Full Circle

WARNING! The following chapter contains graphic scenes depicting torture and death. Proceed with caution. Please note that this chapter is based on historic accounts and has merely been tweaked to fit the context of this story.

Chapter One Hundred-Thirteen: Dead End



Needless to say, Buffy didn’t sleep much that night. How could she? She was beginning to think that she was providing the Valar with some much needed entertainment. It seemed, to her, at least, that they got off on tossing her into harrowing situations without so much as a single memory as to what had brought her there. How could they do this to her? What in Eru’s name gave them the right to screw with her mind as they had done? And why the hell wasn’t Ilúvatar intervening on her behalf? If she was His favorite daughter, how could He let this happen, yet again?

Not only that, but she was beginning to regret her snappish attitude toward Glorfindel. Though she had no memory of their past, it appeared that they had been together a long, long time. When she looked at things from the Noldo’s perspective, she couldn’t imagine how trying this must be for him. Even so, it still didn’t change anything. She didn’t know him, and quite frankly, she had no desire to. Right now, her heart belonged to her beloved Kanafinwë. She yearned for the son of Fëanor, and no one else. Not even Sargon the Magnificent.

Things did become awkward between her and Glorfindel after that. She found it difficult to look the elf in the eye, and found herself turning away after a second or two. When she wasn’t facing him, she could still feel his penetrating gaze, as he watched her intently. She found it uncomfortable, so much so that she avoided the Noldo as much as possible.

While they waited to hear which safe house they would be traveling to, the Slayer passed the time wandering the city with Orchal or Thranduil. They liked to sit in the market place, watching the people coming and going. She still found it strange to see people dressed in the garb of that era. It was a dramatic change from the dress of the First Age, which was definitely more comfortable to the wearer.

One day turned into two, and with it, Buffy’s restlessness grew, especially at night. Her friends had advised her to avoid the streets after dark when the low-lifes were known to prowl the area, particularly outside the bars. Of course, being told not to do something, made the Slayer more inclined to do the exact opposite. There was a pub only a couple of doors down that she wished to visit, regardless of what any thought. She was in France, a place famous for not only its food, but also its wine. How could she not partake of a glass or two of Bordeaux?

“That’s asinine!” chided Orchal when he heard of her intention. “You can’t go parading around in the local bars. There are too many undesirables there.”

“You gonna stop me?” she retorted, her eyes narrowed in challenge.

“No,” he answered with a sigh. “But, I’m going with you.”

“I’ve got no problem with that,” she replied, happy that the elf had backed down. As they made their way toward the door, she added, “Besides, it’s still early. Who would be up to mischief at this hour?”

Orchal grumbled something inaudible under his breath. He knew that Glorfindel and the others would disapprove of their excursion, deeming it too risky. Yet, he knew Buffy well enough to know that if he didn’t accompany her, she would most certainly go on her own.

They strolled over to the bar. The name on the wooden plaque beside the entrance was illegible, having faded with time. By the looks of it, the stone structure was old, solid, but old. The green paint on the main door was peeling in many places. The matching shutters, which were kept closed, were in the same state as the entryway, the green paint chipped and peeling in some places.

Pushing the door open, they were instantly greeted with a cloud of cigar smoke, the sound of piano playing and the laughter and boisterous voices of many. They had no idea that this particular establishment was one frequented by lawyers, deputies and other “political charlatans”.

Orchal took Buffy by the hand and led her through the crowd to a small, empty table in the corner of the room. Several patrons watched as they passed, eyeing them with interest. Though quite early (it was only around eight-thirty) the place was pretty busy.

They took their seats as a barmaid came rushing by, informing them that she’d take their order when she returned. The place was bustling with people and the poor woman already seemed frazzled.

The Slayer’s eyes scanned the dimly lit, smoke-filled room. It seemed to her that the turmoil within the nation had prompted its citizens to drink, and by the looks of it, to dally with women of ill repute.

“Do they have no shame?” remarked the Green-elf in disgust, watching as some man felt up a brown-haired woman not feet away.

“Apparently not,” Buffy snickered in response. “I guess war makes people amorous.”

“Pfft,” sounded Orchal, rolling his eyes. “That is the result of removing godly values from a people - it leads to moral decay. Reminds me of the Greeks long ago, and the Romans during their decline.”

“Well,” began the Slayer, “at least she’s alive. That’s a welcome sight compared to what I witnessed in Paris.” She shuddered at the mere memory. “You wanna talk moral decay - you should’ve seen what happened to this poor woman there... Jesus Christ.” She shuddered again as the elf looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to elaborate further. She didn’t.

A few minutes later, the barmaid returned. Orchal ordered a bottle of their finest chardonnay, a Buffy favorite, although she had no recollection of that. The two then did what they normally did in their down time, (which happened to be pretty much all the time), they people-watched.

Of course, like everywhere in France, the main topic of conversation was the uprising in Paris. The people had splintered, just like their government, dividing into separate factions, some in support of the insurrection, others against.

At the table next to theirs sat a few men, speaking quietly amongst themselves. She and Orchal overheard part of their conversation regarding the travesty that had taken place in their city only a couple of days before. A poor man by the name of Bayeux, who happened to be the Deputy-General in Normandy, had been unjustly imprisoned. By the time his release papers had arrived from Paris, a wild mob had assembled outside the prison, hacking him to pieces when he exited the doors.

The news shocked Buffy, as she had wandered throughout the city since her arrival, and couldn’t believe that such a thing had taken place under her nose. While she had heard talk of unruly mobs, and severed heads being paraded around on pikes, she had assumed that people were speaking of those in Paris, not those in Caen.

The Slayer had grown weary of hearing information such as that and of the insurrection still taking place in France. She wanted to forget about those atrocities, at least for a while. All she wanted was to relax and enjoy the music.

Putting aside those thoughts, she focused her attention on those near the piano on the raised wooden platform. Several couples were dancing, their sweeping movements in harmony with one another. She sipped on her wine, mesmerized by the music and dancers. If only she knew the steps, she would’ve loved to have joined them. Instead, she remained seated, gently swaying to the rhythm of the music.

By the time she had consumed three glasses of wine, the Slayer felt more relaxed. Not drunk, or even tipsy, but relaxed. Having drunk nearly all of the chardonnay, she asked Orchal to order another bottle of wine, preferably Bordeaux.

“This is neither the time nor the place to overindulge… ”

“I’m not, Orchal. I can hold my alcohol. I’ve only had three glasses for Eru’s sake. I don’t even have a buzz.”

“Very well,” he sighed. The Green-elf scanned the throng of people in the room, searching for the barmaid. “Where is that woman?”

“Just go up there and get a bottle. She’s probably waiting on someone else,” answered Buffy, draining the last drops of white wine from her glass.

Her companion reluctantly rose from the table and made his way to the counter. She followed him with her eyes until he reached the bar. As he waited, her gaze shifted further down the line, stopping on four men grouped tightly together, watching her. One raised his glass when they made eye contact. She offered a quick smile before turning her complete attention back to the dancers.

Not a minute had passed when the stranger from the counter approached her table. Without an invitation, he slunk into Orchal’s empty chair.

“Would you like to dance, mademoiselle?” he asked, the smell of brandy heavy on his breath.

Slightly startled by his sudden appearance, she responded firmly but kindly with, “No, thank you.”

“Oh, but you look so lonely here, sitting by yourself,” he continued. His big, brown, bloodshot eyes lingered on her breasts as he spoke.

“My husband went to get us drinks,” she replied, pulling her purple shawl over her chest. She then motioned toward the counter where Orchal stood with his back to her.

The stranger’s eyes did not follow her gesture. He placed his hand on her arm. “Surely, he wouldn’t mind if we shared one dance,” the man continued, caressing her skin.

“He most certainly would,” she said in an affronted tone, pulling her arm away. Scowling at the man, she added sharply, “I bid you good-evening,” before turning her head toward the dancers once again.

The man remained there for a few moments, staring at the Slayer. When he saw Orchal making his way back from the bar, he said, “We’ll meet again, mademoiselle. Make no mistake about that.” Laughing gruffly, he rose from the chair and returned to his waiting comrades.

“What was that all about?” asked the elf upon his return.

“Just some perv. I took care of it.”

Orchal turned his wrathful gaze toward the group of men, who continued to stare at his companion lasciviously.

“Perhaps we should take the wine and return to the inn,” he continued, shifting his gaze back to Buffy. “My heart tells me that those men are up to no good.”

“Oh, come on, Or- François,” she replied, correcting herself. “They’re only mortal men. I can handle ‘em.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he mumbled, as he popped the cork on the bottle. “Discretion is key, Monique. Remember that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she answered, sliding her empty glass toward the elf.

Once again, she turned her attention back to the dancers while Orchal watched the men out of the corner of his eye. When ten minutes had passed, he asked if the Slayer was ready to go. She answered, no. After another ten minutes, he asked again. That went on for another thirty minutes before Buffy threw up her hands and agreed to leave. As they rose from their seats, the Green-elf noticed that the men were no longer standing at the counter. He felt a sense of relief, gladdened that they were gone.

They stepped outside into the brisk night. The street lamps softly illuminated patches of the sidewalk and road.

“I’ve got to pee! I feel like I’m going to explode!” announced the elf anxiously.

Buffy looked up and down the virtually deserted street. “Go pee around the corner. No one’s gonna see.”

“Why don’t you go on back to the hotel. I’ll meet you there.”

“I’ll wait,” she replied, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “The night air feels good, especially after being in all that smoke.”

Orchal was nearly bouncing up and down. “Alright. I’ll be back in a minute.” He hurried down the sidewalk, disappearing around the corner of the building.

The Slayer stepped out into the street, glancing up at the star-speckled sky on a canvas of black. It was a beautiful night.

“I told you that I’d be back, mademoiselle,” said a gravelly voice from behind.

Buffy spun around, coming face to face with the man that she referred to as “Brandy Breath” in her mind. Before she had a chance to utter a single word, she felt two hands roughly seize her from behind, pulling her backwards and off her feet. She lost her footing as she was being dragged.

The goon stepped closer. “What I want, I take,” he sneered, his thin lips curling into a fiendish grin. “That is, if you’re not willing to give it up freely.”

“Fuck you!” she grunted, trying to dig her heals into the ridges of the street, desperate to regain her balance.

“Precisely what I aim to do!” he snickered. The man reached out, jerking the shawl from around her shoulders. The material was stuck beneath his comrade’s grip and merely stretched as he pulled on it.

Only a second later, the Slayer heard the muffled cry of Orchal coming from around the building’s side. That was followed by a gunshot, a sound that caused Buffy’s blood to run cold and incite her to action.

“Orchal,” she muttered under her breath. She dug one of the heels of her boots between the paving stones, the other struck Brandy Breath’s knee.

Crack!

The man let out a blood-curdling scream. He fell to the street, clutching his right knee, howling in pain and cursing the Slayer.

At the same time, the man behind her shifted one of his arms higher, putting her in a chokehold, and pulling her backwards.

Four men came darting out from around the side of the building, one carrying a still smoking pistol in his hand.

Knowing that she didn’t have any time to spare, Buffy lifted her feet off the ground in an attempt to weigh down her captor while simultaneously slashing at his forearm with her fingernails. He groaned in pain, but tightened his hold, cutting off her air supply. She then wrapped her legs behind his, trying to throw him off balance.

“Get that fucking bitch!” snarled Brandy Breath from the ground, spittle flying from his lips.

The other men stood there for a moment, stunned beyond belief to see that such a small woman was able to harm their friend with a single blow to the knee. They remained frozen, watching the scene unfolding before their eyes. The young woman’s eyes were bug-eyed, glistening in the light of the street lamp, as she struggled with Hébert, writhing her body in an attempt to free herself. They had never seen a woman engaged in one-on-one combat before. Any other woman would have submitted to her captor, but not this one. She was fiery, a rarity amongst their kind.

The Slayer was beginning to see stars and feared that she would soon pass out from lack of oxygen. She had to do something quick. Mustering her strength, she managed to pull one of her arms free. She rammed her elbow into her captor’s ribs as hard as she could, causing him to relax his hold. She leaned forward, forcing him to do the same. Still squirming within his grasp, the man lost his balance and both fell forward into a roll, ending up on their backs. The man, now below her held her loosely around the waist, still moaning and groaning from her blow.

Gasping for breath, Buffy’s eyes gradually came back into focus. She immediately noticed Brandy Breath seated before her, cursing her as he reached into his coat pocket. Thinking that he was going to pull out a gun and shoot her, she raised her leg, bringing the heel of her boot down hard onto his injured knee.

Brandy Breath wailed once again, as one of his cohorts reloaded his pistol, finally comprehending that this was no ordinary woman they were dealing with.

Clenching her teeth, the Slayer lifted her head before flinging it back forcefully into the face of the man beneath her. Knocking her opponent out cold, she rolled off him, scrambling to her feet.

With her adrenaline pumping, and her chest heaving, she glowered at the others standing in the street.

Brandy Breath was now rolling around on the ground, shouting, “Gendarme! Gendarme!” at the top of his lungs.

“Stop right there, bitch!” said the man holding the pistol. He had his weapon trained on Buffy. “You’re going to pay for this, whore!”

At that moment, the Slayer knew, without a doubt, that he was the one that had shot her friend. She stared him down, slowly stepping toward the creep.

“One more step, and I’ll put a slug in your head!” he warned, hesitant to pull the trigger.

Buffy motioned for him to. “Do it!” she hissed through gritted teeth. “You’ve got one shot - better make it count, mother-fucker.”

