Chapter 18
When the first ray of true, warm sunlight pierced the smoke and ashes of the battlefields north of Beleriand and shone through the cracks in the tent onto Meereen's face, his eyelashes fluttered violently.
Finrod Felagund, who had been guarding him all this time, barely closing his eyes, instantly caught the slightest movement. He sat up straight, holding his breath, his golden eyes fixed on Meereen's face, fearing that this was just an illusion caused by days of fatigue.
After a few seconds that seemed as long as a century, Meereen's eyelids opened with difficulty, and those familiar eyes, like a lake deep in the forest, although still confused from just waking up, were clearly reflected in Finrod's eyes.
"Meereen?!" Finrod's voice was hoarse, filled with incredible ecstasy and caution. He gently held Meereen's hand, feeling the real, warm touch. "Are you...are you really awake? This wasn't a dream?" Meereen's gaze slowly focused on Finrod's bloodshot face, which was filled with excitement and concern. He tried to move his lips and let out a very hoarse low moan: "Fin...Rod..."
"It's me, it's me!" Finrod was so excited that he almost shed tears. He immediately shouted outside the tent: "Medicine! Hurry! He's awake! Meereen is awake!" His voice trembled slightly with excitement.
The news spread like wildfire. Almost as soon as Finrod's cry faded, the tent flap flew open. Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, strode in, shrouded in the scent of morning dew and battle smoke. His majestic face was filled with concern and anxiety, and his gaze immediately locked on the awakening Meereen.
"Child!" Fingolfin's voice was low and powerful, with the emotion of surviving a disaster, "May the Valar bless you! You are finally back!" He witnessed the miraculous resurrection with his own eyes, and now seeing Meereen truly awake, the shock and gratitude in his heart were beyond words.
The tent was instantly filled with Finrod's confidants and medical officers who had rushed over after hearing the news, and their concerned eyes were focused on Meereen.
The doctors rushed forward to examine him, their faces filled with wonder and awe. Milin's pulse was steady and strong, his breathing even, and the skin on his waist and abdomen, where the once horrific, fatal wound had once been, was now smooth and flat, without even a faint scar. Aside from a slight weakness, he looked like someone who had just awakened from a long sleep.
Finrod waved the doctors aside to give Meereen some space. He sat beside the bed and looked at Meereen, his eyes filled with a complex mix of emotions—joy, worry, relief, and a lingering worry. He took a deep breath and decided to tell Meereen the truth of the situation. "Meereen," Finrod said in a gentle, honest voice. "During your coma... much has happened. The devastation of the Battle of Sudden Flame, and... what you did at the Black Gate of Angband has spread throughout the coalition."
Meereen's eyes narrowed slightly, and he understood what Finrod was referring to, the exposure of the undead body and the blood that could corrode the darkness and heal the light.
Finrod continued, "The reactions... varied. The Noldor, the Sindar, and the loyal Edain mostly viewed you as a messenger of the Valar, a symbol of miracles bestowed by Eru. Your resurrection from the dead, the miracles performed by your blood, gave them hope amidst despair. They prayed for you, longing for your awakening day and night." He paused, his tone growing graver. "But the Easterlings, among them, rumors abounded, filled with jealousy and suspicion. They believed your power must be a conspiracy, and even slandered you as a deceptive spy sent by Morgoth, simply because they had never received the 'favor' they believed they deserved."
Meereen listened quietly, and Esti's words in the Garden of Lórien echoed clearly in his ears: "Do not despair... trust your friends as they trust you..." His gaze swept across Finrod's bloodshot but still firm eyes, across Fingolfin's eyes full of concern and kingly responsibility, and across the vague figures of Galdor and Elladan who were loyally guarding him outside the tent.
A warmth, mixed with an unprecedented resolve, washed over him. The heavy burden of concealing secrets for so long, after experiencing life and death and accepting the revelation of the Valar, seemed less unbearable. He needed trust, just as he longed to be trusted. Meereen took a deep breath, as if making a firm decision. He reached out his still weak hand and took Finrod's warm, strong hand, his eyes clear and resolute.
"Finrod, His Majesty Fingolfin," his voice was hoarse, but with an undeniable clarity, "and... all my friends who care about me and protect me..."
He paused, as if gathering his courage, and then spoke word by word: "I... can't hide this any longer. I owe you the truth, the truth about where I come from, and... why I'm hiding all this."
