Full Circle

When Buffy reappeared only a moment later in a dimly lit chamber, she was already in fighting stance. Her heart pounded frantically in her chest as her eyes quickly acclimated to the darkness. Turning slowly, scoping out the room, she smelled the sweet scent of burning incense in the air, myrrh to be exact. When her eyes came across an old man with smoldering grey eyes sitting cross-legged in the center of charcoal-drawn circle on the stone floor, she relaxed, lowering her arms to her side.

“Bëor?” she questioned, her brows narrowing with uncertainty.

“Bella,” answered the old man with a nod, his lips slowly turning into a lopsided grin.

Buffy made a conscious effort to keep her mouth closed, despite the shock of seeing her lover withered with old age. It reminded her of how quickly time passed for mankind, something she seldom considered of late, since she always surrounded herself with other immortal folk.

“I can’t believe how much time has passed,” she finally said, after studying Bëor’s appearance for a few moments. “What year is it?”

“355.”

The Slayer’s eyes widened. “355!” She tried to calculate the age of the Adan in her head. “So, you’re what ninety-two.”

“Ninety-three.”

“Ninety-three,” she repeated. “Time sure does fly by when I’m in my Blessed Realm.”

Based on the reckoning of time in Folkvang, the Slayer had only been gone for four and a half years, but in Middle-earth time, over thirty-six years had passed since she had last set foot in Beleriand.

Bëor struggled in his attempt to get to his feet.

“Let me help you,” she said, rushing to his side. She wrapped an arm around his waist, and slowly helped him up. “Steady, now.” As he straightened his legs, his joints made a popping noise, causing the Slayer to cringe at the sound. “You okay?”

“Fine, fine,” answered Bëor. “Let me take a look at you.” Even old, her lover still towered over her. His frame hadn’t shrunk as most mortals do when they neared the end of their lifespan. “You’re as beautiful as I remember,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders, surveying her appearance. “You haven’t aged a bit.”

“That’s one of the bonuses to being a Vala,” she chuckled. “Eternal youthfulness… if I so desire. Do you want to sit on the bed?”

He nodded. “My body isn’t what it used to be.”

“I’ll remedy that soon enough.” She helped him over to the bed. His joints made that popping noise again as he slowly lowered himself with a groan onto the mattress. Buffy sat beside him, and reached for his hands. “Your hand,” she said, noticing the blood soaked strip of cloth wrapped around his left hand, “you’re hurt.”

“My blood was needed for the spell, or have you already forgotten that?” he queried with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

The Slayer carefully removed the bandage. “It’s still bleeding,” she remarked, holding his hand in both of hers. She bent over the wound, licking the incision on his palm, healing it instantly. “There, that’s better.” She kissed the spot before meeting her lover’s gaze. “And no, I haven’t forgotten.”

“Bella! Your powers have been restored!” exclaimed Bëor, marveling over his newly healed hand. He felt no pain and there was no scar. “When did that happen?”

“When I found my way back to Folkvang,” she answered thoughtfully. “I think that Marduk’s dark magicks lifted when I finally entered my Blessed Realm.”

“Have you been in Folkvang all this time?” Before she could answer, the old man continued. “Finrod and I had traveled to Maglor’s Gap for a visit years back, but none knew of your whereabouts. Did Oromë ever find you? We were told by the Noldor in the north that he was searching for you.”

Buffy felt the hair rising on the back of her neck at the mere mention of the Vala Lord’s name. Her blood pressure was rising, fast. Getting to her feet, her eyes scanned the room for something to calm her nerves.

“No, I didn’t see Oromë,” she answered sullenly, doing her best to conceal her distaste for the Vala. She walked over to a table littered with several bottles of wine and spirits. Many glasses and goblets containing varying amounts of alcohol covered the wooden surface. The Slayer grabbed a bottle of white wine from Yr 173 and popped the cork, taking a swig directly from the container. How she wished for a pipeful of hul-gil, the only thing that truly soothed the nerves.

“Hmm,” she heard Bëor sound, his joints popping as he rose to his feet. “I wonder what his errand was in Middle-earth, if not to see you.”

“I know of his errand,” answered a grim-faced Buffy. She turned, leaning against the table, clutching the bottle in her hand.

“Care to enlighten me,” said the Adan, stopping in front of her. He cocked his head to the side, studying her with his piercing grey eyes. “What is it? What troubles you so? You can tell me, you can tell me anything.” Bëor placed his hand comfortingly on her arm, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

The Slayer took another long drink. The mortal’s eyes widened as he watched her drain the contents of the bottle in several gulps. Breathing heavily, she placed the empty vessel back on the table.

“My Eru!” exclaimed the Adan, astonished at how quickly Buffy had emptied the bottle. “What is it, Bella? Do not tell me that nothing is wrong. I can see it plainly enough. Tell me, what caused you to flee before the Great Rider? What was it that you feared?” he queried, knowing that his mention of Oromë had abruptly changed her mood.