The man didn’t hesitate then. He pulled the trigger. She could actually see the hammer starting its forward motion. A second later a click, followed by a blast. Things seemed to be moving in slow motion. The Slayer could actually see the projectile shooting from the barrel. She dove down, rolling on the stone road, as the bullet went zipping past her.

The three other men immediately took off, running in various directions. The man holding the pistol stood there, mouth agape, as Buffy was back on her feet, coming straight for him. He had no time to react. She seemingly flew at him, her hands grabbing his head on either side. In one swift motion, she spun his head, snapping his neck. With his face now turned completely around, the Slayer let the mortal’s limp body fall to the ground.

Brandy Breath watched in horror as his friend’s lifeless body fell in a heap onto the street. “Oh God, please help me! Somebody please help me!” he cried, dragging himself along the road.

Nobody did. Those that heard the initial gunshot remained hidden in their homes. Only one person witnessed the incident, a young woman, standing at her bedroom window from the second floor of the stone house across the street. She watched in awe, amazed to see a woman taking on a group of thugs and winning, by the looks of it.

Buffy turned, facing the man pulling himself along the street, crying. His buddy still lay unconscious nearby. She glanced down, taking the pistol from the dead man’s hand. She inspected the weapon, realizing that it would have to be reloaded if she wished to fire it again. Nevertheless, she grasped the metal object in her hand, slowly closing the gap between her and the injured man.

“No, please, mademoiselle! Don’t!” pleaded the man, as he continued to pull himself along the road, glancing anxiously over his shoulder. “I meant no harm!”

She stopped beside Brandy Breath, who turned over, so that he could attempt to plead with the Slayer. Buffy placed her foot on his stomach. “What I want, I get. And I want you die,” she proclaimed in a raspy voice.

She dropped to her knees, striking the man at the bridge of his nose with the butt of the pistol.

Whack!

The force of the blow crushed through his skull, killing the man instantly. Blood poured from both nostrils, a hollow left where he had been struck.

As she lifted her weapon again, wanting to inflict more damage on her foe, Glorfindel came dashing out of the inn, yelling, “No! Bella! Don’t do it!” as he speedily crossed the street.

Hearing the elf’s voice snapped her out of slayer mode. She looked down upon the man, his blank eyes staring at the night sky above, most of his face covered in his life force. Seeing the blood on her hand, she dropped the weapon, and rose to her feet.

The entire episode lasted maybe a minute to a minute and a half.

When Glorfindel reached her side, his eyes quickly scanned her for any apparent injuries before turning his gaze to the man on the ground. “Bella! What did you do?”

Buffy’s hand was rubbing her throat, which hurt horribly. Her thoughts then turned to the Green-elf. “Orchal,” she whispered hoarsely before taking off toward the side of the building.

She rounded the corner, only to see her dear friend lying still on the swath of grass, his eyes closed. His trousers were still unbuttoned, both hands folded on his stomach.

“NOOO!” the Slayer cried out, tears forming in her eyes. She fell to her knees beside the elf, her eyes scanning his body. From beneath his hands she could see that his shirt was soaked with blood. “Orchal! Orchal!” she wept, shaking him gently with trembling hands.

He didn’t respond.

She reached out, placing her index finger against his neck, feeling for a pulse. Thankfully, she felt one.

“Bell… Bella,” the elf stammered, his eyes fluttering open.

“Orchal,” she said softly, relieved to hear his voice. Her golden tears splattered on the elf’s chest, as she pushed his silver hair from his face. “You’ll be alright. I promise. You’ll be alright.”

Only a second later, Thranduil and Nestor came rushing around the corner.

A tearful Buffy looked over her shoulder. “Orchal’s been shot.”

“Oh God!” gasped Thranduil, sliding onto his knees next to Buffy. “Is he going to be alright?” asked the horrified Green-elf.

“Yes,” answered Buffy firmly. “He’ll be alright.” She looked up at Nestor, who had dropped down on the other side of the injured elf.

“Let me see, my friend,” he said soothingly, moving Orchal’s bloodied hands from his stomach.

The Slayer’s eyes darted from Nestor to Orchal, as the healer inspected the wound in near darkness.

Thranduil questioned Buffy while waiting nervously for Nestor’s pronouncement. Clutching her dear friend’s hand in hers, she began to explain the confrontation between them and the men in the street, that there were two groups that attacked them simultaneously.

Before she was able to finish her account, Olofin suddenly sprang around the corner of the building, out of breath from his sprint. He halted beside the group huddled around Orchal, his face fraught with worry.

“What happened?” he asked, surveying the Green-elf lying on the ground.

“We need to get him inside,” remarked Nestor gravely, not allowing anyone the chance to fill the half-elf in on what had transpired. “Help me.”

He, Olofin and Thranduil carefully lifted Orchal off the ground. Buffy continued to hold onto her friend’s hand, apologizing profusely for having insisted that they go to the pub.

“You make life interesting, Bella,” said the Green-elf weakly. “Never a dull moment.”

When they reached the sidewalk, the proprietor of the hotel and his wife were standing on the front stoop of their establishment, dressed in their nightclothes. The wife, Gabrielle, was going ballistic, waving her hands wildly as she ranted and raved. She was speaking so fast that the Slayer couldn’t understand what she was saying.

As soon as she saw them carrying a wounded Orchal, she shrieked. Her husband, Jean-Louis, tried to calm her, but to no avail.

“No!” she said when she saw them approaching, waving her finger defiantly. “I forbid you from entering my inn. No!” Gabrielle then went off on another tirade, pointing to the bodies that Glorfindel, Celeborn and Holtz were removing from the street.

“François was attacked!” interjected the Slayer. “He did nothing wrong. Those men attacked both of us!”

“Those Jacobins,” hissed Jean-Louis. “They are nothing but rabble-rousers!”

“I don’t care! If we allow them to stay, they will come after us! I do not need this. We do not need this. They will put us out of business - or worse!” countered Gabrielle, blocking the doorway.

“Please, Gabrielle,” pleaded Buffy. “We did nothing wrong. Our friend is hurt. We need to tend to his wound. I beg of you. Please let us inside.”

“No,” she answered, folding her arms across her chest. “Take François to the hospital. He can get help there!”

“Come, come,” beckoned Jean-Louis, motioning the others to follow him. He grabbed the lantern hanging on a hook to the right of the door. “My wife cannot be reasoned with,” he continued as he led them around the other side of the building toward the stable. “All this craziness… She fears that the Jacobins will retaliate against us if we help.”

“But we didn’t do anything wrong. They attacked us!” reiterated the Slayer, catching up with the man.

“It doesn’t matter, Citizen Chénier. Two Jacobins are dead, and one’s wounded. The survivor will embellish the tale in the retelling, and the National Guard will be summoned. There will be hell to pay, and Gabrielle fears that we’ll be caught in the crossfire. My advice to you and your friends: flee Caen as quickly as you may. I will help you the best I can, but there is not much time. The police have been summoned; I’m sure. It will not be long before they arrive.”

Though times were rough, Jean-Louis offered them his only wagon in which to transport Orchal from Caen. Olofin, ever-grateful, slipped several francs into the old man’s hand, thanking him for his hospitality and kindness during their brief stay.

“You may collect your things from inside. I will help Monique hitch the horse to the wagon. Go! Go! If Gabrielle gives you a hard time, you tell her that I told you to. Now go.”

Olofin turned to Thranduil, “Jacques, will you go for me? I don’t want to leave François’ side. Just bring what we need.”

“Let’s get him in the wagon first,” added Nestor.

Buffy grabbed a horse blanket and laid it on the wooden floor before they carefully placed Orchal on top of it. Both Olofin and Nestor climbed in, on either side of the Green-elf, eager to tend to his wound with their elven magics.

As she and Jean-Louis went to the stall where Orchal’s horse was housed, the man said, “You’re in trouble, mademoiselle. I can see that. I’ve lived many long years, and you and your friends… you people are unlike anyone that I’ve ever met.” He glanced over at the wagon where the two elves were hunched over the injured man, a soft white light emitting from between them. “There is more here than meets the eye,” he added rubbing the stubble on his chin.

The Slayer made no comment. She took the harness from Jean-Louis and busily began strapping it onto the horse.

The old man watched her intently. “What are you people?” he whispered. “You are too fair of face for the average Frenchman.”

She glanced up, as she continued to do the straps. “We’re no different than you, Jean-Louis.” She shifted her gaze back to the task at hand. “We love. We hurt. We bleed. We die.” She looked him in the eyes. “Isn’t that what makes us human?”

“I don’t know what this world is coming to. From the news we hear, it seems humans are doing inhuman things, unholy things.”

“And what are you going to do about that?” she asked, fastening another strap.

“What can I do? I am but an old man. There is nothing I can do.”

“That seems to be the problem around here,” she answered. “No one wants to get involved except… except the rabble-rousers, as you called them. When you have people like that leading the flock, they’re only going to lead you to slaughter. Unless, you fight them. Evil reigns in France, Jean-Louis, evil that will bring about this country’s downfall. That’s a sad state, if you ask me. I believe in fighting for what you believe in, fighting for those that you love.”

“Is that what you people do, fight evil?” he asked, eager to hear her response.

“We do what we have to, to survive, to persevere. I hope your people decide to do the same thing.”

“You’re not from France, are you?”

Buffy locked eyes with the old man, but didn’t answer his question. “It looks like we’re ready to hitch her to the wagon,” she said, changing the subject abruptly.

Jean-Louis nodded, knowing that their conversation was over.

As he helped her hitch the steed to the wagon, Glorfindel and Daniel came into the barn. Holtz looked on while the Noldo leaned over the side of the wagon, telepathically speaking with Olofin and Nestor.

“Saddle up, Monique,” Glorfindel said, turning his gaze to Buffy. “We have need for haste.”

Leaving the two men to finish, she got Rocco from his stall. Glorfindel also quickly began saddling his steed.

Celeborn then came into the building, carrying a bundle of bags. He brought both Nacil and Glorfindel’s sword.

Jean-Louis looked on, his lips pursed together, as the Slayer girded the sheath around her waist. Celeborn then wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, advising her to keep the hood pulled over her head.

“We’ll see you soon, my friend,” he said once she had climbed atop Rocco.

“What?” she asked, befuddled by his remark. “Aren’t you guys coming?”

The silver-haired elf shook his head. “You and Georges will ride on together. We’ll catch up with you later.”

The Slayer was aghast at the suggestion. “No! I’m not leaving without Or- François… ”

“You have no say-so in this, Monique,” interjected Glorfindel tersely. “If you would’ve stayed inside as advised, none of this would have happened. And if we do not get you out of here as soon as possible, Lord only knows what will happen. You have put those that you love in jeopardy. The best thing you can do now is distance yourself from them and pray that no harm comes to any of us.”

“Georges,” began Celeborn, clearly disappointed by the tone with which the Noldo spoke to Buffy. “There’s no need to be so harsh.”

“Obviously, gentle prodding doesn’t work with Monique. François is proof of that.”

“Enough!” demanded Olofin, glancing over his shoulder at the Noldo. “Your point has been made.”

Buffy felt her eyes begin to tear up. Biting her lip, she urged Rocco forward.

Jean-Louis stepped before the steed, stopping her. “Please, mademoiselle. There is something that I must… Are… are you an angel?” he asked hesitantly.

The Slayer could feel Glorfindel’s glaring eyes boring into her back. She glanced over her shoulder; the Noldo ever so subtly shook his head. She turned her gaze back to the old man. “I am naught but the hunted,” she replied, the sadness in her voice apparent. She then took off out of the stable, leaving a very annoyed Glorfindel behind.

“Damn it! Has she not learned anything?!” mumbled the Noldo under his breath.

“Hurry, Georges,” said an uneasy Celeborn. “Monique should not be left alone.” The Sinda walked across the barn, standing just outside the doors, watching Buffy as she waited for Glorfindel beside the road.

Glorfindel grumbled his discontent, as he hurriedly slid the bridle over his horse’s head.

A small assembly of people had gathered around the bodies beside the road. Even in the dim light, the Slayer could see the looks of horror upon their faces.

“What kind of monster could have done such a thing?” proclaimed one man.

“The devil has been unleashed in Caen!” declared another.

Buffy looked away, turning her eyes toward the house across the street. On the second level, she could see the silhouette of a woman, holding the curtain aside, watching the scene below.

However, the woman was not watching the people gathered around the corpses, but was watching the Slayer sitting motionless upon her steed. She could see the sheathed blade protruding from beneath her dark cloak. With wonderment in her eyes, she saw that that small woman possessed a drive to do what was right. The woman instantly felt a connection with the mysterious stranger, deeming that there was some type of bond between them, though she knew the woman not. She watched as another rider, a man, much taller than the petite woman, trotted up alongside her before both took off down the road at a gallop, quickly disappearing from view.

The woman standing in the window then murmured two words, “I should!” Walking away from the window, she was determined to put her plan into action. That young woman was none other than Charlotte Corday. And over the past few days, she had begun an internal debate, asking herself, “Should I, or shouldn’t I?” Her disgust over what was happening in her country would drive her to do the unthinkable. But now, after witnessing the prowess of the small, dark-haired woman, she was resolved to do what she believed was right. It would take months before she would put her plan into action, going over every minute detail in her mind hundreds of times.

Come the following summer, on July 13 1793, Charlotte would ride to Paris and to the home of Jean-Paul Marat, the demon disguised as a mortal, whose paper, L’Amidu Peuple, (she believed) was the instrument that had incited great evil within France. She would enter his home, alone, and stab the demon in the heart whilst in his bathtub, thus ridding the world of a truly wretched creature. She would be guillotined shortly thereafter.



