The Phoenix's Griffin

He mourned as though she had died.

He had sat in their home, staring into the fireplace, or into the open door of the wardrobe that held her clothes to breath in the scent of her, to run the fabric between his fingers, remembering when she had worn each gown; how beautiful she was. Is.

He took her jewels down. He had never handled them, had only stood and looked at them as she had chosen out what she would wear then put them away. He spread them on the bed. Gold, silver, even chains of mithril. Rubies, diamonds, emeralds, topaz, sapphires, garnets, she possessed every fine jewel there was to be had set in rings, necklaces, bracelets, earrings and hairpins. She only wore them when they had his brothers over for dinner. Alone she wore only his ring, her signet and a pair of diamond studs in her lobes and a simple gold chain around her neck. He had wondered how she had come by such a treasure, had thought it was largesse for her services. These were gifts from her husband, chosen out for her by his hands. Haldir put them away.

The bed was a dismal piece of furniture in which he lay holding her pillow against his chest gazing out the windows. The north end of the loggia, the site of many dinners waited for him to sweep the leaves from the cushions of the sofa, the top of the table. The north end of the loggia also the place where she would sit with her books, writing, pasting in her leaves, flowers, and feathers collected during her morning rides.

Moonflowers opened their petals at night spending their perfume on the air and closing his eyes.

Coming back from his turn of the border, he had found to his horror that the elf maid had stripped the bed and washed the sheets, removing the scent of Phaila from them. He fell asleep in the chair before the fire.

Their home was devoid of life, or so it seemed to him. Am I this, such a vacant thing? Had all life fled with her?

He burned the apple wood, lit the bees wax candles…but the joy in them was gone, and served only to heighten her absence. He blew the candles out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Three hours after he crossed the Lhûn elvin riders surrounded him. They bore the badge of scarlet and cream sewn over the left breast of their tunics, identifying them as members of the house of Ar-Feiniel and Tur-anion, but he did not know this, his eyes flicking to each trying to ascertain who was in charge. A sinking feeling came over him.

A tall, silver elf, his cloak of inky blue snapping in the cold wind, the sun glinting off the hand-guard of twordword strapped to his back, drew closer and positioned his black stallion before Haldir’s dark gray. None of his companions reached for a weapon, merely surrounded him and stopped and sat looking at him, more unnerving than facing a strung arrow.

“I am Haldir...”
“I do not care who you are.” The tall silver elf replied, “What is your business here?”
“I come from Lórien …”
“I do not care where you are from,” the silver elf interrupted, his manner haughty, bored, and his tone of one much put upon and dealing with a dolt, “Am I not speaking properly? I asked what your business is.”
“My business is with Her Grace, the Duchess Ar-Feiniel, it is important.”
“Is that so…” the elf smiled interested, leaning his arms on the low pommel of his saddle.

He laughed and looked to his cohorts. “Search him,” he ordered, held his pleasant smile as they dismounted and drug Haldir roughly from the saddle.

Haldir was held fast with two pair of strong hands while one elf patted him down, took his sword, knives, bow and quiver, dropping them on the ground in a heap before going to Haldir’s boot tops. He had never carried a knife in his boot, that was Phaila’s trick.

He was shoved back from his weapons, and squared his shoulders as he glared at the leader of this group.

The silver elf only smiled.
“Where did you get this horse?” he asked, looking Padric over, pointing a lazy finger.
“He was a gift.”
“Hmmm,” the elf nodded and smiled slyly, “a peerless gift.”

Haldir stood silent. He understood the riders caution, but he was only one to their seven.

“Get on your horse, we will…escort you…” the silver elf gestured elegantly and Haldir was shoved toward Padric.

He was taken to the eastern plain before Ered Luin, and the fortress of Baron Alanor, where an army entrenched.

“Whose army is this?” Haldir asked looking over the plain and the tents and watch fires that spread out. He had stumbled into the middle of some conflict

The silver elf snorted with derision and Haldir’s ignorance, “This is the camp of the Duchess Ar-Feiniel and Tur-anion, gods, is Lorien so closed that you do not know those pennants?”

Arriving at sunset they passed silent outriders, sitting atop horses in the growing dark, then among watch fires keeping warm men and elf. By makeshift corrals holding cattle, pass picket lines of horses, stacks of weapons and wagons full of supplies. The clusters of tents grew denser as did the number of the inhabitants of this mobile city. Groups of men and elves stood or crouched beside campfires laughing, talking. Female elves and women cooked before tents their breath pluming in the air.

