Apart from Leda, everyone present turned toward Miquella in mild confusion; however, his words, the certainty in his voice, and—above all—the track record he had already demonstrated made them trust him this time without much resistance.
Elrond led the way to a particular sector of Rivendell, one reserved for studies that required the direct influence of the moon.
It was a rocky platform jutting out from the mountainside, surrounded by small waterfalls whose murmurs accompanied the night breeze. At its center, as if the earth itself had shaped it, a massive semi-transparent crystal rose from the ground in the form of a natural table. From there, the night sky and the stars could be seen without obstruction, and both moonlight and sunlight fell upon the place with perfect clarity.
Upon arrival, everyone waited expectantly for Miquella's action, for he had claimed he could solve the problem of moonlight. Elrond unfolded the map and offered it, stepping aside to give him space at the crystal table. But the demigod shook his head: he did not need the map. He walked calmly onto the platform, as if his decision had already been made.
The others stared, not understanding. What would this child do? For a moment, some imagined—with a mix of fear and awe—that he might try to move the moon itself to suit his purposes. The very thought was unsettling.
Ignoring their gazes, Miquella lifted his eyes to the night star. Memories of Ranni surfaced in his mind, but he pushed them aside with effort. He joined his hands before his chest, channeling the energy of the ring he bore. Perhaps this was an unnecessary expense—it was enough to wait one more day—but he wished to do it. A spell that evoked his sister, a way to honor her.
Energy began to glow in his palms, an artificial moonlight, as pure as the real thing. His brow furrowed with concentration as he slowly extended his hands.
Then the firmament seemed to waver before the eyes of those present. Floating high above, though not too distant, a second moon appeared, smaller, momentarily covering the view of the original. It was not real but a magical manifestation, yet it radiated power and closeness as if it were. The onlookers held their breath, unable to look away.
Miquella did not relax after summoning it; on the contrary, he redoubled his effort. With a slow movement of his hands, he made the illusory moon shift until it became a perfect crescent. Only then did he exhale, relieved at his success.
"There. A small tweak to the lunar spells of my half-sister's line, and here it is: a crescent moon," said Miquella. A weight lifted from him, but now came the true test. "See if it works, because that moon won't last forever."
The energy of that false moon was palpable, an aura that made the onlookers tense and intrigued—especially Elrond. Once again, the elf-lord found himself overwhelmed by curiosity toward a boy wielding powers worthy of the Children of the Creator, the Ainur. His conviction that this was Miquella's true identity—or something akin to it—grew ever stronger.
Though he would have liked to keep speculating on Miquella's nature and marveling at his abilities, the demigod's words reminded him that they could not waste more time. Elrond approached the crystalline structure, which now shone brightly with the moon's intense light. He placed the map upon it, and at once it revealed what it concealed.
"Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the keyhole," Elrond read aloud for all to hear.
The dwarves frowned. They were pleased to have uncovered the secret, yet the situation did not bode well.
"That's bad… We have little time left," Thorin said, doing his calculations. They still had months, but the journey to Erebor and any setbacks along the way meant even a small miscalculation could cost them their chance.
"It's not such a big deal," replied Miquella carelessly. "I suppose we can still make it, and even if we don't, we can always try the front gate of the mountain. We plan to kill the dragon, and though losing the element of surprise is bad, we're already prepared for everything to go wrong."
"I wouldn't recommend provoking the dragon," Elrond interrupted. "If you fail, its wrath will devastate the innocents nearby. You shouldn't even consider facing it, but if you are going to provoke it, then you must do everything in your power to kill it and not let your failure harm others."
Miquella merely nodded in respect, with no intention of changing his plans. He moved his hands, dissolving the false moon from the sky and restoring everything to normal. Then he took Leda's hand and left. The rest of the discussion was insignificant to him. What Gandalf, Elrond, or Thorin thought in that moment mattered far less than the prospect of going to bed and embracing Leda or Freya as they slept… and, of course, the Ranni doll he seemed to miss after that lunar spell.
...
The following morning brought Thorin's confirmation: the company would depart in one or two days at most. Time was pressing, but they needed to replenish supplies and ensure everyone was ready before facing the next critical point of the journey: the Misty Mountains.
Miquella sighed with a hint of melancholy at leaving Rivendell so soon. The place felt like an ideal holiday retreat, but he knew they had to move on. There would be time to rest later—if they managed to resolve everything that lay ahead. Of course, that didn't mean he wouldn't make the most of every last moment there.
The dwarves, true to their crude and shameless style, wasted no time in taking over one of the grand ornamental elven fountains, using it as their makeshift bath. They all dove in naked, splashing, shoving, and wrestling with laughter, offering a spectacle that forced any elf who passed by to immediately turn away in horror. Elrond himself, accompanied by his aide, could only sigh in resignation: they were guests, and though their behavior bordered on the unacceptable, he did not plan to expel them. By then, what truly worried him was that the dwarves had nearly finished off all the wine reserves in the kitchens.
