Chapter 14
The Summer Gate Festival in Gondolin was a glazed dream set on the brink of doom. Beneath the pristine white walls, elves, clad in garments woven from the brocade of stars and moons, danced beneath suspended crystal lanterns. The melodies of harps and flutes mingled with the murmur of fountains, forming a fragile barrier against the northern gloom. High King Fingolfin's presence shone a solemn glow over the celebration. He stood alongside Turgon on the balcony of the King's Tower, overlooking the rejoicing of his people, his stern face a profound and unfathomable presence in the flickering lights. Fingon's hearty laughter echoed through the crowd, his black hair entwined with golden threads like dancing flames as he and Glorfindel discussed the swifter eagles of Hithlum and the skylarks of Gondolin. Arethel walked through the banquet arm in arm with Finrod, her silver skirt brushing against the dew-covered grass. Occasionally she glanced toward the east wing garden, a subtle worry hidden in her eyes - Meereen had disappeared from the celebration and returned to the gardens of Lóriendir.
In the gardens, Meereen left unpruned and unread. He stood quietly beside the blooming moon orchid by the pond, his palm resting on the cool stone railing, his eyes closed. The night breeze blew through the vine-lined archways, bringing the sweet scent of honeysuckle and the faint sounds of banquet music, but it couldn't dispel the heavy frost that had settled between his brows. An invisible, suffocating low-pitched vibration pierced the thick barriers of Gondolin, like the wail of a dying beast deep within the earth, hammering at the walls of his soul.
Here it comes...
That wasn't a sound, but a deeper, bone-deep wave of despair. Countless shattered screams, the hiss of flames tearing through flesh, the cracking of bones under immense force, and the purest grief before being completely swallowed by darkness—all merged into a foul, sticky spiritual torrent, sweeping in from the Far North, impacting his highly sensitive spiritual senses. Beleriand's northern barrier was crumbling! The flames of destruction had ignited the infernal furnaces of Angband and were spreading southward, burning everything to the ground!
"Ugh..." Meereen groaned, his eyes abruptly opened, and he stumbled back half a step, barely stabilizing himself by holding onto a rough stone pillar. Cold sweat instantly soaked his lining. The scene before him remained unchanged: the moonlight orchid still radiated a cool, faint glow, and the pool reflected the shattered stars. But the world he perceived had been turned upside down. The air was filled with an invisible smell of burnt and bloody matter. The ground beneath his feet seemed to be silently spasming, and even the stars above seemed shrouded in a filthy, blood-red veil. He saw it! Not with his eyes, but deep within his soul, the mark of destruction from another world suddenly activated, resonating horribly with the unbridled horror emanating from the north.
He had to do something.
This thought split the Chaos like a sword, and the music of Gondolin's celebrations now sounded like a dirge from another world. He could not sit idly by. He could not extinguish the blazing fire, nor stop the iron hooves of Morgoth, but perhaps he could be an ark of light in the darkness.
In the days that followed, Meereen became unusually busy and silent. He was no longer content with tending the garden. Instead, under the pretext of "researching new medicines and needing to gather specific morning dew and moonlit roots," he frequently left the courtyard, under Glorfindel's slightly worried but tacit gaze, to venture deep into the rarely visited, desolate woodlands on the edge of Gondolin, near the hidden side gate. His "gathering" basket was filled with far more bandages than he actually needed, disinfecting herbs, analgesic ointments, and a potent healing ointment he had secretly concocted using Gondolin's abundant resources. He keenly observed the time differences between the patrols' return and, using his familiarity with the complex mountain paths, slipped through Turgon's outer security network like a shadow blending into the night.
West of Gondolin, a hidden chasm known as the Eagle's Pass serves as Meereen's gateway to the outside world of Purgatory. The rocky terrain, permeated by a perpetually cold, damp mist, makes it a blind spot for Orc patrols and the closest respite to the Hidden City, where refugees who have managed to escape the clutches of Angband might find themselves.
