The Phoenix's Griffin

“Don’t look, don’t look,”
the shadows breathe
Whispering me away from you
“Don’t wake at night to watch her sleep
You know that you will always lose
This trembling,
adored
tousled
bird mad girl…” – ‘Burn’ - The Cure

The sound of a voice? An elf, female, and not alone for a male answered!

Their voices came from the direction of the Celebrant and Haldir ran noiselessly through the Golden Wood slowing to a creep as he made his waythe the edge of the tree line.

Two elves sat astride horses on the opposite side of the river, the male dark haired, and the elleth honeyed.

The elleth slipped her feet from the stirrups of her saddle and slipped to the ground. She let go the reins allowing the horse to drink from the cold water running shallow and slow over the bedrock.

She rested her gloved palm against the saddle, put right her hand to her side and leaned forward slightly drawing in a long, slow breath of some discomfort.

Her companion jumped from his mount without hesitation and was by the elleth in a heartbeat, on hand resting against her stomach and the other rubbing her back; concern clearly shown in his fair features as he spoke to her.

“Szeretett?”
“Is nothing,” she straightened, took his hand. “Köszönöm, Amaras,” she leaned against his broad chest, splayed her gloved fingers and looked up to his face, “for this.”

Amaras looked back down at her, and put his gloved hands on both sides of her face smiling adoringly, “Anything for you, kedevelt,” and she wrapped her arms around his waist, kissed him.
“Köszönöm,” she breathed against his mouth and ran her hands up his back, under his hair.

To Haldir they had a strange accent, peppered Sindarin with a language he had never heard. It was obvious Sindarin was not their native tongue but one they chose to practice. Haldir leaned toward them intrigued, his head cocked to better hear the language full of z’s and long o’s. It put him in mind of the sound bees made while in their hives

Turning back to her horse, she removed the saddle with its bags and bedroll tied behind the seat, propped it against her hip and then removed the bridle. Amaras watched attentively as she held the saddle against her a moment, the bridle looped through her arm.

“I wished to have gone with you,” she said finally, giving the bridle a jangle. Amaras watched her attentively.
“I am glad you cannot.” He answered, “Fornost is no place for you now. If word had come sooner we need have fought at all.”
“I did enjoy the making amends,” she smiled to him as she walked by, and his eyes followed, smiled too.

No, no place for an elleth, Haldir agreed with him. He nodded approvingly for a moment, ah, they had argued on it; Amaras would be leaving her behind. Somewhere.

She whispered to the horse. It shook itself and wandered away to crop grass.

She dropped her saddle in the grass, draped the reins over, and one by one piled her weapons atop: quiver, an elegant curving bow, the harness holding the two long knives and heavy sword strapped to her back. Looking around she unfastened the brooch of her gray-blue cloak gave the fabric a twirl, and a good snap before adding it to her pile. She stood dressed as her companion in unassuming shades of gray and blue.

Tugging off her riding gloves and tucking them into her belt, she walked to the river. Amaras turned his horse loose, giving it an affectionate swat on the ample rump.

She stepped into shallow water, her eyes on the woods ahead trying to discern movement. Haldir stood frozen among the trees. She looked with expectation.

Divested of his weapons Amaras watched her as he removed his own cloak, his eyes flicked to the wood then back to her. He stood smoothing the cloak over his arm idly.

The elleth crouched, pierced the thin veil of water with her hands to touch the rock beneath. She splashed the cool water over her face before dipping her hands again to catch the water, and drank several handfuls before standing up. Haldir saw her pause. Something had caught her eye. Her head tipped to the side in contemplation. She looked at the forest again and started across the shallows.

“Phaila.” Amaras cautioned dropping his cloak over his saddle.

Amaras and Phaila.

“There’s a leaf,” she said not taking her eyes from it. The leaf lay golden on the last of the summer grass.
“You don’t want to draw down one of the Galadhrim Marchers do you?” He asked looking back to the wood.
“I will have it for my book, Amaras,” she said turning her head slightly toward him, “I do not think they would shoot me for a leaf.” She was not entirely convinced of the accuracy of her statement for she moved warily closer to the bank.
“Perhaps not, but wait,” he picked up his bow, stuck two arrows in the top of his boot, notched an arrow, and stepped into the river behind her. Haldir started indignantly, as Amaras stood legs spread slightly, the bow and arrow held ready.

Never before had an elf entering Lothlórien done so with a weapon drawn, that role relegated to the Marchers. Who were they? Why would they hold such a dire opinion of Lórien?

