Full Circle

Sargon and Buffy were walking happily together through the gardens of Sussrúmnir when she suddenly collapsed.

“Bella!” the Adan called out as he speedily swept her into his arms before she could hit the grass. Holding her tightly, he dropped to his knees, his wide eyes quickly scanning her body. “Bella!” he cried out again, tapping her face in an attempt to rouse her.

Her green eyes stared back at him, empty, devoid of all life. She was insentient to her surroundings.

He pulled her closer, pressing her face to his. Already, the warmth was leaving her body. He could not feel her breath on his skin, no pulse, no heartbeat.

He wailed in aguish, looking wildly for someone to help.

The Prince of Folkvang’s howl of despair alerted those nearby. They knew something was terribly wrong.

Cradling her lifeless body in his arms, Sargon wept as the Valkyrie chieftains came rushing from Sussrúmnir to the side of their Mistress and her distraught lover. The women could immediately sense that Luinil’s fey was gone, that her hröa was merely an empty shell.

“What’s happened to her?” queried the mortal in tears. “What has happened to my beloved Bellaseth?”

Feawë, greatly dismayed by this unexpected turn of events, tried to keep it together. “Take her inside, Sargon. Maranwë must go to the Healing Wing.”

The mortal jumped to his feet with his lover in his arms. He took off for the house, running as fast as he could, not stopping until he had reached the healers’ quarters.

Istahiro, like the Valkyries, sensed that Luinil’s fey had gone. Whether or not it was by her choice, he did not know.

“She would not leave me!” declared the grief-stricken Adan. “She would not leave Folkvang for any reason.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Sargon,” replied the chief healer of Folkvang. “Her fey is gone. Where it has gone - I do not know.”

The Adan remained seated on the edge of the bed, clutching the Slayer’s hand in his. “Maybe, maybe Anno and Mirë have the answer,” he suggested. He turned his gaze to Vórëa. “Will you ask them? Will you ask them where she has gone?”

“Of course,” answered the Valkyrie. She then left the room in search of the Oracles who dwelt nearby in Tingilindë.

While Anno and Mirë knew exactly what had happened, they did not share that information with anyone in Folkvang. In their wisdom, they deemed that things had to play out as they were supposed to, and that, in time, Sargon and those under his command would realize what had happened and how to remedy it.

Sargon then had Buffy moved to their private quarters, where he kept a bedside vigil so that he would be there upon her return. The handmaidens of the Vala Queen used their magics to preserve her body, preventing it from withering and decaying without the power of her spirit.

The Adan no longer tended to the fields or gardens of Sussrúmnir, which had always been his favorite pastime. He refused to leave the rooms which he had shared with his beloved. His constant thoughts revolved around her, hoping that he’d eventually figure out what had happened.

After some time, Sargon realized the answer to his conundrum.

Her diaries, he thought to himself. Bella recorded everything in her diaries.

The Adan could kick himself. All that time he had spent mourning the loss of Buffy could have been put to better use, as all of her diaries from Middle-earth were housed in the many libraries of Sussrúmnir. It suddenly dawned on him that he had forgotten the legends of old in which she had been sent back in time from the future, from the End of Days. Surely, she would have recorded such things in her diaries, prophetic writings of events that could possibly be taking place now. All he had to do was to read her journals to discover her whereabouts.

He then summoned the Valkyries and demanded that they bring him all the diaries that his beloved had written over the years.

“But, my Lord,” replied Laurië, “their numbers are far too great. There are literally hundreds of thousands of volumes.”

Sargon did not let that number deter him in the slightest. Instead, he ordered all members of the Household to peruse the diaries in search of the answer. Hundreds were put to the rather daunting task, reading around the clock until the words became blurred from weariness.

Those in Folkvang had no idea that they would not find the information they sought in the journals in Sussrúmnir, as those contained only the Red Diaries (as Buffy called them), that were written after her death at the hands of Úrion. What they needed were the Blue Diaries that she had begun writing soon after her arrival in Doriath ages ago.

When Orchal arrived a few years later, and learned what had happened, he informed Sargon that they were reading the wrong books.

“But there are no Blue Diaries housed in Sussrúmnir!” declared a frustrated Sargon.

“She doesn’t keep them here,” answered the Green-elf. “Those books hold too many secrets of the future, so Bella had them moved to the vaults of Tingilindë, thousands of years ago.”