Buffy pulled her blue cloak tighter around herself, warding off the sudden chill that encompassed her. “Oromë wasn’t after me,” she confessed in a barely audible voice. “He came to wage war against my daughter, Illyria.”

“Illyria?” repeated the baffled mortal. “I did not know that you had a daughter. I thought that Olofin was your only child.”

Bëor, like nearly every mortal of the Three Houses, no longer knew the ‘true’ histories of their past, pre-Beleriand. For over a century, the Slayer and her people had worked diligently at re-writing the events that had happened in Mesopotamia, to show Buffy in a more peaceable and positive light. The pain and misery that Man had experienced were mostly attributed to Morgoth, not Illyria or herself. She had removed Marduk from the histories altogether since he had brought about her shameful downfall. None of the Edain remembered her other children. None knew of her ties with the Dark Lord. None knew that Amarutu Marduk was still holding her twins hostage. None knew of the Slayer’s fall from grace. Time had proved to be her greatest ally in altering the mortals’ past, as well as her own, for none outside of her Household had lived to tell the tales.

Buffy stood there, torn. Bëor waited expectantly for an answer, and she was unsure whether he was ready to hear the truth. She feared that her lies were finally catching up with her. She knew that as soon as she took her aged lover to Folkvang, he would hear the true stories of what had really happened long ago from those that had actually fought valiantly in the battles, his forefathers and others from his kindred.

Bëor had no memories of Sargon. All he knew of his great-great grandfather was that he had ruled the mighty empires of Sumer and Akkad in peace, and brought to his people great prosperity that the later generations couldn’t fathom.

“Why would Oromë and the other Valar want to wage war against Illyria?” he asked, breaking the silence. “Bella, why have you never told me of this daughter of yours? Why all the secrecy?”

The Slayer took several deep breaths. She didn’t want to cry, nor did she want to lose her temper.

“There are things about my past that you don’t know, that the Noldor don’t even know. Illyria is one of them,” she said solemnly, folding her arms across her chest.

“Why all the secrecy?” asked the Adan, the creases in his forehead becoming more pronounced.

“Because Illyria is my child… with Morgoth,” she answered.

Not surprisingly, Bëor gasped in horror. His jaw dropped. His eyes widened to twice their normal size, as the blood drained from his face, making him look as pale as an elf. The mortal turned away from his lover, and returned to his bed. The shock of hearing that his beloved had had a child with the Dark Foe was mind-blowing. Never in a million years would he have thought it possible. He was literally left speechless.

Hurt by Bëor’s response, or lack thereof, Buffy searched the bottles for something stronger. Grabbing a flagon of spirits, she pulled off the top and took a large swallow, shuddering at the aftertaste.

The mortal sat there, deep in thought. In his mind, he was going over the elvish lore that he had learned since coming to Nargothrond. Illyria. The name suddenly meant something to him. He recalled Finrod telling him that the Slayer had left Beleriand for the East over two centuries before to fight the Blue Demoness, as those from the House of Fëanor had referred to her. Yet he did not know that that was her own child, her own flesh and blood. As legend had it, Buffy had overthrown her daughter. She had defeated her.

“Do the Eldar not know that Illyria is your daughter?” he finally said, turning his mournful gaze back to Buffy. “I seem to recall Felagund telling me that you had fought her, that that was the reason you had left Beleriand long ago, to defeat the wicked spawn of Morgoth. And now you tell me that she is, in all actuality, your own flesh and blood,” said the dumbfounded Adan, a look of confusion on his old and weary face. “How can this be? When did you bring forth this child?”

Buffy was beginning to freak out. She had no memory of telling Finrod anything about her going to the East to fight Illyria.

Of course, Finrod knows, her internal voice screamed in protest. He was there with Káno and Russandol when you returned from the East, you idiot! Olofin had told them of the battles, the war. You’ve clouded your memories and judgment with the herb, Bella, continued her conscience. You have told so many lies that you can’t keep them straight any more. Come clean! Tell Bëor the truth, and the truth will set you free!

The Slayer stifled the tears that attempted to flow from her tear-welled eyes.

“I had only told Káno about me and Morgoth and he took it upon himself to tell his brothers,” she started in a small voice. “I kept no secrets from him,” she said firmly, locking eyes with the mortal. “At least, not at that time,” she added sadly. Buffy took another drink from the flagon, her face contorting in disgust as the warm beverage ran down the back of her throat. She shuddered as she placed the container back on the table.

Bëor’s eyes followed her as she began to pace back and forth across the circle on the floor, her satiny cloak shimmering in the shadows of the candlelight.

