Like his Father in Valour by chrissystriped

Like his Father in Valour

Eärnur dismounted and handed the reigns to his squire. “Wait for me at the crossroads.” He would not let a horse take the initiative from him again. 

The mountains rose up on each side of the road as he walked towards the Tower of the Moon. He remembered the fortress from before it was taken and the loss was a thorn in his side. Now it oozed dread and Eärnur found himself shivering. He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter. He would not be called a coward. Mardil had talked him out of answering the challenge the first time, he would not let it go again. History would remember him as the man who stood up to the Witch-king. 

He stopped out of bowshot to the walls and blew his horn, making the mountains echo. He saw no sign of life on the turrets but after a moment the gates opened with a slow, grinding sound. The Witch-king came on foot, meeting him on equal ground. 

“So you have finally found the courage to stop hiding behind an elf’s words.” 

Eärnur growled and drew his sword. “Leave this land you have unlawfully taken or I will make you.” 

The Witch-king laughed a high, screeching laugh and attacked. The power of his blow almost knocked the sword out of Eärnur’s hand, he gripped it tighter with numb fingers and held his own with difficulty. The fight had barely started and he was already on the defensive. This could not be! 

Get a grip on yourself, he thought angrily. He had been a soldier all his life, he was the best swordsman in Gondor. He would not be defeated by an evil spectre of the Enemy. 

He noticed there was power behind the Witch-king’s blows but not much finesse. He could take him. 

Breathing was hard, his knees trembled like they had the first time he rode into battle. The fear his men had spoken of with shuddering voices, back when they’d fought the realm of Angmar, was enfolding him. 

It is not my fear, he told himself. It is black sorcery. 

Eärnur roared his war cry. The Witch-king fell for his feint and Eärnur’s heart soared when he got in a blow at the crook of his enemy’s shoulder. His sword broke into a dozen glittering shards and an icy bolt shot up his arm, it fell down at his side, lifeless. Specks of darkness danced before his eyes. He had fallen to his knees. 

“You fool,” the Witch-king hissed. “It is you, who is the usurper, scion of a lesser line. And I will take back what is rightfully mine. All the children of Númenor soon will bow to their rightful queen. I am Tar-Míriel, rescued from the wreck by the power of the Lord.” 

Eärnur lifted his head to stare at the mask below the Witch-king’s cowl. 

“You lie!” he gasped. “It can not be.” 

“It is.” The Witch-king extended her gauntleted hand, a ring lay on her palm. Her next words were spoken softly, almost gently. “You can share in it, kinsman. Eternal life. How many years would you have left, even if you survived this day? You have no heir to give the kingdom to. Imagine to rule it forever, by my side. Or die.” 

Eärnur stared at the heavy, golden ring, a ruby like a drop of blood was set in it.