Full Circle

Author’s Note: I have tweaked the Angel timeline by about two decades in order to bring one of the characters from the show into the tale.

Chapter One Hundred-Twelve: In the Dark



The trio wandered the dark and dank sewers in search of an exit. No one spoke a word, as each was lost in their own thoughts, mourning the horrific defilement and death of Lalwen. Above ground, the massacres continued to take place, having gone nonstop since the day before. So many Frenchmen had been ripped apart that their blood and visceral fluid flowed in torrents down the gutters that ran along either side of the road, emptying into the sewers where Buffy, Thranduil and Olofin were now walking. They had no idea that they were sloshing through the gory fluid, despite the putrid odor that remained heavy in the air. Each assumed it was the smell of the enemy, who had used those same tunnels to escape the fire at the Halls of Aurelius.

Multiple blasts suddenly rang out behind them, momentarily startling the trio. They all knew that the flames had finally reached the munitions room in the chateau, as the explosions continued on for a few minutes.

After some time, they found an exit, popping out of the bowels of Paris into a nearly deserted alleyway above. A lone, plump woman was busily hanging her laundry. She gave the newcomer’s a quick glance, unfazed by their sudden appearance from the sewers below, as she continued with her labors.

The early morning sun felt warm, inviting, the cool fresh air a welcoming relief from the rancid stench underground.

“You two stay here,” instructed Olofin. “I’m going to find the others and let them know that we made it safely out.”

Thranduil nodded in reply. Both he and Buffy watched as her son turned into an eagle, then ascended into the sky, disappearing behind the building to their south.

“You alright?” asked the Green-elf, scrutinizing his companion carefully.

She shrugged; still somewhat dazed by everything that had happened. “My side hurts,” she added as an afterthought, wrapping a protective arm around her waist.

“Let me see,” replied Thranduil, lifting the bottom of her sweater. He winced. “Ooh, you have a nasty bruise.”

Buffy brushed his hand away, covering her exposed flesh. “I’ll live.” She turned her gaze to her feet.

The elf studied the Slayer for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about Lalwen. She was a good woman. Brave and fearless.” He lifted his companion’s chin. Her eyes had welled with tears. “We’ll make them pay, Bella. I swear. The Order won’t get away with this.” He then reached into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. “Let me wipe that filth from your forehead,” he continued, rubbing at the bloody star on her skin. “Ah, it doesn’t want to come off.” Thranduil spit on the cloth and tried again. “There we go. It’s coming off now.”

Once the blood had been removed, the elf shoved the cloth back into his pocket, eyeing the old woman down the alley, who was now singing softly to herself.

The Slayer took a deep breath, wanting to keep her composure. There was nothing she could do about Lalwen. But, at that moment, she vowed to herself to get the bastard or bastards that had done that to the Noldo Princess. Even though she had no idea who was responsible for the elleth’s painful death, she was determined to kill all those belonging to the Order, to make them all pay for the horrific deed.

“Why are we here, Thranduil?” she finally asked weakly. “Why are we in Paris?”

The elf shifted his gaze back to Buffy, a bewildered look on his face. “Do you not remember?”

“No!” she snapped, annoyed by her ignorance. “It’s like I told Orchal - the Valar sent me forward in time, through a portal of some kind! One moment I was in the Ring of Doom, the next, in an alleyway in Paris, dressed in the garb of this time. I don’t have any memories of anything between that time and now. I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”

Thranduil locked eyes with the Slayer. She could feel them probing, searching her mind. He frowned. “What have they done to you?” he queried with a dismal shake of his head. “I deem that they’ve placed some type of veil on you again.”

“Why?” she asked fretfully.

“I’m afraid I do not know the answer, Bella,” he answered, looking sympathetically at his companion. “What I can tell you is that we came here to help Louis, the King.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he repeated, raising his brows in surprise. “Oh, yes, you don’t remember.” The elf sighed heavily. “Louis helped us with our war in America. He has sent his troops to help us battle the English, to fight for the sovereignty of the Americans. Unfortunately, in doing so, he has nearly bankrupted his own country. And after years of exceptionally cold weather, which has lead to the depletion of France’s crops, his people have risen against him, against the excesses of the regime. They are hungry and angry. They blame him for all their woes.”

Buffy was still a little confused. “So, we’re here to help the King?”

Thranduil let out another heavy sigh, running his hand through his long, silver locks. “We tried,” he answered, his tone full of disappointment. “We had helped him and his family to escape their imprisonment, but they were stopped at the checkpoint in Varennes. Even disguised, his people easily recognized him and his queen. Instead of killing the three men stationed there as he should have, he surrendered.” The Green-elf shook his head again. “It saddens me to see how the monarchies of Man have grown weak. They’ve had the courage bred out of them. They are nothing like Washington, who willingly fought tooth and nail for what he believed in. The kings of old are dead. They are no longer warriors of noble stock, but have degenerated into creatures of servitude, whose masters are wealth, power and pleasure.”

The Slayer stared at the opening of the alleyway, where the narrow street met a broader one, thinking back on what little she remembered of the French Revolution. “He will die,” she whispered. “Louis will meet his end at the guillotine.”

“So be it,” answered Thranduil coolly. “His fate is no longer in our hands. Now that we have you back, we must ride to the Sanctuary.”

She looked back at the elf, her face wrinkled in confusion. “The Sanctuary?”

“Our lands east of France. Switzerland. That is our home base in Europe.”

Buffy continued to look blankly at the elf.

“How tragic that you have no memories of our past deeds, our accomplishments,” he said miserably, shaking his head. “Your banner flies over those lands. It is a war-free zone. At least, amongst the acolytes of Morgoth. The enemy has agreed not to wage war there… ”

“And you believe them?” she queried incredulously.