Now, Glorfindel was ever-wise, and knew the heart of the enemy well, having battled them for thousands of years. While Buffy thought that they would be heading east, toward Switzerland, that was not the case. The Noldo knew that word would quickly spread of the deaths in Caen, and that their foes would correctly guess that the Slayer was behind the rather grisly slayings.

The elf had the foresight to see the enemy’s next move. Since France’s armies were busy fighting wars on various fronts, he knew that the National Guard would be dispatched in an attempt to waylay their forces along the Alps to the east, and the coastal regions to the west. The enemy armies would then march inward, from both east and west in an attempt to capture the allies between the hammer and the anvil. It was an old maneuver employed by the enemy for many ages, and one that the elves could easily thwart by traveling south instead of north, where the enemy would believe they were more likely to flee France’s borders.

Using his ability of telepathy, he had instructed Olofin and Nestor to follow them to Nantes, which lay nearly two hundred miles south of Caen, along the River Loire. There, they could lie low, until things settled down, before making their way east toward Switzerland. The Noldo had already heard from several dove and falcon messengers that had been sent to various regions in France. There were still many people scattered about the country that were loyal to Buffy, that knew that she was the Slayer, and had offered their homes as safe houses until she and her friends could safely escape to the Sanctuary.

That was the Glorfindel’s plan. He shared that with Buffy once they had departed the city of Caen, but she made no comment. The Noldo could see that she was already beginning to withdraw into her shell.

The Slayer had taken Glorfindel’s earlier, accusatory words to heart. She was responsible for Orchal’s injury. If she had only stayed inside the inn, not demanding to go to a pub of all places, none of this would’ve happened. The guilt weighed heavily on her shoulders and as soon as she met up with Orchal again, she’d do her best to make it up to him, somehow, someway.

Those that they had left were not far behind. Olofin and Nestor were able to extract the bullet from Orchal’s abdomen and close the wound with their elven magics. Though the Green-elf was still sore and weak from the blood loss, he refused to ride in some wagon, which would only slow down the group, putting them all at risk. Orchal insisted that he ride atop his horse and departed Caen with the rest of his companions. The others in their group who had stayed in various sections of the city met up with them in the hilly outskirts of town.

As before, Buffy and Glorfindel rode hard and fast, trying to get to Nantes in record time. When they were about twenty miles outside the city, a hellacious thunderstorm struck. The torrential rains that accompanied it drenched the weary travelers to the bone.

Yet, the rains also proved to be a blessing in disguise. They were stopped at the checkpoint on the main north road leading into Nantes and had to produce their passports before they could gain entry into the city. On cue, the Noldo reached into his pocket and pulled out both documents, handing them to the pudgy official who glanced at the papers uninterestedly, stamped them, and then returned them to Glorfindel. That would be the last time the Slayer would go by the alias, Monique Chénier. After entering Nantes, she would assume the name Marie-Thérésa Dubois, a merchant’s daughter from Reims.

Shivering, the Slayer and the Noldo rode through the streets, amid heavy rains, to a beautiful, gothic-looking chateau that sat by the river’s edge. They passed through the gated wall, entering the estate of Bishop Guillaume Lavergne, whom they were told to address simply as, Monseigneur.

Once inside the elaborate halls, they were ushered upstairs, to adjoining rooms, where they were able to change out of their wet clothes. Having traveled only with the garments on her back, Buffy was given a plain white, uncomely gown that looked more like something that would be worn during Queen Victoria’s reign than the current fashion trends in France.

The Slayer sat on the hearth before the roaring fire within her room in an attempt to rid the chill that lingered in her bones. Her thoughts turned to the others. She prayed to Ilúvatar that they would all survive the perils of the road, making it to the safe house in one piece.

When thirty minutes had passed, Glorfindel knocked on the door, asking her to come downstairs and speak with the Monseigneur. Sliding her feet into a pair of oversized slippers, she followed the Noldo to the lower level and into the study of the Bishop.

Several priests sat quietly at a rectangular table in the middle of the room, mulling over many books and newspapers. The Monseigneur sat in a burgundy wing-backed chair near the fireplace, a folded paper resting on his lap. He appeared to be in his mid-sixties. When he heard them enter, he shifted his gaze in their direction.

“Good afternoon. Good afternoon,” he said warmly, motioning them to the vacant chairs situated across from his. “Have a seat.”

As Buffy and Glorfindel crossed the room, a few of the priests lifted their heads and gave the Slayer a quick once-over before returning to their reading.

The newly arrived guests took their seats.

“Thank you, Monseigneur, for allowing us in your home,” said Buffy, glancing around the rather large room, which contained, not only opulent furnishings, but many religious artifacts as well.

“You’re most certainly welcome, my dear Lady,” he answered with a quick smile. “My brethren, including myself, believe that the good Lord has sent you here, seeking our aid and protection,” he continued. “France is in turmoil - the Devil has been unleashed in this land and is out to destroy the Faithful.”

“The Faithful?” she queried, wondering if the Monseigneur was perhaps descended from the Edain.

“Those loyal to God, my child,” replied the old man. Cocking his head to the side, his brown eyes scrutinized the small woman seated before him. “Those that have seized power seek to dispel God and His laws. They have been hunting down those of the clergy, deeming that we are at the root of the problem, instead of seeing us as we truly are - servants of the Almighty that only wish to spread His word, and give hope and guidance to those that have lost their way.”

“The church has been vilified,” added the Noldo. “The radicals have been killing men and women of the cloth for several months, looting and defiling the churches in their madness.”

The old man nodded, his baldhead shining in the firelight. “That is right! The atrocities that we’ve been reading about in Paris, and elsewhere, are the direct result of the purging of Godly values from the people. They are running amok, believing that there are no consequences for their actions.”

“What are we supposed to do?” asked Buffy, still unsure of what her purpose in France was.

“That I do not know,” answered the Monseigneur with a sigh. “All I can say is that God has brought all of us here, for what purpose - I do not yet know. My people and I have fled our abbeys months ago, seeking a place where we can garner what strength we have and fight the despots in power, if need be.” He leaned back in his chair and turned his gaze to the roaring fire. “I fear that we are living in the End of Days,” he added in a mere whisper.

“No,” answered the Slayer, shaking her head. “This isn’t the end. France will endure this. She will survive. This is not the end.”

The Monseigneur turned his eyes back to Buffy. “I hope you are right, dear Lady. I hope you are right.”

“There is something that you must know, Marie-Thérésa,” interjected Glorfindel gravely. “I do not think you understand the gravity of our situation, the threat that lingers over all of our heads.”

“What are you talking about?” asked the perplexed Slayer.

“Monseigneur.” The Noldo nodded to the old man.

The Bishop lifted the paper from his lap and handed it to Buffy.

“What’s this?” she asked, taking it from the Monseigneur.

“Read it,” instructed Glorfindel gloomily. He rose from his seat and stepped before the fire. Grabbing the poker from its base, he began to shift the flaming logs within the fireplace.

Buffy unfolded the paper. It was a newspaper, from Caen. Her jaw dropped when she saw that there was a sketch of her on the front page, stating that she was wanted by the republic for conspiring with the monarchy, and for the murder of the hags on the bridge. While that was troubling enough, the proprietors of the inn in which they had stayed had been arrested for harboring a “royal sympathizer,” who was reputed to be “a threat to the newly formed republic.”

Her eyes welled with tears. “It’s all my fault,” she said upon finishing the article, her voice cracking as she spoke. “Jean-Louis and Gabrielle are probably gonna die, and it’s all my fault.”

“We do not know that,” countered Glorfindel, returning to his seat beside the Slayer. He placed his hand comfortingly on her arm. “But you must understand how imperative it is that we lay low for a while. You must not be seen, by anyone outside these halls.”

“But I was seen!” she disputed. “That man at the checkpoint - he saw me.”

“He did not pay close attention to you, Marie-Thérésa,” replied the Noldo. “He appeared distracted, unconcerned about his duties… ”

“It’s not your face on the front page! It’s mine! Don’t tell me this won’t jog his memory!” Buffy flung the paper into Glorfindel’s lap before storming out and back to her room.

She threw herself onto the bed, burying her face into one of the pillows. How could she have been so stupid? The guilt that she felt over Orchal was now compounded by that of Jean-Louis and Gabrielle. She had put everyone in jeopardy. Her foolishness and selfishness had put them all at risk. And now her face was plastered on the front page of the newspaper! She wondered how long it would be before she was found. The Slayer vowed to stay inside. She wouldn’t step outside until the others deemed it safe.

The heaviness in her heart eased a bit when the others began to arrive in small groups shortly thereafter. To her dismay, Orchal had become ill during the trip, showing up at the chateau with a raging fever. Buffy took it upon herself to nurse the Green-elf back to health. With the assistance of Emilie, the Monseigneur’s mistress, she did just that. The elf remained confined in her room until he recovered from his ailment a couple of days later.

Yet her heart ached horribly upon his recovery. Orchal pulled away from her, refusing to sleep in her room any longer. She knew deep down that Glorfindel was behind that although the Green-elf never said so. He didn’t have to. She could see it plainly in his eyes. Her perceived rejection by Orchal started her slow decline into a state of depression, which would get worse over the following months.

To help pass the time, the Monseigneur urged her to read books that were considered “classic” to the French people. The chateau had a magnificent library, overflowing with tomes, some centuries old. The Bishop suggested that she start with Voltaire, who had been a friend of his until the author’s death some years earlier.

Confining herself in her bedchamber, with the curtains drawn, she began to peruse the literary works of Voltaire. As the days turned into weeks, she moved on to Rousseau, whose book Contract Social, was touted by the radicals in power. They clung to that book as though it were their Bible, spewing out quotes during their many meetings in Paris. The Slayer would come to learn that the ramblings of the madman, Rousseau, whose mind saw endless conspiracies and plots against him, would flow from his pages to those that held his words as sacred law. They too began to see these vast conspiracies around them. Yet the difference between Rousseau and the establishment was that they had the power to execute those whom they felt threatened by. And for a long while, the streets, not only in Paris, but in many cities throughout France, ran thick with the blood of the innocent betrayers of “Virtue.”



With the ushering in of the New Year (1793), those that dwelled within the household of the Monseigneur began to congregate in one of the chateau’s vast halls, discussing the dilemmas that currently plagued France. Buffy remained quiet during these discussions, drinking in what knowledge the Elves and Men shared in regards to properly governing a nation.

She grew disheartened to hear her own people speak of the monarchies throughout all of Europe with much disdain, for to her, she was still a Queen, and their comments, while not directed at her, confused her all the more. Though her people were somewhat loyal to the King, it was mostly due to his aid in the American Revolution. She was shocked to hear that they wholeheartedly supported the overthrow of the “ancien regime”, but were vehemently against the means by which the people were doing it. Sadly, the elves seemed to forget that the Slayer had no memory of the things that had transpired over the past three ages. And without that knowledge, she found their comments disconcerting, and soon, stopped attending the nightly gatherings.

Before her birthday arrived, Daniel came calling upon her, as she spent most of her time now locked in her bedroom.

“There is no point in me and my men staying here, locked away in his fortress,” he said with a quick glance around her chamber. “Our mission is to hunt and kill vampires. We have no desire to involve ourselves in the wars of men.”

“I can understand where you’re coming from, Daniel,” she replied.

“I just wanted to tell you good-bye before I left for England, and wish you God-speed on your return home.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “Should you encounter Angelus and Darla, do me a favor, and stake them both.” His eyes glinted with vengeance as his lips curled into a tight smile. “I would not be offended if you tortured them first. I would like to see them suffer as so many of their victims have.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she answered halfheartedly. “Be safe. Watch your back on the road.”

“I will.” He gave her arm a gentle squeeze before turning, and headed toward the door. Stopping, he looked over his shoulder. “Perhaps our paths will one day cross again.”

“I hope so.”

He gave a quick nod of his head and left the room. Buffy never saw Daniel Holtz again, in life or in the afterlife. Upon his death, Námo would claim his soul, housing the mortal’s fey within the Halls of Mandos.

After Holtz’s departure, the Slayer seemed to distance herself more from the others, including Olofin and Thranduil, who had always been dear to her heart. Her friends attributed this to their new surroundings. Though the chateau was lavishly furnished, the Halls remained solemn, quiet. At Glorfindel’s prompting, the elves filled the halls with music, something that had always soothed Buffy’s soul.

By the time her birthday rolled around, the Slayer was starting to act her old self again. She resumed her training regime even though she and the elves had no intention of joining the Revolution. They were of the same mindset as Daniel, not wanting to involve themselves in the wars of man, but would defend themselves should the need arise.

Now that Buffy was more upbeat, Glorfindel saw this as a perfect opportunity to integrate himself into her life. Since she had no memories of their past together, the Noldo was quite eager to reignite the flames of love within his beloved’s heart. Often, they would sit alone together, playing chess or cards to help pass the time. The first step was to form a bond of friendship, which was the precursor of any long-lasting relationship.

As the weeks turned into months, news from outside the fortress looked even grimmer. Scores of publications poured into the chateau, bringing with it news from Paris and from around the whole of France. At this point, it was hard to tell who the good guys were, as the factions seemed to constantly change. To Buffy, the only choice amongst the poor souls of France was the lesser of two evils, whose lines became more blurred with each passing day. The talk of the day centered around The Commune and the Committee of Public Safety, whose members had the authority to accuse any of “conspiring against the republic”, which they then dealt with swiftly at the Place de la Concorde, where the guillotine had been erected. There, vendors sold drink and food for the spectators, who cried out in glee with each grisly execution.

