[Kransha]

Idruil wandered the cold, almost completely empty halls. He thought of an old lay he’d heard of the Timeless Halls, the infinite space of the void where Illuvitar himself dwelled. As his footsteps resounded, echoing eerily around the darker corners of the library, Idruil contemplated the nothingness of that far off void, even though he knew there to be many things else he could consider which would be more uplifting. It was a dismal concept, but he had nothing else to think about at the moment. He currently led a rather dismal life, not doing much of anything except wandering the seven levels of the White City and despairing over times past. He expected he must be a very boring and morose person to be around, but he didn’t care about that in the least. He wasn’t around people enough to remember how to interact with them anyway.

The man did not truly know whether it was night or day. The light he saw peeking through the far windows might be moonlight for all he knew. He was in a more windowless and darker section, where those forgotten books dwelled, finding solace only in the few bored readers who strolled by them every decade or so.

Idruil walked slowly, dragging his weary legs, towards one of the shelves. Reaching up, he delicately slid one of the volumes from its position and let it sit for a moment in his arms before he gentle pushed aside the front cover and blew on the first page, sending a gentle spray of dust in front of him. He’d memorized every location and section in the place after his constant visits and knew many of the books. He was an avid reader and enjoyed reading tales, though he didn’t as much enjoy hearing them. He preferred seclusion to publicity, but he would accept it when necessary.

“Of Isildur, son of Elendil,” he read aloud, but in a softer, gentler voice than his usual gruff speaking tone. His voice softened further as he began to skim the frail parchment and the text it bore. It was, as the title stated, of Isildur, the almost legendary King of Arnor and Gondor who cut the mighty One Ring from the very hand of the Dark Lord, centuries upon centuries ago. Idruil knew the tale all to well and did not need to hear it again, even if it truly was his own reading. Glancing momentarily at a formerly detailed sketch of the blade Narsil, now worn to the point where it could no longer be seen by the naked eye, he slammed the book shut and replaced it on the shelf in its place, possibly to be neglected for another decade or more like so many of the library’s forgotten manuscripts and tales.

Idruil’s mind flitted from the gloominess of the Timeless Halls to other contemplations. He could think about Isildur all he wanted to keep himself occupied. He knew a few lays about Elendil’s son and busied himself trying to remember them. After a moment, pulled out the aged book again and pulled it open, this time skipping straight to the middle. He found himself staring at a very dignified looking picture of Isildur himself which stood opposite a sketch of the Argonath.

His half-closed eyes gazing at the images, he began singing quietly what he knew of that old lay, his voice almost sweet and soothing now as it recited the verse in a deep, resonating baritone that traveled only as far as he wished it to. The song began on a calm but stern chord as Idruil let the words and notes flow from within him to the immediate vicinity around him, not audible to anyone more than a few footsteps away in any direction. He closed his eyes fully, almost envisioning his words as they drifted before him in a sea of useless lore.

Isildur, King of men long dead,
Son of Numenor and lost lands.
Upon Gorgoroth your line extinguished,
Fell Elendil, ‘neath Barad-dur.

The hand of darkness by thee rent,
And Sauron’s power from him severed.
To Orodruin, but for naught,
The darkness could not be undone.

He had to struggle briefly with the next section, as it did not come to him immediately. It dawned on him that this recitation was just as gloomy as contemplating empty corridors which he would never sad. He dismissed the pessimistic feeling and continued, with more stable rhythm and rhyme in him. The work of song was not entirely inspiring, but it felt somewhat pleasing to delve for the verse knowledge inside the deeper vaults of his mind and discover forgotten lore which he barely knew had been there before. The feeling was reminiscent of a young man rediscovering his favorite childhood plaything and remembering the enjoyment he’d gotten from it. He droned on melodically, a repressed smile beginning to grace his expression.

Then passed you, son of Elendil,
At Gladden Fields, under orcish blade.
So lost was Numenor’s son, Isildur,
And left a tale behind.

In far off lands you sleep, Isildur,
Thy bane demolished in the fire,
And yet a story dwells within us,
A lay retold for thee, O king.

That wasn’t such a bad note to end on. It at least left some comfort within it to keep his hopes up and his spirits bright. He closed the book on a picture copied from a tapestry which bore a painted image of Isildur cutting the One Ring from Sauron’s hand with the broken blade. He gently caressed the worn cover of the volume before replacing it a second time on the shelf and turning to see what else he could find to do.

He swiveled in place and stopped, gazing out at the seemingly infinite row of shelves, some almost completely untouched. He let a dissapointed sigh slip and wandered, with no set course, along each row of archives. He was, in his own mind, nothing but a forgotten mariner of libraries now, navigating only fiction and nostalgia. The sea he faced was not one of adventure, but one of bored tranquility where his wordly vessel might linger eternally if he could not find some strait to brave, some island to explore, or some oceanic storm to conquer mightily. There had been such storms, but the thunder of them had long died and the grand sound was lost to Idruil. He desired to hear that thunder again, to see the daggers of light piercing a stormy sky and stand in the path of lightning. But that, he despaired, would probably never again occur. The storm had passed Idruil and he feared it would not return.