The Curse of Immortality - a short story
Nothing moved, save the gentle flutter of the wind in the boughs of the naked trees, dancing in the new light of the morn. Elerin steaped out unto the glistening carpet of the crystal dew atop the grass and the leaves which had fallen like a weeping confeti in the late autumn months, and now, nearing the end of the mortal year the lands of Middle-earth grew weary, and awaited eagerly the passing of the old year, and the dawn of the new, but to Elerin the seasons of her immortal life seldom differed.
Her delicate feet fell upon the moist ground, leaving shallow imprints in the dew, and her floating gown of a thousand silken hues trailed behind, making her pale shadow naught but a shimmering haze, a mere illusion.
As she walked the deep colours of her tired eyes strayed upon the last rose. The rich velvet petals of its pride almost untouched by the mid-winter frost, so well was it hidden among the mighty roots of the ancient oak where it lay.
Elerin kneeled under the great oaken boughs, and placed her lithe hand under the rose, gently cradleing it in her fingers, tracing it's intricate life with her fair elven eyes. Her long dark blond hair was caught in the gentle breeze, leaping, dancing to an unknown song with no tune, no words.
Yet as the dancing breeze kissed her cheeks it pulled the delicate petals of the red rose as it lay in Elerin's palm. Sighing she stood, allowing the wind to gently toy with the soft petals before bearing them away upon it's endless journey through the forests and the hills and the world.
Elerin lifted her fair face and looked to the morning sky. The river gurgled in the distance, the birds sang in the trees, and the world awoke. Every day was the same, every hour, every year, and she was weary of this immortal life.