Full Circle

Buffy dozed off in her husband’s arms, more content and happier than she had been in a long time. Life seemed good and, with Morgoth dethroned, things could only get better. This is what she, the Elves and Edain had worked centuries for - peace in Middle-earth, at least, in Western Middle-earth. First thing in the morning, she would set off with Sauron to meet with Eönwë, whose encampment was about two hundred miles northwest of Lindecoa, on the coast of the sea.

However, during the night, the Slayer’s dreams were plagued by images of war and bloodshed. Though the threat of Melkor Bauglir was no more, she saw many other villains competing for his spot - to be the biggest and baddest in Middle-earth.

She saw those that had not been sent through the Hellmouth to other worldly dimensions escaping through the Second Door in the Iron Mountains, not to mention that there still dwelled many evil creatures throughout the lands, creatures that had never made their home in Angband.

She then saw horrific things involving mankind, specifically, the Edain. She saw them enslaved by beings more powerful than they, forced to labor endlessly for their new masters, constructing mammoth fortresses and structures. Women were raped and impregnated by grotesque beasts in an attempt to make new hybrids. Those maidens that had survived the assault, died during the birth as their bellies were ripped open by the enemy in order to retrieve the newly created spawns from their wombs. Even the children experienced unimaginable horrors, both physical and mental.

Buffy awoke with a start, bolting upright in bed. Her heart was beating frantically in her chest. A layer of sweat covered her upper body, an automatic reaction to having witnessed such atrocities, even in the dreamscape.

It was still dark outside. Lindecoa was silent except for her heavy breathing and the ticking of the clock that hung on the wall. Maglor continued to sleep soundly beside her, unaware that his wife was now wide-awake after having seen such nightmarish images.

She climbed out of bed, and poured herself a glass of water. Her body seemed to cool off after she had gulped down the drink. Her nerves calmed, she returned to bed, snuggling close to Maglor, hoping that her nightmares were over. Her thoughts turned to Olofin, and her eagerness to see him again. She thought of her soon-to-be reunion with her youngest son until sleep took her once more.

What should’ve been one of the most restful nights of her life, turned out to be nothing of the sort. After tossing and turning for the remainder of the night, Buffy gave up all hope of a good night’s sleep. She was more than amazed that her restlessness hadn’t wakened Maglor, who still slept peacefully beside her. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the horrific images that had invaded her dreams, which now seemed to be occupying her waking thoughts too.

She was beginning to think that it was no mere nightmare. In fact, the longer she lay there, staring into the darkness, the more she believed that she had experience visions, visions of events to come. And what made matters worse was that they involved her people, the Edain, who had fought faithfully, not only by her side, but by the elves’ sides as well. Over the years, they had lost more than even the Eldar, since Ilúvatar’s gift to mankind was that they would not be reborn into the world as His elder children would. They only got one chance at life. And seeing how they had willingly put their lives on the line, sacrificing themselves in order to help oust Morgoth from his throne, proved just how loyal and true they were. To think that they would be made to suffer so cruelly in the future left Buffy feeling sick. It just wasn’t right. But what could she do about it?

She slipped out of bed, and quietly made her way to the bathing chamber. After tending to her bodily needs, she began to fill the tub, feeling that a good soak would help to clear her mind. The sound of the rushing water woke Maglor, who sluggishly rose and entered the room, still half asleep.

“What are you doing up so early?” he yawned. “It’s not even four o’clock.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she answered, sitting on the side of the tub. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s alright. I had to pee any way.”

As the Noldo used the toilet, Buffy made the decision not to share her nightmare with him. After everything they had been through, and with it being only her second day home, the last thing her husband needed to hear about was the doom that awaited the Edain. She didn’t speak until Maglor had come back into the main chamber to wash his hands.

“I’m gonna meet with Eönwë today,” she said matter-of-factly. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Maglor glanced into the mirror over the sink, looking at his wife. His expression revealed both his sorrow and fear. He made no comment, as his eyes spoke volumes.

“You and Russandol can ask for a pardon,” she continued, rising from the edge of the tub. “I’ve learned that the Valar aren’t as bad as I’d thought. They’re a forgiving bunch. And if you speak with Eönwë… ”

“But what if they demand that Russandol and I return to Valinor? What if we are summoned to the Ring of Doom to answer for all we have done?” he interjected anxiously with a shake of his head. The Noldo let out a heavy sigh. “You know, Bellaseth, that you’re not permitted to enter Aman. We could be separated for Eru knows how long!”

Buffy crossed the room and stood behind her husband, staring at his reflection in the mirror. “Nothing, and I mean nothing, will ever keep me from you.” She moved closer, wrapping her arms around his waist. She leaned her head against his arm. “I can’t lift the Curse, Káno, but maybe they can. Just imagine the life we could have if we didn’t have that hanging over our heads. There are only two sons of Fëanor left. We’ve lost so much and I don’t want us to lose any more.” She pressed her naked body against his. “This is a new start for us, a new beginning. With the end of the war, the new age has begun. I just want us to start off with a clean slate, free from the Curse.” Buffy was quick to add, “I’m not gonna force you to do anything you don’t want to do. All I ask is that you think about it. It’s still early. I won’t be leaving for a few hours.”

On her tip toes, she gave the Noldo a kiss on the cheek. “I love you, Káno. Don’t you ever forget that.” She gave him a reassuring smile before returning to the tub.

Maglor stood there for a few minutes, pondering her suggestion. He felt a tremendous amount of guilt over the numerous deaths that had come about as a direct result of the Oath. He rued the day that he had uttered those terrible words in Tirion, damning him and his kin. And if he were to have a normal life, the dark cloud that hung over his House had to be removed. After careful consideration, he finally relented.

“Alright, Bella. I’ll go with you. I’ll speak with Russandol.”

The Slayer felt that her husband had made the right decision. If she felt confident about anything, it was that the surviving sons of Fëanor would get a second chance.

Maglor then joined her in the tub. Both were oblivious to the shadowy form of wolf Sauron outside the doorway. The Maia had heard all that was said, and smiled to himself. He had the foresight to see that Maedhros would dissuade his younger brother from meeting with Eönwë, and would convince him that they were both bound to the Oath. Sauron had set Melkor’s plan in motion, his last and greatest gift to his Master - to bring to an end Buffy’s marriage to the Noldo.



When they had finished bathing, both the Slayer and her husband dressed. They then went their separate ways. He went to speak with Maedhros while she went to see about breakfast.

Once again, Sauron, in wolf form, accompanied Buffy, never leaving her side. As she descended the main stairway, an ominous feeling crept into her heart, and remained there. She did her best to put on a happy face, but those that knew her well could see that something troubled their Queen. Despite their probing, she kept mum, refusing to discuss the nightmare she had had with any. She tried her best to push those images out of her mind, yet they continued to weigh heavily upon her.

Arachas sounded his trumpet once the ship had been readied for the journey. Many would be going on the trip, elves and mortals alike. Buffy paced back and forth along the cliff’s edge, annoyed that Maglor and Maedhros were late. After thirty minutes, she sent several elves to search for her husband and brother-in-law.

After another forty-five minutes, Narudhur reported that both sons of Fëanor had departed on horses with several from their Household.

“They left no word as to where they were going, my Lady,” said the Noldo. “I was told that they took some lembas from the larders.” Seeing the look of dismay on the Slayer’s face, Narudhur added, “Perhaps they decided to journey on horseback to the coast.”

“Maybe,” she answered, her eyes scanning the landscape to the north, desperately looking for any sign of her husband. When fifteen more minutes had passed, she reluctantly sighed, “We’ve been delayed long enough. It’s time to go.”

With the lands changed, and the elves having not long dwelled at their new home, there were no steps carved into the rock wall that lead to the water below. The only place where one could easily reach the water by foot was some two miles to their south. To avoid the long walk, the elves lowered ropes over the edge of the cliff and rappelled down the rock face into the waiting ship below.

Sauron, who had been strapped into a harness, whimpered as he was carefully lowered to the boat. Buffy remained by his side, keeping him steady as they made their descent. The poor Maia trembled with fear. Of all things in Eä, he dreaded the sea more than anything else. Wolfie did not stop whimpering until he had safely reached the deck of the ship.

Tarlanc manned the vessel, which was one of the mammoth ships that the people of Ossir had built in anticipation of the flood. The constant motion of the boat made the Slayer nauseous. She was not used to sailing on open waters, only the rivers of her former homeland. She now didn’t blame Maglor and his kin for traveling on horseback. If given the option, she would’ve done the same. By the time that she had gotten used to the motion of the vessel, they had reached their destination.

They dropped anchor amidst the numerous Valinorean ships. The Teleri of Alqualondë still refused to set foot in Middle-earth, and remained at sea, aboard their swan-shaped vessels. None of the ships had departed for the West, at Eönwë’s command. He wanted the entire fleet to sail together, and had no plans to leave Endor until he had met with Buffy, personally.

The Green-elves then lowered smaller boats into the water. These boats were used in Ossiriand on a daily basis, or at least, had been before the lands sunk under water. They were lightweight and much, much smaller than the craft that transported them. They were definitely more suitable for reaching the beach.

This time, a cargo net was draped over the side of the vessel, making it easier for those to climb down into the small boats. Once again, Sauron began to whimper and shake when he saw that he had to be lowered over the side of the ship. The Slayer climbed down alongside him, speaking soothingly in an attempt to alleviate his fears. She and the wolf were the last ones to board their boat. They would be traveling ashore with Thranduil, Orchal, Nestor, Bellason (Nestor’s now grown son), Tarlanc, Narudhur, Arachas, Nimrod, Elros and Elrond.

Sauron positioned himself between Buffy’s legs, trembling like a leaf. He buried his muzzle in her lap, whimpering the entire time as they rowed to shore. She kept her arms wrapped around the wolf, stroking him and reassuring him that everything would be fine.

Turning her gaze to the beach, she could see the roofs of many tents and pavilions beyond the dunes. Most of them had been provided by the Green-elves. Those from the West had lost most of their supplies during the flood. While the Teleri ships had a store of goods, they had not brought nearly enough to last fifty years. During the War of Wrath (as it was afterwards called), Ossir had provided food, clothing and medical supplies to the Valinorean armies. Thankfully, and by the grace of Ulmo, Nestor had had the foresight to laden their ships with a great store of food and supplies. However, even the Green-elves were beginning to run low on the necessities and after Buffy’s return, there was talk of having to ration what foodstuffs they had left.

Orchal sounded his horn. Those on the beach answered the call.

When the boat had reached about knee-deep water, the men exited the vessel, using care not to knock Buffy and Sauron into the sea. They pulled the boat ashore so that she and the wolf wouldn’t have to get wet. Finarfin, who was waiting to greet them with many of his kinfolk, helped the Slayer from the boat.

“Hail, Luinil,” the Noldo King said, bowing his head. “We are delighted to see that you have made it back. We have worried about your safety these many weeks.”

“I appreciate that, Finarfin, but you guys don’t need to worry about me. I always find my way home.”

The Elf Lord’s eyes darted to the trembling beast by Buffy’s side. He eyed the wolf for a moment before continuing, “Eönwë waits for you in his pavilion. He’s most anxious to speak with you.”

“As I am him,” she answered as Finarfin escorted her across the beach toward a worn pathway in the dunes.

