Full Circle

As soon as Buffy had landed, she realized her folly of asking Luthor to accompany her into the hordes of evildoers. Once the old man had hit the ground, he was blindsided by one of the fiery whips of the Balrogs, sending him flying into the hands of another waiting creature of Morgoth. Before the burning beast could squeeze the life from her father figure, Olofin and the lions swooped down from the sky, her son sending blast after blast from the Carnimír at the Balrog that held Luthor in its clutches. Thankfully, the mystically enhanced scepter was powerful enough to extinguish the fires of the beast, allowing Luthor to escape, for the time being.

The Slayer’s adrenaline kicked into overdrive, as she attempted to cleave her way towards the old man. All that pent-up sexual frustration transferred to her muscles, making her stronger and tougher in battle than ever before. She twirled around, almost like some deranged ballerina, swinging her blade with full force at the Balrogs nearest to her. The beasts’ wailed in pain as her sword hewed off the legs of those that had surrounded her, causing them to crash to the ground, unable to stand any longer. She then leapt atop their still burning bodies, oblivious to the pain of the flames licking at her exposed flesh, driving her sword into the hearts of each of her fallen prey.

Many of the Balrogs drew back, fearing the wrath of the Vala Queen. That only cleared the way for her to reach Luthor, who was dueling with yet another fiery foe.

“Luthor! Watch out!” she yelled, running towards the Maia as fast as she could.

The Balrog he was fighting distracted Luthor by snapping his whip at the old man. As Luthor blocked the blow with his weapon, the creature rammed its sword into the old man’s stomach, piercing not only his armor, but his flesh as well.

“NO!” screamed the Slayer, tears filling her eyes. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The Balrogs shouted gleefully as the old man dropped his weapon, grabbing hold of the blade that protruded from his body. “NO!” cried out Buffy again, still running towards her wounded friend.

Luthor turned his gaze to the Slayer, his mouth agape, his face contorted in pain. “Bella,” he mouthed, unable to get the words out, as he teetered from foot to foot. The old man then fell backwards, landing with a thud on the withered grass.

The enemy roared with delight at the sight of the fallen Maia. They formed a circle around Luthor, but allowed a pathway for the Slayer to reach him. They knew that they had her trapped.

Buffy threw her weapon down when she reached her friend’s side. Tears now spilled from her eyes like the torrents of lava from Thangorodrim, as she dropped to her knees. She pulled off the Maia’s helm, gently cradling his head on her lap.

“Oh God, Luthor,” she sobbed, caressing his grey hair with a gloved hand. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The old man locked his blue eyes on her, his labored breathing making her cry even harder. “This is it, Bella. This is the end,” he sputtered.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I won’t let you die.” She reached for the blade protruding from his belly.

“No. Leave it,” he ordered in a faint and raspy voice, stopping her with his own hands.

The Balrogs started mocking the scene before them, taunting the Slayer and her grief.

“Death is upon you, Luthor,” mimicked one of the beasts maliciously.

“The traitorous scum finally got what he deserved,” bellowed another.

Buffy placed her tear-streaked cheek against the old man’s. “Don’t leave me, Luthor. I love you. I need you,” she wept.

The old man made a series of gurgling sounds, causing the Slayer to lift her head toward the heavens, screaming, “Help me, Eru! Please, Lord, help me!”

The Balrogs’ joyous laughter increased to frenzied heights upon hearing Buffy’s pleas. They were so preoccupied by their celebration that they did not immediately notice the sudden gust of wind that came from the north. While they rejoiced in the imminent death of the ‘traitorous’ Maia, the Eagles seemingly came out of nowhere, swooping down from the pitch-black sky, lashing at the Balrogs’ heads with their razor-sharp talons.

Manwë had answered the Slayer’s prayer.

As the Eagles distracted the Balrogs, Thorondor lunged down into the small clearing, grabbing the wounded Maia with one of his clawed feet before ascending back into the darkened sky.

“Go! Go! Go!” yelled the Slayer, rising to her feet, no longer concerned about her own well-being, only that of her father figure.

The momentary diversion drew Glaurung from the Gate. Stretching his neck upwards, he sent out a jet of fire at one of the Eagles, engulfing one of the servants of Manwë in flames. The mournful cry from the Eagle shattered the night, as the Balrogs snapped their whips at the holy bird. The fiery cords wrapped around the Eagle, preventing it from escaping with its brethren. The Balrogs then pulled on their whips, bringing their prey down into the throng of foes. While the enemy subdued Buffy, the yrch viciously smote the Eagle, killing it.

