The Eldens returned late at night, but their rest was brief. Before the sun rose over the horizon, they were already awake, loading their belongings onto the mounts and the small cart they had decided to bring along.
Miquella couldn't help but lay his hand on the wood of the cart, running it gently along the surface. It was inevitable to remember how they had arrived here. He compared the emotions of that moment with those of now, as he felt the history of this world, as he knew it, beginning to unfold before his eyes… and with it, the decisions he would soon have to make. But those thoughts faded when he heard Leda's call, and without another word, he left the cart with all its things behind.
After saying farewell to Dora —to whom they entrusted the keys to the house so she could take care of it and keep it clean during their absence— they set out for Bag End. A small group went ahead. Miquella led, with Leda and Thiollier at his sides.
When they arrived, several dwarves were already mounting their ponies and adjusting the last bundles.
"We thought you weren't coming," Bofur remarked with a mocking smile upon seeing them. Judging by their faces, all the dwarves were in better spirits than the day before, likely thanks to Gandalf's words, which had convinced them to give the Eldens a chance.
"Hello, everyone," greeted Miquella, receiving a cordial 'good morning' from almost all of them. The only one who kept his stern expression was Thorin, who did not bother to hide his discomfort with their presence.
"We're about to depart," Thorin announced, glancing at the incomplete group of Eldens. "We won't wait for the rest to arrive. It's a long journey. If you fall behind, we will not stop."
As he spoke, he tightened the saddle on his pony and then mounted with firmness.
"I think in Bree we might be able to get some horses for…" Balin began, trying to soften Thorin's stance. He truly valued the help of these unexpected allies.
"That won't be necessary. Here come the others," interrupted Miquella, pointing to the distance where the rest of the group appeared, led by Ansbach, bringing several mounts with them.
There was a horse for each Elden, and a small pony specially fitted for Miquella. All were fully saddled, with light saddlebags and neatly packed gear. Miquella approached the pony, and Leda, as if they had rehearsed it many times, lifted him with ease and placed him gently on the mount. She then climbed onto her own horse and positioned herself at his side, like a loyal guardian.
"We may depart" said Miquella, while carefully patting one of the saddlebags. From its interior, the doll of Ranni peeked out discreetly, as if spying on the outside world.
Thorin did not reply. He merely nodded before giving the order to march. Soon, ponies and horses began moving slowly along the roads of the Shire.
Although they shared the same destination, the two groups marched apart. The dwarves kept to the left side of the path, the Eldens to the right. Each group followed its own leader, though Miquella did not ride alone: Leda rode by his side, always vigilant.
"Where are Bilbo and Gandalf?" asked Miquella, noticing the two most obvious absences.
"Gandalf awaits us further ahead," replied Balin, before Thorin could speak. "As for Mr. Baggins…"
"He had some matters to settle before leaving his home. He will catch up with us on the way," Thorin said, his brow furrowed, trying to conceal his unease. The night before, he had officially accepted Bilbo as his burglar. The fact that the hobbit hesitated to join the adventure had not been part of his plans. Now, to avoid losing authority, he had to sustain that lie.
Miquella sensed the tension and chose to remain silent. The cold morning air seemed to mirror the emotional distance between the two groups. Yet that began to change, little by little. The more jovial dwarves started chatting among themselves, and eventually, some words crossed the imaginary boundary separating the Eldens from the rest.
Gandalf's arrival, as they left Hobbiton behind, further eased the mood.
Miquella was fascinated by the dwarves: their stories, their customs, their differences. They had been created by Aulë, a singular race and, in a sense, successful when compared to the albinaurics of his own world… though, of course, Ilúvatar had intervened in this creation.
The dwarves, for their part, did not hide their curiosity about these strange companions. Each of the Eldens was different, unique, yet they all followed a child… or so it seemed. They had heard that Miquella was not truly a child, but it was difficult to shake off that impression, both from his appearance and from certain gestures or attitudes.
