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, 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.