Miquella, in that strange dreamlike form —black-haired, with uncanny eyes and an adult body— emerged in what seemed to be an ancient, silent forest. This time, everything felt different. Perhaps because, knowing beforehand what would happen, he was no longer disoriented. Within himself he could clearly perceive how his essence and Trina's—once united, then separated—were intertwining again into a single being. Trina spoke inside his mind with greater clarity, as if her thoughts were blooming from within him.
With this newfound confidence, Miquella moved forward. He was there with a purpose, in this dream that was also reality, yet allowing himself the small pleasure of feeling adult again.
...
This journey took place in a past age, just as Trina had warned him: a parallel world. Now he found himself in the region between the Misty Mountains and what was still called Greenwood… though the situation was not the same as in his own time.
The Northmen still held parts of the mountain borders and the forest's edge. Miquella, despite his experience, could not help feeling lost; and Trina could offer only limited assistance. Part of her consciousness was occupied keeping watch over Miquella's main body—sleeping in the physical world—and the talisman she had entrusted to Gandalf. Thus, in this adventure, Miquella would have to rely mostly on himself.
And so he began his journey through these lands...
Time passed like a dream: swift, evanescent. Even though he was more aware now, at times he felt himself almost slipping away, as if about to awaken and abandon that world entirely. Only the connection with Trina kept him anchored. But with her distracted, Miquella had to shoulder that burden alone, keeping part of his mind clinging to this plane. It was a trial—training for the more complex journeys he intended to undertake in the future.
He wandered through the region, seeing what this land had been in the past, crossing paths now and then with people who offered him directions or warnings. And yet, despite how fascinating it all was, a certain loneliness was inevitable. Only him… and Trina, to some extent. Miquella could not help missing his sister, thinking of the pranks he played on Leda, or reflecting on his own future: on being a pawn in the war of divine beings, on the possibility—or the longing—of freeing himself and living by his own rules.
Eventually, guided by local directions, he reached the outskirts of the Misty Mountains, arriving at a settlement that no longer existed in the main world: a village of the Northmen… the ancient home of Beorn.
He had reached his goal.
From that point, his stay took on a calmer tone. The village was old, rough, and though Miquella was somewhat surprised that none of its inhabitants were nearly as tall as Beorn—he was clearly an exception—they were nonetheless sturdy, robust men and women with strong spirits.
Miquella attempted to integrate into this community, and with his power and charisma, he succeeded to a great degree, becoming one of them.
He tried to blend in, and thanks to his innate charm and latent power, he soon became part of the community. He met Beorn's family, even the young Beorn himself, though they spoke little at first. The true change came when he met a peculiar group: shamans, druids, sorcerers… They had no formal title; people simply called them the wise men.
They were not like Gandalf, Radagast, or Saruman; they were not Ainur. These were common humans, mortal… but capable of learning magic and enchantments, which was a feat in itself.
They lived apart, almost reclusive—mostly elderly, lovers of nature, vegetarians like Beorn, and even capable of speaking several animal tongues. Beorn had maternal ties to them, visiting from time to time and humbly learning whatever they wished to teach.
Miquella was fascinated by this small circle of rustic wisdom. Communication flowed easily—perhaps due to his charisma, or perhaps because they sensed the powerful aura of the demigod—and he soon found himself accepted among them.
He decided to remain there, learning their peculiar magic: something that, unlike the gifts of the Ainur, could indeed be studied, practiced, and mastered through effort.
Thus, Miquella became one more apprentice among the wise men, studying alongside children like the young Beorn… and discovering that it was from these old sages that Beorn eventually learned to take the form of a bear.
Time passed, and Miquella earned the respect of the village. He helped wherever he could, aware of what was coming. He knew Beorn's story and the tragedy that marked his life; he knew danger would soon reveal itself. For that reason, he quietly warned the elder shamans and began preparing for the confrontation he sensed was inevitable.
Among his progress, the bear transformation was nearly mastered. Miquella had a natural talent for arcane arts, and although it had taken time to adjust to the differences between the Lands Between and this world, once he succeeded, any new magic seemed to fall into his hands with ease.
There were other transformations besides the bear, but each required time, discipline, and emotional mastery. He eventually understood why young Beorn had learned only the bear form: just as he began to master that "animal side," the goblins attacked.
The goblins had multiplied in the depths of the mountains. When their numbers reached a certain limit, they spread like a plague, attempting to eliminate any race living nearby.
The attack came without warning—brutal and sudden—claiming lives in the first instant. The people, though brave and strong, were unprepared for a horde so vast.
When Miquella heard of it, he departed immediately to join the defense. He did not possess exceptional martial skill—he had always been a child unable to wield a sword with proper technique—but he made up for that with pure power.