“Why would she lock them in the temple and not tell me?” asked the perplexed Adan.

“I don’t know,” Orchal said with a shrug of his shoulders. He glanced at the Red Diary in the mortal’s hand. “But you won’t find what you’re looking for in that.”

Sargon grumbled his displeasure as he personally went to the temple, leaving his lover’s side for the first time since her spirit had vanished. Sure enough, the Blue Diaries were stored in the vaults deep below Tingilindë. The Adan was slightly annoyed. He had just devoted endless hours reading hundreds of Buffy’s diaries, when there were only a few of the blue books when compared to the red.

Stacking several of the earliest marked volumes into his arms, Sargon ordered the Priestesses to bring the rest back to Sussrúmnir before leaving the temple.

Taking a seat in the chair beside his lover’s bed, he opened the first book, perusing the first page, which was written in English, a language that the Adan had learned whilst living in Folkvang:

At the urging of Melian, the Queen of Eglador, I am writing all the things that have led to my being here in Middle-earth. Melian seems to think that if I write down everything that has happened that brought me to this strange world, I may find clues as to why I’m here. (Not sure if I agree with her, since it seems pretty obvious that magics are the culprit in my arrival in this land.) Nevertheless, I will record the events as I remember them, perhaps, for posterity’s sake, if nothing else.

My journey began in January 2006.

Sargon smiled for the first time in years. He knew that the journal in his hand was the missing link to the riddle. He continued reading:

The rain is beating against the mullion windows of the library at Lindon Hall. Another flash of lightning lights up the darkened sky, followed by a rumbling crack of thunder that’s shaking the castle down to its foundations.

Typical English weather…

The sudden, unmistakable shrieking cries of several women startled the Adan from his reading. Alarmed at the ruckus, he tilted his head, listening as the sound came closer and closer. Only moments later, the door to the bedchamber burst open. The Valkyrie chieftains came dashing into the room, Rainë at the forefront.

“My Lord! My Lord!” she cried. “The enemy has breeched our barrier!”

“What are you talking about?” asked Sargon, his grey eyes surveying the teary-eyed maidens.

“Anno and Mirë,” Rainë panted. “They’re dead!”

“What?!” exclaimed the Adan, jumping to his feet. The book in his hands fell to the floor. His heart began racing at the words of the Valkyrie.

“They have been murdered, my Lord!” she continued, tears flowing down her pale cheeks. “The enemy has murdered them in Bella’s sacred temple.”

“Tingilindë? The enemy has entered Tingilindë? How? How is that possible?” queried the deeply troubled Adan.

“Magicks? Fate?” suggested a sobbing Laurië. “We do not know. You must come. Please, Lord!”

Sargon didn’t need to be told twice. He glanced at Buffy’s form lying peacefully on the bed before darting out the door with the Valkyrie chieftains. They rushed through Sussrúmnir, nearly knocking over those in the corridors in their haste to reach the nearby temple.

The death of the Oracles was not known to any except for the Priestesses and the Valkyries.

The group entered the temple and swiftly made their way up the stairway. They ran through the archway leading to the Receiving Room, which connected the outside world to their mystical realm.

The Adan let out a muffled cry when he saw both Anno and Mirë lying on the floor in pools of blood.

“Oh my Eru,” uttered Sargon under his breath, approaching the twins with trepidation.

“Leave us!” demanded the spirit of Mirë, suddenly materializing within the chamber. “I wish to speak with Sargon alone.”

The Valkyries obediently did as they were told, leaving the Adan and the Oracle.

Sargon’s eyes went from the bodies on the floor to the fey of Mirë. “Who did this to you? Was it the Valar? Did they do this?”

Clutching her phantom hands before her, the Oracle looked at her and her brother’s corpses on the marble floor. She then replied, “No, Beloved of Luinil. The Powers are not to blame. They are not inherently evil, as you may assume. Misguided, perhaps, but not evil. This was done by Vocah, an evil servant of Melkor.” She shifted her sorrowful blue eyes to the Adan. “An offspring of Melkor and Mother.”

He gasped upon hearing that. “How could this happen? How could evil be allowed to enter this Blessed Realm to commit such a heinous act?”

“It is destiny. Fate,” she answered solemnly. “I do not have long, Sargon. Anno has already departed this realm, having answered the summons of our Uncle. My time fast approaches, where I, too, will go to Mandos.”

