"Whatever. Let's go, Gandalf."

Olórin looks puzzled for a second.

"How did you know I was once called that?"

"I didn't—I was making fun of you—wait—are you actually—?

"No fucking way."

"You should watch your language. But the books you're thinking of are translations of a true history. They say as much, quite clearly, in the introduction."

"I've only seen the movies."

"Hold up. We're inside The Lord of the Rings right now?"

"I did play a role in the War of the Ring, yes. But this land, and most of those who dwell here, were already removed from the Circles of the World at that time."

"You know, I was just telling Spidey here how most legends were true, but I didn't think that applied to literal fantasy novels."

"Your world has superheroes and you find Elves unbelievable?"

"I find it unbelievable that everyone has known this story for sixty years and thought it was fictional, when it was actually real."

"Do you think that anyone would have believed Professor Tolkien if he had really insisted that no, he wasn't kidding about the translation thing, and yes, the events of these books actually happened eight thousand years ago?"

"Eh, maybe not. But, I mean, we had Cap even then—"

"Interestingly, the serum that gave Captain Rogers his strength was made from Elvish blood, obtained—in a questionable fashion—by one of the agencies that became S.H.I.E.L.D., who knew of the remnant of the Eldar in Middle-earth before any of Professor Tolkien's work was published. It was found to be possible by craft to give a Man strength and speed equal to any of the High Elves of the West, though one cannot make them immortal. I would call it a black art, but it has been used for good as well as evil, as the Captain demonstrates."

As they speak, they've been walking away from the clearing where Stephen awoke. They crest a hill, and the lush vegetation ends abruptly. On the other side is a sparse pine forest.

"Look now your last on the Gardens of Lórien, fairest of all the places in Arda, if you would. Few are the mortals privileged to breathe the perfume of my lord Irmo's flowers, or to be refreshed by the fountains of Estë. It is not likely you shall ever return."

All of them turn and look back at the gardens one last time.

Then they head on down down the hill and through the forest. It's a long hike, even with Irmo speeding their journey, but the sun is pleasantly warm and the breeze is cool, and the streams that flow through the woods are refreshing and sweet to drink, and seem to appear whenever they get thirsty.

After a while—a few hours, probably, though it seems like it could have been much longer without them noticing—they arrive at a village of Elves, who are astounded to see two mortals emerging from the western wild dressed in the robes of the Returned. Olórin does most of the talking, in a language neither of the others understand. They find a train, a sleek metal-and-glass vehicle that seems like it could have been grown rather than made, which bears them eastward across the fair plains of Valinor with a speed surpassing the swiftest wind.

"You know, I could have done this even faster if I could still make portals. I need to get a new Sling Ring—uh, I realize you have a complicated history with magic rings—"

"Only those made by Sauron. The craft of ring-making among the Eldar long predates his involvement. In fact, the foremost expert in it dwells once more here in Valinor, and though he once forswore his art, it has been many Ages, and he might be persuaded to take it up again for a good cause. Yes, I think we ought to go to Formenos and meet him."

Meanwhile, Tony is feeling kind of like he wants to die.

Part of it is the big Thanos-induced hole through his abdomen which is only technically not fatal. But also—fuck, that was a bad jump—their hyperdrive must be busted, jumps aren't supposed to feel like that—

Also, they're not anywhere near where they were trying to go.

Or are they? They could be on Earth, based on the view out the window. They shouldn't be on the surface, but that's a minor detail.

They've come to rest in a shallow sea beside a beautiful tropical island. They could be somewhere in the South Pacific. Except—Tony's been to the South Pacific, and the best postcard views in Polynesia pale in comparison to this. It's actually too beautiful to be Earth. There's something supernatural about it: the water is just a little too clear, the leaves too green, the sun too bright—

There's no such thing as the supernatural. Impossibly beautiful tropical islands are pretty great, though. Although generally a little far from civilization, and he can't stay here—

Relax, Tony. This is a Good Place.

Tony (mostly) no longer feels like he wants to die. He also kind of feels like time itself has been slowed to a crawl.

"Who said that?"

Not feeling like he wants to die is great, unless he's actually still dying and just prevented from realizing it. Being slowed to a crawl is not.

No one said that. The land itself said that, welcoming him into its blessed embrace.

He's not dying. He can't die here, except by his own choice or violence too sudden for his body to react.

"Who said what?"