Full Circle

When 1981 rolled in, the Valar still sat upon their thrones within the Ring of Doom, debating the issue of Maranwë Luinil’s refusal to continue her sacred duties by maintaining the balance between good and evil. The Powers had been slow to act (as was their wont!); since they believed that they could reason with the Vala Queen.

Unfortunately, for them, the horrors of the French Revolution, especially the brutal slaying of Lalwen, had stirred Buffy to wrath. But that did not hinder their attempts, as they had no comprehension of the pain and anguish that their (seemingly) constant interference had brought to the Vala Queen.

Irmo was the first of the Valar to pay her a visit, around one hundred and forty-five years (Yr 1939) after she had departed Middle-earth. The Aratar believed that he was the best choice to negotiate her return since their familial bond was strongest. Needless to say, that reunion did not go over well with Buffy.

“You, come to me, with demands,” she slowly hissed from atop her lapis lazuli throne within her Hall of Judgment. “The audacity of that is mind-numbing!” With Sargon by her side, she looked down upon her brother, standing at the bottom of her dais, flanked by her Valkyrie chieftains, with enmity and contempt. “You hold the soul of Lalwen captive, depriving Luthor of his bride. She is dear to me, like a sister, a mother… ”

“You have no mother. None of the Valar… ” he began, before the Slayer angrily shouted over him, drowning out the last of his sentence.

“Shut up, mouthpiece of Súlimo!”

“…The daughter of Finwë is of elven kind. Her fey belongs to Námo,” continued Irmo in his calmest voice. “You know the rules, Luinil, the laws of Manwë.”

“The laws of Súlimo hold no weight in Folkvang. I am Lord here! I’m Queen! My laws prevail, not his, nor anyone else’s,” she spat haughtily. “If your brethren are so concerned for mankind - then get off your asses and do something. I’m through! I quit! You people have done diddlysquat for me! When I’ve come to you begging for aid, you’ve always turned me away.” After a short pause, she snickered. “Nice to have the tables turned for once. Now get out my Halls before I toss you into my dungeons!”

Irmo was dumbstruck. Before he had the chance to say anything else, his sister expelled him from Folkvang, sending the Vala back to Aman, where his kinfolk awaited his report.

Near tears, he shared with his brethren what she had said. Dismayed by the news, they fell quiet, sitting in the Ring of Doom, pondering their next move for many years to come.

After much contemplation, Vairë suggested that Ulmo should be sent to Folkvang. “He saved her in Paris. Surely she would heed his counsel.”

“We’ve been over this before,” answered Eönwë, who attended the council in Manwë’s stead. “Ulmo has refused our summons. He is sympathetic to Luinil’s plight. As far as I can see, he will not return to Valinor any time soon.”

“Then perhaps he should face our judgment for defying our orders,” suggested Yavanna. “Ulmo should not have saved Luinil in Paris. He should have let her… ”

“Die? Is that what you’re saying, Mother?” interjected Oromë, his green eyes narrowed in anger.

“Yes,” she replied coolly. “That was her fate.”

“How could you say such a thing about one of our own?” spoke up Nienna, taken aback by the Valië’s words. “How can you harbor such hatred towards one who has done more in Eä to combat the forces of evil than all of us combined?” Her eyes welled with tears. “It breaks my heart that you’d wish her harm based on things that happened so long ago.”

“Long ago?” shot back Yavanna Kementári venomously. “She has defiled my House. She has seduced my son with her witchery!”

“She did not!” exclaimed Oromë, tightening his grip on the arms of his marble throne. His body began to tremble with rage. “It sickens me that you continue to hurl insults at Bellaseth when all she has ever done was to exorcize evil from this world. Perhaps you, dear Lady, should be forced from Aman to the world beyond to face the creatures of darkness that dwell there. Let us strip you of your powers and see how long you last without…”

“There is the proof of Luinil’s sorcery!” countered Yavanna, motioning toward her son. “My son has lost his mind. He sounds more like Luinil with each passing day.”

“Enough!” said Námo with an air of finality in his voice. “This is not getting us anywhere,” he continued, fixing his eyes on Kementári. “Clinging to what you deem are past ills only hurt you, Yavanna. It would do you good to forgive, and move on, and not dwell on things that were beyond your control.”

“Here! Here!” agreed Aulë, before his wife turned her wrathful gaze on him, shutting him up.

