Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The 170th year of the Sun in the First Age dawned over Taur-im-Duinath, painting the forest with golden light. Within the royal palace, the High King Anórien and High Queen Galadriel prepared for a rare and momentous occasion—the arrival of Finrod Felagund, King of Nargothrond and Galadriel's elder brother.

The royal city bustled with activity as banners were raised, and the Avari adorned the streets with garlands of flowers. Musicians tuned their instruments, and cooks prepared a grand feast. When the horn sounded, heralding Finrod's approach, Anórien and Galadriel, accompanied by their son Arinyanénar, greeted him at the gates.

Finrod rode at the head of a small company of Noldorin elves, his golden hair catching the sunlight, his bearing regal yet warm. He dismounted gracefully, his piercing grey eyes softening as they fell upon his sister.

"Galadriel," he said, embracing her. "It has been far too long."

"Far too long indeed," Galadriel replied, smiling. "You look well, brother."

Finrod turned to Anórien, inclining his head in respect. "Brother-in-law," he said, his tone light. "It is good to stand in your realm at last."

"You honor us with your presence, Finrod," Anórien replied.

Finally, Finrod's gaze shifted to Arinyanénar. "And this must be my nephew," he said, studying the young elf with a discerning eye. "You have your mother's fire and your father's strength."

Arinyanénar inclined his head respectfully, though his silver-gold eyes gleamed with curiosity. "It is an honor to meet you, my lord."

The feast that evening was a grand affair. The halls of the palace were filled with music and laughter as the Avari welcomed their Noldorin guest with open hearts. Finrod, ever gracious, charmed the lords and ladies of the realm, though his focus often returned to his sister and her family.

During the feast, Arinyanénar could not suppress his curiosity any longer. "Uncle," he began, leaning forward slightly, "what are the battles like? The ones you and the Noldor fight against Morgoth?"

Finrod's expression grew somber, though he did not shy away from the question. "They are brutal, Arinyanénar," he said, his voice steady. "Morgoth's forces are vast and unrelenting—his orcs, wargs, and other foul creatures are bred for war. But we fight with purpose, to protect our lands and our people. It is a struggle that demands courage, skill, and resolve."

Arinyanénar listened intently, his youthful imagination painting vivid pictures of the battles his uncle described. Finrod noticed the fire in his nephew's eyes and added gently, "War is not something to seek lightly, my nephew. Its cost is high, and its wounds linger long after the fighting ends."

The conversation lingered in Arinyanénar's mind as the evening progressed, filling him with a mix of admiration for his uncle and a burning desire to prove himself worthy of his lineage.

The next day, after many shared meals and stories, Finrod approached Anórien in private. "Brother-in-law," he began, "I come with a request."

"Speak it," Anórien replied.

"The bows crafted by your people are unmatched," Finrod said. "Their strength and precision have no equal in Middle-earth. Nargothrond could greatly benefit from such weapons in our fight against Morgoth. Would you be willing to provide some for our warriors?"

Anórien considered the request carefully. Finrod was not only his wife's brother but also a friend whose wisdom and courage he deeply respected. "You shall have them," Anórien said. "I will see to it that the finest bows are delivered to Nargothrond. It is a small token of our friendship—and our shared purpose against the shadow of Morgoth."

Finrod inclined his head in gratitude. "You have my thanks, Anórien. Your generosity will not be forgotten."

On the final day of Finrod's visit, Arinyanénar approached his uncle with a bold request. "Uncle Finrod," he said, his voice steady, "before you depart, would you grant me the honor of a duel?"

Finrod smiled, a spark of amusement in his eyes. "A duel? Very well, nephew. But I warn you—I have seen many battles. Are you certain you wish to face me?"

"I am," Arinyanénar replied with conviction.

They met in the training grounds, the courtyard alive with anticipation as elves gathered to watch. Both wielded wooden swords, their movements fluid and precise.

Arinyanénar struck first, his attacks swift and aggressive. He pressed Finrod hard, forcing the older elf to defend. Finrod, however, remained calm, parrying each strike with practiced ease.

"You have strength and speed," Finrod said, deflecting a particularly forceful blow. "But a warrior's greatest weapon is his mind."

Arinyanénar gritted his teeth, adjusting his strategy. He feinted left, then lunged right, nearly catching Finrod off guard. The crowd murmured in approval.

For several minutes, they battled fiercely, the clash of wood on wood echoing across the courtyard. Arinyanénar's determination was evident, his movements growing sharper with each exchange. But Finrod's experience ultimately proved superior.

In a sudden, fluid motion, Finrod disarmed his nephew, sending the wooden sword spinning to the ground. He pointed his own weapon at Arinyanénar's chest and smiled.

"Well fought, nephew," he said. "You have great potential. But remember—skill alone does not win battles. Experience and wisdom are equally important."

Arinyanénar bowed his head, breathing heavily. "Thank you, my lord. I will strive to learn."

As Finrod departed that evening, his presence left a lasting impression on the Avari court. For Arinyanénar, the duel and their conversations became lessons he would carry forward, shaping his path as both a warrior and a prince.