Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The trees of Greenwood the Great stretched endlessly behind them, their shadows long in the morning light. Though the forest hummed with life, the air was heavy with sorrow. Emlithor turned in his saddle to glance back one last time at the woods where Lenwë had spoken his final words. That brief farewell, whispered in pain and resolve, weighed upon him like armor that could not be removed.

At his side, Denethor rode in silence. The King of the Laiquendi looked every bit the warrior he had become, but grief had hollowed his eyes. The Nandor survivors shuffled behind them, weary and broken, mingling with Emlithor's host of Avari.

"We carry their hope now," Denethor said quietly, breaking the silence.

Emlithor nodded, his voice low. "Their hope, their pain, their sacrifice. Lenwë gave everything so that his people might live. We will not fail him."

Denethor tightened his grip on the reins, his jaw set. "No, we will not."

The Great River Anduin flowed wide and unyielding before them, its silver waters reflecting the pale sky. For many, it was a source of dread, a reminder of how far they still had to go. But for Emlithor, it was simply one more obstacle to overcome.

Preparations for the crossing began immediately. Rafts were assembled from fallen trees and bound tightly with rope. Every elf worked, whether wounded or hale, as the task was too great to allow for idleness. Emlithor himself took up an axe, felling branches alongside his people.

"You do not need to do this, my lord," said Theramar, the Lord of the Hwenti. His face was streaked with sweat, his hands worn from the labor.

"I do," Emlithor replied, chopping a thick branch with a single strike. "A king does not lead from a throne; he leads where his people need him most."

By the second evening, the first groups of elves began to cross. The injured were carried with care, while children huddled close to their parents on the makeshift rafts. Some elves swam alongside to guide the vessels, their breaths forming clouds in the chilly water.

When the last raft reached the far shore, a collective sigh of relief rippled through the host. Emlithor stood at the river's edge, his cloak damp and heavy, as he watched the Anduin fade into the distance behind them.

The Hithaeglir—the Misty Mountains—rose like a jagged wall before them, their peaks cloaked in swirling mists. The sight was daunting, even to those who had already endured so much.

"We cannot cross," Emlithor said decisively. "The paths are too treacherous, especially for the wounded."

Denethor frowned, his gaze scanning the forbidding heights. "Then we must go around. But it will cost us time."

"Time is a lesser price than lives," Emlithor replied. "We will ride south and follow the foothills. It will be harder, but it is the only way."

For two weeks, the host wound its way around the mountains, the journey slow and fraught with difficulty. The injured Nandor, without horses, walked with the aid of their comrades. The Avari lords organized hunting parties to keep the host fed, while the Penni healers tended to the constant flow of wounds and illnesses.

Despite the hardships, Emlithor remained a steady presence, his calm resolve inspiring those around him. At night, he sat by the fires, speaking softly to the Nandor and assuring them that their sacrifices were not forgotten.

When the vast, verdant forests of Eriador finally spread before them, the relief was palpable. The towering trees offered shade from the sun and protection from the wind. For the first time in months, the elves felt a glimmer of peace.

Emlithor called for a halt, giving the host several days to rest and recover. Fires crackled in the cool evening air as the elves sang songs of old, their voices blending with the rustling of the leaves.

Denethor sat apart from the others, his face turned toward the stars. Emlithor joined him, handing him a cup of warmed milk.

"I've been thinking of him," Denethor admitted after a long silence.

"You should," Emlithor said. "Lenwë's legacy is yours to carry now. But you do not carry it alone."

Denethor glanced at him, his expression heavy with gratitude. "Thank you, Emlithor. For everything."

Emlithor placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "We are kin now, through blood and loss. I will stand with you, always."

When they reached the Ered Luin—the Blue Mountains—the sight of their towering peaks brought mixed feelings. Relief at nearing their journey's end mingled with the trepidation of what lay ahead.

As they approached the foothills, a group of short, and stout figures emerged from the shadows. The dwarves of Belegost stood in their gleaming armor, their axes glinting in the sunlight. Their leader stepped forward, his braided beard adorned with golden rings.

"You are Emlithor, High King of the Avari," the dwarf said, his voice resonant. "Word of your deeds has reached even our halls. You and your people are welcome here."

Emlithor dismounted and bowed his head slightly. "Your hospitality honors us. We are weary travelers, in need of rest."

The dwarf's eyes softened. "Then you shall have it. Come, my halls are open to you."

The halls of Belegost were unlike anything the elves had ever seen. Carved deep into the mountains, the stonework was intricate and imposing, lit by the warm glow of crystal lamps. The elves marveled at the craftsmanship, their voices hushed in awe.

Emlithor and Denethor were led to the throne room, where the Lord of Belegost awaited them. The dwarf's silver beard glinted as he regarded them with a mix of curiosity and respect.

"We have heard much of you, High King," the dwarf said, his voice like the rumble of distant thunder. "You are welcome in my halls. Rest here as long as you need."

Emlithor inclined his head. "Your generosity will not be forgotten. If ever you have need of the Avari, call upon us, and we will answer."

The dwarf smiled, a rare expression of warmth. "It is not often that an elf offers such a promise. Perhaps there is hope yet for kinship between our peoples."

That evening, Emlithor stood on a balcony carved into the mountainside, gazing out over the valleys below. The journey had been long and painful, but they had found a brief respite.

Denethor joined him, his expression pensive. "Do you think we will ever truly find peace?"

Emlithor's gaze remained on the horizon. "Peace is not something we find. It is something we build. Step by step, through every bond we strengthen and every promise we keep."

Denethor nodded slowly, his grief softening into determination. "Then we will build it together."

And together, they stood in silence, two kings bound by hope and loss, ready to face whatever lay ahead.