Forged in Lightning
Since parting ways with Aragorn, Maedhros had been feeling a strain that had gradually grown more relentless. Every strike of lightning he summoned, every storm he commanded—it all left a residual ache, a deep fatigue that seeped into his bones. At first, he had ignored it, chalking it up to the growing demands of his missions across Eriador. But now, the signs were unmistakable. His hands bore bruises from where the bolts connected, and he could feel his nerves fraying with each powerful surge that coursed through him.
It was a price to wield such power. In truth, he had expected it; anyone with the ability to command lightning would need years of careful training to contain it fully, to allow their body to adjust to the unnatural forces surging within them. Even his own endurance was reaching its limit.
The first solution he tried was Anguirel. His father's blade felt right in his hands—it was balanced, strong, and almost seemed to channel his energy in battle with a steady, sharp focus. When he wrapped his fingers around the hilt and sent bolts through its steel, it held up better than anything he'd used before, distributing the power along its dark edge. The blade seemed to pulse with the energy, absorbing it, and with each clash against an enemy, it retained his lightning for a few extra heartbeats, amplifying the blade's strength. But there was a limit. Anguirel was, after all, a sword; it wasn't forged with the singular purpose of channeling thunder and lightning.
Finally, he turned to the Hammer of Fëanor. He was hesitant at first, almost afraid to unleash his full power on the legendary artifact. Yet something within him insisted he try; after all, his grandfather had entrusted him with it for a reason. The hammer was heavier than Anguirel, but it was almost as if it recognized the energy he held, as if the hammer had been lying in wait for someone like him to wield it.
When he struck with the Hammer of Fëanor, the effect was immediate. A pulse of power radiated through him, echoing from the hammer's core with such force that Maedhros was momentarily stunned. The energy transfer was seamless, the thunder surging through the hammer with ease and flowing outward, magnified tenfold. His lightning was no longer wild and unrestrained; instead, it became focused and intense. He felt no burn in his hands, no ache in his muscles.
It was exhilarating.
When he swung the hammer, lightning shot forth like bolts of pure wrath, scattering foes and lighting up the darkness with sharp bursts of brightness. The sensation was beyond anything he'd ever felt, a harmony between weapon and wielder that made him marvel at his ancestor's unparalleled craftsmanship.
How great of a smith do you have to be to create such a hammer? Maedhros thought, awe blooming in his chest. This hammer, forged by his ancestor, was perfect in its design, like another arm extending his reach, amplifying his powers, and absorbing the full force of his thunderous strikes. Every hit carried the weight of Fëanor's legacy and, with it, the responsibility that Maedhros bore.
Days passed as he grew more comfortable with the hammer, and in that time, Maedhros found himself contemplating the legendary legacy he now carried. There was a sense of pride but also an understanding that he was wielding a weapon made by a man whose legacy was both glorious and fraught with darkness. The hammer, this emblem of power, was not just a weapon but a reminder of the failures and glories of the House of Fëanor. And now, he wielded it not for conquest, but for justice.
Training with the hammer became a daily ritual. In the mornings, Maedhros would rise early, selecting a clearing in the forest to test his limits. The strikes began with simple swings, accompanied by small bursts of lightning. With each session, he pushed himself further, letting the hammer draw more and more from him. The air around him crackled with electricity, and the sky often mirrored the storms he summoned, darkening and echoing his strength with rolling thunder. Birds scattered, leaves scorched and fell, and any creatures nearby soon learned to steer clear of Maedhros when he trained.
One evening, as the light began to fade and shadows deepened, he let loose a particularly intense surge of energy. He lifted the hammer high, summoning the skies as lightning erupted from his form, a brilliant wave of energy cascading into the ground. Thunder cracked, and for a moment, the night itself seemed to pulse with the force of his power. When it was over, Maedhros stood alone in the silence, breathing heavily but without the familiar fatigue. Instead, he felt an almost profound calm settle over him.
The Hammer of Fëanor had absorbed it all effortlessly.
The hammer transformed his battles. Word of the "Storm King" spread even farther as he ventured through villages, offering aid, clearing bandit camps, and rooting out foul creatures that plagued the lands. The sight of him, tall and commanding, wielding a hammer that seemed almost too magnificent for mortal hands, became a familiar legend across Eriador. Travelers would pause in awe, whispering of the warrior who summoned storms, whose weapon glowed with a blue-white light, and who moved with an intensity that rivaled the very forces of nature.
Villagers and townspeople who had once been skeptical now looked upon him with reverence, even fear. He did not command respect through intimidation, but rather through the sheer power and restraint he demonstrated. He could level forests, bring down cliffsides, and yet, he did so only when the need arose.
Occasionally, he'd meet people who had heard tales of Fëanor, the Elven Smith who had been both hero and villain in the great histories of Middle-earth. They would eye the hammer with a mixture of awe and trepidation, recognizing its legendary lineage and wondering if Maedhros would inherit his ancestor's notorious pride and ambition.
The weight of that question bore down on him as he continued to grow into his role. There was a temptation to wield such power unchecked, to let his pride lead him as it had his ancestor. But Maedhros fought it, remembering his parents and the sacrifices they had made. Taranis had not been born into power but had learned to wield it responsibly, choosing the path of justice rather than tyranny. And his mother, Liriel, who came from that very same House of Fëanor, had chosen compassion and love over conquest.
In quiet moments, he would sometimes sit and stare at the hammer, feeling a connection with Fëanor and the burden of the past. Maedhros knew that his role was not simply to wield the power of the House of Fëanor, but to redeem it. Each swing of the hammer, every bolt of lightning that shot forth from it, was part of a promise to his mother and father: that he would make a legacy of honor, not infamy.
One night, as he prepared to rest under the stars, Maedhros looked to the sky, whispering a silent vow. "I will not let this power consume me," he said, clutching the hammer. "I will be more than my ancestor's legacy."
As he drifted into sleep, the night was silent but for the occasional roll of distant thunder. It was a quiet reminder of the storms yet to come and the power he now bore to face them.
Thus, with each passing day, Maedhros grew stronger, both in power and in spirit. The journey ahead was vast, and he knew his role in Middle-earth was only beginning. Yet, with the Hammer of Fëanor in his hand, he was ready to face whatever darkness lay in his path, determined to bring light, justice, and thunderous strength to the world.