The Phoenix's Griffin

Haldir bound from the bed, glad to be leaving and going home. These stone walls and smell of death oppressed him. He longed for the gold and green of Lórien .

Smiling he knelt over Phaila burying his face against the back of her neck, nibbling, making her laugh and wriggle; it a prime ticklish spot and something else that brought gooseflesh and moans.
She batted at him, “Away fiend!” her voice muffled in the pillow.
“Up!” he swatted her behind.
“Gods, Haldir who knew you were so cruel?” she turned on her side and looked at him from the tumble of her hair.
“More cruel than you can imagine if you do not rouse yourself,” he yanked the blankets back baring her lean and golden frame to the cold air.
“Dear gods why did you saddle (sadull) me with such unkindness personified so fair!” she hugged the pillow in supplication, “Merciful Valor, I beg you to free me from this coil!”
“Up my heart of hearts!” he commanded again laughing.
“Yes, yes,” she sat up with resignation, brushing the hair from her face, took a deep breath and then lay back down with a moan.

“What is it, Phaila?” he asked sitting on the bed, she usually got up so easily. More oft than not before himself.
She was pale, the bruises on her throat more livid.
“I did not sleep,” she said rubbing his arm.
He did not believe her. And a light came on in his mind, brilliant and warm.
“You will sleep when we are home,” he leaned over her, kissing her tenderly.
“If only a thought would carry us there,” she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down, “carry us far, far away from this and lay us gently in our bed so we can do very wicked things with one another and after pad to the kitchen naked for something to eat. I don’t think they would approve that here.”
“You would blast them to the ground if they were to see you thus,” he ran his hand from her shoulder to her hip, “But I would never allow that,” he kissed her forehead, and lay looking adoringly into her face with such nakedness her breath stopped.

Phaila pulled his head down to her shoulder so suddenly and so harshly he froze with concern, something hung in the air, her breath filled his ear.

“If my hands are stained forever,
and the alter should refuse me,
would you let me in?
Should I cry sanctuary?” She recited a poem, and held him tightly, unable to bear the look on his face.
“I am bloody Haldir, and I will always be bloody. I will never be free from this life I have chosen. Even if I should die and be reborn, I will come back and be bloody again. And there are things, Haldir, things I have done. Not knowing them makes it possible for you to love me, but I know, I know. Oh, Haldir how can you?”

He did not pull away but turned his head to look at the profile of her face in amazement, “How can you ask? I cannot imagine knowing you and not loving you bloody or not. Can you not feel this?” he held her hand flat against his breast, “It has never beat for anyone before. It beats for you.” He studied the stillness of her face.

“Let us make it beat a little harder,” she whispered sliding her eyes to him. She had lost her footing emotionally, but she was agile and found a crevice to turn her mistake into distraction. She was saddened, reminded, worried and longed for….long
~
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Haldir watched her carefully, she was stiff, and hoarse, and had worried him with her trouble getting out of bed. And as they trotted across the plain before the fortress of Annúminas he gritted his teeth watching her post in the saddle seemingly tireless past the bonfires stoked with the bodies of the dead and kept his mouth closed.

Farther away on Arthedain plain they stopped to camp and Phaila climbed down from her saddle, put her fisted hands to the small of her back and arched. He had seen her do this before and he nodded hopeful.

Haldir unsaddled the horses, brushing her away with a kiss on the forehead and a small push and she laughed at him. In the bed of blankets, cloaks and saddles Haldir curled around her as she fell into an exhausted sleep.

Thirty miles from Brandywine bridge, Phaila turned in her saddle.

“Zara is too restless,” and indeed the mare had been fighting against her restraining hands, wearing Phaila out with holding her to a trot, “I think a gallop is in order.”

And he had smiled trusting her to know.

Zara shook her head from side to side wanting to run and with a whoop Phaila gave her, her head.

Haldir watched her go, Padric snorted, pranced, reared wanting to join and Haldir gave his own exuberant shout, slacked the reins, his hair a golden flag behind him. The great stallion ate up the ground before them and soon they were side by side. Phaila stretched out her hand, summoning him. On they ran and then drew the horses up.

Phaila tossed her head, she hadn hen her hair down, not braided, and it caught in the lashes of her eyes. Turning back to him she smiled, her cheeks flushed, the paleness gone. And Haldir smiled brightly back, his own cheeks pink and a movement over her shoulder caught his eyes oh,
“Pha..” and then suddenly he was knocked backward from the saddle. He felt he had been hit with an anvil. What? The world spun, and the ground met him hard, driving what wind he had from his lungs.

