Full Circle

“Shit!” Buffy fumed, carefully handing baby Bellason back to Nestor. With her heart thumping madly in her chest, she gave another quick word of congratulations to the new parents before storming out of the room. “I don’t want Oromë in my lands,” she said sharply to those following behind her quick-moving form. She turned to Orchal. “Take my chariot and go to the ford. You let that son-of-a-bitch know that if he sets foot in Ossir, that he and I will throw down. I’m not playing games. Go!”

The Green-elf nodded dutifully before tearing down the corridor and out of sight.

“Do you think he’s come for me and Russandol?” asked Maglor, his face a mask of dread.

“I doubt it,” she replied, hurriedly marching down the hallway with her entourage. “But let’s not take any chances. Take the boys and the rest of your Household and get back to Tol Galen. Stay there! I’ll deal with whatever shit’s going on here.”

“I’m sorry, Luinil. I didn’t mean… ”

“Just go, Káno! And Hurry!” she ordered, failing to conceal the exasperation in her voice.

The Noldo took off in the opposite direction, taking Elros and Elrond with him.

Turning to Gúrchim, she barked, “Summon the rest of the councilors. I’m holding an emergency meeting and want all available Lords and Ladies present.”

As Gúrchim peeled off from the group, descending the stairs, the others climbed the steps to the next floor.

“Do you think Oromë’s arrival marks the beginning of the war that we’ve long prepared for?” queried Nimrod, who had taken Gúrchim’s place beside the Slayer.

“Maybe.” She reconsidered her response for a moment. “Probably,” Buffy added, correcting herself. “We’ll know more once Orchal returns.”

Those few still walking with their Queen entered the main Council Chamber, where they would wait for the rest of the advisors. After pouring herself a glass of wine, the Slayer took a seat in the green wing-backed chair at the head of the table.

Her thoughts went back four years, to Yr 537, when the elves had pointed out the new star set within the heights of Ilmen. The Eldar, ever the perceptive stargazers, believed it was the Silmaril that glimmered in the evening sky. Both Maedhros and Maglor had confirmed that it was indeed the Jewel of Fëanor shining high above.

A confused Buffy sought confirmation from Sargon in Sussrúmnir the following morning. The Adan would only say that she needed to remember the words that Tuor had said to Turgon during Nirnaeth Arnoediad:

“…from you and me a new star will rise.”

Her mortal lover would tell her no more, leaving the Slayer to reach her own conclusions.

She had surmised that Elwing must have met up with Eärendil while he was at sea. Possessing the Jewel that the Valar covet so dearly, they had to have been granted passage through the Shadow Seas to Valinor. All signs indicated that Eärendil was the one about whom Irmo had spoken, the true Savior of Middle-earth, the one that would convince the Valar to wage war against Morgoth.

Buffy had shared those thoughts with her Household. They then looked upon the Silmaril in a new light, naming it Gil-Estel, the ‘Star of High Hope’. All waited impatiently for any sign of those coming from the West. Yet they had never come. And, unfortunately, the Slayer’s Mirror hadn’t revealed anything to suggest that the armies of Valinor were on their way to Middle-earth.

What Buffy found most disturbing was that the Valar had had the audacity to send Oromë to the shores of Beleriand! The gall! How dare they send the murderer of her firstborn child into her domain! Her bitterness and resentment for those in the West that had decided amongst themselves to end Illyria’s life was not something that she had forgotten. No, time does not heal all wounds.

Just thinking about Oromë brought a scowl to her face. She could feel the heat emanating from her flesh as her blood pressure began to rise. As she took a sip of her wine, she heard another blast from Valaróma. The deep, tremorous note startled her. She flinched, thus spilling the crimson beverage on her white shirt.

Cursing, she blotted the liquid the best that she could with the handkerchief that Thranduil had offered her. That gave her yet another reason to look upon Oromë in scorn. Even from afar, he managed to screw with her.

Even though not all of her councilors were present, Buffy decided to start the meeting. Over the years, she had allowed representatives from the various Houses of both the Eldar and Edain to have a voice in Ossir’s government. As the discussion turned to the impending war, Gúrauth, formerly from the House of Fingolfin, mentioned his uneasiness about fighting beside those in the West.

“I am reluctant to join forces with those that have cursed us,” he said with trepidation. “Should any of the Noldor perish in battle, we will surely be locked away in Mandos for many long years, unable to return to the land of our birth. I loathe the idea of having my kinfolk march to battle.”

“Not to mention the fact that some of us are guilty of the deeds at Aqualondë,” added Narudhur gravely. “I deem that whether we aid the Valar in battle or not, we will still be forced to appear in the Ring of Doom, to be judged by the Powers.”

“I’m not gonna force anyone to fight,” declared the Slayer. “Under the circumstances, I’ve had those from the House of Fëanor return to Tol Galen. I’m not going to allow the Valar to take any of my people by force. If they even attempt it, they’ll have to go through me.”

“And me,” chimed in Olofin.

“And me,” piped in Thranduil, puffing out his chest.