“I had my first encounter with Morgoth back in the days when I still dwelt in Thingol’s land, Eglador it was called back then,” continued the Slayer softly. “I had no idea who I was, what I was.” She stopped, turning her gaze to the Adan. “I thought I was a mere mortal, like you. Nothing special really, except that I was a Slayer, a hunter of demons whose sole purpose was to wreak havoc on the world.” She shrugged. “That was my only destiny, or so I had thought.

“And then he came to me, in my dreams, at first… but my dreams weren’t really dreams, they were real. Morgoth had somehow managed to pull me from my home in the fair woods of Region to Angband.” She resumed pacing. Her mind going over those events in her past like it was yesterday. “I tried to thwart him, to fight him,” Buffy said, shaking her head. “But he was too strong, too powerful. He bewitched me. I became his thrall… and I loved him.”

The chamber was so quiet, that the sound of Buffy’s swallowing seemed amplified. “Next thing I know, I’m carrying his child,” she continued, a pained expression on her face. “And the more the child grew within me, the darker I became. Morgoth never told me who I really was, but he understood the powers I possessed. He taught me terrible things, dark magicks… I did things that will haunt me for the rest of my life,” she revealed, her voice now breaking, tears streaming down her face. “I helped bring hideous monsters into being, creatures more powerful and deadly than Morgoth’s Balrogs.”

She stopped at the table, in desperate need of another drink, searching the bottles for anything other than the horrid-tasting spirits that she had just consumed.

“It wasn’t until after I had given birth to Illyria that I regained my wits. The spell finally broke,” she sniffled. “Luthor helped me escape. We fled to the Deeper Well so that I could recuperate from my ordeal. It was the former minion of Morgoth who finally told me who I was and what I was - the Vala of Love.”

Buffy popped the cork from another bottle, and took a swig of red wine.

Bëor remained silent, staring at his beloved in shocked disbelief. Hearing of the Dark Lord’s twisted infatuation with the Slayer didn’t bode well with the mortal. That disturbed him more than learning of the evil creatures that she had helped create. His heart told him that the bond between his beloved and Morgoth went much deeper than Buffy had revealed.

The Slayer wiped her eyes dry on the sleeve of her cloak, determined to get a grip on her emotions.

“Have… have you had any contact with Morgoth since that time?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” she nodded. “The last time was at the end of the war in the East. I nearly had him captured too. I was this close,” she said holding her thumb and forefinger closely together, “but the Orb that I had trapped his fey in was cracked, and he managed to escape and flee back to Angband.” The Slayer wasn’t ready to elaborate any further than that.

“He holds no power over me now,” she said with conviction. “And so help me God, I will defeat him.”

Bëor remained seated, staring blankly at the floor. It was a lot of information to take in. He heard Buffy gulping down more alcohol. He now had a better understanding of why she drank so much, not to mention her overindulgence in opium. If he had experienced what she had, he’d probably be doing the same.

“What of Illyria?” he finally asked, nearly forgetting the original topic of conversation. “And Oromë?”

A now slightly inebriated Buffy attempted to set the empty wine bottle on the table. The glass container slipped from her grasp, hitting the open flagon, which in turn, fell, knocking over a few goblets, spilling various alcoholic beverages over the edge of the table.

“Oh, shit!” she groaned, jumping back from the mess, annoyed by her perception being off kilter and lack of coordination.

“Do not fret over that, Bella,” said Bëor, standing directly behind her, catching her by surprise.

“Damn, Sargon,” she replied, clutching her chest, “don’t creep up on me like that. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Sargon?” said the bemused mortal. “I deem that you’ve had too much to drink, my dear Lady.”

“Perhaps,” she answered. “But I’m not wrong. You are Sargon. You just don’t know it yet.” There was a glint of foreknowledge in her glassy, bloodshot eyes.

“I’ll be the first to admit that I had made mistakes. We all do. Nobody is infallible, not even those in the West. The one thing that I regret most is not being there for you… when you died. It was selfish of me, I know. I made a promise and failed to keep it.” She locked her gaze on the mortal, her green eyes glimmering with hope. “But now I get a chance to redeem myself, to correct the mistakes I have made in the past. That’s why I’m now here with you. It’s Ilúvatar’s will!

“When we get back to Sussrúmnir, you’ll see that I’m speaking the truth, that it’s not the alcohol talking.” A smile came to her face. “What you don’t realize is that you, my beloved Sharru-kin, are an emissary of Eru Ilúvatar, sent to me, to help, to keep me… grounded.”

“An emissary of Ilúvatar?” he queried with raised brows. “How is it that I have no memory of that?”

