Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The grand hall of Onymë Ennorë was alive with the murmur of voices, a steady rhythm of grievances, petitions, and council. I sat upon my throne, a towering seat carved from the purest white stone, its arms adorned with intricate gold inlays. Beside me, Arien sat in her own throne, her fiery hair glowing faintly even in the soft light of the hall. On her lap sat Anórien, our son, his small hands clutching a wooden tablet and stylus, scribbling diligently as though he were already recording the wisdom of ages.

At eight years old, Anórien was unlike any child I had ever known. His bright orange eyes, so much like his mother's, sparkled with an intelligence that defied his years. Though his body was small, his mind was sharp, and he had already mastered reading and writing. It filled me with pride to see how the people of the realm looked at him, their High Prince, with a mix of awe and affection.

The day was progressing steadily. A hunter complained of dwindling prey in the southern woods, and a group of artisans petitioned for more marble to complete a new monument. I listened carefully to each case, Arien offering her calm insight when needed. Anórien occasionally tugged at her sleeve to whisper a comment, earning smiles from those in attendance.

Just as I thought the day's proceedings might conclude, the grand doors of the hall swung open. A messenger entered, his green cloak and leaf-shaped brooch marking him as one of the Nandor. He bowed deeply, his gaze respectful yet urgent.

"My lord Emlithor," he began, his voice steady but tinged with concern, "I come bearing a message from King Denethor of the Laiquendi."

The hall fell silent as the messenger continued. "Denethor, your friend and ally, calls upon you for aid. A great number of our kin still linger east of the Anduin, unwilling or unable to make the journey west. He seeks your wisdom and your strength to guide them to Ossiriand, where they may find safety among their own."

I leaned forward, my hands gripping the arms of my throne. Denethor and I had forged a bond of trust and friendship many years ago. The Nandor, under Lenwë's guidance, had aided my people during our journey westward. Now, Denethor asked for my aid in turn—a request I could not, and would not, refuse.

"I will go," I declared, rising from my throne. My voice carried across the hall, firm and resolute. "Denethor is a friend, and his people are our kin. I shall lead a host to the Anduin and bring them to safety."

Arien's gaze met mine, her fiery eyes filled with understanding. "Then you must go swiftly," she said softly. "The journey is long, and the need is great. Anórien and I will await your safe return."

I nodded, placing a hand on Anórien's small shoulder. He looked up at me with a solemn expression that made him seem older than his years. "Take care of your mother, my son," I said, ruffling his hair. He nodded, clutching his tablet tightly as though it were a shield.

The Journey to Ossiriand

Preparations were made with urgency. I selected ten thousand of my finest warriors—all cavalry, their mounts swift and sturdy. The Avari were unmatched in their mastery of horseback archery and light cavalry tactics, a skill honed over centuries of life in the dense forests of Taur-im-Duinath. This would be no leisurely march; speed was essential if we were to reach the Anduin in time to aid Denethor's cause.

The morning of our departure was somber yet resolute. Arien stood at the gates of Onymë Ennorë, holding Anórien in her arms as I mounted my steed. She smiled, but there was a hint of worry in her expression. "Return to us, beloved," she said, her voice carrying the strength of her fiery spirit.

"I will," I promised, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. Then, to Anórien, I said, "Be strong, my son."

With that, we set out, a thunderous procession of hooves echoing through the forest as we rode toward Ossiriand.

The journey was grueling but swift. We traveled through woods and plains, fording rivers and skirting treacherous terrain. Each night, we made camp under the stars, the fires casting long shadows as my warriors spoke in hushed tones of the task ahead.

Finally, after days of hard riding, we crossed into the verdant lands of Ossiriand. The sight was breathtaking—rolling hills covered in lush greenery, the rivers glinting like silver in the sunlight. Denethor awaited us near the banks of the Gelion, his warriors arrayed behind him.

As I dismounted, he stepped forward, his expression one of relief and gratitude. "Emlithor," he said warmly, clasping my forearm in greeting. "You came."

"Of course," I replied, meeting his gaze. "What are friends for, if not to stand by one another in times of need?".