The Morgulduin flowed black and sluggish beneath the ancient bridge, its waters gleaming with a faint, sickly light under the waning crescent moon. The air was sharp with the scent of decay and the metallic tang of blood carried on the morning breeze. What remained of the once-proud Gondorian crossing was a grim testament to the encroaching corruption—the original stonework now defiled by Mordor’s crude repairs. Gaps in the structure were patched with rough-hewn blocks and planks of splintered wood, lashed together with coarse ropes and reinforced with rusted iron supports. Blackened banners bearing the Eye of Sauron hung at intervals along the parapet, fluttering in the foul wind, while faint carvings of the White Tree could still be seen in the original stones, a ghostly reminder of what once was.
At the western edge, where the dense woods of Ithilien offered their final cover, the squad gathered in silence. Their breaths ghosted in the chill air, each plume dissolving quickly as if the cold would not allow even that small defiance to linger for long. Behind them, the forest stood sentinel—oaks and beeches, their trunks wide and gnarled with age. Yet even here, the corruption from the east had begun its insidious work; the undergrowth grew tangled and wild, and at the edges nearest the Morgulduin, leaves had blackened at their tips, and strange fungi sprouted at the bases of the most ancient trees.
The bridge stretched before them, a narrow spine of stone arcing across the haunted river. Its surface glistened faintly, slick with moss and age, as if time itself had conspired with the enemy to make the crossing treacherous. It was unassuming in appearance—just another relic in a land increasingly claimed by shadow—but it was everything. That thin stretch of stone held the supply line to Mordor’s forces in western Ithilien; cutting it would cripple their advance toward Osgiliath.
Hadron crouched near the center of the group, a rough map spread out on the forest floor before him. His fingers, calloused and smeared with dirt, traced the jagged lines of the enemy’s anticipated approach from the eastern bank. His voice remained calm, but a coiled urgency belied his composure.
“They’ll come in waves,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the squad. “And they’ll keep coming until one side breaks. We take this bridge, or Mordor’s supplies continue flowing west.”
The words hung in the air, stark and uncompromising, pressing down on them with the weight of inevitability. Gamil grunted softly, adjusting the strap on his shield, the leather worn and patched from countless battles. His face was set in a grim mask, his jaw working as though chewing on thoughts too bitter to voice. Azrak, younger than the rest and much less experienced, fidgeted with the hilt of his sword. His knuckles were pale, the tendons in his hands taut as bowstrings. He looked down at the blade as if seeking reassurance from its cold, unyielding steel.
Thordur, by contrast, leaned with deceptive ease against the trunk of an old oak. His bow rested loosely across his back, the curve of its wood smooth and polished from years of use. Yet even his relaxed posture couldn’t hide the way his jaw tightened or how his eyes flicked toward the bridge with measured calculation. He looked every inch the veteran—steady and deliberate—but those who knew him well could see the tension humming beneath the surface.
Near the edge of their gathering, two newer additions to the squad maintained their own vigils. Elaran knelt at the forest’s boundary, his keen gray eyes fixed on the far side of the bridge, fingers absently adjusting the string of his longbow. He moved with minimal effort, each gesture precise and economical. Beside him, Durathon stood like a dark sentinel, the massive warhammer called Tarthorn resting on his shoulder. His broad frame cast a long shadow in the dim light, and he seemed to absorb the surrounding darkness rather than being diminished by it.
Hadron’s gaze landed on Ungoránë, pinning him with a weight that wasn’t entirely the captain’s to give. “You’ll take the left flank with Gamil and Thordur,” he said. “Durathon, you’re the anchor. Elaran stays at the treeline with covering fire. Azrak, you’re with me on the right. We hold, no matter what.”
The hilt of Ungoránë’s sword felt cool in his hand, the leather grip worn yet familiar. He gave a single nod, his voice steady as he spoke. “We’ll hold.”
It wasn’t bravado; it was a promise, forged as much from duty as from necessity.