Olofin was incensed by what he witnessed. Steering away from the flock of Eagles, he had the lions take him back towards the Balrogs that held his mother captive. As the kitties made their descent, he shot at the enemy with the Carnimír.

“NO!” the Slayer shouted, struggling in vein within the grasp of Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs. “FLEE, OLOFIN! FLEE!” Seeing the half-elf, acting as irrationally as she had, terrified her. She knew that Morgoth would be delighted if one of his minions managed to kill her beloved son. “GO WITH THE EAGLES! FOR THE LOVE OF ERU, GO!”

Even though Buffy was tearfully screaming at the top of her lungs, her voice was lost amidst the loud, repetitive beats of the yrch drumming on their instruments.

Doom, doom, doom sounded across the plains.

An enclave of fifty Balrogs cracked their whips at the approaching chariot, sending Kit in one direction, Kat in the other. The vehicle turned on its side, nearly spilling Olofin. The half-elf clung to an interior strap with one hand while wielding the Carnimír with the other.

The Slayer could barely breathe as she saw her son hanging from the chariot for dear life.

One of the fiery thongs of the whip had caught the straps between the vehicle and the cats. The Balrog that held the other end began to pull with all his might, bringing the chariot, the half-elf and lions even lower. The cart corrected its position as Olofin once again started blasting away at the ever nearer Balrogs.

Buffy thought she was going to be sick. She continued to struggle but could not break free.

The elves then sent a volley of boulders from over the wall and from the hills on either side of the Gate, aiming at the Balrogs that were attacking Olofin. One of the large chunks of stone hit the beast whose whip was entwined with the straps of the chariot, forcing the beast to let go of his weapon. No longer being forced downwards, the lions began to ascend into the star-speckled sky, taking with them the flaming whip.

Olofin knew that he had no other choice but to get out of there as quickly as possible. With a heavy heart, he instructed the lions to return to the Gap. As they began their retreat, the yrch sent a hail of arrows at the vehicle. Kit let out a tremendous roar having been stricken by an arrow in his backside. Kat swerved, colliding with her mate, sending Kit off course. As a second shower of arrows came their way, Kit protected Kat by using his own body as a shield. Many arrows pierced the lion’s flesh. He let out a woeful roar as the chariot descended rather quickly on the other side of the wall.

The Slayer went limp in Gothmog’s grasp. Silent tears streamed down her face, as things seemed to have gone from bad to worse in only a matter of seconds. If only she had remained in Folkvang, none of this would have happened. The guilt of Luthor and Kit now weighed heavily on her shoulders. She now understood that Morgoth would take away everyone she loved and cared about, one by one.

“On your feet, Inanna,” demanded Gothmog.

Buffy was non-responsive. She was overwhelmed with sorrow.

Gothmog nodded to one of his flaming comrades, who were now closing in on the Slayer. A Balrog cracked his whip, the fiery thongs lashing her across the face. The sudden, painful, burning sensation not only brought her to her senses, but also to her knees. She shrieked in agony, which only brought the enemy greater enjoyment.

The Lord of Balrogs pushed her to the ground. “Remove her armor and weapons,” he ordered.

Two yrch then came forward, carrying out their Captain’s directives. Once her protective gear was removed, she was forced to her feet before the looming form of Gothmog. Her right eye had already swollen shut from the lashing she had taken.

“You have defied my Lord. Repeatedly,” the Lord of Balrogs sneered. “And for that you shall be punished.” With a nod of his head, the same Balrog whipped the Slayer again. Three horrific flays she took on the back. Even though the pain was excruciating, she did not scream. She didn’t want to give the enemy the satisfaction.

The Slayer’s body trembled, from both the pain and the fatigue that was already setting in. The two yrch held either arm as she stood before Gothmog. From behind, she felt what could only be described as a blast of hot steam, which engulfed her in a cloud of foulness. Normally, such a gust would have blown Buffy’s hair wildly around her face, but the fires of the Balrogs had literally burned all her hair that was exposed below the lip of her helm.

