The wind carried the scent of the forest as Arinyanénar rode through the dense woods of Taur-im-Duinath, his new helm gleaming brilliantly under the sunlight. At his side hung Amanarótar, its golden pommel glowing faintly, radiating the power of the sun itself. Beneath him was his noble steed, Goldenstar—Lauriënénar, a descendant of Oromë's fabled horse, Nahar.
Lauriënénar was a sight to behold, a majestic white horse with a mane like spun gold. Its body bore intricate golden markings that shimmered like living fire, as if the sun itself had kissed its skin. Every step it took was graceful yet powerful, its hooves barely seeming to touch the ground as it carried Arinyanénar toward the heart of his homeland.
The towering white spires of Onymë Ennorë, the capital of the Avari, appeared on the horizon, gleaming against the backdrop of the emerald forest. As Lauriënénar's hooves struck the paved streets of the city, the sound echoed like a clarion call. The Avari gathered quickly, their eyes widening in awe at the sight of their prince.
"Look!" one whispered, pointing to his helm. "It shines brighter than the morning sun!"
"And his sword," murmured another. "Its glow… it's as if it carries the light of Arien herself."
The awe in their voices swirled around Arinyanénar, a reminder of the weight he carried as a beacon of hope for his people. He acknowledged their gazes with a nod, his silver-and-gold eyes calm yet resolute. He urged Lauriënénar forward toward the grand palace gates, where the royal guards bowed deeply and opened the towering doors.
Inside the palace, the great hall fell silent as Arinyanénar entered. The light streaming through the high windows caught on his helm, illuminating its celestial motifs, and Amanarótar's golden pommel seemed to pulse faintly, a heartbeat of flame. His parents, Anórien and Galadriel, rose from their thrones, their expressions filled with pride and relief.
"My son," Anórien said, his voice steady but filled with emotion, "you have returned to us."
Arinyanénar dismounted, handing Lauriënénar's reins to a nearby attendant before stepping forward and removing his helm. His striking white hair fell loose, gleaming under the golden light of the hall. Bowing briefly before his parents, he stood tall. "I have returned, Father," he said, his voice firm yet humble. "And I bring stories of both triumph and trial."
Galadriel approached him, her hands trembling slightly as she cupped his face. "You are whole," she said softly. "That is all I needed to see."
"I am whole because of the strength you gave me," he replied. "But I have seen much. I have slain one of Morgoth's balrogs."
The hall fell deathly silent, save for the faint gasp that escaped Galadriel's lips. Anórien's eyes widened in astonishment. "A balrog?" he repeated. "Alone?"
Arinyanénar nodded. "It was a grueling battle, but Amanarótar guided me. Aulë himself blessed the blade and named it 'Dawnbreaker.'" He unsheathed the sword, and the golden blade caught the light, casting radiant beams across the hall. Its fiery glow seemed alive, pulsating with power.
Anórien stepped closer, his eyes tracing the flawless craftsmanship. "Amanarótar," he murmured, awe in his voice. "This blade... It surpasses even Solarion. Aulë has created something beyond compare, gifting you not just a weapon, but the sun's fury in your hand."
Galadriel's gaze shifted to the helm he held under his arm. "And this?" she asked, touching the intricate etchings of sun rays and stars that adorned its golden surface. "The craftsmanship is exquisite. Surely, the dwarves had a hand in this."
"They did," Arinyanénar confirmed. "After I aided them in rebuilding Nogrod and Belegost, they crafted this helm as a token of their gratitude. I have named it Cálta Arinyanénarwa—'Helm of the Morningstar.'"
Galadriel smiled warmly. "It is beautiful, my son. A crown worthy of your deeds and your noble heart."
That evening, a grand feast was held in Arinyanénar's honor. The halls of the palace were filled with the sound of music and laughter, the tables overflowing with delicacies from across the Avari realm. As Arinyanénar recounted his journey—the rebuilding of the dwarven cities, the slaying of the balrog, and the forging of Amanarótar—his people listened with rapt attention.
Anórien raised a goblet in toast. "To my son, who has already surpassed his father. Let this feast honor his courage, his strength, and his unyielding spirit."
"And to his return," Galadriel added, her eyes shining with pride.
The night wore on, but even amidst the revelry, Arinyanénar's mind wandered to the road ahead. The celebration was a momentary respite, but his heart already yearned to continue his work.
A week later, he stood at the gates of Onymë Ennorë once more. Lauriënénar pawed the ground eagerly, sensing the journey to come. Arinyanénar embraced his mother tightly, her reluctance clear in the way she held him longer than usual.
"Must you leave so soon?" she asked, her voice soft with worry.
He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "There is still much to be done, Mother. The people of Beleriand need aid, and I cannot ignore their plight."
Anórien stepped forward, placing a hand on Galadriel's arm. "Let him go," he said gently. "Our son is destined for greatness, and the world needs him."
Galadriel sighed but nodded. "Promise me you will return," she whispered.
"I will," Arinyanénar promised. "When my work is done."
With a final glance at his parents and the city he loved, Arinyanénar mounted Lauriënénar. The horse reared slightly, its golden mane catching the sunlight, before galloping forward, carrying its master into the unknown. The horizon stretched before them, and with Amanarótar gleaming at his side and the rising sun guiding his path, the Morningstar of the Avari rode forth once more.