“You can count me in as well,” added Lalwen with a nod.

“And me,” said Luthor.

Buffy smiled. “You’ve got friends here, guys,” she proudly proclaimed to the Noldor. “I think it’s best that your kindred stay behind in Ossir. Enough of the Noldor have died in the wars with Morgoth. We don’t need to add to those numbers.”

Just then, Arachas came running into the room, out of breath from his sprint through Lindon Hall.

“Bella,” he panted. “Orchal’s on his way up to the city with Eönwë, the herald of Manwë Súlimo.”

“And Oromë?” she queried distastefully, narrowing her eyes at her mention of the Vala’s name.

“He is not in their company. Only Eönwë has passed the borders of our land.”

“Alright,” replied the Slayer, rising from her seat. “Have him brought to my Great Hall.”

She hurried from the chamber, returning to her bedroom in order to change her wine-stained top. While she wasn’t out to impress the Maia, she sure didn’t want to wear soiled clothing at their first meeting. First impressions were important, and lasted a lifetime.

She swung open the doors to one of her closets, searching for something appropriate to wear. Once she had pulled off her shirt, she heard someone, a manly someone, clearing his throat behind her. Holding her top to her naked chest, she spun around and saw Maedhros standing within her inner sanctum.

“Jesus Christ, Russandol! Don’t sneak up on me like that,” she said, rattled by his sudden appearance. Buffy held her shirt even tighter against her chest. “What the hell are you doing here? You were supposed to return to Tol Galen with your kin.”

“I had to speak with you first, Muinthel,” he said, taking a step closer.

She took a step back. “What for?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously. The Noldo definitely had something on his mind. She could see it on his troubled face.

“It’s about the war, the war that will soon take place.”

“Turn around,” she ordered, snatching a shirt from a hanger in the closet.

Maedhros did as ordered. While his back was turned, the Slayer slipped on a red and gold top.

“Okay,” she said, tossing her dirty garment to the floor. “What’s this about?”

The Noldo faced his sister-in-law and locked his mournful grey eyes on her. “My heart tells me that this battle will be great, that it will end Morgoth’s reign.”

“Well, I hope you’re right,” Buffy answered as she grabbed a brush from the dressing table and ran it through her long hair. “It’d be a glorious day to see Morgoth go down once and for all.”

“Which begs me to ask you, Muinthel,” he said, restlessly shifting on his feet. “Should Morgoth be captured, or even better, killed, will you… will you bring the last two Silmarils from his iron crown to Maglor and me?”

The Slayer stopped what she was doing, fixing her green eyes on the Noldo. She could see that it was difficult for him to ask her such a question, yet she could also see a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. The brothers had done everything in their power to retrieve what had been stolen from them. With every attempt, they had failed miserably, and brought themselves one step closer to their Doom. Now that Amras and Amrod were dead, (having died at the Havens), the burden to fulfill the Oath fell on Maedhros and Maglor, the only surviving sons of Fëanor.

“I know you must think us undeserving,” he continued when Buffy did not immediately answer. “But I’m afraid that the utter Darkness will claim me and Maglor if we do not regain the heirlooms of our House.”

“I wish Fëanor had never made those damned Silmarils,” she moaned, pushing her hair behind her ear. “They’ve done nothing but awaken the lust of some and bring death to others.”

“Yet the Oath is still there, waiting to claim us if we fail to recover the Jewels of our father.”

The Slayer was ready to put an end to the whole Oath business. “Okay, Russandol,” she sighed heavily. “If Morgoth goes down like you think, I’ll bring you and Káno the Silmarils. But, I’m only gonna say this once,” she went on, waving the hairbrush threateningly in his face. “Get your ass back to Lindecoa and stay there! I don’t need to worry about you guys starting any shit with those from the West. Right now, I have to focus my energies elsewhere, and I don’t need the House of Fëanor distracting me from doing what needs to be done.”

“Thank you, Muinthel,” Maedhros answered, smiling gratefully. “I knew you wouldn’t let us down.” His smile broadened. “Once you defeat Morgoth in battle, things will get better, for all of us.” He stepped forward and gave Buffy an awkward hug. The Noldo leaned down to kiss her. Buffy made a point to turn her face at the last minute, forcing his lips to brush against her cheek.

“I’ve gotta go,” she said, tossing her brush back onto the table. “And so do you.” She swiftly left the room, mumbling, “Men” under her breath. She could still feel the heat of Maedhros lips on the skin of her cheek.

When she reached her Great Hall, she was told that Orchal and Eönwë had just entered Lindon Hall. Before Buffy took her seat on her throne, Meldis, her favorite handmaiden, slipped the crown of luinil flowers on her head and handed her the scepter of Denethor, keeping with the traditions of the Green-elves. The Slayer then took her place on her elaborately carved wooden chair.

Her eyes scanned the three dozen or so faces in the room as the fingers of her right hand nervously tapped the arm of her seat. To her left and right sat many of her councilors, their seats arranged in a semi-circle at the bottom of the dais. A pathway through the chairs ran from the main doors to her throne where an empty chair had been placed for Eönwë. The occupants were silent, waiting with nervous anticipation for the arrival of Manwë’s emissary.

