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The figure, now with his hood removed, strolled around the gleaming white side of the archives and toward the subdued color of the sandstone-built library beside it. It was a less imposing structure, still looming above him but in no way foreboding or ominous, like the shadowy corridors of the Minas Tirith Military Archives. Idruil didn’t doubt that many of the dusty shelves hadn’t seen the hand of any man in years, unnoticed and neglected by all who past them. In some ways Idruil felt that he could identify with those volumes, despite the gnawing fact that they were inanimate objects. Many of them had seen the battles he saw, at least in a sense, and had had their day, read fervently by all in excitement and eagerness. Now they were useless tactical manuals of a forgotten time, nostalgic records of what had been that barely ever saw the light of day. Idruil supposed he wasn’t quite as old as he imagined, still only a little over his prime years, but he couldn’t see a way around his uselessness, unused and unneeded by most.
He wandered into the library, letting fort a heavy sigh which slowly became a yawn. It was still midday, but he was strangely tired. He saw many people milling around, tending to whatever business they wished. Idruil didn’t try to interfere, though he yearned for human interaction. No one in a library would have any solution to his problem. What he needed was that thrill of fiery action that he’d so long ago lost track of. He wanted to feel the cold warmth of a blade in his hand again, swinging mightily and smiting down his foes. Those days were over and the weathered man knew that. He walked around slowly, his feet dragging wearily behind him. The library wasn’t as calm as it usually was when Idruil came here. There were several people, both men and women, bustling around the place conspicuously. They didn’t really stand out, but some of them seemed to be trying too hard to look common. Idruil didn’t care, though. He had no reason to pry into other's affairs.
Despite his cynical and aimless nature, Idruil still enjoyed a good read about those nostalgic glories of long ago. He came to this library whenever he had time and leafed through the ancient volumes until he found something he could drown himself in. It was better than ale or pipe-weed in his opinion, even though a good draught could be very satisfying every now and then. Idruil knew the place well and could navigate its narrow halls with ease. He’d accidentally committed the contents and layout of the place to memory after coming there enough, so he felt at least partially at home in the building. He could walk within it and feel safe and as content as he could be, surrounded by tales of lore and war and things of reverence, some forgotten and some remembered still by Arda’s generations of the Fourth Age.
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