The fire burned low, a fragile ember fighting against the vast press of night. Its light stretched thin and flickered, a heartbeat of gold against the ruin-black shadows of Osgiliath. The men huddled close, their shapes half-formed in the firelight, phantoms of flesh and steel that wavered and blurred like smoke. The air was heavy, thick with the twin ghosts of smoke and blood, clinging to skin and armor, seeping into memory. It was the kind of night that felt eternal, the kind where silence held its breath, waiting for something to break.
The soldiers sat in scattered clusters, their movements slow, heavy, and deliberate—like men carrying unseen burdens. Their faces were pale and drawn, exhaustion carved into every hollow and line. A faint murmur threaded through the camp, rising and falling with the fire’s soft crackle, like a song remembered in fragments. The voices held no laughter, no brightness—only the quiet, colorless cadence of men who were too worn to think of their sorrows and too haunted to find sleep.
Ungoránë sat apart, the firelight touching him lightly, like a thing unsure of its welcome. It brushed his shoulders and fell away, leaving the rest of him cloaked in shadow. Across his knees lay an axe, its blade chipped and dark, its leather-wrapped haft slick with sweat and blood. It was a weary thing, as scarred and battered as the hands that held it. His fingers curled tightly around it, white-knuckled and unyielding, as though it were not just an axe but an anchor—something solid in a world that threatened to slip away if he let go.
The firelight played across his face, casting it half in shadow, as if it couldn’t decide whether to bare him to the world or let him vanish into darkness. It caught the sharp lines of his jaw and the deep hollows beneath his eyes, carving him into something harder than flesh—something weathered and worn thin. He stared into the flames, his gaze glassy and distant, like a man looking through a window into another world. The day’s battle flickered in his mind, disjointed and cruel: the clash of steel, voices turned to raw screams, and the sound—gods, the sound—of hooves like thunder crashing through the ruins. Even now, the echo lingered, relentless as an unpaid debt.
Across the fire, Thordur’s voice cut through the low murmur, as clean and sudden as a blade sliding free of its sheath. There was an edge to it, sharp and bitter, like a man spitting out something that tasted foul. “Bastards hit hard and fast,” he said, the words clipped and deliberate, each one falling like a stone into a still pond. “We held them. Barely. Next time, they’ll hit harder. Heavier.” He left the thought hanging there, unspoken but understood. That’s how it always was. War didn’t come in gentle waves—it crashed like the tide, each return heavier than the last.
Thordur’s words hung in the air, heavy and brittle as old iron. A few men nodded, their motions slow and perfunctory, as though agreement was all they could muster. Across the fire, Gamil shifted, his back settling against the cold, pitted stone of a ruined pillar. His shield leaned beside him like an old friend, its surface marred by fresh scars. Gamil’s face was pale in the firelight, his hair plastered to his brow in damp, uneven strands. Still, his gaze turned to Ungoránë, shadowed yet steady, like a man staring down at something larger than himself and refusing to blink.
“You moved quickly today, Ungoránë,” Gamil rasped, his voice rough as a blade dragged over stone. He slumped against the crumbling pillar like a man who’d forgotten how to hold himself upright. His shield leaned beside him, battered and crooked, the metal scarred by a jagged crack that told its own story of the day’s fight. Sweat dripped from his hair, dark and plastered against his brow, and the deep hollows beneath his eyes looked carved from something harder than flesh—exhaustion that sleep would never touch.
“That bastard had me dead to rights,” Gamil went on, his voice quieter now, raw with something between fatigue and truth. He rubbed a trembling hand over the back of his neck, his fingers uncertain, like he wasn’t used to gratitude sitting in his mouth. “You didn’t have to, but you did. I wouldn’t be here otherwise, I reckon.”
The words lingered in the air like smoke, curling softly and slowly before settling where they pleased. The fire’s glow wavered, throwing uneven shadows that seemed to breathe on their faces. One by one, the conversation sputtered out until the quiet grew thick enough to hold a man down. Ungoránë felt their gazes like hands on his shoulders—heavy, unspoken, pressing.
