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 sooth 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.