The first time they entered Eagle's Weep Pass, the sight made Meereen's stomach churn. Huddled in the shadows of jagged rocks, a dozen figures scorched by hellfire huddled. Most were Men, refugees from Dor-lomin and Ladros, their clothes ragged and stained with scorch marks and dried blood, their faces etched with utter terror and numbness. There were also a few Elves, from the breached frontier outposts, their fine armor shattered, their silver hair matted with blood and mud, their emerald eyes dimmed. Even more horrifying were the dying Noldor warriors, bearing the tattered sigils of the Houses of Fingon or Maedhros. Their limbs were twisted, wounds deep enough to reveal the bone, their edges curled with an ominous charred black, and the stench of scorched flesh emanated—the marks left by the Balrog's fiery lash! The air was thick with the scent of death, ichor, and despair.
An old human with a broken leg moaned in a hoarse, unrecognizable voice. An elven woman held a child, burned beyond recognition, her eyes hollow, tears long since dried. No one spoke, only suppressed gasps and dying sobs echoed off the cold stone walls, forming a silent requiem.
Meereen's presence caused a brief moment of panic and alarm, but when they saw that the newcomer was not an Orc, and that his deep eyes were filled not with pity but with a deep, sympathetic pain, their tense nerves relaxed slightly. Meereen said nothing, quickly setting down his basket and kneeling beside the most seriously wounded Noldor warrior. The warrior's chest had been ripped open by some massive claw, a purple-black poison spreading through his veins toward his heart. Countless tiny shadows seemed to writhe beneath his skin, a sign of the dark energies that had corrupted it, a scourge that ordinary herbs could not protect against.
Milin took a deep breath, suppressing the nausea that surged deep within his soul at the close proximity of this intense darkness. He washed his hands and, with measured movements, cleansed the wound, applying a potent hemostatic and anti-inflammatory herb. Then, he placed his palms over the warrior's bloody wounds, concentrating and holding his breath. This time, he made no effort to suppress the otherworldly power within him. A warm, pure, silver-white light flowed from his palms, gentle yet carrying an unmistakable purifying purpose, like the breaking light of dawn seeping into a murky swamp.
Wherever the light reached, the swirling purple-black poison gas screamed and retreated as if encountering its nemesis. The writhing threads of shadow were broken and annihilated in the silver light. The warrior's once pale face regained a touch of color at a visible speed, and his turbulent and painful breathing gradually calmed. Fine beads of sweat oozed from Meereen's forehead. Each cleansing effort consumed a huge amount of his mental strength, like peeling a tarsal ulcer with bare hands. But he did not pause, turning to the next wounded person—a human boy pierced through the shoulder by an orc's poisonous arrow; and the next—an elven scout, scratched by a shadow demon's claws, the wound glowing with an eerie green light...
He became the sole source of light in this deathly pass, silent healing continuing amidst the cold stone. The child in the elven woman's arms ceased its faint twitching, and as Meereen's hand brushed across its charred skin, it fell into a deep sleep, as if its pain had been temporarily sealed. The groans of the old man with the broken leg subsided, and a faint desire for life reignited in his cloudy eyes. Meereen's power could not regenerate their limbs, nor heal the eternal wounds inflicted by the shadow deep within their souls. But it was like a stream of clear water, quenching the burning flames, mending the torn wounds, and forcibly stripping away and purifying the shadows that had escaped from Angband's purgatory and corroded their lives like a malignant tumor.
When the first glimmer of dawn struggled to pierce the thick fog above Eagle's Weep Pass, Meereen straightened up wearily. The medicine in the basket was almost gone. His face was as pale as paper, his steps were unsteady, and he was overcome by waves of dizziness from overconsumption. The surviving refugees huddled in the relative safety of the rocky recesses, most of them fast asleep. Their breathing, though weak, was no longer struggling on the brink of death. A few elves and humans with less serious injuries struggled to their feet, and as Meereen retreated, they placed their right hands on their chests and bowed deeply, their silent gratitude weighing heavier than any words. They didn't know who he was or where he came from, but they knew he was the only miracle that illuminated their desperate situation after the darkness fell.
Meereen trudged silently back to Gondolin, needing to reach the garden before the patrols were relieved. The eastern sky was already turning pale, the embers of the celebration still warm, and the city remained silent. He passed through the last vine-covered side gate and stepped onto the damp grass of the garden. The morning dew soaked his trouser legs, bringing a refreshing coolness. He took a deep breath, trying to dispel the lingering smell of blood and burnt food, letting the vibrant scent of life in the garden cleanse his exhausted soul.
When he raised his head, his body suddenly froze.
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