With the dwarves already half satisfied and tired of that solemn atmosphere that, according to them, felt more like a funeral than a dinner, they began to show their true nature. Banging on the table and cutlery as if they were instruments, they improvised a rough, discordant song to compete with the melody of the elves and of Miquella. Amid laughter, deep voices, and scraps of food flying through the air, they filled the hall with an irreverent clamor that, nevertheless, felt much more natural and pleasant to them.
The elves and the Eldens could only watch this display with a mix of surprise and resignation, while Miquella, for his part, returned to the elven maidens, who, despite their initial mistrust, now appeared more permissive. Although the young one's façade of fragility had completely vanished, there were still those willing to feed and tend to him, entranced by the strange allure he radiated and the great performance he had given.
The dinner finally ended when the dwarves, satiated and drunk with joy, left more food on the floor than on the plates.
The Company was led to their quarters for the night. Since most of them had already recovered, there was no longer any need to remain in the infirmary. The dwarves settled in one section, and the Eldens in another, with elven servants nearby to attend to their needs. Of course, some might think this was more a matter of surveillance, and though Elrond denied it in words, deep down he knew he wanted to keep an eye both on the dwarves' messiness and the movements of those enigmatic Eldens.
Once settled in their quarters, Miquella went out to stroll through the elven lands. He was not alone, for Leda accompanied him. Officially, to protect him, but also to prevent her master from harassing more elven ladies… or, as she saw it, to make sure the elven harlots did not seduce her lord. Despite it all, she knew her master would never be the deceived one and, when it came to the opposite case, she wasn't sure she could stop him if he so wished.
Rivendell was a beautiful place, a site that seemed to be in its prime. But that was its essence, for in that corner of the world, time itself seemed to have completely stopped.
"It is beautiful, isn't it?" Miquella said naturally, leaning on the railing of a balcony, watching as night claimed the valley. "I can't help but think of our home… and how much I long to rebuild it."
"You will raise a place even more beautiful and eternal than Rivendell, my lord," Leda affirmed without hesitation, with fervent hope that such a thing would happen soon.
"Perhaps… though it's not a competition," he replied with a slight smile. "But if it were, I'd say I have a certain advantage thanks to a strange woman."
He remembered Yavanna and the seeds he guarded so carefully among his most precious belongings, alongside that doll of Ranni that, as always, came back to his mind whenever he gazed upon the moon.
He kept walking aimlessly, though with the strange sensation that something pulsed within him. He felt an absence, as if someone or something was missing, an invisible debt impossible to recognize. For a moment he felt drowsy, but soon regained his pace, wandering until he reached a commemorative site where a great mural depicted a crucial scene in the history of Middle-earth.
"Sauron…" he whispered, contemplating the image of the Dark Lord just moments before being defeated by a man.
He turned, and his eyes fell upon the pedestal holding the shards of Narsil, the sword that had severed the One Ring from the enemy's hand. He approached with curiosity and, after glancing at Leda with a pitiful look, his knight stepped forward to lift him by the armpits. Thus Miquella was able to reach the hilt.
Once back on the ground, he took his time to contemplate and feel the remains of the legendary blade. He wondered if there was truly something special in that steel, or if it had simply been the invisible hand of fate that allowed such feats in the past… and the ones that still awaited in the future.
Finally, unable to resist, he closed his fingers around the broken grip and swung it as if wielding a whole sword. With playful movements, he slashed at the air, shifting stance like a child pretending to fight with a stick, imagining it was a lightsaber. That childish touch, so out of place and yet so proper to him, surfaced once again.
"You know, some would say playing with relics is a sign of disrespect…" a serene voice was heard. Soon, Elrond appeared from a side door. "But I suppose that if it is you, it could be considered more an honor for the relic."
"Good evening, Lord Elrond," Miquella greeted with a calm gesture, as if he hadn't just been caught playing with the sword's remains. "I was merely admiring a weapon of such renown… Besides Glamdring and Orcrist, this is the only other great relic of this land I've had the chance to see up close." He lied softly, though with a tint of truth in his words. "It's a pity it's broken… although perhaps, if it weren't, I might not even be able to handle it."
"Indeed. Now it is more a memory than a weapon." The lord of Imladris nodded, watching the hilt in the demigod's hands and the fragments resting upon the pedestal.
"It could use a restoration. I know someone capable not only of repairing it, but of enhancing it beyond what it once was." Miquella commented, standing on tiptoe to try to return the piece without having to throw it and hope to hit the pedestal—such would hardly be appropriate before the elven lord.
Elrond calmly extended his hand, and Miquella handed him the hilt. With care, the elf placed it alongside the other fragments, with a silent reverence, before turning his gaze back to the young demigod.
"I would very much like to meet such a master of the forge," he admitted with genuine interest.
