Full Circle

Upon Orchal’s return, he and Buffy sat together in private, debating what their next move should be. There was no way that they could keep Beren’s death secret forever. Inevitably, word would spread of his demise, reaching the Noldor in northern Ossiriand. Their dilemma was what they should say about the Silmaril. She could only hope that Dior would keep it under heavy guard in Menegroth or, better yet, lock it away in the vaults so that the sons of Fëanor would not learn that it was now in his possession.

After many hours, they decided to go with the story that the Jewel of Fëanor had been buried in the tomb that housed the remains of Beren and Lúthien. As per the son of Barahir’s request, the grave was unmarked and its location known by only two Green-elves who, after the burial, departed Ossir, thus taking the exact location of the tomb with them.

“Do you think they’ll buy that?” asked the Slayer, looking skeptically at Orchal.

“We’ve been here for hours, Bella,” the silver-haired elf said with a weary sigh. “I can think of no better story, unless we say it was thrown into the sea.”

Buffy nervously twirled her hair with her finger, unsure of which story would sound more plausible to the Noldor, especially the sons of Fëanor. Her main objective was to keep them away from Dior. She didn’t want any more to die because of the unnatural lust that that Jewel seemed to arouse in people or because of the Oath.

“Do you think the sea story’s better?” she queried, fixing her doubt-filled eyes on her friend.

“I think either one will work,” he slowly replied. “But, if you’re right in your belief that the brothers will search southern Ossiriand for their buried treasure, that will keep them preoccupied for some time. But then again, the Noldor cannot search the deeps of the sea, so perhaps that’s the better story.”

“My only concern,” started the Slayer, “is that that will lead them to wander outside our lands. That need to travel and explore is an inherent trait in the Noldor. If we can keep them here, even for a few years, we might be able to come up with something better.” She groaned in frustration, hating the thought that she and Orchal were sitting there trying to come up with a believable lie. Unfortunately, she felt that they had no other choice.

In the end, they went with the burial story.

A couple of weeks later, she made the announcement of Beren’s death to those in Lindon. While she did not volunteer the information about the Silmaril, it was the first thing that Curufin had asked when he learned of the Adan’s death. She then told him and the others that Beren’s last request was that the Jewel of Fëanor be buried in the tomb with him and his wife.

The Noldor seemed to believe her story, although there were a few amongst them that doubted her words.

In an attempt to keep the Noldor away from the northern borders of Ossir, she then announced that she wished to return to Tol Galen with her family and Household. She expected her husband’s kinfolk to come as well.

With winter fast approaching, she had her people ready Lindecoa in anticipation of their arrival. She wanted to show the sons of Fëanor the same courtesy that she had shown the doomed lovers. She instructed the Green-elves to remove all the personal belongings of Beren and Lúthien from her Halls, and place them in storage. They were then told to bring back everything that the brothers had given Buffy over the centuries, putting these items back in their exact locations as they had been prior to the arrival of the reborn mortals.

As Yr 509 drew to an end, Buffy, her family including both her Household and that of Maglor and his kin set sail in many ships from Lindon for Tol Galen. There was an air of excitement about the trip for various reasons to various people. The Noldor were eager to begin their search while the Slayer was ecstatic about the return to her glorious Halls on the small isle. She had missed the creature comforts of Lindecoa that Lindon Hall just didn’t offer, such as running hot and cold water and flushing toilets. Oh, how she missed toilets! Living in the treetops meant that one was subjected to the use of chamber pots, and no matter how elaborately made, they were a primitive device that she had tired of long ago.

They reached their destination on New Year’s Eve, which gave yet another reason for the elves to celebrate. A great feast was held upon their arrival. The festivities would continue throughout the day, not ending until dawn the following morning.

Unbeknownst to the Slayer, not all the Noldor had made the voyage to Tol Galen. Several from Celegorm’s Household had questioned the ‘nonsense’ regarding the Silmaril. They believed that there was no way that Beren would have had the Jewel of Fëanor kept in a tomb, but instead that he would have passed it on to his only surviving heir, Dior. While the others sailed down the Gelion, the Noldo Lords from Celegorm’s House began the journey to Doriath, in search of any rumor that the Silmaril was housed in Menegroth, as they presumed.