The attack hit like the tide breaking against the cliffs—relentless, inevitable, and utterly unforgiving. What began as a low rumble from the eastern approach quickly erupted into a cacophony of boots pounding on stone, guttural war cries that tore through the still air, and the metallic hiss of blades unsheathed in unison. The Southrons surged forward from the Morgul Vale, their charge a living wave of fury and steel. Mist poured across the battlefield, rising from the black waters below, thick and choking as it rolled over the ancient bridge. It clung to every jagged corner and crude repair, blurring the line between friend and foe, flesh and shadow.
Ungoránë stood at the head of the left flank, his grip firm on the hilt of his sword. The air buzzed with tension, a kind that pressed against the skin like an unseen weight. He could feel the battle coming- a storm rushing toward them- and every fiber of his being screamed to brace for the impact. His heart thundered, his breath visible in the chill morning air, but his focus was sharp, cutting through the haze of fear.
Beside him, Gamil raised his shield just as the first Southron closed the distance. The man’s blade struck with a force that sent a resounding clang echoing across the bridge. Gamil grunted, shifting his weight to absorb the impact, his knees bending slightly under the strain. The shield held, its scarred surface a testament to past battles, but the Southron was relentless. He pressed forward, snarling, his scimitar flashing as he struck again.
“Hold the line!” Ungoránë bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos.
Gamil barked a bitter laugh, deflecting another blow. “Easy for you to say!”
Behind them, Thordur moved like a shadow, his bow already drawn. The twang of the string was quickly followed by the sickening thud of an arrow embedding itself in flesh. A Southron stumbled, clutching his throat as blood bubbled between his fingers. He fell to his knees, gasping, before collapsing face-first onto the ancient stones.
“Don’t encourage him, Gamil,” Thordur called, his voice sharp with dark humor. “He’ll start thinking he’s in charge.”
Ungoránë didn’t have time to respond. Another Southron lunged from the swirling mist, his curved blade telegraphing its path—a predictable diagonal slash aimed at the neck. Ungoránë shifted his weight to his back foot, and the attacker’s momentum carried him forward into empty space. Three distinct weaknesses emerged: exposed throat, unarmored armpit, and a gap between ribs. He selected the third. With mathematical precision, he drove his sword upward at a thirty-degree angle, feeling it slip between the fifth and sixth ribs, puncturing the lung before finding the heart. The man’s eyes widened—not in pain but in surprise—as Ungoránë withdrew the blade with an efficient twist to prevent suction. One less obstacle. He was already calculating his next move before the body crumpled.
The Southrons pressed harder, their numbers a relentless tide. Each fought with a strange, single-minded fury, as if driven by a will beyond their own. Their strikes were wild, yet no less deadly for that. Steel met steel with deafening ferocity, sparks flying in the dim light. The air was thick with competing stenches: the metallic sweetness of arterial spray, the ammoniac undertones of voided bladders, and the distinctive rot emanating from the black waters below. Each breath coated the lungs in invisible filth.
Ungoránë felt his body’s weariness with cold awareness: thighs trembling from exertion, a dull ache spreading through his sword arm, and breath coming shallow in the foul air that hung over the Morgul Vale. Yet his heart beat steady despite these burdens—a testament to years of battle and harsh training. Time seemed to slow and fragment around him. When another attacker lunged with a wild swing, Ungoránë saw it as clearly as if the man moved through water—the arc of the blade, the opening in his guard, the path of least resistance. His sword met the curved scimitar at its weakest point, steel grinding against steel with a terrible cry that echoed across the stone. The sound would shake the Southron’s resolve and warn Thordur of danger without the need for words.
The ancient bridge became a deadly maze as the battle wore on. Blood from the fallen seeped into the cracks between weathered stones, leaving treacherous pools that gleamed black in the pale light. Ungoránë committed these perils to memory, choosing each step with care while watching the Southrons stumble and slip in their haste. The eastern span of the bridge, though solid underfoot, laid men bare to arrows from the shadowed vale beyond. At the center, a fallen barricade offered shelter but trapped defenders in a space too cramped for proper swordplay. The western approach, where stone had crumbled away over countless years, narrowed to a passage where scarcely two men could stand abreast—a throat of stone where Durathon’s great hammer denied the enemy their advantage of numbers.