“Why, of course, for they have established their headquarters there as well. It is the one country where good and evil live in harmony.”

“That makes no sense whatsoever! The enemy can’t be trusted. How can we be so foolish as to trust them?”

“A truce was established decades ago, Bella. You made it. You made it happen! However, that truce does not apply outside those lands. We are in France and it’s open war here. We are not safe. Our spies have informed us that Morgoth has returned, that he is here. That is why we must leave at once. As soon as Fin returns with our forces, we shall ride in haste to the Sanctuary.”

The Slayer found herself nervously chewing her bottom lip, a habit she had picked up from Luthor. She thought about her father figure, wishing that he were with her.

They twosome fell quiet for a couple of minutes. Buffy’s mind was spinning from all that she had heard. She kicked a small pebble on the road, sending it ricocheting against the brick wall of the adjacent building.

“You know,” she began softly, “The stuff taking place in Paris reminds me of Bâb-edh-Dhrâ and Numeira.” She looked up at the elf. “Do you remember those days?”

“God, I haven’t heard those names in centuries.”

“Really?” queried the Slayer, surprised that those two cities were no longer discussed.

“Really,” he replied. “Don’t get me wrong, we still talk about those days, but we tend to refer to those cities by their Hebrew names, Sodom and Gomorrah.”

Just hearing those names sent a cold shiver down the Slayer’s spine. She remembered the names, Sodom and Gomorrah, when she was merely the mortal Vampire Slayer, Buffy Summers, and seemed quite shocked that it was she that had destroyed them. While she was no student of theology, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was the God that the Bible had spoken of.

That’s impossible, she thought to herself. She quickly put that thought out of her mind, thinking that it was blasphemous for her to compare herself to Ilúvatar, the true God in the world.

She then brought up America, wanting to know more about the Revolution that had taken place there. Thranduil was more than happy to comply. He didn’t hide his fondness for those brave people who had fought and died for their independence from England.

As they waited for Olofin’s return, the Green-elf shared with her one of his favorite stories. During one of many battles in which Washington had fought, the English soldiers had shot him multiple times, amazed that none of their slugs had injured their foe. Thranduil smiled as he told her that she had foreseen George Washington’s greatness, and had had the Valkyries (in spirit form) protect him in battle. The enemy feared Washington after that, saying that the hand of God protected that mortal.

She was stunned to learn of her close friendship with the first President of the New World, and that she, herself, had played a pivotal role in helping the Colonists break-free from the tyrannical English monarchy. Nowhere in history did she recall reading about her involvement in the American Revolution. She wondered why that was so, but didn’t dwell overly long on the subject.

While Thranduil continued to speak of the goings-on in the States, Buffy heard the sound of many hooves beating against the nearby street. She reached out, grabbing the elf by the arm. “They’re coming. The enemy is coming,” she said anxiously.

The Green-elf chuckled. “Do not worry. That is not the enemy, my dear. For that is the sound of elvish horses. Have you forgotten that as well?”

Buffy listened intently, as the galloping grew louder, coming nearer to the alleyway. She heard a faint jingling sound, like that of small bells. They tinkled melodiously with the movement of the steeds.

Only a moment later, men on horseback rounded the corner, entering into the alley. The Slayer’s heart pounded in her chest. Nothing made her happier than seeing the fair faces of so many elves. Her people. Her loyal followers who, when given the choice to return to Valinor or stay in Middle-earth and fight alongside Buffy, had chosen to stay. They had been through many adventures together, none of which the Slayer remembered.

Glorfindel dismounted from his horse before the creature had come to a full stop. With his face fraught with worry, he hastily made his way toward Buffy.

Thranduil quickly left the Slayer’s side, intercepting the Noldo before he could reach her.

As the Green-elf spoke quietly to the golden-haired elf, Celeborn came trotting up beside her on his white steed. “Well met, Bella. I knew the Order would not hold you captive for long,” he said with a smile. He pulled back on the reins, bringing his horse to a halt. The beast stomped his feet, breathing hard from his sprint through the streets of Paris.

“Celeborn?!” Buffy exclaimed in shock. “You’re here, with us!”

The elf furrowed his brow, baffled by her comments. “Where else would I be?” he queried in reply. He then turned his head, and whistled.

A moment later, Rocco came trotting out of the throng, his black coat shining in the sunlight. He immediately came to his Mistress’ side, brushing his head against her face. The Slayer didn’t know how to act around her horse. Her mind flashed to that moment when he had bucked her off in the river, allowing Ulmo to capture her and take her to Valinor. Yet, as she looked into his eyes, she could sense his undivided loyalty to her. She could see that he was truly happy to see her once again. She smiled, greeting the beast by stroking his neck.

“Hey, boy! It’s good to see you too,” she said nuzzling his head.

As the Slayer affectionately petted Rocco, Thranduil and Glorfindel came walking up.

“Thranduil says you’re hurt,” began to Noldo, reaching for Buffy’s side.

Not recognizing the Noldo, she backed away. “Who are you?”

A sad look came to the elf’s face. He exchanged a quick glance with Thranduil, who mumbled, “I told you,” before fixing his gaze back on the Slayer.

“I am Glorfindel, formerly from the House of Elrond.”

“Elrond?” repeated Buffy, looking past them in search of her foster son. “Is he here? Is Elrond here?” she asked excitedly, craning her neck around the two elves towering before her.

Cocking his eyebrow, the Noldo answered, “No, my Lady. He is not. Elrond sailed to Valinor with most of his kin over a millennium ago.”

