The Library Was Never Silent
rating: +4+x

Silent was the Library,

Only the symphony of crackling wood in the fireplace, blending with the whispered rustle of turning pages by the shelves, was audible—a timeless melody that had become the norm for the library-goers deeply immersed in their studies. The librarians, custodians of wisdom, meticulously tended to the vast repository of books and scrolls. The halls were draped in tranquility, with only the odd footsteps and the gentle descent of quills to break its peace. Yet, amidst this serene haven, burst forth a voice, echoing in the cornucopia. Heads turned, akin to ancient tomes, as all eyes beheld the source of the intrusion.

A well-dressed old man stood urgently seeking assistance, and on his shoulder slumped another. A young man in tattered common clothes stained in ichor, with a mile-long gash crossing his face, wounding both eyes and rendering him Blind. In moments, the once-silent Library occupants had converged to the pair, eager to give their aid; even the librarians had set aside their sacred duties to assist.

Mended with care to their best efforts, the blind man found repose on a bench adorned with whatever fabric and cushioning could be gathered, near the fireplace offering warmth whilst he sleeps. In front of him sat a man in a chair, a royal adviser of a Persian palace named Hazif. Initially in search of old records, he had willingly assumed the temporary role of caretaker for the wounded stranger. Deep in contemplation of a scroll, Hazif saw movement at the corner of his eye—the distinctive writhing of discomfort. Responding to the Blind's strained plea for water, Hazif saw to it. As the last drops touched his lips, he asked of his whereabouts, and of course, Hazif truthfully answered. He also explained that the fellow who carried him into the library had left earlier, as he had other urgencies to carry out. And as the Persian spoke, the Blind gave a gentle touch on his face. Hazif lamented to tell him his loss and gave his condolences. The Blind felt a hand positioned on his shoulder and a short prayer bestowed upon him.

Though veiled by bandages, sorrowful tears still flowed. Then, Hazif's expression shifted as the Blind asked an unusual request.

“Can you read for me?”

Hazif, to a certain extent, was glad that the Blind could not see his perplexed face as he contemplated the reasoning of such a request. But before he could utter a single breath, the blind spoke. He recounted to Hazif his modest roots. Nothing more but a humble farmhand, born with no wealth to his name, a simple uneducated fool in a village whose name no one even cared to put on any map. He took delight in the tales of traveling bards that passed through and even dreamt of traveling and writing, sharing the vast wonders of distant lands. Alas, the child grew up not knowing to read a single word and not seeing his dreams come to fruition. However, he still enjoyed the goings of his day-to-day life.

Until the raging fires of war set his world ablaze.

Even if he had never read anything in his life, what better thing to do when you are in the vastest source of knowledge in existence? Hazif said nothing but gave a light smile to the idea.

Time flew by as the Sanctum echoed with the soft voice of the Persian, while the Blind lay smiling and listening contently. Even after Hazif had left, the bellows never stopped, as another library-goer had taken his place, and then another, and then another. From sweet poetry to lengthy textbooks. Readers of all kinds, from various walks of life, sat and read aloud. From weeks to months and for decades, this went on; no shortage of people came eagerly to share, even some of the librarians had sat and read. For it is now a part of their duties, as the Blind, since entering the Library, had lived his life upholding it's tenets—to share knowledge.

Centuries passed, and now many would join the Blind in listening to others presenting. The halls echoed in laughter, celebration, and banquets of wisdom were laid to feast.

The Library was never silent

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License