Gandalf regained his breath thanks to the unexpected support. The beam held the Necromancer at bay, but Trina's image grew more translucent with every second of exertion. The price of manifesting such power was draining her essence.
"We cannot last much longer!" a double voice—the perfect harmony of Trina and Miquella—echoed in Gandalf's mind.
"Take Thráin!" the wizard shouted, releasing one last burst of white light to buy the necessary seconds.
Despite her hesitation at abandoning the wizard to his fate, Trina's phantom glided away like a violet draft, enveloping Thráin's body in her illusory embrace. Together, they plunged into the void, leaving Gandalf's explosion of light behind. The purple cloud fell from the fortress toward the craggy ground, but before impact, she elegantly shifted her trajectory, skimming the earth toward Mirkwood.
In the distance, a roar of absolute fury shook the foundations of Dol Guldur, followed by a detonation of dark power. Trina's manifestation, now almost non-existent, quickened her pace; she knew Gandalf had fallen. Shortly after, the howls of warg riders tore through the night. The hunt had begun.
Miquella and Trina understood they would not get far with the trace of energy they had left. Instead of a futile flight, they chose another path. The purple mist veered sharply and slammed into a dry tree, piercing its dead wood. Thráin tumbled into the hollow of the roots, but before he could utter a word, Trina's slumber claimed him.
With her last strength, the mist covered the dwarf, merging with the tree's fiber and creating a layer of false bark that sealed the hiding place. The wargs passed a mere few meters away, their dripping snouts searching for a trail that no longer existed. Trina's ghost vanished, exhausted, leaving Thráin in a state of deep hibernation, hidden from the eyes of the world.
...
Back in Esgaroth, Miquella opened his eyes in his bed, his face pale. Around him, Sigrid and Tilda watched him with anguish, while Malenia stood by, hand on the pommel of her sword.
"Are you alright? You wouldn't wake, and your color was fading..." Sigrid murmured, worried.
"I am fine," Miquella replied with a weak but steady voice. He rubbed his wrist, and the ring released a warm pulse that brought life back to his cheeks.
It had been the first test of mutual projection outside the dream plane, and the cost had been high. It had consumed more of his own vital energy than the power stored in the ring. It was a lesson to be learned—to channel his reserves with greater efficiency.
"Thank you for your care..." Miquella smiled warmly. "But I need to recover my strength. Would you be so kind as to bring me something to eat?"
Tilda nodded with childish fervor, while Sigrid, noticing Miquella sought privacy, guided her sister out of the room. As they left, Leda and Tauriel, who had been on guard at the door, entered.
"Are you well, brother?" Malenia asked briefly.
"I am... unaccustomed. The physical world is not like that of dreams... and today I looked into the face of one of our greatest enemies," Miquella commented as he sat up. "Are you there, Trina?"
"Yes... though weakened," a whisper responded that only he could perceive. "My existence in the physical domain has been reduced."
"I understand. And what of Gandalf?" Miquella asked with a shadow of doubt.
"I do not know..." Trina's response surprised him.
"You do not know?" (Miquella)
"The amulet we gave him has broken... I believe he shattered it himself to release his final power. Currently, I lack the strength to travel so far to see him, but... I feel him." Trina's whisper grew deeper. "In some way, he has entered my domains. Gandalf is now in the Realm of Dreams."
Miquella remained silent for a long minute, his gaze lost in the void as he wove his plans. Finally, he turned to Leda with a severity that cut the air.
"Leda, I need you to rescue Gandalf," he ordered, taking his cloak and preparing to leave.
"As you command, my Lord," Leda replied without a hint of doubt. In a fluid motion, she retrieved her helmet and took her place at his right hand, ready for war.
"You will not go alone, of course. I would not send you on a suicide mission," Miquella added with a small laugh as they crossed the palace threshold.
"Even if you did, my blade will always answer your call, even if it be my doom," Leda declared with absolute devotion.
"You are adorable, Leda... I shall reward you with my love when all this is over," Miquella teased.
Thus, Miquella and Leda moved forward, followed closely by Tauriel and Malenia. They left the city, crossing to the mainland. There, Miquella sought a suitable spot and extended his hand. The ring glowed with intensity, draining a massive amount of his energy. His face turned pale almost instantly.
From the bowels of the earth emerged a block of carved stone, a headstone engraved with runes of the Lands Between and a large circular hollow at its center. After a few moments of erratic sparks, the air within the circle began to swirl, condensing into a vortex of bluish energy that hissed with power.
A Waygate.
Miquella exhaled a shaky sigh as he saw the portal stabilize. He had spent so much energy in recent days that he felt his power fading, returning him to the fragility of his early days in this world. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his knees buckled.
"Use this to reach Rivendel," Miquella instructed, materializing two final objects despite his extreme weakness. "Inform Elrond and go save the wizard. Trina will guide you when the time is right. I would like to go as well, but I cannot guarantee my participation."
Leda had to hold the demigod by the shoulders to keep him from collapsing. Even so, he mustered his strength once more to materialize two objects.
"Take... take this with you. And give this to Gandalf," Miquella said, handing her a new Amulet of Trina and a glintstone staff. "Go, quickly... but take care."
Miquella forced himself to break from the knight's grip and let himself fall back, caught by Tauriel's arms. The elf, still staring at the magic portal in awe, held the boy's languid body with a strange delicacy.