There was talk of the Left and the Right, of the Mountain and the Plain. The Dantonists held a great influence in the government, but Robespierre’s name began to emerge in prominence amidst the headlines. It was a scary time, and a scary place to be.

There were small glimmers of hope that came with the New Year. Throughout France, many “peasants” took up arms with whatever weapons they had at their disposal. They made a valiant attempt to fight off the yoke of tyranny that was spreading quicker than the bubonic plague in the fourteenth century. The rebel forces started in their home turf, but had an unyielding determination to take the fight to Paris, and dispose of the despots that had seized power.

On top of that, news of Buffy’s plight had also reached her friends in America. George Washington sent ambassadors to Paris, led by none other than Thomas Paine, to entreat with the Commune to end the hunt for the Slayer. The Americans were willing to pay a hefty ransom if they called off the bounty and allow her to return unhindered to the States. Many of the Generals that had fought in the American Revolution agreed with the President, and implored the Committee to allow her to emigrate to America. However, this was the same government that had beheaded their King only weeks earlier. Many of those allied to the Slayer were tossed into prison; several were executed.

The radicals, under the influence of Morgoth and Allandro, responded to the pleas by raising the bounty on Buffy’s capture. The Committee of Surveillance became more vigilant in their search, literally going from house to house in pursuit of even the slightest rumor of the Slayer’s whereabouts. So far, none were aware that she was hiding out in Nantes. A lot of that was due to Olofin, who, using his ability to shape-shift, had traveled throughout the city, claiming that Buffy had returned to Paris where she was preparing to engage the militants in battle.

As the winter turned to spring, and spring into summer, those in Paris did their best to quell the insurrections throughout the country. Nantes, too had seen its fair share of persecution by those in power, the taking from the “haves” to give to the “have nots”, in the name of fairness and liberty. Those that stood in their way were hacked to pieces in the most literal sense of the word. Buffy, the Elves and the Monseigneur feared that it was only a matter of time before the enemy set their sights on the fortress. What a great command center it would make for the immoral deputies and their lot!

That time did arrive in June of that year. The National Guard showed up at the gates, demanding entry into the compound. The priests armed themselves with rifles, ready to engage the enemy in defense of their fortress. The few women that inhabited the halls were sent to the cellar, including the Slayer. Glorfindel and Nestor remained with them, serving as their protectors should the enemy breach the structure.

Buffy longed to join the others in combat, despite the fact that they would be fighting mortal men. To her, it was the right thing to do. At this, Glorfindel put his foot down, declaring that if she revealed herself; the National Convention would send the armies next. It was too risky a move and one that the Noldo refused to entertain.

The Slayer hated the fact that she was forced to remain removed from battle, for whose prowess was greater in warfare than her own?

Even so, Ilúvatar had not totally forsaken her. When the first gun blasts rang out, reinforcements arrived from the east. Several brigades of “peasants” had been fighting their way through various towns, striking back at the usurpers with an unbridled hatred that rivaled the enemy’s. With Ulmo’s essence running through the Loire River, he guided these patriots to Nantes to help deliver the goodly people trapped within the fortress. The allied forces fought the enemy in the same cruel manner in which the brutes had inflicted upon the innocent, showing them no mercy.

The chieftain of these newly come forces was no trained warrior, but the son of a wool merchant by the name of Jacques Cathelinueau. Disgusted by the atrocities being committed against his kinsmen, he rallied those that would follow to fight off the enemy combatants that had invaded their once peaceful little towns. With each victory, more and more commoners flocked to him, eager to fend off the National Guard which was now completely under the despots’ control.

It was a re-occurring dream that brought him to Nantes, a dream about a mysterious young woman whose face was plastered on bulletins and papers throughout France. Of course, that young woman was none other than Buffy Summers.

The clash outside the gates of the fortress was short-lived. Many of those in Nantes joined the newly arrived brigades. Several citizens proved to be excellent shots. Acting as snipers, they concealed themselves in various positions, such as on the rooftops of their homes and amongst the leafy limbs in nearby trees, picking off some of the oblivious enemy combatants.

Cathelineau had in his possession also, a cannon that he had seized after one of his victories. He used that weapon zealously, sending out grapeshot at the unsuspecting troops. The National Guard was forced to scatter, dispersing themselves throughout various places in the city.

While some of the allied forces pursued the fleeing men, others began tossing the dead into the river, so that their bodies could float downstream to the neighboring towns, showing them that the enemy had not prevailed in the west.

The priests stationed along the ramparts of the wall allowed Cathelineau and some of his men entry through the gates. Knowing the Monseigneur rather well, the holy men knew that the Bishop would like to thank the men for their assistance, personally.

When Cathelineau entered the massive halls and saw the religious relics on display, he knew that he was on the right path, that destiny had brought him to Nantes. Only moments later, he was introduced to the Monseigneur, who invited him and his men to sit with him a while. Taking a seat in one of the massive salons, Cathelineau then shared with the Bishop the dream that had brought him to the city on the Loire River.

That revelation stunned the Monseigneur. Calling forth one of his priests, he whispered softly in the man’s ear, before the priest left the room. The two men resumed their conversation, picking up where they had left off, as those in the cellar were notified that the skirmish outside had ended, and about the visitors who were now with the Bishop.

The priest spoke with Glorfindel, telling him that the Monseigneur felt that God’s hand was at work, and asked if Cathelineau could meet the Slayer in person.

The Noldo showed much reluctance at the Bishop’s request. However, it was Buffy that spoke up, readily agreeing to meet the man.

Glorfindel relented to his lover’s pleas, believing that if he refused her the opportunity to meet the one that had helped save them from the National Guard, then friction would arise between the two. After several months of building their friendship, he was loathe to throw it all away over a brief encounter with one who had dreamt of her for quite a while. As long as he was at her side, with his weapon at the ready, he had no qualms about it.

They then climbed up the stairs and made their way into the salon on the main floor where the others were congregated.

When Cathelineau set eyes upon the Slayer, his jaw dropped. The woman in his dreams was even more beautiful in person, although smaller. He rose from his chair and met her as she crossed the room with both Glorfindel and Nestor. Dropping to one knee, he said, “What an honor it is to meet you at last, mademoiselle.” He took her hand, and in a gentlemanly way, tenderly kissed it. “The sketches of you in the papers do not nearly do justice, for you are more beautiful in person.”

Buffy’s cheeks flushed at the man’s comments. He was quite good-looking and his words of flattery tickled her. All she could do was giggle in reply.

Glorfindel rolled his eyes at the spectacle. As the man stared longingly at the Slayer, still clutching her hand in his, the Noldo cleared his throat, alerting the mortal that his touch was bordering on impropriety.

Cathelineau’s eyes darted to the elf. He gave him a quick smile before releasing his hold on Buffy’s hand. Rising to his feet, he continued, “I have been dreaming about you for weeks now. Every time I close my eyes, I see your face. I felt your anguish, even from afar. You feel trapped, confined to your own hellish prison.” He glanced around the elaborately furnished chamber. “Granted, your prison cell is much fairer than most others.”

Buffy found Jacques to be most charming, much to Glorfindel’s chagrin. They spoke together for a long time. While she had no interest in him, romantically, she did feel an instant bond with the man. So much so, that she invited him to use the chateau as his base of operations in Nantes, a gesture that even the Monseigneur agreed with wholeheartedly.

Now Cathelineau did not remain at the fortress for long. He was a man on a mission and soon departed the halls, gathering his strength as he went along. Many in Nantes joined him and his brigades, feverishly hunting down the enemy. At first, Olofin, Thranduil and Orchal joined them, but when they saw how badly they butchered their foes, they voiced their disapproval, deeming their actions as deplorable.

Cathelineau had returned to the fortress with the elves, seeking the Slayer’s approval for the methods that he and his men employed. After having witnessed the things in Paris that she had, she was in total agreement with him.

“Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth,” she declared, alarming the elves. “I’ve seen what these men are capable of and I say: show them no mercy. Let them experience the cruelty they’ve brought upon others.”

The vindictiveness in her words filled her loved ones with dismay, but Cathelineau was quite pleased to receive her blessings. Though the elves no longer joined them in battling the enemy, the newly arrived brigades carried out their sworn duty.

Unfortunately, Cathelineau’s triumphs in Nantes were not long-lived. He died the following month after taking a bullet to the back of the head which killed him instantly.

The terrorizing of the citizens of the city began again, although the National Guard steered clear of the gothic-looking hall on the river. Word had been sent to Paris and those on the Committee of Public Safety had sent orders back to the deputies in Nantes to keep watch of the fortress, but not to assail it. Not yet, any way. They were told to capture any that left the compound, to use any means of torture necessary to find out the secrets contained behind the walls.

News of this reached those within the fortress, as both birds and beasts acted as their spies, and informed them immediately when they had overheard the conversations between a few of the councilmen.

A vigilant watch was kept on the chateau, around the clock. Yet none departed those halls. At least, not for a few months.

By late-September (or Vendémiaire as it was now called), the supplies within the chateau were becoming scarce. Despite the fact that they had rationed what food supplies they had, there was need to replenish their larders. The Monseigneur had decided to send his two fiercest priests to the market place, a decision that both the elves and Buffy dreaded to hear. They suggested that Olofin and Orchal accompany them, as they were renowned warriors whose strength and skill could be useful should the enemy attack. But, the Bishop refused, not wanting to put them in jeopardy, saying that it was more important that they remain behind as protectors of the Slayer.

So it was on that cool autumn afternoon that the two priests left in a mule-drawn wagon for the heart of the city. They holy men were watched, of course, and would never again return to the fortress.

The enemy didn’t strike until after they had made their purchases, which they intended to seize for themselves. The deputies ordered the attack outside of the Hôtel de Ville (“City Hall”) so that they could witness the event for themselves. The National Guard sprang into action, killing first the mule before snatching the God-fearing men from the seat of their wagon. They beat the priests into unconsciousness prior to dragging their limp bodies to the nearest prison.

Once there, each man was taken to a separate room. When they regained their wits, each believed the other to be dead. The torments that they had to endure were quite horrific, as the Slayer and her friends would later discover.

The savages began their interrogation with blows to the head. When that didn’t make the priests talk, they chopped off a finger when they received no answer to their question.

One priest kept reciting the Lord’s Prayer, over and over again. His torturer, a devout atheist, lost his temper and cut the priest’s tongue out. His superior immediately chastised him, since they were now unable to get any meaningful information from that priest. Deeming the Father useless, they went ahead and killed him.

It was now imperative that the surviving priest not die from his wounds. His torturer had already hewn off eight fingers, leaving only a middle finger on each hand. When the tormentor learned that the other holy man had died, he understood that he would have to use care in his attempts to extract any intelligence from his captive.

The brutes stripped the priest of his garments, leaving him naked on the cold stone floor. Removing their belts, they lashed as his flesh, demanding to know what secrets were housed behind the walls of his halls. The holy man refused to speak, clenching his jaw tighter. The pain was excruciating, especially when the leather strap struck his genitals.

Seeing their victim squirming on the floor, the head torturer came up with a horrid idea. He and his cohorts pulled the man from the floor, laying him flat on the table. Taking a long pointed needle, the chief torturer slowly slid the implement through one of the man’s testicles, causing the priest to scream out in pain. All attempts at twisting his body free from his captives proved futile. He couldn’t escape.

“Tell us: what secrets are you hiding?” demanded the interrogator, as he clutched the needle on either end, slowly pulling on it so that it ripped through the priest’s testis.

When the holy man only answered with a bone-chilling shriek, the torturer swiftly tore the needle through his sack, tearing the sensitive flesh. Grabbing a hold of his penis, he squeezed the limp member tightly, as he slowly inched the bloody needle into the priest’s urethra. The savage twisted and turned the implement, jabbing and penetrating the walls of the passageway in order to inflict more pain on his victim.

“Alright! Alright!” cried out the priest. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

The tormentor stopped his motion, but left the needle where it was. “Speak!” he shouted.

“It’s… it’s the Slayer. We… we’re harboring… the Slayer.”

A look of triumph came to the interrogator’s face. He leaned down, whispering into the priest’s ear. “The republic is ever grateful. Your reward for your betrayal is a quick death.”

Lifting his head, he motioned to one of his cohorts, who then pulled out a saber. While the others held the man down, the executioner hewed off the priest’s head.

Despite the fact that the holy man’s head had rolled off the table, and blood spewed forth from his severed neck, arguments immediately broke out within the interrogation room. Some of the men wanted to prepare an immediate attack on the chateau, while those that held the most authority wanted to wait for instructions from those in Paris. The Slayer was a fugitive, wanted by the Convention, and to go against the powers would mean an instant death sentence to the disobedient. That reminder put the others in line with their chief, as they knew there was truth to his words.

Without delay, messengers were dispatched to Paris.

Two days later, they arrived at the Conciergerie, which not only housed one of Paris’ most infamous prisons, but also the offices of the Committee of Public Safety. The twelve-man panel listened with great interest as the messengers shared the news that the Slayer had been found hiding in Nantes.

At that time, Maximilien Robespierre was, for all practical purposes, dictator of France and had the final say-so in the Committee. Before sending word back to the deputies in Nantes, Robespierre wished to confer with Allandro, who had remained in Paris after Buffy’s escape. The decision on her fate did not rest with Robespierre, but with Allandro. Though the “Bloodthirsty Tyrant” was the supreme authority in the country, he was smart enough to defer judgment to one who wielded even greater power and influence than himself.