There was a knock on the massive double doors. The guards that flanked the entryway opened them, revealing, first Arachas, who announced the arrival of Eönwë, as was elvish protocol, before more guards, together with Orchal and Eönwë, entered the Great Hall.

The Slayer ceased tapping her fingers as she fixed her gaze on the Maia. He was beautiful as all the Ainur were that had not been corrupted by Morgoth. He was very tall with light brown wavy hair that hung to his shoulders. He was well-built, muscular, his face ruggedly handsome. His piecing blue eyes matched the garments under his coat of mail.

“Hail, Maranwë Luinil,” he said in greeting, bowing before her throne.

That gesture alone scored the Maia some points with Buffy. She had anticipated that he would not show her the respect and courtesy that she rightly deserved.

“Eönwë,” she replied with a nod of her head, motioning to the vacant seat at the bottom of the dais. “Welcome to Ossiriand and to Lindon Hall.” She turned to Meldis and gave another slight nod of her head.

The handmaiden quickly poured two goblets of wine. She brought one to her Queen, and the other to their guest.

The Slayer raised her cup. “Let us drink in friendship,” she said, wanting to keep things amicable between herself and the representative of Manwë.

“To friendship,” replied the Maia, lifting his goblet.

She watched Eönwë over the rim of her cup as they both took a sip of one of Ossir’s finest wines. “I take it that the purpose of your visit is to seek our aid in your war with Morgoth,” she said after swallowing the delectable beverage.

A surprised look came to Eönwë’s face. A moment later, his lips curled into a smile. He chuckled. “So the rumor is true - that the Vala of Love and War is not one to beat around the bush.” He cocked his brow, scrutinizing the small woman before him. “You are very much like your brother, Námo. Do you know that?”

“So I’ve heard,” she sighed in reply.

The Maia scanned the many people within the chamber. “You’ve done quite well for yourself during your short time in Beleriand. You have built a strong following, I see.”

“United we stand, divided we fall,” she remarked, not elaborating any further.

Eönwë’s gaze went back to the Vala Queen. “When we reached these shores, the Eldar fled into hiding at the sound of our trumpets,” he continued in a bewildered voice. “Do the Elves fear us now? Do they not see that we are here to put an end to Melkor’s lordship? Did the peoples of Endórë not notice the Silmaril in the heavens, put there as a sign that we were coming?”

“We did see Gil-Estel, as we call it. I guess we expected you to come sooner rather then later.” Buffy wasn’t too keen on the Maia’s mentioning of the Silmaril. That was a sensitive subject with her. She had no desire to speak of the Jewels, the sons of Fëanor, or the Kinslayings.

“It does take time to prepare for war, Luinil. I’m sure you’re well aware of that,” came his reply. “We answered Eärendil’s prayer, to pardon the Noldor and to aid those that still dwell here in Beleriand.”

“The tendrils of evil stretch much further than Beleriand, Eönwë. There are more evil creatures in Middle-earth than you can shake a stick at!”

“I do not doubt your words,” he answered. “Yet I was sent here at the behest of my Lord and his kindred to oust Melkor from his throne. It is not my task to rid the world of evil. If I may be so bold - that is your assignment.”

“My assignment, as you call it,” she answered bitterly, “is to maintain the balance of good and evil… ”

“Therefore you understand that I am not in the position to contest the will of those in the East, only to Beleriand was I sent,” he interjected as calmly as he could. “My Lady,” he began again, in that same tranquil tone. “I understand that evil lurks throughout the world, but for now, can we start with the elimination of our greatest threat? We cannot do that alone. We need your help. We need your forces. You know that is why I have come. The Eldar have gone into hiding and the Edain that we’ve come across refuse to march under any banner save yours.”

“Those of the Three Houses have the utmost love and loyalty for you, and we are in need of their strength. We’ve been told that most now dwell in Ossiriand under your command. Will you not help us? Will you not strengthen our numbers so that we can end Melkor’s reign?”

The Maia kept his blue eyes on the Slayer, eager to hear her response.

“Ossir is a democracy, Eönwë. We’ll put your query to a vote,” she answered before looking to her councilors. “There you have it, my good people. Do we aid those in the West? A show of hands is all I need.”

Olofin’s hand was the first to shoot up. One by one, every hand went up.

“And there you have it,” she nodded to the herald of Manwë. She shifted her eyes back to her councilors. “Rally the troops. We march to war.”

Before Buffy would depart her lands, she wished to return to Tol Galen. She put her Captains in charge of her hosts of Green-elves and Men and ordered them not to wait for her return. She would first take her chariot to the small isle, then catch up with her troops on their way to northern Beleriand. She appointed Olofin to be General of her armies in her absence.

Not long afterward, she was aboard her chariot, soaring above her lands to her Halls in the southern part of her realm. She reached Lindecoa before the ships of Noldor that had left Lindon earlier that day. There was no way she was going to go off to war without saying good-bye to her husband and loved ones.