They drew rein before a larger tent that flew the scarlet and cream, quartered flag of Ar-Feiniel and Tur-anion, griffin and phoenix. Two guards, armed heavily stood on either side of the tent door.

Haldir slid from the saddle and was grabbed by the arm, none too gently. Tense and angry at his hard treatment, he jerked from the tall silver haired elf who held him and was immediately pounced on by six others. He fought back, swinging his fist once, but outnumbered and overpowered he was pounded down, his hands tied behind his back he was dragged into the tent. He scrambled; managed to get his feet under him as he was pulled through the first room, past startled faces of elves and more men who were gathered over a table lit with oil lamps and candles, spread with maps and papers, and on into the next room.

“Your Grace, we found this.” He was shoved to his knees, and someone, the tall silver elf he suspected, gripped him brutally by the back of the neck forcing his head down and he struggled angrily; he was struck again and then his head yanked back by the hair to show his face.

His eyes rolled and he found Phaila sitting on a heavy wood, and intricately carved chair, the arms the faces of lions, the seat and back padded in dark blue velvet. Her hair in the single loose braid, long legs dressed in black leggings, black boots, wearing a pale red shirt of soft wool, her cloth of state bearing the combined crest of Ar-Feiniel and Tur-anion over her head.

Duchess was a word to be reconciled with the physical Phaila he thought he knew, yes, but this image before him … would have wobbled his knees had he not been on them already.

Oh, Phaila! His heart sang in spite of the process of his brain.

She lifted a forefinger, Haldir’s ring glinted, while she finished reading.

Haldir’s eyes rolled around the room.

There was an identical chair on her right, empty. Amaras’ seat. Vacant, but present.

Oh. I should not have come. The reality of her world was all too keen, irrefutable, his mistake massive. This one room was larger than all of the rooms of ‘their’ talan combined, and at first glance could be a chamber in a manor instead of a te The The walls hung with heavy tapestries and floors covered with thick rugs to keep out the cold were worth fortunes, unpretentious but elegant furniture, the artfully crafted braziers burning apple wood, and the beeswax candles filling the air with their sweet scent, stuck in holders of silver. Her black leather and silver plate armor hung shining on its stand, a scarlet cloak draped over the pauldrons, her weapons stacked before it. The power and wealth was breathtaking and simple.

Haldir would have moaned in despair if he was not held by the neck in the grasp of an elf hell bent on humiliating him.

She turned her face from the note and looked at Haldir. Her expression was enigmatic as her eyes traveled the gray and black clothing of the Galadhrim, his hair tossed, lip split, gray blue eyes looked at her expecting….

“He’s been searched and relieved of his weapons,” the silver elf said.
“And his dignity,” she turned hers frs from him to the silver elf, “Cut his ties, Pelion.” She shook her head over Haldir brought low, kneeling dusty, bloodied and bedraggled.

Pelion drew a dagger from his belt and cut the rope. Haldir rose angrily, tossing his hair back, rubbing his wrist, considering his options. Pelion only smiled his readiness; Haldir need only name the place and time.

Phaila watched this non-verbal exchange, her chin propped in the cup of her hand, “Are the two of you finished?”

Pelion and Haldir turned from their contest.

“Pelion, leave us.” She said, speaking with her chin still cupped in her palm.

The seven stepped back and slipped by the arras.

“Why are you here, Haldir?” she asked in a whisper and lay the note aside, she leaned her hands on her knees, anger tinged her voice, “It was suggested that you come,” she stood and walked to the sideboard.

Good goddamn question.


“I came for you, Your Grace,” he hissed touching his tongue to the corner of his mouth, tasting blood. He dusted off his leggings, found a rent in his tunic.

Phaila took a napkin up, poured water from the silver ewer into a cup, and walked to him, dipping the napkin into the water. She stood holding the wet napkin, looking thoughtfully into his eyes; pursed her lips.

“I did not lie to you, Sheriff,” her voice flat.
“I will settle for a lie of omission, a slight rearrangement of facts.”

“Tetszik (please)” she said evenly, “I am in no mood, for temper from you. It is a little inconvenient at the moment, if you have not noticed, I have a bit of a siege on my hands.” She motioned beyond the walls of her tent toward the walls of her castle in a former stewards possession now.