Small exchanges of words took place here and there. Miquella had already told his own that he wished to forge a relationship of respect and camaraderie with the dwarves, so all were more willing to interact. Gandalf acted as a bridge between the two groups, encouraging conversations… though also, deep down, seeking answers about these enigmatic Eldens. But he knew he could not press them just yet.
Leaving the open fields of Hobbiton behind, the road grew more winding and wooded. They had barely crossed the first row of trees when a voice reached them from behind.
"Wait!" shouted Bilbo, running through the tall grass, panting but determined.
Taking advantage of his natural hobbit agility, he quickly closed the distance. Luckily for him, the group was still moving at a slow pace; otherwise, he would never have caught up.
Thorin, with solemn air and feigned foresight, ordered that Bilbo be given "his" pony, as if everything had been perfectly planned from the start. No one commented on the improvisation, and the journey continued, now at a slightly quicker pace since they no longer had to wait for anyone else.
Though formally part of the Company, Bilbo still did not feel entirely comfortable. The dwarves struck him as rough, stubborn, coarse… and far filthier than he considered acceptable. For that reason, he chose to remain close to Balin, Gandalf, and Miquella: the calmest, most courteous (and/or least intimidating) members of the group.
The march went on with the hobbit's recent incorporation, and with it, the noise. Jokes and laughter intensified, many of them directed —more mocking than malicious— at Bilbo, for his lack of travel experience, his clumsiness with the reins, or his poor tolerance of the dust and insects of the road.
At some point, however, the noise subsided. The group fell into a calm, yet heavy silence. It was the kind of silence in which thoughts begin to weigh more than usual, where the sound of hooves on dirt becomes the only companion.
Miquella, after a long time traveling, had stopped seeing the path and was instead staring at his pony… though his eyes clearly looked beyond. They drifted far away, as if searching for something not of this world.
"Do you also dislike riding ponies?" asked Bilbo, with a mix of nervousness and relief, as though he had finally found an ally in his discomfort. He looked rather tense, clutching the reins rigidly. Though he had ridden before, it was not exactly his favorite activity.
Miquella turned his gaze to him and smiled faintly.
"No, it's not that… the pony isn't the problem," he replied, but then interrupted his own words. "No… yes, it is the pony. Or rather… what it is not."
He lowered his eyes to his hand, where a fine golden ring gleamed, delicately crafted. It was not the mysterious ring he kept hidden, but another one.
He could not help remembering how many times he had whistled through it, straining his voice with the hope that an answer would come.
But it never did.
Sadness and disappointment weighed heavily on his chest. The same was true with the small hand bell kept alongside the Ranni doll, another relic he stroked gently. Both objects were silent reminders of unfulfilled wishes.
Finally, Miquella lifted his gaze from the pony and looked toward the path. His face seemed empty, almost absent, as if his thoughts no longer belonged to that forest. And then, in a soft voice, he began to hum… seeking to release the weight of his emotions, to let them flow out, transformed into melody.
And then, without warning, he began to sing.
(Runaway – Aurora)
"I was listening to the ocean
I saw a face in the sand
But when I picked it up
Then it vanished away from my hands, down
I had a dream I was seven
Climbing my way in a tree
I saw a piece of heaven
Waiting, impatient, for me, down
And I was running far away
Would I run off the world someday?
Nobody knows, nobody knows
And I was dancing in the rain
I felt alive and I can't complain
But now take me home
Take me home where I belong
I can't take it anymore..."
His voice filled the air like a sigh, melodious and fragile, almost ethereal. A sweet, crystalline sorrow spilled among the trees. It was not a song meant to be heard by others; Miquella had simply let himself go, indifferent to the surprise of those around him.
The Eldens watched him with reverence. It was not the first time their lord sang, but each occasion bore a different weight. The first had been a welcome, an echo of their arrival in this world. The second, a moment of shame they all preferred to forget. But this time… this time it was different. This was pure yearning. A deep longing, a wound yet unhealed.
Leda, upon hearing the song, tightened her grip on the reins. She felt she was failing. Her duty was not only to protect her lord but also to prevent him from bearing so much pain. Leda could not avoid the sting of failure in her chest. She wanted… no, she had to make sure her lord would never again have to sing such melodies in the future.
