Prologue
"Yes sir," the man bowed. "Your seats shall be prepared and you may board in some time. Please be patient."
Legolas bobbed his head in turn, having already forgotten the man's name, and was not sad to see his back. He looked to the rising sun and his heart was gladdened when he heard the beautiful song of the seagull. A tall, gray ship awaited him at the end of the dock, its sails fluttering in the zephyr and its tall masts glistening in the sun. He breathed in the salty sea air and smiled. Waiting was no problem for him. After all, he had waited 3054 years, all of his life, to cross the Great Sea into the Undying Lands. A few more hours were nothing.
The dwarf at his side grunted in impatience, and limped over to a pile of flat rocks to sit. He seemed to know exactly what the elf was thinking, and shook a tired old finger at him. At 261, he was indeed a very old dwarf, and though age had taken his strength and health, it had not taken either his wit or his earthy sense of humor. "Aye, you have time to wait," he coughed, but smiled in his knowing way. "You happen to have forever. But I may keel over and die any second now and never see the beauty of these Undying Lands you keep speaking of.
The elf laughed and joined his friend on the rocks, forgetting the beauty and the luring song of the sea. "Undoubtedly, to your mind, it is not half as beautiful as the Glittering Caves." he teased.
The dwarf chucked at the memory of so long ago, when he still had his health and youth. "You know my reason to go to Valinor as well as I, elf, and that reason is more beautiful than ten Glittering Caves put together." Gimli sighed and took from a pocket in his worn vest, three strands of beautiful, long, blond hair. To his weak eyes, they appeared as tiny glints of gold in an ocean of blurs.
Ashamed of his dim sight, he had not even spoken of it to Legolas, and had hidden it well from the world.
"Excuse me," a hoarse, rasping voice sounded just a few rocks away from the elf, who whirled around in alarm, a long, white knife in hand. An old man, leaning on a long, wooden staff, peered back at the two with sharp gray eyes. Long, silver hair framed his face and his hollow cheeks let flow a smooth gray beard. He was perched most comfortably on a large rock and smoking an old clay pipe that had seen much use. "I am sorry to have startled you," he said, his eyes growing wide.
Legolas was used to this astonished awe from other races; elves were not usually seen in the Fourth Age, but something else made him think this man uncanny. A little reluctantly, he sheathed his weapon. "You are forgiven, stranger," he nodded once at the man. "But I have not had a man startle me since…a friend of mine." The pain of the death of his good friend and long-time companion in travel, Aragorn, or as he was known in these years, King Elessar, resurged in his heart.
"I heard you conversing," the old man said slowly, blowing a smoke ring from his lips, "and was interested. May I ask your names?"
Gimli nodded gruffly and squinted at the man. "In my days, my good man, the stranger introduced himself first. But in these days of peace, perhaps these rules are lessened. I am proud to say I am Gimli, son of Gloin, and this is my friend, Legolas of Eryn Lasgalen."
Legolas winced slightly at this unfamiliar name that had been given to his homeland of Mirkwood at the turning of the Fourth Age. However, the man's eyebrows moved up slowly, as all of his actions, and the elf forgot his annoyance and felt as if the old man was familiar, but could not understand why.
"Not the legendary Gimli and Legolas of the Fellowship of the Ring!" he gasped and Legolas wanted to roll his eyes. Ever since the end of the War of the Ring, he had not been able to be introduced to anyone without this or an even bigger reaction of surprise. It was to be expected, but the elf had never gotten use to it. "These are indeed strange days," the man mused. "Dreams and legends spring to life out of the grass."
The elf smiled, remembering that day when another dear friend of his, Éomer, only Third Marshall of the Mark then, had spoken the same words when he first heard the name of Aragorn, son of Arathorn.
But those days were gone, and Éomer's son, Elfhelm, was near the end of his reign. Such as it must be, Legolas thought, in friendships with men. They had to end, either with death, or with something much worse.
At the old man's words, he nodded once again, acknowledging this title. "And what may your name be, Master?" the elf asked, for he expected something familiar. This man reminded him of Aragorn, Éomer, and Gandalf put together.
However, he was disappointed. "My name is of little importance," the man intoned, leaning his staff next to him. "But my tale is a long and sad one."
Gimli's eyebrows raised as well, and he coughed heavily. "Is it? We have time. Why not come and tell it? The ship does not seem to want to leave the dock any time soon."
The old man smiled and looked to the sea, watching the morning sun glittering off the calm, blue waters. "No, I am not a leisure to say, I am sorry." There was a long pause before he took up the string of the conversation again. "But come, why not speak of some of your tales? Surely, you have a great stock of them."
The elf became slightly suspicious. "Tales we have. But many are dark and long. We will not speak of them yet. Wherefore came you to these shores?"
"I traveled these lands in my youth," the old man answered. "And now, in my age, I visit these shores to remember. After all, the young live in the stories, and the old do naught but remember and retell them."
Gimli laughed. "In that, you are correct, and your wise words have earned you a story. Come, Legolas. We may find one in our recollections that is neither dark nor sad." When the elf did not answer, he turned back to the old man. "I have a story of our travels, light and good, fit for even a stranger to hear."
"I eagerly await it," the old man smiled. "Please, continue."
TBC