A/N: Huge thanks to my writing and Tolkien buddy Illeandir for dealing with my hemming and hawing over this chapter lol. I'm very happy with it now because of her.
Chapter Twelve - Rínior
Thunder roared far above the Mountains of Angmar. Rínior felt the vibrations from his toes to his skull, shaking him where he stood beneath an overhang with Aglarwain. He ran his hands through his grimey hair. Down the grand staircase he could see troops massing inside and outside the city.
"You won't regret this choice," Aglarwain said. He crossed his arms over his chest, following Rínior's gaze down into the city. "The orcs stink and the wargs never shut up. But you need not associate with their kind if you do not wish it."
"I do not."
"Come," he said. "Follow me. You will need weapons and armor."
Rínior let Aglarwain go. He spent a moment more looking out at the snowy fields all around with their sparse villages and roaming packs of wolves. How men could live like this, he didn't know. Perhaps that was why the Hill-Men loved Rhudaur. Rínior held no love for that land.
Each step hurt his feet. He looked forward to new boots and eventually, a brief rest. But for now, he followed Aglarwain.
"First, I must go see the temple," he said, not glancing back. Aglarwain kept his head down, trying to fight against the rain. "But then we'll get you sorted."
Temple. Rínior wondered what sort of backwards, nameless gods these lands worshipped. Rain poured down on him as he tried to keep pace with Aglarwain. The pounding of water against rock masked his footfalls. The dirt and grime of however many weeks he'd traveled washed away slowly but surely beneath the raging storm.
Aglarwain led him left from the base of the stairs. The citadel guards, all Dúnedain of Rhudaur wearing dark but shining armor and shields with a black star on a grey field, stood silently beside grand wooden doors or before dark gates. He scoffed to himself. Perfect for a bastard heir to that once noble house; Elendil himself had borne the white star on a black field.
Besides the Dúnedain, the wide streets were clear on this level of Carn Dûm. The rain drove all inside. He had seen no orcs past the first two levels, nor hill-men anyways. But as they rounded a corner, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Aglarwain led him to a pair of black, iron doors. To either side stood a crucifix bearing a charred, black skeleton engulfed in cold, violet fire. Rínior's skin crawled. He felt his body heat dropping even still many feet away. But Aglarwain kept going until at last, standing between the two effigies, he turned back.
"Does this frighten you, Rínior?"
"No," he said. Frighten? No. But as he took a deep breath and felt the stench and taste of blood hit the back of his throat, he remained still.
"Then enter, unless you be cowardly as you accused me of weeks ago," he said.
Rínior narrowed his eyes. He stepped forward. He was no coward.
As they stood before the door, Aglarwain shot him a small smile. "We light the effigies as a reminder. Our enemies will fall in this twilight, lighting the way to our new dawn."
Scrunching his nose, Rínior made no response. But he followed after Aglarwain as the iron doors were heaved open, silent on their hinges. Deep inside, a great dark chamber opened into the mountain. The edges were not visible. At the very center, down many small steps from all sides, was a massive ebony altar.
No altar cloth adorned the intricately carved black stone. Candles as dark as night sat interspersed around the base of the stone, flickering in a wind that Rínior could find no source for. On each side of the rectangular altar knelt a priest or priestess in red robes, arms outstretched to the ceiling far above. At the center, atop the empty black altar, sat a single iron basket of smoldering coals.
"Welcome to the Temple of Twilight." Aglarwain lowered his voice, standing just inside the doorway with him and going no further. "Here, we give due worship to Melkor, High King, and his Princes of Fate."
Rínior almost laughed. He would have, if the thick blackness around him hadn't closed in even further. He held no love for Morgoth, the Black Foe of the World that his forefather had cursed millenia ago. The Sons of Feanor had led the war against him even to their own demise. No threat from the Witch-king would cause him to bow before that defeated Vala. But he had not heard the other term.
"Princes of Fate?" he said.
Aglarwain nodded. He took Rínior to the left, on this highest tier of the funnel-like temple. There were many side altars in small chapels, each uniquely decorated. The first held an altar shaped like an open hand. Upon the flat palm sat seven blue candles, and from each crooked finger protruded a massive claw.
"The Altar of Draugluin, The Blue Maw," Aglarwain said. He did not enter the side chapel, but gave a small, reverent nod of the head. He turned to Rínior.
"You worship the Sire of Werewolves?" Rínior said.
Aglarwain shrugged. "I do not, but many do."
Not far beyond they stopped at another side chapel. A yowling cat's face carved from onyx with fangs of gold replaced any ordinary altar, protruding from the wall. Instead, three golden candles sat on the flat, table-like tongue. Rínior crinkled his nose. He felt as though the garnet eyes followed his movements.
Aglarwain nodded much the same as before, but his voice held no admiration. "The Altar of Tevildo, Prince of Cats."
