The great hall stood tall once more, a testament to Elros's perseverance and resourcefulness. Where once it had been a crumbling ruin, its walls were now whole, crafted from the stones of nearby buildings and reinforced with wood from the forest he had cleared. The roof, rebuilt with tightly woven thatch and sturdy timbers, held firm against the elements. Though it was no longer the grand structure it might have once been, it was a home—strong, warm, and enduring.
A year had passed since Elros had awoken on this isle, and in that time, he had transformed it from a desolate ruin into something resembling a sanctuary. The work had been grueling but satisfying, each day a new challenge to overcome. He had scavenged what he could from the ruins of the village, using stones, beams, and even nails to aid in his reconstruction efforts. What he could not find, he crafted.
The trees he had felled in his anger became the foundation of his new life. He had shaped their wood into beams, planks, and tools. From a sturdy branch, he had fashioned a fishing spear, its tip sharpened to a lethal point. With this simple weapon, he ventured to the beaches, where schools of fish swam close to the shore.
Elros stood ankle-deep in the water now, the waves lapping gently against his boots. He held the spear steady, his grey eyes fixed on the shimmering forms darting beneath the surface. Patience was key, as it always was with fishing. He waited, motionless, until one of the fish strayed too close.
In a swift, practiced motion, he thrust the spear downward, piercing the fish cleanly. Lifting it from the water, he examined his catch—a silver-scaled beauty that would make a fine meal. He added it to the basket slung over his shoulder, which already held two others.
Satisfied with his haul, Elros made his way back to the great hall.
The path from the beach to the hall was one he had walked countless times, and it bore the signs of his presence. The grass had been worn away by his footsteps, revealing a clear trail through the overgrowth. Along the way, he passed the remains of the village, now little more than a collection of stone foundations. The pyre he had built a year ago was nothing but ash, scattered by the wind.
The sight still brought a pang of sorrow to his heart, but it was no longer the sharp, consuming grief it had once been. Time, along with his daily labors, had dulled the edges of his pain.
The hall loomed ahead. Elros had taken great care in its restoration, and every piece of it bore the mark of his hands. The doors, carved from thick oak, creaked slightly as he pushed them open and stepped inside.
The interior was simple but functional. A long wooden table dominated the center of the room, surrounded by chairs he had pieced together from salvaged wood. A hearth at the far end of the hall provided warmth, its flames flickering against the stone walls. The banners that once hung here were long gone, but Elros had fashioned new ones from scraps of cloth he had found. They bore no sigil, only the deep red and silver hues that reminded him of Númenor.
He set the basket of fish on the table and began preparing his meal. Cleaning the fish was second nature to him now, his hands working with swift precision. He seasoned the fillets with herbs he had discovered growing along the edges of the forest, their flavors a welcome addition to his otherwise simple diet.
As the fish sizzled over the fire, Elros sat back and allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection.
The past year had been one of solitude, but it had not been without purpose. He had not simply survived—he had thrived. The rhythm of his days, though repetitive, had given him a sense of peace. He rose with the sun, tended to his needs, and worked tirelessly to improve his surroundings. Each night, he slept knowing that he had done all he could to carve out a life for himself on this isle.
And yet, there were moments when the solitude weighed heavily upon him.
He often found his thoughts drifting to Númenor, to the life he had left behind. He thought of Tar-Míriel, her wise and gentle counsel, and of Elendil, his steadfast friend. He thought of the White Tree and the great city of Armenelos, and of the people who had once called him prince.
He thought of Pharazôn, too, though he tried not to. The bitterness of his betrayal still lingered, a wound that time could not yet heal.
The fish was ready. Elros removed it from the fire and ate in silence, savoring the simple meal. The food nourished his body, but his mind remained restless. He wondered, not for the first time, if he was truly alone on this isle.
He had explored much of it in the past year, mapping its beaches, forests, and cliffs. It was small, barely large enough to sustain him, but he had found no signs of other people. If anyone had lived here before the village's destruction, they were long gone.
Elros leaned back in his chair, staring into the fire.
"Phalak an-Kadar," he murmured, the words heavy on his tongue. The Isle of Stone.
This place was his home now, for better or worse. He had claimed it, shaped it, and made it his own. Yet, as the fire crackled and the shadows danced along the walls, he could not shake the feeling that his time here was only the beginning.
Elros rose and walked to the doorway, stepping out into the cool night air. The stars were bright overhead, their light reflected on the dark surface of the sea. He stood there for a long time, the wind tugging at his dark hair, and wondered what lay beyond the horizon.