Full Circle

It didn’t take long for Buffy to see how right the twins were: time did pass by amazingly fast. Before she knew it, she one day found herself lounging around the gardens of Eanna beside a seventy-two year old Sargon. Lost in thought, she absently twirled a lock of her golden hair while slowly inhaling the intoxicating scent of the rose that she held beneath her nose. How she longed to be in the loving arms of Shulgi, her favorite lover for the past seven years. She could be having sex with him at that very moment. Instead, she and her beloved Sharru-kin reminisced about the ‘olden days,’ as he called them. That’s what Buffy’s time with the King of Sumer and Akkad had been reduced to, walks and talks.

Sargon’s chuckle, which soon turned into a coughing fit, brought the Slayer out of her reverie. She immediately bolted upright, dropping the flower in her haste, and offered her beloved a sip of wine. His eyes sparkled with amusement as he took a drink, pointing to the lions at the foot of their chaise. Buffy glanced at her kitties. They were pouncing on the butterflies, catching them in their mouths.

“They’re still quick as ever,” he said after catching his breath. The Slayer smiled, picked up the rose and drifted off in thought again.

The old man watched her closely. She still looked young, so very young. Inanna had always told him that the latter years of life would be the hardest to deal with, and she was right. Seeing himself wither with age while she retained her youthful beauty was extremely painful. There was many a time when he had asked her, no, pleaded with her to grant him the gift of immortality. But, alas, she wouldn’t hear of it. The Vala promised him greater rewards in the afterlife, but his current one had to end first. That was part of the deal. How he longed to have his youth and strength returned to him, to take his beloved in his arms as he once did. The memory of their intimate days seemed so faraway to him. He detested his aged, shriveled body beyond anything. Sargon knew that death was coming; he felt it in his battle weary bones.

She’s thinking of him, again, thought the mortal king. What’s his name? Shulgi? Yes, I think that’s it. He let out a heavy sigh, as he continued to watch a distracted Buffy. He knew about the other men, her lovers. But at his age, he was powerless to do anything about it. He appreciated the fact that she tried to conceal her affairs, but living amongst people meant that one had to deal with gossip. He heard the stories. Sargon still vividly remembered that sorrowful day when Buffy had recoiled at his touch, when he was no longer welcomed into her bed, when she revealed her revulsion to his aging form. It was only a matter of time before she looked to others in search of comfort and pleasure.

The aged king also understood that the Slayer was responsible for the current peace and tranquility within his kingdom. Ever since he had received his injury in that last battle fourteen years ago, the kings of the other city-states ceased their attempts to overthrow his regime. He knew that that was the Slayer’s doing. The kings were biding their time, waiting for the old King of Sumer and Akkad to ‘kick the bucket,’ eager to usurp the scepter from his bloodline. Yet Sargon trusted his beloved, she assured him that she would never let that happen.

The waning of the afternoon sun triggered Buffy’s restlessness. She could hear Shulgi calling to her. She turned to Sargon, who seemed to have drifted off to sleep, his breathing slow and deep. The Slayer placed her small hand atop her beloved’s much larger one. His aged spotted hand felt like leather to the touch, the veins more pronounced.

“It won’t be long, my love,” she cooed softly, stroking his skeletal-like fingers. “Soon I will restore your youth, and you will be my immortal king in Folkvang.” Buffy thought that the inevitable would happen within weeks, perhaps even days. She didn’t know for sure.

Sargon’s eyes darted open after she had spoken. He placed his other withered hand on top of hers. “It’s time for you to go, I take it.” His voice was low and gravelly.

“It’s nearly time for your evening meal,” she said in an attempt to shift the topic of conversation away from her departure.

