The Phoenix's Griffin

In the Great Hall Valandil had called his captains, the Morrigan to brief.

Haldir stood beside Phaila who leaned on the cold wall behind the King.

“If the men make it to the turn of the river, what sign should they send?” a captain asked. And Valandil turned to Phaila.

“The signal is fixed already as is who will be receiving it,” she had already told Haldir to bind his arrow with a white cloth, and where to aim, to prevent treachery. He had stared at her, “it is everywhere my heart, make no mistake” she had answered his look. He wondered at her cynicism; in Lothlórien he trusted the elf beside him.

“Everyone who needs to know, knows,” Valandil said firmly looking back on the inquiring faces.

“Let us hope for the men of Bree, dismissed.” Valandil looked to Phaila who looked back hopefully.

At dusk the assault began again. Two hours into the fray something caught Linwë’s attention. A flash of light in the hills to the south. She turned to the upper wall.

It began to rain again. Haldir nodded with irony; but of course it would.

Phaila was called from the wall, Linwë taking it in her stead. Haldir’s eyes followed her.

Phaila reached Helywanwën and they spoke briefly, and looked to Valandil who listened intently, clapped Helywanwën on the shoulder and laughed. Phaila grabbed two men and motioned for them to follow her and gathered more as she made her way to the stairs that led to the gate. Oh. She was going to take the vanguard out. Why couldn’t she leave it for another to do? Would he? She had not said that this was what she was going to do if the plan hatched at night. Of course she had not. She would not consult him over such matters where she knew best, chiefly because she anticipated his reaction accurately. She turned to Haldir and motioned for him.

“Take off the bow strings,” she said stopping in the stair well, and shook her head angrily, “I don’t know why I did not think this earlier, but you must seal them in wax, it will keep them from getting wet. You can break the wax when you get to land and the string will be fine,”
She handed him a stack of bowls and beeswax candles, “You can do it quickly before you go.”

He nodded it was sound. Moreover, he had not thought it himself. Gods, had she gone over this while dodging arrows?

“You can swim?” she smiled and he smiled back, “A little.”
She kissed him softly, “I will be waiting for you on the field,” she started away, stopped and turned to find him looking at her, “And don’t drown, that would be most embarrassing,” she turned smiling and walked away, Haldir watching her disappear into the crowds. Smiles for the victors.

Haldir walked to join the others who were to accompany him for the swim down the river.

“Give over your bowstrings!” he shouted over the voices and everyone turned to look at him, “we must seal them in wax…” Surprised faces turned to him, they had not considered it either and they smiled at the ingenuity of elves.

Haldir began making wax and string biscuits, making sure they tucked them safely in their tunics. Others joined him, pulling candles from their holders, using the insides of their shields.

Hurriedly they met at the King’s dock and in the rain were given a plank of wood made from doors pulled from their hinges and large enough to hold sword, shield, quiver and bow, to swim from the lakes’ sluice that fed the river .

Helywanwën gave the signal to Phaila afoot and Linwë mounted waiting at the gate with a four hundred men; half on foot, half on horse. Helywanwën nodded, and the gate swung open and the riders from Bree began their journey through hell, setting in motion a plan unbeknownst to them.

The drums of Annúminas began again. Their concussion so great it rattled the bones. The hair on the back of her neck stood. It was exciting beyond calculation as she stepped on the field.

Haldir was the first into the cold water that took his breath away, he grasped the boards that held his sword, bow and quiver, swam slowly back to find the current that would move them down stream; watching at the other men quickly followed. They were disciplined and did not make more sound than a gasp when they entered the water.

It was a dreadful journey, caught helpless in the grasp of the water, and the minutes dragged on as they drifted down the river. Chin in the water, he peered over the wood and the bank of the river. The fires beyond the trees threw shadows onto the water. Vulnerable he swam with the current, looking to the men; they were managing; tho they looked scared to be at the mercy of the element that was to be their salvation. Oh Phaila, have you done this? To conceive such a plan, the turn of her mind was beyond him. He had looked at the river and seen a natural defense; she had looked at it and seen a course of attack.

