Full Circle

Surprisingly, the yrch at the forefront of the mob paused, shocked that the small ‘elf’ before them possessed the strength and skill to have killed scores of their kindred with relative ease. They were too stupid to see that the ‘elf’ was Buffy, as the mithril mask, exposing only her eyes and slightly parted lips, covered her face.

The Slayer stared down the enemy with narrowed eyes. Still breathing heavily, puffs of white emanating from her mouth as her hot breath met the icy cold air, she raised her weapons, crossing them so that they formed the symbol of her House: the Sacred Cross, which represented not only her, but Ilúvatar as well. Evidently, the yrch had no idea that she had just revealed her identity, however subtly. The gesture went over their heads.

In that moment, as she held her weapons aloft, she felt her fear melt away. A warmth encompassed her essence, both bright and brilliant. That feeling of warmth, of love immeasurable, revived the Slayer’s dwindling courage to inexplicable new heights despite the insurmountable odds she faced.

To the enemy she looked golden, like the sun breaking the darkness in the early hours of dawn, casting both fear and doubt into their evil hearts. The sight caused the yrch nearest to her to take a few steps backward, unsure of what was happening to the ‘Warrior-elf’ that stood amid their bodily ring.

As Buffy’s eyes scanned the legions before her, she knew that this next wave of the battle would be a true testament of who she was. Her strength and endurance would be pivotal to its outcome. For this was not a battle to save her husband’s lands, which were now stained with the blood of both good and evil. No, this was a battle of retribution, of vengeance. All that Maglor and his people had labored over in centuries past, lay in ruins, nearly all utterly destroyed.

The city was aglow in flames. Plumes of thick, grayish-black smoke rose into the midnight sky, lingering over the lands like a menacing shadow of doom. Ash continued to rain down upon them, almost in mockery of the snowflakes that Melkor had created ages before. The stench of death and foulness wafted across the plains as a cold breeze picked up from the northwest.

The yrch that manned the engines sent a volley of enormous stones toward the dwelling just west of where Buffy stood. The sudden sound of the multiple crashes drew her gaze. She sadly watched as yrch carted off the belongings of Luthor. It was the Maia’s own house that she watched come tumbling down.

That sight stirred her to action. She tightened her grasp on both weapons. Then, going on the offensive, she charged the Orch Captains that stood dumbstruck at the vanguard. Using all her might, she swung her weapons at anything and everything within reach. Her blows were more forceful than before. With each strike from either weapon, she was able to take out three or four yrch, sending dismembered body parts soaring through the air, much to the dismay of the enemy.

Buffy was unstoppable. Her eyes were ablaze with fury, frightening many of the yrch who made actual eye contact with her. Some, she deemed, then recognized her, for they fled before her, disappearing into the throng of goblins. Others remained, fearing their Master’s wrath more so than hers. Facing her meant that they’d have a quick death, something that most, when faced with such a situation, would welcome wholeheartedly.

When the Balrogs noticed some of the yrch retreating, they began to push their way from the rearguard to the frontline of the clash, lashing their whips at those that did not move hastily out of their way. Amongst them was none other than Gothmog.

The Slayer continued her savage attack, felling beast after beast in record numbers. She was undaunted by those able to strike her from behind, as their weapons were repelled by her mithril armor. Their blows were equivalent to a push, causing her to lurch forward when hit. Turning, she’d then smite them down before assailing the others within close proximity. Although she was drenched in orch blood and her body was perspiring heavily, she remained indefatigable in her campaign against the minions of Morgoth.

Buffy didn’t know how long she had been fighting when several of the Balrogs reached the frontline, calling for a ‘ceasefire’.

“Let us put an end to this conflict,” said the menacing form of Gothmog. “We have come to parley.”

“Fuck you!” she barked, continuing her assault on her foes.

“I know that it is you, Dagnir, hidden behind that mystical mail,” declared the Lord of Balrogs, throwing his weapons at her feet. He raised his fiery hands and said, “I wish to parley with you in earnest. I have laid down my weapons in good faith. Will you not do the same?”

“Fuck you!” she replied again, that time with much more disdain.

Gothmog scowled, watching as the Slayer continued her assault. Since she had disappeared from his clutches two days before, he could only conclude that her powers had returned, that Marduk had disobeyed Melkor’s commands, or that she had discovered the secret means of breaking the spell that had been placed on her. Despite the advantage he had in numbers, an enraged Vala, namely Maranwë Luinil, could withstand all his men, and kill them all, one by one. His Lord would be most displeased if that happened. Gothmog had to somehow convince the Slayer to stop the slaughter of his forces, and there was only one way to do that: to tug at her heartstrings.

“Do you not wish to learn the fate of your husband and son?” asked the Lord of Balrogs with a smug look on his face.

“You talk. I slay,” she responded, still annihilating those surrounding her. “I’m a master of multi-tasking!”

Gothmog frowned upon hearing that. He and his men jumped back as the Slayer neared their spot, her weapons moving like a whirlwind, cleaving anything with which they came in contact. He wasn’t ready to die, not just yet, anyway.

“Why do you continue to fight when all here is lost?” he continued, narrowing his dark eyes on her. “Your kin folk have fled to Thargelion, and it is there that you are needed, Inanna. Why waste your strength on taking out my men when the Noldor are in need of your might in those parts?” He paused for a moment before continuing. “Have you not noticed that Glaurung is not here, that he has moved on to the next son of Fëanor’s kingdom? Do you think the elves can withstand the fires of the Great Worm? They will wither before him like the once green grasses of the plains!”

Buffy felt her heart drop when she heard that, yet she continued to assail the enemy. She bit her lip knowing that Gothmog was right. Glaurung was nowhere to be seen. But how could she trust the words of a minion of Morgoth? He could be deceiving her. Then again, with the Gap overrun with the enemy, it only made sense that the armies of Angband would move on to the next Noldorin realm. Was it a waste of her energies to remain? Was it wrong to seek vengeance upon those that had decimated her home? Was she really needed in Thargelion? Her mind was racing. Gothmog had managed to make her question herself.

“There is still time, Inanna, time to save those that you love most,” continued the Lord of Balrogs, sensing that his words were hitting near their mark. “Remain here, and all the sons of Fëanor will die. Flee to the lands of Caranthir and you can save them all. Would that not redress your… problems with your Noldo husband, to rescue him and his kindred?”

“And you’d simply let me walk away from this?” she asked skeptically, still attacking the yrch.

“Indeed!” answered the Balrog Lord. He then ordered all his troops to throw down their weapons. They did so, even though the Slayer continued her relentless attack. “My men are unarmed, Inanna! Must you continue your assault? I would think that you would be above slaying an unarmed combatant!”

