The fire crackled low, soft punctuation to the quiet rhythm of Ungoránë’s whetstone as it moved against the edge of his axe. The sound was steady and deliberate, each scrape against the steel pulling his focus tighter. The axe gleamed in the firelight, its edges catching orange and gold, but Ungoránë barely saw it. His mind drifted, his thoughts unmoored, while his ears were attuned to the faint rasping noises from the other side of the camp.
Thordur was at work on his bow again. The occasional tension creak punctuated the string waxing as he tested it. The careful rotation of arrows in his hand followed, each receiving the same meticulous attention. Then came the faint snap of fletching being pressed back into place, a sharp but soothing sound that felt oddly constant against the shifting murmur of the camp. Together, it formed a rhythm of its own, subtle yet distinct, a counterpoint to the scraping of the whetstone.
Ungoránë listened without meaning to. The rhythm wrapped around him, weaving through the stillness of the night and pulling him deeper into its cadence. His hands continued their motions automatically, but his thoughts slipped past the present moment, carried by the quiet insistence of Thordur’s movements.
When he was a boy, the woods felt impossibly large, each towering tree a sentinel standing watch over the narrow path they trod. His father moved ahead, quiet as a ghost, his long strides seeming to vanish into the underbrush. The little shadow struggled to keep up, the bow heavy in his hands. He tried not to let the string creak as he carried it, but it was awkward and unwieldy. His fingers ached slightly from holding the nock too tightly.
“Quiet now,” his father said, the word more felt than heard, settling over the boy like a second skin. The boy stilled, watching as his father crouched low to examine a faint track pressed into the damp earth. The air was alive with smells: the sharp tang of moss, the rich scent of turned soil, and the faint sweetness of pine resin.
“Come close. See this?” His voice was low and steady, each word slipping into the still forest air like a leaf drifting on water. He knelt low, his broad frame blending into the underbrush as if he belonged there. His hand hovered over the faint impression in the damp soil—a perfect crescent of a hoof, edges softened by the recent rain. He beckoned the boy forward without turning, his finger pressing lightly against the track as if drawing attention to something sacred.
The boy crept closer, his bare feet brushing the cool moss. His steps wavered initially, but eagerness pushed him to match his father’s steady stride. His chest swelled with the thrill of the hunt—each track, each whispered instruction feeding a growing sense of pride. He was part of this, a hunter like his father. He didn’t need to be told twice; the tension in the air was enough. The forest held its breath, its usual chorus silenced. Even the boy’s shallow breathing felt loud.
“That’s a stag,” his father said softly, the calm in his voice edged with something sharper—something keen. He brushed a hand over the track, measuring its depth and the space between impressions. “Big one, too. Look at the spread here—strong legs, walking steadily. Tracks this fresh mean we’ve got to be close.”
The boy’s heart quickened. The bow in his hand felt impossibly heavy now, the string taut under his grip. His father straightened, his sharp eyes scanning the thicket ahead. The man’s movements were unhurried but precise, with every shift of weight purposeful. The boy mirrored him as best he could, though his limbs felt clumsy in comparison.
“Look at that. See how the track sinks deep here?” his father asked, his tone soft but instructive. “That’s where he stopped; maybe he caught a whiff of something. But see? He didn’t take off.” He glanced at his son, his expression firm yet encouraging. “That tells you he’s close. Close. Keep quiet now—and mind the wind.”
The boy nodded, his throat dry and his pulse pounding in his ears. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his stance, the bow feeling heavier with each passing second. He glanced up at the swaying branches, biting his lip as he fought the creeping doubt: Could he do this without failing? His father had drilled this into him—stealth was not just silence but patience and awareness. A misplaced step or a careless wind shift could mean an empty quiver and a hungry night.
They moved together, the man leading with the ease of experience, the boy following in his wake. His father’s shadow stretched long against the patchy sunlight filtering through the canopy, his outline blending seamlessly with the muted greens and browns of the forest. To the boy, he seemed part of the woods, a living embodiment of its quiet power.
A faint rustle ahead froze them both in place. The boy’s breath hitched, and his father’s hand rose instinctively to signal stillness. Between the brambles, the stag emerged, its antlers twisting like branches in the dappled light. Its movements were fluid, and its dark eyes scanned the clearing.
His father lowered himself slowly, his hand gesturing for the boy to follow. He did, his bow trembling slightly as he nocked an arrow. His father’s voice, barely audible, reached him. “Forget the head. Always aim for the lungs. It’s the cleanest kill, and it’s over quickly. Wait for your moment. Breathe. Steady hands make a clean shot.”
