Tin lay in the grass in her meadow, listening to the flowers and trees whisper in their secret language. They spoke of the great blue sky overhead, the puffy clouds, the rather annoying birds perched on their limbs. Tinuviel rolled over in the grass, the leaves wreathed around her neck rustling quietly. Her large ears rotated back and forth like antennae, listening to conversations. Sometimes, if the flowers talked to her, she spoke back, mumbling quiet things. Wise as they were, the plants and trees understood the meaning of every word, though they spoke different languages.
As a breeze picked up, Tin lifted her head. Her mane, which took after her father - her real father - blew out, away from her neck, playing with the wind. She loved her mane, and her tail. They made her feel like she belonged to someone other than her mother - like she was connected with someone other than the only person she could never disappoint.
Finding herself decidedly depressing, Tinuviel got to her feet and looked up at the sky, doing a little dance with her hooves to the tune of a nearby stream.
As a breeze picked up, Tin lifted her head. Her mane, which took after her father - her real father - blew out, away from her neck, playing with the wind. She loved her mane, and her tail. They made her feel like she belonged to someone other than her mother - like she was connected with someone other than the only person she could never disappoint.
Finding herself decidedly depressing, Tinuviel got to her feet and looked up at the sky, doing a little dance with her hooves to the tune of a nearby stream.