Durathon stood like a bulwark amid the chaos, reshaping the flow of battle through raw might alone. Where Ungoránë’s blade sought the spaces between armor and bone, Tarthorn fell like doom itself upon the enemy. A sweeping blow struck a charging Southron across the chest with a sound like thunder breaking over stone. Though the man’s skin remained unbroken, something vital shattered within—he crumpled without a cry, the light already fading from his eyes. When another foe raised his shield in desperate defense, Durathon’s hammer struck with terrible purpose. The wood held, but the arm beneath gave way with a sickening crack. The Southron howled, his shield now a useless weight hanging from a limb that would never again bear a blade, trapped by the very protection he had trusted.
Behind them all, from his position at the western edge, Elaran’s presence registered in Ungoránë’s awareness not through sight but through consequence: the precise rhythm of enemies falling to arrows that materialized without sound. The marksman’s efficiency was mathematical—each shot delivered exactly where vulnerability and opportunity intersected. A Southron rounding the barricade suddenly staggered, an arrow shaft protruding from the exact center of his exposed throat. The precision spoke of more than skill—it revealed an almost supernatural patience, a willingness to wait until circumstances aligned perfectly rather than firing at merely adequate targets.
The battlefield was chaos, a swirling storm of mist and blood where no step was certain and no breath assured. Amid the din of clashing steel and desperate cries, a scream from the right flank ripped through the noise, sharp and primal. Ungoránë’s head snapped toward it, his chest tightening with dread. Through the haze, he saw Azrak crumpled to his knees, his shield reduced to jagged splinters dangling uselessly from his arm. His sword trembled in his grip, its edge gleaming faintly, but it hung slack as though the will to wield it had drained from him. Above him loomed a Southron warrior, his scimitar already rising in a gleaming arc for the killing blow.
“Thordur!” Ungoránë’s voice sliced through the roar of battle, hoarse yet commanding. His legs moved instinctively, feet skidding over blood-slick stone as he sprinted toward the fray. “Cover me!”
Behind him, the sound of a bowstring snapping taut echoed—a sharp, decisive note amidst the discord. Thordur’s arrow sliced through the misty air with a hiss, its fletching nearly invisible against the haze. It struck true, embedding itself deep in the Southron’s thigh. The warrior stumbled, his stance faltering as he growled in pain, his scimitar wavering mid-swing. Ungoránë closed the gap in an instant, his sword raised high.
The blade came down with brutal efficiency, cleaving into the Southron’s side. It crunched through leather and bone, and a spray of dark blood fanned out, hot and metallic. The warrior’s guttural cry was choked off as he collapsed, his weapon clattering uselessly to the ground. Ungoránë didn’t watch him fall; his focus was already on Azrak.
He seized the younger soldier by the arm, his grip firm yet urgent, and lifted him upright. “Get up!” he barked, his tone as sharp as the steel in his hand. “You’re not done yet.”
Azrak’s face was pale, his expression caught between terror and disbelief. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, but there was something else in his wide eyes—a flicker of resolve struggling to reignite. He swallowed hard, his free hand tightening around the hilt of his sword as though grasping for an anchor in the chaos. “I’ve got it,” he said, his voice trembling but determined.
“Good,” Ungoránë snapped, releasing him and shoving him back into the fray. “Stay with Hadron. Don’t let him down.”
Azrak stumbled but regained his footing, his shoulders squared as he turned back toward the line where Hadron fought. He moved with shaky determination, each step becoming less hesitant than the last. Ungoránë watched him for a heartbeat longer, his chest heaving. The kid’s still green, he thought, the words bitter as bile. But he’s not broken. Not yet.
A wave of movement caught Ungoránë’s attention, and his head whipped around just in time to see another Southron charging toward him, the man’s blade low and poised to gut him like a wild boar. The warrior’s face was twisted with fury, streaked with dirt and blood, his teeth bared in a feral snarl. Ungoránë raised his sword, confronting the attack head-on.
