The camp clung to life as tenuously as a flame battered by the wind, its existence fragile amid the jagged ruins of Osgiliath. Once a city of silver spires and proud stonework, it now lay in fragmented ruins, broken by time and the relentless hand of war. The fire at the camp’s center burned weakly, its dancing flame flickering erratically. It cast uneven shadows over the shattered landscape, illuminating fractured stone and weary faces in hues of molten gold and bloodstained red. The warmth it offered was an illusion, too thin and fleeting to push back the cold that seeped into every corner of the night. Ungoránë leaned forward, poking at the blackened wood with a stick. Sparks leapt upward, fading into the cold air like fleeting memories. The flames sputtered and regained a weak hold, their fragile light casting uneven shadows once more.
Shadows shifted across the ground like restless spirits, born from smoke and memory. They flickered and danced, stretching and curling with the fire’s faltering rhythm. To anyone watching, it might have seemed as though the ruins themselves were alive, their jagged edges clawing at the dark as if trying to reclaim something long lost.
Most of the squad had succumbed to exhaustion, their bodies draped in a haphazard patchwork of cloaks and torn blankets. The occasional murmur of restless sleep or the soft rustle of fabric broke the silence. Ungoránë’s gaze wandered over them, lingering on the faint rise and fall of their breathing—an odd solace amidst the weight of his thoughts. Others huddled close to the fire, their faces slack and pale, the weariness of survival etched into their features. Occasionally, the quiet was broken by the groan of a wounded man, the sound raw and unguarded, or by the soft rustle of cloth as someone shifted in restless sleep. Beyond the camp, the Anduin murmured softly, its steady rhythm threading through the silence like a whispered lullaby. Ungoránë tilted his head, catching the faint ripple of water. It was a sound both soothing and distant, a reminder of something steady and unbroken amidst the ruins. Yet it was detached—a comfort too far removed to reach those who needed it most.
Ungoránë sat apart, as he always did. Distance had become his habit, a self-imposed exile that felt more natural with each passing day. The fire’s weak glow outlined his silhouette, carving sharp lines of shadow and light against the fractured column he leaned against. His fingers brushed over the cold, rough surface of the stone, tracing the grooves where time and war had left their marks. The column felt ancient, its jagged edges whispering of a history that seemed impossibly far removed from the bleak present. Once a proud marker of a city built to endure, the column now lay in ruins, jagged and raw, mirroring the man who rested against it.
The sword lay beside him, its presence heavy and accusing. Its blade, streaked with dried blood that gleamed black in the cold light, seemed to absorb the fire’s glow rather than reflect it. Ungoránë turned it over in his hands, his fingers brushing the grooves in the hilt. The leather wrapping was smooth in places, worn down by years of use, its surface bearing the imprints of another’s grip. He traced those marks absentmindedly, as though trying to map the life of the man who had held it before him.
It wasn’t mine, he thought. Not really.
The blade had belonged to someone else—a soldier whose name he didn’t know, whose face had already begun to blur in his mind. He hadn’t seen the man fall, but he had found the sword lying beside his broken body, its edge still wet with the blood of enemies. It felt like a stranger’s legacy, thrust into his hands by the uncaring hand of fate. A burden he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t put down.
The faces always came first.
They drifted out of the smoke and shadows, pale and stark against the dark backdrop of his thoughts. Men he barely knew. Men who had marched beside him into battle with hope, fear, or duty written on their faces. Their names were slippery things, half-forgotten or never known, but their deaths lingered like fresh scars. Some had screamed as they fell, their voices sharp and jagged, filled with disbelief at how quickly everything could be taken from them. Others had died silently, surprise frozen on their features as the light dimmed in their eyes.
Ungoránë closed his eyes as though the simple act of shutting them might drive the images away. It didn’t. If anything, the faces burned brighter, etched into the darkness behind his lids. He saw them more vividly now than he ever had in life—their fear, their pain, and the fleeting moments of acceptance. There was no escaping them.
I didn’t know their names. Not all of them, he thought. The words in his mind were heavy, sharp-edged things, cutting into him with their truth. But they followed me. They trusted me. And now they’re gone.
The thought lodged itself in his chest, cold and unyielding. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this weight, and it wouldn’t be the last. His jaw tightened as he fought against it, but the faces remained, relentless in their clarity.
The Southrons came next, unbidden. Their faces rose like shadows from the corners of his mind, mingling with those of his comrades until he could no longer separate them. He remembered their cries and the terror in their eyes as they fell. He remembered the way their blood mingled with that of his men, pooling in the mud until he couldn’t tell one life from another.
They hadn’t been so different. That thought lingered, sharper than any blade. How many lives have I taken? he wondered, his hand tightening on the hilt of the sword until his knuckles turned white. How many fathers? How many brothers and sons? Was their cause less worthy than ours? Did they deserve it? Did we?
