The Gift Of Death

By CinnamonGrrl

Part One

She looked impossibly tiny as she entered Rivendell; or perhaps it was because the horse was immense. Whatever the reason, many heads turned to watch the progress of the woman as she cantered into the ancient Elvin city, the sun gleaming on the long honey-brown plait hanging down her straight back.

“Who is she?” asked many, but only one knew the answer, and when the woman halted her mount and slid off, he went quickly to her side.

“Strider,” she greeted him. Her voice was unusually accented for Rivendell; indeed, for all of Middle-Earth. “Did I miss anything?” She peeled off battered leather gloves and tucked them into her belt.

“We have not yet started,” he replied, expression curious. “In truth, I am surprised to see you here. Did Gandalf tell you to come?”

“Galadriel,” she replied succinctly, pulling off a thick woolen cloak, and removing a heavy overtunic. Under it she wore a lighter one of green linen.

Strider raised a brow enquiringly, but no more explanation was forthcoming. Finally he said, “Your journey was uneventful?”

She shrugged. “As it ever is.” She peered up at the sky, hazel eyes glinting in the sunlight. “I made good time.”

“From where did you come?”

“Forlond.” She strapped a feedbag to her horse’s head and tied his reins to a hitching post. “They had an ice wraith problem.”

Ah, Strider thought, she had been in the Ered Luin, the ice-covered mountains of the northern realm of Lindon. That explained all the layers of clothing. “How long has it been since we last met?” he asked companionably as they fell into step, entering one of the buildings.

“At least three years, I’d say,” she replied, eyes flicking over her surroundings in a professional way before relaxing and appreciating their beauty. “Time flies when you’re decapitating orcs.”

“And ice wraiths,” Strider grinned, and was pleased to see the corner of her mouth twitch in what could, generously, be called a smile.

“So,” she continued. “Are you gonna tell me what’s the what with this council Elrond has called? Or am I gonna have to wait for everyone else?” He hesitated, and she punched his shoulder playfully. “C’mon, Strider. You know I hate mysteries.”

That’s rich coming from her, he thought—she was almost as enigmatic as an elf. “How is it you do not know about the One Ring?”

Now it was her turn to lift a brow. “I am not from here,” she told him. “You know that.”

“Yes, but never will you tell me where you are from,” he said impatiently, knowing already what she would say. He’d asked her dozens of times in the ten years they’d known each other, after all, and it was always the same.

“From somewhere long ago and far away,” she said by rote, and punched his arm again. “Don’t you get tired of that question? Answer’s not gonna change, you know.”

“I know,” Strider grumbled. “I just keep hoping one time you’ll let something slip.”

She snorted and pushed open a door. “Not likely. Dagnir doesn’t slip.”

Dagnir was the name she was called by those who knew of her. In the Elvin language of Sindarin, it meant “Slayer”. Only a privileged few knew her real name; Strider considered himself fortunate to be amoung their number. He sighed, and followed her into the room. “I know, Buffy.”

*

Elrond was not happy about having a woman partake of the meeting to discuss the One Ring, not even a Ranger of over a decade’s experience, not even Dagnir herself. It was only because of Galadriel’s recommendation and Strider’s heartfelt assurances of her abilities that Elrond relented, and though she remained silent throughout, he was aware of her sharp observance.

When it came time to choose the members of the Fellowship, he had thought she would stand then, that she would announce her intention to join them. But she merely sat there, one leg crossed casually over the other, foot bouncing idly as she watched.

The Fellowship had to wait over two months while scouts departed and returned and preparations for their journey were made. The time was put to good use, training the Hobbits how to employ their little swords until the halflings collapsed in exhaustion to the ground, begging for mercy.

“Poor babies,” drawled a feminine voice at the end of one such day after Strider had returned from his scouting with the sons of Elrond. It came from behind a tree at the edge of the clearing where stood the Fellowship, and was followed by the figure of the female Ranger. She smirked at Strider, whom the others now knew as Aragorn. “I don’t expect you’re getting too much of a work-out with these guys, Strider.”

The light of combat was in her eyes, he saw, and smiled. “Indeed not, Lady. Might I trouble you for a remedy to that problem?”

Her sword was in her hand before he’d finished speaking. “Thought you’d never ask.” Blades flashing, hair flying, they slashed and parried and blocked and thrust until both were drooping with fatigue. “You’ve gotten better,” Buffy told him, leaning on her sword stuck in the ground as she caught her breath.

“You’ve gotten faster,” he replied, swiping the sweaty hair from his forehead. “And…” he looked at her consideringly. “You haven’t aged.”

She looked nervous, suddenly. “It’s only been three years. I’m very well preserved.”

“No, I mean you haven’t aged at all since I met you. Over ten years ago.” Eyes narrowed, he stalked to her, lifting her chin to peer into her face. When he’d first laid eyes on her, she’d looked to be barely two score in years, with a youthful, unlined face and eyes that were, if not bright, at least not dimmed with age. “Over ten years ago,” he repeated, “and you still look as you did then.” The decade of passed time had not left a mark on her; not a single one.

Dagnir pulled away from him. “I eat right, stay out of the sun. I meditate. Keeps me young.” She glared stonily at him, daring to push harder.

Aragorn sighed and gave up, watching as she strode from the clearing. He did not see her again before the Fellowship departed from Rivendell. Dagnir always removed herself whenever he tried to weasel more information out of her than she was prepared to give.

Three weeks later, the Fellowship halted at the foot of the intimidating Caradhras to stare up at its foreboding, snowy heights.

Legolas stepped closer to Aragorn and spoke, his voice pitched low so only the ranger would hear. “We are being followed. One man, on horseback.”

Aragorn nodded. “Since we left Rivendell.”

The elf’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “You knew? I only detected him after the crebain came to us.” He looked highly affronted that a human—no matter how regal his ancestry—would be able to detect a presence before he, an elf.

Aragorn clapped his hand on Legolas’ shoulder. “Fret not, my friend,” he said with a smile. “I knew not because I could hear her—and it is a her—but because it is exactly the sort of thing she would do.”

The tiny thinning of Legolas’ lips was the only indication of his shock. “Not the ranger with whom you sparred?”

“The same.”

Legolas looked thoughtful. “She did not seem overly trustworthy,” he said at last. “She hides much of her past. Is she a danger to our mission?”

Aragorn surveyed the rest of the Fellowship; not one looked eager to begin the climb. “No,” he said at last. “If there is one being in Middle-Earth beside Bombadil who is impervious to Sauron and the forces of evil, it is she. If she follows, it is as guardian, not predator.”

Legolas nodded, and Aragorn felt a pang of joy that this elf, who had lived thirty times longer than he himself, would trust him so. Perhaps his task of uniting all Men was not so hopeless, after all…

“Let us climb,” he said, hope infusing his voice with a briskness he had not felt since departing Rivendell.

*

Hours later, after struggling up the mountain, the Fellowship was exhausted and despondent. The last in the party, Merry cried out as he tumbled into a snowdrift. Aragorn turned to help him, only to see a figure swathed in a dark cloak grab the Hobbit by the scruff of the neck and haul him up again. Clutched in the figure’s other hand were the reins to a nondescript brown horse, its head lowered against the wind and blowing snow.

“So, Dagnir, you decide to join us at last?” he called through cupped hands. The wind snatched his words and hurled them away, but she was able to hear him anyway.

“You know me, I’m a sucker for depressing, hopeless missions without any chance of fun,” she called back, her voice incongruously cheery for such a miserable place. “Couldn’t let you have all the unwashed, sleeping-on-the-ground excitement.”

The other Fellows spun as best they could in the deep snow, staring in amazement at their newest companion.

“Who is this?” demanded Gimli, his eyes narrow as he watched Dagnir plop Merry onto the back of her horse (“His name’s Gordo,” she told the Hobbit) and enviously eye the ease with which Legolas was scampering on top of the snow.

“She is Dagnir, the Ranger you met in Rivendell,” Aragorn replied. “She keeps to the north, to Ered Luin and the Bay of Forochel. She was late of Forland, killing an ice wraith that had been terrorizing the countryside.”

The dwarf’s ice-encrusted brows raised. “That is a rough land. The elves that live there are not given to accepting outsiders warmly. Is she one of them?”

“In truth, I do not know,” Aragorn admitted. “She is no elf, but has not aged a day in the years I have known her. If anything, she grows more quick, more agile. She has no surname, and will not talk of her family, nor her past. I asked her once if she came from Rhûn, and she laughed and said her home was much, much farther than that—“

His words were cut off by Frodo’s panicked cry. “The ring! It is gone!”

Immediately they all began to scan the nearby ground for it. “Ah,” said Boromir, plucking a golden chain from the snow with his gloved fingers, letting the ring dangle before his avid face. “It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing. Such a little thing...”

Frodo’s eyes were huge in his pale, anxious face as they flicked back and forth between the ring, swaying seductively on its chain, and Boromir.

The look on the Gondorian’s face chilled Aragorn’s blood more than Caradhras’ cruel climate ever could. “Boromir!” he barked. “Give the ring to Frodo!”

Boromir’s glance lingered lovingly on the ring a last moment before he consciously schooled his features to neutrality. “As you wish,” he said carelessly, dropping it into Frodo’s outstretched hand. “I care not.”

Dagnir’s head snapped up at the same time Legolas said, “There is a foul voice on the air.”

“It is Saruman!” exclaimed Gandalf.

“He's trying to bring down the mountain,” Aragorn declared. “Gandalf, we must turn back.”

“No!” Gandalf’s voice was steely with resolve as he raised his staff and intoned a spell. “Losto Caradhras, sedho, hodo, uitho I 'ruith!” (Sleep Caradhras, be still, lie still, hold your wrath)

The only reply he received was an ominous rumbling that preceded the avalanche, burying them all in massive snowdrifts. Legolas and Aragorn were the first to struggle free, and proceeded to dig out the others while Gandalf used a spell to melt the snow covering him.

“Six, seven, eight, nine,” Aragorn counted under his breath. All except… “Dagnir!”

He heard a muffled “Goddamnit!” and could not stifle his grin as he made his way toward the sound. Digging swiftly, he soon uncovered the small woman. Her face was red-- more from anger, he suspected, than from cold— and she had snow all over her.

“It’s even up my nose,” she moaned, scrubbing at her face with a gloved hand. “This isn’t working, Strider. We’ll never get across.”

Reluctantly, the others came to the same realization, and it was a long, slow day as they retraced their steps back down the mountain. Aragorn tried many times to learn why Dagnir had decided to accompany them, but ever was she evading him, saying she had to help a Hobbit or some other transparent excuse.

Back on flat ground once more, a discussion was held to decide how to proceed.

“We have but two choices,” Gandalf said, grey hair hanging limply around his lined face. “To return to Rivendell, or continue to Mordor.”

The Hobbits raised weary eyes in hope at the mention of Rivendell, but the Men’s faces were impassive.

“You guys can go back if you want,” Dagnir said, breaking the silence that had fallen, “but if you do, I’m going to keep going.”

“You will take the ring to Mordor?” Aragorn asked her, grey eyes fixed on her face. She nodded. “And what if Frodo will not relinquish it? What if we nine forbid you to take it?”

“Then I will kill each and every one of you to get the ring.” Dagnir met his gaze evenly, then that of each other them.

“You could not do that,” Gimli blustered, smiling his amusement at the very idea. “Tis ludicrous.”

Dagnir favoured him with what could loosely be termed a smile, but it was neither pretty nor pleasant. “I do what needs to be done,” she informed him calmly. “Not that I’d want to kill you guy, because you all seem pretty cool, but…” Her hazel eyes clouded over, and she seemed lost in a thought before they focused once more. “I do what needs to be done,” she finished. “And I destroy whatever gets in my way.”

Aragorn subdued a shiver; long he’d known her to be a formidable ally and dangerous enemy, but never had her convictions been turned upon him, and he had a moment’s foreboding that he would not be able to defend himself against her. He doubted even Boromir would be able to withstand her, were she to truly apply her talents toward destruction of their party.

“I will not turn back,” Frodo said at last. “Even if it be just Dagnir and I, I will see this quest done.” He was rewarded with a big but all-too-brief smile from her, and Gandalf sighed.

“There is another path we may take,” he allowed, “but it is not a name that will bring any pleasure to your ears; I speak of Moria.” Only Gimli showed any enthusiasm for it. “I have been there, and lived to tell the tale, but would not undertake it again had I the choice.”

“As have I,” Aragorn said, “and I concur. .’Tis not a place I wish to enter a second time.”

“And I don’t want to enter it even once!” exclaimed Pippin.

“I will not go unless all have decided against me,” Boromir stated flatly, looking round at his companions. “What say you all?”

“I do not wish to go through Moria,” Legolas said quietly, and the others turned to confront the Hobbits, who held the decision in their little hands.

There was a long, awkward silence, and then Frodo stammered, “I- I think we should leave the decision to the morrow. I for one cannot vote fairly on a night such as this.” He shuddered and shrunk deeper into his elven cloak. “How the wind howls!”

“That’s not wind,” Dagnir muttered, eyes narrowing to slits as she glanced to Aragorn for confirmation of her suspicions.

