Miquella did not realize he had reached the elven realm, nor that Leda and the others had caught up to his side, until they gently shook him awake. Blood loss had left him weak, nearly asleep upon Torrent.
His body was covered in wounds, and two arrows still pierced him: one in the shoulder and another in the hip. Neither had struck vital organs, but his flesh and bones were damaged… and still, he acted as if nothing were wrong.
"Oh… Leda," murmured the demigod, breaking free of his dazed state when he saw his knight's worried face. "Have we arrived already?" he asked, glancing listlessly at the great gates rising before him.
"My lord, are you well?" Leda replied, her voice tight with panic. Though Miquella pretended normality, she could not ignore the pain she felt at seeing her spiritual pillar—sacred and untouchable—in such a state.
"Open the gates and summon the healers!" ordered Elrond as soon as he saw him. Though he sensed this child was no ordinary being, he never delayed tending the wounded. In fact, he intended to treat him personally; the summons to Rivendell's physicians was pure protocol.
"I'm fine… don't make such a fuss," Miquella said indifferently, though his voice was faint, nearly deathlike. "Help me pull out these arrows—I have no strength."
"Let the professionals tend to you, boy," Dwalin growled, himself wounded and in need of care.
The concern was universal. Though Miquella insisted he was an adult trapped in a cursed body, few could continuously see him that way. To them he was a hurt boy, and the anguish he inspired was even greater than that of a dwarf, whose sturdy body spoke plainly of resilience.
"Just pull this arrow out, Leda," the demigod ordered.
He had regained enough lucidity to feel the pain—and he did not like it. Leda, caught in that gaze of his that unraveled all defenses, could not refuse. Faithful, though trembling, she gripped the arrow in his shoulder and yanked it free. The wound tore wider, blood spurted, and Miquella barely managed to frown and clench his teeth… he loathed the weakness of his own body.
"Now the other," he whispered firmly.
Several elves had already arrived, carrying a stretcher, but too late to prevent it. Elrond shook his head silently. What they were doing could worsen the boy's condition, and he nearly intervened with Vilya to heal the demigod himself… until he noticed the peculiarity of the Eldens.
Miquella let out a groan as Leda tore the second arrow from his hip, though she thought he did it on purpose when she caught the words he muttered softly, as he often did just to irritate her:
"So… deep…"
Even so, the demigod lifted his hand. In it gleamed a golden artifact: the seal of the Erdtree.
"Come closer…" he said, mustering what little strength he had left. A golden energy began to pulse within the seal, visible and radiant.
He raised his hand, and suddenly runes and golden sparks spread outward in a shining circle.
Rivendell was already a place where magic lingered in the air, but in that moment, at the very gates of the valley, it became briefly something even more sublime.
It was fleeting, just a flash—but unforgettable.
The wounded felt their injuries close, their strength return. It was not complete healing, but the beauty of that magic was incomparable. It did not flow from the ring's energy, long since depleted… but from Miquella's own true power. That difference was felt deep within each soul: it was a blessing that healed not only the body but also touched the spirit.
The lord of the elves could not help but be fascinated at witnessing such magic with his own eyes. Vilya was no longer the only thing able to heal wounds so wondrously: now, another healer, equally prodigious, walked Middle-earth. For one such as he—knowledgeable and long-lived—it was astounding that anything could still surprise him. He carved the memory deep into his mind, and with it, a clearer vision of that supposed "greater leader" he had heard spoken of on the way back.
The wounds of all seemed mostly closed, but it was Miquella, at the spell's center, who benefited most. The cuts and arrows that had pierced his flesh vanished without a trace, his skin once more immaculate, and the only sign of how near he had been to bleeding out was the blood-soaked tunic clinging to him.
Of course, such a miracle was not without cost: with no energy left in the ring, Miquella had been forced to draw upon his own power to unleash such healing.
When the demigod's raised hand fell with the spell's end, so did he. Like dead weight, he slipped from Torrent straight to the ground—though for a moment he was caught in Leda's arms.
Miquella remained conscious, but barely able to move a single muscle. Even his voice, though no longer deathly, lacked the strength to rise above silence.
"I'm tired… Leda… carry me," he whispered faintly. Had he the strength, he surely would have clung to her like a sloth.
Thus, the tension dominating the scene began to ease. The most knowledgeable could not help but marvel at Miquella's abilities; even if he were alone and abandoned in the world, with such a gift of healing he could carve his name into legend in Middle-earth.
The company followed Elrond into Rivendell, escorted by elven healers—whose prepared instruments proved needless, for the gravest wounds had already been treated. Injuries remained, but none fatal. The Houses of Healing were their first stop, where each would receive proper care.
Elrond, seeing that none required his immediate intervention, went ahead to prepare a banquet. He knew a well-laid table was a better place for talk than an infirmary. And still, he could not hide his growing interest in these enigmatic "Eldens."