“And how could I know that?” He answered sharply, drew a breath and softened his voice, “There was no explanation for your leaving.”
“You should have stayed home, Haldir. This is mine to deal or did you think to be included? Is there something you can contribute then?” She smiled into his eyes, but there was no reply forthcoming, “Do you have a suggestion? An idea? A thought?” She waited while he stood feeling as if she had just slapped him.

“Then you rode all the way from Lórien for answers?” she asked, turned away slightly and held out her hand in a sweeping motion, “Well, take a long look round you. Plain enough, I think.” She nodded taking in her presence chamber. “Really, Haldir,” a laugh of absurdity erupted from her, “you are too funny at times.”

“You find it funny to have me at such a disadvantage. Leaving me lurching before Erestor, come to talk with the Duchess Ar-Feiniel and me staring like an imbecile when all the time she slept in my bed, and then realising that you did not go to the fete to avoid him. I was honoured to hear the whole story of you and Amaras…I enjoyed that very much, so let me thank you.” He inclined his head, eyes blazing. “It must be very satisfying to know that those years you spent lying to your mother, and father, hell, the world has made you a master, having lived this privileged life and keeping it so well hidden as you dallied under my meager roof, making a fool of me in the interim. So, if I am a little flat footed when it comes to advice, let us just chalk it up to my being unbelievably uninformed. ” He answered her tightly as she stood holding the cloth in her fist under her chin, taking his verbal blows, unaltered in aspect.

“Haldir, is this true? Is this how you feel?” her voice just above a whisper, “Do you believe I played with you?”

Goddamn she never reacted in a manner he could predict. That flare of anger had been only that – a flare. He clenched his jaw while she stood looking at him with large eyes.

“Your words are daggers, Haldir,” she said softly, her eyes drifted down to his chest, looking at the hair that fanned over his shoulder, “I will accept them as deserved.” Her eyes slid across his chest to look at his left shoulder; cocked her head thoughtfully, “Reward for your deep seeded belief and good marksmanship.”

Phaila turned, and averting her face from his, walked to her desk and sat down, spread her hands on the wood surface.

Oh, Gods. He came to her his hands full of anger, wanting her cause for departure and ensuing lack of communication explained.

He had come to find her up to her chin in troubles. He was not a fool; he was a child throwing a tantrum.

He was prepared to concede his mistake, the words were on his tongue, what has happened here that you are besieging your own fortress? but his anger had grasped him and she had struck back playfully, and of course…he had lost his temper and gone straight for the throat, and struck her heart.

She reached for a sheet of red edged paper; her crest emblazoned at the top center and pulled it to her.

“I do not believe…” he said finally as she took up a quill and dipped it in the inkwell.
“Believe, Haldir?”
“I do not ….I was stung by...” He stepped toward the desk, trying to find a dignified way of groveling at her feet.

“How?!” She slammed her fist on the desk; her anger erupted suddenly and he flinched, “How?!” She stood and threw the quill down, “I did not tell you of this? How did it wound you not knowing? You were embarrassed, you were not injured, your heart was not touched only your pride.”
“I told you everything of myself. Everything!” He shouted back, “You do not trust me!”
“I do!” she pointed her finger at him, “I was shielding you! Shielding us!” She motioned back and forth between them. “High in the trees of Lórien we were happy, contented, and free not buried with worries as brick and strains as morter, nor you,” she jabbed her finger at him “with your comparisons.” She stood chest rising and falling quickly with her anger.

“It was on me a thousand times to tell you, but I knew it would break your peace.” She drew a deep calming breath; held it a moment, closed her eyes and exhaled. “I did not speak of Amaras….” Her voice broke and she clenched her jaw, cleared her throat, “I did not speak of him because I cannot and so, I elected to sit on my life, not share it with you to shield you, and it was not easy despite my being master liar. I so wanted to tell you, talk with you, I wanted your opinion on decisions I have had to make, which had left me feeling I was mistaken.” Her great cats’ eyes grew largerd sod softened, “Do you know, of course, you do not,” she hed hed the lobe of her right ear to play with the stud that pierced her flesh, “I would lie awake at night to study your face, trying to imagine the expressions that would surface if I ever told you. These images were what closed my mouth. Perhaps I did not trust your reaction, but I always trusted you.” She gave a ghost of a smile, her anger had dissipated, was replaced by loss of opportunity. “There were times while you were away when I did confide in you, and you… absolved m She She looked away, took another deep breath before looking toward him again. “Yes, I drifted from privilege, because I could not bear to stay any longer in a place too full of memory to dwell. I chose your meager home as a more contented place to be because of you, but dally Haldir? For three years, I have dallied with you? I played at being common, and pretended to love you? Why would I do that, Haldir, when everything I kept from you was to assure your happiness for I certainly did not profit, save in the coin of love and peace found in your bed. And for this I am condemned?” She asked softly; resigned and finished explaining.

