Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The city of Onymë Ennorë had never been so alive. The streets, normally quiet under the canopy of the great trees, were now a kaleidoscope of celebration. Flags bearing the sigil of the Avari fluttered on every building, the golden bow and white tree of their High King gleaming under the golden light of Laurelin. In the courtyards and squares, the people danced, laughed, and shared stories, their voices carrying through the air like a melody.

The royal feast was the crowning jewel of this week-long celebration, held in the grand open halls of the palace. Tables stretched endlessly, piled high with food and drink—roasted venison, steaming loaves of bread, honeyed fruits, and pitchers of rich wine. The Kinn-Lai minstrels played lilting melodies, their instruments crafted to perfection, each note resonating with the spirit of joy that filled the hall.

Emlithor sat at the head of the table, his queen Arien at his side, their young son Anórien nestled in her lap. The boy's bright eyes darted around, captivated by the grandeur of the occasion, though his small hands were occupied with a crust of bread he had been nibbling. Emlithor glanced at him often, a rare softness in his eyes. This was the life he fought for, the joy he strove to protect.

Lords and ladies of the six tribes mingled freely with the common folk, their titles and roles set aside for the night. Arvaran, the lorekeeper of the Kindi, stood to recount tales of the Avari's past. His voice, rich and deep, wove stories that brought laughter and tears to the audience.

"And who among us can forget the tale of Emlithor's triumph in the great forest of Taur-im-Duinath?" Arvaran said, raising his goblet. "He who drove back the shadow and built this shining city, a beacon for all the Avari!"

The hall erupted into cheers and applause. Emlithor, ever humble, raised his own goblet in acknowledgment but quickly gestured for the festivities to continue.

"Let the songs tonight be of all who have brought us here," he said, his voice carrying effortlessly over the crowd. "For it is not one hand, but many, that built our kingdom."

Calerion, the minstrel lord of the Kinn-Lai, seized the moment to lead a jubilant tune. Laughter and clapping followed as couples took to the open floor to dance. Anórien, despite his young age, seemed enthralled by the music, swaying slightly in his mother's arms.

As the night deepened, a messenger clad in forest green approached the royal dais. The music softened, and the hum of conversation quieted as the figure knelt before the High King.

"My lord," the messenger said, bowing his head. "A missive has arrived from Doriath."

Emlithor's gaze sharpened at the mention of the Sindar kingdom. The parchment the messenger presented bore the seal of Thingol: a blue and white star on a black background. With steady hands, Emlithor broke the seal and unrolled the letter, his keen eyes scanning the elegant Sindarin script.

"My friend and ally, Emlithor," the letter began. "High King of the Avari and protector of Taur-im-Duinath.

As the years pass and our realms prosper, it is my hope to strengthen the bond between our peoples. Though we share blood and kinship from the days of Cuiviénen, the passage of time has left our paths divided. Let us mend this, not through swords or treaties, but through a bond of family.

I would ask that your son, Anórien, come to dwell in Doriath as a foster son of my house when he reaches his thirtieth year. It is my hope that this will not only deepen the friendship between our realms but also prepare Anórien for the weight of kingship that he will one day bear."

Emlithor read the letter twice, his expression unreadable. Finally, he passed it to Arien, who read it with growing emotion.

"What do you think?" Emlithor asked her softly.

Arien's gaze drifted to Anórien, now dozing against her shoulder, his soft features illuminated by the light of the feast. "It is a great honor," she said quietly. "But it is not a small thing to part with a child."

"It is not," Emlithor agreed, his voice low. "But it is wise. Thingol's house is noble, and his realm is strong. Anórien would learn much in Doriath, and the bond it creates may serve us all in days to come."

After a long pause, Arien nodded. "Then we should accept."

Rising from his seat, Emlithor gestured for silence. The hall quieted as all eyes turned to their king.

"I have received a message from Elu Thingol," he began, his voice steady. "King of Doriath and lord of the Sindar. He has proposed a bond between our houses, one that transcends borders and strengthens the ties of kinship between our peoples.

He has asked that my son, Anórien, come to dwell in Doriath when he reaches his thirtieth year, as a foster son of Thingol's house."

A ripple of surprise moved through the crowd. Fostering was a custom of the Noldor and Sindar, not often practiced among the Avari.

"This is no small request," Emlithor continued. "But it is an opportunity for our realms to grow closer. Thingol's wisdom and strength are known across Beleriand, and his house is one of honor. I have accepted his proposal, for it will bring great unity between our peoples."

There was a pause, and then the hall erupted into applause. The lords of the tribes stood, lifting their goblets in a show of support.

As the feast resumed, Emlithor returned to his seat, watching his people as they laughed and celebrated. The decision weighed on him, though he did not show it.

Arien placed a hand on his. "He will understand," she said gently.

Emlithor nodded. "I hope so," he murmured. His gaze drifted to the horizon, where the stars glimmered faintly, a reminder of the vast world that lay beyond the borders of his kingdom.

For now, he allowed himself to be present. Tonight was a night of joy, and though the future held uncertainties, this moment belonged to his people, his family, and the hope that burned brightly in the heart of the Avari.