The firelight touched them in pieces: hollow cheeks turned to gold, pale eyes ringed with shadows, mouths that opened but found no words. Their expressions were strange, caught somewhere between curiosity and something quieter—relief, maybe, or gratitude still too raw to trust with a voice.
Ungoránë shifted subtly, like a man trying not to disturb the stillness of deep water. His shoulders curled in under the weight of their eyes, though he never once looked up. His focus remained on the axe across his knees, its edge dull and notched, blood drying to brittle rust where it clung stubbornly.
Slowly, his fingers traced the leather grip, worn smooth by sweat and time. There was comfort in it—a simple, solid truth he could hold onto. It had weight, real and familiar, in a world that so often felt as if it might slip through his hands.
“You would’ve done the same,” Ungoránë said at last. His voice was quiet and steady, as if the words weighed nothing at all. A lie, of course. Words always weighed something, even the smallest ones.
“Maybe.” Gamil’s mouth pulled into the ghost of a smile, thin and weary. He scrubbed at the back of his neck, his hand trembling faintly; though whether from bone-deep fatigue or something less obvious was hard to say. “Still, thanks.”
The word landed with a soft finality, like a stone dropped into still water. Small, but it sent ripples all the same.
There was a moment of silence before Azrak spoke; the silence around him pulled tight, trembling.
He sat cross-legged, his shoulders stiff as if the weight of the day clung to him like damp clothes.
Across his lap lay his sword, its blade dulled and streaked with grime—a tarnished thing of violence.
Yet his fingers held the hilt as if it were the last true thing in a world that kept shifting beneath him.
His knuckles had gone pale, his grip fierce and unyielding, though there was no enemy left to fight.
When he finally spoke, his voice came low and fragile, as if he feared it might crack under the strain of being heard.
“You saved me too,” Azrak said, his voice small and unsteady, trembling like a thin string plucked in the quiet. It barely rose above the fire’s faint crackle, almost lost in the restless dance of the flames. His eyes stayed fixed on the firelight, locked there as if looking away might undo the moment. “That Southron…” The words faltered, soft and broken, like an arrow that had lost its flight. “I thought I was finished.”
His words dropped into the silence like a stone into still water, sending ripples that spread slowly and surely. Around the fire, the soldiers fell quiet, their murmured voices fading mid-word, like a breath held too long. The weight of Azrak’s confession hung there, heavy and raw, settling over the group like a shared burden no one dared to name.
Thordur leaned back against a splintered column, his movements as unhurried as a man at ease with the world. The firelight caught his face in playful fits and starts, as though it, too, paused to consider him. He tilted his head, the shadow of a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. “Told you he had it in him,” he said, his voice light as falling ash. The tone was casual, well-worn like an old boot, but there was something beneath it—something quieter, warmer. Pride, low and steady, like the coals that keep a fire alive long into the night. “You guys just needed to see what happens around you while fighting.”
Ungoránë’s head came up sharply, his glare like the first spark struck against flint—brief and bright but lacking the fire to catch. Weariness dulled its edges, leaving it more bark than bite. Thordur, for his part, was undisturbed. He met the look with the easy arrogance of a man who had seen this dance before, one brow lifting, his smirk widening just enough to let you know it wasn’t going anywhere.
The fire cracked like a breaking bone, sending sparks leaping into the air—brief and brilliant. They scattered upward, tiny stars born of flame, only to wink out and vanish into the greedy dark. The sound lingered, sharp and abrupt, holding the silence tense and expectant, a pause that never broke.
The thought came like a knife’s edge, sharp and unkind, slicing clean through the fog of his weariness. It was wrong. The words stirred within him, cold and certain, a truth he couldn’t say aloud. This wasn’t heroism, nor was it redemption. It was the raw, desperate refusal to stand still and watch someone die—again. Because he knew, deep down to the core of his bones, what it meant to be late. What it cost. How it feels, and to this day still gnaws.
The leather-wrapped haft of the axe bit into his palm, its roughness a small, solid thing to hold onto—a tether to here, to now. It grounded him, but it didn’t calm the tight knot of tension coiled deep in his chest. The firelight played along the blade’s chipped edge, the flickering glow turning it into something ancient and grim, a relic that had borne witness to every hard choice, every bloody line he’d crossed. It was his record, etched in nicks and rust stains, and it carried the weight of what he’d done—choices that could never be unmade.
