The fire crackled softly, a fragile ember of warmth against the chill that wrapped around Osgiliath’s ruins like a shroud. Its faint glow painted the broken stones with jagged shadows, twisting them into shapes that seemed almost alive, as if the city itself were trying to draw breath. Around the fire, the squad sat in loose formation, their faces flickering between light and dark with the rhythm of the flames. Smoke from damp wood curled lazily upward, mingling with the ever-present metallic tang of blood and the earthy scent of damp stone.
Azrak crouched closest to the fire, his shoulders hunched as he wrestled with flint and steel. The sharp scraping broke the rhythm of the night, each futile strike sending a brief burst of sparks that flared brightly before winking out in defeat. His muttered curses rose with every failure, each word tinged with frustration and self-directed annoyance.
Across from him, Thordur lounged like a man who had never known discomfort. He sat with one leg stretched out, the other bent just enough to prop up his ever-present knife and a small block of wood. The blade moved with lazy precision, carving away thin curls that drifted into his lap, light as feathers. A smirk, infuriatingly relaxed, curved his lips as he watched Azrak’s struggle.
“You’d think by now you’d have mastered basic fire-making, Azrak,” Thordur said, his voice light and teasing, carrying that insufferable air of casual superiority he wore like a second skin.
Azrak’s head snapped up, his glare sharp enough to cut through the smoke. “Not all of us grew up sneaking into the kitchen to light lamps after curfew,” he shot back, his frustration bleeding into every word.
Thordur leaned further back, his grin widening as he settled more comfortably against a piece of fallen stone. His posture was deliberate, the kind of easy confidence that could only come from years of practice—or from someone who enjoyed stoking irritation.
“Sneaking?” he said, his tone feigning disbelief. “That wasn’t sneaking; it was survival. Try finding your way through a yard full of goats in the dark when your brothers have nicked your boots for a prank.”
Gamil, seated with his back against a broken column, let out a deep chuckle that rumbled through the stillness like distant thunder. His weathered face split into a rare grin, with lines deepening around his eyes. “Did the goats teach you sleight of hand too, or was that just a natural talent?” he asked, his voice dry and edged with quiet amusement.
Thordur’s grin widened, mischief lighting up his face like the flicker of firelight. With a smooth, practiced motion, he reached toward Azrak. His hand moved with such casual precision that it seemed almost lazy—until he straightened, holding a coin aloft between his fingers, the polished surface gleaming in the firelight. “Goats taught me to work for my supper,” Thordur said, the words carrying a theatrical lilt as if he were delivering a punchline to an unseen audience. “The sleight of hand came when I realized the goats didn’t have pockets.”
Azrak’s reaction was immediate. His hand shot to his belt, his eyes wide with a mix of irritation and panic. “Wait, that’s—”
“Relax,” Thordur interrupted smoothly, tossing the coin back with a flick of his wrist. It spun once, catching the light before landing at Azrak’s feet with a soft clink. “It’s for the firewood fund.”
The camp erupted into laughter, the sound breaking through the night’s solemnity like sunlight piercing storm clouds. Even Gamil joined in, his deep, rumbling voice shaking his shoulders as he shook his head, his shield leaning forgotten at his side.
Ungoránë, sitting just outside the circle of firelight, allowed himself a faint smile, a subtle curve of his lips that softened the usual sharpness of his features. He poked the fire with a stick, watching the embers stir and rise in a brief, fiery dance before fading into the night. The warmth of the flames brushed against his skin, but it was the sound of their laughter that reached deeper, touching something quiet and guarded within him.
“You’re a menace,” Ungoránë said dryly, though his tone held no real edge—more a reflection of his weariness than any true disapproval.
Thordur turned toward him, his eyes gleaming with unrepentant mischief. “A lovable menace,” he corrected, his grin widening, and the firelight catching on his teeth.
“Only because Hadron hasn’t caught you yet,” Azrak grumbled, his fingers still clutching his reclaimed coin as if he expected it to vanish again.
From a few paces away, Hadron glanced up without pausing in his meticulous task of cleaning his blade. His hands moved with the steady, practiced precision of a man who had done this a thousand times before. “Caught him?” he echoed, his gruff voice laced with a faint thread of humor. “I let him think he’s getting away with it. Keeps him sharp.”
That brought another wave of laughter, lighter this time; the edges softened by warmth and camaraderie. The sound wove into the crackle of the fire, filling the space between the men with something that felt, for a moment, like normalcy. The ruins of Osgiliath seemed to recede into the background; the weight of war and survival was momentarily forgotten in the glow of shared mirth.
Ungoránë leaned back, his gaze drifting over the group as the firelight played across their faces. Thordur, with his relentless humor and effortless charm; Azrak, with his stubborn pride barely masking the vulnerability beneath; Gamil, quiet and grounded, with his rare but perfectly timed wit; and even Hadron, the stoic backbone of the squad, whose dry remarks carried more wisdom than they seemed to convey.
