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Chapter Text

FOR BLOOD YE RENDER BLOOD

Standalone Prequel to The Fëanoriel Chronicles

"No. There is no barrow on Weathertop, nor on any of these hills," answered Strider. "The Men of the West did not live here; though in their latter days they defended the hills for a while against the evil that came out of Angmar. This path was made to serve the forts along the walls.

But long before, in the first days of the North Kingdom, they built a great watch-tower on Weathertop, Amon Sûl they called it. It was burned and broken, and nothing remains of it now but a tumbled ring, like a rough crown on the old hill's head.

Yet once it was tall and fair..."

The Lord of the Rings,
A Knife in the Dark

Prologue | Rínior

T.A. 1409

Lightning split the night sky, but the screams of dying men drowned out the thunder. Rínior ignored them. With one swing, he took the head off an orc. With another, he smashed in the face of a man of Rhudaur with his round, elven bronze shield. The rain got in his eyes, but it didn't matter. The army of Angmar stretched on beyond the border. He didn't need to see the eyes of his enemies to kill them.

Fire-tipped arrows sailed overhead, lit by the beacons and torches around the Tower of Amon Sûl above them. Each time one landed near him, Rínior watched his enemies flinch away. He smiled through the battle stench. With another slash, he took the arm off an orc. They needed to learn to fear fire.

"Rínior!"

Over the din, he heard Captain Lumorn bellow his name. But a fist connected with his jaw and Rínior tumbled to the ground. A mix of mud and dark blood covered his face. He choked, turning onto his back.

Rínior rolled. He couldn't see, but someone had knocked him down and he didn't want to find out who. Even as his captain cried out for him again, he scrambled in the mud. A foot slammed onto his hand. Rínior screamed, but even as white hot pain shot through his arm, he finally found the hilt of his mithril and steel dagger with his right.

It took a moment to clear his eyes. When he did, he found a chieftain of Rhudaur standing over him. Sword above his head, ready to send his fëa to Mandos, the chieftain grinned.

Rínior grinned back. He sliced through the back of the man's right knee, sending him screaming down in pain. The chieftain's writhing body became leverage for Rínior to begin to stand. With a cry, he drove the dagger deep into the man's chest. Blood bubbled up as he ripped it back out.

"Rínior!"

Círion. A hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling him out of the way of an ax and back through the Arthedain ranks. Rínior gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the horrific taste in his mouth of blood, mud, and spilled guts.

"Captain needs you."

Círion finally let him go thirty paces back from the lines. Blood plastered his already dark hair against his young face. Rínior frowned. His friend frowned, apologetic.

"Why!" Rínior said.

Círion had no answer. Just a pale, shocked expression that barely wavered as he watched the battle unfolding beyond them. Rínior let out a half grunt, half scream.

"Rínior!"

The scratchy, deep voice of Captain Lumorn carried over the field. Rínior faced him. He held up his dagger. The red gem at the center of the Fëanorian star pommel shone through the light rain. It didn't take long after a shout in his direction for Lumorn to reach them.

"You're needed inside," Lumorn ordered, barely catching his breath. His grey hair fell scraggly about his shoulders. "Go."

Rínior pointed back towards the lines. Heat filled his face "I am the only thing keeping these cravens at bay here!"

For a moment, Lumorn just looked at him. But he nodded. "Aye. But for how much longer, Rínior?" He shook his head. "Go. The King asked for you."

Fire arrows whistled over their heads. Rínior didn't speak. He could not refuse a summons from his king. He would never want to refuse a summons. But as cries for mercy and the shattering screams of battle grew, he looked at Círion. His friend still seemed frozen in place, grey eyes wide. Rínior turned back to Lumorn.

"Go."

Rínior nodded. He used his left arm to wipe as much grime from his face as he could, careful to avoid his fingers which still throbbed. Removed from battle, he noticed every ache and pain over his body. Everything hurt.

Guards lined the path up to the Tower. A lightning strike illuminated the clouds and thunder rolled over the Weather Hills. Aptly named. Turning back, Rínior looked at the dying men of Arthedain. They had a thousand left, maybe. But the enemies of the Witch-king stretched for further than he could count. Rínior stopped.

They couldn't win this. Lumorn had known that. Men had no strength to fight against the sorcery of this new dark shadow. The blood of Fëanor could only do so much, a half-elf alone in a sea of mortal men. Their deaths would be the matter of song, perhaps. But not lullabies they would sing to their children. They'd probably never sing another lullaby.

He turned away. Rínior twirled his dagger in his hand as he stepped across the threshold into the bottom floor of the watch tower. He'd set foot in here many times: a pillar of strength in the hills. He'd spent a year guarding Arthedain and the palantír from within these very walls.

Not that he'd ever been permitted to see it. Lumorn had always posted him on every assignment but the defense of the palantír.

Wounded soldiers filled the round stone hall. Against the walls, on crates, under the steps, they moaned and bled out as healers or fellow fighters tried to save them. Rínior turned away. A guard pointed him up the stairs.

With every step, he found himself blocking out the battle more and more. He had to. He didn't look out the small windows. He didn't listen to the dying. Rínior focused on the pain in his legs and the task at hand.

One of the king's guards opened up the right side of the massive wooden doors into an inner chamber. Rínior stepped inside. Dozens of candles around the room illuminated scraps of paper on a desk, sparse furniture, and the imposing figure of King Arveleg strapping on a final piece of armor.

"My lord," Rínior said, wincing as he dropped to a knee. "What do you need of me?"

"Rise, Rínior." His voice, weathered with time but still strong, like his sword arm, filled the room. "I have a job for you. Do you swear to fulfill it, no matter the cost?"

Rínior frowned. "Of course."

Arveleg's grey eyes smoldered like coals in the light of all the candles. He nodded. With a frown, he began to burn the only remaining scrap of paper with any writing on it.

"Good," he said. "I need you to saddle the fastest horse still left alive and ride straight for my son at Fornost."

Rínior felt his cheeks flushing as a burning anger filled his chest. "You desire me to turn tail, to flee like a coward back to the safety of a castle?"

"To retreat is not always cowardice, Rínior. You would do well to remember that." But he shook his head, the flaming parchment dying to smoke. Arveleg moved to a chest in the corner. He opened it, drawing out a large sack, almost bursting at the seams. "The Witch-king cannot get the palantír. I would think you of all my warriors would know this to be true."

Rínior couldn't speak. He turned to the sack, tied closed, and wished he could open it then and there, to finally see the greatest work of his ancestor that still lay in Middle Earth.

"Take it. Ride hard." Arveleg shook his head. "Do not look back."

Rínior grabbed it. The stone weighed more than he ever expected. Gritting his teeth, he sheathed his dagger and used both hands. His horse would love this.

"I looked in it one last time," Arveleg said. He pulled on his gloves and readied his sword as he began to move Rínior towards the door. "Rivendell is still besieged, but one of Elrond's sons rides out beyond the Angmar lines to us even as the other rides to the High Pass. He will find you."

One last time. Rínior looked up at him. For the past fifteen years, he'd served King Arveleg in his military. For fifteen years, his sister had learned court practices among his noblemen. Shifting the stone to his left hand, he held out his right.

Arveleg paused. But he shook it. "Now, go."

Rínior wasted no more time. Even thirty years for a normal Dúnedan of Arthedain would place him in the prime of his life. He raced down the stairs, ignoring the dying men, ignoring the screams for help. He blocked out the pain in his legs.

Even the thunder became background noise as he focused on finding a saddled horse. The messengers wouldn't be needing their steeds. No one else would make it out alive. He knew that in is heart. In under five minutes, he'd strapped the palantír to a saddle bag and an extra sword to his side.

The rain had stopped. Only the muddy ground and distant lightning remained of the storm. Rínior hoisted himself up. The horse threw its head up and down as he angled it back towards the sounds of war. Rínior looked at the carnage one last time.

He nodded. "Die well."

Then he fled. He rode as hard as the horse could take down the East-West Road. He could hear distant screeches and howls. With the threat of war on two fronts and the Marshes on the right, Rínior decided speed meant more than secrecy. The road was their best shot.

Nothing hindered him. Rínior stopped only when he could find shelter and when the horse teetered on the point of exhaustion. He continued this way for days, avoiding settlements such as Bree, Archet, and Combe in favor of the Chetwood forest.

As he lay his head back against a tree trunk, he listened to the stream and the crickets and the panting of his exhausted horse. He couldn't be sure how close behind the armies of the Witch-king were. How long has the king held them back? He tightened his eyes closed.

He listened to his heart beat. In the relative quiet, he felt his throat closing and palms sweating. How far behind was the enemy? How long could he afford to wait?

Opening his eyes, Rínior stared at the pack sitting beside him. It warmed the side of his leg. An inner flame, from Fëanor himself perhaps. It couldn't hurt to check.

Why shouldn't he? Rínior began to unfaster the straps. It belonged to him. Or it should have. He and Maedeth alone remained of the first house. Children of the line of Caranthir. And children of the line of Haleth. Leaders of two peoples, of two races.

The palantír reminded him of a perfectly smooth ball of onyx at first. As he pushed away the burlap, his hands trailed over the glass-like surface. Mesmerizing. As he looked into its depths, he imagined how Fëanor had once toiled over the stone, all thought bent on its majesty.

The center began to glow. Warmth spread through his hands as he laid his palms on the surface and the world around him died away. He saw only the flame at the center of the Seeing-Stone. He felt peace in his heart. Then the flames disappeared, and he saw the world as if from a bird far above:

Amon Sûl, razed to the ground. Smoking stone thrown down by sorcery. Hordes of orcs pillaging through Cardolan. Men cheering as they followed chieftains beyond the Weather Hills. In Rhudaur, Dúnedain slaughtered or fleeing. In a dark keep lit by sickly green flames, a black-robed, black crowned figure sat upon a throne as all fell prostrate around him. It began to turn towards him.

Rínior let go. The image fell away, leaving him alone with his horse surrounded by the Chetwood. Perhaps he could've forced the stone away. Perhaps he should have, instead of throwing it down like a coward. But his dreams already showed him his fill of death and darkness.

And yet, and yet. Rínior looked at the silent palantír in the bag. He couldn't help but smile. He'd felt it. The fire, the same one he felt fill his chest every day of his life. He'd felt the sort of power that fire could create when he'd laid hands upon the palantír.

As the stream gurgled on, he tried to relax. Tried for kinder dreams.

A twig snapped. Rínior shot up, not checking before he swung his sword straight at a shadow's neck. A grunt and the sound of blades clashing caused his horse to scream as his sword met the strangers.

"Be still!"

An elven voice.

"Elrohir!"

"Lower your sword before you get us both killed, Rínior." Elrohir shook off his hood.

Rínior, heart still pounding, paused a moment longer before doing so. He sighed, running a hand through his own brown hair as he sunk back against the tree.

"Are you wounded, my friend?" Elrohir asked, face grave. "How is your horse?"

"I'm fine," Rínior said. He gestured to the still-panicking horse. "I fear pushing him much further. Days of hard riding with few stops is killing him. I cannot carry-"

Elrohir held up his hand. "Speak not of what you bear. We need to move. Let the horse go, for I bring an elven horse for you."

"Thank you, my friend."

For the first time since he'd arrived, Elrohir smiled. He nodded. "Of course. Come. The shadow in the North will not break through my brother's lines, not with Glorfindel and Erestor beside him. But we are not protected out here beyond even the Bree-landers."

"They are useless, anyhow," Rínior said.

Elrohir let out a small laugh as he walked back to the horses. Rínior focused on packing up what small items he'd brought. By the time Elrohir returned with two brown horses of Rivendell, Rínior had driven off his exhausted stallion.

"Ready?" Elrohir said. He offered one more small smile as Rínior settled on top of his horse. "Half-elves must stick together, after all."

Rínior smirked back. He still felt his chest buzzing from the fire of the palantír. He wondered if Elrohir could tell?

He nodded, urging on his new horse as the dawn began to break. "Let's go."

Chapter Text

PART ONE

Chapter One | Maedeth

T.A. 1964

Five hundred and fifty five years after the razing of Amon Sûl...

A chill breeze blew through the stone throne room of Fornost as the iron and wood doors creaked on their hinges. Maedeth shivered. The cold air hit the nape of her neck, left exposed as she'd had her red hair done up for the ceremony that morning.

Not that any could tell it was past midday. The sun had not come out. It hid behind dark clouds and snow fall.

Standing in the second row of nobles, she fiddled with the single bracelet of bronze and gold. No one spoke. No smiles graced faces fair or foul among the attendees.

There wasn't much to smile about these days.

Maedeth brushed her thumb along her bracelet again. Sometimes she missed the rest of her jewelry. But bronze could be used in weapons, gemstones could be traded for supplies. She would have parted with the fineries even without Prince Arvedui's…

King. King Arvedui.

Even had the new King not ordered the melting down of fineries for the war effort, she'd have given them up willingly. Her brother fought on the front lines, but her battle lay in council chambers and luncheons with visiting nobles.

A small youth chorus began a Quenya hymn. Gowns and tunics shuffled as all turned towards the doors. She couldn't see much. The shining silver tresses of Lady Celebrían blocked her view. But she knew this ceremony by heart.

She had seen so many kings of Arthedain rise and fall. Arvedui joined a long line of stalwart heroes as he processed down the aisle. Dark brown hair fell straight below his shoulders. His beard, once the same color, had flecks of grey in the torchlight. How different from King Araphor, who ascended at eighteen the night her brother had rescued the Palantír so many years before.

And yet the war did not change.

Maedeth turned behind at a tug on her dress. Her niece rocked from foot to foot, brown hair only slightly lighter than her father's. Mírien tugged again, brow creased. Maedeth bent down.

"I cannot see," Mírien said.

Maedeth tried to suppress her smile when she noticed her brother's wife, Tiniel, frowning. Maedeth could almost hear her thoughts. How unbecoming of an elven child!

"Neither can I," Maedeth said.

Mírien huffed. She turned away, facing forward. Maedeth looked over at Tíniel. She could see the smile breaking through the stern countenance of Rínior's wife. Before either laughed, they stopped looking at each other.

Ah to be as carefree as an elf child. Mírien knew nothing of war except stories told over dinners of the Hero for the North. As Maedeth watched Arvedui ascend the few steps of the terrace towards Malbeth the Seer, she thanked the Valar that Rínior did not have to attend this ceremony.

They called him Hero of the North for good reason; nothing could stand between him and whatever goal he set his mind to. Usually that meant swinging a sword and commanding an army. But courtly pleasantries? Never.

She spared a glance right to Celebrían. The Lady of Rivendell stood poised to perfection. The total opposite of what her brother would have been at this event. Wearing a gown of silver, gold, and white lace, Celebrían represented the best of her people. And beyond her, still as stone except his drumming fingers on the wooden pew before him, stood Elladan.

The resplendent star clasp holding his midnight blue cloak in place echoed her own. But where his shone white with six points, hers had been crafted of bronze and rubies, reaching out to eight points. The Star of Fëanor.

A blessing and a curse.

Elladan glanced over, behind his mother. Maedeth felt heat rising to her cheeks as she turned away with a small smile. She had to focus on the ceremony. She could not risk becoming like Rínior: desensitized to the significance of Arthedain's coronations with every passing century. The council room was her battlefield.

The silver crown rested heavy on Arvedui's head. It seemed to sink into his brown hair, forcing it down, imprisoning it against his skull. Perhaps Malbeth and placed it too firmly. But as the Seer held out the brilliant Scepter of Annúminas and the new King grasped it, Maedeth reserved judgment.

His grip did not waver. She knelt with the crowds, vowing to serve yet another king of Men unto her dying breath. As the crowds filtered into the aisle to greet the new King, she fiddled with her bracelet. She traced the engraved eight pointed star. The dispossessed shall they be forever.

And here she waited. Bowing to another mortal king.

"Your Majesty," she said.

But King Arvedui just let out a small scoff, and raised her off the ground. "While you honor me with your participation in this" –he glanced around–"pomp and circumstance, you and I both know it is your assistance I need, not your audulation, Maedeth."

She smiled. Perhaps she had been too hasty and judged the new King too soon. "You know where to find me, my lord."

The crowd pushed her away, like a tide at sea. Pushed and pulled, it didn't take long for her to spill out into the vestibule with the other dignitaries.

"Quite a performance."

Elladan meandered over holding two cups of wine. He offered her one. When she took his, he gestured over his shoulder. Celebrían stood chatting with the newly crowned queen, Fíriel of Gondor, and Prince Aranarth.

"Not interested in mingling with the royalty, Elladan?" It took all her strength not to smile.

"I am quite content for my mother to make friends with the new royals, thank you," he said. "I'm here as her sword and shield."

"Ever the gentleman."

"And your twin? Where did Rínior escape to this time?"

Maedeth moved with Elladan further into the antechamber. More and more nobles filtered out of the throne room. "There is a war on, Elladan."

"Ah yes. No rest for the Hero of the North."

"And yours? Where's Elrohir?"

Before he could answer, Maedeth felt two small arms wrap around her waist and almost pull her back. She laughed.

"Hello Mírien," she said.

The girl laughed, moving around front to stand between Elladan and Maedeth, not at all caring about interrupting them. "Mother says I can go riding in the morning. Will you come?"

"Mírien, mind your manners!" Tiniel grabbed her daughter's arm and pulled her back out of Elladan's way. "Lord Elladan, I apologize for my daughter's behavior."

Elladan just chuckled. "No offense was taken, Tiniel. Though perhaps Rivendell is lucky you and Rínior chose to raise her here in Fornost."

Without meaning to, Maedeth laughed. Tiniel's pale cheeks warmed slightly but she couldn't stop her own chuckles completely. It was true Mírien seemed to fit right in with the Mannish children, despite being a half elf. She watched the girl run off through the sparkling crowd of gowns and tunics.

"Have you any word of when Rínior is returning?" Maedeth said.

Tiniel shook her head. She brushed a few loose strands of dark hair behind her ear. "None. He is far afield these days. I seldom hear from him and when I do, it is war news." She looked up. "Do not mistake me, I am proud of Rínior. He lives up to every rumor, every legend. But sometimes I wonder if he prefers the rush of battle to the monotony of Fornost."

Elladan hummed in agreement, sipping at his wine. "There are days that I fear my brother is the same."

All talk of the war halted as the King emerged from the throne room. The raucous applause reverberating against grey stone and stained glass windows drowned out any thoughts but this: Arthedain had a king once more. It would stand strong and fight for the free peoples, as it had for the last five hundred years. And as Maedeth gazed upon the silver Scepter of Annúminas glinting in the flames of torchlight, she pushed away thoughts of her own birthright. This was how she served. This was her battlefield.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two - Rínior

Every time he led troops through the disputed lands between Amon Sûl and the Bree-hill, Rínior found his own morale lower than at the beginning of the journey. How that was possible, he didn't know. He'd seen the stones of Amon Sûl split, the blood that flowed in rivers from the men of King Arveleg the First who tried in vain to hold it.

Arveleg had been a true king. The world had not seen his like since.

Rínior blocked out the faces of the dead. They blurred together these days, but when he closed his eyes at night sometimes he would see those he'd grown up with, trained with, spilled first blood with. He wished they wouldn't. It did nothing but hinder his mission.

The same mission for 500 years. Hold the line. Only that line deteriorated with every sunrise. Tomorrow's would be no different. The sunset bathed the sky in reds and golds fading to purple and on to black. Elbereth's stars began to peek through the twilight as the stone and wood walls of Bree Town rose in front of them.

The footfalls of his thirty men picked up the pace. How low had the men of Arthedain fallen that they were this excited to see a town of lesser men? But even Rínior found himself breathing easier. They needed this. Desperately.

He could hear the younger men whispering excitedly under their breaths of the promise of ales and beds. It had been days since their own stock had run dry. Arvedui didn't like that the troops carried alcohol-said it made them vulnerable to attack-but Rínior didn't care. How should he expect the troops to live surrounded by death and destruction without an escape? Where was Arvedui during this fight? Arveleg had fought on the front lines and died with his foot soldiers.

Alas, that six kings of these once proud men had passed since any had seen Amon Sûl whole!

"Captain, would you like one of us to go ahead and treat with the door wardens?" asked one of his soldiers. He stood a head shorter than Rínior, with still grey-less dark hair and a shocking lack of visible scars.

Rínior tried not to learn names. There were too many these days. But he knew this one, Belegon, the son of a lesser lord in Fornost. A good soldier, but a little too eager to overstep his bounds.

"No. I will go." Rínior paused in his step to whisper in his horse's ear. "It has been a long walk, my friend. But grant me speed to the gate." He mounted Lossion and sped the last hundred meters to the gate at Bree.

Two guards stood to either side of a wooden gate. They were dressed in rudimentary chain male with bits of leather armor, and held tightly to tall pikes. At his approach, they tensed but did not raise their weapons. Smart lads, then.

"State your purpose, Captain of Arthedain," said the one on the right.

"Your eyes deceive you, for I am not a man, though I fight with them. I am Rínior, called Hero of the North, an elf of some renown." He bit his tongue. Too far, perhaps. But then he continued. "My men are tired, and we require food and rest. We make for the Prancing Pony, by your leave. For we have been long in the wilderness, ensuring safety to these lands."

"How many are you?"

"Thirty, plus myself. And this good steed," he said, petting his horse's white flank as he dismounted.

The men of Bree leaned in close, conspiring to give a single response. Rínior did not know whether it was wise, but he held their gazes even as they spoke below earshot.

At last, they stood straight again. The right hand guard nodded. "Very well, you may enter Bree Town. Do you know your way to the inn?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then stick to the road."

Rínior smirked as the guard held his gaze. Brash one, this man. He got a good look at the Breelander. The man couldn't have been much older than twenty. Whether his bravery came from experience in battle or lack thereof, Rínior couldn't say. But he nearly warned the boy to beware of the way he spoke. In these dark times, the wrong man might take his words the wrong way. And Rínior would hate to see blood on these simple streets.

It didn't take long for his company to join him at the gate. They were eager for refreshment. The young guard knocked three times on the gate, and it slowly opened for them.

Bree Town never changed. In the last few centuries, Rínior had stopped here off and on for a night at the Pony or a visit to their town hall to hear the latest on their nonexistent response to the war in the north. People here moved slowly and didn't do much at all. Those that did were hawking wears to each other or cleaning manure off their few streets winding up the hill. Halflings and humans alike stood to the side to allow them passage. This was probably the most excitement their little town had seen this entire year.

Rínior left his horse with Belegon. He didn't expect for the Pony to house them all for the night, but he would see his company got food and drink before assigning most to sleep outside the city walls. He took the steps up two at a time.

The inn buzzed with patrons now that the sun was nearly gone. A trio of halflings sat near the door and widened their eyes in surprise as he passed them. A gaggle of men took three steps back from the counter. The barkeep, Barnibas Butterbur, set down his cleaning cloth and crossed his arms.

"What can I do you for, Master Rínior?"

The name sounded wrong in the Breeland accent. But then, at least he knew it. Rínior moved up to the bar and placed a large sack of coin down. "I have thirty men with me. We're not here for lodging, but we need food and drink."

"Aye. Well, we'll see." Barnibas opened the bag and counted the coins. "Get your men in here. And we'll go from there."

Rínior took a table by himself as his men grabbed refreshments. They laughed and feasted like kings on the village food. But he couldn't bring himself to do the same. They had so much to do. And yet nothing at all, it seemed.

There were more lines to patrol, more skirmishes to be had, more lives to be lost. But the frontline would be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next even when all his company were buried six feet under and he stood alone to pick up the pieces.

Some days, he wanted nothing more than to pack up his life and move with Tiniel and Mírien to Rivendell and away from these waning lands of men. But that would hardly be a better life for his daughter. She deserved more than to be watched by the Elven Wise who knew of their Fëanorian blood.

Caught between the harsh rock of the Weather Hills and the hard places of Angmar, as the men in the north often said.

Rínior looked up over the rim of his drink. He felt the cold gazes of the men of Bree on him as he sat in the corner. And indeed, the group who had startled at his entrance were watching him from the other side of the fire pit. Rínior set the mug down on the table and raised his chin. Let them come.

As if they read his mind, they wandered over with arms across their chests. They were large, both in muscle and in belly. Perhaps in another life, another place, they would've made good soldiers. But not in Bree.

"Why do you bring the war here, Arnorian?"

Rínior scoffed. He remained seated, cross his arms and his leg over his knee. "The war is already here, Bree-lander."

"No. We're free folk," said another.

"For now, perhaps," he said. "But sooner or later the Witchking comes for us all in Eriador."

The man who had spoken first pointed a finger in Rínior's face. "We aren't warmongers like you. Your folks call you Hero of the North, eh? But you just chase Death, we says here in Bree. You'll just bring us trouble."

Rínior's smile dropped. He uncrossed his legs and slowly moved from behind the table to stand toe to toe with the five men of Bree. Rínior stood taller than the tallest by at least a head. He stared down at them. "You speak ill of men without whose vigilance and spilled blood you and your families would lie rotting in your squalid streets." He scoffed, looking at the others in the bar, many of whom had noticed the growing confrontation. "Careful now."

"Oi! Oakwood! Stop harassing the Captain." Barnibas Butterbur called out to them over the quieting inn. He moved from behind his bar and wandered over, lowering his voice as the pack of Bree-landers left through the front door. "Look, Master Rínior, you know we're simple folk here in Bree. We want to live in peace as free folk."

"Indeed."

"And as such, I'm afraid I'm gonna need you to leave for the night. Your men can stay till they finish their drinks, but I can't be seen tossing me own folks and not you too for that little display."

Rínior glared, but gave a short nod. "I was done anyway."

"I thought so."

He place a single bronze coin in Butterbur's pocket before moving towards the door. He caught a group of his men on the way, assuring them they were free to remain but that he had lost his appetite. "I will take Lossion down to the camp site and sleep early."

"Yes, sir."

Rínior stepped out into the night. A woman stood using a wick on an iron pole to light the last lamp on the street. She glanced back as the door slammed behind him and startled for a moment before completing her task.

He scoffed. Wrapping his black cloak closer to his body, he tried to ignore the chill in the air as he moved through the street with his horse at his side. He wished he was home in bed with Tiniel, giving Mírien a kiss on the cheek and his sister a hug in the halls of Fornost. They had received word recently of King Araphant's passing. Likely there would be a celebration soon, however meek in this time of war, to mark Arvedui's ascension to the throne.

Maedeth was better at such things, anyways. But he wished he could've seen his wife in her finest gown and been there to comfort and teach his daughter as she learned what it meant for men to die of old age.

But he had a mission, the same one he'd been tasked with by each passing king for centuries on end. Hold the line.

"Captain!"

Rínior turned around just as he reached the gate of the city. To his surprise, all the men of his company who had partaken of the Inn hurried up to him.

"What are you doing? You need not leave the inn just because I am no longer welcome-"

"We know, sir."

Silence stretched between him and his men. The rest of the words need not have been spoken aloud. Rínior nodded. Perhaps his company really did have some measure of the dignity of Arnor of old in them. Rínior let them pass out of the city first, glaring up the hill at this city of lesser men who dared scorn their protectors.

"My lord."

He looked at Belegon, the last man. "Yes?"

"Where you lead, we will follow. Always."

Rínior nearly laughed. Instead, he just shot him a small smirk, clapping him on the back as he passed. They had no need of Bree. They would make for the Last Inn on the East-West Road instead. There, they honored the warriors of Arthedain as the heroes they were.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three - Maedeth

Maedeth found her mouth watering at the taste of well-seasoned meat and a glass of wine. It had been for too long since she'd indulged in such fineries. But the coronation of a King and Queen was the perfect occasion.

The throne room sat fifty comfortably. Great tables were dragged in from war rooms and bedrooms alike, as over the years much of the spare wood had been used to reinforce battlements or burn for fuel. But now was not the time to think of such things. Or so Arvedui insisted.

He sat at the lead table, flanked on his left by Fíriel, his queen. She sat tall and poised, though more solemn than Maedeth would have expected. Usually she was the one the family relied on to keep up appearances, to keep up morale. Beside her sat Arveldir, the younger prince. He was just a boy, really. Not quite ten years of age. He at least seemed to be enjoying himself.

Aranarth, now heir, sat on his father's right hand. Tall and proud, he stayed quiet while eating and listened to his father entreat with nobles who approached their table. Maedeth had always liked him. He was only twenty but in many ways, he reminded her of King Araphor who she saw ascend to the throne at only 18 after Arveleg fell in battle at Amon Sul. They shared a quiet confidence, an intense smoldering determination.

"The king has ordered that we enjoy ourselves for a night, Maedeth." Tiniel's voice pulled her from her musings. She smiled, actively trying to ignore the way her daughter Mírien wouldn't stop kicking the bottom of their bench. "I recognize the look of one lost in memory."

Maedeth forced her own smile. "Indeed." She looked past Tiniel as the effervescent Lady Celebrían had finished speaking with Arvedui and made her way to their table with Elladan.

"Are these places taken?" she asked.

"No, my lady, of course not," Tiniel answered, making space for Celebrían on the end. "I would be honored."

"Elves must stick together, after all," Elladan said.

Maedeth laughed at him, also scooting down to make room. She had missed this: food, friendship, fellowship. Most of the time she and Tiniel stuck together like a pair of swans amidst a raucous storm, the only women of the court to have lived through centuries of love and loss. But when Elladan came, it felt different. It felt...lighter. And Celebrían, well she herself was the daughter of the Lady of Light and carried it with her everywhere she went.

"When are you returning to Rivendell, my lady?" Tiniel asked.

Elladan responded first. "Eager to come home?"

"I am not sure, Tiniel. Probably in the next few days." Celebrían shrugged. "But perhaps not. I feel my presence here may be helpful as Arvedui takes up his father's crown."

Maedeth agreed. "I am sure King Arvedui and Queen Fíriel would be most grateful for your assistance."

"Rivendell can wait. I am not sure that Arthedain can."

They fell into silence again. As Celebrain spoke the words aloud, it seemed a heavy doom settled on the bustling room. Even Mírien turned from people watching to eating her meal.

Various men and women of Arthedain nobility stopped by their table to speak with Celebrían. It had been many years since she had last come as an emissary of Rivendell, and it seemed to lighten the peoples' hearts just being in her presence. Maedeth had to agree, even if the words she spoke in confidence weighed her down.

"So you did not tell me earlier. What is Elrohir up to that has him away from this chilly place," Maedeth asked, lowering her voice so she wouldn't interrupt Celebrían. "Or did you take this assignment as guardian voluntarily?"

"You wound me, Maedeth." But he cracked a smile. "If you must know, I did take this willingly. My father was trying to send Elrohir and I out on a hunting trip with Glorfindel. Something about 'he can only handle us at home so much at a time' and all that. Perhaps Glorfindel was a chaperone?" He grinned as Maedeth laughed. "Anyways, I find my mother much better company than Glorfindel."

"Is that so?" Celebrían asked. She couldn't help but laugh as her son looked up in surprise that she had been listening. "Well, I am glad you prefer me to Glorfindel at least. Though you would do well to listen to him more than you do."

Maedeth laughed at Elladan's feeble attempts to insist he listened quite well enough. Instead, she turned her attention to Tiniel who watched them with a wistful expression. Sometimes, Maedeth forgot that Tiniel, regarded as one of the noblest maidens of Fornost as an elf, was in name no more than a commoner to Celebrían and Elladan.

"Lady Celebrían, while you're here you simply must see Tiniel's weavings. She is teaching Mírien to sew and weave as well, and leads many of Fornost's women in crafting armor and blankets for the soldiers." Maedeth reached her arm across the table, showing the thread patterns sewn on the sleeve. "She made this dress for me. I am hopeless at it but she's a master!"

Tiniel blushed. "Maedeth-"

"This is beautiful craftsmanship, Tiniel!" Celebrían smiled, turning her attention to the young elven woman. "I should love to see more while I am here!"

"My lady, I would be honored. Truly!"

Maedeth smiled. She focused on her own breathing as she listened to gentle laughter around them at various tables and their own. Five hundred years of constant warfare had drained them all, herself no less than others. She wished she could stay forever in these moments. Even if they were in overly large, cold stone halls.

A pit formed in her stomach. Here she was feasting and idling, chit-chatting about dressmaking and laughing with friends while her brother fought on the front lines. She felt her throat run dry. The wine tasted bitter in her mouth as she tried to soothe it.

Queen Fíriel left the feasting hall with Arveldir as the festivities began to wind down. But others were just getting started. A call went up for the minstrels to play merrier tunes and many of the tables were pushed to the sides. As they vacated their table, she took the opportunity to slip out.

This was wrong. Everything was wrong. They needed hope, yes, but she could not be a part of such revelries while Rínior risked his life over and over and over. She could hardly hold a sword in her hand but sometimes she wished she could learn just to give him a break from the bloodshed.

But then, perhaps he wouldn't take it even if offered. Everyone knew the Hero of the North, even if not his true name. Few knew what it cost. Rínior loved nothing more than his daughter, then Mírien, his little jewel. That was why he fought these days. She was glad he had something now, after five hundred years of going battle to battle.

They had nothing except a ruined royal lineage and each other, now. Rínior kept himself sane with the blade, and Maedeth did her best through her diplomatic words. For Mírien's sake, for Aranarth's sake, for Arveldir's sake, she hoped it would be enough.

Her chambers weren't far from the main entrance of the citadel at Fornost. As an advisor to the King she had her own suite and in better days, her own handmaidens. Now she fed and dressed herself, as all did their best to help the kingdom. Many handmaidens plied their trade as caregivers to the wounded.

She paused outside her chambers. A large glass window looked down from hard stone down into the city itself. Snow dusted the buildings and the streets. Icy mud had formed all along the busy thoroughfares. Horses and carts alike did their best to return to their stables uninjured despite the treacherous conditions. But far above in the darkness she could see Elbereth's stars, and for a moment, Maedeth just closed her eyes and breathed.

"It was a kind thing you did, engaging Tiniel in conversation with my mother."

She opened her eyes at Elladan's words, turning from the window to find him meandering down the hall. Maedeth just shrugged. "I did what I could. She looks up to Celebrían."

"As we all should."

Elladan joined her at the window, leaning against it so the chilly air cooled his back. He stood in silence for a moment, before turning to her. "How have you been, Maedeth? It's been far too long since you visited Rivendell."

Maedeth sighed. "Indeed. But you know why I stay away. Not all the elder Noldor take kindly to my presence, nor my brother's. And where he is not welcome, I will not go."

"When is the last time he returned here?"

"Not in the last two years, I don't think," Maedeth said. She turned her back on the window as well. "Time seems to pass unmarked here. Arthedain goes from one battle to the next, to the next. And all the while I wait for news that my brother has been killed. He will not be Hero of the North forever. Not if the war continues like this indefinitely."

Elladan frowned. But he agreed. "That is part of the reason my mother is here. She hopes to counsel Arvedui to beseech the rest of the free peoples for aid. 'Do not forget the words of Malbeth the Seer' she said. 'Arvedui bears the name Last-King for this reason - either the realms will unite and Arnor will be restored, or the kingdom of Arthedain will come to ruin'."

"Let us pray for the former," Maedeth said.

"Agreed." He turned to face her with a smile. "Regardless, you and your brother both do your house proud."

"I don't have a house, remember?" Maedeth half scoffed, half laughed. She just shook her head and ran a finger over the Star of Fëanor on her chest. "You have parentage to be proud of, Elladan. Twins of the line of Lúthien. We have an unspoken name tied to death and destruction. We have a doom over our heads."

"Well then, you and your brother do the Peredhil proud." He smiled. "Twins of the line of half-elves."

Maedeth closed her eyes. She allowed herself to breathe in the gentle hint of flowers that Elladan's clothing bore. It reminded her of her youth, when she had allowed herself time to spend winters in Rivendell. Happier days, if only because she did not yet comprehend what it meant to live like an elf amongst men in days of war. She closed her eyes. Maedeth allowed herself a moment to lay her head on Elladan's shoulder as they both sat on the windowsill of the great hallway. The frosted glass cooled her back even as she relaxed against him.

"Thank you, Elladan."

Chapter Text

Chapter Four - Rinior

A colorless world greeted Rínior as he wandered alone beneath a starless sky. Gone were the trees and grasses of Arthedain's border with Rhudaur and Cardolan. He heard raging waves hitting cliff faces. He saw rocks and crags covered in moss and dirt.

It took all his concentration not to lose his footing. He didn't want to fall here. He couldn't see the ocean but he could hear it ever present all around him. Nothing looked familiar. The spray of salt air reminded him of better days when he had journeyed with Maedeth, Elladan, and Elrohir to Lindon. But he saw no towering Númenórean ruins nor soaring sights of Elvenesse. This land felt raw, pure, isolated.

Rínior slipped. He cried out as a sharp rock slit the palm of his hand. Crumbled stone clattered behind him down the slope. But he found the edge of the cliff and managed to look down at the surreal landscape. As he clutched his palm to his chest, he beheld a strange scene.

He saw a young woman, about thirty feet below, standing barefooted in ankle-deep water. Her clothes were ragged except a scarlet cloak that billowed in the wind buffeting them both. As the waves rolled over her feet, she stooped down.

Through the dark waters, a shining light illuminated her long brown hair and dirtied pale skin. It turned the ocean into a prism until, with silent grace, the woman pulled from the waves a crystal. Rínior couldn't speak. His heart raced as he tried to focus on either the gem or the woman. But he could do neither. Who was she that could hold in her hand a Silmaril?

For Silmaril it had to be. Rínior had spent years in the libraries of Rivendell and Fornost, pouring over any text that spoke of his heritage. He had bowed to kings of men and lords of the elves. He had withstood the distrustful glares shot his way by Rivendell's loremasters. Elrond himself did not trust him enough to share stories of his childhood with Maedhros and Maglor Fëanorion.

More stones crumbled from the edge as he tried to scramble down. They hit the graveled sand below and the woman turned. She held the Silmaril to her chest. But the light shining between her fingers illuminated her face and Rínior froze. Grey-blue eyes, hair the color of deep chestnut, a Fëanorian star clasping her red cloak. Tears streamed down his face as he realized this must be Mírien, but many years from now. His own daughter. How beautiful she looked, bathed in the splendor of the captured light of the Two Trees.

He quickened his pace. Mírien still said nothing, just watched him. Rínior couldn't pull his eyes away from the Silmaril. He slipped. The rocks gave way. Down, down he tumbled, the world still colorless except for where the light of the Two Trees touched. Rínior could not close his eyes. He fell to the ground.

Rínior gasped as he opened his eyes, his body shaking even as he scrambled out of bed. He was in bed. Why was he in a bed? Where was he?

"Captain?"

He looked at his hand. The palm he'd scraped on the rock was fine except for calluses formed over centuries. His heart began to slow. It had been a dream, then.

"My lord?"

At the second prompting, Rínior turned to Belegon. The young man was standing in the doorway of the dying inn, allowing some early morning light to illuminate his surroundings. How pale was the light of the sun, now, compared to that which he'd glimpsed in dreaming? Like so much of the Mannish world it was a facsimile of greatness. The inn barely hosted ten and even then, couldn't even keep out rain.

They'd stayed here enough over the past decade. Rínior remembered the Last Inn centuries ago, when it hadn't yet fallen into disrepair from the war. But after days of travel from Bree, it had been a welcome sight to all the men of his company. They served swill here, but better than nothing.

"The sun has just risen," Belegon told him. "I came to wake you, as you asked."

The poor boy looked positively shaken. Rínior shook his head, and told him he'd done well. "How many have eaten already?"

"About half the company, sir."

Rínior nodded. "Good. I'll be out to breakfast soon. See that all eat their fill. We'll make for Amon Sûl soon enough."

He had no real reason to go to Amon Sûl, but in the absence of other orders he decided it was their best move. From the crumbled summit he hoped to glimpse some indication of the enemy's movements. These lands traded hands from Angmar to Arthedain constantly. It was risky to seek for answers at Amon Sûl, but without risk, there would be no reward.

As he strapped on his weapons, Rínior couldn't help but smile. For the first time in years, he felt the winds shift. He could still smell the sea air, he could still see his daughter holding the pride of the House of Fëanor. Rínior blinked back tears again. He would see her smile again. He would see her crowned in splendor, not looked on with suspicion or pity.

A dozen of his men were already lounging in the common room of the tavern. The innkeepers, an older couple who had always been kind to him, smiled at his approach. Their daughter had left years ago to seek safety in Fornost. But he still remembered the joy on their faces when he and his former company had rescued her from a band of Rhudaurin Hill-Men.

"Lord Rínior, pheasant for breakfast, perhaps?" said the man, Alphros if he remembered right. "We don't have much else at the moment, I'm afraid."

"Pheasant will be fine," he said.

As he settled down with an ale, Rínior took out his quill and a piece of parchment. He needed to write the dream down before it left him. He wanted to let Mírien know the future he would build for her. Trying to keep his emotions in check, he began to pen a letter to his wife and daughter. By Elbereth, did he miss them in the quiet moments.

But the quiet did not last. The door slammed open, in came one of the soldiers followed by a young girl of maybe seventeen. Blood splattered her clothes and her hands shook as she tried to comfort herself.

"Captain!" Daerion, one of the older men, led her forward.

He had already shot up, leaving the ale on the table. "Speak."

"She comes up the Greenway," Daerion said. "Her caravan was ambushed by hill-men and orcs-"

"Where?"

"The Andrath Pass."

Rínior clenched his jaw. He placed a hand on her shoulder as she cried before passing her to the innkeepers. "Gather the company. We move as soon as possible."

He remembered the days when men of Arthedain and Gondor both protected the Great Road. Now it was so overgrown, so abandoned and unused, that they called it the Greenway instead. He grabbed a last drink from his ale. Cursing the orcs to return to the void they belonged, he hurried out into the morning light.

His men were already preparing. Good. They were used to this. Even the youngest men, barely better than boys, had seen their fair share of war. Not many in Arthedain had hands clean of blood.

"Take only what will not slow you down," Rínior called out. "Our ally is stealth in this fight."

They would be outnumbered. They were always outnumbered. But perhaps they could use the valley of the Andrath Pass to their advantage. As long as they were not ambushed along the road, they could do the ambushing. He just hoped they could stay out of the Barrow-Downs.

"Belegon, inventory the rations," he said. "We need to know our stock in case we need to follow them."

"Yes, sir."

"Thorlas," he called out, looking for the best healer in the group, "Get me an inventory of your herb stores in the next twenty minutes."

"Yes, sir!"

"We have half an hour, men. Make it count!"

Rínior paused, looking out at the war-torn lands around them. The Lone Lands, as his men had started to call them. For indeed, they were lonely. Where once Rínior remembered homesteads had burned low to their foundations centuries before. Only this inn remained, servicing the few travelers that came down the East-West Road.

The Witch-King had sent wights to the Barrows of Cardolan. Rínior bristled with anger as he thought of it, of the desecration of the burial mounds. He had not known Cardolan in its prime, nor Rhudaur. But after five centuries of burying men, women, and children, he hated thinking of that place.

Still, if the enemy took refuge in the Barrows, he would pursue them. The Angmarins would not be allowed to operate unchallenged in any part of the North. Rínior had made his name that way. He ensured the lines stayed defended. And as he tucked his unfinished letter to Tiniel into his breast pocket, he relished the fact that someday, it would no longer matter. He had dreamt it. So he would make it so.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five - Maedeth

No king of Arthedain filled the seat at Fornost the way King Arveleg had. Maedeth stood alone at the foot of the marble throne. She could see him there as if it were yesterday. Tall and proud he was, hair greying but not yet conquered by age, shining grey eyes full of life and intellect, commanding the room.

For fifty years, he'd held back the forces of Angmar and Rhudaur as their king. For fifty years, she'd learned how to play politics in his court.

And then he died. Rínior rode into Fornost with Elrohir, tears in his eyes. She'd grabbed her brother without a second thought, so glad to see him safe. Rínior hadn't spoken before handing the Palantír to Araphor.

Araphor made his father proud. But the kings had never been the same. Argeleb II followed Araphor. Then came Arvegil, and Arveleg II after him. Araval, then Araphant, and now… Arvedui.

Last-king.

Maedeth turned from the throne. They couldn't afford guards inside the city anymore. The men who could hold weapons were off fighting. So she walked alone to the war room.

Maedeth had wanted to wring Malbeth's neck when the Seer had named the young prince. Araphant had looked stricken. But the words had been spoken, and all knew Malbeth would not err. So he was named Arvedui, Last-king.

Either he would unite the North and South kingdoms, or Arthedain would fall into ruin. Maedeth paused at the carved, wooden door. Well. She had no intention of allowing the latter to pass. She pushed the doors open.

Many different voices, overlapping and overtaking one another, greeted her at her entrance. At the head of the table sat Arvedui, frowning. The captains Mallenor and Hithren argued across the table from either side of him. Malbeth sat silent, stoic as usual. He was too old for their squabbling. Then came Tathreniel, the current head of the Healing House, Aeglosdil the King's Smith, and the leader of trade, Anorion.

Sitting with a polite smile on her face, flanked by Elladan, was the Lady Celebrían. She looked radiant as always. Maedeth wandered towards the table, few paying attention. Elladan looked about ready to punch Anorion in the jaw. The older man wouldn't stop pestering Celebrían. What else was new? Anorion always needed to know what trade deals could be cut with any visiting dignitary.

"Anorion, I think Mallenor had information for you," Maedeth said, moving to his other side. "Something about extra protections for the next caravan West?"

His face lit up and he excused himself. Maedeth smiled at Celebrían and Elladan as she took her seat across from them.

Elladan laughed. "Did you just–"

"I'll find some way to make it up to Mallenor later. How did you sleep, my lady?"

Celebrían shrugged. She leaned back in her chair, relaxing a bit more now that Anorion had left her in peace. "Well enough. The nights are cold here, colder than I like. But I am glad I could be here to support King Arvedui."

"Agreed," Maedeth said.

The doors opened again. Maedeth was glad to find Aranarth hurrying in, apologizing to the whole group for being late. With Aranarth's arrival, they would be able to start. Each member of the King's Council took their seats.

Silence stretched on for a moment. Maedeth offered Arvedui the smallest smile. He had been present and even led plenty of war councils in his lifetime. But this would be the first as king.

Arvedui sat back. "Thank you for your support in these hard days," he said. "I miss my father, of course, but he lived a long life which is something that cannot be said for many here in Arthedain. Lady Celebrían, we are honored by you and your son's presence here."

"Thank you, King Arvedui. It is an honor for me as well."

"Mallenor, you have news of our Eastern border?" Arvedui asked.

Mallenor nodded. He sat up straighter, gesturing to a few letters in front of him. "I've heard tidings from three companies on our Rhudaurin front. There's been an uptick in attacks by the Hill-men, and a decrease by orcs."

"What could that mean?" Anorion jumped in.

Maedeth bit her tongue. If Anorion would just let him speak-

"I am getting to that," Mallenor growled at him. He turned back to the king. "While we noted some shift like this in the past few years, there is a marked increase in the last month. It is possible the orcs are being moved further into Angmar."

"To what end? Could the Witch-king fear a renewed assault from Rivendell?" Aranarth looked at Celebrían.

Celebrían turned to Elladan. He cleared his throat. "While it is possible," he said, "I at least am not aware of any immediate plans for our limited force to assault Angmar directly."

"Agreed," Celebrían said. "My husband sends what aid he can, such as medicinal herbs and food stores. But we do not have the strength to send any meaningful troops."

Arvedui nodded. "And it is likely the Witch-king knows this. No, the orcs are not running in fear."

"Then it is likely they are regrouping for a renewed attack on our borders." Hithren sighed, and stood up. He grabbed a map from the side and rolled it across the table. "My forces in the North have reported similar movements, though in the reverse. The orcs are strengthened and it is rare we come across any of the race of men. There are even reports from Captain Gilroch that roving bands of orcs reach as far as the ruins of Annúminas."

"Have we had word from Rínior of our southern front?" Aranarth asked.

Maedeth shifted in her seat. She hated that her brother spent so long away from Fornost. She feared he would die alone someday, far from any help she could gather for him or his men.

"Not to any of us," said Mallenor. "Lady Maedeth?"

"Nay, not to me," she said.

Hithren waved a hand. "Rínior has held the line for centuries. I find it unlikely he is not doing so even now. He knows to send word if anything out of the ordinary threatens us."

"Agreed," said King Arvedui. "Assuming Angmar is building a new force to attack, what are our stores. Anorion, how are we on supplies?"

"We are always short, my lord. Here in Fornost we have two months in case of siege, but that relies on us controlling rats and other vermin," he said. "Not to mention criminals. After all, we are dearly short on guards."

"We are at war, Anorion," said Mallenor.

"Thank you, I had not noticed, Captain."

"Perhaps if you learned to pick up a sword instead of a quill-"

"Enough!" Arvedui pounded his fist to the table. "This is not the time for infighting!"

Celebrían spoke up. "You speak wisely, lord. Take heart, for you are not alone in these dark times though it can be hard to see. Rivendell is with you, as is Lindon."

"If they have not forgotten the old alliances." Tathreniel ran a hand over her long, golden braid. She sat up straighter, clasping her hands together. "Forgive me, my lady, but I have gotten little support for the healing house from the Elves of the Havens in the last decade, where as your people have supported us unfailingly."

"Agreed," Arvedui said. "We can count our list of allies on one hand."

"Then send for aid." Elladan gestured down to Arvedui. "If you ask, they will come!"

The table fell quiet again, so Maedeth sat up. It was her turn. "King Arvedui, they are correct. Perhaps it is time to send word to the other free peoples, beseeching them for aid."

"What treaties could we consider?" Arvedui asked.

"Lord Cirdan at the Havens should be the easiest to approach," Maedeth said. "Perhaps Prince Aranarth could be sent."

"Me?"

"Indeed. You are the heir now, and know more information than I about the exact threats Arthedain faces." Maedeth looked at Arvedui. "You spent time in your youth as an emissary to Lindon, do you not recall?"

The faintest smile slipped through his serious expression. He nodded. "I do. And I agree. Aranarth, this will be good for you."

"Yes, my lord."

"Then do you, Lady Maedeth, volunteer to go elsewhere?" Arvedui asked.

That was what she had done for hundreds of years, and it was what she would continue to do. She had been to so many places on behalf of Arthedain, she couldn't count them on her fingers anymore. But she had little desire to go now, not with the growing threat that weighed on her heart.

"Yes, my lord," she said.

Celebrían turned to her. With a gentle smile, she leaned across the table. "Come to Rivendell, speak with Lord Elrond. Perhaps there is more we can do."

Arvedui nodded. "That at least, you should do. We have asked much of Rivendell, but you are our closest ally. Are there others you would suggest we seek out, Lady Celebrían?"

"King Amroth of Lórinand may be open to sending aid," she said. "My parents have spent many years there, building relationships with the Sindar and Silvan elves. They would speak on your behalf, I am sure."

"That is a far journey," said Aeglosdil said. The older man had stayed silent beside Malbeth the Seer since they began, content to watch the back and forth. "I have been as far as the borders of Lórinand only once, as a young child. But I recall well the way my legs hurt by the end of the journey."

Maedeth nodded. "I am familiar with it, as well. But for my part, I would look forward to that journey. Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn are among the wisest in Middle Earth. It is likely they would have insight for us, King Arvedui."

He leaned back in his chair, stroking his well trimmed beard. None spoke, waiting for his decision. He released his held breath. "Very well. It is worth the attempt, at least."

"Perhaps you could seek an audience with King Durin, along the way," Celebrían said.

"You think he would allow her passage?" Arvedui asked.

Celebrían shrugged. "I do not know. I have not set foot in Hadhodrond in a thousand years at the least. But it is possible."

Maedeth agreed. She had never been inside Hadhodrond, and a sudden spark of excitement lit a fire in her chest. "I agree we should try!" She turned to the king. Taking a deep breath, she decided to take a risk. "One other potential ally-King Eärnil of Gondor."

The room went absolutely silent. The glare that settled on Arvedui's face caused Maedeth to regret her words almost immediately. But she also knew that the King's anger at the South-kingdom for rejecting his claim to their throne clouded his judgement.

"It is only for love of my wife that I do not spit on that name," King Arvedui said. He clenched his fists, controlling his anger best he could. "For all his talk of kinship and aid, Eärnil has sent only words to us in the North since his ascension decades ago!"

Maedeth went to speak, but it was Malbeth who cut her off. He also had been silent since the beginning. When he spoke, all listened. "If you set foot in Lorien, it will be many years before you set foot in the South kingdom, Maedeth."

The room seemed to muffle, as breath and movement were held still. Though he had not spoken a prophecy, it held a similar weight. Maedeth didn't know what to say.

So Arvedui spoke instead. "Then it is settled. Aranarth shall go to Lindon. Maedeth shall go to Rivendell, and then to Hadhodrond and Lórinand. But we have few available to accompany you. I shall have to consider this."

"She can travel with us as far as Rivendell, King Arvedui," Celebrían said. "And from there, we shall see her safely on her journey. It is the least we can provide."

The king smiled. "Thank you."

Maedeth allowed the others to leave first. They followed the king in silence or supplication, but she had no time for it. The words of Malbeth rang in her ears. Not for the first time did she fear leaving Arthedain while her brother was out in the field. She did not want to return from long away only to find out her brother had been killed. But this was her job.

"When do you wish to leave," Celebrían asked her.

Opening her eyes, she realized Celebrían and Elladan were still present in the war room with her. She forced a smile at them that she knew they saw through. "It will take a couple of days to get a horse and supplies ready for me to take. But then we should leave as soon as may be."

"Two days it is," Elladan said.

She nodded. Two days. Two days to write letters, gather her parchments and food stuffs, and try to come up with the right words for each kingdom of the free peoples she had to ask for aid. She hoped two days would be enough.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six — Rínior

The sky betrayed them. Roiling black clouds blotted out the sun. Rínior's eyes filled with a disgusting mix of dirt, rain, and blood as he swung his sword at the nearest orc. It wasn't hard; they skittered over the Downs like rats.

The orcs darted in and out of the dense fog. It had taken mere minutes to lose control of his men. They were better than this. He had trained them better than this! But they had scattered and he could not protect them all with one single blade, no matter how sharp.

Rínior screamed. Searing pain filled his face as he tumbled to the ground. He dropped his sword. With a slam, a blood-soaked scimitar narrowly missed his body. Rínior felt blood in his mouth as he grasped for his blade.

Evening was still hours off. How was the world so dark? He gave up his frantic search in the mud and grabbed his Fëanorian dagger. Rínior slammed it into the ribcage of the nearest orc and used it to leverage himself to his feet.

He heard screams. Orcs? Men? And if men, were they his?

Probably. He forced the thought away. He had trained them. They could hold the line. They had to hold the line.

He saw his sword. Rínior picked it up along with a fist of mud. The rain slickened everything, grass or otherwise. Fog limited the already low visibility. Everything was chaos. He hoped it would cause the enemy trouble as well.

Minutes passed. He pushed his way forward, slashing heads off of orcs and Hill-men alike. The cacophony around him faded to the background. Rínior focused on staying alive.

He kicked a rock. Rínior tumbled to the ground, barely avoiding stabbing himself. With a shout, he went to kick the stone that had sent him tumbling. But it wasn't a stone. He looked at Belegon-

No. He looked at the body that had once been Belegon. This unseeing body was not Belegon. It was just a body. And Rínior had seen many bodies.

He forced himself away. Gritting his teeth, he shook himself, trying to push away any thought of who the body had belonged to. It didn't matter. It couldn't.

A leather boot slammed down on his sword. Rínior tried to yank it free but he couldn't. He glanced up and saw a middle-aged man glaring down at him. He dodged a hard swing.

Rínior reached for a sword under Belegon's- under the body. As the man swung down at his face, he blocked and threw himself forward. The hill-man tumbled backwards.

They traded punches. Rínior felt cold fingers sliding over his drenched face. He turned into it. A hand slid into his mouth and grasped him. Nails scraped teeth. He bit down hard.

The man screamed. Spitting the finger from his mouth, Rínior tried to ignore the blood filling his mouth. Better the enemy's blood than his own. Thunder rolled as he tried to catch his breath.

He could hear fighting. Clashing steel and moans of the dying still sounded in his ears but muffled, from distance or from lack of the living, he didn't know. Through the pouring rain, Rínior sought some sign of where he had ended up.

Like a dark tower, a silent standing stone rose into the air in front of him. Rínior swayed on his knees. In the still mist, he felt every slash and punch he'd ignored in the heat of battle. Nausea rolled over him. A chill settled in his spine, like slow-spreading lightning across his bones.

So this was it. This would be the end. He closed his eyes, trying not to vomit. Bodies littered the Downs. The bodies would join the skeletons deep beneath the earth someday when nature reclaimed them. He felt tears pricking at his eyes. The grime across his face stung.

