Dawn broke over the forest, its pale light filtering through the treetops in golden shafts. Elros rose from his makeshift bed, his body rested but his mind still heavy with the memories of the night before. The embers of his campfire smoldered faintly, a faint wisp of smoke curling into the crisp morning air.
He strapped Dramborleg to his back and adjusted the sword Aranrúth in its sheath at his hip. Without looking back at the shelter he had built, Elros stepped forward and began walking. The forest had been his silent companion, but he was eager to leave its dense embrace.
The trees began to thin after an hour, their trunks spaced farther apart, until he finally emerged into open land. Before him stretched a barren plain dotted with stones and overgrown with weeds. In the distance, he spotted the crumbled remains of a village, its ruins stark against the backdrop of the morning sky.
Elros approached cautiously. The air was thick with an eerie stillness, broken only by the whisper of the wind. As he stepped into the village, his grey eyes took in the shattered remnants of what had once been homes. Walls had collapsed, roofs were caved in, and the stone foundations were cracked and weathered by time.
He stopped in his tracks when he saw the first skeleton.
It lay sprawled in the dirt, its bony limbs contorted unnaturally. Elros knelt to inspect it, noticing that its arms were missing from the shoulders down. He moved deeper into the ruins, and the scene grew grimmer.
Skeletons littered the ground, scattered as though the villagers had been dragged or flung. Many were missing limbs; some had no legs, others no hands. The remains were ancient, brittle with age. Some had decomposed to the point where only fragments remained, yet the horror of their final moments lingered like a shadow over the ruins.
Elros's heart tightened as his gaze fell upon smaller skeletons, the remains of children. Their tiny forms were twisted and broken, their bones fragile and incomplete. He closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to remain composed. But the sight gnawed at him, a mix of sorrow and anger roiling in his chest.
What kind of monsters could do this? he thought bitterly.
Rising to his feet, Elros surveyed the ruins, the broken lives they represented. He could not let these people—these innocents—be forgotten, left to decay in the dirt like animals. They deserved better.
He moved to the edge of the village, where the forest crept back into view. Gripping Dramborleg tightly, he began to cut down trees. Each swing of the axe was purposeful, the blade cleaving through the wood with ease. He worked tirelessly, stripping branches and stacking the logs into a massive pyre in the center of the village.
It took hours, but Elros did not falter. The sun climbed high in the sky as he carried the remains of the villagers, placing each skeleton carefully atop the pyre. He worked with reverence, handling even the smallest fragments as though they were sacred relics.
When at last he was finished, he stood before the towering structure, his expression somber. He placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head, murmuring a prayer in Adûnaic, the tongue of his people.
With a single spark, the pyre ignited. Flames roared to life, consuming the wood and the remains in a blaze that reached toward the heavens. Elros watched in silence as the fire burned, its light casting long shadows over the ruined village. The smoke rose into the sky, carrying with it the memory of those who had perished.
As the fire began to wane, Elros turned and made his way toward the beach.
The shoreline stretched out before him, a ribbon of white sand bordered by the endless expanse of the sea. The waves lapped gently against the shore, their rhythm soothing in its constancy. Elros walked along the beach, his boots crunching against the stones that dotted the sand.
He paused to look out over the water, his mind turning over the events of the past two days. From the beach where he had first awakened to the forest and now to this ruined village, the island had revealed itself piece by piece. It was small, he realized, small enough that he had crossed its breadth in less than two days.
His gaze dropped to the stones beneath his feet, their surfaces smooth and weathered by the tide. The beach where he had awoken was similarly covered in stones, as though the island itself had been shaped by the sea's relentless embrace.
Elros spoke softly to himself, testing the words as they came to him.
"Phalak an-Kadar."
The Isle of Stone.
The name felt fitting, a mark of permanence in a world that seemed so transient. Elros repeated it, the syllables firm in his mouth, their meaning clear. This island, this lonely shard of land in an unknown sea, would be Phalak an-Kadar.
Satisfied, he turned back toward the village.
At its center stood a great hall, its once-proud structure now a skeleton of stone and timber. The roof had partially collapsed, and vines crept along the walls, reclaiming it for the forest. Yet, despite its decay, it had an air of dignity, as though it had stood defiant against time itself.
Elros stepped inside, the faint echo of his boots on the stone floor the only sound. The hall was spacious, its high ceiling supported by massive beams that had weathered the years better than most of the village. A broken table lay in the center, surrounded by shattered chairs. Dust coated every surface, but the space felt solid, enduring.
Elros nodded to himself.
"This will do," he murmured.
It would be his home for now, a place to gather his thoughts and plan his next steps. He set about clearing the space, moving broken furniture and debris to one side. The work was steady, almost meditative, and by the time the sun began to set, the hall felt less like a ruin and more like a refuge.
He stood at the doorway as the first stars appeared in the sky, their light reflected in the gentle waves beyond the beach. For the first time since waking on this island, Elros felt a sense of purpose. Phalak an-Kadar was his now—a place to honor the dead, to remember the past, and to prepare for the future.
And as the night enveloped the island, the Númenórean prince stood tall, a solitary figure against the vastness of the sea.