𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 ━ lord of the rings

Fourteen: Schemes

For how long he had been below the Woodland King's reign Nymmril did not know. Between the meagre scrapings of berries farmed from lush elven gardens and fish swept from streams, between the rare moments of peace and rest that he managed to discover on occasion, there was no estimate as to the number of days and nights gone past. And Nymmril, exuberant though he may have been when brought to his knees before Thranduil on that first day, was beginning to wane. Like the final cloud left to rain on an otherwise clear rain, the isolative loneliness of his cold, cruel jail was a heavy weight on his mind. Indeed it showed on the poor man, bags of darkness staining the skin beneath his eyes. 

Often came the arrival of the Prince, for some obtuse duty Nymmril couldn't comprehend. They spoke little, if at all, and before anyone knew what was occurring the young elf was disappeared from the holding cell once more, gaining nothing from the silent encounters but pity reflected amongst cerulean eyes. Tauriel, though a light in the darkness she was, was often an absentee and none of the other guards were prone to risk their dutiful reputation. Whenever the elleth was around, Nymmril could pretend for a moment that he was once more surrounded by the kinship of Beorn, or of the dwarrow in his company. But of course, those moments were fleeting, as all are. 

Yes, Nymmril's time held captive beneath the labyrinth of Mirkwood was never-ending. Until the moment he heard a whisper, hurried and breathy as though the speaker had run a dozen kilometres before chancing to speak. The shifter recognised who the words belonged too before they were spoken, scenting their presence in the damp, cavernous air around him as they approached. Bilbo Baggins, the burglar, had come to Nymmril's aid. And on him was carried the scent of their companions: Earth and sweat, steel and grit. To Nymmril the hobbit carried with him the overwhelming feel of safety. And, much to his own surprise, of home. 

"Little One," he said softly. "How happy I am to hear your voice."

Bilbo, not visible to his eye, reached a hand through the bars, groping to Nymmril's own. The pressure was slight and gentle, but enough to fill the shifter's heart with the joy that was usually stored there. 

"And I you, Nymmril. It's been ever so much trouble to find you. Why are they keeping you down here, do you know?" The Hobbit's words were quiet enough to avoid attracting the attention of the guards on-duty, so quiet that even Nymmril had to strain to hear them.

"The King thinks me a danger. He does not like me very much, Bilbo."

"Impossible!" came the earnest reply, and Nymmril flushed happily. The small hand engulfed in his palm slipped away to the sound of quaint rattling. From nowhere was produced a single carven key. It was slotted through the bars towards the flaxen-haired man, pushed forward as far as the Hobbit's little arms could reach. 

"Why can't I see you?" Nymmril asked curiously, accepting the strange offering. He clutched the key tightly in his hand, running his thumb across the floral grooves pressed decoratively into the metal. 

"A Gentle Hobbit never tells, good sir!"

"Fascinating! But Bilbo - " The man never finished his sentence, words dropping from the tip of his tongue. The heavy door dragged across the floor as swung on its hinges, and suddenly the guard opposite was spurred to attention. 

The King of the Mirkwood was as intimidatingly beautiful as before, riches of silver-starlight glittering in his hair where before had sat a crown of nature. He was garbed in a similarly celebrative fashion that was a far cry from his previous attire. Red and shimmering silk robes rippled as he strode forwards into the room, cuffed with silver and embroidered intricately at the neckline. But his elegance did not pass to his trailing son. Staggering behind Thranduil was the Prince, similarly dressed in opulence. His golden hair fell loosely over his shoulders, kept from his face with a circlet of pale gold. Fiddling with his belled sleeves, the young elf peered up from his task to look into the room. His delightful features were pursed and contorted into a frown.