Full Circle

Buffy was mistaken to think that she could keep the death of Thingol and the war with the dwarves from the Noldor. Word of the battle had spread through the woods of Ossiriand like wildlife, reaching the ears of the sons of Fëanor before the conflict had even ended. She learned of this as soon as the chariot touched down, filling her heart with dread. She believed that there would be a wrathful confrontation with the brothers. The opportunity to seize the Silmaril had presented itself, and the Slayer had given no thought of taking it from the Naugrim or Beren.

With her heart heavy with grief, and questioning her life’s decisions, she wearily made her way to Lindon Hall accompanied by Orchal, Thranduil and Olofin. She shared the horrors of the sacking of Menegroth with them, telling of the deaths of nearly all of Thingol’s kin. Orchal sobbed upon hearing that, having been on friendly terms with those elves for ages.

Much to her surprise, the sons of Fëanor and those from their respective Households were supportive, offering their condolences as soon as she entered her Halls. Though her last meeting with Thingol was virulent, that, in no way, changed her feelings for the late Lord of Beleriand or those that she had come to love during her stay in Doriath long ago. And, it seemed that the Noldor understood that, particularly, the brothers. Their kind and loving words alleviated not only her fears but also her doubt. She no longer questioned her choice of husband, and felt foolish for having done so.

The following morning, after a good night’s sleep, Buffy was ready to get down to business. She sent both Olofin and Orchal to Nogrod, to inform the dwarves that, at her command, the Green-elves had retaliated against their kin for the attack on Menegroth, and that all were killed in battle and their loot disposed of. She vowed to take down Ered Luin and destroy their fair Halls if any dare enter Beleriand again. Ossiriand would no longer provide any foodstuffs or barter with the dwarves of that realm. Her venomous message was not lost on the new Lord of those people, who showed no remorse for the actions of his kinfolk.

A few days later, she made the trip to Tol Galen to meet with Beren and Lúthien. She felt that both Lúthien and Nimloth especially, needed to hear what had happened in Doriath. When she met with them, she was baffled to see the powers of the Silmaril already at work. The Nauglamír, which graced Lúthien’s neck, enhanced the beauty of that isle. The colors of the vegetation, the flowers and trees, intensified, bringing about a magnificence that nearly matched that of Folkvang. She was amazed by the magics contained within the Jewel, for it had not produced the same results in the bowels of Hell, Angband.

It was during that visit that Dior mentioned that he was considering his move to Menegroth with his family. He was Thingol’s heir and felt that he should pick up the scepter of his grandsire and rule the remnant of the Grey-elves that remained there, leaderless. But, as for now, he wished to remain in Ossir with his family, as the Blessed Light of the Silmaril seemed to help lessen the aching in their hearts.

Come the following year, 505, Dior would succeed to the throne, becoming Lord of Doriath.

In the meantime, Buffy’s family helped her through her grief, doing all they could to cheer her up. She was so grateful for the brothers’ compassion in her time of distress that she would no longer send her ‘spies’ to follow them on their journeys outside of Ossiriand. None of the Noldor spoke of the Silmaril, at least, not in her presence, or that of her people. Her trust and faith in them had been renewed, bringing hope that brighter days lie ahead.

Before the year was out, she received a most unexpected visitor - Melchizedek. He was one of Buffy’s Maiar who had taken on the form of Túreb after that elf had died by the death beam of Humbaba. They met in private with only a handful of Buffy’s councilors.

“With the deaths of Thingol and Melian, what would you have us do? Should I have my men come here to Ossir, return to Folkvang, or do you have some other errand for us?” asked the Maia.

Ever since the deaths of Thingol and Melian, her thoughts often turned to times past, especially her early days in Doriath. Seeing that flaming red hair reminded her of how much she missed her beloved friend, the former marchwarden of Western Doriath.

“Dior will soon leave for Doriath,” she answered slowly. “It would make me feel better if you and your men remained there still, now that the Girdle is gone.”