No decision was made until Allandro had spoken privately with Morgoth. It wasn’t until the following night that he was able to summon the evil Vala, who had been searching along the Alps for his missing Melisse.

Nothing delighted Morgoth more than to learn that his beloved had been found. Together, he and Allandro hatched a plan, as he did not want his beloved taken by force. His goal was to inflict much pain upon her until she broke mentally, forcing her to surrender, to come to him of her own free will. All that would happen in Nantes afterward, would come about as a direct result of this meeting between those two insidious individuals.

The following morning, Allandro met with both Robespierre and St-Just at the dictator’s office at the Hôtel de Ville. There, he gave his orders for them to send out their most wretched deputy to “put an end to the revolts in Nantes.” Executions were to take place as close to the chateau as possible, so that the Slayer would be forced to witness these “injustices on humanity” taking place. Yet, all were forbidden to assail the fortress or instigate any type of physical altercation with her, under penalty of “severe torture”.

St-Just chose to send Jean-Baptiste Carrier to carry out the horrific killings. He was a brute of a man, some say even mad, who had become quite bloodthirsty over the course of the year and had developed a deep hatred for children, in particular. Carrier was given a few days to get his affairs in order before departing for Nantes. The barbarian was given some suggestions on possible means of execution by the “Angel of Death” himself, St-Just. One in particular, was devised by Morgoth himself, and was intended to be a tribute to the Vala of Love.



Those at the chateau grieved the loss of the two holy men, knowing in their hearts that they had fallen into the hands on the enemy when they did not return before sundown. Glorfindel, who continued to remain in charge of the elves, refused to allow any to go beyond the walls of the compound. After what had happened, even the Monseigneur yielded to the will of the Noldo.

Olofin took it upon himself to forage for food for those trapped inside. With Glorfindel’s approval, he was allowed to fly out of the compound in the guise of a hawk. Sometimes he traveled north, beyond the fertile pastures in search of game that he could hunt from the skies or he followed the course of the river, looking for wild hogs rooting in the woods beside the stream.

Generally speaking, the half-elf’s hunts proved successful. Since there were nearly eighty people dwelling within the halls, a few rabbits or squirrels were not enough to feed them all, even when they tried to stretch the meat out by making a soup or stew. Bigger game was needed yet it was extremely difficult for Olofin to smuggle his kills in, unnoticed by the enemy. A mere hawk could not carry the weight of a boar or deer unless it was of great size. The half-elf took to tearing the carcass apart in the wilds, bringing back only the hunks of usable meat after nightfall.

Even though they remained imprisoned in the fortress, there continued to be clashes between the good and the wicked all throughout the city. Cathelineau’s former brigade remained in Nantes, their numbers increased with the addition of many locals. Those not killed were thrown into the local jails, which were swelling with people, both male and female, young and old. Most were tossed in there on trumped-up charges, or those in positions of power sought reprisals against those that they envied or were jealous of prior to their newfound power. It was the same old story that was taking place in all of France - injustice in the name of liberty.

The Criminal Tribunal which had been established a year before finally kicked into overdrive when Carrier arrived in October. No one was granted a trial. All were presumed guilty and given a death sentence.

Keeping his word to those in Paris, Carrier demonstrated his wickedness, making a point to pull off some of these executions within sight of the chateau. The National Guard seized many of the homes on the opposite bank, taking the occupants prisoner. Age didn’t matter, as many were children, toddlers, and the elderly. He had these people tied up, placed in boats, which were then pushed into the stream. His men then shot holes in the vessels, so that they slowly sank, drowning all on board. This form of execution became known as Noyades (“drowning”) amongst the populace.

In honor of Buffy (and at the suggestion of Morgoth), the parasites also killed many in what they called, “the Republican Marriage.” Men and women were stripped of all their attire. Once naked, they were tied together, face to face, and thrust into the cold waters of the Loire. Unable to swim, they would drown, their lifeless bodies floating downstream.

Others were dismembered, their legs and arms cut off. Whilst still alive they were cast into the river, struggling for life as the waters overtook them. The river literally ran red with blood, almost as if the spectators were witnessing firsthand the prophecies from the Book of Revelations.

Yet, one of the worst things done was to the children. In the fields behind the chateau, boys and girls were lined up along the slopes of the land. There, the National Guard shot them down. Not all the blasts were fatal. The wretched men would then bludgeon to death the poor children, smashing their skulls in, without so much as a second thought. Large cauldrons had been placed in the field where the infants and toddlers were tossed into the vats of boiling water. The vile men would then partake in a feast, devouring the flesh of the young and innocent, as they watch their comrades continue their brutality.

Then there were the pedophiles, whose mere existence was an abomination unto the world. The things they did to children, too young to understand what was happening to them, was too horrific to go into in graphic detail. It was deplorable, an affront to any with a conscious.

From within the gloomy fortress, the cries of agony and ear-piercing shrieks of the victims pierced through wall and pane. The elves remained congregated around Buffy, fearing that she may try to escape the halls in an attempt to aid those outside. The Monseigneur and priests fled to the chapel, praying for God’s intervention in the obscene acts of depravity that were taking place in Nantes and elsewhere.

With her arms wrapped around herself, the Slayer rocked back and forth in her chair, weeping golden tears. The screams of the prisoners, together with the cheers of the barbarians, left her traumatized. She couldn’t understand why she and the elves did not help those poor people, why they remained locked away inside the halls when they should be fighting the oppressors.

“It is not our place to get involved,” Glorfindel attempted to explain. “You have said so yourself. We may counsel men, but we do not fight their battles for them.”

As the golden tears ran down her cheeks, she stared at the Noldo with a look of exasperation on her face. “If that’s the case, then we’re no better than those fiends out there,” she countered, motioning toward the nearest window with a thrust of her head. “We are as monstrous as they are, by allowing this to happen… ”

Olofin kneeled before his mother’s seat. “This is but a trap, Nana. Can’t you see that? The enemy is attempting to lure you out.”

“Why else would they be doing these things within close proximity of our dwelling?” added Thranduil. “It is a ruse.”

“And we’re outnumbered, Bella. We cannot defeat all those men,” remarked Glorfindel.

Buffy fixed her teary eyes on her son. “But, you can,” she sniffled. “You’ve brought down mountains, Olofin! Mountains! Surely, you can do something.” She then turned to Orchal, as hope began to stir within her. “And you and Nestor, you guys know the spell that can flood the river. There are things that can be done!”

“And you would have us take many more innocent lives… ” began the half-elf before she cut his words short.

“…They’re slaughtering the innocent now!” she protested. “How can we just sit back and let that happen. What’s happened that’s caused us to look the other way? I just don’t understand this. This isn’t what we do.”

“Things have changed with time,” chimed in Celeborn. “We have changed.”

“We still do not know the reason why the enemy seeks to capture you,” added Glorfindel. “For them to go to this extreme… ” His words trailed off as he shook his head. “Eru only knows what they have in store for you.”

“I don’t care!” she argued, dismayed by the words of her friends. “I’ll take that risk.” She sidestepped Olofin, rising to her feet. “I can’t take this any more. If you guys don’t want to do anything, fine! But, I can’t sit here and listen to those howling cries any longer.”

The half-elf jumped to his feet, grabbing his mother by the shoulders. “I must insist that you remain inside, Mother. This is not a matter for debate.”

“Have you people lost your fucking minds?!” she exclaimed, nearly beside herself. Buffy decided, then and there, that she was going to fight the enemy whether the others wanted to help or not.

Seeing the look of determination on his mother’s face, Olofin waved his hand before her, softly uttering, “Sleep.”

The Slayer instantly fell under his spell. Glorfindel swooped in, catching his lover in his arms as she sunk to the floor. Shaking his head, the Noldo decided that it was best to keep Buffy locked in the dungeons in the bowels of the fortress, the only place where she wouldn’t be able to hear the tormented cries of those being slaughtered or escape.

While she slept, the elves fixed up the largest of the chambers as nicely as they could. They brought down some beautiful furniture and tapestries, trying to lighten the dark and dismal room. They were not about to leave the Slayer down there, alone. Glorfindel, Olofin, Thranduil and Nestor would remain in the cell with her, ensuring that she would not be able to escape.

Once roused from her slumber, Buffy was quite dismayed by her new surroundings. No matter what the others said, she found herself sinking to the bottom of the sea of despair. She remained aloof, refusing to speak with any for making her a prisoner within the ‘safe house’. She declined all offers of food and drink. Within days, her physical health began to deteriorate along with her spirit. There was no hope that the people of Nantes would be delivered from the butchery perpetuated by the Tribunal and National Guard.

With each passing day, the elves worry grew. They knew if they released the Slayer, she would involve herself in the melee, and with her health declining, they feared she’d be recaptured. After conversing telepathically, they deemed that the time had arrived for her to depart Nantes, to move on to another safe haven, where atrocities such as those taking place outside the walled compound were not yet happening.

Winged-messengers had been dispatched in search of a place closer to the eastern borders where Buffy could take refuge. Ten days later, they returned. The elves were welcomed to hide out at the country estate of Armand de Flesselles in Lyons, a location that would bring them much closer to Switzerland’s borders. Their only problem was deciding how they could get Buffy out of Nantes whilst under the ever-watchful eye of the enemy.

It was decided that Olofin would use his shape-shifting abilities to turn himself into a great Eagle, like the servants of Manwë. Using the cover of darkness, both Glorfindel and Buffy could then escape the chateau, riding upon the half-elf’s back. There was no way that the Noldo would remain behind. He designated himself as the Slayer’s personal guard, and would willingly sacrifice himself before he’d let anything happen to his lover.

Two nights later, the trio departed the chateau in the wee hours of the morning. They were grateful that the mists had settled about the land, providing them even more cover than just the night sky. Olofin flew high above the lands, out of reach of any weapon that the enemy might possess. Neither bullet nor cannon ball could reach the heights in which they traveled.

Glorfindel kept one arm wrapped around the Slayer, holding her body close to his. As they put the miles behind them, he could feel the tension gradually leave her body. That only confirmed that he had made the right decision by leaving Nantes.

They were unable to reach their destination before sunrise. Olofin landed on the edge of a vast forest, far outside the city of Bourges. In the distance, beyond the vineyards, they could see thick plumes of grayish-black smoke hovering above the city, a sign that Bourges was under attack too.

For the first time in nearly two weeks, the men were able to convince Buffy that she needed to eat and drink, to help build up her strength. She nibbled on the cured venison that they had brought with them, which had become the staple of their diet in Nantes.

As she ate, she closed her eyes, savoring the cool morning breeze against her skin. It seemed like years since she had last been outside. And it showed. What tan she once had was long gone. Her skin was paler than an elf’s, and her long, dark hair only accentuated that fact. She was grateful that she was able to bask in the sunshine, to feel the warmth of its rays on her flesh. She allowed herself to forget her troubles for a while, imagining that she was no longer being stalked by evil.

Late that afternoon, Buffy’s bladder felt like it was about to burst from all the water she had consumed. Rising from her spot on the grassy slope, she started to make her way into the wood.

“Where are you going?” asked Glorfindel, peering over his shoulder.

“I have to pee,” she answered, speaking for the first time since being locked away in the dungeon.

“I’ll go with you,” he said, starting to get to his feet.

“I think I can handle it myself, thank you very much,” she replied with a roll of her eyes.

“Very well,” the Noldo sighed. “Don’t go too far.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she mumbled, as she set off into the dense wood.

She plodded along, doing her best to avoid the thickets that grew between the trees. Everything seemed unnaturally quiet, except for the sound of the leaves crunching beneath her feet. Still able to hear the voices of her companions, she ventured deeper into the woods in search of a suitable place for her to do her business. A thorny bush grabbed hold of her gown, the barbs piercing through to her skin. Cursing under her breath, she wrestled herself free, but had to stop so that she could pull the prickly stems that clung to her dress.

Up ahead, Buffy spotted a small clearing beneath a canopy of trees. She carefully continued on, doing her best to avoid the rotting limbs and thickets in her pathway. Her bladder was grateful when it was finally able to expel its contents. As she remained squatted, trying to avoid peeing on her shoes or dress, suddenly, someone snatched her from behind. One hand covered her mouth, the other wrapped around her waist, pulling her backward. With her underwear still down to her knees, her muffled cries were lost. The ambush caught her off guard that her immediate reaction was to stop the flow of urine that was now running down her leg.

“And here I was, wondering how I would pass the time until sundown, when you should happen along,” hissed a voice amusedly.

The Slayer immediately recognized that voice. Angelus. He had found her! As she was dragged across the forest floor, she wondered why Glorfindel and Olofin weren’t coming to her rescue. Had she gone that far into the wood?

“Seems the luck of the Irish is still with me, eh?” he continued in that same sardonic tone. “I’ve got the elusive Slayer in my clutches - my new plaything.”

Finally regaining her wits, Buffy reached behind her, trying to grasp the vampire by the neck.

“Uh-uh,” he chided, stretching his neck out of her reach. “You don’t want to do anything… ”

She cut off his words by raking her fingernails down his cheeks.

Angelus growled, tightening his hold around her stomach, squeezing the air out of her. The fingers on his other hand dug painfully into her face.

Buffy retaliated by ramming each one of her elbows into the vampire’s ribs. She tried to employ the same maneuver that she had used outside the bar in Caen, by using her weight to force him down. Unlike the mortal who had her in a similar hold at that time, Angelus was much stronger. Her tactic had no effect on him whatsoever.

