Title: Bara-lim A Dagnir's Tale
By: Wolfete
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. All identifiable artwork, characters, places, events and concepts belong to their respectable creators. This includes, but is not limited to any publicly recognizable material that is the exclusive property of Tolkien Enterprises and/or New Line Cinema, Joss Whedon and/or Mutant Enemy Productions, and any material or concepts that are borrowed from other works on this site or others as after dozens and even hundreds of read stories one tends to subconsciously use such material. All other characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Neither this fiction site, nor the author has received any payment for this story. However all rights are reserved by the author only, including the right to reproduce this story, or portions thereof, in any form. This includes transmitting it in any form or by any means, electronical or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author.
Rating: T
Warnings: This fan fiction is not meant to be read by children, teens under the age of fifteen without parental consent, overly dramatic teens and adults, people who cannot discern reality, who may have a nervous disposition, and those who are overly sensitive to any of the following- This story contains imaginary blood and gore, explicit descriptions of medieval torture, mild scenes of a sexual nature, mild language, imitable acts, graphic violence, smoking, drinking, cursing, racist situations, politics, criminal activities, anger management techniques, hints of sexual perversion, child abuse, spousal battering, incest, descriptions of animals scavenging on bodies found in wild places, and other unsavory doings, as well as corruption in local governments and the courts.
A/N: It has been a little over a year since this was updated and I have made some significant changes to the plot line. So please reread each chapter. As always this is a Work in Progress.
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Book One: A Weaving of Threads
Prologue: Hell Hath No Fury
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O star of strength.
I see thee stand
And smile upon my pain;
Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
And I am strong again.
Alone at last, we can sit and fight.
And I've lost all faith in this blurring light,
But stay right here we can change our plight.
We're storming through this despite what's right.
The old moon was rising above the Old Forest casting an eerie gleam over it. The Old Forest was one of the few survivors of the primordial forests which covered most of Eriador before the Second Age. Now it was bordered in the east by the Barrow-downs and in the west by The Hedge. Within these bounds were secreted things that had rarely been seen since the First Age of the world. One such creation was in the eastern edge of the forest. The night had drawn close about the house on the grassy knoll, soft lantern light gleamed from its windows warding against the nefarious creatures that trespassed nearby. It sat in the east of the Old Forest, on a shelf in the high ridge that bordered the Barrow-downs. Just above the house was the Withywindle Grotto where the river sprang forth from deep in the earth. The grotto was also the far edge of house's gardens.
Inside sat a strange man and with a bright ultramarine jacket and yellow boots on. Iarwain Ben-adar, Oldest and Fatherless he was called by the Elves. He was eldest of Eru Ilúvatar creations, he fell somewhere between what a Vala and a Maia was. Mortal if he should be slain, but he could also live through all the ages of the world. Once he had leapt upon the hilltops across the wide lands of Middle-earth. Now, though, he was settled in the Old Forest with his wife Goldberry the River-daughter, and had set for himself unseen bounds which he rarely crossed. Those boundaries were that of the Old Forest. To the West was the High Hay, it had been planted many generations ago by the Hobbits, and was now thick and tall, for it was constantly tended. It ran all the way from Brandywine Bridge, in a big loop curving away from the river, to Haysend (where the Withywindle flowed out of the Forest into the Brandywine): well over twenty miles from end to end. To the North was the Southern Bree-fields, where great tracks of rich farmland was cultivated by the men of Bree. To the East was the Barrow-downs and to the South was the Enedwaith both were quiet places and sparsely populated. Yet for all of these boundaries he could still sense the happenings beyond them.
