Disclaimer: Nothing at all belongs to me, it is all Tolkien's.
In the uttermost West, the last of the Fellowship are finally sundered. 100 words as counted by MS Word.
The two figures are grey against a world of green.
One is tall, and lithe, but he kneels as if he bears all of two worlds on his back, and in the flawed breaths between last words Legolas Greenleaf learns of what grief in Aman feels like.
But Gimli, the Dwarven Elf-friend, Mahal's child in Valinor, runs a rough hand over the ageless one that cannot let him go and he smiles beneath the grey beard.
"Goodbye, elf. And may we meet when this world ends."
And for the first and last time, Elvenhome rings with sorrow for a stone-master.