“Of course,” Melchizedek responded with a nod. “I deem we are needed there more than ever.”

“How are things in your parts?” queried Gúrchim with concern. “Is the enemy moving as freely as we’ve heard?”

“Unfortunately,” replied the grim-faced Maia. “But none have entered Doriath as of yet. The yrch tend to avoid our territory for so few who approach ever make it back to their Master.”

“How’s Sador?” inquired the Slayer, abruptly changing the subject.

“He is well,” answered Melchizedek. “He has become quite proficient with all weapons and can hardly be restrained when the enemy nears our borders.” The Maia smiled. “He sends his greetings and well-wishes, by the way.”

“Tell him the same for me,” she replied, thinking fondly of the elf. “I miss him.”

“I will relay your message. Is there anything else you ask of me?” The Maia was ready to return to his duties in Doriath.

Buffy thought for a moment. “Not that I can think of. Keep me apprised of the goings-on in your region. If Morgoth’s gonna send any armies my way, I wanna know about it beforehand.”

“As you wish,” Melchizedek nodded. He then took his leave, returning to his station in Doriath.



Time seemed to roll by rather swiftly but uneventfully. The Slayer took great pleasure in her home life, which seemed to get better with every passing day. Over the next few years, more and more elves and mortals found their way to her lands, seeking sanctuary within the safety of the Land of Seven Rivers. Once they had passed Olofin’s ‘test’, they were permitted to call Ossir home, under the condition that they contribute their talents, whatever they may be, to society as a whole.

Yes, things looked brighter for the Vala Queen. She had found herself experiencing such peace and joy that she came to believe that nothing could disrupt her happy life. She had no idea that one of her greatest trials was about to present itself, and that her choices would affect all of Middle-earth.

In the autumn of Yr 509, Buffy was sleeping soundly beside Maglor when she felt someone gently shaking her.

“Huh?” she mumbled, half-asleep.

A hand covered her mouth. She let out a muffled cry, reaching for the intruder.

“Shh,” sounded Orchal softly in her ear, slowly removing his hand.

Maglor stirred in his sleep, smacking his lips. He rolled from his side onto his back, but remained sleeping.

Buffy tried to compose herself. Her heart was beating frantically in her chest by being awaken so. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness of the room, although narrowed in annoyance. She fixed her gaze on the shadowy form of the Elf Lord.

The Green-elf pressed his finger to his lips, motioning soundlessly for her to come with him.

The Slayer carefully climbed out of bed, not too happy that Orchal was the one to enter her bedchamber. While she had no qualms about his doing so when Maglor was away, it was understood that only Olofin and Thranduil were permitted to enter when he was home. For some reason, her husband did not like the idea of her dear friend entering their inner sanctum, especially in the middle of the night.

As she slid her feet into her slippers, Orchal wrapped her robe over her shoulders. He then took her hand and led her out of the room, using care not to wake the sleeping Noldo. When they reached the dimly lit, adjoining sitting room, she couldn’t help but notice the paleness of the elf’s face, and the redness of his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered, struggling to slide her arms into the sleeves of her robe.

“Not now,” he replied, helping her put on her dressing gown.

All was relatively quiet, except for the floorboards that happened to creak in certain spots, as they made their way down the corridor. They went down the stairway and down another corridor, until they reached her favorite interior chamber of Lindon Hall, her study.

“What’s going on?” She watched as a frazzled Orchal dashed to each window, closing the drapes even though it was still dark outside. Her concern grew as he grabbed a quilt that hung over the back of one of the couches, rolled it up, and pushed it against the crack at the bottom of the doors leading to the hallway.

“Sit, Bella,” he instructed, briskly walking behind her desk.

She did as he had asked, growing anxious by the gravity of his tone.

With her back facing the elf, she heard one of the drawers open, then close. Orchal then took a seat beside her, clutching a small blue sack in his hand. He reached into the bag and pulled out a wooden coffer, and placed it in her hands.