“You’re not supposed to, yet. When I take you home, I will give you back the memories of Sargon.” The Adan continued to look at the Slayer with confusion. “It’s like, you’re two different people, two halves, if you will,” she tried to explain. “Bëor is the more sensitive aspect of your personality that I really didn’t let you develop in Sumer. I wanted a great warrior king, and that’s what I molded you into, a fearless warrior who never saw defeat in battle.” A wistful look came to Buffy’s face as she remembered some of the conflicts between the city-states. “Oh, how the enemy fled before you, horrified by the mighty Sumerian king, the greatest of mortal warriors.

“In this life,” she continued, taking his hand and leading him back to the bed, “you were given a chance to see the world through different eyes. You’ve never seen battle in all your days, and you won’t, at least, not until the End. When you have both sets of memories, you’ll be whole, complete, greater than you ever were. The two halves will be together again, just like us.

“That is, if you still wish to come with me. The choice is yours.”

The mortal eased back down onto the mattress, his joints popping yet again. He looked up at the Slayer, stunned by everything that she had told him. While it seemed strange to think of himself as being the reincarnation of his great-great grandfather, something in his lover’s eyes, the glint perhaps, made him believe her words. There was nowhere in Arda he’d rather be than with her, to love her, to take care of her.

“What must I do to enter your Blessed Realm, for I am weary and ready to leave Middle-earth for good?”

“Sleep, my love. Just go to sleep and surrender your life to me. That’s all it takes,” she smiled.

“That is easy enough,” Bëor chuckled, as he stretched out on his bed, folding his arms across his chest.

“And what of the Cross of Brolach?” asked the Slayer, leaning over her beloved, stroking his shoulder length grey hair. “Who now holds the symbol of your House?”

“I had summoned Baran, my eldest son, from Estolad. He now possesses the sacred symbol of our House.”

“Good,” said a beaming Buffy. “Close your eyes, my love. Sleep. Sleep,” she repeated in a low, soothing voice. “Sleep, my love.”

Bëor felt himself drifting away, his lover’s voice becoming fainter and fainter. He then felt her lips press against his, releasing his fey from its hröa.

The Adan found it strange to look upon his lifeless body, although his phantom form smiled, seeing the look of utter contentment on his now vacant hröa. He cast one last glance around the chamber and said, “Farewell Nargothrond, my home for the past forty-four years. May you endure for many years to come!”

“Into the circle, my darling,” said the Slayer, rising to her feet. She followed Bëor’s spirit into the charcoal-drawn ring, picking up the small roll of parchment that contained the spell. Giggling, she wrapped her arms around the ghostly form of her lover. The Adan joined Buffy in her mirth, the sound of their joyful laughter resonating within the room. A split second later, they were gone, leaving only a heavy scent of roses in their wake.

Silence filled Bëor’s bedchamber for a few minutes before a golden-haired elf peeked over the back of the couch in the sitting area. It was Finrod. He lifted his head, sniffing the fragrant air, a look of shock on his fair face. His mouth hung open as he fixed his teary eyes on the motionless body of Bëor, his vassal and friend.

Rising from his hiding spot, the Noldo felt horrible that he had overheard the lovers’ conversation. He had fallen asleep there hours before, awakening when he heard the private conversation between his two friends. Finrod had no idea that the Vailë and Adan had been having an affair, but he was more troubled learning about Buffy’s secrets. The Elf Lord did not know about Buffy’s relationship with Morgoth, nor did he know that she had born him the child, Illyria.

The Noldo sat beside the lifeless body of Bëor, saddened that he was gone. He wept, not only for the loss of his friend, but for the knowledge that he had discovered about the Slayer. He feared that she was still under the bewitchment of Morgoth, and that she was the one revealing the Noldorin defenses to the Dark Lord. Thus, he was torn by his friendship with the Valië and the loyalty of his kindred…



Only one moment had passed when Buffy and her ghostly lover arrived in her Hall of Judgment in her holy dwelling. Gathered in the chamber were numerous Valkyries, stunned by the unexpected arrival of their Mistress and the mortal soul that had accompanied her.

Before the women could bombard her with questions, the Slayer spoke privately with them as she ushered them to the main doors to the chamber. Once the room had emptied, the two mammoth doors shut on their own accord. A series of loud clicking sounds echoed in the enormous Hall, as Buffy activated the locks on all the doors. She crossed the room, her eyes fixed on Bëor’s phantom form. He was looking around the room with wonderment. She smiled, pleased by his reaction.

“This is my home away from home,” she said, kicking off her sandals before walking up the white marbled steps of the dais. “And now it shall be your home.” The Slayer picked up her crown and scepter that lay on the blue cushioned seat of her canopied throne, carefully placing them on one of the two tables on either side of her chair. She pulled off her cloak and draped it over one of the arms. She smoothed the creases in her long navy blue gown before sitting on her lapis lazuli seat.

