"Bard, descendant of Girion!" Miquella's voice rose, acquiring an epic quality that echoed against the wooden walls of the city. "Descendant of that brave man who defied the fire, who loosed his arrows against the horror and managed to tear a scale from the dragon himself!"
Miquella scanned the crowd, letting every word sink deep.
"Everyone knows the story: a man who was but a single breath away from felling the beast that laid waste to the City of Dale. I can imagine no one more worthy to lead you than him; a man who, even while living as a commoner among you, has cared for your welfare more than any governor on his throne."
Every eye fixed on Bard with an almost religious adoration. The dwarves, who had followed the spectacle with growing astonishment, exchanged tense glances upon learning the bargeman's lineage. Thorin, in particular, clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white; the mention of Girion stirred in him an unjust resentment for that missed shot, but the weight of the moment forced him to remain silent.
Bard, for his part, felt as if the ground were disappearing beneath his feet. He had not expected his family history to be exposed like this, nor that the child he had transported in his boat would be causing such chaos in Esgaroth.
"Therefore, now that the dragon's days are numbered! Now that the Mountain will be reclaimed by our allies and wealth will flow through these waters once more!" Miquella extended his hands, releasing an aura of calm and joy that filtered into the chest of every citizen. "I nominate Bard as the new leader of Esgaroth! Let it be he who guides this noble people back to greatness! What says the people of Lake-town?"
"BARD! BARD! BARD!"
The clamor was unanimous, a roar that shook the docks. Under Miquella's enchantment, the people experienced a supernatural euphoria; they laughed and wept while raising their hands. Those closest to Bard slapped his back with frantic fervor, congratulating him on a position he never asked for. The bargeman tried to protest, to push through, to explain that he did not desire power, but his words were like drops of water in an ocean of cheers.
The bargeman's children were as dazed as their father, but the contagious joy of the crowd eventually enveloped them; they were too young to perceive the web of conspiracy and magic being woven over their heads.
Miquella offered a few final words of blessing before stepping down from the podium with grace.
"Collect the coins," Miquella ordered the dwarves in a pragmatic tone that contrasted with his previous oratory. "Take them inside."
Without looking back, the demigod made his way toward the mansion of the deceased Master, escorted by Leda and Ansbach. He had beheaded a tyrant, crowned a hero, and bought a people, all before noon.
...
In the great hall of the palace, Miquella rested on the throne of the late Master. He leaned his face on one hand with an air of divine boredom while listening to Thorin's complaints. Beside him, invisible to everyone else, Trina whispered secrets into his ear that caused his gaze to wander into the void from time to time.
"What is the purpose of all this theater?" Thorin exploded, pacing in front of him. "Since when do we meddle in the affairs of Men? Our duty is to march to the Mountain and reclaim our kingdom, not play executioner in this swamp."
Miquella did not respond immediately, which irritated the dwarf even more.
"It was necessary, Thorin," he finally said, with a lightness that cut through the air.
"Necessary?" Thorin stopped dead, glaring at him. "In what part of our plan was it foreseen to execute the city's ruler and crown a bargeman? You are acting erratically, Miquella. Where is your prudence?"
"It is more present than ever," the demigod replied, without a single muscle in his face twitching.
"Oh, enlighten me then..." Thorin growled, dropping into a chair opposite him with a dull thud.
"You saw it yourself," Miquella began, letting out a soft laugh. "The previous Master was scum. A man whose appetite knew no bounds."
"And what does that matter to us?" the dwarf interrupted.
"Much more than you think. We promised gold in exchange for help. Do you truly believe that fat man would have been satisfied with his share?" Miquella tilted his head, his voice becoming silky. "As soon as we reclaimed the Mountain, he would have come knocking on your door again and again, demanding more than his due. He would have been a constant headache."
"Heh, let him try," Thorin declared arrogantly. "Once I reclaim Erebor, anyone who comes demanding a single coin shall taste dwarven steel."
"I don't doubt it. You are a King and he was but a man." Miquella arched an eyebrow, casting his hook. "But is it worth the trouble? Do you want to waste your time with an insignificant insect when you could be rebuilding your glory?"
"Insects are to be crushed," Thorin replied coldly, striking the armrest.
"Yes, but every strike leaves a stain," Miquella stated solemnly. "Think of your reputation. If you kill that man after winning, they will say dwarves are murderers who do not keep their promises. They will say one should not trade with your line because you betray your allies once you get what you want. It is not a good reputation for a King who wishes to restore an empire."
Miquella knew he was exaggerating the threat, but he used his divine charm to seep that doubt into Thorin's mind. He noted, however, that the will of dwarves was harder to influence than that of other races—he assumed because of their innate stubbornness.
"Now we don't have to worry about any flies in the future," Miquella concluded, as if closing the case. "And we can dispose of this city's resources with total freedom."
