Full Circle

As soon as the condemned elves were escorted out of Lindon Hall, Buffy ordered her maidens to prepare wooden bowls of wine, in keeping with the traditions set by Denethor long ago. It was a Green-elf custom to drink in memory to those slain in battle. The only thing that the Slayer had changed over the years was the substitution of red wine for amber. The rich crimson color reminded her of blood, and seemed more appropriate for honoring the deceased.

Buffy stood on her dais, her eyes scanning the standing room only crowd within the Great Hall. “Let us lift our bowls in memory of those noble men and women who have fallen in battle. They faced death with the utmost bravery, and fought valiantly against the enemy. Our brethren will be dearly missed, but we shall never forget them. Let us drink in honor of their memory,” she continued, lifting her bowl higher. “May Mandos show them mercy, and swiftly free them from his Halls.”

“To our brethren,” said the people before sipping from their bowls.

“Tomorrow we shall celebrate those warriors that survived the battle, for without you, we would not be standing here today. Eru bless each and every one of you,” she added, before downing the rest of her wine.

The commemoration was over quickly, and after what the Slayer deemed to be one of the longest days of her life, she bid her people goodnight. With Maglor in tow, they retreated to their bedchamber, and away from the din of the people still exiting the Great Hall.

“I want to put some more salve on your face,” she said to her husband, as he readied himself for bed. The Noldo was exhausted, and it showed. “As long as we keep your scab moist, it won’t scar.”

“Since when do you have an aversion to scars?” he asked with a yawn, pulling off his garments.

“I don’t,” she replied, taking a seat on the bed. “I actually think they’re kinda sexy. But you have such a handsome face, and seeing that mark will only remind me of how stupid I was for trusting Uldor. And, believe me, the last thing I want to think about is that bastard. May he rot in hell!”

“You reap what you sow, eh?” he answered, as he started to wash his teeth.

“You have no idea. Failo’s gonna have some fun with him and his kinfolk. And I have to say, I’m not sorry about that. Folkvang may be a Blessed Realm, but it’s my Blessed Realm, and I’m not opposed to punishing those who were criminals in life.”

Once Maglor had finished his bedtime ritual, Buffy dabbed some of Istahiro’s ointment on his scab. She then covered it with a clean strip of cloth.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?” asked the Noldo, after crawling under the covers.

“Nah, I’m not tired,” she said, tucking in her beloved. “You get some sleep.” She stroked her husband’s hair before giving him a kiss. “Nighty-night, honey. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Not a minute after Maglor’s head hit the pillow; he was fast asleep.

Buffy dimmed the lamp until only a faint glow filled the chamber. She then quietly left the room, returning to her study. She picked up the balled up letter from Osiris and carefully smoothed out the creases as she made her way to her desk. Taking a seat, she re-read the letter again, several times, in fact. She then eased back in her chair, pondering the content.

She couldn’t help but wonder if Osiris could really restore her powers or if it was just some ruse to get her back in the East. Marduk was a pretty vindictive and calculating fellow, and she was unsure whether or not she could trust his son. While she recalled how loyal Nabu had been to her, she wasn’t sure if the same applied to Osiris. One thing she knew for sure was that there was no way on Eru’s green earth that she was about to leave Beleriand, not with the Doom waiting to snatch her beloved the first chance it got.

As a stillness fell over her Halls, she looked at the clock on her desk. It was half past eleven. The Slayer decided that she didn’t want to wait until her obligatory trip to Folkvang to bathe. She’d go ahead and hit the hot springs since most had returned to their homes. Making her way back into her bedchamber, she grabbed her towel, robe, slippers and a cloth sack that contained her toiletries.

She took off her belt, the charms jingled softly as she placed it on the dresser. She sighed in her disappointment over her missing sword charm. It had been lost somewhere on the battlefield.

The guards greeted her in passing, as she made her way to the lifts. It was such a lovely night. The moon was at its fullest, casting the woods of Lindon in a silver light. The fragrance of flowers and freshly cut grass lingered in the air, pleasing her sense of smell to no end. As the lift made its descent from the treetops, the sound of insects, frogs and an occasional hoot from an owl was like music to her ears. It reminded her of how much she had missed Ossir, and despite the sorrow in her heart, she was glad to be home once again.

