The first thing Elros noticed when he woke up was the unsettling stillness that filled the great hall. The crackling of the fire was quiet, the shadows long and untouched by the soft light of dawn. As his eyes opened, he immediately saw the door—the heavy wooden door—was wide open.
His heart skipped a beat. The girl.
He shot out of bed in an instant, his mind racing. She had escaped. After all the care he'd taken to help her, after the trust he thought they were beginning to build, she had slipped away in the night. The door had been left ajar, and the wind whispered through the opening, as if mocking his lapse in attention.
He didn't waste a second more. Elros quickly gathered his things—his sword, his shield, and the leather straps of his armor—before rushing out into the pale light of the early morning.
The island was still, the soft hum of the forest at peace, and as he moved into the thick brush, he knew he had to find her. Her tracks were easy to follow—she had left behind an obvious trail, though it wasn't hard to guess she had no real plan or destination. She was simply running, or perhaps fleeing.
After a few moments, Elros emerged from the forest into the clearing where he had battled the raiders. There, crouched by the corpses of the men he had slain, was the girl. She was bent over one of the bodies, her hands rifling through their clothing as though searching for something.
Elros moved quietly, careful not to alert her to his presence. His breath was steady, his steps silent as he approached from behind. She hadn't noticed him yet, her focus solely on the task at hand.
In one swift motion, Elros grabbed her wrist, his grip firm yet not unkind. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice low.
The girl flinched, her body tense, but she didn't resist his hold. She turned to him with wide eyes, and her gaze dropped to the hand that held her. Then, without a word, she pointed at the chest—the very chest that Elros had brought from the longship. Her finger hovered over the keyhole, a silent plea in her expression.
He understood. She had come here for the key.
Elros let go of her wrist, his expression softening. He didn't want to fight her again; this time, he would help her. He nodded, turning to the bodies of the raiders. "We'll look together," he said, his voice steady.
The two of them worked in silence, searching through the corpses. Elros's mind wandered as he sorted through the scavenged remains. He thought of the chest, of its mystery, of the strange banners that had come with it. It seemed that these raiders had more than just a cruel intent—they were tied to something much larger, a history Elros didn't fully understand.
After several minutes, Elros found nothing but the remnants of old armor and discarded weapons. No key. Frustration gnawed at him, but he didn't let it show.
His fingers brushed against something smooth and familiar. He looked down to see a flask of alcohol tucked into one of the raiders' belts. With a sigh, Elros unscrewed the cap and took a swig, the strong liquid burning his throat as it slid down. It did little to him; Numenoreans were known to be able to drink their fill without much effect, and Elros had always been the best among them.
As the taste lingered on his tongue, he couldn't help but think back to the taverns of Númenor—those grand halls filled with song and drink, where he and Elendil had spent hours laughing, debating, and drinking together. Elendil had always been the more disciplined one, but Elros had always won in the end, beating his friend at every drinking contest, much to Elendil's dismay. They had celebrated victories, drowned their sorrows, and raised their mugs to the glory of Númenor, as if nothing could ever touch them.
The memory made his chest tighten. Those days seemed so distant now, like a dream fading in the light of day.
A soft tap on his shoulder startled him from his thoughts. Elros turned to see the girl standing there, her eyes wide, a glimmer of something triumphant in her expression.
In her hand, she held a small, intricately designed key. Elros's breath caught as he saw the eight-rayed star embossed on the surface, its intricate beauty unmistakable.
Without thinking, Elros took the key from her, his mind racing. He remembered something—something from his childhood. He had once read a book about the legends of the First Age. The eight-rayed star. It was a symbol of House Fëanor, the legendary Elven house of the First Age, a symbol of their crafts and power. The sight of it stirred something deep within Elros, a flicker of recognition he couldn't quite place.
The girl watched him closely as he held the key in his hand. Her eyes were wide with expectation, and Elros understood.
He nodded, a silent promise, and turned to the chest. With steady hands, he fitted the key into the lock. There was a soft click as the chest opened.
What lay inside took his breath away.
The first thing he saw was a white banner, its fabric soft and worn with age. In the center was the eight-rayed star of House Fëanor, displayed in all its glory. The banner was meticulously crafted, every stitch an echo of ancient history. The moment the girl saw it, her face softened, and she reached forward, gently pulling the banner from the chest. She held it close, hugging it to her chest as if it were a long-lost treasure.
Elros stepped back, his heart beating faster as his eyes moved to the bottom of the chest. He hadn't expected what lay beneath the banner.
There, hidden beneath the folds of the cloth, was something else—a relic of unimaginable power and significance. Elros's eyes widened in awe as he gazed upon it. It was an object of great age, one that seemed to shimmer with a light of its own. What it was, Elros could not yet comprehend, but he knew it was something ancient. Something that could change everything.
He stood there, staring down at the chest, the girl holding the banner close to her, both of them caught in the pull of fate and history. The weight of the moment pressed down on him.
For the first time since his arrival on this island, Elros realized that this was no random series of events. He had stumbled into something much larger, a story that spanned the ages.