In the end, not even the elven maidens had it easy with Miquella. They touched and cleansed his body with devotion, as if it were something sacred, gazing at him with pure admiration. And yet, they couldn't help but feel they were doing something improper: the way the demigod looked at them, the faint sounds escaping his lips… everything made them wonder if, in some impossible way, they had broken their own medical composure and were sexually harassing the poor, beautiful boy.
Leda would have cut off fingers without hesitation, if not for knowing perfectly well that the elven maidens were not to blame: it was simply her lord playing a trick on them, as he often did with her as well.
Miquella smiled with a mischievous grace as he watched them withdraw burdened with existential doubts, while he remained naked on the bed, covered only by a light blanket. Leda, at his side, sighed in resignation: yet another small, playful mischief from her lord.
At last, the healers left the patients in peace… or rather, the healers were freed from the patients. The dwarves and the Eldens rested quietly; the former much more talkative now that no elves were around to argue with.
The conversation was lively: they spoke of the battle against the orcs, of Miquella's impressive distraction, of Leda's personal massacre, of the effectiveness of the troll runes, and of the mysterious whereabouts of Radagast. The reclusive brown wizard, incapable of dealing with others for too long, had vanished the moment his task was done. Even so, everyone knew from his words that sooner or later, he would cross their path again.
After a brief rest, the dwarves began to grow restless: they couldn't stand those overly spacious elven beds, and worse still, their stomachs roared demanding food. Just then a messenger arrived, announcing that the banquet was ready—or that the food could be brought to them directly.
No one wanted to stay. As soon as they heard the word "banquet," everyone dressed just enough to attend. Even if the dwarves hated elves, the promise of food excited them so much that they swore to gorge themselves until they burst.
Miquella was aided by a few elven maidens to get dressed. Of course, he could have done it himself; he was weak, but not invalid. And yes, Leda could have done it for him… but the demigod seemed to enjoy the company of the peculiar elven race, much to the annoyance of a certain knight. This provoked some teasing among the dwarves, but Miquella didn't care: he was having far too much fun. To top it off, he chose one of the elf maidens as his support to walk, clinging to her with such closeness that the serene damsel ended up blushing. He seemed so pure… and yet his hands squeezed with far too much naturalness, more than a "child" ever should.
...
Elrond had arranged a splendid banquet: meats, vegetables, grains, fruits, wines… nothing was missing from those tables. And no, it was not like in a certain film, where as mockery toward the dwarves no meat was served. Although it was true elves consumed less than the children of Durin, there was no shortage here.
The dwarves barely waited for the meal to begin: they leapt upon the trays with eagerness, hungry for a feast after such a battle. Elven modesty and etiquette were alien to them, and they had no intention of practicing them now or ever.
Dwarves and Eldens took long tables, close enough to speak without raising their voices… though of course, the dwarves shouted anyway. Around them, some elves served diligently, bringing new platters of delicacies again and again.
At a higher table, Gandalf, Thorin, and Elrond shared a place of leadership. Miquella too was entitled to sit there: no one denied a seat to the Elden leader. But he, with his habitual smile, refused and sent someone else in his place.
He preferred an intermediate table, between the Eldens and the dwarves, closer to the bustle. On each side, an elven maiden assisted him, upon whom he leaned while they fed him delicately, offering him bits of fruit and meat with their own fingers. The looks of the maidens revealed the confusion they felt: this did not seem right… and yet, no one dared stop him.
Of course, besides good food and drink, there was also music to accompany the feast. The elves, with their longevity, had perfected countless arts, and it was no surprise that many mastered one or more instruments with grace and skill.
The dwarves, however, did not quite like that delicate, serene music; they preferred something more intense, full of strength and rhythm, able to stir the blood and express overflowing passions, just as they were.
The Eldens, for their part, allowed themselves to enjoy the food and music, carried by memories of days in the Lands Between, when moments of peace such as these still existed. Rivendell, in a way, echoed those lost times.
"Don't you find elven maidens attractive?" Miquella suddenly asked, turning to Kilian with the same naturalness one uses to comment on the weather. He did so with so little tact that it unsettled both the dwarves and the elf maidens attending him.
"Don't I?" replied the dwarf woman, who still wore her mask, doubting her very life at the question. He hadn't even asked whether she liked men, but females… though for dwarves, it wasn't hard to mistake an elf's gender. "Why?" she asked nervously, as if the Elden leader's opinion were of utmost importance. She wondered if she ought to fancy elves, or if it was some kind of hint.
"Nothing, just curiosity," Miquella answered, shrugging like one dismisses a trivial matter, though inwardly, despite expecting it, he was surprised things were not as he remembered. At once, he swallowed another of those exotic elven morsels, which in his mind he described as "elven sushi," from the hands of a beautiful elf.
What Miquella did not notice was that, from that moment, Kilian and Filian began exchanging looks laden with silent intrigue, observing both him and the elf maidens at his side, as if trying to decipher some hidden riddle. Meanwhile, the dwarves, taking the question as an insult, hastened to boast among themselves how dwarf-women far surpassed any elf-maiden.
The demigod, however, soon stopped paying them attention and fixed his gaze on the musicians. Of all the Eldens, he was the most moved by those notes: they brought him memories of his childhood in the city of Leyndell. Forgetting for an instant his role as a weak boy in need of female aid, he rose and approached the performers. The elves looked at him with surprise, though also with curiosity.