The yrch spun her around. As the vapors dissipated, she now stood face to face with the menacing form of Glaurung. Buffy wasn’t altogether sure what kind of magicks that the Worm possessed, but one thing she knew for sure, everything seemed to come to a standstill when she locked her one opened eye with those of the monstrous creature. She no longer heard the Balrogs celebrating or the yrch beating on their drums.

The Dragon wove his spell of enchantment on the Slayer, forcing her to remain glued to the spot, unable to avert her gaze. By instinct, or perhaps it was the dragon-spell itself, she dropped to one knee, out of respect to the mighty Worm.

“I am spent, Lord,” she said dejectedly, her bottom lip quivering. “Do what you will. I no longer care.”

“I see there’s trouble in paradise,” said the Great Worm, revealing his long, sharp, yellowish fangs.

Her one eye widened when she heard the voice of Glaurung, for it sounded similar to that of Morgoth.

“I must say that your courage is commendable, albeit foolish. To leap into the heart of my forces thinking that, in your weakened state you could make a dent in my armies is laughable. You cannot defeat the Lord of Arda, Inanna.” The Dragon moved even closer, the stench of his breath was ghastly, smelling like a combination of decaying feces, vomit and death, rolled into one. He narrowed his huge, black, soulless eyes and asked, “Why is it that Manwë’s Eagles leave you behind? Could it be that those in the West know that your fate lies with Melkor, that you and he are meant to be together?”

“Maybe,” answered the Slayer, now rising to her feet. “The Valar have no love for me.”

“Yet they sent the Eagles to rescue Luthor. Why is that?”

Buffy did not answer, yet she continued to stare into the eyes of Glaurung, unable to shift her gaze from the spawn of Morgoth, no matter how hard she tried. For one of his greatest skills was the ability to perceive another’s thoughts. Grief-stricken, the Slayer desperately tried to control her thoughts, to prevent the Dragon from seeing them, but in her weakened state, she found herself unable to do so.

“Ah, I see that the Maia has betrayed not only you, but Melkor as well,” said Glaurung after searching the Slayer’s eye for several minutes. “He has won the favor of those in the West, whilst you’ve been left to fend for yourself. They continue to view you as an interloper in this world, a Valië whom they despise… And that is good,” he laughed.

The sound of his laughter caused the hair on the nape of her neck to stand on end.

The Dragon turned his eyes to the yrch, who trembled from his malevolent gaze. “Bind her!” He then shifted his eyes to Gothmog. “Gather your greatest warriors and escort Inanna back to Angband. It’s your head on the line if things go amiss.”

“Yes, my Lord,” answered Gothmog with a nod.

“We will meet again, I deem, Inanna.” Gothmog then laughed again. “But, firstly, I shall destroy all those whom you love in recompense for your betrayal of my Lord. You should have bid farewell to your half-wit son, for I shall devour him myself!” He chuckled, as he slithered back towards the wall.

The yrch placed fetters around Buffy’s ankles before roughly pulling her hands behind her back, binding them with manacles. Both restraints were wrought in the bowels of Angband by Morgoth himself, ensuring that no tool in Middle-earth could break his evilly enhanced bonds.

One hundred Balrogs, one hundred yrch, and a handful of Buffy’s offspring with Morgoth began the march north, as the enemy continued their assault on the wall that separated them from the peoples of the Gap. Although she was weary and emotionally drained, the Slayer remained eerily calm on the journey to Angband.

The further they traveled, the greater Buffy’s sorrow became. The once lush grasses of Lothlann had turned into a desolate wasteland in only one-day’s time. The livestock and horses that had grazed on the open range lay dead, their flesh eaten by the servants of the Dark Lord, leaving only the maggot covered skeletons littering the ash-covered grounds.

When the Slayer stumbled over the chain of her fetters some hours later, falling face-first onto the barren land, Coruon, one of her demonic offspring with Morgoth, called the marchers to a halt. He sat her up, wiping the ash from her face, carefully avoiding the welt that stretched from her forehead to her chin, which disfigured the right side of her face.

Gothmog wasn’t happy about stopping, but after Coruon pulled him aside, speaking with him in private, the Lord of Balrogs relented, allowing a ten-minute rest period.

Coruon offered Buffy some of that rejuvenating beverage that Morgoth always sent with his servants when they left Angband, especially at wartime. When the blue, scaly demon referred to her as Ishtar, she knew immediately that he was on her side, not the Dark Lord’s. He spoke quickly in a hushed voice as he smeared a thick, gooey ointment on the welt on her face.