“Oh,” she replied dismally. “That’s too bad. I would’ve liked to have seen him again.”

With a pained expression on his face, Glorfindel then said, “Do you really have no memory of the past, Bella? Have you truly forgotten me, of all people?”

Buffy looked at the elf, studying his handsome features. Thranduil placed his hand comfortingly on the Noldo’s shoulder, a gesture that she did not wholly understand. The golden-hair elf seemed somewhat familiar to her. She then remembered where they had met, blurting out, “Hey! Didn’t we meet at Mereth Aderthad, when Fingolfin was King?”

The Noldo forced a smile. “Yes, yes we did,” he answered in a solemn tone. Tears began to fill his grey eyes. He turned, walking away from the Slayer. Thranduil remained by the Noldo’s side. With his arm draped over Glorfindel’s shoulder, he spoke to him in hushed voice as they walked back to the Noldo’s steed.

The Slayer then turned to Orchal, who had taken Thranduil’s spot. “What’s up with that?” she asked, motioning toward the two departing elves.

“It’s… it’s nothing,” he sighed. “We better get a move on. We need to take advantage of the daylight.”

Buffy didn’t understand what was going on. She merely shrugged her shoulders before climbing onto Rocco’s back.

“Your coat, Bella,” said Nestor, holding out his hand expectantly. “We don’t want the enemy to be able to clearly identify you. I will keep it safe.”

She slid out of the garment, feeling a sharp pain in her shoulder as she did so. Handing the coat to Nestor, she said, “One of these days you’ll have to tell me how I got that back. Something tells me that it’s one hell of a story.”

“You’re right about that, Bella, you’re right about that,” he replied with a chortle.

“We ride east,” announced Glorfindel in a loud, clear voice to the others.

“Who died and made him boss?” queried the Slayer to Nestor.

The elf refrained from laughing. “Let’s just say, he rose through the ranks, and leave it at that.” He then nudged his horse forward, riding alongside Buffy.

“I don’t see how he has more authority than you and Orchal… or Olofin for that matter,” she mumbled in discontent.

“He’s a great warrior, Bella, and he serves you. Do not doubt Glorfindel’s loyalty.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, still confused as to how that Noldo had gained so much power with her people.

There were twenty-five riding in their group. Olofin had remained in eagle form, scouting out their course from the sky above. Orchal was telling her that there are more in their party, but they thought it best that they travel in smaller groups so as not to draw the unwanted attention of the enemy or their spies.

The horses trotted along the street, the bells attached to their harnesses softly jingling as they traveled along the uneven streets. They passed many people, some on foot, some in carriages, going about their day as though it were business as usual. None appeared affected by the atrocities taking place against their fellow Parisians throughout various spots within the city.

Glorfindel and Celeborn led the way, seemingly knowing which way they were going. To Buffy, it seemed strange to see elves riding through Paris, a sight she never thought she’d ever see. They avoided the main streets whenever they could, preferring to travel through the narrower, least congested roads where they were less likely to be noticed. Though, to the Slayer, their group seemed rather large, and a bit conspicuous.

She paid little attention to what streets or alleyways they traveled upon, but passed the time by looking at the many homes and storefronts they saw along the way. Her mouth watered when she caught the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread, coffee and bacon. Buffy couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten, but when she caught a whiff of those most pleasant scents, her stomach automatically began to rumble with hunger. The cafés, restaurants, and bakeries that dotted the roadside seemed to have a thriving business despite the economic conditions that currently plagued France. She was eager to leave those streets behind, not needing the reminder that her belly longed for the fare that had already made France synonymous with excellent cuisine.

They had traveled a few blocks without incident when they reached the only road that Buffy could make out the name of - Rue St. Martin. There, they were stopped in the middle of the busy street by another group on horseback, their number nearly the same as the elvish group.

One man with a black hat pulled low over his eyes came riding forward, the apparent leader, the Slayer believed. She instinctively placed her hand on the hilt of her sword, ready to fight if need be.

“Glorfindel, you must turn back,” warned the man, who appeared to be English, not French. “The Marseillais and National Guard have formed a blockade from the Bastille, east. They know which path you are traveling upon. You must turn and go west, crossing the river in haste. From what we’ve heard, only the fishmongers are watching the bridges until more men arrive.”

“Then it is not by mere chance that we have met yet again, Holtz,” answered the golden-haired elf grimly. “Travel with us, for we have need of strength in numbers.”

The mortal nodded his head. His forces joined that of the elves, as they reined their horses around, galloping in the same direction that Buffy and company had just come from. If they were attempting to be discreet, they were failing miserably. Such a great number of riders drew the attention of all those people that were out and about on that fair autumn morning. The people were quick to jump out of the way, fearing that the team of horses would trample them to death.

The Slayer’s heart was pounding. She didn’t have a good feeling, and rightly so. As they turned down another street, their horses racing speedily along, a policeman ran out into the street before them, waving his hands and blowing on a whistle. The horses didn’t slow, and the officer did not move. A second later, he disappeared under the pounding hooves of many horses, meeting his grisly demise.

“Oh, shit!” Buffy cursed as Rocco stomped over the body. She glanced over her shoulder, seeing many people running from the sidewalks to the dead man in the road. She turned away, biting her lip, wondering how long it would take for news of the officer’s death to reach the ears of those in power.

The group skirted around carriages and pedestrians in the streets. Women and children screamed as the group went racing by. The steeds missed many passers-by, by mere inches.

Gunfire rang out, as some of the enemy pulled out pistols, shooting at the riders.