“You’ll love it here,” she continued, reaching for her pipe and a small pouch on the other table. “You’ll never die and you can be any age you want… ” She looked down at the mortal, and excitedly added, “We also have ice cream, something all newcomers must try. It’s absolutely delicious. This wouldn’t be a true heavenly realm without that frozen treat,” she laughed, packing her bowl with hul-gil.

Buffy picked up a sliver of wood and walked down the steps, pipe in hand. She stuck the wood into the burning flames of one of the vats at the bottom of the dais, lighting her pipe.

“Why are you smoking that? You are not suffering from melancholy,” said the spirit of her lover with concern.

“It’s been a rather emotional day,” she answered, trying to keep the smoke in her lungs.

“You’re addicted to that stuff,” he said sadly.

“No I’m not,” she protested. “I can quit any time.” She inhaled deeply once again.

Bëor’s phantom form replied, “Then quit. Quit right now.”

The Slayer ignored his comments. She turned, and slowly climbed the steps leading to her throne, hitting the pipe feverishly. By the time she reached the top, she felt the effects of the drug. She felt mellow. Placing the pipe on a small silver tray, she licked the resin from her lips, before facing her lover.

“Normally, I have those that appear before me, see their life’s deeds before I re-embody them, but I don’t need to do that with you,” she said with a smile, slowing coming back down the steps. “These vats,” she gestured towards the silver containers sitting atop marble pedestals located on either side of the bottommost step, “contain the essence of Ilúvatar - the Imperishable Flame. It’s the secret ingredient I use in the art of creation,” she chuckled.

Bëor stared at the Light, his ghostly eyes wide with amazement. “The Imperishable Flame,” he uttered, his voice full of awe.

Buffy reached into the fire in the vat to her left, the flames licking at her flesh, filling her with such joy and love. She scooped out a ball of fire, holding it in the palm of her hand. “This will make your flesh anew,” revealed the Fëantári of Folkvang.

Bëor looked at the Slayer with a mixture of apprehensiveness and longing. He was eager to regain his youthful form, but still found it strange that he was the reincarnation of his great-great grandfather. He didn’t know what to expect, who he’d become, once he was re-embodied.

“The time has come for you to become the man that you’re destined to be. It’s time to put both halves together, to make you whole.”

As soon as the Slayer said those words, the flaming ball of Light flew out of her hand, striking the mortal, filling him with such bliss, the like he had never experienced. His fey shone with a brilliant white light, illuminating the entire chamber. The memories of Sargon combined with the memories of Bëor, merging as one.

Buffy’s heart was racing with excitement. She was anxious for her reunion with Sargon. She had never thought that she’d see him again, in the flesh.

When the Light had diminished, her newly embodied lover stood naked before her, wearing the form of Bëor. His grey eyes sparkled with the Light, as he examined his youthful and manly physique. He resembled himself at thirty-three, the age that the Slayer chose to embody him.

“You gave me my smaller form,” remarked her lover with a smile.

“Well, you know, Bëor’s body compliments mine better. Sargon was nearly a giant,” she smiled. “You never heard the jokes said about us back in Sumer as none dared provoke your wrath.”

“I thank you, o’ beloved Inanna,” said her lover, dropping to one knee, taking her hand in his. “My greatest dream has come true,” he turned his gaze to her, his eyes still sparkling with the Light. “I have you.”

“Rise, my beloved Sargon.” She pulled him to his feet and jumped in his arms as she had many times before.

“We’re together at long last,” Sargon cheerfully said, spinning her around, her legs tightening around his waist.

“Okay, dizzy now,” she said, tapping his broad shoulder.

Laughing, he stopped. Buffy slid down his body until she felt the cool marble floor beneath her feet. Sargon kept his arms wrapped around her, savoring the moment. “I have waited so long for this,” he whispered. “Bleak are the Halls of Mandos when compared to the splendor of Sussrúmnir.”

“What can I say? I like to surround myself with beauty unlike my dear old brother,” she laughed.

“And you are much more attractive than Námo!”

“I should hope so,” she chortled, giving her lover a quick peck. “Come.” Buffy grabbed his hand and led him up the steps of the dais. “I’ve never allowed anyone to sit on my throne before, but you, my darling Sharru-kin, are worthy of that honor. You shall be the Prince of Folkvang, and Consort of the Queen.”

“I will gladly accept any titles you wish to bestow upon me,” replied Sargon, looking up at the copper ceiling above them.

“Well, Brolach has the title of Lord of Men, since he was the first of my warriors to perish.” She playfully pushed the mortal down on her mystical canopied chair. Crawling onto his lap, she continued, “And I can’t take that away from him even though you were greater than he in battle.”

“I wouldn’t dare take that honor away from my forebear.” His arms hung loosely around the Slayer, as the glowing lamps within the chamber waned. The only light came from the blue and white flames in the vats below. “A little bit of magic, eh?”

Buffy whispered in the Adan’s ear. He let out a hearty laugh. “I see some things haven’t changed! You are as naughty as ever!”