He is impressive, Haldir thought watching Amaras scan the trees. He held his breath as Amaras’ eyes drew closer to where he stood among three trees that grew closely together. Amaras’ gaze paused briefly, noting the natural screen and moved on. He knew what he was doing, Haldir noted, understood the strategy of ambush. What would Amaras do if he revealed himself? Haldir mused. Would he wait for Phaila to bound across the river, the aimed arrow enough or would he sink that arrow in him? If he did let it fly would its’ purpose be to wound or to kill? Perhaps he believed they were being observed, rightly so, and was making himself plain. “Leave us alone.”

She stepped out of the water onto the bank. She had captured her leaf and Haldir saw her wariness evaporated as she gazed with wonderment at the gold colouration. Haldir moved closer.

“You can look at the leaf over here,” Amaras chuckled from his station in the river.
“Akkor.” He commanded when she did not heed immediately.

She turned and walked back across the river. When she was safely on the other side, Amaras backed from the water.

She held the golden leaf up to him. He took it between gloved thumb and forefinger, held it up, sapphire eyes smiling.

“It is very pretty,” he said benevolently, kissed her forehead and gave it back, “but not worth getting an arrow for.”
“I think it very much worth an arrow,” she answered taking it, and walking to her saddle.
“Of course you do,” he said dryly as she walked by, “and would force me to declare war on Lothlorien over your body.”

Haldir smiled at the lovers’ boast.

Phaila opened her saddlebag, and from it took a thick book. She unbuckled the leather strap holding it closed and carefully put the leaf between two pages; buckling it tightly closed.

“I will see what I can get us for dinner,” Amaras said tapping the unstrung arrow against his leg.
“Firewood duty?” she asked laying her hand on her chest, “I could have picked some up when I was over there.” She inclined her head to the other bank, where Haldir continued to watch them.
“Igen, you could, but now you’ll gather it from this,” he pointed at the ground, tone firm, “side of the river.”

She smiled innocently while he stood considering, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. Haldir got the impression that she gave Amaras a great trouble, which the elf seemingly, thoroughly enjoyed.

“I promise,” she lay her hand on her breast, protesting his look, “I will not cross again. It is too pretty a wood to torch on my account.”

“Mmm hmm,” Amaras mumbled. Although not persuaded; he turned, stalked softly away while she smiled, watching him.

They were engaging; the lilts of their foreign accent, the soft hs and hard ds to the Sindarin words made him shiver with pleasure and Haldir found himself getting more comfortable against the tree.

Amaras walked away; bow in hand, head up surveying the terrain before him. Long sable hair blew across his face; he lifted his hand to brush it away and passed from Haldir’s sight.

He turned his eyes to Phaila.

She walked along the riverbank pausing to gather deadwood. She lifted her eyes from r ser search for dry wood to look across the river, pausing to listen before walking on. With an armload of wood, she turned back to camp.

Kneeling at the chosen campsite, she dropped the wood and dusted her arms. A birdcall sounded swiveling her head to look back into the wood. She gave a slow smile and resumed the task of arranging the wood for their fire.

A slight movement in his right peripheral turned Haldir’s own head. Rúmil and Orophin crouched, watching as well. He motioned them to be still!

She rummaged through her bags, came up with a flint and iron, and after three strikes was rewarded with a good spark. She tended it, blowing gently, coaxing the smoldering kindling into flames. She sat back on her heels to watch the small flame catch become bolder, stronger, before putting the flint and iron away. She untied the bedrolls from their saddles and looking about, chose a spot that was on level ground facing the river. She quickly spread them out, then from a saddlebag pulled out a heavy wineskin, two cups and filled them. Sitting on the bed, she lifted a cup to her lips. She pulled her tunic over her head, and folded it. She re-tucked her shirt, and looked up at the darkening sky.

Haldir’s lips parted at the graceful curve of her neck, Pull yourself together!

Haldir indicated that Rúmil and Orophin were to follow and slid back into the depths of the wood. Considering the distance safe enough to speak, he stopped.

“Who are they?” Rúmil asked.
“Travelers stopping for the night,” Haldir answered softly.
“Do you want us to stay?”
“No,” he answered too quickly, abruptly, “There is only the pair. I will watch.”

Rúmil and Orophin blinked at the tone of his voice, but only nodded and left their brother.