“Shit!” shouted Thranduil, lowering his head. “They’re shooting at us!”

Everyone in their group hunched down, not wanting to give the enemy a clear head shot. They continued to weave around the obstacles in the streets, urging their steeds to move faster.

They had traveled a couple of miles to the west before turning south, heading toward one of the bridges that crossed the Seine. As they came nearer, Buffy saw a large assembly of women, waving pikes, hooks, and other weapons threateningly at the approaching allies.

“They’re women!” said the Slayer to Orchal. “They sent women out to fight us.”

“Those are no women,” answered the Green-elf with a sneer. “Those are the fish-hags, ungodly creatures that prey on the weak.”

“But they’re women,” argued Buffy, shocked to see them forming a line mid-way across the bridge. “Surely, we’re not… ”

“Show them no mercy, Bella,” interjected Thranduil, who had overheard hers and Orchal’s exchange. “Those hags are the ones that stormed Versailles, killing the King’s servants in the most heinous of ways. The bitches devoured the flesh of their kinsmen, an atrocity that demonstrates just how wretched of creatures they truly are. They are blood-thirsty leeches who deserve nothing but death.”

“They ate the king’s servants?” she queried in disbelief, her hunger dissipating at the thought.

“Yes!” came the elf’s reply. “They are sick creatures. Show them no mercy.” Thranduil then withdrew his blade from its sheath. Only moments later, everyone else in their party did the same, including the Slayer.

As they came nearer, they heard the women taunting the riders, closing the gaps in their human barricade. Some of the women carried rifles and muskets, training their weapons on the galloping allies.

A few of the elves sent a hail of arrows at the hags, who for lack of a better word, truly fit that description. Many of the flying projectiles met their mark, striking down some of those wretched creatures along the frontline. The fishmongers’ returned fire, shooting at the allied forces, as the horses swiftly approached the human blockade. There must have been hundreds of those hags lined up in rows.

At the last moment, some of the fishmongers fled to either side of the bridge, fearing that they might be maimed or killed in the oncoming stampede. However, others stood their ground, believing that by killing the “traitors” and “loyalists to the ancien régime”, that they were acting as true patriots, mercenaries of the newly formed republic, whose deeds of bravery would one day make it into the annals of history.

The collision between the cavalry and the women wasn’t as devastating as the Slayer thought it would be. Since her people were merely trying to flee the city, they did not have a tight formation when the horses met the human blockade. That allowed many of the fishmongers to remain on their feet, lunging their spears and pikes at both rider and steed. The horses felt the brunt of the hags’ wrath, as the men were well-trained warriors and were able to block many of the blows that the women tried to deliver.

Several of their horses became impaled on the hags’ weapons, causing the beasts to rear and grunt in pain, tossing their riders from their backs.

Part of the allied forces steered their steeds around, striking at the women while attempting to retrieve their fallen brethren, refusing to leave any behind. The Slayer was a part of this group.

Her initial thoughts of not fighting the fishmongers changed when she saw how they attacked her people with a ferociousness that Buffy had only witnessed amongst wild animals, or the creatures of Morgoth. Those women were literally frothing at the mouth, shrieking in delight as if they were overcome with some madness that compelled them to kill anything in sight.

A few of them were brazen enough to brandish poles that had been imbedded into the severed heads of those that had been killed in the massacre. Apparently, one of those heads had belonged to one in Holt’s company, for one of his men had cried out, “Mercer! They have the head of Mercer!” That same man urged his horse toward the wretched creature that flaunted the head of his friend. Lifting his sword over his head, he shouted in rage, as he hewed off the woman’s arm at the elbow, sending both the severed limb and ghoulish trophy to the street. The man didn’t stop there. Using the momentum, he swung his weapon back, in the opposite direction, going for the hag’s head. As she wailed in pain, blood spurting from her wound, she started to sink to the ground. The man took off the top of her head, sending the topmost part of her skull along with part of her brain flying through the air, striking another woman in the chest.

Not a second later, they heard the sound of the tocsins ringing out, alerting the allies that there were more forces marching from the north.

“Flee! Flee!” shouted Glorfindel.

As they fought their way through the mob, the Slayer saw Holtz knocked from his steed. She reined Rocco around, toward the mortal, who was doing his best to fend off the frenzied crowd. One hag came rushing from behind, wielding a wicked-looking cleaver. Before the bitch could strike him, Rocco bolted through the hags, stepping between Holtz and the woman. She brought her weapon down on the flank of the steed, the blade bouncing off Rocco’s iron-like hide.

“Get on,” Buffy said, grabbing Holtz’s arm and helping him onto the back of her steed. Together they cleaved their way through the thinning mob, following those that had already made it pass the barricade.

The large group then broke off into several smaller groups, each taking off in a different direction, galloping at great speed. Traveling along with the Slayer and Holtz were Orchal, Nestor, Thranduil, Celeborn and Glorfindel. No one spoke for a long while, riding hard and fast out of the heart of Paris. They continued on a western course, only the Noldo knowing where they were going.

It wasn’t until they had put many miles behind them, when they were far outside the city, that any spoke. Buffy was the one to break the silence. She rode up beside Glorfindel since it seemed obvious to her that he was the leader of the group.

“Where are we going?” she queried as they continued to ride swiftly.

The Noldo faced her, his golden hair whipping about him. “We’re going to Caen,” he replied, before glancing over his shoulder to see if they were being followed.

“Who’s Caen?” she asked, not recalling that name at all.

“It’s not a person, but a place. A city, near the coast.”

“Oh,” she answered, feeling slightly stupid that she had thought it was a person. The group fell quiet again, none speaking again for a few hours.

