The ruins of Osgiliath sprawled beneath the silvered moonlight, their jagged spires and crumbled walls stretching into the shadows like the ribs of some long-dead beast.
The Anduin murmured beyond the jagged skyline, its voice steady and indifferent, as if the river bore the collective weight of the city’s lost past. A faint breeze stirred the rubble-strewn streets, carrying the smell of damp stone and the faint, sharp tang of iron that seemed to linger in every corner of the ruins.

Ungoránë moved through the shattered city alone, the axe in his hand grounding him against the restless pull of his thoughts. The firelight of the camp was far behind him now, its warmth and familiar sounds replaced by the cold and the peaceful solitude of the night. He told himself this was necessary—patrols were part of the routine, after all—but the truth was simpler. He walked because he couldn’t sit still; the stillness of the camp pressed against him in ways he couldn’t explain. Out here, among the ruins, the silence felt more honest. It cut clean rather than smothering.

His steps were quiet against the broken stone, and his rhythm was steady yet instinctive. He knew these treacherous streets well by now, but at night, the shadows deepened, and the labyrinth of broken walls grew vast and unknowable. He moved like the soldier he was—alert, precise, and ready.

A faint scrape against stone broke the silence, followed by a rustle—something shifting just out of sight. Ungoránë froze, his grip tightening on the axe as his instincts flared.
His eyes swept the shadows, the broken walls looming under the pale moonlight. Then it came—a flicker of movement, quick and darting, vanishing behind a jagged wall like a startled animal.

Ungoránë moved cautiously, his steps deliberate as he approached. Another flicker of movement darted behind a shattered column, quick and skittish. His heart quickened as his gaze locked onto the faint outline of something small—a fragile shadow slipping between the ruins.

As Ungoránë drew closer, the shadow resolved into a boy—no older than nine. A tattered cloak draped over his thin shoulders, clinging to his bony frame. He clutched a stick like a weapon, his trembling hands and shallow breaths betraying how little strength he had left.

“Easy,” Ungoránë murmured, his voice low and steady. He lowered the axe, his movements slow and deliberate. “I won’t hurt you.”

The boy said nothing, his wide eyes locked on Ungoránë with a blend of fear and defiance. His knuckles whitened around the stick, though it wavered with every breath—a weapon wielded against his own terror more than anything else.

“What are you doing here?” Ungoránë asked, his voice soft but firm as he took a cautious step closer. These ruins weren’t safe for anyone, least of all a child.

The boy hesitated, his lips trembling as though the words were caught in his throat. When he finally spoke, it was a whisper. “Looking.”

“For what?” Ungoránë pressed, his chest tightening as he waited for the answer.

The boy’s gaze dropped to the ground, his shoulders hunching as though the weight of the words was too much to bear. “My brother,” he said, his voice cracking under the strain.

The words hit Ungoránë like a blade, sharp and unexpected. His grip on the axe tightened reflexively before he forced himself to loosen it. He inhaled slowly, steadying himself against the memories that stirred unbidden—memories of his brother and a voice he would give anything to hear again.

“What’s his name?” he asked, his voice quieter now, laced with something softer.

“Arad,” the boy said. His shoulders shook slightly as he spoke. “He told me to wait… but my brother didn’t return.”

Ungoránë’s chest ached; the boy’s words sliced through the brittle walls he had kept around his grief. He glanced at the ruins surrounding them, the silence pressing down heavier, as if the former city were holding its breath.

“Where did you last see him?” he asked, keeping his tone even, though his stomach twisted with the answer he feared.

The boy raised a trembling hand and pointed toward the river, where the Anduin glinted faintly under the moonlight. “By the water.”

They moved together, Ungoránë’s steps deliberate as his eyes scanned the ruins ahead. The boy’s small figure tailed him, clutching his stick like a lifeline. The air grew colder as they approached the Anduin, the faint scent of water mingling with something sharper—something metallic. Ungoránë’s stomach twisted, his instincts whispering warnings he tried to ignore. The weight of the axe steadied him as unease curled in his stomach. The boy clutched his stick like a talisman, though his grip faltered with each step. Ungoránë didn’t tell him to put it down. He understood what it meant to hold on to something, even if it wouldn’t save him.

The Anduin stretched before them, rippling silver under the cold moonlight. Its steady whispers wove between the ruins, masking the soft sound of their footsteps. Ungoránë felt its calmness like a warning—the kind of quiet that always came before something broke.

The boy broke the silence first. “Arad!” he called, his voice raw and desperate.

The boy’s voice echoed off the broken stones, bouncing into the emptiness with a hollowness that quickened Ungoránë’s pulse. Somewhere near the water, a faint splash broke the quiet, rippling through the oppressive stillness. It could have been the river—but it could have been something else. Ungoránë’s jaw tightened, and his grip on the axe grew firmer as he pressed on. The river murmured its reply, indifferent and unyielding.

Ungoránë’s jaw tightened. He scanned the rocky shoreline, his eyes sharp and practiced, but there was nothing to see—just the jagged rocks jutting out of the river’s edge like broken teeth, with the water slipping between them in smooth, relentless currents.

