor is not as generous with access as his late father Ecthelion was.
Gandalf turned back to the table and then started almost violently as the candlelight revealed a small boy standing before him, regarding him silently. The boy had been so still that there was no telling how long he had been standing there. Gandalf grabbed at the candelabra to steady it, and the child spoke. "You're not supposed to start a fire in here," he informed the wizard solemnly.
"I did not 'start a fire,' I lit candles," the elderly Istari growled, more annoyed at himself and his own carelessness than at the boy. I have walked through Moria, and been in the Dungeons of the Necromancer—a small Man-child should not startle me so easily! "Candles are allowed."
"They are still dangerous with all this paper around," the boy said. "You almost knocked them over a moment ago."
"Only because you startled me," Gandalf snapped.
The child's blue-gray eyes widened, and his expression grew solemn. "I am sorry I startled you, my lord," he said, sounding genuinely apologetic. "I beg your pardon."
Gandalf made a noise that sounded like "Harrumph!" and then seated himself before the table. He pointedly opened one of the books, but the lad did not seem to get the hint; he remained where he was.
"Do you like to read?" he asked Gandalf with interest. "I like to read, but I am not usually allowed to look at the older and more valuable books such as that one, unless I have permission from Master Mardil, the Chief Librarian, and he says today he is too busy cataloguing today to help me." The boy's expression grew wistful. "I should like to help him, but he says that my handwriting is not yet good enough. I think librarians have a wonderful job, don't you? They spend their lives among books—they must get to read all they want!"
Gandalf looked at boy in exasperation. "Don't you have someone to play with?"
"No, my lord," the child said simply.
Gandalf looked at the boy more closely and realized this little one was speaking the literal truth. The boy was a small figure, not even so tall as a full-grown hobbit. He was slender, with high cheekbones and innocent but intelligent blue-gray eyes. His hair was straight and smooth, if not quite properly combed, and for the first time Gandalf noticed that the child was clad in livery with seven stars and one white tree—a miniature uniform of the Tower Guard. The clothing was well made, and the boy was handsome enough, but there was something about him, a not-quite-cared-for look that tugged at the heartstrings. He really did *not* have anyone to play with, or look after him, or even want to spend time with him, apparently, even though he could hardly have been more than eight years old.
"Sometimes my brother plays with me," the child added softly. "But he is having a sword lesson now. He helps me with my sword practice sometimes, too. I am not so good with weapons. I hate the thought of having to hurt someone," he added, so sadly and plaintively that it smote the wizard's heart.
"Who is your brother?"
"Boromir!" The lad seemed surprised that the wizard did not know this, as if he believed that everyone in the West had heard of his brother. "The Heir of the Steward!"
This is Denethor's son. What is the name of the younger one? Faramir, that's it. Gandalf grunted and pulled out his pipe, then remembered where he was and put it down. "Aren't you an heir of the Steward too, then?"
"My brother is the one who is important, my lord." The child spoke matter-of-factly, without a trace of jealousy or resentment, clearly accepting his own second-rate status. It made Gandalf's heart hurt for him even more. "Boromir will be Steward someday!" The little boy's expression grew animated as he said proudly; "My brother can run faster, fight harder, use a sword, or do *anything* better than anyone!"
Gandalf smiled. "Is he a good brother?"
"Very good, my lord. He has always been my helper and defender, and we play together often." The lad's expression drooped a little. "At least, we used to. Boromir is thirteen now, almost a man grown, and I must not bother him with childish things, Father says."
"I see," Gandalf said, and indeed, he was beginning to. Perhaps because of that, his next words were more abrupt than he intended. "Do not call me 'my lord.' I am a wizard, not a lord."
The boy looked upset. "I have offended you again, Master. I am sorry. I will try to do better!" He sounded unhappy and almost frightened as he said those words, as if he was accustomed to receiving reprimands or punishments, no matter how hard he tried.
"You haven't offended me," the wizard said gruffly, hiding his concern. "Call me Mithrandir."
The boy looked at him with renewed interest. "That means 'Grey Pilgrim' in Sindarin."
"That is so. You know Sindarin? That is quite an achievement for a boy your age, Faramir."
The child's blue-gray eyes widened. "You know my name! You must truly know everything, as Men say you do!"
He seemed so admiring that the wizard chuckled. "Hardly, my lad. If I knew everything, I would not need to come to this library to do research, would I?"
"Is there anything I can help you with?" Faramir asked hopefully. "I can read and write in Sindarin, Quenya, and the Common Tongue. I know a little Adunaic, too."
"Great Elephants, lad, you are talented! And where did a young boy like you learn to read and write so many languages?"
The child lowered his eyes. "My lady mother taught me. The Lady Finduilas. Before she died." Abruptly, he stopped speaking, his expression frightened.
"What is wrong, child?"
The boy actually glanced around, as if fearing someone might overhear. In a rapid whisper, he said; "Father does not allow anyone to talk about her. Sometimes Boromir and I do, when we are alone together, but I should not have mentioned her. I am sorry—you will not tell my father, will you?" The last words were delivered in a pleading tone.
"No." Gandalf put a hand on the boy's shoulder and drew him close. "I will not tell your father, Faramir."
The child's relief was palpable. "Thank you."
Gandalf opened the book on the table before them, and pointed at a passage. "Faramir, can you read this?"
The boy read the passage flawlessly, and then, without being asked, translated it readily into the Common Tongue. Gandalf nodded.
"Do you understand what it means?"
"Yes, Mithrandir. It is an account of how Earendil slew the dragon."
Gandalf smiled down at him. "Well done, lad! So, you would recognize any mention of dragons, their weaknesses, or how to slay them?"
"Yes, Mithrandir."
"Well, then, young Faramir, I believe you can help me. That is the sort of information I need. If I start looking through these books, and you peruse those piles of scrolls over there, I should find the information I need much more quickly." He smiled down at the child, one arm around the slender shoulders. "Are you willing to do that?"
Faramir's face lit up, as if the wizard were doing *him* the favor. "Oh, yes, Mithrandir! Thank you!"
"You are welcome, my lad." The wizard gave the boy's shoulder a brief, gentle squeeze.
As Faramir moved away, eagerly taking up the first of the scrolls, Gandalf gazed at him thoughtfully. This child is one of the brightest, kindest, gentlest, and most perceptive that I have ever encountered among Men, and yet, since the death of his mother, no one here seems to give him more than the most cursory attention and care. I must visit Minas Tirith more often, for Faramir's sake. *Someone* must devote some time to this little jewel.
Faramir, as if feeling the wizard's gaze on him, glanced up and smiled happily at Gandalf. The wizard returned the smile, and they bent their heads to the documents together.
~oo0oo~
Author's Note: This story was inspired by a piece of fan art that I saw once, not too long ago. It showed Gandalf and child-Faramir in a library. In the picture, Gandalf has a book on a table in front of him; the book is open and he is pointing to a passage with one hand, while the other rests on Faramir's shoulder. Faramir, who clearly is still a little boy, is clad in the livery of the Tower Guard of Gondor; he is leaning into the wizard's embrace while also gazing trustingly up at his new mentor. Alas, I do not recall the title of the artwork, or where I saw it, or who made it, although as I recall the name "Raven" was neatly tucked to one side of the artwork. So, Raven, if you are reading this, thank you very much for the inspiration provided by your artwork!