Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

It was the 325th year of the Sun, and Onymë Ennorë was alight with anticipation. The royal palace bustled with activity, its white stone halls filled with the soft rustle of hurried feet and whispered prayers. In a chamber adorned with silken drapes and glowing lanterns, Aistalë labored to bring forth the first child of Arinyanénar, the Prince of the Avari.

The hour was long, and the cries of pain that echoed from within the chamber tugged at Arinyanénar's heart as he waited anxiously in the hall. His fists clenched and unclenched as if battling an unseen foe, his silvery golden darting between the closed door and the midwives who entered and exited with urgent haste.

His father, Anórien, stood beside him, a steadying presence. "Be patient, my son," he said, placing a firm hand on Arinyanénar's shoulder. "This is a trial for both mother and child, but they are strong. They will endure."

Arinyanénar nodded, though his chest felt tight with worry. His mother, Galadriel, stood apart from them, her face serene but her eyes distant, as though lost in thought. She offered no words of comfort, and Arinyanénar could sense the unspoken tension that lingered between her and Aistalë.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, the cries of pain subsided, replaced by the faint, unmistakable sound of a newborn's first wail. The sound was like a beacon, cutting through the haze of worry in Arinyanénar's mind.

The door opened, and a midwife emerged, her face alight with joy. "My lord," she said, bowing deeply, "you have a son."

Arinyanénar pushed past her, his heart racing as he entered the chamber. Aistalë lay on the bed, her golden hair damp with sweat, her face pale but radiant. In her arms, wrapped in soft white cloth, was a tiny, squirming bundle.

He approached slowly, his breath catching as he saw his son for the first time. The child's hair was as dark as the night sky, a stark contrast to the fiery and silvery hues of his lineage. His eyes, still blinking against the dim light, were a piercing grey—clear and sharp, like storm clouds over the sea.

"He's beautiful," Arinyanénar murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Aistalë smiled weakly, her own grey eyes shining with a mix of exhaustion and joy. "He is ours," she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Arinyanénar knelt beside her, his hand gently brushing the soft hair atop his son's head. "Aurion," he said, the name falling from his lips like a prayer. "Son of the Dawn."

Aistalë nodded, her smile growing. "A name worthy of him."

Anórien and Galadriel entered the room soon after, their expressions unreadable as they approached the bed. Anórien leaned down to kiss Aistalë's forehead, his voice warm with pride. "You have done well, both of you," he said, gazing at his grandson with awe. "Aurion will be a light in these darkening times."

Galadriel stood at the foot of the bed, her golden hair catching the lantern's glow. She looked down at the child, her face impassive. "He looks like a son of Feanor" she said, her tone cool.

Arinyanénar stiffened, his fiery gaze turning toward his mother. "He is my son," he said, his voice firm. "And he will be loved as much for his mother's blood as for mine."

Aistalë remained silent, her expression neutral, but Arinyanénar could feel the tension rising between the two women. Galadriel's skepticism toward Aistalë had never faded, and the birth of their child seemed to only deepen the divide.

As the weeks passed, Aistalë and Galadriel continued to clash, their disagreements often subtle but no less cutting. Aistalë, fiercely protective of her son, resented Galadriel's distant demeanor, while Galadriel viewed Aistalë's ties to the House of Fëanor with unyielding suspicion.

One morning, as Aistalë sat in the nursery cradling Aurion, Galadriel entered, her gaze sharp as she observed the scene. "He will need guidance," Galadriel said, her tone measured. "To understand the weight of his lineage, both from his father's house and his mother's."

Aistalë looked up, her expression guarded. "He will have all the guidance he needs from us," she replied. "And he will grow knowing love, not the weight of old grievances."

Galadriel's lips pressed into a thin line. "Love is not always enough to shield a child from the world's harsh realities," she said before turning and leaving the room.

Aistalë watched her go, her jaw tightening. "Your grandmother is a stubborn one," she murmured to Aurion, who cooed softly in response.

Despite the tension, Aurion thrived. The Avari, who adored their prince, extended that adoration to his son. 

Arinyanénar, for his part, devoted himself to his new role as a father. He spent hours with Aurion, whispering stories of the stars and the ancient days, his silvery gold eyes softening whenever his son reached for him.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the forest was bathed in golden light, Arinyanénar sat with Aistalë in the gardens. Aurion lay between them, his tiny hands grasping at the air.

"He's perfect," Aistalë said, her voice filled with wonder.

Arinyanénar took her hand in his, his gaze filled with love. "He is," he agreed. "And he is ours."

In that moment, beneath the canopy of ancient trees, the tensions and doubts that had plagued them seemed to fade, replaced by the quiet certainty of their love and the future they would build together.