They make it easier, Ungoránë thought, his fingers brushing idly against the haft of his axe. Thordur, with his humor; Azrak, with his stubbornness; Gamil, with that rare, dry wit; even Hadron, for all his gruffness. Maybe this is what I’ve been missing: the fire, the stories, the reason to keep going.
The flames flared briefly, throwing a plume of sparks into the air, and Ungoránë watched them rise and vanish into the dark. For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, the cold, hollow ache inside him eased just a little. It wasn’t gone—he doubted it ever would be—but tonight, it was quiet. And tonight, that was enough.
Dawn crept over the ruins of Osgiliath, its pale light slicing through the haze of smoke that hung like a veil over the city. The morning was quiet, save for the faint murmur of the Anduin in the distance, its voice steady and unyielding as it wound past the shattered remnants of stone and steel. The squad stirred slowly, their movements mechanical and weary. Armor clinked softly as buckles were fastened, swords checked, and shields adjusted by hands that moved instinctively. There was no chatter, only the low rustle of readiness as the men prepared for the day’s patrol.
Hadron’s voice broke the silence, sharp and direct.
“Ungoránë. A word.”
The name hung in the air like the snap of a taut bowstring. A few glances flicked toward Ungoránë, subtle but heavy with curiosity; though no one spoke. Thordur, crouched by the fire, raised his eyebrows briefly, but even he remained silent. Ungoránë pushed himself to his feet, his movements deliberate, the tension in his shoulders betraying the unease he wouldn’t allow to touch his face.
Hadron’s gait was measured as he led Ungoránë to the edge of the camp, his boots crunching against the rubble-strewn ground. His posture was rigid, and his steps were precise, each one carrying a sense of purpose that was impossible to ignore. When they reached a stretch of broken wall that half-heartedly shielded them from view, Hadron turned abruptly. His expression was as sharp as the edge of the blade he carried, and his eyes narrowed as they fixed on Ungoránë with unyielding scrutiny.
“You’ve been stepping out of line,” Hadron began, his voice low but cutting. It was the kind of tone that didn’t need to be raised to carry weight. “Charging ahead. Taking risks. That kind of behavior puts everyone in danger.”
Ungoránë crossed his arms, his jaw tightening as he straightened to meet Hadron’s gaze. The words hit like a challenge, and Ungoránë refused to flinch. “I’ve saved lives doing it,” he said, his tone even, though the edge of defensiveness was unmistakable.
Hadron’s eyes narrowed further, his expression hardening into something colder and more unrelenting. “And how many more will you cost?” he said, each word deliberate and weighted. “This isn’t just about you, Ungoránë. You’re part of a squad. If you can’t keep that in mind, you’re no use to me.”
“I’m not trying to—” Ungoránë began, his voice rising slightly, but Hadron cut him off with the precision of a blade slicing through the air.
“It doesn’t matter what you’re trying to do,” Hadron growled, his voice quiet but forceful enough to feel louder than it was. “What matters is what you’re doing. And right now, you’re playing with lives that aren’t yours to risk.”
The words struck harder than Ungoránë expected, hitting with a force that made his fingers twitch where they rested against his arm. For a moment, the memory of blood-soaked fields flickered at the edge of his thoughts, voices shouting his name and reaching too late. He pushed the image down, burying it beneath the simmering heat of frustration.
Before Ungoránë could formulate a response, another voice cut through the tension.
“He’s trying, Hadron,” Thordur said, stepping into the space as if he belonged there. His tone was calm but carried a quiet conviction that demanded attention. He kept his bow slung over his shoulder, his posture relaxed yet deliberate, like a man who had chosen his moment carefully. “We’ve all seen it. Give him time.”
Hadron turned to Thordur, his gaze shifting, the hardness in his features softening by the smallest fraction. He studied Thordur for a moment, his expression unreadable, before his lips pressed into a thin line. “Time won’t matter if he gets himself or someone else killed,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less firm.
Hadron’s eyes flicked back to Ungoránë, his gaze steady and unrelenting. “Prove me wrong,” he said, his tone dropping to a low growl. “Or I’ll find someone who will.”
With that, Hadron turned and walked away, his steps as deliberate as when he had arrived. The tension he left behind hung in the air like smoke, heavy and stifling.
Thordur lingered, his hands resting lightly at his sides, one brushing the edge of his bow. He tilted his head toward Ungoránë, his expression somewhere between exasperation and understanding. “Don’t let him get to you,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost conversational. “He’s harder on you because he sees what you can do.”
Ungoránë let out a bitter laugh, the sound rough and low. He shook his head, his arms falling to his sides. “Doesn’t feel that way.”
Thordur’s lips twitched into a faint grin, the kind that was more reassuring than mocking. “If he didn’t think you were worth the effort,” he said, his tone light but carrying weight, “he wouldn’t bother.”
Ungoránë didn’t respond immediately; his eyes were fixed on the horizon where the pale light of dawn met the jagged silhouette of Osgiliath’s ruins. The warmth of the fire had faded from his skin, replaced by the cold reality of Hadron’s words. But Thordur’s voice lingered, steady and grounding, like an anchor in the storm.
“I’ll prove him wrong,” Ungoránë said finally, his voice low yet firm.
