Librarian of Tirion

Paul Bettany in A Knight’s Tale

 ”He has always preferred that,” Rúmil shrugged his shoulder, “he prefers a distance, some sort of obstacle that cannot be overcome easily. He says it is more inspiring than the relationship already consummated save in special circumstances. I suppose you could say he’s … hmm… masochistic in a certain manner? Thank goodness his niece isn’t like that.”

If Elemmire Snr had passed on his tendency for self-flagellation in his work to Elemmire Jnr, Rúmil might have ridden to Taniquetil personally to box both their ears. Thankfully Elemmire Jnr preferred consummation over longing.

Even in half her work wound up in the age restricted section of libraries or wound up heavily censored by various collectors.

He ran a finger down a straying piece of his own silver hair and found a blue ink stain in it, sighing to himself in dismay. He really needed to secure his hair better when writing. He was sure he was going to find a corresponding blue stain on his collar given where the hair had been straggling. He untied his hair ribbon so he could recollect all his hair together at the nape of his neck. Of course a few strands promptly escaped and so he gave up on a lost cause.

Parmion’s recitation rolled over him and his lips curled back into a careful smile again. That was so like Elemmire. So ridiculously like Elemmire. He could see his old friend observing Parmion, admiring Parmion, then sitting down and luxuriating in the memory of all of his encounters with Parmion until the words simply rolled off the glass quill that the Vanyar preferred.

He lifted grey eyes to his friend, watching as the other loremaster unwove his hair from its ribbon. There was a splotch of blue low among the strands and the librarian could not help but smile gently. Absent-minded as ever, was Rúmil. “You should wear your hair down,” he noted warmly. “It so very suits the lines of your face.”

But he felt himself flush a bit as Rúmil reacted to his declaimed few lines of old poesy, and dropped his eyes again. “Yes, rather much, isn’t it?” he muttered with dry self-deprecation. “Such elegant phrases to be applied to such a dusty twig as myself.”

Parmion sat in the ancient, overstuffed chair in his lower-level study in the great Library. He had considered decamping, retreating for the high, private, tower-room, but a rare fit of indolence won out. There was a glass of shimmering amber-colored liquor, a specialty of the Teleri, at his elbow; and a bound codex open upon his narrow lap.

He’d have to be careful, what with the wine at lunch.

He looked at the book and tried to wind himself back to the time it had been written, humming under his breath as he savoured the drink, “it might be one to one of his former students,” he said at last, “he wrote a couple to those. Of either sex.”

He leaned back, crossing his long legs in a loose half-sprawl and regarding Rúmil with a little smile. “Adoration poems, mm? But adoration is not quite love!” He shook his head sharply, thin locks of silver hair falling across his forehead with the motion. “Adoration implies a certain distance between the writer and his subject, and the poems seem to confirm it. He longs for them, longs for a deeper connection, but never quite finds it. He boasts of his happiness, while there is a hollowness beneath.”

Parmion sat in the ancient, overstuffed chair in his lower-level study in the great Library. He had considered decamping, retreating for the high, private, tower-room, but a rare fit of indolence won out. There was a glass of shimmering amber-colored liquor, a specialty of the Teleri, at his elbow; and a bound codex open upon his narrow lap.

He made his way to the small lower study and knocked lightly before testing the door, finding it opened for him. Inside he limped, noting the ache in his left knee which meant they were due for rain and smiled to see the book he was questing for. 

And the librarian reading it.

Grunting vaguely, he reached out with one lanky leg and shoved a pile of papers from off the room’s only other decently comfortable chair. Nothing too important; merely notes, superseded now by later versions. He could always gather them up and catalog them later in their proper order among his personal archive.

"Sit your bony old arse down, be at your ease," he invited, reaching to pour another glass of the Telerin liquor and hand it to the other scholar. He glanced down at the book then, and smiled lightly.

[ text: Parmion] My friend I am … speechless

[ text: Parmion] it is good to see the sedentary lifestyle of a scholar has not affected your gut like it has mine

[ text: Parmion] nor was I expecting to see your erect endowment

❣ - hands

❤ - voice

۵ - feet

❦ - lips

ø - eyes

ღ - nose

♮ - body type

♫ - singing voice

✮ - sleeping habits

✉ - texting habits

✿ - laugh

✍ - writing style

⌨ - time-wasting habits

❅ - keeping warm/keeping cool techniques

✎ - taste in music/literature

☤ - self care/first aid habits

✪ - favourite food/eating habits

☁ - ideal holiday

✄ - nervous habits

☂ - sadness