A/N: Let's check back in with Rínior!

LadyForlong - He is indeed still at it 10 years later. Winning a war will do that, unfortunately. A friend of mine suggested hitting him really hard on the head to reset him but I'm afraid he's gone too far for that to work.

Chapter Twenty-One - Rínior

Rínior ignored the warm, bloody spit on his face as he watched the priests of Carn Dûm's Temple of Twilight drag away Mallenor's beaten body. He flexed his bruised fist. The sputtering curses coming out of his mouth hardly bothered Rínior. He'd heard it all over the last decade: traitor, evil, worshipper of the Dark Lord.

Hopefully Mallenor would make the right choice. Then again, it didn't really matter. Rínior looked up from the dark doors of the Temple to the spires of the Witch-king far above. If he wouldn't give up the troop movements for the East, then the Black Numenoreans were sure to have some use for him. For his body, at least. Then his fëa could leave the bounds of Arda as was destined for all Men.

Another wave of pain washed over his bloody hand. He'd always known Mallenor had a thick skull. But it surprised him that it was true literally as well. Rínior reached into his satchel and pulled out a fraying bandage. As he walked down the street, he wrapped his hand.

There was too much to do. He wanted out of Carn Dûm as soon as possible but the list kept growing. He'd sent Bozan to requisition more weapons. With luck, Desimar would handle the food for the return journey. But Rínior had better people to see than more of his own Hill-men.

Rínior pushed open the gate to the feast hall of the Sons of Rhudaur. It had taken years since Aglarwain's death for them to give him the time of day. They seemed to hold him responsible.

Nonsense. The only one responsible was Aglarwain for not being able to defend himself against Elrohir. No one had time for hand holding in war.

The tall ceilings inside the domed hall glittered with gemstones. Mosaics depicting 'Mairon the Admirable', Sauron's prior form, glared down at him. Rínior narrowed his eyes, then looked back down. He had too much to do to dwell on pointless squabbling. Let them call him Mairon.

"The victorious hero returns yet again."

Rínior looked across the large rotunda filled with tables to a handful of Rhudaurins. The one who had spoken sat up straight, a mug in his hand and a scornful smile on his face. Just the man he'd been looking for.

"Aessereg," Rínior said. He marched forward, not missing a step. "Still wasting time in your cups, I see."

"Live a little."

"I have a war to win first."

Aessereg laughed. His dark hair fell about his shoulders in thick curls, proof of his dual heritage: dunedan and hill-man. Standing, he towered over most men. But as he sat in his citadel armor, helmet on the table beside him, Rínior stared him down.

"What do you want, Rínior?" he said.

"I'm putting together a new company," he said. Rínior crossed his arms over his chest, staring Aessereg down and not sparing his two companions a glance. "I want you in it."

"That so?" Aessereg took a long drink from his ale before setting it down. "Why? You've got your hill-men out there at Minas Eglan. I don't want to live with the filth."

It was Rínior's turn to laugh. Aessereg was tough, but weak willed it seemed. Or perhaps just foolish. But Rínior didn't need him for his mind. He needed him for his sword arm.

"Arthedain is ready to crumble," Rínior said. "Their lines are weak. I brought in one of their Captains today, and once the priests are finished with him I will know where best to strike next. I want that strike to devastate them. Hill-men are good at filling space in a battle. But I need better."

One of Aessereg's companions scoffed. Rínior looked at him. Celevonor. A spindly, pale faced man with light brown hair.

"Does the Witch-king know you're trying to pull from his citadel guards?" Celevonor asked.

A chill ran down his spine. Pale eyes of cold fire flashed across his vision. But he forced himself to give Celevonor a pitying smile. "The Witch-king wants the war to end. And I am the one winning it for him. He will give me whatever I ask for."

"But-"

Aessereg slammed his mug down. "Shut up, Celevonor. Your betters are speaking."

Rínior smirked as Celevonor crossed his arms and pouted. It took only a moment longer before he stood from the table and left with the third Rhudaurin.

"Careful, Rínior. It's only those victories that protect you from him," Aessereg said. "The Witch-king rewards success and punishes failure."

Rínior nodded. He pulled out the chair across from him and sat down at the table. "Of course. Which is why I do not intend to lose."

"Hm."

