"I..." Tauriel tried to articulate a protest, a denial that she enjoyed such punishment, but the words died in her throat. She sank into a dense silence, overwhelmed by a confusion she had never felt before.
In the end, the elven captain nodded. She convinced her own logic that this was the best option: she would not openly disobey Thranduil; she would simply keep her target under close watch. In that time, perhaps, she could understand the origin of this chaos and decide whether her loyalty still belonged to the Woodland Realm or to her own principles.
"Perfect. You will stay by my side, as one more royal guard, alongside Leda," Miquella decided, pointing to the blonde woman. Leda gave the elf a look charged with a strange, silent empathy—the look of one who had already been the target of her lord's mischief.
Tauriel, unaware that every step of her will had been choreographed, merely bowed her head. Miquella returned a radiant smile before withdrawing. Legolas, burdened with questions he had no chance to ask, watched as the elf followed the demigod like a shadow. With no other choice, the elven prince headed to the docks to fulfill the task of training Bard's men.
...
In Miquella's quarters within the Master's house, the air was saturated with a warm, fragrant steam. A large wooden bathtub occupied the center of the room, its hot water maintained by a fire that Sigrid tended with care. Not far away, Tilda waited with a sponge and clean towels, her face flushed with a crimson blush.
Miquella lowered himself slowly into the hot water, watching Tilda with amusement as she averted her eyes in a mix of reverence and shyness. Since discovering that this being was, in fact, a boy, the little girl could no longer look at him with her former ease. Naked, Miquella exuded an aura of purity so overwhelming, a beauty so immaculate, that it was almost painful to behold. It was like looking directly at the sun.
Sigrid, though more composed, also avoided direct eye contact while stoking the embers. This situation was a direct challenge to the authority of Bard, who had strictly forbidden them from approaching the Elden child. But the demigod's charm was a tide impossible to stem; his promises to make them his trusted maidens once he reclaimed his kingdom had finally broken down their defenses.
"Are you sure you don't want to join me, Tilda?" Miquella asked softly.
"N-no..." the girl stammered, taking a step back.
Miquella smiled, enjoying the child's innocence without pressuring her. He then turned to the older sister.
"And you, Sigrid? The tub is too large and feels lonely," he said, stretching in the water with languid grace. He occupied only a fraction of the space.
"I have to tend the fire..." Sigrid whispered in excuse. "Besides, my father would never approve."
Miquella let out a light laugh, looking up at the steamy ceiling.
"It seems, after all, it's just the two of us," he commented to the air, confusing the sisters.
In that instant, the steam seemed to condense over the surface of the water. An illusory figure, ethereal and perfect, emerged from the heat. It was an image identical to Miquella, but shrouded in a mist of slumber.
"How is everything with Gandalf?" Miquella asked.
"He is almost there. We may have to intervene soon," the figure replied with a voice that was the echo of his own.
"There are two of them?!" Tilda exclaimed, dropping the sponge upon seeing the second figure sitting in the tub.
"Meet Trina... my other half," Miquella smiled. Trina returned the same smile, like a reflection in a mirror.
The two sisters gazed at the scene in absolute wonder. That "other Miquella," appearing out of nowhere, was yet almost as real as he was.
"Would you help us bathe? We have no servants in this place..." Miquella asked in a whimsical tone, perfectly playing the role of a pampered prince who cannot fend for himself.
Although the sisters knew the youth's capabilities, his magnetism and noble bearing clouded their judgment. They did not doubt the image of fragility he projected. Guided by Miquella, and seeing that Trina was indeed a girl, Sigrid and Tilda found their courage. Soon, their hands were busy scrubbing backs and lathering silver and golden hair.
Questions soon followed. Miquella always spoke of himself and Trina, but this was the first time they had seen her "physically." They were opposite poles of the same coin: while Miquella radiated a tangible charm, as if stepped from a legend, Trina possessed an illusory beauty, almost unattainable, like a dream that vanishes upon waking. In fact, her presence in the material world was erratic; at times, Trina's body became immaterial, causing Sigrid's sponge to pass through her skin as if it were smoke, drawing more than one gasp of wonder. "Magic" was a good enough answer to avoid details.
In the midst of this bath, where the sisters treated the demigods as if they were made of glass, the door opened with a heavy creak.
"Speaking of sisters... you've taken your time," Miquella said, looking toward the entrance. "Why haven't you joined us?"
Malenia entered the room with her firm, martial stride. Without a word, she found a chair and sat at a prudent distance.
"I did not wish to interrupt," she replied curtly.
"I hoped you would get into the water..." Miquella insisted with a hint of genuine pity.
Malenia remained silent for a long second, her gaze fixed on the rising steam.
"You know I can use my ring to contain it, right?" Miquella continued in a pleading whisper. "You have nothing to worry about. Do you know how long I've wanted to share a bath with my sister?"
"I do not want you to waste your energy on something so banal," Malenia retorted. Her tone was severe, but it hid a deep apology. "Not when you have restrained yourself so much for what is to come."