Mustering her strength, she threw her legs up from the ground in an attempt to flip out of his clutches. As she propelled herself backward, her dress fell over Angelus’ face, blinding her opponent momentarily. The momentum allowed her to wrench herself from his hold. Landing on her feet behind him, she swiftly kicked him between the legs, causing the vampire to fall breathlessly to his knees. She followed that up with a kick to the back of his head, knocking him out cold.

The Slayer spun around; half-expecting to see Darla there, ready to blind-side her, like she believed the vampire had done in the Paris alleyway over a year earlier. Instead, she saw Sahjhan, looking down upon the unconscious form of Angelus with an utter look of disgust on his face.

“Kill him, Mother!” he ordered. “End the vampire’s life before he kills more innocents.”

Breathing heavily, she turned her gaze back to Angelus, lying flat on his face. How could she kill him when she knew that he’d eventually be re-ensouled, and would help her in her fight.

“Do it! Do it now! Before he comes to!”

Buffy shifted her eyes to Sahjhan. “I can’t,” she whispered. Flinging her undergarment off from around her ankle, she took off through the woods, toward her waiting companions.

“Shit!” groaned Sahjhan before disappearing in the blink of an eye.

The Slayer sprung out the woods, shouting, “We got to go. Now!”

Seeing the look of distress on her face, neither man questioned her. Olofin immediately transformed into an Eagle before she and Glorfindel climbed on his back. They then took to the air, heading east once again.

Though the Noldo asked her repeatedly about what had happened in the woods, Buffy remained evasive, refusing to discuss her encounter with Angelus. Glorfindel could see that whatever had happened disturbed his lover greatly, but he didn’t want to pry any further, knowing that would only result in her distancing herself from him. Over the past year, they had become close, forging a great bond of friendship, and the last thing he wanted to do was put that in jeopardy. It wasn’t worth it, not to him.



They arrived at the country estate of Armand de Flesselles that evening, a place that was many miles from the heart of city. While Olofin had hoped that they could continue their journey east, their winged-messengers advised against that, warning that Morgoth’s phantoms were lurking along the mountain range in anticipation of their escape that way. Until they found an opportunity to flee that way, they would remain in Lyons.

Unlike their previous hideout, Buffy was permitted to walk the vastness of the estate, reconnecting with nature. Often she was in the company of Glorfindel, other times with her son, walking amongst the sheep or strolling through the wood. At night, she enjoyed sitting lakeside, staring at the reflection of the twinkling stars on the waters surface.

Gradually, over the following weeks, others from their group arrived in Lyons. They never said how they managed to escape the siege in Nantes. Although, in the Slayer’s heart, she believed that Ulmo had had something to do with it. She had no proof of that, but something inside her told her that the Lord of Waters was behind it. Her friends would neither confirm nor deny her assumption, but she held it to be true nonetheless.

Now, their host had lost his brother at the onset of the revolution and he was secretly financing the uprisings in Lyons. Though he was not an active participant, many men came and went to the estate, bringing news of the skirmishes taking place in the city. The elves saw to it that Buffy didn’t learn of these things, especially at the beginning of December when Joseph Fouché and his partner in crime, Marie Collot d’Herbois declared war on the people of Lyons by order of the Committee of Public Safety. The enemy had no clue that the Slayer was merely forty minutes away from their headquarters, a revelation that would come to light the following spring.

In the meantime, Buffy enjoyed the freedom that the countryside had to offer. Even when winter came, she continued to take her long walks through the estate, clueless to the horrors taking place in the nearby city.

During this time, Glorfindel began to share with his lover snippets from their past. He longed to have what they had once had and with the Slayer having no knowledge of their time together, the elf was brokenhearted. The others in their party were quite sympathetic to the Noldo’s plight, as they loved Glorfindel dearly. Buffy and the Elf Lord had been together so long that it seemed incomprehensible that they were no longer together in a romantic way. Try as they might, none were able to lift the spell that had been placed on the Slayer. The elves did whatever Glorfindel asked, distancing themselves from their Mistress (especially Orchal) so that he could have the opportunity to try to woo her off her feet once again. He did not approach the situation in a forceful way, but gradually built on the trust that they had established since leaving Caen.

With the New Year came new hope for the Noldo. Not a week had passed into 1794, when he and Buffy set out on one of their leisurely strolls around the estate. Emboldened by the closeness of their relationship, he took her hand in his, and for the first time, she didn’t pull away. Such a simple gesture filled the elf with great joy. There were moments when he saw the sparkle return to her eyes, reminding him of why he had fallen in love with her in the first place. Unfortunately, those instances were a rarity, for Glorfindel could see that a shadow had crept over her heart, leaving Buffy feeling trepidation and doubt.

Yet the Noldo did not let that dissuade him. By the waning of winter, he had progressed to giving her a nightly kiss on the forehead or cheek. There were also times when they sat in the music room, listening to the piano playing of Olofin or the singing of Orchal that she would doze off with her head on Glorfindel’s shoulder. While those moments may seem trivial to an ordinary person, they were quite intimate to the Elf Lord.

Even though the Slayer’s fondness for Glorfindel was growing, she also wasn’t blind. From afar, she could see the thick plumes of smoke lingering over the city. Yet, she managed to separate herself from the horrors taking place in Lyons, viewing that burning city as if she were looking into her Mirror at some distant land. She knew there was nothing she could do, that she powerless to stop the wheel of fate from turning. She paid little heed to the fact that fate would dictate that the time was fast approaching when she would be confronted by the monsters that had invaded the city, and that the war would not die down until her capture.

That fateful day came, ironically enough, on April 1 of that same year.

After eating a hearty supper with those that dwelt in the castle, Buffy was shuffling from the dining room with a handful of others when Jude, their host’s cousin, stopped her in the hallway.

“Marie-Thérésa,” he began, stepping in her path. “May I have a word with you?” His big blue eyes swiftly shifted to Glorfindel then Thranduil, who stood on either side of her. “Alone,” he added. “It’ll only be for a minute or two,” Jude said reassuringly, flashing a quick smile.

“Sure,” answered Buffy happily. Promising to join the others in the music room, she followed Jude down the hallway and into a deserted chamber. Once the door had closed behind them, she asked, “What’s up?”

Instead of answering, he took a sip of the brandy he had clutched in his hand, as he slowly made his way toward the hearth. He stopped. Placing one hand against the mantle, he leaned forward, fixing his gaze on the low flames of the fire.

“I realize that we’re not supposed to discuss the horrors taking place in the city,” he started with a sigh. “But, things are far worse than one can imagine.” Jude paused, wanting to choose his words carefully. “The bastards in charge are relentless in their persecutions. None are safe, not even us here.”

The Slayer remained still, watching the man intently. “And what do you want me to do about that?”

Still staring at the fire, he replied, “You can make it stop. The executions will stop if you turn yourself in.”

“What?” she queried, confused by his comment. “What do you mean the executions will stop if I turn myself in? Who told you that?”

“Fouché… and Collot.”

“And you believe them?” she asked incredulously.

Jude turned his blue eyes to Buffy. “Yes. Yes, I believe them.” He pulled himself upright, facing the Slayer. “Lyons is my home. My people have lived here for centuries. Now, many of them have been arrested, accused of crimes that they did not commit. They await the firing squad or worse, the guillotine.” He shook his head dismally. “I can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen. And I believe that you would do the same, Marie-Thérésa. I do not believe that you would risk the lives of those that you proclaim to love. Those fellows traveling with you - wouldn’t you do anything in your power to spare them a horrific and tragic death?”

Buffy immediately broke out into a cold sweat. “What are you saying?”

Jude fixed his blue eyes on the Slayer’s much smaller form. “You are to turn yourself in to Fouché, at the Hôtel de Ville in Lyons. If you do not arrive by sunrise, the National Guard will be deployed. They will be ordered to execute all that dwell within these walls, including your people, Marie-Thérésa… ”

“You sold me out!” she uttered in dismay, feeling as though her legs were about to buckle beneath her.

With only a couple of long strides, Jude had crossed the room, stopping in front of Buffy. Indignant in both mood and manner, he spat, “My kin are in prison! They will surely die if… ” He stopped himself mid-sentence, realizing his tone was a bit louder than he intended. Still angry over the injustice of his plight, he took a deep breath before nosily exhaling.

“What am I supposed to do? Let my people die?” he answered in a calmer voice. For a brief moment, Jude’s eyes glinted with fear. “I had no choice. I will do whatever I have to, to protect my family, my friends.”

The Slayer slumped against the arm of the couch, needing the support. Jude’s words left her shocked beyond belief.

“The killings will not stop until you turn yourself in… ”

“I can’t believe you’d listen to anything those people have to say. I have nothing to do with the Revolution.”

“Then why is it that your face is on placards throughout all of France? They say that you are an English spy, and an assassin.”

It seemed obvious to Buffy that Armand hadn’t shared her “true” identity with his cousin. She believed he must have had a reason to keep that information to himself.

“The Convention seeks out all those that disagree with their methods of purging France of all dissidents. I guess I’m accounted amongst that group. I hate what they’re doing. I’ve lost friends… ” began Buffy before being cut off.

“And I have too!” he interjected. “My sister sits in prison with her small children. My mother. My father. I can’t lose them. They’re all I have… I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I betrayed you, but it’s for the greater good. If you do not go, we will all die. And that blood will be on your hands.”

He turned away, walking toward the door. With his hand on the knob, he paused before turning it. “I’ve tethered a horse to the big elm on the edge of the woods by the front gate. You know which tree that I’m talking about. Go alone. Tell nobody what I have said to you and they will be fine. The chateau is being watched. If you attempt to flee during the night, we will all perish in ways unimaginable. Do the right thing, Marie-Thérésa. Be at the Hôtel de Ville by sunrise and all this will be over.” He opened the door and departed, leaving a stunned Buffy behind.

She sat there for several minutes, wondering why life always seemed to take a turn for the worse when her outlook of the future seemed more hopeful. Feeling depressed, she rose from the arm of the couch and left the room. As she ambled down the corridor, the Slayer could hear the jovial singing of the elves coming from the music room. She stopped, listening to the chorus of melodious voices for a minute. Realizing that she was putting their lives in jeopardy, something she swore that she wouldn’t do again, the Slayer climbed up the stairway, preferring to be alone with her thoughts until all retired for the night.

Once in her room, she crawled onto the bed and pulled herself into the fetal position. She didn’t cry, didn’t weep over her current predicament. She felt too numb inside to shed any tears. The last thing she wanted to do was to bring harm to those whom she loved. They had been loyal and very protective. There was no way she would risk their lives, even if it cost her, her own. As Buffy lay there, wrapped in the silence of her chamber, her sadness escalated to despair. She had doubts that Fouché and Collot would keep their word, that her people would not be slaughtered if she turned herself in. The current regime had already gained infamy for their many lies. Was this just another?

The Slayer had no idea how long she lay there before flashes of lightning began to illuminate the room from an approaching storm. Rising from the bed, she made her way toward one of the tall windows, watching as the flashes lit up the darkening countryside.

After several minutes, she heard a couple of soft knocks on the door before it creaked open. A moment later, she heard the latch close. She remained still, staring at the sky as thick black clouds rolled in.

“You never joined us in the music room,” said Glorfindel, now standing behind her. “Is something wrong? Do you feel ill?”

“Just a case of the blahs,” she answered with a heavy sigh.

“Did Jude say something to upset you? I haven’t seen you since you spoke with him.”

Buffy was a bit surprised by his comments. She hesitated for a moment before replying, “No. He… he didn’t… upset me, or anything.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re keeping something from me? Perhaps I can help.” Glorfindel placed his hands on her shoulders, and began to massage them.

The Slayer found the Noldo’s touch extremely comforting. Instead of answering, she moaned her approval of his rubbing her tense muscles.

Glorfindel knew Buffy well enough to know that something was troubling her. Deciding not to prod any further, he started to softly sing an elvish love song to her.

While he sang, the Slayer continued to stare toward the heavens. When another round of lightning blanketed the sky, she saw a winged-shadow swerve out of the dark clouds. Her muscles tightened, her eyes widened. “Did you see that?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“See what?” queried the bewildered Noldo.

Buffy looked back at the sky. The form that she had seen so distinctively only seconds before had gone. “I… I saw… ” She paused, wondering if her mind was playing tricks on her.

“What did you see?” Glorfindel inquired again, his grey eyes scanning the landscape outside the window.

“It… it was nothing. Must be my eyes playing tricks on me.”

“I don’t believe that for one moment,” he answered, turning her around so that she now faced him. “What’s going on? Something is bothering you. I can see that clearly enough.”

As she took a deep breath, the Noldo quickly added, “And don’t you dare tell me that everything is alright. I’m not buying that. I’ve known you long enough to know when something is troubling you. Now, tell me what it is.”

Try as she might, Buffy was unable to hide her fear from the Elf Lord. He was too damn perceptive and could read her like a book. All she could manage to say was, “I’m afraid, Glorfindel” in a faint voice.

The Noldo’s heart ached as he searched his lover’s doleful green eyes. “What is it that you’re afraid of, love?” Holding her gaze, he gently lifted her chin. “You can talk to me about anything. You know that, Bella.”

Feeling her eyes well with tears, she whispered, “I don’t belong here, Glorfindel. I’m not a part of this world. Too much has changed. And I don’t like it. There’s so much pain and sorrow… ”

“Shh,” sounded the Elf Lord, placing his finger on her lips, stilling her words. “Do not speak of such things. I’m here. I will shield you from the ills in the world. I promise.”

While the Noldo had no idea what fate had in store for her, the Slayer couldn’t help but feel glad that he was with her. Just being in his presence made her feel safe, for the time being any way.

