Further into the shadowed woods, she sought the trees. Their silver bark shimmered even in the dim light, and their golden blossoms, though out of season, seemed to hold the warmth of a distant summer. These were the pride of Lothlórien, gifts brought from the Undying Lands, standing as tall, living monuments to a world that was slowly passing away.
She sat on a mossy stone and began to sketch. Tolkien’s world was built on more than just swords and crowns; it was rooted in the soil. From the comforting, smoke-sweet of the Shire to the cruel, grasping Old Man Willow in the Withywindle, every leaf told a story of survival, magic, or home.
Elanor closed her book. To know the plants was to know the heart of the land itself.
As the morning warmed, Elanor hiked toward the lower slopes, where the grew. The small, white "Evermind" flowers clung to the earth like fallen stars. They were most vibrant where the great kings of old were buried, their petals never fading, as if the memory of the fallen kept them eternally in bloom.