A Lone Protector

The 305th year of the Sun of the First Age marked another test for Arinyanénar. Summoned to his father's chambers, he found Anórien studying a map of the Avari realm, his brow furrowed. Galadriel stood nearby, her arms crossed, her gaze distant but concerned.

"Father?" Arinyanénar asked as he entered, his golden sword at his side.

Anórien looked up, the hint of a smile softening his stern expression. "Arinyanénar, there's trouble on the outskirts of our realm. Orcs have been sighted near the settlements. The villagers are fearful, and I need someone to address this threat."

"Then let me go," Arinyanénar replied instantly, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword.

Anórien nodded. "I had hoped you would say that. I trust your skill and judgment. Go alone—your presence will remind them that their prince stands as their shield.

Galadriel frowned. "Anórien, sending him alone—"

"He is ready, Galadriel," Anórien interrupted gently. "This is not his first battle."

Arinyanénar inclined his head to his mother. "I will be careful, Mother. I promise."

The journey to the outskirts of the realm took a day and a half, through dense forests where the sunlight struggled to pierce the canopy. Arinyanénar rode swiftly, his steed's hooves silent on the mossy ground.

When he arrived at the settlement, the villagers gathered quickly, their faces a mixture of fear and relief. Arinyanénar dismounted, his silver-and-gold eyes scanning the crowd.

"Where were the orcs last seen?" he asked.

An elder stepped forward. "To the east, my lord, near the river. They've been lurking there for days, watching us. We fear they'll attack soon."

Arinyanénar nodded. "Stay vigilant. Tonight, I will ensure they do not return."

As darkness fell, Arinyanénar stood alone at the edge of the forest, his senses heightened. His sword, Amanarótar, was drawn, its golden blade faintly glowing in the moonlight. The stillness of the night was broken by the faint sounds of guttural laughter and snapping branches.

They were coming.

The orcs emerged from the shadows, their jagged blades glinting, their cruel eyes gleaming with malice. There were a dozen of them, their snarls echoing through the night.

Arinyanénar smiled grimly. "Come, then. Let's see how long you last."

With a battle cry, the first orc charged, swinging a rusted axe. Arinyanénar sidestepped effortlessly, his sword slicing through the orc's midsection. Blood sprayed across the ground as the creature crumpled, its scream cut short.

Another orc lunged, aiming for his back. Arinyanénar turned sharply, his blade catching the orc's throat. The head separated cleanly, falling to the forest floor with a dull thud, the body collapsing in a heap of gore.

The remaining orcs hesitated, growling in confusion and fear. Arinyanénar seized the moment, rushing them with terrifying speed. His blade danced in the moonlight, slashing through armor and flesh with brutal precision.

He drove his sword through one orc's chest, twisting it savagely before pulling it free. The orc collapsed, clawing at the gaping wound, its life spilling onto the ground. Another tried to flee, but Arinyanénar's blade found its spine, cutting it down mid-stride.

An orc with a jagged spear managed to graze his arm, drawing a thin line of blood. Arinyanénar snarled, the pain only fueling his rage. He grabbed the orc by the throat, slamming it into a tree before plunging his sword through its stomach.

The last orc, trembling, fell to its knees, begging for mercy in its foul tongue. Arinyanénar stared at it, his eyes cold and unyielding.

"Mercy?" he said softly, his voice dripping with disdain. "Did you show mercy to those you've slaughtered?"

Without another word, he swung his sword, the golden blade cutting cleanly through the orc's neck. Its body fell forward, blood pooling around it.

The forest grew silent once more, save for the sound of Arinyanénar's heavy breathing. He stood amidst the carnage, his armor spattered with blood, his sword dripping red. He felt no joy, no satisfaction—only a hollow anger that gnawed at his heart.

By dawn, he returned to the village, his horse trotting slowly. The villagers gathered again, their eyes wide as they saw the blood on his armor and the exhaustion on his face.

"It's done," he said simply. "The orcs will trouble you no more."

The elder stepped forward, bowing deeply. "We are forever in your debt, my lord. You have saved us."

Arinyanénar shook his head. "Your safety is my duty. If ever there is danger again, call for me."

As he rode away, leaving the grateful villagers behind, he couldn't shake the weight in his chest. The battle had been won, but the darkness of the world remained, and with it, the darkness within himself.