𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 ━ lord of the rings

Ten: Princeling

The company, minus one little hobbit, were forced to trekk for what seemed like hours through the jumbled forest. They were heading deeper and deeper into the trees, further and further away from Nymmril's keeper, and the skin changer found himself growing more weary each step. He was still walking at the head of the party beside Thorin, but more often than not he caught himself slowing down and stumbling over the roots and rocks in his path. The matter was made all the more embarrassing when the elves seemed to leap gracefully over such obstacles, leaving the young man blushing as he tripped and fell.

"You would do well to mind where you put your feet," the blonde elf in front of him said snidely, sending a knowing grin towards the shifter. Nymmril stared at the ground.

"Mind yourself, elf," Thorin snapped, sending a glance toward his companion who had been oddly silent. Blue eyes widened only slightly at the dwarf speaking up for the young man, and he glared at the King under the Mountain in annoyance before turning to speak in his own language to one of his fellows. The company crept on in silence. There was nothing wrong with the skin-changer, save that he was tired and worried for the outcome of the adventure he'd waited so long to join. Add to that having not eaten in what could've been days and having a throat rough as sandpaper from a lack of water, and you got Nymmril's current state.

 Skin changers were hardy folk - his radag especially, what with having come from the vast deserts and savannahs of Harad. But he had never witnessed those conditions, not since his parents had journeyed North and found Beorn. Nymmril was not cut out for such circumstances, unlike the dwarrow who were hardier than even they themselves could have guessed. And so the young shifter did not waste energy moving his jaw to speak. He knew Thorin preferred him silent, anyway: The dwarf was not one for idle conversation.

Eventually the trees on either side of the company began to thin, growing further apart and with thinner, smoother trunks. A change appeared to come over the forest, for it became less wild and malevolent. Instead of reaching out to harm, branches hung softly overhead, rife with golden leaves and good humour. The air, too, tasted different to the lion as he lifted his head to drink it in. It was fresher, a breeze flowing past them for the first time since they'd entered the Mirkwood. 

But though Nymmril noted these things and enjoyed them for what they were - a vastly different and welcome change to the dreary woods they'd been travelling in for days - one thing only was on his mind, and as soon as he saw it his heart began to fill with golden happiness, simple and pure: Sunlight, crisp and bright, was making its way through the canopies and sending its mottled rays onto the forest floor, lighting the way. A smile dawned on the skin-changer's face despite his current predicament. The grin remained stretched on his face regardless of the odd looks he received from those around him, Thorin sending him the most perturbed glance of them all.

"Is- Is something wrong?" The dwarf asked lowly, eyes darting to the elf at the front of the party to see if he was listening. A pointed ear was tilted towards the conversation, but he did not turn. "You seem very-"

"I am happy, Thorin, for it is the first time in several days that I have seen the sun that I love so much. Surely the emotion of joy is familiar to you?"

Thorin scowled as chuckles emitted from the elves around them. "You should swallow your tongue, shif- Nymmril," the dwarf replied, though something akin to hilarity glittered in his eyes. "You use it far too often."

If anyone noticed his slip up, they said nothing. It appeared Thorin was resistant to reveal the presence of the skin-changer. How the elves would react to the Golden One standing as a lion was beyond his comprehension. But as the two companions jested, Nymmril grew even more delighted as the sound of rushing water flooded his ears and they came up to a river at the edge of the tree-line. The sight of it made his throat ache and he longed to plunge his face into the current, but settled simply for staring into the crystal ripples as they flashed by.

The company were led across the body of water by the elves, traversing a magnificent bridge and coming to rest between enormous pillars that towered impressively above them. The auburn she-elf began speaking to one of the guards stationed either side of the thin, tall doorway into the hollowed woodland realm in Silvan, motioning with her head to the fair elf at the head of the party to continue onwards. The skin-changer gaped up at the entrance to the mountain, barely having time to take in the sights before he was ushered through with the rest of the company and the doors closed behind them.

Nymmril was sorry he had to leave the sun behind after only just reconciling with it, but perhaps it would be worth it to see the inside of the elf King Thranduil's kingdom. He had heard stories of the cold ruler from Beorn years ago, never having had the chance to enter Mirkwood himself to see if the stories were true. He felt almost honoured; a chance to step foot in the cavern was once in a lifetime for some, often never for most. The tales were of beauty and splendor, as many about the elvish kind were, and upon seeing the inside of the realm he was more than happy to attest to anyone who disbelieved the songs and poems weaved of the place.

More walking was to be done, it seemed, along a path that wound up and up until it reached a centred platform. Nymmril's calves ached as they slowly began the incline and he wished that, for only a minute, the elves would let the company rest. His endurance was not what it used to be, having been cooped up for so many years. But the dwarves seemed almost as intent to keep moving as their pointy-eared enemies and so the shifter simply had to pull himself together and continue. It was not all bad - the charm of the place lifted Nymmril's spirits somewhat. Torches lit the way that seemed to hang in the air as if by magic and they reminded the skin-changer of the stars in the sky above the Carrock. Sometime in their ascent the elves had arranged the dwarrow single file, Thorin at the head of the company and Nymmril (being the tallest) at the back, and finally they came to a stop before a throne of fantastical, twined wood rooted in the core of the caves.

Astride it sat an elf of unparalleled cunning and beauty, who's glacier eyes and pale hair, silver-gold as starlight, reminded the shifter a great deal of their pretty blonde captor. King Thranduil - for there was no doubt in Nymmril's mind of who he was standing before - had features sharp as a blade and atop his head rested an ornate crown of twisted branches and thistles and berries and crisp autumn leaves. The aura of grandeur surrounding the elf took the skin-changer's breath away and he found himself uncontrollably stooping to bow his head, averting his eyes. 

Thankfully he and the rest of the company were forced to their knees either way and so he did not singly make a fool out of himself. However, the King held up a hand to stop his people when they went to make Thorin stoop. A King, afterall, did not bow to another King. Especially not ones so prideful as those of Mirkwood and Erebor. 

Nymmril noticed that the other elves had taken steps back from the throne and the prisoners, standing further down the path with arms folded behind them in respect and heads bent low in the presence of their King. All save the blonde elf, who stepped forward to... stand... next to the throne.

Nymmril was certain his eyebrows disappeared behind his hairline at the realisation. The Prince of Mirkwood. So that was why they looked so similar, sharing the same sindarin features. The skin-changer had only heard of him in passing; Thranduil kept his son on a tight leash.