“Not the ones that crawl from the bowels of Hell,” she said, panting. The yrch scrambled to get out of striking distance of Buffy.

“Come now, Dagnir,” said a frustrated Gothmog. “You are wasting time. Flee to Thargelion!”

The Slayer finally stopped, her chest heaving from her strenuous workout. “How is it that, first, you capture me, wanting to take me to Angband, and now, you’re willing to let me go? It doesn’t jive, Gothmog. It doesn’t jive for one second.”

“I now see that you are too powerful to be taken by force,” he answered without missing a beat. “If Melkor desires you as much as he claims, then he should be the one to… fetch his pet.” He smiled. “I know when to admit defeat. I, Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, do not possess the strength or cunning to defeat the great Inanna Ishtar, the most benevolent Valië in all Arda… ”

“You’re so full of shit,” she said, unimpressed by the Balrog’s attempt at flattery.

Gothmog motioned to the southeast. Buffy’s eyes followed. She saw that the enemy had moved back several paces, making a pathway in the direction of Thargelion.

“You have wasted much time already, Dagnir. I suggest that you aid your kin as soon as possible or else Glaurung will further develop a hungering for the flesh of the Noldor.”

Buffy turned her gaze back to the Balrog, hesitant to believe a word that he had told her. Yet a pang in her heart told her to go, to run to Thargelion at full speed and help those that had escaped the onslaught at the Gap.

“Go!” he instructed. “My men will not molest you in flight. But you must go before it is too late.”

Reluctantly, the Slayer started down the cleared pathway. She held her weapons up threateningly, ready to strike should the enemy try to attack her at unawares, again. As she passed the demonic creatures of Morgoth, they bowed, confusing her all the more. Gradually, she increased her gait, moving faster and faster.

When Buffy was out of earshot, one of the Orch Captains questioned Gothmog about his decision to let her leave.

“Glaurung can deal with the bitch,” he answered with contempt. “Get a move on!” the Lord of Balrogs then shouted to the others. “Gather the spoils and prisoners. We have need for haste.”

Once Buffy reached the outskirts of the Gap, she slowed her pace considerably. The piercing cold winds whipped across the plains, freezing her to the core. The coat and thick wool sweater that she was wearing was now in tatters, offering very little warmth from the cutting winds. While mithril was able to prevent a weapon from penetration, it did nothing to ward off the cold. Her face hurt from the winds in particular, especially her ears. They felt like they were burning.

The Slayer wrapped her arms tightly around herself, keeping her hands wedged in her armpits. Still clutching Nacil (she was unable to retrieve its scabbard), the sword of Fëanor sticking out behind her. To a casual observer, it would have looked as if she was walking with a blade protruding from her flesh.

The frigid weather was beginning to take its toll on her after an hour or so. Her muscles, which now ached horribly, were tightening up, slowing her pace even more. The sound of wargs howling echoed amidst the darkness that enveloped the Slayer. Other than that and the winds, the only sound she heard was the chattering of her own teeth and labored breathing. Whatever super-strength she had possessed earlier had completely diminished. It was a constant struggle to take the next step, as Buffy’s feet felt like lead blocks. Her weariness caused her to stumble on the rugged terrain repeatedly.

What she needed, other than more adequate clothing, was food and drink, two things that she had not brought with her. She knew at some point that she’d meet up with the Greater Gelion, and would at least be able to quench her parched mouth, although, at that moment, she would have done nearly anything for a huge mug of hot, steamy tea.

Mists rolled over the land as she neared the ford of the river. She licked her chapped lips in anticipation of slaking her thirst. She carefully placed Nacil on the ground when she reached the water’s edge. Refusing to allow her hands to get wet, Buffy intended to lap the water up like the wild beasts that had often visited that stream in times past. It took a couple of minutes for her senses to awaken, having been numbed, as she thought, by the weather. A putrid stench emanated from the Gelion, its waters had been defiled by the enemy, making it no longer potable for man or beast.

The Slayer wept, crying out, “NO!” in a voice muffled by the fog. Nothing seemed to be going right for her. Nothing!

She had no idea how long she had remained seated by the stream before trying to muster her strength to get back on her feet. She failed in her efforts. Exhausted, both physically and emotionally, she crawled to a nearby sapling. Grabbing hold of the spindly tree, she tried to pull herself to her feet. She got halfway up before her legs completely gave out, causing her to fall to the ground in a heap. She was spent. She no longer had any strength, not even enough to stand.

Feeling defeated, Buffy grabbed Nacil and crawled into the brush, hoping that the winter vegetation would provide her some relief from the blistering wind. Curling up in the fetal position, she allowed her weariness to overcome her. She assumed that at some point, Sargon would defy her orders and extract her from her miserable surroundings, taking her to the warmth and beauty of Folkvang.

As the Slayer fell into a fitful sleep, she gave no heed to the shadows that moved within the mists. The enemy was ever vigilant, and had been stealthily following her on her journey. None were permitted to assail her, only to watch her, as Glaurung had already been informed that she was heading to Thargelion. The mighty Dragon was already on his way, determined to be the one to recapture her, and bring her back to his Master.

A short while later, Buffy was roused from her slumber by the unmistakable sound of hooves beating against the earth. Her eyes darted open as she listened intently, her head still resting on the ground. She could literally feel the ground vibrating beneath her, which she found disconcerting. She lifted her head, squinting in the direction the sound appeared to be coming from - due south. Her eyes searched the thick mists that lay over the land in hope of seeing what four-legged beast was coming her way. Judging by the sound of it, she thought that it could possibly be a horse, buck, or maybe some creature of Morgoth that she had not yet encountered.

She clambered to her feet, clutching Nacil tightly in her grasp. Although she felt weary, the uneasy feeling that something was fast approaching unnerved her, causing her heart to race. Her sudden adrenaline rush gave her a burst of strength and a feeling of warmth.

Gradually, the galloping turned into a canter, then a trot. The animal was drawing near. The Slayer widened her stance, in anticipation of a possible attack. Her muscles tensed as she waited fretfully for the creature to appear from amidst the dense clouds.

Then she heard it, a neighing sound that gladdened her heart. She relaxed a bit, wondering if one of the refugees from the Gap was returning or perhaps an ally scout from a neighboring land had come seeking news of the battles in the north.

Her jaw dropped when she saw Rocco, her horse from Folkvang, coming out of the fog. Buffy literally rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, thinking that he was a hallucination brought on by lack of food and drink. But when the beast approached her, nuzzling her neck, the warm air streaming from his nostrils on her cold flesh, she knew he was no mere figment of her imagination. It was a surreal moment, and one that renewed her hope.

