The first rays of dawn filtered through the wooden shutters of the great hall, casting a soft light over its interior. Elros stirred from his sleep, the faint scent of the sea wafting in with the morning breeze. Rising from his makeshift bed near the hearth, he stretched his tall frame and ran a hand through his long, dark hair.
After eating the leftover fish from the night before, he turned his attention to his armor. It sat on the long wooden table in the center of the hall, its steel surfaces gleaming faintly in the light. Meticulously, he cleaned each piece, ensuring no speck of dirt or rust marred its perfection. The chest plate, adorned with the White Tree of Númenor, received particular care.
Once the armor was tended to, he donned his sword belt and secured Aranrúth in its sheath. The weapon, a legacy of his ancestors, hung heavy at his side, a constant reminder of his heritage. He grabbed his fishing spear—a simple tool, but one that had sustained him over the past year—and stepped outside.
The air was crisp, the waves lapping rhythmically against the shore as Elros made his way to the beach. Wading into the shallows, he stood motionless, the spear poised in his hand. His grey eyes scanned the water for signs of movement, his focus absolute.
It was then he heard it—a low, resonant sound that carried across the waves.
A horn.
Elros turned sharply toward the sound, his gaze fixing on the horizon. Emerging from the morning mist was a longship, its curved prow cutting through the water. The ship was manned by warriors, their weapons glinting in the sunlight. Shields lined the sides of the vessel, painted with sigils he did not recognize.
His heart lifted at the sight of other people, but his joy was tempered by caution. The weapons in their hands spoke of intent, and their war cries, carried faintly on the wind, confirmed it.
As the longship reached the shore, Elros approached slowly, his spear in hand. The warriors disembarked, their bronze armor catching the light. They were shorter than him by far, their faces marked with war paint and their eyes filled with aggression.
Elros raised a hand in greeting, speaking in Adûnaic. "Greetings, travelers. Who are you, and what brings you to this isle?"
The warriors stared at him, their expressions a mix of confusion and suspicion. They spoke among themselves in a harsh, guttural tongue that Elros did not understand. He tried again, this time in Sindarin, but it was no use.
One of the warriors—a man with a notched sword and a cruel smile—raised his hand, and an archer on the longship loosed an arrow.
Elros's reflexes took over. His hand shot out, catching the arrow mid-flight. He snapped it in two, his grey eyes narrowing as his expression darkened.
"So be it," he muttered, drawing Aranrúth from its sheath. The sword gleamed like liquid silver in the sunlight, its edge keen and unyielding.
The warriors charged.
Elros held his ground, waiting for them to close the distance. The first attacker swung a bronze axe at his head, but Elros sidestepped, his movements fluid and precise. With a single stroke, Aranrúth cleaved through the man's weapon, splitting it in two before cutting into his torso. The warrior crumpled to the sand, blood pooling around him.
Another came at him with a spear, aiming for his chest. Elros parried the thrust with ease, his sword cutting through the shaft as though it were nothing. He stepped forward, driving the pommel of Aranrúth into the man's face. The warrior fell backward with a sickening crunch, his helmet dented and his nose shattered.
The beach erupted into chaos.
Elros moved with the precision of a master swordsman, his strikes swift and lethal. Aranrúth cut through bronze shields, severed limbs, and pierced armor as if they were made of paper. Blood sprayed across the sand as bodies fell around him.
A warrior lunged at him with a dagger, aiming for his side. Elros caught the man's wrist and twisted, forcing him to drop the blade. In one fluid motion, he drove Aranrúth through the man's chest, the blade emerging from his back.
Another came from behind, wielding a club. Elros spun, his sword slicing through the man's midsection. The warrior screamed as he fell, clutching at the gaping wound.
The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, the cries of the dying mingling with the roar of the waves. Elros's was splattered with gore, his breaths coming in steady, controlled bursts.
The last of the warriors hesitated, their courage faltering as they saw the carnage before them. Elros advanced, his tall frame casting a long shadow over them. One tried to flee, but Aranrúth's blade found his back, felling him before he could reach the ship.
The archer who had loosed the arrow at him was still on the longship, frantically nocking another arrow. Elros strode toward the vessel, his eyes cold and unrelenting. The archer loosed his shot, but Elros deflected it with his sword. He climbed aboard the ship, his blade flashing.
The archer didn't even have time to scream.
As Elros turned to leave, he heard a faint groan. His gaze shifted to the back of the longship, where he saw a young woman tied to a mast. Her clothes were torn, her body battered, and her face bore the marks of cruel treatment. She was unconscious, her breathing shallow.
A wave of anger surged through him. The thought of what these men had done to her filled him with a fury he hadn't felt since the fall of Númenor. He sheathed Aranrúth and approached her, his movements gentle.
Carefully, he cut the ropes binding her and lifted her into his arms. She was light, almost too light, her body frail from what she had endured. Her head rested against his chest as he carried her off the ship and back to the great hall.
Inside, he placed her on the bed, arranging the blankets to keep her warm. He knelt beside her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"You are safe now," he said softly, though he knew she could not hear him.
The hall fell silent, save for the crackling of the hearth. Outside, the beach was stained with blood, a grim reminder of the battle that had taken place. But within these walls, there was peace—a fragile, fleeting peace that Elros vowed to protect.