A/N: Apologies for all these updating glitches. Apparently, FFN did not like my last chapter LOL. Hopefully this one it hates a little less, and updating goes smoothly.

LadyForlong - We'll have to see if it was necessary LOL. Gotta say it would be pretty funny if she spoke all that to a bunch of empty halls! I'd probably play it rather safe than sorry though cause if I spoke a password and just opened the doors without asking I feel like a dwarf would shoot me xD Thanks for continuing to read and review. It makes my day every time I see one instead of the stupid bot commission ones. Reminds me of the old days of FFN in its prime.

Chapter Sixteen - Rínior

Rínior stared down into the open high moor in silence from the edge of the pine trees above. Aglarwain's crumbling citadel sat in the center of the Ettenmoor highlands. It towered like a dark, man-made spire of the mountains amidst what must have once been beautiful, though ominous, foggy moorlands.

Nothing was beautiful now. Rínior pulled his cloak closer to himself as he leaned against a tree alone. The moors were full of war tents. The foothills of the Misty Mountains held towering Giant Halls from whence Aglarwain's garrison of trolls came. Here in the pinewoods, the women of the Hills scavenged for food while being stalked by the great bears and cats of the Coldfells.

Rínior missed Elrohir. They had hunted in forests such as these many times, two half elves against all the servants of the Enemy. But years had passed, and the Enemy had taken more than it had given. And as Rínior glanced back into the woods, to the corpse of the young Hill girl he'd found half eaten by a great cat, he knew he would not allow his own daughter to fall like this.

In life her face must have been pale. But now it was white as snow, splattered with blood that had spurted from her neck when the cat's fangs stabbed deep. Rínior had killed the cat as it dragged the body into the tree. Dangling like a mouse in the fangs of a housecat, the body had looked at him unseeing then, just as it did now.

The body stank of death. He tasted the rancid stench on his tongue but he couldn't pull himself away. Rínior had come up to the overlook searching for a good view of the dale. Instead he found himself facing death, yet again.

He left the body in the leaf rot.

The trees thinned as he climbed down into the Ettendale. Cold wind whipped into his face as he set his sights on Minas Eglan, the Tower of the Forsaken, as Aglarwain called his crumbling fortress. None knew its original name.

Men straightened in their armor as he strode through their red war tents. In the week since his arrival, Rínior had lost no time in beginning their training. If they had not already feared the bite of his sword, they did now.

Aglarwain encouraged it. He bore no love for his soldiers. A means to an end. Rínior had to admit that he had been right; they were more similar than he would've liked. Even a bastard son of the royal house of Isildur stood far superior to these men of the hills.

Three more hill men stood and saluted. Rínior paused, hearing a half laugh come from the tent behind them. They held his gaze for a moment before shivering and looking away.

"Move aside," Rínior said.

They parted. Beyond them sat an older man, black beard long and braided with wooden beads. He stirred a cooking pot with one hand and with the other, stroked the hilt of his sword. At Rínior's approach, he turned his head up to look. Gritted, crumbling teeth shined in a mocking grin.

"Do you not stand when your superior addresses you?" Rínior asked.

The man gave another short laugh, letting go of the ladle. "I don't stand when the butcher of my sons addresses me."

Rínior had killed his sons, this man had killed the sons of Arthedain. It was a circle, a cycle of death. A cycle he intended to crush and destroy with the end of the war. But for now, it was still a cycle.

"Shut it," hissed another man, one of those who had stood at his passing.

"No, no," Rínior said. He held up his hand for silence. "I've killed many men. I've been killing men for five hundred years. Do you wish me to answer for that?"

The seated man gritted his rotting teeth again, harder. He rose off the ground, hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. "I do."

"Good. Come with me, then. And grab a sword."

Silence fell around them. Like a shockwave it turned men's heads and rippled through the camp. Rínior turned and continued on towards the foot of the hill where what remained of Minas Eglan. By the time they reached the open field beyond the tents, a great crowd had gathered.

Aglarwain joined him from the path to the gate. He frowned. "Problem?"

"One easily solved," Rínior said.

He turned back around. The older Hill-man brandished his weapon without a word. But Rínior held up his hand.

"What is your name?"

"Svarig."

"Svarig wishes for me to answer for my many crimes against your people," Rínior said, raising his voice so as many of the gathered soldiers as possible would hear him. "Let him try. And if he falls, let another take up his sword."

Rínior drew his shining steel blade. He pointed it at Svarig. The man rushed him. Rínior blocked, swung twice, and cut off his head. It tumbled away.

"Another?" he asked, pushing the body down the hill.

Two more rushed him. Rínior caught their swings together. He heaved upwards. Spinning, Rining drove his blade through the first. He ducked under another swing. Then he cut open the throat of the other.