“But you’re Bella’s children!” protested the Adan, shaking his head. “Your place is here, not in Mandos. Your family is here.”

“Do not forget, Sargon, that we have kin in Aman.” She slowly walked around the bodies on the floor, occasionally looking at the doorway expectantly. “Only two survive, only two of my siblings remain.” She stopped at the head of her brother.

Anno lay on his back, blood splattered across his handsome golden-hued face. His eyes remained open, barren and lifeless.

“The End is coming, Sharru-kin,” she continued, locking her gaze on the Adan.

Her transparent image flickered as Námo summoned her fey to Mandos. The Oracle continued to fight the powers of her Uncle until her task in Folkvang was complete.

A mournful expression came to her face. “Mother will soon die in the place where she now dwells. You will not be quick enough to save her, Sargon.”

The Adan attempted to speak, but the words would not come out.

“Fret not, for Ilúvatar will intervene and take her to the one place in the world where she is at peace.” She turned her gaze upwards, looking at the arched ceiling of the room. “The Timeless Halls.”

“Then she will not come back to me?” queried Sargon sadly.

Mirë fixed her gaze back on the Adan. “She will. In time.” Her fey flickered yet again. “Woe unto the world when she is pulled from Folkvang against her will, for the world will tremble and the End will be nigh.”

“I do not understand,” he replied, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“Soon, Sharru-kin. The time approaches quickly.” She sighed, looking forlornly upon her corpse once again. “Anno and I always knew that Mother loved Olofin best. He who is responsible for his death will rue the day.”

“Olofin… Olofin is dead,” he stammered in shock.

“Not as of yet, but I have foreseen it. Do what you can to prevent Mother from finding out when that time comes, Sargon, for the world will be thrown into chaos as a result.”

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “That can’t be.”

“It will,” she sighed. “Go. Go back to Sussrúmnir and continue to read Mother’s diaries, for you will find the answers to that which you seek, and will know when to act.” Her fey then disappeared before the Adan’s eyes.

Sargon stood alone in the room. He turned his gaze to the twins’ bodies on the floor. Sickened at the sight of the scythe imbedded in Mirë’s back, he went to retrieve it, but stopped when he heard her voice say, “Leave it! For one will soon come to claim it. Farewell, Prince of Folkvang. Farewell.”

Disturbed more than ever, the Adan left the Receiving Room only moments before Angel arrived.

After the Oracle had spoken with the vampire, she had completed her mission at last. She then answered the summons of Námo, and departed the temple of her Mother for the Halls of her Uncle.



With a heavy heart, Sargon returned to the side of his beloved. He wept for the loss of the twins whom he had come to love deeply.

He then ordered the Valkyries to lay the twins in state, using their magics to preserve their bodies. The gateway was then closed, breaking the link that connected those in Middle-earth to the Powers That Be. The Priestesses and Valkyries were forbidden to speak of Anno and Mirë’s death to anyone.

Sargon decided to take it upon himself to tell Marto about the murder of his children. The Maia was summoned to the Sacred Halls where he met with the Adan in private. Naturally, Marto was inconsolable when he heard the news. He fled the Halls of Sussrúmnir for Tingilindë, where he vowed to remain beside his children’s lifeless forms until their mother returned.

Sargon found himself unable to focus on Buffy’s diaries. He just couldn’t shake the image of an anguished Marto from his mind or the ominous words spoken by Mirë before her fey had vanished from the temple. The Oracle’s prophetic words left him more confused than before.

It took a few weeks for the Adan to refocus his energies on the journals. Once he had, he remained engrossed in his reading, taking notes on what he considered pertinent details of his lover’s “mortal” life.

Nearly one year to the day after the Oracles’ demise, Buffy took a swan dive off Glory’s tower, sacrificing herself to save, not only Dawn, but also the entire world and the many dimensions connected to it. Just as Mirë had predicted, Ilúvatar intervened, snatching Luinil’s spirit from Eä and, for a time, allowed her to roam throughout the vast, dark space of the Timeless Halls.

By the time Sargon had figured out what needed to be done, Buffy had not only died, but had been resurrected by her friends in Middle-earth. Wroth at his mistiming, his opportunity to claim her fey would not present itself until the latter half of January, Yr 2006.

No matter how hard the Adan tried, he could not manipulate the movement of time in Folkvang to correspond with that of Middle-earth. The only ones who had that ability were the Oracles, who were no longer around to aid the Prince of Folkvang in that feat, and Bella, who was unable to do anything while in the guise of the mortal-born Slayer.