“I will go,” volunteered Oromë, despite the furious looks from both his mother and wife. “Who else, besides Ulmo, has formed a greater bond of friendship with Bella? I am the prime candidate… ”

“I forbid you to leave this realm,” spat Yavanna, her face turning red just at the mere thought of her son and the Vala of Love.

“You do not have the authority to tell me what I can and cannot do! I am one of the Aratar too! I do not answer to you,” replied Oromë heatedly.

“You answer to all of us, son of Yavanna,” said Námo, reminding the Lord of Trees that all the Valar held equal authority within Eä except for Manwë, who was Lord over all.

“With all due respect,” began Aulë, looking to his wife’s son. “I do not think that Sargon would take it lightly if you were to show your face in Folkvang. His jealousy over Luinil runs deep. He will mark your arrival as an attempt to supplant his… position with his Queen. I do not deem it wise.”

“I agree,” answered Irmo, nodding his head.

“Then what are we to do?” asked Námo to those gathered on Máhanaxar.

All fell quiet once again, thinking about what they should do next.

The Elves and Maiar that sat at the feet of the Valar looked nervously at one another. Many had misgivings about the Powers meddling in the life of the Slayer yet again. They, like Ulmo, believed that she had earned the right to live in peace within her Blessed Realm.

However, a dark cloud loomed over Middle-earth, and the lands were riddled with war. Though Buffy’s emissaries, including her children, had been doing what they could to protect mankind, it was not enough. She was needed in the world, for no other being in all of Arda truly understood evil as she did, save Melkor, but he had been cast into the Void ages before.

The silence was broken by a Maia seated at the feet of Nienna. “I will go,” offered Olórin.

“You, Olórin?” queried Tulkas with a look of amazement on his bearded face.

The White Wizard nodded. “I have formed, in days past, what I consider a great friendship with Bellaseth. I have sought her counsel more times than I can remember and we’ve gone on an adventure or two together. If you recall, I looked after her children when she went away, saw to it that they were safe. I do not think she would forget such things and would be willing to listen to what I have to say.”

Námo pondered that suggestion for several minutes, wondering how his sister would react to seeing Olórin again after so much time. For, unlike Irmo, Luinil’s only memories of Gandalf were of their time together in Middle-earth, and the Third Age had not been so long ago that she would easily forget the deeds of the White Wizard. But, then again, Maranwë’s mood had soured towards most of the Ainur, and Námo wasn’t sure if she would welcome Olórin to her kingdom. Not to mention the fact that she was becoming so damned unpredictable.

The Valar reached an agreement, deciding that they’d send Olórin to Folkvang.

Once the Maia got to his feet, he entered the center of the Ring of Doom, facing Námo.

“Are you ready, Olórin?” asked the Lord of Mandos.

“I am,” he answered with a slight nod of his head. For a brief moment, the Wizard wished he had his trusty staff with him, thinking that he might have need for it in Folkvang after hearing what Irmo had said about the Vala Queen.

One second the Maia was standing within the Ring of Doom, the next, he found himself standing in the mammoth vestibule of Sussrúmnir. Olórin was stunned by the beauty and majesty of the Vala of Love and War’s Halls. As his eyes swept over his new surroundings, the beautiful melodious voice of Antamo reverberated throughout the massive structure, instantly putting the Wizard at ease.

“Olórin?” said a female voice from behind.

The Maia turned. “Rainë,” he said, nodding his head in acknowledgement. “I’ve come to see Bellaseth.”

“You don’t say,” she replied, warily eyeing the Wizard. “Have you come as the spokesman of the Valar or,” her lips curling into a mischievous grin, “have you come in search of the blessings of the Priestesses of Tingilindë?”

Olórin let out a frustrated sigh. “I see that you’re as cheeky as ever. I am here on behalf of the Aratar, and wish to speak with your Mistress as soon as I may.”

“Ah, that’s such a shame. The girls would’ve had fun with you,” she answered, slowly circling the Wizard. “Perhaps another time then?”

“Perhaps. Now, if you don’t mind - I must speak with Bella,” continued Olórin, his impatience obvious.

Rainë turned to Vórëa. “Why don’t you be a dear and see if Bella is willing to meet with the White Wizard?”

Without saying a word, Vórëa took off down the corridor, disappearing around the corner.

