While the Eldens awaited in a moderately pleasant room —even one with provisions for Latenna's wolf— anticipating Malenia's return, the others were in a completely different situation.
The Dwarves had been moved to a wide medical area. Each lay on an individual stone bed, high and emerging from the floor as if sculpted right there. There was ample space between them, but the place still felt saturated: Elven healers and doctors moved briskly, administering potions, applying poultices, and trying to contain the ravages of the Scarlet Rot.
Some of the Dwarves were already delirious, caught in waking nightmares. They writhed, screamed, cried, or laughed senselessly. Others, only seemingly more lucid, spoke what they believed to be their final words.
"My axe... give my axe to my son!" cried Glóin, clutching the healer attending him, not truly understanding what he said but uttering his last will.
"No, father! Don't hit me... I'll forge the rabbits...!" stammered Bofur, lost in his delirium.
"Spiders... spiders... cursed spiders..." growled Dwalin, punching the air.
"Mother... forgive us... we failed... we didn't find father..." sobbed the sisters.
"This is your fault... Elves... Dragons... irresponsible wizards... Durin will not fall... the Mountain will not fall..." muttered Thorin, trapped in a dream plagued by guilt and oaths.
The Elves worked as quickly as possible, ensuring both the survival of the Dwarves and their own patience. Some, especially those bearing Troll runes, nearly knocked down more than one healer in their spasms. They didn't just want to save them; they wanted to finish as soon as possible.
The Scarlet Rot was terrible, but the Elves had learned to combat it to a certain extent. In the case of the Dwarves, the contamination was still minor, and their racial nature gave them a degree of resistance. However, if left unchecked, they would reach a point of no return. Time was crucial.
...
Meanwhile, in a more secluded area, in an individual room, a child with golden hair lay motionless on a similar stone bed, though this chamber—and the couch itself—displayed a more decorated, almost luxurious finish.
Miquella looked like a corpse... though he was only sleeping.
Leaning against one of the walls, watching over him, was Tauriel. The healers had already left after confirming the child showed no signs of the Red Rot or any other ailment. He was merely sleeping deeply.
Tauriel watched him with growing curiosity.
He was a strange child. An "Elf," or so she believed. What was he doing traveling with Dwarves and Humans? He was beautiful... more beautiful than any Elf she had ever seen. His presence awakened an unexpected, almost maternal instinct in her, as if she wished to protect him from the world, to care for him like a rare, fragile flower.
Stories began to form in her mind.
Perhaps he was a child kidnapped by the Dwarves. Or a lost Elf, separated from his parents. Perhaps he was being escorted home after a tragedy.
Each idea became more elaborate than the last... And none came even close to the truth.
She continued to wander in her imagination when she thought she heard something with her Elven ears. The child in bed seemed to be mumbling.
Tauriel drew closer, hoping to decipher something from his sleep talk, but it was so quiet and unintelligible that she had to lean in more and more until her ear was mere centimeters from the "supposed Elven child's" tender lips.
"Mommy..." came faintly from Miquella's voice.
Tauriel's eyes widened upon hearing it, but even more so upon feeling those delicate arms suddenly wrap around her. She was startled, but didn't want to react harshly to this child who seemed to be seeking comfort... or so she thought until she felt a hand touch the armor on her chest and the child's head move in the opposite direction.
Miquella moved quickly, embracing Tauriel with his arms and legs. She froze, feeling the child act like an infant wanting to suckle milk. Her gaze dropped, and she met the child's eyes staring at her; he was not asleep... and yet his hand continued to squeeze her armor as if trying to massage her nipple to improve the flow of her mammary glands.
"You are not my mother..." Miquella said casually.
"No... I am not..." Tauriel replied dryly, feeling Miquella's hands. "Can you let go?" she asked, enduring the irritation of being handled that way by a child.
"Mmmm... can I stay like this a little longer?" Miquella replied.
Unable to bear it any longer, Tauriel took the child's hands and pulled them away, though her eyebrow twitched slightly seeing the hands continue the "squeezing" motion, and the child's legs still clamped around her waist like a vice.
"I need to report that you have awakened," Said Tauriel, hoping that would be enough for the child to release her.
"But... I don't want to be left alone," Miquella said with a tone between tragic and pleading, resting his head on Tauriel's chest.
The Elf didn't know how to react. Despite the unexpected handling, this child seemed so fragile... His aura was so intense and captivating that Tauriel had become fascinated, and in this moment, she felt the need to console him. Despite her centuries of life, this child was stirring protective feelings in her that she had never experienced.
Elves were not as expressive and affectionate as Humans with their short lives; physical contact was not as necessary to demonstrate feelings... but right now, the warmth of an embrace was all the Elf wanted to offer. She didn't know what this child had been through, but she wanted to tell him that everything would be alright.
