Chapter 48
The White Tree of Rivendell swayed its silver light in the breeze of the deep valley, a beacon of hope lit in the shadows of the Misty Mountains. The sanctuary began to take shape, its order well established. Under the stewardship of Elrond and his capable lieutenant, Lindir, this new homeland displayed great resilience and vibrant vitality. Watching the busy and orderly elves, Meereen knew it was time to leave.
He sat in his newly built study, with a gurgling stream and lush pine forest outside the window. As he wrote to Glorfindel, his pen was filled with relief and a hint of imperceptible anxiety.
"Friend Glorfindel, I welcome your letter. Rivendell is beginning to take shape, and Elrond, true to his blood and his choices, has become a wise and resolute leader. This place is deep and formidable, teeming with life. In time, it will become a fortress for the Elves of Middle-earth and all who seek refuge there. The White Tree has taken root here, and its light has dispelled the shadows from the valley, a testament to the blessing of Valinor.
Yet, I find my errand unsettling. Long ago, we returned to Middle-earth at the behest of the Valar. We have found little except Círdan, and the other wizards are nowhere to be found. The Elven realms are cut off from news, and the kingdoms of Men are shrouded in mystery. Sauron's shadow grows ever brighter, and we, like blind men groping for an elephant, struggle to find our way. I fear deeply that the slow flow of information among the Elves is a breeding ground for Sauron's schemes.
Milin stopped writing and sighed. Complaints aside, what needed to be done still needed to be done. He continued writing:
"Things in Rivendell are on track. Elrond and Lindir are more than capable of handling the situation. I will travel east as planned, to Rhún, to explore the lands of Fëanorion and try to persuade Maglor. It would be best if Curufin and Celegorm could join the fight against Sauron because of Celebrimbor. This journey may be risky, but I have made my decision. Do not worry about me. I will contact you again when I have found a clue or settled down.
May the stars protect Lindon and Eregion. Written in Meereen.
The letter was quickly delivered by an elven messenger arranged by Elrond. What Meereen did not expect was that Glorfindel arrived extremely quickly and arrived in Rivendell almost at the same time as the messenger.
The Lord of the Golden Flower was dusty, but his blue eyes were as sharp as ever. His first words upon seeing Meereen were, "Every day in Lindon seems like being pursued by the Balrog of Angband. Between marshaling the army, forging, patrolling the defenses, and keeping a constant eye on Eregion, Gil-galad and I have had little rest." He took the water Elrond offered and drank it in one gulp. A trace of fatigue crossed his brow, yet also a hint of relief at the prosperity of Rivendell.
"A few days ago, I personally escorted a batch of newly forged weapons to Eregion," Glorfindel continued, his tone more serious. "I met Celebrimbor there. He was in good spirits, surrounded by countless blueprints and forge fires, like the soul of a tireless craftsman. But the worry on his face lingered. The pressure of Sauron hung over Eregion like an invisible boulder, making him even more isolated and tense."
He turned to Meereen, his golden brows knitted in undisguised worry. "Gil-galad told me you were heading for Fëanorion's land. Meereen, that land has been isolated for millennia, and Maglor's thoughts are as murky as mist. Curufin and Celegorm are no easy men either. I'm deeply concerned." He looked Meereen in the eye, his voice grave. "Listen, you must promise me this. Upon your arrival, no matter what the circumstances, send a letter immediately to let me know you're safe, even if it's just a few words. If I don't hear from you by the time we've agreed, I will abandon everything and fly to find you."
Seeing the genuine worry in his friend's eyes, Meereen felt a surge of warmth, and then he couldn't help but laugh. Glorfindel's expression, as if he were facing a formidable enemy, as if he were about to enter the Forge of Mordor alone, was a bit exaggerated. "Alright, alright, great Lord of the Golden Flower," Meereen smiled, patting Glorfindel's strong arm. "I promise I'll find a way to send you a message as soon as I arrive. Your worrying habit hasn't changed in a thousand years." Glorfindel snorted, a tacit acknowledgment, but the worry in his eyes hadn't completely dissipated.
With Elrond and Lindir guarding Rivendell, Meereen no longer had to worry. Before departing, Elrond solemnly handed Meereen a neatly folded elven cloak, cool and smooth to the touch. "This is crafted by a skilled craftsman. Though not a divine artifact, it will obscure mortal sight and mitigate the prying eyes of those with malicious intent." He also brought a sleek, majestic elven stallion. "May it aid you in your perilous journey."
When Elrond inquired about sending a team of guards, Meereen shook his head decisively. "No need, Elrond. Most of the Fëanians who remain in Middle-earth have experienced too much betrayal and pain, and have long since grown suspicious. Rashly approaching their territory with a group of men would only be seen as provocation or espionage." He paused, his gaze eastward. "Besides, eastern Rhún is an area where the Easterlings are active. The descendants of those Easterlings released by Caranthir who did not surrender to Morgoth are thriving there. Add to that the shadow cast by the disappearance of the Blue Wizard... the situation in this area is complex. It is safer to act alone, quietly and swiftly. I have the ability to protect myself, so rest assured."