“How ‘bout a drink, Olórin?” queried Rainë, linking her arm with the Maia. “Bella’s in the East Garden with Sargon and it may be a while… that is, if she’s willing to speak with you at all.” She led the old man toward one of the first floor parlors. “I’m sure you’re aware that her fondness for the Valar has dwindled over the years. Their constant interference has really pissed her off. Can’t say that I blame her though. How can they make her suffer so? They cannot fathom how much pain they’ve brought into this House. They don’t seem to care.”

“Poppycock!” exclaimed the Wizard, pulling free from the Valkyrie.

“Excuse me,” she shot back with her hands firmly planted on her hips, staring at the old man in disbelief.

“The Valar love Bellaseth and you know it!”

The Valkyrie remained poised for a moment before breaking into a fit of laughter. “I have forgotten how amusing you can be, Olórin.” She went over to the sideboard to pour them both a glass of wine. “A word of advice, old man: don’t use that line on our Queen unless you wish to face her wrath.” Rainë glanced over her shoulder. “She has no love for those in the West, save Ulmo… and maybe Oromë.” She placed the cork back into the bottle. “Actually, I’m a bit surprised that they sent you instead of one of them. Why is that? Why is it they sent you?” she queried as she handed him his drink.

“I volunteered,” he answered, sniffing the contents of his glass.

Upon seeing that, the Valkyrie chieftain said, “It’s not poisoned, you know,” before taking a sip from her glass.

“One can never be too sure nowadays,” he replied before sipping the deep red beverage.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, fixing her eyes on the Wizard. “If Luinil saw you as a threat, you would’ve been seized the moment you arrived. She is all-powerful here. The Valar cannot hinder her magics whilst she is in Folkvang.”

“They have no desire to hinder her magics,” answered Olórin.

“Somehow, I don’t believe that,” she remarked, as she plopped down on the sofa. Rainë grabbed hold of the old man’s arm and pulled him down onto the cushion beside her. “Enough talk about Bella,” she added, abruptly changing the subject.

The Wizard found the Valkyrie’s demeanor unsettling. He attempted to squirm away, but she had a death grip on his arm, keeping him in place.

Rainë leaned forward, exposing her cleavage to the Wizard. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had… new blood in Folkvang,” she cooed, placing her hand on the Maia’s knee. “You’re a welcomed sight, Olórin,” she continued suggestively, gradually sliding her hand up his thigh. “Perhaps we can pass the time by… ”

“Rainë!” exclaimed Vórëa, who suddenly appeared in the doorway of the room with a look of fury on her face.

Rainë sat upright, her cheeks flushing from the penetrating gaze of her sister-in-arms.

“Freya will see you now,” Vórëa said to the Wizard. “Follow me.”

Olórin placed his glass on the table and quickly rose from his seat. He glanced at Rainë, who now hung her head low, much like a child scolded by a parent. Vórëa’s timely arrival couldn’t have been better. He felt a sense of relief as he made a beeline for the door.

The Wizard followed Vórëa down a long corridor, glancing at the many faces of those that he passed by. They were mortals, he could see. It had been centuries since he had last seen an Adan from the noble houses of old. For no mortal man walked in the lands of Aman, not since the Hobbits many years ago. But then again, they weren’t really from the race of Man after all.

Vórëa stopped before a set of double glass paned doors, which were opened. She stepped to the side, revealing Buffy and Sargon seated together on a couch on a beautiful porch that overlooked a magnificent garden in bloom. The Valkyrie motioned for him to enter before she turned and walked away, but the Wizard remained frozen to the spot, watching the two lovers closely.

Sargon was speaking softly to the Slayer, one hand resting on her thigh; the other stroking her cheek affectionately. From where he stood, he could feel the lovers’ devotion for one another. It was a strange thing, mostly because the Wizard was aware that Buffy had other lovers, perhaps not in Folkvang, but he knew there were others hidden in the realms beyond, so as not to arouse the jealousy and ire of the Vala Queen’s favorite mortal companion.

The Maia cleared his throat, not wishing to intrude upon what he considered to be a tender moment between the couple.

They both turned their eyes to the Wizard.

Olórin felt a pang of guilt in his heart when he locked eyes with the Slayer, for he could see the sorrow etched on her still youthful face and the grief in her green eyes. They last time he had seen her, when they said their farewells in Middle-earth long ago, she seemed to sparkle with life and love. That was obviously no longer the case.