He sat frozen near a great hearth staring into the flames that burned there. Listening…Walking along the chords of song in the night. Songs. Names. These things had power. Even the simple sounds of the forest; the whisper of wind in leaves, of water on rock, the chatter of small creatures and the hoots of owls. His focus was near and far, east and west. There was where the news came from, where the danger was. In the near west he heard the sonorous slow rhythms of the Ents that still hid within the Old Forest. They and some of their counterparts the ent-wives had taken sanctuary within these lands during the end of the Second Age. The Tree Herders were few and had to rely on several powerful huorns, who spent most of their days moving little, watching as silent protectors, usually deep within the darkness of the woodland. The forest was more dangerous at night because the trees were more guarded, but the danger was only for the unwary and those who disrespected the forest.
Next, came the rollicking cheerfulness of Hobbit song from the Shire. The three kindred's, Fallohides, Harfoots, and Stoors lived and worked the land tending it with love. This added a great joyful strain to the music, but it was marred by a rising Shadow that would soon set fire to Hobbit hearts. Farther West upon the Gulf of Lune sang the deep, lively enchantments of the Teleri's triple hornpipes. The Havens are what mortals call them, but they are three distinctive regions that had once been ruled by Ereinion was the northern part of the kingdom of Lindon and Harlindon the southern, here lived the majority of the Exiled Noldor, Sindar, and Laiquendi. The eldest city of the region was Mithlond; here lay the great harbor and quays of the Falmari that sheltered the massive swan-ships that made the passage west, the tessarakonteres and their relatives of the navy, and the lighter trade route ships. Beauty, war, fear, and hope entwined the music of the west, blending into a symphony that was a stark contrast to the east.
To the east sat a space of great silence; the Northern and Southern Barrow-lands. Here was only a thrumming triad of memory, wrights, and something else. An echo of words that permeated into the very stone and whispered on the wind, old words that hinted and teased a wellspring forth. Its beginning was from a trickle of prophecy within a mirror, a silvered basin filled with water in which visions of the past, present and future wavered across it. The waning sliver of the moon had illuminated the pool charging it with a power and allowing past, present and future to reflect upon song, giving voice to warning and welcome.
"The world is changed:
I feel it in the water,
I feel it in the earth,
I smell it in the air...
Much that once was is lost….."
The weaving words drew figures in the flames of the hearth showing events that were taking place within that barren stretch of downs. The fog rolled up to form walls and rose above them, and as it mounted it bent over their heads until it became a roof: they were shut in a hall of mist whose central pillar was the standing stone.
The hobbits felt as if a trap was closing about them; but they did not quite lose heart. They still remembered the hopeful view they had had of the line of the Road ahead, and they still knew in which direction it lay. In any case, they now had so great a dislike for that hollow place about the stone that no thought of remaining there was in their minds. They packed up as quickly as their chilled fingers would work.
Soon they were leading their ponies in single file over the rim and down the long northward slope of the hill, down into a foggy sea. As they went down the mist became colder and damper and their hair hung lank and dripping on their foreheads. When they reached the bottom it was so cold that they halted and got out cloaks and hoods, which soon became bedewed with grey drops. Then, mounting their ponies, they went slowly on again, feeling their way by the rise and fall of the ground. They were steering, as well as they could guess, for the gate-like opening at the far northward end of the long valley which they had seen in the morning. Once they were through the gap, they had only to keep on in anything like a straight line and they were bound in the end to strike the Road. Their thoughts did not go beyond that, except for a vague hope that perhaps away beyond the Downs there might be no fog.
Their going was very slow. To prevent their getting separated and wandering in different directions they went in file, with Frodo leading. Sam was behind him, and after him came Pippin, and then Merry. The valley seemed to stretch on endlessly. Suddenly Frodo saw a hopeful sign. On either side ahead a darkness began to loom through the mist; and he guessed that they were at last approaching the gap in the hills, the north-gate of the Barrow-downs. If they could pass that, they would be free.
'Come on! Follow me!' he called back over his shoulder, and he hurried forward. But his hope soon changed to bewilderment and alarm. The dark patches grew darker, but they shrank; and suddenly he saw, towering ominous before him and leaning slightly towards one another like the pillars of a headless door, two huge standing stones. He could not remember having seen any sign of these in the valley, when he looked out from the hill in the morning. He had passed between them almost before he was aware: and even as he did so darkness seemed to fall round him. His pony reared and snorted, and he fell off. When he looked back he found that he was alone: the others had not followed him.