After bidding farewell to Glorfindel and Elrond, who was reluctant to leave, Meereen put on his elven cloak, mounted his horse, and left the warm embrace of the shelter, embarking on a journey full of unknowns again.
He rode eastward, through the precipitous passes of the Misty Mountains, and along ancient, abandoned forest roads. The roads were even more desolate and worn than he remembered, as if forgotten by time. When he finally emerged from the shadows of the forest, a vast, rich land lay before him—Dorwinion, the pearl of Rhún's northwest coast, renowned for its lush vineyards and potent wines that would intoxicate elves.
Meereen arrived at a busy river port town in Dorwinion. The air was filled with the sweet aroma of fermenting grapes, the woody scent of wine barrels, and the distinct fishy smell of the docks. He needed information. In a noisy corner of a tavern, Meereen managed to strike up a conversation with a caravan leader who looked experienced and tanned, offering a few silver coins and a kind smile.
"Dorwinion wine?" The leader took a sip of the local liquor, a proud blush on his face. "The whole of Middle-earth is scrambling for it. Even those pointy-eared gentlemen living deep in the forest like our wine. Haha, you haven't seen the way those Silvan elves dance when they are drunk..." He burped loudly.
Milin asked at the right moment: "Oh? The elves will come to purchase in person?"
"Come in person?" The leader sneered and waved his hand, "They are very valuable. It is caravans like us who risk crossing the Greenwood Kingdom to deliver fine wine to their doorsteps. You know the Greenwood Kingdom? It's in the big forest in the west, the territory of King Oropher." Meereen's heart moved. No wonder he always felt that someone was following him in the dark when he crossed the forest. It turned out to be the sentinels of the Silvan Elves.
"Are there other elven territories nearby?" Meereen asked casually.
The leader lowered his voice, a touch of awe and distance in his voice. "To the south... in the mountains south of Dorwinion, I hear there are elves living there too. But they're different." He made a defensive gesture. "They're very secretive, and they're not as friendly to humans as the green wood elves. We don't dare go that way. Who knows what we might encounter."
Meereen understood that the "elves in the southern mountains" mentioned by the leader were most likely the territory of Fëanorion.
"How's business lately? Is the trade route still open?" Milin changed the subject.
The team leader's face immediately fell: "Don't mention it, several of the old roads we often take have been in trouble recently. The robbers appeared out of nowhere, like wolves, specifically targeting lone caravans and small groups of travelers. It's not bad to rob goods, but some ruthless characters..." He made a gesture of wiping his neck, "They won't even spare your life! In order to reduce losses, everyone can only take a detour, or hire more guards, and the cost is rising rapidly." He sighed and took another sip of wine.
Meerlin quietly inquired about the terrain of the southern mountains, possible routes, and the range of the robbers' activities, finally gaining a general idea of where to go. Bidding farewell to his chattering leader, Meerlin left the bustling town. He mounted his horse and headed south for the mountains, shrouded in mist and looking particularly cold and imposing.
However, finding Fëanorion's hidden domain amidst the complex terrain of the rolling mountains proved no easy task. Meereen trudged along the rugged mountain paths for days, groping their way based on vague rumors and a glimpse into the terrain, yet the search remained like searching for a needle in a haystack. Dense forests, steep cliffs, and bottomless canyons formed a natural maze that strained even the horses.
Just when he was about to doubt his own misjudgment, fate intervened in a very Fenorian way - he accidentally broke into an extremely hidden pass, and several figures as swift as the wind flashed silently from the shadows of rocks and treetops, and the cold blades were instantly placed on his neck and waist.
"Stop, stranger! State your purpose, or I will kill you without mercy." A cold, guarded voice echoed. The leading guard captain was a tall man, clad in a simple, finely polished suit of light silver armor, its breastplate engraved with an eight-pointed star. His eyes, sharp as an eagle's, surveyed Meereen with undisguised hostility and vigilance. The surrounding elven warriors were equally well-armed and agile, evidently veterans of many battles.
Meereen immediately raised his hands to indicate he had no weapons. "I mean no offense," he said quickly, keeping his voice steady. "My name is Meereen, and I come from Lindon. I have been sent by Lord Gil-galad to seek out Lord Maglor. I have a matter of importance to discuss." He emphasized Gil-galad's name and the matter.
"Meereen?" A flicker of suspicion flashed in the captain's eyes; the name was clearly not entirely unfamiliar. He surveyed Meereen, his gaze lingering for a moment on his golden hair, glossy even in the shadows, and his distinctly human presence. "Wait here, and do not move!" He signaled his men to remain on guard, and he quickly dispatched a soldier, who vanished into the depths of the forest like a cheetah blending into the shadows, evidently to return with a report.
