𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘪𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘚𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨

Lasgalen had never seen a more beautiful sky than on that night. All the Eldar considered light to be sacred, but the Sindar and the Silvan Elves had a special love for starlight, and they showed it with great enthusiasm. This was also because they were fond of wine, which made them more talkative. The stars themselves seemed to shine more brightly in that place. While Galadriel and the rest of Gil-Galad's retinue had dispersed into the crowd, dancing and talking, Lasgalen stood at the edge of the dance floor, her back resting against a column. Her gaze was calm and smiling. Those elves looked so happy and celebrated life in a way that was different from what she was used to seeing. Yet, she liked it even more. An endless love for the light, an eternal gratitude, repaid by a great zest for life.

The night had passed more swiftly than Lasgalen had realized, slipping away like a pleasant dream that fades at the first touch of morning light.
The feast, vibrant and immersive, had left behind a sense of fulfillment and quiet melancholy, as often happens after perfect moments. Now, while everyone was slowly retreating to their chambers for a well-earned rest, still wrapped in the echo of laughter and melodies, Lasgalen felt no desire to lie idly in bed. Every moment spent in the Woodland Realm was too precious to waste in sleep.
With a light step, she left her chambers, located in the heart of the great grey stone castle. It was a solemn and majestic building, whose austere appearance was softened only by the abundant light that streamed through its tall windows and open corridors, casting shadows and highlights upon the walls. Except for the silent guards stationed at various entrances, the castle seemed to rest in silence, as if it too was sleeping after the celebrations.

But as soon as Lasgalen stepped outside, that silence was broken in the most delightful way. The forest, which during the night had seemed asleep and mysterious, was now awakened. Birds sang in unison, a harmonious and joyful choir; the wind stirred the leaves gently, brushing them like delicate fingers upon the strings of an instrument; and the air was filled with a pure, unspoiled harmony. Every sound seemed part of an ancient language that the earth itself wished to share with her.
Before her lay the elven path, paved with pale pebbles, leading into the forest's embrace. Without hesitation, she began to follow it. The path blended perfectly with the landscape: not a single stone disrupted the natural flow of the terrain, and it seemed as though the trail had been born with the forest itself. The morning light filtered through the green leaves, casting golden reflections on the damp earth and spreading a soft, maternal warmth.

It was then that a butterfly with orange wings fluttered gently before her face, dancing in the air with delicate, unpredictable movements. Lasgalen smiled instinctively, reaching out a finger in the hope that the creature would land upon it. But the butterfly had other plans, continuing its flight off the marked trail, disappearing among the trees.
Lasgalen watched the graceful insect drift away, then glanced back briefly at the path behind her. It was an impulsive, almost childlike decision. In a few moments, she removed her shoes, tying them with practiced ease to the loose belt at her waist. Her bare feet touched the warm earth, and a long-forgotten feeling surged through her. That primal connection to the land, to the deep roots of trees, to the sacred simplicity of life in the forest.

How long had it been since she'd done this? Walked barefoot through the woods...She never did that in the Grey Havens. The last time she remembered doing so, was when she was still a child, and her parents were alive. The memory of those distant days returned to her with bittersweet tenderness: carefree laughter, running among the trees, a mother's gentle touch, stories told beneath the stars.
And so, with a light heart and eyes full of wonder, Lasgalen stepped into the woods, letting herself be guided by the butterfly and that feeling of freedom that only true, untouched nature could offer her.

"Ah! I've got you! I'm coming!" her father would say, amused, while little Lasgalen ran across the soft moss, trying not to be caught.

"Run, little rabbit!" her mother would shout from where she sat on a rock, watching the scene. She still remembered her mother's smile, the dimples on her cheeks, and that radiant grin. Then she remembered her father, who always managed to catch her again: his long, red hair would tickle her face, but not more than he did with his hands once he caught her! The little girl would laugh uncontrollably, and she remembered how much joy it gave her to see her parents laugh happily at her own delight.