“Mithrandir,” said Buffy, forcing a smile on her troubled face. She rose from her seat, Sargon following suit.

“Bellaseth,” responded the Wizard, stepping through the doorway. “It has been a long time, my old friend,” he continued, looking kindly upon the woman.

“That it has,” she replied, somewhat dejectedly. The Slayer turned her gaze from the Wizard to her lover. “This is my beloved, Sargon the Great,” she said, grasping the mortal’s hand.

The Maia exchanged greetings with the Adan, scrutinizing him with his inquisitive blue eyes. “Are you not also called Bëor by the Edain?”

“I am,” answered Sargon with a smile. “I am known by many names.”

“Aren’t we all?” chuckled Olórin, as he too had been known by numerous names in Middle-earth.

Buffy rolled her eyes at their attempt to make chitchat. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” she remarked, deciding that there was no point in making small talk. She sat back down with her legs folded beneath her bottom, absently twirling a strand of her golden hair. “I have to tell you, Mithrandir, I’m a little surprised that they sent you. I was half-expecting Melian, to tell you the truth.” The Slayer motioned for him to take a seat in the empty chair across from the sofa.

“It was my suggestion that I come,” answered the Wizard as he eased into the seat.

“That could be a dangerous move on your part,” came her reply.

“Perhaps,” responded the Wizard, arching one of his thick brows. “However, since our surroundings are quite informal, and we are not in your Hall of Judgment, I deem that I am welcomed and that my presence does not fill you with the same contempt that you had showed to your brother.”

“You’re right about that,” she sniggered. “As far as I know, you haven’t betrayed me.”

“That is true, but the Valar have not betrayed you either,” he said in defense of the Powers.

Buffy instantly became grim in face and mood at the mere mention of those in the West. “I will not leave my home, Gandalf. I’m tired of my brethren toying with me. They’ve done nothing but fuck with my life. Repeatedly! They have no idea what it’s like to live in that world. That’s why they avoid it at all costs. They cherish the peace and beauty of Aman, but expect me not to do the same in Folkvang.” Her facial expression hardened. “I’ve earned my peace! I’ve suffered at the hands of Men, Elves, Demons and even our own kind. I will not subject myself to any more. If the Valar are so dissatisfied with the state of things, then they need to take it upon themselves to do something about it. They are the Guardians of the world, after all. It’s time for them to step up to the plate and leave me be.”

“I know what it’s like,” replied the Wizard in a solemn voice. “I have walked the lands of Middle-earth, mingling with mortals and elves alike. I have lost those that I have loved. I have experienced the pain, the fear…”

“Then tell me, White Wizard, have you come back to that world since sailing to the West? Did you witness the fall of the once noble Houses of the Edain? Did you watch the mighty kings of Men become corrupted by power and wealth? Did you see, from afar, through a Mirror perhaps, how they hunted my children, eradicating them from the world?” Her voice broke as she asked her last question.

“Your children?” repeated the Maia, experiencing a sudden, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“The Periannath.”

“The Hobbits?!” exclaimed the Wizard in dismay. “The Hobbits are dead!”

“For more than a thousand years now,” Buffy replied sadly. “I wasn’t there to protect them, to protect them from men who hunted them for sport.” She closed her eyes as she recalled those days. “I was sent on a mission, with Oromë, to battle evil in another realm. By the time I got back, the Shire was no more, the Hobbits were no more. Their heads were displayed on the walls of men as trophies of the odd little people that had once brought such joy into the world.” The Vala Queen opened her tear-filled eyes and looked upon the horrified Maia’s face. “I take it my brother didn’t share that bit of news with you. I know you loved them, looked after them when I was unable to. But when you left, when the elves left, there was no one left to watch over them, to protect them.

“Maybe now you have a better understanding as to why I won’t leave here. And the loss of the Hobbits is only the tip of the iceberg. I’ve lost so much and I’ll be damned if I lose any more.”

Olórin was left speechless. He had no idea that the Halflings were no more. None in Valinor spoke much of them after the deaths of the three that were granted asylum in the Blessed Realm. After the deaths of Bilbo, Frodo and Sam, very few spoke of them at all, except for the elves that dwelt in Middle-earth during the Third Age, and who remembered them fondly.

