Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

Seventy years had passed since Anórien had left Onymë Ennorë to live in the care of Elu Thingol, and the Year of Trees 1462 was upon them. Time flowed differently for the immortal Firstborn, but for Emlithor, the decades of separation from his son had felt painfully slow. The days had been filled with the labor of ruling, ensuring the strength of his people, and readying them for whatever the world might bring. Yet now, as the High King of the Avari prepared to journey to Doriath, a tide of anticipation swept through him.

Anórien, his firstborn, was now one hundred years old and fully grown in elven reckoning. Though Emlithor had been proud of the decision to send him to Thingol—knowing the bond between their two peoples would be fortified—he had yearned for this day: the day his son would return.

The city of Onymë Ennorë hummed with activity as preparations for the departure reached their peak. In the early morning light, the walls of the city gleamed white and gold, while the tall towers rose proudly toward the heavens. Below, soldiers moved with disciplined precision, banners of the seven tribes fluttering in the gentle breeze. Each banner bore its unique colors and sigils, yet all were united under the royal crest of Emlithor—the crowned bow and tree that symbolized his unyielding strength and wisdom.

Arien stood beside him in the courtyard, her fiery red-orange hair catching the dawn like a flame, her piercing orange-red eyes meeting his with warmth and resolve. Though her strength as queen was unmatched, Emlithor could see the shadow of anticipation in her gaze.

"We've waited for this moment for so long," she said softly, placing a hand on his. "Our son will return to us whole and strong, a reflection of the bond we share."

Emlithor squeezed her hand. "I sent him away to forge that strength. Yet the heart of a father is not ruled by reason. Every day apart has been a battle greater than any fought in the forests." He smiled gently. "But the time has come, and I will bring him home."

Her lips curved into a faint smile, though her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Then go, my king. Bring our son home, and remind the world why they revere the High King of the Avari."

Emlithor mounted his steed, Nárion, a proud and powerful horse whose white coat seemed to shimmer like starlight. The lords of the seven tribes joined him, their retinues forming a grand procession. The vanguard carried the banners of the tribes, each symbol catching the rising sun, while the rear was guarded by elite cavalry clad in shimmering armor.

As they rode out from Onymë Ennorë, the citizens of the capital lined the streets, cheering and singing songs of blessing. Emlithor raised a hand in acknowledgment, his heart warmed by their loyalty and joy.

The forest of Taur-im-Duinath soon gave way to the rolling plains of East Beleriand. The land stretched wide and green, a canvas painted by the Valar themselves. Their journey took them through familiar paths—rivers glimmering like silver threads, groves bursting with life, and hills crowned with wildflowers.

The nights were spent beneath the stars, their campfires illuminating faces filled with camaraderie. Songs of old filled the air as the lords recounted tales of battles, victories, and the beauty of their homeland. Emlithor, though a king, often joined in, his deep voice blending seamlessly with the others.

After weeks of travel, the ancient woods of Region rose before them, a barrier of trees so vast and majestic that even Emlithor, accustomed to the grandeur of forests, felt a sense of awe. The land exuded a serene yet mysterious presence, a testament to the wisdom of Thingol and the enchantments of his queen, Melian.

Though the Girdle of Melian had not yet been woven, there was an unmistakable magic in the air. The trees whispered secrets older than memory, and the soft rustle of leaves seemed to harmonize with the company's movements.

At the forest's edge, a delegation from Doriath awaited them. Clad in silver and deep blue, the Sindar elves stood tall and regal, their banners bearing the white and blue star on a black field—the symbol of Thingol's rule.

Emlithor dismounted gracefully, his white hair catching the light like spun silver. He stepped forward, his commanding presence immediately drawing the attention of the Sindar.

"Hail, emissaries of Elu Thingol," he said, his voice deep and resonant. "I am Emlithor, High King of the Avari. I come to retrieve my son, Anórien, and to honor your king with my presence."

The leader of the delegation, a tall elf with hair the color of midnight, bowed deeply. "Hail, High King. Thingol awaits you in Menegroth, and your son stands ready to return to your side."

The mention of Anórien sent a wave of emotion through Emlithor. He nodded, his composure steady, but his heart thundered with anticipation. Turning to his lords, he gestured for them to follow. Together, they entered the realm of Doriath, eager to reunite with the one who had been absent from their lives for far too long.