The Southron’s scimitar swept horizontally—a weapon designed for slashing from horseback but ill-suited for the confines of the bridge. Ungoránë met it with the forte of his Gondorian longsword, the thickest part of the blade nearest the hilt. The curved edge slid harmlessly down his blade. He stepped inside the Southron’s guard, striking the man’s temple with calculated force using the pommel. As the enemy staggered, Ungoránë’s sword found the gap beneath the leather breastplate, sliding upward with minimal resistance until it grated against the sternum. He rotated the blade a quarter turn to the right, widening the wound channel, then extracted it at a downward angle to avoid binding in bone. Blood evacuated the puncture in rhythmic pulses—arterial damage. The Southron would bleed out in approximately thirty seconds. Ungoránë stepped away, conserving energy instead of delivering an unnecessary killing stroke.
By the time the Southrons’ assault began to waver, Ungoránë had carved a brutal path back to the left flank, where Gamil and Thordur held their ground. Gamil’s shield was dented, its edges splintered, but he wielded it like an extension of himself, battering back enemies with an almost feral intensity. Thordur, his quiver depleted, fought with a long knife in one hand and the remains of his bow in the other, his grin sharp and wild.
“Nice save,” Thordur called over the clash of steel, his voice filled with approval. “Azrak owes you one.”
“He owes me more than one,” Ungoránë shot back, his tone grim yet steady. His mind flickered briefly to the younger soldier who fought alongside Hadron. Still alive, still standing- for now.
Gamil let out a bark of laughter, slamming his shield into an attacker with enough force to send the man sprawling. “He’ll make it up to you in songs, I’m sure. The ballad of Ungoránë: savior of green recruits.”
“Don’t give him ideas,” Ungoránë muttered, his sword flashing as he parried an incoming strike. He countered with a vicious upward thrust, the blade sinking into his opponent’s chest and emerging in a spray of crimson.
But even as he fought, the weight of the moment lingered in his mind—the sight of Azrak on his knees, vulnerable and exposed, the scimitar poised to end him. Ungoránë had moved without thinking, driven by instinct and something deeper. He couldn’t shake the memory of his brother, Abrazân, his voice steady and unyielding in the quiet of another night: “You fight for the man next to you. That’s all.”
The memory steadied him, grounding him amid the chaos. His grip on the sword tightened, and he pressed forward, each strike fueled by purpose. Not for glory. Not for songs. For them. Always for them.
The air was thick with mist and the copper tang of blood; the battlefield was a chaotic tapestry of screams, steel, and desperation. The Southrons surged forward like a relentless tide, their war cries blending into a roar that seemed to shake the very stones of the bridge. The left flank buckled under their weight, and the men struggled to hold their ground as the enemy pressed harder with each wave.
Gamil stumbled, his shield absorbing the brunt of a brutal blow that sent him skidding back toward the western end of the bridge. His face was set in a grimace, teeth bared as he braced himself for the next attack. Ungoránë noticed the gap widening, a fracture in their line that the Southrons would exploit in seconds. He moved without hesitation, his boots slipping on the blood-slick stone as he rushed to fill the breach.
“Hold the line!” he bellowed, his voice raw, each word torn from his throat like a battle cry of its own. “We can’t let them through!”
His sword came up in a sharp, precise arc, meeting the blade of an advancing Southron with a clash that reverberated through his bones. The impact jarred his arm, but he gritted his teeth and pushed back, twisting his wrist to deflect the enemy’s strike. His counter was brutal and efficient, the blade slicing across the man’s throat in a single, decisive motion. Blood sprayed in a dark arc, the warmth splattering across Ungoránë’s face as the Southron fell, his body crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut.
But there was no time to linger. Another enemy was already closing in, his curved blade glinting in the dim light. Ungoránë stepped forward to confront him, moving fluidly despite the weight of exhaustion pressing on his limbs. His sword struck again, this time carving through the man’s chest with a sickening crunch. The Southron gasped, his eyes wide with shock as he dropped to his knees, clutching the gaping wound before collapsing face-first onto the stones.