“I never had the chance to really speak with you before. You know how it is when one is facing battle - you have to put aside pleasantries and such until afforded the time,” he said with a smile. “I bring you tidings from Tirion in Aman, my Lady, from my son, Finrod.”

“Finrod?” repeated the Slayer, shifting her gaze to the Noldo. The moment she said the elf’s name, she accidentally stepped on one of Sauron’s paws, causing the Maia to yelp. She quickly turned her attention to the wounded beast. “Sorry, Wolfie.” For a split second, her thoughts went to her old friend, Finrod, and the one responsible for his death. How ironic it was that his murderer was walking so closely beside her. So closely, that he was pushing her into Finarfin. Buffy looked back at the Noldo King. “I’m sorry, Finarfin, you were saying.”

“My son asked me to give this to you,” he replied, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a thick, sealed envelope.

“So, Finrod’s no longer in Mandos?” she queried excitedly, taking the envelope from Finarfin.

“Indeed. By the blessings of Námo, my son was not housed long in his Halls,” he answered with a smile. “He has, at long last, wed his beloved, Amarië.” The Noldo King chuckled. “Ah, but I shan’t say more. I’m sure that my son has told you much about that in his correspondence. I deem that he would want you to read of that in his words, not mine.”

“Thanks, Finarfin,” she answered with a smile. “Orchal, will you hold onto this for me until I have time to read it. It feels like Finrod has written me a book!” she chortled, handing the envelope to the Green-elf.

The Slayer’s eyes swept over the wolf. This time, a pang of guilt crept into her heart. Here she was seeking a pardon on behalf of one who had done so much harm to those that had dwelt in Beleriand. Was it wrong for her to ask that the Maia get a second chance, to allow him the opportunity to atone for his past sins? Or was she merely doing that in order to uphold her promise to the Necromancer?

No, she thought. He came on his own accord. Sauron is repentant for his past deeds. He has told me so himself.

Buffy became lost in her thoughts as the others made small talk. She barely noticed those Maiar and Eldar that greeted her in passing. Before she knew it, they had arrived at Eönwë’s pavilion. The blue, multi-chambered structure had been made by her people long ago. On the pitch of the roof was the banner of Manwë - an eagle with outstretched wings on a white field. Two guards, standing at attention, flanked the entrance.

Finarfin nodded to the men. The guards pulled back the flaps as the Noldo King motioned for the Slayer and her companions to enter.

Sauron, trembling worse than before, was hesitant to enter.

“Come on, Wolfie. It’s alright. I’m right here.” She coaxed the Maia into crossing the threshold after her. The others followed behind.

“Bella!” said the voice of Eönwë, rising from his chair and crossing the chamber.

Buffy turned, facing the herald of Manwë. She gave him a warm smile. “Hello, Eönwë.”

“I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see that you’ve escaped the destruction of Angband,” he continued, embracing her.

“Me too,” she answered, pulling out of the hug. “But I had help.”

Eönwë took a step back. He raised his brows in amazement, as he suddenly noticed the quivering wolf at her side. “Well done, Bellaseth! You’ve brought this servant of Melkor to me!” With a wave of his hand, he stripped Sauron from his beastly disguise.

Gasping, her companions leapt backward with looks of horror on their fair faces.

The Maia guards were quick to enter the chamber once they heard the words “servant of Melkor.” Both were quite eager to seize the Necromancer. Much to their dismay, Buffy stepped between them and the cowering form of Sauron, shielding his body with her own.

“You will not take him by force!” she declared with such authority that both men stopped. As Sauron clung to her legs, whimpering, she faced Eönwë once again. “Sauron has come of his own free will,” she continued amidst the anxious whisperings of those within the chamber. “He’s helped me on more than one occasion, when no one else would… or could. I’ve come, Eönwë, to ask that he be given a pardon by the Valar.”

“A pardon… for Sauron, Melkor’s greatest disciple?” queried the Maia in disbelief.

“Yes,” she answered firmly. “As I said, he helped me when no one else could. If not for him, I would never have been able to escape Melkor… or Marduk, or the destruction of Angband. He has given me aid when I needed it most, and it’s only fair that I should do the same for him.”

Eönwë was taken aback. “And you would have him forgiven for all the sins he has committed? Correct me if I’m wrong - but was he not the one responsible for the death of Finrod, your friend? And did not Beren lie dying in the uttermost dungeons of Minas Tirith until saved by Lúthien? Would you have the Valar forgive him for those deeds of cruelty and the many others he is responsible for whilst in Middle-earth?”

“He did as Melkor ordered,” she answered without missing a beat. “He’s the true culprit behind all the pain and sorrow inflicted upon the peoples of Middle-earth. You have no idea how manipulating Melkor can be, how deceptive, how cruel. Sauron was corrupted, deceived.” She shook her head. “He’s no different than the one you serve. Manwë was deceived - so were all of the Valar. Morgoth’s the true enemy. Sauron was… ” She paused, turning her pitiful gaze to the cowering Maia. “Sauron was his puppet, his lackey.” Buffy shifted her eyes back to Eönwë. “He’s repentant and wants to atone for his past misdeeds.”

“Surely, you are aware, Bella, that I have no authority to grant Sauron any type of pardon.”

“I know. But you’re the one in charge here. And I know that you’ve been keeping Manwë and the other Valar apprised of what’s been going on. You speak with him - whether telepathically or by messenger, I don’t know. All I ask is for you to speak with Manwë and see if he’s willing to give Sauron a second chance as he has done with Melkor. That’s all. I don’t want anything else.”

Feeling slightly dazed and confused by the whole situation, Eönwë returned to his seat. He quietly sat there, rubbing his chin in what looked like thoughtful contemplation. Buffy had no idea that he was actually consulting with his Lord back in Valinor, for he also had the gift of telepathy. She kept her arms protectively around Sauron, patiently waiting for some type of response from the Herald of Manwë.

After several minutes, it became clear to everyone in the chamber that Eönwë was indeed speaking telepathically to his Lord. His facial expression would change; sometimes he would nod or give a shake of his head. Yet none knew the extent of that conversation or what it bode for the Necromancer.

Nearly an hour past before Eönwë spoke. “I have conferred with my Lord, the King of Arda, and this is his pronouncement:” He fixed his gaze on the trembling Maia. “Sauron is to be brought back to Valinor and put in the Ring of Doom to answer for his deeds whilst in Middle-earth. The Valar will then decide his fate, and punish him accordingly.”

Sauron yowled when he heard Eönwë’s words, clinging to Buffy even tighter.

The Herald of Manwë then turned his blue eyes to the Slayer. “Manwë Súlimo has also declared, Luinil, that out of his love and respect for you, we are not to seize Sauron by force. If he is truly repentant and has come of his own accord as you say, then he shall have the right to board one of our ships freely, and face his judgment in the West.”

“That sounds fair enough,” answered Buffy. She struggled to pull Sauron from her legs. His grip was so tight that it felt like he was cutting off the circulation. Crouching beside him, she asked, “How’s that, Sauron? Do you agree that’s fair?”

Sauron turned his terrified eyes to the Slayer. He stuttered and stammered, seemingly unable to get the words out. She stroked his face, hoping her touch would calm him. After a few minutes, he settled down. At least enough to say, “May… may I walk amongst the shore… one… one last time… to… to clear my head and bid fare… farewell to these lands… before leaving for… for the West?” The poor Maia struggled to get the words out of his mouth. Both he and Buffy looked to Eönwë for the response.

“Yes,” he replied with a nod of his head. As Sauron rose to his feet, still trembling, the guards immediately flanked him on either side. Eönwë raised his hand. “Sauron is to go alone, unaccompanied by any. If he is indeed repentant and has come of his own free will, he will not flee.”

Buffy wasn’t sure, but it sounded to her as if Eönwë’s tone was filled with doubt.. Even the guards seemed to look at one another skeptically. Nevertheless, Sauron left the tent. Unbeknownst to her at the time, he would, later that night, disappear into the woods bordering the beach, and wander Middle-earth, plotting his next move. He had duped Buffy as well as his Master had.

When Sauron had exited the tent, Eönwë said, “Will you walk with me, Bella, on the beach? There is still much I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Okay,” she answered, relieved that she had kept her word to the Necromancer.

The Herald of Manwë suggested that they go barefoot on their leisurely stroll. Buffy went a step further and rolled up the legs of her breeches, not wanting them to get wet.

Eönwë and Buffy walked along the shoreline, the foamy waves licking at their feet. She had turned her gaze upwards, looking at Vingilot hovering in the sky. She then asked the Maia why Eärendil did not land the craft and spend some time with his grown sons. He then told her about Eärendil’s journey to Aman, his prayer to the Valar, and the gift that the Lord of Arda gave to him and his wife - to choose which kindred they wished to belong to - that of Man or Elf, and that both he and Elwing chose to be accounted amongst the Eldar. To their children, Manwë decreed, would be given the same choice. That was one of the reasons why Eönwë had sent out search teams looking for Buffy. Since she had succored the sons of Eärendil, and they loved her dearly, he wanted her to be there when Elros and Elrond got to choose which race they wished to be accounted amongst. She was pleased that Eönwë had thought so much of her as to wait, because that was something of which she really wanted to be a part.

When they had walked a few miles, far from the others, they sat on the beach, looking out at sea. They fell quiet, savoring the peacefulness of being away from the noise of the encampment. The smell of salt lingered in the air, and the breeze from the sea felt refreshing despite the heat of summer. One couldn’t ask for a more pleasant day.

Unfortunately, the silence brought to mind the nightmarish images she had experienced during her sleep. As her uneasiness grew, so did her restlessness. She began to dig her feet deep into the sand.

Eönwë watched the Slayer closely. He could perceive that something was wrong.

“What troubles you, Bella?” he finally asked, his concern evident in his voice.

“It’s that obvious, huh?” she responded with a snort.

“It is,” he replied, giving her a quick smile. “Is there something I can do?”

She leaned back, placing her hands in the hot sand behind her. Sighing heavily, she said, “You’ve done enough, Eönwë. I mean, you brought the hosts from Valinor and helped us defeat Melkor. Not to mention that you didn’t take Sauron by force. I can’t ask for anything more.” Buffy paused. “Besides, I haven’t been so nice to you and the Valar over the years. I’ve undoubtedly been quite the bitch at times,” she added in an attempt to lighten her mood. “Let’s face it, I’m sure there are not many that have told the Valar to fuck off.”

“Ah, but there were extenuating circumstances behind your comments,” chortled Eönwë. He too, was trying to lighten the mood. When their chuckling had died down, he continued. “In all seriousness, we have not always been there when you’ve needed us most. The Valar are most grieved over that. You have had to endure horrific trials, trials that no other Ainu could have withstood. I’ve witnessed firsthand the evil that has plagued Middle-earth, and I cannot see how any could have survived the terror brought about by Melkor. To know what you’ve been through, and how many of those whom you’ve loved have sacrificed themselves for the greater good… ” He paused, shaking his head. “You can never ask too much of us! We will do whatever we can to help ease your burden. We are not the enemy. Do not forget that, Bella. We are your allies and will do our best to help you in any way we can. That’s not to say that we haven’t made some errors in judgment, mistakes that have cost many lives.”

