The "chat" between the kings continued, as tense as one would expect between an Elf and a Dwarf who could not stand each other. Only Miquella attempted to stay out of the argument, participating only when necessary, but striving to calm the waters.
"So, that Unalloyed Gold can contain the Scarlet Rot…" Thranduil murmured, reflecting on information he already knew but which remained highly relevant. "And you would be willing to provide it to the Elves. For a fair price, of course. We Elves do not take advantage of our friends."
"Lies!" Thorin snapped immediately. "I know full well how you treat your friends, and I wouldn't believe a single word from King Thranduil even if the end of days were upon us. The Elves shall get nothing from us."
He took over the argument as if it were exclusively his, as if he had the authority to decide everything.
Miquella sighed at Thorin's audacity and foul temper. He knew the dwarf had never been particularly reasonable or pleasant, but his hatred for the Elves prevented him from seeing the obvious: the Eldens were not subordinates of the Dwarves, and that decision was not his to make.
"Ha… as impatient and foolish as your grandfather," Thranduil mocked with barely concealed disdain. "It does not surprise me that your people ended up the way they did."
"My grandfather, whom you betrayed!" Thorin roared. "You were the one who left us to our fate! You could have helped, but when we needed it most, you simply turned away. When we were desperate, hungry, homeless… where were you?"
"Help?" Thranduil replied coldly. "I warned your grandfather in his time about what his greed might attract. It was not my fault; his head was so full of gold that he would not listen. And from what I see, it is a family trait." He walked calmly to his throne and took his seat. "Do you think I do not know why you are here? If your intention had been to kill the dragon, you would have tried long ago. You must have found a way into the mountain. You plan to recover the Arkenstone and, with it, claim your right to rule. I do not judge you… it is a gem of incalculable value to you." His gaze became distant for a moment. "I too yearn to recover gems: white gems, born of starlight. And so, here is my proposal. I will not stand in your way. I will offer my help to reach the mountain… in exchange for you returning what is mine."
"Heh… heh-heh… HAHAHAHA!" Thorin began to laugh like a madman as he paced the hall. "I would sooner die than allow an Elf to have even the smallest piece of gold from that mountain." His voice reeked of hatred. "You deserve nothing but our contempt."
"I can deliver the jewels. I can take from my share and exchange what is necessary for them to return them to King Thranduil," Miquella intervened from the side, trying to find an acceptable middle ground.
"Never," Thorin spat, turning toward him. "The Eldens shall have their share, but if you cooperate with the Elves, then our paths part right here. Our cooperation ends now, and you shall be considered expelled from the company."
He spoke with fury, blinded by his resentment, looking at Miquella with an arrogance that did not belong to him.
Miquella only observed him in silence. He couldn't help but wonder, privately, how far gone Thorin's mind must be… and how the dwarves had survived so long under his leadership. Finally, he shrugged with an expression of resignation, as if to say, "I tried."
He stepped back and sat on one of the steps at the edge of the hall, letting the storm run its course.
"You are just as stubborn as all of your lineage," Thranduil said with visible disgust, signaling to his guards. "If he wishes to lose his mind, let him do so behind bars. Perhaps time will make him reflect, and I am a very patient man. After all, to an Elf, a few decades are but a blink of an eye."
Two guards seized Thorin and began dragging him out of the hall while he resisted fiercely. Miquella could only watch with regret, hearing him growl that Elves could not be trusted—as if he feared the Eldens would switch sides—though showing nothing but arrogance until the very end.
Shortly after, the hall fell silent. Only Thranduil remained on his throne, Miquella on the step, and a few guards stationed at the sides.
"My apologies for exposing you to that spectacle," the Elven King said. "I believe you have noticed there are individuals with whom it is difficult to deal. I hope this incident does not tarnish our potential future friendship."
"It is no problem," Miquella replied. "I understand it was not your fault. Not this, nor your choice not to intervene when the dragon attacked. You only thought of what was best for your people."
Thranduil appeared genuinely satisfied to hear those words. He liked that the Elden King was far more reasonable than Thorin and the dwarves he had dealt with over the years… though, to be fair, that wasn't a very high bar to clear.
"Though I must admit, I might question why you did not offer help when the dwarves lost their home," Miquella added with sincere curiosity. "To give them shelter, or some kind of support."
Then he shook his head gently.
"But it is not my concern. I was not there, nor do I know all the circumstances. Besides, it is water under the bridge. The present and the future are what matter now."
"Well…" Thranduil replied, eager to move forward with the negotiations and brushing the comment aside. "Regarding that… Unalloyed Gold."
"I can give you the formula for how I made it, if you wish," Miquella said naturally.
"And what would be the price?" the king asked, convinced the offer was too generous.
"There is no price," Miquella clarified. "I will give it to you at no cost. Consider it a gift from the Eldens to the Elves."
"Just… like that?" Thranduil frowned. "It is a very considerate gesture on your part, but you will understand my doubts. As a king, I know that everything has a cost."
"Perhaps you have dealt with dwarves too often," Miquella joked.
The tension dissipated enough to draw a slight smile from the Elven King.
"It is only a formula," he continued, "though I must warn you that I am not sure it will be truly useful to you."
"What do you mean?" Thranduil asked, becoming serious again. That formula was of enormous importance to him.