The Godslayer was an incomparable weapon; a single motion could fell entire clusters of goblins. And that was not the only decisive factor. Soon, a gigantic bear, a dark-furred wolf, a great eagle with massive wings, and a colossal boar burst into the battle, tearing apart their enemies. The wise men, in their animal forms, had come to the village's aid… but they were old, and their strength was not meant for long fights.
The first assault was repelled, yes, but everyone knew what the first sighting meant: they would return. And they would return again and again until none remained.
It was then that Miquella tried to convince the people to flee. His mission there was to save as many as possible. But many refused. They believed they could resist, that it was more honorable to fight than to run. They did not yet understand what was coming.
Reality arrived shortly after, when an even greater number of goblins descended from the mountains, this time led by a fearsome orc: Bolg. And with him came several trolls.
The battle was far fiercer than the last. Only Miquella's presence tilted the scale slightly in their favor; in every other regard… things were going badly. He was powerful, yes, but he could not be everywhere at once. Moreover, in these dream-journeys his magic was nearly sealed away: he lacked the support of his ring, something Trina had been unable to bring into this world. That was why he so desperately sought to learn local magic.
The casualties were too many. Amid the chaos, the elder who took the form of an eagle called out to Miquella. With a weary voice, she commanded him to take the survivors and flee.
While the wise men—along with a handful of capable men and women—mounted a desperate resistance against an endless horde, Miquella covered the retreat of the young, the elderly, the women, and the children.
It was worse than he had feared. Each time he felt the burden of protecting their escape grow heavier, he knew it meant the group remaining behind was falling one by one. Even so, managing to keep the remaining group with very few losses, Miquella guided them out of the Misty Mountains. He continued leading and protecting them until they reached the outskirts of Greenwood, where they found another settlement of humans: also Northmen, distant kin of those "ancient Beornings." They were the Woodmen.
With everyone safe, Miquella felt that his mission was complete… though he could not consider it a success. His satisfaction was overshadowed by a profound frustration. Even in these dream-journeys, with his adult body granting him tremendous power, he remained limited: he lacked his ring, which he already considered a fundamental piece of his identity and magical ability.
Trina assured him this could be remedied in the future, when both regained more strength. But none of that eased the weight of the losses. Miquella could not avoid feeling responsible.
He returned then to the slopes of the Misty Mountains, to the village that was now nothing but ashes and ruins. Goblins leave nothing behind; they consume, destroy, and erase even memory. Not even the house of the wise men had survived. Miquella had hoped to recover some object, some keepsake to preserve their legacy, but found only a few carved figurines and necklaces—crude, but meaningful. He collected them with great care. He planned to give them to Beorn someday.
The worst came afterward: he found a huge eagle impaled on stakes, its body lifeless yet still imposing.
Miquella lowered the body gently, as if it were still alive, and buried it near what remained of the secluded house. Then he ventured deeper into the mountain.
The wise men had taught him part of their knowledge, but above all, they had taught him respect, humility, and love for nature. They did not deserve such a fate. And Miquella would not allow it to go unpunished.
Forcing his way forward with the Godslayer, he reached the deepest caves of the goblins. They were insignificant enemies compared to Smaug—whom he had barely managed to fight to a draw—but that did not matter now.
What mattered was the rage.
Fury consumed him when he saw what the goblins were doing: they were devouring the corpses of the wise men, still trapped in their animal forms even in death. Seeing those creatures feeding on those who had given him a home awakened something dark inside him.
Miquella's eyes turned black, the veins on his face rising like thin roots, and a deep hatred ran through him from his chest to the tips of his fingers.
What followed was a massacre.
Deep within the mountain, Miquella unleashed pure, cold, overflowing violence. He did not stop for anything. He did not feel his wounds, nor fatigue, nor the blood covering him. He only killed. He only destroyed. That malevolent power— that cosmic echo Trina had not yet managed to fully suppress— amplified any trace of anger, turning it into an insatiable bloodlust.
Had Miquella possessed his full power, he would have collapsed the entire mountain without caring about the consequences. And that was exactly what that malign entity wanted when granting him such power: to bring destruction, chaos, and suffering into the world.
But even so, his body eventually failed him.
Although the cave floor was carpeted with corpses and the surviving goblins fled in terror, his wounds accumulated one after another. The dark power prevented Miquella from feeling the pain, but Trina felt it all.
She had been fighting that darkness from the beginning, and she knew that if they continued, Miquella would never return from that dream.
She decided for both of them.
...
Once more, the dream space. Miquella opened his eyes, recovering clarity. He understood—with a shiver—how close he had been to becoming a mindless monster, had Trina not been supporting him from the very beginning.
"Did we do enough?" Miquella asked softly.
"More or less…" Trina replied. "Far more Beornings survived than in the original timeline. When the worlds merge, Beorn will be able to find more of his people."
"And afterwards we can help them rebuild their home."