The Sixth Year of the Sun
The grand halls of Menegroth never failed to amaze Anórien, even after all these years. Their craftsmanship, etched in memory yet ever awe-inspiring, glimmered under the soft lights of countless gems embedded in the stone walls. It was a testament to the artistry of Thingol's people and the wisdom of Melian, a place where the ancient majesty of Middle-earth whispered in every carved pillar and glowing crystal.
Anórien adjusted his cloak, the golden embroidery of the Avari High King shimmering faintly in the torchlight. Though his expression remained composed, his heart quickened with excitement. He was about to meet those descended from his father's dearest friend, Finwë, a name spoken with both reverence and sorrow among the Eldar.
Guided by Thingol's steward, Anórien entered a grand hall, and there they stood: the children of Finarfin. They were gathered in conversation, their bearing regal, their movements filled with the grace of the Eldar who had once walked under the light of the Trees.
The first he noticed was Finrod, whose golden hair seemed to catch and hold the very light around him. There was a warmth to his gaze, a quiet nobility that bespoke wisdom and strength. Beside him stood Aegnor and Angrod, both bearing a fierceness in their countenance, though Aegnor's intensity was tempered by Angrod's measured calm. But it was Galadriel who caught Anórien's breath.
Her hair shone like captured starlight, silver and gold intertwined, cascading down her back in waves that seemed almost alive. Her piercing gaze, a blend of wisdom and challenge, seemed to see into the very depths of his soul. For a fleeting moment, Anórien felt the world still around him, a strange pull that made his heart falter.
He quickly shook off the feeling, steadying himself. Control yourself, Anórien, he thought. She is an elf, like any other.
With a deep bow, he addressed them. "I am Anórien of Taur-im-Duinath, High King of the Avari. It is an honor to meet the children of Finarfin, descendants of my father's dearest friend, Finwë."
Finrod stepped forward with a smile, extending a hand in greeting. "The honor is ours, King Anórien. Much has been told to us of the Avari, but meeting you in person surpasses any tale. Your people have endured much and prospered under your leadership—it is commendable."
Anórien clasped Finrod's hand firmly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And yours have achieved marvels beyond imagining. The stories of Valinor paint a realm of wonder, though I see you bring that light even here, to Beleriand."
The exchange was easy, natural, and soon they were deep in conversation. Aegnor and Angrod asked about the battles Anórien had fought, intrigued by his tales of Orc ambushes and the defense of Taur-im-Duinath. In turn, Anórien asked about their journey back to Middle-earth and their impressions of the lands they now called home.
Galadriel remained mostly silent, her gaze occasionally meeting Anórien's, sending a strange spark through him each time. He could feel her presence even when she wasn't speaking, an aura of strength and mystery that lingered at the edges of his awareness.
"I must admit," he said at one point, glancing between them, "it is strange to think that your grandsire was the same Finwë my father once called friend. I never had the chance to meet him, but his memory lives on in Taur-im-Duinath."
Finrod inclined his head, his expression thoughtful. "It is comforting to know that Finwë's legacy reaches even to the furthest corners of Middle-earth. Your father's friendship with him is an honor we do not take lightly."
As their conversation drew to a close, Anórien excused himself to explore Menegroth further. He soon found himself wandering through familiar corridors, his steps leading him almost instinctively toward a particular grove within the halls.
The sound of soft laughter reached his ears before he saw them. Daeron and Lúthien stood beneath the gently glowing trees, their smiles bright against the muted light of Menegroth. When Lúthien noticed him, she let out a delighted laugh, rushing forward to greet him.
"Anórien!" she exclaimed, her voice like a melody. "It has been too long!"
Daeron followed close behind, his white flute tucked under one arm. "The High King of the Avari graces us at last," he said with a grin, clasping Anórien's arm in greeting.
Anórien laughed, the tension he hadn't realized he was holding melting away. "It is good to see you both again. The years have been too many since my last visit."
They talked for a time, sharing stories and catching up on all that had happened in their lives. Yet even as Anórien laughed and jested with his friends, his mind kept drifting back to Galadriel.
Her presence lingered, a subtle yet unshakable pull that made him restless. He chastised himself for it—she was a descendant of Finwë, and he had no reason to dwell on her more than any other elf. Yet the image of her golden-silver hair and piercing gaze refused to leave him.
As the evening wore on, Daeron began to play his flute, a hauntingly beautiful melody that filled the grove with a sense of peace. Lúthien danced, her movements light as the wind, and for a moment, Anórien allowed himself to be swept away by the simple joys of the moment.
Still, a part of him wondered when he would see Galadriel again.