Deciding not to leave things to chance, Sargon sent Feawë and Rainë (in spirit form) to the Eerie Street Cemetery in Cleveland, Ohio, to ensure that they were there when Buffy arrived to destroy that Hellmouth several years later. Their feys remained close to the Malison Family Mausoleum, waiting for that fateful day to come.

In the meantime, Sargon remained beside his beloved’s side, reassuring her (or, perhaps more accurately, himself) that her spirit would soon return, and that she would be made whole again.

Unfortunately, a few years later, grim news came from the world beyond. Thranduil had arrived from Middle-earth bringing with him grave tidings.

“Olofin is dead,” declared the Green-elf to the Adan. “Even worse, he was killed by one whom we considered an ally, one whom we’ve trusted and protected… ” Thranduil couldn’t continue. He broke down, weeping. The pain of losing one whom he had loved greatly was too much.

“No!” bellowed the Adan. Overcome with grief, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

Dark clouds formed in Folkvang, bringing with it torrential rains that were quite uncommon for that Blessed Realm. It seemed that even the lands mourned the passing of one so pure and holy.

Many of the highest-ranking officials in Folkvang gathered at Sussrúmnir, anxious to discover what tragedy had befallen their kingdom, as the sudden change in the weather was an indication that something was terribly wrong. Men, Elves and Maiar assembled within the bedchamber of their Queen, as Sargon was loath to leave her side, especially now.

Thranduil then tearfully recounted all that had happened in Middle-earth regarding the death of Olofin.

As he spoke, the maidens clung to one another, crying. The mightiest of Men sat there in silence with tears streaming down their faces.

“Wait a minute,” said Brolach after hearing the tale. “How can we trust what Allandro says is fact?”

“He brought us Olofin’s body, Brolach,” answered the Green-elf, fixing his gaze on the mortal King. “He said that he wishes to make amends for the things he did in France… ”

“He cannot be trusted!” spat Orchal in disgust, interrupting Thranduil. “He’s a servant of Morgoth! There is no forgiveness for what he has done!”

“Calm down, Orchal,” said a composed Luthor from his seat. The Maia’s own heart ached at the news, but he felt that he needed to keep it together for the sake of the others.

“I will not!” exclaimed the Elf Lord, pacing across the room. “Allandro’s a piece of shit that has evaded capture. And now we find out that he has entered the Sanctuary and walked away unhindered! That’s rubbish! Utter and complete rubbish!”

While Orchal continued his rant, cursing the Immortal, Luthor turned to Thranduil and asked, “Tell me, who has taken up the role as Hebor?”

“Bellason,” answered the Green-elf. “I’ve appointed him Hebor until we find another worthy as protector… ”

“And the spell?” interjected the Maia, his blue eyes revealing his concern. “Did you perform the spell on him?”

“Of course I did. We can’t afford to leave things to chance, no matter how trustworthy we deem him to be.”

“Good. Very good,” sighed the old man, as he leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes, nervously chewing on his bottom lip. Oh, how he loved Olofin, and to hear of his death, which was gruesome indeed, shattered the remnants of his already broken heart.

However, he had to remain focused, for the time of Bella’s return was fast approaching.

And when she learns of Olofin’s death, the old man thought, shaking his head miserably. Oh, dear Lord. That thought alone fills me with despair. We must keep that from her. We must keep that from her as long as we can.

Rumblings broke out in the room.

Orchal had brought up several good points in his tirade, as he was trying to convince the others to wage war on all those in collusion with the one responsible for Olofin’s death. Several had the foreknowledge of the events that were soon to come, and felt that it was their duty to avenge the death of one so noble and beloved to the people of Folkvang. Others felt that things should play out as prophesied, and, that ultimately, it would be their Queen that would take matters into her own hands, punishing those responsible in the manner that seemed most befitting their crimes.

“We must remain level-headed in this!” Luthor proclaimed loudly to Orchal and those in agreement with the Green-elf.

“He was like a brother to me,” hissed Orchal in his fury. “And why isn’t he here? Why isn’t the blessed son of Bella in Folkvang?”

“He has gone to Mandos,” remarked Sargon, wiping the tears from his eyes, “joining Anno and Mirë in the Halls of Námo.”

“But why?” queried Orchal, as a hushed silence fell over the occupants.

