Chapter 54
As the Second Age slipped quietly into its 1,800th year, peace in Eriador, like a well-tended garden, weathered by occasional storms, grew stronger and stronger. The wisdom of Rivendell, the steadfast protection of Lindon, and the glimmers of hope that permeated the villages of Men, combined to weave a rare tranquility across the land. However, for Meereen, this peace was not a fertile ground for rest, but a clarion call to embark on a new journey. The mission entrusted to him by the Valar, like an unresolved mystery hanging in the East, never faded from his mind. The whispers of Sauron in the shadows of the East, the shadow cast by the Númenóreans on the coasts of Middle-earth, kept him from resting in the comfort of his home on the plains.
An idea took shape within him, eventually turning into action. He began systematically organizing all he had seen and heard during his long years in Middle-earth—from the forests where he struggled to survive upon his arrival, to the holy light of Valinor, to the wars and peace he experienced after his return. He took out a scroll of sturdy parchment and a specially crafted ink, and beneath the window of his dwelling overlooking the vast plains, he solemnly wrote the title: "Journeys in Middle-earth." This was not a grand epic or a record of war, but a book about the land itself. He would describe its mountains and rivers, its birds and beasts, its exotic flowers and plants, its little-known corners and its quietly vanished ancient wisdom. Furthermore, he would depict the various races that struggled, laughed, fought, and survived on this land—elves, humans, dwarves, and even those tiny tribes forgotten in the gaps of history. This was both an expression of his profound love for Middle-earth and a seed of hope, preserving a bright map and memory for the darker times to come.
Meereen once again packed his simple bag, bid farewell to the familiar faces on the plains, and embarked on a wider journey. This time, his goal was no longer the battlefield or the royal court, but the places in Middle-earth that contained the most ancient life force and secrets.
His first steps led deep into Fangorn Forest. This vast forest, southeast of the Misty Mountains and south of Lothlórien, seemed frozen in time. Towering trees were no longer the primary focus here, replaced by more primitive, diverse trees, their twisted branches swirling and cloaking the sky. The air was thick with the scent of humus and the slow, slow pulse of life. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the dense canopy, casting scattered spots of light on the ground covered with thick leaves and moss. Here, far from the hustle and bustle of the world, the footsteps of elves were rare.
Meereen walked lightly, becoming part of the forest. He carefully observed the strange forms of fungi, noting the intriguing patterns on their undersides. He listened to the calls of the various forest birds, trying to discern their language. He followed the tracks left by the large, yet relatively gentle, herds of bison. Most captivating of all were the ancient, tree-like creatures that moved incredibly slowly in the depths of the forest—the Ents, the tree herders. Communicating with them required immense patience, their language akin to the caress of leaves and the whisper of roots, slow and rhythmic. Meereen often sat by the roots of a massive tree for days, listening to Treebeard as one of the oldest Ents recounted in long, drawn-out tones the story of the birth of the stars, the forests that covered Middle-earth, and their concern about the felling of trees by "impatient young men." He described in detail the Ents' unique forms, their slow movements, their penetrating gazes, and their ancient wisdom of coexisting with the forest's inhabitants. The chapters on Fangorn Forest are filled with tranquility, antiquity, and the resilience of life.
Leaving the deep forests of Meereen, he turned toward the heights of the majestic Misty Mountains. He ascended steep, rugged, and rarely traveled paths. The air grew thin and cold, with snowstorms often coming unexpectedly. His goal was the eagle nests of the great eagles, towering above the clouds, overlooking all life. Gwaithir, the Wind King, and his kin, the messengers of Manwë, were the masters of the sky. Their nests, built on cliffs nearly inaccessible to mortals, were composed of thick branches and tough grass stems, exuding a wild and sublime aura.
Meereen chose not to disturb them. On a clear day, he left fresh venison, hunted by his own hands, in a clifftop clearing where the eagles might be perusing. He then quietly waited. At first, only the sharp gazes of the circling eagles cast their gazes down upon them. Gradually, perhaps sensing the aura of Valinor, shared with Manwë, the eagle's master, or perhaps simply the pure, nonthreatening curiosity, they were moved. Finally, a young eagle landed on a nearby rock, its golden eyes warily observing the uninvited visitor. Meereen remained motionless, paying his respects in the gentle Elvish tongue. Slowly, communication began. He recorded the eagles' astonishing wingspans, their piercing gazes, their graceful movements on the wind currents, and their unique perspective on the transformations of Middle-earth. They had witnessed the sinking of Beleriand and now gazed down upon the Númenóreans along the coastline. The Wind King Gwyhir himself descended in the clear sky after a storm. His majestic gaze swept across Meereen, and he let out a clear whistle that pierced the clouds, as if acknowledging this special observer.
The next stop on his journey was the long western coast of Middle-earth. Meereen walked along the shoreline, the salty sea breeze caressing his face. He observed the ebb and flow of the tides, taking note of the diverse shells, the strange marine life among the rocks, and the seabirds darting swiftly across the beach, their clear cries. Most captivating to him were the seagulls soaring freely across the azure sea and sky. Their pristine white wings gleamed in the sunlight, and their distant, slightly mournful cries emanated. Meereen often sat on the high cliffs, watching flocks of them soar toward the golden horizon of the setting sun, as if chasing the unreachable light of Valinor. Their flight paths, their cries, stirred a complex mix of emotions in him. A deep longing for his home in Valinor, coupled with a resolute resolve to protect the land of Middle-earth beneath his feet. The seagull became a symbol of freedom, journey, and homesickness in his travelogue.