He gave it. “The Wargs have come west of the mountains.” Quickly, he ushered the rest to the top of a hill crowned by a ring of trees and boulders, and within the ring lit a fire. Bill the Pony and Gordo the Horse were nervous, and Legolas spoke a few gentle words to them in Sindarin to ease their fright.

A huge wolf-shape slunk through the surrounding trees, and in spite of Gandalf’s impressive warning to go away, it leapt at them. But no sooner had its rear feet left the ground than the twang of a bowstring sounded clearly in the gloom; Legolas had loosed an arrow into the beast’s throat.

At once, the other Wargs retreated, and though Aragorn and Dagnir explored the hill for them, could find none. “Best to get what sleep you might,” he told the Hobbits grimly, and sat on a flat rock, sword still in hand, to wait out the remainder of the night.

Several hours later Dagnir, Boromir, and Gimli dozed lightly as Aragorn and Gandalf sat stiffly awake, keeping stern watch. As if bidden by a conductor, a chorus of wolven cries burst from all sides around them, with a bound, the seven sleepers were awake and on their feet.

The Hobbits were quick to pile wood on the first while the others stood back-to-back and began to fight; Aragorn stabbed one, Boromir sliced the head off another. Gimli hacked at a third with his axe, and Legolas’ arrows took down two at once while Dagnir leapt forward, somersaulted in the air, and landed on the back of a particularly large one. Hooking her arm round its neck as much to maintain her seat as to keep its snarling maw from chewing on her, she grasped its muzzle in her free hand and with a sudden wrench, shattered its neck vertebrae.

Leaping lightly off the Warg’s corpse, she turned to confront the next one but before she could, Gandalf was tossing a fiery brand up into the air and chanting in Sindarin. Right away, the hill was lit with a fire storm, and mid-flight, Legolas’ last arrow was set alight and hurtled, aflame, into the heart of one of the wolf-chieftains.

At this, the rest of their foes skidded to a halt, then turned and bolted away into the lightening shadows of dawn. When day had fully broken, the Fellowship was dismayed, putting it lightly, to learn there was no sign of the defeated Wargs—the only evidence that remained were Legolas’ arrows scattered round the hilltop, every single one undamaged but the one that had caught fire.

Soberly, he collected them and replaced them in his quiver as Gandalf intoned, “No ordinary wolves, they.” He surveyed the hills around them, gaze alighting on the grey cliffs in the distance that revealed themselves with the brightening day. “Come,” Gandalf said. “We make for Moria.”



Part Two

“Is she crying?” Pippin asked Merry, round-eyed as he watched the small woman sniffle and scrub at her face with her fists.

“I think she is,” Merry replied, equally amazed. “She seems very attached to that horse. Even if she did give it a most unusual name.”

“I don’t blame ‘er,” Sam piped up. “I feel like crying m’self, having to leave Bill ‘ere, and we’ve not known him long. I think she’s had Gordo for years. Like a member of the family, he is.”

With a final snuffle, Dagnir hugged the horse round his neck a last time, then turned to glare fiercely at the others, who were watching her with curiosity (the Hobbits), derision (Boromir and Gimli) or utter blankness (Aragorn and Legolas).

“It’s always the same with women,” Boromir said airily, tilting his head back and surveying her down the length of his nose . “No matter how battle-hardened they say they are, it always ends in tears.”

“On behalf of my gender— hey!” Dagnir exclaimed, hands on hips. “You keep talking that way and this is gonna end in tears, alright— yours.”

Boromir backed away, hands held up in mocking surrender. “Yes, Dagnir. I meant nothing by it.” She just curled her lip at him and stomped over to the pile of supplies she’d removed from Gordo, and the rest dispersed, Merry and Pippin scooping up handfuls of pebbles to toss into the water.

“Any progress yet, Gandalf?” Frodo asked quietly. The wizard had been trying for the past hour to speak the correct password to enter the gate of Moria.

“I’m afraid not,” Gandalf replied shortly. Silence fell, broken only by the plop! of Merry’s stone in the water. Pippin made to throw his own but was halted by Aragorn.

“It’s a riddle!” Frodo said suddenly. “Speak friend and enter… what’s the Elvin word for friend?”

Gandalf blinked. “Mellon.” And blinked again as the doors parted smoothly. His frown was very deep indeed as they entered the cave.

“Soon, Mr. Elf, you will experience the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves: roaring fires, malt beer, red meat off the bone,” Gimli told Legolas happily. “This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin. And they call it a mine. A mine!”

It was very dark, and mysterious things crunched beneath their feet. Boromir lit raised his torch high and gasped at the sight that was illuminated. “This is no mine,” he said grimly. “It is a tomb.”

“No!” Gimli shouted, his voice echoing against stone walls as his eyes darted around at the skeletons scattered across the ground.

“Goblins,” Legolas muttered succinctly as he squatted and picked up an arrow.

“We make for the Gap of Rohan!” declared Boromir. “We should never have come here. Now get out, get out!”

Dagnir held up a hand for silence. The usual prattlings of the halflings was absent. “Where are the Hobbits?” she asked, looking around, and turned to jog back outside the gate.

Outside was chaos; a water-creature had snagged poor Frodo by the leg and dangled him high in the air by a long, glistening tentacle; the other three halflings were hacking at it ineffectually with their little swords.

Legolas began pelting the creature with arrows, which only seemed to infuriate it—flapping the unfortunate Frodo back and forth like a leaf in a windstorm. Drawing their weapons, all lunged at the beast and stabbed and slashed at it until the tentacle loosened and Aragorn could tug the Hobbit free.

“Still better than a Tsangor demon,” Dagnir was heard to mutter as they dashed into the mines to escape the enraged thing. “Way fewer arms, and no mucus. Any mucus-free critter is a-ok with me.”

Boromir just cleared the gate when the creature smashed into it, and it collapsed. Rocks rained down from above, and when the dust cleared, the entrance to the mines was obliterated. Their only means of escape was gone, and there was no choice—they must go through the mines of Moria.

They walked and walked, down narrow corridors and up steep stairs. Legolas stepped lightly, but his face had a different set to it, as if he were clenching his jaw very tightly. Finally they came to a set of three doors, and Gandalf halted, puzzling over which to select.

The Fellowship and Dagnir took the opportunity to rest a moment. Gandalf and Frodo bent their heads together, speaking in low voices, while the other Hobbits argued over being hungry.

The Men and the dwarf plopped to the ground, happy to take the weight of their armour and weapons off their feet, while the elf leant back against the wall and Dagnir pulled her plait over her shoulder, grimacing at the mine dust caked in it. It was fairly evident that the silence was due to the males’ awkwardness around a female.

“So, Dagnir,” Gimli said at last. “You’re a woman.”

She looked at him, her face deadpan as she replied, “Yes. For many years now.”

Gimli frowned; Aragorn and Boromir muffled their laughter. Legolas just watched.

“Why did you follow behind us for so long, Dagnir?” Aragorn asked. “Why did you not make yourself known earlier?”

“I don’t play well with others,” she replied, and dropped to sit beside him. “Besides, I snore, and God knows I couldn’t live with myself if I disturbed your beauty sleep.” The way she eyed them indicated her opinion that some needed it more than others. “Did you forget to bring soap again, Strider?”

He threw back his head and laughed; the sound bounced off the stone walls. “If I did, I know you will press some of yours on me. I can only hope I will not end this journey smelling of lilacs or roses.”

“It’s honeysuckle,” Dagnir replied crossly, unbraiding her hair. “And smelling flowery is the least of your worries, bucko.” She stretched an arm over her head, then the other. “So, you gonna tell me who these other guys are, or am I gonna have to call them Elf Guy, Dwarf Guy, and Horny Guy?” They all looked at her oddly.

“Which one of us would be Horny Guy?” Aragorn asked mildly.

“Him,” she said, jerking her thumb at Boromir, who looked dismayed. “Because he’s got the horn!” She tapped it where it hung at his waist, and rolled her eyes.

Aragorn smiled. “Quite right. Dagnir, this is Gimli, son of Gloin—“ the dwarf nodded at her, and she nodded back, “Legolas, son of Thranduil and prince of Mirkwood—“ she saluted him smartly, which he returned with a raised eyebrow, “And—“ here he coughed delicately, “Horny Guy is Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor.” She grinned at Boromir, who glowered at her.

“That’s a pretty good frown,” she told him. “I give it a seven out of ten for sheer bad temper, plus an extra point for all the stubble. Really drives home the intimidation factor.”

There was a bit of silence, marred only by Sam shouting at Merry and Pippin to stop arguing over whether elevenses really should be held at eleven o’clock.

“So!” Gimli finally said with forced cheer. “You’re Dagnir, the Slayer.” She nodded. “I like that in a woman.”

“This is my lucky day,” she muttered, busying herself with rummaging through her pack, and Aragorn hid a smile, knowing her to be worrying about fending off the advances of an amorous dwarf.

“What is a slayer?” Legolas asked from his stance against the wall.

“Just what it sounds like,” she replied, coming up with a comb and starting to run it through her hair. It was the only thing that had changed since he’d met her, Aragorn realized. It was very long, falling past her waist. The last foot or so was very light, almost as pale as an elf’s, but the rest was the colour of rich honey. “I slay things.”

“What sort of things?” asked Boromir. “Evil things?”

She nodded, removing the last tangle before separating the mass into three parts for another braid. She braided her hair into a single smooth plait, her actions practiced. The men watched the movement of her deft hands, waiting for her to continue, but she said no more.

“Ah, it’s that way!” Gandalf exclaimed from his perch further up the way, and they heaved themselves up to follow. “Behold! The great realm of the Dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf!”

They stared in amazement at the lofty heights of the hall, with its immense pillars and tall, arched ceiling. Legolas lost the pinched look he’d acquired upon stepping through Moria Gate, until they left the hall and entered another, much shorter corridor. There was light up ahead, and they hastened toward it. It fell upon what was clearly a stone tomb, and Gimli rushed to it, muttering, “No, no, no no no…”

They looked on stoically as the dwarf knelt before the tomb, speaking brokenly in Dwarvish. Aragorn raised a brow to see Dagnir come forward and rest her hand on Gimli’s shoulder, squeezing briefly.

Gandalf pulled a book from the grasp of a nearby skeleton and began to read in spite of Legolas’ urging not to linger. “ ‘Drums, drums in the deep. We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out... They are coming...’ ” he read aloud.

A huge, echoing clatter interrupted the wizard, and they spun around to see Pippin standing beside a well, eyes shut tightly in dread.

“Fool of a Took!” Gandalf raged. “Throw yourself in next time, and rid us of your stupidity!”

And then, softly at first, and growing in volume as they listened in horror, came the sound of drums. Frodo’s sword, Sting, began to glow a bright blue.

“Orcs!” Legolas murmured.

Boromir poked his head around the corner “They have a cave troll!” he declared grimly, narrowly missing being hit by arrows..

“Let them come!” shouted Gimli, brandishing his axe, eyes alight with the thirst for vengeance. “There is one dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath.”

And then the room was flooded with orcs and goblins. Metal flashed as they battled the monsters, metal that swiftly became covered in black blood. Then the troll was led in, smashing into a wall, knocking part of it down as it pushed its inexorable way toward Frodo. Aragorn was flung into a wall, slumping unconscious to the floor.

The others rushed to occupy the troll while Frodo crouched over Aragorn, frantically trying to awaken the Ranger, but it stabbed out with its spear and caught the Hobbit neatly in the side, the force of the blow knocking Frodo into the corner.

Horrified, the swordsmen (and woman) distracted the beast while Legolas aimed the death blow carefully, loosing his arrow into the troll’s throat. The Hobbits sobbed in fear for their friend, but Frodo grinned up at them from his prone position on the filthy floor—he was unhurt, and revealed a shirt of mithril under his tunic and cloak.

“I think there is more to this Hobbit than meets the eye,” Gandalf murmured, and Gimli exclaimed, “You are full of surprises, Master Baggins!”

“Enough of the back-slapping, boys,” Dagnir said briskly, head cocked toward the hallway, listening hard. “There’s more orcs coming.”

“To the bridge of Khazad-dûm!” Gandalf commanded, and they set off. They were soon surrounded by a very large, very nasty troop of orcs and goblins, however, and feeling the end was near when a fiery glow appeared at the end of the hall. The monsters surrounding them slowly began drawing away.

“Something so bad even they’re afraid?” Dagnir asked. “This is not of the good.”

“A balrog,” breathed Gandalf, grey eyes searching the darkness for their newest foe. “A demon of the ancient world.”

“Demon?” she inquired, perking up. “I’m really good with demons.”

He turned a stern face to her. “This foe is beyond any of you.” She pouted, but he pointed sternly toward the broken staircase with his staff. “Run!”

One by one they leapt across. Gimli refused to be tossed but almost fell off, and only Legolas and Dagnir tugging him up by their grip on his beard saved him. Once all but the wizard were across the chasm, they ran as fast as they could toward the other side, looking back to see Gandalf facing down the balrog.

“You shall not pass!” he thundered, and with a blow of his staff on the bridge, cracked it so the demon tumbled into the abyss below. Gandalf turned to face the Fellowship, and for a brief and shining moment they felt joy at his success.