As Buffy re-acclimated herself to her surroundings and introduced Lalwen to the beauty of Lindecoa, the sons of Fëanor began their search of the isle, looking for any earth that had recently been disturbed.

Celegorm had only shared his skepticism with Curufin. They both decided that it was in their best interest not to share their suspicions with their brothers until Celegorm’s men came back. Once they had undeniable proof that their sister-in-law had lied, then Maedhros, Maglor and Caranthir would be more apt to act against Dior. In the meantime, they would amuse their siblings by searching Tol Galen for the grave of Beren and Lúthien, a task they both deemed pointless.

Only a few weeks into the New Year, the Noldor of Celegorm’s House returned to Tol Galen. They met with their kin in the woods by the Adurant, and confirmed what both Celegorm and Curufin had suspected.

“You were right, my Lords,” said the Noldo spy to the two C-brothers. “Word has it that the Silmaril is indeed in Menegroth, and that Dior wears it at all times.”

“I knew it!” exclaimed Celegorm, clenching his fists tightly. “I knew that bitch was lying!”

“Better yet, brother,” started Curufin, a wide grin spreading across his face, “we now have ammunition against Muinthel! Surely, our brothers cannot defend her now that we know with certainty that she has lied… ”

“No, no, no,” countered Celegorm with a wave of his hand. “We keep her out of this! We do not need any confrontation with Dagnir. We’re on her turf, and her people outnumber the Noldor. We need to be cunning, my brother.” A malicious grin came to his face. “I deem the time has arrived for the Noldor to go on a hunting trip. We will reclaim the Silmaril and kill any that dare hinder us, including Bellaseth.”

“But she’s a Vala! She cannot be killed by us!” protested Curufin.

“Then that’s more reason for us to keep things quiet. She cannot learn of what we’re planning. Let us find our brothers and prepare for our raid,” he continued, grabbing hold of his brother and heading back to the home that they shared.

The two C-brothers then returned to their dwelling, which was located a short distance from Lindecoa. All but three of their kin that had just returned from Doriath accompanied them. The others were sent to summon their siblings to an important and private council.

When Maedhros, Maglor and Caranthir arrived, they were told what Celegorm had suspected all along: that the Queen of Ossir had deceived them all, including her own husband. Caranthir, feeling betrayed by Buffy, immediately turned against her, speaking scornfully about his sister-in-law. Yet, both Maedhros and Maglor were reluctant to turn on the Slayer, who had demonstrated her loyalty, love, and kindness to them over the years. Not to mention that both loved her dearly, although the eldest son kept his affections for her concealed from everybody else.

“Loyalty?!” spat Celegorm, his eyes narrowed in contempt. “She’s shown no loyalty to the sons of Fëanor! The Silmaril passed through her lands, with her knowledge I deem, and into that of the enemy. She vowed to help us reclaim the heirloom of our House, yet she betrayed us - especially you, Maglor. Your wife is nothing but a traitor!”

Maglor sat there, dazed. He loved his wife and wanted to renounce his claim to the Silmaril, but he saw that his brothers were going to make that most difficult. He attempted to reason with the C-brothers, but Celegorm wasn’t having any of that.

“We swore an Oath,” began Celegorm again, “to do whatever we have to in order to regain the Silmarils. We vowed that none would stand in our way, including a Vala. Now the greatest of our treasures is in Menegroth, on display by one who has no right to wear it around his neck. It belongs to us! It’s why we came to Middle-earth. How can you not want to rally our people to take back that which was stolen from us?”

“Bella said that she would kill us if we harmed any in Doriath,” said Maglor softly. “You know Dior won’t hand over the Silmaril. This will only lead to more bloodshed.”

“As long as it’s theirs, who cares?” chimed in Curufin. “Let the Dark Elves die! They’re nothing but thieves!”

“Besides, Maglor,” interjected Caranthir, “Dagnir had said not to lay a hand on Thingol, Beren and Lúthien. She said nothing about Dior.”