They had left the main road, traveling across the hilly stretches of fields and woods to avoid the district checkpoints. With the Order of Aurelius conspiring with the National Convention, it was only a matter of time before word went out of the Slayer’s escape. That was Glorfindel’s greatest concern. While the Noldo didn’t wholly understand why the Order desired Buffy’s capture, his heart told him that the enemy was up to no good and would not stop searching for her. It was imperative that they reach Switzerland as quickly as they may. He loathed the thought that they were forced in the opposite direction of the Sanctuary, and wondered if they would be better off to journey to the coast and sail to England instead.

“You alright back there?” the Slayer asked Holtz.

“I’m somewhat uncomfortable, but grateful to you, my Lady, for pulling me from the sea of hags.”

She chuckled at his comment. “So, what’s your story, Holtz? It is Holtz, right?”

“Yes. Daniel Holtz.”

“Daniel. I like that name. So, tell me, Daniel, how do you know Glorfindel and the others?”

“We are all hunters, are we not? Hunters of vampires and other wretched creatures that wander the Earth.”

“I prefer the term Slayer myself.” She paused. “It’s a rough life, you know. How did you get into the slaying business?”

Holtz then shared with her his first encounter with a vampire. Her blood ran cold when she heard that it was none other than Angelus. She was horror-stricken to learn what Angelus had done to the Englishman’s family, draining them all except for his young daughter. His voice was riddled with both pain and anger as he spoke of discovering his beloved Sarah having been turned into a vampire, and how he was forced to toss her into the sunlight to kill the demon within her.

“From that moment on,” he concluded, “I vowed to get my revenge on Angelus and Darla. I’ve been hunting them throughout Europe. That is how I met your people. We have killed many vampires together.”

“Well, my people are professional demon hunters. They’ve been at it for a long, long time.”

“And you, you are an honest-to-goodness Slayer.”

“Yep.”

“I had always thought that the Slayer was just a myth from lore. I would’ve thought you’d be… bigger.”

Buffy chuckled again. “I get that a lot.”

“So, how long have you been doing this - slaying?”

“I was chosen at fifteen.”

“I take it that you’re, what, twenty-four, twenty-five?”

She laughed yet again, glad that Holtz’s comments were able to push her sorrow out of her mind for a bit. And it seemed obvious that he didn’t know her true identity, that she was actually a Goddess from the myths of old. “I’m twenty-five,” she finally answered. “Although I feel much older.”

“Hunting vampires has a way of doing that. I find it admirable that, as a woman, you have devoted your life to such a noble cause.”

“Well, I didn’t have much say-so in the matter,” she sighed. “If I had my way, I’d be sitting hearthside, sipping some tea… no, make that wine, white wine, listening to the beautiful voice of my beloved Káno.”

“I take it that this Káno is your lover.”

“My husband,” she corrected. “He was my husband.”

“What happened to him?”

That brief moment of happiness that the Slayer had felt faded, only to be replaced, once again, by sorrow. Her body stiffened. “I don’t know,” she replied solemnly. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

Holtz knew that he had touched on a sore subject with the Slayer. “I’m sorry,” he answered, giving her arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

Silence fell between them. The mortal was struggling within, anxious to ask her one question, one question about her captivity within the Halls of Aurelius. Yet the air around her had become somber. He could feel her misery, her loss. But the purpose of his trip to France was to capture, torture and kill both Angelus and Darla, and he wasn’t sure when he’d get the opportunity to speak with Buffy again, when he’d have the chance to ask her point-blank about the vampires whom he loathed more than life itself.

Dare he ask her? Yes, he thought.

Holtz readjusted his position on the backside of Rocco, leaning closer in to the Slayer. “There is something that I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he began. “I hate to be the one to stir up… unpleasant memories or whatnot, but… ” He hesitated, unsure if she’d take offense to his question.

“What is it?”

“When… when you were captured by the Order of Aurelius, trapped within their Halls, did you happen to notice if Darla and Angelus were there?” Before she could respond, he went on to describe, most accurately, both vampires.

Listening to Holtz’s descriptions instantly conjured images of Buffy’s meeting with Angelus in the alleyway. It now dawned on her that Darla was probably not too far away when she encountered him. She couldn’t believe that she had forgotten that they were a couple at this time. Holtz’s comments of only a few minutes earlier were a reminder of that.

“… Did you see anyone fitting those descriptions?”

The Slayer was glad that Holtz couldn’t see her face. “No,” she lied. “Can’t say that I have. Sorry.” She didn’t know why she had lied, but she did. She hoped that that would put an end to their conversation as the last thing she wanted to talk about was Angelus. She had far too many things on her mind to concern herself about her future vampire lover. Thankfully, Holtz fell quiet once again. They didn’t speak much afterwards.

The ride from Paris to Caen normally took about two days, but the group traveled non-stop, and were able to arrive in the city in twelve hours. As they rode through the lamp-lit streets, Glorfindel and Orchal made a point to ride on either side of the Slayer. She had been given a cloak, hours earlier, and was now told to keep the hood pulled over her head so that none could see her face.

Buffy grew concerned for the others, for none of them had yet made it to Caen. She gave no thought to the fact that the Eldar had the ability to communicate telepathically, and that some of their friends would be arriving into the city over the next few days.

Celeborn and Thranduil led their small procession. They had seen some milling about in the streets, mostly outside the gambling halls and bars. A few prostitutes hung out on the street corners, trying to tempt the passers-by with their wares.

