Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The world seemed to tremble under the shadow of Morgoth's will. In the days preceding the battle, the air had grown thick with fear and anticipation. It was as if the very earth held its breath, waiting for the chaos to begin.

Morgoth, ever seeking dominion over Middle-earth, had finally made his move. His Orcs—creatures twisted by his malice—were countless, bred and trained for war. From the gates of Angband, a great army had surged forth. Two massive hosts broke into the land, each determined to carve its path of destruction across the face of Beleriand.

The western host of Orcs moved quickly, splitting between the great rivers Sirion and Narog. Their numbers were overwhelming, and their cruelty unmatched. Some of the darker, more cunning bands passed silently into the highlands of the north, using the rugged terrain to their advantage. The sun, now low in the sky, cast long shadows over their dark shapes as they crept forward, unseen by most.

In the East, the Avari had felt the stirring of war even before the first signs of battle were seen. Word spread quickly through Taur-im-Duinath and the city of Onymë Ennorë. The High King, Anórien, had raised the defenses of his realm, sending out scouts to keep watch. It was clear that Beleriand was now in danger, and his people—still recovering from the death of Emlithor, his father—could not afford to stand idle.

Anórien had gathered his warriors in haste. The Avari were known for their skill in battle, but this was no ordinary conflict. Morgoth's forces were vast, and even the proud and fierce Avari would need all their strength to hold their ground. The battle would be fought on many fronts, but Anórien knew that the outcome of this first clash would determine the future of the land.

By the time the first cries of war reached his ears, Anórien had already marshaled his people. Alongside them stood the warriors of the other Elven realms—Thingol's Sindar from Menegroth, Círdan's hosts from Eglarest, and the stout-hearted warriors of Ossiriand led by Denethor. The Avari moved with swiftness, their long strides carrying them over the land with the kind of speed that only the Eldar could match. The sound of their heavy boots, a rhythm of purpose, was a solemn reminder of the fate that awaited them.

Anórien rode at the front, his spear in hand, his expression hardened. His mind was focused, his every thought aimed at what lay ahead. His warriors flanked him on either side, with bows drawn and swords unsheathed. The familiar hum of Raumo, his father's legendary bow, was no longer by his side—Raumo had been buried with Emlithor, but Anórien had inherited his own set of skills, and his spear would be his weapon in this battle.

As they drew closer to the battlefield, the first sounds of war reached them—distant screams, the clash of steel, the roar of Orcs and the battle cries of the Elves. But these sounds were only the beginning. The true chaos of war was upon them.

In the West, the Orcs had already set up camp between the rivers Sirion and Narog, their numbers thick and growing. Círdan had already moved to counter them, but the weight of Morgoth's forces was too much for the Elves of Eglarest. The Orcs began to press their siege, driving the defenders back toward their walls. The Avari, hearing of this, knew that they could not afford to wait.

Anórien raised his spear and called out to his people. "To war, my brothers and sisters! Let the enemy know the fury of the Avari!"

The battle was joined in earnest as Anórien led his warriors forward, the earth beneath their feet shaking with each step. The Orcs, with their twisted weapons and savage eyes, came at them in waves, but they were met with a fury unlike anything they had ever seen. Arrows flew from the bows of the Avari, their sharp tips sinking into the flesh of the Orcs with deadly precision. Yet even as the enemy faltered, their numbers were overwhelming.

Anórien's spear swung with deadly force, cleaving through the ranks of the Orcs, his movements fluid and practiced. The battle was brutal, and the land seemed to bleed with every strike. The Orcs were relentless, their heavy armor and cruel blades battering at the Elves, forcing them back. Anórien could feel the weight of the war pressing down on him, the realization that their survival hung by a thread.

Yet it was not just Anórien and his warriors who were on the front lines. In the East, Thingol had taken the offensive. With his Sindar from Menegroth and the warriors of the Forest of Region, he led the charge against the eastern host of Orcs, hoping to drive them back before they could make their mark on the land. Thingol's forces were strong, but they were not enough to turn the tide. The Orcs, led by Morgoth's generals, proved too much for the lightly-armed Elves of Ossiriand. Denethor's forces were scattered, and the Orcs surrounded them on the heights of Amon Ereb, cutting down the Elves one by one. Even Thingol, with all his might, could not rescue Denethor's host in time.

The scene before Anórien was like nothing he had ever seen. The Orcs seemed endless, their numbers swarming across the battlefield like an unrelenting tide. He fought with all his strength, his spear a blur of deadly precision. His warriors moved like a well-oiled machine, striking with speed and grace, but the sheer size of the Orcish horde was starting to take its toll.

Anórien's eyes caught sight of Denethor's fall, the leader of Ossiriand slipping from his feet under the weight of the Orcs. The Elven king's final cry was drowned by the sounds of war. There would be no rescue for him.

Anórien felt a pang of loss for the fallen king. In the midst of the battle, he understood that this was no longer a fight for territory—it was a fight for survival. And if they failed here, Beleriand would fall under the shadow of Morgoth's rule.

As the battle wore on, the Orcs began to falter. The might of the Elves, their strength and determination, started to show. The Orcs were driven back, retreating into the hills, but not without significant losses. Anórien's forces had taken casualties, and though the Orcs had been routed, the victory was bittersweet.

In the aftermath, as the battlefield fell silent, Anórien stood among the bodies of the fallen. His spear was stained with the blood of the enemy, but it was his own warriors who had suffered the greatest cost. The Avari had held firm, but at what price?

In the distance, the sound of axes chopping through the wood reached his ears. The Dwarves of Mount Dolmed had arrived, and they were bringing with them a cleansing fire to rid the land of the remaining Orcs. Anórien nodded in solemn appreciation, though he knew the war was far from over.

The First Battle of Beleriand was won, but the cost was steep. And the shadow of Morgoth still loomed, waiting for its next strike.