It was during their journey along this long coastline that Meereen inevitably came into contact with the newly established territories of the Númenorians. At this time, Númenor was at its peak of power, their faith in the Valar remained unshaken, and their rulers were committed to their original intention of "helping Middle-earth and enlightening the ignorant," at least until now. These territories, built near natural harbors, presented a scene of flourishing and orderly development.
Meereen kept his identity secret, observing the crowds like an ordinary traveling scholar or merchant. He saw massive Númenorian longships anchored in the deep harbor, their sleek lines imbued with power, their crews expertly loading and unloading cargo. Near the harbor, neat stone houses rose from the ground, and the wide streets were bustling with people: colonists in exquisite Númenorian attire, and Middle-earth natives dressed simply, curiously observing or bringing goods to trade. The markets were filled with a dazzling array of goods, from Númenorian specialty grains, fine wines, and metalware to furs, medicinal herbs, and rough gemstones from the interior of Middle-earth. He even saw a school under construction at the edge of the territory, from which emanated the tender voices of Númenorian children reciting poetry in Quenya. Some Middle-earth children were allowed to listen, their eyes filled with a thirst for knowledge and awe for higher civilization. The administrators of the territory appeared enlightened and efficient, striving to maintain order and mediate minor frictions between the Númenóreans and the local natives arising from differences in customs.
Meereen sat in a bustling but clean tavern in the harbor, listening to the lively conversation of the sailors and merchants around him. A weathered old captain took a sip of his homeland's strong liquor and spoke in a booming voice: "Look at these docks, these warehouses! They're no worse than the old port of Rómenna. Your Majesty's foresight has brought the light of true civilization to Middle-earth. Those wild people who still wrap themselves in animal skins in the mountains are blessed to have come here and broaden their horizons." A nearby Númenórean merchant commented on the goods traded by the locals with a sense of superiority: "These furs are processed quite well, much better than last time. It seems they've taken our teachings to heart." Some Númenóreans privately complained about Middle-earth's "cold and damp weather" and "uncivilized customs," but the overall atmosphere was positive and hopeful.
Meereen observed and recorded silently. He saw the conveniences brought by advanced technology, the semblance of order and prosperity, but also the Númenóreans' inherent sense of superiority and a subtle condescension towards the natives of Middle-earth. He also noticed that some tribes of Middle-earth, deeply attracted by Númenórean civilization, began to relocate en masse to new Númenórean-designed homes near the colonies or further inland, eager to assimilate into this "superior" life. They learned the Númenórean language, farming methods, and architectural techniques, striving to transform their ancient ways. This cultural collision and fusion, like the new waves on the shoreline, was full of unknowns. In his travelogue, Meereen objectively portrayed the colonies' prosperity, but also subtly recorded his own concerns: the natural assimilation of a powerful civilization over a weaker one, and the potential hidden dangers regarding equality and dignity that might be sown.
Every night, Meereen would retreat to his makeshift seaside hut and, by the light of an oil lamp, sort out his observations from the day, meticulously describing the forms, characteristics, and habitats of various plants and animals on parchment, accompanied by rigorous yet vivid text. His parchment scrolls of "Journeys in Middle-earth" grew thicker and thicker, encompassing everything: a luminescent mushroom deep in Fangorn Forest, starflowers blooming tenaciously above the snowline of the Misty Mountains, a special cold-resistant moss discovered near the Giant Eagle's Nest, a strange shellfish on the coast that could predict storms, and all the countless creatures he had observed.
Meereen also continued to pursue the blue wizard's whereabouts, a constant lingering sound in the background. In Fangorn Forest, he asked Treebeard if he had ever sensed powerful, unforest-like magical fluctuations. Treebeard slowly shook his head, indicating that the forest's memories were only of ancient natural forces and the occasional intrusion of dark shadows, with no definite trace of the two wizards. In the Eagle's Nest, he asked Gwaihir if the eagle's sharp gaze had ever caught sight of a figure in gray-blue robes in the eastern sky. Gwaihir pondered for a long time, recalling a brief, chaotic burst of powerful magic in the far east, above the mountains shrouded by the shadow of Mordor. But the aura was filled with pain and struggle, and then it disappeared like a stone, leaving no trace. In the taverns of Númenor's harbors, he had also pretended to chat with Númenorian sailors who sailed eastward, asking if they had heard of such exotic tales as "trapped in the flaming mountains" or "the blue-robed prisoner." Most of the sailors shook their heads, saying that the eastern coastline was long, the tribes were numerous and xenophobic, and the information was isolated.
The clues remained elusive, pointing towards the eastern mists. Meereen closed another scroll covered with inscriptions and walked to the door of the seaside cottage. The night sky was clear, the stars glittering like diamonds scattered by the gods of Valinor. The waves gently lapped against the rocks, creating an eternal rhythm. He watched the seagulls skimming across the sea in the moonlight, their flight tirelessly reaching the dark depths.
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