It was the 130th Year of the Sun, in the First Age of Middle-earth. Arinyanénar, prince of the Avari, was twenty years old by the count of the Sun and moon, still a child in the reckoning of Elves but already filled with a restless spirit. His silver-golden eyes gleamed with curiosity and yearning as he gazed from the high windows of the royal palace in Onymë Ennorë. The forest of Taur-im-Duinath called to him, whispering promises of adventure and freedom.
While his tutors droned on about ancient histories and the intricacies of court diplomacy, Arinyanénar's mind wandered. He had read of the great journeys of his ancestors, of his grandfather Emlithor's battles against the spiders of the forest and his parents' tales of the wider world. A fire kindled in him, a desire to carve his own story.
That night, when the moon cast its silver glow upon the white stone of the city, Arinyanénar slipped past the watchful eyes of the palace guards. Clad in a simple green cloak, he made his way to the forest, his heart racing with exhilaration.
The forest of Taur-im-Duinath was vast and alive, its towering trees forming a canopy that seemed to stretch endlessly. The prince wandered deeper, marveling at the life around him—the rustle of leaves, the glimmer of fireflies, the soft chirps of nightbirds. Yet as he ventured further, the air grew colder, the shadows darker.
It was then that he heard it—a guttural growl, low and menacing. From the thicket, an orc emerged, its black eyes glinting with malice. Arinyanénar froze, his breath hitching. He had no weapon, no plan. The orc lunged, and the prince stumbled back, tripping over a root.
The orc raised its crude blade, and Arinyanénar shut his eyes, bracing for the end.
A thunderous neigh shattered the silence, and the prince opened his eyes just in time to see a majestic white horse rear up, its hooves striking the orc with deadly precision. The beast's golden mane glimmered in the moonlight, and its body bore intricate golden markings that seemed to shimmer like fire. The orc, stunned and bloodied, fled into the shadows, leaving Arinyanénar trembling on the ground.
The horse stepped closer, lowering its head to nudge the prince gently. Arinyanénar reached out a tentative hand, brushing his fingers against the creature's warm, silky coat.
"You saved me," he whispered, his voice trembling with awe.
The horse whickered softly, its intelligent eyes meeting his. In that moment, a bond formed, as unbreakable as the stars themselves.
"You are beautiful," Arinyanénar murmured, rising to his feet. "Goldenstar—Lauriënénar. That shall be your name."
The horse nickered, as if in approval, and lowered itself to allow the prince to mount. With a leap, Arinyanénar settled onto Lauriënénar's back, and the horse surged forward, carrying him swiftly through the forest and back toward the city.
By the time they reached Onymë Ennorë, the palace guards had already noticed the prince's absence. Shouts of relief and reprimand echoed as they spotted him riding through the gates atop the magnificent steed. They escorted him to the palace, where Galadriel was waiting, her expression a storm of worry and fury.
"Arinyanénar!" she exclaimed, her golden hair flowing as she rushed toward him. Before he could speak, her hand met his cheek in a sharp but measured slap.
"You could have been killed!" she cried, her silver eyes brimming with unshed tears. "What were you thinking, sneaking out like that?"
"I'm sorry, Mother," Arinyanénar said, his voice small. "I just... I wanted to see the forest."
Galadriel pulled him into an embrace, her arms trembling. "Never scare me like that again," she whispered.
Anórien entered then, his fiery red hair catching the light of the torches. His stern expression softened as his gaze fell on the horse standing proudly behind his son.
"That horse," he said, his voice low with awe. "It bears the marks of Nahar, the steed of Oromë. This is no ordinary creature, Arinyanénar. You are blessed."
Arinyanénar's cheeks flushed with pride as his father stepped closer, examining Lauriënénar with reverence.
"You have proven yourself worthy of a name that honors your bond with such a noble steed," Anórien said, his fiery eyes gleaming with approval. He placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "Henceforth, you shall be known in Sindarin as Rochannor—'Horse-Lord.'"
The gathered lords and guards murmured their approval, and Arinyanénar—Rochannor—felt a surge of pride and responsibility.
That night, as he lay in his chambers, Lauriënénar grazing peacefully in the palace stables, Arinyanénar stared at the stars outside his window. He had sought adventure, and though the forest had been dangerous, it had also brought him a gift beyond measure.
He vowed to honor the trust his parents had placed in him and the bond he now shared with his golden-starred steed. Adventure, he realized, was not about reckless wandering—it was about the choices one made and the courage to face the unknown.