A/N: Back with everyone's (or mine, at least) favorite traitor!
LadyForlong- Yes! The Doom of Mandos threads through every bit of this story. Not only have I used part of it for the title of the fic, but also for specific chapters, such as "Dwell in Death's Shadow" and "By Treason of Kin Unto Kin". There will be a few others that get Doom of Mandos chapter titles. I tend to reserve those for the really big ones. And also yes, I absolutely adore Maedeth and Elladan. Unfortunately, this is tagged as a tragedy. And this fic is very much a tragedy. Though not devoid of hope, I promise. Thanks for reading and reviewing! It means so much to writers.
Chapter Twenty-Three - Rínior
Gentle rain fell about the moors as Rínior surveyed his troops. Minas Eglan wasn't home, but it was good to be here instead of Carn Dûm. Here he had secured power. In Carn Dûm he bowed to it.
He walked between empty tents. Most were brown burlap, some red or ochre. Their occupants trained on the fields during the day. Rínior didn't need to see the Hill-men yet. They had reached an understanding years ago: to win, they had to abide by his every command. And they all wanted to win.
He had others to inspect. Rínior wrinkled his nose as he drew closer to the edge of the war tents. The stench of wet earth and rotting meat watered his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he continued on.
The trolls preferred to live nearby among the rocks. Beneath overhangs and lurking in caves, they found men too distasteful. Rínior smirked as he stepped over the bones of wildcat. Really, they found men too tasty. But he needed the men more than he needed the trolls. Trolls were unpredictable. Men he could control.
Still, the trolls infested the Ettenmoors. This contingent had agreed to join the army on the promise of fresh food and vengeance for those slain of their kin over the centuries. Rínior had no sympathy for the beasts. But it didn't matter. They would fight for him, or they would die.
"Little king wants to speak?"
Rínior looked up. Durbúrza stared down. He towered twice Rínior's height, skin of green-grey scales with crusty snot around a bulbous nose. But his eyes were clear, blue grey and unwavering in their gaze. The trolls named him their leader.
"I come to see how your," Rínior paused as he stared around them at the troll camp. Two trolls cooked a pair of deer over a raging fire while others punched each other in some sort of argument. "How your folk are getting on. You have secured more?"
Durbúrza snorted as he laughed. The ground rumbled. "Worry not, little king. We fight. More will come. They bow to me, and I follow you."
"When Arthedain falls, a portion of all livestock shall go to your people," Rinor assured him. "And when I am king, I shall give the Ettenmoors back to you."
"As it should be. Hills for the hill-trolls." Durbúrza took a few steps forward. "You bow to Witch-king, little king? How can you promise without Witch-king's yes?"
Rínior forced himself to hold his ground. Hot, stinking breath filled the air as Durbúrza bent down to face him. The troll's eyes were sharp. He had intellect as well as muscles. A very dangerous combination.
"I speak for the Witch-king," Rínior assured him.
Durbúrza narrowed his eyes. He leaned even closer, until only inches separated his massive, scaly face and Rinor's own. Neither looked away. But Rínior could feel the sweat pouring down his back. If Durbúrza wished, he could pound Rínior into a pile of bloody bones.
Laughter shook the ground. Durbúrza stood back, neither bowing nor bidding Rínior farewell as he marched back inside the troll camp. Rínior found himself alone in the dying rain, the last few drizzles giving him some form of comfort. He focused on the water droplets. He focused on the here and now. Durbúrza owed him allegiance.
Soon, he would call upon the trolls to take up arms. But not yet. Not yet.
Rínior turned away. He'd said enough. The trolls had not forgotten who commanded them while he was away in Angmar.
He flagged a young boy of the Hill-men, the son of one of the soldiers. They trained the next generation in these camps as well. Though the war would end before the child came of age, there would always be more. More fighting, more defending, more death. Such was the fate of Man.
With the child carrying summons to the leaders of the men at Minas Eglan, he made his way to the citadel. They'd been gone for more than a month. Now returned, there was much to do. The war moved closer to completion every sunrise. It was time to tighten the noose even further.
Rínior nodded to the guards at the entrance of the citadel. They heaved open the heavy oak doors. Light bathed the floor inside, illuminating woven rugs of reds, blues, and ochres that sat upon the grey stone. A massive table stretched down the entrance hall. Two dozen could have sat comfortably. But there would only need to be seven places prepared for the war council.
He gathered maps from the war room. Aglarwain's stash had been incomplete, for as much as he had touted his knowledge of the enemy. The first thing Rínior did upon return to Minas Eglan was fix the maps.
Things shifted rapidly in war. But for the most part, the Arthedain lines steadily shrank. It became nearly impossible for them to stage a defense of Annuminas. Only Fornost was truly untouchable. Outer villages risked attack, and only a few outposts were manned with serious opposition.
Rínior layed the map of the North Downs out on the table. It crinkled from overuse. If only Captain Mallenor had talked before the priests of Morgoth killed him. Arthedain was going to fall anyways. He could've saved lives by giving them the exact locations of military encampments. Now they would have to comb the whole front lines. But Rínior had a plan.