“Thought you could use some help,” came a voice over the din, sharp with amusement but tinged with iron resolve. Thordur appeared at Ungoránë’s side, his bow slung across his back and his dagger flashing in his hand. His face was streaked with blood, some of it his own, yet his grin was as unwavering as the stars above.
Before Ungoránë could respond, Thordur surged forward, plunging his dagger into the neck of an advancing Southron. The man gurgled, his hands clawing weakly at the blade as Thordur yanked it free with a savage twist. Blood gushed from the wound, painting the ground with a vivid splash of crimson as the enemy collapsed.
“Always a pleasure,” Ungoránë muttered, his tone dry despite the chaos. His sword lashed out in a sweeping arc, striking another Southron in the stomach. The blade bit deeply, tearing through flesh and muscle with brutal efficiency. The man let out a guttural scream, his insides spilled onto the ground as he crumpled into a twitching heap.
Thordur let out a short laugh, wiping his blade on the tunic of a fallen enemy. “You know how to make a guy feel appreciated.”
At the center of the bridge, Durathon stood as a bulwark against which the Southron advance broke like waves against rock. His massive warhammer swept in controlled arcs, each impact devastating. A Southron rushed at him with his shield raised; Durathon pivoted and brought Tarthorn down in a vertical strike that shattered not only the shield but also the arm beneath it, driving bone fragments into the warrior’s chest. The man didn’t even scream—he simply collapsed, his life extinguished in that single, brutal moment.
“They’re faltering!” Durathon’s voice boomed across the battlefield, the first words he’d spoken since the battle began. His dark eyes scanned the eastern approach, where the next wave of enemies hesitated at the sight of their fallen comrades.
The two of them moved together in a deadly rhythm of steel and instinct. Thordur’s dagger darted with quick, precise strikes, nimble and deliberate in its movements. Ungoránë’s sword was a heavier force, carving through the enemy with the grim finality of a headsman’s axe. They pushed forward step by step, their backs brushing against each other as they fought, each trusting the other to guard what they could not see.
The Southrons faltered. It was subtle at first—a slight hesitation in their advance, and the lines no longer pressed forward with the same relentless determination. Ungoránë could see it in their eyes, the flicker of doubt that arose when men realized they were no longer the hunters but the hunted. He did not hesitate to take advantage.
“Push them back!” he shouted, his voice rising above the chaos. His sword struck again, this time driving deep into an enemy’s side. The man cried out, his body jerking as Ungoránë wrenched the blade free, the motion sending a spray of blood across the stones.
Behind him, Thordur dispatched another foe with a quick, brutal slice to the throat. “They’re breaking!” he called, his tone fierce with the thrill of battle. “Keep at it!”
From the western treeline, a new volley of arrows arced overhead, finding their marks with unerring precision. Elaran had shifted positions, moving to higher ground that provided a clear line of sight over the entire bridge. His arrows rained down on the rear ranks of the Southrons, sowing confusion and panic. One by one, the enemy fell, their formations dissolving as they realized they were being picked off from a distance they couldn’t hope to close.
And then it came, cutting through the clamor like a clarion call: the sound of a Gondorian horn. Its deep, commanding note echoed across the vale, a sound that spoke of reinforcements, of hope, of survival. The Southrons hesitated, their formation faltering as their gazes flicked toward the western woods.
Over the rise, Gondorian rangers poured from the Ithilien forest, their green cloaks billowing behind them as they charged. They moved with the precision of those who knew this land intimately, their arrows finding gaps in armor and their blades striking with deadly efficiency. The Southrons broke, their once-disciplined lines dissolving into disarray as they fled, their shouts turning into cries of desperation as they retreated across the eastern half of the bridge.
The Morgulduin bridge fell silent, and the battlefield transformed into a graveyard filled with shattered stones and lifeless bodies. The air was thick with the acrid tang of blood and the fetid stench rising from the black waters below, with the remnants of battle clinging to everything they touched. Near the edge of the western bank, the squad regrouped, their faces streaked with dirt and exhaustion, their movements slow and heavy as if the fight had drained the very life from their bones.
