Chapter Text
“And it is said by the Eldar that in water there lives yet the echo of the Music of the Ainur more than in any substance else that is in this Earth; and many of the Children of Ilúvatar hearken still unsated to the voices of the Sea, and yet know not for what they listen.”
-The Silmarillion
When she finally reached the sea, Buffy dropped onto the sand, too exhausted to take another step. She was alone – and she’d been listening hard, making sure Glorfindel and her brothers hadn’t followed, or the Scoobies. She’s good at putting herself back together when she needs to, she’s had practice enough over the years, but sometimes she needs to let herself fall apart, too.
This was one of those times. Once she was Called, she had lived with an expiration date – but somehow, even with that hanging over her head, she had always had hope. Even when she went to face the Master, she’d still expected to win, prophecy be damned. Giles, I’m sixteen years old, I don’t wanna die! She’d gone to find him to spite ‘it is written’, because she’d wanted her destiny to be her own to write.
It would be all kinds of hilarious if she could go back to sixteen year old her and explain that dying wasn’t something she really needed to worry about. At least, not in a permanent way. Death hadn’t stopped her for long. It never would. No more expiration date. She has a permanent Get Out Of Jail Free card for death.
But there are worse things than dying, and she’s seen one of them in a Slayer dream. That’s why she was here on the shores of the sea to sob her eyes out in private so she can try to be what everyone expects when she goes back. Even if she was not quite sure how to go on. Forever is a long time, and longer still when you know it’s all for nothing.
She would never have classed herself with Maeglin of Gondolin before this, but now she wonders if this is how he felt when released from Angband, knowing he was going back to his doom. The tales all make out like he expected to live, but she’s never believed them. Maeglin was no High Elf. He was a child of the Hither Shores same as her, he would have known as well as anyone that Morgoth didn’t do happy endings or gifts without deadly strings attached.
Why?
She wanted to scream at the heavens, she wanted to rage. But she wasn’t even sure if it was the Powers she’d known or the Valar she should be raging at. Either way, what was the point of showing her that no matter what she does here in Arda, in the end, she’s going to lose? And she will watch it all happen with the cold, hard knowledge that when she loses, she’ll lose everything. Her little sister is going to die screaming, and take the world with her when she does. All the worlds.
She won’t be able to stop it. Morgoth’s saving her for last, his very favorite toy. He loves her. He loves even more that she can’t win, when she’s the only one who stands a chance of beating him. And he loves most of all that she’s so strong she won’t break until the end, until after he’s turned every gift of the Slayer against her – vision, healing, strength. Torture is his favorite form of art, and she’s going to be his masterpiece.
She ignored the incoming tide, the concerned chatter of the gulls. She knew nothing in Middle Earth could lift this crushing weight from her shoulders, and the worst part is, she finally understood why death is a gift. There is no way out. If she walked into the water right now and let it take her, she’d just wake up in the Undying Lands with a whole horde of relatives she’s never met. She can’t quit the game and hope a better player will come along. She has to see it through to the end, even if she already knows it’s checkmate.
---
He was some distance down the shore when he heard the soft weeping. It’s a sound he’s heard many times over the centuries. Ulmo has always held the Eldar dear, so even those who don’t realize why bring their troubles to the sea. Usually he steers clear, but this time he felt compelled to see who it is whose song is of a heart not just broken but shattered.
He certainly wasn’t expecting the tiny, golden-haired elleth curled into a tight little ball of misery. He suspected she was a safe distance up the beach when she first sank to the sand, but the waves were nearly kissing her toes now, though she paid them no heed.
He is no stranger to the harshness of Endórë, but in these peaceful times, it was a surprise to find such pain in one so young.
He did not sigh – not out loud, at least. It had been centuries since he sought out company, and an age since he had a name. But for some reason Ulmo has apparently decided that out of all the Children, he was the one to do something about this.