He had seen her standing in a shawl of arrows, smiling at their deliverers ineptness, he had seen her lying drenched with her sweat, drenched with his, he had seen her cutting vegetables, brewing tea, pouring him wine. Thinking what more can you see? This. A deliverer of death and he was her message. He and four hundred more in black, cold and swift running water, to crawl on their bellies from it, bend their bows with wax covered strings all a product of her imagination. It was exquisite. It was horrific.

Phaila’s sword flashed in the lightening as she swung up and down, blood filling the air, instead of rain that loomed. She kept them at an even pace, two layers of men moving deliberately toward the riders who had to fight their way to her and the men. Another one of those creatures, thank the Valar the army wasn’t made of them entirely, loomed before her, he swung at her head with that evil looking weapon and she caught the blade in her mithril palmed gloved hand, moved with it’s right sweep. wit with one stroke she took his hand off, and then gutted him.

Linwë and her riders rode between the two lines past them and began their own riding assault, looping to the left behind tnemynemy, cutting into them from behind, widening the swath, they must do this for a while. Linwë turned to the right, leading the horsemen who followed her, and cutting off more of the half-orc, Southerlings and Uruk, as Phaila led the men forward in a wide back and forth snaking pattern. Arrows flew from the walls a mantle covering them, cutting down the ones fur awa away, and giving them some room to move. Phaila grabbed a Bree man by the leg as he rode by, he turned the horse and leaned down, Phaila cupped his head, shouting in his ear instructions. He smiled, nodded and chucked her under the chin before shouting to his men what she had shouted to him.

Phaila turned looking back, it had been an eternity since they had stepped on to the field, and surely the men were on their way. More time, they needed more time thers nos no signal. She moved forward, they followed her. She rushed forward to help a young man between two goblins. She stood shoulder to shoulder with him, helped him in taking them down, grimly grinning and pulling him back to the protection of the group. The Morrigan magic had indeed enveloped him as was evident in his bright clear eyes.
“Well done!” she grasped the back of his tender neck in her hand.

Several Uruk charged them, and Phaila stepped back to size them up.

Four tall men followed her as she went to meet them. Thunder competed with the drums for dominance. She looked hard at the Uruk. Gods! They were huge, powerfully built, and the armor, striking it jarred her to the shoulder, she went for the leg, flicking her wrist down, catching him behind the knee and he collapsed. A goblin stretched out a long arm and grabbed her by the back of her pauldron, jerking her off her feet.

Death is on the ground.

He was too close for the d, ad, and amazingly he had no weapon…he straddled her, grabbed her by the throat and she thrashed under him in the mud and blood, reached for one of the long daggers strapped to her back, her fingers were numb with cold, slipped on the hilt. He leaned into her face babbling and laughing and she punched him in his temple stunning him. She grabbed the chinstrap of his helm and jerked him to the left as he began to come back to himself, and finally grasping the hilt of that elusive dagger she pulled it free and drove it into his throat. She was rewarded with a great gush of hot blood that splattered her chin. He grabbed for the dagger, scratching her as she pulled it free and rolled away and up on to her feet, he half rose and she kicked him in the chest, stomping him into the ground. She looked up, sidestepped an arrow and slid the dagger back into place. They were too spread out, and heavily engaged, Linwë and the Bree horsemen were circling back to aid them, but behind them, like a comets’ tail followed the half-orc and men and Uruk. She swd fod for her sword ran to join the lines.

Haldir soaked and shivering moved silently and unseen along the trees that had helped shield them. The river had indeed been swift and the men were frightened caught between the devil and the deep blue sea as it were, but they had arrived safely, each helping the other out of the black water. The string sealed in wax proved true as he strung his bow. Dripping and cold they lay well back in the woods, stringing their own bows waiting for Haldir to send the message – we wait.

Edging as close as he could to the plain and the fortress he notched the cloth bound arrow and aimed for inside the first wall and sent it on its way. He melted back into the trees.

Phaila looked toward the walls. Where was the call? They must be safely down on drier ground by now; the river was fast….and there it was the call from the tower, a single note from the horn, clear and drawn out. Retreat.

Now they began their recoil, Phaila and Linwë bringing them toward the gates slowly, saving their strength, for once they were within bowshot of the walls, they would need to run. And run they did, Linwë, and Phaila the last to pass through the gate.