The boy nodded, his fingers tightening around the string. He could feel the tautness against his calloused fingertips, the arrow’s weight poised like a held breath. He sighted along the shaft, his target clear. The stag shifted, its ears flicking. His heart pounded. His father’s advice echoed in his mind: Patience. Closer is easier.
For a moment, everything else faded—the ache in his arms, the weight of the bow, the world around them. All that remained was the stag, framed by the shifting light and unaware of the hunters just beyond the brambles.
Its antlers seemed to reach toward the sky, tangled in the branches above, as though the forest had crowned the stag its king. The boy’s fingers tightened around the bowstring, his knuckles white with effort. He drew it back slowly; the tension in the string was matched only by the tremor in his arm. His breath came shallow and uneven; the moment’s weight pressed on his chest like a stone.
His father’s voice was a faint echo in his mind: “The lungs. Always the lungs.” But as the stag shifted, its massive head dipping to graze, the boy’s instincts faltered. The broad chest, steady and rhythmic with breath, seemed too far, too uncertain. With its sharp eyes and regal antlers, the head appeared closer and more prominent—a target he couldn’t ignore.
He sighted along the shaft, holding his breath as he aimed for the head. For a heartbeat, the world stilled. The woods seemed to hold their breath with him, the air thick with potential.
Then he released.
The bowstring snapped against his forearm, a sharp sting that startled him more than the motion itself. The arrow flew, its path unsteady and uncertain. The stag’s ears flicked, and its head turned just in time. The arrow whistled harmlessly past, vanishing into the trees with a hollow thunk.
The stag bolted. Its hooves tore into the forest floor, scattering leaves and dirt as it disappeared into the underbrush. The boy froze, his breath lodged in his chest as the hollow thunk of the missed arrow echoed in his ears. His arm burned where the bowstring snapped, but that pain was nothing compared to the weight settling in his stomach—a cold, sinking shame. He blinked rapidly, fighting back the sting of tears as his father’s heavy sigh reached him.
Behind him, his father exhaled a heavy sigh. It wasn’t anger, but the weight of disappointment carried just as much force. “I told you,” his father said, his voice low and steady, “and I keep telling you. Never aim for the head. You aim for the lungs, not the head. That is the cleanest shot there is. The animal will run a bit but drop quickly every time.”
The boy didn’t dare look up. He nodded mutely, his hands gripping the bow tightly as though it might steady him. His father stepped forward, his movements calm and unshaken, as though the miss hadn’t mattered. The boy followed with his head bowed, his cheeks hot with failure. Every step felt heavier, each a reminder of what he had done wrong. Yet, when his father glanced back, there was no anger—only that quiet patience. It should have comforted him, but it only cut the boy’s shame deeper.
At the place where the stag had stood, his father crouched low, his fingers brushing the disturbed earth. The faint outline of the stag’s hooves and the scuff of its retreat told a story his father read like a map. He frowned slightly, his brow furrowing in thought. After a moment, he straightened and shook his head.
“Too fast to bother tracking,” his father muttered, his tone not unkind but resolute. The boy nodded, swallowing the tight lump of disappointment that had lodged itself in his throat. His father straightened, his tall frame outlined by the muted green light filtering through the canopy above. He gestured with a tilt of his head, his voice calm and steady. “We’ll find another.”
They moved on, the forest folding around them like a living thing. His father’s every step was purposeful, a masterclass in quiet movement. The boy followed as best he could, trying to mimic how his father placed each foot softly on the earth, avoiding the dry snap of twigs and the loud rustle of leaves.
The woods were alive, not with noise but with signs. A faint rub against the rough bark of a tree marked where antlers had scraped during the rut. A snapped branch here, a patch of disturbed soil there, each a piece of a puzzle his father assembled with practiced ease. The boy watched him closely, his hands moving lightly over the bark, and his sharp eyes scanned the thickets ahead as if he could see what lay beyond.
His father stopped suddenly, his hand raised. The boy froze, his pulse quickening. His father turned slightly, pointing to the faint impression of hoofprints in the soil. “Look here.” His voice dropped to a whisper, his hand hovering over the tracks. “See how the back hooves dig in deeper? That means he’s taking his time and isn’t spooked.”
The boy crouched beside him, his young hands mimicking his father’s movements. The tracks seemed ordinary to him—just marks in the dirt—but he nodded anyway. He wanted to see what his father saw, to understand what made these faint signs so important.
