Thus, the company ended up entering Bard's house… through the toilet.
Bard's daughters, who had gone to welcome their father, watched the scene with a mix of horror and fascination as soaked dwarves emerged from the latrine.
"Da..." Sigrid asked with a furrowed brow, "why are those dwarves... and those people... coming out of our toilet?"
"Will they bring us luck?" little Tilda chimed in. In her innocence, she associated dwarves with old tales of good omens. However, her attention quickly shifted when Miquella emerged from the water. Her eyes lit up. "She's so pretty!"
Hearing her speak to him, Miquella looked up and gave the little girl a soft, radiant smile. He didn't seem bothered by the confusion; it wouldn't be the first time he was taken for a girl, and he didn't plan on correcting her for the moment.
While Bard and Bain brought towels, Tilda began handing out blankets so the "guests" could warm up. The gesture was met with grunts of gratitude, as the freezing lake water had chilled them to the bone.
Well… in the case of the dwarves, at least.
Miquella didn't need blankets. A light, warm breeze enveloped him, drying his clothes and hair, cleaning him in seconds and leaving him impeccable. He extended the effect to Leda and Ansbach as well—just enough to dissipate the smell and the dampness.
The dwarves—and Bilbo—did not enjoy the same privilege.
Miquella couldn't spend too much magic without exposing his previous lie. Although it didn't matter much at this point, his image had to be maintained; furthermore, knowing what lay ahead, he wanted to take some time to rest before setting off for the mountain.
Leda, at least, seemed to regain some of her composure upon seeing her lord clean again. The thought that he had to do something so beneath his dignity ate at her, but she could endure it. She promised herself she would do everything in her power to restore her lord to the position he deserved.
"Sigrid, prepare the fish. Bain, fetch more firewood," Bard ordered, trying to impose order on a house that suddenly felt tiny with so many tenants. His mind was already calculating the trouble this would bring him with the Master.
Soon, the small dwelling was filled with noise. The dwarves and Bilbo huddled in front of the fireplace, stretching hands and boots toward the fire. They didn't plan on staying long; this was only a strategic stop.
"Durin's Day is near," one whispered.
"There is still a long way to the Mountain," another replied heavily.
"If we want to find the secret passage, the timing must be exact."
The murmurs were barely audible, but Bard, sharpening his ears as he moved through the room, frowned as he caught the words "passage" and "mountain." Before he could intervene, Miquella's melodic but indifferent voice cut through the air.
"It doesn't matter if we don't arrive on time. As I said, we can enter through the main gate if necessary. We Eldens are ready for what waits inside. It is best to rest while we can." His eyes swept across the small, humble wooden house.
"I would prefer to do it discreetly," Thorin intervened with a stern look. Although he wanted to believe in the Eldens' capabilities, he was no fool. Obtaining the Arkenstone meant securing the backing of a great dwarven army—a solid Plan B in case everything else failed.
Miquella could only shrug at the dwarven stubbornness. It wasn't worth arguing further.
He stood up calmly and noticed that, from the other side of the table, Bard's daughters were staring at him. Though the group of dwarves was striking in itself, Miquella stood out even among them. His delicate beauty, his bearing, and that hard-to-describe aura made one's gaze inevitably return to him.
With a serene smile, the demigod approached the young girls. Tilda was overflowing with a childish excitement that could not contain its curiosity.
"Are you an elf?" she asked, beaming with genuine thrill.
"No," Miquella replied with soft laughter.
"Can you do magic?" Tilda insisted. She had seen how he dried instantly and had initially assumed it was an elven thing... but now she wanted confirmation.
"Yes," he nodded. He held out his hands, and between his fingers, small specks of golden light began to dance, swirling like captive stars.
The eyes of both sisters widened. Sigrid was stunned, but Tilda could hardly stay in her seat.
"Can you teach me?!" the little girl exclaimed impatiently.
"Tilda! Don't bother the guests," Sigrid scolded her. Although she shared her sister's fascination, prudence forced her to be cautious; she didn't know who these strangers were or why they were in her house.
Disappointment clouded Tilda's face as she prepared to obey her older sister. Miquella, however, intervened with a warmth that dissipated any tension.
"Would you show me the house?" Miquella asked. In truth, it was the perfect time to begin what he had come to do. But without knowing exactly where to look, having Bard's daughters as guides was... convenient.
"This is all there is," Sigrid replied with some embarrassment.
It was evident in Miquella's clothes, posture, and way of speaking that he seemed to be of noble origin. Her small house was no palace, nor did it have great luxuries to offer—nothing to show. They were simple commoners in front of a child who could make magic with his hands.
"It doesn't matter," Miquella replied humbly. "Every house has something special. They all hold stories. You can tell them to me... show me the secret corners. I could tell you about mine as well."