Settled into various beds, freed of battle's urgency and no longer fearing for dying companions, the dwarves soon recovered their… particular character. That very same nature that could either amuse or tempt one to hurl them out a window, depending on the moment.
Miquella observed how they seemed nearly offended at being treated by elven hands, as if such care were liquid venom and a fate worse than infection or gangrene. Thorin, in particular, refused even to lie in a bed: he kept away from any who approached and chose instead to treat his own wounds, clumsily but stubbornly.
The rest were no better. They caused more trouble for the healers than anyone would care to admit. It was a spectacle of patience on the elves' part, who did all they could to maintain composure and conceal their distaste for such insufferable patients. Even when Bofur, convinced he needed no healing, ended up standing atop a bed, utterly naked with his genitals on full display, showing off his fresh scars and proclaiming himself "fit as a bull," the healers merely stared into the distance with admirable dignity… though in some eyes it was plain they were on the verge of breaking composure.
Off to the side, Gandalf sighed deeply. If not for knowing the dwarves' conditions were no longer dire, he might have seriously considered knocking a few of them out just so they'd submit to treatment. He glanced at Bilbo, seated beside him, who had only a few scrapes and was obediently tended by an elven maiden. The wizard could not help but think, with some hope, that perhaps a little of that hobbit sensibility might rub off on the dwarves… though he prayed it would not be the other way around.
The elves were far more pleased with the Eldens, though not as much as with Bilbo. In a nearby section, most beds lay empty save the one occupied by the blond boy. Around him, the Eldens stood tall like statues, covering every flank and guarding him with near-reverential devotion.
They too needed medical care, but none seemed willing to receive it before their lord. Not even the insistence of the healers swayed them. Finally, the elves deemed it most practical to treat them there on guard, an awkward scenario for healers… but infinitely more tolerable than dealing with the dwarves. Those assigned to the Eldens looked on their fellows with pity and, in truth, with gratitude for their own fortune.
But in the end, it was not so—for Miquella ordered his followers to disperse and accept healing, leaving only Leda at his side. She, stubborn as ever, seemed ready to disobey this time, though she was the one who most needed care: her wounds were deep, and it was a miracle she had endured so long before the demigod eased them.
"My body is weak… I think only soft female hands should touch me," Miquella said tiredly, though clearly feigning.
That single phrase and a chilling look from Leda were enough to dissuade any male healer from approaching, under the implicit threat of instant annihilation.
Thus, it was the elven women who came to tend the demigod and his knight. Like all the others, they had to strip away bloodied garments to treat them. In Miquella's case, his white tunic had been stained entirely red, and it was impossible not to notice the frailty hidden beneath that divine exterior.
In the room there were only four women: the dwarf sisters, Freya, and Leda. None were shy maidens, and so they shed their clothes without hesitation, standing naked under the lamplight. Miquella might have called it a glorious day, had it not been for the misfortune of also seeing several dwarves naked… and that, most certainly, was no sight worth beholding.
The dwarves at least showed special respect for Kilian and Filian, daughters of Dís, the dwarven princess. For that reason they ceded them the farthest beds, and none dared cast them a glance. The elves, to preserve some semblance of decency, set up screens dividing men and women. This worked only for the dwarf maidens, who used the barrier to remove their metal masks without showing their faces—more out of custom before elves than mistrust of their companions.
For the rest, the screens were useless. The dwarves were too rowdy and noisy to remain behind them. And as for the Eldens, they permitted nothing that blocked their view of their lord: Miquella's frailty was too present in their minds, and they would not leave him unwatched, not even in elven hands.
Because of this, the dwarves had a clear view of Leda and Freya's naked forms. And though their tastes tended to be… peculiar, even they could not help but nod with respect and some admiration. Bofur, in a moment of poor judgment, nearly whistled at the sight of Freya and Leda's scars and muscles, but Dwalin, swift as lightning, clamped his lips tight enough to nearly break his teeth, with a look that said plainly: "I won't save you twice, idiot."
The gesture was silently celebrated by many dwarves. One thing was shamelessness, but to offend those women would be a death sentence—and not a pleasant one. More than one recalled Leda's bloodlust earlier, when with a single punch to the groin she pulverized an orc's hips. The crunch remained etched in their minds with far too much detail to forget.
However close they might feel to them, no dwarf dared joke aloud yet. Leda and Freya were not mere women: they were warriors equal to—or greater than—themselves, who deserved their respect, and they knew it well.
The elven maidens undressed the demigod with care, not only because of his words or fragile state, but because they felt they were tending something sacred. The elves present sensed a kinship with the boy, as if he were not human but one of them. Those features, that ethereal beauty—like the soft, welcoming light of the Two Trees that once shone upon Valinor—made the elves, especially those in direct contact with Miquella, feel his immense radiance.
But they could not linger gazing. They had a duty, and at his side Leda left no room for doubt, her steel gaze promising punishment if they delayed. Thus, the healers began carefully removing the once-white tunic, now soaked in blood.
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