“Was she to name all the elves of Doriath, Caranthir?” questioned Maglor angrily. “There’s no doubt in my mind that the same applies to the heir of Thingol. She wouldn’t want to see any harm come to any from that House, and I for one, do not want to cause my wife any more anguish!”

“So you would choose the love of a Vala over the love of your father, over your own flesh and blood!” said Celegorm with disdain. “Need I remind you that the woman you purportedly love has shared Morgoth’s bed on numerous occasions. Has that not caused you anguish, my brother? Does it not cause you distress knowing that she has seduced our most bitter of enemies after you had exchanged wedding vows, after promising undying loyalty and fidelity? She has betrayed you, Maglor, more so than the rest of us. You owe her nothing!”

Maglor was speechless. Celegorm’s words had brought up things that he did not want to think about, things he’d rather not think about.

However, it was Maedhros that spoke up, attempting to defend his sister-in-law’s past actions. “That was a long time ago, Celegorm. We’ve all done things in our past that we wish we could undo.”

“And who’s to say that she wishes to undo anything? My heart tells me that there’s a bond between Bellaseth and the Dark Lord that cannot be broken. Maglor is merely another plaything to help pass the time. He is no different from all the other lovers she’s had. He may have fathered a child with her, but he isn’t the only one.” Celegorm paused, smiling wryly. “Didn’t you say, Russandol that her diaries mentioned a prophecy about her procreating with a lord of Men? We all know that that mortal was not Bëor, her beloved lover. So it seems to me that yet another lover will find his way into the bed of Maglor’s faithless wife!”

Maedhros looked sympathetically at Maglor, who resembled a wounded animal. He had turned his downcast eyes to the floor, his bottom lip trembling from his younger brother’s hurtful words.

“What we must remember,” began Caranthir in a calmer tone than Celegorm, “is that we swore to uphold our Oath. Only ill will come to us if we do not see it to the end. The time has come for us to put aside our feelings for those who have no understanding of our loss, and regain what is rightfully ours.” He walked over to Maglor, squatting before his older brother. “I understand that you love Bellaseth, but our Oath comes before all, including her and Olofin. The Oath cannot be broken no matter how hard you resist, it’s a living thing, and we must fulfill it, Maglor. We must do this together. After everything that has happened and will happen, all we have is each other. And having the Silmaril once again will only ease our grief. Your loyalty is to us, and no one else.”

Bringing up the prophecy was a smart move on Curufin’s part. The effect of those words was already working on Maglor. That the C-brother’s could see. The second son of Fëanor lifted his head. He sat stiffly, staring fixatedly at the wall. Gradually, his grey eyes narrowed. He pressed his lips so tightly together that they were nearly white from lack of blood flow. He went from wounded animal to one who has been wronged, who has been injured by the treachery of one whom he loved.

That painful reminder of his wife’s past deeds caused Maglor’s misgivings to wane. Knowing that she would inevitably betray their wedding vows again made him reconsider his position. She would not aid him and his brothers as she had so fervently claimed.

The C-brothers continued their verbal assault on Buffy knowing how important it was to show her betrayal of their House, not only in the past, but also in the present.

“Do you think that the Laiquendi took it upon themselves to take the Silmaril to Menegroth?” said Celegorm, bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Nay,” he answered with a shake of his head. “Bellaseth knew! The cretins came to her, their Queen, seeking her counsel, and she betrayed us. Her loyalty is not to the House of Fëanor, but to the Dark Lord and the Dark Elves. I expect she was the one that fabricated the story about the Silmaril being buried with those wretched mortals.”

“How can you speak so ill of her when she has welcomed us into her lands, providing us a home when ours was destroyed?” countered Maedhros in one last desperate attempt to defend the Slayer.

“By having us live in bird houses!” answered Caranthir with disdain. “Pfft! It is a strange breed of Elf that chooses to live in treetops!”

“And why were our homes destroyed, Russandol?” spoke up Curufin in a bitter voice. “Because the Dark Lord longs to have his lover back, that’s why! She is the reason for our losses, for our woe. I would not put it past her to be conspiring with Morgoth, even now. Do not forget what she did in the East! She still seeks to dominate all in Middle-earth, that is why the Valar have no love for her. The only thing she has done differently is to change her approach, so that none can see her true purpose. She was the instigator of our taking the battle to Morgoth, which only resulted in the death of many a noble and valiant Elf.”