They crept onward, each step deliberate. The air seemed to change as they went, the sounds of the forest sharpening and softening simultaneously. A distant birdcall echoed, and the boy thought he could feel the tension in his father’s shoulders. His breathing felt too loud like it might carry across the woods.
Then they saw it.
The stag stood in a clearing; its great head lowered to graze. Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, catching on its broad shoulders and the gentle curve of its antlers. The boy’s breath caught in his throat. The stag was massive, even larger than the first, and its coat was a deep, rich brown that blended with the shadows of the underbrush.
His father held up a hand, signaling for him to stop. Slowly, he unslung his bow, the motion so fluid it seemed a part of him. He nocked an arrow, drawing it back with a quiet strength that felt effortless. The boy watched, his eyes wide, every part of him focused on the scene before him. He loosed the arrow with a quiet twang that seemed to blend with the sighing of the wind. The stag jolted as the arrow struck true, its body tensing before it bolted into the trees. It ran, its hooves pounding against the soft forest floor, scattering leaves and snapping twigs beneath its weight. But the run was short-lived. The boy watched, breath held, as the stag faltered, stumbled, and finally collapsed, its legs crumpling beneath it, folding awkwardly as if some unseen force had yanked its support away. The woods fell silent again, save for the faint rustle of leaves stirred by its fall.
“Come,” his father said, already stepping forward. His voice was calm and steady, like his hand on the bow. The boy followed, his heart thudding in his chest—part exhilaration, part awe.
They approached cautiously, his father’s every movement deliberate and quiet. The boy’s eyes were wide, fixed on the massive creature lying still among the underbrush. Its coat gleamed in the dappled light filtering through the canopy; each rise and fall of its chest weakened as the blood loss did its work.
His father knelt beside the stag, placing a steadying hand on its side before inspecting the wound. The arrow had pierced the lungs cleanly, just as he’d said it would. The blood was bright against the animal’s fur, vivid and stark against the muted colors of the forest floor.
“That’s it. Perfect shot.” His calm words carried a quiet certainty, not seeking praise but stating a truth about the woods. His tone reflected a caring approach to showing his son the right way.
The boy crouched a few steps away, watching as his father pulled a knife from his belt. The blade shimmered in the sunlight, its edge sharp and purposeful. His father worked methodically, removing the parts of the carcass they wouldn’t take home. Each motion was practiced and efficient, as though this act was as natural as breathing.
“The heart,” the boy piped up, his voice cracking through the quiet rhythm of his father’s work. His hands clenched at his sides, not from fear but from anticipation. “Are you going to smoke it?”
His father paused, the knife still mid-cut, and glanced at him with a faint smile. The kind of smile that seemed not to belong in the woods, surrounded by blood and the faint metallic scent of the hunt. His father paused, glancing at him with a faint smile—small but warm, like the first crack of fire in a cold hearth. “You’ve got a taste for it, huh?” His voice was light and teasing.
“It’s the best part,” the boy said quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush of earnestness. His voice gained strength, even conviction, as he continued. “You always said that.”
His father chuckled softly, the sound low and rich, like the crackle of a fire on a cold night. His hands resumed their work, steady and precise, the blade moving through sinew and muscle with practiced ease. His father chuckled softly, the sound like boots crunching over dried leaves. “Best part, indeed,” he agreed, his tone softening. “It takes a sharp knife and a careful hand to handle it right. Lucky for you, I’ve got both.”
The boy grinned with a small, private smile and crouched closer, watching as his father set the heart aside carefully and deliberately. It was a moment as rich as the woods around them, full of unspoken understanding. Here, in the stillness of the hunt’s aftermath, they weren’t just hunters and learners—they were father and son, bound by a shared tradition and the quiet trust of the life they carried together.
On the way back, they spoke little, their words unnecessary amidst the rhythmic sounds of the forest at dusk. The weight of the carcass, suspended between them by a sturdy pole, shifted slightly with each step. The boy’s smaller frame strained against the load but refused to complain. His father bore the heavier portion with practiced ease; his movements were steady and unhurried, as though he could carry the world without faltering.
The forest grew darker; the canopy overhead thickened until only faint ribbons of twilight filtered through. The boy focused on his footing, careful not to trip over the gnarled roots or hidden rocks that jutted from the uneven path. His hands gripped the pole tightly, and his arms ached, but the weight felt like a badge of honor—a shared burden that made him feel older, stronger, and closer to the man who walked beside him.
