Dinner came to an end, leaving everyone present satisfied… or at least most of them. Bilbo, noticing that no one was eating anymore, nurtured the hope that they would finally leave, so he could begin cleaning the mess, take inventory of his losses, and start designing the sign that read "No dwarves or wizards allowed" which he planned to hang on his front door.
But to his surprise, the dwarves—moving with startling coordination—began clearing the table with great efficiency. They stacked plates, cups, and dishes, swiftly transforming what had moments ago been a battlefield of food into order. Dori even wiped down the tabletop, though the "rag" looked more like part of an old shirt someone had sacrificed for the cause… quite possibly his own.
Once the table was cleared, the groups fell back into their distinct divisions: the dwarves gathered at one end, Miquella took position at the other, his followers aligned behind him like loyal shadows. Gandalf and Bilbo, meanwhile, remained at one head of the table, slightly apart, but clearly attentive.
"I think it's time we speak of the reason that has brought us together," Thorin said, with the firm and serene voice of a leader accustomed to taking charge. "But first… I believe we should introduce ourselves." His eyes shifted from Gandalf to Miquella and his group with unmistakable intent.
Gandalf nodded, drew deeply from his pipe, and then fixed his gaze on Bilbo. The hobbit, confused, returned the look without fully understanding what the wizard expected.
"Bilbo…" Gandalf said calmly. "Aren't you going to introduce us to your guests?"
"What? But I didn't invite them!" Bilbo replied, utterly bewildered. "I thought you had brought them, like the rest…"
The silence that followed was immediate. All eyes turned toward the true mystery of the night: Miquella and his followers, who still held their composure. The demigod smiled serenely, while his group had already adopted a more alert stance upon noticing the change in the atmosphere.
The tension spiked. The dwarves reacted instinctively, grabbing whatever object nearby could serve as a weapon. Though they didn't attack, the threat was palpable; one even raised his beer mug as if it were an improvised mace.
"Well… let's just say we invited ourselves," Miquella said with a calm, almost amused smile.
That revelation did nothing to ease the tension. The dwarves grew even warier, ready to react. Reflexively, Miquella's followers did the same, and for a moment it seemed a battle would break out right then and there, in the cozy parlor of Bag End.
"Stop, stop! Don't fight in my house!" Bilbo cried, on the verge of collapse, raising his hands in desperation.
"Peace, all of you!" added Gandalf, his voice grave and commanding.
The wizard's words were more than mere sounds. His voice, infused with a hint of his true power, resonated through the air like restrained thunder. A sensation of pressure spread through the room, as if the very air had grown heavier. Some felt a shiver down their spine; others, a surge of instinctive discomfort that forced them to drop their weapons and sit back down.
Miquella, however, was not subdued. Though he felt the force, he dispelled it with ease—albeit not without a faint furrow in his brow. His current state was still far from his former glory, and the difference was clear before entities like Gandalf. Yes, he had been recovering little by little, but there was still a long road ahead.
Besides Miquella, only his followers and the eldest dwarves—Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin—managed to resist through sheer force of will. And for that very reason, they were the first to calm.
"Well… then it would be wise for us all to introduce ourselves, to clear up these doubts," Gandalf said in a conciliatory tone, stepping in as mediator. The last thing he wanted was an unnecessary clash with a group he knew almost nothing about. Besides, he thought it would do Bilbo good to understand who exactly had invaded his dining room. "I shall begin. You may call me Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey. I am a wandering wizard, and I am here to aid those who seek to reclaim their home, those who need to live an adventure… and to prevent the evil that haunts this land from growing more dreadful."
Having said this, he cast a firm look at Bilbo, urging him silently to continue.
"Uh… I'm Bilbo Baggins." The hobbit cleared his throat. "The owner of this house," he added, with heavy emphasis on that last part, his frustration barely concealed.
