Full Circle

The delicious aroma of freshly baked apple muffins and freshly brewed coffee roused Buffy from her slumber. She slowly eased upright, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Good morning, darling,” greeted Maglor, who sat beside her on the bed. He offered her a mug of the steamy brew. “Hungry?”

“I am now,” she answered, carefully taking the cup from her beloved. “Those smell heavenly,” she added, eyeing the plate of muffins on the bedside table.

“They taste it as well,” he replied, as he put a couple of the apple cakes on a plate and handed it to her. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a rock,” answered the Slayer, placing the plate on her lap. She was more interested in her beverage, needing her morning pick-me-up. She blew on the steaming coffee before taking a quick sip. Turning her green eyes to her husband, she asked, “How’s your face feeling?”

Maglor instinctively touched his injured cheek. “The pain’s gone. I’ve already bathed and redressed the wound this morning.”

“In a few days, you won’t know it was ever there.”

Buffy nibbled on a muffin, listening to the rain pounding against the roof of Lindon Hall. Outside, all was grey. It was one of those mornings where she didn’t want to get out of bed.

“Your people are already preparing for tonight’s festivities,” mentioned the Noldo, before taking a bite of his breakfast.

“Good. We’re in dire need of some merriment around here.” She turned her gaze to the nearest window, wishing that it wasn’t so dreary outside. “Ooh, that reminds me, there’s something that I want to discuss with you.”

Maglor raised his brows, not wanting to talk with his mouth full.

“You know how the Green-elves named me Queen when we got back from the East.”

He nodded.

“Well, even though technically I’m ruler by proxy, I’ve accepted the title and the power it holds.”

“The Laiquendi think highly of you, Bella,” replied her husband proudly. “And it’s well deserved. You’ve done great things for these people and this land.”

“They seem to think so too, especially Thranduil, who by all right, should be holding the scepter,” she responded, nibbling on a piece of muffin. “Since he’s not quite ready, I still wield the power. I’ve talked with my councilors about this, and they agree… I’ve decided to appoint you as a Prince of Ossiriand, you know, because you’re my husband and all - you should have a respectable title of some sort,” she smiled.

“Prince of Ossir, huh?” he chuckled, wiping his mouth on his napkin. “I deem that I’ll always be a Prince, but never a King,” he added jokingly.

“I can’t give you such a title. I’m the highest authority here, and I’m not about to let anyone think that a man rules over me!”

“It was said in jest, Bella,” replied Maglor, noticing the cutting tone of her words. “Please don’t take it the wrong way.”

“I know, but still… ” she paused, shrugging her shoulders. “Your comment kinda hit me the wrong way, I guess. I didn’t mean to snap at you… It’s just, you made me think of Melian, you know?” Buffy paused again, turning her gaze toward the northern window. “It really grates me that she lets Thingol call the shots in Doriath when she’s more powerful than he. He’s so proud and willful… I’m afraid that, in the end, his lust for wealth is gonna bring about his downfall,” she added faintly, not realizing that she was speaking her last thought aloud.

As soon as she had spoken those words, she recognized her mistake in doing so. She quickly shifted her eyes back to the Noldo. A shadow had fallen over her beloved, causing his facial expression to change. His eyes narrowed in anger, a twisted scowl graced his otherwise handsome face. Maglor had squeezed the partially eaten muffin in his hand so hard that it oozed out between his fingers, clumps of cake falling onto the bedclothes.

The Slayer bit her lip, cringing at the thought that she had inadvertently mentioned the Silmaril in a roundabout way. Her heart dropped to her stomach, instantly killing her appetite. She had to do something quick to divert her husband’s attention from the Jewel of Fëanor.

“I think you’ve slain your breakfast,” she said jokingly in an attempt to lighten Maglor’s mood. She grabbed her plate and placed it and her coffee on the bedside table. “Here, let me help you.” She took her husband’s muffin covered hand and started licking the tasty pieces from his fingers as provocatively as she could.

The Noldo turned his eyes to his wife. The shadow that seemed to have fallen over him immediately dissipated. A smile came to his face. “Who needs a napkin when I’ve got you?” he chortled.

Buffy smiled in reply, her lips sticky from the glaze on the muffin. She pressed her lips to his, kissing him hungrily. Maglor’s plate fell to the floor and she threw herself on top of her husband, knowing the perfect way to divert her husband’s thoughts from the Silmarils…




By mid-afternoon, the showers that had plagued Lindon all morning finally ceased. To Buffy’s delight, a rainbow arched across the clearing sky. The sight of that only reaffirmed that it was the perfect day to celebrate life. Although the people of Ossir, including herself, were still mourning, the Slayer asked that everyone put aside their grief for one day. No songs of lamentation were to be sung, no weeping in public, and absolutely no talk of losing the war would be allowed. The day was meant to rejoice in those that had made it home, and to welcome the newly arrived Noldor from the House of Fëanor.

The festivities started at suppertime with a huge feast. Ideally, the Slayer would’ve loved to have offered her guests freshly roasted boar, but since it was summertime, and the cooks had less than twenty-four hours to prepare, they had to make due with what they had stored in their larders. Instead, her guests dined on roast beef, ham, and smoked fish, along with a plethora of fresh vegetables that had recently been harvested.

Before they started on dessert, Amrod and Amras arrived from Amon Ereb with a few members of their Household. For the first time in many years, all seven sons of Fëanor were together. While the twins were saddened to hear that Himring had been razed, a part of them was happy to know that their siblings now dwelled closer to their own home.

With all seven brothers present, Buffy felt it was the ideal time to proclaim to her guests Maglor’s newly appointed status within Ossir. When the festivities had moved to her Great Hall, she led her husband to the dais, named him Prince of Ossiriand, and placed on his head a crown of green leaves (the symbol of royalty in Ossir).

Maglor was touched by the gesture for he was the only Noldo granted any power within Ossir. He thanked the Green-elves, telling them how honored he was to be accounted amongst those noble people.

Unbeknownst to Maglor and the Slayer, the two C-brothers scoffed at their elder brother’s appointment, especially his wearing of a crown of leaves upon his head. They mockingly referred to him as a Lord amongst Cretins, something Buffy surely would have banished them from Ossiriand had she overheard. Already, Celegorm and Curufin were working on Caranthir, trying their best to sever his close friendship with their sister-in-law. It was something that would take many years to accomplish, but, in times to come, they would sway not only Caranthir, but also the other brothers into doing the unthinkable.

Orchal and the band graced the attendees with tunes that Buffy had pre-selected, playing a variety of songs, some of elvish origin, some from the End of Days. Over the years, she had had the Green-elves add a horn section to their band, as those instruments could mimic electric guitars more than violins and violas.

No celebration was complete without alcohol, and this one was no exception. The Slayer offered her guests a wide variety of ale, wine and spirits, which everybody partook of, perhaps a bit too much, including Buffy herself. Some time during the night, someone offered her a glass of ‘special’ elvish wine. The Green-elves had earned the reputation for making wines that could actually induce the drinker to behave in certain ways. Buffy normally avoided those types of beverages unless they brought about sleep. However, there were many in attendance, among them, Orchal and Thranduil, that longed to hear their Queen sing, something she hadn’t done since Sargon’s funeral long ago. The latter slipped her a glass of wine that stirred her to sing. Finding herself unable to fight the effects of the alcohol, the Slayer then serenaded her husband, accompanied by Orchal and his band mates:

“Tonight’s the night we’ll make history, honey, you and I
And I’ll take any risk to tie back the hands of time
And stay with you here tonight
I know you feel these are the worst of times
I do believe it’s true
When people lock their doors and hide inside
Rumor has it, it’s the end of paradise
But I know, if the world just passed us by
Baby I know, you wouldn’t have to cry

The best of times are when I’m alone with you
Some rain, some shine, we’ll make this a world for two
Our memories of yesterday will last a lifetime
We’ll take the best, forget the rest
And someday we’ll find these are the best of times
These are the best of times

The headlines read these are the worst of times
I do believe it’s true
I feel so helpless like a boat against the tide
I wish the summer winds could bring back paradise
But I know, if the world turned upside down
Baby, I know you’d always be around

The best of times are when I’m alone with you
Some rain, some shine, we’ll make this a world for two
Our memories of yesterday will last a lifetime
We’ll take the best, forget the rest
And someday we’ll find these are the best of times
These are the best of times” *

The elves and mortals burst into applause when Buffy had finished her song. If she hadn’t been so tipsy, she would’ve been embarrassed. She had never considered her vocal skills extraordinary, especially in the company of the likes of Maglor and Orchal, whose melodious voices were superb.