But the balrog would not be thwarted in his quarry, and his whip lashed out and up, wrapping around the wizard’s knees and yanking him over the edge. “Fly, you fools!” Gandalf shouted as he tumbled down.

Stricken, they stood there in horror until orcish arrows began peppering the ground near them, and each snatched up a Hobbit and began to run. Bursting free of the mine at last, the happy return to the sunlight was ignored in place of sorrow as the Fellowship collapsed to their knees in grief. Dagnir watched them quietly, her head bent in recognition of the wizard’s passing.

Aragorn, to Boromir’s displeasure, insisted on continuing as fast as they could. “By nightfall these hills will be crawling with orc,” he told them gruffly. “We must reach Lothlorien.”

They crossed a stream, taking a brief moment to drink and wash the tear-tracks from their faces. Aragorn fondled a pendant on a chain around his neck and Dagnir commented on it.

“Arwen gave it to me, as a symbol of the love she bears me,” he said almost shyly.

“Ah, true love,” Dagnir said lightly, but there was something in her voice that made the words grate.

“You do not believe in true love?” Gimli asked sardonically, his face making it clear that he certainly didn’t, and wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t either.

“Oh, I believe in it, all right,” she replied, her mouth an ugly, wry twist. “I have personal, first-hand knowledge of it, after all.”

“You have shared in true love?” Legolas asked, skepticism plain in his expression. “Why, then, is your mate not at your side at this moment?” Aragorn wondered at the cruelty of the elf’s question.

Buffy looked up at him, her green-gold gaze roaming over his tall, lithe body and pale hair and beautifully masculine face. “Because he turned evil, and I had to send him to hell,” she replied at last, her face utterly blank, and stood while the others gaped at her. She brushed some grass off the seat of her trousers. “Shall we continue?” she asked, very businesslike, and began walking toward the forest once more, uncaring if they followed.

Part Three

It took two days to travel from Dimrill Dale, where they exited the mines, to Lorien. Dagnir hardly said a single world to the others, only replying when spoken to, and slept apart from them at night. She seemed very familiar with the area, and seemed to cheer up the closer they came to the forest. Aragorn, for one, was pleased that the haunted expression in her eyes was all but faded when they stepped into the embrace of the massive mellyrn trees.

Once in Lorien, Gimli decided to put a bit of a scare in the halflings. “Stay close, young Hobbits,” he told them. “They say that a great sorceress lives in these woods. An elf witch of terrible power. All who look upon her fall under her spell, and are never seen again.”

The Hobbits trembled at the idea, and Dagnir frowned. “Gimli, your mouth is open, and sound is coming from it. This is never good.”

Ignoring her, he continued blithely, “Well, here's one dwarf she won't ensnare so easily. I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox.” His mouth opened to spout another boast, but a nocked bow appeared mere inches from his face and he shut it with an audible click. Around the Fellowship were dozens of Elvin archers, all pointing similarly nocked bows at them.

“The dwarf breathes so loud, we could have shot him in the dark,” drawled a cool voice, and an elf taller than the rest and with an unmistakable air of authority, stepped forward.

“Haldir o Lórien. Henion aníron, boe ammen i dulu lîn. Boe ammen veriad lîn,” Aragorn greeted him. (Haldir of Lórien. We desire your help. We need your protection). He noted that Dagnir was smiling brightly at the elf, who was returning it with a slow smirk of his own.

“Returned so soon, have you, Dagnir?” he asked, his voice low. “Was there something here you found you could not do without?”

Dagnir pushed aside the arrow-tip in her face with a finger and sauntered— sauntered! Aragorn thought, amazed— up to him. “Yep,” she replied. “Now that’s I’m teamed up with Stinky, Horny, and Stubbly back there—“ she jerked a thumb at the men of the Fellowship—“I’m running out of that groovy soap I got here last time.”

Haldir arched an impossibly elegant brow. “Indeed,” was all he said.

“These woods are perilous,” Gimli grumbled, unhappy with being called ‘Stinky’. “We should go back.”

”You have entered the realm of the Lady of the Wood,” Haldir replied, sliding his silver-blue gaze from Dagnir. “You cannot go back. Come, she is waiting.”

*

“Where is Dagnir?” Boromir asked as he sharpened his sword. “I have not seen her in three days.”

Gimli laughed; Legolas frowned. “She and Haldir are… old friends, I believe,” Aragorn said haltingly. “I believe they are spending time together.”

Gimli laughed harder; Legolas frowned deeper. Aragorn flushed, the pink tinge very apparent now his cheeks were cleanly shaven.

Boromir just nodded wisely, comprehension settling on his face. “She is a strange woman,” he commented, scrutinizing the edge of his blade for nicks. “But sturdy. And a fine warrior. Glad I am to have another swordwielder in our number.”

“She’d make a fine dwarf,” Gimli agreed. “If only she had a beard…” he added thoughtfully, stroking his own as the others eyed each other, grimacing at the thought.

“She’s certainly short enough,” Aragorn murmured, grinning when Gimli shot a glare at him.

“Now, I know you’re not making fun of my height,” Dagnir said as she strode into their pavilion, hands on hips. They stared at her in amazement.

She was wearing, not the tunics and trousers and sturdy boots they were used to seeing her in, but a lovely gown in leaf-green whose full sleeves and skirt brushed the ground as she walked. Her hair was not in its customary plait, but hung, wavy and shining, almost to her knees, confined only by two tiny braids at her temples and fastened behind her head.

“You’re wearing a gown,” Boromir said stupidly.

“Yeah, women often do,” she said, grinning mockingly at him. “We’re actually known for it.” She sniffed the air. “I can tell that all of you took baths, and let me tell you, it’s made my day.” She sniffed again. “Not honeysuckle, but hey, any port in a storm, huh, Horny?”

“Do not call me that,” he growled, standing menacingly over her petite form.

But the infuriating woman just smiled, daring him to do his worst. “I can kick your butt whether I’m in a dress or not, you know,” she informed him.

“What have you been doing the past few days, Dagnir?” Aragorn asked, trying to defuse the situation.

Her smile turned dreamy. “I love elves. Did ya know that, Aragorn?” He quirked a brow, and noticed how Legolas seemed to perk up at her words. “Not just cause they’re so pretty, although, yum. But all those years of experience… and the stamina…” Her eyes glazed over a little. “Oh, the stamina.”

Gimli coughed a little, looking with great interest at a corner of the pavilion while the Men grinned at each other. Legolas just watched her with narrowed eyes.

“Hm,” she murmured at the noise, waking up from her daydream. “I wonder what Haldir’s doing right now?” she wondered aloud, more to herself than them. “Think I’ll go see…” And she turned to leave.

“Dagnir!” Aragorn halted her with a hand on her arm. She stopped and turned back to him, looking surprised to see him there. “Are you going to continue with us when we continue to Mordor?”

“Oh, yeah!” she said brightly. “Just not enough violence in Lorien for me, and you know, I always say that a day without an evisceration is like a day without sunshine.”

A lovely, musical sound, like a chorus of angelic, heavenly bells, filled the pavilion, and they all turned to see Legolas in his corner, laughing.

“I just love elves,” Dagnir said, grinning happily, and left to find Haldir.

*

Buffy hummed as she walked away from the pavilion. Contrary to the impression she’d given the others, she hadn’t actually spent the past three days in bed with Lorien’s march-warden, though the idea certainly had its merits. She sighed happily and looked around at the sunlight filtering through the mallorn leaves and dappling the ground, enjoying the peace she only felt in Caras Galadhon.

When she’d leapt through the portal to save Dawn seventeen years earlier, she had landed here, in the forest of Lorien. The first face she’d seen had been that of the Golden Lady herself, Galadriel. The second had been Haldir’s stern visage hovering behind the elf-witch— he’d been the one to find her, sprawled on her back in the deepest part of the woods, and had not been happy that a human woman had somehow been able to enter ‘his’ forest without detection. It was only Galadriel’s assurances that Buffy hadn’t merely ‘walked in’ that saved his perimeter forces from his severe displeasure.

It had taken the combined forces of Galadriel’s gentle persuasion, Celeborn’s earnest assurances, and Haldir’s sarcastic ridicule to convince her that she was indeed still alive, and that Lothlorien was not, in fact, ‘heaven’. The idea actually seemed to amuse the elves greatly.

“But I thought…” Buffy began, biting her lip. “I thought death was my gift. That’s what the First Slayer told me. That death was my gift.”

“And so it is,” Galadriel replied. “It is a gift that will be given to you, once the Valar feel you have earned it. Until that time, no matter how you offer your life for your duty, you will return.”

“The Valar? I will return?” Buffy frowned. “Not liking the cryptic, Lady. ‘Splainy for the new girl?”

Galadriel smiled. “The Valar are the holy ones, they who create all, and destroy all.”

“Oh, the Powers That Be. Got it.”

“As for the returning… perhaps that is an explanation for the Valar themselves,” the elf-witch said, and turned to lift an ewer of water. “Will you look into my mirror?” She filled a shallow stone basin, which Buffy had thought a bird bath, with the water.

Buffy leaned over it, seeing only water. “Patience,” Galadriel murmured from behind her. Buffy took a deep breath and relaxed, letting her eyes lose focus, and slowly an image began to form…

…of a demon. He was very tall, with horns, and an iron ring through his chin. And he was waving at her. “Hi, Buffy! I’m Skip.”

“Um, hi, Skip” she replied, bewildered.

“Got lots of questions, I bet,” he said cheerfully, smiling. She nodded. “Well, let’s have them!”

She thought for a second. “Ok, why am I not dead? I thought death was my gift, and I gave it.”

Skip sighed. “Oh, you cut right to the heart of the matter, don’t you?” He heaved a sigh. “There are other things you need to know first. I prefer to follow a more structured route. If you don’t mind?” He motioned to an outcropping of rock behind him, and she nodded.

He sat and pulled one leg up, linking his hands around his knee. “Hm, where to begin? At the beginning, I’d suppose.” He drew a deep breath. “In the beginning, there were demons. They were beginning to overrun the earth, so the PTB infused the soul of one person—one girl in all the world—with the extra abilities to fight and defeat these forces of evil...” Seeing her impatience, he relented. “…blah blabbity blah.”

“But you knew all that. As the centuries went on, this infusion began to take on a life of its own, so to speak. It began to… alter… the personalities of the girls that acquired it once they were activated as the Slayer. It became its own being, a soul without a body to call its own.”

Buffy frowned. “Are you saying that Slayers were basically girls who were possessed?”

“Possessed?” Skip thought about that a moment, then nodded. “In a word, yes.” He saw her skepticism. “Before you were activated, did you like to fight?”

“No…” Buffy said slowly, not knowing where he was going with this.

“Did you like to hurt others? Ever entertain the notion of killing things, even bad things?”

“No…”

“Ever have an interest in fighting techniques, war strategies, or other methods of violence?”

“No.”

“And after you were activated… you loved to fight. Anticipated it, even. And the idea of killing? Didn’t phase you one bit, did it?”

Buffy was starting to look uncomfortable. “No, it didn’t bother me,” she admitted softly.

“Didn’t you say once that while normal girls dreamed of makeup and boys and clothes and dates, you dreamed of beheadings etc.?” She nodded. “There’s a reason for that, Buf—may I call you Buf?” He didn’t wait for her to agree. “The reason is that the Slayer soul overrode your own peaceable inclinations and turned you into a killing machine.”

He saw the resignation on her face, and knew she’d accepted what he’d told her. ”Great! On to the next, then.” He lowered his leg, and stood, stretching briefly. “The Slayer soul, after millennia of constant activity, began to weary of its duty. Even a formless entity of destruction gets work burn-out, after all.”

“It began to think of ways it could be free of the endless grind of demon-slayage, and finally realized a way. It was your bad luck that she got her bright idea on your watch.”

“What do you mean?” Buffy asked, her brow creased in confusion.

“I mean, the Slayer soul finally figured it out. There was never meant to be more than one. ‘One girl in all the world’ and all that—well, you know the drill.”

“That I do,” she replied dryly.

“The Slayer soul reasoned that if her host—you—could die, another Slayer would be activated, but then if you weren’t permanently dead, and came back, there would be two of you. And if there were two, then the next time you died, would be the last for her—the other Slayer, containing a new Slayer soul, would continue the line, and the original would fade from existence.”

“So I really was supposed to die back in sophomore year,” Buffy said wonderingly. “The Master really should have killed me, permanently.”

Skip nodded. “The Slayer soul refused to move on to Kendra, but stayed with you. This was a cataclysmic event for the Valar—who you and others rather irreverently call the PTBs—as it had never happened before, and they really didn’t know what to do. They couldn’t force the Slayer soul to the next girl, but they couldn’t leave her without the Slayer essence, either. So, they created another one. And because they had to rush, it wasn’t as pure as the original. Not as well-put-together.”

“That’s why Kendra died so quickly,” Buffy whispered. “That’s why Faith…”

“Why Faith was so easily corrupted, yes,” Skip affirmed. He clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing in a rather Giles-like manner. “Now that there were two, all the Slayer soul in you had to do was get you killed, and it would be at peace.”

