After the bath, Miquella returned to his chambers, still lost in thought. This dream had not been like the others: it had taken him by surprise, dragging him into a deep, involuntary rest. He did not understand what those visions were, but something about them unsettled him; there was an intensity that made them seem far too real. And now, deep within his heart, he felt as though he carried a debt yet unpaid to a certain elf who, as he remembered, had died long ago.
Still, he could not linger in speculation for long. Upon arriving, he found the dwarves not far off, quarreling and arranging their gear to set out at dawn. Everything suggested there was no time to waste: most already had their belongings packed.
The dwarves approached to inquire about the Eldens' readiness. Thorin had given the order to be prepared without drawing too much attention—discreet and swift.
"Lord Miquella, have you everything ready for departure?" asked Bofur, showing genuine respect for the divine child, especially now that the power of the troll rune was becoming increasingly evident.
"Everything should be ready very soon," Miquella answered, without much urgency.
The demigod gave a few instructions to his followers—more out of formality than necessity, for they already knew what to do.
With the journey in mind, he left his chambers and made his way to Rivendell's stables. These were no ordinary stables: they stood near the outer wall, their care and design rivaling the luxury of the rest of the elven city. There, even the horses seemed to live privileged lives, tended with the utmost dedication, lacking nothing.
Miquella walked among them in search of his mount, who had been quartered there since their arrival and had likewise enjoyed the elves' hospitality.
"Torrent," he called, spotting his steed being fed emerald grass from an elf's hand.
"Greetings, Lord Miquella," said the elf, bowing his head lightly.
"Thank you for caring for Torrent," replied the demigod, stepping forward to wrap his arms around the horse's neck. The mount responded calmly and affectionately to his master's touch.
"It has been an honor," the elf said without hesitation. "This steed is truly remarkable. He caused no trouble at all; as docile as he is intelligent, so cooperative that none of the grooms found the slightest difficulty in tending to him."
"There is no steed to compare with my Torrent," Miquella declared proudly.
"Yes, though we also had to discover some of his… peculiarities." The elf smiled and quickly added, "On the first day, when we pulled the arrows from his body, we had an entire medical team prepared to treat him… but the wounds vanished within seconds, though he still looked weak. And then, on other occasions, when he disappeared from where we had left him, we thought he had escaped toward the mares' paddock. But no…" He chuckled softly at the memory. "It turns out he would climb onto the roof to watch the sunrise."
At that moment, a pair of elf-maidens arrived carrying buckets and cleaning tools. They greeted Miquella and the elf respectfully before turning to Torrent, who was already lifting a hoof gracefully, as if he knew what was coming. The maidens began polishing his hooves and horns, brushing his now gleaming coat with meticulous care.
It was clear the elves had grown fascinated with the steed. Torrent was no mere horse: he was an ideal companion, the kind of mount any of them would envy. Though elven steeds shared a deep bond with their riders, none possessed the spirituality or intelligence Torrent radiated. His very presence was an irresistible enigma, a mystery that brought a breath of novelty to the otherwise placid, monotonous eternity of the elves.
"Looks like you're having a good time, my friend," Miquella said with a smile, watching as the maidens spoke to him enthusiastically while they groomed him.
The demigod could not have been prouder of his mount. Torrent had more than earned his rest; Miquella still remembered the arrows and bites he had endured during the race against the warg riders.
Just as he overheard the maidens talking about polishing Torrent's horns—an image that conjured rather different thoughts than the scene before him—Miquella mused, with a touch of mischief, that perhaps in the future he ought to find his steed some mares or caretakers once he was settled. It was then that Lindir, Elrond's attendant, appeared in search of him.
"My lord, Lord Elrond invites you to attend a meeting tonight," he announced formally, offering no further detail, as though it were a matter reserved.
Miquella raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He remembered what might be unfolding that evening, but Elrond's direct invitation still surprised him. Driven by curiosity, he nodded and asked Lindir to indicate the place and time.
"Farewell, Torrent. I'll see you tomorrow. Try not to knock up any elf-maidens while I'm gone," he said with a sly grin as he departed.
The maidens grooming the spectral steed froze at once, blushing to the tips of their ears, as if they had suddenly caught the double meaning of the words they themselves had spoken earlier. Even Lindir and the other elf could not help but choke slightly.
Miquella, amused, relished such moments of mischief, though he knew he could not afford to waste time. If things developed as he suspected, he needed to prepare carefully… for that night he would have the chance to meet one of the most emblematic women of this world.
...
As night fell, Miquella, escorted by Leda and Ansbach, followed Lindir up the stairways of Rivendell. The elf took his leave with a courteous bow, leaving them to proceed alone toward the highest part of the fortress.
The demigod advanced at an unhurried pace, admiring the magnificence of elven architecture. Seen now in person, the place was far vaster and more imposing than it had ever been shown in the films of his life on Earth. A great platform extended along the mountainside, supported by slender columns and stone arches adorned with delicate carvings. Ancient statues kept watch over its edges, and here and there, roots and vines climbed through cracks, adding a touch of nature that, far from marring it, only heightened the beauty of the whole.