Even though she was asked to sing another song, the Slayer refused. “One song every hundred years is more than enough,” she laughed in reply.

The band then began to play again. This time Maglor graced the guests with his beautiful voice. Orchal asked Buffy to dance with him, which she did. While they danced, she caught a glimpse of Luthor standing alone across the room, a wistful look on his face. She suddenly stopped, causing Orchal to stumble.

“Hey! What are you doing?” asked the slightly inebriated elf.

“Look at Luthor,” she said, craning her neck over the many people dancing around them. She dragged the Green-elf from the dance floor in order to get a better look at the old man. He was staring at something or someone. Following his gaze, she noticed that his eyes were locked on Lalwen, who was talking with Amrod and Amras. “Oh… my… God. Do you see that?” asked the stunned Slayer.

“See what?” asked a perplexed Orchal.

“Luthor’s staring at Lalwen.”

Orchal looked at the Maia. “So. What’s the big deal?”

“Look at the look in his eyes, the look on his face. I think my father figure has the hots for a certain Noldo Princess.”

“I can’t say that I blame him. She is rather attractive,” answered the elf, matter-of-factly.

“But its Luthor,” she answered. Both her face and her voice reflected her disapproval. “He’s old. And he’s not supposed to think about women in that way.”

“Would you prefer that he look at men in that way?” laughed Orchal.

Buffy slapped her friend’s arm. “No!” She paused, and resumed her close observation of the Maia. “Don’t you think it’s… kinda creepy?” she asked, her face wrinkled in disgust.

“Oh, Bella, you’re the Vala of Love, for Eru’s sake,” replied the Green-elf with a roll of his eyes. “Surely, of all people, you can appreciate one’s being smitten by the beauty of another.”

“But its Luthor!” she answered in protest.

“So what! If Luthor has a thing for Lalwen, so be it. I’m sure it’s one-sided, any way.” He grabbed her hands. “Now, come on. Dance with me.”

Orchal pulled Buffy back onto the dance floor, yet her mind was preoccupied by the Maia’s obvious desire for the elf maiden. The thought of her father figure yearning for her best female friend disturbed her greatly. Never, in all the years she had known Luthor, had she seen him look at any one in that way. She found it rather disconcerting. Her thoughts quickly turned to her dance partner, who had ‘accidentally’ stamped on her foot.

The revelry continued throughout the night, even after the Slayer went to Folkvang to carry out her sacred duties. It wasn’t until dawn that the last guest left her Halls.

After sleeping away a great portion of the day, the Slayer took off in her chariot for Tol Galen. She met with Beren and Lúthien, informing them of the events that had transpired in the war and the arrival of not only the Noldor but the sons of Fëanor to Ossir. Beren was greatly dismayed to hear that Celegorm and Curufin were now dwelling in the same lands as he and his wife, but was somewhat relieved when Buffy told him that the Noldor were not permitted to travel south of the Duilwen under penalty of death. She promised to keep both of them safe and that there was no need to worry about the brothers.

Lúthien was happy that the Slayer had taken it upon herself to deliver the news in person. From that day forward, Buffy would check in with the couple at least once every other week. Sometimes she would bring Olofin and Thranduil with her, other times Luthor and Orchal. And sometimes, she came by herself.



Time seemed to fly by as the days turned into weeks. Just as Orchal had predicted, the first of many elves that had survived the battles in the north found their way to Ossir. The first group to arrive was led by Gûrauth and Narudhur, formerly of the House of Fingolfin. Buffy was quite skeptical of those seeking sanctuary in her lands, especially the Noldo Captain and his underling.

“How is it that you survived the onslaught of the battle when the rest of Fingon’s Household perished?” she queried, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Our Lord had sent us on an errand - to Círdan,” answered the weary Captain. “Fingon feared the worst would happen and asked that we deliver an urgent message to his son, Ereinion, who dwells in Barad Nimras with the Shipwright.”

“Hmm,” answered the Slayer, tapping her fingers on the armrest of her wooden throne. “If you speak the truth, then you won’t mind if I take a sampling of your blood to confirm that which you say. That goes for all of you,” she continued, her eyes scanning the many people in her Great Hall, including the women and children. “The thralls of Morgoth have infiltrated our people in the past, and I’m not about to allow that to happen again. Any that refuse will be escorted to the northern borders and left to fend for themselves.”

“We are neither spies nor thralls, my Lady,” answered Gûrauth, speaking on behalf of those fifty-three people that accompanied him. “Many more were in our company but were slain on the journey. Perilous were the roads that brought us here! If you wish to verify that we speak the truth, then do so. We have nothing to hide. We’ve come seeking sanctuary within your lands, knowing that Ulmo protects all that dwell here.”

Buffy turned her gaze to her guards, and with a nod of her head, they proceeded to take a sampling of every individual’s blood. None were exempt, not even the children. The Slayer was not about to leave anything to chance, knowing how unscrupulous Morgoth could be. She wouldn’t put anything past the evil Vala, including the use of children as spies.

After all the blood was collected, Buffy led her guards to the chamber that contained her Mirror. The newly arrived elves waited in her Great Hall, under heavy guard, until she could determined whether or not they spoke the truth. For many hours, she remained locked within that room, carefully studying the lives of the Sindar and Noldor. Yet, in the end, she determined that they all spoke the truth, thus she permitted them to remain in Lindon.

For some time thereafter, the Slayer would employ that same method with all those that came to her lands.

By the time autumn had arrived, Buffy had sent out her doves to act as spies in the northern territories occupied by the enemy. Hearing the high-pitched howls of the wargs on those cool, crisp nights disheartened her. It proved that the minions of Morgoth were treading ever closer to her own borders, giving her cause to worry. However, since the destruction of the Noldorin realms in the north, Ulmo was spending more and more of his time in the Gelion, watching over the Slayer and her people. At times, when the enemy dared to near the River Ascar, the Lord of Waters would blow on the Ulumúri, the music striking fear into the heartless minions of Morgoth, sending them fleeing north.

Very seldom did Buffy look into her Mirror to see what was happening outside her lands. After having witnessed the horrors that had taken place in Dor-lómin, she had no desire to see what crimes Melkor Bauglir was committing. She only used that device to determine whether or not the newly arrived people to her realm were in league with Morgoth.

Most of her time was devoted to matters closer to her heart - her family, especially the sons of Fëanor. She remained resolved to find a way to thwart the Curse that lay upon the brothers, and her obsession to do so was of greater importance than those who truly needed her, for those that dwelled in the north still lived in peril.

The Queen of Ossir did everything in her power to make the sons of Fëanor feel at home, especially the C-brothers. The thought that they might consider joining the twins on Amon Ereb terrified her. She wanted to keep the five brothers in Lindon so that she and her most trusted friends could keep an eye on them. She lavished gifts upon the Noldo Princes, most brought from Folkvang, and sang their praises whenever the opportunity arose.

When the Slayer began to downplay the past deeds of Celegorm and Curufin, an uneasiness crept into the hearts of some in her Household. To those wise few, it was the first visible sign that their Mistress had become entangled in the web of Doom. Unfortunately, none approached the Slayer with their concerns having seen in the past how quickly her temper would flare when her conduct was called into question.

To Buffy, everything seemed to return to normal within her House, and her contentment grew with each passing day. The C-brothers relished the attention she gave them. In return, they treated her with the utmost respect and showed her much kindness and love, for they knew how important it was to earn her trust again.

When, after many months, none of the Slayer’s doves returned bringing news from the north, she grew fearful. It seemed obvious to her that Morgoth’s creatures had captured and most likely killed her holy messengers. She then called upon the falcons in the area, whose language she had learned long ago. She then sent her birds of prey into the wilds, bidding them to bring her tidings from northern Beleriand and to kill any foul creatures that attempted to waylay them.

The first of her falcon messengers returned in the spring of Yr 474, and he brought her good news indeed! Círdan had taken it upon himself to assail Morgoth’s minions along the coast. The Sindar and Noldor of the Falas would make swift landings, attack the enemy, then return to their ships and set sail further north. None of the evil followers of the Dark Lord dare pursue the Faladrim. All feared the water, particularly the sea.

