The fire burned low, red and orange flames dwindling as the carcasses she'd piled as high as her own head finally crumbled to ash. Orange heat licked at the dry grass surrounding the pyre of dead orcs, and she easily stamped out the larger embers, stopping the fire from escaping into the forest.
The trees rustled and whispered, twisted boughs bending low, leaves brushing against her neck and back.
She took a long breath, not moving from her vigil. She's lived among the trees too long to ever carelessly leave her fires alone before they were gone.
Shadows shifted in the dying light and only after the last of the once yellow flames died away, and the coals had gone cold, and the ashes were being swept away in the breeze, did she turn to face the trees she guarded so carefully.
Spinning the weapon in her hands, she speared the scythe into the earth next to the ancient oak who had deigned to whisper its' secrets to her, the message murmured urgently in a language she understood instinctively rather than consciously.
She's spent too many years alone in the dark forest, nothing but the hunt and the trees to keep her company. The Ents hardly counted after all, sentient trees who spoke with the words of the men who lived nearby and walked without setting roots into the earth. Besides allowing her to continue purging the darkness from the woods, they paid her no attention.
One girl in all the world indeed.
A bitter smile twisted her mouth as the oak leaned straight again, message delivered, branches reaching into the sky, trunk proud and strong.
She swept hair the color of fine gold over her shoulder, picking up the red scythe, the ever familiar, ever present warmth of her power sweeping through her hands as she grasped the weapon that was undeniably hers.
Power hummed in her palms, and a silent song filled the air. No matter how different her world had become, the scythe with it's silent gift reminded her of where she'd come from. A reminder of where her roots had once laid.
In a world, in a dimension, built from music and song, only the Slayer is truly silent. A protective shadow that swept through the plains of men, across the valleys of elves, under the mountains of dwarves and over the gentle hills of hobbits, a force of good cleansing Arda of evil.
She is the Slayer.
One girl in all the world.
A chosen one.
She alone will wield the strength and skill to stand against the vampires, demons, and the forces of darkness.
To stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their numbers.
She is the Slayer. Or at least that's how the story went, once upon a time.
Middle earth has no vampires. But it doesn't lack demons or goblins or orcs. It has plenty of darkness for the slayer to fight.
Buffy slung her scythe over her shoulders, hooking her arms over it, and ambled away from the pile of ash that was once an orc scouting party prowling through the Ambaróna. Before Buffy killed them all for trespassing in her forest.
She glanced up at the sky, spotting the stars through the gaps in the heavy foliage of the canopy that blanketed her head. She didn't really need to look to the sky for direction, she never really did, not even in Sunnydale or any of the other places she'd lived after.
Sineya's gifts were the kind that kept giving. Including a handy dandy internal compass.
She headed north first. The oak had delivered her a message from Olorin, the irritatingly cryptic wizard calling her west; calling in a favor she owed him. Buffy just didn't like the grey wizard all that much, even if he was one of her few friends in this dimension. Too much with the cryptic. It was annoying.
This new dimension of hers lacked malls and indoor plumbing and women's lib; but Buffy had adjusted. Survived, adapted, overcome and a couple other fifty cent words about not dying when thrown abruptly into a strange new dimension by a dimension destroying demon cult as revenge for stopping their apocalypse plans. Not to mention when said dimension was also some ridiculous medieval fantasy wonderland where nobody spoke English.
Olorin, meddling wizard he was, had a huge part in Buffy learning to navigate Arda, even if she never really leaves the borders of her forest.
Buffy owes him.
She owes him a lot of she was honest with herself. So she'd go join him in the west as he'd asked of her, armed for whatever trouble he has planned, and equipped for the trouble he'll just happen to find. The man was an even worse trouble magnet than Dawn on a Tuesday. Mostly because trouble tends to find Olorin every day of the week.
But she'll go after she checked out the rising darkness at Amon Lanc.
A shy, young willow had whispered fears of cold shadows reemerging and growing in strength in Amon Lanc to Buffy earlier that day. Other trees had rustled and whispered in gossipy agreement about the many rings they'd grown, and the hundreds of seasons that had passed since dark power had last grown there.
A dark smile crossed her expression as she stalked across the forest floor.
She kept no calendar, and the watch she had worn when she'd first clawed her way out of the soil in Arda, she'd broken, then lost a long time ago.
But Buffy knew that she'd been here for a long time. Longer than her lifetime while she'd still lived in her home dimension, and Buffy had lived for nearly one hundred years before she'd arrived in Arda. And she was still as young and spry as she'd been after her second death.
