All That Is Practical

Part 2

Lerin completely ignored me. Apparently long reports about absolutely nothing important is more interesting than an enlightening conversation with me. It suffices to say that my plans were forced to change and I left with hurt pride. As such, my journey to find the cure to my boredom of this particular day continued. Though reading is enjoyable, when I am not in the mood, it can be dull. Dullness is not something I wish to associate with my favorite past time.

The sky outside is still cloudless. Boromir's whereabouts are currently unknown to me. Several options of how to amuse myself came to mind –all of them involved counting. That is why I am now playing a solitary game of count the shelves in the library. It is not a very fun game –I am so far at forty-six. The shelves run in rows, and are actually ten smaller shelves placed side by side and back to back. So, the number of shelves there are can be calculated mathematically, but that would not take long and I would simply become bored again. Of course, counting them is not proving to be exciting –it is similar to the instance when I decided to count the amount of marble tiles in the throne room when no one was there. I make a mental note that next time, I will count the number of steps in the library. All of these things are absolutely pointless and serve no purpose.

I was finishing at sixty when I noticed a light near the tables. There were not many people that ventured this far into the library. The people that do normally find the books they need and bring them to the front, where there is an adequate amount of light to read and enough people so you do not feel alone. It can also be a bit uncomfortable in the deeper sections of the library because many of the older books are located here and have to be preserved. As such, I decided to investigate. When I came closer to the tables, I saw piles of books and parchment and a pointy hat sitting on top of one stack. Smoke rises from behind one of the piles. Parchment scatters the floor and I see that there are more stacks of books surrounding the table. Most of the light seems to be coming from something on top of a long, wooden staff. It is quite an odd sight.

A sudden "harrumph," magnified with small echoes, causes me to jump a little. I move closer and I see that there is an old man with his face currently buried in a book. The only visible part of him is his long, white hair and his long, white beard. I come out from behind the shelves and he seems to finally notice me when I step closer.

"Humph, it is not polite to disturb a busy old man engrossed in his work, especially when said work is long, tedious and dull. It is even ruder to sneak up on him. And why are you hiding behind the shelves? What is a child such as you doing in these parts of the library anyways? "

I freeze in shock. When I finally recover, I reply "well, I did not know you were there, the library is quite deserted, and I spend a lot of my free time in the library."

"Free time? Is that so…" he laughs and as I stare in utter bafflement an unbidden "eh?" escapes from my lips. This, apparently, only serves to make him laugh harder. So I wait for him to finish laughing. I notice that the smoke is coming from a strange-looking object that he is holding in his right hand.

"Come closer, what is your name?" he asks. Although I cannot see his eyes clearly, I am certain that they are twinkling.

"Faramir, and may I ask your name?"

The old man gives a sigh, "so polite, so polite. Very well, I will tell you if you wish it." He pauses for a moment before saying, "Many are my names in many countries. Mithrandir among the Elves, Tharkûn to the Dwarves; Olórin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten, in the South Incánus, in the North Gandalf; to the East I go not."

The nannies that took care of me always said that if I met someone that acted oddly, I should leave as quickly as possible –unless they or my father was around, or if it was a member of the court. Father had said that they had spoken wisely and I should listen to what they tell me. Judging by the tattered gray old robes this man was wearing, I figured he was no one of any importance, and even if I offended him I would not be in any trouble. His behavior warranted suspicion and anyone with that many names was definitely odd. I make to leave the area when he calls out, "so you are Denethor's second, hmm?"

It is not likely that any one would attempt to hurt me in a library, to my knowledge, since there were some people on the other side, and I figured that I was a safe running distance away -so I answer "yes." When there is nothing in reply, I flee from that section of the library.


Father is normally busy at this time, so I am surprised to see him in our family suite playing solitary chess. I am still small and young enough to climb into his lap without anyone saying anything, and I do just that. Ever since Mother passed away, I tended to things like this more than I used to and Father does not seem to mind. Boromir says that he is too old to do such childish things.

I tried playing chess once and I was not very good at it. Father says that if I observe, I will learn, and my ability to play chess will improve. If I practice, I will gain experience. But I do not want to play, so I watch his game, and I know that he is trying to teach me. There is a glass of wine next to him and I pick it up to sniff it. I do not understand why the adults like it so much –it tastes weird and it burns when it goes down my throat. Father tells me that it is a developed taste.

Our family can be pretty silent since Mother left, except for Boromir and me, he likes to talk and I like to talk, so I am normally the one that responds to his stories. When neither of us can find anything to say –the family discussion turns quiet, and that happens sometimes. But Father does not seem to mind.

"Faramir."

"Hmm?" I notice that the game is not finished.

"It is almost time for supper." It is getting darker as the sun sets and Father sets me down on the floor and goes to light some candles.

"Oh."

"I invited a guest to supper today," he says after lighting a second candle.

"Who? Is it someone I know?"

"No, but I do think that you will find him interesting," his back is now turned to me. "You do not need to change your clothes; it is not a formal dinner. Just be prepared when the bells ring."

"I will." With that, I leave.