“Melkor is wroth over the death of Illyria,” he whispered. “He holds you to blame for that and will see to it that your other children die as a result. I have sent word to our allies in the East to help protect the Oracles. Thankfully, Marduk thinks highly of them, but he’s untrustworthy. Melkor still holds sway over that Vala.

“You do, however, have an ally amongst one of his young sons. He is called Osiris in the Southlands where he dwells.” His lips curled into a smile, his red eyes widened, as he grunted, which was actually his way of chuckling. “He’s quite an admirer of yours, I must say. He’s been reading all the lore on you that he can find; traveling from city-state to city-state collecting what information he can. Osiris often consults with Anno and Mírë. Consider him a friend in times to come, Ishtar, as he will do your bidding in the East.”

“Marduk won’t be too pleased to hear that,” she whispered back with a snicker.

“Indeed.” Coruon glanced around, putting his ointment back into his satchel. “My heart tells me that you will not be setting foot in Angband any time soon. Just know this, dearest Ishtar: there are still some of us that dwell in the bowels of Hell that are most loyal to you. We hope that you remember us with kindness when dark times come our way.”

Buffy looked at him with a puzzled expression on her face. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to question her offspring any further. Gothmog was approaching.

“Get her up. It’s time to move on,” he ordered, waving the Slayer’s belt in his fiery hand.

“The belt, Gothmog. Give Inanna back her belt,” said Coruon, as he helped Buffy to her feet.

“Give her a weapon?” queried the Balrog in amazement, eyeing the demon suspiciously. “And have her slay us on our journey? I think not!”

“And how is she going to use it with her hands bound behind her back?” shot back Coruon. “Or, are you saying that Inanna is powerful enough to break free from the bonds wrought by Melkor himself?”

Gothmog narrowed his eyes, studying his comrade for a moment.

“I deem our Lord will be most ill-pleased to see that his beloved is not wearing the gift that he made especially for her. I’ll see to it that he knows you’re the one who took it from her.” He grabbed Buffy by the arm. “Let’s go, Inanna,” he continued, taking a few steps before the Lord of Balrogs stopped him.

“Speak not to Melkor that I took it from her or I’ll splatter your insides all over the dungeons,” commanded Gothmog as he threw the belt to Coruon, the charms tinkling as it flew through the air.

“Not a word,” answered Buffy’s offspring, who quickly fastened the belt around her waist.

They then proceeded on with their trek. Walking in utter darkness made it difficult for the Slayer to discern night from day. Yet, after hearing what she considered prophetic words from Coruon, she knew that the tide would soon turn in her favor. Sure enough, not twenty minutes into their march, Buffy suddenly vanished from her captives, only to reappear in the dungeons of Sussrúmnir a moment later.

“Holy Eru!” shouted Sargon with dismay. He jumped off the table where he was sitting and rushed to Buffy’s side. “What have they done to you?”

“Oh, Maranwë,” said Failo in shock. He went to place his goblet on the table and missed. The cup and its contents, which appeared to be red wine, spilled to the stone floor.

As the men examined her restraints, she looked gratefully at her lover. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry… and thank you. Thank you for saving me.”

“Now maybe you have a better understanding as to why I didn’t want you to return to Beleriand, Luinil. Dark days lie ahead of you.”

“I’ve still gotta go back,” she replied, her tone full of urgency. “Help me get out of these.”

The men tried to break the bonds with what implements Failo had in his dungeons, but nothing was suitable or strong enough to break Morgoth’s mystical iron.

“Let me run to the forges and get one of the metal smiths,” suggested an anxious Failo. “Surely, they have the necessary tools to break through Melkor’s handy work.” He turned his gaze to the Adan. “Sargon, take Maranwë to Istahiro. He should be able to mend her wound.”

“Wounds,” corrected the Slayer. “My back is killing me.”

The chief torturer of Folkvang hurriedly left the chamber.

“It looks like you’ve been whipped,” remarked Sargon, looking carefully at her face in the dim light.

“Yeah, well, I’m doing a hell of a lot better than Luthor… and Kit. They’ve both been injured badly.”