She finally understood Sineya's words from so long ago; after all, Buffy also lives in the action of death, in the blood cry, and the penetrating wound. She is destruction and salvation.
Absolute... and always alone.
Buffy wondered if Sineya felt like Buffy, forever kept alive by the slayer line, never dying, always fighting, always protecting the world from the darkness that the slayer is steeped in.
This world has plenty of darkness for Buffy to fight. Being mostly immortal had some benefits. Always having plenty of time being pretty high on that list. Olorin could wait another week. There are baddies to kill.
And ever since she'd landed in this dimension, Buffy wouldn't have it any other way.
She was practically skipping by the time dawn crept across the sky, scythe swinging from her hands, sword hung on her hip and a bow slung over her shoulder. She skirted along the river following it ever north, toward the sprawling forest of Eryn Galen, her slayer senses stretching to fill in the world around her as she came towards a black hill, it's twisted fortress smoking quietly.
She surveyed the area. The sky was ringed in shadowy smoke, the sun filtering weakly through heavy clouds; only enough light to see. The forest around the craggy ruins is twisted and blackened, dead branches stretching into the sky. The song of the wilds she'd grown accustomed too was gone, replaced by something else.
There was nothing else to see. Even in Arda evil things tended to fear the sun, and weak as it was, the sun shone in the sky, it's warm rays fading through the grey air. But even if there had been orc or goblins or trolls, the fortress itself would have drawn all of her attention.
The whole building was steeped in evil. And it had nothing to do with the creepy decor. No it smelled like death magic, the painfully familiar power that had ripped her down into her first grave and out of her heaven.
She crept through the shadowy ruins, her feet silent. She tilted her head, listening carefully to the dark music she could faintly hear echoing in the stones.
And Buffy had thought Sweet was bad. This whole goddamn dimension sings. Even the bad guys. It's annoying. But occasionally useful. Like now; Buffy can tell that whatever has taken over this place is evil. And strong. And growing louder by the minute. She climbs through the dead forest, finally reaching the crumbling bridge that leads into the fortress. Buffy stayed in the trees, looking out at the open stretch of stone in front of her. It doesn't matter how abandoned and empty the place looked; if living in Sunnydale taught her anything it was that evil likes the creepy abandoned buildings best. Buffy sighed, and not seeing any other options, moved forward, crouched low to the ground as she crept from rock to rock until she reached the bridge. She slipped under the stone pathway, fingers digging into the crumbling rock as she climbed across the deep chasm towards the fortress.
Buffy claws her way over the other side and immediately slipped her way over the statues and bricks into the sweeping rafters of the entry hall. Years of practice both on Earth, and years spent living in the branches of the Ambaróna had made Buffy an excellent free climber. She reached the end of the hall, the center of the fortress crumbed and empty; like someone took a scoop out the center and left the heart of the building hollow.
She spots movement below, the crumbled and broken building's tune shifting in a discordant melody. Peering over the edge of the rafters she was perched in, her lips pursed tightly.
The trappings of an army swarmed below, snarling wargs, growling orcs, and crude metal glinted in the light of the fiery furnaces.
Her trigger finger itched. The ghost of metal on her shoulder, and the sharp burning smell of gunpowder filled her head. That rocket launcher when she was seventeen was one of the best gifts she'd ever received. It would be useful now, if she still had it.
Buffy slid back against the cold stone, turning away from the army. She's good, but she's not suicidal.
Willow's magic all those years ago did a lot of things to her; pull her from heaven, change the slayer line, but it didn't make her totally immortal. Only functionally immortal. Still, it was more than enough.
Slayer healing tended to take care of most problems, but Buffy knew she could still die. She technically has died a couple times over the years, doctors or magic pulling her back to the world of the living each time. And without some serious back up, going down into the depths of Amon Lanc, into the seething pit of blackness that is Dol Guldur, alone is suicide. And if Buffy died now, there would be nobody else to warn the rest of Arda.
But this explained a lot. Power like this, consolidating in an ancient fortress that Olorin had once explained to her had been evil thousands of years before her arrival to Arda, could only signal trouble. And this was on top of Olorin asking her for a favor. Buffy has never believed in coincidence. She managed to make her way down to the main entrance hall, and from there back to the ground.
She crept along the stone, careful to stay silent and leaving the moldy ruins behind her undisturbed. A pebble clattered against stone, leaves crunched under something heavy. Branches rustled in a non-existent wind.
Buffy froze.
Someone else is here.
A loud - familiar- cry, and the clang of metal on metal sent her into a flurry of action. She leapt down from the staircase she'd been climbing, landing lightly on the ground in front of Aiwendil, both her sword and her scythe held out defensively.
