The Storm King
Maedhros rode into Bree with the early light, his pale hair catching the faint rays of dawn as he took in the quiet town. Bree was larger and busier than the Shire, with its gates, crowded inns, and bustling travelers passing between the roads to Rivendell and the Misty Mountains. Despite his father's stories, Maedhros was a stranger here. People's gazes lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary, with some whispering and others muttering as he walked by.
He wasn't like the men of Bree—there was an intensity in his sharp blue eyes, and his tall, broad-shouldered figure moved with the silent confidence of someone raised for something beyond the day-to-day.
The day before, Maedhros had heard rumors at the inn about a band of marauding bandits causing havoc near Bree. A group of townsfolk had been debating what to do, with many wishing for a hero to appear and rid them of the threat. When Maedhros had offered to help, the room had gone quiet. A few men had exchanged wary glances, but after assessing his serious expression and lean strength, they cautiously agreed to let him take on the challenge. Still, the innkeeper had asked if he wanted backup.
Maedhros shook his head and replied with a smirk, "I don't need help." The innkeeper had only nodded, a hint of doubt in his eyes as he gave Maedhros directions to the forest.
By midmorning, Maedhros found himself on a wooded path, well off the beaten road to Bree, where the bandits had been rumored to hide out. The canopy of trees overhead dappled the forest floor with a soft green glow, casting eerie shadows that danced as the wind stirred the branches above. He moved silently, slipping between the trees, his hand resting on his sword hilt but still preferring to rely on his own powers for any conflict.
Finally, he spotted them. A group of men sat around a fire in a small clearing, their rough laughter and clinking mugs filling the quiet of the woods. They were ill-prepared for someone like him, someone trained by the last remnants of an ancient elven legacy yet carrying the fire and impatience of a mortal man.
Maedhros observed them for a moment, noting their numbers and the positions of their weapons. They're nothing, he thought, his lips curling in disdain. With a quiet breath, he stepped into the clearing.
The closest bandit froze mid-laugh, his face paling as he took in the sight of the tall, half-elven stranger standing just at the edge of the firelight. "Who…who are you?" the bandit stammered.
Maedhros's face was impassive. "The man who's going to end you if you don't tell me where your leader is."
One of the bolder men sneered, pulling his knife and stepping forward. "We don't take orders from travelers, boy. Now get lost before you get hurt."
In response, Maedhros raised his hand, and with a single focused thought, a bolt of lightning shot from his fingertips, striking the man dead in an instant. His lifeless body crumpled to the ground, a faint curl of smoke rising from the blackened point of impact. The other bandits fell silent, their faces pale and wide-eyed.
"Where is your leader?" Maedhros demanded, his voice sharp and unyielding.
A younger bandit, shaking with fear, pointed to a larger tent set back from the clearing. Without another word, Maedhros turned on his heel and strode purposefully toward it.
The bandit leader's voice echoed from within the tent, a deep rumbling laughter that grated against Maedhros's ears. As he pushed the tent flap aside, Maedhros found himself face-to-face with a scarred, muscular man clutching a sword almost as large as his own.
The leader smirked, sizing him up. "And who's this, then? Another hero here to stop me?"
"I am Maedhros Storm, son of Taranis," he said coolly. "And I am more than enough for you."
The bandit leader laughed, a harsh sound that grated against Maedhros's nerves. "So, you think you're special with all that lightning and thunder, eh? You're nothing but a coward hiding behind tricks. If you were a real man, you'd fight me with a sword."
Maedhros's pride flared. He knew he could end the man right then and there with a flick of his hand, but the insult stung. He felt the heat of his own anger rising, the urge to prove his strength overwhelming his better judgment.
"Fine," he said, unsheathing his sword and stepping forward, the silver blade catching the light. "I don't need lightning to defeat you."
The leader grinned, lunging forward with a powerful swing, but Maedhros sidestepped smoothly, his movements a product of years of relentless training. He brought his sword down in a swift arc, clashing with the leader's blade. The bandit grunted, his expression faltering as he realized the depth of Maedhros's skill.
They fought fiercely, the sounds of metal striking metal ringing through the camp. The bandit was strong, but he was no match for Maedhros's speed and precision. Within moments, Maedhros had the upper hand, his sword pressing against the leader's chest.
"You're beaten," Maedhros said coldly, his voice edged with disdain. But just as he was about to land the final blow, a glint of movement caught his eye. Too late, he realized one of the other bandits had crept up behind him, a dagger poised to strike.
The blade drove into his leg, a sharp, burning pain that momentarily stole his breath. Maedhros stumbled, his grip on his sword faltering as he tried to process the sudden agony radiating from his wound.
But pain had a way of feeding his power.
His anger flared, and with it, his control slipped. He could feel the storm brewing within him, a wild, untamable force begging to be unleashed. Gritting his teeth, he let go.
Lightning exploded from him in every direction, arcing through the air with a terrifying crackle. The sky above darkened, and thunder rumbled ominously, responding to his rage. Bolts of lightning shot down from the swirling storm clouds, striking the ground in rapid succession. The bandits fell one by one, their screams drowned out by the roar of the storm.
In the end, only he was left standing, his body pulsing with energy, the raw power of a storm he could scarcely control. He stood alone amid the destruction, panting heavily, blood seeping from the wound in his leg. The camp was a smoldering ruin, the bandits' lifeless bodies scattered across the ground.
He took a shuddering breath, trying to regain control of the power still buzzing within him. With trembling hands, he bandaged his wound, his face pale but resolute. He had won—but at what cost?
When he returned to Bree that evening, limping slightly but with his head held high, the townsfolk stared at him as if he were a god. Rumors had spread quickly, and now they gazed at him with awe and fear. To them, he was no mere man—he was something more, something terrible and powerful.
The innkeeper met him with a cautious smile, eyes flickering over the dried blood on Maedhros's leg. "You did it, didn't you? Cleared them out all by yourself."
Maedhros gave a slight nod. "They won't trouble Bree again."
The innkeeper swallowed, then nodded quickly. "Aye, well… the folk here, they'll be singing about you for a long time, lad. What… what do we call you?"
The townsfolk gathered around, murmuring among themselves. One young boy pointed up at him, his face filled with admiration and fear. "They say he called down lightning, like a storm come to life."
A woman nearby nodded, awe in her voice. "A king of storms, he was."
The words resonated with Maedhros, filling him with a strange mixture of pride and unease. He had felt the power, the way it surged through him with a life of its own. It was as if the storm itself had claimed him, had named him.
The crowd parted as he walked through them, and as he made his way back to the inn, the whispers followed him, growing louder with each step:
The Storm King.