Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The soft golden light of dawn filtered through the towering trees of Taur-im-Duinath, casting dappled shadows over the palace's training grounds. It was the 160th Year of the Sun of the First Age, and Anórien and Galadriel stood on a balcony overlooking the grounds. Side by side, they watched as their son, Arinyanénar, now fifty years old, trained with the finest warriors of the Avari.

Arinyanénar had grown into his heritage. He was tall, as tall as his father, with a lean, muscular frame honed from years of rigorous training. His white hair, gleaming like freshly fallen snow, was tied back, and his silver-gold eyes burned with focus as he moved with deadly grace.

Below, a sparring match was underway. Arinyanénar wielded his sword with ferocious precision, taking on two seasoned warriors simultaneously. His movements were a blur of speed and strength, every strike landing true, every parry executed with finesse. Within moments, both opponents were disarmed and sent sprawling to the ground.

The watching crowd of warriors erupted in cheers and applause. Arinyanénar grinned, clearly relishing the adulation. He helped his sparring partners to their feet, but his eyes gleamed with a pride that bordered on arrogance.

Galadriel smiled, her golden hair shimmering in the morning light. "He is magnificent," she said softly, her voice filled with maternal pride.

"He is," Anórien agreed, though his fiery eyes narrowed slightly as he studied his son's demeanor. "But magnificence without humility can be a dangerous thing."

Galadriel glanced at her husband, sensing his intent. "What will you do?"

"Teach him," Anórien replied simply, stepping off the balcony and making his way to the training grounds.

The crowd parted as the High King approached, his crimson-gold cloak trailing behind him. Arinyanénar turned, his grin fading into a look of curiosity and then unease as his father strode forward.

Anórien picked up a training spear from a nearby rack, its wooden shaft gleaming in the sunlight. He twirled it effortlessly, the movement as fluid as water.

"You've done well, Arinyanénar," Anórien said, his voice calm but firm. "But I see a spark in your eyes that troubles me. Pride is natural, but arrogance..." He leveled the spear at his son. "Arrogance has been the downfall of many great warriors. Let us see if you can temper yours."

Arinyanénar's silver-gold eyes widened slightly before narrowing with determination. He stepped forward, raising his training sword. The crowd fell silent, a mix of excitement and tension hanging in the air.

"Very well, Father," Arinyanénar said, a hint of defiance in his voice. "Let us see who teaches whom."

Anórien struck first, his spear darting forward like a serpent. Arinyanénar parried, the wooden weapons cracking together. The young prince stepped back, his footwork impeccable as he tried to find an opening.

Anórien pressed his advantage, his strikes fast and relentless. The spear became an extension of his will, sweeping and stabbing with precision. Arinyanénar struggled to keep up, blocking and dodging, his youthful agility saving him from several near hits.

"You are quick," Anórien said, his voice steady, "but speed alone will not save you."

Arinyanénar gritted his teeth, stepping inside his father's guard and delivering a powerful slash aimed at his side. Anórien sidestepped with ease, using the shaft of his spear to redirect the blow and spinning to deliver a sharp strike to Arinyanénar's ribs.

The prince stumbled but recovered quickly, his pride stinging more than his body. He launched a flurry of attacks, his sword a blur of motion. Anórien parried each strike with almost casual precision, his experience shining through.

The duel grew more intense, their movements a deadly dance of skill and power. The crowd watched in awe as father and son pushed each other to their limits.

Arinyanénar saw an opening and lunged, aiming for his father's shoulder. Anórien pivoted, his spear sweeping upward to knock the sword from his son's hands. Before Arinyanénar could react, the spear's blunt tip was pressed against his chest.

"Yield," Anórien commanded, his voice firm but not unkind.

Breathing hard, Arinyanénar dropped to one knee, his head bowed. "I yield, Father."

Anórien lowered the spear and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "You are skilled, Arinyanénar. More skilled than many warriors twice your age. But skill without wisdom, without humility, is like a blade without a hilt—it will harm the one who wields it."

Arinyanénar looked up, his silver-gold eyes meeting his father's fiery gaze. "I understand, Father," he said, his voice steady. "I let my pride blind me."

Anórien helped him to his feet, a smile breaking through his stern demeanor. "Good. Remember this lesson well. Arrogance can cost you your life—and the lives of those who depend on you."

Galadriel stepped forward, her presence as radiant as the morning sun. She placed a gentle hand on her son's cheek. "You have greatness in you, my son," she said, her voice soft and melodic. "But true greatness comes from understanding your limits and growing beyond them."

Arinyanénar nodded, his youthful pride tempered by the weight of their words. "Thank you, Mother. Thank you, Father. I will strive to be better."

The crowd dispersed, the warriors murmuring among themselves about the remarkable display they had witnessed. As Anórien and Galadriel walked back to the palace, their son following behind, Anórien felt a deep sense of pride—not just for his son's skill, but for his willingness to learn.

The journey ahead would be long, but Arinyanénar was on the right path. And Anórien would be there to guide him every step of the way.