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Gimli sits in the prow of the ship, his fingers wrapped in strands of gold. His beard has long since gone white, his eyesight is failing and he dozes often. Once while asleep Galadriel's hair blew away on the wind; Legolas replaced it with three strands of his own. He does not know if Gimli cannot tell or does not mind.

It is Legolas who looks back, although the shore has long since passed beyond even his eyes, keen though they are as ever. He had begged Arwen to come with them, in the end, until she laid her white fingers across his lips. "Remember him for me," she had said, only that and "Remember me for him." Memories are weightless as footsteps on snow; by the side of the ship Legolas had broken all his arrows, his ship's sails need no attention and so he has nothing to fill his empty hands.

In the bow Gimli runs silken elf-locks through his cracked fingers and smiles sleepily. The water grows paler every mile.