The Adan lifted his head, his bleary eyes scanning the scores of people in the room. “Because Folkvang will be the first place to fall.”

“What are you speaking of?” asked Húrin, his face grave.

“There is no time for this now,” announced Luthor agitatedly, getting to his feet. He stood before the group, feeling the weariness of his many years of life for the first time. “We must deal with this… tragedy. Everything else can wait.” He took a deep breath before slowly exhaling. “First things first,” the Maia continued. “Bella must not learn of Olofin’s death when she returns. She will find out soon enough.” He turned his gaze to Thranduil. “Who is watching over Olofin’s remains?”

“Glorfindel, Celeborn and Nestor,” answered the Sinda.

The Maia nodded. “Okay. Have them take the body back to Olofin’s home in Findor. They can lay him out in state there. Tell Nestor to collect a vial of his blood as I will have need of it. Go! There is no time to waste.”

As the Green-elf made to leave, Sargon stopped him. “Wait! Thranduil, do not go just yet.” The Adan rose to his feet. “Before any depart these Halls, Luthor, we should honor the customs of old and drink to Olofin’s memory.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” answered the old man. He turned to the cupbearer. “Fulla - if you don’t mind.”

The maiden dutifully left the chamber for the adjoining room, to pour some wine for the nearly forty people assembled in Buffy’s bedchamber.

While she was gone, Luthor continued, “It seems that Melkor is stepping up his game, and has destroyed almost all of Bella’s children.” His frown lines deepened. “Only Illyria is left.” He spoke the last sentence in a mere whisper, wondering if Buffy’s betrayal warranted the death of the only child she had with the evil Vala.

“Surely, Morgoth would not kill his own,” spoke up the mortal lord, Orrin. “Would he, Luthor?” he asked, beginning to doubt his own words.

“No,” answered the Maia firmly. “Morgoth is wroth over Bella’s failure to fulfill the Covenant, but I do not foresee his punishing his only child as a result.”

Luthor fell quiet, contemplating what he should do next. By the time that Fulla returned, the Maia decided that he would accompany Thranduil and Orchal to Findor. There were many questions running through the old man’s mind, and the only way he could get any answers would be to taste the blood of Olofin.

Once everyone had a chalice of wine in hand, Orchal spoke such moving words about the half-elf that many were brought to tears, yet again. When everyone had sipped from their cups, the crowd dispersed, carrying out whatever duties that had been assigned to them. One thing was quite clear, none should speak of Olofin’s death, whether in Folkvang or Middle-earth.



Not even a year had passed in Folkvang when Feawë arrived, who then informed Sargon that the people of Cleveland were under orders to evacuate the city, and that there was a strong military presence.

“The time has come sooner than I anticipated,” stated the Adan. He stood by the window, clutching his hands behind his back. “Vórëa,” he continued without turning his gaze from the garden below, “have your most powerful brothers and sisters assemble in the Hall of Judgment as quick as they may.” Sargon then turned, facing the Valkyrie chieftains. “Its show time,” he added with a smile.

The woman left, obediently following the Adan’s orders.

Before Sargon left the room, he planted a kiss on his lover’s forehead. “We’re preparing for your return, my love. It shan’t be long, and you’ll be home with me, where you belong,” he whispered as he affectionately caressed her cool cheek with the back of his hand. He then left the room, hastily making his way to the Hall of Judgment.

Out of the hundreds of chambers within Sussrúmnir, the Hall of Judgment was, by far, the most magically enhanced. All had assumed that this was due to the two vats of Imperishable Flame burning brightly at the bottom of the dais, as the fires contained the very essence of Ilúvatar Himself. They were correct in their assumptions, for there was no greater power in the world than that of the Allfather, Eru Ilúvatar. Over the years, Maranwë Luinil had come to understand that great gift that had been bestowed upon her and how to utilize it to her advantage.

With Sargon having re-familiarized himself with Buffy’s journals, he too understood the powers contained in those two vats, and how to use them at need. The Adan climbed the steps of the dais, and sat atop the lapis lazuli throne. Since Sussrúmnir’s conception, he had been the only living soul other than his beloved to sit on that majestic canopied seat.

From the top of that throne, he watched as the most powerful acolytes of the Queen entered the chamber - the Valkyries.