The questions turned over in his mind, slow and heavy, like stones shifting in a riverbed. They had no answers. Or perhaps the answers were too terrible to face.
The weight of it pressed down on him, a suffocating thing that felt as real as the cold air filling his lungs. He looked down at the sword in his hand, its edge catching the faint glow of the firelight. The blade wasn’t lighter tonight. If anything, it felt heavier, as though it had soaked up the lives it had claimed and now carried them in its steel.
The soft crunch of footsteps broke through the haze of Ungoránë’s thoughts. Deliberate, unhurried. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was—Thordur always moved like that, as if he carried not just himself but a small measure of calm through the chaos surrounding them. There was no urgency in his stride, no sharpness to his approach. It was the sound of someone who knew when to push forward and when to simply be.
Without a word, Thordur settled down beside him. The faint creak of the wood in his bow was the only announcement of his arrival, the weapon laid carefully across his lap. They didn’t exchange greetings. They didn’t need to. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that could only exist between those who had bled, fought, and endured together. The fire crackled softly, its warmth barely reaching through the cold air.
“You’re thinking too loudly again,” Thordur said at last. His voice was low, laced with the kind of dry humor that seemed to come so naturally to him. It wasn’t a question—it never was with Thordur. He had a way of knowing things without needing to be told, as if he could see the burden a man carried just by looking at him.
Ungoránë let out a sharp huff of air, the sound hovering somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Hard not to,” he said, his voice rough from exhaustion. He kept his eyes on the fire, watching the flames curl and twist around the blackened wood. The movement was hypnotic, distracting him from the thoughts that churned like storm clouds in his mind.
Thordur tilted his head slightly, studying him. The firelight danced across his face, casting sharp shadows that softened the hard angles of his features. His gaze wasn’t piercing—it was quiet and thoughtful, as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle without all the edges yet in place. “You’re carrying it, aren’t you?” he asked, his tone quieter now, the humor giving way to something gentler. “The debt of it all.”
Ungoránë’s jaw tightened. He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reached down, his fingers brushing the hilt of the sword that rested beside him. The leather felt rough beneath his touch, its edges worn smooth in places where another man’s grip had claimed it. The weapon felt heavy, not just physically but also in its meaning. He stared into the flames, their dancing glow reflecting in his dark eyes.
“I made the call,” he said finally. His voice was steady, but there was a raw edge to it, a vulnerability he didn’t bother to hide. “They followed me. Some of them didn’t come back. That’s on me.”
Thordur shifted, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. For once, the smirk that so often played at the corners of his mouth was absent. Instead, his expression was somber, and his gaze remained steady. “It’s on them too,” he said, his words measured yet firm. “They knew the risks, just like we all do. They followed because they believed in you. Don’t take that away from them.”
He hesitated for a moment, then added, “There was this one lad I fought beside back in Lossarnach. We were clearing out a ruined farmhouse—quiet place, or so we thought. I’d barely stepped inside when he grabbed my arm and shoved me back. I didn’t even have time to ask why before an arrow buried itself in the wood right where I’d been standing. I never saw it coming.”
Thordur’s expression softened, his voice quiet but steady. “He didn’t make it out of that skirmish. But that moment? That choice? It saved me. I carried his face for a long time, wondering if I could’ve done more to save him. But the truth is, he made his choice, same as all of us. Same as your men. They stood for you because they believed it was worth it.”
He leaned back slightly, his gaze returning to Ungoránë. “You can’t carry it all, little brother. You carry your part, and you honor theirs. That’s how you do it.”
The words hit harder than Ungoránë had expected, cutting through his guilt with the precision of a blade. He turned his head to look at Thordur, his brow furrowed. The firelight caught the faint lines of his face, the weariness etched into his features. “How do you do it?” he asked. The question came quietly, almost as a whisper. “Carry it, I mean.”
Thordur’s smile returned, faint but warm, the kind of smile that felt less like an expression and more like a small, steady light in the dark. “You don’t carry it alone,” he said simply. “You share it—with us, with the ones who stand beside you. That’s what we do, little brother. We carry each other.”
For a moment, Ungoránë said nothing. He turned the words over in his mind, testing their weight and truth. He looked away, his throat tightening as the tension in his chest pressed harder. He nodded once, the motion stiff and reluctant, yet genuine.
Thordur didn’t push further. He didn’t need to. He just sat there, his presence a quiet reassurance, solid and unyielding. The fire crackled softly between them, its warmth doing little to chase away the chill in the air, but something about the moment felt less cold. Less heavy.
They sat together like that, the silence stretching out again, but this time it didn’t feel so oppressive. Thordur leaned back, his hand idly brushing the smooth wood of his bow, while Ungoránë turned the sword over in his hands, his fingers tracing the grooves in the hilt as though trying to understand its obligation.
For the first time that night, the faces in his mind began to fade—not completely, but enough to give him room to breathe. Thordur didn’t speak again, and Ungoránë didn’t feel the need to. There was nothing more to say.