Thordur’s grin widened slightly, his eyes glinting with approval. “Good,” he said simply before turning back toward the fire, leaving Ungoránë alone with the rising sun and the weight of what lay ahead.
The next day, the battle came quickly, with a savage precision that left no room for thought, only instinct. The Southrons’ assault began with a sharp, keening whistle in the air, followed by the deadly hiss of arrows slicing through the sky. The arrows rained down relentlessly, splintering against the scattered rubble that served as makeshift cover. Each impact sent shards of stone and wood flying, a brutal reminder of how fragile their defenses truly were.
Ungoránë crouched low behind a crumbled wall, the worn haft of his axe firm in his grip.
Beside him, Gamil knelt with his shield raised high; the wood was already showing signs of strain. Cracks spidered across its surface, each one growing wider with every impact. Sweat streaked Gamil’s face, cutting clean paths through the grime that clung to his skin, and his breathing was ragged and heavy from exertion.
“We’re pinned,” Gamil said, his voice tight, his eyes darting toward the line of archers in the distance. Their ranks were steady and disciplined; each volley was precise. “We have to fall back.”
Ungoránë didn’t answer immediately. His gaze swept over the battlefield, calculating. The rubble-strewn expanse between them and the Southron archers felt impossibly wide, like an open maw waiting to swallow them. Falling back would only delay the inevitable; the arrows would follow, relentless. They wouldn’t make it far.
“Stay here,” Ungoránë said finally, his voice calm and resolute.
Gamil turned sharply, his brows drawing together in a mix of confusion and alarm. “What are you doing?” he demanded, his tone low yet urgent.
Ungoránë shifted his grip on the axe, his knuckles whitening against the leather-wrapped handle. “Drawing their fire,” he replied simply; his tone was so steady that it might have been mistaken for indifference.
“Are you out of your mind?” Gamil snapped, his voice rising despite the danger. But before he could say more, Ungoránë was already moving.
He darted out from cover, his body a blur of motion against the broken landscape. The archers noticed him immediately. Their focus shifted, and the next volley came for him, arrows hissing through the air like angry serpents. Ungoránë didn’t stop. He moved with reckless grace, weaving through the chaos, his boots finding precarious purchase on the uneven ground. The sharp crack of arrows striking stone echoed around him, but he kept his focus ahead, narrowing the distance with terrifying speed.
The first archer didn’t have time to react. Ungoránë’s axe arced upward, its blade catching the light before sinking into flesh with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed hot and immediate, staining his hands as the man crumpled. The movement was instinctive now; every swing of the axe was a calculated strike, and every step forward was a deliberate choice. The remaining archers hesitated, their bows wavering as confusion rippled through their line. It was enough. The squad seized the moment, regrouping and surging forward with renewed strength.
When the skirmish finally ended, the battlefield fell into an uneasy quiet. The Southrons were routed, their disciplined ranks shattered, and the acrid stench of blood and sweat hung heavily in the air. Ungoránë stood amidst the wreckage, his chest heaving and his axe slick with blood. His ribs ached with every breath, but he ignored the pain; his focus shifted as Gamil approached.
The older man’s shield dragged at his side, its cracks now deep gashes. His face was streaked with sweat and grime, but his eyes held something different—not anger or frustration, but something sharper and heavier: respect.
“You’re insane,” Gamil said flatly, his voice cutting through the settling quiet.
“Maybe,” Ungoránë replied, shrugging. His tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of exhaustion that even he couldn’t hide.
Gamil’s mouth twitched, the faintest hint of a reluctant smile. “But that was a damn fine move,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost grudgingly. The words carried weight, as if they had been pulled from some deep, guarded place.
Ungoránë blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. “Thanks,” he said simply; the word felt strange on his tongue.
“Don’t get used to it,” Gamil muttered, though the faint smile remained, lingering like an afterthought as he turned away.
That night, the camp was quiet—the kind of quiet that comes after hard-won survival.
The fire burned low, its light casting long, flickering shadows over the jagged ruins.
The squad sat scattered around it, their movements slow and their voices hushed.
For once, there was no need for jokes or stories; the silence spoke volumes.
Ungoránë sat apart, his back against a cold stretch of stone, his axe resting beside him. His thoughts were heavy, pressing against his mind like the weight of the day’s battle. But as he looked around the camp, his gaze settled on each face in turn; that weight began to shift. There was Thordur, already carving another figure, his brow furrowed in concentration. Azrak tended to his sword with his usual blend of determination and frustration. Gamil, his shield resting by his side, wore an unreadable expression but was no longer distant. Even Hadron, stoic and silent, sharpened his blade with the same methodical precision as always.
It’s not about glory, Ungoránë thought, the realization settling over him like the warmth of the fire. It’s not even about redemption. It’s about the man next to you. The one who would do the same for you if the time came.
He let his head rest back against the stone, his eyes fixed on the fire. Its warmth reached him, softer than the flames but no less real. For the first time in years, it didn’t feel like a shield against the cold. It felt like something else entirely—something he hadn’t dared to let himself feel for too long.
It felt like home.