Truly, there was no more collection of yore that was vaster than those found in Imladris! To this Indralas had submitted defeat, even as he had boisterously claimed his knowledge would remain unsurpassed by all his peers here, in the valley where no shadows lie.
Indeed, even as he had greeted the hauntingly quiet library – no words were exchanged in the greeting, of course, nothing but a nod of recognition – there were nothing that could deter him in the endeavour to categorize, arrange, submerge and feast upon every cover, every leaf, every parchment, every book.
Much to his chagrin, he could not set upon his task hoping that he was the first to prey upon the collection. Elves were seated on chairs, their attention drifting; some sharp, some absent. One thing remained abundantly certain: Indralas was not alone, and he could not dare dance his way through the bookshelves, knowing he would lose his composure in the silent space that filled the room, from one end to the other.
“Quieten your voice, friend, lest it burst into cacophony,” a voice demurred, Indralas turning his gaze to look upon the fair elleth addressing him. Garbed in a simple robe, her words could scant have been more welcoming. “Worry thou not, if you desire to speak. The library may be quiet still, but voices in common exchange are not frowned upon. I am Enuerwen. I do not recognize your face. Who are you, and what brings you here?” she asked, her tone polite.
Indralas’ reply was equally cordial and sharp, though mindful of his volume. “And my name is Indralas! I am astounded as to how you perceive I desired to announce to all nearby that my presence was come. Indeed, am I new to the house of Elrond, and I have come for the sole purpose of acquainting it!”
Enuerwen smiled knowingly, as if familiar by the manner of his reply. “You are not the first to come here with that in mind, Indralas, and an easy task it was to deduce it, judging from the now-stilled wanderlust on your face! Take heart in knowing these libraries are vast, and they should slake any thirst of knowledge you might have, humble or grand in its potency,” said Enuerwen.
She promptly left Indralas to his own, though his feet were not stayed for long, for the yearning within him were what had seen him across half of Eriador. Indeed, as he traced the backs of the books upon the shelves, his heart flourished with unabashed love. Nothing was fairer than that described in words – not any vista made possible from high above, nor the deepest of valleys in all their splendour. No sight he had himself beheld could ever do justice when put to words by a writer, for he did not master words.
Eventually, he tempered his passion, and extracted a book from the shelf. Upon its front, it read: Accounts of a March-Warden; memoirs and thoughts. It did not contain much in terms of knowledge of a time long past, nor any sketches from which one could forge weaponry or fetch bows, or anything that a scholar would make use of in current days.
No, there was no interest could one have to unveil what lay within save for ones own morbid curiosity.
Long indeed did Indralas find rest within the library there, but until the evening tolled, and the concert of voices that was heard from below stirred something he did not predict would resurface for some time: a desire for company. Thus, he returned the book to its place amongst the wide array of literature, and set forth towards the hall.