The memory pressed close, a presence as persistent as the crackle of the fire—always there, even when the flames burned low. He could still hear it, faint but sharp, like the distant whisper of a wind carrying words from another time. Abrazân’s voice, rough and familiar, wrapped in that steady warmth that never faltered, not even when the world turned cruel. “Keep going, little brother.”
The words sliced through him as clean as a razor. He had kept going, hadn’t he? Step by step, fight by fight, day after day. But going wasn’t the same as moving forward. Moving forward was purpose. This was something else: survival, yes, but laced with penance. Every swing of his axe or sword, every life snuffed out, and every comrade dragged back from death’s edge—it all felt like another stone, laid carefully atop the burden he carried. A weight that grew heavier, quieter, and harder to bear with each step.
I saved them today because I had to, he thought, his jaw clenched tight as the fire muttered and cracked like a riddle. If I hadn’t—if I’d faltered for even a breath—there’d be another soul to haunt me. Another voice in that grim chorus. The thought was sharp, cold, and familiar, like the edge of a blade he’d gripped too long.
He let out a breath, sharp and sudden, like steam escaping from a kettle that had been on the boil too long.
The air was thick with smoke and sweat, clinging to him like a second skin—so familiar it almost felt like home.
His gaze wandered, restless and searching, to the others around the fire. Gamil leaned against his battered shield, his face pale and hollowed by the day’s weight. Azrak still held his sword as though it might slip from his grip and vanish into the dark. And then there was Thordur, all easy slouch and crooked grin, though his eyes carried a heaviness that no smile could lift.
They were here. They were breathing. For now, that would be enough. It had to be.
But the thought lingered, stubborn as smoke in his hair, as the shadows of the past coiled around his heart, always tightening their grip. It’s never enough. The words curled through him, soft and cruel, like a whispered secret. It hadn’t been enough then, and it wouldn’t be enough now. The fire sputtered, flinging embers skyward—brief, bright things that rose and vanished into the vast, unfeeling dark.
He flexed his fingers around the axe handle, slow and deliberate, as though the motion might pry loose the knot of tension coiled tight in his chest. It didn’t. The weight of it all sat heavy on him, a relentless thing, like a hand on his shoulder that refused to let go—reminding him of promises made in quiet moments and the ones he had shattered, or worse, left unfulfilled.
And still, in the quiet corners of his mind, Abrazân’s voice lingered. “Keep going, little brother.”
Later, when the camp sank into an uneasy hush, Ungoránë lingered by the fire. The heat brushed his face, gentle as a hand, yet it failed to touch the cold that had settled somewhere deep inside him. The night pressed close, vast and unrelenting, with the ruins of Osgiliath towering like blackened ribs against the pale scatter of stars. Beside him, his axe lay within reach, its weight familiar, its presence reassuring—a companion as quiet as it was unyielding. The blade caught the light, a dull gold glimmer as the whetstone whispered along its edge in slow, practiced strokes. The rhythm was steady and calming. It was a small thing, but small things had their worth.
The whetstone whispered against the blade, a steady rhythm that cut through the silence like a lullaby sung to steel. It was a sound Ungoránë knew well, one that belonged to nights like this—nights spent mending what battles had broken. There was comfort in the ritual: the soft rasp of stone, the scrape and glide, the edge slowly regaining its sharpness. Some scars it smoothed away; others it could not. Those stayed, etched deep into the blade, a record of where it had been and what it had endured. Ungoránë let the thought linger, fleeting but insistent. Perhaps he carried his scars the same way—some shallow, others carved deep enough to remain, no matter how many times he tried to smooth them over.
The fire murmured to itself, sending up thin sparks that swirled and vanished into the dark. Ungoránë let out a slow breath, watching it bloom white in the cool night air before fading, like a secret spoken and forgotten. Around him, the camp lay quiet and uneasy, men scattered like cast dice, their bodies twisted into the jagged embrace of stone and earth. Their breathing had settled into something rough and restless, their murmurs spent, leaving only the faint rustle of cloth and the soft sigh of the wind weaving through the ruins. It sounded almost like a voice, low and lonely, whispering to the bones of the city that had once been.
