A/N: Writing Rínior has really just become one big exercise in trying to write all different kinds of battle scenes. Hope this is distinct in its own way lol.

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Rínior

Rínior led from the front. Fornost could say many things about him, but they would never call him craven. Thunder roared above them. In the darkness of a summer storm, Dolindîr's torches died and the stone roads flooded with water and blood.

The Hill-Men swamped the outer defenses. A large portion of their force would die in the initial assault. Once he and the Dúnedain of Rhudaur could get inside the walls, it wouldn't matter.

Shouts accompanied the slam of their battering ram against the wooden gate. Wood splintered. Arrows whistled. More bodies fell to the dirt. Rínior held his shield over his head as he huddled before the gates.

One more push. Ladders had gone up against the already crumbled walls. The city had few defenses. It had lost its commander weeks ago; Mallenor's blood fed the altars of Morgoth now.

"Heave!" he said.

The armored tree pulled back. Rínior watched from under his shield as the Hill-men ran forward. Lightning split the sky as the gates shattered.

They were in.

Rínior raised his shield. His men flooded in, hollering in their language of the hills. Sindarin followed after, as Aessereg flanked him. The man's crooked smile widened. He nodded. Rínior returned it.

Dead horses lay in a pool of blood on their left. Chaos filled the entry courtyard of Dolindîr. He caught snippets of Sindarin orders barked between screams and groans. As his men ran forward, splitting in different directions to cover more space, Rínior focused on his surroundings. The gambit had paid off. Arthedain's eastern force had concentrated here.

"With me!" he shouted at Aessereg.

Rínior raised his sword as he ran forward, but the Hill-men did his dirty work. Soldiers won battles, but tactics won wars.

He left the armies to bleed.

Rain played tricks on him in the dark. Disorientation threatened his plans. He counted the buildings as they pushed on. One, the food stores. Two, the armories. Three, barracks. Those could wait. He could burn them later.

They had to find the command post. Mallenor kept meticulous notes. The man hadn't spoken a word at Carn Dûm but his papers would do it for him.

"Left!" Aessereg screamed.

Rínior swung his blade upwards without looking. A soldier of Arthedain fell nearly bisected to the ground. They stepped over him.

"Over here," he said, pulling Aesserg towards an alleyway.

"We can't push further without the army," Aessereg said. "We'll be killed!"

If only he was wrong. But he wasn't. Rínior peeked out from the corner of the abandoned building. The central tower, worn from age and lack of upkeep, stood further into town. But their allies had yet to breach the remaining lines. Arthedain's pikemen formed ranks and archers readied volleys for the first of their force to try.

Rínior nodded. In the alley, they crouched in silence. They could hear the din of battle, a cacophony of screams, clanking shields, and the ring of steel on steel. Thunder still rolled above them. The rain lessened, though, and Rínior had an idea.

"We need a diversion," he said. "Follow me."

Aessereg didn't question him. Rínior led the way back into the main fighting. Hill-men outnumbered the soldiers of Arthedain here three to one. The Sons of Rhudaur slaughtered as they pushed on. But Rínior made straight for the libraries. He stepped over the piling bodies.

"Grab as many torches as you can find," he ordered. "Meet back here."

Aessereg nodded, ducking with a handful of men under awnings and into seized buildings. Rínior looked at the unguarded doors of the archives. He smirked. A clever tactic. Why would the Hill-men trouble themselves with an unmarked, unguarded door?

He crouched behind the last wall before an open, muddy courtyard. About forty feet away stood the large, double wooden doors into the archives. Of all the buildings in rundown Dolindîr, this one had been cared for most. The Dúnedain of Arthedain loved their books, their histories. But there had not been an effort made to collect them all in one place since the fall of Annuminas years before even his own birth.

They would not let these burn without a fight. Rínior counted on it.

Aessereg returned with six torches flickering in the dying rain. Ten in all, he had a small force but a deadly one. The sounds of battle began to quiet behind them. They needed to make it roar again.

"With me," he said.

He ran forward. Arrows dropped three men as they neared the tower. Rínior threw his body into the doors. Pain shot up his spine. But the wood splintered. He gritted his teeth. One more hit.

He landed on splintered wood and a fraying rug. A burning pain radiated from his abdomen. Rínior gasped for breath as his men stepped around him. His hand shook as he struggled off the floor and felt his side. A sharp splinter protruded from blood soaked fabric over chainmail. He yanked it free. The room spun.

Steel clashed off steel. Rínior forced his mind to clear. He watched bodies fall to the floor as the Dúnedain of Rhudaur and soldiers of Arthedain clashed among the bookshelves. Rínior glared. He gritted his teeth. Tactics won wars, soldiers won battles.

Rínior picked up a fallen torch. So many tomes sat in these wooden shelves, mannish tales of ages past. Maedeth would mourn them. She saw some value in Man beyond just hands to hold swords.

He swayed where he stood. Blood painted the floors and splattered on the oak and ash shelves. Blues, reds, brilliant greens decorated leather covers. Tears pricked at his eyes. His jaw clenched. He blocked out the screams.

