Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The journey to Tirion Nare, the North Tower, was a quiet one. Emlithor rode beside his son. The rhythmic beat of hooves against the forest path was accompanied by the occasional calls of distant birds. Though neither spoke much during the journey, the silence was not cold. It was heavy with the weight of what was coming.

Anórien, at 30 years of age, was still a child by the reckoning of the Eldar, though he bore himself with a maturity beyond his years. He sat straight and tall on his horse, his flaming hair catching the light like a banner of fire. His orange-red eyes mirrored the sunset as they traveled, reflecting both determination and sorrow. Emlithor saw the struggle in his son—the reluctance to leave his home, the yearning to remain at his parents' side. Yet, beneath it all, there was also pride.

As they approached Tirion Nare, its flame-like spire came into view. Rising above the treetops, the tower was a masterpiece of Avari craftsmanship. The white stone of its base rose to fiery hues of orange and red as it climbed, culminating in a golden beacon at its peak. It was the northernmost sentinel of the realm, a guardian watching over the forest's vast expanse. It stood both as a monument to the strength of the Avari and as a gateway to the wider world beyond their lands.

The company came to a halt at the base of the tower. There, several lords of the Avari awaited, their banners fluttering in the gentle breeze. Their troops, the best of the Avari's warriors, were already assembled, their armor polished and bows strung. These were the elite of the realm, the pride of their people, and they would escort Anórien to Doriath.

Emlithor dismounted first, his expression steady though his heart ached. He turned to Anórien, who had remained seated on his horse, his young face showing the weight of the moment.

"It is time," Emlithor said gently, his voice steady though his chest felt tight.

Anórien slid down from his mount, his movements deliberate. When he faced his father, his eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I do not want to go, Father," he said, his voice trembling. "I do not wish to leave you... or Mother... or my home."

Emlithor placed his hands on Anórien's shoulders, feeling the strength already growing in the boy. "Anórien, my son," he began, his voice firm but filled with warmth, "there is no strength without sacrifice. We do not send you away because we desire to be rid of you. We send you because it is your duty—not only to us but to our people. In Doriath, you will learn from Thingol, and you will carry the honor of the Avari with you."

Anórien looked down, tears spilling onto his cheeks. "But I am not ready. I feel as though I will never be ready."

Emlithor knelt before him, bringing himself to his son's level. "Readiness is not something we are given, my son. It is something we build, step by step. You are stronger than you know, wiser than your years. And more importantly, you carry our love and our hope with you." He reached out, brushing a stray strand of flaming hair from Anórien's face. "You will not fail us, Anórien. You are the brightest flame of our people."

Anórien nodded, his lip trembling, and embraced his father fiercely. Emlithor held him close, his heart breaking even as he felt immense pride for the young elf in his arms.

After a long moment, Anórien stepped back, wiping his tears. "I will not dishonor you, Father. Or Mother. I will carry our name with pride."

Emlithor smiled, though his own eyes were wet. "That is all I could ask for."

Anórien turned toward the waiting lords and troops. His stride was steady now, his resolve firm. As he mounted his horse once more, he looked back at Emlithor, his fiery eyes meeting his father's.

"I will make you proud," he said, his voice ringing clear.

"You already have," Emlithor replied.

With that, the company began their march, the banners of the Avari streaming behind them. Emlithor watched until they disappeared beyond the trees, the sound of their hooves fading into the distance. Only then did he turn away, his heart heavy but steady.

The ride back to the capital was somber. Emlithor's mind replayed the farewell over and over, each moment etched deeply into his memory. When he reached the palace, the sight of Arien waiting on the steps lifted some of the weight in his chest. She was as radiant as ever, her flaming hair catching the light of the trees. But her expression betrayed the same pain he felt.

He dismounted and walked toward her. Arien stepped forward, and without a word, he pulled her into his arms. They held each other tightly, drawing strength from one another.

"He is gone," Arien whispered, her voice breaking.

"He is not lost," Emlithor replied, his voice steady. "He is strong. Stronger than we could have hoped. And he will return."

Arien nodded, though tears glistened in her orange-red eyes. "He is so young," she said. "Too young to bear such burdens."

Emlithor leaned his forehead against hers. "He is young, yes. But he carries the fire of both his parents. He will shine brightly, even in the halls of Thingol."

They stood there for a long time, comforting each other. The palace behind them was quiet, the shadows of the towers stretching long in the golden light of Laurelin. Together, they would wait for their son's return, their hearts bound by love and hope.