A solemn look came to her lover’s face. “Let me get you up to the healers.” He went to pick her up, but Buffy winced when she felt his arms touch her back. The Adan then carefully threw her over his shoulder and ran all the way up to the seventh floor.

For the first time, her Valkyrie chieftains were all gone. They were on the battlefield, busily collecting the mortal souls that were falling in battle.

The healers were forced to cut off the Slayer’s garments since Failo had not yet returned with the metallurgist. While they waited, she told her woeful tale to the healers and Sargon.

As Istahiro tended to her wounds, Failo and the metal smith arrived, snapping the iron bonds of Melkor with the cutters they had brought with them. As soon as she was freed and healed, in need of clothing, she made her way with Sargon to her rooms on the thirteenth floor.

To her surprise, garments had already been laid out for her, complete with a mithril jumpsuit with a hood that could be pulled over her face, covering everything except her eyes and mouth.

“Better late then never,” said her lover when he noticed the astonished look on Buffy’s face. “I suggest that you wear this raiment under your clothing, since it’s still winter in Beleriand and the clothes I have laid out for you are rather bulky,” advised Sargon, as he helped Buffy dress. “The enemy will think that your skin has turned to iron as it had in the days of old. No weapon will be able to penetrate this.”

Buffy was so preoccupied with her thoughts, fearful of what she’d return to, that she never considered asking what punishment Failo had inflicted on the Adan. By the looks of it, he appeared well. Hell, he and her chief torturer were sitting around drinking wine when she had arrived, something one did not normally see in her dungeons. However, now was not that time. Her only concern was for the peoples in Beleriand and the war currently taking place.

When she had finished dressing, she clasped the belt around her waist. Sargon handed her the mithril gloves that went with her lightweight armor.

“Don’t bring me back to Folkvang for a few days,” she said, slipping on one of the gloves. “Well, unless you see me in grave danger or something. Otherwise, let me fight. I can’t afford to leave, even for two seconds.” She looked up at the Adan and snickered, “I guess, I really don’t need to tell you anything. You’ll do what you feel is best, regardless of what I say.”

“About that, Bella… ”

“Don’t worry about that right now,” she said, cutting him off, pulling her second glove on. “I need to go back. Send me back to my Halls at the Gap. Inside my house this time, not on top of it.”

Sargon grabbed her hand, clutching it tightly within his own. He looked at her with a long face, his eyes fraught with worry.

“I know that it is pointless for me to ask you this, but I could not live with myself if I did not. Will you forgo the war and remain here, with me? I will beg you on bended knees if that will make any difference.”

The sincerity in his grey eyes stirred Buffy to emotion. Her own eyes welled with tears, as her heart ached for her lover. It took everything she had to restrain herself from jumping into his arms, knowing that the Adan could comfort her like no other. But her marriage was extremely important to her, and she had to prove, not only to Maglor, but also to herself that she could remain faithful.

Besides, there was the war. No matter what doom awaited her; she would meet it head-on. If there were bitter consequences to suffer, then she would suffer alongside her loved ones in Middle-earth. Buffy couldn’t see it any other way.

“No one ever said it would be easy, loving a Vala,” she replied, stifling back her tears. “I must go.”

Sargon sighed heavily, grasping both of her hands, tenderly caressing them. “Then I will wait, for time is all I have.” He stepped closer, wanting to embrace her one last time before he sent her back, but, to his dismay, Buffy took a step back. That gesture brought tears to the Adan’s eyes. He nodded in defeat. “Very well,” he answered. “Be safe, my beloved Bellaseth. You will most certainly remain in my thoughts and prayers.”

The Slayer wiped the tear that escaped her eye with the sleeve of her sweater, her hands still held by Sargon.

“I love you, Sargon, but our time… it has not yet arrived,” she said, dismally shaking her head.

“Draw your weapon, Bella,” he counseled, tears now streaming down his face. Knowing what the Slayer would face upon her return broke Sargon’s heart. He reluctantly let go of her hands.

She pulled an axe charm from her belt. As always, it turned into a full size weapon.

“May Eru Ilúvatar protect you in your quest for peace.”

Buffy bit her lip, fighting back her tears. She could only nod in reply.

A split-second later, Sargon sent her back to Beleriand.