Haldir made his way back to his vantage point and found Amaras in the shallows cleaning four quail in the cool water while Phaila was movingstanstand between him and the forest.

Naturally cautious and suspicious himself he respected their actions, but Gods, what did they think of the Galadhrim to be this wary? We are not murderers. He had an urge to call from the wood, but who could guess what their reaction would be with so much edge on them?

“What are you doing?” Amaras grabbed her above the knee, stopping her. “Stay behind me,” he growled.
“Then do not stand quickly should something happen. I would hao sio sink the arrow in you,” she growled back but obeyed.
“As would I,” he smiled rinsing a gutted and skinned bird in the water.

She un-notched the arrow and thumped him on the head. He ducked, laughed.

Haldir smiled. He would have liked to speak with them. Lórien, while beautiful, existed in a bubble of tranquility that wore one down, especially those who guarded the borders and watched as the world walked or rode by, yearning to play a part in the larger scheme. Here was one traveling on to Mordor, to join the Alliance of Elf and Man. How he had ached to go, but Lórien needed protection as well against the increasingly frequent incidents involving orc, goblin and half-orc. Not the same thing as Mordor, he smiled grimly. No. Not the same thing at all.

She stood poised again, the arrow notched and held in a firm hand, tilted slightly toward the ground as Amaras retreated from the Celebrant, backing from the water and not putting the arrow from the string until she had stepped both feet on the gravel of the bank.

“I think the sheriff is elsewhere,” she said narrowing her eyes, disappointed, “Surely someone would say, do something.”
“Or thinks we are not worth the effort, either way pleases me,” Amaras answered and snorted, “Sheriff.”

Spitting the four quail Amaras leaned them close to the flames and looked up at her. She was gazing at the water.
“Mi baj van? Wanting a bath?” He stood.
“Igen, very much,” she said wistfully.
“Hmm,” he smiled, thinking on the pleasure of a bath as well now that she had mentioned it. “After we eat we will bathe and then you can settle down to sleep.” He kissed her forehead and she handed him a cup of wine.

She knelt on their bed and dug in her saddlebags again, pulling out a quill and small clay jar of ink. She stretched out on her belly and opened her book. Finding the page where she had put the leaf, she laid it aside and dipping her quill in the ink began to write.

She paused, tugged the braid that fell over her shoulder, pursed her lips, staring ahead into nothing, thinking then inclined head over the page again.

Amaras slid the quiver over his head, lay down and looked at his elleth. Phaila returned his intent gaze. Amaras cupped his hand behind her head and pulled her down for a kiss.

Setting aside her book and quill, she propped her chin on his chest while he stroked her hair with both of his hands. Staring into her eyes he smiled gently.

They looked much in love. Haldir lifted his head, smiling as if at the antics of two rare creatures romping unawares. They wore rings. He deduced they were married. They seemed well suited to one another. He had loved, but not so deeply as this; he was content with his life as it was presently arranged. There was a maid and his thoughts drifted thinking on her…Her golden hair, and blue eyes…

She pushed herself upright and reached for her sword. Amaras held his hands up to steady her as she stood. She drew the sword rasping as it slid against the metal of its’ sheath.

“Come, I am feeling stiff from being in saddle so long,” she bounced the sword in her hand, flicked the blade in a figure eight pattern before her. Haldir could hear the hum as it cut the air, “and will give us something to do until the birds are done.”
“I know something more pleasurable that will ease your stiffness,” Amaras smiled wickedly up at her, folding his arms behind his head.
“Ah, yes, but perhaps we can postpone, say, for before we sleep?” she parlayed.
“Nem, no.”
“Amaras, I have a month before I cannot…” ose ose are your rules Morrigan , not mine,” he interrupted sharply, gazing up at her, the lusty aspect gone from his eyes. “Let me think in some measure I am doing a husband’s duty and trying to protect you, even if only from yourself.”
“You have done your duty, husband,” she put her left hand on her flat stomach. “Rest assured on that score.” Her words combined with her gesture undid his flare of frustrated temper.

Amaras sat up and bit his lower lip. Looking up at her he shook his head as he smiled tenderly, “Oh szeretett, it was not duty that put that babe in you.” He held his hand up to her. She was pulled gently down; he laid her sword aside, rolled over her to look down into her face.

