First Age, Shortly after the Founding of Gondolin
“Nimlachon? Is that thy name now?” A familiar voice rings out across the pavilion, hot on the ears of whom the words are intended like the summer winds that roll in through the white archways.
The ellon, clad in deep purple robes and adorned with glittering white jewels, turns to face the one to whom the voice belongs, his dark eyes wide and his lips parted in surprise; though a crease in his brow belies a greater betrayal than this. The crowd who had stopped to listen to his stories quickly disperses, whispering and murmuring to themselves about the arrival of the elleth and what was to come next.
Standing in the archway is a Noldë with tumbling dark locks and bearing a dress of netted lace; amethyst gems sit on her ears and neck, and they glitter in the red and gold hues of the setting sun. With arms wide outstretched, she approaches the ellon with a confident smile sitting on her lips.
“Dearest,” she greets in a tone dripping with warmth, like the dying sun settling over the pavilion. His eyes watch her movements with old grief, as though beholding a ghost. She steps closer and takes his hand in one of hers, reaching up with a delicate grace to cup the shining gems pierced in his ears. “I see why thou art known by such--like white fire does thy jewelry glint in the light.”
She continues to speak, not giving him the chance, even as he goes rigid beneath her touch. “I remember once when I called thou Arosso; royal terror,” the elleth murmurs, moving her touch from the jewels in his ear to lay her hand against his cheek. Nimlachon withers, his eyes closing as he recalls a time he would have let her touch him without resistance. Yet that time and place are lost to them now, and a shadow falls over his face.
”What are you doing here?” He asks in a tone biting, like a cold wind. He pulls his cheek away from her hand, forcing her to suffer the loss of warmth against it as he glowers down at her. “Why have you come to this place, Rainisse?”
“Gondolin is a safe refuge for all,” the elleth replies in an airy chuckle, her brows furrowing in confusion as Nimlachon begins to leer over her. She releases his hand now, taking a step back as she must look up at him, and realizing that his gaze holds no love or fondness, but rather ire.
The archer shakes his head in disbelief, but no amusement is to be found in his eyes. “That is not of which I speak. Again, I ask, why are you here? Speaking to me? How dare you?”
Rainisse straightens her back and raises her gaze to meet his, shaking her head in a manner befitting an elleth of noble grace. “How dare I? Do you know how long I have sought you out? Do you have any idea how ashamed you make me? For me to come to you now, and have you refuse me?” As she speaks, growing bolder and louder, Nimlachon’s expression continues to sour.
“Perhaps,” he begins in a quiet voice--eerily so, for how cold his words are, belying a fury that cannot even be expressed through rage. He begins to step closer towards her, and with every steady footfall, Rainisse takes a harried step back. “Perhaps you should have thought of such before leaving me to die upon the Helcaraxë.” He continues to walk towards her, forcing her back into the high archway of the pavilion from whence she had entered. They stand there in the fading rays of the sun as he continues to speak. “Perhaps you should have thought of such before raising the blade to strike down our kin.”
Rainisse draws herself up again, though now her brows are furrowed in an expression of fear and conviction, of wounded pride as she looks upwards to her beloved. “This cruelty, Nimlachon,” she exhales in a trembling breath. “It befits thee not.”
“Art thou afraid I shall wear the crown of it better than thee?” He asks, and Rainisse takes a step back down the stairs of the pavilion, the words themselves causing her affront. He is mocking her stilted language, as well as calling to light her dishonorable actions. She opens her mouth to reply in kind, but Nimlachon does not give her the chance.
“Get thee gone from my sight,” he says quietly, harshly. For once, the light of Aman within his eyes is dimmed, cold, and devoid of warmth. “I know you not, and I never did.”
The elleth stutters, but she can find nothing more to say. Knowing now that she had no place at his side any longer, she turns; picking up her skirts in her hands, she flees down the white steps of the pavilion, fading from Nimlachon’s sight around the turn of a corner as the sun dips beneath the mountainous horizon.
