Doriath

The path to Doriath led us into lands uncharted, where each step carried us further from the known safety of Taur-im-Duinath. The forest I called home, with its towering trees and deep shadows, had always seemed vast to me. But as we journeyed westward, I realized how small even that mighty woodland was compared to the sprawling expanse of Middle-earth.

Our days were filled with the steady rhythm of travel, the sound of hooves on soft earth, and the occasional call of distant birds. My company was small but carefully chosen: Nendril, Lord of the Cuind, rode at my side, ever watchful, while Selwë of the Windan flitted ahead, his sharp eyes scouting the terrain. Others from each tribe accompanied us, each bearing the symbols of their people.

It was not just the physical distance we traveled that occupied my thoughts but the unseen gulf between the Avari and the kin we sought. Thingol's invitation was an olive branch across a divide that had grown over countless years. What would he think of me now, I wondered—a king of those who had chosen to remain behind, still dwelling in the twilight of Middle-earth?

The rolling plains eventually gave way to more rugged terrain. Hills rose and fell in gentle undulations, their grassy slopes speckled with wildflowers of colors I had never seen. Rivers cut through the land like silver threads, their waters cold and clear as they sang over stones.

On the fifth day, as we crested a hill, the sight of a vast forest greeted us on the horizon. The trees stretched endlessly, their tops like a sea of green swaying in the wind.

"That must be Doriath," Selwë said, his voice tinged with awe. "Thingol's realm."

I nodded, though something in my heart remained uncertain. The trees ahead were different from those of Taur-im-Duinath—taller, older, with a presence that seemed to whisper of ancient secrets.

As we approached the forest, the air changed. It grew cooler, carrying with it a faint, sweet scent of blossoms and earth. The sunlight filtered through the edges of the woods, dappling the ground with shifting patterns of light and shadow.

It was not long before we encountered a party of Sindar. They emerged from the trees like shades, their movements silent and their expressions unreadable. Clad in cloaks of gray and green, they blended so seamlessly with their surroundings that I almost believed they were spirits of the wood.

"Who comes to the realm of Elu Thingol?" their leader called, his Sindarin smooth yet firm.

"I am Emlithor, King of Taur-im-Duinath and High King of the Avari," I replied, stepping forward. "I come at the invitation of your lord."

The Sindar studied me for a moment, their keen eyes taking in my appearance and that of my party. At last, the leader nodded. "You are expected," he said, though his tone carried a hint of curiosity. "Come, and we will take you to the king."

The forest of Doriath was unlike anything I had ever seen. Its trees were immense, their trunks wide enough that even three elves could not encircle them with outstretched arms. The air was rich with the scent of moss and flowers, and the sound of water flowed softly in the distance.

Thingol's people did not dwell in great halls or cities, for such things had not yet been built. Instead, they lived among the trees, their homes woven into the very fabric of the forest. Platforms high in the branches served as places of rest, while clearings in the undergrowth were used for gatherings.

We were led to a glade where Thingol awaited us, standing tall and proud among his kin. His silver hair caught the sunlight, and his gray eyes held the weight of countless years. Seeing him again after so long was like gazing upon a living memory.

"Elwë," I said softly, unable to call him by his Sindarin name just yet.

"Emlithor," he replied, his voice warm but measured. "It has been many years."

Our meeting was not private, for the eyes of his people and mine were upon us. Yet there was an unspoken understanding between us, a connection forged long ago on the shores of Cuiviénen.

As we spoke, I presented the gifts I had brought: Lindeloth, the crown of Avari flowers for his wife, Melian; the necklace for Lúthien, their daughter; and the ring I had made for Thingol himself. Each gift was received with grace and quiet admiration, though it was clear that the thought behind them mattered more than their splendor.

"You have not changed, old friend," Thingol said as he turned the ring in his hands. "Your craft still bears the mark of your soul."

"And you," I replied, "are still the same Elwë who once walked with Oromë."

Thingol's expression darkened slightly at the mention of Oromë, but he said nothing of it. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the edge of the glade, where Melian and Lúthien were approaching.

Meeting Melian was an experience unlike any other. She carried herself with an ethereal grace, her very presence calming the air around her. Though I knew she was a Maia, there was nothing intimidating about her—only a quiet wisdom that seemed to radiate from her being.

Lúthien, in contrast, was full of youthful energy, her laughter light as birdsong. She accepted the necklace with wide eyes, running her fingers over the delicate silver and green stones.

"It's beautiful," she said, her voice carrying the unfiltered honesty of youth.

"It is but a small reflection of your beauty, young one," I replied, and she smiled, her cheeks flushed with delight.