Haldir stood thunderstruck. A Morrigan?! And pregnant. A Morrigan!!!! He looked harder, lips parted in amazement, drinking her in as her husband leaned over her on the blankets that made their bed. He could not be more shocked if a firedrake decided to land here and sip from the Celebrant. Who would marry a Morrigan?! He lowered his head and peered through the foliage, while he quickly sifted through what he knew of the Morrigan. Rumours, only rumours that were too many and too vague to credit.

They were suddenly not simply passers’ by, but an elleth of magic and her hervenn.

They murmured to each other softly, Amaras’ hand smoothing her brow when something he said caused them to knit. She held one of Amaras’ long, glossy braids in her fingers; she gave it a slight tug and slid her eyes to the fire. Amaras looked; one of the quail smoldered ominously. With a groan of despair, Amaras pushed himself upright, plucked the spit from the ground and waved the flaming bird in the air to extinguish the fire.
“Jól átusült hús, the way you like it.” He held the burned bird out toward her.
“It is beyond well done, my love,” she laughed at him taking the spit to better examine her husband’s cooking abilities. She shook her head sadly over the results.
“Before you say anything,” Amaras held his hand up to stop her forthcoming commentary, “I was distracted.”
“Férj, I have never criticised you,” she wagged the bird at him chiding.

Amaras blinked, “You are right. How did I come by you?”
“You breathed Amaras, you only breathed.”

They sat on r ber bed shoulder to shoulder to eat and drink their familiarity evident and enviable to Haldir.

After tossing the bones into the fire, they walked to the river and washed their hands. They had decided that they were not of interest, at least not of interest enough to hail as long as they stayed on their side of the river. Haldir could see that Amaras was tense, watchful, while Phaila was relaxed, safe under her husband’s guard.

The elven couple looked to one another and Phaila sat to remove her boots while Amaras turned back for their camp.

Amaras returned with a small leather bag and a blanket. He sat beside her and tugged off his boots, dipped a foot in the water.
“You are not going to like how cold this is,” he warned and began unbuttoning his shirt.
“I do not care. I just want to feel a little cleaner,” she answered and slowly began to unfasten her own garb.

She stood to remove her breeches. Amaras rose quickly and held the blanket up, shielding her from the wood and any watcher. Haldir had the impression that to lay eyes on this particular wife unclothed would be a matter for long knives

From the bank, and hidden by the blanket she slid into the water quickly and came up with a gasp.

Amaras lay the blanket within easy reach and worked to pull his braids loose.

“I cannot get this,” he said frustrated.
“Keblemre, I will do it for you,” she offered.

Amaras slipped into the water and wrapped her in his arms while Phaila worked patiently at the snarl he had made of his hair.
“This is quite a knot, kedevelt,” she murmured frowning, “I may need the knife.”
“It cannot be that…” Amaras answered looking at his braid in her fingers, noted the curve of her mouth, “Cut it off then.” He dared her.
She leaned toward the bank for the knife. Laughing Amaras pulled her into deeper waters.

Haldir turned away ashamed to have watched this long.

He had been gripped by their accents. They drew the eye naturally; each possessed an indefinable air. They detained the observer with their interaction with one another. Adoration lit their faces. The impending separation hung like a dagger over their heads as they moved to maintain a normalcy to spite it; made all that passed between them be it look, word or deed painfully poignant.

Haldir again slunk into the shadows; their mingled laughter trailed after him.

He returned an hour later.

They lay together, Amaras nearest the fire propped on his elbows looking over her, his golden back bare in the night air, the rich sable coloured hair sleek and damp lay over his shoulders. Haldir could see her profile as they spoke in the low, husky tones lover adopt. Amaras dipped his lips often to her mouth and rising up on his left arm, pulled her under him.

Haldir blinked and turned away aga His His erotic curiosity he had slaked when very young and mischievous. Had it not, it seemed to him to bend his eye on them would be sacrilegious. His afternoon and now his night had become emotionally complicated.

He shook himself for his sentimentality. Be the Marcher and forget this. He was to watch the border, see that none crossed; you are not a voyeur; yes, you are. He had violated this responsibility by allowing her to walk unchallenged across the Celebrant for a leaf of the Mellyrn that grew there. But how could he have stepped forward in the face of that swaying, predatory, single-minded walk toward that one leaf; determined to have it whatever the price? Her caution had not been based in fear, he understood now, but in avoidance of trouble. He shuddered to think what Amaras would have done if he had challenged the beloved wife, and expectant mother. His earlier musings had been fetal in development. What retribution would Amaras exact once his wife’s safety was secured? What of herself? What power would a Morrigan posses exactly? Could she have blasted him to the ground with a word or charmed him into stillness?