Though the chieftains of those women had originally come from the Houses of the Aratar, they were now devotees of their Mistress, and commanded hundreds of underlings. Those powerful Maiar loved Luinil deeply and would go to any great length to see to her safety. While there were, from time to time, instances where they went against the orders of the Vala Queen, in the end, their decisions were for the benefit of Luinil.

The vats and the Valkyries were integral elements to Sargon’s plan. As the Imperishable Flame was at Buffy’s disposal, to use at her will, so it was for him as acting Regent of her mystical kingdom.

When all the women had entered, they sat on the marble floor, forming rows before the dais.

Sargon raised his hands, palms held outward, and the Fires within the vats sprang to life. The Flames climbed higher and higher until the radiance of the Light engulfed the entire chamber. One by one, the women fell backwards, one atop the other, as their feys left their bodies. The mystical Fire acted as a conduit, transporting them to the nether realm in which Buffy would soon be traveling.

Several minutes later, the Flames went back to their normal size. The Adan let out a hopeful sigh before leaving the room to return to his lover’s side…



Buffy fled the doorway of the crumbling mausoleum, which stood atop the Hellmouth in Cleveland. She saw the last of the Slayers, passing through Willow’s portal.

“Willow!” she yelled to her friend, who was still on this plane.

“Buffy!” Willow said with an expression of relief and joy on her face. “C’mon. You gotta move faster. There’s not much time left.”

Buffy was running with all her might. She was nearly there.

All of the sudden she felt something pulling her in the opposite direction. She looked over her shoulder and saw a black shadow.

“Willow!” she screamed as her feet left the ground.

She didn’t see Willow’s expression after that. She was devoured by the shadow and pulled back into the Hellmouth. She tried to fight and wrestle with the ghostly apparition but to no avail. She was being pulled deeper and deeper into the pit. Then for a split second, the amulet activated itself once again. A bright white light illuminated around her. She even stopped falling in mid-air. She could feel an immense amount of energy encompassing every fiber of her being.

Suddenly, blue balls of light whirled around her. Buffy felt like she was in a three-way tug of war. The dark, the white and the blue lights each pulling her body in different directions. The pain was excruciating. She let out a painful shriek as the blue lights overcame her, vaporizing her body.

Only moments later, the fey of Luinil returned to her hröa, in Sussrúmnir. With her face skewed from the pain she had experienced only moments earlier, she bolted upright in bed, breathing heavily and wild-eyed.

“Shh,” sounded Sargon, pulling her into his arms. “It’s alright. It’s alright. I’m here. Everything’s alright,” he said reassuringly.

Still panting, and with her fingers digging into the back of Sargon, the Slayer’s eyes frantically surveyed her new surroundings. She was confused and disoriented, unsure of what had just happened and where she was.

“I’m here, Bella,” continued the Adan soothingly, stroking her back.

“Where… where am I?” she stammered breathlessly as her eyes stopped on a glittering portrait of herself hanging on the wall.

Sargon eased out of the embrace, yet kept his tender hold on his beloved. His grey eyes searched her face. As she turned her gaze to his, he felt his heart tremble within. At that moment, the Adan knew that she did not recognize him or their home.

“No,” he whimpered, refusing to believe that fate could be so cruel.

His heart began to beat quicker. Overwhelmed by a sudden compulsion, he leaned in and kissed her. A spark went from the Adan’s lips to Buffy’s, a remnant of the Blessed Light from the Hall of Judgment, hours before.

That spark caused the Slayer’s memories to instantly return.

Their kiss deepened. Her arms wrapped tighter around the Adan, pulling him down on top of her.

She was back! His beloved Bella was back!

“Sargon,” she whispered as his wet kisses traveled down her neck…



The Adan had successfully broken what would’ve been a never-ending cycle for Buffy, throwing her from the Fourth Age to the First, over and over again.

Grim were the Powers in the West, for they had acted out of fear of the End of Days. All knew that The Last Battle would bring about the annihilation of their greatest creation - Arda.

The next war was approaching, and the Valar were now powerless to stop it. Out of his love for the Vala Queen, Sargon, the immortal Prince of Folkvang, had bested the Powers at their own little game. Those in the West would not be able to thwart what was to come - Dagor Dagorath, the Battle to End All Battles. As the Allfather ordained it, as it should be.



Bliss and joy had returned to the people of Folkvang, especially to their Queen. Her life as a mortal Slayer had not been an easy one and she was relieved to find herself back within the confines of her Sacred Realm where she could maintain some control of her life.

