Rivendell

It was late afternoon in the valley when Kennet advanced along the paths of Rivendell, flanked by colorful trees. The smell of dampness was palpable even though it had not rained all day, and a feeling of being in a paradisiacal wild forest flooded him, despite the fact that he was walking through the interior of the elven enclave.

Kennet had to ask again to understand what elf Canaddal was telling him. In his serene and distant voice, the elf repeated his words again:

Why...

Her hands were stiff and numb with coldness. Snowflakes swarmed the landscape like pesky insects. Boots pushing through the towering inches of snow, she shivered as she held the warm wine bottle in her hands. 

Why... in tarnation...

... had she stayed in Eriador this winter?

That stupid elven ball was one thing. Her pesky family begging her to stay in Imladris for once was another reason. Desperately working her uncooperative hands to open the bottle of her glorious warm wine, she continued to march in the snow.

The Hall of Fire, some time last month.

Her heart had leapt when he returned. She had shamelessly smiled and dropped whatever one-sided conversation had been targeted at her, the moment he appeared in the great Hall. Now, some hours later, the gathering has come to an end. The Hall is emptied, save for him and her: two figures seated on the ground, at the marble-carved feet of an Elfmaiden who dances her stationary dance.