They had looked harmless enough. He smiled at the ignorance of that musing. Wolf cubs look like puppies but they are wolves and dangerous. How formidable Amaras must be to have secured such a wife as this, and he had thought him only impressive.

Guard it he was, though it was plain that they were mot interested in an invasion, merely desired a peaceful night beside the Celebrant, and the legendary Golden Wood. There was the collection of the leaf. She had crossed into Lothlorien unchallenged to collect a leaf. She was sentimental he guessed, and wanted a token of their night.

He waited long before sliding his eyes in their direction; they had been silent. The only sound the soft murmur of the river and the occasional pop of wood from the fire.

Amaras was cradling her under him in his arms; his dark hair a curtain that hid their faces, a sheen of sweat on what golden skin was exposed, his shoulders and entire back to the hips, her left arm, a glimpse of her side. Amaras pulled the blanket up against the chill, but lay long over her. Haldir lowered his eyes; watching from his periphery, glancing only when he finally moved to stretch out under the blanket beside her.

Phaila slept, and Amaras careful not to wake her rose from their bed naked, put more wood on the fire. He dressed quietly, sat on the blankets and stared down into her face.

Haldir was buffeted by the palpable despair as grief came over Amaras. artiarting was at its’ cusp and Amaras was taking his last long looks at his wife.

Phaila’s hand fluttered where he had lain and found the blanket beside her cold; empty she made a soft noise.

“Drágán? Mi vaj?” She rolled from her side to blink sleepily against the firelight.
“Nulla, I am only watching.” He ran his hand over her forehead back into her hair. “Elalszik, Anya.” He beamed.
“Igen, Atya.” Her reply deepened his joyful countenance. He leaned over her; kissed her and pulled the blanket up over her shoulder.

Before the sun rose, Amaras made tea and crouched beside the fire waited for her to waken and soon she did.

Phaila rolled onto her back, arched under the blanket. Amaras crawled across the grass and nuzzled her; her laugh was muffled in his hair as it covered her face. She sat up and he covered her with her shirt. Haldir slid his eyes away again but not before he saw the smooth golden skin of her back, and the ragged scar that ran from ribs to shoulder blade. What struggle preceded that wound?

She pushed the blanket away, and without rising, slid her leggings on. She pulled on her boots. Amaras pushed her down into the bed, her legs coming up around his waist, he growled lustfully and Haldir turned away again with a smile and rolled of his eyes.

He heard laughter, looked to find Amaras rising to his feet and standing over her. She wrapped her lean arms around her knees and looked up at him. Amaras bent to catch her face in his hands and kissed her forehead.

How sweet they were in their morning rituals, waking, dressing; fingers combed through hair and began to braid it back. Amaras turned to pour the tea while she rose. She swayed slightly, leaned forward, put her hands on her knees, took deep breaths and then slowly straightened under Amaras’ watchful eye. She was pale, but smiled.

Amaras frowned. Haldir felt his concern over this weakness she was experiencing. He wrapped his arm around her, pressed his lips to her forehead, handed her a cup of hot tea.

A birdcall sounded.

“You should change that call, you fool no one here!” Phaila called haughtily across the river. Haldir flattened himself against the tree.
Amaras barked a laugh, “Phaila!” He reprimanded.

She was right. Mortals could not detect the nuance of a perfectly mimicked bird song, but an elf could. Haldir fought the urge to laugh, cursing under his breath. The ‘arrangement’ had been each side pretending ignorance of the others presence.

Carefully Haldir moved from the tree, crept back deeper into the forest. At least, it was not Rúmil and Orophin but two others from the patrol who were craning their necks.

“I have this in hand,” he hissed, protective over the pair. “Go.” He ordered sternly.

When he returned he found she had rolled up the beds, and was tying them to the saddles. Amaras was kicking dirt on the fire, and poured the remainder of the tea over the embers.

Amaras whistled and the two dark gray horses cantered up from their night of grazing.

Phaila hefted the saddle with bedroll and kit tied to it. She raised it to put it on the back of her horse, which moved slightly away. She lowered the saddle to chest level, stepped to the horse again, and took a deep breath.

Amaras, who stood watching her, was torn between helping her and letting her saddle her own horse, succumbed to his first impulse, and striding forward took the saddle from her.

“I will do it,” he said shortly and she stepped back. “You must admit to it, kedvelt, there are going to be things you cannot do for a while, not unless you want to lose our babe.”

