Elros sat on the grand balcony of the palace in Armenelos, the capital of Númenor, cradling a goblet of wine in his hand. The city around him buzzed with an air of unease, the skies above darkened with unnatural clouds. Lightning arced across the heavens, casting fleeting shadows on the ornate walls of the city's many spires. The wine tasted bitter tonight, though it was from the finest vintage Númenor had ever produced. He could not shake the foreboding that clung to him like a shroud.
Below, the streets were eerily quiet. The people of Númenor had grown arrogant, forsaking their old reverence for the Valar in their quest for eternal life. Elros could feel the weight of their collective hubris pressing against his chest like a stone. The warning signs had been there for years—visions in his dreams, whispers in the wind—but now, he saw the truth with his own eyes.
The sea had risen.
A monstrous wave, taller than any mountain, loomed in the distance, its frothing crest illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning. The air grew cold, the taste of salt thick on his tongue. Elros tightened his grip on the goblet, his knuckles turning white. His mind raced with questions. Where is Tar-Míriel? Has she sought refuge, or has she too been swept up in the madness? And Elendil… my dearest friend. Did he escape? Or will he, too, meet his end in these waters?
The wave drew closer, consuming the horizon, and with it came a deafening roar, a sound that swallowed the city's silence and replaced it with chaos. Elros closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer—not to the Valar, who had long abandoned Númenor, but to Eru Ilúvatar himself. The wave crashed over Armenelos, and for a fleeting moment, the world was nothing but darkness and the cold embrace of the sea.
Elros felt himself sinking, his lungs burning as the water filled them. Memories of his life flashed before him—the laughter of his sister, the camaraderie of his friends, the weight of duty that had always been his to bear. Then, there was nothing.
Elros awoke to a strange stillness, his body floating in a void darker than any night. There was no light, no sound, no sensation save for a dull ache that permeated his very being. He was no longer in Númenor, no longer drowning in the wrathful sea. He was… elsewhere. He tried to move, but his limbs felt weightless, as if they no longer belonged to him.
Time lost meaning in the void. Seconds felt like centuries, and yet eternity seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. Then, he felt it—a tug at his very soul, as though unseen hands were drawing him toward some distant shore. He resisted at first, fear clawing at his heart, but the pull was relentless. He had no choice but to surrender.
When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on a sandy beach, the sun warm against his skin. The sound of waves lapping at the shore filled his ears, a sharp contrast to the roar of Númenor's destruction. He pushed himself to his feet, the sand clinging to his armor, and took in his surroundings.
His armor.
Elros glanced down, realizing he was fully clad in the regalia of Númenor. His helmet, intricately designed with a prominent visor and decorative feathers, sat beside him on the sand. His chest plate bore the emblem of the White Tree of Númenor, Nimloth, its branches etched with exquisite detail. Steel gauntlets and boots glinted in the sunlight, and a dark red cloak draped over his shoulders, its edges trailing in the sand like the remnants of a forgotten king's banner.
At his feet lay two weapons, both of them legends in their own right. He knelt, his breath catching as he reached for the first: Aranrúth, the sword of the Kings of Númenor. Its hilt was adorned with ornate designs, and the blade itself gleamed with an otherworldly brilliance, as if it had been forged from starlight. He held it with reverence, the weight of its history pressing against his soul. This was the blade of his ancestors, a weapon that had defended Númenor through countless ages. Its edge was sharp enough to cut through steel and iron with ease, a testament to the skill of the smiths who had crafted it.
Beside it lay Dramborleg, the great battle axe of Tuor, his ancestor and one of the greatest heroes of Middle-earth. Elros marveled at its craftsmanship: the twin blades were adorned with sweeping curves and elegant engravings, their edges as deadly as they were beautiful. At the center of the axe, two stylized swans with elongated necks stood in silent testimony to Tuor's legacy. The handle, wrapped in textured leather, felt solid and reassuring in his grip. This was the weapon that had slain a Balrog, a weapon of legend.
Elros stood, the axe in his hands, and let out a deep breath. He felt a surge of purpose, a sense that he had been given a second chance—not to save Númenor, for that was beyond his power, but to carve a new path, to honor the legacy of his ancestors.
He sheathed Aranrúth at his left side, the sword fitting perfectly into the empty scabbard as if it had always belonged there. Dramborleg he held firmly in both hands, its weight comforting, its power palpable. The beach stretched endlessly in both directions, but ahead of him lay a dense forest, its trees dark and foreboding.
Elros squared his shoulders, his gaze fixed on the forest's shadowy depths. He had no map, no guide, and no knowledge of this strange land, but he would not falter. He was Elros, scion of Númenor, and he would meet this new world with the same determination that had defined his people.
With a final glance at the sea behind him, he turned and strode into the forest, the axe gleaming in the sunlight as he disappeared into the shadows.