Unfortunately, before the year was out, she would hear dismal news from her winged friends. Morgoth, having grown tired of Círdan’s raids, sent forth a host from Angband that included scores of Balrogs. Marching south, the enemy brought with them the engines they had seized from Barad Sirion during Nirnaeth Arnoediad. They used the war machines that Buffy had built to break through the white gleaming walls that surrounded the two major havens of the Falas - Eglarest and Brithombar.

A horrific battle was fought between the Faladrim and the demonic creatures of Morgoth. Barad Nimras was destroyed and those not slain in the conflict were taken captive. Círdan, by the grace of Ulmo, managed to escape with many from his Household, including young Ereinion. They fled on a number of ships, leaving the only place that most had called home for thousands of years.

Sailing south, they took refuge on the Isle of Balar, which was located nearly one hundred miles southwest of the Mouths of Sirion. In times to come, Círdan would also keep a foothold at the Mouths of Sirion where he would hide many light and swift ships amidst the reed infested waters so that any that wished to escape the evil spreading throughout Beleriand would be free to do so.

Of these things, Buffy told no one. She preferred to keep such distressing news to herself, wisely or unwisely as it may have been. Feeling the burden of guilt on her shoulders, she made her way to the chamber that contained her Mirror. After locking the door behind her, she plunked down on one of the overstuffed chairs and wept. She felt terrible and somewhat responsible for those that had died at the Falas. She couldn’t help but think that her shunning of her slayer duties had brought that all about. For the first time ever, she felt the weariness of her five hundred and seven years of life, that is, her life since being born as Buffy Anne Summers.

Even though it had been eighteen months since the war had ended, she wasn’t about to send her people back into the wilds of Beleriand to battle the creatures of Bauglir. How could she? Her forces were vastly outnumbered by the Dark Lord’s minions. Perhaps, if her powers suddenly returned, and she could re-embody those Green-elves that had died in past battles, she could give Melkor a run for his money. But then again, only those elves of her Household and personal guard that had bound themselves to her were still around, the rest had gone to Mandos.

Am I not entitled to any peace? she thought to herself. Is my entire life supposed to be a constant struggle with the enemy? Don’t I get to enjoy time with my family and friends in the safety of my own lands? She raised her head, the last of her tears streamed down her rosy cheeks. Why can’t someone else do the fighting and leave me be? Why don’t the Valar get off their asses already and oust Melkor from his throne?

She hardened her heart, realizing those at the root of all her problems.

“The Valar!” she uttered with disdain. Buffy dried her eyes on the sleeve of her sweater.

They claim to be the Guardians of Arda, but what the hell have they actually done, besides mourn that which once was, she said bitterly in her mind. They care nothing for the peoples of Middle-earth or me, except, maybe Ulmo! Why should I keep on fighting when they don’t lift a finger to battle the enemy? Maybe it’s high time that I do as they do and hide away in my little kingdom, refusing to aid those that could use my help. Maybe that’s what Eru wants. Didn’t Irmo say that all the peoples of Middle-earth decided which path to tread? Doesn’t the same apply to me? Don’t I have a say in the matter?

Her thoughts turned to Finrod and their many debates regarding pre-destiny versus free will. The Noldo was a big proponent of the latter while Buffy argued the former. She believed that free will was a gift given only to the Children of Ilúvatar and the Dwarves since Irmo had never mentioned that the Ainur were given the same choice.

She stared at the Mirror, contemplating whether or not she should use it to see her future. After sitting there for a long while, she decided not to.



As the years passed swiftly by, the falcons continued to bring her news from outside Ossiriand. Rumor of two mighty warriors known only as the Dragon-helm and the Bow were quickly spreading throughout the lands. It was said that they possessed such skill that they were putting a dent in the Morgoth’s numbers, and that the roads were a bit safer to travel than in years past. That news eased Buffy’s mind, for it seemed that others were picking up her slack, fighting the forces of Darkness when she found herself unable to.

She remained in Ossir, strengthening her bonds of love and friendship with those that mattered most to her. Life was good for the Slayer, or so it seemed, and her family grew closer than ever before. So much so, that she soon gave little heed to anything happening outside of her realm. And by Yr 492, she no longer sent her spies abroad, trusting in the powers of Ulmo to protect her and her people.

In Yr 496, some from Nargothrond came to Ossir, seeking sanctuary in those lands. Buffy was told that a great host sent from Angband had defeated Nargothrond, and that Glaurung, the Great Worm, now resided in the former halls of Finrod Felagund. She learned that the whisperings about the one called the Black Sword, also known as the Dragon-helm, was none other than Túrin, son of Húrin, whose ill-advised counsels had brought about the downfall of Nargothrond. The survivors spoke bitterly about the son of Húrin, as their grief was still heavy from their recent loss.

“Do not hold the one whom you call Mormegil to blame for the fall of Nargothrond,” she said to the Noldor. “The blame lies with Orodreth, who, unlike his brother, chose to fight in the open instead of by stealth.”

“But, my Lady, it was Túrin who advised our King to fight in the open, to build the bridge before our gates, which allowed the enemy to assail us with ease,” countered Aradol.

“I am truly sorry for your loss,” answered Buffy sympathetically. “But what you must understand is that Húrin and his seed have been cursed by Morgoth. You should find pity in your heart for Túrin, and not speak of him with such contempt. Who here has the power to fight such a doom? Who here has the power to contest the will of Morgoth?” she queried to all those present.

“It is said that you do, my Lady. It is said that Bellaseth Dagnir is Morgoth’s Bane,” answered the elf.

Buffy’s chilling laughter echoed within her Great Hall. “Oh, how I wish that were true, but look at me, Aradol. I’m nothing but a shell of my former self. I’m weak, powerless. My people were defeated in a war we long prepared for. Six days,” she continued with a scowl on her face, “six days it took for Morgoth to defeat us. That’s no Bane.” She gulped down the rest of her wine in hope that it would ease the sadness in her heart.

“But what of Glaurung?” shouted a maiden from amidst the newly arrived Noldor. “Would you not pursue that beast to the death?”

The Slayer’s face turned grim. “I’ve decided not to send my people into open war again. We will trust that Ulmo will keep us safe. I have no hope for better days. All I see is darkness as the tendrils of Morgoth creep further south from the pits of Hell.” She shook her head, stifling back her tears. “I’m not your savior. I never was,” she added sadly.

Buffy rose from her throne and turned to her son. “You decide whether or not they stay, Olofin. It’s not my decision to make any more.” She then left the chamber.

A disquiet fell upon her closest friends. Only hours before, Buffy’s mood was cheerful, yet, after those arrived from Nargothrond, it seemed that a shadow had fallen upon their Queen. They had not heard her speak so morosely since her defeat in Sumer long ago. They could only assume that she knew a lot more than she cared to reveal.

For days afterward, the Slayer remained in a melancholy state, refusing to speak with any, including Maglor and Olofin. It was Lalwen that finally got her to break her silence. Buffy confided to the elleth the she had foreseen the fall of Nargothrond in a dream. Not only that, but she also had seen the sacking of Menegroth and the destruction of what had to be Gondolin.

“One by one, all our allies are going to fall,” she said in a faraway voice. “I’ve seen it. And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Lalwen grabbed Buffy by the shoulders, shaking her, as though that would bring her dearest friend back to her senses. “You cannot lose hope, Bella. I deem that the time has arrived for you to pick up the blade and return to the battles in the north. That’s where you belong, where we belong.”

“It’s pointless, Lalwen, that’s what you don’t get,” protested Buffy in dismay. “This is a war we can’t win, not without the aid of those in the West. I know that now. I’ve seen it. Our hope lies in Dior. He’s our salvation.” Buffy turned away from the elleth, and walked to her bedroom window, looking up at the star-speckled sky. “Only one born with both the blood of Elf and Man will be able to persuade the Valar to war,” she said softly.

Lalwen’s jaw dropped, stunned that she had never heard that before. She rushed to Buffy’s side. “Why have you never spoken of this before?” asked the woman, studying her friend carefully.

The Slayer shifted her gaze to her companion. “Because we still have a long wait before us.”

“You’ve seen this, seen this in a dream.”

“I’ve seen things, yes,” answered Buffy, looking back at the stars strung above. “But I’ve also heard it from Irmo centuries ago.”

“Then there is yet another great war before us,” said Lalwen in a stunned voice.

“The likes the Eldar and Man have never witnessed to date,” replied the Slayer in a mere whisper. She sighed, facing her friend once again. “Don’t tell anyone what I’ve told you. It’s to be our secret. Promise me.”