“I wish to lie here for a bit longer,” he replied, glancing at the flowers that he loved so dearly. “The roses have stayed in bloom longer this season… Their fragrance brings to mind the passion that we once shared.” He shifted his gaze back to her; Sargon still looked at her with that same loving adoration of his youth. Buffy gave the old man a warm smile, gently squeezing his hand reassuringly. “Yes, I wish to lie here a bit longer,” he repeated with a sigh. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Of course,” she replied, her heart aching at their parting. Buffy leaned over and kissed his wrinkled forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Sargon gave her a small smile, revealing his missing teeth. “Then I shall wait with bated breath for the sun to rise.” He cupped her cheek with his hand. “Oh, my beloved Inanna, how I do love you.”

“I love you, too.” Buffy felt horrible that she felt uncomfortable by saying those few words to her aged lover. Her beloved pressed his lips against the top of her hand before she rose from the lounger. She placed the red rose in Sargon’s hand. He breathed in its sweet scent. He’ll be fine tonight, she thought reassuringly to herself. He’ll be fine. The Slayer called her kitties over, rubbing them affectionately behind the ears. “Stay with Sharru-kin, babies. Okay? Do that for mommy!”

She had started walking away when Sargon said, “Give my regards to Shugli… or whatever his name is.”

Buffy stopped dead in her tracks. Her beloved had never said his name before. And even though he said Shulgi’s name wrong, his words felt like a dagger in her heart. She felt like a shallow bitch. The Vala of Love refused to respond. Her eyes welled with tears as she vanished from the garden. She reappeared before the throne of Shulgi, in his halls in Ur, the same halls where Sargon had killed his father’s father years ago.

The king immediately noticed her sad disposition. Rising to his feet, he came to her. They stood face to face, their eyes searching each other. Buffy didn’t love him. She didn’t love any of them except for her beloved Sharru-kin. And after witnessing the deterioration of Sargon the Great, she vowed never to fall in love with another mortal again. Men, she had decided, were toys to be played with, whether in the bedroom or on the battlefield. They were merely a distraction from the monotony that had become her life.

“You smell like old man,” whispered Shulgi, further closing the gap between them. Buffy could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. He was teasing her, driving her mad with desire. Eru, how she yearned for him.

“Well then, let’s see if we can do something about that.” She pulled him into a passionate embrace, eager to feel his touch, to taste the sweetness of his kisses. Buffy wanted to take him on that very spot. The guards quickly filed out of the chamber, well aware of what was about to transpire between their king and the Goddess of Love. They were accustomed to the sudden overt displays of affection between the lovers. It was the guards’ duty to see to it that the lovers weren’t interrupted whether they were ‘sharing their love’ in Shulgi’s grand chamber, or on the stairway, or even in the broom closet. They behaved like a couple of horny teenagers when together.

Now, Shulgi was not your ordinary mortal, far from. He was the first half-breed, being half Maia on his mother’s side. After the debacle with Nimmar, Buffy placated Marto’s wrath by allowing Nimmar’s eldest son to father a child with any of her priestesses. The son chose to beget a child with the Valkyrie High Priestess of Eridu, Rainë, thus bringing forth his heir, Shulgi.

Once their carnal act had ended, the lovers joined the rest of the household for dinner before retiring to the king’s bedchamber for the night. Since Shulgi was Rainë’s son, Buffy taught the half-Maia a thing or two about sexual magic. There was one spell in particular that they were both rather fond of, especially the Slayer. It was similar to an out of body experience except that their fey’s never actually left their hröa’s. The Slayer found their magical union to be akin to an ‘orgasmic journey through time and space,’ the like she had never experienced before, not with Melkor, not with Maglor, not with Sharru-kin. The spell tended to dull one’s senses to the present and cause the loss of all one’s concept of time. When they had finished their mystical union, the exhausted lovers fell into a deep sleep. Neither realized that that was the last night that they’d ever spend together, for when the Slayer awoke the following afternoon, she would discover that her world had been turned upside down.

At one o’ clock the following afternoon, Buffy awoke with a start. A heaviness pervaded her heart like never before. Her sudden movements stirred Shulgi from his slumber. She was already dressing when he bid her good morning.

