Kin and Strangers

The 300th Year of the Sun in the First Age had dawned, marking ten years since Arinyanénar had returned to the Avari realm. In that time, he had dedicated himself to aiding his father in ruling their people, learning the art of governance and the burden of leadership. Yet even as the land thrived under his family's rule, a new ripple of unease had made its way into their halls.

One afternoon, a messenger from the Noldor arrived, bearing a letter sealed with the emblem of the House of Fëanor. Maedhros, the eldest son of Fëanor, had written to Anórien, expressing his intention to visit the Avari realm. He sought to strengthen bonds and foster unity in these uncertain times.

As Anórien read the letter aloud in the royal chambers, Galadriel's expression darkened.

"The House of Fëanor?" she said, her tone icy. "Their oath has brought only strife to our people. Why should we welcome one of their blood into our halls?"

Anórien set the letter down and leaned back in his chair, meeting his wife's gaze with calm resolve. "I understand your concerns, Galadriel. But I have met Maedhros before, during the Mereth Aderthad. He is unlike his father. He is honorable, and he has suffered greatly for his people. His captivity in Angband and his subsequent deeds have shown his strength of character."

Galadriel folded her arms, her golden brows drawing together. "Do not mistake honor for trustworthiness, Anórien. The blood of Fëanor is hot and proud, and his sons have caused more harm than good. Do you not remember what happened in Alqualondë?"

Anórien sighed heavily, glancing at his son, who was listening intently. "I do, beloved. But we cannot judge Maedhros solely by his father's sins. He is also my kin by marriage, as he is yours. Finarfin and Fëanor were both sons of Finwë. He is family, whether we like it or not."

Galadriel's lips thinned, but she said nothing further.

Arinyanénar, sensing the tension, stepped in carefully. "Perhaps this visit could be an opportunity for peace between us. If Maedhros seeks to bridge the divide, surely we should at least hear him out."

Galadriel glanced at her son, her features softening slightly. "You are wise, my son. But do not let your heart be swayed too easily. The sons of Fëanor have a way of spinning words to their advantage."

A week later, the Avari capital was alive with activity as the day of Maedhros's arrival dawned. The streets were lined with curious onlookers, eager to catch a glimpse of the famed son of Fëanor. When the party finally arrived, their presence was as striking as the legends claimed. Maedhros, tall and commanding despite the missing hand that marked his sacrifice, rode at the head of the group. His long, copper-red hair gleamed like fire in the sunlight, and his piercing grey eyes swept over the city with a regal air.

Beside him rode a figure who immediately caught Arinyanénar's attention—a young elven woman, her copper-red hair cascading like a waterfall of fire, her grey eyes bright and sharp. She was tall for a female elf, standing at least 6'6", her presence both commanding and graceful.

As they dismounted, Maedhros approached the royal family with a respectful bow. "Anórien, my friend," he greeted warmly. "It has been too long."

Anórien clasped Maedhros's arm in a gesture of friendship, his smile broad. "It has indeed, Maedhros. Welcome to the Avari realm. My halls are yours for as long as you wish to stay."

Galadriel inclined her head in polite acknowledgment but remained guarded.

"This is my daughter, Aistalë," Maedhros said, gesturing to the elven woman at his side. "She has long wished to see the lands of the Avari."

Aistalë stepped forward, her movements fluid, and bowed gracefully. "It is an honor to meet you, my lords and lady," she said, her voice soft yet confident.

As introductions concluded, Maedhros and the royal couple retreated to the palace for their meeting, leaving Arinyanénar with Aistalë.

The young prince found himself momentarily at a loss for words. Aistalë, however, smiled faintly, her sharp eyes studying him with curiosity. "You must be Arinyanénar," she said. "My father has spoken of you. He calls you 'Macil Aurëa,' does he not?"

Arinyanénar nodded, his composure returning. "He does. And he has raised a remarkable daughter, it seems."

Aistalë tilted her head, a glimmer of amusement in her gaze. "Flattery, is it? I had heard the Avari were bold, but I did not expect their prince to be quite so forward."

Her teasing tone caught him off guard, and he chuckled, the tension between them easing. For the first time in many years, he felt a flicker of curiosity and warmth stir within him—a faint but promising ember.

And so, as the leaders of their realms convened, Arinyanénar found himself in the unexpected company of a stranger who felt oddly familiar.