“I promise, Bella. I won’t tell a soul,” answered the Noldo Princess.

“I believe you,” answered Buffy, smiling for the first time in days. “It feels so good to get that off my chest.” She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Now, I feel the need to get drunk. Care to join me?”

“Why not?” The two women then left the chamber, arm in arm.



Something strange happened in autumn of that same year. Flurries of snow fell in Ossir for the first time since the Green-elves had taken up residence in those lands long ago. It would mark the beginning of a long cold winter that would last well into the spring of the following year. All the northern regions of Ossir lay blanketed in snow, as far south as the River Brilthor. The northern rivers iced over, save for the Gelion, causing Buffy’s paranoia to grow. She and the Green-elves had witnessed this same change in the weather when they had begun the long trek from Sumer centuries before. This was a demonstration of how great Morgoth’s powers had become. The Eldar would refer to this as the Fell Winter of Yr 496.

When the first of the year rolled around, the Dark Lord decided to test the Slayer’s strength and vigilance. He sent out a legion of yrch to assail her lands, but she was ready. All of the warriors, both Green-elves and Noldor, hid themselves amid the snow-covered branches of the trees, cloaked in white so that they were not easy to spot.

The yrch Captain sent several of his men across the frozen stream to determine whether or not the ice was sturdy enough to cross. When the men crossed, and disappeared into the wood, none of their brethren heard or saw a thing as the enemy fell dead by unseen hands. The yrch then lined up, and started to march across the Ascar. When they were halfway across the frozen stream, Orchal began to sing a song of power taught to him by Ulmo ages before.

The ice cracked beneath the feet of the enemy, breaking apart, so that many went to a watery grave. Yet it did not stop with that. The spell also caused a swell of water to gush forth from the Ascar’s source. All watched in amazement as a wave, nearly sixty feet tall, came rushing down from the shoulders of Ered Luin, swiftly washing away the enemy. The elves remained safe in the treetops as the roaring flow of water spilled over the embankments, drowning the lands on either side of the stream for roughly a half mile. It was an incredible sight to behold, and proved that even though Ulmo could not always be in that region, the magics that he had taught Orchal would protect those that dwelled in the Land of Seven Rivers when the Vala was busy elsewhere.

Morgoth would send no more forces to Ossir after that.



In the spring of Yr 503, Buffy awoke suddenly with a heaviness in her heart. Turning toward her beloved, she saw that Maglor still slept peaceably. Unable to shake that feeling, she crept out of bed, and quietly dressed as the sun began its ascent in the east. Being driven by what she could only construe as some unseen force that she didn’t totally understand at the time, she planned to journey into Western Beleriand, unaware that she herself was an unwitting player in the ending of the tragic events that had happened to the greatest warrior to come out of the House of Bëor.

She summoned Barathalion and Noeriel, who were fast asleep in Thranduil’s room, bidding them to come with her. Taking the lifts to the ground below, a chill swept over her, causing her to shiver uncontrollably. She pulled up the collar on her coat, and put the knitted cap she kept in her pocket over her head, stilling the cold that overcame her.

The lions pleaded with her to tell them where they were going, but the Slayer herself didn’t really know. After she hitched her chariot to the beasts, they took off, heading due west, following the course of the Ascar. They traveled in silence, which was a rarity for the cats. But it seemed that they too had become overwhelmed by the same feeling as their Mistress and instinctively knew the way to go.

When they reached the Sirion, they veered northwest, crossing the Narog, the River Ginglith, and the Woods of Núath. As they flew over the far southwestern peaks of Ered Wethrin, Buffy vaguely recollected that area in times past when she had first learned the art of astral projection. The smell of salt wafted in the air, and she knew then that they were nearing the sea. Things had changed since Buffy was last in that region. Beneath her, she saw the city Turgon had founded upon his arrival in Middle-earth, Vinyamar, located along the coast in the lands that the Noldo Lord had named Nevrast.

Barathalion and Noeriel touched down outside the former Halls of the current King of the Noldor. The entire city was deserted except for some wildlife and birds that had taken refuge in the abandoned dwellings. Over the years, the city had fallen into disrepair. The stone structures seemed to lament their former occupants. Buffy could actually feel it, their longing to be lived in once again, to hear the joyful laughter of the children, to hear the minstrels sing of days of bliss, to feel the love that the Noldor had had for their city in times past. It was a sad place now. Yet the memories of bygone days still lived on in stone, wood and brick.

As the Slayer unhitched the lions, allowing them the freedom to explore, a flock of gulls flew overhead. Their woeful squawking caused her heart to ache with sorrow. With the sun now blazing down upon her, she pulled off her coat and hat, tossing them over the side of her chariot. She paused. Shielding her eyes from the sunlight, she slowly turned, looking at the mountains that looped around the deserted city.

Feeling her sadness deepen, she climbed the steps leading to the former Halls of Turgon. The weeds that grew between the stones rustled in the breeze as the gulls cries faded in the distance. She glanced up at the doorway at the top of the stairs. One door lay broken on the stone floor. The other, attached by only a single hinge, creaking mournfully with the movement of air.

Buffy made her way across the debris-covered floor, the sound of broken glass crunching beneath her feet. She could hear the wind howling as it forced it way through the cracks in some of the windows. Others, had the glass smashed out, whether by the hand of the enemy or the ravages of weather, she didn’t know.

Even though she had never been to that place before, her feet knew exactly down which corridors to tread. Soon, she found herself on a terrace at the back of the mansion. The blue waters of Belegaer stretched out before her as far as her eyes could see.

She drank in the magnificence of Ulmo’s greatest creation. Unfortunately, the sight of the sea stirred feelings of sadness and loneliness within her. She inhaled deeply, tasting the salt on her tongue. The ocean breeze blew strands of her golden hair loose from its clasp. The stray wisps lashed at her face. She glanced to her south and north, and noticed how the terrain differed. To the south, the lands sloped downward, meeting the sandy shoreline. But to the north, the land rose, forming high cliffs with dark sheer walls against which the waves of the sea broke. She then noticed a lone cloaked figure, leaning on a tall staff, at the edge of the cliff to her north.

Buffy immediately took off toward the stranger, increasing her pace with each step. She knew that that person was the reason behind her sudden need to travel to Turgon’s former kingdom, although she had no idea who it might be.

As she neared the cloaked figure, she could see that it was a man. His clothing was weatherworn and tattered. His filthy wrinkled hands clung to a black, twisted walking stick. He slowly turned, facing Buffy, who slowed her gait, trying to catch her breath.

“I have come,” she said breathlessly to the stranger, stopping beside him.

The man threw back his hood. His long silver matted hair and beard shimmered in the sunlight. The pain of his many years of torment was etched into his aged gaunt face. His grey piercing eyes reminded her of the old man’s forefather, and revealed the anguish that was forced upon him.

“Luinil,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You are here at last, when my time has finally come.”

Buffy’s heart broke as she looked upon the lord of Dor-lómin with tear-filled eyes. “Húrin,” she said, her voice breaking as she spoke. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you.” She placed her hands atop his withered ones that continued to clutch his twisted staff.

“I have lived a cursed life, as have my wife and children. The Doom of Morgoth has been fulfilled, and I’ve lost all that I loved. I have nothing left. I am a broken man who was forced to witness the horrors that the Dark Lord inflicted upon my kin,” he said sadly, turning his gaze back to the sea. “He has taken all from me.”

The Slayer didn’t know what to say. She stood there motionless, trying to hold back her tears, which were burning in her eyes.

Húrin cast aside his walking stick, knocking the Slayer’s hands off his own in the process. “It is over,” he said, stepping closer to the edge of the cliff. “Farewell cruel world. Bitter have been my days. Woe has defeated Húrin Thalion at last.”

The mortal made a move to leap off the cliff, but Buffy cried out, “NO!” as threw her body atop his, the force sending them both falling to the ground. “Don’t do this, Húrin. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to end.”

“There’s nothing left of me, Bellaseth. I’m spent,” he moaned in hopelessness.

“That’s no reason to kill yourself! You’re only sixty-three!” she argued.

“Yet I feel at least twice that old.”

Buffy looked into the old man’s pain-riddled eyes. “What has he done to you? Tell me of your woe.”

“It is too dreadful a tale to tell,” he protested, shaking his head with dismay.