The Eldens, for their part, were far more reserved. If they were seen outside their rooms, it was only because Miquella explicitly ordered it.
Speaking of him, he too decided to bathe, though not in a public fountain but in the elven baths: a refined Roman-style complex, unusual in the region but frequented by some elves for conversation and relaxation.
Of course, Miquella did not head for the men's section. No. He, with the natural ease of one who believed he had every right, followed Leda straight into the women's section, entering without the slightest sense of impropriety.
The elven women present could not hide their surprise at his arrival. And this time there was no room for doubt: naked, Miquella clearly showed his gender, dispelling the rumors of those who still thought he might be a girl.
As murmurs grew around him, he exchanged glances with the elves as if nothing were amiss. Leda, also naked, attended him calmly and devotedly, washing his body with the care of someone handling a fragile work of art. The whispers did not cease, but the demigod smiled serenely, enjoying both his knight's pampering and the spectacle around him, though several elves tried to cover themselves discreetly.
After the washing, both moved to the main pool, where they immersed themselves together and leaned against the wall, letting the hot water envelop them in deep relaxation.
The elves, somewhat uneasy, remained only out of pure curiosity toward that enigmatic child. His innocent appearance made his presence more tolerable, though, to their surprise, his gaze sometimes seemed so intense it tickled them, as if he were seeing more than he should.
As time passed, some of the calmer elven women dared to approach. They were the older ones, with steadier spirits, who set the example and encouraged the younger ones to join the conversation. Curiosity was natural: the demigod was so different, yet so similar to the elves, that it seemed impossible not to be drawn to the mystery he radiated.
Miquella had no trouble conversing with them, letting himself be wrapped in their melodious voices as he learned about Rivendell's history, elven culture, and Middle-earth as a whole. Their long lives had turned each of them into a chest of memories and knowledge.
In an increasingly relaxed atmosphere, the demigod even allowed the elven women to explore with their hands that body which seemed to emit an almost sacred purity. They touched him with the same reverence they would a reliquary. Of course, Miquella also knew how to take advantage of the situation, and in that game of innocent curiosity, he let his hand glide over the skin of one or another elf, in a mutual washing that seemed halfway between ritual and mischief.
Leda watched with contained frustration. She understood there was no desire or malice in those caresses, that the elves acted with the naturalness of those examining a unique phenomenon… yet it was still uncomfortable to see her lord surrounded by so many foreign hands. She found comfort in the fact that none had gone beyond arms and torso, though Miquella, deep down, would have liked otherwise.
It was amid that contact, with the murmurs of the elves blending with the water and the fragrance of oils, that Miquella once again felt that strange absence, as if something were missing. A voice, a distant song, echoed in his memory.
The demigod began to drift into sleep, surrendering to drowsiness. He leaned back against the pool wall, resting his head on Leda, and slowly closed his eyes. Neither she nor the elves dared disturb him; in their eyes, he was nothing more than a tired child seeking respite.
...
Everything became blurry, diffuse, wrapped in a dreamlike haze.
Miquella was once again in his adult body: tall, sculpted, with black hair cascading like a dark river, and violet eyes that seemed to hold something shadowed. He wandered through a forest aimlessly, sword in hand, as if searching for something he did not yet understand.
The vision fractured and reformed, showing him an unforgettable scene: an elf-maid gathered flowers while singing a soft, intoxicating melody. Her beauty was almost unreal, like a living work of art, something that could hardly belong to the mortal world.
Their eyes met. For an instant, time seemed to stop… and then, the image vanished once more.
The following visions were disjointed fragments: Miquella pursuing her, introducing himself, sharing moments, walking together through an elven city in the woods, courting her with fervent devotion…
And at the end, one last image: the elf choosing another. A mortal man. Miquella, resigned, accepting his defeat, but leaving behind a warning that resonated strongly within the dream:
"You may not be mine today, nor tomorrow, that your heart may belong to another man… but I will come back for you. And the day will come when I will claim you as mine… Lúth…
...
...
...
"…hien," Miquella whispered upon waking, still in the waters of Rivendell. Only Leda and a few elves remained around him.
He felt dizzy. Another of those dreams. Important, he sensed, but the details always seemed to slip from his memory, fading like sand between fingers.
With a weary gesture, he left the water, immediately drawing Leda's attention—she had remained by his side without taking her eyes off him.
"Come, Leda… help me dress." He rested his head against his knight's belly, his voice plaintive. "I feel like my heart is broken… I need cuddles."
And though he could no longer recall the dream clearly, the emotions still throbbed in his chest, so vivid…