The Seventh Flame

A decade had passed since Arien had come into our lives, and everything felt different, yet somehow still familiar. She wasn't a teacher in the traditional sense, nor did she ever claim to be. Arien was simply a friend—a radiant, fiery presence who had become a part of us as surely as the wind in the trees or the stars in the sky. Yet her presence had sparked something within the Avari, something I could never have anticipated.

We had always been a strong and united people, our resilience forged through countless challenges. But with Arien among us, we grew sharper, more vibrant, as though her flame had ignited a dormant power within us. She didn't lead us—she didn't need to. Instead, she walked beside us, sharing her light, and in doing so, helped us realize the strength we'd already carried.

The most remarkable change came with the formation of the seventh tribe of the Avari. It had been years since some of the Nandor had chosen to stay with us, bringing with them a quiet strength and deep connection to the land. Over time, they had woven themselves into the fabric of our people, blending their ways with ours.

But it wasn't just the Nandor who gave rise to this new tribe. Among them were those Avari who had stayed behind with Lenwë long ago, only to return to us later. They had been gone for centuries, yet their return felt like a long-lost branch rejoining the tree. Together, these two groups formed something new—something neither fully Nandor nor fully Avari, but a fusion of both.

They called themselves the Ar Lách, "The Flame's Gift," in honor of Arien, whose presence had inspired their unity. Though the smallest of the seven tribes, with only 2,500 members, they were unlike any other.

The Ar Lách were dreamers, crafters, and warriors all at once. They held a quiet intensity, a spark of fire that never dimmed. Their reverence for Arien was clear, though she never demanded it. They looked to her not as a leader but as a symbol—a living flame that burned bright and untamed, reminding them of their potential.

Over the years, Arien shared her knowledge with them. She showed them how to work with fire, not to control it but to partner with it. "Fire is alive," she said one evening as we sat around a roaring blaze. "It gives warmth and life, but it can also take. Respect it, and it will respect you."

The Ar Lách embraced her teachings. They became masters of the forge, their craftsmanship unparalleled among the Avari. Yet they didn't see fire as a mere tool. They saw it as a part of themselves, a symbol of their resilience and passion.

One of the most ambitious undertakings of the past decade was the construction of the Four Towers. It began as a simple idea—to build watchtowers to guard the borders of Taur-im-Duinath—but it quickly became something far greater.

The Hwenti builders laid the foundations with precision, ensuring the towers would stand firm against time and weather. The Kinn-Lai artisans adorned them with carvings, each depicting scenes from our history and the stories of the tribes. Even the Windan scouts lent their expertise, helping to choose the perfect locations for each tower.

Each tower was named for its purpose, reflecting the spirit of unity and strength that had created them:

Tirion Nárë (The Tower of Flame), standing in the north, its beacon a symbol of vigilance.Barad Hísilómë (The Tower of Twilight), to the south, watching over the shadowed woods.Elenion Tirin (The Star-Watcher), to the east, where the sky stretched wide and endless.Osto Calmë (The Fortress of Light), to the west, a bastion of strength against any who might threaten us.

The towers became more than fortifications. They were monuments to what we had achieved together, reminders that even in the darkest forest, we could build something enduring.

Arien and I had grown closer over the years. She was unlike anyone I had ever known—warm, fierce, and utterly untouchable in her radiance. She moved through the world with an ease that left me in awe, her laughter like the crackling of a hearth, her presence as steady as the rising stars.

We often walked through the forest together, talking about everything and nothing. She listened to my worries about leading the Avari, offering quiet wisdom without ever making me feel judged. "You're doing well, Emlithor," she told me once, her orange eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. "Your people don't need perfection. They need someone who cares—and that, you give them in abundance."

Her words stayed with me. She had a way of making the heaviest burdens feel lighter, not by taking them away but by reminding me why I carried them.

The Ar Lách had grown under her guidance, but they were not the only ones to benefit from her presence. The Avari as a whole had flourished. We were stronger, more unified, not because we had become something new, but because we had rediscovered what we had always been.

The Four Towers stood as a testament to our resilience. The Ar Lách shone as an example of what could be achieved when we embraced our differences. And through it all, Arien remained at the heart of our realm, her flame unyielding, her friendship unwavering.

As I stood atop Tirion Nárë one evening, looking out over the forest, I felt a quiet sense of pride. Taur-im-Duinath had become more than just a refuge. It was a home, a haven, and a promise of what we could achieve together.

And at the center of it all was the flame that bound us—the flame that burned bright in the hearts of the Avari, and in mine most of all.