Authors Note: I am unsure if elves can get sick or not, but at least in this story they cannot. This idea came to me when I attempted to fake sick in order to avoid a math test (it worked!), and it seemed like a fun short little story to write. Well, enjoy!
The young elf awoke slowly and waited for both her vision and mind to clear. In the night she had somehow managed to kick at least half the hand- woven blankets that had covered her. It was winter, and the air at night was always crisp; the young Arwen did not notice the frosty wind blowing in from her window, but she preferred to be buried within the warmth blankets could provide all the same.

Dawn was just approaching, and the clouds in her window were painted pink with the sun's arrival. The day would be enjoyable, they always were.

"Oh," said the young elf suddenly.

"I am to sing at the festival today." She said, thinking out loud to herself. Her brothers had been teaching her a lovely song, but she had given up a fortnight ago. Although her sweet voice would have been praised as beautiful if she had lived elsewhere, at Rivendell it was mediocre at best, and could even be called poor.

A blush tinged her fair cheeks as she recalled the lessons from her brothers who could not help but be amused by the poor quality of their sister's voice. If she could not please them, it seemed highly unlikely that an audience of elves would appreciate her song.

'I don't wish to sing today.' Arwen thought miserably. Even the gorgeous sun-rise failed to raise her spirits, which had sunk measurably. From the halls outside her bedroom she could hear a faint song, and the light padding of elf feet walking down the corridor.

"Where is the most beautiful elfling in Rivendell?" A kind voice said just outside her voice. It was Glorfindel, who arrived every morning to wake her.

"She is not feeling well!" said Arwen. She had never known of elves to be sick, but the men who visited sometimes were. Whenever a cough plagued them they were freed of any duties they held during that day. She was hoping that being sick would free her from the task of singing at the festival.

"Is our Arwen ill?" Glorfindel asked, swinging the door open. The image of the raven haired elf hardly that met his eyes hardly seemed unhealthy. Her fair skin was no paler than usual. Besides, when had their ever been an ill elf?

"You look fine. What is it that plagues Arwen?"

"My throat is sore." said Arwen. Then in a softer voice she added, "It hurts to speak."

"Ah, this is horrible news." Glorfindel replied carefully. He knew very well what the impish elf was up to, and even recalled old times when he had attempted a similar stunt.

"Alas! I will not be able to sing!" rasped the young performer.

"This is certainly an unlucky fortune. The ears of the elves at the festival will be unhappy if they cannot hear your voice."

"But if they were to hear my voice today, their ears would be so sad."

"Their eyes will be sadder yet if they do not get to see the lovely daughter of Elrond. Well, I think I may have a solution."

"You have?" she asked, eyes wide. She had never heard of a cure for elven disease; how could he think of some panacea so quickly?

"I do. It is called The Butterfly Catcher." Glorfindel said soothingly. Of course, no such thing existed, but he could pretend. The young elf that he had cared for these past years was quick, just not as quick as he.

"Now watch. First, you do this."

He demonstrated what exactly 'this' was by racing his fingers up and down her bare feet. A loud shriek mixed with giggles erupted all at once from her mouth as the tickling of her feet continued.

"No, please stop!" Arwen begged through her screams and laughter. At once the treatment stopped, and she could not help but feel a bit better.

"That is how you get the butterflies out of your stomach, Arwen. You see, during the night they fly into your mouth because it is so warm, and are swallowed at some point during those dark hours. Now, some of them get stuck and tickle your throat. They leave dust inside your throat, and when you wake up, the dust makes your throat hurt. But we must do the second part of the cure!"

"What is it?"

"Well, you must sing. Because if you do not, then the dust will stay on your throat forever and poison you."

Arwen gasped and widened her eyes, tightly clutching her fingers around the silver blanket covering her. Glorfindel nodded solemnly, and she knew he must be telling the truth. However, she had become so wrapped up within the healing process that she forgot she was a perfectly healthy young elf.

"And if you want to stay well, then you have to sing in front of many people. If you do not, the butterflies will come back!" Glorfindel said. The look of horror on her face spoke for the now mute Arwen.

"Please do it Arwen, or else your father will be unhappy with the both of us." He added.

"I'm afraid." She whispered.

"Everyone is when they first sing in front of others! I promise that you'll do a spectacular job." He promised. Mollifying the terrified child was not a simple job, but with his gentle coaxing she began to warm up to the idea. It was not until a few hours later that she realized she had been tricked.