“What’s this?” she queried, unnerved by the elf’s caginess.

“Open it,” he said, shifting his gaze from her to the box.

“You’re scaring me, Orchal,” said Buffy, nervously eyeing the small chest. “Don’t tell me there’s something horrific in here!”

“Just open it!” he said, chewing on his bottom lip like Luthor always did when worried or nervous.

She placed the wooden coffer on her lap and slowly lifted the lid. Immediately, a rainbow of bedazzling light flooded the otherwise dimly lit chamber. She gasped in surprise, her heart racing. She could actually feel the blood pumping through her veins as she beheld the beauty of the Jewel of Fëanor set within the Nauglamír.

“He’s dead then,” she said solemnly, her eyes fixed on the Silmaril.

“Yes,” Orchal sniffled. “Beren passed away late last night. I was told that he couldn’t bear living without his beloved Lúthien.” His wife had died a couple of weeks earlier.

“Who knows about this?” she asked, turning her fretful eyes to her silver-haired friend. Her stomach was twisting into knots in fear that the news of his passing had already spread through Ossir.

“Only those that dwell on Tol Galen, and me… and, well, now you.” The Green-elf locked his eyes on the Slayer. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her mouth going dry. She shifted her eyes back to the magnificent necklace. “I need some wine. Yes wine,” she continued, never expecting to have been wakened at that hour with such a frightful dilemma. “My body’s trembling all over, and it’s not from any draft either.”

Orchal immediately leapt to his feet, and over to the sideboard. He grabbed a bottle of red wine and two glasses before returning to his seat. He popped the cork and then poured the crimson fluid into their cups, his own hand shaking as much as hers.

“Here you go, Bella,” the elf said, handing her a glass.

She swigged it down in a couple of gulps before motioning for him to refill it.

“Oh, God, Orchal,” Buffy moaned with uncertainty, hating the position that she now found herself in. “I can’t believe this has come to me.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” answered the Green-elf. “You are the Queen of these lands, and it is for you to decide the Nauglamír’s fate.”

“Thanks, thanks a lot,” she replied sardonically.

“Should I have taken it upon myself to decide?” asked Orchal, his brows raised in question.

The Slayer fixed her gaze on the Green-elf. “And what would you do?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Probably the same thing that you’re doing now: drinking, and pondering what the best course of action would be. I understand how difficult this must be for you. You hold in your hands what so many have died for - both Elven-kind and Mankind.”

They both turned their eyes back to the bejeweled necklace.

“It does amaze me that this, this so-called Blessed Jewel, has brought about so much death,” she said, agreeing with her dear friend’s assessment. “I think Finrod was right: it’s cursed, just like its maker.”

“I don’t believe that,” replied Orchal with a shake of his head. “I think it’s the evil that one’s willing to do in order to claim it that stirs any curse that may lie upon the Silmaril. Lúthien was unaffected by the malice that it had roused in those before her. In fact, the radiance of her beauty was enhanced by the Jewel of Fëanor.”

“And you don’t think the Silmaril hastened her death?” asked Buffy, looking at the Green-elf. “Forty-three years is not much time, even for a mortal. The Silmaril was made in immortal lands, by immortal hands, and I think that it belongs to an immortal race.” She looked back at the necklace. “Yes,” she continued softly, nodding her head. “I think it lessened her life span… Unless…” she paused, not completing her thought aloud.

“What?” queried Orchal, somewhat anxiously. “Unless what?”

She narrowed her eyes in contempt. “Unless the Valar decreed that she not be granted a long life.” She let out a snort of disgust. “I wouldn’t run that past them. They’re not as holy as the Eldar make them out to be. I think they’re cruel and devious, the whole lot of them.”

“Perhaps,” sighed the Green-elf, “although I do not believe that Ulmo is in league with them. He’s helped us whereas the others have not.”