She went to her private rooms and changed into her mithril suit of armor minus the mask that was taken from her by Uldor during Nirnaeth Arnoediad. She slipped on a pair of black leather breeches over that, as well as the red and gold top that she had put on hours earlier. The Slayer did not pack much else. The Green-elves in Lindon would see to it that all the things she needed would be loaded onto carts for the trip to northern Beleriand.

Since most of Tol Galen had been deserted by the people that normally dwelt there, Buffy took advantage of that by visiting the burial place of Beren and Lúthien. Even though she knew their feys had long gone to Mandos, she sat between their unmarked graves and spoke of all the things that had taken place over the years. When she spoke of Eönwë and the upcoming war, her tone grew fearful. She had begun to think that the Valar were merely using her for her armies, and that as soon as the war was over, they’d turn on her, to punish her for her actions in the East. While Eönwë had never suggested such a thing, an ominous feeling had crept into her heart as she flew to the small isle. There was no doubt that that feeling was some type of warning, but, unfortunately, she didn’t know exactly what it portended.

The Slayer remained in that secluded garden until Barathalion and Noeriel flew back at dusk, informing her that the ships had finally arrived. She immediately climbed onto the chariot and had her lions take her back to Lindecoa.

Once home, she would stay and eat her evening meal in private with Maglor, Maedhros, Elros and Elrond. It was not a cheerful dinner by any means. The men remained morose, hardly eating a thing, knowing that Buffy would be gone for many years.

When it was time for her to leave, the boys began to cry. That broke the Slayer’s heart, as she had grown as close to the twins as they had to her. She treated and loved them as though they were her own. And now, having to leave them behind tore her apart. She did her best to be strong but found herself weeping with them, holding them tightly in her arms, not wanting to let them go.

“Don’t go yet, Bella!” said a tearful Elros before bolting across the vestibule and up the spiral staircase. The half-elf returned several minutes later, out of breath, and clutching something in his hand. He took Buffy’s arm and clasped the bracelet around her wrist that he and Elrond had given her a few months before on her birthday. “I want you to wear this, even in battle,” he panted. “That way, whenever you look at it, you will not forget me and Elrond, for we won’t forget you.”

“Oh, sweetie,” she said, caressing his flushed, tear-streaked cheek. “I’ll never forget you and Elrond.” She pulled both boys into a bear hug. “I love you both. You’ll always be in my thoughts. Always! Don’t you ever forget that.” She pulled out of the embrace, looking lovingly at each boy. “You’re my little men. You look after Káno for me, okay?”

“We will,” they replied in unison.

“It’s time for me to go.”

The boys started to cry again.

“I won’t be gone forever… just for a while,” she said reassuringly. She glanced up at Maedhros.

“We’ll take care of them, Muinthel. You have nothing to worry about.” He draped his arms around the twins’ shoulders as Buffy and Maglor exited Lindecoa, hand in hand.

Bidding farewell to her husband was more painful than she thought it would be. For several minutes, they softly spoke loving words, clinging to each other, neither wanting to let the other go.

“Are you sure you do not want to take the Trident?” Maglor asked, pushing the stray hairs off his wife’s face. “It could come in handy.”

“That’s a doomsday weapon. I won’t need it.” The only weapon she was taking was her belt.

“Be safe. Watch your back. Keep an eye on Olofin. See to it he does not do anything too perilous.” The Noldo forced himself to smile. “He’s very much like his mother - he lives for danger.”

“I think it’s more like danger lives for us,” corrected Buffy lightheartedly. She glanced up at the darkening sky. “I really need to get a move on. It’s getting late.”

“I love you, Bella.” He tenderly caressed her cheek.

“I love you too. This shouldn’t take long. I mean, we got the Valar fighting on our side.” She shrugged. “Surely, the war won’t last that long.”

“That remains to be seen. I will pray for Ilúvatar to keep you and your people safe. Be careful! That’s all I ask. I want you to come back to me in one piece.”

“I will. Promise.” With that, she gave him a kiss. Maglor walked her to the chariot, watching as she climbed on board.

Buffy looked up at the topmost steps that led to the main doors of Lindecoa. There stood the twins with Maedhros. She gave them a quick wave as the lions jolted the chariot forward. Moments later, she took to the air. The Slayer kept her eyes on her loved ones until they resembled tiny dots in the distance. She then turned, leaning against the front panel of the vehicle, fiddling with the bracelet that dangled from her left wrist, as the darkness engulfed her.

She caught up with her people late that night in Estolad, a few leagues north of the Dwarf-road. Olofin decided to follow the route most familiar to the Green-elves, approaching Anfauglith through Eastern Beleriand, by passing through what was formerly Maglor’s Gap. They had decided that the best place to set up the allied forces’ encampment was in Lothlann between Dorthonion and Ered Luin.

Eönwë had gone back to Western Beleriand where his forces waited. With the aid of Olofin’s map, he would lead the hosts from Valinor across Nan Dungortheb and through the Pass of Aglon where they would join Ossir’s armies on the plains north of the March of Maedhros.

