PROMPT NOTES: I present to you: Pengolodh & his Overthinking.

Allusions to 'The Seven Gates', Chapter 13 (The Crows Are Screaming), Chapter 26 (The Gates of Summer) and Chapter 27 (Faith & Fallacies)

THE LAST PAGE

"So," Anardil says, "first week on duty, eh? You have been busy, I hear – and Salgant's backside has every colour of the rainbow now."

"I am certain that you keep more accurate accounts on people's backsides than I do," says Lord – now, Counsellor – Tyelcano and turns a page in his notebook.

I marvel at the leather-work once again. Was it Curufinwë who made it for him, or perhaps Fëanáro himself…?

It would be presumptuous to ask, of course. It is even presumptuous to look – that book appears to be his diary. Briefly, it crosses my mind that it is not a wise decision from his part to showcase, or even admit its existence in front of Anardil. He is my closest friend, and I love him with all my heart; still, I must admit that to him, privacy is a concept impalpable.

"Only on the ones that matter," says Anardil happily. "How about some jam?"

Among masters of lore, there is no convention regarding the level of historicity of events apart from which they can be considered tradition; for tradition is built by various factors, frequency and consistency being but two of many. Still: three weeks have passed since the Gates of Summer, and we have gathered here three times since then. I cannot call it anything else than a ritual now, devoid though it might be of lofty speeches or grand gestures. All we do is break our fast together.

Anardil was the first friend Counsellor Tyelcano had made in this city; and many looked at their liaison in wonder, for they had fought on opposite sides in Alqualondë, and Anardil's ships had found their demise at Losgar. Still, they seem to have grown fond of each other – perhaps because they are both still outsiders in the City, perhaps because they seek peace and absolution for their past, perhaps because they both understand the other's pain. No one knows the true reason, yet I am profoundly glad that there is no enmity between them.

Today, their friendship offers me a chance to thank the Counsellor for having invited us to celebrate the Gates of Summer with him and the King's closest.

Those who deem it difficult to keep account on a council meeting have clearly never tried delivering a simple gift. A token of gratitude must be given at the right moment, using the right words, and with utter sincerity. I have been dreading this moment for days now – thrice I have tried to give my gift already, and thrice Anardil had laughed at me afterwards, for being stiff as –

(And there, he had me truly scandalized, for he found himself torn between three different metaphors, and for a few moments, he would say naught. In the very long moments, during which he was – allegedly – wondering whether a pine-stick would be stiffer than an oaken stick, I got all the wrong ideas in the world. I am afraid that my friend never understood the full extent of my turmoil).

Perhaps Anardil is right, and I am stiff, which we, scholars call sequaciously analytical. This mindset, you understand, is most useful when one has to word the Laws of the Noldor, or perchance to figure out a new shorthand system so passing council members would not try to read their notes above their shoulders. However, when it comes to the giving of gifts, expression of feelings and other everyday interactions, the scholarly mind is about as useful as a wooden sword against a firedrake.

At the present moment, the only thing I can properly do is panic – and our morning feast is almost over. Tyelcano is almost done complaining about slippery stairs and overly large windows – his voice, though, has a fondness to it, and he admits that the last time he felt the need to complain about such things was in Tirion –, and he is drinking the last sips of his tea.

Anardil goes out to have a look on his roses, and suddenly, we are alone in the kitchen (next to the still steaming kettle) and my Scholarly Mind is presented with the thing it dreads the most: a Last Opportunity.

Three weeks have passed since Tarnin Austa. If I truly wish to act, this is the very last moment to do so. My mind knows this; and still, it struggles to form words.

Come on, I tell myself, it is truly not that hard. "Counsellor, please accept this small token of my gratitude for Tarnin Austa. I have had a truly wonderful evening."

Yet what comes out of my stupid scholarly mouth is,

"Erm…"

Counsellor Tyelcano is an epitome of politeness. He glances up at me as if 'erm' was an utterance of sophisticated discussion; as if he could not wait to hear what I have to say.

"I meant to give you this!" My mouth continues the public shaming of my communicational abilities, and my hand wavers, as if the small, leather-bound red book had any significant weight. "As – as a gift. For Tarnin Austa, I mean."

(Manwë, please, strike me with lightning and carry my charred remains to the Halls of Mandos, never to return!)

"…I wanted to thank you – you were kind to invite us. And I noticed that your notebook was full. So I thought you would maybe like another one."

He seems pleased, thank the Valar. His face softens, and his eyes are kind.

He takes my gift.

"You are most welcome," he says, and his voice is sincere. "And this is a very useful gift… although I still have a few pages left in the other book."

"Oh?" I blush. "I thought – forgive me, Counsellor, but the other night, when that discussion about the faulty water pipes trailed on for so very long… Well. You had your book then, and I noticed – well, I certainly did not want to look, but one time, you were closing it, and perhaps the wind might have gotten in it, and I saw the last page from afar… and there was something written onto it. So I thought… forgive me, I did not mean to pry!"

He listens to me no longer; his hands seek his old diary, brows knit in thought as he reveals the last page. And I do not mean to look – believe me, I do not, but he is sitting close to me, and his shoulders are loose, and my stupid scholarly eyes cannot turn away from the hurried, lopsided scrawl on yellowed paper.

When you read this, it says, stop working. Go outside, have a drink, find some rest. If you disobey me, I will know.

- Nelyafinwë

I snatch my eyes away, but I dare not to turn my head. It would be too obvious that I looked, and now I look no longer – on the other hand, it is just as obvious that I have looked already, which means that either way, I am doomed; and all I can save is my dignity.

Counsellor Tyelcano closes the book, stuffs it most unceremoniously in his pocket, and springs to his feet.

"I will treasure your gift," he says, blandly. "Thank Anardil for the tea in my stead, will you?"

I will indeed, my scholarly mind means to say. Good day to you, Counsellor!

"Erm…" I babble; yet it seems that my notorious inaptness with words can no longer harm my reputation today, for he is already gone.

And with inexplicable fervour, my heart aches for him.