“I guess,” she shrugged before taking a drink of wine.

“Maybe… if you put the necklace on… it would enlighten you to the choice that should be made,” Orchal suggested hesitantly.

Morgoth’s image immediately flashed in her mind. His once fair-skinned hands blackened by the mere touch of the Silmarils. Buffy recalled only too clearly the pain that he suffered by doing so.

“Are you crazy?” she shot back, her eyes wide with shock. “Uh-uh! No way! Not gonna happen!”

“Why?” he asked, arching a brow.

“Why? You have to ask me why?” she said in shocked disbelief.

“Do you really fear that your hand will turn black if you touch the Jewel?” inquired the Green-elf, rather incredulously.

Buffy paused for a moment. She then shoved the box in front of Orchal. “You touch it.”

“No, thank you,” he answered firmly, pushing the coffer away.

“Why not?” she asked, amused by his reaction.

He didn’t have to answer. They both feared the same thing, that as the result of their past deeds, their hands would turn black if they touched the Jewel that had been hallowed by Varda after its making. They chuckled uneasily, despite the severity of the situation.

“There’s more in the bag,” said Orchal, eager to turn their attention away from the Nauglamír for a few minutes.

“Oh,” she answered, snapping the lid closed. The Slayer was most grateful that she didn’t have to make an immediate decision regarding the Silmaril.

The Green-elf reached into the sack and pulled out the Cross of Brolach. “We’ve got this,” he said, handing it to her, “and this.” He then pulled out the ring of Felagund, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Let me see that.” Buffy traded with him, giving him the Cross and taking the ring. She examined it closely, more closely than she ever had before. The silver band was embossed with two serpents with emerald eyes, one devouring the other, and supporting a crown of golden flowers.

Her thoughts instantly turned to Finrod. Oh, how she missed the Noldo Lord! She fingered his ring, hoping that the wisdom of its creator would pass onto her, making her decision easier. It didn’t.

She sunk back into the cushion of the couch, groaning at her indecisiveness.

“I know this is most difficult.”

“You have no idea.” She leaned her head on the elf’s shoulder, still nervously fiddling with the ring.

Orchal wrapped an arm around her, resting his chin on her head. They sat there in silence for a long while, the only sound: the ticking of the clock that hung on the wall.

The Elf Lord finally spoke. “Should we inform the other councilors and… ”

“Oh God, no!” she said with a jerk, her head colliding with his jaw, causing the poor elf to bite his tongue.

He winced.

“Sorry,” Buffy apologized, the top of her head stinging from the impact with the elf’s chin. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” answered Orchal, still grimacing from the pain.

The Slayer rose to her feet, one hand still clutching the ring, the other rubbing the top of her head. She let out a mournful whimper, and began to pace the floor. She hated the fact that she had to decide the fate of the Nauglamír.

The Elf Lord watched his stressed-out Queen with grief-stricken eyes. He hated to be the one responsible for putting her in this position. But, what else was he supposed to do? Was he to send the Silmaril to Dior since he was the true heir of Beren or Lúthien, or did their claim become forfeit upon their deaths? If that was the case, then perhaps, the Jewel should be returned to the sons of Fëanor. It was stolen from them after all.

Orchal knew Buffy well enough to know that she was thinking the same thing as he, only the situation was worse for her. She was married to a son of Fëanor, and Melian was part of her House in the times preceding Eä. Not to mention the fact that she was responsible for bringing the Edain to Beleriand, and there was an unspoken loyalty that bound her with those people. The outcome of her decision would not bode well for one of the parties, and the Green-elf could honestly admit that he had no idea what she’d decide. It was the most peculiar predicament she could find herself in - choosing between two branches of her family.

“You’re making me dizzy!” he finally said, rubbing his eyes. “Why don’t you come and sit with me?”