Azrak sat slumped against a twisted oak, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. His face was pale, streaked with blood that wasn’t his, and his hands trembled faintly as they gripped his battered sword. The shattered remnants of his shield lay discarded beside him, the wood splintered and rendered useless. Yet, he was alive, and that simple fact felt like a victory in itself.
Nearby, Gamil leaned heavily on his shield, the deep cracks in its surface testifying to the battle’s ferocity. His broad shoulders heaved with effort, each breath a reminder of the weariness of a man who had borne the weight of the enemy’s assault and lived to tell the tale. His face was set in a grimace, the lines of his expression deepened by dirt and sweat, yet his eyes still held a glimmer of determination.
Elaran stood slightly apart, methodically counting his remaining arrows, his movements economical and precise. Though his quiver was nearly empty, not a single shaft had been wasted—each one had found its mark with uncanny accuracy. His face betrayed no emotion, but the slight tremor in his fingers as he examined a bloodied arrowhead revealed the toll that the battle had taken even on his composed exterior.
Durathon sat on a fallen log, his massive frame leaning forward as he inspected Tarthorn for damage. The warhammer’s head was slick with blood and fragments of bone, yet he handled it with surprising gentleness, wiping it clean with slow, deliberate strokes of a rag. Despite the brutality he unleashed on the bridge, his expression remained calm, almost meditative.
Hadron approached them with measured steps, his expression unreadable. His armor bore fresh dents and scrapes, and a streak of blood ran down his cheek, dried to a dull rust. He halted in front of Ungoránë, his gaze steady yet heavy, as if weighing his next words.
“You took a risk out there,” Hadron spoke softly, with each syllable articulated deliberately. “Leaving your flank to help Azrak.”
Ungoránë met his eyes without flinching. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the blade still stained with the blood of those who had fallen. When he spoke, his voice was quiet yet resolute. “I couldn’t let him fall.”
For a moment, Hadron said nothing, his sharp gaze searching Ungoránë’s face as if trying to find something hidden beneath the surface. Then, he nodded slowly, the movement carrying a weight of its own. “You made the right call,” he said. “It held the line.”
Azrak looked up from where he sat, his voice hoarse but earnest. “You saved me, Ungoránë,” he said, his words unsteady but filled with conviction. “I… I won’t forget that.”
Ungoránë’s eyes flicked to Azrak, noting the younger man’s pale face and the tremor in his voice. There was gratitude there, yes, but also something deeper—an understanding that life could be both fragile and precious. Ungoránë nodded, the gesture subtle yet sincere.
Thordur broke the moment, his voice carrying a faint edge of humor as he clapped Ungoránë on the shoulder. His hand left a smear of blood, though whether it was his own or someone else’s was impossible to tell. “Seems like you’re making a habit of this, little brother,” he said, his smirk barely hiding the relief that they were all still standing.
Ungoránë let out a faint laugh, the sound rough, tired, yet genuine. He shook his head. “Let’s hope it doesn’t catch on.”
That night, as the squad rested and fresh Gondorian sentries secured the bridge, Ungorane sat by the fire with the sword resting across his knees. The battle replayed in his mind—the clash of steel, the cries of the wounded, and the moment Azrak’s life hung in the balance.
The night had settled heavily over the camp, cloaking the western edge of the Morgulduin in a silence that felt almost unnatural after the chaos of the day. The fire burned low, its embers glowing like dying stars amidst the darkness. Around it, the squad rested, their bodies hunched in exhaustion, faces marked with streaks of ash, blood, and sweat. The air was thick with the metallic tang of iron, mingled with the acrid scent of charred wood and the faint sweetness of the Ithilien forest behind them.
Ungoránë sat apart, as he often did, with the sword resting across his knees. Its blade was streaked with dried blood, and the nicks along its edge caught the faint light- tiny imperfections that told the story of the day’s violence. He slowly turned it in his hands, his fingers brushing the worn leather of the hilt, tracing grooves left by hands long dead. It felt heavier tonight—heavier than it had in the heat of battle. Or perhaps the weight came not from the steel but from what it had done.
