Miquella was somewhat overwhelmed by the situation. His dizzy, aching head did little to help him restrain Leda. He had clung to his knight, and that was the only reason she hadn't yet stormed out to commit a massacre.
"Leda, you can't kill them all," Miquella said with frustration, wishing he could smash his head against the wall for what had happened yesterday.
If it weren't for the fact that he had to stop her, he would be hiding under his blankets, unwilling to see anyone and wishing he could die of embarrassment… well, at least for a few minutes.
"WE CANNOT ALLOW THEM TO LIVE!!" Leda snarled, brandishing her sword, so furious she was practically foaming at the mouth.
"We can't do that now… even if I wanted to," Miquella replied, dangling from Leda's arms, since when she stood up she had dragged him along. "I also wish no one knew what happened, truly I do, but we can't… not now. Look, we already have too many problems. If you kill those people, we'll only have more. Until we have a stable foothold in this world, we can't go around killing recklessly."
Miquella kept holding onto her until, finally, Leda gave up on her thirst for genocide. He sighed in relief at having managed to convince her, though now he had another headache: what to do next.
In the end, unable to escape his shame, the only option he found possible was to flee. Escape now and not return until no one alive remained who remembered what had happened. So the group gathered and decided to leave a week earlier than planned… that is, at that very moment.
Leda and Thiollier stayed with Miquella while the others quickly went out to stock up on what was needed for the journey, since it seemed they would not be returning to this town. Those who remained began packing their belongings.
Miquella sighed as he removed his white robe, his usual attire, and began changing into one of the outfits he had conjured. It was a noble suit, clearly several sizes too large, but with some adjustments he could wear it. It was anything but discreet, but after so long in the wilderness, he longed to wear something fine. Still, if he could choose, he would return to his usual robe… perhaps more out of sentimental attachment than comfort.
He finished dressing while Leda and Thiollier continued gathering their things, though much remained to be packed. Miquella walked toward one of the corners where he had left most of his belongings.
There lay a bag with some glimstones and one of the staves he used, which—unlike the seal he normally carried—he usually kept stored away. He bent down to pick the staff up from the floor, but the moment he touched it, everything seemed to freeze.
Another image overlapped his own. His small hand was replaced by a more adult one, the staff by the hilt of a sword, and the wooden floor by a field of grass.
...
Everything turned violet… and then black.
Miquella felt confused and dizzy. For a moment he thought the beer had hit him too hard. He opened his eyes slowly, shielding them from the sun with one hand to ease the pain it caused.
He rose from the ground, which itched uncomfortably against his back, and sat up. He was dazed, doubting whether arriving at Bree had been nothing but a dream. For clearly, now he was once again in the wild. Or perhaps his companions had brought him there for some reason while he was unconscious… He only hoped he hadn't caused some disaster during his drunkenness.
He tried calling out to Leda and the others to help him back on his feet, but got no answer. The place carried only the usual natural sounds: a bird or two, the buzzing of insects, the murmur of wind through the leaves.
He tried to overcome the dizziness, pressing his hands against the ground to stand up completely. But then, something startled him: the first thing he managed to make out were a pair of large hands in front of him. He didn't recognize them, but thought to ask for help anyway. However, as he tried to move, he noticed something unsettling. Those hands… responded to him.
He raised one of them and observed it curiously, turning it before his eyes. They weren't his small, delicate hands anymore. These were strong and large. The mental haze began to clear, information finally reaching his brain, shaking him from his stupor.
He looked at his arm—muscular and developed, something his child's body could never have achieved. Then his gaze dropped to his bare torso and abdomen.
Miquella nearly lost his breath.
His body… what had happened to his body? And, more alarming still, where were his clothes?
Something still clung to his waist: the remnants of his usual robe, torn and stretched by the immense size he had gained. Moreover, the fabric no longer bore its familiar pale whitish tone, but a violet mixed with ash.
He leapt to his feet in an instant, this time without a trace of dizziness. He was confused, astonished. And then, a lock of hair fell over his face. His surprise deepened. He grabbed his hair to examine it more closely.
It was no longer golden and bright like the sun. No, now it was black. Black as a moonless night. And long. Quite long.
He looked again at his body, incredulous. His abdomen was carved with muscles that looked chiseled in stone. Thick arms, powerful legs. And his height… that confused him most of all. Accustomed to looking up at everyone, now everything felt different. He could only suppose his height was comparable to that of his sister. But how?
Out of curiosity, he tugged at the remnants of his robe—now resembling an improvised skirt—to check that… and let out a sigh of relief, along with a satisfied smile.
Even if he was once again alone, exposed, with nothing but rags to wear… at least he was well-armed down there. Enough to kill someone with—he thought with a trace of mischief.
But his attention soon shifted. Something else on the ground caught his eye.
A hilt.
A massive hilt.
He bent down to take it, and upon lifting it, he could no longer doubt what he held.
"Godslayer…" he whispered, staring at the peculiar shape of the blade: it began as a single piece, then split into two branches that twisted into a spiral.
Miquella looked around, searching for something more… perhaps some kind of answer. He didn't know why he was here, where the others were, his belongings, or what had happened to him. But in the end, he found nothing.
He was lost, yes… but not desperate. Perhaps it was his new body, strong and steady, but a strange confidence filled his mind. He felt no fear, no anxiety.
With little choice, he began walking. Searching for a way out… and, hopefully, answers.