“Where are you off to in such haste?” he asked, surprised by her unexpected urge to leave. Shulgi playfully grabbed at her arm in an attempt to convince her otherwise, but the Slayer slapped his hand away.

“Something’s not right,” she mumbled under her breath, lacing up her boot. “I feel it… Something’s wrong, so terribly wrong.”

“Can it not wait? You’ve only just arrived.”

Buffy rose to her feet, too preoccupied to answer her lover. She quickly ran her fingers through her tousled hair in an effort to better her appearance. “I’ve gotta go.” Shulgi tried to give her a good-bye kiss, but she disappeared before he got the chance.

The moment that the Slayer arrived in her private chambers in Eanna, she knew. That ominous feeling of dread that encompassed every fiber of her being quickly turned to despair. The mournful melody that resonated throughout the corridors of her temple told her that it was true. Refusing to believe, she took off for the main chamber on foot, wishing to prolong her hope a little longer. With each step, her trepidation grew. Uneasiness enveloped her heart, which now sank to the pit of her stomach. Buffy found not only her own chambers deserted, but also the hallways on the topmost floor. None of her maidens were in sight.

Don’t let it be true, she said over and over in her mind. She hastened her pace as she neared the gallery that overlooked the atrium. It was then that she heard the first shrill cries from the bereaved. The sound of their wailing bounced from wall to wall, drowning out the minstrel, singing his song of lamentation. Beads of sweat formed on Buffy’s brow. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest as she looked over the balustrade to the throng of people below. There, on the dais, where the twins’ thrones normally sat, lay the lifeless body of Sargon the Great. Kit and Kat sat on either end of the red velvet draped marble slab. Buffy’s jaw dropped, her mouth went dry.

“No! No! No! No!” repeated the Slayer, her eyes burning with tears. She then swan dived over the balustrade, turning into a falcon midway down. She flew over to the dais, landing on the table at the feet of her beloved. After changing into her mortal form, with a wave of her hand, Buffy removed all the occupants from Eanna to the outside, including Sargon’s kinfolk. Only her maidens remained with her. She straddled the lifeless body of her deceased lover, tears splattering on his finery. “Sharru-kin!” she cried out, placing her trembling hands on his sunken, pale cheeks. His skin felt cold. The Slayer’s touch confirmed that Sargon’s fey had indeed left its hröa. “NO!” she shrieked, collapsing onto the dead man, sobbing uncontrollably.

Loud claps of thunder rolled across the plains, bolts of lightning flashed across the mid-afternoon sky as Buffy lost control over her emotions. Her pain and despair was affecting the weather: hail, the size of her fist, rained down from the heavens, beating against the metal and glass roof like the hammering of many dwarves. Those Sumerians that the Vala had sent outside attempted to flee the storm by running to the safety of Zabalam, dozens being injured in the stampede.

Buffy couldn’t believe that she wasn’t with her aged lover when he passed away. She failed him. She broke her sacred vow to escort him personally to Folkvang where he would have been High King over all the mortals. To deepen her dismay, the Slayer couldn’t blame anyone but herself. She chose to leave Eanna. She chose to go to Ur. She chose to perform magics that altered her state of consciousness.

She remained, for a long while, atop the corpse of her lover, drowning in a wave of sorrow and guilt.

The twins were the first to approach the grieving Slayer. “Come, nana,” said Anno, gently taking hold of his mother’s arm. “There is naught that we can do.”

It took a moment for Anno’s voice to register with Buffy. Slowly, she turned her tear-streaked face towards her children. “He’s gone,” she cried. “My beloved Sharru-kin is gone.”

“I know,” replied her son, rubbing his mother’s back consolingly with his free hand. “Sargon was truly a great man. All will miss him.” He wrapped his arm around her, attempting to remove her from the corpse of the fallen king. “Come, mother.”