His voice may crack from lack of use, but he couldn’t very well just stand there and not try to help. Not only does he suspect that if he walked away, he’d find himself getting smacked in the face by a wave, but even damaged and irretrievably stained as he is, he still remembers trusting young eyes looking to him, believing he could make their hurts better and protect them from the monsters of the world. He failed them. He was one of the monsters in the end. But maybe a monster could scare away the darkness threatening to swallow the little one’s flickering fëa.
He began to sing, softly, uncertainly at first, but then stronger as he saw her response. He was surprised by the tear filled eyes that lifted to meet his head on. They were not the grey or silver of so many elves, or even the sea blue of some of the Teleri and Sindar. They were the soft, forgiving green of a summer forest at twilight. And they were not the eyes of an elfling.
No, this was a grown elleth, and he can’t help but wonder who she is.
The song began as a lullaby of Tirion, one he remembers his own mother crooning to him and later to his brothers, the one that soothed any fears and let them rest safely, but somewhere along the line it slipped into the Noldolantë. He sang of kinslaying, and death, foolish oaths and actions he will never cease to regret. He knew this day the song must end in hope, though, so he trailed off after singing of much-loved children who were never his, sent away where his curse could not taint them. It was one of the few things in his long life he’d done right.
He finally hunkered down to sit beside her, suspecting that the best thing for both of them would be for him to walk away, but unable to turn his back on a young elf in such pain.
“Pitya,” he said softly. “What can be so terrible that you are adding more salt water to the sea? And who are you, that your parents let you wander alone in the gathering shadow?”
---
She blinked.
Whoever this elf was, he knew how to keep quiet. She hadn’t even realized he was there until he began to sing. She’d been tempted to tell him to go away, but for the song. She might not understand the words – she was still hopeless at Quenya, despite Glorfindel’s best efforts, although at least she did recognize that it was Quenya her mystery elf was singing – but the pain in the song resonated with her own. She might not know why, but she heard the blood, the failure, the guilt. Inexplicably, at the end, a note of good – something right amid all the wrong.
And then he had to go and call her ‘pitya’. What Glorfindel always calls her when he’s feeling the protective older relative - she hasn’t admitted to him yet that she knows it means ‘little one’. It’s also what her grandmother calls her at times.
“I am Anariel, daughter of Elrond,” she told him, confident that this ellon means her no harm.
“A daughter of Elrond who looks like a child of Finarfin?” he asked lightly, though there was a brief flash of surprise in his face at her father’s name. “There are wonders in Endorë yet.”
She shrugged. Elven genetics may not be what she learned in high school, but there are blondes enough on both side of her family that she really doesn’t understand why everyone is so surprised by her hair. Three of her four grandparents have light hair, or so she is told – she must take the word of others when it comes to Eärendil and Elwing.
“His daughter Galadriel is my grandmother,” she said, well used to the reaction by now.
That drew a smile, albeit a sad one, from her companion.
“That explains much,” he said gravely. “Though not why you are here weeping as though your heart has already broken. You are too young to have lost all joy on these shores.”
She might not have answered, but this elf is not her brothers, or Glorfindel, or any other of her kin before whom she would be ashamed to admit what she’s seen. To her surprise, the whole tale came tumbling out of her mouth, a river of hurt overflowing.
Because she’s seen how everything ends. The green fire in the sky, Morgoth’s return. The absolute certainty who it is he is coming for. Trying to fight him, because she is who she is and there is no other who can stop him. And finally, losing. Being knocked to her knees, disarmed, as Morgoth taunted her with words she’s heard before, on what is still the worst day of her life. But this is so much worse, because Morgoth is a foe far beyond Angelus, and this time she truly had nothing left to give.
That’s everything, huh? No weapons, no friends, no hope. Take all that away, and what’s left?
“So that’s it,” she finished, hating the shaking of her voice almost as much as the knowledge that she cannot win.