His bare feet touched the ground without protection, yet he felt no pain or discomfort. It was as though his body were far more resilient than it had ever been. He couldn't help but admire it. Ever since being Miquella, he had had to accept he would never grow, forever trapped in a child's body. But now, as on Earth, he once again had a body—mature, powerful, even dangerous.
He reached what looked like a pond, where sunlight shimmered on the surface of the water. A sudden thirst overcame him. He approached and dropped beside a tree, leaning over the water to drink… but then he saw it.
His reflection.
His hands, almost without realizing, reached forward delicately, as if to caress the image in the water.
At that moment, Miquella understood—though still with some difficulty—that it was still him. He wasn't in someone else's body. This was an older, adult version of himself. His features were no longer childish, yet retained an impossible beauty, now with a more masculine, intense presence… Perhaps this was what he would truly look like if he could grow. Though, of course, there were differences: his hair, for one… and something even more important.
His eyes.
The eyes gazing back at him from the water… he could only unconsciously describe them as twilight. A shade between violet and black, with gray corneas… and upon seeing them, an image flashed in his mind: his sister opening the sealed eye. They were strange, yes, but also hypnotic. Beautiful in a disturbing way. You could gaze at them for hours… without tiring.
...
"MY LORD!!! MY LORD!!!"
Leda's voice jolted him from his trance. Miquella trembled for an instant, snapping awake. His knight was holding him with eyes full of worry, shaking him.
He blinked several times before looking at her, then lowered his gaze to the staff in his hands.
"My lord? Are you all right? What's wrong?" Leda asked, unable to hide her unease.
"I'm fine," Miquella answered, still shaken by the memory he had just relived. "Did something happen?"
"My lord… you stood there, holding your staff for several minutes. I tried calling you, but you seemed paralyzed, unresponsive," she said with a trembling voice.
"It's fine… thank you. I didn't mean to worry you," Miquella replied with a faint smile, trying to reassure her. "I was just… remembering a dream… I think…"
Not even he was certain of his words. That memory was so vivid, so real, it had left him stunned for quite some time.
"The others are here already," Thiollier said from the door, where Hornsent, Freya, and the others could be seen carrying some of the supplies.
"Moore has loaded everything onto the wagon," Ansbach added. "He's waiting for us downstairs."
"Good… let's go," Miquella said, wishing to leave behind that strange memory whose origin he could not discern. But another memory—the reason they had to leave—weighed even heavier on his heart at that moment.
He rolled up the sleeves of the oversized noble clothes he wore and walked toward the door, followed closely by Leda. Along the way, he couldn't help but pull up his hood, covering his face, as though he wished to pass unseen, as though the whole world could forget his existence for a moment.
They descended the stairs, Miquella hidden among his followers. Some inside the inn recognized the peculiar group, raising their mugs of beer when they spotted the small figure trying to blend into the crowd.
That attention alone was enough to make Miquella tense up and begin trembling with shame. He didn't even hear what those men said. He barely registered their voices before bolting for the outside, leaping into the wagon and shouting at Moore to set off at once.
What Miquella didn't know was that, after that first cry of recognition, silence fell over the entire inn. Leda's glare was enough to silence them all… though, just in case, the throwing knife that ended up stuck in one man's mug was more than enough to make everyone swallow hard in unison.
Leda would have liked to do much more, but she tried to obey her lord's orders. She restrained her murderous impulse and went after him.
…
Thus, Miquella's group left Bree, following the directions they had obtained beforehand, heading toward Hobbiton.
Once far from the town, Miquella began to regain his composure. The shame still burned within him, like a thorn hard to ignore, but little by little he calmed down. Still, he regretted it. He would have liked to stay in Bree a little longer, if only to find a tailor who could adjust his clothes to his new size.
The road was much safer than the last, so there weren't many worries. Miquella sat at the edge of the wagon, swinging his legs back and forth, while trying to recover the memories that still escaped him.
"I… I looked into that lake and then… walked a bit further… I saw a mountain in the distance and decided to head there…" he murmured, straining to sharpen the image.
But in the end, he remembered no more than that. With a sigh, he decided to let it go for now. Dwelling so much on something so unclear only gave him a headache. He began humming a tune while rummaging through the provisions in the wagon, entertaining himself with what his people had gathered for the journey.
He also took time to admire the landscapes they passed: green fields, serene forests, scattered farms… This world was beautiful, not yet ravaged by death, destruction, or war. But Miquella knew that peace was only temporary. He had already discovered that Sauron was not destroyed, and that the War of the Ring had yet to occur.
He knew that, sooner or later, dark times would come. And what he needed to do now was build a strong base to withstand them.
He gazed at his ring with a thoughtful expression. Everything he had now, he owed to it: his belongings, his companions, his power. And he would have to keep relying on it to move forward. With that ring in hand, he began devising plans for the future: about people, lands, goals… He didn't know what the limits would be, but he was certain he would achieve whatever he set his mind to. He had already proven his power time and time again.
The journey went by without incident, and at last they spotted another settlement. After passing several farms without much happening, a very peculiar town appeared before them: the land of the hobbits.
Miquella set aside the rune from Bree he had been examining and straightened up in the wagon to take in the sight with a smile of happiness and expectation.
At last they had arrived at their destination: a corner of the world that would mark the beginning of great events in Middle-earth. He still didn't know exactly when in history he was, but he was certain that from here, he would be able to find out once it all began.
He couldn't help urging his companions to move faster to cross the small great bridge before them and enter the village, not realizing that the imposing appearance of his allies might prove intimidating to the peaceful, diminutive hobbits.