I know what we’ll find, Ungoránë thought grimly. He had known it from the moment he saw the boy’s face, pale with a hope too fragile to last. But he didn’t stop him from calling out. Hope was cruel that way—it had to run its course before it could die.

“Arad!” the boy called again, louder this time. The sound cracked in the air like a whip, sharp and filled with something that made Ungoránë’s throat tighten. He didn’t stop walking but slowed his steps, his eyes catching a shape near the water’s edge. His chest constricted. A dark shape caught the moonlight near the river’s edge, crumpled against the jagged rocks.

Ungoránë stopped abruptly, instincts roaring. He placed a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Wait here,” he said, his voice steady despite the thunder in his ears.

The boy froze, his stick trembling. His wide eyes followed Ungoránë’s gaze, and when he understood, his knees buckled. The stick slipped from his fingers as he stumbled, but Ungoránë caught him with a hand on his chest.

“Stay,” Ungoránë repeated, his voice softening yet not wavering.

He knelt beside the body, his movements slow and deliberate, his breath catching in his throat. The figure—Arad, Ungoránë realized with sick certainty—lay crumpled among the rocks, his small frame twisted unnaturally, one hand outstretched toward the river. One hand was outstretched toward the river; his fingers curled as if grasping for something just beyond reach. The jagged wound in his chest told Ungoránë everything he needed to know, and his stomach churned as if he had been struck himself. Ungoránë swallowed hard; the familiar weight of guilt settled into his chest like an old friend.

Behind him, the boy’s voice broke the heavy silence: “He said he’d come back.” The words hung in the air, fragile and raw, shattering the stillness like the faint echo of a cry that would never be answered.

Ungoránë didn’t look back. His hands were steady as he closed the man’s outstretched hand, folding it carefully against his chest. “You don’t leave him here,” Ungoránë murmured, though he wasn’t sure if he was speaking to himself or the boy. “Not like this.”

The cold earth clung to Ungoránë’s hands, biting through his skin as he worked; his movements were slow but deliberate. Each scrape of stone against stone cut through the silence—a sharp echo in the stillness of the night.

Beside him, the boy knelt in silence, his trembling hands struggling to push a rock into place. He hesitated for a moment, his fingers slipping before pressing it down with unsteady resolve. His breath came in shallow bursts, each one catching like a sob he refused to release.

The cairn rose slowly, a jagged mound of stone that felt both fragile and immovable. Each rock was a bitter offering, a weight added to the finality of what they were doing. Ungoránë didn’t speak; the silence felt sacred, heavy with a grief that couldn’t be soothed.

The Anduin whispered behind them, its steady flow mocking in its indifference. The cold air pressed around them, sharp and unrelenting, as though the night itself mourned.

When the last stone was placed, the boy sat back on his heels, his hands falling limply into his lap. His small frame trembled, and his hollow eyes were fixed on the cairn as though willing it to undo the truth it held.

“What do I do now?” he asked, his voice thin and raw, the words barely more than a whisper. He didn’t look at Ungoránë; his gaze was anchored to the stones.

Ungoránë knelt beside him, resting a firm yet gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. He didn’t answer right away; his own gaze settled on the cairn. “You keep going,” he said at last, his voice low yet unyielding. “For him. For yourself. You keep going.”

The boy’s lip quivered, but no tears came. The weight of grief pressed too heavily on both of them, too raw and vast for something as simple as crying. Instead, they stayed there, side by side, as the cold air wrapped around them like a second skin.

The firelight flickered weakly as they approached, its glow a faint promise against the vast cold of the night. The boy’s small hand clutched Ungoránë’s sleeve, his grip light but steady, as though he wasn’t ready to let go. The murmurs of the camp reached them first—the low hum of tired voices and the occasional scrape of whetstones on steel. It was the sound of soldiers returning to normalcy after chaos.

Thordur was the first to see them. He stood slowly, his sharp eyes flicking between Ungoránë and the boy. His expression shifted from curiosity to quiet understanding. He approached without a word, his movements slow and deliberate, giving the boy time to adjust to his towering presence.

“What’s this?” Thordur asked finally, his voice light but laced with concern.

Ungoránë didn’t hesitate. “Another brother,” he said simply.

Thordur raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached into his pouch and pulled out a piece of bread, holding it out to the boy. “Eat up, lad,” he said, his tone warm despite its usual dryness. “You’ve had a long night.”

The boy took it hesitantly, his fingers curling around the bread as though it might vanish if he loosened his grip. He nibbled at it in silence, his wide eyes darting between the soldiers around the fire. Thordur sat back down, his usual humor subdued but not absent. He observed the boy, his sharp gaze softening in a way Ungoránë hadn’t expected.

Ungoránë lowered himself to the ground beside the fire, its warmth brushing against his skin. The boy stayed close, the stick he had carried abandoned in the ruins. Ungoránë felt the weight of the night settle into his bones, but he didn’t push it away. He sat in silence, anchored by the flicker of firelight and the quiet presence of the boy.

Thordur glanced at him from across the fire, his expression unreadable. But there was something in his gaze—an acknowledgment, perhaps; a shared understanding that required no words.

The fire crackled softly, its light flickering over their faces. For a moment, the cold seemed just a little farther away.