The cold clash of steel against steel split through the salty air, and the lone Corsair scout jeered at the elf when he stumbled back from the hard strike. His arm throbbed, but the satisfied smirk on the raider’s face when he realized he had the upper hand shot a spark of rage through his body. He would not let himself be beaten by a pirate. This would teach those Corsairs not to mess with a Champion. A roar burst from his throat, the adrenaline thrusting him forward on the unsuspecting thief. The Corsair’s eyes bulged and he attempted to scramble away, but the elf was too fast. He let out a final yell and drew one last wheezing breath as the elf’s sword found its resting place in his gut. The brightly clad buccaneer collapsed in a growing pool of blood and the elf stumbled back, gasping for air. That had been a close one. He needed time to heal his wounds before continuing on down the hill to the main camp. Nothing he couldn’t walk off, but all the same, a breather would be nice. He knelt to clean his sword on the grass. A breeze blew from the west, and his eyes turned towards the source, sheathing his blade and straightening. He took a deep breath, drawing in the fresh air that blew away the stench of blood and sweat, and made his way over to the edge of the cliff.
Breanthir gazed out over the glistening blue waters, the sun already falling down below the horizon. How many years had it been since his father had sailed across those waters to the Undying Lands, never to return to Middle Earth, and Lorien, their faraway home? Leaving him, still a child, alone. He remembered all too well the last time he had seen his Ada under the Golden Woods before he had set off for Edhellond, the very harbor that sprawled out below him. Back when it was still a haven of the elves. Now it was overrun by the Corsair, the brutish people from Umbar that troubled the men of Gondor’s coast so. They looted and ransacked what remained of the deep, rich history of the elves.
A seagull cawed above him and caught his eye, drawing his tired gaze across the bay to the glorious city of men, Dol Amroth. The extravagant towers of the city could be seen just beyond the overgrown ruins of the once-beautiful, bustling port of elves, an excellent reminder to the sentimental elf of what needed to be done. The age of the elves in Middle Earth may be fading, but that didn’t mean the elves couldn’t guide and help the men as their age dawned.
He whistled for his horse, a fine steed given to him by another group of men he’d aided, the mighty Rohirrim. He took one last longing gaze at the ruins, his eyes travelling over the mossy, worn statue of the elf-maiden Nimrodel, over the wretched ships of the Corsair, over the water—over the water, out where somewhere in the West his Ada waited. But it wasn’t his time. Breanthir threw the reins and his horse took off for Dol Amroth.
He had a city to save.