It’s cruel, this foresight. Unlike most Slayer dreams, she couldn’t see how this one helped anything. All it did was show her that she was going to fail. When it counts most, she won’t win. That’s why she came to the sea, where none but the gulls would see her tears. She needed to get them out now, because when she goes home, she has to stand tall – well, as tall as she can. She may be doomed to fail, but she’s damned well going to fight all the same. It’s probably the most human thing she’s ever done.
To her surprise, the other elf did not seem to think her situation so dire. He tried to smother it, but a muffled snort of laughter escaped him all the same. It was not a merry sound- it was the laugh of one who has not laughed in a very long time, who laughed even though what he is laughing at is funny only to him.
“You say these words he used were so terrible because they remind you of the day you had to kill a foe in the body of a friend,” he said gently. “How did you answer that foe the first time you heard these words? Take all that away, and what’s left?”
“Me,” she whispered, her hands moving to catch the ghost of a sword.
It’s as if he’d already known the answer, and perhaps he did – after all, she’s here, isn’t she?
“I think you have let Morgoth scare you very badly, little one, and I want you to promise me you will not allow him do it again.”
“Scare me? But…” She gaped at him in bewilderment. Had he been listening at all? “I’m going to lose. I’m the one who has to defeat him to destroy him completely, and I lost.”
He gave her a faintly disappointed look that somehow doesn’t sting as it would if it were her father or her brothers looking at her.
“Pitya, haven’t you forgotten something?”
She stared at him, utterly bemused. What had she missed? Was there still a ray of light to grab onto?
He shook his head.
“Morgoth Bauglir is a liar, young one. He has ever lied to our kin. Why do you expect he would he show you truth?”
She blinked.
“But…” she protested. “It was a Slayer dream. How can they be made to lie?”
“I know nothing of this Slayer,” he replied. “But I know this: you are a daughter of the House of Finwë, a granddaughter of Artanis and Eärendil- and there are many more names among your forefathers that would give the Enemy pause. I can imagine no situation in which you will ever stand alone before him, unless you choose to.”
Something in his voice compelled her to believe him, possibly the absolute certainty with which he said it.
“And even then,” he continued, “you need only hold your ground long enough for your kin to reach you. You are far from alone, pitya.”
“You think so?” she asked, too in need of that reassurance to realize she sounded every bit the elfling she would normally fiercely dispute being called.
“I promise you, Anariel Elerondiel – you may be the least of our house, but should the day come when Morgoth returns, you will not stand alone.”
She let the assurance in his voice seep into her soul, and for the first time since she dreamed defeat, she began to feel like herself.
He snorted, but she knew it wasn’t directed at her.
“It must have cost Morgoth dearly to find a way to reach you from the void,” he said drily. “Though I suppose if he had succeeded in destroying you before ever you fought, it would have been well worth it.”
She froze, her eyes locked on him in shock. Because he’s right.
---
He was surprised at the sudden spark in her eyes at his words. Her jaw dropped slightly, and her gaze slid away. She stared out to sea, beyond him, to something only she could see, thinking hard. When she finally turned back to him, her eyes were shining.
“I’m not going to lose,” she said, her voice somewhere between surprise and prayer. “I’m going to win.”
There’s something sterner than steel in her tone when she says win. The spark in her eyes has ignited her fëa, which no longer danced in shadow, but blazed with the white hot fury of the sun she is named for, so bright it nearly hurts him to look on her.
“You are right,” she told him. “The Enemy would not go to such lengths if he did not fear me. If I were doomed to lose, it would cost him nothing to wait. He did this because he needed to strike first. Before I realized.”
Her smile was as beautiful as the first sunrise – and as terrible. He had the sudden conviction that this mere slip of an elleth truly could do what she said. And he realized with surprise that he will do anything the Valar demand of him to be there to see it.
“I’m going to win,” she repeated, and this time her voice rings with satisfaction. “I don’t know how yet, but I know that I will.”