“I am sorry,” whispered the grief-stricken Wizard after several long minutes. “I did not know. I always believed that the Hobbits continued to thrive in their neck of the woods. What a sad day it is that they no longer roam in the world beyond.” Tears ran down the Maia’s face as he remembered those Little People and their love for life.

“They were my children, Mithrandir,” said a bleary-eyed Buffy. “They sprung from my essence. They were made from me, just like Aulë’s dwarves. And Ilúvatar welcomed them into the world, blessing my little children with souls.” Anger flashed in her eyes. “And the Valar let them die! They didn’t protect them when I couldn’t. They’re jealous. They’ve always been jealous of me. I hate them. I hate them all.”

Olórin sat there, numb, staring at the Slayer with his mouth agape. Whilst he had always known that she had brought the Hobbits into being, he was horrified that the Guardians of the World had allowed that race of people to diminish in Middle-earth. It was a tragedy, an injustice unto the world. The Maia now truly understood the Slayer’s resentment and ire with those in Aman. In his opinion, it was justly placed.

Wiping the tears from his face, the White Wizard rose to his feet. “My business here is over,” he announced. “I now see where you are coming from, Bellaseth Dagnir. I would not have you leave Folkvang for any reason after what you just told me.”

“I just want to be left alone, Mithrandir,” said Buffy morosely from her seat on the couch. “Haven’t I earned that?”

The Wizard wasn’t given the opportunity to answer or say good-bye.

With a wave of her hand, the Slayer sent the Maia back to Valinor. From that point on, she cut off all communications with the Valar, locking them out of Folkvang with the aid of her powerful Maia followers.



Olórin’s sudden appearance in the Ring of Doom shortly after he had left did not come as a surprise to the Valar.

“I take it that Luinil will not leave Folkvang on her own accord,” said Námo from atop his throne.

“No, she will not,” replied the Wizard. He said no more than that. While he was still disturbed over his discovery of the Hobbits’ fate, he had no desire to bring that subject up at that time. Instead, he solemnly walked back to the empty spot at the foot of Nienna’s throne, and sat back down.

Because of Olórin’s demeanor, none questioned him about his conversation with the Vala of Love. It was pointless as they knew that she would not willingly leave her Blessed Realm.

And so it was that the mighty Valar sat upon their thrones contemplating what they should do. The years swiftly passed by until January 1981 arrived.

It was at that time that Manwë Súlimo summoned the Aratar to his Halls on Taniquetil. Though he had not attended the council on Máhanaxar, he and Varda had heard all that had been discussed.

Only seven of the Aratar were present, as Ulmo still refused to leave his Halls at the bottom of the sea.

“I have given this much thought,” began Manwë, nervously fiddling with his sapphire scepter. “I am somewhat in agreement with Yavanna when it comes to Luinil.”

The Vala Queen smiled smugly, gladdened to hear that her Lord agreed with her.

“Since Luinil refuses to carry out her duties, we have no other choice but to impose our will on her,” he continued.

“But that is wrong,” protested Oromë. “Every time we do that, she suffers as a direct result.”

“Yet this time will be different,” answered Súlimo. “Maranwë has come to trust that the Slayer line will thwart the forces of darkness. She is responsible for enhancing those young girls with great powers having little regard to how quickly that power brings about their demise… ”

“Excuse me, Lord,” interjected Námo, “but my sister was not responsible for bringing about the Slayer line. Her son, Olofin Tirion imbued the first Slayer with her blood, not she.”

“Perhaps,” replied the Lord of Arda. “Nonetheless, she is to be held accountable for the actions of those of her House. And I deem the time has come for her to experience firsthand what her daughters have had to face for millennia.”

“What are you saying?” queried Aulë fretfully.

“The time has come where we must act quickly. We will use our powers to thrust Luinil’s fey into that of a future Slayer.”

“That is cruel on so many levels!” exclaimed Oromë in dismay. “We need to stop interfering like this. It’s just wrong!”

“I agree with the wisdom of Manwë,” spoke up Yavanna. “Who else here feels that our Lord knows best?”

Of course, Varda sided with her husband. Aulë, Oromë and Nienna objected, feeling that Luinil should be left in peace. Námo would be the deciding vote.

After careful consideration, the Lord of Mandos sided with Manwë Súlimo. And it was he that would play the largest role in what Buffy would later call “The Great Conspiracy”.