After hours of Buffy bashing, the brothers had all unanimously agreed: they would seek to recover the Silmaril from Dior. Yet they had to be calculating so that the Slayer and the Green-elves could not learn of their designs. Since the death of Beren, the ban to travel throughout Ossir had been lifted, and the sons of Fëanor proposed that they’d set out in groups over the next couple of weeks so that none would grow suspicious. They planned to meet at Amon Ereb, where they would strengthen their numbers by adding the people of Amrod and Amras to join in their scheme.

Under the pretext of hunting, a favorite past time of the Green-elves, the Noldor began to depart Tol Galen for the northern parts of Ossir. They left in parties of twenty so that none suspected anything out of the ordinary. The Noldor sailed to Lindon before resuming their journey on horseback, leaving Ossir for the twins’ home nearby. Even Orchal no longer paid them any mind, trusting that the Noldor had believed the story that he and Buffy had devised.

The five brothers were the last to depart the isle. They choose a day when they knew the Slayer would be preoccupied with her maidens - the start of their weeklong beauty regimen, which had become a monthly ritual in times past with the Ladies of her House. The women would immerse themselves in spa-like treatments, ranging from mud baths to massages in an isolated place by the falls of Lanthir Lamath, far from the halls of Lindecoa.

None questioned the brothers, not even in Lindon, and they too, journeyed to Amon Ereb, joining the rest of their kinfolk.

Once there, Maglor stood upon the hilltop, looking at the fair lands of Ossir to the southeast. As the cold winds whipped around him, he thought of the blissful days in the woods with his wife. Despite the malicious utterances of his younger brothers, his heart ached for Buffy. His brothers were able to stir him to wrath, but now that he was finally acting on it, a couple of weeks later, he found himself full of regret, none too eager to assail the heir of Thingol.

Returning to the Halls of Amrod and Amras, he spoke a moving speech to his kin, seeking to end the needless violence that the Silmaril seemed to awaken in all that named it in desire. His younger brothers grew wroth as he spoke, fearing that Maglor would change the hearts of the Noldor that had already assembled there.

Maglor begged that they send a messenger to Dior first, in an attempt to avoid injury, not only to the Grey-elves, but to their own kindred as well.

A heated argument broke out, many calling out the second son of Fëanor for his cowardice.

Maedhros, who as Lord of that House had the final say-so, settled the quarrel. He did as Maglor had suggested, sending messengers to Menegroth commanding Dior to surrender the Silmaril or face the wrath of the seven sons of Fëanor.

A couple of messengers immediately left for Doriath, riding nonstop at great speed. When they were brought before Dior and spoke the demands made by the sons of Fëanor, the heir of Thingol refused to answer the brothers. The son of Beren and Lúthien had grown overly proud as his forefather, and because of his lineage, deemed himself to be the Lord of Men and Elves. He foolishly gave no thought to how perilous his situation truly was. Instead, he relished in the beauty of the Thousand Caves, having become complacent like Thingol had before him.

When the sons of Fëanor heard from their messengers, they were enraged by the arrogance of Dior and his refusal to answer their demands. Celegorm delivered such a speech that even Maglor conceded that an attack on Menegroth seemed justified.

Not wanting to waste any more time, they gathered all those from their Household and set out for Doriath, planning to assail the Thousand Caves in the middle of the night.

Dior, unlike Thingol, gave no heed to any impending threats to his realm. While he possessed the beauty of his kin, enhanced by his wearing of the Nauglamír, he unfortunately, lacked the intelligence of a true ruler. The marchwardens that had once been stationed along the borders of Doriath had been summoned to Menegroth, to protect their Lord within his massive fortress. Only those under the command of Túreb (Melchizedek) remained at their posts, defending the western marches of Doriath, as ordered by Buffy. This left no defense as the hosts of Fëanor entered the Forest of Region from the south.

The Noldorin armies broke up into smaller groups, so that their numbers would not draw the attention of those that still dwelt in the woods south of Menegroth. They would all assemble at the bridge before storming the gates of the Thousand Caves, enmasse.