"I would also love to introduce him to you. In fact, I would like to already have him among us as the personal blacksmith of the Eldens… But the time is not yet. First I must establish a worthy home to summon him." (Miquella)
"Rivendell has plenty of room, should you wish it," Elrond replied with a faint smile. "I sense in you far more similarities with the elves than with the men of Middle-earth… Despite your… peculiarities." He hesitated briefly, recalling what he had seen and heard from the maidens, about his curious hands… but let it go. Deep down, he felt it: this being shared the purity and immortality of his own kind, connected with the world in a profound way. "You may make Rivendell your home, if you so wish," he concluded, considering the possible changes he would have to make if they decided to stay.
"I thank you for your generous offer," Miquella replied with courtesy, though firmly. "Rivendell is beautiful, and it would be an honor to remain here… but my people must find their own place. Do not worry, just as you have welcomed us, we will also invite you to our land once we finally have it."
"I will patiently await that day, Prince Miquella," Elrond responded solemnly. He had already heard many stories about him from the dwarves and Gandalf, understanding a little more of the background of such an individual, which only deepened his curiosity.
"Just Miquella, for now," corrected the demigod with a faint shadow in his gaze. "There is no realm of which I can call myself prince." His words, soft but firm, carried a touch of confusion and nostalgia. The title inevitably reminded him of his lost home… and, even more, of his father/mother.
At that very moment, Gandalf entered, accompanied by Thorin and Balin, interrupting the conversation between Miquella and Elrond.
"Forgive us, Lord Elrond, but we hoped you could help us resolve certain doubts," the wizard said in a diplomatic tone. Noticing Miquella at the side, he hesitated an instant about whether this was the best moment, but after all it had taken to convince Thorin to come, he could not let the chance slip.
"What kind of doubts?" Elrond asked, intrigued. The presence of the dwarves and Gandalf was no small matter for Middle-earth either, so he had to pay attention.
"We have in our possession a map, but we cannot fully interpret it," Gandalf explained, casting a significant look at Thorin, as if urging him to hand it over. However, at this point, the heir of Durin showed evident resistance.
Gandalf restrained the twitch in his eye. Thorin's pride was exasperating: not even now did he seem willing to trust the elves, even if his stubbornness worked against him. The wizard bit back the words that threatened to turn into insults toward the dwarves' obstinacy.
"Thorin, Elrond is one of the few in all Middle-earth capable of deciphering this map. Do you want our entire journey to have been in vain?" he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose in weariness.
The dwarf hesitated for a few moments, clinging to his old grudges against the elves, but in the end yielded. Gandalf was right: they could not waste time, and indeed, Elrond had shown courtesy so far. Thorin decided he could part with the map for a while.
Elrond received it calmly and opened it, examining its details. Miquella leaned in curiously, standing on tiptoe to peek over, alternating his gaze between the map and the elf's face.
At times, he couldn't help his childish, curious side from surfacing—something that had begun since he merged the perspectives of an immortal child and a mortal adult. His mind, it seemed, alternated between different stages and permutations of personality, though he was always the same Miquella, merely showing another facet of himself.
Elrond gently ignored his intrusion and concentrated on the ancient text. Centuries of experience made him the most suitable for the task.
"Erebor…" he murmured as he recognized the mountain. "What interest do you have in that place?"
"Purely…" Gandalf began, but was interrupted.
"We are going to kill the dragon," Miquella announced with complete naturalness, causing the wizard to nearly lose his balance.
"That… would not be wise… not to say a terrible decision," Elrond replied, glancing sideways at Gandalf, who in turn averted his gaze, uncomfortable.
"But it is the decision made," Miquella insisted without a hint of doubt. "If we win, one less danger will remain. If we fail, it will mean we did not give our best and will deserve our fate. Can you read the map for us, Lord Elrond? We will depart in any case, but we would appreciate your help."
Elrond watched him in silence. He did not doubt that this young one with the strange aura truly meant to march toward the Lonely Mountain, with or without his help. After thinking for a few seconds, he decided to contribute his knowledge; later he would decide how to act upon what he now knew.
"Cirith Ithil…" he said solemnly. "It is natural you could not decipher it: part of the text is written in moon runes."
"And can you read them?" Thorin asked, his anxiety barely contained.
"These runes were carved on the eve of the summer solstice, under the light of a crescent moon, nearly two hundred years ago. And moon runes can only be read under a moon of the same aspect and in the same season in which they were written," Elrond explained calmly. "You are in luck: tomorrow we will have the same moon. Then they can be read." He concluded, handing the map back to Thorin.
The dwarf let out a sigh, a mixture of relief and impatience. That the map could be read was good news, but the waiting gnawed at him. Deep inside, he even doubted: what if the elf was lying to buy time and share the information with others?
"Crescent moon?" Miquella murmured, lifting his gaze to the sky. Then he smiled with a gleam in his eyes. "And what if we didn't have to wait until tomorrow?" he asked, catching the immediate attention of everyone present.