Haldir had watched and listened. The horn had sounded retreat, moving orderly to within bowshot, and here they had turned and ran – those that could. He could not see her the field was so full of movement. Do not. He slowly crept back to the men who lay waiting, leaned against a tree and turned the ring on his finger round and round.

Safely inside, they staggered into the hall.

Linwë gasped when she saw Phaila in the torch light “It’s not my blood!” she shouted above the noise and they embraced.

“Water!” Phaila called out, her throat hurt, he had almost crushed her windpipe. The men crowded into the great hall where the injured were tended and the unhurt drank water, gasping.

Valandil stepped onto a long table against one wall and called for quiet.

“Welcome men of Bree!” he began and they were roundly cheered, “Your help is most welcome and we will forever be grateful. But the war is not yet won. We have put into action a plan. Four hundred men have gone down the river and are waiting our signal. What we plan is to crush the enemy between us, now we must get men into the Hills of Evendim, hold the high ground, we cannot afford for them to get a toe hold there.”

“Who will take the hills?” Valandil cried.
The horseman Phaila had grabbed on the field spoke out, “My men and I will hold the hills.”
“Tell me your name sir,” Valandil called smiling.
“I am Caderyn,” he bowed to the King and turned his smile to Phaila who smiled back

She slipped from the room and dug her bag from a storeroom were she and Haldir had stashed them upon their arrival. He had made it down the river, as if there were doubts….the diversion had worked like a charm, tho the price had been high, well, truly it could’ve been higher and not worked. The smell of blood on her was nauseating and she searched for a quieter place to wash. Finding a bucket unattended, she took it and found a rain barrel to fill the bucket and carried it to a tabletop. She pulled off her gloves, unbuckled her pauldron , and removed the daggers, the quiver and the bow, piling them on the table. She pulled the blood soaked tunic off and then the shirt. She wiped her face with the shirt, it was bloody but not as bad as the tunic…which had come away slimy. She tossed the clothing aside; standing bare from the waist up save for the cloth of linen she bound her breasts with and she shivered in the cold air. It to was stained, but she had no more linen, good enough. Bending over the bucket she plunged her face into the water, scrubbing it with her hands then straightened. She sloshed water on her neck and chest, leaning forward slightly not to get her leggings soaked, ha! She unbraided her hair, it too had blood in it. Getting out her bag of soaps, she took up the clay jar and unstopped it, set it down and plunged her head in the water, running her fingers through the knots.

Caderyn stood watching. He had looked for her when King Valandil had come down from the table. This was the Morrigan who had stopped him on the field. And half naked too. She lifted her head from the water and poured soap into her hand and began to scrub her hair, bent over the bucket. He had always admired the beauty of elves, but they seemed bloodless in their serenitot tot this one tho. No languid movements, she was brisk and to the point. He had seen her on the field swinging her sword, the battle light in her eyes, her face set with determination and concentration.

He admired the muscles moving in her back, looked at the nasty bruise on her left shoulder, the faint scar on her right side, the flex of her arms, and the curve of firm hip to lean, long legs encased in boots to the knee. She doused her head again in the water and the straightened suddenly, snapping back her head, the wet hair flying back away from her face to lie between her shoulder blades.

She reached back and wrung it the muscles flexing in her arms and shoulders, combed it with long nailed fingers and watched as she deftly re-braided the wet hair, stoppered her soap, put it back in the worn leather bag, which she stuffed into the larger kit and then pulled out a fresh shirt and tunic. Gray and black, the colour of night. Turning she looked at him, her eyes questioning.

“Pardon,” Caderyn laid his hand on his chest, and burst into laughter at having been caught. She had outfoxed him pretending to be oblivious to him but knowing he was there all the while. “I’m sorry,” he snorted again, deeply embarrassed and he turned laughing and walked away.

Arrows, bows, swords, daggers and shields had been pulled up from the armory and those without or low armed replenished. Phaila filled her quiver, and turning away looked up into the eyes of Caderyn. He smiled sheepishly and stepped aside in the crush to let her pass.