The battle replayed in his mind, vivid and relentless. He could hear the clash of steel ringing out over the ancient bridge, feel the jarring impact of every blow that connected. The cries of the wounded rose unbidden in his memory, sharp and raw, cutting through the haze like the jagged edge of a broken blade. Then there was Azrak, his shield shattered, his body crumpled to the ground as death loomed over him. Ungoránë had witnessed the moment—the way Azrak’s eyes widened, the way his fingers trembled against the hilt of his sword. He felt fear and resignation, the brief flicker of someone who knew the end had come.
Ungoránë’s chest tightened at the memory. He could have stayed. He could have held the line, keeping his focus on the flank that threatened to buckle under the Southron onslaught. It would have been safer. Easier. The thought lingered, sharp and insistent, as if it were testing his resolve.
But I didn’t, he thought, his grip tightening around the hilt of the sword. And because of that, we stood firm. Because of that, Azrak is still here.
The memory of his brother surfaced, unbidden yet welcome. Abrazân’s voice echoed in his mind, steady and unyielding, as it had been on that distant night. “You fight for the man next to you. That’s all.”
Those words, once simple and clear, now carried a weight that settled deep in his chest. They were neither a command nor a principle; instead, they represented a truth—a truth that had guided him across the blood-soaked bridge to stand between Azrak and death.
The ache that accompanied the memory was faint, but it lingered- a quiet reminder of loss. Yet with it came clarity. Ungoránë’s gaze drifted to the sword again. It was no longer a stranger’s weapon; it was his now, its weight a part of him.
Across the camp, Durathon sat with Tarthorn resting on his lap, the warhammer’s head now clean but marked with new scars from the day’s combat. His large hands moved surprisingly gently over the weapon, applying oil to prevent rust. The big man’s presence was still new to the squad, yet there was no denying the impact he had on today’s battle. His eyes briefly met Ungoránë’s across the flames—a silent acknowledgment passed between them before both returned to their tasks.
Near the edge of the firelight, Elaran knelt on one knee, carefully straightening the fletching on his few remaining arrows. His methodical focus seemed to isolate him from the rest of the group, yet Ungoránë noticed how the archer’s gaze occasionally flicked toward each member of the squad, watchful and attentive despite his apparent detachment.
Thordur’s voice broke through the silence, low and calm. “You did well today.”
Ungoránë glanced up to find Thordur sitting nearby, his knife carving slow, deliberate arcs into a piece of wood. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the streaks of grime and blood that marred it. For a long moment, Thordur didn’t look up, focused on the task at hand. He didn’t need to; the words hung between them, heavy with meaning.
Ungoránë furrowed his brow, his voice tinged with uncertainty. “Did I?”
Thordur finally looked up, his grin faint but genuine, a small, steady light in the darkness. “You kept us alive,” he said simply. “That’s more than most can say.”
Pale morning light reluctantly broke over the Morgulduin, casting long shadows across the ancient bridge and the corrupted eastern shore beyond. The squad moved sluggishly, their movements weighed down by the exhaustion of the previous day. Dirt and blood streaked their faces, and their armor was dented and scuffed, but they were alive—and for now, that was enough.
Azrak fumbled with his sword belt, his hands trembling slightly. Gamil leaned heavily on his splintered shield, muttering curses under his breath as he adjusted the straps. Thordur, always a step removed, stood with his back against a weathered oak, carving something indiscernible into a piece of wood. He appeared calm, as he often did, but there was an edge to him, a tautness that belied the ease of his posture.
Elaran was already at his post, scanning the eastern shore with focused intensity, his longbow ready at his side. Durathon moved among them, his massive frame seemingly absorbing the morning mist as he meticulously checked the bindings on his warhammer.
Ungoránë stood at the edge of the camp, the wind stirring his unkempt hair as he gazed toward the eastern shore of the Morgulduin. His sword hung at his side, its weight a constant reminder; the hilt worn smooth beneath his grip. Each scratch and dent in the blade told the story of the brutal fight for the bridge, and each felt heavier now in the aftermath.
“Ungoránë,” Hadron’s voice broke through the morning stillness, low and steady. Ungoránë turned, his brow furrowing as he saw the captain standing a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest. “Walk with me.”