She patted the horse’s neck, whispering, “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Rocco neighed again, moving his head frantically from side to side. He appeared agitated.

Before Buffy could say another word, the horse moved behind her. She then felt his head between her legs. She gasped in surprise as Rocco moved forward, raising his head, lifting her off her feet, so that she slid down the length of his muscular neck and onto his back.

He neighed once again, which she instinctively knew was his way of telling her to hold on. Still clutching Nacil in one hand, Buffy grabbed a handful of his black mane with the other. As soon as she had a hold, Rocco took off, heading west instead of southeast.

“No, no,” she said, her tone full of distress. “Káno and his people are in Thargelion, Rocco. We need to go to Thargelion.”

The horse shook his head, and continued to gallop across the plains at full speed.

It was then that Buffy realized that Gothmog had duped her. She didn’t know how she knew - whether it was her gut or Rocco had somehow psychically communicated that to her. She felt like an imbecile, having fallen for the Balrog’s ruse, hook, line and sinker. She should have had enough sense to know that Maglor would flee to Himring, not Thargelion. She only hoped that Gothmog’s ploy hadn’t cost more elves and mortals their lives. That realization angered her even more.

When she and Rocco reached the Little Gelion, some fifty miles from where they had started, they encountered a band of yrch waiting by the banks of the river.

“Turn south! Turn south!” she ordered half-frantic. She feared the enemy would hurt her steed.

Rocco did not heed his Mistress’ words. Instead, he charged the enemy at full speed.

“Oh, shit,” she uttered, watching as the yrch armed their bows. A hail of arrows came at them from all directions. Buffy knew there was no way she could block every single flying projectile. Rocco was about to get nailed.

Much to her surprise, and the goblins’ as well, the arrows bounced off the hide of her steed. The Slayer laughed when she saw that.

“There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said with a chuckle.

She then lifted Nacil, preparing to cleave those yrch that were within striking distance. While she swung her blade at the enemy, Rocco continued his sprint, trampling those goblins that stood in his way. Hearing the piercing shrieks of those that were crushed beneath the pounding hooves of Rocco invigorated the Slayer. Things didn’t seem as bleak as before.

As soon as they crossed the river, Rocco galloped north-northwest, traveling away from the bend of the watercourse. They had seen many scattered enemy bands on the plains but Rocco and his passenger were moving so fast that their foes never got the chance to waylay them on their journey.

It was with great joy that Buffy first caught sight of the hills surrounding Himring. When they neared the roadway leading to Maedhros’ fortress, she was stunned that Rocco didn’t follow that way, but began to climb the great hill to the south from which the River Celon sprang.

“You’ve got a mind of your own, I see,” the Slayer chortled, tightening her straddled legs around the beast as they made their ascent. “You remind me of a certain Prince of Folkvang. Do you know that?”

Rocco whinnied in reply.

Once they had reached the apex of the hill, Buffy had a clear view of all the lands within the ring of hills. She was glad to see that Himring still stood, the banner of Fëanor proudly waving atop Maedhros’ tower beneath the darkened sky. Balrogs, trolls, yrch and wargs had besieged the fortress, yet both elves and mortals were vigorously defending their turf, fighting outside the great gates of the eldest son of Fëanor’s city.

Rocco stomped his hooves, neighing loudly. The high-pitched sound traveled down from the hill to the lands below, alerting the enemy of Buffy’s arrival. Many turned, looking to the summit of the hill.

The Slayer lifted Nacil high above her head and shouted, “Behold, minions of Morgoth - Dagnir has arrived! Death is now upon you!” as Rocco took off down the hill.

Maedhros, who was on the battlefield, instantly recognized the sword of his father and the voice of his sister-in-law that reverberated from hill to hill. “Luinil,” he uttered under his breath, delighted to see that she had somehow managed to escape the enemy’s clutches.

The Balrogs quickly made their way toward the base of the hill, forming a blockade with their massive bodies so that Buffy could not unite with those from Himring.

The Slayer was looking forward to a fight with the Balrogs. After being hoodwinked by their Lord, she felt it was only befitting that she kill them all in retribution.

It soon became clear that Rocco’s hide was definitely of the mystical variety, as the Balrogs’ fires had no effect on him. Neither sword nor whip could break his flesh. Buffy had no idea that he possessed such powers. She was beginning to see how important a role Rocco would play in future events, not only in wartime, but also for breeding purposes as well.

The clash between the Slayer and the Balrogs was a spectacular one. Feeling reenergized, (something she attributed to the elves’ magic that was woven about the land), she began hewing the fiery fiends of Morgoth with relative ease. When she had felled thirty of the beasts, thus breaking their blockage, the Balrogs rethought their strategy. Instead of ganging up on Buffy, allowing her the opportunity to take them out, one by one, they separated, fleeing in different directions.

The Slayer chose to follow those bolting north, as they were nearing the city itself where most of the elves were already engaging the enemy.

As she approached, southwest of the city, she saw Maedhros fighting one of the retreating Balrogs. The eldest son of Fëanor was demonstrating his prowess on the battlefield, for the memory of his torments in Angband was still fresh in his mind. His grey eyes burned with the Light, instilling fear in his foes. The yrch fled before the copper-headed Elf Lord, knowing that any clash with him would only bring about their doom.

Despite his skill, Buffy was concerned about Maedhros’ fighting one whose strength surpassed his own by threefold. She and Rocco took off toward her brother-in-law. When they neared the combatants, she carefully rose to her feet, clutching the mane with one hand, Nacil with the other. Her horse’s gait was smooth enough that she didn’t lose her footing. Approaching the Balrog from behind, she leapt from Rocco’s back onto that of the Balrog. She clung onto the fiery form as she plunged her blade through the back of his heart. The monstrous beast let out an ear-piercing shriek. He dropped his weapon, reaching for the sword that the Slayer continued to twist and drive into its flesh repeatedly. A few moments later, his fires burned out. His lifeless body fell face first onto the ground.

Maedhros stood beside the dead beast, staring at Buffy in amazement. “Well met, Muinthel!” he said with a laugh, helping her off the beast.

“Russandol,” she said, grateful to be amongst her kin again. She pulled Nacil from the still form of the Balrog before embracing the eldest son of Fëanor. “Olofin? Káno?”

“They’re fine,” he replied with a smile. “They are resting in the citadel.”

She let out a sigh of relief, as Rocco came trotting up beside her.

“What is with that mask of yours?” he queried with a slightly amused expression on his face. “I wouldn’t have recognized you had it not been for your voice.”

“Oh, just something I picked up,” she answered, eyeing the skirmishes around them.

“Olofin told us that you were captured by the enemy. How did you manage to escape?”