She was already in a fighting stance when she reappeared within her Halls at the Gap, the axe clutched tightly within her hands. Chaos surrounded her. Confused, she ran to the nearest window. The enemy had breeched, not only the Gate but also the fortress itself. Maglor’s Gap was overridden with the enemy who were now burning and pillaging. Those that had not escaped the onslaught were either slain or taken captive.

Although things seemed grim, the thirty minutes that Buffy had spent in Folkvang invigorated her. It not only renewed her hope but also her spirit. Unfortunately, it was short-lived.

One second she was surveying the carnage below, the next, a mammoth chunk of rock came crashing through the roof of her own house, nearly crushing her. The enemy were using the elves’ own engines to destroy the many buildings throughout the lands. She had leapt away just in time, but in her haste, stumbled over backwards on some furniture. The Slayer’s head hit the corner of Maglor’s desk, the force so great that it tore the skin open.

“Shit!” she moaned, reaching for the back of her head. She looked at her hand, which was now covered in blood. To her horror, she suddenly heard the harsh sounding voices of yrch coming down the corridor.

She turned toward the sound. A cloud of dust still lingered in the air. Rubble littered the floor of her bedchamber. She had no time to dress her wound. She cursed again, wishing that she had pulled the hood over her head before her departure from her Blessed Realm. Not wanting to make the same mistake again, she pulled the hood down, just as a group of goblins entered, seeking the spoils of their efforts.

“ELFLING! ELFLING!” shouted one of the hideous creatures in the Dark Tongue. “IN HERE!”

Buffy leapt to her feet in one swift motion, her anger inflamed by the mere presence of the yrch that were defiling her home. She charged them, hewing, with ease, through both the armor and flesh of her foe, for no creature, good or evil, could withstand the mystical weapons wrought by the Dark Lord himself.

“This is for Kit, you mother-fucker,” she hissed, cleaving the head from one of the goblins.

It soon became clear to the enemy that they were not dealing with some elfling. They never considered that they were fighting the Slayer, as their comrades had taken her captive two days before. What should have been an easy kill for the yrch, turned out to be nothing of the sort. Their brethren were falling fast from the wrathful blows of the mysterious ‘Warrior-elf’.

Yet to Buffy, it seemed like the Glamhoth numbers were unceasing. No matter how many she killed, more quickly filed into the room. The stone floor had become so slick from the blood of the enemy that both she and the goblins found themselves losing their footing, sliding in the opposite direction than intended. That, along with the corpses that were now piling up on the floor caused her to stumble a time or two. If not for the mithril suit beneath her clothing, she would have lost an arm and a leg because of near mishaps.

“I will persevere,” she mumbled in an attempt to reassure herself that she could get through her ordeal.

Buffy was so consumed with battling the yrch that she gave no heed to what was going on outside her house. With the Orch Captains now alerted that a mighty warrior was still inside the Halls, they instructed their underlings to position ladders beneath every window leading to the bedroom.

As the Slayer felled her fiftieth orch, hordes of goblins were climbing the rungs in anticipation of attacking her at unawares. None dare break through the glass panes until given the signal. The Orch Captains were waiting until all their men were in position. But first, they had a special surprise in store for the lone Warrior-elf.

The orch that Buffy had just brought to his knees, wobbled, his eyes still unfocused from her blow. She brought her axe down with all her might. The goblin let out a high-pitched squeal as her weapon cut though his helm, then his head, splitting it in two. The cloven head clung to the torso by a few ligaments and tendons.

As the Slayer pried her weapon from his clavicle, she quipped, “Head’s up, boys!” before kicking one half of the cloven head with her booted foot, tearing it from the muscular cords to which it was attached, and into the face of another foe.

She mocked the yrch by behaving as badly as they had. Laughing manically, she ran her tongue along her blood-splattered lips, tasting the bitter life force of her adversary. That single gesture sent the goblins into a frenzy. They resumed their attack with renewed vigor, yet, somehow, the Slayer still managed to hold them off, not allowing any of the enemy to best her in that contest of strength and endurance.

All of a sudden, she was pelted by severed heads that were being flung through the gaping hole in the ceiling. The sight not only shocked the Slayer, but sickened her as well. Some of the faces, she recognized. Others were so grotesquely mutilated that she had no idea who they once were. She tried to pay close attention to those with long dark hair, fearing that one of them could be her husband or son.

Before Buffy could react, yrch came crashing through every window in the room, alarming her further.

