The messenger arrived at dawn, bearing the mark of a kingdom that I do not know. His Sindarin was musical yet firm, his bearing regal. He handed me a scroll sealed with silver wax, bearing the sigil of a king. With a mix of curiosity and apprehension, I broke the seal and read.
The letter was addressed to me, Emlithor, High King of the Avari. It was an invitation, penned in a flowing hand:
"To the King of Taur-im-Duinath,
From Elu Thingol, king of Doriath and High King of the Sindar,
Hail and greetings from the forest of Eglador. It is my desire that we meet, for though our paths have diverged, we are bound by the same origins. Come to Doriath, where I dwell with my queen, Melian the Maia, and my daughter, Lúthien. Let us speak of the days long past and share the wisdom we have gathered in this strange and beautiful land. I await you with anticipation.
In friendship,
Elu Thingol."
I read the letter twice, my mind struggling to reconcile its words with what I knew. Elwë—Thingol, as he now called himself—had stayed in Middle-earth? When Oromë's call had resounded, I had thought he and his kin would vanish into the West, as all others had. Yet here he was, a king in a hidden kingdom, extending his hand in friendship.
I leaned back in my chair, the weight of the past pressing on me. "Elwë," I murmured, the name slipping from my lips like a memory long buried.
The preparations for the journey began immediately. If I were to meet Thingol and his family, I would not go empty-handed. For Melian, his queen, I envisioned a crown woven from the most exquisite blooms of Taur-im-Duinath—flowers of every hue, their fragrance soft and entrancing. I called the crown Lindeloth, the Song-flower, for its beauty spoke as eloquently as the music of my people.
For his daughter, Lúthien, I sought a gift that would capture the youthful grace of an elven maiden. I turned to the Kinn-Lai, our master craftsmen, and tasked them with creating a necklace unlike any other. It was wrought from silver and adorned with green stones that gleamed like sunlight through leaves. The design was delicate yet enduring, a tribute to the lightness of youth and the strength that lay beneath.
And for Thingol himself, I took upon the task personally. In the quiet of my workshop, I shaped a ring from a single piece of gold, its surface etched with intricate patterns of forest leaves. At its center, I set a pale blue stone, reminiscent of the sky at dawn. It was a labor of care and memory, my own hands shaping the metal as I thought of the friend I had not seen since the shores of Cuiviénen.
As the day of departure approached, I found myself restless. The forest, usually so familiar, now seemed heavy with expectation. My people noticed, though they said little.
On the eve of my journey, Arvaran approached me in the great hall of Calamórë. He carried a scroll under his arm and wore the quiet expression of one bearing counsel.
"My king," he said, bowing slightly. "Do you think this invitation wise? The Sindar are kin, yes, but their ways are not ours. And the Maia…" He trailed off, his unease evident.
"Melian is not of our world," I finished for him. "That is true. But does it not intrigue you, Arvaran, to know what wisdom she might hold? Thingol and his people chose a different path, but we are bound by the same beginning. Perhaps there is more to unite us than to divide."
He nodded slowly. "Then may your journey bring understanding, my lord. But take caution. The world beyond our borders is not always as kind as we would wish."
The morning of my departure was crisp and clear, the air alive with the scents of pine and earth. I stood at the gates of Onymë Ennorë, Raumo slung across my back and the gifts carefully packed for the journey. A small party of guards and attendants would accompany me, their presence both a comfort and a reminder of my duty.
As we rode into the forest, the city faded behind us, its gleaming towers hidden once more by the embrace of the trees. The path ahead was uncertain, yet my resolve was firm.
Thingol awaited, and with him, the answers to questions I had long avoided. Why had he stayed? What had he seen in this land that I had not? And what would he think of me, the friend who had chosen to remain behind when he followed Oromë's call?
As the shadows of Taur-im-Duinath gave way to the unfamiliar paths beyond, I felt a strange mixture of apprehension and hope. The journey to Doriath would not only bridge the distance between two kingdoms but also the years that separated two friends.
I glanced over my shoulder at the fading forest, then turned my eyes forward. The road was long, but the answers it held would be worth the journey.