Manwë then explained to the others what they had to do…



On January 19, 1981, a very pregnant and highly distressed Joyce Summers lay on a gurney, as it was wheeled down one of the corridors in the maternity unit of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles, California. Her husband, Hank, ran alongside, clutching one of her clammy hands in his own.

“It’ll be alright, Joyce. It’ll be alright,” he kept repeating in an attempt to calm his wife.

“She’s dying, Hank. I can feel it,” Joyce cried, as her free hand stroked her swollen belly in hopes of rousing her unborn infant to move.

“I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to wait out here,” informed one of the nurses, refusing to allow Hank’s admittance beyond the double doors.

Hank watched as his wife went through the doors. When they swung shut, he stared through the small glass window until Joyce disappeared from view. Terrified at the prospect of losing his firstborn child, he retreated to the waiting room where a few expectant fathers were congregated.

He took a seat away from the others. He closed his eyes and prayed to God that his child, a daughter according to the ultrasounds, would be alright, that both she and Joyce would pull through this ordeal, healthy and whole.

The scenes from earlier replayed in his mind. First, Joyce was spotting, which soon turned into a stream of blood flowing from her nether regions. Frightened, they called the doctor who instructed them to get to the hospital as fast as they could. On the way, the baby had stopped moving within Joyce’s womb, terrifying the parents-to-be.

Please God, prayed Hank. Let Joyce and the baby be okay. Don’t let anything bad happen. Please.

While Hank repeatedly prayed for divine intervention, the nursing staff was busily prepping Joyce for an emergency cesarean section. She was already groggy from the drug in her IV, her body numb from the waist down. She too mumbled prayer after prayer as the voices of those within the room became muddled to her ears.

She couldn’t clearly make out what the doctor and nurses were saying. A green screen prevented her from seeing the surgical procedure. A part of her was relieved by that, yet another part wished to see what was happening.

“It’ll be alright, Joyce,” said the nurse at her side. She held one of her hands, speaking reassuringly to the mother-to-be.

Everything seemed to be moving slowly and quickly at the same time. Joyce attributed that to the drugs, which had relaxed her to the point of extreme drowsiness.

The infant’s heartbeat has stopped.

Did someone say that or was Joyce imagining that? She tried to speak but no sound escaped her lips.

The doctor took the bluish-tinted infant from Joyce’s womb and, with the aid of the nurses, hurriedly began to work on her on a nearby table.

Tears escaped from the corner of Joyce’s eyes, knowing that her daughter was dead.

The child will be revived more blessed than ever. She is holy.

Joyce truly believed that the meds were causing her to hallucinate, as no one seemed to notice the old man dressed in white standing beside her bed. The figure seemed to emit a white light.

He looked down upon the woman and, without seeing his lips move, she clearly (or so she thought) heard him say, She will live.

She looked on in amazement as the figure seemed to glide over to where the doctor and nurses were attempting to resuscitate the baby.

Still, no one seemed to notice this strange man within the room.

When he reached the baby, he lifted his arms up toward the ceiling and proclaimed in an imposing voice that seemed to shake the room with its power:

I am the Master of Spirits, Channel to the Vessel; O’ Maranwë Luinil hear my summons. I command thee to come forth and enter the Vessel. Come forth, Maranwë Luinil! Come forth and enter the Vessel!

Joyce was shocked, as the hallucination seemed so frightfully real.

Only a second after the stranger had spoken, a blinding white streak of light flashed out of the ceiling and entered the man’s body. He placed his hands on the infant and the light seemed to run from his fingertips into the baby. A split second later, the light had diminished, the man was gone, and the newborn was squalling.

Joyce found herself crying and laughing at the same time, not knowing what to make of the strange thing she had just witnessed.

“The baby will be alright, Joyce,” said the nurse at her side. “Everything’s fine.”

Relieved and thankful, Joyce struggled to keep her eyes open. The emotional roller coaster left her feeling drained, and knowing that her baby, her baby Buffy, was now safe, she allowed sleep to overtake her.

By the time she woke several hours later, Joyce Summers had no memory of Námo’s visit or the fact that her child had truly perished, and that the fey of a Vala Queen now resided within her infant’s hröa.

Stripped of all her powers and all knowledge of her real identity, Maranwë Luinil was about to embark on her greatest adventure ever - that of a mortal girl who would one day become the Slayer…