Chapter 3
Meereen's tree nest provided a rare refuge deep in the forest, but his thirst for water grew ever more urgent. The seeps he had found were good, but the water supply was limited and somewhat distant. He needed to find a more stable and cleaner source, preferably a stream or spring.
Early in the morning, armed with an axe and a makeshift water bladder made from large, stiff leaves, he set out, following the faint tracks of animals in the forest, exploring the lower reaches. The air was crisp, the birdsong melodious, but he remained vigilant, listening for even the slightest sound. His self-healing ability gave him some confidence, but unknown dangers still loomed.
After walking for about an hour, the terrain began to flatten out, and the trees became slightly sparser. He keenly caught the sound of water—not a dripping seepage, but a more coherent and clear gurgling sound. He followed the sound and parted a clump of huge ferns.
Suddenly, his vision opened up. A small, but crystal-clear stream flowed merrily across a pebble-strewn riverbed. Sunlight finally began to stream down, casting golden specks of light across the water. However, the scene by the stream froze him in his tracks.
The clearing by the stream wasn't deserted. A dozen or so crude tents, made of animal hides and thick canvas, were scattered about, and the embers of several campfires still emitted wisps of smoke. Humans, similar in appearance to him but clad in coarse linen and leather armor, bustled about. Women washed clothes and fetched water by the stream, children chased and played, and men inspected weapons, sharpened spearheads, or tended to several sturdy-looking horses. Their hair was mostly dark brown or black, their faces weathered, their eyes stern, the weariness of a long journey visible, yet also a tenacious vitality.
Meereen's presence immediately caught their attention. Several women fetching water looked up, surprised at the stranger who had suddenly emerged from the forest. His gray jumpsuit, though tattered, was made of a strange material, unlike any they had ever seen. The faint scars on his face and arms were also strange. More importantly, he was alone in this forest on the edge of elven territory.
A tall, bushy-bearded man with a heavy stone axe at his belt stood up. He was the first to see Meereen. He raised his hand, signaling the others to remain calm, and strode towards Meereen, his eyes darting sharply up and down. Behind him came several equally strong men, their hands on their weapons.
"Hwest," the bearded man said, his voice low and hoarse, speaking a language completely unfamiliar to Meereen. He looked at Meereen and pointed deep into the forest, as if asking where he came from.
Meereen's heart leaped into his throat. He didn't understand, but he sensed no immediate hostility, more wariness and confusion. He tried to imitate the other man's gestures, pointing deeper into the forest, then shook his head to indicate he didn't understand. He spread his hands, indicating he was unarmed.
The bearded man frowned, looking confused. He turned back and exchanged a few words in a low voice with his companions, speaking the same language. Meereen caught a few repeated syllables: "Adan" (human)? "Gurth" (death/danger)? "Daur" (forest)?
They seemed to mistake him for one of their own kind who was lost or alone. The bearded man looked towards Meereen again, this time with a softer tone. He pointed to the stream, then to his own mouth, pretending to drink water, then pointed to the still smoking bonfire in the center of the camp and made an inviting gesture.
He was inviting him to get some water and go to the camp to rest.
Meereen hesitated. These humans seemed to be a migratory group, their camp a temporary one. His healing secrets and otherworldly identity made him instinctively fearful of joining a group. He pointed at the stream, then at himself, indicating he was only there to fetch water, then shook his head in the direction of the campfire, a gesture of refusal.
The bearded man seemed a little disappointed, but did not force it. He nodded, waved his hand to indicate that Meereen could get water, then turned back to the camp with his companions, but his eyes still glanced over here from time to time.
Milin breathed a sigh of relief and hurried to the stream, quickly filling his leaf water bottle with the clear water. Just as he was about to leave, his eyes flicked to a little boy at the edge of the camp, helping his mother adjust her leather cords. The boy's arm was wrapped in a dirty rag, the edges oozing dark brown pus and blood. His face was pale from pain and a possible fever. Not far away, a middle-aged man was sharpening a spear shaft. A hideous scratch on his leg, though scabbed, was red and inflamed around it, clearly poorly treated. An old man sat by the fire, coughing intermittently, his breathing heavy and murmurous.
An inexplicable urge gripped Meereen. He remembered the cold devastation of that world, the dissipated ashes of his mentor and companions. The sight of these resilient beings, scarred and struggling to survive, yet still harboring a fundamental kindness towards a stranger like him, touched a tender corner of his heart. They needed help. And perhaps he had the power to provide it.
He took a deep breath and made a decision. He put down the water bag and slowly walked towards the injured boy. The boy's mother cautiously hugged the child tightly, and the bearded man immediately stood up.
Meereen paused, spreading his hands again to indicate that nothing was wrong. He pointed to the boy's injured arm, then to himself, and made a soothing gesture. He crouched down, looking at the boy gently, then carefully extended his fingers and gently touched the skin around the edge of the wound.
As everyone stared in disbelief, Milin concentrated. He felt a faint warmth flow from deep within his body to his fingertips, accompanied by a barely perceptible silver light. He channeled this power and covered the boy's wound.