He stood heart in his throat choking any answer that he would have given.

She picked up her quill, dipped it in the ink and finished what she had been writing. She folded the paper, and picking up a candle, tilted it to seal the fold of the paper, and stamped the wax with her ring.

She held it out to him; “This will get you safely across the border.”

“I did not understand,” he answered not taking the pass.
“No, you did not, and instead of doing this peacefully you launched yourself at me, I am a little edgy, Haldir and when attacked fight back.”
“You play too roughly.”
“Igen, I do, this is no surprise to you.”

“Take this.” She snapped the paper.
“No.”
“Take it.”
“No.”
“Goddamn it, take it!”
“If you want me gone, send for your guards.”

She threw it at him and he jerked his head back and to the right as the square of paper sailed by. She strode around the desk to a smaller table of some mottled wood he had never seen the likes of before this moment set with a crystal ewer of wine and pale yellow goblets. He wondered if she was choosing out something heavier to let loose at him, but no.

She poured out a goblet of wine and keeping her back to him, drank. She gave her self a shake of frustration and anger exhaling harshly. Softly he approached her and laid his hands on the wood, corralling her against the table.

She did not move, but only stood and he waited. They stood thus for a very long time, the scent of her drifting to him, the scent of him drifting to her. It came down to a battle of wills; but she was young, dangerous and unpredictable who knew how this would be resolved?

Oh Phaila, will you turn? Won’t you say something? Will you fight me, lets’ get it over then, but do not stand here like this. Not like this.

He examined the colour of her shirt, the texture of her hair, the hollow below her high cheekbone, the lashes of her right eye and Gods how he loved her. He lowered his head, pressed his chin against the top of her shoulder, and she turned suddenly. He closed his eyes expecting a blow but she only wrapped her arms around his waist to bury her face in his neck and hair. Her youth won over, needing….“Haldir,” she cried against him as his hands came up to grasp her shoulders over the long knives strapped there.

“Your Grace,” a voice called from outside the door.

Phaila quickly drew sideways from his arms and turning wiped her face, cleared her throat, “Come!” She called and kept her back to the door to collect herself.

The arras serving as door was pushed aside and four elves entered, led by Pelion and followed by the entire retinue from the outer room.

“This has come from the fortress,” Pelion said and stepped aside as a small wooden box covered with a red cloth was set on the dining table and handed her a sealed note.

He inclined his head as she took the note; he looked to Haldir, smiling a diplomat’s smile, and Haldir looked malevolently back.

Phaila broke the seal and unfolded the note as she walked toward the table; her eyes narrowed quizzedly. Laying the note aside, she pulled back the cloth, lifted the lid and gasped, dropping it on the table.

Everyone surged forward around her to see what had startled her so and then leapt back aghast, leaving her standing alone before the box. The room erupted in outrage as some pounded the long table shouting and demanded reciprocity for such an odious act, others crying out mindlessly with grief and horror, and still more passing what they had seen on to those in the outer chamber.

Phaila looked blinking into the box at the severed head of her cousin Ithilros, her face a mask of grief.

“Ah sweet Ithilros,” she cooed softly as if speaking to a napping child bringing a chill down Haldir’s spine. “Is this gratitude for serving me so loyally?” She reached into the box to tenderly brush back the copper coloured hair from the face of someone who was quiet beautiful. Those long lashed eyes would never flutter open again, and those fuips ips would never part to utter another word.

Gently she touched the marble cheek with the back of her fingers and took up the lid, put it back. With great care she draped the red, velvet cloth and smoothed it over the box.

She rested her hand on the box, and walked away pointing back at it, “For this…” she nodded her head, “they will dearly pay,” she whispered. “Send him home under guard, deliver him to his mother with our deepest sorrow.” She instructed Pelion who watched her with wide eyes. He took the box, and handed it to another as the noise swirled, and rose. Curious faces peered through the arras as it was held open for the elf given the task of bearing away the box.

“So,” she said softly addressing those in her chambers and they quieted, “this is the opening salvo. How do we answer?” She asked and again the room erupted.

