by Elelome
Arwen whispered a few words to a late flower still blooming in the evening. She left it still attached to the stem, unwilling to break its brief life with a sudden snapping.
Her fingers moved over the grasses, startling them into a brighter green. The trees bent their leaves in the wind to caress her face. And the wind picked her dress up in a coy invitation to a wild dance.
Arwen laughed.
"Yes, mother, I believe it now!" she said to the quiet figure standing in the shadows. "This is all alive, and we are part of it."
She seized her mother's hands, whirling
her about, both of them laughing. For a moment there was only Nature in
that nightlit patch of woodland, only two ancient Elvish folk on a midnight
revel.