Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The forest was silent as dawn broke, the first rays of sunlight filtering through the canopy and casting a soft golden light over the weary company of Avari. They stood in somber quiet, their heads bowed as the weight of their grief pressed down upon them. At the center of the group knelt Anórien, his fiery hair damp with sweat and tears, his hands resting on the lifeless form of his father.

Emlithor, High King of the Avari, lay as though asleep, his face peaceful despite the grievous wounds that had taken his life. His blood-stained cloak was carefully folded over him, and Raumo, his unbreakable bow, rested at his side—a symbol of his strength and courage.

Nearby, the little silver-haired girl sat curled in on herself, her tear-streaked face buried in her knees. Her name was Telerian, and though she was young, her grief felt as heavy as the sorrow of the warriors around her.

Anórien's breath trembled as he stood, his hands clenching into fists. His chest heaved, the storm of emotions—grief, anger, guilt—bubbling to the surface.

"This is your fault," he said suddenly, his voice sharp and cold as he turned to Telerian.

The girl flinched, looking up at him with wide, tearful eyes. "I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean?" Anórien's voice rose, raw and filled with pain. "Do you know what you've done? My father—our king—is dead because of you! Why were you even out there? Why didn't you stay safe?!"

Telerian's lip quivered, her small frame shaking as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "I… I didn't know where else to go," she whispered. "I wanted to find the Avari… My father… he came from there."

Anórien's fury faltered, and he frowned. "Your father? Where is he? Why wasn't he with you? Where is your mother?"

The girl's sobs grew louder. "They're gone. Orcs… they killed them. I ran, but they found me too." She covered her face with her hands, her small voice breaking. "I just wanted to find a home."

The words pierced Anórien's heart like a dagger. His anger crumbled, replaced by a crushing wave of guilt. He dropped to one knee, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I… I shouldn't have yelled at you. None of this is your fault."

Telerian looked up at him, her silver eyes filled with confusion and sadness. "Are you mad at me?"

"No," Anórien said, shaking his head. "I'm not mad. And you don't have to be alone anymore. I'll take care of you now."

The girl hesitated for a moment, then threw herself into his arms, clutching his tunic as she sobbed into his chest. Anórien held her close, his own tears falling silently as he whispered words of comfort.

The Avari worked through the morning, their hands steady despite their grief. With axes and saws, they cut down sturdy trees and shaped the wood into a magnificent casket. Each plank was carved with intricate patterns of leaves and stars, symbols of Emlithor's legacy as a leader and protector of his people.

When the casket was complete, Anórien stood before it, his hands trembling as he lifted his father's body. With the help of the Avari warriors, he gently laid Emlithor inside, arranging him so that Raumo rested beside him.

The procession began as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Anórien and the strongest warriors carried the casket, their steps slow and deliberate as they bore their king home. Behind them, the rest of the company walked in silence, their heads bowed in mourning. Telerian walked beside Anórien, her small hand clutching the edge of the casket as though to lend her strength.

When they reached Tirion Nare, one of the Four Towers, the sentries standing guard froze. Their eyes widened in horror as they saw the casket and the somber expressions of those who bore it.

"No…" one of them whispered, his voice breaking.

The news spread like wildfire through the tower. Elves emerged from their posts and quarters, their faces pale with shock and grief. Many wept openly, their voices rising in a mournful lament as they followed the procession.

The journey to the capital was long and heavy, the weight of loss pressing down on the entire company. By the time they reached the gates of Onymë Ennorë, a crowd had gathered, their murmurs of confusion turning to cries of anguish as they saw the casket.

Inside the city, the streets fell silent as the procession made its way toward the royal palace. Windows and balconies filled with onlookers, their faces pale as they watched their king's final journey.

Anórien's heart felt like it would shatter as they approached the palace steps. Standing there, regal and radiant even in her weariness, was Arien. Her flaming red-orange hair glowed like fire in the setting sun, and her orange-red eyes lit up as they met Anórien's.

"You're back," she said, her voice warm with relief. She began to descend the steps, her arms outstretched to embrace her son. But as her eyes shifted to the casket, her steps faltered.

"No," she whispered, her voice trembling. "No… no…"

Anórien set down the casket with the help of the warriors, then turned to face his mother. Her hands flew to her mouth as she ran to the casket, her tears already flowing.

She fell to her knees beside it, her trembling hands lifting the lid. When she saw Emlithor's face, peaceful in death, a wail of grief tore from her lips.

"What happened?" she cried, turning to Anórien with pleading eyes. "What happened to him?"

Anórien knelt beside her, his head bowed. "We were ambushed by orcs. Father fought… he saved us all, but… he…" His voice broke, and he covered his face with his hands.

Arien reached out, pulling her son into her arms. "At least he died for a good cause," she said, her voice thick with sorrow. She pressed a trembling kiss to Anórien's hair.

Her eyes fell on Telerian, who stood a few steps away, her small frame shaking as she clutched the hem of her dress. Arien's expression softened, and she opened her arms to the child.

"Come here, little one," she said gently.

Telerian hesitated, then stepped forward, her silver hair glinting in the fading light. Arien pulled her close, holding her against her chest as fresh tears fell.

"We'll take care of you now," Arien murmured. "You're safe with us."

Together, they rose and began the ascent to the palace, the Avari following in silent mourning. Though their king was gone, his spirit lived on in the hearts of his people.