Buffy slid from the dead man, inadvertently knocking the sapphire cross from his grasp. The icon hit the marble floor with a clang. She reached down and picked it up, clutching the blessed object closely to her chest.

“I’m so sorry, nana,” said Mirë as she and her brother threw their arms around their mother, comforting her the best they could. The twins calmed their mother down, somewhat, enough that the hail turned into a torrential downpour. They then told Buffy all they had learned about Sargon’s death. The Slayer instructed them to inform the kings of the other city-states that the funeral would take place in two weeks. All were expected to attend. She then sent the twins away, preferring to be alone to mourn her deceased lover.

The Slayer sank to the floor, leaning against the marble block on which her beloved rested, her fingers stroking the cross that she had given Brolach over a century before. She remembered when Orran gave that sacred object to Sargon while on his deathbed, officially shifting the power from one son to another. Kit and Kat moved to either side of her, their paws rested on her legs, their tongues licked the tears that continued to stream down her face.

She remained at the base of the marble slab for the duration of the afternoon, guzzling the spirits that her maidens had brought her in an attempt to ease the pain within her heart. Unfortunately, all it did was make her sleepy. She passed out on the dais, curled up with her kitties.

Day after day, the Slayer drank herself into a stupor as she stared at the lifeless body of Sargon. Nothing seemed to dull her heartache and she sank into a deep depression. All her attempts to manipulate time back to that fateful night proved futile. It was as though a higher force was suppressing her magics. Sargon’s fate had been sealed. There was no doubt that her mortal lover’s soul had been claimed by her brother, Námo, incensing her all the more.

Luthor arrived in Eridu ten days later. He was deeply concerned to find the distraught Slayer sitting on top of the marble block, drinking her sorrow away.

“Leave us,” he said to the priestesses stationed in the atrium. As they filed out of the chamber, the Maia cautiously moved towards Buffy. While his heart ached at the loss of Sargon, he grieved more for Buffy. Luthor couldn’t deny that, over the years, the mortal king had had a calming effect on the Vala of Love; he kept her more grounded than the Maia ever could. He hoped beyond anything that Sargon’s death would cause the Slayer to look for peace in the west, to return to Beleriand where she could heal her broken heart.

When the Maia had reached her side, he warily placed his hand on the back of the sobbing Slayer. Dare he call her by the name that she had once held dear? The old man thought that he’d give it a go.

“Bella?” he said softly, rubbing her back affectionately. “I’m so sorry for your loss, our loss.”

Buffy raised her head and faced the old man. “Luthor,” she said in a barely audible whisper.

“Come here, my child,” said the old man with open arms. The Slayer looked back down at the wrinkled face of her beloved Sharru-kin; her teardrops fell with a splatter on her lover’s lifeless face. “Come, Bella,” advised the old man, pulling her into his arms. He held her in a tight embrace before he, himself, began to cry. The Maia felt Buffy’s pain, her anguish. Yet he couldn’t help but think that the mortal king’s death was actually a blessing in disguise. It seemed like it had been ages since the Slayer had last allowed the Maia to comfort her in her time of sorrow. Over the years, their relationship had become somewhat strained; the Vala was usually cold and distant in Luthor’s presence. But now, it appeared that they had reconciled at last.

While consoling the Slayer, Luthor was reminded of the words that Anno had spoken to him decades ago:

“Only through tragedy will mother see the error of her ways… ”

“He’s gone, Luthor,” she bawled, her glistening face rested against his chest. “I… I… ”

“Shh,” sounded the Maia, stroking her long blonde hair. “Everything will be alright. I promise.”

“But I… I wasn’t there for… ” Buffy’s legs gave out, the near empty bottle of spirits slipped from her hand, shattering on the floor. Luthor scooped her into his arms before she could fall. Softly speaking words of comfort, he decided to carry her upstairs to her private chambers. As he headed up one of the spiral staircases, he whistled. The Vala’s handmaidens quickly appeared from out of nowhere, and followed the old man and their grief-stricken mistress up the stairway.