Women were gathered on the walls, with some mildly wounded men, old men and teenaged boys and girls, piles of stones at their feet, a few held bows, others spears and axes. Phaila looked on and hoped that they wouldn’t inadvertently shoot the wrong people. She slung the quiver across her chest, adjusted her left pauldron, and pulled her gloves on.

The Morrigan stood apart from one another. This was the push, a risky and soon acted upon push, but all of the elements had come into play. When opportunity arises….this would either work, or fail spectacularly.

Phaila took a deep breath. Helywanwën would be orchestrating at the fortress. Valandil would be riding out. Boats had been moored on the King’s wharf, ready for those in the fortress to take out should they need to evacuate. Phaila tapped her hand against the side of her leg. With elves so close…she shook her head. It was a free for all, few would come to the aid of others, short sighted and hanging onto self-preservation and denial so deep she couldn’t fathom. This is why the Morrigan had formed in the first place. Still, one would think, and the alliance for Mordor…bah, she shook her head. They will never learn; hang together or hang together.

Ah, well. Time to think on this later. Haldir, my heart, how do you fare hiding in the woods? It’s a cold wait, and long.

Lessien came to Phaila and together they looked over the wall.

“It didn’t look too obvious did it?” Phaila asked.
“No, Linwë swept far enough out and engaged them long before falling back, it looked like a rescue, it was convincing,” Lessien reassured her, “It was brilliant Phaila.”
She frowned.
“This is how it is thrown sometimes Phaila you know that,” Lessien drew up, “you are worried about Haldir.”

Phaila didn’t answer immediately, but stood drumming her gloved fingers against her leg in thought, “he should not be here,” she said softly.
“No, he should not, but here he is and you must keep you head in the matter at hand.”
Phaila raised her head quickly.
Lessien raised her hands in supplication.
“You realise that Haldir is going to have a reaction when he sees those bruises,” she pointed to Phaila’s throat.
Phaila smiled “Yes, I may get an ear full, but it will be worth it for the making amends later.”
“Let us go,” Phaila walked past her.

Lessien and Linwë were mounted and would ride out with the King and one hundred and seventy-seven men, Phaila and Merenwën were taking out one hundred and eight-two, Caderyn had three hundred and forty-three to take into the hills, and Haldir in the waist of the wooded pass with four hundred, they had a total of eleven hundred and two in the field against an army of probably the same number. Only surprise would ensure success, surprise and tactics, cut them off from the hills, push them into the river.

The horn sounded, clear in the cold night and the drums began again. And the gates swung open.

Haldir straightened, and whistling softly got the men on their feet. They could hear the drums, hear the roar as the two armies screamed at one another.

Phaila and Merenwën walked out behind the cavalry, and spread there men in four lines, using their arrows to thin out the advance while the riders wrecked havoc in the opposing lines.

“Hold steady!” Phaila and Merenwën screamed in the din, voices overlapping, “Hold!” they screamed like eagles down the lines, then “Release!” the eagle’s cry again and directed a barrage into the advance, “Release!” they pierced the night for the second volley. Holding the men with still and calm, blocking fear from their hearts and filling them with a rising need for controlled and precisely directed rage.

Caderyn and his men pelted for the hills.

And then there was a rising sound from behind the assaulters, it was Haldir leading a shattering charge. Lessien rode for them, moving them, laughing with delight it was working, it had worked….gods, Phaila look at him come!

Phaila lifted her head. She could hear his voice above the others, deep and resonant. She took a deep breath, and briefly closer eer eyes going back, back to another voice rising above the sounds of battle.

The half-orc, men and Uruk found themselves in a deadly triple cross fire. They turned for the river. Phaila, Merenwën, Valandil, Lessien and Haldir merged, and convexed their men and swept the army toward the river. It was unbelievable! It fell so easily into their laps and had worked so well! Caderyn and the men from Bree held the hills, picking otragtragglers who happened their way, and watched the sweep of the plain.

Phaila ran lightly stopping to loose an arrow. Haldir found her, watched her. Her eyes narrowed over the point of her arrow, the fingers flicking open, and the curving smile of a target well hit. And on she ran. The survivors turned in the wood, loosed their arrows, their numbers much thinner now. Phaila slid, threw herself backward to avoid an arrow, her eyes wide in surprise and hit the ground with an audible offff! Haldir ran to her as she raised to one knee, smiling she looked at him.

