Only two figures await us on the distant dock. Their hair is bright, one head golden and the other silver. My heart rises, and then sinks – alas that the hobbits are not here to meet us and that, once again, I am to be the bearer of hard tidings.

I'm sure we could have drawn a bigger crowd, being the first dwarf in the Undying Lands and all, but to tell the truth, after so long with naught but Legolas for company, I don't know if I could have stood to be mobbed by curious elves. The Lady Galadriel, of course, is as beautiful as ever, perhaps more so, like the sun that need to longer struggle to pierce the fog, but simply shines. The other elf is strange to me, strange even for an elf, and fell of face, crowned with a circlet of feathers and bones.

I was slain long before his fëa and hröa were joined, and yet, when he steps from his ship he knows me, hastens to embrace me. I grasp his arms, firm as steel, I note with pride, and I breathe him in, seeking, beneath the salt-sea scent, a trace of earth, and pine, and forests left far behind. Engaged thus, I almost miss when he speaks softly, into my ear, "I'm sorry grandfather, he is not coming."