From afar, Voronwë's sharp eyes espied a mountain from the land of his birth, and he rejoiced to believe his journey was finally coming to an end. But his hopes were dashed like the hull off his ship when a storm came out from the West. A message from the Valar that the way was closed to the Noldor.

Some of his crew are already swallowed by the depths, so Voronwë is sure he is going to become another drowned soul trapped in the hair of Uinen. That is not to be his fate, however, as a gentler wave whisks him away from the Valar's wrath. He could barely register how long it takes until he washes ashore alongside seaweed and shingle-drift.

Not wanting to be near the water for now, he drags himself away from the ocean. His dark hair clings to his face, and his grey cloak feels heavy on his shoulders, the events just barely registering in his dazed state. Sand seeps into his boots, but he does not mind.

Sea-grey eyes gaze beyond the ruin of the beaches out over the long ridges of the waves. All is still, and there is no sound save the roaring of the surf below. A thin sliver of the Moon is up; he would have to make a fire if he wishes for dry clothes.

Wanting a better source of light than the cold stars, he takes out his lantern—the waves have not swept it away. When he finishes fumbling with it, the place is lit up in blue. He finally takes in his surroundings and realizes he is not alone on the beach.