“You won’t have to,” she replied, rolling off Húrin. She pulled the old man into a sitting position. Taking a seat across from him, the Slayer crossed her legs and took his hands in her own. “Show me; show me all that has befallen your family.”

Furrowing his brows, he asked, “How?”

“Look into my eyes, but do not break eye contact.” She took a deep breath. “The eyes are the gateway to the soul, at least, that’s what I’ve been told. Show me.”

The mortal locked eyes with the Vala. Both concentrated, and the cursed life of Húrin’s kin unfolded before her eyes:


When Túrin was but a boy, Morwen feared that her son would be enslaved by the evil Easterlings, so she sent her only son to Thingol in hope that the elven King would remember the House of Bëor, and foster her son in the safety of Menegroth. Both Thingol and Melian took the kinsman of Beren in, raising him as though he were their own.

The son of Húrin was taught the lore of the elves, and was treated with great honor and respect. He learned to wield axe, bow, sword and spear from the mightiest of Thingol’s chieftains, especially Beleg, who took the young man under his wing, teaching him all he knew about warfare. When Túrin reached his late teens, he began to fight along the northern fences of Doriath, hunting and killing the yrch that roamed close to the borders of that land.

An unfortunate incident with Saeros, one of Thingol’s councilors, caused the young man to flee the realm of Thingol, fearing that the elven King would punish him unjustly for the mishap that resulted in the elf’s death. Yet there happened to be a witness to the death of the councilor of Doriath. When Thingol heard all she had to say, he deemed that Túrin had been wronged and pardoned the young man.

But it was too late. Joining a band of wandering ruffians, Túrin took to a life of crime, killing any Man, Elf or Orch that happened to cross his and his cohorts’ path.

The Lord of Doriath was grieved that the son of Húrin was driven from the place he had called home, and wished to bring him back. As chance would have it, Beleg arrived from the northern marches, seeking Túrin. When he spoke to Thingol and Melian and learned of what had happened, he asked that he be the one to find the Adan and bring him back. The King gave his leave, and soon afterward, Beleg Strongbow, set off in search of Túrin.

After searching far and wide, Beleg happened to find the outlaw gang. He desperately tried to persuade Túrin to return with him to Doriath, telling him of Thingol’s pardon, but the young man’s pride prevented him from doing so. With a heavy heart, Beleg Cúthalion returned to Menegroth and told Thingol what Túrin had said.

The Lord of Doriath was dismayed by what he heard, for he wished to fulfill his oath to Morwen and protect her only son. It was then that Beleg asked to leave Doriath and to act as a guide and companion to the son of Húrin in hope that he could dissuade him from his life of crime. Thingol agreed to this, and in gratitude, he told Beleg that he could take anything within his vaults or armories that he wished, save Aranrúth, his sword. The march warden chose Anglachel, the sword wrought by the dark-tempered elf, Eöl, long ago from a fallen meteorite.

Now, as fate would have it, Túrin led his band of outlaws to Amon Rûdh, west of the Sirion. They happened to come upon a few dwarves, who fled before the men. After killing one, the victim’s father, who happened to be none other than Mîm, the dwarf that Luthor had banished from the Deeper Well years before, offered to show them the secret way to his dwelling within the caves only if the strangers would spare his life. Since Túrin felt saddened by the death of one of Mîm’s sons, he accepted his offer, not perceiving the wicked heart of dwarf.

When winter came, and food became scarce, Beleg happened to arrive, remembering Túrin’s words at their last meeting. The elf brought with him lembas, which was a gift from Melian, and he gladly shared the elvish way bread with the outlaws. With him, Beleg also brought the heirloom of the House of Hador, the helm that had once belonged to the lord of that house, and gave it to the son of Húrin. The timely arrival of Túrin’s old friend caused the mortal to have a change of heart and he turned away from his life of outlawry. Together, he, Beleg and his companions began to assail the enemy from the secret location of that cave, earning them the names: Dragon-helm and the Bow.

As luck would have it, or by ill fate, Mîm and his surviving son had left the lair to collect berries and roots and were caught by a band of yrch. The dwarf pleaded for the life of himself and his son, and in return, led the enemy to the warriors’ hideout in the caves. There, the men were slain, save for Túrin, who was taken captive, bound in fetters, and led away to Angband. Yet Beleg was not dead, and after the yrch had left, Mîm noticed that, and was of mind to finish the elf off. As he raised the sword, Anglachel, to deliver his deadly blow, Beleg bolted upright and seized the weapon from the dwarf. The Elf Lord struck out at Mîm, but missed, due to his many wounds.

The dwarf wailed in his distress, fleeing the cave as Beleg shouted, “The vengeance of the House of Hador will find you yet!” Trained in the arts of healing, the elf was able to heal himself before he set out in search of the son of Húrin.

With little hope, Beleg picked up the trail of the enemy, and pursued them as they went north through Western Beleriand. Unlike his foes, he went without sleep, closing the gap between them and him. When the Elf Lord came upon an elf sleeping at the feet of a dead tree, he woke him, and asked about the yrch band he was tailing. The elf happened to be Gwindor, who had managed to escape the mines of Angband, and was on his way back to Nargothrond. Beleg pitied the elf, who was now hunched and riddled with age, the result of the thralldom of Melkor Bauglir. He gave the Noldo lembas as he had been living in the wilds for a while. Gwindor then told his kinsman about the great company of yrch that had been through the woods and the tall dark-haired man they held captive.

Beleg convinced the Noldo to aid him in his quest to save Túrin. Since Gwindor was unable to dissuade the Elf Lord, he reluctantly agreed.

At night, they finally came upon the company. All lay sleeping, relying on the wolf sentinels to keep watch. One by one, Beleg slew them all with his skill with the bow. The two elves then crept into the camp and found Túrin in a fitful sleep of weariness, fetters on his feet and hands, and bound to a tree. They cut the binds and quietly carried him out of the camp. They were not able to take him far, only to the thickets a short distance above the dell where the yrch lay sleeping. As a thunderstorm approached, Beleg pulled out Anglachel and began to cut the iron fetters off the young man’s wrists and ankles. Unfortunately, he pricked Túrin’s ankle, rousing the mortal from his sleep.

Thinking that the yrch had decided to resume their torments, the son of Húrin wailed, wrestling in the darkness with his unseen enemy. He grabbed the blade and plunged it into the elf, killing him. Seeing that he was free he stood, as a bolt of lightning flickered above, lighting up the woods. Túrin looked down and saw the fair face of Beleg, lying dead. Horrified by what he had done, he remained still and silent as the yrch awoke with a clamor from the sudden shrieks that pierced the night.

The storm suddenly burst forth its rains, and a great wind came from the west. In their confusion, the yrch believed that those in Valinor had sent the storm to assail them. They looked for Túrin but a little while before hastily setting off toward Angband once more. None realized that their former captive was only yards away, hiding amidst the trees on the slope of those woods.

Gwindor and Túrin remained beside the body of Beleg Cúthalion for the duration of the night. The Noldo decided that he would care for the mortal knowing that that was what Beleg would’ve wanted. The following morning, he asked the son of Húrin to help him bury the Elf Lord of Doriath. In a trancelike state, the Adan helped lay his beloved friend in a shallow grave. They buried his bow beside him, but Gwindor took Anglachel before leading the grief-stricken Adan to Nargothrond.

For many days, Túrin did not speak, but walked in a daze as one without hope or purpose. It wasn’t until they reached the springs of Eithel Ivrin, and the young man drank from those unsullied waters, that he was able to come to terms with his slaying of Beleg and let loose his tears of grief.

The twosome then continued their trek to Nargothrond where they were received by the prayer of Finduilas, for none of Gwindor’s kin recognized him, except for his lover.

Túrin concealed his true identity from all, naming himself Agarwaen, a lone hunter from the woods. His beauty was reminiscent of the Eldar, and the Noldor called him more appropriately, Adanedhel, which meant “Elf-Man”. The smiths’ of Nargothrond re-forged the notched blade, Anglachel for the newly arrived mortal, and he named it Gurthang (“Iron of Death”) in the elvish tongue.

As time passed, the son of Húrin became mighty amongst the Noldor in that hidden realm. He fearlessly fought the enemy that dared enter the plains outside the gates of Nargothrond, and rumor of his approach caused the yrch to flee in terror before the Dragon-helm.

With the roads safer than they were in times past, and Nienor now old enough to travel the dangerous road to Menegroth, Morwen and her daughter set off to join Túrin in Menegroth. Even in Dor-lómin, the legend of the Dragon-helm was heard, and the daughter of Baragund knew that those tales were about her own son.