“It’s those lives that I think about,” she said, sitting upright and brushing the sand from her hands. “The Edain, specifically, the hardships that they’ve had to endure.” She turned her woeful eyes to the Maia. With a shake of her head, she continued. “You can’t imagine what they’ve been through. They followed me, Eönwë; they followed me from Sumer, out of love and loyalty. We spent fifty years traveling across Middle-earth to reach Beleriand.” She shifted her gaze to the sea, remembering that sorrowful journey. “We lost so many on the way. We had to deal with Melkor’s wrath, the bitter cold.” Buffy shuddered at the mere memory. “The Edain are not elves. They’re not made out of the same stuff as Ilúvatar’s elder children. Death takes them quickly. Their lives are so short. Hell, I’ve taken holidays longer than a mortal’s lifetime,” she added with a snicker.

A somber look came to her face. “Ever since I can remember, I’ve had disturbing dreams, prophetic dreams.” She glanced at the Maia. “I had one last night,” revealed the Slayer before averting her gaze, looking back at the sea. “I saw such horrors, Eönwë, such atrocities inflicted upon my people, those from the Three Houses.” Her eyes welled with tears as the images flashed in her mind. “I don’t want those things to happen. It can’t happen.” She faced the Maia. Choking back her tears, she faintly said, “We can’t let that happen.”

Eönwë fixed his sympathetic blue eyes on the Slayer. “And what would you have me do?”

Taking a deep breath, she said, “Take them with you. Take them back to Valinor where no harm can come to them.”

“Take them with me?” he repeated, stunned by her request. “You do not understand what you are asking! I cannot do that.”

“Why?” she asked, looking pleadingly at the Maia.

Eönwë took a moment to collect his thoughts before answering. “Because there they would whither as a flower in too bright of sunlight. Over time, they would become disillusioned and resentful as their own bodies age and ours do not.” He shook his head, and placed his hand on hers. “I am sorry, Bella, but that is one request that I cannot honor,” he said somberly.

Biting her lip, she thought for a moment. “What about the Lonely Isle, Tol Eressëa?” she suggested. “You can take them there! From what I hear, no one lives there any more.”

“I don’t know, Bella,” replied the Maia, flabbergasted by her suggestion. “It is no simple thing that you ask. Man’s domain is meant to be here in Middle-earth. To have them dwell so closely to Aman… ” The words died on his lips. Furrowing his brow, he looked to the sea, mulling over her second proposal. He wasn’t sure if the consequences would be the same if Man were to inhabit that isle, since it was not a part of Valinor. Yes, it was close by, yet it was still some distance away.

Seeing the fear in Buffy’s eyes made him consider asking those in the West about her request. The Edain had proven to be faithful, and they had joined in the war without hesitation. Even the Maia had to admit, if it weren’t for their numbers, they probably would still be on the battlefield. The Edain were the ones that had tipped the scale in their favor. And surely, they should be rewarded for their bravery and servitude.

“I will consult with my Lord later this evening,” he finally said. “I like the idea of giving them a land free of evil, for they have earned that right in my book.”

“I’m glad you agree with me.” That, alone, made Buffy feel happier. She had a feeling that if Eönwë agreed with her suggestion, so would the Manwë and his brethren.

Shortly thereafter, they began the trek back to the encampment.



After partaking of a midday meal of lembas bread, Eönwë presented Elros and Elrond with the opportunity to choose to which kindred they wished to belong.

Both men thought long about their decision, each wanting to make the right choice.

Elros, thought about the lore of Man that was taught to him by Maglor in his youth. He remembered his forefathers, especially Bëor/Sargon the Beloved, who had done such deeds of surpassing valor as King of Sumer and Akkad. Yet, the one thing that made him decide to be accounted amongst the race of Man was Buffy. He remembered the tales of old, how she had come into the world as a daughter of mortals, chosen as an instrument of Ilúvatar to slay evil at the young age of fifteen. Though he knew that her essence was that of a greater being, her hröa was that of Man, and he wished to keep the bloodline of her beloved Sargon going, for he knew how much that would mean to her. Elros knew that she had carefully documented the bloodline of Man since the days of Sumer, and that she continued to chronicle all births and deaths of the Edain in Western Middle-earth. Great things were to come to him, he deemed, if he chose to remain a mortal man.

Elrond, on the other hand, chose to be accounted amongst the elder children of Ilúvatar. Buffy had also influenced his decision. While he recalled the deeds of his forefathers and was most proud to be descendent from Lúthien (and Eärendil, no less), he felt that his being an elf would help the Slayer in upcoming skirmishes. Elrond had foreseen that a new evil would one day arise in Middle-earth and that his foster mother would come to depend on those whom she trusted most. She would need him, and he was not about to forsake her.

When their decisions had been made, Eönwë then did something that amazed all that witnessed it. Both men, now in their late fifties, had the years wiped away from their bodies, but not their minds. The grey streaks in their hair turned dark brown, and the lines of age on their fair faces became smooth once again. Elrond’s ears changed form, becoming leaf-like in shape, same as the elder children of Ilúvatar.

Having a better understanding of how swiftly Man aged, and as a gift to Elros (since he was the son of Eärendil), he gave to him a life span six times greater than his ancestors. To the rest of the Edain, out of their love and devotion to, not only Buffy, but the rest of the Valar, he granted unto them a life span three times greater than those not of the Three Houses of Man.

A delighted Buffy looked on as those present were granted the additional years to their life span. As her eyes scanned the more youthful looking crowd, they stopped when they came across part of the sea, bubbling. She eased her way through the throng to get a closer look. She then saw something break through the water’s surface, gradually rising. Amazed, she looked around her, wondering why no one was commenting on this extraordinary thing she was witnessing. All seemed oblivious.

Turning back to the sea, she watched in awe as a rocky mass continued to rise. It soon became clear that it was a mountain. Higher and higher it ascended, until she saw the lands from which it sprang emerge from the water. It was an island! A beautiful island. On the wind, she could hear the faint laughter of children coming from that place. Soon, dwellings of stone and wood appeared, dotting the seaside. She then heard a mingling of sounds, that of barking dogs, of music, and singing. She then saw men, women and children dancing with garlands around their necks in gardens of such lush loveliness. Among those people, she saw Elros, dressed in black and silver garments, happily dancing with a beautiful woman with long, dark hair.

At that moment, the heaviness on her heart lifted, only to be replaced with relief, followed shortly, by joy. With a blink of her eyes, the vision vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She then heard the faint notes of the Ulumúri fading from the water’s depths, and instinctively knew that Ulmo was behind that vision. And indeed, he was. Having heard her earlier conversation with Eönwë, the Lord of Water’s had gone to his brethren in the West and asked that they answer Buffy’s prayer. While the Valar deemed that Tol Eressëa was too close to the Blessed Realm for the Edain to call home, they would allow a new island to be raised, several hundred miles east of the Lonely Isle, and several hundred miles west of Middle-earth.

Smiling, the Slayer murmured the word, “Númenórë.” The name had popped in her mind as suddenly as the mirage on the water.

“What is that you said?” asked a bewildered Orchal, who, after seeing her wander off by the water’s edge alone, had followed.

Startled by his voice, she jumped, then laughed. She looked up at the Green-elf and said, “Numendor,” which was the Sindarin equivalent of Númenórë, which meant “West-land”.

She faced the ocean once again, grateful that the Lord of Waters had eased her worried mind. That day marked the official beginning of the Second Age.

Before she could tell Orchal what she had just witnessed, Eönwë joined them.

“I hate to intrude here,” he began, his eyes darting from the Elf to the Valië. “I only need a moment of your time, Luinil.”

“What is it?”

“I was not sure if you wished to send one of your own messengers to those Edain that dwell by your home or if you would like for me to send my own. They must come here, in person, if I am to extend the years of their lives.”

“I’ll do you one better, Eönwë. I’ll go myself. I’d love to be the one to tell them.”

“As you wish, my Lady,” he nodded before rejoining the others in their celebration.

She linked her arm with the Green-elf, ecstatic at the turn of events. Things seemed to be getting better and better. She confided to Orchal that there was something of great importance she wished to share with him, but wanted to wait until all their people were gathered together. Those that had sailed with her on the ship to the coast chose to return to Lindecoa with her, including both Elros and Elrond. They climbed back into their small boats, and rowed to the much larger vessel anchored at sea. Once on board, Tarlanc took his position at the helm, and they began their voyage home.

On the way, the falcons that she had sent out earlier, returned, bringing good news. They told her that Olofin was not too far from home, and that he was not alone. While searching for his mother, he had stopped at Lindórinand, hoping that she had found her way there. When Amdír, Lord of those Elves, heard all that had happened, he offered to help. Upon learning that the Green-elves food supply was dwindling, the King of the Wood wished to help his kinsmen. He had had his people load carts with much needed food, and had set out with the half-elf to Lindecoa. Before departing, he had also sent out his own search teams to look for the missing Blue Lady. Those elves, in turn, had notified the Onodrim that dwelled nearby, and they too joined in the search.

By the time that Buffy’s ship arrived home, the travelers were already there. That only gave more reason for the Green-elves and their kindred to celebrate. Nothing, absolutely nothing could damper the Slayer’s spirits. Even the fact that there was no news of Maglor or Maedhros did not give her cause for alarm. At least, not yet.

A feast was held that evening. All the mighty Lords and Ladies from Ossir were in attendance, as well as those that had come from Lindórinand. After the meal, Buffy announced that Elros would become the first king of a soon-to-be-raised isle, Númenórë, and that all the Edain would be given additional years to their life spans.

She then summoned Elros to her throne. “I have no kingly gift to give except for this,” she said, placing the Cross of Brolach in the mortal’s hand. “This has been an heirloom of your House from the days of Brolach the Faithful, the father of your kindred in Sumer. It has been passed down through the eldest line of Men for centuries and it now rightly belongs to you, my son.”

With his jaw agape, Elros dropped to one knee. He was stunned and amazed to have such an item of antiquity in his possession, something of which he had only heard rumor, but had never seen before that day, for the lore of Man continued to pass down from generation to generation though they did not speak openly about it with the elves.

“My Lady,” he began, his voice full of awe. “This is indeed a kingly gift, and the greatest heirloom of my kindred. Not only is the Cross of Brolach a symbol of hope, but it represents the strength of my forefathers and their success at fighting the oppressors that held sway over them for years untold. No greater gift could you give me.” Bowing his head, he added, “I will treasure it always. And when the time comes, I shall pass it on to my first son.”

“Rise, King of Númenórë,” she said, beaming.

The mortal got back to his feet, standing at his full height.

Buffy then embraced him, placing a kiss on his forehead.

The crowd exploded in applause, whistling at the first king of the soon-to-be-raised isle.

“Settle down. Settle down,” ordered the Slayer, waiting for the applause to subside. “I’m not finished yet.”

“You’re not?” queried Elros.

When the clamor had died down, she continued. “It is only right that the first king of Númenórë have a kingly name as well. On your knee, Elros,” she added with a smile.

He dropped back down, clutching the Cross of Brolach in his right hand.

Buffy took the sword of Húrin from Orchal and placed the tip of the blade on Elro’s right shoulder. “Today the Three Houses become united as one. I hereby declare you to be the first lord of the Dúnedain, the Edain of the West, and grant unto you the name Tar-Minyatur in the High Elven tongue, for you are the first of many kings to come. May the blessings of Ilúvatar and the Valar remain with you, always and forever.”