Phaila stood in her stirrups as Padric shied, what had just occurred? Haldir lay a two yards away. She whipped her head around and found a Uruk standing bow in hand among the trees, stringing another arrow. Phaila whirled and spurred Zara toward him, the mare snorted at the smell of the man-beast but was brave and ran on, as Phaila drew her sword from her back, kicked her left foot from the stirrup, dug it into the fender of the saddle, her right leg bearing all of her weight as she waisted the mare, and swept down slashing the Uruk across the chest and along the right of its neck. She flew from the saddtwistwisting to the ground as the Uruk turned to face her and charged. Hacking and slashing, the Uruk stood no chance in the face of Phaila’s wrath. Panting, and splattered with blood she ceased her silent hewing of the body and stared at the ruin of the Uruk, muted with despair. She turned shuddering, bespeckled with blood and turned her eyes to the other form lying on the ground.

Padric stood over Haldir, and nosed him. Phaila walked slowly toward him, shaking her head no, the sword clasped loosely in her hand. An arrow lodged in his side, he lay on his back, tipped to the right, one leg straight, the other crooked as if he had tried to stand. He moved his hand, clasping the ground, left hand feeling the shaft of the arrow and she ran.

Phaila knelt beside him, and he rolled his eyes to hers, grasped her hand in his.
“Oh Phaila,” he said, blood in his mouth, his voice frightened, surprised and he tried again to sit up.
“Shhh,” she whispered, her hand fluttering over his face, she pressed him down gently, examined the wounds. The arrow was in the ribs of his left side, had pierced him through, sweet Gods, “It will be fine my love, it will be fine,” she comforted him, kissed his bloodied mouth. She raised her head looked around, how far were they from the nearest town? Gods, how far?! Thirty miles to Buckland. Beyond there was the Morrigan sanctuary.

“Draw the arrow,” Haldir panted and spit blood, “cut above the head and draw the arrow,”
“I dare not,” she leaned over him as his eyes ran the length of the sky, before focusing on hers again, “I am taking you to the sanctuary in the Old Forest. You will have to help me get you into the saddle.”

Haldir blinked rapidly, reaching for his strength against the pain, and nodded, his eyes lighting on hers. She looked at him calmly willing it on him and a ghost of a smile came to his lips.

He was turning from gray to white and coughed blood. Oh my heart.

Phaila rose and took Zara’s reins, “Please Zara, be still,” she begged the horse softly.

Kneeling to Haldir she carefully gathered him under the arms, standing him on his feet. He made no sound tho a sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead and along his cheeks, under his nose.

“Here’s the stirrup,” she said and inwardly cursed her love of tall horses, “take the pommel,” He grasped it and raised his leg, Phaila guiding his right foot into the stirrup, and pushed him up and into the saddle. She climbed up behind him, careful of the arrowhead.

“Lean back into me,” she said wrapping her arms around him, and grasped her fingers under the pommel between his legs, gathered the reins.
“Too heavy,” he managed, protesting.
“Do as I say, Haldir,” she commanded angry at his foolishness; angry in her fright, “Lean back into me.”

Phaila rode Zara at a quick walk, afraid to take her into a faster gait. To have gotten through the battle at Annúminas with only a scratch and then this.

Haldir sagged against her, passing out from pain, his head lolled back, her arm burned from the strain of holding the pommel against their combined weight and her back was straining. She spurred the mare into a canter then a gallop. Holding tightly to Haldir as he lolled and shifted limply, the burning in her back and arm growing, and her abdomen began to cramp.

She streaked past the town of Buckland, drawing the startled gaze of farmers in the field as she rode for the Old Forest and the Morrigan sanctuary within.

The sanctuary lay beyond a small deer trail, the Old Forest trees forming a sun dappled canopy she rode quickly through. There! The sanctuary loomed a small fortress, an arched gate the doors open to all who would come. Faces appeared at the a sur surprised faces watching the approach of a rider atop a tall, dark gray horse that thundered with no sign of slowing, the rider cradling a limp form with long golden hair. Through the arch she rode and drew the mare to a sliding halt as a handful of Morrigan novices ran forward

Haldir came to as he was taken by many hands, lowered down from the saddle, his eyes rolled for Phaila who was swinging down from the saddle, her clothes wet with blood, she touched his forehead, her hand calming him, he gave a weak smile and darkness closed its hand once more.

