[Bêthberry]

The library was not greatly lit after hours. There was a subdued lighting around the main librarians' desks, the computer terminals, the old card catalogue which no one ever searched these days but which maintained a pride of place. Not everything had been transferred over to the electronic system and some day some scholar was going to discover just what significant tomes were encoded on the small cards. That discovery would lead her or him to the quiet spot on the shelves where waited the expectant book, savouring the prospect of discovery in the patient knowledge of the long wait of years.

The main hallways were lit, of course, as well as the central study areas where tables now were bare of any books, laptops, photocopies, day planners. Yet off to the sides, at the very edges of the building, there lay the study carrells, like applicable (not allegorical) reminders of the ancient monks' carrells oh these long years ago. A mumble was heard in the corner where the blue carrells ran up against the yellow carrells. There, the last remnant of comfort remained, signifying a scholarly desmense from years back. Yes, there in the corner were the last upholstered chairs of the library, where someone could seek comfort and ease and curl up with a great book, out of sight of the timeclock which imposed the mintues and hours of every assignment due.

And what to wondering eyes did appear but two figures, heads close, almost closeted in intimate discussion. Around them were piles of books, stacked irregularly. Some books were laid open, their spines split, while others more modestly merely held spots with bookmarks. Yet these tow figures oft referred to the books, pulling open a page and reciting chapter and verse--well, not quite, as these books more tellingly were of letters. It was date and number which were pulled forth for proof and refutation. For that was the business of these two figures, pale in the pale light.

"No one appreciates the letters any more," complained one. Surprisingly, he wore a mohawk hair style. "I tried to nail one discussion the other day by reference to a letter to Rayner Unwin but no one else had read it."

"Ke ke ke ke ke" retorted the other figure.

"Really, it's worse than fangirls gushing without having read the books, let alone the Letters."

"Ignorance."

"Worse than that. Then you've got some who tear the letters to shreds, insisting that Tolkien didn't really mean what he said, that it was all fabricated for the person he was writing to."

"Well, don't ride me. I never suffered fools gladly. And look where it got me."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But it's sad, really. People think the height of the Downs is this Yorkshire new age bloke. They don't arfing realise how scholarly things were once when we really clued in on the historical aspects, the consistency of Middle earth."

The second figure remained silent at this, merely shaking his head.

The two of them sat there, resigned, wondering if anyone would show up this night at the library, or merely fixate on the easy pop culture charicatures of the movies. Surely some night someone would come by to read the books that started it all. They sat there patiently--a characteristic each had learned with some effort--these two, burrahobbit and obloquy--wondering if ever again would the really interesting discussions come to the forefront of Books again. They sat there, so pale that their figures could easily be missed, except that they had chosen this night to present themselves. But wondering too if anyone would ever find them, mired as they were in the lost reaches of the bookshelves, where no scanned online version ever trod and where no one could with a click of a finger copy text.