Buffy was delighted to find the hot springs deserted. After disrobing, she slowly eased into the water, seating herself on a flat rock that jutted out from the wall of the pool. As soon as she had gotten used to the temperature, she submerged her head under the steamy water. She then shampooed her hair and scrubbed her body, washing away the last traces of the battle. Once clean, she could relax. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the stone wall, savoring the tranquility of Lindon at night.

The bubbling hot water combined with the nocturnal sounds had a hypnotic effect on the Slayer. She soon found herself dozing off. Gradually, her bottom began to slide across her slick, rocky seat. Only a few moments later, she disappeared under the water’s surface. Strangling on the water she had inhaled, she instantly awoke. She shot to the surface, coughing the liquid from her lungs.

“I should’ve waited and bathed in Sussrúmnir,” she grumbled to herself, once she had caught her breath. As she climbed out of the spring, the cool night air brushed against her wet skin causing her to shudder. Buffy quickly dried off and slipped into her robe. She wrapped her wet hair in the towel before sliding her feet into her slippers.

“Good evening, Bellaseth,” said a manly voice from behind, startling the Slayer.

She quickly turned, only to see Salmar rising from the steamy pool. His blue-green robes glimmered in the moonlight.

“Salmar,” she said with a frown. “It would’ve been nice if you had showed up a little sooner, before I fell under the water,” she continued, cramming her dirty clothing into the sack containing her toiletries.

“I assure you, you were in no danger,” he replied, stepping out of the spring onto the swathe of grass that surrounded the pool.

“So, what brings you here?” Buffy asked, hoisting the bag over her shoulder. “Oh, don’t tell me - Morgoth’s up to no good,” she said derisively, rolling her eyes.

The Maia walked up to her. “I’ve only come to express my condolences. I hear things went badly with your war. I’m truly sorry.”

“Why don’t I believe that?” She couldn’t help but feel a bit angry at the servant of Ulmo. “It would’ve been nice if you guys would’ve given me a heads up about Uldor, or, for the love of Eru, helped us in battle!”

Salmar studied her for a few moments with his solemn eyes. He stood perfectly still, clasping his hands before him. “The time is not yet upon us when those in the West will aid you in your wars with Melkor. You know that, Bellaseth, for Irmo has told you that long ago.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” she replied, annoyed by the Maia’s mere presence.

“Why are you so hostile toward me?” he queried, cocking his head to the side. “I’ve only come to express my sorrow for your loss and to see if my Lord’s Sheath has completely healed your affliction.” He sighed heavily. “Alas, it does not cure a broken heart.”

“Yeah, well, lucky me,” she shot back sarcastically. “It’s been a really long day, Salmar, and needless to say, it hasn’t been a good one. I’m not up for any company. Tell Ulmo I’m grateful for his help, but also let him know it’d be nice if I could actually thank him in person, for once.”

Buffy turned away from the Maia and started back down the path through the wood.

“There are trials before you, Bellaseth,” Salmar called out. “The choices you make - ”

“Don’t tell me about trials!” she spat, pivoting on the spot, and cutting off the Maia mid-sentence. Her green eyes narrowed with contempt. “I’m sick and tired of always being the one that gets screwed over with this trials crap.”

“Unfortunately, that’s the price you pay when you live amongst the Children of Ilúvatar.”

“Pfft!” she sounded. “It’s called living in the real world, Salmar. Tell that to my brethren. Maybe they should try it some time. The Valar could use a reality check, since they choose to live in a false one.” She turned away from the Maia and started down the path once again, adding, “Unlike you and your kin, I’ve got shit to do.”

The Slayer heard a faint plopping sound. She didn’t have to turn around to know that Salmar had gone.

It infuriated her that those in the West had done nothing to help her. Yes, Ulmo provided Istahiro with the cure to her ailment, but it would’ve been nice if the Vala had intervened before she was hit in the face with Morgoth’s magick dust. Despite that, she still resented the Valar and their lack of action against Melkor. They had no concept of time, especially when it came to mankind. The mortals’ time in Eä was relatively short when seen through immortal eyes, and to know that their brief lives were doomed with such heartache and despair made her blood boil even more.

