𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 ━ lord of the rings

Twelve: Prisoner

Those words followed the skin-changer as he was led away from his friends, the she-elf's grip strong and bruising on his tanned skin as she dragged him through the winding corridors of the woodland realm. Nymmril had been expecting to be taken back up to the throne room but apparently that wasn't going to be the case, unless they were taking a different route. It was highly unlikely though, as the platform on which he had stood earlier was high up in the centre of the cavern and currently he was being pulled down and down, descending deeper into the heart of Mirkwood.

"Where are we-" Nymmril began to speak, but was silenced by a glare from the auburn elf, her eyes burning. He swallowed, throat still scratchy. "I thought I was going to speak with the King..."

"You are."

"Then why am I-"

"I would keep quiet if I were you," the she-elf said. "Elves do not like their choices being questioned and Thranduil is no exception. He has chosen to meet you... elsewhere."

"Yes, I can see that," the shifter muttered, flexing his wrist beneath her iron grip. They turned a sharp corner, the taller man stumbling as he knocked his head against a sudden dip in the ceiling and missed a step. He went to reach up to rub at his forehead, but frowned as the elf restrained him from doing so with her tight grip. Nymmril sighed. "Where exactly is 'elsewhere'?"

"I have been commanded to take you down to the lowest levels of our realm."

"Why?"

"Did I not just tell you to keep quiet?" the she-elf hissed, her head snapping towards the shifter. Nymmril's eyes glittered in the dim light and he watched her expectantly. The elleth let out an irritated groan. "I am not supposed to speak to prisoners, so be thankful you have been given such a warning."

The skin-changer let out a musical laugh at her words. The heads of elves peered at the shackled man and his escort from their quarters at the sound, smiling irresistibly. Youths were not common, nor was such joviality often heard in the increasingly dreary realm. Even the auburn guard felt a small smile tugging at her lips, catching herself just as it began to spread on her face. She tightened her grip, which had loosened sometime during the journey down into the depths.

"If that is the case then I am glad I have been blessed with your words. You have a lovely voice," Nymmril replied finally as they again turned into a meandering corridor.

The she-elf was at loss for words, eyes wide. "Thank you."

The shifter hummed thoughtfully. "Do you sing?" he asked.

"I used to. But not anymore," she replied softly, features drawing into a small frown as if memories had been drawn up that she wished not to remember.

"That's a shame," Nymmril told her. "I would've liked to hear you - I'm sure you used to sound wonderful."

And with those words hanging in the air between them, the pair came to halt at the end of their final narrow hallway. The she-elf removed her hands from Nymmril's wrist and shoulder, biting at her lip as if she were contemplating something. They stood at the top of a long, stone staircase that carried down into the basement of Mirkwood.

"My name is Tauriel," the elleth exclaimed finally, her voice quiet. She picked up the shifter's hand and held it limply in her own, examining the faint purpling on his wrist. "I am sorry for using such force on you. It does not seem to have been required."

"I am Nymmril. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, but I beg you; fear not. You have done me no disservice." His hand was released and the she-elf once again placed a hand between his shoulder blades.