The air in the tent seemed to freeze. A light of relief and encouragement flashed in Finrod's eyes. Fingolfin straightened his back slightly, his expression becoming extremely focused and serious. The guards of Gondolin subconsciously gripped their weapons, as if to protect the secret that was about to be revealed.
Meereen faced the crowd and began to recount the secret he had hidden deep within his heart, a secret from another world. He recounted the confusion and fear he felt upon arriving in Middle-earth, his initial desire to conceal his power and blend into this world, and why he ultimately decided not to run away, but to trust and be honest. Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the tent, illuminating his frank and resolute face.
Though grievously wounded, Morgoth fled hastily back to the depths of Angband, the flames he had ignited still raged across the lands of Beleriand. The remaining Orcs, wolves, and other evil creatures driven by darkness, like sparks from the embers of Hell, roamed the scorched earth and broken forests of the North, wreaking havoc and causing death and terror. The allied camp was like an island in the raging sea, and the weary warriors needed rest and even more so, fresh reinforcements.
The banner of hope first rose from the west. The Hidden Kingdom of Gondolin sent its Golden Flower Lord and a band of elite Gondolin warriors, bringing greetings from Turgon, precious supplies, and sharp weapons and sturdy armor forged by Gondolin's artisans. Glorfindel's arrival was a breath of fresh energy to the weary coalition forces, his trademark golden hair and warm smile dispelling much of the gloom. Soon after, reinforcements arrived from the north, from Himring, the stronghold of Fëanorion. Leading the charge was none other than Maglor, renowned among the Elven families for his singing voice. He came not for any particular individual, but at the command of Maedhros, bringing warriors and supplies from Himring to bolster the faltering northern defenses.
Maglor rode tall and straight atop his sturdy elven warhorse, his face serene but tinged with the melancholy and aloofness characteristic of Fëanrion. As he led his troops into the outskirts of the allied camp, a strange feeling struck him like an electric current.
It was a long-lost sense of relaxation.
For hundreds of years, the pain of the curse brought by Fëanor's oath, which had burned his soul like a blazing flame day and night, strangely and significantly eased the moment he stepped into this camp! The endless whispers, the gnawing burning sensation, and the morbid desire for the gem seemed to be gently covered by a layer of cool and soft gauze. Although it did not disappear, it became bearable, even close to tranquility.
Maglor reined in the reins, a flicker of disbelief and astonishment flashing across his gray-blue eyes. He instinctively glanced around. The camp was still filled with the smell of gunpowder and the groans of the wounded, no different from any other battlefield. The only difference was the rumor.
Meereen, the "Blessed Son of God," the man who had saved Fingolfin at the Black Gate of Angband by using himself as a shield, who had miraculously resurrected after being cut in half by Morgoth, whose blood had even severely wounded the Dark Lord, had long since spread like wildfire throughout the coalition forces, even reaching the ears of Maglor, who had just arrived. He had thought it was just desperate exaggeration, or perhaps a rare grace from the Valar.
But at this moment, the sudden relief of pain in his soul made it impossible for him to dismiss the rumors as nonsense. There was something, or rather, someone, in this camp that possessed the power to soothe the burning pain of Fëanor's oath. This discovery stirred a huge wave in his long-dormant heart.
Maglor calmly arranged his men and walked through the camp with an indescribable mixture of exploration and intense desire. He wasn't searching for anything, but some invisible force, like a magnet to iron filings, led him to a relatively secluded corner—the outskirts of the wounded treatment area.
Then, he saw him.
Milin was half-kneeling beside a young elven warrior who had just returned from patrol injured. The warrior seemed to have been eroded by some dark magic, with ominous black air wrapped around his arms. He curled up in pain, his eyes were dull, and he was mumbling meaningless words, as if he was tortured by a terrifying illusion.
Maglor recognized it at a glance. It was a vision of the oath, the scene of the sons of Fëanor slaughtering their relatives and seizing ships in the port of Alqualondi. It was like the most vicious curse, tormenting not only those who had sworn the oath, but also sometimes infecting other weak-minded elves through dark magic.
Meereen's expression was focused, his hands hovering over the warrior's injured arm. A soft, pure, pale green light emanated from his palms. Like the purest stream on a spring day, it gently enveloped the ominous black aura. Maglor clearly saw the fear and distraction in the warrior's eyes quickly fade under the soothing light. The black aura on his arm, like ice and snow encountering sunlight, made a subtle "sizzling" sound and quickly dissipated! The warrior's tense body relaxed, and he fell into a peaceful slumber.
