n the squeezing hours of night, she heard a voice only wood-fairies and toads can ignore: the moon had strayed too close to the earth, spoke apologies, but vised the ground and trees nonetheless. The moon's light would not, could not, let go of earth. The voice whispered to Mat, who was enclosed of rooms of wood, bronze, smoke, and the floor coverings of Dwarfs'. The moon shrugged. Not wanting to spend another night on the scratchy Dwarf rugs (spun from uncombed rams’ fur and brambles), alone, she tumbled her way to Moonglade. Emerald-shard fire and ice grass blades melted under her hooves. Winter still frosted the early spring.
She had one final bottle of moonglow in her bags...one last pixie-dust sprinkle of effervescent energy. (She hoped that this was the penultimate vial, but no, no more remained.) She drank it, and enjoyed the speed-of-light spell, danced, and laughed. The Night Elves looked on, if they chose to see her at all. Dancing alone under the spell of the moon is self-indulgent--she doesn't deny it. The pull of an early spring night is intoxicating, and the moon will have her say.
When she came to her senses, and the moon-fever had burned through, she reluctantly put back on her mail and weapons, and went back to the iron and salt world of Stormwind.
Postscript: Mat doesn't want to be hemispheric: in the southern hemisphere, the seasons are changing, too, but like a giant yin-yang, who's to say who is spinning this way or that way/?
Theme song: "Yellow" --Coldplay
For something completely different: The Rite of Spring --Stravinksy