Two weeks. That was the maximum window they could afford without affecting the plan to enter the Lonely Mountain.
Miquella had arranged it so and made sure the others knew through Bilbo, who continued to move freely through the elven realm. When the hobbit managed to get close enough, the Elden King was clear: that was the deadline. Not a day more.
Bilbo had to find a way to free them within that timeframe, but not before. Everything had to coincide with the Eldens' return to avoid unnecessary accidents. Miquella also warned him not to approach his cell. Being considered a sorcerer, his surveillance was much higher than it appeared. Even if Bilbo believed he wasn't being watched, it was better to avoid it. Besides, it was an excellent excuse to ensure Bilbo didn't see anything he shouldn't.
With a clear mission, the hobbit roamed the elven realm devising plans, observing routines, and memorizing corridors and guard shifts… unaware that every one of his movements was already part of another's calculations.
For his part, Miquella spent the first two days recovering. He ate, rested, and absorbed—through his ring—the sustenance the elves brought him in secret by Thranduil's direct orders. He had spent too much helping Malenia, but he could afford nothing less. That battle was necessary.
Malenia possessed a special advantage, yes, but even so, the risk was high. Still, this confrontation was a first step. A necessary advance toward a much greater victory.
...
Just as her brother had indicated, Malenia informed Thranduil about the source of the Scarlet Rot. The Elven King showed immediate interest. Having spoken extensively with Miquella, he did not doubt the truth of the matter, and he reacted exactly as the demigod had foreseen. Thranduil organized a squad of elves, led by his son, to clear the way for the Eldens to reach their destination.
They departed shortly after. Malenia advanced guided by the whispers of St. Trina, which pointed her in the right direction. The elves knew the forest better than anyone. A few indications were enough for them to find the best possible path. Together they advanced rapidly for days. As agreed, the elves handled the minor skirmishes: spiders, forest creatures, and scattered threats. The Eldens held back, acting only occasionally—just enough to stay sharp.
...
During that time, Miquella had a brief encounter with the Elven King. A "casual" dinner, if it could be called that. They spoke of many things, though the main topic was inevitably the Eldens' mission. Thranduil would have preferred to discuss it sooner, but Miquella had postponed the talk until he recovered. Now, however, he answered nearly all the King's doubts… or at least those he deemed necessary. They also spoke of the imminent battle beneath the mountain. The Elven King wanted to anticipate, to organize, and to minimize casualties.
It wasn't long before Miquella returned to his cell under the watchful eyes of the dwarves. Thorin questioned him again, insistent, almost like a jealous partner. But Miquella only responded with a weak smile, offering no explanations. He didn't need to. His expression said much… though few understood what. Resignation, perhaps?
Miquella had already prepared a reason solid enough so that the dwarves—and especially Thorin—would not doubt him. The method was… unconventional. Even Thranduil considered it strange. But he did not question the Elden King's decision. As Miquella himself had requested, he did not plan to voice his opinion aloud... and that was why they now found themselves in this situation.
"I cannot do that!" Tauriel refused, looking at her king with anguish, unable to recognize him.
"It is an order," Thranduil replied without even looking at her.
"How can we do such a thing? We don't treat true prisoners this way! He is but a child!" she protested, indignant.
Thranduil turned his face toward her, observing her from the corner of his eye, analyzing her… as if trying to understand what the Elden King saw in this captain.
"The fact that you continue to mistake him for a child is almost worse than you questioning your King," he said coldly. "Not everything presented before your eyes is the truth. It would be wise to remember that." He paused before continuing. "That 'child' is not what he appears to be. He is more dangerous and cunning than you believe. Even I, at times, have been caught in his words… confused, dazed." He sighed. "Though that ceased to happen once his troops departed. Thus, I can affirm one thing: whatever he did… it truly weakened him."
Thranduil remained lost in thought, fixated on the figure of the Elden King. He measured again and again how dangerous he could be… and how complicated it would be to face him if, in some unexpected future, the paths of both kingdoms crossed the wrong way. He ignored the elf who still could not comprehend his decisions, especially the final order.
"Even so… I cannot fulfill it," Tauriel finally denied.
Perhaps if it were an orc, or any other creature, she would have obeyed without hesitation. But this… this was different. The blonde boy did not fit the cruelty demanded of her. Perhaps at another time, even with reservations, she would have complied. But standing before him, her heart resisted.
"Curious," Thranduil replied with a slight mock. "Because there is no one more suited than you. The Elden King himself was clear." He turned slightly toward her, visibly displeased. "Do not disobey me again," he added icily. "Or I shall have to reconsider your position… or even your place in this realm."
He did not raise his voice. He didn't need to. The threat hung suspended in the air.
...
With the weight of those words still pressing on her chest, Tauriel moved through the corridors toward the cells. Her expression was that of someone fighting an internal battle. She knew that what she was about to do was wrong. But the order had been clear, and the explanation—flawed, incomplete—left no room for objection. At moments, she wondered if following such a king was the right thing to do.
What disturbed her most, however, was that all of this had been requested by the boy himself, as part of some political game she couldn't grasp.
When the dwarves saw her pass, they interpreted her expression as anger. Some noticed what she carried and began to mutter, imagining increasingly worse scenarios, until shortly after they realized which prisoner she was heading toward.
