The path to Nargothrond wound through dense forests and over swift rivers, a secretive route that seemed designed to deter all but the most determined. Arinyanénar followed the scouts closely, Goldenstar—Lauriënénar—moving with a natural grace that belied the rough terrain. The horse's golden-marked coat glimmered faintly even in the subdued light of the woods, and the scouts often glanced back at him with awe. Though they said little, their eyes betrayed their wonder at the majestic steed and the figure riding him, adorned in shining armor with a helm and sword that seemed born of legend.
When they reached the gates of Nargothrond, Arinyanénar felt a stirring of admiration. Carved into the side of a great hill, the entrance to the hidden city was both imposing and beautiful, its design bearing the unmistakable artistry of the Noldor. Massive stone doors, etched with intricate patterns of stars and flowing rivers, stood as a testament to the elves' craftsmanship and their desire for secrecy.
The scouts signaled to the guards above, and the gates groaned open, revealing a tunnel that stretched deep into the hill. The air was cool and faintly scented with stone and earth, but the golden light of lamps illuminated the way. Arinyanénar urged Goldenstar forward, his heart steady yet curious. He had heard of Nargothrond, of its splendor and the wisdom of his uncle, but this was his first time stepping into its depths.
The tunnel opened into a vast hall, and the sight nearly took his breath away. The chamber was immense, with high ceilings supported by elegantly carved pillars that seemed to mimic the trees of the forest. A gentle stream ran through the center, its clear waters reflecting the golden glow of countless lamps. Elves moved about with purpose, their garments shimmering as they carried out their tasks.
At the far end of the hall, on a raised dais, sat Finrod Felagund, King of Nargothrond. His golden hair shone like sunlight, and his presence was warm yet commanding. He wore a robe of green and gold, a simple crown resting upon his brow. As Arinyanénar approached, Finrod rose from his seat, his keen eyes widening with recognition.
"Arinyanénar?" Finrod's voice carried across the hall, filled with surprise and delight. He stepped down from the dais, his movements swift and graceful. "What brings you to Nargothrond, nephew? It has been long since I last saw you."
Arinyanénar dismounted, patting Goldenstar's neck before stepping forward. He removed his helm, revealing his striking white hair, which gleamed in the lamplight. As he approached his uncle, he bowed respectfully before speaking.
"Uncle Finrod," he began, his voice steady. "I have come to offer my aid to you and the Noldor of Nargothrond. Much has transpired since I left the Avari realm."
Finrod clasped Arinyanénar's shoulder, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Then you must tell me everything, for you are a sight to behold, nephew. That sword at your side and the helm you carry—there is a tale there, I am certain."
Arinyanénar nodded, and together they moved to a quieter chamber, away from the bustle of the great hall. Goldenstar was led to the stables, where even the handlers gazed at the horse with wonder. In the private chamber, lit by a soft golden light, Arinyanénar recounted his journey.
He spoke of his decision to leave the Avari realm, his encounter with the dwarves, and the rebuilding of Nogrod and Belegost. He described Amanarótar, the sword gifted to him by Aulë after his battle with the Balrog, and the helm crafted by the dwarves in recognition of his deeds. Finrod listened intently, his expression shifting from curiosity to awe as the story unfolded.
"A Balrog," Finrod murmured, his brows lifting. "You slew one of Morgoth's foulest servants in single combat. That is no small feat, Arinyanénar. You carry a light and strength that the shadow fears."
Arinyanénar unsheathed Amanarótar, its golden blade igniting with a soft glow as he held it aloft. The intricate craftsmanship and the fiery aura of the sword seemed to fill the room with warmth. Finrod leaned forward, studying the weapon with a mixture of reverence and admiration.
"It is a marvel," Finrod said, his voice hushed. "Aulë has blessed you indeed, nephew. This blade is unlike any I have seen, even among the treasures of the Noldor. Its light is a gift, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is hope."
Arinyanénar sheathed the sword and placed the helm on the table before them. Finrod traced the delicate engravings with his fingers, his gaze lingering on the celestial motifs that adorned its surface. "And this helm... the dwarves surpassed even themselves. It is a fitting crown for one of your valor and lineage."
"I wear it not as a crown," Arinyanénar replied, "but as a shield against the shadow. The world grows darker with each passing day, and I cannot stand idle while evil spreads."
Finrod smiled, his admiration evident. "Your heart is noble, Arinyanénar. You remind me of your father, yet I see a fire in you that is wholly your own. Stay here in Nargothrond. There is much you can do to aid us, and your presence will be a boon to our people."
"It would be my honor, uncle," Arinyanénar said, inclining his head.
Finrod's smile widened. "Then it is settled. You shall remain here, and together, we will strengthen the defenses of Nargothrond against the encroaching shadow."
As they left the chamber, word of Arinyanénar's arrival spread through the city. Elves gathered to catch a glimpse of the prince whose deeds had already become the stuff of legend. They whispered in awe of his shining helm and the golden blade at his side, marveling at the light he carried.
For the first time in many days, Arinyanénar felt a sense of belonging. Nargothrond welcomed him not only as kin but as a symbol of hope. And though his journey was far from over, he knew he had found an ally in his uncle and a sanctuary from which to prepare for the battles yet to come.