Silence stretched between them. Aessereg enjoyed the last of his mug, staring at Rínior as if challenging him to object. But Rínior didn't care. Let him drink, so long as he wielded a blade in his service later.

"Fine. How many do you have now for this little venture of yours?"

"Me and you."

Aessereg laughed. "Good, good. Glad I was the first name to come to you. Let me guess, you want me to ask around, put in a good word as to why we should fight under your banner?"

"You'll be rewarded. The Witch-king isn't the only one to grant boons to those who serve him well."

"No indeed. Though I do wonder if you told Aglarwain the same thing."

Rínior just smiled. He didn't need to dignify it with a response. Either Aessereg would serve, or he wouldn't. And if he wouldn't, then Rínior would indeed go before the Witch-king. No one wanted that, neither Rínior nor Aessereg.

"Very well then. I'll drum up some names by the end of the day. When are we planning to leave?" Aessereg asked.

Rínior frowned. The eternal question. How much time would he actually need to spend in this forsaken city? "Be ready to go by the end of the week."

Aessereg nodded. Rínior left him to his ales and his thoughts, heading back out into the streets of Carn Dûm. He still had one more duty he was required to perform before getting some rest, one he was loath to do.

It didn't take long to walk back to the Temple of Twilight. The streets up on the top of the citadel were empty most days. The rabble stayed at the bottom. Rínior avoided looking at the eternal fires of the skeletal crucifixes as he walked through the doors.

Darkness greeted him. He took a deep breath. Ash, incense, and the iron tang of dried blood assaulted his nose. He hated this place.

Rínior didn't bother looking at the side altars. He never did. They were unnecessary, a distraction for the devoted in Carn Dûm who couldn't bring about victory for themselves. They needed some other power to aid them. Rínior had no need of aid from these bygone, defeated dark powers in the Void.

He felt the pouch of rings jingle against his thigh as he walked down the steps. At the base of the temple, four priests knelt before the altar of Morgoth, hands raised in smoldering coals beneath the brazier at the center gave off some of the only light in the final level.

Rínior kept his eyes on the brazier. He didn't look at the priests. Walking up to the altar, he undid his pouch and came to a stop. He undid the ties.

The ring clinked together as they fell into the coals. There were dozens: gold, silver, jeweled, plain. They sparkled in the fire light. Their previous bodies wouldn't miss them. But as Rínior watched the flames grow to engulf the rings, he just rolled his eyes. He stepped away."

"Welcome back, Rínior."

"Nilûphêr."

Rínior stood face to face with the priestess. She narrowed her brown eyes. In the firelight, her tan, wrinkled face had long shadows. He crossed his arms.

"You need only ask, and we shall aid you in your search for the Palantíri," she said.

"I do not need the aid of a priestess of Morgoth-"

"Melkor."

"-Morgoth, or her ilk to find that which belongs to me," he said.

Nilûphêr smiled. "Careful, Rínior. You find the Palantíri for your king, not yourself, remember?"

Rínior gritted his teeth. But he said nothing in return. It was true, the Palantíri would go to the Witch-king, in the end. But he would still hold them in his hands for awhile, and they were his by birthright.

"Tell me, Nilûphêr. What does the Witch-king need with such trifles," he said, gesturing to the burning rings. "It seems to me that a ring and a Palantír are very different things and yet he seeks both."

"It is not the Witch-king who desires rings," she said. Walking forward, she stood beside him and faced the altar. "It is he who our king serves."

Rínior felt his jaw clench. He turned to face the same way as Nilûphêr, staring into the brazier again where a few of the rings had begun to melt. "What is it Morgoth wants with rings then?"

"Only through faith will you get the answers you desire," she said.

Rínior scoffed. He didn't have time for this. He'd delivered his tribute. Turning his back on the altar, he began to move up the stairs. He hated this place. It stunk. The priests gave him a headache. The air was too warm.

He hurried up. As he reached the second level, he paused. Blood began to flow in rivulets down the small channels in the rock to either side of him. Rínior frowned. Well then. Mallenor would be of no help to him after all. Rínior sighed. He would have to find out more about troop movements the old fashioned way then. Hopefully Aessereg could get him some more names, fast. They were winning the war, but Rínior did not want to risk Arthedain slipping through their closing noose.