It took days to unite all the troops on Lothlann. Buffy and was quite surprised to learn that only two of the Valar had come to Middle-earth: Oromë and Tulkas. Accompanying them, were ten thousand Maiar and ninety thousand Elves of the Vanyar and Noldor kindreds. The only Teleri that had left the Blessed Realm were the ones that sailed the ships that brought the others to Beleriand. They refused to set foot in Endor, unwilling to aid the others in battle, as their wounds from the Kinslaying at Aqualondë had not yet healed.

The Slayer’s armies numbered fifty-seven thousand, five hundred. Of those good people, seventy-five hundred were Green-elves, and fifty thousand were Edain. Though her numbers were slim in comparison to those out of the West, her elven warriors were seasoned combat veterans, having fought in more wars than all those from Aman combined. While her mortal warriors had never fought in any battles before, they had long prepared for this day since childhood, and had become masters in weaponry.

Now, something that those in the West found strange was that Olofin had allowed the wives, lovers and pre-teen children of the mortals to stay within the encampment. Perhaps it was his gift of foresight that prompted him to do so or the fact that back in Ossir his mother had encouraged Men to procreate in order to increase their numbers. None truly knew the answer, but in years to come, many babies would be born on the plains of Lothlann, a first during any time of war.

When all was ready, and the encampment was set up, all the Generals, Captains and Chieftains convened under the blanket of dark clouds that issued forth from Thangorodrim to discuss their strategy. For the first time, Buffy set eyes upon the mightiest warriors from Valinor.

Tulkas was the first she had met. He was nothing like she’d pictured in her mind. For one reputed to be the strongest of the Valar, he sure didn’t look the part! He was tall and slender and did not possess the same type of physique as Eönwë, who resembled more a warrior than the Vala did. His golden hair was pulled into a braid that ran halfway down his back. Beneath his well-trimmed facial hair was a ruddy face accentuated by twinkling blue eyes. He was jovial by nature, and laughed in delight as he hugged Buffy in greeting.

Unbeknownst to her, they had a great friendship that went back to the time before the world was wrought. She would one day learn that Ilúvatar had first asked her to enter Eä ages ago to aid her brethren in their early conflicts with Melkor. Unwilling to descend into the world to contest the will of her lover, Tulkas, out of his love for the Valië, volunteered to take her place, allowing her to dwell in the Timeless Halls a bit longer.

When Tulkas embraced the Slayer, she couldn’t help but think of the names that Morgoth had called the Vala in times past. His two favorites were ‘Nitwit’ and the ‘Witless Wonder’. She chuckled to herself as she remembered that, but then quickly chastised herself for thinking such thoughts about one who was so eager to rid the world of the Dark Lord.

After Tulkas, Eönwë introduced her to Oromë. He appeared more youthful than his brother-in-arms. His bodily form was more like Eönwë’s. His hair was golden and flowed past his shoulders in gentle waves. He was of fair face and had bedazzling green eyes, the same as his mother. Smiling, he approached Buffy with outstretched arms.

She scowled at the Vala and turned away, refusing to speak with the killer of her firstborn child.

Oromë was hurt by her reproachful manner. His eyes shifted to Luthor, who shook his head in response to the Vala Lord’s unspoken question. Sighing heavily, Oromë backed away, knowing that the Slayer had not forgiven him for the death of Illyria.

Eönwë felt the tension emanating from Buffy and was quick to avert any possible confrontation between her and Oromë.

“Here is someone that has longed to meet you, Luinil,” he said hastily, motioning for a golden-headed elf to step forward. “This is Arafinwë, Lord of the Noldor in Aman.”

Buffy gasped. She quickly looked to Lalwen, who stared at her younger brother with tear-filled eyes.

The Noldo first approached the Slayer. He dropped to one knee, bowing his head in reverence.

“No, no, no, no,” she said emphatically, pulling the elf upright. “You never have to bow down to me. We’re family, Finarfin,” she added with a smile.

“One should always follow protocol, family or not,” he replied, slightly taken aback by her lack of propriety.

“Not with me,” she laughed, waving for Lalwen to come forward. “I’ve gotta say: you’ve raised some remarkable children, especially Finrod. He was a great friend, and I miss him dearly.”

“I appreciate your kind words. Findaráto Ingoldo has… ” His words were cut off when Lalwen threw her arms around her brother’s neck. After more than half a century apart, the son and daughter of Finwë and Indis were finally reunited. Everyone backed away, allowing Finarfin and Lalwen a few moments of private time.

After all introductions were made, and the strategies finalized, the troops began the march to the Gates of Hell - Thangorodrim.

There was a ominous silence outside of Angband. Eönwë, having command over the hosts from Valinor, then called for his men to sound their trumpets. The terrible melody reverberated throughout the region, shaking all the lands of Beleriand, even to the very depths of Hell itself.