"I do not believe you can create Unalloyed Gold without complications," Miquella explained. "You lack certain resources and key factors. Without my direct help, achieving an adequate result in a short time is practically impossible."
The king leaned back in his throne, sighing, knowing something like this would happen; it was too good to be true.
"But do not be discouraged so quickly," Miquella said as he stood up and approached the throne. "Unalloyed Gold works in the most severe cases of Scarlet Rot. It is not impossible to replicate, but much research will be necessary if you wish to develop something similar, or at least a version with some of its efficacy." He paused briefly before continuing. "I can give you the formula and a sample of the Unalloyed Gold for you to study. I too will continue researching on my own, and then we can share our progress."
"That may be the most appropriate course," Thranduil admitted. "But as I said before, you seem far too willing to help us without an evident motive. And it is even stranger coming from someone who chose to associate with dwarves. What is the real payment for raiding the mountain that makes your people get involved?"
Despite his calm tone, the Elven King could not hide the invisible pressure that this apparent child exerted over the room.
"My main goal on this journey with the dwarves is nearly the same as the motive for this agreement with you," Miquella answered gravely: "To forge alliances. The more allies that exist, the better prepared we will be. I aspire to be as good a friend to the Elves as I am to the Dwarves, because difficult times are approaching."
His voice grew deeper.
"Perhaps you do not know, but greater conflicts are looming. Gandalf the Grey—or Mithrandir, as you may call him—brought a message from Rivendell to warn you, but he was forced to divert due to certain circumstances. Do not worry: you will meet later, and he will give you that report. I prefer not to go into details; this matter concerns the Elves, and I do not wish to seem meddlesome."
Thranduil listened in silence, rubbing his chin, intrigued and pensive. Miquella spoke of alliances and wars with an unsettling calm, as if those possibilities were already written.
"I will not lie to you," the demigod added finally. "A great clash is coming at the Lonely Mountain. A vast army of Orcs."
Thranduil looked up at Miquella, surprised, studying him closely, trying to discern if those words were a warning… or a prophecy.
"Well," he replied after a few seconds with a lopsided smile. "I suppose the dwarves will have a difficult task ahead of them."
"I do not think you should underestimate this attack," Miquella said, looking at the king sternly. "In fact, the Elves should prepare to join the Dwarves in battle."
"And why should we do that?" Thranduil asked cautiously. "I thought you said you understood my reasons for not involving my people in senseless bloodshed."
"Precisely because you care for your people, you should do it," Miquella replied, slowly shaking his head. "Do you think this is a matter that only concerns the Dwarves? The situation will be disastrous for your realm if the Orcs take the Lonely Mountain." He paused briefly. "Those Orcs come from Dol Guldur."
At those words, the king showed a hint of tension for the first time.
"Think about it," Miquella continued. "Orcs from the north, Dol Guldur to the south. An attack from both flanks. How long do you think your kingdom could hold out? You already deal with the spiders and the Scarlet Rot in the forest. Your routes are cut, and the Orcs, enemies of all, would not hesitate to seize the opportunity to attack you. They would be more than happy to do so." His voice rose slightly to emphasize the gravity of the situation. "There are no nearby kingdoms capable of halting their advance, nor allies who can come to your aid in time."
"While the information is enlightening," Thranduil interrupted, halting the youth's alarmist tone, "there is still a dragon in the mountain. It is not an enemy the Orcs or the Dwarves can face and defeat. Even if they succeeded, their losses would prevent them from carrying out any subsequent offensive."
He looked at him defiantly, waiting to see how Miquella would sustain his apocalyptic message.
"And who says the Orcs and Smaug would fight each other?" Miquella replied with a faint smile that did not reach his eyes. "Why do you think we Eldens are heading to Erebor? Our goal is to kill the dragon before he receives support."
"Ha. Smaug would not ally with Orcs just like that," Thranduil countered. "The Orcs have nothing to offer him that he values more than the treasure of Erebor."
"It would not be with the Orcs that Smaug would ally," Miquella said, taking a step forward, "but with the one who leads them."
His voice turned darker.
"Tell me, King Thranduil… do you know anyone powerful enough for Smaug to consider them an equal? Someone who has already tried to plunge Middle-earth into darkness."
The king's eyes widened with surprise and barely contained unease.
"That is impossible!" he interrupted. "He could not…"
"Why not?" Miquella shot back. "Would it not seem like a clever move on his part? He is not a simple enemy. Gandalf supported the dwarves precisely because of this fear."
He turned slightly.
"Who do you think pulls the strings from Dol Guldur? Who raised such a vast army of Orcs? Who corrupted this forest? Your scouts should have noticed. Even in Rivendell, it has been observed how the Orcs move with a freedom not seen in a long time."
He looked back at him directly.
"Tell me… do you truly believe it is not possible? Or that it is not, in fact, an absolute truth that he is still here?"
This time Thranduil did not answer. His gaze was lost in the void as his mind tried to anticipate the future, whether those words were true… or not.
"But even if I were wrong about all this..." Miquella concluded, softening his tone and regaining his usual kindness, "nothing is lost by preparing. To ready your army for a battle that might—or might not—be inevitable." He smiled with a captivating, almost innocent expression, a stark contrast to the weight of his words. "Just for precaution."