"My pekkuvo," Galadriel says, "I believe another squirrel has mistaken you for a tree."
Arwen, perched on Celeborn's shoulders, giggles madly. "It is an easy mistake to make," Celeborn says placidly, not reacting even when Arwen grabs fistfuls of his hair. "I am very tall."
"You are," Galadriel agrees, "and as silvery as a mallorn tree in spring."
"While you are as golden as one in autumn, and even taller than I," Celeborn replies. "I wonder if you will have squirrels of your own."
"No," Arwen giggles, "no, only Daerada!"
"It seems your squirrel will accept no other tree," Galadriel says. "I cannot disagree with her when she has chosen the best one."
"Naneth, Ada," Celebrían calls, walking up to them, "have you seen- Ah, I see you have. Arwen, what are you doing up there?"
"I'm a squirrel!" Arwen cries gleefully. "Daeremil says so!"
"Are you indeed?" Celebrían asks with a laugh. "But I believe it is time for you to go to bed, is it not?"
"Squirrels do not have bedtimes," Arwen says, sounding very lofty for such a small elfling. "And I am a squirrel, and Daerada is my tree."
"Is he?" Celebrían says, turning to her father.
"We have agreed that I am as tall and silvery as a mallorn tree in spring," Celeborn says. "But Arwen does not accept that her grandmother is as tall and golden as one in autumn."
"Children have always preferred your father to climb on," Galadriel tells Celebrían. "Including you, if I recall."
Celebrían laughs. "I suppose Ada does make a better tree. It must come from being Sindarin."
"It does," Celeborn agrees gravely. "If you are born under the trees, you are half a tree yourself."
"Was I born under the trees, Naneth?" Arwen asks Celebrían eagerly.
"You were born at home in Imladris," Celebrían says apologetically. "But would you rather be a tree or a squirrel?"
"A squirrel," Arwen says firmly. "And Daerada is my tree."
"Then I suppose there is nothing more to say about it," Celebrían says, and she sighs. "Although it is sad, for squirrels do not have bedtime stories."
"Yes they do!" Arwen protests.
"No, I'm afraid squirrels do not have bedtimes, so they cannot have bedtime stories," Celebrían explains. "Isn't that right, Naneth?"
"Certainly," Galadriel agrees. "I have lived with many squirrels in Doriath and Lothlórien, and I have never heard of one having a bedtime story."
Arwen looks down at her mother in consideration. "What story would I have tonight if I were not a squirrel?"
"I believe your grandparents were going to tell stories of Doriath and Lúthien Tinuviel."
Arwen wrinkles her nose. "I don't like the story of Lúthien. It's silly. How does Beren get captured by cats? Cats are very small and fluffy. They could not capture a Man."
"Would you like a different story, then?" Celeborn asks, looking up at Arwen. "One of tree-people in a forest to the south?"
"Tree-people?" Arwen repeats, her eyes wide.
"They are called Ents, and they were made by Yavanna," Celeborn says. "But this is not a story that squirrels are told."
"I am not a squirrel!" Arwen cries immediately, clambering down from her perch. "Please, Daerada, will you tell me about the tree-people?"
"I will," Celeborn agrees, swinging a delighted Arwen up into his arms and starting towards her room.
"She will demand stories of Ada all night," Celebrían says with a smile.
"And he will give them," Galadriel agrees, smiling fondly at her husband's departing silhouette, their granddaughter once again perched on his shoulders. "We shall not see them until morning."