“Oh, my heart!” and she threw herself into his arms, grateful for everything under the stars at that moment, laughing and kissing his cheeks, mouth, nose, and drew back to look at him blood and mud splattered, wet tendrils of hair plastered to his cheeks. He ran his hands over her face, look at her eyes! He held her tightly, their objective won, the victory moments away and complete and ached for the bed; life as proof against death forever and ever.

She kissed him drew back and motioned and together they ran toward the trees.

Haldir’s heart had raced with excitement, and now it raced with a different excitement. He ran alongside his love and watched her with a lovers eyes; perfect and beautiful amid the destruction she meted out. They ran along the river, picking off those who hadn’t drowned and letting the river take what was left they turned away and walked back toward the fortress. Phaila wrapped her arms around his waist, laying her head between his shoulder and neck, his arms wrapped around her shoulders, he pressed his lips to her sweaty, muddied and bloodied forehead, closed his eyes and thanked the Valar.

They quit the forest and entered the bonfire field as a great cheer rose from the hills and the fortress. Already they were dispatching the wounded half-orc, wounded men and Uruk, throwing their bodies into the fires. And she looked with war lit eyes. “No prisoners,” Helywanwën had said to the King.

Phaila raised her hand to Helywanwën who stood on the lowest wall among the cheering populace. Warriors turned to one another, embracing, laughing, and smiling. Friends hailed friends and clinched amid the carnage. The horn of Annúminas sounded in triumph, the drums rippled the air.

Phaila unbraided her hair, tossed her head, free of constraint. She turned away from Haldir smiling, triumphant and he was so proud. Years of experience had honed her to find the opportunity. She was a true predator, seeking out the weaknesses of others. What weakness did she exploit in him? His love?

She turned her face to the sky, looking for the approval of the impassive stars that peeked from clouds.

“Stop,” he commanded and she froze obediently much to his surprise. She rolled her eyes, pale in the fire light to him as he approached and she held the pose, rolling her eyes like a wary animal and looked at him. He took that small chin in his hand and tipped her head up higher, looked at her neck.

Lessien had been right.

Gently he touched the bruises. “What is this?” he whispered, he was unmarked and shamed.
“Goblin?” she answered cautiously, her eyes wide, voice hoarse.
Haldir arched an eyebrow at her, “Funny story?” he asked sarcastically.
“No, actually,” she answered slowly, “I thought of you, how angry you would be.”

Lessian was wrong.

He let go of her chin, how could he reprimand her? She was a Morrigan, she was a warrior, and he had taken her for this, would he submit to shouting, to pleas, to tears? He had been warned. Tho it was another thing to see the proof of it.
“Does it hurt much?” he asked his hand still on her throat, his thumb stroked the hollow of her cheek beneath the highly placed bone.
“Yes,” she smiled and he pressed his forehead against hers, smiling with her.

Caderyn and his men, longhaired, clean shaven men all came slowly from the hills. He saw the three Morrigan walking among the men, and he was happy to see that they had survived. Gods but they were something to see! Was it the magic they possessed that made them such wonderful creatures to behold? Was it the elf immortality that freed them from fear of death and made them so brave and audacious? His eyes searched….ah, there was the Morrigan Phaila standing with a tall, golden haired elf. She smiled at the elf and he smiled back laughing at something said. Even filthy from the battle field they, she, was beautiful.

He approached her smiling, the tall gold elf growing still in his company. Put his hand on Phaila possessively, stepped between them as she lowered her head as he stepped forward, chin tucked, pale eyes blazing and Caderyn walked on inclining his head as he passed them by…ah, she was spoken for.

So, this was part of the covenant as well, Haldir thought, the men who would approach her. Well, he had made it plain enough…this Morrigan was his. He took her more firmly in his grasp and led her to the gates, and she prudently yielded. Death and seduction…gods. His happiness replaced with something darker.

Valandil stood before the gates, saluting Phaila and Haldir as they walked in from the field, “Well done, Morrigan, well done indeed!”
“Thank you, your highness,” Phaila smiled back.
“And you Haldir, I do not believe I have ever seen an arrow sail so far and land so true! How did you find the river?” Valandil smiled, and was met with laughter.
“Your river is very wet, highness!” Haldir called back.
“Brave souls! Take your ease tonight! My chamberlain will see to your every want and need!”