“I believe you,” she answered, wrapping her arms around his waist. She stepped closer, resting her head against his chest.

He embraced her, keeping her body pressed close to his. “I will never let any harm come to you.”

This was the first time since their arrival in France that they had showed such affection for one another.

As they stood there, holding one another, Buffy could feel the goodliness of Glorfindel’s fey emanating from his hröa. The strength of his essence helped dissipate the anguish she felt at Jude’s betrayal of her to the enemy. She clung to the Noldo even tighter. He responded to that gesture by planting a kiss on the top of head.

After a few moments, the Slayer eased back, looking up into the eyes of the Elf Lord. She wanted to thank him, thank him for being there for her, but she couldn’t seem to find the words to express that. But, she didn’t have to. Her connection with the Noldo ran deep, (even though the spell placed upon her blinded her to that fact), and he could see her gratitude as plain as day.

For the first time in eighteen months, Glorfindel saw that familiar look in his lover’s eyes that he desperately yearned for - her longing, her need, for him. He leaned in, kissing her softly on the lips. She did not push away, but kissed him back. Several more flashes lit up the chamber, as their kiss deepened, awakening the passion that had slept overly long in both of them.

Buffy felt her heart racing in her chest. The proverbial butterflies in her stomach fluttered their wings madly in response to Glorfindel’s kiss. Not a minute had passed when they both began to undo the buttons and clasps of each other’s garments. The Slayer could no longer deny the mutual attraction between herself and the Noldo. The gentleness of his touch and the hungering of his kisses dispelled all doubt in her mind. Never before had things felt so right.

Once undressed, they slid onto the bed, as their hands and mouths eagerly explored one another’s body. A throaty moan escaped her lips when they joined as one. Their feys emitted a soft glow, bathing them in the blessed light of their essences. This was not merely an act of bodily pleasure, but was a union of their souls.

When they found their release, they lay there, their bodies still entwined, breathing heavily. Once Glorfindel had caught his breath, he lifted his head, his damp, golden hair draping his handsome face, and whispered, “I love you, Bella.”

Finding herself unable to answer with the same, she replied, “I know.”

The Noldo was slightly hurt by her response. He rolled off Buffy and onto his back, lying beside her.

She immediately snuggled up to the elf, placing her head on his smooth, muscular chest. “It’s gonna take some time, Glorfindel. Just give me some time.”

Understanding her current predicament, with her memory loss, he answered, “Time is something I have. I am immortal, after all.” He wrapped his arm around her, keeping her close to his naked body.

“Thanks.”

They lay there for some time, watching as the flashes of lightning lit up the chamber, before sleep took them.



A loud crack of thunder woke Buffy with a start. She was lying on her side. Glorfindel’s hand rested on her hip. She could hear the torrents of rain lashing against the windowpanes, as another round of lightning lit up the room for several seconds.

Maybe thirty seconds had passed when she suddenly remembered Jude’s words from the night before.

The time, she thought to herself. What’s the time?

She reached for the clock sitting on the nightstand. She could feel her blood pressure rising in fear that she had overslept. She looked at the dial. It was two twenty-three. Buffy let out a sigh of relief as she placed the device back on the table. She quietly eased out of bed, praying that she wouldn’t wake Glorfindel.

Waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she looked down at the sleeping Noldo. She knew that, in time, he would come to understand what she was about to do, and that their night together was basically their final farewell. The Slayer knew that she wouldn’t be coming back. She was tired of running, tired of hiding. Whatever the enemy had in store, she would face it with all the courage she could muster. It was time to bring an end to the madness.

She crept over to the wardrobe and pulled out garments that she deemed appropriate for the journey on horseback. She quietly dressed, pulling on a pair of tan pants and a navy blue sweater. After brushing the tangles out of her long, dark hair, she braided it, tying the end with a piece of blue ribbon. When she reached for her coat, another flash of lightning lit up the room. The gemstones on the scabbard of Nacil sparkled in the light. A sudden compulsion forced her to grab the sword at the back of the wardrobe. She girded it around her waist before sliding into her coat. Buffy topped off her ensemble with an elaborate hat decorated with flowers and bows. She surveyed herself in the mirror, chuckling softly at how strange her attire looked.

She glanced one last time at Glorfindel, who remained sleeping. The Slayer placed her hand on the hilt of her sword, tilting the blade behind her so that it would not drag across the floor. She then proceeded out of the room, leaving the Noldo, fast asleep.

Doing her best to avoid those floorboards that creaked or moaned with the slightest amount of weight, she made her way downstairs and out the door. She ran toward the front of the property, her feet sloshing through the waterlogged grass. The rains were cold, the winds fierce. If she had not tied the bow of her hat tightly, it surely would’ve blown off her head.

Surely enough, Buffy found a horse tethered to the elm by the front gates. It was not Rocco, but one of Armand’s treasured steeds. The beast was already saddled, standing beneath the limbs in an attempt to stay dry. She undid the reins from the tree, before climbing onto the wet saddle. She then took off for the road. One of the iron gates at the entrance of the estate had been left ajar. The winds and driving rain caused it to sway open and closed, clanking against the metal pole. When a gust blew it open again, she darted through the opening before it slammed shut again.

The ride to Lyons was long and miserable. The whole time she sensed that she was being watched, but with the inclement weather, she was unable to see anyone lurking in the woods beside the road. Hell, for all she knew, phantoms were following her, phantoms that she could not clearly see.

She met nobody on the roadway until she was a couple of miles outside the city. Several men on horseback sprang out of the woods on either side of the road, surrounding her. By the red caps on their heads, she knew they were members of the National Guard. Not one spoke a word to her. Their orders were to escort the Slayer to City Hall, nothing more.

When they entered the city, even more men joined the train. There must have been at least fifty men surrounding the Slayer.

It wasn’t until they stopped outside the steps of the Hôtel de Ville that any spoke to her.

“Get off the horse - slowly!” ordered one of the men, pointing his rifle at Buffy’s chest. “And no funny business, you hear?”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear,” she replied, as she slid off the steed.

All the men had their weapons trained on her, even those stationed outside the main doors to the building. Yet, she found it odd that none took away her sword. For a fleeting moment, she pictured herself valiantly hacking down those around her, defeating the enemy with ease. But, who was she fooling? If she dare pull Nacil from its sheath, she’d be shot to death on the spot. With no magical powers, she couldn’t stop any bullet from penetrating her flesh. She was at the mercy of her captors. Eru only knew what they had in store for her.

As soon as she dismounted, two men grabbed each one of her arms roughly. Their fingers dug through the layers of her garments, bruising her flesh. Many commented on her sheath. The plethora of gemstones gracing the cover gleamed in the light of the lamps, stirring the lustful hearts of many who wished to possess what they considered an objet d'art.

The scabbard dragged across the road’s surface until they reached the steps. Buffy had a hard time climbing them, as her weapon kept causing her to stumble. Another man came from behind, lifting the sheath off the steps, making it easier for the Slayer to trudge on.

Once inside, she was ushered down a hallway. Men lined the corridor on either side, gawking and uttering vulgar comments as she passed by. She kept her head bowed, watching the droplets of water fall from the brim of her hat. She was lead up another stairway, and down another long hallway until they reached a set of double doors to her left.

She shuddered as the doors swung open, revealing a large courtroom. She shifted her gaze, eyeing the room and its several occupants. Seated at the center of a long table was a man that Buffy immediately recognized from her imprisonment in Paris. Though he was now wearing a powdered wig, she knew that beneath it was a head full of red hair, and that that was none other than Joseph Fouché, an abomination to mortal kind.

Beside him, sat a deplorable-looking figure whose eyes clearly revealed his warped mind. That had to be Collot, Fouché’s partner in crime.

Before being seated in a lone chair set out in front of the table, Nacil was taken from her, and placed on the table. She was then frisked for any additional weapons. The hat was torn from her head; the bow that secured it in place nearly choking her. Once it was determined that she was weaponless, her hands were tied tightly behind her back with rope. The Slayer was then thrust onto the hard, wooden chair, as another man crossed her ankles, tying them securely with another strand of rope.

“You’ve evaded us for a long, long time, Mademoiselle Dubois,” began Fouché with a sinister sneer on his face. “It is noble of you to do the right thing and turn yourself in. You will be given a fair trial… ”

Upon hearing that, the Slayer snickered, stopping the man from finishing his sentence. She knew it was absurd that she’d be given any type of “fair” trial. The infamy of the Tribunal’s duplicity was known throughout all of France.

After a moment, Fouché read from the long list of trumped-up charges, ranging from murder, leading several insurrections, as well as conspiring with the monarchies of England and Austria to overthrow the republic, to name of a few. Buffy had already been declared guilty in the Tribunal’s eyes; there was no mistaking that. What awaited her was her sentencing, which, by the sound of it, would inevitably be a one-way trip to the guillotine.

Surprisingly, Fouché did not condemn her to death, not yet anyway. He would personally accompany her to the Tuileries in Paris, where sentencing would take place before the Convention, since she had become a celebrity of sorts.

Buffy had only been in the courtroom for about ten minutes, when she was lifted out of her chair, and forcefully dragged from the building to a carriage waiting outside. Fouché accompanied her, taking Nacil with him. He was the only one that rode in the vehicle with her. Others, namely members of the National Guard, went as well, riding alongside the carriage as it headed north.

“I know who you are, who you really are,” her captor began, as the vehicle rolled through the streets of Lyons. “You’re the last of your kind that still walks the earth, refusing to forsake mankind, whom you love so much.”

The Slayer turned her gaze from the window, fixing it on the mortal. He now had her full attention.

“I may speak of there being no God, but I know otherwise,” he continued, delighted that his words had piqued her interest. “Death is but an eternal sleep. At least, that’s what they’re told to believe.” He motioned toward the riders outside the vehicle. “I know better, for I have seen his Holiness - the malevolent Melkor Bauglir, King of the World and the driving force behind this Revolution. He is the Light amid the Darkness… ”

“You don’t know shit,” Buffy replied, glaring at the mortal.

“I know that you are impotent, Inanna, incapable of doing me harm,” Fouché answered with a wry smile. “How sad it must be to be you.”

“Fuck you!” she spat, twisting her bound, aching wrists behind her back.

“I should expect that you’d say something of that nature. What else could I expect from one whom has been so aptly named the Goddess of Fornication,” snickered Fouché. “But, alas, I am a married man, and am loyal to my wife. I’m not easily seduced by any woman, even if she happens to be the consort of God.”

“Melkor’s not God!” she countered between gritted teeth, angry at the mere suggestion.

“Is that so?” queried Fouché, his smile broadening. “Well, perhaps it’s time for me to enlighten you, most Benevolent One.” He leaned forward in his seat with that same creepy grin on his face. “How is it that Melkor has come back into this world? How is it that he managed to escape the Void? I’ll tell you: He defeated the Allfather. He killed Him! And now claims lordship of all the world.”

“If you believe that, then you’re stupider than you look!” Buffy shot back, amazed that the man was dumb enough to fall for one of Morgoth’s lies hook, line and sinker.

“Why is it that you have no powers, Inanna? Have you not had them recently? How is it that your magics vanished like that?” He clicked his fingers for added emphasis. “It is Melkor, Melkor who has subdued your magics so that he may reunite with you once again.”

“You’re wrong,” she replied half-heartedly, feeling a twinge of doubt within her heart. Though she believed that Morgoth had duped Fouché, she couldn’t help but think that perhaps there was some truth in his words. Glorfindel and the others have talked about her possessing magical abilities when they had arrived in France. It was when she had become separated from them in Paris that she lost her abilities. Was Morgoth truly behind that and not the Valar as she had thought?

“We’ll just see about that,” chortled Fouché in response. “Why don’t you pray to the Allfather? Why don’t you pray for Him to release you from my custody? Wouldn’t that prove beyond a doubt whether He is alive or dead?”

Buffy didn’t answer. She turned her gaze back to the window, watching the rain lash at the glass. If Fouché said anything after that, she didn’t remember. She found that Ilúvatar and Morgoth suddenly consumed her thoughts. She couldn’t help but wonder just how the evil Vala had managed to escape his imprisonment in the Void. Surely, he didn’t have the strength to overthrow Eru, or did he?



Hour after hour, the carriage continued north. The rains eventually stopped; the clouds dissipated allowing the sun to shine brightly in the clear, blue sky. Buffy remained aloof, refusing to talk with her captor any more. She kept her eyes glued to the window, watching the beauty of the countryside as they passed by.

They stopped only once before nightfall, at a small roadside inn, where Fouché and his men partook in a three course meal to sate their ravenous appetites. Although she was offered food and drink, the Slayer turned it down.

After a two-hour break, the company set out on the road again, wanting to put as many miles behind them as they could.

When darkness settled upon the land, Buffy found it difficult to keep her eyes open. Since night had blanketed the landscape, she no longer had anything of interest at which to look. Weariness overcame her at last, the movement of the carriage lulling her to sleep.

The Slayer had not been asleep long when she was jolted awake by the terrifying shouts of men together with gunshots. With her heart racing, she anxiously looked through the window, her face nearly pressed to the glass, her breath fogging up the pane.

Riders on horseback came stampeding out from behind the hills on either side of the road, shooting at those escorting the carriage. Some carried torches, the flames partially illuminating the men’s faces.

Fouché cursed. “We’re under attack!” he bellowed, sliding open the window. “Faster! Faster!” he yelled to the driver.

Muzzle blasts lit up the darkness, looking like short streaks of lightning. The gunshots echoed against the hills, frightening the horses. Many reared, tossing off their riders.