Buffy didn’t hear her brother-in-law’s question; her thoughts were elsewhere. “How’s Luthor and Kit?” she asked, turning her gaze back to the Elf Lord.

Maedhros’ face turned grim. “Oh…” he paused, shifting his eyes to his feet. “I’m sorry, Muinthel. I really am.”

She felt her stomach drop. “No,” she uttered in shock.

Before her brother-in-law could say anything further, the Slayer leapt on top of Rocco and raced toward the gates of the city. She paid no mind to the battles taking place, her only concern was to be with her loved ones.

“Open up!” she yelled once she had reached the entrance to the city.

Not realizing that Buffy was before them, the guards refused to allow her admittance.

Cursing, she threw back her hood, and held Nacil above her head. “I’d think that one from the House of Fëanor would not only recognize me, but the sword of the man himself!” she said angrily. “Now, open up these gates before I knock them down myself!”

“Forgive me, Lady,” apologized the Noldo, as one of the gates began to open. “I did not realize that it was you.”

As soon as the gap was large enough for Rocco to get through, they entered the city. Her horse took off down the street leading to the citadel. People jumped out of the way as her steed speedily went up the stone roadway. For the first time, she noticed numerous mortals in the compound, something she had not seen before. They were obviously refugees from nearby lands.

When Rocco reached the bottom of the steps to Maedhros’ Halls, Buffy jumped off. She ran up the steps, taking three at a time in her haste. The elves she passed were stunned by her most unexpected arrival.

Upon entering the fortress, she breathlessly asked one of the guards, “Where’s Luthor?” before shoving Nacil into his hands.

Slightly startled, the guard awkwardly took the weapon thrust upon him and stammered, “He’s… he’s resting in the Healer’s Wing of the citadel.”

“And Kit? Where are my lions?”

“He… er, they are in the Great Hall… ”

That’s all Buffy needed to hear. She took off down the corridor pushing her way through the group of soldiers that were preparing to go back out on the battlefield. She dashed up the spiral staircase that would take her to the next floor where Maedhros’ main chamber was located.

Stopping outside the double doors to the Great Hall, the Slayer tried to catch her breath. One of the two guards posted outside the chamber nodded dutifully before cracking the door open enough to allow her entry. She hesitated, as a feeling of trepidation overwhelmed every fiber of her being. Reluctantly, she stepped inside. The door closed behind her with a dull clunk.

She froze on the spot, her eyes welling with tears as she beheld the sight before her. On the dais where Maedhros’ seat normally was, lay the motionless form of Kit, on his side, upon a table draped with a velvety red cloth trimmed with dangling gold cords. At the head of the table, on a box covered in the same material, sat Kat, her doleful yellow eyes staring unblinkingly at her mate. Many guards stood in a semi-circle around the rectangular slab, each holding a spear upright in his hand. Maedhros was honoring Kit as if he were a Noldo Lord, a gesture that touched Buffy deeply.

The sound of her sniffling echoed throughout the chamber as she shuffled toward the dais. Her feet felt like heavy weights. She pulled off her gloves, tucking them in the waistband of her breeches. When she reached Kit’s side, her bleary eyes scanned the lion’s body and the many wounds he had received. The lion’s jaw was partially open, his left eye socket, empty. Buffy counted twenty-three wounds to that side of his body alone.

With a trembling hand, she reached for his face. His fur was clean and soft to the touch, as was his body. It appeared that the Noldo healers had used their special brand of magics to prevent rigor mortis from setting in. The Slayer’s tears splattered on his golden coat as her hand moved towards Kit’s ear, his favorite place to be scratched in times past. Yet that time, the lion didn’t moan with delight at her touch, something that caused her tears to turn into outright sobbing. In her grief, she threw her body over the beast, burying her face in his thick mane, bawling uncontrollably.

Images from the past flashed in her mind. She recalled the first time she had encountered the lions during her maiden trip to the mainland of Folkvang, centuries before, how she had feared that the wild beasts would attack both her and Rocco, how both Kit and Kat approached her whilst she slept, waking only to find each cat on either side of her. She remembered how Kit would stalk the butterflies in the gardens of Eanna during the spring, of his playing with Celegorm’s dog, Huan at Lindecoa, of his affectionate grooming of Kat before the fireplace at the Gap on a cold winter’s night. For Buffy had not lost just a pet or companion, she had lost a member of her family. Both Kit and Kat were like her children, and the death of a child brings about a kind of despair that leads the bearer of the pain to do and say things that they wouldn’t otherwise.

She then felt Kat’s paw on her back. Without raising her head, she reached out, grabbing hold of the lioness’ outstretched leg. Buffy could feel Kat’s body shaking. She could feel her agony, her loss.

The Slayer then turned her attention to the lioness, wrapping her arms around the beast, holding her mournful kitty in a tight embrace. She spoke reassuring words to Kat, knowing that nothing she could say would replace the emptiness that they both felt.

Buffy then heard the door open, the noisy sounds from outside the room carried into the chamber. Turning, she saw Olofin standing there, suited for combat, a look of sorrow on his long face.

He slowly approached his mother, as Thranduil came into the chamber, stopping just inside the doors.

“I’m sorry, nana,” said the half-elf with a heavy heart. “It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t gone in for that last swoop… ”

“Why did you?” barked Buffy bitterly through her tears. “I told you to flee. I shouted it at the top of my lungs. But no,” she continued, her anguish causing her to lash out unjustly at her son, “you had to play the hero and try to save me. And look what happened! I hold you to blame for this entirely, Olofin Tirnon. Kit’s death is on your hands!”

She then stormed out of the room, leaving her son behind in tears.

Thranduil went to his friend’s side, placing a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. “Don’t let it get to you, Fin. It’s the grief talking. Bella didn’t mean it.”

The half-elf wiped away his tears. “Yes, yes she did,” he answered, before quickly leaving the chamber, now eager to get back on to the battlefield.

In her sorrow, Buffy wandered aimlessly through the corridors, regretting how she had spoken to her son. She didn’t know what had happened, she had just snapped. The sudden need to blame someone had overcome her, making her say the unthinkable. She knew he wasn’t at fault, she was. She didn’t insist that the lions wear their mithril mail before sending them into battle. She wasn’t thinking clearly at the time. The sudden attack led her to make a poor judgment call, and unfortunately, that poor judgment call came at a great cost.

Buffy found herself in the Healer’s Wing, unaware that she was there until she looked up and noticed the many healers anxiously running to and fro, dealing with those injured from battle. She grabbed the arm of one passing by, asking where she might find Luthor.

