“My father says he will sail West one day, and I hope to follow him, if I can. I want more than anything to see what lies in the West,” she said. The longing for it flared in her heart, as it had ever since her father had first read to her from the Red Book of Mr. Frodo’s sailing.

“There are few ships now that can take that road,” Arwen said softly.

Elanor travels to Minas Tirith and enters the queen's service.

It was the Elvenking. He gazed at the disappearing haven and the encircling hills with a strange, sorrowful expression upon his face, as if he felt the same uncomfortable tug of uprooting that Sam did, feeling as if he had been removed from his familiar soil and planted somewhere he didn’t belong, at least not yet.

Sam watched him, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment, but he couldn’t look away. It was strange to think that a king of the Elves might feel as displaced and torn as he did, but Sam felt suddenly in that moment that he understood the Elvenking, high and lordly though he was.

Sam meets an unlikely kindred spirit on the journey West.

“And yet is it not the greater folly to imagine that such love could never grow between our kinds? Was it not folly for us to be made thus and yet driven to dwell together and take up arms together?” She cupped his face in her hand, beseeching him. “Would not the One, who your people say commands the Music of the world—though my people hear it not—have surely foreseen such a grief? And if he did foresee such grief and did nothing, allowing it to pass, what difference is there between his allowance and his will? And if he did will such a grief, then how can your people say that he is good?”

Andreth shares with Aegnor what the Wise say of Men's original nature, and of the wound dealt to them by Morgoth.

“I would honor the customs of thy people, Andreth, and marry thee in the manner of thy people,” he said at last.

“And if I did not want to?” she asked, so soft she barely heard her own voice. “If I wished to marry thee in the manner of thy people?” Her voice trembled, but she held his gaze.

Aegnor drew in an uneven breath, swift and sharp. His gaze roved her face, tracing her features. When he spoke, his voice was rough but tender. “I would take thee away, to the south or east, and marry thee under the light of the stars. And there none would speak against our union. And I would be thine and thou would be mine in every way that there is.”

A summer evening spent in a glade near the shores of the Aeluin.

Éowyn walked through the rows of the garden that sprawled beyond the house, her hand laid over the swell of her stomach. It was high summer, and the garden grew in wild abandon, hardly distinguishable from the fragrant wilderness that rippled and tumbled over the hills of Emyn Arnen.

Éowyn walks in her garden and reminisces about all the people who helped her create it.

Celegorm took the javelin from the beast, examining it. He ran his finger over the blade, where the poison glistened in the sunlight, then sniffed his finger. His gaze flicked up to Eöl’s. Eöl thought to see anger or triumph flicker in the Elf-lord’s eyes, but they were cold and impassive, and when he spoke, his voice was deadly quiet. “I wonder: Who was this meant for—your wife, or your son?”

Eöl felt the blood drain from his face, and he reached for the hilt of his sword.

Curufin is not the only son of Fëanor Eöl meets upon the plains of Himlad.

Or, Eöl meets Celegorm while pursuing Aredhel and Maeglin, and things go very badly for him.

But now, sailing into the Uttermost West, Frodo wondered again about Gandalf’s nature and origin. The wizard seemed both familiar and remote now, somehow. His eyes were as bright and shrewd as ever, and at turns Frodo glimpsed in them the kindly light that he had seen at times when Gandalf was still Gandalf the Grey. And at other times, Gandalf seemed to have become more of Gandalf the White than he ever had in Middle-earth, a very great lord even among the lords and Lady that sailed with them.

On the journey West, Frodo discovers Gandalf's true nature and learns of the country that will soon be his home.

Conflicted, Aegnor seeks Angrod's counsel.

Indis tries to mend the rift within the House of Finwë. Fëanáro does not take kindly to it.

Stone could tell stories, her father had said, balancing her upon his knee, and stories she spun at his side in his workshop—stories strange and marvelous and beautiful.

Or, Nerdanel and Mahtan through the years.

Elrond stood in awe, transfixed by the beauty of the song and the lilt of the harp. He felt almost as if he could touch the music, if he bent his mind and will hard enough to the task. He felt Maglor’s voice in his chest, in his heart, in the pulse of the air around him. Everything listened, bending ear to the power of the song.

Together, Maglor and Elrond create visions with songs.

Setting aside her basket, Indis ran barefoot through the fields to greet him, and he swept her into his arms and spun her around. Her laughter fell upon the fields like rain, and Finwë felt it wash over his heart, welling up in the cracks that he had thought would ever remain after the loss of Míriel.

The song of their joy spills over the fields of the Valar.

Gildor returns to Nargothrond for the last time.

As the Bragollach rages, Andreth waits.

Frodo had always been meant to leave the Shire.

“We only have a few moments,” Arien whispers, her eyes sparkling like sunlight dancing upon water as she allows him to pull her closer.

“We need no more than that,” Tilion answers, dipping his head to meet hers and cradling her face in his hands, heedless of how the crackling heat of her scorches him.

They steal what moments they can.

“How will you know when it’s time?” Frodo asked.

“When I have seen the wonders of Fangorn and Aglarond with Gimli, when my father’s people and I have made Ithilien the fairest garden in Gondor, and when my friends have passed beyond the circles of this world—then I will know that it is time,” Legolas said.

They stay for those they love.

“It is a high calling, then, to be counted among the Wise, Saelind,” Aegnor said, looking at her long with an expression that she could not read.

Andreth held his gaze, wordless, as some emotion that she could not name passed between them. Wise-heart, he had named her. Wise-heart, though she had lived but a moment compared to him and knew so little of what he knew of the world, born before the sun had ever risen.

They meet in springtime.

The long winter nights are not as cold when the lords of Dorthonion visit.

The twins have been difficult, and Celebrían desires a respite.