He turned and peered at Buffy, who squirmed a little under his intent gaze. “What it hadn’t counted on was your own soul’s fierce determination to live, fueled by the love and support of your family and friends. No other Slayer had ever had those things, you see.”

“In spite of Drusilla, Spike, Angelus, Faith, Spike, the Judge, Adam, Spike, Dracula, etc. etc. you just wouldn’t die. The Slayer soul was getting increasingly desperate, and it began to overpower your fortitude and sense of hope. This last year, with Dawn and your mother, was so much more difficult for you to handle not because you were weak, but because the Slayer soul was weak. Being a part of you for so long had made it identify with you, and your losses were its losses as well, and it simply couldn’t handle all the confusion and loss.”

He gazed affectionately at Buffy, who was weeping silently by this point. “The despair you have felt this last year was not just your own, but a combination of yours and the Slayer soul’s as well. Do you remember what Spike told you once? That all Slayers have a death wish?”

She nodded, brushing tears off her cheeks.

“He was right. Damned perceptive creature, that vamp,” Skip said with a laugh. “The Slayer soul craved oblivion, and when it and the host were both weary to the core, they allowed their opponent to have that one good day. That’s what happened to you—both you and it were tired of it all, and both of you decided to end it.”

“Now, your situation was different, as I said. You didn’t have to jump in that portal. It was not only unnecessary, it was wrong. Very wrong. You should not have jumped in that portal. That was Dawn’s destiny, not yours. It skewed everything, both in your world and many others.”

“The Slayer soul’s pursuit of final, total death went against the purest essence, the absolute reason for the existence of the Slayer itself— everlasting, continuous existence. The Slayer was created to be eternal, and figuring out a way to snuff itself out caused… mayhem.”

Part 4

“That’s the only way I can think of to explain it,” Skip finished.

“Ok,” Buffy said determinedly. “You’ve given the low-down on the background of this whole mess. What’s happening now? Why am I here? With elves? This place is way weird, you know.”

Skip grinned at her. “You should see the dimension without shrimp. You’d never think those things would be so important…” Seeing her mutinous expression, he hurried to get past his digression. “The Valar could not allow the destruction of the original Slayer soul, but neither could they allow it to exist in the same dimension as the other one. Having two Slayers was part of the reason Faith went so wrong—your dimension simply couldn’t handle the stress of containing two such powerful entities.”

“So they brought me here?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t they just put the Slayer soul into someone else?” she asked grumpily. “I’m tired of being hijacked for Slayerly purposes.”

He sighed. “I know you are, and the Valar are sorry for it, but… after being merged for so long, it seems as if you and the Slayer soul are somewhat… inseparable.”

Now it was Buffy’s turn to sigh. “What if I die here? Will some poor girl in this dimension be saddled with the Slayer soul?”

Skip turned away, seeming uncomfortable. It made her suspicious. “Skip. Tell me.”

“No, no other girl will be saddled with the Slayer soul.”

“But you said the Valar won’t allow the destruction of the Slayer soul…” her voice trailed away as comprehension filled her with horror. “And if it can’t be separated from me, then I can’t die, can I?” Her hands clenched into fists and she longed to strike Skip, to hit and beat and thrash until he was in pieces on the floor. Instead, she gripped the sides of the stone basin. “I can’t die.”

He just looked at her, his leathery grey face filled with sorrow. “I’m sorry, Buffy. But no, you can’t die. No matter what you do, you will always come back.” Then he coughed. “Well, that’s not entirely true.”

Her head, which had been bent from the weight of the burden of her thoughts, snapped up. “What?”

“Here we get to the gift of death thing,” he said, and there was a twinkle in his gleaming red eyes. “When the first slayer told you your gift was death, she wasn’t lying. But you got it wrong.”

Buffy’s eyes were wide in amazement. “What? But I was so sure! It made perfect sense!”

“I can see how you’d think that,” Skip agreed. “But no, you were wrong. Death is your gift… a gift the Valar will give you, when they feel you deserve it.”

“When I deserve it?” Buffy shrieked. “What do I have to do to deserve some peace?” She looked skyward and shook her fist at where she supposed the Valar would be. “Who do I have to blow to get some down-time around here?”

Skip coughed delicately. “Uh, Buffy…”

Frowning, she lowered her arm and scowled at him.

“The Valar consider your quest for oblivion to be a sign of weakness, and definitely do not appreciate the Slayer soul’s scheming to replace itself with another. Not big on being manipulated, are the Valar. Frankly, they don’t have much of a sense of humour, either, and talk about cheapskate bosses…” He looked suddenly nervous. “Ahem. So, as I was saying, they are going to make you redeem yourself, and earn your oblivion.”

Buffy squinted at him. “So, what you’re saying is, until I satisfy their expectations, I’m immortal? I have to be the slayer forever until they decide I’m done, and then I can die? That’s how death is my gift?”

Skip nodded. “You got it, girly.”

“I don’t like this,” she said petulantly. “On a scale of one to ten for suckiness, this is like a 45. This sucks worse than a tornado.” Buffy heaved a huge sigh. “What do I do now?”

“You were brought to Lothlorien for a reason. These elves can help you. Let them. Galadriel can help you adjust to and accept what you’ve just learned. Celeborn can counsel you as to what path your life here can take. Haldir can assist you in weapons training—you’re still dropping your elbow, you know.”

“I know,” she grumbled. Giles was always telling her that. Giles… just the thought of her Watcher, her mentor, her friend, brought more tears to her eyes.

“There is much knowledge and wisdom to acquire here, Buffy,” Skip said gently. “Do not reject it.” He glanced into the distance. “Ah, I have to get going. I won’t be seeing you for a while. Take care, k?”

Buffy forced a smirk past her tears. “Like I have a choice.”

And then he was gone, and she was blinking at Galadriel in the glade. Wordlessly, the elf slipped her arms around Buffy and drew the girl’s head to her shoulder, letting her weep endlessly

*

Buffy spent over a year with the elves of Lorien. She pestered Celeborn for what she called “career planning”; soaked Galadriel’s lovely white gowns with floods of tears of rage, fear, and loneliness; and drove Haldir nearly to distraction with her demands for training in tracking, hunting, and living rough.

She decided, after many days’ discussion with them all, to become a Ranger. “It will not be easy,” Celeborn warned as they lounged in his study, high in a mallorn, one warm summer day. He sat at his desk, elbow propped on its surface as he steepled his fingers under his chin in his characteristic ‘I’m being very serious, here’ pose. “It is a tight brotherhood, and you are female. You will have to force them to accept you.”

“I can do that,” she said confidently from her slouched position on his squashy divan. “It’ll take a lot more than a bunch of sexist pigs to keep me out of their tight little club.” Celeborn blinked in confusion—what did pigs have to do with anything? They were known to be very smart and clean animals—but Buffy just grinned and climbed out of the tree.

And she did get them to accept her. It took another three years and many ass-kickings courtesy of the Slayer, or Dagnir as she came to be known, for the Rangers to accept that this tiny female was just as good as they—better, even, if they were honest enough to admit it—but eventually they did.

And so she set out on her new life. Being a Ranger agreed with her—it was solitary enough to meet her need for seclusion, and just social enough for her to not become a total hermit. She got to travel the length and breadth of Middle-Earth, and marveled at how different it was from her own dimension. As the years passed, however, her curiosity waned and she became somewhat blasé about it, just as she had with being a Slayer back in Sunnydale. Galadriel expressed concern over it during one of Buffy’s annual visits to Lorien.

“How do elves deal with it?” Buffy asked one bright morning in Galadriel’s garden. They sipped mint tea and basked in the sunlight, and Buffy enjoyed being able to be clean and dress like a girl for once. “How do you keep from going stark raving mad at the idea of living for thousands of years? How do you handle the knowledge that there will be nothing new, or exciting, or fresh? Cause I’m really getting bored.”

Galadriel smiled. “Elves are not as easily bored as humans, I think,” she said in her melodic voice. “We also have other things in our lives besides travel and fighting the forces of darkness. We also have art, music, literature, poetry.” She looked meaningfully in the direction of Haldir’s flet. “We also have love.”

Buffy sighed and studied her hands. They’d been lotioned and massaged; the nails filed and buffed, they shone like mirrors. It was so rare to live in a civilized manner any more…if she’d stayed in Caras Galadhon, she’d never have to do without cleanliness and pretty clothes again. But if she stayed in Caras Galadhon, there’d really be nothing for her to do—fighting the baddies of Lorien was Haldir’s job, not hers.

She knew Haldir had a ‘thing’ for her, but she doubted it was love—merely an appreciation for a kindred spirit. She was a warrior, like him, and they shared a toughness that could be off-putting to others. They’d become good friends, and Buffy would be lying if she said he wasn’t attractive to her, but… “How about ‘like’?” she asked the elf-witch weakly. “I don’t think I’m up for ‘love’ just yet. Maybe in a decade or two.”

Galadriel smiled, and patted her hand. “There are many kinds of love, Buffy. A life closed off to all of them is not a life, but mere existence.”

Inspired by Galadriel’s words almost as much as Haldir’s sudden but breathtaking kiss, that visit, Buffy began a physical relationship with him. He was a wonderful lover, easily able to keep up with her Slayer strength and stamina. In spite of her fears that having sex with him would destroy their friendship, she was delighted to find that it was enhanced instead. He never demanded more of her, like her heart, than she was willing to give, and for that even more than his friendship of the past years, she was profoundly grateful.

Buffy had been a ranger for three years when she met a new member of the brotherhood—he called himself Strider, but there was something different about him. He wasn’t an average Man, and learning he’d been raised by Elves wasn’t the only explanation for it, but she didn’t press him to reveal himself any more than she wanted him to press her. She’d settled into a comfortably remote persona, after all, and enjoying having her business be her own.

Strider proved to be a fine companion on those occasions they’d worked together, respectful of her and possessing an even temper and decent sense of humour. She wished she were able to see more of him, but with her primary territory so far out of the way, and not terribly fun to visit, it wasn’t much of a surprise.

No one was more surprised than she to find herself headquartering in the kingdom of Lindon, far to the north. It was damned cold and snowy there for almost nine months of the year, and hadn’t she been the classic California girl? Beach bunny no longer—her turf was the sea route around Forlinden from the Bay of Forochel to the city of the Grey Havens, from where the elves tended to sail west to Valinor. Many of the elves sought her out on the recommendation of the Lorien folk who had befriended her, often bringing messages from Celeborn and Haldir.

She had no need for messages from Galadriel, who could talk into Buffy’s mind at will. This was something she wasn’t entirely thrilled with, but at least she’d gotten used to it over the years. She’d just wrapped up dealings with a particularly persistent ice wraith in Forlond south of the Ered Luin, and had fallen gratefully asleep beside Gordo in a not-too-snowy grotto at the mouth of the River Lhûn when Galadriel’s voice floated into her mind.

“Buffy, you are needed.”

“Aren’t I always?” Buffy groaned, turning over in her bedroll. “Can’t you ever decide to have a chat when I’m actually awake?”

“Buffy,” Galadriel said with gentle reproach. “You must go to Rivendell; you must go now. The Fellowship will break without you.”

“Fellow-huh?” Buffy asked blearily, pushing hair out of her face. The only thing about herself that had changed since arriving in Middle-Earth, she had never cut it, and it often wormed its way out of its plait while she slept.

“Go to Rivendell,” was all Galadriel said, and was gone.

Buffy sighed, and threw back the covers of her bedroll to saddle Gordo again.

And so it was that she came to be at Rivendell, place of the Last Homely Home, during the council called by Elrond for the purpose of determining the fate of the One Ring. Buffy knew she had to be a part of the mission, even as she knew that there was no way in hell that any of the men would agree to it. Hadn’t it taken her years to gain the grudging acceptance of the Rangers? And they were mere Men, mortal and short-lived. Elves and dwarves, with their longer lifespans and thus longer prejudices, would be damned near impossible to win over.

So Buffy came, saw, and decided to conquer in her own way. “Just like a female,” she could almost hear Haldir say in his mocking drawl when she set out a quarter-day behind the Fellowship as they travelled south toward Mordor. If it weren’t for Strider and the elf, she had no doubt they’d have died twelve times already—the Man from Gondor was a fine fighter, but in spite of his blustering about his land not needing a king he was not equipped to lead a group. The dwarf was merely overconfident, and the Hobbits were a cheery bunch but hopelessly inadequate to the task of keeping themselves alive in the wilderness.

She knew that at least the elf would know she was following them, and probably Strider as well, but they made no effort to confront her, and she was content to simply trail behind until the snows of Caradhras slowed them to such a pace that she caught up with them almost against her will.

Once part of their group, however, she found herself strangely drawn to them. Strider, of course, she knew and liked, and the Hobbits were oddly endearing. The dwarf reminded her of Xander with his clumsy humour, and the Man was rather like Riley, big and handsome, but without the puppy-dog eyes pleading with her to love him.

The elf, however… many were the times she’d caught him watching her, but the usual elfin impassivity of his face prevented her from knowing his thoughts. She knew that her way of doing or saying certain things surprised him sometimes, and that he didn’t like being surprised.