“Isn’t that what you love about me?” she asked coyly, kissing his neck.

“One of the things,” he replied, grabbing hold of her gown and pulling it over her head. He tossed the garment to the side. “There is much more to you than fleshly pleasures,” Sargon said softly, drinking in her beauty, his hands exploring her smooth bronze skin.

The Slayer pressed her mouth against his, kissing her lover hungrily. Her eagerness to consummate their relationship once again took priority over everything else…

The instant they had reached their climax, horrifying images flashed in the Adan’s mind, terrifying him.

He witnessed the eruption of Thangorodrim, shooting fiery magma and ash miles into the darkened sky, before it fell back to the earth, rolling across the lands like a river of death, destroying everything in its path. Lava incinerated the green pastures of Ard-galen, bodies of both Elf and Man burnt instantly into oblivion. Yrch, hundreds of thousands of them, were marching in unison to beating drums, following behind legions of fiery Balrogs and a hideous dragon that spewed fire, its tail beating against a great gate. The demonic creatures tore cities asunder, taking captives and goods as the spoils of their efforts. The Adan saw much death and destruction.

Then he heard it, a sound of cackling laughter that literally sent shivers down his spine.

“Kill them all!” he heard a wicked voice say. “If I can’t have her, then no one will! Kill all those that she loves! It is time for Inanna to experience the pain and loneliness I feel. Leave none alive, especially those from the House of Fëanor!”

The visions stopped as suddenly as they had started. Sargon realized that he had beheld the horrors facing his lover. It frightened him. He was frightened for Buffy knowing that Morgoth would go to any lengths to see her suffer.

He opened his eyes, which were wide from fear. The Slayer wasn’t ready, she wasn’t ready to face what was coming. A breathless Sargon watched as his lover slid the navy blue dress over her head. She then reached for her pipe. The Adan stopped her, grabbing hold of her wrist. “No,” he said gently, yet firmly.

“What?” she asked, slightly taken aback.

“No more. That herb is dulling your mind. You will need your wits about you in coming days, my love.” He gave her a small smile, his body finally relaxing. “When you feel the urge for some hul-gil, turn to me as an alternative. I can give you bliss as well,” he said pulling her back onto his lap.

“You gonna be my new drug,” she giggled.

“I’m the only intoxicating substance you need.” He took the pipe, and with one hand, he snapped it in two. “This is what will happen to you if you keep indulging in this stuff.” Sargon held the broken pieces on his palm. “Enough is enough.”

“But… but I need it,” whimpered the Slayer.

“Do you love me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then no more. That is all I ask of you.” He took the pieces along with the pouch of hul-gil and tossed them into one of the vats at the bottom of the dais. He wrapped his arms around Buffy and gave her a kiss. “I know that you turned to that after I had died, to ease the aching in your heart.” Sargon smiled. “But as you can see, I’m back, in the flesh, and you have no need to turn to that herb any more.” The Adan lifted her chin, so that their eyes met. “Promise me you’ll stay away from the hul-gil.”

“I promise,” she answered dismally.

“Do not be sad!” Sargon said to the frowning Slayer. “I am here to help you, and I intend to do just that. Smile for me. Come on, smile,” he prodded playfully.

Buffy smiled. “Fine. You win.” She kissed him. “Now, I want to give you the grand tour and introduce you to your forefathers,” she announced, rising to her feet.

“Like this?” he queried, motioning to his naked body.

“And have every woman in Folkvang drooling over you? NO WAY!” she laughed. The sound of the unlocking doors echoed within the chamber. “Núrë,” shouted Buffy. “Sargon needs some clothing.”

One of the main doors opened, as the cupbearer came in carrying an armload of folded clothes and a pair of sandals. The Valkyrie chieftains followed closely behind. Sargon quickly grabbed the Slayer’s cloak, hiding his privates.

As the Adan stepped behind the canopied throne and dressed, Buffy asked Feawë about Maglor’s whereabouts.

“He is sailing on Ailin with Olofin, my Lady,” answered the Valkyrie chieftain.

“Good. Let me know when they get back. Pronto.”

The woman nodded obediently.

“Send word to Brolach that Sargon the Great has arrived, and that we will be visiting his halls sometime today.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

Minutes later, Sargon joined Buffy. She took him by the hand and left the chamber, her maidens remaining behind. “There’s so much I want to show you. First,” she began, leading him towards the stairway, “I want to show you the library. I’ve kept all the records from Sumer and Akkad, and I’ve recorded all the births and deaths of those from your bloodline, among others.” She glanced up at her lover as they climbed the steps. “I’ve gotta say, my collection is quite impressive. My people still dwelling in the East record everything.

