𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 ━ lord of the rings

Fifteen: Bargains and Barrels

With the little Hobbit's words in mind, Nymmril was enlightened in much the same way a zealot is when given proof of their worshipped deity. To know that bilbo believed in him – and had sought him out amongst the twisting halls of Mirkwood, despite all the dangers – was enough to banish all sulking thoughts, because by his very nature, Fleetfoot was forgiving. And though days of barren unhappiness had plagued his thoughts for nigh a fortnight, he could at once banish those lonesome times to the back of his mind. The matters of his heart, so desolate and diluted from harsh companionship – softened only by the rare, gentle word of the elleth he had forced into acquaintancy – were a different matter entirely, however.

For where his mind was sharp and keen, a knife grated against the stone in absoluteness... Nymmril's heart was shadowed.

It takes a toll on one's self, being jailed deep beneath the ground. And indeed, it took its toll on the young loion; he was born to bathe beneath the sunlight, to desire companionship with others and prowl with the kith of his pride. In the Elven King's dungeons he had had been submitted to neither, a plot that the cold majesty of Thranduil knew would drain the skin-changer of his tough will. It was a harsh justice to pass, if it could even equate to such a thing; to deprive one of one's natural needs. And like a plant without water, Nymmril had been wilting.

Yes, Fleetfoot was forgiving. But there were some things that even the most cherubim of beings cannot forgive, and Nymmril's heart refused to buck the shame of his capture.

Perhaps that is why the young man sat deliberating so strongly his escape on that very same day that Bilbo had named to be their grab for freedom. He was sat cross-legged, flaxed hair a mess of muted gold, as he watched the heavy door across from him. It stayed steadfast, moving only with the flickering candle-light that spun golden weaves of silk across the cavernous room. The fire was the closest to day that Nymmril had been privy to beneath Elvish jurisdiction, and he was beginning to loathe it.

Bilbo's coming had been a calling card for freedom that the young man had not expected: A chance to be ride of the dreary place once and for all, and to escape the confines of sawn iron and chain. He yearned for it, in his heart of hearts, to run free above ground once more!

But the beastly half of him roared that their posting in Mirkwood was not yet complete.

Not until I see the sun, the great cat within him growled. And not until the King never sees it again.

It should be known that controlling a wild animal is a difficult task: Controlling the one that lives within is even more impossible. For the skin-changer, his radag was as much a part of him as his eyes, his fingers, his bone.

Beorn was wild because of the bear; hulking and furious and every inch his monstrous interior – Nymmril's keeper had always struggled with controlling that half of his soul. But the boy himself had often opted to let himself move freely, shift freely, and that was the reason he himself maintained such a lax worldview. Care free was the term folk used to describe him, and that was because he kept his radag sated: The lion didn't hunger, it didn't yearn to be free, because Nymmril didn't fight it. They were two halves of a whole – one and the same. The lion's desires were his own, and Nymmril would never deny himself... Not under normal circumstances.

But for the last two weeks, Nymmril had been keeping half of himself locked away: He was trapped, in both worlds, and wild animals are not meant to be kept captive.

Tauriel watched him from afar, noting his vacant eyes and furrowed brow, and even beaneath her soft gaze – the kindest of looks he had been subjected to in those long days, a bar not held so incredibly high, albeit – he bristled. With the knowledge that he could finally be gone from this dismal, dank cavern, he was elated. Jittery. Anxious. The great cat was waiting and ready, pacing back and forth within the forefront of his mind, great paws desperate for the chance to leap upon flesh and bone and –