There was no arrogance in his tone. No condescension. Only sincere curiosity... or at least, a perfectly feigned one.
Sigrid observed him closely. Under the effect of the youth's natural charm, she was unable to see any malice in him. To her eyes—as to her sister's—he was just a kind and strange girl. Miquella did nothing to clear up the confusion.
"I must tend to the fish, but Tilda can go with you," Sigrid agreed, yielding to her sister's joy.
"Yes! Let's go!" Tilda didn't waste a second. She took Miquella's hand enthusiastically and dragged him down the hall, eager to show him every hiding place in her small world.
Sigrid let out a small laugh as she watched them walk away. From the shadows, Leda watched in silence, moving with the precision of a specter so as not to lose sight of her lord. Meanwhile, in the center of the room, the atmosphere grew heavy. The dwarves had stopped arguing for a moment upon spotting, through the window, the silhouette of an ancient dwarven wind-lance mounted on a distant tower—a rusted memory of a past covered in ash.
Bard watched with a furrowed brow as his daughter walked away hand-in-hand with that strange child. He was on the verge of intervening; he didn't want his family caught in the threads of the powerful, but the murmur of the dwarves behind him claimed his attention. Although the golden-haired boy was unsettling, the dwarves were even more concerning. They were not like the elves, whose reputation was known. The dwarves brought different stories. Old stories. And Bard couldn't help but seek answers.
After leaving his son Bain in charge of the watch, Bard left the house. Walking through the town with a scowl, he dug through his memories until an image became clear in his mind.
He reached a shop he knew. Inside, he searched until he found an ancient tapestry that told a very specific story: the lineage of Durin.
Using part of the gold the Eldens had paid him, Bard purchased the piece and strode back to his home. Inside, the dwarves' impatience was almost electric; the sight of the wind-lance on the tower had ignited in them a thirst for the mountain that neither cold nor hunger could quench. Only the absence of Miquella, who was still "recovering his magic" in some corner of the house with Tilda, kept them anchored.
"You lot..." Bard's voice sounded like a whip-crack.
He walked to the table where the dwarves were devouring the fish and, with a violent gesture, spread the tapestry over the remains of the dinner. The dwarves stopped dead, cutlery halfway to their mouths.
"You're not heading for the Iron Hills," Bard accused, pointing to the embroidery of the fabric. "You're after the Mountain... and the Dragon."
The dwarves looked up. They didn't seem surprised. If before they would have liked to go unnoticed, now they no longer cared. The truth was out.
"And what if we are?" Thorin replied with a snort of disdain. "We're only passing through, bargeman. Give us the weapons we paid for and we'll be out of your sight. We don't need your judgments."
"Don't you understand what you're doing?" Bard exploded, slamming his fist on the table. "If you go to that mountain and wake Smaug, you won't be the only ones to suffer. All Esgaroth could burn under his fury!"
"Smaug won't stand a chance!" one of the dwarves shouted.
"He will fall before our axes!" a second added, raising a fist in the air.
Voices rose, full of conviction... or perhaps of necessity. Because deep down, they all knew that this undertaking could be suicidal. But they had already come too far to turn back.
Bard looked at them with a mix of disbelief and contained rage.
"I thought dwarves would know better than anyone what it means to see their people die under dragon-fire," he said with a cold voice. "Are you so blinded by gold that you will condemn this city to the same fate as Erebor?"
That comment fell like a dagger in the chests of those present. Especially for those who had been there the day the sky turned red and stone melted.
Bard was about to throw them all out. He would not tolerate under his roof those who, out of pride or greed, planned to bring ruin upon his people. But before he could pass sentence, a sharp scream tore through the air.
"Aah!"
It was Tilda's voice. It came from the upper floor. Bard's face went pale and, without hesitation, he bolted up the stairs two at a time, followed closely by Sigrid and the thunder of dwarven boots; they all went to see what was happening.
"Tilda! What happened?" Bard asked worriedly, bursting through the door, with the others behind him peering into the room.
The scene in the room was, to say the least, peculiar. On Tilda's bed was a pile of dresses: some common and her own, and others beautiful and exquisite—clearly not hers, as they were garments only the highest nobility could afford.
Tilda was on her knees on Sigrid's bed, half-dressed, her face burning like a coal, covering her eyes with her hands.
A few steps away, Miquella finished adjusting his own tunic with unshakeable calm.
"He's... he's a boy," Tilda managed to stammer, embarrassed, yet unable to stop peeking through her fingers at Miquella's figure.
"What?" The question was a unanimous chorus from Bard's family, while the dwarves and the others only sighed, understanding what was happening and starting to head back down the stairs.