What had this place been like in Arnor of old? What had happened to the Edain who terrified Sauron himself into surrender? What a pity, they had been so diminished. Maedeth got to study them in those darkening halls of Fornost, seeking rest with cushions and blankets. Tiniel and Mírien would never know war. They couldn't.

Blood stained his hands. The hands that the kings of men had filled with weapons. His eyes narrowed as he gritted his teeth against the pain in his side

Rínior tossed the torch onto the books. Flames licked at the tomes. They spread to the wooden shelves, then the furniture, then the tapestries lining the walls. He watched from the broken doorway as fire consumed the archives of Dolindîr.

Aesserg and two of his men fled the burning tower. Rínior couldn't tear his eyes away. The pop of sparks and steady rumble of the inferno held his mind in a vice grip. The floor above crashed to the floor. Glass shattered.

"Move, Rínior!"

A hand yanked on his shoulder. Rínior turned away. They had a battle to win, and his soldiers dwindled. He couldn't stay to watch the flames.

It didn't take long to hear shouts and pounding boots on the mud. The thunderstorm moved away, leaving a thin moon and a few stars behind. Rínior, Aessereg, and his two men ducked into an alley as Arthedain's soldiers ran towards the archives.

"You," Rínior said, turning to one of the men he had no name for. "Gather up the remaining men and hit them here." He turned to Aessereg and the other one. "We're making for their command tower."

He stumbled for a moment as pain redoubled. But they had work to do. He couldn't rest now. Rínior led the way back towards Mallenor's former point of command.

They found two dozen Hill-men and six Dúnedain of Rhudaur pressing towards the tower. Bodies piled up in the streets. Though they heard steel on steel and the groans of the injured, the battle had quieted. Few remained.

Rínior raised up his sword. He saw a blade slice through one of his Dúnedain and moved to take his place. As the body fell away, he swung down.

Elrohir parried. Rínior took a half step back, eyes wide at the blood covered face of his former best friend. Elrohir copied him. Moments later, they clashed again.

Rínior slammed his sword down on Elrohir's twice. He pushed him back. They separated from the other fighters by a few feet. Neither spoke. He saw blood seeping from cuts all over Elrohir's body. He felt his own wound soaking his armor. In the distance, flames leapt from the archives to nearby buildings. The inferno made its slow way through Dolindîr.

The world faded. Rínior focused on Elrohir's footwork. He read each glance. Elrohir had trained him. They'd sharpened each other's skills. Neither liked to lose.

Rínior hissed in pain as he stumbled over a body. He rolled. Elrohir's blade slammed the ground where he'd just been.

Aessereg took his place. Elrohir stepped back twice as the massive Angmarim used all his strength. It gave Rínior time to think.

"Take him alive!" He screamed, struggling to his feet.

Few stood by. He saw only one other not writhing on the ground, or keeled over in pain. Rínior heaved himself back up and joined Aesserg in the duel.

Elrohir's back pressed against the stone wall of the command tower. He glanced around, eyes wide but jaw clenched. Rínior knew that look. That was the face of an elf faced with mortality. A cornered animal was dangerous.

With a scream of pain, Aessereg dropped his weapon. Elrohir went to swing his sword. Rínior threw his dagger. The red gem glistened in the encroaching firelight. Elrohir doubled over in pain as his sword fell.

Aessereg punched him. He kept punching him, in the face and stomach and head. Rínior ran forward. He yanked Aessereg back.

Elrohir fell to his knees. He heaved painful breaths, coughing up blood. Cradling his stabbed hand to his chest, Elrohir didn't look up. He just curled up on his knees.

"You cannot be serious!" Aessereg said, teeth barred like an animal. "Kill him!"

But Rínior had no intention of that. He watched as Elrohir shook from pain. A moment later, his friend straightened up on his knees. Silver eyes hardened as he spat at the ground.

"Didn't take you for a coward, Rínior," he said. "Do it."

His own wounds burned. He could barely move his left arm where he'd broken through the door. But he raised his sword.

"I'm no coward."

Rínior swung. The hilt of his blade slammed into Elrohir's head. The elf toppled to the ground, unconscious. Rínior heaved out several breaths. This was how he could make Elrohir understand. He would see.

He turned to Aessereg, sheathing his sword. Rínior slapped him. "Don't ever question me in front of the enemy again."

Aessereg raised a fist. But he corrected himself, turning away in fury. They surveyed the devastation.

Bodies unnumbered filled the streets. Hill-man, Arthedainian, Angmarim all bled red that turned black in the dark night. A growing conflagration jumped from building to building.

"I hope you're happy," Aessereg said. He turned to face him as Rínior stood over Elrohir's body. "Our forces are decimated!"

"And theirs are gone," Rínior said. "Find what few remain. Send the Hill-men back to Minas Eglan. You and the other Sons of Rhudaur will follow me to Carn Dûm."

Aessereg walked away. Rínior stood alone, Elrohir at his feet. They had a long walk to go. But on it, he would make him understand. Perhaps, with his world crumbling around him, Elrohir would see this was their only chance. And with Elrohir at his side, even the Witch-king would know fear.