At first, Rínior thought he heard a growing wind. But the air stilled, and he realized what he thought had been wind was actually a spine-chilling release of stagnant breath. It stank of rotting flesh.

The clinking of chainmail and dragging of chains sounded behind him. Rínior couldn't breathe. He closed his eyes. Reaching deep into his mind, he tried to picture the shining Silmaril in the grasp of his daughter's hands. He remembered the softness of his wife's lips. Clenching his jaw, Rínior tightened his hand around the hilt of his sword and swallowed back bile. He found the fire that had filled his chest as he held the Palantír so many years before.

Rínior screamed. He spun around while rising to his feet and swung. Steel met steel and he came face to face with empty eye sockets. The wight stared into his very soul. For the first time in his life, Rínior froze.

Black night-shadows crept out over the mist. How long he stood there, braced against the wight, unable to move, he didn't know. But at last he found his fire. Rínior swung again, and the barrow wight shrieked.

The sound tore his mind. Rínior stumbled back, grasping at his own ears. The voice filled his mind with images of death, with an undead light so opposite that of the Silmaril from his dreams that he could not imagine they were born of the same song.

A blade slashed his thigh. Pain drove out the fear. Rínior gritted his teeth as dark spots filled his vision. He swung at the wight again.

It dodged, but he managed to catch its lower leg. The creature didn't flinch. Rínior gasped for breath. He swung again, and again, and again. With each attempt, he hewed at the wight more and more. At last, he severed the sword arm.

Rínior watched as it continued to crawl along the grey grass. Biting back bile, he swung for the wight's chest.

It caught the blade. Rínior stared into the empty eye sockets of the skull. He could've sworn it smiled. So Rínior did too.

He let go of the sword. Diving under the wight's remaining arm, he drew out his Fëanorian dagger. Enchanted with spells to guard against the sorcery of the Witch-king, he knew this was his only hope.

The blade sliced the spell-woven tendons between the neck and skull. Wind whipped up around him. Freezing pain shot up his arm into his shoulder and back. Rínior screamed, falling to his knees. But the cold music of clattering bones told the fate of the barrow wight. Rínior knelt alone on the dark hill.

He threw up.

When Rínior opened his eyes, he saw stars. No, not stars. Torches. True night had fallen, though the rain had stopped, and in the glow of the fires he saw only enemies.

His whole body ached with a pain he had never experienced. Blood soaked his gambeson in multiple places. From his toes to his scalp, any movement made him want to cry. But he couldn't. Not now. Not ever.

He had failed. He knelt alone, bleeding into rain-soaked grass beneath a towering barrow stone surrounded by bones. Orcs and hill-men laughed at him from the edges of the battlefield.

It took all his strength to stand. The thigh slash from the barrow blade froze his muscles. But he would not die on his knees.

"Well fought, Hero of the North."

Rínior looked for the source of the voice. It was mannish, as distant from the tongue of the hill-men as his own. After a moment, he realized the man spoke Sindarin.

"Show yourself, if you are not a coward," Rínior spat.

Torches parted and a tall man, face youthful except for years worth of scars, stepped forward. He had brown hair and grey eyes. For a moment, Rínior's heart leapt. Surely this man was Dúnedan! But he bore the heraldry of Angmar.

"I'm no coward."

"Then fight me!" Rínior picked his sword up off the ground, kicking the wriggling barrow-arm down the hill.

The man wasted no time. He unsheathed his sword without flourish. Rínior took a few breaths to steady himself. At least when the end came, it would be in a battle, not an execution.

The man came to stand level with him. He pointed his sword. "Any last words, half-elf?"

Rínior looked at him. The man stared back with familiar eyes. He had never seen a day without war.

He lowered his voice. "If you have any honor left, man, do not leave me to suffer."

The man's eyebrows raised in surprise. But he nodded. He wasted no time in slamming his sword down at Rínior, and the air filled with the singing of steel blades.

This would be the end. The end of Rínior, Hero of the North. Mírien would never see their bloodline brought to glory. Tiniel would never share his bed again. He would never be able to hug his sister close, begging for aid from Valar who never answered.

A swift kick from the enemy forced the wind from his lungs. He stumbled back, unable to hold himself up. His sword dropped. He looked up at the grey eyes of the man of Angmar. He sheathed his sword, picking up a dagger from the ground.

Rínior couldn't move. He could barely keep himself on his knees. But as the man inspected his Fëanorian dagger, fire filled his chest. "You have no right to that blade!"

The man looked up at him. He smirked. "No?"

"No."

Rínior forced himself to watch as the man raised the dagger. He would look death in the face until the end. But he couldn't breathe. He didn't want to die. He didn't.

The man swung. Rínior flinched as his fist collided with his skull. He dropped, the world disappearing. Everything turned to black.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven - Maedeth

Maedeth had to suppress a laugh at Elladan's expense. He hadn't taken kindly to the gruff reception they received at the West Bree Gate. The guards were suspicious of them from the moment they laid eyes on the three travelers. She couldn't really blame them. War closed in on their borders and they hardly had any force to resist.

But a gentle smile from Celebrían and a kind word to soothe his mind smoothed over the brewing argument before Elladan had time to dig a hole they could not climb out of. Maedeth loved his devotion to his mother. But right now, they couldn't afford an altercation. She had no desire to camp in the wilds another night if she didn't have to.

They walked to the Prancing Pony with hoods up. Most denizens of Bree treated the elven folk kindly enough, if a bit warily. But there was no need to excite them more than necessary.

Far above, the first twinkling stars of the Swordsman of the Sky peeked through the darkening blanket of evening. Menelvagor reminded Maedeth of her brother. She took a moment in the road to stare up at it.

She hoped Elbereth watched over him, even if the blood of the kinslayers ran in their veins. Perhaps someday there would be some sign of their forgiveness. She turned from the stars and turned to Elladan, who stood watching her in silence.

Until that day, she would go on. There were things to do that could not wait for self reflection or pity. The gears of the war machine ground on. Maedeth had no intention of being driven into the dirt. No. She would do her part to see Arthedain's kingdom strengthened.

"Are you alright?" Elladan asked.

They stood now at the base of the stairs to the Prancing Pony. Lady Celebrían spoke in hushed tones to a young child and her mother, smiling and offering her hand. It took little skill in observation to know that even in a town of terrified humans, the sight of an ethereal elven woman could bring comfort.

Maedeth turned to Elladan, content to fade into the background of Celebrían's grace. She sighed. "Truthfully, I do not know. I am healthy in body, as I spend my time in what passes for comfort these days in Arthedain unlike my brother. But I have found little peace in the last five hundred years."

He nodded. It seemed he could find little to say in response, and she didn't blame him. Few had found peace in the last 500 years, those who had lived through the war with Angmar. Rivendell had seen its fair share of trials as well.

"Mother, we should speak to the innkeeper," Elladan said, leaning in to Celebrían. The woman and her young child had started down the road. "Its been a long journey already."

She agreed, and Maedeth followed them inside. Indeed it had been long, or at least exhausting. The roads inside Arthedain closer to Fornost were still fairly well guarded, though the soldiers were spread thin. But the air was cold and lodging sparse. Most inns had boarded up. Often their owners had gone off to war, or could not afford to keep doors open.

Not the Prancing Pony though. Maedeth smiled as they were met with a veritable crowd. Halflings and humans alike clinked mugs of ale and shared laughs or gossip by light of the candles and roaring central hearth. Things were decidedly more cheerful here than anywhere Maedeth had seen in years.

"Me good Lady Elf! You grace us with your presence again, that you do." Barnibas Butterbur, a stout man carrying two trays of dirty dishes, called out to them past a gaggle of loud patrons. "Sit anywhere you like!"

Celebrían smiled at him as the room quieted. "Thank you, Master Butterbur."

Maedeth caught a few wary stares as the room took note of their arrival. None seemed hostile, but she saw fear amidst their wary wonderment. As she suspected. Despite the revelry, war had not gone unnoticed in the Bree-lands.

They took their seat at a corner table, recently cleaned by a boy no older than Prince Arveldir. He smiled at them, bowing awkwardly a few times as he backed up and away. Elladan had a half smirk on his face as he took up the chair nearest the rest of the tavern.

"The Bree-landers are kindly folk," Celebrían said. "I hope the war spares them."

"As do I," Maedeth said. But she knew that for the war to spare the Bree-lands, it would first have to spare Arthedain. "Though they hold little love for our people."

Elladan nodded. "I've noticed that when I ride with the soldiers. They do not understand what Arthedain endures to keep them safe."

"No, they do not," Celebrían said. "But they understand death just the same. I do not begrudge their hesitance to pick up arms against a foe that does not yet seek their destruction."

Maedeth frowned. She leaned back in her chair, looking out over the patrons of the inn. There were no visitors to the Prancing Pony that night, at least none that she could easily tell. Just men and halflings. All likely from Bree-town or the other settlements. What had been a trade hub in days of watchful peace could not now operate without risk.

"And yet, I must find the words to persuade others to do this very task," she said. "Why should the dwarves of Hadhodrond die for a distant mannish kingdom when Angmar is unbothered by them beneath the mountains? Or the Silvan of Lórinand? They already fear the encroachment of Noldor and Sindar alike into their forest homes."

Celebrían nodded. As they were brought mugs of clean ale to drink, she gestured around them. "You have spent years in service to the kings of Arthedain, Maedeth. I trust in your wisdom to see it through. But if you seek my advice, do not spurn for heritage. It may be of use to you."

The thought had crossed her mind already. Her forefather Caranthir had been well known to all the races of Middle Earth in the First Age, especially the dwarves. But his name tied them also to the kinslayings, to the return of the Noldor to Middle Earth and the devastation of Beleriand. She could not be sure which the dwarves of Hadhodrond would think of first.

"The blood in my veins may be of help," Maedeth said, "but it may also put all at risk."

"There are many things in life of which we could say the same," said Celebrían.

Maedeth hummed in agreement. She took a drink, turning to Elladan. But he had disappeared. Odd. She put the mug of ale back down on the table and looked around the tavern.

Near the fire in the center, she found him sharing drinks with three men. They were fairer of face of taller than the rest, and for a moment, she wondered where he had found three men of Arthedain. She excused herself.

As Maedeth dodged sweaty bodies and sloshing mugs of ale, she tried to focus on Elladan's conversation. It wasn't long before she realized they weren't not men of Arthedain, but men of Gondor. Southern accents warped the Sindarin into a very different, but no less beautiful, melody.

"How many bodies?" Elladan asked.

"Forty at least," said one in the center.

Bodies. Maedeth froze in place. But the men saw her, and when Elladan followed their gazes, he beckoned her over. No smirk or smile tried to set her at ease. She steeled herself.

"You are men of Gondor?" she asked, before Elladan could introduce them.

All three bowed their heads to her. The one in the center nodded, explaining that they were traders trying to move goods up from Tharbad. A dangerous trek on a good day.

"They found the aftermath of a skirmish in the Andrath Pass," Elladan said. "Hill-men, orcs, and soldiers of Arthedain."

"Any survivors?" Maedeth asked.

Her heart pounded. For a moment she couldn't hear anything but the blood in her veins as worst case scenarios flew through her mind. Visions of Arthedain in flames, of Rivendell sacked, of her brother with his body riddled with arrows made the world stand still.

"None that we found, my lady," said one on the right. Elladan introduced him as Maegon. "It seemed to be evenly matched."

"No orc nor hill-man bothered us on our way through the Pass, though," said the center man, Cúthalion. "So I imagine your Dunedain won."

Some comfort, then. She had no reason to believe her brother would be patrolling the Andrath Pass, anyway. The most recent letter Tiniel had received placed him in the northern Weather Hills. And while it pained her that any man of Arthedain had died, at least he was not supposed to be in the area.

The black pit deep in her stomach did not disappear, though.

"Any heraldry on the armor of the enemy?" Elladan asked.

Cúthalion shook his head. But the third man, the youngest by quite a margin, barely older than a boy it seemed, jumped in. "There were two, lord, and my lady. The orcs bore black shields with a purple crown. And I saw the men had a grey standard with a black star."

Elladan frowned. Maedeth knew of one of them, but not the other. The orc heraldry was that of the Witch-king. It was said his sorcery was the same color as the crown on the shields. She had no desire to find out. But she had never heard of this mannish heraldry.

"Thank you," Elladan said. "Please, find your rest. You have come far and likely though many trials."

He turned away, and Maedeth went with him. She longed to ask him what these tidings meant, but he seemed in no mood to talk. When they returned to Celebrían, he took a long drink of his ale.

She could wait no longer. "The heraldry of the men of Angmar troubled you, Elladan? What does it mean."

He looked over, and shook his head. "I do not know, and that is what worries me." But he forced a smile. "The night is dark, and the road has been long. The men of Rhudaur have many different factions. I have no reason to believe this one is any worse than others."

Celebrían frowned as she listened to Elladan explain the news over dinner. As they finished up, many patrons of the inn leaving and others arriving, she stood from the table. "Let us sleep. Things will look better in the morning, or at least a bit clearer."

Maedeth agreed. They thanked Butterbur for his hospitality on their way to their rooms. Hers was meager, but welcoming, and she had to admit that even this made her feel a bit better. Celebrían was right, as usual. A bit of sleep would make a world of difference.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight - Rínior

Pain flooded his senses. Rínior couldn't see anything, only felt the excruciating sting of clothing on open wounds and smelled the stench of burnt flesh. He tried to open his eyes. Crusting stretched and splintered away as he forced his eyelids to comply. He was met with chaos.

Men in leather and fur armors huddled around small campfires in the dark woods, their gruff voices indecipherable. They didn't notice him. But Rínior figured they wouldn't care he'd woken up even if they had; his wrists ached to the edge of unfeeling as rough-spun ropes bound them by a short leash to wooden stake. He glared at it.

He took a moment to take stock. They'd stripped him of his armor. He now wore only his loose brown linen undershirt and pants. His boots were still on too, covered in dark stains: blood, dirt, and any combination of other horrific substances. So these hill-men weren't all idiots. Without boots, any forced march would take much longer. With bound hands in plain sight, they could ensure he did not get them off unnoticed.

They wanted him alive.

Rínior paused. A blackness settled in his stomach, like a pit of tar. After five hundred years, he had failed. Not just a retreat. He hated those well enough, but King Arveleg had been right all those years ago: sometimes, retreating was necessary to gather the strength to win the day.

There had been no opportunity to retreat at the Downs. They'd been surrounded in what felt like mere moments. Rínior couldn't remember exactly. When had orcs become so crafty? They had been lying in wait. The hill-men had circled round in support.

The men had dropped like flies. His heart began pounding, seeing their faces in the dirt. Not just their faces, but all the faces. The faces of men he'd led into battle for centuries. The faces of the little boys who had grown up seeing him visit Fornost and the surrounding villages as the ageless Hero to the North, who then went on to fight at his side. To die by his side.

Little boys grew into men who fell before their chance to become elders.

The elves said men had the gift of death. They could leave this broken, rotting world. Something awaited them that the Valar could not see. Or if they could, they withheld it.

But Rínior had seen death. He'd seen it over, and over, and over. And it was no gift to live a life span so short. Elrond could remember better days. Celebrían could remember better days. Galadriel and Celeborn over the mountains had both lived in times of peace. And though they had seen their share of death as well, the men of Arthedain had seen only the darkness.

Death was no gift. But at least the bodies left behind in the Barrow Downs had found theirs quickly.

He tried to pick at the ropes without moving his wrists. If he could get them off and reach a weapon, he could take some of these heathens with him to the grave.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

Rínior glanced up. Everything after the Wight flooded back. He looked into the eyes of the man who had dueled him beneath the barrow stone, tall in stature with grey eyes that had seen so much death, too. He spat at the man's feet.

"I see you are a coward, though you denied it on the battlefield before your men," Rínior said. He held up his bound hands as far as they would move. "You lacked the strength to kill me!"

The man's eyes gleamed, sharp and fearless. He neither backed down, nor raised to strike him. "You act as all cornered animals do when faced with imminent danger: barking and biting. You don't scare me."

Had Rínior not been tied to a wooden post, covered in wounds and contemplating how best to die, he would've complimented this man. He couldn't imagine any of his own soldiers coming up with such a retort. For a moment, he smirked. No, this was more the kind of barb Elrohir would send his way when he got too loud.

"Tell me, then, man of Angmar. Why would you not try to free yourself if you were captive?" Rínior back against a tree. "Would you lie down like a dog, and accept your fate, begging for scraps of mercy? Perhaps this is why you speak of animals."

That stung him. Rínior saw it in his stilled movements. Gone was the swagger, replaced by hurt perhaps, or anger. Good.

A rousing cheer went up from a few campfires not far away. The hill-men were clanking together ale mugs and feasting as if they were at a party, not war. They couldn't have been far from the border with Arthedain. Rínior could see the cuts on his arms, still red and puffy. They'd been on the march for a day or two, at most.

The man in front of him tightened his fists and closed his eyes. He left Rínior and marched over to the men. Though he couldn't decipher all of their language, he understood a commander dressing down his men from the tone alone. Rínior had to laugh. An odd sound amidst the dark forest, captive of the enemy.

When the man came back over, Rínior spoke first. "Tell me, man of Angmar, what I should call you. Unless you prefer to be addressed as the servant of another?"

"Aglarwain."

Rínior nodded. A Sindarin name. So he'd been right, after all. This man had Dunedan blood. "What is one of the Dunedain doing leading these hill-men into battle?"

Aglarwain laughed this time. He folded his arms across his chest, and ignored his soldiers now that they had settled back down. "And I could ask what a descendant of Fëanor is doing leading Dunedain men into battle! For I would guess the answer is the same, or similar at least."

"How so?"

"I'm fighting to reclaim the glory denied me," Aglarwain said. He pointed to a battle standard nearby: a black star on a grey field. "The royal line of Elendil split into three kingdoms. I may not be a true born son of that line, but I am the last with bastard blood in Rhudaur."

Rínior laughed, throwing his head back. It stung hitting the bark, but he hardly cared. So that was what this man told himself? Interesting. "And you think that by fighting for the Witch-king that you will regain lost glory? Pathetic."

"Is it?" Aglarwain crouched down, eye to eye with him. "The Witch-king offers me Rhudaur, as a vassal state."

"You are no leader, and you would not be a king," Rínior said. "You are a servant to one greater. A pawn moved about the board by the enemy of all Free Peoples!"

"And this matters, why? History remembers names, Rínior." Aglarwain smirked. He let the words hang in the air as fires crackled around them and men began to turn in for sleep. "You also serve one greater, except in my case I know the Witch-king holds more power than I do. Does your King Arvedui? Or are you held back by duty and honor and useless regrets?"

Rínior had no response.

"No, I would not beg for mercy like a dog, Hero of the North. I would take what is mine, and what isn't. King Arvedui will go down in history," he said, standing back up. Shadows closed in on them as campfires began to extinguish. "Because he is the Last King of Arthedain. But Aglarwain will go down in history, because I will ensure it does. First Ruling Prince of Rhudaur."

He turned away. But Aglarwain stopped after a few steps, and turned back. "So tell me, Hero of the North. Will history remember yours?"

The tall pines of the Forest of Rhudaur towered above him, blotting out Elbereth's stars. Rínior felt a cold chill creep down his spine, the same as in the Barrow Downs. He closed his eyes, focusing on the dream of his daughter holding the Silmaril. He knew the names of each of Fëanor's seven sons. He knew the name of Celebrimbor, ringmaker. But he did not remember the names of those in between Caranthir and his parents. They had done nothing of consequence. Why should he remember them? And for a moment, Rínior felt the warm light of the Silmaril slip from his memory as well.

He opened his eyes. The guard posted by Aglarwain grinned back at him with crooked teeth. Rínior glared. No. He would not forget that dream. He could never forget it: all his hopes rested on it now.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine - Maedeth

They rode like the wind. Maedeth, Celebrían, and Elladan knew they would find no safety east of Bree until the Last Homely House. Their safety relied on speed and secrecy, not on strength of arms. The last inn east of Bree had windows and doors shuttered. While Maedeth did rue the lack of accommodations for one more night, it didn't make much of a difference.

With each sunrise, Maedeth turned all thought to the Valar. She didn't know if Lord Manwë or Lady Elbereth heard her supplication. The doom of Mandos echoed in her ears with each thought and prayer: "on the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East." Perhaps the long years between the Oath and her own birth granted her a degree of clemency. She had not sworn it, after all. She had committed no kinslaying. But then, neither had Celebrimbor. And yet his days ended on the end of Sauron's battle standard, skewered like a boar and used to spread despair among the elves.

The Weather Hills passed by. Elladan urged them on, ever faster. They had to reach the cover of the Trollshaws as quickly as possible. While the Trollshaws were closer to Rhudaur, the cover of the trees and the difficult terrain could only aid them. Elves knew the woods better than any orc or hill-man.

They rested in dells and beneath shallow overhangs where rock and stone had broken away. Maedeth saw no sign of Angmar. But then, she rarely came this way in recent years. Elladan would have better knowledge of what subtle signs were left behind.

The last time she'd visited Rivendell, Tiniel and Rínior had agreed to move fully to Arthedain. She remembered the anger in Rínior's face as he turned from the secret entrance to the Hidden Valley. He'd told her that he never wanted to return. And she couldn't blame him.

It was Elrohir, furious with his own people's callousness towards Mírien, that spurred the parting. He'd overheard a few nobles of Noldorin heritage gossiping about the house of Fëanor. Maedeth had not needed to hear more. She remembered those words from her own childhood. What violent death would a daughter of Fëanor's line meet? What cruel fate would befall a son? How much blood would drip from their hands?

Tiniel had faced worse, perhaps. She received only anger, not dark pity. They demanded in secret whisperings to know why any self-respecting elf of Rivendell would seek to marry a Fëanorion. How could she do this to them, to Middle-Earth, to all of Arda? Maedeth scoffed when she thought of those questions. It was like they knew nothing of love.

But when Elrohir heard them begin these murmurings anew with Mírien, he'd had enough. He and Rínior had torn into them anew, though Maedeth remembered even Elrohir having to restrain Rínior by the end. The fire burned brightest in her brother.

She looked at the tiny campfire Elladan had lit beneath a small outcropping in the Trollshaws. The trees hid them well enough that he'd agreed to let them warm up for the night. Curled up, she tried to remember her own parents. Had her mother burned with Fëanor's fire too?

She'd died young. Maedeth remembered that. She lived her whole life in Arthedain, even after marrying an elf of the Havens. Perhaps the elves there were even less accepting of a half-elf of Fëanor's line than those in Rivendell. But both were killed soon after Maedeth and Rínior had been born.

She remembered her mother's dark hair. She remembered her father's sea grey eyes. But that was it. Hardly a unique tale of woe. Many in Arthedain could say the same.

Maedeth opened her eyes again. The crackling fire still burned, and any last ray of sunlight had faded from the sky. Celebrían lay asleep to her left. To her right, staring off into the trees, sat Elladan. She smiled. Maedeth closed her eyes once more.

When they reached the Hidden Valley, her heart lifted. The hallowed air filled her lungs like a fresh draught of miruvor, somehow both warm and cold at the same time. She saw Elladan smile for the first time in weeks. Celebrían squeezed her son's arm.

"Thank you, Elladan, for your hard work in getting us here," she whispered. Celebrían gave him a hug. "Go and rest. You have hardly slept since Bree two weeks ago."

Elladan released a long sigh, hugging his mother back. "It was worth it."

"And now you must rest."

"Yes, mother."

Celebrían spoke in hushed tones to their three horses. They began to follow her without need for leads or direction. Maedeth turned to Elladan.

"Thank you, Elladan."

He smiled at her, giving a quick bow. Maedeth would have laughed at the teasing attempt at chivalry but she saw the softness in his gaze. He meant it. She felt heat rising to her cheeks and turned back to the Valley.

Even amidst winter, autumn leaves still clung to the trees. The water foamed over the falls and sent crystalline sprays into the chill air. For a moment, she forgot about her errand.

But then she saw Elladan walk forward. And she remembered not only why she had followed him and his mother here, but who else she wanted to speak to.

"Elladan, have you any idea where your brother is?" she asked.

He turned as she caught up with him. "Perhaps training with Glorfindel. Perhaps with our father. We can go find him now, if you wish."

She did wish it. But alas, he was not in the Hidden Valley at all. Elrond met them at the doors of his house, smiling as he stood beside Celebrían. He welcomed her with a bow and kind words. They planned a feast that evening, celebrating her return. Elladan whispered to her that they always sought reasons to lift the spirits of those in Rivendell. They had been besieged off and on since Amon Sul's destruction centuries before.

"My other son is on patrol," he said, "and will not be able to join us. But he is due back before morning."

It would have to do. And Maedeth had to admit that she looked forward to a warm meal in the comfort of the Last Homely House.

Celebrían loaned her a dress. She had brought few clothes from Arthedain besides her riding gear. As Maedeth stared at the mirror of the Guest House of Rivendell, she marveled at herself. Her red hair was intricately braided, newly cleaned in a warm bath. Grey eyes neither filled with tears nor ringed with dark circles stared back at her. And the dress was of a richness nearly unimaginable in Arthedain. Silver and white, with beading and gemstones of various blues, she had rarely seen its like in the North. They could not afford such luxuries.

Maedeth walked alone from the guest house to the main house of Rivendell. She didn't mind it. For weeks, she had been nearly silent in the company of Celebrían and Elladan. Now she could be silent alone. She passed a few elves on her way. Most looked surprised to see her, only one outwardly hostile. Good enough.

Elladan would not be joining them. Elrond said his son was grabbing a much needed rest. And Maedeth was glad of it. Celebrían had not been exaggerating when she thanked him for staying awake nearly the entire journey from Bree.

She followed the Lord and Lady of Rivendell into the feasting hall. It was a small gathering, all things told. Only a few dozen elves followed them upon the ringing of the meal bell. Lady Arwen was not there, nor were Elladan or Elrohir, so she sat at the head of the table with Elrond, Celebrían, and Erestor.

As they settled down, Erestor took a seat across from Maedeth, leaving a spot free across from Celebrían. Before she could ask why, a kind, familiar face entered the hall.

"Lady Maedeth, it has been far too long since you came to Rivendell," said Glorfindel, apologizing for being late. "I had hoped to greet you before this began but I was delayed."

"Lord Glorfindel! I am glad you are joining us tonight," she said. She meant it. Glorfindel had been the staunchest ally of hers and her brother's other than the sons of Elrond. And though Rínior wanted nothing to do with anyone who wasn't Elladan or Elrohir, she did miss her conversations with Glorfindel. "I hope you are well, or as well as may be expected in these dark days."

"Indeed, I am. Let us speak no more of the darkness beyond our borders, tonight, unless Lord Elrond desires it." He turned to Elrond.

Elrond shook his head. "For a night, we may eat in peace. Let us enjoy it."

Maedeth did her best. She spoke about Tiniel and Mírien in Fornost. She told tales of Rínior's victories. And while she was loath to speak of herself, for she found very little worth discussing that she took part in if it wasn't in a council chamber, she did heap praise on Elladan and Celebrían for their part in Arthedain's transition of power.

"You sell yourself short, as usual, Maedeth," Celebrían said. She put down her knife and fork, turning to her. "I saw how the nobles of Arthedain looked at you. There is great love for you and the kindnesses you do for them."

Glorfindel nodded. "You need not fight in battle like Rínior to do great deeds. And I judge that your deeds are great, indeed."

Elrond and Erestor agreed. For a moment, Maedeth felt quite small, a half-elf of doomed blood amidst such great lords and ladies of the Eldar. Here she did not feel constrained, like she did in Arthedain at times. She wondered if Elrond had ever felt like this when he fought beside High King Gil-Galad.

The feasting ended and revelry began across the way in the Hall of Fire. But she had no desire to partake in these. She found more than just bright stars and cold hair upon exiting the Last Homely House.

Elladan and Elrohir stood chatting out front. The former sat on the steps, lounging as he stared up at his twin still in riding gear and wearing his sword. At her entrance, both looked up. Elrohir grinned at her.

"Maedeth! How are you?" He pushed past his brother and gave her a quick hug. "Still finding things to do in Fornost?"

She smiled. "You know me, Elrohir. Always busy, even if I wish not to be. I've heard your father wanted you out of Rivendell and being productive, though."

He laughed. But then he turned back to Elladan. "She's much better company than you. You should bring her back more often!"

Elladan smiled and laughed as well. "You will get no argument from me. I have always thought Maedeth better company than you."

With a short laugh, Elrohir turned back to her. "How's your brother? He has been away with his company for months. I haven't had the chance to join him. Glorfindel grew concerned for our own borders," he said. "I've been helping secure them."

Maedeth frowned. She did not wish to speak of Rínior here. So she suggested they retire to some place out of the way. Elrohir's face fell, but he agreed without question.

They took a walk in the Gardens of Imladris. She wanted to remain under the stars, not inside four walls and a roof where her thoughts would wander unchecked. Settling on a bench, Elladan and Elrohir standing or pacing near her, she told them of her fears for Rínior.

"I know I have no reason to believe he is in any more danger than usual," she said, "but I cannot shake this feeling. There is a pit in my stomach, growing ever darker. I fear he is in grave danger."

Elrohir's hand tightened on his sword hilt. "I know of few warriors stronger than Rínior. But those he fights for are often tired, hungry, and scared. These can be recipes for disaster."

"You think he was involved in the skirmish in the Downs?" Elladan asked her.

Maedeth nodded. "I do. Or, perhaps I fear it more than I think it. It is possible. Nay, it is likely that I am stressed for nothing. He has been known to patrol the borders of Arthedain without making contact for much longer than this."

Elrohir shook his head. He offered her a tight smile. "Rínior is like a brother to me, as well. I will leave tonight, and either bring him back to safety or bring news that he is, as usual, being an annoying if incredibly skilled leader."

Maedeth laughed at his joke. She felt better already, though the thick fog of fear did not lift from her completely. "Thank you, Elrohir."

"I will inform our father and then leave right away." He gave her a quick hug. "Fear not, Maedeth. Luck has not left Rínior in all five hundred years I've seen him fighting on the front lines. I do not believe it has left him now."

He nodded once to both of them before heading out. She didn't move from her spot on the bench, trying to believe Elrohir's words. But she just couldn't, not fully.

Elladan sat beside her. A gentle breeze caressed the flowers and trees in the gardens. Not far from them, she listened to the gentle whistles and trills of nightingales. Here there was peace. Few places in Middle Earth now felt like this. Maedeth took a slow, deep breath.

"I am sorry you fear so much for Rínior," Elladan said. He paused for a moment, looking up into the trees. Then he shook his head. "I find myself fearing for Elrohir in much the same way. And he for me, if I were to guess."

Maedeth nodded. "I know. And here I am, putting your brother in further danger."

Elladan turned to her. He shook his head. "Nay, do not apologize. My brother finds his own way. I would not be surprised if he would have sought Rínior on his own, unprompted, soon enough. You know they hunt together as much as they can." He shrugged. "Indeed, I also would join him. But I know I have other duties, and they are duties I would not put aside for anything."

Another breeze, stronger, pushed through the gardens. Maedeth wrapped her arms closer. The chill here could not compare to that of Fornost but she wore a dress more designed for fairer days under the sun than those in the north. Elladan passed her his cloak.

"Thank you," she said, smiling at him. He didn't look away, and Maedeth felt heat rising to her cheeks. Her throat ran dry. But before she could say anything, gaze locked with his, she heard footsteps.

Celebrían turned the corner. She shot them half a smile as Maedeth straightened up. "When I saw Elrohir rushing from the garden I figured I would find you here. And Elladan, are you not supposed to be resting?"

Elladan straightened up as well. He stood up from the bench, folding his arms. "I did. And then Elrohir got back."

"Ah, yes. A classic." She chuckled. "A thousand years have passed and you two still blame each other for everything."

With a roll of his eyes, he just turned and walked away. "Fine, then I will go find sleep."

Celebrían didn't respond. She just took his spot beside Maedeth on the bench, who instantly felt the woman's gaze on Elladan's cloak around her shoulders. But she said nothing of it.

"We will decide the next course of action tomorrow," Celebrían said. She sighed. "I fear there is little time for you to wait in Rivendell."

"Indeed," Maedeth said. "I would not wait even if you and Lord Elrond asked it of me."

Celebrían nodded. They sat in silence for a moment. The song of the nightingales crescendoed with the moon's zenith. The breeze died down.

"You should rest as well, Maedeth."

Maedeth knew it. Celebrían could not order her around as a mother, but she knew wisdom when she heard it, and Celebrían always spoke wiser than most. She bid her goodnight, leaving Elladan's cloak, and stole back to the Guest House. There would be much to do with the dawn. She would soon leave peace behind.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten - Rínior

Biting winds whipped around him. They'd marched for what felt like months. Rínior wasn't sure how long he'd been dragged along beside Aglarwain, hands tied and booted feet bleeding, but it could not have been that long. Or so he hoped. At least his captor was pleasant enough company. At least, more pleasant than orcs or the hill men with them.

Snow stretched on in all directions. There were no trees here. They'd left those behind in the Trollshaws. The last of them had faded in the distance after the Ettenmoors. Now it was just fields of snow and rocky outcroppings from the mountains.

The Mountains of Angmar filled all his vision now. He could see his own exhaustion mirrored in Aglarwain's face as they neared the foothills.

"Need a break, Aglarwain? Worry not, I promise not to slit your throat in your sleep," Rínior said, smiling.

Aglarwain gave a curt laugh. "You are no funnier now than you were two days ago, Rínior. That joke is as old as you are."

"You think this will wound me?"

"I have no need," he said. "I already have. Those scars all over your body are not from words after all."

Rínior chuckled. He trailed off into silence as they continued on. Each footfall ached. He tried to trance, to sleep on his feet as he knew the elves could. He longed to dream, to see the faces of his wife and daughter in blessed slumber. But he could not.

So he clung to the last dream he could remember not filled with torment and death: the woman with a red cloak and a Silmaril in her hand. It had to be a Silmaril. And it had to be his daughter. At least he had some light in this bleak, forsaken world.

With the rising sun, Rínior found himself stopped in his tracks. Rearing up at the end of the Mountains of Angmar stood a great castle of stone. Spires curled like sharpened, twisting spears towards the heavens. Great walls of black rock and iron created a many leveled fortress city. But it was the greenish black smoke issuing from unseen flames that caused a chill to creep up his spine.

"Welcome to Carn Dûm, Hero of the North," Aglarwain said, coming to stand next to him.

Their shoulders almost touched. Rínior had no words, no biting retort. For Aglarwain's tone was neither one of mockery nor hatred. He spoke firmly, not wavering but holding no love himself. And for a moment, Rínior felt he understood this man even more.

One did not need to love a thing to serve it. He had been serving Arthedain for five hundred years and held no love for it, not anymore.

"Come, the Witch-king awaits."

The march resumed. Storm clouds crept in from the Mountains of Angmar, blotting out the sun for much of the day. Snow began to fall as they drew closer. The barren land became dotted with settlements, small villages of thatched cottages and empty farm fields where few inhabitants showed their faces. The weather drove all inside.

Life abounded as they reached the outer gates. Rínior was flanked by hill-men, Aglarwain just ahead of him, but orcs and men alike skittered in and around the tall towers. Great black standards bearing the purple crown of the Witch-king flapped against the stone in the winter wind. He heard the howling of wolves and clanking of chains. Rínior held his head high.

He could not see much on the lower levels of the city beyond his captors' bodies. Languages he did not speak and faces he did not know filled his mind with chaos. It had been so long since he'd been permitted to rest. Rínior did not know how much farther he could go. But then, if the Witch-king did await him far above in some forsaken tower, the end of his road was near.

On the third level, his guards abandoned him. Only Aglarwain remained, holding the rope attached to Rínior's bound wrists. As he stepped beyond the gate arch, four men saluted him by pounding their fists over their chests. Rínior raised an eyebrow.

Then he looked closer. These men were taller, paler, with grey-blue or grey-brown eyes and darker hair. More men of Rhudaur?

He turned to Aglarwain. "How many of you remain?"

"Descendants of Arnor?" He smirked, urging Rínior onwards. "More than you would believe. But still, not enough. Otherwise I would be leading them into battle instead of men of the Hills. I see by the shock on your face that you did not think this possible?"

"Nay, I did not," he said.

"Most now serve the Witch-king here at Carn Dûm, in places of honor."

They passed onward. The Third Circle was much quieter than the others. No orcs roamed here, nor rowdy Hill-Men. He saw only tall soldiers in black, or robed priests and priestesses carrying staves without adornment.

At the center, they came to a painfully long, thirty foot wide stair straight to the citadel. Aglarwain ordered him to go ahead. Rínior felt the jab of his drawn sword at his back. A chill like that of the Barrow Downs crept down his spine as he marched ever upward, passing sickly glowing, carved faces with forked tongues.

This was it. This was to be the end. He kept his eyes forward to protect against what awaited him, but his mind wandered. Over fields of snow and under shining stars, he envisioned his wife dancing under flower branches in Rivendell, her brown hair adorned with blue blossoms and golden berries. He remembered his infant daughter in his arms, the picture of absolute perfection, grey eyes sparkling with mirth. He saw the shining Silmaril from his dreams under moonlight, washed by dark waves. That's what he wanted to remember in his final moments.

Massive iron doors swung open without a word. Gaping darkness stretched on beyond into the mountain. Rínior saw no guards, but he could feel them. An icy hand reached out and took hold of his heart, plunging his soul into freezing waters. He shook himself. No. No, he was not drowning. He was alive, for now.

"Walk," Aglarwain ordered, invisible in the darkness as the doors shut behind them. "History remembers names. Walk, Rínior."

So he walked. At the far end of the chamber he could just make out eyes of purple flames. Each footstep he took towards them felt like slogging through frozen mud. But he forged onwards, until he realized the eyes were not eyes at all. They were massive bonfires of cold, purple fire to either side of a distant throne.

Only when he came closer, expecting to be blasted with heat from the flames but feeling only colder as the life left him, did he see the real eyes of the Witch-king. Fell and deadly they gleamed, made of pale light and utterly soulless. Above them floated a crown of steel. He had no face, no frown. Rínior shivered.

But he did not look away. He stared deep into the Witch-king's eyes, felt as the painful creep of a thousand spiders under his skin filled his body. Waves of anger, despair, and ruin washed over him. He saw the destruction of Middle Earth in the void of his enemy's eyes.

But still, he did not look away. Rínior would never look away.

The Witch-king rose from his throne. By the purple light of the cold fires, his regal black robes glowed with a sickly hue. He reached forward with his right hand. The metal gauntlet grabbed his wrists, and Rínior felt a shock shoot up his arms. But his bindings fell to the floor.

Rínior gasped for breath. Still the sorcerer-king had yet to speak. Rínior wished he would get the execution over with. But when the Witch-king spoke, he cursed himself for not relishing the silence a moment longer. His voice commanded the room, and yet sounded little louder than a hissed whisper. Whether the breath came from the Witch-king's wraith-body or was the wind blowing through the halls of the citadel, he couldn't tell. But it turned Rínior's blood to ice.

"Do you fear death, heir of Fëanor?"

"No," he said.

"You lie." The Witch-king moved a step closer, his iron boot echoing in the hall. "I have seen it in your face."

Rínior tried to breathe, but it came more as a gasp than the long, slow breath he had wanted. "I have faced death nearly every day since I was born, centuries ago."

"Indeed. It is not your death you fear," said the Witch-king. "It is the death of that which you love."

Mírien flashed across face. He shut his eyes to see her more clearly. Her puffy cheeks as a baby, the way she had waddled about the halls of Fornost as a toddler, how he had last seen her learning to ride a horse in the citadel. Then he saw the woman with a circlet on her head, clutching a Silmaril amidst a tossing sea. Mírien as an adult, reclaiming the title they all deserved.

"Heir of Fëanor," the Witch-king said. "Your silence betrays you."

Rínior opened his eyes. He stared into the dreadful visage of the Witch-king, trying not to cower from the pale, gleaming eyes beneath his crown. "If you believe you know me so well, then you know I will do anything for my family. The House of Fëanor will never fail."

"That, young half-elf, is up to you." The Witch-king stepped backwards, returning to the throne. As he sat, his voice seem to grow to fill the hall even more. "I offer you a choice. Defeat, or Victory."

Aglarwain fell to one knee beside him. Rínior startled, having forgotten he was there. And for a moment, all he heard was the pounding of his own heart. He turned back to the Witch-king.

"I will impale you upon a spear, so that your screams may become my war horn and your body my battle standard. You will herald the doom of Arthedain as the first victim in my final assault, another doomed child of a dispossessed elven house."

Rínior could not look away. He tried, with all his might, for in the pale gleam of the Witch-king's eyes he beheld the fate of Celebrimbor before him, Sauron's limp plaything upon his own battle standard in the Second Age. Ice crept up his legs, freezing him in place.

"After you, I will begin with your wife. I will give her broken body to the Hill-Men to be their battle standard. And to the orcs, I will give your daughter. They will scream just as you. Their suffering will beat the battle drums of war for my armies. And only then will I let you die upon the spike."

He had seen this. In the Palantir. He had seen the armies of Angmar stretching on for miles unchecked. For years he had used that vision to fuel his bloodlust on the battlefield. With each skirmish he thinned their numbers. With each victory he hoped to chip away until their defeat. But he was one man, one half-elf surrounded by men who died as easily as the enemy. He could not win this. Not though he dedicated every hour of every day of every year for a hundred centuries. Rínior felt himself sway.

"Or kneel."

Rínior glanced down at Aglarwain, unbidden. And though the man kept his face down and pointed forward, his gaze wandered sideways, trying to meet Rínior's eyes. But he couldn't. Not while Rínior stood.

"I will give you Arthedain to rule as a vassal state, in the name of Angmar, Greatest of All Kingdoms. You will rule as your house always was meant to," he said, "last heir of Fëanor. To your daughter shall go all that you covet. In exchange only for the Palantiri of the North, I shall raise you above all others."

Rínior forced himself to breathe the dark, cold air around them. The vision of his daughter with a circlet and a Silmaril filled his mind again. He reached up for the star of Fëanor on his cloak clasp. But he found nothing. He wore no cloak, no emblem of his once proud house. He had not worn it since the battle. Fire filled him again, melting away the freezing fear in his veins.

"Neither you, nor those you love, need ever fear Death again."

Men called death a gift. But they were not men. They were half-elven, filled with the greatest strength of both kindreds, Eldar and Edain. His whole life he'd known he was meant for something more, something better. His daughter deserved better than to grow up amongst those who lived but a fraction of her lifetime.

And perhaps this was meant to be. He felt a tiny smile spread across his face. This was his dream, perhaps. The answer to everything. To his desire to see the House of Fëanor restored, to his endless life of battle and suffering. The Men of Arthedain had lost the war long ago. They clung to some distant fantasy as the line of Elendil withered away. If death was a gift, then perhaps it would be best that Rínior gave it to them swiftly. Mercifully.

He knelt. Aglarwain shot him another look, and their gazes met. He smirked, still bowing to the ground as before. He lowered his voice to barely above the sound of the wind in the cavern. "What does history remember, Rínior?"

"Names."

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven - Maedeth

Maedeth closed her eyes, taking a deep breath that filled her whole chest with fresh air and the scent of floral candles. A stack of discarded books sat to her right under the open window of the corner of Elrond's Library that she had claimed after a couple hours of sleep. Their aged leather covers were smooth and faded from years of use by the loremasters of the Noldor.

She was no loremaster. Maedeth had chosen the path of councilor long ago, and while that had required study, she relied more on intuition than a millennia of elven wisdom. And yet, as she opened her eyes to look out at the first light of morning, she found herself regretting that choice more and more.

Crinkled parchment pages held safe by a blue leather tome stared back at her when she looked down at her desk. She'd started on the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth. The Debate, as many in Rivendell simply called it, sparked philosophical discussions among the young and old alike. Maedeth loved the tales of King Finrod, eldest son of High King Finarfin and eldest brother of Lady Galadriel. He had displayed so many traits she hoped she emulated in some small way: a graceful leader, a loyal friend, a trusted ally, and more than anything, a powerfully kind diplomat.

She turned back to the text. It wasn't recorded who had written down the exchange between King Finrod and the wise woman Andreth, but Maedeth liked to think it was King Finrod himself recounting the debate over death and the merits of hope with his aging human friend. Man had always been Finrod's diplomatic focus.

Perhaps in these pages she would find some wisdom to guide her back at home. Death haunted the men of Arthedain every moment of every day. She did not concern herself with the philosophical ramifications of the Debate's discussions on a final redemption for Arda Marred. But she could feel the fear of death and near despair of Andreth in every word she spoke.

Maedeth sat back with a sigh. Who could blame her? King Finrod had come to her in a time of grief. She mourned for the loss of love, the rejection of Prince Aegnor, Lady Galadriel and King Finrod's youngest brother. Before Beren and Lúthien, they alone had come close to bridging the gap of Eldar and Edain, at least publically.

Maedeth felt her throat run dry, holding back tears as she read on. 'This is time of war, Andreth, and in such days the Elves do not wed or bear child; but prepare for death—or for flight.' Some days she related so deeply to this custom of the Eldar. Her mother had married young, on the eve of Angmar's greatest assault. But she had been born into war, and war had remained.

Rínior had rejected both death and flight. He approached all things with fire, a power she wished she had some small portion. But as Maedeth looked at the ray of sunlight breaking through morning clouds, she frowned. Perhaps it was for the best.

'For such barters are paid for in anguish that cannot be guessed until it comes, and in ignorance rather than in courage the Eldar judge that they are made.'

She could not look away from the page. The Debate predated the great unions of Beren and Lúthien and Tuor and Idril. But still, the conviction that Finrod held over the grief associated with Eldar and Edain love struck a chord. He had only guessed that which she lived every day.

Maedeth shut the book.

"How long have you been at this?"

She twisted in her high back chair, finding a well rested Elladan with his arms crossed. He smiled, though it was troubled. A gentle breeze rustled the curtains on the open window and her own loosely falling red hair.

"I am unsure. A while," she said. Maedeth sighed, not getting up but angling the chair from the desk to see him better when he came to stand beside her. "Not long enough, I fear."

He leaned in, looking at the titles piled on the desk. "On the Union of Maedhros, The Collected Works of Daeron of Doriath, volumes seven and ten of Finrod's Treatises, Angrod's Speechcraft and Diplomatic Wanderings." He shook his head. "Truly, you are reading works that even I have avoided like the plague. And is that the Athrabeth?"

"Indeed. I have one more to go," she said. Maedeth ran her hands over her face. She felt nearly numb, having sat for so long staring at these ancient pages, seeking wisdom from her betters.

Elladan leaned against the desk, staring out into the library. He gave a small nod of acknowledgment to a passing loremaster before turning his head back to her. "Oh? Which one then?"

She reached across the wooden desk to the last book on the left. It was small, with a red leather cover that seemed hardly to have been touched before. Golden lettering spelled out the title: Dor Caranthir and the Naugrim. Below it glittered the eight-pointed Fëanorian Star.

Elladan looked at it in surprise as she handed it to him. He opened the first few pages. "Do not take this the wrong way, Maedeth, but since when did you seek advice from your forefather?"

Maedeth did not take offense, but she did sink a bit further into her chair. She breathed in deeply. The scent of candle smoke and fragrant blooms from some winter flowers beyond the window washed over her. The burn of embarrassment and pride wrapped up in one filled every inch of her being.

She loved her house. And she hated it. Her forefather Caranthir and foremother Haleth had allowed themselves a moment of rebellion and love amidst cultures that spurned the joining of Eldar and Edain, especially in wartime. And though it lasted only a flicker of a moment before their pride got the better of one another and they separated their lives, it had lived on down the centuries through their child and their child's child. Neither loved again.

But the Oath followed her like a ghost. It preyed on their own pride and anger, just as it had millenia ago with sons of Fëanor. Caranthir had died slaughtering innocents. Though he had not engaged in the treachery of Celegorm and Curufin when they abducted Lúthien, he had still pursued the Oath through the kinslayings.

And yet. She looked over at the red tome in Elladan's hands. And yet, his kingdom had led successful negotiations and alliances with not only Men but also Dwarves. Long before Eregion allied with Hadhodrond, Dor Caranthir allied with Belegost and Nogrod. The dwarves of the Blue Mountains and Caranthir's people grew in wealth and safety with one another, though they held no love for each other.

"Your mother suggested I turn to the House of Fëanor, instead of running away from it," she said. "And as I must prepare to leave today or tomorrow on this expedition, I could not afford to wait to do so, loath as I was. As I am. I fear it is not love I must cultivate to gain allies. It is a shared necessity. And Caranthir knew more about that than anyone."

Elladan nodded. He handed the book back. "Wise words, as your words always are."

She smiled at him, appreciating the gesture of good faith. After five hundred years Maedeth still feared she did not know enough to gain allies for the war against Angmar. The dwarves would be hardest. However, she would need to reach their kingdom first.

"Have you any idea who your father will part with to accompany me?" she asked.

As her eyes trailed over his suddenly stern expression, she tried to hide the hope in her heart that he would answer his own name. Seeing him in Fornost had reminded her how much she missed him, how she adored being in the same room as him. He had a gentleness and kindness in his unwavering pursuit of good that comforted her. But he had duties here in Rivendell. And she did not wish to part him from his brother.

Elladan sighed. "Not yet. I am going to speak with him shortly."

"Alright," she said. Maedeth turned away, trying to focus on the book in front of her. "I should return to my reading, Elladan."

He nodded. "Yes, of course. I'll see you in a few hours, then?"

She assured him that she would not miss the meeting with Elrond and the other Wise of Rivendell. No book, no matter how riveting this legal text could hope to be, would keep her away.

As it turned out, the book was far from riveting, as expected. She gladly closed its cover upon the tolling of the council bell. While Dor Caranthir and the Naugrim had given a few insights she hoped to use at the meeting with King Durin, her eyes needed a break.

Maedeth found them on the balcony of the Last Homely House. Only a few had gathered: Elrond, Celebrían, Elladan, Glorfindel, Erestor, and Gildor Inglorion. She had not seen him return with Elrohir after the feast. Though perhaps he had simply gone straight to rest. He stood chatting with Glorfindel, chuckling over a glass of tea.

"Am I the last?" she said.

Elrond told her not to fret, that they had been early. But she saw a look of anger on his face that she had not anticipated, and it startled her. Elladan, similarly, glared down at the ground, not facing him.

"Did you find anything useful in the library, Lady Maedeth?" Glorfindel asked, joining the little group under the upper overhang of the balcony. "I noticed you slept very little."

"Indeed," she said. "Or at least, I hope."

Erestor took a sip of wine. He gestured to the journal in her hands. "I am glad to see you took notes. Which books did you consult?"

She listed them out, and was pleased when Erestor complimented her on her thoroughness. He had compiled much of the Library with Elrond's assistance over the years. Every tome had passed through his hands at some point since the founding of Rivendell.

"And when do you hope to leave?" Gildor asked. "It is quite cold out in the wild. And though I love to wander the lands of Middle Earth even now under the Shadow, it is not for the faint of heart."

"You think her faint of heart?" Elladan asked.

Gildor just waved him off. "Peace, Elladan, I meant no offense."

"None was taken, lord," Maedeth assured him. She herself had been occupied by these thoughts even while trying to do her reading. There were wide lands between Rivendell and Hadhodron. "But I am committed to this task."

"It is a necessary one," Celebrían agreed. "And one that I am confident Lady Maedeth can complete."

"Indeed," Elrond said. He had been silent thus far, listening to each of his counselors with a stern frown. But now he just nodded, and extended a hand. "It is both necessary and appointed to her. But Lady Maedeth cannot go alone."

"I shall accompany her," Elladan said.

Maedeth watched as Elrond bit his lip. Celebrían's eyes closed with a deep breath, clasping her hands so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Elladan continued before either could cut in. "My brother has left today to make contact with Rínior. I will accompany Lady Maedeth."

"Indeed. Elladan shall go with her. And though I had hoped to send you, Lord Glorfindel, I fear drawing more attention to them than is necessary," Elrond said. "The success of this mission lies not in strength of arms but in secrecy and in hope. Especially while so close to Rhudaur."

Maedeth released her held breath. She had feared that Elrond would chastise his son, would force him to stay behind when she wanted nothing more than to go with him on this journey. She smiled. He smiled back.

"I agree," she said, turning to Elrond. "And I appreciate your assistance. It cannot be understated how much your aid is needed. And I would be remiss in my duties if I did not, once again, beg aid of you for Arthedain." She frowned. "I know that already you send us herbs and other healing supplies for the war. But is there anything more that can be done?"

Elrond nodded. He gestured to Celebrían. "My wife spoke to me already of the needs of Arthedain. And while we cannot spare fighters with Rhudaur constantly pressing on our borders, we are going to send as much food stores as can be spared."

"I will accompany the caravan north," Gildor told her. "Glorfindel shall remain to lead the defense of Rivendell but my company longs for the road. This will allow us all some measure of enjoyment in such a dark hour."

Maedeth grinned, and bowed low to all of them. "Thank you, lords. And Lady."

"We must all do what we can in these dark times," Elrond told her. "With each age, a new evil arises. Morgoth, then Sauron, and now the Witch-king."

"And though with each war our losses grow," said Glorfindel, "we still fight on. For some day, we shall dispel this darkness forever and Elbereth's light will grow."

They fell into a moment of silence. Maedeth tried to imagine a world without death, without war, without famines and plagues and all the despair that faced her with each dawn. She wished to reach out and grasp it. But alas. The warmth in the air that had come with Glorfindel's words dispersed when Elrond returned them to the conversation at hand.

"We must now decide when you are to depart," Elrond said.

"I wish to leave as soon as may be."

He nodded. "I agree. But this is what we must determine. Erestor?"

"The food and horses will not be difficult to make ready," he said. "I began to prepare last night upon Maedeth's arrival. But it would be prudent to send out scouts before they leave."

"The wolves of the Misty Mountains are multiplying in Eregion," Gildor said. "My company and I spent three months there not long ago."

Maedeth frowned. Wolves, orcs, men aligned with the Witch-king, and men without their own dark desires would stand between her and her goal. She knew how to hold a sword but had rarely used it. Doubtless she would have to bloody a blade before the end of this trek.

"But we have maintained the border along the Bruinen for quite a ways," Glorfindel told her. "This should make the initial departure easier at least."

Elrond placed several maps on a nearby table. For hours, they poured over them and debate the best course. While they may have found more safety going straight over the High Pass out of Rivendell and then down south along the mountains, the encroach of winter made it impossible. So they would have to brave the southward road through and beside what was once Cardolan into Eregion.

In the end, it was decided she and Elladan would set out the next morning, with two horses known to be sure-footed in the hills. Maedeth, exhausted already from debating their next move and from staying up most of the night reading, retreated towards her chambers. Her eyes closed as she walked. But As she reached the Guest House, Elladan flagged her down.

"They are still going on, you know," Elladan said, nearly laughing as he spoke of Erestor and Gildor. "Those two never agree on anything."

Maedeth chuckled. She leaned against the archway over the door to her chambers. "It would strip Rivendell of entertainment, I fear, if they always got along."

He laughed much harder. "Right you are."

"Tell me, though. I am surprised your father gave you leave to go-"

Elladan scoffed. "He did not."

Before Maedeth could respond, two voices lifted up from further down the path. They called for him to hurry up. Glorfindel was one, it sounded like. He called back to them that he would join them shortly.

She stared up at him in confusion. He stood some five or six inches taller, with dark hair shining in the dappled sunlight beneath the trees. "What do you mean? Are you not going?" Fear gripped her heart, and she felt the wind knocked from her chest.

"Oh, no, Maedeth. I didn't mean that." He must've seen the fear in her eyes, for he put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. "No. I meant only that I did not ask to go. I told him I was going."

She could breathe again. Maedeth closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his hand on her sleeve. Thank the Valar. She already knew this mission teetered on the edge of hopeless. She did not want to face it without him.

Elladan backed up, a tiny smirk on his face as he went to go join the others. "I said that if he forbade me, I would simply take the fastest horse and follow in Glorfindel's trail."

Maedeth grinned. She watched as he gave a wink and turned away. Butterflies filled her stomach, a welcome change though strange from the usual deep pit of darkness. She smiled down at the door handle. That was that, then. She and Elladan would go. And she and Elladan would succeed.

Chapter Text

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 grimy 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 backward, 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.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen - Maedeth

When beech and ash gave way to holly and oak, Maedeth began to breathe a little easier. Elladan had led them through hidden paths along the River Bruinen. Days passed without incident. But they spoke little, with an unwholesome air carrying south down the river from the Ettenmoors.

At last, Elladan had found what he looked for. A steep path filled with switchbacks led out of the river gorge, flanked by trees and shrubs. Both had dismounted. Though their horses tried their hardest to get through with them riding, it became easier to walk before them.