Neither Buffy nor the Valar knew exactly how pivotal a moment this was for the Slayer. While those in the West wished to teach their sister a lesson by having her confront one whom she loved that wreaked evil, they had not foreseen that there were many enemies of the Vala of Love and War in France at this time, including Morgoth. They had no knowledge of the evil that awaited her, and it would be some months later before one from their sect would boldly stand up to their kinsmen, disobeying the command of Manwë Súlimo, thus plucking Buffy from the doom that awaited her.

When the group turned down Rue St. Jean, Glorfindel announced that he would see about their accommodations.

“I don’t want you to be alone, Bella,” he said gravely. “We can not underestimate the enemy, and someone must remain by your side at all times.”

She had no idea that the Noldo saw himself in that role. Instead, she replied, “Orchal will stay with me.” She turned to the elf, forcing a smile. “It’ll be just like old times.”

“As you wish,” came the Green-elf’s reply. “Although, I think you should call me François,” he added in a thick, French accent.

“François?” she repeated with a chuckle, amused by the elf’s accent.

“And you shall be Monique, my bride,” he continued.

Celeborn laughed upon hearing that. Glorfindel turned his narrowed eyes to the Sinda, whose laughter quickly turned to coughing.

“Why Monique?” inquired the Slayer, curious as to why that name had been chosen for her.

“Because that is what it says on your passport,” answered Orchal. “Surely, you do not think we’d go by our elvish names when around strangers. We must assimilate ourselves to our surroundings as the situation warrants. You’ve told us that yourself, Bell-, er, Monique. We all have alias.”

“Oh-kay,” she drawled. Buffy nudged Holtz behind her, asking, “And what’s you alias, Daniel? What name shall I call you?”

“Let us stick with Daniel. I have no need to hide my identity from anyone.”

“Oh-kay,” she answered again.

They were finally able to dismount their steeds outside the Hôtel de l’Intendance, an imposing four-story hostelry. If not for the quick reflexes of Holtz, Buffy would’ve fallen to the ground. Her legs were numb and her rear end ached horribly from the saddle.

As Georges (Glorfindel) went inside to see about their rooms, she and her companions were assisted by the hostler with the stabling of the horses.

Orchal did most of the talking, telling the man in fluent French that they had traveled from Orléans. The Slayer didn’t know if the elves had already come up with that story or if her dear friend was just rattling off what came to mind. Regardless, she kept quiet, ensuring that she wouldn’t be the one to screw up the pretense of their visit.

Once the horses were put up, they made their way into the inn, where Glorfindel was still at the front desk, making arrangements for their rooms. Buffy walked around the lobby, massaging her butt, which continued to ache from the long ride.

Not long afterwards, Glorfindel handed out their room keys. The Slayer moaned and groaned as she started up the stairs. While she had been hungry earlier, now her only thoughts turned to sleep. She was even willing to forgo a bath until the next morning, as she was too tired to bathe. Thankfully, her friends had a satchel of her clothing. But come the following morning, they would see to it that she would be given a drastic make over.



“I look hideous,” Buffy grumbled the next day, surveying herself in the mirror.

“That’s nonsense! You look lovely, mademoiselle,” replied Adrien, the man whom Orchal had hired to outfit the Slayer with one of his many elaborately made powdered wigs.

“It itches,” she complained, carefully scratching at her scalp. “And it’s hot… and heavy… and smells a little funky.”

“Funky?” queried Adrien, bewildered by her usage of the word “funky”.

“My wife blurts out the most outlandish things when agitated,” chimed in a very amused Orchal. “I think the look is quite befitting.”

“She looks like a princess,” declared the wig-maker happily.

The Slayer rolled her eyes as she adjusted her boobs, which felt like they were about to pop out of the top of her lace-trimmed bodice. “I ask that you not refer to me as a princess. If the wrong people hear that, next thing you know - it’ll be off with my head!”

A look of horror came to the wig-maker’s face.

Orchal let out an uncomfortable chuckle. “That’s my Monique. Outlandish as ever!” He cast a look of warning at Buffy. “I think you’re work here is done, monsieur,” continued the elf, slapping Adrien on the back with one hand while the other slipped several folded bills into the man’s hand. “There’s a little extra there for your… troubles.”

Orchal helped stack the boxes into the appreciative wig-maker’s arms before showing him to the door. Once he was gone, he turned to Buffy and said, “Can you refrain from the off with your head comments? Damn, Bella. This isn’t the time or place for such talk!”

“But François,” began the Slayer mockingly in a thick, French accent, “it is all the rage nowadays. Just like this rat’s nest on the top of my head.”

The elf frowned. “We must be careful, Bella. If you continue to speak that way, the authorities will surely be onto us. Discretion is of the utmost importance.”

“It was just a joke,” she replied with a scowl.

“Well, keep the jokes to yourself. The last thing we need is all of France hunting us down.”

“Sorry,” she answered. “I just… I just need to get out of here.”

Orchal glanced around their rather cramped quarters. “I think you’re right. Let me take you out for the afternoon. We can wander around the city, grab a bite to eat.”

“I’m ready,” she replied a bit more upbeat than before.

Only minutes later, Buffy and Orchal left the hostel, arm in arm, heading toward the more active section of town. Everywhere they went, the talk was about the uprising in Paris, which, in turn, stirred up both those for and against the overthrow of the monarchy throughout the rest of France. Though the propaganda machine was busily putting out papers and pamphlets, downplaying the atrocities that were taking place in the capital, news of the massacres was still reaching those outside the city. Unbeknownst to the people at the time, in the upcoming days, the horrors would soon spread like a plague throughout most of country.

