On a beach of white sands, under the first glimmers of a sunrise pale on the far horizon, a boat nudges to shore. A simple, small craft of oaken beams, its sides fleck with foam as the gentle waves lap at its hull, its sail rippling softly in the silken breeze. A masthead carved in the likeness of a gull stares boldly ahead, curved wood gleaming in the radiant light.
Two figures sit in the little vessel, one fair and ever young; one old and wizened, but possessed of a graven majesty unmatched but for the forgotten days of the world. With sad smiles they furl the canvas sail, securing the ropes with tender knots, stowing the oars and readying their few belongings, hands lingering across their faithful little boat, last tie to a world left far behind.
The younger companion vaults ashore, blond hair sparkling in the light, a delicate bow and quiver of arrows sung of finest mahogany slung over his shoulder. His leather boots splash amidst the frothing breakers, sending scattered mirages of deepest azures, richest emeralds flashing joyous across the waves. Extending a hand, he helps his friend down, much shorter in stature yet fiercest of spirit; a grin cracking childlike across a wrinkled face as his feet touch the sand, the breeze wafting through his braided white beard.
Together they walk up the beach, the wind fluttering around them in breathless whispers, sand shifting in pearlescent grains beneath their feet. They pause a moment, look back over the vast expanse of ocean, the deserted beach, with a nameless sense of longing, the solemn ache of being pawns in a game so much bigger than themselves. Of scars and healing it spoke, of grief and joy, infinity and possibility undimmed before the breaking of the world stretched out before them; two lifetimes encompassed in impossible clarity, yet faded beyond the edges of the shimmering dawn.
The moment passes and they turn, make to continue into the rolling grass meadows before them, but a figure appears, an elf-maiden clad in raiment of white, fluted with iridescent threads of gold and silver. She walks towards them, elegant face impassive, and as she draws near the younger companion steps forward slightly, one hand placed protectively upon the shoulder of his friend, in wary anticipation awaiting her actions, her words.
She meets his gaze, with bare footsteps ethereal and light moves closer; a faint smile played across her lips, and tinkling laughter dances in her eyes. To him she nods slightly in welcome, as kindred spirits sundered long ago, but before his companion she halts, once more aloof, haughty. She looks down upon him with an expression fey; a terrible pause in which time congealed, the world seemed to hold its breath, and nothing stirred but the lapping of the waves upon the shore, and their hearts softly beating.
In sudden motion she kneels, taking his hand in her own slender fingers, delight shining brilliant in her eyes. And with a voice that calls of promise and beginnings and peace everlasting, these are the words she speaks:
"Welcome, Gimli, son of Gloin, to Valinor."