As the lift rose, Salmar’s words brought to mind what Irmo had told her long ago in Folkvang: that one with both elvish and mortal blood would bring about Morgoth’s downfall. There was no doubt in her mind that that someone was none other than Dior. Even though Lúthien was now accounted amongst the kindred of Man, she retained her elvish form, which meant that the blood of Thingol and Melian ran through, not only her veins, but her son’s as well. Not to mention the fact that Beren was the boy’s father, and a direct descendant of the Father of Men - Brolach.

After she had dressed, she returned to her study to await her summons to Sussrúmnir. Picking up the letter from Osiris again, Buffy could’ve kicked herself in the butt for not asking Salmar about the intentions of the Vala Lord in the East. Then again, she wasn’t sure if she could even trust what the Maia had to say, having been unjustly accused of ill doings by him and his kinfolk in the past.

When two o’clock arrived, the Slayer vanished from Lindon Hall, only to reappear in the antechamber of Sussrúmnir. Her Valkyrie chieftains welcomed her as they garbed her in her royal attire. She looked around the massive vestibule, half-expecting to see Sargon. While the Adan was not present, his pet lion, Aslan was.

“Greetings, Maranwë,” said the noble beast.

“Hello, Aslan,” she replied with a quick smile. “Where’s Sargon?”

“He’s in bed, sleeping,” answered the lion. “He had asked that I accompany you to your Hall of Judgment as he was quite exhausted and in much need of rest.”

“Oh.” She paused. A baffled expression came to her face. “If Sargon’s sleeping, then who transported me here?”

“That would be me,” answered Aslan with a chortle.

Buffy’s eyes widened. “Well, you most certainly are the greatest of your kind then,” she chuckled in reply. “But, I’d be honored to have you escort me to my Hall of Judgment.”

Once Vórëa had slipped the lapis lazuli crown on her Mistress’ head, the Slayer and the lion began climbing the stairway.

“Tell me, Aslan,” she said, turning her gaze to the noble beast. “Have you ever heard of a Vala by the name of Osiris? He’s Amarutu Marduk’s son.”

“Hmm, can’t say that I have,” he answered thoughtfully. “Is there a problem?”

“I don’t know,” she replied with a sigh. “Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter just yet. I have more important things to think about.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Buffy fell quiet. When they reached her Hall, she allowed Aslan to come inside. She took the chalice of wine that Fulla offered her before plunking down on her canopied throne. She stared blankly at the copper ceiling, thinking of the sorrow that had befallen, not only her people, but all those that dwelt in Beleriand.

Aslan sat at the bottom of the dais, watching the Slayer closely with his keen yellow eyes. “What troubles you, my Lady?”

She turned her gaze to the lion. “I’m tired.” Despite how softly she had spoken those two words, the sound of her voice was amplified threefold within the enormous chamber. “I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of my people dying. I’m tired of having the responsibility of trying to keep the balance between good an evil.” She shook her head in frustration. Tightening her grip on the armrests of her chair, she let her head fall against the back of her seat. “I can’t do this any more. I can’t watch my people die in a war we’ll never win. You have no idea how painful it is to see the widows weeping, and the children left fatherless, and in some cases, parentless. I can’t help but think that it’s all my fault.”

“That’s not true, Maranwë,” replied Aslan. “You must not forget that the Doom of the Valar hangs over the Noldor. It is for that reason, and that reason alone, that you lost the battle.”

“They’re a pretty heartless bunch then, aren’t they?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Valar, and their decision to curse all the Noldor… and me. What have I done to incur their wrath?” She didn’t give the lion a chance to answer. “I didn’t ask to be here, or, at least, I don’t recall ever wanting to be here. Yet here I am with a Veil of Concealment placed on me so that I’m blinded to my past. I’ve been stripped of my powers, and thrown to the wolves, so to speak.” She snickered. “My brethren have turned their backs on me once again.” Her face contorted with her anger. “They’re really pissing me off.”