Haldir was carried to the infirmary, lain on a soft bed and woke again to find Phaila cutting his tunic and shirt from him, behind her women moved.

He looked at her, as she wiped a warm, damp, herb steeped cloth over his forehead and mouth; found her calm tho her hands on him were cold. His eyes darted fretfully around the room.

“Phaila,” a red haired Morrigan handed her a cup.
“Drink this,” Phaila cradled his head, brought the cup to his lips, “It will ease the pain, slow the bleeding,” she watched him choke the bitter tea down, held the cloth to his mouth again as he rolled his eyes to hers, and she smiled.
“They’re going to cut the arrow’s head off, then draw it,” she said rising from the bed and two older Morrigan entered, “This is Ireth and Gilraen they are surgeons.”

Haldir watched them as they lay out their herbs, ointments and bandages, the auburn Morrigan with alabaster skin and deep green eyes, what was her name again?, sat on his left side, rolled him onto his right, and Phaila knelt on the floor holding his hand, looking steadily into his eyes, willing him to look into hers. And she kissed his forehead. Oh my heart.

Ireth began to saw at the thick shaft and Haldir gripped Phaila’s hand tightly, broke into a fresh sweat of pain, his eyes locked on Phaila’s and then the arrowhead came away.
“Well done,” Phaila spoke softly and he was eased onto his back, a thick pad placed beneath him.
Ireth leaned over him, “I’m going to draw the arrow now,” she said preparing him, “there will be much blood.”

And Haldir tightened his grasp on Phaila’s hand, he had never hurt so much in all his life, nor been so frightened. Not like this, not like this.

Bracing her left hand against the flat of his right shoulder, Ireth put her knee on the bed and grasped the shaft. Haldir nodded his readiness and turned his head quickly to look at Phaila and Ireth yanked the arrow free. Haldir’s back arched and he gave a blood choked scream, Phaila closed her eyes, her heart in her mouth, clung to the bone crushing grip of his hand. He gasped, blood gurgling in his throat, he retched, and Ireth turned him on his right side; began pack the wound with cloth steeped in herbs. Blood ran from his mouth into Phaila’s open hand.

“Oh, Gods,” he whispered in the aftermath, soaked in the sweat of pain. Phaila smiled a thin lipped smile; wiped the thick blood from his lips and chin.

“Kingly borne,” Phaila kissed him again, “Oh, my heart, kingly borne.” Her voice receded.

A dark mist circled her. Phaila, don’t leave me! He reached out for her as she disappeared.

He dreamed, hot dreams that made him toss despite the pain. Dreams of rain, drums and thunder. Cold rushing water, the whiffle of an arrow passing closely by. The jerk and jar of a nightmare ride atop a horse breathing fire and held in an iron grip, lying against ruined velvet. He couldn’t draw a deep breath for the white-hot searing in his side, touched his hand to the wound and drew back a rose that disintegrated in his hand and drifted away by a wind he did not feel.
“These are not flowers of joy…”
“Nightshade.”
“No, moonflower.”
His neck was caught in an eagle’s talons, his head lifted. He looked into the eagle face of the griffin, wings spread behind it’s back, blocking out the sun. It tilted its head at him, the great golden eyes piercing in examination of him. The wings drafted down and raised again, and then mantled him.
“Oh Valar,” he murmured in frightened awe.

The griffin offered a goblet, heavy and warm. He raised it to his lips, his eyes never leaving the orbs of gold that watched attentively, the eagle’s head tilting slightly, the lids blinked sharply. He drank, coughed, dropped the goblet and tried to pull away from the talon but it was too strong, too insisting, a voice spoke from a great distance, too far away to understand the words, it was Phaila, the tone soothing him in his darkness, is this your darkness too? He tossed his head searching and sighing and tasted tears.

Phaila sat beside him on the bed, forcing tea down him, mopping his brow. She prayed, uttered every charm she knew, and in every tongue she’d ever learned. He was the ghost she’d seen, years earlier, his lips were blue, his skin whiter than white. He moved and moaned, sometimes writhed, arching his neck, and tossing his head; his hands clutching the blanket.

Amaras came to him.
Gentle, commanding Amaras smiling, his sapphire blue eyes looking into his. Another phantom wind blew, drifting the rich, dark brown hair across Amaras’ face.
He had come for her. Haldir stood waiting for his wrath, but he only smiled. “I do feel for you,” he said softly with his accent of soft h’s and hard d’s, “but this is beyond us all three, Haldir. She is mine. My wife, my beloved wife. She has always been mine, and I am always hers. I do not know how you stand in this equation, Haldir. That is for you to discover. Do not begrudge us. And do not hate her.”

