Gondolin

It had begun as a day full of such promise. A snatched meeting, a kiss stolen under the gaze of the rising sun. She had never felt so beautiful as on that quiet morning, when Aranto had laughed at the flowers woven into her hair, and then claimed one for himself, pinned inside his tunic. He had grumbled again about their secrecy, and they had finally accepted the inevitable: he would tell his friends, his brothers, after the feast, and then they would go to Maltariel's parents and tell them.

As he looked to the sky, Tashdel thought she saw a hint of strain in Belegos' face, but it was only fleeting. She had never thought about it too deeply but the realisation dawned on her that Belegos was so much older than she was; old even in the count of the Eldar now.

The night brought with it a slight chill, but the warmth from the small camp-fire kept it from the elves. The two of them had found a small dell when the sun had starting to lower in the sky, and with no urgency, had set up a camp to rest for the night. One of them was tall and confident in his surroundings, his face half hidden in the growing darkness by the green hood that covered his head, hiding his long, brown hair. His clothes were a rich green also which helped to hide him in the surrounding shrubs and undergrowth.

On sprinted the Noldo-maiden toward the Camp of Ruidhriel. Her true intent known to none but herself, she smiled in the rising light. Dawn broke freshly over the threshold of the red-coloured stones of Sirannon, the rocky hills and tall gargantuan boulders towering over the small, slender, yet rather broad-shouldered figure who was sprinting at her own balanced pace towards the discoloured and worn tent of Ruinedhriel. She could see the smoke from the campfire wafting over the red sky of Hollin, and finally her feet came to a stop before Ruidhriel.