A/N: Welcome to Rinior's final chapter of part one (of two). This fic will be fifty chapters plus the prologue. Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and anything in between. You're the best.

LadyForlong - LOL I wish I could apologize for the constant alternating cliff hangers but I really can't. They are indeed all planned that way/on purpose haha. I do try to have something mirroring from each Rinior to Maedeth Pov switch (and vice versa) so that the chapters are somehow related.

Chapter Eighteen - Rínior

Rínior hid between the thistle bush and the trunk of a large, barren tree. Elbereth's stars shone far above him. Any glint of light on the steel of their weapons could spell disaster for the ambush, and Rínior did not want to fail his first assault into Arthedain.

His heart raced. He felt each beat like a pounding drum. Steady, but fast, it never slowed even as he tried to close his eyes and breathe. The cold air blew the bare branches of the trees and threatened to give away their position if his men couldn't keep their discomfort to themselves.

Aglarwain crawled over, trying to keep his head low. Their scouts had reported the approaching enemies a few hours before and now, they would be getting close. Rínior cursed the full moon. No clouds would aid them that night.

"Are you ready?" Aglarwain asked.

Rínior opened his eyes again. He gave up on his heart. Let it pound. Let it race. It would fuel him in the fight to come.

"Yes," he said. "The men?"

Aglarwain shrugged, pushing himself up against the massive tree trunk. "As they can be for a week and a half of hard training."

Rínior frowned. He looked away from Aglarwain's tight expression to peer through the dead branches and thistles at the road below. Amon Sûl rose just north west of their position. The crown of ruins at the top sent shivers down his spine.

They had to win this. He had to win this. He would see Mírien and Tiniel in splendor again. He would see Amon Sûl rebuilt. Arthedain had failed. The House of Fëanor would not.

"We'll win," he said, turning back to Aglarwain. "We will."

Aglarwain nodded. "I do not doubt you, my friend."

Friend. Rínior stared at his glinting grey eyes. They shone beneath the moon's light. Aglarwain shared his pursuit of glory. They would win.

He heard dragging feet on the road. Rínior closed his eyes again. He began to steady his breaths. With each exhale he counted to himself.

One.

He raised his arm. All around him he heard the slight rustle of archers getting into position.

Two.

Rínior opened his eyes and turned to face the road. Starlight glittered off weaponry and chainmail. A sea of targets.

Three.

This was it. The war would begin anew today. He would start the final assault. Arthedain had to let go. The line of Isildur had to release its strangling, skeletal grasp on the world. It would make way for a new dawn, lit by the fire of his house.

Rínior closed his fist. Arrows whistled from his men on all sides. At the road, strangled dying screams transformed into chaotic shouts as Arthedain's finest found themselves wanting. Again.

He drew his sword. Rínior crashed out of the bushes and joined his foot soldiers half running, half sliding down the hill. Rocks crashed towards the road. In the chaos, the glint of moon and starlight off weapons and armor disoriented him. But it didn't matter. He didn't need to see the eyes of his enemies to kill them.

Thunder roared across the sky. He smashed straight into the first man he came across. With a sickening crunched, he felt ribs crack beneath the weight of his whole body. He thrust his sword straight through the man's gasping mouth. Another body hit the ground.

Thunder morphed into the cacophony of battle. It wasn't raining this time. Not this time. This time, he could kill by the clear light of a full moon.

Rínior dispatched two more with ease. The bodies of Arthedain joined bodies of Hill-men along the East Road. He slipped on the blood, nearly falling in the frey. To steady himself, he grabbed the man in front of him. Dúnedan. The butt of a sword hit his ribs. Rínior fell back.

He got his sword up just in time. Blades collided. Rínior feinted left. The man fell for it. Slamming down into his enemy's knees, he forced the man to the ground. With a scream, he drove his sword through the man's neck and clavicle.

Another body. It joined the hundred thousand other bodies Rínior had made over the last five hundred years. He kicked it away as he drew out his wet sword.

Blood dripped from his blade to the cold, dry ground. Rínior turned to the battle. There weren't many left. A handful of Hill-men had surrounded a couple of Arthedain's warriors. Rínior rolled his eyes. They could deal with two men of Arthedain. He turned to look at the battlefield.

Bodies littered the ambush site, from both sides. Pools of blood and waste sent the stench of death into the air so that Rínior could barely breathe without his eyes watering. He counted ten, twenty, thirty, forty at least. A draw, then. He frowned. He would have to train the Hill-men harder. He looked for Aglarwain.

To his surprise, only two men remained. He hurried over, brandishing his sword again. Aglarwain shouted for him. With a knick, Rínior separated the combatants. He grinned. Aglarwain stepped back, giving him room.

