PROMPT NOTES: Today's characters would be Tuor, Idril and Eärendil; however, since The Seven Gates takes place way before their story begins, I decided to only use the general theme from the prompt, which would be – hope. With a twist.

This snippet is just Tyel & Anardil talking. Sorry 'bout that, but I love them together.

SHAME

"D'you think we are always going to be ungrateful wretches?"

The air is just as warm and clear as the air of any summer morning should be, Anardil's words are as daringly confident as ever, and the older, quieter Elf who is sitting beside him on the high wall answers with his usual solemnity.

"How would you define an ungrateful wretch?"

Anardil gestures vaguely. "Someone like – someone like you and me."

"You cannot refer to a simile by itself."

"It is a metaphor," says Anardil. "And I meant – do you not even care what I meant?"

"It seems that the answer shall come to me regardless," says Tyelcano. He truly looks like one who belongs to the King's court today, with his conservatively luxurious robes and elaborately braided hair; but that does not deter Anardil from giving him a conspicuous nudge of his elbow.

"That is exactly what I am talking about," he insists. "Anor shines down on us, everything is warm, green and wonderfully alive, yet here we are… moping."

"I am not moping," says Tyelcano with decorum, "I am merely recovering from the ordeals of the Great Council. You have no idea…"

"I do," Anardil snorts. "I did attend one of those when I came here, you know. Almost got executed."

"You should tell me about it sometime," says the Counsellor gently. "I am convinced that the previous twenty-three accounts you have presented me with were barely scratching the surface."

"Well – actually, they were." Anardil's eyes are sincere, his voice suddenly serious. "I do not believe I have ever told you how terrible, yet how natural it was to lie to the Council. I still think about it sometimes… and I do try to get better and accomplish things King Turukáno would approve of – but other times, especially on perfect, quiet mornings like this, I still get all… mopey. And I know for a fact that you are mopey too: you might call it melancholic, or unable to adjust, or even overwhelmed, but it is still the same thing."

"Is that what you would call being an ungrateful wretch? Having things to overcome?"

"That – and refusing to overcome them." Anardil crosses his arms. "I still do it in a way, you know. I feel as if I had somehow no right to get over the things Sauron did to me. As if I did not remain marred for life, that would somehow make my suffering less… heroic? Meaningful? I do not even know it myself. Still – I want to believe that I was tormented for a reason; and a part of me still thinks that if I allowed myself to get over it once and for all, that reason would dissolve."

Tyelcano remains silent for a long time.

"Loud and obnoxious as you are," he says softly, "at times, you astonish me with your insight."

"So – same thing happens to you. Am I right? That is why we are friends. We both understand."

Tyelcano smiles tightly. "No one in Arda or beyond would be able to tell why we are friends, I am afraid."

Anardil keeps kicking the wall with his bare heels. "Y'know, that was an opening for you to talk to me."

"A considerate friend would understand that I respectfully missed the chance, and pry no longer."

"And I am a tactless idiot, so talk to me!"

Tyelcano sighs.

"If you truly must know," he says, "I am frightened."

Anardil blinks in astonishment. "Frightened of what?"

"I am happy here. No: not even that. In more exact terms, it is not my happiness that frightens me, but the extent of it."

"You are frightened of being happy?"

"No; that is a faulty syllogism. I am frightened: this is true. I am happy: this is also true. But the correlation of these two occurrences does not necessarily mean causality…"

"Whatever you say, Lord Wiseacre!" Anardil gestures wildly, as if hoping to stop the influx of mazy words. "So – you would want to mope the rest of this Age away in righteous misery, yet alas! you cannot; for you feel happy. Is that it?"

"Yes and no," Tyelcano sighs, and bows his head. "Turukáno has given me things to do, and for that I cannot be sufficiently grateful. Without aims and duties, my stay here would be unbearably dull and miserable – and what frightens me is not the fact that I am not miserable. I did expect to feel better now that I can work, and that is not something I feel like I should be against. The true reason for my turmoil is… well, everything else. This – this life I am leading right now… it is unlike anything else I have ever known."

Anardil tilts his head. "How so?"

"Well – I have duties, which is familiar; yet I also have a – a life on my own. Aran Finwë's family had always been large, and there were many things to take care of. Fëanáro's house was always full, the City of Tirion always busy, the fortress of Formenos always filled with havoc. The Flight was darkness and pain; and since then, all I had known was unceasing service. More often than not, I would sleep in my chainmail. I was armed at all times. I had to always be ready to ride to battle. I slept in barracks and guard-posts… well, not every night, but quite often. Just like my lords. And now… here, I have an entire free day every week. I wake up with sunlight wafting into my room, and nothing to do but to answer Ecthelion's invitation for dinner, or Laurefindil's insistence that I should spar with him. Other mornings, I break my fast with you, or Turukáno, or someone else, and we have an undisturbed, hearty talk over the table; no guards storm into the room saying that the Enemy is upon us again… no smoking ruins… no Orc-hunts… no threat… no darkness… even my dreams have ceased lately. Yet still, in my heart of hearts, I know that the Enemy's threat is just as great as before, that I am merely enjoying the privilege of a quiet, remote life which is not my own. I hate myself for loving this newfound peace and happiness, and it causes me great shame; and I dread accepting it just as much as I dread parting with it."

"You have no choice but to accept it," says Anardil. "The Gates are closed."

There is a flash in Tyelcano's eyes.

"I know," he mutters. "I know – and still, I wonder…"

The sentence is never finished.