Buffy’s armies, together with those Noldor under Finarfin’s command, and many of the Maiar, formed the eastern flank of the forces while the Vanyar and the rest from Valinor formed the western. They waited, in all their glory, for Melkor Bauglir to answer their challenge.

Morgoth recognized the horn of Oromë, and grew fearful when he heard its music reverberating throughout his Halls. While he knew that the hosts from Valinor had come at last, he would not give up without a fight, and what a fight he would give them! He would first unleash his yrch, whose numbers had grown great over the years, to take out as many of the enemy as they could. If that failed to do the trick, as he suspected, he would then let loose his more nefarious creatures, the Balrogs and some of his children that he and Buffy had created together. Melkor’s most potent beasts he would save for the last, the creatures he deemed would bring him victory in the end.

The gates of Thangorodrim then slowly opened. The rhythmic beating of drums echoed across the sandy plains as the yrch began to march through the gates. Many rode upon snarling wargs, doing their best to keep the beasts reined in until it was time to attack.

None truly comprehended just how many yrch Morgoth had been breeding in the pits of Hell. For it seemed to the allies that the goblins’ numbers were incalculable. With the repeating cadence of doom, doom, doom, the enemy kept marching out, forming their lines opposite that of the allied hosts.

“I’m growing tired of waiting,” groaned Orchal, eager to assail the enemy. “Why must we wait for the enemy to get in formation? Let’s have at it already!”

“You’re a man after my own heart,” chortled Buffy, patting Rocco on the neck. She quickly glanced to her left and right. “What do you say, guys? Should we go ahead and pummel Morgoth’s walking, talking turds?”

Those in the Slayer’s cavalry voiced their agreement. It had been a long time since they had killed anything other than wild game, and seeing all those yrch marching amidst a cloud of dust made them anxious to engage them in battle.

A smile came to Buffy’s face. While Eönwë had a say-so over the western hosts, he held no sway over the eastern.

Olofin tapped his mother on the shoulder and handed her her helm, insisting that she wear something to protect her head.

She reluctantly took it, sliding on the helmet that Thingol had had made for her centuries ago. She then pulled a sword charm from her belt. Instantly it turned into a full-sized weapon. She turned to Orchal on her right.

“Ready?”

The Green-elf unsheathed his blade. “I was born ready,” he chuckled in reply.

“Well, then, let’s kill us some yrch.” She grabbed a handful of Rocco’s mane, holding it tightly. “Let’s go, boy!”

The horse neighed in reply before bolting forth from the frontline. The rest of Ossir’s cavalry followed suit, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. The elven and mortal archers that had remained behind armed their bows, sending a hail of arrows over their kinsmen’s heads and into the vanguard of the enemy. The shields of the enemy blocked most of the arrows. The clanking sound of metal upon metal rang out across the plains like the sound of multiple metallic blasts. Only of few squeals of pain were heard.

“What… what are they doing?” stammered Eönwë in disbelief upon seeing the eastern cavalry riding forth before his giving of the signal. “That’s not part of the plan!”

“Luinil is unpredictable,” laughed Tulkas, amused by the whole situation. “I like that!” He then took off, running as fast as any horse in Middle-earth could.

“Damn it!” cursed Eönwë, wishing that the Slayer had kept to their agreed upon strategy. He then gave the order for his men to sound their trumpets, signaling Oromë and the cavalry forward.

The Vala Lord galloped across Anfauglith atop his beloved steed, Nahar, whose coat shone with a silver light beneath the dark clouds of Morgoth. Fire sparked from beneath the horse’s golden hooves as they pounded against the sandy plains. Following behind were many of the Maiar, some from Oromë’s own Household, some from his kindred in the West.

The allies’ shouts of attack pierced the dimness of day, their fair voices sounding harmonious compared to the guttural howls of the enemy. The allies’ eyes shone with unbridled wrath, especially those out of the West. As they neared the frontlines of yrch, the goblins grew terrified, knowing now that their Master had sent them out to meet their most certain deaths.

Yet, there were brave Captains amongst the goblin hosts that yelled to their comrades to charge the allied forces, to face the enemy head-on. For the fate that awaited them if they failed to comply with Melkor Bauglir’s demands would be far worse than anything that the Elves, Men or Ainur would inflict upon them.

Many of the yrch Captains lashed their leather whips at their underlings, an act that sent them rushing forward to meet the oncoming allies. Only seconds later, the cavalry clashed with the goblins, spilling the first blood in the battle that would be named the War of Wrath in after days.

The blades of those from the West shone with fire as they easily cleaved through the iron armor of the enemy. The swords wrought by Aulë and his kin killed one with a single stroke, causing their bodies to wither in flame. On the other hand, the weapons wrought by the Noldor that the armies from Ossir wielded, shone with a blue light. While they were not nearly as effective as the Valinorean blades, they too could penetrate whatever armor the yrch wore, sending the bodies falling into heaps onto the desert-like plains of Anfauglith.

Buffy and her people hacked away at the yrch with a fierce intensity that had built up in them over the years. This was a battle of retribution for those that had died in all the previous wars.