The Noldor continued to move north, under the cover of darkness, killing any elf they encountered, in fear that he or she would alert the Grey-elves of their impending doom.

Neither the frigid northern winds nor the swirling snowflakes deterred those from the House of Fëanor, as the ire inflamed within their hearts drove them onward. Those of their kin that reached the outskirts of Menegroth first, stealthily approached the caves’ entrance, and used their proficiency with the bow to strike down the gatekeepers. This allowed the Noldor the opportunity to enter Menegroth unhindered, and without any alarm being raised until it was too late.

It was three o’clock in the morning when the armies converged at the stone bridge. The Noldor threw open the doors, and with the sons of Fëanor at the forefront, rushed into Menegroth. The horrified Sindar sounded their trumpets upon the onslaught. The chilling notes echoed throughout the numerous passageways of the Thousand Caves, waking all from their peaceful slumber.

The shrill cries of the Noldor soon drowned out the horns, as they hacked down every elf that they came across. So unexpected was the attack that many of the Sinda guards were slain before they realized what was happening, none imagining that those of their own kindred would ever raise a blade against them.

The sudden turbulence jolted both Dior and Nimloth awake. Not a second had passed when his personal guards began to beat against their bedchamber door.

“The sons of Fëanor are attacking, my Lord!” cried Nimros in a state of panic.

“No,” whimpered a frightened Nimloth. “This can’t be.”

“Get the children,” barked Dior, frantically leaping from the bed and pulling on his breeches. “Flee, my dear! Take the children and flee!”

His distraught wife ran to his side. “I will not leave without you,” she sobbed, clutching her husband. “Come with us. Come with us, my beloved.”

The shouts of the Noldor were drawing near, as they made their way deeper and deeper into the caverns. The sounds of metal upon metal reverberated throughout the Halls, chilling Dior to the core.

“There’s no time, Nimloth. Go!”

Dior opened his bedroom door, and many of his personal guards entered the room in a frenzy. One of his servants quickly attired his Lord in his battle gear while Nimloth stood in the corner, weeping in her despair. Before unsheathing his blade, Dior unclasped the Nauglamír and gave it to his wife.

“Please, Nimloth. Take the Silmaril and the children and go! If I escape, I will find you.”

“Where shall we go, my Lord?” she cried. “Ossir is no longer safe.”

“There is still many of your kin in Beleriand. Go where you must. I will find you. But you must, go. NOW!”

Nimloth threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him for the last time.

Dior then hurried from the chamber accompanied by most of his guard. Some stayed with Nimloth, to aid in her escape. The woman, who was nearly beside herself, then gathered her three young children, who wept in their confusion, too young to comprehend what was happening.

Of all the sons of Fëanor, Celegorm was most determined that he would be the one to regain the Silmaril. Knowing the floor plan of Menegroth well from studying the layout in both Nargothrond and Lindon Hall, he led the elves from his House together with Curufin and Caranthir, toward Dior’s private rooms.

After rounding one of the corners, he saw the King of Doriath accompanied by his guard. There, the Noldor and the Sindar clashed, not far from the where Nimloth and his children were being ushered down the opposite end of the corridor in a desperate attempt to escape.

A look of hatred came to Celegorm’s face as he lifted his blade, charging at Dior with an unbridled fury. He knew that the Silmaril was nearly in his grasp. The Sindar tried to defend their Lord, forming a circle around him. Celegorm and his brothers delivered deadly blow after deadly blow to those guards nearest themselves.

Dior, who was no coward, pushed his way through his men, eager to duel with any son of Fëanor, but especially Celegorm or Curufin. After seeing the hurt done to his people, he wished to avenge their deaths, as well as the past torments that the brothers had inflicted on his parents years before he was born.

He and Celegorm then came face-to-face, fiercely fighting in a battle to the death. The action was nonstop, and despite having slain many elves on his way to Dior’s rooms, it seemed as though the Noldo’s strength had been renewed by the sight of Dior.

