In the Birchwoods of Nimbrethil

(exactly 100 words)

Eärendil placed an ungloved hand against the broad silvery white trunk, and the papery bark crackled under the pressure of long fingers.  He looked up, his eyes following the height of the ancient tree up to where the first branches extended from the main bole, then dropped his gaze to meet Cirdan's eyes.  "This one." 

"Are you sure?" the Shipwright asked, standing bundled against the bitter winter wind, his beard and hair blowing in a tangle about his face.

"Aye, I am sure.  It's as if Yavanna created it just for this purpose; to become the keel for my Vingilot."