“I’ve learned that there are still mortals that worship me in Mesopotamia, that they have not forsaken me even though they chose to remain in those parts. Marduk had tried time and time again to defame me, to oust me from my rightful place, but to no avail,” the Slayer chuckled. “That asshole hated what I represented, but now I hear he’s breeding with multiple women. He’s kept several of my laws in place to placate the populace and my temples still stand in honor of me.”

“You have won over the hearts of my people long ago, Inanna,” answered Sargon. “You delivered them from great evil. You will forever be revered by them.”

“Is it wrong for me to say that I’m happy about that?”

“No, although it is important that you do not lose yourself as you did before. The day will come when you will return to the East, and Amarutu Marduk will rue the day. You may have left the East in shame, but you will return with a vengeance. I deem that the Renegade Vala is preparing for that day.”

“How do you know that? I mean, about my leaving in shame,” asked the Slayer warily.

Sargon laughed. “I’m a new man, Inanna. I have greater insight and wisdom than ever before. I have seen many things that you yourself do not yet know about.”

“Color me surprised,” she mumbled, throwing open one of the doors to the main library. “Sussrúmnir houses the largest library in all of Arda,” Buffy proudly announced to her lover. “It’s even greater than any in Valinor, because here, we constantly add to our collection.”

“It is impressive,” said the awe-stricken Adan, his eyes scanning the colossal two-story chamber.

Along three walls, ebony shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, reaching twenty feet in height, all crammed with books in various colored bindings. Rows of smaller shelves, about ten feet tall, ran across the length of the chamber, containing even more tomes. On either side of the room was a spiral staircase that led to the second floor gallery, which housed even more books. Directly in front of them, was a wall of glass paned doors that bathed the room in natural light. The doors opened to a covered porch, on which many chairs and small tables sat.

“There must be hundreds of thousands, if not millions of volumes in here,” commented Sargon, as he ran his fingers across the bindings on one of the stacks.

“Not millions,” the Slayer chuckled. “At least, not yet. This room contains the complete histories of Man since they awoke in Hildórien. Every single mortal soul that has passed through my doors has contributed to my collection, no matter how great or insignificant they were in their previous life. Every soul matters, and has his or her role to play in the big scheme of things.”

“Are my writings housed in here as well?” asked a curious Sargon.

“Not here. Your works are kept with my people’s writings. Follow me,” she said, crossing the room to another door. “This is what I call the Genealogy Room,” revealed the Slayer upon entering a smaller chamber that could only be accessed via the library. Several Maia scribes sat at long tables, busily transferring data from the census’ taken in the East into the family trees of the noble bloodlines. “I haven’t stopped recording the births and deaths of the important bloodlines in Mesopotamia. The family trees are used for quick references. We have more detailed information on individuals, their accomplishments, allies, foes, lovers, what have you.”

She briskly walked across the chamber, to a tall bookshelf, giving no heed to those that labored over the rolls of parchment. Triggering the release with her foot, the stack slowly swung open, revealing a hidden door.

“Why are you so concerned with the bloodlines of Man?” asked a perplexed Sargon, glancing over his shoulder at the scribes.

“I don’t know,” she answered with a shrug. “I just have this innate desire to record everything, and it’s not just the bloodlines of Man. If it walks and talks, I’ve got the information on it stored somewhere in these rooms. It doesn’t matter if they’re people or demons, good or evil, Dwarf or Elf. I want all the information available at my fingertips.”

She turned the dial of the combination lock set within the iron door until it made a loud clicking sound. She pulled down on the handle, swinging the door open. They entered yet another room that housed more books, scrolls, and clay tablets.

“I guess I know that history will be altered. Hell, I’ve done it myself,” she admitted with a snicker. “But I want to have the true stories recorded, the facts of what really happened in the past, not a bunch of crap falsified to stroke someone’s ego… like mine!” she added with a laugh.

“Are you telling me that you, the great Inanna Ishtar, have altered documents to show yourself in a better light?” queried Sargon, arching his brow.

“You bet your ass I have!” she said with a huge grin. “But, I do have the facts recorded, but not just anyone can see them.” She paused for a moment, her eyes scanning her ‘private’ library. “This contains the true histories, the no holds barred version of events, some of it quite explicit in content.”

Sargon looked around the room, which looked somewhat similar to the main library although much smaller in size. Only one stairway led to the second floor gallery, which mostly contained crates packed with clay tablets in straw. The books were arranged by color: green, blue, white, red, black, orange, yellow, purple, etc. The bookcases went from floor to ceiling, but not all the shelves were full. Some were still bare. Several books and rolls of parchment lay open on several tables in the center of the room.

“These are the diaries and journals of my people: the Maiar, elves, and my mortal priestess’. They contain everything that has happened in the East regarding any event or situation that ever took place.” She pointed to the blue and red books. “Those are my own journals. They contain every thought I ever had, just about. They chronicle my rise to my fall into madness, and I mean that in a literal sense.