"And the bargeman?" Thorin asked, still annoyed, though begrudgingly accepting the previous logic. "Why insist on naming him leader? I still don't see why we need that... descendant of Girion."
"It was the only way to prevent the city from sinking into chaos after the execution," Miquella explained with absolute confidence. "Besides, we need him. Bard is a piece that must still move on this board."
"Heh... as if we're going to need a bargeman," Thorin snorted, looking away with disdain.
"We don't need him as a bargeman, Thorin, but as an archer," Miquella corrected softly. "Have you forgotten the legend? Girion was able to knock loose one of Smaug's scales. I am convinced that Bard has inherited that skill... or perhaps surpassed it."
"That is but a fable Humans tell to save what little is left of their dignity," Thorin growled, irritated by the memory. "Girion achieved nothing against the beast. If he had, we wouldn't be here discussing ruins and ash."
"I believe the story is real," Miquella replied, interlacing his fingers. "But even if you doubted it... don't you think in our position it is wiser to believe in a possibility than to discard it out of pride?"
"What good does believing do us?" Thorin struck the armrest. "Your Eldens were supposed to deal with Smaug. Are you turning coward now?"
"We are not turning coward. We are certain of our strength." Miquella fixed his golden eyes on the dwarf's. "But a good leader always has a contingency plan. Imagine we are winning, Smaug feels wounded and decides to flee. He hides in the wastes, recovers, and years later returns to reduce Erebor to rubble once more... Is that the legacy you want to leave? An incomplete victory hanging by a thread?"
Thorin fell silent. In all his years of exile, in every sleepless night planning the return, he had never considered that the dragon might simply... escape to return later. The mental image of the Mountain burning a second time made him shudder.
"And what do you expect the archer to do?" Thorin asked, his voice now stripped of mockery and laden with tense curiosity. "Wait outside and bring him down if he tries to flee?"
"Do you remember the large wind-lance you saw earlier?" Miquella pointed toward the window, though the weapon was invisible from there. "That masterpiece of dwarven engineering. Does it not seem the perfect instrument to finish the job?"
"That wind-lance is a useless piece of iron without the proper projectile," Thorin stated bitterly. "A dragon does not die from wooden splinters. It would take a Black Arrow... and those were lost when..."
"And if I told you there is a Black Arrow available?" Miquella sketched a smile that made Thorin straighten in his seat.
"Are you serious?" (Thorin)
"Yes. I saw it in Bard's house," Miquella nodded complacently, holding Thorin's gaze. "Of course, my wish is for my hosts to end the dragon without resorting to it. But if we fail, we have him. You can test his aim while we are here if you still doubt his pulse. But I trust what I have seen: we have the wind-lance, the arrow, and the archer. We have the perfect backup in case the worst happens... Tell me, Thorin, does it still seem unnecessary?"
Thorin remained quiet, caught in his thoughts, calculating the possibilities, rethinking his plans. Soon he looked up at the child before him and his absolute confidence.
"And do you think he will be willing to cooperate?" Thorin questioned at last. "He didn't seem very pleased with our presence. What makes you think he will choose to shoot the dragon instead of fleeing or staying on the sidelines, far from the fire? Nothing assures me he won't use his new power to expel us from the city or prevent us from marching to the Mountain."
"Of course he will help," Miquella responded with staggering serenity. "Now he is not just a father or a man worried about his neighbors; he is the leader of this people. Everyone expects him to bring them prosperity. Everyone expects him to finish the work Girion began. He cannot afford to fail them... the pressure of others' devotion can force a man to do incredible things."
Miquella tilted his head, and a flash of malice crossed his golden eyes.
"Besides, he has his family here. He knows that if the dragon survives, vengeance will be inevitable. And as for stopping us... he couldn't do it without his own people questioning him. If he doesn't stop us, we go against the beast; and if we go against the beast, he has no choice but to prepare his bow."
Thorin looked at him in silence.
"You planned the Master's murder, the speech in the square, and the bargeman's rise... all after seeing a simple arrow on his hearth," he murmured, incredulous.
"More or less..." Miquella sketched an enigmatic smile. "Let's just say I improvised."
Thorin kept silent. All of this was beyond his control, but Miquella's logic was as solid as iron. However, his reflections were interrupted when the heavy doors of the hall swung wide open, letting in the roar of the jubilation still boiling in the streets.
Bard entered the room. His face, far from reflecting the joy of the crowd, was a mask of bitterness and contained fury. He walked with a firm step toward where the two kings discussed the fate of the world, his gaze demanding an explanation for the crown of thorns they had placed upon him.
Thorin observed the bargeman in a different way. The contempt he felt toward the "meddling human" had evaporated. Now, looking at him, he no longer saw a nuisance, but a valuable tool. Bard seemed much more... pleasant. More... useful.