The soft crunch of boots on dirt tugged at Ungoránë’s focus. He knew the sound, familiar as a favorite tune hummed in passing—Thordur, moving with the kind of deliberate ease that suggested he didn’t care who heard him coming. Ungoránë didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. Thordur stepped into the fire’s warm glow, his face calm, his movements unhurried, as though the world couldn’t touch him. He sank onto a stone opposite Ungoránë, slow and smooth, the same careful grace he brought to all things. In his hands was a small block of wood and his ever-present knife, the blade winking briefly in the firelight as if it, too, had something to say.
Thordur said nothing at first. He eased into the silence like slipping into a warm bath, one leg stretched lazily in front of him, shoulders settled with a kind of practiced ease. The quiet that settled wasn’t awkward or strained; it was thick and full, like the pause before a story begins—the space where words wait to be born. Ungoránë didn’t lift his eyes from the axe across his knees, the whetstone whispering its steady rhythm against the blade. If Thordur’s arrival caught him off guard, he gave no sign of it. Ungoránë sat still as a stone, and the axe sang softly in his hands.
“ You’re thinking too loudly again,” Thordur said, his voice carrying the faint lilt of amusement, like the teasing pluck of a lute string. The firelight caught the corner of his mouth, where a smirk tugged lazily, warm and knowing. His words broke the silence with the same ease as a fire’s crackle: light enough to seem careless, but with a weight that settled into the space between them all the same.
Ungoránë said nothing. His eyes stayed on the blade stretched across his knees, the whetstone gliding its edge with the patience of a pendulum. There was something soothing in it: the scrape of stone against steel, a sound steady enough to hold him in place, as if it were the only thing keeping him from unraveling entirely. But his hand betrayed him. His grip on the axe haft grew iron-hard, his knuckles pale and bloodless, the tension winding tight as wire beneath his skin.
Thordur didn’t press, not right away. Instead, his knife found its rhythm again, a slow and deliberate whisper of steel against wood. Shavings curled from the blade, tumbling to the ground like secrets too soft to hear. The firelight flickered, catching the faint smirk that played on his lips—a quiet thing, half amusement, half something deeper, as if he understood the weight of silence and was content to let it sit.
“They’re talking about you, you know,” Thordur said at length, the scrape of his knife underscoring the words like the beat of a slow, steady drum. “Azrak. Gamil. Even old Hadron. They’re saying you fought differently today. Smarter.” His tone was light, but the words held weight, like stones tossed just far enough to ripple the surface without breaking it.
The whetstone stilled for the barest moment, a beat missed in an otherwise steady rhythm. Then it resumed, slow and deliberate, as if nothing had happened. Ungoránë’s jaw tightened, the muscles working as if he were grinding his teeth against words that wanted to escape. “They’re reading too much into it,” he said at last, his voice low and flat, each word clipped and careful, as if they might cut him if he wasn’t cautious.
“Are they?” Thordur’s voice softened, the edge still there but wrapped in something quieter, sharper. He leaned back with the easy grace of a man at peace with himself, though his eyes betrayed him—keen and cutting, fixed unrelentingly on Ungoránë. “Because from where I was standing, you fought as if it mattered. Like we mattered.”
The words hit harder than Ungoránë cared to admit, slipping through cracks he thought he’d sealed long ago. The whetstone stilled in his hand, its rhythm broken. The blade in his lap caught the firelight, a faint glimmer that turned its edge to liquid gold. He stared at it, at the warped reflection staring back—a face bent and twisted by the curve of the steel. It looked nothing like him. It looked like a ghost, thin and restless, caught somewhere between being and nothing at all.
“It wasn’t that,” Ungoránë said at last, his voice low and weighted, each word pulled like a stone from the deep places he didn’t dare to explore.
