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Tindomion
The Elf stared at the distraught girl from behind Cook. Not that it mattered that he stood behind her. Though a Hobbit of some substance, still she was quite tiny in comparison to him and he towered over her like some tall beech tree over a modest little rose bush.
‘I’ll come with you,’ he whispered, leaning down close to her ear. ‘I’m not going to face my sister and her . . . intended . . . without you. And besides, I think I might be of some help.’
He ran upstairs quickly to retrieve something from his room, and was back in a trice.
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Young she was and yet not so. The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost, her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night . . .
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