Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

It was the year of Trees 1495. The days were long, and the people of the Avari had flourished under Anórien's rule. The kingdom stood strong, its borders secure, and its heart ever vibrant with life. From the towering walls of Onymë Ennorë to the quiet valleys where the Kindi and Cuind made their homes, the Avari had prospered in peace. Anórien had grown into a wise and capable king, the people trusting his strength and wisdom. It had been nearly 30 years since his father's death, and in that time, Anórien had built upon Emlithor's legacy. His reign had been marked by progress, unity, and the careful tending of their lands.

But this day, the calm was shattered.

Anórien sat upon his throne, listening as the petitioners from the tribes of the Avari offered their requests and concerns. His mind was occupied with the ongoing task of governance, but he was a sharp listener, attentive to the needs of his people. The hall was filled with the murmurs of voices, the soft rustle of scrolls, the occasional chuckle or sigh, all blending into a rhythm of life he had long grown accustomed to.

Suddenly, the doors to the throne room flew open with an almost violent force. A hush fell over the room, and all eyes turned to the figure standing in the doorway.

It was Arien—Anórien's mother, radiant and strong, but her usual calm was replaced with a look of shock, her expression pale with disbelief. In that moment, she seemed not like the queen of the Avari, but a messenger bearing dreadful news. Her fiery red-orange hair, usually tied back with grace, hung loose around her face, and her eyes, usually a calm orange-red, now shimmered with something darker.

"Anórien!" she cried, her voice sharp, almost frantic. "The Trees… the Two Trees of Aman have been destroyed."

A chill ran down Anórien's spine. The Two Trees—Yavanna's creations—had been the light of the world for as long as the Elves could remember. Their golden and silver light had bathed Valinor in an eternal radiance, the source of all life and growth. They were the epitome of beauty and light, unmatched by anything in Middle-earth. The destruction of the Trees was beyond comprehension, beyond any thought of evil that could have caused such a tragedy.

His voice came out low, barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of dread. "What do you mean? Who would dare…?"

Arien stepped into the room, her breath shallow, her hand gripping the doorframe as if needing it for support. "Melkor," she said, her voice trembling, "the dark Vala has returned. He destroyed the Two Trees. And now he walks the world again. He is in Middle-earth."

The room fell silent, the horror of her words sinking in like a weight. Anórien could hear nothing but the beat of his own heart, thudding louder with every passing moment. His father's death, the loss of so many Avari warriors to the orcs—it all paled in comparison to the looming threat that now stood before them. The world itself seemed to hold its breath in those first few moments, as if waiting for something to happen.

Anórien stood from his throne, the words of his mother hanging in the air like smoke, suffocating him. His gaze met hers, and for the briefest moment, there was a flicker of fear in her eyes—a fear that mirrored his own. He took a step forward, his thoughts racing. Melkor—the name alone was enough to stir the very deepest dread within him. It was said that he had once tried to enslave the world, to destroy the very fabric of existence. The thought that he had returned, and with the destruction of the Trees, meant that Middle-earth was on the verge of something far worse.

Anórien turned to face the Lord of the Avari—his trusted advisors, lords of the six tribes who had stood with his father before him. Each one, once proud and strong, now wore the expression of a shared understanding. They had lived through the war with the orcs, but nothing could have prepared them for the shadow of Melkor's return.

"Prepare the defenses," Anórien ordered, his voice steady, though inside, his mind was a storm of thought. "Raise the walls, gather the warriors. We will not stand idly by while this… this abomination threatens us. We will meet him with everything we have."

The lords nodded, their faces grim. The gravity of the situation was clear in their eyes. It was a different kind of enemy now—one whose evil was boundless, ancient, and deep-rooted.

Arien watched her son, her own sorrow evident on her face, but also a glimmer of pride in the way he responded to the news. He had become the king he was meant to be—brave, resolute, and unyielding.

Anórien turned back to her, his eyes blazing with determination. "I will not let him destroy what we have built. We will fight to protect our people, our realm."

Arien's voice softened as she stepped closer. "You must be careful, Anórien. Melkor is no ordinary foe. He is a being of unfathomable power. We may be able to defend ourselves for now, but there is no telling what he will do next."

"I know," he replied, his tone filled with a deep, bitter resolve. "But I will not cower in fear. We will not let the darkness take what we hold dear."

He looked at her then, his expression softening for just a moment, and a weight seemed to settle between them, unspoken but understood.

"Go now," he commanded, returning to his more regal demeanor. "Alert the generals. Prepare our forces. We will be ready."

As Arien stepped back, her face etched with concern, Anórien turned to the rest of the room. His hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, the weight of his responsibility pressing down on him. He was no longer the son of Emlithor. He was the High King of the Avari. And now, the fate of his people rested in his hands.

The room was filled with the sound of hurried footsteps as the lords and generals rushed to make preparations. But Anórien remained still, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon outside the palace windows, where the sky was turning a dark shade of red.

He could feel the winds shifting.

Middle-earth was about to face its greatest trial yet, and he would not stand idly by. The time had come to act. And he, Anórien, High King of the Avari, would lead his people into this new war—not as a prince, not as a son, but as a king.