“Then what was it about?” Thordur asked, leaning forward just enough to bridge the space between them, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes held no bite, only a quiet sharpness dulled at the edges by something warmer—curiosity, tempered by understanding. “Was it the boy?”
The question struck like a stone dropped into still water, its ripples spreading into places Ungoránë had carefully walled away. The memory surged, unbidden and merciless, snuffing out the firelight like a gust of wind. He could see the boy’s face—those hollow eyes, wide and empty, staring at him as though through a veil of smoke. The image clung to him, sharp as an unsheathed blade left forgotten. And then the voice came, small and splintered, trembling on the edges of memory. “He said he’d come back.”
Ungoránë’s fingers closed around the axe haft, tightening until the leather bit into his palms, leaving grooves he’d feel long after. The fire crackled softly, its warmth a hollow thing, unable to touch the cold that crept steadily through his chest. He let his gaze fall to the axe, where firelight shimmered along the edge, twisting and warping in its reflection like something alive. It was somehow easier to watch the blade’s flickering glow than to meet Thordur’s eyes. It was easier to pretend that the weight pressing down on him came from the axe and nothing else.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he said, his voice low and careful, as though the words were made of glass and might shatter if spoken too loudly.
“Try me,” Thordur said, his voice steady as still water, carrying no edge of impatience—only the weight of quiet resolve. The knife in his hands paused, its blade resting against the unfinished wood, forgotten for the moment. He didn’t press; didn’t prod. He simply waited, his attention fixed on Ungoránë with a patience that felt as solid and immovable as stone.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, like something alive and watching. It pressed against Ungoránë, close as the ruins looming in the dark, vast and unyielding. The fire crackled, a log shifting as embers flared bright—defiant for a heartbeat—then fell back into the quiet gloom. At last, Ungoránë spoke, his voice slow and measured, each word dragging its heels as though it had to be pulled, kicking and screaming, from somewhere deep and dark inside him.
“It’s about not being too late,” he said, his voice rough, scraped raw against the edges of something unspoken.
He didn’t look up. His gaze stayed on the axe across his lap, the blade catching the firelight like a whisper of something sharp and fleeting. He turned it slowly in his hands, the motion unthinking, the steel glinting faintly.
“It’s about reaching out,” he said, quieter now. “Pulling someone back while you still can.” His fingers curled tighter around the haft, the words settling heavy in the space between them. “That’s all.”
The words lingered in the air, rough and jagged, like a stone skimming water before it sinks. Ungoránë let out a slow, uneven breath—the kind you give when there’s nothing left to hold onto. His shoulders slumped, the weight of the words settling over him like an old, familiar cloak. He hadn’t planned to say it. He hadn’t wanted to.
But memories are unruly things.
They don’t knock politely or wait for an invitation.
They rise up from the deep, sharp as splinters, insistent as a knife at your ribs.
The boy’s face.
The way his hands shook.
That shattered whisper of a promise from a brother.
It waited in the dark, patient as a hunter, refusing to let him look away.
Thordur nodded slowly and deliberately, as if he were turning the words over in his hands, testing their weight. He let the silence stretch, giving the thought its due before finally speaking. “Not a bad reason to fight,” he said, his voice low, steady, and threaded with something softer—an understanding that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.
Ungoránë shot him a glance, his eyes narrowing, a flicker of irritation like a spark in dry grass. “Don’t make it more than it is,” he muttered, his voice edged and tight. He spoke like a man trying to shove words back into his mouth, as if saying them smaller might shrink their weight.
Thordur’s grin was subtle, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—soft and knowing. It wasn’t much, but it held the kind of warmth you only find near dying fires on cold nights. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, his voice light and easy, though something deeper hid beneath it—steady and quiet as a promise.
The fire cracked, spitting a spray of sparks that scattered upward like a handful of stars flung into the dark. Neither of them spoke. Thordur’s knife found its rhythm again, whispering its sharp, deliberate song against the wood, a quiet sound that somehow filled the space between them. Ungoránë bent his head to his axe, the whetstone rasping along the blade in slow, practiced strokes. The two sounds wove together—stone on steel, steel on wood—simple, steady, and unspoken, like the kind of language only firelit silence can teach.