Miquella was sitting in his cell, eyes closed, speaking silently with Trina, attentive to his sister's progress. Sensing Tauriel's presence, he opened his eyes and stood up, walking toward the door with a calm, childlike smile.
"Hello, Tauriel. What brings you here?" he greeted her naturally. A moment later, he saw what she carried and answered himself. "I see it is time."
Miquella stepped away from the threshold and began to shed his mended tunic. Tauriel entered, her eyes fixed on the bare back of the Divine Child, who now leaned against the cold stone table emerging from the opposite wall. Tauriel's knuckles turned white as her hand tightened around the handle of the whip.
"I do not understand why it must be me who does this, but..." (Tauriel)
"You need not say anything. Just do it," he interrupted her. "I do not blame you, nor will I hold a grudge; on the contrary, I thank you. There are truths I cannot yet entrust to you; you only need to know that this is necessary."
Miquella turned his head slightly, giving her a look filled with supernatural calm and genuine affection.
This was shaping up to be the bitterest task ever assigned to Tauriel. Not for lack of skill, but because of the profound resistance of her spirit. To behold that body—a picture of immaculate purity voluntarily exposed to punishment for some inscrutable political stratagem—was unbearable to her.
"Begin when you are ready," Miquella said, no trace of fear in his voice. "And do not worry, I will be fine. I know you will be gentle."
Tauriel let the length of the whip slide to the floor. She inhaled deeply, seeking the courage to end this as soon as possible. With a sudden, precise flick of her wrist, the whip cracked in the air, cutting the silence before biting into Miquella's bare skin.
"Ghhhh...!" A stifled cry escaped the youth's lips. It was a sound so contained—a mixture of pain—that it ended up lost in the air like a smothered groan.
A deathly silence took hold of the room. Tauriel was more shocked than Miquella himself; her hands were shaking. She told herself this shouldn't be so hard, that she was a warrior and could execute punishments without wavering, but before this child, her heart seemed to shrink. She had held back, just as he asked, but the pain was mutual.
"Continue..." Miquella whispered, barely a breath. "It must be so... I need it."
Tauriel could not fathom the purpose, but the determination in the youth's voice left her no choice. She breathed in deeply and resumed the task. The whip cracked again, marking the immaculate skin with painful precision. Stroke after stroke, Miquella's back began to be covered in crimson furrows, and the Divine Child began to lose the ability to stifle his voice.
"He is so beautiful, even when he moans in pain."
Tauriel stopped dead, the hair on the back of her neck standing up. She spun around violently, looking for the owner of that voice, but found only shadows and the echo of the wind among the stones. There was no one.
"Why do you stop?" Miquella asked in a thin voice. Weakness was overcoming him; his power had not yet recovered, and the physical damage cut deeper than he expected.
"Look at him... he wants more. You should mark him, profane him..." The whisper crawled through her ear again.
Tauriel searched every corner in desperation, but the cell was empty. She could not know that, though her eyes did not see her, a figure identical to Miquella was clinging to his neck, embracing him with a diabolical tenderness while hissing into the elf's ear.
Wishing to end the nightmare, Tauriel continued. The snaps of leather and Miquella's groans began to leak out of the cell, reaching the dwarves' dungeons.
"What is that noise?" / "What are they doing to him?!" The voices of Thorin's Company began to rise. Recognizing Miquella's voice and remembering Tauriel with the whip, their confusion turned into pure rage.
"Stop!" roared Dwalin, charging against the bars. "Cursed elves, you will pay for this when I get out!"
The dwarves' shouts grew into a chorus of insults and threats. Even Thorin, whose distrust of Miquella lately had been cold and calculated, exploded into an ancient fury.
"I curse every elf in this forest!" he screamed from his cell, striking the stone. "I will bury you all beneath these roots! Stop this madness, or you shall know the wrath of the dwarves!"
Leda, for her part, was no longer in her cell. The moment she recognized the sounds of her lord's pain, she ran through the corridors, sword in hand and eyes burning with a demonic red, ready to slaughter anyone in her way.
However, upon reaching Miquella's cell, she froze. The intangible arms of Trina held her with a spiritual force, and Miquella's raised hand—in a silent but imperative gesture—ordered her to stop. He didn't say a word; he only signaled for her to leave. Leda recognized in his eyes that cryptic, almost playful attitude he often had when he provoked her. Stunned and heartbroken, Leda backed away. She returned to her cell, ignoring the dwarves' questions, and collapsed onto her cot with her eyes wide open, listening as the whipping resumed.
Tauriel kept striking, lost in a mechanical trance. She had lost count. Her arm felt heavy, but the whispers in her ears grew increasingly perverted, making her doubt if the horror she felt didn't hide some kind of dark pleasure buried deep within her.
Finally, Miquella collapsed. His body, covered in marks, lay on the floor as he gasped in agony. Seeing the child's state, Tauriel's trance broke, and guilt hit her like a sledgehammer. Dropping the whip, she took Miquella in her arms and ran toward the healers. The dwarves, seeing the small, bloody figure of the Divine Child pass by, let out one final cry of desperation and hatred that made the prison walls tremble.