'Sam!' he called. 'Pippin! Merry! Come along! Why don't you keep up?'
There was no answer. Fear took him, and he ran back past the stones shouting wildly: 'Sam! Sam! Merry! Pippin!'
The pony bolted into the mist and vanished. From some way off, or so it seemed, he thought he heard a cry: 'Hoy!
Frodo! Hoy!' It was away eastward, on his left as he stood under the great stones, staring and straining into the gloom. He plunged off in the direction of the call, and found himself going steeply uphill. As he struggled on he called again, and kept on calling more and more frantically; but he heard no answer for some time, and then it seemed faint and far ahead and high above him. 'Frodo! Hoy!' came the thin voices out of the mist: and then a cry that sounded like _help, help!_ often repeated, ending with a last _help!_ that trailed off into a long wail suddenly cut short. He stumbled forward with all the speed he could towards the cries; but the light was now gone, and clinging night had closed about him, so that it was impossible to be sure of any direction.
He seemed all the time to be climbing up and up. Only the change in the level of the ground at his feet told him when he at last came to the top of a ridge or hill. He was weary, sweating and yet chilled. It was wholly dark.
'Where are you?' he cried out miserably.
There was no reply. He stood listening. He was suddenly aware that it was getting very cold, and that up here a wind was beginning to blow, an icy wind. A change was coming in the weather. The mist was flowing past him now in shreds and tatters. His breath was smoking, and the darkness was less near and thick. He looked up and saw with surprise that faint stars were appearing overhead amid the strands of hurrying cloud and fog. The wind began to hiss over the grass.
He imagined suddenly that he caught a muffled cry, and he made towards it; and even as he went forward the mist was rolled up and thrust aside, and the starry sky was unveiled. A glance showed him that he was now facing southwards and was on a round hill-top, which he must have climbed from the north. Out of the east the biting wind was blowing. To his right there loomed against the westward stars a dark black shape. A great barrow stood there.
'Where are you?' he cried again, both angry and afraid.
'Here!' said a voice, deep and cold, that seemed to come out of the ground. 'I am waiting for you!'
'No!' said Frodo; but he did not run away. His knees gave, and he fell on the ground. Nothing happened, and there was no sound. Trembling he looked up, in time to see a tall dark figure like a shadow against the stars. It leaned over him. He thought there were two eyes, very cold though lit with a pale light that seemed to come from some remote distance. Then a grip stronger and colder than iron seized him. The icy touch froze his bones, and he remembered no more.
The flames seemed to darken and spark as the scene ended and there in the silence of that place the thrumming grew into a crescendo of sound and deep magic sweeping open a resonance from another place. It drew anyone that could hear into its refrain…
Death was her gift. Battle boiled around Buffy, hordes of Turok-Han and slayers fought. The scythe twirled in her hands, the hum of metal ringing in her ears. She knew her prey from where they stood, the stench of their skin, the scent of their blood, the off-putting sound of their weapons as their nonhuman hands tightened around them. She could feel the vibrations of their ragged breath through the ground. It took only two blows with the scythe before her first demon was down and the others closed in.
Clutching the cold metal with her fingers, she spun around, holding the scythe horizontally in both hands to ward off two strikes. Once they were deflected, she flipped to her feet and swung the scythe in an arc, watching as the demons flew backwards and down.
One sprang out from behind her, slashing at her spine. She twisted away, the blow catching the demon off guard. She swung the scythe up, smirking as it slid from the demon's hip to its shoulder, splattering her with the foulest blood she had yet to come across. With that demon gone, the others charged her.
For every one she took down, it seemed two more were ready to take its place. The fight felt as though it had gone for hours, but it didn't really matter to her. The first rush had been of adrenaline and the second was that she was truly in her element as the slayer and these things stood no chance against her fury. The potentials danced with as much deadly grace, yet still the Turok-Han came.