She then lifted the tip of the blade from his shoulder, as the room broke out into applause. The Slayer handed the blade back to Orchal, who then slid it back into its sheathe. The celebration continued well into the night…



Meanwhile, Maglor, Maedhros and those few men that refused to forsake them, arrived outside the encampment of Eönwë and the hosts of Valinor. The elder son of Fëanor then sent two messengers into the camp, whose purpose was to find where the two Silmarils were housed and demand that Eönwë surrender them to the surviving brothers.

Garbed in the raiment of the Green-elves, the men then slipped into camp and began questioning those elves in a round about way as to the location of the coveted Jewels of Fëanor. After a couple of hours, the spies of Maedhros found the location. The Silmarils were locked in a wooden box, in a tent close by to the Herald of Manwë, protected by only a handful of Noldo warriors.

Once the men learned of this, they went to Eönwë’s pavilion and demanded to speak with him. When the duo was brought before the Maia, they made their demands, that he return the Jewels of Fëanor to their rightful owners - Maedhros and Maglor.

The elven messengers’ demeanor deeply dismayed Eönwë, grieving him at heart. Yet, he refused to surrender the Silmarils, saying that the surviving sons of Fëanor needed to return with him to Valinor to answer for their deeds. Only those in the West, not the Herald of Manwë, had the authority to relinquish the Jewels.

Bitter and angered by the Maia’s words, the men left the encampment, disappearing into the woods. They then met with Maedhros and Maglor, telling them of Eönwë’s reply, as well as the location of the Silmarils.

Maedhros’ eyes narrowed. Looking to the west, he grumbled, “I curse the long days of summer!” Though it was late, the sun had not yet sunk below the lands. The elder son of Fëanor knew they could not make their move until darkness covered the land.

“I don’t know about this, Russandol,” started Maglor, who had misgivings about the whole thing. “Perhaps we should do as Eönwë says. If we return to Aman, perhaps the Valar will show us mercy, and forgive us our sins. Then we will… ”

“Nonsense!” interjected Maedhros heatedly. “The Valar wish to claim the Jewels for themselves! The Silmarils contain the only Light of the Blessed Trees and they will not give them back to us, the rightful owners, under any circumstances. They would keep them for themselves - just as father always said!” He wrinkled his face in anger and disgust. “They are thieves, plain and simple.” He turned his grey eyes to his brother. “You need not forget that, Maglor. We have lost many of our kindred because of their lust for the Silmarils.”

“Have we not brought the darkness upon ourselves, Russandol?” countered Maglor, who felt that he had more to lose than his brother. “Did we not swear that dreadful Oath, which has brought nothing but misery and death to our people?”

“And it is the Oath that binds us, brother,” came the reply of Maedhros. “We are bound to fulfill it or all will be for naught. We have no other choice. We leave at nightfall.” The copper-headed Noldo then walked off, leaving his younger brother to his own thoughts.

Maglor looked in the direction of Lindecoa, knowing that his wife had probably returned home by now. After hearing the news of Elros and Elrond, the Noldo longed to be with his family. His heart ached with such sorrow, realizing that Maedhros was right - they had to fulfill the Oath, or die trying. It was a Curse of their own creation. And they had to see it through, as it was fated to be.

Maglor wandered off, away from the others, who continued to keep a close eye on him in case he had second thoughts and attempted to flee. But there was no need, for he was a son of Fëanor, and the Doom of the Oath prevented him from doing so. His loyal kinfolk watched in silence as Maglor wept, foreseeing now that he would be parted from his wife, child, and loved ones, forever.

Despite the harshness of his words and the look of determination on his face, Maedhros too was struggling with his promise to fulfill the Oath. Yet, every time he closed his eyes, even for a moment, he saw his father, vowing that by regaining the Silmarils, the Noldo’s prayers would be answered.

“Truly a warrior of such great prowess as yourself should be wed to the Vala Queen of great strength and skill in battle. Regain the Silmarils, my son,” goaded Fëanor in Maedhros’ mind’s eye, “and the Lady Luinil will see the error of her ways. Her heart will turn to you and she will cleave to you, bringing forth mightier children than Olofin. For two warriors such as you and she belong together. Fulfill the Oath, and you shall experience such joy and bliss that you have never known.”

Those words, along with others like them, incited the eldest son of Fëanor to continue on, no matter how distressing he thought it to be. He had to remember his father’s words: that blood was thicker than water. Not only that, but his reward would be great, and to know such happiness, how could he not go on?

When darkness finally settled amidst the lands, Maedhros, Maglor and their men mounted their horses and made their way into the encampment. All disguised themselves as Green-elves, wearing the traditional green cloaks of their kindred, for none would accost them as they would be welcomed by all. They kept their hoods pulled over their heads, hiding their faces, so that no could discover their true identities or the true purpose of their visit.

Many of the elves and Maiar had gone to bed, but many were still awake, patrolling the camp. When those from the House of Fëanor neared the tent in question, they dismounted from their steeds. Having laid out their plans beforehand, the Noldo quietly took their positions, encircling the tent that housed their greatest treasure.

Maedhros, with a few trusted kinsmen, slowly crept along one side of the tent, while Maglor and a few of his men did the same on the opposite side. The dim light from within revealed that two more guards were stationed close to the wooden box. Those from the House of Fëanor would employ stealth to achieve their goal, something that Buffy had taught them well, back in the day.

Two of the Noldor then created a ruckus, several yards away, hoping to draw the attention of the elven guards. The guards never left their post, but keenly watched as the ensuing argument turned to blows.

Both sons of Fëanor acted with precision and with deadly accuracy. In one fell swoop, they each snatched a guard, placing one hand over the captive’s mouth, the other around the chest. As Maglor held his struggling foe, one of his men delivered the deadly blow, gutting the elvish guard so that his intestines fell from his belly.

Maedhros used his large arms to snap the neck of his captive. The cracking sound reverberated in the darkness, thus causing one of those within the tent to ask his fellow guards on the outside about the noise. Only a moment later, he rose from his chair to investigate why his friend had not answered.

Everything seemed to be moving so quickly, yet so slowly at the same time. The sons of Fëanor, tossing the dead men to the ground, now realized the folly in their plan. The two men from their Household had gotten so loud in their arguing that they had drawn the attention of many others, including Eönwë, Tulkas, and Oromë.

Seeing that they had no time to waste, those from the House of Fëanor charged into the tent with their weapons drawn, slaying the guards and seizing the box. By the time they had exited the tent, a great assembly of elves and Maiar had gathered around. Someone noticed the slain elves on the ground, and rang the alarm.

It had happened that quickly.

The others from the House of Fëanor began to attack those nearest to their Lords, as Maedhros and Maglor engaged their kinsmen from Tirion in battle. Those that had accompanied them died at the hands of their combatants, as Maedhros and Maglor tried to cleave their way back to their horses. They killed many of their brethren, a sight that compelled Eönwë to call his men back, allowing both sons of Fëanor to escape.

Both Maedhros and Maglor leapt upon their horses and fled north, following the western eave of the wood.

Though filled with great sorrow and anguish for those slain, Eönwë ordered his men not to give chase. The Oath of Fëanor had now been fulfilled, and the two surviving sons were about to learn that they cannot flee from a doom greater than they.

The sons of Fëanor did not stop until they were many leagues away. When they had made their way behind a wall of smoke from one of the fiery chasms, they stopped so that they could each claim his Jewel that so many before them had died for.

Maglor tightly held the box as Maedhros carefully broke the lock. Excited, he slowly lifted the lid, the blinding Light of the Silmarils illuminating their blood-streaked faces.

With lustful eyes, the brothers looked upon the Silmarils, joyful that they had succeeded in their quest.

“At long last,” said a breathless Maedhros, reaching for one of the Jewels with his only hand.

“The heirlooms of our House are now ours,” said Maglor happily, as he reached for his Silmaril.

Both brothers retrieved his Jewel at the same time, screaming in pain once their fingers had wrapped around the Silmarils. The box fell from Maglor grip, as the hallowed Jewels turned their fingers and hands black as it had with Morgoth.

At that moment, they comprehended with a clarity that they had not seen before, all the evil they had done that had brought them to that point.

The madness of that realization hit Maedhros first. Like a wild man, he took off running, running as fast as his long legs could move. He disappeared into the thick plumes of smoke before leaping into the fiery chasm, still clutching the Silmaril in his withered hand. His screams intensified for a moment as the flames eagerly devoured his flesh, killing the first son of Fëanor.

Grief-stricken, Maglor remained frozen to the spot, tears streaming down his blood-splattered face. The pain in his hand was excruciating, but the agony in his heart was even worse. Taking off in the opposite direction of his brother, he ran along the cliff’s edge, stopping when the stitch in his side demanded he do so. Weeping, he turned to the sea, thinking that it might take his life.

But as he stood on the edge of the rocky wall, Maglor recalled the words that Buffy had said to him long ago:

“By drinking my blood, you’ll never truly die, nor will your hröa fade from grief.”

“Oh, my darling Bellaseth, how I wish now that I would have heeded your words and had forsaken the Oath!” cried out the Noldo. Overcome with such guilt and sorrow, and deeming himself unworthy of keeping the Jewel, the Elf Lord mustered all his strength and threw the Silmaril far out into the sea.

His newly blackened hand was a testament to the evil he had wrought, and the pain would be a constant reminder of that evil for the rest of his miserable days. He feared to return home, thinking that his loved ones would look upon him with scorn and shame.

Maglor then realized that he had ended up sacrificing everything for the Silmarils, as there was no way he could go back home. Bereft of all joy, he continued his trek north. None of the Eldar or Edain would ever see the son of Fëanor again, as his doom was to wander alone, in regret, singing songs of lamentations of what once was. His misdeeds left him hollow, a mere empty shell of his former, noble self…



The following morning, Buffy awoke, feeling refreshed and as happy as she had been the night before. She had experienced a night free from dreams (or nightmares for that matter), and looked forward to the day with a renewed vigor.

Today, the rest of the Edain would board the ships and sail to the encampment on the coast. Once they were there, Eönwë would mystically add years to their lives, as well as teach them things that none of their kindred had ever learned before.

After eating breakfast, she, the Green-elves and the Noldor helped lower the mortals to the ships below. When the first vessel was nearly filled to capacity, she joined those on that ship, wanting to be with the first party to arrive on the coast.

Everyone was in high spirits. They sang and laughed as the ship glided effortlessly upon the waters. The conditions were favorable. The winds blew from the southeast, hastening their voyage. By midday, they had already crossed the gulf, and had entered the vastness of Belegaer. Keeping close to the coast, they continued to sail north. The Edain grew excited when they first caught sight of the numerous ships from Valinor.

Buffy too was excited for the Edain. She felt that life couldn’t get any better, that things were perfect. How could they not be? Morgoth had been overthrown, and Man’s reward for their aid in the war had far surpassed her expectations. Yes, life was good, and she deemed it would only be smooth sailing from there on out.

Yet, she couldn’t help but notice something was a bit different since her visit the previous day. As their ship neared the Teleri vessels, she felt something, something like an aching in her heart. Making her way to the prow of the boat, her eyes scanned the many Valinorean ships until they stopped on one in particular. With her heart beating wildly, she instinctively knew that Morgoth was locked away on that boat, mourning all that he had lost.

Her lips slowly curled into a smile, as she chuckled under her breath. She had the sudden desire to see Melkor imprisoned, hog-tied by the mystical chain, Angainor. Not only would that make her day, but also it would be nice to revel in the fact that she had won, and he had lost. The longer she stood there, the greater her desire became.