Next to it opened to a much brighter chapel. In the center stood a black pedestal-like altar wrapped around by a golden scaled serpent. Rínior saw no head nor end of the tail. Upon the central pedestal sat a bowl filled with blood-stained coins.
"This is the Altar of Glaurung, Father of Dragons."
Interesting. Rínior raised an eyebrow at the way the golden imagery sparkled in the low light. It reflected like the surface of water. Strangely beautiful in such a disgusting place.
The fourth and final chapel, to the right of the entryway as they looped around, contained a small, circular ebony altar. Above it, suspended by chains from either wing and the head, hung a massive steel bat. All manner of jewels and gold coins lay about the altar, offerings to this dark being.
"The Altar of Thuringwethil, Mother of Vampires," said Aglarwain. He bowed lower here than to the other three. "She is a patroness of our cause in Rhudaur, for we rely on the darkness her wings bring to complete our task."
Rínior still could not speak. He wished to curse the names of these beings he knew from legend as enemies of the living. He held no love for the Valar, but certainly no love for these. But even as he thought of dozens of ways to insult the dark powers in this Temple of Twilight, they fell silent from his lips. The darkness drowned them.
They went down to the next ring, just above the final altar at the base. It was much smaller, with only two side altars. Aglarwain gestured left, lowering his voice even more. "This is the Altar of Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs." He turned back to Rínior, smirking. "Not my favorite one of the bunch, I will be honest."
Rínior scoffed. "How enlightened of you."
Gesturing to the otherside of the staircase, Aglarwain showed Rínior to the final side chapel. The altar was unadorned, except for an intricately decorated bowl filled with rings and precious gems. All the curved walls had mosaics of flames.
Aglarwain bowed his head. A tight frown spread across his face, but he made no mention of his grievance. Instead, he turned to Rínior. "The Altar to Mairon, Lord of the Rings."
Rínior stared at the mosaiced flames, his words stolen once again. To think, these men in Angmar worshipped Sauron by his original name. That was nearly as unforgivable as their worship of Morgoth. But he couldn't say this. He tried to part his lips. They stayed shut.
Standing straight, back on the stairs down, Aglarwain leaned in closer to Rínior. He kept his voice low.
"The priests are Black Numenoreans. They came to serve the Witch-king after the defeat of Lord Sauron during the Last Alliance." He inclined his head towards the most prominently dressed, a man with great black chains sparkling with gold leaf. "That is Dôlguzagar, The Twilight Sword. He is their chief."
Rínior nodded. Interesting, that Aglarwain did not refer to Sauron as Mairon in conversation. Perhaps the Dúnedain of Rhudaur were more learned than the Hill-Nen even in these things. Or perhaps Aglarwain had better since than most.
"We descend now to the Altar of Melkor, High King of the Fates of Arda," Aglarwain added. "Upon my return to Carn Dûm, I must present my trophies to the Twilight Flame."
"Trophies?"
Aglarwain reached a hand into a black velvet pouch on his belt. When he drew it out, he opened his palm. Seven glittering rings, some adorned with jewels, others plain made of silver or gold, glittered in the low light.
"Rings?" Rínior asked. "For what purpose does the supposed Master of Fates require such useless gifts?"
"They are how we who fight on the fields of battle can show our gratitude for his protection. The Witch-king knows that bringing back anything larger would be unwieldy," he said, "So we take the rings of every foe we defeat. If the Witch-king commands it, I will see it done."
Aglarwain waited no longer. He took the first few steps down into the dark stone pit before Rínior could blink. Through the smokey gloom, he watched the man reach the bottom and pause. None of the priests made any move. They continued their quiet chanting, arms outstretched, eyes forward.
Out of a small door in the pit walked a fifth priest. No, priestess. Her crimson robes matched the others, but her hood was down and her dark hair fell in ringlets around her pale face. Rínior could not hear the words spoken between her and Aglarwain but after a short conversation, she led him up to the altar.
The smoldering coals exploded into red flames as the rings landed among them. Rínior blinked back. He could feel the heat from this second level. But it faded, and he looked back. Aglarwain again stood in conversation with the priestess. After a minute or so, both turned to look up at him.
Rínior folded his arms over his chest. But Aglarwain ignored him, turning back to the priestess. After a moment, both began walking up the stairs to join him.
"Rínior, this is Nilûphêr, priestess of the Temple of Twilight." Aglarwain made space for her on the landing of the second level, allowing for all three to converse with ease. "She asked to speak with you."
"You are Rínior, so-called the Hero of the North?" Her Sindarin was heavily accented, sounding melodic with its rolled R's and dramatic shifts in intonation. Nilûphêr leaned close him, staring deep in his eyes. "You have seen much bloodshed. Death. Darkness."
Rínior straightened up, backing off a half step. He had no interest in being this priestess's plaything. "I am Rínior, heir of the House of Fëanor."
She grinned. Her teeth shined white in contrast to her tanned, wrinkled face. "Ah, yes. You do not approve of this place, heir of Fëanor?"