When they arrived in Doriath and heard that Túrin no longer dwelt there, Morwen and Nienor were dismayed. Yet they remained in Menegroth, where they were held in great honor.



It did not take long for Túrin to become mighty amongst the Noldor in Nargothrond, and after a short time, he had the King’s favor. Since the son of Húrin was a great warrior in his own right, he urged Orodreth to build a great bridge across the Narog so that it would be quicker for the Noldorin armies to march into battle. The Lord of Nargothrond, who was impressed with the valor and skill of the mortal readily agreed, and ordered his people to begin construction right away. The Noldor worked non-stop and completed the bridge within a year.

The elves of the House of Finrod no longer followed the laws set by their Lord long ago, to hunt the enemy by stealth. They now challenged the yrch on the open plains of their realm, giving no thought to the fact that that was the one way to ensure that Morgoth would discover the location of that hidden kingdom.

Indeed, word of the raids by the Nargothrondrim did reach the ears of the Dark Lord, and he now knew that Húrin’s son dwelt there as well. He then sent out a great host, led by Glaurung, to destroy the former Halls of Finrod Felagund and to take all the Noldor captive that they could.

The elves met the yrch and Dragon on the fields of Tumhalad that stretched between the Rivers Narog and Ginglith, and there was fought an awesome battle. Many a valiant elf died, including Orodreth, who cursed Túrin’s name before he died. Morgoth’s armies destroyed nearly all the Noldorin forces in that fight. They then moved on to the Hidden Halls themselves where the evil creatures sacked Nargothrond, taking the surviving Noldor prisoners.

The son of Húrin did surpassing deeds of valor, and when he came upon the Gates of Nargothrond, the enemy had captured nearly all those that dwelt there save those few that were able to flee into the wilds by the secret door. Enraged, Túrin made his way to the terrace where the shackled captives were gathered, slaying all the yrch in his path, but it was not enough.

When he reached the mammoth gates, Glaurung issued forth from the doorway of the Hidden Halls and said, “Hail, son of Húrin. Well met!”

In his fury, the mortal ran toward the Dragon, holding Gurthang aloft. The Great Worm opened his slit-like eyes wide, and Túrin, unaware of the powers of the beast, remained unhindered, and looked back into the eyes of the dreadful creature of Morgoth. Glaurung then cast a spell about the Adan, and feigning pity, told the son of Húrin that both his mother and sister had been enslaved by the evil Easterlings, and that they would surely die if he did not flee to Dor-lómin and save them from their plight.

As the Dragon wove his spell of malice about Túrin, speaking the lies that his Master commanded him to, Finduilas was led from the terrace with the others, crying out for the Adan. Yet the mortal remained motionless, spellbound, unable to come to the aid of the woman who had grown to love him. Glaurung held Túrin’s gaze until all the prisoners had gone. The beast then withdrew his glance, and waited for the son of Húrin to come back to his senses.

Then Túrin attempted to smite the Dragon, no longer daunted by his words, for a while. Glaurung drew up to his full height, preventing the Adan from striking his eyes, and spoke of Morwen and Nienor again. The spells woven about the son of Húrin took hold, and shortly thereafter, he took off to his former home to rescue his mother and sister from the evil Easterlings.

Glaurung laughed at the success of his cunning malice, having accomplished the task that his Lord had assigned to him. He then sent out blasts of fire, withering the green grasses and trees that grew outside the Doors of Felagund. With his monstrous tail, he broke down the bridge, and claimed the treasure of the Noldor as his own.

When Túrin reached his former home and found that Morwen and Nienor had left for Menegroth, he realized too late that the Dragon had duped him. He then set out in search of Finduilas in an attempt to keep his promise to Gwindor to protect her at all costs. On his journey, he encountered the Men of Brethil and asked them if they had any news regarding the captives of Nargothrond, especially the Noldo Princess.

He was told that when the yrch came through that area, the Men of Haleth attempted to assail the enemy and free their prisoners. But in their cruelty, the yrch killed their captives including Finduilas, whom they pinned to a tree with a spear. With her last breath, the elleth uttered, “Tell the Mormegil that Finduilas is here.” Sensing that the elf maiden was of noble birth, the men raised a mound over her body close to the place where she had been killed.

Túrin was grieved to hear that, and asked that the men take him to her grave. There, he fell into the darkest of grief, near death. Upon seeing the Black Sword girded around the son of Húrin’s waist, the Men of Brethil knew who he was, for the rumor of his deeds had even reached them in the depths of the wood. They made a bier for Túrin and carried him back to their village where the Adan was healed by their lord, Brandir.

In time, when he grew hale again, Túrin changed his name yet again, to Turambar, and he ordered the Men of Brethil to forget the other names that he had gone by in the past. He set aside the Black Sword and resumed his fight with the yrch, using bow and spear instead.


In Yr 496, some of those that had survived the sacking of Nargothrond arrived in Doriath seeking sanctuary in Thingol’s lands. Upon hearing that, Morwen grew distraught, fearing for her beloved son. Sharing her concerns with the King and Queen, she was determined to leave Menegroth to search for Túrin. Melian, ever so wisely, cautioned the woman to remain in the Thousand Caves, but the proud daughter of Baragund would hear none of it. Unable to restrain Morwen, Thingol insisted that a small group of elves that included Mablung escort her on her journey. To this, she consented.

Nienor threw a fit when her mother told her she had to remain behind as the trip would be perilous and Morwen did not want to endanger her daughter’s life. But Nienor was as proud and stubborn as those from the line of Bëor were, and refusing to be left behind, she disguised herself as an elven warrior and left Menegroth with the others.

Mablung led the small company on horseback for three days until they reached the outskirts of Nargothrond. Aware that Glaurung was somewhere nearby, he had the women and some guards wait on Amon Ethir, (“the Hill of Spies”), which Finrod had raised long ago about one league from the doors of the Hidden Halls. As stealthily as they could, Mablung and a few scouts left the hill to search the area.

Unbeknownst to them, Glaurung was well aware of their arrival. He slithered out of the Doors of Felagund and into the Narog, causing a reeking vapor to rise over the lands. The foulness blinded Mablung and his companions, forcing them to scatter. The Great Worm then made his way east of the river, much to the dismay of those that remained on Amon Ethir. Upon seeing Glaurung, the guards begged the women to depart, but before they could do anything, a wind picked up, sending the foul mists all around them. The horses became crazed by the Dragon’s breath, and bolted blindly in various directions.

Morwen disappeared and no news of her fate ever reached Menegroth. However, Nienor’s horse reared, sending her flying to the ground, before it took off, galloping towards home. Unhurt, the young woman climbed back up the hill to wait for Mablung. When she reached the apex, Glaurung was already there, his head resting on the hilltop. The Dragon fixed his dark eyes on the woman, and searched her mind with his eyes. When he learned who she was, he set a spell of utter darkness and forgetfulness on her, so that she could remember nothing that had ever befallen her, nor the simplest of tasks, nor her own name. For days afterward, she could neither hear nor see, totally blinded to the world around her. Glaurung then left her alone on the hill, and returned to Nargothrond.

Mablung was dismayed when he returned to the hill and found Nienor in her current state. Taking her by the hand, he led her away from that place. As they made their way back to Doriath, they found three more of their companions. When they neared the western fences of their land, the small company was utterly spent. They laid the maiden down, and all fell fast asleep, heedless of the dangers that still lurked in the wilds of Beleriand.

During the night, a band of yrch came upon the sleeping elves. The shrill cries of the yrch awoke the sleeping companions with a start. Nienor, having suddenly regained both her sight and hearing, was terrified by the demonic creatures. In her terror, she fled the camp as fast as she could, ripping her clothing off as she went. The yrch were quick to pursue the naked maiden, as were her companions. The four elves overtook the yrch, and slew them all so that they could not harm Nienor in flight. Mablung and his companions searched long for the daughter of Húrin, but to no avail. With heavy hearts, they returned to Menegroth without either woman.

Nienor continued running north until she was too exhausted to run more. She cast herself on the ground and slept until the following morning. At dawn, she continued walking north, guided by a doom greater than herself. When she reached the Crossing of Teiglin, she saw the tall trees of Brethil and longed to reach those woods. A terrible thunderstorm came that night, frightening the woman, who had no idea of what was happening. In her despair, she threw herself upon the mound of Finduilas, as the Doom of Morgoth now had her in its grasp.