Their breaths mingled with the night sounds: the rustle of unseen creatures, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the soft crackle of dried leaves underfoot. The forest smelled different now: cooler and richer, layered with the musk of the hunt. The boy inhaled deeply, letting the scents anchor him as if to forever fix this moment in his memory.
When they reached the edge of the woods, their home appeared. It was small and sturdy against the vastness of the land, and the firelight from the windows glowed like a beacon, a soft amber warmth that promised safety and rest. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, its scent mingling with the earthy aroma of damp wood and pine.
Abrazân was the first to appear, his broad frame silhouetted in the doorway, curiosity plain on his face. Their mother followed, wiping her hands on her apron, her expression equal parts relief and exasperation.
“You’re late,” she called, though her voice carried no real reproach.
The boy glanced at his father, who smiled only faintly—the one that said everything and nothing at once. Together, they hefted the carcass higher, carrying it toward the glow of home and the promise of warmth within.
Thordur’s knife scraped against the wood, the sound sharp and steady, dragging Ungoránë from the past. The ache in his chest lingered, as vivid now as it had been then, the memory of that missed shot cutting through him like a wound that refused to heal. He flexed his hand unconsciously, the ghost of that boy’s trembling grip still with him. He blinked, the flickering firelight stinging his eyes as the ruins of Osgiliath revolved around him. His axe rested across his knees, the whetstone still in his hand, its rough surface pressed lightly against the edge. He realized he hadn’t moved it for some time.
“You’ve been quiet,” Thordur said, his tone carrying that easy warmth he wielded so naturally. He didn’t look up from the stag he was carving, his knife moving in precise, unhurried strokes that peeled thin curls of wood from the block.
“Just thinking,” Ungoránë replied softly. His voice was neutral, edged with a quietness that could have been mistaken for disinterest, but Thordur wasn’t fooled. There was a weight behind those two words, something heavy enough to anchor them in the space between the fire and the shadows.
Thordur glanced up briefly, his gaze catching Ungoránë’s face. His expression shifted slightly, tempering his curiosity with restraint before he gave a slight nod and returned to carving. The stag in his hands was taking shape—a rough but recognizable form. Its head turned as if caught mid-motion, listening for some distant sound in the quiet woods.
Ungoránë tilted his head back, letting the cool night air brush against his face. Above him, the sky stretched out in a vast indigo expanse, and the stars were scattered like shards of broken glass. They blinked coldly, steady and indifferent, their light reaching a distance too great to fathom. The sight calmed and unsettled him, reminding him of how small he was beneath that infinite sprawl.
In his mind, another voice stirred—not Thordur’s, not his own. It was deep and steady, with the cadence of the woods woven into it. Slow your breath. Focus on the mark. The closer you are, the fewer chances it has to escape.
Ungoránë’s grip on the whetstone tightened, the memory sharpening like the axe’s edge across his knees. He could feel the bow in his young hands again, the string biting into his fingers as he pulled it back, his father’s hand firm on his shoulder. Watch its legs, not its head. You miss the head; it runs. You aim for the lungs, not the head. That is the cleanest shot there is. The animal will run a bit but drop quickly every time.
The scent of damp earth and pine needles rose unbidden in his mind, mixing with the tang of smoke from the fire. He closed his eyes briefly, letting the memory settle, and when he opened them, the stars above seemed just a little closer.
“Stars, have you thinking, or is it that axe?” Thordur’s voice pulled him back again, lighter this time, with an edge of teasing. His knife paused, and the stag turned in his hands as he studied it.
“Neither,” Ungoránë said, but his voice carried something that made Thordur’s grin fade into something quieter. Thordur didn’t press; he only shrugged and resumed carving.
Ungoránë’s gaze dropped to the axe across his lap. It gleamed faintly in the firelight, catching flickers of orange and gold. He ran the whetstone along its edge; the scrape of metal grounded and anchored him in the present. The rhythm felt familiar, connecting him to something older and more straightforward that carried him through the world’s chaos.
Thank you, Ungoránë thought, the words meant for a man no longer there. For everything you taught me. For everything that keeps me alive now. The gratitude in the thought was genuine, but it carried a shadow of guilt with it, a reminder of choices made and paths taken. His chest tightened briefly; the feeling was sharp and fleeting before he exhaled slowly, letting the breath leave him like a sigh. The fire crackled softly beside him, and Thordur’s carving knife continued its steady rhythm while the stars above remained cold yet constant.
Ungoránë gazed at the axe in his lap, its sharp edge sparkling like the stars. This stirred calm within him.