Amaras smiled again, that gentle smile of understanding, not pity and turned his dark hair swinging.

For two weeks he lay in the open hand of death, and she did not close her fingers on him; instead slid her from her palm and into the hands of Phaila.

Light, pale light. His lids fluttered open, the room swam slightly, rippled and then focused. The smell of herbs, and sweat. A cloth moved across his vision, then lay cool on his forehead.

He rolled his eyes. Phaila sat holding the herb infused cloth to his forehead, their eyes met.

“There you are,” she smiled softly, “You have been gone a long time, my heart,”

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

She held up a glass of water, caught him behind the neck and lifted his head, and held the glass to his lips.

He nodded enough, coughed slightly, and cleared his throat.
“How long?”
“Two weeks,”
Two weeks? Gods.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” he nodded.

Phaila leaned over him, replacing the cloth with her warm lips and quickly left.

Haldir struggled to push himself into a sitting position. Panting, and weak he did, moving the pillows to lean against and then he examined his wound. He pulled the linen cloth that bound the pad to his side, and then the pad. A perfect circle of a scab presented its self to him, the flesh looked good, not red. They had treated it well. He lay back, smoothed the linen and surveyed the room.

It was a bedroom. Beyond the door he could see a sitting room, a fireplace, with a fire burning in it. Windows, for sunlight filled the room as it did this one. A dresser, a wardrobe, a chair, two night tables and another fireplace across from the bed that burned apple wood filling the room with its’ sweet scent to mask the smell of illness.

And he did smell of illness. He smelled of fever sweat. He raised his hand to his hair. It had been braided into one long braid away from his face, a Morrigan battle braid and he smiled. Practical for more than battle. A utilitarian braid.

Phaila entered carrying a tray and paused to find him sitting up. She gave a slight nod and walked on. She carefully placed the tray across his hips while he studied her. She looked thinner, if that was possible and tired with purple marks under her eyes. Still she was something to behold. Her own hair was pulled back in that single braid showing her mark, and was dressed in brown and crème while he lay naked beneath the sheet, and he felt himself, amazingly, shockingly stir beneath the tray.

She took the napkin from the tray and opened it, layacroacross his lower abdomen while he examined his meal of broth and some plain bread, a glass of water, and she moved the pillows behind his back to better support him.

“Better something simple to start, my love,” Phaila explained, “You have not eaten, it could make you sick,”

He nodded and took up the spoon with a shaking hand and remembered her and her own struggle. She turned away, walked to the chair beside the fireplace and came back with a light blanket that she draped across his shoulders. She stroked his head, turned, walked from the room and returned fifteen minutes later.

She removed the tray and handed it to a young Morrigan who stood eyes downcast and who promptly left.

“Are you up for a bath?” she asked.
“I would kill for a bath,”
She smiled and beckoned.

Two more Morrigan entered carrying a large canvas tub between them.

Haldir looked at it. He had never seen a portable bath.

They set it up quickly, locking the braces and legs with quick movements, the wood snapping together and two more Morrigan entered with buckets of hot water that they poured in, left, returned, left, returned until the bath was ready.

Ireth came in carrying towels, a bar of soup, a glass container and set them in the chair she pulled next to the bath.

“It is good to see you awake, Haldir,” she smiled.
“Ireth? That is your name is it not?” he took Phaila’s hand.
“It is,”
“Thank you,”

She smiled and walked from the room.

Phaila quickly removed his bandages, and pulled the bedding back and holding his right hand, braced as he pulled against her to move his legs over the side of the bed, where he sat a little dizzy. Phaila sat on his right side.
“Put your arm around me,” she instructed.
Haldir did.
“Now, when you are ready,”
“Ready,” he answered and together they stood. Again the dizziness took him but Phaila stood strong under his weight as he leaned heavily against her. Thinking confusedly that he should take care, but could not think why.

Slowly she turned him and they began to cross the space from bed to bath.
Carefully she held him as he stepped into the water and sat. The water stopped at the top of his hips.
“How are you?”
“Dizzy,” And she stood waiting til he raised his head and smiled wanly at her, “better now. “Yo “You will be on your feet in a few days,” Phaila moved the bath items from the chair, sat and dropped a sea sponge into the water, “is the water warm enough?”
“Yes,” he answered hands resting between his thighs, he had never been so weak in his life, and grateful for her. was was calm, and patient and did not wear him out with conversation, knowing all he needed without needing to put breath to it.