An awkward silence fell. Both sides—the dwarves and Miquella—watched one another warily, waiting for someone else to speak. At last, Thorin rose solemnly from his seat.
"I am Thorin Oakenshield, and my reasons for being here are of no concern to strangers," he declared firmly, his voice dripping with pride and disdain, leaving no doubt of his displeasure at the presence of outsiders.
The dwarves cheered at his words. Until then, none had spoken, always deferring to their leader. Thorin sat back down with a severe expression, silently wishing that group of humans—and the strange "boy"—would leave so the meeting could proceed without them.
"Well, I am Miquella the Kind," the named one said at last, smiling gently. Seeing that Thorin had used his title instead of a surname, he imitated the style. "And these are my loyal followers: Leda, Ansbach, Hornsent, Freya, Thiollier, Moore, and Dane." He gestured toward each as he named them. "You may ask them their titles later… if you're really that curious," he added playfully, though clearly no one else in the room shared his sense of humor.
The air sank again into tense silence. Miquella's introduction revealed little beyond their names. Even Gandalf, with all his vast experience and memory, could not identify a single one of them, which unsettled him further. Bilbo, for his part, thought that the title "the Kind" was at least encouraging. What sort of villain would call himself "kind"? And besides, Miquella's serene demeanor and gentle face felt oddly familiar and comforting compared to the rest of the strange company.
Others felt the same. After all, titles in Middle-earth were tied to deeds or personal traits, like Oakenshield for Thorin. So the Kind hardly sounded threatening.
But Miquella, sensing the inquisitive gazes still upon him, understood he needed to go further.
"Oh, and we came because we want to join the mission to Erebor," he added as if it were a minor detail.
The effect was immediate.
The dwarves leapt to their feet, alarmed. The mission to Erebor was a closely guarded secret, never meant to reach outside ears. Not even all the dwarves present knew the true purpose of the meeting; they knew the mountain was to be reclaimed, but not that the plan was so imminent and specific. The sudden leak of this knowledge threw them into uproar. Arguments flared, and accusing eyes quickly fell on Gandalf. They trusted their own kin implicitly, but with the wizard—though respected—they could not be so certain.
Amid the chaos, two figures remained utterly silent: the masked dwarves, who had not removed their metal coverings since the beginning, not even to eat. They used a clever mechanism that allowed them to open a small slot near the mouth to chew without revealing their faces, making them the most mysterious members of the company.
The scene escalated quickly. Leda nearly smashed a jug over a dwarf's head when he approached Miquella menacingly, and several dwarves, in turn, were about to hurl themselves at her. But before the conflict could erupt into true violence, three voices rang out at once:
"Enough!" Gandalf thundered, his voice laden with authority.
"Cease!" Thorin commanded regally.
"That will do," Miquella said, without raising his voice, yet with such firmness that his followers stopped at once.
Fists lowered, tense bodies slowly eased. Bloodied lips were wiped on sleeves, while suspicious, hostile gazes drifted back to their corners.
It was then that Miquella chose to clarify.
"Well, I understand our presence is unsettling," he said at last, his voice calm as his eyes swept the room. "And I'm sure you cannot imagine to what extent. But truthfully… we are here to help." He paused, flashing a sly smile. "Or rather, to do business."
Thorin frowned, his distrust springing back like a coiled spring.
"I don't know how you know what you know, but I would never deal with an elf," he spat, his voice laden with scorn and disgust, no longer bothering to conceal it.
"Oh, I'm no elf," Miquella replied lightly, brushing aside his golden hair with elegance to reveal his rounded ears. "I'm just… too pretty."
A murmur swept the room. The company stared at the young man's human ears, surprised—they had all been convinced he was an elf by his appearance, aura, and bearing. Even Thorin, though his lips remained tense, betrayed a flicker of change in his expression, as if the racial prejudice that had gripped him suddenly lost strength in light of the revelation—though he was still annoyed and suspicious.