Leda nodded solemnly. She bowed one last time to her lord in farewell, tucked the amulet into her armor, and gripped the staff. With her helmet now closed, hiding her expression, she stepped firmly into the blue vortex and disappeared in a flash of starlight.
Miquella watched in silence as the portal swallowed his knight's silhouette. The vortex of blue energy crackled one last time before extinguishing, leaving behind only an inert stone and the echo of the void. With a sigh heavy with exhaustion, he turned to the elf still holding him.
"Could you carry me?" he asked in a small, almost pleading voice. "My legs have stopped obeying me."
Tauriel nodded in silence. After adjusting her quiver, she settled the boy's light and apparently fragile body onto her back. To her, the weight was insignificant, but Miquella's presence felt overwhelming.
"Let us go back. I need to eat and recover my energy," Miquella murmured, resting his cheek on the elf's shoulder. Then, he added in a tone tinged with playful melancholy: "You know, now that Leda has departed, I feel terribly forsaken. I need someone to assume her duties... would the position interest you? I could use a new temporary right hand."
Tauriel continued the walk back, processing the offer. In her warrior's mind, she imagined Miquella was looking for someone to lead his troops or coordinate the city's defense. She could not suspect that, in the demigod's language, "right hand" meant becoming his support to sleep on, the target of his jokes when boredom struck, or the physical pillar for his moments of weakness.
Malenia watched the scene from behind with silent curiosity. Seeing her brother play with the elf's will in that manner, just after sending Leda on an uncertain mission. This Miquella was different from the one she remembered in the Lands Between; there was a new vitality in him, a spark of cunning that seemed to feed on this new world. She wasn't sure if the change was for the better, but seeing him so... alive, mitigated any doubt.
The great red-haired warrior shook off her thoughts and focused on the butchery to come. Miquella had already laid out the plan with surgical precision: she was the final contingent, the absolute force. If Bard's arrows failed and the dwarves' ingenuity burned under the dragon's breath, it would be she who had to step forward.
Malenia quickened her pace, feeling the weight of her metal arm. She knew that to save her brother's dream at the Lonely Mountain, she would have to become, once more, the blade that knows no defeat, no matter the price her own body had to pay.
...
The following day, Miquella rose early.
The previous day, after bidding Leda farewell, had been dedicated entirely to recovering energy. Food, sacrifices, the very air... even the sun and the lake waters. He had taken a little of everything, careful not to cause irreversible damage to his surroundings.
And now... before him, the wind-lance of Esgaroth. Under the watchful gaze of Bard, Thorin, Legolas, and Tauriel, Miquella slid his fingers along the edges of wood and metal, whispering incantations that made the air vibrate. Golden runes sprouted, etching themselves into the weapon before sinking beneath the surface, hiding even from the most perceptive eye.
Finally, Miquella exhaled softly and drew back his hands.
Tauriel approached immediately to wipe the sweat from his forehead, fulfilling the task assigned to her. The elf had already realized that the role she had been given was not exactly what she had imagined... but she had already accepted.
"Well? What have you done to it? Power? Speed? Lightning?" Thorin asked abruptly. The tension of the imminent march was making him increasingly irritable.
"Concealment and durability," Miquella replied, enjoying the elf's unnecessary care.
"Concealment?" Bard arched an eyebrow. As the future gunner of that ballista, the concept intrigued him.
"This is our hidden card. Imagine Smaug escapes us, flies over the city, and detects the ballista. What do you think he will do?" He paused briefly. "He will reduce it to ashes before we can use it."
A few nodded in silence.
"Now... with this enchantment, the ballista will be almost imperceptible at a long distance. Enough to give Bard a chance for a surprise shot." (Miquella)
His words brought a sense of contained relief. It wasn't a guarantee, but it was... something.
At that moment, Bilbo and the dwarves arrived at the clearing. Among them walked Bain, solemnly carrying the Black Arrow.
"Thank you, Bain," Miquella said, signaling Tauriel to take the heavy projectile. "I will also empower this steel. Increase its piercing power... its potency... I would like it to pass through Smaug from one side to the other if possible." Miquella shrugged as he channeled the power of his ring into the arrowhead. "How I wish I already had my smiths here..."
"Thorin, Miquella... the provisions are ready," Bilbo informed, pushing through the crowd.
"And the gear?" Thorin asked, turning to his kin.
"All prepared: weapons, siege tools, and transport. Not a nail is missing," Gloin replied firmly.
Miquella shifted his attention from the arrow to the leaders of Men and Elves.
"Bard, Legolas, are the people of Esgaroth organized for the exodus?"
"They have been informed," Bard replied, a shadow of melancholy on his face at the thought of the home they would soon leave behind.
"I have formed squads with the most capable civilians," Legolas added, frowning, "but their combat level..."
"I do not expect an elite army made of fishermen, but something is better than nothing," Miquella stated, looking at each of those present with a solemnity that made time stand still. "Ensure everything remains in order. Bard, organize Sigrid and Bain to guide the people alongside your trusted men while we are away. Bilbo, organize a feast for tonight. Legolas, Tauriel, keep the patrols alert for any possible orc attack. And after that... everyone rest."
Miquella turned toward the horizon, where the peak of the Lonely Mountain was silhouetted against the sky like a stone fang.
"Tomorrow, we depart for the Mountain."