The Maia waited in one of the sitting rooms while Buffy’s maidens bathed her; that always seemed to have a soothing affect on her. The old man poured some of Istahiro’s elixir into a teacup knowing that sleep was the best thing for the bereaved Slayer right now. With the funeral four days away, the old man felt that it was in everyone’s best interest to keep Buffy in a sedated state.

It was almost an hour later when she joined him. Buffy curled up on the couch, clutching a white handkerchief in her hand.

“Tea?”

“I was thinking something a bit stronger,” answered the puffy-eyed Slayer.

“I agree.” Luthor poured them each a glass of wine, adding the elixir to hers. “Here you go,” he said, handing her a drink.

“Thanks,” replied a sniveling Buffy, turning her gaze towards the nearest window.

The old man moaned as he plopped down in the seat opposite her. The sound of the rain lashing against the windows and copper roof seemed amplified to the Maia’s ears. He keenly scrutinized the Slayer. She remained aloof, staring at the bolts of lightning that streaked across the darkened afternoon sky. Mournful claps of thunder rolled deep beneath the Earth, shaking the temple at its very foundations.

“How are you holding up, Bella?” asked Luthor, eager to lend a sympathetic ear.

She glanced at him for a moment, before returning her gaze to the window. “I don’t know.” She drained the contents of her glass, placing the empty cup on the table. Wrapping her arms around her folded knees, she continued in a soft, broken voice, “I screwed up, Luthor. I wasn’t there for him. I can’t believe I wasn’t there.” Buffy took a deep breath; she didn’t want to cry any more. She was tired, so tired.

“Have you given any thought to the possibility that it was not Sargon’s fate to go to Folkvang?” asked the old man.

The Slayer faced the Maia. “But I promised him! I vowed to take him there, personally.” The tears began to flow again.

“I deem that Ilúvatar thinks otherwise,” replied the old man solemnly.

“Humph,” she sounded, her eyelids getting heavy. Silence fell between them as the storm continued to rage on. “Then that was a mistake on His part,” she said at last.

The Maia shifted uncomfortably in his seat; he perceived the underlying threat of her words. “I know that I tend to consider myself the voice of reason, but I beg of you Bella, do not do what I think you are considering.” Buffy glanced at the old man with furrowed brows. “I do know your mind, child.” He leaned forward, clutching his glass with both hands. “It is folly.”

The Slayer rose unsteadily to her feet. The Maia leapt to his, steadying her. “I’m alright,” she said, pushing his hand away. She walked over to the fireplace, wiping her eyes and nose on the handkerchief as she went. “Námo has taken what is rightfully mine.”

“And is the lose of hundreds of thousands of people worth one soul?” questioned Luthor, now standing behind her. “The Valar will decimate your forces. There’s no way that you can wage war against… ”

“Who says?” she queried, facing the old man. “Who says that I can’t defeat them ‘cause I beg to differ?”

“You are only one, they are many. You will only find yourself in deeper despair. They’ll lock you up in Mandos for the rest of time. Is that what you want?” The Maia shook his head. “Don’t make that foolish mistake. You have too much to lose.”

“I just want my beloved back,” replied the Slayer softly. “Is that too much to ask?”

“Listen, Bella,” he began, placing his hands on her shoulders. “I’m not a big proponent of your, er, lifestyle, but surely there are other men out there that can bring you comfort… ”

“There’s only one Sharru-kin,” she interjected, barely able to keep her eyes open.

The old man let out a heavy sigh. “That is true. He was an honorable man and I loved him dearly… but now, I think it’s best that you rest. You’re tired, Bella.”

Buffy didn’t resist as Luthor took her to bed. By the time her head hit the pillow she was fast asleep. Much to the Maia’s relief, the raging storm that had plagued Eridu for over a week finally turned into a drizzle.