Then he froze.

The world stood still. By the light of the stars and moon, saw the fair face of Elrohir covered in blood, mouth agape. He clutched at his bleeding shoulder. Tears sprung to his glassy eyes.

"What is this?"

"Elrohir."

"What is this, Rínior?"

Elrohir's strained voice cut through the silence of the battle's aftermath. He raised his sword in front of himself, facing Rínior even as Aglarwain caught his breath. But his gaze darted all around. His eyes darted to the bodies, to the blood soaked sword in Rínior's hands, to Aglarwain's standard not far behind them.

Rínior took a deep breath. His sword arm dropped. "What are you doing here?"

"What?" Elrohir couldn't find his words. He half laughed, half cried, staggering back for a moment. "I'm looking for you!" He took a half step forward, pointing his sword at the other two. "I've been searching for you for weeks! Maedeth sent me. I found your horse, alone in the wilderness. I found your company, dead in the Barrow Downs."

Tears streamed down Elrohir's face, cutting through the grime and blood. He took another step foward. "But I couldn't find your body. I've spent every minute of every day since searching for you, to rescue you. And now..." He covered his mouth, glancing at the dead about them. "I don't know what I've found."

"You've found the next ruler of Arthedain," Aglarwain said.

Elrohir didn't respond. He didn't even look at Aglarwain. He just searched Rínior's face for any indication of a lie, any proof this was a nightmare. He found none.

"This is how we end the war, Elrohir," Rínior said. He gestured around them. "A river of blood, and then nothing."

Aglarwain rushed forward. Starlight glinted off their swinging blades. Elrohir feinted left to avoid the first of three quick slashes. His blade caught the third. Steel hitting steel rang out in the darkness.

Elrohir grabbed Aglarwain's wrist. With a frown, he yanked the man closer, standing nose to nose. He dropped his own sword. Before Aglarwain could react, Elrohir reached over his right hand, still gripping the other man's wrist, and twisted the hilt of his sword around. Aglarwain cried out in pain, dropping his blade.

With one swift stroke, Elrohir slit his throat.

The body dropped to the cold ground. Rínior stared down at it, the body that had been Aglarwain moments before. Blood spurted out of its neck to join the growing stain beneath Amon Sûl. He looked up.

"This is the company you keep now?" Elrohir demanded. His voice rose, anger replacing the shellshock. "Men of Angmar? Traitors? Murderers?"

Rínior raised his sword. "Go. Tell Fornost what's coming for them."

Elrohir bared his teeth. He raised his sword as well. "And what is coming, Rínior?"

"An end to the war."

"What of your family?" He blinked back tears as he stared down his sword blade. "Tiniel and Mírien are worried sick about you. Maedeth rides even now to seek aid for Arthedain." He shook his head. "This is how you choose to repay all the kindness shown to you by men and elves? By me? I..." He trailed off, swallowing bile. "The one who trained you, you defended you?"

Rínior glared at him. His heart raced and he could not control his breathing. But he would not look away. He faced Elrohir with his sword raised.

"The House of Fëanor shall be dispossessed no longer," he said. "Any who wish to survive this war should side with me, now. They will be spared." He walked forward again, stepping over another body. "But Arvedui Last-king's reign shall be short, and his crown shall pass to me. I will rule in the Witch-king's stead once the war is won and the House of Isildur pruned."

Elrohir shook his head again, backing up two paces. But he did not lower his weapon. Neither would lower their weapons. "And your family?"

"I am doing this for my family," Rínior shouted. "They will be shown the respect and homage they deserve as descendants of Fëanor."

But Elrohir shook his head. "No, Rínior. You're doing this for yourself."

"Go."

Elrohir backed away. They watched each other long until at last, as the moon sank in the sky and the darkness of predawn filled the night, he fled at last. Rínior took a deep breath.

He looked around. With each step, he navigated severed limbs and broken bodies. He stood over the body of Aglarwain. Unseeing eyes stared back. Well then. Minas Eglan had only one ruler yet again.

Rínior looked up at the black ruins of Amon Sûl. He began to climb it. Each cold breath stung his lungs. When he reached the top, the sunrise began to light the Lone Lands. He looked West.

The dark shape of a galloping rider streaked towards the North. Rínior allowed the wind to cool his burning body. He took three deep breaths. Dawn's light hit his face. Opening his eyes, he tried to find Elrohir again. But he couldn't.

Well then. Rínior turned away. He ignored the ghosts of the past as he left the ruined ring, weather-beaten from five hundred years of warfare. Placing his hand on the last portion of still-standing wall, he paused. He felt the crumbling cracks. At least the war would end soon, and they could all find peace at last.