Words of wisdom

Pelargir: Library - Great Gallery

Surrounding the central stair stands an imposing panoply of tall shelves, stretching out in concentric rings like ripples in a pool each of these pale, age-stained sentinels bears a wealth of knowledge stored in black-bound codices. Threadbare carpet, once a rich blue, radiates out from the central stair and balcony through breaks in the encircling shelves, leading toward the outer edge of the gallery, where honeycombed lattices store the most ancient of ancient knowledge in fragile and crumbling scrolls.

Though well-enough lit by dozens of small, smokeless lamps, kept shielded and well away from the combustible scrolls and codices, nevertheless a feeling of oppressive darkness settles over this place the great gilded dome of the library soars above, lost in the utter blackness of night, leaving the Gallery sombre and quiet. Tables and chairs are placed around the edges of the great chamber, and even at this hour some have occupants reverently thumbing through massive leatherbound books of lore.

Obvious exits:

Stair

Evening is here, and in the streets outside the river mists curl their way between buildings, thin fingers reaching up to veil the lanterns. Within the library the lamps are lit too, dispelling some of the damp, but somehow the vast chamber seems no brighter than the plaza outside. Shadows dance and flicker against the walls as a figure passes before one of the lamps. An odd figure for Gondor, surely? Thin-framed and clad in a robe the hue of bleached sand, with a head of close-cropped dark hair that is currently bent to read the tags upon a row of scrolls. The hand that reaches out to lift one is thin, brown and ink-stained.

[Menelglir(#17324)]

"You can read Sindarin?" a young man's voice asks in the Common Tongue just as the Southron's hand reaches toward a scroll. Tis Menelglir, sitting at a desk, hefty tome of history laid open before him. The Squire's blue tunic is not, for once, covered in blood, ale, mead, rum, dirt or straw.

The southern knowledge-seeker's hand pauses, and he swallows quickly, his adam's apple bobbing. There is a moment's silence whilst he regains his composure, and then he turns his head to regard Menelglir with a bright, birdlike gaze. "I have some knowledge of the letters," he says haughtily, looking down his long nose at the soldier. Which, of course, is a long way short of an affirmative.

[Menelglir(#17324)] "That, of course, is surprising. How did you come by such knowledge?" Menelglir asks, though he is friendly about it. "I myself struggle with it. Though the more recent lores are in Westron, of course."

The young southron, Barzhil, blinks slowly at the question, and turns his head so that his sharp features are cast into haughty relief. Dropping the tag he'd been holding, he steeples his fingers together before answering in confident and clear Westron, "I am a scribe and a copyist, and as such I have encountered a number of different letter forms. Other scripts lack the beauty and lyricism of the Haradaic, of course." Dusting his hands off, he moves away from the shelf he'd been standing by - perhaps he isn't so interested in Sindarin after all. "More recent lores," he repeats slowly. "Where are those? Perhaps I shall acquaint myself with them."

[Menelglir(#17324)]

"In here," Menelglir says, gesturing to the tome he is reading. Which is old and dusty, even so. "This is scribed in Westron. So.." he considers the man, "a scribe? What do scribes do among the Haradhrim? I had not known you...you would have men of letters. Tis surprising."

A moment's pause. "I am Menelglir Telpekhor, Blue Squire of the Order of the Swan."

The young southron peers distastefully down at Menelglir, then gathers the skirts of his robes and moves a little closer so that he can fix sharp eyes on the text. "A scribe," he repeats. "I write letters, draw up inventories and accounts, and when necessary copy archival material. Is it so rare amongst the Men of Gondor to read and write?" He pauses, and then thin lips purse. "Of course, I had forgotten. Amongst those of Gondor are no slaves to attend to the menial tasks."

[Menelglir(#17324)]

"Of course we have no slaves," Menelglir snaps, his attempt at friendliness erased by this reply. "We are civilized. We do not enslave others. Certainly we have men and women who do menial tasks, but they are paid for their efforts, not enslaved. And not enslaved, even if they are free, by subservience to horror and evil."

Barzhil clears his throat slightly, and presses the tips of his fingers together as he replies, his reedy tenor kept carefully pleasant this time. "Men are slaves to many things. To custom, to desire, to incorrect beliefs. To," he pauses, looking round the room, "a system that is crumbling, ripe for reform. In Harad, we are fortunate to have recognized our true place in this world, and a true Power to serve. I pity your kind sometimes that they know so little of it. Perhaps one day they will be free to learn."

[Menelglir(#17324)]

"We are free to learn, scribe," Menelglir says, voice gone cold. "More free than you and your kin will ever be. Our eyes are open. Fully so. You...and your countrymen. I pity you. You are deceived." He closes the tome heavily, a puff of dust coming from the paegs. And leaves his hand on the book coer.

Barzhil blinks once more, lips slightly pursed. When he responds it is again in the pleasant, even tone. "In what, pray, are we deceived? In the nobility of Umbar's founders? In its purpose, to thrive and flourish? Or is it our Gods you fear? Make no mistake, Man of Gondor, the Eye is real." For a moment his tone is colder than Menelglir's. "As all the world will find out, in time. It is not we who grovel at the feet of a leader who is mere servant."

[Menelglir(#17324)]

"In the one I will not name. I do not say he is not real. I say you are deceived in serving him. And Gondor will never. Ever. Bend our knee to that fiend. Better death." He pushes the book to the other side of the desk, and stands up. "Go on believing what you want, Southron. In the end, you will get exactly what you deserve." And on that he turns and storms out angrily.

Barzhil turns stony eyes on the departing Menelglir. "Oh, I do hope so," he murmurs, for the first time giving a thin smile. Then, deliberately, he raises his ink-stained fingers to sketch a shape in the air. "The blessings of the Eye be on you," he utters aloud, the smile intensifying. Then he turns to the discarded tome to see just what it is that a man of Gondor should find so interesting. Settling himself at the desk, he leans back with a satisfied sigh.