Seeing this, one of the fallen Sinda grabbed hold of Celegorm’s leg, causing the Noldo to stumble. That move allowed Dior the opportunity to drive his sword into the chest of the third son of Fëanor. Celegorm’s painful cry drew the attention of Curufin, who was busy fighting his own foe. Upon seeing his older brother fall to the stone floor, the madness of grief overtook the elf.

With a shout of grief, he came upon Dior from behind, cleaving the King’s head from his body with a single blow. The Grey-elves wailed in shock as the blood from the severed neck of their Lord spurted over them like some gory fountain.

As Curufin let out a roar of triumph, Nimros, infuriated by the beheading of his Lord, delivered a deadly strike to the son of Fëanor, sending his body crashing to the floor, next to his dead brother.

Nimloth had immediately sensed the sudden death of her husband even though she had not witnessed it. Only one corridor separated her from him. She let out an ear-piercing shriek, tossing the Silmaril to the floor. In her anguish, she snatched a sword from one of her guardsmen and took off down the passageway toward the fray. She did not notice that her two young sons had wrestled free from their guards, hurrying after their mother into the heart of the conflict.

Celeborn, Galadriel and some of their kin suddenly appeared on the scene, stepping out of one of the secret passageways. They had been battling the Noldor on one of the upper levels, and knowing that Dior was in peril, came by the quickest means possible.

Galadriel picked up a squalling Elwing, who now had the Nauglamír draped around her neck, holding the girl tightly in her arms.

The guards quickly apprised the group of what had just happened.

“Take her and go,” said the son of Galathil. “I’ll get Nimloth and the boys.”

“Be safe, Celeborn. The sons of Fëanor will show no mercy when it comes to the Jewel of their father,” warned Galadriel, horrified that she was witnessing yet another attack on the Teleri by the Noldor.

“I will,” answered the Sinda, tightening his grip on the hilt of his blood-streaked blade.

The secret panel opened, revealing a spiral stairway. Galadriel, Elwing and the handful of guards that accompanied the girl began climbing the steps, disappearing from sight after the first bend.

Celeborn shut the door before making his way toward the ruckus with his men. When they rounded the corner, they beheld the Noldor battling their kin. The five remaining sons of Fëanor had rallied together, each fighting their opponents within the crowded and gloomy passageway.

Bodies, some grotesquely mutilated, littered the corridor. Agonizing moans came from those that lay dying on the blood-covered floor, expecting each breath to be their last. The stench of death lingered in the air. Blood was everywhere, on the walls, on the pillars, but mostly on the stone floor. Crimson rivulets flowed from beneath the bodies of those that had been slain, covering nearly the entire surface of the passageway with the slick life force of the elves.

As the Elf Lord joined the fray, he noticed the unmoving form of Nimloth on the bloodied floor, her eyes wide and vacant. In a grisly display, the severed head of Dior had been placed next to her face. Celeborn tried to fight his way through the throng, but could make no headway. His eyes searched desperately for the sons of Dior, but he could not see them.

In the midst of the chaos, Eluréd and Elurín were taken captive by two men from Celegorm’s House. They proposed to use the twins as a bargaining chip, sparing their lives for the return of the Silmaril.

Celeborn was then blindsided by Caranthir, who knew that the silver-haired elf was a kinsman of Dior. The Sinda quickly recovered, combating the Noldo with the ferocity of those from the House of Thingol. Recalling the slaying of his kinfolk at Alqualondë renewed the strength of Celeborn, who could now see fatigue overcoming the son of Fëanor.

Caranthir found himself with his back against the wall. Knowing how dire his situation was, he shouted for his brothers’ assistance, but the din drowned out the sound of his voice. The Noldo became desperate. As he swung his blade at Celeborn, the Sinda blocked it with his own, using his sheer strength to hold the sword downward. Caranthir then reached out and grabbed a handful of the Celeborn’s silver hair, pulling it with all his might. Celeborn grimaced from the pain, but continued to force the Noldo’s blade down. Since Caranthir had only one hand on the hilt of his weapon, the Sinda delivered a head butt, which momentarily stunned the Noldo. It gave Celeborn that split second he needed to gain the upper hand.

