Gondolin.
A city of gardens and waterfalls, of gleaming white stone and tall towers. Until its fall it had been the fairest city of all – or so Glorfindel said.
Perched atop the highest tower, Elladan kept a careful watch for the enemy. “Balrogs!” he cried in warning. “Orcs!”
In the same moment, Elrohir spotted fiery dragons circling in from the roof of the high-ceilinged library. As they battled their imaginary foes, stabbing and slashing with the short wooden swords which were all they were allowed, the towers of Gondolin wobbled and teetered, threatening to fall and crash to the ground. Just like the legendary heroes of long ago, it seemed they would soon have to flee the city.
The towers lurched again, and Elladan looked down at the distant floor. “Jump, El!” he commanded
They leapt for their lives, landing amid a rain of destruction as the carefully stacked tables, chairs and stools collapsed around them. Battered and bruised, they exchanged gloomy glances as they surveyed the wreckage.
“Ada is going to be cross,” Elrohir stated.
Elladan nodded his agreement. “And Erestor.” Then, glancing at Elrohir again, he grinned. The city was nearly destroyed, but at least they were alive.
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