Phaila rolled the sleeves of her shirt up past her elbows and reached for the sponge. She washed his hair and Gods nothing felt so good as to have his scalp messaged. She held the back of his neck in her hand, strong and cool.

“Tip your head back,” she instructed and he did as she commanded, and using the sponge she rinsed his hair.

“Feels good,” he said closing his eyes as the hot water ran through now clean hair and Phaila kissed his wet forehead. His hand came up and touched her long neck leaving drops of water on her skin.
She scrubbed his back, chest, neck and arms. Dipping her hands under the water she ran it over his legs the best she could without moving him too much. She moved to sit behind him and messaged his neck and shoulders, he was stiff and ached from being down for so long, and it combined with the effects of the water and the meal he grew pleasantly drowsy.

Getting him out of the tub, she dried him, quickly, neatly rebandaged his wound and dropped a long night shirt over his head before lying him back into the bed where she towel dried his hair, and re-braided it. She settled him back into the pillows and pulled up the fresh linens and warm blanket.

And he almost instantly drifted off to sleep.

When he woke it was dark save for candles and the fireplace. Beside him sat another Morrigan with auburn hair, but he could not remember her name.

She put down her book and looked at him.
“Ireth,” she reminded him and raised a hand, lay it on his forehead, “we met when Phaila brought you to us. I think we can safely say you are free of fever.” She smiled.
“Where is Phaila?”
“Resting,” Ireth poured water into the glass, handed it to him.

He lay back, pulling the blanket and sheet up to his chin, wanting to sleep more, but the bed suddenly felt so large and cold. He longed for her warm body, curled against him in the dark.

And he did not see her until the next morning. She entered the room looking much better having finally slept more than a few minutes as she sat facing him on his bed holding a tray.

“Good morning, my heart,” she smiled as he pushed himself into a sitting position and she put the tray across his lap.

Eggs, toast and tea.

“You have more colour today,” she said sitting in the chair beside the bed.
“No nightmares.”
“The fever is gone.”
“How are you my heart?” he asked taking up his fork.
“Better now that you are,” she smiled and rose, went to the fireplace and tossed in more wood and went to the windows; drew back the curtains filling the room with yellow sunlight. She opened the window slightly letting in the sound of birdsong and a cool fresh breeze.

“Let me know if this makes you too cold.”

“I will sleep better, if you sleep with me,” he said looking at her, she wore the utilitarian brown and crème again and noted, today, it suited her better now that her gold had returned.
“Are you sure?” she sat down on the bed, “Can you be comfortable with me beside you?”
“Very, I missed you last night,” he smiled bringing the fork to his mouth, looked the arrow high on her neck and remembered something.

Something before the arrow that had sent them here. O, the bed, Phaila pale, lying back and rubbing his arm, her hands at the small of her back.

He raised the cup of tea to his lips, “Phaila?”
“Yes, my heart,” she was folding the light blanket to lay it aside. She still looked tired, and the purple streaks were still under her eyes only not as dark.
“Could I have more sugar in my tea?” he asked instead of ‘are you pregnant?’ He suspected that there was more to her looking so wan than his injury.
“Is not sweet enough? I’m sorry, yes, of course,” She lay the blanket down and left the room.

She came back with a kettle and a cup of her own, and a jar of sugar, a spoon. Gods forbid she should make a trip. He put down his fork, appetite gone.

“Enough?” she looked at the food, barely touched.
“Yes,” and she spooned sugar into his cup of tea which was sweet to his taste already.
“Try to eat more, please?” she asked and set the kettle on the night table, sat down, crossed her legs and sat swinging her left leg back and forth with nervous energy.

Haldir nodded, picked up the fork again. No, you are not pregnant, but you were. It was the strain of getting me here that caused you to lose the child. My child. Our child. He swallowed but the lump in his throat remained. He put the fork down quickly, turning and lowering his head. Hurting and suddenly, deeply saddened he found tears in his eyes which he tried blinking away, but she was not blind.

“What is it, Haldir?” she asked putting aside her tea quickly, it sloshed onto the tabletop. She moved from chair to bedside, her arm coming across his chest to grasp his shoulder with her strong, warm hand.