“Oh, shit!” she moaned, unsure of where she should direct her attack. Prior to the goblins entrance through the windows, she was able to prevent any of the enemy from surrounding her. Now, they were quickly closing in on her from all sides. All she could do was swing her weapon at anything that moved, doing her best to avoid the blades that came at her from all directions.

Those goblins that could not reach her, began placing the severed heads on their blades, flinging them at the Slayer or mutilating them even more.

Buffy desperately tried to cleave her way toward one of the walls, so that at least she couldn’t be attacked from behind. But when she saw many yrch climbing onto her bed reaching for Nacil and the scythe, which hung in a crisscross pattern over her headboard, something inside her snapped. She regarded those weapons as the greatest treasures of her House and Maglor’s.

With a grunt, she kicked the goblin at the forefront of those near her bed. The impact sent him reeling backwards, knocking down those behind him. She then did a somersault over the fallen yrch, landing on her mattress as an orch pulled the scythe from the wall. She swung her axe with all her might. Her weapon sliced through the mid-sections of two yrch, their upper extremities spewing blood and guts all over, as the dismembered bodies fell onto her blood-soaked quilts.

A goblin then jumped on her back, the force sending her forward into a roll, and off the other side of the bed. Slightly winded, she let go of her weapon, and reached for the head of the beast still clinging around her neck, choking her. She managed to flip him over her back and onto the floor in front of her. Grabbing his head, she twisted it until she heard a loud crack. As she pushed the limb body aside, she was blindsided by a kick in the face. The force sent her flying into the nightstand, which shattered upon impact.

She slammed her foot down on the edge of the axe handle, which sent it flying in her direction. Catching the weapon, she used the handle to block a blow from another goblin, who threw his full weight behind the strike, holding her to the floor. If anything, she was grateful that her back was against the wall, preventing any from attacking her from behind.

Glancing to her right, she saw a jagged piece of the broken nightstand still standing upright. She turned her gaze back to the orch on top of her, streams of saliva hanging from his twisted and sharp teeth. Sickened by the rancidness of the goblin’s breath, she shifted her weapon to a forty-five degree angle, causing his blade to slide down her axe handle toward the waiting spiked piece of wood. She then kicked his knee out from under him. Utilizing the weight of the orch, she grabbed a handful of his hair, forcing him face first through the wooden spike.

Buffy eased her back up against the wall, bringing the axe up with her, nailing another orch in the crotch. Holding her weapon with both hands, she kicked him, sending him flying backwards, knocking down more of his kindred.

Her entire room was overflowing with goblins. Some, in their eagerness to fell her, climbed over and fought with their own kind, desperately wanting the ‘honor’ of slaying the Warrior-elf. One thing Buffy knew for sure - she had to get out of there. Quick.

Looking back up on the bed, she saw that her scythe had been taken. Another orch was now reaching for Nacil. Swinging her axe in a back and forth motion, she managed to cleave her way back on top of her bed. She cut off the hand of the goblin as he tried to pry the sword of Fëanor from its spot. As luck would have it, she was able to retrieve her betrothal gift, wielding it along with her axe.

Desperate to flee her current situation, her eyes scanned the room, looking for the best means of escape. She decided that leaving through the nearest window was her best bet. She only had to bypass the twenty or so yrch that stood in her way.

Mustering her strength, she leapt off the bed, somersaulting over several of the goblins. Their weapons struck her body, which had a jolting effect, but they were unable able to pierce her mithril suit of armor. She landed only feet from the eastern window. Using both weapons in her defense, she hacked her way to the opening. When the next goblin’s head popped into view, she jabbed it with Nacil, sending the orch plummeting to his doom.

Buffy dove out of the window as another orch on the ladder grabbed her ankle. The momentum of her leap caused her to take both the ladder and those stupid enough to still cling to the rungs with her. As she fell though the air, she kicked and twisted her foot, desperate to free herself from the goblin’s grip. The last thing she needed was to land face first on the stone patio below.

Mid-way down, she successfully hewed the hand from her captor.

Correcting her position in her freefall, the Slayer managed to land on her feet. Panting from the non-stop action, she took in her surroundings, groaning with dismay. Before her were not only a sea of fifty thousand yrch, but also two thousand Balrogs, eagerly awaiting their chance to kill the Warrior-elf.

“Fuck me,” she uttered with a whimper…