“Around the corner, fourth door on the left,” he answered, pulling free from her grasp and disappearing into a chamber at the opposite end of the hallway.

She continued down the corridor. The stench of death filled the air. Glancing into some of the rooms with opened doors, she saw many bodies covered with linens, the various colors denoting the rank of the dead. She shifted her gaze to the floor, doing her best to keep out of the others’ way as she ambled on, following the aforementioned healer’s directions.

Buffy softly rapped on the door before pushing it open. Hweston was taking the old man’s pulse when she entered.

“How is he?” she asked gloomily.

“He’s on the mend,” answered the Noldo, giving the Slayer a quick glance. “Things were touch and go at the start. The blade of the enemy was poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” she queried, stopping at the foot of the bed.

“Yes, but thankfully your son had the cure to his ailment. It made all the difference.”

“Oh,” said Buffy, feeling a pang of guilt over her earlier words with Olofin. “And what was that?”

The healer turned his eyes to the Slayer and gave her a warm smile. “Your blood, my Lady. It seems that Olofin carries a vial of it with him at all times.”

“Oh,” she replied, shifting her gaze to the sleeping form of Luthor. “I didn’t know that.”

“Do not fret, Luinil,” continued Hweston as he made his way to the door. “Luthor will be fine in a few days time. He is heavily sedated and will sleep for many hours yet, but you are welcome to sit with him. I’m sure he’d find comfort in hearing your voice. Rumor had it that you were captured by the enemy a few days ago. It is good to see that it was just that.” He gave her a quick smile. “I must go. I have many to attend to.” The healer then left the chamber.

Buffy remained standing at the foot of the bed for a few minutes, studying Luthor. He looked so peaceful, and well-groomed. She didn’t remember the last time she had seen his long grey hair and beard looking so neatly brushed. She watched as his chest rose and fell with each deep breath, grateful that the old man was still alive.

She helped herself to some water from the pitcher beside his bed, not remembering the last time she had tasted anything so refreshing. After downing a couple of glasses, she sat down beside the Maia, her expression somber.

“Kit’s dead,” she said softly. “I blamed Olofin, Luthor. I shouldn’t have done that. If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d find him, and apologize, but I just don’t have the strength.” She shuddered, her eyes heavy and puffy from crying so much. “The war isn’t going so good,” she continued, shifting her gaze from the Maia’s sleeping form to the blackness outside the window over his bed. “The sky’s so dark, just like in Sumer long ago… Except, this time, there is no hope, there is no one for me to turn to for help.” She glanced back at Luthor. “The Gap is destroyed, our homes. The lands lay in ruination. It’s sad.” She sighed heavily, her eyes welling with tears. “I feel numb, dead inside. I can’t do this any more, Luthor. I just don’t have it in me.”

Buffy fell quiet, as silent tears rolled down her cheeks. She remained seated beside the old man for a long while. When a healer entered to check on him some time later, she slipped out of the room, wandering down the corridors in search of a place where she could be alone. There was much activity within the fortress and she wanted no part of it.

She took refuge in the library, wearily dropping to her knees before the dwindling fire. The Slayer threw a few logs on and repositioned the burning embers with the poker. She finally pulled off her shredded garments and tossed them onto the fire. The flames greedily licked at her blood and guts covered clothing, sizzling as it consumed the fabric. She then curled up on the rug next to the fireplace until sleep took her.

It was Maedhros that later found Buffy sound asleep on the floor of the library. He sat in a chair beside the fire, watching her as she slept. The Noldo’s heart went out to her. He knew that the last few days had been trying for her, especially since learning of the death of her beloved lion. He wished he could comfort her, and, quite frankly was a little peeved that his brother had not taken the time to do so. That was Maglor’s responsibility and, to the eldest son of Fëanor, it seemed as if his younger brother was shunting his responsibilities, not only as a husband, but more importantly, as a friend to his wife.

After letting Buffy sleep for a few more hours, Maedhros decided that he needed to wake her. The time was drawing near when he would need to get back out onto the battlefield, and he really wanted the Slayer by his side when he did so. He had food and drink brought to the library along with several sweaters and coats from the children of those that belonged to his Household.

The Noldo crouched beside her, calling her name, as he gently shook her awake. “Muinthel. Muinthel.”

Buffy softly moaned, slowly rolling onto her back. She blinked her eyes open. Upon seeing the face of her brother-in-law, she asked, “What time is it?” with a yawn.

Rising, Maedhros looked up at the clock on the wall. “It is half past eight.”

“In the morning or night?” She stretched her arms behind her back as she sat up, causing her back to make a series of popping noises.

“It’s night time.”

She glanced out the window. “It’s always night time,” she remarked with a sigh.

“Indeed,” he answered, following her gaze. “Not even the stars of Elbereth can penetrate Morgoth’s clouds of doom.”

The Noldo looked back at the Slayer, surveying her appearance, as she remained seated on the floor, staring blankly out the window. She looked battle worn. Her white mithril top was splattered with dried blood, guts and grime, as were her black leather breeches, which had seen better days. Holes and slashes had cut through the material, revealing the mithril leggings underneath. The belt wrapped around her waist glimmered from the light of the flames and looked unmarred to his elvish eyes.

Her hair was the most shocking thing about her appearance. It was short, very short. The shortest the Noldo had ever seen it. Her once long, golden hair didn’t even come down to the nape of her neck. He assumed the enemy had hacked it off in a display of their cruelty. The creases on either side of her mouth seemed more pronounced, making her appear older. But it was the look in her green eyes that made Maedhros just want to grab her and hold her tightly in his arms. They were still red and puffy from the tears she had shed hours before and revealed her pain, her anguish.

Maedhros’ heart ached for her. He would do nearly anything to see her smile again, or hear her lilting laughter when she was in one of her playful moods. Maglor was a fool not to see that his greatest treasure was not lost. She was here, and in desperate need of him. If his brother would not be there for Buffy, then Maedhros most certainly would.

“I’ve brought food and drink,” he finally said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. He walked over to the table and picked up a tray laden with a pot of beef stew, a loaf of bread, a couple of apples and a pitcher of water. He placed the tray on the floor before taking a seat across from the Slayer. “You must be famished. I know I am,” Maedhros continued, as he lifted the lid from the pot, waving the delicious aroma toward the Slayer.

Buffy didn’t say a word, but continued to stare out the window, her eyes glistening with tears.

“I know how much Kit meant to you,” he continued, doling out the hearty stew into two bowls. “He was truly a noble beast. None can deny that. We will give him a proper burial once the war is over, for there is no question that he deserves it.”

The Slayer remained despondent, unresponsive. A single tear escaped her eye, running down her face, splattering onto her leg.