Malenia's fear was an internal tide: the Scarlet Rot. Her body was already marked by it. Even with unalloyed gold, containing it was a constant effort. Submerging herself like that... without restrictions... could contaminate the water. Especially after having absorbed part of the power from that avatar of the scarlet rot. She knew her brother could purify it, but she was also aware of the effort Miquella made to manage the power of his ring.
Even now, she saw how Miquella avoided using magic to heat the water, preferring Sigrid's fire. Though in reality, that was an excuse to keep Bard's daughters there.
Miquella read the sacrifice in his sister's eyes. He could contain the plague, yes, but Malenia was right: he had to save his strength for the Mountain. He pressed no further; there would be time for other baths in the future.
Suddenly, Trina's body vanished into the air, leaving Sigrid with empty hands as she washed her hair. Miquella's expression turned serious for a fleeting instant.
"You may continue if you wish..." he murmured, resting the back of his neck against the wooden rim and closing his eyes.
To the surprise of those present, the demigod fell into a deep sleep instantly.
...
Gandalf made his way with extreme caution through the ruins of Dol Guldur, staff held high and the steel of Glamdring unsheathed. He knew he was walking straight into a trap, but the duty to confirm the shadow inhabiting that place weighed more than his own safety.
In the depths of the corrupt stone, the wizard found a heartbreaking encounter: Thráin. The dwarf, whom the world gave up for dead, emerged from the shadows in a pitiful state. After a violent initial outburst, Gandalf's magic managed to return a precarious and painful clarity to him, momentarily rescuing him from dementia. However, that flash of consciousness brought no peace, but rather the prelude to battle.
"You will die, wizard," a guttural voice thundered.
Azog the Defiler emerged from the gloom, bringing his mace down against Gandalf's staff with a force that vibrated the Istari's bones. The wizard recoiled, feeling the weight of the ambush. The fortress, which from the outside appeared to be an empty shell, seethed within with legions of orcs and wargs; an army of absolute darkness crouching in the silence.
But Gandalf was no easy prey. Striking the ground with his staff, he released a shockwave that repelled the orcs and cracked the stone. He raised his rod, pointing directly at Azog's pale face.
"Who leads you?! Where does your master hide?!" he demanded with a voice that echoed like thunder in the ruins.
"He is everywhere..." Azog replied with a cold, perfect smile, laden with malevolent confidence.
At the orc's gesture, the warg riders launched their attack. Gandalf reacted by releasing a blinding light, an explosion of pure energy that swept the room. The floor, already weakened by the previous impact, collapsed under the feet of the attackers, dragging down dozens of orcs. With a swift movement, the wizard grabbed Thráin's robes just before the dwarf fell like the others, hoisting him up for a desperate flight.
There was no safe corner in that cursed fortress. Gandalf was forced to deploy his power to seal passages and blast breaches in the walls, trying to elude the tide of enemies pouring from every crack. Despite the fact that his essence as an Ainur seemed to have broken ancient limits for some time now, fear gripped his heart. There was something in the air of Dol Guldur, a latent and terrifying presence that had not yet fully revealed itself.
That sense of foreboding became a physical reality when, after rounding a corner, Gandalf and Thráin hit a dead end. The black stone walls closed in on them, and the echo of orc drums announced that time had run out.
"It is him..." Thráin murmured, his voice cracked with terror as he saw the darkness take shape before them. It was the silhouette of his captor, the very essence of his torment.
"There is no light here, wizard... that can defeat the darkness," a mournful and ancestral voice, spoken in the Black Speech, vibrated in the air, cold as a grave.
The shadows ceased to be mere absences of light and became a solid substance, a tide of jet-black converging into a terrifying figure that blocked the path. Its mere presence unsettled the noblest heart, withering the will and sowing a fear that paralyzed the bones.
"Tell Thorin... that I love him," Thráin whispered from behind, feeling the breath of death. Hope had abandoned him, and he foresaw his end. "You will tell him, won't you?"
"You shall tell him yourself!" Gandalf roared.
The Istari extended his staff with both hands, invoking a shield of white light that erupted around them, protecting them from the shadow tendrils that lashed out and now crashed against the force field. But the Enemy's power was no easy tide to stem. The wooden staff began to creak under the pressure, showing fine cracks. Gandalf sweated, feeling the darkness crushing his spirit. Then, to break his resolution, flares of unbearable red licked the walls, climbing the rock like fiery tentacles. The shadow before them became a whirlwind of fire and void.
Gandalf's protective field began to shrink, suffocated by the Necromancer's power. But just as the defense was about to collapse, an outside force emerged from the wizard's robes. A purple mist drifted from his clothing, and a hidden amulet glowed with an intense violet light.
Gandalf felt a new energy intertwining with his own, holding him back from the edge of the abyss. The amulet fell to the floor and, with a chromatic burst, the illusory figure of Trina materialized beside him.
The apparition raised a staff carved from a branch of somber wood, channeling a blue energy that crackled with the power of the cosmos. Just as the shadow was about to devour them, Trina pointed toward the center of the void.
"Comet Azur," the figure whispered.
A beam of destructive blue energy tore through the darkness with a thunderous roar. The impact forced the shadow back—an unexpected counterattack that shook the very foundations of Dol Guldur.