For a second Spike was at her side, then he suddenly stepped back. Glancing toward him she saw confusion and pain as he touched the amulet at his throat. Wincing he cried out, "Buffy! Whatever this thing does, I think it's—"
Even as he spoke the enemy seemed to become fiercer knocking the line of Slayers back. Turning from Spike she called out to the others, "Keep the line together!" A line that Buffy knew that they would be incapable of holding for long. Grunting, Buffy dodged another demons powerful punch and lashed out with a roundhouse kick that sent it stumbling back into one of its brethren. "Hold the line!" she called, her voice vying for attention against the battle that tossed their world into chaos. "Drive them to the edge! We can't let them do…"
Pain cut the words from her throat as she looked down to see a sword tip, piercing her abdomen. Buffy stumbled forward, collapsing to the ground, face-first. For long moments her vision faded to black… breath tearing through lungs that were beginning to find the air thick and difficult to breathe. Until suddenly Faith was kneeling at her side, a hand on her shoulder.
"Buffy!"
Weakly leaning up on her elbows, Buffy pushed the scythe to Faith, "Hold the line."
Grimly nodding Faith took the scythe, returning to the battle waging around her. Buffy stayed on the floor, trying to breath… to find the strength to rise again. Long moments passed as she lay with her head on the floor. She could hear the voices of Faith and Rona, knew that they were nearby guarding her as they held the as a wave of power seemed to rush through her body, Buffy felt her muscles contract and tense. She could feel the magic of something pulsing… the amulet?
Gasping now, Buffy felt the world begin to swim away as a wave of lightheadedness caused stars to dance in her vision.
"No!" Buffy gasped as her slayer sense burned through the disorienting and dizzying waves that were crashing into her small frame. Fingernails digging into the stone at her sides, she felt another wave of Turok-Hans crash into the line of Potentials. As her eyes cleared she saw someone standing before her.
Pulling up tight, Buffy forced her trembling limbs to straighten as she looked up into her own green eyes, her own lips pulled down in a cold smirk that had never before twisted her pale features.
"Oh no..." the First said as she looked down at Buffy's wound reflected on its own body. " ow! Mommy, this mortal wound is all...itchy." Suddenly its eyes flashed back to Buffy, "You pulled a nice trick. You came pretty close to smacking me down. What more do you want?"
Through gritted teeth as she sat up, Buffy spoke, "I want you...to get out of my face."
"Oh poor little slayer." The First said sweetly, "But why come when you knew that you were going to die?"
"We're restoring the balance," Buffy murmured as she eyed the mirror-image.
"We'll see about that," the First returned, the smirk shifting until it was a smile that caused Buffy to recoil in disgust. Even as the First dropped down to crouch in front of her, "You won't survive this."
Suddenly the pulses of magic increased and the world shifted around her. It wavered and distorted, gasping, Buffy bent her chin towards her chest, her eyes clenched shut against another wave of dizziness - and yet when she opened them, it was only to the sight of the First fading. Unable to rise she saw Faith seem to fight with a renewed strength, swinging the scythe with a mighty force, knocking three Turok-Han off the cliff at once. Vi takes out one after another after another. Kennedy disarms one and dusts another. Buffy eyes strayed across each of the still standing Potentials, but her eyes move to Spike as he gasps and stumbles backward away from the fight clutching his chest. A bright blue light shoots up from the amulet, burning his hand.
"Oh, bollocks. Buffy!" As Spike began to shout the blue light tunneled through the ceiling and turned into liquid sunshine.
Shouting his name, Buffy began to crawl toward him. Before she could get to his side, the amulet refracted the orange light out into the hellmouth…. concentrated rays of sunshine. Buffy finally reached his side as the Turok-Han are dusting throughout the hellmouth. The ground around them started to shake and Faith called out to the others.
"Everybody out, now!"
