For the tolkien_weekly "Comb" challenge.
All day, beneath pale sunlight falling from the library's high windows, he combs through history, pares away the past. Parmandil the archivist staggers under piles of scrolls, brings box after box of parchments. Until, as hope fades along with the light, a tattered fragment – the script late Second Age, or early Third – no seal; but the signature...
"It is precious to me, though I buy it with great pain..." The wizard shakes his head slowly, sadly.
No time even to see how Faramir fares, now. Our darkest fear is proven true, and with all speed I must to the North.
Parmandil, the archivist of Minas Tirith - his name means 'devoted to books' - first appeared in my story After Such Knowledge, of which this drabble is basically a snapshot.