At the moment when the black air completely dissipated and the light of Meereen's power was about to be withdrawn, the temporarily suppressed oath deep in Maglor's soul burned with pain, like cold water thrown into boiling oil. It suddenly lost the layer of cool "veil" and exploded with a violent momentum ten times or a hundred times greater!
"Ugh!" A suppressed groan of extreme pain escaped Maglor's throat. The familiar, excruciating pain, like countless red-hot irons branding his soul, accompanied by the surging sea of blood, the screams of his kin, and the furious cries of Fëanor... all the memories and visions cursed by the oath instantly overwhelmed him! His tall body lurched, his face turning pale as paper. Cold sweat oozed from his forehead, and his gray-blue eyes were instantly filled with bloodshot streaks of pain and chaotic visions.
This sudden change and suppressed cry of pain immediately alarmed Milin, who had just finished treating the wounded. He looked up and saw the strange elven noble not far away, leaning on the tent pillar, his body swaying and his breathing extremely disordered.
Almost instinctively, Milin felt the surging pain deep within the other's soul, burning like the fires of hell! The pain was so immense, so deep, so desperate, far exceeding any dark magic erosion he had previously treated! He could even "see" the black chains of blood and betrayal wrapped around the other's soul!
Without hesitation, Meereen almost subconsciously gathered the strength he had just withdrawn and had not yet completely subsided into his palm and stepped in front of Maglor. He did not fully understand the source of the other's pain, but the pure instinct to heal and comfort drove him.
"Don't resist!" Meereen growled, with an unquestionable sense of comfort, and placed his hands directly on Maglor's wrists, which were tightly grasping the tent pillars, with his knuckles turning white!
Buzz——!
A light green light, brighter and softer than before, like the warmest spring water, instantly flowed from Meereen's palm into Maglor's body!
The burning pain of the oath, enough to break the strongest elf, was peeled from Maglor's soul and smoothed away the moment it came into contact with the power of Meereen, as if by an invisible, gentle yet incomparably powerful hand! The illusion of the sea of blood dissipated, the screams of his kin became a vague echo, and Fëanor's furious face faded like smoke. In its place, there was a peace and coolness that Maglor had never experienced in his life, a peace that penetrated deep into his bones! It was as if the scorching volcanic ash that had covered his soul for centuries had been completely washed away by a sweet rain!
"Ah..." A sigh, almost a moan, filled with extreme relief and disbelief, escaped from Maglor's lips. He raised his head suddenly, and his gray-blue eyes, which had just been filled with pain and confusion, were now fixed on the nearby Meereen. Shock, ecstasy, and an almost greedy desire for discovering a priceless treasure surged in them!
He grabbed Meereen's wrist with his backhand, not to break free, but to hold it tighter, like a drowning man grabbing a piece of driftwood. The force was so great that Meereen frowned slightly.
"You..." Maglor's voice was hoarse and trembling with excitement. He stared at Meereen's clear eyes that were filled with concern and a hint of confusion, as if he wanted to imprint every inch of his soul. "Your soul... your power... it can soothe... it can calm the burns caused by this curse!" His words were like a delirium, full of ecstasy of surviving a disaster and a morbid desire.
This soul-shaking first encounter was like a huge rock dropped into the stillness of Maglor's heart. He shut himself in his tent for a long time, finally calming his turbulent emotions. When Celegorm and Curufin came to consult him about military matters as usual, Maglor, taking the unusual step of bringing up Meereen, spoke with a tone of suppressed yet palpable emotion: "That Man named Meereen... the rumors are true. His power... is special. Very special."
Celegorm raised an eyebrow, a hint of suspicion and his usual arrogance flashing in his dark eyes. "Oh? That 'Blessed Child', so legendary? What special powers could a human possess? It's merely the Valar's whim." Curufin seemed much calmer, his gray-blue eyes sharply observing his brother's unusual expression. "You seem deeply moved. What did you sense?"
Maglor was silent for a moment, seemingly weighing his words. Ultimately, he avoided the core point of the oath's relief and chose a relatively vague point that piqued their interest. "His healing power is incredibly pure. It can directly dispel the deepest darkness and even touch the wounds of the soul. I have witnessed it with my own eyes." He paused, then added, "Furthermore, he is very young and seems to have a keen interest in elven art."