“Not all have turned their backs on you, Luinil,” disputed the lion. “Ulmo has proved his faithfulness more than once. He’s been there for you… ”

“Where was he when Uldor turned on my people? Where was he when the Green-elves, Noldor and Edain were slain from behind? Where was he when I was taken captive?” she queried bitterly. Buffy shook her head in disgust before faintly adding, “It’s not enough. He hasn’t done enough.”

“I can commiserate with you, Maranwë, but you mustn’t lose hope. The time will come when Morgoth will be defeated, when he will fall.”

She locked her eyes on Aslan. “It won’t come soon enough. Not for me, any way.” The Slayer drained the rest of her wine. “I suppose I better get to work. If you don’t mind… ” She paused, motioning toward the double doors with her head.

“Of course,” answered the lion. He bowed before leaving the chamber.

With a wave of her hand, the double doors silently closed behind him.

There were many feys that came before her on that day, too many to her liking. Yet one thing did happen as she sat upon her throne. An image flashed in her mind of a blue, scaly creature with big red eyes: her demonic offspring, Coruon. She now remembered where she had heard the name Osiris before. It was during her brief captivity during Dagor Bragollach.

“You do, however, have an ally amongst one of his young sons. He is called Osiris in the Southlands where he dwells,” she recalled Coruon telling her. “He’s quite an admirer of yours… Consider him a friend in times to come, Ishtar, as he will do your bidding in the East.”

Finally remembering brought a smile to her face. It was nearly driving her crazy not remembering where she had heard Osiris’ name before. Knowing that the son of Marduk was defying his father’s will only pleased Buffy more. She now felt it was safe to correspond with the ‘God of Egypt’.

Even though she had spent over nine hours in Folkvang, only two seconds had elapsed by the time she returned to Lindon Hall. With her sacred duties now completed, she returned to her bedchamber. She climbed into bed, lying beside the sleeping form of her husband. She listened to his rhythmic breathing, hoping that it would lull her to sleep. Unfortunately, it didn’t. After nearly an hour, she still found herself wide-awake.

Not wanting to wake Maglor with her tossing and turning, she crawled out of bed, and began to wander the corridors of her Halls. When she came across the room in which her Mirror was housed, she entered. Turning on a couple of lamps, she noticed that someone had placed the basin back on its pedestal.

The Slayer stood there, with her arms folded across her chest, staring at the Mirror. She was debating whether or not she should attempt to use the mystical device again. Weighing the pros and cons, she decided that it was in her best interest to see what the Water of Ulmo would reveal. Melkor be damned. If she concentrated hard enough, surely she could thwart any attempts the Dark Lord made to seize her, if she even saw him at all. Feeling confident, she filled the basin with the water from the cistern. She waved her hand over the contents of the bowl, causing the water to whirl and wisps of mist to rise from the water’s surface.

The first scene to appear was immediately recognizable to Buffy - the sandy plains of Anfauglith. From a birds-eye view, she could see thousands upon thousands of bodies littering the blood-soaked battlefield. Under a dark sky, yrch were busily dragging the bodies of the slain Elves, Dwarves and Men. Their remains formed a great mound located about twenty miles northwest of the center of Dorthonion and forty miles southwest of the mighty peaks of Thangorodrim. The gigantic pile not only included the remains of the allies, but also their dead horses, armor, shields, and weapons. It was a gruesome display and a testament to Morgoth’s greatest triumph since his return to Beleriand.

That sight stirred Buffy’s heart with emotion. While she was unable to identify any of her loved ones, she could clearly make out the emblems on some of the armor or the color of the cloaks of those that had fallen that denoted the House to which they had once belonged.

In her mind, she gave that great mound the elvish name, Haudh-en-Ndengin. Its translation meant “Hill of the Slain”. Yet, in times to come, she would bestow yet another name on that hill, Haudh-en-Nirnaeth (“the Hill of Tears”). The Slayer would later see in her Mirror, the other causalities of the war - the women, namely the wives and lovers of those that had died in the war. Some of those maidens would find themselves drawn to that great mound by their despair. Weeping, they would throw their bodies onto the massive grave and succumb to their grief.

The image within the basin then changed. This time she saw Húrin, the lord of Dor-lómin, sitting upon a stone seat high atop one of the mountain peaks of Thangorodrim. The menacing form of Morgoth hovered over him, cursing him, his wife, Morwen, and their children. The poor mortal was bound to that place by the will of the Dark Lord alone.