“Oh, Luinil,” said Maedhros, his face and voice fraught with worry. He let the ladle fall back into the pot as he gently grasped Buffy by the chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Do not let your grief consume you. I know that you’re heartbroken, really, I do, but you must pull yourself together. Kat needs you. Olofin needs you. Turn your grief into anger and direct it at the ones responsible for Kit’s death. Let us kill the enemy in recompense for his death. Let us make them pay dearly for taking one so mighty from us.”

“Morgoth’s gonna destroy everyone I love,” she sobbed, no longer able to restrain her sorrow. “I see that now. Kit’s just the beginning. He won’t stop until he takes everyone away from me… ”

“Do not underestimate the skill of the Noldor, Muinthel,” said Maedhros reassuringly, wiping her tears with his fingertip. “We will fight him tooth and nail. We do not fear the Craven Lord, but we need you. You are needed on the battlefield, for your mere presence alone gives hope to my people, to your people. Do not let Kit’s death be in vein. Let us make the enemy pay for killing such a lordly beast. Let us show Morgoth that his attempts to destroy us are futile.”

“But… but he’s already taken the Gap, and… and… ”

He pressed his finger to her quivering lips, stilling her words. “Himring still stands. And we will be a stronger people because of this. This is your home now, Muinthel. Help me keep it, to preserve it for generations to come. Will you do that, for me?” asked the Noldo pleadingly, his grey eyes welling with tears.

Buffy nodded in reply.

Maedhros leaned over the tray, pulling her into a tight embrace. “Thank you, Muinthel.” When he felt her arms wrap around his shoulders, he thought his heart would thump out of his chest. He stroked her head with the stump at the end of his right arm, wishing that that moment would last forever.

The Noldo convinced the Slayer to eat, although he couldn’t help but notice that after a couple of bites, she mostly picked at her food as opposed to actually eating it. While he ate, he talked about possible strategies to employ once they were back on the battlefield. She listened, but made no suggestions, merely nodding in agreement with Maedhros’ plan. He hoped beyond anything that Buffy would snap out of her mournful state once she was back in the combat zone.

While the Elf Lord finished eating, the Slayer got up and chose a black sweater from the many that had been placed on the sofa. She tried on many coats, and found only a blue one that fit comfortably.

Once they had left the library, Buffy insisted on seeing the lions prior to leaving the castle. When they reached the Great Hall, she embraced Kat, vowing to get revenge on the yrch for killing her mate. She then grabbed the dagger that hung from Maedhros’ belt, and cut off a tuft of Kit’s mane. After handing the blade back to her brother-in-law, she kissed the clump of hair before shoving it into the mithril glove on her right hand.

The Slayer then turned to one of the guards and said, “Bring Kat fresh meat and a bowl of milk sweetened with honey.” She stroked the lioness. “You must eat, baby. Do that for mommy.”

Kat nuzzled her Mistress, giving her a kiss of farewell before Buffy left the room with Maedhros.

As soon as they reached the bottom steps of the fortress, Rocco came trotting up to the Slayer.

“That beast of yours is untamed!” cried out the exasperated elf that had tried to catch the horse and take him to the stables. “He’s been rearing and bucking at all who approach him!”

Buffy leapt atop Rocco, whose demeanor was now rather calm. She gave the elf a reproachful look before replying, “Then don’t go near him.” She then pulled down her hood and took off down the road, leaving Maedhros and the others behind.

Once outside the walled city, Buffy pulled a sword charm from her belt. Instantly, it turned into a full-sized weapon. Her eyes scanned the battlefield, looking for the most menacing of Morgoth’s creatures. Spotting the nearest group of Balrogs, she tightened her hold on Rocco’s mane as he took off in the direction of her fiery foes.

She had taken Maedhros’ earlier suggestion to heart, turning her anguish into rage, unleashing her unbridled fury upon all that she encountered.

News quickly spread throughout Himring that the Vala of War was now on the battlefield making mincemeat of the forces of Darkness. The mortals were amazed when they heard that, for very few had encountered her in recent years. To them, she was a legend, a mythological being that had loved and fought for the survival of their race in days of old. The stories from the East continued to pass in secret from generation to generation, none willing to share them with the Eldar that they had come to love dearly.

Mortals, both the young and old, flocked to the armories, anxious to join the God of yore in combat, increasing the numbers of their forces on the battlefield. Even women insisted on joining the fray, as the Slayer proved that they too were capable of doing deeds of surpassing valor.

The war raged on, non-stop, for weeks on end. Buffy was reunited with not only her husband and son on the field, but also many of those from her Household. Rallying under her banner, the elves and mortals were able to route the enemy from their lands, forcing them southwards down the road between the hills. Turning west, they continued their assault as some of the creatures of Morgoth tried to escape through the Pass of Aglon that once was the home of Celegorm and Curufin. The two sons of Fëanor had held the Pass for centuries, but lost hold of it sometime during the battle. Their entire city was destroyed and many a good elf lay rotting upon the once fair lands. Fortunately, none were the C-brothers.

For nearly three months, they battled the enemy until all were dead, or fled into the woods of Dorthonion. Dagor Bragollach (Battle of Sudden-Flame), that war was named, and it proved to be the turning point in all events afterward.

Over the next couple of weeks, in early spring, messengers came and went across the plains, eager to hear and deliver news of the battles fought elsewhere. Those in Himring exchanged tales of woe with the other Noldo Lords, for things had gone ill for not only the sons of Fëanor but also the other Noldor as well as the Sindar and Mankind.

When Maglor was driven from his lands, the enemy, led by none other than Glaurung, overran Thargelion, forcing the Noldor that dwelled there to flee south. Caranthir and his people escaped to Amon Ereb where they were able to strengthen their numbers with those of the twins, Amrod and Amras. The Noldor then set out again, heading back north. Along the way, they sent word to Orchal at Lindon, who then unleashed the armies of Green-elves to aid the sons of Fëanor in combat. The united forces then hunted down the minions of Morgoth, obliterating the Dark Lord’s armies in southern Thargelion.

The enemy breached the Pass of Aglon in the first couple of days of battle, as was later learned. So great were the forces of Morgoth that Celegorm and Curufin had to retreat south, finding refuge for themselves and their people in Nargothrond, the hidden realm of Finrod. Upon hearing of the war, Finrod let loose his forces, sending them north to aid his kin. The golden-haired Noldo also rode out to battle with his men, but soon found himself in a perilous situation when he had become separated from his armies in the Fens of Serech. The yrch were quick to surround the son of Finarfin. He surely would have died if it had not been for the bravery of the mortal, Barahir and his men, who came rushing to the elf’s aid from the southwestern eaves of Dorthonion, where they were valiantly fighting the enemy in defense of their homeland.