"I was painting a picture
The picture was a painting of you
And for a moment I thought you were here
But then again, it wasn't true, down
And all this time I have been lying
Oh, lying in secret to myself
I've been putting sorrow on the farest place on my shelf
La-di-da
And I was running far away
Would I run off the world someday?
Nobody knows, nobody knows
And I was dancing in the rain
I felt alive and I can't complain"
Even the dwarves, who had been talking or joking until then, fell silent. Something in that voice pierced through them, something they could not explain.
Gandalf did not take his eyes off Miquella. He listened to every word, every note, as if they were infused with ancient power. For they were. There was magic in that voice, but not the kind conjured with words and staffs. It was deeper, more dangerous. It was the magic of a bared soul.
The Istari could not help recalling… that other melody. Though he knew he could not compare them, Olórin felt a pang of concern. Miquella was not a simple visitor. His very presence was altering Middle-earth, changing things that were not meant to change so easily.
And with that certainty, he remembered his duty once more. He could not fail. Not his Father, nor his brothers and sisters.
"But now take me home
Take me home where I belong
I got no other place to go
Now take me home
Take me home where I belong
I got no other place to go…
…And I kept running for a soft place to fallAnd I kept running for a soft place to fall…
…Now take me home, home where I belongI can't take it anymore."
The dwarves, along with Bilbo, were bewildered. None of them had expected that this youth —or whatever he was— would suddenly break into song. Much less that his voice, strange and almost otherworldly, would slip into their ears and sink straight into their hearts, where it stirred memories, wounds, and feelings they thought long buried.
Even Dori, who prided himself on being partially deaf in one ear, confessed that he had felt every word as though they had been spoken directly to his soul
Some of the eldest among them, those who had witnessed the fall of Erebor with their very own eyes, felt the song stirring their old sorrows. It wasn't a song meant for them, and yet, Miquella's emotion became their own. The longing for a lost home, the doubt of whether they could ever reclaim it, and the quiet fear of failing in the attempt… all of it was rekindled.
Bilbo, meanwhile, stood frozen, as if in a trance. Doubt overwhelmed him. He questioned whether he had done the right thing. What if he never came back? What if there was no return?
"Now take me home, home where I belong... I can't take it anymore."
The song ended softly, almost like a plea. Miquella exhaled, as if he had finally released something that weighed heavily within. He had left much behind, but he had also gained more than he ever expected. And yet, the song had given him a fleeting moment of peace, of catharsis. For him, at least.
The others did not feel the same.
"Boy," a deep voice called behind him.
Miquella turned. He saw the somber faces of the dwarves. Even Thorin, ever stoic, seemed affected. And then, closer, he met Leda's eyes: worried, firm… determined not to let her lord drown again in such sorrow.
It was Dwalin who had spoken. His expression was stern, hardened by discomfort.
"You've got a fine voice," he said with a grunt. But his words didn't sound like praise. "But if you ever sing something that depressing again… I'll throw you off your pony."
The dwarves, though silent, all nodded in agreement. Even Thorin, who would never approve of such nonsense aloud, seemed unwilling to go through that storm of emotions again. For him, the journey to Erebor allowed no doubts, no weakness. It had to succeed.
The Eldens, on their side, did not take the threat lightly. Instinctively, every one of them reached for their weapons at hearing someone threaten their lord. The air grew tense for a moment. But Miquella lifted his hand gently, and that alone was enough to bring calm once more.
The march continued. Quieter. Heavier.
"Come now, let's change the mood," Glóin said with a frown. "I can't stand this atmosphere."
"Yes, let's sing something more cheerful," Ori added, his voice hopeful.
Bifur tried to join in as well, though only his usual gibberish came out, the result of the axe lodged in his skull. Still, everyone agreed: the mood needed lifting.
They tried one song after another, hoping to break the funeral silence Miquella had left behind. But it didn't work. Something in the melancholy of his singing seemed to have smothered the dwarves' spark; their throats were dry, their lyrics faltered.
