Chapter 32

The thrill of escaping Shagerion was gradually dispelled by the sharp yet refreshing north wind of Hithlum. When Finrod's boat, carrying Meereen, finally reached the northern lands ruled by Fingolfin, he felt an unprecedented sense of security. High King Fingolfin personally met them at the harbor. This majestic and benevolent High King of the Noldor had a temperament completely different from that of his brothers, Fëanorion. He was like a calm mountain, his eyes deep but warm. He expressed the most sincere welcome to Meereen.

"Welcome to Hithlum, Meereen," Fingolfin's voice was like a low horn, but full of sincerity. "Finnrod has told me of your bravery and wisdom, as well as your experience in Shagerion. Your coming is an honor to Hithlum. This will be your refuge and your home." He solemnly placed his hand on Meereen's shoulder. The heavy trust and care made Meereen's tense nerves finally relax completely, and his eyes were slightly warm.

Finrod had arranged for Meereen to live in Dor-lómin, the vast land inhabited by the brave Edain. A pleasant cabin, a contrast to the cold stone walls and constant surveillance of Shagerion, a place full of life. The cabin was built of sturdy oak, its roof thick with thatch, and a warm fire always flickered in the hearth. Outside, instead of the monotonous plains, the view stretched to rolling hills, dense pine forests, and fields cultivated by the Edain's hard work.

Meereen quickly assimilated into the human community of Dor-lómin. The long-unseen feeling of being among his own kind filled him with an indescribable joy and happiness. He was no longer a special tool in the eyes of the Fëanorians, nor was he the only human in the Elven Kingdom. Here he was Meereen, a friendly young man with some special abilities who loved cooking and listening to stories.

In the mornings, he would be awakened by the bang-bang of Uncle Hosor, the carpenter next door, chopping wood. The air was filled with the fresh scent of pine and the sweet aroma of freshly baked bread. He often helped Aunt Harsha tend her small vegetable garden. With his unique affinity for life, he would make wilted seedlings stand up again and produce unexpected flowers, which drew Aunt Harsha's admiration and she called him "a child blessed by Mother Earth." In the afternoons, he would listen to old hunter Brido's stories of the forest by the mill in the village center, or join the young shepherdess Ella as they tended their sheep on the heather-covered hillsides. Ella's clear singing and the gentle bleating of the sheep intertwined into a most moving pastoral melody. At dusk, the village men returned from their work, and a bonfire was lit in the square, filling the air with the aroma of barbecue. Meereen would use the cooking skills he had honed in Shagerian to prepare amazing delicacies with simple ingredients and share them with everyone. The simplicity, enthusiasm, tenacity and love of life of the Edain people were like sweet springs that nourished Meereen's heart, which had been hurt by imprisonment and betrayal.

The mutual assistance between elves and humans is also vividly demonstrated here. Noldor craftsmen guide the Edain in building stronger houses, crafting more sophisticated farm tools, and weapons. In exchange, the Edain provide the elves with food and furs, and undertake much of the work of building and maintaining the camps. Elf warriors regularly patrol, protecting human settlements from the occasional Orc or wild beast raiders. In Meereen, it is common to see young elven archers patiently teaching Edain children to read the stars, or elderly elven scholars recounting ancient legends and tales of the stars in the Common Tongue to gathered humans around a campfire. This kind of mutual assistance, based on equality and shared survival needs, is rarely seen elsewhere.

Finrod and Meereen often strolled on the terrace of Hithlum's magnificent palace, which had a rugged northern atmosphere. From here, they could see the snow-capped Ered Wethrin Mountains in the distance, and feel the cold wind, which was unique to the north of Beleriand, as sharp as a knife but pure as ice. The wind whistled through the stone corridors and blew their robes and hair.

"The wind here is different from the south," Milin took a deep breath. The icy air filled his lungs, yet it made him feel incredibly clear-headed and free. "It seems to blow away all the haze and filth."

Finrod smiled and nodded, his long golden hair flying in the wind: "Yes, the wind of Hithlum is the wind of warriors, the wind of guardians. It may be cold, but it breeds vitality and hope." He looked at the increasingly rosy faces of Meereen and the renewed light in his eyes, and felt sincerely relieved.