A miracle occurred. The dark brown pus and blood seemed to be dispelled by an invisible force, and the redness and swelling subsided at a visible speed. The edges of the flesh that had been torn apart began to quickly close and heal, and fresh, pink skin covered the wound. The little boy's brow, which had been furrowed in pain, relaxed. He looked at his arm, which had instantly healed, in amazement and let out a small, surprised "Ah!"
A momentary silence fell over the camp. Everyone stared in disbelief at what was happening. The boy's mother, trembling, stroked the boy's smooth arm, tears welling up in her eyes. The bearded man strode forward, carefully examining the boy's arm. Then, with a sudden look back at Meereen, his eyes filled with shock, awe, and a subtle hint of fear.
Meereen didn't stop, but walked towards the man with the injured leg. The man flinched, but the bearded man nodded. Meereen followed suit, placing his hand over the inflamed scratch. With the same silvery glint, the redness and inflammation of the wound quickly subsided, and the wound itself healed quickly, leaving only a faint, pale mark. The man stretched his leg, his face filled with ecstasy and gratitude.
Finally, the coughing old man. Meereen gently placed his hand on the old man's hunched back. This time, he felt the blockage and the pain deeper. With greater concentration, the warmth grew stronger. The old man coughed violently several times, spat out a mouthful of thick black phlegm, and then his breathing became smoother, and the grayness on his face dissipated. The old man grasped Meereen's hand gratefully, mumbling something in his old voice, tears in his eyes.
The entire camp erupted in excitement. After the shock, there was immense joy and gratitude. They surrounded Meereen, looking at him with excited and reverent eyes, speaking words of gratitude that he couldn't understand. The bearded man—Meereen later learned his name was Barad, the leader of this small tribe—patted Meereen's shoulder firmly and pointed to the campfire again, this time with a sincere and warm invitation. This time, Meereen didn't refuse.
In the days that followed, life in Meereen took on a new rhythm. During the day, he would leave his nest deep in the forest and journey to the Haladin's makeshift camp. He was no longer just a water fetcher, but the tribe's "Gurth-vir" (Enemy of Death), a name they gave him with awe and gratitude. He helped them heal the injuries they accumulated during their migration: bites from wild beasts, wounds from falls, infections, colds... Each healing deepened the Haladin's love and trust for him.
Meanwhile, Meereen eagerly learned their language, taking every opportunity to listen, imitate, and imitate. The children became his best teachers, pointing to the stream and saying "Nen," pointing to the fire and saying "Naur," and pointing to the sky and saying "Menel." The women taught him the names of food: bread was "Bass," meat was "Caw," and berries were "Corf." Barad taught him simple sentences and stories of the tribe. Meereen's astonishing learning speed amazed the Haladin even more. He learned that they were migrating from the distant east, seeking the fabled "Light Land," avoiding the shadows and dangers of the forests and mountains.
Meereen observed the indigenous people of Middle-earth. They were resilient, hardworking, and united, filled with a reverence for nature, yet also harboured a fear of the unknown and uncertainty about the future. Their lives were simple and straightforward, their campfire songs raw and powerful, recounting the migrations of their ancestors and their struggle against darkness. This simple kindness and tenacious vitality gradually warmed Meereen's chilled heart. He loved sitting by the campfire, listening to songs he couldn't understand but were filled with emotion, watching the children play, and feeling this rare warmth of being human. It was the first time since his fall into this world that he felt a sense of belonging.
Beneath this calm, undercurrents surge.
One evening, the setting sun painted the forest a golden crimson. Meereen, as usual, bid farewell to the Haladin camp, taking the food they had given him and their gratitude, and set out on the path back to the tree nest. He felt relaxed, reflecting on the few new words he had learned that day.
Just as he was about to step into the more dense forest area he was familiar with, a strange feeling crept up his spine, as if he had been pricked by a cold needle.
He stopped abruptly and looked back. The light from the campfire flickered among the trees, and the gurgling stream continued. Everything seemed normal.
But he didn't move. Hunter's instinct, or perhaps the alertness forged from countless life-or-death experiences in that world, tensed his muscles. He held his breath, his gaze scanning the shadowy, ancient, dense woodland on the other side of the stream. It was darker and deeper than the open woods where the Haradin camp lay.
The light was dim and the shadows of the trees were swaying, so he could not see anything.
Just when he was about to think he was being overly suspicious, there seemed to be a very subtle movement in the deep shadows. It wasn't the wind, nor was it an animal, but a shadow darker than the night, which moved ever so slightly before completely blending into the darkness and disappearing without a trace.
Meereen's heart leaped. It was not a Haladin, nor a beast. It was a gaze that was scrutinizing and cold, like a venomous snake lurking in the shadows, casting a glance at its prey when it is relaxed.
The chill instantly dissipated the remaining warmth of the campfire. Without stopping, he turned and swiftly and silently plunged into the dense forest, sprinting towards his tree nest. Night had fallen completely, and the darkness of the forest seemed to have a weight, oppressing him. The warmth of the Haladin's campfire still lingered in his heart, but a new, cold sense of threat, like a thorn in his flesh, quietly clung to him.
In the darkness, there seemed to be a pair of eyes that remembered the figure of "Gurth-vir" and the otherworldly light flowing from his fingertips.
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