She then made her way to the helm, and pointed out to Tarlanc where she wanted him to anchor their vessel. The Green-elf was slightly bewildered by her command since it was further out to sea than he had intended. But the Elf Lord was not about to question his Queen, and did as ordered.

Once the boat was anchored, the elves began lowering the smaller vessels into the water. Buffy and her closest kin climbed down the cargo net and into the boat. The men then rowed the hundred yards to the Teleri ship where Melkor was confined. Despite Thranduil’s constant questioning, she refused to disclose why she wished to go to that boat.

“Hail, Lady Luinil,” shouted the Captain of the vessel. The silver-haired elf looked familiar to her though she had never met him.

“Hi!” she said in reply. “May I board your vessel?” she asked, getting straight to the point.

“Why, of course,” he answered. “Give me a moment, please.” His head disappeared for several seconds before returning. “We’ll lower a rope for you, my Lady, if that is alight?”

“That’s fine,” she answered, anxious to board the ship.

A couple of elves then lowered a rope. As soon as she was able to grab it, she did, and began to scale the side of the wooden hull.

“I’m coming, Nana,” she heard Olofin call from below.

Looking over her shoulder she answered, “Stay. I’ll only be a few minutes,” before continuing her climb.

An ominous feeling crept into the half-elf’s heart, as he now perceived that Morgoth was locked away somewhere on that ship. He didn’t immediately share that information with any, thinking that no harm could come to his mother with so many Maiar on board.

“Let us help you, my Lady,” said one of the Teleri elves.

“Thanks,” answered Buffy, as she climbed over the railing of the vessel. When both feet hit the deck, she turned to the elf that had greeted her. “Hi, again. I’m Bella,” she smiled, “or at least, I prefer to be called that.”

“Hail, Bella,” replied the Captain with a nod. “I am Olwë, Lord of Alqualondë, and Captain of this vessel.”

“Ohh,” said Buffy knowingly. “You’re Thingol and Elmo’s brother.”

“That I am,” he nodded yet again, although this time, with a solemn expression on his face.

“I was very fond of both of them,” she replied, remembering their deaths at the hands of the dwarves. “Just so you know, my people avenged their deaths. Those dwarves responsible for the sacking of Menegroth never returned to their home in the mountains.”

Olwë’s eyes widened, as he was slightly taken aback by her comments. While the elf was familiar with the story of Lúthien and Beren, and knew in his heart of his brothers passing, he knew nothing about dwarves or the attack on Menegroth.

“We of the Teleri kindred do not avenge death with death for we believe that those that commit such crimes will have to answer for their misdeeds sooner or later,” he replied grimly.

Buffy felt her face flush. Having been on cloud nine all day, she had given no thought to the Kinslaying at Alqualondë or the fact that it were the Noldor, led by her husband’s kinfolk, that had attacked Olwë’s people for their ships long ago. From the look on the Elf Lord’s face, she could see that that wound had not yet healed.

She cleared her throat in an attempt to conceal her sudden uneasiness. “Be that as it may, we did what we believed to be right. My job is to keep evil in check. And I, for one, am glad that we avenged the death of your kin.” She shook her head, desperate to change the subject. “But that’s beside the point, I have come… ”

“…to see him, have you not?” he said, completing her sentence. “You wish to see our prisoner.”

“That’s right.”

Olwë sighed heavily, glancing at the many faces of those that had congregated around them. His face became grave, as he fixed his grey eyes on her. “Would you heed my counsel, Lady, if I told you that my heart tells me that only ill will come from your meeting with one as callous as Morgoth, the Dark Foe? No good will come from it, I deem.”

“I’m sorry, Olwë, but it’s something I have to do,” she answered. “You have no idea what he’s put us through. I need to see him. I need to see him face to face.”

The Elf Lord turned toward the West, contemplating her request. His heart ached with foreboding for such a meeting to take place. He closed his eyes for a moment, as Buffy’s impatience grew.

“Listen, Olwë, I’m only asking for a few minutes. It’s not like I’m gonna abscond with him or anything,” she snickered, rolling her eyes in annoyance. “I just need to see him,” she said a bit more firmly. “And I’m afraid that I won’t take no for an answer.”

The Elf Lord’s eyes slowly opened. He let out yet another heavy sigh. “If that is your command, then who am I to deny one of such power,” he answered, refusing to meet her gaze. “Though Morgoth’s magicks have been hindered by the magic of Angainor, the power of his words still hold.” Olwë turned his doleful eyes to the Slayer. “Do not allow him to use that power against you, for he is a master of lies and will use that gift to your detriment.”

The elf’s comments were beginning to really irritate Buffy. Who was he to tell her about Morgoth’s powers when she had witnessed them firsthand?

“Where is he?” she demanded, not in the mood to continue what she considered a pointless conversation.

Olwë stared at her for a moment before giving a slight nod of his head.

A couple of Maiar then came forth. “This way, Luinil,” said one of them, motioning for her to follow.

She said nothing else to the Lord of Alqualondë and was grateful when she didn’t have to speak with him any more. She quickly pushed all thoughts of the Kinslaying out of her mind, so that she could fully enjoy her meeting with Melkor Bauglir.

Her Maia escorts spoke to the Slayer as they climbed down a narrow stairway leading below deck, reassuring her that Olwë merely had her best interests at heart. Unfortunately, she ignored all they had to say. The excitement of seeing Morgoth hog-tied was too great for her to think of anything else.

Two Maia guards sat outside the door that lead to the holding chamber where Melkor was locked inside. When the men learned the reason behind Buffy’s unexpected visit, they too seemed taken aback. Nonetheless, they obediently unlocked the mystical locks on the door, allowing her entry.

Stepping inside, Buffy’s eyes scanned the massive room. In its center lay Morgoth, still hog-tied with Angainor, with a dark green hood over his head. Surrounding him were twelve more Maia guards, seated in tall backed wooden chairs. Each had their weapon of choice girded at their sides, though the mystical chain of Aulë would prevent the Vala from escaping.

“Leave us,” she ordered, her gaze never leaving the demonic form of Morgoth on the floor.

“But, my Lady… ” protested one of the Maiar.

“I said, leave us,” she said, more firmly.

“It is unwise… ”

“God damn it!” she barked, shifting her narrowed eyes to the Maia questioning her. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” she hissed in a threatening tone.

The men looked warily at one another, the fear on their faces evident. One by one, they began marching out of the room. “We’ll be just outside, my Lady,” commented one of her escorts.

She heard the door close, shutting out the voices of those beyond it.

“Hello, Melindo,” she said, crossing her arms before her chest, eyeing the still form of Morgoth.

“I knew you’d come to me,” he answered in a gravely voice from beneath the hood.

Wanting to savor the moment even more, she strolled up to Melkor, squatting so that she could remove the hood that covered his face. She had to see him, to look him in the eyes so that he could see her reveling at his capture.

Upon seeing her smile, a scowl came to the Vala’s face. “Ah, so you’ve come to gloat at my misfortune, have you not?”

Her smile widened. “You know me so well,” she cheerfully replied. She grabbed the nearest chair and pulled it closer to the Vala. Taking a seat, she leaned back, crossing her legs, delighted to be in the position she now found herself.

Morgoth’s eyes never left her. He continued to glare at her.

After a moment or two, she said with a snicker, “Sucks to be you.”

“Is that so?” he said, his dark eyes burning with resentment.

“Yep!” she chortled. Folding her arms across her chest, she continued. “You finally got your just rewards! Hopefully, the Valar will beat you to death as you did Fingolfin.” A dreamy look came to her face as she pictured that in her mind. “That would be sweet! Or, or maybe they’ll quarter you,” she added excitedly. “You know, tie each one of your appendages to one of Oromë’s horses before they gallop in different directions. That would be pretty cool too. And just! Let’s not forget that you deserve what’s coming to you.” She waved her finger for added emphasis before laughing yet again.

“After all that I’ve done for you - succoring you in your hour of need - you would throw me to the wolves! That is a new low, even for you, Melisse.” A small smile came to the Vala’s face. “You are becoming more like me with each passing day, and that is good.”

“You wish!” she shot back amusedly. “You’re so screwed, don’t you see that? You’re finally gonna pay for all the horrible shit that you’ve done to the people of Middle-earth. The slower your death, the better!”

“And yet you are still unconvinced that you are not like me when you make such proclamations,” he said, as one of his brows slowly lifted in doubt. When he saw that his comments did not have the desired effect, Morgoth tried a different route. “You are blind, Melisse, blind to all that is really going on!”

“You’re grasping at straws here, Melindo,” she laughed in reply.

“Am I now?” he queried mockingly. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. And here I thought you had grown wiser with age, and now, I’m sorry to say, that that is not the case. You still desperately cling to the belief of redemption, Melisse, when that is but a fallacy. My most faithful servant repents of nothing! Yet you so willingly want to see the good in people that you most unwisely allowed him into your house!” he cackled. “Do you think that Sauron was not carrying out his Lord’s wishes, that all he had said and done after the destruction of my lands were not by my orders? You are a trusting fool, Melisse.”

His words rattled the Slayer though she tried not to show it. She forced herself to maintain that grin on her face despite the fact that her heart had begun to race, causing beads of sweat to form on her face and neck.

“Now where is that Noldo husband of yours, I ask?” he continued in a low hiss. “Where could he and his kinfolk be? Could it be that they’ve been up to mischief at my instigation?”

Buffy found herself nearly speechless. All she could utter in reply was, “You lie.”

“I have never lied to you, Melisse! The foundation of our union is strong, unbreakable. We are bound together, you and I. The elf was a mere distraction, a distraction that I have now gotten rid of.”

Leaping from her seat, she demanded, “What have you done? Where’s Káno?”

Morgoth’s dark lips twisted into a malicious grin. He was overjoyed to see that the tables had been turned, and that his beloved was now getting a taste from the cup of woe that he had been forced to consume. But the Dark Lord was merely getting started, for he wanted to ensure that Buffy’s fate was the same as his own.

“The Doom has caught up with the sons of Fëanor at last,” he said gleefully, relishing the look on his lover’s paling face. “Yes, Melisse, your beloved Kánafinwë has chosen to honor the Oath of his father rather than his oath to you. He and his closest kinfolk have entered the encampment of those from the West and have stolen the Jewels of their father… He is dead, Melisse. He and his brother are dead.”

“You’re lying!” she spat angrily. “You’re nothing but a liar!” Despite her words of protest, Buffy couldn’t help but notice the sudden numbness in her body.

“You continue to doubt what I say?” he queried, his tone full of disappointment. “Ask Eönwë. Or Oromë. Then you will see that I speak the truth.” Seeing her body begin to tremble, her bottom lip quivering, the Vala continued, wanting to break her, as he had been broken. “Let me enlighten you to some things, my dear, for I deem that it’s time that you hear the truth.”

Buffy’s mind was whirling with confusion. Surely, she would’ve known if Maglor had died. Certainly, she would have felt it. But she didn’t. On the other hand, her body was reacting to the words of Morgoth as if he were telling her the truth, as if he knew of things that she did not. Had she allowed herself to be so consumed with joy and happiness over the Edain that she did not ‘see’ what was really going on within her own House? Was she blinded to some secret agenda of the sons of Fëanor, yet again? Had Sauron stirred up trouble whilst under her roof?