“This is for my kin,” he snarled, thrusting his blade into the gut of the fourth son of Fëanor.

Caranthir gasped, both with surprise and the sudden jolt of pain that coursed through his body.

“Curse you,” he sputtered, blood oozing from his mouth. “Curse you… and your kin.”

Celeborn leaned in closer, twisting the blade inside the Noldo’s body. “You’ll never get the Silmaril,” he hissed, before withdrawing his weapon from Caranthir’s body.

The son of Fëanor fell to the floor. He would die from that wound.

The Sinda Lord turned his attention back to the skirmishes that surrounded him. He watched as more of his kin fell. Feeling that he had no other choice, he called for a retreat. The Grey-elves would not be able to withstand the Noldor much longer, as their wrath and lust for the Silmaril seemed insatiable.

Those able, escaped by any means they could. Celeborn led many through the secret door down the adjoining corridor. He would eventually meet up with Galadriel, Elwing and their small guard in the Forest of Region. From there, Ulmo would guide them to the Mouths of Sirion, where they would form a haven for those escaping the horrors in the north.

While the sons of Fëanor had the victory, it had come at a great price. All three C-brothers lay dead, and after a thorough search of Menegroth, they were unable to find the Silmaril.

“All has been for naught,” said a teary-eyed Maglor, clutching the body of Caranthir in his arms. He looked sadly upon the carnage in the passageway, regretting that he had taken part in it. “I knew things would go badly for us. I just knew it.”

Maedhros picked up Curufin’s corpse, holding him in his arms. “We had no other choice, Maglor. We had no other choice.” He sniffed back his tears, grieved that they had lost three of their brothers. “Come. Let’s give our brothers a proper burial.”

Maglor picked up Caranthir, throwing him over his shoulder, as Amrod and Amras heaved Celegorm’s body from the floor.

Outside the gates, they met up with the surviving Noldor. In their sorrow, the four sons of Fëanor laid the C-brothers to rest under the towering beech trees beside the River Esgalduin. All from their Households were grieved by their loss.

“What of the others, my Lord?” asked one from Maedhros’ Household of the eldest brother.

The copper-headed elf turned his gaze to the entrance of Menegroth as the greyness of morning settled upon the land. “Menegroth shall be their tomb,” he replied with a sigh. He turned his attention back to the Noldor, scanning the crowd for the two small boys that had been taken captive. “Where are the sons of Dior?”

One from Celegorm’s House came forth. “We left them in the woods, my Lord.”

“You did what?!” exclaimed Maedhros, aghast at the thought.

“What was the point in keeping them?” queried the elf, stunned by his Lord’s reaction. “The Silmaril is gone. We had no use for them.”

“They are but children!” rebuked the eldest son of Fëanor. He turned to his brothers. “We must find them. They will die if left in this cold too long.”

The sons of Fëanor and the mightiest Lords of their Household then began the search for Eluréd and Elurín. Maedhros was horrified that his kin could do something so cruel as abandoning those small children in the freezing weather. He held himself to blame for the travesty, something that would haunt him for the remainder of his life.

The Noldor searched in vain, for fate decreed that they would not find Eluréd and Elurín.

However, the twin sons of Dior were not lost, as their whimpering cries had drawn the attention of a passing group of Enyd, led by none other than Thônel, who at one time had been the sentinel of the Deeper Well. Finding the youngsters huddled together in an attempt to keep warm, the Onod took them in her spindly arms, wrapping them in some moss she was given by one of her brethren.

As the Onodrim began to hasten south, the boys told them what had happened in Menegroth. The Enyd were greatly dismayed to hear of the attack, but knew exactly where to take the youngsters.

Thônel let out a high-pitched whistle. Only a few moments later, a flock of doves appeared, fluttering before the Onod.

“Hmm, messengers of Luinil,” she began. “Tell your Mistress that… hmm, the sons of Fëanor have been making mischief in Doriath… hmm, and that I will be bringing her the orphaned sons of Dior. Hmm. Fly in haste, birds of Luinil. Fly in haste.”

“Right away,” cooed the Lord of the Doves, before disappearing through the trees.