After a day of sightseeing and window-shopping, the two returned to their lodgings. The Slayer was quite eager to get out of her gown and wig, as she found them most uncomfortable. The clothing from that era looked pretty in books or paintings, but actually wearing them was a totally different story. She longed for just a pair of pants and a sweater, garments that she considered far superior to the dress that was fashionable at this time.

Buffy was delighted to see that Olofin had made it Caen, the first of the other group to do so. He was waiting in the main salon upon her and Orchal’s return, talking with the rest of their companions.

A smile came to his face when he set eyes on his mother. “Well, look at you,” he said, rising from his seat on the settee. “You look… ” He paused, carefully considering his words as his eyes amusedly scanned her garb.

“Lovely,” said Glorfindel, finishing the half-elf’s sentence.

The Slayer raised her eyebrows, turning her gaze to the Noldo. “Lovely?” she queried, skeptical in tone. “I feel like a doofus.”

“Rubbish! You would look lovely even in a burlap sack,” he added with a smile.

She shook her head. “Please tell me that you guys brought me more suitable clothing. I can’t stand wearing this outfit. My girls need to breathe,” she complained, adjusting her bosoms. “And this rat’s nest on my head is driving me crazy. I can’t take it any more.” If not for the many pins holding the wig in place, she would’ve pulled it off her head.

“We think it’s best that you stay incognito,” answered Olofin, his eyes quickly darting from his mother to Glorfindel.

“What’s the point? Morgoth knows I’m here. Wearing this isn’t gonna hide me from him,” she continued, motioning to her ‘costume’. “How the hell do you expect me to fight wearing this?”

A few men then trickled into the lobby, speaking in boisterous voices.

“Monique,” began Thranduil, gesturing to Olofin with his head to shut the doors leading to the salon. When the half-elf crossed the room, closing out the voices of the newcomers, the Green-elf continued. “If you wear your breeches, you’ll only attract attention to yourself. Right now, we do not need that added burden. Have you not seen enough to know how imperative it is that we remain in disguise?”

“I don’t care,” she hissed, folding her arms defiantly across her chest.

“So, you do not care if you put our lives in jeopardy,” chimed in Nestor, his brow arched in question.

Frustrated, annoyed, and highly uncomfortable, the Slayer plopped down beside Glorfindel on the sofa. “Fine,” she snapped, refusing to make eye contact with any.

“We’re doing this to protect you, Bella,” stated a sympathetic Glorfindel. “The Order has already snatched you from us once. We can’t afford to let that happen again.”

She turned her narrowed eyes to the Noldo. “And you think that by wearing this, they won’t find me? Seriously?!” She shook her head in disgust. “If that’s the case, then you people really don’t know a damn thing about Morgoth or his minions… ”

“It’s not Morgoth that concerns us so much,” spoke up Celeborn, “it’s his mortal followers. They will not recognize you dressed like that, but if you revert to dressing… well, like a man, you will surely draw their attention, whether that’s your intent or not.”

“We cannot take that risk, Mother,” agreed Olofin. “Once we reach one of our safe houses in the country, then you can run around naked, if that’s your desire.” He smiled, hoping that his words would lift her spirits, for a while, any way.

“So, we’re not staying here long?” she asked, shifting her eyes to her son.

“No. Coming here was a spur of the moment decision. The rest of our people are scouring the countryside, seeing which safe houses will be adequate on our way to the Sanctuary.”

“We won’t be here more than a few days. Tops,” declared Orchal confidently. “After that - we’ll be home free.”

“Hopefully,” added Glorfindel uneasily. “We must be prepared and expect the unexpected.”

Buffy felt slightly better knowing that she wouldn’t be forced to dress that way throughout the rest of their journey. She could handle a few days of discomfort, if it’s for the greater good.

Once Olofin had returned to his seat, he, along with the others, began to interrogate Buffy about what she had seen and heard during her captivity by the Order. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to provide them with much information.

None had a clue as to why the Master had anointed her, although, they definitely believed that it had something to do with Morgoth. Thankfully, the cavalry had arrived in the nick of time, sparing them all from finding out what had awaited her. A few wondered if Buffy’s fate was to be the same as Lalwen’s, but the Slayer doubted that. Despite all the evil that Melkor had wrought throughout the years, he had never, not once, attempted to kill her. The only thing that everyone could agree on was that it was no mere coincidence that Melkor happened to be in Paris at the same time as the Slayer. He was up to something, that was for sure.



Later that night, when Buffy retired for the night with Orchal, she began to question the elf about all that had happened since the Second Age.

“That is no simple thing you ask of me,” he said with a yawn as he fluffed his pillows before lying down. “It would take me months, if not years, to tell you everything we’ve been through.”

She crawled into bed next to her friend, pulling the covers up to her chin. “So, what’s the deal with Glorfindel?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, Orchal. I see the way he looks at me. I can feel him staring at me when my back’s turned. Are me and him… well, you know… ”

“Lovers? Is that what you mean?” The elf turned out the lamp. The room went dark.

“Er, yeah,” she said hesitantly.

“Yes, Bella,” answered Orchal with another yawn. “You two have been together for… I don’t know, three thousand years or so… ”

“Three thousand years!” she exclaimed, bolting upright.

“Just go to bed,” answered the elf, his voice muffled by his face being buried in his pillow. “I’m tired. And it’s late.”

“How can I sleep when you tell me… ”

“Good night, Bella,” Orchal yawned yet again with an air of finality to his voice. He rolled over onto his side, his back facing her, refusing to answer her many questions.

With her mind spinning from this latest revelation, she laid back down, wondering how she and the Noldo had hooked up. She now understood those looks that he kept giving her. But, somehow, he didn’t seem to understand that she was pining for Maglor, who in her eyes, was her one and only true love.

