Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The dawn of the 1392nd Year of the Trees came with a golden radiance, Laurelin's light filtering through the towering trees of Taur-im-Duinath. The city of Onymë Ennorë stood silent and solemn, its usual vibrancy muted by the gravity of the day. At the heart of the royal palace, the High King of the Avari, Emlithor, stood with his queen, Arien, and their son, Anórien.

This was the day their only child would leave the home he had known all his life, bound for the halls of Doriath, where Elu Thingol would foster him as part of the alliance between the Sindar and the Avari. It was a moment of pride for Emlithor and Arien, but it carried a bittersweet weight that neither could deny.

Anórien stood tall, though his youth still clung to him. At thirty years old, he bore the gangly grace of adolescence. His features were strikingly like his mother's: hair like flames and eyes like the light of Laurelin. Yet, his height nearly matched his father's, promising the stature of a great elf when he reached his maturity.

Tears shimmered in those golden eyes, threatening to spill as he clutched tightly to his mother's hand. "Must I go?" he whispered, his voice trembling. "I don't want to leave you, Mother, or our home. I belong here."

Arien knelt before him, her hands cupping his face gently. "My son," she said softly, her voice steady despite the emotion brimming within her. "You are bound for a noble purpose. It is not an exile, but an honor—a step toward your destiny. The bond we share as a family will not break, no matter how far apart we are."

"But I don't want to go," Anórien replied, his voice breaking. Tears began to flow freely, and he turned toward his father, his plea unspoken but clear.

Emlithor, standing tall in his regal white and gold robes, placed a hand on Anórien's shoulder. His gray eyes, so often stern and unyielding, softened as he looked at his son.

"Anórien," he began, his deep voice calm and steady, "you are my pride and my joy, as you are your mother's. What I ask of you is not easy. It is no small thing to leave those you love, to step into the unknown. But it is what is needed—not for me, not even for Thingol, but for our people."

Anórien sniffled, his gaze dropping to the ground. "I don't want to fail you, Father," he whispered.

"You could never fail me," Emlithor replied, his voice firm. He knelt, his tall frame folding gracefully, so his face was level with his son's. "But you have a duty. Not because you are my son or the heir to the Avari, but because you are strong, wise, and capable beyond your years. Thingol's halls will teach you much, and one day, you will return as a leader even greater than I could hope for."

Anórien wiped his tears with the back of his hand, nodding slowly. "If it is my duty, then I will go. I will not dishonor you or Mother."

Emlithor smiled faintly and pulled his son into a firm embrace. "You honor us simply by being who you are, my son. Never forget that."

The gates of the palace were lined with Avari as Anórien prepared to leave. His departure was no small affair; the High King himself would accompany him partway, alongside the lords of the six tribes and their guards. Each tribe had brought their banners, and the sight of their colors fluttering in the morning breeze brought both pride and sorrow to the gathered crowd.

Arien stood at the gate, her composure regal yet fragile. She had kissed Anórien's forehead before the crowd had assembled, whispering words of comfort only he would hear. Now, she held herself still, her hand resting on Emlithor's arm as they watched their son mount his white horse.

"Be strong, my love," she said quietly to Emlithor.

"I will be," he replied, though his voice carried a hint of the ache he felt.

Anórien turned to look at them one last time, his face a mixture of determination and sorrow. "I will return, Mother. I promise," he said, his voice stronger now.

"And we will be here waiting," Arien replied, her voice unwavering.

With a nod from Emlithor, the company set off. The sounds of hooves against stone echoed as the procession moved through the city, the people of Onymë Ennorë lining the streets to bid farewell to their prince.

The journey began in silence, the group riding under the golden light of Laurelin as it filtered through the canopy of the forest. Emlithor rode at the head of the procession, his thoughts heavy. He glanced back occasionally at Anórien, who rode near the center of the group, flanked by two of the Avari lords.

Emlithor's heart ached, though he did not show it. This was the first time in many centuries he had felt the weight of loss so keenly. It was not the loss of death, but the pain of separation—a different kind of grief, but one that cut just as deeply.

"High King," Arvaran, the lord of the Kindi, rode up beside him, breaking his thoughts. "You've raised a fine son. His courage today is a reflection of your own."

Emlithor nodded, his eyes forward. "He is stronger than I was at his age," he said quietly. "Perhaps stronger than I am now.

Back in Onymë Ennorë, Arien stood on the balcony of the royal palace, watching until the company disappeared into the forest. Her composure finally broke, and tears slipped down her cheeks. Yet, even as she cried, her resolve remained. She had faith in her son—and in her husband—to see this through.

The road ahead was long, and Anórien's path uncertain. But as the procession moved steadily toward Doriath, the young prince's heart began to steady. His father's words echoed in his mind, grounding him.

For Emlithor, it was another step in his role as High King—a role that demanded sacrifices not just of himself, but of his family. Yet he would carry this burden, as he had carried so many before, for the sake of his people and the promise of a brighter future.