It was then that Miquella whispered something to Leda, who leaned closer with a raised brow, not entirely sure what she was getting into.
And then, with a mischievous smile, the young demigod began to sing in a bright, deliberately theatrical voice:
"For a long time we've been marching off to battle
In our thund'ring herd, we feel a bit like cattle
With each pounding step, our aching feet are sore..."
The dwarves raised their eyebrows, confused. Dwalin even reached for a stone to hurl… but stopped when Miquella turned to them, arms spread wide with contagious enthusiasm:
"But hey, think instead—
A girl worth fighting for!"
The dwarves looked at each other, baffled, which was exactly what Miquella wanted: to break the ice with something so unexpected no one would know how to react.
"That's what I said:
A girl worth fighting for!
You want her fairer than the moon, with eyes that shine like stars?
Girls who marvel at our strength, adore our battle scars?
Or maybe don't care how she looks or what she'll wear—
As long as she can roast a boar, or stew a perfect hare!"
Miquella swayed atop his pony to the rhythm of the melody, now fully immersed in the performance. The cheerful, mocking tune began to catch on with the group like fire on dry tinder
"Bet the mountain girls all swooned for you, brave charmer!
And I'll bet the ladies love a dwarf in armor!
You can guess what we have missed the most
Since we marched off to war—
What do we want?
A girl worth fighting for!"
The enthusiasm was too much. The dwarves, who at first resisted, could no longer contain their laughter, nor their feet tapping to the beat. The atmosphere, once grim, began to shift into something almost festive.
Miquella, grinning slyly, cast a glance at Leda. She sighed, knowing she couldn't refuse… and sang in a firm voice, though visibly uncomfortable:
"The only boy I'm fighting for is my lord, pure as gold—
His beauty and his gentle smile are worth more than I can hold..."
Laughter spread instantly. Then came Hornsent's turn, spurred on by Miquella, who sang in a solemn, deep tone:
"My wife and daughter wait at home, beneath our olive tree—
So from this journey, I shall return with honor and victory."
Fearing that his companions might break the rhythm with some crude nonsense before reaching the climax, Miquella quickly seized control again:
"Black, blue, red, gold or white,
The hair of lovely wives,
All the girls I long to know
Could fill up twenty lives!"
He then looked straight at Bilbo, who was watching with a mix of nerves and stage fright. Miquella's shining eyes pushed him to sing… and the rest of the group was already staring, waiting.
Cornered, Bilbo stammered:
"A girl who loves the hearth and home, who cooks like mother did...
With whom I'd share my afternoons... and maybe raise a kid."
His high-pitched voice broke the rhythm slightly, but by then no one cared: they were too busy laughing, singing, and joining in the spectacle.
The dwarves began to chant their verses, each proudly proclaiming their vision of the ideal partner:
"A girl who'll braid her beard with pride,
Who'll drink and laugh and fight beside—
A dwarven queen, so strong and stout,
Whose voice can knock a dragon out!"(Dwarves)
"Her grace will mirror holy light,
Oh, St. Trina, guide my sight…"(Thiollier)
"I dream of Radahn and our clash on the field,
Let my love be found in the blades that I wield!"(Freya)
"My sons and wife await at home, behind our mountain door,
Each scar I bear reminds me who I'm fighting for..."(Glóin)
Even Gandalf, pressured by laughter and applause, offered a verse:
"A girl worth fighting for? Perhaps…
But I'd rather bring peace, and take a nap."
The laughter was thunderous
Only a few did not join in: Thorin, Balin, the masked dwarves, Moore, Dane, and Ansbach kept silent. But even they couldn't help smiling at the effect the song had on the company.
Thorin, at first annoyed by the whole scene—especially by Miquella and Gandalf's comments that, as Durin's heir, he ought to "make sure to leave descendants"—eventually softened. Seeing his company smiling, singing, and embracing the journey with such fervor… it was a relief. A spark of hope in a quest that, deep down, he knew might be their last.
And so, amid music, laughter, and poorly sung verses, the spirit of the company came back to life. The march went on… this time, to the rhythm of a joyful song and the echo of laughter.