“I can’t,” she replied, casting a quick glance at him. Buffy was doing her best to conceal her bleary eyes from her friend. The enormity of the situation was too much. She’d rather deal with warfare or internal intrigues than this. That was something she could easily handle, but this, was nothing of the sort.

Before she knew it, Orchal stood before her. “Stop!” He placed his hands on her shoulders, massaging her tense muscles. “Don’t beat yourself up over this.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she cried, no longer able to restrain her tears.

The Elf Lord embraced her, stroking her back sympathetically. “Shh, it’s alright. We’ll figure this out together. I’m here for you. I won’t let you face this alone.”

Buffy wrapped her arms tightly around Orchal and wept. The ring of Felagund fell from her hand. It hit the floor with a ping, rolled across the wooden floor, and stopped when it reached the edge of the rug.

The Green-elf held her until she was able to pull herself together. The continuous ticking of the clock indicated that they were wasting precious time. It would not be long now before those in Lindon Hall awoke. After she picked up the ring, they both sat back down, debating the matter once more.

“Why don’t we take a ship to Belegaer and throw the damn thing in the sea?” said Orchal in his frustration. “That way no one will have it, and I won’t have to watch you suffer over this any more.”

Buffy sat there, with her legs pulled to her chest, rocking back and forth. “I don’t think so,” she sighed, staring at the opened coffer and the Nauglamír yet again.

“What does your heart tell you to do?”

“My heart,” she started, “my heart says to give the Nauglamír to Káno.” She chuckled half-heartedly at the thought. “Can you imagine how pleased he and his brothers would be? The only Vala Queen that didn’t curse them ends up delivering a Silmaril to them. I’d be their hero. Even the C-brothers would worship the ground I walk on.”

“Then do that!” said the Green-elf with an air of finality in his voice.

The smile quickly faded from Buffy’s face. That was merely a fleeting notion.

“But, my mind says give it to Dior. I don’t know much about wisdom - that doesn’t appear to be my greatest trait, but that’s what my conscience says to do. It says that’s the right thing to do.”

“You’re a walking contradiction, aren’t you?” chuckled Orchal, shaking his head at her indecisiveness.

“Yeah, I suppose,” she chortled half-heartedly. “I wish this was simply a matter of doing the right thing. I can see things from both perspectives, you know, from my husband and his brother’s point and that of Dior.” She glanced at the elf. “It sucks that the Silmarils were stolen from Fëanor. But, I just can’t help but think that this one, the one right there,” she pointed to the box, “has to go to Dior. As much as I hate to say it, this Silmaril along with the Nauglamír is rightfully his. His parents fought for the Jewel, they pried it from Morgoth’s crown, so it should pass on to their heir.”

“Is that your decision?” Orchal asked, doubtful whether or not she had actually reached a conclusion.

Buffy nodded. “Yeah.” Her face contorted in doubt. “Do you think it’s the right one?”

“Yes,” he replied, giving her a reassuring smile.

“No one can ever know that I was behind this, Orchal. Promise me, promise me you’ll never tell anyone. Not Nestor, not Thranduil, not Olofin. And especially not Káno! He’d leave me for sure if he found out.”

“I promise, Bella. I’ll never tell a soul. It will be our secret.”

She snapped the lid of the box closed. “Take this to Dior.” Buffy handed him the wooden coffer. “But, I’m gonna hold on to these,” she added, placing the Cross of Brolach and ring of Felagund into the blue sack. “I don’t know why, but I just can’t part with these right now.”

“You do what you need to,” replied Orchal.

“Take my chariot. I don’t want anyone to go with you and I can’t risk your traveling alone. The world’s a perilous place now.”

“I appreciate that. I’ll see you when I return.”

They rose to their feet.

“Thanks, Orchal. This really means a lot to me.”

“What are friends for?”

Orchal then left the room, as she put the bag back in her desk drawer. Buffy felt a bit of regret over her decision, but knew, in the end, she had made the right choice. Only time would prove whether or not her judgment was folly.