The Sixth Year of the Sun had dawned warmer than any Anórien had yet known, though his mother's guidance over Anar never faltered. The forests of Taur-im-Duinath were alive with summer's green, and the light played softly on the polished walls of Onymë Ennorë.
In the quiet of his chamber, Anórien read the letter once more. It bore the royal seal of Doriath, the delicate craftsmanship of Thingol's scribes evident in every curve of the Quenya runes.
To Anórien, High King of the Avari, it read, Your visit to our realm is welcome. Come, and we shall meet once more beneath the eaves of Neldoreth. The paths through the Girdle will open to you upon your arrival. I await your coming.
Thingol's words were formal, but the gesture was kind, and Anórien could not help but feel a sense of anticipation. Memories of his first visit to Doriath surfaced, the echo of Daeron's music and the sight of Lúthien dancing beneath the stars lingering in his mind. He wondered how they had changed in these years and whether the arrival of the Noldor had unsettled their peace.
More than that, he was eager to see for himself this House of Finarfin that now dwelled in the shadow of Menegroth. Their reputation preceded them—fair of face and noble of bearing, and yet burdened by the curse of Fëanor's kin.
He rolled the letter carefully and turned to his captain, a sharp-eyed Windan named Elenir. "Prepare the company. We leave for Doriath at dawn."
The path through the forests and hills was long but familiar. Anórien rode at the head of his guard, Solarion gleaming across his back. Though his mind was on Doriath, his senses remained sharp. These lands, even under the Sun's watchful eye, were not without danger.
Two days into their journey, as they passed through a narrow valley shrouded in mist, danger found them.
A sudden clatter of steel and guttural cries broke the peace. Orcs surged from the shadows, their eyes gleaming with malice, their weapons raised. Anórien's guards drew their blades in an instant, their discipline unbroken even in the face of overwhelming numbers.
"Hold the line!" Anórien commanded, leaping from his steed with the fluid grace of an Elf. Solarion was in his hands before his feet touched the ground.
The battle was swift and brutal. Solarion moved like a flame, cutting through the dark armor of the Orcs with ease. The spear's tip burned with the light of the Sun, and each strike left a blinding arc in its wake. Anórien fought with precision and fury, his red hair catching the light as he wove through the chaos.
One by one, the Orcs fell. His guards, emboldened by their king's might, pushed back the tide, their arrows and swords claiming many lives.
When the last Orc crumpled to the ground, Anórien stood amidst the carnage, his breathing steady but his expression grim. "Burn the bodies," he ordered. "Let no trace of them remain."
Elenir approached, her blade slick with black blood. "We've lost none of our own, my lord. But their numbers grow bolder."
"They do," Anórien agreed, wiping Solarion clean. "And they will not stop. We must be ever vigilant."
Entering the Girdle
By the sixth day, the great forest of Doriath loomed before them. The trees seemed to stretch endlessly upward, their ancient boughs entwined in a canopy that filtered the sunlight into a soft, golden glow.
As they approached the borders of the Girdle of Melian, the air itself seemed to hum with unseen power. Anórien could feel the enchantment brushing against his senses, a subtle resistance that warned against further trespass.
But the way did not close to him. A small group of Sindar guards emerged from the shadows, their gray cloaks blending seamlessly with the forest. "Anórien, High King of the Avari," their leader said with a slight bow. "King Thingol has granted you passage. We shall escort you to Menegroth."
Anórien inclined his head in thanks, and the company followed their guides through the shimmering boundary of the Girdle.
Reunion in Menegroth
The halls of Menegroth were as splendid as Anórien remembered, though they seemed busier now, filled with the movement of the Sindar and the newcomers from the House of Finarfin. The sound of chisels on stone echoed faintly, a reminder that Menegroth was always growing, a living testament to Thingol's vision.
At the center of it all stood Thingol and Melian, waiting at the foot of their grand throne. Anórien approached with reverence, bowing deeply before them.
"King Thingol," he said, his voice steady. "Lady Melian. It is an honor to stand in your presence once more."
Thingol smiled faintly, his silver hair catching the torchlight. "Anórien, it pleases me to see you again. The years have not dimmed your strength, I see."
"Nor your wisdom, my lord," Anórien replied. "Your realm remains a beacon of light in these darkening days."
Melian's gaze rested on him, her eyes unfathomable and knowing. "You bring the light of your mother with you," she said softly. "Even here, beneath stone and root, it is felt."
Anórien's lips curved in a faint smile, though his thoughts turned briefly to the heavens. "It is a weight I bear with honor."
The formalities passed, and Thingol gestured for Anórien to follow. "Come. We have much to discuss, you and I."
As they walked, Anórien's thoughts drifted to the faces he hoped to see again. Daeron, with his music and laughter, and Lúthien, whose beauty and kindness had left an impression on him even as a young Elf.
Doriath felt like a sanctuary, but Anórien knew the peace here was fragile. The Sun now ruled the skies, and the Noldor walked the lands of Beleriand. Change was coming, swift