Hearing rumor of yrch in the area, Túrin Turambar and his company of woodsmen set out to destroy the roaming band. As fate would have it, they came upon the woman, near death, lying upon the mound of Finduilas, as the cold rain beat against her naked flesh. The son of Húrin cast his cloak about the maiden and took her back to their village, Amon Obel in the heart of Brethil.

Nienor, having no memory of her past, looked upon Túrin with great joy. Even though she had lost her voice and could not speak, she refused to be parted from him. The son of Húrin tried to question her, but she could only respond with tears, not knowing how to speak words in response. Therefore, Túrin gave her the name Níniel, which meant “Tear-maiden” in the elvish tongue.

Unfortunately, the young woman had become sick, and she was tended by Brandir, who was lord of Brethil. By autumn, she was healed, and the women of Brethil had taught her to speak, as one would teach an infant. Having regained her voice, Nienor could remember nothing about her life prior to the woodsmen finding her.

Now it came to be that both Brandir and Túrin fell in love with Nienor. But it was Turambar that asked for her hand in marriage. A shadow fell upon the young woman’s heart, and she delayed her answer to the son of Húrin as long as she could.

Brandir, knowing of the curse upon Túrin, counseled Níniel not to wed the son of Húrin, and revealed to her his true name. Yet the maiden did not know anything about Túrin or Húrin, for those names meant nothing to her.

In the Yr 500, Túrin asked Níniel for her hand once again, vowing that if she refused, he would return to the wilds and resume fighting yrch. Despite the shadow on her heart, she gleefully accepted his proposal and they wed that summer.

By the end of that year, Glaurung had sent a company of yrch to assail the Men of Brethil, but Túrin, keeping his promise to Níniel not to fight in any wars unless their homes were under attack, refused to confront the yrch. The woodsmen criticized Turambar’s lack of action, which prompted the son of Húrin to once again pick up the Black Sword and fight the enemy.

The yrch were utterly destroyed, but the Great Worm now knew that the Mormegil dwelt in Brethil. He therefore designed a new plan.

In spring of Yr 501, Níniel had conceived, bringing great joy to the people of Brethil. Yet that joy was short-lived as rumor had it that Glaurung had departed Nargothrond and was heading north. When Túrin heard the news regarding the Great Worm, he sent out his scouts. All hoped that the Dragon was on his way back to Angband, but when the beast stopped near the western shores of Teiglin, the woodsmen grew fearful, knowing that they would soon be under attack.

Túrin took it upon himself to confront the Dragon, and only two others were willing to accompany him: Dorlas and Hunthor. The three then set off, telling the others to prepare for flight should they fail at their task.

Níniel grew fearful. An overwhelming feeling of dread overcame her, so that she couldn’t remain behind. Brandir counseled against this, and his people turned against him, believing that his unrequited love for the woman was behind his words. Níniel then followed Túrin, escorted by a great company of woodsmen. Brandir was loathe at her parting, and because of his love for her, he grabbed his sword and went after her. Being lame from an injury he had received in his youth, he fell far behind the others.

At late afternoon, Túrin and his companions came upon the sleeping Dragon. As luck would have it, Glaurung lay across Cabed-en-Aras, where the River Teiglin rushed through a deep and narrow gorge. Knowing that the beast would move at night, he proposed that he and his companions leap across the gorge, and climb down the wall of the ravine so that they could attack Glaurung from below.

When night fell, Dorlas fled in shame, terrified of leaping across the deep chasm. Yet Turambar and Hunthor continued on their quest, and successfully jumped to the other side of the gorge. As they began making their way down into the ravine, a large stone became loose, and fell on Hunthor’s head, instantly killing him. But the Dragon was unaware that his doom was upon him, as the rushing water drowned out the sound of the falling rocks.

Túrin mustered his courage and continued alone on his quest to slay the Dragon. When he found himself below the beast, he drew Gurthang and rammed it into the soft flesh of the Great Worm’s belly. The beast let out a horrid cry, thrashing and coiling in pain. He slithered to the other side of the ravine, sending blasts of fire in his agony that withered all the vegetation that grew about that place. The Dragon then fell still with Gurthang still embedded in his body.

Turambar climbed out of the ravine, and leapt across the chasm and looked upon his fallen enemy. He grabbed the hilt of his sword, placed his foot on the belly of his foe, and in mockery of the downed beast cried, “Hail, Worm of Morgoth! Well met again! Die now and let the darkness take you! Now Túrin, son of Húrin, is avenged!”

As he pulled out his blade, the black venomous blood of Glaurung fell on his hand and burned it. The Dragon then opened his eyes and looked upon his bane. The malice in the eyes of the beast was like a powerful blow to the mortal, which sent him falling to the ground in a swoon.

Níniel and the others were terrified by the sounds of the Dragon, and when they came upon the smoldering terrain, they deemed that Glaurung had triumphed over Túrin and his companions. Níniel fell to her knees, unable to move from that spot. There, Brandir found her, and he wished to take her back to his village. He took her by the hand and led her along the path to the Crossings.

When Níniel realized that Brandir was not taking her to Turambar, she fled the lord of Brethil in search of her beloved husband. Running beneath the moonlight, she found her way to Cabed-en-Aras and saw both the Dragon and her beloved lying by the edge of the cliff. No longer fearing the dreaded beast, she ran to Túrin, crying out his name. Seeing the wound on his hand, she bathed it in her tears and wrapped it with a strip of cloth she had torn from her gown. She held Turambar’s head on her lap, planting kisses on his face, begging him to awake. Her voice caused Glaurung to stir and he spoke one last time before he died.

“Hail, Nienor, daughter of Húrin. We meet again ere the end. It gives me great joy that you have found your brother at last. And now you shall know him, a stabber in the dark, treacherous to foes, faithless to friends, and a curse unto his kin, Túrin son of Húrin! But worst of his deeds you feel growing within your belly!”

Glaurung then died, and with that, the veil that had been placed on Nienor was removed, and all the memories of her past life came flooding back to her. Horror-stricken by the Doom of Morgoth, she bid her brother farewell before leaping over the cliff, plunging into the water below.

The only witness to the fell words of the Dragon was Brandir, who stood there in total shock, heartbroken over the fate of Nienor. No longer having a purpose to live, the descendant of Haleth returned to the others and told them all that he had heard, and that Nienor, Túrin and Glaurung were all dead. The people wept.

At that moment, Túrin came walking up, being free from the Dragon’s spell. The woodsmen thought that his spirit had returned and were afraid.

Then Turambar learned of what Brandir had said, and in his wrath, he killed him and fled into the woods like a madman. He then returned to the grave of Finduilas, not knowing whether he should seek his kin in Menegroth or return to the wars and seek death in battle.

As he sat there, Mablung came up with a great company of elves, having heard that Glaurung had come near Doriath’s borders. They were gladdened to see the Adan and told him of the purpose of their errand. Túrin told Mablung that he had already slain the Dragon and the beast was no longer a threat to any. The elves were amazed to hear that, and looked at the mortal in awe and sang his praises.

But Túrin did not care; his only concern was for his kin. He asked Mablung about his mother and sister having heard that they had gone to Menegroth. Thingol’s Chief Captain then told the son of Húrin all that had befallen Morwen and Nienor, and how his sister was stricken by a spell of dumb forgetfulness, and had become lost in the wilds. Túrin then realized that Brandir had spoken the truth and that he had unjustly killed him. In his madness of grief, he cursed Mablung and his errand and fled from the elves, running like the wind. The elves didn’t understand the madness that had overcome the Adan and chased after him. But Túrin outran them.

The son of Húrin returned to Cab-en-Aras, and there he took his life, throwing his body onto the blade of Gurthang. By the time that Mablung and the Grey-elves arrived, it was too late. Túrin lay dead. The Men of Brethil had also come, and all were saddened by the doom of Túrin and Nienor. They made a great mound over Túrin’s body, and burned the remains of Glaurung. A large grey stone was placed on the grave, and the elves carved into it the names of the children of Húrin.

A year later, in Yr 502, when Húrin was finally released from Angband, he was left bitter and angry by the malice of Morgoth, having witnessed all that had befallen his loved ones. He found himself shunned by those that still dwelled in Dor-lómin, so he left in hope that Turgon would not forget their ancient friendship. Yet the son of Galdor had no idea that the enemy was watching him from the shadows, and when he reached the feet of Crissaegrim, the yrch reported to their Master that the son of Fingolfin dwelt somewhere in that area. So Morgoth strengthened his watch in that area, delighted the Húrin was unaware the he was still his unwitting pawn.

