Chapter 67
Leaving the lush shadows of Greenwood the Great, Meereen journeyed eastward, crossing the increasingly desolate, rock-dotted fringes of Rhûn's Inner Sea. The air was dry, the wind carrying the scent of sand and distant sulphur. King Oropher's resolute promise did not lighten his spirits. Instead, like the desolate sky, a veil of inexorable gloom hung over him. Their destination was the secret realm established by Fëanorion near Rhûn—a land that tenaciously survived the harsh environment, bearing the ancient pride and self-exile of the Noldor.
Maglor personally met him at the edge of his domain. The former singer's face bore the marks of time, but his eyes remained sharp and deep, like weathered stars yet unextinguished. He keenly sensed the heavy worry between Meereen's brows.
In the gardens of his domain, Meereen cast aside the composure and encouragement he had to maintain before the leaders of the human kingdoms and his elven allies. He sat wearily and unburdened his old friend of the vicissitudes of life, unburdening his burdens: the vision of Númenor's doom, sunk in madness and blasphemy; the chilling fall of Alatar and Palandor, betrayed by their becoming Sauron's inner minions; the current state of Gondor and Arnor, struggling to survive between the rebirth and the encroaching darkness; and his deep concern for the future of these two young kingdoms.
"I cannot speak my anguish to Elendil or Isildur," Meereen's voice was low, filled with deep resignation. "They need hope and guidance, not this heavy cloud within me that would shake their faith."
Maglor listened quietly, his eyes filled with understanding and compassion. He rose, walked over to Meereen, and gave him a firm, comforting embrace. "Poor Meereen," he sighed, his voice like the low strings of a harp. "The burdens you bear are heavy. The tragedy of Númenor, the fall of the Blue Robes, the burdens of the New Kingdom... these are the weight of the times. But remember, we have known darker darkness than this. The First Age when Morgoth ravaged. Then, hope seemed fading like a candle in the wind. But we did not give up. We gathered our strength, fought one after another, and finally saw the dawn of the War of Wrath. Fight the darkness, gather our strength, and never give up. This is all we can do, and what we must do."
Meereen leaned on Maglor's shoulder, feeling the steady strength of time long past, his heavy heart seemingly finding some solace. "You are right, Maglor. Gather your strength and prepare for battle. This is the only way." He raised his head, his eyes regaining some of their firmness, but a deeper unease surfaced. "But one thing still troubles me. In the past, when a huge storm approached, I always sensed a sign through my precognitive dreams, allowing me to prepare in advance. However, this time..."
His brow furrowed. "Even though Zoro's minions are increasingly active, and the looming threat of war is suffocating, I haven't had a single foresight dream. It's as if the surface of the water that allows us to glimpse the future has been completely frozen. We have lost our early warning and can only passively wait for Zoro to choose the moment to strike. It's like groping in the dark, not knowing which direction the deadly blade will strike from."
A solemn look flashed in Maglor's eyes. He supported Meereen's shoulders and helped him sit down. He then walked to the window and looked out at the desolate scenery outside the territory. After a moment of contemplation, he asked, "Could it be the One Ring? Has Sauron used it to obscure your perception?"
Meereen pondered for a moment and shook his head: "I also suspected this at first. But in the First Age, Morgoth's power far exceeded Sauron's today, and he could not completely block my precognitive dreams. Although the One Ring is powerful, Sauron's own power is far from reaching the level of Morgoth. In theory, it should not have such a thorough concealing ability." A trace of doubt flashed in his eyes, thinking of the two fallen blue-robed wizards and the power from Valinor that they controlled, but he did not say it out loud.
Maglor walked back to Meereen, his warm hand gently caressing the back of his furry golden head. The gesture was soothing and affectionate. "Do not fret too much. The threads of fate may sometimes be shrouded in mist, but they are not severed. Perhaps fate has other plans, or perhaps the darkness has employed methods we cannot yet fathom. Rather than dwelling on unknown fears, let us focus on the forces we can control, sharpen our weapons, and strengthen our resolve."
To divert Meereen's worries and to provide him with tangible support, Maglor suggested: "Come to my workshop. Let me forge you a weapon that will suit your needs. The battle is coming, and you will need a reliable weapon."
Deep within the realm, in a workshop filled with heat and the scent of metal, Maglor lit the forge. The glowing flames illuminated his focused face, and the rhythmic clanking of hammers on metal filled the air. Meereen sat nearby, watching the dancing flames, his thoughts drifting back to distant Valinor.
"Maglor, do you know?" Meereen suddenly spoke with a nostalgic smile on his face, "When I was in Aman, I went to visit Lady Naeddaniel in Tor-Eressea. There, I met Maedhros."