The doors opened. With the rain clouds gone, sunlight nearly blinded Rínior. A few pairs of footsteps meandered towards him. As the doors closed the torchlight lit the room again, he nodded at them. Aessereg led two of his men, Amathal and Silevegil. Behind them came three of the Hill-men, Stesha, Darin, and Lukav. They led the largest tribes who fought under the banner of Minas Eglan: a black dagger over a white gem on a field of red.
"Sit," Rínior ordered. "We have much to discuss."
Aessereg plopped down first, eyes never leaving Rínior even as he made himself at home in the grand hall. Rínior had come to tolerate the man's thinly veiled disrespect. He'd made himself useful. That was enough for now. The others followed suit.
"You have a plan, then?" Silevegil asked. His blonde hair fell in his face as he began to look over the map.
Stesha snorted. "It is about time. We have waited long in the Ettenmoors. We want our land back."
"Patience. Though I know you have little of it," Rínior said through a sneer. "All that you are owed shall be yours in due time. Just as what I am owed shall come to me." He picked up one of the little wooden carvings of a black sphere and placed it on the map. "We need to strike harder into Arthedain's territory. And I want to do it now."
"Good," Aessereg said. "You have a location then?"
"The prisoner talked?" asked Lukav.
Rínior hesitated. "I have a location."
"Did we haul that West-man north for nothing?" Lukav stood from his seat, knuckles turning white as he gripped his fists tight. "My men fought and died for him!"
"Sit down, Lukav. Lest I remind you have the five hundred years of bodies I've seen from this war. I don't mind making another."
Silence stretched from wall to wall in the grand entry hall. Bitter winds left over from that day's rain storm howled through cracks in the foundations. The temperature dropped.
Aessereg began to chuckle. He stood up as Lukav sat back down. Reaching across the map, he picked up the black sphere, running a hand under the flat pedestal. He read the location it had marked. "Dolindîr?"
Rínior nodded. "At one time it was a city of Arthedain. But now it is deserted. Mallenor used the ruins as the main outpost for the Eastern flank. I do not doubt it is the same today."
He wished Mallenor would've confirmed it. Much could change in a decade. But they had to start somewhere and with a major victory against the Eastern lines, the path forward would clear substantially. They could bring an end to the war in a year, not another decade, if it worked. That was worth the risk of premature exposure.
"And if it is a trap?" Stesha asked. "The West-men will know Lukav's men took their Captain. What if they believe he talks, and stage a trap there for our people."
Rínior shook his head. "We left none alive. They will believe him dead. And even if not," he added, smirking, "They are arrogant. They will not believe one of their own would betray them for clemency."
"They were right," Aessereg pointed out. "He did not talk."
The familiar grip of anger rushed through Rínior. Mallenor had been more stubborn than he'd expected, it was true. But Aessereg walked a dangerous line.
"We march on Dolindîr within the week," he said. "I will lead Aessereg's men in a forward push in two days to scout ahead before the army joins us. Will the dúnedain of Rhudaur be ready by then or do you require more rest before you join us on the field of battle?"
Amathal scoffed and Silevegil rolled his eyes. But Aessereg just laughed and sat down again. He tossed the Arthedain map piece in the air and caught it again. "Don't worry about us, Rínior. The Sons of Rhudaur will see it done. Be sure you do as well."
"Dismissed."
Rínior stood back from the table, arms crossed over his chest. He glared as Aessereg left whispering and laughing with Silevegil and Amathal. Their brotherhood would be tested in battle. It had best not be found wanting. The Hill-men would do their jobs. They could hold a weapon and take a hit. But the dúnedain of Rhudaur would be the key to success. He hoped they had more skill than the young men fighting for Arthedain.
He stood alone in the torch-lit hall. His heartbeat quickened. He could feel a doom settling in the air. Something approached. The war would end soon. He could almost taste the victory. He could almost feel the crown on his head.
And Mírien and Tiniel would be there beside him, alive, safe, granted the honor they deserved. With the palantir he would find the silmaril. His dream would come true. It had to. So much relied on it. Like Malbeth the Seer, his visions would manifest.
With the silmaril, with its light, even the Witch-king would cower. Rínior did not know what cursed power kept the man alive but none would withstand the fury of the House of Feanor reunited with that which belonged to him.
Rínior closed his eyes. The wind stilled in the hall. He smelled the burning oil in the torches. He felt the hard stones beneath his feet. For a moment, he recalled the glory of Fornost in his younger years. With the line of Elendil out of the way, it could be glorious again. Renewed. Beautiful.
Elrohir had said he was doing this for his own vanity. Rínior frowned. He opened his eyes again. Elrohir was wrong. He did this for everyone, he would save them all from utter ruin with a swift victory and a river of blood. Then they could have peace for a time. For the first time in centuries. He had to see that. Elrohir would see that. Someday, everyone would see the truth. And on that day, Rínior would wear the crown.