A Whisper of the Old World by Narya

She was attracting some funny looks, leaping about in the leaves like someone a tenth of her age. Unperturbed, Brian Proust crossed the bridge, and when she looked up he nodded and touched his tweed hat.

"Good morning," he smiled.

The old woman put her head to one side. "And what do you mean by that?"

Brian Proust paused.

The woman's smile grew impish. She seized an armful of leaves, flung them up in the air, and began to sing.

"Hi diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon..."

I wonder...

Proust walked on, but as he did so he sent a light touch of power towards the woman's mind. It was nothing a mortal would normally feel, but she laughed aloud as it brushed her, as though tickled by feathers she couldn't see. Yes, he thought; he had been quite correct. She had a whisper of the old world about her, though where it came from, he could not say. A dash of Wood-Elf blood, perhaps, a long way back, or an encounter with one of the earth-spirits. It was hardly unheard of. He, who had once been Olórin, was far from the last ancient power to still walk this Middle-earth.

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