When I opened my eyes, I saw white sand and a conch shell half-buried in it. I stared at it, enamored by its simple beauty. As my mind regained consciousness, I became aware of my aching body, the throbbing pain in my leg and head, the cold, gritty feeling of filth all along my ragged clothes and bruised body, the blank numbness of the aftermath of terror.
The waves washed around me, bathing me, seeping into my wounds and stinging. Groaning, I dragged myself along the sand, away from the cursed water. The sand scraped against the gash in my leg and I collapsed once more, too tired and sore to move.
A dark memory floated into my mind – a storm, a great storm, the Valar's wrath administered by Ossë in all his fury. My best friend, my father, hurled into the sea, the ship riding a wave to the heavens, I alone aboard it, then turning over, the wave covering all. Blackness overtaking me, a fleeting thought before I lost consciousness: The Valar have abandoned us.
We would all die by the hand of Morgoth. We were all cursed, unable to even plead for help.
I lifted my head. A few meters ahead, the sand gave way to coarse grass.
I reached out to touch it.
Nothing like the grass in the vale of Tumladen.
But grass nonetheless.
Never again would I sail. I would remain on the solid green earth of Arda until it broke apart, and it, too, foundered beneath the waves.