They moved away from the others toward a part of the camp where a stand of ancient oaks provided a measure of privacy. Hadron leaned against one of the trunks, his expression unreadable. The man’s armor bore fresh scrapes, and a streak of dried blood ran across his jaw; yet his presence was as steady as the stones beneath his boots.
“You’ve come a long way,” Hadron began, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of something more—approval, perhaps, or expectation. “You’re not just fighting for yourself anymore. They see it. I see it. You’re leading them, whether you realize it or not.”
Ungoránë tensed, the weight of those words landing like a blow. He shook his head slightly, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. “I don’t think I’m the right man for that,” he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended. “I’m still figuring out how to carry my own weight, let alone theirs.”
Hadron tilted his head, studying him with the piercing gaze of someone who had spent years judging men’s worth on the battlefield. “That’s exactly why you’re the right man,” he said, his tone cutting through Ungoránë’s hesitation like a blade. “The ones who think they’re ready, who believe they have all the answers—they’re the ones who get men killed. You question yourself. You care. That’s what makes the difference.”
Ungoránë’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to argue, but Hadron raised a hand, silencing him. “You’ll lead your own squad one day,” he continued, his voice softening but losing none of its resolve. “But for now, you will stand beside me. I’m making you sergeant. My second.”
The words struck like a hammer blow, solid and inescapable. Ungoránë blinked, his mind scrambling to process their weight. ” Sergeant. Second in command. ” It felt surreal, as if Hadron were speaking to someone else entirely.
“I—” he began, but Hadron cut him off with a sharp look.
“You’re ready, whether you believe it or not,” Hadron said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And I don’t have time to convince you of something I already know. You’ve earned this, Ungoránë. Now carry it.”
For a moment, the younger man remained silent, his thoughts churning. Doubt wrestled with something quieter yet no less potent—a flicker of pride, a faint glimmer of hope. He met Hadron’s gaze, searching for any sign of uncertainty, but the captain’s expression was unwavering, hewn from stone.
Finally, Ungoránë nodded, the motion slow yet resolute. “I’ll do my best,” he said, the words feeling inadequate but honest.
Hadron’s expression softened, and he placed a firm hand on Ungoránë’s shoulder. “That’s all I ask,” he said simply. “Keep them alive. That’s what matters.”
As the squad prepared to move out, Ungoránë found himself watching them with new eyes. Azrak struggled to fasten his sword belt, his hands still trembling slightly from the previous day’s fight. Gamil leaned heavily on his battered shield, muttering curses as he adjusted the straps. Thordur stood apart, carving something indiscernible into a piece of wood, his movements unhurried yet precise.
Elaran signaled from his vantage point—all clear to the east, at least for now. His quiet competence would be an asset in the days to come. Durathon hefted Tarthorn onto his shoulder, his dark eyes scanning the bridge they had fought so hard to claim. The big man’s strength and unflinching resolve had already proven invaluable.
They were no longer just comrades; they were his responsibility. That truth settled over Ungoránë like a weight, yet it didn’t crush him. Instead, it anchored him, giving shape to a role he hadn’t asked for but could no longer deny.
Hadron’s words echoed in his mind: ” You’ll lead your own squad one day. ” The thought was daunting, yet it also carried a strange sense of inevitability. He adjusted the strap of his pack, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. The weapon no longer felt foreign—it was his now, a part of him.
As the squad began their march deeper into Ithilien, the Morgulduin bridge remained behind them, secured but never truly conquered—a lonely outpost of resistance against the growing shadow from the east. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and hardship, yet Ungoránë felt a flicker of resolve stir within him. He glanced at Azrak, Gamil, Thordur, and the newcomers Elaran and Durathon. They were battered but unbroken, and they trusted him—even if he didn’t fully trust himself yet.
“This isn’t the life I imagined,” Ungoránë thought, gripping the hilt of his sword firmly. “It’s harder. Darker. Filled with choices I never wanted to make. But it’s mine. And I’ll carry it. For them. Always for them.”
With that thought, he pressed forward, the weight of command resting on his shoulders—not as a burden, but as a sense of purpose.