After a few indications, which the elves accepted out of respect for Elrond's guest and which they easily followed with their mastery, the orchestra played a new melody, still too slow for the dwarves' liking.
Then, Miquella, standing among the musicians and with his gaze fixed on the fair landscape of Imladris, began to sing. The lyrics of the song were perhaps a joke aimed at the elf maidens who had felt taken advantage of by the demigod.
"Os iusti meditabitur sapentiam
Et lingua eius loquetur incidium
Beatus vir qui suffer tentationem
Quoniqm cum probates fuerit accipiet coronam vitae
Kyrie, ignis divine eleison
O quam sancta, quam serena
Quam benigna, quam amoena
O castitas lilium..." (Lilium de MoonSun)
His pure and ethereal voice filled the hall, resounding like a divine prayer. The song rose like a luminous hymn, radiating the hidden divinity within him. The elves, both those who listened and those who accompanied him with instruments, were spellbound. Even Elrond himself turned all his attention toward him.
The melody evoked powerful feelings, and the elf maidens he had touched couldn't help but sense that the singer was a pure and chaste being, and that his mischief was nothing but a blurred memory.
Elrond once more contemplated the capability of that Elden. He could not believe that in Middle-earth a human had arisen who could transmit such an impression to him. In fact, he was beginning to doubt Miquella was truly human. What if he was another Ainur? Perhaps even one of the Valar in disguise? Instinctively, he looked toward Gandalf for confirmation, but the wizard could only shake his head in frustration, wishing he could better understand the situation and these new companions. Perhaps, he thought, only Eru Ilúvatar could provide the answers he longed for.
Miquella, for his part, was also caught in the flow of his own song. Yet while others looked at him moved by the purity of the lyrics, he had someone else in mind. He could only think of that red flower, pure and devoted: his sister. He missed her deeply. Before all this, she had always been the closest person to him, but only after gaining a different perspective had he realized how much he had overlooked, how much he needed her… and how desperate he was to see her again and free her from her curse, no matter the cost.
When his voice finally faded, a reverent silence covered the place. Even the dwarves, who had promised to punch him if he sang such songs again, abstained: this time it hadn't been so bad… and it wasn't the right moment.
The elves, however, were not merely curious: now they were drawn to him like flies to honey. Both the musicians and the elf maidens attending him gathered around to speak with him, ask questions, share laughter… No one cared anymore if he had taken advantage of them earlier: what they had just witnessed outweighed any discomfort. They did not even protest when Miquella, with innocent audacity, leaned against their chests and embraced them during the conversation.
Leda, sitting beside Elrond, Gandalf, and Thorin, could not help but sigh. She had had to take Miquella's place at the high table, representing the Eldens before the elven lord, because her lord at that moment preferred being pampered by elf maidens. With feigned serenity, she watched as she was forced into the important conversations.
"This is Orcrist, the Goblin-Cleaver. A famous sword forged by the High Elves of the West, my kin. May it serve you well," explained Elrond, returning the sword to Thorin before moving on to the next. "And this is Glamdring, the Foe-Hammer. Sword of the King of Gondolin…"
At that moment, Miquella left the elf maidens and rejoined the table. He had noticed the pressure on Leda: although she appeared serene, inside she seethed with jealousy and disdain toward those "easy elf maidens" clinging to her lord.
That was when Moore approached.
"My lord, when we were in the trolls' cave I found this," he said, showing a small elven blade: the one that would later be called Sting.
"Hmm… That one, give it to Bilbo. I think it'll suit him better than me," replied Miquella with disinterest.
"But I think a good sword would serve you more," Dwalin retorted, trusting brute strength above magic. "You can't always rely on your spells."
"Yes, every man needs a weapon in his hand," added Gloin, earning the approval of several dwarves.
Miquella smiled softly.
"Believe me, if it were up to me, I'd carry a sword taller than myself and as wide as my head, cutting down all my enemies so nothing could stop me." Miquella replied, recalling some of the characters he had used in the game. "But I don't build muscle, no matter how much I try. So for now, I'll rely on my magic. Later I'll see about getting a proper weapon. Either way, I don't need to worry about brute strength," he said, looking at his followers, "because I have my faithful companions at my side."
The Eldens nodded in unison, affirming they would be their lord's weapons and shields on the battlefield, without a moment's hesitation.
"Take it, Bilbo. I'm sure it will serve you far better than me. You don't yet have a worthy sword, and you won't find one better than this," Miquella ordered Moore.
Moore obeyed, handing the blade to the hobbit before returning to his place at the table. Bilbo, astonished, unsheathed it: his elven blade shone with a delicate bluish glow. Though he was no warrior and his only practice had been with wooden sticks during the journey, he held it with respect, sincerely grateful to Miquella.
Elrond observed all with growing fascination. That boy was powerful, noble, surrounded by loyal followers… and precocious in many ways, as he could deduce from the elf maidens who discreetly withdrew, adjusting the garments he had clearly disordered. Unable to help himself, his eyes turned to the blonde woman—the young man's right hand—hoping to glean from her some clue about the Eldens. Although deep down, what he desired most was to speak directly with Miquella. And he knew that sooner or later, he would have that opportunity
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