Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

Curufin led Aurion through a labyrinth of stone corridors deep beneath the halls of Himlad. The torches lining the walls flickered, casting long shadows that seemed to dance with the echoes of their footsteps. Aurion followed silently, his curiosity burning brighter with every step. Whatever lay at the end of this path was something Curufin clearly guarded closely.

They stopped in front of a large iron door, its surface adorned with intricate engravings of stars, flames, and runes of Valinor. The craftsmanship was unmistakably elven, but not just any elven hand had wrought it. Aurion could feel the weight of legacy emanating from the door itself.

Curufin laid his palm on the door and whispered words in Quenya, his voice carrying the authority of one who knew the secrets of the craft. The door groaned, its ancient mechanisms creaking to life, and slowly swung open.

Aurion stepped inside, and his breath caught. The forge was vast, its walls lined with tools, molds, and equipment that bore the unmistakable touch of Fëanor. Everything here gleamed with the brilliance of a forgotten age, untouched by time but heavy with history. There were anvils, chisels, tongs, and other implements, each a masterpiece in its own right.

"These," Curufin said, his voice reverent, "are my father's tools. The very ones he used in Valinor." He gestured to the array of equipment. "Before my father set foot on Middle-earth, he created wonders with these tools. Though the Silmarils were lost to us, this is where their echoes remain."

Aurion's gaze fell upon a pedestal at the center of the room. On it rested a hammer, covered with a silken cloth. Curufin walked over and, with a deliberate motion, removed the covering to reveal the tool beneath.

The hammer, Tulcanelcar, was breathtaking. The head was forged from dark steel, its surface smooth yet marked by subtle grooves that hinted at countless hours of use. Gold inlays traced intricate patterns across it, flames and vines interwoven in a display of artistic genius. Small gemstones shimmered within the designs, catching the torchlight and scattering it like firelight on water.

The handle was equally exquisite, wrapped in golden motifs that twisted like living vines. At its base, the handle flared into a flourish resembling the roots of a tree, grounding the weapon's immense power with a touch of elegance. As Curufin lifted it, the hammer began to glow faintly, a silvery-golden light emanating from its head, as if it remembered the hand of its maker.

"This is Tulcanelcar," Curufin said, holding the hammer out to Aurion. "The Forgefire. My father's hammer. With this, he crafted wonders that will never be matched—tools, weapons, and treasures of unparalleled beauty. It was this hammer that shaped the Silmarils."

Aurion stared at the hammer, his throat tight with emotion. To hold such a thing, to feel the legacy of Fëanor in his hands—it was almost too much to bear.

Curufin stepped closer, his expression softer than Aurion had ever seen it. "Take it," he urged.

Aurion hesitated, then reached out. The moment his fingers closed around the handle, a wave of warmth surged through him. The hammer glowed brighter, as if it recognized him, and for a moment, Aurion felt as though he stood in the presence of Fëanor himself.

"I... I don't know what to say," Aurion murmured, his voice thick with awe.

"You need not say anything," Curufin replied, stepping back. "Just understand this: when I see you in the forge, I see my father. You have his fire, his passion, and his brilliance. In some ways, Aurion, you are more like him than any of us."

Aurion looked at Curufin, his eyes wide with disbelief. "But this was his. It's part of his legacy. I can't—"

"You can," Curufin interrupted. "And you will. My father's tools were meant to create, not to gather dust in a forgotten forge. You honor him by using them. Show the world that his fire still burns in you."

Aurion nodded, his resolve strengthening. "I will," he said, his voice steady. "I swear I will use it to create, to honor him and his legacy. Thank you, Uncle."

Curufin smiled faintly, though there was a glint of sorrow in his eyes. "Prove me right, Aurion. Let the world see that the light of Fëanor has not faded."

As Aurion held Tulcanelcar aloft, its glow illuminated the forge, casting the ancient tools and their new master in its radiant light. For a moment, it felt as though the great smith himself stood among them, his spirit alive in the hands of his descendant.

Aurion's path was clear. He would forge a new legacy with the tools of the past, carrying the fire of Fëanor into the future.