The gates of the Avari realm came into view, tall and grand, adorned with carvings that told the stories of his people's triumphs and trials. As Arinyanénar approached, the watchful eyes of the guards turned to him, their expressions shifting from wariness to recognition. Goldenstar—Lauriënénar trotted forward with regal confidence, her golden mane catching the light of the setting sun, a sight that stirred memories among the Avari.
"Macil Aurëa!" one of the guards exclaimed, using the name the Noldor had given him. "The Sword of the Morning returns!"
Whispers spread quickly through the gathered crowd as he rode into the city. The people's gazes fell upon his shining helm, Cálta Arinyanénarwa, and the hilt of Amanarótar gleaming at his side. Children pointed in awe, and elders bowed their heads in respect. Though he was weary from his travels, the warm welcome filled Arinyanénar's heart with a bittersweet sense of belonging.
As he dismounted, one of the city's heralds hurried forward. "My lord Arinyanénar, your parents have been informed of your arrival. They await you in the palace."
He nodded, handing Goldenstar's reins to a stablehand. The loyal mare nickered softly as if to encourage him.
The grand palace of Onymë Ennorë loomed ahead, its tall white spires gleaming in the twilight. As he ascended the steps, flanked by guards and well-wishers, the doors opened to reveal his father and mother standing side by side.
"Arinyanénar!" Galadriel called out, her voice full of warmth and relief. She hurried forward, wrapping him in a tight embrace, her golden hair falling around them like a veil. "We have missed you, my son."
"And we feared you'd forgotten your way home," Anórien added, his deep voice carrying a teasing tone. He stepped forward and clasped Arinyanénar's shoulder firmly, his fiery red-orange eyes alight with pride. "But I see you've been busy."
Galadriel pulled back, examining her son. Her lips curved into a soft smile. "You have grown in ways I could not have imagined."
"Come," Anórien said, gesturing toward the inner halls. "Let us speak in private. You must have much to tell."
Inside their private chambers, the glow of warm lanterns illuminated the room, casting a gentle light over the richly woven tapestries and carved wooden furniture. Galadriel poured wine into three goblets, handing one to Arinyanénar before settling beside him.
Arinyanénar began to recount his journey. He spoke of his time in Nargothrond, of fighting alongside his uncle Finrod and earning the respect of the Noldor. He described the fearsome battle with Glaurung, the first of the dragons, and how Amanarótar had burned brighter than ever, forcing the beast to retreat.
Anórien leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed, a wide grin spreading across his face. "My son, Defeater of Glaurung," he said, his tone laced with pride.
But as Arinyanénar spoke of his time in Doriath, his voice faltered. He told them of the dances he shared with Lúthien, of the bond they formed, and finally, of the rejection that now weighed heavily on his heart.
"I was a fool to think…" He paused, his golden eyes fixed on the floor. "To think she could ever feel the same."
Galadriel's expression softened as she reached for his hand. "Oh, my son," she said quietly, her voice full of motherly sympathy. "Your heart is brave, but it is still young. Love can be cruel in its lessons."
Anórien, however, laughed, a booming sound that filled the room. "You're heartbroken over Lúthien? Welcome to the club!"
Arinyanénar looked up, confused. "What?"
"Lúthien was my first love, too," Anórien admitted, grinning unabashedly. "When I stayed in Doriath as a youth, I was as smitten with her as you are. She's enchanting, isn't she? But I learned the same lesson you did—she was never meant for me."
Galadriel gave her husband a sidelong glance but couldn't suppress a small smile. "And then you met me," she added, a touch of playful pride in her tone.
Anórien chuckled, leaning forward. "Exactly. I thought the world ended when Lúthien didn't return my feelings. But then I found Galadriel, and everything changed. Love will find you, my son—when you least expect it, and in a way you'll never see coming."
Arinyanénar listened, the weight in his chest lightening ever so slightly. His father's words held a strange kind of comfort, a reminder that heartbreak was not the end but a step on a journey yet to unfold.
As the evening drew on, Galadriel bid him goodnight with a kiss on his brow, and Anórien clapped him on the back one final time.
"Rest, Macil Aurëa," his father said, using the name the Noldor had given him. "You've earned it."
Arinyanénar retired to his chambers, the familiar walls offering a sense of solace he hadn't realized he needed. As he lay on his bed, the events of the past years played through his mind: the battles, the victories, the bonds he'd forged, and the pain he still carried.
He thought of Lúthien's laughter, of her graceful movements as they danced together, and of her gentle rejection. His heart still ached, but his father's words lingered, a quiet reassurance.
"Love will find you," Arinyanénar murmured to himself, staring at the ceiling.
And as sleep claimed him, he dreamed not of heartbreak but of fire and light, of paths yet untrodden and a future still unwritten.