“Phaila,” he began again, not looking at her but at his plate, he pushed at the tray and she took it from him, set it on the floor and turned to him again as he raised his face to hers, “Phaila,” he could say no more than her name, his eyes dropped waist level then up to her face, his hand moved and pressed on her.

“What?” she looked at him worried then lay her hand on his and smiled, laughed, “oh, no, what made you think that?” she kissed his forehead, “is this the reason you are so upset?” and she laughed again, “No Haldir, I am not.”

I do not believe you. You would lie to me. You always will.

“Oh, Haldir, please can you not eat more?”
“No, my heart, I cannot,” he gave her a faint smile.
She said nothing, frowned and stood, moving from his hands, and him, “I need to change your dressing.” She walked to the dresser and from the top drawer drew out fresh strips of linen, a jar of ointment, and larger squares of linen.

“There is a garden through there,” she motioned with her head toward the sitting room, “let’s sit in the sun when I have finished wrapping you up like a present again.” .

Haldir nodded, she needed sunlight to banish the paleness that flagged in her cheeks. He needed it as well.

Phaila wrapped him in a robe and walked him slowly from the bedroom, through the sitting room and outside. It was cool, but the sun shone brightly, warmly on the herb garden. Two chairs had been pulled into the sun and Phaila placed him in one.

He moved slowly, dizzy and breathless, weak and with legs as wobbly as a new foal. She pulled up a foot stool and propped his feet on it for him.

“Can I do anything for you?” she asked standing over him.
“Yes, you can sit down,” he said sternly, pointing to the chair beside him.
“Let me get the tea.”

He shook his head exasperated, reached for her, but she was too quick.

She returned with a blanket that she draped over him, “Phaila,” his voice frustrated and powerless.
“One more trip my heart,” she smiled and bent, kissed his lips.

She carried out the teacups, and kettle, a shawl of cerulean blue over her shoulders, and she finally sat down, much to his relief.

He watched her settle into the cushions, worrying too late over her. She rolled her head and looked to him, made a soft sound and closing her eyes in the sunshine, pulled the shawl tightly around her a gesture simple and poignant to him, and drifted off to sleep. He shifted to his right side to look at her. Never did a complaint cross her lips, and Gods she could keep a secret. I should have asked you then, shared in it with you. You were protecting me, protecting yourself from the burden my love would have placed on you. What would I have done if I had been thinking more clearly and had KNOWN?

It grew cloudy, threatened rain and he caressed her face gently until she woke.

“What is it? Are you..?” she asked eyes widening.
“Sssh, it’s nothing, it’s going to rain,” he caught her hand, and pulled her gently toward him, brushing his lips across a high cheekbone.

Back inside he lay on the freshly made bed, his eyes following Phaila as she hung up his robe, went to the fireplace and put more wood on the fire. The curtains lifted, thunder rolled softly in the distance. The room smelled of lightening, apples and rain.

“Come here,” he called, and held his hand out to her.

She obeyed the look and the command. At the foot of the bed she pulled off her boots, unlaced her leggings and slid them down her legs then crawled carefully up over his body, straddled his hips, carefully settling her weight on him. His hands came up and began to work the buttons on her shirt, opening it.

He had been aching for her, even in his fever dreams; he had tossed searching for her. He ran his hands from her waist up to her collar bones, then down. Her breasts filled his hands and he kneaded them gently. Did they feel different? Fuller? Maybe.

She dipped her mouth to his, catching his lip between her teeth and hanedaned, arched his hips slightly. Oh his side pulled.
“Be still,” she whispered.

But he could not in the end be still, he had lifted himself against her, holding tightly to her hips as he fought against the urge to bow his back, and arch away from her.

Her hands on his chest, traced a subtle pattern as he lay under her drawing deep painful, but contented breaths.

She sat looking at his bandage, a red flower bloomed on the linen and she began to raise up from him.

“Leave it,” he clasped her hips tightly. She sat astride him, looking down into his face and thunder rolled over the sanctuary.

“I love storms,” she lifted her head and closing her eyes inhaled deeply.

Letting go of her hips, he pulled her down beside him, opening up his arm to hold her against his chest.

She did as she saw fit, and while she wasn’t exclusively right, she wasn’t completely wrong. I believe you were pregnant, but I will never know will I? Our babe. He stifled a sob that threatened to tear from his throat and he lay his hand on her neck to keep her head on his shoulder as he gathered himself. He lay awake watching as she slept to the sound of the rain on the roof.