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.