“I have the gift of foresight - you know that, Melisse,” he began again. “Once you meet with Eönwë and his kin, you will learn that Sauron has fled into the night - proving my words to be true. You’ve aided his escape, my dear, and for that, I am grateful. Because of your prayer, my most trusted servant will be able to continue on with my noble cause, the enslavement of the people of Middle-earth,” he revealed, snickering as he spoke.

At that revelation, Buffy felt as though her heart had dropped to her stomach. Her mouth went dry.

Melkor forced her to lock eyes with him. Then, speaking in a somewhat urgent tone, he went on, “Come closer, Melisse, for there is something I must warn you about.”

Unable to restrain herself, the Slayer stepped closer, crouching beside the Vala’s beastly form.

“I do not want your fate to be the same as mine, Melisse,” he whispered in that same urgent voice. “You must remain here, in Middle-earth, to tend to our children. That is why I shall tell you what I see, so that you will be prepared to act accordingly when these things unfold.”

Morgoth never broke eye contact with his beloved, using his deep connection with her to hold her gaze. “Beware of Oromë Aldaron for he is truly a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” he began. “Once you have learned of your husband’s betrayal, you will grieve at heart, fleeing into the wood. The Vala will come to you, under the guise to comfort you - but believe it not, Melisse! - for he will reveal his true intention, that he seeks comfort in you, for his marriage to Vána is not one of great happiness.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in. “He will seduce you, Melisse. In your deepest sorrow, the Vala will seduce you, thinking so little of your love for the Noldo.”

Buffy’s jaw dropped, yet her eyes remained locked with Melkor’s, stunned by all he was saying.

“Oromë feels that you are worthy of being his mistress in Middle-earth. He lusts after you, one whose prowess rivals his own. He will see you as his plaything, a means of fulfilling his bodily desire whilst away from his wife. Do not let that happen, Melisse! Kill him! Kill him as swiftly as you may when he attempts to lay with you.”

The Slayer attempted to speak, but found herself unable to utter a single word.

“It gets worse, my beloved, far worse,” Morgoth continued in a more serious tone. “Manwë’s most trusted spy continues to whisper lies about you into his master’s ear. The Lord of Eagles’ loathing for you knows no bounds. He seeks to destroy you, utterly. His lies will drive the Valar to bring you before the Ring of Doom…”

Buffy’s eye’s widened in shock upon hearing that. She didn’t hear much more of what Melkor had to say other than, “Do not go willingly, my love, for they truly see you as an enemy, though they hide that from you. They are jealous of the gifts that Ilúvatar has bestowed upon you, especially Folkvang. They have seized control of your mystical realm out of jealousy. Why should you have a kingdom all your own when they must share the power in Valinor? That is why you have not been able to return there. They have taken your realm from you. Fight them, Melisse! Fight them every step of the way.”

Slowly, the Slayer rose to her feet, sick to her stomach. A part of her couldn’t believe what Morgoth was saying, but a part of her did. There was only one way to confirm anything that he had said and that was to speak with Eönwë.

Still dazed, she started toward the door.

“Melisse,” called out Morgoth.

She turned, facing the Vala, but with her eyes fixed on the floor. Breaking eye contact with him had released her from Melkor’s spell but she sure didn’t want him to look into her eyes allowing him to read her thoughts, to see her doubt.

“I can help. I can help you fight them,” he pleaded, his hopeful dark eyes looking beseechingly at her. “You have the strength to break my bonds. Free me! Free me, and together we can right the wrongs against us.”

“Rot in hell,” she said between gritted teeth, before turning her back on the evil Vala. She made her way to the door, knocking on the wood so the others could let her out.

As soon as Buffy had left the room, the guards were quick to re-cover Morgoth’s head. They did not see him smiling wickedly beneath the hood, delighted that he had set his final plan in motion. His beloved was on her way to commit one of the most heinous sins imaginable - the murder of an Aratar.

Soon, Melisse, thought the jubilant Vala, we will be reunited, and together we will plot our revenge on all in Arda. That thought alone helped ease Melkor’s fear in regards to facing his own fate at the hands of those in West.



Morgoth’s prophetic words consumed the Slayer’s thoughts as she made her way to the upper-most deck. She did not immediately notice that her traveling companions had boarded Olwë’s vessel while she spoke with Melkor below. As soon as they saw her, they stopped talking, staring at her with their deeply concerned eyes.

Olofin, Orchal and Thranduil dashed across the wooden deck and confronted Buffy before she truly knew what was happening. Apparently, she must have looked distressed, as each bombarded her with questions, all three speaking at the same time.

Unsure whether she should divulge what Melkor had said, she demanded that they leave immediately so that she could speak with Eönwë. Making her way to the side of the ship, she cast a quick glance at the Lord of Alqualondë. He slowly shook his head, mouthing the words, ‘I’m truly sorry.’

Those three little words frightened her more than anything. What exactly was Olwë sorry for? Her mind was racing, thinking over everything that Morgoth had said.

It’s true, she thought as she leapt over the railing and into the small boat bobbing on the water. Káno’s dead. Why else would Olwë say that?

No, no he’s not, disputed that other voice in her head. You’d know! You’d know if he were dead. Melkor is a master of lies. Speak with Eönwë. Speak with Eönwë before drawing any conclusions.

The boat could not reach the shore fast enough for her. Frustrated at the slow pace of the vessel, she snatched the oars from Elros and Elrond, manning them herself. Clenching her teeth, she rowed as hard as she could. With the sun beaming down, sweat poured off her as she utilized her slayer strength to get them to shore as fast as her arms could move. Despite her muscles throbbing in protest, and her eyes burning from the sweat dripping into them, she struggled on. Squinting, she watched as they came closer and closer to the shoreline, still refusing to answer any questions, only saying that she had to speak with Eönwë.

When the boat reached the beach, the Slayer climbed out and took off running toward Eönwë’s pavilion. She couldn’t help but notice the mournful faces of the elves and Ainur that she passed. It seemed obvious to her that something had happened. She prayed that it had nothing to do with Maglor, hoping beyond anything, that the long faces were do to Sauron’s escape. That, she could live with.

She flew past the guards stationed outside the pavilion, and into the first chamber of Eönwë’s quarters. In her haste, she nearly collided with the elf standing on the other side of the doorway, oblivious to the fact that it was none other than Ereinion, who had arrived earlier that morning with Círdan and their people.

With her chest heaving from her sprint, and sweat still dripping down her face, she pushed the wet strands of hair from her face as she eased her way through the many people in attendance. Some were still weeping. Others had been, as evidenced by their red and puffy eyes, Eönwë amongst them.

On the opposite side of the chamber, chairs were arranged in a semi-circle. Those that had sailed from the West, namely the highest ranking Noldor, Maiar and Valar occupied the seats. Eönwë sat at its center, presiding over the counsel.

Stepping before the Herald of Manwë, in a breathless voice, she asked, “Is it… is it true?”

As soon as she had asked the question, many of those present bowed their heads, loathing the fact that Buffy was about to hear a firsthand account of the tragedy that had taken place the night before.

When Eönwë did not immediately answer, she posed her question again.

“You speak of Maglor, Maedhros and those from their House, I take it,” replied the Maia solemnly. He paused, searching for the words that would make his response less painful to the Slayer. Unfortunately, he could find no words to make the blow any less devastating.

Buffy could only nod her head, as she tried to catch her breath.

Inhaling deeply, Eönwë said, “Yes, Bella, it is true. Those from the House of Fëanor raided our camp… ”

The moment he said ‘raided our camp’, the Slayer’s legs turned to Jell-o. She collapsed to the carpeted floor.

Several men leapt from their seats, each wanting to help her to their vacated chairs.

Buffy raised her hand, motioning for them to stop. “Don’t… ” That was the only word she could get out. Frantically holding back the tears that were already forming in her eyes, she looked back at Eönwë, wanting to hear the entire story.

The Maia then began where he had left off, sparing no grisly detail.

The Slayer went numb as Eönwë spoke, his tale validating all that Morgoth had told her. Right before he had said, “Once they had regained the Silmarils, they fought their way to freedom, killing many… ” those that had journeyed ashore with her had entered the pavilion.

“NO!” cried out Olofin in dismay. He didn’t have to hear mention of his father’s name to know that Eönwë was speaking of him. Who else would ‘regain the Silmarils’?

Buffy glanced over her shoulder when she heard her son’s anguished cry. He and the rest of her loved ones began to weep, realizing that the Doom of the Oath had come to fruition. Seeking to comfort their Queen, whom they knew had to be ailing from the news; her loved ones joined her on the floor. The Slayer forced herself to keep it together, not only for her son’s sake, but her own as well.

Olofin and Thranduil sat on either side of her. They wrapped their arms around Buffy, and she them. She desperately held back her emotions, trying to be strong for the others. As her boys clung to her, sobbing, she turned her teary eyes back to Eönwë.

“Is he dead?” she asked over the howling cries of her loved ones. “Is my beloved Káno dead?”

Eönwë, close to tears himself, replied, “What does your heart tell you?”

“My heart,” started Buffy, on the verge of losing it herself, “my heart has been ripped from my chest. I feel nothing.” She slowly shook her head. When she added, “I’m numb, Eönwë. I’m numb,” the tears fell from her eyes. The sight of that caused many in the room to gasp in shock.

“Look at Luinil’s tears!” cried out Tulkas in amazement, pointing to her face.

“They are golden!” shouted Finarfin in disbelief.

And indeed, they were. As Sargon had told her, when Maglor was finally lost to her, she’d know by crying tears of gold. Her tears were in liquid form as they ran down her face but turned into actual gold nuggets by the time they made contact with her clothing or that of her boys.

When she heard about her tears, Buffy reached for her face, wiping the wetness from her cheek. Looking at her hand, she watched as her golden tears hardened. Seeing that with her own eyes made her feel sick. She then knew that Sargon’s words of prophecy had come true - that Maglor was gone. Tilting her hand, the pieces fell to her lap. Horror-stricken, she fled the chamber, bawling.

Many of those from her House tried to follow, but Orchal stopped them by blocking the doorway. “No! Let her be! Bella needs time alone to deal with her grief.”

“Orchal’s right,” agreed Nestor. Both Green-elves knew her better than anyone and were correct in their assessment.

Instead of chasing after her, her people sought solace amongst themselves. All had dearly loved Maglor and Maedhros, and the thought that the sons of Fëanor were gone was heartbreaking. But what tormented them most was knowing the pain that Buffy had to be going through. While they knew she must come to terms with her loss alone, some within her Household feared that would not happen quickly enough. With Folkvang closed off to her, her suffering would only be prolonged. A few began to doubt that she’d ever return to Lindecoa, feeling that that place held too many memories of Maglor, and that those memories would be too much for her to bear.

What should have been a glorious day, turned out to be nothing of the sort. A saddened Eönwë then offered the adjoining chamber to those from the House of Luinil, so that they could mourn in private.

As the brokenhearted men filed into the adjoining chamber, Oromë slipped out of the pavilion unnoticed. He had to find the Slayer, knowing that he alone could help ease her sorrow and restore her hope. Before setting out, he returned to his own lodgings to collect his bow and a quiver of arrows. Since Sauron was on the loose, the Vala Lord deemed that he would kill him should their paths cross. Ordering his hounds to remain behind, he then took off on foot, following the trail of golden teardrops…



Running at breakneck speed, Buffy had disappeared into the woods that bordered the beach, heading east as Sauron had before her. She tried to navigate through the trees, successfully ducking under some limbs, while others raked across the flesh of her arms or face. The pain of the scratches was nothing compared to that of her heart. Yet she couldn’t stop running, even though she had no idea where she was running to.