Though she was grieved to learn of the twins’ death, Buffy knew they were not truly dead, for she had foreseen things that she had not revealed to the others, not even Sargon, her beloved. At the request of Marto, she released the Maia from her service, allowing him to return to Valinor so that he could be with their children until The End.

Time seemed to come to a standstill in that heavenly realm, though it continued to move rather swiftly in the world beyond.

The Vala Queen fell into a normal routine. Though she refused to return to Middle-earth, feeling that she had earned the right to enjoy the rest of her days in peace and to leave the rigors of warfare behind, she still kept a watch over those that dwelled outside her realm. She came to rely on her emissaries to carry out her wishes, and to maintain the balance between good and evil.

Since her return to Folkvang, she had forfeited any claim to most of those souls that died in battle, allowing them to dwell in Mandos under her brother’s command.

Luinil’s only desire was to govern her people and to savor the beauty and tranquility that Folkvang had to offer.

Often, she and Sargon were seen strolling hand in hand through the gardens of Sussrúmnir. While her preference was to lounge amidst the beauty of the grounds, there were times when she would gladly join the Adan in his labors, pruning flowers or tilling the soil.

There came a time of festival, many years later, at which the inhabitants of Folkvang gave thanks to the Allfather for the many blessings He had bestowed upon them. Dressed in their finery, everyone gathered at Tingilindë, for a day of singing, dancing and feasting.

As the day wore on, and dusk arrived, Buffy grew weary of the celebration and wished to return home. Even though she was the host, she and Sargon were able to escape the merry-making without much notice.

Upon entering their bedchamber, the Valië sat before her dressing table, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She carefully removed her lapis lazuli crown, placing it on the wooden surface.

“I think I drank too much ale,” said Sargon, stifling a burp. He stumbled toward the bathroom. “My equilibrium’s off.”

“Mmm. Maybe I should take advantage of you in your weakened state,” she chuckled, picking up her brush and running it through her hair. Buffy felt a tingling sensation coursing through her body. She stopped, cocking her head to the side, listening intently to a voice that had begun to speak in her head:

‘Great Goddess, Inanna Ishtar, Queen of Heaven… ’

“Sargon!” she exclaimed. “Do you hear that?”

‘… Wielder of Light and of Dark… ’

“Hear what?” asked the Adan from the other room.

Buffy paused.

‘… You who art all that is, and shall ever be… ’

“A voice,” she answered. “A woman’s voice.”

‘… Please share with me this night… ’

“It’s probably the wine. You did have several glasses,” her lover faintly replied. His voice seemed to fade with every word..

The tingling sensation increased, as did the Slayer’s heart rate.

‘… Fill my circle with your Blessed Radiance, hear my prayer… ’

The brush fell from her grasp as she placed her hands on the edge of the table, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

“Sargon! Something’s not right! Something’s happening to me! Sargon!” she cried out, alarming the Adan.

‘… Great Goddess of Love and of War… ’

Sargon came running out of the bathroom. “Bella! What - ” The words died on his lips.

‘… I invoke thee… ’

When those last three words were spoken, Buffy felt a pulling sensation from within her hröa. With a quick yelp, she fell backwards, chair and all, before vanishing from her bedchamber, much to the dismay of Sargon.

She reappeared only a moment later in a dimly lit room, disoriented, oblivious to everything except for the spell-caster, who continued to speak the invocation.

“… And offer myself thus - ” The woman stopped the incantation. She stared up at the Mother Goddess standing before her within the circle. She gasped, placing her hand over her mouth for a brief moment. “Oh, my God - ess,” she said slowly.

Maranwë Luinil shifted her gaze to the woman sitting cross-legged at her feet. The air was heavy with the scent of myrrh and rose oil. It took a moment for the Vala Queen to realize that yet another had dared to use the Summoning Spell that she had taught Bëor long ago, an act that had usually brought an instant death to the conjurer.

“Oh… God,” the woman uttered again.

The Valië furrowed her brow, glaring menacingly at the obviously rattled woman. Luinil raised her arms in preparation to smite the one who had had the audacity to summon her from Folkvang.

“B-Buffy,” the panic-stricken woman said breathlessly. With her eyes wide with fear, the witch could see that she was in big trouble. Looking pleadingly at the Goddess, she frantically added, “B-Buffy… It’s… it’s me! Willow!”