Date: June 1st, 3017 T.A. Time: Late Morning. Location: Archives, Minas Tirith, Gondor

Of the many levels of Minas Tirith, one that only a privileged few get to see are the Archives. A wondrous library of knowledge from ages past dating back the Second Age. Many scholars who come to Gondor hope to come within its hallowed halls.

Light falls through thin windows of white stone with dust dancing in the beams with every gentle breath or movement. Each wall lined with shelves of books, scrolls, tomes, and more all carefully bound. Their vellum pages filled with lore of old. Battles long found, won, lost, but never forgotten. More shelves fill the expansive room and halls, each containing more knowledge than any one man may read in a lifetime. Some small writing desks and chairs are scattered about, most worn from their lack of use over the years. Dust settles upon the older books, scrolls, and tomes untouched as years pass and the defenses of Gondor need continued strength.

One area in particular however is pristine in its appearance and care. Even as days pass and dust slowly gathers to consume the sitting area along with its fellow. A careful hand and cloth come to ensure it remains a distant memory. Sitting in the plush chair, the cushion now wearing down with use after so many years, is a young man fully engrossed with an old tome. His gray eyes scan over the slowly fading ink with care, as if merely reading it might make fade away. Each word he collects like precious gems, learning more of the past and how to better the future with what he learns.

A lock of dark hair falls loose from behind his ear to momentarily block his vision, to which he absently pushes back once more. Barely making a mental note of trimming it down a little before it gets too long, or to let it grow just long enough that he might be able to tie it back. The thought amuses him as he considers this, if his brother were to see him with longer hair and his playful teasing. Of how it is obvious when he has come from the archives due to how he keeps his hair back a certain way so it does not interfere with his reading.

Just the other day Boromir was here with him, searching the many shelves for any helpful information of past battles concerning rivers, how to keep the Orcs back and from crossing the bridge. Time and time again they've managed to keep the horde of Orcs at bay. Keeping their city and Middle Earth safe, or at least safer. Orcs still slip through other ways while the battle continues just on their doorstep.

A low deep sigh falls from Faramir's lips. If knowledge and wisdom were all that was needed to keep his people safe, he would have thrown open the doors and brought all the soldiers in. His rangers too and any who might be able to lend a hand, or willingness to learn. But for now, Faramir's company is small. Save for the thousands upon thousands of pages he would never be able to read in his lifetime.

Besides himself, a few soldiers or rangers, even occasionally his brother, only a few scholars and others with permission enter in to read. The sound of footsteps occasionally pass by before setting either into a spot to stand and read or sitting at a desk with the sound of gentle writing. Lore-masters and scribes still frequent the Archives, though there are fewer now since his father's reign as Steward. So he's been told by one of the oldest of scribes who looks fondly back on older days. At times Faramir has dreamed of what it wold have been like, to live in those times when lore and song were more sought over instead of blade and shield. In coming here he finds solace in the records past amidst battle and scorn. Where he also may hope to someday find something to further help protect his people.