[Fairleaf]

Fairleaf had watched as the man and the other of the Elves took the pursuing Elf away. Uien, she’d heard them call her. A small shudder ran through her, as if some breeze had trembled her leaves. The dark shadow that had crept over her own beloved lands had also scarred Lithmire and Uien. Though, Lithmire bore his scars in body and spirit; while Uien, as fair as a new leaf catching the Spring sun, bore hers within. The scars run deep, regardless of where they are, she thought to herself. As deep as those memories of death and cuttings and burnings in those gardens of long ago. A single drop of evening dew slipped from her leafy fingers, falling on the ground below. Through the tangle of her branches a long, sad sigh soughed.

She shook off her sorrow, focusing on where Lithmire had gone. He was out of sight now, too far away for her to follow after. She could not follow him in this light without causing undue attention to herself. She would see to him later . . . that is, if he came back at all . . .

Looking about the patch of dirt where she stood, Fairleaf saw no one about. Behind her grew the small stand of hawthorn and beech that bordered on the groundskeeper’s cottage. She edged her way back among them, throwing her fair limbs upwards as did they. She would wait here until nightfall, then make her way to the Inn.