The big ship pulled into the harbour at Valinor, spilling Eldar hither and thither almost before it had stilled in its berth…

True to his heritage, Gimli built a palace in the cliffs over looking a river that drained into the sea. From the highest balconies, Legolas and Gimli would sit at night and watch Eärendil cross the sky. Many elves lived and worked about the dwarf’s home, learning metal crafts and such from the grizzled warrior. Though his manner rough, his eyes and wit were keen and the elves had come to love and respect him long ago.

The night wind blew cool and gentle against the walls of Gimli and Legolas’ home, a silence so dear. One could swear they heard the elves sing greetings to the full moon as it rose. That the closest elven city, Tirion was across the valley and an hour’s ride meant little, the moon shimmered upon the sea like mithril in a vein of coal. The black valley, cut by the bright water of a river, on the other side the dark silver-blue Pelorie Mountain range that rose like a protective spine between the plain of Yavanna and the sea.

Bilbo had died first, some hundred and twenty years after attaining the white shores, than Frodo nearly three hundred later. Sam had survived his eternal master by mere moments. Gimli was no immortal, he knew, or should have known, and been ready for the day the Dwarf’s already extended life would end. But how can you prepare for this?

The moon hung low and sombre in the silver-blue sky. The stars he loved so well sparkled softly upon the cloudless velvet arch of heaven. Legolas knew not how long he held Gimli’s body, but dawn was threatening. As the last tear rolled down his cheek, the first rays of the sun lit the wispy clouds that had gathered to greet the day in brilliant reds and golds . . .he managed a smile of remembrance.

The first time he saw the dwarf, he was fighting before the gates of Erebor. Strong and young he had been then, but then he had always been fell to the eyes. Thereafter it had been three-score years ere the day in Imladris had dawned, and they had met again. Angry, full of hate, and yet bound by fate to journey together.

It had been but a drop in his life, a moment between blinks of the eye. And yet, he had wished for naught but to keep it going forever. It had been a vain hope . . .for Gimli was mortal. Even in the Undying Lands, death claimed its due.

Legolas felt the pain of parting as the warmth was unendingly snatched from the body in his arms. As a consolation, his mind drifted to their days in Lorien, walking together, speaking of history and culture, of life and love. They had made a promise then, a promise fulfilled now in that dawn, never to part in life.

The sun was rising. By the time the sun had spilled over the window ledge, Legolas had dried the tears no others would see, but ever did they rain in his mind. Slowly, he lifted the frail creature that was his staunchest ally, strongest sparring partner and loudest drinking buddy, and walked slowly out into the rising sun. Gently, he pulled him close, resting the cool cheek against his own as he did as Gimli had bidden him.

As he walked along the trail towards the mountains, the word had spread and others joined him. Elves who had also loved Gimli Elvellon walked in silence towards the place that Legolas made for. Once the sun and finally risen above the trees, Legolas laid him on the bed of stone and pulled the stone cover over him.

“Rest eternal,” he murmured, as elves sang of he who held the love of the elves.

Legolas did not sing, the grief too near and too keen against his heart. A sob threatened again, and he took hope from what he had left. Memories; hundreds, thousands, eons of remembrances. No loss of life could take that from him, no dimming of age or forgetfulness. No song of Lúthien was his to utter, but he had his memories. He would always have his memories.

And ever after, he would also have his tears before sunrise.

El fin