The sunset is always a pretty sight and when I am doing nothing at that moment, I like to go to one of the balconies near the Steward's personal dining room. Because I am too short to peer over the top of the railing, I sit cross-legged down on the balcony and look over Minas Tirith through the space in between the bars of stone. Sometimes I just lay down to stare at the sky, but the floor is hard and it hurts my back when I lay there for too long.

Another thing that I love about sunset is the weather. It gets cooler and the air becomes… more crisp and fresh. I like that feeling.

I watch as the sky goes from pink to a violet color. It is hard to describe the sunset because there are so many colors at once –yellow, blue, orange, pink, and violet. The bells begin to toll –a deep, resonating sound that can be heard through the city. It is a nice sound when I am far away from the bells, but the closer I am to them, the more it hurts my ears. From where I am now, the bells are painfully close and I head inside right away. As I enter the dining room I gasp, because there stands the old man with many names.

There is an awkward silence for a while. Then, to my great joy, Boromir enters. My elder brother turns and greets old-man-with-many-names saying, "you must be our father's guest. Hello, I am Boromir and this is my brother Faramir." He bows a little and I give one too. Then it occurs to me that my brother is acting very much like an adult –not like the Boromir I knew. But it was probably only for the moment. We sit at the table and Boromir and Mithrandir, as Boromir calls him, make small talk, leaving me to watch in confusion.

Denethor enters and we all rise. When we are seated again, the servants bring in the meal. I focus on my food for most of supper because the topic of conversation is one that I do not understand. But that is alright, because the food is delicious. I love roast chicken. The other side dishes were all some of my favorites too.

When the meal was finished, Denethor and Mithrandir continue to talk while Boromir and I remained silent. Boromir is refraining from childish acts at the table. I poke at whatever is left of my meal and hide in the excuse of my youth. That is, until Denethor says, "I am sure that Faramir will be glad to be your aid as you make your search through the library."

I quickly glance up to shift between looking at my father and Mithrandir. Gray beard begins to laugh; I do not know what is so funny.

Boromir is giving me a smug smile. It disappears, however, with Denethor's next words –"Boromir will be accompanying me in a meeting for most of the day tomorrow."

My brother visibly blanches and I smile and Mithrandir chuckles. My job has suddenly become much easier and the desert before me has regained its charm.


"Lerin is the librarian, if you are looking for something, then why do you not ask him?" it was a reasonable question.

"Any fool would know that," he says in an irritated manner. "It has apparently occurred to you that I would just blindly wander into this vast collection of books without inquiring as to how the library is divided. I have already asked him. He pointed out which sections I might consider searching in, but even he does not know what I am looking for. I expect much of the information I seek is not collected in a book or volume, meaning that we will be searching through sheets of parchment."

"Oh," after a moment I continue, "what are we looking for?"

"I will be looking for it and you will serve as my scribe. If I need anything, like a cup of water, you will go and fetch it, if I need more parchment you will go to the front and retrieve it. In fact, if I need anything done at all, you may count on performing it."

Denethor has assigned me to be this old man's scribe, errand runner, and servant. It is an indescribable feeling.

What feels like hours later, Mithrandir finally calls for a break. My eyes feel like they will pop out from my head and I do not think that I have retained the ability to think straight. In some way, I feel that I am thinking in numbers. Copying tax and trade reports will do that to a person. My fingers are stiff and my nose feels funny.

Mithrandir leans back in his chair and looks at me. Feeling that this is an awkward moment I tell him, "My history teacher says that it is bad to that."

"It is bad to do what?" he asks.

"It is bad to lean back in your chair," I explain. "You might fall and hurt yourself."

"Bah, what does your teacher know? I have leaned in plenty of chairs and I have not fallen and I do believe that I am old enough to make my own decisions."

"Denethor says it is bad posture."

He moves his head left and then right as if he is looking for something. "You and I are the only ones here. The only person that will see my poor posture is you, and you seem to know that it is bad habit. At least you know not to do it." There is a hint of finality in his tone, but I want to talk.

"But why risk falling? It is painful and embarrassing."

"What is life without risk?" his chair now rests on four legs as he looks at me.

"A good life," I answer. I look at him, and he looks at me. Then he gives that laugh again. I decide to say nothing. Our conversation ends there.

I continue to copy some more information –random tidbits here and there until Lerin comes to tell us that it is now time for the afternoon meal.

"Faramir." I look up and Mithrandir continues, "have you ever spent time down in the lower levels?"

"No."

"Hmm," he says and then there is a long silence. "Come with me." He grabs me by the hand and quite literally drags me along with him.

(To Be Continued)

Quote taken from "The Two Towers" page 655

Author's Note: As of Sunday night I have had fifty-three hits and one review. Not bad, not bad. Either my writing is so terrible it doesn't deserve a comment, it is so good that there is nothing to say and no room for improvement(…highly, highly doubtful), or it is so average that there's nothing to say (which doesn't make sense). Or maybe it's because this piece is too short… the writing portion of my brain is finally getting the exercise it needs.

Constructive criticism is my friend. I am sure that the world is populated with smart people with opinions and something to say.