She walked back to her chair, beside the vacant one of Amaras, crossed her legs, sat listening and looking at Haldir. What think you now? This is my life, Haldir. Not a tea party. Exactly how does one explain this to someone whom is not to the manner born? This is what you would have had me drag you into. What think you now?
I did not know, his eyes answered hers.

“And you Your Grace? What say you coz?” A dark haired elf choked out to her before rushing to her, threw himself at her feet in supplication, he took her hand in his and turned a tear stained face up, “Ithilros is murdered! You must give us our way in this cousin!”
“Slay all, Daeron?” She took a long, slender black braid between her fingers, a coy gesture, a coy tone of voice. The word hers, ‘slay’. “Not banishment?”
“Banishment?!” her cousin cried with incredulity then ferocity, “Yes, banishment, banishment as Ithilros is banished!”

“Your Grace, will you let them walk free with banishment their only toll for siding with an usurper and murderer?” Pelion asked, putting his hand on Daeron’s head.

Phaila looked from Pelion who stood and Daeron who knelt; her eyes deliberating, but she was not deliberating; she was calculating. She looked away, and Haldir could have sworn he saw a slight smile. It vanished as she looked back to her kin and court.

“Then we must screw our courage to the board, there are those in that keep we know,” she said and Pelion knelt, knowing her answer as did Haldir who stood horrified and amazed at this Phaila, his heart beating with a sickening thud. Oh Phaila! I am, indeed ten shades of a fool. Young? Yes, but you know exactly what it is you must do, and how to get it. I have finally found that darkness that wraps around you. And I cannot share it witu; ou; only one can and his chair sits empty beside yours.

She looked from Pelion and Daeron to those who stood in the room, “We will receive more, gifts, as Alanor calls them…” All groaned, some punctuated the air with shouts, “Yes, gifts,” she held up the note and Pelion took it angrily, “gifts for each day we sit before him.” She played her last card.

She stood and the room grew quiet, “We will give them such an answer to this outrage that will make all think twice and twice more before ill handling the least Ar-Feiniel, and Tur-Anion.” She spoke with soft incandescent rage, standing up the hair on the back of Haldir’s neck and that of all present as Pelion and Daeron bowed their heads at her feet. Their supplication heard. “Punish them all,” her voice deep, each word carefully enunciated.

“Dear gods, Phaila,” Haldir whispered unheard in the clamor that followed her words.

Pelion and Daeron rose, and took her hands, each looked into her eyes with assuredness and she kissed each, holding Pelion to her a moment. When he turned, he began moving everyone crowded from her audience chamber finally leaving Haldir and Phaila alone.

She turned back to Haldir, rubbed her forehead.
She pulled back the arras, “Malta,” she beckoned her maid closer, “Clear this tent, I want to be alone, and I mean alone, Malta, and bring Haldir’s kit and weapons in, I must find a proper place to put him.”
“Yes, your Grace,” the answer came.

Phaila collapsed in a chair and leaning on its arm rubbed her hands over her face.

Haldir stood looking at her. She was bearing such a burden, making such decisions on her own; she did, but it exacted a heavy toll.

“I am sorry,” he said finally. This betrayal by Alanor had shocked him deeply.
“As am I,” she answered and stood to take up her goblet, “Oh Haldir, I did not know he was so sly, or had such ambitions and could be so cruel.” Her hand shook, “Ithilros….” She tipped her head to look at the carpet, “he had the sweetest…” her voice broke, “I had not seen him for years.” She barked a harsh laugh at the hideous irony of her statement, and he closed his eyes to the madness, as her bitter laughter progressed and turned to sobs.

Haldir’s mind was blank. He watched her reeling in grief she had used to move her generals toward a vicious and conclusive ending. They would prevail and only the gods could assist was by standing and waiting to receive their souls. What could he do to help her?

Alone and safe with him, she gave her cousin her tears, leaning on her hands over the desk; her braid falling forward, her shoulders shook with the effort of her weeping.

He tucked his chin and walked to her, wrapped his arms around her, and looked for another exit from the room, there in the back. She leaned her head against his shoulder as he walked her toward the arras, and lifting it, yes, found her bedchamber.

