𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 ━ lord of the rings

Two: Company

The young man woke for the second time that day when the sun was bright and awake, rays riding bright and strong onto the ground below. He was reluctant to open his eyes, for his little awakening hours before had drained him somewhat and the rest of his night was full of fitful, frightening dreams of fire and gold and blood. But with the promise of an adventure on his mind, Nymmril dragged himself from his pallet and shook himself to rid the weariness, washing his face in a wooden basin and taking several moments to glance at and perfect his reflection in the cool water.

By the time he had dragged up the courage to leave his room and meet Beorn, Gandalf and the rest in the dining room, he was the last to arrive. All thirteen dwarves were seated around the large wooden table, seated upon an oddity of chairs, stumps and logs. At the head of the table sat an extremely grim looking dwarf, regal and powerful and the only one (save Gandalf) who seemed unphased by Beorn's lumbering figure loitering around with a jug of creamy goat's milk. Also at the table, somewhat hidden by the piles of fresh bread rolls with homemade butter, soups and honey cakes, was a halfling. Nymmril started at the tiny creature with wonder. He had never seen one before, outside of the scripts and scrolls of his people's documentations of Middle Earth's residents.

The young man was glad Gandalf had managed to introduce the fourteen to Beorn successfully, for he had been fearing the Bear would swallow them all whole and thus there would be no adventure for him to go on. Nymmril ran a hand through his shaggily-shorn, golden hair, nervousness buzzing through his entire being as he stood out of view around the corner, debating on whether to interrupt or not. He did not have to strain his ears to catch the words fluttering around the table; talk of Azog the Defiler and his horrific ways. Nymmril remembered the terror the Orc caused all too well. Subconsciously the young man rubbed at his wrists, pale skin tainted with pale scar tissue from where the bonds and shackles had been bound too tight.

"There are others like you?" The halfling asked suddenly, drawing the man out of his pious stupor, away from the confines of his memories. Nymmril's ears twitched at the creature's voice, noting its temp and pitch and the earthly tone of its tongue. The halfling was used to comfort, it seemed, but also liked to get his hands dirtied in the soft soils back home. The young man smiled at the thought as he listened to the halfling speak.

"Once there were many," Beorn replied sullenly, replenishing the mug of a particularly rotund dwarf.

"And now?" At the halflings queries Beorn's shoulders stiffened sadly, and he turned back towards his small guest.

"Now... There are only two."

The walls of the wooden building seemed to expand, as if it had inhaled just as sharply as those that it encompassed. Nymmril could hear the boards creak and stretch as it did so, much like he could hear the beating hearts of the company - of every dwarrow (save the pretentiously regal, handsome one at the table's end) and of the halfling and even of the wizard that was guest in his home, who was sat leaning against the wall much in the same position Nymmril had left him in that morning chewing on the same pipe. The stuffiness of grief settled upon the group and weighed heavy on his own heart.

"Two you say?" came the words of a particularly northern-sounding dwarf, "But here there is only one!"

"Aye, there are two of us. There is me, and then there is Nymmril."

"Are you much alike?" Asked another dwarf, sounding young and keen to learn. He had in his hands a thick journal, and had opened it to one of the back pages, scribbling notes beneath a quick, well-drawn sketch of Beorn himself. The Bear opened his mouth to respond, but Nymmril hopped quickly from his hiding spot, winking at Gandalf as he leaped into view.