With his head resting on Tauriel's neck, Miquella smiled. He enjoyed playing with this Elf, almost as much as when he embarrassed Leda. Perhaps he had acquired an unhealthy habit, but considering his history, he wanted something to enjoy...
Miquella's aura was so silent yet powerful that Tauriel had begun to feel so comfortable in the embrace that she almost drifted off to sleep. But that sensation was stopped when other Elves entered and saw her leaning against the child's body in a position that looked... compromising.
The sound of their arrival woke Tauriel, who realized her situation and quickly recoiled, pulling away from Miquella with a flushed face. Rarely did an Elf who had lived so long show such embarrassment.
"I apologize, I must leave," She said quickly, excusing herself to exit the room.
Miquella was amused watching this, but then came the check-ups from the Elven doctors... though he only allowed the women to see and touch his naked body. Unfortunately, the Silvan Elves were less pliable than those from Rivendell, and he couldn't take as much advantage of the situation.
...
The Dwarves were beginning to wake up. The areas affected by the Red Rot were now under control: the infected flesh had been reduced to patches of dry skin, covered in a reddish, ashy hue. Some were still lying down, others were already seated on the tall stone beds.
They felt weak. Balin, for example, was still somewhat groggy, but overall, everyone was out of danger and clear-headed.
"Don't touch me, Elf!" growled one of them when a healer pressed an area that was still sensitive.
"You should be grateful, Dwarf," replied the Elf with evident disdain. "Without our help, you'd already be another corpse in the forest... or worse."
The Dwarves weren't happy, but they didn't react violently either. They knew their physical state was poor and that, for now, they needed help. For them, ailments like this could only be treated by wizards... or by Miquella, who the Dwarves also considered a "wizard."
"How bad are we?" Thorin asked. Though he detested the Elves, especially those of this kingdom, he knew his situation was delicate and his priority was the survival of his people... though this didn't stop his tone from being authoritarian and laced with disgust.
"Better than you should expect," replied another Elf, with the same antagonistic tone. "You arrived in time. The infection didn't spread. Even so, there is good news and bad news."
"What's the good news?" Ori asked.
"That you have already been 'baptized' by the red curse, and the next time you face it, your bodies won't decline as quickly as they did now," Said an Elf, cleaning his hands in a bowl of water.
"And the bad news?" Thorin asked, suspiciously.
"Precisely that. You have already been afflicted. Next time it will wear you down more, even if it doesn't appear to affect you as much. You should feel it even now: you are weakened. You will recover... but not completely. And if you are exposed again, it will get worse each time," said the Elf, mixing annoyance with sincere compassion. "We have seen it before. In other words... from here, it's all downhill."
"That thing is not going to defeat the Dwarves!" roared Dwalin, striking a water pitcher. "We are not weak Elves!"
The anger was understandable. He was a warrior, and feeling that fragility infuriated him. He had always recovered from his wounds. He expected this time to be no different.
The Elves were displeased with the Dwarves, but they could understand their depression and rage. They had already seen what that evil had done to many of their own. Many could no longer be warriors and remained within the realm; the most severely affected spent almost constantly in bed and rest, if they hadn't died. Some even left for the Grey Havens, hoping the sickness would be cured in Valinor, although the Wood Elves were more inclined to stay in Middle-earth than any of their kin.
The Dwarves refused to believe the Elves' words, even though their bodies confirmed them. Some tried to stand... only to fall with trembling legs. Thorin was the same, but he forced himself to remain upright.
"You should rest. As I said, although you won't fully recover, the state of greatest weakness is now. You will return to 80-90% strength within a few days to a few weeks," Said the Elf, taking no further action; he didn't plan to waste more time with the Dwarves.
"We don't need days or weeks," retorted Dori, leaning weakly against the bed with trembling legs. "We are proud Dwarves of the Blue Mountains. We are already well."
Thorin didn't want to push his people, but they couldn't afford to waste time either. They had to meet the Eldens and leave that kingdom as soon as possible.
Some of the Elven healers had already gone out to inform the guards, as well as the king, of the Dwarves' condition, so it wasn't as if they could leave as planned. But before any of that could happen, Miquella burst through the door, followed by the guards who were pursuing him.
The Elven doctors looked at the guards, who could only shrug, unable to stop the child who wanted to see the Dwarves. The king had already reported that this individual was very important and could not be harmed or forcibly detained, and to their surprise, they couldn't stop his "escape," so they could only follow him.
The Dwarves, however, nearly jumped for joy upon seeing him, as if they were facing their savior.
"Miquella!" "Can you heal us?!" "Save us, I still have many battles left to fight!" "I don't want my legs to feel like twigs!"
All eyes fell on the golden-haired child, filled with hope. They expected another miracle. Another surprising feat that would disprove the Elves' words... and return them to the mountain path.