Coming out onto the northernmost edge of Eregion, the breeze blew through the holly and oak trees, rustling their branches and bringing a lightness to Maedeth's heart. She was exhausted. They hadn't rested much in days. Nevertheless, they wanted to push a bit further into Eregion before settling down.

By nightfall, the lightness in her heart vanished. They heard distant howls on the wind. Maedeth shivered. The sword on her belt weighed heavily against her thigh. She knew how to use it, theoretically, but fighting had never been her focus.

Nothing bothered them in the darkness that night, nor the next morning. By midday, the holly and oak forest became more sparse. Hills dotted with trees stretched on towards the Misty Mountains.

"We should seek shelter before nightfall," Elladan said.

It was good to hear his voice again. Both had been so focused on staying alive that silence became better company than speech. But as noon turned to evening, the reminder she was not alone made a difference.

Maedeth nodded. "What were your thoughts?"

He sighed. They paused their riding along the overgrown, barely visible ancient roadway. Elladan looked around. "Perhaps we seek for ruins of the Jewel-smiths. Most have crumbled, but last I traveled in these lands some still stood."

"I trust you."

She did. And even if it meant seeking out shelter in the ruins of her distant cousin's ancient kingdom, she would follow him.

What Elladan found before the sun set was little more than three crumbled walls. Once they must've been tall and fair, crafted of white stones and some kind of intricate, scrolling metalwork in the remaining windows. The tile floors had long since cracked. But it offered some protection of the howling wolves they'd begun to hear with the setting sun.

"Do you think a fire is worth the risk?" she asked.

He stepped away from tying off the horses to look out over the rolling hills. After a moment, he turned to her. "I think so. A small one at least, that can be made larger if needed."

"We should search the place, see what useful things we can scavenge," she said.

Elladan agreed. The wind picked up, permeating their meager shelter through windows and crumbled sections of what remained of the walls. Maedeth felt her stomach rumble. They'd been careful with rations. Though Hadhodrond was not far, in the event they were turned away and had to go south to Tharbad and onto the Great Road, the supplies had to last.

She started picking through the shrubbery and brambles that grew inside the ruins. The thorns ripped at her long sleeved riding gear but could not break through her leather gloves. Behind her, Elladan muttered under his breath while digging through and around fallen stones.

It didn't take long to find kindling and dead wood for a fire. Gathering up the supplies, Maedeth got ready to make her first trip back to their sheltered corner. As she made her way over, she heard Elladan gasp.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

Elladan looked up from the pile of rubble he'd been going through, smiling. He joined her back at the campsite visible in the final rays of the sun.

"Look," he said. "I take this as a good omen on our mission."

The dying light glittered off a dagger. A long, thing blade of steel met a small crossguard of mithril. The pommel, made of a dark burnished metal, had an engraved Fëanorian Star at the center of which set a red gem. As she took it, the sunlight caught the facets of the gemstone and turned their little hideaway flaming reds and oranges.

Maedeth trembled as she clasped it. Rínior had one exactly like it, given to him by their mother, who in turn had inherited it from her own parents. She smiled, tears blurring her vision.

"It must have belonged to one of the Jewel-smiths." Elladan looked up from the dagger to her. "Take it! It's yours, by birthright!"

Maedeth felt a pang in her chest as she took the scavenged black sheath as well. Birthright.

They set to building the fire. Elladan took charge, gathering some of the supplies Maedeth had found and setting a small flame in the corner of their hideout. As she settled down to meager rations, he turned his attention back to her.

"I know Rínior wields his with great honor," he said. "And yet you look at that dagger like it has stabbed your heart?"

Maedeth looked up. She finished chewing, listening to the wind in the grasses and over stones. Then she sighed.

"My brother and I are different in many ways," she said. "Not least of all in our opinions of our elven ancestry."

Elladan nodded. "And yet you do not see this discovery as a hopeful sign?"

"I don't know what I see it as," she said. "When I see the eight-pointed Fëanorian star, I am reminded of the eight who swore the Oath."

She had nightmares about it, sometimes. It had happened some five thousand years before her birth, but the stories were told even these days to children, to ensure they understood the dangers of oath-making. Prince Fëanor, mightiest of all the Children of Ilúvatar, created the three great gems: the Silmarils. In them he captured the blazing light of the Two Trees of Valinor, of which the sun and moon she saw each day were but a fruit and a flower. But then Morgoth had come, and killed High King Finwë, stealing the Silmarils and destroying the Trees. And in that hour, Fëanor and his Seven Sons swore the Oath to recover the gems by any means, no matter the cost. And it had cost the world much.

"Maedeth?"

She glanced up. Maedeth took a deep breath, trying to calm her shaking body and forget the dark images flooding her mind.

"I apologize," she said, her voice wavering. "I forgot myself for a moment."

"Do not apologize."

Silence stretched between them. The fire crackled and the wind howled. But Elladan spoke again, a few minutes later.

"Is there no part of your heritage you take pride in?"

Maedeth shrugged. She tried to relax against the stone wall. "There are some things I find inspiring. Much is said about the stubbornness of Haleth and the rashness of Caranthir. But one thing neither did was give up in the face of trials."

"Too true."

"But in reality," she said, trailing off, "it is Maglor, the second son, who I most look to for inspiration. He alone of that house made the choice to forgo the Oath, though too late. He made the choice to throw the gem away and accept the doom awaiting him. His brother did not."

Elladan hummed in agreement. "Our father spoke fondly of Maglor. My brother and I never stopped asking for his stories," he said, grinning. Elladan gave a short laugh. "Indeed, I think he sometimes thought of Maglor when trying to figure out how to keep his own twin sons in line! I once heard him tell my mother that Eärendil may have been his father by blood, but Maglor taught him how to parent. For better or worse."

Maedeth laughed, closing her eyes and imagining child Elrond and Elros running circles around Maglor and Maedhros. Their fostering was a rare goodness to come out of that third, most repugnant Kinslaying.

"You know, some days when I close my eyes, and listen to the wind and the water, I swear I can hear harp music." Maedeth took a slow breath, doing just that. "I pretend it is Maglor wandering the shores of the sea, playing so that Rínior and I may feel a little less alone in a world that scorns us."

The howling wind over the moorland sounded almost like waves. But it was not. And she did not hear harp music either. She heard—

"Wargs!" Elladan shouted. "Wargs on the wind, not harps!"

Maedeth scrambled up. Her heart raced. In front of her, Elladan unsheathed his sword. It glowed red in the firelight.

"More fire!" he said. "And draw your weapon!"

The first warg launched itself at Elladan from the darkness. Maedeth screamed, but covered her mouth quickly. Panic would help no one. Elladan needed her help. What small help she could offer.

As he slashed and stabbed, she scrambled in the ground behind him to build the fire. Sticks, brush, anything flammable stoked the flames. The light grew, illuminating more dripping fangs in the dark.

She pulled out her dagger. The red pommel glittered. A second warg slid dead off Elladan's sword. He seemed to dance in battle, strikes quick and efficient but oddly beautiful.

Claws sliced her arm. Maedeth gasped, scrambling back as a small warg slipped through the shadows towards her. She felt blood pooling against her clothing. The warg bared its fangs. It leaped. With her uninjured right arm, she held the dagger up. Maedeth felt fur and smelled stinking breath. She hit the ground.

A yelp and a gurgle accompanied her fall. Maedeth couldn't think. A huge weight lay on her chest. But she could move, and she could breathe. She heaved upwards. The warg carcass tumbled into the fire.

Elladan looked down at her, eyes wide. At the stench of burning warg, the others bounded away. For a moment, silence returned.

"By Elbereth," he said, voice strained. "You're okay?"

"Except my arm, yes," she said.

He looked down at her arm. With his help, she moved further from the fire, but close enough he could use its light.

"You are lucky," he said, "all things considered. These wounds are not deep, though they look painful. I'll bind them. But then we must move."

Her head spun as he took out bandages and wrapped her arm. While the wound stung, it felt infinitely better not trying to stick to her ripped sleeve. He explained they would need to move to a new spot.

"More may return here," he said. "And the stench of burning warg is not easily missed."

No indeed. Maedeth wrinkled her nose. Standing, they took stock. The horses, though terrified, had not run far. Before long they mounted up and began to speed southeast.

In the darkest hours before dawn, they halted again. Their steeds panted, out of breath. Instead of seeking out fire, they had sought water. In a copse of trees beside a flowing stream they settled in the darkness.

"How is the pain?" Elladan asked.

Silence had reigned between them on their gallop from the ruins. Maedeth took comfort in his voice again as she set up a place to sleep.

"It hurts," she said, "but I will live. I have you to thank for that."

Elladan snorted a small laugh. But he smiled in the darkness.

"Is something funny about that?"

"No, no," he assured her. "I was thinking about our earlier conversation."

She paused, looking back at him from fluffing her folded blanket pillow. "Oh?"

"You are not the only one who contends with a powerful lineage."

The tree shadows and predawn darkness made his expression hard to read. But she knew what he spoke of.

Elladan's rueful smile turned into a frown. "While you run from the sins of your family's past, sometimes I feel I am running from the victories of my own."

Maedeth did not envy him. No other family in Middle Earth boasted such a powerful combination of heroes among their ranks. Even were he solely descended from Beren and Lúthien, it would be impossible shoes to fill.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Here I was going on and on—"

"Nay! Don't apologize. It is my own burden to carry, and in truth I would rather mine than yours," he said. "I regret every day that you could find no peace in Rivendell."

She felt her chest tighten as he grew frustrated. She could feel it, the anger and perhaps embarrassment? But he had done nothing to deserve such feelings.

"You cannot hold yourself responsible for the slights of all your people," she said. "And indeed, Rínior and I are indebted to you and Elrohir."

Elladan looked up from where he'd been fussing with a stick. "I wish I could've done more."

Maedeth smiled. She placed a hand on his, feeling the warmth even amidst the cold wind. "Elladan. You are doing more than I could ever ask."

She blushed as he looked at her. Even in the darkness, his grey eyes glinted. He held her hand and for a moment, all the pain and exhaustion in her body faded. The moment stretched on forever.

But at least, Elladan let go. He flashed her a small, pained smile. "Rest, Maedeth. We ride hard with the new dawn."

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen - Rinior

Steel sang as Rínior forced his blade down onto Aglarwain's. Taking two quick leaps back, the man of Rhudaur doubled back, twisting out of the way. Muddy snow mixed with disturbed sand. There were no bird songs. Only the whistle of steel blades through cold air and harsh panting of battle filled the space.

Each frozen breath burned his throat. His muscles ached. Rínior feinted left to avoid the first of three quick slashes. His blade caught the third. Pain shot through his arms.

Rínior grabbed Aglarwain's wrist. With a grin, he yanked the man closer, standing practically nose to nose. He dropped his own sword. Before Aglarwain could react, he 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 it.

Rínior plunged his dagger at Aglarwain's throat. Aglarwain grinned as a sharp clang rang out. His own dagger glittered in the early dawn light.

With a chuckle, Rínior relaxed. He sheathed his Fëanorian weapon. All around them, the private training yard lay empty. It was too early, perhaps, for even the elite of the Witch-king's guard. But Rínior had no desire for sleep. Not anymore. He'd had his fill over the last few days.

Now, his mind was made up. Part way, at least. He wanted out of Carn Dûm. When he closed his eyes, his dreams filled with darkness and death. He didn't want to hear the voice of Morgoth's priestess in slumber. He wanted to see the light of the Silmaril. That, he would not find here.

But he could not return to Fornost. He would not. He intended to build a life for his daughter, and the men of Arthedain could not do that. They were weak. He had seen so many live and die. Children he'd greeted on the streets while doing lesser-kings' biddings to drum up morale became soldiers that longed to fill his companies. When they did, they died, nameless and meaningless face down in blood, dirt, and waste.

Aglarwain patted him on the shoulder. "Good run," he said, out of breath. He'd picked up his fallen sword as well as Rínior's. Passing it over, he smiled. "It is remarkable, Rínior, how quickly you have recovered."

"Not remarkable," Rínior said. "The blood of Caranthir Fëanorion runs through my veins." He took a long drink, allowing the cold water to soothe his parched throat. "My sister still has not made her choice, but I chose the life of the Eldar long ago."

"Your sister. She lives in Fornost, does she not?" Aglarwain asked. Grabbing a small towel, he wiped his face and sat down on a stone bench. "Whispers hope in the ears of the kings?"

Rínior frowned. He had seen what the years did to Maedeth, stuck at Fornost like a maid or traveling to and fro to kingdoms that rarely brought aid to them, save Rivendell. She deserved better as much as his own daughter did. "Maedeth, like myself, has sought an end to this fruitless war since we were born into it."

"But a victory for Arthedain."

With a glare, Rínior threw his own towel at Aglarwain. "Do you wish to go again? Perhaps I need to beat you a few more times, lest you forget that my sister and I were your enemies not long ago."

The man merely laughed. He held a hand up. "No, I am quite satisfied for the moment. I just wonder if your sister has had enough loss yet. Or if she still clings to a fool's hope."

The wind picked up again. On their right, banners of the Witch-king snapped in the cold winter gusts, crowning the wall that marked the edge of this upmost circle of the city. Rínior watched them for a moment. Then he turned back. "My sister is no fool. But she sits in the safety of Fornost, or treats with elves who believe they can simply wait out the bloodshed in their Hidden Valley."

"What of the other half-elves?"

Rínior looked up. "Who?"

"The sons of Elrond. Elladan and Elrohir, is it?"

"You are remarkably well informed for a commander of hill-men."

"I make it a point to know my enemies," he said, smiling. Aglarwain took out some dried meat and began to chew on it, allowing the silence to stretch on. But then he smiled. "They have seen battle, have they not? Do you think they would join us?"

Rínior frowned. He joined Aglarwain on the bench, relishing the cold stone against his burning muscles. They'd trained by the light of predawn fire and now the cloud-covered sun began to climb out of midmorning.

"I am unsure," Rínior admitted. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. They've spent their lives only among the Eldar, though they carry mannish blood as well. Still, they are smart." He ran through his mind all the times he and Elrohir had fought in battle together. His friend would be difficult to persuade. But still, there was hope. "They will not join at first. That I know for a fact. But as we turn the tide, I think they may see the wisdom in joining the winning side."

In the city below, they could hear the raucousness of daily life at Carn Dûm. Howling wolves, laughter and rage of Hill-men, the ugly speech of orcs all droned on under the steady winter winds of Angmar. The cold began to creep into his bones again. Without the hard training to warm their bodies, Rínior began to shiver.

"Cold?" Aglarwain asked.

"Yes. Are you not?"

"You grow used to this," he said.

Aglarwain stood up and went to the wall to look out. When Rínior joined him, he saw the endless white fields of snow he'd slowly grown accustomed to since being dragged out of Arthedain. Clouds covered the sky. The sun only rarely peaked through, and even then, it lacked warmth.

"I hate it," Aglarwain said. "The wind burns even as it freezes. Much of the year, the snow hides what few crops can be grown during the summer months. Few trees offer safety from the prying eyes of friend or foe."

"Indeed."

"It is this bleak land that the Hill-Men seek to escape," Aglarwain said. He turned to Rínior, face uncharacteristically stern. His grey eyes glinted like steel. "Rhudaur, Arthedain, Cardolan, the Bree-lands. All these are ripe for the taking. Their will is strong."

"And yet I have cleaved my way through many of them," Rínior said.

"Indeed. So let us sharpen them, as we sharpen our other weapons." Aglarwain held out his hand. "Come to the Ettendales with me. Train my men, see the forces I command. And when all is done, when King Arvedui lies dead at the foot of the Witch-king and his forces are scattered, you will rule Arthedain and I will rule Rhudaur." As his hand remained unclasped, he added, "The sooner we win the war, the fewer casualties there will be."

Rínior looked at him. He was struck again at how pure Aglarwain's Dúnedan heritage seemed to be, how regal he could make himself look even when surrounded by such savagery. This man knew what it took to survive. And that was what it would take to win this war.

He shook his hand. "Then let us start now. I have had my fill of this disgusting city."

"You and me both," Aglarwain said, laughing. Then he paused. "I envy you, you know."

It was Rínior's turn to laugh as he gathered up his stuff in the training yard. A handful of Dúnedain of Rhudaur began to filter in to train as well. "Many envy the children of the line of Fëanor."

"Nay, I do not envy that. I have no desire to be of the Eldar," Aglarwain said. "As proud as you are of your elven house, I am proud to be of the Dúnedain. Instead, I envy that even amidst such death in this war, you have had family and friendship."

They reached the exit of the training yard, a small, low arch of dark stone in the walls that cordoned off the space. Rínior turned back. Deep sadness seemed to settle in Aglarwain's expression. He was reminded again of when he'd first seen him before the Barrow. Aglarwain had seen the true cost of war, the bloodshed and despair, in ways few others had.

"Perhaps you will find it," Rínior said. "Perhaps you will not. But there is no chance at fellowship and peace while this war continues. So, as you said, let us win it. And let us win it quickly."

They spent the day preparing to leave. Aglarwain sent word to his battalion in the lower circles to prepare to march by week's end. Food stores had to be gathered, weapons and armor replenished. Rínior had no desire to do such menial work. And indeed, both agreed the less he was seen among the city's circles the better. Orcs were idiots, and might seek to shove a blade in his back without realizing he had the favor of the Witch-king. So instead, he hid himself away in Aglarwain's house. In the darkness, he paced and planned: how to turn an army of ruffians into the perfect soldiers.

When the day came, he rejoiced in silence. The army stood arrayed on the fields of Carn Dûm, roughly a hundred Hill-Men. The sun hid behind clouds, but between the light that escaped them and the torches held by some of the men, they were well lit. Rínior stood beside his horse, a brown stallion gifted to him by the Dunedain of Rhudaur.

"Men of the Hills!" Aglarwain called out, already atop his own red roan. "Brothers in arms! Victors of many battles!"

A cheer went up. Rínior turned from fixing his horse's gear to watch. Under the arch of the great gate of Carn Dûm, he could see them standing in what he supposed passed for formation. Another thing he would need to assist them with.

"We return now to Ettendales, a new ally at our side! The Hero of the North finally bows to the true King of the north."

Meager cheers, half hearted and some angry rather than happy. Rínior couldn't blame them. He'd killed a lot of them the first time around.

"It is time to claim the lands that Arnor kept from your grasp! The new day begins now! We will burn their homesteads. We will take their livestock. Their wealth shall be yours!"

Rínior mounted up as raucous cheering broke out again. He caught Aglarwain's eye as the man finished his speech and rode back down through the ranks of the Hill-Men. After he ordered their march, he turned back.

"A bit showy, but I find it fun," he admitted.

Rínior snickered. "Come. Let us leave this forsaken land."

He looked back only once. From a great distance, he could make out the towering dark spires and greenish-black smoke that had greeted him at his arrival just over a week before. An unnatural chill shot down his spine as the glowing eyes of the Witch-king flashed before his mind. Rínior couldn't breathe. He spurred his horse on, and never looked again.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen - Maedeth

Maedeth shut her eyes against the pain. With each wrap of the bandage, she flinched, and Elladan cringed back. But they needed to get this done. The sun had risen and set twice since the warg attack. Time raced against them.

They hid behind a skeleton of a bush. Boulders and dry grasses dominated this part of Eregion, so close to the feet of the Misty Mountains. They had left behind the holly trees and sweetgrass. Maedeth closed her eyes to find some solace. She found it in the music of distant waterfalls.

The Sirannon flowed from a bubbling spring near the Walls of Hadhodrond. She frowned as the bandaged pinched. Not Hadhodrond, Khazad-dûm. It wouldn't do to call the dwarf kingdom by its Elven name. From the wellspring it flowed down many falls until it reached the wide open lands of Eregion and joined with the River Glanduin. They could not be far now.

"What are you thinking about?" Elladan asked.

Maedeth opened her eyes. She hadn't even realized he'd stopped his ministrations. Her hand sat on his knee, still warm from his embrace despite the cold winds around them. The leafless bush hardly provided shelter. Maedeth sighed and brought her arms in closer.

"Too much," she said. "I think of my brother, I think of Arthedain. I think of the way the winds chill me to the bone. I think of what words I must speak before the towering holly trees." With her good arm, she rubbed her face. "But to be honest, I was trying to allow myself a moment of peace, listening to the Sirannon."

Elladan flashed her a small smile. The early morning sun painted his fair face golden. For a moment he didn't speak, just stared off at the towering mountains. But then he looked back. "Do you hear him?"

"No."

Her stress blocked out any hope of imagining Maglor's harp music in the water. Too much filled her mind. But she had already read off her litany of anxious thoughts to Elladan and would not do it again.

"Come," he said, standing up from the ground with a small groan. "We should get moving. The sooner we leave these barren lands the better."

Maedeth couldn't agree more. Her knees ached as she accepted Elladan's help up. They'd allowed themselves a night's rest at last after their relentless flight through Eregion. She watched Elladan speaking softly to the horses and smiled. They were tired too.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yes."

They mounted up. Maedeth allowed him to take point, following behind at a steady pace. It wasn't long before they reached the Sirannon.

It flowed with speed, but reached no more than twenty feet across at the road. Maedeth could see the stones beneath its crystal clear surface. She could only imagine how cold the waters ran. Snow covered all the peaks they could see.

The paving stones were broken and covered with dirt and dried grasses. But Maedeth knew once it had been a great road, stretching from the perpetually open doors of Khazad-dûm to the great city of the Jewel-smiths,Ost-in-Edhil. Both kingdoms had grown in wealth and fame.

She glanced around as they rode on. Now the elves lay dead in the ground, their forges cold and towers destroyed. Had Celebrimbor known the destruction the War of the Elves and Sauron would bring to Middle Earth? Only the beginning of Sauron's wrath.

Maedeth sighed. At least Sauron had been defeated. But darkness never slept forever, and the evil that Morgoth had sung into the world at its beginning reared its ugly head with this Witch-king of Angmar now. Hopefully King Durin would understand the urgency of their need.

They reached the first of several waterfalls at noon. The shining sunlight stood in contrast to her foreboding heart. Beautiful carven stairs led up straight in front of them beside the cascading water. But that was not their road. Their path lay to the left.

"Masterful craftsmanship, even so unused to this day," Elladan said.

She nodded. "It is a privilege to see it."

They turned their horses away from the Stair Falls to the main road. Wide enough for two carts to go side by side, she imagined the days when Celebrimbor had engaged in trade with their dwarven neighbors. Hopefully King Durin would also enjoy remembering the past.

Maedeth paused at the top. Red evening sunlight fell upon the great Walls of Khazad-dûm. They towered into the sky, sheer as any building wall but higher than a towering fortress. A grassy plain stretched a few hundred feet beyond them, fed by the gentle source waters of the Sirannon. Even in winter it seemed somehow more alive than the rest of Eregion. But along the wall, only two towering holly trees marked any point of interest beyond the incredible walls themselves.

"Maedeth, wait."

She turned. Elladan circled his horse to face away from the walls, blocking her view. But also blocking any view from walls. Smart. She gave him a tight, half smile.

"Do you feel alright?" he asked. Elladan looked her up and down, hesitating for a brief moment, but then he bit his lip and carried on. "Before we get closer to the walls, where they will surely be watching unseen, I wanted to check."

"You are kind, Elladan, to do this." She smiled. "Though I fear I can say only that I am as alright as can be hoped. Much relies on the words I choose before these doors. The snow covers the High Pass and the Pass of Caradhras. If we cannot get through Hadhodrond, we must backtrack and ride for the Gap of Calenardhon. But that journey is long and hard." She frowned, facing the walls with a resolute, deep breath. "It does not matter how I feel. Arthedain relies on me."

Elladan watched a moment longer. But he nodded, turning his horse aside, and allowing her access to the road first. She offered him one last, small smile as she passed.

The grey rock turned red in the dying light. Maedeth ignored the ill omen. She tried to imagine it instead as a blessing from her ancestors, red for the House of Fëanor. But it brought little comfort.

Maedeth dismounted a ways back from the holly trees. She knew the gate lay between them, a legendary dwarf gate invisible when closed. But she also knew the password for entry. Much knowledge lay in Elrond's libraries.

She hoped that approaching on foot would show deference to the dwarves. Aside from a few temporary alliances, the relations between elves and dwarves were fraught, to put it mildly. Still, two successful alliances belonged to her own family. She hoped the dwarves remembered them.

Maedeth stood between the trees alone. The Walls towered in front of her some fifteen feet away. Elladan, holding the lead ropes for both their steeds, gave her a tiny nod from where he waited. She turned back to where the doors must have been hidden.

"Greetings, guardians of the Deeps of Arda. I am Lady Maedeth, emissary of Arthedain." She paused. Her heart raced. This was wrong. It was too formal. She was too formal.

"Protectors of Khazad-dûm, I ask that you listen to my plea for but a moment. I seek an audience with your king, Durin the Sixth, in memory of my cousin Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion. Once there was great friendship between our peoples, and though I serve the Men of Arthedain and not a great elven kingdom, I hope that memory of our alliances of old might spur you to act."

Taking her unused sword from her sheath, she did not hesitate to toss it to the ground. There was no need for it here. Or so she hoped. Then she drew her new dagger. Maedeth looked down at the Fëanorian star and multifaceted ruby. She held it up, allowing the last light of sunset to strike the gem and send a dance of colors against the wall.

"I also call upon the friendship of my forefather, Caranthir Fëanorion, and your ancestors, the dwarves of Nogrod and Belegost. Long before Eregion grew in power beside Khazad-dûm, Dor Caranthir and the Blue Mountains enriched one another throughout the First Age of this world."

Maedeth caught her breath. The silence of the stones and the chill of the air around them froze her heart for a moment. What if this didn't work? What if the dwarves refused her? She knew the word but what if they were met with spears and axes instead of handshakes.

"So in the name of Celebrimbor and Eregion, and in the name of Caranthir and Thargelion, I speak the password of an age ago."

She paused. She breathed. She closed her eyes. It had to work. It would work.

"Mellon."

Maedeth opened her eyes. She lowered her arm, sheathing her Fëanorian dagger and staring as the last light of day faded in the West. She did not dare turn to look at Elladan. She had eyes only for the silent wall between the holly trees.

It cracked. The sound reminded her of the most beautiful choirs in Arthedain, so excited was she to hear it. A grin spread from ear to ear as a great weight left her. It worked. The doors had opened. She would see Khazad-dûm tonight. Maedeth turned to Elladan. She saw him grinning as well. They were going in. She only hoped it would be as friends, and not as prisoners.

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen - Rínior

Rínior stared down into the open high moor in silence from the edge of the pine trees above. Aglarwain's crumbling citadel sat in the center of the Ettenmoor highlands. It towered like a dark, man-made spire of the mountains amidst what must have once been beautiful, though ominous, foggy moorlands.

Nothing was beautiful now. Rínior pulled his cloak closer to himself as he leaned against a tree alone. The moors were full of war tents. The foothills of the Misty Mountains held towering Giant Halls from whence Aglarwain's garrison of trolls came. Here in the pinewoods, the women of the Hills scavenged for food while being stalked by the great bears and cats of the Coldfells.

Rínior missed Elrohir. They had hunted in forests such as these many times, two half elves against all the servants of the Enemy. But years had passed, and the Enemy had taken more than it had given. And as Rínior glanced back into the woods, to the corpse of the young Hill girl he'd found half eaten by a great cat, he knew he would not allow his own daughter to fall like this.

In life her face must have been pale. But now it was white as snow, splattered with blood that had spurted from her neck when the cat's fangs stabbed deep. Rínior had killed the cat as it dragged the body into the tree. Dangling like a mouse in the fangs of a housecat, the body had looked at him unseeing then, just as it did now.

The body stank of death. He tasted the rancid stench on his tongue but he couldn't pull himself away. Rínior had come up to the overlook searching for a good view of the dale. Instead he found himself facing death, yet again.

He left the body in the leaf rot.

The trees thinned as he climbed down into the Ettendale. Cold wind whipped into his face as he set his sights on Minas Eglan, the Tower of the Forsaken, as Aglarwain called his crumbling fortress. None knew its original name.

Men straightened in their armor as he strode through their red war tents. In the week since his arrival, Rínior had lost no time in beginning their training. If they had not already feared the bite of his sword, they did now.

Aglarwain encouraged it. He bore no love for his soldiers. A means to an end. Rínior had to admit that he had been right; they were more similar than he would've liked. Even a bastard son of the royal house of Isildur stood far superior to these men of the hills.

Three more hill men stood and saluted. Rínior paused, hearing a half laugh come from the tent behind them. They held his gaze for a moment before shivering and looking away.

"Move aside," Rínior said.

They parted. Beyond them sat an older man, black beard long and braided with wooden beads. He stirred a cooking pot with one hand and with the other, stroked the hilt of his sword. At Rínior's approach, he turned his head up to look. Gritted, crumbling teeth shined in a mocking grin.

"Do you not stand when your superior addresses you?" Rínior asked.

The man gave another short laugh, letting go of the ladle. "I don't stand when the butcher of my sons addresses me."

Rínior had killed his sons, this man had killed the sons of Arthedain. It was a circle, a cycle of death. A cycle he intended to crush and destroy with the end of the war. But for now, it was still a cycle.

"Shut it," hissed another man, one of those who had stood at his passing.

"No, no," Rínior said. He held up his hand for silence. "I've killed many men. I've been killing men for five hundred years. Do you wish me to answer for that?"

The seated man gritted his rotting teeth again, harder. He rose off the ground, hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. "I do."

"Good. Come with me, then. And grab a sword."

Silence fell around them. Like a shockwave it turned men's heads and rippled through the camp. Rínior turned and continued on towards the foot of the hill where what remained of Minas Eglan. By the time they reached the open field beyond the tents, a great crowd had gathered.

Aglarwain joined him from the path to the gate. He frowned. "Problem?"

"One easily solved," Rínior said.

He turned back around. The older Hill-man brandished his weapon without a word. But Rínior held up his hand.

"What is your name?"

"Svarig."

"Svarig wishes for me to answer for my many crimes against your people," Rínior said, raising his voice so as many of the gathered soldiers as possible would hear him. "Let him try. And if he falls, let another take up his sword."

Rínior drew his shining steel blade. He pointed it at Svarig. The man rushed him. Rínior blocked, swung twice, and cut off his head. It tumbled away.

"Another?" he asked, pushing the body down the hill.

Two more rushed him. Rínior caught their swings together. He heaved upwards. Spinning, Rining drove his blade through the first. He ducked under another swing. Then he cut open the throat of the other.

"Another?"

No one moved. Rínior pushed the bodies away with his foot before staring out at the growing mass of Hill-men. He felt warm breath behind him. Aglarwain didn't step in, though, and so Rínior waited to see who would answer his challenge.

Flapping banners atop war tents snapped in the wind. But no one spoke. No one moved. Rínior smiled. He sheathed his sword.

"Then let it be done. We have a war to win, Hill-men of Rhudaur. I bear no love for you. You bear no love for me. But it is not necessary to love those you are aligned with." Rínior sheathed his sword. "Let me make you the deadliest force West of the Misty Mountains so that none may stand between you and verdant lands for your children."

It started with one. A single arm rapped against a single chest, like the beat of a living war drum. Then another, and another, until Rínior looked out at a sea of Hill-men beating their chests for him. He felt his face flush. His smile grew. This is what it felt to feel alive even in the face of death.

"Captains of the Hills. Report to me in the morning," Rínior said, before he turned away and left the Hill-men to their own devices.

Aglarwain's smirk grew just a smidge as they faced each other. "Handy bit of speech that was," he said. "Though don't go killing our whole army please."

"I won't need to," Rínior said.

"Come, dinner is prepared."

Rínior followed him up the path to the gate of Minas Eglan. The fortress was small, holding only a few hundred at best. It reminded Rínior of Fornost in architecture. But even Fornost had not yet crumbled into the state of disrepair of Minas Eglan.

Windows were smashed, walls filled with cracks. The stonework had been neglected for generations upon generations. But Aglarwain had told him that his father's father had reclaimed it and begun putting it to good use.

A great chill filled the dining hall. Featureless wooden tables lined the hall. But only two chairs sat there with meager place settings. Aglarwain sat at the head. Rínior sat beside him.

"Another two mountain trolls came out of the foothills today," Aglarwain said. He dug into the roasted pheasant. "That makes twenty three at our disposal."

"Ugly things," Rínior said.

Aglarwain laughed. "Indeed. Their hides stink like rotten flesh. But the Mountain Trolls are useful. They can carry much and break down defenses better than any company of men. I only wish we had more. It is a pity that the hill trolls cannot withstand the sun."

"But a blessing for our noses."

They both laughed. It echoed in the decaying halls. For a moment, Rínior wondered how long it had been since these stones had heard mirth. How many Dunedain had once walked these halls? And before them before mankind swarmed the earth, how many elves had perished in the moors?

"How long until you will feel ready to strike against the Arthedain lines?" Aglarwain asked.

Rínior turned back to him. "I'm not sure. It depends on how quickly I can train a company to my standards. From there, we'll test them out along the Eastern border."

"Western. It is our Western front."

Right. It would've been Arthedain's eastern. Rínior just kept eating, not dignifying Aglarwain's correction with a response.

"Soon," he finally said. "I want to strike soon."

Aglarwain nodded. He sat back, rubbing the grease off his face with a hand cloth. "I am glad you have chosen to join me here, Rínior. With our strength combined, we can win this war quickly and end the needless suffering."

"And when the war is over, you think the Witch-king will turn his gaze from us?" he asked. Rínior had thought about this long and hard since their journey from Angmar. All his hopes rested on this.

"Yes. The Witch-king desires domination, not utter ruin." Aglarwain leaned forward, lowering his voice. "He wants the Palantir, and the death of Arvedui's line. We can do both."

The Palantir. Indeed, since the Witch-king had mentioned it at Carn Dûm, it had filled Rínior's mind. If he could claim the Palantir for just a moment, for a brief time before handing it over to the king, he could search far and wide for a Silmaril. It had to be coming back. The dream had to be true. He needed the Silmaril. I belonged to him. To his daughter.

It had to be true.

"You know the Palantiri are in Fornost?" Aglarwain asked.

Rínior nodded. "Yes."

"Good. Then our task is easy. We press the advantage, hard. We wipe out the army of Arthedain and surround the city," Aglarwain said, "forcing their hand. Either they will starve, or they will bow to you."

"Yes."

"And why wouldn't they bow?" Aglarwain pointed out, not breaking eye contact even as he lowered his voice yet again. "You are the Hero of the North. You have done everything in your power to keep the people safe. Even those you far exceed in worth."

Rínior nodded. Five hundred years of keeping them safe. It was time to try a different tactic. The soldiers would not give up their posts. Men were stubborn. Rínior knew that. But with their wives and daughters on the line? Rínior would do anything for his own family. He would even bow to the Witch-king for them. Why wouldn't the others?

"Two weeks," Rínior said.

"What?"

"We strike at the Western front within two weeks," Rínior said. "And we strike hard."

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen - Maedeth

Maedeth felt Elladan stand behind her as the West-gate opened between the holly trees. For a moment all anxiety left her. A blissful thrill filled her chest until all she could do was smile. Descending the cavern steps came a host of dwarves in black and gold armor, faces shielded by great helms and wielding axes as sharp as any elven blade. Four flanked them to either side.

The ninth dwarf wore no helm. His braided red hair had beads of onyx and pearl throughout and his beard tucked into a black belt around his rotund waist. Instead of a single-bladed axe he held a double-bladed great axe that seemed almost like a halberd.

Maedeth released a deep breath. She took a step forward and bowed low. "Lady Maedeth of Arthedain, at your service. And this is Elladan," she said as he did the same, "of Rivendell."

"At your service as well," he said.

"Foli, son of Moghi, at yours and your families'."

Foli looked them up and down, allowing silence to stretch between them even as the last light of day fell away. Then he turned to look at their horses. "You spoke many flowery words, elf, if that is what you are." He turned back to them. "But they piqued my interest. Our doors have been sealed for centuries uncounting, and yet you invoked great names and a password long thought forgotten by other races."

Maedeth nodded. "We would not disturb your great kingdom if we did not have deep need," she said. "Please, we seek but an audience with your king. May we enter?"

"You may." Foli stood aside for a moment. "But your horses may not. They will not climb the stairs, for they are too steep for such beasts. Leave them here in the meadow before the Walls."

Elladan frowned. "Can you ensure their safety? They are dear to us and we will need them for our return journey, whenever that may be."

"Do you think us so callous, master elf, as to force you to abandon your steeds to death in the night?" Foli scoffed. "And you think yourselves wise. Nay, while dwarves still draw breath within these halls, evil does not dare enter this hollow for the power of dwarven spells."

Maedeth turned to Elladan and nodded. They removed their packs from the horses and shoulder them on their own backs. Elladan spoke words of comfort and blessing to them before turning them lose, leaving their harnesses and saddles upon the grass.

"Lead the way, Master Foli," Maedeth said.

The dwarves formed ranks, two pair behind Foli before them, and two pair behind them at the rear. Even as they entered the mountain, Maedeth heard the tinkling of music far away from them. Were there instruments, or simply the beautiful drumming of hammers on anvils?

Darkness surrounded them as the Doors clicked shut. Maedeth couldn't breathe. She felt her heart pounding as she grasped for Elladan's hand in the darkness beside her. She found it instantly. Her foot paused on the next step.

Then the darkness fled. Soft, pale blue light filled the hall around them. The floors were of smooth stone, without crack or blemish, and stretched from left to right at least a hundred feet. Maedeth saw, at the top step beside Elladan, couldn't find her voice. Great holly trees towered up to meet the ceiling above them, made of crafted stone and red rubies. They formed the pillars that kept the ceiling aloft, from whence the crystal lamps now lighting their path were hung.

A hundred paces ahead of them sat the foot of another, much grander stair. Thirty dwarves in full armor could have marched up abreast without issue. And indeed, most dwarves she could see were soldiers clothed in various amounts of armor. She estimated fifty more here beyond Foli and his men. There were tables, benches, and a couple of cots made of wood and cloth around the open hall. All of them stared.

"Up the stairs, to Durin's Way," Foli said, "is our path. Then on towards the Twenty-First Hall."

Maedeth nodded. "Thank you for your assistance, Master Foli."

"I am assisting my King, not you."

With a small breath, Maedeth tried not to let the dwarf's sharp tongue bother her. She fell back into step with Elladan and focused on taking in the brilliance of Khazad-dûm. Upon the stairs, everything was intricately carved and maintained like any building on the surface whether of elven or mannish design. But as they finally crested the two hundred steps, they entered an area that felt more alive, more natural, and much, much busier.

She could hear the tinkling of hammers much more clearly as they entered what seemed to be an active mining operation. They heard gruff voices speaking in Khuzdul far below along with hammers and chains and flowing water. Untapped ore veins of gold and precious gems lined their walk. Whether the dwarves had left these intact due to how beautiful it made the walk or because the materials were unwanted, she did not know. Nevertheless, it took her breath away.

This first part of their march remained the most treacherous. The dwarves did not slow their pace, and Maedeth had no desire to beg it of them, so they did not rest of what had to have been nearly a day. They passed many arches and paths going in different directions both up and down and to either side. Whenever they passed dwarves with carts of precious materials they were told to move aside, to stand against the walls. Maedeth did so gladly.

At last they came out of the mines. The transition passed slowly. At first Maedeth noted that the ground was finer; instead of hard rock that could withstand the pass of massive, stone-laden carts, they came to marble floors polished smooth. Then the walls expanded. Maedeth saw great statues of dwarven soldiers on pedestals guarding the thoroughfare they now walked.

"This is Durin's Way. We shall reach the Twenty-First Hall and from there, we will see the King," Foli said.

From that point, the architecture only grew in grandness by the hour. Lamps of gold, pink, and blue sparkled from the ceiling, or splashed their hues from polished mirrors up into the towering heights above. Maedeth and Elladan did not speak. It didn't feel right. This place belonged to the dwarves, and to speak without being spoken to seemed impolite.

Ordered chaos met them at the great arch into the Twenty-First Hall. Shining daylight from beyond the mountain lit the whole chamber. Maedeth had not imagined such an open space could exist underground. She could barely see the other end of the hall filled with tree-like columns. But here it was, filled with dwarves at merchant stalls hawking their wares and haggling over prices.

She understood none of it. The dwarves kept Khuzdul close to their hearts. She doubted she would ever learn it, though she had to admit to do so would be thrilling. As she stared at the bustling life beneath the Misty Mountains she forgot, for a moment, about the war outside.

"Come, elves. King Durin awaits."

They exited the Twenty-First Hall by a different exit. Again, the architecture changed. Maedeth understood now, that with each change in the design they entered into older and older parts of Khazad-dûm. Down they went, stepping on polished floors that reflected the pale golden lamps all around them.

The sound of crashing water filled their ears. It wasn't long until they entered into a hall towering hundreds of feet above them. And yet they could only walk three abreast. Six massive waterfalls fell from ceiling to floor and down below, to where, she couldn't begin to guess. The spray cooled her in the ever-warming caverns. Maedeth smiled, closing her eyes.

No words could be spoken in the Hall of Falling Water. Elladan stood beside her, with Foli just in front. Their eight guards trailed behind in pairs. At the far end of the hall stood a small doorway.

Maedeth lost her breath beyond it. Crystal and onyx floors glowed in the light of white lamps. They stood on a black path that led forward past rows and rows of dwarven soldiers until at the end, up many steps, sat a mithril and ebony throne. The sparkle nearly blinded her. But her eyes adjusted and she saw more clearly the figure on the throne.

King Durin VI, Lord of Khazad-dûm, lounged back, crowned and armored. His grey beard fell in intricate braids nearly to his feet. At the foot of the black steps stood another dwarf, younger with red hair and a smaller circlet. He crossed his arms and watched them carefully. Two dwarven sentinels stood to either side with long great axes.

Maedeth stepped beyond the last pair of guards. She lowered her eyes, curtsying deep. She heard Elladan bow as well.

"King Durin, Lord of Khazad-dûm. It is a great honor to speak with you. I am Lady Maedeth of Arthedain."

"Tell me, Lady Maedeth of Arthedain, why you sought me without invitation after it has been so long without friendship between our folk."

She frowned, nodding. "Too long has it been since Arthedain-"

The king laughed. She couldn't tell if it was mirth or scorn in his voice. But he too shook his head. "Nay, Lady Maedeth, I do not speak of Arthedain. We have never sought the friendship of the Men of the North. You are allowed here before me because of your elven half. You are a half elf of the House of Fëanor, are you not?" He pointed to the dagger at her side. "Or so my guards informed me you claimed at the West-gate."

"Indeed, I am. Though I do not often seek the claim of birthright," she said. "My twin brother is Rinior, the Hero of the North, and it is he who exemplifies that line best."

King Durin nodded. "And yet you used it here, because it was convenient?"

"Nay, because it is necessary." Maedeth spoke clearer, refusing to shy from the king's hard questioning. "I am both of the House of Fëanor and the emissary of Arthedain. I am here with my protector, Lord Elladan of Rivendell, son of Lord Elrond, to beg you for aid."

"Beg?" asked the king.

"Yes. I do not exaggerate our need, King Durin." Maedeth took a step forward, causing the sentinels to lower their axes in front of the red-haired dwarf and the steps. "We are beset by evils on many sides. The Witch-king of Angmar has his eyes on our lands, our people. And we cannot stand alone."

The dwarf at the foot of the stairs spoke. "You are alone? None are there to help you?"

"This is Náin, Prince of Khazad-dûm," said the King. "He asks a good question. Only the dwarves can help you then?"

Maedeth paused. She bit her lip. "We are asking many, my lords. Aranarth, Prince of Arthedain, rides to the Grey Havens. Elrond, lord of Rivendell, pledges what meager aid he can spare. But it is not enough."

"Greedy, aren't we?" said King Durin. He played with a ring on his finger, twirling it around again and again and again. "Dwarves have fought for the causes of elves many times throughout the ages of Arda."

"Indeed! There have been many alliances," Maedeth agreed. She knew she came dangerously close to cutting off the king, but she had to seize the moment. "Dwarves fought beside High King Fingon. They fought beside Finrod. They fought beside all the Princes of the Noldor against the dragons of old."

"And many dwarves have fallen for elven causes," he snapped. King Durin pointed to the soldiers all around them in the throne room. "They died by the thousands in your War of the Jewels. They died by the hundreds trying to aid Celebrimbor of Eregion. For this, we had to shut our gates or be destroyed by Sauron the Deceiver." He scoffed. "And now you beg for more dwarven lives. We do not live as long as elves, but neither do we die as soon as men. I will not send more of my folk to their dooms."

"My King, please."

"Nay, we will not go. We have our own duties. We must increase the mines, we must dig ever deeper," King Durin said. "We have greatness here in these halls of our fathers, built before the Noldor fled back to these shores. We will not share it freely."

"What of trades?" Náin asked. He looked from the crestfallen face of Maedeth up to his father. "Perhaps we have weapons to sell?"

Durin laughed. "Like you could afford it. I have heard how far Arthedain has fallen, a small remnant of the greatness of Arnor before it."

Maedeth held her breath to keep tears from falling. She had to succeed. They had to find aid. Any aid would help. But they could not afford this dwarf king's price. She knew it, just as he did.

"No. Arthedain cannot afford our aid," King Durin said. He lounged back again, as if tiring of the conversation. "Lady Maedeth, it is for the legacy of your House that we allowed you and your protector to enter. And it is for this legacy that you will be allowed to rest, and then to leave. Should you be leaving by the East-gate, it is for that legacy that we will grant you leave back in again when your task is done." He shook his head. "But you will not speak of this to me again."

Maedeth bowed as she thanked him, forcing herself to look away from his resplendent mithril throne. She would not let the tears fall. She could not afford that. They still had work to do. They had to seek an audience with King Amroth of Lórinand. Turning on her heels, she passed Elladan and together they followed Foli back into the Hall of Falling Water. And only there, when the rushing waterfalls would mask her every sound, did she allow herself a moment to grieve.

Chapter Text

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, he 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.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nineteen - Maedeth

Maedeth opened her eyes, staring up at the void-dark ceiling speckled with tiny white quartz. In the darkness of the dwarven guest chambers, she could almost pretend she stared up at a night sky. But she didn't. And she needed to.

Her eyes stung. Maedeth rolled onto her side as she sat up in bed. There would be time for crying later, time for self pity over her failure to secure promises of aid from King Durin. She placed a gentle hand on a smooth blue gem on her side table. Soft light bathed the room in a gentle sea-storm blue grey.

Piece by piece, she pulled on her traveling gear. Lórinand still lay beyond the cavern walls. She'd only been there twice before, both times when much younger and a little less weary of the world. Maedeth tried not to consider how five hundred years may have changed her ability to fall in love with the Golden Wood again.

"Elladan?"

She forced her voice to go above the whisper she wished it could stay at. He had taken an adjacent guest room, connected by a small common area. Moments later, he appeared at her door. Already dressed clean greys and greens, sword strapped to his belt, she could've sworn he looked almost excited.

"Yes?"

She walked over, poking at the polished six pointed star clasping his cloak. Maedeth smiled. "Ready to leave these Halls then?"

Elladan shrugged. "Were we on a kinder errand, perhaps I could enjoy Hadhodrond more than I am at this moment. And I cannot lie," he said, unable to keep from grinning, "I am quite excited to see my family again. It's been years."

"Too many."

Maedeth had seen Arwen a few decades prior, but it had been longer since she'd seen Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. She guessed it was much the same for Elladan. As they extinguished the dwarven crystal lights and stepped out into the main street of Khazad-dûm to await their escort, she allowed herself to look forward to it.

Much of the heavy lifting would hopefully already be done. King Amroth had become good friends with Galadriel and Celeborn. Friendships again strengthened between Silvan, Sindar, and Noldor alike. As they followed their newest guide, a young dwarf wielding two small axes on his back, she focused on the next task.

"We are nearing the Bridge of Khazad-dûm," said the guide. "From there, you will go across the First Hall out into the Dimrill Dale beyond."

Nothing prepared Maedeth for the immensity of the chasm awaiting them. There was a bustle all around them, not of miners and craftsmen but of families and fellowship. And yet beyond them rose a black pit straight down and stretching as far as she could see through the bones of the earth. From where they stood looking down upon it, fear rose in her chest at the thought of crossing such a wide span over what she now realized was such a thin bridge.

The bridge was impossible to miss. Illuminated by the sun cascading through high windows in the First Hall beyond, it jutted out like a long claw made of grey stone. Two dwarves stood on either side of either entrance to the bridge, armored in the same gear as the royal guard of King Durin VI. Sunlight glittered off their blades.

"Take the bridge with care, but trust in its stonework," their guide said. "You will cross without concern."

She wished she had his confidence. They passed out of the winding streets of carved out homesteads and reached the flat stone shelf beside the chasm where several children played and minstrels made sweet music with harps and bells.

Her heart pounded. She had eyes only for the bridge. Their guide spoke to the guards standing at the entrance in Khuzdul. Maedeth turned to Elladan, face flushing as she tried to catch her breath. The darkness below would surely swallow her. She just knew it-

"I will go first," Elladan said.

Before Maedeth could protest or thank him, he bowed to their guide, and stepped onto the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. Only one could walk abreast at a time, a safety measure for the inhabitants of the mountain but treacherous for any with less sure footing. Elladan looked both far too large for the dwarven bridge and far too small against the black pit for her to ease her fears. But what was there to do, but go on?

Maedeth stepped forward. She bowed to the dwarves. They bowed back. Some ten paces ahead walked Elladan, a constant source of light amongst the darkness. She focused on the grey of his cloak.

She could've kissed the ground when they reached the other side had she not been representing powers more important than herself. It had been days since they'd seen much sunlight, but cold and piercing shined a late afternoon sun through the Eastern windows. She closed her eyes and smiled.

"Are you ready to see the green earth again?" Elladan asked.

"Am I ever," she said. Maedeth opened her eyes and grinned.

The Great Gate stood wide open at the top of the meandering stairs. The later afternoon sun melted the last remnants of a snowfall in the Dimrill Dale. Maedeth's eyes widened as she took in the beauty. Muddy but still green grass accompanied a small road down and away from the Great Gates. Beyond that lay the beginnings of the Silverlode and the Golden Wood. But the dark lake in the valley held all her attention.

"We should look in the lake," Elladan said.

She nodded. "Indeed. I would pay some homage to Durin's Stone before we move on. Perhaps it will gain us the goodwill of the dwarves."

Maedeth had never looked in Mirrormere before. As they wandered down the road, forgetting for a moment their haste, she felt a deep excitement. How many had looked in those waters? Waters that had stood in the crook of the Misty Mountains since the days before sun and moon?

They came upon Durin's Stone. It stood about Elladan's height, though the crowned king's face had long since weathered. She wondered why they did not repair it? Perhaps they thought it better to preserve this craftsmanship than replace it with their own.

Neither spoke. A gentle breeze moved through the valley, but the lake barely stirred. How many had stood before this monument before? They were so small in this wide world, even those with the blood of Noldorin royalty.

Maedeth moved to the bank of the Mirrormere. The dark blue waters looked freezing, though no ice formed to cover the beauty below, sparkling like with stars or perhaps shavings of fine metals and gems. As Elladan stood beside her, she looked at his reflection. They'd both washed and dressed in their finest that morning. Excitement glittered in his silver grey eyes.

She mirrored that, as they approached the edges of Lórinand. As the golden glow of evening bathed the Mellyrn trees in warmth, she listened for the singers. Their songs floated on the breeze from deep in the forest. Her heart lifted. She felt almost young again.

"Welcome, Lord Elladan of Rivendell, and welcome Lady Maedeth of Arthedain."

They found a handful of elves waiting for them at a river crossing. Their hair colors ranged from brown to blond, each in simple, natural colors with bows of yew. All of them smiled and bowed. The one who had spoken stepped forward.

"I am Elanorion. Allow us to accompany you to Cerin Amroth," he said. "If we walk through the night we can arrive by midday!"

Maedeth grinned. She let out a sigh of relief. She had not anticipated running into trouble getting into the kingdom but as they graciously accepted the offer of escort, she realized some part of her felt a shadow's grip.

They marched mostly in silence. The minstrels of Amroth's kingdom could be heard through all the trees and over any stream, a lullaby by night and a rousing anthem in the day. She focused on the beauty around her, the protection she could feel, and tried to breathe.

It had been too long since she'd just been able to breathe.

"Do they know to expect you?" Elanorion asked, as the sun climbed to mid morning. "Your names are of course known to us on the borders but not your task."

"Likely not," Maedeath said. "But I am eager to treat with King Amroth. Thank you for all your help."

"Of course. And Lord Elladan, your sister is here as well. She has been tutoring some of the children in the songs of Rivendell," Elanorion said. "My own daughter among them."

Elladan grinned. They came to stand at the foot of Cerin Amroth, the massive hill rising through the golden trees crowned with a simple, but beautiful, elven structure. "I am glad of it!"

"Follow me."

Elanorion led them up the hill. Under the King's Talan in the highest tree upon Cerin Amroth sat a garden filled with flowers, bushes, and running water. Their escort showed them in through a trellised gate. Maedeth grinned and thanked him.

"Enjoy your stay," he said.

Maedeth turned back to the garden. At the center stood a pedestal with a basin, surrounded by four elves. King Amroth sat upon a bench, running a hand over his mouth. Celeborn and Galadriel eyed the basin. Alone, to the side, Arwen wept.

Elladan rushed forward. He went to his sister immediately, speaking words of comfort or confusion, Maedeth couldn't tell. The shadow that had held her heart returned with vengeance. Instead of creeping down her spine, it shot through her like lightning in a thunderstorm.

Celeborn took Amroth aside, glancing their way only once. But Galadriel looked up from the basin and straight at Maedeth. She frowned.

"It is a grave hour that brings you to the Golden Wood, Maedeth." Her voice stayed just above a whisper, eyes wide as she stared unblinking at her approach.

Maedeth slowed her pace. All hours were grave these days. "Doom awaits us in Arthedain. What doom has befallen this kingdom?"

Galadriel closed her eyes. She shivered for a moment, before reaching out a hand. "Come. Do you wish to see?"

See? Maedeth glanced at the basin. Galadriel explained how it worked, the new Mirror she had gifted to King Amroth as a token of friendship between their peoples. She had woven some of the magic of Melian she had learned long ages before in Doriath and Menegroth.

"I fear what you will see," Galadriel said.

Elladan looked over from his still weeping sister, who would say nothing. "Speak plainly, please!"

"I am, Elladan."

"I'll look."

Maedeth did not hesitate any longer. She'd made the decision. She would see the Doom Galadriel spoke of. The choice made that could not be unmade.

Her tears fell before she saw Rínior. The splashed into the water, rippling its surface until she saw the clear, sharp eyes of her brother reflected back. She saw the twisting of his blade, the rivers of blood through the Weather Hills. She saw the darkness in his heart and she wept.

Then she heard the words. His clash with Elrohir. His ruthless abandon. Each slam of his steel blade on armor and shield. She heard the tearing of flesh and the rending of clothes. She witnessed the spirit of fire overtake him.

"What is this?" Elladan said, whispering from the other side of the mirror. He too had seen it. "What has he done?"

Maedeth's mouth ran dry. Her eyes darkened for a moment. The shadow of dread filled her whole body. She knew what he had done. And for a moment, she understood it. He wanted to end the war. The endless war, the war they had inherited and been told to fight for five hundred years. He was ending it.

"'Tears unnumbered ye shall shed'," Galadriel said, bringing up the first line of the Doom of Mandos. The Doom of the House of Fëanor. The doom of their house. The curse of her life.

Celeborn returned, without King Amroth. "We must send word to Rivendell and Arthedain," he said. "The wrath of the house of Fëanor is not to be ignored."

But Maedeth still stared at her crying face in the now simple water basin. Red hair, beautifully braided that morning, mocked her. Her eyes matched her brother's. What was the point now? Why did they seek out allies when her own brother tried to bring ruin down on Arthedain?

"Maedeth."

She looked up at Elladan. Tears streamed down his face. Her heart crumbled; Rínior had been dear not only to her. They'd watched Elrohir flee, anger and agony on his face. Elladan covered his mouth, strangling back the tears. Tiniel needed them. Mirien needed them. The North needed them. Numbness settled in the pit of her stomach.

In a thin whisper, she finally spoke.

"We need to go home."

Chapter Text

Part Two | Chapter Twenty - Maedeth

T.A. 1973

Ten Years Later

Maedeth stood half in shadow under an archway, blocking out the cold winds of Fornost as well as the unfriendly glances of the occasional passing soldier. Alone she could think. In the citadel itself she was beset by matters of war unending. But here in the training yard there was only one thing that mattered.