She had gone several miles before tripping over a well-concealed root, sliding face first across the bed of dead leaves that had fallen the previous autumn. She lay there, gasping for breath, noticing for the first time, the cramping in her sides. Hot and sticky with sweat, the wounds burned from the salty layer of wetness that covered her skin. Her stomach twisted and turned. Buffy could feel the bile rising to her throat. Inching upright, sitting on her folded knees, the contents of her stomach spewed forth from her mouth, splattering onto the brown withered leaves. Edging backwards to avoid the streaming vomit, she continued to be sick until there was nothing left in her stomach.

Trembling, she wiped her mouth with the bottom of her top before rising to her feet. With her breathing somewhat steadier, her eyes scanned the woods. She wasn’t necessarily searching for anything, just looking. Birds chirped merrily from the treetops, occasionally swooping from one limb to another. A squirrel was running up a bole of a beech as another sprang from the other side, pursuing the first. None of the beasts seemed to notice her, standing there, sick with grief. The creatures were too focused on themselves, playfully carrying on as though it was just another day. And it was, to them. But, to Bellaseth Dagnir, she was at the end of her rope, barely holding on, struggling to prevent herself from falling into the abyss of despair.

She then took off again, running as swiftly as her legs could carry her, unaware that Oromë was in pursuit. She ran another league or so before collapsing from exhaustion. The heat of the day was too much. Her mouth was parched and there was no visible water source in sight. Too tired to move, she lay there. The only sound she could clearly make out was that of her own heavy breathing. As far as Buffy was concerned, she would lay there beneath the boughs of the elm tree towering above her until death took her. From the looks of it, she’d probably end up dying from dehydration.

The longer she lay there, the more she began to wonder what ill she could have done to justify her losing so much in recent days. First, she lost Ossir to the floods, then Folkvang, which made no sense whatsoever. While she would be the first to admit that she had done some horrible things in her past, things that would have warranted her being barred from entering her mystical realm, she had no idea what mitigating circumstance lead to that happening at this time.

And now, the worst thing imaginable had happened. Maglor was gone, the one man whom she adored above all others. He was her world, her everything. Though she knew of the Oath and Doom of the Noldor long before they married, she really never believed that anything would come of it. At least, not to him, not her beloved Káno. Even when she saw the Noldor dropping like flies, she still clung to the belief that Maglor would not forsake her, that their love would conquer all obstacles put before them. How could she be so wrong? Had she allowed her love to blind her? Or was she just, plain stupid?

One thing she knew for sure, if not for Olofin, she would’ve gone off the deep end. She had to be strong, not only for him, but also for the others that had come to depend on her. Was that not something expected of a Queen and true leader - to keep it together in times of distress?

Buffy continued to mull over these things, nervously chewing on blades of wild grass that grew beneath the tree. So deep in thought was she, that she failed to notice the arrival of Oromë, standing just outside the small glade, watching her. Even as he neared, his footfalls crunching the leaves beneath his feet, she remained oblivious to his approach. It wasn’t until he cleared his throat, alerting her of his arrival that she was made aware of him.

The sound startled her. Her body jerked in response to the unexpected noise.

“I’m sorry if I alarmed you,” he said thoughtfully. “That was not my intention.” He gave a quick smile, unsure of how the Slayer would react to his presence. After having heard what Orchal had said, he wasn’t sure if it was wise that he had followed.

“It’s okay,” she replied, spitting out the blade of grass on which she had been chewing. She surveyed the Vala, noticing the bow thrown over his shoulder. “You’re a long way from camp,” she continued, easing herself upright against the trunk of the tree.

Oromë blurted out the first thing that came to his mind, “I was hunting.”

Arching her brow, she replied, “Hunting?” with more than a hint of skepticism in her voice.

“You’re hurt,” he said, changing the subject quickly.

“I’ll live,” she answered dryly, eyeing the water skin that hung from his belt.

As Oromë came nearer, he said, “I have medicine that will prevent those cuts from scarring.”

“I’d rather have a drink.” Her eyes shifted from the Vala Lord’s belt to his face. “You got any water?”

“Of course,” he answered, taking a seat across from her. He slid the bow and quiver off his shoulder, setting it on the ground, before unclasping the leather strap that held his water skin in place. He handed her the container before digging in his pouch for some salve.

Eager to be rid of the vile taste that still lingered in her mouth, Buffy took a mouthful of water and swished it around before spitting it out. She then took a long drink, grateful that she was able to quench her thirst at last.

“I’m truly sorry, Bella,” continued the Vala, as he unscrewed the top of the jar that he now held in his hand. “Is there anything I can do?”

She let out a heavy sigh, leaning against the tree again. “You can bring my Káno back,” she said softly.

“I’m afraid that is something I cannot do,” he replied sympathetically, dabbing his finger in the yellow colored cream. Oromë then began to smear the ointment on Buffy’s face. “My heart tells me that Maglor is not dead though I cannot say the same for Maedhros. The eldest son of Fëanor has joined his kin in Mandos.”

The Slayer’s shuddered when she heard that. She had loved Maedhros dearly and had believed that he too had renounced his claim to the Silmarils because of their close friendship.

“The Valar shouldn’t have cursed them,” she uttered, the aching in her heart now returning full force.

The Vala’s eyes widened at her comment, surprised that she would say such a thing. “Come now, Bella. You would’ve done the same if it had been your people that were slaughtered, unprovoked. Fëanor and his sons swore a terrible oath; they brought the Doom upon themselves. You know that.”

“Maybe,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

It was now Oromë that raised his brow in question.

“Probably,” she said, correcting herself. She turned her eyes toward the treetops, listening to the birds singing above her, as the Vala continued to smear a layer of salve on the wounds to her arms. As she sat there, her thoughts turned to Morgoth, the true culprit behind everyone’s misfortune. The more she thought about it, the more she felt that Fëanor and his sons weren’t entirely responsible for the events that had happened in Valinor. Before she realized what she was saying, she added, “If you guys had never freed Melkor, none of this would’ve happened.”

A pained expression came to the Vala’s face. Much to her surprise, Oromë agreed with her. “Do you think I do not hold myself to blame for his escape?” he asked sadly. “I am the greatest hunter in Arda, yet Melkor was able to escape on my watch. His magicks hampered our attempts to seize him, to bring him to justice.”

“But you guys could’ve followed him to Middle-earth,” she countered, her temper suddenly flaring. “You knew that Utumno wasn’t totally destroyed in the first war, that he’d return to his old fortress! Instead, you guys sat on your asses, mourning those two stupid Trees.” She narrowed her eyes. “What purpose did those Trees serve any way? None!” she spat, answering the question herself. Enraged, she unleashed her anger upon the Vala Lord. “And look how many have died because of your inaction, because you people were too content in your Blessed Realm to act promptly. You didn’t give a fuck what happened to the people here. Thingol wasn’t a Noldo, yet look what happened to him and the good people of Doriath. And my people, they didn’t swear any oath. Yet they died! They were punished for your inaction! Tell me the justice in that Oromë, ‘cause I sure the hell want to hear it.”

The Vala Lord half expected that the Slayer might lash out at him. He took it like a man, but did feel the need to defend himself and his brethren.

“We are not without fault, I will admit to that,” he answered after a short pause. “Yet, I think it foolish to believe that Melkor was behind all the ill in Aman. If you truly think about it, Bella, as I have, you will see that the problems with the Noldor go back further, when Melkor was still imprisoned in Mandos… I deem the beginning of the downfall of the Noldor dates back to when Fëanor was born, when Míriel surrendered her life instead of rearing her young son. Surely, not having the love of his mother made him willful, proud beyond… ”

“Míriel? You think Míriel’s to blame?” she said, aghast at the mere suggestion. “How dare you say such a thing?”

“If Finwë had not overindulged Fëanor… ”

“You’re out of your fucking mind, Oromë,” she shot back heatedly. “If you think that the elves are to blame, then you need to take a good look in the mirror. You’re the one who led them from Cuiviénen, removing them from the lands of their birth! That was your mistake. That’s what started it all. You fucked up! Not the Eldar. Not Míriel. Not Fëanor. All the shit that happened afterwards was a direct result of your interfering with them. You should have let the elves be!”

Her words were like a slap in the face, and brought tears to the Vala’s eyes. The jar of salve fell from his grasp. Lowering his head, he buried his face in his hands, and wept.

Buffy felt horrible. She didn’t understand why she had lashed out so harshly at Oromë. Surely, he was there to help. But the things that he was saying angered the hell out of her. The Valar needed to accept responsibility for their mistakes, as they had made many over the years. Hell, she hadn’t even tackled the subject of their forsaking of her when she was held captive in the pyramid or when they allowed her evil doppelganger to run amok during her captivity. Not to mention Marduk, whose viciousness against her House caused the most harm, especially to her.

Yet as the sound of Oromë’s sobs filled the glade, she couldn’t help but feel remorse over her outburst. Was she being irrational, striking out at the Vala because of her grief?

“I’m sorry, Oromë,” she found herself saying. She leaned forward, placing her hand on his leg, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

He lifted his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You’re right, Luinil. It is my fault… If I had not… ”

“No!” she said, cutting off his words mid-sentence. She shifted to her knees, moving closer to the Vala Lord. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said… ”

“It’s true. It’s all my fault,” he blubbered.

Not knowing what else to do, Buffy threw her arms around Oromë, hoping that she could comfort him. Stroking his golden hair, she spoke soothingly to him, apologizing for her comments. “Don’t listen to me, Oromë. I’m taking my pain out on you, which is wrong, I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

It took several long minutes for the Vala Lord to calm down. As he wiped the tears from his eyes, the Slayer leaned back against the bole of the tree, wanting to forget the exchange that she and Oromë had just had. Her thoughts immediately turned to Sauron, wondering if what Melkor had told her about the Maia was true, that he had indeed fooled her into thinking he was repentant and fled the encampment.

“Tell me something,” she started, handing the water skin to the Vala Lord. “Did… did Sauron flee the encampment after I left?” she asked somewhat hesitantly.

Oromë took a drink before answering her question. “Yes,” he answered with a sigh. “He is the reason why I brought my bow, should we happen to cross paths.”

“Fuck!” the Slayer shrieked. A flock of birds perched in the surrounding treetops hastily flew away at the loud sound. “How can I be so stupid?” she groaned, realizing that she had been hoodwinked by the evil Maia. That knowledge together with her grief brought her to tears. “I’m such a fool,” she cried. “How could I be so trusting?”

It was now Oromë’s turn to comfort Buffy. Reaching out, he pulled her into an embrace, holding her tightly in his arms. “Do not hold yourself to blame, Luinil. You did manage to convince Sauron to come to us, which was a marvel in itself.”

“But… but he’s gone. He betrayed me,” came her muffled response, having buried her face in the Vala Lord’s tunic. “He has forsaken me.”

Oromë sensed that her tears were not at the Maia’s escape, but at the loss of her husband. Learning of Sauron’s departure was merely the catalyst that now drove her to tears.

