The forest stretched endlessly before him, a labyrinth of towering trees and tangled undergrowth. For hours, Elros had trudged through its unyielding depths, the dim light of day fading to a dusky twilight. Overhead, the canopy blotted out the sky, leaving him to navigate by instinct and the faint trails of light that filtered through the leaves. His boots crushed the mossy ground beneath them, each step steady and deliberate.
The silence of the forest was uncanny. Only the occasional flutter of wings or the distant call of a bird broke the stillness. It felt as though the world itself were holding its breath, watching him as he moved through the ancient woods. Yet, despite the unease, Elros pressed on.
The weight of his armor was hardly a burden, its familiar heft a reminder of who he was: a Númenórean prince, scion of a line that traced its lineage to the blood of Elves and the gift of Men. And yet, here in this strange land, that legacy seemed distant, like a dream half-remembered.
After ten hours of walking, fatigue began to creep into his body. Even with his superhuman endurance, the unbroken march through the dense forest took its toll. His stomach growled faintly, a reminder that he had not eaten since awakening on the beach. He slowed his pace, scanning the area for any sign of water or sustenance.
Nothing. No streams, no fruit-bearing trees, not even the tracks of small animals. The forest seemed lifeless, as though it existed outside the natural order. The only signs of life were the birds that occasionally darted across the sky, their cries faint and fleeting.
Elros stopped at last, leaning heavily against a tree. The rough bark pressed against his back as he let out a long breath. His grey eyes swept the darkening forest. The sun had sunk below the horizon, and shadows now ruled the land. He would have to stop for the night, and that meant building a camp.
With purposeful movements, he unslung Dramborleg from his back. The battle axe gleamed faintly in the dim light, its edges sharp and unyielding. He approached the nearest tree, a massive trunk that would have taken a mortal man hours to fell, and swung.
The axe cut through the wood with startling ease, its blade cleaving the trunk in a single, clean stroke. The tree groaned before toppling to the ground with a resounding crash, shaking the earth beneath his feet. Elros moved to the next tree, then another, his swings precise and efficient. Within minutes, he had gathered enough wood to build a shelter and fuel a fire.
The work was swift. Even after years of wielding weapons of war, the practicalities of survival were second nature to him. He arranged the wood into a crude but sturdy lean-to, its roof angled to shield him from the elements. Using smaller branches and dried leaves, he built a fire pit in the center of the clearing.
Striking a spark with flint from his belt, he coaxed the fire to life. Flames leapt and danced, their warm glow illuminating the small clearing and casting flickering shadows on the surrounding trees. Elros sat beside it, his back resting against the shelter, and allowed himself a moment of stillness.
The warmth of the fire soothed his muscles, but it did little to ease the storm within him. As he stared into the flames, memories of Númenor surged unbidden to the forefront of his mind.
He thought of Armenelos, its grand towers reaching for the sky, its streets filled with the sounds of laughter and life. He thought of the White Tree of Nimloth, its blossoms a symbol of hope and divine favor, cut down in an act of sacrilege by those who had forsaken the Valar. He thought of Tar-Míriel, his elder sister, her wisdom and grace overshadowed by the cruelty of her husband, Pharazôn.
The name tasted bitter on his tongue. His cousin, his brother-in-law, his rival. Once a man of great promise, Pharazôn had been consumed by ambition. His hunger for power had driven him to defy the Valar, to forsake the ancient ways of Númenor in pursuit of immortality. It was Pharazôn who had led the fleet to Valinor, seeking to wrest eternal life from the hands of the gods themselves.
And it was Pharazôn who had doomed them all.
Elros clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening beneath his gauntlets. The firelight reflected in his grey eyes, turning them to molten silver. Anger bubbled within him, hot and consuming, until it became unbearable.
He stood abruptly, the motion causing his cloak to ripple behind him. His hand found the haft of Dramborleg, and he lifted the battle axe with ease. The weight was reassuring, a focus for the tempest of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.
Without a word, he strode into the forest.
The first tree fell with a single swing, its trunk splintering like kindling beneath the axe's edge. The second followed swiftly, then the third. Each blow was a catharsis, an outlet for the anger and grief that had taken root in his heart.
Pharazôn's face flashed in his mind, his arrogant smile and the glint of pride in his eyes. Elros swung harder, the axe biting deep into the wood. He thought of the people of Númenor, who had turned away from the light, who had traded wisdom for folly and reverence for rebellion.
Another tree fell, its branches snapping as it crashed to the ground.
He thought of Tar-Míriel, her voice like a melody lost to the sea. He thought of Elendil, his steadfast friend, the man who had stood by him through every trial. Were they gone, too? Swallowed by the same wave that had claimed Númenor?
The forest bore the brunt of his fury. Dozens of trees lay scattered like broken soldiers on a battlefield, their trunks torn and splintered. Elros swung until his arms ached, until his breath came in ragged gasps and his vision blurred.
At last, he stopped.
The forest was silent once more, save for the faint crackling of the distant fire. Elros stood amidst the devastation, Dramborleg resting heavily in his hands. His chest heaved, sweat mingling with the cool night air. The anger had burned itself out, leaving only a hollow ache in its place.
He turned and made his way back to the camp. The fire had burned lower, its flames reduced to a gentle glow. He set the axe down beside him and sank to the ground, his exhaustion finally catching up with him.
Elros stared into the embers, his thoughts churning like the sea that had claimed his homeland. Sleep would not come, he knew that now. He did not try to chase it.
Instead, he sat in silence, watching the fire as its light flickered and faded into the night.