Steel clashed. In a muddy training circle, Mírien grunted as she stepped back two steps, trying desperately to parry Prince Arveldir's strikes. Dawn's light bathed the still chilly spring morning. Maedeth wrapped her brown shall closer.

"Keep your arm up," Arveldir said. "There you go!"

Arveldir stood half a head taller than Mírien. Much had changed in the decade since Arvedui's coronation, not least the little ten year old prince who Queen Firiel had put to bed early that night.

Of all in Fornost, he scorned Rínior's house the least. Arveldir had grown up with Mírien, the same age and nearly as adventurous. When he had offered to train her, she had taken him up on the offer immediately.

"Now, watch your feet."

"How should I watch my feet and your blade?"

Maedeth almost smiled. It had taken months for her to approve of Mírien's decision to learn to defend herself. Somedays, Maedeth worried for the blood in her veins. But the orcs were coming for them, Rínior at their head, and Maedeth knew she would not be there to always protect her niece.

Another gust of cold air hit her under the stone alcove. Maedeth shivered. When would the warmth return? It seemed in the north that it had been cold forever. The flowers had yet to bloom, the butterflies remained in hiding.

"Head up! Head up!"

Mírien groaned. "I'm trying!"

Maedeth watched her niece's strikes harden. She moved faster, less accurately, angrier. Maedeth took a deep breath. She released her grip on her shawl and moved out from under the wall.

But a horn at the gate distracted them. Arveldir and Mírien stopped their spar, glancing left to where the sound of hooves on cobblestones grew louder and louder. Maedeth pulled her shawl closer again as she stood in the sunlight to see who returned.

The upper gates were hauled open. Three horsemen rode in. Prince Aranarth led them, his rich brown hair tangled with dirt and little twigs. Behind him came Elladan and Elrohir, nearly as disheveled. All their horses panted in the cold as stablehands retrieved their reins.

Dismounting, Aranarth glanced from Maedeth to Arveldir and Mírien. He frowned, and then gestured to his brother. "Take Mírien back up to the citadel. We'll be there shortly."

"Did you find him?" Mírien asked, pushing past Arveldir. "Please-"

But Maedeth cut her off before Aranarth could. "Mírien, do as the Prince asked."

"But I deserve to know!" Mírien insisted. "He's my father!"

"And he is my brother. But we all have our parts to play," Maedeth said. She placed a hand on Mírien's shoulder, feeling the light leather armor that Arveldir had commissioned for her. "Go. See to your mother. I'll come by later."

Mírien glowered. But she nodded, bowing to Aranarth. With Arveldir by her side, she walked up through the training grounds to the citadel. Maedeth watched them go. She didn't want to turn back around to ask what the three men found out in the wilds. They'd been gone for nearly a month. But she turned back.

"Any news?" she asked.

Elladan shook his head. "None."

"Except for death," Aranarth muttered. "Our lines suffer."

"But none speak of Rínior," Elladan said.

"He is out there." Elrohir glared back down the road through the gate. "And the longer he waits to show himself the worse it will go for Arthedain."

Aranarth agreed. "Just because none speak of him does not mean he is not raining destruction on our home. It just means he leaves none alive to tell us."

Maedeth closed her eyes and breathed in the freezing air around her. There was no point in resisting the cold here. It found her whether she wrapped herself in blankets atop dresses or if she hid under the covers of her bed in Fornost. Still, there was much to do. She could not pause in this moment of icy numbness.

"King Arvedui called a council tonight," she said. "He wants us all to attend, now that you have returned."

Elladan nodded. He stood beside her, offering some meager warmth. "Then let us go, and make ourselves presentable."

"I do not wish to attend yet more war councils," Aranarth said. "The war is out there, on the front lines. Leaving Rínior's fate in the hands of the Powers is foolish."

"But what more can you do right now?" Maedeth said. She hadn't meant to snap, but they were focusing on one in a war of thousands. "Rínior is beyond our grasp. No one hates that more than I. And yet here we are. You have a duty to your kingdom, as I do. So go and get presentable."

For five hundred years she had served kings and princes in Arthedain. As she held Aranarth's gaze, she tried to impose all will, all knowledge she had gained in that time to make him see reason. And he did.

"Very well."

"You are the future of Arthedain, Aranarth." Maedeth frowned, leaning into Elladan for support. "You must act like it now."

For a moment, only the cold breeze through the training yard made any noise. It snapped the banner flags and rustled the hay near the weapons. But then Aranarth shot her a rueful smile.

"How many princes have you said that to before, I wonder?"

Maedeth tried to copy his smile. But it faltered. "Too many."

She watched him start up the road towards the citadel, followed by Elrohir. She turned to Elladan. He said nothing, but pulled her in for a small hug. He smelled of the wilds. She breathed it in.

"Come. I should clean myself up too if I'm to join this council," he said. "Though you look wonderful as ever."

"Don't flatter me," she said. But Maedeth smiled. "Come on. I do need to change as well. And I need to see to Tiniel."

"How is she?"

Maedeth didn't respond. She didn't even dare to look at Elladan's face as they followed Elrohir and Aranarth. Tiniel had been the same for the last decade. Lost. Sick.

"Fading," she finally whispered.

They reached the citadel of Fornost. Elladan parted with her to join his brother in their guest chambers, leaving Maedeth to her own devices. Empty halls greeted her.

The citadel had no guards. They couldn't afford them. The king had two only, and the princes two each as well. But the doors were unmanned, the passageways unguarded.

All their men fought in the war now.

Maedeth pushed open one of the heavy iron doors to the East Wing. She found a maidservant pacing the hall, muttering to herself.

"What's the matter?"

The girl looked up. "Nothing, my Lady! Well. Truth be told. The Lady Mírien is rather cross."

Maedeth closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She nodded, dismissing the girl. She had expected as much. Mírien needed lecturing as much as Aranarth. She opened the door.

The room looked a mess. A shattered goblet lay in pieces under a scratched up portrait of Rínior and Tiniel. Spilled wine gathered at its base. The sheets of Mírien's bed were bunched up. A steel sword lay unsheathed across a small wooden desk. In the center of it all, holding her face to cover her tears, stood Mírien in a simple black dress.

"Mírien," Maedeth said.

"Go away!"

Maedeth shut the door. She moved further into the room, her heart aching as she stared at the beautiful portrait still hung on the walls. It was the only painting of the Hero of the North that remained in tact in the citadel at Fornost.

"All that rage, all that hurt," Maedeth said, "Do not let it control you. You must control it, if you want to make a difference."

Mírien uncovered her face. She may have reached womanhood, but Mírien still looked like a child to Maedeth. Guilt and shame haunted her every steps. She had become a caregiver to her mother, a pariah to the nobility, and a fatherless daughter in a single night.

"Did they find him?" she asked, trying to steady her breathing.

Maedeth shook her head. "No. No signs of him anywhere." She began to pick up the shattered glass from the floor. "If they did find him, I would tell you. I promise."

She nodded. Mírien sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing her tears away. "How could he do this. How could he?"

The question that never went away. The question that had an answer none wanted to understand. But Maedeth understood it, even as she hated it. It broke her heart. Rínior had seen too much death, and felt a fire in his heart far beyond his station. Feanor haunted his footsteps.

"I have told you what I believe," Maedeth said. She placed the glass on the table and joined her niece. "Whether you believe me or not is up to you."

"He had everything here at home," Mírien said.

Maedeth nodded. "Indeed. And he loved you and your mother more than anything in all of Arda. But some may do terrible things for what they think is love."

They sat in silence in the still room. Neither moved, Mírien gripping Maedeth's hand for dear life. The warm fire that the serving girl had started continued to crackle. At last, Maedeth squeezed her hand and stood up.

"I will see to Tiniel before I get ready for Arvedui's council."

Mírien nodded but said nothing. The last glimpse she got of Mírien before the door closed was more tears on her pale face, staring up at the portrait of her mother and father.

Tiniel's room was nearby. Maedeth did not bother to knock, slowly opening it to find two serving women stoking a fire and preparing some tea. They nodded in deference at Maedeth's arrival.

"Hello Tiniel," Maedeth said. She forced a smile, coming around to sit with her brother's wife on the wooden couch in front of the fire.

"Maedeth. Is Rínior home yet?" she asked.

"No."

"Oh."

Maedeth closed her eyes. She hated seeing how pale Tiniel's face had become in the years past. Most color had drained from it until her grey eyes almost bulged against the palor. Her dark hair sat in a single, nondescript braid down her back. She wore black.

"He loves you," Maedeth said, looking back at her.

Tiniel nodded. "I know. And yet." She paused, staring into the fire again. "And yet."

"Can I get you anything?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Maedeth nodded. She looked above the fireplace, where an empty grey wall had once held a portrait of Tiniel and Rínior. Now it was empty, a small void in a fairly empty bedroom. There were no fineries here. Not anymore. The kingdom needed the money.

"I'll check in again later."

No response. Maedeth stood up, trying to shake the dread from her heart. That would do no one good. So they had no hope. Well then they would have to do without it.

She wore grey to the council. Not the black of mourning, but still also not the red of her once proud house. A simple clasp held her white cloak in place as she wandered the halls towards the war room

Only whispers filled the room. Most of the small council already sat in their chairs, chatting under their breaths with the person next to them. Tathreniel, head of the Healing House muttered with Anorion, head of Trade. Captain Hithren of the Northern Flank snorted a bemused laugh at something Captain Gilroch of the West Flank said. Only Malbeth the Seer and Aeglosdil the King Smith sat in silence.

Standing beside the table, Aranarth huddled with Elladan and Elrohir. They had all washed and changed, with the Prince now sporting clean black and silver clothing. Elladan and Elohir wore their Rivendell tunics.

Maedeth joined them. She ignored the glares shot to her by Anorion and Tathreniel. Instead, she tried to flash a small smile at Malbeth and Aeglosdil. The latter returned it.

"The sun is setting," Aranarth said. "Where is my father?"

"He will be here soon," Maedeth assured.

It did not take long for King Arvedui to call them to attention. He hurried in looking flustered, cheeks red and frown set. Maedeth took her seat beside Elladan and remained quiet.

"I have come to a decision."

Silence filled the room. Candles flickered all about them, compensating for the setting sun. Each member of the council looked upon the king with anticipation. Maedeth felt her heart beating loudly in her ears.

"We cannot win this war alone," he said. His voice broke for a moment, before he recovered. "We cannot. I have received word that Captain Mallenor has fallen in the East. The orcs continue to amass North of us. And somewhere, Rínior remains unchecked in his betrayal."

Maedeth felt so many eyes on her that she could not look up. Her arms felt like lead where they lay on her lap, unable to be moved. Doom approached. She could feel it. A hand took hold of her heart and dragged it into darkness.

"It is time to see if King Eärnil will stand true to his word."

Maedeth looked up. The King met her gaze. Amazed, she felt her mouth open and then close. A bit of light returned. A bit of hope. Only a fool's hope perhaps, but then, what did it matter? If they were to die anyways she wanted to die believing in something.

"You think Gondor will answer?" Hithren asked.

King Arvedui clenched his fists on the table. "We depend on it. Firiel will send a message along with the emissary as well. Let us hope they still hold love for the daughter of their former king. She who should have been queen!"

Maedeth shifted in her seat. King Arvedui had never forgiven the South Kingdom. And while she always heard his words, demanding satisfaction for a slight towards his wife for not being given the throne of Gondor as Numenor did of old, she knew his heart beat to a different drum. He had wanted the throne. Not for his wife, but for himself. And yet she knew he really believed he did it for her, she who had no desire for it.

"And who will go?" Aeglosdil asked.

"Maedeth."

As soon as the King had pronounced his wishes for a mission to Gondor, she'd known it was hers. But when all turned her way she wanted to shrink into the shadowed corners of the room. Doom had met her on her last journey south.

"When am I to leave?" she asked.

"As soon as supplies can be gathered."

"Yes, my lord."

A barely concealed, incredulous laugh came from her left. Maedeth didn't dignify it with a look. But Arvedui stood up from his chair in anger.

"Do you have something you wish to say, Gilroch?"

The silver haired, older captain just glared at the table. "Nay, lord."

"Maedeth had no part in the betrayal of her brother. She has served this Kingdom faithfully far longer than any of you," Aranarth snapped. "Show her the respect she deserves."

"And yet she secured no aid from the dwarves or the elves, beyond that of Rivendell, and they already aid us," he said, gesturing to the sons of Elrond at the table. "She failed!"

Aranarth rolled his eyes. "And I failed to secure much beyond promises from the elves of the Havens. Do you wish to call me a failure?"

"Of course not."

"Then I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself."

King Arvedui settled back in his chair as his son finished reprimanding the captain. He gave him a small smile and a half nod.

"Speaking, unfortunately, of failure," Aranarth continued, reining in his anger, "we could find no hint or trace of Rínior. I would like to go back out and continue our search."

"No," said King Arvedui. "You are my son and heir. You have searched long enough. Rínior's fate is now out of your hands."

Elrohir shifted in his seat. "And yet leaving him unchecked is dangerous. He is cunning, and single minded. Now that he has set his sights on ending this war for the Enemy, he will push that agenda ever forward."

"You speak truly," said King Arvedui. "And though you are a guest here, you do not swear fealty to me. If you wish to accept the risk and find him, you have my leave and gratitude."

Elrohir nodded. "I shall go into the Ettenmoors and north into Angmar, to see what news I can gather."

"And if you find him?" Arvedui asked.

Elrohir didn't answer right away. He glanced from the king, to Maedeth, to the table. Then he nodded. "He will be dealt with."

Maedeth sank in her seat. She saw the way the betrayal ate at Elrohir every time he returned to Fornost. Ten years had not lessened his desire for justice. He rode with the Dunedain soldiers as often as he could, with Aranarth or with Elladan, searching for his friend. His one-time friend. And though Maedeth knew that Rínior posed disastrous danger to Arthedain, he was her brother. She wanted him to come home.

"Lord Elladan?" the King asked.

Elladan nodded. "A good plan. My brother will be faster on his own, less at risk of detection." He glanced left at Maedeth. "I shall accompany Lady Maedeth on her journey, if she would have me. The wilds are no safer now than they were ten years ago."

Maedeth nodded, squeezing his hand under the table. It was warm, calloused from years of warfare but still gentle. "I would appreciate the protection."

"Then it is settled. If there are no further concerns?"

None answered.

"Good. Dismissed."

The room began to empty. Soon only three remained: the sons of Elrond and Maedeth. They had still not stood from the table. Maedeth dug down desperately to find the strength, the will to move. But she could not.

"Maedeth?" Elrohir asked.

She glanced at him as he stood from the table and came around to her other side. "Go, Elrohir. Find him."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

A few tears pricked at his eyes he reached in and gave her a hug. She could smell the scent of flowers of Rivendell on him. She remembered the days when her brother would train with him in the garden, two swordsmen honing their craft. Now Elrohir would have to prove himself the better, or he would not return.

Elladan stood and embraced his brother. They shared no words, only a deep look. After a few moments, Elrohir bowed and fled the room, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Maedeth still stood from the table and moved to the window.

The sun had fallen beneath the horizon. Burning torches illuminated as much of the courtyard below as necessary. She stood in silence watching until at last, as she expected, she saw Elrohir rush out to find his horse.

She turned away. Elladan stood beside her. She leaned against him using him to support the weight that threatened to crush her. She was so tired. Exhausted. Drained and grieving. When would summer show her face? It seemed the cold spring would go on forever without life.

"I do not have words," Elladan said. "I am not a master at speechcraft as you are. But I am here. And I promise, I will always be here."

She wept. Maedeth turned from the cold room to Elladan's warm chest, pressing her face to smother herself in his kindness. Sobs wracked her body as he held her up, held her close. The world tumbled down around her. A decade of despair tried to freeze her. But in his arms, she could allow herself to feel.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-One - Rínior

Rínior ignored the warm, bloody spit on his face as he watched the priests of Carn Dûm's Temple of Twilight drag away Mallenor's beaten body. He flexed his bruised fist. The sputtering curses coming out of his mouth hardly bothered Rínior. He'd heard it all over the last decade: traitor, evil, worshipper of the Dark Lord.

Hopefully Mallenor would make the right choice. Then again, it didn't really matter. Rínior looked up from the dark doors of the Temple to the spires of the Witch-king far above. If he wouldn't give up the troop movements for the East, then the Black Numenoreans were sure to have some use for him. For his body, at least. Then his fëa could leave the bounds of Arda as was destined for all Men.

Another wave of pain washed over his bloody hand. He'd always known Mallenor had a thick skull. But it surprised him that it was true literally as well. Rínior reached into his satchel and pulled out a fraying bandage. As he walked down the street, he wrapped his hand.

There was too much to do. He wanted out of Carn Dûm as soon as possible but the list kept growing. He'd sent Bozan to requisition more weapons. With luck, Desimar would handle the food for the return journey. But Rínior had better people to see than more of his own Hill-men.

Rínior pushed open the gate to the feast hall of the Sons of Rhudaur. It had taken years since Aglarwain's death for them to give him the time of day. They seemed to hold him responsible.

Nonsense. The only one responsible was Aglarwain for not being able to defend himself against Elrohir. No one had time for hand holding in war.

The tall ceilings inside the domed hall glittered with gemstones. Mosaics depicting 'Mairon the Admirable', Sauron's prior form, glared down at him. Rínior narrowed his eyes, then looked back down. He had too much to do to dwell on pointless squabbling. Let them call him Mairon.

"The victorious hero returns yet again."

Rínior looked across the large rotunda filled with tables to a handful of Rhudaurins. The one who had spoken sat up straight, a mug in his hand and a scornful smile on his face. Just the man he'd been looking for.

"Aessereg," Rínior said. He marched forward, not missing a step. "Still wasting time in your cups, I see."

"Live a little."

"I have a war to win first."

Aessereg laughed. His dark hair fell about his shoulders in thick curls, proof of his dual heritage: dunedan and hill-man. Standing, he towered over most men. But as he sat in his citadel armor, helmet on the table beside him, Rínior stared him down.

"What do you want, Rínior?" he said.

"I'm putting together a new company," he said. Rínior crossed his arms over his chest, staring Aessereg down and not sparing his two companions a glance. "I want you in it."

"That so?" Aessereg took a long drink from his ale before setting it down. "Why? You've got your hill-men out there at Minas Eglan. I don't want to live with the filth."

It was Rínior's turn to laugh. Aessereg was tough, but weak willed it seemed. Or perhaps just foolish. But Rínior didn't need him for his mind. He needed him for his sword arm.

"Arthedain is ready to crumble," Rínior said. "Their lines are weak. I brought in one of their Captains today, and once the priests are finished with him I will know where best to strike next. I want that strike to devastate them. Hill-men are good at filling space in a battle. But I need better."

One of Aessereg's companions scoffed. Rínior looked at him. Celevonor. A spindly, pale faced man with light brown hair.

"Does the Witch-king know you're trying to pull from his citadel guards?" Celevonor asked.

A chill ran down his spine. Pale eyes of cold fire flashed across his vision. But he forced himself to give Celevonor a pitying smile. "The Witch-king wants the war to end. And I am the one winning it for him. He will give me whatever I ask for."

"But-"

Aessereg slammed his mug down. "Shut up, Celevonor. Your betters are speaking."

Rínior smirked as Celevonor crossed his arms and pouted. It took only a moment longer before he stood from the table and left with the third Rhudaurin.

"Careful, Rínior. It's only those victories that protect you from him," Aessereg said. "The Witch-king rewards success and punishes failure."

Rínior nodded. He pulled out the chair across from him and sat down at the table. "Of course. Which is why I do not intend to lose."

"Hm."

Silence stretched between them. Aessereg enjoyed the last of his mug, staring at Rínior as if challenging him to object. But Rínior didn't care. Let him drink, so long as he wielded a blade in his service later.

"Fine. How many do you have now for this little venture of yours?"

"Me and you."

Aessereg laughed. "Good, good. Glad I was the first name to come to you. Let me guess, you want me to ask around, put in a good word as to why we should fight under your banner?"

"You'll be rewarded. The Witch-king isn't the only one to grant boons to those who serve him well."

"No indeed. Though I do wonder if you told Aglarwain the same thing."

Rínior just smiled. He didn't need to dignify it with a response. Either Aessereg would serve, or he wouldn't. And if he wouldn't, then Rínior would indeed go before the Witch-king. No one wanted that, neither Rínior nor Aessereg.

"Very well then. I'll drum up some names by the end of the day. When are we planning to leave?" Aessereg asked.

Rínior frowned. The eternal question. How much time would he actually need to spend in this forsaken city? "Be ready to go by the end of the week."

Aessereg nodded. Rínior left him to his ales and his thoughts, heading back out into the streets of Carn Dûm. He still had one more duty he was required to perform before getting some rest, one he was loath to do.

It didn't take long to walk back to the Temple of Twilight. The streets up on the top of the citadel were empty most days. The rabble stayed at the bottom. Rínior avoided looking at the eternal fires of the skeletal crucifixes as he walked through the doors.

Darkness greeted him. He took a deep breath. Ash, incense, and the iron tang of dried blood assaulted his nose. He hated this place.

Rínior didn't bother looking at the side altars. He never did. They were unnecessary, a distraction for the devoted in Carn Dûm who couldn't bring about victory for themselves. They needed some other power to aid them. Rínior had no need of aid from these bygone, defeated dark powers in the Void.

He felt the pouch of rings jingle against his thigh as he walked down the steps. At the base of the temple, four priests knelt before the altar of Morgoth, hands raised in smoldering coals beneath the brazier at the center gave off some of the only light in the final level.

Rínior kept his eyes on the brazier. He didn't look at the priests. Walking up to the altar, he undid his pouch and came to a stop. He undid the ties.

The ring clinked together as they fell into the coals. There were dozens: gold, silver, jeweled, plain. They sparkled in the fire light. Their previous bodies wouldn't miss them. But as Rínior watched the flames grow to engulf the rings, he just rolled his eyes. He stepped away."

"Welcome back, Rínior."

"Nilûphêr."

Rínior stood face to face with the priestess. She narrowed her brown eyes. In the firelight, her tan, wrinkled face had long shadows. He crossed his arms.

"You need only ask, and we shall aid you in your search for the Palantíri," she said.

"I do not need the aid of a priestess of Morgoth-"

"Melkor."

"-Morgoth, or her ilk to find that which belongs to me," he said.

Nilûphêr smiled. "Careful, Rínior. You find the Palantíri for your king, not yourself, remember?"

Rínior gritted his teeth. But he said nothing in return. It was true, the Palantíri would go to the Witch-king, in the end. But he would still hold them in his hands for a while, and they were his by birthright.

"Tell me, Nilûphêr. What does the Witch-king need with such trifles," he said, gesturing to the burning rings. "It seems to me that a ring and a Palantír are very different things and yet he seeks both."

"It is not the Witch-king who desires rings," she said. Walking forward, she stood beside him and faced the altar. "It is he who our king serves."

Rínior felt his jaw clench. He turned to face the same way as Nilûphêr, staring into the brazier again where a few of the rings had begun to melt. "What is it Morgoth wants with rings then?"

"Only through faith will you get the answers you desire," she said.

Rínior scoffed. He didn't have time for this. He'd delivered his tribute. Turning his back on the altar, he began to move up the stairs. He hated this place. It stunk. The priests gave him a headache. The air was too warm.

He hurried up. As he reached the second level, he paused. Blood began to flow in rivulets down the small channels in the rock to either side of him. Rínior frowned. Well then. Mallenor would be of no help to him after all. Rínior sighed. He would have to find out more about troop movements the old fashioned way then. Hopefully Aessereg could get him some more names, fast. They were winning the war, but Rínior did not want to risk Arthedain slipping through their closing noose.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Two - Maedeth

Maedeth caught her breath as the elven stablehands took their panting horses away. They'd ridden hard. Days of galloping down the East Road had exhausted both the steeds and their riders. But there had been no time to spare.

Evening fell about them. Maedeth listened to the song of the waterfall not far from them. Beside her, Elladan spoke quickly with the stablemaster. They would need new horses by morning. They would take a night to rest but then they were off again.

Some had advised they take the Great Road south. But Maedeth and Elladan both worried about the forces arrayed against them in Cardolan. They would've had to traverse the Andrath Pass. Maedeth never wanted to look upon that cursed valley again. Her brother had died there. Perhaps not in body, but certainly in spirit.

So they'd chosen the same route as a decade prior. To Rivendell, then over the Redhorn Gate to Lórinand. There they would be aid, horses or boats, to continue their journey to Gondor.

A gentle breeze blew through the courtyard before the stables. Maedeth closed her eyes against her racing thoughts. She focused on the fragrant flowers, recently blooming in spring. The air was warm here. Pleasant. Full of life.

"Mallornloth will see to the horses," Elladan said. He forced a smile, but exhaustion was written all over his face. "Two will be ready in the morning. Sure-footed and swift."

Maedeth nodded. "Good. Thank you."

"Now I must see my father. Elrohir may yet return to report his intentions," Elladan said, "but somehow I doubt it. Get some rest."

"You as well, Elladan," she said, laying a hand on his arm.

He leaned into her touch. Maedeth felt her breath leave her, staring at him under the first stars as the last light of the sun disappeared. Some days, he reminded her of the moon; in his gentle face she saw reflected all the light of the world she wished to feel for herself. He had the most beautiful silver-grey eyes.

"I… I will," he whispered, leaning closer as she didn't move. "I promise."

Maedeth held his gaze. She never wanted to leave this moment. But she had to. Tears sprung to her eyes as she closed them. Maedeth put her hand back to her side and stepped away.

"Go," she said. "I'll see you in the morning."

Elladan didn't respond at first. He just watched her, lips barely parted in unspoken words. But he nodded. A moment later, he turned and hurried up the steps to the Last Homely House.

Another gust of wind blew through Rivendell. It carried spray from the nearby waterfall. Maedeth turned her focus to the water on her face. It cooled her down. In the early spring breeze she found a distraction. Perhaps it would offer rest, too.

She made her way to the Guest House. Surely Lord Elrond would forgive her for not offering a hello before sleep. She had ridden almost non stop for nearly a fortnight.

The door opened silently. Inside she found an unlit fire in the hearth and fresh bread on a platter. Maedeth smiled. Perhaps they had been expected.

After a quick bite and lighting the fire, Maedeth went to the bed. The softness caressed her hand as she felt the bedding. She climbed in and closed her eyes.

No sleep came. Hours later, Maedeth sat up. She could not endure silent staring at the ceiling any longer, nor examining the inside of her eyelids. The air in the Guest House felt stuffy. She slipped out into the dark.

Nightingales serenaded the spring night. Maedeth wandered down winding paths until at last she came to the Gardens of Rivendell. She had spent so many good nights in these gardens. She removed her shoes. Soft, cool grass tickled her feet and sprang up between her toes. Beside the paths grew natural quilts of multicolored flowers. They smelled sweet in the breeze.

A small waterfall cascaded down into a pond nearby. Maedeth followed the sound until she stared at the gentle falls glittering in the moonlight. Her heartbeat settled. There was still beauty in this world. The elves protected it. They cultivated it. All she had cultivated in her life was death, it seemed. Her words had prolonged this thankless war.

Maedeth sat down just a few feet back from the edge of the water, hugging her knees to her chin like a child. Here the nightingales' song mingled perfectly with the other sounds around: gentle grasshopper chirps, the flowing water, distant hymns to Lady Elbereth.

Her heart sank. The world blurred as tears filled her eyes. Elladan followed her without question. But was she leading him to his death? She could not be responsible for that. He had to live. If anyone had to live, it was him.

"Maedeth?"

The beautiful voice of Lady Celebrían shook Maedeth out of her early panic. Her grip on her knees faltered. She straightened herself as she sat on the bank, trying to look more presentable and less like the terrified little girl she felt like.

"Lady Celebrían!" Her voice cracked as unshed tears retreated. "I apologize for not saying hello when I arrived-"

But Celebrían just cracked a small smile and shook her head. Her silver hair and silver dress sparkled in the soft light of the full moon above them. Her skin practically glowed. Moments later, she joined Maedeth on the grass.

"I have a question, Maedeth," she began, voice low as she looked out at the small waterfall. "And I ask that you answer truthfully, no matter what."

Maedeth nodded. "Of course. Anything." She gripped her still trembling hands together in front of her.

Celebrían gave a quiet, short laugh. But she nodded. For a moment all they could hear was the symphony of nature in the gardens of Rivendell.

"Do you love my son?"

Maedeth froze. The world quieted. For a moment all she heard was Elladan's promise that he would be there, always. She saw his fair face in the pool before them. She could feel his hands steadying her on her feet.

"Yes," she whispered.

Maedeth didn't dare look at Celebrían. There was so much more to say, so many words that never left her lips. As tears filled her eyes and her body trembled, she finally spoke aloud what haunted her every moment.

"But it does not matter," Maedeth said. "My heart has no room for love while my brother breaks it in two."

Had Aegnor felt this way so long ago? He had turned away from the woman who held his heart in order to face the duty that haunted his exiled steps. Had Andreth cried this way? She had been left alone to face the long darkness without the one she loved, left wondering if death really was the gift the Eldar claimed it to be.

Finrod wrote such beautiful words in the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth. Ever the perfect orator, Maedeth wondered if he understood truly the pain that he described. It had been his brother in the depths of agony from love. 'If his heart ruled, he would have wished to take thee and flee far away, east or south, forsaking his kin, and thine. Love and loyalty hold him to his,' he had written. The words had never left her heart since reading them ten years before.

Love and loyalty held him to his course. As Maedeth finally turned in the silence to Celebrían's gentle expression, she knew that was what held her together as well. Love and loyalty. Duty.

"I feel the grief you bear," Celebrían said. "But I urge you to look to the end of war, to the morning light that shall yet dawn. If there is no other constant in this world, know that the sun rises, and it falls, and it rises again. And in dawn is ever found the hope of men."

Maedeth closed her eyes. So it was. So it had always been. She had told herself this for five hundred years of sunrises.

"When I married my husband, I knew the doom he carries," Celebrían whispered.

She turned from Maedeth and stared up at the stars. Her breathing slowed. Maedeth realized fear had begun to haunt her as well. Straightening up, she turned all her attention to Lady Celebrían.

"I do not envy the Peredhil," Celebrían said. "To choose between the life of elf and man. To choose between their deaths."

Maedeth frowned. She picked a blade of grass and began to wrap it around a finger to find some distraction. But it helped little.

"I have always felt more akin to the Eldar than the Edain, though perhaps more out of a fear of death than a love of living," she said. "But I have delayed my choice. Rínior chose quickly. I think, perhaps, this was a mistake."

Celebrían nodded. She turned to her again. "Much has been written on the agony of unions between elf and man, namely the suffering of the half-elves. Many say that only grief is found in the doom that befalls them. But I do not agree."

A gust of wind blew the branches around them, cascading white and pink petals down around them. A few settled on the surface of the pond. Maedeth watched as the ripples of the waterfall pushed them to the edge. The fresh petals joined the ring of others on the riverbank.

"There is beauty in all unions," Celebrían said. "And though love is mingled with grief now, that makes it no less wonderful. Maedeth. Elladan loves you as well. I caution you, do not fall into despair before the morning dawns."

She trembled as a shiver ran through her body. Hearing it aloud, that which she had guessed and hoped for, made it more real. Maedeth felt tears flowing down her cheeks. Celebrían smiled. She wiped some of them away with her hand.

"I do not wish to entangle Elladan in the doom of my house," Maedeth choked, accepting an offered handkerchief from Celebrían. "I watch each day as Tiniel fades. We have done great injury to her."

"No, Maedeth. Rínior has done that," Celebrían said, voice hardening. "You have not. Consider perhaps that the doom of your house has arisen yet again not by fate, but because of his actions."

She took a shaky breath, trying to get herself under control. All of Celebrían's words made sense beneath the starlit sky and surrounded by the peace of Rivendell's gardens. But when she left the safety of paradise, would it be the same?

"And if I chose the life of Men, to die and leave this world behind," Maedeth said, "I could not live with myself if then Elladan must face the agony of choice too. To leave behind his family, or me."

"I love nothing in this world more than I love my children," Celebrían said. She gripped the skirt of her dress tightly as they sat on the riverbank. "They are everything to me. I do not wish for Elladan to be pulled into a web of dooms and darkness."

Maedeth's tears redoubled. This had been her fear, her concern, her every thought. She wished for nothing more than Elladan at her side, his lips on hers, his safety forever. But everything stood between them.

"But it is not for me to make that choice," Celebrían said, the hardness in her voice crumbling away until she spoke barely above a whisper. "The choice belongs to Elladan, and to you. I do not wish to be sundered from my children. But I knew the doom they would be born into: to choose, between their two halves. I knew that the moment I married my husband. And I have always known, though I hope it will not come to pass, that someday I will lose one of them forever."

The nightingales quieted. Maedeth looked at Celebrían through drying eyes. The woman stared up the stars, lip quivering. But she did not cry. She just sat in silence.

Maedeth turned from her to the stars. Did the Valar hear her tears? The Doom of Mandos spoken after the Kinslaying of Alqualondë said otherwise: 'not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains'. As a coldness settled in her heart, a familiar numbness when thinking of her family history, she frowned.

The Valar were not above change, though. Lúthien Tinúviel, greatest of all the Eldar, had sung a song so beautiful she moved even Mandos to weep. And thus began the first union of elf and man, and the first peredhel in her son Dior Eluchíl. Maybe they did hear her.

Then again, perhaps they thought the downfall of Arthedain a just punishment for harboring children of the line of Fëanor. A perfect irony that one of those children was trying to seal their fate. Maedeth hardened herself. She wiped the tears from her eyes.

"The war must be won first," she said. "I have a duty to my people, a duty I must see to before I can consider love."

Celebrían nodded. She smiled, looking across as Maedeth. She had the same silver eyes as her sons: they glimmered in starlight, reflecting the light of the moon. She put her arm around Maedeth's shoulders and pulled her in for a gentle hug.

"Rest well, child. The troubles of the world will still be there in the morning. But perhaps the new light of dawn will bring hope where you have none now."

Maedeth's eyelids drooped. The lullaby of the waterfall and the nightingales calmed her heart. Celebrían's warm embrace drove away some of the fear. And even when Celebrían stood, leaving her alone on the riverbank, Maedeth felt more at ease. She decided that if she could not sleep in a bed, then she would sleep there. She would sleep surrounded by the gardens of Rivendell thinking about what could be.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Four - Maedeth

Mountains towered above her. Maedeth looked up at their dark peaks against the midday sun, wind rushing past them as they galloped on. The days blurred together. How long had it been since Rivendell? Too long.

Too long. Time worked against them. Spring rolled into summer, flowers bloomed in ruined Eregion. The world moved on. The sun set and rose again, not caring that each passing moment brought doom closer at hand.

She shook herself. Thoughts like this helped no one. Her brother had made his choice, one he could not come back from. But Maedeth had made hers, as well. She'd chosen to go forward, through hopelessness because that was what had to be done.

They didn't speak much. Maedeth relished the moments she spent close to Elladan, separated by their steeds but held together by shared purpose. They knew their mission: secure aid from Gondor. They knew their enemy: the flow of time.

Caradhras loomed above, a sharp spear into the sky. A decade ago she'd come with hopes, with dreams of bringing together an alliance across races: elves, men, and dwarves. She'd left with nothing but despair. It gladdened her heart that they would not be traversing Hadhodrond again.

Celebrían had suggested they take the Redhorn Gate. Maedeth agreed with her. Ten years ago the winter winds had sealed that path off, even had they not needed to speak with King Durin VI. Now, speed meant everything. They needed their horses beyond the mountains. The pass would have to humor them.

Not that the mountain crags were without peril; goblins occasionally harassed travelers and the mountain had a fickle temper. She prayed that Elbereth would see them through. What else could be done?

They reached their destination by early evening. The Sirannon ran gently through the blooming, green land before the Walls of Khazad-dûm. But this time, they would not continue to the towering holly trees that marked the entrance to the Mines. Instead, they followed the water.

A path wound upwards through a half dozen switchbacks. Where once the path had been smoothed with dirt and sand, now weeds and sharp stones slowed their progress. But on the fourth switch back, it was not the land that halted them. It was dwarves.

Armored like the guards of King Durin, six dwarves manned a crumbling stone archway across the path, where it joined a larger, ancient roadway. They branched across in the likeness of two holly trees. Much of the detail had been lost over the years, exposed to wind, rain, and snow. But still the dwarves defended it.

"State your business."

Maedeth dismounted her brown horse. She offered it a quick word of thanks, noticing the rough breathing from days of exhausting travel. Then she turned all attention to the dwarf who spoke.

"Greetings. I am Lady Maedeth of Arthedain, at your service. This is Lord Elladan of Rivendell. We seek passage through the Redhorn Gate," she said.

The dwarf returned her bow with his own. But he did not loosen his grip on his great axe. "By order of King Durin VI of Khazad-dûm, all who seek passage must pay their toll in gold or mithril."

Maedeth frowned. Rumors of the greed of the dwarves increasing had reached even the ears in Rivendell. They had expected a toll but gold or mithril? She had precious little of either.

"How much?" she asked.

The dwarf guard studied her. She could just make out brown eyes beyond the helm obscuring his face. He stepped forward.

"What do you offer?"

Maedeth turned to Elladan. He had dismounted also, staying quiet while she negotiated. But he must have seen the fear in her eyes, the fear that they would be stopped in their mission so early. He took two golden rings off his fingers and handed them forward.

"This is all the finery we carry," he said. "Please, let us pass. We ride south in great need."

The dwarf took the rings. Another guard handed him a small, glass loupe. He used examined the facets of the inlaid gems. With a half frown, he pocketed them and put hands on his hips.

"Very well," he said. "You may pass. But the guards on the other side may not be so generous when you return."

Maedeth thanked him, speaking no words about their return. She could not even give that a thought yet. Returning to Arthedain meant little if they didn't first reach their destination. With the toll paid, they led their horses by leads beyond the Redhorn Gate.

It took almost no time to be left alone on the mountain path. Maedeth watched her feet. She trusted that Elladan would watch their surroundings. Some daylight remained. They would push on as far as possible before darkness fell.

It fell quickly. Even though the warm air of late spring filled all the lands below them, on the side of the peak of Caradhras, a chill breeze blew. Maedeth wrapped herself in her cloak, knees to her chest, as Elladan poked at the fire with a branch. He stoked the flames. She drove away the shadows in her mind.

"You're shivering."

She glanced up. The firelight glinted off Elladan's grey eyes, turning them into little embers themselves. As she adjusted herself, untangling her limbs from beneath the wrapped cloak, pain shot through her. Each joint and muscle ached.

"I'm alright," she said. "Rest is difficult, that's all."

Elladan nodded. He looked at her for another few heartbeats, not moving, before he scooted around the fire to sit beside her. She felt the warmth of his side as they huddled next to each other beneath the overhang.

"Have I ever told you about the first time Glorfindel trained us to fight?" he asked. He began to smile, memories flashing across his mind. "We were just children, barely able to hold the wooden swords our father gifted us."

Maedeth forced herself to chuckle. She tried to imagine what Elladan and Elrohir had looked like as children. Puffy cheeks, brown hair, wobbly little legs. Her greatest joy in life had come from watching Mírien grow into the strong young woman she had become.

"Our parents wanted us to be able to defend ourselves," Elladan said. "War is not unique to any age of Arda Marred. Though I know you know this for yourself."

Maedeth nodded. She wrapped the cloak closer again. "Indeed."

"Well, Glorfindel did not expect that we would pick up the basics of swordplay so quickly. Nor did he anticipate the chaos we could sow. I wonder if they regret training us!"

Another laugh, but Maedeth felt the cold creeping in. Her thoughts raced faster even than her heart. Defend herself. She remembered the weight of the warg on her chest a decade ago. She remembered the despair at Rínior's betrayal. She could see Tiniel fading before her eyes. How could she defend herself? What meager training with a blade she'd had as a young woman had faded long ago.

"I feel so helpless," she whispered, staring into the dancing flames. The brilliant light deepened the shadows all around it where it could not touch. Maedeth covered her face. "You have your sword, your bow, your strategy in war. What do I have? Books?"

"Intelligence," Elladan said. "Kindness. Endurance. Empathy. These are traits that will defend not only you but all you believe in. Kingdoms fall, Maedeth. Realms change. But truth does not."

She took a deep breath. Maedeth turned to him, so close it was tantalizing. He brought such comfort in the dark. She knew he felt the same way. She saw his breathing quicken, could see the flush of his face. But they were at war. Duty came first. And though he spoke wisely, she could not continue on to preserve the truth if the servants of the Witch-king killed her.

"Teach me to fight," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "Please."

He paused, but he nodded. She had a sword strapped to her horse in case of an emergency. They would not be sleeping that night regardless, too many emotions stirred in their hearts.

"Now?" he asked.

"Yes."

They stood from the ground. Maedeth's eyes adjusted to the dark as they put a bit of distance from the blinding camp fire. The blade felt wrong in her hands, a deadly weight she had no desire to use. But in days of evil, she knew it was necessary to be prepared for the day she had to kill to save her people, her friends, her family.

Elladan stood opposite her. He started by demonstrating a proper stance. Maedeth did her best to copy him, but the blade refused to cooperate. Mere minutes into the midnight lesson and she already wished to throw it all away.

He stood beside her. Elladan placed a hand on hers, guiding her arms, hands, fingers to their proper grip. She breathed him in, his safety and security. And with each moment that passed, each gentle correction of her blade and grip and footwork, her fears eased. She would learn how to defend herself. But Elladan, he would be there too. And if that were true, perhaps hope was not so dead after all.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Five - Rínior

Rínior ran his fingers over every piece of his armor. He checked the buckles, the straps, each point of connection. In the dim light of early dawn, he would not rely on his eyes or the eyes of his men to ensure his safety. After five hundred years, he knew what the armor should feel like beneath his calloused hands.

Instead, he watched the Sons of Rhudaur in their own preparations. This would be their first test. A scout had seen a company of twenty men of Arthedain moving along the northern Weather Hills. There were battlements there even more dilapidated than the once grand Amon Sûl. Weathertop, as the uncouth Hill-men named it. How far it had fallen since his youth.

Aessereg had geared up already. He walked among the ranks, some thirty Dúnedain of Rhudaur. These were the purest of blood or the strongest in battle of all who remained of that dying kind. Rínior had put them through their paces at Minas Eglan. They were good. Very good.

The Witch-king knew how to pick his guards. No orcs or Hill-men. Only the finest of the greatest race of Man. And now Rínior led them, one with the blood of the Eldar to aid him. He smirked. This was how they won the war.

"Aessereg," he said.

He looked over, dropping the belt he had been helping to fasten on one of the soldiers. Strolling over, Aessereg rested a hand on the pommel of his sword. "Rínior."

"If all goes as it should," Rínior said, "this will be the harbinger of Arthedain's end."

Aessereg nodded. He looked out beyond the little dell they'd sheltered in for the night, days ahead of the bulk of their force. The Hill-men traveled slower and with more grumbling. They were needed only for the assault on Dolindîr.

"That relies on all going according to plan," Aessereg said. "Do not grow complacent with all your victories, hero of the north."

Rínior rolled his eyes. That Aessereg even considered that he did not entertain all possibilities mildly insulted him. "Just do your job, and I shall do mine."

"Archers hit the horses first, then we surround them." Aessereg nodded. "A simple enough plan. But I have been fighting on the side of Angmar for many years, more than you for certain. Do not underestimate the men of Arthedain. They are clever."

"And yet we are beating them quite soundly now," Rínior said.

They went their separate ways to make final preparations. Rínior wanted to move out within the hour. Light began to spread across the horizon, painting the sky a pale yellow that faded to blue.

By the time they reached their vantage point hidden in the trees and thickets atop one of the man hills that bordered the ancient path between ruined battlements, Rínior had cleared his mind. His heart no longer raced before these assaults. They were all necessary stepping stones to ultimate peace at the end of the war.

The swordsmen laid low. Archers hid in the leaves of the trees above them. Arthedain's companies traveled with few horses but what steeds there were could not be allowed to live. It didn't take more than half an hour to hear the tramping of hooves on the fading cobbles.

Rínior watched from his perch. He did not need to give the sign to the archers in the trees. They knew their duty. He focused instead on inspecting the force below them. He did not see Elrohir among their number. He released a small breath and looked at Aessereg beside him. The man nodded back. Rínior ensured his blade was well hidden in the thicket. An errant sunbeam catching the steel could give their position away.

Arrows sailed over head. The screams of horses and then their masters filled the dawn. Men scrambled for cover as the bodies of the five steeds smashed a handful of soldiers. Panicked orders were heeded by some but not by others.

Rínior cut the head off the first man he found. They barely had time to react. Blood sprayed his face. He turned away to protect his eyes. Aessereg stepped in front of him.

With the swing of a great axe, he split the skull of another. Rínior stepped back and watched, lips parted, as he watched the ruthless efficiency of his Dúnedain. The sun warmed the air. It stunk of blood and waste.

Red stained the yellow-brown grasses of the Weather Hills. Bodies fell among the blooming violet heathers. He lowered his sword. The Sons of Rhudaur battled the cowering men of Arthedain. A hundred years ago, Rínior would never have allowed such useless soldiers to fill his ranks. How they had fallen.

He raised his sword. Half remained. A few men of Rhudaur had fallen to lucky strikes but most still worked their way toward the encircled center. Rínior rushed forward. He struck down another. Five remained.

Three remained.

"Stop!" Rínior screamed.

Two remained.

"Aessereg! Restrain your men!" He ran forward, pushing two aside. His heart raced. Only one remained as Aessereg, aghast, fell back with the others.

"What?" he screamed.

But Rínior came to stand before the cowering young man. He had blood plastered all over his face. His eyes darted around, unable to remain in any one spot as everywhere he looked, he found the broken bodies of his companions. Rínior leaned down until they stood nearly nose to nose. Now he had nowhere else to look.

"What is your name, boy?"

"Eredher."

"Do you know who I am, Eredher?"

The boy, for he couldn't have been much over eighteen years, trembled. He tried to back up. Three soldiers blocked his movements.

"I asked you a question."

"Yes."

Rínior smiled. "Good. Run. Let everyone know that the Hero of the North has returned, and he's here to end the war."

Eredher shook. Rínior glanced up past him, glaring at the men of Rhudaur to move out of the way. After a moment of hesitation, they relented.

"Take one last look at the battlefield, Eredher. Make sure they know it was me."

Eredher did not look. He turned and ran, leaving sword and helmet where they'd fallen to the ground. Rínior watched him go until Aessereg stepped into view.

"What in Melkor's name are you doing?" he demanded, raising a hand to strike Rínior before having the sense to stop. "That was not part of the plan!"

Rínior rolled his eyes, stepping back to survey the rest of the carnage. "Plans change."

"Your arrogance will get us killed!"

"Arrogance?" Rínior spun back around. He shook his head. "Intellect, Aessereg. When that boy runs back to his betters, he'll ensure they know it was me. Arthedain will panic. They'll send more forces to Dolindîr, spreading the rest of their lines even thinner."

"Dolindîr, where we are heading at this very moment!"

"Exactly!" Rínior could hardly believe they did not understand. "They know nothing of the army following behind us. We have the chance to overwhelm their Western lines entirely. At Dolindîr we can break them in a way they will never recover."

He heard the mutterings of the men around them. Some had turned from the argument to begin looting the bodies. Others walked away. Precious few remained beside Aessereg, who did not immediately respond.

They held each other's gaze. At last, Aessereg stepped over two bodies to reach him. Lowering his voice, he hissed out a barely veiled threat.

"Victory is all that protects you, Rínior. Someday you will fail, and I will be there to see your reward from the Witch-king." He lowered his voice even further. "At Dolindîr we may yet do what it is you intend. But many men will die. We are precious few already. You will not win this war with orcs and Hill-men. Remember this."

"You're right." Rínior leaned into him, just as he'd done with the soldier of Arthedain. "And we will not win this war through cowardice, either."

Aessereg scoffed, turning away. He took a few moments to gather his men around them and debrief after the fight. Rínior left him to it. They trusted his ability to lead them to victory. But they did not trust him. And Rínior didn't mind.

The fight lasted mere minutes. He looked up at the circling carrion birds. It wouldn't be long before someone noticed. They needed to move back inside the Rhudaurin lines. A few days travel remained before they would be within striking distance of Dolindîr.

With the message now set to spread of his return, they needed to prepare for an even tougher defense. Secrecy had been traded for strength, at last. Rínior stretched, his neck cracking as he shifted beneath the warm sunlight. He'd always preferred the latter.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Six - Maedeth

She turned back at the base of the cascading waterfalls. Summer melted the snows far above and fed the glistening Mirrormere before them. But they did not have time to linger at the Dimrill Stair. Maedeth spared a single glance at the dwarven guards far above them on the path into the Redhorn Pass. Armed, armored, and unwavering, they stood like silent stoic sentinels.

Maedeth remembered the pit in her stomach the last time they entered Lórinand. Lórien, as the dwarves had called it when questioning them on their destination East of the mountains. Doom had found them. She turned back as her horse sped on. She prayed doom would pass them this time.

Elladan took point. They anticipated no danger between the Dimrill Dale and the golden boughs of Lórien but he refused to relax his guard until they reached the elven kingdom. She did not object.

The sun began to set as they reached the treeline. No guards met them. This time there was no greeting party, only the gentle flow of the River Nimrodel and the songs of birds and insects at twilight. Maedeth took a deep breath. Somehow it smelled of peace.

She dismounted. Elladan hesitated, still staring into the trees. But she had spent so many days in the saddle and wished for leaf litter beneath her feet.

"I do not like this," Elladan said. But he joined her on the ground, placing a hand on the pommel of his sword. They stood side by side at the edge of the river, under the trees. "Where are the wardens? Do they leave their land unguarded?"

Branches rustled to their right. Maedeth startled, stepping back into her horse. The steed threw his head back. Elladan drew his sword, standing in front of her.

"Declare yourself!" Elladan said. "Are you friend or foe?"

Maedeth peered past him in the silence. The tree branches tossed in a gentle wind but no one spoke in return. She looked elsewhere. Perhaps it was a beast of some sort? A wild animal? But the ground was empty too. In the fading light, tree shadows confused her.

Elladan lowered his sword in surprise just as a woman peeked out from behind a Mallorn truck. She stepped before them. Her blonde hair cascaded about her waist, free from tie or hairpiece. Her grey-blue eyes narrowed in anger. But she wore no armor, only a flowing green and white dress that danced in the wind.

"You dare ask if I be friend or foe?" she said, in halting Sindarin. A thick, Silvan accent made it difficult to understand. "These woods are Silvan. You are not Silvan."

"My lady-" Elladan began.

But she cut him off, striding forward with a finger pointed at his chest. She reached only to their chins in height. "I have lived here. This stream, my home. These trees, free to bloom and grow without the interference of you Noldor."

She added something that Maedeth did not understand. A Silvan word, and one that certainly was not a compliment. She took a deep breath.

"Please, forgive us my lady. I am Lady Maedeth, of the Kingdom of Arthedain in the North. This is Lord Elladan, grandson of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn and brother of Lady Arwen. They have dwelt here for many years with your king." She curtsied, keeping her eyes low. "May I ask your name."

"Nimrodel."

Her voice had softened. But as Maedeth followed her gaze, she noticed Nimrodel still glaring at the sword Elladan had yet to sheath, laying down at his side. She nudged him. A moment later it was put away.

"We came over the mountains long ago," Nimrodel said, "to rid ourselves of the anguish of the Noldor. And now they come here yet again." She shook her head. "Amroth… King Amroth may welcome your kind. I do not."

"Is King Amroth not Sindar? He is not Silvan either," Elladan pointed out. "But you trust him."

Maedeth closed her eyes. He was an infinitely better talker than Rinior was but even he did not know diplomacy quite like her. Nimrodel's voice hardened again.

"You think I do not know this? Because I prefer to spend my days with the trees and the rivers?" Nimrodel pointed at his sheathed sword. "You think only Silvan folk were harmed by Noldor? You are wrong. Amroth has decided to mend bridges with you outsiders," Nimrodel said, "because he believes Noldor can be good. I do not. Others will bring ruin to Lindórinand."

"We must cross, Lady Nimrodel," Maedeth said. "I bear you no ill will. But it is the King we must speak to."

Nimrodel said nothing. She still stood in their way, refusing to budge from the bank of the river. Beyond her were many smooth stones used for river-crossings but they would have to go through her. And Maedeth knew they would make no such move without the interference of other of her kin.

"Noldor and Dwarves are too much alike," she said. "You think little of the wishes of plants or stones or waters. You think of swords and axes, treasure and wealth, war and ruin and doom."

"That is because war and ruin and doom have seen fit to nip at our heels," Elladan said.

Nimrodel rolled her eyes. Before she could respond, a voice called out from the beyond the stream. Silvan, but much more confident in the Sindarin tongue.

"Lady Nimrodel, allow them to pass."

Three men stood clothed in the greens and browns of Lórinand. The one who had spoken had brown hair, the same warm shade as their horses. At his voice, Nimrodel stiffened but did not turn around.

"Nimrodel. It is not your place to withhold entry," he said. "Lady Galadriel sent word to expect them."

She stood aside, allowing them a way forward. But she still glared as they walked by. "Amroth shall decide your course. Not Galadriel. Not Celeborn. King Amroth."

Maedeth nodded. She bowed low to Nimrodel. Elladan did the same, keeping his hands away from his weapon in a show of good faith. They took the river stones carefully. By the time Maedeth turned back from the other bank, Nimrodel had disappeared.

"I apologise for Lady Nimrodel's tone," said the leader of the wardens. "I am Amarthon, one of the captains of Lórinand. Welcome."

Maedeth bowed her introduced herself and Elladan. "We did not mean to cause trouble on your borders, Amarthon."

He waved them off. "Nimrodel has her reasons for speaking such a way. I am accustomed to her rhetoric."

"She is not alone in thinking such a way," muttered one of the others.

Amarthon turned, glaring. He spoke under his breath in Silvan and the young warden who had spoken straightened up.

"I do not understand," Maedeth said. "Though Lady Galadriel is of the Noldor, she also shares kinship with the Sindar. Did she not learn under Queen Melian of Doriath herself?"

Amarthon nodded. "Indeed. And for this reason, and the aid she has given us, she is beloved by most here. But not all so easily forget the harms perpetrated by her father's kin. Unlike King Amroth, King Thranduil across the Anduin has not seen fit to treat with the Noldor same as Amroth's father King Amdir, and Thranduil's father King Oropher. But come." He gestured for them to follow, ending the conversation.

"We appreciate your assistance and hospitality," Elladan said.

They marched through the night. Maedeth tried to ignore the growing panic in her chest. She saw flashes of Rinior's face in every moment of rest they took. She remembered the reflections in the water of Galadriel's mirror a decade before. Maedeth did not want that to happen again. She did not know what she would do if it did.

When they finally reached Cerin Amroth, Maedeth felt her body shaking. Elladan walked beside her, keeping close. They found the King's Talan alight in the darkness with many torches and candles. Amarthon gestured for them to head up the guarded ladder.

"Haldir, find your brothers and see to their horses," he said, gesturing for a young elf boy with blond hair who stood peeking at them from behind a bush. "Then get home."

Maedeth handed off her lead rope and started up the ladder. At the top, supported by the many mellyrn trees that crowned the hill, was the King's Talan. Open aired except for the flowerin branches that formed a bit of a wall, a beautiful view of the night sky shined down upon a carved, white wood throne. On it sat King Amroth of the Golden Wood. Beside it sat two smaller chairs also carved of white wood. These were empty. Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn stood before the throne, talking quietly with the king.

There were few guards. Two stood to either side of the ladder entrance, a large hole in the wooden floors. Two more stood to either side of the king's throne. Each bore a simple spear.

On the other side of the throne, opposite of Galadriel and Celeborn, stood a tall old man with a well groomed white beard that hung down over neat grey robes. He leaned on a staff of brown wood. At the top hung a pointy blue hat.

"That is Mithrandir," Elladan whispered, voice full of wonder. "I have not seen him since I was much younger. He is wise beyond-"

Maedeth nearly laughed as Elladan was smothered by a hug. Lady Arwen must have been waiting for them. She wrapped her arms around her older brother and refused to let go until he sputtered out an unintelligible string of words through his sister's hair.

"You're safe!" she said, pulling back. Arwen smoothed her dress and tried to suppress her smile as she turned. "Lady Maedeth. I am glad to see you are well." She bowed.

Maedeth returned the gesture. "And I am glad to see you are too. Though we meet in no less grim times, I am glad to see you happy."

"Thank you. I hope you can find some happiness as well," Arwen said.

Maedeth forced a smile. She felt Elladan's gaze on her and could not resist sparing a glance left. He smiled at her. A real smile. One that she had not seen in a long time. Perhaps the Golden Wood would be more generous this time around.