Meereen truly fell deeply in love with everything about this land. He loved the curls of smoke rising from Dor-lómin, the hearty laughter of the Edain, the resolute figures of the Elven warriors on patrol, even the biting cold wind and the vast, desolate landscape. Everything here was filled with truth, resilience, and a vibrant vitality. His heart felt calmer and more fulfilled than ever before. The power of purification from another world seemed to grow softer and more powerful in this tranquility and joy, flowing out unconsciously to nourish this war-torn land.

An unprecedented miracle occurred. In the harsh, cold winter of Hithlum, when everything should have withered, an incredible vitality quietly sprouted. The ancient oaks in the palace courtyard, once bare, were now covered with crystal-clear frost blossoms, as if carved from ice. The shimmering sunlight shone with a rainbow of colors, and from afar, it looked as if the trees were covered in blooming silver flowers. Even more astonishing, on the hillsides surrounding the village of Dor-lómin, hardy flowers had prematurely blossomed in the chill wind. Masses of purple and pink blossoms, standing against the white snow, spread out in a resplendent, radiant display, emitting a refreshing, delicate fragrance. Even the eldest of the Edain marveled, declaring they had never seen anything like it. People whispered that this must be a blessing from Meereen, a favor bestowed upon Hithlum by the Valar. Like warm sunshine, the blossoms of life blossomed in the cold winter, dispelling the last lingering gloom of the war and bringing unspeakable joy and hope to all of Hithlum.

Fingolfin stood beneath the oak tree covered in frost blossoms, his brow furrowed slightly. He reached out his finger and gently touched a crystal frost flower, sensing the rich vitality within, a force far beyond the laws of nature. "Such a surge of life force," he whispered to his counselor, the advisor beside him. "This is a blessing, but such a concentrated, unseasonable manifestation... does it also mean that some balance has been disturbed? Will it attract attention that should not be drawn?" The advisor remained silent, a flicker of worry in his eyes. They all knew that there were far more covetous beings in this world than just the Orcs and the minions of Angband.

Meanwhile, at the border outposts of Hithlum, patrolling elves or human hunters occasionally reported seeing strange, graceful figures briefly appearing in the distance, only to vanish in a flash, unable to be tracked. These figures moved elusively, their bearings extraordinary, neither seeming enemies nor any known allies. When Finrod heard this news, he wasn't overly alarmed, dismissing them as reclusive elves or wanderers. But a subtle sense of alarm crept in.

While Meereen reveled in the warmth of Dor-lómin's daily life, he occasionally encountered new faces in the bustling marketplace or along the paths leading to the forest. They were refugees who had recently come to Hithlum, claiming to have come from the far east, fleeing war. One of them, a young human artisan who called himself Annatar, stood out. He was handsome, elegantly spoken, and profoundly knowledgeable, especially regarding gems, metals, and the smithing process, with a remarkable understanding and exquisite craftsmanship. He soon established a small workshop in Dor-lómin, repairing tools, crafting exquisite jewelry, and even repairing the damaged armor and weapons of Elven warriors. His skills were so exquisite that even the Noldor admired him.

Annatar's gentle manner and willingness to help others quickly endeared him to the villagers. With a gentle, harmless smile, he quietly observed Meereen's interactions with the Edain, watching the vibrant life blossom as Meereen's fingers caressed with withered plants. Occasionally, an elusive glint flickered in his eyes, as if contemplating a rare treasure. Whenever Meereen passed through his workshop, Annatar would greet him warmly, chatting with him about the weather, farming, and even seemingly profound yet simple philosophical questions about the nature of life. His words, like the sweetest mead, disarmed everyone. Meereen found Annatar intriguing and knowledgeable, and enjoyed his conversations. However, his deep instinct for darkness and distortion left him with an inexplicable, subtle feeling of unease after each farewell, as if something cold and slippery brushed against his heart, fleeting and almost illusory.

On Anata's workbench, a piece of uncut black ore, illuminated by the fire, occasionally flickered a subtle, dark red glint, like the eyelids of a sleeping demon. He smiled as he saw off a farmer who had returned with his repaired tools. But his gaze seemed to penetrate the hut's walls, locking onto the distant figure on the hillside, laughing with the shepherdess Ayla. He gracefully picked up a small silver leaf brooch that had been accidentally left behind by Meereen, his fingertips gently tracing the veins of the leaf, his lips curled into a flawless, yet cold, smile.