The silence had changed. It wasn’t heavy, not anymore. It lingered like a well-worn cloak: not entirely comfortable, but familiar enough to settle into. The fire’s warmth played between them, flickering steadily like a heartbeat, soft as an old promise. And for the first time that night, Ungoránë felt the knot in his chest loosen just a little. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to let him breathe.
Two days later, the Southrons came again, and this time they brought the storm with them. The sound hit first—a low, relentless drumming, like the heartbeat of something vast and hungry. Hooves pounded the earth, growing louder and closer until the ground itself began to tremble. Dust rose in choking clouds, and stones shook loose from their ancient perches; then the cavalry poured through the ruins of Osgiliath like a breaking wave. They smashed into the front lines, armor gleaming and spears lowered, scattering squads like dry leaves caught in a sudden wind.
Ungoránë was already moving, a step ahead of the chaos as it swallowed the world whole. The air was a cacophony—shouts and screams, the shrill clash of steel meeting steel, and the hollow, panicked wail of horses. He moved through it all like a shadow given shape, his axe an extension of his will, fluid and final. The blade sang through the air, biting deep, cleaving flesh and rending armor with grim, practiced precision. Blood followed each strike in dark, elegant arcs, misting the air with its iron scent—a sharp tang that clung to the back of his throat and settled heavily in his lungs.
But this time, Ungoránë’s attention wasn’t trapped in the rhythm of blade and blood. His eyes cut through the chaos, sharp and searching, like a hawk skimming the wind. The battlefield unraveled in fleeting glimpses: Gamil braced behind his battered shield, holding the line with shoulders bowed but unbroken. Azrak, pale and shaking, his sword a trembling promise barely keeping the enemy at bay. And Thordur—steady as a stone—further out, his bowstring taut, releasing arrows with a calm precision that made the madness around him seem laughable.
They were more than soldiers in the storm. They were faces he knew, names he carried, lives that had bled into his own. They weren’t just comrades; they were his—his to protect, his to carry through fire and shadow.
Azrak stood rooted to the ground, his back pressed against a crumbling pillar as if hoping the stone might swallow him whole. His face was pale, almost ghostly against the grime streaked across his cheeks, and his sword quivered in his hands like a leaf caught on the edge of winter.
Across the distance, the Southron rider bore down on him, a black shape wreathed in dust and thunder. The spear glinted cruelly in the sunlight, its sharp point unwavering and aimed squarely at Azrak’s chest. In that instant, the world seemed to narrow to a single line: the spear’s path and the boy frozen at the end of it.
Ungoránë moved before the thought could take shape, his body a sharp and sudden force. The axe swung, a weight and a whisper, cleaving through flesh and bone with a sound that struck deep—like a branch snapping underfoot in a quiet wood. The rider tumbled from the saddle, lifeless before he hit the ground, armor clattering like a broken promise.
Ungoránë didn’t pause, didn’t breathe. He couldn’t. Not now. Not when the line between saving and losing was so thin that it could be cut with a blade.
“Move!” Ungoránë’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp enough to cut through the chaos. He grabbed Azrak, shoving him hard enough to force his feet into motion. There was no softness in the gesture, no room for doubt or hesitation. Azrak stumbled, his eyes wide and wild, flicking back just once—like a man looking for a promise that wasn’t there—before he turned and ran, his steps uneven yet swift.
Azrak staggered but obeyed, his face a tangle of relief and raw fear, like a man who’d just felt the edge of a blade kiss his throat. Ungoránë didn’t watch him flee—he couldn’t. The battle snarled and crashed around him, a storm of hooves and steel, blood, and screams. There was no room for looking back, no room for anything but the next blow, the next breath.
Another rider came, a black shape with a glinting spear, swift as a shadow and twice as cruel. The blow struck hard—iron biting deep into Ungoránë’s side, a savage, breath-stealing thing that slammed him to the ground. The world narrowed to a single, blinding flare: a searing burst of agony, intense and fiery white. For an instant, everything stilled. The roar of the battle faded. The earth itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see if he would rise.