She turned back to Arwen in time to see a raised eyebrow and a growing smirk at her and her brother. But before any words could be spoken, they were interrupted by a gruff but not unkind voice.

"So you've arrived at last. Very good," said Mithrandir. He wandered over to them, sparing a few moments to look over Elladan but much longer for Maedeth.

She felt that somehow he could see her very fëa. His grey eyes were sharp, full of wells of memory. Maedeth barely stood her ground. But she did. She curtsied.

"You are Lady Maedeth, are you not?" He nodded. "I am Mithrandir."

Elladan bowed as well. "It is good to see you again, Mithrandir."

"Is it?" He smirked. "I am surprised. Last time I saw you I do believe both you and your brother foolishly tried to steal my hat."

Maedeth couldn't keep her half laugh, half gasp as she turned to Elladan and saw him blush. Guilty as charged, then? He sputtered out an apology, one he had likely parroted from his father soon after the event in question.

"Come. There is much to discuss and little time for pleasantries."

Mithrandir turned from them and walked back to the throne. They followed. Though there was little time for pleasantries, they still had to exchange them. Maedeth and Elladan both bowed and greeted first the King and then the Lord and Lady.

Amroth sank back into his throne. He rubbed his forehead and Maedeth wondered just how long this discussion had been going on before they'd even arrived. Time was of the essence. But perhaps it would do them good to wait for morning.

"King Amroth, thank you for seeing us," Maedeth began. "There is much to say-"

"No, there isn't." he snapped.

Maedeth paused. She was no stranger to the anger of kings. She glanced right and saw Galadriel struggling to maintain her composure and Celeborn released a deep sigh. But Mithrandir had no such concerns.

"If you are tired, King, go rest. But whether you like it or not, there is indeed much to be said here." Mithrandir gestured to her. "Lady Maedeth brings tidings from the North. Tidings which are relevant even if you cannot see why."

King Amroth sat straighter and glared at him. "There are many relevant tidings, and many things which concern me. It is my job as king to decide in what order I consider them. And the North is farthest from my thought." He turned back to Maedeth. "Lady Maedeth, forgive my harsh words. But I have no aid to give you. I will not send soldiers north. I fear others closer at hand than Angmar."

Mithrandir scoffed. But Celeborn did not seem nearly as put out. Maedeth saw him almost nod in agreement.

"I speak of the dwarves," he clarified for her. "They dig ever deeper, and that mountain is of an ill sort. It always has been."

"Dwarves delve," Mithrandir said, "It is what they do. And elves delay."

Amroth rolled his eyes. "You speak boldly, Mithrandir."

"I am an advisor, not a diplomat, King Amroth. It is my job to advise," he said. But he softened his voice a touch. "There are many evils around. And the distrust between elves and dwarves goes so far back that few can even remember why it began."

Galadriel nodded. She placed a hand on her husband's arm. "Mithrandir is correct. What Maedeth and Elladan are here to do is larger than any feud between free peoples. There must be some aid, even if small, you can give them King Amroth."

"You seek Gondor, yes?" he asked. At her nod, he sighed. "What would you ask of me, knowing I cannot provide arms or men?"

"Perhaps a boat?" Mithrandir said.

Maedeth nodded. "Indeed. The road south is rocky, and difficult to traverse. The river would be easier. A boat, and a place to house our steeds while we carry on would be deeply appreciated."

"Very well." King Amroth stood from the throne. "Consider it yours. Now, I must rest. I suggest you all do the same. Best of luck, Lady Maedeth."

She thanked him. All bowed as he left the talan. The guards followed him, leaving the visitors behind. Maedeth felt a weight lift off her, even as another settled. They had a faster way south. But that meant the final leg of their journey was soon to begin.

"King Amroth is right, Maedeth. You and Elladan need to rest, but only for a night," Mithrandir said. He leaned on his staff again, brow furrowed. "I sense that time is of the essence. Reach Amon Hen. There you may seek aid from the Gondorians."

Maedeth nodded. This had been a whirlwind. And even as he bid her and Elladan good night, leaving her with just the elves in the King's Talan, she wondered who he was.

Galadriel must have sensed her wonder. She leaned in, whispering, "He is a friend. I trust few like I trust Mithrandir. Whatever he says, I say also."

"Thank you, my lady."

"Arwen, show them where they can rest," Celeborn said.

Arwen nodded with a small smile. They did not have to go far to find a flet to rest in, high in the trees where they could smell sweet flowers on the gentle wind. Maedeth cleared her mind as she laid down for sleep. She could hear Arwen and Elladan whispering softly in the dark, on the other side of the platform. And though she couldn't hear the words they spoke, it gladdened her heart to know they sounded happy.

Chapter Text

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 Aessereg 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.

Aessereg 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 Aessereg 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.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Maedeth

Maedeth stared up at the golden sky, focusing on the steady rhythm of Elladan's paddle strokes through the flowing Anduin as she lay curled up in the back of the boat. Black swans danced far above her. What time had she fallen asleep?

She did not sit up. Her cloak and pack swaddled her amidst the elven wood. They'd ridden the river for nearly two weeks; summer storms forced them to the shore frequently to seek shelter. This golden sky was a welcome change.

The five black swans became a dozen as more took off from the nearby reeds. Maedeth counted each breath. In and out. She let the golden morning fill her with warmth as the boat carried on.

She would take a turn on the oars soon. Elladan needed sleep. He insisted on paddling until he practically fell over in exhaustion. It wasn't fair to him. But they had a need, and she knew he too would do whatever it took to bring their message to Gondor in time.

Sleep tugged at her eyes again. The sunlight cascaded around them but their travels had sapped her of energy like nothing else in her life. And yet when they reached the river's end she would need to be ready for the fight of her life.

Elladan, Elrohir, Aranarth all fought on the battlefield. She fought in court. Her battles were ones of words and wit. Exhaustion would be as deadly to her cause as it would be to soldiers in war.

"How you find the boat comfortable enough to sleep in, I will never understand," Elladan said.

Maedeth sighed, not responding or even looking at him. She just followed the disappearing black swans off in the distance. Her dreams had been filled with swans, too. White ones, soaring through star-studded black skies and over bright blue waves. Others lay dead on white beaches, the sand stained a deep crimson as storms rocked the shore. And still more were black as night, screaming at the sun like dark ghosts.

She sat up, uncurling herself. Her body ached. Elladan watched her carefully, his gaze following each tensing muscle and cracking joint. Then he made eye contact with her and forced a smile.

"You're exhausted," Maedeth said.

He shrugged, not pausing in his paddling. "And you are not? There is much to do and little time, but I don't need to remind you of this."

"No," she agreed.

Maedeth stared left. Brown, dead land beyond sandy banks stretched endlessly and had for many days. She saw wooden battlements in the distance flying the flag of Gondor. How many men still manned the Undeeps, she did not know. King Ondoher had defeated the Wainriders at great cost. If the encampments stood any closer to the river she may have suggested they stop and greet the Gondorians.

But they weren't close to the river. Time raced against them, and so she turned away from the Brown Lands to the shallow waters around them. In her dreams she had heard again the harp music that had accompanied her by water since her childhood. With the golden light of dawn it faded from her mind and she frowned.

"I should like to meet an ent someday."

Maedeth turned back to Elladan. He did not have his eyes on the decaying lands to the East. He had turned West, towards the green fields of Calenardhon and further still the forest of Fangorn. She smiled. At least one of them still had eyes on hope.

"You believe the stories?" she said.

Elladan nodded. "My mother told us stories of Fangorn when we were children who wished to run amok in the Trollshaws. She asked us to look for ents close to home, not far away, for they would only be found where light and life still remained."

Maedeth couldn't help but laugh. "You do not think that she said such things simply to keep you close to Rivendell? It could mean nothing."

"Oh I know you are correct," he said, smirking. Elladan stopped paddling, resting for a moment as they drifted downstream. "But ents are real. I know it. And if they remain anywhere still, it is in Fangorn Forest."

Elladan yawned. Maedeth smiled and held out her hand. "Let me take another turn, Elladan. Rest. You are no use to this quest dead on your feet."

For a moment, it seemed he would protest. But he passed the oars. Maedeth set them in place near her end of the boat and took a deep breath. Only a few more days, if the weather held, and they would reach the Argonath.

The weather did hold. Gone were the summer storms, replaced by brilliant blue skies and a firm breeze that kept them cool despite the heat as they traveled south. They reached the Portage Way around the rapids of Sarn Gebir in the early evening. Elladan carried the boat and she the supplies as they picked their way over the overgrown path. Flat lands had turned into foothills of the mountains as the Emyn Muil reared up on either side.

Maedeth listened to the tree branches dancing overhead. The green leaves waved in the wind as the sun began to sink towards the horizon. Maedeth couldn't get the image of the towering stone kings out of her mind. She had seen the Argonath twice before but many long years had passed.

"Where should we seek for the Gondorians?" Elladan asked her, setting down the boat on the other side of the rapids. "Do they stay only at Amon Hen, or do they have settlements closer to the river?"

Maedeth frowned. She looked around, dropping their packs inside the boat. Years before, they'd had a few men posted along the river. But in these days, with the threat of the Wainriders no longer present, she did not know if King Earnil bothered much with manning the forts near Amon Hen.

"It is my hope that our presence will be noticed," she said. "If it is not, we should leave the boat and head towards the Seat of Seeing. There we are sure to find guards."

They took the boat a bit further down river. She remembered a green lawn, Parth Galen, that sat at the foot of Amon Hen. There, she hoped to contact the guardsmen.

Sunlight faded as they reached Parth Galen. As Elladan splashed into the water to pull their boat onto the shore, Maedeth took a deep breath. By nightfall she would have to convince soldiers of Gondor that they were allies.

"Halt!"

Or perhaps sooner than nightfall. Maedeth froze in the boat and Elladan on the shore. He left a hand on his sword hilt as he turned towards the voice. Four men stood on the edge of the trees. On each helm had been engraved a silver star. Two had arrows nocked.

"In the name of King Earnil of Gondor, declare if you be friend or foe!"

Elladan glanced at her. Maedeth nodded. She raised her hands, still sitting in the boat. "Good soldiers of Gondor, I am Lady Maedeth, emissary of King Arvedui of Arthedain. The North Kingdom calls for aid, and I am its messenger." She took a deep breath as the sunset deepend into twilight. "This is Lord Elladan, my protector. May we come ashore?"

She heard them murmuring but could not make out the words. Finally, the man who had spoken stepped forward. He sheathed his sword. Moments later, the others followed suit.

"Strange tidings indeed," he said. "But if they are true, I do not dare deny you passage. I am Berenor of Pelargir. I command the garrison of Amon Hen."

"Well met." Maedeth accepted Elladan's hand as she exited the boat onto dry land. She offered him a quick smile before turning back to Berenor. She bowed. "Our need for haste is great. But we cannot go further tonight. Is there room for us here at Amon Hen?"

Berenor nodded, returning her bow with his own. He gestured for them to follow as his soldiers carried their boat and supplies. "Of course my lady. We would be honored for two of elven kind to stay with us even for a single night." He paused and looked out into the trees. Then he turned back. "Forgive me for my impertinence, but I did not know that elves bowed to kings of men in the North."

She smiled. "Few do. And indeed, Lord Elladan is not a servant of King Arvedui, but is a dear companion of mine for many years. I myself have served the Kings of Arthedain for five hundred years, and do not plan to stop any time soon. I love the mortal blood in my veins as much as the elven."

The others looked at her with wide eyes. In the dying light of day they guided Elladan and Maedeth up winding mountain paths to a worn, but still operating, guard tower. Six men sat outside around a campfire laughing and swapping stories. Upon their arrival, they straightened up and then stood.

"Sir!"

Berenor waved them off. "At ease. But do not gorge yourselves. We must feed two more." He stood aside and gestured to them. "This is Lady Maedeth, Emissary of Arthedain, and her protector Lord Elladan. They will remain with us for tonight. Tomorrow we shall guide them to the base of the falls and speed them on their way."

"Well met, soldiers of Gondor," she said, bowing. "It is an honor to spend time among such as you."

They stared at her in wonder. The mirth that had filled the air moments before had dissipated. Maedeth felt the tension in the air. Whether from fear or doom or wonderment, she did not know, but it could not be avoided. So she smiled and took a step forward.

"Is there food we could share," she asked. "We do not need much. But perhaps as it is prepared we could share stories of our two kingdoms?"

Several of them brightened up at the suggestion. Before long, Elladan had fallen into quiet conversation with Berenor regarding supplies and the morning's travels while Maedeth turned her focus to the soldiers. They brought out a wooden chair for her from the guard tower and began to put together a plate for her.

"How many share the blood of elves and men in Arthedain?" asked a young man, with golden hair and a clean-shaven face.

Maedeth smiled. "Few, if any," she said. "Elladan and I are Peredhil, as are our brothers. But beyond our two families I know of none."

"This is good," said another. He had dark hair and a well-trimmed beard. "Gondor has seen enough kinstrife to know mixing heritages is dangerous."

The first man, barely a boy, scoffed. "You know I share blood with the Northmen, Ferior. The Éothéod are Gondor's greatest ally."

"Now, it is true," Ferior said. "But do not forget, Tuilinher, that the decision to wed a woman of the North led to Gondor's decline."

Maedeth frowned. She remembered it well. The Kin-strife had raged in her youth, when she came of age alongside King Araphor of Arthedain. He had trusted her with much. After King Eldacar of Gondor regained his throne, Araphor had tasked her with trying to mend relations with Gondor. She had succeeded but only for a few years. Neither kingdom had managed to maintain their relationship.

"I remember the burnt ruins of the Dome of Stars in Osgiliath," she said, trying not to picture the blackened stones and the stench of burning books that somehow still lingered even months after the inferno. "The loss of the Palantir and the great knowledge stored in the Capital was tragic. But King Eldacar, half Northman though he was, ruled with strength and justice like any pure blooded Numenorean before him."

"You remember it?" Tuilinher asked.

Maedeth nodded. "Indeed. I have been an emissary for Arthedain for over five centuries. In that time I have seen much. But I fear this may be my greatest task."

She fell silent. Maedeth felt Elladan sit beside her, finished with Berenor and resuming her post by her side. She could hear the men around her asking questions but she could not bring herself to answer. A weight settled on her chest in the darkness. A coldness ran down her spine. Not even the heat of the campfire could warm her.

"It is late," Elladan said. "We are deeply grateful for your assistance and fellowship, men of Gondor. But we have been traveling many weeks through danger into danger. My lady requires rest. Where may we seek it?"

Ferior rose from the campfire and showed them into the guard tower. Twelve beds were arranged haphazardly around the first floor, made of simple wood with barely a cot to rest on. But she was grateful for anything besides an elven boat or bare earth.

The soldiers put them in two beds next to one another. As Maedeth laid herself down, she saw Elladan ease into his own bed but remained sitting up against the wall. She yawned. Laying her cloak atop the old, scraggly pillow she just shook her head.

"You need sleep as well, Elladan."

He nodded, looking down at her with a tiny smile. "I will rest, I assure you."

Maedeth wasn't sure she believed him. But in the darkness, as candles were extinguished and the firelight outside died down, she felt sleep overcoming her. He would have to look after himself. Maedeth could no longer open her eyes. As her mind fell into dreaming, she smelled burning books and incense and heard music of harps unseen.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Rínior

His side ached. All Rínior could think about as they hid beneath the trees of the forest north of the Trollshaws was the pain radiating from the stab wound in his abdomen. The large splinter had driven straight through his chainmail. Rínior held his hand against it as he grimaced.

Aessereg set Elrohir down with a grunt. They'd taken turns bearing his unconscious body from Dolindîr. Talk had been minimal. Few had survived the assault. Besides Aessereg only one other Dúnedan of Rhudaur still lived.

Rínior closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, trying to focus on the smells of the forest, the damp leaf litter from the latest summer storm and the flowering herbs hidden from view. But the stench of blood and grime clouded the peace he sought.

The Ettenmoors were still many days away. Though the assault on Dolindîr had wiped out most if not all of Arthedain's Eastern front, they could not rule out a counterattack. He'd sent the hillmen back to Minas Eglan. They had to be careful.

He turned back to Aessereg. He and his kinsman set to work building a small shelter for the night. The sun began to sink in the sky as Rínior walked over to Elrohir's unconscious body.

Taking the ropes binding his hands, Rínior ensured they were tight against the tree at his back. Elrohir's right hand had turned black and blue in the days since the fight. Rínior had managed to hit him directly in the palm with his Fëanorian dagger. A good strike, and an unfortunate one for the warrior of Rivendell.

He turned back to the campsite. They would avoid lighting a fire. Dried meat would suffice for dinner and the warmth of summer would keep them comfortable. He watched Aessereg and his kinsman. What was his name? Rínior narrowed his eyes, trying to recall. There were so many of them. Or, there had been.

Aessereg looked up at him. He glared, his eyes hard in the dying light. Mouth in a thin line, he said nothing, but returned to the task at hand.

Medlinor! That was his name. He was bear-like indeed. A large, though short man with dark hair and brown eyes, Medlinor had wielded a sword like a champion during the battle. And yet he had not come away unscathed either. He walked with a limp now.

Aessereg met his gaze again. Rínior raised an eyebrow, feeling the anger pouring off the man in waves.

"What?" Rínior asked.

Aessereg barred his teeth. "What? You dare ask that?"

Rínior did not have time for riddles. There was much to do and much to think about. He couldn't play games with his lieutenant. "Speak your mind, Aessereg. I do not have time for guesses."

He rose up off the ground. Aessereg balled his fists and took three steps closer. "You dare ask what it is that angers me? Look around you, Rínior!" He threw a hand forward, gesturing to the trees. "How many stand with you now?"

Wind filled the forest. Branches blew and animals fell silent. Rínior just folded his arms. "If you wish for an apology after the battle, you will not get it from me. We did our duty. We won-"

"Won? Our force is diminished! You have wiped out my-"

Aessereg stopped speaking. He looked past Rínior and his anger deepend. Shutting his mouth, he turned away and refused to continue.

Rínior turned around. When Elrohir had woken, he couldn't tell. But he blinked against the last rays of the sun, tentatively trying each limb to make sure they still worked from where he sat on the ground tied to a great oak tree.

"Don't stop on my account," Elrohir croaked out. He forced a smile through the dried blood all over his face. A coughing fit consumed him.

"Welcome back," Rínior said. He left Aessereg to his brooding and picked up a water skin. "If you wish to drink, all you need to do is ask."

Elrohir sneered. He shifted against the tree. "I did not take you for a coward, Rínior. I asked you to kill me on that battlefield."

"It is not a good look for you, Elrohir, trying to bait me like this."

His friend did not respond. He merely glared at him, not caring about the blood and dirt all over his face, or the wounds littering his body. Elrohir broke eye contact and glanced around them.

"So tell me, Rínior. Whose orders do you take now if not Arvedui's?" He looked back at him. "Is it the Witch-king who holds your leash, or some lesser lord of darkness?"

The cold light of purple fire flashed across his memory. A metal gauntlet grabbed his wrist. Frozen eyes held him in place.

"The Witch-king, then," Elrohir said.

Rínior sat down. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to put on his practiced nonchalance. But waves of anger, despair, ruin washed over him. He tried to forget that creep of a thousand spiders beneath his skin. He could not.

"What did he do to you, Rínior?"

He looked up in surprise at the softness in Elrohir's voice. His friend's grey eyes had lost some of their sharpness in the last light of day. Rínior sneered.

"Nothing. Except show me that which I had already realized." He leaned forward. "Arthedain is dead, Elrohir. We kill and suffer for nothing. They will not win the war."

"And you know all ends how?"

He slammed his fist into the ground. "Just think for once, Elrohir! Forget your wistful love of the North Kingdom." Rínior took a deep breath, recentering himself. "They are going to die unless they bow to the Witch-king. Or to me. I can save them but they must pay homage."

"There it is. You speak of salvation for the men of Arthedain, and yet the only path you offer is that which brings you power."

"I will save them!"

A fist slammed into a tree. Rínior whipped his head around as they both stared at a fuming Aessereg. His cheeks blazed red. His eyes narrowed.

"You have a problem, Aessereg?" Rínior snapped.

"Is that what you promised Aglarwain?" he said. "Before you led him to his death?"

Rínior scoffed. He did not bother to stand and acknowledge Aessereg's indignation. He just sneered from beneath him.

"I did not lead him to his death. Aglarwain came to me for help. It is not my fault he was too weak to keep up!"

Aessereg balled his fists and took a half step forward. "Is that what you tell yourself about the massacre of my people at Dolindîr?"

"Massacre?" Rínior tried not to laugh. "They fell in battle. They received the gift promised to them since before time itself: to die and go beyond the bounds of this world. Would that all were so lucky!"

He turned back from Aessereg to Elrohir. The man leaned against the oak tree, face the picture of exhaustion. But he watched with interest.

"That is what you tell yourself then?" Elrohir said. "That with each death, Man is freed from their torture? And yet you chose the life of the Eldar?"

"We are uniquely gifted, Elrohir. To be able to choose!" He smiled. "I chose immortality, that I might change the course of this world. Men cannot do so. They are born into suffering and can know nothing else. We can change Arda with deeds the matter of song!"

Elrohir didn't respond. Rínior watched as he looked all over his face, and then at Aessereg and Medlinor. Twilight fell around them. In the darkness, Rínior could not make out the finer details of his friend's expression.

"In some ways, you are right," Elrohir said. He took a pained, deep breath. "Death is a gift. To go beyond the bounds of this world and see what lies before us. But in other ways you delude yourself."

"How so."

"Despair clouds your judgement. I wish I had seen it sooner. Much evil may have been averted."

Rínior watched as tears filled the edges of Elrohir's bloodshot eyes. A knot formed in his stomach. But he could not interrupt.

"I am sorry. And yet, you have chosen this path." Elrohir took a deep breath. "Perhaps you are right about Arthedain. Perhaps it is doomed. Perhaps their kingdom shall fall. But that is no reason to bow to a dark lord. There was a time when you would have died rather than entertain such a thought."

Rínior sneered. "I am not thinking only of myself—"

"Yes you are. 'Deeds the matter of song'? You quote the words of Fëanor, a kinslayer who doomed his whole family to a life bound to a hopeless oath?" He gave a short laugh. "You have idolized your lineage from day one. I should have been more careful in dissuading you."

Rínior stood off the ground. He felt the blood rushing to his head, the anger filling his chest.

"I quote the words of Fëanor, greatest craftsman in all Eä, who shut a door in the very face of Morgoth Bauglir!"

"Would that he could see you now!"

The woods rang with Elrohir's shout. Rínior did not respond. He felt the weight of their conversation settle in his bones. In the darkness, he turned away.

"Get some rest, Elrohir. We continue our march north at first light."

Rínior watched Aessereg and Medlinor snickering into their dinner. Let them laugh. Time would prove him right. Elrohir would bow to the Witch-king or face his own mortality. He intended to be there when Elrohir made his choice.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty - Maedeth

Maedeth stood alone amidst the bustle of the Gondorian outpost the next morning. The soldiers changed our duties, some heading to the Seat of Seeing and others to man their guard posts overlooking the river. A heaviness weighed her down.

She had hoped to sit in the Seat of Seeing. She wanted some glimpse of Middle Earth around them, to perhaps gain some insight into the right course of action. She doubted she could see Arthedain, but maybe. Maybe.

Berenor refused. Maedeth had seen wariness and regret fighting within him, but in the end the duty he held to protect Amon Hen won out. None were allowed to the Seat of Seeing without the express permission of the King or the Steward.

So she waited. Elladan hurried about coordinating the plan he and Berenor had drawn up the night before. He and three others would see them safely down the Emyn Muil beside the Falls of Raurus to the marshland below. He warned them to move quickly through Nindalf towards Cair Andros and on to Osgiliath.

"At Osgiliath, you can seek out fresh horses," Berenor had said.

It would be nice to ride a horse again. She wished to never ride in a boat the rest of her life. But comfort was of little consequence in times of war.

"Are you ready?"

Maedeth turned from her musings to look at Elladan. He stood with his arms crossed. She wasn't sure he'd slept much, despite his promise.

"Indeed. Are you?"

"Very."

At least he shared her sentiments. They followed Berenor and two of his men down a worn path between trees. It wove around and over fallen boulders and treacherous mountain falls.

Elladan helped carry the boat. It was remarkably light, much to the shock of the Gondorian soldiers, but even so it made maneuvering a bit challenging. They walked behind Maedeth as she followed Berenor.

"The path we will take is known to few. Only those of the Company of the Seats use it, only at need, and we are few these days," Berenor said. "I trust you can keep knowledge of it to yourselves?"

"Of course," Maedeth said, echoed by Elladan.

"Good. Then let us find it."

The steady roar of the waterfall grew and grew as they approached the edge of the Emyn Muil. Speech became difficult. They veered away from the Falls of Rauros until they came to a shallow cave.

"Follow me. This will be the most difficult, with the boat," he said.

Maedeth did not fancy the idea of going into a cave. But she trusted these men. They had been kind, and this Company of the Seats had likely used their path for centuries at least.

She ducked inside behind Berenor. The cave had a dry, sandy floor full of boot scuffs that had likely lain there for many years. Water dripped down the sides of the rock. They followed the natural progression of the cave to the left.

The soldier not carrying a boat lit a torch as sunlight disappeared. Shadows danced on cave walls as stalactites and stalagmites jeered like wolves' teeth in the firelight. A coldness gripped her heart as they continued to descend.

About half an hour into the cave, it narrowed greatly. Berenor paused. He looked back at the boat.

"If we can maneuver it through here, it should reach the river without issue."

Maedeth stood back. Elladan and Berenor began to work at the slim passage, trying to get the boat of Lórien through undamaged. She turned her mind to memories of better days, the rare times she and Rínior had found peace in Rivendell. He had laughed back then. She had not seen him laugh in far too long. Maedeth bit her cheek. How had she not noticed his descent into despair?

She opened her eyes. Wolf teeth in firelight lunged for her. Heart racing, she reminded herself where she was. This was a cave, not the mouth of a beast. They were seeking safety.

"Yes!" Berenor said, around the corner.

They had succeeded. Elladan grinned as he came back to her. He was covered in dirt and had a scrape on his cheek but otherwise seemed to have gotten through unharmed.

"Come," he said, taking her hand. "You must see this!"

Following behind, she walked through the sharp bend in the cave passage. Instead of cave floor her feet found roughly hewn shallow steps. And before long, sunlight.

A small, continuous window had been carved into the rock on the southern side. It was about a foot tall. She had to blink back at the sudden brightness and the roar of the nearby waterfall. But when she had recovered, Maedeth hurried to look out.

They were far above. Down below she could barely see through the mist of the Rauros. But she thought she could see many rivers snaking through a green land. Years of wind and rain had worn away parts of the window to the outside world so it was hardly uniform. But Maedeth felt that made it even more beautiful as she held her hand through it to reach the sun.

They couldn't speak in this meandering tunnel. Rauros tumbled from above roaring down into the delta below. But even if they could, she would not have. This place felt sacred somehow, fit for honor and not useless prattling. Her heart calmed as gentle spray from the waterfall hit her face through the carven window.

It had been years since she felt so at peace. She did not risk closing her eyes in case she tripped down the gently descending steps, but she felt if she could maybe she would gain some insight. The Anduin reached all the way to the ocean, after all. But the Valar did not aid her, and to think such things was foolish.

Nevertheless, she clung to that fool's hope as they continued on. She listened to the waterfall. As hours went on and they drew further away from it, she mourned. But they had much to do. She could not afford hesitation.

"We come to the end," Berenor said, the waterfall far enough away that speech was possible. "We seal the base of the stairs with a large boulder. Once you are in your boat again, we can offer no more assistance."

"The aid you have given us so far is incredible," Maedeth said. She bowed deeply to him. "This quest would have failed if not for you and your men."

"We do our duty, my lady, nothing more."

"Do not sell short the importance of duty."

Berenor smiled. "No, indeed, my lady." He bowed too as his soldiers pushed a large boulder away from the cave entrance.

"Thank you for your assistance," Elladan said. They shook hands.

When they stepped out into the warm evening, Maedeth took a deep breath. The scent of damp earth and the sound of insects met them. But they were not far from a small tributary.

"Go with good speed," Berenor said. "And take great care until you reach the Anduin. Some of these rivers in the delta are more shallow than they appear."

With that, the boulder was put back in place. She and Elladan stood alone. A blood red sun sank in the sky casting pink and purple hues all around them. The first stars began to show.

"Ready?" Elladan placed the boat down in the river and held it in place with one foot. "Our journey is almost at an end."

Maedeth took another deep breath. She nodded. With Elladan's help she climbed back into the boat. They still had many miles to go.

Days passed. She caught what sleep she could as they maneuvered from the Entwash river delta back into the Anduin. But her sleep was fitful.

She jerked awake as they drifted down the Anduin. The moon still shone high in the sky, crowned by Lady Elbereth's stars. She counted them as she caught her breath.

"Are you alright?"

She sighed. Sitting up, Maedeth ran a hand through her dirty hair and frowned. Elladan watched her closely.

"My dreams do not rest these days," she said. "They confuse me. Some are filled with war and death. In the Kin-strife ruins of Osgiliath I see a woman with silver-white hair and a crown of iron with a bloody sword. Others are more hopeful. I see a woman clothed in greens holding her hands towards the light of Eärendil's star." She shook her head. "Always there is the sound of water and music of harps."

Elladan did not respond. She saw him deep in thought as he paused in his rowing. The river carried them on.

"You have never seen them before?"

"Never."

"You should seek the counsel of my father," Elladan said. "He is wise. I am not."

Maedeth laughed. A sudden lightness filled her chest as she sat with Elladan beneath the stars on the river. At first he pretended to be hurt. But he could not resist joining in with her for long.

"Oh, Elladan," she said, wiping a tear from her eyes. Her mouth hurt from smiling so wide. "Thank you. For everything."

"You know I would do anything for you."

She smiled at him, illuminated by the moon and stars above and the reflections in the water below. Not far down river she saw torch lights. But for this moment they were alone. She wished to speak the three words that would bind them forever. And yet the words of King Finrod rushed back in again: to wed in times of war led to tragedy, and even more so between two kindreds. She did not know which life she would choose. She could not do that to him.

"Thank you."

They passed the small garrison on the island of Cair Andors quickly, with brief words and the seal of Berenor allowing passage to Osgiliath. She remembered when that great city had been the jewel of the Free Peoples. Now it lay decaying and deserted.

The sun began to rise as they reached the northern river gate of Osgiliath. Soldiers of Gondor hailed them. Elladan and Maedeth maneuvered their boat to the Eastern shore as directed. They tied off at an old pier.

"State your intentions."

Always the same question, and always the same answer. Maedeth introduced them, plead their cause, and hoped they would not deny them further passage. The river warden looked at them more suspicious than others.

"Come, follow me. You will speak your piece with my captain."

And so they followed him into Osgiliath. Maedeth felt her chest tighten at every street they passed. The beautiful Númenorean craftsmanship had faded and fallen to pieces. She remembered the way it still stank of death when she'd first arrived. The Kin-strife had decimated the city. And plague had finished it off. Now it was a ghost town but for the few garrisons of soldiers and a handful of scholars still working to recover and preserve the knowledge lost in the burning of the Dome of Stars.

By midmorning they stood before a great captain. He was tall, broad-shouldered with dark hair and a clean face. Maedeth doubted he was anything but of pure Númenorean descent. He watched them warily, arms crossed with a wide set stance in front of barracks.

"My runners say you are messengers of the North Kingdom?" He looked them up and down. "I am Captain Faelher. I command the garrisons at Osgiliath. Your names?"

"Lady Maedeth of Arthedain," she said. "And my protector is Lord Elladan of Rivendell."

"Elves?" He paused. "Why should an elf speak for a kingdom of men?"

"Half-elven," she said. "And I speak for Arthedain now as I have for five hundred years, because it is my home and this is my duty."

She hoped it would appeal to his own sense of duty. Maedeth released a small breath as she watched him soften as her words. Good.

"Your message is no concern of mine," Captain Faelher said. "If the Company of the Seats saw fit to aid you and Cair Andros did not stop you, then we will see this task through. But I wished to look in your eyes myself. It is difficult to know who to trust otherwise."

Maedeth bowed deeply before him. A wise course. She preferred the same, which was why she battled in council rooms, not behind armor.

"You can spare two horses then?" Elladan asked. "The faster we can travel the better. Autumn is closing in already, and we have been gone for many months."

Faelher nodded. "We keep several fresh horses for messengers. Come."

They followed him. By noon they had packed their horses with what meager supplies remained. Maedeth felt her heart pounding. They would ride hard through the homesteads of the Pelennor Fields. They hoped to ride faster than any messenger, so they would reach the King unbidden.

Her hands shook as she messed with the last few straps on her red roan steed. It all came to this. One more push. One more ride.

Elladan gripped her hands with his. He wasn't shaking. He was steadfast. Always steadfast. In his grey eyes and warm touch she found a moment of peace.

He released her hands, and she her breath. They had one more push to make. Maedeth mounted her horse at the great gate of Osgiliath. Elladan did the same. With the warmth of the early autumn sun on her face and the wind off the Anduin in her hair, she raced off.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-One - Rínior

Rínior glimpsed grey skies through the pinewood overhead. Every step hurt, both his wounds and his legs from the journey. Elrohir had woken a few days before. With Aessereg's iron grasp on the lead rope around his wrists, they'd moved quickly through forest and downs alike.

Gnawing anger wormed its way into Rínior's heart. He'd given Elrohir the silent treatment the first day. If his friend didn't want to talk sense, then they would not talk at all. But that had suited him well enough.

The next day, he'd tried a different tactic. If Elrohir did not want to speak about winning the war and saving their families, then he would get information from him. Where was Elladan? Was Aranarth perfectly happy letting the Eldar fight his own battles?

That had gotten him little. Elrohir just stared ahead expressionless, probably trying not to fall and injure himself further. The stab wound to his palm looked red but had stopped bleeding long before, as Rínior had been sure to wrap it their first night. Nevertheless, wielding a weapon would be difficult. He wouldn't want further complications. Elrohir was a warrior as much as a diplomat.

So they had reached an impasse. Wind whipped through the trees again, growing sparser as they approached another section of elevated moors. Had clouds not covered the sun, high noon would've warmed them. Instead, the wind sent a chill down Rínior's spine.

He paused. They would reach the edge of the trees before long. It would make more sense to wait until dark to cross the open countryside. They were well inside Angmar-controlled lands but that meant little, especially if Rivendell knew Elrohir had gone missing. A band of horsemen from the Hidden Valley would not hesitate to strike out into Angmar to find him.

When he turned back, Aessereg still did not speak. He had been even more tight-lipped than Elrohir since the elf had woken. Rínior appreciated it. Too many times in recent days had Aessereg dared to contradict him in public. Or at all, frankly.

"We'll wait here until nightfall," Rínior said. He watched Elrohir closely. The man straightened up, grimacing in pain as he attempted to massage his wounded palm from between his bonds. Rínior gestured to a patch of ground beneath a tree. "Sit. Aessereg, you and…" What was the other man's name? No matter. "The two of you get food prepared. Only a low fire, if any."

The glower that Aessereg shot his way almost made him smirk. But he didn't want to waste energy on the hulking idiot that was his second. So instead he busied himself tying off the lead rope from Elrohir's bonds to a tree above the ground.

With Elrohir secured, he too sat down. A sharp pain shot through his abdomen at the sudden movement. His own stab wound would take time to heal as well. His legs and feet burned, finally freed from the pressure of marching to Carn Dûm.

"Water?" he offered, after letting some cool off his throat.

Elrohir shook his head. "No."

Rínior shrugged. If Elrohir wished to be parched, he would not stop it. As long as he could walk, at least. They did not have time to carry Elrohir all the way to the Witch-king.

Long silence stretched between them. Aessereg and his companion prepared food, dried meats and some cheese and wild berries. A regular feast compared to what he'd received when dragged to Angmar by Aglarwain.

Elrohir's grey eyes followed his every move. They didn't speak but they watched each other. Rínior felt the familiar gnawing of unspoken words. He had not wanted to speak first. But he would. He would have to if Elrohir was to understand before he too came before the Witch-king.

"They took me from the Barrow-downs," he said. Frozen hands traveled over his body as the memories closed in. "They ambushed us even as we hoped to ambush them."

Elrohir released a long, wavering breath. "We expected as much. I found your men dead, but no sign of you."

Rínior suppressed a humorless laugh. He remembered the bodies. He remembered all the bodies. On the pine-needle forest floor he watched beetles and ants clamber for new paths now that their old ones were disturbed by their bodies and packs.

"Unimportant," Rínior said, looking back at Elrohir. "What happened that morning means far more."

Elrohir raised an eyebrow. He allowed his head to lean back against a pine tree. "Oh?"

"We are of unparalleled lineage, Elrohir. You are a son of kings and queens, as I am."

Shifting against the leaf litter, Elrohir put his hands in his lap. He leaned forward. "I do not seek a throne, Rínior, and you know this."

He did know it. They used to speak at length about their bloodlines. Elrohir wanted nothing more than to honor the wishes of his parents, to protect Imladris from the wars of Eriador. Likewise Elrohir know his own heart. He knew the frustration that had always haunted his footsteps. The anger that he and Maedeth had to hide the name of Fëanor lest it be used against them.

"I do not offer you a throne," Rínior said. He sat back against a tree as well. "And in truth, though I will welcome the kingship, I desire something far greater."

The dream flooded back. He remembered the face of the woman in green and brown, standing in the ocean waves with the Silmaril clasped against her chest. She resembled his daughter so much, it could have been no one else. Rínior felt himself smiling.

"Seas and lands change, Elrohir."

"Indeed. Or so the histories tell us," he agreed. "What of it."

"The night before the battle of the Downs, I had a dream." He felt warmth fill his chest as he remembered the water in his ears. "One I will never forget.

As he recounted the dream, Elrohir didn't move. He watched him, expressionless, until for a moment Rínior all but forgot he was there. His eyes closed. He fell into the words, the feeling of loose stones under fingernails, the blood across his palm as he climbed the cliff. When he opened his eyes again, Elrohir frowned.

"I'm doing this for Mírien, Elrohir. Don't you understand!" Rínior pounded the ground with his fist. "Not for me. For her. For Tiniel. For Maedeth!"

No response. Elrohir let a small breath out before he just shook his head. "Now it is my turn to speak, Rínior, and yours to listen."

"Oh?"

"You haven't seen Mírien in ten years, off fighting this war." Elrohir grimaced in pain. "I have. Neither have you seen Tiniel, or Maedeth, any of those you claim to be fighting for!"

Another gust of wind blew Rínior's hair into his face. He ignored it. His throat constricted.

"Tiniel no longer leaves her chambers. She spends her days falling into memories of when you two were young and in love, wondering why she could not save you." Elrohir's jaw clenched as pain flashed across his face again. "Maedeth does what you cannot. She fights for Arthedain even as it falls. It is not you who brings honor to the name of Fëanor, it is her. But even she cannot stop Tiniel from fading. You are killing your wife, Rínior."

"You lie, Elrohir." Rínior dug his fingernails into the dirt. "It does not become you."

With a short laugh, Elrohir just shook his head. He leaned forward, over his lap. "I wish I did, Rínior. But I do not. And I don't lie when I tell you of Mírien, either. She is ashamed of you, Rínior. Ashamed to be tied to your lineage, scorned by everyone in Fornost but Prince Arveldir."

He could feel the wet earth squishing beneath his nails. Pine needles stuck into his palms. Heat rose to his face that no wind, no rain could cool. Every breath came faster and faster as he watched Elrohir's grey eyes bore into his.

"Tell me, Rínior. What do you think Mírien will say when you kill him?"

"She will learn the lesson I have learned." Rínior spit out each word like venom. "Men are not worthy of tears. She is an elf."

"Half-elf. That choice is hers, Rínior."

Distant thunder rolled. Rínior sneered. He removed his mud covered hands from the earth and flicked the dirt away. "Men are useful for only one thing. Dying in this war." He shot up and turned away.

Aessereg swung a sword at his neck. Rínior fell backwards. His mind raced. He scrambled in the dirt. Curses rolled off his tongue as he faced another swing. Between the pain in his side and the rock that dug into his back, his body screamed.

Between dodging swings, he saw Elrohir spring his plan. He too shot up off the ground, hands untied. Aessereg's companion had no time to react as the elf closed with him.

Rínior spat blood on the ground. He managed to unsheath his dagger. As Aessereg swung down again, he leaped forward, barely into him and sinking his blade hilt deep in Aessereg's stomach. Rínior screamed as he pulled it sideways. Hot blood and guts spilled onto the ground.

He used the body as leverage to stand as Rínior wrenched the sword from its hand. Elrohir turned to face him as he, too, dropped a body to the forest floor.

"Clever," Rínior said. He had to spit more blood and saliva to the ground as he sheathed his dagger to focus on the sword. "Clever lies."

"Not lies."

Elrohir struggled with his breathing, pain obvious as he attempted to hold his blade. He'd gotten the jump on him but Rínior had no intention of dying in an unnamed forest floor between Arthedain and Angmar.

They clashed. Pain filled every inch of his body at the first impact. He watched Elrohir duck backwards and tried not to do the same. But his side, his back, his twisted ankle battled his unbridled rage.

"Coward," he managed to gasp out.

"Traitor!"

Rínior rushed forward again. He landed three hits on Elrohir's sword before he could not continue. White spots swam in his vision. Elrohir leaned against a tree, trying to catch his own breath.

"You really think," he said, "you can survive to reach Arthedain?"

Elrohir glared.

"Fine." Rínior laughed, though it turned into a coughing fit. "Go. Try it. You won't make it. You'll die alone somewhere, unloved and unremembered."

No response. Rínior watched as he ran through all the possibilities in those long heartbeats beneath the trees. Rain began to fall as the stench of blood filled the air. Predators would soon come to investigate. He too needed to move. He could not return now to Carn Dûm. Not empty handed and uninvited.

"I am sorry, Rínior." Elrohir's voice fell, even as he kept his sword raised. "I'm sorry." He drew himself up. His jaw clenched, shoulders tensing. "Next time I see you, one of us dies."

"Is that a threat?"

"A promise."

Rínior bared his teeth. He watched as Elrohir turned and hobbled into the forest. His friend would never make it to safety alive. But neither would he, if he tried to duel Elrohir when so injured himself. Let the animals find him. Let the weather bring him to his knees. Let hunger and thirst slay him.

He looked around, catching his breath. Sharp pain shot up his leg as he put pressure on his ankle. Death stank. Rain fell. He would make for Minas Eglan. Carn Dûm did not need to know what had transpired here. He had won the battle at Dolindîr, and Elrohir had not been present. It had not been a failure. There had not been any failures. If any spoke the truth, they would die. And the truth would die with them. They would win this war quickly.

Pinpricks of fear crept up his spine. They had to win this war quickly.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Two - Maedeth

Hooves pounded over well worn pebble roads as Maedeth made the last push to the gates of Minas Anor. The White City towered into the red and purple sky. The sun had bathed the Pelennor in light until it sank behind Mount Mindolluin. Now a painting of reds, oranges, and pinks bled into purple and dark blue star studded sky.

She blinked against the wind. Her mount heaved for breath as she pushed him onwards. On her left she heard Elladan keeping pace. Maedeth peered forward. The beautiful black outer wall of the city approached.

Her breath caught in her chest. They were almost to Minas Anor. They were almost to the end of the journey. This journey, at least.

Maedeth shook her head. It would do no good to worry about the return. Hopefully, King Eärnil would act swiftly and they could return with the main force. But at the thought, a chill ran down her spine.

Mithrandir's words echoed in her ears. Time is of the essence. Time is of the essence.

Hoofbeats drowned out the world around her like thunder. But her mind never quieted. What would she say to the southern king? She'd never met him. She'd met those who came before but that was centuries before.

Did Gondor value the same things now as they had back then? Their king had gained the throne through battle prowess. He had proved his worth to the people by winning a war, not by right of blood. Or at least, Arvedui had argued as such. Eärnil shared in the blood of Anarion, though distant. He had every right to be king. The Council named him such.

The Council. Maedeth tried to push it from her mind. It was not just one man she would need to convince. He had final say in all matters, but the Council's opinions weighed heavily in Gondor. She would need to prove her worth to them as well.

Black walls reared up in front of them. She slowed her horse at the gates of the city. A few rays of the sun still shone in the sky as four guards flanked the opening. She thanked the Valar for allowing them to reach Minas Anor before sundown.

"Who seeks entrance to Minas Anor so brashly? The Gates are set to be closed!"

Maedeth watched as a man in a white surcoat with a black tree approached her. He wore it over finely crafted mail and in the gentle breeze, his black cloak fluttered behind him. The sword at his belt contrasted the spears of the gate guards around him. The guards' own armor was black with a white tree. Maedeth recognized him immediately. Or, his station. Warden of the Keys.

"Forgive our haste, my lord." She swung off her horse and approached. Maedeth did not miss the surprise on the faces of the soldiers as they realized, in the dying light of day, that she was a woman. "I am Lady Maedeth, Emissary of King Arvedui of Arthedain the North Kingdom. We have journeyed far through many dangers. I bear a message for King Eärnil that cannot wait!"

Her words rung in the quiet. They echoed off the ancient stones. Maedeth held her breath as she stood on the worn, pebble paved road before the towering gates of the White City.

"I am Curuhael, Warden of the Kings." He nodded his head, though he watched warily as Elladan also dismounted and came to stand beside her. "Your name is known to me, Lady Maedeth, though only from my younger days when I studied the lore of this city. That you arrive now is an ill omen."

She released a long breath. "So I have been told before, Lord Curuhael. Nevertheless, I have come, and I cannot be waylaid even by one as great as the Warden of the Keys. My message is too important."

"Very well. Follow me."

Maedeth allowed herself to breathe again. She looked at Elladan. He nodded with a soft smile, though in the dark the shadows played tricks and for a moment, she thought it was a frown. They took hold of lead ropes and led the horses forward.

The well maintained, gravel roads turned to a paved road of beautiful white stone. As her horse clip-clopped after her, she could not resist falling into memory. Rath Celerdain, it was called. The Lampwrights' Street. In the darkness, the lamps shone forth with a pale golden brilliance. The few civilians of Minas Anor out so late laughed as they walked arm and arm, or watched the entrance of the two half-elves with thinly veiled wonder.

Maedeth loved Rath Celerdain. In her younger years she had enjoyed evening strolls among the people of Gondor, gathering gossip as she sought to understand the woes and wishes of the South Kingdom. They were not so different from their kindred in the North, really. Not in those days, anyway.

Curuhael led them across from the Great Gate towards a beautiful black horse that stood beside two more guards in sable and white. "Mount up. We ride, unless you are not in the hurry you first claimed."

Maedeth did not dignify the slight dig with a response. She merely did as asked. It did not take long to reach the beginning of the green grass lawn beside the road winding up to the Citadel. Her horse would be grateful for it.

They hurried off. Alternating between a gallop and maneuvering at a cantor, Maedeth and Elladan followed Curuhael up the switchbacks. The city sprawled out along them. Perhaps someday she would return and have time to explore it more fully. Even in earlier days most of the time in Minas Anor was spent with the nobles, not galavanting around the city. Hers strolls down Rath Celerdain were a distinct exception.

It was quiet. That much she noticed. The sun set as they reached the third circle, but even before she had seen few people. She squirmed on her horse as they crossed through the gate to the Fifth Circle. Too much like Fornost, really.

Though, not quite as barren. A small group of young women laughed together as they sat on an open green lawn with books now closed around them. As they entered the Fifth Circle, the women looked up in surprise.

It did not take long to reach the Sixth Circle. Near to the gate stood the Upper Stables. Curuhael dismounted.

"We ride no further," he said. "From here we walk, and show due respect to those who come before us."

Their horses were taken by young stable hands. Maedeth whispered a word of thanks to the red roan who had borne her so swiftly across the Pelennor. When she turned away, she bumped into Elladan. He had become her shadow in the darkness in Minas Anor.

"Apologies," he said.

Maedeth shook her head. No apology was needed. Words stuck in her throat that she would've spoken to assure him as they began to follow Curuhael through the Sixth Circle. Beautiful gardens featured flowers both open and closed, some blossoms seeking sunlight and others basking in the full moon.

The small gate to the Citadel of Minas Anor stops closer than the gates of the other cities. It faced east, like the Great Gate. Fewer than half a dozen could walk abreast in the tunnel ramp to the Seventh Circle.

A gust of wind hit her in the face as they came out onto the Seventh Circle. Gone were the typical soldiers of Gondor, replaced by the Citadel Guard at every corner and door frame. In addition to the surcoat of soldiers of Gondor they wore helms of glittering Mithril, carven wings of birds at either side. Maedeth felt her breath catch at their beauty in the moonlight.

But her eyes quickly fell on the centerpiece of the courtyard. At the center of a small lawn with four large, curved white stone benches towered a beautiful tree. The White Tree. Maedeth smiled. Still as breathtaking as ever. At least this had not changed.

Bark as white as snow, leaves the color of dark emeralds on top and shining silver below, it echoed in a memory that was not her own the beauty of Telperion. What book she'd read that so perfectly described that Elder tree, she wasn't sure. But there was no doubt in her mind that the White Tree of Minas Anor had come from that great lineage.

"Wait here," Curuhael said. "I will seek out the King. Either he will come, or you will wait for the morning."

She thanked him. Maedeth watched as the Warden of the Keys disappeared into the massive doors of the Tower of Ecthelion. As another gust of wind hit her face, she ducked away. The first chill of autumn descended on them.

But with the wind came a scent Maedeth had forgotten with the centuries. Hints of peaches, jasmine, and flowering daffodils wove an intricate dance between floral and fruit. Once upon a time, Maedeth had bathed herself in the soaps of Gondor. The wife of King Eldacar had gifted it to her when she visited at the close of the Kin-strife. Proof that in Gondor not all civility and peace had burned, she had said. Some goodness remained.

A hand touched her arm. Maedeth opened her eyes, back in the present. Some goodness remained, now as it had then. She turned to Elladan. He watched her with a furrowed brow but as her attention turned to him, he forced himself to smile.

"We should sit," Maedeth said, voice low. There was no point in standing at the edge of the green lawn. Who knew how long they would wait for the king. "The guards of the Citadel will do nothing to hinder us so long as we respect the tree."

She walked forward. As her mud caked riding boots touched the green grass, somehow the pain in her legs lessened. No guard stopped her from approaching a bench beneath the sprawling branches of the great tree.

Maedeth sat. The white stone, chilled by the winds high up in the city, offered her a cool balm both to her injured body from months of travel but also to her anxious thoughts. She focused on the chill beneath her palms as she layed them flat to either side of her.

Moments later, Elladan joined her. He took off his sword, laying it in its sheath up against the bench. They had no need of it now. At least, she hoped not. He took up a vigil on her right, sitting close enough that he blocked some of the wind.

What would she say to the king? What should she not say? Already she decided to leave out all mention of Rínior's name. If Curuhael knew of her name from their lore masters, a simple ambassador of the North Kingdom, likely they would know the Hero of the North. Maedeth would not allow her brother to kill the relationship between the North and South. He had done enough damage already.

So much. Her heart raced. Maedeth found it difficult to breathe. The world began to spin as pain filled her chest. She felt tears pricking at her eyes. Tiniel was dying. Mírien hated herself. Rínior destroyed the armies. Arthedain fell closer to ruin each day. She ran a hand through her matted hair. It stuck. She pulled and yanked to get it out. And every attempt she had made to secure them aid had failed.

She failed.

She couldn't fail this one.

Warm fingers interlocked with hers. Elladan gently pried her hand away from her messy hair and held it tight. He didn't say anything. But Maedeth watch, eyes wide, as he moved their joined hands down towards the cold bench. Her heart slowed. But her face warmed.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He smiled. It faltered a moment later as he turned away, back to the tree in front of them. "Any time. There is not a single doubt in my mind that you will complete this mission, Maedeth. It may be your hardest task yet, but you are more than a match for it."

She gripped his hand tighter. In a sea of chaos, he offered stability. Her heart pounded again. The world closed in until it was only them. His presence intoxicated her like wine.

"Thank you," she said again.

Maedeth let go of his hand. She couldn't concentrate on Elladan's closeness and the mission at hand. Duty came before love. It had to come before love, for without duty the world would crumble. She couldn't bear to see how he reacted so she faced the tree.

Footsteps over stone and then grass sounded behind them a few minutes later. Maedeth and Elladan turned their heads. Immediately, they sprang up.

King Eärnil's clean shaven face had a few wrinkles of age and stress, but his dark hair showed no sign of grey. He wore robes of red and black, with trim in shining gold thread. Even beneath the sleeves she could tell he had the muscle of a warrior. Just like King Eldacar. Men who had seen too much of war.

"King Eärnil!" She rounded the bench and curtseyed deeply to him as Elladan followed suit. "A true honor."

"My Warden of the Keys brings me strange news. He speaks a name out of years long past." After a long glance towards the boughs of the White Tree, he turned back to her. "Lady Maedeth, Emissary of Arthedain?"

"Indeed, my king. And this is Lord Elladan, the son of Lord Elrond of Rivendell," she said. "He is my protector."

"Well met. Though I fear this meeting," Eärnil said. "I can see by the tiredness of your eyes that the words you bring me are not those of joy, but of danger. We have had too much danger as of late."

Maedeth did not respond right away. What was there to say? Danger had found all in Middle Earth. She bowed her head. "I am sorry, my king."

"As am I. But that is not what you were ordered to say to me. What are your tidings, my lady?"

"I bring words of kinship, of honor for the South Kingdom but also pleading for aid for the North."

Maedeth took a deep breath. Beneath the boughs of the White Tree, she prayed to the Valar for strength. She begged Lady Elbereth to speak through her, for Lord Manwe to guide her wisdom.

"The Witch-king of Angmar moves to close his noose around Arthedain. We cannot stand alone. We will not survive," she said. "King Arvedui begs you to remember the words you shared upon your coronation: 'I do not forget the loyalty of Arnor, nor deny our kinship, nor wish that the realms of Elendil should be estranged. I will send you aid when you have need, so far as I am able'. Arthedain has been in great need for many years. But she will fall before the end of the next if we do not have aid."

Her words lingered in the courtyard of the Seventh Circle. Beneath the full moon, she did not waver. The moment had come. She would succeed. Elladan had faith in her, so she would have faith in herself. Maedeth watched as Eärnil's face grew grave.

"I remember well those words," he said. "I meant them. The kingdoms should not be divided. We are of one kindred."

"Indeed, Lord. Please. Give us the aid we so desperately need before only one kingdom remains!"

Eärnil ran a hand through his hair. He bit his lip for a moment. "We will send aid, so far as we are able. But I cannot promise it will be enough. The Council will decide what we can spare."

At once great joy and great anxiety filled her chest. Maedeth wanted to leap for the skies and scream thanksgiving to the stars. But more hurdles remained. Aid could come in many forms. It could mean an army. But it could also mean a simple boat to travel down the Anduin, such as Amroth provided. More work remained.

Before she could say more, Maedeth watched the doors to the Tower of Ecthelion swing open. A woman dressed in white and brown, with dark hair flecked grey, clutched a simple but beautiful cloak around her chest. The silver circlet on her head glittered in the moonlight as she approached.

"Queen Íruidis," Maedeth said. She curtseyed again. "It is an honor."

"And who is it that keeps my husband out so late, away from his bed," she asked.

Íruidis stood tall and proud. Beautiful as carven marble, Maedeth felt the strength and intelligence in her sharp gaze. This was a woman who has tended to more than just a homestead with her husband away at war.

"My love. I apologize," Eärnil said. "This is Lady Maedeth, Emissary of King Arvedui of Arthedain. She brings me grave news from the North."

"A single night will not change the fates of Middle Earth when we live so far away," Íruidis said. "Unless it is for the better. Rested minds make clearer choices."

Maedeth swallowed her pride. The queen was right in her own way. But if she had seen the state of Arthedain she would not likely have counseled such prudence. Still, this was her kingdom. Not Maedeth's.

"Of course, my lady." Maedeth bowed her head. "King Eärnil, please rest well. We can speak again in the morning."

"Indeed. I will send Curuhael to you so he may show you to the Guesthouses. Sleep well. We will have more to discuss at first light."

Maedeth held her breath as Íruidis sent her a final, withering glare as her husband turned to leave. She felt the anger like a lance to her heart.

"This Southern Queen has a heart of ice," Elladan muttered. He kept his voice low. "She should not have spoken to you like that."

But Maedeth shook her head. It had stung, but she understood.

"Íruidis does not see an ally in me. She sees an enemy who comes to steal her husband away to war, again. I cannot fault her for her anger."