Valandil’s chamberlain met them at the gate, bowing before them (her), “My lord has instructed me to show you to your rooms.”

Phaila and Haldir looked to one another, she waited, leaving it a matter for him to speak on. She had the whip hand these past days, time to let him have his turn. “We will need our things,” Haldir said.
“We’ve already collected them,” he scraped, “Please follow me,” and they followed him up the stairs.

They had been allotted rooms in the back, northeastern turret, with a view of the black lake; it was three rooms, a great r bed bedroom and bath. Hot water was in the tub, and wine, bread, honey on the table beside the bed, the bees wax candles burned sweetly in their holders, a fire banked in the fireplace. Against the nightmare of death, destruction and filth of the field it was jarringly pristine.

The chamberlain said solemnly, “if there is anything you desire,”
Haldir’s eyes flicked to Phaila.
“We will need more hot water,” She indicated her state.
“Very good,” the chamberlain bowed and left, closing the door behind him.

Haldir took in the richly appointed rooms, but Phaila accustomed to such environments went about the business of cleaning up, while he stood looking around at the heavy furniture, the beautifully woven rugs on the floors, as good as what she contained in her home in Lindon.

“What is it? Does it not suit?” She pulled the quiver, empty from her shoulder, worked the braces for her daggers and sword and then turned to the buckles of her pauldrons but her shoulder ached so badly.

“No, it suits fine, come here,” Haldir said worked the buckles of the pauldrons for her. Pulling off her tunic, she stood in her dirty shirt and turned to help him.

“Ah a hot bath, my love,” she whispered, her voice raspy from the struggle with the goblin and shouting across the field, she nuzzled him under the chin, tipping his head back and making him smile, “we will make the water very dirty I’m afraid,” she unfastened his braces. She looked at the rent in his upper sleeve, there was blood on the fabric. She spread it open with her fingers. He’d been nicked and not felt it, Morrigan magic as well? Bent her head and kissed the long cut. He quivered.

They lay in the deep tub, holding their fine goblets of wine, ing ing against the edge, stretched out they faced each other. The water steamed, was murky, but ah, who cares? It was hot and lent a veneer to cleanliness. They looked at one another, hair plastered on heads, tendrils floating in the water. Phaila’s foot drifted up his leg, her eyes looking at him innocently, Haldir reared out of the water and she gave a delighted squeak, and banged her head in the same spot she had hit when she’d been smashed against the low wall clinging to the Uruk’s weapon.

She laughed then moaned and she reached up to cup her head.
“Oooo,” Haldir kissed her forehead, “let me see,” there was blood on the white of the tub, the cut open again and there was a large lump. “I suppose this will have changed your mood.”
“Suppose nothing,” she wrapped her arm around his neck and drew him down to her.

“Phaila, do that thing you did that night…” he whispered to her in the dark as they kissed and caressed each other, hands and mouths exploring.
“What thing, Haldir?”
“You know…when you…”
“No, when I what?” she trailed kisses over his ribs, and he could feel her smile; he groaned at her playfulness at such a time. She raked her teeth over his hipbone driving a different groan from him, and he grabbed her head, twisting away from the teeth, who knew that felt so unbearably good? He had not until she had done this to him. And lower she went, settling between his thighs he stroked her damp hair and settled back into his pillow.
“This?” she asked and slowly drew her tongue over the length of him, “Is this what you meant?” And her mouth engulfed him.
“Oh gods, yesssss, that is it exactly.”

He writhed under her concentration; loud moans were wrought from him, his knees bending, feet flat on the bed to give him leverage as he lifted his hips to move between her lips.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he panted, “not like this, not like this,” and she lifted her head, and he pulled her up, rolled onto her and slid between her thighs.

The next dawn they woke. Phaila started to sit up and moaned with aches and lay back down, Haldir laughed, put his arm round her waist.
“I think you broke me,” she lay on her back and stared at the vaulted ceiling, traced the scabbed cut on his arm.
“I’ll be gentler,” he looked at her profile.
“Oh, do not do that,” she laughed at the ceiling.

