Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The moon hung high in the sky, bathing the royal city in a soft, silver glow. The forest surrounding the city was alive with the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant calls of night birds. Inside the royal palace, Anórien stirred awake, the weight of his responsibilities pulling at him even in sleep.

He turned to look at Galadriel, her golden hair spilling across the pillow, her serene face illuminated by the pale light filtering through the window. A soft smile touched his lips. She was his anchor, his guiding star. Quietly, so as not to disturb her, he slipped out of bed and dressed, donning a simple tunic and boots.

As he stepped out into the cool night air, a faint sound caught his attention—the rhythmic clash of wood on wood. Curious, Anórien followed the sound, his steps leading him to the training grounds. There, in the dim light of the moon and torches, he saw his son, Arinyanénar, sparring with a wooden dummy.

Sweat glistened on the young elf's brow, his white hair sticking to his face. His silver-gold eyes burned with intensity as he swung his training sword with precision and force, each strike echoing in the quiet of the night.

"Arinyanénar," Anórien called, his voice cutting through the stillness.

His son paused, breathing heavily, and turned to face him. "Father," he said, lowering his sword.

Anórien approached, his arms crossed. "Why are you here at this hour? The city sleeps, and yet you are training. You should be resting."

Arinyanénar hesitated, then looked his father in the eye. "I feel restless," he admitted. "I cannot sleep knowing what is happening in the north. The Noldor kings fight against Morgoth, waging great wars, while we stay here in this forest, hidden away."

Anórien raised an eyebrow, his expression thoughtful. "And what would you have us do? March north and throw ourselves into a war that does not concern us?"

"It should concern us!" Arinyanénar's voice rose, his frustration spilling over. "Morgoth's shadow covers all of Beleriand. How long before it reaches even here? How can we sit idle while others fight and die for freedom?"

Anórien's fiery eyes met his son's, his voice calm but firm. "Those wars are far to the north, in lands far removed from our own. The Avari have already shed blood in battles not their own. Too many of our kin have died, and I will not lead our people to ruin for a cause that will not benefit them."

Arinyanénar clenched his fists, his youthful defiance evident. "Then why don't you go? You're one of the greatest warriors in all of Beleriand. You could make a difference!"

A flicker of amusement crossed Anórien's face, though his tone remained steady. "I am the High King of the Avari. My duty is to my people. They need me here, leading them, protecting them."

"Then let me go," Arinyanénar said, his voice quieter now but no less intense. "I am not a king. I am not bound to this forest as you are."

Anórien chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You are bold, my son. But boldness alone does not make one ready for war." He stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Arinyanénar's shoulder. "I'll tell you this—when you turn one hundred years old, if you can defeat five of my best warriors in combat, then I will consider letting you go."

Arinyanénar's silver-gold eyes widened slightly, the challenge igniting a spark of determination within him.

"Until then," Anórien continued, his voice lighter now, "train hard. You'll need it."

With that, Anórien turned and began walking back to the palace. As he left the training grounds, he glanced back over his shoulder to see Arinyanénar gripping his sword tightly, a look of fierce resolve on his face.

In the quiet of the night, the sound of his son's training resumed, the strikes against the wooden dummy more forceful, more determined.

Anórien smiled faintly to himself as he returned to Galadriel's side. His son's spirit reminded him so much of his own at that age. But Arinyanénar had much to learn—and Anórien would ensure he was ready for whatever path he chose to take.