Celegorm remained unconvinced, but a spark of inquiry ignited in Curufin's eyes. A human with such powerful healing powers that he could "touch the wounds of the soul"? This was truly unheard of.
"Interesting." Curufin rubbed his chin. "We have seen quite a few humans, both loyal Edain and those from the Easterlings. They may be strong, cunning, but no one has ever displayed this kind of almost divine power. What is the source of this power? Is it a gift from the Valar, or something else?" His thoughts immediately turned to research and analysis.
In order to observe Meereen more closely and to satisfy the unspeakable desire in Maglor's heart, Maglor brought Celegorm and Curufin with him to the next important war meeting.
When Meereen entered the meeting tent as one of the key medical representatives, he immediately felt two intensely aggressive gazes: Celegorm's undisguised scrutiny and suspicion, and Curufin's cold, scalpel-like probing, attempting to dissect him thoroughly. This made him uncomfortable, and he instinctively avoided their gazes. However, when his gaze met Maglor's, a completely different scene unfolded. Maglor was looking back at him, his gray-blue eyes no longer the agonizing frenzy of their first encounter, but a deep, strangely alluring gentleness. He even nodded slightly at Meereen, offering a graceful, friendly smile.
Meereen's heart skipped a beat for no apparent reason. He felt a natural liking for Prince Fëanorion, a melancholic yet elegant prince with a voice said to be the best among all races. Maglor seemed to have a unique charm, like a quiet pool under the moonlight, drawing him closer.
After the meeting, Maglor took the initiative to find Meereen.
"Lord Meereen," his voice was as deep and pleasant as the finest velvet, "thank you for your help last time. I heard that you are very interested in the songs of the elves? In Himring, we have preserved some ancient songs sung in Valinor. If you like, perhaps I can sing one or two for you? It will be my way of expressing my gratitude." His invitation was just right, with the sincerity of an artist and a hint of imperceptible expectation.
Meereen already had a good impression of Maglor and was full of yearning for elven music, so he naturally agreed.
That night, by a secluded campfire, far from the hustle and bustle of the night, Maglor sang softly for Meereen. His voice lived up to its reputation, ethereal and far-reaching, sometimes like the sound of flowing mountain streams, sometimes like the whisper of the stars, telling of ancient legends of the birth of the stars and the splendor of the Two Trees. Yet, within this exquisite song, Maglor quietly blended his own powerful song magic. This was not the corruption of darkness, but the highest elven magic inherited from Valinor by Fëanorion, a web woven from the purest light, imbued with a powerful power of spiritual guidance and soothing.
Meereen was naturally highly resistant to dark magic, but this powerful and subtle magic, born of light, easily penetrated the cracks in his mental defenses like a warm tide. He felt that Maglor's song was becoming more and more beautiful, as if it directly soothed his soul, bringing unparalleled comfort and peace. At the same time, a strong sense of dependence and closeness to the singer quietly grew and entwined like a vine.
At the end of the song, Meereen's eyes were a little blurred, filled with admiration for Maglor and an indescribable desire. He couldn't help but move closer to Maglor, as if the other person exuded a reassuring aura.
Maglor watched Meereen's reaction, a glimmer of satisfaction and control flashing in the depths of his gray-blue eyes. He did not reject Meereen's approach, but instead naturally reached out and gently placed his hand on Meereen's shoulder. The touch was like a weak electric current, making Meereen's body tremble slightly, but it made him feel more comfortable and at ease.
"Are you tired?" Maglor's voice was so gentle that it could drip water. "It's okay to lean on me and rest for a while."
From that day on, a strange dependence formed. Whenever he wasn't treating the wounded or handling urgent military matters, Meereen would subconsciously seek out Maglor, longing to be near him, to hear his songs, or simply to be quietly by his side. Maglor was like a center radiating a peaceful magnetic field, and Meereen became a satellite, firmly drawn to it. He enjoyed the deep peace and comfort that Maglor brought to his soul, unaware that this longing had gone beyond the scope of normal friendship and became the first step in the gentle cage that Maglor had carefully woven.
Glorfindel watched from afar, his brow furrowed beneath his golden hair. He saw the dependence in Meereen's eyes, and even more so, Maglor's seemingly gentle, yet in reality, controlling, hunter-like demeanor. He knew that Maglor had found the key to unlock Meereen's defenses, and that Meereen's pure soul was gradually falling prey to Prince Fëanorion's complex and dangerous charm.
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