Elladan didn't respond. As they waited for Curuhael, Maedeth would not sit. She stood beneath the green and silver leaves, trying to bask in the peace of the wind rustling the branches and the sweet smell of Gondor's noble baths.

No, she could not fault Queen Íruidis. Only pain came from war, both for those who fought and those left behind. But their salvation rested on the blade and the axe. And she hoped, she prayed as she stood under the shining constellation Menelvagor, that her words would be enough.

It had to be enough.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Four - Maedeth

Maedeth felt the weight of her steel sword pulling her arm towards the ground. The tip sat in the green grass of the courtyard off the back of the Guesthouse, digging a wound into the dirt. Across from her, Elladan just frowned.

Both were exhausted. Six sleepless nights had passed in the White City. Seven sunrises that promised action which never came. In her head, Maedeth understood the delay. The Council of Gondor did not all live in Minas Anor. Some did, such as Curuhael, Warden of the Keys, and the Steward Pelendur who had been by two days before to wish them well and assure her they had sent their swiftest riders to summon the most vital councilmen.

Ivrenor, Warden of the Ships had arrived last night. Prince Eärnur, Warden of the Guard, was due back that morning with Imrazôr, Lord of Dol Amroth. That would bring the count to eight, including Avalôbên, Warden of the Healing Houses and Mithren, Warden of the Stores.

That should be enough. It had to be enough. Maedeth had run through every scenario in her mind over the last week. She'd had silent conversations with men she'd never even met. What would they say, how would they deny her? A great ambassador could predict and prepare as much as one could react in the moment.

"Do you wish to go again, or shall we end for the morning?"

Maedeth blink a few times, clearing the unfocus from her eyes. She turned back to Elladan. The sword in her hand weighed her down. But she shook her head. A good ambassador could prepare for negotiations from dusk till dawn, but a great leader had to prepare for when negotiations failed.

"I'm ready. Let's go again."

She held up the blade. The movements came more naturally now. Maedeth tried to envision the sword as an extension of herself. But she could never hope to come close to Elladan's grace.

"This time, I want you to attack me. We've worked on defense enough," he said. "In a real battle, you may need to end their life to save your own."

Maedeth took a deep breath through gritted teeth. She hoped it would never come to that. But she had to be ready.

With slow precision, she walked through the steps Elladan called for. Step here, swing up there, focus on the gap in the armor when landing the blow. Elladan's expression never waved from that of a kind but serious teacher.

"Is the North Kingdom so different from ours that they teach even the noblewomen to fight?"

Maedeth spun towards the newcomer as the door shut behind him. Her heart raced. When should she feel embarrassed? She learned to wield a blade out of necessity. And yet she knew she was playing at war, while these men lived it.

And the man before her clearly had lived it. He was tall and muscular, his brown hair down to his shoulder and a scar across his clean shaven pale cheek. Grey eyes widened as he beheld them. Upon his head sat a mithril circlet. Though he wore scuffed and rusting chain mail, over top was a beautifully embroidered surcoat emblazoned with the white tree.

"Prince Eärnur, Warden of the Guards," he said. "You must be Lady Maedeth and Lord Elladan."

Maedeth laid down her sword and curtseyed. "Prince Eärnur. It is an honor to meet you."

"She learns to fight so that she might defend her people," Elladan said. He offered his hand to Eärnur. "Arthedain's need is great, and Lady Maedeth's willingness to defend its people goes far beyond what is expected of her."

Eärnur shook his hand. With a small smile he nodded, and kissed Maedeth's as well. "Well, welcome, though it is still hard for me to believe that the men of the North Kingdom would rely on their women to fight their wars."

"I assure you, they do not," Maedeth said. "But the forces of Arthedain are stretched thin. In times such as these, it is better to be prepared to defend oneself than to be caught unawares at the end of an orc's blade."

"That, I can agree with."

Elladan picked up Maedeth's sword and laid it against a stone bench in the small courtyard. Sunrise had gone and midmorning had arrived. The stone walls around them shielded them from the sharp winds of the Seventh Circle but still it was chilly.

"Lord Imrazôr and I arrived a few hours ago. My father wishes to know if you will be prepared to meet with the Council prior to lunch?"

Maedeth straightened up even further. Gone were thoughts of swords and bodies, replaced by a racing heart and endless what ifs. But she smiled, and she bowed.

"It would be my greatest honor, Prince Eärnur. Please let your father know that Lord Elladan and I will be ready."

Eärnur nodded. With a quick glance between them and a growing smile, he bid them farewell. A handshake for Elladan and a bow for Maedeth, he left them in the courtyard.

Silence fell. Birds flew overhead, a few coming to roost in the single tree of the walled off, Guest House courtyard. The leaves rustled.

"Well then," she said. Maedeth hated the way her voice wavered. She took a deep breath and willed away the nervousness. "The time has come at last."

"We should get ready."

Maedeth nodded. A bath, a change of clothes, and a few minutes alone before a mirror to think were needed.

Her nerves had calmed some by the time she found herself staring into a mirror. She'd packed her nicest gown just for this occasion. The scarlet gown had gold and black accents, with a tall collar negating any need for jewelry. She had none. All such metals had long since gone to the war effort.

No matter. She fiddled with the finishing touches to her intricate crown braid. Tiniel had taught it to her. Fighting back tears, she placed the last braid. One breath, two, three.

A knock sounded on her door. Maedeth stared into her own grey eyes. She searched her flawless skin, unscarred and unblemished by war unlike the men she would be entreating. Her perfectly set red hair mocked her.

The fiery blood of Fëanor ran in her veins. Rínior embraced it. And how he had fallen. She had kept it at arms length her whole life. But for a moment, in her own red hair and grey eyes, she recalled depictions of Maedhros the Tall.

Of her namesake.

He gave up all rights to the kingship, defying his brothers. He spent his life resisting Morgoth in a hopeless world. At his urging, the Free Peoples first came together. The Union of Maedhros, they called it.

It had failed. Maedhros had fallen into darkness. He slew his own kin in pursuit of the Silmarils.

Maedeth took a long, slow breath. Perhaps it was time to embrace the spirit of fire, some small part of it. This union could not fail.

She turned away from the mirror.

With Elladan at her side, they entered the soaring Tower of Ecthelion. White banners waved in the wind from white battlements. Inside, polished floors reflected the burning torch light and glimmering sunlight coming in through stained glass windows. Silent door wardens did not spare them even a glance.

Even though Gondor had diminished, still it stood in grandeur. Perhaps Annuminas has once been as beautiful as Minas Anor. Fornost had long since fallen from such heights.

They entered the Tower Hall. Elladan fell into step on her left as they passed lofty black pillars holding up magnificent ceilings. Beyond these, pale statues of the kings of old stood like imposing wardens of the side passages.

A white throne up on a white dias with a glittering tree of gemstones and a carven winged helmet marked the far end of the Tower Hall. Before it, in the center, a large mahogany table sat with ten chairs.

Four men looked over at their entrance. Eärnur was there, standing beside a tall man with black hair and a surcoat of blue with a white swan over chainmail. They immediately left the two seated men to meet them.

"Lady Maedeth, Emissary of Arthedain, let me introduce Lord Imrazôr, of the havens of Dol Amroth." Eärnur smiled and then turned. "And this is Lord Elladan of Imladris, her protector."

"It is an honor, Lady Maedeth and Lord Elladan." Imrazôr bowed deeply. "It pains me to hear of the dangers befalling the North Kingdom."

"Thank you, lord. Your sympathy is appreciated," Maedeth said. "I hope that others on the council share your views."

Eärnur nodded. "We will make them. The North Kingdom shall not fall while we still draw breath in the South."

"What do the others think?" Elladan asked.

"Opinions vary," Eärnur said. "My father is of like mind, though loathe to go to war again. Our Steward, Pelendur, and the Wardens of the Keys and the Stores wish to focus their energies on Gondor alone."

"Mithren, the Warden of the Stores, is at the table now." Imrazôr gestured back down the grand hall. "He is the one with grey hair in red. Beside him is Avalôbên, Warden of the Healing Houses, in the brown."

Maedeth watched them. They sat beside each other, heads slightly ducked as they converted in private. The men spared only a few glances their way. The Warden of the Stores cared for the food and supplies of Minas Anor and Gondor at large. It would be key to gain his support, but likely difficult. The Houses of Healing were less important. Rivendell promised medicinal aid to Arthedain, and transporting herbs and other poultices North might dampen their effectiveness.

"Pelendur will likely enter with my father and Curuhael." Eärnur had turned from them to a side entrance, a smaller door made of oak and iron. "The Steward and the Warden of the Keys."

"Indeed, we already had the pleasure of meeting Lord Curuhael," Maedeth said.

Eärnur have a single, harsh laugh. "It is no pleasure. But your diplomacy speaks well of the task you set out to do."

"The Wardens of the Keys, Stores, Healing Houses, the Steward, the two of you, and the King. That makes seven. Who is the Eighth?" Elladan asked.

"Ivrenor, Warden of Ships," Imrazôr said. "Lord of Pelargir. I fear I do not have the diplomatic touch of Lady Maedeth, so I shall speak no more of him."

Another half hearted laugh from Eärnur. Maedeth frowned. It seemed many on the Council were set against them. But before she could ask further questions, the side door creaked open and the remaining council members arrived.

The two groups reached the table at the same time. Maedeth and Elladan stood back as the council members took up positions behind their chairs.

"Please, be seated," Ëarnil said, after quickly introducing them to the council.

The men sat as one. Maedeth and Elladan did not. She wished to address them on her feet, and for his part, Elladan wished only to stand at her back in support rather than to speak on his own.

"Lady Maedeth," Ëarnil said, "brings grave tidings from Arthedain. I have invited her to speak to us all, that we may decide what aid to send North in defense of our kin."

"Thank you, King Ëarnil."

Maedeth looked at the face around the table. They ranged in age from the youngest, Ivrenor of Pelargir, to the aged loremaster and Warden of the Healing Houses, Avalôbên. Some gave her full attention. Others fiddled with their clothing, already apparently preoccupied.

"I have served the Dúnedain of Middle Earth for centuries. I had the privilege of speaking with King Eldacar on many occasions, and though I have spent precious few years in the South, I have always felt the kinship you speak of, King Ëarnil."

She took her hands off the back of the warm, carved seat, circling the table. Her voice echoed in the Tower Hall. Focusing on her tone, she tried to sound as sincere as possible.

"I will speak plainly, my lords. Without aid, Arthedain and the line of Isildur will not survive the coming year. I am here to ask, to beg, your aid."

"Lady Maedeth, tales out of the North of their impending doom have come to us for centuries," Pelendur said. "Be more specific."

"There is a presence in the North of North, The Witch-King of Angmar," Maedeth said. "What sort of creature, or man, he is, none can say. For he does not die. Orcs, wolves, and men of the Hills flock to his command."

Pelendur nodded. "We have heard of him. Has this not been the same foe facing the North for centuries, longer even than your own long life?"

"Yes."

"Then what makes you so sure this coming year will be the end?" Pelendur pressed, again.

"The Steward asks a good question," Curuhael said. "What has changed that has the North so threatened?"

Maedeth took another few steps around the table, facing Pelendur head on. "Arthedain has been at war for 673 years. Rhudaur fell in 1349, before I was born. The last Prince of Cardolan died in 1409, when I was thirty, a young noblewoman in the court of King Arveleg. That was over 550 years ago." She let the echo of her voice hover in the towering halls. "For 550 years, Arthedain has fought alone against the Witch-king. Slowly but surely, he has whittled away our men, our food stores, our supplies. Little remains now."

Do not mention Rínior. She could not mention her brother. Her heart began to race but she forced herself to keep breathing.

"Late is the hour that King Arvedui seeks our help, then, if he is so close to defeat," Mithren said. "As Warden of the Stores, it is my job to ensure our own people are well taken care of through winter and famine. If these are what the North requires, I say it is too late!"

"The North needs more than just food, Mithren," Eärnur said. He stood up and slammed his hands on the table. "They are in need of soldiers! Even the Lady before us is learning to use a sword, in case all the men before her perish. We cannot allow this Witch-king to conquer our northern kin!"

"Peace, Eärnur," said the king.

Pelendur leaned forward, not breaking eye contact with Maedeth. "Something has changed. Something more than you say. I know King Arvedui. He has never forgiven the South for rejecting his claim to the throne, though an ill thought-out claim it was. What are you refusing to say, Lady?"

She forced herself not to look away. It seemed as though he could stare right into her mind. But she held fast.

"That matter was settled years ago," Ëarnil said. He waved off his Steward. "We cannot expect Lady Maedeth to divulge every secret of Arthedain before any promise of aid has been given. So here is what I will say: we shall indeed send aid. And not just food stores, but men, and as many arms and armaments as can be crafted in a short period of time."

Maedeth beamed. She felt a light fill her chest, so warm that she feared it would burst. She had succeeded. The mission had succeeded!

"Very well," said Pelendur. "But that brings us to our next problem. How shall they go north? Calenardhon through Dunland is perilous. We do not have enough men to hold it unchallenged as it is, and we will be sending some north! Half our force would die before reaching the northern war."

"A valid point. Ivrenor. What of our fleet?"

He looked young, maybe thirty years old with pale brown, almost blond, hair and brown eyes. Perhaps he shared the blood of the Northmen. Sitting back, he shrugged.

"We have a few ships not in use patrolling the Bay of Belfalas," Ivrenor said. "Not nearly enough to transport troops North even if we recalled every ship in the fleet."

"Then we shall build more!" Imrazôr said.

Eärnur nodded. "Let us send word now to our harbors and shipwrights. We have no time to lose."

"Agreed. Pelendur, see that riders are sent before evening falls," said Ëarnil.

"And who shall lead our forces, my King?" Curuhael asked.

A hush fell over the hall. Maedeth could all but feel the eyes of the stone king statues around them watching that moment. Surely the king would not go himself? And yet Ëarnil was a renowned warrior.

"My son shall lead them." Ëarnil stood from his chair, leaning over the table on his fists. "Let none say that Gondor did not do all it could to save our kindred in the North! As I told Arvedui all those years ago, let us renew the ancient friendship between our peoples. And let us do that today!"

Ivrenor was the only one to voice his disapproval, but the faces of many around the table echoed him. "But my lord, Eärnur is your heir."

"Then I shall go with him, and lead our ships by calm waters to battle," Imrazôr snapped. "Eärnur shall survive even if all others fall. But the King is right to entrust this mission to our Prince!"

Muttered annoyances at Imrazôr's outburst spread between a few of the councilmen, Ivrenor not least of all. But the King silenced them all with a raised hand.

"So be it. Lord Imrazôr of Dol Amroth, you shall lead the fleet North. Lady Maedeth, to what port shall they make?"

"Make for the Grey Havens, where Lord Círdan of the Falathrim can lend us his aid as well."

Imrazôr nodded. "To the Grey Havens then."

"I shall see to the stocks of the Houses of Healing," murmured Avalôbên. "There may be some we can spare."

"That's the spirit!" Eärnur said.

Maedeth watches as the council fell into internal discussions. Her work had finished. All the moments she'd spent walking through pretend council sessions in Gondor to predict and prepare for the worst possible outcome now faded away.

Turning to face Elladan, it took all her self control not to hug in amongst the towering black pillars and old stone statues. His silver eyes watched her with pride, his mouth partly open in unspoken jubilee. She wanted to kiss him.

She had won her battle. They had won their war. Now all that remained was the fight for Arthedain's survival.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Five - Rínior

Deep echoes reverberated in the darkness as the iron doors of the Witch-king's citadel closed behind him. He stood totally alone. No torchlight, no bonfires, not even the cold gleam of undead eyes illuminated the vast space.

A shrill ringing filled his ears. closed his eyes and tried to force it away. He wished to hear anything else: the pounding of his blood, the breeze against the rocks. But it wouldn't leave him.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the flash of faces in the darkness. Broken, bleeding bodies that he'd left in his wake over the centuries. Rínior couldn't breathe. He willed the memories away. They had to leave. He couldn't see them now.

This was Arthedain's fault. He'd been their perfect weapon for five hundred years. They'd sent him on mission after mission, surrounded by weak men who did nothing but bleed and die. Now, even their faces haunted him.

Wind coursed through the endless chamber. He knew there were walls. This void stopped somewhere beneath the mountain. But the sea of darkness drowned him.

Rínior focused on his feet. Solid stone anchored him to the bones of the earth. Here he could stand as all else crumbled away. He had a sword at his side, a dagger on his belt, and a task to complete.

The air grew stale. In the dark he heard coarse whispers. Names and curses just on the edge of hearing surrounded them. Rínior felt the hard ground give way. Collapsing to his knees he realized the ground had not failed. His body had.

Some invisible force held him on all fours. Sweat cascaded down his body as he struggled not to fall prostrate. Pain seared through his limbs. The dark closed on as the whispers ebbed and flowed. He could not breathe.

Purple fire roared up in front of him. At the far end of the hall, the witch flames grew. Two pyres flanked the Witch-king's dark throne. He forced himself to look.

Nothing looked back at him. The throne was empty. Still he could not move. He shivered in his effort not to fall further. The whispers died.

"Did you think you were my only servant, princeling?"

A cold, metal gauntlet grabbed his shoulder. The Witch-king's voice, a commanding presence little louder than a whisper, sent shivers down his spine. Rínior conjured every last bit of his strength not to collapse.

"I have eyes beyond those of orcs and wolves."

The Witch-king heaved him up to his feet. Rínior stumbled, but gathered himself. In the cold mountain hall he desperately searched for a spark of Fëanor's fire.

"My king," he said.

The Witch-king circled in front of him. Faceless, formless, with an iron crown floating over pale, gleaming eyes of light, Rínior could see beyond the black-robed king to the empty throne. But he could not hold his gaze long.

"I offered you a simple choice," he said. "Victory, or defeat. Which did you choose?"

"Victory."

"Victory," the Witch-king echoed. The fell voice hardened, filling even more of the darkness around them. "And yet you allowed the spawn of Tinuviel to escape."

Rage warmed his chest just enough to embolden him. "Elrohir will not escape a second time. He will die with my blade through his heart!"

The Witch-king laughed. The darkness froze. The warmth he'd just recovered began to seep away.

"A second time? How many times over the last decade have you fought him? And yet still he lives free beneath the accursed sun instead of his blood bathing the floors of the Temple of Twilight!"

Rínior did not respond. How could he? A new burning ache started in his gut. Shame, not rage, fanned the flame. He closed his eyes. All the times Elrohir had outdueled him, outsmarted him, outmatched him played in his mind. He gripped the pommel of his sword.

"You have earned a new army," said the Witch-king.

He walked down the hall towards his empty throne. Trembling, Rínior followed him. Victory or defeat, the king had said. Rínior would find victory. He had to find victory. As the Witch-king sat on his throne, the flames illuminated his black robes a sickly hue.

"Kneel."

Rínior fell to his knees before he could respond. Pain shot through his legs. A few pitiful groans escaped his chapped lips before he could rein himself in.

"As you have proven unworthy to command more than the least of men," the Witch-king said, "I shall send a garrison of orcs to Minas Eglan."

Rínior would have shut his eyes, but a will stronger than his own would not permit it. He hated orcs. They were disgusting, even less effective than men. But as the purple flames chilled his upturned face, he just nodded.

"From this day forward, you shall seek victory in all things," he said. "Press the attack. Tighten the noose. Arthedain must fall."

Rínior could see the death of Arthedain in his mind. Arvedui dead on the throne, Aranarth hewn down where he stood at the doors. The palantir in his hands. Rínior could feel its warmth against his skin.

"Do not fail again."

The Witch-king's hiss echoed in the great hall beneath the mountain. Rínior cowered back. He forced himself to nod, to acknowledge the command.

Several pairs of metal-booted footsteps sounded behind him, growing ever closer. The stench of death filled his nose. Harsh orc voices snickered together before falling silent at the foot of the Witch-king.

"Oh great and powerful master," said one, groveling on the floor. "What is it you command?"

"Prepare your company," he said. "You depart for Minas Eglan tomorrow. The heir of Fëanor shall direct your movements against Arthedain."

As the Witch-king turned his attention to the orcs, Rínior breathed a little easier. He shook off whatever fell force had held him on his knees. Shaking, he stood up off the ground. Rínior bowed.

"Oh yes, my master, whatever you ask of us," the orcs said.

The Witch-king turned to Rínior once more. He stood off his throne, the violet fires dimming. Cold wind moved through the hall as he leaned in close. His shrill hiss filled every inch of Rínior's being, a despairing feeling as much as a sound. Rínior closed his eyes.

"Remember, princeling. Do not fail me again, or you will yearn for the release of death."

When Rínior opened his eyes again, the Witch-king was gone. He stood before the dark throne with three orcs, their armor rusting and curved blades dipped in poison. Their leader began to laugh.

"Well, then, half-elf. Do you wish to see your troops?"

Rínior sneered, much to their further amusement. Word of his failures must have made the rounds at Carn Dûm long before he arrived that afternoon. He had no desire to be the laughing stock of orc kind.

He hurried to the doors out to the top of the citadel. They swung open and a red sunset peeking through strangling smog bathed the stone scarlet. Here he could breathe easier than in the darkness of the mountain.

"You scared, captain?" asked the orc.

Rínior gritted his teeth. He turned to face his new second in command. Grey skin and yellow cat-like eyes stared deep into his soul. He flashed a fanged grin.

"We got wolves too," he said. "Only the best for Snaglak."

"That's you?"

The orc grinned again. "Aye. Third Captain of Carn Dûm. Now Minas Eglan." He leaned in. "Heard you've got good eating down there. The men've gone soft."

Rínior scoffed. He didn't bother to speak to Snaglak any further. Instead, he headed further into the city, down the massive steps to the top circle. There were few guards these days. The few Sons of Rhudaur still living shot him glares and muttered poorly-hidden curses.

But Rínior didn't care. He felt the world closing in around him. He wanted to sleep, to rest a bit before they headed south to the Ettenmoors again. How many weeks had he been travelling? Too many. He had not gotten a good sleep since long before the assault on Dolindir.

"Go prepare your forces," he snapped, reaching the door to his chambers in Carn Dûm. "We leave at first light. Stragglers will be slain."

Snaglak grinned. "As it should be. That's how we feed the wolves."

He slammed his door shut in the orc's face. Back against the wall, he slowly slid to the ground. The world spun. Memories of rolling thunder, of lightning splitting the night sky, filled his vision. Flaming arrows fell around him. Cirion watched him with wide, frightened eyes as he cut down orc after orc, hill-man after hill-man, before the Tower of Amon Sûl.

In the empty hallway of his house, he remembered his return to Fornost. He remembered giving the palantir to young Araphor in the crowded throne room. He tasted the salty tears shared with Maedeth that night. So much death. He'd seen it, and he'd caused it.

Rínior opened his eyes. He reached up to his face, catching a few tears in his fingers as they cut through dirt and grime. Torchlight caused the tears to glitter on his fingertips. Rínior's jaw clenched. Wiping it away on his garments, he forced himself to stand.

Victory, or defeat. There was a war to win.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Six - Maedeth

The bang reverberated throughout the guest house as Maedeth slammed shut the door to her chambers. Fire raged in her chest as she fought back tears. The scream she stuffed down her throat made it hard to breathe. She reached for her bag, knocking an empty wine glass to the floor. It shattered.

Blood pounded in her skull. Ragged breaths came faster and faster. The world blurred as her tears flowed. The glass shards scattered across the pristine Gondorian floor in the pristine Gondorian bedroom.

She screamed.

Delay. Time was their enemy. And yet these Gondorians spoke of delay!

Time was needed to gather food. Time was needed to build ships. Time was needed to ensure Gondor still had enough troops to protect against a hypothetical insurgency from beyond their borders.

The invasion of Arthedain was not hypothetical. And these delays aided only their foe.

The door opened behind her. She knew it was Elladan before he opened his mouth. But Maedeth couldn't turn to face him, couldn't move her gaze from the broken glass at her feet. The bag in her hands fell limply to her side as she attempted to catch her breath. Maedeth closed her eyes.

"We're not going to wait."

He said it with such certainty, as if he could read her mind. But then, they knew each other well enough perhaps he didn't need to.

"No."

Elladan came around, pulling her into a hug. She let herself rest against his chest. The weight of his squeeze offered some mild comfort. The raging anger that had fueled her outburst began to cool until the flames became burning embers she could cultivate and control.

"I've spent the last few days studying their maps," he said, still holding her to his chest. "It will be a long road."

Each time he spoke, she let the rumbling of his chest ground her, the weight of his chin on her head holding her steady. Of course he had. They both wanted to get home. They both needed to get home. He, to Elrohir. She, to the duty she had resigned herself to for five hundred years.

"Let it be long," she said. "I care nothing for it. We did what we set out to do. Either Gondor will come to our aid, or they will not. But I will not leave my own fate up to their whims."

Maedeth backed away. Her tears had dried against Elladan's chest. She looked him in the eyes. Hopefully the same sharp determination she saw in his gaze was in her own.

Elladan nodded. "Do you wish to say goodbye to the King?"

The flames of anger were stoked again. Maedeth's jaw clenched and she bawled her fists.

"No."

"Then I will get us rations and we will set out upon my return."

He wasted no time. Maedeth watched him through the open door as he left. Outside in the sunshine, autumn winds rustled the browning leaves of the few trees planted this high in Minas Anor. She walked to look out. Birds danced in the sky above them. Beautiful, really.

She shut the door. There was too much to do to focus on trivialities like the South Kingdom's scented baths or nature's splendor. Elladan would find them food. She had to pack their things. And then they would need to find horses.

By the time she'd gotten hers and Elladan's things packed up and ready to go, he returned to enough food to last several weeks. Beyond that, he said, they would have to forage. The plan was simple, though it would not be easy.

From Minas Anor they would take the Great West Road through Calenardhon no further than the nearly abandoned fortress of Aglarond to pass the tributary of the Entwash. From there, they'd turn north and risk riding openly across the green fields and hills towards the Entwade and beyond.

All hinged on the dwarves. They had to beg passage through Khazad-dum. By the time they reached the entrance to the Dwarrowdelf, winter would be setting in. They had no hope of crossing the Redhorn Gate that time of year.

But first, they needed horses.

Maedeth did not turn to bid the great Tower of Ecthelion farewell. She kept her eyes forward, marching side by side with Elladan to the ramp down. Neither citadel guard spoke as they passed. A simple note of best wishes was all they left in their guest chambers.

"It may be difficult," Elladan said, "to find someone willing to part with two riding steeds."

"I expect so."

Nothing more was said until they reached the First Circle. The Great Gate of Minas Anor stood wide open, allowing the comings and goings of merchants with their wares or farmers returning to their homesteads on the Pelennor.

They had little coin. Less to trade. And to these folk of Gondor, they relied on horses for their livelihoods. But as she looked around the White City, she begged any Vala listening to lend their aid. The men of Arthedain deserved help, even if the line of Fëanor did not.

Fëanor. Maedeth looked down at her belt, moving her cloak a moment. The mithril and ruby dagger she'd found in Eregion, the same make as Rínior's, glittered in the morning light. Emotion caught in her throat. The only connection she still had of him.

And yet, mithril would be worth two horses. It had to be.

"Lady Maedeth!"

She closed her eyes for a moment as Prince Eärnur's voice echoed through the plaza. To think, they would make it so close and yet be stopped now by Gondor's heir. Anger surged in her again. She spun around to greet him. All desire to mediate fled from her.

"Do you seek to delay us further, Prince Eärnur?" She took three steps forward, mirroring the rushing prince as he jogged across the white streets. "I will not allow it!"

Eärnur glanced around at the townsfolk, huddling to the side as they gossiped. He just held up his hands. "Lady Maedeth. To depart now is dangerous. Even with so great a protector as your Lord Elladan."

"I am done waiting, Prince Eärnur of Gondor. Too long have I spent listening to the excuses the lords of the White City make while my own people face utter annihilation!" She stood before him, staring up at him without flinching. "I will wait no longer. I will walk the endless miles to Arthedain from here should I find no horse to bear me, rather than hope your people make good on the bonds of friendship you have declared!"

Eärnur did not respond. He watched her, his eyes searching her face for what Maedeth did not know. Sincerity? Courage? Though fear had nipped at her heels for many years, and even now followed her path only steps behind, she would never allow it to control her decisions. Not any more.

He nodded. Taking a half step back, he bowed deeply to her. "I thought this would be your answer. Delays, you accuse us of. Then let us aid you now, Lady Maedeth."

She glanced beyond him. Atop a white horse with a blue caparison rode Lord Imrazôr of Dol Amroth. Behind him came two more, strong white stallions with flowing manes and tails, bearing no heraldry. Maedeth's heart soared. She couldn't speak.

Imrazôr dismounted. He bowed to her as well. "My city is known for our horses. We do not have many, but those we do are built for war. They will bear you as far as you need. Take these as a gift."

"A promise," Eärnur said.

He held out his hand. Gingerly, as tears threatened to fall yet again, she allowed him to kiss it in reverence. Turning to Elladan, they shook hands. "I will see you on the field of battle, Lord Elladan."

"I look forward to it."

"As will I." Imrazôr shook Elladan's hand as well. "Look for the great fleet of Gondor soon enough. We will drive the Witch-king back into whatever hole he crawled from."

Elladan smiled. "Indeed."

"Thank you, Prince Eärnur. From the bottom of my heart," Maedeth said, voice barely above a whisper as she tried to contain her emotion in front of the growing crowd. "For my harsh words, I will not apologize. But I hold great hope for the future of our peoples. Some day, the North and the South will be one again, in friendship if nothing else."

With a nod, Eärnur offered her the reins of one of the great white horses. "I hope it is so."

"As do I," she whispered.

Through the great gates and down the riding track beside the West Road, she and Elladan began their trek north. The sun began to set but a few hours later. Neither wished for sleep. Their only stops were to rest the horses.

Days passed much the same. Days turned into weeks. Villages and farmsteads passed them by. Crumbling monuments of Numenor lined the horizon. With the White Mountains on their left and to the right, beyond their sight, the Entwash, they continued on.

A cold wind blew through Calenardhon on their fifth morning after crossing the Entwade. No roads guided them now. Few villages remained on their fair green rolling fields. Between the Plagues and attacks by wild men and Easterlings, most Gondorians abandoned these lands for those in the South.

"We'll continue in the morning," Elladan said, attempting to build a fire with the last remaining wood they had collected from the Firien Woods. It took longer than usual. "We have pushed hard these last few days."

"I worry for their horses," Maedeth agreed.

They wished for speed. But they also wished for secrecy. Northmen had settled some parts of Calenardhon. Most of these were friends, at least according to those in Minas Anor. But they did not want to risk being delayed.

Delay. Maedeth laid down for a moment, resting her aching limbs from days and days on horseback. Mithrandir had warned them about wasting time while in Lorien. The fear of his counsel gnawed at her each night.

"Elladan."

"Hm?"

Her heart raced. In the darkness, the bright campfire he had finally managed to spark nearly blinded her. The courage at the Great Gate had faded some. In the darkness she saw death, and in the fire she saw destruction.

"Do you think they will come?"

The only sound was the crackle and pop of the logs in the fire. No birds, no beasts, just a mini inferno between her and Elladan.

"Yes," he said at last. "I do. Even now, it is my hope that they are preparing to sail for the Falas."

Maedeth frowned, still laying on her side and staring into the flames. Hope. She had not felt hope many times over the centuries. And yet she continued on.

How long had her brother gone on without hope?

"Did you hear that?"

She stopped breathing. Maedeth turned her eyes from the fire to Elladan on the other side. He sat scanning the darkness, hand creeping to the sword in front of him. But she heard nothing. Still just silence.

Too much silence.

An arrow pierced the ground by her head. Maedeth scrambled up for her sword even as Elladan pushed her at his back. The world spun. The fire blinded them. It darkened the shadows all around and made them easy targets.

She put it out. The world plunged into pitch black. Shouts went up around them. Elladan didn't speak. She couldn't utter a sound. She just held up her sword, prepared for the worst.

The men descended on them. Clashing swords rattled her ears. Maedeth focused on her training. Few got anywhere near her, as Elladan worked to keep them focused on him.

Her vision adjusted. She could see the whites of the eyes of their enemies. Some sputtered curses in common, others demanded for their valuables. Still others simply screamed as they died to Elladan's blade.

Maedeth looked at the men on the ground. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. She stood alone, watching the lives around her fade to nothingness.

"Maedeth!"

She spun around. A young man, little more than a boy, raised an axe over her head. Maedeth raised her sword. Ducking his blow, she rammed forward, driving the sword straight through his abdomen.

Her throat closed up. She couldn't breathe. The young man slid off her blade, his blood leaving a dripping, dark film on the steel. He gasped for breath on the ground a moment longer before he stilled.

"Maedeth?"

When she'd dropped her sword, she didn't know. The world was quiet again. A gentle, cool breeze caressed her cheeks, sending wisps of her auburn hair into her face.

"Maedeth, look at me."

The boy's eyes were still open. He wasn't moving. None of them were, the men whose bodies lay cold on the green field of Calenardhon. She didn't know their names. She didn't know their stories. And now their blood stained the fair earth.

"Maedeth!"

Elladan grabbed her arms. She looked up at him. Sweat dripped from his brow and a bleeding cut ran across his forehead. But he only had eyes for her.

"I killed him," she said.

He nodded. Pulling her closer, he took deep breaths as he held her to his chest. "I know. You had to. You did the right thing. He would've killed you."

The right thing? She shivered. Perhaps. Perhaps. And yet she struggled to breathe and couldn't form words. A dozen men lay about them, unseeing eyes turned to the stars or into the dark grass. And she'd helped put them there.

"You did the right thing."

How easily those words came to people. Maedeth had said them herself for years. King Arveleg had said them. The captains of Arthedain had done the same. They'd needed heroes, soldiers, and the young half-elf of Arthedain was asked to do his duty.

When Rínior returned with the Palantir of Amon Sûl, all had praised him. But Maedeth had seen what others did not. He'd cried so hard that night.

Tears came to her eyes as she clung to Elladan. She shook against his warm embrace. They had only each other.

Rínior had only had her. When he woke up screaming the names of his friends, not just for days but decades. He had done the right thing, they told him. He'd done the right thing. He'd killed, slaughtered, and then run away, the lone survivor. But he'd done the right thing, she'd said.

"It gets easier," Elladan whispered.

Maedeth knew that. But as she squeezed her eyes shut against his chest, she cursed the very fact that it did so. The reluctant hero became Arthedain's champion, Maedeth his greatest supporter. He stopped returning to Fornost. Too many battles to be fought. He had to protect Tiniel, he had to protect Maedeth. Killing became second nature.

And she had cheered him on. Maedeth wept. It had been her brother who said she should not train. He'd been adamant. Each time she sought to pick up a blade, he'd shut her down. It was enough for only one of them to experience so much death.

She released her grip on Elladan. All around them, the bodies of the brigands lay eerily still. The last few dying embers of the fire gave off a heavy smoke that mingled with the metallic tang of blood.

"It should not," she whispered.

"What?"

"Killing should not get easier."

Elladan didn't respond. She saw him hold back tears as he too surveyed the battlefield. Far above them, Eärendil's star twinkled alongside the half moon. She stepped around the bodies to the slowly calming horses. They needed to leave this place. They needed to leave now.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Seven — Rínior

Thunder rolled across the night sky as rain fell in torrents through the Weather Hills. The hundreds of torches carried by Hill-men and men of Arthedain alike sputtered and extinguished. Rinior stared out over his army. 

They had come to it at last. Here, at the beginning of the end, they would clash beneath Weathertop once more. Water clouded his eyesight but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to see the eyes of his enemies to kill them.

The orcs held the lines south of the road. The hill-men would attack head on. From the Weather Hills themselves, Rinior knew a counter attack could circle around unseen. But Arthedain didn’t have nearly enough numbers to pull off such a bold strike. If they tried, they would die.

Lightning cut through the darkness. There couldn’t be more than a few hundred soldiers standing against them. How far Arthedain had fallen. When he’d defended Amon Sul they’d had more than twice as many and still failed.

This time, he would not retreat from Amon Sûl. The crumbling ruin crowned the top of the hill. Once, he had wasted his youth defending it. Arthedain's glory days had long since departed when he took up the mantle of soldier. 

Now, even the watchtower had eroded into barely recognizable ruins. What a waste. A waste of life to defend, then as it was now. If Arveleg had been a truly great king, Rínior would not have been sent away. He would've been allowed to fight. The only one who had kept Angmar at bay that day had been he himself.

Rínior unsheathed his sword. Lightning split the sky. Steel glistened in the rain and sudden light before darkness enveloped the Weather Hills once more. They waited for him.

A deep breath, a calm heartbeat. Rínior forced his jaw to unclench and his shoulder to relax. He'd fought this battle before. Only this time, he would win.

“Begin.”

Horn blasts joined rolling thunder. Through sheets of rain, he watched the Hill-men and orcs advance. Atop his position on the hill, his troops, the vanguard of Angmar’s army, the outstretched hand of the Witch-king, brought ruin on their foes. He’d spent a decade training his men for this. It was time to watch them deliver.

The chaos of screams and laughter joined the backdrop of thunder and crashing of steel. Rínior didn't move. The wind whipped his wet hair into face. It plastered to his skin. 

Battles all sounded the same. Arrows whistled through the air. Swords clanged together like cymbals. The drumroll of chaotic footsteps never ceased. And above it all, voices. Men cried to their gods for mercy. 

He scoffed. Rínior started down the hill, twisting his blade to warm up his wrist and sword arm. The Valar had no mercy. 

In his dreams he'd seen his distant cousin, Celebrimbor of Eregion, speared groin to skull up on a battle standard. They'd never met. He'd died thousands of years before Rínior's birth. But he'd known him all the same. Had not Celebrimbor denounced all things Fëanorian? Washed his hands of his father's and uncles’ deeds? Never taken the Oath himself?

Funny. There had been no mercy for him. Just a brutal death by one of the Valar’s own kindred.

He pushed through the ranks. Denouncing Fëanor had gotten their family nowhere. Bowing to kings of men had given Rínior a front row seat to the futility of their cause. 

He sliced the head off a Dúnedan’s body.

History remembered names. The bodies littering the dead grass around Weathertop would not be remembered. But he would.

Rínior looked up as a wave of Hill-men surged forward, moving him back behind the front lines. The crumbled tower on Weathertop stood as a deeper shadow against the dark storm clouds. 

The crown would be his. The Palantír would be his. 

Captain Lumorn had refused to let him guard it. Who would've cared for it more than the descendant of its creator? Fire surged in him again. 

Arthedain had stolen everything from him. Taken his life, his inner peace. They'd begged him to kill on their behalf. To swing a sword unending.

Rínior swung. More Dúnedain blood to water the earth. Orcish cries of glee sounded on his left. Five centuries later and he still recognized them over the dull pounding of rain on the Weather hills.

He'd failed, then. Or rather, Arveleg had failed. Rínior had been forced to retreat. Forced to leave his friends—

No. No. Rínior shook himself as a wave of vertigo washed over him. The stench of death filled his nostrils. He tasted blood. 

Bodies slammed into him. Rínior stumbled forward. Pain shot up his arm as his blade tumbled to the ground.

The pain grounded him. A massive orc loomed up in his face. Rínior buried his Mithril dagger deep in its neck.

A fist collided with his jaw. Rínior staggered. He shook himself. The rain clouded his vision. But his ears worked fine.

“You turning traitor, princeling?”

Karhga. One of the orc captains. A sniveling, skinny thing with green skin and yellow eyes. But he didn't look angry as the hulking dead orc slid off Rínior’s dagger. His eyes gleamed. Licking the blood off his own sword, Karhga poised for a fight.

“No,” Rínior said. He calmed his beating heart. “The bastard just got in my way.”

“Pity.”

Rínior didn't respond. Bearing his teeth, he turned back to the battle. The slaughter. His army gained ground every minute. The tower of Amon Sûl would be theirs again. 

Taking a sword off a dead soldier, he threw himself into the fight. It was time to press the advantage. Take out as many as they could. 

Bounding up some fallen ruins, he peered behind enemy lines. A handful of scouts made for panicked horses. Rínior’s mouth ran dry.

“Archers!” He said. “Take them out!”

Hill-men scrambled up the hill to join him. Too slow. Like children playing at war.

“Give me that.” 

He wrenched a bow from the closest man. Ignoring his uncouth cursing, Rínior aimed at the closest horse.

Deep breaths. Ignore the rain. Ignore the screams. His heart beat slowed. 

There would be no retreat.

The arrow sang. Rínior watched the horse collapse, twitching on the ground. One down. 

Another arrow. Another breath. There would be no retreat, not this time. The soldiers would all die here now as they had five hundred years ago. As he should have.

The second horse let out a wail, falling onto the chest of its would-be rider. Arrows whistled his way, bouncing off the crumbled stones. Rínior ducked. Slamming the bow back in the Hill-men's hands, he sneered.

“Everyone dies,” he said.

The sun rose quietly. As red and gold light broke through storm clouds after the battle, the last whimpering survivors died alone. 

Rínior stepped through the bodies. Carrion birds circled overhead. He'd sent the orcs to patrol down into Cardolan. They had allies there.

Everything stank. Hill-men piled together mounds of dead bodies, friend and foe. They looted as they went. Rínior wanted no part of it.

The chiefs waited for him on Weathertop. The battle had been won. A slaughter. Efficient. Effective.

Victory.

“If this is all the West-men can muster, these lands will soon be ours!”

Rínior glanced up at the speaker. He didn't recognize the man, some new leader of the surviving Hill-men. To his left stood another two of his kindred, and to the right the orcs Karhga, Sníg, and Snaglak. Pity. They'd all survived.

“Yours? The Witch-king’s, you mean,” Sníg said.

 “Enough,” Rínior said. 

He threw his dagger between them in the dead grass. Sníg skittered back a pace. In the bright light of morning, the ruby bathed the ruins in scarlet. 

Snaglak snickered. “You sound tired, heir of Fëanor. This battle too much for you?”

“I would cut out your tongue,” Rínior said, “if I thought it worth anything.”

Karhga and the Hill-men laughed. They stood in a small ring amidst the quiet dawn. The stench of battle wafted its way up on the cold autumn wind. He wanted this over quickly.

“We'll leave a large garrison here,” Rínior said. “Made up of orcs. Karhga, pick one you trust to lead them.” He smirked. “Or, as there are none to be trusted, remind them of what happens to those who fail.”

Karhga nodded. The tiniest smirk grew at the edge of his fanged mouth. 

Rínior turned to the others. “It's imperative we hold the Weather Hills against any who would come out of Imladris. They do not have a large fighting force, but they are not wholly without warriors.”

The orcs hissed and spat at the Sindarin name. They assured him no elf would make it to Arthedain alive. 

“But we might attach corpses to horses and send them,” Sníg said.

Rínior rolled his eyes. He didn't dignify that with a response. Turning to the Hill-men, he finished his instructions.

“We will make ready to travel north by midday. The Witch-king wants us to join the main force as soon as possible.”

Snaglak nodded. “We’ll make for Fornost before Winter’s end, I wager.”

“Likely. There have been enough delays.” He nodded. “No more. Get moving.”

The end of the war lay within reach. With Arvedui and his sons dead, he could finally rest. Finally have peace. He would rule Arthedain while the Witch-king lorded over Carn Dûm. He could send searches out for the Silmaril. The Palantír would show the way. It had to show the way.

Left alone in the crown of ruined walls, he looked out over the dead. Soon it would end. And it would end in victory.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Eight - Maedeth

Stealth had become second nature to her, though Maedeth wished it had not. She and Elladan balanced speed with safety as they galloped along the border of Fangorn Forest. It seemed the ruffians roaming Calenardhon didn't trust the trees.

They could not afford to slow themselves by fully entering the woods, though. Their horses were fast and surefooted, but over gnarled root and sharp rock there was no way to maintain speed. And Maedeth refused to slow down.

Each rest, her dreams darkened. The face of the man she'd killed refused to leave her. Though she did not speak of it to Elladan, he must've known. He refused to close his eyes first, and she always found him awake first.

Maedeth pulled another dead branch from under the eaves of Fangorn. Elladan had coaxed a small fire into the brush they'd collected already, but to keep them through the night they would need more. But neither would put blade to bark.

Perhaps ents were real. Maedeth didn't know. Much fairness had faded from the world, but in the deepest recesses of this ancient forest they might've still walked. Elladan certainly thought so. And the feeling of being watched never left them as they camped.

"Do I need to get us another?" she asked, tossing the wood on the fire. "There is enough on the ground that I don't think we need worry."

Elladan shook his head, preparations for dinner now complete. He handed her share over. "We will be fine. I'm not sure how long we should keep the fire going, anyways."

Nights got colder the further north they traveled. Autumn turned to winter. And it was for this very reason that they pushed on so hard.

Dunland and Enedwaith were too dangerous to traverse. In summer, they would have risked the open road north to the High Pass, straight to Rivendell. That left only two options for passing west over the mountains: the pass of Caradhras, or begging aid of the dwarves of Hadhodrond. The Redhorn Gate, like the High Pass, could not be used in late fall through winter.

As Maedeth laid down by the flowing River Limlight, food finished and flames burned low to coals, she knew there would only be one choice. They would have to travel through the dwarf kingdom. But what price would they demand? Could she talk her way through those halls again?

Water filled her dreams. Eärendil's Star sparkled around her. The gentle repetition of waves, a steady flowing river, and endless rain storms all drowned out the faces of the dead. For the first time in days, she slept in peace.

Maedeth woke first. She blinked away frost in the predawn light. Elladan lay nearby surrounded by cold dew as he wrapped his cloak tightly. Gentle sunlight warmed his pale skin.

Good. Let him sleep. She eased herself up, her body aching from the movement and the cold. The horses ripped at the grass not far from them. They hoped to make it to Lorien in the next week.

Beyond the River Limlight, the border of Gondor, lay the rolling fields of Parth Celebrant. She doubted the wild men would be so bold as to lay claim to lands near the Golden Wood, but they could not be sure. Once more, they would face danger.

"Are you alright?"

Maedeth looked over her shoulder from where she stood petting her horse. Elladan had sat up, hair ruffled and face drawn. The dawn had turned to full morning when she rejoined him.

"I'm fine," she said. "I wanted to let you sleep."

Elladan shook his head. "I do not need it-"

"You do. You will be no help to anyone if you die of exhaustion on our return," Maedeth said. She helped him off the ground. Dark rings shone under his eyes. "Elladan." Reaching up, she ran her thumb over the side of his face, fixing his hair.

Neither spoke. Her heart quickened, so close to him. But she couldn't have this, not right now. More than ever she understood the sons of Finarfin, why Aegnor would not wed Andreth. War nipped at their heels. Despair clawed at their throats.

But as he took her hand in his, offering warmth in the cold morning, she wished the whole world away. If only they could abandon all duty. She would declare her love then and there. Let heroes win this war!

And yet, one such hero stood before her now. The everlasting dark would be her end if she stood between him and all the great deeds he was meant to do. She looked deep into his silver-grey eyes. Maedeth smiled, tears held back. And he would do many great deeds.

"Come," she said. "We should get moving."

Elladan allowed her to move away. It took a moment before he joined. But as she mounted her steed, and he mounted his, she knew he understood.

They reached Lorien unscathed. Golden leaves cascaded down to the forest floor. Like a golden blanket covering fresh green grass, Maedeth nearly stopped in her tracks. Beauty still existed in Middle Earth. That, at least, was a comfort.

This time, when they reached the banks of the River Nimrodel, they were not alone. Maedeth longed to enter the kingdom of the elves proper, but they could not. It seemed the elves knew it.

"We meet again, Lady Maedeth and Lord Elladan."

Amarthon, Captain of the Wardens, stood flanked by many of his men. His warm brown hair, tied half up out of his face, tossed in the wind. They bowed low and greeted him.

"Were it under better circumstances," Maedeth said.

He nodded. "Indeed. Lady Galadriel sent us. Are you sure you will not enter the Woods?"

"Nay. We cannot. Time is short already."

"So we were told."

Maedeth and Elladan dismounted. She flashed him a sad smile. But it was some small mercy that their coming was expected.

The horses could not be taken through Hadhodrond. The time for riding was at an end, but she did not wish to set these incredible steeds of Dol Amroth loose to fend for themselves. Elladan had suggested leaving them at the border. But it eased her heart knowing the elves could take them in person.

"Keep them safe," Maedeth said.

Amarthon bowed to her. Removing the saddle and bridle, he smiled. "Worry not. They shall be kept safe until a time when they can be returned south, or else live out their days among us."

Elladan helped untack them. Few packs remained, their food stores short and weapons already on their belts. While Amarthon helped with this, passing over a large satchel of lembas bread, it would not cause undue stress to lose the horses.

"There is a bridge across just the Nimrodel, not far from here, beyond the borders of the forest." Amarthon sent the horses deeper into the woods to join them. "It is small, but efficient. Head due north, keeping Celebrant on your right. The Dimrill Gate is on that side."

"Thank you, Amarthon," Elladan said. They shook hands. "You have aided us more than you know."

"Truly," Maedeth said.

He smiled and nodded. "Think nothing of it. This land is dear to us, as are its many creatures. The Silvan elves will never turn away one in need. The horses will be well loved." He stepped back and bowed once more. "If you move quickly, you will reach the Dimrill Gate before dark. The dwarves will not wish to be disturbed after nightfall."

Maedeth and Elladan set off as quickly as they could. Their few possessions bounced on their backs as they made their way north. Climbing into the mountains hurt far more than heading out of them. Maedeth focused on the rushing river to keep herself calm and moving forward.

They reached the furthest tip of the Mirrormere by late afternoon. No dwarves traveled the roads, nor did any make a pilgrimage to their sacred sights along the lake. For a moment, Maedeth could not move further.

"What is it?" Elladan said.

A heaviness had settled on her chest the moment the dark blue water of the Mirrormere came into view. Each breath took more and more effort. Something drew her in.

"I wish to look," she said. "One more time."

Elladan said nothing. He watched her with wide eyes but did not dissuade her, even though Maedeth too understood the precarious risk of stopping their march. Still, she had to look.

The gentle wind set tiny waves lapping on the stoney shore. With each step, Maedeth felt, in her bones, the sacredness of the space. The dwarves hallowed the space because Durin had looked in it long ago and seen himself crowned in stars.

But as Maedeth looked down and saw the stars reflected back despite the cloudy daytime sky above, she wondered why the elves did not love it too. Tears flowed down her cheeks unbidden. She knew she would never look on this place again. And so here and now, she would beg.

Through the blur of tears, Maedeth sent silent prayers to Lady Elbereth. The Valar owed the children of the line of Feanor nothing. Bloodshed was their birthright. But the men of Arthedain had done nothing to deserve this thankless war. She begged Elbereth to take all the pity withheld from her house and give it instead to Men.

"We should get moving."

Elladan had placed a hand on her shoulder. With a comforting squeeze, he guided her away from the Mirrormere and back towards the road. Maedeth forced her stony expression back. They had to reach home. The north needed heroes like him, now. And she would not be the reason they delayed another day.

Sunlight faded as they approached the Dimrill Gate. Several dwarven guards raised their weapons as they approached, weary and solemn. Maedeth's heart began to beat faster as she remembered quickly just how vital this moment would be. She stopped and bowed.

"Lady Maedeth, at your service, dearest guards of Khazad-dum."

At first none spoke. The tallest of the group finally stepped forward and removed his helm. His red hair, intricately braided until it joined his voluminous beard, never moved despite the wind that howled as a storm gathered far above.

"The name Maedeth is known to us," he said. "I suspect you are Elladan?"

"I am."

"Why are you here? Do you expect passage because you are in some way Eldar?"

He spat the word in disgust. Maedeth took a deep breath as she felt Elladan stiffen at her side. She would not be baited into fighting with this dwarf. And she hoped Elladan knew better too.

"Nay, good sir. We come to beg for aid."

"You have done that before, and been sent away!"

Maedeth nodded. She wanted to cry, to give up and rest after hours of hiking and weeks of riding. But she could not. She would not.

"We seek only safe passage," she said. "A way home."

The dwarf did not respond. He watched them for some time as sunlight died around them. Just when Maedeth thought perhaps he had turned to stone like some hill troll, he pointed at them with his halberd.

"What do you offer in exchange?"

Maedeth closed her eyes. They had nothing. Nothing but lembas bread and the clothes on their backs. They would be turned away, forced to live on in the southern lands while the North Kingdom died.

"We have nothing," Elladan said.

The dwarf huffed. He took a few steps down to join them. "Nothing? What is that mithril hilt at your belt, lady of Arthedain? That is not nothing! It is everything!"

Maedeth opened her eyes. Mithril? She stopped breathing. Her hand shook as she allowed herself to grip the Fëanorian dagger. No. She did not want to give this up.

This was all she had left. The only physical link she had to Rínior. Her memories were tainted but this, sparkling in the last light of day, could not be tainted. It shone brilliantly. The red gem in the pommel spoke of the beauty her house had once been capable of. The mithril hilt could not be broken. And he had one too.

Tears filled her eyes again. She lost sight of the dagger as her vision blurred. A roll of thunder, and cold drops of rain fell on her bare hands. The dagger began to sing as the water bounced off the steel blade.

This war needed heroes. She was not one of them.

Maedeth handed the blade to the dwarf. They had to get home. It was useless in her hands anyways.

Ushered inside, she tried to calm herself. Hold back the tears. Focus on the mission. They'd delivered Arthedain's plea to Gondor so they had only one task now: return home to defend it to the last. One mithril blade in her hands would not help them.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Nine - Rínior

Tossing waves sent sea spray into his eyes as Rínior struggled to stay alive. Buffeted by the ocean storm, his head slipped under and bubbles blinded him. His armor weighed him down. The colorless world blurred in the confusion. Each time he surfaced, he gasped for breath. Salt water rushed into his mouth.

Another wave drowned him. His hands, grasping at slick rocks covered in spiny sea creatures, bled into the surf. The red disappeared. There was only ocean water, only the furious sea.

Rínior gave up all hope of control. He allowed the waves to toss his body, sending him hard into the stony bottom. He couldn't even scream. Each time he opened his mouth, more water rushed in. His chest burned as air disappeared. With bulging eyes and aching body, he finally washed ashore.

Stars shone above him. As his vision focused, chest heaving for breaths, he wondered how they could be so bright. Menelvagor's weapons seemed trained on him. Rínior closed his eyes. He focused on his breaths. Forget the stars, forget the sea.

When he opened them again, the ocean had settled. Life died away as even the waves had ceased. Rínior sat up. Wet gravel stuck to his skin like burrs. Gone were the stars. Only one remained.

Eärendil's Star. The silmaril far above them, sailing every night upon the brow of a half-elf. Rínior watched it twinkling in the darkness.

His hands ached. Blood poured from cuts and scrapes. Tearing his gaze away from the silmaril back to his broken body. Pain rushed in.

The sea had tried to snuff out his fire. Rínior glared at the still water. It had tried, and it had failed. He was Fëanorian. He would never bow. One silmaril lay beyond their grasp in the sky. One had died with a Fëanorion in fire. A suitable resting place.

But the sea had claimed another. Cast aside by one too weak to own up to his own sins. The sons of Fëanor had worked so hard, given everything in their lives to reclaim the gems. And Maglor had thrown it all away for what? They were doomed anyway. Might as well claim their prize.

Twigs snapped. Rínior looked to his right. His heart leapt as a woman in a red cloak with deep brown hair joined him on the beach.

"Mírien!"

She did not look at him. Rínior scrambled up, desperate to reach his daughter. She had the silmaril. She had to have it. If she did not, she would. And then he could hold it!

The woman paused at the shoreline. Rínior stumbled, his aching body giving out even as he closed with her. When her boots touched the water, the sea came alive once more.

Rhythmic waves encircled her. Eärendil's Star reflected in the ocean until she bent down and closed her hand around it. Out of the dark sea it came, a shining gem, a perfect gem. His birthright.

He crawled towards her. Rocks dug into his knees and salt set his wounds aflame. But he would see it. He would hold it. Surely his own daughter would give it to him?

Rínior touched the waves. Just a few more feet. But the sea would not allow it. Torrents of water slammed into him. He screamed. His chest burst.

He woke up.

Rínior couldn't breathe as the stench of an unwashed army slammed into him through each gasp for air. Gone was the sea. Gone were the stars. A clouded night glimpsed through leafless trees greeted him.

They were in the Chetwood. He had set a guard upon Bree. The town would not bow but they were a useless fortification anyway. Not worth the men it would take, though few, to destroy them.

He slept soundly many weeks from any ocean.

Rínior blinked away the sleepiness from his eyes. Soundly may have been an exaggeration. No matter. He counted the small campfires until the number grew too great. What was a sound night of sleep, anyway?