Barahir and the Edain of the First House were able to break through the lines of yrch, forming a defensive ring around the son of Finarfin with their spears. Grateful for the timely arrival of Barahir, Finrod made a vow to aid him and those of his seed in times of need. As a token of his oath, he gave to the mortal the ring he always wore on his forefinger. While Barahir and his men held off the yrch, Finrod was able to escape, fleeing back to his hidden halls along the River Narog.

Those devastated the worst were the people of Angrod and Aegnor, Finrod’s brothers. Since their lands lay closest to the mighty peaks of Morgoth, they died as a direct result of the eruption of Thangorodrim, having no time to flee to the highlands of Dorthonion to their south. The poisonous gases and rivers of flame killed nearly all the elves and mortals that dwelled on those open plains. Those that survived either managed to get up the steep slopes leading to the woods or fled to Himring and sought sanctuary with the eldest son of Fëanor.

The Noldor, Sindar and mortals in Western Beleriand rallied together under the banner of Fingolfin and never allowed the enemy to get beyond the mountain chain, Ered Wethrin, thus none of their fortresses were taken by the enemy. Yet the numbers of Morgoth’s minions were so great that none were able to come to the aid of the sons of Finarfin, much to the dismay of the Noldo King.

The end result of Dagor Bragollach was that the siege of Angband was over, and many of Morgoth’s creatures (namely yrch, trolls and wargs) now roamed freely in both Western and Eastern Beleriand, as the haze created by the Dark Lord still blocked out the sun, keeping most of the lands in perpetual darkness. Many vicious and fell beasts now inhabited the fair woods of Dorthonion, toiling endlessly in their efforts to destroy and defile the pristine forest. In days to come, the yrch would hinder any who traveled from Western to Eastern Beleriand or vice versa. Never again would Beleriand wholly know peace.

Ironically, the only lands not assailed by the enemy were Doriath, Ossiriand and the Falas, the three original elvish settlements in Beleriand. While Amon Ered too did not see warfare, many of the Sindar who had dwelled in Middle-earth prior to the Noldor arriving, considered that to be part of Ossir, even though, it was not.

Now, it must be mentioned that during the battle, Sargon had summoned Buffy to Sussrúmnir each and every night in order for her to pass her judgments. She had claimed many a mortal soul during Dagor Bragollach. In fact, she took more than half of the warriors that had fallen, in direct violation of the decree set by Manwë Súlimo.

Of all the warriors that had died, the greatest was Hador Lórindol, the mighty Adan from the Third House who had served Fingolfin in life, as well as being lord of Dor-Lómin. While she had never met him whilst he lived in Middle-earth, she would form a great friendship with him in the afterlife, and would, at times, bring back messages from the golden-haired mortal to those of his own House as well as his former Lord’s. With him, she also re-embodied his son, Gundor. Both were welcomed by their forefathers, and in after days, Hador joined the ranks of the Mightiest of the Mighty, being held in the highest of esteem by his kindred in Folkvang.

While Buffy had reconciled with her son on the battlefield, she never got the opportunity to speak with him at length until the war had ended. She assured Olofin that he was not to blame for Kit’s death and that she had unfairly accused him of that due to her grief. She apologized profusely for her behavior, explaining that Morgoth was the one at fault, no one else. Neither admitted it, but both would continue to harbor the guilt of Kit’s death for years to come.

As Maedhros had promised, Kit’s burial was to be the first of the mighty Lords that had fallen in battle. Hours before the ceremony was to take place, Buffy and her loved ones gathered around the still preserved body of the lion, paying their last respects in private to the noblest of beasts.

Overwhelmed with sorrow yet again, the Slayer turned to her son and said, “Hweston said that you healed Luthor with a vial of my blood. Do you have any left? Maybe we can reanimate Kit with some of it.”

The glimmer of hope in her eyes brought Olofin to tears. “I already tried, nana. I used what blood I had on both Luthor and Kit. I’m afraid it wasn’t enough. Alas, I cannot bring him back.”

Buffy was heartbroken when she heard that. Throughout the war, she clung to the hope that perhaps Kit could be revived with her untainted blood, but unfortunately, it was not destined to be.

Although the lion’s death pained her greatly, one good thing did come from it - it strengthened her bond with Maglor. The Noldo seemed to come back to his senses and begged forgiveness for his standoffish behavior over the past forty-some-odd years. That meant the world to her, as she needed her husband now more than ever.

Before Kit’s body was removed from the Great Hall, the Slayer cut off two more tufts from his mane, giving one each to Olofin and Thranduil, as the lion had loved both of them greatly in life.

“Keep these in memory of Kit. In times of distress, clutch it in your hand and your hope will be renewed. In times of war, place it in your glove, and it will give you strength in body, mind and soul,” she had said to the weeping young men. The gesture meant a lot to both of them, and forever afterwards, they kept the tufts of hair with them.

Maedhros, Maglor, Olofin and Thranduil carried Kit’s remains from the Great Hall to the cart that awaited outside the citadel. Buffy had decided to have her beloved kitty buried outside the wall surrounding Himring instead of in Folkvang. She felt that Middle-earth had become home to her lions, and it was there that she wanted Kit to sleep for eternity.

To the Slayer it seemed only fitting that Rocco pull the vehicle down the main street of the city, since he was with her when she had first encountered the lions centuries ago. The inhabitants of Himring lined up along the roadway, some weeping, as the cart slowly passed by. Buffy led the procession that followed behind, together with Kat, her immediate family (including Luthor, who was now fully healed), and those Green-elves from her Household.

Maedhros had a barrow built to the north of the entrance to the gates of the city. When Kit was placed inside, Buffy kissed the beast before covering his remains with her banner - a red cross on a white field. Before the tomb was sealed, Maglor sang a song of lamentation that he had written in honor of the lion. His beautiful voice bounced from hill to hill, heightening the effects of his mournful words. The lyrics brought many of the mightiest of Lords to tears.

When the last note had faded, all fell silent for several minutes, as was the custom of the Eldar. Not a sound was heard, no infant wailed, no maiden cried.

Suddenly, the sound of hooves racing upon the stone road leading to the city from the south broke the silence. The mourners looked for the source, only to see a lone white steed rapidly approaching. Its body gleaming brightly against the darkness that shrouded the lands.

“Is that Rochallor, Fingolfin’s horse?” asked Buffy, as she stepped away from the barrow for a better look.

“It looks like him,” replied Maedhros, narrowing his eyes. “Yes, that most definitely is.”

“Then where is Fingolfin?” questioned a puzzled Maglor. “Surely, some ill has happened for Rochallor to be so far from home, riderless.”

