Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The grand feast in Menegroth began with the deep resonance of elven horns, their notes reverberating through the arched halls of Thingol's majestic capital. Carved from the living stone of the Thousand Caves, the hall glittered with soft light, reflected by crystals and gems embedded in the walls. Lanterns, shaped like golden stars, hung above the assembled guests, their glow lending a dreamlike quality to the gathering.

Emlithor sat at the high table beside Elu Thingol and Melian, as they presided over the celebration. Though this was not his first visit to Doriath, the magnificence of Menegroth astonishes him. Its beauty rivaled even Onymë Ennorë, though Menegroth seemed more like an eternal piece of art, carved and polished by hands guided by visions of timeless splendor.

"Your artisans," Emlithor said, gesturing to the intricate designs of flowers and vines that wove along the walls, "have captured the essence of Arda itself within these halls. It is a marvel to behold."

Thingol smiled, his silver hair catching the lantern light. "Praise from you, High King of the Avari, is not lightly earned. Your city, I hear, rivals even the majesty of Menegroth."

Emlithor inclined his head. "It may rival it, but I admit your halls carry a wisdom and artistry borne of years we cannot yet claim. One cannot help but admire them."

Melian's gaze rested on Emlithor, her dark eyes filled with quiet curiosity. She said little at first, observing with a wisdom that seemed to encompass far more than the moment.

As the feast continued, Emlithor spotted Anórien entering the hall. His son's presence drew the eyes of many, not just because of his striking appearance—his fiery red-orange hair and glowing orange-red eyes marked him as a figure of distinction—but also because of his bearing. Anórien moved with a quiet strength, his tall frame exuding confidence.

Walking beside him was another elf of renown. Dark-haired and grey-eyed, Daeron carried his white flute as if it were an extension of himself. The loremaster and minstrel of Doriath, known throughout the kingdom for his wisdom and artistry, moved with an easy grace.

As they reached the high table, Anórien bowed first to Thingol and Melian, then to his father. "My king, my queen, Father," he said with a voice that held both respect and familiarity, "the feast is truly grand."

Emlithor smiled, pride swelling in his chest as he regarded his son. "Anórien, my son, you do me honor simply by your presence."

Turning his gaze to Daeron, Emlithor nodded. "And you must be Daeron, the famed loremaster and minstrel. Your reputation precedes you."

Daeron bowed slightly, his expression respectful. "Your Majesty, it is an honor to meet you. Anórien speaks often of your wisdom and strength."

Emlithor chuckled. "Then I am fortunate to have a son who speaks so kindly of me. It is a comfort to know he has found a friend such as you during his time here."

Anórien glanced at Daeron with a smile. "He has been my guide and companion, my brother in all but name."

Their bond was evident, and Emlithor found his heart lightened by the sight of it.

Just as the festivities reached their peak, the room fell silent as the doors of the hall opened once more. All eyes turned to see Lúthien Tinúviel, the daughter of Thingol and Melian, entering the hall.

Lúthien was a vision of beauty, her black hair flowing like a river of night, her grey eyes holding the light of stars. Her gown of silver and blue shimmered with every step, and around her neck, she wore a necklace—a gift from Emlithor many years ago.

Emlithor smiled warmly, leaning toward Thingol. "It pleases me to see my gift still graces your daughter."

Thingol grinned. "She treasures it, though I'm certain it is not the necklace that earns her such admiration tonight."

Melian's expression softened as she watched her daughter join the gathering. "She has a light that comes from within, a gift that cannot be given or taken. It is simply her."

Emlithor nodded, understanding the truth of her words.

As the feast continued, Thingol called for Daeron to play his flute. The minstrel rose, his movements deliberate as he brought the instrument to his lips. The first notes that flowed from the flute were hauntingly beautiful, weaving a melody that seemed to touch the very soul.

"Lúthien," Thingol said with a smile, "will you not grace us with a dance?"

With a nod, Lúthien stepped into the open space at the center of the hall. Her movements were as fluid as water, as graceful as the wind. The music and her dance became one, an expression of beauty that brought tears to Emlithor's eyes.

He wiped them away quickly, laughing softly at himself. "You have outdone yourselves, my friends. I doubt there are words to describe what I have witnessed tonight."

Thingol leaned closer, his voice low. "If only you knew how often she reduces even the sternest of warriors to tears."

As the night drew to a close, Melian approached Anórien with a gift. In her hands was a ring of silver, set with a large blue gem that glimmered like the morning sky.

"This is Eledhilmir—the Star-jewel," she said, placing it in Anórien's hand. "May it guide you in times of doubt and remind you of the light that always endures."

Anórien bowed deeply, his voice steady. "Thank you, Lady Melian. I will wear it with pride."

Emlithor watched with pride as his son accepted the gift. Though the journey back to Onymë Ennorë awaited them, he felt a sense of peace. They had forged new bonds tonight, and the memory of this feast would remain with him for years to come.