The twenty-third day of the eleventh month was recorded in the annals of Man, Elf and Maia as a day marked with errors and bad judgments on Buffy’s part. Not only was it Sargon’s funeral, but the Vala decided to crown his successor on that day, something that many thought was a bad omen, since coronations traditionally took place on New Year’s Day.

The funeral took place at ten o’ clock in the morning. All the mighty lords from Sumeria and Akkad attended the ceremony including all the Maiar and Elves. The only one missing was Olofin, who was away at his mother’s request, hiding the remains of the Judge. A grief-stricken Buffy arrived at the ceremony dressed entirely in black; a long black veil concealing her face. She, like any widow, had entered the traditional state of mourning, meaning that she would only dress in black and abstain from sex for one year. She owed Sargon that much, she thought.

The tension within Eanna was profound. Kings from neighboring nations warily eyed one another, anxious to win the Vala of Love’s favor and affections. Her mortal lovers that were present were dismayed by her outright rejection of them. Buffy had no intension to continue any of her affairs.

Before Sargon’s body was removed to its final resting place, Buffy took the sapphire cross that she had placed in her dead lover’s grasp and mistakenly handed it to the fallen king’s second son, Rimush the Golden-haired. The Slayer was so heavily under the influence of alcohol and tonics that she didn’t realize her blunder. Manishtushu, the rightful heir to the throne, was devastated by the mishap, but dare not say anything to the Supreme God of the East.

The tension seemed to be mounting as the mourners stood silently for a minute in honor of the fallen king. Only the cracks of thunder and the pounding rain against the roof disrupted the otherwise stillness of the temple.

To everybody’s amazement, the Slayer actually concluded the ceremonies by singing the following song:


“Only love
Can make it rain
The way the beach is kissed by the sea.
Only love
Can make it rain
Like the sweat of lovers
Laying in the fields.

Love, reign o’er me.
Love, reign o’er me,
Rain on me, rain on me.

On the dry and dusty road
The nights we spend apart, alone
I need to get back home to cool, cool rain
I can’t sleep, I lay and I think
The sky is hot and black as ink
Oh God, I need a drink of cool, cool rain

Only love
Can make it rain
That makes you yearn to the sky
Only love
Can bring the rain
That falls like tears from on high

Love, reign o’er me
Rain on me
Over me, over me
Love, reign o’er me
On me
Love” *


When the last note had faded, Buffy turned and disappeared from the atrium, leaving many mighty warriors completely dumbfounded. The song was not merely a way of expressing herself; it was the means by which she chose to cast her spell. Visions came to those in power, visions of war and bloodshed. The Slayer had decided that it was time to see which king had the makings to become the next Sharru-kin, the greatest warrior to have ever set foot in the East.

Over the next couple of years, Buffy spent nearly all her time in the chamber that housed Sargon’s remains. The fallen king had designed the room years earlier when the first signs of old age had crept upon him. The circular room had a wall of windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, and overlooked the garden that her beloved Sharru-kin loved most. In the center, on a columned platform of black marble, sat Sargon’s sarcophagus of lapis lazuli. Etched in silver on the surface of the elaborate box was the king’s epitaph, written in both Elvish and Mannish script. Arranged around the room were several comfortable chairs and benches for visiting family and distinguished guests.

It was on the fifth anniversary of Sargon’s death that Buffy found herself alone in that chamber. After all that time, the guilt of losing her lover’s fey had not lessened, driving her to deep despair. Nothing seemed to ease her pain or distract her from her torments. But the Slayer didn’t suffer alone, mankind suffered right along with her. War had broken out amongst most of the city-states shortly after Sharru-kin’s death. Some were caused by kings desiring greater territory or control over some trade route. Others were started by ambitious young men eager to win Buffy’s love and respect by seizing the scepter within their own land. Nevertheless, no city-state experienced great peace in those days except for the sacred city on the mount. There, bloodshed was forbidden, even that of those that had been sentenced to death.

