Dreams of Power [ Lord of the Rings x Silmarillion ]

The Red Hand Returns

"Ain't no grave can hold my body down."
Ain't No Grave by Johnny Cash

Rhûn

The black Numenorean stood in the formerly abandoned fortress surrounded by his Easterling guards. With his predecessor dead now, Halion had taken over. After all, he had angered the Council all those years. They would be coming for him now that their pieces were almost in place.

Halion, known as the Red Hand by his foes and former superiors, looked around at the fortress he had inherited. It was much like his ancient fortress in Angmar. Made mostly of dark iron and marble, the predominant color was black.

No surprise there, he muttered to himself. Sauron always did have a flair for the dramatic.

Almost fifteen years ago, Halion had been driven from Angmar by the united forces of the Reunited Kingdom and Rohan. His lover, Tinneth, the estranged and enraged daughter of Míril and Elrohir, had been killed by her brother Aderthon in the so called Battle of Arnor.

At least I murdered that half-elf bitch daughter of the King. He grinned thinking about his murder of Aragorn's middle daughter healer, Estelwen.

Now, he stood alone, clothed in blacks and reds. No beautiful silver haired half elf was beside him. He was alone. But not for long.

While working under the gaze of Sauron, Halion had been tasked with collecting rings, in the hopes of finding the One Ring. While Halion had never found the One, he had found many powerful rings, both good and evil. One he treasured above all. For one was more powerful than anything else he had found.

"Bring me The Ring of Beruthiel," he ordered one of his Easterling guards. "And bring the prisoner to the Sacrificial Chamber."

The Easterling guards bowed before Halion and rushed to retrieve their desired objects. Halion snapped his fingers and the remaining two Easterling guards followed his direction. It was finally time. He finally had a sacrifice he deemed worthy, and the time was ripe. Beruthiel would be coming back.

As they wandered through the halls of the Fortress of the Grey Hand, Halion couldn't help but smile. He had waited so many years for this moment. The dreary walls and fancy candlesticks on the doors couldn't even bring him down.

At last Halion arrived at the Sacrificial Chamber. It was a large, circular room. Runes were carved into the floor in circles. In the center of the concentric circles, a large grate was placed for drainage. Old blood was caked in between the stones and in the runes.

In the center of the room tied to a large stone pillar was a tall, skinny but well built man. His blonde hair fell to his shoulders, but he was covered in scrapes, cuts, and burns. He slunk in his posture, defeated and exhausted from the torture he had undergone.

"Halion," he growled angrily, catching sight of his captor. "What's this for now?"

"Barahir, son of Faramir." Halion sneered at the prisoner. "You have been a thorn in my side for too many days now."

"You do realize," he spat, "as I've said many times, that soon my family will realize I'm missing. And then you will have them to deal with."

Halion approached him and leaned close to his face. "I am counting on it."

Barahir looked slightly frightened. Surely Halion didn't have a large enough army to challenge the Reunited Kingdom, not again… or did he?

An Easterling brought in a small box and a chalice. The man set them down on a small pillar beside Halion. The Red Hand nodded his thanks as the Easterling backed away. Drawing out a dagger from his belt, Halion laid it down beside the other objects. It was a black blade like his sword, and its hilt, inlaid with red gems, glinted in the poor but present light.

"Do you know what this is," He drew out a small, golden ring with a red gem from the decorative box. It was a pair of serpents intertwined.

Barahir snorted. "It looks a little small for you."

"Very funny." Halion glared at him. "This is the Ring of Beruthiel. It was worn by her Majesty throughout her life. And before her death, she hired a necromancer to ensure she would never truly die."

"And how is that supposed to work," Barahir sneered. "Once a human soul goes to the Halls of Mandos, it cannot come back."

"Necromancy is touchy business." Halion conceded this. "Few can master it. But you remember the tales of the Nazgûl? Undead men?"

Barahir felt a shiver go down his spine as he realized where this was going. "Yes."

Halion smirked, turning to Barahir with the chalice in hand, and the ring in the chalice. In his right hand, he held the dagger. "Are you ready to help bring back Gondor's rightful Queen?"

Barahir squirmed against his bonds. He was prepared to die for his King, but this was not what he'd expected. His death would only serve to damage the Reunited Kingdom. And that, he was not okay with. The room began to spin and he shook his head. Now was not the time for panic.

"Hold his head back. I want to see his eyes while he bleeds out." Halion beckoned an Easterling over.

The Easterling roughly took his head of hair in his hands and pushed his head back so his neck was bare. Halion closed his eyes and began chanting in an ancient language that Barahir couldn't understand. Or perhaps he felt too scared. Everything was starting to blur. The voices made no sense.

Halion took the dagger and placed it on Barahir's throat. With a swift movement, he sliced open Barahir's jugular. The man didn't scream, but his eyes displayed all the horror Halion wanted to see. Quickly dropping the dagger, he held the chalice so it would fill with Barahir's blood. He continued to chant as the dead man's blood filled the cup ceremoniously.

At last the cup was full. Barahir was dropped by the Easterling, his lifeless body flopping to the floor. Halion took the chalice and placed it on the floor. A mist began emanating from it, clouding the air around the cup. The room seemed to darken, the candles flickering in and out. Halion backed away, a crazed look in his eyes. At last, his dream was coming to fruition.

The Council, King Elessar, no one will know what hit them. He knelt down.

The mist began to clear. A woman, tall, naked, and pale skinned crouched down, lifting the ring out of the chalice. Her hands, drenched in Barahir's blood, were strikingly scarlet compared to her white skin. Her long, black hair was wet, sticking to her skin.

"My lady," Halion breathed, "my queen!"

"What year is this," she asked, her voice smooth like silk. "Where am I?"

"This the year fifty of the Fourth Age. I am Halion, Red Hand of Sauron who has been defeated. You are in my fortress at Rhûn."

She nodded slowly. "And why have you brought me back?"

Halion smiled. "To help me topple the current king of Gondor."