Everything seemed to pass in slow motion as she stared up at Spike, the pain faded from her wound, even the blood slowed, the slayers fleeing for their lives around her. The vampire spoke then; his voice was filled with amazement. "I can feel it, Buffy."
"What?"
"My soul," he said, the pain in his face evident, but his voice... soft and hushed. "It's really there. It kind of stings."
The moment sped up again as the hellmouth began to collapse. Crumbling stone and bright sunlight danced around them. Some part of her knew that the wound was mortal, she felt as though she needed to say something. She wouldn't leave him, she knew this. She wanted to be there at the end. But his eyes held hers, so warm and passionate and kind, exactly what he wasn't.
Slowly, she reached out, her fingers intertwining with his burning ones. "I love you," she murmured, knowing these were the words he needed to hear.
After a moment, his surprised look faded. "No, you don't. But thanks for saying it." His gaze held hers for a moment longer. "Now go… you've got more important places to be."
Faith is suddenly there gripping her right shoulder, "B, come on!"
Shaking her head Buffy spoke, "I can't…. I can barely move."
"Buffy!" the brunette slayer cried angrily.
"No, Faith. You're the leader now. Take care of Dawnie for me." As she said this, the walls around them seemed to implode, thousands of tons of rock falling like bombs around them, clouding the brilliant light with dust.
"I won't leave you here." Faith said as she moved to pull Buffy to her feet.
Body trembling, Buffy forced the air through her aching lungs. "I'm bleeding out Faith. Even if you get me above I won't survive this. Please let me rest."
"Gotta move, lamb. I think it's fair to say school's out for bloody summer. We want to see how it ends."
Faith lowered Buffy and drew her hand away. Looking around she took off to the steps, scythe in hand. Her whispered goodbye trailed behind her. "Bye, B."
Even as Faith left, the hellmouth crumbled around them. Spike stood tall in the shining light, grinning from ear to ear and laughing. "I can feel my soul…." He dusted slowly still laughing as Buffy crotched near him. The pain from her wound was excruciating, and the pulsing magic of the collapsing hellmouth did not help. A strong tremor sent her again to her belly, igniting her world into flashes of color so bright that she was blinded by their intensity.
Memory rushed across her mind as she laid there… she again was standing before the Potentials speaking. "So here's the part where you make a choice: What if you could have that power...now? In every generation, one slayer is born... because a bunch of men who died thousands of years ago made up that rule. They were powerful men. This woman," pointing to Willow. "Is more powerful than all of them combined. So I say we change the rule. I say my power...should be our power."
Amongst the ruin of memory a timeless voice whispered in a flowing language, "I amar prestar aen…"
"From now on, every girl in the world who might be a slayer... will be a slayer."
"Han mathon ne nen…"
"Every girl who could have the power... will have the power... can stand up, will stand up."
"Han mathon ne chae…"
"Slayers... every one of us."
"A han noston ned gwilith."
"Are you ready to be strong?"
"Much that once was is lost. For none now live who remember it."
Her mind suddenly went dark and all voices were gone….
The last flames turned to embers in the hearth, but far to the West far beyond his lands and across Alataire and through black and roaring waves that ran over leagues of unlit and foundered shores that drowned before the Second Age a single mournful tolling bell rang. Its call signaled Judgment and the gathering at the Máhanaxar.
Eldest blinked at the embers slowly coming back to himself, heaving a wary sigh at foolish, fickle Fate. What new tales were to begin and old memories told. Tears and toil it was bringing to Arda and even he could see no ending to what was to take place. Tom leaned forward and took hold of a stroker and riffled the embers around until a small flame sprang up brightening the room once more. At a table in one corner of the room sat a golden haired river-woman, Goldberry sat spinning quietly watching her husband as he listened. He was greater in magic than she, but she was a minor power in her own right. She too saw the scenes in flame, yet she held her silence and waited. Waited until Tom rose speaking aloud, "The time has come for old Tom to take a walk down to the Barrow-downs."
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