The Avari's Song [ Lord of the Rings x Silmarillion ]

Chapter 1

A/N: Welcome! This is a standalone side story to my main Fëanoriel Chronicles. Like all my other side stories, this is important for knowledge in the main stories, but the main stories have no bearing in the other direction.

This story is me having fun with the Avari. We know almost nothing about them, other than their tribe names and that they were closer to early Mannish culture than the culture of the Eldar. For those who don't know, the Avari are the Unwilling. The elves who never set out to the Blessed Realm. This the story of one of those.

Enjoy this little, short intro. I can't promise how many chapters will be in this story, but I imagine at least 3-5. The Avari will play a larger role in my next big main story, Flight to the East, including this character.

Long she had traveled, long and far. Her reddish brown hair was matted from so many days in the wilderness. But she had a duty to perform, and no amount of wild wolves or cold drakes was going to keep her from her mission.

Brilien, daughter of the former Chief of the Kwendi, was making her way over the Orocarni to the inland sea of Helcar as all her predecessors once had. As the prospective Chieftess of her folk, she had to complete a pilgrimage to Cuivienen. This was no easy task. If it were easy, there would be no meaning in it.

She recalled the stories told to her by the eldest of the her tribe. Stories passed down to them from their elders, and theirs from their elders. Stories of Erfaron* the Great Hunter, who had come to steal them from their homes. And their home had been the shores of Cuivienen.

She wasn't an old elf by any sense of the word, yet her bones ached from the rain she was now experiencing. In her youth she had often travelled to the land of her farthest elven brethren, the Kinn-lai. They lived near regions called Khand and Harad, and were fluent in Mannish tongues. Brilien, ever an eager student, learned it as well. Not that it helped her on this quest one bit.

Brilien wrapped her blue cloak tighter around her body as she sheltered beneath a large boulder formation. Her seventh day in the Red Mountains seemed to be ending in a particularly dreary way. The rain, endless. The stars, hidden. She sighed.

After two thousand years of living east of the Orocarni, she thought this would've been a welcome adventure. No elf journeyed west of the Red Mountains, none save the chieftains of the six tribes. She was honored to be counted among them. Her father had only been chieftain for two hundred years before his death at the hands of a cold drake six months prior. Now the tribe fell to her.

A flash of lightning ripped across the sky. The gods must've been very angry this night. Only two gods mattered every day to the Avari. One was Othanar*, the Warrior god. The other, the great Enemy, the Corruptor, and Destroyer. He was known as Guruthon*. Their tales told of how Othanar and Guruthon battled on the plains of the Northern Wastes, until finally Othanar and his brethren dragged Guruthon away in chains, destroying his fortress. But not completely.

Only a few Avari dared travel into the ruins of Utumno, and fewer survived the return. Brilien and her brothers were some of those few. The ruins of that great fortress was rich in tradable goods, weapons, and armor of the Ancient Years. If you survived the trip, it was profitable.

Brilien looked up at the sky. She caught sight of a few stars peeking out from behind the passing storm clouds. The rain died down. No more did the rain come in rivers, but in a light drizzle. Still, it was chilly even in the summer among the Orocarni. So she hunkered down and tried to sleep. Tomorrow she hoped to leave the mountains, and from the foot of the Orocarni it was but a day's march to Cuivienen. At least according to legend.

* = My names for the Valar. I used the Silvan language. Erfaron is Oromë, Othanar is Tulkas, and Guruthon is Morgoth of course.