"Another?"

No one moved. Rínior pushed the bodies away with his foot before staring out at the growing mass of Hill-men. He felt warm breath behind him. Aglarwain didn't step in, though, and so Rínior waited to see who would answer his challenge.

Flapping banners atop war tents snapped in the wind. But no one spoke. No one moved. Rínior smiled. He sheathed his sword.

"Then let it be done. We have a war to win, Hill-men of Rhudaur. I bear no love for you. You bear no love for me. But it is not necessary to love those you are aligned with." Rínior sheathed his sword. "Let me make you the deadliest force West of the Misty Mountains so that none may stand between you and verdant lands for your children."

It started with one. A single arm rapped against a single chest, like the beat of a living war drum. Then another, and another, until Rínior looked out at a sea of Hill-men beating their chests for him. He felt his face flush. His smile grew. This is what it felt to feel alive even in the face of death.

"Captains of the Hills. Report to me in the morning," Rínior said, before he turned away and left the Hill-men to their own devices.

Aglarwain's smirk grew just a smidge as they faced each other. "Handy bit of speech that was," he said. "Though don't go killing our whole army please."

"I won't need to," Rínior said.

"Come, dinner is prepared."

Rínior followed him up the path to the gate of Minas Eglan. The fortress was small, holding only a few hundred at best. It reminded Rínior of Fornost in architecture. But even Fornost had not yet crumbled into the state of disrepair of Minas Eglan.

Windows were smashed, walls filled with cracks. The stonework had been neglected for generations upon generations. But Aglarwain had told him that his father's father had reclaimed it and begun putting it to good use.

A great chill filled the dining hall. Featureless wooden tables lined the hall. But only two chairs sat there with meager place settings. Aglarwain sat at the head. Rínior sat beside him.

"Another two mountain trolls came out of the foothills today," Aglarwain said. He dug into the roasted pheasant. "That makes twenty three at our disposal."

"Ugly things," Rínior said.

Aglarwain laughed. "Indeed. Their hides stink like rotten flesh. But the Mountain Trolls are useful. They can carry much and break down defenses better than any company of men. I only wish we had more. It is a pity that the hill trolls cannot withstand the sun."

"But a blessing for our noses."

They both laughed. It echoed in the decaying halls. For a moment, Rínior wondered how long it had been since these stones had heard mirth. How many Dunedain had once walked these halls? And before them before mankind swarmed the earth, how many elves had perished in the moors?

"How long until you will feel ready to strike against the Arthedain lines?" Aglarwain asked.

Rínior turned back to him. "I'm not sure. It depends on how quickly I can train a company to my standards. From there, we'll test them out along the Eastern border."

"Western. It is our Western front."

Right. It would've been Arthedain's eastern. Rínior just kept eating, not dignifying Aglarwain's correction with a response.

"Soon," he finally said. "I want to strike soon."

Aglarwain nodded. He sat back, rubbing the grease off his face with a hand cloth. "I am glad you have chosen to join me here, Rínior. With our strength combined, we can win this war quickly and end the needless suffering."

"And when the war is over, you think the Witch-king will turn his gaze from us?" he asked. Rínior had thought about this long and hard since their journey from Angmar. All his hopes rested on this.

"Yes. The Witch-king desires domination, not utter ruin." Aglarwain leaned forward, lowering his voice. "He wants the Palantir, and the death of Arvedui's line. We can do both."

The Palantir. Indeed, since the Witch-king had mentioned it at Carn Dûm, it had filled Rínior's mind. If he could claim the Palantir for just a moment, for a brief time before handing it over to the king, he could search far and wide for a Silmaril. It had to be coming back. The dream had to be true. He needed the Silmaril. I belonged to him. To his daughter.

It had to be true.

"You know the Palantiri are in Fornost?" Aglarwain asked.

Rínior nodded. "Yes."

"Good. Then our task is easy. We press the advantage, hard. We wipe out the army of Arthedain and surround the city," Aglarwain said, "forcing their hand. Either they will starve, or they will bow to you."

"Yes."

"And why wouldn't they bow?" Aglarwain pointed out, not breaking eye contact even as he lowered his voice yet again. "You are the Hero of the North. You have done everything in your power to keep the people safe. Even those you far exceed in worth."

Rínior nodded. Five hundred years of keeping them safe. It was time to try a different tactic. The soldiers would not give up their posts. Men were stubborn. Rínior knew that. But with their wives and daughters on the line? Rínior would do anything for his own family. He would even bow to the Witch-king for them. Why wouldn't the others?

"Two weeks," Rínior said.

"What?"

"We strike at the Western front within two weeks," Rínior said. "And we strike hard."