But even as agony flared through him, Ungoránë moved. He rolled to his feet, the motion ragged and sharp, like a blade drawn too quickly from its sheath. His breath came in short, searing gasps, his ribs alight with fire; yet his hands did not falter. The axe was still in his grip, steady and certain as his heartbeat.
The rider turned his horse, the spear tip gleaming like a shard of sunlight, lowered once more. The charge began again, hooves pounding a rhythm that rattled the earth and rang in Ungoránë’s bones like a distant, ominous drum.
An arrow whispered past Ungoránë’s ear, close enough to stir the sweat-damp strands of his hair. It flew true, silent and sure as a promise, and buried itself in the rider’s neck. The Southron tumbled from the saddle, his body hitting the ground with the heavy, muffled finality of a stone dropped into deep water.
Thordur stepped into view, bow in hand, his movements unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. He nocked another arrow with the easy grace of a man born to it, the string taut, the bow already half-drawn, his sharp gaze scanning for the next target.
Thordur strode to Ungoránë’s side, his bow still drawn, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. Sweat and dirt streaked his face, but his breathing was measured, as steady as a clockmaker’s hand. He nocked another arrow with a flicker of practiced ease, his eyes skimming the chaos like a man choosing which storm cloud to tame next.
“You’ve got to stop throwing yourself at death,” he said, his voice low and rough, carrying just enough edge to bite. Beneath the exasperation, though, there was something else—an undercurrent of concern that softened the words, making them land like a warning instead of a rebuke.
Ungoránë winced, his hand finding the wound at his side. Blood slicked his fingers, warm and slippery, though he couldn’t say whose it was—his or another’s. The pain radiated in jagged waves, fierce and unrelenting, not enough to bring him down.
“You sound like Captain Hadron,” he said, his voice rough and thin, like a blade’s edge dulled from too much use. His teeth clenched around the words as if speaking them cost him more than the wound ever could.
Thordur’s grin was faint, a small thing, but it softened the hard edges of his face like sunlight breaking through cracks in stone.
“Guess you’ve started to grow on me, little brother,” he said, his voice light and his smile steady as a heartbeat.
And somehow, in the chaos, those words settled around Ungoránë like a cloak against the cold. The world was still blood, dust, and screaming steel, but it was enough. Enough to keep him upright when the fire in his chest flickered low.
Ungoránë let out a breathless chuckle, the sound unraveling into a sharp hiss as pain lanced through his ribs. He straightened, slow and deliberate, like a man testing the weight of his own bones. His fingers curled tighter around the axe, finding strength in its familiar heft.
His gaze swept the battlefield—keen, practiced, unrelenting. Chaos surged around him, wild as a storm-tossed sea, but he stood in the calm at its center. For a fleeting moment, with Thordur steady at his side, it was enough. A tether against the storm. A promise, quiet but sure, that he wouldn’t face it alone.
That night, the squad gathered by the fire. Their soft and frayed laughter was a threadbare echo of something brighter. It wound through the quiet like the last notes of a half-remembered song—familiar, fragile, and bittersweet.
The flames burned low, their light catching on the jagged edges of Osgiliath’s ruins, turning broken stone into gold and shadow. The men sat in uneven circles, voices low and movements slower than they had been that morning. Exhaustion weighed on them like damp wool, but it couldn’t smother the faint sparks of relief that flickered to life among them.
The day had been cruel, as days often are. But they were here. They were alive. And somehow, that was enough to stir the embers of laughter, faint and thin though it was, still glowing at the edges with something worn but true.
Ungoránë sat apart, his figure carved from shadow and firelight, familiar yet distant. His shoulders curled inward, a man drawn tight around something heavy and unseen. The fire’s glow played across his face, teasing at its lines while offering nothing to read.
One hand rested on the bandage at his side, his fingers tracing slow circles across the rough fabric, as though testing where ache ended and relief began. The pain had dulled to a low, steady throb—no longer sharp, but persistent as a distant drumbeat. It was a quiet thing now, but it lingered, a reminder of how close the blade had come, how near he’d skirted the edge. Far too close, he thought. Closer than any man had a right to.
