The Year of Trees 1462
The forest was alive with the golden hues of evening, the dappled light casting long shadows across the company of Avari making their way home. It had been a long journey from Doriath, but spirits were high. Emlithor, at the head of the column, rode with the quiet grace of a king, his white hair a radiant contrast to the deep greens of the forest around them. Beside him, Anórien strode confidently, his flaming red-orange hair catching the sun like fire.
Their bond had grown stronger during this journey, with Anórien recounting stories from his fostering in Doriath.
"Daeron is unlike anyone I've ever met," Anórien said with a smile. "We would sit for hours composing music, debating lore, or simply talking about life. He has a way with words, Father—every sentence feels like a song."
Emlithor chuckled, his voice rich and deep. "And what of Lúthien? Is she as enchanting as the songs say?"
Anórien's steps faltered for a moment, and a faint flush crept up his neck. "She's… a friend, Father. A kind and graceful one."
Emlithor raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on his lips. "Just a friend? You speak of her as though she were a star descended from the heavens."
Anórien groaned, throwing up his hands. "Must you always do this?"
"It is my duty as your father," Emlithor said, his laughter ringing out like a bell in the quiet woods.
The mood lightened as they walked, but the tranquility was shattered when a harsh, guttural cry rang out through the trees.
Dark shapes burst from the undergrowth like a tide of shadows—orc warriors, their cruel weapons glinting in the fading light. There were dozens of them, perhaps more, their numbers vastly outmatching the Avari.
"Defensive positions!" Emlithor bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. The Avari moved swiftly, forming a protective circle around their leaders and those less able to fight.
Raumo was in Emlithor's hand in an instant, its string thrumming like a thunderclap as the first arrow flew. The projectile struck true, burying itself in the eye of a charging orc, dropping it mid-stride. Another arrow followed, then another, each one finding its mark with deadly precision.
Anórien stood beside his father, his spear a blur as it spun and thrust. His movements were fluid, each strike felling an enemy with lethal efficiency. Despite the overwhelming odds, his expression remained calm, his eyes burning with determination.
The battle was chaos incarnate. The air was filled with the clash of steel, the screams of the wounded, and the guttural cries of the orcs. Blood stained the forest floor, mingling with the crushed leaves and dirt.
Emlithor fought like a force of nature. His arrows flew faster than the eye could follow, each one accompanied by the deep, resonant hum of Raumo. Orc after orc fell, their bodies piling up around him.
But the enemy was relentless. For every orc that fell, two more seemed to take its place. The Avari were outnumbered, their lines strained as the tide of enemies threatened to overwhelm them.
Amidst the chaos, a small figure darted into Emlithor's peripheral vision. He turned and saw a young girl, no older than eight by the looks of her, with silver hair that shimmered like moonlight. She stood frozen, her wide eyes filled with terror as an orc advanced on her, its jagged blade raised high.
Emlithor's heart clenched. He moved without hesitation, his feet carrying him across the battlefield with incredible speed. He loosed an arrow mid-stride, the projectile slamming into the orc's chest and knocking it to the ground.
He reached the girl and scooped her into his arms, shielding her with his body as another orc lunged at them. Spinning, he drew Raumo and fired at point-blank range, the arrow piercing the creature's throat.
"You're safe now," he murmured to the trembling child, his voice steady despite the chaos around them.
The battle raged on, the Avari fighting valiantly despite their dwindling numbers. Emlithor was a beacon of hope, his unrelenting skill inspiring his warriors to press on. But even the mightiest can falter.
From the shadows, an orc archer took aim. The arrow flew true, piercing Emlithor's neck just above the collarbone. Blood sprayed as he staggered, his grip on Raumo faltering.
"Father!" Anórien's voice rang out, filled with panic.
Emlithor did not fall. Even as his blood stained the earth, he continued to fight, his movements slower but no less precise. His arrows flew until his quiver was empty, and then he drew a sword, slashing at the orcs that dared approach him.
Anórien fought his way to his father, his spear carving a path through the enemy ranks. Around them, the remaining Avari rallied, their King's bravery pushing them to greater heights. The orcs, sensing defeat, began to retreat, their morale shattered.
When the last orc fell, Emlithor sank to his knees, the silver-haired child still clinging to him. His breathing was labored, his once-brilliant white hair now matted with blood.
"Father!" Anórien dropped his spear and knelt beside him, his hands trembling as he tried to staunch the bleeding.
Emlithor's eyes met his son's, their blue depths filled with both pain and pride. "Anórien… my son…"
"Don't speak," Anórien said, his voice breaking. "We'll get help. You'll be fine."
Emlithor smiled faintly. "You are strong, my son. Stronger than I ever was. The Avari… they will need you now."
"No," Anórien choked out, tears streaming down his face. "You can't leave us. I need you."
Emlithor reached up, his bloodstained hand cupping Anórien's face. "You will lead them… as I have. Protect them… protect her…".
With those words, his hand fell away, and the light in his eyes dimmed.
The silence that followed was deafening. The Avari gathered around their fallen King, their faces etched with grief. Anórien cradled his father's lifeless body, his fiery hair stark against the bloodied battlefield.
The silver-haired child knelt beside him, her small hands clutching Emlithor's tunic as tears streamed down her face.
The Avari sang a lament, their voices rising in a haunting melody that echoed through the forest. The song spoke of courage, sacrifice, and love—a fitting tribute to a king who had given everything for his people.
Emlithor, High King of the Avari, was gone. But his legacy would endure, carried forward by those he had left behind.