To her left, she heard the lords of the Edain shouting out the names of their beloved forefathers and kinfolk, “For Barahir! For Húrin! For Hador!” and so forth, as they swung their weapons at the enemy, cleaving many in two with a single blow.

Garbed in the mithril raiment of their parents, the lions were allowed to run free at the onset of the battle. They pursued their much smaller counterparts, the wargs, with a wild abandon for blood. Barathalion and Noeriel possessed much greater weapons than their foes - their teeth, which were like daggers of iron, and able to pierce armor, flesh and bone with a single bite. They ferociously tore limb from limb from both beast and orch, showing neither any mercy.

Unfortunately, it seemed that no matter how many goblins fell, more took their place. The yrch never stopped marching from the Gates of Hell. It appeared that Morgoth was emptying the bowels of Angband, sending every single orch from within his fortress to fight the allied forces. Soon, all the plains would be filled with the Glamhoth, their numbers stretching as far as the elvish eye could see, possibly numbering in the millions.

The battle would not be a short one as the Slayer had originally thought. And much to her dismay, she soon discovered a difference between her people and those from the West.

The hosts from Valinor’s stamina was far greater than that of those that dwelt in Beleriand. The Green-elves, Edain, and even Buffy herself tired out long before the Vanyar, Noldor and Ainur. They required more rest periods than those from the Blessed Realm. Being a Vala by nature, she found it distressing that she was fatigued while both Tulkas and Oromë were still going strong. It made her feel inferior and weak and caused her to lose heart in her slaying abilities.

“Keep in mind, Bella,” counseled Luthor during one of their breaks, “that Valinor is free from evil. Only for a short time were their lands afflicted with the gloom and doom that Morgoth can so easily weave. And with so many Ainur residing there, it was easy enough for the winds of Manwë to clear their lands, making the air wholesome and clean once again. Alas, the same thing cannot be said for Middle-earth, least of all Beleriand. The poisonous fumes of Thangorodrim have traveled far and wide, adversely affecting not only the lands, but the inhabitants as well.”

Buffy sat curled up on the couch in her pavilion, staring glumly at the carpeted floor.

“Don’t think for one second that you are lesser than they,” continued the Maia encouragingly. “You are a great champion, the greatest in all Arda, I deem.”

She lifted her head, meeting Luthor’s gaze. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you love me.”

“No, I’m saying that because I’ve seen you in action. Do not doubt your abilities. You can out-wrestle Tulkas, outhunt Oromë, and outlast Eönwë.” He leaned forward, patting her consolingly on the leg. “Not to mention that you’re much prettier than they are,” Luthor chuckled. “Fret not, Luinil. You surpass all the Ainur in Arda in every respect. And yes, I include myself in that assessment.”

“And what about Melkor? Do you think that I’m stronger than he?”

For a split second, she saw a flicker of doubt in the old man’s eyes. But quickly, Luthor gained controlled of his faculties and answered, “We will discover that soon enough.”

That time would not come soon enough for the Slayer, as the war would last for half a century. Most of those years were spent fighting the endless number of yrch.



One evening, five years later, Buffy returned to her pavilion for some sleep, only to see four familiar faces waiting there for her. Maglor, Maedhros, Elros and Elrond had snuck into the encampment whilst she was on the battlefield, and made themselves at home in her quarters. She was so surprised and happy to see them that she gave no thought of reprimanding her husband for his reckless behavior.

Elros and Elrond, now fifteen, had begged the sons of Fëanor to allow them to come north to fight in the war. They argued that Buffy was the same age when she had started fighting demons, and wanted to follow her example.

“Besides,” contended Elrond, “Huor, our forefather, was younger than us when he went into battle. It is only fitting that we follow in his noble footsteps!”

The Slayer couldn’t argue with that. She permitted the twin sons to fight alongside her people, but ordered Maglor and Maedhros to return to Ossir at once. The sons of Fëanor managed to convince her to let them stay a while longer. Buffy grudgingly took a reprieve from battle for a couple of days, remaining hidden within her pavilion in the company of her loved ones. Her visit with her beloved turned out to be just what she needed. When she returned to battle, she felt invigorated, ready to continue the assault on the legions of yrch that continued to spew out from Angband in record numbers.

The twins fought with Buffy’s personal guard who were more than willing to sacrifice themselves in order to protect the boys if need be. Fortunately, it never came to that, but Elros and Elrond got to experience firsthand the harsh reality of warfare.

Bodies littered the battlefield. The foul smell of decaying flesh lingered in the air. The yrch body count had gotten so extraordinarily high that the allies were forced to drag the rotting corpses into piles, which they then set aflame. Plumes of thick, black, reeking smoke rose from the various mounds scattered across the plains. The smoke burned one’s eyes and throat and there was absolutely no escape from the stench. Yet, after some time, one became accustomed to the offensive odor, so much so that one could happily enjoy a meal despite the putrid smell of death.