Neither did she, for that matter, and resolved to be wary of him. One thing she’d learned from her time in Lothlorien was that elves were much like cats—graceful, smart, and deadly. They were not above indulging in cruelty for the enjoyment of it, and while they held to high ideals for the most part, could be ruthless in pursuing their own goals. Yes, she would watch Legolas of Mirkwood carefully.

Now she was back in Caras Galadon, the city she loved above all others in Middle-Earth, with the closest things she had to friends, and she was clean and well-fed and warm. It didn’t happen often, and she reveled in it. Instead of finding Haldir for some ‘naughty time’ as she had implied to Strider—Aragorn, she reminded herself, now that he had been revealed as Isildur’s heir—she went to Galadriel, who had requested she come to the mirror glade for a chat.

Part 5

The elf-witch greeted her with a warm smile, and beckoned her to sit. “It is time for you to look in the mirror again,” she told Buffy. “Prepare yourself for news of great importance.”

Skip hadn’t wanted to talk to her since that first time seventeen years ago… immediately going on red alert, she tried to work out of Galadriel what was going on, but her friend would not say a word in elaboration, but merely smiled in that mysterious, maddening way she had. Buffy breathed deeply, and went to the basin. The water was still and dark, and she gazed into it until her neck became sore. “It’s not working,” she complained.

Galadriel tsked and came to stand behind Buffy, her surprisingly strong hands kneading the tension from the other woman’s neck. “Try again.”

Buffy bent over the water again, and this time saw Skip almost immediately.

“Hi!” he said, waving cheerily. “Been a good long time, hasn’t it?”

“What can I do for you, Skip?” she asked, a wry smile on her lips.

“Oh, the question is really, what can I do for you, Slayer,” he replied, and her heart leapt.

“Do you mean I can receive my gift now?” she asked eagerly. In spite of having a successful career-- if you could call being a Ranger a career—and a decent relationship of warm friendship and fabulous sex with Haldir, and making a few friends here and there, and even after so many years, the lure of the nothingness of death tempted her sorely. She was just so damned tired some of the time.

“No, no, no, nothing like that,” he replied hastily, waving his leathery grey hands in agitation. “Sorry to get your hopes up,” he added when her shoulders slumped. “You still have to finish this ring-to-Mordor thing, and who knows what else the Valar will want after that. No,” he continued, “they’ve decided that you deserve a little reward after your years of long-suffering duty to them.”

“What, like a watch? For twenty-five years of faithful service?” She rolled her eyes and snorted derisively. “I’m underwhelmed.”

“No need to get snippy, madam,” Skip sniffed. “No, what they had in mind was not a watch, but… a key.”

Buffy looked confused for a moment, and then her eyes flew wide. “A key? You don’t mean… not Dawn?”

Skip beamed at her. “You’re smart. I like that in a human. Yes, I mean Dawn. The Valar are going to give you the opportunity to bring Dawn to you in Middle-Earth. If you both agree to it.”

Buffy gripped the sides of the basin to keep from falling over when her knees threatened to give way. “But why?”

Skip shrugged. “You weren’t supposed to be separated, and you’re both stagnating where you are. You’ve plateaued, aren’t progressing from here. They feel that, together again, you’ll be able to continue your destined journeys.”

Buffy just gaped at him as he clapped his hands once, then rubbed them together. “So!” he announced. “You ready to talk to her?”

She blinked. “Talk? To Dawn? Talk to Dawn?” He nodded. “Of course! Yeah! Yes!”

He nodded again, and with a flash, instead of him, she could see Dawn in the mirror. Seated on the side of a bed, she was removing a pair of shoes and dumping them carelessly on the floor. Buffy smiled to see that some things never changed.

For a long moment, she simply gazed at her sister/daughter, taking in the myriad ways she was different now, and the many ways she was still the same. Instead of a gangly teenager, Dawn was tall and slim, with long dark hair that fell down her back. The roundness of youth had left Dawn’s face, replaced by the smooth angles of womanhood, and Buffy realized with a shock that her sister was over thirty years old now. Her eyes were the same, though—those ageless blue eyes that had seen too much ugliness, lived through too much pain.

“Dawn?” she whispered. “Dawnie?”

Dawn’s head flew up, and she glanced around the room wildly. “Buffy?” she said, her voice low, hopeful but wary.

“Dawnie,” Buffy repeated. “It’s me. It’s Buffy.”

“Buffy?” Dawn stood up and darted around the room, hands out, searching for her sister’s presence. “Are you here?”

“I’m in your mind, Dawn. Please, don’t be scared.”

“I’m not scared, Buffy,” Dawn told her, tears coursing down her face. “Where are you?”

“I’m in another dimension. I have something to tell you.”

“I’m listening!” Dawn’s voice was becoming shrill, panicked. “I’m listening, Buffy!”

“Settle down, Dawnie. Relax,” she said, starting to worry.

“Ok,” Dawn said, sitting limply on the edge of her bed and breathing deeply, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as tears poured unchecked to drip off her chin. “I’m ok now.”

“Dawn, I—“ But her words were cut off by Dawn’s gasp when the door flung open.

“What’s wrong, Niblet?” demanded Spike, and Buffy’s eyes bugged out.

“I’m ok, Spike!” Dawn was saying, her face almost glowing with joy. “I’m talking to Buffy.”

The vampire’s face somehow paled even more. “Bit?” he asked carefully. “What have you been doing?”

“Nothing, Spike!” she snapped with familiar impatience, and Buffy had to smile. “I was just sitting here, and Buffy started to speak to me.” She stood and went to him, taking his hands in hers. “She’s ok, Spike. She’s alive.”

Spike stared into her eyes, searching for… something, sanity perhaps. Seeming to find it, he finally nodded. “Alive?” he asked, his voice trembling, and Buffy’s eyes filled. After all these years, the vampire still cared for her. It was humbling, and not a little touching. “Where is she? Is she coming back?”

“I don’t know, you came in before I could get that out of her,” Dawn replied. “Let me ask her.”

“I heard him, Dawn,” Buffy told her. “I can see both of you.”

“She can see us!” Dawn exclaimed, and waved before eeping in horror. “I look terrible!”

Buffy and Spike both laughed. “You look beautiful, Dawn, just like always. And Spike’s looking well, too,” she added. “I can’t believe he’s wearing a colour that’s not black.”

Dawn grinned at him. “She likes your new wardrobe,” she told him, and he grinned back.

“Variety’s the spice of life, ain’t it, bit?” he grinned. “So, Slayer, where’ve you been?”

“In another dimension,” she told Dawn, who relayed the information to Spike. “Still killing the bad guys.”

“Some things never change,” he muttered, and Buffy got the impression he wasn’t only talking about her. “It’s been seventeen years, pet. Why are you back now?”

“Well,” she began slowly, “I’m not sure. The PTB’s have decided that I deserve a reward for being a good little Slayer for so long.”

“What, like a gold watch?”

She laughed. “That’s what I said. But no. They said I could have a key, instead.” And she fell silent, letting them figure that out for themselves.

“Me?” Dawn said finally. “They said you could have… me? What did they mean by that?”

“I think they mean that you can come here, to be with me.” Buffy took a deep breath. “I’m on this big quest thing with a bunch of guys, and we have to destroy this ring o’ evil before the Big Bad can use it to nuke the world. You know, the usual.”

“And Dawn being with you will help, somehow?” Spike’s skepticism was palpable even over their tenuous connection via the mirror.

Dawn slapped his arm. “Hey! I’m not totally useless, you know!”

He rubbed his arm. “I know, Bit, I know,” he said, smiling affectionately at her.

She gazed at his face a long moment, and then asked Buffy, “Can Spike come too?”

“I… don’t think so, Dawnie. I think it has something to do with the blood, with the monks making you out of me. We were never supposed to be separated, he said.”

“He?”

“Skip. He’s the Valar’s spokesmodel.”

“The Valar?”

“The PTB’s, they’re called the Valar here.”

Dawn grimaced. “So, I have to leave everything behind and come to you?”

“No! No, Dawnie. You don’t have to do anything. It’s just an offer. If you don’t want to come, you don’t have to.”

“Oh.” Dawn chewed on her lip. “Can I think about it? Not that I don’t want to be with you, because, hell yeah! I do! But… it’s a big change.”

“I know.”

“Buffy,” Galadriel said in her head, “You will talk to her one sen’night from today, at the same time. Tell her this. One sen’night from today, she must make her decision known to you. If she accepts, she will be brought here. If she declines, you will say goodbye, forever.”

Buffy relayed the message to her sister, and couldn’t resist adding, “If you come here, Dawnie, you’ll get to meet elves and dwarves and Hobbits and huge eagles and dragons. And the elves are really hot.”

Dawn squealed in excitement, just like she had when she was little. “Ok, Buffy, I’ll think about it.” Then she sobered. “Do you have to go now?”

“I think so, yeah,” Buffy replied with reluctance. “Spike’s still a good guy, huh?”

“Yeah, he is,” Dawn replied softly. “His chip’s been out for eight years, and he’s still here, fighting the good fight.” Spike snorted beside her, folding his arms grumpily over his chest.

“Tell him I’m proud of him, will you, Dawnie?” Buffy asked. “I have to go now. I love you. I love you both.” She had just enough time to see Dawn relate the message to Spike, and his eyes fill with tears, before the mirror was once more just a dark basin of water.

“Thank you,” Buffy whispered to Galadriel, surprising the elf by flinging her arms around her and squeezing tightly. “Thank you! Thank you!”

“It was not me, child,” Galadriel protested, gasping. “It is the Valar to whom you should show deference and gratitude.”

Buffy looked up and waved energetically. “Thanks, you bastards!”

*

A week later, Buffy stood in the glade surrounded by the Fellowship and a goodly number of Lorien elves. She’d been so excited at the prospect of her sister joining her in Middle-Earth that she had hardly stopped hugging whoever she could get her arms on—it was only when she’d cracked Boromir’s ribs that she started restraining herself.

“Is it time yet?” she asked for the tenth time,

Galadriel patiently replied, “Not yet, Dagnir.”

Buffy clasped her hands tightly before her. She’d worn her nicest gown, of coral-pink silk with silver embroidery, and her hair had been woven with tiny white flowers. Haldir’s admiring expression told her she looked very nice indeed, but her palms were still very nervous and sweaty.

She refrained from wiping them on her skirts. “Is it time yet?” she asked again, her voice piteous, and Galadriel sighed.

“Yes, I suppose now is as good a time as any.”

Buffy bent so eagerly over the mirror that some of the flowers in her hair fell into the water.

“Careful,” Haldir warned, plucking the blossoms out. “You will drown yourself.”

Buffy let her vision fuzz and immediately saw Skip in his usual place.

“Hi, Buffy!” he called. “Today’s the big day, huh?”

“Dawn, please,” she said crisply, and he laughed, waving his hand, and then there was Dawn. She stood in the lobby of the Hyperion in Los Angeles, and she was surrounded by people. There was Spike, and… Buffy stuffed her fist into her mouth to stifle a sob.

They were all there—Dawn, Spike, Giles, Xander, Willow, Anya, Tara, Cordelia, Wesley. Even Oz was there. Also present were some people that Buffy didn’t recognize, but she figured it was normal for others to join up over the years. There was one person noticeably absent, however…

“Dawn?” she asked, and was shocked to see the whole group jump. “You can all hear me?”

“Buffy!” Dawn exclaimed. “I can hear you, can the rest of you?” she asked the others. They all nodded dumbly.

“Oh, God…. guys, it’s so good to see you again. I’ve missed you so much. Giles, Xander, Willow…” Buffy burst into tears. “You all look… so old!”

They laughed. Willow was weeping openly, and Xander’s and Giles’ eyes were suspicious bright. “What, and you haven’t aged a day?” Xander asked with fake belligerence.

“Actually, no,” Buffy told him. “I’m still the perky-bosomed twenty year old you knew back when.”

“Not fair!” declared Cordelia, clapping her hands to her chest. “I’ll have you know that these things fed three children. These were working breasts!”

They all laughed, and Buffy squinted harder at them, wondering if she was simply not seeing him. Nope, he wasn’t there. “Guys, where’s Angel?”

The smiles melted from their faces, and they all glanced at each other before Dawn closed her eyes for a long moment. Opening them again, she said quietly, “Buffy, Angel… is dead. Permanently dead.”

“No,” Buffy whispered. “That can’t be. He can’t be dead.” She sagged, and Haldir wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her up. “He can’t be dead.”

“I’m sorry, Buffy,” Dawn said. “We all are.”

“What happened?”

“Um, how about I tell you when I get there?” Dawn asked, her face lighting up mischievously.

“You’re coming? You’re really coming?” demanded Buffy, then slumped in relief, grateful Haldir was there to keep her upright. “Oh, God, I was so scared you wouldn’t.”

“You must hurry now,” said Galadriel in Buffy’s head.

“We don’t have much time, Dawnie,” she said to her sister. “But… oh, guys, I love you all so much, I’m so proud of you. Don’t worry about us, we’ll be fine. There are friends here, good people. I’m safe no matter what, and I’ll keep Dawn safe. I promise.”

