Gondolin

     The skies flashed orange as flames leapt across the battlements. Heaving clouds full of water seemed to hang low in a pregnant pause. The screams of the dying and fighting echoed through the elven hewn stones, imprinting its horrors on the once gleaming city of Turgon’s people. Morgoth had found them and employed all his arsenal in an effort to remove this forever blight on his rule of Middle Earth.

First Age, Shortly after the Founding of Gondolin

Gondolin, First Age: 450

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A small, silver haired elf, sits quietly in one corner of a great hall. His back against a marble column and his legs folded in a comfortable manner. A curious thing, for this scene opposed the tone of the festivities that were occurring around him.

Gondolin, First Age

“Mind how much wine you drink,” Amathlan frets over her in a low tone as they approach the large hall of the House of The Heavenly Arch. “And we are only staying as long as I shall be performing!” 

“Daughter of mine, will you ever marry?” Her father asks her one day beneath the weeping willow tree; a dried-up creek-bed ran beside their feet, the current still alive with crickets and toads and the stagnant rainwater of a world that had not yet washed the sins of the first away with its rushing flood. 

-Gondolin, F.A.-

Mallossel furrows her brows and looks away from him. "I understand. But I would do what I did again if it meant you were safe."

Gondolin, First Age: 436

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The small child gripped tightly to the older elf's hand, scared among the grand partying and festivities.

"Nana..." He whispers.

Gondolin, First Age of Middle Earth
 

Envandiel stood by the forge, pouring molten silver into a hand-carved mold with a practiced eye, while Métime stood opposite, hammer blows beating a stattacco rhythm on the keen blade in front of her.