In the fall of Yr 581, more than forty years after the war had begun, the first Balrogs emerged on the scene. With them were the evil Easterlings, some of Buffy’s offspring with Morgoth, and still more goblins, whose numbers seemed immeasurable. The fiery fiends were more of a challenge for both the mortals and elves, and it was during this time that the allies began to fall in greater numbers than in all the previous years combined.

Buffy pulled back her mortal and elvish troops, ordering them to fight the Easterlings and yrch instead of the menacing demons of flame. It would be up to the Ainur, for the most part, to assail the Balrogs, which outnumbered them at least twenty to one. The allies attempted to form a line to keep the fiery foes from attacking the Children of Ilúvatar but that proved impossible.

Part of Ossir’s armies returned to the encampment, garbing themselves in the iron armor that the dwarves had made during Nirnaeth Arnoediad. The Elves and Edain had not worn that armor earlier in the battle as it was very heavy and caused one to tire rather quickly. Yet, if one could endure the weight, they could also withstand the flames that emanated from the Balrogs’ bodies.

Tulkas had a field day battling Morgoth’s Maiar of fire. His laughter resounded throughout the plains as he fought the towering creatures with only his bare hands. Their fiery bodies did not burn his flesh as it did many of the others. It was quite an amazing sight to see the Vala grab hold of a flaming leg of his foe, forcing it to stumble backwards and onto the ground. His favorite manner of killing any of Morgoth’s creatures was the same - a snap of the neck.

Since Buffy formed part of the cavalry, she was forced to cooperate with Oromë to effectively destroy the towering creatures of flame.

While Morgoth still had a no-kill policy when it came to his beloved, he was willing to allow her to be injured if it would lead to her capture. Wounds he could heal, and he felt it was imperative to have her brought back to Angband to use as a hostage and shield just in case the need should arise.

The Balrogs employed a simple strategy - separate the Slayer from her brethren. With their greater numbers, it would prove to be a rather easy task. The towering fiends charged the cavalry, lashing at the horses with their fiery whips. That maneuver forced the horses to scatter, including Rocco.

The Maiar of flame then formed a ring around Buffy and her steed. As they started to close in around a galloping Rocco, they struck at both horse and rider with their fiery whips. The horse employed evasive tactics, trying his best to avoid the multiple flaming thongs. The burning straps had no effect on Rocco, but, unfortunately, the same could not be said for his Mistress.

Buffy’s neck proved the most vulnerable place on her body. It was protected neither by her mithril armor nor by her helm. The Balrogs were quick to notice that. They aimed both their whips and the handles of their weapons toward that spot in hope of getting her off her steed so that they could more easily subdue her.

One of the fiery foes made a move to strike the Slayer with his axe handle. As he swung his weapon, one of his comrades, in his eagerness to fell Rocco, bumped into the Balrog, causing the weapon to slip from his grasp. The axe went hurtling through the air, striking Buffy in the side of her neck.

She shrieked at the sudden searing pain, which forced her to drop her sword. Instinctively, she reached for the weapon protruding from the side of her neck. In an instant, Rocco swerved to avoid another fiery thong. Unable to maintain her hold, Buffy went flying off the horse, landing hard on the ground. Not thinking, she removed the axe and felt a torrent of warmth squirt from the wound. The blade had not only cut through the muscles, tendons, and ligaments in her neck, but also her carotid artery. As she clutched her neck with both hands, she realized too late the error in removing the axe.

As a Balrog bent down to snatch her body from the sandy plains, a sudden blast from Valaróma caused the beast to stop dead in its tracks. Looking up, he saw the wrathful form of Oromë breaking through the circle of fiery Maiar. Utterly terrified, all the Balrogs began to scatter at the Vala’s approach.

Buffy lay there, softly whimpering in agony, as the strength began to leave her body. Staring up at the black clouds of Morgoth that hovered above, rapid images of her loved ones flashed before her eyes. She now realized that that foreboding feeling she had felt on her way to Tol Galen years ago was not about the turning on her by the Valar. It was about this moment, her downfall. Her death.

A fair face with golden hair then appeared in her line of vision. “I’m here, Luinil,” said Oromë gravely, dropping to his knees beside the Slayer. “I shall take care of you.”

The Vala grimaced when he pulled her hands away and saw how badly Buffy had been hurt. He pressed one of his hands against the gash as the other reached into the leather pouch that hung from his belt. Oromë continued to speak to her in a soothing voice while two members of his Household kneeled down around her. They gasped at the amount of blood spilling from beneath their Lord’s hand.

Buffy felt cold. Her body began to tremble uncontrollably. She tried to speak, to apologize to Oromë for acting like an ass throughout the war, but she could only make a series of gasping sounds.

“Shh,” the Vala Lord sounded, removing her helm before cradling her head on his lap. He then applied a thick amount of salve to the incision in her neck. “Save your strength, Maranwë.”

One of the Maiar then began to bandage the Slayer’s neck. She could feel the sudden tightening around her throat. Her eyelids became heavy as she felt herself drifting into unconsciousness. The Vala and his Maia companions’ voices sounded muffled, distant. The last thing she heard was the cacophony of battle before blacking out…