Dawn hugged and kissed everyone. “What happens now, Buffy?” Dawn’s voice was tremulous, scared but excited.

“Tell her to draw some blood from her hand. Skip and I will do the rest,” Galadriel instructed, and Buffy relayed the message. Dawn took the knife Spike handed her and swiftly drew it over her palm. As the crimson fluid coursed from her, the air where it fell began to glow green. At the same time, a pinpoint of green appeared in the glade, and expanded.

In its centre grew a flat area that shimmered, and slowly Buffy was able to look into it and see her friends as if looking through a door, for that is what it was.

“Buffy, you look beautiful,” Willow said tearfully. Her red hair was cut in a short, angular bob and she was dressed, as usual, in a funky outfit of weird colours, improbably paired together. Beside curvacious, womanly Tara and the perennially unkempt Oz, she looked avante-guarde and not a little exotic.

Cordelia smirked. “Who’s the hottie with his arm around you?”

Buffy laughed and looked back, realizing Haldir was still holding her up. “This is Haldir, he’s an old friend.”

Spike quirked a brow, but said nothing while the women murmured in appreciation. Haldir merely sighed. Buffy reached her hand through the portal, and immediately the others rushed to her, touching her hand, assuring themselves she really was there, was really still alive.

“Are you ready, Dawnie?” Her sister nodded and picked up the dufflebag on the ground. “Then step through.”

Dawn lifted a foot, then dropped it with a cry and turned back to Spike, flinging herself in his arms. “I love you,” she sobbed. “I love you so much, Spike. You’re my brother, you’ll always be my best friend. Never forget me, please?”

“Oh, Niblet,” he rasped, crying shamelessly. “How could I ever forget a Summers woman?” He turned her loose. “Now, get going.”

She turned and picked up the dufflebag again, then squared her shoulders and stepped into the portal without looking back. She seemed to hang there for a moment, frozen, and then the portal convulsed and spat her forcibly from it, flinging her to her hands and knees on the leafy floor by the mirror. With a flash of green light, it shrunk and disappeared in a split second.

“Buffy?” she asked, lifting her head and squinting through the tangle of hair over her face.

Buffy dropped to her knees. “Yeah, Dawnie, I’m here,” she whispered, and pulled her sister into her arms. Dazedly, Dawn hugged Buffy back, and they rocked back and forth, weeping.

When they calmed down a bit, Dawn sat back on her heels and looked around. “Wow, elves!” she exclaimed, eyes huge as she looked around. “Elves and really big trees.”

“I told you there were elves,” Buffy said, very much the big sister again. “Didn’t you believe me?”

“I thought you were just saying that to make me come,” Dawn replied, standing and brushing dirt from her knees. “That’s a great dress. And your hair! You’re like Crystal Gayle, Slayer-style.”

Haldir rolled his eyes. “You did not tell me your sister was as silly as you are, Slayer,” he rumbled, arms crossed over his chest.

Dawn took a very hard look at him for a long moment, then lifted her nose into the air and turned pointedly away from him to face her sister. “So, what do we do now? Do we leave on this quest thingy right away, or what?”

“Nah, we’re staying here a few weeks to recuperate.” Buffy began to lead Dawn out of the glade, arms around each others’ waists. “It’s been a hard trip so far, someone already died.” Their voices faded in the distance, and the Fellowship glanced at each other with no small amount of trepidation.

“She’s pretty,” declared Merry. “Too tall, and far too skinny, but I daresay a few weeks of eating like a Hobbit would fill her out well enough.”

“Two women,” Boromir said under his breath. “Twice as much to go wrong. This is a disaster.”

“I like the new one,” Gimli announced to no one in particular. “She knows just how to put an elf in his place.”

“A lesson which continues to elude you, Master Dwarf,” taunted Legolas, leaping nimbly out of the way of Gimli’s halfhearted swipe of retribution


Part 6

The remainder of the Fellowship’s time in Caras Galadon was spent training Dawn. She was already fairly competent with sword and bow, thanks to Spike’s insistence she be able to defend herself, but she was truly good with a staff and, to all their surprise, spears.

“I prefer a pike, myself,” Dawn said one afternoon, panting as she stuffed her hair into a messy bun. “You can do hella damage with a nice pike.”

“You will likely not have the luxury of room in which to use a pike,” Haldir said sourly from his end of the practice area.

“What’s with tall, blond, and grouchy?” Dawn asked no one in particular, and sipped some cool water. “Is it just me, or does he hate everyone?”

“It is just you,” Haldir told her with a smirk. “I am ever lovable and sweet with others.”

She grinned cheekily. “Somehow I doubt that, Oscar.” He frowned at the nickname, but she did not elaborate. “So, orcs. What are they like?”

“They are big and stupid, very pig-like,” Boromir said, while Gimli offered, “They have a smell to make your eyelids roll up.”

“They’re like Gamorrean demons,” Buffy told her sister. “But without the tusks.”

Dawn nodded wisely, and then clapped her hands excitedly. “Oh! Speaking of pigs!” she cried, and buried her head in her ever-present dufflebag, rummaging through it.

“Were we speaking of pigs?” Legolas quietly asked Aragorn, who shrugged.

Dawn emerged from the bag, a small fuzzy object in her hand.

“Gordo!” shrieked Buffy, reaching for it. “You brought Mr. Gordo!” She hugged Dawn tightly.

“Is that the original Gordo?” Pippin asked.

“Yep!” Buffy fondly petted the stuffed pig’s head. Dawn had brought a veritable treasure-trove of things with her from California: long letters from all their friends, photos from the intervening years, and—best of all—a flat screen into which glittering discs were inserted. Home movies could be watched on the screen, and it was there that the Scoobies and friends spoke their messages to their departed Slayer.

Giles, now in his sixties, had returned to England and had taken over the Watchers’ Council. They’d had their hands full keeping Faith on the straight and narrow, but by the time she’d finally been killed, she’d redeemed herself beautifully. It seemed the second Slayer soul was finally up to snuff.

Xander and Anya had married and had four children, one of whom was named Elizabeth. Buffy cried when they told her that. They had moved out of the Hellmouth area and settled in Connecticut, where Xander had his own construction company and Anya was a day-trader on the NYSE.

Willow and Tara had broken up but were still close friends and business partners, running the Magic Box. Oz had returned years before and he and Willow had gotten married and adopted two disabled children. They all of them looked incredibly happy.

Cordelia had married the tall black guy Buffy had seen in the Hyperion—Charles Gunn-- and they had three beautiful, mocha-skinned children. She was still Queen C, but a much kinder and gentler one. Wesley had hooked up with the fragile-looking woman named Fred, and while they didn’t have children, they had happy lives filled with research and exploration.

Spike had stuck by Dawn’s side, just as he had promised all those years ago. The chip had stopped working about ten years previous, and began to damage his brain functions, so they’d found someone to remove it. Everyone but Dawn had been sure he’d revert to type, but almost a decade of being a white hat had changed the vampire forever, it seemed.

As for Angel… “He just wasn’t right after you died, Buffy,” Spike told the camera. “He didn’t care about living any more, got sloppy. One night, he just… gave up. Let a Polgara get him.” He slammed his fist on his knee, stared fiercely at the floor. “Stupid ponce.”

“He’s at peace now, Buffy,” Spike continued at last. “At peace.” He smiled sadly. “Some people get all the luck, huh, pet?”

Buffy watched the recordings over and over until the batteries ran out, then tossed them into the river. They were her past, and she’d finally been able to say goodbye to them, and they to her. Her life was here in Middle-Earth now, however many eons it would last.

Dawn had had an interesting life, and she regaled all of them with tales of her exploits. She hadn’t bothered to attend college, but had split her time between Sunnydale, Los Angeles, and England to become a world-class researcher. She’d married in her twenties, but it had been a disastrous union and it had taken all of her and Giles’ skills of persuasion to keep Spike from killing Dawn’s ex.

Dawn didn’t like the elves much. She’d spent too much time with Spike and Cordelia, she said, and was used to honesty and frankness. Elves were too mysterious and hidden.

“I know,” Buffy replied. “That’s why I like them.” She herself was a private person, and the elves respected that need to keep one’s self hidden.

Gimli, to no one’s surprise, thoroughly enjoyed Dawn’s presence (especially when she was discussing how she didn’t trust elves). “Tis a shame you’re not petite like your sister,” he would sigh. “She’s almost the perfect she-dwarf. If only she had a beard…”

Dawn giggled. “It’s the classic tragic story-- soulmates, thwarted by lack of facial hair. Shakespeare couldn’t write it better.”

Her aversion to elves was ironic, since she was tall, slim, and graceful enough to be one herself. “A little plastic surgery on the ears, and no one would ever know you weren’t born in Imladris,” Buffy teased her sister. “You could be Elrond’s secret daughter.”

“Um, how about no?” Dawn retorted. “Then I might have to be related to Oscar, and I think his bad ‘tude might be hereditary.” She persisted in calling Haldir by that nickname, and yet refused to tell him what it meant. Needless to say, they didn’t get on very well.

She loved the Hobbits, and amused them greatly by cuddling them like children. “Dawn, you do realize they’re all older than you, right?” Buffy asked worriedly one day.

“As long as they don’t get any funny ideas, I don’t care if they’re a hundred,” Dawn declared, ruffling Merry’s hair as they walked down a path, Frodo on her other side, clasping her hand.

That left Legolas and Boromir. The elf kept his distance from her as he did everyone else, and Dawn didn’t complain, although she did admit to Buffy that he was “the hottest thing she’d seen in her entire life”, and that included that one time she’d almost fallen into a glassblowing oven in a factory that housed a nest of vamps. Then she’d laughed slyly when Buffy had agreed fervently.

Boromir… Buffy resolved to watch the two of them closely. More than once she’d caught her sister eyeing the handsome Man, and you didn’t have to be Galadriel to know what was going through Boromir’s mind when he gazed at Dawn, his eyes increasingly possessive.

Finally, the day arrived for the Fellowship to depart. “Not a moment too soon,” Dawn grumbled. “I was getting tired of listening to you and Oscar grunt all night long—“

Buffy clapped her hand over her sister’s mouth, forcing a laugh. “Ha ha ha,” she said as the woman rolled her eyes over the hand. “Such a kidder, Dawn is.” She fooled no one.

All received gifts— Aragorn a sheath for his sword, belts for Boromir, Merry and Pippin, a box of earth for Sam, a gorgeous new bow for Legolas, a few strands of Galadriel’s hair for Gimli, a flask of starlight for Frodo, and a fine pike for Dawn, who squealed with joy and did a happy dance when Celeborn handed it to her.

Buffy hugged Galadriel tightly. “You’ve given me the best gift of all,” she whispered, her forehead against the elf-witch’s. “I will remember it always.”

“Namarie,” the she-elf said, touching Buffy’s cheek gently.

*

“Youch,” Dawn complained after five days of paddling down the Anduin. “I’m gonna have shoulders like Boromir if this rowing keeps up.” Boromir looked pleased that the width of his shoulders had been commented upon, and flexed them showily. The others just looked amused, and continued paddling.

That night Aragorn decided it would be safe enough to make camp on shore, instead of sleeping in the boats, and it was with great relief that they dragged out bedrolls and made a fire.

“We shall have hot food!” exclaimed Pippin, “Sausages and crispy potatoes!” Sam immediately set to cooking while the other Hobbits went about making the little clearing as homey as possible.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Dawn?” asked Buffy.

“Bathtime?” Dawn asked in return, eyes lighting up with anticipation.

“Bathtime,” Buffy confirmed, and they took soap, drying linens, and a change of clothes back to the riverside. “It wouldn’t kill the rest of you to have a nice bath, either,” she reminded the men, giving them the gimlet eye. “I have enough soap for everyone.”

“Perhaps later,” they all demurred, and glowering, Buffy stomped away.

“So, Steward, do you plan on advancing upon the Lady Dawn anytime soon?” Aragorn asked at some point, sliding his gaze toward Boromir, who promptly blushed bright red.

“Am I so transparent?” admitted the Gondorian.

Legolas laughed his silvery laugh. “You’re just impressed by any pretty woman who can walk and talk.”

“She doesn’t have to talk,” replied Boromir earnestly. “In fact, life is easier when she does not.”

“If you want life to be easy, best not to have a woman in it at all,” Gimli said practically. “Why do you think I am yet unwed? Gimli son of Gloin is a fine catch, a fine catch! And still do I escape those bonds.” He smiled. “Many are there who would have me, and none shall succeed!”

“You’ll go to your grave a pure, untouched virgin?” Legolas asked, his face bland. “How sad. For the she-dwarves, that is.”

Gimli huffed in horror. “I never said anything about being untouched,” he grumbled, staring into the fire as they laughed.

“Eat heartily, lads!” declared Sam as he shoveled portions of food onto their tin plates. “We feast well tonight!”

“Typical,” came Buffy’s voice, and the men turned to see her and Dawn emerge from the trees, their hair hanging damply around their faces. “We leave, and they decide to have a party.”

“Men!” Dawn agreed, and plopped down ‘coincidentally’ by Boromir, who blushed again and offered her his plate, which she accepted with a bright smile, rendering him completely speechless.

