Lossiël shook the detritus of the food fight from the folds of her gown. A wreath of leaves askew on her brow, was set right. What had come over her, she wondered?
The fleeting image of a frenzied woman caught in the wild throes of pursuit came to her, and she shook it from her head. Another time, another age, she reminded herself firmly. 'Avoid the wine.' she thought to herself. 'Stay true to character in this age and time.'
She laughed, and moved beneath the shelter of the trees, regaining some measure of her dignity with each step. She stopped and turned and leaned against an old willow, its trailing branches affording her some obscurity as she watched the party flow on.
'What an odd place this all is!' she murmured to herself. A trailing branch, its leaves brown and sere, crept over her shoulder. She twined her fingers in it, thinking she should deliver the gifts her Lady had sent and then be on her way.
The willow stirred in its shadowy slumberings. A feeling of vigor, almost forgotten, spread then from branch to root. Green-leaved now, it shook its branches and stood straight and strong. Its rich, mellow voice woke her from her musings.
'Do not leave now, my Lady! Stay for a while among us. The trees of Arda Marred have need of you. Wake us from our darkling dreams.'
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Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.
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