Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

It was the 375th year of the Sun, and Aurion, the son of Arinyanénar and Aistalë, stood tall among his kin in the Avari realm. At fifty years old, he had reached his full height, his form strong and graceful, though the maturity of an elf was still years away. His features bore the unmistakable mark of his Noldorin heritage.

Aurion's dark hair shimmered like polished obsidian in the sunlight, falling past his shoulders in waves. His piercing grey eyes, filled with an intensity beyond his years, were sharp as a blade, giving him a striking resemblance to his great-grandfather, Fëanor. It was a likeness that had not gone unnoticed, especially by Galadriel.

Aurion had a deep bond with his parents and his grandfather, Anórien, who delighted in the young elf's energy and talents. Arinyanénar trained his son in swordsmanship, marveling at his natural ability. "You have inherited the fire of our bloodline," Arinyanénar often said, pride gleaming in his silvery golden eyes. Aurion was indeed skilled with a blade, but it was in the forge that his gifts truly shone.

From a young age, Aurion had shown an uncanny aptitude for crafting. The forge fires seemed to welcome him, their heat and light becoming an extension of his will. He could take raw metal and transform it into works of extraordinary beauty and strength. Whether it was a weapon, a piece of jewelry, or an intricate work of art, Aurion's hands brought life to his creations.

One afternoon in the forge, as Aurion worked on a helm for one of the Avari warriors, Galadriel entered, her presence commanding yet distant. She watched silently as Aurion hammered the metal, his movements precise and fluid.

When he paused to inspect his work, Galadriel finally spoke. "You have the touch of Fëanor," she said, her tone a mix of admiration and unease.

Aurion turned to face her, his expression uncertain. "Do I?"

She studied him for a moment, her silver and golden eyes flickering with memory. "You look like him," she said softly. "The same fire in your gaze. The same determination. Watching you now… it is as if he has returned."

Aurion hesitated, unsure how to feel about the comparison. "Was that… a good thing?"

Galadriel's expression darkened, her face clouded by sorrow and anger. "Fëanor's brilliance was unparalleled, but it was also his doom. His fire burned too brightly, and it consumed him. You are his legacy, Aurion, but you are not bound to his fate. Remember that."

Her words weighed heavily on him, but in them, he also sensed a rare approval. When Galadriel added, "You have a gift, nearly as remarkable as his," it was the first time she had openly praised him.

Aurion bowed his head, a small smile breaking across his face. "Thank you, Grandmother. That means more to me than you know."

Galadriel's expression softened briefly before she turned and left, leaving Aurion to his thoughts. Though their relationship remained distant, that moment stayed with him.

Aurion's days were filled with learning and honing his skills, but he also made time for his family. With his father, he sparred and hunted in the vast forests of Taur-im-Duinath, and with his grandfather, he walked beneath the ancient trees, listening to stories of the past.

One evening, as the sun set and painted the sky in hues of gold and crimson, Aurion sat with his mother in the royal gardens. Aistalë looked at her son with pride and affection, yet there was a wistfulness in her gaze.

"You remind me so much of your father when we first met," she said, brushing a strand of dark hair from Aurion's face. "But you also remind me of those who came before. Your great-grandfather's fire lives in you, as does the wisdom of your father's people. You are a bridge between two worlds, Aurion."

"Sometimes, I wonder if I can truly carry that weight," he admitted.

"You can," Aistalë assured him, her grey eyes meeting his. "Because you carry it not for yourself, but for those you love. Never forget that."

Aurion nodded, her words filling him with resolve.

Despite his talents and the admiration of many, Aurion was not without his own struggles. His resemblance to Fëanor often cast a long shadow, and the stories of his great-grandfather's fiery downfall haunted him. Galadriel's distant demeanor only reinforced his sense of unease.

One day, he overheard a conversation between Galadriel and Anórien as he worked on a new piece of armor.

"He's too much like him," Galadriel said, her voice tinged with worry. "The same intensity, the same brilliance. It frightens me, Anórien."

"He is his own person," Anórien replied calmly. "Aurion carries the fire of Fëanor, yes, but he also carries the love and wisdom of his parents. He is not destined to repeat the mistakes of the past."

Galadriel sighed. "I hope you're right."

Aurion paused in his work, the words sinking deep into his heart. While he longed for his grandmother's full acceptance, he realized that it might take time—or perhaps never come.

By his fiftieth year, Aurion had become a celebrated figure among the Avari. His creations were sought after for their beauty and craftsmanship, and his skill with the sword was unmatched among his peers. Despite the weight of his lineage, he carried himself with humility, always striving to honor his family and his people.

One day, as he presented a newly crafted sword to his father, Arinyanénar marveled at the artistry. "This is extraordinary," he said, holding the blade aloft. "Your skill has surpassed even my expectations."

Aurion smiled, his heart swelling with pride. "I learned from the best."

"You honor both our houses, my son," Arinyanénar said, placing a hand on Aurion's shoulder. "Never doubt that."

As the years passed, Aurion continued to grow into his role as a leader and artisan, embodying the strength and creativity of his lineage. Though his path was not without challenges, he remained steadfast, a beacon of hope and unity for his family and his people.