The hammer in Maglor's hand paused for a moment, his eyes revealing a complex emotion: "Maitimo... Is he okay?"
"He was well, but... he still carried a heavy burden on his face," Meereen recalled. "When he saw me, he spoke of the siege of Nargothrond, forcing me to hand over the Silmarils." Meereen's voice was calm, without any resentment. "He said he felt deeply sorry for that decision, and as an apology, he decided to teach me the art of blacksmithing."
Maglor couldn't help but let out a chuckle. "Oh? Maitimo taught you blacksmithing? How did it turn out?"
Milin also laughed, his smile tinged with helplessness. "It turns out that most people have strengths and weaknesses! I may be able to sense the pulse of life and soothe pain, but I know nothing about smelting metal, controlling the temperature, and hammering it into shape. Maedhros used various methods, starting with the most basic smelting, and taught me step by step. His patience amazed me. Unfortunately, in my hands, the metals were either over-melted, hammered crookedly, or quenched at the wrong time. He couldn't believe it. How could someone not learn such a basic skill?"
Maglor imagined his elder brother, who was known for his bravery and perseverance, and his expression of being stunned and suppressing his annoyance when facing a student who was "a hopeless case" in forging. He couldn't help but burst into laughter, and his hearty laughter echoed in the workshop, as if dispelling some of the haze.
"Later," Meereen continued with a smile, "your two youngest brothers, Amrad and Amras, also came to watch the fun. The three elves surrounded me and gave me instructions, and the scene was very chaotic for a while. As a result, there was naturally no progress. In the end, I gave up on my own initiative and told them that I no longer cared about those old things and asked them not to bother. I will never forget the expression on Maedhros's face. It was helpless and a little funny." Thinking of that time, Meereen's eyes flashed with warmth.
Maglor was also immersed in memories, unconsciously lightening the force of the hammer in his hand, with a warm smile on his face: "Yes... At that time, darkness had not yet invaded Arda, and troubles did not seem so deadly." His voice was filled with deep nostalgia and a hint of imperceptible sadness.
The two of them were sitting by the fire, recalling the old days of Valinor and the fun things that happened there, letting the heavy reality temporarily retreat and enjoying this rare, warm and relaxing moment. The dancing flames reflected their conversation, and the clanging hammers seemed to be the accompaniment of their memories.
Maglor's craftsmanship was unparalleled. A few days later, a longsword, shimmering with the cool sheen of mithril and fine steel, emerged from his hands. The blade was long and slender, its center of gravity perfect. The hilt was wrapped in flexible leather, engraved with subtle patterns of stars and waves. He handed it to Meereen: "Try it."
Meereen took the sword, flicked his wrist, and swung it in a few flourishes. The sword seemed an extension of his arm, light and powerful, the sound of it piercing the air sharp and clear. "Perfect, Maglor!" Meereen exclaimed heartily. "It's like it was made just for me!"
Maglor nodded with satisfaction, then picked up a smaller piece of steel. "Wait a little longer." He set to work again, and soon, he had crafted a dagger just as fine, easily concealed. The blade gleamed with a cold gleam, and the handle was set with a tiny sapphire, like frozen starlight. "Take these with you, the sword for open battle, the dagger for the unexpected. May they protect you."
Milin solemnly accepted the sword and dagger and wore them at his waist. The weight of the weapons brought him a sense of security.
The affairs of Gondor did not allow him to stay long, and Meereen stayed in Fëanion's territory for too long, exceeding the original plan. Although he was reluctant to leave this brief peace and precious friendship, he had to say goodbye to Maglor.
Maglor personally escorted Meereen to the wasteland at the edge of his territory. He watched Meereen climb onto his horse, his golden hair flying in the slightly dusty wind.
"Take care, Meereen." Maglor's voice was steady and powerful. "Remember, no matter how fierce the storm, you are not alone. May the light of Varda protect you, and may the stars above protect you."
"Take care of yourself, Maglor." Meereen gave the Elf a long look. "May we meet again in the dawn of victory."
Meereen rode westward, toward Gondor. Maglor stood there, gazing long at the figure that shrank as it melted into the dusk of the moor. His elven eyes, which could see the distant stars, followed Meereen until the figure vanished from sight, swallowed up by the rolling horizon and the gathering mist.
A chill wind blew across the wasteland, stirring up dust. Maglor withdrew his gaze and walked resolutely back to his domain. The warmth and nostalgia on his face had faded, replaced by the steel and determination of a Noldor prince who had experienced countless battles. He walked towards his workshop, towards the weapons and armor waiting to be polished.
War is really coming. Maglor thought, Fëanorion must also prepare for the storm.
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