Okay, I'm just giving this a shot. I've never written a LotR fanfic before, so this will probably take a long while to be completed. The chapter is short, I know, but once I actually get the plot down, it'll be good.

Obviously this doesn't belong to Tolkien, so I disclaim. D

The silence stretched outwards, chasing after the fading ship as it melted into the horizon. Trees hummed softly, and the sweet nectar from poised flowers rode swiftly on the wind. A rousing chorus of an old Elvin song could be heard over the vast expanse of space, that kept time with the gentle lapping of water hitting the dock. If one were to define perfect – this moment would indeed be it.

The only thing that threatened to mar the serenity of the scene on the harbor were three tiny figures. Hobbits, to be more precise. With forlorn faces, they could not bring themselves to celebrate the beautiful picture presented before them. Instead, they could only think about the loss clouding over their hearts.

The fattest of the three, who wasn't really all that fat anymore, clutched a leather bound book to his chest, as if letting it go would be the death of him. The other two didn't look quite as torn as the former, but indeed, they were both fighting back tears as well. Finally, the silence was broken.

'We... we should get going.' Merry said, his voice filled with sorrow.

'I feel empty,' Sam stated.

'Gandalf told me something once,' said Pippin. 'He said, "The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass. And then, you see it. White shores, and beyond. A far green country under a swift sunrise." It's not so bad, is it, Sam? Frodo wouldn't want us to mope about, we've got our whole lives before us, and we mustn't waste it thinking of the 'what if's' and 'could have been's.'

'You're right,' Sam said bravely. 'Let's go home.'

And so, opting for fresh air rather than a carriage, the three Hobbits made their way down a wooded lane, trying to keep their spirits light. As they came nearer and nearer to the Shire, the road became more curvy, and the trees pressed up against them thickly on every side. As they neared a particularly sharp curve, a noise from ahead – footsteps – made them halt. Still wary from the journey only four years before, the Hobbits had a habit of carrying daggers with them, which they drew in apprehension.

Leaping blindly around the curve, brandishing their weapons, they were certainly in for a surprise.

'Aragorn!' Pippin shouted.

'Yes,' said the Ranger smiling broadly. 'It is I.'

'What in the world are you doing in this corner of Middle Earth?' Asked a bewildered Merry. 'Certainly a King such as yourself has no concerns with us little people.'

'Ah, but what about dear old friends?'

'That then,' said Sam speaking up for the first time, 'is something you're much too late for. Frodo–'

'But it is not Frodo that I wished to speak with,' Aragorn informed him lightly. 'His journey has ended, and now, after all of these years, a long rest is finally in order. What I – we – came here for–' at this he stepped aside revealing Arwen, '– is you. The foursome is now three, but for the many years left in your lives, we regretfully must take a few of them away.'

'Yes,' said Arwen. Her voice was as light as the morning dew, but a great pain was reflected in her sculptured face. 'We must ask of you one last thing.'

'What?' Asked Pippin curiously.

'How would you like to go on one last adventure?'