When Buffy and her maidens returned to Lindecoa, she immediately noticed that nearly all the Noldor had left Tol Galen. An ominous feeling overwhelmed her, a feeling that she could not quell, even though she was told the Noldor had just gone hunting for wild game.

As the doves were soaring to Ossir, the Slayer boarded her chariot, hastening to Lindon, fearing that the brothers had learned of her deception. The doves could not fly nearly as fast as they wished so when they encountered a group of falcons in flight, they shared their message with them, knowing they could get to Buffy more quickly.

It was mid-afternoon when the Slayer reached Lindon Hall. She immediately called a council, asking if any had news of the whereabouts of the Noldor. When she heard that they had left Ossiriand, she suspected that her worst fears had come true. Moments later, the falcons arrived. To her dismay, her suspicions had been confirmed but she was too late. The Oath had reawakened, and the people of Dior were already being terrorized by Maglor and his kin.

Weeping, she said, “Ready our armies. We march to Doriath and will aid Dior. We have no other choice but to fight the Noldor.”

Her councilors grieved along with her, knowing how difficult a decision that was for her to make. Orchal and Nestor tried to comfort her, but there was nothing they could do or say to make things better. No one could possibly understand what she was going through, how painful it was for her to choose to honor her ancient friendship with the House of Thingol over her love for those of the House of Fëanor.

As her Captains sounded their trumpets, marshaling the warriors of Ossir, Buffy fell to her knees, wailing in distress that she had been unable to prevent the raid. Those that she loved dearly had betrayed her, and that betrayal was tearing her apart. She didn’t know if any had survived, including her beloved husband. The only thing she knew for sure was that Dior was dead, and so was Nimloth.

Through her tears, she turned her gaze toward the northern window, knowing now that Morgoth would achieve his goal - the annihilation of all in Beleriand. The savior of Middle-earth had been killed by the hands of her husband’s own people.

Even though she knew that Eluréd and Elurín were on their way to Lindon, it did not ease her grief. Those that had tried to comfort her, she rebuffed.

In her despair, she said, “It’s no use,” and called off the mobilization of her armies.

Still crying hysterically, Buffy ran to her private rooms, garbing herself for travel. She intended to meet the Enyd at Sarn Athrad, the bridge that crossed the River Gelion. After grabbing sweaters and furs for the children, she was stopped by Orchal outside her rooms.

“Let me come with you,” the Green-elf pleaded, tears streaming down his face at his dear friend’s new torment.

“It’s over, Orchal,” she sobbed in her madness of grief. “Everything… everything that I’ve ever wanted has been ripped from me. It’s my fault. I let this happen. I’ve got no other choice,” she babbled, nearly incoherently.

“The Hell you say!” answered the Elf Lord, grabbing her by the shoulders and giving her a good shake. “We’ll get through this. But I won’t let you do this alone. You need me, Bella! You need me more than ever before.”

“Don’t you see - we’re doomed! We’re doomed unless I go back. That’s the only way,” she continued, shaking her head, tears pouring down her glistening face.

Orchal slapped Buffy across the face as hard as he could.

Her breath died in her throat as she stared at the elf in shocked disbelief. The stinging of her cheek left her momentarily stunned.

“I love you, Bella! And I’m here for you! I won’t let you throw your life away! You will not go back to him! You’ll have to kill me first!” he shouted through his tears.

Buffy started to tremble all over, breathing heavily. “Get out of my way, Orchal,” she said threateningly in a raspy voice.

“No! I’m going with you. I won’t let you do anything foolish. We’re in this together. We’ll make it through this. I promise.” He pulled her tightly into his arms, as her legs buckled beneath her. Orchal lifted the Slayer in his arms, ordering Nestor to pick up the garments that had fallen to the floor. “I’m taking Bella to get the sons of Dior. Don’t let any know what we’re doing. If word leaks out, I will personally kill those responsible.”

The Slayer protested weakly, but Orchal would hear none of it. He would take charge of the situation and help his friend through her ordeal.

By the time they finally took to the air, the Green-elf could see that the sons of Fëanor had not only broken Buffy’s heart, but also her spirit. He feared that she would continue to languish to the point of no return, bringing with it, his greatest fear…