Húrin then uttered his discontentment of the Noldo Lord and continued his trek south until he reached Cabed-en-Aras. There, he found Morwen grieving beside the grave of their son. Their reunion was not a joyful one. They sat in silence, clinging to one another, until the daughter of Baragund passed. Húrin buried his wife beside their son, and engraved her name on the stone marker with the sword he carried with him.

He then set off for Nargothrond where Mîm, who now claimed the lordship of those Halls, confronted him outside the Doors of Felagund. Húrin, having seen all that the dwarf had done, killed him, and dwelled in the former Halls of Finrod for a while.

In bitter thought, Húrin remained there until his heart grew so cold and dark that he had one more task to complete before he was done. From the horde of treasure strewn about the Hidden Halls, the Adan claimed one item - the Nauglamír. He then began his journey east. Upon reaching the western fence of Doriath, Húrin was stopped by the marchwarden, Túreb, (who was actually one of Buffy’s Maiar disguised as the Elf Lord). The son of Galdor was then escorted to Menegroth by a company of elves.

Thingol and Melian looked upon the grim-face of Húrin and were pained to see what the many years of captivity had done to the Adan. Yet the son of Galdor had been stewing in his anger for a long time, and bitter were his words to the King of Doriath. Reaching into his cloak, he pulled out the Necklace of the Dwarves and threw it at Thingol’s feet.

“Receive this as your fee for the fair keeping of my wife and children,” spat the Adan with contempt.

Thingol restrained his wrath against Húrin’s scornful words. Yet it was the words of Melian that finally broke the spell that Morgoth had placed upon the Adan, freeing the son of Galdor from his thralldom at long last.

Looking into the Maia’s eyes, he saw through the lies of Morgoth, and knew that both the King and Queen had done all they could to harbor his family. He then picked up the necklace and handed it Thingol, saying, “Receive now, Lord, the Necklace of the Dwarves, as a gift from one who has nothing, and as a memorial of Húrin from Dor-lómin. For now my fate is fulfilled, and the purpose of Morgoth achieved. But I am no longer his thrall.”

He then turned away and left the Thousand Caves, coming to Vinyamar, where he and Buffy now sat across from one another…



Buffy shuddered, blinking her eyes several times. The bile within her stomach churned uncomfortably.

“And now you know my story, and have seen with my eyes all that has befallen my kin,” Húrin said sadly, still clutching the hands of the Slayer.

“Morgoth has sunk to a new low,” she replied with a shake of her head. “I grieve for you, Húrin, and I grieve for Túrin and Nienor, especially. I thought what Morgoth had done to me was cruel, but I have to say, it doesn’t come close to what your children had to endure.”

She shuddered again, thinking of how great the curse was that Melkor had put upon the seed of Húrin. He was a lone Vala, yet he was able to do horrific things by his will alone. She couldn’t help but think of what little chance the sons of Fëanor had against the Curse placed upon them by all the Aratar. For the first time, she felt that the Doom upon her loved ones was drawing near. She could feel it. And it terrified her. What chance did she have to thwart the powers of so many Valar when she herself was powerless?

Buffy rose to her feet, and looked to the West. Her heart turned as cold as Húrin’s had when he departed Angband. She was angry. She was angry at Morgoth, but more so at the Valar. How could they just sit by and allow all these horrible things to happen to one who had done everything in his power to do the right thing. She cursed them, saying that they were no better than Morgoth, that they were in league together, and sought to destroy the noble bloodline of Brolach and Sargon.

“Draw out your sword, son of Galdor,” she said in a low voice.

“What?” queried Húrin in his confusion.

“Unsheathe your weapon, my lord,” she answered, still glaring toward the West.

She heard the old man get to his feet. “What for?” he asked, standing behind her.

Buffy turned, and faced Húrin. “I will not let you kill yourself and abide alone in the dark Halls of my brother, never to see the light of day again. Námo does not look kindly upon those that have taken their own lives. He would have you suffer further for doing so. And I won’t have that. You belong in Folkvang with your forefathers, with your father, with your brother. There, you will be accounted amongst the Mightiest of the Mighty, a title bestowed upon so few warriors, but you, son of Galdor, have earned that most prestigious title.”

Húrin pulled his weapon from its sheath. Looking at his blade, he uttered, “And I cannot come unless I die in battle.”

Buffy nodded. “You will fight me, Húrin, and I will best you in our duel. My Valkyries will then come for you and take you to my beautiful Halls, Sussrúmnir, and there I will remake your body, young and whole as it once was, for not even the Valar can hinder my powers in my Blessed Realm. There, your brother waits, and Sargon, my beloved, whom you are descended from.”

“My heart tells me that you will incur the wrath of the Valar by doing this,” said Húrin in dismay.

“I’ve incurred their wrath a long time ago, my friend,” she replied with a snicker. “What more can they do to me that they haven’t already? I love them not. They have forsaken me, as they have forsaken you. Let us forsake them, for once. Do not let them claim the soul of Húrin Thalion, Elf-friend, hero, and mighty warrior of the House of Bëor… The choice is yours.”

Húrin turned his gaze to the West, shielding his eyes from the sinking sun. He remained quiet for several minutes, pondering his decision. At last, he dropped his hand to his side, and looked at the Slayer.

“I will fight you,” he answered, lifting his blade.

“Come, away from the edge. I can’t risk your falling,” she said, grabbing hold of the old man and leading him away from the cliff. As soon as she pulled a sword charm from her belt, it instantly turned into its full size.

And there beside the sea, Buffy and Húrin dueled. The sound of metal clanking against metal rang out against a blood-red sky. When the Slayer saw her opening, she drove her blade deep into the gut of the mortal until she felt it hit his spine. She then thrust her sword deeper, severing his spinal cord, so that the Adan would no longer feel any pain. She pulled out her weapon and the man fell to the ground.

Buffy dropped her sword and ran to Húrin’s side, cradling him in her arms. “Shh,” she said, placing a kiss on his forehead. “It won’t be long, son of Galdor. Sleep. Sleep,” she said softly.

Húrin struggled for breath, as Man’s instincts were inclined to do when one nears death.

The Slayer lifted her gaze and called out, “Vórëa! Feawë! Come now!”

The two Valkyrie chieftains then appeared before their Mistress, and looked at the dying form of Húrin with much sadness.

“You called, my Lady,” said Vórëa.

“You take his fey to Sussrúmnir. Don’t you dare let Námo claim him! Húrin is mine!” she commanded, caressing the Adan’s cheek.

“As you wish, my Lady,” the women responded, waiting for Húrin to take his last breath.

Buffy could feel the warmth of the mortal’s blood seeping into her clothing. When she heard his last breath, she watched as his fey rose from its hröa. Vórëa and Feawë each took one of Húrin’s phantom arms, and vanished, taking the former lord of Dor-lómin to Sussrúmnir where, later that night, his flesh would be made anew.

After they had left, Buffy closed the eyes of Húrin and kissed him one last time. She then lifted him in her arms and walked to the edge of the cliff. Looking at the foamy waters below, she threw the Adan’s lifeless body into the sea.

Content with her actions, she turned and picked up both her and Húrin’s blades. As she reached down to grab his walking stick, she heard the cry of gulls that caused her to look up at the sky. There, circling high above the gulls was Thorondor, Lord of Eagles. The sight of Manwë’s spy angered her more, knowing that he would most likely twist the retelling of all that he had witnessed.

“Curse you, Thorondor!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “Fly to your Master in haste and tell him what new ill I’ve done. Curse him and the rest of the Aratar for allowing this shit to happen!” She rose to her feet, brandishing both weapons. “Flee before you taste the metal of my blade, spy of Súlimo!”

The Eagle then soared off in the direction of Valinor, just as Buffy expected.

“God, I hate that bird,” Buffy grumbled, making her way back to her chariot…



*lyrics by Dennis DeYoung

Author’s Note: Snippet’s of dialogue in the Tale of the Children of Húrin belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I’ve only glossed over the story itself, but it is important for the reader to know all the things that happened to Túrin, as he will come back into the story at the end.

Also, I had inadvertently written the wrong name for Thingol’s sword in chapter 88. His sword is called Aranrúth, not Anglachel. I’ve made that correction and apologize for the error.