𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 ━ lord of the rings

Twenty: A Poisonous Shadow

Though the day had waned, the same lifeless scourge that had settled over Laketown refused to be dispelled. He felt it keenly - a sickly lethargy weighing on his body and spirit. Nymmril was certain that far above, the sun had risen to its greatest height, yet its warm glow was nowhere to be seen. Only companionship pushed away those feelings of despair that had haunted him in the Elven king's cellars. "A true friend illuminates greater than any star," Beorn had once told him. And though Nymmril was loathe to admit it, such was his love for the daystar, his Keeper was almost correct in his unfathomable musings.

Bard's children were positively delightful, an energetic bunch of youths that had Nymmril feeling closer to home than he had since he'd abandoned his dear Carrock. The mindless chatter of the three cubs brought a sense of normalcy and warmth that had oft been missing since Nymmril's own days stumbling about in the dusty knolls of his homeland – days that now seemed veiled in a distant haze. 

Yet, beneath his wan smile and gentle laughter, there was a shadow upon his spirit, a weariness that clung to his bones. And he knew from whence it had come. The orcish weapon that had pierced his golden hide not a tenday ago, blighted with lion's bane. And the symptoms were beginning to rear their discouraging heads.

From the farthest reaches of the Bard homestead came the sound of clattering tomfoolery and dwarven complaint as they breached the surface. Nymmril could smell them, foul as orc-blood. He suppressed a shiver, feeling a sudden chill despite the hearth's warmth.

"Father says you're a skin-changer," Bain said lowly, the Bardson's eyes wide with laid-back curiosity.

Nymmril glanced towards the boy's father as the man lingered at the window, staring out over the lake. Was permission not required first to spill another's secrets, be it to their brood or a stranger? A tremulous feeling welled within his gut: uncertainty, perhaps, or the forewarning of some unspoken ailment.

"Who would I be to call him a liar?" Nymmril said eventually. He was unaccustomed to feeling so unsettled.

Tilda was perched nearby. The little girl tugged at his sleeve. "What's a skin-changer?"

"It's like a werewolf," the elder daughter, Sigrid, informed.

Nymmril shook his head. "Not a werewolf, dear girl. I am not restricted to the moon's cycles."

"He's not even a wolf, you know," came the smooth interjection of Fili, accompanied by a nose-wrinkling scent that made Nymmril's senses recoil in distaste.

One by one, the members of his merry band swept into the room. They were covered in grime, of the sort so offensive and repellent that Nymmril did not even wish to know the cause. His stomach churned, an unfamiliar queasiness taking hold.

"My friends," the young man murmured, lips thin-set in a grimace. "I did not see you enter this fair home. I had no idea you were so stealthy!"

"Didn't come through the door, lad," Dwalin groused, his voice a low rumbling.

A smirk rose on Bard's face. "No indeed. A company of dwarves stumbling into my home is hardly inconspicuous."

From the looks on the dwarrow, sopping damp and dripping like wet cats, Nymmril did not need to ask how they had entered. The smell was as much a giveaway as their pitiful expressions.

Sigrid hesitated, getting to her feet. "I'll... make some tea."

"Would you like some help?" Nymmril offered. She smiled and shook her head.

"You're a guest. Mama would scold me if she were still here and I let you anywhere near the kitchen!"

"As you wish," Nymmril said. He bowed his head, opting instead to give up his seating for his shivering companions. "Come, Balin, Bombur... Sit. Please."