The wait seemed incredibly long. The mountain wind howled, the cold blade pressed against his skin, and the atmosphere was oppressive and suffocating. Meereen couldn't help but smile bitterly: Why must every entry into Fëan's territory involve this ritual sword-fighting? From Himring to Nargothrond, and to the present day... this tradition truly runs deep.
Finally, the soldier who had brought the news returned and whispered something in the captain's ear. The captain's guarded expression softened slightly, but his eyes remained sharp. "Follow," he commanded briefly, withdrawing the knife from Meereen's neck and signaling his men to lead Meereen forward.
They climbed up a more secluded path, nearly obscured by vines and boulders. The path was incredibly steep, and without the elves' guidance, ordinary people would have been unable to find it. After walking for an unknown amount of time, they passed through a naturally formed crack in the rock, so narrow that only one person could pass through, and suddenly the view opened up.
A vast domain nestled against the mountainside unfolded before Meereen. Its architecture bore distinct Noldor influences, particularly those of Himring. Solid stone fortresses and towers were artfully woven into the mountainside, their sharp angles and harsh lines imbued with a sense of power and aloofness that seemed to radiate awe. The dark stone gleamed coldly in the sunlight. A bright crimson banner fluttered from the highest tower, embroidered with an eight-pointed star that seemed to burn with an eternal flame even in the sunlight. This place lacked the gentle beauty and vitality of Rivendell, resembling a forbidding war fortress, silently perched atop the mountains, overlooking the vast, uncharted lands to the east.
Meereen was led directly to the central hall of the keep. Compared to the magnificent halls of Himring's time, it seemed colder and more empty. The dark stone floor was as smooth as a mirror, and a few beams of skylight filtered through the tall dome, illuminating the dust particles floating in the air. Several fires burned quietly in niches, emitting a warm glow.
At the far end of the hall, a tall figure stood with his back to the doorway, before a vast stained-glass window depicting an ancient star map. He wore a dark blue robe, simple in style yet crafted from the finest material. His long, silver-gray hair cascaded down his back like a waterfall of moonlight. Just that back view exuded an indescribable loneliness and heaviness.
Hearing footsteps, he slowly turned around.
It's Maglor.
Over a thousand years seemed to have left few traces on his unrivaled handsome face. However, those eyes, once as bright as the sea and stars, now held deeper and more complex emotions—vigilance, scrutiny, a hint of imperceptible fatigue, and a sadness that seemed frozen in time. He looked fine, but the sense of alienation that permeated him was even stronger than when they said goodbye at the shores of Nargothrond.
The captain and the soldiers saluted silently and quickly left the hall. The heavy oak door closed behind them with a dull thud. Only Meereen and Maglor were left in the empty hall. They stared at each other across the cold stone floor, and silence hung heavy as if it were real.
Finally, it was Meereen who broke the suffocating silence. He took a deep breath and spoke clearly, "Maglor, I have returned to Middle-earth by the command of Manwë, Lord of the Valar. Glorfindel is with me. Our mission is to search for the missing Blue Wizard, aid the Free Peoples of Middle-earth in their struggle against Sauron and his One Ring, and attempt to heal the rift between Elves and Men." He paused. "I have come to you hoping to gain the power of Fëanorion so that we can fight Sauron together."
Maglor listened quietly, his face devoid of any surprise or emotion. He waited until Meereen had finished speaking before he spoke slowly, his voice low and pleasant. "I know why you've come here, Meereen. Curufin left for Eregion after learning that the so-called 'Anata' was attempting to reach Celebrimbor." His silver-gray eyes were like deep pools. "Celegon, concerned, followed him there not long ago."
Meereen felt a little relieved. Curufin would not sit idly by and watch Sauron threaten his son.
"As for us..." Maglor's gaze swept across the cold stone walls of the hall, as if examining this isolated territory. "Fëanorion has long been independent of all other elven tribes. Not all elves are willing to live with us, and we have no desire to be drawn into the strife of Middle-earth." His gaze returned to Meereen, with a hint of sharp inquiry. "To be honest, when you entered these lands, I initially thought you were here to settle the scores of the First Age."
Meereen was stunned, then overwhelmed with a sense of absurdity and helplessness. He couldn't help but raise his hand to rub his brow, his tone tinged with weariness and truthfulness. "Maglor, the elves' memories... are sometimes too good, which is a bad thing. For over a thousand years, I have long since sealed those grudges and entanglements in the corners of my memory, unwilling to constantly revisit them. Even I'm trying to move on, yet you still remember those details, even using them to speculate on my purpose?" He looked directly into Maglor's deep eyes. "I come here only for the impending darkness, for the possible disasters of the future. The blood and fire of the past should not be a barrier preventing us from facing new threats side by side."
