The Blade and the Bridle

The morning sun bathed the white spires of Onymë Ennorë in gold, its rays breaking through the canopy of Taur-im-Duinath. Anórien stood in the courtyard of the royal palace, his arms crossed as he observed his son, Arinyanénar. At twenty years old, Arinyanénar was tall for his age, with an athletic frame and a spark of mischief in his silver-gold eyes. He was still young by Elven standards, but Anórien had decided it was time for him to begin his weapons training.

The prince approached, his white hair gleaming in the sunlight, and bowed respectfully to his father.

"Today, my son," Anórien said, handing him a spear, "you will begin your journey. The art of battle is not just a skill—it is a necessity. You are the heir to this realm, and you must be prepared to protect it."

The spear was a fine weapon, crafted by the best smiths of the Hwenti. Its shaft was smooth and strong, its golden tip gleaming. Arinyanénar took it in his hands, his face a mix of curiosity and determination.

Anórien demonstrated the basics, twirling the spear with practiced ease. His movements were fluid, his strikes precise—a master at work. When he handed the spear back, Arinyanénar tried to mimic his father's movements but found the weapon awkward and cumbersome.

The prince frowned, his brow furrowing in concentration as he attempted a thrust. The spear wobbled, the tip dipping dangerously close to the ground.

"This feels... wrong," Arinyanénar admitted, glancing up at his father.

Anórien chuckled, his fiery gaze softening. "The spear is not for everyone. It takes patience and discipline to wield it well. Let us try something else."

Next, Anórien led his son to the archery range. A bow crafted from the finest yew was placed in Arinyanénar's hands.

"This was the weapon of your grandfather, Emlithor," Anórien said, his voice tinged with pride. "He was so skilled with the bow that Oromë himself was impressed. Perhaps it runs in your blood."

Arinyanénar nocked an arrow and drew the string. The bow creaked as he aimed at the target—a painted circle on a straw bale. He released the arrow, which veered far to the left, missing the target entirely.

Anórien adjusted his son's stance and posture, offering guidance. The next few shots were better, but Arinyanénar's frustration was evident.

"It's not right," he said, shaking his head. "I don't feel the connection."

Anórien sighed, though his smile remained. "Then we try again."

Anórien retrieved a sword from the armory—a blade of exceptional craftsmanship, its edge sharp and its hilt adorned with subtle engravings. He handed it to Arinyanénar, who grasped it eagerly.

The moment the prince held the sword, his face lit up. He swung it experimentally, testing its weight and balance. Unlike the spear and bow, the sword felt natural in his hands, as if it were an extension of himself.

"Excellent," Anórien said, stepping back. "Let us see what you can do."

Father and son sparred lightly, Anórien guiding Arinyanénar's movements. The prince was quick and intuitive, adapting to each new technique with ease. Though his strikes lacked the precision of experience, they carried the promise of greatness.

"You have found your weapon," Anórien said, a note of pride in his voice.

Arinyanénar grinned, his silver-gold eyes shining. "It feels... right."

Later that afternoon, Anórien and Galadriel took Arinyanénar to the royal stables. The scent of hay and the soft nickering of horses greeted them as they approached Lauriënénar, who stood apart from the others. The majestic steed nuzzled Arinyanénar affectionately, its golden-speckled coat shimmering in the sunlight.

"Today, you will learn to ride," Galadriel said, her melodic voice carrying a hint of amusement. She was dressed in a simple yet elegant riding gown, her golden hair catching the light like a crown.

Arinyanénar mounted Lauriënénar with ease, his connection to the horse evident. Anórien and Galadriel watched as he guided the steed around the paddock, his movements growing more confident with each pass.

"Good!" Anórien called out. "Now, let us ride together."

The three of them rode out into the forest, their laughter mingling with the rustling leaves. Galadriel pointed out the names of flowers and trees, while Anórien shared tales of his own adventures in the woods.

By the time they returned to the palace, the sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and gold.

"You have done well today," Anórien said to his son as they dismounted. "But remember, this is only the beginning."

Arinyanénar nodded, his heart swelling with pride and excitement. For the first time, he felt the weight—and the promise—of his destiny.