Out in the cemetery the dead were being buried, dirges were being sung as they were entombed, and Phaila watched from the window. She held a look on her face that he could not fathom and he wondered, can one become immune to grief? No pities showed in her face, only understanding and cool dismissal. While tears dampened his lashes at what was lost these days, fathers, brothers, and sons. Phaila looked on thinking her own thoughts, seeing her own loves laid in cold tombs.

Haldir wrapped his arm around her, lay his left hand over her womb; here is where it all began. She stiffened slightly, coming back to herself while watching the mourners among the graves. Relaxing she turned her head to the left and gave him a slight smile that did not reach her eyes.

The banquet began at dusk.

Haldir was greatly affronted by this, it was unseemly and Phaila lay a hand on his shoulder, “I know, it seems indecent, but it makes them feel better.”

Tonight she wove the love knot in her braid, the back she wore loose down her shoulders. She had pulled from her kit finer clothes, not explaining; it was necessary, and then pulled out his clothing, she had packed them for him in her bags. Blue, royal blue, and he stared at her; this too was necessary. She sat him on the bed and braided his hair for him, weaving in the knot, humming some tune he had never heard before.

Haldir led her into the hall, and here she had bowed her head at the door, took his arm. The chamberlain hurried to meet them and escorted them to their seats at a long table with the house barons of Annúminas and the captain of Bree, Caderyn. Haldir had drawn up slightly at the sight of him, and the rest rose to their feet at their approach. Haldir pulled her chair out. Helywanwën seated at the Kings table, Lessian, Linwë and Merenwën were eseatseated at tables among the men.

Phaila did not introduce Haldir to Caderyn, nor anyone else at the table. Caderyn was grateful, she had said nothing of him watching her bathe, no need for more blood in the great hall tonight. Catching her eye he nodded grateful.

Phaila turned and looked to Haldir. And he smiled at her, reaching up a hand and touching the braid that fell behind her ear. She wore topaz tonight, gold on gold. Eyes blazing in the candle, and torch light.

“You should always wear this colour,” he whispered, his lip close to that ear, his hand tracing down her back.

Valandil began to speak but Haldir and Phaila had no ears for Kings tonight. She sat holding Haldir’s hand in her lap and tried to pay attention. Her mind kept turning back to something, Haldir dipped his head beside hers, and he kissed her temple. They were drawn to one another tonight among this company, thinking of the bed again and paid little attention to the buzz of conversation that filled the hall to the rafters.

Valandil thanked his brave soldiers, and courageous captains, the men of Bree for coming and the Morrigan and then Phaila singularly for her plan. He requested her to stand, and then called for Haldir who stood beside her, inclining his head to the cheers, heads bent together, stories of the swim down the river exchanged quickly; they resumed their seats, pink from the particular attention; then thankfully Valandil bade them to eat and took his chair

As the wine flowed the stories began, funny stories amid the horror there was a great deal of comedy, stories of bravado, the stories of the dead and fallen had been played out in the dirge earlier, for this was a feast for the living. Haldir and Phaila listened and laughed with each telling of a man’s story. Funny things did happen on the battlefield. Reaching for a weapon that was not there to scramble and overcome despite its’ loss, the trips, the mis-shots…

And the music began high in the mistrals gallery; the benches and tables were picked up amid much laughter and moved against the walls. Phaila’s eyes were bright, and tho he longed to take her to their rooms, he did not try to remove her as she stood watching. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressed her face against the side of his neck and swayed slightly against him in measure with the music.

Helywanwën motioned for a footman whispered in his ear, then catching the eye of each of the Morrigan beckoned them to the table.

“Excuse me” Phaila kissed Haldir’s smooth cheek and slipped from his arms, and walked quickly to the King’s table where she leaned over the linen, listening to Helywanwën, the King Valandil smiling, he stood and reached across the table, grasping her behind the neck and kissed her forehead. He drew a ring from his finger and pressed it into her hand, Phaila looked at the ring, held it and offered it back, but Valandil covered it with is own, closed her fist over it and kissed her again. So, it seemed the wealth of the Morrigan flowed from the grateful, and was Kingly given.