Chapter Thirty-Three - Rínior

When Rínior closed his eyes, he saw rivers of blood that even the worst rainstorm couldn't wash away. He knew what he saw. Over the centuries he's buried the memories but now it seemed that night would stay silent no longer.

The trek across the high moors towards Minas Eglan left him with too much time to think. Amon Sûl invaded his dreams. So Rínior refused to sleep. The long, exhausted hours filled with aching pain comforted him more than remembering his fellows.

What had they thought, when he'd ridden away? Had Círion—

No. Rínior tightened his fist around the hilt of his sword. He cursed under his breath as the sun rose after another sleepless night. He didn't speak their names.

He'd let the names of the bodies die centuries ago. If he slept, their faces came to him unbidden. But it seemed if he did not, the names would.

Rínior stared through the trees. Pale golden light filtered through pine needles, many beginning to turn brown with the changing seasons. Not far ahead he saw the treeline stop: the ridge.

At least this agonizing march was almost at an end. He shivered as the wind picked up. There weren't enough curses in the tongues of Men or elves for Elrohir.

To think he had once held great love for him. Had once believed Elrohir wise. But he wasn't wise. He was foolish. He clung to hope like a child to a toy.

Rínior came to the edge of the trees. As the forests of the Ettendale dropped off into the moors around Minas Eglan, he surveyed the Hill-men's war tents. They numbered far fewer.

Worse than a fool, Elrohir was a liar. He sought to cloud his mind with falsehoods. Mírien would understand, when the war was won. Tiniel, his love, she had to trust him. They had been through so much. She had seen the destruction of Arthedain, longer even than himself.

Heat filled his chest. He couldn't no longer feel his knuckles, he gripped his sword hilt so tight. Jaw clenched, Rínior turned from the moorland below.

And yet. And yet.

And yet it was not the faces of the dead alone that kept him marching through sleepless nights. What if—

No. Rínior pushed the thoughts away. There was too much to do now. He had to get his story straight. All at Minas Eglan bowed to him, but they did not all love him. Weakness invited challenge.

He could not be challenged. Not now. Not with Sons of Rhudaur dead and Elrohir nowhere in sight. In all likelihood, Elrohir hadn't escaped to Arthedain alive.

But if he had, knowledge of his failure could not get back to Carn Dûm. It would not.

Rínior held his head high as he walked through the war tents. Hill-men lounged around laughing and chatting, blissfully unaware that he had returned. Shameful. They had performed mediocre at best at Dolindîr. He would need to have a word with their commanders. They should've been training, not traipsing about.

Mud squelched under his boots. The rain had soaked him to the bone in recent days. Apparently it hadn't spared Minas Eglan either. Smoke wafted in the air from dozens of campfires. Rínior had eyes only for the distant, crumbling towers of his citadel.

"You're back, and so soon?"

Rínior turned to Stesha. The leader of the largest tribe of Hill-men moved to join him among the tents. His followers glanced up from their food, or peeked out of tents before going back to their business.

"Are you disappointed?" Rínior had no time for idle chatter. He wanted a wash and a change of clothing.

Stesha just chuckled. He shrugged, falling into step beside him. They continued on towards the citadel. He twirled the edge of his dark brown beard. "Just surprised."

"Well so am I," he said. Rínior gestured back towards the line of tents they had just left. "In my absence the men have forgotten we are at war. When did the Hill-men forget what you fight for?"

It was Stesha's turn to sneer. "You forget yourself, half-elf."

Guards heaved open one of the massive, oak doors. Rínior went first. Stesha could trail behind, or not. He had no desire to get into planning their next moves prior to dinner.

"Where is Aessereg?"

Rínior paused. The footsteps of the servant he'd just instructed to fetch food faded as blood pounded in his ears. Traitor. Aessereg lay dead in a copse of trees, blood staining the floor. That was one name he'd never forget.

"Are you trying to anger me even more?" Rínior couldn't turn to face him. He kept his eyes on the massive fire being stoked at the end of the great citadel hall. It blazed, dancing in a cold draft. "It is of no consequence."

Stesha scoffed. "No consequence? He and his men are our most elite fighters—"

"My."

"What?"

"My most elite fighters. And they served their purpose. They won us the western line."

Stesha spoke through gritted teeth. "When we left Dolindîr, Aessereg went with you to Carn Dûm. I assumed to bring back more of his kind. But you were not gone long enough—"

Rínior spun. His sword plunged into Stesha's abdomen before the man finished his ill-conceived sentence. He felt the warm blood pool around his hand at the hilt.

The body slumped to the grey stone floor. Rínior's heart raced. He couldn't breathe. Blood pounded in his ears so loud that the world seemed to still. Stesha asked too many questions. Too many questions.

Blood pooled on the citadel floor. The stench of metal filled the air. He could taste death. Stesha's tiny, heaving gasps for air slowed into nothingness.

"My lord."