The fire had burned low by the time Thordur left, its once-bright flames reduced to faint embers, glowing like dying stars against the dark. Shadows stretched long and thin, flickering over the uneven stones of the ruins. The camp had quieted further; the restless shifts and soft murmurs of the sleeping men faded into the background hum of the Anduin’s distant flow.
Ungoránë sat alone, the weight of the sword pressing down on his lap like a silent accusation. His fingers brushed the hilt absently, tracing the grooves worn smooth by another man’s grip. The leather was cold under his touch, rough but familiar, as though the weapon carried a faint memory of its own—a ghost of the hands that had held it before.
The fire crackled softly, its fluttering flame against the jagged stones. Ungoránë’s gaze dropped to the weak flames, their golden glow catching on the faint grooves of the sword’s blade. For a moment, the glint reminded him of something familiar—chainmail shimmering in the firelight, each link alive with the same molten hue. The memory stirred, vivid and unbidden, sweeping over him like a tide.
Abrazân, sitting by the fire, had his chainmail catching the flickering light. The glow turned the steel into something almost alive, with every link gleaming like a constellation against the dark fabric beneath.
Abrazân’s voice had been steady that night, low and calm, the way it always was when he spoke of things that mattered. “You fight for the man next to you,” he said, his gaze fixed on the flames. “That’s all.”
At the time, those words had seemed simple. Obvious, even. Ungoránë had been so young then, so eager to prove himself. He’d nodded along, his heart swelling with pride at the thought of standing beside his brother, living up to the legacy of the men who had come before them. But now—now those words felt like something else entirely. They were heavy, laden with a responsibility he hadn’t understood until it was too late to ask what Abrazân had really meant.
He could see his brother clearly in his mind’s eye, the way he had looked that night. Calm, resolute, as though the air he carried was something he had long since made peace with. But had he? Had Abrazân questioned his choices, the way Ungoránë did now? Had he carried their faces with him—those who had fallen, those he couldn’t save? Or had he simply kept going because he had no other choice?
The questions twisted in his chest, sharp and unrelenting. He had no answers—only the memory of his brother’s voice, low and steady, cutting through the haze of uncertainty like firelight cuts through the darkness.
Ungoránë’s hand tightened around the hilt of the sword, his knuckles turning white. The leather bit into his palm, grounding him in the present even as his thoughts lingered in the past. The fire crackled softly, a faint, uneven sound that filled the silence but offered no comfort.
Was this how you felt, brother? he wondered. Did you doubt yourself? Did you wonder if it was worth it? Or did you already know what I’ve only just begun to understand?
He turned the sword slowly in his hands, the blade catching the dim light. It wasn’t his—not truly. But it was here, solid and unyielding; in its own way, it had chosen him. He ran his thumb over the worn leather of the hilt, feeling every ridge and imperfection as though they might hold the answers he sought.
“I understand now,” he thought, the words forming slowly and deliberately in the quiet corners of his mind. “I think I finally understand.”
It wasn’t about glory. It wasn’t about songs or the White Tree or the pride of Gondor. It wasn’t even about survival. It was about standing when others couldn’t. It was about carrying the responsibility, even when it felt like it might crush you. It was about giving the men beside you one more day, one more chance, because you could.
The fire flickered weakly, its warmth fading as the night stretched on. Ungoránë stared at the sword a moment longer before lifting his gaze to the stars above. They shone cold and distant, scattered like shards of broken glass across the night sky. For a moment, he watched their steady light, feeling the sharp chill of the air bite at his skin. Their indifference was strangely comforting—a reminder that the world continued, indifferent to the chaos below. But they were steady and unwavering, and something about that steadiness settled inside him.
He let out a slow breath, his grip on the sword loosening just slightly. The weight of it hadn’t changed—it was still heavy, still foreign in his hand. But it felt different now. Not lighter. Just… steadier. Familiar in a way it hadn’t been before.
The memory of Abrazân lingered, his voice echoing faintly in the quiet: “You fight for the man next to you. That’s all.”
When Thordur left, the camp grew still again, the fire burning low. Ungoránë remained where he was, the sword resting in his lap. The memory of Abrazân rose unbidden, his voice clear and steady: “You fight for the man next to you. That’s all.”
This isn’t the life I imagined, Ungoránë thought as he stood, the sword hanging at his side. The ruins of Osgiliath stretched out before him like a jagged wound. It’s harder. Darker. But it’s mine now. And I’ll carry it. For Abrazân. For Thordur. For the ones who can’t stand alone.
The fire flickered behind him, its faint warmth brushing against his back. The sword no longer felt foreign. It wasn’t lighter, but it felt familiar now—a part of him.
I’ll keep going. Not for glory. Not for songs. For them. Always for them.
With that thought, he turned back toward the camp, the faint echo of his brother’s voice guiding his steps: “You fight for the man next to you. That’s all.”