As Buffy lay stretched out on one of the benches, her mind numb from alcohol, she felt a sudden presence. She could feel someone silently watching her.

“What business do you have here?” she queried without turning her gaze from the garden.

“I have come to pay my respects to my grandsire.”

The Slayer frowned, but remained motionless. “And I’m sure that you’re well aware that none are to interrupt my solitude when in this chamber, son of Sargon.”

“I apologize, my Lady,” said the man, “but I have also come seeking you.”

She snickered. “Many men seek my companionship, why would I give you the time of day?”

“Because I come on behave of my grandsire, Etana Sharru-kin, Sargon the Great.”

“What do you mean?” Buffy felt her muscles tense at his words.

“Will you not look me in the eyes?” pleaded the man. “Can I not tell you of the gift that my father’s father had commissioned and is now finally finished?”

“Gift?” The Slayer pivoted on the spot, facing the grandson of her beloved. Her jaw nearly fell to the floor when she laid eyes on the young man. He was the spitting image of her late lover except in stature. She was shocked and surprised. Never before had she set eyes on the grandson of Sargon. Buffy had avoided the male heirs of Sharru-kin shortly after learning that she would bear a child with one of them. She didn’t want to risk sleeping with someone that she had known since childhood. The thought of that creeped her out and rightly so. Yet now, one stood before her, one who resembled his forefather so greatly that it gave Buffy goose bumps. “What’s your name?” she asked, unable to take her eyes off the young man.

“I am called Naram-Sin, son of Manishtushu,” replied the mortal with a wide grin. Naram-Sin was rightfully an heir to the throne of Sumer and Akkad despite the fact that the Slayer had shifted the power to his uncle. His father had promised him the scepter, should he convince the Vala to return it to their bloodline along with the sacred cross of Brolach. The entire family had decided that the presentation of the gift that Sargon had had made for Buffy would be the perfect opportunity for them to sway her favor back to their bloodline.

The Slayer rose to her feet and approached the young man. “The resemblance is uncanny,” she remarked as she circled Naram-Sin. He was a vision of beauty. And it didn’t bother her in the slightest that he was nearly two feet shorter than his forefather had been.

“May I escort you to the halls of my father where the gift is housed? I promise that you will be most pleased when you see it.” Buffy stood there, looking at Naram-Sin thoughtfully, but spoke not one word, making the young mortal slightly uneasy. “I may have something to help ease your pain, my Lady. My people are quite knowledgeable when it comes to herbs that grow in this region; we have… plants that will take away your sorrow.”

A gift plus an herbal remedy to make me feel better, thought the Slayer. How can I refuse that!

“Yes, I will go with you, Naram-Sin.” The prince offered his arm, which Buffy gladly took, before he led her from the tomb of Sargon.

Of all the mighty lords in the East, Naram-Sin was the most ambitious and the most dubious. At the tender age of twenty-two, he already had five wives and nine children. He was a carouser, a womanizer and had entitlement issues. From an early age, he was told that the Vala of Love would be captivated by his good looks. That was an important factor with her. If she didn’t find a lord attractive, there was no way that he could win her favor. She only invited the handsome ones into her bed. It was Naram-Sin’s duty to show her how charming a son of Sargon could be. The young man had devoted many hours to studying the journals and books that his grandfather had penned before his death, learning what qualities Buffy liked and disliked in a man.

People were amazed to see the Slayer out and about, she had spent the past five years holed up in Eanna, seldom leaving its Halls. When the couple arrived at the house of Sargon’s kindred, she was welcomed as a Supreme God should be. Naram-Sin led Buffy to one of the parlors in the house where they could be alone. Leaning against the wall was a cloth draped object that stood about eight feet tall. The Slayer’s excitement grew as the young man took her hand and led her to it.

