𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 ━ lord of the rings

Sixteen: Fight for Freedom

The sun beat down upon Nymmril's face, a vast island of immense heat and prosperity. The rays pierced his tanned skin like spears, and the young man let his eyes drift closed, a vessel to the loving warmth. Tears pricked at his eyes, welling behind the dam of his emotions in what was preparing to be a flood.

But Nymmril did not cry, he could not allow himself – for Prince Legolas stalked beside him, an arm clenched stiffly about the shifter's bicep to avoid any mishaps, and there was a somber shadow upon the elf's fair face. Nymmril bore witness to the shifting emotions playing upon his features; questions piling a top each other that would not be voiced and so never answered. But the young man could not find it within his heart to empathise with the princeling. Indeed he was pressed to do anything but acknowledge the jealous blue sky and fields of golden glory that soared overhead, revealed inch by inch in a teasing manner by the dappled tree-line.

Oh, how Nymmril had missed the sun. His radag growled graciously, and a pleasant feeling crept into his gut at the warmth injected into his veins.

He must not forget the cause for his freedom, Nymmril told himself. He could not enjoy the moment as he might have. The guards flanking him on all sides ensured that. As did the severe, icy gaze that suddenly landed upon him, punishing him with anxiety for little reason:

"Why have we stopped?" Nymmril asked. Legolas' lips formed a thin line, and he released his grip on the man to reach for an arrow from his quiver, stringing his bow fluidly.

"Can you not hear the river? She rages just beyond those trees."

Nymmril cocked his head. Truly the elf told no lies; the bubbling roar of water surged over the crest of a hill nearby. More than that, the shifter heard the tell-tale argumentative grumblings of his dwarrow, and the beaming smile it sent to his face was brighter even than his beloved sun.

"Yes, I hear it."

"Then perhaps you can hear the foul beasts trampling my father's lands. The uruks are close at hand, boy," Legolas sniffed. He nodded to his comrades, and a dark-haired lieutenant crept forth, a beautiful blade of woven-steel balanced in their hands. They offered it tentatively to Nymmril, who simply stared down at the weapon. "Take this sword, if you wish. I have no desire to see my father's prisoner killed."

"I do not know how to wield such a thing," Nymmril admitted.

"You said you could fight, did you not?"

There was an unnecessary anger in the prince's voice, and Nymmril frowned: "And indeed I can. But I have my own ways, and my own devices, through which I impale my enemies."

Legolas raised a fair brow, intrigue ghosting his features. Before he could respond a coarse bellowing echoed through the vicinity – a vicious cry of war, promising pestilence and famine and all that came with the coming purge. Nymmril flinched away from it. The elvish prince's demeanour shifted rapidly, face turning stern and determined. Members of their own attack party brandished their own blades silently. The elvish needed no war-horns.

"Show me, then. Show me why my father kept you hidden so deep in the roots of Mirkwood."

Nymmril grinned brilliantly, and he leaped away from the group. Through the air he flew, skin rippling and bones twisting grotesquely. The young man landed upon a great, jutting rock high up on the hill... But he was no longer a man:

The great lion stood, tall and proud, tail dusting the ground as it swished with delight. It shook its golden mane, muscles rippling excitedly beneath its velvet pelt of sunlight. The animal let out a gruff, chuffing growl, maw wrinkling to reveal dangerously pointed teeth designed to tear flesh apart.