“All my diaries are arranged in chronological order. The blue books reveal everything that has happened to me since I first arrived in Beleriand. They’re numbered, you see.” She pulled one off the shelf. “This is number twenty-six, which refers to the twenty-sixth year after I had stumbled into this world. The years don’t correspond with the Eldar calendars since I arrived before they did. In Doriath, time wasn’t really calculated. It wasn’t until the Noldor reached these shores that the current system came into play.”

“How long were you in Middle-earth before the Noldor arrived?”

“Well, Fingolfin was the one who really pushed for the calendars, not Fëanor, so… ” Buffy thought for a moment. “I think I came here ten years before him and his people. I’m nearly certain, but I’d have to verify that. And quite honestly, there’s so much you still have to see, that I don’t want to waste time verifying something I consider trivial.” Buffy slid the book back into its vacant spot on the shelf. “Aside from my Valkyrie chieftains, no one else has access to this room. If you want, I’ll grant you access. Nothing passes the time like reading someone’s most personal thoughts,” she chuckled. “Come on. We’ve got more to see.”

Sargon was delighted to see that his beloved had kept all the things that he had commissioned others to make for her long ago. Finally seeing the completed bejeweled portrait of Buffy brought tears to his eyes. He had died before it had been completed. He was pleased that she kept those items in her inner sanctum, for it showed how dear he was to her. And that meant a lot to the Adan.

They concluded their tour on the sun porch where his sarcophagus had been placed. It overlooked one of the many gardens of Sussrúmnir, and the chamber itself was brimming with various plants and flowers that seemed to grow out of the stone floor itself. Roses, in various colors (some the Adan had never seen) wrapped around the pedestal on which his casket rested. The scent was divine.

Sargon’s eyes welled with tears as he stood, with his lover, beside the lapis lazuli box. Even though he had been granted life again, knowing that his former self rested within the coffin brought to mind the pain he had felt at his passing. He read the words etched into the top:

“Herein lies Etana, Sharru-kin, Sargon the Great
Beloved of Inanna Ishtar
King of Sumer and Akkad”

Engraved below that, was one of Sargon’s most famous quotes that his followers had found most profound and cited frequently:

“Let us write our own history in the blood of our enemies!”

He solemnly traced the script with his finger.

“I feel your sorrow,” said Buffy softly. “That was a dark time for me, for your people.”

“It seems like only yesterday when we last sat in the gardens of Eanna. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” she answered, a pang of guilt filling her heart. “I’m really sorry, Sar-”

The Adan placed his finger to her lips, stopping her mid-sentence. “Speak no more of it. What happened in the past, shall remain in the past. Do not dwell on your guilt.” Sargon caressed her cheek. “As you had said, we’ve been granted another chance, a new life.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “Nothing will ever separate us again.”

They kissed again, more passionately this time. The moment was soon lost with the unexpected arrival of Rainë, who came dashing into the chamber.

“Luinil,” said the woman. “Kanafinwë is back. He is on his way to the thirteenth floor.”

“Maglor is here!” exclaimed the Adan, surprised that the Noldo was in Buffy’s mystical realm. “Do you not go anywhere without the elf?”

“He’s my husband,” replied the Slayer. “Of course he came with me.” She turned her eyes to the Valkyrie. “Ready my carriage. It’s time for us to see Brolach.”

“As you wish, my Lady,” Rainë nodded before leaving the chamber.

Knowing that it would take a few minutes for her maidens to ready their transportation, the couple exited through one of the French doors, stepping into one the many flower gardens of Sussrúmnir. Sargon’s love for nature was still as strong as it had been in his past life. In days to come, he would join Failo in the tending of the many gardens around Buffy’s Halls and temple.

The lovers walked around the mammoth structure of Sussrúmnir to the front of the palace where the horse-drawn chariot awaited. They climbed on board, Vórëa handing them each a glass of wine. Sargon snuggled close to the Slayer, draping his arm over her shoulders.

As the vehicle took off down the street paved with gold, Maglor walked out onto the thirteenth floor balcony, a glass of cordial in his hand. The Noldo sang softly under his breath, watching the setting sun in a pinkish-purple sky. As he took in the scenic beauty of Folkvang, his eyes scanned the city below him. To the east, his elvish eyes fell upon the carriage carrying both his wife and the mortal he knew as Bëor.

The elf’s heart dropped to his stomach. Narrowing his gaze, he studied the two carefully, paying close attention to their body language. As Buffy pointed towards Tingilindë, the smiling Adan whispered something in her ear, causing her to burst out laughing. The Noldo’s heart rate quickened, as he watched the two behaving in a manner that he deemed most inappropriate. He felt numb. The glass fell from his hand, shattering on the balcony floor, as the carriage turned the corner, disappearing from sight…