It was then he heard the voices awaiting him: Gandalf, Elrond, and several others. The conversations fell silent the instant the newcomers were seen.
"I hope I am not late. My apologies, if so," Miquella greeted politely, his gaze sweeping across those present.
"Miquella?" asked Gandalf, surprised. To him, this meeting ought to have been private, limited to the most influential powers of Middle-earth. That the youth had appeared there changed the very nature of the gathering, for the Eldens were not truly natives—and he did not know whether their presence would prove good or ill.
An elder of stern bearing, clad in white robes, stepped forward. His eyes, barely concealing disdain, fixed on Miquella and his companions.
"I invited him," Elrond interjected calmly, addressing Gandalf and the others. "With the new information that has reached me, I deem it fitting that the Eldens be present at this council."
"And who are these… 'Eldens,' to deserve a seat here?" the elder asked with scorn, as though they were mere men unworthy of such an assembly.
"Friends… from a very distant place," Elrond replied, restraining himself. In truth, he himself could give no further explanation. He merely followed the intuition—and the guidance—that had led him to extend the invitation.
Miquella held the gaze of the elder in white—Saruman the White, leader of the Istari. He recognized his power, yes, but also his arrogance. Unlike Gandalf, who had already sensed the depth of what lay within him, Saruman had not paused long enough to grasp that he was not facing a mere child.
Leda and Ansbach stepped forward, nearly ready to rebuke the insolence, but Miquella halted them with the faintest gesture of his hand. It was not worth it. His attention was elsewhere.
At the far end of the platform, standing among the others, was a woman with golden hair whose very presence radiated both power and ancient wisdom. Her deep, solemn gaze was fixed upon the newcomers. And Miquella knew who she was.
"Miquella, these are Saruman, leader of the Istari, and Lady Galadriel, mistress of the forest of Lothlórien," Gandalf introduced. Though he did not fully understand why Elrond had brought the youth, he too sensed that the Eldens were a force to be reckoned with—or soon would be.
"Greetings, Lady Galadriel. Miquella the Kind, at your service," he said, bowing respectfully. Deep down, he could not help but feel enthralled by the elf's presence—her radiant aura and her golden hair, rivaling his own. Were it not for racial differences, one might mistake them for close kin.
"Greetings, Miquella. The pleasure is mine," Galadriel replied, her calm concealing a profound scrutiny. She sought to look beyond the surface, as if to pierce the child's essence. And what she perceived was no small thing.
For a moment, the elven lady and the young demigod stood motionless, staring in solemn silence, like figures from an ancient tapestry. Miquella admired her not only for her power and aura, but because he recognized in her one of the pillars of this world's history—impossible to forget. Galadriel, for her part, saw in him something disconcerting: a childlike aspect concealing vast power, a living rarity radiating strangeness… and something else, something she dared not name.
Outwardly, Galadriel maintained the serenity that defined her, but within she was not at peace. She was one of the few who had sensed the chaos looming over Middle-earth. She had seen too much in the Mirror of Lothlórien, visions barely decipherable, fragments of dark futures she did not wish to accept. And now, as she beheld Miquella, as she felt his essence… she understood that what she had glimpsed—and feared—was drawing ever closer.
"A child should not be present at a meeting to address matters of such import. Do you not think so, Lord Elrond? I do not understand why you have brought them," Saruman said, questioning Elrond's decision. In truth, he could not fathom why they had been invited at all.
"It was not Elrond's decision to invite them, but mine…" came a deep voice from among the columns, approaching with steady steps.
All turned toward the figure emerging from the shadows: an elf with silver hair and a short beard—rare among his kind—advancing with the aid of a staff. His gait carried an ancient calm surpassing even that of the other elven lords. He was, without doubt, one who had seen more dawns than any present could count. The beard was irrefutable proof of his great age, for only a few very old elves ever grew one.
"Círdan!" exclaimed Gandalf, astonished, for he had not expected to see the master shipwright of the Grey Havens in Rivendell.
"A pleasure to see you again, Mithrandir," the elder elf answered with a serene smile. "I trust Narya has served you as well as I imagined…"
Gandalf, setting aside his surprise, greeted him with joy and reverence. Saruman, however, grew tense in silence: even he had not foreseen the arrival of Círdan, one of the most revered among the Eldar. And if the ancient elf of the Havens had recommended the Eldens take part in the White Council, there was no point in disputing it. Even his pride knew this: in the presence of Círdan, wisdom dictated silence.
The air grew heavy. Saruman watched the shipwright with suspicion; Miquella, intrigued, could not take his eyes off Galadriel; and Galadriel herself seemed to stare into the void, as though glimpsing a vision too troubling to put into words.
"Well," said Elrond, breaking the tension that hung like a storm. "With everyone gathered, it is time to begin the Council."