Rínior looked up. The door wardens stared eyes wide, mouths agape. But the man who had spoken wasn't even a man, but a boy. The serving boy. What did he want?

"Uh, Lord Rínior—"

He turned away from the boy and the body. His body ached. His heart raced. He didn't have time for this.

"You two! Clean this up," he said.

The door wardens didn't move at first. Rínior asked if they wished to join Stesha. They got to work without a word.

Rínior didn't look back. Marching further into the citadel, he longed to wash his hands, his hair, his whole body. He'd been gone for weeks. He trekked through forest and fen, blood and grime and guts caked into his body. And this was his homecoming?

He slammed shut the door of his chambers. A tub of steaming water lay in wait. He forced down the chills crawling up his spine. The bile in throat and tears at the edges of his eyes would have to wait. He could not afford this fear.

What he wouldn't give to kiss his Tiniel goodnight. To hug Mírien close to his chest and assure her that someday they would be safe. He would make this world safe for them. The war would end. He would end it.

He lowered himself into the water. Steam rose around his face. For the first time in months, Rínior could feel the trail of his wife's hands over his broken body. He could smell the daffodils and athelas that grew on their window sill.

Eyes of cold fire flashed across his vision. Rínior startled. The water sloshed. His heart pounded in his chest as he struggled to breathe.

The Witch-king could not find out.

The Witch-king would not find out.

Mírien would be a queen, not a bloody battle standard for the orcs. Tiniel would want for nothing. Rínior would find the Silmaril with the Palantír, and bask in the light of Fëanor as was his birthright.

He couldn't relax in the bath. Rínior could hardly stand still. He paced across his room, drying himself with rags as water trickled down his legs and pooled in the cracks.

The bathwater had turned brown from the blood and grime. Rínior wrinkled his nose at it as he pulled on fresh clothing. He'd need someone to dispose of it later. But first, food.

His stomach ached with emptiness. The gnawing had built in the last few days, his food depleted and no game to hunt in sight. Hopefully the cooks had made something better than freshly hunted deer.

Rínior wandered the halls. They repaired some of the crumbling walls in the last decade. But there was still a draft. He shivered.

He turned the corner. First, he noticed the red stain on the floor. Stesha's body had been dragged away, leaving a trail of blood. Rínior felt his heart beat faster. If he had known, or guessed, at Elrohir's escape, others would.

No, they wouldn't. He wouldn't let them live long enough.

But then his eyes drifted upwards. Booted feet stood at the edge of the blood stain. Made of black metal, four pairs of squat feet didn't seem to mind the blood they stood in.

He looked up. Four orcs watched his every move. They had wide faces and hooked noses, with beady black eyes. Gundabad Orcs. On their black armor, a crudely painted violet crown. Rínior's blood ran cold.

"Not your blood, half-elf?" said the largest of the four. He grinned a smile of crooked, fanged teeth. "Too bad."

"Who are you?"

"Gorláhk. Captain of Carn Dûm."

Rínior tried to breathe. He tried to think. But the piercing gaze of the orc filled his chest with cold ice.

"What do you want so far from home, Gorláhk, Captain of Carn Dûm?" He berated himself. His voice squeaked out like a frightened child. Rínior took a deep breath. "Take a wrong turn?"

Gorláhk moved closer, stepping through the blood. He smirked, tilting his head like a crazed cat.

"Never. But you must have." His mouth widened. "Funny little princeling."

Rínior's eyes watered from the stench wafting from Gorláhk's maw. He took a half step back. "Tell me why I should not paint this floor with your blood too?"

Laughter rang through the open hall. The other orcs snickered and sniveled, hands groping for their weapons. Gorláhk did not blink.

"Wouldn't want to anger the true King would you?"

Rínior didn't respond. He felt cold eyes staring into his soul. Felt an armored hand grabbing his wrist.

Gorláhk snickered. He stepped closer. Nose to nose with Rínior, he spit on the floor. "Didn't think so. Better start packing, princeling. Your master wants to see you in Carn Dûm."

The world disappeared. Rínior couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. The stench of death filled his nose. An iron tang coated his mouth. Ice settled in his gut. Darkness closed in around him until all he saw were the beady eyes of Gorláhk, Captain of Carn Dûm.

"Don't worry, princeling." He took a step back, turning towards the great hall. "I'll keep your throne warm."

Rínior watched the orc track bloody footprints down the grey stone floor of the citadel. The throne, restored in recent years, sat unfilled. Gorláhk wasted no time. With a scornful laugh, he settled in.

Years of planning. Years of action. Years of slaughter had led to this, to being replaced by an orc on the eve of victory.

His master wanted to see him.

Rage joined his fear. Rínior spat on the ground. First he would see the Witch-king, not a master but a liege Lord. Rínior had no master save himself.

But then he would return. Gorláhk would die first. Elrohir would die next. And in the end, he would sit on Arvedui's throne unchallenged.