Meeting the Twin Sons of Fëanor

The moonlight painted the land in a pale glow, the rugged hills and sparse trees casting long shadows. Arinyanénar rode Lauriënénar, his trusted steed, whose golden mane shimmered like molten sunlight even in the dark. The intricate, fire-like markings along its body seemed to ripple and come alive as the moonlight caressed them. The journey through the lands of the Sons of Fëanor was quiet but tense—these lands had seen much bloodshed, and the presence of orcs was a constant threat.

As they crested a hill, Arinyanénar noticed faint torchlight in the distance. His hand instinctively went to Amanarótar's hilt. Lauriënénar sensed his tension and snorted softly, the golden horse's breath steaming in the cool night air.

"Steady," Arinyanénar murmured, patting his mount's neck. "We'll see soon enough whether they're friend or foe."

When the figures came closer, their silhouettes became clearer—two riders, cloaked and armed, but unmistakably Elven. Their crimson hair caught the faint light of the moon, and Arinyanénar immediately knew who they were. Amrod and Amras, the youngest sons of Fëanor, approached at a swift but measured pace, their expressions wary.

"Who goes there?" called Amrod, his voice firm but not hostile. His sharp grey eyes scanned Arinyanénar, then fell upon Lauriënénar. Recognition lit up his face.

Arinyanénar halted his steed and raised a hand in greeting. "I am Arinyanénar, son of Anórien and Galadriel, I come seeking your elder brother Maedhros at Himring."

The twins exchanged a glance, their wariness giving way to curiosity. Amras spoke first, his tone lighter than his brother's. "The Sword of the Morning in our lands? We've heard the tales, but we did not expect to meet you in person. That sword—Amanarótar, is it not? And that horse…" He stepped closer, his eyes wide with admiration. "Even in the stables of Valinor, I doubt such a steed could be found."

Arinyanénar smiled faintly. "Lauriënénar has been my faithful companion through many trials. He's more than a steed—he's a friend."

Amrod dismounted, his movements fluid and purposeful. He approached, his gaze fixed on the sword at Arinyanénar's side. "And that blade," he said, almost in awe. "They say it burns with the fire of the sun itself. Is it true?"

Arinyanénar nodded but did not unsheath the sword. "Amanarótar's power is real, but it is not a thing to be flaunted. It serves me only in times of need."

Amrod stepped back, impressed. "You carry yourself much like your uncle Finrod—wise and measured. But tell me, what business brings you to Himring? It's not often we see one of the Avari in our lands."

Arinyanénar's expression grew serious. "I seek Maedhros for personal reasons. I won't impose on your lands for long."

Amras, who had been quietly observing, now spoke. "Our elder brother will welcome you, of that I have no doubt. But these lands are dangerous, Arinyanénar. Orc raiding parties have grown bold of late. Even a warrior of your renown should tread with caution."

Arinyanénar met his gaze, his tone steady. "I have faced worse than orcs. But I appreciate the warning."

The twins exchanged another glance before Amrod gestured toward the horizon. "Himring lies northeast of here. The journey should take you no more than two days if you keep a steady pace."

Amras added, "We'll send word ahead to Maedhros so he knows to expect you. Safe travels, Arinyanénar."

Arinyanénar inclined his head in gratitude. "Thank you. May the stars light your path."

With that, he urged Lauriënénar forward. The stallion moved with the grace of a flowing river, its golden mane shimmering under the moon's light as if it carried a piece of the sun itself. Behind him, the twins watched in silence, their admiration for the warrior and his remarkable steed clear in their expressions.

As Arinyanénar disappeared into the night, Amrod finally broke the silence. "He's not what I expected."

Amras nodded. "No, he's not. But perhaps that's for the best."