Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The towering peaks of the Ered Luin faded into the horizon as Emlithor's host rode eastward. The crisp mountain air gave way to the lush greenery of Ossiriand, the Land of Seven Rivers. The soft murmur of water meeting stone filled the air, accompanied by the songs of unseen birds.

Denethor rode beside Emlithor, his expression resolute but tinged with sadness. They had ridden side by side through battles and sorrow, but now their paths were about to diverge.

"The Laiquendi will remember this," Denethor said, breaking the silence. "What you have done for us—for me—cannot be repaid."

Emlithor shook his head, a faint smile gracing his lips. "Friendship needs no payment, Denethor. You are my friend, and your father was a noble ally to my people when we needed him. What I have done, I would do again without hesitation."

Denethor inclined his head. "Still, you have my gratitude. The Laiquendi will always stand with the Avari, should the need arise."

They stopped near the confluence of two rivers, their waters glinting in the midday sun. Denethor dismounted, followed by Emlithor, and the two kings clasped forearms in a gesture of mutual respect.

"May your realm prosper, Emlithor," Denethor said.

"And yours, Denethor," Emlithor replied. "Farewell, my friend."

Denethor watched as Emlithor remounted and led his host northward. The sound of hooves faded into the distance, leaving Denethor alone with his thoughts and the song of the rivers.

The journey back to Taur-im-Duinath was swift, the Avari eager to return to their families and homes. As they crossed the plains and forests, the trees of the southern woodlands came into view, their shadows long and familiar.

They reached the easternmost of the four watchtowers guarding Emlithor's realm. The Tower of the East, Elenion Tirin, rose tall and proud, its white stone gleaming in the afternoon light. Sentinels atop the walls spotted the approaching host and sounded a clear, triumphant horn blast.

"The High King returns!" came the cry from above, and the gates swung open to welcome them.

Emlithor rode through, flanked by his lords, as cheers erupted from the gathered Avari. The people spilled out from the tower's inner courtyards to greet their king, waving banners adorned with the sigil of the High King—a golden bow over a white tree.

The city of Onymë Ennorë was alive with activity as word of Emlithor's return spread. Children ran ahead of the procession, laughing and pointing, while elders stood at the doorways of their homes, bowing in respect.

The grand gates of the capital opened, and the procession moved into the heart of the city. The white stone streets echoed with the sound of hooves, and the golden decorations on the palace caught the sun's rays, casting a warm glow over the scene.

Emlithor dismounted before the palace steps, his heart pounding with anticipation. The royal halls loomed before him, their familiar grandeur a welcome sight after months of hardship. But it was not the halls he longed to see—it was the faces of those he loved most.

The great doors of the palace swung open, and there stood Arien, her red hair catching the light like a crown. In her arms was Anórien, his bright eyes widening at the sight of his father. For a moment, Emlithor stood frozen, overwhelmed by the depth of his relief and joy.

"Arien," he said, his voice trembling.

"Emlithor," she replied, her smile radiant.

He ran to them, his long strides closing the distance in an instant. He swept them both into his arms, holding them tightly as if afraid they might vanish.

Anórien giggled, his small hands clutching at his father's tunic. "Father!"

Emlithor kissed Arien deeply, his lips lingering on hers as the months of separation melted away. Then he turned to his son, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead.

"My son," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You have grown so much."

Arien laughed softly. "He has been waiting for this moment for months, asking every day when you would return."

"And now I am here," Emlithor said, his gaze shifting between his wife and son. "And I will not leave again so soon."

As they stood together, the gathered lords and attendants looked on, their faces alight with joy. Emlithor turned to address them, his voice carrying through the halls.

"Let it be known," he declared, "that one week from now, we shall hold a feast to celebrate our return. Let it last for seven days, that all may rejoice and give thanks for the blessings of our people."

Cheers erupted, echoing through the city. The Avari, weary from their trials, now had something to look forward to—a time of joy and renewal.

Arien leaned close to her husband, her voice soft. "You spoil them, my king."

Emlithor smiled, his arm around her waist. "After all we have endured, a little spoiling is deserved. And it will remind them of the strength we have when we stand together."

As the palace settled into a hum of preparation for the coming feast, Emlithor stood by the balcony overlooking his city. Arien joined him, her hand resting on his arm.

"Do you think they will ever truly understand all that you have done for them?" she asked.

"They do not need to," Emlithor replied. "It is enough that they are safe and happy. That is the duty of a king—to bear the burdens so his people may flourish."

Arien leaned her head against his shoulder. "You are a good king, Emlithor. And an even better husband and father."

Emlithor's gaze softened as he looked down at her. "And you, Arien, are the light that guides me. Without you, none of this would matter."

Together, they stood in the fading light, the city below alive with hope and celebration, as the High King of the Avari prepared to embrace a well-earned moment of peace.