Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The forest of Region was a tapestry of endless wonder, but nothing could prepare Emlithor and the lords of the Avari for the sight of Menegroth, the fabled capital of Doriath. The Sindar guides led them along a winding path until, at last, the trees parted to reveal a city unlike any Emlithor had ever seen.

Carved into the rocky heart of the land, the Thousand Caves stretched deep and wide, their entrances flanked by intricately sculpted pillars. Great stags and wolves, symbols of Thingol's reign, were etched into the stone, while lanterns of gold and silver bathed the halls in warm, ethereal light. The artistry rivaled the finest works of the Avari craftsmen, but it was the sheer scale and magnificence of the city that left them speechless.

"This…" whispered Nendril, the lord of the Cuind, as he gazed up at the arching ceilings adorned with jewels that mimicked the stars. "It rivals even Onymë Ennorë."

Emlithor nodded, his white hair shimmering under the glow of the lanterns. Though pride for his own city swelled in his chest, he could not deny the breathtaking splendor of Menegroth. The craftsmanship here was born of a union of Sindarin skill and the gifts of the Dwarves of Belegost—a bond that wove stone, light, and nature into a seamless, living masterpiece.

They were escorted deeper into the city, through grand halls filled with elves going about their duties, their movements graceful and serene. Soft music floated through the air, mingling with the sound of fountains that mirrored the laughter of streams.

At last, they entered the royal hall. It was vast and awe-inspiring, with walls adorned in shimmering tapestries depicting the history of the Sindar. At the far end stood two thrones, carved from a single massive stone, set with precious gems that glowed faintly in the soft light.

Upon the thrones sat King Elu Thingol and Queen Melian. Thingol, tall and commanding, radiated the majesty of a ruler born to lead. His hair, silver as moonlight, cascaded over his shoulders, and his eyes held a wisdom that seemed to pierce through time. Beside him, Melian's presence was a quiet but undeniable power. Her beauty was otherworldly, her dark hair a cascade of night, and her gaze held the depth of countless ages.

But it was the figure standing beside Thingol that stole Emlithor's breath.

Anórien.

He was taller now—taller than Emlithor, though still shorter than Thingol, who towered above all the children of Eru. His red-orange hair, a cascade of fire, framed a face that bore the striking features of his mother, Arien. His orange-red eyes burned with quiet intensity, and his bearing was regal, almost unrecognizable to Emlithor.

But it was his aura that truly struck Emlithor. Anórien no longer bore the shy hesitation of youth; he radiated the confidence of a king, a ruler in his own right. Emlithor's heart swelled with pride, but he also felt a pang of longing for the boy he had sent away.

"Father," Anórien said, stepping forward. His voice, deep and steady, carried across the hall.

Emlithor strode forward, unable to contain himself any longer. He embraced his son tightly, his white hair mingling briefly with the fiery hues of Anórien's. "My son," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You've grown into a man—a ruler."

"And I am proud to be your son," Anórien replied, his voice faltering slightly with emotion.

The lords of the Avari watched the reunion with quiet reverence, their own hearts stirred by the display of love between father and son.

A Conversation with the King and Queen

Emlithor and Anórien turned to face Thingol and Melian, bowing deeply in respect.

"Hail, Emlithor, High King of the Avari," Thingol said, his deep voice resonating through the hall. "It is an honor to welcome you to Menegroth."

"The honor is mine, King Elu Thingol," Emlithor replied. "You have cared for my son as if he were your own. For this, I am forever in your debt."

Melian spoke next, her voice like the sound of a gentle stream. "He was no burden, my lord. Anórien has been a joy to us and has grown into a remarkable young elf. His heart is noble, and his strength unmatched."

Emlithor glanced at his son, who stood beside Thingol with quiet dignity. "I see that," he said, his voice tinged with pride. "He is more than I could have hoped for."

Thingol leaned forward slightly, a glimmer of admiration in his eyes. "Anórien has become the finest spearmaster in Doriath. His skill surpasses even some of my best warriors. He has been a credit to your name, and his presence has strengthened the bond between our peoples."

Emlithor's chest swelled with pride. "You do me great honor, my lord, and my son has done me greater still. I could not be more proud."

Thingol smiled and gestured to the hall. "To celebrate your arrival and Anórien's departure, we will host a feast in your honor. It will be an occasion to remember."

Melian added, "And our daughter, Lúthien, will be present.

Emlithor's curiosity was piqued. He had heard tales of Lúthien, whose beauty was said to rival even the light of the Two Trees. He nodded respectfully. "I look forward to the honor of meeting her."

As the conversation turned to lighter topics, Emlithor found himself marveling at how the years had shaped his son. Anórien stood tall and proud, yet there was still a warmth and humility in him that reminded Emlithor of the boy he had sent away.