The boy’s face surfaced again, not as a weight dragging him down but as a spark catching in dry tinder. Ungoránë closed his eyes and let it wash over him, sharp and stinging.
The boy’s eyes were big, too big, too empty. Wide and hollow, they stared at nothing and everything all at once. His hands clung to that pitiful stick, fingers trembling and white-knuckled—holding it as if it were the last rope in a storm. A lifeline. A tether to something solid in a world that had turned to smoke and ash.
And his voice—soft and breaking, a sound no boy should have to make—echoed again, clear and cruel, as memory always was. “He said he’d come back.”
For so long, Ungoránë had chased shadows, throwing himself into battle with a kind of wild, desperate fury. As if the next swing of his axe, the next burst of violence, might somehow be enough to outrun the guilt snapping at his heels.
Speed had been his answer: fight quickly, move faster, and leave no room for thought or memory. The clang of steel, the roar of men—it all worked like a dull blade, blunting the edges of the pain.
But now, under the open sky, with the fire licking warmth across his skin and the boy’s voice sparking to life in the hollow of his chest, something shifted. It wasn’t a release. It wasn’t redemption. Just a flicker, small and steady—like the first crack of light through a closed door.
Maybe it isn’t about moving forward, he thought. The realization landed softly and heavily, like the first breath after a storm—part weight, part release. Maybe it’s about standing still. Choosing the fight that matters.
The fire crackled softly, sending sparks spiraling upward like fleeting stars—small and short-lived, but enough to hold back the dark for a moment. Ungoránë’s gaze wandered to Thordur, who sat cross-legged by the fire. His knife moved steadily, a whispering rhythm against the block of wood in his hands. His brow furrowed in quiet focus, the kind of concentration that looked effortless but came only with years of practice. He carved with the slow, patient hands of a man who could transform emptiness into something with shape and purpose. The wood began to yield, its form stirring to life beneath the blade, though what it would become was still a secret Thordur hadn’t revealed yet.
Thordur glanced up, his knife still mid-stroke as he caught Ungoránë’s gaze. His sharp eyes softened, like the edge of a blade blunted just enough to be safe. A flicker of curiosity danced across his face, there and gone, like the shadow of a bird overhead. “What?” he asked, his tone light and easy, though beneath it lay the weight of unspoken things—understanding that didn’t need words, the kind earned over firelight and bloodshed.
Ungoránë shook his head, the motion small and tired, like the last flicker of a dying flame. He leaned back against the cold stone, its unyielding surface a stark contrast to the fire’s gentle warmth. The firelight caught the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, painting his face in shifting shades of gold and shadow. It softened the hard set of his jaw, but only just. “Nothing,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges, like a blade dulled by too many strikes. He hesitated, as though tasting the next word before letting it slip free. “Just… thanks.”
Thordur’s knife paused, the blade poised mid-stroke, as if even the wood was waiting to hear what came next. His fingers lingered on the block, light and deliberate, like a musician at rest between notes. He tilted his head just enough to catch the fire’s glow, his expression a curious mix—part bemusement, part something softer. “For what?” he said, the words carrying a faint lift, a thread of curiosity that tugged gently yet insistently. His eyes stayed steady on Ungoránë, sharp as ever, though the edges had softened, like steel tempered to something quieter.
Ungoránë shrugged, the motion slight, barely more than the shift of a shadow. “For being there when I needed it,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of something too large to be succinctly dressed in simple words. It was plain enough, but the spaces between the syllables held more—a quiet gratitude, rough-edged and raw, the kind that doesn’t come easily and needs no embellishment.
Thordur’s grin returned, gentler now, like a blade sheathed. It softened the hard edges of his face, reaching his eyes and easing the lines carved there by war and weather. For a moment, the years seemed to peel away, leaving him younger and lighter, like a man unburdened. “Anytime, little brother,” he said, his voice low and steady, a promise as simple and certain as firelight—quiet but enough to hold the dark at bay.
The fire burned low, its warmth a thin thread unraveling into the night. The fight would come again—it always did—but for now, he let the weight of it slip from his shoulders. Just for this moment, he allowed himself to rest, fragile as the flame, fleeting as the calm.