Buffy grinned at the scene, meeting Legolas’ eyes when she bent to take Sam’s offer of a filled plate. He was smiling, his silver-blue eyes gleaming with humour, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. Then his smile became a knowing smirk and her breath returned to her in a whoosh.

Damned elves, she thought crossly, stabbing a chunk of meat with her fork. Always knowing how sexy they are. Maybe Dawn’s got a point about them.

That night, all were asleep but for Frodo, who sat on watch. He watched them slumber peacefully. The women were across the clearing from the men, wishing for a little privacy, and the firelight flickered over Dagnir’s face. She seemed… softer, since Dawn had come. And Dawn herself was a breath of fresh air to the Fellowship—the fear and fatigue that plagued them all was absent in her, and she buoyed their flagging spirits. He was glad she had joined them.

His thoughts were interrupted by the rustle of leaves in the distance, and he held his breath as he strained to listen. Another rustle, then the snap of a branch as it was stepped on by a careless foot— Frodo’s gaze flicked over to the pile of weaponry by Aragorn, and saw that Sting was glowing faintly.

“Orcs!” he shouted, leaping around the fire for his sword. “Orcs!”

In a flash, everyone was out of their bedrolls and reaching for weapons. As orcs burst into the clearing, Buffy leapt up and rushed toward the creatures, her sword upraised for maximum damage. The fact that she was barefoot and wore nothing but a thin, brief shift that barely came to mid-thigh seemed to bother her not at all.

“Mmmm,” growled one orc in appreciation, coming toward her with an eagerness borne not entirely of bloodlust. “Woman. Mmmm.”

Buffy tapped her bare foot impatiently. “So, are you going to kill me or are we just making small talk?”

“Kill?” the orc asked with a horrible smile. “Maybe after.”

“Ew, Buffy,” Dawn said, hopping as she yanked on her leggings with one hand and grabbed for her pike with the other. “No orc smoochies, or I swear I’ll barf.”

“Oh, damn,” Buffy replied as she smoothly lopped the head off the amorous orc. “And here was me thinking I’d get some steamy lovin’ tonight.” She stabbed another in the belly and sliced upward, dancing back when his innards spilled out to cover the ground where she’d just stood. “Guess I’ll just have to stick with hot elves, huh?” And she kicked a third in the head, smashing him back into a tree before slashing it across the chest. She stood back and surveyed her damage. “The things I sacrifice for the cause.”

The men had made short work of the other orcs. “You didn’t save me even one?” Dawn asked petulantly, dropping her pristine, unbloodied weapon on the ground and yawning. “That settles it. Next time, no pants. I wasted too much time getting dressed.”

“If you feel it best, Lady, please do not trouble yourself to wear pants,” Boromir told her gravely while Aragorn covered his smile with his hand.

“See, Buffy? Gondor Guy thinks I shouldn’t bother with pants. He—“ Here, Dawn realized what she was saying and stopped to face him. He was watching her, an expression of careful innocence on his handsome face. Her gaze narrowed. “I’ll go pantsless when you do, Boromir, how’s that?” she asked sweetly, enjoying the widening of his eyes.

“Enough,” Buffy said, pulling her blood-splattered shift away from her chest. “If I have to live through much more of this mating ritual stuff I’m gonna take a vow of celibacy.” She seemed thoroughly oblivious to their staring at her legs until Dawn coughed and nodded at her sister’s bared limbs. “Oh. Geez, guys, they’re just legs. What did you think I walked on, anyway?”

Dawn tilted her head consideringly. “Kinda pale,” she commented.

Buffy stuck one out in front of her to examine it. One of the men choked; possibly it was Gimli, though it could have been Aragorn. “You live in the mountains hip-deep in snow for ten years and tell me how tan your legs will be.”

Dawn sighed. “I’m gonna miss the beach, aren’t I?”

“Yep!” Buffy chirped. “You’re gonna get pasty like me. Ha-ha!”

“If you would be so kind as to put pants on now, Dagnir,” Aragorn ventured politely as Dawn glowered at her sister, “I believe there are more orcs out there. We should continue down the river toward Amon Hen.”

Part 7

Within a half-hour, they were packed up and back in the boats. Paddling in the dark was surprisingly peaceful, the only sound the faint splash as oars dipped into the water. Buffy manipulated the oars almost mindlessly, instead staring tiredly at the reflection of the moonlight on the rippling river. Daylight came at long last, and then they were staring at the immense statues of the Argonath.

“Long have I desired to look upon the kings of old, my kin,” said Aragorn, gazing up. Buffy looked at him a long moment, understanding intimately how it was to bear a legacy, to feel a connection to those who had gone before.

“This is the northern border of Gondor,” Boromir said to no one in particular, his voice suspiciously gruff. “I am glad to be home.”

They paddled past the Argonath into the lake of Nen Hithoel, and pulled up on the shore. Gimli grumbled about some supposed slight Aragorn had made upon his dwarfly strength, and Legolas pressed not to linger, but to continue. “Something draws near, I can feel it,” he said earnestly.

“Me too,” Buffy agreed, gaze flickering toward the trees in the distance. “They’ve been following us along the river for hours.”

Legolas looked surprised she would concur with him, but nodded at Aragorn. The ranger would not be swayed, however, and insisted on waiting until nightfall.

“Where’s Frodo?” Merry asked suddenly, and Sam jolted awake from where he’d been dozing against a tree.

“Boromir’s gone, too,” Dawn said uneasily, scanning the surrounding area for a glimpse of him or the halfling.

Aragorn bolted off up the hill, and Buffy took off after him. “Stay away!” Frodo was shouting at Aragorn when she stumbled to the hilltop.

“Frodo, I swore to protect you,” Aragorn protested, his hand outstretched to the Hobbit.

“Can you protect me from yourself?” Frodo whispered, his face stricken. “Would you destroy it?”

Buffy’s eyes widened to hear the faintest whisper. “Aragorn… Elessar…” It came from the ring, she realized in horror, and took a step back as every cell in her body strained to be away from such an evil thing.

Aragorn recognized it too, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. “I would have gone with you to the end,” he said at last, voice breaking with emotion. “Into the very fires of Mordor.”

“I know,” Frodo told him, eyes brilliant with unshed tears. “Look after the others, especially Sam. He will not understand.”

Buffy’s attention was caught by the glow of Frodo’s sword, and gasped. “Orcs!”

Aragorn looked too, and unsheathed his sword. “Go, Frodo! Run, run!” And as the Hobbit pushed past them to dash back down the hill, Aragorn and Buffy raced down the other side to confront the attacking horde.

“Find the halflings!” one of the creatures, the leader apparently, yelled to his companions.

Buffy and Aragorn flung themselves into the fray, slicing and hacking, and she was very glad indeed to see Legolas and Gimli join them. She did a bouncy leap over the head of one of the Uruk-hai and landed lightly beside Legolas. “Where’s Dawn?” she demanded.

“Still looking for Boromir,” he replied, and did some complicated thing with his daggers that Buffy had to admire even as her brain whirled with panic for Dawn’s safety.

“That way,” Gimli grunted, pointing with one hand while the other slung his axe with practiced ease into the torso of an Uruk-Hai.

Buffy dashed away, straining her ears, and heard the higher pitch of Dawn’s voice in the distance. “Dawnie!” she screamed. “I’m coming!”

Ahead of her she saw Dawn, pike in hand, struggling with a particularly large Uruk-Hai. He had grasped the pole of her weapon and was trying to wrench it from the woman’s grasp. Buffy put on a burst of speed and leapt, cleaving Dawn’s attacker in half at the middle before spinning around and cutting off the upraised sword arm of another.

“Dawn, stay behind me,” she panted. “Use the pike over my head, if you can.”

They fought successfully that way for a few minutes, and when the number of beasts on the ground was greater than that still advancing upon them, Dawn whimpered, “Buffy, I’m worried about Boromir.”

They heard the twang of a bowstring not far away. “That’s not Legolas,” Buffy said in trepidation. “He was using his daggers…” She finally killed the last one with sudden twist of her blade.

Dawn gasped and pulled away from her sister, running toward the sound. “Boromir!” she shouted. “Boromir, where are you?”

Tearing through the brush after her, Buffy thought her heart would stop when she saw Boromir on the ground, an arrow in his shoulder, and Dawn crouched over him, using her own body as a shield as an incredibly ugly Uruk-Hai slowly and with great deliberation aimed his bow at them.

“Crap,” Buffy muttered, and flung herself in front of her sister. The arrow, when it struck her, felt very cold. It would have been oddly soothing if it hadn’t hurt so damned much. And what was that noise? She blinked. Oh. It was Dawn screaming. Why was she screaming? She would get a sore throat if she kept it up for much longer. “Dawnie?” she asked at last.

“Buffy…” moaned Dawn.

“Dawnie, shut up. You’re giving me a headache.” Buffy coughed then, and was surprised to taste blood in her mouth. “Ew.”

“Buffy, you’ve been shot, but you’re not going to die, ok?” Dawn said, her hands fluttering uselessly.

Buffy stared blearily up at the faces above her. “Where was I shot?”

Dawn’s face was a bleached, sickly white. “In the chest,” she whispered as the others crashed through the forest toward them.

“Not again,” Buffy muttered. “Just once, I’d like to go by beheading. Just to see how it would feel.”

“What talk is this?” Aragorn asked, falling to his knees beside Buffy.

“Buffy, don’t joke about this!” Dawn shrieked.

Buffy smiled. “Dawnie, don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I’m going to die now, but I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Back in a few hours?” asked a hoarse, disbelieving voice—Boromir’s.

“Oh, you’re still alive,” Buffy gasped. “Good. Now, listen, Dawn. I can’t die. Not permanently.” She coughed up more blood. When she spoke again, her voice was much weaker. “Yuck. Dawn. I will be back. Yank out the arrow, clean me up a little, and just prop me in a corner. I’ll be back.” Her voice was fading fast.

“Do you promise?” Dawn demanded tearfully.

“I promise,” Buffy replied, and died.

Dawn tried to fling herself across Buffy’s body, but Boromir pulled her into his arms and rocked the sobbing woman.

“What sorcery is this?” Gimli demanded. His face beneath the ichor-caked beard was filled with apprehension.

“I know not,” Aragorn replied grimly, “but we must get back to the shore, where it is safer.”

“The Uruk-Hai have taken the little ones,” Boromir said over Dawn’s head.

Aragorn nodded. “And Frodo has left to take the ring to Mordor.”

Legolas started in surprise, then peered off toward the lake. “Sam is with him. Hurry, we must follow.” But Aragorn made no effort to move. “You mean not to follow them?”

“Frodo’s fate in no longer in our hands,” the Ranger replied, scrubbing his hand over his unshaven cheek.

“Then it has all been in vain!” Gimli exclaimed, eyes wide. “The Fellowship has failed!”

“Not if we hold true to each other,” Aragorn disagreed, trying to infuse his voice with as much strength and inspiration as possible. “We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death. Not while we have strength left. Leave all that can be spared behind. We travel light. Let's hunt some Orc!”

Gimli smiled then, a lethal smile. “Yesss,” he said slowly. Legolas merely nodded firmly.

They bandaged Boromir’s wounded shoulder as best they could, and Legolas removed the fatal arrow tenderly from Buffy’s unmoving chest. He clapped his hand over the gaping hole, as if to staunch any blood that might emerge, but to his shock found that the hole was not only not oozing blood, but…

“It closes,” he breathed, and called to the others. “Her wound. It closes!” And as they huddled around, they watched the pulpy mess knit into a raw-looking scar.

“Elbereth!” the elf murmured. “How can this be?” He glanced at Dawn. “Have you seen the like before, in your world?”

“This is completely unprecedented,” Dawn said, amazed. “I’m absolutely flummoxed.” She grinned suddenly. “Buffy always keeps her promises.”

“She died to save you,” Boromir said quietly. “That is a noble sacrifice.”

Dawn glanced at him shyly, then decided to study her shoes. “She died for you too, Boromir.”

He frowned. “Why? She does not know or care for me.”

“She doesn’t,” Dawn muttered, still looking away. Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas suddenly found other places to be, the elf hoisting Buffy’s limp body into his arms while the other two went to strip down their supplies.

Boromir studied her downcast face. “What are you saying, Lady?” He stepped closer to her. “What are you saying, Dawn?”

She looked up at him, eyes filled with tears. “Buffy died to save you, because she knew I… would miss you.”

He gazed at her for a long moment, and then lifted her chin with his good hand. “You honour me, Dawn.” His fingers caressed the smooth curve of her cheek. “And I wish I were worthy of your affection. But—“ he dropped his hand from her face. “I am not.”

Boromir turned from her and stared into the distance, a muscle leaping in his jaw as he clenched his cheek in an effort to control his raging emotions. “I am weak, Dawn. I nearly betrayed the Ringbearer.”

“You’re not weak,” Dawn contradicted softly, resting her hand in the middle of his back. “You were just tempted. We all have been, at one point or another.” She came around to face him. “You said no, when it counted. You’re stronger than someone who’s never been tempted—you were able to walk away from it.”

He stared into her eyes with something like desperation, and his hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder. “You do not fault me for my weakness?”

