A New World Beckons

The 315th year of the Sun of the First Age brought news that stirred the curiosity of elves across Beleriand. A second race, created by Eru Ilúvatar, had awoken in the far lands of the east. These newcomers, the race of Men, had arrived in Beleriand and sought refuge in its lands. Word came that his uncle Finrod Felagund, ever the guide and friend, had discovered them and led them to Estolad, where they now dwelled.

Arinyanénar sat in the halls of Onymë Ennorë, pondering the arrival of these Children of Ilúvatar. What were they like? Were they truly so different from elves? He had heard whispers that they lived shorter lives but burned brightly with passion and courage. He resolved to learn more about them someday, though another matter weighed more heavily on his heart.

As he paced through the halls of his home, his thoughts drifted to Aistalë. It had been years since she had left the Avari realm with her father, Maedhros. The memory of her copper-red hair and the laughter in her voice lingered with him, stronger than he cared to admit. The time had come, he decided, to visit her in the realm of her father.

That evening, Arinyanénar approached his parents, finding them together in the grand council chamber. Anórien sat at the head of the table, his fiery red-orange hair gleaming like a flame in the lantern light, while Galadriel stood near a window, her golden hair glowing softly in the moonlight.

"Father, Mother," Arinyanénar began, his voice steady, though he felt a tightness in his chest. "I wish to journey to the realm of Maedhros, in Himring."

Galadriel turned sharply, her silver-gold eyes narrowing. "Why Himring?"

"To see Aistalë," Arinyanénar admitted. "It has been fifteen years since she and her father left, and I wish to visit them. Aistalë is a friend, and I promised her I would come."

Anórien chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Ah, young love. I see no harm in it."

"Anórien!" Galadriel snapped, her voice filled with warning. She stepped closer to her son, her expression unreadable. "The House of Fëanor has brought naught but strife and sorrow to our kin. You know this. Maedhros may be valiant and honorable, but I do not trust his bloodline, nor the shadow of the Silmarils that hangs over them. You would place yourself in danger, Arinyanénar."

"I understand your concern, Mother," Arinyanénar said calmly. "But I have seen no treachery from Maedhros or his kin. Aistalë is not to blame for the deeds of her ancestors, nor is Maedhros for the actions of his brothers. I would not have asked if I did not believe this journey to be worth the risk."

Galadriel stared at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. "You are your father's son," she murmured, glancing at Anórien, who gave her a wry smile.

"I will allow it," Anórien said firmly. "Our son is no child. He has proven himself many times over. If he wishes to go, I will not stand in his way."

Galadriel hesitated, then sighed, her expression softening slightly. "If you are determined, then I will not stop you. But take care, Arinyanénar. Trust your instincts, and remember that not all things are as they seem."

"I will," Arinyanénar promised. He bowed his head to them both. "Thank you."

That night, as he prepared for his journey, he stood at the balcony of his chambers, gazing out over the gleaming city of Onymë Ennorë. The stars above seemed to shimmer with anticipation, and the cool night breeze carried the promise of new adventures.

His heart felt a strange mix of excitement and trepidation. Himring awaited him, and with it, the chance to see Aistalë again. Though the path ahead was uncertain, he was determined to walk it with courage and purpose.