A deep sense of foreboding overcame the mourners upon hearing Maglor’s words. Rumblings broke out in the crowd.

“If something has happened to the King, then Rochallor is returning home,” answered the eldest son of Fëanor, watching as the horse neared the bereaved.

There was truth to Maedhros’ statement, as Rochallor was one of many steeds that he had given to his uncle in reparation for the wrongdoings of the House of Fëanor soon after coming to Middle-earth.

Rocco started neighing loudly, rearing up, nearly smashing the cart to smithereens.

“Unharness him,” Buffy ordered, after seeing how anxious her horse was to be free.

The elves did as commanded. Rocco came trotting up to Buffy, Maglor, Maedhros, and Olofin who had walked several paces toward the road, watching Rochallor’s fast approaching form. Something didn’t seem right with Fingolfin’s steed, which only proved true when the animal had finally reached the small group near the road.

Rochallor stopped before the Lords and Lady of the House of Fëanor. White puffs of breath came quickly and noisily from his wet nose. The horse’s neighing was filled with distress. He shook his head wildly from side to side, his eyes wide with fear. His white coat glistened with sweat.

“Whoa, boy!” said Maedhros, reaching out for the mighty steed. “Calm down, my friend. Calm down.”

Rochallor then collapsed, falling on his side. His breathing still labored, sending jets of white from his nose. He continued to bray, the sound weaker than before. Rocco approached the steed, sniffing the face of the exhausted beast.

Buffy squatted beside Rochallor, stroking the damp flesh of his neck. “What is it, baby? What happened?”

Rocco neighed loudly before placing his head on Buffy’s arm, as she locked eyes with Fingolfin’s horse. She then saw a vision play out before her eyes:

Fingolfin was angrily marching through the stables of Barad Eithel, surrounded by his sister and many Lords of his House.

“Don’t do this, Fingolfin,” cried out Lalwen in her distress, grabbing hold of her brother’s arm.

Fingolfin roughly pulled away, causing the woman to wail, as he freed Rochallor from his stall.

“This is madness, my Lord!” shouted one of the Lords.

The Noldo King didn’t listen to any. He leapt upon his horse, repositioning his blade, Ringil, once mounted. He shifted his shield in his other hand.

Lalwen stepped in front of the horse. “You’ll get yourself killed, brother! All is not lost!”

Fingolfin narrowed his blazing eyes upon his sister. They reflected both his wrath and despair. “All is lost, sister! Not even the mighty Luinil was able to save the lands of Kanafinwë! There is no longer hope for any of us. The Noldor have lost all that we labored for. The Doom has come to fulfillment. Yet before it claims me, I will make the Craven Lord pay. Farewell!”

Fingolfin then reined Rochallor around his sister, taking off from the stables at great speed. Those that saw the blurry form of the Noldo King speedily riding upon the dusty plains toward the gates of Angband grew fearful. Many thought that Oromë himself had come, seeking vengeance upon Morgoth for all the ills done to the people of Middle-earth.

When the enraged King reached the doors of Angband, he blew his horn three times, the high-pitched sound reaching the depths of Angband. Fingolfin shouted for Morgoth to come forth and face him in one on one combat. In his ire, he called the Dark Lord craven, a coward, as he beat upon the iron gates of the fortress of Hell.

Rochallor, keeping a safe distance from the gates, ran back and forth along the withered plains before the mighty peaks of Thangorodrim watching his Lord from afar.

After a short while, the gates opened, and out came Morgoth in all his demonic glory, clad entirely in black armor, Grond clutched in his right hand. He stepped before the Elven King, looking like a menacing mountain of terror to the much smaller form of Fingolfin, whose body emitted a white light that caused his silver mail to shine like a small star beneath the black cloud of Morgoth.

The Dark Lord then brought down Grond, but Fingolfin jumped to the side. The mighty mace hit the earth, renting it, as both smoke and flame shot up from the ground. Again, Morgoth lifted the weapon over his head, and slammed it down toward the elf, but once again, the Noldo leapt before the weapon could smite him. Time after time, the Dark Lord’s weapon missed its mark, making pits in the earth where the mighty mace struck. Fingolfin, most valiant of the Noldor, managed to drive Ringil into the foot of Morgoth, causing the Dark Lord to cry out in anguish. The sound reverberated across the dusty plains. The Elven King delivered seven such blows to the Dark Foe, each time the cries of Morgoth echoed to the utter depths of Angband, terrifying his minions.

At last, the Noldo became weary, and as Morgoth brought down Grond yet again, the elf managed to block the blow with his bejeweled shield, but the force sent him to his knees. Fingolfin struggled back to his feet but Morgoth brought him back to his knees two more times. When he rose the third time, exhaustion had set in, and the Elven King lost his footing and fell backward into one of the pits.

Morgoth then approached the hole, looking at Fingolfin with deep hatred, for his foot pained him as much as his pride. As he went to step upon the neck of the Noldo with his wounded foot, Fingolfin mustered the last bit of his strength and hewed the Dark Lord’s foot. Morgoth wailed again, but slammed his foot upon the Elven King’s neck, breaking it. The blood from the mighty Vala’s multiple wounds filled the pit with his foul, black blood. The fair son of Finwë disappeared beneath the grisly torrent.

Still angered, Morgoth then picked up the lifeless body of Fingolfin, snapping the elf’s back with one hand. He would have happily given the Noldo’s body to his wolves, which now came sprinting from his fortress, but in that moment, came Thorondor rushing from his eyrie in the north.

The Eagle swooped down upon the Dark Lord, cutting at the flesh of the evil Vala’s face with his taloned feet. As Morgoth tried to protect himself, Thorondor snatched the lifeless body of Fingolfin from Morgoth’s grasp before ascending into the pitch-black sky, heading southwest from the gates of Angband.

As the wolves made a beeline for Rochallor, the horse took off, galloping toward Himring…

Tears rolled down Buffy’s cheek, as Rocco whinnied, rubbing his face against that of Rochallor.

“Bella? What is it?” asked Maglor, placing his hand on her shoulder.

The Slayer fell to her knees and bent over Fingolfin’s steed, rubbing the horse lovingly. In a broken voice, she then said, “Release yourself from your torments, Rochallor. Sleep. Sleep.” She said that repeatedly, stroking the beast until it took its last breath.

“Bella?” Maglor crouched beside his wife. “What is it that you see?”

Buffy turned her teary eyes to her husband. “Fingolfin’s dead. Morgoth killed him.”

The people cried out in shock and despair when they heard the Slayer’s ominous words. Maglor pulled his wife into his arms, as everyone wept for the fallen Elven King.