Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The morning light filtered dimly through the thick canopy of Nan Elmoth, casting a muted glow in the room. Aurion stirred awake, his body still weary and his mind fogged from the events of the previous night. As he stretched, the door creaked open, and Lossiriel entered, her platinum-blonde hair glimmering even in the dim light. In her hands, she held the hammer of Fëanor.

"Good morning," she said with a sly smile, holding up the hammer. "Looking for this?"

Aurion sat up, his heart racing. "You... you're giving it back?"

"For now," she said, handing it to him. "But you have to tell me something."

He took the hammer carefully, cradling its silvery-golden glow. It felt comforting in his hands, like an anchor in a sea of uncertainty. He glanced up at her, wary. "What do you want to know?"

"Who are you really?" she asked, her icy blue eyes boring into his.

Aurion hesitated, his grip tightening around the hammer. "I can't tell you."

Lossiriel tilted her head, studying him. After a moment, she shrugged, her expression unreadable. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But this hammer..." She gestured toward it. "It's unlike anything I've ever seen. Whoever made it must have been extraordinary."

Aurion's gaze softened. "He was," he said quietly, his thoughts drifting to Fëanor, the greatest craftsman of the Eldar.

Lossiriel seemed to sense his reverence and didn't press further. Instead, she settled herself on a nearby chair, her posture relaxed but curious. "Tell me about the world beyond this forest," she said suddenly.

Aurion blinked, caught off guard. "The world?"

"Yes," she said, a wistful tone creeping into her voice. "I've never left Nan Elmoth. My father keeps me here, surrounded by shadows. I want to know what it's like out there. What you've seen."

Aurion's heart ached at the longing in her voice. He leaned back, thinking for a moment before speaking. "Well... there's a land to the west, where the Men of the House of Bëor dwell. They build their homes along the rivers and in the valleys. Their villages are simple, but there's a warmth to them—a sense of community. They gather around fires at night, telling stories and singing songs."

Lossiriel listened intently, her eyes wide with fascination. "Men," she murmured. "I've heard of them. They're mortal, right? They live such brief lives."

"Yes," Aurion said, nodding. "But they live with such passion, as if every moment matters. They care deeply for their families, their people. It's... different from how we elves live."

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "Tell me more. What do they eat? How do they fight? Do they have smiths like my father?"

Aurion chuckled, her enthusiasm infectious. He spent hours recounting what he knew, painting vivid pictures of the lives of Men—of their crops and cattle, their hunts and feasts, their loyalty and courage in battle. Lossiriel hung on every word, her icy demeanor melting into genuine wonder.

By the time they realized how late it had become, the room was bathed in shadows. Lossiriel stood and stretched, a playful smile on her face. "You talk too much," she teased.

Aurion laughed, shaking his head. "You're the one who kept asking questions."

Lossiriel smirked and pointed to a small closet in the corner of the room. "Well, storyteller, it's time for you to sleep. In there."

Aurion blinked. "The closet?"

"Unless you want my father's guards to find you," she said, giggling.

Aurion sighed but couldn't help smiling as he climbed into the cramped space. He heard her laugh softly as she shut the door. Despite the uncomfortable position, he felt a strange sense of peace.

As he drifted off to sleep, he realized he hadn't felt this lighthearted in years. For the first time since arriving in Nan Elmoth, the oppressive darkness didn't seem so heavy.