“My grandsire had this commissioned years before his death, but the artisan has only finished it recently,” declared Naram-Sin. “It was Sargon’s last wish that this portrait be presented to you upon its completion.” Buffy smiled warmly at the prince before pulling the red cloth from the portrait. She let out a gasp of astonishment when she saw the portrait. It was of her, of course, but the portrait was unlike anything she had ever seen in all her life. Her likeness wasn’t painted on the canvas but was made from a plethora of minute fragments of gemstones. Her hair was done in thin threads of real gold. It was incredible. It was, by far, the most magnificent gift that she had ever received. “You like it, I take it,” remarked the young man.

“It takes my breath away,” she whispered. “It’s truly a work of art.” She faced the young man. “I’d love to meet the person responsible for creating this masterpiece.”

Buffy’s request startled Naram-Sin; he hoped that he would be the one to receive her accolades. But the young man was quick on his feet. “I’m sure that I can arrange that, although Ashtorutu in not in the city at the moment. I will send a messenger as soon as I may.” He gave the Slayer a huge smile. “Perhaps you care to indulge in some of the herbal remedies that we have. It’s guaranteed to ease your weary mind, my Lady, I promise you that.” They sat down on the couch as Naram-Sin pulled a glass vial of a powdery-like substance from his pocket.

“Is that cocaine?” asked a surprised Buffy.

“Cocaine?” he queried with raised eyebrows. “I’ve never heard the word before. No, my Lady,” he said as he popped the cork from the end of the tube. “This is a derivative of the lovely red flowers that grow in abundance across the plains. My people call them poppies.” For the first time, the Slayer noticed the long finger nail on the young man’s pinky. Using his nail as a shovel, he scooped up some of the powdery substance and brought it to her nose. “You must inhale it for the quickest affects.”

Buffy stared hesitantly at the pile on his fingernail. “It won’t hurt me.”

“Ooh, no, my Lady. This stuff puts one into a blissful state of mind. It’s wonderful. I use it all the time.”

“Hmm, well, I guess if eating poppy seeds is okay, then a little of that powdery stuff can’t hurt.” Naram-Sin pinched one of her nostrils closed as she deeply inhaled the substance through the other passageway. In only a matter of seconds, her sinuses went numb. The young man refilled his fingernail again, allowing her another sniff. She sat there for a moment, a bitter taste ran down the back of her throat, which also went numb. A smile came to her face as the feeling of euphoria swathed over her.

In the ensuing weeks, Buffy spent much time with the grandson of Sargon, who influenced her life greatly at that time. Many were pleased to see that the Vala’s mourning period had finally come to an end. The beautiful love songs that she adored so much were once again heard within the temples of Eanna and Zabalam. The Slayer started throwing lavish parties in her temple where guests partook in food, drink, and drugs. More often than not, those parties ended with massive orgies. While Buffy herself did not openly participate in such activities, she most certainly did behind closed doors. She was celebrating life, for it was good again.

After several months of courtship, Naram-Sin earned the coveted spot in the Slayer’s heart. He had become her favorite lover. He was the healer of her heartache and brought her much happiness. As a reward, when his Uncle Rimush died four years later from the plague that had reached Eridu, Buffy returned the cross of Brolach and the scepter back to the elder line of Sargon. Manishtushu then handed the blessed objects to his son, Naram-Sin, who thereby became High King of Sumer and Akkad on New Year’s Day Yr 241 F.A.

It was three years later, on a beautiful spring morning, when Buffy first realized that something was wrong with her. When she took her morning pee, she felt a burning sensation from her nether regions. She dismissed it as a bladder infection and took the necessary medicine to eradicate the problem. Yet it persisted and got progressively worse. The burning and itching was soon followed by the appearance of small putrid smelling, yellowish, pus-filled blisters that first materialized in her private area and began to spread over her body. A horror-stricken Buffy then realized that she had been afflicted with the plague that was spreading throughout the East…



*Lyrics by Pete Townsend