A large, deep sofa sat facing the bed and here he took her and sat her down. She put her elbows on her knees and covered her face in her hands, crying silently. He looked around again, gods this place, and found a washstand of polished oak. He walked to it, poured water from the ewer into the porcelain bowl, took up a face cloth and plunged it in the cold water. He wrung it and brought it back. Sitting beside her, he took her chin in his hand and lifted her face. She kept her eyes lowered, and he wiped the cloth gently over her face, holding it on her hot forehead. She straightened, and took the cloth leaving him to sit with his hands between his knees watching her drag the cloth under her matted lashes before looking at him. She smiled and folding the cloth touched it to the cut on his cheek, he had forgotten about it.

“We are a mess you and I.” She said softly and he smiled back, “I do not know how much time we will have alone together…it is difficult to find privacy here.”
“I do not care.”
Her eyes answered back with doubt.
“I care, yes, of course, I care, but I understand and will be satisfied to be in your company,” he tried again. Semantics were important to her.

Phaila shifted away and tossing the cloth on the long, low table before them, lay her head in his lap, curling her hand behind his knee to grasp the top of his leg, her left hand curled under her chin; she closed her eyes. She was finished and wanted no more. She took a deep hitching breath and tightened her grip on his leg, a sound and gesture that added to the sum of his sorrow for her.

“Is this,” he cleared his throat, “Is this hurting you?” he asked touching the sheaths strapped to her back, holding her two long knives.
“No, I am use to sleeping with it on me,” she answered her voice gravel.

He lay his hand on her shoulder, the shirt was soft, the finest wool and felt the ball of bone beneath. She was not eating, this responsibility was heavy and he had only added to her troubles.

“I love you,” he whispered after she had fallen asleep, looking at the profile of her face in his lap, he ran his right hand over her hair, and sat shaking his head with a whirlpool of regret reliving his anger and words, her reply.

Haldir sat and listened as the camp grew quiet around them, and through the stretch of quiet, he remained to listen again as the camp began to stir.

The arras moved and Phaila’s maid stood surprised, holding a tray in her hands. Haldir smiled, and leaned over Phaila, kissed her temple.
“My heart,” he whispered, “wake up.”

She stirred, eyes fluttering open and rolled onto her back and looked up at him, and he ran his hand over her cheek, his own ring, the mate of the one on her finger, glinted mellowly in the firelight coming from the brazier.

Maltafuinien walked in softly and lay the tray on the table, took up the discarded cloth and left them alone.

Phaila sat up slowly, and stretched, “Poor Haldir to sit up all night.” She smiled and leaned toward him to press her lips against his.

He scooted toward her his arm snaking around her waist and deepened the kiss. He was forgiven. Her breath came faster and her own arm came around his neck and her other hand reached up under his tunic, worked her fingers through his shirt and touched his chest.

They tore at each others clothing, pulling away the layers that separated them to lay discarded on the floor.

They devoured one another impatiently. The time apart had been long, the tension had been great and now it was brought to bear. They struggled together, each trying to dip lips to moving flesh, arching and reaching, gripping tightly to her shoulders he held her down to take a nipple in his mouth. Phaila drew her nails up his shoulder blades, took his head in her hands, purring with pleasure. Haldir slipped between her thighs, and drew her down on his length as he sat on his heels, spreading his own thighs to straddle the sides of her hips, hunching over her. They did not have much time, and they would not need it. He moved in her against that spot, had found this position was perfect to bring her quickly to orgasm, his own hung suspended waiting for her and when she gasped, and rose with urgency to meet his thrusts, he let go. Stifling his cry in her shoulder, he clung to her hips thrashing in her as she lay arching under him.

He poised over her, and gathered her shoulders in his arms, sank his head on the cushion as she stroked himm shm shoulder to hip. He lifted his head and sought her lips in the tangle of hair for one more, long kiss. She rolled to her side and looked up as he stood on pleasure-weakened legs. Casting his eyes around her bedchamber, he spied her robe lying on the bed and retrieved it, stood holding it open for her.

The robe wrapped around her and belted closed she poured out a cup of tea and buttered a piece of warm bread while Haldir dug through the pile of clothing, searching for his own and dressed. She walked by him running her hand over his stomach and on to the arras where she parted it with the back of her hand.

“Malta, ask Daeron to find room, for a friend of mine,” she said softly to her maid.

She dropped the arras and watched Haldir lace his leggings; pull his shirt over his head.

“Daeron is discreet, and will find you a proper place to sleep,” she explained and walked to him to sweep his hair from under his collar.

He nodded silently, lifted his head from watching his fingers work the opening of his shirt and smiled softly. It would be like this. Time together would be fleet, and probably rare.

She handed the bread to him.