"I do not," he said. He found his bite again, forcing himself to remember the shine of the Silmaril cutting through his dark dream. "You worship relics of a defeated past. I will have no part in it."
Nilûphêr's smile did not waver. She just cocked her head to the side and eyed him up and down. "Bold words. I am surprised to find the heir of Fëanor is a worshipper of the Powers."
"I hold no love for the Valar, either, woman." He said. His patience grew thin. Rínior wanted out of this accursed place.
"No. I thought not." She grabbed his arm, and he could not move. "Do you know why we call our gods the Princes of Fate? They have the strength and courage to defy those who held them down in the dirt. Even when overpowered, they brought ruin to the ones responsible for all the hurt in our world: The Powers."
Rínior felt her icy grip tighten. He couldn't move, couldn't back away as he's done when she introduced herself. Her nails pressed into his bare skin. Where was his armor when he needed it? He hated feeling naked before the eyes of this dark worshipper.
"Just as Fëanor once did, heir. He did not fear death and destruction when standing in the face of those who sought to control him," she said. Nilûphêr released him, clasping her hands once more under her flowing crimson sleeves. "Leave this place if you wish. But do not forget that we, too, rebel against the Valar. We are not altogether different. And perhaps someday, you will understand how much stronger you could be with Melkor, Lord of the Earth, at your back."
Rínior did not wait. Released from the grip of the sorceress, he turned and marched up the stairs, past the chapels to their princes and towards the open air. As he bounded up the stairs he noticed small channels carved on either side of the steps. Rivulets of blood began to flow from an unseen sacrifice.
The doors slid open without noise or force. Rain pounded down on him. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the emptying clouds. His racing heart pounded. Every inch of his being relished the gentle caress of the rain. He tried to call himself. He opened his eyes again.
When Aglarwain joined him, he stared again at the ever-burning purple fire around the crucifixes. He pushed away the voice of his sister, begging him to come home from the front lines.
"To tell you the truth, I am glad I do not live here in Carn Dûm," Aglarwain said, standing beside him under the rain. "The pomp and circumstance of the Temple is a bit much for me. But I am grateful for their aid all the same."
Rínior had no words for him. He wished to push all memory of the altars and the blood and the priestess's icy grip from his mind. So instead, he gestured away from them.
"Do you have somewhere useful to take me?"
Aglarwain nodded. He started towards the gate out of this upper level of Carn Dûm. "Armory first, then a place for you to rest. We will leave soon. But you need food and sleep before we make the trek back to the Ettendales."
The rain began to let up as they wandered down to the second level of the great city. The bustling streets of when he first arrived began to fill again, with Hill-Men training and haggling over goods, or orcs beating one another and their slaves in the streets. Rínior turned away, focusing on staying close to Aglarwain.
They looped around to the northern part of the second level. The orcs were more concentrated here. Few spoke languages Rínior could understand but he did understand their fear. They huddled away at Aglarwain's arrival. Rínior saw many wouldn't make eye contact with he himself either.
"We keep the armories here, as the orcs are less likely disobey orders than the Hill-Men," Aglarwain said. They continued to make their way through stinking orc camps. "Their fear keeps them in line."
Howling and snapping of huge canine jaws startled them both. Massive wargs threw themselves at their cage doors, trying to reach them. Aglarwain's eyes widened. He took two steps back even as orcs tried to control them. He pulled Rínior away.
"In all my years, I have never seen that happen," he said. Aglarwain tried to catch his breath. "I am no friend of wargs but…"
Rínior blinked, trying to calm his own racing heart. Fangs and claws invaded his mind as he closed his eyes. The wargs and wolves in the cages had looked at him like their greatest enemy.
He paused. Perhaps he was. The tiniest smirk broke through his fear. "Well. I am the heir of Fëanor after all." He leaned in to Aglarwain, his smile growing. "Perhaps they remember who defeated your great wolf Draugluin: Huan, greatest friend of Celegorm Fëanorion."
With a short laugh, Aglarwain nodded. "Perhaps you're right. In which case, heir of Fëanor, you may wish to carry this again." He reached into his pack and pulled out a black scabbard.
Rínior felt his heart soar. He grabbed it from Aglarwain and unsheathed the dagger. By the light of the orc fires the Fëanoran Star glittered like sunlight. Pride filled his chest. Since the march from the Barrow Downs he'd wanted to weep for the loss of his inheritance. But here it was once more in his hands.
Maedeth would understand why he had to do this. Why bowing to this Witch-king was necessary. When the war was won, they could live as kings and queens far from his shadow. The star of Fëanor would fly from the ramparts of a renewed Annuminas. Mírien would face no scorn. Tiniel would wear a crown of mithril at his side.
"Come, Rínior. You'll need more than that dagger," Aglarwain said.
He nodded. He would. He needed a crown so that someday, if the darkness came and took his life away at last, he could hand it to his daughter. Rínior sheathed the dagger again and followed Aglarwain deeper in.