Not long afterwards, she heard Orchal faintly snoring beside her. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shut down her mind and sleep. She felt wired, as if she had drunk fifty cups of strong coffee or something.

Giving up all hope of sleep, she climbed out of bed, and slipped into her robe and slippers. Buffy thought that some fresh air might help clear her mind. She quietly left the chamber, making her way to the courtyard located behind the stone structure.

She took a seat on one of the benches within the walled courtyard. Leaning her head back, she looked up at the star-speckled sky, confused more than ever before. She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to Maglor. From what Orchal had said, it seemed obvious that they’d had a parting of the ways, something that made her heart ache with sorrow. Before being taken to Valinor, she had planned to search all of Middle-earth for her beloved. Even now, two ages later, she was determined to look for him, that is, if she was able to find her way back in time.

Her thoughts immediately turned to the twins, Anno and Mirë. They had the ability to alter time. Perhaps if she found them, they could send her back, but not just back to the moment when she had left, but further, before Maglor and Maedhros had stolen the Silmarils. Knowing what they had planned, maybe she could stop that from taking place, thus changing history.

But where were the Oracles? With her memories of the past ages concealed, she had no idea where to look for them. Could they be in Switzerland, the Sanctuary that the elves talk about? Or maybe they were still in Mesopotamia.

“No,” she mumbled under her breath. Sumer’s long gone, she thought.

Folkvang! They might be in Folkvang!

All she had to do was find her way back to her mystical realm, something that she had not done in many, many years. Closing her eyes, she concentrated hard, hoping that she could teleport herself to Sussrúmnir. She felt a tingly sensation in her body, a feeling that gave her hope. Her eyes darted open, yet, she found herself still sitting on that same bench within the courtyard of the inn. She closed her eyes once again, calling forth the Valkyries to come to her. Still, nothing. She then repeated the process, but this time, begged for Sargon’s help. Yet, she still found herself alone, seated on the bench. The Slayer turned her gaze back toward the heavens, beseeching Ilúvatar to take her to her home, to remove her from France, a place where she did not belong.

Nothing happened. No voices in her head. No sudden appearances by any of the Ainur, or anyone else with the ability to help her. She bowed her head in defeat, feeling betrayed by those in Aman and in Folkvang, not to mention Eru Himself. How could He allow the Valar to do what they had done? Did He not see how cruel and thoughtless their deed was? Why must they hinder her magics and memories when she needed them most? And why the hell was she here in France at this time? What was she supposed to do - watch those loyal to her fall one by one? Why? That’s all she wanted to know? Why? Why here, why now? It made absolutely no sense to her whatsoever.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” said a voice from behind.

She let out a startled gasp, twisting on the bench toward the sound. “Oh,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. “It’s you.”

“You know how dangerous it is to be out here, alone,” continued Glorfindel.

Buffy’s eyes scanned the empty courtyard. “Yeah, that statue over there might come to life and kill me,” she snickered, pointing to the unfamiliar stone figure next to the fountain. She rolled her eyes, shifting back to her original position on the bench.

“May I?” he asked, motioning to the space beside her.

She slid over a bit, allowing room for the Noldo on the bench. He sat down, watching her as she resumed staring at the sky above.

“I take it that you couldn’t sleep either.”

“Yep,” she answered, her eyes fixed on the heavens.

“Do you need something to help you sleep? A tonic perhaps?”

“No. I don’t wanna sleep. I need to think.”

“About anything in particular?” he inquired, his eyes never leaving her.

“No. Just… just stuff.”

The Noldo couldn’t help but notice the Slayer’s aloofness. They both fell quiet, staring up at the twinkling night sky.

Buffy found it odd that she was seated next to the man that had been her lover for over three thousand years, yet, to her, he was a mere stranger. As they sat there, in silence, she felt absolutely nothing for him, no flittering in her heart, no sweaty palms, nothing.

After some time, she finally spoke. “Orchal told me, told me about you and I.”

“Oh,” Glorfindel answered, turning his grey eyes to her.

“Is it true? Is it true that we’ve been together for over three thousand years?” Her eyes never left the heavens as she posed her question.

“We’ve been together for three thousand eleven years to be exact.”

Her brows shot upwards, still astounded to hear that they’d been together for that amount of time.

“Do you remember any of our time together?” he queried anxiously.

“No,” she answered, lowering her head. “I don’t remember anything.” She faced the Noldo. “I don’t remember you.”

“I cannot tell you how much that grieves me.” He reached out, longing to touch her, but the Slayer backed away. He pulled his hand back, his face a mask of pain.

Buffy’s eyes searched the Noldo’s face, hoping that she’d recall something, anything, about the elf, but her mind drew a blank. “You’re a stranger to me, Glorfindel, a complete stranger… ”

“That is not how it was.” He gently took her left hand in his, showing her the interwoven gold and silver bands on her ring finger. “I gave you this, a long time ago. I have one too. See.” He showed her the matching ring on his corresponding finger. “We exchanged these in the last age, as a token of our love. You refused to marry me, saying that three times is enough… ”

Three times? she wondered. She had never married three times!

“… I love you, Bella, and you love me… ”

“This is crazy,” she exclaimed, pulling her hand free and leaping to her feet.

Glorfindel motioned for her to lower her voice.

“No! I won’t be quiet. All of this… is maddening. I can’t take it.” She began to walk off in a huff.

The Noldo jumped to his feet, watching her storm off.

She stopped a few feet away. With her back to him, she added in a firm tone, “I don’t love you. How can I when I don’t even know you?” She continued on her way, leaving the heartbroken elf behind…