She shook her head. “I admire you for your strength, Boromir.”

His hand moved from her shoulder to curl around the back of her neck, and he slowly drew her toward him. “You honour me, Lady,” he said again, and kissed her. Carefully, she wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned into him, ignoring the bite of his armour into her chest. When he pulled back, she smiled brilliantly at him.

“And now, I think we had best join our companions before they leave us here,” he suggested. “The elf looked particularly violent, did you notice?”

“Yeah,” Dawn said with a smirk, following his lead back to the riverside. “He’s all worked up about Buffy.”

Boromir quirked an eyebrow. “Do you think so? I had not believed him capable of the finer emotion of love.”

“Oh, everyone’s capable of it,” Dawn told him breezily as they arrived at the lakeshore. “Some just have to work harder at it than others.”

“Of what do you speak?” Aragorn asked, strapping a bundle on his back.

“Of luuuurve,” Dawn said, drawing the word out.

“I do not think monsters are capable of love,” Gimli said. He was assisting Legolas in making a travois for Buffy, who had been duly cleaned up and propped in a corner. If not for the lack of breathing, she would have merely looked asleep.

“Well, I know at least four demons who are capable of love,” Dawn told them, grinning when they stared. “Angel and Spike were both in love with Buffy, and Clem and Lorne are just lovable guys in general— they love everyone.”

“Dagnir once mentioned she had known true love,” Gimli mentioned. “Was he one of these demons?”

Dawn nodded sadly. “That was Angel.”

“She had to kill him,” Legolas said quietly, his head bent over the twigs he wove into a sling between two sturdy branches.

“He turned really evil, and she had to stab him and push him into a portal to a hell realm. It nearly killed her. She was never the same, after.” She took a deep breath. “But that’s over and done with now. Angel’s been gone for years, and Buffy’s here now. And it looks like she’s hooked up with Haldir.”

Legolas narrowed his eyes at the mention of the march-warden, and Dawn grinned triumphantly at Boromir behind the elf’s back. “We should go now,” Legolas snapped, and carefully placed Buffy on the finished travois. “I will pull her first.”

Part 8

They had walked for hours and the sun was beginning to set when a cheery voice piped up. “This is really the right way to travel. Mush, doggies! Mush!” Gimli promptly dropped the travois (it was his turn to pull) and burst into tears. Legolas clapped the dwarf on the shoulder and shot him a relieved grin. Aragorn and Boromir just exchanged looks of extreme relief.

Dawn dropped to her knees beside her sister and yanked her into a fierce hug. “Took you long enough!” she scolded, sniffling.

“Glad we are, Dagnir, of your speedy recovery from death,” Aragorn told her, eyes twinkling in his tired face.

“Me too!” Buffy said, pushing Dawn gently away. “So, was I the only dead one?” She frowned when she didn’t see any Hobbits. “Where are the others?”

“Merry and Pippin were taken by the Uruk-Hai that killed you,” Dawn explained.

“What happened to Frodo and Sam?”

“They have gone to Mordor,” Aragorn said heavily, avoiding her stare.

Buffy stared at him, eyes nearly popping out of her head. “You let them go? Alone?” She looked around at the others. “Is everyone here very stoned?”

“Frodo had reason to believe that we would not able to resist the lure of the ring,” Legolas said quietly. His voice held no censure, but Boromir suddenly found a distant rock very fascinating, and gazed intently upon it. “He would trust no one but himself.”

Buffy fumed for a few minutes but decided to simply accept what she couldn’t change anyway. “I see we’ve pared down to the bare essentials,” she said eventually, seeing that their only supplies consisted of what they could carry on their backs. Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t leave my soap behind, did you?”

“That’s right, Buf,” Dawn said with a patented Little Sister Eye Roll™. “Your priorities are definitely in order. Not. Now get your butt outta that… thing… and let’s get moving.”

“Fine,” Buffy grumbled, and made to hoist herself up, only to find a slim, strong hand under her elbow. “Thanks,” she said breathlessly to Legolas, who nodded calmly and went to walk beside Aragorn.

“You’ve got it bad,” Dawn whispered in her ear.

“You should talk,” Buffy whispered back, looking pointedly at where her sister was holding hands with Boromir. “How long was I actually dead before you two hooked up?” Dawn had the grace to blush, but said nothing. “Ten minutes?” Buffy teased. “Fifteen?” She peered at Boromir, who was staring once more at the fascinating rock. “Hmph. Good to know how much you missed me.”

She wiggled a little under her pack and trudged after the others. Dawn and Boromir were paired up, and Legolas was deep in discussion with Aragorn over something, so she stepped up to Gimli. “Looks like we’re hiking buddies for this leg of the trip, huh, Gimli?” she asked, glancing at him when he didn’t respond. “You ok?”

He looked up at her, tears in his deep-set eyes. ”Never have I seen anything like that, lass,” he told Buffy. “For a person so grievously wounded to return to life… I am not ashamed to say that I am both honoured to have witnessed it, and terrified of the power that must be a part of you, to make such a thing possible.”

“It’s those wacky Valar,” Buffy replied lightly. “They made me indestructible. I’ve died a few dozen times since I came to Middle-Earth.” She glared darkly at the sky. “When will you give me my gift, you bastards?” she shouted, and waved a fist ineffectually. She lowered it when she noticed the others staring at her. “The Valar and I have this love-hate thing going on,” she explained weakly. “They love to torment me, and I hate them.”

Aragorn dropped flat to the ground suddenly. Dawn was just about to become alarmed when Legolas held up his hand for silence. “Their pace quickens,” the ranger said. “They must have caught our scent. Hurry!”

And he leapt to his feet and began to run. The others quickly followed him, Gimli grumbling about how dwarves were much better at short sprints than cross-country running. They ran for what seemed like weeks, but was actually only hours, before Aragorn screeched to a halt and picked something up from the ground. “Not idly do the leaves of Lorien fall,” he said pensively, holding up a cloak-pin like the one they had all received in Caras Galadhon.

“They met yet be alive,” murmured Legolas, hope plain on his face.

“Less than a day ahead of us, come!” Aragorn said encouragingly, and set off again. Obediently the others trotted after him, relieved when after another hour he stopped at the crest of a hill and surveyed the landscape below. “Rohan. Home of the horse-lords. There is something strange at work here. Some evil gives speed to these creatures, sets its will against us.”

Legolas took a few steps ahead, peering out at the horizon.

“Legolas, what do your Elf eyes see?”

“The Uruks turn northwest,” Legolas replied, his gaze seeing as the others could not. “They’re taking the Hobbits to Isengard, running as if the very whips of their masters were behind them.”

“That’s a cool trick,” Buffy muttered to Dawn. “Gotta have him teach me that.” He turned and smiled at her, a smile so pure she felt faint for a moment. “Elves are dangerous,” she muttered, carefully avoiding meeting his knowing gaze.

*

When they pitched camp that night, Buffy glared at her sister’s lingering with Boromir across the fire until, heaving a huge sigh, Dawn left the Man and lay down beside Buffy.

“You do realize that I’m not fifteen any longer, right, Buf?” she asked. “I mean, I’m thirty-one years old. I was married for three years. I’m no shrinking virgin.”

Buffy blinked. “Dawn, that is so totally irrelevant!” she shouted, uncaring if the men could hear her. “If I’m not getting any, neither are you!” She burrowed deeper under her blanket. “Besides, some things are just not meant to be overheard, and your sister getting jiggy with some buff guy while you’re shivering all alone in a skimpy blanket is one of them. Now snuggle up, I’m cold.”

The next morning, Buffy woke to find Aragorn and Legolas already up and dressed.

“The red sun rises,” Legolas said as Buffy joined them. “Blood has been spilled this night.”

“How are you feeling?” Aragorn asked her.

“Terrific,” she replied cheerfully. “Whenever I die, I feel super after I come back. My whole body is brand-new again, and any injuries I’ve had since the last time I died are totally repaired.” She smiled at his expression of concern. “I actually don’t mind the dying so much, it’s… peaceful.” She shrugged. “Not like it’s going to change any time soon, so I might as well enjoy the process, hm?”

She turned away to wake Dawn, but was aware of Legolas continuing to watch her. They began walking again, and this time Gimli was in front with Aragorn. Dawn was, of course, attached at Boromir’s hip, so Buffy found herself paired with Legolas.

“You demanded earlier that the Valar give you your gift,” he said by way of initiating conversation. “What did you mean by that?”

She sighed and pushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s a very long, complex, and boring tale,” she warned. “Are you ready for it?”

“I’m an elf, I will live thousands of years. I believe I can withstand a few hours of storytelling.” He smiled at her, and she found herself speaking almost against her will.

“Well, it all started with the first Slayer…” she began.

Hours later, her throat sore from talking, Buffy wrapped up her tale. “I got it completely wrong. Died for nothing, got sent here for nothing. Death is my gift, but not one I’m supposed to give away. One I have to receive, and only from the Valar themselves.” Again she glared skywards. “So now I get to wait, and fight, and die a thousand times, and wait some more until they decide I’m done.” She glanced at the silent elf. “How’s that for a crappy present?”

“Long life is not the burden you think it is, Dagnir,” he said, and she marveled at the sound of her name on his lips. His beautifully shaped, soft-looking pink lips… mmm. Focus, Buffy! she scolded herself. Pay attention to what the yummy elf is saying! “I am over two thousand years old, and I have yet to become tired of living.”

Buffy tilted her head to one side, thinking. “Maybe because you’re raised that way. Knowing you’ll live forever changes how you look at things. I think it makes you see how things move in currents, in cycles. When things get bad, you know to have faith that they’ll pass, and get better eventually.”

“But humans… our lifespans are too short to be able to wait out the bad times. We don’t have a sense of patience, like elves do. We know we’re going to die, that our time here is much too short, and we spaz out accordingly.” She flashed a grin at him and held her arms out to display herself. “Behold the mess that comes of being raised a human, but having an elfin lifespan.” All too soon, her smile faded. “I just don’t see the point of living forever. Especially…” She stopped, bit her lip as she stared down at the ground.

“Especially what?” Legolas prodded gently.

“Especially now that Angel is dead. I mean, I’m glad that Dawn is here, but she won’t live forever, either. What will I have after that?” She looked up at him, her eyes glimmering. “Without love, what point is there to life? Why even bother?” A rogue tear fell, rolled down her smudged cheek.

Legolas caught the tear on his fingertip and studied the drop of moisture for a moment. “There is no point to life without love,” he agreed, and slowly licked the tear from his finger, staring deeply into her eyes the whole time. “But you must find love, for it is there. You must reach out and grasp it with greedy hands. You must tame it, and make it yours. It will not wait while you dally, nor will it force its way into your heart and mind.” His smile at her was like the sun cresting the horizon, and she found herself smiling back.

“Horses,” Aragorn hissed, interrupting them, and motioned for all to hide behind a boulder. A large group of horsemen crested the hill, banners flying, and the ranger stepped out of hiding to address them. “Riders of Rohan, what news from the Mark?” The others emerged as well, only to find themselves swiftly surrounded by spears pointing at their faces.

“What business do an Elf, a Dwarf, two men, and…” the leader stared in shock at Dawn and Buffy, “two women have in the Riddermark? Speak quickly!”

Aragorn soothingly introduced them all. “We are friends of Rohan and of Theoden, your king.”

The man pulled off his helm with a sigh and said he was Eomer, nephew to the king. “Theoden no longer recognizes friend from foe.”

“We track a party of Uruk-hai westward across the plain,” Aragorn explained. “They’ve taken two of our friends captive.”

“The Uruks are destroyed,” Eomer told him. “We slaughtered them during the night. We left none alive. We piled the carcasses and burned them.” He motioned over his shoulder to where a column of smoke rose to the sky. “I am sorry.”

Dawn pressed her face against Boromir’s shoulder, and his hand came up to stroke her hair. Gimli bowed his head in sorrow, and Legolas placed his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder in grief.

“No,” Buffy whispered. “Unless we see their bodies ourselves, they’re not dead.”

Eomer stared at her a moment. “Look for your friends. But do not trust to hope, it has forsaken these lands.” He whistled and called, “Hasufel! Arod! Timon!” Three horses obediently trotted over. “May these horses bear you to greater fortune than their former masters. Farewell.”

They piled with grim determination onto their new horses: Gimli behind Legolas, Dawn snug in the circle of Boromir’s arms, and Buffy behind Aragorn. She exchanged a look of exasperation with Gimli—it sucked to have to ride pillion. At the pile of charred orcs, they leapt down and began sifting through the debris. Gimli soon found something, and with a sob said, “It’s one of their wee belts…”

Aragorn walked a few paces away, thrusting his hands into his hair as if he would tear it out by its roots. Buffy went after him and was about to touch his shoulder when he slowly lowered his arms again, attention caught.

“A Hobbit lay here,” he said, wonder in his voice, and a terrible, faint hope. “And the other. They crawled, their hands bound.” He began to run along the tracks, his voice speeding up. “Their bonds were cut.” He held up a ragged piece of rope. ”They ran over here, and were followed. The tracks lead away from the battle…” he broke off, staring at the trees in the distance. “Into Fangorn Forest.”



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