Standing up, he grabbed his sword and tightened his belt. If he could not sleep, then he would walk the lines. Clear his head. Focus on the mission.

Their first victory behind them, there was more to do. Still, as he poured water down his parched throat, the dream would not leave him. So close! He had been so close to the silmaril.

With the Palantir, he would find it. He had to find it. He'd staked everything on that victory. He'd stake his life and those around him on it.

With six men at his back, Rínior checked on the vanguard. The men of the Hills were well trained, but still uncouth. They required constant vigilance.

"You alright, sir?"

"Hm?"

Rínior glanced back at the man on his right. He'd been staring at a break in the clouds. The stars shined brightly that night. Brighter than he remembered in many years. What sort of sign? What sort of omen? His mind played so many scenarios it became hard to focus.

"I'm fine," he snapped. "Come. We'll scout ahead."

Anything but this. The monotony, the stench of traveling with an army. How many times had he done it in the last nearly six hundred years?

Clean air filled his lungs as they wandered through dormant trees and dead brush. The forest was dense here. But at least on this side of the Midgewater Marsh, the air didn't smell so bad.

He missed this. The smell of a winter forest, the crisp air around him. Rínior closed his eyes. Slowing his breathing down, he tried to smile. Tried to calm his racing mind. Tried to forget about war for one moment, just for one only. He felt tears at the corners of his closed eyes. What was peace?

The snap of a twig brought him back to reality. Followed by a scream cut short. Rínior drew his sword before he understood what was going on.

Blades shone in the starlight. He parried a skilled blow. Then another. Chaos filled the woods as bodies collided. A growl turned into a shout as his attacker landed three massive swings.

Grey brown eyes and brown, shoulder length hair framed a dirtied pale face. The names of all the kings of Arthedain ran through his mind as he smirked. Aranarth.

"Good try, prince," Rínior said, recovering. His men battled around him. A clever ambush, but it would fail. And he would take home the head of Arvedui's heir. "But a failure."

Aranarth knew how to fight. He'd been trained by the best in Arthedain. But Rínior had trained with the best in Rivendell. Men could not compare to Elves.

He used a tree as cover. Aranarth did not pursue. Rínior barely had time to duck before a new blade buried itself a centimeter deep into the tree, sending splinters everywhere.

Elrohir. Rínior's smirk fell. It took no time for him to recover, blade out of the tree and held at the ready. But it gave Rínior the smallest edge.

He hurled himself forward. Throwing dirt into his enemy's eyes, he prepared to end the battle here and now. But a kick from his right sent him flying into a rock.

The impact knocked his breath away. Rínior coughed up blood. Eyes widening, he cursed as he rolled away from Aranarth's follow-up swing. Leaves flew into the air as it barely missed.

He spun out of the way of Elrohir's slash. Pain shot up his leg as the blade caught his leg. Barely cutting through leather, he could still move with difficulty. Anger fueled him.

"Traitor!" Aranarth tried to hit him again, and failed.

The boy had heart and a fire behind his eyes, but three decades of warfare could not compare to five centuries. Rínior slammed the but of his blade into his face as he parried Elrohir's next attack. The prince fell backwards, blood dripping down his face.

Now he could focus on the real threat. Elrohir said nothing. Eyes narrowed and mouth set in a thin line, Rínior recognized himself in him. Ready to die for a cause. Well then. It was time Elrohir got his wish.

A controlled chaos followed. Rínior dodged Aranarth's attacks as he leveled his own at Elrohir. In the darkness, no one spoke. Only grunts of hard effort and occasional screams of pain sounded in the forest. His muscles ached.

With a twist, he felt himself disarmed. His eyes widened as Elrohir pulled him in close. Rínior ducked backwards, forcing himself out of his grasp. In the chaos, Elrohir lost his own weapon.

Rínior dove forward. Barreling into Elrohir, he grabbed his neck barehanded. Driving dirty fingernails into the warmth of his skin, he screamed. This ended now! He would be rid of him at last. Elrohir's grey eyes bulged.

The flash of steel sent Rínior ducking to the forest floor. Aranarth's blade almost took his head off. Separated from Elrohir and his own sword, he scrambled back. Another blade sang. Elrohir's sword closed in on him.

Time stopped. His friend towered above him, blade seconds from his chest. Rínior felt the burning pain of his injuries. He remembered another year, another moment in time in the Chetwood with the palantir in his hands, showing him a warmth he had chased since then. A warmth withheld from him by the kings of men.

Rínior drew his dagger. If he was to die, he would take Aranarth with him. Leaning away from the swing, he let the blade fly. In the darkness, the ruby did not shine.

Elrohir fell back. His sword deflected the blade. But a pained shout told Rínior it had found its mark. Spitting out a mouthful of blood, he gave a short laugh as he watched Elrohir rush to Aranarth's side.

It took all his strength to stay conscious. He wanted to watch the prince die.

But Elrohir would not even let him have that victory. As Rínior struggled to his feet, sword in his hand once more, he watched Elrohir rush the wounded man away. The world spun. Rínior leaned himself against a dead tree.

Victory or defeat. A cold chill crept down his spine. Victory or defeat.

Elrohir had escaped, again. Rínior's chance to cut off a branch of the line of Isildur had failed, again. The Witch-king would-

No. The Witch-king would never find out. Rínior glanced around himself at the bodies on the forest floor. At least his Hill-men had taken the Arthedain patrol down with them. And that, he knew, could help his cause.

There had been no fight against Arthedain. There had been no fight against Aranarth and Elrohir. He'd been attacked in the night by his own men. Traitors to the cause. He had burned the bodies in his fury.

No word would return of his defeat.

Rínior bent down, gasping at the pain in his body at the movement. He gripped his dagger tightly. He would have the final victory. He would have the palantir. And then, he would have the silmaril.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty - Maedeth

Maedeth cried as they entered the Hidden Valley. Even in the waning autumn, life emanated from Rivendell. Her legs ached from walking. Her mind yearned for rest. She looked forward to one night of peace.

Elladan grabbed her hand. He squeezed it, smiling at her as they both took long, deep breaths. They had survived thus far.

The wardens at the entrance greeted them with joy. Elladan thanked them before they began their descent. As with every time she arrived in Rivendell, her heart lifted.

She tasted winter on the air. Red, orange, and golden autumn leaves still clung to trees that lined the switchbacks down into the valley floor below. Harmonies of foaming waterfalls and nightingales singing before dark set her mind at ease. They were back. This was where she belonged, west of the Misty Mountains.

The sun began to set as they quickened their pace on the descent. Some distant hymn to Elbereth drifted up to them. Maedeth smiled for the first time in what felt like years. Here, there was safety. Here, there was goodness.

She would not stay long. Even as her boots hit the stone bridge of Rivendell, she knew her road lay elsewhere. But that would be a problem for the morning. Not right now, not while she yearned for the relief this home could offer.

Word of their arrival must have gone before them. As they approached the Last Homely House, the doors flung open. Celebrían rushed out, tears on her cheeks, shoeless and silver hair undone. Maedeth took a step back as she flung herself at Elladan. They embraced under the light of the first stars.

Maedeth turned away to give them privacy. This was not her home, nor her family. Her gaze landed on a shadow in the wide open door: Lord Elrond, stern but not unkind, waited for them too. He looked at her and gave a single nod of approval. She forced a smile and a nod in return.

"Come," Elrond said. "There is much to discuss."

Celebrían released her hold on Elladan. Wiping her tears away, she turned then to Maedeth and flashed her a smile. As Elladan went up to greet his father, the women stood together.

"Come," Celebrían said.

Maedeth allowed Celebrían to take her hand and lead her up the stairs. Exhaustion fell on her tenfold as they entered the serene space within. Only a few elves moved about the space, some with food on platters and others cleaning. They followed Elrond up to his library.

Inside, they were not alone. Erestor and Glorfindel stood on the lower floor of the library, picking over a table of maps and scrolls. They were arguing about something. Dressed partly in armor, Glorfindel crossed his arms and shook his head.

As the door shut behind them, Erestor and Glorfindel looked up. Both smiled, forgetting about whatever argument had come between them.

"Lady Maedeth! Elladan!" Glorfindel said. "It is a joy to see you alive and safely returned."

"Is my brother here?"

Erestor shook his head. "Nay. He is not. He has been working closely with the men of Arthedain to defend against Rínior and the Witch-king."

Maedeth's heart sank again. Only when Celebrían gave a gentle tug did she realize she'd paused half way down the ramp to the library's lower floor. She took a deep breath. Celebrían walked forward with her.

They all came to stand at the large table covered in maps, scrolls, and hastily scribbled drawings. Troop movements, Maedeth realized. This table held active intelligence on the movements of Arthedain, Rivendell, and Angmar.

"First," Elrond said, "Please tell us how you fared on your journey."

Maedeth nodded. She launched into a quick description of their travels south. They were glad to hear about Gondor's promise of aid. But they, too, were concerned with how long that aid would take to head north.

"I do not doubt that they are intent on sending aid," Elrond said. "The trip would be long by land or by sea. They are right to prepare."

"But time is an ally of the enemy," Glorfindel finished. He gestured to the table in front of them. "Angmar has claimed Amon Sûl and the Weather Hills. A small contingent holds the Andrath Pass south. And to the North, the bulk of the Witch-king's forces are amassing."

Maedeth looked at the map. Rivendell held much of the eastern Trollshaws nearest to the Hidden Valley. But beyond, and north in the Ettenmoors, there were small garrisons loyal to Angmar. The bulk of the enemy, however, moved towards Fornost.

"How long until they make their final strike?" Elladan asked.

Erestor shook his head. "We are not sure. Rínior leads his Hill-men and a large company of orcs north, apparently to join the main army. But he left behind some of his men to guard the road."

"He knows Imladris is not without warriors," Glorfindel said. "Few though we are."

Elladan's knuckles turned white as he squeezed his fists on the table. Even from her spot beside Celebrían, she could feel the anger burning in him. Maedeth took slow, deep breaths as tears stung at her eyes. Now was not the time for sentiment. Her brother had to be stopped. That was her duty.

"And Elrohir?" Elladan asked.

Elrond pointed to Dolindîr on the map. "We know he was at Dolindîr when Rínior razed it. From there, we are unsure except that we received a message that he had rejoined Arthedain's forces weeks later."

"Where do we expect his next strike?"

Glorfindel shook his head again. "We simply do not know. With the roads held against us, and roaming orcs in the wild, it has been our opinion that holding Imladris is the most important priority." He glanced around the table before continuing. "However, with news of Gondor's commitment to aid, perhaps it is time to strike."

"I disagree! Holding Rivendell against the foes that may descend from the Ettenmoors is our most important priority. We do not have enough men to cripple the foes nearest us," he said. "We would only be putting our lives in danger without aiding Arthedain much at all!"

As Glorfindel went to respond, Elrond held up a hand to quiet them both down. That must have been the argument they walked into. Maedeth frowned, staring down at the maps. It would be difficult to reach Fornost alive. But she intended to try.

"Lady Maedeth?" Celebrían said, with a sad smile. "You wish to speak?"

Everyone turned to her. Maedeth fiddled with a loose thread from the embroidery on her riding outfit. Her fingers, cracked and dirty from weeks in the wilds, hurt from the motion. But she took a deep breath and nodded. She met their gazes.

"I am going to Fornost," she said.

"That is a death wish, Maedeth," Erestor said.

Elrond closed his eyes for a moment, leaning on his hands against the table. "I must agree with Erestor. It is safer to remain in Imladris."

Maedeth scoffed. "Safer? Perhaps." She felt heat rising in her chest and stopped fiddling with her clothing. Straightening up, she folded her arms. "But Imladris is not my home. Arthedain is my home. I have not traveled halfway across Middle-earth to spend the rest of the war in paradise. So I will be leaving in the morning, unless you imprison me. Either I shall reach my home, or I will die trying."

Silence fell. She did not dare make eye contact with Elladan. Her desire to reach Arthedain could very well be a death sentence, and she would not guilt him into going with her. But she hoped for it in the silence of her heart. With him there, it would not be so dark a road.

"You are free to go, of course," Elrond said. "Though it saddens me to have you put yourself in such danger, I understand your desire for home."

"I will go too."

Maedeth closed her eyes at Elladan's declaration. Emotions flooded her senses: relief, anxiety, guilt, love. She did not want to cause his death. But she needed him there. Together, they might succeed. If they did not, it would be her fault.

Erestor shook his head. "Elladan-"

"My brother is out there, Lord Erestor," he said. "Fighting for Arthedain while we stand here, making plans upon plans!"

Celebrían cleared her throat. All turned to her, even as Elladan's veiled accusation hung in the air. She stood straight. "Lord Erestor. Lord Glorfindel. Would you please give us a moment?"

They left without a word. Soon Maedeth found herself standing in silence around a table far too large for just the four of them. They waited for Celebrían to continue.

"I will not lie," she said, "and not say that I wish you would stay, Elladan."

"Mother-"

She held up a hand to silence him. "But I know your heart goes to Arthedain."

Maedeth felt Celebrían's eyes drift to her for a moment before turning back to Elladan and Elrond. The warmth that filled her chest, a mixture of embarrassment, and joy, and fear. The world darkened, but she did not stand alone.

Elrond sighed audibly. He closed his eyes, but his posture loosened. "I believe Elrohir will need you, before the end of this war. I do not wish to place both my sons in danger. But together, you have a better chance to live. And that is all I wish."

"I will not fail," Elladan said. "I will find Elrohir, and we will defend Arthedain to the last."

"And if the end comes," Celebrain whispered, "I sense that those who survive will have great need of your aid."

For a moment, Maedeth felt a heavy doom settle in the space around them. The light of Rivendell seemed to dim. She glanced at Celebrían, who's face had gone ashen. But then the moment passed, sweet peace returned, and Maedeth's heart lifted.

"So be it," Elrond said. "I will send Glorfindel to you. Perhaps he can aid you in your journey to Fornost. And then, rest. I sense you want to leave in the morning."

"If it can be arranged," Maedeth said.

"That will be up to Glorfindel."

Elrond and Celebrían left the library. Dancing candle flames sent wisps of smoke into the air. Somewhere, an open window allowed the sweet scent of night time flowers their way. Maedeth did not wish to turn to Elladan, not yet. Her heart still wrestled with contradicting emotions.

"Maedeth," he said.

She turned. How could she not? His kind eyes watched her every move as he came to join her side of the table. Tears threatened to fall.

The door opened above them. Both turned. Striding in, hand on the pommel of his sword, was Glorfindel. His golden hair was half tied back, all but radiating in the light of Elrond's Library. When he came to stand with them at the table, he let out a deep breath.

"What you propose to do is a bold move," Glorfindel said. "But not without hope. It will rely on speed and secrecy in equal measure."

"We have become well acquainted with both," Elladan said.

Glorfindel smiled. "Indeed."

Maedeth allowed them to get to work without interruption. She had a mind for people, not for warfare. Sitting in a chair, she watched them go over all the different possible routes north to Fornost.

Glorfindel proposed a two part plan. He and a small company would strike out from the Trollshaws, hoping to draw attention away from whatever point in the enemy's patrols that Elladan and Maedeth hoped to sneak through.

Riskiest would be to strike at Amon Sûl to open a gap in the Weather Hills to the north. Other proposals were given, such as focusing on the stretch near Cardolan and the South Downs. But in the end, they chose the riskiest move.

If Glorfindel could open up a hole in the defense of the Weather Hills, they could cut straight into the Midgewater Marshes and through the Chetwood. Orcs, as with elves and humans, despised the Marshes. And though it would slow them down, the benefits outweighed the danger. But they would have to bring horses.

Though it would potentially alert the enemy to their presence, they would never reach Fornost without the aid of horses. The speed they would sacrifice would be their doom.

Glorfindel assured them he would have his men ready by morning. As the moon climbed in the sky, Maedeth bid them goodnight. As she wandered through the quiet path to the guest house, she wondered if it would be her final night in the Hidden Valley. Her heart ached. But she knew, deep down, that she would see her home again. And that brought some little comfort.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-One - Rínior

Dark storm clouds gathered in the skies over the North Downs. Rínior felt the buzz in the air, the scent of snow on the wind, as he rode his horse into the Witch-king's encampment. With the Weather Hills behind him and the Fields of Fornost to the West, dread settled in his heart.

Victory or defeat.

They stood on the precipice of the end to all his pain. The end of struggle. The end to this forsaken, hopeless war. Rínior brought his steed to halt. He allowed the Hill-men to stream forward under orders to make camp. The orcs in his service would ensure they followed instructions.

Howling wolves cried out on the wind. Somewhere behind the storm clouds, he knew the sun lay. But darkness surrounded them. The Witch-king had come forth at last.

The injuries inflicted by Elrohir and Aranarth had half healed. Pain had been his constant companion on the long march. Troops moved slowly as a group. But he supposed it delayed the inevitable meeting with his liege lord.

Rínior waited. His men continued to march by, armor clanking and laughter on their lips. They must have felt the doom that settled around them. Laughing in the face of death. Rínior gave a tiny, half hearted laugh. Bold.

With a quick kick, he ordered his horse on. Flags flew over rows and rows of tents, campfires, and warg pens. War was never quiet. Whether among the Dunedain or the orcs, a steady background hum of chatter remained.

Rínior tuned them out. His gaze swept over the encampment. There must have been thousands upon thousands. Orcs, mostly. He could hear wolves and wargs in the distance. No doubt the sorcerers of Carn Dûm had come as well. Either that, or they were with the Northern host that would flank Fornost from the northwest.

But he knew the Witch-king had come. He could feel it, the cold dread that reached every inch of the war camp. It threatened to freeze him in place. But he turned his will against it. He would not fall prostrate before this king, not yet, not as long as he drew breath.

The palantíri would come first to Rínior. Then he would give them to the Witch-king. But the Witch-king needed him. Needed his strength, his mind, his prowess.

A few flakes of snow began to fall. They landed on his dark cloak before slowly melting into nothingness. Rínior closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of cold, winter air.

It was time to find his place. Scanning the outskirts of the mustering fields, he located a group of his Hill-men. The further from the orcs and trolls, the better. They stank.

Rínior maneuvered through man and orc alike. All were busy establishing themselves, finding food, resting their legs from the long march. How long it would be before the Witch-king ordered the final assault, he did not know. Soon, he hoped.

It didn't take long to establish his headquarters. A strong word for the space he'd scraped together. A simple red tent, able to fit four snuggly, held a bedroll, a small barrel for a table to hold his maps and plans, and a spot for a little fire pit. Outside, his men busied themselves. None wished to speak to him, and he liked that way.

Arvedui would get the women and children out before their assault. Rínior knew as much. That would draw a small portion of their warriors away as well, to keep them safe. Perhaps they would head to the ruins of Annúminas. Perhaps further to the Havens. He studied the map.

His stomach growled. Rínior frowned, turning to fish around in his packs for some food. There were dried meats and a few nuts left. Good enough.

"Lord?"

Rínior turned to the entrance. A young Hill-man, barely a boy really, stood peeking in. "What?"

"There's orcs here. Says they need you now."

Of course they did. He frowned, shooing the boy away with the promise to follow. Rínior took a moment to breathe. He meditated on the glow of the silmaril from his dream. That was his mission. That is why he fought. For glory, and for bloodline. For his daughter, and himself.

The orcs stood in a small circle, backs hunched as they whispered some foul speech between them. At his entrance, they stood. One did a mock bow.

"The Witch-king and his generals await, princeling," he said.

Rínior didn't bother to respond beyond a quick gesture for them to get moving. He did not desire to share speech with them. They were ugly, disgusting perversions. As he fell into step with them, they led the way.

Soon, the Hill-men disappeared, replaced by a band of orcs with grey skin, standing thin and gangling with their bows cast around. Where this tribe hailed from, Rínior had no idea. One of many. They passed others, different groups with different foul purposes no doubt.

Howling grew louder. Soon they passed the largest of the orcs, with sallow skin and squinty sickly green eyes. Some lay with the wolves, others conversing in short orcish with massive, muscular wargs. Rínior flinched away as one swung its head around, snapping powerful jaws in his face.

"Control yourself, beast," Rínior snarled.

The orcs laughed, and the wolves howled. Rínior carried on. His orc escorts never stopped.

They came to a massive, circular fire pit that must have spanned thirty feet. The flames burned low but steady, melting the snow all around it and turning the ground into mud. Pointing to a massive tent on the far side, the orcs told him to get going.

"We've other things to do," the leader said.

Left to himself, Rínior paused. He did not want to see the Witch-king. Not here. Not yet. What if he'd found out about his failure in the Chetwood? What if the wraith decided he was not worth the effort? The world spun. His chest tightened.

But no. No. The Witch-king needed him. The palantíri. That was why he was here. He had delivered victory after victory for Angmar in the last decade. He would see the final victory.

No wraith king waited for him inside the tent. Instead, he found an eclectic mix of men and orcs and one warg. He recognized few.

Gorláhk, the orc who had dared sit in his throne at Minas Eglan, lounged in a chair at the central table. Across from him, arms over his chest, was Gwaedal. They'd spoken sparingly after he took over leadership of the Dunedain of Rhudaur upon Aglarwain's death. Then there was Gruth. Another orc of Carn Dûm, he led the warg riders. Rínior knew him by reputation only.

At his entrance, a black and red robed figure approached. She was young, far too young. Pale skin, grey eyes, and either red paint or blood drawn in a line from her eyes to her chin. Rínior clocked her immediately as a priestess of Morgoth.

"Welcome, Rínior. We were waiting for you."

"Princeling took his time," Gorláhk heckled, eliciting snickering from the other orcs. "Didn't wanna associate with us no more maybe? Turnin' traitor again?"

"Quiet," said the priestess.

The tent darkened for a moment, sending them all into silence. For a moment, Rínior thought her eyes glowed. But when he focused on them, he found only a warm grey. A prickling fear ran down his spine.

"I am Sapthêth, High Priestess."

She leaned in close, tilting her head back to look into his eyes from where she stood a foot beneath him. The desire to flee ran through his entire body. But Rínior did not move. In a flash, she grabbed his chin to hold him still. The familiar sensation of prey before a predator that he'd felt in the presence of the Witch-king came now from this girl.

"Hm." Sapthêth released him with a flick. She turned and walked back to the table. "Let us begin."

Rínior recovered his breath. He'd felt her power in her touch. Dark, cold, like the touch of the void. It took a moment for his limbs to respond.

At the table, he found a spread of maps and hastily scribbled drawings. Troop movements, reports from scouts, even diagrams of Fornost's defenses. Some he'd supplied himself over the years. Others, more recently gathered.

"Our objective is simple," Sapthêth said. "Obtain the palantíri and end the line of Isildur in one fell stroke."

"My latest reports indicate they've pulled most of their forces back to Fornost," Gwaedal said. He moved a piece on the map out of the Weather Hills into the capital. "We believe Prince Aranarth rejoined them last week."

"Did you succeed in stopping the messengers to the Havens?" Sapthêth said, turning to Gruth and the Warg.

He nodded over and over. "Yes, priestess. They've been sent to the void."

"What about the other one?" said Gorláhk. He leaned forward in his seat, long clawed finger tapping on the map near the Fields of Fornost. "The younger prince. Do we know he's not hiding somewhere like the coward he is? Like in that stinking, cursed elf hole?"

Sapthêth turned her young, fair face to Rínior. Her predatory gaze hardened. "You set the guard on the road?"

He nodded. "No help will come to, or from, Rivendell. Orcs hold the road around through the Lone-lands and we have constant patrols through the Weather Hills. I trust it, as far as I can trust the competence of orc-kind."

Hisses and spits came from the orcs assembled there except for Gorláhk, who just laughed. Sapthêth held up her hand. The curses and grumbled died.

"And you have not seen Prince Arveldir?" she said.

"No."

"We have no reason to believe he left Fornost," Gwaedal said. Leaning forward over the table, he gestured to the different pieces. "His brother has been active outside the capital. He has not. Why would he leave now?"

Sapthêth nodded. "I agree. Nonetheless, we will send the crows out to scour the lands surrounding."

"When are we planning the attack?" Rínior said.

The room quieted. All eyes turned to the priestess. She raised her head high and smiled.

"All will be made clear in the next few days. Trust in the gods. Trust in our lord Melkor, who fought the Powers so that he might make his own path. You are dismissed."

Rínior felt a cold chill fall over the space. A darkness moved around him, setting him ill at ease. But Sapthêth just smiled at him. A predator among prey.

"Come with me," she said.

An order, not a request. As the others filed out, Gwaedal flashing him a glare as he passed, Rínior instead followed the priestess to the tent flap in the back. The air temperature dropped the closer he came to it.

"The Witch-king wishes to speak with you."

Sapthêth pulled back the tent flap. To his surprise, another small tent backed straight up to this one, without candle or torchlight. Overwhelming heaviness settled in his heart. But he walked forward into the darkness.

Pale eyes beneath a floating iron crown waited for him. As Sapthêth dropped the flap closed, Rínior found himself alone with the Witch-king. Neither spoke. Only the sound of Rínior's tight, quick breaths was heard.

"Horses were seen fleeing the Chetwood north, some days ago." The low, harsh whisper of the Witch-king filled the space. "They went with all speed north to Fornost."

Rínior stopped breathing. He knew. How did he know? How many spies were watching his every move? How many men betrayed him?

"We did not pursue," the Witch-king said. "Let them die at Fornost with the rest."

Words would not form. Rínior stood dumbly in his presence, unable to speak, unable to move. Icy fear froze him in place.

An iron fist closed around his throat. Rínior gasped for breath as the very life drained from his body. His fire dimmed, snuffed out by the touch of death.

"You will bring the palantíri to me," he said. "Or you will wish the half-breed had killed you. His pity will be your pain."

Darkness overtook his vision. His lungs burned not from heat but from a deadly cold. The iron grip on his throat tightened even further. Then he felt himself thrown to the ground. Wounds half-healed reopened as he struggled to sit up.

Light flooded in. The young face of Sapthêth stared down at him once more. Even her predatory gaze was better than the cold, bright eyes of the Witch-king. He scrambled up, gasping for air, and fell into the main tent.

"Get some rest, Heir of Feanor," Sapthêth said. "There is much to do."

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Two - Maedeth

What valorous stand Glorfindel led, Maedeth could only imagine. When she and Elladan had watched the company of thirty ride out on strong steeds, clad in gleaming armor and wielding sharp weapons hungry for battle, her mouth had dropped. It reminded her of the stories of old. She remembered, as Glorfindel's golden hair whipped in the wind from under his helm, that this elf lord had fought balrogs and defended the great city of Gondolin.

He'd died for his labors. But how grand he must have been, the elf who trained her brother and led the defenses of Rivendell even now. She smiled, sitting atop her horse. The Valar had not forsaken Middle-Earth. Here was one they had sent back to aid them.

She watched them trotting across the Last Bridge from the treeline. Maedeth and Elladan planned to wait a few hours before going themselves. By then, all eyes would be on the elven company. Or so they hoped.

They never looked back. Armed with knowledge of the secret paths in the Weather Hills used by defenders long ago, they led their steeds between rolling brown hills and under long-abandoned ruins of the Lone-lands. Their horses only rarely protested. Sure-footed and swift, the elven steeds of Rivendell seemed to know the danger they were in. No loud noises, travel unseen.

Every minute of every day, her heart was in her throat. Had their plan worked? Had the orcs caught wind of Glorindel's company and drawn focus to Amon Sul for their arrival? Or were she and Elladan walking into a death trap.

They slept little. Pushing on, they reached the base of the Weather Hills proper in record time. Elladan left her in a small dell with the horses, hidden as best she could amongst the dead brush. He would scout ahead. If he did not return, he told her to ride hard to Imladris.

"Don't look back," he said.

Maedeth promised. Tears in her eyes, she grabbed him in a hug, focusing on the way his cheek felt against her own, how his arms held her close.

"Go," she said, forcing herself to let go. "Be safe. May Elbereth guide your footsteps."

He forced a small smile. Then a nod. And finally, after backing up a few steps, he turned and vanished into the night. For a few, agonizing hours, she huddled against the rocks, pulling her knees to her chest as she sat more childlike than she'd felt in centuries. She could hear distant wolves howling. Her untrained ears could not distinguish from which direction they came. But the enemy was out there.

Dead twigs snapped. Maedeth pulled her new, steel shortsword with trembling hands. But Elladan's face greeted her in the darkness, not an orc's. She covered her mouth to keep from crying in relief.

"Come. We may not have long!" He helped her up off the ground and grabbed the reins of his horse. "I have found a way through that is clear. But I do not know if it will stay this way."

Maedeth nodded several times, trying to calm her rapidly pulsing heart. With her own horse beside her, she followed after Elladan as they scrambled around some fallen boulders. The path he found was a road by comparison. Clearled mostly of debris, it wound its way like a river through dips and through tiny depressions. Ruins towered above them on the hills.

Rínior had told her all about them. These were the fortifications he had once defended, when he learned to fight with his first company up until the razing of Amon Sul. She knew they had been great, once. Now they crumbled, destroyed and abandoned. Even the orcs did not seem to value them.

Heaviness settled on her chest. Her throat hurt, holding back the emotions that wished to spill over into tears. What a simple reminder of Arthedain as a whole. Broken, dying, defeated.

Not yet.

Maedeth took a deep breath through her nose. She held it there, reminding herself that she still lived. As she released it, she looked at the stars above. It was not yet dead.

They got through the Weather Hills without incident. The Midgewater Marshes slowed them down considerably, with each night causing Maedeth's irritation and impatience to grow. The fire in her heart that flared up so rarely smoldered and smoked.

When they'd chosen this path, they had known this would happen. But the secrecy meant more than speed when trying to reach the North Road. There, they would push forward without hesitation.

With each squelch of her boot or bite of a fly, she wished to scream her frustration. But they were not clear yet. Occasional howling wolves were heard in the distance, and Elladan once steered them out of the way of a well used path of orc tracks.

She hoped to never hear another evil cricket again, when they finally came out of the reeds and onto solid ground beneath leafless trees. They had come at last to the Chetwood. One final, dangerous leg of the journey.

Again, Elladan left her. Again, Maedeth prayed to the Valar, to Illuvatar beyond Arda, that he would find his way safely home again. It did not take long for him to return.

His face was red, his breath shallow. He skidded to a halt at her hiding place. Maedeth reached out to steady him.

"What is it?" she said.

He shook his head. "I'm not sure. There are many tracks here, days old. Abandoned camps. I think an army was here."

Maedeth's eyes went wide. She pulled him further into the thick reeds at the edge of the marshes for cover. "But they're gone?"

"I think so. I'm not sure," he said. "I don't know. But we need to get moving."

She looked down as he opened his palm. The last light of day shone down on a small, six pointed pendant in his hands. First she glanced at his cloak. But he still wore his.

"Elrohir?" she said.

He nodded. Nothing more had to be said. They moved from hiding, keeping themselves and their hoses as concealed as possible. But in the twilight, stealth now left their minds. Speed was needed. Where was Elrohir?

Elladan led them straight to where he'd found it. With practiced ease, he pointed out all the signs of struggle to Maedeth. A blade cut in the bark of a tree. Splattered blood on another. Trampled earth and disturbed leaf litter. Drag marks. Signs of a fire.

"Bodies were dragged here and burned," he said. "I found the clasp on the ground over here."

Leading her away from the fire, he pointed out a spot on the ground where something, or somethings, had dug themselves a bit into the mud. He explained that it looked like people had wrestled, or perhaps an animal. Depressions in the earth of dragged fingernails were found nearby.

"But I would guess people," he said. "Given the other signs."

Maedeth covered her mouth, whether to hold back bile or tears she did not know. Elrohir had to be alive. He had to be fine. He had to be.

Elladan seemed to have forgotten her. He returned to his investigation. The speed at which he returned told Maedeth all she needed to know: he had not determined the ending before finding her again. Perhaps he feared it, and wished for comfort if the unthinkable had happened.

Maedeth would not allow herself to consider it. So she stood silently, holding the lead ropes of both horses. She let Elladan do what he was trained for.

"Someone left this way," he finally said. A bit more hope had entered his voice. "Or two, perhaps. Their footprints are side by side. Come!"

They hurried away. A cold rain began to fall, a misting in the dark. As clouds obscured the stars she tried to focus on the small torch Elladan made and tried to keep alive. The woods were thick, even in the winter. Following the trail was difficult.

A large wall of fallen rocks and age old mosses and ferns reared up before them. At the base was a small cave entrance. Mostly hidden by barren bushes, Maedeth feared what beast had made its den here. But Elladan shook his head.

"Elrohir? Brother?"

He spoke it quietly, but with such longing that for a moment Maedeth forgot where she was and had memories only for Rínior. She had lost her brother. Elladan could not lose his as well.

No response. She felt the chill rain on her face, the way the mist formed small rivulets like tears with each passing moment. In front of her, the dark cave mouth mocked them. Silent. Still.

"Elladan?"

Maedeth fell to her knees at the sound of his voice. She could barely hold in her relieved sobs as Elrohir emerged from the cave, covered in scrapes but alive. Elladan grabbed him a hug, neither letting go even as the rain began to increase. Picking herself up off the ground, she got control of herself enough to step closer.

Elrohir glanced at her over his brother's shoulders. He broke the hug, wiping the rain from his face, and just looked at her. It said everything she needed to know. It spoke of regret, of anger, of fear and sadness. Everything spoke of Rínior.

She thanked the Valar for the rain. It masked some of her tears. But she allowed Elrohir to hug her, not willing to ask the question now burning her inside.

"He's still alive," Elrohir said.

He had known the question. Of course he had. That was the only question that mattered right now. He lived still and that meant Arthedain had not felt his fellest strike.

"Come inside," he said. "Though we will be cramped."

They found he was not alone. Huddled against the back of the shallow cave, clutching his left shoulder and shivering, was Aranarth. Maedeth felt her jaw drop. But she recovered quickly, leaving behind the twins at the entrance with the horses and skidding on the sandy bottom to his side.

"Prince Aranarth!" she said, trying to get a better look in the dim light of Elladan's torch at his wound. "Are you alright?"

"Alive," he said. "I will fight another day. Of this I am certain!"

As with Elladan, he was covered in dirt and scrapes. His lips had been split and a bruise formed over his jaw. But none of the fight had left his voice.

"We tried to take Rínior unawares," Elrohir said. Exhaustion weighed down every word, as if he had rehearsed this moment time and again through sleepless nights. But he glanced at Maedeth and hesitated. "He got away. Aranarth was injured."

She apologized under her breath as Maedeth peeked under the bandage over his left shoulder. The scent of herbs mingled with the unmistakable tang of blood. In the shadows dancing around the cave, not much could be seen. Aranarth winced at the inspection.

"I'll be fine," he said. "We must get moving!"

Elrohir shook his head. "I know. And our horses are hidden not far from here. I check on them each evening," he said. "It has been four days. Now that you're here, perhaps we can risk making a break north."

"He needs the supplies at Fornost," Maedeth said, to which Elrohir nodded.

Elladan also bent down, bringing the light closer. Maedeth retreated to let him look. The twins were far better healers than she could hope to be. Others had studied healing in Fornost, she had studied court.

"Are you rested enough to leave now?" Elrohir asked.

Maedeth wished she could say yes. She wished they could push on endlessly. But when they left the shelter of the little cave, there would be no stopping. Not for many long miles, safely inside the Arthedain lines.

"We should rest a night," Elladan said.

Elrohir nodded. "Then we should rest. There is much to discuss."

It was tight, but once Elrohir took their horses to the secluded grove, the four of them fit snuggly inside the cave. They did not dare build a real fire. The early winter wind blew cold through the Chetwood but who else stalked the forest, they did not know.

They traded tales of the past year. Maedeth listened in horror as Elrohir described the razing of Dolindir, the burning of its libraries and the slaughtering of their Eastern line. Each time he described Rínior, she felt the anxiety building in his body. The way he stiffened. The unwillingness to go into detail. Whether it was because of her presence, or because of his own broken memories, she did not know.

Elrohir had trained Rínior. They'd been brothers, bonded by a common goal: to defend that which they held most dear. Though their duties to different peoples had separated them more often in their later years, they had found time to hunt the enemy together time and again. And as Maedeth watched him give a too-quick account of being held captive by Rinor, she could only shut her eyes and beg herself not to cry.

Too many tears had been shed of late. What was done was done. Rínior had betrayed them. He posed a deadly threat to all they held dear. And though she could not help but hold herself partly responsible for missing the signs of growing despair in her dear twin, it didn't matter now. He'd made his choice.

Aranarth perked up when they told their own tale. He sat up and smiled, hope filling his chest at the promise of aid from Gondor. Though he, too, feared it might come too late.

They slept more soundly that night than many before it. For at last, they were not alone. Hope seemed just on the edge of reach.

Riding north passed as a blur. Crows circled overhead when they reached the road but did not attempt to harry them. With hands ready to grab weapons, they pushed their steeds as fast as they dared.

A great host assembled on the rolling fields outside of Fornost. Maedeth could not help but smile as they pushed through. They did not stand alone. And though she feared the Witch-king's army would dwarf them many times in size, it gladdened her heart to see a mix of men, elves, and halflings before the gates.

Trumpet blasts sounded over the field as they galloped to the great iron gate. One side opened, and cheers of excitement went up at their return. The crown prince and his half elven heroes hurried up the road to the citadel. Maedeth smiled as she went. Though it surprised her how many women and children still remained in Fornost. The city buzzed with preparations.

Her boots slammed into cold, muddy gravel as she dismounted. Stable hands whisked their exhausted steeds away. Waiting only for Aranarth to be assisted by Elrohir, they soon hurried inside the cold, empty halls of the Citadel of Fornost.

There were no guards, no handmaidens or serving boys running errands to and fro. Only towering ceilings and bare stone walls. Tapestries could be broken down for clothing, blankets, or bandages. In a pinch they worked as fuel for the fires. Fineries could be traded to the dwarves or other men, or had been sent to safety with the elves of Rivendell. The only exceptions: the Palantiri and the symbols of the House of Isildur, the Scepter of Annúminas and the recreated Ring of Barahir.

"You should see the healers," Elrohir said.

But Aranarth would have none of it. Even though he winced at the effort, he pushed away the assistance of Elrohir and hurried forward.

"We must speak to my father," he said. "Come!"

Maedeth expected nothing less of Prince Aranarth. They searched through the main hall, to no avail. But a shout and two sets of rushing footsteps turned their heads to a newly opened door.

"Aranarth!" Arveldir, his young face drawn with anxiety far beyond his years, hurried with Mírien to his older brother. "What happened?"

"I am fine," he said.

"No you aren't." Arveldir grabbed his older brother's side to assist him towards the chairs in the council room. "Sit, and I shall get father."

Mírien called out over her shoulder, racing down a hall, that she was already on it. Maedeth felt her heart soar seeing her niece safe and sound. But they had little time for pleasantries. As Arveldir pestered his brother, all he would say was that all would be made clear when their father arrived.

Arvedui came quickly, Firiel at his side. The queen of Arthedain flew at her wounded, elder son with open arms. But the king stood stern, eyes widening only as he heard the tale of what had befallen both parties.

"So Gondor will send us aid, but too slow perhaps," he muttered. "I should have expected it."

Firiel, still kneeling beside Aranarth with tears on her cheeks, narrowed her eyes. Maedeth watched her knuckles turn white and fists clench. Firiel spun around as she stood.

"Had you sent tidings earlier, as I had suggested," she said, "perhaps they would be here!"

Silence fell. Arvedui had the decency to look ashamed, but said nothing in response. Though Maedeth agreed with the queen, she knew now was not the time for infighting.

"What is done is done," she said. "The time for emissary work has ended, King Arvedui. What now do you ask of me?"

Arvedui straightened up. Mulling over all he had heard, from Aranarth and Elrohir, and from Maedeth and Elladan, he sighed. For a moment, he let his gaze linger on each person in the room: his sons, his wife, the twins, and Maedeth herself.

"Indeed, the time for talking is over. Either we will win, or we will lose, when this final strike comes." He walked over to the window, staring out over the city of Fornost. "Most of my people have refused to leave the city, women and children included. I expected little else. We are a proud people who have been driven from our homes too many times. What stronghold is there but this? The Havens of the sea elves? Rivendell is beyond our reach now."

Maedeth frowned. "Lord Cirdan would take us, if you asked."

"I'm sure he would," Arvedui said. He turned back. "But none would go. Not while the walls stand. Lord Elladan, Lord Elrohir. Will you continue to stand beside us?"

They agreed immediately.

"Good. We will need all the allies we can get. Go now, walk among my assembled forces and report back what you think." He watched them leave the room, before turning to Firiel and Arveldir. "I would speak to Aranarth and Maedeth alone. Please."

It took some convincing, but they left as well. Maedeth felt the air in the council room grow cold as Arvedui walked back to the table. Standing despite his pain, Aranarth looked his father in the eyes.

"It pains me, my son, to ask this of you." He frowned, glancing at the wound in Aranarth's shoulder. "But it must be." He took a deep breath. Arvedui turned to Maedeth. "You have served my family for centuries, and for this, there is no amount of thanks I can give. But I must ask one last favor of you."

"Name it," she said.

She felt a heavy weight on her chest. All sound faded from her, until she heard only the king's voice in her ears. Trembling, she stood straight.

"If the fighting goes ill, if we lose this last stronghold of Arnor," he said, "I ask that you lead the women and children and elderly away. Gather the wounded, the survivors. Take them through the tunnels, wherever there is safety."

Maedeth did not close her eyes. But she felt the doom that settled on her in that moment, picturing the doors to the tunnels that had been dug by the craftsmen of Arthedain for generations. Under Fornost, away to the West. She had never seen their end. Annúminas, perhaps? Closer?

Once, many years before, she had been offered a chance to enter them. But she could not. For as Arvedui waited for her response she knew this was what would be her task. Had Lady Idril felt so scared, all those ages ago? When she led her people out of Gondolin after her cousin's betrayal, did she tremble?

"I will," she whispered.

He thanked her. Turning to Aranarth, he forced a sad smile through unshed tears. "My son. My heir. Hope of our people." Arvedui placed a hand on his good shoulder. "I will entrust to you two of our heirlooms: the ring of Barahir and our sacred Scepter. If the fighting goes ill, you must go with Maedeth."

Aranarth protested. He tried to throw his hands in the air, tried to yell at his father for even asking such a thing. But the pained cry that accompanied the movement proved his father right.

"The wound you bear will do more to harm our cause than help it, in the field." Arvedui stepped back and let himself grow stern. "If I am to be the last king, I will not have it be because my heirs all die alongside me. You and Maedeth shall leave with the others, and while she will care for the people's morale, it is you who must stand at the last defense of them, and hold fast to the heirlooms of our house."

Maedeth watched the battle within Aranarth. The desire to fight, for vengeance and honor and duty. But also the love he held for his father. At last, he bowed.

"Yes, my King."

Arvedui nodded. "Good. That is settled then." The tiniest smile broke through his stern countenance. "But the battle is not yet lost. Hope remains. So let us make the most of it."

They left together, Arvedui herding his son towards the healers. But Maedeth did not move. She could leave that room, that council chamber. For five centuries, she had fought her battles here, at this wooden table wielding words and wisdom as her weapons. No longer. Arthedain needed heroes. Maedeth closed her eyes. Perhaps she must become one. Idril Celebrindal, elven wife of moral man, would be her guide.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Three - Rinior

Snow fell. Rínior looked upon the gentle flakes coating the rolling, bloodstained, muddy fields. A thin veil of white blanketed corpses of men, orc, and wolf alike. In the distance, he heard screams.

Not much of a battle. Not yet, at least. They'd attacked in the twilight, pouring into the hills of the Fields of Fornost with ferocity and fervor. Winter winds whipped through their torches. It stole breath and bearings.

Rínior tuned out the screams. If he closed his eyes from the early dawn light, he could hear it still, beyond the broken gate of the capital city. Here, behind the front lines, he needn't listen.

He had his new orders. They'd breached the walls. It was time to find what they came for.

The bodies glistened in the soft glow of dawn. The cold reduced the stench of death. But it could not be wholly ignored as he stepped over and on the bloated corpses of that prior night. Rínior glanced up.

They never stopped. Rínior couldn't count the number of deaths upon the battlefield. His heart pounded even as he turned in a brief circle. Surely there was some patch of snow-covered grass not harboring a body?

Maybe not.

Snow crunched under his boots. Many years ago, when he'd loved this city, the stillness of winter blanketing the Fields of Fornost had brought him peace. They didn't grow crops here, but farmers let their livestock graze over the downs. He remembered how picturesque it had been. But as the years went on, such stillness drove him nearly to madness on each return home.

Open eyes watched him as he stepped over the bodies. This was the stillness he understood: dead after the slaughter. Carrion birds circled above. Glistening, fresh snow covered the bloodstains.

The walls of Fornost rose high above him. The stillness fled. Screams and laughter, clanging of metal, and a distant roaring fire replaced it.

Rínior paused at the broken gates. Torn at their hinges, wood splintered and metal twisted, they opened to a courtyard empty but for the dead. He stepped inside. There was work to do.

The sun peeked through the snow clouds. His blade glittered in the dawn as he unsheathed it. Battle sounded not far off. Pockets of resistance from Arthedain's warriors remained. The king still defended his citadel. For how long, though?

It didn't matter. Rínior had a mission, and that was not the Arvedui. Let the Witch-king deal with him. He had to find the palantíri.

As golden sunlight cut through grey clouds, he rounded the corner towards barracks. A sword swung at his face. Rínior smirked. Blood wet his sword.

Flanked by Hill-men, he pushed on. The men of Arthedain screamed as they died. Bodies were trampled into the mud.

The door to the primary barracks stood not far ahead. Three lines of soldiers blocked their path. Rínior fell into muscle memory. He'd fought this battle so many times. Not here, perhaps. But elsewhere. Every fight, the same. Every death, inevitable.

Massive doors slammed shut as they reached the walls. He stood back. Let the others break it down. He didn't have time to worsen his wounds like at Dolindîr.

Smash after smash, the Hill-men rammed the large door. The very bones of the earth around them seemed to shake. Rínior tightened and released his grip on his blade over, and over, and over. Come on. Come on.

Wood splintered. Doors crashed inwards. Arrows fired into the crowd outside. Ducking down, Rínior narrowly avoided the incoming volley.

"Move!" he shouted. "Take them out!"

A shield of bodies screaming unintelligible curses streamed in. Guttural groans and the squelching of blood filled his ears. Rínior followed them.

Dancing shadows cast by rows of torchlight blinded him. He swung his sword. Men died. He hoped the palantíri lay here, guarded by Arthedain's trusted soldiers.

Who had trained them in his absence? They fell like scattered pages on the floor. As his men dealt with the soldiers, Rínior turned to his search.

He tore the halls apart. Turning tables on their sides, breaking in every door, smashing barrels open, but to no avail. No palantír.

Rínior stood in the quiet stillness of the slaughtered barracks. Bodies glared up with open eyes. His heart pounded in his chest. Where were the palantíri?

He sheathed his sword. Grabbing two massive torches off the wall, Rínior tossed them on the refuse. Flames licked at the wooden walls and tables. He grabbed another. And another.

With roaring flames in his ears, Rínior left the barracks behind. There were more places to search. The palantíri lay somewhere.

"With me," he said.

A dozen Hill-men fell into step. Rínior moved deeper into the city, through tighter fighting. They put up more resistance than he expected.

They would try the Halls of Healing next. Perhaps Arvedui sought to protect his treasure behind a pretense of peace. More men joined him.

It took hours. Battle raged on. Rínior turned off his mind. Swing a sword, kick a chest, stab a heart. The same as ever. The same these men of Arthedain had trained him for. The same skills that gave him the name Hero of the North.

Behind, he heard the raging inferno jumping with the sharp winter winds. Ash joined storm clouds to block what little dawn light had managed to escape. In front, screams and moans. The music of battle.

At last, they reached the rows of city streets known as the Halls of Healing. Wounded men took up arms to defend those who could not. Rínior paused in his step. Hill-men thrust weapons in the guts of page boys, messengers for the city. The world spun.

No. It had to be done. Arda Marred held nothing but suffering for them. At least they would die early, and join whatever fate lay beyond the world for Men.

He cut the head off a soldier. He had to find the palantíri. He had to. His men got to work.

Stalking through the burning, empty street, he felt prickling fear down his spine. Where was it? He spilled crates of herbs on the muddy ground. Someone shrieked.

A young healer, covered in blood and shaking in her dress, tried to hide behind the next few crates. Rínior took a deep breath. He lunged forward. Her bloody arms nearly escaped his grasp. Nearly.

Rínior yanked her from hiding. Pushing her up against a wall, he pointed his blade at her chest. He saw the fear in her bloodshot eyes and for a moment he could only hear his own rapid heartbeat.

"Where are they?" he said.

She said nothing, just screamed again. Why didn't she just answer? He needed to know.

"The palantíri!"

"I don't know!"

Rínior heard the fire closing in behind them. It had overtaken the lower city already. Now it came for them here. He tightened his grip on her arm and twisted it. She screamed again. He heard nothing but his own fear. He dropped his sword and pushed his fëanorian dagger to her throat.

"Tell me now!"

"I don't know," she said through sobs. "By Elbereth, I swear it! I swear-"

Rínior slit her throat. As her body dropped to the floor, he stepped back. A mercy, to die quickly. He'd seen many men suffer for days.

Hours passed. Fighting continued. The fires spread, engulfing street after street of Fornost. Annúminas had burned once. Now Fornost followed after. The next capital would put them both to shame, where he would rule in splendor. And he would have Tiniel and Mirien with him. He would have victory. He had to have victory.

Still no palantíri. Rínior couldn't breathe anymore. He followed his body from house to house, great hall to great hall. His arms left a trail of death. His feet sought out a path.

A grand stone tower, nearly a citadel in its own right, rose up in front of him. The Northern Archives. Embers carried on the wind licked at the debris around it even as men stood in defense.

He watched. Snow gathered pristine on the dome above. In the streets surrounding, the battle kicked up mud and shattered stone so that instead of white the snow was brown. Stained. Rínior forced freezing air into his lungs.

Maedeth had told him the story of her journey south, once. With the defeat of Castamir, the southern Kings reigned unbroken again. But Eldacar had lost Osgiliath. The great Master Stone had been claimed by the raging waters of Middle Earth. Fire had broken the Dome of Stars. Another broken kingdom of men.

Rínior twisted his sword in his hand. Let the cowards keep back. He was not a coward, whatever else might've been said of him by the Dúnedain of Arthedain.

The doors broke before he reached them. From inside he could hear screaming, burning, looting. The sounds of war.

None could touch the palantíri but him. Rínior pushed past an orc. He ran inside. Blazing flames met him.

Searing heat stopped him in his tracks. He closed his eyes. Blinded by the light, he backed away from another explosion. Far above, the burning library crumbled. Flaming beams tumbled a hundred feet down.

The world spun. Red, gold, and black consumed his vision. Ashes and blood splattered across his face. His mouth fell open in horror at the conflagration he could not move from.

Dolindîr had burned brightly. Fornost burned like nothing he'd ever seen. Hoarded knowledge became kindling for the downfall of Arthedain. Scrolls, books, faded memories of past glory could not save them.

Where were the Valar? Jealous gods, Fëanor had once called them. Rínior had not studied much in Rivendell, not like Maedeth. But he'd read all his family histories, colored with thousands of years of Sindarin bias. The Valar had left Middle-earth to the Shadow more than once.

Only those willing to save themselves survived.

Rínior tore himself from the flames. There would be little time to search the place. But he had to. He had to find the palantíri. He had to find them. If he didn't, he could not locate the Silmaril. If he didn't, he could not claim his birthright.

Another blast of flame scalded his face. Rínior hacked and coughed through the thick smoke. Even as sweat rolled down his face in rivers, a cold chill came over him. Hours of searching had come to nothing. He could not leave empty-handed. The taste of blood and ash filled his mouth.

If he did not find the palantíri, the Witch-king would kill him. Victory or defeat. Fornost fell before them. But that was not the victory he cared about. The Witch-king wanted the palantíri.

Louder, louder, louder. He heard no one. Only the pounding of blood and the deafening roar of endless fire.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Four | Maedeth

When she opened her eyes, darkness found her. Worn bedsheets kept her warm amidst the winter chill in the absence of a fireplace. For a moment, she just breathed. A tiny puff of fog dispersed in her bedroom at Fornost. Days of waiting, weeks even. As Maedeth looked at the iron accents around her bedroom window, she sighed. Why had she woken at such a dark hour? Dawn was far off still.

Screams. Maedeth shot up. Pale red light shone through her window for a moment. Scrambling out of bed to the window, she nearly fainted. Blood rushed to her head.

No more waiting. They were here.

Snowfall and shadows reigned again. But the muffled, distant rumble of shouts remained. The tiny pin pricks of yellow campfires flared up as more dots of fire joined them. Torches. Hundreds of them. Thousands.

Maedeth did not look back. 

Her hands shook as she fastened her sword on her belt. Dressing had come easily, second nature, but this? Even all these years later, wielding a weapon felt wrong. But orcs and Hill-men would not care that she found it unpleasant. She had a duty to perform and she would need to fight, to kill, to do it.

Warning bells rang throughout the city. Shouts, commands to take up arms and protect the king, echoed through the halls of the citadel. Maedeth took a deep breath in front of her dark wooden door. Tears blurred her vision. Her chest burned as her breathing grew ragged. Her hand shook as she reached for the door handle. It felt hard and cold. Beyond, chaos. In here, certain death.

She flung the door open. Soldiers ran past her, pulling on helms and double-checking weapons. She had to find Mírien. She had to find Tiniel. If the worst were to happen, Maedeth had a duty to perform. She was to be the Idril to Fornost’s Gondolin. If only she could fill the shoes of Lord Elrond’s grandmother.

The cacophony in the citadel mercifully drowned out all sounds beyond the stone walls. At every window, she shied away. Either the soldiers would succeed, or they would fail. If the army of Fornost failed, she could not.

“Maedeth!” 

Mírien’s frantic shout came from the next corner. She doubled her speed. But before she could round the corner, her niece beat her to it. Wearing leather armor pieces over her riding tunic, Mírien’s sword glittered in the soft glow of the torches. 

“I am here!” Maedeth said. “Are you alright?”

Her niece nodded. Even in the low light, she could see the fear in Mírien’s grey eyes. The young woman clutched her weapon so hard her knuckles turned white. Maedeth grabbed her shoulders.

“We must remain calm,” she said. “Breathe, and sheathe your weapon. It is not time to fight, not yet.”

Mírien’s lips trembled. For a moment she stood still as a statue, neither sheathing the weapon nor taking deep breaths. But the moment passed. Mírien put away the blade. Grabbing her, she pulled Maedeth into a hug.

“My mother is waiting for us,” she said. “I do not think she understands. Not truly.”

“I know.”

They hurried down the hall. The sounds of soldiers had faded, doubtless off to defend them at the gates. In the eerie silence, they heard the howling of wild wolves and low rumble of flames. Could the army on the Fields defend them? Maedeth did not want to think of it.

Tiniel stood clutching a small blanket to her chest. Tears rolled down her cheeks, her eyes shut as if against the whole world. Maedeth’s heart crumbled. Tiniel had made that blanket long ago, as a wedding gift to Rínior.

“Come, Tiniel,” she said. “We must prepare, in case of the worst. The day we have waited for is here.”

“I do not wish to leave.” 

Her voice, barely above a whisper, somehow filled the whole room. Maedeth forced down her own grief. It would help no one. They had to move.

“I know. I know,” she said. Stepping forward, she took hold of both her arms, holding tightly, but gently. “Look at me, Tiniel.”

Her grey-elven eyes were bloodshot as she stared at Maedeth. Blurred by tears, they seemed a million miles, or perhaps centuries, away. She said nothing.

“We must go. Aranarth will be waiting for us,” Maedeth said. “We must go.”

“But Rínior-”

Glass shattered. Maedeth spun around to see Mírien glaring at the papers and materials now broken or scattered on the floor by the desk.

“Mother, we need to go, now!”

Maedeth turned back to Tiniel. “We must go. Rínior is gone. He’s gone,” she said. A lump formed in her throat and for a moment, the room spun. “Your husband. Her father. My brother. He is gone.”

Howls carried on the wind as Tiniel stood clutching the blanket amidst the cold, lonely bedroom. Time stood still. Maedeth watched the elf fight with herself. She felt Mírien’s rage and panic in the doorway.

“Okay.”

Maedeth took her cold hand. Tiniel dropped the blanket as they sped down the hall. They had a simple plan. At the sound of the warning bells, the women and children would gather in the main hall of the citadel with herself and Aranarth. 