Buffy’s eyes frantically surveyed the attack taking place outside. This new group of riders was encircling their group, firing constantly upon them. Cries of pain shattered the night, as men fell from their steeds, apparently shot by the newcomers.

A couple of riders darted in the path of the carriage, nearly causing a collision. The vehicle went off the road, tilting on its side for a moment before correcting itself. Both the Slayer and Fouché flew to one side of the compartment, their heads striking the inside of the carriage hard.

“Shit!” she exclaimed, blinking the stars from her eyes. “Untie me, damn it!” she ordered, struggling to push the man off her.

“Shut up!” he barked, pulling himself back onto his seat.

The pounding hooves of the steeds became louder and louder as they drew their ring tighter, trying to slow the vehicle.

Fearing for their lives, some members of the National Guard fled. Fouché cursed at that as well, vowing that they’d be guillotined for their cowardice.

The carriage was forced to a halt, as the shadowy figures on horseback closed in around vehicle.

“These imbeciles have no idea who they’re dealing with,” grumbled Fouché, as he flung the door open. Only a second later, the mortal yelped as he was grabbed and pulled out of the carriage. There was a loud crack, then nothing more from her captor.

Unsure of what was happening, the Slayer slid across the bench, and away from the opened door. She desperately tried to free her hands, fearful of what awaited her. Leaning against the opposite corner, she lifted her bound feet onto the seat, ready to kick the first thing that appeared in the opening.

She heard the voices of many, but none approached the opened door.

Then she heard it - the distinctive sound of jingling bells.

The elves! she thought to herself, her heart nearly pounding out of her chest. They must have discovered that she had gone and had somehow found her.

Yet, Buffy was plagued with uncertainty, as none of those outside revealed themselves to be friend. She kept her eyes fixed on the opening, prepared to kick any that she didn’t immediately recognize.

When she heard the men addressing someone as “my Lord,” her heart skipped a beat. That was a telling sign that the bells that she heard had to be from one of elven kind, as the current regime deplored nobles, and usually addressed one another as “Citizen”.

Every second seemed like a minute, every minute seemed like an hour, as she waited impatiently for those outside to reveal whether they were friend or foe. The anticipation was nearly driving her mad. With her hands still bound behind her, she felt a sharp metal protrusion along the edge of the seat rake against the inside of her arm. Believing that that was sharp enough to cut through the rope, she began to feverishly rub the cord against it.

The door that she was leaning against suddenly swung open, causing the Slayer to let out a startled gasp as she fell backward through the opening.

“I’ve got you,” said a kindly voice, catching her before she could flip out of the carriage. “You’re safe now.”

The Slayer looked up at the handsome face hovering above her, not immediately recognizing the stranger.

“It’s me, Bella. Allandro,” he added with a warm smile. “Let me help you.” He slid her out of the vehicle, placing her on her feet.

“Allandro,” she said, the name finally registering with her.

“Olofin and the elves are nearly beside themselves with worry,” he continued, pulling a dagger from his belt. He began to cut her bindings. “We’ve all been searching for you… ”

“They’re okay then. My people,” she interjected, rubbing her now freed wrists.

“Of course,” he answered, cutting the rope around her ankles. “They said that you had disappeared during the night. They dispatched messengers throughout the land. Thankfully, one reached me in time. And I was able to find you.” Allandro stood upright again. He placed a comforting hand on Buffy’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Thanks. Thanks for saving me.”

“That’s what champions do, isn’t it?” he chuckled in reply. “I imagine you’ve grown tired of France.”

“You got that right!”

“Come, come with me. We’ll take my carriage back to Rome. The others,” he paused, “the others will meet up with us at my palazzo.” Allandro reached into the vehicle, and grabbed Nacil, which lay on the floor. “I believe this is yours,” he continued, handing Buffy her sheathed blade.

“Thanks,” she replied.

The Immortal wrapped his arm around her and led her towards his carriage. He quickly barked orders to his men to leave the dead where they lay.

After helping the Slayer into the vehicle, he took a seat beside her. As the carriage jolted forward, heading north again, Allandro offered her both food and drink. When he saw the flesh wounds on her wrists, he cursed, “Bastards! How could they do that to you?” As he dug into his bag, he went on, “That Fouché is an opportunist, if ever there was one. At least now he has received his just rewards.”

“I’ve seen him before,” remarked Buffy. “Fouché.”

“Why, Bella, everyone in France knows who he is. Fouché is a notorious… ”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” she interjected, remembering her captivity a couple of years before. “I saw him, in Paris, two years ago, when I was taken prisoner by the Order of Aurelius. He was there, with the Master. With all those evil people.”

“So, Fouché is a follower of Aurelius,” Allandro chortled, as he smeared some salve onto her raw wrists. “How amusing.”

Buffy looked blankly at the Immortal.

“He is no different than most men in France today, Bella. His principles sway with those in power. He was once a defender of the clergy. Can’t say that he is anymore.”

“Death is an eternal sleep,” she whispered, recalling similar words spoken by the mortal earlier.

“Well, he’s in for a rude awakening, don’t you think?” queried Allandro with a snicker.

“Yeah, he is,” she answered.

The Slayer partook in some of the food and drink that the Immortal offered her. He made small talk as she ate.

As the carriage, accompanied by many armed soldiers, disappeared over the hill, those that remained behind at the “battle zone” were already mounting their steeds. Unbeknownst to Buffy, the whole debacle was a charade, a charade devised by Morgoth and his most trusted acolyte, in order for the Immortal to gain her trust. It worked, for the Slayer didn’t have a clue that she had taken the bait, and had fallen into a trap that had been conceived a long while before.

Once she had finished eating, and had come down from her adrenaline rush, Buffy felt sleepy. Allandro wrapped her in a thick, warm blanket and held her in his arms until she drifted off. Phase one was now complete.



The sun rose in the east. Its warm rays beamed into the windows of the carriage. After sleeping for many hours, the Slayer began to wake. As she went to stretch her aching limps, she discovered that she was now in the most precarious of positions. She cried out in shock when she found herself hog-tied. She began to wrestle with her chain bindings.

“You can’t break free,” declared Allandro matter-of-factly, who sat across from her, admiring Nacil.

Buffy shifted her wide eyes to the Immortal, flabbergasted by the turn of events.

“It’s Angainor, my dear,” he continued. “None can break the iron links wrought by Aulë. Not even you.”

“Why… why are you doing this to me?” she asked in dismay, still struggling with her restraints.

“It’s not all about you!” rebuked the Immortal. “God! I had forgotten how self-absorbed you can be.” He rolled his eyes in annoyance.

Allandro’s sudden metamorphosis freaked out the Slayer. She was beginning to panic, as she continued her futile attempts to free herself from Angainor. She nearly rolled off the bench in her attempts, but he stopped her with his feet.

“I told you - there’s no escape from Angainor!” he stated once again. “If Melkor the Magnificent couldn’t break these chains,” one of his feet rattled the links, “surely Maranwë Luinil won’t be able to.” The Immortal turned his attention to Nacil, which he still clutched in his hand. “What a rare artifact this is! The sword of Fëanor! How delighted I am to add it to my collection of relics,” he said gloating over his newly acquired possession. “I will keep this beside the surviving Palantíri, in homage to the eldest son of Finwë.”

Buffy glared at the Immortal. If looks could kill, he’d have been splattered all over the inside of the carriage. But, alas, she had no power to do much of anything, other than give him the evil eye.

He sheathed the blade before placing it across his lap. He then fixed his dark eyes back on his captive.

“It’s a shame, you know,” he began again. “You’ve fucked with our plans a bit.” His lips twisted into a wicked grin. “But, fret not, my dear Luinil! We have to make allowances for such things.” The smiled immediately faded from his face, only to be replaced by a severe scowl. “How it sickens me that you still fornicate with the lower beings. A Vala with an elf. It’s revolting! I can smell the stench of elf’s seed inside you. You’ve been defiled!” He paused for several long moments. “But, that can be rectified easily enough.”

That evil grin came back to his face as he reached into his coat pocket. He then pulled out an Orb of Thezula and held it aloft.

A prickling sensation coursed through the Slayer’s body when she laid eyes on the mystical object. Her eyes widened in fear.

“Ah, I see that you remember the Orb wrought by the Dwarf Lord ages ago. You’ll soon see it up close and personal, I’m afraid.”

Buffy shifted her gaze from the globe to Allandro’s eyes. She waited expectantly for him to elaborate.

“Surely, you do not expect the Covenant to take place when your flesh has been sullied. No, we must destroy your hröa, and then make it anew so that it is pure, untainted. A holy sacrament for the most holy of Lords.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she snapped, still hopelessly wrestling with her restraints.

“The Covenant, my dear Bella. You’ve failed to fulfill your obligation to Melkor. You promised him a son. And you will give him one.”

She stopped thrashing. Narrowing her eyes she said, “That’s what this is about? The Covenant?” The Slayer snickered after hearing herself say those words aloud. “Morgoth’s been stripped of his bodily raiment. He can’t take form again, jackass!”

He sniggered in reply. “Oh, how ignorant you are, my sweet,” he responded, shaking his head. “None can constrain the mightiest of the Valar.”

Allandro’s usage of the word “Valar” left her taken aback. She never recalled hearing him use that term before. Yet so much time had passed since she had last seen him, and there was no doubt that she didn’t remember everything that he had said so long ago.

“Melkor’s love for you knows no bounds. Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, can keep him away from you. He has found a way to escape the Void. And if he’s capable of doing that, then he’s most certainly capable of fathering a child, with my help, that is.”

“With your help?” she repeated, unsure of what the Immortal was talking about.

“I am his Vessel, the instrument to be used to fulfill the Covenant. He and I will merge as one before you and I merge as one.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind!” she said through gritted teeth. “There’s no way that you and I are going to… Never! I’d die first!”

“That’s part of the plan, my dear. You will die! There is no way around that. Your body has been defiled and must be remade. Besides, you’re the most wanted person in France. By executing you, we kill two birds with one stone,” said the beaming Immortal, as he slid the Orb back into his pocket. “All those renegades out there will see their hero fall…” He paused for a moment, snickering yet again. “You will be taken to Paris and tried for your crimes before the Convention. I daresay I already know the verdict - beheading by guillotine.”

Buffy felt a cold chill sweep over her. At that moment, she knew that Allandro was speaking the truth, that she was screwed.

She refused to even look at Allandro after that. She felt stupid at being so easily duped by one whom she had thought was a friend. With her eyes clenched closed, she prayed for a miracle. Lord knows, she needed one.



By late afternoon the carriage had reached Paris.

“We’re nearly there, Bella,” announced the Immortal, nudging Buffy with one of his feet. “We’ll soon be crossing the Seine, just south of the Tuileries. I’ll have the driver take us through the Place de la Concorde so that you can see the guillotine at work. As you know, that’s execution central in Paris.”

“Go to hell!” she hissed, her body throbbing horribly.

Allandro turned his gaze to the opened window. “Ah, we’re approaching Quai d’Orsay. I can already see the Palais Bourbon up on the left.” He glanced down at the Slayer and added, “The moment of truth is almost here.”

Buffy still lay on the opposite bench, hog-tied. She could see the façade of many structures through the window as they passed them by. That feeling of dread escalated. Her stomach twisted in knots (much like her limbs). But she wouldn’t cry. She would be brave. She has faced death many times before, and lived to tell the tale. Yet, knowing that she would soon be decapitated made her nauseous. That was not her ideal way of dying. Would it hurt? Would she feel the blade drop onto her neck, severing her head from its body? Would the dregs of society parade her head around the square on a pike? Would they rape her corpse as they had done to so many others?

The Slayer could feel the vomit at the back of her throat. She broke out into a cold sweat. Her body trembled uncontrollably.

As the carriage started across the bridge, the cheers and shouts from the bloodthirsty crowds reached her ears.

Suddenly, others cried out. The pitch of their voices much different from a second before. They sounded… fearful.

Out of the depths of the Seine rose Ulmo in all his terrible splendor. People along the right and left banks of the river fled, fearing the “being” whose form was made entirely of water.

Allandro noticed the menacing Vala to his right and let out a terrifying wail. Before he could open the door, Ulmo crashed over the bridge in the form of an enormous wave.

The cold, rushing waters entered the opened windows, its force breaking apart the vehicle, as it was carried over the other side of the bridge.

Buffy, shocked by the experience, felt her body glide through the water, separating her from the Immortal. Only seconds later, Ulmo grabbed her in his watery arms, and disappeared to the bottom of the river. He would take her back in time, to the Second Age of the world, where she would reside with him at his Halls at the bottom of the sea for many years. There, he would comfort her, healing her ailing heart.

The sudden appearance of the Lord of waters terrified the people of Paris. Since so many had witnessed the episode, Robespierre would declare, a month later, the existence of “God”, although he would refer to him as the “Supreme Being”, and would hold festivals in his honor. In the months to come, the Revolution would come to end, ushering in Napoleon Bonaparte’s reign.

The Valar, in their infinite wisdom, had not foreseen all that was to take place in Paris during the Revolution. They had no idea that Melkor would be there, and that he had corrupted Men to do his bidding, including wreaking havoc on the Household of Maranwë Luinil.

There would be dire consequences for humankind, as this was the occasion when Maranwë Luinil, lover of Men, turned her back on them. She would never willingly set foot in this world again, leaving the defense of its inhabitants to her emissaries and the slayer line. That is, until the Valar deemed that it was time to intervene once again. That time would come nearly two centuries later, in the year 1981...