“The pain will lessen, Luinil. I promise,” he said in his most reassuring voice, as he gently stroked her back. “The dark clouds that loom overhead will soon pass, bringing with it brighter days. The wheel of fate is turning, and things are as they should be. Everything happens for a reason. You will soon come to see this.”

The Vala Lord continued to speak soothingly, assuring Buffy that things would get better.

“Let us dry those golden tears,” he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He began to blot her tears with the cloth, using care to avoid the salve covered scratches. “Never before have I seen anyone cry tears of gold,” he began, smiling warmly. “I must warn you, Bella, should the Naugrim learn of this, they will be apt to make you cry so they can easily increase their fortunes!” he said, attempting to lighten the mood.

It worked, as it caused Buffy to laugh.

When she went to pull out of Oromë’s grip, he kept her there, gently but firmly holding her neck with one hand while the other pushed to the side the strands of damp hair that had fallen on her face.

“I want you to know something, Luinil,” he continued, looking deeply into her eyes. “You are no fool, and your trusting nature is a good quality to have. Do not think otherwise.” Still holding her in place, he began to caress her cheek with his finger tips. “You are the bravest woman I know. Your resilience is… ” He paused, smiling. “You are amazing. A true champion if ever I saw one. You possess all those qualities that I find admirable… How I wish you had entered Eä at the beginning, things could have been different.” His words became softer and softer as his face came nearer to hers. “Yet who are we to deny what is meant to be?”

The Vala Lord closed the gap between them, softly kissing her on the lips. Buffy was so shocked, she remained frozen, blindsided by Oromë’s gesture of affection. He pulled back a few inches, staring into the Slayer’s eyes with a look she had seen many times before. Without saying a word, he kissed her again, hungrily this time, forcefully sending her backward to the ground.

The taunting voice of Morgoth echoed in her mind:

“Oromë feels that you are worthy of being his mistress in Middle-earth. He lusts after you, one whose prowess rivals his own. He will see you as his plaything, a means of fulfilling his bodily desire whilst away from his wife. Do not let that happen, Melisse! Kill him! Kill him as swiftly as you may when he attempts to lay with you.”

The sudden voice of Melkor caused her to snap, blinding her with a sudden rage. She now saw Oromë for what he truly was - an enemy. Flailing beneath the pawing Vala, she reached to her side, pulling a charm from her belt. In one swift motion, she pushed him up with one hand, while driving her dagger into his belly with the other.

His eyes widened in shock, as he let out a painful groan. Still holding him above her, she withdrew her blade, his warm blood spilling from the gash in his gut and onto her stomach. She then flung him to the side.

Leaping to her feet, she looked at the Vala Lord writhing on the ground, clutching his hands to his stomach.

“You piece of shit!” she spat, pointing the bloody dagger at him. “Fuck with me - you die!”

“Luinil… Luinil,” he moaned in agony.

Buffy quickly snatched his bow and quiver from the ground before taking off deeper into the woods, leaving the Vala Lord to die. Feeling as though everyone was out to get her, she ran as fast as she could, disappearing into the thickness of the forest.

With her slayer speed, she was able to run a few miles before the fatigue in her legs brought her to a halt. She slid the bow and quiver from her shoulder to the ground before plopping down beside it. Massaging her aching legs, Buffy tried to catch her breath, wanting to put as much distance between her and Oromë as she could.

Not even a minute had passed when another vision appeared before her very eyes. The forest seemed to melt away, to be replaced by Belegaer. She beheld a great fleet of ships, some the Valinorean vessels, others, newly built. At first, she thought that she was witnessing the hosts departing for the West, a sight that would’ve made her sigh with relief if she hadn’t been so winded. But, as she focused on those boats, she could hear the fair voices of the Eldar, singing in their sweet melodic voices. One of them she distinctively recognized - Orchal. Feeling a cold chill sweep over her, she saw her people, the elves, leaving Middle-earth. Whimpering like a wounded animal, her eyes scanned those loved ones on board, stopping when they came to Olofin, laughing beside Thranduil.

Horror-stricken, she thought, The Valar are taking my boys. They’re taking everything from me.

The vision disappeared as sudden as it had appeared, leaving the Slayer even more distressed than before. The Valar would take away everything she had, all her people, all her hope. She had nothing left to lose. She now saw herself alone in the world, abandoned by all those that had professed their undying love to her. What was she to do? Where was she to go?

Her body shook uncontrollably at the mere thought. She slowly rose to her feet, unaware that her green eyes had turned to black. The vision had truly pushed her over the edge, breaking her completely. Picking up the weapons of Oromë, her face contorted in hatred, Buffy took off running through the wood, sounding and looking very much like a rabid beast.

She had gone maybe a mile when the intense cramping in her legs and sides demanded that she slow down. As she continued through the trees at a slower pace, she heard the distinct sound of leaves crunching behind her. She spun around so quickly that she lost her footing on the bed of dry leaves and fell on her side. The Slayer’s body landed painfully on the wooden bow, bruising her hip.

As her eyes scanned the wood, she armed the weapon, ready to kill the first thing that came in sight. Still seated on the ground, she aimed the flying projectile toward the sound. She couldn’t see anything just yet, but from the sound of it, two people were approaching.

Narrowing her eyes, her trembling fingers pulled back on the string. Her muscles tightened, knowing that any second she would see her unwanted pursuers.

A black shadow suddenly appeared from behind a thick stand of trees. Sighing with relief, the Slayer lowered her weapon. Rocco, his timing impeccable as always, weaved his way through the trees, toward his Mistress.

“Rocco,” she said happily, deeming that her steed had answered some unspoken prayer. She placed her arrow back in the quiver, slinging both it and the bow over her shoulder. “Come here, boy.”

The horse stopped in front of Buffy, neighing in greeting.

“Good boy,” she said, patting his neck. “You’ll never leave me, will you?”

He neighed again.

Buffy quickly leapt atop the steed, directing him to continue east. Rocco slowly meandered through the trees, and after a couple of hours, stepped out of the eastern side of the forest and onto the moors that stretched out for miles before them.

With no obstructions, Rocco was able to gallop at full speed through the wilderness.

The Slayer longed to return to whom, she believed, were her only kin left in Middle-earth, the twins. She had thought long and hard whilst riding atop her steed, thinking that she’d first meet with Osiris, with whom she had continued to secretly correspond, up until the War of Wrath. She knew that the Vala would offer to help, and see to it that she was reunited with Anno and Míre despite the fact that her banishment from Mesopotamia was not yet over.

She was so preoccupied with her thoughts, focusing on the lands that stretched out before her, that she gave no heed to the sky above. She had no idea that Oromë had survived her attack, and had made his way back to the encampment, where he was healed of his injury. Eönwë immediately informed Manwë of Buffy’s actions, and those in the West, especially Yavanna and Vána, demanded retribution.

The Eagles had been sent out to find her, and flying high above, was none other than Thorondor. Spotting the fleeing Slayer below, the Lord of Eagles, gradually made his descent, circling lower and lower, until he came into Buffy’s line of vision.

He landed a mile or so in front of the galloping steed, stretching out his massive wings, squawking for the beast to stop.

The Slayer cackled in her madness, seeing now her opportunity to seek vengeance upon the spy of Manwë for spreading so many lies about her. When Rocco began to slow, she demanded that he continue on, galloping toward the Lord of Eagles.

“By the command of the Lord of Arda, I order you to halt, Luinil,” called out the bird with a flutter of his wings.

Buffy acted quickly, reaching behind her, pulling an arrow from its case. She slid the bow from her shoulder, arming the weapon, as she aimed at Thorondor’s breast.

Either the Eagle was stupid or a creature of great courage, as the sight of her weapon didn’t incite him to flee.

Pulling back on the string, she heard a ‘ping’ sound before sending the flying projectile at Manwë’s messenger. The arrow whizzed swiftly through the air, hitting its target with dead-on accuracy. Thorondor let out a cry of pain, but remained on his feet. The Slayer quickly sent out another shaft, that bolt too struck the Eagle in the chest. But this time, the bird staggered on its clawed feet, before falling to the ground.

Laughing madly at her success, Buffy had Rocco slow down as they approached the wounded bird. Clutching Oromë’s bow in one hand, she slid from the horse’s back, intent on finishing off her injured prey.

As she neared Thorondor lying on his side, he lifted his head, fixing his bleary eye on her much smaller form. “Woe betides you, Vala Queen,” spoke the Lord of Eagles. “Ill deeds you have wrought upon your kin! You have heeded the lies of Melkor Bauglir, thus making his words bear fruit. We have never been your enemy…” The bird then laid his head back on the ground, and died.

The blood drained from Buffy’s face, as doubt began to gnaw away at her. She remained frozen to the spot, watching as Rocco sniffed Thorondor’s lifeless body. Seeing the still form of the Eagle, Rocco lifted his head, mournfully neighing as he looked upon his Mistress, shaking his head.

The doubt she had felt only a moment before quickly vanished. Dropping Oromë’s weapons to the ground, she pulled a sword charm from her belt. Clutching the weapon with both hands, she looked down upon the still opened eye of the Lord of Eagles.

“You lie,” she hissed between gritted teeth. The Slayer then brought the blade down, beheading the spy of Manwë. Placing her foot on his chest, she raised her arms in triumph. “I am avenged!” she screamed, the sound of her voice reverberating across the lands. When the blood from the blade ran down on her arm, doubt once again filled her heart. Looking upon the carnage she had done, she took a step back, aghast by her evil deeds.

Seized by terror and horrified by what she had just done, Buffy climbed atop Rocco and headed east, once again.

Her mind was a whirlwind of confusion, as she hurriedly rubbed the still warm blood of Thorondor on the leg of her breeches. Feeling as though there was no turning back, she forced herself to harden her heart, determined to assail any that tempted to thwart her escape.

Rocco hurriedly crossed the plains, which were now dotted with trees. They were nearing yet another expanse of woods. The horse had no other choice but to slow his gait, meandering through the towering trees and thickets.

They rode for many hours beneath a canopy of trees until they came upon a game trail that ended at the banks of a wide, languid river. Seeing a shoal at the bottom of the embankment, she told Rocco to descend the slope. Slowly, he went, carefully making his way to the bottom, not wanting his Mistress to fall off his back.

Once they had reached the bottom, Rocco took a few steps into the stream, eager to drink its tannin-colored water. Though quite thirsty herself, Buffy refrained from drinking the brownish water, hoping to come upon a spring instead, with water clear and cold.

As Rocco lazily lapped at the water, stepping a bit further into the stream, the Slayer surveyed their surroundings. She was studying the trail on the other side of the river when she heard a loud rushing sound coming from upstream.

Rocco lifted his head with ears alert, the last bit of water dripping from his mouth. Both he and Buffy fixed their eyes upstream, curious as to what that sound was. Only a moment later, they saw a wall of water heading straight for them, causing the beast to rear and buck in alarm. His Mistress went flying off his back, as he took off toward the embankment, leaving her behind.

“You fucking coward,” she shouted at her fleeing steed.

Struggling to get back on her feet, she quickly glanced at the towering wave, gasping in horror. In its center was Ulmo, his arms stretched wide in anticipation of grabbing her. She desperately tried to run, but the currents now swirling around her prevented her from doing so. Glancing back at the terrible form of the Lord of Waters, she covered her head as he swooped down upon her, seizing her…