Flowering hemlock umbels gleam palely in grey glades among tall birch trees. Silvery white, foggy grey, darkest green, shadowed black.
She dances. Her arms, her face shimmer white. Her dress, pale as wispy fog, clings to her limbs. Her hair flows around her, black as the shadows under the deep green of the trees.
There are brighter colours back in Menegroth, the bright reds, yellows, blues and greens that appear only in light of lamp or torch. She cares not. The stars are all the light she needs to dance.
He plays for her. While she dances, who needs light?
Written for Imhiriel's birthday, January 2012
The request: I'd like to read a story about Ithilien or about Doriath - any time, any genre, any characters, but, if possible, something good or happy or beautiful.