Maglor remained silent. Meereen's words seemed to have dropped a stone on the frozen lake of his heart, creating a tiny ripple. The sharpness of his scrutiny faded slightly, but the deep distance remained. He did not respond to Meereen's sentiment, but turned and walked towards the spiral stone steps at the side of the hall. "It is late, and you have come a long way. Rest now. We can discuss anything tomorrow."
Night fell over the lonesome fortress of Fëanorion. Cold starlight streamed through the towering window panes, casting dappled shadows across the ground. Meereen was placed in a simple, comfortable bedroom. He lay in bed, unable to sleep, his mind resonating with Maglor's words, tinged with an inexpressible complexity of emotion.
Just when Milin thought that this night would be spent in silence and contemplation, there was a gentle knock on the door of the guest room. A silent guard stood outside the door, motioning Milin to follow.
They walked through cold stone corridors, silent only by the flickering light of torches, and climbed the spiral staircase until they reached an open-air terrace at the highest point of the keep—an observatory with a view so vast that it seemed as if they could reach out and touch the stars. The night wind was sharp, ruffling Meereen's cloak and hair.
Maglor stood alone in the center of the observatory, his long silver-gray hair glistening like moonlight under the starlight. He didn't turn around, only gazing up at the boundless, deep starry sky.
"You're here." His voice sounded particularly ethereal in the night wind.
Milin walked over to him, standing shoulder to shoulder, also gazing up at the magnificent starry sky. Silence remained between them, but this silence, unlike the cold confrontation in the hall, carried a sense of the vastness of the universe and a strange resonance.
Finally, Maglor moved. From somewhere, he produced a harp of ancient style, its body gleaming with a dark silver sheen. His slender fingers gently brushed the strings, and a stream of notes, as clear as dripping icy springs and imbued with a sense of boundless desolation, flowed forth, instantly blending into the silent night sky.
He began to sing. The song was not Elvish, nor the Common Speech, but a more ancient, mystical variation of Quenya. The melody was sometimes low and gentle, like the sigh of a deep valley; sometimes high and clear, like the collision of stars; and sometimes it turned into a melancholy chant, as if carrying an unspeakable burden. The lyrics were obscure, full of stellar metaphors and ancient symbolism. Meereen caught a few scattered words: "Twin Lights," "Cage of Flame," "Silent Prisoner," "Whisper of the East"...
The song had a haunting power. Even without understanding its meaning, Meereen could sense the immense sorrow, the eternal loneliness, and the pity for a certain inescapable fate. He listened quietly, as if his soul were drawn by the song, floating among the stars. Maglor was completely immersed in his own musical world, his silver-gray eyes reflecting the constellations, as if he were in conversation with the ancient stars.
The song ended, its lingering sound still echoing among the stars. Maglor put down his harp, the haze in his eyes gradually fading, and he regained his deep composure. He turned to Meereen, his voice returning to its previous low depth, but less deliberately cold:
"We have heard of the blue wizards, and Círdan's messengers have brought vague warnings." He looked eastward toward the shadowed sky of Mordor. "But unfortunately, we have no clues as to their whereabouts. The land east of the Inner Sea of Rhún is also unfamiliar territory to us, fraught with unknown dangers. Sauron's minions are omnipresent, and our survival here is difficult. Our priority is to remain hidden and avoid attracting his attention. Discovering the blue wizards' whereabouts is beyond our ability."
Meereen's heart sank slightly. Though the information Maglor provided was scant, it confirmed what Círdan and Navi had previously reported—the disappearance of the blue robes was inextricably linked to the East and Mordor. He was about to ask more about the song's metaphors, particularly the meaning of the "twin lights" and the "cage of fire," when a cold, explosive voice pierced the silence of the observatory like a sharp blade:
"'We'? Maglor, when did you ever speak for all of Fëan? Especially in front of an uninvited guest of such a suspicious identity."
Meereen spun around to see Curufin, who had silently appeared at the entrance to the observatory. He had clearly just returned from Eregion, dusty and exhausted, his black traveling cloak still stained with night dew. He was thinner and more severe than he remembered, his face as if chiseled by a knife. His dark gray eyes, burning with a cold fire, glared at Meereen with undisguised hostility and scrutiny, as if he saw through him from head to toe.
Curufin strode forward, his gaze like a poisoned dagger tracing across Meereen, finally resting on his face. His voice was as sharp as metal grinding against metal. "Meereen Lóriandil? A Human who crossed the West over a thousand years ago? You and I have both known Sauron's cunning. He is a master of disguise. Tell me!" He took a sharp step closer, his powerful aura pressing down on him. "How can I believe you are Meereen himself? How can you prove to me that you are not another 'Anatar' sent by him? A venomous snake disguised as his old self, seeking to infiltrate our ranks?"
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