James took a long, deep breath, drawing in the cool night air. It felt pleasantly sharp on his nose and filled his lungs in a crisp, clean way that city air never seemed to give him. Looking over the rolling hills and above the distant mountains, the moon hung, seeming huge and filling the landscape with a pale white light that filtered down through the thin layer of clouds that blanketed the sky.

Everything James saw in the pale moonlight was beautiful, especially the trees which were a stark black against the pale gray of the clouds. Oak trees that looked like any other during the day now seemed gnarled and ancient. James was suddenly struck by how old those trees really were; what they had silently observed over the years. If only one could talk to trees! What tales they would tell. Perhaps tales from a time when the world was young; when men wielded magic magic and towns slept in fear of the next dragon attack. Perhaps of the fairies who still dance -- when no one is looking -- in the pale and dappled moonlight of the forest on a night such as this.