"So he really isn't an elf…" Bilbo muttered, still processing what he saw. "Nor a girl… Manbroh Took will be very disappointed…"
"You know them?" Gandalf arched a brow, turning toward the hobbit.
"Only what everyone in the Shire knows," Bilbo replied honestly. "They arrived one day in Hobbiton and settled nearby. Besides this Miquella, the rest were rather frightening, but they never did anything wrong. I even heard they helped with something about… a walking corpse." He shuddered at the rumors. "They live a bit apart, but sometimes they're seen in town. They sell strange but useful things. I bought a decorative piece for my study myself. Odd folk, but they don't seem like bad people."
"It is a pleasure to know you hold us in such regard, Mr. Baggins," Miquella said with a kind smile… before shifting to a far more serious expression. "But I understand so little information may not suffice for the rest of you."
No one contradicted him. Neither the dwarves nor Gandalf said a word, and that silence was telling: his mere presence raised too many questions. So Miquella inhaled deeply, and spoke with heavier weight in his voice.
"My name is Miquella, son of Queen Marika… and of Radagon," he said, not without a flicker of tension on his face, as if his lineage weighed on him. "My companions and I come from a place very, very far away… the Lands Between. A place we may never be able to return to…" His voice dropped, tinged with nostalgia. "We don't know how we came here, but we are stranded in this strange land, with no road back. And though for some that has been a tragedy… for others, perhaps it is a blessing."
Miquella's words carried hypnotic weight, his voice soft yet piercing, charged with such vivid sorrow it seemed to color the very air. As he spoke, the company could almost see in their minds what he described, as though a vision played before their eyes: a lost home, the ache of distance, the frustration of defeat… and the deep sadness of never returning.
It was precisely what Miquella intended—to stir true emotion in the dwarves' hearts, to weave a tale of exile that mirrored their own, even if his pain was in truth more distant. He manipulated feelings with almost artistic subtlety, more powerful for being almost imperceptible. And he did it unconsciously, as though it were his soul speaking, not his mind.
But Gandalf noticed.
A sudden strike of his staff against the floor echoed through the room, accompanied by a faint flash from the ring on his finger. An invisible wave rippled through the air, imperceptible to most, yet effective. Like a gust of wind clearing away fog, the enchantment subtly clouding the listeners' minds was dispelled. The emotions remained—authentic, intense—but they were their own again.
Few truly grasped what had happened. Bilbo only felt as if he could think more clearly. The dwarves blinked in confusion, as though waking from a dream.
But Gandalf did not smile. His eyes now held more suspicion than before. He had sensed a power he had not expected, which made it doubly dangerous.
Miquella, for his part, hardly noticed the breaking of his influence. He had not been aware of what he was doing. His power was returning, and with it, side effects he could no longer control so easily. Yet he did not stop speaking.
"Wandering without a place to call home, we understood that if we could not return to ours… then we must build a new one. We will settle somewhere. Raise our lives from the ashes. And carry the memory of our land in our hearts, as banner and guide." He ended firmly, and in his voice there was no longer only pain, but determination.
A silence gripped the hall.
"And what does that have to do with why you are here today… humans?" Dwalin finally broke the quiet with his usual gruff tone, though it carried an unfamiliar undertone. He would not admit it, but the tale had touched him.
Miquella did not answer immediately. He pondered for a moment, as if searching for the right words.
"No… I would not say we belong exactly to the race of Men…" he began calmly. "Though the word 'human' describes us well in form and nature, we are not like those here. Not all among us share the same blood. In our land, the diversity of beings was vast: humans, yes, but others too… different, unique. We had no dwarves, no hobbits, and until now, had never known those called elves… but diversity was real…"
He paused briefly. Then lifted his gaze, locking eyes with each one present, one by one.
"That is why I do not believe it fair to label us as Mens of this land. Perhaps a more fitting term for us would be another… You may call us Eldens, or Eldenians."