Haldir hissed thinking Amaras that is harshly done. He had her full attention now.

Phaila’s face reflected shock at his words.

“Do not look at me that way; you have only gotten over being sick,” he stood one hand on the horse’s back, and one fist on his hip.
“It was nothing Amaras, a passing dizziness,” she said finally her voice soft.

Amaras tightened the girth exasperated.

“And when you are out to here?” he held his hand away from his own belly. “What will that be?”
“Cause for suicide?” she asked angrily, and both he and Haldir laughed. Haldir pressing fisted hand to his mouth against the snort of surprised laughter that burst from him. Amaras roared and took her slender shoulder in his hands and leaned laughing between them.

“Valar, Phaila!” He wiped his eyes and kissed her; burst into a new paroxysm of laughter. She stood shaking her head slightly, looking away and trying not to smile or laugh, but failed as he buckled again.
“Stop laughing,” she said trying to pull her face straight, gather her anger back, “I am only pregnant.”
Amaras straightened, still smiling broadly; took a breath and then sobered, “Yes, you are pregnant and I want you to stay that way.” He leveled his eyes to hers. “So, you will be careful, and more careful again, because when I see you next I want to find you at the suicidal stage and needing me,” he caught her chin in his hand, “yes, needing me to help you.”

She dipped her head both a proud and shy allusion; he kissed the crown. “I know you hate that. Now, hand me the bridle while you can still bend,” he pointed to the ground where the bridle lay.
.
She bent gracefully, swiping up the bridle and thumped it into his broad chest, knocking the wind from him.

“I have always needed you,” she walked away, “You idiot,” she shot over her shoulder and called the second horse to her, leaving Amaras lips parted in surprise.

“Well, that is the first I have heard it!” He called after her with mock anger, smiled.

She faced him, cocked her head to the left, “I think you want a fight, férj.”

He tossed the bridle and charged her.

She sidestepped, turned, face contorted with expectation. He caught her in his arms, her back against his chest.

“Is that what you think? You think I want to fight with you?” He tickled her. “Give me a good struggle. You know the pleasure I take in that.” He teased leaning his head over her shoulder, tickled her ribs making her wriggle in his arms, laughing arching into him.

She laughed with abandon, begged for mercy that was not forthcoming, whipped back and forth against him until he stopped, and he held her on her feet. She stood panting, out of breath from her struggle and laughter. Amaras buried his face in the side of her neck, caught her chin in his hand and turned her head. He lowered his mouth to hers, his left arm wrapped around her waist, held her tightly against him; making her turn her shoulders, and crane her long neck to receive his kiss. He lifted his face from hers and moaned, then laughed deeply. He swooped her into his arms and carried her to the patiently waiting horses.

Haldir exhaled. If he dies, I am watching ghosts.

Dressed properly and heavily armed, Phaila climbed her horse, gathered the reins.

Haldir could see Amaras did not want her riding, loaded down with her own weapons, the fears of a husband fatally in love with his wife, and a new father worried over a state he did not understand, read easily on his face.

He turned to his own horse.

“Amaras,” she said. Her voice so forlorn and far away that a lump rose in Haldir’s throat and his eyes stung. She was saying good-bye here in this peaceful place, away from an audience.

Amaras let go of his horse and came to her. He put his left hand on the pommel of her saddle and took her booted calf in his right.

He kissed the gloved hand that came down to caress his cheek, “Eru I swear, I love you so,” he whispered fiercely.

Phaila turned bright pink in the cheeks, her nose reddened and the first tear rolled down her cheek.

“Oh, easy,” Amaras said softly and put his hand on the small of her back. “We have done this before.”
“Not this,” she said her voice thick.

Amaras lay his hand on her belly where his child lay, completely beguiled by the idea of it.

“No, not this.” He said eyes glittering, and cleared his throat. “Give me a smile my love; smiles for the victors. This will end soon, and I will come for you, take you home.”

Amaras stood with soft eyes into her down turned face; the look pleading.

She lifted her right hand and briskly brushed at the tear, nodding before looking away. Amaras waited until she squared her shoulders. He kissed her knee; rubbed her back before turning to his horse.

Haldir leaning against the tree watched them ride away, heart in throat.

He crossed the river, their bed was plain in the pressed down grass. Haldir laid his hand on the cool green. They left behind them a wake of emptiness that thrummed like the string of a harp moving toward catastrophe .