They found the Prince dressed in as much armor as he could handle given the arm in the sling. He paced back and forth. A satchel with the Scepter of Annuminas lay against a pillar not far from him. Whispering in close circles were about twenty women. Another ten children ran around the hall seemingly without care.

“There you are,” Aranarth said, striding over. He looked them up and down. “You are ready, should we need to flee?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Good. My brother is with the sons of Elrond. If the worst should happen, they will pull back to the citadel to protect us on the way to the tunnel entrance.”

All they could do was wait. Beyond the stark stone walls, howling wolves and sharp cries of orcs barely muffled came to them borne by winter winds. Would they make it to the new year? Maedeth clutched her hands together. Each moment that passed, she prayed to the Valar. Please. Please, let them survive. Let dawn bring hope. Man should not suffer for the evils of the House of Fëanor. But battle crept closer.

Wounded began to fill the halls. More women, more children, more elderly. As Maedeth squeezed her eyes shut and blocked out the crying of a baby in the corner, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Lady Maedeth,” said Malbeth, his wrinkled face drawn. “Lady Maedeth, do not forget to breathe.”

She forced her eyes open and a breath through her lungs. The seer watched her carefully. Sad eyes the color of a dark blue ocean did not shy from her. Had he seen the outcome barreling towards them?

A great crowd had formed inside the hall of the citadel. Maedeth could not block out the cries. Aranarth had disappeared, perhaps seeking news of the battle. Standing amidst this sea of grief, her own numbed. She couldn’t move.

A window shattered. A bundle of fiery rags scattered a crowd, a few yelping in pain as the flames burned them. Maedeth ran forward. They could not be caught here, penned in like animals, to be slaughtered at the enemy’s leisure. 

Aranarth reached the flames first. He extinguished it with a bucket of water. They stared at each other. Neither spoke. They didn’t need to. It was time. Escort or no, they had to flee. The prince pushed through the crowd to stand on his father’s throne.

“Oh my people!” Aranarth drew his sword with his offhand, raising it skyward. “Dúnedain of Arthedain, great among men. I see before me a hundred men, women, children even who are willing to die for our great kingdom. But that is not what has been asked of us.” He paused in the silence. “It is easy to die for a cause. To lay down and accept defeat. But we are Dúnedain. For centuries, we have refused to die!”

A great cheer went up, first one voice and then a dozen. The light of many torches bathed the prince in golden light. Maedeth’s breath caught.

“And tonight, even if our great city falls,” he said, “we will again refuse to die!”

More cheers. The roar drowned out the sounds of battle beyond their walls. Maedeth’s chest burned with pride at the unyielding fire in the hearts of the men of Arthedain. 

“We go now to the Havens of the sea elves. I will lead you, as shall the great Lady Maedeth who has stood by our people for nearly six hundred years.” Not as many cheers, but the Prince continued. “We travel light. For we have a long way to go, through the earth and over it. Through storm and fire, across plains and rivers. Leave behind all that can be spared. But if you have it,” he said, “bring with you your swords.”

A few dozen blades raised in the air. Some by old warriors long past their prime, others by the wounded now broken and bleeding. One mother held her baby in one arm and a long knife in the other. Maedeth, moving towards the doors, did the same. She locked eyes with the Prince standing high on the throne. This was it.

The doors crashed open. Maedeth yelped, but held her blade high. Wide eyed and bleeding stood young Prince Arveldir. She dropped her weapon.

“Come!” he said. “Come now! Now!”

A few dozen sea elves formed a half circle perimeter in the central courtyard. Beyond them, Maedeth could not see. But Elladan and Elrohir, faces caked in dirt and grime, ran up to join them. Her heart soared. He still lived. He had to live.

“Go,” he said. Elladan reached out as she stepped aside, allowing the crowd to follow their prince into the fighting. “Go. I will find you. I promise.”

Through her blurry tears, she grabbed him in a hug. The stench of death reeked all around them. She ignored the blood that stained her clothes.

“Go,” he whispered. 

She felt his warm breath on her cheek in the dark winter night. Both lingered in that moment, surrounded by flurries of snow and the chaos of war. Maedeth cried.

“Go. You have to go.”

Maedeth nodded. She stepped back, not wanting to release his hand. But he was right. Of course he was right. This was her duty. She had to be Idril Celebrindal. She had to flee while her loved ones fought.

“I love you,” she said.

Elladan smiled. Tears streamed down his face, cutting through dirt and grime. Not far beyond him, Elrohir gave commands to the gathered warriors.

“And I you,” he said. As the cries of dying men grew louder, he turned back to his brother. The enemy closed in. With a last glance back, trying to smile but failing, he let go of her hand. “Go! Go now. We will follow close behind!”

Maedeth fled. Through crumbling streets they made their way to a small, simple stone building in the upper part of the city. The fighting had not closed in here. Those orcs and hill-men that got through the lines died to the hands of the few wounded still able to hold a blade.

Pulling up the rear, she kept looking back. Arveldir and the twins guarded them a stone’s throw away. She focused on their company.

Most moved with all the speed they could muster. They knew of the hidden passage. Their hope lay in the dark, westward tunnel. But others lingered. 

Maedeth pushed them on. She told them to think only of the dawn. Do not linger in the dark. Do not dwell on the deaths around them.

Sounds of battle closed in. They reached the store room door. Two by two, they descended. Maedeth watched them from the street, her fear rising even as she told others to not be afraid. 

She looked back. There was no Elladan, no Elrohir, no Arveldir. Just a cold street, dusted with snow. Maedeth’s fear turned to panic. She felt Tiniel beside her. The elf had not spoken since Aranarth’s speech and their flight to the tunnel.

The line did not move fast enough. Maedeth wanted to push forward. They had to descend. They had to go. Down, and fast, and out of the reach of the enemy. Fornost broke around them. They could not be here when the orcs broke through.

So close. Only a few dozen waited to flee. Maedeth held Tiniel’s hand, dragged her forward every step towards freedom that they took. Mírien flanked her other side. 

Cackling shrieks cut through the air. Maedeth froze as a handful of orcs leapt from an alleyway, swords raised. The women and children screamed.

The first one died by Mírien’s blade. Effortless, with the practised ease of a warrior she dispatched the yellow eyed, grey-skinned creature. Maedeth swung at another. It parried, but thrown off balance, Mírien was able to kill it too.

“Tiniel, go!” Maedeth screamed.

They were so close. The others had descended. But the elf froze.

“Go, now!”

Tiniel looked at her, tears streaming down her face. But she turned to leave. Maedeth sprun around, catching the blade of another orc with her sword. She heaved it away and stabbed it through the neck. Warm black blood spurted on her chest.

Her eyes widened. Time stood still. A hulking orc raised his sword above Mírien’s head. The young woman lay on the ground, snow stained red with blood around her. Maedeth screamed.

The sword swung. Tiniel raised her hands against it, stepping between the orc and her daughter. All sounds of battle faded. Maedeth heard only her own blood in her ears as the orc tried to free his sword from Tiniel’s cloven chest.

Mírien screamed, scrambling up. She buried her sword in the orc’s torso. Maedeth watched as his body fell to the ground, guts staining the snow. Beside him, Tiniel’s beautiful face stared up peacefully at the clouded sky. Blood spilled out around her but at least her fëa was free.

“We must go,” she said. It sounded hollow in the dark street, now stained by this thankless war. “Mírien. Mírien, we have to go.”

Her niece knelt at Tiniel’s side, not moving nor looking up. But her knuckles turned white as they gripped her mother’s hands. As winter winds blew about them, she finally stood. She gripped her sword tightly.

“Let us go and leave this dark place behind,” she said.

Maedeth nodded. She had her niece go first. Lingering in the doorway, she watched for some sign of Elladan. Any sign. He had to find her. He promised.

No one came.

She shut the door. The lock clicked. Turning to the steps down into the tunnel, Maedeth hurried to catch up with the fleeing company. Silence greeted them, down under the earth.

They left behind so much. Memories, heirlooms, people. As Maedeth took a torch from Prince Aranarth, she forced herself to breathe. There would be time for grief later. A long journey lay ahead of them now.

She took her place at the front, Aranarth defending them from the back. It was her turn to lead. Her turn to save lives. Darkness loomed in front of them. Darkness sealed off the way behind. She would make sure they saw the dawn again. The knowledge she carried would see the light of day. The Northern line would not fail.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Five - Rínior

Quiet streets turned into raucous celebrations. Orcs raided pilfered barrels of mead from carefully tended store rooms. Wargs feasted on the dead. 

Rínior wandered aimlessly alone. He turned over every fallen stone. He sifted through each half burnt pile of wood. Somewhere, somehow, there would be some sign of the palantíri.

The snow had ended hours ago. The evening sun hid behind the black clouds of the Witch King’s sorcery. Blanketed white streets were thick with brown mud and stained by blood.

There had to be something. Some sign, some proof. Ash mixed with sludge as Rínior picked his way over bloated corpses. Blood ran through Fornost’s shattered pathways and between her melted buildings. 

Far in the distance, he heard the last pockets of resistance dying. Where did the last vestiges of this once great kingdom decide to hide, to cower away? The wargs would find them. The hill-men would rip their treasures away.

Not the palantíri. 

He would find the palantíri. 

He had to find the palantíri.

Fire had cleansed Fornost. It had burnt away the weak and the craven. A pit settled in his stomach as he picked through fallen stones in an empty side street. The hoots and jeers in black speech faded into background noise, muffled by the cold winds of winter. 

It seemed most women and children had fled the city long before the battle. A good strategy, if a bit predictable. They would hide among the Sea Elves, perhaps. But Arvedui and his sons would not abandon their city. The Witch-king would deal with them, no doubt.

With a blank slate, he would rebuild the Northern Kingdom into one that could withstand the test of time. They would be safe there. No more war. No more bloodshed. No more death. He could finally come home. With a silmaril in their possession, they could create something good. He could do something good, for once in his centuries of life. A kingdom that would not die slowly, suffering, hopeless for years uncounting. It would persist forever. For himself. For Mírien. For-

Tiniel.

Cracked, bleeding fingertips exposed black hair under rubble. He froze. His wife’s grey eyes, as beautiful as a full moon crowned by stars, watched him. Blood stained her porcelain skin. Bone protruded from her chest. 

Why wasn’t she breathing?

Tiniel should’ve been breathing.

Rínior swayed. Broken stone cut his knees. He reached out his hands again, stained red with blood. He had to dig her out. He had to dig. He had to dig.

He dug. 

Shaking, he looked at Tiniel’s lifeless form. No statue in Rivendell nor tapestry in Arthedain had ever captured her correctly. Gentle as a first snow, sharp-witted as the brightness of Elbereth’s stars, but loving.

Good.

The only good thing he’d ever held in his life. 

Rínior’s vision blurred. No, no. He had to see her. He had to hold her again. He had to-

He drove his hands into the snow. Numbness overtook the aching of his palms. It soothed the pain of his torn fingernails and the cuts from debris. But that didn’t matter. Pain didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

The snow would wipe off the blood.

The blood did not come off.

His vision blurred again. Tears froze as they stained his cheeks. Hands shaking, he reached out to her again. He reached out to Tiniel. He tried to put the bones back in her body. He tried to sew shut the gaping slice from clavicle to lung. But he did not have needles and thread. He had never been one to heal. Only to kill. 

Rínior pulled her closer. Her blood seeped into his clothing. Her head rolled back, open eyes unseeing, staring at the clouded sky. 

Snow fell. It decorated her black hair like tiny blossoms of ice, a veil, a raiment fit for a queen. His queen. The only queen that ever should have been.

Rínior refused to let her go. He held her close, tried to warm her up. Maybe she would wake up soon? 

He looked at the black, blood-soaked pool of mud he’d found her in. No. She would not wake up. She would not be a queen. 

The only good, truly good thing he’d even held in his life had died at the hands of an orc. 

No. The only good thing he’d ever held in his life had died at the hands of an empty dream.

There was no silmaril.

There was no kingdom for them to find peace at long last.

Rínior shut her eyes. She didn’t need to see what he’d become, not again. She shouldn’t have to watch the clouds gathering over Fornost. 

It had just been a dream.

One he had woken up from far too late.

So he dug.

Cobblestones came up easily. They took some skin off his already raw fingertips but Fornost had died long before he’d killed it. Snow tried to fill the holes left behind. When his bleeding hands could do no more, free no more, he tore the helmet off an orc. He dug.

Rínior became only pain and cold sweat. He tore away clay. He stripped the road of pavement. His blood mingled with Tiniel’s as he wiped the grime off her face. Cobles and dirt shielded her from the elements. Tears turned to ice on his wind-whipped cheeks.

Everything died. Man, elf, dream. The only good thing…

No. No, there was another. He’d done one other thing in his life other than kill. Rínior scrambled up. He screamed. Pain redoubled as he stretched muscles frozen from snow and hard ground. 

He’d created something. Where was Mírien?

Rínior never looked back. He had to find the Palantir. He had to find it, because if he could find it, he could find her.

Tearing through streets, pushing through hordes of goblins and hill-men, he sought the one thing that could maybe show him proof that he'd experienced love once.

They sang as they pillaged. Gone was the blazing inferno of the dawn. The fire has consumed itself until nothing remained, not even embers. Only icy mud and ash.

He reached the citadel doors. Splintered off their hinges by troll or hordes of orcs, Arthedain’s bastion stank of death. Rínior swayed. Not just death, but decay. The kind of stench only the undead left behind.

His footsteps didn't echo in the open halls. A heaviness muffled them, a dark power reminiscent of Carn Dûm. Light retreated only to the smashed in windows. The center of the hall lay cloaked in shadow.

No more drunken chorus. No more warg howls. Just a hissing wisp of cold wind through the abandoned hall. Rínior halted right at the edge of the shadow, feet still in the cold light of the open doors. A woman’s voice cut through the silence.

“Welcome, heir of Fëanor.”

Sapthêth, High Priestess, stepped from the shadows. Robes untouched by blood, neither torn nor dirtied by the weather, looked up at him. He sensed nothing in her youthful, grey eyes. The shivering fear from before battle shot down his spine again. 

“You will find no palantíri here,” she said.

Rínior’s heart sank. He could not suppress the way his shoulders deflated and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. The swing of the sword drew ever closer to his neck, but he’d been ready to die for a hundred years.

She took a step forward. Hands clasped in front of her, she almost seemed to glide forward. “King Arvedui rode north with his Guard some hours ago, the palantíri in his possession. The Scepter of Annúminas is missing. The Ring of Barahir is missing.”

This was it then. Victory or defeat. He had chosen the latter. His knees buckled. Pain crashed through his legs as he hit cold, hard stone. Would that Elrohir could see him now. No way to find his daughter. No silmaril upon his brow. 

“I am heir to nothing.”

Sapthêth laughed. That sound alone echoed in the dark hall. Light, airy, unnatural. The shadows seemed to deepen. Bending down so her face was inches from his own, she smiled.

“You are indeed the heir of Fëanor. You are the heir to his folly and his transgressions.” Sapthêth placed a cold hand under his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “You are the heir to his legacy of death. You are the heir to his hatred, the fire that consumed him from the inside out. Morgoth, he named my lord Melkor. Dark Foe of the World. Evil, for killing in pursuit of vengeance and rebellion.” She smirked, pushing his chin away with a flick of her sharp nails. “What does that make him… or you?”

The light died. Cold shadows swarmed to fill the space, blocking any view of the outside world. Rínior stayed on his knees. He knew what stalked the darkness.

“I gave you a choice.” The Witch-king stood in front of him, a shape darker than the black around them. The already cold air dropped even further until Rínior felt ice in his veins. “Victory or defeat. What did you choose?”

Rínior slumped further where he knelt. The room spun. He was so tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of breathing. “Defeat.”

“I must see to my new capital,” the Witch-king said. Shining eyes gleamed at him, pricks of light in the darkness far colder than any natural light. “It is time you received your reward.” Laughter, as chilling as the voices of the barrow-wights all those years ago, echoed in the hall. “The half-breed should have killed you. Now his pity will be your pain."

Light filled the space again. Gone was the Witch-king. Sapthêth walked back to the center of the room, flanked by chittering orcs. The growl of wargs sounded from behind. Rínior did not get off his knees. 

“A crown, for the heir of Fëanor,” she said.

Rínior looked up. An iron circlet, barbed on the inside, was lifted in front of his face. He looked at it, then at Sapthêth. And far beyond her, at the empty throne of Fornost.

The orcs drove it down on his head. He felt the blood pooling around his temples, cutting through his dirty hair. But he felt no pain. He’d buried what little remained of his heart in a cold grave under the cobble streets of Fornost. There was nothing left to feel.

Orcs bound him. Chains bit into neck, his wrists. Lashes tore apart his back. Rough warg tongues licked at his blood and bit as his flesh. 

Numbness took over. He was but a body, breathing still, but a body like all the others. Some day this body would die. He hoped. That’s what bodies did. But as his eyes closed, his body thrown into a mildewy cell beneath the Witch-king’s citadel, he knew it would take far too long. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Six - Maedeth

Dark blue waves touched a sky painted pastel pinks and purples as Maedeth looked out over Mithlond. Great towers and sprawling walkways of white and grey stone lined both sides of the end of the Gulf of Lune. Here there was quiet. Here there was peace.

She closed her eyes. Like an unending heartbeat, the waves ebbed and flowed. Dockworkers prepared the boats while captains shouted any number of commands in the Sindarin dialect of the Falathrim. Maedeth understood it when she concentrated. But she didn't need to know what they spoke of.

Maedeth listened to the waves. In the days since they'd arrived in the havens, battered and bruised and without hope, she'd tried to align her breath with the constant tide. Unseen music lulled her to sleep. But when she closed her eyes, when she dropped her guard, when she let rest in, blood filled her dreams.

Tiniel's glassy eyes looked back at her in the sparkling waves. No one had heard from the twins or Prince Arveldir since the battle. Lord Círdan had accepted them without question, offering food and water and healing for those who needed it. But they were without a home. Without a leader.

She opened her eyes. No, not without a leader. Aranarth spent his days riding far afield, gathering to himself any warrior who had escaped the slaughter of Fornost. Mirien threw herself into training. She would not let another orc weapon steal what mattered most. Leaders, but not what was needed here.

Maedeth sighed. She had done what she could. They needed stability. They needed calm heads to prevail amidst the fury of battle. She held in memory nearly six centuries of knowledge now burned and defiled. Aranarth led the warriors. She had to hold the others together. When Eärnur arrived, they would need to be ready, too late though it seemed.

"Lady Maedeth?"

The clear, soothing voice of Lord Círdan interrupted her musings as she stared out over the ocean at dawn. Maedeth turned. His silver hair, nearly white, had been pulled back out of his face. Exhausted sea grey eyes looked first at her, and then beyond them.

"I am sorry," he said. Standing beside her, he put both hands on the stone railing of the balcony. "We did all we could. But she is gone."

Maedeth felt nothing. Grief had consumed too much of her life in the last few weeks. But Queen Firiel, wounded by a poisoned arrow, lay dead in the havens. She deserved to be mourned.

"Thank you, Lord Círdan."

Her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears. Dawn had been the hope of men, once, when they awoke to its shining light. But dawn served only to light the way to their doom it seemed.

"She did not suffer," he said.

"I know." Maedeth frowned, leaning back. The stone rail took her weight. "Please do not mistake my tired grief for not caring."

"I do not."

The lapping of the waves carried on. Nothing could stop the sea. They stood together in the quiet morning, Círdan watching his mariners, Maedeth staring back into the stone rooms she now called her chambers.

"We should hold a burial."

"My people are ready to assist you in any way."

"Can you send for Prince Aranarth? He should know."

"Of course."

Tiredness blurred her vision. The requests rolled off her tongue without much thought. She'd done it too much over the centuries. Too many burials arranged, too many friends gone beyond the bonds of the world. Where did Men go? She often wondered about it. It must have been beautiful, to be seen as a gift.

"Lord Círdan," she said. Silence stretched on for a moment as she forced herself to refocus. She turned back to the ocean. "Why do you stay here?"

She watched the old elf straighten where he stood looking out over the ocean. Wind whipped silver hair into his face. The strands caught in his beard. At last, he turned to her.

"I apologize if it is a bold question," she said.

He shook his head. "Nay, do not apologize. I have seen in the way you carry yourself how heavily this world weighs on you. I believe you know, or suspect, my answer."

Maedeth nodded. She heard the hammering of elven craftsmen and the calls of mariners. Closing her eyes to focus on the scent of salt in the air, she answered it for herself.

"Duty," she said.

"Indeed." He released a long breath. After a moment, he offered a small smile her way. "And love. I stayed first out of love for my kin who had been lost, though they have long since left me here."

She nodded. She knew the stories. King Elwë of the Teleri had wandered too far, falling in love and under the spell of Melian the Maia. Thus he stayed in Middle Earth when most of his kin departed for the Undying lands. Círdan was his close kin, and spent so long searching that he too was left behind.

But many elves had departed for Valinor since those starlit days. Most, on ships crafted by the Falathrim of the Grey Havens. And still he remained.

"To see the Blessed Realm," Círdan said, voice barely above a whisper, "to see Valinor at long last. Such was and is my greatest desire."

"And yet you stay."

"And yet, I stay."

Círdan looked at her again. His piercing, starlike grey eyes stared straight into her fëa, she feared. But he placed a hand on her arm and smiled.

"Duty is a heavy burden. But without my ships, the Eldar would be stranded here, in Arda Marred." He guided her to look down into the courtyard. "Duty binds you here, as well. Does it not?"

She looked below. Mirien, newly awoken, stood chatting with a handful of recovered warriors. Children played in nearby fountains. They found this new elven home exciting. It allowed them to forget the bloodshed they'd left behind, at least for a little while.

"Duty," she agreed. But her heart softened a bit, a tiny smile growing as she watched her young niece act as the leader she knew she was capable of. The leader Rínior had once been. "And love."

The sun painted the world in pale golden hues. A gentle breeze blew off the ocean. Maedeth allowed herself a moment more of peace before she knew she must take up the role of leader once more.

"I do not believe it is the war, only, which weighs on your heart, Lady Maedeth." He frowned. "You fear that which is within you."

Maedeth retreated into herself. For a moment, she remembered all the nights spent tossing and turning, all the days second-guessing herself. Eldar or Edain. Bound to the world or doomed to freedom beyond it. Fear.

"You see through me, Lord Círdan, though I try to hide it," she murmured.

Círdan flashed her a tiny smile. "You forget, I have known many of the House of Fëanor before you. I remember Maedhros, tall and proud as he spoke of unity among the Eldar. I remember Celegorm, haughty and bold but too fearful of the waves to come near them." He looked down at his hands as they gripped the stone rail. "And I remember Celebrimbor, perhaps best of all. Eager to leave behind the doom of your family, casting aside all allegiance to his father."

Maedeth frowned. She did not like to think of the House of Fëanor. Certainly not since Rínior's fall. But that was not what she feared.

"Nay, Lord Círdan, you misunderstand me." She turned to him, away from the waves. "It is not Fëanor's blood I fear. It is that of the Eldar. It is the choice that looms before me, as it did my brother. I do not desire to dive into the unknown upon my death, but neither do I want to fall as Rínior did."

He did not respond. Círdan's face grew grave. It seemed a shadow fell over them, perhaps from a passing cloud or perhaps imagined. But then he nodded.

"Come with me," Círdan said.

He did not wait for a response. Off he went, his blue and white garments fluttering in the movement and ocean wind. Maedeth hurried behind him.

They crossed an open air bridge to a second tower. Tall and strong, with mosaic details like blue waves cascading up the walls, the tower rose higher than any other structure in Mithlond. They took the steps quickly, but carefully.

At the top, they found a covered, stone rooftop veranda. Small arches allowed for air to flow from all angles. But the brilliant view of the sea did not draw her attention. The stone pedestal at the center holding a large, onyx sphere did. A palantír.

"This is the Elostirion Stone." Círdan stepped forward, gently running his hand over the perfectly smooth surface. A rapid mix of gratitude, grief, longing, and elation flashed across his face. "It is the least useful of the palantíri, at least according to the Kings of men. But it is dearly loved by we who remain."

"I did not realize one was here," she said. Maedeth did not move from the top of the winding steps.

Círdan smiled. "Indeed. This stone's home is in the Emyn Beraid. But with the threat of Angmar so close, it was brought here for safekeeping."

A thousand thoughts went through her mind at once. She wished to look. She wished to find some glimpse of her brother, some trace of Elladan, a clue of Arvedui. A strong wind blew her red hair across her face. But she reminded herself of her place. This did not belong to her.

"The Eldar treasure this stone most dearly," he said, "for it looks only one place: back across the Straight Road to the shores of Valinor and Tol Eressëa. When we are weary, this stone refreshes us."

Maedeth couldn't breathe. She felt her hands shaking, a buzz settling in her body at the very thought of seeing the Blessed Realm. All this time, a glimpse of paradise was waiting.

"Do you wish to look?"

"Yes."

"Then do so."

She moved forward. The black palantír seemed to pull light unto itself, surrounded by the dawn bathing the white and grey stones in gold. Joining Círdan at the center of the veranda, she paused. What would it feel like? What would she see?

Maedeth reached out her hand. It hovered over the surface of the palantír for a moment longer. It felt wrong, but somehow just right, to be so close to that which her forefather had made long ago. As the wind cooled her face with sea spray borne on winter air, she touched it.

A great warmth spread from the orb to her hand. All at once the world faded but for the heartbeat of the ocean waves. Ebbing and flowing, in and out. Then she saw it.

Dark ocean waves under starlight surrounded an island dotted by towers and fair dwellings. Tol Eressëa, with white ships pulled by swans floating in and beyond its harbors. Beyond the isle rose a wall of mountains, taller than any she'd ever seen. Up and up they climbed until one stood alone. Crowned by snow and surrounded by the heavens, Taniquetil guarded the Blessed Realm.

Maedeth felt tears on her face. For the first time in her life, she felt true peace. The stars shined brighter here than any night in Fornost. Flowers bathed the air of Tol Eressëa in fragrances she'd only imagined in dreams. Wordless singing floated to her on gentle sea wind.

Horn calls broke through the dream. Maedeth felt herself retreating from that blissful place. The world needed her. Her niece needed her. The Dunedain needed her.

Dawn light blinded her. Maedeth removed her hands from the onyx stone. The heat of the palantír filled her chest still, even as the vision faded. Struggling to breathe, she wiped away the tears on her face.

"I do not counsel you one way, or the other, Lady Maedeth," he said. Círdan laid a hand on her shoulder. "Valinor is all my heart has ever desired. And yet, we believe that Man has an even greater destiny, beyond the bounds of Arda Marred."

Another blast of horns. Maedeth searched his expression, but knew he did not lie. As her heart settled, her eyes widened. She knew those horns.

Maedeth turned and ran. She forgot to thank him, forgot to say anything in her desperate flight to the ground below. She knew those horns. She had not heard the horncall of Rivendell in weeks. And yet, it came again.

Crowds had gathered. Maedeth pushed through them. Those who recognized her parted without complaint. She had to reach them, had to make sure they were alright. The tears that she'd managed to staunch at the tower's summit poured over once again.

The flags of the havens snapped in the breeze. Great gates of pearl and beechwood swung open. At the head of a large company of bruised and battered warriors rode Elladan, Elrohir, and a wounded Arveldir.

Maedeth sobbed. All the grief, all the emotions of recent days that had numbed now spilled over. As Elrohir helped young Arveldir down from his steed, Elladan only had eyes for her.

Scabbed injuries littered his face. But his grey eyes were the same. He looked as regal now as he ever had, despite the blood. And as Elladan swung down from his horse, Maedeth ran to him.

In the light of dawn, she kissed him. On her lips she tasted the salt of her tears and weeks of sea spray. Elladan pulled her closer, hand in her red hair. The warmth she felt in that moment dwarfed any heat of the palantír in her hands. Gasping for air, she broke the kiss just long enough to look at him again.

"You're alive!"

He laughed through tears, pulling her closer. Maedeth allowed herself to be buried in his weather-beaten clothes if only to be closer to him.

"I told you to go," he said, "and that I would follow."

She never wanted to leave that moment. The crowds dispersed. Healers tended to the wounded. But Maedeth stayed there, burying herself in Elladan's arms. But they couldn't. They couldn't stay here.

Maedeth stepped back for a moment. Elladan's cheeks were wet with tears. As she forced herself to smile through the dread settling in her stomach, she remembered what Círdan had said. He stayed for two things: love and duty. But as Maedeth memorized every cut and scrape on the face of her love, she knew things were not so simple now. For love and duty pulled her apart.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Seven - Rínior

T.A. 1975

His master ordered him to hold the line. Wargs howled against the wind as they fled the haunted city. The half-elf could still hear the screams. Moans of undead, shrieks of spirits of regret, they echoed in his mind just as they had echoed off the stones of the city.

The chain collar bit into his neck. Skin had grown over it, claiming it for his body. But he had nothing. His master told him that. The orcs told him that.

How many months his body had labored in the rotting cellar of his master, he didn't know. The half-elf remembered little. He remembered the way his blood had stained his skin. He remembered the pain of fire against his face. His mouth tasted of iron far too often.

His master put a sword in his hand. It felt right. The steel shone in the light of the master's sorcery. And he was ordered to hold the line.

They fled the city. He left behind the dark cell that had been his home. Wargs ran at his side, orcs screamed as his master ordered them to heel. An army approached. Sights of knights on blue-clad horses drove fear into the hearts of his master's army. But the half-elf was not afraid.

Little scared him now. Only the ever present cold gaze of his master sent shivers down his spine. He shifted the blade in his hand. No. He was not afraid. He had an order. He would carry it out.

Hold the line.

A familiar sensation.

The army retreated towards Angmar. He heard the great horns of the enemy in the distance. Orcs chittered and groveled on the ground, begging their commanders to be allowed to guard the master. None got that privilege. The master had chosen his guard already. All others had to defend from afar. Bodies to build a wall of defense.

The half-elf held the line. Corpses surrounded him. Slowly they inched towards Angmar, crawling away like wounded animals to fight another day.

It continued for so long, he lost count. How many months had he served the master as his scarred and shadow-haunted servant? What city did they flee?

What was his name?

Hold the line. That's what mattered. That's all that ever mattered. He held up his blade as a new wave of enemies prepared to swarm them. His soldiers fell around him, weak and useless. But the enemy dwindled here, too. They retreated. They fled.

His brown hair whipped across his face as a chill breeze blew across the battle plain. He held the line. Enemy princes sought to take his master's head. He would not allow that.

Blood splattered across his face. He ducked back behind some of the troops. It stung his eyes. As he finished wiping it away, the orcs began to scream. Something approached.

"Stand your ground," he shouted.

One fled anyway. The half-elf stabbed him in the back, a gurgling, pained scream all the orc could muster before it slid to the ground, unmoving. The others turned back to the enemy.

Elrohir.

The world spun. His head ached. Rínior felt a rush of pain as the weight of his sword seemed to double. His old friend watched him with those piercing grey eyes. The half-scabbed over collar around his neck pulled him down. Every strike of the whip, every dagger carving, flooded his memory.

Another man ran up. He had grey eyes too, but they narrowed in anger. Teeth bared like an animal, Aranarth did not wait to close the distance.

Bright eyes of cold flame flashed across his face. Rínior flinched back. The master's gauntlet closed around his throat again. Raising his blade, he parried one, two, four strikes from the Prince. He gritted his teeth. Aranarth's fury would betray him.

Rínior punched him. Aranarth recoiled. He raised his sword. It had to be done. There was nothing else left. Another body would join the field of the dead.

He would hold the line.

Rínior shouted in pain as a body slammed into his side. Tumbling across the ground, dirt and blood filled his mouth. A new horn blew in the distance. He saw Elrohir smile from the ground not far away.

Rivendell had come. Rivendell had come to tighten the noose at last.

Rínior scrambled up. Aching legs wobbled as he squared off against Aranarth and Elrohir. Death approached. It had nipped at his heels for centuries. Doomed to outlast all others, he had seen it claim too many to delude himself any longer that he could avoid it.

At least it would claim the Witch-king, too.

They clashed. Rínior focused on the prince. His desperate assault would be his undoing.

Arrows whistled towards them. Rínior dropped to the ground. A tight shout of pain from Aranarth spoke to his continued ill luck. At least there would only be one to fight.

Elrohir watched him from a few feet away. As Rínior picked himself up off the ground, he tried to ignore the faces in his memory and on the battlefield.

He parted his chapped lips. Pointing his sword at Elrohir, he spoke more words than he had in all the months since darkness took him. Rínior felt tears at the edges of his eyes, burning him. But he ignored them. He would not look away.

"I knew it would be you," he said. Rínior stepped closer, Elrohir not moving. "It had to be you. Come then. Let us finish this."

Elrohir said nothing. Their blades spoke for them.

He heard screams in the distance. Between parries and counterstrikes, the music of battle echoed on. The line passed them until only the dead kept them company. His vision blurred. He tasted blood in the corner of his mouth. But still, he fought. He always fought.

Rínior cried. He pushed Elrohir away with a kick, stumbling back himself. Why did he always fight? Why had they thrust a sword into his hands and told him to hold the line?

He didn't want to hold the line.

Elrohir closed. Elven blade high, he drove it towards his chest. Rínior tried to remember what his wife had looked like. He tried to picture the daughter he only now remembered. But they were gone. Death had claimed them, as it would claim Rínior.

But Elrohir hesitated. Rínior saw tears in his eyes too, even as his blade point hovered just in front of his collared neck.

"I hope you find peace, Rínior," he whispered.

Elrohir stepped back. He let his sword drop, glancing beyond him. Tears cut through the grime on his face as Rínior realized he would have to live another sunrise. Perhaps his own sword would grant him rest-

Blood pooled against his rotting leather armor. He looked down. Steel protruded through his abdomen. A blade. Pain rushed in as he struggled to stand.

"That," hissed Aranarth, "was for my father."

Rínior closed his eyes as the world began to spin. He was not dead, then. Good. He lived long enough to do what Elrohir would not. He slipped to his knees. A boot slammed into his back and he fell forward, blade removed.

"And that," Aranarth shouted, "was for my mother. For Fornost. For every Dunedan you put in the ground!"

The horns of Rivendell sang again. Rínior closed his eyes. He felt himself growing cold. His body numbed.

Something touched him, lifted his head off the muddy ground. He forced his eyes open. Elrohir. Tears in his eyes, his friend watched him without speaking. Rínior didn't want to hold the line anymore.

"Go now," Elrohir said. "The Halls of Mandos await you."

"I don't want to kill anymore."

"I know."

The world darkened. Rínior closed his eyes. He felt himself floating, trying desperately to see any glimpse of his family in the euphoric pain that consumed him. Nothing came to him. No face of his wife, no memory of his sister, no comforting embrace of his daughter. But neither did the cold eyes of the Witch-king haunt him.

He saw only an endless, peaceful hall with vaulted ceilings sparkling with starlike gems. At the far end, regal and robed in greys with a hand outstretched, sat a towering figure on a throne. Rínior released his breath.

He stopped fighting.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Eight - Maedeth

Moonlight streamed in through the cascading waterfall beyond the grand window. Maedeth took a deep breath of spring air. Rivendell’s peace never shattered. Elves had eternity. Here, even as wars began and ended, goodness persisted.

Those who went to war changed, though. She had. Maedeth looked down at her hands, gripping the windowsill of the council room. Soft and clean, if not for the shadow over her heart even she herself may have forgotten her suffering. But she didn’t forget.

She couldn’t.

So many dead: Tiniel, Firiel, Arvedui, the warriors and women of Arthedain. Their kingdom was dead. It was gone. Wiped off the maps. Borders would need to be redrawn.

She took another deep breath. The spray of the waterfall fell on her face as she leaned out the window and closed her eyes. Maedeth tried to remember every detail of Valinor she’d seen from the palantír. True peace. True bliss.

It helped to believe Rínior had found rest. He had chosen the life of the Eldar centuries ago. His spirit had found its way to Mandos. 

Elrohir told her little. Maedeth did not push him. As with all others who had gone to battle, he had come back wounded. His was a wound of the heart, though. She assured him it was not his fault, that none could have stopped Rínior from descending into despair but Rínior himself.

She didn’t believe it. Neither did he. 

Maedeth sighed. She turned from the window to the falls back towards the empty council room. The large table in the center held nothing. They were not gathering today to redraw the maps. That would be done later, by others with more time.

Time. She sat down at her seat. That had been Rínior’s enemy. He had spent too much time in Arda Marred.

The doors opened. Grim faced but dressed in fine clothes of Rivendell, Aranarth did not speak as he sat beside her. He only offered her a small smile and a nod. Arveldir copied his older brother.

Arthedain had run out of time. The Dúnedain were few, now. Rivendell had already helped the women and children establish a small settlement in the Angle of Mitheithel, far from the wilds of roaming orcs. But they could not all hide there forever. 

The next to enter was Glorfindel. Maedeth smiled at him, though she knew he could see through it to her grief. He wore his golden hair long and straight. They did not need to braid it, or tie it up, in peace times. And though the Witch-king had disappeared far into the East, it had been Glorfindel who brought the greatest victory. Without him, Eärnur had stood no chance.

Elladan walked in with his mother and his brother. Her chest wanted to burst then and there at the sight. She had not seen him in many weeks. Aranarth needed her help learning to lead in this new reality, with Arthedain gone and the people scattered. Grief, despair, and elation fought for control as she flashed him the first true smile.

Celebrían sat next to her. Silver hair falling in cascading curls around her shoulders, she reached under the table and took Maedeth’s trembling hand. Nothing was spoken. But she nodded her thanks.

Last came Elrond and Mithrandir, the wandering pilgrim. They said nothing to each other but sat as one, faces grave like all others around the table. With each seat filled, a heaviness settled in her heart. 

They had come to it, at last. The hum of the waterfall stretched between them. Moonlight enhanced by a dozen wall sconces cast shadows around the room.

“Delay will help nothing,” Mithrandir said. “It is time to speak, not hide behind fear. The war is won! At great cost, yes. But hope yet remains.”

Maedeth followed his gaze to Aranarth. The wizard’s words echoed in the chambers but for a moment, the doom on her heart lifted. There was hope. It lay with Aranarth.

“I will not take Arthedain’s crown,” Aranarth said. “I have not earned that right. Last King, my father was named. We hoped the kingdoms would unite in him. But that was not to be.”

Arveldir frowned. “Yet it may still, someday?”

Perhaps. Maedeth tried to unclench her right hand, wishing for another anchor like Celebrían at her left. Hope remained in Aranarth. But that meant he had to live.

“Someday,” Elrond said. “The line of Isildur is strong. You have survived even the assault of the Witch-king. Few can say that.”

“And yet our kingdom is gone.” Aranarth rose from his seat to pace. “I have spent long in conversation with Lady Maedeth and my brother. The persistence of our house means little without the survival of our people.

Maedeth smiled at him. He would have made a great king. The war had moulded him, and on the other side he had found wisdom to temper his ferocity. 

“Lady Maedeth is wise,” Glorfindel said. “What you say is true. And yet the line of Isildur must persist as well.”

Aranarth agreed. “We would ask several things of Rivendell. Master Elrond,” he said, pausing in his pacing to bow, “your aid has meant everything to my people. But we ask more.”

“Name it.”

“Children of my house should be raised here in Rivendell,” Aranarth said. “Both for protection and for wisdom. Arm them with hope before they rejoin the hopeless.”

Mithrandir nodded. “A wise course.”

“Even without a kingdom, we will guard our lands,” Aranarth said. He glanced at Elladan and Elrohir, and then at Glorfindel. “Your leadership in this war saved us, and me, multiple times. But we must rely on our own people too.”

When he gestured to Maedeth, she paused to collect herself. She smelled the spring flowers, pictured the way the snow on Taniquetil had sparkled in the heavens. Then she stood.

“Fornost is gone,” she said. A wave of pain hit her chest. “It is gone. But the Dúnedain are not. Mírien and I began reconnecting families among the refugees in Mithlond. There are many without fathers. But the women are strong.”

She stepped away from the table, dropping Celebrían’s hand. “We are strong. We will survive. The settlement in the Angle is small, though growing. But many remain who wish to return to the lands we once defended.”

Aranarth nodded. “Few warriors remain. But many that make their way here, survivors driven into the wilderness throughout the war, show us a different path. We can still defend our lands. Defend Eriador!”

“It is safer if we spread out,” Maedeth said. “Small settlements, able to move quickly at need.”

“And warriors in the wilds to defend them,” Aranarth finished. He turned to Elrond. “I will not be a king. I will be a chieftain, a leader to all willing to pursue this path.”

Maedeth dared not look at Elladan. She couldn’t, not now. Not at this moment. Her will stretched thin with grief. Duty called to her but she knew his words would drown it out.

“You speak wisely, Aranarth,” Elrond said. “And your words bring me hope. The greatness of the Dúnedain shines through you. If your people remain faithful, deeds will be done worthy of song.” He released a long sigh. “But, do you believe your folk will follow you on this path? The wilds are hard, even with support from us at Rivendell.”

“I do.”

Mithrandir nodded. “Then let it be so. Come, Aranarth. I would hear more of your plans.” 

The wizard stood from the table, leaning on his staff as if exhausted from the action. But as he straightened up, Maedeth’s heart stirred. For a moment, she felt it. That spark, the brilliance of the Blessed Realm. She couldn’t speak. She could only watch as the wizard led Aranarth and Arveldir away, deep in conversation. Maedeth wondered if she’d made it up.

“I sense there is more you wish to speak of, Lady Maedeth,” Elrond said.

She turned back to the present. All eyes were on her as she stood at her seat. Still she could not look at Elladan. Her heart pounded. Tears pricked at her eyes as she felt Elrond looking into her very being.

He knew what she was about to say. Maedeth had told him nothing. But then, he’d watched his own brother make the choice.

“Indeed. Yes.” Maedeth sat again, too exposed. “Yes.”

“Go on,” Celebrían said.

“My brother made his choice many years ago. To reject the gift of Men and tie himself to the fate of Arda.” Maedeth did not look away from Elrond across the table. Focus on him. Not his son. Not his son. “I fear it was Rínior’s choice that led him to such despair, and such despair that led to bloodshed. All my life, I have sought to serve Arthedain. And now my niece has taken up this cause as well. But her heart is broken, just like the kingdom we served.”

Mírien’s moods changed every day. Sometimes she cried for hours. Others, her anger fueled her training with weapons. But determination never left him. Determination to fix what was broken.

“Many years did I watch, oblivious as Rínior fell into despair. Could I have helped him? I do not know.” She took a deep breath. “Perhaps much bloodshed could have been avoided if only I had seen more clearly back then. But the war is over, and he is dead. But Mírien is not. Aranarth is not. My duty to Arthedain and my family remains. I will right the wrongs my brother helped bring about.”

Memory of the Blessed Realm flashed across her vision. The brilliant white snow capped mountain crowned with stars comforted her in her dreams. But Maedeth knew it was not for her. She had seen paradise, but if she chose an elven life, this little joy in Arda Marred was all she would ever know.

“But I will do it as one of them,” she said. “I do not wish to see more centuries of death. More centuries of burying my friends. I will not risk losing touch with the preciousness of life, as my brother did. I cannot be Eldar.”

She heard only the waterfall. Maedeth felt the tears threatening to spill. Not yet. She could not cry yet. There would be time for grief later. 

“The choice you have made grieves me,” Elrond said. He took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. “But it is one you must make yourself, and I would offer no counsel to dissuade you. May you serve Arthedain faithfully for many years yet.”

“Thank you, Lord Elrond.” Maedeth couldn’t help the tears rolling down her face. But she settled her breath, forced the painful lump in her throat back down, and carried on. “There is more, though. A matter of equal importance.”

Grief would come later. Her duty needed her.

“Rínior did not act out of despair alone,” she said. “Elrohir has told me much about his motivations, so far as we learned them. And it is clear that his love of the House of Fëanor drove him onward.”

Elrohir, clearing his throat, nodded. “He spoke of the silmaril, of dreams of power for himself and his family. Despair warped that which he had idolized already.”

“And so I say now, let all knowledge of our lineage die with us.” Maedeth gripped the arms of her chair tightly. “Let it disappear, stricken from the records. I have spoken with Mírien already. We are of like mind. Until such day as the wise see other courses, any descendant of Mírien should not know the truth of our house.”

“It is a bold decision,” Glorfindel said. “Not all of Fëanor’s house are filled with such fire. You, as a perfect example.”

“And yet I stand here, saying I am no longer Maedeth of the House of Fëanor. Let me be simply Lady Maedeth, emissary of Arthedain!”

“I think you speak wisely,” Elrond said. He leaned forward on folded hands, elbows on the table. “Fëanor’s house is one of contradictions. Without the Doom, there is greatness. Without stoking the fire, there is love. Perhaps it is time to let the name fade.”

Maedeth nodded. She’d hoped he would agree. Elrond more than any other understood what the Fëanorians were capable of, both good and bad. 

“Very well,” Glorfindel said.

“Then we are in agreement,” Maedeth said. 

She took a deep breath. Her heart settled. It was done. It was decided.

The room emptied. Celebrían offered her one sad smile and quick squeeze of the hand before fleeing the room with Elrond. Elrohir would not meet her eyes. But he gave her a hug, pulling her in and not letting go until Glorfindel asked for his presence. She sensed Elladan still in his chair. But still she could not look.

“I’m going to take a walk,” she said. Her voice pained her. Tears broke through her practiced exterior. “Elladan-”

“I’m with you,” he said.

She nodded, looking at him for the first time since the council began. In the moonlight, his grey eyes glittered behind unshed tears. His dark hair, pulled half back out of his face, moved in the wind through the window to the falls. Maedeth nodded. She tasted the salt of her tears.

They walked in silence. Maedeth didn’t know where her feat led her. She just allowed herself to be guided through the Gardens, feeling the strength of her beloved at her side. When they came to the shimmering pool and small waterfall where she had spoken to Celebrían of the nature of peredhil so many months ago, her breath caught. She remembered it so clearly. The way the Lady of Rivendell had been warm but firm in her love of her son. 

Maedeth’s heart pounded. She stood there, hand in hand with Elladan, and watched the stars dancing in the pool. Grief weighed her down so heavily. Every day it haunted her steps. Even in the bliss of Rivendell it followed close behind.

“I love you, Elladan,” she said. “With my whole heart, with all my soul.”

King Finrod had been right. Aegnor had been wise. Love was the death of duty, if they did not walk side by side. To marry in times of war, in darkness, was to take her heart from her chest and hold it out for the world to kill. The war against Angmar had ended. But the war for survival had just begun. And Maedeth knew then, more than ever, that she was not the only one who history would need.

They needed heroes. She had chosen the gift of death. But Elladan could not. She stared into the reflection of stars in the pool, their silver shine echoing Celebrían’s beautiful hair. A pit formed in her stomach.

“Your family needs you, Elladan, I know this in my heart.” She strengthened the grip on his hand. He had to understand. She had to make him understand. Her love would never fade. But she would pass away. He could not. The world needed him. “I know it in my heart just as I know I must walk alone.”

Her words hung in the air. Sweet with spring blooms, Maedeth tried to focus on that and not the ache in her heart that threatened to consume her entire being.

“Maedeth. I have loved you for so many years,” Elladan said, voice cracked with emotion, “you are a light in darkness. I hope you see it.”

The world blurred as tears overtook her vision. She turned to him. Maedeth tried desperately to see his face. But the tears did not stop. She buried her face in her hands. Strong hands pulled her close. She hid in the soft fabrics of his chest.

“I would walk the path of the Edain with you, if you asked it of me,” he whispered. “I would do it.”

“I know,” she said.

Elrohir needed him. Celebrían needed him. But more than that, he was a hero. And Middle Earth had great need for heroes. She would not deprive the world of that for her own selfishness.

“I will never love another like this,” he said. “And I would not wish to. But this doom in my heart,” he added, squeezing her tighter, as if hanging on for his life. “It tells me you are right.”

He understood. Maedeth cried harder. She pulled away, wiping the tears so she could see him in the starlight beneath the trees. Cupping his face with her hands, she kissed him. Deeply, driven by grief and love as one, she wanted to remember this moment forever.

“Maedeth,” he said, as the kiss broke, “If this is where we should part, let it be joyous, not grieving. There has been too much grief in your life. I would not be another part of it.”

She wiped the tears off her face. Exhaustion crashed into her. But he was right. He was always right. Perhaps they would meet again, out there in the wilderness of Eriador. But if that was not to be, she would remember him smiling.

She sat down on the grass, pulling her knees up to her chest. For a moment she felt like a child, being given hope in the darkness of a fearful night. She closed her eyes. Elladan sat beside her. Leaning into him, she allowed her head to settle on his shoulder.

“Then let us imagine what could have been, but now cannot be,” she said. “Tell me, Elladan, had we been wed, where would we have lived?”

He laughed. “I would argue for Rivendell, of course.”

“How predictable.”

“You love it here too,” he said.

Maedeth laughed too. She opened her eyes, staring at the starlit pool. Cuddling against him, she just shook her head. “Very well. Rivendell it is.”

Hours passed. Her heart grew lighter as they joked about a life that they would never live. For one night, she abandoned duty. King Finrod had told Andreth that Aegnor would have fled all responsibilities to be with her. And knowing that, he stayed away.

Maedeth understood now. She wrapped her arms around her knees as the sun rose. Elladan had drifted off hours ago. She could not.

She pulled a crinkled sheet of paper from her dress. Her heart raced. The last time she’d worn this dress, Malbeth had departed south with Eärnur. He’d pulled her aside, stuck the paper in her hands. His last prophecy for Arthedain. No, not for Arthedain. For her.

The unbroken seal stared back at her. With dawn’s light, the wind shifted. She felt it in her bones. A shift. A change. There was no going back now. She would die, and go beyond the bounds of Arda Marred.

Maedeth broke the seal. Elladan’s presence gave her strength even now, with him sleeping beside her and her sense of death so close.

“The spirit of fire will be tested again. She will be called by the Sea, and will answer. From her shall come a son, the Reuniter: for in him shall all royalty be joined. When the doors crack, from the West shall come his honor. From the East, his death.”

Why did Malbeth speak in such riddles! Maedeth felt tears threatening to fall again. No. No! No more talk of death. She wouldn’t let him ruin this morning. She had renounced the spirit of fire. She would watch Mírien, ensuring she too persisted against despair. And if she had a son, a reuniter, he would be safe too. That was her duty. She would not fail in it.

She crinkled it up. Maedeth stuffed it back in her pocket. Elladan looked so peaceful, the early sunlight bathing his pale skin gold. She smiled through tears. Maedeth kissed him one last time.

This time, it was Andreth who must leave Aegnor. 

Maedeth stood up, ignoring her aching joints from hours on the grass of Rivendell. Her heart hurt far more. But duty waited for her. And she would answer.

Chapter Text

Epilogue - Elladan

T.A. 2746

Snow would come early. Elladan could tell, standing among the gravestones. Clouds stretched overhead, filtering what should’ve been sunlight into an unremarkable light grey. It seemed like just yesterday it was summer.

His mother had always loved summer best. He remembered every story she had told about growing up in Lindon and Eregion, getting into all sorts of trouble under beech and holly trees. 

And that was why he and Elrohir got into so much trouble, too. Elladan couldn’t help but crack a smile. See Mithrandir, that’s why they’d stolen his hat!

He closed his eyes. Children’s laughter filtered from the center of the small Dúnedain settlement. Someone splashed in the river. Maybe dropping pebbles from the low bridge? Whatever mischief they got up to, it seemed none of the adults cared to stop it. Good. Let them play.

He opened his eyes again. The sun still hid behind grey skies. Wind picked up, carrying away the fragrance of the blossoms in his hand. Elladan frowned down at them.

There weren’t many. Even close to Rivendell, it was difficult to preserve the flowers on the journey. This town only survived by being so secret and tucked away. She’d done such a good job with it.

Reaching forward, he used his finger to clear away the dirt and moss. Maedeth would’ve scolded him for not coming sooner. But it would’ve been a joke. They both knew the work meant much more than scrubbing clean a headstone.

She’d begun it, after all. Taking care of them. Guiding them. She didn’t hunt with their warriors but she kept the fires burning and gave the women and children hope. 

It was a good thing Maedeth had gone before them. She wasn’t there to scold them, to yell at them for failing. Elladan felt a lump in his throat at the memory. The fire in his chest. His hands shook and he gripped the flowers tighter.

The shallow, strangled breaths his mother struggled with as he’d carried her from the goblin den never left his memories. They were the opposite of a steady heartbeat. There weren’t enough goblins in the world to satisfy his fury.

Or his guilt. 

Elladan felt tears at the corners of his eyes. Your family needs you, Maedeth had said. Your family needs you.

When his family had needed him, he’d failed. She’d gone by herself that time. What was she thinking?

He and Elrohir had caught up too late. The damage had been done. Blood and dirt turned her silver hair black. Scars riddled her body. There had been nothing left to do.

No one could save her. Not Elladan, nor Elrohir, nor even his father. So she’d sailed.

Elladan took a deep, shaky breath. He smelled the wildflowers in his hands, tried to focus on better days. Maedeth, gone. His mother, gone. All he could do was protect what they’d left behind.

For Maedeth, he protected the Dúnedain. For his mother, he protected Arwen. 

“We should get moving.”

Elladan turned around. Elrohir stood not far away, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His brother’s face was drawn in concern. Elladan didn’t know if it was for their query, or for their grief.

“She would want us to,” Elrohir added.

He walked forward, standing side by side with Elladan. At least they did not fight alone. Elladan knew that he would kill every goblin and warg in Middle Earth to secure the protection of the North all by himself, if he had to. But he didn’t have to.

Elrohir placed a hand on his shoulder. With a quick squeeze, he let them linger in silence. The autumn breeze picked up again. The children’s laughter continued.

“They last heard from Arassuil a month ago,” Elrohir said. “He talked about riding north.”

Elladan turned his head to look at his brother. He saw the same anger in his eyes. North. Goblins, then. Surely the eleventh Chieftain of the Dúnedain knew better than to challenge the goblins of the Misty Mountains alone.

“How many rangers with him?” Elladan said.

“They aren’t sure.”

No matter how many orcs they killed, more seemed to replace them. They even began to encroach on the Shire. Few of those folk remembered how to fight. They forgot their history. They forgot Fornost.

Elladan crouched down. He held the flowers a moment longer, closing his eyes and breathing deeply of their scent. Vengeance beckoned. But if it did not, his duty would have set him on this path. He placed the flowers on the grave.

At least his mother had found comfort in Valinor. The ship bore her to paradise, to a perfect land of bliss. She enjoyed the life of the Eldar. There, she would find healing. She had to find healing.

Elladan let his hand trace her name one more time. He removed every last bit of moss, all the dirt that had built up from being left unattended for many years. Though he tried to remind himself to pay attention to the passage of time, surrounding himself with the Eldar so often distracted him. 

But she was of the Edain. Where her paths had taken her, he didn’t know. Fear gnawed at him when he finished the final letter. Was death really a gift? Had she found peace?

“Come,” Elrohir said. 

Elladan nodded. He straightened up. It did no one any good to dwell on it. The Dúnedain needed their help. And he needed theirs. They could not hunt the goblins alone.

“Who did you speak to?”

“Silmarien,” Elrohir said.

Mirien’s daughter. Elladan paused. He hadn’t known she was in town.

“I was as surprised as you,” Elrohir said. He smirked. “Last I knew she was at the Havens.”

“Had a change of heart, then?” Elladan asked.

“Apparently.”

Silmarien had been planning to sail West for years. Kept talking about it, complaining that the latest chieftains of the Dúnedain didn’t know patience and would get themselves all killed. She had the same spirit as her mother.

He couldn’t help but laugh. Lady Elbereth protect the next chieftain of the Dúnedain from her wrath if Arassuil did get himself killed.

He wouldn’t, though. Elladan would keep him alive, Elrohir at his side. The wild wolves and goblins of the North stood no chance.

His red horse whinnied in excitement when he approached. Never had he met a horse so excited for battle as Roharan. It was like he could smell the rampage coming.

“Easy, Roharan,” he said. “We need to find Arassuil first.”

“Then kill some orcs,” Elrohir said, mounting his own. “For good measure.”

Elladan smiled. “Of course.”

He checked over his bags. Food, wood for fire, an extra weapon. Then he checked the small pouch. The lump in his throat returned as he looked inside. Both were safe. Running his fingers over the silver leaf of Lorien his mother had always worn, he made a promise to never stop hunting the goblins. Then he lifted out the book.

Worn edges of blue and gold frayed at his touch. He would need to find a new copy soon. The almost illegible title had faded long ago: Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth. She would’ve loved this edition.

He slipped it back in. He had made his promise to her long ago. He would protect the Dúnedain, with his life if necessary. And he hoped that wherever she had gone, she rested soundly in that knowledge. Her kindred would never fight alone.