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 a 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 around 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 with grey eyes that had seen so much death, too. He spit 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 Feanor 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 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.