“Sit there and look upon the lands where evil and despair shall come upon those whom you love dearly,” spat Melkor in his fury. His dark eyes bore into the Adan’s. “You dare mock me, and question my power, for I am the Master of Fates in Arda. Therefore, with my eyes, you shall see, and with my ears, you shall hear all that shall befall your kin. Never will you move from this spot until the doom placed upon your kin is bitterly achieved.”

And there Húrin would sit, for over twenty years, neither begging Morgoth for mercy nor asking to be killed despite the horrors that plagued his family, especially his son, Túrin, and his daughter, Nienor.

The picture changed once again. This time she saw Morwen, looking out the window of her halls in Dor-lómin, her eight year old son clinging to her side. The wife of Húrin had one arm wrapped around Túrin while her other hand rested on her belly. Buffy immediately sensed that the woman was pregnant, and indeed, she was, with Nienor.

Outside the glass pane, the Easterlings had invaded their town, wreaking havoc on the surviving Edain who called that place home. The evil Easterlings harassed the old men and enslaved the children, angered that their reward for their treachery was the lands of the Third House opposed to those they coveted most, the lands of the Eldar.

Yet, none of the Easterlings dared to assail Morwen or her Household, for they feared that woman more than any other in that region. For the daughter of Baragund possessed a beauty reminiscent of the Eldar, and because of that, the traitorous men believed that she was in league with the elves and had learned magic spells from the elder Children of Ilúvatar. They named her Witch, but also stayed clear of her and her dwelling.

Some of the evil Easterlings claimed the dead warriors’ women, making them their wives. More disheartening was that, in times to come, the traitorous men would mingle their bloodline with that of the noble Third House.

A look of horror then came to Buffy’s face as she saw many of the evil men brutally gang raping some of the maidens, some as young as Túrin. She slowly backed away from the Mirror, sickened by the sight. When she reached the wall, she sunk to the floor, trembling. Tears streamed down her ashen face, as she wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled them to her chest. With her stomach twisting into knots, she began rocking, struggling with the images that the Mirror had revealed.

She couldn’t help but think of Salmar’s words of warning regarding the choices and trials that awaited her. Undoubtedly, this was the first one. She sat there, rocking in her distress, trying to figure out what she should do. While to some, it would seem an easy decision, to the Slayer, at that particular point in time, it was anything but.

After carefully preparing for the last battle and failing miserably to achieve a victory, she could only think that if she returned to the north, the same thing would happen again. It only took Morgoth’s armies six days to obliterate the allied forces. Besides, she reasoned, the war had ended only the day before. Her people were weary and suffering from the aftermath of their loss. She had no right to ask them to return to the northlands where the enemy outnumbered them by at least twenty to one. It would be a hopeless battle that would only lead to more deaths. And she couldn’t afford to lose any more people.

To Buffy, there was a greater threat looming closer to home - the sons of Fëanor. With the Union’s failure to regain the Silmarils from Morgoth, she knew it was only a matter of time before the Noldor looked to Thingol again. That was something that she had to prevent from happening, and the only way to do that was to remain in Ossir.

No matter how much she was troubled by the visions, the Slayer could only hope that the Edain would do what so many in history had done - fight their oppressors. From what she could recollect, most races throughout history had been enslaved at one time or another. Yet, at some point, those being oppressed finally did something about it - they revolted. Surely, the Edain would one day find themselves in a similar situation. That’s the way the world worked, wasn’t it?

Drying her eyes, Buffy rose to her feet and made her way back to her bedchamber. Exhaustion had finally set in. She was emotionally and physically spent. As she crawled into bed beside Maglor, she knew that her greatest battle still lay before her, the battle to save the souls of her beloved husband and his brothers. Right now, she could think of nothing else.

She cuddled up to Maglor. Even sleeping, his arms managed to wrap around her, holding her close. She knew that she had made the right decision, never taking into account, that she too, was caught within the nets of the Curse, and that no matter how much she showered her love on the sons of Fëanor, they were all doomed, including herself…