Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The morning was somber, the sky blanketed with thick clouds as if Arda itself mourned the loss of Emlithor, High King of the Avari. The forest surrounding Onymë Ennorë was quiet, the usual birdsong stilled, replaced by the soft rustling of leaves carried on a gentle wind.

Anórien stood in the central square of the capital, his fiery red-orange hair gleaming even under the muted light. He was dressed in ceremonial robes of deep green and gold, his shoulders draped with a cloak bearing the sigil of the Avari. His face was stoic, but his orange-red eyes betrayed the storm of emotions within.

Before him lay Emlithor's casket, carved with intricate patterns and adorned with flowers brought from every corner of the Avari realm. Around the square, thousands of Avari had gathered to pay their final respects. Some wept openly, while others stood in silent reverence, their gazes fixed on the casket that bore their king.

The lords and leaders of the seven tribes stood closest to Anórien, their expressions a mixture of grief and resolve. Arien was among them, her fiery hair tied back, her face pale but dignified. Beside her stood Telerian, clutching her hand tightly, her silver eyes wide with a mixture of sadness and awe.

The procession to the burial site was slow and solemn. Emlithor's casket was carried by Anórien and six chosen warriors, one from each tribe. The path was lined with Avari, their heads bowed as the casket passed.

The burial site had been chosen in a grove near the heart of the forest, a place Emlithor had loved deeply. The clearing was surrounded by towering trees whose leaves shimmered like silver in the faint light. In the center, a grave had been prepared, its edges lined with smooth white stones.

As the casket was lowered into the earth, a hush fell over the gathered crowd. Anórien stepped forward, his voice steady despite the weight of his grief.

"My father was not only a king but the heart of our people," he said, his words carrying over the silent crowd. "He gave everything for us—his strength, his wisdom, and ultimately, his life. We are here not just to mourn his passing but to honor the legacy he leaves behind. We will remember him as he lived: a protector, a leader, and a father to us all."

He knelt and placed Raumo, Emlithor's bow, atop the casket. "Raumo was his strength in battle, his voice in the storm. Let it rest with him now, as a testament to his courage."

The lords of the tribes stepped forward one by one, each offering tokens of remembrance: a silver arrow from the Cuind, a beautifully carved lyre from the Kinn-Lai, a piece of polished stone from the Hwenti, and so on.

Finally, Anórien took a handful of earth, his fingers trembling as he let it fall onto the casket. One by one, the Avari followed suit, their collective act symbolizing their unity in grief and remembrance.

The evening brought a different kind of solemnity. The royal hall of Onymë Ennorë was filled with Avari from all walks of life, their faces lit by the glow of countless torches. At the center of the hall stood the High Throne.

Anórien stood before it, his ceremonial robes exchanged for a simpler tunic and trousers, though his presence was anything but ordinary. His tall frame and noble bearing made him seem every inch the king he was about to become.

Arien approached, carrying the High Crown of the Avari. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, wrought from silver and adorned with emeralds and sapphires that caught the light like stars. As she stood before her son, her fiery eyes met his, and for a moment, her grief was replaced by pride.

"You have your father's strength," she said softly, her voice steady despite the tears glistening in her eyes. "And his heart. The Avari will follow you, Anórien, just as they followed him."

Anórien knelt, his head bowed as Arien placed the crown upon his head. The weight of it was more than physical; it was the burden of leadership, of carrying the hopes and sorrows of his people.

"Rise, Anórien," Arien said, her voice clear and commanding. "High King of the Avari, and King of Taur-im-Duinath."

He rose to his feet, the crown glinting in the firelight as the gathered crowd erupted into cheers and applause. The sound filled the hall, reverberating through the city and the forest beyond.

As the feast began, Anórien found himself standing apart from the crowd, his gaze distant as he stared out over the city from a balcony. Telerian approached cautiously, her small hand tugging at his sleeve.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her silver eyes wide with concern.

Anórien smiled faintly, ruffling her silver hair. "I will be," he said. "I promise."

From the hall behind him, Arien's voice rang out, calling the Avari to unity and hope. Her words were met with cheers, the people rallying around their new king.

Anórien turned back to the city, his heart heavy but resolute. He was no longer just the son of Emlithor; he was now the High King of the Avari, the leader of a people who looked to him for guidance, strength, and hope.

As the stars began to appear in the night sky, he made a silent vow: to honor his father's legacy, to protect his people, and to lead them into a future where they could thrive, united and strong.

And so began a new chapter for the Avari, a chapter written in both sorrow and hope, under the rule of Anórien, their new High King.