The brown wizard clutched at his staff, scrambling up from the ground his eyes fixed on empty air. Buffy turned with him, facing the dark shadow that emerged in the archway Buffy herself had just left. He gasped in fear and Buffy tightened her grip on her weapons.
Evil.
She backed up slowly, herding the wizard behind her until the Istari regained his senses. The sudden stream of panicked babbling that could rival Dawnie and Willow at their worst combined, along with his rushed footsteps was her signal to turn and flee with him. She scooped up the sword that was on the ground where Aiwendil had forgotten it, and followed him across the bridge; determinedly ignoring the rasping whispers that wrapped around her; almost like a physical presence.
"Quick! Quick, quick… quickly! Quickly quickly!" He panted out in terrified Westeron, his heaving breath bursting out of him as he wildly glanced back towards Buffy. She just silently urged him forwards, sheathing her sword and tucking the stolen blade under her arm as she sped up to snag the panicked wizard. She let the song of rabbits; the ones Aiwendil never seemed to travel without, guide her to his sledge. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of the hermit like wizard, but ignored it as he wildly batted away bats with his staff as she dumped him onto the sledge, the rabbits already beginning to move.
She didn't look back, just jumped onto the back of the sledge herself. As fast as the slayer is, not even she could keep up with Aiwendil's Rhosgobel rabbits. There was nothing in Arda that moved faster than them.
"Ana Olorin, ar i ninque combë. Te must sinte os i lárë símen-esse i Eryn Galen Aiwendil. Nimeár- lapattlya ana hurrime. Emme los-anim lú." (To Olorin, and the White Council. They must know about the happenings here in the Eryn Galen Aiwendil. Tell your rabbits to hurry. We don't have any time.) She urged him. The brown wizard looked up, his hat half fallen across his face, spitting his ridiculous beard out of his mouth.
"Westron, Laireiel, my dear girl. Speak Westron. You must not speak Quenya here. Surely Gandalf has taught you that! I know I taught you Westron myself, so you have no excuse not to use it Laireiel." Buffy resisted the urge to snarl at the wizard.
Buffy and languages are unmixy things. She understands the trees, and she learned the language of the songs that filled this dimension. And she hated the name they'd given her. She rarely, if ever, answered to it, and really only Aiwendil used it. It was in Quenya, a language few in Arda knew, and even fewer dared to use. Buffy happened to be one of those few. But it was easier than Sindarin, or goddess forbid, Westron, the language of men.
Of course a powerful woman, a slayer, a leader, just had to land in a world where women's lib isn't a thing. The only hope she had for this dimension were the rumors of shieldmaidens, but when she'd gone to investigate; the order of female fighters was all but destroyed.
Men. Buffy shook her head in irritation. She missed her sister slayers, and she missed Faith, weirdly enough, most of all.
"Fine." She snapped at Aiwendil in her accented Westron. She'll listen to him for now, because as weird as he was; eccentric and tripping on mushrooms, he was still of the Istari and for all of his quirks, wise in his own weird quirky way. The brown wizard finally managed to right himself and took over the steering of the sledge. Buffy crouched low in front of him, knees tucked close to her chest, her red slayer scythe slipping into the leather harness over her shoulder.
Evil like she hasn't felt since before she'd arrived in Middle Earth was rising. Olorin - no, Gandalf, needed to be told.
She sighed. At least now he couldn't be too upset with her for being late to whatever his favor is.
AN:
Alright, we're trying something new! I just watched the Lord of the Rings (and Hobbit) movies for the first time, which is completely ridiculous at this point in my life, especially since the hobbit was one of my favorite books as a kid. Anyways after I got a little obsessed with Buffy/LotR crossovers so I'm writing my own now. This will be mostly movie verse' and will follow Buffy's adventures starting in the Hobbit then move to the end of the Return of the King.
I'm going to try super hard to update this once or twice a week, so stay tuned.
Please review, I love hearing from you guys.
Cheers,
Hartley
(Also I will be using a mix of all the languages in Arda, and head canonning that English is not a language spoken in Middle Earth - so if Buffy speaks english no one around her will understand what she says. You guys can safely assume that any dialogue in itallics is not in Westeron [Common Speech.] Any place where I write in Sindarin/Quenya I will have the translations right next to the dialogue in parentheses. All of the dialogue in elvish or otherwise is either from the movies or I'm cobbling it together from various online resources so please don't be mad at me if I make mistakes. I am not a tolkin expert, I'm just doing my best here people.)
I hope you all like it!